♥︎ y, twenty five, pharmacist and enemy of proper punctuation ♥︎
MASTERLIST :
Aaron Hotchner
Questions in a world of blue : levels of procrastination never seen before, getting involved in an FBI case and fantasizing about Hotch's fingers instead of working on your J.D thesis
Blue screen of death : technological illiteracy somehow redirects to love, one bug report at a time
Mind control made easy, or how to become a cult leader : some cults are only obvious to you because they weren't made for you. but anyone can fall for a prophet that appeals to their deepest desires
Love, across and down : for all the people under 40 who like crossword puzzles : four letter word, often paired with hearts and with tiny observations by strangers
Clear hearts grey flowers (mini series) : immovable object (Hotch’s steady and loving patience) meets unstoppable force (always feeling like a cracked porcelain doll on the edge of breaking)
Dial H : subject under observation : Robert Hanssen. task : monitor communications and activities for potential espionage. during non-operational hours, Hotch and you develop an (un)anticipated bond. Surveillance to continue, pending further developments
On the Air : the Bureau's tragic filing system : did the network seriously approve this ? a totally normal records manager navigates the chaos that is the BAU, and develops an unexpected closeness with their serious boss, in a series of quietly funny, mundane moments
On the Air : the big bright pleasure machine : a perfectly normal records manager tries to survive spring fever at the BAU. nothing happens. but also... maybe something does?
Switchboard for a citizen above suspicion : spell 'C-O-V-E-R-U-P'. definition : when love, loyalty and paperwork all start blurring together. one typo at a time, you and Hotch learn that the truth is easy to miss — and even harder to spell right
Internal Revenue Code § 271 — Improper deductions (personal and otherwise) : in instances where IRS personnel and taxpayers engage in unsanctioned personal interactions on federal premises, including but not limited to extended proximity, unplanned closeness, and lingering effects post-engagement
Where the steel sidewalk ends : clues, glances, and small gestures weave together like smoke and shadow, drawing you closer to a man both controlled and quietly thrilling
Jason Gideon
Seventeen in black and white : 1.e4 — a game begins over a chessboard, quiet and unassuming. 4.O-O — a kiss interrupts the guessing game. 6.Nf3 — love takes the next move and Gideon’s heart is no longer a mystery
Birds singing in the sycamore tree : sunlight spills across the cabin, tracing quiet moments where hearts brush close. in the hush of leaves and pages, warmth lingers like a gentle, hidden song
Zabriskie point : there's one way to understand Jason Gideon. and that's in his own language. stand where he stands and look where he looks. what do you do in the Academy ? you think about things. it's very simple
genre : set a little before s1, post boston gideon, gideon is sort of manipulative (or is he), academic validation final boss, metaphor heavy but it's for a good cause, ultimately about the unreliability of perspective
summary : It would be nice if Jason Gideon was a flat piece of glass, so you wouldn’t have to keep watching him change under the light. That’s the point ! Nothing’s terrible ! Behavioral Analysis Unit ought to be one word. The name of some mountain or landscape or slow erosion that carries everything slightly out of its original shape. That’s too long. You’ll just call it where you end up standing next to him.
notes : this was partly inspired by in cold blood by truman capote (which i really recommend !!). i know the imagery in this is a little heavy but science and nature have always brought me profound joy and hope. im not sure how to really explain it, but i find it beautiful in a way that makes me love the world, even with how fucked it can be. regardless of the fact that this entire thing is sort of messed up lol, i hope that comes through. as always, special thanks to my dearest friend @ssa-dado, where would i be without you <33. #GIDEONSUMMER
word count : 14.5k
The projector lens has a small crack. It makes the light disperse in small rainbows.
It’s physics. A prism made of glass. And yet, across the corner of your notebook, it seems beautiful in the simplest of ways.
A trace of violet settles in the hollow of a handwritten O — disorganized — blooming in the white spaces of your notes.
You slowly slide your finger across the page. Beyond the sequence of color, the page is being bombarded by light your eyes cannot see.
Ultraviolet light breaks down the fibers of the paper while the surface stays perfectly still.
The projector clicks. A new slide cuts through the air, masking the blankness of the wall with the translucent, static reality of a life reduced to evidence.
You think about the man in the picture. You wonder if he has an ultraviolet side too. A frequency of existence that sits just outside the lines of the profile.
Agent Gideon dissects him with absolute certainty. Retraces the path of violence as if it were but an inevitability. Collapses the vastness of a human life into the rigid lines of a unique behavioral descriptor. Disorganized, sexual sadist, socially reclusive.
It feels like dishonest geometry. An attempt to rebuild the glass from the way it fragments the light.
Another slide.
This time it’s a photograph of an abandoned ranch in Montana.
Agent Gideon raises a hand to point at it. The image distorts, straight lines of the wooden panels molding into his hand. Forcing the crime scene to take the contours of his fingers.
“This,” he says, “is where David Meirhofer dumped his victim’s remains.”
You watch his mouth as he speaks. You’ve begun to collect his words like specimens. Noting the ones he chooses, the ones he discards.
This. Dumped. Remains.
You wonder if this stress on the final syllable is the rhythm of a lecture, or the rhythm of his own revulsion.
His face is a strangely still landscape. Yet his eyes hold a depth of nuance that his words seem to betray. A slow, drowning recognition.
Or perhaps you are simply searching for a reflection of yourself in the vast brown of his gaze.
“Meirhofer worked there,” he adds. “He knew the ranch. But he also knew it could be tied back to him.”
He looks at the room but his eyes find no purchase. As if the rows of trainees diligently listening to him are merely one unsubstantial object in his path.
You can’t help but think about Boston. The rumors of a man who looked into the sun and went blind for a while. It feels as though his focus is fixed on a point far behind you.
“Why take the chance ?” he asks.
The silence is broken by a trainee a few rows ahead of you.
“Because he’s disorganized,” the trainee answers confidently. “He likely didn't have a pre-planned disposal site. He chose somewhere familiar because it was the path of least resistance.”
Agent Gideon doesn’t nod. He just stands there, the warped image of the ranch still bleeding across his blue shirt.
“A man who spent his life hiding in plain sight… why choose a place that calls attention to him ?” he asks again.
He waits.
“Don’t tell me what he is. Tell me what he felt standing there… in the dirt.”
Fact : The ranch was isolated and abandoned.
Fact : Meirhofer was familiar with the ranch.
Fact : Employment records tied him directly to the site.
Meirhofer would have known that. Yet he chose to dispose of the remains at the ranch anyway. Why ?
“He felt it was worth the risk,” you say.
Agent Gideon stops. He looks at you with subtle curiosity and opens his palm toward you, his lips pursed in a thin, contemplative line.
“Why take the risk at all ?” he pushes.
“His knowledge of the ranch made him believe the likelihood of it getting found was low enough to risk it,” you explain. “He miscalculated the variables.”
He holds your gaze for a moment, and you force yourself to meet it.
He raises a hand and taps his lower lip once, twice, and a third time, with his finger.
“Because he’s arrogant ? Or because he’s driven by something stronger than logic ?”
You feel the answer getting pulled at your throat. He watches the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, a faint, knowing shadow passing over his face. He doesn’t wait for you to find your footing.
He turns back to the room, the moment of private interrogation dissolving as quickly as it began.
A click.
“Meirhofer is a loner, terrified of any social contact he can't control. For him, the unknown is a threat,” he begins.
Somehow, his voice sounds devoid of any judgment. It sounds like he understands him.
He moves his hand and the light catches the ring on his finger.
“He needed a place where he felt in control. Safe. Comfortable.”
He steps closer to the projector, moving into the direct path of the beam. The lens refracts the light across his skin.
“If you want to find him, you have to understand it. You have to stand where he stood and know what relief felt like there,” he declares quietly.
You try to imagine yourself in Montana.
The scorched yellow of the grass bleeding into the deep, stubborn green of the scrub, and you can almost feel the dry heat rising off the dirt.
You imagine the silence — unnaturally solemn, like the waning of a scream.
You stop.
Agent Gideon moves out of the light. The spectrum vanishes from his skin, replaced by the drab, fluorescent reality of the Quantico classroom.
He returns to his desk. His fingers trail over the mahogany as if checking the grain.
The violet has withered on the page of your notebook. The O in disorganized has gone pale. It looks like a mouth, frozen in the middle of a word you can't finish.
It’s brutally restrictive.
He is organized. Or he is disorganized.
He’s killing for pleasure.
Looking for lust. For thrill. For comfort. Or control.
It’s a simple switch of this or that. One or two.
And yet, it’s dangerously boundless; the largesse of a mind layering motive upon motive until the act itself is buried under the sheer weight of what we imagine it to be. He felt safe, he felt anxious, he felt in control, he felt … who fucking knows how he felt.
Agent Gideon’s wearing a blue button down shirt, the sleeves messily rolled up to reveal his forearms. A sliver of a navy undershirt and a few chest hairs peek through at the collar, where he left the top buttons undone.
Your eyes drop to his waist, catching on the black leather of his belt. It’s worn and creased, pulling at the loops of his trousers.
He lifts his hand to adjust his glasses, and you notice his watch. The face is turned inward, resting against the skin of his inner wrist. Anything of his is quietly guarded.
The glasses slide onto the bridge of his nose. He frowns softly as his gaze quickly scans through the manila folder on the desk. His thumb rests against the pages.
He picks up a red pen and circles something in the file. Everything becomes a category once you decide how to look at it.
We call an apple an apple so we don’t have to describe the crunch, the acid, the red every time we speak. The word is a cage, but people keep stuffing meanings into it anyway — sin, knowledge, health, gravity itself.
How does he reconcile the two ? Is he understanding the unsub or is he writing him ?
He closes the folder.
“Meirhofer didn’t stop at the ranch,” he adds. “He called the family. Multiple times. And he demanded ransom money he never intended to collect.”
Agent Gideon takes his glasses off, metal frame pinched between his fingers as he gestures with them.
“I want a profile. Not the textbook definition. Why the phone ? Why the family ? Why the money ?”
From where you’re sitting, his face seems to be drawn in a permanent frown of fatigue that he has long since stopped trying to fight.
He looks at his watch then back at the room.
“You have 10 minutes.”
Pencil scratches against paper.
To your eyes, the room feels like a prism splitting around Agent Gideon. One side still sees a legend. The other sees Boston and what it may have taken from him.
You aren’t sure where you sit. Perhaps somewhere between the two. A point of stationary observation. Or perhaps something else entirely.
You look down at your page.
1.Geographic proximity : lack of toll record suggests that the calls originated within a local calling area, though limitations in 1970s records-keeping of long distance calls should be considered. If local, this would be consistent with some degree of familiarity with the victim’s environment.
2.Behavioral redundancy : frequent contact suggests the calls may serve a function other than instrumental. The offender relies on telephone communication rather than direct contact, which would allow for personal interaction while maintaining control.
3.Functional interpretation: ransom demands may operate as a way of eliciting reactions from the family and observing said reactions over repeated interactions. This could provide psychological reinforcement to the offer and potentially offer informal insight into law enforcement activity. Uncertain whether this reflects true objective or byproduct of repeated contact.
Agent Gideon walks slowly through the rows. The sound of his footsteps quietly reverberates against the tiles.
“Too much theory,” he says to a trainee three rows up.
He pauses at a desk near the window. “Good instincts on the escalation but the timeline is wrong.”
The sound of his shoes resumes. Each step is a measured punctuation mark.
You feel him stop by your desk more than you see him. He leans in, looking over your shoulder.
It smells like cedar and a hint of coffee. You can see the shadow of his head fall across your notebook.
You find yourself reading your notes through his eyes, suddenly critical of your bent Os and the smudge of graphite in the shape of your finger.
You hold your breath—not out of fear, but because you don't want to disturb the moment he’s giving you. You want to be still. You want to be right.
He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Honestly, it might have only been twenty seconds.
“You’ve got the structure right,” he tells you quietly. “Now follow it through.”
He moves on to the next row.
You can feel a droplet of sweat trailing down your temple. It falls down onto the paper you’re holding. The edges are already beginning to curl in the humidity.
The sun shines harshly on the asphalt of the Academy’s parking lot. The shadows from the trees blend into the black of the tar.
The cicadas' singing matches the sound of your steps.
As you walk, you’re half convinced you’re leaving black foot imprints behind you—but then again, the black wouldn’t show anyway. The rubber of your shoes melting into the ground, eroded by the path you’re taking to find Agent Gideon.
You look down at the margin of your paper. It’s blank. No grade, no percentage, no nothing. Just Agent Gideon’s cramped, heavy ink trailing your observations. This time, he hasn’t even written his usual ‘Choose !’. He just underlined two of your hypotheses and drew a question mark. But both interpretations are supported by the evidence. Choosing one over the other would be a guess. It wouldn't be accurate.
At first, it seemed fitting. That he didn’t grade profiles.
Then you saw the other trainees’ papers. 34. 55. 89…
And yet he won’t tell you where you stand. Are your shoes even made of rubber ?
Sunglasses cover his eyes.
He’s by his car, at the far end of the lot. From this distance, he feels less like a man and more like a fault line in the heat. Maybe it’s just the cicadas making the air warp around him.
“Agent Gideon,” you call.
His hand pauses on the door handle. You wonder if the metal doesn’t burn his skin.
It’s difficult talking to him when you can’t see his eyes. Not that talking to him without sunglasses is ever easy. You focus on the way the sun lights the silver in his hair.
“Sir. I — I was wondering…,” you start. “I’ve noticed my last few profiles don’t have a grade. I checked with the others and I realized I’m the only one… without one.”
You’re phrasing this carefully. A simple student seeking an explanation rather than a critic pointing out an inconsistency. Surely it’s not that he keeps running out of ink when he gets to your paper.
“I wanted to ask you if there’s something specific that I’m missing.”
His lips part slowly. He takes a slow breath, the sound of it almost lost beneath the cicadas.
“If you want your grades, you’re free to go to the administration and ask for your transcript,” he says, his voice a low, even rasp. “I submit them on time. I just decided not to give them to you personally.”
“Why ?” you ask. It seems why is the only word that suits him.
He lets go of the car handle. Steps closer to you. You can see your reflection in his glasses.
“Profiling is a science that’s still being written. We’re still figuring out the laws. But you’re treating it like it’s already been solved,” he begins.
He doesn't point at the paper. Instead, he opens his hands towards you again. You see a faint trace of red on the inside of his knuckles.
“You’re staying behind the glass,” he continues. “You’re bright—you’re probably the brightest in the class—but you’re playing it safe.”
The glass of his watch catches the sun. Your vision swims with white spots whenever he emphasizes a word.
“The hard part isn’t seeing options. It’s accepting you’re responsible for the one you pick.”
“How do I do that ?”
He looks down at his own hand, his thumb rubbing against his ring as if trying to erase a stain.
“You think I’m asking you to be right,” he says after a moment. “I’m not. I’ve been right, and people died. I’ve been wrong, and people died.”
He finally lifts his head back towards you. “You have to trust your instincts.”
He lets out a short, dry breath. As he says it, you think he looks like a man who doesn’t trust much of anything.
“If you want to do this work, you have to be willing to be the one who makes the call. Even if you spend the rest of your life wondering if you were wrong.” His tone drops into something flat, cutting you off with a coldness that feels entirely unprovoked.
You shift on your feet. Your soles still look the same. They feel a bit softer.
He leans forward and slowly takes the paper out of your hand. Your fingers almost meet on the page. They don’t touch and yet it feels strangely intimate.
“I’ll keep this one,” he tells you.
As he folds it to put it in his pocket, you notice the droplet of sweat from earlier. It had slid down the page in a tilted, salt-stained gully.
Even the Academy eventually wilts into the mundane reality of a three-hour lecture.
Your thumb absentmindedly clicks your pen. It has a little picture of rocky mountains freckled with green. The peaks rise up, brown and rugged. Traces of orange. A waterfall tumbles over the ridge.
You feel a bit like a prisoner staring longingly out a window—except this classroom doesn't have any.
You let go of the pen.
“The original profile’s primary assessment was that the unsub was a highly intelligent blue collar worker,” Agent Anthony says.
Your eyes drift to the laminated plastic ID badge clipped to his suit pocket. In the tiny, high-contrast photo, he’s the Bureau’s platonic ideal : jaw set with optimistic certainty, eyes clear and untroubled.
A plastic version of a man who hasn't yet been interrupted by the erosive reality of Agent Gideon.
Agent Gideon invited him here specifically. And for the last hour, Agent Anthony has been lecturing with the bloodless precision of a field manual.
You just don't understand the point of the invitation.
“The unsub brought his own kit, which denotes an organized offender. But the use of a .25 caliber—a budget-tier firearm—paired with witness sightings of an unrestored late-70s corvette, pointed the profile towards significant financial constraints,” he continues, his tone clipped.
Agent Anthony offers a sharp, certain nod. “At the time, the conclusion was considered strictly in line with Bureau standards. He was categorized as an intelligent, under-employed blue-collar worker. It was the gold standard of profiling for that era.”
Your hand quietly drifts into your bag, fingers tracing the silver foil of a gum packet.
Agent Gideon’s sitting in a chair identical to yours, tucked into the corner, finding fault in everything Agent Anthony says.
His glasses are perched on top of his head, pushing back fine strands of his hair.
He’s wearing a white button-down, but it’s cross-hatched with thin, brownish lines that turn his torso into a pale grid. The top two buttons of the shirt are undone, revealing the fine, brown hairs of his chest that smooth down into the cotton.
The pattern is too structured for him. It looks like a graph waiting for data points that won't come.
“Five bucks says he doesn't let him finish his next sentence,” a whisper cuts through the hum of the air conditioning.
“No way,” a second voice murmurs from the row behind you. “Gideon’s going to let him dig himself into a hole again and then he’s going to say that the profile’s too clean.”
You lean back slowly, pulling your hand to cover your mouth.
“He glanced at Doctor Reid,” you whisper. “He’s going to cut in right now.”
Agent Gideon made sure to introduce him as Doctor Reid. Lines of his lips tensing pointedly. Doc-tor-Reid.
And yet, after resolutely pinning the title to Doc-tor-Reid’s badge, the fondness of Spencer keeps slipping past his lips.
“Agent Anthony’s right,” Agent Gideon begins.
You hear a barely muffled laugh behind you. A satisfied smile tugs at your lips.
Agent Gideon’s attention doesn’t fully follow the words to their destination. As if the agreement is something he’s already arrived at before speaking.
“Single shots. Clean kills. Almost no evidence left behind. That kind of control… that comes from discipline. From training.”
He doesn’t look at Agent Anthony. It’s peculiar. It feels less like a conversation and more like something being written over in real time.
He leans forward in his chair. The brownish grid of his shirt bunches around his middle, the lines distorting.
“But someone like that doesn’t hold on to the weapon. A high-end firearm leaves a signature. He knows better than to keep it,” he continues confidently.
“A .25 gives you nothing,” Agent Anthony finishes the thought for him.
Agent Gideon briefly turns his head towards him. He looks at him, just long enough to acknowledge the interruption.
“The gun isn’t about money. Neither is the car. It disappears in plain sight,” he says.
Doctor Reid keeps tapping with his fingers against his thigh. Like dots. He’s wordlessly mouthing along to Agent Gideon’s words.
“It’s not about what he can’t afford. It’s about not being seen.”
Agent Anthony doesn’t flinch. His face settles into the same federal amber from his badge picture. He gives Agent Gideon a tight and fascinatingly professional smile.
“That’s a valid retrospective,” he says. “And I’ll be the first to admit that the Bureau’s data pool at the time wasn’t the most objective.”
He gestures measuredly towards the rows.
“But a blue collar offender wasn’t a complete shot in the dark. The unsub fit. He didn’t seem out of place. Whether that was a product of his actual background or a deliberate camouflage, the result remained the same.”
He offers a sharp, knowing nod.
“It’s a reminder that as profilers we’re constantly learning. But in the 90s, the standard held because the standard worked.”
The thrumming on Doctor Reid’s knee abruptly stops. He lifts his fingers close to his face. He seems to light up from within.
“Actually,” he explains. “The standard only appeared to work because of a lack of comparative data regarding high-functioning offenders with tactical training.”
His words feel like a chromatic blur. A rapid-fire staccato of pure enthusiasm. Doc-tor-Reid.
“Statistically, the assumption that an offender must belong to the class they are mimicking results in a 30% delay in apprehension.”
As he talks, Agent Gideon looks at him softly. You think you almost see something warm in his gaze. Traces of orange. The corners of his mouth move, just the slightest bit, into a tiny smile.
You look down at your pen.
It’s like Agent Gideon names the world for Doc-tor-Reid. For him ? With him ?
You wonder if you’re a fruit he’s interested in naming, or just part of the rocks.
You take the gum out of your bag.
Wind softly slips through the grass, shifting the blades with a shushing kiss. Combing through the stems like fingers through hair to reveal pools of chicory.
A bright, purple blue. Like a flame burning in the grass.
The field stretches too far to hold in one glance, scattered with small suns and soft blushes.
Your hand caresses the grass. You inhale, like the deep, gentle breath you take into the shoulder of someone you cherish.
It smells sweet, like crushed honey.
You feel the tiny needle-steps of something climbing on your skin. A small orange beetle walks with a delicate, mechanical precision along your fingers. It pauses on your knuckle, as if curious about the vast landscape of your hand.
You close your eyes, letting the light press against your eyelids until everything turns a warm, translucent crimson.
It’s beautiful because it just is.
The wind brushes your cheeks. A sharp, sudden pinch pricks your finger.
You flinch and pull your hand back reflexively, and the beetle takes flight, a blurred orange spark vanishing into the chicory.
A small, acrid yellow smudge remains on the curve of your knuckle.
You lean forward and brush your finger against the blades of grass, trying to wipe the color away, but the stain is stubborn.
You sigh quietly and turn your wrist inward.
The watch face catches the light. The glass is a cold flat circle against your pulse. The hands move with a precise click click click.
You had left the Academy early this morning, slipping away for a day trip that promised to be endless. Back then, the return felt impossibly far away.
As you leave the field, you reach for a black-eyed Susan. You find yourself staring into its center. It feels like a dark unblinking pupil. Watching you leave as if it’s memorizing your face.
You pull the stem between your fingers and gently snap it.
The vivid, honeyed warmth of the meadow begins to cool as the tires hum against the asphalt, the sound vibrating through the steering wheel.
An old gas station sits at the edge of the road. White walls yellowed by decades of Virginia sun.
You find yourself standing before a wire postcard rack. It’s slightly rusted in the joints, protesting with a thin, metallic whisper as you give it a tentative nudge. It spins slowly in a blur of colors and serrated edges.
At first, it’s exactly what you’d expect.
Greetings from Richmond. Coastal lighthouses. Oak trees and blue mountains.
But then the rack settles.
A snowy plain with no trees to cradle the wind. Pale sun bleached stones swimming in turquoise water. Sunny California it says. Eroded badlands in tightly packed ridges and gullies.
Cards haphazardly jammed into slots where they clearly don’t belong.
You look around the small, cramped station.
The linoleum is cracked, and the air smells of tanned leather and burnt coffee.
Your eyes travel down the wire of the rack, following the line of mismatched colors to the very bottom.
A clear plastic-wrapped block of cardstock, far too thick for this shelf, still cinched tight in its packaging. Across the USA : 50-Card Value Pack printed in a dull, functional font across the front.
The plastic crinkles as you set it on the counter.
“That’ll be five fifty,” the worker says plainly.
As you hold out the money, his eyes drop to your hand.
"Oh, one of those orange beetles get you ?" he asks, his voice scraping through the silence. "They’re all over the place this year."
The register clicks.
"Those things aren't even real ladybugs. The government brought them in to eat the soybean aphids, and now they’re everywhere."
"I didn’t know that," you say softly.
"That's how they get you. Look just right until they bite."
You hook your thumb under the edge of the plastic. You slide the stack out and go through it.
One by one, the familiar strangers reappear : the snowy plain, the sunny coast, the tan desert.
You also find a few Virginia postcards.
You figure someone else must have bought a similar pack, picked through it to keep the Virginia ones, and left the rest in the rack.
It’s a simple enough answer. A mundane bit of logic that should be enough to satisfy you.
And yet, the silence of the gas station suddenly feels like a classroom.
The worker wordlessly leans over the counter to read through a tattered crossword puzzle. He doesn't look up, the scratch of his pen the only sound against the spinning of the ceiling fan.
You look down at the tan brown of a desert postcard. Narrow crests and deep grooves. Sort of like a labyrinth. You can almost feel Agent Gideon’s eyes on you. Heavy. Expectant. Sharp. The way his lips move as he leans forward. Why ?
Why go through all this trouble—why not just buy Virginia postcards directly ?
You imagine his brows furrowing in thought. Lines at the corners of his eyes mapping each possibility. How his finger taps his lips quietly.
The answer tastes like him.
A perfectionist or a completionist.
Who didn’t buy the pack because it was convenient.
Who bought it because it gives something to resolve.
A contained disorder.
You wonder if he’d give you a small, proud smile.
You slide the mismatched postcards back into the wrapper and tuck it inside your bag.
On the board : three victims, a three-mile radius and one consistent lack of struggle.
The question is already in the room.
Victim selection ?
Agent Gideon didn’t technically ask the question out loud. He simply twisted the projector’s lens for a moment. A slow, methodical rotation of his wrist that coaxed the blurred shapes on the wall into a sudden, agonizing focus.
So.
Proximity first. Because proximity is always first.
Unless it isn’t.
Unless this is controlled, unless control implies prior knowledge—
He’s leaning against his desk, the dark wood a sharp line behind him. His arms are braced against the edge to support his weight, sleeves rolled back to reveal the tension in his forearms.
No.
Knowledge requires familiarity.
Familiarity implies repeated exposure.
But repeated exposure would mean opportunity already existed, so proximity is still—
Still primary.
Veins blend in with the fine dark hairs on his skin, leading down to his hands. His fingers, blunt and strong, grip the edge of the wood.
His legs are crossed at the ankles. His brown trousers bunch up a tiny bit where his shins overlap, the fabric pulled taut. He's wearing sneakers of all things.
It’s your own mind doing the running, leaving you feeling winded and out of breath as your thoughts race to keep up with the silence.
Where were you ?
Proximity. But that removes intent too quickly.
If intent is absent, then the act becomes random, but randomness doesn’t match the spacing of the scenes, the spacing is too deliberate, too clean—
You notice the way his belly juts out the tiniest bit over his belt as he leans back. A posture of relaxed intensity that only makes the air feel sparser around your lungs.
Too clean means structure.
Structure means planning.
Planning means—
No.
His eyes feel like a physical weight you have to push against to keep your thoughts moving.
That contradicts proximity again.
Unless proximity is chosen, not incidental—
Unless he selected the environment first and then the victim within it—
But that assumes staging, and staging requires time, and time conflicts with the witness window—
“Don’t overthink it. You already know.”
They all still fit. In different ways. In incomplete ways.
If you adjust one variable, the others shift. If you stabilize one, two collapse.
But the longer you hold them, the less distinct they become—just overlapping noise, just—
“It’s not about the victims,” you say. “It’s about the location.”
A pause.
“What makes you say that ?”
His fingers tap on the desk.
In a steady, hypnotic loop that feels like it’s setting a pace you can’t quite maintain.
“If it was about the victims, he’d prioritize access to them,” you answer. “But he’s taking on unnecessary risk by staying tied to a specific place. That only makes sense if the place matters more than the person.”
You can see the deep, weathered crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The light shines on his glasses and you feel like you’re under some sort of magnifying lens.
Index.
Middle.
Ring.
He tilts his head faintly.
“What does that give him ?” he asks.
“Control,” you say, the word coming out on a short, sharp exhale.
You find yourself taking a shallow breath, trying to pull enough air in to finish the thought before he moves again.
“He starts with the environment. Somewhere he already understands. Every entrance, every blind spot, how long he can stay without being noticed—”
“What are you discarding ?” he cuts in.
You blink, and the glare hits wrong —like looking straight into the sun.
“Random selection,” you tell him. “If it were random, the locations would vary. They don’t.” Another blink. “And impulse. This requires waiting.”
The tapping stops.
He pushes himself off of the desk and walks towards you.
He looks at you like he isn’t waiting for an answer so much as watching how you arrive at one.
There’s something off in it. Too intent, too immediate. Like your thinking itself isn’t what he’s paying attention to but where it moves, and what it avoids.
Like he’s trying to keep you from stepping out of the reasoning before it finishes forming.
You don’t know. You can’t tell.
“Keep going,” he instructs.
You take a small breath. It smells like coffee. And ink. Maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Your heart thumps in your chest.
“He’s not finding victims and then figuring out where to take them,” you say. “He’s setting the conditions first… and waiting until someone fits.”
“Why wait ?” he challenges.
The light still lingers, like something burned into your vision.
“Because it reduces uncertainty,” you start—then stop.
No. That’s not it.
“Because out there, he has to adjust,” you correct, more quietly. “He has to react. Here… he doesn’t.”
Agent Gideon’s voice cuts in again, softer.
“What does that feel like to him ?”
You swallow. Your throat feels dry.
“It doesn’t feel like a risk,” you say. “Or—it does. But it’s the kind he knows he can win.”
His lips twitch. A smile that’s barely there. Gone almost as soon as it blooms.
It reminds you, inexplicably, of Doctor Reid. Of the way something gentler slips through before he can stop it.
“And if he wins ?”
You hesitate.
Your fingers pull at your lips. You taste something acrid.
“Then he feels like he’s right about himself. That he’s smarter than everyone else,” you begin.
Your fingers press harder against your mouth. Blunt pressure to steady the nausea and force the words out at the same time.
You drag the conclusion past your teeth, raw and unproven.
“That people don’t overlook him because something’s wrong with him. They’re just not paying attention.”
He gives you a small smile.
Just for a moment.
It softens the lines of his face. And at the same time, it reveals ones you don’t usually see. Like a band spectrum that only appears at a certain angle.
The lecture has run seven minutes over.
By any astronomical metric, seven minutes isn’t a long time.
Seven times sixty. Four hundred and twenty seconds.
Times a thousand that’s four hundred and twenty thousand milliseconds.
Times a thousand that’s…
The more you dissect it, the bigger the number gets. It stops being a mere seven minutes and turns into a massive 420 x 10^15 femtoseconds. See now you have to use exponents instead of just writing it out.
Seven minutes starts to sound like a staggering amount of life to account for.
Beside you, someone is performing a slow-motion ritual of clearing their desk. Moving their highlighter an inch to the left, then the right, eyes darting to the clock every few seconds.
Two rows down, a trainee is staring at the wall with a glazed, thousand-yard stare. Perhaps they’ve gotten to the point where seven minutes sounds like existential paralysis.
Planck time. The universe’s most elementary unit. You can’t slice reality any thinner than this.
In seven minutes, that’s roughly 7.7 quattuordecillion units. At this point, the number has so many zeros it loses its impact on a human brain. Or at least on yours.
You wonder what is the smallest possible measurement of Agent Gideon. The single, indivisible moment that makes the rest of him inevitable. Past the point where the universe says the scale has to end.
The gold band on his ring finger maybe. You’ve spent an absurd amount of Planck units wondering why he still wears it.
To remind himself of what was. A marriage that didn’t survive the gravity of his work.
Or a penance for the people he thinks he’s disappointed.
Or what if it’s not even about disappointment at all. Maybe it’s a tether to the people he loves even if they’ve drifted out of his reach.
Or maybe it’s just because he’d feel weird taking it off.
You want to know him with a precision that defies the way the world is built. Reach a point where you aren't just watching him, but vibrating at the exact same wavelength. Why do your hands want to circle the ultraviolet ? why—
“That will be all for today,” he says finally.
You glance at the clock.
Nine minutes.
A trainee beside you slings their bag over their shoulder.
“You going to the dining hall ?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Great,” another trainee says, falling into step as they gather their things. “If we get there before the line turns into a disaster.”
“I’m not doing another sandwich run from the vending machines,” someone adds from behind them.
“You say that every time.”
“And I mean it every time.”
You move towards the door. A small current of voices discussing caffeine and the cafeteria’s overly sticky pastries.
Your shoulder brushes along a passing jacket. You think about getting peaches, but they’re the kind where the flesh still clings to the pit. It’s annoying.
You hear Agent Gideon call your name.
“A moment,” he says.
The trainees glance at you as you stop in the doorway. Something like pity, something like relief. The look of someone being spared a sticky situation they don’t want to peel apart.
“Save me a seat ?” you whisper.
A few nods.
Footsteps clack against the vinyl of the corridor.
“Sir ?”
Honestly, you were already imagining yourself in the dining hall. Or at least in the sweet mercy of being a student who doesn’t have to solve the man at the front of the room.
He gathers a few stray papers. Makes sure the projector is off. Pushes the desk’s chair back into place.
He gives the room one last look before he finally turns to you.
“My office.”
He doesn’t wait for you to agree.
He walks ahead of you with a very slight forward-leaning tilt. His shoulders rounded as if he’s perpetually bracing against a headwind only he can feel.
Seeing the back of his head feels strange. The salt and pepper hair thins at the crown to reveal the skin underneath. It sort of looks like a crater where the sun hits too hard. Oddly enough, you think that the hollowed out space makes him seem more human.
His office looks more like the frantic cell of a college professor than a federal agent’s workspace. It smells like wood and old coffee and eucalyptus and that very specific smell aging paper has.
File cabinets and drawers that serve as pedestals for ridged mountains of books and manila folders.
A corkboard hangs on a wall, disappearing beneath layers of messily pinned pages. Memos and maps and handwritten notes that flutter slightly when he closes the door.
Directly beneath it sits a black cabinet that is strikingly, almost unnervingly neat. It clashes with the rest of the room. Mismatched frames carefully placed. Portraits of families and people you don’t recognize. A lamp casts a warm light, as if keeping a vigil over the faces.
He reaches for one of the two brownish-red leather chairs in front of his desk. And with a low, muffled scrape against the floor, he pulls it to face a lone red chair tucked away near a cardboard file box.
You're stuffing all you can into your mind, like an overfilled bell jar, the glass vibrating and ready to shatter.
Your eyes stop on a chess board. Wooden squares mellowed out into a warmer hue. Countless afternoon suns bleaching the grain. A few pieces already in play. You wonder who he’s playing with.
You look up at Agent Gideon. A silent, lingering expectation in your gaze. He looks at the board and merely gestures for you to sit. It stings.
You simply obey. Turning your back to the board and the man alike. Because what else can you do ?
You settle into the chair he’s pulled out for you. You’re facing the corner of the room. You feel like a child somehow.
In front of you sits the red leather chair. Beside it, a small cabinet holds a telephone, a Rubik’s cube and a shallow bowl filled with tiny colorful dice.
The scrape of drawers quietly fills the room behind you.
You can picture him without looking. Slightly hunched over his desk. Glasses pushed up into his hair or balanced low on his nose. One hand rifling through folders while the other steadies the mess from collapsing entirely.
The office settles into a strange kind of silence.
Your fingers drift toward the bowl. The dice are colder than you expected. They make a light, hollow clicking sound. Like teeth of porcelain touching together.
You pick one up between your fingers. Roll it into your palm.
One.
One again.
Then two.
Then three.
The drawers stop moving.
For a moment, all you can hear is the ceiling fan and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.
The next throw catches briefly against your thumb before settling again. Five.
Then footsteps, measured and unhurried.
You straighten slightly as Agent Gideon moves into view. He lowers himself into the red leather chair across from you with a tired exhale. The leather creases softly beneath his weight.
Up close, you can see the fine creases gathered at the sleeves of his t-shirt. Where the fabric twists from being pushed up and tugged back down over time. The cotton clings to the curve of his biceps.
His forearms rest heavily against the arms of the chair. Thighs straining against the fabric of his pants.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches your hand, his gaze following the tiny movement of your fingers against the die.
Then, he slowly holds his own hand out in the narrow gap between your knees.
Your fingers briefly rest against his palm when you give him back the die. His skin feels warm. It looks impossibly small in his palm—a tiny, orange dot.
He drops the die back into the bowl. It clicks.
He reaches for the manila folder he brought from the desk. The edges are softened with wear. Corners bent white from too many hands opening it the same way.
He opens it.
The first photograph is of a white farmhouse. Modest. Wooden porch. A line of fencing cutting a tidy path through grass. Broom sedge field in soft green waves.
It looks like the sort of place someone teaches themselves to miss. It feels out of place in the folder.
“The Clutter family,” Agent Gideon says quietly.
Another photograph. A dining table covered with floral vinyl. A half-empty glass of milk still sitting near the edge. One chair knocked slightly askew.
His voice sounds different. Lower. Less instructional.
“Holcomb Rock, Virginia. Eight years ago.”
He turns one of the photographs toward you.
A man lies in a field, hands bound in front of him. His body is rigid, stiffly angled toward the distant shape of the house behind him.
“The father was found outside,” Agent Gideon continues. “Shot once. Facing the home.”
The grass stands tall and parched around the body, framing it in a grim, vertical outline.
He flips to another page.
“The wife. Son. Daughter.” A slight pause between each word. “Found inside the house. Bound and shot.”
The lace curtains hang heavy and still in the crime scene photographs.
Family portraits remain mounted neatly on the walls. Their smiles feel coldly intact.
“No signs of forced entry,” he says. “No fingerprints worth anything. Phone lines cut before the murders.” His thumb presses briefly against the edge of the file. “No neighbors saw anyone. No one heard the shots.”
He falls silent for a moment.
“I want you to work on this.”
He gives you a small nod.
Your thumb catches at the skin of your finger. You tug at the flesh, but it’s stubborn.
You glance toward the clock on his wall. You don’t really see the time. Only its accumulation.
Twenty-two minutes.
And what is so rare as a day in June ?
The air outside the Academy feels softer by late afternoon. The Virginia sun still clings to the concrete paths and brick walls. But shadows stretch longer across the lawns.
You’re halfway down the building’s front steps when you hear the door open behind you.
Someone laughs too loudly near the vending machines. A car alarm chirps in a jarring tune. The sound doesn’t carry far before it gets absorbed by the heat.
Agent Gideon comes out a second later.
He pauses at the top of the steps.
The sun catches in his hair first. Tenderly caressing the strands. Glimmers of silver.
You like how his eyes look in the sun.
You find yourself holding the shape of his gaze.
It isn’t directed anywhere specific. Still, it feels like it could be.
Like if you could find a way to stand in the right place, in the right way, it might settle on you in a way that feels… warm. Almost familiar.
He looks down toward you, squinting faintly.
The wind rustles the fabric of his shirt in uneven folds. A small breath leaves him as if he’s replacing the air in his lungs with the softness of summer.
He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second. Just enough to blink away the version of him you were just beginning to imagine.
Then he steps down.
You stop at the bottom of the steps without realizing you’ve done it.
He notices. Of course he does.
You expect him to ask about the Clutter case.
The farm house is still warm in your mind. An invasive, sickly heat.
It dries your mouth, narrows your focus to what can survive being looked at. It feels slightly harsh in your throat. Like the air itself wasn’t meant to be held for long.
It lingers in a way you don’t know how to explain without sounding wrong.
You don’t want to disappoint him.
Instead of the question you’re bracing for, he says :
“Come walk with me for a bit.”
Gravel crunches under your feet. His keys clink in his pocket every few steps. Your hand brushes his once.
He doesn’t say anything.
You don’t mind the silence. You watch the way the shadows of the leaves lace across the shoulders of his shirt. The unhurried movement of his thighs beneath his pants. The fabric strains across his quad with every step, pulling tight before slackening as his foot meets the gravel.
His arms swing in a loose, casual arc at his sides. It keeps brushing the air just millimeters from your own arm. You can’t find a way to adjust your pace for his arm to brush you again.
You give up on trying to match his stride. Let your eyes trace the slope of his nose, the curve of his neck, the crest of his chest.
The trees rustle with the wind. Leaves fluttering over and around you, thinning the sunlight into soft and gentle rays.
The light reaches him altered. Filtered through layers of green until the resoluteness of it fades against his skin.
He looks easier. Less burdened by the act of being observed.
The corners of his mouth lift slowly into a small, lingering smile, softening the lines around his mouth, then reaching his eyes.
He pauses.
“Listen.”
You stop beside him.
You only hear the obvious things.
Perhaps obvious isn’t the right word.
Shallow water splashes over rocks and fallen logs. Twigs and branches crunch under a deer’s leisurely steps. Insects singing in the high canopy.
A thousand small living sounds harmonized together without urgency. Nothing stands out because nothing is meant to.
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ?
Somewhere in it, there is apparently a single sound he wants you to hear.
You aren’t sure which one. You could ask.
His smile is still there. It’s like his face completely surrenders to warmth. It’s beautiful.
The wind shifts again through the trees.
His eyes stay on whatever he’s listening to. Does he know ?
His hand settles right between your shoulder blades, warm through the fabric of your shirt, a broad pressure that gently coaxes you a half-step forward.
He doesn't push you. He gently aligns your frame with his own.
He raises his other hand, a thick finger extending toward the lower fork of a hickory tree.
“There,” he murmurs. “Look past the split in the bark. A wood thrush.”
You squint. A small, mottled brown bird detaches itself from the shadow of the leaves.
“Three distinct notes, then a thrill,” he tells you quietly.
A soft, fluted call. One note folding delicately into the next.
“I don’t know much about birds,” you admit.
His hand shifts slightly on your back. He doesn’t take it off, he just… nestles it.
“That’s alright,” he says.
The answer comes easily. No pause to weigh your ignorance against you.
You glance at him. His attention remains fixed on the branches.
You see the way the bird’s tiny body fluffs up completely with the effort. Its beak opens surprisingly wide. The white feathers of its throat vibrate along with the sound.
You let the notes wash over you instead of trying to separate them.
The wood thrush sings once more.
Then it stops.
“They can sing two notes at once,” he says after a moment.
His hand slowly drifts off of your back. The absence of it feels immediate. Cool air settling against the space his warmth occupied, as though he had briefly lent something of himself to you and taken it back.
“Two completely separate sounds.” A faint pause. “Most people only hear one.”
You listen for it when the thrush sings again.
At first, you can’t tell where one note ends and the other begins. Then slowly, almost strangely, the sound seems to come apart in your ears. One clear tone carrying beneath another.
You frown faintly.
“I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” you say.
That finally pulls his gaze toward you.
“What isn’t ?”
You hesitate, then look back at the trees.
“That people only hear one note,” you explain. “I think it’s meant to be heard as one.”
His eyebrows draw together slightly. His jaw goes just a fraction slack, leaving his mouth barely open.
His breathing shifts. Measured in a way that feels almost interrupted. He holds it for a beat longer than necessary, then lets it out quietly, like someone trying not to let the sound of it become part of the air.
There’s something in his expression that you can’t name. You think it’s a kind of careful curiosity. But somehow he looks… sad.
Almost immediately, you want him to look away. To blink. To reset it into something ordinary again. Something you don’t have to hold.
The air carries the dry, sweet smell of crushed leaves warmed by sun and decay.
He doesn’t.
He doesn’t look away.
His eyes stay on yours in a way that feels chosen. A glassy, unblinking hold.
“You take it in whole,” he says.
His hand lifts.
You think, for a brief second, that he’s going to touch your face.
Instead, his fingers pause in the air, then shift.
He brushes something from your shoulder. A small bug you hadn’t noticed. The kind of correction that almost feels like care.
“We don’t hear it the same way,” he continues.
His jaw tightens for a moment, then releases, as if something had almost been said differently and wasn’t.
“You don’t need to separate it to understand it,” he adds.
Then, after a longer pause :
“I do.”
Faint blue ink underlines the sentence : “the disorganized offender leaves a chaotic crime scene, reflecting a sudden, impulsive escalation.”
Above the text, the bold header on the page reads Principles of Behavioral Criminal Profiling. The textbook lays wide open on the library’s table.
The wood is scratched with decades of absentminded damage. Initials carved into corners. A cigarette burn someone tried unsuccessfully to sand down.
The Clutter murder case file hides the rest of the wood.
Crime scene photographs spill across the table in uneven layers. The white farmhouse. The dining room. The father —Herb Clutter—in the field, body stiff in the tall grass, facing the distant shape of the house.
Two paper cups of stale vending machine coffee sit perilously close to the edge of the manila folder. Dust lifts through the beams of light. Outside the tall windows, Quantico dissolves into black glass.
Agent Gideon leans back in his chair. His glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose. He watches the photographs with the stillness of someone waiting for an answer he already knows.
“You’re avoiding something,” he decides.
His hand loosely cups the paper coffee cup beside him, thumb rubbing slowly against the seam of the lid.
You keep your eyes fixed on the grain of the photos.
They don’t change. They never change.
Your pen shifts in your hand.
Avoiding what, exactly ?
The fact that Nancy, the daughter, was found upstairs shot at close range yet tucked in neatly under the covers.
The fact that the mother, Bonnie, is left the same way.
Your gaze moves on to the house’s basement diagram.
The fact that Kenyon, the son, is bound to a couch in the cellar before he’s killed, a pillow placed under his head.
The fact that Herb Clutter is not inside the house at all.
The fact that he’s been moved outside, into the field, shot facing his own home, with a flattened cardboard box placed under his knees.
Or is it just that you’re not saying what he wants you to say.
You look up at him again, but there’s nothing different in his posture than there was a moment ago.
Still leaning back. Still watching without moving.
“I don’t know,” you say.
It comes out flatter than you want it to.
Agent Gideon exhales through his nose. He leans forward.
The dark wood of the table creaks faintly as he presses his forearms against the edge. The lamp catches the thick, coarse hairs on his arms.
He reaches into the cluster of pages. His thumb clips the corner of a single photograph. The paper drags softly against the others.
He places it in front of your notebook.
“Look at the boy,” he tells you.
You do.
The picture looks like film left too long in the bath — the scene bleeding together until dark and light erase each other.
Agent Gideon’s voice comes again, softer this time.
“Tell me what you see.”
He doesn’t lean in this time.
He just waits.
And then, after a second, his hand moves lightly toward yours.
“I see someone trying to make it less violent,” you answer. “Or at least, trying to make it look like it was.”
Agent Gideon’s index finger twitches against the table. A small, absent, lift of his knuckle.
“Why would someone do that ?” he asks.
Your nail scratches the wood between your hand and his. It has shallow furrows in it.
“To make it easier,” you continue, “To stay removed from it.”
“That’s cowardice,” he says.
The word lands with the blunt certainty of something erosion has already tested for weakness. Weathered into existence inside him.
His brows furrow. His forearms stay braced against the table, heavy and unmoving.
Once you call it cowardice, all the contradictory details start getting absorbed into that interpretation.
You hesitate.
Not because you think he’s wrong. That would be easier somehow.
It’s that the truth of this thing behaves like light. It doesn’t settle into a shape until you look at it.
“I can see that,” you admit. “The pillow, the blankets… Those feel avoidant. But moving Herb outside doesn’t.”
His hand suddenly leaves the table. He leans back and crosses his arms.
“Then what is it ?”
“I just—” you start, then stop, as if the sentence isn’t solid enough to stand on. “I feel like a coward wouldn’t take the risk of going outside like that.”
His arms remain folded, but something in the set of them has tightened—less open than before. His hand shifts against his upper arm, fingers pressing in without seeming to notice.
“You’re looking at the field as an exhibition of power,” he says. “You think taking Herb Clutter outside means the unsub wanted a stage.”
His words hit you like a rapid, blinding bombardment of particles.
“It isn’t. It’s panic,” he says.
Each syllable is a tiny, individual grain of his certainty. Too charged to be seen directly, only inferred by what it burns into being.
“A dominant unsub kills him in the house because he owns it,” he continues. “He doesn’t need distance.”
His eyes flick once toward the file, then back.
“This isn’t that.”
Your focus scrambles down to the safety of the table, pinning itself to the faint blue line underlined in the textbook.
“Behavioral indicators may include disorganized spatial arrangement of the crime scene and inconsistent victim positioning”, your mind reads ahead, tracing the text silently while his voice continues to rain down on you. “Planning capacity is typically limited, with minimal effort directed toward concealment or post-offense reconstruction.”
“This unsub kneels a man in the dirt to execute him,” he says sharply. “And even then, he can’t let it be plain. He has to soften it.”
You feel stupid. The printed letters turn into a black blur.
“If you’re seeing this as strength,” he finishes, “then you’re not seeing it as it is.”
You take a small breath and finally look up. His mouth is a thin, bitter line. His chin tucked slightly into the collar of his shirt.
He doesn’t say anything else. You consider twisting your own shape to fit the contours of his silence.
“You’re not wrong to hesitate,” he says after a while.
He picks up his paper coffee cup. Runs his other hand back and forth over his thigh. “But I don’t want you to stay there.”
His eyes lower into a heavy-lidded softness. The fine lines at the corners of them settle, smoothing out as though something behind them has exhaled first.
“Think it through.”
He pushes himself up from the chair. He stands over you. His large, warm hand comes down on your shoulder.
He lets it rest there for a second. You want to see it as you still being inside the room with him. That he hasn't abandoned you to the dark.
Then he turns away from the table.
The chair legs scrape softly against the floor.
Your eyes drop back to the open page of Principles of Behavioral Criminal Profiling.
You flip a page backward. Then three pages forward.
“Disorganized crime scenes reflect a subset of offender behavior characterized by low levels of planning, situational escalation, and impaired behavioral control. However, not all offenders exhibit such spontaneous or chaotic patterns.”
It’s almost funny. No matter the author, no matter the year or the institution stamped on the spine, they all end up sounding the same. You wonder if there’s a mandatory seminar everyone has to attend before they’re allowed to publish.
You turn your pen between your fingers.
You flip the page and try it for yourself. ‘To better understand offender behavior, it is useful — maybe useful doesn’t sound textbook-y enough—… it is necessary —it should be something that uses up more ink — … it is heuristically relevant —whatever — to contrast disorganized patterns with those reflecting higher degrees of planning and behavioral organization.’
You flip back the page.
“In some cases, crime scenes exhibit deliberate staging, evidence removal, and strategic victim selection, suggesting a more controlled and goal-directed behavioral pattern.”
You pause.
The transition between those two sentences feels a little rude, actually. Like the author forgot they were supposed to sound like they cared.
“Hi.”
You look up.
“I was looking for Gideon. His car is still in the lot so I thought—”
“You just missed him.”
The words leave your throat a little too fast. Or just… not spaced correctly. Like your mouth chose the end before your mind finished arranging the middle.
Doc-tor-Reid. Or Doct-or-Reid ? Doctor-Reid ?
You can’t find the meter for it.
His hair is neatly gelled back. Careful in a way that suggests effort. He’s wearing a crisp button-down shirt but his tie is distinctly crooked, pulled slightly to the right.
One hand holds the leather strap of his bag. His fingers keep adjusting it absentmindedly.
He looks kind.
He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes move over the table instead.
Left. Right. Diagonal. Across the uneven layers of crime scene photographs, the open textbook, your notebook half-covered in notes.
Absorbing the white farmhouse, the dining room, the basement diagram, all at once. So quickly it almost makes you feel dizzy just trying to follow him.
He adjusts the strap of his bag again, thumb dragging once along the worn leather.
“You’re working the Clutter case ?”
The question is soft. Almost careful.
You nod.
He’s still looking at your notes when he speaks.
“You’re leaning towards disorganized,” he says.
“I think so,” you say.
Then, after a moment, “But it doesn’t fully explain the placement of the father.”
He finally looks up at you.
“Why not ?”
You’re not sure where the useful version of the answer begins.
He looks at you through his glasses, his head tilted in patient, uncalibrated curiosity. Like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to find the right words.
“Moving him outside doesn’t feel consistent with disorganized behavior,” you answer finally.
His bag comes off his shoulder and lands softly on the table with a muted thud. He pulls out the chair next to yours and sits down. The metal legs make a brief, dull scrape against the floor.
“Consistency across multiple scenes is what gives you a working profile,” he says. “One detail that doesn’t fit doesn’t necessarily break the model. Not unless you see it repeat in a way that changes what the model is doing.”
“That assumes the model is already correct,” you argue.
He exhales lightly through his nose. The corner of his mouth softens almost imperceptibly.
“Models are predictive frameworks,” he explains. “They don’t have to account for every anomaly to be useful.”
His hand hovers near your pen. Not quite taking it.
“The unsub didn't become organized when he crossed the threshold into the yard,” he continues. “I’d say it’s more likely he’s transitioning between zones of behavioral constraint. Interior space limits certain actions. Exterior space removes those constraints.”
He taps his finger rhythmically against the edge of the table. It makes your pen rattle. Three quick taps. Then his hand flies up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.
“Which changes the expression of the behavior, not necessarily the behavior itself.”
You frown.
“Putting someone in a field and executing them facing their own house isn’t just running out of space,” you say.
His head tilts slightly.
“Gideon would say the same thing you’re saying,” he concedes. “That it looks assertive on the surface.”
For a second, you consider not mentioning it. The conversation would probably be easier if you didn't. It’s ridiculous. It’s just a word.
It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.
“He called it cowardice.”
His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek, then disappears again. He swallows then he reaches for your pen. He turns it once between his fingers, almost absentmindedly, then rests it against his palm.
Tap.
He wets his lips, once, as if preparing to speak, then doesn’t.
His thumb adjusts the pen’s position. Like he’s correcting a misalignment only he can see.
Tap.
He pauses for a moment.
Tap.
It’s a small, boringly ordinary ballpoint with a clear plastic barrel.
Tap. Tap.
A tiny rolling ball transfers blue ink to paper. Functionally utilitarian.
This pen is almost out of ink but it’s still writing just fine. Sometimes new ones refuse to work even if the reservoir is full.
Tap.
Still nothing.
“What does he mean ?” you ask finally.
He takes a small breath as if to steady himself into speaking.
“It’s not a word Gideon would use light—”
His eyes drop to the table between you, like he’s re-reading something that isn’t written there yet.
“He doesn’t use it—,” he starts again.
The pen turns in his palm.
“I mean he does— actually that’s not…”
He clears his throat.
“He doesn’t use it the way you’re thinking.”
For a second, he studies the pen in his hand. As though the answer might be hidden somewhere inside the transparent barrel.
“It’s not a moral judgment,” he continues carefully. “It’s more like… a shorthand for a pattern of behavior.”
It’s strange how he picks his words so cautiously. You'd assumed Doctor Reid belonged to the category of people who valued precision above almost everything else.
“The pillow. The mattress. Those aren’t incidental. They’re consistent across scenes where the unsub has full control.”
You sort of pictured him using some textbook word that would need a three minute explanation because it’s the most accurate one.
But it’s like he’s sorting through thousands and thousands of specimens and still somehow ends up choosing the simplest ones.
He starts tapping the pen again. A little less rhythmically.
“So what Gideon’s asking,” he says, pausing briefly, “is why someone capable of escalation keeps reverting to containment behavior.”
You open your mouth slightly, but don’t interrupt.
Reid continues.
“And his answer is… that cowardice isn’t about avoiding violence,” he says, then hesitates like he’s checking the phrasing in his head.
A few quick taps. Then nothing. Then another.
The spacing keeps changing before your mind can settle into it.
Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap.
Tap.Tap.Tap.Tap.
“It’s more about not being able to sustain it. Without something to… offset it afterward.”
He taps your pen again, one last time, like he’s grounding the thought.
“The field shot doesn’t really override that pattern, because it’s isolated. It doesn’t repeat. It’s not reinforced across the rest of the behavior set.”
“Disregarding an outlier makes sense if you can justify it as noise,” you say. “But this isn’t a minor inconsistency in the pattern. It’s like—”
You pause.
“Like…” you try again. “It’s not just deviating from the pattern. It’s…”
The facts click into place like a metronome.
“Like a break in the most extreme direction.”
You stare at the photographs.
They have to click. They have to.
No, they do. That’s how it works. That’s how it works. Not the other way. The other way— that doesn’t make sense. It can’t be that.
“It feels risky to just discard it,” you admit quietly.
He sighs softly.
He looks at you. His brow furrows, just slightly. His lips press together.
“Gideon’s right about this one,” he confesses, “But I understand why you’re worried about the risk. He… hasn’t always been right when he’s named it that way.”
Oh.
He doesn’t say Boston. He doesn’t have to.
You keep your eyes on the table.
One of his hands moves to the side of his neck, his fingers scratching lightly against the skin.
“Okay,” he begins. “Let’s start there.”
He glances briefly at your notes as if checking the idea against them.
“I think you might be treating it like a linear progression.”
He sets the ballpoint pen down on the edge of the textbook.
“Which actually makes sense. If you assume a linear system, then increased environmental risk—like moving into an open field—should correspond to a proportional shift in offender organization.”
He shifts his weight, the old wood of the chair giving a faint creak beneath him. “I just think there’s another way to look at it.”
“Behavioral systems under acute stress don’t really stay linear. It’s more like water. You add heat, it rises predictably… and then at one hundred degrees it changes state. Not because something new happens, but because it can’t sustain the same structure anymore.”
He pauses, his eyes finally flickering up to catch yours through the frames of his glasses.
“The unsub’s main driver is avoidance. Cognitive denial. He’s maintaining distance between himself and the violence. But that kind of split is… really inefficient. Psychologically,” he continues.
He reaches out and uses the tip of his finger to slide the field’s photographs closer to the center of the table. “With each victim, the pressure builds until it can’t stay contained. Taking Herb outside isn’t planned escalation, it’s spillover. The system expands the environment just to maintain the same internal distance.”
He lets out a small laugh.
“It’s basically thermodynamics with… really bad boundary conditions.”
A tiny, involuntary laugh escapes you before you can catch it. He gives you a small smile.
“The cardboard box under Herb’s knees,” he says more softly, pointing at the photo, “that’s the clearest sign. Even after the rupture, he’s still trying—badly—to insulate himself. The structure changes, but the math of it doesn’t.”
His eyes linger on the image.
“It’s this… insulation. The separation between the self and the act.” He hesitates, then adds, “That’s what Gideon was getting at when he called it cowardice.”
“And you agree with that label.”
Reid doesn’t answer immediately.
That delay is the point, you think. Awareness that agreeing or disagreeing would simplify something he’s trying to keep intact.
He pauses, then nods once.
“Yes,” he says. “I agree with Gideon’s reading of it.”
The reasoning is consistent, reproductible, traceable.
It sounds familiar in a way that is almost comforting.
You nod.
Things shift into casual conversation for a moment. Nothing in particular.
You use a postcard from your bag to keep your place in the textbook.
“That’s Zabriskie Point,” Reid says quickly, a hint of sudden enthusiasm slipping through his tone. “It’s actually the remains of a prehistoric lake—Lake Furnace Creek. It’s been dry for five million years.”
Your eyes follow the postcard as he speaks. The pale ridges fan out in layered orange waves, almost like frozen movement, the colors muted into sand and ash tones.
“What you’re looking at in the postcard isn’t just dirt; they’re tilted strata of silt and volcanic ash.”
Your finger traces one of the sharper lines cutting through the formation.
“The most interesting thing is the porosity,” he continues.
Reid has a small smile on his face. He loosely gestures toward the image as he talks.
“Furnace Creek is mostly clay. It’s basically impermeable to water,” he says. “Because of that, nothing really gets absorbed into the ground. It all stays on the surface.”
You notice the faint lines in the skin of your finger. A small stain near your knuckle.
You look up from the postcard.
“So when it rains, the water moves really quickly. That’s what creates those deep gullies. They call it efficient drainage.”
It’s nice, you think, that he knows so much.
“I think it’s beautiful,” you say.
He gives you a smile.
“Yeah.”
One must imagine the new agent trainee happy.
Which is difficult, in practice, when you are once again eating a peach. And the flesh clings to the stone. Again.
You like peaches. Which is why you keep thinking “it might be different this time”.
And every time it is not.
It’s not quite consistent enough to justify abandoning peaches entirely, but frequent enough to make each new attempt feel personally naive.
Still, you keep getting them. Sisyphus had it simple.
“You’re getting juice everywhere.”
“Am I ?” you ask, glancing down.
Someone slides a napkin closer across the table while continuing their sentence about yesterday’s training run. You take it and wipe your forearm.
“—and I swear Agent O’Hara was one second away from a total meltdown.”
“No, he was already there,” someone else argues immediately. “You just missed the first five minutes.”
“He literally cut me off mid-sentence just to correct a minor date.”
“It was insane.”
“Every single comment got completely shredded.”
“He was basically looking for a fight.”
You exhale a small laugh through your nose before you can stop it.
“Okay, but word is, his wife has been getting ‘consultations’ from that weird analyst in forensics and he’s just letting it happen,” someone adds
“So he takes it out on us because he can't face it at home ?,” you ask, still wiping peach juice off your wrist.
“No way. That guy looks like a melted candle, I don't get what she's doing.”
A few people laugh, the conversation overlapping without pause as it shifts again. Someone talking about cafeteria coffee, someone else complaining about sleep schedules, someone interrupting to dispute both points at once.
You angle the peach again, trying to work around the pit, and take another wonky slice. What a fucking pain.
Across the room, a chair scrapes back harder than necessary.
“Wait—” one of the trainees says suddenly, mid-bite, eyes shifting past your shoulder. “Is that Gideon ?”
A few heads turn at once.
At first, your eyes go to the man sitting closest to Agent Gideon. Buttoned-down to the point of severity. Tie knotted so tightly you’re surprised his face isn’t turning blue.
You remember Agent Hotchner from your first day of profiling class. Standing at the front of the room, speaking once, briefly, and leaving before anyone quite figured out whether he was meant to be teaching or supervising.
There was a peculiar tiredness in his face — sort of like he’s been awake through several versions of the same day and is still trying to prove he belongs in the current one.
Across from him sits someone you don’t recognize.
Hair close-cropped and practical. Skin a warm, even brown that stands out under the cafeteria lights. His suit kind of doesn’t really sit naturally on him. Like it was chosen by someone else, or worn into obligation.
The man with the shorter hair leans forward and ruffles Doctor Reid’s hair with a teasing laugh.
Reid’s hand comes up to smooth his hair back into place. It’s clearly not the first time.
“Stop—” he says, sharper than intended. The word carries just enough volume to cut through the cafeteria noise for a second, earning a couple of glances from nearby tables.
Then he seems to register how loud it was. The man with the short hair leans back in his chair, clearly satisfied, mouth pulling into an easy grin.
Agent Gideon doesn’t react immediately.
He’s watching the exchange the way you might watch something familiar repeat itself with minor variation. His fork is halfway to his plate, then pauses.
Reid shoots him a quick look, half accusation, half appeal. Agent Gideon’s mouth quirks into a smile easily, and then says something.
You can’t quite hear it but it makes the rest of his table laugh.
“So that’s what he’s like with the BAU,” someone mutters, still half-facing the table across the room. “I thought he was, like… always intense.”
“Apparently that’s only for the classroom.”
A few quiet laughs ripple through the group.
Someone nudges their tray forward. “Do you think he’s ever going back to the field, though ?”
That pulls a brief pause. A couple of heads tilt slightly, attention shifting from casual observation into something more speculative.
“I heard he was technically cleared,” another trainee says.
Agent Gideon, sets his fork down with deliberate care. The metal meets the plate without a sound you can quite isolate from the room.
He reaches for his napkin next.
It’s a plain white square, already lightly creased from use. His hand closes around it. Broad fingers, slightly rough at the knuckles.
He brings it to his mouth and wipes. His wrist turns slightly as he does it.
“Yeah but now that Hotchner’s Unit Chief…,” someone adds, lowering their voice slightly as if the title itself carries weight.
That gets a few glances around the table—quick checks, like everyone is making sure they’re not saying too much too loudly.
“Do you think that changes anything for him ?” someone asks.
“For Gideon ?” another trainee says, skeptical. “He doesn’t seem like the type to care about who’s sitting in what chair.”
“Maybe not care,” someone else counters. “But still. That used to be his position, right ? Before Boston.”
Agent Gideon leans back just slightly in his chair, posture loose in a way that doesn’t quite match the authority people—you— keep assigning to him from a distance.
He takes another bite of his food. A proper bite. Not the restrained, distracted type of bite you might expect from someone being observed.
A faint sheen of oil catches at the corner of his mouth when he lowers his fork again.
Reid continues speaking quickly, hands moving in small precise bursts.
Your eyes meet.
For a second he hesitates, like he isn’t entirely sure he’s picked the right person, and then he lifts a hand in a small, slightly awkward wave.
You pause, then lift your own hand in return.
A matching wave, smaller and just as uncertain.
Reid’s mouth pulls into a brief, relieved-looking smile before he turns back toward his table.
Agent Gideon doesn’t look your way. Not even briefly.
It shouldn’t matter. He’s mid-conversation anyway. Fork already moving again. Attention split cleanly across the people in front of him. You were never part of the same line of sight.
Still.
You look away first.
“Okay, but seriously,” one of the trainees says, leaning forward slightly, “what actually happened in Boston ?”
“I’ve only heard bits and pieces,” someone adds. “No one ever says it straight.”
You set the peach pit down on your tray.
“Did Gideon ever tell you anything about it ?”
That gets a few looks in your direction. It feels like gravity shifting its pull towards you. Silent and inevitable in a way that feels suffocating.
“You’re basically his favorite, right ?”
You don’t really know how to answer.
Words disintegrate at the tip of your tongue. Useless and unnecessary and theoretically irrelevant. The question sits there and expands, filling more space than it should.
All of a sudden you feel small. In the way a body would feel being pulled toward something that doesn’t negotiate with distance.
A single particle in a black hole.
You swallow.
“He hasn’t told me anything,” you say finally.
Silence feels like it might be misread. “I don’t know anything about Boston either,” you add.
“So nobody actually knows what happened.”
“Guess not,” another voice says.
The conversation starts to rebuild itself around that absence, filling the gap with speculation again.
You look down at the tray again. The peach pit sits where you placed it. Pale and slick in places, though still streaked with stubborn bits of flesh clinging to its grooves.
A useless center not entirely returned to itself.
The Virginia sun beats down upon the valley until the sap goes sour in the earth. Day after day the light drills into the broom sedge, bleaching the deep summer green down to a dry, hollow orange that presses tight against the foundations of the Clutter farmhouse.
Nobody lives there now but the sun keeps at its work anyway, indifferent to what has been left behind.
A man standing out in the middle of it could look for miles and see nothing but the crowded, upright lines of the grass, blocking the wind and holding the heat in a motionless pocket until the wide country feels as small and tight as a cage.
You find no solace in the growth, no shade in the specks of green that remain. The air tastes like dust. The blinding glare of the sun strikes the faded, peeling white of the house.
Out of that glare, a silhouette breaks. Agent Gideon walks slow, his hands deep in his pockets, untroubled by the heat.
His shoes make a rhythmic, grinding crunch as they dig into the dry dirt. He keeps that same idle pace until he pauses directly in front of you.
“I wanted you to see it for yourself,” he says.
He stays silent for a moment, letting the words hang in the air. Then he turns toward the farmhouse.
“Start simple,” he says.
You look at the faded house and you look at the field, and the enormous stillness of it all settles hard upon your chest.
There is too much of it. A low wind stirs, and the broom sedge moves all at once, a myriad of orange stalks dry-hissing against one another like a wall of static.
The movement stirs a cold sickness in you. The land is too wide, too silent, and the thing that happened inside the house is too small for it.
A cheap radio. Some cash. All that ruin, just for a handful of small, miserably ordinary things.
You shift your weight slightly in the dry grass.
“If it was a burglary, it’s inefficient. If it was opportunistic, it’s inconsistent with the level of force used inside the house,” you say.
You can understand a hunger that makes a man steal. And you can understand a rage that makes a man strike out. But in the vast field of broom sedge, it feels like a machine with gears that do not mesh, turning endlessly toward something that only vaguely resembles humanity.
Your mind reaches out for a reason. For some small grain of sense to bridge the gap. But there is nothing there.
Nothing.
Only a cold, hollow space where a reason ought to be.
You feel Agent Gideon move beside you. The air shifts, and then he turns his head to look at you. As he pivots, your arms brush briefly.
Your mind catches on the absence of structure and, almost reflexively, reaches for something that has one.
Reid’s framework comes up before you can stop it. But his exact words keep slipping through your fingers.
The violence in the house doesn’t have to match the theft. It can spike past it, overshoot, land somewhere the radio and the cash never explain. Right ?
Something about state change ? Something breaking instead of bending.
And whatever's left after — the radio, the cash, all of it — either means nothing, or the only thing left of a motive that didn't survive contact with the scene.
The answer shapes itself in your mind, thin and brittle. A sickening shame rises up inside you because you know it is wrong. It makes you feel small and unclean, like a dog that has crawled through the mud.
But Agent Gideon is standing right there. His shoulder broad against the light, and a different kind of hunger takes hold of you — an ugly, driving need to make him look at you and be satisfied.
“So it wasn’t really about taking things,” you continue.
You can feel the weight of his face turning toward you, though you keep your own eyes fixed straight ahead on the house.
“The ransacking comes after. After the violence inside the house I mean. Not before.”
You hear him draw a small breath through his nose. His hand comes up to rest on his waist, his thumb hooked into his trousers, and his fingers begin to tap a slow, rhythmic beat against the leather of his belt.
“It’s not theft as motive. It’s more like … theft as repair.”
You pause. The words have already committed you further than you intended.
You swallow once. “A burglary is survivable in a way a massacre isn’t. The unsub has to rewrite it— has to downgrade what he did, after the fact. So he can live with himself.”
The tapping stops for a second, then starts up again, lighter this time. He is listening to the mechanics of the thought, measuring the weight of it against the empty land.
Finally, you turn your head. Agent Gideon’s face is entirely calm.
His brown eyes look soft, catching the warm, rusted orange of the broom sedge and the golden light of the late afternoon sun. There is no judgment in his features, only a placid, grounded patience.
His voice very mild, almost a murmur.
“I see why you went there.”
There is a small pause. Long enough that you become aware of how still his hand is against his belt.
“But you’re explaining behavior that wants to be explained away,” he adds. “Those aren’t always the same thing.”
His tone is gentle. Almost careful. But your attention catches on the word explaining.
Your throat tightens before you can stop it.
You feel that you are a tool that has gone dull in his hand. A rusted hinge that won't swing true. And it’s like the soft cadence of his words confirms the dishonesty of what you just did. Sealing you inside your own mistake like a dry well.
"He brought a shotgun," he says instead of correcting you. "Not a handgun. Not whatever was already in the house. He brought it with him."
You wait.
"Smoothbore. No rifling. You can't match it to a barrel even if you find the gun in his closet next week."
The tall, brittle grass whips against the dark blue denim of his trousers, the fabric snapping faintly under the force of it.
"He cut the phone lines before he ever knocked on the door," he continues. “Wiped down every surface he touched before he left the house.”
Then, more pensively :
“And after all that he still took the time to arrange them. To tuck them in. To cover them.”
It’s like he's said two true things that shouldn't be able to stand in the same room.
"Those aren't the same person," you say slowly. "Sir, that's—" You stop yourself before that doesn't make sense finishes leaving your mouth.
"No," he agrees. "It isn't."
He doesn’t say anything else.
Everything refracts.
Even understanding.
Even you, standing in the light.
You try to hold both pieces at once. You turn it over. You try to find the seam where the two halves meet. It just doesn’t make any fucking sense.
And then the anger goes out of it, and something in you goes very tired, all at once.
"You're wrong," you say finally.
The words seem to drop into the dirt and stay there.
“I think you’re wrong,” you repeat. “This is—”
Your voice shakes a little, and you hate the sound of it.
“This is pure speculation. A man who somehow is… — is two impossible things at the same time.”
As you say it, you think of how it felt when he left the library.
You imagine watching him get smaller and smaller against the green as he leaves again. The field goes on for miles under the flat sky, big and empty and detached, and if he turns his back, there is nowhere left to hide the unbearable loneliness of it.
“It just — It doesn’t make sense,” you finish.
You wait for the blow to fall. You keep your eyes down, staring at the grass by your feet, just waiting for the sound of his footsteps walking away toward the road.
When you look up, his face is not hard at all.
The deep lines around his eyes are crinkled and relaxed, and he is looking down at you with a smile.
He raises his hand, and sets his palm against your head. The heat of his skin goes right through your hair. He smoothes his hand down, gentle and firm. Like the gesture has its own rhythm independent of you.
The ring on his finger brushes cool against your skin each time his palm goes down and comes back up again.
"Good," he says gently. “It would’ve been easier to agree with me and move on. But you didn’t—”
He stops, his hand coming to rest on the crown of your head, just holding you there.
“You did good.”
Your mind spins. You don't know what to do with the warmth of it.
It makes a strange, mismatched picture in your head. You think of a man who reaches out to stroke a creature that just bared its teeth at him. It doesn't fit any rule you know. Some small, starved part of you doesn't care.
His hand is still there, heavy and patient.
There and not there. Doing its work in a register you have no instrument for, except the dull, after-the-fact knowledge that something has changed and you weren't able to watch it happen.
You don't move. You don't want to be the one who decides when it ends.
professor!assistant!hotch x trainee!fem!reader
Genre: “enemies” to ??? with loooooads of bickering! CASE FIC!
Summary: During your training at the academy, Gideon offers a golden ticket to the BAU to "whoever" dominates class... (even if his obvious choice falls on a certain genius with eidetic memory). While you keep trying to impress the real FBI daddy (Gideon. Obv.), you also have to work your way through Agent Hotchner’s odd… zip. Mentorship.
Warnings: MDNI (there are 2 seconds of grinding), discussions of real cases (San Francisco doodler and a reinterpretation of the Colonial Parkway murders), unreliable narration, reader cries twice... and Hotch spends most of this story being a PIECE OF-
Word Count: 28.1k (a light read indeed...)
Dado's Corner: after finishing HTGAWM, I got inspired to write an AU where you’re in the same FBI Academy class as Reid… and, as you can see from the word count, it kind of spiralled. I’m not even joking when I say I’ve been secretly working on this for +4 months, trying to make every single part rhyme, so… pls let me know if you like the case-fic format?
masterlist
There’s an old saying (well, old as of now) that goes: you don’t realize you’re in a sausage party until you’re already trapped in one.
Granted, this doesn’t apply universally. You can’t exactly sham shock when you walk into your very first lecture in behavioral science hosted by none other than FBI (that word should’ve rung a bell) legend J. (as in Jason) Gideon and suddenly clock the ratio.
You may have misled yourself with the word behavioral. So much psychology. So little pew-pew guns. Which implied, naively, that actual brain usage would be required to succeed. And since consistent brain deployment is not exactly a statistically dominant trait among male specimens, the probability of a sausage party should’ve been low.
And yet. Hope is a powerful delusion.
Nothing screams sausage party quite like the good old FBI Academy in Quantico. Three versus twenty-four is… not ideal. It could be worse, sure - but it’s bad enough that the three of you instinctively sit next to each other. Out of solidarity? Perhaps. Survival feels much more accurate, though.
You’re still settling in when you overhear the murmur in front of you.
“Agent Cavenaugh transferred from the BAU to lead a team in ViCAP. The BAU’s running one agent short now,” says Unidentified Sausage #1 to Sausage #2.
“Agent Who?” Sausage #2 asks.
A third sausage chimes in. This one is sporting such an exemplary bowl cut that you consider submitting his headshot to Webster’s as the official visual definition.
“SSA Matthew Cavenaugh was the very first agent Rossi and Professor Gideon added after founding the unit. Specializes in sex crimes. He’s the one who caught the Daytona Rapist in under forty-eight hours-”
You don’t even have to look to know he leaned forward without being invited. The micro-tension in the other two’s jaws says it all. Apparently, no one likes a know-it-all sausage. Not even other sausages.
“He identified the unsub through victim pattern clustering and-” Yes, yes. Applause and confetti to this one Agent Cavenaugh for solving something in under forty-eight hours… boring!
And while we’re on terminology - can this even be called a sausage party if it’s just twenty-four sausages and minimal garnish?
Meaning - there’s something strange in the air. Electricity. Maybe an actual loose wire sparking somewhere behind the walls. Or maybe it’s just the collective voltage of concentrated male ego trapped in an enclosed academic space with poor ventilation and worse self-awareness.
Rumor has it Gideon is… particular.
Which, for people who did not accidentally stumble into the last ten minutes of one of his conferences last year and decide on the spot to reorient their entire professional trajectory, may be discouraging. Not everyone hears “temperamental genius” and thinks sign me up. So yes, perhaps the whispers filtered out a few of the faint-hearted.
Still. With all due respect, this course has fewer attendees than the excruciatingly dull crisis negotiation crash course you endure on Wednesdays. And that’s what’s strange. You can’t quite articulate it, but something just feels off.
“Good morning-”
Everyone instinctively double-checks their posture the second the door swings open and Jason Gideon strides in looking like a man who remembered he had a class approximately thirty seconds ago. He’s already halfway to the board before the door finishes swinging behind him.
Gideon doesn’t even apologize when the door nearly takes out the poor unfortunate soul trailing him.
The man sidesteps just in time to avoid being flattened and then - as if nothing unusual has happened, or more accurately as if nothing could have happened - takes up position beside the desk with the rigid composure of a Swiss Guard assigned to guard the Pope.
After approximately three seconds of observation, you have no doubt that this man has never experienced joy a single day in his life.
You’re not sure what’s more concerning - the complete absence of visible personality, or the fact that the only identifiable traits he seems to have are being tall and relentlessly committed to his job. He is, frankly, a little (very) terrifying.
He’s conventionally attractive, sure. But you’re not entirely convinced how anyone is supposed to cope if he brings that exact same constipated expression into the bedroom.
Gideon, on the other hand-
He’s… striking. In a way that feels hostilely out of place in an academic setting.
Even standing next to what you assume is his assistant - a much younger man (sausage number… you’ve lost count) with raven hair shellacked into place with an excessive amount of gel, dressed in the crispest black suit you’ve ever seen, tie included, for a class that technically starts at eight in the morning - Gideon still looks like he got dressed while thinking about something infinitely more important than impressing a room full of rookies.
Civilian clothes. Slightly rumpled, too. Oddly, it makes the whole thing feel more… intimate.
“I don’t know what terrible things you’ve done in your lives that resulted in you wanting to be seated in this room… but you’re here. Which already separates you from several hundred others who are not.”
It’s remarkable how Gideon manages to sound vaguely insulting while his body language remains ever so casual, like he’s chatting with friends over a beer.
“My name is Jason Gideon. This is Behavioral Analysis.” (As if anyone in this room didn’t already know that.) “Unlike many of my colleagues at this Academy, I’m not particularly interested in teaching large groups of people who will never use what they’re being taught. So before this course was announced, we reviewed your files.”
His gaze sweeps the room. The authority Agent Gideon carries is so destabilizing that even in the fraction of a second his gaze lands on you, it’s capable of both drying up your throat and setting your face on fire before he’s already moved on to dissect the next person.
“This room is what remained. So… congratulations. At some point in your very short professional lives, each of you managed to do something that suggested you might be capable of thinking. But the bad news is that behavioral analysis has very little to do with what most of you think profiling is.”
At that point, Gideon casually reaches over, grabs his assistant by the arm, and physically steers him away from where he’d been standing beside the desk. Surprisingly, the assistant allows this public manhandling with the resigned expression of a man who has clearly endured this maneuver before.
Gideon positions him in front of the class and gives him a single approving pat on the shoulder. The man looks… unexpressively elated.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, this is SSA Hotchner.”
Hotchner gives a brief nod to the room.
Gideon leans in and mutters something close to his face. You reconsider what you once believed were perfectly respectable lip-reading skills, because all you manage to catch is the beginning of an “Aaron-”, and only because he doesn’t lower his voice quite fast enough.
Hotchner responds with… yet another nod.
Apparently, his conversational style consists entirely of silent acknowledgments delivered in increasingly microscopic increments, since the man has yet to open his mouth even once. Either that, or if he does open it, the only thing that will come out is a bark. (Woof.)
Still, this line of inquiry becomes far less interesting when Gideon abruptly exits the classroom without warning, leaving the untalkative assistant (now the professor) behind to take the room hostage. Woah.
The only thing that feels certain now is that Coconut-Head Sausage is about to burst into flames if Agent Hotchner keeps openly squaring him like that. You didn’t even know swallowing could be audible, but evidently sausages do produce a remarkably distinct gulping sound under pressure.
“Unlike many of your other instructors at this Academy,” Agent Hotchner begins (so he can speak) “the Behavioral Science course is not designed to familiarize you with the theoretical frameworks of criminal psychology. We already expect you to be familiar with the foundational concepts. That knowledge is the minimum requirement to succeed in this class - and to participate in it.”
You already preferred him when he wasn’t talking.
Sausage #1 raises his hand… or rather, lifts it halfway and immediately starts talking, because apparently being a man comes with the optional feature of waiting for permission switched off.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa-” Ah. The animalistic register. Astounding. “Isn’t this a beginner course? You’re not gonna, like, teach us the types of serial killers and stuff like that?”
Agent Hotchner makes the face of a man who has just realized that the saying there are no stupid questions, only stupid answers is, in fact, complete bullshit. Still, he somehow keeps his expression composed enough.
“Agent Gideon and I introduced several modifications to the course this year,” he replies evenly, “with the objective of providing you with a more extensive understanding of both advanced theory and - more importantly, as Agent Gideon would argue - practical application. Not every unsub - that is, unknown subject - is a serial offender. However, every serial offender begins as an unknown subject.”
Ouch. A clean, surgical correction of Sausage #1’s terminology.
“- and every offender we study,” Hotchner continues, “will present a distinct behavioral structure.”
Coconut-head sausage in the very front row raises his hand. Unfortunately for him, Sausage #1 is operating under the assumption that manners are for lesser men.
“What do you mean?”
At least he hasn’t asked why it takes an extra thirty seconds to decode whatever Agent Hotchner is trying to say. The man speaks in such an aggressively formal register it sounds like he rehearsed the whole thing in front of a mirror beforehand like a fucking loser.
“I mean-” he repeats, probably on purpose. (You wonder whether, while selecting which tie best suited the occasion this morning, he also factored in the level of stress a room full of rookies would inevitably inflict on him) “each week you will be presented with either an active BAU investigation or a previously adjudicated case. You will be provided with the relevant materials, which you will analyze in order to formulate a working offender profile. If called upon, you will then defend your reasoning in discussion with us.”
Us. Will Agent Gideon actually be present for any of these discussions? Or was that dramatic appearance his entire teaching contribution for the semester? Why isn’t he here now?
Coconut Head raises his long, skeletal arm again, waiting to be acknowledged. This time Agent Hotchner allows it.
“Would the level of participation - and the accuracy of the conclusions we present - affect the final evaluation determining whether we pass the course?”
Oh. Someone has clearly been studying Hotchner’s linguistic operating system.
“Good question, Agent Reid.” Woah. So Agent Hotchner really did read everyone’s files if he already knows Coconut-Head’s name. That wasn’t just an intimidation tactic. “Yes, continuous performance will factor heavily into your evaluation. Additionally, this year the highest-performing trainee in this class will be offered the opportunity to work with the BAU. We are currently operating one agent short on the team. As you-”
But whatever clarification follows is immediately swallowed by the room detonating. (Figuratively, unfortunately.)
The collective reaction of twenty-four sausages discovering that their wildest professional fantasy might materialize two years ahead of schedule produces a level of noise that renders the rest of poor Agent Hotchner’s sentence completely unintelligible.
“…Cavenaugh-”
“…they’re replacing-”
“…that Daytona case agent-”
Somehow, it’s only thanks to the immediate explosion of sausage chatter around the room that you manage to piece together what he actually said. (Sausages can be useful sometimes… who would’ve thought.)
The competitive tension in the room begins thickening almost immediately. You’d bet Agent Hotchner’s perfectly sculpted hair this is about to devolve into one spectacularly unhealthy environment, and you are not thrilled about spending the next several months watching grown adults regress into elementary school tactics.
Starting with the way Agent Hotchner manages to silence an entire pandemonium with nothing more than a controlled gesture of his hand.
“During the semester,” he says, “you will also rotate through observational assignments with the BAU, based on your performance record. Consider those opportunities to demonstrate your capabilities.”
Like… real cases? With real agents?
“But remember this: in the field, you will not be solving theoretical exercises. You will be dealing with someone’s life. I would strongly encourage you to keep that as your priority - rather than impressing us. That, is what will make you a good agent.”
That’s a very noble sentiment. Because announcing that one person in this room gets a golden ticket to the BAU and then asking everyone not to compete for it is obviously going to work. That’s like handing someone a winning lottery ticket and saying, “Now remember: money isn’t everything.”
Sure thing, Agent Hotchner. We all live in a beautiful, ethical utopia where humans are famously immune to ambition. You almost envy that level of optimism.
Life must be incredibly peaceful when you believe things like that.
There’s an old saying (actually old this time) that goes: never meet your heroes.
You’d like to add a footnote: especially not when they come accompanied by a suited-up assistant with terrifying eyebrows who can somehow turn one perfectly innocent question from the teacher’s pet (or assistant’s pet, since Gideon has been mysteriously absent for the past hour and a half) into a thirty-minute legal dissertation on every statute Ted Bundy managed to violate on the night of his arrest.
You’re just that lucky… the exact moment your brain finally starts surrendering to the sweet, merciful pull of unconsciousness, Gideon materializes again in the projector beam.
“Everybody,” he says, as if he never left, “conference room in ten.”
That’s it. A man of very few words, apparently, because before anyone can attempt the radical concept of asking for clarification, he vanishes again. Hotchner follows him out immediately, just as silent. How riveting.
Also worth noting: there are, conservatively speaking, about twenty conference rooms in this building complex. Surely it would have been unreasonable to specify which one out of the two dozen we’re supposed to meet in.
And of course, given the delightfully competitive atmosphere Gideon and Hotchner have so thoughtfully cultivated, teamwork is clearly not an option. No one even considers coordinating, so all you can do is… take a guess.
Instinct (common sense) tells you Gideon probably doesn’t mean one of the Academy lecture halls. The man already seems to have forgotten he was teaching this class once today, so there’s no reason to believe he suddenly developed the organizational discipline required to reserve a room in advance for a group of trainees he clearly does not give a shit about. Much more likely, he meant the actual BAU conference room.
Perfect. Problem one solved.
Problem two: you have no fucking idea where the hell it actually is, other than somewhere in the impossibly sprawling Federal Towers on the opposite side of where you currently are at the Academy. And time is not on your side.
You’re slightly (generously speaking) hoarse from running through a maze of entrances, being redirected by a series of equally unhelpful people who have all, somehow, pointed you in completely different directions before funneling you… here. By the time you reach the right lobby, you’re running on fumes.
In a rush, you shove your name at the secretary just long enough for her to slap a visitor badge onto your chest, gesture ambiguously (is she… is she fisting…?) toward the elevators, and dismiss you without a single word, not even a hint of which elevator you’re supposed to take. Good enough?
You pick one at random. There isn’t enough time to rely on the Tibetan method. The building is far too sprawling for logic to be useful, which leaves luck as the only operational strategy.
The elevator stops at six consecutive floors. Every time the doors open you lean halfway out to check whether you’ve accidentally arrived at Accounting, Counterterrorism, IT...
Finally, the doors slide open onto the BAU floor. You step out just in time. Only about half the class made it.
If the behavioral science class qualifies as a sausage party, then the BAU, at first glance, operates on an entirely different scale of sausage production. This is industrial level. A full processing facility.
Agents - all of whom somehow look and dress suspiciously like Agent Hotchner to the point you begin to wonder if this is actually a family business - move everywhere in very expensive dress shoes. There are so many of them cutting across the floor at once that you and the other trainees end up squeezed into a corner near the parapet, safely out of the traffic pattern.
Papers move constantly from desk to desk, to printer and back again. The combined cacophony of keyboards and mouse clicks firing off in every direction is already making you consider forcing every single agent into a constricting shirt, one by one, just to make it stop. Even your internal monologue is struggling to compete.
This place has a way of stripping you of your individuality and blending you into the average of the rest of the sausages.
All it takes is one quick glance into those vacant eyes to realize every trainee standing beside you is imagining the exact same thing at the exact same time: which one of these desks might someday - hopefully very soon - become theirs.
Which one out of the horde of messy corner desks clustered in the middle of the open floor plan will eventually hold their stationery, their photographs, their case files. Small attempts to reclaim some personality from the slow bureaucratic suction the Bureau seems determined to apply to every last one of you. At least, that appears to be how most agents here cope.
Except for one.
The desk on your far right looks like it belongs in an entirely different building.
Immaculately clean. So aggressively clean, in fact, that the gigantic framed picture of the American flag with a bald eagle becomes agonizingly visible to your sleep deprived eyes. As if this place needed any additional reinforcement of nationalism.
Does anyone here truly benefit from having an extra American flag within arm's reach at all times?
If this man (it has to be a sausage, because no woman alive would willingly decorate a desk this bleakly) were not obnoxious enough already, there is also a glass paperweight with the White House trapped inside it. Why.
But the real offense sits neatly arranged along one edge of the desk, positioned so that every single one of them is visible while still occupying the absolute minimum amount of space possible. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Seven trophies. Seven trophies and not even a picture. Ouch.
“Out of all these guys, who do you think is the loser overcompensating for having no friends with official validation from the Bureau?” you ask the bright-eyed assistant’s pet. (You forgot his name already. Coconut-head sausage.)
“That would be me.”
The voice comes from directly behind you, from a sausage standing exactly where your back has been comfortably leaning against the parapet.
You would have to be spectacularly obtuse not to recognize it after spending the better part of the day hoping it would choke on its own legal jargon while explaining statutes and procedural bullshit. You suddenly feel a profound reluctance to turn around.
Unfortunately, you have to.
The terrifying lack of space between Agent Hotchner’s thick eyebrows and his eyes makes you seriously consider employing the classic prey strategy of playing dead in the hope that the predator will lose interest and wander off. Although, admittedly, it may already be too late for that.
Realistically speaking, on a scale from one to ten, how hopeless are your chances of winning the grand prize of working here if you’ve already managed to land yourself on the professor’s assistant’s kill list on day one? Especially factoring in the teeny tiny detail that this is also the very first impression he has of you.
“Where’s the rest of the class?” he asks in that particular annoyed tone that implies everyone in the room already owes him something.
A verbal response is somewhat out of the question at the moment, so you lift one shoulder in the universal gesture for I have absolutely no fucking idea, while his terrifying eyes remain fixed on you, patiently waiting for a satisfactory answer that, unfortunately, does not exist.
He sighs, disappointed, as if you are personally responsible for wasting precious time he could have maybe spent polishing his seven already spotless trophies. He pulls out his phone and calls someone, about something you are far too deep in survival mode to even attempt to overhear.
Agent Hotchner’s eyes stay locked on you for the entire duration of the phone call. (Play dead. Play dead.)
“While we wait for the rest of your colleagues to catch up, I could walk you through the BAU and show you around,” he says, projecting his voice.
There must be a glitch in the matrix, because you just witnessed Agent Hotchner raise the slightest corner of his mouth. You suddenly understand why he never does it. The deep dimples carved into his cheeks soften his face so much he ends up looking disorientingly approachable. Too bad the gay (as in joyful. Allegedly.) expression disappears the second his eyes land back on you.
You are so fucked.
Still, you can take a small amount of comfort in the fact that if your assessment of Agent Hotchner’s trophies had been wrong, he probably would’ve corrected you, right?
There are three different clocks on the wall opposite where you are sitting in the conference room. If Agent Hotchner hadn’t positioned himself directly beside you at the side table, you could at least enjoy the small comfort of verifying with physical evidence that Gideon is, in fact, late across all three time zones: DC, London, and Tokyo.
You have to admit, that takes a special kind of talent. It’s a shame the whole thing is just an adynaton.
“The case we’ll begin with today is an unsolved series of homicides that occurred in San Francisco between 1974 and 1975,” Gideon says, switching on the TV of the conference room.
You cannot decide whether it is more uncomfortable taking notes while standing or doing it with Agent Hotchner’s cold breath hovering somewhere near the side of your neck. You attempt a cautious glance in his direction from the corner of your eye, but your gaze ends up meeting his.
Shit.
Luckily, it seems you both arrive at the same silent agreement to pretend that never happened, judging by the way you simultaneously snap your attention back to Gideon at the exact same moment.
Still. Is a person not entitled to take their own notes in peace, free from judgment, especially while representing the federal government of the so-called free world? Is that truly too much to ask? These are American values, Agent Hotchner. He, of all people, should be the first to respect and defend them.
(Hopefully… perhaps the bald eagle was a façade all along.)
“Five confirmed homicide victims. Possibly more we’re unaware of. All male. All between the ages of twenty-five and forty-two.” (Okay Gideon, could you please slow the fuck down. You are not a typewriter.) “All connected to San Francisco's gay community in the mid-1970s. Each victim was stabbed multiple times, between-”
(Slow. The Fuck. Down.)
The sudden weight of a single thick, very hairy finger pressing lightly on your notepad makes your pen wobble across the page.
What the fuck does this man want from you now.
“The title is victimology, not victims,” Agent Hotchner murmurs. You stare down at the page, where his middle finger (is he flipping you off?) is currently pointing at your hastily scribbled heading.
You decide not to dignify the correction with a response, mostly because something tells you he would not appreciate the very sincere “fuck you” you are wholeheartedly reserving for him.
“The first body was found in a secluded area around 2 a.m. near Ocean Beach, a well-known hookup spot within the queer community at the time. No identification on him, but fingerprints later identified the victim as Gerald Cavenaugh.”
If you had a penny for every time that last name had surfaced today, you would have two pennies.
Which is not a lot, but it is still enough to make ex-BAU poster boy Agent Cavenaugh personally responsible for the minor cardiac event you experience every time Agent Hotchner's breathing pattern changes slightly behind you while you write something he might not agree with.
“The caller who reported the body to 911 gave no name.”
You underline the detail.
In some cases, offenders may initiate contact with law enforcement following the crime. Indeed, the call can serve multiple functions: facilitating the discovery of the body, asserting a degree of control over the sequence of events, and reinforcing the offender’s internal perception of dominance within the narrative.
Your stomach churns.
You hate that you are starting to second-guess your own reasoning, purely because the simple act of underlining something in your notes seems to trigger a full butterfly-effect cascade, set off by nothing more than the shift of air beside you when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch Agent Hotchner raising a single eyebrow at the page.
Maybe he thinks your reasoning is stupid. (Maybe it really is?)
Or maybe the caller just did not want to identify himself because being seen at a queer hookup spot at two in the morning in the 1970s carried consequences far worse than being considered a witness (or even a suspect) in a homicide.
You write down context, just to make sure you do not forget it.
“The second victim was twenty-seven-year-old Joseph Stevens, known as Jay, a drag performer. Before he was identified, police treated the case as a mugging because his wallet was missing from the scene. His body was found in a dark alley roughly an hour’s walk from North Beach, where his car had been left outside the bar where he worked, which now suggests he may have left willingly with the offender. At the time, however, investigators did not consider the murder connected to the first case.”
“Even in San Francisco, in 1974, the police did not treat everyone equally,” Agent Hotchner mutters under his breath. Groundbreaking. A sausage recognizing systemic inequality. (So lame.)
“No kidding,” you murmur back.
You lose a good portion of whatever Gideon says next thanks to this unexpected Hotchner allyship. You wish you had the institutional authority to stab his large hand with your pen just to discourage further collaboration.
“…the third victim escalated into significantly more overkill. The crime scene was reported to be so bloody it approached near decapitation. Then a cooling-off period of nearly a year. In 1975, another body was recovered on the beach-”
“Is this the cold case of the San Francisco Doodler?” Coconut-head sausage cuts in. (There we go.)
Gideon turns to him with a proud little smile (you hate it here), then follows it with a quick glance toward Hotchner, his expressive brows lifting ever so slightly. The exchange might be silent, but it is by no means subtle.
You swear there is an entire conversation happening in that look. Using girl code in a room full of sausages would have been a brilliant strategy… if only it were actually just sausages sitting here.
It is all there, in the very specific way Agent Hotchner’s mouth pulls into that obnoxiously restrained smirk. The kind of expression a man only allows himself when he gets to say I told you so without actually saying it. Maybe what he is really saying is, ‘Look. I told you he would be impressive.’
“‘Yes, Agent Reid, you are correct.” You can hear the smile in Hotchner’s voice. You see green.
Was everyone supposed to recognize this case on sight? Are you the only idiot in the room who did not walk in with a pre-installed encyclopedic knowledge of obscure 1970s homicide investigations?
“It’s interesting that they only form a task force at this point,” Reid continues, visibly energized, which is… maybe a little tone-deaf. “Up until then, the cases of SFPD were worked by shift. Investigators would handle whatever came in and then pass it along, so information became fragmented across reports with no continuity. That structure makes pattern recognition extremely difficult. Once this body is found and the similarities become undeniable, SFPD consolidates the cases into a single investigation and assigns a dedicated task force, identifying the presence of a serial offender only at that stage.”
#WhoCares (It is actually interesting. You just did not know that. Still.)
#DoYouWantACookie
#YourHopesToWorkHereAreGone because Gideon is nodding along the entire time, not even attempting to conceal that proud smile. Please. You’re not sure it’s even worth the effort to continue listening as attentively to the rest.
“The next victim was a nurse. The body was found on the same beach where the first victim was recovered, but in a different location. There were signs of a struggle, which may explain the increased blood at the scene. Like the previous victim, he had been seen at a gay bar prior to his death. The same bar. There were also reports of a man lingering outside the establishment, sketching patrons as they entered and exited.”
Oh… so that is why the press called him the Doodler. You have to admit, it is possibly the least intimidating nickname a serial killer has ever been given.
“By the time police began focusing on this individual, there was another victim. June 1975. Male. Severely decomposed. The body was almost mummified, which meant no usable fingerprints. The medical examiner estimated the body had been left in shrubbery between ten days and a month.”
You pause over your notes. The so-called cooling-off period suddenly feels… questionable. Was it really a year? Or was it just a year before anyone bothered to connect the dots? High control, or just low attention? This investigation looks sloppy as hell.
“The most interesting aspect of this case, in my opinion, is that more than one victim survived,” Gideon says.
You cannot help but notice Agent Reid nodding along like this is the most obvious thing in the world. He does not even need to take notes.
“The first survivor arrived at the ER stabbed and covered in blood. He refused to file a report. Refused to cooperate if his name would be attached to the case. He was a European diplomat.”
High-profile job, higher risk of being outed. Once again, context doing half of the unsub’s job for him.
“He stated he met the offender around two in the morning after eating at a diner near the same bar where the suspect had been seen sketching. The offender accompanied him back to his apartment, spent an unusual amount of time in the bathroom, and when the victim approached the door, he was stabbed in the back with a steak knife. During the attack, the offender said, ‘All you guys are alike.’”
Every single sausage perks up. Finally, something they can take apart: motive + projection. Clean labels they can assemble into a profile in seconds. You are certain half the room already has theirs ready.
You would bet twenty dollars on it with Agent Hotchner, if only he were even remotely capable of fun. He is probably wondering why you have written down one single sentence and are not scribbling furiously like everyone else.
“The same statement was later reported by another surviving victim, who lived in the same apartment building as the diplomat and also remained anonymous. Police linked the attacks through that phrase. A third surviving victim later emerged, a public figure, an actor, who ended the encounter early after noticing a knife in the offender’s pocket. He would not come forward publicly either.”
Of course he would not. Because why would anyone, in this context.
“A suspect was eventually brought in following a tip from the secretary of a psychiatric doctor. He had been treated in the psychiatric department of the same hospital where two of the surviving victims were treated. According to the tip, during sessions, the suspect confessed to the murders.”
You are not a prosecutor, but you still jot down ‘doctor-patient privilege -> cannot be used to incriminate’ out of instinct more than anything. Out of the corner of your eye, you feel Hotchner shift slightly.
Is he still reading your notes? For fuck’s sake.
He mutters something that is completely incomprehensible.
“What?” you say. (As in what the fuck are you saying, but streamlined for public consumption.)
He glances toward Gideon, still talking, then back down at your notebook with that terrifying glare. One slow exhale through his nose (neuron activated), and suddenly your notebook is no longer in your hand.
You’re left fuddled by how quickly it happens. The fleeting warmth of his fingers brushing yours barely registers against your skin as he confiscates your property, and somehow, you end up meeting his gaze.
For a split second, he looks almost human. The words get stuck in your throat, and not just because, for once, your self-preservation instincts are doing their job and reminding you not to mouth off to someone who outranks you in every conceivable way.
Agent Hotchner pulls out his own penisfrom his jacket. A nearly dead black ballpoint. Which is… something, considering the Rolex on his wrist.
For some reason, you find yourself smiling at the realization that, from this one tiny detail, you now know his jackets - and probably his pants too, because go big or go home, right - are custom-made just to accommodate the fact that he’s left-handed.
Which immediately makes you wonder what other microscopic adjustments he insists on controlling, far beyond just inner pockets.
He writes quickly. You spot an asterisk appear next to your note, but then his hand is too broad, covering whatever War and Peace footnote he’s adding underneath. When he hands the notebook back, it almost looks like he makes a deliberate effort to grip it by the short edge this time, ensuring there is absolutely no repeat of the accidental finger contact.
He lifts his brows, gives a small nod. Look. Not a single word is exchanged. And you are simply respecting his very real aversion to interrupting Gideon’s dissertation with something as offensively mundane as small talk.
There is an entire science behind handwriting that you wish you knew, if only to explain why Agent Hotchner writes like a girl.
Annoyingly pretty cursive. No hearts over the i’s, unfortunately. Tucked neatly under your line, like an actual footnote, taking up the least amount of space possible, he has written:
Tarasoff v. Regents of the University of California, 1976, California Supreme Court. Communications made in therapy are generally protected under doctor-patient privilege and cannot be subpoenaed as evidence. However, if a patient poses a serious and imminent (underlined) threat to an identifiable (underlined) victim, the clinician has a duty to warn or protect, and confidentiality may be breached in that context. Outside of that exception, the records remain privileged.
Oh! You drag your pen over the parts he underlined. “So the reason they couldn’t arrest him, and the case went cold, is because they couldn’t identify another victim? Like… a specific person. A name?”
Agent Hotchner’s smile (with a sliver of actual teeth… he looks so stupid) tells you you’ve landed exactly where he wanted you to go.
When his eyes catch the light, unobstructed for once by those permanently disapproving eyebrows, they are a surprisingly warm hazel. It almost distracts you from the fact that this entire legal framework might have helped a serial offender stay free.
A light tap of his index finger against your notebook. Pay attention. Okay, just say you’re boring next time, Agent Hotchner.
“He had originally sought treatment because of his attraction to men,” Gideon continues, reading from the file. “During police interrogation, he denied being the killer… but not everything. He claimed he had been ‘reformed.’ Said he had struggled with same-sex attraction since he was thirteen. Said therapy had cured him.”
Gideon closes the file. Not a good sign. “Now build me a profile of the unsub.”
Oh, like this? Without even taking you to dinner first?
“The unknown subject is organized. Probably above-average intelligence, since he is comfortable approaching strangers in public,” says Unidentified Sausage #1.
Gideon tilts his head, unimpressed. Next.
“Sexually conflicted,” offers another voice from somewhere in the back. “He targets men because he hates that he’s attracted to them.”
You wince at the phrasing. Gideon does not look impressed either.
“Mission-oriented, since he used the word cured when he was interrogated” says another sausage.
“No,” Agent Reid cuts in, “actually, the variation in the presentation of the victims suggests an emotional escalation - or, more accurately, a devolution - rather than a real consistent ideological mission. The increasing level of overkill indicates affective dysregulation, most likely tied to some sort of unresolved internal conflict. It could be interpreted as a kind of behavioral rehearsal, like an attempt to destroy a part of himself he’s unable to either reconcile or integrate.”
That one lands much better, as Gideon’s expression is no longer bordering on disgust… he’s actually nodding along.
“Yes. We’re on the right track.”
They keep going. Intelligent. Repressed. Ashamed. Organized. Socially competent. White-collar. Possibly religious. Probably from a strict background. Hates effeminacy because he associates it with his own desires. Targets gay men as symbolic stand-ins for himself. And none of it is wrong.
“Hotch, want to give it a try and tell them what they’re missing?” Gideon asks. (Wait. Does Agent Hotchner actually let people call him Hotch, or is that some bizarre little pet name that exists exclusively between the two of them?)
Hotchner shakes his head first, like he’s trying to play it cool, but being this close to him lets you catch the small glint in his eyes that betrays how badly he wants this.
“The offender is organized enough to approach victims without raising suspicion, but once the violence starts, he loses control. That suggests he’s not fully directing what’s happening in the moment. It’s more likely he’s acting out something that’s been building internally for a long time, and once it starts, it overrides everything else.”
Yeah… figures. Nobody is truly shy if they clear their throat before beginning the sermon. And he keeps going.
“The level of overkill points to that loss of control. Each stab is releasing tension. It regulates him, at least temporarily, and gives him an ephemeral sense of control he doesn’t otherwise have. This is why he presents as a power-control offender with sadistic features, rather than a classic hedonistic sadist.”
Woah. Okay. Show-off Agent Hotchner. With a mind like that, it makes sense why he is the way he is (an obnoxious cocksucker? Just… unfortunately justified.)
And judging by the way every sausage in the room suddenly looks like they’re collectively reconsidering their entire sexuality for the first time in their lives… well. What is that even called? What do you even call that feeling? That kind of humbling admiration you get when someone is so undeniably good at what they do that being completely outmatched starts to feel… a little attractive?
“If the victims operate as symbolic proxies, the violence becomes an attempted psychic eradication of something in himself he can’t tolerate. Desire is experienced as destabilizing or humiliating; gratification is followed by dysphoria, and the violence is his way of restoring balance. That also explains the nature of the attack. The penetrative violence may be compensatory - a way of addressing perceived inadequacy, whether psychological or sexual. And as we’ve seen with this type of offender, it can also function as a physical substitute for release-“
“Intelligence level?” Gideon cuts Hotchner off in the middle of everyone practically drooling over their notes. (You’ve jotted down a few terms too… proxies, dysphoria. Look at you. Sounding like you actually know your shit.)
“Well, his social presentation appears constructed. He relies on observation and the mirroring of others’ behavior to pass as socially competent, which requires strong pattern recognition and adaptive learning. If he can read interactional cues well enough to appear safe - even disarming - and persuade victims to bring him into their own homes, his functional social intelligence is likely above average, possibly high.”
You… don’t know. You’re not convinced he has to be a genius when the police themselves were enforcing moral codes in San Francisco at the time.
Gideon nods once. “Everyone agrees with Agent Hotchner?”
A wave of collective nodding.
Really? Maybe they just don’t have the balls to disagree with someone who has seen more than all of you combined. Maybe you’re wrong. Gideon somehow keeps scanning the room anyways, face by face, until he gets to you.
“You don’t seem convinced.”
Your throat dries instantly. Oh. Oh no. Is he talking to you? Directly? Your eyes feel like they are about to drop out and do a flip.
“Um. Yeah, I-”
Gideon raises an eyebrow, like that is some kind of behavioral green light for you to keep going. And of course, Agent Hotchner turns toward you at that exact moment. You can feel the heat radiating off his suit, which is not helping you think straight in the slightest. What if you really play dead? Also… why does Agent Hotchner smell so nice now that he is this close?
What do you even say?
How do you politely disagree with someone who is infinitely more experienced than you, in proper English (optional), while also acknowledging that the very fact you disagree probably means you’re the one who’s wrong?
“I… disagree.” Whoops. It even comes out sounding more like a question. Great. You immediately drop your gaze to your notes. There is absolutely no universe in which you are making eye contact with a room full of people currently holding metaphorical pitchforks. One word does stare back at you, though.
Context?
Ocean Beach. North Beach. Same bar. Same reluctance to report. Same police force that did not care until the body count became a little too inhumane to ignore.
“I don’t think he’s smart,” you say. Shit, that sounds even worse out loud. “The unsub. Not Agent Hotchner.”
A chuckle from Gideon. You can practically feel Agent Hotchner’s gaze spear straight through your skull.
…too late to play dead?
“I think we’re profiling him as if he’s operating in a vacuum. He’s not… not really. The social context is doing part of the work for him, since his victims are already conditioned not to report, not to identify themselves, not to trust the police, to the point that they would rather bleed out than come forward. That definitely lowers the risk of the crime.”
“Can you tell me the definition of a low-risk and high-risk crime?” Hotch cuts in out of nowhere, turning sharply to lock his eyes onto yours. (Is this his way of dismantling your entire point just because you didn’t fully agree with him?)
You swallow. You really wish they had covered the basics first, like any normal course, instead of throwing you into this golden-ticket, performative guesswork with no theoretical foundation to stand on.
“It’s… about exposure, I think… like… how likely it is that the offender gets seen or interrupted. So a high-risk crime would be more public, or involve victims who are reported quickly. More witnesses… more chances something goes wrong.”
You hate the way Agent Hotchner is looking at you. You can practically read not good enough spelled out in those shadowed pupils.
You’re sure the concept is there. You have it. But the certainty starts slipping the moment you catch fragments of Reid’s perfectly polished, textbook answer being muttered under his breath, like the question had always been meant for him.
“And low-risk is the opposite,” you push on. “More controlled, less visible… victims who maybe aren’t reported immediately or aren’t taken as seriously - like in this case - so there’s less pressure on the offender.”
You have never wanted a room to detonate as badly as you do right now. Is there a window nearby? Something structurally unsound you can quietly launch yourself through?
“Partially.” The way he says it somehow sounds a lot like you suck. “You’re describing the outcome. Be careful to define the mechanism.” (What in the corporate bullshit is this?)
And then he proceeds to say something that, to you, sounds exactly like what you just said… only dressed up in much fancier language… except that this time everyone and their mothers are nodding along. If there’s some nuanced, groundbreaking distinction in whatever he’s saying, you are clearly not getting it.
“You should watch the words you use, they can shift the meaning entirely. Even earlier, you phrased your point in a way that made it sound like you were attributing his success to a passive set of circumstances, rather than to his skills and his active exploitation of the context he’s operating in.”
Bitch-
“No, I mean - yeah, he understands the system. He knows where to go, how to approach, how to use those environments to his advantage. He’s not just stumbling into it or something… but that doesn’t automatically make him highly intelligent. He’s choosing victims who are deprioritized from the start in police investigations, and that lowers the risk before he even does anything.”
You can hear yourself looping. Same point, slightly rearranged, again and again, and he still looks unconvinced.
“The point is…” you try one last time, “the system is already doing half the work for him. Does that make sense?”
“It does to me.” (THANK YOU, DADDY GIDEON, THANK YOU) “I was waiting for that. Thank you.” J. - as in Jason Gideon, one of the founding fathers of behavioral science, the man who practically coined the concept of the ‘serial killer’ - is thanking you?
It feels electric… even if he barely spares you a glance before turning back to the class.
“Everyone sees the elephant so clearly that they start describing it in such detail they forget it is standing in a room to begin with.”
(What the hell does that even mean.)
“The reason we start with victimology, and with contextual and situational analysis, is to keep ourselves from jumping to conclusions and overcomplicating things just to sound clever. You all want to talk about high IQ, intricate planning, sophistication? Fine. Keep going and you’ll end up nowhere while putting more innocent lives at risk.”
You don’t miss the way Gideon’s gaze keeps flicking toward Hotchner. At this point, there’s no mistaking it. He is, in fact, calling his own assistant/protégé/puppy/whatever an idiot without ever actually saying the word, and doing it in front of the entire class like it’s nothing.
So the rumors about Gideon were true.
“I’m looking at a moron who got lucky and keeps getting away with it because his victims are low risk in the eyes of the system. You’re all so busy building him into something impressive that you’re missing what’s right in front of you.”
You almost feel sorry for Agent Hotchner. None of this is technically your fault, but there is absolutely no universe in which you’re turning around to look him in the eye right after he just got publicly dismantled.
He’s already terrifying under normal circumstances. You have no interest in discovering what he looks like when he’s actually enraged.
Safe to say, you are no longer factoring in his endorsement for your future employment here. (Possibly ever since… the desk comment.)
You viciously envy every princess who ever spent years locked away in a tower by their evil stepmother.
At least they had the luxury of solitude. None of them had to endure it in the company of two frat boys, trapped in a forgotten, dusty room in the Federal Tower, sentenced to paperwork duty by the ever-charitable Agent Hotchner, while Gideon is… somewhere (which raises the real question: does Gideon even know where Gideon is?)
If surprise is the path to knowledge, then at this point you should be smarter than Gideon’s favorite golden boy, Agent Reid.
Because you never expected to become more knowledgeable about what a frat party looks like (without ever having set foot in one), thanks to Agents Millstone and Kepler, who have been excessively, relentlessly proving they peaked in a house that smelled like sweaty balls twenty-four hours a day…
…than you are about whether any of the metaphorical mental sweat you’re pouring into these consultation profiles - that may or may not ever be read by anyone who matters - is actually worth anyone’s time or resources.
Actually, correction. In this situation, you are the resource sitting behind the (modest) pile of case files on your desk, already four rounds of rejection deep.
First, they’re the cases Agent Hotchner doesn’t deem worthy of BAU field supervision, so they get passed down to the senior agents in the bullpen. Rejected. Then to the office agents. Rejected again. Then to the interns. Rejected again. And finally, to you and the two frat-boy sausages ergo, Student Agents on Office Duty. (S.A.O.D. but the O is silent.)
Apparently, this is a privilege reserved for the students on Gideon’s radar. A chance to apply theory neither Gideon nor Hotchner - devout believers in innate genius - ever bothered to teach. The profiles you work on are allegedly taken into account for the final evaluation, which, considering the semester is almost over, should be reassuring.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. (It is not.) It started smelling like sweaty balls in here too the moment you first realized - thankfully weeks ago - that none of this is actually being tracked.
The consultation files you’re working on don’t carry any identifying number - nothing that links a profile back to its author, since none of you technically works at the BAU. (Oh, and at the end of each shift, everything gets also dumped into a single pile by some designated intern. #Yay.)
Not that anyone cares enough to fix it. No one has the time to follow how many cases you’ve worked, whether your profiles were accurate, or if you’re improving. And even if they did, these cases are simply not worth the effort.
You could be brilliant. You could be completely wrong. You could be reworking the same case file you already touched days ago by accident because someone messed up the piles again - which would not even be the first time.
Functionally, it makes no difference.
In the grand scheme of things, you are indistinguishable from Agent Kepler, still the reigning ASU keg-stand champion to this day, and at the exact same time, you are still four degrees of separation away from Agent Reid, who has been out in the field with Gideon since week one.
There has to be a silver lining. In your case, it’s small.
You always pick the desk with its back against the wall separating you from an even dustier storage room filled with what look like untouched relics from the 70s, where – supposedly - the original interrogation tapes that kickstarted the BAU, conducted by Gideon and Rossi, are kept.
(Rumor has it there’s even one on Charles Manson… too bad no one is cleared to get in there).
Anyways. Everyone knows all archives are haunted. You don’t know what, exactly, inhabits this one, but you decide to take your chances. With the heel of your foot, you start tapping against the wall in semblances of Morse code.
HELP ME. ANYONE? (You keep tapping. Again. And again. Okay, maybe too many times. At this point it’s less about expecting a response and more about needing something to hold on to.)
So much so that you’re halfway convinced you’ve finally gone coocoo-bananas - somewhere between Agent Millstone saying the word “chick” for the thirty-sixth time and the slow, irreversible erosion of your will to live - when something taps back.
WHATS (You’re almost sure that last one was an S.) WRONG?
You’ve hit the jackpot.
There’s a very real possibility that one of the janitors is in there. Earlier, you saw Mr. Specter on duty in the south wing (which, honestly, feels thematically appropriate given the ghost situation). He’s a big Madonna fan. Solid guy. If there’s anyone who can get you out of here, it’s him.
You are so excited you rush through it, hoping it still makes sense-
FRAT BOYS.
The prince of your story is finally coming to rescue you from your exile, armed with his trusty mopping cart and - he did promise he’d show you once he got it done - a brand-new tattoo of Madonna’s face inked onto his strong, double-jointed (!) forearm.
At last. Salvation. Natural light from the full-height windows in the corridor spills through the narrow crack of the door, cutting into the darkness and outlining your rescuer from behind-
…in a custom-tailored suit?
Wait. No. No. Go back. You’ve successfully avoided him for months, and now-
“Agent-” You despise the way he says your name, so monotone. “I need you.”
Talk about a double meaning… although, if he sounds this deadpan even on his 2 a.m. calls, you doubt it’s ever convinced anyone to sleep with him.
“Grab your go-bag and meet me in the lobby as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
It sounds like an invitation. Badly phrased, sure - low effort, even lower enthusiasm - but still. An invitation to the grand royal ball is still an invitation to the grand royal ball.
Field work! Actual field work! Finally, after months of exile in the administrative oubliette, you’re being presented to court, summoned, no less, by the highest order of behavioral aristocracy (Gideon? It has to be Gideon.)
Agent Hotchner does not strike you as someone who hands out opportunities for personal growth, and even if he did, you’re fairly certain you’d be last on the list. If you made it onto it at all.
“Be quick,” he deadpans. Ah yes. The carriage awaits. He looks… faintly disgusted. Incredible. The only redeeming quality you’ve managed to identify in Agent Hotchner is his remarkable consistency in proving you right.
Farewell, frat boys. Hello, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron “still bitter about your day-one comment that got him indirectly embarrassed by Gideon in front of the entire class” Hotchner. What a gentle reminder that rock bottom always has a basement!
Because there is absolutely no universe in which Agents Millstone and Kepler would have greeted you by checking the time on an expensive Rolex, as if you’d taken an eternity to reach the lobby, with that same restrained disappointment already settling on their faces.
(What now.)
“It’s going to be a two-hour drive…” So the basement of rock bottom also has a basement. “And we’re already running late, so I grabbed dinner for you from the cafeteria. We won’t be making any stops.”
You offer him a strained smile. He doesn’t even bother to return it. Instead, he just hands you the bag with the incriminating items. You peek inside. A sandwich. A water bottle. And… some nuts. Wow. Dazzling.
“Thank you-” There’s an incidental, teeny-tiny brush of fingers as he pulls his hand back.
“I’m good right now,” you add quickly. It’s also something-past five in the afternoon, but his eye contact always feels so accusatory that it keeps shaping more words out of your tongue whether you like it or not. “Maybe later. Thank you, though.”
“No food inside my car.” (Then why the fuck did he even-)
You don’t say it lightly when the only viable survival strategy left is to shove a handful of nuts into your mouth and hope for the best - as in, basic sustenance - while he keeps walking at least one foot ahead of you like you’re being escorted to trial.
He reaches the car first and lifts the trunk open with one hand, letting out a small, offended grunt of effort, only to immediately steal your go-bag from your hand - an involuntary brush of fingers - and place it inside alongside his. His eyes flick to the goodie bag still in your hand (maybe stare less and talk more next time, Agent Hotchner.)
“Want some nuts?” you offer.
He shakes his head, already rummaging through his own bag for files, completely uninterested. You feel the very strong feminine urge to poke at whatever remains of his emotional range.
“Why, you don’t like nuts?”
Nothing. You’re not even sure how to interpret the expression on his face - disappointment? Disgust? - because he doesn’t give you enough to work with. The most you get is an exhale through his nose as he stares at the bag like he’s actively solving the trolley problem.
“You can keep the water,” he decides, extending it toward you. Wow. They should really start calling him Aaron Philanthropist Hotchner, the way he’s graciously granting you permission to consume beverages in his vehicle. Your fingers brush his again.
“Watch your head,” he adds, closing the trunk - despite you being very clearly outside of guillotine range.
He walks all the way around to the passenger side and opens the door for you…
Not to be mistaken for gallantry, of course. There is no soft, romcom-type eye contact (honestly, you’re not even sure he’s capable of that) just a very deliberate avoidance of your existence as he stares, visibly pissed off, somewhere into the void while you get in.
(Don’t worry, Hotchner. The feeling is mutual. You don’t want to spend two hours locked in a vehicle with him either.)
“We’re going to Yorktown, here in Virginia.” Hotchner hands you the generous gift of two thick case files as he starts the car. “There’s a stretch of road called Hemlock Trace. It’s a heritage drive with old logging paths-”
He reaches behind your headrest to reverse out of the parking space. The warm note of tonka bean - something he must’ve put on his wrist - finally comes alive this close, the saccharinity drawn out by the heat of his skin, leaving the lingering ghost of a touch just behind your neck.
“So… isolated, no lighting and all that?” you blurt, as if rushing him might make him get back to a normal, respectable distance faster. What an annoyingly inviting scent for such an uninviting man.
He’s taking up entirely too much space. All you’re left with is the sharp line of his profile - the prominent nose, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips press into a thin line as he concentrates - while he maneuvers the car effortlessly.
You can’t help but wonder how many people he’s managed to fool with his looks into overlooking the fact that he’s a complete dickhead.
“Exactly,” he says. “It’s heavily frequented during the day, but at night it becomes very secluded. Every mile or so there are gravel pull-offs - during the day they’re used by hikers, fishermen. At night…”
“They’re a great hookup spot,” you finish. You catch the way his eyes flick to you in the rearview mirror. (What? Is hookup a restricted term now?)
“And I’m guessing it’s a damn jurisdictional nightmare,” you add, quickly going through the file. “Northern stretch falls under the Williamsburg Historical Greenway Authority, so park rangers… then Yorktown County, then East Jamestown, then it skirts the county line before jumping back to state near the dam… and some sections are state patrol too?”
You glance up, catch Agent Hotchner’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Just for a moment. He meets your eyes for half a second, then returns to the road.
You exhale. “That’s a mess. Who the hell even responds when something happens out there?”
Hotchner cuts you a sideways look, eyebrows already pulling into that unfortunately familiar disapproving line.
“If you keep reading like that for three hours, you’ll get carsick,” he says. “I can walk you through the case. No need to dig into the file until we get to the crime scene photos.”
Maybe you should turn this into a drinking game… with water. Take a shot every time Agent Hotchner is a condescending piece of shit, or quizzes you on entry-level theory like he’s still not entirely convinced you belong here. At least that might be marginally more entertaining than whatever the hell this is.
He flicks another glance at you. Probably annoyed you haven’t granted him the basic courtesy of a response. Too bad.
Then he launches into a tangent - something about historical jurisdictional boundaries and how they evolved, which, sure (not so sure), fascinating (at best), if you had signed up for a lecture and not… whatever this passive-aggressive road trip is.
You tune in and out. Hemlock Trace is a grey zone. That’s the headline. The rest is him connecting dots across decades because he’s personally stung by poorly drawn county lines. Honestly, as long as he’s got it figured out, you’re comfortable outsourcing the entire problem to him. Afterall, if he can get this worked up over something this minor, he probably knows what he’s talking about.
#Trust4AgentHotchner
#YouRefuseToSpendThatMuchEnergy
From what you do catch, though, the gist is… bad. If a call comes in vague - “on the Trace,” “near the river,” “past the cemetery,” “one of the overlooks” - dispatch can burn precious minutes just figuring out who the hell is supposed to respond.
“The first victims are from October of last year. Mara Vale and Elise Hargrove. Found three days after their disappearance near Briar Bend Overlook.” Agent Hotchner keeps his eyes on the road as he reaches across your seat to tap the file in your lap. You feel the weight of his thick middle finger against your upper thigh. “If you look at the map, it’s a turnout near the south river embankment. And from the photos, the vehicle hasn’t fully gone over.”
You glance down. His finger is still there. It looks… deliberately positioned (the vehicle… it could never be the finger), guided into place with just enough care to nearly vanish, but not quite?
“Mara was forced into the rear cargo area. Elise remained in the back seat. No obvious signs of sexual assault. Both were strangled and have incised wounds to the throat, deep enough to nearly decapitate them, but there’s minimal blood in the car.”
“So that was done post-mortem?” you ask.
“Or the bodies were staged back into the vehicle. Also, their personal effects were still inside. The interior had been doused in diesel fuel, but… there was no ignition.”
“Wait. If the unsub wanted to destroy the evidence, why didn’t he actually set it on fire? If he only wanted the police to think he meant to, why go through all that trouble just to… what, fake it?”
“You should be able to answer that yourself.” (Well, you should be able to shove your head up your ass, Agent Hotchner.) He cuts a glance sideways, one brow lifting. “So?”
Oh, he’s serious. “Panic?”
“Was that a question or an answer?”
You almost roll your eyes. Unfortunately, this condescending asshole is currently your best shot at a golden ticket. “Panic,” you repeat. “Maybe.”
“You can do better.” He tuts. (Water shot number… what, six?) “Besides, someone who maintains control over two victims long enough to strangle both of them successfully doesn’t suddenly panic. Does that scene look panicked to you?”
“…Yeah. Okay. Fair.” You glance back down at the photo. “Maybe I’m overthinking it… but you’re saying that with years of experience. If it reads as disorganized to me, it could read that way to local law enforcement too. Especially if they don’t look past the surface.”
“That’s not how I’d phrase it, but you’re circling it.” God, you hate this game. You can feel him evaluating you. “So, assuming he’s organized… why do it?”
“Contamination,” you say, making a conscious effort not to let it sound like a question. You’re not in the mood to hear him grumble again. “He used strangulation, so there’s a higher chance of leaving fibers, trace - more physical evidence than if he’d used something like a gun-”
“Staging,” Hotchner cuts in. “You’re not wrong about contamination, but if that were the primary goal, he would’ve followed through with the fire.”
“But if he had set it on fire, it would’ve drawn a lot more attention… more resources, more pressure, maybe even federal involvement earlier instead of local police treating it like an isolated case.” You glance at him. Agent Hotchner looks back in a way that suggests he’s used to people folding (#:D) and agreeing with him before he even has to argue. “So… it kind of makes sense he left it like that. He still messes with the evidence, but without making it… obvious.”
“What you’re describing is what we call staging. In standard police training it refers to the act itself, but in behavioral analysis we also factor in the-”
“Behavioral analysis?” you cut in, chuckling. Although, judging by the glare you get back, he probably doesn’t find it funny… God forbid anything resembling a joke be uttered in this moving metal box.
He exhales through his nose. “Agent Reid also noted the driver’s seat had been pushed farther back than Mara would have needed-”
“Agent Reid?” It’s out before you can catch it.
“Reid and Gideon came in earlier this morning. They requested additional support and-” He cuts himself off. Right. So he’s not exactly eager to explain why you are part of that equation. Good to know. Still, on the upside, that means there’s now a very real, very terrifying chance you might end up in front of Gideon in the field.
#NoPressure.
Agent Hotchner’s hand misses and lands briefly on your knee. He mutters something that unclearly passes for a sorry, then shifts back to the photo - a truly fucked-up, low-quality excuse for an image that, with enough imagination, might be the car interior. His finger ends up on your lap again (man…).
You focus on the image. Someone should really fix the fax machine settings.
“You should’ve noticed that Elise’s wallet had been pulled from her bag and left open on the front passenger floorboard,” he says, “and the driver’s side window is partially open.” (If he can see all that in this visual crime against humanity…)
“Why are you saying I should’ve?” you cut in. “The quality su-”
“Because Agent Reid did.”
You catch Hotchner’s smirk in the rearview mirror. Fucking bastard. This is his version of entertainment, isn’t it? Too dignified to sit down and watch reality TV like a normal person. (Though, to be fair, you’d love to discover he secretly watches Jersey Shore. Realistically, however, he’d probably prefer something more crowd-pleasing, like Survivor.)
So instead he manufactures his own. You (underdog? generously speaking), thrown into a one-sided competition against the fan favorite (i.e., Gideon’s favorite), Agent Reid.
And while we’re apparently handing out observations like points on a scoreboard… can Agent Reid also deduce the fact that Agent Hotchner isn’t wearing an undershirt? Because you can. (You refuse to elaborate.)
(Nice D cup, by the way.)
“Wait… if that’s what you’re seeing in the picture,” you say, dragging your focus back where it belongs, “couldn’t the open driver’s window suggest she was asked to pull out her wallet by someone in a position of authority? Like an officer or park patrol?”
“Maybe,” Hotchner replies. “Or it was staged to look that way. Remember, the seat was repositioned. It’s more likely someone trying to imitate law enforcement than-”
Yeah, okay, okay, you got it. (How much would those jugs bounce if he went over a very big bump?)
Again, you don’t even watch that much Survivor, but you’re pretty convinced that in any respectable competition, if people are supposed to compete, they should at least be facing the same challenges.
So how is it that Agent Reid gets to accompany Gideon to the medical examiner - after they finally recover victim set #6, Jenna Sloane and Luke Danner - while you’re stuck at the precinct with Agent Hotchner, building a geographical profile?
(Easy. What happens if you just… drop the two Gs from rigged and say what’s left out loud? Yeah. Exactly.)
Of course, if you actually want an answer from Agent Hotchner that contains anything resembling useful information on why the fuck you’ve never assisted Gideon on a case alone while Reid has, multiple times (aside from the very obvious producer bias toward certain contestants), you have to wordsmith all the fun out of the question.
Absolutely no visible jealousy toward a genius with an eidetic memory.
“Agent Reid has a doctorate in chemistry. He’s more useful in that setting, especially if the local examiner overlooks something given the degraded evidence and he’s already .”
With hands that big, it’s no wonder Agent Hotchner excels at grasping at straws… an impressive amount of bullshit, no less.
“They’ll fax the medical report over shortly, if that’s your concern,” he adds.
“Yeah… sure.” From his tone alone, you know he’s already clocked that your concern has absolutely nothing to do with the efficiency of a fax machine. So really, what’s the point of holding back? “Do you think Gideon will ever bring me along for something? Next time?”
“I think you should focus on the geographical profile,” Agent Hotchner barks back (woof woof.)
Man. Sorry for asking a perfectly reasonable question.
Ants crawl up the tips of your fingers when he steps closer and settles on the edge of the desk, just inches behind you. You catch how the longer lace of his polished leather shoe (tied three times, fucking overachiever) just happens to rest squarely on top of your foot as Agent Hotchner just… looks at the map. Takes it apart without touching a single pin.
You don’t think you’ll ever get used to how loud his silences are.
“Don’t you feel you’re missing something?” he asks.
“I-”
Agent Hotchner shrugs off his jacket, casual as anything. Time stretches and wraps around the movement with the fabric that pulls and tightens along the very noticeable lines of his arms. Your heartbeat knocks the words loose in your throat.
“I- wait… we’ve got the first victims, Vale and Hargrove, found in their car at Briar Bend Overlook on Hemlock Trace, near the York River to the north…”
You point at the map, tracing the route as you speak. Maybe walking him through it will make it click. If there is something you’re missing.
(There is. There has to be. He wouldn’t just stand there like that otherwise… would he really be that much of a bitch to let you waste time second-guessing yourself when there could be actual victims out there?)
“Then, further down, the fourth set - Halpern and Whitely - their bodies are still the only ones missing. They were last seen on cameras along Route 17 near the James River, but the car turned up all the way back at Kingfisher Overlook on Hemlock Trace - again, slightly southeast, past the York River…”
Hotchner crosses his arms. You seriously doubt that that seemingly oversized shirt allows for full range of motion where it actually matters. You can clearly see his-
“So… I think these are the primary anchor points - Briar Bend and Kingfisher. Both overlooks directly on Hemlock Trace, vehicles left in place…”
“You’re approaching the cases as a geographical cluster rather than a series of isolated scenes,” he says. Duh? Is he dumb?
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t a question.” His arms tighten where they’re crossed, an elusive shift that probably indicates irritation - unearned, as far as you’re concerned - but all you can really register is how much more tolerable he’d be if he leaned into that whole… endowed cleavage situation a little more often. “That’s your premise. You should’ve stated it from the start. Otherwise, ‘anchor points’ doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah… I mean, it’s obvious they’re correlated, or what’s the point of doing a geographical profile, right?”
“Not everyone you’ll present your work to will have the same skill set you do,” he replies. “It’s good practice not to take anything for granted, especially in smaller counties where local law enforcement isn’t used to collaborating with the FBI.”
“Okay, but I’m saying it to you right now, so why do I have to spell it out…?”
“Can you just move on?” he pinches the bridge of his aquiline nose, the motion pulling his tie taut, swallowed right between his chest in a way that is…
Tie : tits = G-string : butt cheeks? The tie is Agent Hotchner’s tits’ G-string.
“The other sets deviate from Hemlock Trace, but the second, third, and fifth all cluster along the James River delta. It’s like his hunting ground shifts south.”
You gesture across the map, tracing the coastline instead of the roads.
“Take the second set, Mercer and Beck. They were found washed ashore about a hundred feet apart on the James, near Crescent Marsh Overlook. That’s… roughly twenty-five minutes from the Trace, but it’s still part of the same river system, just one county over.”
His sharp eyes latch onto every word you say, and still, he hasn’t told you what you’re missing. You even try to give him space to step in on purpose (pretending oxygen is actually reaching your brain by doing what normal people do, like… you know, taking a breath), but… nope, he doesn’t take it. Agent Hotchner just keeps watching you. Impassive.
In the radio silence, you notice Detective Bush (also known as Detective “nice to work with you - and no, before you ask, I’m not related to the President, do you really think I’d be stuck here busting my ass catching these motherfuckers if I were?” Bush) step in beside the desk, step in beside the desk, just inside the outer orbit of Hotchner’s personal gravitational field.
He’s immediately greeted with the full Hotchner experience: a quick, irritated glare… and then straight back to the map. Charming.
It’s already rare enough for the FBI to be welcomed into a case like this in a town like this. It’s even rarer that someone like Bush has been so consistently helpful, actually nice, during your days stuck here at the precinct while Agent Reid and Gideon go off doing cowboy shit, occasionally letting Hotchner tag along for what increasingly feels like a VIP sausage party.
Bush shoots you a smile. Aw. He’s so nice!
He’s brought coffee, without you even asking. Two cups, actually - one for you and, technically, one for Hotchner - but the difference is… telling. He knows your order. As for Hotchner… eh. You’re not entirely convinced Agent Hotchner has ever acknowledged his existence long enough for that to even be possible.
(You have, unfortunately. Dark as a moonless night. In one word: stale.)
Indeed, that’s the impression you get when Bush carefully barricades the drinks between himself and the human embodiment of constipation that is Agent Hotchner. A tactical retreat. Understandable.
“There are also a bunch of donuts in the staff lounge if you-”
“Maybe later,” Hotchner cuts in, that same clipped, dismissive tone. For some reason, he keeps his eyes on you, not even bothering to look at the man he just interrupted.
“You guys onto something?” Bush asks gleefully, pointing at the map.
You open your mouth to answer, but Hotchner beats you to it with the most aggressively monosyllabic response possible.
“Geographical profile.” (An impressive feat, considering it has seven syllables.) He turns just enough toward Bush, like he’s expecting him to take the hint and disappear on his own. This is fucking embarrassing.
“Um… I was saying…” you clear your throat, trying to intercept before Hotchner decides to piss all over the place to mark his territory in the precinct, “that, if we factor in the other victims who weren’t killed in pairs - Grant and McClain - the pattern of the unsub still kind of holds. Sure, in both cases their vehicles were left off Mercury Boulevard, but what matters is that both bodies were recovered from the James. Even McClain, whose car was farther from the riverbank.”
You gesture toward the map again. “So… from that, it looks like even when he moves away from the main route, his comfort zone still pulls back to the river system-”
“…he keeps dumping the victims in the river post-mortem, most likely using his own vehicle, and choosing locations that offer both seclusion and controlled access to the water. The lack of trace evidence in the victims’ cars after the first homicide suggests he adjusted early, he’s no longer risking transfer at the initial scene.”
Hotchner cuts in as he pushes off the desk and steps in beside you. There’s barely a hair’s breadth of air between the cuff of his suit and your arm. #Yay.
“But even then,” he continues, “he attempted to submerge the vehicle. And in the fourth set, K9s picked up a trail that extended into the water, which suggests he used a boat. There were no rental records for that time frame, so it’s likely he owns one-”
“Fishing, boat maintenance… anything that would justify repeated access to those sites and that level of familiarity…” you cut in. You know. Because you were supposed to say all that, not him.
Agent Hotchner’s hand lands briefly on your shoulder as he reaches past you, stealing the marker you were just about to use to map out the triangulation. His dry-ass pinkie grazes yours.
“…which suggests he’s local and operating within a defined comfort zone,” he finishes.
You’d call it cute, the way you’re apparently finishing each other’s sentences after working this closely for days… but it’s less teamwork or chemistry, and more that you’re certain he just doesn’t trust you to get there on your own.
He grabs the oversized ruler (your ruler, the one you had to specifically ask Bush to track down) and draws a clean triangle across the map and shades the area in. “Latest set: Sloane and Danner. Down to Mercer and Beck along the western shore of the James. Then across to McClain on Mercury Boulevard.”
“Clustered activity within a defined geographic comfort zone… somewhere in here.” He hands the marker back, a brief, cautious pat on your shoulder as he looks past you at his Kandinsky knockoff on the map. “That’s what you were missing.”
“If you’d let me get there, I was about to triangulate-” you bite your tongue before it gets professionally suicidal. (Not that it matters. At this point you might just be delusional.) You don’t get why he suddenly decided to get impatient and bulldoze right through what was supposed to be your practice.
“Triangulation is the only tangible product of a geographical profile,” he cuts in. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Also, the area he just boxed in is what, two hundred square miles? Completely unmanageable. No one’s coordinating a search zone that size and calling it actionable, so what the fuck-
“Without it, it’s just words thrown in the air,” he adds, condescending.
Bro.
“Man, behavioral profiling is basically just words thrown in the air and hoping for the best-”
Your blood is already boiling too much to be intimidated by the killer glare he shoots your way.
“So it means the killer lives in that area of the triangle?” Detective Bush ambushes from directly behind the two of you.
“Yes,” you turn toward Bush. “Also, maybe we can narrow it-”
“No,” Hotchner cuts in at the exact same time. “It means the unsub operates within that area. That’s different.” (Does he even hear himself?)
“But you just said the unsub’s a local,” you huff. “If he operates there, he has to live there. You know… definition of local.”
“Not necessarily. You still need to define the circumference through those points before you can narrow it down. The primary search radius would be five to ten miles from the center of that circle.”
Oof… boring! They did not do all of this in Law & Order.
He tilts his head toward the marker in your hand - an invitation, which in his language translates directly to an order - for you to do it yourself.
“If he lives within that area, it’s likely within a short driving distance of the centroid, but not necessarily at its center. Most organized offenders maintain a buffer zone.” Yada, yada, yada. Tracing a circle. Real profiler shit.
The fundamental theorem of Euclidean geometry says that through three distinct, non-collinear points, there passes one, and only one, circle. Given those three points (i.e., the three crime scenes Hotch just picked out on the map), you’re supposed to find the center of that imaginary circumference first, using some geometry trick you absolutely learned at some point and have since… well... whoops.
So… admit defeat?
You nudge the marker sneakily slow (if you move slow enough, the predator won’t eat you?) toward his hand. He’s very hot. His hand is very hot. The confused and hazily sympathetic microexpression that crosses his face does absolutely nothing to help.
“You don’t remember the construction?” he asks, beating you to it.
His tone is… sweet. Almost honeyed, if that’s even possible. It pulls you straight back to that first day, when he scribbled Tara-something at the bottom of your notebook and, for a fleeting moment, seemed… not a complete bitch. You don’t think you’ve heard this version of him since.
It’s beguiling enough that, for a single tick of his very silent (because it is very expensive) Rolex, neither of you lets go of the marker. Awkwardly sandwiched between your hands. Not quite as awkward as the way his smile softens his features, in a way that reads almost… fond? Like your complete lack of geometrical competence is somehow endearing to him.
(Aw. You don’t know shit a first grader would. Cute. Give me a second, I’ll call Gideon so I can finally get rid of you, xoxo.)
“The center of the circle is the intersection of the perpendicular bisectors of the triangle’s sides,” Bush chimes in, punctuating it with an enthusiastically loud, double bro-smack to Hotchner’s shoulder.
Safe to say Hotchner did not expect that. He jerks (he hates physical contact that much?) but then immediately snaps back at the poor detective into his usual homicidal expression. Spell broken. Midnight strikes. Hotchnerella exits the ball, probably drops his FBI badge instead of a glass slipper, because to him efficiency matters more than mystery.
Beneath the pure terror in the glance Bush flicks your way, you catch the quick did I do something wrong? in his eyes… but you don’t get the chance to answer. Hotchner calls your name.
“A word.”
Can Agent Hotchner count? Just asking.
Because “I hope you’re aware there’s a very high probability - given that the unsub targets locations along county lines, across different jurisdictions and park services, and consistently leaves the victims’ wallets in the car - that we could be looking at someone in law enforcement”…
…is definitely more than one word. He is so confusing.
“I thought we ruled that theory out on day one,” you say. And also - if it has to be someone - Detective Bush is the last person it could be.
Did he forget you’re the one juggling York County, James City County, Gloucester County, Williamsburg, the National Park Service, Virginia State Police, and every fucking local department in a fifty-mile radius? (Likely. Considering he handed you this mess, he probably did forget how much coordination it actually takes just to figure out who even responds to a call out here.)
What exactly makes him think that, out of all the cop sausages working this area, it’s Bush?
“I’d discourage you from engaging with him as much as you have been,” he says. Is that his business? “We need their cooperation, but you should limit what you share until we have an official profile to present.”
“Cooperation isn’t one-sided,” you huff.
“If we’re called in, it’s our case. We set the parameters. We don’t owe them full disclosure before we’re ready.” His face softens all of a sudden (has he finally heard himself?) His broad hands settle on either side of your arms, like he’s trying to reassure you. (Reassuring what, exactly?)
“Look, I’m not suggesting we mislead them. Just… hold back a portion of our working theory until it’s confirmed. It helps avoid misunderstandings… besides, you can never be too sure.”
Your spidey senses are screaming there’s a subtext here he’s politely refusing to spell out.
“I do think your read on him moving south is solid,” he adds. (Oh, wow. Actual praise from Agent Hotchner that is not wrapped in legalese nor buried under ten layers of condescension? Someone check the fucking temperature in here.) “I’d prioritize narrowing search areas along the southern stretch of Hemlock Trace, especially along the riverbanks, even if the latest victims turned up further north.”
You nod. “Cool.” (You are the opposite of cool. You are thriving.)
His hand lingers, again, at the side of your arm.
“Good job,” he says, almost like an afterthought, then he’s already stepping away.
Bro.
You’re grinning like an idiot. You would, theoretically, be doing backflips in the middle of the precinct - if
a) it weren’t full of people,
b) you knew how to do a backflip in the first place, and
c) you hadn’t just spotted Gideon and Reid’s SUV pulling back in outside the window.
And the fact that Reid already has the front pieces of his bowl cut tucked behind his ears (his go-to coping mechanism) tells you everything you need to know. Not good.
“So?” you ambush Agent Rigged the second he drifts toward the water dispenser. You glance past him, Gideon and Hotchner are already talking behind the glass door. “How did it go?”
Reid sighs. “The bodies were already in the process of skeletonization, and it’s been less than two months since they were left out in the woods. The examiner couldn’t determine a definitive cause of death… I think I saw trace marks consistent with stabbing on the female victim, but it could also be postmortem damage from scavenging animals.”
Basically, the fucker you’re looking for didn’t even bother burying them - just covered them with an electric blanket from the victim’s car and left them out in the open. Which means he was confident no one would stumble across them, and comfortable enough with the area to pick a spot two miles deep in the woods, just off a busy Interstate 64.
Overconfident, local, comfortable in the area... nothing new.All you can really contribute to Reid’s beautifully structured monologue is:
“Man, that sucks…” You’d pat him on the shoulder, if only he didn’t despise physical contact even more than Agent Hotchner. And unlike a certain someone, you actually respect your peers’ boundaries. #DreamTeammate
No, but really… it does suck. A killer’s still out there, and it means you’re stuck here longer than you ever signed up for.
“There are donuts in the staff room, by the way,” you add.
Nothing boosts morale quite like Agent Bush’s entire table’s worth of donuts. Very generous of you, really, sharing something that isn’t even yours. (You desperately need the good karma.)
Also… if - hypothetically - you just happened, completely innocently, to deliver one of those cop delicacies straight into Gideon’s hands so he could personally witness how amazing you are… and if that involved strategically leveraging a man’s sacred bond with a custard and strawberry jam-filled long donut (he seems like a classic, old-man-flavors kind of guy)… who’s to say that wouldn’t translate into solo field opportunities with the Jedi Master himself?
“Do you think Gideon likes donuts?” you ask, trying to make it sound like an afterthought.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat,” Reid shrugs.
…Not as helpful as you’d hoped.
Through the glass, Hotchner’s eyes magnetically entangle with yours, then slip right back to Gideon the second you notice. Cool. So he’s definitely talking about you.
You just hope he does you the basic human courtesy of leaving out the whole geometrical-construction humiliation. Then again, you don’t even know why you’re still holding onto the idea of making the cut when Agent Reid exists.
You’re losing so much of your training just by being here…
“Williamsburg brought in a suspect.” Ah. Gideon. Always the bearer of good news. “From what they told me, he had contact with the solo male victim - Grant - the night of the murder. I don’t think he’s our guy, but he lives within the area Hotch and…”
He’s staring at you. The same man who will correct anyone within a five-mile radius for calling his golden boy Agent instead of Doctor Reid, and yet - not to play the victim - you have the vague suspicion he still hasn’t memorized your name.
“…you traced on the geographical profile today, so it’s worth a try. I told them to hold him until we get there.”
Reid tucks his hair behind his ear. He does it again on the other side. He’s nervous about the interrogation.
You know it because you’ve seen what happens when he’s put in that position. The last time local PD brought in a suspect and he had to assist Detective Bush without Gideon or Hotchner there, his hands were already trembling before it even started, and he spent the entire interrogation tripping over his own words.
…Safe to say it didn’t go well.
He does have one thing going for him, though - excellent timing. No one who actually matters was there to see it. (And yeah, sure, the guy they brought in turned out to be innocent. Minor detail. Almost beside the point, really.)
Still, failures that go unwitnessed don’t exactly count against you. Which must be nice.
Gideon notices it too. His gaze flicks to Reid, then, unescapably, lands on you. It feels less like he’s seeing Reid and more like he’s seeing you seeing Reid, which is…one hell of a mouthful.
You don’t know whether to feel included or exposed. For all it’s worth, he’s finally noticing you - just… not independently of someone else. You almost preferred it when he corrected people for calling Reid “Agent” instead of “Doctor”, while still not remembering your name.
“Hotch also found a case in the cold files out of Henrico that matches our unsub’s modus operandi,” Gideon says. “Vehicle left in the woods with keys still in the ignition. Bodies located by following a blood trail from the car, hidden under a blanket. Same as our latest victims.”
“The case is from August 2000,” Hotchner - Hotch - adds. “Could be our unsub’s first victims.”
“A road trip, then,” Gideon nods. “Henrico County should have more documentation on the case. We’re still working with limited data, but this could give us direction. We need to go through those files as quickly as possible and minimize the window before he strikes again.”
And who, in this room, just so happens to read at an inhuman speed of twenty thousand words per minute while the rest of you peasants struggle through two hundred?
Reid already looks like he’s won the lottery. Win-win. He gets to disappear into a pile of old, fucked-up case files and spend quality time with Agent Hotchner, completely free of interrogation pressure or performance anxiety. Meanwhile, you-
Gideon flicks his hand vaguely in your direction. “You-” Oh, this is painful. He’s trying. He’s really trying to remember your name. He just… can’t. “…you go with Hotch.”
Son of a-
“Oh, and Aaron- if it gets too late, you were a prosecutor do… something.” He does that thing with his hands. The mystical wave that translates to figure it out I do not have the time (but I trust you.) “Convince them to hand over the files… tell them we’ll bring them back. I don’t know. Improvise.”
And so great is the folly of mortals that, when they obtain things that are of little importance and low value - certainly recoverable - they accept that these be charged to them; yet no one who has received time considers themselves indebted in any way, even though it is the one thing that not even a grateful person can ever repay.
Damn. You have to give it to Aaron Hotchner… his stupid no music in the car rule does have one very specific effect.
Not even five minutes into the drive back from Henrico, the silence catapults you into a full-blown moment of existential clarity, where you start auditing every decision you’ve ever made and realize that, at every possible intersection, you somehow took the wrong turn.
You should’ve skipped the shower this morning and gone straight to breakfast early, caught Gideon alone before the line formed instead of showing up late and getting swallowed by the crowd.
Yesterday, you should’ve used that extra hour to keep up with your linguistics class instead of obsessing over the casefiles, hoping for some miraculous epiphany that would finally impress him.
Maybe you should’ve applied to a different course altogether instead of being stubborn enough to choose behavioral science in the first place - or at the very least, on day one, you should’ve just agreed with Agent Hotchner when Gideon asked, even if it wasn’t true.
Maybe then, every time Gideon paired you with him on this case, it wouldn’t feel like walking on thin ice. Maybe you’d even be allowed to play some music.
And to think, when you first started, you were euphoric at the mere possibility of getting out on a real case earlier than expected.
Blessed be those who keep fighting a losing battle. Condemned be those who refuse to fight at all.
But what’s the point of fighting, of pushing yourself to be the “best version” of yourself, when you already know that version still won’t measure up? Are you any less for recognizing your limitations? Or are you only less for not having recognized them - and surrendered - much earlier?
“Are you alright?” Hotchner asks.
Not now. You can’t believe you’re so fucked up that even his most monotone delivery imaginable manages to siphon all the oxygen out of the car. You need to calm down. And you need to do it quietly, so he doesn’t notice (that would be so humiliating.)
You can feel the lump in your throat.
“Yeah.” Your eyes start to tickle. Why the fuck is this igniting a crying response? He doesn’t even care.
“So?”
“So what?” You bite the inside of your lip, turning your face up toward the window so your eyes won’t give you away.
He exhales sharply through his nose… is he mad at something? “What’s the difference between theories of criminality and theories of crime?”
Oh. You must’ve missed that. You shrug. Who cares.
“I don’t know.” Your voice sounds brittle. You can’t help it, you keep fucking up. You’re not even strong enough to stop your stupid lips from trembling like a fucking child. “Does it matter?”
You’d love to evanesce into the line of loblolly pines outside if only to escape the reflex of checking him in the side mirror anyway. There’s something about his eyes that midwives the truth out of you, forces air back into your lungs whether you want it or not.
“I really try, you know. I study in whatever spare time we have, I try to keep up with everything else, I try to-” you swallow. You want to carve out your eyes from your skull. “-to not fall behind because you and Gideon just… assume we already know everything, and I try to balance it with everything else I’m supposed to keep up with.”
You choke on your own laugh. Why are you even laughing?
“But does it even matter? Any of it? The rushing, the effort, the constant catching up - if Gideon’s already decided who he wants? Why do you keep doing this? With these stupid questions. Every single time. Just to me.” stupid, stupid hiccups. “Not to Reid.” can you at least have control of your own body? You sound so stupid like this. “And I’m never enough. It just-” again? “-it just makes me feel so stupid.”
Ouch. You can already tell this is going to become part of the nightly ritual - replayed on a loop right before sleep, with full-body, teeth-clenching secondhand embarrassment. Great. Another flawless wrong turn.
“And nobody cares when Reid’s wrong. Or if he can’t even handle a gun. Or if he falls apart in an interrogation. He still gets picked. Hic. Every time. Hic. Oh, fuck this. Because Gideon wants him. Because he actually cares about his growth - and no one else’s. Hic. And I’m sorry you have to deal with me every fucking time, because I fucking suck at this. Sorry for being so pathetic right now-”
Hotchner glances at you every few seconds, but only through the rearview mirror. He’s so visibly uncomfortable at this whole thing it would almost be funny, if you weren’t busy choking on your own breathing.
“I swear I don’t even know why I’m saying any of this. I can’t do one fucking thing right. I don’t usually cry in a superior’s car like a fucking child.”
He looks like he’s never been issued a single guideline on how to handle a situation like this in a Bureau-approved way, so he defaults to… nothing. Impassively stares at the road. (God forbid the U.S. government finds out he’s capable of empathy. Or, you know, any human emotion at all.)
“Sorry, but you’re so bad at this,” you let out a broken laugh.
Still, he doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t even usually drive with both hands on the wheel, but he is now… probably because he has no idea where else to put them. (Up his ass, maybe.)
“Really, it looks like you don’t even know what to do.”
He lets the silence stretch, before flicking a quick glance at you in the rearview mirror, like he’s checking whether you’re actually done with the bitching and moaning.
“I wish I could help you with that,” he says. “But it’s not my call to make those decisions.”
Useless and humiliating. This is exactly why you shouldn’t have broken down in front of Agent Hotchner. What the hell were you even thinking?
“Yeah, I know… sorry-”
“There are tissues in the compartment to your side.” (…) He reaches for his phone. It’s almost impressive how quickly he dials, considering the size of his thumbs versus the microscopic keyboard.
“How much do you need?” he murmurs, his voice so low it’s almost not there at all as the line begins to ring.
“What do you mean?” (What is this, are you on a quota now? Limited tissues per emotional breakdown?)
“Hey, Jason,” Fuuuuuuuuuuck.“I’m seeing some traffic on I-64 near Richmond.”
You turn to him immediately - what? there’s no traffic - you mouth. He cuts you off with a quick lift of his hand.
“That’ll slow us down, thirty minutes, more or less…” he adds, already steering toward a rest stop sign. “Sure. Keep me posted.” And he hangs up. “If you need more time, just tell me… I can probably stretch it to an hour.”
“I-” you genuinely don’t know what to do with that. He wouldn’t lie to a superior. He definitely wouldn’t lie for you. And yet. “I’m fine… you didn’t have to lie… what if- what if Gideon finds out?”
He shrugs. The dildo of consequences never arrives lubed, and yet Agent Hotchner seems completely unbothered by this particular development - so unbothered, in fact, that he breaks his own no food in the car rule without what appears to be a second thought when he silently pulls into a rest stop and refuses to acknowledge any of your increasingly mortified apologies.
He comes back with water (extra electrolytes… exactly the kind of thing you’d expect him to buy for someone who just cried out half their internal fluids) and silently invites you to take from the very precariously wedged bag of chips he’s balanced between the cup holder and the emergency brake. Structurally speaking, it’s a crumb disaster waiting to happen. It’s so out of character you suspect this is somehow another one of his psychological tests.
“I’m sorry for… you know. My whole pity party.”
You’ve probably apologized a thousand times already, but how does it go? Better sorry when you can’t be safe. Or something like that. (:P)
“It’s okay,” he soothes you, as if he’s afraid the cars passing behind might hear him. And that’s it. Still no defense or commentary on the - admittedly lame - accusations you threw at him.
You both stare out through the windshield.
The James River cuts somewhere beyond the line of trees, one of the unsub’s two preferred hunting grounds. This rest stop sits right on that exedra where I-64 pulls away from the river by barely a mile, and the towering loblolly pines give way to rows of cars and massive parked trucks, some stacked with stripped trunks.
There has to be a sawmill nearby.
Your face is starting to feel crunchy now that the breeze has dried the tears, but the air here still sits eerily against your skin. Even with all of downtown Richmond between you and the water, the river refuses to be ignored. It invades everything, dampening the air. You’d know it was there even if no one told you.
Thirty miles east, along this same stretch of I-64, is where Sloane and Danner were found, the same bodies Gideon and Reid went to see today, hoping to find something and coming back with just a hole in the water.
That probably explains the knot in your stomach.
“Can I be frank with you?” Hotchner asks, out of nowhere.
“Shoot.” Your eyes drift to the line of parked cars. What are the odds one of them belongs to him? Reid would probably have a number ready.
“For what it’s worth, I think you have good instincts… and that’s not something anyone can teach. You either have it or you don’t.” He reaches into the bag of chips like this is just… a casual conversation you’d have with someone who isn’t built like a closed door.
“But you’re severely lacking on the theoretical side. Same as most of your peers,” he adds, slightly muffled, because apparently Agent Hotchner does talk while eating. That’s… disorienting new. Like he’s letting you see a part of him that feels… intentionally unpolished.
At least he covers his mouth.
“Because you don’t trust your own process. A solid theoretical backbone would give you something to anchor to.” he adds. A dig, delivered between bites of chips - almost funny, if it didn’t still sting exactly like one.
“I would study the theory if you actually gave us the time to do it… like any other course.” You emphasize it by reaching into the bag yourself. He immediately warns you to keep the crumbs to a minimum (old habits die hard…)
“Instead of all this extra office work and ‘practice’ - which, yeah, it’s useful, I’m not saying it’s not - but it creates this… divide where the whole competition aspect makes it impossible for anyone to admit they don’t know something. No one’s going to ask for help if that automatically puts them out of the running… that’s not an excuse but-”
You reach for the bag at the exact same time he does. You’re not even looking until your fingers almost close around his wrist. You stop short.
“…but?” he prompts.
“I-” you clear your throat, staring anywhere but at him… or his hands. “I forgot.” The veins on his hands are so prominent…
Trying to bond with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner comes with its own… very specific set of difficulties. Especially when he seems completely unbothered by saying things like-
“You’re capable of getting to the right place. You just don’t always know why you got there. So you keep going, stacking more questions on top of it - questions that come from insecurity - until you end up somewhere else entirely. And when you don’t get immediate validation, you keep every option open instead of committing to the one that was already right.”
He keeps glancing at you every time he reaches for the chips, like he’s making sure you won’t go in at the same time. There’s something almost endearing about it - when your eyes meet, his lips (now dusted with a few salt crystals) press into a thin line, and he gives a quick, restrained nod, like he’s quietly thanking you for letting him go.
His dimples are kind of adorable.
“You won’t always have someone there to confirm you’re right. On the job, you make the call. You have to be sure… and precise. That’s why I’m pushing you.” He gives you the smallest smile at the end, stingy with it, as if he’s either being earnest or refusing to overindulge.
He starts licking the salt off his thick fingers. Your eyes are drawn to the reflection of the quick gesture in the rearview mirror. There’s something about the ease of it, the complete lack of self-consciousness when his tongue flicks over the top of each digit, that gets under your skin a little. Like he has no idea how that reads from the outside.
And then, as if none of that just happened, he opens the door and steps out of the car without so much as a glance back. He’s so profoundly puzzling it’s starting to feel organised.
The more you replay his silence from earlier, the way he let you talk without interrupting, the more you realise that you were wrong. He’s not bad at this at all. If anything, he’s too good. Like letting you unravel first was intentional.
And for someone who operates with that kind of control, how does he not lose it in a job like this? It would be nice to know. But your gut tells you the control might just be the façade.
“I have something for you.”
He’s back before you can overthink it further, a worn tin box in his hands - the same one you’ve always seen tucked into his briefcase. The metal creaks softly as he forces it open, the veins in his hands standing out with the effort. He’s wearing the proudest, most idiotic smile.
Inside, two thick stacks of flashcards in plastic cases, so overstuffed they nearly spill out the moment the lid lifts. At first glance, they look like they’re all in his handwriting.
“Not to brag,” he says, which is exactly what someone says when they are absolutely about to brag, “but I was pretty well known for these when I was a trainee. Some of them are still circulating.”
How humble. He goes on to name-drop some apparently legendary agent – YouHaveNoIdeaWhoThatIsButYouNodAnyway - who, according to him, got top marks in behavioral science thanks to these exact cards.
“Wow, you’re…” such a dork. “…so cool.”
“My advice,” he says, keeping his head down… probably hoping you won’t notice the way the apple of his cheeks have gone bright pink right after being called cool. (He’s actually being nice. You cannot laugh in his face.) “is to shuffle them and go through every single one at least three times a day. Don’t make copies because I will find out. And most importantly, keep your hands clean when you use them. Put them back in the tin when you’re done. No food or drinks nearby. And never - ever - take them out of the plastic sleeves.”
So… basically, wrap it before you tap it. “…Are you trying to pass these down to your firstborn?” you joke.
“I would be honored if my son decided to follow in my footsteps-”
Why is he such a loser? “Do you even have someone to have a son with?”
He glares at you. Safe to say, you did not think that through. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
That’s because he doesn’t want to admit he has no bitches. Who would hit that?
When, exactly, is the appropriate moment to inform Agent Hotchner that your insistence on pushing for a stakeout today (despite fully expecting Agent Reid and Gideon to take the glory and go themselves) is based primarily on a dream? Which may or may not have occurred while you were briefly unconscious on top of the case files (forty-five minutes to an hour, so technically a nap).
A dream involving a gigantic, electric-blue trout with Belgian waffles for tires and suspiciously large hands, knocking on a willow tree. Behind which, Agent Hotchner was hiding, wearing a voluminous curly wig with a full blowout and a like a virgin bridal ensemble, complete with the boy toy belt.
It’s not in any FBI manual you’re aware of, but if you interpret it - suspend all prejudice, given you are, admittedly, clueless - the knocking could tie into the preliminary profile. An unsub with voyeuristic tendencies, approaching victims while they’re inside their vehicles, possibly initiating contact.
So. Knocking (on windows?)
Then you add the whole “knock on wood” thing. Luck. Which, considering the situation (and the very real possibility that Agent Hotchner might not appreciate your… oneiric genius), you’re probably going to need.
Put the two together, and it almost (barely) reads like an omen that this might be the right moment to act. You’re still not entirely sure how the electric-blue trout or Agent Hotchner in a Madonna costume fit into any of that, though.
Maybe some things simply aren’t meant to be profiled. Like how you’re not meant for stakeouts.
“Has it been three hours yet?” you ask Agent Hotchner. You’re staring so hard at the dashboard just to stay awake you’re pretty sure you could triangulate every single speck of dust in this car… which is concerning, considering when you first got in you would’ve sworn it was spotless.
He checks his Rolex. “Almost an hour.”
Almost an hour. You can feel your inhibitory brakes already gone. You choose to blame it on the psychological whiplash of discovering that Agent Hotchner wears prescription glasses - and, worse, that he chose tonight to ambush you with them.
Dainty, rounded silver frames - completely dissonant with the rest of him - soften the defined lines of his face, suggesting a version of him that might, theoretically, exist off-duty if you squint hard enough and indulge in a little wishful thinking. They look really good on him. But this is not where you wanted to go.
“Don’t you think the Rolex is a bit… out of character for-”
For pretending you’re a horny couple parked out here to have sex in his hunting ground.
But because you are, clearly, the ideal stakeout partner anyone could ever hope for - the kind the BAU should be fighting over, the obvious superior choice over Agent Reid for a permanent position and lifelong stakeout companionship with the delightful human being that is Agent Hotchner - you stop yourself from proceeding any further.
Out of sheer, unparalleled generosity, you spare him. You’re convinced that if you actually say the word sex out loud, Hotchner might have a stroke. (And, given the complete lack of signal out here, you’d be the one stuck performing CPR and then explaining to emergency services how exactly that happened. Hard pass.)
“-this situation?”
You have to remind yourself that everything that happens tonight will need to be documented in an official report and may be subject to review.
“You mean it’s too obnoxious?” he asks, completely serious. You do, in fact, think it’s obnoxious in general to have something on your wrist that costs more than a car, but-
“Yeah… I mean, a man wearing a Rolex isn’t exactly the type who ends up in a parked car-” having sex. But again: stroke. Best not to risk it. “-because he ran out of better options.”
“What if my character-” (Aw. My character. What is this, did scary Agent Hotchner used to run DnD campaigns in a past life, or did boredom get him shit-talking too?) “-likes the risk of breaking the law?”
His argument is full of holes. And sure, every hole is a goal, but…
The fact that his brain immediately jumps to breaking the law instead of just saying having sex in public tells you everything you need to know. He’s probably one sentence away from citing the exact statute, subsection, and every possible penalty attached to it.
“I hope you’re a good actor,” you shrug.
He cuts you a sideways look. The scary tightening between his brows - even if softened by the warm yellow light catching on the frames - is enough to tell you you’ve offended him. Damn it. What a pussy delicate ecosystem. Makes you wonder how much of you he could take. (You are bored.)
“Because even if my character were desperate for some dick-” Quick check: his face doesn’t look like it’s drooping on one side yet. Good. Still alive. “- and willing to overlook her partner’s complete lack of fashion sense, no one is choosing that orange sweater if they’re trying to look sexy.”
“It’s burgundy,” he deadpans.
“No, man. You must be colorblind. That is clearly orange.”
“The color looks warmer because of the yellow light in the car,” he defends his infallible thesis. “And it fits the situation.”
Still not saying sex. Incredible. Wait! Is that why, in your dream, he was dressed in full Like a Virgin bridal drag? Because he’s actually-
“It’s… put together. Not trying too hard,” he adds, gesturing at himself (the fact that his hands hovers around his knockers confuses you for a second), then the car.
He’s lucky you’re fluent in whatever the hell this cryptic, repressed dialect is supposed to be. Car sex equals casual outfit. Casual hookup. Low effort, no need to impress. As opposed to, apparently, the formalwear required for sex in an actual bed.
“Is that your college T-shirt under the sweatshirt?” you’re proving your point. You had to buy a whole miniskirt to commit to this bit (currently regretting it, given the way the leather seat is sticking to your skin), and he shows up dressed for Sunday service? “Because I’m not convinced anyone’s buying this. Who even has sex wearing that many layers?”
“If you profiled criminals with the same accuracy you apply to this… petty analysis, you wouldn’t need any of my notes.”
“So I’m the petty one?” you ask, unable to stop the smile tugging at your mouth. You’re unsure whether more offended or impressed by this side of him.
“You started it,” he shrugs, his gaze nailed to the road ahead - on the complete nothingness of the black mass of the trees swallowing even the moonlight.
You catch the fractional delay before he looks back at you, as if that might absolve him - as though you wouldn’t still be looking at him, that telltale smile already ghosting across his face. He doesn’t even attempt to retreat into his usual austere composure… probably because he knows he’s been made.
It’s too much. You can’t stand looking at him for too long, so you lean forward and - completely unauthorized - pry open the glove compartment.
“What are you doing.” Hotchner doesn’t even bother to shape it into a question.
“If we’re trying to attract a maniac - or at the very least not look more suspicious than we already do - we need music.”
You sift through the contents. His glove compartment is so meticulously organized it takes almost no effort to retrieve the entire collection: one, two, three CDs. And if there’s one song threading through your head right now, it’s Like a Virgin by Madonna - the association growing less metaphorical by the second, given what you’re holding.
From left to right: The Beatles Anthology 1, Etta James’ At Last (the album - unfortunately, it is not at last for these choices), and 80s Greatest Hits.
You would pay good money to hear the story behind any of these.
“Go on, which one of these is your sex playlist?” you ask, fanning them out. You generously give him the dignity of choosing his own humiliation. It’s so bleak you don’t even want to guess this time.
“We’re in a public spot in the middle of the night… if we were to have sex, the priority would be not drawing attention from patrol units… music is the last thing you’d want to play unless you want to be arrested for public indecency.”
Right… he reroutes the entire conversation into logistics… which can only mean two things: he’s either deliberately dodging the question, or he’s never had sex in a car.
You give him the benefit of the doubt. “You don’t strike me as the type to raw dog whatever the radio decides to throw at you at night. So one of these has to be your sex playlist.”
You watch him, weighing your options. What’s worse? Getting pounded to Yellow Submarine, IIIIII WANT A … Sunday kind of love, or Girls Just Want to Have Fun (Is anyone actually sure Agent Hotchner is capable of having fun?)?
You catch his eyes flicking - more than once, and not as subtle as he probably thinks - toward the CD in the middle. Well… you would’ve never pegged (… #:D) Agent Hotchner as the hopeless-romantic type.
He shifts forward all of a sudden, leaning across your side of the passenger seat to dig back into the glove compartment. And that’s… very close. All you get is a distracted, almost too-formal “excuse me” from him. All you can see is the back of his head. All you can feel is the weight of his broad hand pressing into the soft part of your bare upper thigh as he steadies himself.
Absolutely nothing to unpack there. You stare straight ahead, very deliberately not reacting, because acknowledging it would mean thinking about it, and thinking about it feels like… something? Nothing?
He sits back upright a second later with… a cassette. A Walkman. And a pair of earphones. He nudges his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with one broad finger.
“Oh. So you’re old - oooold school.”
No, seriously, what is this? Is he one of those music snobs who insists every occasion demands a specific analog format? Like sex somehow requires the gritty authenticity of a cassette? Is this a generational heirloom? Passed down from one Hotchner to the next?
What worries you is that he doesn’t even answer. He just glances up at you with a smirk as he slides the cassette into the Walkman. You… don’t like that. That, or the way his dimples sit at the corners of his mouth. Mischievous does not belong on Agent Hotchner’s face. It looks wrong. Unsettling.
Because what, exactly, does someone like him have to be mischievous about? (You can’t tell.) His hand is too big, covering most of the cassette, but you catch a glimpse of the label as it disappears into the player. Brudos.
He abruptly reclines his seat all the way back.
“What the fuck are you-” You don’t even make it to the end of the sentence.
“Do you want to be productive and learn something while we wait,” he says, propping himself up slightly on his elbows, “or do you want to keep asking questions I’m not going to answer?”
You just stare at him. There are… several things happening right now. You’re not entirely sure which one deserves priority.
Agent Hotchner slides one side of the earphones into his right ear. “This is the original interview Agent Gideon and Rossi conducted in ’89 with Jeff Brudos,” he continues.
(What the-)
“The Lust Killer,” he adds, like you might need clarification. Of all the things you’re confused about right now, that is not one of them.
“Yes, I know who he is… how did you even get that?” you ask. But from the look he gives you, you can already tell this is one of the questions he’s not going to answer. Fine.
You have to play his game. You recline your seat all the way down too, matching him, letting him make the next move.
It’s just that - horizontal (…) - he suddenly feels closer. And hotter. Objectively hotter. Thermodynamically speaking, of course (you know… heat transfer, science, behavioral science, tomato-tomahto.) Nothing weird.
Now that he’s away from the direct light of the rearview mirror and feels like a brawny fallen tree among the dark pines towering above you, you can see that his sweater is, in fact, exactly as he said - burgundy, not orange. (Whoops. Point for Hotchner.)
Proximity makes you notice things you couldn’t bring yourself to before.
The corner of his mouth lifts, like he’s pleased with himself, as he hands you the other earphone. Your fingers brush. Which is… entirely explainable given how thin the cord is. The eye contact, however, is rather less so.
“See?” he says absentmindedly. “I’ve always said you’re more perceptive than anyone else in the class. More than some of our agents.” (Whore.)
“When?” (He is 100% shitting you.)
“More like to whom would be the appropriate question.” (Your mom?) No shit. Wait.
“…Gideon?” you ask, a little too quickly. No, really. There’s no way. He has to be fucking with you.
“Don’t let it get to your head…” he deadpans. And then he presses play. But he does that thing again. That small pause before turning his head back toward you, that selcouth private smile still sitting there.
(But hey! Gideon knows you’re perceptive.)
“…and I advise you to take notes. These recordings stay with me.” He winks.
This is going to be fun.
This is not fun.
Mainly because there are, in fact, no words - none of the hundreds of thousands available in the English language - that adequately capture the experience of lying inches away from Agent Hotchner while attempting to take notes on one of the most infamous serial killers who also has a foot fetish… especially when he pauses the recording and asks:
“What’s the most notable thing here?”
You really thought you were past the pop quizzes. It’s just… difficult to snap back into place when the truth is that the most notable thing is the fact that, when he turns to look at you, the distance shrinks even further, and you can’t take your eyes off even his most meaningless details. The single delicate white eyelash on his left eye. The wear along the edge of his glasses.
The longer you stay this close, the more intoxicating whatever the hell he decided to put on today becomes. He must’ve changed it. It’s not his usual. There’s something warmer about it now - the smoothest, buttery oud with a vanilla dry-down - that makes you a little stupid.
You wonder if this is what he wears after dark and you’re only noticing it now, or if it’s one of those calculated “what would my character wear” decisions. Maybe it’s always been like this, and you’ve only just started to pay attention.
You shake your head.
“The third-person tactic Gideon uses with Brudos is pretty smart… at one point, instead of asking, ‘Why did you kill them?’ - which already shut him down when Rossi tried it - he reframes the question so Brudos isn’t forced to own the acts directly. I believe he said something like, ‘Do you think the killer planned his attacks?’ So it feels like Brudos is helping the FBI build a case against someone else… but by speculating, he starts talking about planning, fantasies, decisions, escalation… he’s really just describing his own process.”
“Yes, it’s projection… good catch.” He smiles at you. It almost makes you want to keep being right. “After studying Brudos, I’d say the real reason he responds to that isn’t about appearing as the ‘good samaritan,’ but about preserving his ego. Externalizing the behavior allows him to maintain distance.”
It’s nice to listen to him talk. And somehow, when he does, he lowers his voice down, as if he won’t risk being overheard by the moon while discussing classified material. It’s just you and him, but in this car, it’s his parish.
“His crimes are tied to fantasy and fetish, and his sense of self depends on not fully integrating those acts into his identity. So, when you structure the interview that way, you bypass that resistance - and that’s when you get the most information… why am I not seeing you write this down?”
Stop bitching. You’re not taking notes because the logistics are completely fucked. One set of earphones (clearly designed for a single human head) split between two people means any attempt to move even half an inch in the name of comfort or legible handwriting goes straight into the pit.
So, without really thinking about it, you inevitably end up turning onto your left side because, truly, entirely by accident, the only stable surface still within reach for your notebook becomes… Agent Hotchner’s bicep. What a terrible, terrible inconvenience.
He doesn’t even seem to mind.
“Do you think we’ll have to use that third-person strategy with our unsub too?” you ask, mostly to make this situation feel less awkward. “Or is he going to be more like… Kemper, who couldn’t shut up about his murders?”
The warmth of his breath brushes your space as he turns his head. You can see the sculptural lines of his neck tightening as his bewildered glance peeks over his shoulder at you.
Nothing. He must not have heard you.
“Hotchner?” you prompt.
He gives a quick nod, as if you’ve just caught him in something. “You tell me… also, you can call me Hotch. I’ve told you,” he adds. The words slip out his tongue in a low susurrus.
Whatever makes you comfortable, Crotch.
“I just want to know what you think, Hotch.” It really doesn’t roll off the tongue well. You tilt your head up at him. Happy now?
Hotch looks down at you. His gaze drifts over your face for a moment, before settling back on your eyes.
“What I think doesn’t matter.” He glances down vacantly, shaking his head. He must’ve used less product tonight, because the raven strands he’s been absentmindedly pushing back all evening fall perfectly loose across his forehead again. He’s sort of pretty like this.
“God, you’re so lame,” you deflect.
His head snaps back up, one brow arched in disapproval. “Try that again.”
He glares at you - dead serious, except for the glint in his eyes behind the lenses that betrays he’s not entirely serious. Pussy. Exactly like that, he breaks into a single chuckle, looking back down with a soft smile. (Agent Hotchner has a sense of humor?!)
He hastily resumes the interview. (What a party pooper… but maybe for the best this time. It was starting to feel buzzy.) The problem is you can’t really escape him. Every time you try to write something, you’re doing it on his arm.
It’s a universal law, right? The harder your prefrontal cortex goes don’t go there, the faster your limbic system ignores it, the amygdala flags it as alarmingly relevant, the reward circuitry lights up, dopamine does its thing, and suddenly your entire operating system downgrades to: huh. That’s… firm.
You want to touch it, see how beefy he really is. Especially when he’s so nosy he keeps leaning in a little too close to check what you’re writing, like it’s stronger than him - and he gets so focused he ends up catching his bottom lip between his teeth without probably even realizing it.
Anyways.
Brudos - the lust killer - is a difficult subject to interview, mostly because of how evasive he is. He lies constantly to protect his ego. He tells Gideon the cuts on his wrists are from a jealous girlfriend chasing him with a knife for sleeping around with college girls, instead of admitting they’re fresh from being jumped in prison.
And sure, every subject they’ve interviewed over the years has their own way of responding - truth, lies, silence - and those patterns are what eventually shape the categories of offenders. But with someone like Brudos, getting him to talk about anything real - especially the parts that threaten his sense of masculinity - is a different kind of challenge.
The cross-dressing. Stealing clothes off neighbors’ lines. The fetishes that fed into the killings. The hundreds of size-16 shoes in his garage that he insists belong to his “shopaholic wife.” He won’t go near any of it. To get him to open up, to actually push past the surface and into his psyche, there’s a moment in the recording where Rossi and Gideon shift tactics. Out of nowhere, they bring out a shoebox.
You can hear it immediately. The way the tone of his voice loosens up, how he starts offering more gore details without being pushed as much as before. It’s like the object unlocks something in him - like he’s drawn to it, hypnotized, and in that state he forgets to hold back.
It makes you wonder what that would look like on video - whether he’d keep talking while his eyes stayed fixed on it, locked onto his own object of desire, like everything else in the room had just… dropped away, but also, most importantly-
“Is that why Gideon always says everyone has their own shoe?”
“Here I’ve been thinking he was just passionate about footwear for the past seven years,” he shoots back.
His crow’s feet crinkle when he chuckles. Your gazes meet somewhere in the middle, both of you turning at the same time. You’re kind of incapable of looking away. His mouth parts a touch, softening the line of it, before he gives you a small smile and tips his head back against the seat. His eyes drift up to the ceiling of the car.
“Sometimes I don’t understand what Gideon says,” he adds, idly, as he pulls out his earphone and, just as casually, starts peeling off his burgundy sweater over his head.
The fabric drags on the way up - some obnoxiously expensive wool-cashmere blend that probably does wonders for insulation but absolutely nothing to tame the static, clinging like it’s in no rush to let go as it hauls the shirt underneath with it, riding it up almost to his sternum.
It exposes the soft, flushed creases of his stomach as he shifts upright. His lower belly tips perfectly halfway over his belt buckle. You shamelessly follow the dark, curled trail of hair that starts there, spreading along the defined cut of his V-line before slipping out of sight below-
“Do you think we’re the unsub’s shoe tonight…?” You swallow. The yellow overhead lighting of the car casts a baroque play of light and shadow over his veined arms. Woah. The slut show is only barely toned down by the fact that his glasses have climbed up clumsily and now rest endearingly crooked on his forehead. “You know… I mean… that thing he desires so much that it makes him reveal his true self without even realizing it.”
The dopamine hit of having been right about him wearing his Georgetown Law University (since 1789) shirt under the sweater is ephemeral. Your eyes immediately latch onto an opaque patch on the side of his biceps. Is that…
Hotch folds the sweater and places it under his head like a pillow. He lets out a breathy sigh of relief when his neck finally sinks back against the seat. “What makes you so sure he wasn’t aware of revealing himself, and not that he chose to? That he accepted giving parts of himself away because it got him what he wanted? And that the repression, the lies he built to protect what he didn’t want seen, is exactly what ends up making him obvious?”
You roll your eyes. He really can’t help himself. Peacocking 24/7 or he’ll die.
“Yeah, okay, okay. You’re good.” Your gaze doesn’t move. You’re very aware you’re staring at the patch on his bicep. And you’re even more aware that he knows you are.
“You’re going to be great too, if you give yourself more time,” he says, almost reprimanding, but it softens at the end with a small smile. (You figure, at some point, you’ll build immunity to whatever that does to you.) “And I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t agree with your theory about the unsub circling back to his original hunting ground, now that the press is calling him the Hemlock Trace Murderer.”
How generous of him. And while anything remotely resembling praise from him still sends an embarrassing flutter through your chest, it’s… somewhat undermined by the fact that your eyes keep flicking from his face right back down to the patch on his arm with a kind of embarrassingly childish fixation you should’ve outgrown years ago.
He sighs. “Nicotine patch… I’ve got another one here.” He taps his right trapezius with the opposite hand. (You really shouldn’t be watching that as closely as you are.)
“…Aren’t you supposed to just use one at a time?”
It’s a strangely mundane thought, all things considered. But then again, the real shock isn’t that SSA Aaron Hotchner - future-FBI-director-in-the-making - is, apparently, at the mercy of something as ordinary as nicotine. It’s why he gives it away.
Why he tells you about the second patch, about the fact that his addiction is worse than it looks, when you never would’ve noticed in the first place. If anything, you’d expect him to minimize it, not… casually make it worse.
He could’ve easily kept that entirely to himself and preserved the illusion.
He’s always been very good at that. Up until now. Because this isn’t him. Not the man who’s always trying to make himself smaller - now leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head, taking up as much space as possible, like he’s finally allowing himself to.
The swell of his bicep, the tease of hair at the cuffs of his shirt, the thick vein running along his arm - he looks statuesque. Always so composed and immovable, even in the way he relaxes. He’s the one who trained you not to miss, to account for every signal before forming a judgment.
Which is exactly why you don’t miss the way his eyes drop to your bare legs every time you shift, uncross them, or adjust how you’re sitting. The way his gaze latches where your skin starts to feel warm and sticky. How it lingers before he recalibrates and pulls himself back. Like he’s aware of it, choosing not to linger when he can feel his control starting to slip through his fingers.
Too bad he keeps falling for it. It’s embarrassing how predictable it’s become.
He’s the one who’s been drilling it into you from day one - choose your path, leave no room for hesitation or doubt. Say it clearly. Some other pretentious bullshit. And make sure anyone listening understands exactly where you stand.
Anyway, Agent Hotchner must be proud of you when you deliver your conclusion directly on his lips. For once, he’s got nothing to correct you about.
His mouth tastes like he’s been wanting you for a long time but is still trying, stubbornly, to take it slow, to keep himself from showing you just how much. He’s giving you mixed signals - except for the way one broad hand steadily cradles your face, not letting you go.
You can feel the grit of the calluses he’s grown over the years from gripping a gun too often dragging lightly against your heated skin. You wonder if he can feel your own hands learning that same language against his neck.
He rests his forehead against yours, brushing the tip of his nose against yours to catch a breath.
“What are we even doing?” he murmurs. He bashfully ducks his head to chuckle. His laugh shouldn’t sound like a siren call that makes you wish you’d claimed him sooner.
“I don’t know,” you laugh. (Old habits die hard.)
“I swear, I usually don’t do this-”
Oh. Shut the fuck up already. You move before you can think better of it, climbing into his lap. Your skirt rides up your thighs as you straddle him, and you rush back to his mouth, kissing him just to shut him up, because you know where he’s going with this.
One more word about how principled he is - how he’s not that kind of man, how he’s never crossed that line with a trainee because he’s too respectful - and you’re going to fuck him just to wear him down, even in the most underwhelming pair of underwear you own.
Now that doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all…
He turns the kiss unexpectedly tender, far too tender for the way his hands dig into the flesh of your thighs, pushing you further onto his lap. You feel your eyes roll all the way up toward the starry sky as the movement makes the cold metal of his belt buckle brush against your pussy.
You bite your lip to keep from making a sound too soon, but you can’t stop yourself from instinctively chasing the ecstatic coil of pleasure again, canting your hips against it. There’s something about the difference in temperature that knocks the air out of your lungs; it’s so good it’s almost painful.
He’s so… wow. Your hands don’t know where to settle, overwhelmed by how much of him there is beneath you. They roam greedily - over the softness of his stomach, up to the solid breadth of his endowed knockers chest, down the curve of his bicep, and along as much of the tense muscle of his back as you can reach (you’re almost certain you’ve found that second nicotine patch exactly where he tapped it earlier).
You can’t seem to choose one place, can’t seem to get enough, when you’re already riding white-hot waves of pleasure just from imagining how the hard line of his dick, skimming against your inner thigh, might feel where you admittedly, desperately want him - fantasizing about the way he could stretch your pussy so, so, so well.
Agent Hotchner - no, Hotch – absolutely terrifying, Aaron? (Woah, woah, woah. Are you even allowed to call him that?) The male specimen deepens the kiss, and something breathless slips out of you the second his tongue finds your mouth. It’s that sound - yours - that does it. His hips jerk up into you, unguarded, (casually?) hitting your clit just right, like his body moved to his own accord. Another moan slips out of you.
You only manage to catch your breath when his mouth leaves yours, tracing a fiery, wet path down the length of your neck before finding that one spot that turns your back into a bow, while your fingers tangle tighter in the coarse hair at the nape of his neck, scratching - anything to keep him right there.
And still, it’s not enough. It’s never enough. He’s the only person who can make your blood boil with irritation even while you can feel how soaked your panties are for him, slick dripping down your thighs, while he’s still playing careful and keeping those damn hands laced in a God-honoring way around your waist like he’s afraid to take more.
Does he fucking need a diagram of the erogenous zones of a woman?
Perhaps he needs a little guidance.
You grab his hand - trying very hard not to dwell on the fact that it’s so much bigger than yours, rough with calluses (seriously, someone in the Bureau needs to get this man some hand cream), yet unexpectedly softer along the back, where a faint scatter of hair does something mildly distracting to your brain - and drag it, impatiently, up over your ribs.
Your breath hitches when you finally press his palm where you’ve been wanting it, molding it over the curve of your breast like - there, see? Not that hard.
A muffled laugh ghosts against your neck where his mouth is still busy. “I was just trying to be respectful.” (Just trying to be a virg- no. Better to keep that one to yourself.)
He pulls back, propping himself up on his elbows, a little short of breath (is he the kind of man who waits until marriage or-?). His glasses are completely fogged up, hazed over with the same warmth clouding the inside of the car. A genuine (underline genuine - you’d never laugh in his face…) snort slips out of you at the sight.
“Can you not?” he frowns, reaching for them, but you slap his hand away before he can even try.
“Nope.” You really lean into the p. You take the glasses yourself, lifting the hem of his T-shirt to wipe the lenses clean, far more thoroughly than necessary, merely to stretch the time. The brush of hair along his stomach keeps tickling your hand.
He’s smiling like an idiot, holding your gaze (like a whore) while you settle the glasses back onto his face, lightly brushing the hair at his temples back. A few strands of white are starting to show here and there.
He mutters the smallest “thank you.”
You don’t think you’ve ever heard him say it like that… but you also can’t help the soft, gooey feeling settling in your limbs at how cute (is that appropriate?) - pretty (better?) something along those lines - he looks.
His mouth is a little wet and pouty from the kissing, his cheeks warm and rosy, his hair completely messed up from your hands. There’s a piece at the top sticking straight up like an antenna. He looks… kind of ridiculous. And yet you can’t look away.
It could be twenty seconds or twenty full minutes - time does that strange, elastic thing - where you’re just there, sitting on his lap, staring at each other while his hands move slowly up and down your thighs. He’s so grounding.
“There are patrols at every entrance to Hemlock Trace… right?” you ask. You don’t want to fuck this up. Would acknowledging it turn him closed off all over again?
He hums back, lazily. He needily tilts his chin up, like he needs you back, silently urging you to keep kissing him. He’s so starry-eyed when you cave in and lean down to press your lips to his.
“If they see anybody come in,” he props himself up for another chaste kiss, “they’ll tell us, like we’ve planned.” Another kiss. “The radio signal is the only thing that works here.”
The warmth of his fingers keeps moving farther and farther inward along your upper thigh. You’re surprisingly squirmy as you feel his thick digits press against your cunt.
“Even if the unsub stole a police radio to keep up with us, he’d still have to find his way in here,” he says.
The fabric of your panties clings to your skin more than his fingers ever could as he starts spreading the honeydew up and down your folds, teasing you with more pressure every time he comes across your core. He can still draw sounds out of you even while avoiding your clit.
“And if someone gets close, we’d hear the noise of the car,” you add. You’re both trying to convince yourselves it’s going to be okay. “So…”
“Only if you want.”
So this is what it comes down to.
You’ve just discovered that the fastest way to stop second-guessing yourself - to pick one path and not spiral into a thousand competing theories - is thinking with your pussy. A sort of speed-dial Occam’s razor. Questionable margins of error. Still, technically consistent with the holistic idea: when faced with competing hypotheses, choose the one that requires the fewest assumptions.
It all holds up beautifully until a National Park Service guard starts sweeping a flashlight toward the car and you’re reminded that 14th-century logic only works if your hypotheses are actually… you know, thought through.
“Did you remember to redirect the National Park Service to New Kent County tonight and reassign Virginia State Police to Hemlock Trace?” he asks, not quite looking at you, warm hazel eyes tracking the beam of light instead. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples.
Old habits die hard with Aaron Hotchner. Second-guessing you is basically foreplay at this point.
“Of course I did,” you mutter. “Right after you and Gideon delivered the profile… there’s no way National Park Police should be here unless-”
Oh. In the mild haze of almost getting laid, you may have both overlooked one very small, very critical detail: the unsub could already be inside the perimeter - or on foot - in which case, no, you wouldn’t hear a damn thing coming.
The beam of light vanishes. Moonlight bleeds back in, catching on something beyond your peripheral vision. Golden, shoulder-length hair concealed beneath the brim of a beige Stratton hat, refract the pale light in ruptured winks that never quite let you see him whole. He raps his knuckles against the driver’s window, but the sound lands as if it’s right beside your head.
“Are you two having fun in there?” comes a muffled voice from outside.
“Don’t even try to start-” Hotchner warns you.
If Midas turned everything he touched to gold, your touch makes things rot. Gold, famously, doesn’t. And yet, you’ve managed to corrupt even the FBI’s golden boy.
Aaron Hotchner - the man who keeps his academy notes like heirlooms for a hypothetical inexistent son who might one day follow in his footsteps, the man with a career and an actual future to lose - just ripped the arrest report out of your very replaceable rookie hands and put himself on the line for up to five years in prison to falsify it.
All to cover what the two of you were doing in that car. The same thing that got the unsub close enough to matter in the first place. For you. When you have… what, exactly, to lose?
“But I started-”
“Go help Reid with the chain of custody paperwork,” he barks - not even looking up, eyes locked on the form. (Woof.)
Ten minutes.
That’s all that’s left before Wade Miller - the motherfucker - is done with the polygraph Gideon insisted on. Ten minutes until Gideon walks out of that interview room, and his face alone will tell you everything: whether Miller’s heartbeat finally betrayed him over the twelve people he killed… or whether he saw you and Agent Hotchner violating several extremely clear HR policies the night of the arrest, and your future is about to become prosecutable.
“Do you think it means anything that Miller has a Virginia license plate reading E-M-R-A-W?” Reid asks.
You’re not really listening. Your eyes keep drifting toward the desk across the room, where Hotchner sits as composed as ever, looking completely unbothered while doing something you genuinely never thought you’d witness him do.
“EM-RAW?” you echo absently. “As in… eat them raw?”
“…Yeah. Now it makes sense.”
Nine minutes.
Agent Hotchner lifts his eyes from the file. He scans the room like he’s searching for the source of a disturbance before inevitably landing on you. Even from across the room, you can feel the disappointment - the flare of his nostrils, the tilt of his head silently telling you to focus.
(What are you even supposed to be focusing on anymore?)
Oh. Right. You’re supposed to be working. You log into the laptop. Your fingers hammer uselessly against the keyboard, though you can barely feel the keys over the lingering memory of the rough stubble along Hotchner’s jaw.
“I asked the technical analyst to dig into Miller,” you begin. “Married for eight years, but apparently his wife suddenly left with their two-year-old son and never came back. Happened around two months before the murders of Vale and Hargrove on Hemlock Trace.”
Detective Bush appears beside Hotch’s desk carrying a paper cup you assume is coffee and gives him an easy pat on the shoulder before walking off.
“That would fit as a primary stressor,” Reid nods. “If she’d filed for divorce officially, we probably would’ve flagged him sooner.”
You catch the quiet “thank you” slipping from Hotch’s mouth before he blows across the surface of the drink. Your eyes follow the large hand wrapped around the cup, every movement suddenly slowed by the simple fact that he’s under your scrutiny.
“Bummer,” you mutter. “I’m sure there are, what, like… three divorced fishermen in all of Virginia. Should narrow it down nicely.”
“Statistically, approximately 17,000 licensed commercial and independent fishermen operate in Virginia’s coastal regions,” Reid replies immediately. “Based on state divorce rates-”
The data isn’t nearly as crucial as latching onto the way Hotchner’s Adam’s apple works when he swallows. The way his shoulders loosen afterward, the visible exhale leaving him like a man finally getting his fix after hours of withdrawal. The way his tongue flicks discreetly across his upper lip - like even that tiny act would violate some etiquette manual he’s sworn allegiance to - catching the trace of coffee there.
Something ugly twists in your stomach at the thought that maybe you’d gotten a little too attached to the ephemeral idea of that mouth being yours too.
“I just hope the saliva DNA they pulled from the Belgian waffles he was eating in the car matches the partial profile we found on the victims,” Reid sighs.
Ew. You really didn’t need the mental image of Wade Miller’s syrup-slick fingers while you were trying to handcuff him.
“Yeah,” you mutter, “but it still won’t be enough. We never recovered a full print. And even if the marine rope in Miller’s truck matches the fibers from the first pair of victims, it’s still circumstantial. Same as everything else we’ve got. If we actually want to keep him, we need a confession, otherwise he’s just gonna walk right back out of here in less than twenty-four hours.”
“Technically, law enforcement can usually hold a suspect for up to forty-eight hours before they have to formally charge or release him. Virginia follows the constitutional standard established in County of Riverside v. McLaughlin in 1991, which set that general probable-cause window after a warrantless arrest.”
If you close your eyes, either Hotchner has consumed your psyche down to the cellular level or Reid’s cadence is genuinely starting to sound like his whenever he slips into one of those dense legalese monologues. (Reid doesn’t irk you nearly as much, of course.)
That’s beside the point. What’s really sitting glacial at the base of your spine is the realization that Wade Miller - who barely existed a few hours ago outside of a hypothetical profile - has already become someone you know more intimately than Agent Hotchner.
You know Miller’s divorce timeline. His fishing routes. His eating habits (the fucker desperately needs to incorporate more fiber.) His preferred brand of marine rope (which is objectively pathetic, though maybe still less pathetic than keeping exactly three CDs rattling around in his car). The contents of his electric blue truck down to the smell. You know he picked up a second job at a sawmill, which explains why he felt just as comfortable navigating deep wooded areas as he did the riverbanks you originally believed were his primary hunting grounds.
Hotchner remains vexingly evasive about anything that isn’t related to work.
Is he avoiding the… um… subject because it meant nothing and there’s nothing to say? Or because it meant enough that he doesn’t trust himself to talk about it at all?
Is it even your place to ask? You’re still on the clock. 5 minutes. Your job is to understand men like Miller. Not to sit here trying to profile the exact emotional significance of Agent Hotchner letting you kiss him. And then kiss him back. And then…
You grip the computer mouse hard enough that you’re sure you could crack the plastic if you really committed to it. The burnt office coffee hanging in the air doesn’t stand a chance against the warm, saccharine smell of him hovering over your shoulder, intoxicating you like the most addictive narcotic.
“What are you two talking about,” Hotchner asks, “that’s preventing you from keeping up with your work?”
Always a dick.
“I was just saying that putting Miller on a polygraph before even attempting a proper interrogation is a stupid idea.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Reid turning toward you looking absolutely blanched by the statement. Which cannot possibly be low blood sugar - you literally just watched him ingest a coffee containing roughly four tablespoons of sugar).
Jeez. You’ve long suspected Gideon’s preferred teaching method involves psychologically conditioning his protégés into a permanent state of sacred improv-rule “yes, and” obedience, whereas your dynamic with Agent Hotchner has somehow evolved into the oxymoronic “no, wait” or, on particularly inspired occasions, “absolutely the fuck not” (the “the fuck” being more spiritual than grammatical).
But seeing Reid’s complete inability to openly disagree with a superior for the first time makes you a lot less jealous that you never got the chance to spend that much time under Gideon. (Literally…)
(Sure, Hotchner looks fully capable of vaporizing a person when he frowns like that, but so far he hasn’t actually done it. Statistically, your odds remain decent.)
“Why?” Hotchner asks. Oh, come on. Is that not so fucking obvious?
“There’s a high chance the results come back inconclusive if Miller’s a sociopath,” you reply.
“We don’t have enough evidence to conclude that.” Always so calm.
He’s annoying. (You want to rip his expensive clothes off with your teeth.) But you can also tell by the way the dimples carve into his otherwise composed face that he’s provoking you on purpose. (Doesn’t he have anything more important to do than psychologically tormenting you during working hours?)
“No one’s ever needed a formal diagnosis to acknowledge the possibility,” you shoot back. “If he’s emotionally detached enough - or genuinely believes his own delusions - the test not only becomes completely useless, but we also waste hours telling a potential serial offender exactly which questions we care about. You know that.”
“All throughout my career, I’ve seen people confess before the machine was even attached, more often than you’d think. The process itself creates pressure. We made him wait all night, too - I saw it myself, he’s becoming more susceptible. And Gideon clearly knows what he’s doing.”
His voice is so soothing it almost works, but he still doesn’t seem to understand what you actually mean. (Then again, even Aaron Hotchner is a sausage first and foremost.)
It’s not really about whether Miller is a sociopath. Or whether Gideon’s strategy technically makes sense. It’s the fact that the deeper you get into behavioral science, the more you start realizing there’s significantly less science involved than people like to pretend and a far more alarming amount of luck instead.
Everybody in this field talks about profiles and probabilities with such absolute certainty that eventually you’re expected to stop noticing how often the outcome still boils down to whether another human being arbitrarily decides to crack or not, and there’s absolutely nothing you can really do to control any of it except sit here hoping the odds land in your favor this time.
Cool. Apparently that’s just how this works. But if that’s the case, then why the hell wouldn’t you choose the option that gives you the highest possible chance of success?
“You believe interrogating him first would’ve been the better move?” Hotchner asks, softly resting a hand on your shoulder. In public?
“Yes!” His hand is still there.
“Based on?”
Oh, so he’s choosing to be a dick while simultaneously, and very out of characterly, transmitting body heat through that huge broad hand resting on your shoulder.
“He’s an attention whore.” (Wade Miller might not currently be the only man in the room with that particular affliction.)
Okay. You might actually be completely fucked up, because there is no conceivable reason you should find only Aaron’s - ew. Absolutely not. Back to proper nouns. Agent Hotchner’s - discomfort around swear words this endearing.
(Sorry, Reid. He’s technically the first person in the room to visibly regret the sentence, but unfortunately his reactions simply do not hit the same.)
Must be something about the addictive restrained disapproval of it all.
The way Hotchner instinctively crosses his arms - thank you, freedom, finally, though you admittedly already miss the weight of his hand on your shoulder - like physically containing his reaction is the only thing preventing him from acknowledging what you just said out loud.
Dayum. The Bureau ought to sanction all of his fitted dress shirts in the interest of workplace functionality because it is objectively difficult to maintain a professional disagreement under these conditions. (You should’ve fondled those knockers when you had the chance.)
Then there’s the eyebrow raise. That silent paternalistic look telling you to elaborate. The fact that you somehow understand exactly where the line is with him and keep dancing one inch from it anyway.
“The press starts calling him the Hemlock Trace Killer, every patrol unit in the state is crawling all over the Trace even though we’ve repeatedly said his actual hunting grounds were more likely riverbanks and deep wooded areas, and instead of choosing literally any other isolated stretch off the James that would’ve been safer, that dude goes right back to the exact road attached to his name.”
Hotchner doesn’t comment on it, nor does he counter with one of his usual Socratic follow-up questions. The absence of a reaction prickles under your skin so badly that you get the physical need to push further purely for the satisfaction of provoking one.
“I don’t know about you, but that’s sounding a lot like this revolutionary little concept introduced around 1900 by an Austrian psychologist named Freud called ego.” You shoot him a cheeky smile and nearly get drunk on the irritated huff of air that leaves his nose.
“Freud didn’t formally introduce the structural model involving the ego until 1923,” Reid cuts in.
You hope he’s doing this because he feels comfortable enough around you to interrupt your bullshit and not because being trapped between you and Hotchner has triggered some kind of intellectualized third-wheel trauma response. (Sorry, Reid. Spencer. Whichever level of acquaintance currently permits him to publicly fact-check you.)
“…In The Ego and the Id. And the philosophical concept of the ego predates Freud by… quite a lot, actually. Freud didn’t invent the concept, he was inspired by-”
The only thing apparently capable of stopping Reid in the middle of an academic deep dive comes striding into the room roughly two minutes - practically unheard of for a man who treats punctuality like an optional social construct - before anyone would’ve expected him back from the interrogation room.
Gideon.
Without preamble, he starts sweeping case files off the desk and shoving them into Hotchner’s briefcase. (Gideon, famously opposed to earthly possessions. Or at the very least to carrying his own.)
“Pack everything. We’re done here.”
What?
“What about Miller’s polygraph?” Hotchner looks pissed. He fixes Gideon with a stare so intense that you’re the one getting goosebumps. You keep forgetting how genuinely terrifying Hotchner can look when he’s angry (probably because, completely absentmindedly, he’s also pushing his jacket back to plant one broad hand on his hip.)
(Whor-)
“Inconclusive.”
The disgust that flashes across Hotchner’s face is ineffable.
“So Miller walks out of here with no charges?” You can hear the strain underneath Hotchner’s voice from the raw effort of trying to force Gideon into giving one concrete answer for once in his life. You don’t know how he manages not to lose his temper with him. How he keeps all of that frustration leashed so cleanly beneath the surface. Always so mighty, Agent Hotchner.
“Most likely.”
Hotchner follows him toward the victim board. “Jason… it’s him. We can’t just let it-”
“They’ve got it from here, Aaron. We’ve done everything we could.” The absent pat he gives Hotchner’s shoulder afterward feels as intimate as Judas’ kiss.
One by one, the notes disappear from the board. Your handwriting. Reid’s annotations. The overlapping circles. The highlighted river access points. Hours of profiling. Then the map itself.
Nothing but bare cork.
There are moments when you get so busy dissecting how fucked up Wade Miller is that you forget he came out of a fucked up system to begin with.
You’re going to miss the breeze of the loblolly pines drying your cheeks. The distant smell of burnt coffee. The steady sound of Agent Hotchner’s dress shoes getting closer across the concrete.
He brushes dust and dirt off the outdoor step with one hand before sitting down beside you.
“I haven’t seen you drink anything all day,” he says, lowering his voice to a quiet susurrus.
“Thanks.” It’s all you can manage while waiting for your words to return to you.
If only he knew how terrible caffeine is for hydration… but you like the warmth of the cup against your fingers. You rotate it in your palms, waiting for it to cool enough to drink, and a strangled huff slips from your nose when you realize he gave you his own mug. The obnoxious FBI logo stamped across it is something only Aaron Hotchner could consume from sincerely.
He tilts his head toward the mug. “They give a bunch of these out every year at the anniversary event… they also have caps, if you’re interested.”
He says it with such dead seriousness that it makes you laugh.
“I’m good.”
“Are you sure? Rumor has it they’re doing lunchboxes this year too…”
You can tell by the woebegone little smile tugging at his mouth that he’s only leaning into the joke to distract you from… all of this. It’s nice nonetheless. Even if it’s fabricated. Unlike the angle of his hand resting respectfully against the concrete beside him, pointed unconsciously toward your thigh like it doesn’t know what it’s allowed to do.
You wish you could turn off your ability to read microexpressions and body language for, like, five consecutive minutes. Especially when it comes to him.
“Did you pack everything?” he asks.
“Yeah… I was just out here for some air. I was about to head back-”
“There’s still time. It’s okay… that’s why I’m here too.” He exhales softly. “They’re putting surveillance on Miller around the clock. He won’t be able to hurt anyone, you know?” The only thing reassuring is how much his voice is mending you from the inside out.
“And that’s okay for you?”
“Fuck no…” He chuckles.
He pulls a pack of lame-ass Marlboro Reds from his jacket pocket. Not a fresh pack either, judging by the worn paint along the corners and the softened cardboard from repeated use. He taps the top absentmindedly with his index finger. Like a clock ticking. It looks so small in his hands.
“You can smoke, don’t worry, I’m totally cool-”
The ease with which he flips the pack open using only his thumb makes it so obvious he’s been a smoker for a very long time.
“God, I wish…” He tilts the box toward you with a laugh. There are no cigarettes inside, just a nearly finished stash of nicotine gum.
The vein running along his hand flexes with the effort of his much larger thumb pushing one piece free from the foil. Every trick in the book to fool his brain into thinking it’s still getting what it wants, apparently. Coming outside to chew them probably helps too. Easier to satisfy the ritual without other people noticing the weakness attached to it.
Except he keeps choosing to let you see it every single time he gets the chance.
And he’s right - there’s still something uncanny about watching someone as tightly controlled as Aaron Hotchner reduced to bargaining with himself that makes it impossible to stop staring at him. There’s something so ineffable in the way his features seem to rise toward the idea of Beauty itself when he lets the restraint slip for even a second.
You’re going to miss this too.
You swallow and tighten your grip around his mug, clinging to the warmth of it more than anything else. “Would you sign my references for internships? I know I’m not getting the spot here, so… probably better to try my luck somewhere else.”
“You’re not doing your internship with the BAU?” Genuine surprise slips into his voice. “You can get fieldwork even during your first year as an office agent. It’s not nearly as paperwork-heavy as people think-”
“Honestly, I don’t know if I can after this one,” you cut him off, instinctively placing your hand over his fingers to stop him.
His head lowers at the contact. Slowly and uncertainly, he parts his fingers until his ring finger hooks clumsily over your hand. His thumb brushes softly along the side of it, ever so tenderly.
“You keep proving to me every day why I couldn’t have made a better choice picking your file for the course,” he says, gently. “More than I even expected.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Gideon lets me select one trainee every year,” he smiles. Why is he so handsome? “I’m the one who reads the applications, afterall.”
“Really?” Oh no. Oh, fucking shit. Why is that so embarrassing?
He nods. “I still remember your CODIS section. You wrote about expanding DNA indexing to include deceased offenders whenever possible in order to identify links to unsolved homicides. You argued that even decades later, families still deserve the chance for closure.”
“That part was barely even about behavioral science,” you mutter weakly. Your whole face feels hot in the uniquely violating way it probably would if he’d somehow gotten access to your diary from when you were twelve.
“And that’s exactly why it stood out to me,” he says, still caressing the side of your hand. “Most people can talk about behavioral science. But usually when someone mentions CODIS, they only focus on the scientific value of it. You were thinking about what it meant for the families afterward. So I hope you believe me when I tell you that you already have everything we need. And I’m not saying that because you and I- because we-”
His eyes drop to your joined hands. He shakes his head once with a disbelieving chuckle, but he still doesn’t let go.
“I, uh- yeah,” you mumble. “I got it.”
You watch color immediately rise across his cheeks, bright pink climbing all the way up to his ears.
“Besides-” he clears his throat, “Gideon just got called onto a bombing case in Boston. That’s why we’re leaving.”
“You’re not going with him?”
“He asked me to stay behind and coordinate while he’s gone. He said it could take a couple of weeks… which technically leaves us one extra agent short.”
Then, before you can fully process what’s happening, he leans down and presses a quick kiss against the side of your head as he rises to his feet.
“I expect your internship curriculum on my desk by the time we’re back in Quantico,” he says. “And don’t forget my notes.”
The grin he gives you afterward looks so unexpectedly boyish that you consider the logistical feasibility of biting him. (Respectfully.)
“Can I keep your flashcards for another week?” you ask. “I still can’t get the legal section into my head.”
“Five days. And I can help you go through it on the drive back.”
Oh. The drive back.You don’t think you’ve ever been this happy about the prospect of getting into a car with Agent Hotchner.
“I hope your excitement is for the tutoring,” he deadpans, stepping backward toward the precinct doors, “because if it’s for anything else, I believe you’d be very disappointed.”
He’s right.
You do need tutoring from him, because you still have absolutely no idea how to legally interpret the wink he gives you before disappearing back inside.
Maybe change into your nicer pair of panties this time. You know. As a precautionary measure.
SUPER GIGA MEGA HUGE BIGGEST thanks to my beloveds @hotchology and @sweetheartsocks for helping me and putting up with my wips throughout this journey... I tried to be as secretive as possible and not spoil too much, but I believe you’ve already read 80% of the fic... sorry, my loves
If you want to know more about the real case that inspired this fic, I strongly recommend reading this incredibly detailed wiki article (it’s also where I got the maps from!)
i already know i’m not going to be able to do this justice because how can i even begin to articulate how beautifully written it is. this was absolutely mind blowing.
my god where do i even start. this was SO good i honestly forgot for a moment that im not actually in the academy fighting for a spot in the BAU. the world building is unmatched!!! i can’t even pinpoint what it is exactly about it and i really mean that as a compliment because everything just flows and fits together SO seamlessly. i just got completely sucked into it i swear i still can’t believe that was nearly 30k words, i didn’t even realize i got to the end until i saw the final divider (this is the greed they talk about in the bible!!!).
the reader i absolutely LOVE!!!! idk how you always manage to find the exact balance between hilarious and viscerally relatable. i know i told you already but the breakdown scene in the car…. yeah miss madeleine is alive and well :’(. gideon being mega toxic(#hot hot hot), the sting of knowing this entire thing is RIGGED because how in the world could anyone compete with reid, hotch listening to madonna and his stupid glasses… i could go on and on and on!!!! this was REVOLUTIONARY.
the case was insanely well written!! i legit kept the map on the side and kept going back and forth between it and the dialogue. ALSO i can’t just gloss over the maps and the dividers!!!! HELLOOOO????? they’re so so well done and they look INCREDIBLE. the attention to detail is INSANE i love your mind so much you have no idea!!!!
(also the little make out scene in the car……. you’re evil and you’re torturing me on purpose)
im sorry this really is all over the place, im probably going to reread this until i can quote it. for now i think im really just so in awe of all of it i still can’t wrap my head around it to be honest. i can’t thank you enough for writing it. i hope you don’t think this sounds stupid but i had such an amazing time reading it, it really made life a little brighter for idk how long it took me to read (i kept having to take breaks to calm myself down lol).
in conclusion, ily seriously IM YOUR BIGGEST FAN 5EVER <3
genre : s11 hotch, competence and authority kink, lots of tension, political scheming as foreplay, pretentious as usual
summary : There is no particular advantage in behaving well when dealing with Aaron Hotchner. It only makes it easier for him to assume you will stay predictable. You have no intention of obliging that assumption. And he has begun to recalibrate his depth to match the wreckage you’ve set in motion. After all, if he’s going to be the anchor, the least you can do is make sure he gets wet.
notes : i finally finished this after reaching a state of locking in that can only come from procrastinating serious academic work. huge thank you to @ssa-dado for basically being the co-pilot for my brain. this story wouldn't have half its heart (or its floor plan) without you. <3
word count : 8.9k
Many have held the opinion, and still do, that there is a specific, clinical sort of sobriety that follows an act of profound indiscretion.
It isn’t as simple as a hangover, and it’s far more insulting than mere regret.
Few spectacles are more pitiful and strange than a calculated descent into the water that ends with you pinned and manhandled by a loser in government-issued swim trunks.
You can reframe it as impulse. Blame anatomy. Call it strategy gone momentarily soft (or hard?).
The chlorine still stings.
To write something useful for discerning minds, it would be more fitting to seek the truth of the matter rather than imaginary conceptions where you would have actually gotten to taste the salt on Hotchner’s neck or map the silver hairs of his chest with your tongue.
The elevator ride down to the maintenance level is a silent meditation on the necessity of graft and the manner of pretending you have never once been wet or breathless in a building facility.
Grant is a man of limited horizons, which makes him remarkably easy to manage, if somewhat tedious to tolerate. Unlike Arthur—the doorman—, Grant lacks the imagination for true craftiness. You don’t want him to be more complicated than that.
Arthur understands the artifice behind a folded bill. He treats every confidence as a counterfeit coin, held until the hour of the greatest trade, when the desperation of others makes it gold.
By contrast, Grant is merely a man who enjoys the payout. To him, a bribe is just a line on a ledger he keeps in his head. A mechanical exchange devoid of the “professional courtesy” that makes Arthur so reliable.
You get the distinct impression that Grant likely approaches sex the same way. Entirely forgettable and with his eyes firmly fixed on the clock until the job is done.
If you didn’t already sound maladjusted, you certainly do now. Speculating about the sexual stamina of a building superintendent in a damp basement. It’s a symptom, clearly. Of needing to get laid. Urgently.
Even more so when the moment you think of a ‘release’ your mind goes to Hotchner. You find yourself wondering if he’s as disciplined in the dark as he is in the light (or maybe he’s a real freak who insists on being able to see everything). The way he had you pressed against him, all steady hands and immovable intent. You think he’d be looking at you instead of the clock. Precise, patient, eager.
Maybe they’re doing a deal on vibrators for spring.
The transaction is brief. You place the envelope into Grant’s dull, expectant palm with sterile efficiency — this month’s ‘consultation fee’ for your little alcove. It disappears into his desk with practiced ease. A man of few words and even fewer scruples.
He briefly asks about the campaign with a pointed look that clearly spells out ‘Should I start looking for another job?’.
It’s a fair question. You’d say your relationship is a sort of symbiotic parasitism — both of you feed on the building’s decay. But you can survive the death of the host. Sure, it’d be a pain in the ass, but you’d work around Rosen’s grandiose bullshit if he did win. Grant, however, is rooted. He can’t move his pension to the boiler room.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” you tell him.
If you were worried about the campaign, you wouldn’t be making jokes about his pocket money.
You press the elevator button and watch the doors slide open.
There is a restorative boredom in descending to a place where your influence is a matter of simple arithmetic. Where men take what you hand them and ask no further questions.
The doors close. Grant stays.
There’s probably some stupidly convenient metaphor in there.
The symbolism of the ride is quickly shoved aside for something much more literal. Taped to the side wall is one of Rosen’s campaign posters. His face, earnest and painfully collegiate, stares back at you. Or it would have, if someone hadn’t gotten busy with a black sharpie.
“DUMB CUNT” scrawled in blocky letters and a dick drawn across his forehead (they even took the time to include the veins).
It’s crude, honestly ugly and absolutely delightful. You can’t help but appreciate such a loud and public middle finger. It has a certain vulgar integrity that the rest of this place usually lacks.
At the lobby, the elevator chimes a bright, clinical sound that cuts through your admiration of the hairs on the sharpie balls.
Hotchner is there, charcoal suit compressing his frame under layers of professional-grade stoicism and cotton. This particular shade of gray really suits him. The color of a cell. Like a man who has built a fortress of rules around himself. You find a sick pleasure in knowing you’re currently rattling the lock of his cage (are you?).
Standing beside him is David Rosen. The color of his suit irrelevant.
They aren’t talking. They’re standing two feet apart, radiating a mutual prosecutorial coldness.
You see Rosen’s expression shift from silent jurisdictional contest (which is really just a well-tailored dick-measuring exercise) to civic seduction the moment he notices you.
Rosen’s smile is a polished, terrifying thing (it’s not really. it just sounds better that way). The kind of expression a man wears when he’s about to ask for your vote or your indictment. There’s a slight tension in his jaw, his eyes firmly set on yours, refusing to track upward toward the inked dick crowning his forehead.
“Good evening,” he greets you politely. He knows acknowledging the penis in the room would only give the vandal a seat at the table. So instead, he leans into the absurdity. “I was just telling Aaron here that we’re hosting a small trial night for the restaurant in a couple of weeks. I’d love for you to come.”
Aaron is a currency Rosen doesn’t actually hold, yet he spends it freely anyway to suggest a familiarity that isn't there. It’s like he’s picking Hotchner’s pockets, stripping away his robes of office, turning him into a mere neighbor.
There’s a reason you call him Hotchner.
Aaron would be too domestic, too soft—it would imply you’ve already won, or worse, that you’re his equal in a way that bores you. Hotchner preserves the distance a proper siege requires. It keeps him on a pedestal so that when you finally knock him off, the tumble is much more spectacular. Also, he’s definitely earned the mouthful of his name.
Hotchner doesn’t flinch at Rosen’s informality. He doesn’t correct him. That would be defensive, insecure. And Hotchner is never defensive.
He simply offers you a cordial nod.
A minimal gesture. Poised. Efficient. Utterly proprietary.
“Sure,” you answer casually.
Rosen turns slightly toward you. To suggest that you are, currently, the more relevant audience, without excluding Hotchner either.
“We’re bringing in a chef from New York,” he says. “It’s called Pisellone. Nothing permanent yet, just an opportunity for everyone to see what the space could be.”
There’s a moment—brief but nonetheless significant—where you consider the possibility that this entire campaign is an elaborate practical joke.
You glance at Hotchner.
Nothing.
Not even one of his stupidly restrained twitches. There isn’t the faintest suggestion that he is aware he is currently standing in an elevator being pitched a restaurant named, essentially, large pea(nis).
Of course he isn’t.
Hotchner does not live in a world where things are accidentally obscene. Everything is either intentional or irrelevant. And since Rosen said it with a straight face, it must be the latter.
“The building has potential,” he adds. “It just hasn’t been fully… realized.”
Unrealized. It’s a careful word. One that flatters the listener by insinuating they deserve more.
He doesn’t oversell it. That’s what makes it effective. He lets the implications do the work.
You hum lightly, as if considering it.
Mostly to keep your mouth occupied. Because if you open it, there’s a very real risk you might ask him if the tasting menu comes with a measuring tape or if they expect you to just take their word for it and open wide. (not that men have ever been particularly honest about dimensions.)
“Initial feedback has been positive,” Rosen continues, mistaking your silence for interest rather than restraint. “Small scale but very well received.”
Obviously. It takes a certain caliber of balls to tell an obnoxious chef to his face that the peas taste like shit.
Hotchner tilts his head slightly, neutral but deliberate. “Reception can be misleading. People are polite when they don’t want to offend.”
Didn’t you just say that ?
Here he is, the great moral arbiter of The Florentine, plucking the cynicism right out of your hands and presenting it as his own.
It’s offensive. And lazy. Also it’s the most intimate thing he’s done yet (besides having his tongue down your throat).
Get your own jokes, loser.
Rosen leans just slightly, a smooth smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve found that most people are actually quite hungry for something real,” he says. “They just need someone to set the table.”
There’s a subtle shift in his posture when he says it. It feels… practiced. Like he’s used to rooms where people don’t agree with him immediately. Used to winning them anyway.
Rosen’s gaze returns to you. “What do you think?” he asks.
There it is. The real question. He’s not asking about the restaurant, about policy or logistics. He’s asking about your alignment.
Hotchner tilts his head, barely perceptible, eyes flicking to you. Just enough to note the slight pull at the corner of your mouth.
“I’m not sure,” you say pensively.
To rise to the highest floor, you have to become the counterweight—silent and unseen— falling quietly so something else can be lifted. No one interferes with a destination they can’t see.
“I hope you’ll give it a fair look,” he says easily. “That’s all I’m asking.”
A fair look. As if all three of you aren’t currently engaged in a silent, collective agreement to look anywhere but his forehead.
“That shouldn’t be too hard to do,” you reply.
Hotchner’s eyes flick briefly to the poster, then back to you.
His stare is meticulous, slow, assessing. Every tiny twitch, every inflection in your posture seems catalogued and weighed. He’s searching for something. Tracing the ink he’s convinced is staining your conscience.
There’s the faintest hint of a smile, a ghost of amusement. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t just look at you: he dissects you. It’s the kind of heavy, unyielding focus that suits an interrogation room.
And yet, it’s ridiculous how much it turns you on. It’s hot, but also absurdly entertaining. You consider flipping him off just to see how he’d categorize your middle finger in his meticulous little mental file.
Rosen lets out a small breath, like that mattered more than he expected.
There’s a brief, unguarded hesitation before he answers.
“I’m glad,” he says. “I’d rather you see it than just take my word for it.”
(…)
Earnest. Or cowardly. You suppose the distinction depends on the outcome of the election.
You think that this ride is taking a strangely long time. Like the internal mechanics have decided to synchronize with the social friction inside the elevator.
This all feels like a very awkward threesome. The kind where no one is horny (debatable), everyone is fully clothed and there’s a PowerPoint presentation on ‘Optimal Positions and Angles for Mutual Satisfaction’.
You’re still trying to figure out if this counts as foreplay or a hostage situation.
The doors slide open with a soft chime.
No one’s unzipping anything after all.
You step out first.
Behind you, Rosen offers a parting remark. Something smooth and courteous, entirely forgettable in its exact wording but precise in its intention. An open door disguised as good manners.
As the elevator begins to hiss shut, you catch one last glimpse of him. He stands perfectly straight, a cordial smile on his lips, chin tilted with a touch of DC gallantry (you don’t suppose he’s aiming the charm at Hotchner).
It’s almost moving, in a pathetic way. Like watching a captain determined to go down with his sinking ship (technically the elevator is moving up towards the 4th floor but who’s keeping track of that), proudly facing the horizon while the hull is so clearly compromised.
He holds himself with rigid, upright dignity, helming a vessel that’s currently more shaft than ship.
A memorable mast, at least.
Hotchner doesn’t move right away. He stands there, still, as if replaying the last few seconds and adjusting for variables.
Then he looks at you.
“You’re very creative.”
He doesn’t say it like a compliment. He says it the way a judge reads a verdict. Heavy and final and devoid of any room for appeal.
It’s a fascinating habit of his. Every observation he makes about you sounds less like an opinion and more like a formal conviction. He doesn’t think you’re creative. He’s reviewed the evidence, consulted whatever statutes govern human behavior and pronounced you guilty of the charge.
He stands there, his hand casually resting on his hip (the leather of his belt pulls just enough for his thumb to dig into the slight softness of his middle. his posture is somewhere between ‘he’s about to scold you for your lack of decorum’ and ‘he’s about to unbuckle his belt to give you a better model for your next act of vandalism’. both options work just fine for you), as the self-appointed authority on your character.
It’s a shame he’s so confident because he’s built his case on baseless assumptions.
“I try.”
He doesn’t blink. He’s the type of man who waits for the evidence to speak for itself. The type who takes great pride in a report built on concrete and hard facts.
He takes a slow step towards you. He smells like coffee. Faint creases at the corners of his eyes, slight folds where his tie knots around his neck. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Like he’s both impartial dealer and calculated gambler.
He’s not trying to intimidate you, not exactly. But he’s trying to make you give yourself away.
“You didn’t just try,” he says calmly. “Permanent Sharpie. Fine-point. You waited for the hallway to clear, timed the cleaners’ rotation perfectly.”
He pauses for a moment. Waiting for you to give up and show your hand.
“You hit the precise spot where Rosen couldn’t ignore it without acknowledging the… anatomy. Which is exactly the sort of thing you’d find amusing,” he adds, voice low and measured, each word deliberate.
He’s guessing.
You can tell by the way he’s looking at you—with a sharp, hungry attentiveness.
He’s wound tight, his gaze narrowing as if he’s trying to physically pull a confession out of your expression. If he actually had the facts, he’d be leaning back, letting the weight of the law do the work for him.
But, he’s looming. His entire focus pinned on you with a desperate, clinical precision. That actually really suits him. Desperate enough to call your bluff without proof, just to see if you’ll fold for him.
“If I’d been the one to draw the dick,” you say lightly, “I’d at least have put it on his mouth. Might have gotten him to shut up that way.”
Hotchner blinks. Just once. He guiltily glances at your hands.
He doesn’t say anything at first. His thumb hitches against his belt.
“You’re…” he starts, then stops. Unsure if he should finish, because finishing it might acknowledge he misjudged you.
He clears his throat, his expression flattening into that familiar, deadpan mask of federal indifference. He’s trying to retreat to the moral high ground, even if the terrain is crumbling under his feet.
“He’s married,” he says clipped and precise. Like he’s citing regulation instead of answering you.
You watch him shrink back into his rules. The careful, procedural logic that always makes him feel in control. It’s the same instinctual bureaucratic modesty that keeps him buttoned-up, polite, and quietly prudish (definitely prudish). In short, tiny balls the size of peas, hiding behind a lectern of protocol.
(rich coming from a man who has one failed marriage under his belt.)
“Like no married man has ever sucked dick,” you counter.
He looks simultaneously flustered and mildly exasperated.
“Fair enough.”
You almost picture him rifling through some old 1970s Bureau handbook of Prohibited Vulgarities. Frantically trying to index your sentence. In his mind, ‘fuck’ is likely a level one infraction (worthy of a stern look and maybe a curt “let’s focus please”) while ‘dick’ is a level five breach of departmental propriety.
“My god, you’re so prudish I’d seriously consider the possibility of you being a virgin if you didn’t have a kid," you say, your voice dripping with mock-wonder.
You pause, tilting your head as if a terrifying new thought has just occurred to you. "Hold on. He is your—”
“That’s enough. You’ve made your point.”
You glance once more toward the elevator, where Rosen and his unfortunate poster have long since gone under (or over, for those keeping track).
“For the record,” you add lightly, “whoever did it has excellent artistic instincts.”
His jaw tightens. Just slightly.
You let yourself enjoy it for a second longer than necessary before turning away.
It is in the nature of things that you can never escape one set back without running into another.
“No. I won’t do that.”
The sound of crystal on wood is final. A gavel coming down. He sets his scotch glass on the desk with deliberate care.
“No ? It’s efficient. It’s clean.”
“Clean isn’t the word I’d use,” he says seriously. “It’s sanitized.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
The finality with which he says it is infuriating.
A wise counselor is the mirror wherein a ruler’s intellect takes its true form. To serve a fool is a short labor. To be bound to the wise is the mark of a power that has mastered both the court and its own nature.
But there is a specific kind of arrogance in a ruler who mistakes his own rigidity for wisdom. By clinging to the ‘cleanliness’ of his methods, Hotchner isn’t preserving the court. He’s stalling it. He’s letting a perfect opportunity rot on the vine because the soil it grew in wasn't to his liking.
It is a foolish, terminal sort of piety. The kind that leaves a man with a clean conscience and an empty throne. And the kind that’s fucking annoying.
“You’re arguing semantics ?”
He sighs. His brows furrowed into their perpetual line of tired concentration.
He takes a slow, heavy sip of his scotch. As he pulls the glass away, his tongue slips past his lips. Catching the stray, amber drops with a soft, unconscious precision.
“I’m arguing intent.”
“How is that relevant ?” you ask with an almost fascinated curiosity.
It’s a real wonder he gets anything done when he’s so focused on the sanctity of the process.
You can almost picture him in a standoff, refusing to breach the door because the search warrant’s font wasn't quite authoritative enough. Or trying to talk a serial killer into a voluntary surrender through the sheer, transformative power of friendship and a firm handshake. (did anyone tell him G-man stands for Government not Good ?)
He leans forward. His shadow stretches along the mahogany desk.
“You’re not asking me to give Mrs. Polk legal advice out of the goodness of your heart,” he says.
His voice is flat. Devoid of the heat that usually accompanies an accusation.
“You’re trying to make her dependent on the process.”
He picks up his glass again, but he doesn't drink. He just rotates it slowly watching the way the amber liquid washes up the sides like a leaden sea. “A simple favor that becomes a favor owed.”
“A ‘simple favor’ is a loose thread,” you say leaning back in the heavy leather chair across from him. You hook a thumb through one of your belt loops. “Sure, she’ll be grateful for a couple of weeks. She’ll tell the other neighbors that you were a real sweetheart. She might even get her kid to make you a nice drawing.”
Hotchner’s gaze remains fixed on the glass, his expression unreadable, though the muscle in his jaw tightens.
“But sooner or later it’ll turn to ‘that damn Hotchner thinks he’s running this ship,” you continue. “You’re the saint, she’s the charity case. Eventually, that gratitude just turns into resentment because she has no way to even the score.”
He finally looks up. His eyes are dark, hooded by the fatigue of the day, but there’s a sharp, judgmental clarity in them that feels like a tidal pressure. A finger drifts to his temple, dropping like an anchor to steady the heavy roll of his thoughts.
“It’s not about making her dependent,” you add, gesturing vaguely with one hand as if dismissing a minor technicality. “It’s about mutual necessity. You go and play wise and sexy pro-bono lawyer, she votes for you. It’s a stable knot. You both stay in the boat because if one of you rocks it, you both drown.”
At least, that’s the version that fits neatly enough to use.
He hums quietly. Runs his index along the rim of his glass. The pad of his finger drags against the crystal, catching slightly on the condensation before gliding over the smooth, cold edge.
It’s a methodical, circular motion. The kind a man makes when he’s tracing the perimeter of a problem he’s already solved. The cotton of his blue dress shirt rustles. A sharp, clean sound like a sudden swell breaking against the shore
“Is that why you spent so much time talking to Mrs. Dillon the past few days?” he asks. “Necessity?”
“I have a thing for the elderly.”
Obviously.
A tiny, incredulous huff of air escapes his nose.
You glance up at him, allowing your gaze to linger just a moment too long. Taking in the silver strands at his temples. The lines etched into his face.
There’s a quick shake of his head as though trying to dismiss the idea before he goes back to his response, not missing a beat.
“You didn’t stumble onto Mrs. Polk’s problem. You went to Mrs. Dillon to get a read on the building’s undercurrents.”
“And that’s a bad thing because…?”
This idiot is an even bigger gossip than Mrs. Dillon. He just doesn’t have the ridiculous Golden Girls perm to go with it.
“It’s a search and seizure. You’ve been auditing the neighbors, looking for a crisis you could own,” he deduces calmly.
You shrug.
You wouldn’t call this a tactical loss. You didn’t exactly have to interrogate the woman. Mrs. Dillon is already a loyal partisan.
She didn’t surrender the floor plan of Mrs. Polk’s legal misery because she’s a loose-lipped civilian. She gave it to you because she’s a weathered sentry who recognized a fellow soldier.
His finger taps one last time against the glass. The crystal glints slightly from the light of his desk lamp.
“You wouldn’t be asking me to talk to Mrs. Polk unless you were sure it would go the way you want it to,” he surmises confidently.
You hold his gaze, not flinching. There’s no hesitation, no vertigo, no mal de mer.
All things considered, this path isn’t really a surprise of Fortune, but the final sum of a ledger already written by your own hand.
“How would you make sure of that ? That you’d get the exact result you want,” he continues. He isn't looking for an answer—he’s showing you he already has it.
A part of you appreciates how neatly he’s sounded the depths of your designs. He was never going to be satisfied with the view from the surface. And that’s exactly why you chose him.
“You’d create a situation where the obvious solution fails so the alternative, me, looks necessary.”
He’s really milking this grand reveal isn’t he ? You didn’t think Hotchner had such a propensity for the theatrics yet here you are.
If he’s this committed to the drama, he might as well go all the way. Get a few wigs, play all the roles. He could be himself as the lead, then swap into a gray bob for Mrs. Dillon, and a floral headpiece for Mrs. Polk. A regular Shakespearean troupe of one.
Oh! And a pair of glasses for Rosen.
“You made Mrs. Polk go talk to Rosen first. Because you wanted to make sure he’d reject her before you even asked me.”
He leans in slightly, his fingers brushing against the edge of your chair. The fabric of his shirt straining just enough over his broad frame, the stiff collar pulling taut as his tie dangles closer to you. It brushes against your thigh.
“You knew he wouldn’t be able to help her. He’s a sitting prosecutor, he’s legally barred from consulting on private cases,” he says, his voice low and matter-of-fact, his gaze never leaving yours.
There is a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Or something close enough that you’re willing to call it that. The kind a strategist offers a rival who has finally forced them to play their best hand.
People think there’s some sort of treatise on how to come up with this sort of thing. ‘Your Magnificence, if You deign read these lowly pages, You will find all that is necessary to subjugate the people to Your will.’
Creating controlled inconvenience that resolves into order is hard fucking work. But rigidity is the precursor to failure. Even a well-crafted scheme has to be treated as disposable the moment it becomes a liability.
You let the silence stretch. Your mind racing. Recalibrating.
You cock your head and give him a genuine smile. “So what’s the situation here ? You don’t have a dick?”
His lips press together, and you see that familiar flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “This isn’t funny.”
You lean forward. “I’m serious man. Where is it?”
He lets out a long, heavy sigh—the kind of exasperated sound that seems to vibrate through his entire frame, from the collar of his shirt down to the fingers still braced against your chair.
You’re half hoping he’s going to grab your hand and shove it into his pants to prove you wrong.
“Did you leave it in your other suit?”
He leans back slightly, his shoulders straightening. His tie falls back right between his tits on his chest. His jaw tightens just enough for the sharp line of it to become more pronounced, and the muscles in his neck shift as if to hold back an angry retort. He’s trying to keep his composure, but there’s that tiny flare of frustration in his eyes.
“Is this your version of a white flag?” he asks.
You smile and grab the lower part of his tie to wave it as a makeshift flag.
To be at ease in the face of ruin is not the mark of a fool, but of one who has already trimmed the sails of their own success.
“Sure.”
You run your finger softly along the tie’s little white square pattern. Absentmindedly pulling it closer to you.
“You know, I think I have another idea. Mrs. Polk could go to Judge McNamara. In 231,” you begin. Your gaze flickers to his, testing the waters, knowing full well what you're doing. You're not really offering him a way out.
“He’s retired now. He might not be able to take on the full case, but he can point her in the right direction. It’s a safe bet for her.”
You’re offering him a solution that lets him stick to his principles while still showing Mrs. Polk that he's capable.It’s not the most elegant route but it will have to do.
The silk of his tie feels nice under your fingers. Sort of like a leash.
Hotchner looks down at your hand, his pulse visible at the hollow of his reddening throat as you keep the tie taut. He senses the trap—he has to.
He lets out a breath. A short, sharp exhale that brushes against your forehead. He doesn't pull the tie back.
“McNamara is a fair man,” he says, his voice low and cautious. As if he’s weighing the cost of agreeing to your ‘surrender’. “He’ll give her an honest assessment of the board’s bylaws. It’s a sound suggestion.”
He pauses, his hand finally coming up to cover yours. His palm is broad and warm. His skin’s slightly calloused.
His eyes search yours carefully. Amber specks caught in an undertow. He gives you a small nod and gently but firmly pulls your hand away from his tie.
It goes without saying that McNamara is very fond of Hotchner.
Observing Hotchner’s silent discipline, you wonder how easily he might be nudged — or pushed — into obedience.
But the thought is an indulgence he does not allow you to sustain. Hotchner does not move because he has been pushed. He moves because he has already decided the path is worth taking.
His presence narrows the field. You find yourself favoring only the paths that can survive his scrutiny.
Donna Fowler, in 325. And Bob Haldeman, in 314.
Two people circling a line that hasn’t yet been crossed. One foot forward, one step back. Neither willing to fully commit, neither fully restrained. You can see the path forming. You just need to lay the stones in a way that anyone can follow.
“Haldeman is still complaining about ‘excessive foot traffic’ on the 3rd floor,” you say.
In the insular, hushed ecosystem of this building, everyone knows that when Haldeman mentions the third floor, he is talking about Donna.
Donna is a defense contractor. She lives by the rigid, sterilized grace of protocol and cleared entry. Her apartment isn’t just a home, it’s an extension of her office. But to Haldeman, the mere sight of her clients in the elevator is an affront to discretion.
He treats the hallway like a private corridor of the West Wing. She treats it like a secured perimeter. Two very specific, very stubborn professional neuroses colliding — the kind only DC can produce.
Hotchner doesn’t need spelling out who’s who. What he doesn’t yet see is the opportunity.
“He’s pushing for a formal audit of the guest ledger,” you say, letting the weight of the words hang.
Your tone stays light, almost casual, but the implication is clear: this isn’t idle grumbling. Someone has escalated. Someone is trying to force the rules into action.
“If this escalates, it won’t stay contained,” you continue. “And if it doesn’t escalate… it doesn’t move.”
Neutrality feels safe—until you realize it is a standstill on a shifting road. A slow death by a thousand ‘I’ll wait for my lawyer before saying anything’.
In conflicts like these, if you don’t place your weight decisively, the path can vanish beneath you. Better to lay the stones yourself than to be tripped by the ones your enemy leaves behind.
He shifts.
He runs the pad of his thumb over his index finger. Looks down at his lap, his hand smoothing a stray crease in the dark fabric of his pants.
He isn't processing your words so much as he is weighing them against his own internal architecture. You find yourself watching the slow, steady rise of his chest.
There is a terrifyingly beautiful efficiency to him—a man who wastes no spark of energy on a reaction he hasn't already vetted.
“Haldeman is already leaning toward Rosen,” he says, and it isn't a question. He’s already mapped the political fallout. “He isn't looking for security. He’s looking for a way to use the board’s reach to satisfy a personal grievance.”
“Leaving this unresolved… it wouldn’t be fair,” he adds quietly. He’s not thinking about advantage or consequence. He’s thinking about stability, clarity, and the rules being upheld.
You notice the calculation behind his calm, the precision of his judgment. It’s weirdly fascinating, seeing the mirror image of your own intent. You’re both drawn to the same point, but you got there from opposite directions.
For the first time, you find yourselves mapping out a route you both agree on.
Donna needs a reason to seek him out
Keep it clean (meh)
He’ll only intervene if she asks him to
“She won’t come to you unless something makes her,” you test out.
The words come out a little less sharp than you would have wanted. You don't look away, but you feel the sudden, cold weight of the gamble you’re taking.
As fun as it is to call him a virgin while simultaneously propositioning him, you can’t ignore the gravity of the man. Because he’s older. Because he’s more experienced. Because when he says you’re inventive or creative, he’s not just testing out the words.
You hesitate, the silence stretching thin.
You aren’t sure if he respects you enough to meet you in the gray, or if he still sees you as something that needs to be "accounted for."
Hotchner doesn’t move. No comforting smile. No nod of encouragement. He simply watches the flicker of doubt in your eyes.
“Then whatever makes her,” he begins. His voice feels like a gentle hand steadying a fraying line. “Needs to be something I can address without escalating things.”
Relief rolls through you like a slow tide lapping at the edge of a quiet shore. Soft and steady. Enough to caress the sand beneath your feet without washing it all away.
“You don’t want to know how that happens?” you ask.
Just to make sure.
He runs his thumb over his index finger one last time.
“I don’t need to,” he decides.
You sit at your desk, pull out a plain sheet of paper, and start your first draft. You need to sound exactly like a man who peaked while chairing a subcommittee in 1998.
I see who’s coming over after midnight, Donna. One more late-night visitor and I’m telling everyone what you’re really doing behind closed doors. Kisses. -Haldeman.
You snort, leaning back in your chair and spinning the pen between your fingers. Too honest. Too ‘teenager in a black hoodie’. It sounds like you, and ‘you’ is the one thing this note can’t be.
You crumble the paper into a ball and toss it toward the trashcan.
Haldeman’s irritatingly meticulous, sure. But pleasant enough when he wants to be. Eager to oblige if you know how to ask. And intrinsically bureaucratic.
Regarding the ongoing integrity of our communal residential security apparatus, it has come to the attention of the relevant parties that certain discrepancies exist in the visitor logs regarding after-hours access. Please rectify this immediately to maintain our shared standards.
You read it over, and it’s so dry it practically makes your throat itch. It’s a shame you can’t sign it come and find me bitch -H.
Hotchner is probably sitting in his study right now, his spine so straight it’s technically a structural support for the building, highlighting bylaws with a precision that borders on the erotic.
Actually it’s more than bordering. It’s a little depraved, honestly, that you find the mental image of a man hunting for a legal loophole so… appealing.
You can practically see the way his tongue might peek out to wet his lips in a moment of unconscious focus.
How he catches his bottom lip between his teeth when he finds a snag in the logic. The way his brow furrows when he hits a particularly convoluted stretch of legalese.
The broad, unyielding line of his shoulders against the leather of his chair. The light catching the silver in his hair as he leans over his desk.
“If she comes to me, I’ll handle it,” he’d said.
Hotchner expects movement—he’s practically cleared a path for it—but he isn’t going to examine the mechanics. He’s positioned himself as the inevitable resolution. The only man with enough gravity to contain the landslide you’re about to start.
The note trembles slightly in Donna’s hand. The paper warm from the brief press of her palm. Her eyes dart down the hallway, half-expecting Haldeman to appear with a clipboard and a scowl.
You lean back, voice light, careful. “Maybe it’s worth talking to someone who actually knows the bylaws,” you suggest. You don’t say his name. You don’t even hint. Just drop the seed.
Donna frowns, hesitates, then nods slowly. It’s enough. The thought takes root.
By the time she reaches Hotchner, the tension around her has found its anchor.
“There’s nothing in the bylaws that allows another resident to regulate your guests. If this continues, it would fall under harassment,” he says. Gentle, even, calming.
Her shoulders drop. The tight line of her jaw softens. The corner of her mouth quirks, a hint of relief crossing her features.
Poor Haldeman. Picked the wrong captain. Now he’s going down with the ship. Should’ve checked the weather, boys. xo
Contrary to all prudent expectation, Hotchner was the one who suggested the plan for this evening.
Two tickets to some real pretentious avant-garde theatre performance, to sway the Buchanans, no less, with a display of cultural curiosity entirely his own.
You were equal parts impressed and horrified.
Patrick and Shelley Buchanan, in 524, for lack of a better term, are as pedantic wealthy DC couple as they come. The kind of people who view a three-hour, intermission-free reimagining of Antigone as a social necessity rather than a tax-exempt circle jerk for people who want to feel profound for staring at a pile of gravel.
Now, sitting in the suffocating silence of the theater, you can see this mission for what it is: a bureaucratic fever dream.
Hotchner should stick to what he knows and leave the scheming to you. This entire thing fucking sucks.
On stage, a man playing Creon is dressed in a double-breasted suit three sizes too small. He sits at a metal desk that looks like it was scavenged from a condemned federal building. On the desk, an ashtray filled with half smoked cigarettes.
Enter stage left, a woman in a red silk dress and a gas mask (you can’t tell what her role is supposed to be. anyone’s guess is as good as yours). She roughly shreds documents to the agonizing ticks of a metronome.
You shift in your seat. Your forearm brushes against the heavy, cool silk of Hotchner’s tuxedo sleeve
He’s so still he might as well be part of the set. A study in repressed agitation and expensive tailoring.
The light from the stage catches the slope of his nose. It makes his cufflinks glint slightly. You lean in, cupping your hand around his ear to keep your voice from carrying. Fingers grazing the back of his head. His hair feels cold. Neatly gelled into place.
He smells really nice. Soft iris, warm leather, mellow tonka. Probably dabbed right on the pulse point.
“He’s got the costume down,” you whisper, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear. “Weary bureaucrat in a suit two sizes too small. Remind you of anyone?”
He doesn’t turn his head. His skin feels warm under your touch.
“I don’t smoke in the office,” he whispers back. “And I’d like to think my filing system involves fewer unburied relatives.”
Notice how he doesn’t deny that his suits fit too snugly ?
You lightly pinch his arm. A sharp, playful jab through the fabric of his sleeve. Completely absurd, but you can’t help thinking he’s solid—just from a few square inches of arm.
(at this rate, you might have to skip the spring sale and just pay full price for that vibrator.)
A man in modern evening wear enters at the very edge of the stage. He leans casually against the proscenium arch with a pocket watch in hand. He looks profoundly bored by the tragedy he’s about to narrate. As if the impending death of the protagonist is a minor scheduling conflict.
Behind him, the woman is trying to stop the metronome.
Hotchner finally breaks. He doesn't move his head, but he leans just enough that his shoulder presses firmly against yours, the heat of his neck radiating toward your face.
“Who’s the lady in red supposed to be?” His breath brushes your cheek. Cutting through the unsteady tick tick tick of the metronome.
“She’s evading a tax audit,” you reply.
A soft, genuine laugh escapes him. A sound he definitely didn’t intend to make in a room full of DC’s most humorless elite.
You turn your head. You can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. He’s smiling. There’s a dimple on his cheek.
“You’re terrible,” he murmurs.
“She’s… the breakdown of the social contract,” you guess. You smile back at him softly. “I don’t know. I thought this type of pretentious bullshit was your thing.”
He shakes his head. A slow, weary denial. The movement is slight, but because your faces are already so close, the rugged skin of his jaw brushes against your cheek.
He lets out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. “God, no,” he whispers. “I really hate this play.”
You stifle a snort and lean your arm closer against his. You briefly turn your head toward where the Buchanans are sitting four rows down, and your chin brushes against his shoulder.
Because he doesn't pull back, you’re forced to speak directly into the crook of his neck.
“What if Shelley finds out you don’t appreciate the visceral honesty of this representation?”
“The only thing visceral about this is how strongly I want it to be over,” he says.
You notice, almost idly, that you didn’t actually speak much to the Buchanans before the play started. A flurry of air-kisses and a vague promise of ‘grabbing a drink’ after the play. (refer back to when you said ‘scheming is hard fucking work’. as a tactical maneuver, Hotchner’s plans are failing spectacularly. as a date, they’re becoming increasingly distracting).
On stage, Creon offers Antigone a cup of coffee. The absurdity of it makes you laugh quietly. Hotchner’s eyes stay on the stage, but the corners of his mouth lift.
“It’s probably decaf,” he jokes. You feel his voice reverberate against your shoulder. “Anything else would be too much of a commitment to the scene.”
You’re absentmindedly playing with his cufflinks.
“You would find the lack of proper caffeine to be the real tragedy here,” you point out playfully. “Not the impending execution of an anarchist.”
His expression remains perfectly neutral, his voice a deadpan rasp that barely carries past your ear.
“Execution is part of the procedural framework of Greek tragedy,” he says. “It’s expected. Serving decaf is sloppy work.”
He shifts his gaze toward you expectantly. The corners of his mouth twitching into a barely hidden smile.
You’re itching to say something about sloppy work but there’s a time and place for blowjob jokes.
“I’d hate to be the intern who forgot your cream and sugar during a briefing.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle.
Creon finally delivers the fatal decree. Antigone kneels, resigned. The absurd coffee cup clinks against the floor, a tiny, meaningless punctuation in the grand tragedy.
The man at the edge of the stage clicks his pocket watch shut with a sharp, metallic snap that echoes through the hushed theater.
He doesn't offer a eulogy. He just sighs, a long, weary sound of a man who has seen too many revolutions and not enough competent catering.
“The tragedy is concluded,” he announces flatly. He might as well be saying ‘the meeting is adjourned.'
The stage lights cut to black.
And in that sudden absence of everything—noise, glare, expectation—you turn toward him. There’s a long beat, just the two of you suspended in the shadowed theater.
His fingers are warm. His thumb caresses your cheek. You feel his breath against your lips.
You lean in, and so does he. Just a brush at first. A hesitant, blind searching in the gloom. Then, a slow, deliberate press. His lips feel slightly chapped.
It’s strangely different than in the pool. The kiss is very soft, very gentle. It’s the kind of kiss that tastes like a secret kept too long. The quiet aftermath of absurdity and closeness.
The first scattered claps of applause break out. The house lights flicker on.
The cast emerges from the wings. A long, united line of sweat and heavy makeup, leans forward in a synchronized, practiced salute to the public.
At the very edge of the line, the man with the pocket watch doesn't smile. He bows with the rest, his movements fluid but detached, as if he’s already mentally halfway to the parking garage. Thus ends what was inevitable, in whispers and half-light.
The wind nudges through the building's fire escape. Slipping through the gaps like an invisible audience. The metal under your hands feels cold and slightly damp from the night’s dew.
An orange cat winds between Hotchner’s legs. Too clean to be a true stray. Too familiar with him. He pets it with calm, gentle strokes. His fingers softly going through the fur. The cat leans into him, settling against his side.
And the faint scent of iris and leather lingers. Comforting in its subtle insistence.
A gentle surge of light ebbs and flows across his face. Catching in small glinting flecks along his lashes. The corners of his eyes crinkle.
Tires hum along the asphalt. His bowtie is loosened, the collar of his shirt opened, jacket draped over the railing.
Your fingers mirror his, tracing the rusted, unyielding rivets of the fire escape.
To build an iron ladder for another’s ascent is to forge the very bars of one's own cage. Once at the summit, the eye cannot tolerate the rust that made the climb possible.
You pull your hand back. A brownish droplet travels down the winding lines of your palm. From the condensation meeting the oxidized metal. The color of coffee.
Hotchner’s thumb slowly goes back and forth over the cat’s ear. He smiles fondly as the cat purrs.
“You’re quiet,” he says softly. “What’s on your mind?”
He looks entirely too… kind.
It’s the kind of warmth that makes the rust on your palm feel like a brand.
You realize, with a sudden, sickening clarity, that he isn't just being polite.
He’s looking at you with the steady, unblinking regard of a man who has made a choice. Who has, through whatever method he deems dependable, decided that your loyalty is a fixed point.
“Can I tell you something ?”
“Anything,” he says.
“I’m paying Grant off the books,” you say, the words coming out in a flat, honest rush. “Two hundred a month to let me use a mail alcove in the basement as a private storage unit.”
The rusty drop in your palm falls to the ground.
“That’s why I asked you to run for the seat,” you admit. “If Rosen ran unopposed, the construction crews would have been in that basement by the end of the month.”
His foot taps rhythmically against the metal. Tick tick tick.
You feel a sudden, jagged contraction in your chest. A suffocating tightness that makes the night air feel thin and useless.
You’ve basically handed a gun fanatic a custom-fitted grip of his own service weapon and turned your back.
Out of malicious design and ambition, you’ve ended up making yourself faithful to him. Even if he doesn’t pull the trigger, you know that such rash conduct is bound to bring your ruin.
The only sin a schemer cannot survive is making yourself vulnerable to the truth.
His hand stops. The cat nudges its head against his frozen knuckles in a persistent, wordless demand for him to return to the task.
He looks frankly taken aback. A rare, unguarded flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features that he can’t quite catch in time.
Then, the mask begins to slide back into place, but it’s heavier now. You can practically see the gears behind his eyes shifting. His brows knit together, a small, involuntary crease forming between them as he stares at your face.
He finally looks down at the cat, his fingers resuming their petting. “Why are you telling me this now ?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. The admission is hesitant, almost frightened.
It’s technically not the first time you’ve been truly honest with him, but it feels like a death sentence.
He looks at you, and for a fleeting second, there is a small, almost invisible softening of his eyes.
“Okay,” he says.
This is very… anti-climactic.
You’ve been holding your breath for three acts of fire-escape angst, bracing for a grand monologue of betrayal and a flash of silver handcuffs (sexy), and he says “Okay.”
The world applauds itself quietly for the joke.
“I hear you,” he continues. “But we aren't going to keep paying off the staff. It’s a liability for them. And for you.”
You aren't surprised. You knew he would make you give up the alcove. Looking at the way his eyes seem to search for yours oh so gently, you realize he knew that you knew.
But it’s the we that catches in your throat. He isn't washing his hands of you. He’s putting them on the helm.
“So what, you’re going to report me to the board?”
There is a frantic, giddy relief vibrating underneath the sarcasm.
“We’re going to find a way to make that storage space legal,” he explains.
He finally meets your gaze comfortably. His eyes steady and reassuring in the amber glow of the streetlamp.
The cotton of his shirt straining slightly against his chest as he leans forward. It bunches and juts out just a tiny bit over his waistband.
The cat lets out a meow that sounds oddly wrong. Less of a cry and more like the sound of a heavy door’s hinges that haven't been greased properly in a decade.
You both let out a quiet chuckle.
For a moment, you simply look at each other, both of you smiling softly.
You shift slightly, leaning back against the cool metal of the fire escape.
The city sprawls below you, a lattice of lights and muted movement. Indifferent to the small acts of defiance and loyalty unfolding above it. Like a stage watching its players. It neither applauds nor condemns, only witnesses.
“Aaron,” you call.
It feels really strange. It’s like a coin you’ve had in your piggy bank for a long time, saved for a rainy day or a desperate one, and you’ve finally decided to break the porcelain to get it out.
He hums.
“Tell me a secret.”
He purses his lips. Pauses his petting. His hand lifts from the orange fur to brush a stray lock of dark hair back from his forehead.
The cat, evidently offended by the sudden cessation of service, doesn't nudge this time. Instead, it snaps forward with a quick, indignity-fueled nip, catching the side of his hand with a sharp set of teeth.
He lets out a sharp, hissed breath, his hand jerking back. Gently taps the cat’s head in disappointment.
A wry, pained sort of amusement flickering in his eyes as he rubs the reddening mark on his skin.
“What kind of secret ?”
You pretend to consider it. “Something naughty.”
He lets out a short, quiet laugh.
“I’m not sure I have any secrets you’d like,” he tells you.
You give him a pointed look of disappointment.
“You ever did coke ? Just between you and me.”
“That’s illegal,” he says simply.
It’s the most Hotchner response possible. It’s so impersonal it’s almost a punchline.
“Not even in law school ?” you press.
“Not even in law school,” he confirms.
His voice is steady, lacking any of the defensive edge a man would have if he were lying. He is, quite boringly, a man of his word.
“You think Rosen ever did coke ?”
“I won't speculate on that,” he says.
“I’m counting that as a yes.”
He doesn't defend Rosen’s honor which you’re choosing to interpret as him agreeing with you.
A comfortable silence settles over the fire escape.
You lean forward, closing the distance between you. You reach out, your fingers joining his in the orange fur.
You pet the cat’s head, and the animal immediately chases your touch, tilting its chin up in a silent demand for more.
Your knuckles brush against each other’s.
“He isn’t mine, you know,” he suddenly announces.
You blink, your hand pausing on the cat’s soft ears.
You briefly wonder if he’s finally admitting to conceiving Jack through a series of notarized affidavits.
“He’s Walter’s” he explains.
You’ve spent the last hour treating this animal like a shared witness to your ruin, and now he’s disowning it.
Talk about a surprise. Walter Heller from 233 has a cat. Walter who is technically living under a lease that, like yours, has a very strict, very underlined No Pets clause.
“I thought the building didn’t allow pets ?”
He doesn't even have the grace to look guilty. Of course he’d make an exception for pussy.
“It doesn’t.”
He just continues to pet the evidence of a lease violation. His thumb goes over yours.
Perhaps there is no shame in being the iron of the ascent when the summit itself refuses to stand without it. Sharing this narrow, rusted ledge, the cold bars of a cage furl into the strength of a shared horizon.
You let out a breath leaning your weight into the metal. You don't mind the view. (specifically his chest. he has very nice tits.)
OMGOMGOMG (I HAVE A LOT TO SAY. Apologies in advance!!)
Ahem. Yeah.... once again I'm left speechless because there is no fucking way I'm reading this for free???
You have no idea how much I LOV the scheming, especially the way my beloved <333 war general reader comes up with the most anti-Hotchner ways to move forward (and to draw fur on the balls and veins on the dick means you have to be passionate and believe in what you're doing), and yet sometimes they still arrive at the same conclusions... my beloveds...
I won't even get into the ptsd that theatre scene gave me (theatre kids anyone??? iykyk), but! I don't know if that was intentional, but I loved!!! the underlying dark/light theme, how they kiss in the dark, how the tie scene (which made my dick very... dicking...) is also in dim lighting, and yet you still get the sense that he's someone who does the devil's tango because he wants to see everything clearly (does it make senxe??)
Him doing everything in the light and lawfully VS you knowing how to survive only through unconventional strategies, the relationship with Grant (I did shed a tear)... basement VS fire exit... (yyyyyeah... sorry I get EXTREMELY cheesy with these parallels!!)
You're a fucking genius (I know. Not a creative way to say it). I loved reading the more flowery paragraphs, they made me feel both smart and dumb at the same time... my good old Fortune, always capitalized... THE HUMOR?!?!? HELLO??? I should stop reading your stuff late into the night or else the noise complaints will only keep coming......... CICERO CAMEO OMG I'M SO SOSOOSOSOSO HONORED!!
im so so so glad you liked it !!!!!! your comments are legit the best part for me !!!!
i know i told you already but the light/shadows was sort of a happy accident (maybe i should just lie and say that this is all super intricate and every single image is on purpose). i kind of get too focused sometimes on one specific image i want to make that i dont really notice if something else emerges out of it, if that makes sense. but still!!! it makes me really happy that you can see something i hadn't even thought of in what i wrote.
i feel so honoured i could get a cameo from the REAL italian prince himself !!!!
just THANK YOUUUUUUU honestly !!!!!!! i really cant tell you how much your comments (and your friendship!!!!!!! most of all) mean to me <3333333333
ALSO my god the sims gif……. i can't stop laughing any time i look at it it's truly a piece of art
genre : smut with feelings, established relationship, riding gideon's thigh, gideon has a big [redacted]
summary : Sunlight drifts through Gideon's cabin, brushing the edges of a tender love. Between the rustle of pages and the whisper of leaves, hearts linger close, learning the gentle rhythm of each other. Moments fold softly into one another, like birds settling into their nests, fragile and warm.
notes : honestly, i feel kind of nervous about this one, im not entirely sure why lol. take a shot any time you see the words ‘warm brown eyes’ on this blog (alcohol is bad for your health!). most most moooooost special thanks to the lovely @ssa-dado!! <33
word count : 2.7k
Sunlight caresses the leaves of a tree. It's beautiful and yet strangely sad.
Some of the rays reach you through the cabin's window.
A bird sits on one of the branches. You're not sure what kind of bird. Jason always says that the first thing you should focus on is the silhouette.
The bird flies away before you can ask him. The sun gently brushes his skin. His ring shines lightly.
You like hearing him say bird names. He smiles softly whenever he tells you.
Sometimes, the names are a bit… funny. But he never acknowledges it. He says "that one is a Great Tit" or "no, darling this one is a Woodcock" like it doesn't sound like anything naughty. You wonder why so many birds ended up with such peculiar names. Maybe it's actually hornithology.
He turns the page of his book. The light slips through his lashes like it does with the leaves outside. It does something to your heart. A terrible sort of fondness.
His eyes look impossibly gentle like this. Warm brown like the bark of a tree. You like to imagine at times that the two of you are like two leaves growing side by side.
You're not really reading your book. Jason gave it to you. It's a play about love. Trelawny of the Wells. It's not that you don't like it. You'd just rather try reading him.
The lines of his face. The creases in his shirt. The gray streaks in his hair.
He's absentmindedly running his hand up and down your calves. His glasses slowly fall down his nose. You lean forward to push them back up for him. He smiles at you. And presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist.
There's a little indent on your skin from the metal frame. It fades quickly, but you can't help but wonder if with time, it ever might not.
You trace the ribs of the couch's corduroy.
Jason's cabin is a Great Chaos. Books sort of branch out everywhere. Stacked, leaning, some of them open at odd pages. A framed print of a bridge hangs slightly crooked on the wall. A gray tapestry above it. Some of the threads brush down on the edge of the wooden frame.
A small coffee table. One lone brown chair.
And surprisingly, lamps. Tall ones, small ones, some with shades slightly askew. Too many perhaps.
Like he can't bear to not see everything clearly.
You think of his cabin as a Guide to Gideonology. You don't understand all of it yet. Like a bird perched just long enough for you to recognize its silhouette. A thought paused here, a memory placed there. And even if he doesn't always tell you what it means, he lets you read everything.
"You're not reading," he says. His lips pursed. His brows drawn together. It looks like a frown but you know it isn't one — just quiet curiosity.
"I'm distracted."
He laughs affectionately. He looks very sweet like this. The way his face wrinkles with mirth.
"What's distracting you darling?"
The lines on his face remind you of the rings of a tree.
"You are."
He pinches your calf lightly and shakes his head at you.
You've come to learn that he gets quite bashful at this sort of thing.
"How am I distracting you?"
"You're handsome," you tell him as you lean forward again.
You gently kiss his cheek. He lifts his hand to caress the top of your head. His fingers feel warm in your hair.
You take the book from his hands. Place the bookmark you gave him in between the pages.
Jason often leaves his books facing down, or folds the corners. As if properly closing it would sever the branches between his mind and the paper.
A breeze whispers between the leaves outside. Your knee brushes against his thigh. He tenderly runs his knuckles on your cheek.
He leans back against the couch, for you to settle on his lap.
The corduroy creases behind him. He puts down his glasses on top of his book. They always leave a little red line on the bridge of his nose.
"What do you think of the play?" he asks.
His hand carefully rests on your lower back. Bringing you a bit closer to him.
"I'm not sure," you say pensively. "It's sadder than I expected."
You play with the collar of his shirt. Pull at the fine white threads sown into a button.
"I thought you might say that."
"Why do you like it?"
Your finger slowly traces the lines of his neck. He cups the side of your face and deliberately tilts it towards his. He kisses you softly. His lips firm but tender. A little chapped.
He rests his forehead against yours.
"Finish the book first."
You pout at him. He chuckles lowly. You feel it against your mouth.
He places another chaste peck to your lips.
"Can't you tell me now?"
He lovingly smoothes down a few strands of your hair.
"It's yours to read," he tells you.
You're not sure what he means.
You think sometimes that he's quietly distant. Not rejection, but a certain restraint. Jason is steady, almost stubbornly so. Like he doesn't want to turn the pages for you. So that you can find things on your own, and get closer to him… gently. The way seasons change the colors of a tree.
"Take your time. I won't be going anywhere," he adds.
You look at him for a moment. Crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Fleeting red on the bridge of his nose.
Your lips brush against his. He runs his thumb over your lips before he kisses you again.
And again.
And again.
His arms tightly wrapped around you.
You can't think of anything else besides him. How warm he feels. How he smells a bit like wood and a bit like laundry. How his tongue softly brushes yours.
You feel him smile against your lips when you let out a quiet moan. He pulls back just enough to breathe you in. Your lips ache.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the line of your jaw.
Your fingers curl into his shirt.
He says your name softly. Barely a whisper brushing against your ear.
One of his hands settles firmly on your lower back. His thumb tracing circles over the fabric of your shirt.
His eyes on yours, he guides you to straddle one of his thighs.
You feel the fabric of his pants between your legs. He presses you against him.
You kiss him just as he starts carefully helping you rock back and forth. Letting you find your rhythm on your own but encouraging you in his way. His other hand rests on your thigh, lightly caressing your skin.
You can't help but think of how broad he is, with each roll of your hips against him. How solid he feels beneath your hands. He is… sturdy.
You press your forehead where his neck meets his shoulder. Your breathing coming out in soft pants. It makes the hairs on his chest rustle.
You can feel the couch's corduroy under your knees. His thigh flexes for a moment. Giving you more friction as your clit drags against the raised muscle.
The cotton of your panties sticks to your skin.
"Jason," you moan.
"That's it, doll," he praises quietly before pressing a kiss to your hair.
You grind down on his thigh with a little more pressure. Pepper a few kisses along his neck. Let your teeth graze his collarbone. You'd like to etch yourself into his skin. The way lovers carve their initials into the wood.
He pinches your chin between his fingers and gently kisses you. His arm tightens around your waist. His watch presses against your back.
He drags you up and down his thigh with more insistence.
"Does it feel good?"
He's looking at you so tenderly it makes your cheeks warm.
You nod as you pull him back to you. Your arms wrap around him. You play with the short hairs at the back of his neck.
He takes a small breath when you bite his lip. Bounces his thigh a few times. The sudden jolts cause a couple of surprised moans to escape you. He discreetly smiles.
"Don't tease," you pout.
He laughs and shakes his head with a muffled laugh. "I wouldn't."
You quirk a doubtful eyebrow at him.
"I promise," he reassures you with a small kiss to the tip of your nose.
You leisurely grind your hips. Each drag of your clit against him makes the pleasure build up.
It's a bit overwhelming.
You don't think anything about Jason could be that way, not intentionally. It's just that even he can sometimes forget to hold back. You like to think that it's tenderness that escapes him.
His fingers press into your thigh, feeling every little tremble. Your hips begin to stutter as you feel yourself gently getting closer. Your consistent rocking growing more erratic.
"You're making a mess doll," he murmurs. You wonder if there's a damp spot on his pants from how desperately you're rubbing yourself on him.
You feel your thighs trembling, throbbing between you and the solid, steady muscle pressing up in response.
You needily whimper his name one last time as you let go. He uses his grip on your waist to rock you a little further to let you ride it out.
You feel his lips on your forehead. Under your eyes. On your cheeks.
"You did so well for me," he whispers.
His hand slips underneath your shirt to help you take it off. You feel his warmth on your back. The ridges of his ring. It tickles.
You unbutton his shirt. You think you pulled on the threads a bit too much earlier because the first button threatens to fall when you undo it.
You stare at his chest. Run your fingers over the hair covering it. There's a few silver streaks here too.
A little soft, a little strong. And entirely comforting when your palm presses into him.
The sun kisses his skin. Little patches of light that move when the branches do. A bird passes by the window.
You lean in, letting your lips follow the path of light across his skin.
His head falls back against the couch and you can see his throat move when he swallows.
You let your hand drift to his belt. The leather feels weathered, like bark rubbed smooth by time and touch.
You take out his cock.
Even if it isn't necessarily the longest, Jason has the prettiest, fattest cock. It's thick (almost too thick), veiny, with a slight curve, feels heavy in your hand.
In your hornithology guide, it would deserve its own page. You're not quite sure on the name though. Gideonian Cock-of-the-Rock. Or maybe Jason's Dickcissel.
He probably wouldn't find any of those funny.
You stroke him languidly a few times as you lick the column of his throat.
He pushes your soaked panties to the side. His fingers circle your clit a few times before moving down. He pumps them in and out, stretching you. You can hear his palm sloppily hitting your skin, even if it's partly muffled by the cotton.
He takes his fingers out and pushes them into your mouth.
You suck on the digits, running your tongue over his knuckles, tasting yourself on his skin.
He groans and pulls you into an open-mouthed kiss. His tongue tangling with yours messily. You feel his chest raising raggedly against yours.
When he pulls back, a thin, glistening string of saliva bridges your parted lips.
He holds out his palm between you and rasps. "Spit."
You do as he says, eyes locked on his. He wraps his slicked fingers around his cock. Veins pulsing under the makeshift sheen. Stroking languidly from base to tip with a low groan.
It's always a stretch when he first starts pushing into you. He rubs and circles the head of his cock between the wet folds of your pussy.
You feel every inch filling you, clenching greedily around him. You feel so so full you don't think anything else could ever compare.
He eases up when you start scratching at his chest, your fingers digging into his biceps.
Somehow, you think the sound of your shaky moans and hitched breaths only make his cock stiffen even more. He tries to distract you from the stretch. Running his hand up and down your side. Kissing your scrunched up nose.
He nudges your knees apart a bit more, and buries himself inside you in one smooth stroke.
You're clinging to him. Nails carving his skin. You can feel every ridge, every pulse of his thick cock inside you.
It's a lot for him too. You can tell from his breathless moans. From his furrowed brows. From the way his hand almost trembles on your back.
"Fuck," he groans.
It almost feels wrong, hearing him curse. Even he looks a bit surprised by it. As if you've pulled something unguarded out of him.
"What are you doing to me darling?" he wonders out loud.
He lets you adjust to him. You're desperate for him to move.
"Please," you whine.
He waits for another moment. Maybe to let himself adjust.
His breath hot against your neck. He starts with measured thrusts. Hips bucking up into you, slow and deep. Dragging every inch with deliberate control.
But you do feel a faint strain in his breath, a subtle hitch as he paces himself. It reminds you that the years aren't only written in the lines of his face.
His hand wraps lightly around your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he draws you down for a kiss. His pace falters just a bit. Fingers trailing drown your neck to your chest. The ridges trace your skin like the gentle grain of wood.
His palm flattens over your lower belly, pressing with deliberate pressure.
It's too much.
You grab his wrist with a whimper, in instinctive protest.
"Let me, doll. It'll feel good," he says.
You hesitate for a moment. Fingers tight on his wrist. His touch making his cock feel impossibly deeper. Impossibly thicker. You give him a small nod.
He picks up his tempo just enough. His hand on your belly intensifies every clench around him. Sweat gleams on his furrowed brows. A drop slides down his nose and falls where the two of you meet.
The coil in your stomach is so tight it's almost painful.
"I need you — please," you moan desperately.
"You have me my sweet darling," he shushes you.
He fucks into you until you're all but a trembling mess in his lap.
Your entire body goes rigid then starts instinctively writhing to try and ride out the waves of bliss coursing through you.
He grits his teeth, his eyes falling down to where his cock still pounds into you. A white circle around the base of it.
His hips stutter. Quiet moans spilling from his parted lips.
He pulls out urgently and guides you to your knees. Quickly stroking his cock. His fingers twist in your hair, gently tugging your head back.
"Open for me angel."
You open your mouth, eyes locked with his. Raw with desire. Hunger. And restraint. Still.
The head of his cock is flushed a deep red. His thigh tenses under your hand. He tightens his hold on your hair, pulling you to his cock.
He cums with a sharp inhale. Spilling down your throat. You do your best to swallow it all.
He guides you up gently as his chest heaves. Hairs sticking to his damp skin. Pulls you to his lap again, arms wrapping around you safely. Stroking your back, cradling your head against his shoulder. His lips press soft kisses to your temple.
"My girl," he whispers softly.
You hold his hand. Let your fingers run over his. Unconsciously perhaps, you linger on his ring.
He brings your hand to his face and places a chaste kiss to your knuckles.
"Please be patient with me," he tells you.
You give him a small smile. Joy perches within you like a bird settling in its nest.
"Okay," you say simply.
You turn your head to look at him. His cheeks are a little flushed.
i am being very serious when i tell you i reread your comments like 5 times. im having a hard time phrasing this in a way that makes sense but like even if this is technically smut, it makes me so happy that you see it as something that's tender ???? like thank you so so so much, that's like the biggest compliment ever !!!!!
genre : s11 hotch, very obvious fetish for dad bods and authority, politics but make it stupid and domestic, obnoxious philosophical analogies (like seriously obnoxious), bullying hotch because he's hot
summary : Those who wish to win the favor of a man like Aaron Hotchner will generally approach him with obedience or modesty. You have among your possessions nothing that could even remotely resemble that. You find it more fitting to offer him the seat of building representative, deranged fantasies and pretentious philosophical metaphors. All things considered, not a bad price for the chance to see his tits.
notes : requested by the lovely @ssa-dado who i don't think i'll ever be able to thank enough <33 i hope it's not pretentious of me to say this story is as much yours as it's mine. fair warning, this is like if fanfiction was a badly written philosophy textbook lol
word count: 9.7k
It is simpler to agree to ambition when the difficulties haven't been made obvious. Man's inherent wariness lies dormant, waking at the first hint of misfortune. And usually too late to be useful.
As such, you should consider the Florentine not as a mere collection of apartments, but as a small, slightly neurotic, principality.
Partly ironic to say, as you recognize how absurdly serious this contemplation is, given how mundane its object remains. Which is to say: yes, you're aware this is demented.
This is not conjecture. While your time in unit 122 offers ample evidence, the examples of units 113 and 125 are most preferable.
113, peerless in his arrogance, found great satisfaction in endless late-night parties (you developed a miserable ritual of waiting for his inevitable rendition of Married With Children by Oasis. there is a bleak, private joy in hearing a man scream (sing?) that his music is shite and keeps you up all night without a single spark of self-awareness.)
You'd assume that having Hotchner from 121 sternly tell him off would suffice.
A compelling performance, you have to admit. There is something almost offensively hot about the way his features settle into a mask of pure, paternal disappointment that makes you want to either apologize or do something so egregious it forces him to actually put his hands on (in) you.
But no polite, nor impolite requests to 'please tone it down' or to 'turn that dumb fucking music off' changed 113's manner.
Perhaps Hotchner's frown was to blame — virtue is rarely a deterrent to the truly pretentious.
Therefore, when there is no hope but in impetuous (or unhinged) methods, you should be able to act decisively.
Sure, ‘impetuous methods’ makes it sound like some grand tactical maneuver. If we’re being honest, something like being a thoroughly ice cold bitch works just as well.
The building’s guest parking policy is usually loosely enforced. Most of the residents agree to ‘forget’ to call Arthur —the doorman— ahead of time when they’re having guests. Arthur maintains vigilant oversight naturally (as one might expect, that also includes the ‘police officers’ in inexplicably tight shirts who do house calls), though he and you have found a way of looking past certain things.
It turns out, DC’s towing companies can be surprisingly efficient.
The sound of chains dragging a car or of a machine printing out a parking fine is infinitely more pleasant. Once parties start coming with a ticket, people quickly get to the end of the song. Goodbye I’m going home! — and they usually mean it.
Of course, impetuosity has its limits. You don’t necessarily have to get the big guns out every time some asshole thinks he can get laid by playing Wonderwall.
125 however, was literally wandering through the walls.
A man’s vices are his own. If the guy wants to smoke his way to a nice woody coffin with fancy Cuban cigars, you can’t really fault him for that.
This wasn’t an issue until the building did a steam trap maintenance in the basement and opened up the insulation jackets around the pipes. No idea what that actually means (you’re already too busy pretending to be a war general to get into architecture).
What you do understand, is that your unit and Hotchner’s are on the same run of pipes as 125’s. And that whatever they did in the basement made it so that the scent of cigar smoke carried along the metal and pushed through the floorboards. Meaning: it smelled like a gentlemen’s club in your apartment but without the gentlemen.
If Hotchner did try another sexy but inefficient scolding, you didn’t see him.
You do wonder if he smokes. Probably not. He takes the whole ‘health is wealth’ thing very seriously. Plus you don’t think it’d be good for the smaller Hotchner. Still, if he smoked, you think it’d be something tedious. Like a pipe. Nice thick finger pressing the tobacco down into the bowl.
This would have been a much more interesting set up: Hotchner and laying pipe. But alas, this is still about building pipes.
A slight threat, delivered politely and with a pipe in hand, invites retaliation. Beating someone with it, metaphorically speaking, does not. In short, if you want to be decisive, it must be on a scale that makes vengeance impossible.
And also, it helps if you enjoy it.
It was easy enough to get an empty pack of 125’s cigars. And crumple it into one of the basement’s pipes. Right next to the ‘CAUTION : HIGH HEAT’ tag.
To the insurance inspector, this ends up looking like some reckless idiot sneaked into the basement to smoke and shoved the evidence into flammable insulation. A fire safety compliance notice and a $500 fine later, you’d say all of 125’s carefulness went up in smoke but that’d be tasteless.
From these two examples, it follows that people do not abandon indulgence because it’s inconsiderate, but because it becomes too expensive.
Nonetheless, such corrections rarely go unnoticed by those accustomed to patterns. This isn’t to say that Hotchner doesn’t have his own indulgences. They’re simply more… agreeable.
Namely, the too-early-in-the-morning occasional run from which he comes back sweaty and out of breath. It’s a sporadic ritual at best, usually following a particularly successful weekend in the kitchen. You suspect he views the dad bod as a failure in discipline. Which couldn’t be more idiotic. Firm where it matters (…), pleasantly soft everywhere else. A real treat.
To him, the run is clearly an act of penance. He seems the type of man who lives in a state of perpetual atonement. Feels guilty for things he hasn’t even done yet. Probably has a priest on speed dial: “Forgive me Father for I have found pride in my record filing system.”
And while he asks for absolution by subjecting his joints to more friction than they can handle at his age, you’re plainly enjoying the show. T-shirt clinging to his heavy, reliable frame, his breathing shallow and labored, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. It makes him look less like a federal agent and more like a man who has just been thoroughly undone.
He is, after all, nailing himself to a cross of his own making. By some hidden accord between his own nature (the fact that he’s hot) and the humor of times, the older ladies on the 4th floor have started giving him and Jack baking lessons on Sundays.
He does share his little indulgences with you. Though you had to… gently incentivize him. The first time you caught him in the elevator with a container of homemade lemon bars, he’d looked ready to guard them with his life.
“Mister Hotchner, surely you aren’t planning on keeping all of those for yourself?” you’d remarked. A microscopic flick of amusement crossed his face before he wordlessly offered you one.
Since then, anytime he hands you one of his still warm treats, you find yourself slipping into a very specific, very deranged fantasy.
In your mind, you imagine coming home from a long day of conquering the world, loosening your tie, dropping your keys on the side table and calling out for your little wife.
He’d be in the kitchen, wearing a nice floral apron, standing over a cooling cherry pie or some other time consuming desert. His eyes looking up at you, soft and glassy, from the desire to please you (and from whatever imaginary pharmaceutical miracle you’ve clearly overprescribed him in your head).
It’s your delightful taste of male entitlement — desecrating his competence for your own indulgence.
Fortunately, he’s not on any dosage of pharmacological domesticity. He has noticed. Not the fucked up 1950s fantasy. But your careful orchestrations of chaos for the sake of order.
How coincidentally, towing companies started hovering like vultures around the building on Friday nights. Or how, as annoying as 125 is, he wouldn’t waste a fine Cuban cigar on a dingy basement view.
It would be a terrible disservice to his rigor to pretend he hasn’t considered the possibility that Fortune had an accomplice. But true mastery of a principality lies not in what can be seen or what can be suspected — it’s in what cannot be traced.
As pleasurable as it is to feel his gaze narrow at you —curiosity tempered by reluctant amusement— you know that he’s too principled to accuse you of anything without evidence. For all his perceptiveness, he’s remarkably predictable.
Predictability is the coin of the prudent. A man who always walks the same path provides the very stones for his own stumbling.
And yet those same stones form the foundation upon which stability can be built. Which is why anyone offering to rearrange them — talking up and down about improvement or optimization— is rarely a reformer at all, but a merchant of annoyance, eager to be paid in spectacle.
Funnily enough, you’re just about to join the auction. Not because you enjoy throwing dollar bills on stage. But because improvement asks questions and you don’t trust anything that requires answers.
So as you stand before the solid wood of unit 121, you adjust your expression from calculated general looking solemnly at the battlefield (wallets included) to concerned neighbor.
You do consider the idea of leaning against the door frame and seductively greeting him with an “Aaron, why don’t you come and give daddy a big kiss?” but you don’t think he’d appreciate the joke.
He looks exactly how you’d expect: impeccably tired. He’s taken off the suit jacket. His shirt —nice light blue cotton, likely ironed by someone who actually fears him— stretches across his shoulders, struggling to contain the sheer width of him. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal his thick forearms and his tie is loosened just enough to say that he’s off the clock.
Or at least, that the FBI has officially released its grip on his throat and handed him over to the custody of a fifth-grader.
“I’m trying to decide if this is very early, very important,” he says, “or if I’ve simply lost track of when it's appropriate to knock on a neighbor’s door.”
You let your gaze linger on the open collar of his shirt, at the faint lines at his throat, just long enough to suggest insolence, before finally meeting his eyes.
“It’s important for now,” you say lightly, “but it could become inappropriate if you prefer.”
A small, dry laugh escapes him.
“I’ll stick with important,” he replies calmly, leaning a hand against the doorframe.
It almost looks like he’s trying to slut himself out a bit. His fingers spread against the wood, his arm flexing just enough to hint at the muscle beneath the cotton without actually ripping the seams.
It occurs to you, not for the first time, that if men like him were more ambitious, the Florentine would be a much simpler principality to govern.
Because in here lies the premise of this entire obnoxious monologue: some grand modern cunt in 411, convinced that stability is merely a cloak for stagnation, is promising the spectacles and circuses of reform to cure the building of its boredom with order.
“What do you think of David Rosen’s campaign for building representative?” you ask simply.
His brows furrow in their perpetual line of weary concentration before he catches himself and smooths it away, like a man remembering he’s being observed. The face he offers you instead is polite, neutral, and deeply unenthusiastic.
“I wasn’t aware we were calling it a campaign,” he answers like the distinction matters.
To be fair, campaign might not be the most suitable term here. It’s more so Rosen’s attempt to free himself from his bleak destiny: ‘David Ro—what? who’s that? the prosecutor? never heard of him. wait, show me a picture. aaah. yeah. that guy’—sen.
He’s going in with the whole nine (inches) yards. Modernizing the building’s façade. Adding some gastronomic restaurant in the lobby. Replacing the current staff with ‘formally trained professionals’ (whatever the fuck that means). In short, the exact kind of grandiose reformist promises that require a predictable and stabilizing force: Hotchner.
“His audition,” you offer. “Or strip show, but with clothes on. And instead of a cheap thrill, you end up with a guy following you home with a measuring tape and a construction hat.”
“I doubt that’s part of his qualifications.”
He briefly catches your eye as he says it. Maybe to see if you’ve caught his joke. Or maybe to defend the honor of a fellow prosecutor, who knows.
“No?” you tilt your head. “They don't teach you how to work a pole in law school? I thought that was what the bar was for.”
The faintest trace of amusement tugs at his lips. “That wasn’t included in the exam when I took it,” he says evenly.
“A real shame.”
If he knew how perversely you’re imagining him throwing a bra off the stage to reveal his very nice chest, you might be looking at 30 years to life.
Back to war, before he can sentence you with anything.
“He’s running unopposed. And I know you disagree with his proposals,” you continue.
He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he shifts his weight, sliding one hand into his pocket—a gesture that should be casual, but on him, it reads like a warning and an invitation at the same time.
“It’s visionary. But speculative,” he begins. The way he says speculative sounds like federal speak for out-of-his-fucking-mind. “Too many changes for the sake of change. I like things as they are. There’s no reason to invite unnecessary risks or disruptions.”
This is exactly why predictability is the only currency that matters here. People are faithful to the benefits they know will come to them. Which is why any aspiring showgirl (such as Rosen) will always find opposition in those who grew rich under certainty, and lukewarm loyalty in those who hope for change.
“I couldn’t agree more,” you say, letting your voice soften into something that sounds like genuine relief. You know just how much of a pain in the ass this is going to be. But now is the time to act with the boldness that ambition demands. “Which is why I think you should run against him.”
He doesn't look surprised. He’s likely seen this coming since you mentioned the 'strip show' but he does look profoundly tired. He pulls his hand from his pocket and rubs the bridge of his nose. The lines on his face somehow deepen for a second.
“I don’t have the time for it,” he refuses, calm but firm. “Between work… and everything else, I barely see Jack during the week. My schedule isn’t exactly predictable, and the little time I do have at home, I dedicate entirely to him.”
Using his son as an argument here would be a fatal mistake. Like trying to play the violin with a sledgehammer. You can’t make him your enemy before you make him your instrument.
“I know,” you tell him gently. You have to sound like you’re sorry to even be asking him. Because the easiest way to get to him is through his pathological sense of duty.
“But that’s why I came to you,” you add. “This doesn’t need campaigning. It just needs someone who’s steady enough to not let it turn into a complete mess.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“If Rosen wins, it’ll be weeks of construction. And then, we’ll have some stupid restaurant in the lobby that charges $50 for one single pea on a plate that they’ll call ‘deconstructed greenery’. And he even wants to get rid of the staff,” you argue, watching his expression carefully. You shrug lightly. “I like Arthur.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “And Grant.”
“Running is the smallest possible intervention to keep things from getting fucked,” you finish.
You can see it land — the way his shoulders settle, the way his resistance shifts from no to calculating the cost.
“Why me?” he asks.
To fully convince a man like Aaron Hotchner, you can’t simply present a logical argument. Logic invites debate. To truly disarm him, you must introduce a variable he won’t be able to categorize.
“Because you’re hot.”
He’s prepared for a manifesto, a comprehensive logical argument, a plea even perhaps. But he doesn’t flinch nor does he fluster.
“I’m sorry?”
You think he’s trying one of those profiling interrogation tactics. There’s a sudden heaviness in his posture, his voice sounds somewhat more authoritative. That might work on the damned but it certainly doesn’t on the deviant.
“You’re significantly hotter than Rosen,” you repeat shamelessly.
It technically isn’t a lie. He is hotter. By any reasonable metric. Measurably so.
It’s the hands. Fine dark hairs, wide palms, thick fingers. The kind of hands that suggest a terrifying amount of … grip strength. The kind you imagine running softly along your lips before he presses his fingers inside your mouth. Pushing down lightly against your tongue. To quiet you when you’ve pushed him too far and he feels like he’s losing control. Or maybe simply because he has to maintain that impeccably suffocating composure even while you’re trying to make him come apart at the seams.
Anyways.
Truth is, it’s more useful to let him think this is all impulsive. If you place a frivolous coin in his hand, he’ll spend more time trying to count it than closing his fingers around the truth.
“That’s a remarkably poor reason to choose a representative,” he counters.
Why Hotchner ? Because people already straighten their ties when he comes near. Voices lower, even slightly, when he enters a room. Chairs are nudged back into place, papers aligned, as if no one wants to even risk showing him the slightest bit of disorder.
Rosen wants to be liked, admired, loved. Maybe because no one ever told him he was a good boy. Doesn’t matter. He’s unpredictable because he’s desperate for approval.
“Is it?” you hum, tapping your finger on your lower lip.
Love is a gift of the people. But fear is the tool of the ruler. As long as people fear Hotchner without hating him, they will remain too preoccupied with their own conduct to ever notice yours.
“Honestly, I think you’d be good at it. And…,” you draw it out, letting a little faux hesitation settle in. “I really don’t like Rosen.”
You actually don’t care that much about Rosen. Hatred would require a more noteworthy person. But his plan to modernize the building involves not only auditing the floorplans for construction but also getting rid of the current staff.
And that’s a problem. Huge fucking one. See, there’s a forgotten pre-war mail sorting alcove tucked behind a staff door (that’s technically supposed to be shut at all times). It’s not listed anywhere as a storage unit, and no one knows about it. Or pays for it.
You do. Well… not exactly. You pay Grant— the building manager —directly to keep it quiet.
Rosen’s bullshit renovations, the restaurant, all of it, would warrant pulling up the blueprints. No need to further explain why that’s a nuisance.
You can’t say you hate him but you certainly disdain him for how incontinent his audacity is turning out to be.
“You don’t like his policies,” he clarifies.
He studies you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze isn’t sharp so much as deliberate — like he’s picked up a puzzle piece and is quietly deciding where it belongs.
“I don’t like him,” you repeat simply.
He gives you a small smile. Part patronizing and part knowing. It’s probably the kind of smile he gives Jack when he tries to stay up past his bedtime with a flimsy excuse. It says that he sees your game, he finds it somewhat endearing and he’s content to let you play. Provided you stay within the lines he’s drawn.
“Not liking someone usually isn’t enough to motivate this much effort,” he says firmly.
“Also I’m using this as an excuse to spend time with you.” (wink wink)
A surprised little chuckle escapes him. Soft and unguarded, slipping past his usual fortress of control.
“What ? I’m just being more honest about it than your 'baking teachers' from the 4th floor.”
He looks down for a second, shaking his head. As if he’s trying to find a way not to encourage you.
“I’m fairly certain Mrs. Mitchell is only interested in Jack’s progress with a whisk.”
“Mrs. Mitchell is seventy two. Not blind.”
He exhales quietly. Could be another laugh or could just be a sigh. He rests his palm on his side. Fingers settling against the slight give at his waist. Eyes still on yours.
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
It’s not a compliment. It’s accounting.
“I didn’t take you for someone so… neighborly,” he adds.
He lets it hang for a second. In light of your history in 122, it sounds like an accusation of heresy. He tilts his head with the ghost of a smile. He’s aware you’re hiding a knight in your sleeve but he’s curious enough to let you place it on the board.
You don’t need to completely deceive him. You just need to give him a good enough reason to act.
“I’ll think about it,” he finishes before you can find a rebuttal.
He gives you a final, polite nod. The kind of professional dismissal he likely gives his subordinates from his big intimidating FBI office. It’s efficiently authoritative. The look of a man who’s spent more years in aseptic briefing rooms than you’ve spent in the adult world.
It makes you feel like you’re one of his interns who’s just overstepped in a meeting about whatever it is that they do at his fancy job. It is also, in a way that would probably concern a therapist, deeply arousing.
The door doesn’t slam. It smoothly clicks back into place. A “That will be all” in physical form.
Perhaps you’ve reached his limit on neighborly insubordination.
A limit is never a wall unless you lack the will to climb it. Because power is not found within the lines, but in the act of crossing them.
Crossing 121’s threshold feels less like an innocent neighborly visit and more like you’re a diplomatic envoy entering a rival’s capital. Except the rival is wearing a black polo that nicely hugs his arms and smells faintly of laundry detergent, tonka bean and espresso.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he tells you. His tone suggests he’s still deciding if comfortable is a state he should actually allow you within the four walls of his living room.
You expected more… austerity. Some freakish FBI shrine with aggressively neutral furniture and a framed copy of the constitution.
But his place looks thoughtful. Lived-in.
Bookshelves filled with fancy leather bound hardbacks. Law, psychology, history. Biographies of old men who definitely liked hearing themselves talk a little too much.
Framed photos. Of his kid. Grinning, asleep, playing soccer, wearing a suit (which you suppose answers the question of whether Hotchner’s compulsion toward ties is genetic or simply contagious).
And drawings. Framed as carefully as the photos. Crayon suns. Lopsided houses. Stick figures with names written too large. And also for some reason, one of the US flag with parachutes and a bald eagle.
You’re fairly certain he supervised that one. You hope he doesn’t make his kid sing the national anthem before eating breakfast.
You’re looking for a crack, a secret vice, a hidden stack of trashy smutty novels. But it all looks like the living room of a man in his early fifties. Work, kid, dinner, sleep, repeat. Thrill-seeking not included. He probably keeps his porn in the bedroom.
You’re running your finger along the edge of the shelf, half-hoping to find a fine layer of dust you can use as leverage when you hear him clearing his throat.
He’s clearly been standing there for at least a minute, carrying a small tray with 2 cups of coffee and a plate of cookies. He doesn’t look annoyed, necessarily. He looks like he’s just finished reading a particularly predictable file.
You don’t pretend you weren’t snooping around gathering information.
“So, when can I see your bedroom?” you ask with a shameless grin.
“When you have a warrant.”
He sets the tray on the coffee table and gestures for you to sit back down.
You pick up a cookie and inspect it for store-bought mediocrity just to spite him.
He slides a neatly printed sheet of paper toward you. Bullet points, clear headings, a few handwritten notes. Predictable. Efficient. Erotically bureaucratic.
“I’ve put together some ideas for the campaign,” he explains. “I thought we could start with the things that matter most to the residents. Safety, maintenance, community programs. I’ve outlined a rough plan.”
What he calls a rough plan is in fact already operational. You look back at him with a little smile.
This reads less like a draft and more like something a very particular type of old school Republican homemaker would apologize for, lamenting the ‘disastrous mess’ while adjusting her pearls, meanwhile her couch pillows look like they've been positioned using a calibrator.
It’s not an apology, it’s a subtle power play. He’s saying that even his rough is infinitely better than what others consider finished.
“This is solid,” you tell him honestly.
He prepares like someone who expects consequences. Like someone who has learned that being thorough is the only way to keep things from slipping through his fingers. Except he’s planned for resistance without assuming malice.
He clearly has all the command of authority but lacks the ruthlessness to use it.
“Walk me through it.”
He takes a sip of his coffee. His tongue slips past his way-too-pink lips while he puts down his cup. Then he shifts closer, turning the page so it faces you properly.
“Most people here don’t want big changes. They want things to run smoothly,” he begins quietly. “They want to know that when they come home, the elevator works, the halls are quiet, and the temperature is exactly what they set it to.”
He runs his finger over the bullet points.
You nod along attentively. He’s basically pitching an utopian vision of boredom.
“I want it to be comfortable,” he adds. There’s something unguarded about him when he speaks. “Not just for anyone. But for Jack. This is where he lives. Where he should feel safe, where things should just… work. That’s important to me.”
It’s hard to stay a cynic when you’re faced with a man who treats a building representative role like a sacred oath to his son.
“I don’t think it needs to be complicated,” he continues. “If day to day life feels easier, people notice. That’s enough.”
It’s surprising how he plans as though people will behave like rational adults. He plans for systems, not appetites. Which is virtuous… in theory.
“What if people don’t notice?” you ask.
He looks up at you calmly. “I know they might not. That doesn’t change what needs to be done.”
You watch him for a moment. He looks absolutely resolute. So utterly and unshakably devoted to doing the right thing, whether people thank him or not, that you feel compelled to be completely honest with him for once.
“I get it. Really. But that’s not how you win an election. People are fickle and ungrateful. They only vote for what they see.”
You let your gaze linger on his handwritten comments.
“I don’t want your vision to go unnoticed just because people can’t see it.”
He looks at you wordlessly. There’s a certain… softness? in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He gives you a small smile. Real. Uncalculated. It feels foreign but somehow you don’t mind it.
“I appreciate that,” he says. “I’m willing to listen. I just need to know we’re doing this cleanly.”
He tilts his head at you pointedly but not unkindly. Like he’s about to scold you for a behavior he’s already forgiven.
“No dirty tricks.”
A man who makes a profession of goodness in all things will come to grief among so many who are not good. Therefore if he is to remain the face of virtue, you’ll have to become the hand of necessity.
“No dirty tricks,” you repeat.
You lift your coffee cup towards him. He hesitates for a second before raising his own cup. Porcelain tapping porcelain.
“That would actually make a great slogan,” you joke lightly. “Down and dirty with Hotchner. What do you think?”
He lets out a sigh.
“We’re not calling it that.”
“What about Let’s erect a better future ?”
“Absolutely not.”
You take a bite out of your cookie.
“What would you call it then?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He glances back down at the page, as if the slogan has been sitting there the whole time, filed neatly alongside the rest.
“Something straightforward.” He softly taps his lower lip with his index. “Doing things the right way.”
The cookie tastes great. You chew it carefully. Because it’s clearly homemade and because he definitely uses nice chocolate. And also because you’re trying to keep yourself from laughing.
In your head, you can almost hear the faint, crackling audio of a 1980s campaign ad. Pure Reagan. Morning in America for people who consider a perfectly organized filing cabinet a spiritual triumph.
“Hotchner,” you say firmly. “This type of thing used to work in the 80s. People want sex now.”
He stiffens ever so slightly, a faint crease appearing between his brows. There’s a flash of pink in his ears.
“Mrs. Harrison has been a respectable building administrator for more than 30 years and she’s never had to resort to—”
“When did she first run?”
He stays quiet for a moment. Looks down at his campaign notes, then back at his coffee, as if history might have rearranged itself to be more convenient for his argument. It hasn’t.
“1984,” he admits sheepishly.
See ? You’re not being pretentious just for the sake of it. The world seems to enjoy proving you right.
“Do you think there’s a way to get Mrs. Harrison to endorse you?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “She believes in letting the election run its course without interference. She won’t endorse anyone.”
“Or maybe she told you that because she doesn’t like you.”
He blinks, caught-off guard. The idea that that old hag of an administrator might harbor a secret grudge against him seems to rattle his fundamental understanding of the building’s ecosystem. “Where did you get that idea?”
“I heard it’s because you tried to sleep with her husband.”
He stares at you blankly. His brows furrowed. His eyes narrowed. As if processing the unmitigated lunacy of what you just said requires the full cooperation of his entire face.
Then it happens.
A sharp, sudden giggle escapes him. He ducks his head, a hand coming up to cover his mouth but he can’t stop it. His shoulders shake and his laugh sounds way higher pitched than you expected but painfully sincere.
When he looks back at you, eyes bright and still crinkled at the corners, you think that he’s really beautiful. It selfishly makes you want to corrupt him.
“How do you even come up with stuff like this?” he asks, voice laced with amusement.
“Divine inspiration,” you answer with a proud grin.
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. Endearingly dramatic. How he treats building gossip with the same level of operational security as a national secret. Also… there’s only the two of you in his apartment.
“This stays between us but I think she and her husband are getting a divorce. That’s why she’s not running again.”
The sudden proximity might be a tactical error on his part. Or perhaps a calculated risk. You can feel the heat radiating off him. The steady solidness of his frame next to you. His thigh pressing against yours.
“Don’t tell me you actually slept with her husband.”
He chuckles again. “I don’t think I’m his type.”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. You wonder how he’d react if you told him that about 40% of the building (and that’s a conservative estimate) wants to fuck him.
Your thigh brushes against his — a small, calculated nudge. Nothing overt, but enough.
You might be the first general to zest a lemon. Strangely, there’s no exceptionally meritorious flour-sifting in a duty of great responsibility medal.
Which there should be. It’s a high-stakes chemistry operation performed in a cloud of fine white powder (not the fun kind) with no laboratory equipment.
This speaks volumes about the level of masochism Hotchner hides under those pressed shirts. It’s his government sanctioned place of controlled suffering. That’s why he pretends not to notice the way Mrs. Mitchell or even Mrs. Dillon look at him like he’s proofed just right. He’s too busy imagining getting whipped with a whisk (until stiff peaks form).
You glare at the counter. Flour everywhere. Sugar places it has no business being. A sink full of dishes that will still be there when you get back from your diplomatic visits. So much for doing this ‘the clean way’.
This is, in a very roundabout way, Hotchner’s fault. It makes you want to drag him into your kitchen by his leash tie and scold him, “Kneel. And explain the flour”.
Unfortunately, Hotchner doesn’t bend. He endures. Which means you’re the one who has to do the bending (…).
You must bend your mind to see the shadow before the blade. If you wait for the steel to bite, you are no longer a strategist but merely a casualty of your own blindness.
That is to say, the surest way to lose an election, is to wait for loyalties to step into the light, instead of seeking them out while they still hide in the shadows.
Most people do not know why they support something. They mistake momentum for conviction. Enthusiasm for foresight.
That is why you do not begin by asking people what they believe. Belief is ornamental. You begin by observing what makes them nervous.
If power has a natural enemy, it’s scrutiny. Consequently, it must be exercised through gestures that appear generous and conversations that seem incidental. Hence the baking. No one expects consequences to come wrapped in parchment paper and powdered sugar.
War, after all, is not only fought with weapons (though you think KitchenAids could be classified as small siege engines). It’s fought with timing. With preparation. With knowing which doors to knock on and which ones to leave closed until you know what waits behind them.
Take Mr. Haldeman in 314. Senior white house consultant. He’s so nervous about property value he’s currently trying to sell his own mother for a 7% increase in equity (call 1-800-MOM-FOR-CASH ! supplies limited — buy now, pay later!). Though to be fair, he’s always been really nice to you.
Or Mr. Agnew in 211. Rosen’s closest buddy (no homoerotic situation here you think. but then again who knows. Rosen’s allegedly married but no one has ever seen his wife). He’s the one who secured the restaurant deal. He most likely hopes no one is looking too closely at the fine print of the contract.
And of course, Hotchner’s 4th floor fanclub. Mrs. Dillon and Mrs. Mitchell. They’re probably nervous that Hotchner might one day stop wearing his tight suits that leave nothing to the imagination (so are you).
Mrs. Mitchell is that brand of particularly delightful old woman: she stares at his chest unashamedly while her husband glares at him like he’s the guy who’s going to steal his pension. At this point, Mr. Mitchell’s hatred of Hotchner might be the only thing keeping his heart beating.
Treating them the same would be inefficient. Efficiency requires classification (if Hotchner knew you’re applying federal-level organizational rigor to a plate of muffins, he’d probably whip his cream. you can almost see him, brows furrowed in concentrated approval, letting out breathless sighs of pleasure at your color coded spreadsheet of the building’s residents).
So you sort.
Not by conviction.
Not by enthusiasm.
But by vulnerability.
Because people are so governed by the urgency of their appetites, if you craft a sweet enough illusion, you will always find a victim ready to fall upon your blade.
You start with Agnew. Not everything he says is useful. Matter of fact, most of it is fluff. He thinks you’re still undecided so he’s trying to sway you. He doesn’t give you any campaign secrets—he’s too well-trained for that—but pride is a loud mistress.
“We’re thinking once we get the constructions started, it might do the building good to renovate the entire thing. Not just the façade. Don’t get me wrong, it has its charm, I’m not talking about getting rid of everything. Just… give it a fresher look. We’re still discussing things.”
‘The entire thing’ doesn’t mean just paint and lighting. It means assessments. Special fees. Emails with numbers bolded for emphasis.
In theory, it sounds like a great idea. Improve the building, raise the standards. Common mistake but no less forgiving. People rarely open their wallets without resentment. That’s probably why it’s still a discussion.
For a moment, it feels like striking gold. If you so much as utter the word ‘money’, Haldeman is already on his knees, tongue out, waiting for the check to clear.
You expect eagerness. Or at least something you can press on. Instead, when he opens the door, he's polite. Cordial. And completely closed.
You try the innocent approach. You let him explain things to you. You insist he take another muffin. You nod in the right places.
He’s pleasant. Generous with his time. What he isn’t is curious.
Curiosity belongs to the undecided. Haldeman is not undecided. He has already discussed things.
By the time you leave 314, you understand your mistake.
You’re not early. You’re late. If you’re too late here… you must also be too late elsewhere. You should’ve just gotten store-bought muffins.
You take the stairs to the 4th floor. You pass by 411, Rosen’s door, flip it off and mutter a quiet and petty “suck my dick” as professional courtesy. Then you keep going. Mrs. Dillon is down the hall.
Mrs Dillon’s gaze lingers long enough on the crumb of your muffins to tell you she knows exactly what temperature you baked these at, and that it was wrong.
While she dishonorably discharges you for your baking skills (she probably means well. she’s giving you advice on how to make them better next time. there won’t be a next time. the pastries taste better when you extort them from Hotchner anyway), you notice a framed picture of her late husband surrounded by a concerning number of doilies.
“He had a sweet tooth,” she says gently. “When we lived in our old house, I’d let pies cool on the window sills. By the time I came back from the garden, the edges were already gone. He had to taste, couldn’t help himself.” She shakes her head fondly at the memory.
You can almost see it: the sun on the windowsill, the little golden edges disappearing before the pie even had a chance to rest. Funny how something so small can leave a mark. And somehow, you can’t help but think of the building, its own aging façade waiting for care, the same way a neglected pie cools too long in the sun.
If anyone were going to notice a change in the building, it would be her. A whispered comment here, a casual remark there. Mrs. Dillon has been doing this for decades. She gossips not out of malice, but out of habit.
That makes her the perfect carrier for a little strategic information about renovations.
You give her a small smile.
“Are those for my dad?”
You consider your options carefully.
Too carefully.
Children are volatile. They do not respond to precedent, leverage or subtle intimidation. They do not reliably understand irony. And worst of all, they possess a disturbing loyalty to their parents that borders on fanaticism.
You run through scenarios.
If you speak to him like an adult, he’ll think you’re trying too hard.
If you speak to him like a child, he’ll think you’re weird.
If you ignore him, he’ll remember it forever and make your life hell.
Bribery briefly crosses your mind. Candy? Stickers? Something bright and untraceable. But then you picture it. Jack Hotchner, 10 (? or is it 11?) years old, sitting at the dinner table across from his father, calmly reporting how he made his first ever arrest while presenting the 5 dollar bill you tried to slip him as Exhibit A.
“Yes,” you say finally. “Is he home?”
“He’s in the kitchen.”
That’s it.
You stand there, papers in hand, as your brain immediately begins a frantic, high-speed autopsy of the interaction. You're searching for the subtext, but there is no subtext.
He’s in the kitchen. Is that a statement of fact or a territorial boundary? Does it mean ‘Go find him yourself’ or ‘Wait here until I’ve cleared you’?
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
He just walks back inside, leaving the door open for you.
The scent of garlic and something dangerously good wafts through the air. Jack sits at the counter, colored pencils splayed like an assault formation, focused on coloring something.
Hotchner stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, a dark apron tied loosely around his waist. He looks completely at ease. Competent. Precise. And yet entirely unbothered by the growing chaos of dirty dishes around him.
His forearms look so— okay no. You can’t do this in front of his kid. He looks very handsome while cooking. Let’s keep it at that.
His eyes flick over to you, catching you staring. He notices your little stack of papers.
“Are you staying for dinner?”
You barely have time to nod before Jack looks up from the counter and asks you “Can you help me with this?” waving a half-colored in ‘Vote for my dad’ poster.
You sit beside Jack, picking up a blue crayon. You don’t talk much. You don’t have to (thank god). Jack is a silent, focused worker (his little concentration frown-pout makes him look like his dad). You find yourself falling into a rhythm of filling in the block letters he’s outlined.
Dinner goes well. You listen to them talk about Jack’s science project and the puppies he saw at the park yesterday.
“Bedtime,” Hotchner says eventually.
There’s what you think is the usual half-hearted protest, a quick “it was nice to see you” from Jack and then the apartment goes quiet.
He returns a few minutes later, sleeves still rolled up and top button of his shirt (that you’re sure was buttoned) undone. He’s carrying two glasses of wine. He sets one in front of you and motions toward the stack of papers you’ve been protecting all evening.
The wine tastes nice. Red, deep, and expensive (or at least, more expensive than the ‘I need to get fucked up but vodka feels too hardcore’ blend you usually use to drown your tactical sorrows).
You find yourself swirling the liquid in the glass, watching it cling to the crystal. It’s a stupid gesture (pretentious and largely useless. maybe that’s rich coming from you. but hypocrisy is only embarrassing when it’s accidental). Still, it gives you an excuse to look at your own hands, and then, inevitably, at his.
It appears force is the most effective when it follows mercy. The world judges by the eye and not the touch, and while many witness the mask of your clemency, few ever feel the weight of your hand.
He’s absentmindedly tapping his index on his glass.
“So.. what’s all this?” he asks.
You let your eyes flick down to the stack of papers, then back to him. It’s a printed copy of the building’s amenity hours with several blocks of time highlighted in what you consider a persuasive shade of neon pink.
“The pool schedule,” you say.
He raises an eyebrow. Slips his tongue between his lips, wetting them with a slow, unconscious (he puts his kid to sleep and instantly dials up the whorishness?) deliberation.
“I’m not sure I’m qualified to give swimming lessons,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You don’t bother with the preamble about civic duty and all that jazz.
“I’m not looking for lessons. I’m looking for a show.” You take a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. “You go in the pool, you swim and you look… hot while doing it.”
He blinks. “I already run. I don’t see how changing my cardio routine affects the building’s administrative future.”
Truth is a fine wine served to a crowd that only craves volume. So as long as the cup is full, the few who taste the vinegar will be ignored.
“Because nobody sees you run,” you explain. “It’s about how you look doing it. You keep your lane, you pace yourself, you follow the rules. People will watch and think ‘if he cares this much about the pH levels of the pool, imagine how diligently he’ll handle the building’s affairs... and he has a nice butt’.”
He stares at you blankly. Like he’s magnanimously giving you the opportunity to retract your statement. If you go down for solicitation of a hot single dad, so be it.
He answers carefully, each word measured. Like he’s reading from a moral ledger no one asked him to consult. Firm but not angry (yet). There’s a trace of exasperation in the tilt of his head. A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ve decided to do this for the good of the building’s residents,” he begins. “Not to promote indecent behavior.”
He takes a sip of wine before he speaks. As if to help himself endure your frivolity. “My son lives here.”
What a fucking prude. The point is to make him look reliable, disciplined.
Hair slicked back, dark strands clinging to his forehead. Swim trunks hugging him just right. The reliable shape of his shoulders and thighs. Arms flexing with each stroke. Chest rising and falling from the effort.
The fact that he’d look sexy doing it is just a bonus.
“You’re never going to make it in politics like this. If you just show a bit of skin we’re guaranteed at least 7 votes.”
He sets down his glass, and leans back slightly. His fingers drum lightly on the table. His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow, thoughtful, scanning the papers again before flicking up to you.
For a long moment he says nothing. You watch the way his hands flex as he rests them on the table. The deliberate, measured way he exhales. Even in stillness, there’s tension in the line of his shoulders. The kind of quiet control that makes it obvious he’s weighing the absurdity of your plan against his own standards.
His lips part then close. You wonder for a second if you’ve finally broken his federal-software. You haven’t even said anything that outrageous. Maybe it’s the first time anyone’s told him he has a nice ass.
He tilts his head back, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The slow calculations of his mind written in the crease between his brows.
“Okay,” he finally decides. Flat but confident. Not a concession but a choice. “I’ll swim.”
Oh you’re about to get the show of a lifetime.
“Drop the shirt, let’s get to work.” You don’t even try to hide your excitement. It would go against your morals to pretend you’re not thrilled you finally get to see his tits. You’re already trying to calculate the exact refractive index of his skin under water.
“Drop the shirt?” he repeats dryly. He sounds vaguely threatening. His gaze flickers briefly to the shirt you're referring to, then back at you, his lips pressed into a thin line.
There is a certain perverse delight in knowing that while you’re mentally dressing him in too few square inches of high-performance Lycra and a strategic layer of chlorine, he’s building a case against you.
“You can’t just pick a lane and hope for the best. We need to go down to the pool.”
He glances down at his watch. Metal sitting nicely against his wrist, catching the light in a way that screams ‘I have a very healthy retirement fund’.
“It’s nearly eleven.”
“Exactly,” you counter. “No one will be there and we can properly check out which lane makes your arms look the best.”
He gives you a look that is terrifyingly steady—the kind of look that usually precedes a confession in a small, windowless room. It’s no wonder he’s getting paid the big bucks at his FBI job, he could probably get you to confess to assassinating JFK himself.
“You want to go to the pool. Now,” he summarizes, his voice dropping to a skeptical rumble. “To check… the lighting on my arms.”
“You said you were willing to listen.”
He sets his wine glass down on the table. Looks like he’s finally decided to stop entertaining your nonsense. He leans forward, closing the gap between you until you can see the slight amber flecks in his brown eyes.
“Do you actually expect me to believe this is about the campaign?” he asks. “Or are you just testing to see how much of your antics I’m willing to endure before I show you out?”
If you dip your hand into the waters of ambition, you must be prepared to plunge your whole body — the middle way leads only to ruin.
“Both,” you say.
The silence stretches. You’re half-expecting a metronome to start ticking somewhere, just to really commit to the tension.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t argue. That’s how you know he’s past skepticism and into assessment.
His gaze drops to his watch again. A reflex. Time, consequences, exits.
He turns his wrist slightly, as if confirming something only he can see, then looks back at you.
“You’re aware it’s late,” he says. Not a protest. A parameter.
You nod.
He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. The kind of breath he takes before stepping into a situation he already suspects he’ll have to control.
“All right,” he says at last. Calm. Decided. “We’ll take a look.”
Not because you’ve convinced him but because he’s decided to follow you far enough to find out what you’re actually after.
“Five minutes,” he adds.
The consistency is almost impressive. Even his exceptions obey rules. He isn’t giving in. He’s simply factored in your bullshit into his protocol. Made a slot for your chaos in his schedule, tucked neatly between put Jack to bed and maintain national security.
Chlorine-induced neurosis is an established inevitability, like gravity or your inability to behave around authority figures.
There’s something about pools at night. The chemical bite at the back of your throat (reminiscent of other things that could also hit the back of your throat), the echoing stillness, the way every sound feels amplified and slightly wrong.
The overhead lights hum softly, casting pale reflections across the water. Long white bands rippling over the tiled floors, broken only by the gentle bob of lane dividers floating in disciplined rows, like polite boundaries no one expects you to cross.
Hotchner steps in first. He pauses, assessing the place, to make sure nothing has gone sideways without his permission.
Then he takes off his shirt.
His chest is broad and solid. There’s a slight give to it. Faint freckles dot his skin, easy to miss unless you’re paying attention (which you are. unreasonably so). A few silver hairs at the centre of his chest catch the light when he shifts.
His shoulders roll once, muscle moving with quiet efficiency. He looks warm under the lights. Real. Inconveniently human.
You briefly think that the building should consider switching pool disinfectants. Chlorine feels… excessive. There must be gentler options. Ones that don’t immediately cause lapses in judgment and moral decay.
Your eyes drop. And that’s when you see the swim trunks.
They’re unmistakably old. Dark, utilitarian, cut to survive training. Time has not been kind to them. Or maybe it’s actually been too kind. They sit low on his hips, snug around his thighs in a way that feels unreasonably provocative for a man who insists on virtue and modesty in all things.
“Please tell me those aren’t government issued.”
He pauses, his hand hovering near the draw string. He clears his throat, a faint, uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck.
Do they give out standardized ‘New Agent’ kits when you graduate from the Academy ? Gun, badge, handcuffs, swim trunks and maybe a box of FBI-issued condoms. The packaging might even say: Property of the FBI. For tactical use only. Every drop of you belongs to the federal government.
“They are,” he admits resignedly. He looks down at the faded fabric for a moment, his thumb brushing the hem, as if he's mentally calculating the decades since he last stood on a Quantico pool deck. “These might actually be older than you are,” he adds in a low mutter, more to himself than to you.
“That’s so hot,” you blurt out.
He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his otherwise controlled expression. No comment. Just a subtle shake of his head before he steps to the edge and slides into the water.
He pushes off the wall, water hissing around him, and glides forward.
Each stroke is precise and deliberate. His forearms tighten as his hands slice through the water, veins catching the light. His chest rises and falls. His wet hair clings to his forehead and temples, the ends occasionally brushing the back of his neck as he turns to breathe. His calves flex with each push, sending tiny waves across the lane.
He breathes with deliberate timing, neck stretching smoothly as he tilts his head, lips parting just enough to draw in air. Every rotation of his torso is economical, calculated. No wasted movement, no strain, just absolute command of his body.
With each stroke, the water sprays lightly across his torso. You notice the subtle curve of his abdomen. The way his shoulders shift with effort, his arms cut through the water with effortless authority, his back fans out with every stroke. The deep groove of his spine acting as a shoreline for the water racing over his skin.
He swims a clean, powerful crawl. Watching Aaron Hotchner exert himself is like stumbling upon a highly specific, high-budget fetish porn: ‘Busty competent dad in skimpy swimsuit’.
He finally drifts to the edge, arms resting on the tile, water dripping from his shoulders. “Well?” he asks. “How’s this lane?”
You perch on the edge of the pool, leaning forward slightly. Honestly, you were more busy picturing him in less chlorinated contexts than paying attention to the lights and shadows.
“The lane is fine,” you murmur, your gaze dropping to the water beaded on his collarbone.
You lean just an inch too far.
A splash.
Water envelops you.
He catches you instinctively, one arm on your back, and you emerge drenched, your face inches from his.
He brushes your hair away from your face. You briefly consider pretending to drown. Maybe that could get him to give you mouth-to-mouth. And also, it’d be dramatic enough to make him forget how cliché this is.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
You nod quickly. The war general in your head is being court-martialed. This is basically a death sentence for your credibility.
He doesn't move to let you go. If anything, his grip tightens. Your hand clings to his shoulder. Might as well seize the opportunity to fondle him a bit while you can.
“Was that on purpose?”
Your chest is brushing against his, water dripping between you, and it’s impossible to say no without sounding ridiculous.
“What do you think?”
He runs his thumb across your lips. You feel the way his hand cradles your face.
“I think you’re playing some kind of perverted game,” he whispers.
He leans in until your nose brushes against his. His eyes drop to your mouth with a look that is equal parts clinical and starved.
“I’ve handled people more… inventive than you, sweetheart,” he adds quietly. “I’ll find out what you’re up to eventually.”
You don’t let him interrogate you further.
The kiss is bruising.
He isn’t gentle. He handles you with the same crushing efficiency he used to cut through the water. His hands remain locked on your face, his fingers threading into your wet hair to tilt your head back. Claiming every inch of space you’ve tried to occupy all night.
His weight pins you firmly against the tiled edge of the pool. You feel the grit of the grout against your back. And the unyielding soft expanse of his chest against your front.
He groans into your mouth. Your lungs start to burn.
His lips are firm, slick with chlorine. You vaguely think that he’s trying to devour you. His tongue traces the seam of your lips.
Every time you try to pull him closer, his grip on your face tightens, his thumbs anchored firmly at your jaw to keep you exactly where he wants.
He shifts, his thigh slipping between yours to hold you steady against the tile. Just as you reach for the hem of his stupid FBI trunks, he pulls back.
His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged. He lets his hand drop from your face, though his thumb lingers for one last stroke across your swollen lips.
“This lane seems good enough to me,” he rasps.
He lets go of you and begins to swim away. Entirely unbothered.
Kiss the hand of a new prince to raise him to power, and you have only marked your own cheek for the executioner.
You stay anchored to the tile, shivering as the cold air hits your soaked skin.
AAAAAH THANK YOUUUUU!!!!! im really happy you enjoyed it !!!! at the end of the day isn't hotch just a pair of tits with a badge ? #much to think about
genre : hotch is a true gentleman, strangers to ?, romantic noir-esque
summary : The 11:15 Shenandoah train cuts through a stormy night. A meeting between a lonely traveler and a detective with a gentleman’s manners and a guarded smile. In the rhythm of steel tracks and whispered confidences, the night becomes something rare: a moment that feels fated.
notes : a little ode to loneliness and train rides. dearest thanks to @ssa-dado <3
word count : 3.8k
A man sits on a bench.
The rain clatters against the metal of the train tracks. White smoke curls in the night sky.
The man lights a cigarette. He cups his hand over the flame.
You watch a droplet run down the palm of your hand.
It catches the light for a brief moment.
You sit alone.
The ink on your ticket is beginning to bleed. A clock ticks distantly. You tap your fingers on the bench.
The lightbulb on the schedule board blinks.
The man puts out his cigarette.
Raindrops ricochet across the puddles. Some of them land apart and disappear, lonesome, into the asphalt. For a moment, it's easy to imagine yourself in the same way.
Footsteps tap on the rainy concrete. It smells of steel and diesel. The man is carrying an umbrella. His coat has a red inner lining.
"Excuse me," he says. "Is this the platform for the 11:15 Shenandoah train?"
"Yes."
His hair is parted to the right. Dark strands neatly brushed back. He has pretty eyes. They’re a warm shade of brown.
Soft shadows caress the lines of his face.
"Would you mind if I sat with you?" he asks.
"Not at all," you answer.
He smiles lightly. A dimple on his cheek. He smells of tobacco and chocolate. The rain clings to one of his eyelashes. He’s beautiful.
"Quite the night," he comments quietly. The man looks at the sky. The light reflects on his eyes.
"I like the rain," you say.
Your eyes meet.
"So do I."
You give him a small smile. A little more genuine than merely polite. It’s strange. How terribly simple it is to forget what it feels like talking to someone.
"Where are you headed?" he asks.
Nowhere. Anywhere.
"Martinsburg," you say.
"Visiting family?"
"No. I’m going on an adventure," you reply.
The man tilts his head. He fixes his tie. The fabric slides against the leather of his glove.
"An adventure?"
"I know it sounds silly," you explain. "I just want to do something exciting."
Perhaps ‘adventure’ is not quite right. It’s a mundane escape from loneliness. You watch the ripples on the surface of a puddle.
Sometimes your days become silent and small. Like a puddle of rain on a shiny day.
"It’s not silly," he tells you. "I sometimes wish I could do the same."
"What about you?"
"Oh, nothing so special. I’m going to Queen City for work."
The locomotive drifts into the station. The metal thumps loudly. Smoke covers the night.
The man shields you with his umbrella. His gloved hand holds the wooden handle. You walk together towards the passenger doors. He offered to carry your suitcase along with his.
"May I ask for your name?"
You tell him. He nods. Rain falls on his coat.
"Aaron Hotchner," he says.
The station's speakers crackle. All aboard!
"Mister Hotchner," you call, "You're letting all the rain fall on you."
"It's no trouble at all. I'd hate to see you get wet."
His cheeks redden faintly when he says : "If it isn't too forward… just Aaron will do."
He steps on the train. The metal patters. He angles the umbrella forward, towards you. And holds out his forearm.
"Careful," he reminds you quietly.
You place your hand on his coat. The wool is warm. It's barely damp. You carefully get on the train.
Perhaps you're a little closer than what is truly proper. Your hand is still on his forearm. There is something awfully attractive about him. The calm tilt of his head. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
You pull your hand back.
"Sorry," you murmur. You're not sure if you're apologizing to him or to yourself.
He glances down to make sure you're steady. His lips are slightly parted. A little chapped. A little pink. Your eyes linger on them involuntarily.
"Thank you," you say.
His lips curve into a subtle smile.
The aisle is narrow. Rainy footprints on the linoleum. A heart drawn on the condensation of a window. The carriage lamps give off a warm orange light.
He walks ahead. As though to make sure nothing would trouble your way. Just enough distance to be polite but not distant. Your coat brushes past the tweed of the upholstered seats.
The seats are always in pairs. You suppose it’s the train’s way of reminding you that solitude doesn’t quite fit the arrangement of things.
He steps aside with a quiet nod, to let you sit down first. He takes your suitcase and lifts it up to the overhead compartment. You watch the wool of his coat follow the lines of his frame.
Aaron sits on the seat next to yours.
He takes off his gloves. Thick fingers with a faint dusting of hair on the back. His hands seem strong, capable, with a certain rugged grace. The thought of holding his hand is unsettlingly appealing.
You sigh quietly. Good heavens, you shouldn't even consider such a thing.
Yet perhaps this is the sort of foolish thought you've always harbored. It's not that it is wrong. It's that you've simply never dared to hold anyone's hand. He feels like an invitation to dare.
"What do you do for work?" you ask him.
He lifts his hand to brush back his hair. The dark strands cling to his fingers. He rests his head on the backrest. A drop of rain runs from his temple to his neck.
"I could tell you," he begins. "But I'd be curious to hear what you think." He smiles playfully. Enough to soften the line of his mouth. Not enough to give anything away.
There is something rather boyish in his expression. As though he'd forgotten how to take part in anything so innocently childish.
Your eyes wander.
His coat is thick wool, deep color, soft to the touch. Water beads on the shoulders, in tiny droplets. A crisp white shirt. His tie sits neatly at his collar. Proper tailored suit. Polished. Gentlemanly. He's quite dashing.
"Well," you answer as you study the stitching along his sleeve, "I'd guess you're some sort of businessman."
He laughs softly. The corners of his eyes crinkle. His laughter is warmer than you'd expect.
"Does it seem that way?" he asks.
"Am I wrong?"
"Completely," he says.
His fingers tap against the armrest lightly. The sound is muffled by the tweed.
"A lawyer then?" you try again.
He shakes his head. You hum in thought.
"Or… a magician?" you suggest with a small, teasing smile.
"I'm afraid I haven't quite mastered any tricks yet," he jokes, his eyes rippling with amusement.
"Won't you tell me before I embarrass myself further?"
"You've nothing to be embarrassed about," he tells you sincerely. He adjusts the knot of his tie. "I suppose I ought to confess… I'm a detective."
You think there is something in the manner he carries himself that promises intrigue. Inexplicably, you find yourself hoping he'll let you know. Not only about his work. But about him.
"How interesting," you murmur. "May I ask what sort of matters you work on?"
He turns his head towards the window. The vague blurry outlines of trees outside. Stretches of fields drowning in the night. The warm glow of the overhead light.
The quiet metallic hum of the train fills the silence.
"Mostly smaller jobs. The ones that don't make the papers. The ones that people don't talk about," he says, pensively. "But every now and then, I get dragged into something darker."
He glances back at you. His expression unreadable. "I wouldn't want to trouble you with anything unpleasant."
You look down at your hands. Pensively run down your thumb on the inside of your wrist.
"I suppose it isn't the sort of thing one would casually talk about," you say earnestly as you meet his eyes again. "Yet I can't help but wonder what kind of man takes on such work."
Perhaps there is something in your voice that whispers 'it makes me all the more curious about you'. Your eyes linger just longer than necessary. To tell him where your interest truly lies.
The silence lingers.
The train clanks over the steel rails. He leans in. He smells sweet. It's unexpected. For a gentleman who appears so serious, it seems almost out of place. Like a soft contradiction.
The conductor begins punching out tickets.
"You certainly have a way of making a man want to share," Aaron admits. He smiles gently at you. He looks the tiniest bit flustered. "I can't say I would mind indulging you."
He shifts back into his seat.
The rain still streaks down the window. The car is tranquil. An occasional rustle of paper. The low whistle of the wind outside.
The symmetry of the seats feels a little less lonesome.
The conductor moves down the aisle.
You hand him your ticket. He punches it out. The bleeding ink dried in a peculiar way.
"Would you care for a bit of distraction?" you propose.
"Gladly," Aaron agrees.
He lightly runs a finger over his lips.
"Someone on this train… has met with a rather untimely end," you say. You're trying to make your voice sound grave, but the mirth is clear as night on your face.
He tilts his head slightly. He studies you with a bemused glint.
"Am I supposed to solve the crime, then?" he asks.
You wonder if this seems too childish. He has a pleasant smile. You'd like to make him smile.
"You might find this a bit ridiculous, but… Let's say a passenger on this train has been murdered. Can you figure out who did it?"
His eyes soften for a moment.
"It isn't ridiculous. On the contrary, I find it quite charming," he reassures you.
He turns towards you. Your hands brush on the armrest.
He takes out a pen and a book from his suitcase. The spine is cracked. The cover creased and peeling at the edges. A testament to years of being read and reread.
"What are the facts?" he asks.
You hum in thought. Your eyes run over the carriage for a scene, for a clue.
A businessman sits at the front. His suitcase near his feet. Or one of the two men in front of him. Or maybe the woman sitting behind him. She keeps fiddling with her pearl bracelet. That might be too easy.
You can't say you've ever tried to put yourself in a murderer's shoes.
You twist the ring on your finger. Imagining how coldly someone could plan a crime. Part of you shudders at the thought. But another part can't help but consider what it would feel like to anticipate every step ahead of them.
Aaron is still looking at you. His gaze doesn't feel intrusive. It's quietly attentive. Like he is letting you hold a small secret between the two of you. The warmth in it makes your chest gently flutter. You don't entirely understand it.
You decide on your story.
"The victim is the gentleman sitting at the front. The bald one, a bit stout, dressed in very fine clothes," you begin quietly.
He leans in closer to you. Your shoulders press together. Neither of you move. As if it is natural. The simplest, most proper thing in the world.
"He was stabbed straight to the heart. No one entered or left the wagon," you continue.
He lowers his voice, careful and soft, so that only you can hear.
"Before we begin," he says, "I think it is only fair that you write down the culprit. That way, no one can cheat."
He hands you the pen. His fingers linger on yours. You write it down.
"You can only ask three questions," you decide.
"Very well," he responds.
He taps his finger on his chin. His eyes narrow. His eyebrows furrow, as he considers the scenario. You notice the line of his jaw. The slope of his nose. It strikes you as dreadfully handsome.
"I'd like to hear from the passengers," he announces. "What they saw… or perhaps what they wish to hide."
The man sitting right in front of your fictional victim also seems to be a businessman. But he's not dressed quite as nicely. He is eating a sandwich from the train's dining car. A few crumbs fall on his pants.
The other one is soundly asleep. His hat rests on his lap. His face squished against his knuckles.
"I'll start with the man in front of the victim," you answer. "He was too entirely absorbed in his sandwich. He hasn't noticed a thing."
Aaron chuckles quietly. "And the other?"
"He fell asleep the moment he boarded. He did however ask the victim for the time. He received no answer," you tell him. "He then asked the gentleman sitting at the back. He noticed that his watch was rather large for his wrist."
He nods. You smile. He listens with such care to your absurd game. It makes you terribly happy. How considerate he is.
"The gentleman with the too large watch says that he noticed the first man talking to the victim at the station, but nothing else," you continue.
You trace the creases of his book's cover with your finger.
"And the lady behind him hasn't seen anything either, even when she passed by the victim on her way to her seat."
"You're quite thorough," he comments with a mellow smile. "I dare say you've the makings of a fine detective yourself."
"Is that your polite way of saying I have a nose for trouble?" you joke. A little heat rises to your ears.
He shakes his head with a laugh. "Only if you mean the sort of trouble a man enjoys finding himself in."
You think you rather enjoy the sort of trouble you've found yourself in. He seems so serious, so methodical in every motion. But he's quite the charmer. It's disarming.
You fiddle with your bag.
"Would you like a cookie?" you offer. You're trying to sound casual. "I made them myself."
He accepts one with a small nod. He chews carefully.
He turns slightly toward you again. Perhaps a little closer than before.
"For my second question," he begins, "I'd like to examine the passengers' belonging. A man's pockets often tell more truth than his tongue."
"Does that mean I ought to search your pockets as well?" you tease him.
He pauses. A muted red colors his cheeks. It's barely noticeable. Unless one is looking. Which you are.
"I— well," he replies, with a courteous, almost shy smile, "I suppose that would only be fair. Though I can’t promise my pockets contain anything worthy of your investigation."
He really is endearing. You smile at him.
"The first man has an uncashed cashier's check in his pocket," you start. "The one next to him refused to have his belongings looked through. As well as the gentleman sitting in the back."
He runs his thumb over his index finger as he listens to you. The incandescent light catches on his knuckles.
"And the lady has a letter opener with her," you finish.
He lightly touches his chin as he considers your list.
"And here I thought you were merely reporting the facts," he remarks with a teasing lilt in his voice. "Tell me, are you sure you aren't guiding me toward a conclusion of your own design?"
You notice how gently his eyes follow you as he takes in your reactions. It makes you feel warm. In the most agreeable way.
"You'll have to decide for yourself," you answer with a quiet laugh.
He shakes his head. "I see how it is," he responds with an amused hum.
He rests his face in the palm of his hand. Facing you. A white eyelash above his left eye.
A few crumbs cling to his lips.
"Aaron," you call.
It feels strangely intimate. You normally wouldn't speak a man's name so easily in polite company. But he did say you could.
He looks at you. A brief rise of his eyebrows. A faint smile on his lips. You hope it's because he's pleased you're using his name.
"You have a little something," you say, pointing to the corner of your own lips.
He tries to mirror you but misses.
It would be so easy to reach out and brush it away. But everyone knows that you only touch a man's face when you're being unmistakably forward.
"A touch higher," you help him.
He wipes the crumbs away in a careful motion. "Thank you," he says softly.
He clears his throat. And fixes his collar. More out of habit, you think.
"I'd like you to tell me if anything, or anyone, moved around the victim, as my last question."
"The man with the too-large watch passed by him," you say. "And the lady did as well, on her way to her seat."
You think for a moment. "The first man — the one with the sandwich— got up once to throw something away."
Your finger trace the edge of his book idly. "And the only thing of the victim's that was moved was his suitcase."
You finish speaking. He goes quiet.
He's thinking. You can see it in every small detail.
The way his brows draw together just slightly. It suits him. As if his face is used to the frowning.
The subtle shift of his mouth as though he's weighing two answers at once.
His fingers tap against his knee.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he inquires.
"Go ahead."
He takes out a pack of cigarettes. Chesterfields. A red line on the top. His lighter is a shiny silver. Polished metal.
A flicker of his lighter. A faint cloud of smoke.
You're not particularly fond of the smell. The orange end rests lightly between his lips. He turns his head to exhale.
"The first man," he decides. "The one with the sandwich."
He smiles confidently as he goes to take the book from your hands. You pull it out of his reach.
"And why is that?" you ask easily.
He exhales another thin trail of smoke.
"Well," he begins, "you made the lady far too obvious. A letter opener, passing by the victim, being nervous… it's all very tidy. Too tidy."
He settles comfortably into his reasoning. Leans his head back into the seat. "You don't strike me as the sort who'd give a solution wrapped up so neatly."
You try not to smile.
"That doesn't mean it's the first man."
"It doesn't, indeed. But he would've had access to a knife from the dining car," he explains. He taps his cigarette against the ashtray. "And when he got up to throw something away, he could have easily disposed of it in the food bin."
You nod. Impressed despite yourself.
"He could also have taken the check from the victim's suitcase."
"And the other two men?" you challenge. "Why not one of them?"
He tilts his head, amused. "The fellow who fell asleep? You didn't look at him once when you described him. So I knew he wasn't my culprit."
He leans in a little. The smoke makes you crinkle your nose discreetly. "And as for the man with the too-large watch… you seemed far too entertained every time you mentioned him. I could see he wasn't meant to be guilty."
"That could have been on purpose," you counter.
"It could have been."
You wonder if his attention lingered because of you, not merely because of the game.
He stubs out his cigarette. And carefully reaches for the book again. His eyes on yours. Asking for your permission. You nod again.
He traces your handwriting with his finger gently. You feel a small thrill at the deliberate way his touch pauses on the letters. It's only the book.
It's only the book.
He looks up. A tender smile on his face. His eyes glint a bit. A spark of quiet triumph.
"I believe the case is solved," he declares. He sounds calm. But there is an undertone of amusement in his voice.
He leans back. Lets the moment linger. Savoring the small victory. Not over you. But over the puzzle you both enjoyed.
"Your clues were awfully clever," he adds.
"Thank you," you say softly. "I'm glad you had fun."
Distant lights blur into strokes of silver. The rain rattles outside the window. The tweed of your seat feels warm.
It isn't the sort of silence you've grown used to filing with polite thoughts and polite smiles.
It feels easy. Shared.
You're the one who starts the next conversation.
A simple question about his favorite season. He answers. You find yourself asking another.
You hardly recognize yourself. This small forwardness, this willingness to let someone into the softer corners of you.
You tell him you like autumn the best. The colors, the cool air, the way the world seems to sigh.
You don't confess you also like it because people seem less surprised to see someone walking alone. Because solitude folds into the season more gently.
Sill, you imagine he'd understand, if you ever say it.
He asks what music you favor. You say you prefer orchestral pieces. You like how the cello sounds.
He says he likes rock 'n' roll.
You raise an eyebrow in surprise.
Rock 'n' roll. For a man who appears to iron his collar with military precision.
He notices your surprise and laughs bashfully.
You tease him —lightly, warmly— because it feels safe to do so.
You like the way he colors just a touch at being caught out. The shade of a leaf surrendering to fall.
You tell him he doesn't look like the sort who'd enjoy anything so unruly. And he answers that everyone's allowed their little surprises.
The train begins to slow. The conductor stands near the passenger door.
Aaron neatly writes down something in the cover of his book.
He picks up your suitcase before you can reach for it.
The corridor sways weakly.
You stand close. Close enough to feel the warmth of his sleeve against yours.
He hands you the book.
"Perhaps it's meant to stay with you a little longer," he says.
You take it.
You hesitate before opening it. His handwriting seems as certain as he is.
You smile at him gently.
A small breath leaves him. A relieved laugh, or perhaps something else entirely.
"It's one of my favorites," he tells you. "I hope you might enjoy it as much as I have."
The brakes sigh.
The doors open. The rain softly hits his umbrella.
He walks with you to the platform.
"It was a pleasure," he says.
It feels like a promise.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
He returns to the carriage. No haste. No backward glance. Only a man who knows you'll look after him as he goes.
thank you !!!!!!!!!! honestly i sometimes get worried that there's too much description so this really really means a lot !!! im so glad you enjoyed it (and also the watergate one!!!! i had so much fun writing it but also i kind of started going insane reading fbi reports lol) !!!! thank youuu again <3333
genre : s11 hotch, competence and authority kink, lots of tension, political scheming as foreplay, pretentious as usual
summary : There is no particular advantage in behaving well when dealing with Aaron Hotchner. It only makes it easier for him to assume you will stay predictable. You have no intention of obliging that assumption. And he has begun to recalibrate his depth to match the wreckage you’ve set in motion. After all, if he’s going to be the anchor, the least you can do is make sure he gets wet.
notes : i finally finished this after reaching a state of locking in that can only come from procrastinating serious academic work. huge thank you to @ssa-dado for basically being the co-pilot for my brain. this story wouldn't have half its heart (or its floor plan) without you. <3
word count : 8.9k
Many have held the opinion, and still do, that there is a specific, clinical sort of sobriety that follows an act of profound indiscretion.
It isn’t as simple as a hangover, and it’s far more insulting than mere regret.
Few spectacles are more pitiful and strange than a calculated descent into the water that ends with you pinned and manhandled by a loser in government-issued swim trunks.
You can reframe it as impulse. Blame anatomy. Call it strategy gone momentarily soft (or hard?).
The chlorine still stings.
To write something useful for discerning minds, it would be more fitting to seek the truth of the matter rather than imaginary conceptions where you would have actually gotten to taste the salt on Hotchner’s neck or map the silver hairs of his chest with your tongue.
The elevator ride down to the maintenance level is a silent meditation on the necessity of graft and the manner of pretending you have never once been wet or breathless in a building facility.
Grant is a man of limited horizons, which makes him remarkably easy to manage, if somewhat tedious to tolerate. Unlike Arthur—the doorman—, Grant lacks the imagination for true craftiness. You don’t want him to be more complicated than that.
Arthur understands the artifice behind a folded bill. He treats every confidence as a counterfeit coin, held until the hour of the greatest trade, when the desperation of others makes it gold.
By contrast, Grant is merely a man who enjoys the payout. To him, a bribe is just a line on a ledger he keeps in his head. A mechanical exchange devoid of the “professional courtesy” that makes Arthur so reliable.
You get the distinct impression that Grant likely approaches sex the same way. Entirely forgettable and with his eyes firmly fixed on the clock until the job is done.
If you didn’t already sound maladjusted, you certainly do now. Speculating about the sexual stamina of a building superintendent in a damp basement. It’s a symptom, clearly. Of needing to get laid. Urgently.
Even more so when the moment you think of a ‘release’ your mind goes to Hotchner. You find yourself wondering if he’s as disciplined in the dark as he is in the light (or maybe he’s a real freak who insists on being able to see everything). The way he had you pressed against him, all steady hands and immovable intent. You think he’d be looking at you instead of the clock. Precise, patient, eager.
Maybe they’re doing a deal on vibrators for spring.
The transaction is brief. You place the envelope into Grant’s dull, expectant palm with sterile efficiency — this month’s ‘consultation fee’ for your little alcove. It disappears into his desk with practiced ease. A man of few words and even fewer scruples.
He briefly asks about the campaign with a pointed look that clearly spells out ‘Should I start looking for another job?’.
It’s a fair question. You’d say your relationship is a sort of symbiotic parasitism — both of you feed on the building’s decay. But you can survive the death of the host. Sure, it’d be a pain in the ass, but you’d work around Rosen’s grandiose bullshit if he did win. Grant, however, is rooted. He can’t move his pension to the boiler room.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” you tell him.
If you were worried about the campaign, you wouldn’t be making jokes about his pocket money.
You press the elevator button and watch the doors slide open.
There is a restorative boredom in descending to a place where your influence is a matter of simple arithmetic. Where men take what you hand them and ask no further questions.
The doors close. Grant stays.
There’s probably some stupidly convenient metaphor in there.
The symbolism of the ride is quickly shoved aside for something much more literal. Taped to the side wall is one of Rosen’s campaign posters. His face, earnest and painfully collegiate, stares back at you. Or it would have, if someone hadn’t gotten busy with a black sharpie.
“DUMB CUNT” scrawled in blocky letters and a dick drawn across his forehead (they even took the time to include the veins).
It’s crude, honestly ugly and absolutely delightful. You can’t help but appreciate such a loud and public middle finger. It has a certain vulgar integrity that the rest of this place usually lacks.
At the lobby, the elevator chimes a bright, clinical sound that cuts through your admiration of the hairs on the sharpie balls.
Hotchner is there, charcoal suit compressing his frame under layers of professional-grade stoicism and cotton. This particular shade of gray really suits him. The color of a cell. Like a man who has built a fortress of rules around himself. You find a sick pleasure in knowing you’re currently rattling the lock of his cage (are you?).
Standing beside him is David Rosen. The color of his suit irrelevant.
They aren’t talking. They’re standing two feet apart, radiating a mutual prosecutorial coldness.
You see Rosen’s expression shift from silent jurisdictional contest (which is really just a well-tailored dick-measuring exercise) to civic seduction the moment he notices you.
Rosen’s smile is a polished, terrifying thing (it’s not really. it just sounds better that way). The kind of expression a man wears when he’s about to ask for your vote or your indictment. There’s a slight tension in his jaw, his eyes firmly set on yours, refusing to track upward toward the inked dick crowning his forehead.
“Good evening,” he greets you politely. He knows acknowledging the penis in the room would only give the vandal a seat at the table. So instead, he leans into the absurdity. “I was just telling Aaron here that we’re hosting a small trial night for the restaurant in a couple of weeks. I’d love for you to come.”
Aaron is a currency Rosen doesn’t actually hold, yet he spends it freely anyway to suggest a familiarity that isn't there. It’s like he’s picking Hotchner’s pockets, stripping away his robes of office, turning him into a mere neighbor.
There’s a reason you call him Hotchner.
Aaron would be too domestic, too soft—it would imply you’ve already won, or worse, that you’re his equal in a way that bores you. Hotchner preserves the distance a proper siege requires. It keeps him on a pedestal so that when you finally knock him off, the tumble is much more spectacular. Also, he’s definitely earned the mouthful of his name.
Hotchner doesn’t flinch at Rosen’s informality. He doesn’t correct him. That would be defensive, insecure. And Hotchner is never defensive.
He simply offers you a cordial nod.
A minimal gesture. Poised. Efficient. Utterly proprietary.
“Sure,” you answer casually.
Rosen turns slightly toward you. To suggest that you are, currently, the more relevant audience, without excluding Hotchner either.
“We’re bringing in a chef from New York,” he says. “It’s called Pisellone. Nothing permanent yet, just an opportunity for everyone to see what the space could be.”
There’s a moment—brief but nonetheless significant—where you consider the possibility that this entire campaign is an elaborate practical joke.
You glance at Hotchner.
Nothing.
Not even one of his stupidly restrained twitches. There isn’t the faintest suggestion that he is aware he is currently standing in an elevator being pitched a restaurant named, essentially, large pea(nis).
Of course he isn’t.
Hotchner does not live in a world where things are accidentally obscene. Everything is either intentional or irrelevant. And since Rosen said it with a straight face, it must be the latter.
“The building has potential,” he adds. “It just hasn’t been fully… realized.”
Unrealized. It’s a careful word. One that flatters the listener by insinuating they deserve more.
He doesn’t oversell it. That’s what makes it effective. He lets the implications do the work.
You hum lightly, as if considering it.
Mostly to keep your mouth occupied. Because if you open it, there’s a very real risk you might ask him if the tasting menu comes with a measuring tape or if they expect you to just take their word for it and open wide. (not that men have ever been particularly honest about dimensions.)
“Initial feedback has been positive,” Rosen continues, mistaking your silence for interest rather than restraint. “Small scale but very well received.”
Obviously. It takes a certain caliber of balls to tell an obnoxious chef to his face that the peas taste like shit.
Hotchner tilts his head slightly, neutral but deliberate. “Reception can be misleading. People are polite when they don’t want to offend.”
Didn’t you just say that ?
Here he is, the great moral arbiter of The Florentine, plucking the cynicism right out of your hands and presenting it as his own.
It’s offensive. And lazy. Also it’s the most intimate thing he’s done yet (besides having his tongue down your throat).
Get your own jokes, loser.
Rosen leans just slightly, a smooth smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve found that most people are actually quite hungry for something real,” he says. “They just need someone to set the table.”
There’s a subtle shift in his posture when he says it. It feels… practiced. Like he’s used to rooms where people don’t agree with him immediately. Used to winning them anyway.
Rosen’s gaze returns to you. “What do you think?” he asks.
There it is. The real question. He’s not asking about the restaurant, about policy or logistics. He’s asking about your alignment.
Hotchner tilts his head, barely perceptible, eyes flicking to you. Just enough to note the slight pull at the corner of your mouth.
“I’m not sure,” you say pensively.
To rise to the highest floor, you have to become the counterweight—silent and unseen— falling quietly so something else can be lifted. No one interferes with a destination they can’t see.
“I hope you’ll give it a fair look,” he says easily. “That’s all I’m asking.”
A fair look. As if all three of you aren’t currently engaged in a silent, collective agreement to look anywhere but his forehead.
“That shouldn’t be too hard to do,” you reply.
Hotchner’s eyes flick briefly to the poster, then back to you.
His stare is meticulous, slow, assessing. Every tiny twitch, every inflection in your posture seems catalogued and weighed. He’s searching for something. Tracing the ink he’s convinced is staining your conscience.
There’s the faintest hint of a smile, a ghost of amusement. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t just look at you: he dissects you. It’s the kind of heavy, unyielding focus that suits an interrogation room.
And yet, it’s ridiculous how much it turns you on. It’s hot, but also absurdly entertaining. You consider flipping him off just to see how he’d categorize your middle finger in his meticulous little mental file.
Rosen lets out a small breath, like that mattered more than he expected.
There’s a brief, unguarded hesitation before he answers.
“I’m glad,” he says. “I’d rather you see it than just take my word for it.”
(…)
Earnest. Or cowardly. You suppose the distinction depends on the outcome of the election.
You think that this ride is taking a strangely long time. Like the internal mechanics have decided to synchronize with the social friction inside the elevator.
This all feels like a very awkward threesome. The kind where no one is horny (debatable), everyone is fully clothed and there’s a PowerPoint presentation on ‘Optimal Positions and Angles for Mutual Satisfaction’.
You’re still trying to figure out if this counts as foreplay or a hostage situation.
The doors slide open with a soft chime.
No one’s unzipping anything after all.
You step out first.
Behind you, Rosen offers a parting remark. Something smooth and courteous, entirely forgettable in its exact wording but precise in its intention. An open door disguised as good manners.
As the elevator begins to hiss shut, you catch one last glimpse of him. He stands perfectly straight, a cordial smile on his lips, chin tilted with a touch of DC gallantry (you don’t suppose he’s aiming the charm at Hotchner).
It’s almost moving, in a pathetic way. Like watching a captain determined to go down with his sinking ship (technically the elevator is moving up towards the 4th floor but who’s keeping track of that), proudly facing the horizon while the hull is so clearly compromised.
He holds himself with rigid, upright dignity, helming a vessel that’s currently more shaft than ship.
A memorable mast, at least.
Hotchner doesn’t move right away. He stands there, still, as if replaying the last few seconds and adjusting for variables.
Then he looks at you.
“You’re very creative.”
He doesn’t say it like a compliment. He says it the way a judge reads a verdict. Heavy and final and devoid of any room for appeal.
It’s a fascinating habit of his. Every observation he makes about you sounds less like an opinion and more like a formal conviction. He doesn’t think you’re creative. He’s reviewed the evidence, consulted whatever statutes govern human behavior and pronounced you guilty of the charge.
He stands there, his hand casually resting on his hip (the leather of his belt pulls just enough for his thumb to dig into the slight softness of his middle. his posture is somewhere between ‘he’s about to scold you for your lack of decorum’ and ‘he’s about to unbuckle his belt to give you a better model for your next act of vandalism’. both options work just fine for you), as the self-appointed authority on your character.
It’s a shame he’s so confident because he’s built his case on baseless assumptions.
“I try.”
He doesn’t blink. He’s the type of man who waits for the evidence to speak for itself. The type who takes great pride in a report built on concrete and hard facts.
He takes a slow step towards you. He smells like coffee. Faint creases at the corners of his eyes, slight folds where his tie knots around his neck. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Like he’s both impartial dealer and calculated gambler.
He’s not trying to intimidate you, not exactly. But he’s trying to make you give yourself away.
“You didn’t just try,” he says calmly. “Permanent Sharpie. Fine-point. You waited for the hallway to clear, timed the cleaners’ rotation perfectly.”
He pauses for a moment. Waiting for you to give up and show your hand.
“You hit the precise spot where Rosen couldn’t ignore it without acknowledging the… anatomy. Which is exactly the sort of thing you’d find amusing,” he adds, voice low and measured, each word deliberate.
He’s guessing.
You can tell by the way he’s looking at you—with a sharp, hungry attentiveness.
He’s wound tight, his gaze narrowing as if he’s trying to physically pull a confession out of your expression. If he actually had the facts, he’d be leaning back, letting the weight of the law do the work for him.
But, he’s looming. His entire focus pinned on you with a desperate, clinical precision. That actually really suits him. Desperate enough to call your bluff without proof, just to see if you’ll fold for him.
“If I’d been the one to draw the dick,” you say lightly, “I’d at least have put it on his mouth. Might have gotten him to shut up that way.”
Hotchner blinks. Just once. He guiltily glances at your hands.
He doesn’t say anything at first. His thumb hitches against his belt.
“You’re…” he starts, then stops. Unsure if he should finish, because finishing it might acknowledge he misjudged you.
He clears his throat, his expression flattening into that familiar, deadpan mask of federal indifference. He’s trying to retreat to the moral high ground, even if the terrain is crumbling under his feet.
“He’s married,” he says clipped and precise. Like he’s citing regulation instead of answering you.
You watch him shrink back into his rules. The careful, procedural logic that always makes him feel in control. It’s the same instinctual bureaucratic modesty that keeps him buttoned-up, polite, and quietly prudish (definitely prudish). In short, tiny balls the size of peas, hiding behind a lectern of protocol.
(rich coming from a man who has one failed marriage under his belt.)
“Like no married man has ever sucked dick,” you counter.
He looks simultaneously flustered and mildly exasperated.
“Fair enough.”
You almost picture him rifling through some old 1970s Bureau handbook of Prohibited Vulgarities. Frantically trying to index your sentence. In his mind, ‘fuck’ is likely a level one infraction (worthy of a stern look and maybe a curt “let’s focus please”) while ‘dick’ is a level five breach of departmental propriety.
“My god, you’re so prudish I’d seriously consider the possibility of you being a virgin if you didn’t have a kid," you say, your voice dripping with mock-wonder.
You pause, tilting your head as if a terrifying new thought has just occurred to you. "Hold on. He is your—”
“That’s enough. You’ve made your point.”
You glance once more toward the elevator, where Rosen and his unfortunate poster have long since gone under (or over, for those keeping track).
“For the record,” you add lightly, “whoever did it has excellent artistic instincts.”
His jaw tightens. Just slightly.
You let yourself enjoy it for a second longer than necessary before turning away.
It is in the nature of things that you can never escape one set back without running into another.
“No. I won’t do that.”
The sound of crystal on wood is final. A gavel coming down. He sets his scotch glass on the desk with deliberate care.
“No ? It’s efficient. It’s clean.”
“Clean isn’t the word I’d use,” he says seriously. “It’s sanitized.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
The finality with which he says it is infuriating.
A wise counselor is the mirror wherein a ruler’s intellect takes its true form. To serve a fool is a short labor. To be bound to the wise is the mark of a power that has mastered both the court and its own nature.
But there is a specific kind of arrogance in a ruler who mistakes his own rigidity for wisdom. By clinging to the ‘cleanliness’ of his methods, Hotchner isn’t preserving the court. He’s stalling it. He’s letting a perfect opportunity rot on the vine because the soil it grew in wasn't to his liking.
It is a foolish, terminal sort of piety. The kind that leaves a man with a clean conscience and an empty throne. And the kind that’s fucking annoying.
“You’re arguing semantics ?”
He sighs. His brows furrowed into their perpetual line of tired concentration.
He takes a slow, heavy sip of his scotch. As he pulls the glass away, his tongue slips past his lips. Catching the stray, amber drops with a soft, unconscious precision.
“I’m arguing intent.”
“How is that relevant ?” you ask with an almost fascinated curiosity.
It’s a real wonder he gets anything done when he’s so focused on the sanctity of the process.
You can almost picture him in a standoff, refusing to breach the door because the search warrant’s font wasn't quite authoritative enough. Or trying to talk a serial killer into a voluntary surrender through the sheer, transformative power of friendship and a firm handshake. (did anyone tell him G-man stands for Government not Good ?)
He leans forward. His shadow stretches along the mahogany desk.
“You’re not asking me to give Mrs. Polk legal advice out of the goodness of your heart,” he says.
His voice is flat. Devoid of the heat that usually accompanies an accusation.
“You’re trying to make her dependent on the process.”
He picks up his glass again, but he doesn't drink. He just rotates it slowly watching the way the amber liquid washes up the sides like a leaden sea. “A simple favor that becomes a favor owed.”
“A ‘simple favor’ is a loose thread,” you say leaning back in the heavy leather chair across from him. You hook a thumb through one of your belt loops. “Sure, she’ll be grateful for a couple of weeks. She’ll tell the other neighbors that you were a real sweetheart. She might even get her kid to make you a nice drawing.”
Hotchner’s gaze remains fixed on the glass, his expression unreadable, though the muscle in his jaw tightens.
“But sooner or later it’ll turn to ‘that damn Hotchner thinks he’s running this ship,” you continue. “You’re the saint, she’s the charity case. Eventually, that gratitude just turns into resentment because she has no way to even the score.”
He finally looks up. His eyes are dark, hooded by the fatigue of the day, but there’s a sharp, judgmental clarity in them that feels like a tidal pressure. A finger drifts to his temple, dropping like an anchor to steady the heavy roll of his thoughts.
“It’s not about making her dependent,” you add, gesturing vaguely with one hand as if dismissing a minor technicality. “It’s about mutual necessity. You go and play wise and sexy pro-bono lawyer, she votes for you. It’s a stable knot. You both stay in the boat because if one of you rocks it, you both drown.”
At least, that’s the version that fits neatly enough to use.
He hums quietly. Runs his index along the rim of his glass. The pad of his finger drags against the crystal, catching slightly on the condensation before gliding over the smooth, cold edge.
It’s a methodical, circular motion. The kind a man makes when he’s tracing the perimeter of a problem he’s already solved. The cotton of his blue dress shirt rustles. A sharp, clean sound like a sudden swell breaking against the shore
“Is that why you spent so much time talking to Mrs. Dillon the past few days?” he asks. “Necessity?”
“I have a thing for the elderly.”
Obviously.
A tiny, incredulous huff of air escapes his nose.
You glance up at him, allowing your gaze to linger just a moment too long. Taking in the silver strands at his temples. The lines etched into his face.
There’s a quick shake of his head as though trying to dismiss the idea before he goes back to his response, not missing a beat.
“You didn’t stumble onto Mrs. Polk’s problem. You went to Mrs. Dillon to get a read on the building’s undercurrents.”
“And that’s a bad thing because…?”
This idiot is an even bigger gossip than Mrs. Dillon. He just doesn’t have the ridiculous Golden Girls perm to go with it.
“It’s a search and seizure. You’ve been auditing the neighbors, looking for a crisis you could own,” he deduces calmly.
You shrug.
You wouldn’t call this a tactical loss. You didn’t exactly have to interrogate the woman. Mrs. Dillon is already a loyal partisan.
She didn’t surrender the floor plan of Mrs. Polk’s legal misery because she’s a loose-lipped civilian. She gave it to you because she’s a weathered sentry who recognized a fellow soldier.
His finger taps one last time against the glass. The crystal glints slightly from the light of his desk lamp.
“You wouldn’t be asking me to talk to Mrs. Polk unless you were sure it would go the way you want it to,” he surmises confidently.
You hold his gaze, not flinching. There’s no hesitation, no vertigo, no mal de mer.
All things considered, this path isn’t really a surprise of Fortune, but the final sum of a ledger already written by your own hand.
“How would you make sure of that ? That you’d get the exact result you want,” he continues. He isn't looking for an answer—he’s showing you he already has it.
A part of you appreciates how neatly he’s sounded the depths of your designs. He was never going to be satisfied with the view from the surface. And that’s exactly why you chose him.
“You’d create a situation where the obvious solution fails so the alternative, me, looks necessary.”
He’s really milking this grand reveal isn’t he ? You didn’t think Hotchner had such a propensity for the theatrics yet here you are.
If he’s this committed to the drama, he might as well go all the way. Get a few wigs, play all the roles. He could be himself as the lead, then swap into a gray bob for Mrs. Dillon, and a floral headpiece for Mrs. Polk. A regular Shakespearean troupe of one.
Oh! And a pair of glasses for Rosen.
“You made Mrs. Polk go talk to Rosen first. Because you wanted to make sure he’d reject her before you even asked me.”
He leans in slightly, his fingers brushing against the edge of your chair. The fabric of his shirt straining just enough over his broad frame, the stiff collar pulling taut as his tie dangles closer to you. It brushes against your thigh.
“You knew he wouldn’t be able to help her. He’s a sitting prosecutor, he’s legally barred from consulting on private cases,” he says, his voice low and matter-of-fact, his gaze never leaving yours.
There is a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Or something close enough that you’re willing to call it that. The kind a strategist offers a rival who has finally forced them to play their best hand.
People think there’s some sort of treatise on how to come up with this sort of thing. ‘Your Magnificence, if You deign read these lowly pages, You will find all that is necessary to subjugate the people to Your will.’
Creating controlled inconvenience that resolves into order is hard fucking work. But rigidity is the precursor to failure. Even a well-crafted scheme has to be treated as disposable the moment it becomes a liability.
You let the silence stretch. Your mind racing. Recalibrating.
You cock your head and give him a genuine smile. “So what’s the situation here ? You don’t have a dick?”
His lips press together, and you see that familiar flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “This isn’t funny.”
You lean forward. “I’m serious man. Where is it?”
He lets out a long, heavy sigh—the kind of exasperated sound that seems to vibrate through his entire frame, from the collar of his shirt down to the fingers still braced against your chair.
You’re half hoping he’s going to grab your hand and shove it into his pants to prove you wrong.
“Did you leave it in your other suit?”
He leans back slightly, his shoulders straightening. His tie falls back right between his tits on his chest. His jaw tightens just enough for the sharp line of it to become more pronounced, and the muscles in his neck shift as if to hold back an angry retort. He’s trying to keep his composure, but there’s that tiny flare of frustration in his eyes.
“Is this your version of a white flag?” he asks.
You smile and grab the lower part of his tie to wave it as a makeshift flag.
To be at ease in the face of ruin is not the mark of a fool, but of one who has already trimmed the sails of their own success.
“Sure.”
You run your finger softly along the tie’s little white square pattern. Absentmindedly pulling it closer to you.
“You know, I think I have another idea. Mrs. Polk could go to Judge McNamara. In 231,” you begin. Your gaze flickers to his, testing the waters, knowing full well what you're doing. You're not really offering him a way out.
“He’s retired now. He might not be able to take on the full case, but he can point her in the right direction. It’s a safe bet for her.”
You’re offering him a solution that lets him stick to his principles while still showing Mrs. Polk that he's capable.It’s not the most elegant route but it will have to do.
The silk of his tie feels nice under your fingers. Sort of like a leash.
Hotchner looks down at your hand, his pulse visible at the hollow of his reddening throat as you keep the tie taut. He senses the trap—he has to.
He lets out a breath. A short, sharp exhale that brushes against your forehead. He doesn't pull the tie back.
“McNamara is a fair man,” he says, his voice low and cautious. As if he’s weighing the cost of agreeing to your ‘surrender’. “He’ll give her an honest assessment of the board’s bylaws. It’s a sound suggestion.”
He pauses, his hand finally coming up to cover yours. His palm is broad and warm. His skin’s slightly calloused.
His eyes search yours carefully. Amber specks caught in an undertow. He gives you a small nod and gently but firmly pulls your hand away from his tie.
It goes without saying that McNamara is very fond of Hotchner.
Observing Hotchner’s silent discipline, you wonder how easily he might be nudged — or pushed — into obedience.
But the thought is an indulgence he does not allow you to sustain. Hotchner does not move because he has been pushed. He moves because he has already decided the path is worth taking.
His presence narrows the field. You find yourself favoring only the paths that can survive his scrutiny.
Donna Fowler, in 325. And Bob Haldeman, in 314.
Two people circling a line that hasn’t yet been crossed. One foot forward, one step back. Neither willing to fully commit, neither fully restrained. You can see the path forming. You just need to lay the stones in a way that anyone can follow.
“Haldeman is still complaining about ‘excessive foot traffic’ on the 3rd floor,” you say.
In the insular, hushed ecosystem of this building, everyone knows that when Haldeman mentions the third floor, he is talking about Donna.
Donna is a defense contractor. She lives by the rigid, sterilized grace of protocol and cleared entry. Her apartment isn’t just a home, it’s an extension of her office. But to Haldeman, the mere sight of her clients in the elevator is an affront to discretion.
He treats the hallway like a private corridor of the West Wing. She treats it like a secured perimeter. Two very specific, very stubborn professional neuroses colliding — the kind only DC can produce.
Hotchner doesn’t need spelling out who’s who. What he doesn’t yet see is the opportunity.
“He’s pushing for a formal audit of the guest ledger,” you say, letting the weight of the words hang.
Your tone stays light, almost casual, but the implication is clear: this isn’t idle grumbling. Someone has escalated. Someone is trying to force the rules into action.
“If this escalates, it won’t stay contained,” you continue. “And if it doesn’t escalate… it doesn’t move.”
Neutrality feels safe—until you realize it is a standstill on a shifting road. A slow death by a thousand ‘I’ll wait for my lawyer before saying anything’.
In conflicts like these, if you don’t place your weight decisively, the path can vanish beneath you. Better to lay the stones yourself than to be tripped by the ones your enemy leaves behind.
He shifts.
He runs the pad of his thumb over his index finger. Looks down at his lap, his hand smoothing a stray crease in the dark fabric of his pants.
He isn't processing your words so much as he is weighing them against his own internal architecture. You find yourself watching the slow, steady rise of his chest.
There is a terrifyingly beautiful efficiency to him—a man who wastes no spark of energy on a reaction he hasn't already vetted.
“Haldeman is already leaning toward Rosen,” he says, and it isn't a question. He’s already mapped the political fallout. “He isn't looking for security. He’s looking for a way to use the board’s reach to satisfy a personal grievance.”
“Leaving this unresolved… it wouldn’t be fair,” he adds quietly. He’s not thinking about advantage or consequence. He’s thinking about stability, clarity, and the rules being upheld.
You notice the calculation behind his calm, the precision of his judgment. It’s weirdly fascinating, seeing the mirror image of your own intent. You’re both drawn to the same point, but you got there from opposite directions.
For the first time, you find yourselves mapping out a route you both agree on.
Donna needs a reason to seek him out
Keep it clean (meh)
He’ll only intervene if she asks him to
“She won’t come to you unless something makes her,” you test out.
The words come out a little less sharp than you would have wanted. You don't look away, but you feel the sudden, cold weight of the gamble you’re taking.
As fun as it is to call him a virgin while simultaneously propositioning him, you can’t ignore the gravity of the man. Because he’s older. Because he’s more experienced. Because when he says you’re inventive or creative, he’s not just testing out the words.
You hesitate, the silence stretching thin.
You aren’t sure if he respects you enough to meet you in the gray, or if he still sees you as something that needs to be "accounted for."
Hotchner doesn’t move. No comforting smile. No nod of encouragement. He simply watches the flicker of doubt in your eyes.
“Then whatever makes her,” he begins. His voice feels like a gentle hand steadying a fraying line. “Needs to be something I can address without escalating things.”
Relief rolls through you like a slow tide lapping at the edge of a quiet shore. Soft and steady. Enough to caress the sand beneath your feet without washing it all away.
“You don’t want to know how that happens?” you ask.
Just to make sure.
He runs his thumb over his index finger one last time.
“I don’t need to,” he decides.
You sit at your desk, pull out a plain sheet of paper, and start your first draft. You need to sound exactly like a man who peaked while chairing a subcommittee in 1998.
I see who’s coming over after midnight, Donna. One more late-night visitor and I’m telling everyone what you’re really doing behind closed doors. Kisses. -Haldeman.
You snort, leaning back in your chair and spinning the pen between your fingers. Too honest. Too ‘teenager in a black hoodie’. It sounds like you, and ‘you’ is the one thing this note can’t be.
You crumble the paper into a ball and toss it toward the trashcan.
Haldeman’s irritatingly meticulous, sure. But pleasant enough when he wants to be. Eager to oblige if you know how to ask. And intrinsically bureaucratic.
Regarding the ongoing integrity of our communal residential security apparatus, it has come to the attention of the relevant parties that certain discrepancies exist in the visitor logs regarding after-hours access. Please rectify this immediately to maintain our shared standards.
You read it over, and it’s so dry it practically makes your throat itch. It’s a shame you can’t sign it come and find me bitch -H.
Hotchner is probably sitting in his study right now, his spine so straight it’s technically a structural support for the building, highlighting bylaws with a precision that borders on the erotic.
Actually it’s more than bordering. It’s a little depraved, honestly, that you find the mental image of a man hunting for a legal loophole so… appealing.
You can practically see the way his tongue might peek out to wet his lips in a moment of unconscious focus.
How he catches his bottom lip between his teeth when he finds a snag in the logic. The way his brow furrows when he hits a particularly convoluted stretch of legalese.
The broad, unyielding line of his shoulders against the leather of his chair. The light catching the silver in his hair as he leans over his desk.
“If she comes to me, I’ll handle it,” he’d said.
Hotchner expects movement—he’s practically cleared a path for it—but he isn’t going to examine the mechanics. He’s positioned himself as the inevitable resolution. The only man with enough gravity to contain the landslide you’re about to start.
The note trembles slightly in Donna’s hand. The paper warm from the brief press of her palm. Her eyes dart down the hallway, half-expecting Haldeman to appear with a clipboard and a scowl.
You lean back, voice light, careful. “Maybe it’s worth talking to someone who actually knows the bylaws,” you suggest. You don’t say his name. You don’t even hint. Just drop the seed.
Donna frowns, hesitates, then nods slowly. It’s enough. The thought takes root.
By the time she reaches Hotchner, the tension around her has found its anchor.
“There’s nothing in the bylaws that allows another resident to regulate your guests. If this continues, it would fall under harassment,” he says. Gentle, even, calming.
Her shoulders drop. The tight line of her jaw softens. The corner of her mouth quirks, a hint of relief crossing her features.
Poor Haldeman. Picked the wrong captain. Now he’s going down with the ship. Should’ve checked the weather, boys. xo
Contrary to all prudent expectation, Hotchner was the one who suggested the plan for this evening.
Two tickets to some real pretentious avant-garde theatre performance, to sway the Buchanans, no less, with a display of cultural curiosity entirely his own.
You were equal parts impressed and horrified.
Patrick and Shelley Buchanan, in 524, for lack of a better term, are as pedantic wealthy DC couple as they come. The kind of people who view a three-hour, intermission-free reimagining of Antigone as a social necessity rather than a tax-exempt circle jerk for people who want to feel profound for staring at a pile of gravel.
Now, sitting in the suffocating silence of the theater, you can see this mission for what it is: a bureaucratic fever dream.
Hotchner should stick to what he knows and leave the scheming to you. This entire thing fucking sucks.
On stage, a man playing Creon is dressed in a double-breasted suit three sizes too small. He sits at a metal desk that looks like it was scavenged from a condemned federal building. On the desk, an ashtray filled with half smoked cigarettes.
Enter stage left, a woman in a red silk dress and a gas mask (you can’t tell what her role is supposed to be. anyone’s guess is as good as yours). She roughly shreds documents to the agonizing ticks of a metronome.
You shift in your seat. Your forearm brushes against the heavy, cool silk of Hotchner’s tuxedo sleeve
He’s so still he might as well be part of the set. A study in repressed agitation and expensive tailoring.
The light from the stage catches the slope of his nose. It makes his cufflinks glint slightly. You lean in, cupping your hand around his ear to keep your voice from carrying. Fingers grazing the back of his head. His hair feels cold. Neatly gelled into place.
He smells really nice. Soft iris, warm leather, mellow tonka. Probably dabbed right on the pulse point.
“He’s got the costume down,” you whisper, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear. “Weary bureaucrat in a suit two sizes too small. Remind you of anyone?”
He doesn’t turn his head. His skin feels warm under your touch.
“I don’t smoke in the office,” he whispers back. “And I’d like to think my filing system involves fewer unburied relatives.”
Notice how he doesn’t deny that his suits fit too snugly ?
You lightly pinch his arm. A sharp, playful jab through the fabric of his sleeve. Completely absurd, but you can’t help thinking he’s solid—just from a few square inches of arm.
(at this rate, you might have to skip the spring sale and just pay full price for that vibrator.)
A man in modern evening wear enters at the very edge of the stage. He leans casually against the proscenium arch with a pocket watch in hand. He looks profoundly bored by the tragedy he’s about to narrate. As if the impending death of the protagonist is a minor scheduling conflict.
Behind him, the woman is trying to stop the metronome.
Hotchner finally breaks. He doesn't move his head, but he leans just enough that his shoulder presses firmly against yours, the heat of his neck radiating toward your face.
“Who’s the lady in red supposed to be?” His breath brushes your cheek. Cutting through the unsteady tick tick tick of the metronome.
“She’s evading a tax audit,” you reply.
A soft, genuine laugh escapes him. A sound he definitely didn’t intend to make in a room full of DC’s most humorless elite.
You turn your head. You can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. He’s smiling. There’s a dimple on his cheek.
“You’re terrible,” he murmurs.
“She’s… the breakdown of the social contract,” you guess. You smile back at him softly. “I don’t know. I thought this type of pretentious bullshit was your thing.”
He shakes his head. A slow, weary denial. The movement is slight, but because your faces are already so close, the rugged skin of his jaw brushes against your cheek.
He lets out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. “God, no,” he whispers. “I really hate this play.”
You stifle a snort and lean your arm closer against his. You briefly turn your head toward where the Buchanans are sitting four rows down, and your chin brushes against his shoulder.
Because he doesn't pull back, you’re forced to speak directly into the crook of his neck.
“What if Shelley finds out you don’t appreciate the visceral honesty of this representation?”
“The only thing visceral about this is how strongly I want it to be over,” he says.
You notice, almost idly, that you didn’t actually speak much to the Buchanans before the play started. A flurry of air-kisses and a vague promise of ‘grabbing a drink’ after the play. (refer back to when you said ‘scheming is hard fucking work’. as a tactical maneuver, Hotchner’s plans are failing spectacularly. as a date, they’re becoming increasingly distracting).
On stage, Creon offers Antigone a cup of coffee. The absurdity of it makes you laugh quietly. Hotchner’s eyes stay on the stage, but the corners of his mouth lift.
“It’s probably decaf,” he jokes. You feel his voice reverberate against your shoulder. “Anything else would be too much of a commitment to the scene.”
You’re absentmindedly playing with his cufflinks.
“You would find the lack of proper caffeine to be the real tragedy here,” you point out playfully. “Not the impending execution of an anarchist.”
His expression remains perfectly neutral, his voice a deadpan rasp that barely carries past your ear.
“Execution is part of the procedural framework of Greek tragedy,” he says. “It’s expected. Serving decaf is sloppy work.”
He shifts his gaze toward you expectantly. The corners of his mouth twitching into a barely hidden smile.
You’re itching to say something about sloppy work but there’s a time and place for blowjob jokes.
“I’d hate to be the intern who forgot your cream and sugar during a briefing.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle.
Creon finally delivers the fatal decree. Antigone kneels, resigned. The absurd coffee cup clinks against the floor, a tiny, meaningless punctuation in the grand tragedy.
The man at the edge of the stage clicks his pocket watch shut with a sharp, metallic snap that echoes through the hushed theater.
He doesn't offer a eulogy. He just sighs, a long, weary sound of a man who has seen too many revolutions and not enough competent catering.
“The tragedy is concluded,” he announces flatly. He might as well be saying ‘the meeting is adjourned.'
The stage lights cut to black.
And in that sudden absence of everything—noise, glare, expectation—you turn toward him. There’s a long beat, just the two of you suspended in the shadowed theater.
His fingers are warm. His thumb caresses your cheek. You feel his breath against your lips.
You lean in, and so does he. Just a brush at first. A hesitant, blind searching in the gloom. Then, a slow, deliberate press. His lips feel slightly chapped.
It’s strangely different than in the pool. The kiss is very soft, very gentle. It’s the kind of kiss that tastes like a secret kept too long. The quiet aftermath of absurdity and closeness.
The first scattered claps of applause break out. The house lights flicker on.
The cast emerges from the wings. A long, united line of sweat and heavy makeup, leans forward in a synchronized, practiced salute to the public.
At the very edge of the line, the man with the pocket watch doesn't smile. He bows with the rest, his movements fluid but detached, as if he’s already mentally halfway to the parking garage. Thus ends what was inevitable, in whispers and half-light.
The wind nudges through the building's fire escape. Slipping through the gaps like an invisible audience. The metal under your hands feels cold and slightly damp from the night’s dew.
An orange cat winds between Hotchner’s legs. Too clean to be a true stray. Too familiar with him. He pets it with calm, gentle strokes. His fingers softly going through the fur. The cat leans into him, settling against his side.
And the faint scent of iris and leather lingers. Comforting in its subtle insistence.
A gentle surge of light ebbs and flows across his face. Catching in small glinting flecks along his lashes. The corners of his eyes crinkle.
Tires hum along the asphalt. His bowtie is loosened, the collar of his shirt opened, jacket draped over the railing.
Your fingers mirror his, tracing the rusted, unyielding rivets of the fire escape.
To build an iron ladder for another’s ascent is to forge the very bars of one's own cage. Once at the summit, the eye cannot tolerate the rust that made the climb possible.
You pull your hand back. A brownish droplet travels down the winding lines of your palm. From the condensation meeting the oxidized metal. The color of coffee.
Hotchner’s thumb slowly goes back and forth over the cat’s ear. He smiles fondly as the cat purrs.
“You’re quiet,” he says softly. “What’s on your mind?”
He looks entirely too… kind.
It’s the kind of warmth that makes the rust on your palm feel like a brand.
You realize, with a sudden, sickening clarity, that he isn't just being polite.
He’s looking at you with the steady, unblinking regard of a man who has made a choice. Who has, through whatever method he deems dependable, decided that your loyalty is a fixed point.
“Can I tell you something ?”
“Anything,” he says.
“I’m paying Grant off the books,” you say, the words coming out in a flat, honest rush. “Two hundred a month to let me use a mail alcove in the basement as a private storage unit.”
The rusty drop in your palm falls to the ground.
“That’s why I asked you to run for the seat,” you admit. “If Rosen ran unopposed, the construction crews would have been in that basement by the end of the month.”
His foot taps rhythmically against the metal. Tick tick tick.
You feel a sudden, jagged contraction in your chest. A suffocating tightness that makes the night air feel thin and useless.
You’ve basically handed a gun fanatic a custom-fitted grip of his own service weapon and turned your back.
Out of malicious design and ambition, you’ve ended up making yourself faithful to him. Even if he doesn’t pull the trigger, you know that such rash conduct is bound to bring your ruin.
The only sin a schemer cannot survive is making yourself vulnerable to the truth.
His hand stops. The cat nudges its head against his frozen knuckles in a persistent, wordless demand for him to return to the task.
He looks frankly taken aback. A rare, unguarded flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features that he can’t quite catch in time.
Then, the mask begins to slide back into place, but it’s heavier now. You can practically see the gears behind his eyes shifting. His brows knit together, a small, involuntary crease forming between them as he stares at your face.
He finally looks down at the cat, his fingers resuming their petting. “Why are you telling me this now ?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. The admission is hesitant, almost frightened.
It’s technically not the first time you’ve been truly honest with him, but it feels like a death sentence.
He looks at you, and for a fleeting second, there is a small, almost invisible softening of his eyes.
“Okay,” he says.
This is very… anti-climactic.
You’ve been holding your breath for three acts of fire-escape angst, bracing for a grand monologue of betrayal and a flash of silver handcuffs (sexy), and he says “Okay.”
The world applauds itself quietly for the joke.
“I hear you,” he continues. “But we aren't going to keep paying off the staff. It’s a liability for them. And for you.”
You aren't surprised. You knew he would make you give up the alcove. Looking at the way his eyes seem to search for yours oh so gently, you realize he knew that you knew.
But it’s the we that catches in your throat. He isn't washing his hands of you. He’s putting them on the helm.
“So what, you’re going to report me to the board?”
There is a frantic, giddy relief vibrating underneath the sarcasm.
“We’re going to find a way to make that storage space legal,” he explains.
He finally meets your gaze comfortably. His eyes steady and reassuring in the amber glow of the streetlamp.
The cotton of his shirt straining slightly against his chest as he leans forward. It bunches and juts out just a tiny bit over his waistband.
The cat lets out a meow that sounds oddly wrong. Less of a cry and more like the sound of a heavy door’s hinges that haven't been greased properly in a decade.
You both let out a quiet chuckle.
For a moment, you simply look at each other, both of you smiling softly.
You shift slightly, leaning back against the cool metal of the fire escape.
The city sprawls below you, a lattice of lights and muted movement. Indifferent to the small acts of defiance and loyalty unfolding above it. Like a stage watching its players. It neither applauds nor condemns, only witnesses.
“Aaron,” you call.
It feels really strange. It’s like a coin you’ve had in your piggy bank for a long time, saved for a rainy day or a desperate one, and you’ve finally decided to break the porcelain to get it out.
He hums.
“Tell me a secret.”
He purses his lips. Pauses his petting. His hand lifts from the orange fur to brush a stray lock of dark hair back from his forehead.
The cat, evidently offended by the sudden cessation of service, doesn't nudge this time. Instead, it snaps forward with a quick, indignity-fueled nip, catching the side of his hand with a sharp set of teeth.
He lets out a sharp, hissed breath, his hand jerking back. Gently taps the cat’s head in disappointment.
A wry, pained sort of amusement flickering in his eyes as he rubs the reddening mark on his skin.
“What kind of secret ?”
You pretend to consider it. “Something naughty.”
He lets out a short, quiet laugh.
“I’m not sure I have any secrets you’d like,” he tells you.
You give him a pointed look of disappointment.
“You ever did coke ? Just between you and me.”
“That’s illegal,” he says simply.
It’s the most Hotchner response possible. It’s so impersonal it’s almost a punchline.
“Not even in law school ?” you press.
“Not even in law school,” he confirms.
His voice is steady, lacking any of the defensive edge a man would have if he were lying. He is, quite boringly, a man of his word.
“You think Rosen ever did coke ?”
“I won't speculate on that,” he says.
“I’m counting that as a yes.”
He doesn't defend Rosen’s honor which you’re choosing to interpret as him agreeing with you.
A comfortable silence settles over the fire escape.
You lean forward, closing the distance between you. You reach out, your fingers joining his in the orange fur.
You pet the cat’s head, and the animal immediately chases your touch, tilting its chin up in a silent demand for more.
Your knuckles brush against each other’s.
“He isn’t mine, you know,” he suddenly announces.
You blink, your hand pausing on the cat’s soft ears.
You briefly wonder if he’s finally admitting to conceiving Jack through a series of notarized affidavits.
“He’s Walter’s” he explains.
You’ve spent the last hour treating this animal like a shared witness to your ruin, and now he’s disowning it.
Talk about a surprise. Walter Heller from 233 has a cat. Walter who is technically living under a lease that, like yours, has a very strict, very underlined No Pets clause.
“I thought the building didn’t allow pets ?”
He doesn't even have the grace to look guilty. Of course he’d make an exception for pussy.
“It doesn’t.”
He just continues to pet the evidence of a lease violation. His thumb goes over yours.
Perhaps there is no shame in being the iron of the ascent when the summit itself refuses to stand without it. Sharing this narrow, rusted ledge, the cold bars of a cage furl into the strength of a shared horizon.
You let out a breath leaning your weight into the metal. You don't mind the view. (specifically his chest. he has very nice tits.)
genre : s11 hotch, serious political scheming in stupid contexts, dad bod & authority kink, very pretentious and very perverse
summary : Hot single dads in your building! Authority kinks, power plays, and scheming. Unfortunately, there’s also a building representative election.
Chapter I : Of calculated sincerity and the utility of vice
Chapter II : Of the reciprocal nature of prudence and folly
Chapter III : :)
i sincerely want to thank my very dear friend @ssa-dado who made this absolutely incredible floor plan for this story. i haven't figured out yet the proper way to thank you for something this kind and this generous but i'll try.
it's so so thoughtful and so well done, it adds something so real to the story that i couldn't have done on my own. knowing you put this much time and care into something for me means so much more than i'll ever be able to say.
i feel this is less something that i wrote and more like something we built together. thank you a thousand times.
i just finished reading seventeen in black and white. i wanted to tell you that i am a HUGE fan of your writing. my ask is this: when writing, do you create a (mental or physical) profile for the love interest you’re doing a pairing with? i ask because im curious as to your ability to pinpoint minute personality traits in gideon!
AAAAAAH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOUUUUU!!!!!!!
honestly i tend to overthink each action a lot bc i want all of it to feel coherent with the character (which might not be entirely realistic lol).
specifically for gideon, i rewatched a few episodes of s1 and s2 just to help me grasp better a few of his mannerisms and the way he phrases things. he’s such an elusive character, partly because he wasn’t there for that long but also because as a person he’s difficult to understand, even to people (the team) who’ve been with him for a long time. in a sense i do think it makes it easier to write him because you don’t necessarily expect to know and understand everything about him. but also, it’s difficult because you have less precedent as to how he might act in certain situations.
but in general, i think of it like: with all i know about this character and in the context of the story im trying to tell, how would they react ? and how would that look like from an outside perspective?
depending on where i’m hoping to take the story, its more a matter of what is possible rather than what is right. what i mean is that a particular choice might make sense for the character in one context but might not in another. i feel like as long as it still fits in the broader sense with who the character is, it’s only a matter of how you choose to interpret the character’s traits in that moment. like if you could see them doing something because of some reason, whatever it may be (maybe they acted similarly before or maybe because they believe xyz then it would make sense for them to do abc… etc).
sorry for yapping so much lol!! i hope this was useful to you in some way. honestly this is such a lovely message, you really made my day!!!!
one look, dark room - Pairing: Detective!Spencer Reid x flapper!reader
Summary: A flapper and a detective walk into a bar. The flapper flirts, the detective keeps secrets, and a police raid cuts the night short for everyone. But for the two of you, it is the start of something much more promising.
Contents: 4.3k words, fluff, 1920s AU, possible period inaccuracies, fem!reader, flapper!reader, second person, no use of y/n, depictions of smoking and drinking, reader works as a seamstress/dresser on broadway, probaby inaccurate portrayal of a police raid
a/n: Honestly this is just fun and silly, I hope u enjoy reading as much as I did writing it <3 thank you to @lambskine for letting me yap about this & giving me so many gifs that gave their vibes, also tagging @beenreidingaboutyou and @angellic4l bc they've known about this AU for a year and I just now delivered oops sorry hope u like it
There is a certain heft to someone's gaze when they desire you.
New York bears the same uniqueness of most metropolitan spaces. Large and bustling, it is easier to disappear within the crowd and become one of thousands streaming in and out of the streets, than to ever hope of standing out. You become less of yourself, and more of what keeps this city pulsing. Everybody wants to be somebody, and in that united desire, you all become the same.
So when a gaze lands upon you, you feel it like the first drops of an incoming storm. Surprising, pleasant, with an underlying panic, unaccustomed to its suddenness. Something inside you revels in the knowledge of being watched, leans into the part a little more. How could you not, when, out of every beautiful person, out of countless women—intellectuals, housewives, actresses, and flappers alike—it is you who have captured their attention.
One look, eyes meeting across smoky jazz clubs, and suddenly you’re plucked from the multitude, from obscurity, made somehow special again. A person, alight and full of potential and energy, rather than a pawn of the city.
You've learned to tell if the glance is merely curious, simple pinpricks on the back of your neck, as fleeting as the seasons, or if there's something more.
Certain looks carry weight. Sticky and sweet like honey, but laced with just a hint of danger. Those are the ones you love, the ones that make you kick your legs a little harder when dancing. You throw your head back and bare the line of your throat, hoping to allure them with the vulnerability so that perhaps, their interest lasts for the whole night. Give you enough of a rush to tide you until the next day, head buzzing with images of the smoky clubs as you return to your work.
This familiarity is what alerts you.
Because you know someone is looking at you. You feel the similar pinpricks, hairs raising on end. It lingers, but without the heady, almost intrusive nature of those lustful looks you've grown used to receiving.
It first happened a few weeks ago, walking from theater to the parking space where you’ve left your car. It stays the whole time you're walking, gone the moment you whirled around to look.
You’d shrugged and went about your night, eager to get home.
It happens again, not even a week later. Leaving from a speakeasy, hanging from a man's arm. He hails a cab for you, and you let him, too drunk on bootleg spirits to even consider driving. You're just about to slide into the cab when you feel it again, piercing in the night. You think it's coming from the figure across the street, but then, maybe it's just a hallucinatory side effect of the liquor.
But no. It follows you the next day.
This time, you think you catch the culprit, slinking in the alley by the theater where you work. You're sober now, frowning, squinting into the dark. A tall man, slender and elegant in his bearing, looking like he belongs in wall street than ominously lurking in the shadows. Two glinting beads from the shadows catch your attention, and you know you’ve met his gaze.
He shifts.
Stephanie Humphrey, the star of the play and your friend, pushes past you to get through the door, already smelling of gin. The two of you stumble, and the moment with the stranger breaks. Stephanie holds out a cigarette. You fumble through your coat for your lighter.
“You coming with us, sugar?”
“To where?” A small fire flares, and cigarette smoke unfurls in the chilly night.
“The 300.”
You wince. Rumors of a raid had been circulating all week. “I thought Miss Guinan was in hot waters?”
“She’s always in hot waters.” Stephanie laughs, and blows out a stream of smoke right into your face.
You angle your head away to avoid a direct hit, glancing back into the streets in the process. The man is gone.
“Come on, doll, I know you like havin’ a good time!” She bumps you with her hip, before stepping clumsily down the steps. She holds out her cigarette as invitation, her red mouth slashing across the bottom half of her face enticingly.
You grin. Instantly, the strange man is forgotten in favor of the promise of fun. You accept the cigarette and follow Stephanie into the night.
Stephanie is upset over her performance today, complaining about how emotionally taxing it is to perform for both the matinee and the evening shows, so you accompany her to the 300 club for the second night in a row.
If it were up to you, you would have gone for the club a few streets away, but Stephanie feels a sense of loyalty to this establishment. The 300 is where she got discovered almost a year ago, her long nights of dancing up on the stage and flirting with customers finally reaping something tangible.
Once she did, she’d been sweet enough to drag you with her to the theater, and you were more than happy to leave the clothing factory you used to work at, in favor of something slightly more glamorous.
Truthfully, the wages aren't any better, but the working conditions are far superior. And the stage manager looks away whenever you slip a half empty case of sequins into your pockets for your own homemade dresses.
So you indulge your friend. Find a gentleman to flirt with. Giggle, sip at the gin and tonic and pretend it still burns—men love the coquettish flair, even though your throat has gotten used to the sting of alcohol ages ago. When he asks you to dance, you bat your lashes and drag him to the middle of the floor with glee.
To your surprise, you feel it again. The familiar prickle of being watched.
Not wanting to seem too conspicuous, you maneuver your partner through a series of dance steps, forcing the two of you to twirl and exchange positions. He seems too drunk to care, grinning happily as you end up on what used to be his side of the dance floor. You gain view of the other side of the room, sobering instantly as you scan the crowd.
Nothing particularly stands out. Fellow women, laughing men, the clinking of glass, a scene all warped by the smoke curling from the ends of pipes and cigarettes. There's movement everywhere, and perhaps that's how your eyes find him. In stillness.
Right there. A gentleman. He fits the figure you saw in the shadows from the night before, slender and elegant. Seated in the middle of the bar, alone when most people are in pairs or groups, motionless where everybody is frenetic.
One look from across a smoky room, eyes meeting for the briefest second, and you've got your confirmation.
His eyes are rapt on you, but not with the familiar weight of being desired.
Your partner spins you, fast enough to make it seem like the moment had been accidental. Once the song ends, however, the man is still there, casually swirling a glass of amber liquid, head down like he knows he's been caught.
Despite his height, you can tell he's used to moving unnoticed. Takes advantage of the city's natural ability to conceal individuals within its smoky, crowded atmosphere. He recognizes the power in invisibility and has cultivated it.
Too bad for him, he's tailing the wrong person.
You excuse yourself from the rest of your table, shaking your head lightly at Stephanie's pouty protests, and drift toward the bar. You stop exactly three feet away from him, but with your head tilted slightly to his direction. Open, inviting.
He doesn't take the bait, despite the obvious tension in his shoulders at your proximity.
You glance up and take in his profile up close. Handsome, yes, with a classic sharp jaw and harsh cheekbones, but also youthful, even though he's clearly older than you.
Large, owlish eyes intently staring forward, plush lips with such a natural rosiness most girls would be jealous. His hair is slicked back in typical male fashion, but they're curling at the tips, like he hadn't allowed the pomade to set properly.
He holds himself with a stiffness that suggests he isn't here for regular business—getting drunk or gambling. That, paired with the stalking tells you he might be danger. Or you might have gotten in some trouble. Immediately, your mind runs over the last few men you've given the pleasure of your company. It's possible you might have tangled with someone shady.
Excitement blooms in your chest. You tamp it down, grin up at the stranger.
“You’re terrible at this,” you say.
“At what?” he replies, keeping his gaze on the rest of the room.
“Following me.”
He still doesn't turn, or even dignify you with a response, but his brows knit ever so slightly.
"You've been doin' it all week, sugar, people are gonna start gossiping."
"Something tells me it wouldn't be the first time people gossiped about you." he finally glances at you. His eyes are the same color of his drink, possibly just as sharp.
"Oh, don't flatter me, Detective."
He blinks. "How did you know—"
You laugh, delighted. Caught him. "I didn't. But now I do, thanks for that. Huh, can't tell if a detective's better than a member from those organized gangs. That was my other guess."
"How did you know?" he repeats, seemingly forgetting about his original reason for coming here in favor of understanding how you came to the conclusion.
You lean your elbows on the counter. A grin pulls at your lips, teeth sharp and flashing beneath the red mouth. "I'll tell ya if you tell me why you're sniffin' at my heels."
He studies you for a moment. Normally, a man singling you out makes you warm with anticipation, giggles tumbling past your lips like chimes to encourage the attention, to cling to it, make it last longer. But Spencer's eyes are inquisitive.
You realize finally that his gaze lingers to observe. He is studying you. Has been, all this time, every instance you'd felt like you were being followed.
What have you gotten yourself into?
"Don't got all night, detective." you pull his drink from his fingers, brazen and sure, and take a sip.
He sighs. Drags a hand over his jaw and relents. "I believe you're in possession of something important, and it may not entirely belong to you."
All the humor leaves your expression. His eyes narrow at that, no doubt seeking for guilt within the planes of your pretty face.
"You saying I'm a thief?"
He raises a brow. "No. Why is that your first instinct?"
You wince, realizing you whipped out the defensiveness too fast. True, you are one, but not the important kind! Really.
At most, you take home a few replicated jewels from backstage. A few yards of ribbons. Old silk slips forgotten by actresses, if you're feeling particularly luxurious, but still. Always the surplus, nothing of note. Nothing to be investigated for.
You muster every inch of careless confidence in your body and smile. "Don't have to tell you nothing. Ladies are allowed their secrets, after all."
He frowns, but accepts it. "Right. Well, I've told you why I'm following you, now you have to tell me how you deduced I'm a detective."
"No fair, you didn't give me any details!"
"It's highly confidential. I'm only entertaining this con–"
"Finish your drinks! Everyone!" one of the servers yells out, loud and slightly panicked.
Your eyes widen, knowing exactly what that's code for. You grab his glass and down the rest of his whiskey, wincing as the sheer volume of liquor scrapes your throat raw.
In a moment, the atmosphere grows tense with focus. Gentlemen polishing off their drinks, while servers come out to refill the glasses with water or tea. The worst of the drunks are led to the back by their friends, while Texas Guinan herself rises from her table and saunters to the front like she's just going to welcome another group of patrons.
"Everybody calm down, I'll handle this." she calls out, unruffled and armed with her glitzy beauty and charm.
You scan the crowd for Stephanie, but she's disappeared, leaving behind your previous companions, both looking quite annoyed at your table. It's not unusual for your nights to end separately, but it feels especially risky if the police are here. You suppose it's better that she's alone, though. She knows how to take care of herself. Bringing the man would only drag her down.
Meanwhile, you glare at the detective beside you. "You got anything to do with this?
"With what?" he surveys the room with a frown.
"Right," you scoff, slipping from the stool. "You could be an actor, trying to convince me you're innocent in all this."
"In what?" he repeats. He meets your gaze, seeming genuinely lost.
"The raid, detective!" you hiss, "That why you've been following me? So you could tell your friends which speakeasies are operatin'?"
Your voice had grown higher by the end of the sentence, catching a few men's attention. Their eyes are drunken and suspicious, glancing between you and the detective. To your surprise, the man looks just as panicked, and you watch as his eyes widen with realization.
"A raid, you mean the police?"
"Don't know anyone else enforcing this stupid prohibition law."
"I have to go," he slides off the stool as well, stumbling towards the exit.
"Wait," you catch his arm, "Where are you going?"
"Out! I have to go." he shrugs you off, his long legs taking him halfway across the room in a few strides. Judging by how clumsily he's moving, and the way his shoulders have tensed, he's telling the truth. He has nothing to do with this raid. In fact, he might have nothing to do with the police either.
How peculiar then. Could it be he's one of those fancy private investigators? Still, why is he evading the police?
But there's no time to ask; he's trying to get to the exit and you need to catch him.
"Wait!" you run after him, slamming into bodies—servers trying to rid any evidence of alcohol from the club, fellow flappers trying to get out before the police crosses the threshold. You reach, manage to grab his elbow, and tug him back. "Don't be stupid, they've got people posted right outside that door. If you're trying to avoid the police, then you'd just walk right into their arms." you snap, stopping him before he could try the regular exit.
He blinks, looking at you as his panic subsides. You can see suspicion warring in those eyes, before they harden and are cleared by a steely focus.
"Right. Right, but I need to–"
"Come," you tug him along, weaving through the tables until you reach the kitchen. Nobody bothers you—in times like these, the staff knows to let people leave through the emergency exit should they wish to. The ones who stay are to be given food, to replicate the facade of an unassuming restaurant.
Polished shoes keep nicking at your heels, telling you that the detective is following closely. You find the window in the back, already wide open, a stool already poised just beneath it.
"Here's our exit." you say, waving your arms with flourish.
His lips curl with amusement, but he doesn't question you further. You step aside, letting him go first since he seems to be in a hurry to evade the police. He's tall enough to hoist himself through the window without using the stool, but he pauses, straddling the sill, to reach a hand out for you.
"Oh." you blink. You've gone through quite a number of emergency exits before, and it's usually a mad dash. Frantic pushing, people trying to save their skin first. You've been left behind one too many times, had to figure out your own way home.
"Come on," he is firm and hurried, palm up, waiting.
You step on the stool and grab his hand, allowing him to tug you up until you're balanced on the sill beside him. He swings his other leg, hops down the other side, then turns back to you. You stare back at him, still frozen in place, blinking in stunned confusion.
"Here," he takes your hands and guides them to his shoulders. "Easy now."
You've done this many, many times. Had broken one too many heels from different attempts at escape, rolled your ankles, sometimes lost precious handbags, precisely because no one's ever bothered to handle you with such care.
And here's this strange man, previously stalking you, had accused you of—what had he accused you of? You don't even remember—yet still having the decency to gently lift you off the makeshift exit. A pair of large hands on your waist steadies you as your feet hit the ground, letting go quickly when he sees you've gotten your balance.
For the first time in a long while, you feel warmth flushing over your cheeks. Like the naive girl you were when you arrived, shy and unsure.
You hate it. Give the adrenaline back, the rush and the confidence, not… this.
"Where to now?" his soft voice breaks your reverie, and you clear your throat.
"Follow me."
You know these back alleys like a second home. Know which dumpsters overflow because the apartment building that uses it is overcrowded, which turn leads to a dead end, and which will lead you into glitzy, busy streets of Broadway.
The detective follows behind. Despite the questions you may have for each other, there's a tentative trust forming. It's just for tonight, you think. Just until you're both away from where the raid is happening, and then…
It hits you then. He's been following you, perhaps conducting some sort of investigation. You're not naive enough to think it will stop after tonight.
"So," you say, taking a quick left, intending to get him to speak while you maneuver this dark maze, "Why're you hiding from the police, detective?"
"It's none of your business."
"I just helped you out," you look over your shoulder with a pout, "Think I deserve an answer."
"I did answer earlier, I told you it's complicated. Besides, you didn't even fulfill your part of the deal earlier."
"Which is?"
"Tell me how you knew I was a detective."
A laugh rumbles from deep in your belly, full and decidedly unladylike, the kind that shakes your whole body and, as the adrenaline fades and all the alcohol settles, makes you stumble.
The detective catches your elbow, straightens you before you could fall.
"Forgot about that." you giggle, looking at him with a grin. "Right. You couldn't have been more obvious, detective. You weren't smoking, weren't entertaining women, or doing business with the rest of the men. Plus you were only pretending to drink your whiskey."
He moves to let go, but you sway on your feet now that the alcohol's taking hold of your system, and he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow instead.
"But why detective, of all things?"
"You were clearly there investigating something, so it was between that or you're from one of those gangs." you lean into his side to steer him into the right turn. He follows, careful and slowing his steps to match you.
"Was I really that obvious?"
"No," you admit, "But I've known you were following me, remember?"
"I thought I was being more discreet."
"Well, women in this city are smarter than we seem, detective. Never know who's gonna jump us." you say. You can hear your words slurring. How annoying. He's being such a lovely fellow, and you want to keep talking to him. "Besides, I could feel you, like, studying me."
"You could feel me?"
"The way you look at me." your arm gesture vaguely in the air and you can hear him sigh. If you were every just a touch more sober, you would have been able to tell if he's annoyed, or charmed. You'd like to think he's charmed. Most men are. "It's… weird. Different. Like you didn't want me."
"Mhm, and I'm sure you're quite used to men… wanting you?"
"Yes," when the world looks like a slurry, it is very easy to ignore the slight hint of judgment in his voice. It is also very easy to keep speaking, divulging thoughts you've never said out loud to anyone else before. "They look at me like I'm a… a thing they want. It's always so heavy. Like a pressure to perform a certain way. Yours is unsettling, because it wasn't like that… and now I know it's because you're doing some sort of investigation."
He's quiet after that. Contemplative, like he's not simply talking to a flapper half stumbling beside him. Like you aren't spouting complete nonsense.
The streets eventually become illuminated, growing brighter as you exit the back alleys and step into one of the main streets. You feel his breath ruffling your hair when he exhales.
"Thank you for helping me out of that." he says quietly, like he's hoping the city eats up the sound and the words never reach your ears. "You don't even know who I am."
"Tell me then."
He hesitates, regarding you with an imperceptible expression. "My name?"
"Yes."
"And this is in exchange for yours?"
"If you ask nicely."
He shakes his head, lips pulling taut, and for a moment, you expect him to leave you. Huff in annoyance and just go. Instead, he transfers you to the inside of the sidewalk, shields you from the potential sprays of mud, or a wayward driver, and continues to walk.
"It's Spencer Reid."
You hope the name sticks. There's no rhyme or reason to what your drunk mind retains and rejects, but let his name be one of the things you remember from tonight.
Mostly because you still want to know why on earth he's been following you. His warmth is simply a bonus.
"Now you owe me, Spencer Reid. I just saved your ass."
He laughs. "Now tell me your name."
"Stacy." it slips from your teeth like silk, a lie that's been told to countless men.
"Stacy." he repeats. Nods. Hails a cab, ushers your increasingly limp body inside and gets in beside you.
You look at him, a slight panic rising in your chest for the first time tonight, the genuine, spine tingling panic of realization. Alone in a car with a man you just met. Not just buzzed, drunk, the kind that makes your bones feel like mush and ruins your balance.
However, it is eased just as quickly when Spencer tells the driver your address.
He's taking you home. You relax for a split second, slumping into the seat before you're ramrod straight again, looking at him with wide, betrayed eyes.
"You know where I live?!"
He smirks, clearly smug to reveal this ace up his sleeve after a night full of blunders. Dork.
"I run a very thorough operation," and then he says it—your name. Your real name, not the fake one you'd given to him moments ago.
You gulp, feeling a sense of betrayal that doesn't feel earned. It's silly and burns in the back of your throat, and you'd rather not deal with the implications of it tonight.
His voice is low when he speaks again, but oddly reassuring. "I won't harm you. In fact, it's this case isn't even about you, it's simply pertinent to my client."
You fight back the frown, refuse to let the confusion of this mystery make you sad, so your lips curl into a practiced smile instead, eyes flashing mischievously in the darkness of that cab. "You sure you can't tell me more about it? You already have me captive, figuratively, I might be able to help you."
He glances away. You watch his throat bob as he considers. He is a marvel to behold, even in this poorly lit backseat, even as a muscle in his jaw twitches from tension. Beautifully angular features, offset by just the right amount of softness.
You look away before your drunken mind compels you to do something stupid, like lean forward and kiss the man investigating you.
You've had your fair share of risky lovers, of drunken mistakes, and still, this one would take the cake.
"I'm… looking for jewelry. And you wore one of them the other day." he says finally, softly. "A choker, thick black velvet band with a pendant of pearls."
You blink. Partly from shock—he truly must have been watching you closely if he catalogues what you'd worn, down to the accessories.
The other part. The other part fills with an unease, looming thick and heavy like an ominous shroud. You manage to bite your lip before the truth spills out, those aren't even really mine, I got them from Stephanie, but you aren't about to implicate your friend like that.
But, oh Steph, what has she done?
You meet the detective's eyes, and manage to turn that worried lip bite into something sensual. Flirty. "Can't I just return it, and your client can call it a day?"
Spencer shakes his head, eyes narrowing. "I'll still need to investigate."
"Investigate what? I got it from a pawn shop." you say, batting your lashes innocently.
He huffs and regards your antics with an expression you've never received before—exasperation.
"You literally just lied about your name not ten minutes ago."
Right. You wince.
"I'll visit you again sometime this week." he says, voice gentling again, like he's trying to soothe you. "I'd appreciate it if you have the choker ready."
You nod, feeling numb. "All right, detective."
"You're not in trouble." he tells you, "Not yet."
"And if I am," you peek from beneath your lashes and manage another flirtatious smile, "Can you bail me out? You do still owe me."
He scoffs, but you can swear his lips are lifting at the corners, the makings of a smile. Outside, the city gleams and pulses, heady with potential. Strangely, in here, you feel the beginnings of something similar.
ᯓ★ this is part of the angels in the new age universe. read more about them here. check out my other works here!
oooooh this was absolutely lovely !!! the atmosphere feels so oppressive but so carefree at the same time, you’re so good at making scenes feel real, it’s insane!!
i really like the reader, its a such fun contrast between being highly vigilant and just wanting to live your life even so.
detective reid who’s all business but also somehow completely unaware of regular police raids #im into it
i’m so so intrigued by the investigation!! i can’t wait to read moreeeee
Only tumblr user sweetheartsocks aka HRM countess y of the sweet lands of heart socks and blue velvet has the power to make me willingly watch movies that are older than I am!!! (The new theme looks gorge btw!!!!!!!!!!)
ITYC? (Is this your count?)
hihihi thank you thank you <33333333 (did you actually watch blue velvet because of me???!!!!! omggggg)
that's actually the guy trying to swindle me out of the family estate :/ do you know him ?
(i thought it'd be fun to try making a 'things i associate with you' notes thing? idk i hope it's not like super creepy lol)
genre : s11 hotch, very obvious fetish for dad bods and authority, politics but make it stupid and domestic, obnoxious philosophical analogies (like seriously obnoxious), bullying hotch because he's hot
summary : Those who wish to win the favor of a man like Aaron Hotchner will generally approach him with obedience or modesty. You have among your possessions nothing that could even remotely resemble that. You find it more fitting to offer him the seat of building representative, deranged fantasies and pretentious philosophical metaphors. All things considered, not a bad price for the chance to see his tits.
notes : requested by the lovely @ssa-dado who i don't think i'll ever be able to thank enough <33 i hope it's not pretentious of me to say this story is as much yours as it's mine. fair warning, this is like if fanfiction was a badly written philosophy textbook lol
word count: 9.7k
It is simpler to agree to ambition when the difficulties haven't been made obvious. Man's inherent wariness lies dormant, waking at the first hint of misfortune. And usually too late to be useful.
As such, you should consider the Florentine not as a mere collection of apartments, but as a small, slightly neurotic, principality.
Partly ironic to say, as you recognize how absurdly serious this contemplation is, given how mundane its object remains. Which is to say: yes, you're aware this is demented.
This is not conjecture. While your time in unit 122 offers ample evidence, the examples of units 113 and 125 are most preferable.
113, peerless in his arrogance, found great satisfaction in endless late-night parties (you developed a miserable ritual of waiting for his inevitable rendition of Married With Children by Oasis. there is a bleak, private joy in hearing a man scream (sing?) that his music is shite and keeps you up all night without a single spark of self-awareness.)
You'd assume that having Hotchner from 121 sternly tell him off would suffice.
A compelling performance, you have to admit. There is something almost offensively hot about the way his features settle into a mask of pure, paternal disappointment that makes you want to either apologize or do something so egregious it forces him to actually put his hands on (in) you.
But no polite, nor impolite requests to 'please tone it down' or to 'turn that dumb fucking music off' changed 113's manner.
Perhaps Hotchner's frown was to blame — virtue is rarely a deterrent to the truly pretentious.
Therefore, when there is no hope but in impetuous (or unhinged) methods, you should be able to act decisively.
Sure, ‘impetuous methods’ makes it sound like some grand tactical maneuver. If we’re being honest, something like being a thoroughly ice cold bitch works just as well.
The building’s guest parking policy is usually loosely enforced. Most of the residents agree to ‘forget’ to call Arthur —the doorman— ahead of time when they’re having guests. Arthur maintains vigilant oversight naturally (as one might expect, that also includes the ‘police officers’ in inexplicably tight shirts who do house calls), though he and you have found a way of looking past certain things.
It turns out, DC’s towing companies can be surprisingly efficient.
The sound of chains dragging a car or of a machine printing out a parking fine is infinitely more pleasant. Once parties start coming with a ticket, people quickly get to the end of the song. Goodbye I’m going home! — and they usually mean it.
Of course, impetuosity has its limits. You don’t necessarily have to get the big guns out every time some asshole thinks he can get laid by playing Wonderwall.
125 however, was literally wandering through the walls.
A man’s vices are his own. If the guy wants to smoke his way to a nice woody coffin with fancy Cuban cigars, you can’t really fault him for that.
This wasn’t an issue until the building did a steam trap maintenance in the basement and opened up the insulation jackets around the pipes. No idea what that actually means (you’re already too busy pretending to be a war general to get into architecture).
What you do understand, is that your unit and Hotchner’s are on the same run of pipes as 125’s. And that whatever they did in the basement made it so that the scent of cigar smoke carried along the metal and pushed through the floorboards. Meaning: it smelled like a gentlemen’s club in your apartment but without the gentlemen.
If Hotchner did try another sexy but inefficient scolding, you didn’t see him.
You do wonder if he smokes. Probably not. He takes the whole ‘health is wealth’ thing very seriously. Plus you don’t think it’d be good for the smaller Hotchner. Still, if he smoked, you think it’d be something tedious. Like a pipe. Nice thick finger pressing the tobacco down into the bowl.
This would have been a much more interesting set up: Hotchner and laying pipe. But alas, this is still about building pipes.
A slight threat, delivered politely and with a pipe in hand, invites retaliation. Beating someone with it, metaphorically speaking, does not. In short, if you want to be decisive, it must be on a scale that makes vengeance impossible.
And also, it helps if you enjoy it.
It was easy enough to get an empty pack of 125’s cigars. And crumple it into one of the basement’s pipes. Right next to the ‘CAUTION : HIGH HEAT’ tag.
To the insurance inspector, this ends up looking like some reckless idiot sneaked into the basement to smoke and shoved the evidence into flammable insulation. A fire safety compliance notice and a $500 fine later, you’d say all of 125’s carefulness went up in smoke but that’d be tasteless.
From these two examples, it follows that people do not abandon indulgence because it’s inconsiderate, but because it becomes too expensive.
Nonetheless, such corrections rarely go unnoticed by those accustomed to patterns. This isn’t to say that Hotchner doesn’t have his own indulgences. They’re simply more… agreeable.
Namely, the too-early-in-the-morning occasional run from which he comes back sweaty and out of breath. It’s a sporadic ritual at best, usually following a particularly successful weekend in the kitchen. You suspect he views the dad bod as a failure in discipline. Which couldn’t be more idiotic. Firm where it matters (…), pleasantly soft everywhere else. A real treat.
To him, the run is clearly an act of penance. He seems the type of man who lives in a state of perpetual atonement. Feels guilty for things he hasn’t even done yet. Probably has a priest on speed dial: “Forgive me Father for I have found pride in my record filing system.”
And while he asks for absolution by subjecting his joints to more friction than they can handle at his age, you’re plainly enjoying the show. T-shirt clinging to his heavy, reliable frame, his breathing shallow and labored, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. It makes him look less like a federal agent and more like a man who has just been thoroughly undone.
He is, after all, nailing himself to a cross of his own making. By some hidden accord between his own nature (the fact that he’s hot) and the humor of times, the older ladies on the 4th floor have started giving him and Jack baking lessons on Sundays.
He does share his little indulgences with you. Though you had to… gently incentivize him. The first time you caught him in the elevator with a container of homemade lemon bars, he’d looked ready to guard them with his life.
“Mister Hotchner, surely you aren’t planning on keeping all of those for yourself?” you’d remarked. A microscopic flick of amusement crossed his face before he wordlessly offered you one.
Since then, anytime he hands you one of his still warm treats, you find yourself slipping into a very specific, very deranged fantasy.
In your mind, you imagine coming home from a long day of conquering the world, loosening your tie, dropping your keys on the side table and calling out for your little wife.
He’d be in the kitchen, wearing a nice floral apron, standing over a cooling cherry pie or some other time consuming desert. His eyes looking up at you, soft and glassy, from the desire to please you (and from whatever imaginary pharmaceutical miracle you’ve clearly overprescribed him in your head).
It’s your delightful taste of male entitlement — desecrating his competence for your own indulgence.
Fortunately, he’s not on any dosage of pharmacological domesticity. He has noticed. Not the fucked up 1950s fantasy. But your careful orchestrations of chaos for the sake of order.
How coincidentally, towing companies started hovering like vultures around the building on Friday nights. Or how, as annoying as 125 is, he wouldn’t waste a fine Cuban cigar on a dingy basement view.
It would be a terrible disservice to his rigor to pretend he hasn’t considered the possibility that Fortune had an accomplice. But true mastery of a principality lies not in what can be seen or what can be suspected — it’s in what cannot be traced.
As pleasurable as it is to feel his gaze narrow at you —curiosity tempered by reluctant amusement— you know that he’s too principled to accuse you of anything without evidence. For all his perceptiveness, he’s remarkably predictable.
Predictability is the coin of the prudent. A man who always walks the same path provides the very stones for his own stumbling.
And yet those same stones form the foundation upon which stability can be built. Which is why anyone offering to rearrange them — talking up and down about improvement or optimization— is rarely a reformer at all, but a merchant of annoyance, eager to be paid in spectacle.
Funnily enough, you’re just about to join the auction. Not because you enjoy throwing dollar bills on stage. But because improvement asks questions and you don’t trust anything that requires answers.
So as you stand before the solid wood of unit 121, you adjust your expression from calculated general looking solemnly at the battlefield (wallets included) to concerned neighbor.
You do consider the idea of leaning against the door frame and seductively greeting him with an “Aaron, why don’t you come and give daddy a big kiss?” but you don’t think he’d appreciate the joke.
He looks exactly how you’d expect: impeccably tired. He’s taken off the suit jacket. His shirt —nice light blue cotton, likely ironed by someone who actually fears him— stretches across his shoulders, struggling to contain the sheer width of him. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal his thick forearms and his tie is loosened just enough to say that he’s off the clock.
Or at least, that the FBI has officially released its grip on his throat and handed him over to the custody of a fifth-grader.
“I’m trying to decide if this is very early, very important,” he says, “or if I’ve simply lost track of when it's appropriate to knock on a neighbor’s door.”
You let your gaze linger on the open collar of his shirt, at the faint lines at his throat, just long enough to suggest insolence, before finally meeting his eyes.
“It’s important for now,” you say lightly, “but it could become inappropriate if you prefer.”
A small, dry laugh escapes him.
“I’ll stick with important,” he replies calmly, leaning a hand against the doorframe.
It almost looks like he’s trying to slut himself out a bit. His fingers spread against the wood, his arm flexing just enough to hint at the muscle beneath the cotton without actually ripping the seams.
It occurs to you, not for the first time, that if men like him were more ambitious, the Florentine would be a much simpler principality to govern.
Because in here lies the premise of this entire obnoxious monologue: some grand modern cunt in 411, convinced that stability is merely a cloak for stagnation, is promising the spectacles and circuses of reform to cure the building of its boredom with order.
“What do you think of David Rosen’s campaign for building representative?” you ask simply.
His brows furrow in their perpetual line of weary concentration before he catches himself and smooths it away, like a man remembering he’s being observed. The face he offers you instead is polite, neutral, and deeply unenthusiastic.
“I wasn’t aware we were calling it a campaign,” he answers like the distinction matters.
To be fair, campaign might not be the most suitable term here. It’s more so Rosen’s attempt to free himself from his bleak destiny: ‘David Ro—what? who’s that? the prosecutor? never heard of him. wait, show me a picture. aaah. yeah. that guy’—sen.
He’s going in with the whole nine (inches) yards. Modernizing the building’s façade. Adding some gastronomic restaurant in the lobby. Replacing the current staff with ‘formally trained professionals’ (whatever the fuck that means). In short, the exact kind of grandiose reformist promises that require a predictable and stabilizing force: Hotchner.
“His audition,” you offer. “Or strip show, but with clothes on. And instead of a cheap thrill, you end up with a guy following you home with a measuring tape and a construction hat.”
“I doubt that’s part of his qualifications.”
He briefly catches your eye as he says it. Maybe to see if you’ve caught his joke. Or maybe to defend the honor of a fellow prosecutor, who knows.
“No?” you tilt your head. “They don't teach you how to work a pole in law school? I thought that was what the bar was for.”
The faintest trace of amusement tugs at his lips. “That wasn’t included in the exam when I took it,” he says evenly.
“A real shame.”
If he knew how perversely you’re imagining him throwing a bra off the stage to reveal his very nice chest, you might be looking at 30 years to life.
Back to war, before he can sentence you with anything.
“He’s running unopposed. And I know you disagree with his proposals,” you continue.
He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he shifts his weight, sliding one hand into his pocket—a gesture that should be casual, but on him, it reads like a warning and an invitation at the same time.
“It’s visionary. But speculative,” he begins. The way he says speculative sounds like federal speak for out-of-his-fucking-mind. “Too many changes for the sake of change. I like things as they are. There’s no reason to invite unnecessary risks or disruptions.”
This is exactly why predictability is the only currency that matters here. People are faithful to the benefits they know will come to them. Which is why any aspiring showgirl (such as Rosen) will always find opposition in those who grew rich under certainty, and lukewarm loyalty in those who hope for change.
“I couldn’t agree more,” you say, letting your voice soften into something that sounds like genuine relief. You know just how much of a pain in the ass this is going to be. But now is the time to act with the boldness that ambition demands. “Which is why I think you should run against him.”
He doesn't look surprised. He’s likely seen this coming since you mentioned the 'strip show' but he does look profoundly tired. He pulls his hand from his pocket and rubs the bridge of his nose. The lines on his face somehow deepen for a second.
“I don’t have the time for it,” he refuses, calm but firm. “Between work… and everything else, I barely see Jack during the week. My schedule isn’t exactly predictable, and the little time I do have at home, I dedicate entirely to him.”
Using his son as an argument here would be a fatal mistake. Like trying to play the violin with a sledgehammer. You can’t make him your enemy before you make him your instrument.
“I know,” you tell him gently. You have to sound like you’re sorry to even be asking him. Because the easiest way to get to him is through his pathological sense of duty.
“But that’s why I came to you,” you add. “This doesn’t need campaigning. It just needs someone who’s steady enough to not let it turn into a complete mess.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“If Rosen wins, it’ll be weeks of construction. And then, we’ll have some stupid restaurant in the lobby that charges $50 for one single pea on a plate that they’ll call ‘deconstructed greenery’. And he even wants to get rid of the staff,” you argue, watching his expression carefully. You shrug lightly. “I like Arthur.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “And Grant.”
“Running is the smallest possible intervention to keep things from getting fucked,” you finish.
You can see it land — the way his shoulders settle, the way his resistance shifts from no to calculating the cost.
“Why me?” he asks.
To fully convince a man like Aaron Hotchner, you can’t simply present a logical argument. Logic invites debate. To truly disarm him, you must introduce a variable he won’t be able to categorize.
“Because you’re hot.”
He’s prepared for a manifesto, a comprehensive logical argument, a plea even perhaps. But he doesn’t flinch nor does he fluster.
“I’m sorry?”
You think he’s trying one of those profiling interrogation tactics. There’s a sudden heaviness in his posture, his voice sounds somewhat more authoritative. That might work on the damned but it certainly doesn’t on the deviant.
“You’re significantly hotter than Rosen,” you repeat shamelessly.
It technically isn’t a lie. He is hotter. By any reasonable metric. Measurably so.
It’s the hands. Fine dark hairs, wide palms, thick fingers. The kind of hands that suggest a terrifying amount of … grip strength. The kind you imagine running softly along your lips before he presses his fingers inside your mouth. Pushing down lightly against your tongue. To quiet you when you’ve pushed him too far and he feels like he’s losing control. Or maybe simply because he has to maintain that impeccably suffocating composure even while you’re trying to make him come apart at the seams.
Anyways.
Truth is, it’s more useful to let him think this is all impulsive. If you place a frivolous coin in his hand, he’ll spend more time trying to count it than closing his fingers around the truth.
“That’s a remarkably poor reason to choose a representative,” he counters.
Why Hotchner ? Because people already straighten their ties when he comes near. Voices lower, even slightly, when he enters a room. Chairs are nudged back into place, papers aligned, as if no one wants to even risk showing him the slightest bit of disorder.
Rosen wants to be liked, admired, loved. Maybe because no one ever told him he was a good boy. Doesn’t matter. He’s unpredictable because he’s desperate for approval.
“Is it?” you hum, tapping your finger on your lower lip.
Love is a gift of the people. But fear is the tool of the ruler. As long as people fear Hotchner without hating him, they will remain too preoccupied with their own conduct to ever notice yours.
“Honestly, I think you’d be good at it. And…,” you draw it out, letting a little faux hesitation settle in. “I really don’t like Rosen.”
You actually don’t care that much about Rosen. Hatred would require a more noteworthy person. But his plan to modernize the building involves not only auditing the floorplans for construction but also getting rid of the current staff.
And that’s a problem. Huge fucking one. See, there’s a forgotten pre-war mail sorting alcove tucked behind a staff door (that’s technically supposed to be shut at all times). It’s not listed anywhere as a storage unit, and no one knows about it. Or pays for it.
You do. Well… not exactly. You pay Grant— the building manager —directly to keep it quiet.
Rosen’s bullshit renovations, the restaurant, all of it, would warrant pulling up the blueprints. No need to further explain why that’s a nuisance.
You can’t say you hate him but you certainly disdain him for how incontinent his audacity is turning out to be.
“You don’t like his policies,” he clarifies.
He studies you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze isn’t sharp so much as deliberate — like he’s picked up a puzzle piece and is quietly deciding where it belongs.
“I don’t like him,” you repeat simply.
He gives you a small smile. Part patronizing and part knowing. It’s probably the kind of smile he gives Jack when he tries to stay up past his bedtime with a flimsy excuse. It says that he sees your game, he finds it somewhat endearing and he’s content to let you play. Provided you stay within the lines he’s drawn.
“Not liking someone usually isn’t enough to motivate this much effort,” he says firmly.
“Also I’m using this as an excuse to spend time with you.” (wink wink)
A surprised little chuckle escapes him. Soft and unguarded, slipping past his usual fortress of control.
“What ? I’m just being more honest about it than your 'baking teachers' from the 4th floor.”
He looks down for a second, shaking his head. As if he’s trying to find a way not to encourage you.
“I’m fairly certain Mrs. Mitchell is only interested in Jack’s progress with a whisk.”
“Mrs. Mitchell is seventy two. Not blind.”
He exhales quietly. Could be another laugh or could just be a sigh. He rests his palm on his side. Fingers settling against the slight give at his waist. Eyes still on yours.
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
It’s not a compliment. It’s accounting.
“I didn’t take you for someone so… neighborly,” he adds.
He lets it hang for a second. In light of your history in 122, it sounds like an accusation of heresy. He tilts his head with the ghost of a smile. He’s aware you’re hiding a knight in your sleeve but he’s curious enough to let you place it on the board.
You don’t need to completely deceive him. You just need to give him a good enough reason to act.
“I’ll think about it,” he finishes before you can find a rebuttal.
He gives you a final, polite nod. The kind of professional dismissal he likely gives his subordinates from his big intimidating FBI office. It’s efficiently authoritative. The look of a man who’s spent more years in aseptic briefing rooms than you’ve spent in the adult world.
It makes you feel like you’re one of his interns who’s just overstepped in a meeting about whatever it is that they do at his fancy job. It is also, in a way that would probably concern a therapist, deeply arousing.
The door doesn’t slam. It smoothly clicks back into place. A “That will be all” in physical form.
Perhaps you’ve reached his limit on neighborly insubordination.
A limit is never a wall unless you lack the will to climb it. Because power is not found within the lines, but in the act of crossing them.
Crossing 121’s threshold feels less like an innocent neighborly visit and more like you’re a diplomatic envoy entering a rival’s capital. Except the rival is wearing a black polo that nicely hugs his arms and smells faintly of laundry detergent, tonka bean and espresso.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he tells you. His tone suggests he’s still deciding if comfortable is a state he should actually allow you within the four walls of his living room.
You expected more… austerity. Some freakish FBI shrine with aggressively neutral furniture and a framed copy of the constitution.
But his place looks thoughtful. Lived-in.
Bookshelves filled with fancy leather bound hardbacks. Law, psychology, history. Biographies of old men who definitely liked hearing themselves talk a little too much.
Framed photos. Of his kid. Grinning, asleep, playing soccer, wearing a suit (which you suppose answers the question of whether Hotchner’s compulsion toward ties is genetic or simply contagious).
And drawings. Framed as carefully as the photos. Crayon suns. Lopsided houses. Stick figures with names written too large. And also for some reason, one of the US flag with parachutes and a bald eagle.
You’re fairly certain he supervised that one. You hope he doesn’t make his kid sing the national anthem before eating breakfast.
You’re looking for a crack, a secret vice, a hidden stack of trashy smutty novels. But it all looks like the living room of a man in his early fifties. Work, kid, dinner, sleep, repeat. Thrill-seeking not included. He probably keeps his porn in the bedroom.
You’re running your finger along the edge of the shelf, half-hoping to find a fine layer of dust you can use as leverage when you hear him clearing his throat.
He’s clearly been standing there for at least a minute, carrying a small tray with 2 cups of coffee and a plate of cookies. He doesn’t look annoyed, necessarily. He looks like he’s just finished reading a particularly predictable file.
You don’t pretend you weren’t snooping around gathering information.
“So, when can I see your bedroom?” you ask with a shameless grin.
“When you have a warrant.”
He sets the tray on the coffee table and gestures for you to sit back down.
You pick up a cookie and inspect it for store-bought mediocrity just to spite him.
He slides a neatly printed sheet of paper toward you. Bullet points, clear headings, a few handwritten notes. Predictable. Efficient. Erotically bureaucratic.
“I’ve put together some ideas for the campaign,” he explains. “I thought we could start with the things that matter most to the residents. Safety, maintenance, community programs. I’ve outlined a rough plan.”
What he calls a rough plan is in fact already operational. You look back at him with a little smile.
This reads less like a draft and more like something a very particular type of old school Republican homemaker would apologize for, lamenting the ‘disastrous mess’ while adjusting her pearls, meanwhile her couch pillows look like they've been positioned using a calibrator.
It’s not an apology, it’s a subtle power play. He’s saying that even his rough is infinitely better than what others consider finished.
“This is solid,” you tell him honestly.
He prepares like someone who expects consequences. Like someone who has learned that being thorough is the only way to keep things from slipping through his fingers. Except he’s planned for resistance without assuming malice.
He clearly has all the command of authority but lacks the ruthlessness to use it.
“Walk me through it.”
He takes a sip of his coffee. His tongue slips past his way-too-pink lips while he puts down his cup. Then he shifts closer, turning the page so it faces you properly.
“Most people here don’t want big changes. They want things to run smoothly,” he begins quietly. “They want to know that when they come home, the elevator works, the halls are quiet, and the temperature is exactly what they set it to.”
He runs his finger over the bullet points.
You nod along attentively. He’s basically pitching an utopian vision of boredom.
“I want it to be comfortable,” he adds. There’s something unguarded about him when he speaks. “Not just for anyone. But for Jack. This is where he lives. Where he should feel safe, where things should just… work. That’s important to me.”
It’s hard to stay a cynic when you’re faced with a man who treats a building representative role like a sacred oath to his son.
“I don’t think it needs to be complicated,” he continues. “If day to day life feels easier, people notice. That’s enough.”
It’s surprising how he plans as though people will behave like rational adults. He plans for systems, not appetites. Which is virtuous… in theory.
“What if people don’t notice?” you ask.
He looks up at you calmly. “I know they might not. That doesn’t change what needs to be done.”
You watch him for a moment. He looks absolutely resolute. So utterly and unshakably devoted to doing the right thing, whether people thank him or not, that you feel compelled to be completely honest with him for once.
“I get it. Really. But that’s not how you win an election. People are fickle and ungrateful. They only vote for what they see.”
You let your gaze linger on his handwritten comments.
“I don’t want your vision to go unnoticed just because people can’t see it.”
He looks at you wordlessly. There’s a certain… softness? in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He gives you a small smile. Real. Uncalculated. It feels foreign but somehow you don’t mind it.
“I appreciate that,” he says. “I’m willing to listen. I just need to know we’re doing this cleanly.”
He tilts his head at you pointedly but not unkindly. Like he’s about to scold you for a behavior he’s already forgiven.
“No dirty tricks.”
A man who makes a profession of goodness in all things will come to grief among so many who are not good. Therefore if he is to remain the face of virtue, you’ll have to become the hand of necessity.
“No dirty tricks,” you repeat.
You lift your coffee cup towards him. He hesitates for a second before raising his own cup. Porcelain tapping porcelain.
“That would actually make a great slogan,” you joke lightly. “Down and dirty with Hotchner. What do you think?”
He lets out a sigh.
“We’re not calling it that.”
“What about Let’s erect a better future ?”
“Absolutely not.”
You take a bite out of your cookie.
“What would you call it then?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He glances back down at the page, as if the slogan has been sitting there the whole time, filed neatly alongside the rest.
“Something straightforward.” He softly taps his lower lip with his index. “Doing things the right way.”
The cookie tastes great. You chew it carefully. Because it’s clearly homemade and because he definitely uses nice chocolate. And also because you’re trying to keep yourself from laughing.
In your head, you can almost hear the faint, crackling audio of a 1980s campaign ad. Pure Reagan. Morning in America for people who consider a perfectly organized filing cabinet a spiritual triumph.
“Hotchner,” you say firmly. “This type of thing used to work in the 80s. People want sex now.”
He stiffens ever so slightly, a faint crease appearing between his brows. There’s a flash of pink in his ears.
“Mrs. Harrison has been a respectable building administrator for more than 30 years and she’s never had to resort to—”
“When did she first run?”
He stays quiet for a moment. Looks down at his campaign notes, then back at his coffee, as if history might have rearranged itself to be more convenient for his argument. It hasn’t.
“1984,” he admits sheepishly.
See ? You’re not being pretentious just for the sake of it. The world seems to enjoy proving you right.
“Do you think there’s a way to get Mrs. Harrison to endorse you?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “She believes in letting the election run its course without interference. She won’t endorse anyone.”
“Or maybe she told you that because she doesn’t like you.”
He blinks, caught-off guard. The idea that that old hag of an administrator might harbor a secret grudge against him seems to rattle his fundamental understanding of the building’s ecosystem. “Where did you get that idea?”
“I heard it’s because you tried to sleep with her husband.”
He stares at you blankly. His brows furrowed. His eyes narrowed. As if processing the unmitigated lunacy of what you just said requires the full cooperation of his entire face.
Then it happens.
A sharp, sudden giggle escapes him. He ducks his head, a hand coming up to cover his mouth but he can’t stop it. His shoulders shake and his laugh sounds way higher pitched than you expected but painfully sincere.
When he looks back at you, eyes bright and still crinkled at the corners, you think that he’s really beautiful. It selfishly makes you want to corrupt him.
“How do you even come up with stuff like this?” he asks, voice laced with amusement.
“Divine inspiration,” you answer with a proud grin.
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. Endearingly dramatic. How he treats building gossip with the same level of operational security as a national secret. Also… there’s only the two of you in his apartment.
“This stays between us but I think she and her husband are getting a divorce. That’s why she’s not running again.”
The sudden proximity might be a tactical error on his part. Or perhaps a calculated risk. You can feel the heat radiating off him. The steady solidness of his frame next to you. His thigh pressing against yours.
“Don’t tell me you actually slept with her husband.”
He chuckles again. “I don’t think I’m his type.”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. You wonder how he’d react if you told him that about 40% of the building (and that’s a conservative estimate) wants to fuck him.
Your thigh brushes against his — a small, calculated nudge. Nothing overt, but enough.
You might be the first general to zest a lemon. Strangely, there’s no exceptionally meritorious flour-sifting in a duty of great responsibility medal.
Which there should be. It’s a high-stakes chemistry operation performed in a cloud of fine white powder (not the fun kind) with no laboratory equipment.
This speaks volumes about the level of masochism Hotchner hides under those pressed shirts. It’s his government sanctioned place of controlled suffering. That’s why he pretends not to notice the way Mrs. Mitchell or even Mrs. Dillon look at him like he’s proofed just right. He’s too busy imagining getting whipped with a whisk (until stiff peaks form).
You glare at the counter. Flour everywhere. Sugar places it has no business being. A sink full of dishes that will still be there when you get back from your diplomatic visits. So much for doing this ‘the clean way’.
This is, in a very roundabout way, Hotchner’s fault. It makes you want to drag him into your kitchen by his leash tie and scold him, “Kneel. And explain the flour”.
Unfortunately, Hotchner doesn’t bend. He endures. Which means you’re the one who has to do the bending (…).
You must bend your mind to see the shadow before the blade. If you wait for the steel to bite, you are no longer a strategist but merely a casualty of your own blindness.
That is to say, the surest way to lose an election, is to wait for loyalties to step into the light, instead of seeking them out while they still hide in the shadows.
Most people do not know why they support something. They mistake momentum for conviction. Enthusiasm for foresight.
That is why you do not begin by asking people what they believe. Belief is ornamental. You begin by observing what makes them nervous.
If power has a natural enemy, it’s scrutiny. Consequently, it must be exercised through gestures that appear generous and conversations that seem incidental. Hence the baking. No one expects consequences to come wrapped in parchment paper and powdered sugar.
War, after all, is not only fought with weapons (though you think KitchenAids could be classified as small siege engines). It’s fought with timing. With preparation. With knowing which doors to knock on and which ones to leave closed until you know what waits behind them.
Take Mr. Haldeman in 314. Senior white house consultant. He’s so nervous about property value he’s currently trying to sell his own mother for a 7% increase in equity (call 1-800-MOM-FOR-CASH ! supplies limited — buy now, pay later!). Though to be fair, he’s always been really nice to you.
Or Mr. Agnew in 211. Rosen’s closest buddy (no homoerotic situation here you think. but then again who knows. Rosen’s allegedly married but no one has ever seen his wife). He’s the one who secured the restaurant deal. He most likely hopes no one is looking too closely at the fine print of the contract.
And of course, Hotchner’s 4th floor fanclub. Mrs. Dillon and Mrs. Mitchell. They’re probably nervous that Hotchner might one day stop wearing his tight suits that leave nothing to the imagination (so are you).
Mrs. Mitchell is that brand of particularly delightful old woman: she stares at his chest unashamedly while her husband glares at him like he’s the guy who’s going to steal his pension. At this point, Mr. Mitchell’s hatred of Hotchner might be the only thing keeping his heart beating.
Treating them the same would be inefficient. Efficiency requires classification (if Hotchner knew you’re applying federal-level organizational rigor to a plate of muffins, he’d probably whip his cream. you can almost see him, brows furrowed in concentrated approval, letting out breathless sighs of pleasure at your color coded spreadsheet of the building’s residents).
So you sort.
Not by conviction.
Not by enthusiasm.
But by vulnerability.
Because people are so governed by the urgency of their appetites, if you craft a sweet enough illusion, you will always find a victim ready to fall upon your blade.
You start with Agnew. Not everything he says is useful. Matter of fact, most of it is fluff. He thinks you’re still undecided so he’s trying to sway you. He doesn’t give you any campaign secrets—he’s too well-trained for that—but pride is a loud mistress.
“We’re thinking once we get the constructions started, it might do the building good to renovate the entire thing. Not just the façade. Don’t get me wrong, it has its charm, I’m not talking about getting rid of everything. Just… give it a fresher look. We’re still discussing things.”
‘The entire thing’ doesn’t mean just paint and lighting. It means assessments. Special fees. Emails with numbers bolded for emphasis.
In theory, it sounds like a great idea. Improve the building, raise the standards. Common mistake but no less forgiving. People rarely open their wallets without resentment. That’s probably why it’s still a discussion.
For a moment, it feels like striking gold. If you so much as utter the word ‘money’, Haldeman is already on his knees, tongue out, waiting for the check to clear.
You expect eagerness. Or at least something you can press on. Instead, when he opens the door, he's polite. Cordial. And completely closed.
You try the innocent approach. You let him explain things to you. You insist he take another muffin. You nod in the right places.
He’s pleasant. Generous with his time. What he isn’t is curious.
Curiosity belongs to the undecided. Haldeman is not undecided. He has already discussed things.
By the time you leave 314, you understand your mistake.
You’re not early. You’re late. If you’re too late here… you must also be too late elsewhere. You should’ve just gotten store-bought muffins.
You take the stairs to the 4th floor. You pass by 411, Rosen’s door, flip it off and mutter a quiet and petty “suck my dick” as professional courtesy. Then you keep going. Mrs. Dillon is down the hall.
Mrs Dillon’s gaze lingers long enough on the crumb of your muffins to tell you she knows exactly what temperature you baked these at, and that it was wrong.
While she dishonorably discharges you for your baking skills (she probably means well. she’s giving you advice on how to make them better next time. there won’t be a next time. the pastries taste better when you extort them from Hotchner anyway), you notice a framed picture of her late husband surrounded by a concerning number of doilies.
“He had a sweet tooth,” she says gently. “When we lived in our old house, I’d let pies cool on the window sills. By the time I came back from the garden, the edges were already gone. He had to taste, couldn’t help himself.” She shakes her head fondly at the memory.
You can almost see it: the sun on the windowsill, the little golden edges disappearing before the pie even had a chance to rest. Funny how something so small can leave a mark. And somehow, you can’t help but think of the building, its own aging façade waiting for care, the same way a neglected pie cools too long in the sun.
If anyone were going to notice a change in the building, it would be her. A whispered comment here, a casual remark there. Mrs. Dillon has been doing this for decades. She gossips not out of malice, but out of habit.
That makes her the perfect carrier for a little strategic information about renovations.
You give her a small smile.
“Are those for my dad?”
You consider your options carefully.
Too carefully.
Children are volatile. They do not respond to precedent, leverage or subtle intimidation. They do not reliably understand irony. And worst of all, they possess a disturbing loyalty to their parents that borders on fanaticism.
You run through scenarios.
If you speak to him like an adult, he’ll think you’re trying too hard.
If you speak to him like a child, he’ll think you’re weird.
If you ignore him, he’ll remember it forever and make your life hell.
Bribery briefly crosses your mind. Candy? Stickers? Something bright and untraceable. But then you picture it. Jack Hotchner, 10 (? or is it 11?) years old, sitting at the dinner table across from his father, calmly reporting how he made his first ever arrest while presenting the 5 dollar bill you tried to slip him as Exhibit A.
“Yes,” you say finally. “Is he home?”
“He’s in the kitchen.”
That’s it.
You stand there, papers in hand, as your brain immediately begins a frantic, high-speed autopsy of the interaction. You're searching for the subtext, but there is no subtext.
He’s in the kitchen. Is that a statement of fact or a territorial boundary? Does it mean ‘Go find him yourself’ or ‘Wait here until I’ve cleared you’?
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
He just walks back inside, leaving the door open for you.
The scent of garlic and something dangerously good wafts through the air. Jack sits at the counter, colored pencils splayed like an assault formation, focused on coloring something.
Hotchner stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, a dark apron tied loosely around his waist. He looks completely at ease. Competent. Precise. And yet entirely unbothered by the growing chaos of dirty dishes around him.
His forearms look so— okay no. You can’t do this in front of his kid. He looks very handsome while cooking. Let’s keep it at that.
His eyes flick over to you, catching you staring. He notices your little stack of papers.
“Are you staying for dinner?”
You barely have time to nod before Jack looks up from the counter and asks you “Can you help me with this?” waving a half-colored in ‘Vote for my dad’ poster.
You sit beside Jack, picking up a blue crayon. You don’t talk much. You don’t have to (thank god). Jack is a silent, focused worker (his little concentration frown-pout makes him look like his dad). You find yourself falling into a rhythm of filling in the block letters he’s outlined.
Dinner goes well. You listen to them talk about Jack’s science project and the puppies he saw at the park yesterday.
“Bedtime,” Hotchner says eventually.
There’s what you think is the usual half-hearted protest, a quick “it was nice to see you” from Jack and then the apartment goes quiet.
He returns a few minutes later, sleeves still rolled up and top button of his shirt (that you’re sure was buttoned) undone. He’s carrying two glasses of wine. He sets one in front of you and motions toward the stack of papers you’ve been protecting all evening.
The wine tastes nice. Red, deep, and expensive (or at least, more expensive than the ‘I need to get fucked up but vodka feels too hardcore’ blend you usually use to drown your tactical sorrows).
You find yourself swirling the liquid in the glass, watching it cling to the crystal. It’s a stupid gesture (pretentious and largely useless. maybe that’s rich coming from you. but hypocrisy is only embarrassing when it’s accidental). Still, it gives you an excuse to look at your own hands, and then, inevitably, at his.
It appears force is the most effective when it follows mercy. The world judges by the eye and not the touch, and while many witness the mask of your clemency, few ever feel the weight of your hand.
He’s absentmindedly tapping his index on his glass.
“So.. what’s all this?” he asks.
You let your eyes flick down to the stack of papers, then back to him. It’s a printed copy of the building’s amenity hours with several blocks of time highlighted in what you consider a persuasive shade of neon pink.
“The pool schedule,” you say.
He raises an eyebrow. Slips his tongue between his lips, wetting them with a slow, unconscious (he puts his kid to sleep and instantly dials up the whorishness?) deliberation.
“I’m not sure I’m qualified to give swimming lessons,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You don’t bother with the preamble about civic duty and all that jazz.
“I’m not looking for lessons. I’m looking for a show.” You take a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. “You go in the pool, you swim and you look… hot while doing it.”
He blinks. “I already run. I don’t see how changing my cardio routine affects the building’s administrative future.”
Truth is a fine wine served to a crowd that only craves volume. So as long as the cup is full, the few who taste the vinegar will be ignored.
“Because nobody sees you run,” you explain. “It’s about how you look doing it. You keep your lane, you pace yourself, you follow the rules. People will watch and think ‘if he cares this much about the pH levels of the pool, imagine how diligently he’ll handle the building’s affairs... and he has a nice butt’.”
He stares at you blankly. Like he’s magnanimously giving you the opportunity to retract your statement. If you go down for solicitation of a hot single dad, so be it.
He answers carefully, each word measured. Like he’s reading from a moral ledger no one asked him to consult. Firm but not angry (yet). There’s a trace of exasperation in the tilt of his head. A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ve decided to do this for the good of the building’s residents,” he begins. “Not to promote indecent behavior.”
He takes a sip of wine before he speaks. As if to help himself endure your frivolity. “My son lives here.”
What a fucking prude. The point is to make him look reliable, disciplined.
Hair slicked back, dark strands clinging to his forehead. Swim trunks hugging him just right. The reliable shape of his shoulders and thighs. Arms flexing with each stroke. Chest rising and falling from the effort.
The fact that he’d look sexy doing it is just a bonus.
“You’re never going to make it in politics like this. If you just show a bit of skin we’re guaranteed at least 7 votes.”
He sets down his glass, and leans back slightly. His fingers drum lightly on the table. His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow, thoughtful, scanning the papers again before flicking up to you.
For a long moment he says nothing. You watch the way his hands flex as he rests them on the table. The deliberate, measured way he exhales. Even in stillness, there’s tension in the line of his shoulders. The kind of quiet control that makes it obvious he’s weighing the absurdity of your plan against his own standards.
His lips part then close. You wonder for a second if you’ve finally broken his federal-software. You haven’t even said anything that outrageous. Maybe it’s the first time anyone’s told him he has a nice ass.
He tilts his head back, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The slow calculations of his mind written in the crease between his brows.
“Okay,” he finally decides. Flat but confident. Not a concession but a choice. “I’ll swim.”
Oh you’re about to get the show of a lifetime.
“Drop the shirt, let’s get to work.” You don’t even try to hide your excitement. It would go against your morals to pretend you’re not thrilled you finally get to see his tits. You’re already trying to calculate the exact refractive index of his skin under water.
“Drop the shirt?” he repeats dryly. He sounds vaguely threatening. His gaze flickers briefly to the shirt you're referring to, then back at you, his lips pressed into a thin line.
There is a certain perverse delight in knowing that while you’re mentally dressing him in too few square inches of high-performance Lycra and a strategic layer of chlorine, he’s building a case against you.
“You can’t just pick a lane and hope for the best. We need to go down to the pool.”
He glances down at his watch. Metal sitting nicely against his wrist, catching the light in a way that screams ‘I have a very healthy retirement fund’.
“It’s nearly eleven.”
“Exactly,” you counter. “No one will be there and we can properly check out which lane makes your arms look the best.”
He gives you a look that is terrifyingly steady—the kind of look that usually precedes a confession in a small, windowless room. It’s no wonder he’s getting paid the big bucks at his FBI job, he could probably get you to confess to assassinating JFK himself.
“You want to go to the pool. Now,” he summarizes, his voice dropping to a skeptical rumble. “To check… the lighting on my arms.”
“You said you were willing to listen.”
He sets his wine glass down on the table. Looks like he’s finally decided to stop entertaining your nonsense. He leans forward, closing the gap between you until you can see the slight amber flecks in his brown eyes.
“Do you actually expect me to believe this is about the campaign?” he asks. “Or are you just testing to see how much of your antics I’m willing to endure before I show you out?”
If you dip your hand into the waters of ambition, you must be prepared to plunge your whole body — the middle way leads only to ruin.
“Both,” you say.
The silence stretches. You’re half-expecting a metronome to start ticking somewhere, just to really commit to the tension.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t argue. That’s how you know he’s past skepticism and into assessment.
His gaze drops to his watch again. A reflex. Time, consequences, exits.
He turns his wrist slightly, as if confirming something only he can see, then looks back at you.
“You’re aware it’s late,” he says. Not a protest. A parameter.
You nod.
He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. The kind of breath he takes before stepping into a situation he already suspects he’ll have to control.
“All right,” he says at last. Calm. Decided. “We’ll take a look.”
Not because you’ve convinced him but because he’s decided to follow you far enough to find out what you’re actually after.
“Five minutes,” he adds.
The consistency is almost impressive. Even his exceptions obey rules. He isn’t giving in. He’s simply factored in your bullshit into his protocol. Made a slot for your chaos in his schedule, tucked neatly between put Jack to bed and maintain national security.
Chlorine-induced neurosis is an established inevitability, like gravity or your inability to behave around authority figures.
There’s something about pools at night. The chemical bite at the back of your throat (reminiscent of other things that could also hit the back of your throat), the echoing stillness, the way every sound feels amplified and slightly wrong.
The overhead lights hum softly, casting pale reflections across the water. Long white bands rippling over the tiled floors, broken only by the gentle bob of lane dividers floating in disciplined rows, like polite boundaries no one expects you to cross.
Hotchner steps in first. He pauses, assessing the place, to make sure nothing has gone sideways without his permission.
Then he takes off his shirt.
His chest is broad and solid. There’s a slight give to it. Faint freckles dot his skin, easy to miss unless you’re paying attention (which you are. unreasonably so). A few silver hairs at the centre of his chest catch the light when he shifts.
His shoulders roll once, muscle moving with quiet efficiency. He looks warm under the lights. Real. Inconveniently human.
You briefly think that the building should consider switching pool disinfectants. Chlorine feels… excessive. There must be gentler options. Ones that don’t immediately cause lapses in judgment and moral decay.
Your eyes drop. And that’s when you see the swim trunks.
They’re unmistakably old. Dark, utilitarian, cut to survive training. Time has not been kind to them. Or maybe it’s actually been too kind. They sit low on his hips, snug around his thighs in a way that feels unreasonably provocative for a man who insists on virtue and modesty in all things.
“Please tell me those aren’t government issued.”
He pauses, his hand hovering near the draw string. He clears his throat, a faint, uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck.
Do they give out standardized ‘New Agent’ kits when you graduate from the Academy ? Gun, badge, handcuffs, swim trunks and maybe a box of FBI-issued condoms. The packaging might even say: Property of the FBI. For tactical use only. Every drop of you belongs to the federal government.
“They are,” he admits resignedly. He looks down at the faded fabric for a moment, his thumb brushing the hem, as if he's mentally calculating the decades since he last stood on a Quantico pool deck. “These might actually be older than you are,” he adds in a low mutter, more to himself than to you.
“That’s so hot,” you blurt out.
He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his otherwise controlled expression. No comment. Just a subtle shake of his head before he steps to the edge and slides into the water.
He pushes off the wall, water hissing around him, and glides forward.
Each stroke is precise and deliberate. His forearms tighten as his hands slice through the water, veins catching the light. His chest rises and falls. His wet hair clings to his forehead and temples, the ends occasionally brushing the back of his neck as he turns to breathe. His calves flex with each push, sending tiny waves across the lane.
He breathes with deliberate timing, neck stretching smoothly as he tilts his head, lips parting just enough to draw in air. Every rotation of his torso is economical, calculated. No wasted movement, no strain, just absolute command of his body.
With each stroke, the water sprays lightly across his torso. You notice the subtle curve of his abdomen. The way his shoulders shift with effort, his arms cut through the water with effortless authority, his back fans out with every stroke. The deep groove of his spine acting as a shoreline for the water racing over his skin.
He swims a clean, powerful crawl. Watching Aaron Hotchner exert himself is like stumbling upon a highly specific, high-budget fetish porn: ‘Busty competent dad in skimpy swimsuit’.
He finally drifts to the edge, arms resting on the tile, water dripping from his shoulders. “Well?” he asks. “How’s this lane?”
You perch on the edge of the pool, leaning forward slightly. Honestly, you were more busy picturing him in less chlorinated contexts than paying attention to the lights and shadows.
“The lane is fine,” you murmur, your gaze dropping to the water beaded on his collarbone.
You lean just an inch too far.
A splash.
Water envelops you.
He catches you instinctively, one arm on your back, and you emerge drenched, your face inches from his.
He brushes your hair away from your face. You briefly consider pretending to drown. Maybe that could get him to give you mouth-to-mouth. And also, it’d be dramatic enough to make him forget how cliché this is.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
You nod quickly. The war general in your head is being court-martialed. This is basically a death sentence for your credibility.
He doesn't move to let you go. If anything, his grip tightens. Your hand clings to his shoulder. Might as well seize the opportunity to fondle him a bit while you can.
“Was that on purpose?”
Your chest is brushing against his, water dripping between you, and it’s impossible to say no without sounding ridiculous.
“What do you think?”
He runs his thumb across your lips. You feel the way his hand cradles your face.
“I think you’re playing some kind of perverted game,” he whispers.
He leans in until your nose brushes against his. His eyes drop to your mouth with a look that is equal parts clinical and starved.
“I’ve handled people more… inventive than you, sweetheart,” he adds quietly. “I’ll find out what you’re up to eventually.”
You don’t let him interrogate you further.
The kiss is bruising.
He isn’t gentle. He handles you with the same crushing efficiency he used to cut through the water. His hands remain locked on your face, his fingers threading into your wet hair to tilt your head back. Claiming every inch of space you’ve tried to occupy all night.
His weight pins you firmly against the tiled edge of the pool. You feel the grit of the grout against your back. And the unyielding soft expanse of his chest against your front.
He groans into your mouth. Your lungs start to burn.
His lips are firm, slick with chlorine. You vaguely think that he’s trying to devour you. His tongue traces the seam of your lips.
Every time you try to pull him closer, his grip on your face tightens, his thumbs anchored firmly at your jaw to keep you exactly where he wants.
He shifts, his thigh slipping between yours to hold you steady against the tile. Just as you reach for the hem of his stupid FBI trunks, he pulls back.
His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged. He lets his hand drop from your face, though his thumb lingers for one last stroke across your swollen lips.
“This lane seems good enough to me,” he rasps.
He lets go of you and begins to swim away. Entirely unbothered.
Kiss the hand of a new prince to raise him to power, and you have only marked your own cheek for the executioner.
You stay anchored to the tile, shivering as the cold air hits your soaked skin.
genre : s11 hotch, very obvious fetish for dad bods and authority, politics but make it stupid and domestic, obnoxious philosophical analogies (like seriously obnoxious), bullying hotch because he's hot
summary : Those who wish to win the favor of a man like Aaron Hotchner will generally approach him with obedience or modesty. You have among your possessions nothing that could even remotely resemble that. You find it more fitting to offer him the seat of building representative, deranged fantasies and pretentious philosophical metaphors. All things considered, not a bad price for the chance to see his tits.
notes : requested by the lovely @ssa-dado who i don't think i'll ever be able to thank enough <33 i hope it's not pretentious of me to say this story is as much yours as it's mine. fair warning, this is like if fanfiction was a badly written philosophy textbook lol
word count: 9.7k
It is simpler to agree to ambition when the difficulties haven't been made obvious. Man's inherent wariness lies dormant, waking at the first hint of misfortune. And usually too late to be useful.
As such, you should consider the Florentine not as a mere collection of apartments, but as a small, slightly neurotic, principality.
Partly ironic to say, as you recognize how absurdly serious this contemplation is, given how mundane its object remains. Which is to say: yes, you're aware this is demented.
This is not conjecture. While your time in unit 122 offers ample evidence, the examples of units 113 and 125 are most preferable.
113, peerless in his arrogance, found great satisfaction in endless late-night parties (you developed a miserable ritual of waiting for his inevitable rendition of Married With Children by Oasis. there is a bleak, private joy in hearing a man scream (sing?) that his music is shite and keeps you up all night without a single spark of self-awareness.)
You'd assume that having Hotchner from 121 sternly tell him off would suffice.
A compelling performance, you have to admit. There is something almost offensively hot about the way his features settle into a mask of pure, paternal disappointment that makes you want to either apologize or do something so egregious it forces him to actually put his hands on (in) you.
But no polite, nor impolite requests to 'please tone it down' or to 'turn that dumb fucking music off' changed 113's manner.
Perhaps Hotchner's frown was to blame — virtue is rarely a deterrent to the truly pretentious.
Therefore, when there is no hope but in impetuous (or unhinged) methods, you should be able to act decisively.
Sure, ‘impetuous methods’ makes it sound like some grand tactical maneuver. If we’re being honest, something like being a thoroughly ice cold bitch works just as well.
The building’s guest parking policy is usually loosely enforced. Most of the residents agree to ‘forget’ to call Arthur —the doorman— ahead of time when they’re having guests. Arthur maintains vigilant oversight naturally (as one might expect, that also includes the ‘police officers’ in inexplicably tight shirts who do house calls), though he and you have found a way of looking past certain things.
It turns out, DC’s towing companies can be surprisingly efficient.
The sound of chains dragging a car or of a machine printing out a parking fine is infinitely more pleasant. Once parties start coming with a ticket, people quickly get to the end of the song. Goodbye I’m going home! — and they usually mean it.
Of course, impetuosity has its limits. You don’t necessarily have to get the big guns out every time some asshole thinks he can get laid by playing Wonderwall.
125 however, was literally wandering through the walls.
A man’s vices are his own. If the guy wants to smoke his way to a nice woody coffin with fancy Cuban cigars, you can’t really fault him for that.
This wasn’t an issue until the building did a steam trap maintenance in the basement and opened up the insulation jackets around the pipes. No idea what that actually means (you’re already too busy pretending to be a war general to get into architecture).
What you do understand, is that your unit and Hotchner’s are on the same run of pipes as 125’s. And that whatever they did in the basement made it so that the scent of cigar smoke carried along the metal and pushed through the floorboards. Meaning: it smelled like a gentlemen’s club in your apartment but without the gentlemen.
If Hotchner did try another sexy but inefficient scolding, you didn’t see him.
You do wonder if he smokes. Probably not. He takes the whole ‘health is wealth’ thing very seriously. Plus you don’t think it’d be good for the smaller Hotchner. Still, if he smoked, you think it’d be something tedious. Like a pipe. Nice thick finger pressing the tobacco down into the bowl.
This would have been a much more interesting set up: Hotchner and laying pipe. But alas, this is still about building pipes.
A slight threat, delivered politely and with a pipe in hand, invites retaliation. Beating someone with it, metaphorically speaking, does not. In short, if you want to be decisive, it must be on a scale that makes vengeance impossible.
And also, it helps if you enjoy it.
It was easy enough to get an empty pack of 125’s cigars. And crumple it into one of the basement’s pipes. Right next to the ‘CAUTION : HIGH HEAT’ tag.
To the insurance inspector, this ends up looking like some reckless idiot sneaked into the basement to smoke and shoved the evidence into flammable insulation. A fire safety compliance notice and a $500 fine later, you’d say all of 125’s carefulness went up in smoke but that’d be tasteless.
From these two examples, it follows that people do not abandon indulgence because it’s inconsiderate, but because it becomes too expensive.
Nonetheless, such corrections rarely go unnoticed by those accustomed to patterns. This isn’t to say that Hotchner doesn’t have his own indulgences. They’re simply more… agreeable.
Namely, the too-early-in-the-morning occasional run from which he comes back sweaty and out of breath. It’s a sporadic ritual at best, usually following a particularly successful weekend in the kitchen. You suspect he views the dad bod as a failure in discipline. Which couldn’t be more idiotic. Firm where it matters (…), pleasantly soft everywhere else. A real treat.
To him, the run is clearly an act of penance. He seems the type of man who lives in a state of perpetual atonement. Feels guilty for things he hasn’t even done yet. Probably has a priest on speed dial: “Forgive me Father for I have found pride in my record filing system.”
And while he asks for absolution by subjecting his joints to more friction than they can handle at his age, you’re plainly enjoying the show. T-shirt clinging to his heavy, reliable frame, his breathing shallow and labored, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. It makes him look less like a federal agent and more like a man who has just been thoroughly undone.
He is, after all, nailing himself to a cross of his own making. By some hidden accord between his own nature (the fact that he’s hot) and the humor of times, the older ladies on the 4th floor have started giving him and Jack baking lessons on Sundays.
He does share his little indulgences with you. Though you had to… gently incentivize him. The first time you caught him in the elevator with a container of homemade lemon bars, he’d looked ready to guard them with his life.
“Mister Hotchner, surely you aren’t planning on keeping all of those for yourself?” you’d remarked. A microscopic flick of amusement crossed his face before he wordlessly offered you one.
Since then, anytime he hands you one of his still warm treats, you find yourself slipping into a very specific, very deranged fantasy.
In your mind, you imagine coming home from a long day of conquering the world, loosening your tie, dropping your keys on the side table and calling out for your little wife.
He’d be in the kitchen, wearing a nice floral apron, standing over a cooling cherry pie or some other time consuming desert. His eyes looking up at you, soft and glassy, from the desire to please you (and from whatever imaginary pharmaceutical miracle you’ve clearly overprescribed him in your head).
It’s your delightful taste of male entitlement — desecrating his competence for your own indulgence.
Fortunately, he’s not on any dosage of pharmacological domesticity. He has noticed. Not the fucked up 1950s fantasy. But your careful orchestrations of chaos for the sake of order.
How coincidentally, towing companies started hovering like vultures around the building on Friday nights. Or how, as annoying as 125 is, he wouldn’t waste a fine Cuban cigar on a dingy basement view.
It would be a terrible disservice to his rigor to pretend he hasn’t considered the possibility that Fortune had an accomplice. But true mastery of a principality lies not in what can be seen or what can be suspected — it’s in what cannot be traced.
As pleasurable as it is to feel his gaze narrow at you —curiosity tempered by reluctant amusement— you know that he’s too principled to accuse you of anything without evidence. For all his perceptiveness, he’s remarkably predictable.
Predictability is the coin of the prudent. A man who always walks the same path provides the very stones for his own stumbling.
And yet those same stones form the foundation upon which stability can be built. Which is why anyone offering to rearrange them — talking up and down about improvement or optimization— is rarely a reformer at all, but a merchant of annoyance, eager to be paid in spectacle.
Funnily enough, you’re just about to join the auction. Not because you enjoy throwing dollar bills on stage. But because improvement asks questions and you don’t trust anything that requires answers.
So as you stand before the solid wood of unit 121, you adjust your expression from calculated general looking solemnly at the battlefield (wallets included) to concerned neighbor.
You do consider the idea of leaning against the door frame and seductively greeting him with an “Aaron, why don’t you come and give daddy a big kiss?” but you don’t think he’d appreciate the joke.
He looks exactly how you’d expect: impeccably tired. He’s taken off the suit jacket. His shirt —nice light blue cotton, likely ironed by someone who actually fears him— stretches across his shoulders, struggling to contain the sheer width of him. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal his thick forearms and his tie is loosened just enough to say that he’s off the clock.
Or at least, that the FBI has officially released its grip on his throat and handed him over to the custody of a fifth-grader.
“I’m trying to decide if this is very early, very important,” he says, “or if I’ve simply lost track of when it's appropriate to knock on a neighbor’s door.”
You let your gaze linger on the open collar of his shirt, at the faint lines at his throat, just long enough to suggest insolence, before finally meeting his eyes.
“It’s important for now,” you say lightly, “but it could become inappropriate if you prefer.”
A small, dry laugh escapes him.
“I’ll stick with important,” he replies calmly, leaning a hand against the doorframe.
It almost looks like he’s trying to slut himself out a bit. His fingers spread against the wood, his arm flexing just enough to hint at the muscle beneath the cotton without actually ripping the seams.
It occurs to you, not for the first time, that if men like him were more ambitious, the Florentine would be a much simpler principality to govern.
Because in here lies the premise of this entire obnoxious monologue: some grand modern cunt in 411, convinced that stability is merely a cloak for stagnation, is promising the spectacles and circuses of reform to cure the building of its boredom with order.
“What do you think of David Rosen’s campaign for building representative?” you ask simply.
His brows furrow in their perpetual line of weary concentration before he catches himself and smooths it away, like a man remembering he’s being observed. The face he offers you instead is polite, neutral, and deeply unenthusiastic.
“I wasn’t aware we were calling it a campaign,” he answers like the distinction matters.
To be fair, campaign might not be the most suitable term here. It’s more so Rosen’s attempt to free himself from his bleak destiny: ‘David Ro—what? who’s that? the prosecutor? never heard of him. wait, show me a picture. aaah. yeah. that guy’—sen.
He’s going in with the whole nine (inches) yards. Modernizing the building’s façade. Adding some gastronomic restaurant in the lobby. Replacing the current staff with ‘formally trained professionals’ (whatever the fuck that means). In short, the exact kind of grandiose reformist promises that require a predictable and stabilizing force: Hotchner.
“His audition,” you offer. “Or strip show, but with clothes on. And instead of a cheap thrill, you end up with a guy following you home with a measuring tape and a construction hat.”
“I doubt that’s part of his qualifications.”
He briefly catches your eye as he says it. Maybe to see if you’ve caught his joke. Or maybe to defend the honor of a fellow prosecutor, who knows.
“No?” you tilt your head. “They don't teach you how to work a pole in law school? I thought that was what the bar was for.”
The faintest trace of amusement tugs at his lips. “That wasn’t included in the exam when I took it,” he says evenly.
“A real shame.”
If he knew how perversely you’re imagining him throwing a bra off the stage to reveal his very nice chest, you might be looking at 30 years to life.
Back to war, before he can sentence you with anything.
“He’s running unopposed. And I know you disagree with his proposals,” you continue.
He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he shifts his weight, sliding one hand into his pocket—a gesture that should be casual, but on him, it reads like a warning and an invitation at the same time.
“It’s visionary. But speculative,” he begins. The way he says speculative sounds like federal speak for out-of-his-fucking-mind. “Too many changes for the sake of change. I like things as they are. There’s no reason to invite unnecessary risks or disruptions.”
This is exactly why predictability is the only currency that matters here. People are faithful to the benefits they know will come to them. Which is why any aspiring showgirl (such as Rosen) will always find opposition in those who grew rich under certainty, and lukewarm loyalty in those who hope for change.
“I couldn’t agree more,” you say, letting your voice soften into something that sounds like genuine relief. You know just how much of a pain in the ass this is going to be. But now is the time to act with the boldness that ambition demands. “Which is why I think you should run against him.”
He doesn't look surprised. He’s likely seen this coming since you mentioned the 'strip show' but he does look profoundly tired. He pulls his hand from his pocket and rubs the bridge of his nose. The lines on his face somehow deepen for a second.
“I don’t have the time for it,” he refuses, calm but firm. “Between work… and everything else, I barely see Jack during the week. My schedule isn’t exactly predictable, and the little time I do have at home, I dedicate entirely to him.”
Using his son as an argument here would be a fatal mistake. Like trying to play the violin with a sledgehammer. You can’t make him your enemy before you make him your instrument.
“I know,” you tell him gently. You have to sound like you’re sorry to even be asking him. Because the easiest way to get to him is through his pathological sense of duty.
“But that’s why I came to you,” you add. “This doesn’t need campaigning. It just needs someone who’s steady enough to not let it turn into a complete mess.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“If Rosen wins, it’ll be weeks of construction. And then, we’ll have some stupid restaurant in the lobby that charges $50 for one single pea on a plate that they’ll call ‘deconstructed greenery’. And he even wants to get rid of the staff,” you argue, watching his expression carefully. You shrug lightly. “I like Arthur.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “And Grant.”
“Running is the smallest possible intervention to keep things from getting fucked,” you finish.
You can see it land — the way his shoulders settle, the way his resistance shifts from no to calculating the cost.
“Why me?” he asks.
To fully convince a man like Aaron Hotchner, you can’t simply present a logical argument. Logic invites debate. To truly disarm him, you must introduce a variable he won’t be able to categorize.
“Because you’re hot.”
He’s prepared for a manifesto, a comprehensive logical argument, a plea even perhaps. But he doesn’t flinch nor does he fluster.
“I’m sorry?”
You think he’s trying one of those profiling interrogation tactics. There’s a sudden heaviness in his posture, his voice sounds somewhat more authoritative. That might work on the damned but it certainly doesn’t on the deviant.
“You’re significantly hotter than Rosen,” you repeat shamelessly.
It technically isn’t a lie. He is hotter. By any reasonable metric. Measurably so.
It’s the hands. Fine dark hairs, wide palms, thick fingers. The kind of hands that suggest a terrifying amount of … grip strength. The kind you imagine running softly along your lips before he presses his fingers inside your mouth. Pushing down lightly against your tongue. To quiet you when you’ve pushed him too far and he feels like he’s losing control. Or maybe simply because he has to maintain that impeccably suffocating composure even while you’re trying to make him come apart at the seams.
Anyways.
Truth is, it’s more useful to let him think this is all impulsive. If you place a frivolous coin in his hand, he’ll spend more time trying to count it than closing his fingers around the truth.
“That’s a remarkably poor reason to choose a representative,” he counters.
Why Hotchner ? Because people already straighten their ties when he comes near. Voices lower, even slightly, when he enters a room. Chairs are nudged back into place, papers aligned, as if no one wants to even risk showing him the slightest bit of disorder.
Rosen wants to be liked, admired, loved. Maybe because no one ever told him he was a good boy. Doesn’t matter. He’s unpredictable because he’s desperate for approval.
“Is it?” you hum, tapping your finger on your lower lip.
Love is a gift of the people. But fear is the tool of the ruler. As long as people fear Hotchner without hating him, they will remain too preoccupied with their own conduct to ever notice yours.
“Honestly, I think you’d be good at it. And…,” you draw it out, letting a little faux hesitation settle in. “I really don’t like Rosen.”
You actually don’t care that much about Rosen. Hatred would require a more noteworthy person. But his plan to modernize the building involves not only auditing the floorplans for construction but also getting rid of the current staff.
And that’s a problem. Huge fucking one. See, there’s a forgotten pre-war mail sorting alcove tucked behind a staff door (that’s technically supposed to be shut at all times). It’s not listed anywhere as a storage unit, and no one knows about it. Or pays for it.
You do. Well… not exactly. You pay Grant— the building manager —directly to keep it quiet.
Rosen’s bullshit renovations, the restaurant, all of it, would warrant pulling up the blueprints. No need to further explain why that’s a nuisance.
You can’t say you hate him but you certainly disdain him for how incontinent his audacity is turning out to be.
“You don’t like his policies,” he clarifies.
He studies you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze isn’t sharp so much as deliberate — like he’s picked up a puzzle piece and is quietly deciding where it belongs.
“I don’t like him,” you repeat simply.
He gives you a small smile. Part patronizing and part knowing. It’s probably the kind of smile he gives Jack when he tries to stay up past his bedtime with a flimsy excuse. It says that he sees your game, he finds it somewhat endearing and he’s content to let you play. Provided you stay within the lines he’s drawn.
“Not liking someone usually isn’t enough to motivate this much effort,” he says firmly.
“Also I’m using this as an excuse to spend time with you.” (wink wink)
A surprised little chuckle escapes him. Soft and unguarded, slipping past his usual fortress of control.
“What ? I’m just being more honest about it than your 'baking teachers' from the 4th floor.”
He looks down for a second, shaking his head. As if he’s trying to find a way not to encourage you.
“I’m fairly certain Mrs. Mitchell is only interested in Jack’s progress with a whisk.”
“Mrs. Mitchell is seventy two. Not blind.”
He exhales quietly. Could be another laugh or could just be a sigh. He rests his palm on his side. Fingers settling against the slight give at his waist. Eyes still on yours.
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
It’s not a compliment. It’s accounting.
“I didn’t take you for someone so… neighborly,” he adds.
He lets it hang for a second. In light of your history in 122, it sounds like an accusation of heresy. He tilts his head with the ghost of a smile. He’s aware you’re hiding a knight in your sleeve but he’s curious enough to let you place it on the board.
You don’t need to completely deceive him. You just need to give him a good enough reason to act.
“I’ll think about it,” he finishes before you can find a rebuttal.
He gives you a final, polite nod. The kind of professional dismissal he likely gives his subordinates from his big intimidating FBI office. It’s efficiently authoritative. The look of a man who’s spent more years in aseptic briefing rooms than you’ve spent in the adult world.
It makes you feel like you’re one of his interns who’s just overstepped in a meeting about whatever it is that they do at his fancy job. It is also, in a way that would probably concern a therapist, deeply arousing.
The door doesn’t slam. It smoothly clicks back into place. A “That will be all” in physical form.
Perhaps you’ve reached his limit on neighborly insubordination.
A limit is never a wall unless you lack the will to climb it. Because power is not found within the lines, but in the act of crossing them.
Crossing 121’s threshold feels less like an innocent neighborly visit and more like you’re a diplomatic envoy entering a rival’s capital. Except the rival is wearing a black polo that nicely hugs his arms and smells faintly of laundry detergent, tonka bean and espresso.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he tells you. His tone suggests he’s still deciding if comfortable is a state he should actually allow you within the four walls of his living room.
You expected more… austerity. Some freakish FBI shrine with aggressively neutral furniture and a framed copy of the constitution.
But his place looks thoughtful. Lived-in.
Bookshelves filled with fancy leather bound hardbacks. Law, psychology, history. Biographies of old men who definitely liked hearing themselves talk a little too much.
Framed photos. Of his kid. Grinning, asleep, playing soccer, wearing a suit (which you suppose answers the question of whether Hotchner’s compulsion toward ties is genetic or simply contagious).
And drawings. Framed as carefully as the photos. Crayon suns. Lopsided houses. Stick figures with names written too large. And also for some reason, one of the US flag with parachutes and a bald eagle.
You’re fairly certain he supervised that one. You hope he doesn’t make his kid sing the national anthem before eating breakfast.
You’re looking for a crack, a secret vice, a hidden stack of trashy smutty novels. But it all looks like the living room of a man in his early fifties. Work, kid, dinner, sleep, repeat. Thrill-seeking not included. He probably keeps his porn in the bedroom.
You’re running your finger along the edge of the shelf, half-hoping to find a fine layer of dust you can use as leverage when you hear him clearing his throat.
He’s clearly been standing there for at least a minute, carrying a small tray with 2 cups of coffee and a plate of cookies. He doesn’t look annoyed, necessarily. He looks like he’s just finished reading a particularly predictable file.
You don’t pretend you weren’t snooping around gathering information.
“So, when can I see your bedroom?” you ask with a shameless grin.
“When you have a warrant.”
He sets the tray on the coffee table and gestures for you to sit back down.
You pick up a cookie and inspect it for store-bought mediocrity just to spite him.
He slides a neatly printed sheet of paper toward you. Bullet points, clear headings, a few handwritten notes. Predictable. Efficient. Erotically bureaucratic.
“I’ve put together some ideas for the campaign,” he explains. “I thought we could start with the things that matter most to the residents. Safety, maintenance, community programs. I’ve outlined a rough plan.”
What he calls a rough plan is in fact already operational. You look back at him with a little smile.
This reads less like a draft and more like something a very particular type of old school Republican homemaker would apologize for, lamenting the ‘disastrous mess’ while adjusting her pearls, meanwhile her couch pillows look like they've been positioned using a calibrator.
It’s not an apology, it’s a subtle power play. He’s saying that even his rough is infinitely better than what others consider finished.
“This is solid,” you tell him honestly.
He prepares like someone who expects consequences. Like someone who has learned that being thorough is the only way to keep things from slipping through his fingers. Except he’s planned for resistance without assuming malice.
He clearly has all the command of authority but lacks the ruthlessness to use it.
“Walk me through it.”
He takes a sip of his coffee. His tongue slips past his way-too-pink lips while he puts down his cup. Then he shifts closer, turning the page so it faces you properly.
“Most people here don’t want big changes. They want things to run smoothly,” he begins quietly. “They want to know that when they come home, the elevator works, the halls are quiet, and the temperature is exactly what they set it to.”
He runs his finger over the bullet points.
You nod along attentively. He’s basically pitching an utopian vision of boredom.
“I want it to be comfortable,” he adds. There’s something unguarded about him when he speaks. “Not just for anyone. But for Jack. This is where he lives. Where he should feel safe, where things should just… work. That’s important to me.”
It’s hard to stay a cynic when you’re faced with a man who treats a building representative role like a sacred oath to his son.
“I don’t think it needs to be complicated,” he continues. “If day to day life feels easier, people notice. That’s enough.”
It’s surprising how he plans as though people will behave like rational adults. He plans for systems, not appetites. Which is virtuous… in theory.
“What if people don’t notice?” you ask.
He looks up at you calmly. “I know they might not. That doesn’t change what needs to be done.”
You watch him for a moment. He looks absolutely resolute. So utterly and unshakably devoted to doing the right thing, whether people thank him or not, that you feel compelled to be completely honest with him for once.
“I get it. Really. But that’s not how you win an election. People are fickle and ungrateful. They only vote for what they see.”
You let your gaze linger on his handwritten comments.
“I don’t want your vision to go unnoticed just because people can’t see it.”
He looks at you wordlessly. There’s a certain… softness? in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He gives you a small smile. Real. Uncalculated. It feels foreign but somehow you don’t mind it.
“I appreciate that,” he says. “I’m willing to listen. I just need to know we’re doing this cleanly.”
He tilts his head at you pointedly but not unkindly. Like he’s about to scold you for a behavior he’s already forgiven.
“No dirty tricks.”
A man who makes a profession of goodness in all things will come to grief among so many who are not good. Therefore if he is to remain the face of virtue, you’ll have to become the hand of necessity.
“No dirty tricks,” you repeat.
You lift your coffee cup towards him. He hesitates for a second before raising his own cup. Porcelain tapping porcelain.
“That would actually make a great slogan,” you joke lightly. “Down and dirty with Hotchner. What do you think?”
He lets out a sigh.
“We’re not calling it that.”
“What about Let’s erect a better future ?”
“Absolutely not.”
You take a bite out of your cookie.
“What would you call it then?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He glances back down at the page, as if the slogan has been sitting there the whole time, filed neatly alongside the rest.
“Something straightforward.” He softly taps his lower lip with his index. “Doing things the right way.”
The cookie tastes great. You chew it carefully. Because it’s clearly homemade and because he definitely uses nice chocolate. And also because you’re trying to keep yourself from laughing.
In your head, you can almost hear the faint, crackling audio of a 1980s campaign ad. Pure Reagan. Morning in America for people who consider a perfectly organized filing cabinet a spiritual triumph.
“Hotchner,” you say firmly. “This type of thing used to work in the 80s. People want sex now.”
He stiffens ever so slightly, a faint crease appearing between his brows. There’s a flash of pink in his ears.
“Mrs. Harrison has been a respectable building administrator for more than 30 years and she’s never had to resort to—”
“When did she first run?”
He stays quiet for a moment. Looks down at his campaign notes, then back at his coffee, as if history might have rearranged itself to be more convenient for his argument. It hasn’t.
“1984,” he admits sheepishly.
See ? You’re not being pretentious just for the sake of it. The world seems to enjoy proving you right.
“Do you think there’s a way to get Mrs. Harrison to endorse you?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “She believes in letting the election run its course without interference. She won’t endorse anyone.”
“Or maybe she told you that because she doesn’t like you.”
He blinks, caught-off guard. The idea that that old hag of an administrator might harbor a secret grudge against him seems to rattle his fundamental understanding of the building’s ecosystem. “Where did you get that idea?”
“I heard it’s because you tried to sleep with her husband.”
He stares at you blankly. His brows furrowed. His eyes narrowed. As if processing the unmitigated lunacy of what you just said requires the full cooperation of his entire face.
Then it happens.
A sharp, sudden giggle escapes him. He ducks his head, a hand coming up to cover his mouth but he can’t stop it. His shoulders shake and his laugh sounds way higher pitched than you expected but painfully sincere.
When he looks back at you, eyes bright and still crinkled at the corners, you think that he’s really beautiful. It selfishly makes you want to corrupt him.
“How do you even come up with stuff like this?” he asks, voice laced with amusement.
“Divine inspiration,” you answer with a proud grin.
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. Endearingly dramatic. How he treats building gossip with the same level of operational security as a national secret. Also… there’s only the two of you in his apartment.
“This stays between us but I think she and her husband are getting a divorce. That’s why she’s not running again.”
The sudden proximity might be a tactical error on his part. Or perhaps a calculated risk. You can feel the heat radiating off him. The steady solidness of his frame next to you. His thigh pressing against yours.
“Don’t tell me you actually slept with her husband.”
He chuckles again. “I don’t think I’m his type.”
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. You wonder how he’d react if you told him that about 40% of the building (and that’s a conservative estimate) wants to fuck him.
Your thigh brushes against his — a small, calculated nudge. Nothing overt, but enough.
You might be the first general to zest a lemon. Strangely, there’s no exceptionally meritorious flour-sifting in a duty of great responsibility medal.
Which there should be. It’s a high-stakes chemistry operation performed in a cloud of fine white powder (not the fun kind) with no laboratory equipment.
This speaks volumes about the level of masochism Hotchner hides under those pressed shirts. It’s his government sanctioned place of controlled suffering. That’s why he pretends not to notice the way Mrs. Mitchell or even Mrs. Dillon look at him like he’s proofed just right. He’s too busy imagining getting whipped with a whisk (until stiff peaks form).
You glare at the counter. Flour everywhere. Sugar places it has no business being. A sink full of dishes that will still be there when you get back from your diplomatic visits. So much for doing this ‘the clean way’.
This is, in a very roundabout way, Hotchner’s fault. It makes you want to drag him into your kitchen by his leash tie and scold him, “Kneel. And explain the flour”.
Unfortunately, Hotchner doesn’t bend. He endures. Which means you’re the one who has to do the bending (…).
You must bend your mind to see the shadow before the blade. If you wait for the steel to bite, you are no longer a strategist but merely a casualty of your own blindness.
That is to say, the surest way to lose an election, is to wait for loyalties to step into the light, instead of seeking them out while they still hide in the shadows.
Most people do not know why they support something. They mistake momentum for conviction. Enthusiasm for foresight.
That is why you do not begin by asking people what they believe. Belief is ornamental. You begin by observing what makes them nervous.
If power has a natural enemy, it’s scrutiny. Consequently, it must be exercised through gestures that appear generous and conversations that seem incidental. Hence the baking. No one expects consequences to come wrapped in parchment paper and powdered sugar.
War, after all, is not only fought with weapons (though you think KitchenAids could be classified as small siege engines). It’s fought with timing. With preparation. With knowing which doors to knock on and which ones to leave closed until you know what waits behind them.
Take Mr. Haldeman in 314. Senior white house consultant. He’s so nervous about property value he’s currently trying to sell his own mother for a 7% increase in equity (call 1-800-MOM-FOR-CASH ! supplies limited — buy now, pay later!). Though to be fair, he’s always been really nice to you.
Or Mr. Agnew in 211. Rosen’s closest buddy (no homoerotic situation here you think. but then again who knows. Rosen’s allegedly married but no one has ever seen his wife). He’s the one who secured the restaurant deal. He most likely hopes no one is looking too closely at the fine print of the contract.
And of course, Hotchner’s 4th floor fanclub. Mrs. Dillon and Mrs. Mitchell. They’re probably nervous that Hotchner might one day stop wearing his tight suits that leave nothing to the imagination (so are you).
Mrs. Mitchell is that brand of particularly delightful old woman: she stares at his chest unashamedly while her husband glares at him like he’s the guy who’s going to steal his pension. At this point, Mr. Mitchell’s hatred of Hotchner might be the only thing keeping his heart beating.
Treating them the same would be inefficient. Efficiency requires classification (if Hotchner knew you’re applying federal-level organizational rigor to a plate of muffins, he’d probably whip his cream. you can almost see him, brows furrowed in concentrated approval, letting out breathless sighs of pleasure at your color coded spreadsheet of the building’s residents).
So you sort.
Not by conviction.
Not by enthusiasm.
But by vulnerability.
Because people are so governed by the urgency of their appetites, if you craft a sweet enough illusion, you will always find a victim ready to fall upon your blade.
You start with Agnew. Not everything he says is useful. Matter of fact, most of it is fluff. He thinks you’re still undecided so he’s trying to sway you. He doesn’t give you any campaign secrets—he’s too well-trained for that—but pride is a loud mistress.
“We’re thinking once we get the constructions started, it might do the building good to renovate the entire thing. Not just the façade. Don’t get me wrong, it has its charm, I’m not talking about getting rid of everything. Just… give it a fresher look. We’re still discussing things.”
‘The entire thing’ doesn’t mean just paint and lighting. It means assessments. Special fees. Emails with numbers bolded for emphasis.
In theory, it sounds like a great idea. Improve the building, raise the standards. Common mistake but no less forgiving. People rarely open their wallets without resentment. That’s probably why it’s still a discussion.
For a moment, it feels like striking gold. If you so much as utter the word ‘money’, Haldeman is already on his knees, tongue out, waiting for the check to clear.
You expect eagerness. Or at least something you can press on. Instead, when he opens the door, he's polite. Cordial. And completely closed.
You try the innocent approach. You let him explain things to you. You insist he take another muffin. You nod in the right places.
He’s pleasant. Generous with his time. What he isn’t is curious.
Curiosity belongs to the undecided. Haldeman is not undecided. He has already discussed things.
By the time you leave 314, you understand your mistake.
You’re not early. You’re late. If you’re too late here… you must also be too late elsewhere. You should’ve just gotten store-bought muffins.
You take the stairs to the 4th floor. You pass by 411, Rosen’s door, flip it off and mutter a quiet and petty “suck my dick” as professional courtesy. Then you keep going. Mrs. Dillon is down the hall.
Mrs Dillon’s gaze lingers long enough on the crumb of your muffins to tell you she knows exactly what temperature you baked these at, and that it was wrong.
While she dishonorably discharges you for your baking skills (she probably means well. she’s giving you advice on how to make them better next time. there won’t be a next time. the pastries taste better when you extort them from Hotchner anyway), you notice a framed picture of her late husband surrounded by a concerning number of doilies.
“He had a sweet tooth,” she says gently. “When we lived in our old house, I’d let pies cool on the window sills. By the time I came back from the garden, the edges were already gone. He had to taste, couldn’t help himself.” She shakes her head fondly at the memory.
You can almost see it: the sun on the windowsill, the little golden edges disappearing before the pie even had a chance to rest. Funny how something so small can leave a mark. And somehow, you can’t help but think of the building, its own aging façade waiting for care, the same way a neglected pie cools too long in the sun.
If anyone were going to notice a change in the building, it would be her. A whispered comment here, a casual remark there. Mrs. Dillon has been doing this for decades. She gossips not out of malice, but out of habit.
That makes her the perfect carrier for a little strategic information about renovations.
You give her a small smile.
“Are those for my dad?”
You consider your options carefully.
Too carefully.
Children are volatile. They do not respond to precedent, leverage or subtle intimidation. They do not reliably understand irony. And worst of all, they possess a disturbing loyalty to their parents that borders on fanaticism.
You run through scenarios.
If you speak to him like an adult, he’ll think you’re trying too hard.
If you speak to him like a child, he’ll think you’re weird.
If you ignore him, he’ll remember it forever and make your life hell.
Bribery briefly crosses your mind. Candy? Stickers? Something bright and untraceable. But then you picture it. Jack Hotchner, 10 (? or is it 11?) years old, sitting at the dinner table across from his father, calmly reporting how he made his first ever arrest while presenting the 5 dollar bill you tried to slip him as Exhibit A.
“Yes,” you say finally. “Is he home?”
“He’s in the kitchen.”
That’s it.
You stand there, papers in hand, as your brain immediately begins a frantic, high-speed autopsy of the interaction. You're searching for the subtext, but there is no subtext.
He’s in the kitchen. Is that a statement of fact or a territorial boundary? Does it mean ‘Go find him yourself’ or ‘Wait here until I’ve cleared you’?
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
He just walks back inside, leaving the door open for you.
The scent of garlic and something dangerously good wafts through the air. Jack sits at the counter, colored pencils splayed like an assault formation, focused on coloring something.
Hotchner stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, a dark apron tied loosely around his waist. He looks completely at ease. Competent. Precise. And yet entirely unbothered by the growing chaos of dirty dishes around him.
His forearms look so— okay no. You can’t do this in front of his kid. He looks very handsome while cooking. Let’s keep it at that.
His eyes flick over to you, catching you staring. He notices your little stack of papers.
“Are you staying for dinner?”
You barely have time to nod before Jack looks up from the counter and asks you “Can you help me with this?” waving a half-colored in ‘Vote for my dad’ poster.
You sit beside Jack, picking up a blue crayon. You don’t talk much. You don’t have to (thank god). Jack is a silent, focused worker (his little concentration frown-pout makes him look like his dad). You find yourself falling into a rhythm of filling in the block letters he’s outlined.
Dinner goes well. You listen to them talk about Jack’s science project and the puppies he saw at the park yesterday.
“Bedtime,” Hotchner says eventually.
There’s what you think is the usual half-hearted protest, a quick “it was nice to see you” from Jack and then the apartment goes quiet.
He returns a few minutes later, sleeves still rolled up and top button of his shirt (that you’re sure was buttoned) undone. He’s carrying two glasses of wine. He sets one in front of you and motions toward the stack of papers you’ve been protecting all evening.
The wine tastes nice. Red, deep, and expensive (or at least, more expensive than the ‘I need to get fucked up but vodka feels too hardcore’ blend you usually use to drown your tactical sorrows).
You find yourself swirling the liquid in the glass, watching it cling to the crystal. It’s a stupid gesture (pretentious and largely useless. maybe that’s rich coming from you. but hypocrisy is only embarrassing when it’s accidental). Still, it gives you an excuse to look at your own hands, and then, inevitably, at his.
It appears force is the most effective when it follows mercy. The world judges by the eye and not the touch, and while many witness the mask of your clemency, few ever feel the weight of your hand.
He’s absentmindedly tapping his index on his glass.
“So.. what’s all this?” he asks.
You let your eyes flick down to the stack of papers, then back to him. It’s a printed copy of the building’s amenity hours with several blocks of time highlighted in what you consider a persuasive shade of neon pink.
“The pool schedule,” you say.
He raises an eyebrow. Slips his tongue between his lips, wetting them with a slow, unconscious (he puts his kid to sleep and instantly dials up the whorishness?) deliberation.
“I’m not sure I’m qualified to give swimming lessons,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You don’t bother with the preamble about civic duty and all that jazz.
“I’m not looking for lessons. I’m looking for a show.” You take a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. “You go in the pool, you swim and you look… hot while doing it.”
He blinks. “I already run. I don’t see how changing my cardio routine affects the building’s administrative future.”
Truth is a fine wine served to a crowd that only craves volume. So as long as the cup is full, the few who taste the vinegar will be ignored.
“Because nobody sees you run,” you explain. “It’s about how you look doing it. You keep your lane, you pace yourself, you follow the rules. People will watch and think ‘if he cares this much about the pH levels of the pool, imagine how diligently he’ll handle the building’s affairs... and he has a nice butt’.”
He stares at you blankly. Like he’s magnanimously giving you the opportunity to retract your statement. If you go down for solicitation of a hot single dad, so be it.
He answers carefully, each word measured. Like he’s reading from a moral ledger no one asked him to consult. Firm but not angry (yet). There’s a trace of exasperation in the tilt of his head. A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ve decided to do this for the good of the building’s residents,” he begins. “Not to promote indecent behavior.”
He takes a sip of wine before he speaks. As if to help himself endure your frivolity. “My son lives here.”
What a fucking prude. The point is to make him look reliable, disciplined.
Hair slicked back, dark strands clinging to his forehead. Swim trunks hugging him just right. The reliable shape of his shoulders and thighs. Arms flexing with each stroke. Chest rising and falling from the effort.
The fact that he’d look sexy doing it is just a bonus.
“You’re never going to make it in politics like this. If you just show a bit of skin we’re guaranteed at least 7 votes.”
He sets down his glass, and leans back slightly. His fingers drum lightly on the table. His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow, thoughtful, scanning the papers again before flicking up to you.
For a long moment he says nothing. You watch the way his hands flex as he rests them on the table. The deliberate, measured way he exhales. Even in stillness, there’s tension in the line of his shoulders. The kind of quiet control that makes it obvious he’s weighing the absurdity of your plan against his own standards.
His lips part then close. You wonder for a second if you’ve finally broken his federal-software. You haven’t even said anything that outrageous. Maybe it’s the first time anyone’s told him he has a nice ass.
He tilts his head back, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The slow calculations of his mind written in the crease between his brows.
“Okay,” he finally decides. Flat but confident. Not a concession but a choice. “I’ll swim.”
Oh you’re about to get the show of a lifetime.
“Drop the shirt, let’s get to work.” You don’t even try to hide your excitement. It would go against your morals to pretend you’re not thrilled you finally get to see his tits. You’re already trying to calculate the exact refractive index of his skin under water.
“Drop the shirt?” he repeats dryly. He sounds vaguely threatening. His gaze flickers briefly to the shirt you're referring to, then back at you, his lips pressed into a thin line.
There is a certain perverse delight in knowing that while you’re mentally dressing him in too few square inches of high-performance Lycra and a strategic layer of chlorine, he’s building a case against you.
“You can’t just pick a lane and hope for the best. We need to go down to the pool.”
He glances down at his watch. Metal sitting nicely against his wrist, catching the light in a way that screams ‘I have a very healthy retirement fund’.
“It’s nearly eleven.”
“Exactly,” you counter. “No one will be there and we can properly check out which lane makes your arms look the best.”
He gives you a look that is terrifyingly steady—the kind of look that usually precedes a confession in a small, windowless room. It’s no wonder he’s getting paid the big bucks at his FBI job, he could probably get you to confess to assassinating JFK himself.
“You want to go to the pool. Now,” he summarizes, his voice dropping to a skeptical rumble. “To check… the lighting on my arms.”
“You said you were willing to listen.”
He sets his wine glass down on the table. Looks like he’s finally decided to stop entertaining your nonsense. He leans forward, closing the gap between you until you can see the slight amber flecks in his brown eyes.
“Do you actually expect me to believe this is about the campaign?” he asks. “Or are you just testing to see how much of your antics I’m willing to endure before I show you out?”
If you dip your hand into the waters of ambition, you must be prepared to plunge your whole body — the middle way leads only to ruin.
“Both,” you say.
The silence stretches. You’re half-expecting a metronome to start ticking somewhere, just to really commit to the tension.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t argue. That’s how you know he’s past skepticism and into assessment.
His gaze drops to his watch again. A reflex. Time, consequences, exits.
He turns his wrist slightly, as if confirming something only he can see, then looks back at you.
“You’re aware it’s late,” he says. Not a protest. A parameter.
You nod.
He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. The kind of breath he takes before stepping into a situation he already suspects he’ll have to control.
“All right,” he says at last. Calm. Decided. “We’ll take a look.”
Not because you’ve convinced him but because he’s decided to follow you far enough to find out what you’re actually after.
“Five minutes,” he adds.
The consistency is almost impressive. Even his exceptions obey rules. He isn’t giving in. He’s simply factored in your bullshit into his protocol. Made a slot for your chaos in his schedule, tucked neatly between put Jack to bed and maintain national security.
Chlorine-induced neurosis is an established inevitability, like gravity or your inability to behave around authority figures.
There’s something about pools at night. The chemical bite at the back of your throat (reminiscent of other things that could also hit the back of your throat), the echoing stillness, the way every sound feels amplified and slightly wrong.
The overhead lights hum softly, casting pale reflections across the water. Long white bands rippling over the tiled floors, broken only by the gentle bob of lane dividers floating in disciplined rows, like polite boundaries no one expects you to cross.
Hotchner steps in first. He pauses, assessing the place, to make sure nothing has gone sideways without his permission.
Then he takes off his shirt.
His chest is broad and solid. There’s a slight give to it. Faint freckles dot his skin, easy to miss unless you’re paying attention (which you are. unreasonably so). A few silver hairs at the centre of his chest catch the light when he shifts.
His shoulders roll once, muscle moving with quiet efficiency. He looks warm under the lights. Real. Inconveniently human.
You briefly think that the building should consider switching pool disinfectants. Chlorine feels… excessive. There must be gentler options. Ones that don’t immediately cause lapses in judgment and moral decay.
Your eyes drop. And that’s when you see the swim trunks.
They’re unmistakably old. Dark, utilitarian, cut to survive training. Time has not been kind to them. Or maybe it’s actually been too kind. They sit low on his hips, snug around his thighs in a way that feels unreasonably provocative for a man who insists on virtue and modesty in all things.
“Please tell me those aren’t government issued.”
He pauses, his hand hovering near the draw string. He clears his throat, a faint, uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck.
Do they give out standardized ‘New Agent’ kits when you graduate from the Academy ? Gun, badge, handcuffs, swim trunks and maybe a box of FBI-issued condoms. The packaging might even say: Property of the FBI. For tactical use only. Every drop of you belongs to the federal government.
“They are,” he admits resignedly. He looks down at the faded fabric for a moment, his thumb brushing the hem, as if he's mentally calculating the decades since he last stood on a Quantico pool deck. “These might actually be older than you are,” he adds in a low mutter, more to himself than to you.
“That’s so hot,” you blurt out.
He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his otherwise controlled expression. No comment. Just a subtle shake of his head before he steps to the edge and slides into the water.
He pushes off the wall, water hissing around him, and glides forward.
Each stroke is precise and deliberate. His forearms tighten as his hands slice through the water, veins catching the light. His chest rises and falls. His wet hair clings to his forehead and temples, the ends occasionally brushing the back of his neck as he turns to breathe. His calves flex with each push, sending tiny waves across the lane.
He breathes with deliberate timing, neck stretching smoothly as he tilts his head, lips parting just enough to draw in air. Every rotation of his torso is economical, calculated. No wasted movement, no strain, just absolute command of his body.
With each stroke, the water sprays lightly across his torso. You notice the subtle curve of his abdomen. The way his shoulders shift with effort, his arms cut through the water with effortless authority, his back fans out with every stroke. The deep groove of his spine acting as a shoreline for the water racing over his skin.
He swims a clean, powerful crawl. Watching Aaron Hotchner exert himself is like stumbling upon a highly specific, high-budget fetish porn: ‘Busty competent dad in skimpy swimsuit’.
He finally drifts to the edge, arms resting on the tile, water dripping from his shoulders. “Well?” he asks. “How’s this lane?”
You perch on the edge of the pool, leaning forward slightly. Honestly, you were more busy picturing him in less chlorinated contexts than paying attention to the lights and shadows.
“The lane is fine,” you murmur, your gaze dropping to the water beaded on his collarbone.
You lean just an inch too far.
A splash.
Water envelops you.
He catches you instinctively, one arm on your back, and you emerge drenched, your face inches from his.
He brushes your hair away from your face. You briefly consider pretending to drown. Maybe that could get him to give you mouth-to-mouth. And also, it’d be dramatic enough to make him forget how cliché this is.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
You nod quickly. The war general in your head is being court-martialed. This is basically a death sentence for your credibility.
He doesn't move to let you go. If anything, his grip tightens. Your hand clings to his shoulder. Might as well seize the opportunity to fondle him a bit while you can.
“Was that on purpose?”
Your chest is brushing against his, water dripping between you, and it’s impossible to say no without sounding ridiculous.
“What do you think?”
He runs his thumb across your lips. You feel the way his hand cradles your face.
“I think you’re playing some kind of perverted game,” he whispers.
He leans in until your nose brushes against his. His eyes drop to your mouth with a look that is equal parts clinical and starved.
“I’ve handled people more… inventive than you, sweetheart,” he adds quietly. “I’ll find out what you’re up to eventually.”
You don’t let him interrogate you further.
The kiss is bruising.
He isn’t gentle. He handles you with the same crushing efficiency he used to cut through the water. His hands remain locked on your face, his fingers threading into your wet hair to tilt your head back. Claiming every inch of space you’ve tried to occupy all night.
His weight pins you firmly against the tiled edge of the pool. You feel the grit of the grout against your back. And the unyielding soft expanse of his chest against your front.
He groans into your mouth. Your lungs start to burn.
His lips are firm, slick with chlorine. You vaguely think that he’s trying to devour you. His tongue traces the seam of your lips.
Every time you try to pull him closer, his grip on your face tightens, his thumbs anchored firmly at your jaw to keep you exactly where he wants.
He shifts, his thigh slipping between yours to hold you steady against the tile. Just as you reach for the hem of his stupid FBI trunks, he pulls back.
His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged. He lets his hand drop from your face, though his thumb lingers for one last stroke across your swollen lips.
“This lane seems good enough to me,” he rasps.
He lets go of you and begins to swim away. Entirely unbothered.
Kiss the hand of a new prince to raise him to power, and you have only marked your own cheek for the executioner.
You stay anchored to the tile, shivering as the cold air hits your soaked skin.
Okay. So. I had to sleep on it because I was past my bedtime yesterday, and I was so blown (no pun intended, or is it?) away I could not fathom any words. I mean, I still cannot. THIS IS SOOOO!!! It is really ineffable to describe how much I love this and how much thought and planning went into it
The way you manage to actualize and create new meanings from a book about how to govern a state in the 1500s, based on a principality, for a building representative election??? HELLO??? THAT IS SO ICONIC!!!!!!
Also, I love the frankness of the reader sooooo much!!! And her being a bully... I mean, a guardian of doing things for the greater good... yk the end justifies the means yada yada, such as... yk, the pool scene. It is to get some votes!! Not to ogle at the FBI trunks stretching across that tiiiny bit of ass. Anyways...
I love the narration, how the jokes are intertwined with some really deep philosophical stuff that I ATE UP, OOOOF!!!!! LOVE LOVEEEEEE! I will reread this until I die, and I am sure I will be able to recite it by memory in about 3 (MAYBE 2??) days... WOW. Again. Speechless!!!
This series is my new drug!!!! Miss Y the wordsmith that you are!!! OOOOOOF!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOUUUUU!!!!!!!
im SO happy you liked it, even with the abominations i've done to machiavelli's work lol (this is like the biggest stamp of approval coming for miss phi-losophy herself!!!!!) !!!!!!!
this entire thing wouldn't have come to be without you and i don't think ill ever be able to thank you enough, im so so so incredibly grateful to you <33333
