hi!?! could you please write slowburn with hotch.. like working at the bau and being a little oblivious and udhhd until it eventually resolves with smut?? I lack fics without previously established relationship
you're the risk i'm gonna take it
pairing: aaron hotchner x reader, background michael robinavitch x reader
summary: request above
word count: 3.7k
tags: jealous!hotch, possessive!hotch, angst, hotch is lowk toxic but it works out for him, reader is oblivious but also kind of dumb, the pitt mention (helloo hyperfixation) dr robby is down bad, not proofread.
author's note: thank you for this request angel! i hope you like this and ty for being so patient xx
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── ·
The first time you meet Aaron Hotchner, you’re ready to hightail it out of the room. Your transfer to the Behavioural Analysis Unit was something done out of necessity—you’d spent a long time in private practice before deciding to branch out and were lucky enough to score an opening with the FBI.
Hotchner was…a lot. Of what? You weren’t entirely sure. You’d been made aware he had a reputation for being a hardass and somehow also one of the best team leaders in the FBI.
He was calm, confident and at times abrasive, but you wouldn’t have gotten to this point if you were unable to work under pressure. He had been strict and clear in his expectations of your role on the team; you were new and had to fight to prove yourself.
“I look forward to working with you Agent.” He had remarked, barely looking up from his pile of papers as he dismissed you from the meeting. If you were any less professional, you would have scoffed but all you did was offer a tight smile and nod.
“I do too, have a good day further Agent Hotchner.”
And that was that.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
The BAU was a learn as you go workplace and you quickly figured out it was also a seemingly do as I say, not as I do environment. If you had a dollar for every time you witnessed one of your coworkers pull some kind of self-sacrificing bullshit—you’re fairly sure you’d never have to work ever again.
You would be lying if you said it didn’t bring some sort of spark back into your life, despite the dead bodies and sadistic murderers—you had found that missing puzzle piece.
The team sat on the plane back from one of their most recent cases, half-asleep on the red eye whilst you had your laptop out, typing away at your report so you’d be able to sleep as soon as you got back.
“You should sleep.” Hotch’s voice startles you despite being barely above a soft murmur. He’s watching you over a case file whilst sitting across from you.
You snort, “Yeah, no chance.”
Hotch frowns, “You having a hard time sleeping?” His tone is concerned and it brings a stiffness to your shoulders. You shouldn’t have said that. You’re completely capable of doing your job and it’s not like you’re the only one on this plane who has a hard time closing their eyes at night and not picturing every other gruesome thing they’ve encountered.
“No,” you smile tightly, shuffling your laptop closer to you as you squint at the screen. “I’m fine.”
Hotch stares at you for a second, as if he’s deciding whether or not to call you out on the blatant lie but instead heaves a sigh, slumping into his own seat.
“You shouldn’t squint like that—it will hurt your eyes.” He reprimands lightly and this time you can’t help the amused raise of your brow as you meet his dark gaze.
“God, you’re old.” You snort, immediately trying to muffle your laugh when his expression turns perplexed.
“Old?” he mutters in disbelief.
“Sorry,” you giggle, slapping a hand over your mouth as you watch him shake his head in fond amusement.
“You’re trouble for a man’s ego.” He points at you with a wry smile on his face as you flush.
You shrug, “Gotta keep em’ humble.”
Hotch flashes his teeth as he grins softly. Silence grows between the two of you as you continue to work on your own respective tasks.
As you continue to write your report, nibbling on your bottom lip you are seemingly unaware of the soft looks Hotch sends you in between his own reading.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
Your relationship with Hotch is complicated. There are times where you’ll catch him staring at you from his office, small smile on his face or there’s times where he inconspicuously accommodates you more than he would someone else.
He’s just being nice is what you tell yourself, because any other option would be ludicrous to even consider. Though there are moments that make you start to question whether those options might be reality.
You’re on a case in Pittsburgh, somewhere near the hospital you used to work at before transferring to the BAU and it’s just your luck that one of your key witnesses is currently being held in the ED.
You’re more than happy to accompany Hotch to the ED to try and get something useful out of the guy and you really struggle at schooling your expression of excitement at seeing any of your past colleagues.
It doesn’t slip passed Hotch’s notice who quirks a curious brow at you from the driver’s seat, “You’re quite eager to be meeting a witness.” He remarks dryly but there’s no hiding the humor in his expression.
You grow shy, nibbling on your bottom lip and drawing his attention to your action. “I used to work in the psychology department at PTMC.” You admit softly, wringing your hands in front of you.
Hotch hums interestedly, it’s not often in their line of work that agents are transferred into the FBI from outside of the academy. He’s willing to take any chance to know the parts of you he’s been yet to discover and visiting your work is what brings him hope that this might just be the thing that pushes you both closer together.
You haven’t been outwardly dismissive of his advancements, but he would be lying if he said it wasn’t killing him inside that you weren’t as forthcoming. Sure, it had been a while since he’d had to whip out his flirting tactics—his first and last relationship being well his late wife.
But you were so enigmatic that he just couldn’t help but want to be near you, he’d been making every effort to impress. Well, at least he thought he had, if your blatant obliviousness to his affection wasn’t sign enough.
Hotch had found himself gritting his teeth one too many times after he’d been blatantly flirting with you only for you to respond in your sweetest smile yet most professional tone.
He knew it wasn’t right, that he had no business crushing on his subordinate but Lord help him if you weren’t the only woman who had made him feel things he didn’t think himself capable of.
When Hotch parks the car, you practically launch yourself out of the vehicle to speedwalk your way into the entrance. You’re fast enough that Hotch has to jog a little to catch up to you with a breathy chuckle before matching your strides.
“So, you can run in those heels,” he teases softly, his arm coming back to rest on the curve of your back to guide you to the entrance.
You lift your hand to swat at his chest half-heartedly with a playful scowl that diminishes the moment you step into the bustling ER, the both of you adopting your composed manner of professionalism despite your simultaneous twitching lips.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You’re met by a blonde nurse whose smile is as wide as can be when she catches sight of you, her southern drawl echoing as she crosses the room, “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes sunshine? Who knew we’d be seeing your face again!” she remarks happily, wrapping her arms around you in a motherly hug.
“Dana, I missed you.” You say softly, hugging her back before throwing a sheepish expression to Hotch who shrugs.
“And who’s this with you?” Dana sizes up Hotch, staring him down something fierce and he feels himself paling a little.
“Uh—” you chuckle nervously. “This is Agent Hotchner, he’s um—he’s my boss.” You say.
Dana turns to you, quirking a brow that makes you roll your eyes fondly. “We’re here on a case, Pittsburgh PD should have called ahead, we’re here to interview a James Harlow? He was in—”
“MVA, Yeah Robby’s got him down in South 12, you remember where that is don’t you? He’s gonna be real excited to see you.” Dana drawls teasingly.
Hotch expects you to laugh and wave off the statement, but he’s surprised to see you fluster, your shoulders hiking up towards your ears as you shove Dana softly.
“Stop,” you chastise her through a whine and Hotch feels like a rock had lodged itself in between his heart and ribcage. Who the hell is this guy?
He has no right to be jealous, the two of you aren’t…anything. You’re both colleagues, he’s your superior but Hotch feels his gut clenching and palms sweating all the same.
He coughs, clearing his throat which draws your attention back to him. You have the decency to look embarrassed but without further mention of it you say a hasty goodbye to an amused Dana who looks like she’s sizing him up and drag the both of you to what he assumes is South 12.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
When the curtain is drawn away, you both are met with the sight of your witness and what Hotch assumes is “Robby” explaining his blood test results to.
“Uh,” your witness mutters awkwardly, gaze switching between yourself and the man behind you. You suppose you must look quite intimidating in your formal wear and FBI badged plastered to your lapels, but you school your expression into something that you hope resembles comfort.
“Sunshine.” Robby remarks surprise as you muster a shy smile and an awkward wave while Hotch behinds you clenches his jaw.
Fuck. Granted, Hotch could’ve rationalised his jealousy if the guy were your age (no he couldn’t have) but Robby must be his age if not older. He’s all crows’ feet and greying hair that Hotch can’t help but measure himself up against.
He hates this. Never once has something so personal jeopardised his ability to maintain professionalism yet you have a way to test all of his boundaries. He hates how Robby is looking at you—like you’re some kind of miracle that he never thought he’d have the chance to see again.
It’s how Hotch looks at you. He knows that look, he wears that look every day with a feeling of pride because up until now—he had no reason to doubt that it was a matter of when not if you returned his affection.
Now? Now he feels the urge to drag you out of this ED and make you promise to never look at another man ever again. But he can’t, so he doesn’t.
“I uh—we’re here to interview Mr. Harlow. We’re with the BAU—we just have a couple of questions about what you saw today,” you murmur reassuringly to the wary man whilst glancing back at Robby.
Hotch’s firm voice startles you slightly when he moves from behind you to stand next to you, effectively acting as a barrier between you and Robby, “We need you to go over anything you can remember from this morning.”
Robby’s gaze turns amused when he notices Hotch’s posturing, snorting to himself as he shuffles out of the room, “I’ll leave you to it.”
You nod meekly, opening your mouth to start the cognitive interview before Robby’s voice interrupts you, “Dinner later Sunshine? Would be good to catch up.” He offers, an easy smile in his place.
Your heart warms, as much as you’ve enjoyed your time at the BAU, the day shift were the first people who made you feel like you were part of a community.
“Yeah,” you offer easily. “I’m working a case right now, but I’d like that. Maybe you could invite the rest—”
“Agent, we’re in the middle of something.” Hotch spits out, his eyes ablaze as he stares you down.
You shrink into yourself, not noticing Robby’s frown at your demeanour though he leaves after you give him a reassuring smile. You give your full attention back to your witness and proceed with the interview.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You somehow feel like you’ve done something wrong despite the interview being a complete success. You walk out of the room with the feeling that Hotch is…mad at you? Frustrated?
You’re not entirely sure, only that he speaks to you in one word responses if he’s not supplied a grunt of some kind. It gets worse when you confirm your plans with Robby as you walk out, offering for Hotch to go on without you when you notice other Pittsburgh PD officers also in the ED.
“It’ll give me some time to ask him a couple more questions and you can go over what we already know with the rest of the team, I’m sure the officers won’t mind.” You reassure him.
Hotch fights the growl that wants to burst out of his throat. He minds. He minds that Robby’s been waiting not so patiently to get you wrapped around his dirty little fingers, for you to decide that maybe you don’t want Hotch and instead want to trade up to some fucking ER Doctor.
“No, we came together. I’ll drive you back.” His answer is curt and your confusion doubles. What is his problem?
“But I—”
“Sunshine, my truck’s sitting outside if you’d rather drive that. I don’t mind coming and getting’ it from you later before dinner.” Robby offers, interrupting your conversation Hotch thinks bitterly.
Of course he drives a truck, and of course he’d offer for you to take it. Any excuse in the book to get to see you again huh? Well Hotch can deal with that.
“That won’t be necessary, we have everything that we need to form a working profile and time is really of the essence here. We need to go. Now.” He orders, leaving no room for misinterpretation as he grabs your arm despite the gasp you let out, sparks shooting up your arm as your dragged out the parking lot.
“What? Hotch—” you squeak out, trying to tug your arm from his hold as he pulls you into the car, lifting you by your hips and plopping you into the passenger seat. You squawk in protest squirming as he adjusts your legs slightly and closes the door, jogging to the driver’s seat and getting in with a scowl still planted on his face.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You’ve been silent and matching Hotch’s scowl the entire drive back to the precinct, “This is kidnapping you know.” You remark sarcastically, folding your arms over your chest..
Hotch blows out a frustrated breath, “We had to leave, we didn’t have time for you be chummy with your friends.” He growls out, hands tightening on the wheel until he’s white knuckling it.
“Yeah sure, blame me when you’re the one with a stick up your ass.” He hears you mutter to yourself, forcing his resolve to break.
“That’s it.” He snarls, pulling off onto the shoulder of the road. There are barely any cars on this stretch of road, but it still brings a gasp to your lips at the jerky movement.
“What is wrong with you!” you hiss out, clutching at your seatbelt and the handle of the door as your eyes grow wide in panic.
“You’re being a brat.” Hotch growls out, his gaze dark and heavy as his chest heaves up and down in frustration. Your gaze drops to his chest, your mouth growing parched as you shake yourself out of your stupor.
“I’m a brat?” You say incredulously, “I’m a brat when you’re the one who nearly got us into an accident because you were too busy having a temper tantrum over what the fuck ever?”
Hotch’s jaw clicks from how hard he’s clenching it, his glare focused on you, “Well I wouldn’t have been so on edge if you weren’t distracted while on the job.”
If it’s even possible, your scowl deepens, as you unbuckle your seatbelt thrusting your pointer finger into Hotch’s chest with vehemence, “Don’t you dare insinuate that I can’t do my job, I told you I could’ve gotten a ride with a different officer. Hell, even Robby offered—”
“Don’t fucking say his name.” Hotch threatens.
You falter, expression turning into bewilderment, “You’ve got a problem with Robby? You just met him how—”
“Because he was hitting on you!” Hotch bursts out, running his hand over his jaw as he blows out a frustrated breath as he chuckles without humor.
“Huh? Robby? He wouldn’t—”
“Oh, trust me,” Hotch taunts, “He would and he did. I had a front row seat to that entire segment.”
You frown looking as puzzled as ever, “That’s why you were angry? Why does it matter what Robby thinks, it doesn’t impact the case—”
“Fuck, you’re irritating.” Hotch grounds out, launching himself over the counsel and swallowing your annoyed sound with his lips. He kisses you fiercely, his chapped lips borderline bruising your own as he prods at your lips with his tongue, seeking entrance.
He muffles your whimpers with his drawn out groan as he licks into your mouth, his hand coming up to cup your face, angling you to deepen the kiss as he threads his fingers through your hair.
Your hands come up shakily to clench around his t-shirt as you whine into his mouth, lazily licking into his mouth like you’re trying to play catch up with him.
When he draws himself away, you follow his lips unconsciously—your own puckered with a whine as he takes in your dazed expression. He licks his lips watching you, already half hard in his pants from the taste of you.
“I was jealous.” He admits, his voice low. He’s still looking at you, watching for any change in your expression.
Your eyes widen, “Why?” you mumble aloud.
Hotch scoffs a laugh, “Because I like you? Because I wished that I had worked up the nerve to ask you out before that hotshot doctor did? Because I was too much of a wuss because I was scared you’d say no? you take your pick.” He says, smiling without humour.
You frown, your hand hesitantly lifting to cup Hotch’s cheek. You nibble on your bottom lip, drawing a groan from Hotch’s chest.
“I—I like you too.” You admit shyly, your expression growing abashed as you avoid eye contact with him.
“Look at me.” He demands firmly, his hand cupping your chin to force you to meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry I lashed out at you, that was unfair of me.” He says softly. You shrug, rubbing your thumb up and down his cheek.
“S’okay, I know you didn’t mean it.” You mumble.
Hotch shakes his head, “No.” he states firmly, “I didn’t mean it but that doesn’t make it right, you don’t deserve to be treated like that. I’m sorry.” He insists.
You smile softly, “Forgiven, you can be so emotional sometimes.” You tease softly.
Hotch can’t help but roll his eyes, “You mean it though? you—you like me?” he asks hoarsely.
You grow shy, nodding softly. “Say it again.” He demands petulantly.
You snort, “What will I get if I do?” you taunt.
Hotch’s expression grows devilish, “Anything you want.” He mutters darkly, gazing at you with heat in his eyes. His dick twitches inside of his pants as he has to fight the urge to thrust up into empty space.
Your pupils dilate, “I like you.” You say breathily and Aaron’s smirk grows wider.
“That right?” He taunts softly, his hand dropping to your thigh and slowly moving upwards.
You shudder softly, your thighs slipping open as you gaze grows heavier. “Is this okay?” Aaron checks in with you.
You nod softly, your own hand coming to rest of his shoulder as you feel him run his index finger over the inseam of your tailored pants.
A sharp gasp escapes you, “Fuck.” Aaron mutters as he watches you squirm.
“Take off your pants.” He orders and you scramble to pull your pants and underwear off in quick succession.
Aaron’s breathing grows heavier as he catches sight of your wet cunt, glistening from its moisture as you spread your legs shyly.
His groan is loud in the car as he runs his thumb over your sticky entrance, pausing to press indecently over your hole softly before running it back up and down through your wetness.
You whimper, grabbing hold of his bicep as you make half-hearted thrusts against his thumb, clenching down emptily on the tip of his thumb each time he teasingly enters your cunt.
“I—oh.” You gasp, feeling Hotch’s thumb start to rub circles on your clit mixed with your wetness. You feel yourself start to leak between your thighs, grinding your hips up into Hotch’s thumb.
“Does that feel good?” he grunts, using his other hand to circle your entrance with his index finger, slipping it in as he rubs your clit and watching in fascination as your pussy swallows his finger whole, clenching down so tightly on him that he can’t help but imagine how tight you’d be on his dick.
“Hotch, I—" you whine as he thrusts his finger in and out, curling it slowly to brush against that soft spongy area inside of you that turns your legs into jelly.
“Aaron,” he orders you. “You call me Aaron while I make you feel good.”
You nod nonsensically, barely even listening as your focus is on the feeling of Hotch’s fingers in you. “Another—want, oh my god, another.” You beg him, leaking all over his fingers as you thrust harder, seeking more friction.
Hotch adds his middle finger easily enough, drawing out a guttural moan from you as you feel yourself climbing closer to the edge. You can feel every callous and groove on Hotch’s fingers and it makes you even wetter.
God you want his fingers inside of you forever, stretching you out and making you cum. “I can’t, close—” you mumble softly, throwing your head back as you clench your hand down on Aaron’s shoulder—you expression scrunching in pleasure.
“Yeah?” Aaron coos, “Cum on my fingers baby—that’s a good girl, cum for me.” He growls, fucking his fingers into your harder as you hurtle towards the finish line.
Your cunt clenching down harshly as you walls spasm around his fingers, your vision whiting out from pure pleasure as Hotch milks you for your orgasm until you’re left twitching and spent on the seat.
“Good girl.” He mumbles softly, laying a soft kiss on your forehead before taking his fingers out of you, bringing them to his own mouth, and sucking as his own eyes roll back into his head.
You’re about to offer to suck him off when you’ve recovered when you notice the wet patch that blooms over his crotch.
Warnings: Angst!!!! PSA! THIS IS A REAL LIFE STORY AND 95% OF THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED TO ME. So be aware of that. Traumatic event: run down/car crash (detailed description of the whole TL of the accident happening), physical injuries: bruising, lacerations, road rash, head injury, hip and back trauma, blood, pain. Hospital setting, examinations, cleaning wounds, injections, etc. R is in shock, implied mild medical misdiagnosis (cause it happened). Y/N used once.
Summary: It's a foggy winter morning, and for some reason, you've decided to bike to work. During your commute, you're struck by a car turning right as you're going straight in the intersection. You get hurt, go to the hospital, and Hotch comes like a knight in shining armour to keep you company.
A/N: I have debated for so long whether to post this or not, but ultimately have decided to for my own sake since today is the anniversary of it happening. The whole process has been very therapeutic for me.
Also, if you decide to read the doctor's note in the graphic, be aware that it is excerpts from my actual hospital records from the accident, like actual copy-pasted and translated words from my records. They’re not graphic but just a heads-up. And there’s a picture of my thigh right after the incident (in the graphic) before it developed into a massive bruise with internal scarring.
The fog hangs heavy over the city, blurring the edges of the world. It's so thick, you can barely see more than twenty feet ahead.
You don’t know what made you take the bike today. It’s winter, it’s cold, and it’s slippery. You usually never take the bike when it’s like this. Usually, you would’ve gone for the car in these conditions, but something felt different today.
You’re flying down the hill, nearly halfway on your commute. The cold air slices through your coat slightly, and you hunch your shoulders trying to stay warm. Your cheeks feel numb, and your lungs slightly burn from the cold air streaming through them with each breath you take.
It’s freeing
It’s dark out—like it is on all mornings this time of year—and the light at the front of your bike makes your position known to the drivers checking their mirrors before turning—or it should have.
The light is green for right turns as you inch your way closer and closer to the intersection. And as you near, it switches to green for straight passage, giving you right of way—that’s when the sedan appears.
Its blinker flashes right, holding back for the cyclist in front of you, letting him pass—because that’s the traffic law.
As he passes, you’re only a few feet away from heading into the intersection. You keep your eyes trained on the car, it keeps waiting, seemingly waiting for you to pass too. You’re sure the driver has seen you... so you loosen your feet’s grip on the pedals, moving them forward again, easing off the brakes, trusting the driver to hold back, like they did for the other rider.
They don’t.
The sedan surges forward the exact moment you’re parallel with their mirror, cutting across your path. Time feels like it slows. It’s too late to brake as she swings further into your path.
You yank the handlebars right, trying to dodge the car, to make it far enough away from it that the driver spots you before you collide, because it’s your only option at this point.
But that doesn’t happen.
The headlights slam against your left thigh at a slow speed, but enough to knock you down. You lose balance, biking, twisting under you, and you fall toward the road—thankfully, the car has stopped by now.
Your hip hits the ground first, taking most of the impact, then your back, and lastly, your face slams into the asphalt. It feels like your brain rattles inside your skull as the impact processes.
During the impact, you bite down—hard—bruising the inside of your lower lip.
You’re up quickly, sitting before the driver even managed to get out of their car. Your vision swims, looking blurry and like static on an old television. You don’t black out, fully aware of everything around you.
People rush around you, the air filling with voices, gasps, people asking if you’re okay, where you’re hurt, if you know what day it is.
The driver—a lady, no older than your own mom—stands nearby, shocked, on the verge of tears, and barely coherent as she keeps saying ‘I’m so sorry’ and ‘I didn’t see you’ while the pedestrians and other bikers check you over.
You get up on your own, whole body trembling as the people gather your things and help you to the grassy patch on the side of the road. Somehow, you’ve managed to lift your bike up and pull it along with you. Nothing seems broken, it wheels smoothly as you walk it—that’s good, you tell yourself, probably not expensive to fix if anything is wrong.
When you sit down, you feel something drip down your face, running from the impact spot above your left eyebrow and running down the bridge of your nose.
“Am I bleeding?” You ask, knowing the asnwer is yes, but in your confused state, you need the validation, need to know that your brain isn’t lying in the middle of the road.
Someone presses a wad of tissue to the gash, confirming your question, while someone else hands you a water bottle, telling you to drink, that it’s important for your recovery until you can get to the hospital.
(A/N: I make a phone call to my dad here irl as all the people fussed over me. And he actually raced to the scene and was the one to drive me to the hospital in the end.)
Everything feels overwhelming. You’re completely surrounded by people on all sides. You should be crying, you should be screaming, yelling at the driver for being unattentive in traffic, but you don’t; you just sit quietly, answering the questions of all the people as they keep you awake.
You feel like you’re floating.
The grass is wet.
Someone suggest to move you to the bus shelter about thirty feet down from where you’re sitting, because there’s a bench there and you won’t get cold from sitting on the ground.
People start disappearing slowly as you get up—they need to get to work, you think, not stay with you, they don’t know you—your hands are around the handlebars of the bike once again, dragging it along, mostly to steady yourself, while someone brings your backpack in their hands.
“I have to call work and tell them I’m not gonna make it.” You state as they get you seated on the bench in the bus shelter. You find your phone, fingers fumbling to unlock it.
In your hazy state, you’re barely able to recall where your contact list is, you don’t call his office phone often, so it takes some time before you manage to press the call button on one of your contacts.
It rings twice before someone picks up.
“Hotchner.”
His voice is too lively and clear for it being...?—you pull the phone away from your ear, 7:30. He’s probably already at his desk working on the massive stack of paperwork in his inbox you saw last night before you went home.
“Hotch.” You whimper slightly into the phone before your voice turns flat, almost robotic, but still quivers slightly as you speak. “I’m not... I won’t make it to the office today. I just got hit by a car. Can you inform the others?”
The line goes dead silent.
Then he inhales sharply and says your name, in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard him use with you.
“Are you hurt? Where are you right now?” He asks, his questions nearly overwhelming you even further.
“I’m okay,” you answer, trying to gather your thoughts before continuing. “I think I have a concussion, but nothing seems broken. I’m on a bench in a bus shelter, and I’m gonna go to the hospital soon to get checked out. I just didn’t want you to think I was a no-show today.” You explain, babbling more information than he asked for, but is glad you shared.
“You were hit by a car,” he repeats. He sounds like he’s in disbelief, like he’s still trying to process the words you told him. “Which hospital? Tell me where you are.”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “The closest one?”
Hotch is about to ask you to stay on the line, at least until you’re at the hospital, but you’re already saying bye, telling him you have to go and ending the call, ready to go to the hospital.
You let the lady drive you to the ER after you lock your bicycle behind the bus shelter and check that your work laptop didn’t break—because you’re convinced Strauss would fire you if you had to apply for a new device.
Outside the ER, you ask the lady to send you all her details and a report of how she experienced the timeline of the accident.
You rattle off your phone number. She text you, just to be sure you remembered correctly—you did.
She keeps apologizing, and you keep telling her that it’s okay and that it was an accident. You just bid her farewell and that you’ll be in touch, before walking through the ER doors.
Inside, you find the nearest intake desk and tell the nurse stationed there what happened to you. She instantly gets you sat down, blood pressure cuff on—because you’re pale as a ghost—and calls it in.
She’s quickly beside you again, asking about your social security number to admit you. You’re amazed that you can recall it in its entirety.
The nurse is concerned about your low numbers, rechecks your blood pressure, and when they come back just as low, she guides you through the doors into the ER hallway and tells you to lie down on the gurney until she finds a room for you.
You lie there for what feels like hours, but in reality is less than thirty minutes. Nurses keep walking past you, eyeing you in passing to make sure that you’re not worsening.
You’re about to ask the next passing personnel for an update when the restricted access doors that you entered through burst open, and purposeful steps echo closer and closer to your bed.
You could pinpoint those steps from miles away.
Hotch strides through the hallway like he owns the place, already having spotted you—not that it was hard when you’re out in the open.
You push up slightly on your elbows, just enough to lift yourself to a position where you can see him approaching. “Aaron...?”
He’s at your side in seconds, flashing his credentials at the nurse about to threaten him with security.
Hotch looks at you, really looks at you. He takes in your injuries, the gash over your eyebrow, the road rash on your chin and nose, the way you look so tiny and broken in the hospital bed.
“I’m cold.” You whimper at him.
He doesn’t speak at first, just grabs your coat crumpled near your feet, and lays it on top of you like a blanket. “You said you were walking in,” he says quietly, worry evident in his tone.
“The lady who hit me drove me here.” Hotch brushes a hand across your forehead and over your hair, caressing the crown of your head with the softest look in his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s satisfied with the answer or not, but he definitely looks relieved that you didn’t walk all the way there.
Hotch sits with you in silence until a nurse comes and unlocks the wheels of your bed. He wheels the bed down the hall and into a proper room, giving you privacy, dimmer lights, and no passing eyes that seem more judgmental than concerned for your well-being.
Once situated in the room, the nurse clips a pulse-ox clip on your finger, telling you that the doctor will be in soon, and then he leaves.
Hotch sits in the chair next to your bed. Your coat has now been moved to his lap, and your back rests on top of it. He looks way too serious and domestic at the same time.
Thirty minutes pass before another nurse comes, cleans the gash over your eyebrow, and leaves.
It takes yet another thirty minutes before the doctor actually comes.
Hotch is with you all along. Quiet, observant of you, your health, the machines, everything. The only time you hear him speak is when he takes a call from Rossi, giving a quick update on your state ‘banged up but stable’ he says, chatting for another minute before hanging up at letting his focus return to you completely.
He starts by asking what happened, letting you recall the whole story. Meanwhile, he shines a light in your eyes, tells you to follow his finger, and checks your reactions while you talk.
When he’s satisfied, he moves on.
“You’re not gonna like me after this.” The doctor jokes as he starts pushing, with all his weight, on your hips, collarbones, squeezing your ribcage, moving your arms and legs. All to check your joints, to figure out how much pain you’re in, if anything is broken.
The doctor makes you peel your pants down enough to where he can physically see the spot on your thigh where you collided with the car. The bruise is already forming, and there’s what feels like a raised bump under your skin. But he’s not concerned about that.
He then moves on to your jaw, puts his hands in your mouth, checking your bite, looking at the spot where you bit yourself. It feels a little too clinical at this point. You voice your concerns about your potential concussion, but he doesn’t seem worried about it either.
The doctor tells you—well... Hotch mostly—to get some rest, to keep an eye on your injuries, to call your family medicine doctor if first if you feel nauseous and throw up, or if you generally take a turn for the worse.
You can sense that Hotch is starting to get a little annoyed with all the waiting as the doctor bids you a speedy recovery and tells you a nurse will be in shortly to give you a tetanus shot—just in case.
It’s been ages since you last got one, and you’re long overdue for a booster shot.
Yet another thirty minutes pass before the nurse comes; she barely readies the canula before she’s called away.
When she comes back, she finally manages to give you the shot and get you ready to be discharged.
It’s noon when they finally release you.
You slowly sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You feel disoriented as you go from lying to a sitting position, closing your eyes for a brief moment to steady yourself.
Hotch is quick to grab your elbow as you begin to lower yourself to the ground, holding you steady as your hips buck slightly with a flash of white-hot stabbing pain.
“Let me,” he says quietly. No room for argument—not that you have the energy for that.
You let him wrap your coat around you and slowly lead you out of the ER to his waiting car.
Getting into his car is a quest on its own. Hotch supporst nearly your entire weight as you slowly pivot and lower yourself into the passenger seat before carefully lifting your legs in and buckling your seatbelt.
The drive to your place is mostly quiet. You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to feel. You just watch the city slide by through the window, resting your forehead against the cold glass, bandage taking most of the coldness.
Hotch guides you straight to your bedroom as you make it up the stairs and into your apartment, not allowing your suggested detour to the couch—because you’re more comfortable in your bed.
And he’s right.
The bed looks heavenly as you enter the bedroom. Hotch pulls back your duvet and fluffs your pillows slightly before he helps lower you until you’re sitting on the edge of the bed.
Every muscle feels like you weren’t just hit by one singular car, but a fleet of buses.
You don’t know where he disappears to, but he somehow returns with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.
You should feel embarrassed by your boss helping you undress and redress yourself. But it’s Hotch. And he’s so nice. And he came to keep you company, and he would never do anything to you. You keep telling yourself.
It’s a battle in itself to get you out of your office attire. The shirt is fine and changed in seconds, but the jeans are a nightmare, an actual nightmare.
It nearly takes five minutes to get them peeled off your legs, and not without winces, whimpering, and one snapped “Aaron!” when he pulls a little too hard.
He kneels down in front of you, opening the one leg of the sweatpants like a pair of tights and tells you to steady yourself on his shoulder.
You stand up enough to where you can lift your leg into the leg of the sweatpants, your entire weight leaning against his shoulder. Hotch works as quickly as possible, and once they’re on, he helps you lower yourself back to the mattress and position yourself lying on your “good side”.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the dresser mirror across the room: still pale, the road rashes raw on your nose and chin, a thick white bandage over your eyebrow, your hand wrapped like a boxer’s, where you tried to brace your fall, but instead ended up scraping your palm open.
You look like you lost a fight with a truck. Which…isn’t far off to be honest.
Hotch pulls your duvet up over you before he sits carefully on the edge of your bed near your feet. His eyes search yours, assessing you, trying to figure out if you need anything, anything you’re not telling him, if you’ll be alright, anything.
“Get some sleep,” he says softly, placing a hand on your shin over the duvet, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Your body’s been through hell. You need the rest.”
“You don’t have to stay.” You whisper, alright fighting your eyelids as they get heavier and heavier by each passing second.
“I know.” Hotch moves his hand from your shin and brush as strand of hair behind your ear—he’s too good at this... but then againhe probably took care of a sick Jack enough times to know what to do, you think to yourself. “I’m not leaving yet. I’ll be out at your dining table with my laptop if you need anything. Just call my name. Even if you just need me to sit with you.” You give him a tiny nod, giving him the go-ahead, ‘allowing’ him to stay.
“Okay,” you manage.
Hotch brushes the back of his hand over your cheek before getting up. “Sleep,” he whispers, turning the light off and leaving the door slightly ajar.
You drift off to sleep the instant he leaves the room.
Hotch sets up on your dining table like promised. His laptop and the current working case file are open in front of him.
The team is gathered in the conference room at the BAU. And Hotch is on a video call connected to them.
He briefs them on the case—victimology, geographic profile, escalation patterns—guiding the discussion to the best of his abilities from thirty minutes away.
The briefing almost feels normal despite the unfamiliar background of your half-decorated kitchen and the string lights you never took down from Christmas.
Garcia lasts all of twenty minutes before she can’t contain herself anymore. “Okay, I’m sorry, I can’t... I just... Sir, with all due respect, how is she?” The words tumble out in a rush. “Our sweet, sweet, lovely (Y/N). Hit by a car. We’ve all been sitting here pretending to focus, but we’re worried sick.”
The room goes quiet.
Hotch’s expression softens. He leans back slightly in your dining chair, glancing toward the hallway as if checking that your bedroom door is still closed.
“She’s sleeping,” he says quietly. “Finally. I’m giving her an hour, then waking her up to make sure her condition isn’t getting worse.”
Garcia exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours—she probably has.
Morgan leans forward, elbows on the table. “How bad is it, Hotch?”
He considers for a moment, choosing his words with care, debating how much you’d want him to tell them.
“No fractures, no internal bleeding. Significant bruising... especially the left thigh where the car made contact... and a laceration over her eyebrow, didn’t need stitches or glue though, so should be fine, but will leave a scar. Road rash on her face and palm. The hip and lower back took the worst of the impact when she landed, so she’s in a lot of pain. They gave her a tetanus shot and sent her home with strict instructions to rest and keep movement minimal for the next few days.”
Prentiss frowns. “And the head?”
“They’re calling it a mild traumatic brain injury. She never lost consciousness. Officially, they don’t think it rises to concussion protocol.” He pauses, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “She disagrees. Says the light sensitivity and headache feel worse than they’re admitting. She’s had a concussion before, so I trust her judgment a little more on that. We’ll monitor it, though.”
“She must be terrified.” Garcia’s eyes are glassy now.
“She was in shock at first,” Hotch admits. “Very calm on the phone... too calm, honestly. But she’s taken everything really well so far.”
“You staying with her?” JJ asks.
“For tonight, yes.” Hotch’s tone leaves no room for discussion. “She shouldn’t be alone until we see how she responds the next twenty-four hours minimum. I’ll work remotely while you guys travel to L.A. for the case, unless the world burns and it’s life or death.”
“Tell her we’re all thinking about her. And that we’ve got the case covered.” Reid speaks up softly.
“I will,” Hotch says.
There’s a beat of silence.
Garcia sniffs once, then straightens. “Okay. Okay. We’ll be brilliant and catch this creep fast so you can focus on taking care of her. And tell her I’m sending cupcakes. The good kind. With sprinkles.”
“She’ll appreciate that.”
He glances toward your bedroom again, hearing nothing but soft, even breathing through the cracked door.
NEMESISM ⸻ AARON HOTCHNER
aaron hotchner x fem reader
WORD COUNT. 3544
SUMMARY. things get a little much sometimes. the longer you hold it, the heavier it all feels. one evening, you come home to an empty apartment and when a series of small inconveniences happen, you completely lose a hold of what very little self control you had left
DISCLAIMERS. reader is not well mentally - very obviously struggling with something but it's not named. mentioned to be taking medication. very heavily implied suicidal ideation. this is about an emotional breakdown where she trashes the apartment. angsty angst. based on this
Sometimes feelings of the extreme arise without a clear explanation; sometimes they are a series of tiny, minute things that have just build up and up and up for some time. They're things so small, one would initially think nothing of it: things like receiving the wrong drink at the coffee shop but realising too late, not getting the time off work you requested, waiting for days to get a text back from friends.
Incidents so small in scale should not bother someone as much they do you. But it's not just these tiny details in singularity, it's when they're combined and piled on top of one another that they hold the weight they do.
And it's when you're already feeling like you're stretched too thin and worked too hard that these things feel worse than they should. It's when you get home from work and walk into a quiet, empty apartment that you really feel the weight of what you've been holding.
You drop your hands to your sides and the keys you held within one — clattering metal loud against the hardwood floor. You shrug your bag from your shoulder and let it fall in a way similar to your keys, in a placement not far off. Without bending or reaching, you slot the toe of your shoe against the back of the other, pressing it in the heel so you can slip it off. With some gradual effort, it finally loosens and you flick your ankle, kicking it down the hall.
Though when you try to do the same with the other, you don't quite earn the same result. But you persist, struggling greatly to free your foot.
"Fuck's sake," you utter a groan to yourself as you begrudgingly give in.
You instead reach down and squeeze a finger into the gap behind your heel, slinking in enough space to slip your foot out. With it free and the shoe within your hands, you chuck it, throwing it in the opposite direction and against the door. It lands within similar distance to your bag and keys — all of which left in a placement that you otherwise wouldn't dare.
Making your way down the short, dimmed hall, you head for the kitchen and for the drink you saved at the back of the fridge — a can so cold you knew it would soothe the festering, growing funk. But when you get closer, you spot the carton of milk left out on the side. You reach for it and give it a little shake, noticing how much seems to slosh around at the bottom.
You throw the carton into the sink, tossing it atop the glasses and plates that seem to still be sitting untouched. The ones your husband promised to place in the dishwasher the night before last. Extending your arms widthwise, you place either hand at the edge of the counter and lower your head, eyes closing like it was a means to regulate yourself — or at least try to.
But it feels pointless, like it's no use.
You turn your head aside and to the contents sitting in the sink, brows furrowing. You stare at it blankly, mindlessly honing in on the plate with dry, crusted spread from your husband's morning toast. A small scoff reverbs at the back of your throat and you then push yourself away from the counter, head shaking disapprovingly as you make your way back to the fridge.
Sifting through the jars and containers inside, you reach for the can at the very back — metal cold to the touch. You crack it open, take a sip and make your way across the apartment, heading for your bedroom off to the side. Though with the space lacking proper, considerable light, and your mind void of clarity, you underestimate the width of the frame and bump into it, catching your free hand between your thigh and solid wood.
You grumble at the sharp tang of pain and throw your can onto the floor out of nothing but pure frustration. It hits the floor with some force, fizzy liquid from inside spraying out and onto the rug in a splatter that's sure to stain.
With either hand now free, you slam them repetitively against the surface of the door, the clap-like sound sharp as you repeat it over and over until your palms sting and burn. You give it one last pound, fist balled as you jam the back of it into the door; groaning in a way most guttural. The noise coming from the very back of your throat.
With a mess already on the floor and a marking made on the door, you storm your way back to the kitchen, more specifically to the sink. You pick up a glass and slam it into the plate beneath, the force breaking either one into a dozen uneven, jagged pieces.
And it's then that it all sort of spiralled, where it grew out of control. That small, newfound taste of destruction felt almost addictive, felt like it was the relief you actually needed — not something momentary like a cold fizzy drink. Cathartic violence was what you needed, a way to actualise what you felt and make it known in a way you didn't need to try and understand.
This was the release you have been after.
You pick up the carton of milk from before and chuck it at the cabinet. The undone, loose lid making the warm milk from inside splatter up the door and leak down onto the countertop below.
But that wasn't enough, it wasn't enough to satiate you.
So you involuntarily lose a hold of yourself, moving around the apartment like a tornado lacking elements to keep it controlled. You stamp, footsteps heavy and angered as you hit whatever was in arms length: pushing vases onto the floor, knocking off photo frames from the walls, hitting whatever it was you can get your hands on.
Yells come from you in a way most primal, each scream coming from a place most earnest as you storm into the living area and continue on with your blind rage of wreckage. You kick the coffee table onto it's side and flip the sofa onto it's back, arranging the furniture like it weighed absolutely nothing. Without any thought or time to back yourself out of it, you pick up the lamp on the opposing small table and hurl it at the TV; cracking and smashing each.
Lacking any sort of self control, you rip your way around the living space, utterly lost in it as you tear off the blinds and hit the cushions, as you rip up books and kick the mess about. Your yells of misery and frustration amongst the clattering of objects is lost upon you — it's all tuned out. You're all tuned out.
That is until you hear a booming call of your name coming from several feet away. Your husband, Aaron, stuck in place, briefcase in hand as he watches you destroy all of what you collectively own.
You freeze in your footing, chest rising and falling in such a rate you fear it may explode out your chest. Through your hazy, teary gaze you can just about make him out, just about make out his narrowed, pointed eyes.
Wetness leaks from the corners of your eyes and you feel yourself struggle for a full satisfying breath — your short, sharp intakes of air far surpassing what you can contain. You feel yourself shake, the adrenaline seemingly too much for you to take now that you've given yourself a moment to still. An ornament clutched tight within your hand falls as you lower yourself to the floor, body practically crumbling beneath you as you sink down.
You bend to your knees, sitting amongst feathers, shards of glass and dissembled pieces of furniture. You lower your head, upper half cowering in as you settle your face into your cut and tender palms. You feel your body give out, and with the control you lacked earlier, you lower yourself onto your side — laying among the mess as you bring your knees up and in. Pulling them as close into yourself as you can muster without causing such strain.
Watching Aaron from your side and with eyes so teary, you see him place his briefcase down — settling it beside the flipped coffee table. You watch his silence, the way he loosens his tie, the way he shrugs off his blazer and drops onto his go bag on the floor, the way he seemingly can't even stand to look at you.
Aaron looks around at the space, the area utterly trashed. He looks devastated and you, yourself, can't bare it. You cries turn into weakened, broken sobs and you bury your face within your arms, shielding yourself like you were keen to hide.
He doesn't say anything, instead through your covered eyes, you hear him clear a path, hear him flip the sofa right side up so as to get closer to you curled up on the floor. He sounds careful, footsteps considerate and seemingly cautious as he steps around the shards of glass in order to make it to you.
"I'm sorry, I'm— I'm so sorry," you choke on your words, each one coming out broken as you utter them between sobs. You push yourself off from your side and sit on your knees, hands reaching out for the lowers of his legs at you encompass your arms around them. "Aaron, please. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," you mindlessly repeat, your pleas sounding most desperate. Desperate in a way you found entirely foreign.
The worst creeps into the analytic behaviourist part of his brain, worries of what this may mean for you — of what this breakdown actually means. The husband side of his brain is slow to respond, all of these concerns eating away at the support he knew he should be giving you.
This behaviour wasn't something of a mystery to him, he knows what it means exactly, he just doesn't want to believe it. He doesn't want to believe that it's behaviour you're exhibiting; that his own wife lost herself in a fit of destruction because of her own feelings.
As much as he wants to yell upon the sight of the apartment in complete disarray, he knew he couldn't do that. Not when you're so clearly struggling, not when you're laying defenceless at his feet.
He has never seen you like this.
He has so many questions whirling around in his head, asks of how long you've been dealing with these feelings, worries of what you may have done to yourself had he not come tonight like originally planned. Aaron knows this behaviour. This is not a spur of the moment kind of thing, this is something that's been brewing and building for quite some time.
You're so thoroughly, wholly embarrassed. Not just for what you've done, but for being seen doing it. How long was he calling your name for? How long had he been watching? These questions ripple through the strikes of ache in your head.
He takes a step back and you release your hold around him, doubt and concern spreading across your face when you feel him literally, physically pull away. Though Aaron lowers, bending either knee and settling one against the floor, using his other to rest an elbow — stabilising himself.
Aaron reaches for the side of your face, movement tentative and hesitant when he notices you flinch. Not because you were afraid or worried of what he may do, but because you felt so ashamed and like you truly did not deserve to receive something so gentle from him. Your wet eyes flutter closed when you feel his palm settle on your cheek, hand large and warm to the touch as he holds it there.
He casts his thumb along the under of your eye, soaking up the residual tears that collect there. But under an act so tender, you feel your waterline well, tears growing thick and eager to spill. Though you don't cover your eyes with your hands, instead you smush your face into the inner middle of his thigh — to the one with the planted foot he's stabilising his weight on.
You keep your face there for a moment, buried in the area just above his knee. Both snot and tears transferring to suit pants in what you can only imagine to be three wet splotchy circles.
"I don't know what— god, I'm so sorry," you plead for reasonings you're not even fully aware of yourself.
You didn't know what exactly it was you're apologising for, if it was for making such a mess or for being caught, if it was for your feelings or if it was for how you hid them for as long as you have.
Just as you're about to repeat the incessant string of apologies, he intervenes, stopping you from continuing. Speaking over you like he didn't want to hear the dread in your voice — it pained him audibly, emotionally.
"I know," he hums.
Aaron places one hand behind your head and the other over your spine, just in the middle of your back; his dual hold almost cupping you as he makes an attempt to soothe you. The weight of his touch like that of something grounding.
This feeling spreading inside was a foreign one, it's not one you're entirely familiar with. It felt like it belongs in the realm of guilt and humiliation, like it could perhaps be a combination of the two. Pinpointing it felt utterly hopeless and. finding the exact reason even more so.
Though it's not like you can give it much thought, not when you can feel your heartbeat pulse behind your eyes and throat dry up like it does.
You simply stay in place, face buried into the upper area of his knee as you sob into it, arms clutching around his thighs like you were desperate to keep him near — eager to keep him beside you so as to prolong the reality of what has happened.
Time has passed, you weren't sure how much exactly but you can tell by what little light makes it's way into the apartment; by the darkness that physically surrounds you both. You've each since adjusted, both still on the floor, only now your head lays within his lap and Aaron's legs are crossed — your body on it's side as you fiddle with the bottom hem of his pants.
His hand encompasses the side of your head, palm over your ear like it was some methodical means of protecting the brain it leads to. You peer up to look at him, his eyes sort of vacant as he gazes upon the room, seemingly taking note of every little bit of damage; cataloguing the loss of frames and trophies, of books and furniture.
Work is forever busy, there's always something new to do. After a while, things get too hard to juggle, too hard to keep up with and the small stuff gets swept under the rug. It's no one fault, it's just how things go sometimes.
Admittedly, he can be blind to the behaviour you exhibit. He's so used to the extremes within his work that he may sometimes fail to spot the introduction to them, the signs and tells before the explosion. Though it may just be because he doesn't ever want to believe you're anything other than one hundred percent all of the time.
But that's not possible, and he knew right now that it was selfish to think that; to think that you don't experience any other emotion beside indisputable, unwavering joy.
You watch the sting of emotion within his face, observing through tired, stinging eyes how he can't seem to focus on area for too long, how his eyes close and his head shakes, how he holds a breath before finally swallowing it — acts telling you he was very slowly processing it all.
You did this. You were the reason he looks as pained as he does. You are the reason a vast majority of belongings lay broken on the floor. And you can't quite bear it. You want to look away, but you don't believe yourself deserving of such thing — you should have to look at hurt within the eyes of the man you disappointed. Of the man you inadvertently, near enough destroyed.
But you just can't.
Peeling yourself away from him, you sit up, movement slow and heavy as you move into a seated position on your shins. You keep your eyes diverted aside, head and body twisted away as you sit just out of his grasp. Only just.
His eyes have since transferred back to you, gaze following your movement away. Aaron's eyes study the back of you, head subconsciously tilting; like it was an effort to try to understand you. This is perhaps the one and only time where that's been the case, where he has to figure out how you feel, not just know by looking in your eyes.
This was something else entirely. Something he himself does not have the qualifications for.
You push yourself up and to your feet, standing over Aaron almost. And just as you're about to take a step away, he reaches for your hand at your side — grip stilling you in place. His head tilts at you, eyes unintentionally narrowing. He was wordlessly questioning you, silently asking where you're disappearing to.
"Going to get changed," you respond, voice hoarse from all your earlier shouting.
"Keep the door open," he instructs, gaze stern.
"Seriously?"
"Yes," he responds, failing to miss a beat.
You give him a slight nod and try to pull your hand away, only he restricts it, keeping you in place. He needs to hear you agree, needs to hear that you understand just how serious he feels about this. It's not that he didn't trust you, well that's not true, that's exactly what this was. Right now, he just does not trust you enough to be in a room alone without doing something harmful to yourself.
"Okay," you reply flatly, giving him the verbal confirmation he so clearly needed.
He releases your hand and you step away. Though he keeps a keen eye on you, focus locked on you as he watches you trudge through the mess on the floor, walking through glass shards without a single reaction.
Aaron raises a hand up his face and settles it on his forehead, fingers and thumb resting over his temples as he gives each a little rub. He sighs softly, the sound of slight defeat as he too, pushes himself to his feet. He stays still for a moment, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he glances around, gaze scanning the space far quicker than he can really process it.
He pauses and turns to look at the bedroom — utter silence spilling out from the open door. With haste he closes the distance between himself and you, and pokes his head inside, desperate to find the reasoning for such quiet.
He doesn't spot you right away, it takes a moment. And another moment more for him to join you.
Stepping around the bed and to your side, he joins you on the floor, taking a seat beside you. He mirrors you, head tilting back against the mattress as he turns to look at the side of your face. He notices you fidget, hands picking at one another as if you could anticipate what was coming next.
"I think we should look into getting a medication reassessment," he murmurs, voice quiet with gentle intention. His eyes flicker across what he can see of your face, looking at what little he can, until you finally turn to look at him — your somewhat timid gaze meeting his. "This needs to be taken seriously," he comments, head nodding carefully, like it was supposed to reinforce his words. "This… kind of thing doesn't just happen… there's a reason. And I want you— us, to explore that and get you the help you need."
You've since pulled your eyes away from his, disliking the candour within his own. You direct your gaze up at the ceiling above and refuse a response, body stilled as you reject it.
It's not an easy thing to accept, especially not when it's all confronted you both head on like it has. He knows this is going to be a challenge, knows this battle with you accepting help will be all sorts of strenuous — but it'll be worth it knowing that the likelihood of coming home to another dead wife will be far slimmer.
He, himself, will not be strong enough to survive that. And so he'll take it day by day with you, taking some time out of work to ensure you're not left by yourself, not left alone to act on an impulse while he's states away.
But for now, he'll sit with you on the floor until you inevitably submit into sleep, until you crash from exhaustion and he can make a start of mending the apartment — collecting and salvaging what he can while you sleep this breakdown off.
warnings: probably ooc hotch, reader is unashamedly and unabashedly down bad for hotch and she shows and owns it. age-gap relationship (duh). we've almost approached angst city, lads. rossi's a bit of a dick in this, but he means well...or does he.
as always, let me know what you think!
photo credits to their rightful owners
hotch masterlist | masterlist | ask
love is embarassing masterlist
part one | part two | part three, pt 3 excerpt | part four
liked by a.hotchner, prentiss.here, yourgirlgarcia, derek_morgan, n1kt0_00, jj.jareau and 204 others
lilprivyn back to our regularly scheduled programming
song friday i'm in love - the cure
tagged a.hotchner
prentiss.here Oh thank god.
lilprivyn ????
derek_morgan So Hotch isn't in the doghouse?
lilprivyn no, not this time around lmao but i wouldn't put it past him to do something that will land him in the doghouse
a.hotchner I resent this statement.
lilprivyn hotchner, u can be kind of annoying at times
a.hotchner Oh. I didn't realise. What annoys me about you?
lilprivyn oh babes, you don't actually, they're more like pet peeves. pls don't change <3
lilprivyn but dw i will let you know if you ever annoy me (that could never happen ur perfect) but i also probs annoy you allllll the time
a.hotchner I think you're perfect. There's also nothing that you do annoys me, everything you do is so you and it's so endearing to me.
lilprivyn crying, screaming, throwing up. you perfect man
prentiss.here Dear god just suck his dick already
lilprivyn 🙏🏼 (one chance) @/a.hotchner
comment liked by a.hotchner
derek_morgan At least we know you'll put him in his place.
comment liked by prentiss.here and jj.jareau
lilprivyn damn straight
n1kt0_00 Итак, можем ли мы отменить наш рейс?
translation So, we can cancel our flights?
lilprivyn flights? what flights?
kon_igs Do not worry, liebling. I think there was a miscommunication on our end.
lilprivyn i wouldn't mind a visit from some of my favourite people
kon_igs We can definitely work something out, little maus.
lilprivyn doughnut was delish, thanks for asking everyone and thank you for ALL being weird in here
a.hotchner That doughnut was actually delicious.
lilprivyn i. am. still. thinking. about. it. knowing that i can possibly have another one is what makes me wake up in the morning (and u of course)
a.hotchner I found out that they have an actual store. Should we go tomorrow?
lilprivyn perfect, perfect man
comment liked by a.hotchner
a.hotchner Anything for you.
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a.hotchner has posted a story!
caption Big guy.
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lilprivyn liked your story!
melissa_stricke replied to your story!
melissa_stricke That's cute, Aaron! I didn't realise that there was a carnival going on!
a.hotchner It's a food festival. There just happened to some rides and events.
melissa_stricke Did you win that for her?
a.hotchner No, she actually won it for me. She's a great marksman, the best in the team actually.
melissa_stricke I didn't realise that she was also a marksman.
a.hotchner That's not my story to tell. If you're interested, you should ask (Y/N). She's open about most things.
prentiss.here replied to your story!
prentiss.here (Y/L/N) win that for you?
a.hotchner She did, she was very proud.
prentiss.here lol
lilprivyn has posted a story!
caption lil guy (i love him very much)
tagged a.hotchner
song her - megan thee stallion
a.hotchner liked your story!
melissa_stricke That's cute! You guys have matching ones.
*you have muted melissa_stricke*
sjbooth Please tell me that you didn't win this one.
lilprivyn nooo, i won the big one. aaron won this tiny little one lmao
sjbooth Knew it.
lilprivyn ???
sjbooth Bones said that you won this small one but I said, no, no way, not my little sister. Sniping runs in the family.
sjbooth You, my favourite sister just bought me twelve breakfasts from the diner.
yourgirlgarcia replied to your story!
yourgirlgarcia So cute!!! And so are you, star girl!!
lilprivyn thank you, pennie <3
liked by a.hotchner, yourgirlgarcia, haley_lane, s_riley, kon_igs, hayesflynn, sjbooth and 320 others
lilprivyn is this too much colour for an fbi gala?
song roc steady - megan thee stallion (ft flo milli)
hayesflynn It was finally nice to meet Booth's younger sister.
lilprivyn well it was nice to meet the man my brother's placed on a pedestal after all these years
hayesflynn I hope I lived up to my reputation?
lilprivyn exceeded them. can't believe seeley's friends with someone as great as you
sjbooth Hey! How am I catching a stray here?
hayesflynn Well, (Y/N) has become the best Booth (honorary) I've encountered.
comment liked by lilprivyn
lilprivyn @/sjbooth, @/booth_jared lmaooooo suck it losers
hayesflynn Truly though, thank you for keeping me company.
comment liked by lilprivyn
lilprivyn of course!! anytime!!
comment liked by hayesflynn
yourgirlgarcia GORGEOUS GIRL!!! COULD NOT KEEP MY EYES OFF YOU THE WHOLE NIGHT!!!
lilprivyn i couldn't keep my eyes off YOU, gorgeous, stunning woman!
lilprivyn fattest thank you to my best friend @/haley_lane for MAKING (yes, that's right MAKE) this dress for me!!!!
haley_lane i am sooo happy that it turned out well, girlie. and you look so beautiful!
a.hotchner Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
lilprivyn could have seen and felt this fine specimen in the flesh the whole night but NO, paperwork must come first 😡
melissa_stricke Aaron, you and your paperwork. Is that why you also blew us off for dinner last week?
a.hotchner Unfortunately, so.
melissa_stricke You better not miss out next weeks!
lilprivyn do you two mind having your conversation elsewhere? or did you forget that this was MY comment section. so unless you want to compliment me, move along.
s_riley @/kon_igs, @/seba_doss lol
a.hotchner Sorry, honey. You look exquisite.
lilprivyn i know. don't forget that.
a.hotchner How could I? You're the best thing that I've ever seen. Thank you for coming over and showing me.
lilprivyn aaron hotchner how could i let this dress be taken off me without showing you just how good i look?
prentiss.here Guys, still in public.
lilprivyn this is perfectly pg rated
prentiss.here Alluding to Hotch taking off your dress is something I don't want to picture.
comment liked by derek_morgan, s_riley and sjbooth
derek_morgan Is that why you dipped early? To go off to your man?
lilprivyn i couldn't possibly leave him all alone doing his stupid paperwork. i'm so selfless
a.hotchner She fell asleep.
lilprivyn i was tired and i managed to help you for 35 minutes before i racked out :(
a.hotchner That you did. I highly appreciate it, and I appreciate you.
lilprivyn you damn well better appreciate me, hotchner
comment liked by a.hotchner
kon_igs maus! very stunning!
lilprivyn kon, ily come fly here and let me give you kisses (platonic ofc)
comment liked by kon_igs
seba_doss reeeeooow spatzi, beautiful
lilprivyn #blocked
seba_doss why does kon get your praise but not me? that's hurtful
lilprivyn i love kon, i don't love you
seba_doss blasphemous, spatzi. you love me
lilprivyn stop stalking me, freak
sjbooth Where are the photos that we took? I look quite good in them.
lilprivyn sorry, you didn't make the cut this time
sjbooth Is it because I 'mogged' you in those photos?
lilprivyn eeeeugghhhhhh yuck never say that
lilprivyn just for that, you are never getting those photos
summary: Hotch comes to you for solace and finally asks for clarity on your “relationship”
pairings: hotch x fem!reader
warnings: Hotch x fem!reader, smut, sorta angsty, reader is traumatised and avoidant as hell, situationship/fwb final boss, sort of introspective, Haley mention (rip!), this takes place around s5-7ish I’d say.
a/n: most of my titles come from songs lmao, I listened to sorbet by kelela on loop when I wrote this. watch me disappear for a month after this lol.
Aaron finds discomfort in the way your relationship is in a state of flux. There’s no label on it just ‘two equally stressed out people who fuck on occasion’ as you so eloquently put it one time.
It’s not what he was used to, to say the least. With Haley it was easier—he knew where they stood, where he stood. They did everything by the book. got married, settled down had a baby together and lived a typical life for a regular family living in suburbia.
You’re not Haley, and he knows that.
Yet he can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy and confusion when you’re in his bed or office one night, coming apart at the seams for him, baring yourself to him in a way only he’ll ever get to see. Just for you to entertain Anderson’s obvious attempt at trying to flirt with you at work the next day.
It’s annoying, knowing that he barely has you in his reach. You’re here and there—a fleeting energy and Aaron is falling, fast. He’s never been the one to rush or prod you, scared that his ask for something more than this will send you running for the hills.
However, you have this way of making him feel like the only man in the world in the bedroom. An intimate, sacred chasm between the two of you, where the weekly grievances built up at the office fall silent in a cacophony of moans and grunts.
Aaron is an attentive lover, he drinks up every reaction now matter how small—his years of profiling allowing him to fine tune his senses a bit better. Every stroke, every moan, every slip of his name as he buries himself inside you, he gets heady at the sight of it all.
Sometimes in the moment he loses himself, he thinks of a future with you, with Jack and maybe another baby in the mix—a girl he thinks. One that’ll take after you but you can still see elements of him in her face. Maybe he’ll finally leave this profiling world behind, work a less strenuous life threatening job and finally enjoy the fruits that life has to offer.
“Aaron?” Your voice snaps him out of his daydream, he blinks a few times remembering where he was and what he was currently doing. “Sorry.” He mumbles placing a quick kiss on your shoulder.
“It’s alright.” You reassure him, scanning his face with a look that in his eyes that is akin to love but he doesn’t fixate on that. You look almost angelic in a sense, the light fixtures providing a glow only seen in sunlit stained glass windows, as if you were a gift from the divine itself.
“Where did you go?” You ask softly, slowing down your movements as if you’d be able to catch his train of thought. Your gentle question, reminds him that he is a sentient being despite all else, bringing him away from the endless rabbit holes of his mind that is brimming with doubt, what ifs?, guilt and much more.
Here he is present.
Your bodies currently intertwined in a dance that only you two know the moves to. He knows that if he lets this silence pass between you both a second longer he’ll hear the faint sounds of your heartbeat. An indicator of life that quiets the loudness that reigns over the dark hallows of his mind.
With your pointed gaze there is nowhere to hide or lie, his micro expressions almost becoming second nature to you. Yet Aaron doesn’t want to dampen the mood with his need for clarity. He can already sense the disappointed look on his therapist’s face when he speaks of this moment, already knowing the question he’s going to be asked.
And it’s not one he can answer, not out loud at least. So he chooses to bite the bullet, consequences be damned. Maybe it’s time that he finally tries his hand and living for once instead of merely surviving, it’s deserving for him, no? Does he deserves happiness after all, after everything.
It’s what Haley would’ve wanted for him. For Jack.
“What are we doing?” He asks, finally finding his voice in the midst of the silence. His tone isn’t harsh or demanding, a far cry away from the stern Unit Chief you often saw at work.
As soon as the words leave his mouth he wishes that he never said anything at all. He watches your mind whirr, trying to spin a coherent sentence out of your mouth whilst he’s currently splitting you open.
You knew that this would eventually happen, the day that you’d be made to confront your feelings in this relationship (?) you were in. If it was anyone else you’d deflect or bolt, the question of something more making you feel trapped.
To you, these frivolous hookups/situationships were a means to an end, another way you’d cope with the darkness of humanity you were privy to week in, week out at the BAU. A few moments of non committal bliss with a random stranger to outweigh the sordid horrors of your job, was what you needed to get by the hardest days.
Aaron’s soft yet penetrative gaze cages you in, leaving you no room to escape. And for once you don’t feel a sense of panic or alarm, maybe because Aaron isn’t a means to an end to your problems, nor is he a cure to them. His gaze isn’t riddled with expectations or an idealised version of who you are or who you could be.
It’s refreshing for a start. You start to feel bad for your poor attempts to throw him off your trail, flirting with Anderson in the mornings, letting his hands linger on your shoulder for a second longer knowing that it should be him instead, laughing at his unfunny jokes.
“We’re having sex, Aaron.” You say matter of factly and he knows you’re bullshitting, trying to use the obvious as a blanket for your vulnerability. He sighs, knowing that your walls are pretty much fortified but he still pushes slightly, he can’t help it. His pursuit for the truth takes over his desire for peace.
“You know that’s not what I meant.” He replies matter of factly, leaving no room for confusion as he slows his movements. The drug of mind numbing pleasure that you were planning to get high on and lose yourself in stalls, sobering you up to the reality where your relationship hangs in the balance, on the edge of something that you can’t quite describe.
You knew that you wanted him, so bad that it almost terrified you. To the point where you’d do anything to avoid being one with one with him at work. Delaying your routine wellness check ins with him, cancelling last minute meetings, dropping off paperwork when he wasn’t in his office.
You even went to the lengths of rerouting your entire walk to work in order to avoid him. Turning down hangouts with JJ and Garcia because you didn’t want to approach him at post work socials, especially after a few drinks in your system.
Was it childish? Yes. but it was easier for you to deal with him in small doses. Particularly during sex, the focus on mutual pleasure made it easier to forget your growing emotions towards him, especially when he was pulling orgasms out of you like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat.
“You know I can’t give you what you want.” You admit after a beat and the moment passes as fast as it began. It was typical of you to run from your feelings than to address them, feelings made everything more complicated and you’re pretty sure you’ve just fucked everything up.
He doesn’t say anything after that.
Yet he fucks you like he loves you (he does) and when you’re both spent and satiated, he holds you with a love he cannot express but it’s one you both know, one that you both hold for each other.
And when you see each other next at work, the tensions dissipated into something more digestible. You thought that Aaron would want nothing to do with you after what happened during that night. He carried on as usual, which was understandable since he had a reputation to maintain and cases to solve but you did miss the borderline staring contests you’d have with him when you both thought nobody was looking.
Little did you know, no matter how many times he’d busy himself with menial tasks, Aaron would unknowingly spend his days waiting for your call, your green light, that would let him be yours for however long you needed him to be,
You love Aaron, Aaron loves you. But you don't talk about it. Oh, you'd never. Until your mom says a thing, and feelings finally tide over.
A/N: a whole lot of unspoken/suppressed feelings, years of restraint culminating into...something, Aaron taking a chance, reader feeling conflicted, angst, so much pining.
Word count: 3.5k
The steering wheel is warm beneath your fingers, sticky even, from sweat and sunscreen and general car-grime that has accumulated in your old Nissan Altima over the years, complemented by faded, worn-out seat covers and the stubborn Black Vanilla Little Tree hanging from the rearview mirror. It’s pointless, really—its scent has faded into oblivion by now—but it clings there like a badge of honor, a relic from the past. This car has stood the test of time—your first car and you’re preferential to firsts, even if they’re a little stuffy inside.
First taste of ice cream (Jo’s Caramel Cookie Crumble), first time out of state (Sarasota, 1992) and your first ever love letter—to Craig Sullivan, devastatingly.
However lyrically—? A work of art.
“I can’t believe she said that, you know.”
Aaron’s crammed in the passenger seat, knees squished against the glove department and nightly shadows swallowed by jet black hair, but if you looked at him, really looked, you know you’d see the street lights reflecting in his eyes—bright, sparkling, taunting.
If.
You’re not sure you can ever look at him again.
___________
Such a beautiful ring, my dear.
It’s funny though, how life works. I always thought you two would—
___________
“She didn’t mean it.”
Right. Of course not.
Your jaw ticks, eyes drifting from the barely visible road to your phone. 0.3 miles until the next turn, left on Hill Drive, then another left and you’ll be straight on the I-95 to Washington.
ETA: 00:06 AM. 37 minutes to go.
“I don’t care if she meant it,” you say through your teeth, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “She can’t just—“
Say what you’ve never had the courage to say? What you never dared to even think about?
Aaron and you. You and Aaron. Like a pendulum, two poles forever divided, but always connected. By something.
You remember being small, innocent, playing fetch with your neighbors’ son—Sean, not Aaron—because Aaron was always busy fixing your mother’s house or mowing the lawn for some extra cash—to get the fuck out of Manassas—and when he did, he left you, too.
You were only eight, but still. Sean was four, and practically lived at your house instead of next door. You never thought of it as particularly neglectful on anyone’s part—you just liked having a little brother to torment.
And before you were old enough to even grasp the meaning of love, Aaron was head over heels for Haley, blushing furiously whenever your mother mentioned the theatre club, when she teased him about being the worst fourth pirate in The Pirates of Penzance to date, and yet—and yet, maybe you liked Haley even more than Aaron.
She was the big sister you never had, but always wanted—and while Aaron threatened to punch Craig Sullivan for cheating on you with a girl from Eastwood High, in a god-darn tree of all places, Haley was the one who actually helped you through senior year.
Checking in on you from GWU campus, revising countless applications essays—she even took you dress shopping for prom, which you attended with Craig’s best friend.
Better to go out with a bang, right?
And it’s not like you thought about Aaron in any sort of way—ever—at least not until you really grew up and started to subconsciously compare any guy you met to Aaron and any of your relationships to his marriage.
A marriage that is now over—your once so highly esteemed picture-perfect image of partnership, of love, festered into something else entirely by the force of responsibility, by careless negligence and scathing loneliness.
Priorities, for short.
But it’s weird, right?
The man who chose his job over his own wife and son countless times—which you condemn, of course—flies in from Wisconsin the moment your mother calls from the hospital?
It makes you wonder, would he do the same for you? You know you would. Any day, even at three in the morning, without hesitation.
“I’ve been engaged for two months,” you point out finally, the words grating on your throat, “even as a joke, it’s not fair to Nathan.”
And although it’s not your truth per say, somewhere in this universe, in a dimension where you’re more worried about your fiancé than your ever emotionally unavailable childhood best friend, it’s a truth, at least.
You thought your mom liked Nathan; his happy-go-luckiness, the quirky glasses, always coming through with some sort of historical fact or grammatical pun.
He’s a teacher—a fun teacher. Reliable. Nice.
A real sweetheart.
Everything you should ever want. Everything you do want.
“You keep saying that like it’s already over.”
From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron’s hand landing on his thigh, the way he shifts in the passenger seat—and your chest constricts.
“It’s always ‘I’ve been engaged’ or ‘I got engaged’. Past tense, like you’re detaching yourself from the reality of ‘I am engaged’ or ‘I’m getting married’.” Aaron’s voice is quiet, a low, steady rumble that is void of any real affliction, like he’s solving a case.
Like he’s solving you.
“Really, Aaron?" you ask, unimpressed, but there's a subdued sharpness to your tone. "My mom just had a heart attack and you’re profiling me?”
Aaron mumbles, “Costochondritis,” as if that matters at all—as if you didn’t get a phone call sixteen hours ago and drove 180 miles to D.C. under the impression that your mother did have a heart attack.
And you haven’t been able to get it out of your head; the image of your mother, the strongest woman you know, in a hospital gown, talking with a slight voice and shaky fingers, her face pale and drained in a moment she thought could have been her last—and the one thing she chooses to tell you isn’t I love you, kid or I’m proud of you. No, it’s:
I always thought you two would end up together.
It makes sense, the both of you.
Like that’s at all an okay thing to say to your engaged daughter and in-the-midst-of-his-divorce surrogate son. And Haley, god, she loves your mom. She and Aaron chose you as Jack’s godmother—that way you’re officially part of our family, isn’t that beautiful?—and if it wasn’t for her being the second half to in-the-midst-of-Aaron’s-divorce, you would’ve asked her to be your maid of honor. Hell, you still might.
“Why does it bother you so much?”
You cast a squinting look at Aaron in the passenger seat, just for a moment.
Is he being serious?
“For a plethora of reasons,” you reply gravelly, trying to keep your voice level, “Nate. Haley. The fact that it’s absolutely absurd.”
You scoff sharply, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as you relive the scene.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? The way Aaron didn’t flinch when she said it—not even the bat of an eye. No surprise on his features, no denial.
As if he’s had the thought before, maybe even the conversation.
And that, the simple idea of it slowly ships away at your resolve, clawing straight into your chest, where a quiet, stickling truth resides, always there, hiding, lingering—the one you’ve never wanted to face—and never had the chance to.
“The question is,” you continue, signaling left to turn on Hill Drive, although it’s not like there’s any other vehicle around at this time of night, “why doesn’t it bother you?”
The moment it’s out, you regret it. Deflection means there’s more to the truth.
You remember the first time he said that to you, in his brand new prosecutor’s office, back when the USAO building was just a couple blocks from the National Gallery on 6th street, and you had just come back from taking a stroll to enjoy the architecture—or, more accurately: call Craig Sullivan from a payphone down the street.
You were sixteen, for god’s sake.
“Maybe because she’s not entirely wrong.”
Something in you snaps, shatters—and the world turns upside down. Your world, carefully constructed to hold everything together, to reconcile this feeling with that feeling, to keep everything neatly compartmentalized, safe, unchallenged.
Aaron and Haley. Haley and Aaron.
You and…someone else.
That’s how it’s always been.
Craig from high school, Jordan from college, then no one for a while—and now Nate, anchoring you to a reality where things are clear-cut, where your engagement means certainty, where Aaron is just Aaron, the brother-like figure, the best friend who has always been there although for you, at times, it’s not been quite enough.
But you never thought—
—yet here you are now, in your first car with the signature Black Vanilla Little Tree, and Aaron isn’t denying your mother’s words. He isn’t scrambling to explain them away. He’s just… accepting them, as though they’re not absurd at all.
“You’re joking,” you balk, but it’s not as sharp as you intended. Your voice wavers, thoughts whirring, desperately trying to keep this, whatever it is, at bay.
Aaron exhales slowly, hands pressing into his thigh. And yet, he doesn’t say a thing. He just has this look on his face, tired, weary, like he has had this conversation before—but not with you. Never with you.
With who, then? Your own mother? Sean? Haley?
Betrayal weighs on your chest, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue.
“This is a joke.” You don’t mean to sound defensive, but you are. Defending everything you’ve ever thought to understand about him, about yourself. About boundaries, unspoken, but always there.
Heat sizzles beneath your skin, anger bubbling in your veins. From his words. His silence. Your right foot steps on the throttle as Hill Drive stretches ahead, empty and dark, giving you nothing to distract yourself from the growing heaviness in your chest.
“Please Aaron, enlighten me,” you snap, wondering if this is him finally reacting to Haley filing for divorce. Maybe he’s overcompensating, prodding at the stability of your relationship, testing the vigor of your choices because he regrets his own.
Maybe it’s the broken home he’s from—alcoholic father, a passive mother—and he just can’t bear to be happy, to see anyone else happy.
You know that’s unfair. But he isn’t being exactly fair either.
“Why do you think Nate’s wrong for me?”
And then, finally—
“I don’t think he is,” Aaron says quickly, decisively. “I think he’s good for you. But maybe different things can be true at the same time.”
You blink in confusion, frozen as your chest slowly fills with dread. Your eyes drop to the TomTom, the new-tech navigation device Aaron got you for Christmas three years ago.
Philadelphia’s a big city. I don’t want you to get lost.
But isn’t that exactly what you are?
Living somewhere between a fantasy and a delusion, balancing it out with careful calculations to not feel too out of control. Because what you do is what you feel, right?
Daily runs equals 10,000 steps equals feeling healthy. A busy calendar equals productivity equals feeling purposeful. And Nate checking a lot of your boxes? A steady foundation equals a happy relationship.
It’s a logic you thought Aaron, of all people, could appreciate.
31 minutes to go.
You hum quietly, carefully, like you’re bracing yourself for impact, a revelation, perhaps. A tipping point.
“What…are you saying?”
Your eyes stay on the road, grip tight around the steering wheel as your pulse kicks up. This isn’t happening. This conversation isn’t happening.
“That it’s…crossed my mind,” Aaron’s voice is gentle, the familiar rumble of syllables and words, hushed, like he’s running out of time, always. But for you, he makes time, he makes room. It’s music to your ears on any given day, and right now, if it weren’t for the adrenaline coursing through your body, you probably would have asked him to tell you again and again and again.
Because he says it so simply, like it’s just another fact about the world—as if it doesn’t unravel something buried deep inside you, something you’ve never had the nerve to examine or admit, not even to yourself. A threat to the foundation you’ve so carefully laid.
“Aaron—” you choke out, pleading, asking him to stop, to repeat. You don’t even know.
The time on the TomTom drops from 31 to 30 minutes, and it’s the longest sixty seconds you’ve ever endured.
Waiting for Aaron to say something, to do something, laugh it off, tell you it was just a joke, a test, anything that doesn’t mean what you think it means. But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t take it back. And for a moment, just one second, you allow yourself to imagine it—
Coming home from a long day at work, tired and exhausted, to a wall of warmth and Aaron’s favorite freshly cooked pasta—the one your mom always makes with lentils—and he’d greet you with a hug and a smile. Then you’d have dinner, talking about work and how Jack’s doing, maybe you’d be thinking about buying a house, about building a life together.
You’d drive to Manassas on the weekend to visit your mom and she’d finally have something nice to say about your partner.
You’d bicker about something stupid on the way home, like you always do, and he’d kiss it better later in the night, knowing just how much you could take, how much you wanted it, needed him—
“No.”
It’s sharp, panicked, cutting through the air like a blade, like a door slamming shut before something dangerous can slip through. Something you’ve kept under lock and key for a long part of your life.
The road blurs on front of you, but you blink a few times, force yourself to focus. And then the anger comes back, red hot in your veins.
“No,” you repeat, lower now, and your head shakes, “you don’t get to do this.” Your voice is thick with emotion, uneven, like the ground is shifting beneath you and you’re trying to stay upright. “Haley’s my friend. I’m getting married.”
“I know,” Aaron nods once, like it’s another fact he’s just…accepted. But his voice is strained, frayed at the edges, like he’s at war with himself, and he knows he’s losing.
Frustration rises in your throat, edging into something akin to fear—maybe a dooming realization that Aaron feels it too, that you might not be alone in this, maybe haven’t been for a while.
It makes everything worse.
“This isn’t fair,” you say, voice clipped. It’s not fair to Haley or Nathan or you, after all these years of keeping your mouth shut, after all the times you bit your tongue, forced a smile, tucked emotions away like secrets. When you sat across from your boyfriends and thought—Aaron wouldn’t say it like that. Aaron would know better. Aaron would understand.
Every moment you had to remind herself that wanting more would never be an option.
“I know,” he says again. “I’m just trying to be honest.”
Now that—
That does it.
There’s a beat of silence—deafening, devastating silence. You glance at the rearview mirror, and before you can think about it, you slam the brakes. Aaron jerks forward in the passenger seat, caught by the seat belt. His right hand snaps to the dashboard to steady himself.
“What are you—” Aaron starts, but you don’t let him.
The moment the car stills, you stare at him, eyes wide, streetlights flashing through the windshield, casting fractured streaks of gold and shadow across his face, and for once—Aaron Hotchner looks caught off guard. But you’re too angry to revel in it.
“You want honesty?”
The heat behind your words builds fast, sharp and unforgiving, spilling out before you can stop it. “I have been watching from the sidelines for years, Aaron. I was happy for you, for Haley and I never said a thing because it would have ruined the life of everyone I love.”
Your voice is rough, edged with something close to regret—not for holding back, but for never getting the chance not to. You shake your head slightly, swallowing hard, forcing down the ache rising in your throat before locking your gaze on him.
“And you throw this at me now? When it’s finally my turn? When I finally found someone who—”
You stop short, words catching like a lump in your throat.
Someone who ticks all the boxes? Someone so opposite that you couldn’t possibly compare him to Aaron?
This is a farce. A cruel joke you’ve played on yourself for years—pretending you don’t care, convincing yourself that holding back was a choice and not survival. That your careful decisions, your curated relationships, your picture-perfect stability meant you’d won.
But the truth is, you’ve been fighting against this from the very beginning—against him, against whatever this is. And what’s worse?
It makes sense, the both of you.
Ultimately, it’s the truth. You know it is.
Aaron’s jaw shifts. His gaze flickers toward you, unreadable—but not indifferent. Never indifferent.
“Your turn?” There’s something careful in his voice. The weight of his words settle between you, thick and suffocating, pressing into the space where something shouldn’t be—but is.
Always has been, maybe.
“Are you getting married to prove something?”
Your stomach twists, brows pulling together in something that feels like being caught, ensnared in your own web of divisions and self-preserving lies, and for what?
A sense of control? A lifeline for something simpler, something less...impossible?
“That’s not—” you exhale sharply, leaning back in the seat, your head falling against the headrest as you try to keep it together, scrambling to hold onto the reality you’ve built over the last three years, the one that was supposed to protect you, to help you move on.
Because you had to, after Haley announced that she was pregnant. It was the last straw, undeniable proof that Aaron belonged somewhere else—that there was no space for whatever you had convinced yourself wasn’t real.
So you did what anyone desperate to move on would do.
You left Washington. You packed up your life, relocated to Philadelphia, took on a different job, met new people—built something from scratch, far enough away that you wouldn’t accidentally run into old ghosts. You filled your days with work, routine, order. When you met Nathan, cheerful, fun, shining bright like the sun, it was like two jigsaw puzzle pieces entwining, factoring into a bigger picture.
It was supposed to be enough.
“I love Nate,” you force out, the words scraping against your throat, raw, uneven, too fragile to feel real. You stare straight ahead, refusing to meet Aaron’s gaze, because if you do, if you see whatever’s sitting in his expression, you might not be able to hold back.
He studies you, and for once, you let him, assuming—accepting—that you will not get out of this conversation unscathed.
“Because you choose to, yes.”
Your breath falters, letting out a hollow laugh, sharp, bitter—because isn’t that the truth?
A person chooses actions, feelings choose a person. It’s a cycle you’ve been trying to escape for years, by making calculated decisions, the kind that leave no room for recklessness.
Because recklessness is what led you here, on the side of a road with Aaron, unraveling years of restraint with just a few sentences.
“What else was I supposed to do?” The question is desperate, your tone reproachful. “Did you want me to put myself on hold while you were married with a kid? Always at your disposal when it’s convenient? That’s selfish, even for you.”
Aaron’s jaw tightens slightly. His gaze flickers toward the windshield, toward the empty road ahead, like the words have landed somewhere he isn’t sure he wants to explore.
“I didn’t know you felt like that,” Aaron says, his voice quiet, pondering.
De-escalating.
You let out a breath, shaking your head as something pulls at your chest—something heavy, similar to grief.
“You weren’t supposed to.” Your gaze softens in the dim lighting. It’s been a long day, and his hair is messier than usual. Unkempt in a way that makes him look younger, less intense, more approachable. “I guess you’re not the only one with a good poker face.”
It’s a try at lightness, at easing the blow of this conversation. But your momentum ends as soon as Aaron’s eyes meet yours.
“I’m sorry,” he says, murmurs, and it sounds sincere. “I never wanted you to feel that way.”
Suddenly you’re twenty-four again, sprawled across your tiny apartment floor, notes scattered and cradling a half-empty coffee cup in your hands, complaining to Aaron about legal terms like prudent person and quid pro quo.
He used to revel in it, you—a trained nurse, taking after him, fighting for patient’s causes, for justice.
It’s addicting, right?
And it was, just like him.
When you finally got that certificate, he was so, so proud of you. And you loved every second of it, loved it in a way you shouldn’t have.
That’s when you knew, six years ago.
Your eyes close, just for a second, but the weight of it doesn’t lessen. If anything, shutting out the world only makes it louder. The memories, the choices, the things you told yourself you were better off leaving behind.
None of it has worked.
So you open them again, the world settling back into place—but it doesn’t feel any steadier.
“What do you want then?” The words spill out of you before you can stop them. Sharper than you meant, but there’s no taking them back.
Silence stretches between you, long enough to feel unbearable, to make you second-guess, wishing you never had this conversation.
Because this might be the end of it all—the end of you and Aaron, Aaron and you, two poles forever divided by time and place and the weight of your choices.
Then, softly—too softly, like he’s had the same realization—, “I don’t know.”
summary: Years after your sister’s departure from the team, you make it to the BAU. Being Elle Greenaway’s younger half-sister wasn’t easy, but you aren’t joining the team to make things easy. Least of all for Aaron Hotchner.
word count: 12.4K
warnings: enemies to lovers, typical cm violence/death, gun violence, blood, age gap, young!reader, bau!reader
aaron hotchner masterlist
-
Monday mornings at the BAU were a mixed bag. Some of them were spent already states away on a case. Some were traveling to solve a new horror. Some weekends they actually managed to enjoy their lives, not stepping through those doors until nine in the morning. This was one of those Mondays.
Morgan holds open the door for Garcia, her laughter carrying through into the bullpen as she teeters in on her heels. Emily drops a file onto Reid’s desk, directly onto the open one he had been looking at.
“You’ve been staring at that page for ten minutes.”
He looks up at her, “I was reading it.”
“Yeah, right.” she rolls her eyes.
Reid hides another yawn and Rossi emerges from his office with a mug that smelled unmistakingly like expensive Italian coffee. Hotch is waiting outside the conference room with an open file in hand.
“The children are unusually energetic this morning.” Rossi looks out over the team settling in for the day just below.
Before Hotch could answer, Strauss steps off the elevator. She pushes through the glass doors and the bullpen quieted almost immediately. She wasn’t carrying a case file, instead she had a dark blue personnel folder. Hotch noticed it first, he has dozens sitting on the corner of his desk.
“Chief Strauss”
“Agent Hotchner.” She offers the room a polite nod, “If everyone could meet in the conference room.”
She leads the way and Morgan instantly looks over at Emily with wide eyes.
“That sounds ominous.” He shakes his head.
“Yeah, which one of us is getting fired?” Emily mumbles quietly.
Garcia whispers dramatically, “Are we being audited?”
“No.” Reid answers without looking up, “Chief Strauss isn’t in charge of internal audits.”
Within minutes, the team is gathered around the conference table. Strauss remains standing and Hotch takes his typical spot at the head of the table.
“So,” He keeps his voice even, “What happened?”
She sets the folder down on the table, “As of today, the BAU will be expanding.”
Emily perks up, “We’re getting another profiler?”
“The Director approved an additional position several months ago.” Strauss reminds, cutting her stare over at Aaron.
She opens the folder, “Seeing as your Unit Chief did not appoint any of the applicants he was provided, the Director asked me to step in. The position has now been filled.”
“Special Agent Y/n” She pauses long enough to look around the room, “Greenaway.”
Silence. Complete silence.
JJ looks from Strauss to Hotch, “Greenaway?”
Morgan blinks and Garcia’s nervous smile disappears.
“Hold on-” Derek holds up a finger.
“No way.”
Emily looks equally confused, “Greenaway as in….?”
Reid speaks before anyone else can.
“Elle’s younger sister.”
Every head turns toward him.
“Half-sister.” Hotch corrects.
The room looks at him, he focuses on the file sitting open on the table.
“Elle requested a weekend off to go to her graduation.” Aaron dazes, still reeling over the idea of you joining the team. It was too late now. If he had just picked someone from the stack, he would have had a say in this.
“You remember one conversation from six years ago?” Morgan raises a brow.
“Seven.” Reid corrects.
“She wasn’t with the bureau back then.” Aaron sets his frown into a firm line. He doesn’t like where this is going.
“She wasn’t,” Strauss picks back up, “At the time Agent Greenaway served this unit, she had not yet entered Quantico.”
Emily nods slowly, “So, this isn’t someone trying to ride her sister’s reputation in here?”
“Quite the opposite, she is impressive all on her own.”
She passes out the sheet inside, all crediting your history with the bureau and your education.
“She graduated at the top of her class.”
Reid looks surprised. Morgan looks impressed. Aaron looks more stressed.
“She spent three years in violent crimes where she led several interstate investigations and more recently the past two she was recruited into Behavioral Analysis Support.”
Rossi leans forward, “Behavioral analysis?”
Strauss nods, “Her supervisors describe her as exceptionally disciplined, highly analytical, and one of the strongest interviewers currently with the Bureau.”
Emily lets out a low whistle, “Not bad.”
“Her clearance evaluations, shooting qualifications, and psychological reviews are all exemplary.”
Aaron raises a curious brow, “So, why leave?”
Strauss stares him down without hesitation, “She requested the transfer.”
“To the BAU?”
“Specifically.”
That caught Hotch’s attention.
He sets down the sheet back on the table, “And you’re approving her transfer without consulting me?”
“I am.” She nods.
“I assume there is a reason.” There has to be. The Director and Strauss had been reminding him to hire someone for months, why go around him now? They hadn’t brought it up in weeks. This is clearly why. Their plan was already in motion and he fell right into it.
“There is.” She folds her hands, “Regardless of anyone’s personal feelings, Agent Elle Greenaway’s departure from this unit remains one of the more public personnel failures associated with this team.”
No one speaks. Garcia looks down at her hands in her lap.
“From an administrative standpoint denying another exceptionally qualified Agent Greenaway a position she has clearly earned would create questions the Bureau has no interest in answering.”
Rossi understands immediately, “The optics.”
“Precisely.”
Strauss looks back at Hotch.
“I’ve already signed the transfer.”
Long silence settles over the room.
Eventually Hotch gives a single nod, “Then she’s a part of the team.”
Before anyone could say another word, there was a knock at the conference room door. Every pair of eyes turned toward it.
“Right on time.” Strauss checks her watch and steps over to the door. She pulls the handle to let you in, letting you face your new team.
For the first time in seven years, a Greenaway was stepping into the room. You weren’t the exact image most of the team had subconsciously expected. There were definitely things that you shared with Elle. The most obvious right now being your walk and the way you carry yourself with confidence.
Your posture is perfect, shoulders back. Your eyes sweep the room once, assessing in a quick and efficient manner.
Strauss steps beside you, “Everyone, this is Special Agent Y/n Greenaway.”
You offer a polite smile, “Good morning.”
The team can tell it wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t entirely cold either.
“Her transfer is effective immediately, her credentials speak for themselves. I expect you’ll extend the same professionalism you’ve shown every member of this team.” Strauss’s gaze lingers on Hotch briefly.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She gives one final nod before leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind her. The atmosphere changed quickly, Morgan leans back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. The rooms starts to thaw at the older woman's departure. Your shoulders drop half an inch.
“Well, now we can actually say hello.”
A small smile tugs at your lips, “I was wondering if that was for me or her.”
Garcia jumps up from her chair, “I’m Penelope Garcia!”
She pulls you in for a tight hug and you pat her shoulder a few times, “I know.”
“You do?” She pulls back.
“My sister talked about everyone.” You nod, “She said you could find anyone and their search history.”
Garcia grins, “She was right.”
The rest of the room offers their own introductions accompanied with handshakes. One of them being David Rossi.
“It’s an honor.”
He waves a dismissive hand, “No, that just means I’m old.”
“You’re all over the original case studies.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” He looks to Morgan for help but the smile on his face tells you he’s still secretly proud.
The last person who was still yet to say a word was Hotch. He hadn’t moved a muscle, just observing with a neutral expression. He rises and extends a hand toward you.
“Welcome to the BAU.”
You look at it for a second before accepting. His handshake was steady, but so was yours.
“Unit Chief.”
Not Agent Hotchner. Not Hotch. Just his title.
“You’ve built an impressive career.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Your tone was perfectly even, polite. But there was an edge to it. Enough to make Morgan’s eyes flicker between the two of you. Hotch noticed it too.
“I hope you find this unit a good fit.” Hotch offers, testing the waters.
You hold his gaze, your spine still straight as steel.
“I certainly hope the team has evolved from its past mistakes.”
Silence.
Emily shifts in her chair and Garcia bites her knuckle to fight a squeak of surprise.
Hotch takes a few moments but his voice remains even, “I hope so too.”
“What made you pursue profiling?” Rossi’s question is effective in pulling your focus off of Hotch.
“Elle joined because of our father.” You shrug lightly, “I joined because of her.”
You shift your stance to look back at the rest of the team.
“I grew up with everyone talking about how great my father was, he was a police officer.” The various nods around the room remind you they’ve heard this story before, “I didn’t really know him, I was only two when he died. So what I know mostly came from stories. Elle.”
Everyone listens carefully and you shrug.
“My dad is why I wanted to work in law enforcement, but my sister is why I’m here.”
JJ’s expression softens, “She inspired you.”
“Every day. She hated the phone but would call me after every big arrest. I was in college and still stuck in New York, but I followed every case she worked that made the news.” You admit, “Until she became the news.”
Garcia’s eyes start to glisten.
“I didn’t request to be here because I wanted her desk.” You nod toward the bullpen, “This was the job that made my sister believe she could make a difference.”
You look back at the team.
“I wanted to know what that felt like.” Your expression hardens and the team can only watch as you shift your focus on Hotch, “I also wanted to prove a Greenaway deserved to be here.”
The implication wasn’t subtle but you didn’t mean for it to be. Morgan winces.
Hotch doesn’t flinch, “I never believed it didn’t.”
You tilt your head, “No?”
“No.”
You hold his eyes for another moment, the rest of the room falling to the background as you study each other.
“That’s not the story I grew up with.”
Another beat passes before Hotch says something no one expected.
“Then perhaps joining this team will provide you with another one.”
He’s being diplomatic but you can see the tips of his ears are glowing red. Eventually you let him off the hook with a short nod.
Morgan claps his hands together, eager to change the subject, “So, let’s find you a desk.”
He wraps an arm around your shoulder and leads you out of the conference room. Garcia follows with the offer of showing where she hides the fun creamer.
The team slowly follows to return to their desks. Only one person carries any real concern for the newest member of the team. Hotch lingers in the conference room for a moment, watching you fit in quickly. JJ throws her head back in a laugh at something you say while unpacking your bag.
It was clear you’re intelligent, confident, and respected. Every bit as qualified as Strauss had promised. However. You look at him like he’s carrying a debt you intend to collect on.
-
Weeks into being a part of the BAU, the team had learned several things about you. You absolutely hate being late. You drink your coffee black. You can spot a lie as easily as you breathe.
More importantly.
You couldn’t agree with Aaron Hotchner about anything.
The first case you worked on brought the team to North Dakota.
“You’ve been on this team for a week.” He reminds.
“And I’ve been profiling for years.” You correct.
Morgan coughs into his fist and Emily has to hide a smile behind her coffee.
Hotch manages to keep his expression neutral, “That doesn’t make you right.”
“No,” you smile sweetly, “Being right does that.”
JJ looks down at her file, a quiet chuckle escaping. Rossi doesn’t bother commenting, he just looks back and forth between the two of you like it's a tennis match. Everyone was surprised that Hotch never shut you down. Anyone else who challenged him this aggressively would have received a very Hotch like stare and reminder of the chain of command.
With you however, he engages every time. You gave it just as good as you got it. It had become entertaining for the team because they could see how the two of you pushed each other. You caught inconsistencies that Hotch sometimes overlooked. He saw patterns in your theories that you had never considered.
When the two of you were on the same page, the rest of the team hardly needed to contribute. But when you disagreed the room became a verbal battlefield.
Weeks continued, the rest of the team had found something to bond with you over. All but Hotch. The only member of the team that still received a cold shoulder from you.
The team has spent days trying to wrap up a case in Portland that had gone on longer than anyone had hoped.
“You’re assuming the victimology is intentional.”
“It is.” He doesn’t even bother looking up in your direction.
“You don’t know that.” You sigh.
“I know the unsub chose them.”
“That’s not the same thing.” You shake your head and he finally looks up at you.
He leans back in his chair, his arms stretching above his head. “You’re splitting hairs.”
“I’m profiling.” You roll your eyes.
Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. Emily murmurs, “Here we go.”
“What’s your theory?” Hotch finally asks you.
The team raises brows at his bold opening. Rossi wishes he had popcorn for the sparring opportunity Aaron just opened.
“I think he’s choosing people based on opportunity.”
“Then why the consistency”
“Because his opportunity is consistent.” Your finger jabs the file sitting on the conference table in front of you to emphasize your point. You slide a photo across the table, “The locations aren’t centered around the victims. They’re centered around him.”
Reid leans forward and watches you tap the map.
“Oh.”
Hotch studies the map and you watch him. For several seconds neither of you speak.
“You’re right.”
You blink, not sure you heard him properly. Morgan’s eyebrows nearly disappear past his forehead.
Hotch looks back up at you, “He’s commuting.”
You smile. Aaron is sure it’s the first time it’s ever been directed at him.
“Was that so painful?” You ask with a slight head tilt.
“No.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Hotch’s mouth twitches, barely. You catch it and so does everyone else in the room. The case broke two hours later. Nobody had mentioned that you had been right, except for Hotch.
“Good catch.”
He says it quietly as the two of you walk toward the elevator.
“Thank you.” The doors close and you can only bite your tongue for three floors, “That wasn’t so painful, was it?”
He looks over and raises one brow.
“Don’t push it.”
You smile, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
-
The next case of importance came weeks later. Three victims in New Mexico, all women and found within a forty-mile radius. They had all been brutally beaten and found outside Santa Fe. The third was found this morning just north of the city.
There were no obvious connections. No sexual assault, no robbery, and no communication from the offender. Just escalating violence.
The team was already on the jet and working.
“The injuries are the point.” You comment, taking in all of the crime scene photos that reveal the brutality behind the violence.
Hotch looks across the table at you, “Explain.”
“He’s not killing them because he wants them dead.”
Morgan glances over from the couch, “That’s a pretty important distinction, kid.”
“He wants the violence.” You tap the photos, “None of these injuries were immediately fatal.”
Reid nods, “That is correct. This would be considered prolonged assault.”
“Exactly.”
Hotch looks at the pictures again.
“Control.” He looks back up at you to confirm.
You nod, “Total control.”
“Then why leave them alive?” Rossi asks from the seat next to you.
“He doesn’t. He keeps them alive long enough to experience the fear, but eventually he loses control of the assault.”
Emily looks up, “So the homicide is incidental.”
“The killing is the consequence, not the objective.” You lean back.
Hotch studies you openly.
“You’re saying he doesn’t fantasize about the murder.”
You stare right back.
“I’m saying he fantasizes about power.”
He nods slowly, “That fits.”
You look down at your notes.
“There’s something else.”
“Go ahead.”
“He’s getting worse.”
“Escalation?” JJ questions.
“The first victim was beaten. The second was more severe. The third…” You pause, “The third was unrecognizable.”
Rossi frowns, “So he’s losing control.”
You nod.
Hotch immediately picks up on your train of thought, “Which means he’s going to move faster.”
Your eyes meet. Neither of you needed to explain the rest. There was going to be a fourth victim.
-
By the time the jet touched down, you guys had a working profile. Male. Later thirties to early forties. Intelligent enough to avoid leaving obvious forensic evidence but growing increasingly more reckless. Local or at least familiar with northern New Mexico.
The team was settled in the local police department's conference room. JJ stands at the whiteboard while everyone tries to figure out what connects the victims. How is he picking them?
“The first victim was thirty-four, elementary school teacher. The second was twenty-nine and a vet technician. The most recent victim was thirty-eight and a real estate agent.”
Morgan crosses his arms, “Different ages and professions.”
“Different neighborhoods.” Emily comments, “They aren’t even from the same part of town.”
Reid taps the map on the table, “But all three traveled through this area.”
He circles a stretch of road between Albuquerque and Santa Fe.
“At least according to cell tower data.”
Rossi nods, “So that’s our common denominator.”
“Maybe.” You shrug, “All three women were found within ten miles of the highway.”
Emily frowns, “So?”
“So he’s not hunting those neighborhoods, he's hunting along the route.”
Hotch looks at the map. Reid’s red circle highlighting the area of concern.
“Rest stops.” He studies it, “Gas stations, truck stops.”
Reid nods, “Places where people stop while traveling.”
“And places where no one notices someone watching them.” You add.
“Or even following them.” Hotch continues before turning to the rest of the team, “We split up. Local PD has the surveillance footage from two of the locations. Morgan, take Prentiss and Reid to the first location. Rossi and JJ take the second victim.”
JJ nods and you look over at Hotch.
He looks over after feeling your gaze, “We’ll take the third location.”
You glance down at the map, “The gas station with the missing surveillance footage?”
“Exactly.” He stands and grabs his jacket from the back of his chair.
Morgan looks between the two of you, “You two going together?”
He wants to crack some joke, you can see it all over his face.
“Apparently.”
You and Hotch haven’t been alone much in the short couple of months you’ve been a part of the team now. Someone usually gets stuck being a buffer with the two of you.
Morgan falls into step beside you as everyone walks out of the station to the SUVs. Aaron gets in the driver's seat and closes his door harshly.
“Good luck.” Derek warns.
“Concerened?” You smirk. “I can handle him.”
“Trust me,” He chuckles, “That is not what I’m worried about.”
You roll your eyes and give him a mock salute as you back toward the passenger side of the car.
“Just be careful.” He studies you, “You don’t have anything to prove to us.”
You swallow, “I know.”
You really didn’t.
“I know what happened with Elle.” His voice far too soft for anyone else to see, “I’m not letting it happen again.”
You simply nod, not sure you could get anything out after that anyway. You turn back to the car behind you, getting in without a word to Hotch. He pulls out of the parking lot. The two of you have the longest drive, the farthest location from the city’s center.
You sit with the file open in your lap, Hotch continues to drive. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was tense waiting for someone to break it. You decide to eventually after staring at the map long enough to burn it to your retinas.
“Do you think the surveillance footage was deliberately erased?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it was only during the period of abduction that went missing.” His fingers tighten against the wheel. The desert stretches ahead of you, the sun still high in the sky.
“What makes this one different? He wasn’t concerned with the two first victims.”
“Maybe he’s connected to this location more so than the others.” He glances over at you, you can’t see his eyes due to the dark sunglasses blocking them.
“Maybe he works there.” You send a quick text, “I’ll have Garcia check employee records.”
He doesn’t answer and you study him after putting your phone away.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m driving.” He replies.
“FBI agent who can’t talk and drive?”
He’s still wearing the sunglasses but you can feel the glare when he looks over this time.
“Occupational hazard.” He finally answers, looking back at the road. After a few more seconds he speaks up again, “You’re quieter too.”
You look out the window, “Occupational hazard.”
He almost smiles but tries to hide it when you look over.
“Don’t.”
“What?” He questions.
“That.”
“What?”
“That-” You gesture with your hands, “almost smile thing.”
His brows furrow, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do it when you think you’re being funny.” You roll your eyes.
“I’m rarely funny.”
“Exactly.” You bite.
Unexpectedly for both of you in the car, Hotch laughs. It was quiet, but it was there and it was unmistakable. A real laugh and you look at him and forget what you were going to say.
“What?”
You look back at the road, “Nothing.”
The gas station sat outside of city limits, but it was small and busy right off of the highway. The kind of place that had people coming and going all the time without anyone remembering a face. The manager inside met the two of you with an exhausted expression that told you that he had already answered questions to officers previously.
At the end of the conversation, the manager leads the two of you back to the security room. Room was an exaggeration, it was a closet with monitors inside and exactly eight square feet. It was at least ten degrees warmer in there than the rest of the store.
“Someone disabled the camera manually.”
You look over at Hotch.
“So our unsub isn’t just observant.”
“No,” Hotch agrees, “he knows security systems.”
“Or has access to someone who does.”
The manager has to go back to work but the two of you look around the small room for any more clues. Boxes pile up everywhere making the two of you brush shoulders. His phone starts ringing, which makes you both jump.
“Hotchner.” He answers.
He puts the call on speaker so you can hear JJ’s voice on the other end.
“We found something, the second victim took out a restraining order six months ago.”
“Against who?” Hotch asks.
“Against her ex boyfriend.”
“Have him brought in.”
“That’s the problem.” She sighs, “He disappeared three weeks ago.”
-
It took almost a full day to find the ex boyfriend, who ended up being a dead end. Between you and Hotch, it didn’t take long in the interrogation room to see he wasn’t capable of this. Two days later, the fourth victim had turned up.
You stand at the edge of the crime scene, staring down the yellow tape that stretches across the dirt access road.
The victim was twenty-four.
A truck driver found her just before dawn, badly beaten and barely alive. Responding officers got one thing from her before it was too late. She said he talked to her, that was it. He had approached her at another gas station.
One detail caught your attention. It stuck with you all the way back to the station.
“He asked her where she was going.” you pace and the team watches you, “Did all of the victims have destinations? Were they traveling out of their normal daily routine?”
Reid starts rifling through papers on the table, “Yes, the first was heading north from Albuquerque, the second was headed to Colorado, the third was headed to her parents, and the fourth was heading back to her college campus.”
You look at Hotch, “They weren’t chosen because of where they lived.”
“No?”
“They were chosen because they were leaving.”
Hotch nods.
“He’s targeting travelers.”
“More specifically women traveling alone along this stretch.” Your finger traces the map.
“Which means he’s watching them before he approaches.” Derek frowns.
“From where?” Rossi asks.
“The rest stops. He’s watching them leave from a vehicle that can blend in and follow them.”
“What about a trucker?” Reid asks, “That could be how he has the privacy to beat them so severely as well.”
That new development gives Garcia something new to work with and search for and wrap up the evening for the team. Hotch insists on everyone going back to the hotel to try and get some rest. Looking for a trucker who is familiar with the area and is capable of disappearing along a major highway at any moment isn’t easy.
All week you and Aaron have been going everywhere together, it would seem the ride home won’t be any different. You can’t even be surprised by it anymore, you just watch the streetlights pass as he continues to drive in the direction of the hotel.
He clears his throat softly, you automatically look over knowing he’s getting ready to say something. It takes another minute for the words to actually come out, his eyes darting to yours once before looking back at the road.
“I’m sorry.” He quietly tosses out into the void of the car.
“For?” Your brows tighten.
“I never meant for Elle to end up at home alone that day.” He admits, you take a deep breath following his admission. You really didn’t think today would be the time to finally have this conversation. It’s been months, but it would seem he finally has the courage. “I think to myself every day how different things may have been if she wasn’t alone. If Anderson had stayed. If I had taken her home myself. Sent Morgan with her. All of it.”
You swallow, you can tell he means what he’s saying. He has considered the way things could have been different. She never would have killed someone later and given up her career. She could still be on this team. Maybe you wouldn’t be.
“It’s not just because you’re here, even though that is definitely a reminder. For years I have regretted what happened to her.”
A beat passes. The streetlights continue to flash overhead. He looks back again, finally. You can tell he’s bracing for impact. Preparing for the worst. Ready for you to rip him a new one.
“We’ll never know what could have been. Neither of us can change the past.” You offer, surprising both of you. When you first started on the team you would’ve gone straight for the jugular. “I think you made mistakes, but at the end of the day so did she.”
You reminisce on when Elle had just joined the team. Her excitement was undeniable, rattling on and on about the people she was working with and the places she was traveling to. You heard about the infamous Hotchner who was too serious for his own good and terribly good at his job and leading the team. She was different after the case with the Fisher King, too eager to get back and prove herself. She wasn’t the same big sister you grew up with anymore.
“She talked about you. She said you were a pain in the ass, but you always put the team first.” You admit, “She talked about everyone. Gideon. She would call after each case. Towards the end it was clear things had changed.”
“She needed someone to blame.” His shoulders shrug slightly.
“And you’re saying that person is you?”
“I was convenient.” He hesitates with his words, “It was justified.”
“I wasn’t.” You admit, his eyes snapping over to yours, “Some would say I’ve been hostile toward you since I joined the team.”
“Some?” He teases.
“Morgan is afraid to leave us alone because he thinks I’ll do something to lose my job.” You roll your eyes.
“You’re too good at this for that to happen.” He offers.
“Good to know.” You look back at him, “I’ll keep pushing my luck then.”
“Y/n.” He warns your name.
“Seriously.” You lean your head back against the headrest but continue looking in his direction, “Seeing you run this team first hand, I know what she meant when she first joined the team.”
“Which was?”
“You put the team first. You are the job.”
He looks back again, his gaze opening studying you. His eyes look warmer than you’ve ever seen them. The passing streetlights give you a flash of the honey in the darkness. The rest of the drive goes faster than it should, too late for traffic. The hotel parking lot is full but he manages to get a spot before Morgan.
“Funny,” You swing the door open and hop out, turning back to look at him, “Aaron Hotchner, you can talk and drive.”
You slam the door behind you, walking toward the hotel. He watches every move, shaking his head with a smile. He can tell you're laughing too, he gives himself a few more seconds of that peace before heading in.
-
The next morning, Garcia had come up with a list of twenty truckers that the team narrowed down to one. The police spotted his truck and trailer before he could get to victim number five, thanks to the work of you and the BAU.
The team felt the shift in the weeks following Santa Fe. You had stopped being a problem that he needed to manage. Now you were something he wanted to understand. You still didn’t trust him completely, but you were starting to see why your sister had. It was getting easier day by day and case by case.
When the team landed in Chicago, things had changed. You still didn’t particularly enjoy being reminded that Aaron Hotchner was your boss, and he still didn’t like to be challenged by their youngest profiler regularly. But, something had shifted. Your edges weren’t as sharp and the arguments had become almost… fun. Which the team was starting to notice.
“You’re assuming he’s geographically stable.” You look up from the map.
“I’m assuming he has a preference.” Aaron sits on the opposite end of the conference table.
“That’s not the same thing.”
He rolls his eyes, “It is if his preference is consistent.” He points at a map, “Three victims across three different neighborhoods.”
“Four.” You correct automatically.
“One was attempted.”
“Still counts.”
“Not for the geographic profile.” The edge of his lip is barely starting to curl up on one side.
Your eyes narrow, “You’re being pedantic.”
“I’m being accurate.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” You spin around in your chair, eager to get out of the stuffy room where the team was truly getting nowhere.
Morgan looks between the two of you and thinks he’ll go unnoticed, “Are we solving a case or watching a married couple-”
“No.” You and Hotch cut him off simultaneously. Derek’s smile only widens and Emily covers her mouth. JJ shakes her head, pretending to read the file in front of her. Rossi just kept drinking his coffee while looking incredibly smug.
You stop your slow spin to face the table again and point on the map, “The unsub has a comfort zone.”
Hotch nods, “Agreed.”
You look up at him, “See?”
“That doesn’t mean you were right.”
You smile, “I’ll take what I can get.”
Hotch’s mouth twitches.
“Alright, kid.” Morgan suddenly stands from the table and grabs his jacket off the back of it, “Let’s get you out of here before you combust from sitting in this room.”
The table laughs and you shake your head.
“Where are we going?” You stand.
“The second victim’s apartment. The neighbor had to have seen or heard something the night of the attack.”
You glance back at Hotch, “Try not to solve it without us.”
He raises a brow, “I’ll do my best.”
“Ooh, that sounds scary.”
You follow Morgan right out the door to leave the precinct. The room is reeling at your departure and talk as if their boss wasn’t sitting right there.
“Did you see that?” Emily leans toward JJ.
Hotch clears his throat, effectively ending the conversation.
“We have an interview at the hospital in twenty minutes.”
Rossi glances over at him, “Of course.”
The case involved different people attacked in different parts of Chicago over the last four weeks. Three people died, but one managed to get away. Unfortunately she’s on a ventilator and in a coma and unable to point the team in the right direction.
Across town, Rossi and Hotch sit in an SUV headed toward the hospital to interview a potential witness. It was clear Aaron was agitated by the comment and obvious observation earlier from the team. For the first several minutes of the car ride, neither spoke.
“So.” Rossi starts.
“No.”
Rossi smiles, “I haven’t asked anything yet.”
“I know what you’re going to ask.”
“Do you?” He looks over at Aaron, his angry gaze is focused on the road.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“No.”
Rossi chuckles, “Well you either don’t know the question or you’re a liar, Aaron.”
He doesn’t say a word, but he does finally look over at the older man of the two for a brief second.
“What’s going on with you and Greenaway?”
“Nothing.”
“Interesting.”
Hotch looks back at him, “What?”
“It’s the answer I expected.” Rossi shrugs, looking straight ahead.
“Because it’s true.” Aaron defends.
Rossi nods thoughtfully, “Sure.”
Hotch gives him another look.
“Dave.”
“I’m listening.” He smiles.
“There’s nothing going on.” Aaron’s tone remains flat, but Rossi knows him too well.
“I’ve known you for a long time, Aaron.”
“She’s a member of the team.” Hotch reminds.
“I know.”
“She’s an excellent profiler.”
“I know.”
“She’s extremely challenging.”
“I know.”
“She’s still dealing with what happened to Elle.”
Rossi nods, “And you feel responsible.”
Hotch stays quiet for a few long seconds before answering, “Partially.”
“Partially?”
Hotch sighs, “I made mistakes, but there were things I didn’t know.”
Rossi simply nods, letting him continue.
“I don’t want her to think I don’t take what happened seriously.”
“You care what she thinks.” Rossi observes.
“Of course I care what she thinks.”
Rossi smiles, “There it is.”
Hotch frowns again, “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means something-”
“It means I’m responsible for the people on my team.” Aaron interrupts.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Hotch knew that. He just didn’t want to say it, Rossi lets the silence sit for a moment. They’re getting close to the hospital now.
“Aaron, you don’t argue with people you don’t respect. You shut them down” Rossi continues, “You don’t tease people you don’t like.”
Another pause.
“You certainly don’t smile at them.” Rossi chuckles because he can’t help himself.
Hotch shakes his head, “She’s Elle’s younger sister. I’m her supervisor.”
Rossi nods along, “And?”
“That makes this complicated.”
Rossi’s eyebrows rise, “Interesting choice of word.”
Hotch looks back at him, “Don’t.”
Rossi holds up his hands in defense, “Fine. But for what it’s worth…”
Aaron waits.
“Whatever this is, it seems healthier than what you two were doing before.”
The buildings continue to pass in a blur.
“I don’t know what it is.”
“Aaron, that is probably the first honest answer you’ve given me.”
-
It took hours for the team to all get back to the conference room later that evening. Everyone was paired off following different leads but coming back now for a bit before calling it a night.
“The neighbor saw a dark SUV.” Derek explains.
“Did they get a make and model?” Reid asks.
You shake your head, “Too dark to tell, one of the streetlights is out. But she remembers the driver.”
Hotch looks up at you, “Description?”
“Male, forties, dark hair, and a gray jacket.”
Reid frowns, “Extremely broad.”
You smile, “Give me a chance, boy genius. She also said he smiled and waved when she saw him outside.”
“Why does that matter?” Emily asks.
“He was watching the neighbor.” You explain, “Which means he’s aware of witnesses.”
Hotch nods, “Which means he’s likely paying attention to the investigation.”
Your eyes meet with that same little spark. That same familiar challenge.
He nods again, “Good catch.”
You smile, “Now it’s getting predictable.”
“So are you.” His frown instantly lifts.
“How?” You question.
“You always have to have the last word.”
You lean back in your seat, eager to say something. Anything. The longer you hold off the better, but it doesn’t last before you prove his point. You're surprised to hear him admit something he's observed about you so easily.
“Someone has to.”
-
By midnight, the team was done. Not because the case had been solved, but because everyone was exhausted. The conference room at the Chicago field office had become a graveyard of coffee cups and takeout boxes.
Hotch finally closes his file, “We’re done for the night.”
“Thank god.” Morgan groans.
Garcia’s voice comes in off the laptop, “I support this decision wholeheartedly.”
“You aren’t even here.” Emily looks at her.
“I’m here spiritually. Peace out my lovely crime fighters.”
She signs out, the screen going black.
You lean back in your chair, “I can keep going.”
“No.” Hotch denies, “You’ve had three cups of coffee.”
“Four.” You correct.
Morgan laughs, “That’s worse.”
“I am functioning perfectly fine.” You argue.
Hotch raises a brow, “You tried to interrogate a vending machine twenty minutes ago.”
“It wouldn’t give me my money back.” You frown.
“You called it an accomplice.”
You squint, “It was behaving suspiciously.”
JJ shakes her head, “Nobody likes a sleep-deprived Greenaway.”
Rossi grabs his coat, “She’s particularly argumentative.”
“All I know is I have two less dollars and no snacks.” You shrug.
Morgan comes up and claps a hand on your shoulder, “Come on Greenaway, let’s get you to bed before you start profiling the elevator.”
“Is the elevator also going to rob me?” You swat his hand away, “I can walk, thank you very much.”
The hotel was quiet, everyone disappeared into their room within minutes. You showered, changed, set your alarm, and got into bed. Your eyes were heavy enough that you didn’t even remember falling asleep. It lasted approximately three hours.
At 3:47 a.m. you bolt upright in bed.
You settle onto your back, looking up at the ceiling. Your mind taking you through too many loops to fall back asleep now. The neighbor. The SUV. The witness statements. Dark hair. Grey jacket. The wave.
You had been looking at the wrong part.
You climb out of bed, pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt. Your shoes barely make it on your feet as you grab your badge. You look at the clock one more time. 3:56 a.m. Everyone else on the team is asleep.
You hesitate before leaving your room, walking down the hall two doors. You stop outside of Hotch’s door. Your hand hovers over the wood, debating if this is really worth waking him up in the middle of the night.
“This is a terrible idea.” You mutter to yourself before forcing your hand to knock lightly. Nothing for a few seconds so you knock again. Seconds later you hear the lock turn, the door opens barely four inches.
Hotch is standing there, clearly disheveled. T-shirt and sweatpants, his eyes barely open.
“Greenaway?” He blinks, “It’s four in the morning.”
“I know.”
“Why are you here?” He looks around the hall behind you.
“I figured something out.” You pause before adding a quieter “I think.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, “Of course you did. And it can’t wait until the sun is up?”
“If I'm right, every minute matters.”
He drops his hand, he knows how true that is more than anyone.
“I want to go over all the witness statements from each victim again. I think we missed the unsub.”
He stares at you, his mind processing at a fraction of what it normally does. You can finally take in how long and dark his lashes are with his slow blinks.
“He isn’t trying to hide, he’s gloating. He can kill someone and wave goodbye and get away with it. He would get the biggest thrill by talking to us directly as a witness.”
His eyes sharpen.
“Do you trust me?” You ask.
“Yes.” He answers without hesitation. You’re not sure if you should blame it on the sleep deprivation or thank it.
“Okay. Get dressed.”
The streets of Chicago were nearly empty. You sit in the passenger seat, Aaron drives with one hand on the wheel. All the lights are green, few other people out on the road yet.
“You know, you’re a lot easier to convince when you’re half asleep.”
He sighs, half a yawn, “Yeah…”
You snort a laugh, “You’re not mad?”
His head is actually resting against the headrest, but he turns toward you for a second.
“You had a breakthrough.”
“At four in the morning.”
His mouth twitches, “Every minute matters.”
You openly smile and he matches it for a second. You catch it before he can turn back toward the road.
“Was that a smile?”
“No.”
“Wow, you must really be tired.”
“Yeah, and you’re using it against me.” He jokes and you actually laugh. He fails at hiding his smile.
“Very effective.”
For nearly two hours after arriving back at the station the two of you go over all the statements. Again and again, using your own resources to look up backgrounds since Garcia is asleep states away.
A few officers looked surprised to see the BAU walking in at four in the morning. Hotch didn’t explain and you didn’t either. It was almost six when you finally stopped on one of the witnesses. You sit up straighter as everything starts to click.
“Wait.”
Hotch looks up, “What?”
“Here.” You get up and read it out loud, “Marcus Bell. Forty five and works for the city doing maintenance.”
He takes the report from your hand so he can look it over himself.
You reach for another picture, “The city maintenance crew wears grey jackets.”
You hand Hotch the picture and he stares it over, “That’s him.”
He’s already reaching for his phone. He makes the call and detectives are moving within minutes. Marcus Bell was at home, his vehicle parked on the street outside. A search warrant was already being prepared, and the team hadn’t even arrived yet.
At seven thirty, the rest of the team walks into the field office with coffee in hand. They pause when they see cops everywhere, moving far too quickly for how early it still is.
Emily walks in behind him, “What happened?”
An officer hurried past, “Marcus Bell was just arrested.”
Morgan blinks, “Who?”
“The BAU got him.” The officer tosses over his shoulder, still in a rush.
Derek throws up his hands, “Okay, now I’m really confused!”
The team moves to the conference room they had been occupying. You and Hotch are sitting at the table, surrounded by files. Both of you look completely exhausted.
You look up, “Morning.”
“Apparently we should have told the two of you not to solve the case without us.” Rossi looks between the two of you.
“What did you do?” Derek questions.
Hotch looks up, “Found the unsub.”
“When?” Emily shouts, “How?”
Aaron looks over at you, “She had an idea.”
“At four in the morning.” You add.
Derek turns toward Hotch, “You let her wake you up at four?”
Hotch stares back before a small shrug, “She had a theory. It paid off.”
Outside of the conference room, officers escort Marcus Bell past in handcuffs. The case was over. The families would have answers and a dangerous man was off the streets.
You lean back in your chair, your neck resting on the back of it.
“You should sleep.” Hotch voices.
You smile, “So should you.”
“That’s an order.”
Now you snap your head back up to look at him. A small smile on his face.
“Bossy.” You shake your head, “Now who’s delirious?”
You laugh and Hotch tries not to, but fails. Everyone notices.
-
Six weeks after the Chicago case, everyone was beyond pretending they didn’t notice things. You found yourself sitting near him on the plane more and more. He somehow always knew when you needed another file, before you could even ask.
Morgan nearly choked at the table during a briefing when Hotch slid you his muffin when your stomach rumbled loud enough for the whole room to hear. Neither of you acknowledged what he had just done.
The banter was still constant.
You were still at your apartment when you got the call. It was 6:14 a.m. Hotch barely got out a handful of words before he was hanging up and calling the next team member.
It only takes you less than twenty minutes from that call to make it into the bullpen. Somehow Hotch and JJ are already here. The rest of the team doesn’t take long to show up, Hotch marches out of his office.
“Everybody to the conference room.”
Morgan looks up between everyone, “What’s going on?”
He doesn’t get an answer until the team is sitting around the table.
“Bomb threat?”
Hotch nods, “DC Metro received an anonymous call at 5:47 this morning.”
“What was the threat?” You look up at him.
“One bomb.” He pauses, “At first.”
JJ frowns, “At first?”
“The caller said there would be multiple devices.”
Morgan sits forward, “How many?”
“Three confirmed.” Aaron swallows, the room stays silent.
Rossi eventually looks over at Hotch, “What are the targets?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
Garcia pulls up the audio file of the call.
“It’s automated.” She types rapidly, “The initial call was directed to the bomb squad for metro, that’s the department he was trying to reach.”
‘You built your city on graves.’ the voice robotically speaks, ‘At noon, four, and twelve they will need to expand. This city will mourn.’
The dial clicks off, not leaving you guys with much.
“He gave us a schedule?” Reid questions with the raise of his brows.
“No,” you shake your head, “He’s giving us a countdown.”
Hotch nods, “He’s controlling the response.”
“He’s not trying to hide the bombs.” You continue.
Hotch follows instantly.
“He’s announcing them.” His face growing more serious, “Because he wants the city looking for them.”
Rossi leans forward, “Which means?”
“He wants us distracted.” You look back at Hotch again, eyes meeting.
The same thought at the same time.
“There’s a fourth target.”
-
Within two hours, the BAU had a task force assembled. Bomb technicians were ready all over the city as highly populated areas were being thoroughly inspected. The first device was found beneath a parked car right outside a government office building.
It was capable of causing significant casualties and there’s only reason to believe he’ll get bigger and bigger with it. The city was shutting down streets and evacuating buildings. Somewhere, the unsub was watching it all.
Hotch walks back into the room after getting on a call, “What’s our timeline?”
“First device is secure.” JJ answers.
“Second target is still unknown, but we bought ourselves some time if he’s still following his own timeline.” You continue.
He nods, “We need to assume the second device is still in place.”
Reid looks up from the map, “We need to consider what other government buildings he’s targeting.”
Your gut pulls at you. Screaming to speak up, even though you don’t have the evidence to back it. Screw it.
“Actually, I think that’s too obvious now.”
The team all looks at you, giving you their attention and the opportunity to continue. You walk over to the map of DC on the wall.
“He wants us to think politically motivated.”
“But?” Rossi questions.
“He chose the first location because of what it represents.”
Hotch watches you, tilting his head, “Not what it does.”
You nod, “Exactly. What if his second target is about quantity? Where would he have the most potential casualties? The biggest fallout?”
It was closer than anyone had wanted, but at 3:38 p.m., the second bomb was found. You had started to sweat thinking you maybe led the team down the wrong path, but it paid off when it was found inside a Metro station.
The evacuation was chaotic, forcing thousands of people out onto the streets. The bomb squad moved in and disarmed it within minutes.
This officially confirmed for the team that these targets weren’t random at all. The first was a federal building. The second was public infrastructure.
“What connects them?” Morgan asks out loud to the room, not to anyone in particular.
Reid points to the locations again, “Both were built during major periods of urban expansion.”
“So?” Rossi frowns.
“Both were built after major government reconstruction projects.” Garcia notes, eyes glued to the screen in front of her, “Post-war redevelopment that became federal expansion.”
“So he’s not really targeting buildings or people.” You sit up straighter.
“He’s targeting history.” Hotch crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the table.
“Maybe.” You turn back toward him, “We know he’s getting angrier with each one of his failures.”
“You think he’ll escalate?” Emily asks.
“I think he’ll do anything to make sure his surprise finale goes off without a hitch.”
-
The third device was in a parking garage for a government housing complex.
The team should be celebrating. You guys knew better than that.
The fourth target was the one that actually mattered to him. The team has spent the entire day pissing him off, if he didn’t have a fourth he does now.
“We’ve already evacuated three highly crowded areas, what would be bigger and more dense?” You think outloud, “Reid, any concerts or big games tonight?”
He shakes his head as the words are still leaving your mouth, “The Nationals had a game but it’s already been postponed.”
JJ gestures with her hands as she speaks, “Where is everyone on a Friday night?”
Hotch’s eyes widen, “The National Mall.”
The room goes silent, he reaches for his phone.
“Get every available unit to the National Mall.”
The team is already in motion, you pair off with Hotch. Sirens were starting to fill the streets. The clock was still counting down, but this time you didn’t know when it would stop. Somewhere up ahead, there was a bomb big enough to change the city forever.
Maybe for the first time since joining the BAU, you weren’t thinking about Elle. Or Aaron. The only thing on your mind was all of the people you needed to save. In the driver's seat next to you Aaron can’t help but think the exact same.
Thousands of people unaware that somewhere there was a clock ticking.
You look around the crowded area, scanning faces and trying to spot red flags. Hotch does the same, looking in the other direction. There’s a table set up with cliche touristy magnets and T-shirts. No one is standing with the items. Never in your life have you seen a street vendor abandon their stuff so carelessly.
“Hotch?” You ask, nodding in its direction.
It doesn’t take long for him to catch onto what you’re thinking. The two of you move closer, a large tub sits under the table. You look up at Hotch and he nods so you carefully take off the lid. The bomb is hidden inside, time flashing down and two many wires to count.
He drops beside you, “It’s too big to move.”
You look up at the crowd, there’s too many people and with the size of this no one within blocks would stand a chance.
“Less than two minutes.” You tie your hair back and Aaron reaches for his phone to call Morgan.
“Hotch?” He answers instantly.
He hesitates for a second, “We found the device.”
“Where are you?” Derek pants, “How much time?”
“Street vendor stand by the Lincoln Memorial.”
“A minute and twenty-six seconds.” You answer Morgan’s other question.
He sighs again, “I’m not close enough.”
He’s running, you can tell by the sound coming through on the phone.
You look up at Hotch, his eyes already studying you.
“Talk us through it.” You decide.
Morgan’s rough inhale tells you he doesn’t love this idea either.
“Don’t touch anything yet.”
“Too late.”
“Of course you did, Greenaway.”
“Focus.” Aaron reminds.
This device was more sophisticated than the previous bombs. Multiple circuits and backup power. Morgan gave careful instructions step by step. Between that and Aaron’s reassuring nod, your hands stopped shaking.
“There should be a blue wire.”
“There’s three.”
“Great.”
Hotch stares at the timer, watching the precious seconds pass by.
“One should go underneath to the main housing.”
You follow the wire all the way under, “I see it.”
“That’s your primary trigger.”
“What about the secondary?” Hotch asks.
“If she disconnects the wrong one, it accelerates.”
You huff, “That’s reassuring.”
“You’re doing great.” Aaron’s voice comes out softer than you’ve ever heard.
You cut the cord, the timer continues to drop.
“Forty seconds.” Hotch announces.
“Next step, Morgan.” You demand, sweat building at your temples.
“Now the second circuit. There should be another panel of wires.”
Tourists all over laugh and continue taking pictures. Completely oblivious.
“There.” Hotch points his hand coming over yours to guide it toward the panel, “Red and yellow, Morgan.”
It takes a few seconds for him to answer.
“Yellow.”
00:19 flashes in your face.
Derek says it with enough confidence you cut this one without hesitation. Nothing. You both stare at the timer.
“Why isn’t it stopping?”
Morgan’s voice goes quiet, “Hotch, there’s a manual trigger. That’s the last step.”
Your blood goes cold.
“Where?”
“Underneath.”
He reaches under the bomb and with some reaching and the flip of a switch a few seconds later the timer finally stops.
00:06 flashes.
“Got it.” Hotch pants.
“You’re clear.” Derek cheers, Hotch hangs up the phone and puts it back in his pocket.
Hotch sits back on his heels and you do the same. For a second neither of you move, you start to laugh. He looks over, a smile growing. He pulls your side in against him in a hug. You’ve never touched him like this. You’ll probably have to blame this on adrenaline.
“That was fun.” You laugh.
“Don’t ever say that again.”
You smile and pull back so you can look at him, he’s still closer than he’s ever been. His eyes fall down to your lips for a split second. Your heart starts beating faster than it had been when the bomb was still active.
“Aaron Hotchner, you were scared-”
A gunshot cracks through the air. Hotch looks up immediately, your body drops to the ground. He’s quick to the draw, reaching for the gun at his waist. The man doesn’t get off another shot, Aaron’s impeccable aim settling the score.
Blood was rapidly blooming across your shoulder and spreading across your chest. Hotch is on his knees at your side yelling for an ambulance, your eyes flutter and you see him in flashes. His voice echoes your name but it sounds distant. His hand is held against the wound.
“Stay with me.”
You manage to focus your eyes on his for another second. You hold it as long as possible, but the weight on your eyelids starts to win.
Daniel Erickson was a thirty-nine year old former city engineer. He had no criminal record or any psychiatric history. No obvious extremist affiliation. He had been present for the bomb, waiting for it to explode. He intended to die with it. Some would say he did.
The profile was wrong, everyone had assumed he wanted to witness the destruction. In the end he wanted to be part of it.
The team approaches as the paramedics get you on a gurney. You’re out of it at this point, the team watches them rush you away. Hotch remains hot on their heels, his shirt stained in your blood. He doesn’t even look up at them as he passes, his focused locked on you. They watch all the way until Hotch disappears into the ambulance after you.
Morgan looks over to the body bag being zipped up, “How did we miss that?”
Rossi simply shakes his head, forcing his hands into his pockets.
“We didn’t have enough information.”
Derek looks to where your ambulance has now disappeared.
“She could die.”
“I know,” Rossi reaches out to pat his shoulder carefully, “I know.
-
The hospital waiting room had never felt so small and it had been nearly four hours. Four hours since you had been rushed through the doors and disappeared deeper where Aaron wasn’t allowed to follow anymore. The team joined him not long after he finally sat down.
The bullet had entered high in your chest, just below the shoulder.
The surgeon had already been out to update the team, “If the bullet had been two inches to the right, she wouldn’t have had a chance.”
Two inches.
That short distance replayed in Aaron’s mind a thousand times.
Two inches.
Dried blood was still on Aaron’s shirt. He hadn’t noticed, but everyone else had. Nobody said anything. The team had gone unusually quiet. They had grown used to you filling most conversations, and of course getting the last word in.
Now, no one had anything to say. Even Penelope.
Rossi sits across from Hotch, two untouched coffees sitting between them. Morgan stands near the window, somehow unable to sit even still. Reid was trying to read, but found himself stuck on the same page. Emily was outside, pretending not to have a stress cigarette. JJ was pacing, her phone never leaving her hand.
None of them were good at waiting. Especially for one of their own. Especially for you. You had become one of their own without question.
Morgan was protective of you from the beginning. JJ took you under her wing. You and Emily had developed a beautiful friendship and witty banter that never ceased. Reid was fascinated by your ability to argue against his statistics with remarkable persuasion. Rossi had started lumping you in with his daughter as just another one of his girls.
And Aaron.
He hadn’t allowed himself to say what you had become to him. Not even privately to himself. He knew he cared. He knew part of him was obsessed. He’d known for weeks.
Morgan breaks the silence, “How long has it been?”
JJ checks the clock, “Almost four hours.”
“That’s a long surgery.” His jaw tightens.
“She’ll be okay.” Garcia tries to reassure, but it’s not even a fraction of her typical positivity.
“You don’t know that.” Reid says, without looking up from his book. Still on the same page.
“No.” Garcia swallows, focusing on her knitting needles with tears in her eyes, “But I’m going to keep on saying it.”
It took another hour for the surgeon to appear. Everyone stood at once, the doctor looked exhausted but they could all see the good news on her face.
“She’s stable.”
The entire room sighed in relief.
“Oh, thank god!” Garcia cries.
The doctor continues, “The bullet fractured her clavicle. We repaired the damage and removed the bullet. She’s going to be in a sling for several weeks, possibly longer depending on how the fracture heals.”
Hotch nods, closing his eyes briefly.
“She also lost a significant amount of blood.”
His eyes open.
“But she’s stable. She was extremely lucky.” The doctor nods, “She’ll be unconscious for a while, the anesthesia is still wearing off.”
“Can we see her?” JJ asks.
She nods, “One at a time.”
The team looks to one person.
“Hotch.” Morgan states.
He looks at him, almost embarrassed by how badly he needed it. How easily they all saw that.
“You need to see her.”
He hesitates, Rossi gives him an encouraging nod.
“Thank you.”
Your room is dim, you look too small beneath the hospital blankets in bed. Your arm secured in a sling, and wires all over you. Monitors. An IV. He stops just inside the door. For a moment, he couldn’t move.
You don’t look like the person he’s come to know well over the last few months. The woman who argued over everything. The woman who woke him up at four in the morning. The woman who stole coffee and lied about it. The one who gave him his first real smile in the car.
But it is you.
The thought hit him so hard he almost stopped breathing.
Eventually he can move again, he pulls the chair closer to your bed. He sits slowly, his hand hovering over yours before taking it.
“I-” He clears his throat, his voice sounded strange, “I don’t know if you can hear me.”
He looks at your face.
“But you scared the hell out of me.” He swallows, “I was terrified.”
The monitor continues its steady beeps, he looks back at your hands.
“I don’t know what we’re doing.” A humorless smile touches his face, “I’m not even sure what this is.”
He shakes his head, his voice growing softer.
“But something changed. Somewhere along the way.”
He looks back at you.
“I look for you, when I walk into any room.” He pauses, “I started wondering what you thought before making decisions.”
His thumb brushes the back of your hand.
“I enjoy arguing with you.”
He smiles faintly.
“That’s probably the most concerning part of all of this.”
He sighs again and reaches out his free hand to brush hair off your forehead.
“I care about you more than I should.” He admits, “But I-”
The door opens and he stops himself, looking over and freezing.
Elle Greenaway stands in the doorway.
Her eyes immediately go to you, concerned for her younger sister. Then they jump to Hotch. Then to the joined hands. Her expression hardens within seconds.
“Aaron.”
He stands, “Elle.”
If Hotch had been paying attention earlier he would’ve heard JJ say she got ahold of Elle and she was getting on the first flight. Even if he had been listening, he still would’ve been just as surprised to see her standing in the doorway after all these years.
He needs to thank JJ. That technically should have been his job, but he doubts Elle would’ve taken his call.
She walks into the room, not saying anything else yet. She stands on the other side of your bed. Looking at you again, concern all over her face. Then she looks back at him. She gives him an unimpressed look and it sinks his gut.
“I begged her not to join this team.”
Aaron’s jaw tightens, “I know.”
“I told her this would happen.”
He looks down at you for a second, letting Elle continue.
“She made her own decision.” Aaron says finally.
“I know,” her eyes sharpen, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
“Because it doesn’t.”
Hotch nods.
Elle looks back down at you, “It’s only a matter of time with this team.”
Hotch looks back at her.
“What?”
“Before someone ends up in a hospital.” Her voice cracks slightly. Her expression shifts again, trying to hide how scared she is. There you lay, in a hospital bed unmoving.
Tears gather in Elle’s eyes, she takes it all in. Aaron steps away, grabbing the other chair and moving it to the other side of the bed so she can sit. He grabs a box of tissues from the table on the far side of the room and sets them down within reach without saying a word.
She waits until he sits back down in his original chair before speaking again.
“What are you doing here?”
His eyes fall back to you for a second, “I care about her.”
Elle goes still.
“I care about her more than I should.”
“How long?”
He blinks, “What?”
“How long have the two of you been together?”
“We haven’t-”
“Don’t lie.” She interrupts.
“No.” He shakes his head, “It was just starting. Something. I think.”
He feels more pathetic about it the longer she stares at him.
“You love her.”
He freezes.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Elle’s expression grew complicated. A mix of anger and protective instinct, but some of the hostility faded. She looks back at you, then back at him.
“Does she know?”
“No.” His voice is barely audible.
She nods slowly, “You need to tell her.”
“She’s going to kill me.”
Elle smiles. He’d forgotten what it looked like. He can now recognize how similar it is to yours.
“Hopefully.” She bites, the smile that remains tells him it’s at least teasing now.
For the first time all night, Aaron smiled.
-
It takes a few more hours for you to wake up. Your eyes are still closed, but you can hear people arguing. It isn’t loud, but it’s definitely two people disagreeing. You can’t quite get your eyes open yet, but you’re desperately trying to figure out where you are.
Everything hurts. Your shoulder feels like a truck drove through it. Your mouth is dry and your head feels heavy.
“She’s been chasing this team to prove a point.” Elle mutters “I think she sees what I did as a failure. She’s trying to fix what I broke.”
Aaron’s brows furrow, knowing that is far from the truth. He knows you admire Elle, you’d never see what happened as her failure.
“Do you ever think she’s doing this for you?” He questions carefully.
Your eyes slowly open, the ceiling is white and there's a machine beeping beside you. Elle is sitting on one side and Aaron is sitting on the other.
Both turn immediately to look at you. You blink a couple times.
Your voice comes out hoarse, “This can’t be real.”
Both of them freeze.
“Hell is significantly more creative than I anticipated.” You mutter, your throat dry making it hard for your words to come out evenly.
Elle’s mouth falls open, “You’re awake.”
You look at her, “Potentially. This isn’t very convincing.”
Elle smiles and Aaron’s mouth twitches.
“You two in the same room?”
“Yeah, whatever.” Elle shakes her head. “You’re in the hospital.”
Aaron finally gains the courage to say something, “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I got shot.”
“You did.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hotchner.”
Elle smiles, “Well it’s nice to confirm no neurological damage, still sarcastic as ever.”
“How much do you remember?” He asks.
Your face falls a little, “The bomb. You. That’s it.”
His face tightens. He looks awful, like he had aged ten years overnight.
“You were shot by the bomber. He was there waiting for it to go off.”
“We didn’t have it in our profile that he would kill himself.”
He shakes his head.
“Your clavicle was fractured.” Elle twists a piece of hair away from your face.
A soft knock at the door has them both turning, you can’t move much yet but the team comes into view. One by one filtering in, starting with Morgan.
“There she is.” He grins.
You smile, “Hi, Morgan.”
He crosses the room and carefully hugs you from your good side.
“Don’t do that again.”
You wince, “Just for you, Derek.”
He pulls back and immediately looks like he could cry.
“Seriouisly.”
You squeeze his hand, “I’m okay.”
“You scared the hell out of us.”
Emily, JJ, Reid, and Garcia go next. Everyone is gentle, Garcia ends up needing to be pulled away by Derek after her tears start getting on you.
“You should know better,” Rossi leans down to hug you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “It’s cruel to scare an old man like that.”
You smile, “Sorry, Rossi.”
“Be careful, bella.”
The room was full of people who all cared so much about you. They had spent hours waiting in hard plastic chairs after the longest day, but they stay as long as the doctors let them. They ask about the pain. They tell you about Daniel and what ended up happening. Hotch remains quiet when it gets to the retelling of everything that happened after the bomb was diffused.
He stands toward the back of the room, backing off when everyone else came in. You catch his gaze every once and awhile, each time something passes between the two of you.
“How are we feeling?” The doctor asks loudly, entering and weaving through the small crowd you’ve gathered.
“Everyone keeps asking me that.” You sigh.
“That’s because you’re alive.”
You nod.
“Which also means, you still need rest.” She starts waving everyone to the door, “Everyone can come back a little bit later. One at a time again.”
There were groans, everyone shifting up off of chairs and the stiff couch. The doctor smiled, “You guys will have plenty of time to come back and visit.”
Derek steps forward and reaches out for a fist bump on your good side, “Call if you need anything.”
You nod. Everyone begins filing out with various goodbyes. Elle and Hotch were the last ones, he reaches for his jacket, ready to leave you alone with your sister for a while.
“Actually,” Elle reaches out a hand to stop him, “I’m going to run to Y/n’s apartment to get you some clothes for when they let you out of here.” Aaron looks at her and she smirks at him. She digs out your spare key, “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Bring back food,” You call after her, “Hospital food is nasty!”
She waves a hand in your direction and walks out without confirming. Like a true sister, you know she’ll bring something anyway.
“Staying?” You ask, watching him hesitate in returning to the seat he had occupied most of the night.
He sits down, moving it a little closer.
“Staying.” He confirms.
“Should I be concerned with how well you and Elle are getting along?”
He huffs a laugh out his nose, “Probably.”
You smile, wincing slightly when you try to turn your head. He moves even closer, reaching out cautiously.
“Don’t move too much.”
“You’re still worried.” You observe.
“I think I’m going to be worried about you for a long time.” He admits.
“Did you stay?” You ask.
“All night.”
“Why?”
Because you’re on his team. Because he’s responsible for you.Because that’s just who he is.
“Because I couldn’t leave.”
You go quiet and he takes your hand. Very carefully. His thumb sweeps across your knuckles.
“I thought I watched you die.” He flinches, clearly replaying it in his mind, “I realized I care about you more than I should. I love you. And I am nowhere near ready to know what my life looks like without you in it.”
He continues before you can respond.
“I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know when you stopped being the person who challenged every decision I make and became…”
He exhales.
“Someone I can’t imagine losing.”
You stare at him, he squeezes your hand. A small smile appears on your face.
“That’s inconvenient.”
His mouth twitches.
“Very.”
Your grin widens, “You really love me?”
He nods earnestly, “Yes.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm still going to argue with you constantly.”
This finally breaks a real smile onto his face. Your cheeks hurt from how long they’ve been pulling.
“I know.” He nods.
“And you’re still my boss.”
“I am.”
“Are you sure you’re ready to argue at work and at home?”
“Looking forward to it.”
Your smile softens, “I love you too.”
Aaron’s breath caught. You squeeze his hand this time, he pulls it up to his lips so he can press a kiss to the back of it.
“This feels too good to be true.” he sighs in relief, getting up and pressing a kiss to your temple, then to your hairline, and then the top of your head.
“What?” You grin, “Scared because the last time we had a moment I was shot?”
He huffs a surprised laugh before looking in pain, “Please, no more jokes about you being shot.”
“No promises.” You smirk, “That’s the only fun part of being shot.”
He shakes his head, “You’re going to keep me on my toes.”
“All ten of ‘em.”
an// omg you guys, I am so sorry to all my other work because THIS has been consuming my brain. Holy fuck this was wild lol. I am sorry in advance if Elle isn’t super accurate, I wanted to go back and rewatch her episodes prior to this but this just poured out lol. Also lmk if the italics piss anyone off, i like them but i know not everyone does in a fic.
PLEASE TELL ME YOUR THOUGHTS, MY LOVES! THIS WAS FUN! do we need more of them 😙
Guys, it's our final chapter 😭 Don't fret! Because there is an epilogue coming day after tomorrow that'll be a nice little wrap up, but this is our end 😭🫶🏻 (I have a crazy lil author's note at the end that I didn't want you to read before, so enjoy that after all the angst!)
Warnings: emotions! so many emotions! i cried so hard writing this one so that is your warning! minor character death but not "on screen", i listened to "waiting room" while writing this but like...don't do that if you don't want to sob uncontrollably ok
“What are you going to do to them?” you ask, knowing how innocent and naive it sounds. That’s your point.
Carter leans into the fridge and grabs one of the Mountain Dew bottles. “We will shoot them. Simple. There’ll be too many to do anything else, though I guess I could knock the women out and strangle them later.”
You nod slowly, as if that makes sense, as if it seems like a good plan, even though it terrifies you to hear it. In reality, you need to know his every move if you’re going to keep your team safe, if they make it to this cabin before you can figure something else out. Not that you don’t trust them to be prepared for anything, but you’ve witnessed just how unpredictable Carter is. You need to do your part to be one step ahead, even if he’s been five steps ahead this whole time.
“Where’s my gun?” you ask casually.
He laughs through his drink. “You think I’d bring that shit with us here? God, no. I’m not a moron. It’s in that car we drove to the edge of the woods.”
“Wait.” You had sort of figured he ditched the car, given that it was a government vehicle and all. “You…did you carry me here?”
“Fuck no, I used the four-wheeler,” he says. He leans back against the counter, eyes narrowing. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”
You mirror his stance and lean in the doorway. “I like to know what I’m getting myself into.” You keep on taking mental notes. There’s a four-wheeler you can use to get down the mountain, you just need to get out of this house. Somehow.
He hums, eyes narrowing. “So you can help me.”
“Sure.”
He stares for a second. “I don’t believe you.”
You sigh. “I don’t know why you would.”
“I want to.”
“Okay,” you shrug. “Then just trust me.”
“Fine,” he says, but he doesn’t sound too happy about it right now. “I have a gun you can use, but I’m not showing you where it is. I need to shower first.”
You roll your eyes. “Right.”
“So,” he pushes off the counter. “Can I trust you to stay put? You know how dangerous these mountains are at night, and the sun is gonna set any minute now.”
Fuck. “I don’t exactly want to be dinner for the bobcats, so yeah. I’ll be here.”
“Good,” he nods. He pats his pocket and you hear keys jingling there. “And I’m taking these with me.”
You make a show of plopping down on the couch, kicking your feet up and leaning your head back. “Cool. I’m taking a nap.” You are sluggish, probably still the after effects of the drug he gave you, and you hope he takes it as that.
You hear him chuckle before going down the hall, so you’re in the clear. There’s movement in one of the rooms, presumably his bedroom, until you hear a door shut. After a few moments, you hear the shower turn on.
You stand up, eyes searching every inch of the room. There has to be something useful in this stupid place.
You’re getting out of here one way or another. There has to be a spare key to the four-wheeler somewhere, or a phone for fuck’s sake. A phone might be more useful. You could call Garcia and she could find your exact location easily.
But of course, the only phone you see is a landline that probably hasn’t been connected in years. He probably doesn’t even pay for any phone service here, if he’s as strategic as he’s shown you to be.
You hear the shower curtain move aside. The clock is ticking. Fast. You don’t know how quickly he showers, but you can’t imagine he’ll take long since you’re here. You’re surprised he’s showering at all, and that he didn’t handcuff you to a bed or something, but you’re glad he didn’t. You’re glad that, for whatever reason, he decided to trust you.
You spin in circles in the living room, willing your brain to come up with something. You check the drawers in the kitchen quietly, but there aren’t any spare keys -- or keys of any sort. It’s all random things, kitchen utensils, other household essentials that are no use to you right now.
Out of sheer curiosity, you try the front door. It’s unlocked.
Your eyes dart to the bathroom as you hear the water splash. With the front door cracked, you weigh your options.
You have no idea how far up the mountain you are, or where you even are. You have no idea what or who is around. The sun is just starting to set, so you’ll likely be out there in the dark for some time if you don’t make it down to civilization in time.
Or you can stay here, risk him drugging you to make you sleep through the night, or worse, risk saying something to set him off and risk him seriously injuring you like you know he’s capable of doing.
He’s my brother, you think with deep, deep sorrow. He’s your brother, and in the cruelest twist of fate, he reminds you exactly of your father.
And that is why you can’t stay. That is why you have to do what you didn’t do when you were younger, because you knew no better back then.
That’s why you run.
You don’t know how far you’ll make it, you don’t know if you’ll even make it anywhere worthwhile, but you know you can’t stay here. You know your chances are higher out there, with the possibility of running into a ranger, someone you can actually trust, with access to a satellite phone. You can’t stay here because you can’t change him, just like you couldn’t change your father, no matter how badly some days you wished that you could.
Carter is too far gone, and it seems he has been since he first kidnapped you when you were kids. It seems he’s always been this way.
Tears stream from the corners of your eyes as you run, the wind whipping against your face as you follow the path down the road, hoping you’ll find someone, but knowing there’s likely no one up here, not even any neighbors -- at least not for miles.
It’s gut wrenching, and you wish you never knew he existed. You wish you never had this knowledge that you have a brother, that you’ve had one this whole time, and there was nothing you ever could’ve done to save him. He was doomed from the start -- and maybe you were too, just in a different way -- all because of your father.
You glance over your shoulder quickly, worried you hear footsteps, but no one is there. No one but the trees, covering you, encouraging you to get away. We’ll hide you, they say. We’ll keep you a secret.
+++
“Garcia, give me an update,” Hotch says, hoping the connection hasn’t dropped as the trees thicken around them, swallowing the team whole.
“Keep heading straight,” she says. “You’re closing in.”
Hotch motions to the team to keep moving, and everyone picks up speed. With every passing second, the sun drops lower and lower, and they know time is limited. It’s dangerous in the mountains at night, especially without proper gear, but Hotch can’t care about that. All he cares about is getting to you, getting to the house with heat signatures in it that Garcia found. That has to be you.
“Woah, hold on,” Garcia’s voice filters through Hotch’s ears. “That’s weird.”
He doesn’t slow his pace, but he asks, “What are you seeing?” Rossi’s head turns at Hotch’s panicked question.
“The satellite updated, there’s only one heat signature in the house.”
Hotch nearly falls flat on his face. “She--”
“No, no,” Garcia says, and she almost sounds like she’s smiling. “I think she’s running. There should be a road to your right, follow it around the bend.”
Hotch motions to everyone and receives nods in return.
And that’s when he hears it. Sobbing.
Your sobbing. It breaks his heart to realize that he knows the sound so vividly and distinctly, but it’s you. It has to be.
“Wait!” he shouts to the team and everyone halts, listening. A knowing look passes between them.
They hear it. Sobbing, and running.
+++
What are the odds, you think, of running down this mountain and running into your team as they’re trying to get to you? Is it really so crazy to think that they’re on their way to you just as you’re trying to get away?
You don’t care how delusional it is, you try to imagine it. It keeps your legs moving. It keeps your fear at bay as you keep looking behind you, fearing you hear Carter behind you, but no one is there.
Until you come crashing into something hard.
Arms wrap around you and for a moment you think it’s Carter, that he caught up to you and got in front of you, but then you take in what you’re feeling. A kevlar. Strong arms. A cologne that only Hotch wears.
“Aaron,” you cry, your entire body practically giving out in his arms. You bury your face in his neck as he holds you up and you take a deep breath, gripping him like he’ll slip away any second. Like he’s a figment of your imagination, another after effect of the tranquilizer, and hell, maybe he is, but you don’t care. If this is a hallucination, you’ll take it. It’s a nice one.
“I’ve got you,” Aaron whispers and it sounds so real.
You distantly hear him giving orders to the rest of the team, telling Morgan and Prentiss to go with Rossi to the house. Reid stays with you and Hotch, talking to someone over the phone, and you realize it’s JJ.
“Do you have her?” Garcia comes into Hotch’s ears, frantic.
“I’ve got her,” you hear him say, and then you hear him sniffle. “I’ve got her, Penelope, thank you.”
“Is that Pen?” you murmur, your face still buried in Aaron’s neck with no sign of moving. “I knew she’d know what to do.”
“I hear you, my angel, I know,” Garcia’s voice is thick with emotion.
With every passing second, you realize this has gone on for too long, so the only explanation is that it’s real. You lift your head from Aaron’s neck, peering up at him with wide, watery eyes.
“Aaron?” you whisper, one of your hands cupping his jaw, fingers flexing against his face. “Oh my god, you found me.”
Tears slip from his eyes, wetting your fingers against his cheek. One of his hands covers yours, squeezing. “I’ve got you, honey, it’s me. We found you.”
Your head falls forward onto his chest, the emotion of it finally crashing over you. Your arms reach up to wrap around his neck, clinging to him ferociously now that you know he’s real, that this is real.
“I’m so sorry,” Aaron cries into your ear, arms wrapped around you just as tight.
“I never should’ve left,” you sob.
“I never should’ve let you,” he argues, muscles flexing, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, to keep you against him forever. “We need to get you down the mountain,” he says, and without any hesitation, you feel him lifting you into his arms bridal style.
You have no energy in you to protest, and you don’t even want to. Your arms wrap around his neck for stability, and you let him carry all your weight.
Slowly, you hear Reid’s voice filter back in. “I see you guys, yeah, we’re coming down, Hotch’s got her, so we’ll be fine, we’ll meet you there.” A pause, then to Hotch he says, “The paramedics are waiting down there.”
“Good,” you hear and feel Hotch say. You keep your eyes closed, face turned toward his shirt as the world sways as he carries you down.
Your head grows dizzy as your body catches up with itself, the adrenaline finally waning, your heart finally settling now that you’re in Aaron’s arms.
You almost don’t hear the gunshot when it rings out, but your body tenses. The birds above scream and scatter.
You know what it means. Aaron does too. Neither of you say a word.
Once you’re down the mountain, Aaron reluctantly hands you off to the paramedics in the ambulance.
“Wait--” you reach out for him, thinking he’s walking away, but he sits down.
“I’m right here,” he says, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “They need to take care of you first, but I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
You nod, a wave of nausea passing over you, causing your eyes to close.
“He gave her something--”
“He said it was a tranquilizer,” you manage to get out. “Don’t know what kind.”
All of it is a blur. They say something, you feel a prick in your arm and your breath hitches, remembering before, but whatever they give you calms you down. You flex your arm at your side, searching for Aaron’s, and you find it, fingers loosely lacing with his. Everyone moves around you, and soon the rumble of the engine starting filters into your ears.
As the ambulance heads for the hospital, you rest your eyes, though you’re more alert than any of them are expecting you to be. But it’s because you have one thing on your mind, and your brain won’t let the thought rest.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” you mumble after a while.
Aaron squeezes your hand. He doesn’t need to ask who you mean. “I’m sorry, honey.”
You nod, knowing it was inevitable. Knowing there was nothing you could do.
+++
You’ll hear this later from the team, but Carter was already gone when they made it inside the cabin.
They heard the gun go off while they were on the porch. Morgan had just shouted, “FBI!” when they heard it. When they knew.
Morgan found Carter in the living room. He likely saw you were gone, heard the FBI at his door, and knew he had two options. So he made a choice.
Part of the team is glad they weren’t the ones to do it, given the fact that they knew it was likely to end that way. But mostly they are sorry it had to end this way at all, knowing the pain it’ll cause you, and the years of guilt you’ll have to unpack.
+++
When you come back to yourself in the hospital, Aaron is sitting beside you, typing rapidly on his phone. You barely move and his eyes dart to you, phone immediately forgotten when he sees you’re beginning to stir.
“Hey,” he whispers, hands reaching for you, one stroking your face, the other resting on your arm. As if he’s still trying to be sure that you’re back in arms reach.
“Hey,” you echo, tears filling your eyes, the memories instantly coming back to you. “I’m--”
“No, no,” he shakes his head, eyes watering too. “I’m sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I wish I had found him sooner,” you cry, tears escaping as quickly as your eyes can fill with them. “I wish I had gotten to him before my dad did.”
“I know, honey, I’m sorry,” Aaron says softly, shifting closer in the chair, but it’s not close enough.
“Come here,” you move over on the bed. “Can you hold me?”
He doesn’t care that the bed isn’t exactly big enough for both of you. You’ve asked if he can hold you, so that’s exactly what he’s going to do. He’s in the bed and pulling you into him faster than anyone can tell him no.
You tuck your head into his chest, sobbing as you fist his shirt, careful of the IV in your arm. “He was too far gone,” you can barely get the words out, “or I would’ve-- I would’ve tried to help him--”
“Shhh,” Aaron cradles your head, breathing shaky as he listens to you. “There was nothing you could’ve done.”
You know that. You do. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less, knowing that everyone is gone now. Your dad, your mom, and now your brother, who you only found out existed just yesterday.
God, was it really just yesterday?
Somewhere in the midst of your cries, a nurse comes in to check your vitals. All are fine, aside from your heart being a little fast as you’re worked up from crying.
But Aaron calms you down. It takes a minute, but soon your breaths even out, and the tears slow.
“Where is everyone?” you sniffle.
“They’re outside in the waiting room,” he says. “Do you want me to get them?”
You nod against his chest. “Don’t leave though.”
“I’m not,” he assures you. “I’m just going to text Dave.”
The team was clearly waiting for the go ahead to come visit you because barely a minute after Hotch texts, there are soft knocks on your door.
“Come in,” Hotch calls out, helping you sit up against his side.
JJ, Emily, Spencer, Dave, and Derek (with Penelope on the phone) filter in quietly, smiling softly when they see you.
“Alright, here she is,” Derek says, passing his phone to you.
“Hey Pen,” you say.
“Hi my sweet angel,” she answers, voice cracking. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” you nod, trying not to let the emotions pull you under again. “Movie night when I’m back?”
“Done,” she says instantly. “Your pick.”
Hugs are passed around, everyone squeezing you tight and fighting tears.
When Dave gets to you, you see he has tears in his eyes, and that’s enough to make you lose it again. You wrap your arms around him, sniffling into his neck.
“Thank you for finding me again,” you murmur.
“Anytime, kiddo,” Dave whispers, rubbing your back. “I hope we don’t have to do this again,” he teases, making you laugh, “but if we ever do, I’ll always find you.”
“I hope we don’t do this ever again,” Derek says sincerely. “That’s enough excitement for the next decade.”
“I agree,” JJ laughs, leaning her head on Emily’s shoulder.
“It’d be a statistical wonder if it happened again,” Reid says, rocking on the balls of his feet. “But please don’t.”
You laugh, wiping your face as you lean back into Aaron’s side, his arm curling around your shoulders protectively. “Don’t worry guys, I don’t plan on it.”
His arm tightens just a little, a silent promise that you hear clear as day. I don’t plan on letting you go again.
You watch as practically all of the profilers notice Hotch’s arm around you, the way he pulls you closer, and the way you don’t argue one bit. If you weren’t so exhausted from the last twenty-four hours, you’d crack some joke about the two of you having gotten over yourselves, or about how the two of you can slightly tolerate one another’s presence now.
You will tell them soon. There’s time. And it’ll make a good story, one to laugh about one day, once all the dust settles.
For now, you let your eyes slip closed as the conversation continues around you. A smile tugs at your lips when you hear their back and forth, and you think, they found me. In more ways than one.
~~~
a/n: little author's note for the end here: i suppose now is a good time to tell you guys that this fic was loosely based on family lore :) so very loosely i shall end with based on a true story
