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Infiltrated: Part 7

A FBI Agent reader thrusts herself in the middle of the Reaper investigation, leaving the BAU questioning if they need her. Foyet unleashes another layer to his manipulation of Aaron Hotchner and his team. Is this consulting agent trustworthy? Something about her tells Hotch that this case is just as important to her as it is him. Can she work both sides of the law to meet her means? A salacious series of smut and betrayal….

Featuring: George Foyet x Female Reader, Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Setting: Season 5

A/N: This is dark and dangerous. Our reader goes by Agent Turner to protect her identity. xoxo Stu

Series

Warnings: Minor mentions of violence, moral repugnancy, and general unsub behavior. Alcohol. Only implied of smut this time.

Your name: submit What is this?

There were days when you felt almost normal: going to work, grabbing groceries, drinking heavily, both coffee and other dark liquids. Then there were patches of time when you felt yourself cracking like a fraying rope, each layer of twine snapping as the two directions you had tied yourself to drew you apart. Splitting you open. The stress had you edgy, the booze made you weepy.

George was angry that you had no sway with the marshals, you told him to go find himself a hole to fill in that agency instead. It was petty, but you weren’t above that at the moment. You needed time to breathe and whenever you closed your eyes you saw Hotch in that hospital bed. It had been twenty days, when your phone rang unexpectedly.

“Turner?” You sat at your desk, mindlessly filling out a report. You coffee cold and your mind unfocused when his gruff voice woke you up.

“Y/N, it’s me.” Aaron Hotchner had all but dropped off the face of the earth since you left his hospital room to give him and his ex-wife privacy.

“Caller ID. How are you?” You kept your voice low and your tone light, each word clipped.

“Been better, apparently being stabbed is a real inconvenience.” He was being glib? Honestly.

“And you call yourself a profiler... So did you need something or just wanted to save me from the mountain of reports I’d rather not do?”

“If you’re busy, Y/N, by all means--”

“Aaron?” You cut him off. “Look, I should be out on time tonight. Do you want me to pick up some take out and stop by?”

“I’m not looking for pity,” He replied simply.

“That’s good, because I don’t feel sorry for you.” You switched ears as you let him work through your bluntness. “Aaron Hotchner, you faced the Reaper and lived to hunt him down. You have my respect.... Now, can I invite myself over or would you rather continue to wallow alone?”

“Call when you’re downstairs, the building’s security has been ramped up.”

You couldn’t help but smirk into the mouthpiece. “7-ish?”

Stepping through the glass doors into the BAU’s bullpen made you feel like a substitute teacher walking in on the wrong lecture. Slowly, the profilers unwrapped their brains from their previous case to acknowledge your presence.

“Sorry to bother you all,” you tried overtly polite as your invitation was getting stale after the attack on their beloved Unit Chief. “Just wanted to check in since, everything.”

Morgan’s eyebrows practically lept off his face, Reid’s mouth drooped widely as JJ froze. Prentiss was the first to break the uncomfortable silence, “Turner, have you been given a copy of the evidence and Hotch’s accounts of the attack?”

“I haven’t received any updates to the case files since Hotch has been out of the office,” you admitted, trying not to take the oversight personally.

“There’s an easy solution and she likes unicorns.” Prentiss smiled without teeth. “Walk with me?”

You fell into step with the raven haired beauty. “Thanks, I didn’t want to barge in, but I want to help. Especially--”

“Since its Hotch?” Her voice wasn’t condescending, it was almost curious. Her wise eyes held a kindness in them, one that you didn’t instinctively turn away from. “Look, we all want to get the bastard, but the others, they sort of circle the wagons when a profiler is down.”

“The strength of the wolf is the pack.” You recited a bit of Kipling.

“Pretty much. I might still be the novice profiler, but I’m not going to turn away an extra brain.” You smiled, appreciating her pragmatism. “Hey, Garcia-”

Prentiss got you squared away with all of the new details and listed on the BAU’s latest communication list with Strauss and the Boston PD. If there was anything more than a blip about Foyet, you’d be one of the first to be alerted. It was time to be a team player.

He woke you by nuzzling your elbow, his nose trailing up your arm as his strong hands found your backside and drew it to him. His breath was warm in the crisp night air, your body melding to his, you clutched his hand in yours, holding it to your heart.

“About time.” You mumbled, letting his huff of amusement fall against your hair. There was something oddly comforting about him lying beside you, his murderous hands stroking your body while at any moment he could end you. Sleeping with George was like sleeping with a boa constrictor, the pressure hurt so good, until you couldn’t take it anymore. Before long you were both asleep, relaxing in the fake safety of your circumstances.

It was just before dawn when he started with the questions, each one pulling you closer to consciousness until his voice was desperate.

“Y/N, are fucking Hotchner?!” It was a strangled plea. You sat up blinking, staring at George as if he was a figure from a dream come to life.

“What’s going on? What are you talking about?” Your heart banged against your chest, the shock of being woken and accused in the same instant adding to the adrenaline. He stood over your bed, dangling your work phone above your face like the proverbial carrot on a stick.

“Lots of calls for someone on medical leave... look here a winky emoticon.”

You rolled over and hid your head in between your pillows, there was nothing he could have figured out from that phone anyway. He was jumping to conclusions and all you had to do was maintain a perfect level of annoyance before he would drop the subject entirely. You kind of hated how much you could predict his moods at this point. Narcissistic ass.

You groaned dramatically and pulled the duvet up to your chin, leaving him to stew in his search. He plopped down at your feet not ten minutes later, almost sheepishly. “Done with your little tantrum?” you asked, not bothering to open your eyes.

He had stripped in his sleep, wearing just his shorts. His tawny body hunched over as he licked his teeth at your sass. “God, there isn’t anything better than making you eat your words, Y/N.”

Your head perked up, catching his drift.

You knew he was ready to get back on that jet, ready to be the man he was before he was broken and robbed of his family. But you didn’t want him back at Headquarters, not yet. You were far from a poster child of healthy coping habits, but you could spot the anger and bitterness before it slipped from his mouth. The stress of profiling would only exacerbate the resentment, but, naturally he passed every interview and clearance exam.

He was set to start in the morning, the files and photos covered his dining table. You had only been over a handful of times, just meals and movies. You made it clear that you wouldn’t overstep and he made it clear that he wasn’t ready to be with you, yet. That strand of possibility that brought you back and kept you at arm’s length.

“Tomorrow’s the big day, huh?” You made small talk, glancing briefly at the images you had memorized.

“Has the team kept you up to date on the case?” Hotch was in his concerned teacher mode.

“There hasn’t been much to update, unless--”

“Unless he kills again.” You pursed your lips at the stalemate you both felt. “Y/N, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you and before I do, I want to assure you that this stays between us, unless it is absolutely necessary to the case.”

Your stomach fell through the floor, his tone was methodical as if he was walking you through a cognitive interview. It made your skin crawl.

“Shoot.” You tried blase.

“Were you ever going to tell me who you were?” He watched you with those tar pit eyes, waiting for you to slip up.

“I was waiting for you to remember me. We met.” You bobbed your head, “Before.”

“Y/N Y/L/N, daughter to George Foyet’s fifth and sixth victims.” Hotch recited your past stoically, as only he could. “I remember a devastated teenager telling me to do my damn job. Contacts?”

“And Botox.” You shrugged. “Where does that leave us?”

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