summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him?
word count: 7 K 🌵
-
“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.”
Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality.
You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it.
“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.”
“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file.
Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”
“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.”
Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”
Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.”
Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”
“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.”
“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”
You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.”
Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.”
“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.”
All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch.
“Theft of youth.”
Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”
“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes.
“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues.
“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.”
Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.”
You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch.
Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.”
It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup.
“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”
“No.”
Hotch’s answer immediate.
You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.”
His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.”
“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”
JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”
“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment.
“Which means?” Garcia questions.
“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”
More eyes fall back to you.
You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”
Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.”
“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins.
You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.”
“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?”
The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow.
“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh.
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.”
The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work.
“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”
“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense.
“Somehow I’m still offended.”
Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.
“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team. Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan.
“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.”
“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly.
“Immensly.” She continues to beam.
A long pause.
Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”
He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod.
“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”
You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.”
“Yes,” He said flatly.
You grin wider, “Then I’m in.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”
Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.
This is going to get complicated.
-
The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful.
“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.”
Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”
“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help.
“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”
He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.
“Progress.” You bite your cheek.
“Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.”
“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.”
His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.”
“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.”
Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”
“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”
“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly.
You beam, “Exactly.”
His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”
“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.”
He exhales quietly.
“I want to add something else.”
He looks back up.
“Power.”
He frowns, “Explain.”
“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”
He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.”
“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”
The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea.
“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.”
“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.”
The silence stretches back over the jet.
“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.”
“That’s the point.”
He stares for a long moment, “Fine.”
You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”
“A conference.”
“Boring. Try again.”
He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.”
“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”
Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it.
“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”
“Why twice?”
“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.”
Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.”
“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”
Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.”
You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you.
The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family.
As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second.
“Breathe. Like you like me.”
“I don’t-”
“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”
Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun.
You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches.
“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck.
You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.
“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.”
He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” You tease.
They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease.
“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.
You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!”
Hotch blinks, looking back down at you.
You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.
When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you.
“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.”
His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.”
You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.”
You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism.
-
The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside.
Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts.
She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.”
You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”
You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."
”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.
Word spreads fast in this neighborhood.
The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.
You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.”
Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.”
“I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.”
He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.”
“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”
You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.
“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face.
“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”
The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him.
“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room.
By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right.
“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.”
He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too.
“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.
You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross.
The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.”
You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.”
He exhales slowly, “Understood.”
You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt.
You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department.
He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real.
You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence.
You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.”
“Goodnight.”
Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open.
You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him.
“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep.
He freezes for half a second.
Then recovers, “Sleep well?”
You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good.
“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows.
You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support.
By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be.
Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”
“Tell me about it.” Emily whined.
Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub.
Neighbors slow as they pass.
A man across the street checks his mail. Twice.
You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned.
It’s bait.
And it’s effective.
Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.
“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!”
You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”
Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does.
“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s.
It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response.
“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”
Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house.
“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”
“What-”
“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”
His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.
“Forty-five minutes.” She answers.
“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face.
“I’ll work on it.”
He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow.
-
Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story.
“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”
Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.”
“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.”
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”
“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.”
Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear.
“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.”
He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled.
“Understood.”
The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic.
An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space.
A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter.
Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view.
“You good?” You ask quietly.
“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”
You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”
His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No, but it gets the job done.”
You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back.
“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral.
“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.”
You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now.
Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”
Garcia typing away furiously.
“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.”
Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”
Garcia hesitates before answering.
“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.”
“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron.
“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”
“Let’s give him a show.”
You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him.
He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard.
“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips.
Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.
You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera.
“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel.
“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”
There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.”
Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.”
Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity.
“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia.
“Mhm.”
You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.
“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps.
It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off.
-
You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once.
All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display.
“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil.
Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.
You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.”
He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over.
Too many faces.
You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves.
He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable.
From the street, it’s enviable.
From the cameras, he’s raging.
“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece.
JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.”
You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur. Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.
You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food.
“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”
“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”
Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”
Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”
Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.
“I know,” he says. “I really do.”
The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.
From just behind her.
A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.
Too still.
You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too.
“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.”
She then turns where the other boy still watches.
“And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.”
Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens.
You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia.
“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”
There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece.
“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together.
You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.
“So, how long have you guys lived here?”
“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him.
“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”
Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch.
Sharp. Hurt. Furious.
Hotch squeezes a warning.
His eyes flick up to your face for the first time.
You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.
Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.
“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.”
“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds.
“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-”
“Garcia.”
“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”
Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear.
“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.”
Bingo.
You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too.
“Does anyone have eyes on him?”
No answer.
You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless.
The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.
-
Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.
“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells.
“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously.
“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.
“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds.
“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.”
-
Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.
“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door.
His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast.
He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”
Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.
“On your knees.”
Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet.
Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time.
“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”
You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?”
You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.
“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”
“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs.
“Correcting my theft of youth?”
Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes.
“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”
Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone.
“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.
You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”
Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.”
The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake.
“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.”
Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill.
“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.”
You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”
His head bobs.
“Then put the gun down.”
He hesitates.
Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”
The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready.
“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.”
Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols.
-
The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.
“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.
“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?”
“No ma’am!”
“We’re going!”
“Okay, okay!”
Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings.
“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.”
You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror.
Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”
He matches your lean, a step closer.
“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”
The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.”
“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”
A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.”
Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle.
“Neither do I.”
-
The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins.
For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing.
“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”
You close your eyes.
Hotch exhales through his nose.
JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”
Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-
“Garcia.” Hotch warns.
You groan, “Oh my god.”
Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.”
Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.”
Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”
“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.”
“That was tactical.”
You snort loudly before you can even stop it.
Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”
Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”
You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”
“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”
“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.
JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab.
Hotch’s ears turn red.
“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.
“Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face.
“I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees.
Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch.
“It was part of the profile.” He reminds.
Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”
Silence.
Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”
His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”
Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”
You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.”
“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”
Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”
"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"
“You’re welcome, you pervs!”
You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold.
Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac.
“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.”
The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase.
“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open.
He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.
“Probably not.”
extra of the team finding out here!
an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You scroll through dating profiles, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
Mal’s Notes: This… Is… Porn. That’s all… Nearly 60 pages of pure filth, and very little plot… In fact, what plot? I regret nothing.
Love,
Mal🩶
Acknowledgments: @cringeiknow and @theghostofcosmichorrorpast I could not have done this without either of you! I love you both to pieces! You're the best friends and Beta readers a girl could ask for!
Pairings: Hotch x reader, Emily x reader, Spencer x reader
Warnings and tags: DDDNE, 18+ MDNI, you’re responsible for your own media consumption but for the love of god MDNI, Buckle up Folks this list is a doozy, Explicit Sexual Content Past This Point, Discussions Pertaining to reader’s sexuality while reader is not present, reader is female, reader is bisexual, reader has sex with both men and a woman in this fic, if that’s not your thing you should probably move along, mentions of wet dreams, praise kink, implied female masturbation, massage that leads to sex, bisexual Emily Prentiss, Bisexual Aaron Hotchner, Bisexual Spencer Reid, Canon Characters Do Not Engage In Sexual Activity With Each Other, They Do All Engage In Sexual Activities With Reader (at the same time (no d/p I wasn’t feeling that brave)), voyeurism, exhibitionism, Dom/sub and Switch Dynamics, dirty everything, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, EVERYBODY GETS SOME HEAD, Almost everybody gives some head, bodily fluids, ingesting bodily fluids (just cum, male and female, nobody panic), PinV sex, sex on a plane, rough sex, rough oral, biting, bite marks, bruises, post sex bruises, hair pulling, hickies, nipple play, pet names, finger sucking, very slight (microscopic) breath play, begging, reader begging, hand job, Hotch spanks reader twice but it’s minor, unprotected sex WRAP IT UP PEOPLE, deep throating, Aftercare, teasing, subspace, plot what plot, reader tells Hotch to Fuck her like he owns her.
Word Count: 17.8k
Back to Mal’s Masterlist
AO3
The case had been a rough one; with JJ stuck back at home having had her new baby, Rossi away on a book tour, and Derek out on an injured knee from a renovation incident. JJ’s liaison duties had fallen to you, to your silent horror.
It wasn’t that you were bad at public speaking or presenting. It’s just, your palms got all sticky with sweat, your legs shook, and there was a tightness in your chest that you knew was going to stick around for hours.
Which was not exactly ideal when trying to impress your hot boss.
So you stuffed your anxiety down and did what needed to be done. Because even false confidence had to become actual confidence at some point, right?
As of that moment though, you wouldn’t dare let Hotch know you felt out of your depth. Not while you had something to prove, and especially not when any amount of his attention gave you butterflies in your stomach.
With you on PR duty, the stress that Emily and Spencer were under had doubled.
And with Rossi gone, Hotch had no one to split the administrative duties with.
Which left you all so busy that you had barely seen much of Spencer and Emily. While you and Hotch had been alone together at the station the entire time, with little more than orders and questions conveyed back and forth between the two of you.
Until Hotch had gathered you all into a conference room together to go over the evidence and write up the profile—press releases and administrative bullshit be damned.
Which left you reeling, because the three of them were just as stressed as—if not more so than—you, and when they got stressed...
They tended to get undressed.
Not completely—obviously—just a suit jacket here, a few popped buttons there, maybe some rolled up sleeves and messy hair.
But a girl could dream.
And God, did you dream vividly.
Nothing about Hotch escaped your notice. The width of his shoulders and chest made you itch to splay your hands over them. His thick hair would look so tempting between your thighs. You wondered if he would like the way you’d tug on it as he devoured you. Even the way the man dressed drove you crazy. His suits must have been tailored, because they fit far too well for your sanity. His silk ties looked soft and pullable. Your fingers itched to give them a good tug, preferably while guiding him to your lips.
Your attraction to Spencer was different from how you lusted after Hotch.
Spencer had an innocence and pureness about him that was impossible not to adore… An innocence you fantasized about corrupting. You often watched Spencer read, a habit you couldn’t break. It was so hard to look away, however, when he drug his fingers down the page, gentle and reverent. You wondered how that would feel against your ribs. Or lower. His sweet smiles often tempted you to tease him mercilessly. The way his amber eyes lit up when he rambled on made your stomach fill with butterflies. His soft voice always left your heart pounding and your pussy throbbing. Not that he knew that—thank God—though even if he did, it would just embarrass him.
Emily was, well… Emily.
Confident, strong, sassy and could break you in half, something you definitely wished she would do. Her dark hair and porcelain skin were a thing of beauty. The way she held herself with such surety was enthralling. Her clever and bold personality was absolutely deadly, both to unsubs and your libido. You often wondered how it would feel to earn her attention. She had a ‘take charge’ attitude in the field that you were almost sure would extend to the bedroom as well. You found yourself daydreaming about her scarlet lips giving commands of the erotic variety, smiling, and calling you a good girl… Among other things you imagined they would be very good at.
In layman's terms you were metaphorically fucked.
If only you could get physically fucked… specifically, by one of them.
Alas, it’s against regulations to fuck your co-workers. So your imagination, that new vibrator, and—if you were lucky—a wet dream or two would just have to do.
Being alone with one of them was truly a battle between your common sense and your carnal imagination.
However, being in a room with all of them… that was enough to put you in a mental crisis of truly epic proportions.
Just to make everything astronomically worse, you were pretty sure they had started to notice.
They had all started to notice.
You had been so relieved to wrap up the case and finally head home. Until you realized that heading home meant being on that cramped jet for several hours with just the three of them.
Hotch, who was sitting across from you, had immediately noticed that something was off with your demeanor. You were usually so exuberant, talkative and flirtatious in a way that rivaled even Penelope.
Now your eyes darted around the cabin, never lingering longer than a second on anything—especially a person. Your cheeks were flushed, like you were a little overheated or had spent just a little too long in the sun.
His biggest clue, however, was the way your chest expanded in small rapid breaths. He was growing concerned and was about to ask if you were alright.
Before he could, you offered a quick excuse to Emily—who had been chatting animatedly to you—and headed toward the restroom.
“Okay, has anyone else noticed that she’s been acting strangely all day?” Spencer asked the other two, once the bathroom door latched behind you.
Hotch nodded his head, agreeing with Spencer’s assessment of your odd behavior.
“I agree, she’s not been quite herself this week.” Hotch murmured, raising his brows and shaking his head. “She definitely hasn’t been nearly as flirtatious as she normally is.” The usual crease in his brow returned to its proper place. “She didn’t say anything remotely off-color in front of me at all this week, now that I think about it.”
Your quiet, nervous state was so unlike you—not that he had watched you enough to know.
Usually, you would crack a poorly timed joke or two, earning a disciplinary glare, and he would have to bite back a grin all the way through it.
There were no jokes today, no flirting, just intense focus. Your eyes locked on the evidence board. Never straying for a second, not even when he made an attempt to draw your attention. You only responded when asked a direct question and only made eye contact when absolutely necessary.
He had easily noticed your skittish state. How you seemed to duck out of a room as soon as he entered, or disappear for a while and come back laser focused on anything that wasn’t him.
You were usually quite confident. Or at least did a very effective job at hiding it when you weren’t.
“No kidding.” Emily snorted in halfhearted amusement. “I’ve been trying to snap her out of it the entire flight, and apparently, my flirting only made it worse.”
“Maybe she just doesn’t like girls, Em.” Spencer joked with a smug grin.
“She definitely does…” Emily countered, giving Spencer a healthy dose of side-eye and a knowing smirk. “She flirts with me all the time, and Penelope told me that she has an ex-girlfriend. If anything she doesn’t swing your way.”
In Emily’s humble—expert—opinion, you practically had a flashing neon sign above your head that said: GAY!
Hotch chuckled and shook his head, smiling faintly, “I think you’re both wrong.” He refereed. “She’s bisexual, at the least.”
He glanced up from his case file, his brows raised and a smug smirk on his face.
“She very well could be.” Spencer admitted, his face stuck in that expression that said he was overanalyzing every detail about you that could ever apply to this situation. “We could test that hypothesis…”
His eyes were sparkling with a curiosity that was definitely scientific.
“It’s not a bad idea…” Emily mused. “It could be fun… and we do have five uninterrupted hours of airtime left…”
“Ground rules would be necessary,” Hotch added, murmuring almost as if to himself. Pretending to be lost in the case file again. His eyes traced boredly over the lines of text on the page, “and clear consent, from everyone.”
“Now we’re talking.” Emily smirked, sitting up a little straighter. She had been waiting for a chance to take her harmless flirting into a more serious pursuit. “I'm surprised though, you’re seriously gonna let us do this Hotch?”
“I can’t say I’m not curious to see where it goes…” He admitted, smirking a bit. However, his eyes barely lifted from the page, seemingly disinterested.
He was, in fact, very interested.
He saw the way you looked at him—and the other two—on a regular basis. He knew you were attracted to them.
What he didn’t know—with certainty anyway—was how you would react to an advance by all three of them at once. He was certain, however, that you were in for the surprise of your life—and a very good time—if you let it get that far.
“It’s settled then.” Reid smiled in self satisfaction. “When she comes back out we’ll conduct a little… experiment.”
Then the three of them produced a hurried plan.
When you exited the restroom a few minutes later you were no better—if not worse—off than you had been before. Trying to get yourself off had not only failed, it had also made the problem almost painful. However, staying in the restroom any longer would not only be embarrassing, but suspicious as well.
You tried not to look at Emily when you sat back down, looking anywhere else would be safer. So you shifted, only to catch Spencer’s eye, who was studying you with a strange expression.
The last time you felt so scrutinized, you had been defending your thesis to earn your Master’s.
You decided it was probably safest to stare at your lap instead, fiddling with the hem of your pencil skirt. Anxiously rubbing circles in the cotton fabric between your fingers in an effort to soothe… something. Hoping, praying, that none of them knew it had been hiked around your waist only moments before… with your hand tucked between your thighs.
“Hey, are you alright?” Emily asked softly.
You could feel all three sets of eyes burning into you, you didn’t dare look up. The racing of your pulse was only getting faster.
“Mm hmm.” You nodded, continuing to play with the seam of your skirt and then trying to smooth a run in the delicate black nylon of your stocking. “I’m perfectly fine.”
Your voice was a little higher than normal, and you knew they hadn’t missed it.
“Hmm, I don’t know…” Emily responded, you could hear slight teasing in her voice. “You haven’t been acting fine. In fact, you seem a little stressed,” You could practically feel the grin on her face as she turned, “Hotch, doesn’t she seem stressed?”
“Incredibly stressed.” He agreed, and if you’re not mistaken, that was amusement in his tone.
You flush even brighter.
“You should relax a little.” He suggested in that stupidly hot low timbre of his. He didn’t even have the decency to toss you a glance. You often wondered if anything could tear the man away from his file. God, maybe one of these days you’d strip down and stand in front of him butt-ass naked, just to see if that would do it.
You couldn’t help the little snort of indignant laughter that escaped you, because Hotch’s tone was practically sinful—proving that, yeah, you could get wetter than you already were—and the fact that Hotch, of all people, told you to relax.
“You’re one to talk.” You retorted before you could think better of it. A slight feeling of panic washed over you at your brashness and you risked a glance up at him, his expression was frustratingly neutral.
His eyes, however, held a peculiar spark. A spark that still somehow gave you nothing.
Emily scooted a tad closer to you, turning her body to face yours and pulling her knees up under her on the bench seat.
“Turn around.” She commanded, twirling her finger around in a circle. You raised a brow at her questioningly, unsure of what she was about to do. She rolled her eyes. “Just trust me.”
You sighed—long sufferingly—and did as she asked, turning to face the other end of the jet. Your back now facing the others. You had little indication of what Emily intended to do with your back facing her, but you didn’t have the energy, or the nerve, to argue with her. The only hope in your mind was that she didn’t touch you and send you spiraling down another unfortunate slip-n-slide of arousal.
Then you felt the french pin slide out of your hair, which promptly unfurled and cascaded down your back. The pressure lifted off your scalp, leaving behind a dull ache.
Why had you twisted it so tight that morning?
Oh, that's right.
So you could at least appear put together when you’d realized that it would only be the four of you on the jet home, with no case briefings to distract you.
You could only dream of where you wanted this to go.
Hot mouths, desperate grabs, pleasured moans… snap out of it before you let one slip, holy shit.
You stiffened, very aware that this was a bad idea and tried to pull away.
“Relax…” She cooed, alarmingly close to your ear. You bristled a little further. “I only want to help…”
Her hands slid into your hair then, nails raking over your scalp gently before her fingertips began firmly massaging your temples. Your eyes closed involuntarily and most of the tension fled your body without warning. A little sigh escaped your lips and you felt your cheeks start to burn as you sunk into her hands.
“There, isn’t that better?” She murmured softly, a lilt to her voice you couldn’t quite place yet.
“It does feel nice…” You admitted nervously.
Her fingers trailed down from your temples to the back of your neck. Working into the muscles, tight with the start of a tension headache.
“I bet it does, your knots have knots.” She hummed sympathetically, if not a little disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t let it get this bad. It’s not healthy and it feels painful.”
“It’s been a long week…” You responded a little defensively. “I don’t think I can handle many more cases without JJ and Rossi around.”
The words are almost strangled, her hands on your neck both a blessing and a curse. Then they slide down to your shoulders. Kneading and digging into your traps in an earnest attempt to banish the tension there.
“Why is that?” She asked curiously, but there was something more… sensuous, about the way she said it. It sent a small shiver down your spine that, luckily, was easy enough to conceal. But you still wondered if she felt it.
You tensed up slightly again.
“Because, I am not a trained press liaison. JJ does a much better job, and we’re all better off with more of us in the field. You guys almost ran yourselves ragged trying to get everything done, and Hotch didn’t have Rossi to delegate administrative tasks to. Not to mention the locals were being a pain in the ass the whole time. It honestly felt like a bit of a clusterfuck.” You confessed, though that was only half the truth.
“You did a wonderful job with the press, JJ even texted me to tell me she was proud of you.” Hotch murmured from across the aisle, giving you a rare compliment. You glanced over at him in surprise, you hadn’t known JJ had sung your praises to Hotch as well. “But she told you that herself earlier. So why are you really so anxious?”
“It was just a lot for the four of us to take on, that’s all.” You insisted, but Emily’s hands started to work their way down your spine. She found a particularly sore spot and dug her thumb into it mercilessly, forcing a moan to escape your lips without permission.
“Sorry.” You murmured in absolute mortification.
“Don’t apologize.” Emily hushes you, a sly knowing smile on her face. “I like it when you're vocal.”
That startled you so thoroughly that you actually jumped a little. Any other day and it wouldn’t have phased you at all. That type of flirting was normal from Emily, she liked to make you blush. Tonight, however, you were woefully underprepared for her raunchiness. You laughed nervously, knowing that she would expect you to laugh on a normal day.
“Mmmm, I’m with Hotch.” Spencer hummed, finally entering the conversation. “I think something else has you all worked up. You’re missing Morgan, JJ, and Rossi because they’re a good buffer.”
You almost choked on air, he couldn’t possibly have worked that out so easily.
“I don’t know what you mean.” You lied.
He didn’t respond, and instead shared a glance with the others behind your back. Hotch gave a subtle nod to Emily, and she smiled in pure glee, before pulling your hair to one side and tracing her nose down the side of your neck. Her breath caused goosebumps to rise on your skin.
“You don’t? Are you sure?” She murmured, voice taking on a blatantly seductive tone.
You shot a worried glance in Hotch’s direction, only to find his eyes glazed over. Something heated hiding just beneath the surface.
“I- I’m sure.” You stuttered, every bit of that false confidence you’d been building ripped away in an instant. Leaving you a mess, you squeezed your thighs together once more trying to silence the throbbing ache between them, and his eyes flicked down to track the movement.
“You can’t lie to us. We’ve all been paying attention, sweetheart, and we see everything.” Hotch murmured, his voice thick and husky. “You know better.”
Sweetheart? Oh god. What on earth was happening?
You looked away from him quickly, hoping the truth wasn’t on blatant display in your eyes.
He chuckled softly.
Emily’s hand cupped your chin gently as she turned your head to face her, to face all of them.
“Emily?” You murmured in apprehension. She started to lean in closer to you, much closer. Too close for you to keep your wits about you. “What are you doing?”
She was searching your eyes intently for any hint of discomfort or fear.
She found none.
“This.” She whispered and then her lips met yours.
It was a gentle, seeking kiss. Her lips sure and firm against your own. You couldn’t help but lose yourself in it for a moment. The world narrowed down to her.
Her soft lips against yours. The way her mouth moved, seeking more from you. Her hand skimmed up your jaw from your chin and tangled in your hair as she deepened the kiss, pulling a soft whimper from your throat.
A whimper that was echoed by Spencer, just a few feet away.
His soft needy whine pulled you back down to earth, or rather, inside the jet. Where it suddenly dawned on you that Emily was shoving her tongue down your throat, in front of the team. In front of the team and your boss, who was-unfortunately–a stickler for rules.
Jerking away from Emily, you looked over at Hotch.
“Emily!” You gasped quietly, scrambling backward away from her on the seat. Despite your very, very willing participation. She followed you slowly. “What has gotten into you!?”
You were panting, your breaths shaky, your hands even shakier.
She smiled at you softly and threw a glance back over her shoulder at the others. Her gaze seemed to project, I told you so, as she crawled a little closer to you. You looked around at them then—panicked and breathless—the throbbing between your legs not at all helping you to make sense of the situation.
You focused on Hotch. Your eyes searched his frantically, knowing a reprimand would be swiftly coming your way. Or the inevitable glare of disappointment. Or worse, suspension.
Your jaw nearly hit the floor when he smirked at you instead.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He murmured, his voice thick and low, a slight rasp starting to come through. “It was just starting to get interesting.”
What. The. Fuck.
“W-w-what?” You stuttered, unsure if you had maybe misheard him, or imagined the whole fucking thing.
“You heard what I said.” He shrugged at you. “Don’t stop.”
Your mouth opened and closed, trying to form words when you were pretty sure your brain was on a hiatus.
“But-” You started to argue and he furrowed his brows at you.
This absolutely could not be happening. It was impossible. Any second now you were going to wake up and employ that new toy you had ordered specifically to deal with this issue.
“Are you saying you don’t like it when Prentiss kisses you?” He asked, his expression making it clear that he already knew the answer was no. You searched his eyes intently, looking for any sign that this would end poorly for you. What you saw instead was pure, unadulterated lust. The deep hazel of his eyes was almost consumed by his pupils and dark with hunger. He wanted you, he wanted to watch you make out with Emily, wanted to hear your moans and it was driving him crazy. So you shook your head no. Because you definitely did like the way Emily had kissed you and you wanted more. “Then close your mouth before I use it, and let Emily make you feel better.”
“Okay.” You murmured, barely louder than a whisper.
That was all Emily needed to hear.
Her mouth crashed into yours again and she pressed you back against the seat, slowly laying you down. Her body hovered over yours, the sweet scent of her perfume curling around you and numbing your senses. A moan ripped its way out of your mouth and she devoured it whole as her hand rested softly on your leg, just below the knee length hem of your skirt, and began to push it slowly up your thigh. The coolness of the air on your newly exposed skin made you shiver, a small shuddery breath accompanying it.
Emily grinned against your lips.
“Garters, huh? Can’t wait to see if they match your panties.” She murmured, Hotch and Spencer both groaned.
The idea of the two of them watching the two of you and enjoying it… was enough to make you squirm, the throbbing between your legs became agonizing again. Your thighs were rubbing together seeking any amount of friction…
Until Emily forced her knee between your legs, forcing them apart and not allowing the friction you so desperately needed. Her fingers still slowly dragged your skirt up the expanse of your thigh until she had it hiked up around your waist again.
“So pretty…” Hotch murmured, his voice thick and rough.
You turned your head to look at him, not at all phasing Emily who began kissing your neck instead, and found him sitting with his legs spread. His pants were undone and his long thick member was firmly gripped in his palm. If you weren’t so occupied with the fact Emily had found a spot on your neck that made your entire body tingle, your eyes might’ve bugged out of your head.
Emily’s lips managed to coax another soft moan from you and your attention was temporarily diverted. Your head rolled back a little to give her space to work, which made her chuckle. A sound that you were sure was pure sin.
You heard another sound, a soft moan from across the aisle, and you realized that Hotch…
Wasn’t the only one.
Spencer had taken his out as well, watching you intently while stroking himself slowly. A loud and surprising moan erupted from your lips, pulling soft groans from the three of them in response.
You didn’t know what you wanted more.
Emily’s mouth… or either of the cocks now standing at attention in front of you.
However, the decision would not be left up to you.
Emily’s hand was now popping open the buttons of your blouse one by one. Working her way down your stomach, her mouth following her hands slowly. She was taking her sweet time, kissing, sucking and biting gently. Sucking your skin into her mouth and rolling it softly between her teeth, probably leaving some little red marks. Her head dipping lower and lower toward the apex of your thighs.
More little moans escaped through your heavy, panting breaths.
Her mouth finally hovered over the place you wanted it most. Emily’s breath was hot as she slowly closed her lips around your clit over your black lacy panties. A strangled cry breaking free as you threw your head back, your mouth wide and your eyes closing tightly.
Hotch knelt down behind you, pushing his shoulder under your head, forcing you to look down at Emily between your legs. His hand brushed your hair out of your face gently.
“Do you like having Emily’s mouth between your legs, sweetheart?” He hummed against your temple, placing a tender kiss there.
You opened your mouth to answer, but Emily had other plans, sucking harder on your clit that she had been previously, while flicking at it with her tongue. Your panties weren’t even off yet and she had you nearly in tears from the pleasure.
A strangled, half moan, half gasp left your mouth in the place of words.
Hotch chuckled softly and his breath moved your hair, tickling your forehead.
“Where did that clever mouth go? It was working so well earlier.” His fingers curled around your open blouse, and he gently pulled it off your shoulders. He guided you back onto his shoulder again as he placed kisses to the side of your neck, and then tossed the shirt to Spencer, who brought it to his nose and took a deep breath of your perfume.
“She smells so good…” Spencer mumbled softly, still palming his own erection and watching Emily's head move between your legs.
“You have no idea how good she smells.” Emily groaned, biting the inside of your thigh hard enough to sting and then started to suck a hickey over the indentations her teeth had made.
“Why don’t you take her panties off and tell us how she tastes.” Hotch suggested with a smirk, you groaned softly in agreement. Your hips bucked slightly and that knot in your core squeezed tight.
“You like that idea, huh?” He teased gently, you could feel his grin against your temple. Then he threaded his hand through your hair and pulled your head back to mouth hot kisses down the line of your throat.
“I definitely do.” Emily smirked, then hooked her thumbs into the waist of your panties and slowly began to drag them down your hips. Her fingers deftly unclipping your garters from your stockings, then continuing to drag your panties down your legs until she had freed them completely and tossed them to the floor. Her warm breath fanned out across your skin and yours hitched at the sensation. Much to Emily’s delight, goosebumps pebbled your thighs and she ran her fingertips over them slowly. Which only made them worse.
“It’s not braille.” You hissed at her impatiently. “It’s not going to magically spell anything out.”
“That fucking mouth…” She mumbled as she finally closed the distance between her mouth and your pussy. Your hips bucked at the heat of her tongue as she licked a path from your entrance to your clit.
A strangled cry flew from your lips. Emily’s laugh puffed against you, and the only thing keeping you aware of anything at all was the combination of Spencer and Hotch’s laughs filling the space as well.
“Not such a smartass with a tongue on your pussy are you?” Hotch’s gravelly voice reverberated in your ear before he took your ear lobe in his mouth and bit it gently. “Be good for us and we’ll see just how many times we can make you come.”
You only had the mental capacity to nod… because Emily had just sucked your clit into her mouth and was rolling her tongue over it. That—combined with the gentle suction she so mindfully applied—meant whimpering, nodding, and squirming was all you could manage to do.
The warmth of her mouth was obscene, the slick firmness of her tongue enough to make you see stars. She gave a particularly rough pull of suction against your clit and you couldn’t contain yourself.
“Fuck!” You gasped, throwing your head back and closing your eyes.
Hotch wasn’t having that though.
Especially since Spencer was barely containing his own whimpers and moans from the chair across the aisle, where he was watching the entire scene with rapt attention, soaking in every detail. Hotch took your chin in his hand and forced you to look at Spencer.
“Look at him.” He commanded, growling in your ear. “Look at what you’re doing to him, Sweetheart, and you haven’t even touched him.”
You made eye contact with Spencer then, his eyes full of longing, sweat glistening on his brow and his hand struggling to maintain a steady rhythm on his cock. His chest was heaving from the effort it was taking him to remain in control, you could clearly hear his ragged breaths from your place across the cabin. His cheeks were flushed–a ruddy pink–and his hair was disheveled from his fingers, which he kept dragging through it.
“Spence…” You murmured softly, for no other reason than you felt the need to say his name. To acknowledge him and make sure he knew you saw him. To be certain he knew that you appreciated what you saw.
His cock was so hard it was closer to pink than his natural skin tone and you were anxious to do something about it. It looked almost painful.
You felt like you could hear everything he was thinking as he broke eye contact to study the length of your body, then brought his gorgeous amber doe eyes back yours.
“Tell her how beautiful she looks Reid, talk to her, she loves it when you ramble.” Hotch urged him gently. “Don’t you, pretty girl?”
You really did and the pleading look in your eyes was all he needed to see to know that was true.
“You should see yourself right now, Angel…” Spencer murmured softly, hesitantly at first but the heat in your eyes as you gazed back at him was undeniable, and the boost in confidence he needed. “You’re stunning, absolutely ethereal, bewitching even. From the luster of your hair to the delicate curves of your legs, you look like a dream. Your perfect breasts look so firm and smooth, I want to cup my hands around them just to see how it would feel.”
You moaned softly at that and Hotch hummed his agreement and approval of Spencer’s pretty words. He had to admit he was impressed, Reid seemed to have a way of waxing poetic. He watched with glee as your body reacted, both to Emily’s ministrations and Spencer’s words as he continued to speak. “Darling you are divine, the very smell of your perfume is intoxicating. Your lips are tantalizing and I can only imagine the feel of them on mine would be soft as silk.”
You hung on every word, his voice mesmerizing you as he spoke. You had no idea that Spencer had such a way with words. His poetic phrasing had your heart racing and your stomach fluttering.
Emily’s warm tongue slowly drifted away from your clit, trailing down your pussy to the wetness of your entrance… and she began to leisurely fuck you with it. You moaned so loudly it startled you and bit your bottom lip to stifle the noise.
“They can’t hear you in the cockpit, Angel. The door is too thick and the engines are too loud. Not to mention, they’re wearing headsets to communicate with air traffic control.” Spencer explained quietly.
Hotch’s hands started to travel down your body. One slipping into the black see-through mesh and lace of your bra, the other sliding slowly down your stomach and finding your—recently abandoned—clit. He circled it with his fingertips gently. His other hand firmly massaging your breast and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “You heard him, Sweetheart. No one can hear you but the three of us, and like Emily said: we like it when you’re vocal.”
You let out a soft whimper and he hummed in approval.
Emily drew most of your attention back to herself as she replaced her tongue with two fingers, stretching you wider and filling you more satisfyingly than before. She stayed between your legs though, sucking and biting at your thighs as she made her fingers match the pace of Spencer’s hand.
You knew that’s what she was doing because you were still watching him from the corner of your eye, and for every downward stroke of his hand, she thrust her fingers inside you at the same moment. Hotch caught on to what she was doing, and he also began to match that rhythm and pace, kissing and nipping at the column of your throat as he played with your clit and nipples.
“Let go babe, we’ve got you. I can feel how close you are, you’ve got my fingers in a vise.” Emily murmured against the skin of your thigh, pressing a kiss to the place she had just bitten. Hotch hummed against your neck.
“Are you gonna come on Emily’s fingers, Sweetheart?” He murmured, before biting your exposed throat gently and laving at it with his tongue.
All you could do was moan in response.
Emily’s mouth found its way back to your clit, nipping Hotch’s finger playfully to make him move it. He looked down at her with a smirk and flicked her forehead teasingly before bringing his hand up to your other breast.
She rolled her eyes at him and flattened her tongue against your clit, then circled it and finally began sucking on it again as she continued to fuck you with her fingers. Hotch was rolling both your nipples between his fingers and returned his mouth to your throat, you were almost certain he was leaving marks there.
He was and it was completely intentional, it was the weekend, and he intended to give you all two extra days off at the start of next week. They would fade.
Emily was getting worked up herself and the sound of your little pants and moans were driving her to distraction. When you let out a particularly loud whimper, she hummed in satisfaction and the vibration made you throw your head back farther and moan so lewdly that Hotch picked his head up to look at your face.
Your eyes were squeezed shut, your supple lips were shaped in a wide ‘O’ and he couldn’t help himself anymore, your mouth was just begging to be filled.
You were vaguely aware that he had lifted your head off his shoulder and moved to stand, but you were too focused on Emily—and her mouth— to wonder why.
Then something warm bumped your chin.
You opened your eyes and found Hotch standing in front of you, his cock bouncing just out of reach of your mouth. You looked up and met his eyes, questioningly.
He smirked down at you, reaching out and cupping your jaw in his hand. His calloused thumb rubbed a small circle on the smooth skin of your cheek.
“I told you to close your mouth or I’d use it.” He murmured, voice low and rough. His thumb stretched to pull your lip down just a little and let it snap back into place, then brushed the corner of your mouth softly.
You didn’t respond, you just opened your mouth a little wider and offered it to him.
“Fuck.” He murmured, barely louder than a whisper.
Em chuckled quietly and the vibrations ran straight up your spine then down your legs, making your toes curl. You threaded your hands through Emily’s hair, needing something, anything, to hold on to.
“A little wider sweetheart.” Hotch prompted you.
You obeyed immediately, opening your mouth as wide as you could and maintaining eye contact with him. You knew he would like the attention and he did, rewarding you with his thick cock as he slid it slowly into the warmth of your mouth.
He tasted clean, but salty, and the precum that was already leaking from him was sweet as well with a slightly bitter—but delicious—aftertaste. You groaned as you closed your lips around him.
“How does her mouth feel?” Spencer’s voice was strained, he still hadn’t moved to touch you, content to observe.
To learn.
“She’s perfect.” Hotch groaned, his hand buried in your hair fisting it firmly but not roughly. He began to use it to pull you slowly up and down the length of his cock. “Fuck sweetheart, you feel amazing.” He murmured looking down at you affectionately, “You’re so warm, and you’re being so pliant for me.”
You kept eye contact with him, trying to focus on him… While also being on the verge of coming from Emily’s tongue on your clit, her finger pumping in and out of your pussy. All three of them were still matching pace with each other, and it was intoxicating. In and out and in and out, all at the same time.
Realizing how close you were, just needing a little push to fall over the edge, Emily reached up and started rolling your nipple beneath the lace of your bra. Then she slightly changed the angle of her fingers, curling them slightly to brush against your g-spot with every thrust.
You uttered a very strangled cry, the sound muffled around Hotch’s thickness. “Whatever you just did, she liked it. Didn’t you, pretty girl?”
You moaned in response and his hand tightened in your hair, a low hiss sliding through his clenched teeth.
Emily chuckled and kept her pace steady, but the vibration of her laughter around your clit as she sucked on it was all it took to send you spiraling into blissful oblivion.
Your body felt fuzzy and warm and your pussy was pulsing uncontrollably around Emily’s fingers. Your legs were shaking and you finally broke eye contact with Hotch as you scrunched your face up in pleasure. Eyes closed tightly as she fucked you through it, then licked your pussy from bottom to top as though savoring the taste of your orgasm.
Your body slowly relaxed again and when Emily pressed one more kiss to your clit then stood from the couch, you opened your eyes again to look up at her. Panting heavily as you realized now, that Hotch had pulled out of your mouth so that you could breathe through your orgasm.
Emily smirked down at you and then held her two glistening fingers up to the light for Hotch to inspect. He looked at them with a feral sort of hunger in his eyes.
“Do you want to taste her?” Emily asked him, a sly grin on her face as she offered her middle finger up to him. “She’s delicious…” She purred, and Hotch glanced down at you, recovering from your orgasm with a look of pure adoration for Emily in your eyes.
Then he turned his head toward her and grabbed her wrist with his free hand, before drawing her finger into his mouth… and sucking it clean.
You groaned and let your head rest against his hand that was still tangled in your hair.
“Fuck, she tastes like heaven. Reid, you wanna taste?” Hotch asked the younger man, then turned his attention back to you, tugging lightly on your hair. “Get down on your knees for me, Sweetheart.” He coaxed gently.
You obeyed him, getting down on your knees in front of him, but watched Reid and Prentiss as you did it. She was offering her ring finger to him and he was licking it clean and groaning, as he stroked himself a little harder.
Spencer… Spencer who didn’t shake hands because of germs… was licking Emily’s finger, just so he could taste you.
Fuck…
You whimpered softly and Hotch chuckled quietly, using your hair to tilt your face up to look at him .
“You can have him as soon as I’m done with your pretty little mouth.” He murmured teasingly. “Open up sweetheart.” You let your mouth fall open in what you hoped was a sexy expression. “So pretty…” He whispered for the second time that night as he slid his cock back into your mouth.
He used your hair—again, to your delight—to guide your mouth up and down his considerable length. He was taking it slow, going easy on you… you didn’t like that, not one bit. So you surged forward on his cock, taking as much of him as you could without gagging and he let out a sharp, gasping, string of barely intelligible obscenities.
You tried to pull back a bit to do it again… but he held you firmly in place.
“You want me to fuck your mouth, pretty girl? Blink once for no, twice for yes.” You moaned, looking up at him from under your lashes and pleading with your eyes, you blinked twice.
That is exactly what you wanted.
He chuckled quietly and then gave you a soft look.
“Have you ever had your mouth fucked before? Once for no, twice for yes.” You blinked once—you hadn’t and you were nervous because with his cock so deep in your throat you couldn’t breathe, you were also struggling not to gag—but you wanted him to do it so badly in that moment.
“Then listen closely, so I don’t hurt you.” He warned you, then caressed your neck tenderly. “Relax your throat, soften the back of your mouth.” He instructed gently. “Go ahead, I’ll tell you when you’ve done it right.” You tried to do as he asked, relaxing all the muscles in your throat and opening the back of your mouth. “Good girl, that’s perfect.”
Your head was starting to feel fuzzy from lack of oxygen, but you knew he wouldn’t hurt you so you didn’t panic.
“Keep your jaw loose and let me move you, don’t fight against me or try to help. It’ll make you sore if you do. You can’t breathe right now can you?” He asked, seemingly knowing the answer was no, but you blinked once anyway. “You are going to have to focus on your breathing. Time it so that you take a full inhale through your nose as I’m pulling out.”
He pulled you back off his cock just enough so that your airway was clear, you immediately sucked in a full breath and your head cleared.
“Good girl…” He soothed, stroking your cheek with the back of his finger. “When you take a breath, hold it. Then release it when I pull out the next time. Do you understand?”
You blinked twice.
“Perfect.”
He started so slowly—barely moving at all—letting you get the hang of how to breathe and how to keep everything loose and relaxed.
“That’s perfect, sweetheart, just like that.” He praised you after a minute, and then he slowly increased his pace, going a little deeper as well.
“Look how well she takes it…” Emily purred, kneeling down next to you and brushing a stray hair from your face. “Such a good girl…” She cooed, running her hand down your bare back.
Her words only served to fuel your ego and you preened under her praise.
“She’s a natural…” Hotch agreed and brought his free hand up to your cheek. “Think you can take it a little faster, pretty girl?” He asked, stroking your skin with his thumb.
You blinked twice.
“Good girl, remember to breathe in on every other one.” He both praised and reminded you softly as he picked up the pace. His cock was touching the back of your throat now with every inward thrust. His hand in your hair supported your head and held you completely still. You were like putty in his hands, and Hotch was reveling in it. He loved the way you completely surrendered and trusted him with something you’d never experienced before. “Fuck, Sweetheart… you’re taking me so well. I’m so proud of you.”
The tone of voice he was using—low and rough—was making your pussy throb all over again.
You moaned and he lost a little bit of his restraint, fucking into your mouth a little harder than he had been before, but not hard enough to hurt you. It was making your eyes water, however, and you had tears running down your cheeks. Hotch was enthralled by them, by the mascara tracks they were leaving and the way they changed the shade of your eyes slightly. “Such a good fucking girl, letting me fuck your mouth like this… you’re perfection, sweetheart.”
“Look at what you’re doing to him…” Emily whispered softly in your ear. “He’s barely holding on, you’re driving him crazy with those pouty, fuckable lips and pleading puppy dog eyes… you should see yourself the way he’s seeing you right now… you’re fucking beautiful baby.”
You moaned and it would’ve been loud and obscene if not for the cock in your mouth.
Hotch’s hips stuttered and he cursed, you knew that meant he was close.
“I’m about to come, pretty girl…” He gritted out, his hand in your hair tightening. “Can you take it?”
You moaned and blinked twice at him, then held eye contact. You didn’t know how you knew that would send him over the edge, you just did.
Then he was spilling himself down your throat, and you swallowed every fucking drop, then sucked him clean. He pulled his cock from your mouth and tucked it back into his briefs, then squatted down in front of you. The thumb of his free hand wiped a drop of liquid off your chin and he brought it to your lips, the look in his eyes almost challenging.
You licked his thumb from base to tip, then closed your lips around it and lightly sucked on it. He smiled at you then, pulling his thumb from your mouth and sliding that hand back to join his other in your hair. Hotch pulled you toward him gently as he started to lean in and murmured, “Such a good girl…”
The kiss he gave you was hot, sloppy and branding. He could taste himself in your mouth as his tongue invaded it and he was obsessed with the mingling of his flavor and yours. You moaned into his mouth and tried to deepen the kiss again, but he heard Spencer’s ragged breathing behind him and pulled back.
“You wanna ride Reid’s cock, Sweetheart?” He murmured loudly enough that Spencer also heard him and you both whimpered pathetically at the suggestion.
Hotch and Emily both chuckled, and then Hotch put his hands on your waist to help you stand and guided you over to the chair Spencer was in. Your legs were shaking and you were as clumsy as a baby giraffe stumbling over to him.
Spencer was looking up at you with those big amber puppy dog eyes and you felt even weaker in the knees, luckily you didn’t have to stand for much longer. Hotch steadied you on your wobbly legs until you climbed up onto Spencer’s lap, straddling him.
He was hesitant to touch you, his observation had started this whole thing and when he had suggested an experiment… he hadn’t expected it to end in sex…especially not group sex. When Hotch and Emily had started talking about consent and ground rules—lines that couldn’t be crossed— he had been sent reeling.
When he had asked if they’d noticed you acting strangely it had been out of concern for your wellbeing. When he had suggested they test the hypothesis he had merely meant to prove whether you were into men, women, or both.
He had wanted a scientific experiment, not sexual experimentation.
Not that he was complaining…
He, Emily, and Hotch were all three bisexual. Hotch didn’t really broadcast that fact, especially not in front of the others. Even though Spencer was pretty sure the only two on the team who weren’t queer were Rossi and Derek, and he wasn’t even sure about Rossi sometimes. So it wasn’t a big deal if you were or were not bisexual. He had only been curious.
Curiosity killed the cat or something like that… yet this time he had ended up with your bare pussy hovering over his cock, and he was not at all upset with this outcome. Just incredibly shocked. You were so beautiful, looking down at him with your tear stained cheeks and swollen lips. He still hesitated, however, because he wasn’t sure whether or not you really wanted him, or if he was being included simply because he was here.
You could see that hesitation, that self doubt in his eyes… you hated it.
So you leaned in and kissed him. It was a sweet kiss at first… reassuring and gentle. You were giving him plenty of time to work his nerve up. When he didn’t pull away—and even started to reciprocate—you deepened the kiss and teased at his lips with your tongue.
Requesting entry.
He parted his lips for you immediately, you smiled against him before you let your tongue caress his sinfully. His body was no longer rigid, but he was still tense. You moved to kissing his neck and nipping at his skin.
“Relax Spence…” You murmured sensually, running your hands through his hair and brushing it back from his forehead. “Let me lead, I’ll take care of you.” Pulling back and checking in to make sure, before you went too far, you looked him in the eyes, searching them intently. “Is this okay with you, Handsome?”
He nodded, biting his bottom lip in a way that made you want to bite it too.
“Yes.” He murmured, still hesitating… then whispered, “I just– I’ve only done this twice… I don’t know what to do in this position…”
Oh…
“That’s okay, I didn’t know what to do a minute ago and Hotch talked me right through it… We can do that for you, if you want?” You offered him gently. Your eyes were soft and kind, but let him see just how badly you wanted him. “Besides… I’ll enjoy being able to teach you something for once.”
He laughed softly, and some of the tension melted away from him.
“Okay.” He agreed. “Tell me what to do.”
Then in a burst of confidence, he reached up and tucked your hair behind your ear.
You hummed in approval.
“Touching me would be a great start.” You teased gently, not at all trying to bruise his ego.
“That’s true…” He joked quietly and his hands settled on your waist, then started to slowly trail up your sides. Lightly dancing over your ribs. “What if… I did this as well?”
And then his hands were reaching around to the clasp of your bra and deftly unhooking it. Which shocked you given his inexperience… you’d bet anything that he’d practiced somehow so he wouldn’t fumble when it mattered.
You reached down between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him. He sucked in a sharp gasp, jumping at the contact and your soft chuckle was echoed by two more behind you.
“Then I would do this and tell you that you have great instincts if you’ll just listen to them.” You started to slowly pump your hand up and down his length and he groaned. It was an almost tortured sound, as though you were both killing him and pleasuring him at the same time.
He slid the straps of your bra down your arms and you briefly let go of him to toss it to the floor. You sat up a little straighter as he took in the sight of you, sitting astride him in nothing but a garter belt and thigh-high stockings.
“You’re so beautiful, Angel…” he murmured, then leaned forward and pressed kisses to your breasts.
You lost patience then.
“Are you ready?” You asked him as you lined him up with your entrance, barely putting the tip in.
Your hands were trembling and your breathing was rapid and shaky.
“Aren’t I supposed to be the one who asks you that?” He responded, but his voice cracked and you knew he was putting on bravado. He was every bit as desperate as you, his breaths ragged and harsh.
“Spence…” You whimpered, needing his permission to sink down on it. “Please.”
He didn’t respond, instead he gripped your hips firmly and tugged you down onto his cock until you were fully seated on it. You swore you could feel every ridge, every vein, and every little twitch it made.
“Fuck!” You moaned, loudly, earning snickers and snorts from the two voyeurs sitting on the couch behind you.
“Shit, sorry! Did I hurt you?” He panicked.
“That was definitely not a sound of pain, Reid.” Hotch murmured.
Spencer looked at you closely anyway, unsure if you were alright.
“You told me to follow my instincts so I–”
You kissed him, to shut him up and stop his doubts from running away with his head. Then you started to ride him slowly. He groaned against your lips and you smiled. The feel of him—filling you up—was exquisite.
“Your instincts are perfect Spencer…” You praised him, letting your hands drift back into his hair. “That was hot.”
His beautiful eyes gazing up at you as you rode him made you feel a little dizzy, he was so fucking pretty. He was gripping your hips tightly and every time you brought them back down he whimpered. The sounds he was making were driving you insane.
“Tilt your hips forward a bit more, sweetheart.” Hotch instructed you, his voice low and raspy. “It’ll help you take him deeper, and feel twice as good for him.”
He was right, and you did know that already, but it was so fucking sexy when he started giving orders.
“And for her.” Prentiss added, you could hear the salacious smile in her tone.
“Like this?” You asked in a faux bashful tone, as if you didn’t know how to do it. Then you did it perfectly, so that you and Reid both groaned, and your ass popped back enticingly for Hotch and Emily.
They both groaned softly and you smiled, winking at Spencer. Letting him in on your antics. He smiled back at you, as amused as he could be—given the circumstances.
“What about this? Do you think this would make him feel good?” You asked, rolling and circling your hips seductively as you rode him.
Spencer hissed out a breath, his eyes rolling back briefly.
“I can confirm that it does in fact feel amazing.” He groaned, you giggled and threw a flirty glance back over your shoulder at the others. Then leaned forward and sucked Spencer’s bottom lip into your mouth, biting it. He slid his hands down to your thighs squeezing tightly, then over your thighs where he looped his fingers into your stockings and peeled them down your legs, tossing them to the floor. Then traced his fingers back up your calves and thighs, back to your hips and you noticed he was avoiding your ass… So did Prentiss.
You felt the heat of her body behind you before you heard her voice, and pulled back to look up at her.
“Don’t be shy Reid…” She purred, her hands landing on his, dragging them back till they rested fully on your ass. “Get a good handful… or two.” She made him squeeze you firmly. You moaned and Emily chuckled. “See… She loves that, don’t you babe?”
“Yes!” You moaned wantonly, and caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye. Hotch had moved closer and was perched on the edge of the table next to the seat you and Spencer were in. He was watching with a ravenous hunger in his eyes.
“Put her nipple in your mouth, Reid.” He said after a moment. “Suck on it while circling your tongue around it.”
Emily hummed her approval, they were giving Spencer a veritable textbook for How To Make You Come 101. Spencer listened, of course. He’d just watched Hotch and Emily tag team you into an orgasm, their words were as good as gold.
When his lips closed around your nipple you hissed and whimpered a little, picking up your pace as you bounced up and down on his cock. Hotch chuckled in lust filled amusement, reaching over and stroking your ribs with the back of his hand.
“She makes such beautiful little sounds.” He mused to Emily, who nodded and then grabbed a handful of your hair.
She used it to tip your head back then kissed you thoroughly, her tongue caressing yours and you could still taste your pussy on her lips. You moaned and ground yourself down against Spencer, his cock reaching all the way to your cervix, you felt as though you could feel him in your stomach.
Hotch’s fingers were tracing your ribs, or maybe that was Spencer? No, his hands were still on your ass so it had to be Hotch or Emily. Someone was trailing a hand down your stomach to where your body joined with Spencer’s, this hand was larger and callused while the other was soft and smaller. So Emily was tracing your ribs, while Hotch…
Hotch was on a collision course with your clit. You knew when he made impact, you’d see stars.
Spencer switched nipples, still kneading your ass with firmness and your muscles were starting to ache from pulling yourself up and down his cock at this pace. Emily was still lighting you up with her kiss, her fingers traveling down the line of your rib to the breast that Reid had started with. Hotch’s fingers were getting closer and closer, but they were moving so slowly you knew he was trying to drive you wild with anticipation.
It was working.
Your chest was heaving, you were trembling and your legs were aching deliciously from exertion. Spencer’s cock was hitting you perfectly every time you sank down on it. All the sensations combined were almost too much for your sanity. You were so close, again.
“Look at you, falling apart at the seams… you’re so close aren’t you sweetheart?” Hotch murmured, his voice a lot closer than it had last been. What was he, a mind reader? His nose skimmed your neck up to your ear, which he then bit gently. You moaned into Emily’s mouth, a pitiful little whimper, and you felt her smile softly against your lips. “Does Reid’s cock feel so good? Filling you up like that. Stretching you out. I wonder, can you still taste yourself on Emily’s lips? Do you know how good you taste, pretty girl?”
Fuck, was he trying to kill you?
It was like his voice had gained a solid form and had wrapped itself around your throat, cutting off your oxygen and leaving you completely breathless. Your senses were overwhelmed, in a state of near euphoria, and you knew that once Hotch’s fingers reached their destination—and they would in the next three seconds—that the barest graze of them was going to make you explode.
He stopped just short of his target. You whined against Emily’s lips and he laughed at you softly.
“I think she ought to earn this one… What do you think, Prentiss? Should we make her beg?” Hotch asked the other woman, he didn’t ask Reid because the poor man was barely holding it together and all of his focus was split between the nipple he was currently stimulating and not coming inside you without consent.
Emily—reluctantly—pulled her tongue out of your mouth and smirked down at you.
“Hmm, she was being a little bit of a tease a minute ago wasn’t she?” She made a show of looking very contemplative, all the while she continued toying with your other nipple. “Reid?”
She brought Spencer into the conversation—or she tried to.
“Busy.” He murmured against the skin of your breast as he continued his work there, he would not be distracted. You glanced down and saw that he had started marking your skin with hickeys.
You moaned at the sight and let your head fall back.
“You want me to beg, and I’ll beg. Just please don’t make him stop.” Your voice was heavy, rough and breathless. You were so incredibly close, your body was starting to shake, and you knew you’d come, whether they kept touching you or not.
They knew it too, but they also knew they could make it so much stronger… if you were good for them.
“It feels so good, huh, sweetheart?” Hotch asked, his tone slightly condescending. “If you ask nicely, we’ll give you what you need…”
His hand was still stalled on your lower abdomen less than an inch away from your clit. Emily was just barely teasing your nipple and while it seemed like Spencer was ignoring them, you knew he was giving you just enough to keep you on the edge. Sneaky.
However, you expected no less from him. He was a fast and visual learner, he had been watching closely when Hotch and Emily had been playing you like a fiddle. He could have had you screaming all on his own if he’d wanted to—you had no doubt about that— he’d just needed the confidence to get started.
Hotch and Emily had helped with that.
“I’ll be such a good girl if you let me come, Hotch, please…” You gave him the sexiest pout you could muster. His eyes seemed to darken—his hazel irises almost completely drowned out by his pupils—as they zoned in on your lips. “I’ll mind my manners and be so polite, I promise. Pretty please, make me come.”
Hotch was listening, and he had intended to make you beg more than this, but your lipstick smudged lips were just so alluring that he couldn’t focus on anything else at that moment. Remembering what they’d looked like wrapped around his cock several minutes earlier, he found his will rapidly dissolving, and all he really wanted was to watch the way those lips formed a perfect O when you came.
“I knew you’d sound so sweet begging…” He murmured, and his hand started to move again “Let us hear you, pretty girl. Loud and clear.”
“Yes sir.” You murmured confidently.
Emily chuckled and started sucking on your neck, you moaned… Then Hotch’s fingers—finally—found your clit.
You screamed.
Your vision went fuzzy and then white. Your head was buzzing and your body was nearly numb. You went limp and Spencer took over, fucking you through your orgasm, prolonging it. Emily’s hand had begun rubbing soothing circles on your back.
“Good girl…” She cooed. “You look so pretty when you come.”
“Yes she does.” Hotch murmured, reaching over to where your head was resting on Spencer’s shoulder and brushing your hair away from your face. “So fucking pretty.”
You whimpered softly at the touch and he smiled tenderly at you. Your chest was heaving with hard-fought, ragged breaths. You were shaking, but your vision was slowly returning to normal.
“Are you alright?” Spencer whispered gently in your ear. His hands on your waist now, thumbs rubbing circles on your hips. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fucking fantastic, Spence…” You murmured in return, shifting your weight slightly to sit up and kiss him. He squeezed your hips tightly.
“Please don’t move.” He hissed, pleadingly. “I can’t… I’m gonna… If you don’t get off it, I’m going to come inside you. I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”
You froze, your lips just a centimeter from his.
“It’s okay… Don’t panic… They make pills for that, and I intend to take one anyway… I’m a little stuck at the moment though, my knees are too weak to get up.” You met his eyes, the panic in them was astounding. “Hotch, could you–”
The man's arms were already coming around your waist and he lifted you off of Spencer effortlessly, as the younger man bit his lip and hissed as if pained. Setting you on your feet softly, Hotch held you to his chest to keep you from falling to the floor.
“Didn’t you say you’d mind your manners and be polite if we let you come?” He asked, a hint of mischief in his voice.
You looked up at him, searching his eyes for a hint, a clue, anything to tell you what he was up to.
“Mm hmm…” You hummed in response, nodding at him.
“You made a mess Sweetheart…” He told you quietly, then took your chin in his hand and turned your face down to look at Spencer… Who was, in fact, a whimpering mess. “Clean it up.”
You licked your lips and smiled salaciously.
“Yes sir.” You murmured softly and got down on your knees at Spencer’s feet.
Reaching out and taking Spencer’s cock in your hand, you gave him a firm stroke. He moaned and his head fell back against the seat. So he didn’t see you coming when you lowered your head and took him in your mouth, all the way to the base.
“Oh fuck!” He yelped, you hummed in approval at his reaction, then you pulled back so that a manageable length was in your mouth. You put one hand on his thigh to brace yourself and create a little leverage, the other you wrapped around the rest of him. Slowly, you started to bob up and down, moving your hand in time with your head. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Spencer’s hands gripping the arms of the chair, his knuckles were white. That only spurred you on.
The taste of yourself on his cock was tantalizing, the tang of you mingling with the musk of him was something you never thought you would experience. This whole situation was something you never thought you’d experience. You’d considered it of course—more times than you could count— but it was only a fantasy, a daydream. Never had you once thought it might actually happen.
“She’s doing so well… don’t you think Hotch?” Emily’s voice purred on your right.
“Hmmm, I don’t know… she’s capable of more…” He hummed in response from the left, and a hand—that based on the size could only be his—palmed the curve of your ass. He gave it a squeeze and a playful smack and you moaned around Spence's cock. Spencer twitched in response.
“You think she can take more?” Emily asked him, her tone was nothing short of sinful and it made you shiver. Hotch’s following chuckle, however, went straight to your pussy, making you squeeze your thighs together. Suddenly, you were completely desperate again..
“I know she can.” He answered, with a confidence that made your toes curl. His voice tended to do that to you, but when he put that cocky, self assured, arrogant rasp behind it… Goddamn. It was the voice he used when he knew he had the upper hand, when he had an unsub completely caught up in a lie, a trap of their own making. The voice that made your knees weak and your thighs tighten. It went straight to your pussy every time, making it clench around nothing. “Why don’t you help her along?”
“I’d love to.” She purred.
Then Emily’s hand was in your hair, resting firmly on the back of your head.
“You heard him, Gorgeous…” she lilted provocatively as her hand grew heavier on your head, slowly pushing you down the lengthy expanse of Spencer’s cock, until your nose was touching the neat patch of hair at his base.
“Fuck, Angel…” Spencer groaned, his voice husky and strained. “I’m so close…”
You gave him a muffled little hum of approval and that was all he needed to fall over the edge. Spilling down your throat as he moaned loudly, his hands joined Emily’s in your hair and he held you there firmly until he was finished.
You swallowed as much as you could and then—when they released your head—you sucked and licked him clean.
“Thank you, Angel. That was… incredible.” Spencer murmured, reaching up to stroke your cheek tenderly with the back of his forefinger. You leaned into the touch and then gave him a sensuous smile as you climbed back up into his lap. You brought your lips to his before he could say another word and kissed him deeply, letting him taste the mixture of all the flavors that had accumulated on your tongue. It was by far the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted. He moaned into your mouth and you pulled back to smile at him.
“You are very. Very. Welcome.” You purred, punctuating each very with a gentle kiss and biting his bottom lip after welcome. “It was my pleasure…”
Hotch and Emily chuckled softly at your antics and you noticed that Em sounded a bit shaky. Then you realized she was the only one who hadn’t come at least once… you’d have to remedy that.
Hotch—astute as ever—immediately noticed when your eyes locked onto Emily’s form. He chuckled again, looking between you and her, then stood and helped her to her feet as well, guiding her to the space between you and the couch you both had started this whole thing on.
“You want Prentiss again, sweetheart?” He asked, his smirk letting you know he knew exactly what was on your mind. You simply nodded your head, never taking your eyes off her. “Hmm… What do you think, Emily? Has she earned the right to touch you yet?”
She smirked down at you, trying to maintain her slightly condescending attitude… but you could read her like a book, and she was so turned on she was struggling to breathe regularly. You smirked back at her and she raised a brow at you.
“I don’t know, she seems a little too cocky about it to me.” She answered him, only prolonging her own discomfort.
“Am I?” You murmured, giving her a teasing smile. “Take it from the boys, Em. I could rock your world…”
She laughed softly.
“I bet you could, but I wanna hear you beg for it…” She purred, grinning at you. “Tell me how much you want it.”
You started to get up and reach for her, to show her how much you wanted her… but she stepped back, bumping into Hotch’s chest. He steadied her without hesitation, his hands stayed planted firmly on her hips and to your surprise, Spencer gripped your own hips. Tugging you back down into his lap so that you now faced the others, he held you in place.
“She said tell her, Angel…” Spencer murmured, his breath tickling your ear. You were shocked at his sudden burst of dominance. Your eyes widened slightly and your lips parted in surprise.
Hotch chuckled and you studied the three of them carefully… they were all smiling at you, their eyes holding the same teasing light. It was as though they were waiting for you to notice something. You just didn’t know what.
“You don’t get to touch her yet, sweetheart… not until she gives you permission.” Hotch murmured teasingly. “You can look though…”
Then his hands slid around her waist to the front of her pants, and he began to unbuckle her belt.
“Oh fuck…” you whispered on a breathy sigh. This would be the death of you, you were sure. Your head tipped back as you looked to the ceiling, as though praying for patience or guidance—or perhaps salvation because you felt certifiably damned—but Spencer had other ideas.
“Don’t look away.” He instructed you, his voice low and commanding as he gripped your chin and made you look back at them. You’d never heard him speak with so much authority, and yet somehow it was still so soft that it was barely audible. “They’re doing this for you…”
Hotch continued his mission to rid Emily of her slacks by unbuttoning and then unzipping them. Then he slipped them down her legs and held her hand to steady her as she stepped out of them. She kept her heels on, now standing before you in just her button down blouse and undershirt.
Your brain was short circuiting.
“Please, Em… I need to touch you.” You murmured softly and she smirked at you, scarlet lips tipping up to one side.
“Not yet…” She taunted.
Hotch reached around her again and started to unbutton her blouse, his pace was agonizing. You noticed that he was careful not to touch her body at all, now that she was only half clothed, and his eyes were locked on you… not her.
They really were doing this just for you.
How they knew you’d find it hot to watch him undress her, you didn’t know, but it was working. They didn’t seem uncomfortable, no… they were enjoying themselves as they teased you mercilessly.
When he slid the blouse down her shoulders and it fell to the floor, you felt as though you couldn’t breathe. She was wearing that one red tank top that always made you drool.
“Emily…” you nearly whimpered. “Please…”
She looked smug as she shook her head, reveling in the shakiness of your voice. She knew what that tank top did to you…
“Do you want to see him take it off me?” She asked, sweet as sugar… in a saccharine kind of way.
“I’d rather do it myself…” you implored, giving her a pouty look.
Her breath hitched and you knew… you were going to win this one.
“But if I’m being totally honest… I have this… fantasy… of you, in this exact outfit. I want you just like this, you’ve always looked so sexy in red, Em.” You purred, and you can tell you’ve surprised her for once. She was speechless for a moment and Hotch smirked at you, his eyes showing his amusement at this little standoff between you and Emily. “You know you want me Emily… just give in.”
You licked your bottom lip subtly, then bit it, trying to tempt her by looking up at her as innocent as a lamb. She had spotted your ploy a mile away, seen it coming from the moment you said she looked sexy in red.
It still worked.
“I will.” She drawled sensually, her eyes tracing your body. “If you get on your hands and knees and crawl to me.”
She stepped away from Hotch and sat on the couch with her legs spread wide, revealing red lace panties that matched her red tank top.
“Fuck…” you breathed. “You win… you win Em… just… God, let me touch you… please.” You pleaded. “I fucking need you.”
“Crawl to me, Gorgeous.” She finally conceded, smiling at you triumphantly.
And you let her think she had the upper hand, as you slipped out of Spencer’s lap and to the floor, but you knew once you got your hands on her—your mouth on her—she’d be putty in them.
Hotch moved to Spencer’s side and leaned against the wall—to watch the show of course—and nodded at you encouragingly.
You took your time, crawling seductively across the cabin to her, using every inch of the space to taunt her. She devoured you with her eyes and when you got to her feet, picked her right one up and propped it on your shoulder. You planted soft kisses on the inside of her ankle, never breaking eye contact.
“I have dreams that start out just like this…” you murmured to her.
“So do I.” She admitted, her voice breathless and shaky.
“Mmm…” you hummed softly, then purred, “Then what happens?”
She laughed softly, trying to seem unaffected again, but it was much too late for that. You knew exactly what you were doing to her.
“What’s the matter, Em?” You teased, beginning to kiss your way up the inside of her leg. “Cat got your tongue?” She seemed to lose all semblance of composure and you giggled softly against her soft skin. “Don’t worry… I can figure it out. I’m very creative.”
The roles had been reversed, and you’d never felt more in control than in that moment, kneeling between her legs. You slid your hands up her thighs and around her hips, gripping her ass firmly and then pulled her to the edge of the couch in one smooth motion.
For better access of course.
She yelped in surprise and you chuckled against her skin, never checking up as you continued kissing your way up her leg. You’d made it to her inner thigh and she was trembling. You looked up at her from under your lashes and smirked.
“I like it when you’re vocal.” You teased her, repeating her words back to her and earning a soft laugh from Hotch in return.
Emily started to say something but you flatten your tongue against her pussy—through her panties—and she moaned instead.
You hummed at the sound, reveling in it and lapped at her clit enthusiastically. Not bothering to tease her at all, just diving right in—to shut her up and wipe the smug smile off her gorgeous lips—and showing her exactly how creative you could be with your tongue.
But that didn’t satisfy your hunger for her at all, no… you needed to taste her, without the lace that was currently barring you from doing it.
You gently moved her panties to the side and took in the sight of her, bare and wet—absolutely soaked—all for you.
“Oh Emily…” You purred. “You’re dripping for me… and such a pretty pussy too. I wonder if it tastes as delicious as it looks?”
You were dying for her to regain a little sentience.
Docile, desperately horny Em was cute… but you wanted her sassy, confident self to come back out to play. You puffed a hot, teasing breath over the supple skin of her pussy and slowly, so slowly, licked her from her slit all the way to her clit. You stopped just short of it though, teasing her entrance with your tongue instead.
“Stop teasing me before I change my mind.” She growled impatiently, her hand tangling in your hair and tipping your head back to make eye contact.
You smirked up at her, a bit defiantly, and said softly, “Ask me nicely…”
Her eyes narrowed slightly and her head tilted to the side just a fraction as she stared you down, she seemed to be contemplating her options here. She could either let you get away with that and actually say please, or she could do whatever just crossed her mind and made those beautiful onyx eyes flicker with heat.
“Please, stop teasing me.” She murmured softly, leaning down so that her lips brushed your cheek as she moved to whisper in your ear. “Or I will take care of this pretty pussy all by myself, and make you watch from Spencer’s lap.”
You chuckled, biting your bottom lip as you turned your head to look at her.
“Mmm, I love it when you’re bossy.” You murmured, your nose less than an inch from hers now.
“Do you?” She purred, leaning closer so her lips are hovering just over yours, sharing your every breath. You nodded, yes, and she grinned salaciously at you, moving closer so she could bite your bottom lip herself. “Then stop talking, and do something useful with that silver tongue instead.”
You felt your cheeks heat, whether it was embarrassment or arousal—or a mix of both—you weren’t certain. But you loved the way it felt.
“Yes ma’am.” You purred, your voice dripping with pure seduction.
You felt her hand vacate your hair and didn’t waste time. Leaning forward, you licked her cunt from bottom to top in one smooth motion. Your tongue—finally—delving in to taste her, before you buried yourself between her thighs and ate her pussy like you were starving. She was delectable. Her arousal like honey on your tongue, and she just kept getting wetter.
The more you explored and experimented with her, the more you learned.
For instance, if you suctioned your lips tightly around her clit and rolled your tongue in circles around it, she couldn’t help but squirm as she let out soft little moans. If you added two fingers, curling just slightly upwards, and used them to massage that spot—just past the ridge of her pubic bone—she bucked against you wildly. So you gripped her by her thighs and hoisted them up onto your shoulders, forcing her to lean back on the couch and spread herself wider for you. The new angle gave you more leverage with your fingers and allowed you to apply firmer pressure with your tongue.
She was putty in your hands, just as you knew she would be. Her ragged breaths and quiet whimpers were growing more and more desperate, her hands grappling for purchase on any part of you she could reach. You were unsurprised when they found your hair, threading into it and taking two fistfuls that had your scalp stinging delightfully. You moaned against her and then felt her walls start to flutter around your fingers.
“Don’t stop, don’t change anything, I’m so close!” She panted, her voice raw with desire.
You suppressed the urge to grin, needing to maintain the seal of your lips around her clit, the pressure of your tongue… but you couldn’t help feeling a little smug. Especially as she clamped down hard on your fingers, her thighs quivering and trying to close around your head. Her entire body went taunt, her back arching and her head falling back against the couch as she cried out, “Oh God!”
Only when her body fully relaxed and her grip loosened in your hair, did you allow yourself to smirk against her pussy and look up at her from under your lashes. She didn’t notice—too busy recovering from the mind blowing head you’d just given her—Hotch, however, did.
“Look at you, being all smug.” His voice ran up your spine like molten lava. You didn’t dare peek over at him, choosing instead to pepper Emily’s fevered skin with soft, barely there kisses. First over her inner thighs, then her lower stomach where her tank had ridden up nearly to her breasts. “Are you proud of yourself, Pretty Girl?”
Hotch’s hand perched softly at the nape of your neck, he squeezed gently but firmly. His hand slid down your back slowly, his finger slipping into your garter belt—the only item of clothing left on you—and snapping the elastic against your spine. You moaned softly at the sting and he chuckled softly. He began to guide the belt down your hips, over your ass and thighs, to your knees. Tapping each in silent command. You complied, lifting them one at a time so he could—finally—strip you completely bare. “Such a good girl…”
His murmured praise had you aching again as you continued your worshipful path of kisses up the plain of Emily’s belly. Not stopping when you reached her tank, instead starting to lift it over her head with her willing assistance. You tossed it to the floor and pushed her gently to her back, so that she was lying along the length of the couch. Climbing to settle between her legs again, you began to kiss her chest. Propping yourself up with one hand, you used the other to free her breasts from the cups of her bra, which—conveniently— clipped in the front. She moaned softly as your lips closed around one nipple and your free hand toyed with the other.
Warm breath on your pussy made it clench around nothing. Which made you keenly aware of the fact that you’d left your ass high in the air—and completely exposed. Strong hands gripped it firmly and tilted it up even further, positioning you exactly how their owner desired. “Stay just like this Sweetheart. I want to taste you while you take care of Emily.”
You moaned wantonly at Hotch’s order, spreading your legs a bit more for him. He smacked your ass, just hard enough to make a point. “I said stay still.”
“Yes sir.” You murmured seductively around Emily’s breast and he soothed the sting with a gentle kiss to the spot, just before he buried his face in your pussy. Groaning as he tasted you first hand, he gripped your ass with bruising strength and made you whine. “Fuck…”
He chuckled quietly to himself, his hand traveling down your ass and in between your legs. It wasted no time in finding its target. Your clit. He circled it so lightly, as though he thought it was delicate enough that any firmer touch would damage it.
The effect was maddening.
Emily’s hands found your breasts, toying with your nipples and bringing your attention partially back to her. You trailed your free hand down her stomach, finding her clit again with ease and began to move your finger over it ever so lightly. She whined quietly, and pressed up into your hand with her hips in a wordless request for more pressure.
“You need more, Em?” You asked softly, teasingly, as you kissed your way across her chest, up her neck, nipping her ear and finally hovered over her lips. “Hmm? Do you wanna taste yourself on my lips?”
“Shut up and kiss me.” She demanded, her hand wrapping around the back of your neck and tangling into your hair as she tugged you down to her lips.
The kiss was rough, frantic and heated. Emily was still grinding up into your hand—desperate for friction—so you had mercy and increased the pressure and speed of your hand.
Hotch’s tongue was still leisurely fucking into your pussy as his finger work your clit with precision. He kept making these self satisfied little groans in the back of his throat that were driving you crazy.
And then two more hands were touching you… Hotch’s hands were still on your ass and clit, Emily’s in your hair and toying with your breast…
But Spencer…
He’d been content to watch for a few minutes, but he couldn’t help himself any longer, he had to touch you.
He was tracing the lines of your ribs with one hand and your spine with the other, his touch light and inquisitive. You’d fantasized about him doing exactly this and you’d been right, it felt amazing. His hands on your skin anywhere would have been heavenly, but the way he was following each rib intentionally—reverently—reminded you of the way he traced each line when he was reading a book, the way his fingers skimmed over each vertebrae was making your back arch.
You pulled away from Emily to look up at him.
There was such adoration in his eyes as he studied the expanse of your skin. The hand at your ribs, going up to your shoulder blades and your collar bones. The one at your spine trailing down to the curve of your hip, over the rise of your ass and down the back of your thigh.
“Focus on Emily, Angel…” He murmured softly. “I just wanna touch you.”
You would do anything to have him keep touching you like that, so you redoubled your efforts on Emily. Sliding your fingers down from her clit to her cunt and slipping the middle two inside of her.
She moaned and you silenced it with a kiss, parting her lips with your tongue.
You rubbed her clit with your thumb while you worked her g-spot with the pads of your fingers and she started to squirm. She tried to close her legs but your knees were in the way and her thighs started to tremble.
“Give it to me, Emily…” You coaxed into her mouth, then bit her lip gently. “Let me have it, you can do it… come for me one more time…”
Her head fell back against the couch, so you dipped yours down and drew her nipple into your mouth, rolling it with your tongue. It was just enough to send her spiraling for the second time. A breathy cry falling from her lips as her pussy spasmed around your fingers.
All the stimulation—Hotch’s tongue and fingers, Emily’s cunt clenching around your fingers and her hands pulling your hair and squeezing your breast, and Spencer’s exploration of everywhere else—was nearly too much.
And then Hotch slipped two fingers inside of you… much thicker than Emily’s slender ones, and when he added a third… It was thicker that Spencer’s cock had been. Not as long, but with what he was doing… length didn’t matter.
You came hard. Your pussy clamping down on Hotch’s fingers so tightly you thought you could feel each knuckle and every callus. Your brain went completely offline and your thighs shook violently as your release ran down them.
Your knees gave out, and you collapsed against Emily with a moan. Your vision blurred as tears filled your eyes. You laid there unable to move for several moments. Emily wasn’t moving either–except for her chest, which was heaving as she panted for air—so you were in no hurry to go anywhere. You gently slipped your fingers out of her and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck.
“Holy–” She gasped.
“--fuck!” You finished for her on a hard fought breath.
Spencer snickered softly as he stepped back to observe the mess of limbs the two of you were tangled up in.
Hotch chose that moment to pull his fingers out of you—making you flinch and whine—and then he moved to lean against the table adjacent to the couch to watch you and Emily untangle yourselves.
“You good, gorgeous?” Emily murmured after a moment, her hand running through your hair affectionately.
You nuzzled into her neck, nipping at her throat playfully.
“I’m great, Em.” You purred, twirling her hair around your finger and then giggled, “Why? You wanna go again?”
“Do you?” Hotch’s voice pulled your attention from the way the overhead light caught in Emily’s hair.
You looked up at him, and found him staring down at you with heated eyes…
And a bulge in his pants.
You swallowed thickly, the amount of times you’d thought about fucking Aaron Hotchner…
Your mouth was suddenly dry and your tongue felt heavy and you didn’t think you’d be able to say anything if you tried.
So you nodded your head, yes.
“Come here.” He murmured, his voice low and rough.
You gently untangled yourself from Emily—dropping one more kiss to her lips as you went—and she propped herself up on her elbows to watch you go.
The three steps it took for you to reach him were the longest three steps of your life. When you came to stop in front of him he wasted no time.
He held the back of your neck and drew you in, gently but firmly, then kissed you.
You could feel the tension in the plain of his chest, the barely restrained strength of his grip, and the quiet urgency with which he kissed your lips.
He was desperate… but he didn’t want to be rough with you…
Which would have been sweet…
If that wasn’t exactly what you wanted.
You bit his lip, tugging it between your teeth and then licking into his mouth like you needed to taste him as much as you needed oxygen. Then you slipped your hand down and gave his cock a firm squeeze through his slacks.
He groaned and pulled you back to look at you, his eyes searching yours.
“Fuck me, like you own me.” You murmured, with much more confidence than you felt.
You saw in his eyes the exact moment his restraint snapped. It was like his whole demeanor did an about face.
The soft spoken, gentle—though slightly condescending and bossy—man that had been treating you with such tenderness and care…
He was gone.
You barely registered the movement, one moment you were standing up, asking him to fuck you…
And the next…
You were bent over the table he’d just been leaning on.
The sound of his zipper coming down made you clench around emptiness and then his hand was firmly planted in the center of your back. Holding you down on the table with an easy strength.
You felt the hard warmth of his cock at your entrance as he lined himself up, but he paused.
“You asked me to fuck you like I own you… are you sure you want that?” He asked again for consent. “I won’t be gentle.”
“I don’t want you to be gentle.” You said clearly, with a surety in your tone that he could not mistake for anything but affirmation. “I just want you to fuck me.”
He didn’t answer you verbally.
Just slid his cock inside you, all the way to the base.
You cried out—hands clutching the edges of the table—-at the shock of it. You’d thought—surely—after coming three times, that you would be good and ready for him.
But he was… thick.
You couldn’t breathe, your lungs had ceased to function the moment he slid home.
Thicker than Spencer had been by a bit—though not as long—and you’d known that since you’d had both of them in your mouth. The way he was stretching you out though, it burned, it was a good burn… but you needed a moment to adjust.
He seemed to know that instinctually, and while he said he wouldn’t be gentle, he wasn’t going to hurt you purposefully either.
So as he bottomed out inside you he gave you a moment to sit with it.
“Breathe.” His voice was commanding, but strained.
You took a deep breath and he felt his hand on your back rise as your chest filled with air.
The burning eased, and you relaxed against the table.
“Good girl…” He murmured and then he started to move.
The stretch was amazing, the way he filled you up had your back arching and your hands white knuckling the table. Then he started to pick up the pace, his thrusts long and deep. Pulling almost completely out of you and then going so deep you saw spots.
You pushed back into him, trying to take him deeper—if that was even possible—urging him to go faster, harder. You wanted to feel him in your diaphragm—you knew that wasn’t possible, but you didn’t particularly care—wanted him slamming into you. Over and over and over…
He grabbed your wrists, pulling them behind your back and holding them in one hand while the other went back to your waist, with a bruising grip. Taking away every bit of leverage you had and giving himself total control of your body.
Then he pounded into you, hard and fast until your hips were bashing up against the table.
You didn’t even notice, because his cock was hitting you so perfectly with every sharp thrust.
“Hotch!” You keened his name, the loudest sound you’d made all night.
“Mmm keep talking to me, pretty girl, I love the way your voice sounds screaming my name.” His own voice sounded different from anything you’d ever heard from him. It was carnal and lust filled, and it had you clenching around him. “Fuck, if you keep squeezing me like that this isn’t gonna last very long, sweetheart.”
You could only moan in response.
There were hands in your hair, gathering it out of your face.
You hadn’t realized you’d closed your eyes, but when you opened them, Emily and Spencer were sitting side by side at the table you were bent over.
“She’s too quiet…” Emily purred, a truly wicked gleam in her eyes. “I don’t think you’re fucking her hard enough.”
Hotch chuckled, the sound ran up your spine and down your limbs until your whole body tingled.
“You think she can take it?” He asked her in return.
But it was Spencer who leaned down, his lips skimming your cheek as he murmured, “You can take it, can’t you Angel?”
“God yes!” You panted, trying to look back at Hotch, though it was nearly impossible to move at all with the way he was pinning you to the table. “I can take it!”
He pushed you back down flat on the table.
“You want it harder, Pretty Girl?” He asked and there was something in his tone… something lethal.
“Yes! Please!” You sobbed.
“Tell me how bad you want it, make it pretty for me sweetheart… I wanna hear you beg.” His grip on your waist got impossibly tighter.
“I don’t want it, I need it! It feels so good, Hotch, please! I’ll be so good! I’ll lie here and take it like a good girl! Just fuck me harder, please!” You pleaded, your voice cracking as he continued to fuck into you. “I need to feel you deeper!”
He groaned, letting go of your arms and taking ahold of your hair instead.
“God, I love to hear you beg…” He growled, pulling your head back so he could lean forward and whisper in your ear. “Hold on to the table, pretty girl. You’re gonna need it.”
You gripped the sides of the table as hard as you could, bracing yourself against it.
He railed into you so hard you couldn’t remember your own name, your hips slamming into the table. His balls were slapping your clit loud enough to be heard over the sound of your cries, which were spilling from your lips with every thrust.
They were unintelligible.
Not even you knew what you were saying, but it was clear what you meant.
Don’t. Fucking. Stop.
“Fuck, she looks so beautiful like this…” Emily groaned to Spencer. “Look at her.”
“I see her… she’s fucking perfect.” Spencer replied. “Watch, she’s getting close… she makes that face every time, right before she comes.”
You were, you were so wrapped up in the moment you hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you until he brought it to your attention.
“I can feel her pussy fluttering… fuck, she’s getting tighter.” Hotch sounded nearly pained. “Come on, sweetheart, let me have it. I wanna feel you come on my cock.”
Emily reached under the table and pressed on your clit.
Your vision went white, a dull roar—like the ocean—filled your ears, your knees buckled and only the table and Hotch’s grip kept you from hitting the floor.
Your throat burned, and you knew you must’ve screamed, but you couldn’t hear a thing.
Both his hands were on your hips now, squeezing like his life depended on, anchoring you firmly to himself.
And it was a good thing too, because you thought that otherwise you might’ve floated away.
Your body was numb, gravity meant nothing to you, neither did time, or space.
Just his hands on your hips and his cock still slamming into your pussy as he fucked you through it.
Your hearing was the first sense to return to you, and you thanked the universe and every deity you knew of—just to cover all your bases—that it did.
Because the sound of Aaron Hotchner coming was something you wanted branded into your memory.
“Fuck! Such a good girl, just like that baby!” He moaned, “You feel like heaven pretty girl! I’m- God- I’m about to come—“
He pulled out of you so abruptly that you whined at the loss.
But then there were warm, wet ropes landing on your back.
You moaned, you wished you could see it, though feeling it was something you’d never forget.
“Fuck.” Hotch panted, then patted your ass gently. “You did so good for me sweetheart. That was…”
You couldn’t seem to speak yet, and your vision was still fuzzy. Your limbs weren’t yet back under your control either. So you just laid there, panting.
“Angel, are you okay?” You heard Spencer’s sweet voice murmur, you could feel his lips near your ear.
And Emily’s hand in your hair, nails brushing against your scalp soothingly.
Hotch was stroking your thigh tenderly.
Then the strangest thing happened… you started to giggle… you couldn’t help it… nothing was funny.
You were just… happy?
Overwhelmed?
Incandescent?
“Is she laughing?” Hotch asked, confusion evident in his tone.
“It would seem so…” Spencer murmured. “I think—you might have broken her.”
“No…” Emily murmured, stroking your cheek, wiping away an errant tear. “She just needs a minute, she’s euphoric.”
There! That was the word you’d been looking for! Thank you Emily, you beautiful, sexy, sapphic goddess!
“I’m gonna get something to clean her up,” you heard Hotch murmur, “I’ll be right back.”
His footsteps retreated toward the bathroom.
You felt so heavy…
You just wanted to close your eyes and go to sleep.
A warm cloth touched your back, stroking up and down, cleaning up after Hotch’s release.
Voices were murmuring quietly around you, and then you felt someone—probably Hotch—lift you from the table.
You barely got your eyes open, just enough to look around.
Spencer was gathering all your clothes, you were resting on Hotch’s lap, Emily was digging in your go-bag—she pulled from it a pair of sweats and a t-shirt—then she brought them over and started dressing you.
You didn’t know at what point she had put her clothes back on… just that she was dressed.
Spencer put your discarded clothes into your go-bag and then he came back over to sit next to Hotch on the couch. He helped Emily get your arms—which were too heavy to move still—into the sleeves of your shirt.
When they had finished dressing you, Emily sat on Hotch’s other side. He gently lowered your head to her lap, and Spencer pulled your legs up into his.
“Are you sure she’s alright?” Spencer asked quietly.
“Mm hmm…” Emily hummed, stroking your hair tenderly. “She’s just exhausted… four times… is a lot.”
Hotch took your hand in his and kissed the back of it.
That was the last thing you felt before you fell asleep.
*Four Days Later*
You’d thought that it would be awkward…
Coming back to work after fucking three of your coworkers—one of whom is your boss—at the same time.
But it wasn’t.
It was exciting.
The four of you were all smiles when you looked at each other, secret smiles that no one else was aware of, and knowing glances had been passed back and forth all morning.
Hotch had accidentally brushed across your hips with the back of his hand when he’d passed you in the bullpen.
There was a bruise there from the table where he’d fucked you, and he knew it. He was reminding you on purpose.
Spencer had been glancing at your lips all morning, a soft pink flush coloring his cheeks each time. Likely remember how he’d come down your throat.
Now, at the round table, Emily squeezed your thigh once under the table. There was a bite mark there that hadn’t yet faded. One that she’d given you.
All their attention was making you feel a bit overheated, so you pulled your French pin from the pocket of your slacks and pinned your hair into a twist.
You noticed, after you’d done so, that Hotch was giving you a very smug look. You felt like there was something else behind it, other than the obvious, but you couldn’t figure out what.
Everyone was distracted, just waiting on the last of the team—Derek and Garcia—to straggle into the room. They’d made it to the door, but Derek was on crutches so they were taking their time and everyone was fine with that.
But then Derek stopped—right behind you—and laughed.
“You uh— you got a little somethin’ somethin’ on the back of your neck, there Lil’ Mama…” He teased.
You reached up to touch your neck, confused, you looked up at him.
“What?” You asked.
“Looks like somebody had a little fun this weekend.” He joked. “That’s a pretty interesting place for a hickey…”
You paled, then blushed, immediately pulling the pin out of your hair and letting it fall down your back to cover the mark.
“Morgan.” Hotch said quietly—to hide the amusement in his tone—his eyes flicking to you briefly over the top of the file he’d been pretending to read. “Leave her alone.”
Derek threw his hands up in surrender and kept making his way to his seat.
One half of the room moved on, assuming that Hotch had just scolded Morgan out of a need for professionalism, and was choosing to cut you some slack over a mark you clearly hadn’t known existed.
But the other half knew better.
Rossi—who had returned from his book tour just the night before—stood to pull out Derek’s chair for him and took one elbow, while Penelope took the other.
While they helped him get settled, you threw Hotch a scathing look.
Because the only one who had left marks on your neck, had been him.
He was already smirking back at you, smug as shit.
Emily and Spencer were biting their lips to keep from laughing and they didn’t dare make eye contact with each other, or they were going to lose it.
You just stared a hole through the smirking Unit Chief, silently berating him for leaving a mark where you couldn’t see it.
And the bastard winked at you.
Then he cleared his throat and you let your expression go blank as the others all came to attention.
Warnings: Fluff, angst, tiny tiny tiny amount of smut. Canon is none existing. Family moments, slow-burn romance, workplace banter and teasing, grief and loss of a parent (terminal illness (not disclosed), hospice, mourning), vomiting, breakdown, hospital scenes (emergency c-section and labor complications), canon type cm cases, mental health struggles, very brief non-graphic breakup, lots of kisses, nothing directly explicit, but insinuated that they have sex (a lot), pregnancy and childbirth (but only the finding out and birth (mildly) is described)... Y/N and L/N very sparsely used when I couldn't move around it.
Summary: You and Hotch are desk neighbours in the bullpen, back in a time where Gideon was still unit chief. And the two of you were fairly new agents. Late nights turn into competitions and conversations about anything and everything, until eventually you find each other and flash forward: become the “mom and dad” of the BAU.
A/N: DANDADADAAAAAAAA!!!!! HERE IT IS!!! MY PRIDE AND JOY!! This has been one very long process and i'm so in love with the entire fic, even though I'm super duper tired and pulled way too many long nights writing.
Bon appétit!!!
Also I didn't have the strength to edit this, so hopefully my 2 a.m. writing skills haven't fucked me over completely. 🫣
Christmas came early for you this year, more precisely in September of the year 2000, when you first step into the bullpen of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. There's a lingering scent of stale coffee and freshly printed paper in the air—either it will soon be your favorite smell, or the worst, only time will tell.
There's a constant buzz and popping sounds coming from the fluorescent lights overhead, already begging to give you a migraine if the Bureau doesn't change the tubes soon. Kill me already, you think as you look around, trying to spot Agent Gideon to announce your arrival for your first day.
At twenty-eight, you're fresh out of the Academy, a psychology degree in your toolbox, and one hell of an ability to spot lies through micro expressions, which initially was the reason your attending agent fast-tracked your resume from the bottom of the food chain and straight into Gideon's inbox.
Your transfer papers still feel warm in your hands as you spot Gideon coming toward you. He gives you a quick nod and a small smile before he reaches you.
"Ms. L/N," he stops in front of you. You can already sense that Gideon is a warm person from the cadence of his voice. "Welcome to the team." He extends his hand, and you shake it—it's the kind of handshake that speaks louder than words and says 'I already trust you to keep up'.
"Follow me." And so you do, crossing the bullpen until you reach an empty desk across from a dark-haired agent, hunched over a file and surrounded by several more. His tie is barely loosened, sleeves rolled up, and hair slightly tousled as if he has been running his hands through it in frustration. "That's Agent Hotchner," Gideon says. "He joined us last year. Good man, and the best ex-prosecutor we've managed to steal from the field office in Seattle. You'll be desk neighbors for the foreseeable future."
Agent Hotchner looks up from his file at the introduction and offers you a polite smile before he stands up and extends his hand. "Hotch. Welcome to the unit." He greets.
You shake his hand, wow, his grip is firm, and his hand is warm, you note at the back of your head as you introduce yourself. Gideon's smirk is almost imperceptible as he leaves the two of you, standing at the juncture where your desks connect, hands clasped longer than strictly necessary.
You quickly learn that he's thirty-five, joined the Bureau in '95 after he figured out that he'd rather be catching the killers than prosecuting them for the rest of his life. He's ambitious and plans to one day make director if everything goes to plan, methodical, the kind of guy who color-codes his case notes by the severity of the case, who never leaves a form half-finished, or leaves the office in the middle of writing a report.
And rumor has it that the director is already eyeing him for a leadership role in another unit, despite his current lag of seniority with the Bureau.
And you, your ambitions? Right now, you're just the new kid, hungry to learn and to prove you belong with the travelling profile team, and not just behind your desk from 9-5, scratching notes in the margins of old case files as you study the serial killers the team has already caught.
Neither of you knows it yet, but the rest of your lives just started.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The first few weeks end up being a blur of consultations, training files and videos, observing and learning the rhythm of the unit. The way they speak, the way they move, how they work, basically studying their behaviour to the best of your current training.
Gideon leads the team quietly, mostly keeping to himself in his office and letting his agents run on their own. But he's always willing to lend an ear, or answer a question in a way that is so cryptic and so provocative that it leaves you no other option but to rework your theories and learn even more about the ubsubs. AND YOU LOVE IT.
And then there's you and Hotch, trading polite 'Good mornings', first thing, bringing each other a new cup of coffee from the kitchen if either of you were getting up, and occasionally asking the other for a second pair of eyes on a particularly annoying case file.
It doesn't take long for you to realize that you're both night owls when it comes to work. Cases pile up quickly around here, and not just on your desk, but every desk around the bullpen has a minimum of ten files stacked in the inbox at all times. And while the other agents head home by no later than eight, you and Hotch linger.
You don't plan it at first. It just sort of... happens.
On a late night in October—Gideon has finally deemed you ready to climb a step higher on your case clearances—you're working on your first active serial killer case, a serial arsonist from Oregon, trying to get to the bottom of his MO, reviewing victim statements, mapping timelines, trying to get inside the unsub's head before time runs out and he kills again.
It's not until you finally look up that you realize that the bullpen is empty except for the two of you. It's past midnight, and time has completely run away from you. You rub your eyes, feeling them get heavier and heavier the longer you're looking away from the file in front of you.
Hotch leans back across from you, pulls his arms over his head, and stretches himself as far back as he can. His back is stiff and protesting the many long hours hunched over his desk.
"You know you can go home, right?" He questions, cocking his brow at you. "Gideon's not keeping score about who's here the longest."
"Right, why are you still here then? Don't you have a girlfriend at home?" You retort, you know he can take your push back.
"Touché." He chuckles with a slight huff. Hotch's eyes quickly avert, glancing up at the clock. It's already 12:47 a.m., Haley is asleep by now, and there's no use in him rushing home with a bouquet from the nearest bodega open at this hour. She's used to it by now, it'll be okay, he tells himself.
So, you both keep working. The clock keeps ticking: 1:15, 1:44, 2:13. And finally, 2:30 a.m., you yawn so hard your jaw pops, you can't help but smile as you look over at Hotch, his lips slightly upturned as he tries not to giggle at your sudden burst of noisiness.
"Fine." You mutter in defeat, shutting the Bureau-stamped manila folder. "You win tonight."
"Win?" He looks up from his own file, almost looking confused.
"Yeah! You stayed later tonight. Tomorrow the loser buys coffee—aka me." You stand up from your chair, grab your bag from its usual spot on the floor under your desk, and head for the elevator with a small 'Goodnight, Hotch' as you try to hide the grin currently inhabiting your face.
The next morning, you show up at 7:45 with two coffees in a take-out tray—how you're up and awake after getting less than four hours of sleep, is beyond your knowledge. You place his cup in front of him, black and light roast, you noticed how he took it last week. And yours, almost identical, but with a slash of milk.
"And this is the loser buying?" He raises his brow at you, clearly finding your follow-through amusing.
"Rules are rules, Agent Hotchner."
"Call me Aaron." A small smile tugs at his lips; it's truly the first real one you've seen from him since you joined the BAU.
"Okay, Aaron." You smile back at him.
That night, the game starts, and from that point on, it's on.
The bullpen becomes your battlefield, quiet battlefield that is. No one notices your harmless competition at first. Gideon leaves at five if he can, always with a 'Don't stay too late, kids' on his way past your desks. Anderson waves goodbye around six, and the rest of the agents disappear sporadically sometime between the two, leaving the two of you alone, again.
But you and Hotch? You trade glances across the desks as the team leaves, already trying to figure out which of you will cave first.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
You're working on a case from Billings: three children kidnapped in the past nine weeks, all under ten, all taken from public parks between 5:00 and 7:00 p.m. on weekdays, indicating that the unsub(s?) works a regular 9-5 job. No bodies yet, no ransom demands, no fingerprints, no witnesses who saw more than a dark sedan idling in the parking lot on all three occasions, and a single fresh bootprint near the swings from victim number two's abduction that doesn't match any of the visitors to the park during that time frame.
The photos in the file are the kind that make you feel completely hollowed out as you stare at cheerful, gap-toothed school portraits, birthday parties, one little boy in a Spider-Man costume holding his mother's hand as they went trick or treating last Halloween. And every time you look away, you feel like their eyes follow you, screaming at you, asking why you haven't found them yet.
You've been staring at the timeline from the first victim for forty minutes now, highlighter hovering slightly over the copy you made of the original, trying to force the unsub's pattern to reveal itself to you.
Your chest feels like someone parked their car on it.
It's around 11:30 p.m. when you finally blink away from the case—unable to take another glance at a freckled face with a snotty nose—you realize that Hotch hasn't turned a page in a while. He's watching you instead, elbows resting on his desk, chin resting on his steepled fingers.
He's looking at you, barely containing the fact that he's concerned about you. His eyes are soft, carefully trying to study you, find a clue, anything that can lead him to figure out what's bothering you.
"You okay?" He finally asks, coming to terms with not being able to profile you, yet.
"Just... I hate these ones." You swallow the lump in your throat, not realizing how dry your mouth has become.
Hotch nods once, slowly, understanding you perfectly. "Me too." A moment passes. "Do you want to talk through it, together?"
You do. God! Yes, you do.
You nod.
Hotch rolls his chair around the corner of the desks and straight into your space, stopping so close that your knees nearly touch under the desk. He starts spreading the evidence across the desk, moving pictures, reports, and interview logs into three distinct areas based on which victim the evidence is connected to.
"Okay," he starts, tapping the map in the middle of the desk. "All three abduction zones overlap, here." He circles the elementary school in the middle of the three parks, all exactly six miles away from it. "He has to be local."
"But the presumed comfort zone has a twenty-mile radius out from the school in each direction based on other similar cases," you counter, searching for the ruler, you know it's around here somewhere. Hotch hands it to you. You put it on the map and trace a straight line out from the school and circle the perimeter with a compass. "He's risking a lot of travel time with a live child in the car." You state, staring at the now visual preliminary comfort zone.
"Which means he's either extremely confident, or doesn't fit the regular profile for these types of cases. He most likely has a location nearby, where he holds the kids first." Hotch reaches for the highlighter at the same moment you do. You both freeze, then laugh.
"Sorry," he chuckles, but doesn't move his hand away, letting it linger for a moment as your thumbs and pointer fingers stay slightly interlocked with each other.
"By all means, Mr. Unit Chief-in-training," you tease him, letting him take the highlighter. Hotch told you last night, over a fairly sad and beige plate of leftover canteen food, that the director had approached him about becoming Unit chief of the National Security Branch. Which he had declined, arguing that, for one, he didn't feel that his time with the BAU was a closed chapter yet, and two, the commute to DC during morning rush hour was terrible, and he'd be seeing Haley even less than he already did.
Instead, the director had "offered" Hotch training courses in what it takes to be a Unit Chief—in Hotch's own words, it was more of a 'take the offer, or you're fired' kind of negotiation in the end.
"Not for years, hopefully." He snorts. Leaving it at that.
For the next two hours, the bullpen shrinks down to a tiny desk island, current inhabitants: 2.
You argue about possible stressors—job loss? Divorce? Death? It's hard to tell when a body hasn't shown up yet. You discuss whether the lack of a body could indicate that the unsub is sexually assaulting these kids, if he could be impotent, or simply isn't motivated by traditional dominance and "need" the kids for a bigger purpose—potentially trafficking.
You map possible locations within the perimeter, abandoned farms, storage unit facilities, and closed-down gyms on the edge of town, but quickly scrap those ideas, recognizing that most likely, he's keeping them trapped in a basement somewhere—or something similar.
Every time one of you hits a wall, the other is already there, ready to take over with a new angle.
At one point, you're both leaning over the same photograph of the third victim, missing for six days now, and despite your shoulders pressing together, neither of you does or seems to want to shift away from the other.
"Do you think she's still alive?" You ask, turning your head to look at him, the tips of your noses merely inches away from each other.
"I'll believe that, yes. Until we have a body, we'll keep searching for them all."
The clock on the wall ticks past 2:00 a.m. Your eyes are burning, but the fog around the profile is finally lifting, taking shape, teaching you more and more about what might drive this unsub to abduct children under ten.
You lean back in your chair, rolling your neck until it cracks.
"I can't, not tonight," you admit, mostly to yourself. "My brain's turning to mush, and I fear we're minutes away from me babbling pure nonsense." You smile at him.
Hotch looks at you for a moment, taking in the cloudy look in your eyes, the way you yawn every few minutes, the way you fiddle with the pen in your left hand, trying to keep yourself busy and awake.
He says your name softly. "You win this round." He leans back, looking exhausted, yet amused at the confusion slowly spreading across your face. "Coffee, tomorrow, on me. You take it black with a splash of milk still, right?" He questions.
You blink at him. You never told him that. And he certainly never has had to buy you coffee before.
"I pay attention." He winks before rolling back around to his own desk.
And as you get up to grab your coat, you can't help but glance back at him, still sitting at his desk, but instead of being nose deep in his own files, he's watching you as you leave, with an expression you can't quite place, but all you know, is that currently, a very taken man is making your chest feel full.
You have no idea that twenty-five years from now, this night, is still one of those you look back at with fond memories, realizing that it was the first time you let him see you vulnerable due to a case and the first time—of many—he rolled his chair over, just because you needed him close.
All you know for now is that the case still feels like it has no ending, that three children are still out there somewhere, waiting to be rescued. And for the first time all week, you finally believe that you'll bring these kids home, one way or another.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The competition between you becomes your thing. Unspoken and at times a little ridiculous, but nonetheless perfect in its own sleep-deprived kind of way.
Some nights you win—or as you've come to believe, he lets you win—he trudges in the next morning with two coffees in hand, but is met by a steaming latte waiting on his desk, with a pink sticky note stuck to it saying "Loser" in thick, sharpie lines. On those days, Hotch just huffs, raises his brows, and tries to contain his giggles as he shakes his head at you.
Most nights, he wins, and you return every single time with a black coffee, trying all the different shops along your commute until you find the one you swear you hear him slightly moan at when he takes the first sip.
On his winning days, Hotch somehow always ends up bringing you breakfast, because he knows by now that you would rather sleep thirty more minutes than get up and eat.
The 'Good mornings' no longer feel like necessary politeness, but rather like two friends greeting each other for another, looong, day at work.
The nights become yours entirely along the way, the bullpen giving way to real conversations after midnight, that aren't just: can you take a look at this? Or, do you want anything to drink?
It starts innocently enough one evening when you're both nursing the terrible vending-machine coffee, which is sour, most likely because the machine hasn't been cleaned since the day it was installed in the corridor.
The bullpen is down to the two of you again, the floor dark except for the soft glow from each of your desk lamps.
You're working together on a case for Gideon, something about his two brightest agents working together on something important, or... something ;). You're both running on empty as you keep going through crime scene statements from the field office in Oregon.
Hotch's gaze drifts up from the legal pad he's been scratching notes on all evening as you rub your temples. You hope that you somehow, within the past hour, gained the ability to massage new knowledge into your brain. Because this case feels like you're looking for a needle in a needle stack.
His eyes don't stay on you for long; instead, they glide toward the corner of your desk. And there, half-buried under a stack of fabric analysis reports, lay your battered paperback of Persuasion.
The cover is soft from years and years of rereading, the spine cracked in all the places you love most.
He reaches over without asking and carefully pries it out of the stack. Hotch turns it over in his hands, like he's weighing a pound of meat in the grocery store.
"Jane Austen? In the middle of researching a firebug?" He says, voice low and a little rough from the many long nights and too little sleep. Although his words come as questions, you don't feel like he's judging you for your choice. "That's a new one."
You lean slightly back in your chair, rolling your shoulders until they pop. You look at him, trying to figure out where his sudden fascination with your reading material comes from.
"She's my reset button," you finally say, giving in to his questions. "When everything else feels like chaos, Jane somehow manages to put the world back in order."
He nods.
"I've read this one," Hotch admits, and it almost sounds like he's surprised at his own statement. He quickly glances up at you, waiting for a reaction, before flipping it open carefully, his thumb brushing the edge of a page you've clearly read a hundred times. It's annotated with several different pens and colors, indicating each time you returned to the story.
"You've read Persuasion?" You raise a brow at him.
He nods once, slowly. "Third year of law school. I couldn't turn my brain off after a criminal law final. So, I went to the library, found the most boring-looking book I could on the shelves at two in the morning." Hotch's lips pull slightly up as he sees the—fake—disgust/hurt crossing your features as he messes with you. "I started reading it to bore myself to sleep. Ended up finishing it at sunrise instead."
You stare at him for a moment, trying to picture a younger Aaron Hotchner, tired eyes, ruffled hair, college shirt, and maybe even sweatpants, curled up in his awful dorm room bed with a two-hundred-year-old love story.
The image is so unexpectedly soft and fuzzy that it makes something warm spread through your chest.
"So the stoic prosecutor is secretly a softie for second-chance romance." You try to tease him, but your voice ends up coming out softer than you meant to. In the end, you don't really want to tease him about it, because you're in awe of the fact that a man, yes, a man‚ read a "girly" classic, without complaining.
It doesn't take long for Hotch to huff out a quiet laugh and place the book back down. He doesn't push it back across the desk right away, just gently keeps his fingers curled around the edges.
"It's not the romance," he says, eyeing the cover. "It's the waiting. The way someone can walk away and still come back when the timing finally lines up. The idea that some things are worth the years in between."
There's something in the way he speaks about the story that changes the air between you, thickens it, makes it feel like the exact moment the wind stops blowing after a storm, the exact moment the sun peaks out after the rain. The exact moment you realize that you might be catching feelings for an unavailable man.
"Yeah," you manage, swallowing the lump in your throat. "That part always gets me, too."
Hotch looks up, meets your eyes, case files forgotten, no profile, no pretense. Just the two of you and the quiet that follows as you stare into each other's eyes.
"Some people are worth the wait," he smiles, so quietly you almost miss it entirely.
Your breath catches in your throat for a split second. You don't answer him, you don't have to, not now, maybe never, but the look in his eyes tells you everything you need to know, for now.
He finally slides the book back to you, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second as you reach out to tug it fully over the line between your desks. You curl your hand around the cover, feeling the contact buzzing in your fingertips.
Neither of you opens another file for a long time.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
It's no less than a week later. The bullpen smells like soy sauce and noodles. You're sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite each other, with your backs leaning against your desk's leg and whoever owns the desk next to you. Various boxes of—none authentic—Chinese takeaway surround you, everything from deep-fried meats, rice with curry sauce, noodles with some sort of sweet and sour sauce, and so on.
The food isn't exactly the greatest, but it was the best option at this hour of the night.
The conversation has drifted from case theories to anything but.
You nudge the carton of rice toward him with your chopsticks, hoping that he will eat the last of it, because it is actually awful and you don't want to punish your taste buds with it even more than you've already done. "Come on, Hotchner. You can't hold out on me forever. Worst first date. Go!"
Hotch groans and leans his head back against the desk. He closes his eyes for a split second, praying for strength, cause he knows you won't rest the case until he has told you exactly what went down. "Fine. It's Seattle ´95. I just joined the bureau, and Haley and I decided to take a break to test our relationship. A friend of a friend swore he'd found a perfect match for me. She shows up with a three-ring binder full of pictures. Not of her, but of her cat. Mr. Whiskers—"
"—No way!" You interject.
"Yes way!! Anyway, the binder starts with kitten pictures, then moves to vacation shots from a trip to the French countryside, then..." Hotch drags a hand down his face. "She proceeded to spend forty-five minutes describing the colonoscopy he had a week prior. In detail. I'm talking diagrams, recovery timelines, medication, specialty diet he went on afterward, vet notes. Everything! I ended up timing how long I could go without making eye contact with the waiter. The record was eleven minutes."
"Stop! Please! I can't breathe." You wheeze out, trying to compose yourself, but it's to no avail, so you press your forehead to your knees, trying to quiet your laughs down.
Hotch peeks at you through his fingers, grinning, hands covering his face. "Your turn! Don't think you can get out of telling your worst one!"
"Okay, Okay!" You wipe your eyes, "It's a bar here in Quantico, two years ago. Guy says he's a 'trekkie with a capital T.' He shows up in the red command uniform. Shirt, phaser, badge, the works. Greets me with a Vulcan salute and asks if I'd like to 'boldly go where no man has ever gone before...' to Denny's at 3 in the morning. Then he tries to pay for my coffee with replicator credits he printed in his mom's basement."
Hotch drops his head and laughs. "You win," he manages through uncontrained bursts of giggles. "At least Mr. Whiskers had personality."
"Mr. Whiskers had detailed medical records," you counter. "It's safe to say that you win this one with crazy Ms. catlady."
"Let's never speak of replicator credits or catladies ever again." Hotch points his chopstick at you before he leans over and steals the last few noodles, emptying another box.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The child-abduction case from Billings, finally, finally, is blessedly closed. All three children were found curled up in the crawl space of the unsub's garage, dehydrated, in various states, but alive—all of them are alive. You sighed loudly and extremely heavily the second the news hit your inbox.
You've spent most of the time since the news broke searching up articles, watching videos of the police and field office agents breaking down the unsub's door, and several different news coverages, everything you can find on the ending of your first nightmare case.
It feels like the first real deep breath you've been able to take in the past two weeks.
You sit on top of your desk, cross-legged, one elbow on your knee, with your head resting in your palm, while the other hand stirs a cube of sugar into the cup of tea you're making.
Your shoes are kicked off somewhere under your desk—because you're a civilised person who doesn't put dirty footwear on the furniture.
Hotch sits across from you in his usual spot, leaning back in his chair, his head tipped back, and his eyes closed—it's been a long day.
His tie is wrapped around your head, something that happened around hour five after the team left, when you both had a sudden burst of insanity. The top button on his shirt is undone, and his sleeves are rolled as far up as he allows himself—which is to the elbow, like a normal person.
Hotch opens his eyes slightly, watching you as you lift your mug and take the first sip, burning your tongue in the process.
"They're really okay," you say, voice small and quiet in the massive expanse of the bullpen. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop." You admit.
He leans forward, now resting his elbows on the edge of his desk, and puts his head in his hands, looking at you. "They're okay, because we didn't stop," he says. "Because you didn't forget them, because you didn't stop."
You place the mug back down and slowly slide off the desk. It's almost as if you're thinking the same thing, because he stands up too, and you meet at the line where your desks meet and embrace each other. Needing the reassurance. Your arms wrap around his waist as his chin comes to rest on the crown of your head.
For a long time, neither of you speaks, you just stand there. Embraced.
"Thank you," you finally whisper, pulling your head out from under his chin to look up at him. "For not letting me fall apart on this one."
"You were never falling apart," his arms tighten slightly. "Everyone has that type of case that gets to them more often than not. And you tend to... feel everything. Mine are the ones about fathers and sons."
"Will you tell me about it one day?" You ask, sensing that there's something buried deep within his person, something he wants to talk about, but also something he fears will change the way people view him.
He nods. "Maybe someday."
It's not until an hour later, when you're packing up to leave, that you finally speak again.
"Why'd you really join?" You ask, unprompted.
"My dad was a lawyer," he states, stuffing the last of his things into his bag. "Old-school, 'justice is blind' type. Expected me and my brother Sean to follow him into corporate law, make partner by thirty-five, marry well, die respected." His mouth turns into a frown. "Then I watched a serial rapist walk away because his dad played golf with the judge. I was twenty-seven. Decided I wanted to stop them instead of arguing about whether they were guilty or not. That's the gist of it." He waves his hand in the air at the last part. "Your turn."
"My mom moved us to Ohio when I was a kid because her dream was to open a diner off the I-70," you pick at the label on your water bottle before packing it into your bag. "Open 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. every day, no fail except on Christmas and Thanksgiving. I saw and observed my fair share of truckers, cops, runaway teens, cheating husbands, and plotting wives, you know the works. I started waiting tables when I was twelve. Learned to read people before I even knew what algebra meant. The regulars had patterns: the way Mr. Henderson always ordered decaf after church, how Tammy, the night cook, flinched when men raised their voices. I figured out who was lying over time, who was running from something, who was one bad day away from becoming one of the very people we hunt. I thought... if I could understand why people turn into monsters, that maybe I could keep someone else from becoming the next scared person hiding in a diner bathroom, because their abuser tracked them down." You shrug, a little embarrassed. "I don't know, it sounds a little stupid when I say it out loud."
"It doesn't," he says. "It sounds like the reason we're both still here on a Thursday at 2 a.m."
Over time, you learn more and more about each other.
He tells you about summers on the James River, catching catfish with his little brother Sean, his mother's gardenias that smelled exactly like church on Sunday mornings.
You tell him about your mom teaching you to make pie crust with vodka, because it keeps it tender apparently, about the jukebox that only played Springsteen and The Beatles, because it was broken and you couldn't afford to have it fixed. About the night you caught a line cook stealing from the register and talked him into turning himself in instead of telling your mom and calling the cops.
You learn that he hates peas, but will eat them if they're hidden in a pie or casserole dish. He learns you secretly love cheesy 80's ballads and sing them in the shower like nobody's watching, cause they aren't obviously. You learn that he still has a worn copy of 'The Federalist Papers', which his father gave him when he was accepted into law school, even though they barely spoke before he died. He learns that you lost your mom in a car crash during college, but that she would send you care packages every month with your favorite homemade dishes and a note that always read: "Don't let the bastards get you down, honey."
Piece by piece, you trade small, sacred details of your lives over burnt coffee, like kids swapping baseball cards in the school yard, only these feel like they matter more.
Neither of you wants to admit it out loud, but somewhere between the midnight house, laughter, and brutal cases, your desks stop feeling like two separate entities and start feeling like shared territory.
It's not about who stays the latest anymore.
It's about who you want to stay the latest with.
By mid-December, you're both pretending to read your reports through before delivering them to Gideon's inbox and heading home, but really, you're talking about everything and nothing at all. The best pizza places in the D.C. area, whether aliens would be evil and turn into unsubs, and his terrible attempt at baking cookies last Christmas as an apology to Haley for not being home enough.
"I should go." You yawn, barely able to keep your eyes open.
He looks up. "Yeah. Me too."
Neither of you moves, neither of you wants to move.
"Truce?" You finally laugh, figuring your little competition was having a flare again.
Hotch just smiles and closes his eyes. "Truce. Coffee's on me tomorrow, though. No loser this time."
"Deal, Aaron." You grab your coat from the back of your chair and start heading home.
You've nearly made it through the first six months of your first year now.
The bullpen is once again dead quiet, and half the lights are off except for your two desk lamps that burn like two tiny campfires in the dark.
You're both still here, as usual, finishing a couple of overdue reports and sometimes even pretending to work before the silence turns into silly conversations.
You've won the last three nights in a row, meaning Hotch has shown up every morning with a coffee, exactly how you like it. But there's something about the past couple of days that has been feeling off about him. You don't know what it is, but it's not like him to leave work before 8 p.m.
Tonight, though, something's definitely off. He's been staring at the same page for twenty minutes now. Pen hasn't moved, not even jotting a tiny dot down on his pad by accident. His shoulders are rigid, and his jaw clenched like he's biting words back he doesn't want nor know how to say.
"Aaron." You say as you close your file.
He blinks, looks up from his own file, like he forgot you were there. "Yeah?"
"You've read that autopsy report four times now, and you still look like you want to set it on fire. What's going on? Talk to me." Your voice cracks slightly; you hope he didn't catch it, but you know better—he's a profiler, for Christ's sake, he notices everything.
He exhales through his nose and sets the pen down, harder than he intended to, you can tell by the slight surprise in his eyes at the sound. "I'm fine." He mutters, his words short and almost sounding clipped.
"You're the worst liar I've ever met, and we profile liars for a living, remember." You roll your chair around the corner of the desks until you're sitting beside him instead of across. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension around his mouth, the stubble starting to show, which is the biggest indicator that something is definitely wrong—he never neglects his grooming habits, never. "Come on. It's me."
Hotch glances at the clock.
"No one else is here. Spill." You try again.
He rubs a hand over his face, and for a long, very long, minute you think that he's about to shut you down, to tell you to keep your nose to yourself, maybe even go as far as telling you it's none of your business—Hotch would never go that far, not with you.
Then he leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. You don't know if it's a strategic move or just his subconscious way of trying to avoid confrontation.
"Haley ended it," he says, voice so low, so dead, that you almost miss it. "Last week."
Haley's name lands between the two of you like a brick being thrown through a window. You know, Haley, you've seen the framed photo he kept on his desk—come to think of it, it recently disappeared. Why didn't he say anything?—You've met Haley.
Haley, the high-school sweetheart, Haley, the prom-queen, Haley, the future-Mrs.-Hotchner.
"I'm sorry," you finally speak, because it feels too small and too big at the same time. You don't really know how to react. You're sad for Aaron, really sad, but you also know exactly how many hours he spends in the office compared to at home. So you completely get Haley.
He gives a tight shrug, trying to seem casual, but it doesn't come off that way. "We'd been together since we were sixteen. She waited while I attended George Washington, waited through law school, waited through the Academy, through Seattle. She said that she couldn't keep waiting for a life that never really started." His voice cracks, catching on the last word; he clears his throat like it never happened. "The hours here... they're worse than in the field office. Before you started with the team, I came home around 3 a.m. and left again by seven, before she even woke up. Sometimes I'd forget to call to tell her I would be home late. She said I was married to the job." Hotch lets out a laugh. "She isn't wrong."
You don't say anything, not yet; he has more he needs to get off his chest, you can tell. You watch him pick up the pen again, roll it between his fingers like he needs something to do with his hands to keep himself focused.
"She wanted kids," he continues, this time quieter. "A house with a yard and a dog. Normal things, really. And I kept telling her soon, soon, soon, after the next case, after I make supervisor, after, after, after." He finally looks at you, his eyes glaze over in a way you've never seen before. He's always so strong; you're usually the one on the brink of tears. "Turns out 'after' never comes."
Your chest aches for you. You reach out without thinking and cover his hand with yours on the desk. He flinches, just barely, stops rolling the pen, and lets your fingers stay, your thumb gently brushing the back of his hand in a, hopefully, calming motion.
"You're allowed to be upset, Aaron."
"I'm not upset, I'm angry," he admits. "At her for giving up on us, at myself for—" he trails off, "for letting it happen. For choosing this over my partner." He gestures vaguely at the files, at the bullpen, at the life. You know he isn't referring to you, but it stings a little as he says it, knowing that you're a part of this. "I don't know how to be anything... anyone else anymore."
"You're not alone in that," you say, exhaling softly. "Half this unit is allergic to normal. Doesn't mean it makes us broken and unlovable. Just... a little complicated."
Hotch huffs out a tiny laugh; it doesn't quite reach his eyes, but at least he didn't look sad for a split second. "Complicated. Right."
Silence settles between you. Your thumb brushes a last time across the back of his hand before you pull away, rolling your chair backward toward your side of the desks.
He clears his throat, which stops you in your tracks, and sits up straighter. "Anyway. That's... that's why I've been..." He waves at his untouched—now cold—cup of coffee and the unread pages of the autopsy report.
"Thank you for telling me."
"You're easy to talk to. Dangerously easy, do you drug my coffee in the mornings or something?" He jokes, meeting your eyes, finally letting the real Aaron break through.
"Dangerous is my middle name," you deadpan before sending a quick wink in his direction. He bursts out laughing, and you follow quickly after.
When you both come back down to reality, Hotch glances at the clock. "You should go home. Get some sleep."
"So should you."
"Truce?" A asks after a beat.
"Truce," you agree.
You both start packing up, very slowly, neither of you wants to leave, not yet. When you reach the elevators, he holds the door open for you.
"Hey," you smile, turning to him as the doors slide shut. "Tomorrow, the coffee's on me."
He looks at you for a moment before softening with a grateful expression.
"I'd like that," he says.
And just like that, as the elevator starts its descent, you and Hotch leave the office before midnight for the first time since your first day sitting across from him.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
You make it all the way to the women's restroom on the fifth floor—the one no one uses and especially not after 5 p.m.—before you crack.
The door swings behind you before shutting completely—you definitely pushed it open too hard—and the fluorescent tube lights flicker once as the automatic censor turns them on.
You take the stall farthest back and lock yourself inside, hang your bag on the hook, close the seat, and crawl onto the toilet. You draw your knees to your chest, praying that if anyone actually comes in, they won't notice your hiding spot.
And that's when everything hits, all at once.
The hospice doctor's voicemail from earlier, the one you didn't get to listen to until now, two hours later, because you were in a meeting.
"We need to talk about whether your father qualifies for continuous care still... costs could increase significantly..."
The email from their accounting department lay untouched in your inbox, because you're already hemorrhaging your savings on uncovered medications and day rates on his room alone.
The consult file on your desk that's due tomorrow, but you haven't touched yet, because every time you try to read the victimology, your eyes fill and the words blur, leaving you unable to map the profile.
The way your dad didn't recognize you for a full ten minutes yesterday when you went for a visit, he just stared at the ceiling and called you "Linda,"—his sister's name, who died in 1987. Most days, he remembers you, but the days he doesn't hurt, hurt more than you want to admit.
Your chest starts hitching before you can stop it, and you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, like it's physically possible to shove the tears back in. Still, they come anyway—hot, messy, silent at first, but then end with those awful choked noises you can't swallow, the ones when you've been crying too long and can't catch your breath.
You're terrified that you're going to lose your job if anyone finds out how badly you're drowning. That you won't be able to finish another profile or report ever again.
You're terrified of losing your dad, terrified of not being there with him when it happens, terrified of being alone, orphaned. You're not ready, and you'll never be.
You're terrified that the last real thing he said to you, before he started slipping, was 'Don't spend all your savings on me, honey,' and you lied and told him you wouldn't.
You cry until your throat is raw and your sleeves are soaked and your ribs hurt from trying to keep it quiet as physically possible. You count the ceiling tiles—twenty-seven—and try those Bureau-recommended breathing exercises that were attached to your welcome package. But they don't work when the bad thing is real life, and not a case you can close and happily forget.
Eventually, the storm passes—somewhat—leaving you shaky and hollowed out, barely able to stand on your legs—Great, Bambi, it is for the rest of the day, you think. You exit the stall and splash cold water on your face. Your eyes are swollen, nose red and running. You look like you have the wildest case of seasonal allergies... or like someone who's been crying in a federal building—which is exactly what you have.
You rummage around your bag and dig concealer out, dab it under your eyes, praying it'll cover the worst of it. You tell yourself you can do this. You're a profiler—in-training. You can compartmentalize. You work with cool people, people who've stared down serial killers at gunpoint; you can survive one more day of pretending everything is fine.
You practice a smile in the mirror, but end up looking like a corpse pretending to be alive.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket as you're about to push the door open and emerge back into reality. You almost ignore it, but something feels weird, which makes you answer.
"(Y/N)? It's Dr. Singh. I'm sorry to call so late. Your father's asking for you, and I promised to relay the message. He's lucid tonight. If you can come–"
"—I'll be there in thirty." You cut her off, your voice only wobbles a little. You hike your bag further up your shoulder and head out, walking out of the bathroom, slightly hurried, but as if nothing happened.
You don't see Hotch standing at the far end of the hallway, half-hidden by the vending machines, holding two fresh—awful—coffees he came up to deliver, worried about you, when he noticed you'd been gone a little too long.
He watches the restroom door swing shut behind you, watches you swipe under your nose one last time before you enter the elevator with a spine that is entirely too straight and with a smile too bright for you to be okay.
He makes it his mission to figure out what's going on with you, the same way you kept 'pestering' him about his bad day.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
A few weeks later, the hospice parking lot is still dark when you pull in. The sky is just starting to fade into that bruised-purple color it gets before sunrise.
You sit in your car for a minute, gripping the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, telling yourself you can do this. You've done this before. You've done it every morning for weeks.
One more time. You can do it one more time. You tell it to yourself every morning before work.
Inside, the night nurse gives you a small smile and waves you through as she's doing the handover to the next shift.
The hallway always smells the same—antiseptic, instant oatmeal, and something faintly sweet that you've decided is hopelessness trying to be kind to you, but is definitely spilled orange juice that dried before it got mobbed up completely.
Room 214 is dim; the bedside table lamp is turned on. Your dad is awake, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like he's waiting, waiting for something you can't see.
You pull the chair next to his bed closer and take his hand in yours. It's cold. Lighter than yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Every day, you never expect how much his health has declined compared to the day before.
"Morning, Dad." You greet softly.
He turns his head slowly, and for one heartbreaking second, his eyes focus on you—really focus. Not like usual, when he's there, but not really there at all.
"There's my girl," he rasps, voice shaky and lower than a whisper. A small smile tugs at his cracked lips. "You're too pretty to be up this early, honey."
You laugh, it sounds a little wet, but thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice. "Had to beat the awful D.C traffic," you joke. "How'd you sleep?"
"Like a dead man," he says, then winces, seeing the pained expression crawl into your eyes. "Bad joke. Sorry, kiddo."
"Don't be sorry. If anything, you're allowed bad jokes, dad." You squeeze his fingers, hoping it comes off as reassuring and not pitying.
You talk about nothing important, because everything important hurts too much right now. You tell him the Reds won last night—they didn't, but he won't know, and what's a little white lie when you're putting a smile on a dying man's lips.
You tell him about the stray cat that keeps visiting the dumpster behind your apartment, the one you've considered adopting, but can't bring you to, because you're never home.
He tells you the nurses have started sneaking him extra Jell-O and that the ceiling tiles above his bed look exactly like the 1965 Mustang he and your mom still drove when you were born.
You pretend his breathing isn't getting shallower with every passing minute.
At 6:45 a.m., he starts to drift off, eyes fluttering shut, fighting to stay awake. You lean in and kiss his forehead, tasting salt and the lingering aroma of the hospice soap. "I love you, dad," you whisper, trying not to wake him up. "I'll be back tonight, okay? We'll watch that awful game show you really like."
He manages a barely there nod, already half asleep.
You stand in the doorway to his room for a moment longer, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest under the thin blanket, barely keeping him warm. Then you force yourself to turn away, needing to get to work.
Dr. Singh is waiting by the nurses' station, arms folded, expression trying to stay gentle, but you sense the seriousness in her stance. She touches your elbow as you pass. "Can we talk for a minute?"
Your heart drops straight through the floor. You already know what's coming, but you follow her into the family room anyway—the one with the faded couch and the box of tissues that never seems to empty.
She closes the door behind her and sits down in a chair opposite you. "I'm sorry to do this when you're on your way out."
"It's okay," you lie.
She's close enough that you can smell the coffee on her breath and the hand sanitizer she reapplies after every patient she visits. "The latest labs came back overnight," she folds her hands and leans slightly forward. "His kidneys are failing faster than we expected. The infection isn't responding to anything we have left." She pauses, lets the information settle. "Realistically, we're looking at days. Maybe three to five if we're lucky. A week would be... optimistic at best."
The words land exactly like you knew they would, but hearing them spoken out loud still knocks the air out of you.
Days.
You stare at your hands resting in your lap, watching them slightly begin to shake. You twist the silver ring he gave you when you graduated college, the one that used to belong to your mother.
"Is he... suffering?" You question, voice coming out small and on the brink of tears.
"We've increased the morphine. He's comfortable. Most of the time he's not in any pain at all—he's just... slipping away peacefully, if that makes sense to you." She reaches over and covers your hands with hers. "You've done everything right. He knows you're here; he talks about you every time he's awake." She smiles, trying to reassure you.
You nod, because speaking feels absolutely impossible. Tears blur your vision now, turning the room into watercolor streaks.
"Call anyone who needs to be here to say goodbye," she says softly. "And take care of yourself, too. You've done so much for him; you don't have to be strong every second you're here. It's okay to not be okay." She reassures.
You wipe your eyes with the tips of your fingers. "Thank you."
She walks you to the door. "We'll call if anything changes, day or night. No matter what it is."
You step out into the hallway, pull your coat tighter around you, almost as if it alone can hold you together. The morning sun is finally breaking through the windows. You stand in the hallway for a long time, breathing in the antiseptic air as you try to make the world feel solid beneath your feet once again.
Then, you take one last deep breath, square your shoulders, and walk out to your car. You start the drive to the Academy—because right now, putting one foot in front of the other is the only thing you know how to do, the only thing that seems easy to do right now.
You badge yourself in on autopilot, through the several security checkpoints, until you sit down at your desk. It feels like it takes an hour alone just to make it to the bullpen, the bullpen who's already half-alive—phones ringing, printers printing, Anderson probably running another errand for section chief Strauss... because of course he is, he's the biggest teacher's pet you've ever met.
Your desk is exactly how you left it last night, except there's a fresh coffee waiting in front of your monitor with a post-it note stuck to the to-go cup in Hotch's neat block handwriting:
Latte, two sugars, thought you could use something a little sweet.
— A
You drop your back beneath your desk and sink into your chair before you wrap both hands around the cup like it's the only thing able to warm your cold, cold soul.
The coffee tastes like nothing—Which probably isn't true, but to you, you taste nothing.
Hotch looks up from his desk, eyes flick over you once, twice, cataloging everything your body language tells him: red-rimmed eyes, trembling fingers, the way you're sitting too slouched as if you've given up, like you'll shatter if anyone as much as blinks at you the wrong way.
"Morning," he says softly, tempted to ask questions, but sensing that you need time, how long he doesn't know, but you need time to just be.
"Morning." Your voice is gravel-rough.
He waits, giving you an opening to talk, giving you the opening you always take, to tell him what's going on. But you don't take it. You just open the first file in the pile stacking up in your inbox, and stare at the words. Although they refuse to form any coherent sentences in your head right now.
By eight, Gideon stops by your desk to drop off the Atlanta consult you worked on last week, asking for a few revisions to the profile with a: "Need these by noon."
You nod.
He hesitates, too, sensing that something is up. He glances at Hotch, with a subtle shrug and a look that's asking all the questions Hotch doesn't have the answers to.
Hotch just nods back, signalling that he has it under control—he doesn't. Gideon lets the two of you be.
Later in the morning, you're proofreading the same paragraph over and over when Hotch's chair rolls from his own side of the desks and into your peripheral vision.
"Hey," he whispers, keeping his voice so low that no one outside of your desk bubble had any chance of catching the conversation. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." It comes out snappier than intended, but honestly, you have very little control over your emotions lately, and Hotch is so... so comfortable to be around that you can't help it.
"You don't look fine."
"I look how I look. I'm here, I'm working. I'm fine!" You flip to the next page harder than necessary, your emotions getting the better of you.
He doesn't move. "You missed the staff meeting."
"I was in the restroom," technically true; you were hiding in a stall trying not to hyperventilate. "Is that illegal now?"
He leans his side over your desk, face popping into your field of vision. He doesn't take your hand, but you can tell he wants to, that he wants to squeeze it, to reassure you, to let you know that everything will be okay, even though he doesn't know what's going on. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." The words come out like venom. You barely manage to soften as you turn your attention completely to your file. "I just need to get this done."
"You're shaking." He states, studying you.
You glance down, your left hand is indeer trembling around the pen. You drop it on the desk, curl your fingers into a fist, and crack your knuckles. "I said. I'm fine, Agent Hotchner." You spit at him.
His eyebrows shoot up at the use of his last name. You never call him anything but his name anymore; you rarely use Hotch, only when mentioning him around the other team members.
He lowers his voice further. "Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone. I'm here to lend an ear if you need it."
Something inside you snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight.
"I'm not some victim you need to profile, okay?" It comes out loud enough that the agents at the cluster of desks right next to yours glance over, confused that Batman and Robin apparently are 'fighting'.
You drop your volume but not the edge. "I don't need rescuing. I need to finish this damn consult before Gideon decides I'm useless, not cut out for the job. So please! Just. Back. Off."
The bullpen goes quieter than it has any right to at nine-thirty in the morning.
Hotch's face doesn't change, but something appears to shudder behind his eyes. He gives a single, tight nod. "Understood." He says and rolls his chair back to his desk.
He doesn't look at you again for the rest of the day.
The rest of the day is a special kind of hell. Its own kind of nightmare that you can't seem to wake from.
You power through the consult revisions, finally feeling like you're making progress—if that's what you can call it. Every keystroke feels like dragging nails across your own skin. You skip lunch, because the thought of food makes you nauseous. You drink more coffee that tastes like nothing. Answers a few emails in short, brittle sentences.
When Agent Damien asks if you want to join the afternoon run to the food trucks, you bite out "Can't" so harshly that he, for once, doesn't try to pester you into joining. He just leaves you be.
The floor has mostly cleared out by six. You, too, are packing up, movements jerky when Hotch appears again, coat draped over his arm.
"I'm heading out," he says, his tone neutral. "You need a ride?"
"I have a car." Your voice is flat.
He nods, like that was the answer he had expected. "Just... text me when you get home, please."
"I don't need a babysitter, Aaron."
"I'm not offering to babysit," his voice is concerningly calm, but there's still an edge of steel underneath it. "I'm asking you to let me know that you made it home safely, because you're clearly upset, and I don't want to read your name in the headlines tomorrow morning. Humor me, please."
You want to snap again. Instead, the fight drains out of you all at once, leaving you swaying for a bit, not really knowing what to say.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know." He cuts you off, steps closer, and lowers his voice so it feels more intimate. "Whatever happened this morning, whenever you're ready. I'm here. No judgement. No profiling. Just... here. But ripping my head off won't make you feel any better; it'll only delay whatever explosion you clearly need to have."
Your eyes start to burn. You nod once, faster than intended, before the tears can fall in front of him. You don't want to cry in front of him, don't want him to view you any differently.
He hesitates, then reaches out and squeezes your shoulder before walking toward the elevators.
You watch him leave, throat tight, guilt and grief tangled together so thoroughly that you can't tell which is which and which of them you're feeling the strongest right now.
You wait for a moment, then grab your bag, shut off your desk lamp, and head down to the parking lot through the back stairs.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The bullpen is a ghost town, and it's just you and Hotch once again. The case files in front of you blur into meaningless ink on paper as your thoughts drift toward your father.
You're both quieter than usual tonight, the tension from your snap three days ago still lingers like a bruise neither of you wants to touch. He hasn't pushed the matter since, and you know that he isn't holding a grudge, but you keep catching him watching you when he thinks you're not looking, trying to read you, trying to figure out what's going on.
You're not ready to tell him, tell anybody—maybe never.
Your phone vibrates under a few scattered files, and when you finally find it, the words: HOSPICE, slap you straight in the face. It feels like your heart stops, then lurches into your throat, all the while a pit is forming in your stomach.
You grab the phone and stand so fast that you nearly tip your chair over. Hotch looks up at the sudden noise.
"I'll be right back," you mutter, already halfway out the door.
Hotch just nods, eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn't say anything.
You make it to the hallway and lean against the wall by the vending machines, the ones out of sight from the glass doors into the bullpen, before you answer with a voice you barely recognize as your own. "Hello?"
"Hi (Y/N), this is Dr. Singh." Her tone is soft, a little too soft, you think, it's the kind of soft that can only mean bad news, really, really bad news, so you brace yourself, crossing your fingers. "I'm so sorry," she starts. "Your father passed about ten minutes ago. It was very peaceful, he was sleeping and his heart just... stopped." You can tell she's trying to lessen the blow by her phrasing.
But the world still tilts, everything blurs, and it feels like you've had your skull bashed in with a sledgehammer. You slide down the wall to a crouch, phone still pressed to your ear. You hear the words, but not really processing them.
Passed. Peaceful. Stopped.
They play on loop.
"Are you there?" Dr. Singh asks gently when you don't answer her.
"Yeah," you croak out after another few silent seconds. "I... thank you for calling." You blink back tears, trying to keep yourself composed enough to get through the rest of this call.
"Do you want to come in now? We can talk about next steps—"
"—I'll... I'll call back later. I need a minute." You cut her off."
"Of course. Take your time. I'm on the night shift, so you can send me a message if you'll be stopping by tonight." She reassures.
You don't answer her, just hang up. The phone slips from your hand and clatters on the tile. You don't bother looking at your screen—it's probably cracked from the fall.
Your stomach churns, acid burning up your throat, and before you know it, you stumble to your feet and lurch toward the bathroom down the hall. You barely make it to a stall before you're retching into the bowl. Whatever comes up mostly consists of bile and the very healthy diet you've had the past twenty-four hours, of coffee, and the skins of the few grapes you managed to keep down.
Your hands shake so hard that you have to grip the porcelain to keep yourself from collapsing headfirst into the bowl.
When you finally stop, you sink back and slide to the floor, knees pulled to your chest, back against the stall wall. The sobs come fast and violent, tearing out of you like something wild.
You press your forehead to your knees, trying to muffle the sound, but it's no use. You're breaking, and there's no one here to see it, and somehow that makes it all feel ten times worse.
You don't know how long you're sitting in the stall—minutes, maybe ten, maybe twenty, maybe an hour. The tiles are cold through your slacks, cold enough that your shivers now come from the cold and not from your emotional outburst. Your throat is raw, eyes swollen shut, and burning. You don't hear the footsteps outside until there's a soft knock on the door into the bathroom.
"Hey," you hear Hotch's voice call out, low and steady, like he's cooing at a scared animal. "You in there? I saw your phone on the ground and—"
"—Go away," you sob, the words coming out muffled against your knees. "Please, Aaron. Just go."
He doesn't. The door creaks open, and you hear the click of his shoes on the tile as he comes closer and closer to the stall you're in. Then he stops. You don't look, but you know he's there, that he's standing just outside the stall, and if he were to push the door open, that he'd see you curled into yourself, face streaked with tears, shaking as if it's physically impossible for you to stop.
You don't want him to see you like this.
"Talk to me," he says quietly, so quietly it almost sounds like he's... begging? "What happened?"
"I said, go away!" It comes out half-scream, half-whimper.
Hotch ignores your request once again. You hear his palm as it touches the door, pushing it slowly open. You curse yourself for not taking the time to lock it while you were face deep in the toilet bowl. You peek at him from behind your knees as he crouches down in the opening once the door is fully open. The jacket of his suit brushes the probably filthy and germ-ridden floor. He lays his hands, palms up, on his knees, like he wants to grab your hands and hold them, but isn't sure if he should, or if he's allowed to.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says. "Not when you're in this state. Not until you tell me what's going on."
You shake your head at him, tears flowing silently down your cheeks faster and faster. "You can't fix this, Aaron."
"Maybe I don't need to try to fix it. Maybe I just want to be here, because my friend is hurt and too stubborn to ask for help."
You choke on a sob, press your hand over your mouth, trying to hold it all in. He waits, silent, patient, waiting for you to make this next move. His presence is so solid in the stall that it almost feels unbearable.
Finally, the words claw their way out.
"My dad died." Your voice breaks on the last words. "His doctor at the hospice called. He's gone.
Hotch's face softens, grief and understanding in his eyes. He doesn't say 'I'm sorry' or any of the useless things people say when you're grieving. Because in truth, it's bullshitt, and none of it works when you're in such a deep state of pain, that the only thing you feel is misery.
Instead, he shifts to sit beside you on the floor, shoulder barely touching yours, trying his best to ground you without crowding.
"Tell me," he says. "Everything or nothing at all. Just... talk, please."
And you do. It spills out like blood for a stab wound: How you've been drowning in hospice bills and the guilt of feeling like you're not visiting him enough. How you've been terrified every day this week of getting that call. How you're not ready to be alone in the world without the man who taught you how to tie your shoes and believed you could be anything you set your heart on.
You tell him about the doctor's warning three days ago, the days-to-a-week timeline, how you thought you'd have more time—prayed... begged ...for more time. You tell him you're falling apart, and you've been hiding it because you're supposed to be strong, supposed to be a profiler, not a complete mess who throws up in the bathroom stalls at work.
He listens, doesn't interrupt, doesn't flinch when your voice cracks and breaks or raises when you get angry with yourself, or when you start crying again halfway through.
When you're done, you're shaking even harder, so hard your teeth chatter.
He reaches out then, slowly, giving you time to pull away if you aren't ready yet. You don't. His hand finds yours, gently unwrapping your curled form; he's warm, and he pulls you into him. You let him, collapsing against his chest, your face pressed into his shirt as fresh sobs rip through you.
His arms come around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, pushing you closer to him, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.
"I've got you," he murmurs into the crown of your head, over and over, until the words start to sound real to you. "You're not alone. You don't have to be alone. "I've got you."
You don't know how long you stay like that, him holding you together on a bathroom floor, his tie is probably ruined from all your tears, your hands are fisted in his jacket like it's the only connection keeping you from falling apart completely.
Eventually, your breathing evens out, and the sobs slow to hiccups.
"I don't know what to do," you whisper, uncurling one of your hands to wipe your eyes.
"You don't have to know right now," he says. "You just have to let yourself grieve right now. And when you're ready, we'll figure out the next steps. Together."
You pull back, just enough to look at him. His eyes are warm, no trace of judgment. "Why are you doing this?" It comes out as a whisper.
"Because I know you'd do the same for me," he says, simple as that. "And because I care about you."
The words hit harder than they should've. You nod, wipe your face with the back of your hand on instinct, before letting him help you to your feet. You sway, dizzy from the crying. Hotch keeps a hand on your elbow and the other around your hips, steadying you.
"Do you want me to drive you to the hospice?" He asks. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."
You feel the need to argue, to tell him that you need to do it alone, that this is your war to fight, but the fight's gone out of you. "Okay."
You make your way back toward the elevators, Hotch pops into the bullpen quickly—leaving you in the hallway with a blank and emotionless stare in your eyes—he grabs your coat and bag, and slings it over his shoulder before meeting you and calling for the elevator.
The drive to the hospice is quiet, not even the radio is turned on.
Hotch keeps one hand on the wheel, while the other rests on the console between you, palm up, in case you need something to hold. You don't take it, but you steal glances at it the whole way there.
When you walk into Room 214, the lights are dimmed to almost darkness. Your father is still in his bed, sheet pulled up to his chest, and his hands folded, like he's simply resting. Someone has brushed his hair and turned his head so he's staring toward the ceiling. It feels unnatural because he always sleeps on his side.
You stop in the doorway, legs unwilling to move, to walk up to him, to acknowledge that this is, in fact, real. Hotch rests his hand gently on your shoulder, giving it the smallest of squeezes.
"Remember, I'm right here," he murmurs close to your ear.
You take the first step slowly and carefully cross the room until you reach his bedside. The chair is still pulled close to the bed from when you moved it this morning. You sink into it and reach for your dad's hand—it's so cold now, no give in his fingers as rigor mortis has started by now, and worst of all, no answering squeeze.
The reality slams into you all over again.
"Daddy," you whimper, the word breaks in half as your whole world feels like it is crumbling around you.
You fold forward, forehead pressing to the back of his hand, shoulders shaking so hard that you hear the bed rail rattling. The sobs are loud, animalistic, and nothing like the tears that flowed earlier in the bathroom.
You curl over him, like you can shield him from what's already happened, like if you hold onto him tight enough, that you can pull his soul back into his body, that you can warm him back to life again. Your tears soak the sheet, forming a small puddle where your head is resting. Your fingers clutch his like you're drowning, and he's the life ring keeping you afloat.
Hotch moves to stand behind you, one hand resting lightly on your back, letting you know that he's there. He doesn't try to hush or fix you. Doesn't tell you that you'll be okay. He just stays.
After a while—minutes, maybe even an hour—your cries turn to ragged breathing. You stay hunched over your dad, cheek against his knuckles, afraid that if you let go, he'll vanish in a puff of smoke. Instead, you turn your head and stare up at him—he looks peaceful, like he's sleeping, you think.
Dr. Singh appears in the doorway, quietly and apologetic. She grabs Hotch's attention and gestures for him to follow her into the hallways. He hesitates, looks at you, and then leans down.
"I'll be just outside the door," he says softly. "I'm not leaving."
You don't speak, just nod against your dad's hand.
In the hallway, Dr. Singh keeps her voice low. "I know this is an awful time, but there are some decisions we need tonight or first thing tomorrow morning: funeral home arrangements, whether he'll be transported, clothing, personal effects..." She glances at you through the open door to the room, still bent over the bed. "She's in no shape to handle any of this right now."
Hotch nods, throat a little tight as he too glances into the room.
"Technically protocol says next-of-kin only," Dr Singh continues, "but as her boyfriend, if you can sign for—"
Hotch's ears go hot.
"—Uh, no, we're not..." he stops and clears his throat, cheeks slightly flushing. "We're not together. Just... colleagues. Friends. Close friends."
"Oh! I'm so sorry, I assumed..." Dr. Singh's eyes widen, and she winces slightly at her mistake. "You came in together, and the way you appear to know what she needs in a time like this... I shouldn't have—"
"It's fine," Hotch says quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Really. I'm happy to help however I can. If there's anything I'm legally allowed to sign for her tonight to take pressure off her, I will."
"Thank you! There are a few consent forms for the release of the body and property. They only need a responsible adult, not necessarily kin. After that, I can try to work around the rest until she's ready." She exhales, relieved that she doesn't have to put any more stress on you for now.
"I'll sign whatever you need."
Dr. Singh gives him a tired, but grateful smile. "You're a good man, Mr. Hotchner." Hotch knows he should've been concerned at the use of his name, but on the other hand, he did have to sign the two of you in, in the visitor's log, so perhaps the doctor just looked at his signature.
He glances back through the door. You're still folded over your dad, completely still, and he hopes that you're sleeping.
"I'm just trying to be the person she needs tonight," he says, still glancing at you.
He goes back into the room, kneels beside your chair, and rests his hand carefully on the back of the chair and the other on your thigh. "Hey," he whispers. "I'm going to take care of some paperwork so you don't have to think about it right now. Okay?"
You don't answer him, but you turn your face just enough that he can see the glassiness in your eyes. It's the smallest movement, but it's enough for him to understand that you trust him with this.
Hotch checks his clock at 2:17 a.m. and decides you no longer can stay bent over your father's body. At least not for your own sake.
Your breathing has gone slow and slightly even, forehead still pressed to his hand—he's impossibly cold now. You're not crying anymore, you're just... gone, exhausted, stuck to the vinyl chair.
Hotch crouches beside you and brushes a strand away from your damp cheek. "Hey," he whispers. "Sweetheart, we have to go." You know you should react to the nickname, and he knows he shouldn't have said it. But it felt so right.
You don't move.
He tries again, this time softer. "You need sleep. Real sleep."
A tiny, broken sound escapes you. You shake your head violently, a choked 'No' ripping out of you as you curl closer over the bed, arms locking around your dad’s still hand.
He hates this part. He's seen it done enough times on cases to know it won't go down easily. Hotch slides one arm behind your shoulder, the other under your knees, and gently starts to lift you away from the chair and bed. You start thrashing, although weak, frantic, and grief-fueled, you manage to knock your elbow against the bed rail with a metallic clang; your shoe scrapes the floor as you try to plant your feet.
“No, please, don’t make me, I’m not ready, I’m not—” The words fracture into raw sobs.
He has to use his full strength to lift you away. You fight harder than he thought possible for someone so hollowed out, fingers clawing for the sheet, legs kicking once, nearly hitting him, body arching back toward the bed with a desperate, broken cry the moment the contact breaks.
Your head lolls against his chest only because exhaustion finally wins, but you still reach a trembling hand toward your father even as Hotch pulls you fully into his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, over and over, voice cracking as he cradles you tight against him, carrying you out past the nurses’ station like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Dr. Singh meets his eyes, gives him a sad, grateful nod. Your face is buried in his neck, fists clenched in his shirt, the fight gone out of you, but the sobs still tearing free in waves.
In the parking lot, the air is cold enough to bite, although it's April and should be warming up. He settles you into the passenger seat of his car and buckles you in—it somehow feels too intimate and not intimate enough. He tucks your coat around you like a blanket, hoping it'll keep you warm. You're asleep before he even starts the engine.
When he pulls up outside your building, you stir, but don't wake up. And he's happy that you don't, because explaining how he grabbed your address from your file after he first noticed something being off with you is a lot harder than just carrying you upstairs.
He comes around and lifts you into his arms. Hotch carries you up the three flights of stairs because the elevator is still broken, despite your landlord promising all of the tenants that it would be fixed within a month—it's now month three. Your keys are in your coat pocket. He fiddles around for them, trying to keep you up with one arm, and when he finally finds them and unlocks the door, he shoulders the door open and steps inside.
The apartment is exactly what he expected, and yet it's also much, much worse.
Take-out boxes are stacked on the coffee table. Unopened mail is in teetering piles around the living room and kitchen. Laundry spilling out of the hamper, like it's trying to escape. A week's worth of coffee mugs stacked in the sink, probably on the verge of growing mold.
The air smells stale, like windows haven't been opened in over a month. It's not you, you're not like this, it's the physical evidence of someone who's been barely surviving, while fighting to keep someone else alive.
He doesn't flinch at the mess. He just carries you past it, through the living room, and into your bedroom. Hotch lays you on the bed and kneels to tug off your shoes, careful not to wake you up. You curl onto your side almost immediately, knees to your chest in a fetal position, still fully dressed.
Hotch pulls the quilt at the foot of your bed up and over you, brushes your hair back, and whispers, "Sleep." And your face smoothes into something almost peaceful.
He stands in the doorway for a long moment, observing you, watching the rise and fall of your shoulder, then closes the door halfway—so he can hear you if you wake—and turns back to the disaster zone that is the rest of your apartment.
He can't leave it like this. Not tonight.
He starts quietly by tying up the trash, placing the first bag near the door. Then he continues with the kitchen, rinses and washes the mugs, placing them on a dry tea towel to dry the rest of the way, and wipes down the counters.
He finds a laundry basket of clean clothes and folds them along with the clothes that never made it off the drying rack and stacks them on the dining table.
He opens the window a few inches to let in some air to chase out the staleness. And every so often, he pauses outside your door, listening to make sure you're still asleep.
By 4:45 a.m., the place isn’t perfect, it's far from it, but it’s livable. Trash is waiting by the door—three bags it turned into—dishes are clean and drying, and mail is in one neat pile while all the colorful advertisements are in recycling, ready to be taken out too.
The couch is clear except for a single throw blanket and a few pillows.
He sits down just to rest his eyes for a minute.
You wake slowly, the way you do when your body has forgotten how to rest properly. The room is dim, curtains still drawn, but the light that sneaks around the edges is soft and golden.
Your eyes are swollen and your throat raw from all the crying yesterday, your chest aching like someone parked a truck on it overnight.
And for one terrifying second, you forget exactly why you feel like you've been run over and then backed right back over.
Then it slams back into you, the call, the bathroom floor, your dad’s cold hand, Hotch carrying you out like you weighed nothing to him.
You sit up a little too fast, and the room starts to tilt. You’re still in yesterday’s clothes, shoes off, quilt tucked around you, but you don’t remember going to bed last night.
The apartment is quiet. A little too quiet.
You shuffle to the bedroom door and push the cracked door open further.
The first thing you notice when you emerge from the bedroom is the smell. No gross and sour take-out stench, no stale coffee. Just the faint smell of dish soap and the smell of cold air.
You step into the living room and stop dead in your tracks.
It's so... clean?
Not spotless—Hotch clearly didn't have the energy to scrub baseboards at four in the morning, but there's no doubt that he would've done it if he had. Every surface is clear, trash gone, dishes done, laundry folded with a post-it note slapped on top saying 'clean :)' in his handwriting.
Even the throw pillows are straightened.
And then you see him.
Hotch is asleep on your couch, clearly too long to lie comfortably on the two-seater. His shirt is a little rumpled, tie loosened, and half-hanging off his neck like a limp snake. One of his arms is flung over his eyes, while the other is dangling off the edge. Shoes are lined up neatly next to the couch, like he had meant to leave, but got too tired and simply couldn't. You notice the faint shadow of stubble starting to grow along his jaw as he lets out the softest snore you've ever heard.
Something warm flutters awake in your chest, right beneath the crushing weight of grief. It’s not happiness—Oh, God no. You don't know if you'll ever be happy again—but it’s close to peace.
Gratitude so sharp it almost hurts.
You stand in the doorway for a long time—just looking—blanket wrapped around your shoulders, watching him breathe. He cleaned up your chaos while you slept. He stayed when he didn’t have to. He held you together when you shattered. He's done so much for you these past twenty-four hours, and you feel like you haven't done anything in return for him at all.
The flutter grows, spreads, becomes a quiet ache behind your ribs that feels a lot like falling—slow, inevitable, and terrifyingly falling.
You pad across the room on bare feet, careful not to wake him, and crouch beside the couch. Up close, you can see the faint tear tracks dried on his own cheeks—he cried too, sometime during the night, when he thought no one would know that he too felt your pain.
You reach out for him, hesitate, then brush the back of your fingers lightly across his cheekbone. Just once, barely there, needing to feel him, to know that this man is real.
“Thank you,” you whisper to the sleeping room.
His breathing hitches, eyes fluttering but not quite opening. You stay crouched there a moment longer, memorizing the way the light falls across his face, the way safety feels when it’s shaped like Aaron Hotchner asleep on your couch after the worst night of your life.
Eventually, you stand, pull the throw blanket from the floor—you recon that he must have dropped it during the night—and drape it carefully over him. He sighs in his sleep, shifts onto his side, and settles again.
You linger another heartbeat, then head to the kitchen to start coffee—two mugs, black for him and one with a splash of milk for you, two sugars for you—because the least you can do is make sure he wakes up to something a lot nicer than how you've been treating him the past couple of weeks.
The flutter is still rooted deep in your chest, like the first tiny green thing pushing through the earth after a long and harsh winter.
By summertime, the bullpen is like a hotbox, and every time someone opens the glass doors, waves of hot air drift through, making it miserable to work.
Gideon is gone more than he's there these days, and whispers about a leave of absence are circling like smoke around the office. The team is in shambles lately, most of the travel team is suspended for misconduct during their last case, morale is down, and everyone looks like they hate their jobs.
But the work keeps coming, and the team keeps working despite everyone's lackluster enthusiasm to finish their cases in a timely manner.
You, somehow, are... lighter.
Not healed—because some holes never heal, and this one will never heal—but grief has settled from a constant jabbing pain, into a dull, manageable ache, and it gets better week by week. You feel like you can breathe without doing counting exercises. You can laugh at Anderson's terrible knock-knock jokes without feeling guilty five seconds later.
And Hotch, Hotch has been the constant you needed through it all.
He still brings you coffee every morning, even though the 'who stays latest' competition officially ended last month. You still find sticky notes on your files in his handwriting—"Victim #3's timeline is off by six hours, check page 14"—when he notices new things in M.O. and victimology, or gives you a second pair of eyes when you ask for help. Or on the mornings, when grief over your dad's death creeps too close, he simply tells you to take a moment for yourself and that he'll hold the fort down while you're gone.
He never mentions the night he cleaned your apartment, or the fact that you cried into his shirt until there was nothing left for you to cry out. He just… shows up. Every day. Without fail.
Tonight is a Thursday, almost midnight. The rest of the floor is dark. You’re both still here, because of course you are.
You’re cross-legged in your chair, hair twisted up with a pencil, eating cold lo mein straight from the carton. Hotch is across from you, jacket off, sleeves rolled high, tie abandoned hours ago. There’s a smear of highlighter on his cheek that he hasn’t noticed. And you're not planning on telling him, because he looks way too cute when he's a little messy.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” you say, waving your chopsticks at the geographic profile spread between you. “But the comfort zone is shifting north. He’s getting bolder.”
He leans forward, elbows on his desk, studying the map like it owes him money. “You’re not wrong. Look at the dump-site-to-victim-residence distance. First two were under four miles apart. Last one was eight. Either he’s escalating, or he moved.”
“Or both,” you say, mouth half-full. You're not exactly charming, and your mother would roll over in her grave if she heard you speak with food in your mouth. But he looks up and smiles, before he reaches over, plucking the carton from your hand to steal a bite.
You let him.
You always let him now. Sharing food feels like nothing after he had to wrangle you off a dead body like one of those working dogs resource guarding their dead handlers.
Somewhere in the last few months, the boundaries blurred between you. You touch his arm when you pass him files. He brushes imaginary lint off your shoulder during briefings when you sit next to each other. You hang out together on days off, fall asleep on each other's couches after working on cases together at home, and wake up with blankets draped over you.
He keeps a spare toothbrush in your bathroom 'just in case,' and you keep one in his. You have an extra tie of his folded in your desk drawer because he spilled coffee on his favorite one during a stakeout, and forgot it in your car when you drove him home.
No one in the unit has said anything yet, but everyone's eyebrows climb into their hairlines on a near-daily basis as they observe your desk island.
Tonight, the air conditioning is struggling, badly. You fan yourself with a case folder. “It’s a million degrees in here.” You complain
Hotch stands, stretches, and shrugs out of his jacket. “Rooftop?”
You’re already moving as the words leave his mouth.
The rooftop door sticks—it always does—and he has to shoulder it open for you.
The evening air is warm but better than the stale office. D.C. glitters slightly in the distance, barely visible, but there. You both lean against the ledge, shoulders almost, but not quite touching.
For a while, you just breathe. Enjoying the faint chirping of crickets, the wind rustling, and natural silence.
“Thank you,” you finally say quietly.
He glances over. “For what?”
“For the last three months. For… everything.” You pick at the label on your water bottle. “I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t—”
“—Hey.” He bumps your shoulder with his, gently. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Your heart does a slow, traitorous flip. You tell yourself it’s just gratitude, gratitude that he helped you through the worst time in your life, gratitude that you have a friend to turn to when in need—despite being an asshole about it in the beginning (but let's not talk about that).
He keeps talking. “Besides, you’ve been pulling me out of my own head since the day you beat me three nights in a row last November. Fair’s fair.”
You laugh, softly. “I still say you let me win night two. Ain't no way your brother called you for help at nine p.m. to move an antique wardrobe he found in the newspaper.”
“I absolutely did not,” he says, mock-offended, but he’s smiling that full smile now—the one that reaches his eyes and makes tiny lines appear at the corners. You’ve started cataloging those smiles like they're evidence in an unsolved case—which technically they are, because you still haven't locked down the answer to why Aaron Hotchner rarely smiles.
Silence settles between you; it feels comfortable and familiar.
Fireflies blink lazily over the parking lot below. You shiver a little in the breeze. And without a word, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.
It smells like him. You love the smell of him.
You pull it tighter. “You’re going to freeze.”
“I run hot,” he says, and the way he says it—quiet, matter-of-fact, eyes on the skyline as if it's no big deal—makes heat pool low in your stomach for reasons you refuse to examine.
You stand there like that for a long time, city lights flickering, his jacket warm around you, the space between your bodies shrinking inch by inch until your pinky brushes his against the railing.
Neither of you moves away.
Neither of you names it yet.
But something tender and inevitable is growing in the quiet spaces. In the way he always saves you the last sip of coffee in the pot, in the way you know exactly how he takes his tea when he’s sick, in the way your hands find excuses to touch and linger.
It’s still just friendship, you both tell yourselves.
For now.
You've been with the BAU for nearly a year now.
The bullpen is almost empty, save for a few agents still complaining about paperwork due that they could've finished hours ago if they didn't stand at the damn coffee machine and chat all day. But they quickly leave.
Gideon has been locked in his office all evening, door cracked just enough for the occasional frustrated sigh to leak out.
You and Hotch are the last ones standing—as usual.
You’re both on the floor now, backs against the front of your desks, case files spread around you like a thick crime-scene carpet. You’ve been arguing good-naturedly for forty minutes about whether the unsub is devolving or just getting sloppy.
“He’s devolving,” you insist, flicking a photograph toward Hotch. “Look at the overkill on the last victim. That’s rage, not control, in the way we saw on victims one through five.” You point out, gesturing at the pictures of the other victims lying in a half circle in front of you.
Hotch catches the photo mid-air and sets it down carefully next to the other victims. “Rage can be controlled. He staged the body perfectly. That takes discipline.”
His knee is touching yours. Has been for the last twenty minutes. Neither of you has moved away.
You reach for the same file at the same moment. Your fingers collide, stay there, overlapping on the manila folder. The air between you goes suddenly, electrically still.
He doesn’t pull back. You don’t either.
You’re close enough to count the flecks of gold in his irises, close enough to see the tiny scar on his upper lip you’ve never noticed before. His gaze drops to your mouth for half a heartbeat—so fast you almost miss it—then flicks back up, something unreadable flaring behind his eyes.
Your breath catches.
The moment stretches, until the door to Gideon’s office bangs open so hard the hinges bounce it back off the wall.
Gideon strides out, coat half-on, briefcase in hand, clearly intending to leave without a word. He stops dead when he sees the two of you on the floor, hands still touching, faces inches apart, the entire room vibrating with something neither of you has said out loud yet.
He stares for three full seconds.
Then he throws his head back and groans like a man who has reached the end of his patience with the entire universe.
“Oh, for the love of God, just kiss already!”
You jerk apart like teenagers caught behind the bleachers. Hotch's ears go scarlet, and you feel your own face ignite.
Gideon points a finger between the two of you, coat flapping dramatically. “I have watched you two moon over each other for months. Months! I am old. I am tired. I have unsubs writing manifestos in blood, and I do not have time for this level of sexual tension in my bullpen. Kiss, date, do whatever it is you children do these days... just stop making it everyone else’s problem!”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just spins on his heel, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “finally” under his breath, and storms out.
The glass doors swing shut behind him, and you hear the ding of the elevator.
Then... silence.
You risk a glance at Hotch. He’s staring at the floor, jaw working like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or die of embarrassment. His hand is still halfway reaching for the file you both abandoned.
You start laughing first, mortified and unstoppable. He follows half a second later, the low, surprised sound he makes when something actually catches him off-guard.
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, pressing both hands over your burning face. “He did not just—”
You peek through your fingers. He’s looking at you now, something soft and stunned and hopeful in his expression.
The laughter fades, but the air stays as charged as ever.
You swallow. “So… Gideon’s not subtle.”
“No,” Hotch agrees, quieter. “He really isn’t.”
Another beat. Your heart is hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
He shifts, just slightly, closing the small distance Gideon’s outburst created. His voice drops to almost a whisper.
“Would it be… completely inappropriate if I took his advice?”
Your breath stalls. The world narrows to the few inches between you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his eyes search yours for permission.
You manage the tiniest shake, giving him the go-ahead.
He leans in slowly and carefully, giving you every possible second to change your mind.
You don’t.
The first brush of his lips is barely there, warm, trembling just enough for you to feel it against your lips.
He smells faintly of coffee and the soap he always uses.
The second is surer, his lips settling over yours with certainty, the softest pressure that makes your breath catch in your throat. You taste the lingering trace of peppermint on his tongue when your mouth parts under his, feel the faint rasp of growing stubble along your upper lip, the warmth of his exhale mingling with yours.
His hand cups your cheek, thumb sweeping slowly across your skin, calloused thumb stroking once along your cheekbone; his other hand threads into your hair, fingers spreading at the nape of your neck like he’s anchoring himself to you. The kiss deepens just enough for the world to tilt, your pulse roaring in your ears, your toes curling hard inside your shoes, every nerve lighting up at the gentle, deliberate slide of his mouth against yours.
When you ease apart, it’s only a breath. Foreheads still pressed together, noses brushing, the air between you warm and a little shaky. The lines are definitely blurred beyond return.
When you open your eyes, he’s smiling, happier than you’ve ever seen him.
“Hi,” he whispers, voice rough.
“Hi,” you whisper back, grinning like a complete idiot.
From somewhere down the hallway, you’re both almost certain you hear Gideon’s ghost mutter 'about damn time'.
You start laughing again, muffled against Hotch's shoulder this time as you lean forward into his chest, and he laughs too, arms wrapping fully around you, holding you close on the bullpen floor like he never wants to let go.
And he doesn’t.
Not for a very long time.
That first kiss doesn’t fix anything, but it changes everything.
After Gideon’s dramatic exit, you and Hotch ended up staying on the bullpen floor another hour, kissing slowly and carefully like teenagers who’ve just discovered the concept, talking in whispers, laughing every time one of you remembers Gideon’s exact phrasing. When you finally stand up, knees stiff, files forgotten, he walks you to your car with his hand at the small of your back like it always belonged there.
You date quietly at first, almost secretly, because neither of you trusts the Bureau rumor mill and because the newness feels too precious to share with anyone but the two of you.
He picks you up on Saturdays when you’re both off rotation. You go to tiny diners outside the Beltway where no one knows your names, or to the Smithsonian after closing because one of the night guards owes him a favor from back in his prosecutor days.
You sit on benches in front of the Hope Diamond and argue about whether it’s cursed. He brings you coffee in bed on Sunday mornings and reads the parts of the newspaper aloud while you steal the comics section and draw little hearts in the margins next to his name when he’s mentioned in an article.
You learn the small, sacred things about him:
He hates surprises but loves planning them for you.
He keeps a spare tie in your glove compartment now—officially 'in case of emergencies'.
When he’s exhausted, he falls asleep with his head on your chest and one arm locked around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
He says your name differently when you’re alone, much softer, almost like a whimper.
December brings the first snow, and the first time he says “I love you.”
You’re in his apartment, stringing popcorn for a tiny, lopsided Christmas tree because neither of you had time to get one before all but the small apartment-friendly ones were the only option left.
You’re on the couch, legs tangled, the Muppet Christmas carol crooning in the background.
You prick your finger on a needle and mutter a curse. He takes your hand, kisses the tiny drop of blood away, and just says it, as natural as breathing: “I love you.”
You freeze, popcorn garland half-finished in your lap. He looks suddenly terrified, like he’s broken some unspoken rule in the relationship guide.
You tug the garland carefully aside, crawl into his lap, and kiss him until neither of you can breathe.
“I love you too,” you whisper against his mouth. “So much it scares me.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that fear in for months and tightens his arms around you. “Good. We can be scared together then.”
January of 2002 is brutal, back-to-back cases, forty-eight-hour consult marathons, but you survive it the way you survive everything now: together.
You fall asleep on each other more often than not, steal kisses in the elevator when no one’s looking, and leave each other notes in case files.
“Meet me on the rooftop at midnight. Bring the good coffee. –A”
“Only if you bring the blanket. –Y/N”
Valentine's Day falls on a Thursday. You both have to work, but he leaves a single red rose on your desk with a sticky note: Dinner. 8 p.m. Wear the black dress. Trust me.
You do.
He takes you to a hole-in-the-wall Italian place in Alexandria you’ve never noticed before. Halfway through tiramisu, he slides a small velvet box across the table.
Your heart stops, and you panic slightly.
He sees your face and actually laughs a tiny chuckle. “Relax. It’s not that. Yet.”
Inside is a delicate silver key.
“To my place,” he says quietly. “I want you to have it. I want… I want this to be official. You and me. No more pretending we’re just really good friends who occasionally make out in the parking garage and have sex in our time off.”
You stare at the key like it’s made of large sparkly diamonds.
“Aaron…”
“If it’s too fast—”
“—It’s not,” you cut in, voice cracking. You lean across the tiny table and kiss him in front of the entire restaurant. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”
He smiles against your mouth, relieved and giddy and so in love it shows on every line of his face.
Later, back at his apartment—well, kind of your apartment now, too, in every way that matters at least—you hang your coat next to his on the rack, put your hairbrush next to the comb in the drawer, and fall asleep tangled together under the same blanket that used to live on your couch, the one he slept with the first night he saw your apartment.
Outside, snow falls softly and quietly over Virginia, covering the city in a hush that feels like the world permitting you to finally be happy again.
You are a couple now—no, almosts, no, hesitations.
Just you and Hotch against the world, desk neighbors turned lovers, building something together.
And you both start to feel like coming home at night isn't something so terrible to do at all.
The years blur in the best way possible.
September 2002
The inn’s garden is small and perfect, and the late-summer roses still cling to the trellises; the air is warm enough to carry the scent of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass.
Forty white chairs are set in uneven rows on the lawn; fairy lights are already strung even though the sun won’t set for hours. Someone’s old jazz standard drifts from hidden speakers; it’s Ella Fitzgerald, the song you and Hotch danced to in his apartment the first night you ended up admitting you were in love.
You wait in the bridal suite upstairs, heart hammering so hard you’re sure it’s visible through the lace bodice of your dress. Your mother’s veil—now shortened—falls in soft waves over your shoulders.
And when you catch your reflection, you almost don’t recognize yourself: eyes bright and cheeks flushed. You look so... happy.
Downstairs, Hotch stands beneath the arbor in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was invented for his shoulders (A/N: to the people who get this reference, I love you).
His hands are clasped behind his back to hide the slight tremor, but you can see it from the window, the way he keeps rocking forward on the balls of his feet, the way he can’t stop staring at the inn door like the moment you appear might be a dream he’s terrified of waking from.
Gideon—wearing an actual suit and tie for once—clears his throat at the head of the aisle, after your walk, and begins.
His voice is steadier than anyone expected until Hotch repeats “in sickness and in health,” and it cracks on the last word. Gideon’s eyes go glassy instantly; he has to pause, press his lips together, and fan himself with the printed vows like a southern belle.
A ripple of soft laughter moves through the guests, but no one’s eyes are left dry.
You reach for Hotch, and he takes your hands like they’re made of glass. His palms are warm, trembling just slightly, and the stunned, luminous smile never leaves his face during the entire night.
When Gideon finally says, 'You may kiss your bride,' Hotch doesn’t wait for the words to finish. He cups your face with both hands, rushing closer, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it.
It goes on long enough that his friend Rossi—you've met him once and heard the stories of the few cases the two had together before Rossi retired from the BAU—lets out a low, appreciative whistle.
And Andi Swan, the newest BAU agent, fans herself dramatically with her program, and Gideon throws his hands in the air with a triumphant “I told them to kiss eighteen months ago! You’re welcome, people!” And you know that that will be his go-to line when it comes to tales about the relationship he 'basically made possible'.
Hotch finally pulls back, but only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His eyes are shining.
“Hi, Mrs. Hotchner," he whispers against your lips.
"Hi, Mr. Hotchner," you whisper back, and the grin that breaks across his face is the same one he’ll wear in every photograph for the rest of your lives.
Behind you, forty people cheer, Ella keeps singing, and the mountains hold their breath, and you know—without a single doubt—that this is the moment every late-night bullpen, every shared highlighter, every quiet 'I’ve got you' was leading to all along.
You’re married.
And Aaron still looks like he can’t quite believe you said yes to him when he proposed.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2003
Fairfax, Virginia
The search takes four months, forty-three open houses, and one near-breakup—not really, you were both being dramatic—over whether 'good bones' is real-estate speak for 'you’ll be sanding floors until you’re sixty.'
You’re both stubborn, both exhausted from cases—both promoted to the travel team one month apart—and both secretly terrified of choosing wrong, because this will be your sanctuary away from serial killers and psychopaths.
Then the realtor unlocks the gate at 127 Oakridge Lane, and you know the second the gravel crunches under your shoes, that this is it.
It’s a 1930s red-brick colonial set back from the street, white trim peeling just enough to feel loved instead of neglected. The wrap-around porch creaks under your weight in the most comforting way; a massive, hundred-year-old oak spreads its branches over the front yard like it’s been waiting for children who haven’t been born, yet.
Inside, the hardwood floors glow honey-gold in the late-afternoon, the fireplace still smells faintly of the last family’s Christmases, and the kitchen—God, the kitchen—has windows on three sides that turn the whole room into a sunlit heaven every morning.
You stand at the farmhouse sink—hands braced on the porcelain as you look into the backyard, imagining growing old here—when Hotch comes up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
“This one?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid to jinx it.
You nod, throat tight. “This one.”
You close on a Thursday in May, sky so blue it hurts to look at. The moving truck is late, so the house is mostly echoing emptiness and stacked boxes labeled in Hotch's neat block letters and your chaotic scrawl.
Sunlight pours through the bare windows of your now-empty apartment, dust motes dancing like confetti.
Hotch scoops you up without warning, one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and carries you over the threshold bridal style, even though your jeans are streaked with paint, and you’re both laughing too hard for it to be dignified.
The front door swings shut behind you with a solid, final click that feels like the house exhaling in welcome.
You don’t make it past the foyer before he’s kissing you against the wall, hands already tugging at the hem of your T-shirt, your legs wrapping around his waist like muscle memory.
Boxes topple somewhere down the hall; neither of you cares.
That night, you christen the kitchen island while the pizza you ordered goes cold on the porch, because you "forgot" to open the door when the delivery guy knocked.
The next morning, the sun wakes you in the master bedroom, pouring through east-facing windows you didn’t bother to curtain yet, and you make love on your mattress on the hardwood floor because the bed frame is still in pieces.
By Sunday, you’ve claimed the wide-plank stairs... twice, the claw-foot tub, the window seat in the library that overlooks the oak, and the backporch swing that squeaks in the most perfect rhythm.
Somewhere between the third and fourth room, Hotch starts laughing into your neck, breathless and delirious. “We’re going to need to buy furniture eventually,” he gasps.
You bite his shoulder, grinning. “Later. Much, much later.”
By the end of the first week, the house smells like coffee, fresh paint, and sex; every corner holds the echo of laughter and the imprint of two people finally, finally being home.
The oak tree shades the front yard like it’s keeping your secret, and every morning the kitchen windows flood the room with light.
You hang your mother’s lace curtains in the dining room first, just so the house knows it’s loved.
And every night, when Hotch pulls you into his chest in whatever room you’ve ended up in, he whispers the same thing against your hair:
“Welcome home, Mrs. Hotchner.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2004 - 2005
The BAU is still small enough that every new face feels like it rearranges the gravity in the room.
Derek Morgan arrives first, in the spring of 2004, all swagger and leather jacket, straight from the Chicago PD. He shakes Hotch's hand a little too hard, like he’s testing whether the stories about the grumpy agent are true.
Gideon waits exactly one week before dragging him to the coffee station and launching into the tale of how he's the reason you're married today: the empty bullpen, the unbearable tension, the night he finally lost patience and bellowed, “Just kiss already.” And after that day, Morgan’s go-to greeting becomes a cheeky “Morning, Mama Hotch,” usually followed by him ducking whatever office supply you lob at the rascal's head.
Penelope Garcia blows in that summer like a glitter bomb, pink boa trailing behind her after Hotch manages to snatch the black queen away from the web of hackers interfering with government websites, and onto the team. Gideon barely lets her set down her bedazzled laptop in her tech cave before he’s steering her toward the round-table room, eyes gleaming.
Ten minutes later, she bursts out, finds you at your desk, and squeals so loudly the windows nearly rattle. “You’re the desk-neighbor soulmates! The sacred ‘kiss already’ origin story! I have shipped you since the academy rumor mill got to me a few weeks ago!” She throws her arms around you, then, without hesitation, around Hotch too, who's emerged from his—new—office next to Gideon's. He freezes mid-sentence, arms half-raised, before awkwardly patting her sequined shoulder. From that day on, she declares herself your joint fairy godmother and threatens to make couple T-shirts if she doesn't see you kiss, just once, before the year is over.
Thankfully, she does—although it's by hacking into the bullpen cameras and watching tape from the night before when you were both staying late, again.
Fall brings Spencer Reid and Jennifer Jareau within weeks of each other. Spencer is drowning in a cardigan two sizes too big, clutching three PhDs and the conviction that Gideon can read minds.
JJ is calm on the outside and vibrating on the inside, terrified of choosing the wrong photograph for the press packet. Gideon corners them together in the hallway on their very first day, blocking escape with his whole body, and delivers the performance of his life: sweeping gestures, pregnant pauses, the whole thing.
Spencer turns the color of a ripe tomato and starts reciting workplace-romance statistics under his breath. JJ just laughs, delighted, and by the end of the month, she’s slipping you lists of baby names “for future reference” with a perfectly straight face, because to her, babies are the most wonderful thing in the world.
Elle Greenaway is last, late 2005, striding in like she already owns the bullpen and everyone in it after helping the team on the Seattle strangler case. Gideon waits until she’s halfway through her first official BAU case file, then plants himself on the edge of her desk and launches into the now-legendary retelling—complete with slow-motion reenactment of his dramatic exit and a claim that the overhead lights flickered for cinematic effect.
Elle listens with one eyebrow arched, arms folded, then looks across the room at you and Hotch—who are pretending, very badly, not to hear any of this—and deadpans, “So your entire marriage is because an old man lost his patience?” Hotch mutters “Don’t encourage him” into his coffee, but the corner of his mouth betrays him.
By the third round, with every new hire, the story has grown mythic: wind machines that definitely do not exist, a single heroic tear rolling down Gideon’s cheek, the faint sound of angels singing when your lips finally met.
Each time he tells it, you and Hotch trade the same long-suffering glance across wherever you're standing together—the one that says we will never live this down and we don’t actually mind. Gideon catches the look every single time, grins like a proud, meddling father who knows exactly what he did, and keeps talking anyway.
Because the day he stops telling the story is the day he admits the team has outgrown him, and none of you—no one—is ready for that yet.
So you let him have it. You let them all have it. The whistles, the teasing, the running slideshow Garcia keeps threatening to present at the next holiday party.
You and Hotch just reach for the same highlighter—on purpose—like you’ve done for years, fingers brushing, and smile the tiny, secret smile of two people who know the real story is quieter, slower, and infinitely better than any legend Gideon could invent.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
September 2006
Exactly six years after you join the BAU. You’re both still raw from Oregon, a case that ended with a twelve-year-old girl alive and a father who will never come home.
You come back to your home hollow-eyed and quiet, sleeping in snatches, waking from nightmares you don’t talk about.
Two weeks later, you’re late. Not just late; late enough that your body feels foreign, breasts tender, exhaustion bone-deep in a way no case has ever managed.
You buy the test on your lunch break, hide it in your purse like contraband, and take it in the restroom on the third floor because you can’t wait the fifteen minutes to get home.
You sit on the closed toilet lid, timer on your phone ticking down three endless minutes, and when the second pink line appears, and you feel the world tilt sideways.
You drive home in a daze. Hotch is already there. He took the afternoon off after you texted, “Can you be home early?” with no explanation, worried that something was terribly wrong.
He’s in the kitchen in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, making coffee like it’s any other Tuesday.
You walk straight into his arms without a word. He stiffens for half a second, sensing the tremor in you, then folds you in tight.
“What is it?” he asks against your hair, voice low and treading carefully.
You pull the test from your pocket and press it into his hand.
He looks down. The little plastic window is face-up, two unmistakable lines staring back at him. His breath stops. You watch the color drain from his face, then flood back in a rush. He stares so long you start to worry.
“Aaron?”
He drops slowly, like someone cut his strings. One knee hits the tile, then the other, until he’s kneeling in front of you. His hands find your hips, tentative, reverent, and he presses his forehead to your stomach. The first sound he makes is half-laugh, half-sob, muffled against your shirt. Then the tears come, the same tears you saw the night he asked you to marry him, and the morning you said “I do.” He wraps his arms fully around your waist and holds on like you’re the only solid thing in the universe.
“We’re having a baby,” he whispers, voice cracking on every word. “We’re… God, we’re having a baby.”
You thread your fingers through his hair and let your own tears fall into it.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
May 23, 2007, 3:14 a.m.
Thirty-one hours of labor, twenty-eight of them back labor that leaves you sobbing into Hotch's shoulder, certain you can’t do this. He never leaves your side, phone turned off so the world can't disturb this perfect moment in his life, and never stops whispering “You’re so strong, I’ve got you, just one more,” even when his voice is hoarse, and his shirt is soaked with your sweat and tears.
At 2:56, the doctor says, “One more big push,” and you find strength you didn’t know you had. And Grace Hotchner comes out screaming, red-faced and perfect, a shock of dark hair plastered to her tiny head, your nose already visible in miniature form.
The nurse lifts her onto your chest, and Hotch's hands shake so violently that he almost can’t hold the scissors. When he finally cuts the cord, the snip sounds like the loudest thing in the world.
They place her on your chest; she's so, so small. She stops crying the instant she hears your heartbeat, tiny fist curling against your skin with a grip the nurse actually gasps at. “That’s the strongest newborn grasp I’ve ever felt,” she laughs, a little teary-eyed herself.
Hotch is crying openly now, leaning over the bed rail, one hand cradling your head, the other resting on Grace’s back like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. His forehead presses to yours, tears mingling with yours.
“Hi, Gracie,” he whispers, voice raw. “Hi, baby girl.”
She blinks up at him with unfocused eyes and squeezes his index finger with that iron grip. Something in his face breaks open—wonder, terror, love, you can't pinpoint which it is, or if it's all at once. All you know is that you feel the exact same.
He doesn’t let go of either of you for the next forty-eight hours. He sleeps in the vinyl chair with Grace on his bare chest, skin-to-skin, her tiny breaths syncing with his.
When the nurses try to take her for routine checks, he follows, hovering like a Secret Service agent. He changes the first diaper with the concentration of someone who only just learned what a diaper is and cries again when she falls asleep on him mid-burp, mouth open, one fist tangled in his collar.
You watch them from the bed, exhausted and euphoric, and think: this is what the Oregon case took from that little girl’s father, and this is what we get to keep.
Grace Hotchner, eight pounds three ounces, the strongest grip in Fairfax County, and already wrapped impossibly tight around both your hearts.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2010
You’re thirty-eight, and Hotch is forty-five. Grace is two weeks shy of three, obsessed with dinosaurs and convinced she’s going to be a paleontologist-slash-princess when she grows up.
One Sunday night, you’re both in the kitchen cleaning after she's been put to bed, you washing sippy cups, Hotch drying, the house quiet except for the soft hum of the dishwasher.
You catch him watching you over the rim of his coffee mug, as he pauses to take a sip, that familiar, thoughtful look in his eyes.
“We should give her a sibling,” you say, before you lose your nerve.
He sets the mug down very carefully. “You sure?”
“I’m sure I don’t want her to be an only child. And I’m sure I want another one who looks like you.”
He crosses the kitchen in two strides, cups your face, and kisses you like the conversation is already settled.
It is.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
In late 2010, labor starts... politely... at least for the first twelve hours, then turns vicious.
Contractions come hard and all over the place, and progress stalls at seven centimeters.
Grace had been fast; this baby is stubborn as hell. Thirty hours in, your blood pressure spikes, the fetal heart monitor starts its frantic dance on the monitor, and the room fills with quiet and urgent voices.
The OB says the words no one wants to hear: emergency C-section.
They wheel you down the hall under the bright hospital lights that make your head spin. Hotch walks beside the gurney in paper scrubs, one hand wrapped around yours so tightly your fingers go numb.
His face is pale, jaw locked, but his voice never wavers as he keeps reassuring you, even though you can tell he's terrified. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. I’ve got you. We’re almost there.” He chants it over and over, like a prayer.
In the OR, the spinal takes forever to kick in; you’re shaking, terrified, tears leaking sideways into your hair. Hotch sits by your head, forehead pressed to yours behind the drape, still whispering the same words against your temple.
When the pressure starts, it feels strange, impersonal, like someone rummaging in your insides, without you feeling anything at all. His grip tightens, and he counts every second out loud with the anesthesiologist.
At 3:19 a.m., you hear it: the thin, furious wail of a newborn who is deeply offended by the cold sterility of the OR. The doctor lifts him over the curtain. He's tiny, red, fists pumping like he’s ready to fight the world already.
Benjamin Hotchner, seven pounds eleven ounces, a shock of black hair sticking straight up, just like his sister, and lungs that clearly work perfectly.
They clean him, swaddle him, and place him on your chest while they’re still stitching you up. He’s warm and a little slippery.
His eyes blink open and fix on you with startling intensity—just like his dad staring down an unsub, you think to yourself.
You start crying so hard that the nurse has to steady him in your arms.
Hotch leans over both of you, taking over for the nurse standing beside you, one big hand cradling Ben’s entire back, the other stroking your hair. His voice is wrecked. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he whispers against your temple, lips brushing the skin there again and again as he kisses you, like he can’t stop. “Thank you. God, thank you. For giving me so much!”
In the afternoon, the hospital room is quiet except for the soft beep of monitors and the squeak of your bed when you shift. Hotch is asleep in the recliner pulled up next to your bedside, still in his scrubs, Ben is asleep on your chest under the hospital blanket, tiny fist curled around the necklace Hotch gifted you after Grace was born—You kept telling him that he didn't have to, that it was way too expensive, but he had insisted that not even diamonds could do justice telling you just how much he loves you.
The door creaks open slowly. Grace pads in, wearing her dinosaur pajamas and light-up sneakers with Garcia in tow, hair a wild halo from hanging out with the entire team, and most likely sleeping, flopped against them like a lazy little cat.
She climbs up the bed rail like a monkey, eyes huge.
You brace for jealousy, for tears, for anything, not knowing how a child should react to no longer being an only child.
Instead, she leans over, studies her brother with grave three-year-old seriousness, then looks at you.
“He’s cute,” she announces in her bossiest big-sister voice. “Can we keep him?”
Hotch wakes at the sound, and his daughter bracing her feet on his thigh to lean even further over the bedside. His eyes are bleary and soft as he comes to.
You meet his gaze over Grace’s head, both of you starting to laugh, tears streaming again because the relief is too big to fit inside normal emotions.
“Yeah, baby,” Hotch says, voice thick from sleep. He reaches out with the arm closest to Grace and pulls her into his arms. “We’re keeping him.”
Grace lays her head on his shoulder, sticks her—slightly sticky, you never get used to how quickly kids get sticky—hand out for you while curled into her dad's side. You take it at the same time as Ben stretches his tiny arms with a yawn too big for a newborn body.
And just like that, your family of three becomes four. One exhausted, stitched-up mom, one slightly stunned and besotted dad, one very proud big sister, and one brand-new human who already has all of you wrapped around his perfect, furious little fist.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Life settles into a rhythm, as the kids grow older, so steady it almost feels unreal.
5:45 a.m.
The alarm never gets the chance to go off. Hotch is already sliding out of bed, careful not to jostle you, pressing a kiss to your temple, forehead, whatever part of your face is closest to his lips as he wakes.
He’s done it every morning without fail since Grace was born.
You hear the soft pad of his feet down the hall, the creak of the third stair, the low hiss of the coffee maker starting, before he comes back upstairs to get dressed. Ten minutes later, the scent of coffee drifts upstairs, and you smile into the pillow because it means the day has officially begun, and he’s still taking care of you first.
6:30 a.m.
The peace lasts exactly forty-five minutes. Then the thundering of small feet announces Hurricane Grace. She bursts through the bedroom door like her only mission is to create a Grace-shaped hole in the middle, hair wild from sleep, wearing mismatched princess pajamas—because she can never decide which pair to wear.
“MOM!!!!! I need triceratops pancakes, and I need them NOW.” Ben is half a step behind, dragging his—once blue—stuffed elephant that Auntie JJ gave him, it's now gray and threadbare by one ear, rubbing his eyes with a chubby fist.
Hotch emerges from the hallway and scoops them both up in one motion, one under each arm, and carries them downstairs, pretending to be a caveman who just found his next meal, while they squeal and kick.
You follow more slowly, tying your robe, already smiling at the chaos.
The kitchen is pure chaos.
Hotch is at the stove, flipping dinosaur-shaped pancakes you once made the mistake of buying from the frozen aisle in the grocery store, and now is the only breakfast food the kids will eat.
Grace is perched on the counter, “helping” by pouring half a bag of chocolate chips directly onto the pan—she's chocolate coating them, if you ask her.
Ben stands on a chair, banging the spatula like it’s a drum solo in between Hotch needing it to flip the pancakes. There are banana chunks on the floor. There’s syrup in someone’s hair. And Hotch meets your eyes over the chaos and mouths 'coffee' or 'Help me'; somehow, the two look dangerously similar when mouthed from afar.
You hand him a mug with one hand and steal a kiss with the other.
7:15 a.m.
Shoes, backpacks, lunchboxes, the eternal hunt for the left sparkly sneaker.
You and Hotch move like a well-oiled SWAT team. He buckles Ben into the car seat while you braid Grace’s hair in the driveway, both of you trading kids mid-sentence:
'Don’t forget show-and-tell!'
'He has swim diapers in the blue bag!'.
Drop-offs are a blur. Grace sprints into school, shouting goodbye without looking back; Ben clings to Hotch's leg until the preschool teacher peels him off with promises of play-dough.
You watch Hotch crouch to Ben’s level, smooth his hair, kiss the top of his head, and something in your chest still flips every single time.
Then it’s the two of you in the car, Quantico-bound, hands linked over the console, debriefing the morning like it’s your version of foreplay now—which honestly, it's starting to be.
Who has the 9:00 a.m. consult, who’s picking up dry cleaning, whether Garcia can babysit Friday night so you can finally have some mommy and daddy time.
He still traces idle circles on the inside of your wrist at red lights.
You still feel it everywhere.
Evenings
Soccer fields, dance studios, and the occasional emergency room visit for split chins or swallowed Lego pieces.
You sit shoulder-to-shoulder on tiny bleachers as often as you can—which is nearly a perfect score still, except for one game where you were on a case.
Hotch's arm drapes along the back of your seat, fingers playing with the ends of your hair while Grace scores her first goal and Ben cheers so loud he falls off the bottom row.
Recitals mean Hotch in a suit outside of work with glitter in his hair because Grace insisted on doing his makeup backstage. You keep the photo on your desk forever.
The kids love every time he's "forced" to wear a suit outside of work, because he looks so sad, they once told you. Which, first of all... evil. And second, you love, because the tiny demons don't know that he's pretending to be miserable and secretly loves dressing up for stuff with them.
After bedtime—two stories, three drinks of water, one monster check under the bed—the house finally quiets. You spread case files across the kitchen table like you once spread them across bullpen desks and floors, only now there are crayon drawings mixed in with crime-scene photos and a half-eaten dinosaur pancake on a plate nearby.
Hotch sits beside you, tie gone, sleeves rolled, reading glasses low on his nose. His hand finds your knee under the table, the same way it has since 2001.
Sometimes you work until 2 a.m.; sometimes you abandon the files entirely and end up slow-dancing in sock feet to whatever’s playing in the radio, foreheads pressed together, swaying more than dancing.
The team folds into your life like they were always meant to be there.
Penelope shows up on Saturday mornings with rainbow sprinkles and her laptop, teaching eight-year-old Grace how to code her own choose-your-own-adventure game while you and Hotch sneak a nap on the couch.
Morgan spends an entire blistering July weekend in your backyard building Ben the most elaborate treehouse known to man—complete with a tire swing and a rope ladder.
He teaches Ben to throw a perfect spiral, and you later try to teach him to stop aiming at Morgan’s head.
Reid reads bedtime stories in English, Spanish, and—once, memorably—Latin, when Ben requests “the dragon one with the big words.”
He still blushes every Thanksgiving when Gideon—retired now, but omnipresent in your lives—launches into the “kiss already” saga with new embellishments like a crazy old man; lightning flashes, swelling orchestral music, the whole works.
Reid hides behind his pie; Grace and Ben chant “Tell it again, Grandpa Gideon!” until Hotch threatens to revoke pie privileges for the entire table.
Years later, when the kids are old enough to ask why Uncle Spencer turns red every holiday, you’ll just smile and say, “Ask your father—he was there.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2015
Mateo Cruz accepts the Deputy Director position on a Wednesday. By Friday afternoon, the Director’s office has made it official: you’re the new Section Chief.
The announcement email goes out at 4:17 p.m.; the bullpen erupts in cheers loud enough to rattle the windows. Hotch pretends to scowl from his office doorway, arms folded, muttering, 'Great, now I have to salute my own wife,' but the corner of his mouth keeps betraying him, because he couldn't be prouder of you.
You stay late for the ceremonial handover, shaking hands, signing the last of the paperwork that makes it real. And when you finally pull the car into the garage, it’s past 10:00 p.m., the house is dark except for the porch light, which Grace still insists on leaving for the 'porch fairies'—you'd hoped she would outgrow it by not, because it brings the electrical bill up by unnecessary amounts.
Hotch is waiting just inside the mudroom door, jacket off, sleeves rolled high, tie already loosened like he’s been pacing, not caring to change out of his work clothes yet.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.
One step, two, a lot of steps, and your back meets the bedroom door before you even realize you made it upstairs.
The new brass nameplate on your credentials folder digs into your palm; he plucks it from your fingers and tosses it onto the dresser without looking.
His hands slide up your sides, under your blazer, pushing it off your shoulders and letting it drop to the floor.
“Section Chief Hotchner,” he says, voice low and rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to say that?”
You start to laugh, but it turns into a gasp when he presses you harder against the door, mouth finding the spot just below your jaw that still makes your knees weak after all these years.
His stubble scrapes; his fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss down the column of your throat he’s mapped a thousand times and somehow never gets tired of.
“Aaron... the kids—”
"They're with Will and JJ," he quickly answers before he continues. "My boss,” he growls against your pulse point, and the possessive, reverent way he says it sends heat flooding straight through you. “Say it.”
You’re already breathless. “I outrank you now, Unit Chief.”
He makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-groan and kisses you properly then. His tongue slides against yours like he’s been thinking about this all day. One hand splays across the small of your back, the other cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone with that same stunned tenderness he had the night he proposed.
You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left, until the only thing in the universe is the heat of his body and the way he keeps murmuring “my boss, my boss” like a prayer between kisses.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and curved in a grin that’s pure mischief and pride.
“Bed! Section Chief,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “That’s an order from your subordinate.”
You laugh and let him push you down on the bed.
Turns out outranking one Agent Hotchner has some very compelling perks.
And he spends the entire night proving he’s more than happy to follow your orders.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The team has made it official without ever actually voting.
You are Mom.
Hotch is Dad.
There is no escaping it.
It starts small.
Penelope bursts into the bullpen at 2 a.m. with new surveillance footage and yells, “Mom, Dad, you’re gonna want to see this!” She freezes, horrified, but you and Hotch are too tired to correct her, so you just wave her over.
From that day on, the nicknames stuck.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Grace is thirteen, all long limbs and sarcasm and her father’s intense eyes. Ben is ten, fearless, missing two front teeth, and convinced Uncle Spencer can actually talk to aliens.
The house is loud and messy and perfect: drawings taped to the fridge next to family photos, Hotch's running shoes by the door next to Grace’s cleats, your wedding photo on the mantel between Ben’s first-grade portrait and a framed newspaper clipping of your promotion with the headline “BAU Power Couple Still Unstoppable.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Reid skids into your office holding two mugs. “Mom, I made you coffee exactly the way you like it because Dad said if I didn’t, he’d make me redo all the geographic profiles from the last ten cases.”
You take the coffee without looking up from the budget report you’re murdering. “Tell Dad his threat worked.”
JJ corners Hotch in the hallway. “Dad, Grace texted me—she got accepted early decision to Georgetown. She wanted you to hear it from family first.” Hotch's eyes instantly go soft and watery; JJ pats his arm like she’s done this a hundred times—she has.
Tara is presenting when Luke raises his hand.
“Question for Mom: Can we get approval for the extra surveillance hours?”
You don’t even blink anymore. “Ask Dad, he controls the budget this quarter.”
Hotch, without looking up from his tablet: “Approved, but only if you two stop calling us that in front of the Director.”
Everyone, in perfect unison: “Yes, Dad.”
Emily—who swore she would never—slips once on a case in Kansas City: “Dad, the ME’s office is stonewalling us.”
Aaron just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I will call them. Again.”
Garcia over comms during a tense takedown: “Be careful, children, Mom and Dad are watching, and we do NOT want the lecture if someone gets shot.”
You and Hotch exchange the weary, fond look of parents whose kids just said “shit” in front of the neighbors.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Some nights, when the kids are asleep and the house is quiet, you and Hotch sit on the porch swing you installed the year Ben was born. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you into his side, and you watch the stars come out over the same oak tree that shaded your first family photos.
“Still think Gideon was right to yell at us?” you ask, tracing the wedding ring you’ve worn for eighteen years now.
Hotch laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Best thing he ever did.”
And you sit there, two kids asleep inside, careers that have saved lives countless of times and broken your hearts in equal measure, a house that always smells faintly of coffee and children, and you know—without doubt, without hesitation—that every late night, every loss, every terrifying leap brought you exactly here.
Home.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Grace and Ben think the whole mom and dad thing is hilarious.
Grace, now eighteen, texts the BAU group chat from college: “Tell Dad that Grandpa Rossi's carbonara recipe is trending on TikTok and people are calling Dad the ‘Hot FBI Dad’.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The team is sprawled across their desks after closing another case, this one a little too brutal, even for them.
You and Hotch are the last to pack up, as always.
Penelope yawns, slings her bag over her shoulder, and calls out: “Night, Mom. Night, Dad. Don’t stay too late making out on the conference table.”
Morgan, Reid, Tara, Luke, and JJ chorus “Night, Mom and Dad!” as they file out.
Hotch waits until the elevator doors close, then looks over at you, deadpan.
“We’re never living this down, are we?”
You hook your arm through his, lean your head on his shoulder as you walk toward the elevators.
“Nope. And honestly? I kinda love it.”
He presses the down button, then drops a kiss to the top of your head.
“Me too... Mom.”
You elbow him in the ribs. He laughs and pulls you into the elevator.
The doors close on the two of you, Section Chief and Unit Chief, Mom and Dad, twenty-four years after Gideon yelled at you to kiss already, still stupidly and perfectly in love.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’re pretty sure Hotch hates you. Either that, or he thinks you’re a shitty profiler. Or it’s both. But when you volunteer to be bait for New York’s latest serial killer, the dynamic between you shifts, and you find yourself realizing that Aaron Hotchner might just care about you after all.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Aaron Hotchner x F! Reader
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit content, violence, smut, oral sex, public sex, drinking, firearms, bladed weapons, bondage (non-sexual), sexism, toxic masculinity, death & injury detail, dead dove: do not eat.
no mention of Y/N · present tense · second person POV
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Protective Hotch, you have awakened something inside of me.
This is my first ever fic request !! Thank you SO much to the anon who asked for this. I loved writing it and really hope I get more requests soon ❤
masterlist | requests
The briefing room is for very serious conversations about very serious shit. You know that, but it doesn’t stop you and JJ from relentlessly teasing Spencer before Hotch arrives.
“Look, all I’m saying Spence is if you’re looking for a little more experience, I’d be happy to help. I’m curious what’s under the hood.”
Morgan chokes on his coffee at that last part.
“You sound like a pervert.” Spencer frowns.
A dirty giggle escapes your lips, the expression on his face reminiscent of shell-shock.
“This conversation is so inappropriate.”
JJ falls for the wounded innocence on Spencer’s face and apologizes. You’re not that easily fooled. He smirks at you.
“Besides, statistically speaking, it’s unlikely you could handle what’s under the hood.”
That makes you cackle in the least feminine way imaginable, which is unfortunate because Hotch happens to enter the room right as the sound comes out of you.
Fearing a scolding from the World’s Most Serious Boss™, you clear your throat and sit up straight. Garcia shuffles some paperwork on the desk, handing out files to each of you. Rossi hits several buttons on a remote with great force until the screen finally turns on.
Unable to look away, you find yourself fixated on the images of the three young women. Their throats have been cut deeper than you’ve ever seen before. It’s grotesque and unimaginable, but that’s not what unsettles you the most. Each of the women is wearing a 1950s swing dress, their hair has been styled, and they look alarmingly like you.
Reading your mind, Prentiss mutters under her breath.
“Freaky.”
Everyone settles down as Hotch addresses the room.
“We’ve been invited to New York to help with an unsub targeting high-class, career women. Garcia.”
Garcia nods, oversized pink kitten earrings jiggling a little as she does.
“Yep. Um, all three of these women were badass business babes, and it looks like this slimy bastard didn’t like that so he took them, uh- did- that to them, and dressed them up like Stepford Wives after.”
JJ taps a pen against her lips, deep in thought.
Prentiss takes the floor first.
“Well obviously this can’t be someone who was in their prime in the 50s. He’d be dead or at the very least ancient and completely immobile by now. There has to be some connection to, or nostalgia for, that era.”
Morgan nods, leaning back in his chair.
“Pretty safe bet our unsub’s a white male.”
It’s your turn to float a theory now. You avoid Hotch’s intimidating glare as you speak.
“What if we’ve got someone lashing out at the shift in women’s place in the world?”
Rossi’s lip quirks up in a subtle proud smile.
“Go on.”
“They’re all modern, high power businesswomen. Probably quite outspoken, and they sure as shit wouldn’t dress like that voluntarily. Plus there’s the obvious overkill with the wound.”
Hotch’s eyes bore into you.
“Elaborate.”
“If you’re a weak man that can’t live up to today’s societal ideals of masculinity, you’d want to bring back what you perceive as better times. When women were well-behaved, controllable, stayed at home, dressed like this — kept quiet.”
He nods, expression unreadable. You don’t let it throw you off.
“The depth of each laceration is vicious, and unnecessary for the kill alone. That amount of force is pure rage. He’s silencing these women in the most aggressive way possible.”
Hotch places his file back on the desk and heads toward the door.
“Good. Garcia, start with powerful women in New York who have recently divorced their inferior husbands. That’s likely our trigger. Wheels up in 30.”
---
Curled up in your seat on the jet, you scrutinize the case files for the seventh time today.
Prentiss and Rossi are busy trying to figure out Spencer’s latest card trick, JJ is having some alone time with her beloved cheetos, and Hotch is staring at his computer screen with such intensity you wonder if he’s hoping it will explode.
Morgan, on the other hand, is in the seat opposite you, blatantly profiling you.
“Could you stop that? Is there not some sort of unwritten rule that we don’t do that to each other?”
He feigns innocence.
“No idea what you’re talking about, baby girl.”
The sound of a throat clearing though the speaker of Morgan’s macbook puts a wide grin on his face.
“Come on Garcia, you’ll always be baby girl number 1, but you know I’m a sucker for a woman in uniform too.”
Garcia’s grumbled protest fades into the background as the realization slowly hits you.
“Holy shit.”
Morgan leans forward, laser focused now.
“What is it?”
“A woman in uniform. Garcia, the women all attended fundraisers on the week of their deaths right?”
Frantic keyboard clicking down the line draws the attention of the rest of the team.
“Correct. Gimme two ticks.”
A beat. More keyboard clicking.
“Looks like two were veteran benefit dinners and one was an NYPD gala. Does that mean something?”
“I think our victimology is more complex than just successful business women. We thought they went to these events in a business capacity, but what if that’s not the case? Did any of them serve?”
Garcia continues working her magic down the line. Hotch is clearly listening to what’s happening, eyes still fixed on his screen.
“Lemme see, uh, yeah vics number one and two were marines and our third girl was a sheriff’s deputy in Atlanta.”
You grin, thrilled the noose around this bastard is tightening a little.
“Great, that narrows it down.”
Hotch chimes in next, always waiting in the wings to piss in your cheerios.
“Hardly.”
You focus all your efforts on not groaning at his response. Luckily though, it’s Spencer to the rescue — your favourite nerd puts in his two cents.
“Actually, that does help. We know he’s escalating, so he’s likely to kill again in a matter of days. If we can pinpoint the next event that fits his victimology, we could have a shot at catching him there.”
Hotch shakes his head, eyes scanning the case files on the table.
“His hunting ground’s too vast. There’s thousands of guests there, hundreds of whom could fit his victimology. It’s an impossible operation to control, let alone find the right victim in all the chaos.”
You catch Prentiss’s eye, she tilts her head in silent suggestion. You nod in agreement.
Hotch is more likely to listen to her, so she speaks up.
“Unless we plant one.”
She waits until he looks at her, then gestures her coffee cup in your direction. You sit completely still, anxiously awaiting his decision.
“No.”
You huff out a frustrated laugh.
“With all due respect sir, I could be sisters with each of these women. We have the same hair color, eye color, and body type, I was a detective before the FBI recruited me, and I’m also classy as fuck.”
Prentiss scoffs at that comment. You stick your tongue out in retaliation.
Hotch’s eyes search for Rossi’s, silently pleading with him to be the voice of reason. Unfortunately for him, Rossi knows you’re right.
“Kid’s got a point, Hotch.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll choose you.”
You recoil dramatically at that, slamming a closed fist to your chest mimicking a knife to the heart.
“First off, ouch — way to bruise a girl’s ego. Second, I’ll make sure he chooses me.”
JJ pokes her head round, eager to hear what’s coming next.
“How’re you gonna do that?”
You shrug.
“He wants a tough, loud, woman that needs taming. So I’ll talk loudly about my time as a detective, how much I love to make money, and how I’m the man of the house. He’ll hate me so much he’ll be compelled to kill me.”
“No. We’re not doing this.” Hotch barks out.
Rossi’s eyes narrow from across the jet, intrigued by the outburst.
“It’s our best shot and you know it.”
---
Several hours of being dragged around high-end stores later, JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia via video call have successfully helped you find the perfect dress for the gala this evening.
You step out onto the streets of New York in a slinky black number that makes you feel like the hottest woman on earth.
Spotting the team huddled behind the SUVs for a final briefing, you scan the lot to check it’s safe to join them.
The plunging neckline of your dress flusters Spencer, who doesn’t know where to look. Morgan, ever the professional, knows exactly where he shouldn’t look, but drinks you in anyway.
“Damn, woman.”
You flash him your cutest smile and twirl, giving the dress its moment.
Hotch glares at you. The heat of his gaze would normally make you feel exposed, but you’re feeling brave tonight so you look him up and down. It feels more suggestive than it should. Now there’s a line you’d love to cross.
He shifts uncomfortably for a second.
“It’s a bit much, no?”
You wonder how on earth Hotch ever came to have a son with his clear aversion to women and sex. Or maybe it’s just you? a voice in your head teases.
Prentiss laughs, brushing him off.
“Absolutely not. Our unsub wants to tame a wild animal, and he’s a sexually motivated killer. This is the perfect dress.”
That shuts him up.
---
One hour of mingling is all it takes to remind you why you never come to these things.
They’re boring, half the people attending have no right to be there, and heels really hurt your feet.
Hotch has been hovering at the end of the bar like an angry wasp, watching your every move. You’re not sure what you did to make him hate you, but you’ll unpack that another day.
As you throw back the last drop of your champagne in a minor act of defiance, a man who can only be described as short and pathetic looking sidles up to the bar behind you.
Right where you want him, you ignore his presence and continue your insufferable conversation with the CEO of nobodygivesafuck-incorporated.
“I mean, that’s exactly why I left my ex-husband. Forgive me for being so crass, but the man was a total pussy.”
Tossing your head back so you invade the unsub’s space slightly, you let out a bitter laugh, going in for the kill.
You can tell instantly that your plan has worked. It’s almost as though the temperature in the room has dropped five degrees. The unsub’s icy stare burns a hole in your back.
Ready to finally catch the fucker, you mumble some excuse to your conversation partner and push off the bar, ready to disappear off somewhere alone looking deliciously abductable.
Unfortunately, Hotch has other ideas. A hand grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the bar, dragging you across the ballroom until you’re out of sight behind a pillar.
“What the fuck, Hotch? I had him!” you hiss.
Still holding your wrist, Hotch clocks a waiter approaching from behind. Needing a diversion, he leans in close and drops his gaze to your lips. His free hand lightly traces your curves.
Frozen in place, you watch as the waiter disappears, oblivious to the pair of you.
“He’s gone.”
As though he’s repelled by you, Hotch jolts backwards, creating some distance and leaving you feeling somewhat needy — though you’d never admit that, of course.
“What the hell are you doing? You’re gonna scare him off.”
“Good.” he grits out.
“Good? We have him.”
Hotch’s gaze drops back to your lips for a split second. It happens so fast, you wonder if you’re imagining it.
“I’m calling this off. It’s too dangerous.”
Now you really lose your cool.
“Oh. My. God. What is your problem? I’m just as capable as everyone else on the team. Do you seriously not trust me to get this done?”
Hotch almost looks hurt by the implication. He exhales, eyes flicking up at the ceiling.
“It’s not that.”
“What is it then?”
“What if he makes his move tonight? He’s escalating. I can’t guarantee your safety and you’re unarmed.”
You narrow your eyes, challenging Hotch more than you normally would. Maybe it’s the champagne.
“I am not.”
Hotch drags his eyes over your form slowly, studying every inch of you. You silently question whether someone has suddenly turned the thermostat up.
“Where are you keeping your gun? You’re practically naked.” he spits out.
Raising a brow at that word, you hold his eye. Hotch averts his gaze.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m calling it off.”
You search his face, forcing him to look at you. This time he doesn’t look away.
Unsure if it’s bravery or stupidity that takes over, you allow yourself to step out of line for a second.
“Is that an order as my boss, or something else?”
Eyes fixed firmly on your own, Hotch’s hands hover over your hips, fingertips lightly grazing your skin through the silky fabric.
With a little bit of trouble behind your eyes, you raise your chin closer to his. He leans into you, cautiously placing his hands on your waist.
Neither of you say a word. You don’t need to — the air is electric.
Before you even realize what’s happening, your hands are unbuttoning his pants. Then your hands are on him. He presses a desperate kiss to your lips as you stroke his hard length.
Throwing his head back, one thing is crystal clear to you in this moment: Hotch has completely lost control.
Skin on fire, pulse hammering, you give in to your desires completely.
Looking up at him doe-eyed and full of want, you study his face. He looks wildly turned on and furious simultaneously.
You’ve always felt something between you, but it’s only at this exact moment as you drop to your knees behind the pillar that you realize: it’s not hatred, it’s lust.
Already past the point of no return, Hotch tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your mouth onto him. He groans when you flick your tongue over his tip.
As he fucks your mouth, you slide your hands under his shirt, pleasantly surprised by the definition of his muscles.
The next few minutes are a complete blur. You’re a mess. Eyes watering, mascara running, hair unsalvageable. And yet, somehow, Hotch looks even worse. He swipes a thumb across your lip, tucking himself back in his pants.
Reaching a hand out to help you stand, he doesn’t say a word. He pulls you close and hovers over your mouth, tasting himself as he presses a final, searing kiss to your lips.
Nodding down the corridor behind you, he avoids eye contact.
“Bathroom.”
Understanding the instruction, you glide down the hall and disappear behind the oak door to clean up.
Hotch leaves in the opposite direction.
JJ startles you as you slip out of the bathroom, good as new. Looking around, she makes sure nobody’s watching before speaking in a hushed tone.
“Hey. Do you know where Hotch went?”
You top up your lipstick in the mirror behind her, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact.
“Nope, he chewed me out for drinking on the job, then he just disappeared.”
Her eyes scan the room, suspicious.
“Huh. That’s... out of character.”
---
Never before have you been so delighted to have a creep watching you. You breathe the biggest sigh of relief as you spot the unsub out the corner of your eye at the hotel breakfast buffet.
You may have ruined your professional relationship with your boss, and consequently quite possibly your whole career, but you haven’t ruined the case.
There is, however, one minor hiccup. You left your gun back in the room. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue and you’d simply sneak back up and grab it, but the predatory look in this man’s eyes tells you there won’t be a chance for that.
Gearing up for what’s to come, you inhale deeply and saunter toward the exit, making a beeline for the smoking area.
You’ve barely got one foot out the door before you hear a sickening crack, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of your skull.
Your vision fades to black as a warmth spreads across your head. Your final thought before falling unconscious is that you wouldn’t have bothered washing your hair this morning if you’d known it was going to be covered in blood.
---
Stirring awake in a cloudy haze, you wince at the unwelcome combination of the mother of all headaches and a supremely unpleasant ringing sound in your ears.
Any plans you had to check your wound are swiftly ruined by the sudden realization that your hands are tied.
Fully conscious now, you take in the scene before you. You’re in an abandoned 50s-themed diner, tied to a chair. Your knees are all fucked up and scraped too.
You feel a presence looming behind you.
“Did you seriously have to drag me across the ground? Are you too weak to lift a 130lb woman?”
With all the restraint of a petulant child, he kicks the chair leg closest to him. It does nothing other than move you a few inches across the floor.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch.”
You bark out a laugh.
“Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Truly.”
Logically speaking, you know you should be buying time, not aggravating him further, but he’s so pathetic you genuinely can’t help yourself.
It’s a decision you come to regret pretty much instantly as he holds a chef’s knife to your throat.
“Women like you need to learn your place.”
Taking slow, shallow breaths and wriggling to avoid the blade biting into your skin, you run the numbers.
One exit, one murderous asshole standing in the way of said exit. One big ass knife. Four chair legs. You could kick backwards, but your hands are tied behind your back, so you’ll probably land on them and get stuck. You could pretend someone’s at the door, but that buys you five seconds tops. Or you could try to talk your way out of it.
You open your mouth to give option three a shot, but there’s no need. A gunshot followed by the sound of the lock shattering forces the unsub to pull away from you. The knife draws blood as he retreats like a complete coward, but it’s just a superficial cut.
Hotch bursts into the door, and no matter how minor your injuries are, the second he lays eyes on you he sees red.
Watching in shock, you sit helpless and hazy as Hotch lays into the unsub. You hear the unforgettable crack of the man’s nose breaking before Hotch slams him into the ground.
Standing over him, boot crushing the unsub’s throat, there’s venom in his words when he speaks.
“If you ever put your hands on her again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”
The unsub chokes out a garbled sentence. You’re pretty sure you hear “whore” in there somewhere, but the rest is fuzzy.
Your vision starts to black out again, accompanied by the soundtrack of knuckles repeatedly making contact with bone. Agonised grunts come from both men as they engage in a violent scuffle you don't have the privilege of witnessing.
Hotch yells out in pain and the helplessness of being tied up stirs you once more. You're paralysed with the nauseating fear that he could be being killed just a few feet away from you right now.
Chaos descends upon the diner as the rest of the team bursts in, guns trained on the unsub.
You’re not sure at what point it happened, but when you look back over at the unsub, he lies motionless on the floor with Hotch’s hands wrapped around his throat.
Rossi grips your face, checking for signs of life. You wince at the sudden reminder of the throbbing pain at the back of your head.
“You doing okay, kid?”
You manage to nod, still unsure what the hell happened across the room.
“How did you find me?”
Crouching down behind you, Morgan gets to work untying your hands.
“Garcia identified the unsub as the caterer. You’re sitting in the straw that broke the camel’s back. One post-divorce, failed business.”
Prentiss and Reid have successfully peeled Hotch away from the unsub. He stands opposite you, shirt spattered with blood, eyes dark and fixated on your own.
Taking it all in, you search Hotch’s face for a reassurance you know he can’t offer you right now.
The team are all here and all eyes are on you, so instead he approaches you cautiously, inspecting the matted blood on the back of your head.
“Rossi’s going to take you to the hospital.”
His eyes land on the body on the ground. A flicker of disgust crosses his face.
“I’ve got some paperwork to fill out.”
You sit unmoving, not sure what the right thing to say is. Bodies move around the room in a blur and you’re having trouble focusing on anything right now.
Hotch checks nobody is watching, then leans in close, lips grazing your ear.
“I’ll swing by the hospital later. Alone.”
You hate yourself for it, but you have to ask the question, so you do.
“Is he dead?”
Hotch lets out a small sigh.
“Yes.”
You lower your voice.
“Did you do that for me?”
A beat.
“Yes.”
You don’t know what this means. Whether Hotch will get in trouble, whether you still even have a job, whether the team will look at you differently — whether Hotch will look at you differently.
Sensing your impending downward spiral, Hotch lifts your hand feigning a wound-check, squeezing it lightly.
“Everything’s fine. I promise.”
And even though your head hurts like hell and a man is dead, you trust Hotch implicitly when he says those words.
content warning - jealous hotch, established secret relationship, i wrote it with age gap in mind but i dont think it actually influenced anything lol, fluff
The concrete walls of the FBI field office observation room were cold, and painted a dull gray. Through the thick one way glass, the interrogation room looked like a stage illuminated by a single harsh overhead panel. You were sitting on the far side of the metal table, adjusting your notepad with a calm, methodical rhythm. Across from you sat Vance, a serial stalker whose charming exterior masked a calculated, deeply arrogant narcissist.
Aaron Hotchner stood in his usual position in the observation room, his feet shoulder width apart, hands folded loosely across his chest, his blazer pulled tight around his shoulders. His gaze was fixed entirely on you. You were highly capable, brilliant at your job, out here you were his agent. Behind closed doors in the quiet hours of the night, you were the person he loved. Balancing those two worlds required constant, ironclad discipline.
“Interrogation recorded at 14:02,” your voice came through the desktop speaker, clear and even. “Let’s review your timeline for the night of the fourteenth, Vance.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Vance replied, leaning back in his chair with a slow, deliberate smile.
Beside Aaron, Morgan leaned against the table, a mug of coffee in hand. He wasn’t looking through the glass, he was looking at Hotch. It was subtle, something anyone else in the precinct would have missed, but Morgan had spent years working alongside Hotch. He noticed the tiny shift of weight from his left foot to his right. He noticed the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw, and the way his knuckles were turning white as he held onto his biceps.
Morgan tilted his head, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “You alright, Hotch?”
“I’m fine.” Aaron said instantly, his tone clipped, his eyes never leaving the glass.
“Right…” Morgan nodded slowly, a small, curious smirk touching his lips. “Because you’re standing so still you look like you’re made of stone. She's got the timeline locked down, Hotch. Relax.”
“I am relaxed, Morgan.” Aaron replied smoothly, though his thumb pressed harder against the fabric pulled taught around his arm. “I’m monitoring the interview.”
Inside the room, Vance leaned forward, resting his elbows on the stainless steel table. He wasn’t looking at the evidence file you had opened, his eyes were trailing upward, tracing your face with an unpleasant, lingering familiarity. “You know,” he murmured, his voice softening into a low, cosy register that made the speaker hiss faintly, “it’s a shame.”
“What is?” You asked, not looking up from your page.
“A pretty thing like you, stuck in a room like this with a guy like me,” Vance said, tilting his head. “What’s a girl like you doing with a badge anyway? You look like you should be taken care of, not dealing with scum.”
In the observation room, Aaron’s breathing didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter. He’s attempting to establish control, he reasoned internally, running the standard psychological diagnostic to keep his focus grounded. It’s a textbook deflection. Vance feels cornered by her authority, he’s trying to patronise her to regain the upper hand.
Logic told Aaron that you were more than capable of handling it. He knew your training, he had watched you dismantle tougher suspects than Vance. But seeing the man dismiss your authority, watching him attempt to reduce a sharp, brilliant federal agent to a stereotype, stirred a deep, uncomfortable agitation beneath his ribs. It was frustrating the helplessness of having to stand behind a piece of glass and watch someone disrespect you, forced to play the silent observer when every professional instinct told him the dynamic was veering off course.
“We’re discussing your whereabouts between eight pm and midnight, Vance. Not my career.” You said, keeping your face completely neutral.
“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that.” Vance purred, sliding his cuffed hands an inch forward on the metal table. “Look at me. Stop looking at those ugly pictures and look at me.”
Morgan shifted his weight, his eyes darting between the scene behind the glass, and Aaron standing beside him. He had unfolded his arms, reaching into his suit pocket to pull out a black pen. He began clicking it with his thumb. It was a small, unconscious habit he only slipped into when a case was grinding on his last nerve.
Click. Click. Click.
“Hotch,” Morgan said quietly, his voice dropping into a more serious tone. “He’s just trying to ruffle her. You know how these narcissists operate.”
“He’s wasting time,” Aaron said, his voice flat, low, and laced with a tight, restrained friction.
“He’s been talking for two minutes,” Morgan pointed out, studying his boss’s tense profile with growing suspicion. “She hasn’t even batted an eye. Why are you so keyed up?”
Aaron didn’t answer. He couldn’t without breaking his composure. He just watched as Vance leaned in closer to you.
“If you took off that jacket, let your hair down…” Vance continued, his tone gratingly confident, “I bet you’d be a lot more fun. I bet you’re real sweet when you’re not playing the tough cop.”
The cheap, plastic casing of the pen cracked under the silent, rigid tension in Aaron’s grip, the snap cutting through the air as ink pooled faintly against the tip.
Morgan went still, looking down at the broken pen in Aaron’s hand, then up at his face. The playful curiosity in Morgan’s eyes shifted into confusion. “Whoa. Okay… Hotch, he’s being a sleaze but she’s-"
Before Morgan could finish, Aaron stepped forward and pressed the intercom switch on the console. “That’s enough.” Aaron’s voice echoed through the speaker into the interrogation room, cool, deep and completely authoritative.
You paused, catching the faint, subtle tension beneath his controlled tone. You didn’t break character. You calmly closed your folder, gave Vance a dismissive look and stood up. “Excuse me. We’ll continue this later.”
“Well hey, don’t leave on my account, gorgeous!” He called after you as you unlocked the door.
When you stepped into the observation room, the air was dense with an unspoken strain. Morgan was standing near the back, holding his coffee as his eyes darted between you and Hotch, widening slightly as if to warn you of the sudden break of Hotch’s composure.
Aaron was standing by the console, his hands resting lightly on the edge, his expression carefully restored to a neutral mask.
“Good work in there,” Morgan said smoothly, breaking the silence as he picked up a folder. “Kept him on the defensive.”
“Thanks,” you said, stepping into the room and setting the file on the desk. You looked over at Aaron, keeping your tone professional. “Do we have enough for the search warrant on his vehicle?”
Aaron looked at you, his dark eyes searching your face for a brief second to ensure you were completely unbothered by the interaction, before he gave a single nod. “I’ll sign off on it now.”
Morgan looked between the two of you, hesitantly stepping toward the door. “I’ll take the file down to Garcia so she can run the registration. Give you a second to… go over the interview notes.” He said, before stepping out, letting the door click quietly shut behind him.
The moment the door clicked, the rigid stiffness in Aaron’s shoulders finally melted away. He let out a quiet, tired sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. You stepped closer, dropping the formal boundary between you. “You look annoyed.” You said gently, glancing at the cracked pen resting on the desk console. Aaron looked at the broken plastic, then up at you, a wry, self deprecating shadow of a smile touching his lips.
“It was frustrating to watch him talk to you like that,” he admitted quietly, his voice deep and calm again. “He was deliberately trying to disrespect your authority.”
“He was trying to get a reaction,” you reminded him softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “And he didn’t get one from me.”
“I know,” Aaron murmured, moving his arm to lace his fingers through yours, his thumb lightly brushing your knuckles. “You handled him perfectly. Better than I handled watching it.”
“I had a good teacher,” you offered, taking a small step closer into his space. The tension in the room finally faded completely. The warmth of your presence washed away the last lingering irritation from the interrogation. You tilted your head, your eyes dancing with a sudden, playful spark as you glanced down at the cracked pen sitting on the console, then back up to his sharp, handsome face. “Though I don’t remember you teaching me the ‘break the stationary if the suspect gets too personal’ protocol.”
Aaron’s jaw softened, a faint twitch appearing at the corner of his mouth. “That wasn’t a protocol.”
“No?” You brushed your fingers lightly over his lapel, leaning in just a fraction more. “Because you look awfully bothered. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”
“I was being observant,” he replied smoothly, though the warmth in his dark eyes betrayed him. “He was pushing it.”
“He was an idiot,” you said softly, teasingly tapping his chest. “And you were sulking over a man whose entire pick up line repertoire belongs in a bad rom-com. Admit it. You were jealous.”
Aaron looked down at you as a quiet, breathless huff of laughter escaped him, a sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes and smoothed every line of stress from his forehead. “Maybe a little,” he confessed softly, his voice rich and fond.
“How very charming.” You murmured, smiling softly. He raised his hand, his warm palm gently cupping the side of your neck. His thumb brushed over the skin just beneath your ear. He leaned down, bridging the gap between you slowly, deliberately. His gaze flicked down to your lips before locking back onto your eyes.
“You’re the only person who talks to me like that,” he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek.
“And yet,” you whispered back, tilting your chin up just a fraction, “you love me anyway.”
“I do,” he murmured, his lips hovering just above yours, his nose lightly bumping yours, the quiet hum of the field office humming outside the room.
The door handle turned, and the heavy door swung open. “Hey, Hotch, Garcia said the car registration came back as-” Emily froze mid step, her words dropping instantly.
In a fraction of a second, Aaron pulled back with practiced, fluid grace, picking up the case folder from the console as if he had simply been leaning over to read a line on the page. You smoothly stepped back, crossing your arms and adjusting your posture to look entirely absorbed in the file. Emily stood in the doorway, a stack of papers in her hand, her eyes wide as her gaze darted from Aaron’s slightly flushed jawline to your quiet composure, and back again.
The silence stretched for five excruciating, horribly awkward seconds. Emily slowly brought the file folder up, using it to shield half her face as a look for sheer, panicked realisation settled over her features. “I… am going to go back down the hallway,” she said, taking a slow step backward out the room. “And I am going to pretend that I forgot the registration printout. Which I did. Right now.”
“Pren-” Aaron started, his authoritative voice suddenly sounding remarkably strained.
She slammed the door shut with a loud, hasty thud before he could even finish her name, her muffled, rapid footsteps hurrying away down the hall.
Inside the room, complete silence fell again. You slowly turned your head to look at Aaron. He was holding the case file upside down. A quiet, breathless laugh escaped your lips, and you covered your mouth to muffle it. Aaron looked down at the file, then over at you, letting out a long, heavy sigh as he rubbed his temples, though the faint trace of that rare smile still lingered on his face.
“I knew you’d get me into trouble,” he grumbled affectionately, pressing a soft, quick kiss to your hair before snapping the file shut.
Husband!Hotch who after his failed marriage to Haley vows to ensure he will be a better husband to you.
Husband!Hotch who you work beside at the BAU. So at least you’re more understanding of the incredibly intense and busy schedules.
Husband!Hotch who wakes up before you and makes you breakfast if you both have time before work.
Husband!Hotch who is extremely protective of you.
Husband!Hotch who vows he will never let what happened to Haley, happen to you.
Husband!Hotch who will often schedule time off of work, to sync with your time off work. So you can spend time together, and with Jack and your own children. When you eventually have children together.
Husband!Hotch who slow dances with you in the kitchen whilst dinner is cooking.
Husband!Hotch who agrees to working shorter hours so he can spend time with Jack more as well as you.
Husband!Hotch who cleans up after dinner only to find you and Jack asleep, cuddled up on the sofa. He kisses your forehead and picks Jack up to tuck him into bed. He then scoops you up and takes you to your bedroom. By then you’ve woken up and are begging him to fuck you.
Husband!Hotch who makes loves to you. And has a breeding kink. He desperately wants to get you pregnant. He knows you’d make an amazing mother because you’re already an amazing mother to Jack even though he isn’t biologically yours.
Husband!Hotch who becomes even more protective of you when you fall pregnant. He will kiss your belly every morning and every night. Place his hands on your stomach whenever you’re near each other.
Husband!Hotch who pulls you into his arms when he’s feeling stressed. Even if you’re at work and a case is frustrating him, you ground him. Keep him calm.
Husband!Hotch who is extremely protective of you in the field. Always making sure you’re stood behind him out of the line of fire.
Husband!Hotch who always checks you over after you’ve apprehended the unsub, making sure you weren’t hurt. When he’s satisfied he presses a gentle kiss to your lips, and rests his forehead against yours. He then tells you how much he loves you.
Husband!Hotch who date nights with are rare and precious, but he goes all out making sure everything is perfect.
Husband!Hotch who loves tying your hands together with his belt.
Husband!Hotch who can be both rough and soft in the bedroom.
