get a window seat, honey, there is so much to see @teamhappyme - Tumblr Blog

ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM

professor!assistant!hotch x trainee!fem!reader Genre: “enemies” to ??? with loooooads of bickering! CASE FIC! Summary: During your training at the academy, Gideon offers a golden ticket to the BAU to "whoever" dominates class... (even if his obvious choice falls on a certain genius with eidetic memory). While you keep trying to impress the real FBI daddy (Gideon. Obv.), you also have to work your way through Agent Hotchner’s odd… zip. Mentorship. Warnings: MDNI (there are 2 seconds of grinding), discussions of real cases (San Francisco doodler and a reinterpretation of the Colonial Parkway murders), unreliable narration, reader cries twice... and Hotch spends most of this story being a PIECE OF- Word Count: 28.1k (a light read indeed...) Dado's Corner: after finishing HTGAWM, I got inspired to write an AU where you’re in the same FBI Academy class as Reid… and, as you can see from the word count, it kind of spiralled. I’m not even joking when I say I’ve been secretly working on this for +4 months, trying to make every single part rhyme, so… pls let me know if you like the case-fic format?

masterlist

There’s an old saying (well, old as of now) that goes: you don’t realize you’re in a sausage party until you’re already trapped in one.

Granted, this doesn’t apply universally. You can’t exactly sham shock when you walk into your very first lecture in behavioral science hosted by none other than FBI (that word should’ve rung a bell) legend J. (as in Jason) Gideon and suddenly clock the ratio.

You may have misled yourself with the word behavioral. So much psychology. So little pew-pew guns. Which implied, naively, that actual brain usage would be required to succeed. And since consistent brain deployment is not exactly a statistically dominant trait among male specimens, the probability of a sausage party should’ve been low.

And yet. Hope is a powerful delusion.

Nothing screams sausage party quite like the good old FBI Academy in Quantico. Three versus twenty-four is… not ideal. It could be worse, sure - but it’s bad enough that the three of you instinctively sit next to each other. Out of solidarity? Perhaps. Survival feels much more accurate, though.

You’re still settling in when you overhear the murmur in front of you.

“Agent Cavenaugh transferred from the BAU to lead a team in ViCAP. The BAU’s running one agent short now,” says Unidentified Sausage #1 to Sausage #2.

“Agent Who?” Sausage #2 asks.

A third sausage chimes in. This one is sporting such an exemplary bowl cut that you consider submitting his headshot to Webster’s as the official visual definition.

“SSA Matthew Cavenaugh was the very first agent Rossi and Professor Gideon added after founding the unit. Specializes in sex crimes. He’s the one who caught the Daytona Rapist in under forty-eight hours-”

You don’t even have to look to know he leaned forward without being invited. The micro-tension in the other two’s jaws says it all. Apparently, no one likes a know-it-all sausage. Not even other sausages.

“He identified the unsub through victim pattern clustering and-” Yes, yes. Applause and confetti to this one Agent Cavenaugh for solving something in under forty-eight hours… boring!

And while we’re on terminology - can this even be called a sausage party if it’s just twenty-four sausages and minimal garnish?

Meaning - there’s something strange in the air. Electricity. Maybe an actual loose wire sparking somewhere behind the walls. Or maybe it’s just the collective voltage of concentrated male ego trapped in an enclosed academic space with poor ventilation and worse self-awareness.

Rumor has it Gideon is… particular.

Which, for people who did not accidentally stumble into the last ten minutes of one of his conferences last year and decide on the spot to reorient their entire professional trajectory, may be discouraging. Not everyone hears “temperamental genius” and thinks sign me up. So yes, perhaps the whispers filtered out a few of the faint-hearted.

Still. With all due respect, this course has fewer attendees than the excruciatingly dull crisis negotiation crash course you endure on Wednesdays. And that’s what’s strange. You can’t quite articulate it, but something just feels off.

“Good morning-”

Everyone instinctively double-checks their posture the second the door swings open and Jason Gideon strides in looking like a man who remembered he had a class approximately thirty seconds ago. He’s already halfway to the board before the door finishes swinging behind him.

Gideon doesn’t even apologize when the door nearly takes out the poor unfortunate soul trailing him.

The man sidesteps just in time to avoid being flattened and then - as if nothing unusual has happened, or more accurately as if nothing could have happened - takes up position beside the desk with the rigid composure of a Swiss Guard assigned to guard the Pope.

After approximately three seconds of observation, you have no doubt that this man has never experienced joy a single day in his life.

You’re not sure what’s more concerning - the complete absence of visible personality, or the fact that the only identifiable traits he seems to have are being tall and relentlessly committed to his job. He is, frankly, a little (very) terrifying.

He’s conventionally attractive, sure. But you’re not entirely convinced how anyone is supposed to cope if he brings that exact same constipated expression into the bedroom.

Gideon, on the other hand-

He’s… striking. In a way that feels hostilely out of place in an academic setting.

Even standing next to what you assume is his assistant - a much younger man (sausage number… you’ve lost count) with raven hair shellacked into place with an excessive amount of gel, dressed in the crispest black suit you’ve ever seen, tie included, for a class that technically starts at eight in the morning - Gideon still looks like he got dressed while thinking about something infinitely more important than impressing a room full of rookies.

Civilian clothes. Slightly rumpled, too. Oddly, it makes the whole thing feel more… intimate.

“I don’t know what terrible things you’ve done in your lives that resulted in you wanting to be seated in this room… but you’re here. Which already separates you from several hundred others who are not.”

It’s remarkable how Gideon manages to sound vaguely insulting while his body language remains ever so casual, like he’s chatting with friends over a beer.

“My name is Jason Gideon. This is Behavioral Analysis.” (As if anyone in this room didn’t already know that.) “Unlike many of my colleagues at this Academy, I’m not particularly interested in teaching large groups of people who will never use what they’re being taught. So before this course was announced, we reviewed your files.”

His gaze sweeps the room. The authority Agent Gideon carries is so destabilizing that even in the fraction of a second his gaze lands on you, it’s capable of both drying up your throat and setting your face on fire before he’s already moved on to dissect the next person.

“This room is what remained. So… congratulations. At some point in your very short professional lives, each of you managed to do something that suggested you might be capable of thinking. But the bad news is that behavioral analysis has very little to do with what most of you think profiling is.”

At that point, Gideon casually reaches over, grabs his assistant by the arm, and physically steers him away from where he’d been standing beside the desk. Surprisingly, the assistant allows this public manhandling with the resigned expression of a man who has clearly endured this maneuver before.

Gideon positions him in front of the class and gives him a single approving pat on the shoulder. The man looks… unexpressively elated.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, this is SSA Hotchner.”

Hotchner gives a brief nod to the room.

Gideon leans in and mutters something close to his face. You reconsider what you once believed were perfectly respectable lip-reading skills, because all you manage to catch is the beginning of an “Aaron-”, and only because he doesn’t lower his voice quite fast enough.

Hotchner responds with… yet another nod.

Apparently, his conversational style consists entirely of silent acknowledgments delivered in increasingly microscopic increments, since the man has yet to open his mouth even once. Either that, or if he does open it, the only thing that will come out is a bark. (Woof.)

Still, this line of inquiry becomes far less interesting when Gideon abruptly exits the classroom without warning, leaving the untalkative assistant (now the professor) behind to take the room hostage. Woah.

The only thing that feels certain now is that Coconut-Head Sausage is about to burst into flames if Agent Hotchner keeps openly squaring him like that. You didn’t even know swallowing could be audible, but evidently sausages do produce a remarkably distinct gulping sound under pressure.

“Unlike many of your other instructors at this Academy,” Agent Hotchner begins (so he can speak) “the Behavioral Science course is not designed to familiarize you with the theoretical frameworks of criminal psychology. We already expect you to be familiar with the foundational concepts. That knowledge is the minimum requirement to succeed in this class - and to participate in it.”

You already preferred him when he wasn’t talking.

Sausage #1 raises his hand… or rather, lifts it halfway and immediately starts talking, because apparently being a man comes with the optional feature of waiting for permission switched off.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa-” Ah. The animalistic register. Astounding. “Isn’t this a beginner course? You’re not gonna, like, teach us the types of serial killers and stuff like that?”

Agent Hotchner makes the face of a man who has just realized that the saying there are no stupid questions, only stupid answers is, in fact, complete bullshit. Still, he somehow keeps his expression composed enough.

“Agent Gideon and I introduced several modifications to the course this year,” he replies evenly, “with the objective of providing you with a more extensive understanding of both advanced theory and - more importantly, as Agent Gideon would argue - practical application. Not every unsub - that is, unknown subject - is a serial offender. However, every serial offender begins as an unknown subject.”

Ouch. A clean, surgical correction of Sausage #1’s terminology.

“- and every offender we study,” Hotchner continues, “will present a distinct behavioral structure.”

Coconut-head sausage in the very front row raises his hand. Unfortunately for him, Sausage #1 is operating under the assumption that manners are for lesser men.

“What do you mean?”

At least he hasn’t asked why it takes an extra thirty seconds to decode whatever Agent Hotchner is trying to say. The man speaks in such an aggressively formal register it sounds like he rehearsed the whole thing in front of a mirror beforehand like a fucking loser.

“I mean-” he repeats, probably on purpose. (You wonder whether, while selecting which tie best suited the occasion this morning, he also factored in the level of stress a room full of rookies would inevitably inflict on him) “each week you will be presented with either an active BAU investigation or a previously adjudicated case. You will be provided with the relevant materials, which you will analyze in order to formulate a working offender profile. If called upon, you will then defend your reasoning in discussion with us.”

Us. Will Agent Gideon actually be present for any of these discussions? Or was that dramatic appearance his entire teaching contribution for the semester? Why isn’t he here now?

Coconut Head raises his long, skeletal arm again, waiting to be acknowledged. This time Agent Hotchner allows it.

“Would the level of participation - and the accuracy of the conclusions we present - affect the final evaluation determining whether we pass the course?”

Oh. Someone has clearly been studying Hotchner’s linguistic operating system.

“Good question, Agent Reid.” Woah. So Agent Hotchner really did read everyone’s files if he already knows Coconut-Head’s name. That wasn’t just an intimidation tactic. “Yes, continuous performance will factor heavily into your evaluation. Additionally, this year the highest-performing trainee in this class will be offered the opportunity to work with the BAU. We are currently operating one agent short on the team. As you-”

But whatever clarification follows is immediately swallowed by the room detonating. (Figuratively, unfortunately.)

The collective reaction of twenty-four sausages discovering that their wildest professional fantasy might materialize two years ahead of schedule produces a level of noise that renders the rest of poor Agent Hotchner’s sentence completely unintelligible.

“…Cavenaugh-”

“…they’re replacing-”

“…that Daytona case agent-”

Somehow, it’s only thanks to the immediate explosion of sausage chatter around the room that you manage to piece together what he actually said. (Sausages can be useful sometimes… who would’ve thought.)

The competitive tension in the room begins thickening almost immediately. You’d bet Agent Hotchner’s perfectly sculpted hair this is about to devolve into one spectacularly unhealthy environment, and you are not thrilled about spending the next several months watching grown adults regress into elementary school tactics.

Starting with the way Agent Hotchner manages to silence an entire pandemonium with nothing more than a controlled gesture of his hand.

“During the semester,” he says, “you will also rotate through observational assignments with the BAU, based on your performance record. Consider those opportunities to demonstrate your capabilities.”

Like… real cases? With real agents?

“But remember this: in the field, you will not be solving theoretical exercises. You will be dealing with someone’s life. I would strongly encourage you to keep that as your priority - rather than impressing us. That, is what will make you a good agent.”

That’s a very noble sentiment. Because announcing that one person in this room gets a golden ticket to the BAU and then asking everyone not to compete for it is obviously going to work. That’s like handing someone a winning lottery ticket and saying, “Now remember: money isn’t everything.”

Sure thing, Agent Hotchner. We all live in a beautiful, ethical utopia where humans are famously immune to ambition. You almost envy that level of optimism.

Life must be incredibly peaceful when you believe things like that.

There’s an old saying (actually old this time) that goes: never meet your heroes.

You’d like to add a footnote: especially not when they come accompanied by a suited-up assistant with terrifying eyebrows who can somehow turn one perfectly innocent question from the teacher’s pet (or assistant’s pet, since Gideon has been mysteriously absent for the past hour and a half) into a thirty-minute legal dissertation on every statute Ted Bundy managed to violate on the night of his arrest.

You’re just that lucky… the exact moment your brain finally starts surrendering to the sweet, merciful pull of unconsciousness, Gideon materializes again in the projector beam.

“Everybody,” he says, as if he never left, “conference room in ten.”

That’s it. A man of very few words, apparently, because before anyone can attempt the radical concept of asking for clarification, he vanishes again. Hotchner follows him out immediately, just as silent. How riveting.

Also worth noting: there are, conservatively speaking, about twenty conference rooms in this building complex. Surely it would have been unreasonable to specify which one out of the two dozen we’re supposed to meet in.

And of course, given the delightfully competitive atmosphere Gideon and Hotchner have so thoughtfully cultivated, teamwork is clearly not an option. No one even considers coordinating, so all you can do is… take a guess.

Instinct (common sense) tells you Gideon probably doesn’t mean one of the Academy lecture halls. The man already seems to have forgotten he was teaching this class once today, so there’s no reason to believe he suddenly developed the organizational discipline required to reserve a room in advance for a group of trainees he clearly does not give a shit about. Much more likely, he meant the actual BAU conference room.

Perfect. Problem one solved.

Problem two: you have no fucking idea where the hell it actually is, other than somewhere in the impossibly sprawling Federal Towers on the opposite side of where you currently are at the Academy. And time is not on your side.

You’re slightly (generously speaking) hoarse from running through a maze of entrances, being redirected by a series of equally unhelpful people who have all, somehow, pointed you in completely different directions before funneling you… here. By the time you reach the right lobby, you’re running on fumes.

In a rush, you shove your name at the secretary just long enough for her to slap a visitor badge onto your chest, gesture ambiguously (is she… is she fisting…?) toward the elevators, and dismiss you without a single word, not even a hint of which elevator you’re supposed to take. Good enough?

You pick one at random. There isn’t enough time to rely on the Tibetan method. The building is far too sprawling for logic to be useful, which leaves luck as the only operational strategy.

The elevator stops at six consecutive floors. Every time the doors open you lean halfway out to check whether you’ve accidentally arrived at Accounting, Counterterrorism, IT...

Finally, the doors slide open onto the BAU floor. You step out just in time. Only about half the class made it.

If the behavioral science class qualifies as a sausage party, then the BAU, at first glance, operates on an entirely different scale of sausage production. This is industrial level. A full processing facility.

Agents - all of whom somehow look and dress suspiciously like Agent Hotchner to the point you begin to wonder if this is actually a family business - move everywhere in very expensive dress shoes. There are so many of them cutting across the floor at once that you and the other trainees end up squeezed into a corner near the parapet, safely out of the traffic pattern.

Papers move constantly from desk to desk, to printer and back again. The combined cacophony of keyboards and mouse clicks firing off in every direction is already making you consider forcing every single agent into a constricting shirt, one by one, just to make it stop. Even your internal monologue is struggling to compete.

This place has a way of stripping you of your individuality and blending you into the average of the rest of the sausages.

All it takes is one quick glance into those vacant eyes to realize every trainee standing beside you is imagining the exact same thing at the exact same time: which one of these desks might someday - hopefully very soon - become theirs.

Which one out of the horde of messy corner desks clustered in the middle of the open floor plan will eventually hold their stationery, their photographs, their case files. Small attempts to reclaim some personality from the slow bureaucratic suction the Bureau seems determined to apply to every last one of you. At least, that appears to be how most agents here cope.

Except for one.

The desk on your far right looks like it belongs in an entirely different building.

Immaculately clean. So aggressively clean, in fact, that the gigantic framed picture of the American flag with a bald eagle becomes agonizingly visible to your sleep deprived eyes. As if this place needed any additional reinforcement of nationalism.

Does anyone here truly benefit from having an extra American flag within arm's reach at all times?

If this man (it has to be a sausage, because no woman alive would willingly decorate a desk this bleakly) were not obnoxious enough already, there is also a glass paperweight with the White House trapped inside it. Why.

But the real offense sits neatly arranged along one edge of the desk, positioned so that every single one of them is visible while still occupying the absolute minimum amount of space possible. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Seven trophies. Seven trophies and not even a picture. Ouch.

“Out of all these guys, who do you think is the loser overcompensating for having no friends with official validation from the Bureau?” you ask the bright-eyed assistant’s pet. (You forgot his name already. Coconut-head sausage.)

“That would be me.”

The voice comes from directly behind you, from a sausage standing exactly where your back has been comfortably leaning against the parapet.

You would have to be spectacularly obtuse not to recognize it after spending the better part of the day hoping it would choke on its own legal jargon while explaining statutes and procedural bullshit. You suddenly feel a profound reluctance to turn around.

Unfortunately, you have to.

The terrifying lack of space between Agent Hotchner’s thick eyebrows and his eyes makes you seriously consider employing the classic prey strategy of playing dead in the hope that the predator will lose interest and wander off. Although, admittedly, it may already be too late for that.

Realistically speaking, on a scale from one to ten, how hopeless are your chances of winning the grand prize of working here if you’ve already managed to land yourself on the professor’s assistant’s kill list on day one? Especially factoring in the teeny tiny detail that this is also the very first impression he has of you.

“Where’s the rest of the class?” he asks in that particular annoyed tone that implies everyone in the room already owes him something.

A verbal response is somewhat out of the question at the moment, so you lift one shoulder in the universal gesture for I have absolutely no fucking idea, while his terrifying eyes remain fixed on you, patiently waiting for a satisfactory answer that, unfortunately, does not exist.

He sighs, disappointed, as if you are personally responsible for wasting precious time he could have maybe spent polishing his seven already spotless trophies. He pulls out his phone and calls someone, about something you are far too deep in survival mode to even attempt to overhear.

Agent Hotchner’s eyes stay locked on you for the entire duration of the phone call. (Play dead. Play dead.)

“While we wait for the rest of your colleagues to catch up, I could walk you through the BAU and show you around,” he says, projecting his voice.

There must be a glitch in the matrix, because you just witnessed Agent Hotchner raise the slightest corner of his mouth. You suddenly understand why he never does it. The deep dimples carved into his cheeks soften his face so much he ends up looking disorientingly approachable. Too bad the gay (as in joyful. Allegedly.) expression disappears the second his eyes land back on you.

You are so fucked.

Still, you can take a small amount of comfort in the fact that if your assessment of Agent Hotchner’s trophies had been wrong, he probably would’ve corrected you, right?

There are three different clocks on the wall opposite where you are sitting in the conference room. If Agent Hotchner hadn’t positioned himself directly beside you at the side table, you could at least enjoy the small comfort of verifying with physical evidence that Gideon is, in fact, late across all three time zones: DC, London, and Tokyo.

You have to admit, that takes a special kind of talent. It’s a shame the whole thing is just an adynaton.

“The case we’ll begin with today is an unsolved series of homicides that occurred in San Francisco between 1974 and 1975,” Gideon says, switching on the TV of the conference room.

You cannot decide whether it is more uncomfortable taking notes while standing or doing it with Agent Hotchner’s cold breath hovering somewhere near the side of your neck. You attempt a cautious glance in his direction from the corner of your eye, but your gaze ends up meeting his.

Shit.

Luckily, it seems you both arrive at the same silent agreement to pretend that never happened, judging by the way you simultaneously snap your attention back to Gideon at the exact same moment.

Still. Is a person not entitled to take their own notes in peace, free from judgment, especially while representing the federal government of the so-called free world? Is that truly too much to ask? These are American values, Agent Hotchner. He, of all people, should be the first to respect and defend them.

(Hopefully… perhaps the bald eagle was a façade all along.)

“Five confirmed homicide victims. Possibly more we’re unaware of. All male. All between the ages of twenty-five and forty-two.” (Okay Gideon, could you please slow the fuck down. You are not a typewriter.) “All connected to San Francisco's gay community in the mid-1970s. Each victim was stabbed multiple times, between-”

(Slow. The Fuck. Down.)

The sudden weight of a single thick, very hairy finger pressing lightly on your notepad makes your pen wobble across the page.

What the fuck does this man want from you now.

“The title is victimology, not victims,” Agent Hotchner murmurs. You stare down at the page, where his middle finger (is he flipping you off?) is currently pointing at your hastily scribbled heading.

You decide not to dignify the correction with a response, mostly because something tells you he would not appreciate the very sincere “fuck you” you are wholeheartedly reserving for him.

“The first body was found in a secluded area around 2 a.m. near Ocean Beach, a well-known hookup spot within the queer community at the time. No identification on him, but fingerprints later identified the victim as Gerald Cavenaugh.”

If you had a penny for every time that last name had surfaced today, you would have two pennies.

Which is not a lot, but it is still enough to make ex-BAU poster boy Agent Cavenaugh personally responsible for the minor cardiac event you experience every time Agent Hotchner's breathing pattern changes slightly behind you while you write something he might not agree with.

“The caller who reported the body to 911 gave no name.”

You underline the detail.

In some cases, offenders may initiate contact with law enforcement following the crime. Indeed, the call can serve multiple functions: facilitating the discovery of the body, asserting a degree of control over the sequence of events, and reinforcing the offender’s internal perception of dominance within the narrative.

Your stomach churns.

You hate that you are starting to second-guess your own reasoning, purely because the simple act of underlining something in your notes seems to trigger a full butterfly-effect cascade, set off by nothing more than the shift of air beside you when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch Agent Hotchner raising a single eyebrow at the page.

Maybe he thinks your reasoning is stupid. (Maybe it really is?)

Or maybe the caller just did not want to identify himself because being seen at a queer hookup spot at two in the morning in the 1970s carried consequences far worse than being considered a witness (or even a suspect) in a homicide.

You write down context, just to make sure you do not forget it.

“The second victim was twenty-seven-year-old Joseph Stevens, known as Jay, a drag performer. Before he was identified, police treated the case as a mugging because his wallet was missing from the scene. His body was found in a dark alley roughly an hour’s walk from North Beach, where his car had been left outside the bar where he worked, which now suggests he may have left willingly with the offender. At the time, however, investigators did not consider the murder connected to the first case.”

“Even in San Francisco, in 1974, the police did not treat everyone equally,” Agent Hotchner mutters under his breath. Groundbreaking. A sausage recognizing systemic inequality. (So lame.)

“No kidding,” you murmur back.

You lose a good portion of whatever Gideon says next thanks to this unexpected Hotchner allyship. You wish you had the institutional authority to stab his large hand with your pen just to discourage further collaboration.

“…the third victim escalated into significantly more overkill. The crime scene was reported to be so bloody it approached near decapitation. Then a cooling-off period of nearly a year. In 1975, another body was recovered on the beach-”

“Is this the cold case of the San Francisco Doodler?” Coconut-head sausage cuts in. (There we go.)

Gideon turns to him with a proud little smile (you hate it here), then follows it with a quick glance toward Hotchner, his expressive brows lifting ever so slightly. The exchange might be silent, but it is by no means subtle.

You swear there is an entire conversation happening in that look. Using girl code in a room full of sausages would have been a brilliant strategy… if only it were actually just sausages sitting here.

It is all there, in the very specific way Agent Hotchner’s mouth pulls into that obnoxiously restrained smirk. The kind of expression a man only allows himself when he gets to say I told you so without actually saying it. Maybe what he is really saying is, ‘Look. I told you he would be impressive.’

“‘Yes, Agent Reid, you are correct.” You can hear the smile in Hotchner’s voice. You see green.

Was everyone supposed to recognize this case on sight? Are you the only idiot in the room who did not walk in with a pre-installed encyclopedic knowledge of obscure 1970s homicide investigations?

“It’s interesting that they only form a task force at this point,” Reid continues, visibly energized, which is… maybe a little tone-deaf. “Up until then, the cases of SFPD were worked by shift. Investigators would handle whatever came in and then pass it along, so information became fragmented across reports with no continuity. That structure makes pattern recognition extremely difficult. Once this body is found and the similarities become undeniable, SFPD consolidates the cases into a single investigation and assigns a dedicated task force, identifying the presence of a serial offender only at that stage.”

#WhoCares (It is actually interesting. You just did not know that. Still.)

#DoYouWantACookie

#YourHopesToWorkHereAreGone because Gideon is nodding along the entire time, not even attempting to conceal that proud smile. Please. You’re not sure it’s even worth the effort to continue listening as attentively to the rest.

“The next victim was a nurse. The body was found on the same beach where the first victim was recovered, but in a different location. There were signs of a struggle, which may explain the increased blood at the scene. Like the previous victim, he had been seen at a gay bar prior to his death. The same bar. There were also reports of a man lingering outside the establishment, sketching patrons as they entered and exited.”

Oh… so that is why the press called him the Doodler. You have to admit, it is possibly the least intimidating nickname a serial killer has ever been given.

“By the time police began focusing on this individual, there was another victim. June 1975. Male. Severely decomposed. The body was almost mummified, which meant no usable fingerprints. The medical examiner estimated the body had been left in shrubbery between ten days and a month.”

You pause over your notes. The so-called cooling-off period suddenly feels… questionable. Was it really a year? Or was it just a year before anyone bothered to connect the dots? High control, or just low attention? This investigation looks sloppy as hell.

“The most interesting aspect of this case, in my opinion, is that more than one victim survived,” Gideon says.

You cannot help but notice Agent Reid nodding along like this is the most obvious thing in the world. He does not even need to take notes.

“The first survivor arrived at the ER stabbed and covered in blood. He refused to file a report. Refused to cooperate if his name would be attached to the case. He was a European diplomat.”

High-profile job, higher risk of being outed. Once again, context doing half of the unsub’s job for him.

“He stated he met the offender around two in the morning after eating at a diner near the same bar where the suspect had been seen sketching. The offender accompanied him back to his apartment, spent an unusual amount of time in the bathroom, and when the victim approached the door, he was stabbed in the back with a steak knife. During the attack, the offender said, ‘All you guys are alike.’”

Every single sausage perks up. Finally, something they can take apart: motive + projection. Clean labels they can assemble into a profile in seconds. You are certain half the room already has theirs ready.

You would bet twenty dollars on it with Agent Hotchner, if only he were even remotely capable of fun. He is probably wondering why you have written down one single sentence and are not scribbling furiously like everyone else.

“The same statement was later reported by another surviving victim, who lived in the same apartment building as the diplomat and also remained anonymous. Police linked the attacks through that phrase. A third surviving victim later emerged, a public figure, an actor, who ended the encounter early after noticing a knife in the offender’s pocket. He would not come forward publicly either.”

Of course he would not. Because why would anyone, in this context.

“A suspect was eventually brought in following a tip from the secretary of a psychiatric doctor. He had been treated in the psychiatric department of the same hospital where two of the surviving victims were treated. According to the tip, during sessions, the suspect confessed to the murders.”

You are not a prosecutor, but you still jot down ‘doctor-patient privilege -> cannot be used to incriminate’ out of instinct more than anything. Out of the corner of your eye, you feel Hotchner shift slightly.

Is he still reading your notes? For fuck’s sake.

He mutters something that is completely incomprehensible.

“What?” you say. (As in what the fuck are you saying, but streamlined for public consumption.)

He glances toward Gideon, still talking, then back down at your notebook with that terrifying glare. One slow exhale through his nose (neuron activated), and suddenly your notebook is no longer in your hand.

You’re left fuddled by how quickly it happens. The fleeting warmth of his fingers brushing yours barely registers against your skin as he confiscates your property, and somehow, you end up meeting his gaze.

For a split second, he looks almost human. The words get stuck in your throat, and not just because, for once, your self-preservation instincts are doing their job and reminding you not to mouth off to someone who outranks you in every conceivable way.

Agent Hotchner pulls out his own penisfrom his jacket. A nearly dead black ballpoint. Which is… something, considering the Rolex on his wrist.

For some reason, you find yourself smiling at the realization that, from this one tiny detail, you now know his jackets - and probably his pants too, because go big or go home, right - are custom-made just to accommodate the fact that he’s left-handed.

Which immediately makes you wonder what other microscopic adjustments he insists on controlling, far beyond just inner pockets.

He writes quickly. You spot an asterisk appear next to your note, but then his hand is too broad, covering whatever War and Peace footnote he’s adding underneath. When he hands the notebook back, it almost looks like he makes a deliberate effort to grip it by the short edge this time, ensuring there is absolutely no repeat of the accidental finger contact.

He lifts his brows, gives a small nod. Look. Not a single word is exchanged. And you are simply respecting his very real aversion to interrupting Gideon’s dissertation with something as offensively mundane as small talk.

There is an entire science behind handwriting that you wish you knew, if only to explain why Agent Hotchner writes like a girl.

Annoyingly pretty cursive. No hearts over the i’s, unfortunately. Tucked neatly under your line, like an actual footnote, taking up the least amount of space possible, he has written:

Tarasoff v. Regents of the University of California, 1976, California Supreme Court. Communications made in therapy are generally protected under doctor-patient privilege and cannot be subpoenaed as evidence. However, if a patient poses a serious and imminent (underlined) threat to an identifiable (underlined) victim, the clinician has a duty to warn or protect, and confidentiality may be breached in that context. Outside of that exception, the records remain privileged.

Oh! You drag your pen over the parts he underlined. “So the reason they couldn’t arrest him, and the case went cold, is because they couldn’t identify another victim? Like… a specific person. A name?”

Agent Hotchner’s smile (with a sliver of actual teeth… he looks so stupid) tells you you’ve landed exactly where he wanted you to go.

When his eyes catch the light, unobstructed for once by those permanently disapproving eyebrows, they are a surprisingly warm hazel. It almost distracts you from the fact that this entire legal framework might have helped a serial offender stay free.

A light tap of his index finger against your notebook. Pay attention. Okay, just say you’re boring next time, Agent Hotchner.

“He had originally sought treatment because of his attraction to men,” Gideon continues, reading from the file. “During police interrogation, he denied being the killer… but not everything. He claimed he had been ‘reformed.’ Said he had struggled with same-sex attraction since he was thirteen. Said therapy had cured him.”

Gideon closes the file. Not a good sign. “Now build me a profile of the unsub.”

Oh, like this? Without even taking you to dinner first?

“The unknown subject is organized. Probably above-average intelligence, since he is comfortable approaching strangers in public,” says Unidentified Sausage #1.

Gideon tilts his head, unimpressed. Next.

“Sexually conflicted,” offers another voice from somewhere in the back. “He targets men because he hates that he’s attracted to them.”

You wince at the phrasing. Gideon does not look impressed either.

“Mission-oriented, since he used the word cured when he was interrogated” says another sausage.

“No,” Agent Reid cuts in, “actually, the variation in the presentation of the victims suggests an emotional escalation - or, more accurately, a devolution - rather than a real consistent ideological mission. The increasing level of overkill indicates affective dysregulation, most likely tied to some sort of unresolved internal conflict. It could be interpreted as a kind of behavioral rehearsal, like an attempt to destroy a part of himself he’s unable to either reconcile or integrate.”

That one lands much better, as Gideon’s expression is no longer bordering on disgust… he’s actually nodding along.

“Yes. We’re on the right track.”

They keep going. Intelligent. Repressed. Ashamed. Organized. Socially competent. White-collar. Possibly religious. Probably from a strict background. Hates effeminacy because he associates it with his own desires. Targets gay men as symbolic stand-ins for himself. And none of it is wrong.

“Hotch, want to give it a try and tell them what they’re missing?” Gideon asks. (Wait. Does Agent Hotchner actually let people call him Hotch, or is that some bizarre little pet name that exists exclusively between the two of them?)

Hotchner shakes his head first, like he’s trying to play it cool, but being this close to him lets you catch the small glint in his eyes that betrays how badly he wants this.

“The offender is organized enough to approach victims without raising suspicion, but once the violence starts, he loses control. That suggests he’s not fully directing what’s happening in the moment. It’s more likely he’s acting out something that’s been building internally for a long time, and once it starts, it overrides everything else.”

Yeah… figures. Nobody is truly shy if they clear their throat before beginning the sermon. And he keeps going.

“The level of overkill points to that loss of control. Each stab is releasing tension. It regulates him, at least temporarily, and gives him an ephemeral sense of control he doesn’t otherwise have. This is why he presents as a power-control offender with sadistic features, rather than a classic hedonistic sadist.”

Woah. Okay. Show-off Agent Hotchner. With a mind like that, it makes sense why he is the way he is (an obnoxious cocksucker? Just… unfortunately justified.)

And judging by the way every sausage in the room suddenly looks like they’re collectively reconsidering their entire sexuality for the first time in their lives… well. What is that even called? What do you even call that feeling? That kind of humbling admiration you get when someone is so undeniably good at what they do that being completely outmatched starts to feel… a little attractive?

“If the victims operate as symbolic proxies, the violence becomes an attempted psychic eradication of something in himself he can’t tolerate. Desire is experienced as destabilizing or humiliating; gratification is followed by dysphoria, and the violence is his way of restoring balance. That also explains the nature of the attack. The penetrative violence may be compensatory - a way of addressing perceived inadequacy, whether psychological or sexual. And as we’ve seen with this type of offender, it can also function as a physical substitute for release-“

“Intelligence level?” Gideon cuts Hotchner off in the middle of everyone practically drooling over their notes. (You’ve jotted down a few terms too… proxies, dysphoria. Look at you. Sounding like you actually know your shit.)

“Well, his social presentation appears constructed. He relies on observation and the mirroring of others’ behavior to pass as socially competent, which requires strong pattern recognition and adaptive learning. If he can read interactional cues well enough to appear safe - even disarming - and persuade victims to bring him into their own homes, his functional social intelligence is likely above average, possibly high.”

You… don’t know. You’re not convinced he has to be a genius when the police themselves were enforcing moral codes in San Francisco at the time.

Gideon nods once. “Everyone agrees with Agent Hotchner?”

A wave of collective nodding.

Really? Maybe they just don’t have the balls to disagree with someone who has seen more than all of you combined. Maybe you’re wrong. Gideon somehow keeps scanning the room anyways, face by face, until he gets to you.

“You don’t seem convinced.”

Your throat dries instantly. Oh. Oh no. Is he talking to you? Directly? Your eyes feel like they are about to drop out and do a flip.

“Um. Yeah, I-”

Gideon raises an eyebrow, like that is some kind of behavioral green light for you to keep going. And of course, Agent Hotchner turns toward you at that exact moment. You can feel the heat radiating off his suit, which is not helping you think straight in the slightest. What if you really play dead? Also… why does Agent Hotchner smell so nice now that he is this close?

What do you even say?

How do you politely disagree with someone who is infinitely more experienced than you, in proper English (optional), while also acknowledging that the very fact you disagree probably means you’re the one who’s wrong?

“I… disagree.” Whoops. It even comes out sounding more like a question. Great. You immediately drop your gaze to your notes. There is absolutely no universe in which you are making eye contact with a room full of people currently holding metaphorical pitchforks. One word does stare back at you, though.

Context?

Ocean Beach. North Beach. Same bar. Same reluctance to report. Same police force that did not care until the body count became a little too inhumane to ignore.

“I don’t think he’s smart,” you say. Shit, that sounds even worse out loud. “The unsub. Not Agent Hotchner.”

A chuckle from Gideon. You can practically feel Agent Hotchner’s gaze spear straight through your skull.

…too late to play dead?

“I think we’re profiling him as if he’s operating in a vacuum. He’s not… not really. The social context is doing part of the work for him, since his victims are already conditioned not to report, not to identify themselves, not to trust the police, to the point that they would rather bleed out than come forward. That definitely lowers the risk of the crime.”

“Can you tell me the definition of a low-risk and high-risk crime?” Hotch cuts in out of nowhere, turning sharply to lock his eyes onto yours. (Is this his way of dismantling your entire point just because you didn’t fully agree with him?)

You swallow. You really wish they had covered the basics first, like any normal course, instead of throwing you into this golden-ticket, performative guesswork with no theoretical foundation to stand on.

“It’s… about exposure, I think… like… how likely it is that the offender gets seen or interrupted. So a high-risk crime would be more public, or involve victims who are reported quickly. More witnesses… more chances something goes wrong.”

You hate the way Agent Hotchner is looking at you. You can practically read not good enough spelled out in those shadowed pupils.

You’re sure the concept is there. You have it. But the certainty starts slipping the moment you catch fragments of Reid’s perfectly polished, textbook answer being muttered under his breath, like the question had always been meant for him.

“And low-risk is the opposite,” you push on. “More controlled, less visible… victims who maybe aren’t reported immediately or aren’t taken as seriously - like in this case - so there’s less pressure on the offender.”

You have never wanted a room to detonate as badly as you do right now. Is there a window nearby? Something structurally unsound you can quietly launch yourself through?

“Partially.” The way he says it somehow sounds a lot like you suck. “You’re describing the outcome. Be careful to define the mechanism.” (What in the corporate bullshit is this?)

And then he proceeds to say something that, to you, sounds exactly like what you just said… only dressed up in much fancier language… except that this time everyone and their mothers are nodding along. If there’s some nuanced, groundbreaking distinction in whatever he’s saying, you are clearly not getting it.

“You should watch the words you use, they can shift the meaning entirely. Even earlier, you phrased your point in a way that made it sound like you were attributing his success to a passive set of circumstances, rather than to his skills and his active exploitation of the context he’s operating in.”

Bitch-

“No, I mean - yeah, he understands the system. He knows where to go, how to approach, how to use those environments to his advantage. He’s not just stumbling into it or something… but that doesn’t automatically make him highly intelligent. He’s choosing victims who are deprioritized from the start in police investigations, and that lowers the risk before he even does anything.”

You can hear yourself looping. Same point, slightly rearranged, again and again, and he still looks unconvinced.

“The point is…” you try one last time, “the system is already doing half the work for him. Does that make sense?”

“It does to me.” (THANK YOU, DADDY GIDEON, THANK YOU) “I was waiting for that. Thank you.” J. - as in Jason Gideon, one of the founding fathers of behavioral science, the man who practically coined the concept of the ‘serial killer’ - is thanking you?

It feels electric… even if he barely spares you a glance before turning back to the class.

“Everyone sees the elephant so clearly that they start describing it in such detail they forget it is standing in a room to begin with.”

(What the hell does that even mean.)

“The reason we start with victimology, and with contextual and situational analysis, is to keep ourselves from jumping to conclusions and overcomplicating things just to sound clever. You all want to talk about high IQ, intricate planning, sophistication? Fine. Keep going and you’ll end up nowhere while putting more innocent lives at risk.”

You don’t miss the way Gideon’s gaze keeps flicking toward Hotchner. At this point, there’s no mistaking it. He is, in fact, calling his own assistant/protégé/puppy/whatever an idiot without ever actually saying the word, and doing it in front of the entire class like it’s nothing.

So the rumors about Gideon were true.

“I’m looking at a moron who got lucky and keeps getting away with it because his victims are low risk in the eyes of the system. You’re all so busy building him into something impressive that you’re missing what’s right in front of you.”

You almost feel sorry for Agent Hotchner. None of this is technically your fault, but there is absolutely no universe in which you’re turning around to look him in the eye right after he just got publicly dismantled.

He’s already terrifying under normal circumstances. You have no interest in discovering what he looks like when he’s actually enraged.

Safe to say, you are no longer factoring in his endorsement for your future employment here. (Possibly ever since… the desk comment.)

You viciously envy every princess who ever spent years locked away in a tower by their evil stepmother.

At least they had the luxury of solitude. None of them had to endure it in the company of two frat boys, trapped in a forgotten, dusty room in the Federal Tower, sentenced to paperwork duty by the ever-charitable Agent Hotchner, while Gideon is… somewhere (which raises the real question: does Gideon even know where Gideon is?)

If surprise is the path to knowledge, then at this point you should be smarter than Gideon’s favorite golden boy, Agent Reid.

Because you never expected to become more knowledgeable about what a frat party looks like (without ever having set foot in one), thanks to Agents Millstone and Kepler, who have been excessively, relentlessly proving they peaked in a house that smelled like sweaty balls twenty-four hours a day…

…than you are about whether any of the metaphorical mental sweat you’re pouring into these consultation profiles - that may or may not ever be read by anyone who matters - is actually worth anyone’s time or resources.

Actually, correction. In this situation, you are the resource sitting behind the (modest) pile of case files on your desk, already four rounds of rejection deep.

First, they’re the cases Agent Hotchner doesn’t deem worthy of BAU field supervision, so they get passed down to the senior agents in the bullpen. Rejected. Then to the office agents. Rejected again. Then to the interns. Rejected again. And finally, to you and the two frat-boy sausages ergo, Student Agents on Office Duty. (S.A.O.D. but the O is silent.)

Apparently, this is a privilege reserved for the students on Gideon’s radar. A chance to apply theory neither Gideon nor Hotchner - devout believers in innate genius - ever bothered to teach. The profiles you work on are allegedly taken into account for the final evaluation, which, considering the semester is almost over, should be reassuring.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. (It is not.) It started smelling like sweaty balls in here too the moment you first realized - thankfully weeks ago - that none of this is actually being tracked.

The consultation files you’re working on don’t carry any identifying number - nothing that links a profile back to its author, since none of you technically works at the BAU. (Oh, and at the end of each shift, everything gets also dumped into a single pile by some designated intern. #Yay.)

Not that anyone cares enough to fix it. No one has the time to follow how many cases you’ve worked, whether your profiles were accurate, or if you’re improving. And even if they did, these cases are simply not worth the effort.

You could be brilliant. You could be completely wrong. You could be reworking the same case file you already touched days ago by accident because someone messed up the piles again - which would not even be the first time.

Functionally, it makes no difference.

In the grand scheme of things, you are indistinguishable from Agent Kepler, still the reigning ASU keg-stand champion to this day, and at the exact same time, you are still four degrees of separation away from Agent Reid, who has been out in the field with Gideon since week one.

There has to be a silver lining. In your case, it’s small.

You always pick the desk with its back against the wall separating you from an even dustier storage room filled with what look like untouched relics from the 70s, where – supposedly - the original interrogation tapes that kickstarted the BAU, conducted by Gideon and Rossi, are kept.

(Rumor has it there’s even one on Charles Manson… too bad no one is cleared to get in there).

Anyways. Everyone knows all archives are haunted. You don’t know what, exactly, inhabits this one, but you decide to take your chances. With the heel of your foot, you start tapping against the wall in semblances of Morse code.

HELP ME. ANYONE? (You keep tapping. Again. And again. Okay, maybe too many times. At this point it’s less about expecting a response and more about needing something to hold on to.)

So much so that you’re halfway convinced you’ve finally gone coocoo-bananas - somewhere between Agent Millstone saying the word “chick” for the thirty-sixth time and the slow, irreversible erosion of your will to live - when something taps back.

WHATS (You’re almost sure that last one was an S.) WRONG?

You’ve hit the jackpot.

There’s a very real possibility that one of the janitors is in there. Earlier, you saw Mr. Specter on duty in the south wing (which, honestly, feels thematically appropriate given the ghost situation). He’s a big Madonna fan. Solid guy. If there’s anyone who can get you out of here, it’s him.

You are so excited you rush through it, hoping it still makes sense-

FRAT BOYS.

The prince of your story is finally coming to rescue you from your exile, armed with his trusty mopping cart and - he did promise he’d show you once he got it done - a brand-new tattoo of Madonna’s face inked onto his strong, double-jointed (!) forearm.

At last. Salvation. Natural light from the full-height windows in the corridor spills through the narrow crack of the door, cutting into the darkness and outlining your rescuer from behind-

…in a custom-tailored suit?

Wait. No. No. Go back. You’ve successfully avoided him for months, and now-

“Agent-” You despise the way he says your name, so monotone. “I need you.”

Talk about a double meaning… although, if he sounds this deadpan even on his 2 a.m. calls, you doubt it’s ever convinced anyone to sleep with him.

“Grab your go-bag and meet me in the lobby as soon as you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

It sounds like an invitation. Badly phrased, sure - low effort, even lower enthusiasm - but still. An invitation to the grand royal ball is still an invitation to the grand royal ball.

Field work! Actual field work! Finally, after months of exile in the administrative oubliette, you’re being presented to court, summoned, no less, by the highest order of behavioral aristocracy (Gideon? It has to be Gideon.)

Agent Hotchner does not strike you as someone who hands out opportunities for personal growth, and even if he did, you’re fairly certain you’d be last on the list. If you made it onto it at all.

“Be quick,” he deadpans. Ah yes. The carriage awaits. He looks… faintly disgusted. Incredible. The only redeeming quality you’ve managed to identify in Agent Hotchner is his remarkable consistency in proving you right.

Farewell, frat boys. Hello, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron “still bitter about your day-one comment that got him indirectly embarrassed by Gideon in front of the entire class” Hotchner. What a gentle reminder that rock bottom always has a basement!

Because there is absolutely no universe in which Agents Millstone and Kepler would have greeted you by checking the time on an expensive Rolex, as if you’d taken an eternity to reach the lobby, with that same restrained disappointment already settling on their faces.

(What now.)

“It’s going to be a two-hour drive…” So the basement of rock bottom also has a basement. “And we’re already running late, so I grabbed dinner for you from the cafeteria. We won’t be making any stops.”

You offer him a strained smile. He doesn’t even bother to return it. Instead, he just hands you the bag with the incriminating items. You peek inside. A sandwich. A water bottle. And… some nuts. Wow. Dazzling.

“Thank you-” There’s an incidental, teeny-tiny brush of fingers as he pulls his hand back.

“I’m good right now,” you add quickly. It’s also something-past five in the afternoon, but his eye contact always feels so accusatory that it keeps shaping more words out of your tongue whether you like it or not. “Maybe later. Thank you, though.”

“No food inside my car.” (Then why the fuck did he even-)

You don’t say it lightly when the only viable survival strategy left is to shove a handful of nuts into your mouth and hope for the best - as in, basic sustenance - while he keeps walking at least one foot ahead of you like you’re being escorted to trial.

He reaches the car first and lifts the trunk open with one hand, letting out a small, offended grunt of effort, only to immediately steal your go-bag from your hand - an involuntary brush of fingers - and place it inside alongside his. His eyes flick to the goodie bag still in your hand (maybe stare less and talk more next time, Agent Hotchner.)

“Want some nuts?” you offer.

He shakes his head, already rummaging through his own bag for files, completely uninterested. You feel the very strong feminine urge to poke at whatever remains of his emotional range.

“Why, you don’t like nuts?”

Nothing. You’re not even sure how to interpret the expression on his face - disappointment? Disgust? - because he doesn’t give you enough to work with. The most you get is an exhale through his nose as he stares at the bag like he’s actively solving the trolley problem.

“You can keep the water,” he decides, extending it toward you. Wow. They should really start calling him Aaron Philanthropist Hotchner, the way he’s graciously granting you permission to consume beverages in his vehicle. Your fingers brush his again.

“Watch your head,” he adds, closing the trunk - despite you being very clearly outside of guillotine range.

He walks all the way around to the passenger side and opens the door for you…

Not to be mistaken for gallantry, of course. There is no soft, romcom-type eye contact (honestly, you’re not even sure he’s capable of that) just a very deliberate avoidance of your existence as he stares, visibly pissed off, somewhere into the void while you get in.

(Don’t worry, Hotchner. The feeling is mutual. You don’t want to spend two hours locked in a vehicle with him either.)

“We’re going to Yorktown, here in Virginia.” Hotchner hands you the generous gift of two thick case files as he starts the car. “There’s a stretch of road called Hemlock Trace. It’s a heritage drive with old logging paths-”

He reaches behind your headrest to reverse out of the parking space. The warm note of tonka bean - something he must’ve put on his wrist - finally comes alive this close, the saccharinity drawn out by the heat of his skin, leaving the lingering ghost of a touch just behind your neck.

“So… isolated, no lighting and all that?” you blurt, as if rushing him might make him get back to a normal, respectable distance faster. What an annoyingly inviting scent for such an uninviting man.

He’s taking up entirely too much space. All you’re left with is the sharp line of his profile - the prominent nose, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips press into a thin line as he concentrates - while he maneuvers the car effortlessly.

You can’t help but wonder how many people he’s managed to fool with his looks into overlooking the fact that he’s a complete dickhead.

“Exactly,” he says. “It’s heavily frequented during the day, but at night it becomes very secluded. Every mile or so there are gravel pull-offs - during the day they’re used by hikers, fishermen. At night…”

“They’re a great hookup spot,” you finish. You catch the way his eyes flick to you in the rearview mirror. (What? Is hookup a restricted term now?)

“And I’m guessing it’s a damn jurisdictional nightmare,” you add, quickly going through the file. “Northern stretch falls under the Williamsburg Historical Greenway Authority, so park rangers… then Yorktown County, then East Jamestown, then it skirts the county line before jumping back to state near the dam… and some sections are state patrol too?”

You glance up, catch Agent Hotchner’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Just for a moment. He meets your eyes for half a second, then returns to the road.

You exhale. “That’s a mess. Who the hell even responds when something happens out there?”

Hotchner cuts you a sideways look, eyebrows already pulling into that unfortunately familiar disapproving line.

“If you keep reading like that for three hours, you’ll get carsick,” he says. “I can walk you through the case. No need to dig into the file until we get to the crime scene photos.”

Maybe you should turn this into a drinking game… with water. Take a shot every time Agent Hotchner is a condescending piece of shit, or quizzes you on entry-level theory like he’s still not entirely convinced you belong here. At least that might be marginally more entertaining than whatever the hell this is.

He flicks another glance at you. Probably annoyed you haven’t granted him the basic courtesy of a response. Too bad.

Then he launches into a tangent - something about historical jurisdictional boundaries and how they evolved, which, sure (not so sure), fascinating (at best), if you had signed up for a lecture and not… whatever this passive-aggressive road trip is.

You tune in and out. Hemlock Trace is a grey zone. That’s the headline. The rest is him connecting dots across decades because he’s personally stung by poorly drawn county lines. Honestly, as long as he’s got it figured out, you’re comfortable outsourcing the entire problem to him. Afterall, if he can get this worked up over something this minor, he probably knows what he’s talking about.

#Trust4AgentHotchner

#YouRefuseToSpendThatMuchEnergy

From what you do catch, though, the gist is… bad. If a call comes in vague - “on the Trace,” “near the river,” “past the cemetery,” “one of the overlooks” - dispatch can burn precious minutes just figuring out who the hell is supposed to respond.

“The first victims are from October of last year. Mara Vale and Elise Hargrove. Found three days after their disappearance near Briar Bend Overlook.” Agent Hotchner keeps his eyes on the road as he reaches across your seat to tap the file in your lap. You feel the weight of his thick middle finger against your upper thigh. “If you look at the map, it’s a turnout near the south river embankment. And from the photos, the vehicle hasn’t fully gone over.”

You glance down. His finger is still there. It looks… deliberately positioned (the vehicle… it could never be the finger), guided into place with just enough care to nearly vanish, but not quite?

“Mara was forced into the rear cargo area. Elise remained in the back seat. No obvious signs of sexual assault. Both were strangled and have incised wounds to the throat, deep enough to nearly decapitate them, but there’s minimal blood in the car.”

“So that was done post-mortem?” you ask.

“Or the bodies were staged back into the vehicle. Also, their personal effects were still inside. The interior had been doused in diesel fuel, but… there was no ignition.”

“Wait. If the unsub wanted to destroy the evidence, why didn’t he actually set it on fire? If he only wanted the police to think he meant to, why go through all that trouble just to… what, fake it?”

“You should be able to answer that yourself.” (Well, you should be able to shove your head up your ass, Agent Hotchner.) He cuts a glance sideways, one brow lifting. “So?”

Oh, he’s serious. “Panic?”

“Was that a question or an answer?”

You almost roll your eyes. Unfortunately, this condescending asshole is currently your best shot at a golden ticket. “Panic,” you repeat. “Maybe.”

“You can do better.” He tuts. (Water shot number… what, six?) “Besides, someone who maintains control over two victims long enough to strangle both of them successfully doesn’t suddenly panic. Does that scene look panicked to you?”

“…Yeah. Okay. Fair.” You glance back down at the photo. “Maybe I’m overthinking it… but you’re saying that with years of experience. If it reads as disorganized to me, it could read that way to local law enforcement too. Especially if they don’t look past the surface.”

“That’s not how I’d phrase it, but you’re circling it.” God, you hate this game. You can feel him evaluating you. “So, assuming he’s organized… why do it?”

“Contamination,” you say, making a conscious effort not to let it sound like a question. You’re not in the mood to hear him grumble again. “He used strangulation, so there’s a higher chance of leaving fibers, trace - more physical evidence than if he’d used something like a gun-”

“Staging,” Hotchner cuts in. “You’re not wrong about contamination, but if that were the primary goal, he would’ve followed through with the fire.”

“But if he had set it on fire, it would’ve drawn a lot more attention… more resources, more pressure, maybe even federal involvement earlier instead of local police treating it like an isolated case.” You glance at him. Agent Hotchner looks back in a way that suggests he’s used to people folding (#:D) and agreeing with him before he even has to argue. “So… it kind of makes sense he left it like that. He still messes with the evidence, but without making it… obvious.”

“What you’re describing is what we call staging. In standard police training it refers to the act itself, but in behavioral analysis we also factor in the-”

“Behavioral analysis?” you cut in, chuckling. Although, judging by the glare you get back, he probably doesn’t find it funny… God forbid anything resembling a joke be uttered in this moving metal box.

He exhales through his nose. “Agent Reid also noted the driver’s seat had been pushed farther back than Mara would have needed-”

“Agent Reid?” It’s out before you can catch it.

“Reid and Gideon came in earlier this morning. They requested additional support and-” He cuts himself off. Right. So he’s not exactly eager to explain why you are part of that equation. Good to know. Still, on the upside, that means there’s now a very real, very terrifying chance you might end up in front of Gideon in the field.

#NoPressure.

Agent Hotchner’s hand misses and lands briefly on your knee. He mutters something that unclearly passes for a sorry, then shifts back to the photo - a truly fucked-up, low-quality excuse for an image that, with enough imagination, might be the car interior. His finger ends up on your lap again (man…).

You focus on the image. Someone should really fix the fax machine settings.

“You should’ve noticed that Elise’s wallet had been pulled from her bag and left open on the front passenger floorboard,” he says, “and the driver’s side window is partially open.” (If he can see all that in this visual crime against humanity…)

“Why are you saying I should’ve?” you cut in. “The quality su-”

“Because Agent Reid did.”

You catch Hotchner’s smirk in the rearview mirror. Fucking bastard. This is his version of entertainment, isn’t it? Too dignified to sit down and watch reality TV like a normal person. (Though, to be fair, you’d love to discover he secretly watches Jersey Shore. Realistically, however, he’d probably prefer something more crowd-pleasing, like Survivor.)

So instead he manufactures his own. You (underdog? generously speaking), thrown into a one-sided competition against the fan favorite (i.e., Gideon’s favorite), Agent Reid.

And while we’re apparently handing out observations like points on a scoreboard… can Agent Reid also deduce the fact that Agent Hotchner isn’t wearing an undershirt? Because you can. (You refuse to elaborate.)

(Nice D cup, by the way.)

“Wait… if that’s what you’re seeing in the picture,” you say, dragging your focus back where it belongs, “couldn’t the open driver’s window suggest she was asked to pull out her wallet by someone in a position of authority? Like an officer or park patrol?”

“Maybe,” Hotchner replies. “Or it was staged to look that way. Remember, the seat was repositioned. It’s more likely someone trying to imitate law enforcement than-”

Yeah, okay, okay, you got it. (How much would those jugs bounce if he went over a very big bump?)

Again, you don’t even watch that much Survivor, but you’re pretty convinced that in any respectable competition, if people are supposed to compete, they should at least be facing the same challenges.

So how is it that Agent Reid gets to accompany Gideon to the medical examiner - after they finally recover victim set #6, Jenna Sloane and Luke Danner - while you’re stuck at the precinct with Agent Hotchner, building a geographical profile?

(Easy. What happens if you just… drop the two Gs from rigged and say what’s left out loud? Yeah. Exactly.)

Of course, if you actually want an answer from Agent Hotchner that contains anything resembling useful information on why the fuck you’ve never assisted Gideon on a case alone while Reid has, multiple times (aside from the very obvious producer bias toward certain contestants), you have to wordsmith all the fun out of the question.

Absolutely no visible jealousy toward a genius with an eidetic memory.

“Agent Reid has a doctorate in chemistry. He’s more useful in that setting, especially if the local examiner overlooks something given the degraded evidence and he’s already .”

With hands that big, it’s no wonder Agent Hotchner excels at grasping at straws… an impressive amount of bullshit, no less.

“They’ll fax the medical report over shortly, if that’s your concern,” he adds.

“Yeah… sure.” From his tone alone, you know he’s already clocked that your concern has absolutely nothing to do with the efficiency of a fax machine. So really, what’s the point of holding back? “Do you think Gideon will ever bring me along for something? Next time?”

“I think you should focus on the geographical profile,” Agent Hotchner barks back (woof woof.)

Man. Sorry for asking a perfectly reasonable question.

Ants crawl up the tips of your fingers when he steps closer and settles on the edge of the desk, just inches behind you. You catch how the longer lace of his polished leather shoe (tied three times, fucking overachiever) just happens to rest squarely on top of your foot as Agent Hotchner just… looks at the map. Takes it apart without touching a single pin.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to how loud his silences are.

“Don’t you feel you’re missing something?” he asks.

“I-”

Agent Hotchner shrugs off his jacket, casual as anything. Time stretches and wraps around the movement with the fabric that pulls and tightens along the very noticeable lines of his arms. Your heartbeat knocks the words loose in your throat.

“I- wait… we’ve got the first victims, Vale and Hargrove, found in their car at Briar Bend Overlook on Hemlock Trace, near the York River to the north…”

You point at the map, tracing the route as you speak. Maybe walking him through it will make it click. If there is something you’re missing.

(There is. There has to be. He wouldn’t just stand there like that otherwise… would he really be that much of a bitch to let you waste time second-guessing yourself when there could be actual victims out there?)

“Then, further down, the fourth set - Halpern and Whitely - their bodies are still the only ones missing. They were last seen on cameras along Route 17 near the James River, but the car turned up all the way back at Kingfisher Overlook on Hemlock Trace - again, slightly southeast, past the York River…”

Hotchner crosses his arms. You seriously doubt that that seemingly oversized shirt allows for full range of motion where it actually matters. You can clearly see his-

“So… I think these are the primary anchor points - Briar Bend and Kingfisher. Both overlooks directly on Hemlock Trace, vehicles left in place…”

“You’re approaching the cases as a geographical cluster rather than a series of isolated scenes,” he says. Duh? Is he dumb?

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t a question.” His arms tighten where they’re crossed, an elusive shift that probably indicates irritation - unearned, as far as you’re concerned - but all you can really register is how much more tolerable he’d be if he leaned into that whole… endowed cleavage situation a little more often. “That’s your premise. You should’ve stated it from the start. Otherwise, ‘anchor points’ doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yeah… I mean, it’s obvious they’re correlated, or what’s the point of doing a geographical profile, right?”

“Not everyone you’ll present your work to will have the same skill set you do,” he replies. “It’s good practice not to take anything for granted, especially in smaller counties where local law enforcement isn’t used to collaborating with the FBI.”

“Okay, but I’m saying it to you right now, so why do I have to spell it out…?”

“Can you just move on?” he pinches the bridge of his aquiline nose, the motion pulling his tie taut, swallowed right between his chest in a way that is…

Tie : tits = G-string : butt cheeks? The tie is Agent Hotchner’s tits’ G-string.

“The other sets deviate from Hemlock Trace, but the second, third, and fifth all cluster along the James River delta. It’s like his hunting ground shifts south.”

You gesture across the map, tracing the coastline instead of the roads.

“Take the second set, Mercer and Beck. They were found washed ashore about a hundred feet apart on the James, near Crescent Marsh Overlook. That’s… roughly twenty-five minutes from the Trace, but it’s still part of the same river system, just one county over.”

His sharp eyes latch onto every word you say, and still, he hasn’t told you what you’re missing. You even try to give him space to step in on purpose (pretending oxygen is actually reaching your brain by doing what normal people do, like… you know, taking a breath), but… nope, he doesn’t take it. Agent Hotchner just keeps watching you. Impassive.

In the radio silence, you notice Detective Bush (also known as Detective “nice to work with you - and no, before you ask, I’m not related to the President, do you really think I’d be stuck here busting my ass catching these motherfuckers if I were?” Bush) step in beside the desk, step in beside the desk, just inside the outer orbit of Hotchner’s personal gravitational field.

He’s immediately greeted with the full Hotchner experience: a quick, irritated glare… and then straight back to the map. Charming.

It’s already rare enough for the FBI to be welcomed into a case like this in a town like this. It’s even rarer that someone like Bush has been so consistently helpful, actually nice, during your days stuck here at the precinct while Agent Reid and Gideon go off doing cowboy shit, occasionally letting Hotchner tag along for what increasingly feels like a VIP sausage party.

Bush shoots you a smile. Aw. He’s so nice!

He’s brought coffee, without you even asking. Two cups, actually - one for you and, technically, one for Hotchner - but the difference is… telling. He knows your order. As for Hotchner… eh. You’re not entirely convinced Agent Hotchner has ever acknowledged his existence long enough for that to even be possible.

(You have, unfortunately. Dark as a moonless night. In one word: stale.)

Indeed, that’s the impression you get when Bush carefully barricades the drinks between himself and the human embodiment of constipation that is Agent Hotchner. A tactical retreat. Understandable.

“There are also a bunch of donuts in the staff lounge if you-”

“Maybe later,” Hotchner cuts in, that same clipped, dismissive tone. For some reason, he keeps his eyes on you, not even bothering to look at the man he just interrupted.

“You guys onto something?” Bush asks gleefully, pointing at the map.

You open your mouth to answer, but Hotchner beats you to it with the most aggressively monosyllabic response possible.

“Geographical profile.” (An impressive feat, considering it has seven syllables.) He turns just enough toward Bush, like he’s expecting him to take the hint and disappear on his own. This is fucking embarrassing.

“Um… I was saying…” you clear your throat, trying to intercept before Hotchner decides to piss all over the place to mark his territory in the precinct, “that, if we factor in the other victims who weren’t killed in pairs - Grant and McClain - the pattern of the unsub still kind of holds. Sure, in both cases their vehicles were left off Mercury Boulevard, but what matters is that both bodies were recovered from the James. Even McClain, whose car was farther from the riverbank.”

You gesture toward the map again. “So… from that, it looks like even when he moves away from the main route, his comfort zone still pulls back to the river system-”

“…he keeps dumping the victims in the river post-mortem, most likely using his own vehicle, and choosing locations that offer both seclusion and controlled access to the water. The lack of trace evidence in the victims’ cars after the first homicide suggests he adjusted early, he’s no longer risking transfer at the initial scene.”

Hotchner cuts in as he pushes off the desk and steps in beside you. There’s barely a hair’s breadth of air between the cuff of his suit and your arm. #Yay.

“But even then,” he continues, “he attempted to submerge the vehicle. And in the fourth set, K9s picked up a trail that extended into the water, which suggests he used a boat. There were no rental records for that time frame, so it’s likely he owns one-”

“Fishing, boat maintenance… anything that would justify repeated access to those sites and that level of familiarity…” you cut in. You know. Because you were supposed to say all that, not him.

Agent Hotchner’s hand lands briefly on your shoulder as he reaches past you, stealing the marker you were just about to use to map out the triangulation. His dry-ass pinkie grazes yours.

“…which suggests he’s local and operating within a defined comfort zone,” he finishes.

You’d call it cute, the way you’re apparently finishing each other’s sentences after working this closely for days… but it’s less teamwork or chemistry, and more that you’re certain he just doesn’t trust you to get there on your own.

He grabs the oversized ruler (your ruler, the one you had to specifically ask Bush to track down) and draws a clean triangle across the map and shades the area in. “Latest set: Sloane and Danner. Down to Mercer and Beck along the western shore of the James. Then across to McClain on Mercury Boulevard.”

“Clustered activity within a defined geographic comfort zone… somewhere in here.” He hands the marker back, a brief, cautious pat on your shoulder as he looks past you at his Kandinsky knockoff on the map. “That’s what you were missing.”

“If you’d let me get there, I was about to triangulate-” you bite your tongue before it gets professionally suicidal. (Not that it matters. At this point you might just be delusional.) You don’t get why he suddenly decided to get impatient and bulldoze right through what was supposed to be your practice.

“Triangulation is the only tangible product of a geographical profile,” he cuts in. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Also, the area he just boxed in is what, two hundred square miles? Completely unmanageable. No one’s coordinating a search zone that size and calling it actionable, so what the fuck-

“Without it, it’s just words thrown in the air,” he adds, condescending.

Bro.

“Man, behavioral profiling is basically just words thrown in the air and hoping for the best-”

Your blood is already boiling too much to be intimidated by the killer glare he shoots your way.

“So it means the killer lives in that area of the triangle?” Detective Bush ambushes from directly behind the two of you.

“Yes,” you turn toward Bush. “Also, maybe we can narrow it-”

“No,” Hotchner cuts in at the exact same time. “It means the unsub operates within that area. That’s different.” (Does he even hear himself?)

“But you just said the unsub’s a local,” you huff. “If he operates there, he has to live there. You know… definition of local.”

“Not necessarily. You still need to define the circumference through those points before you can narrow it down. The primary search radius would be five to ten miles from the center of that circle.”

Oof… boring! They did not do all of this in Law & Order.

He tilts his head toward the marker in your hand - an invitation, which in his language translates directly to an order - for you to do it yourself.

“If he lives within that area, it’s likely within a short driving distance of the centroid, but not necessarily at its center. Most organized offenders maintain a buffer zone.” Yada, yada, yada. Tracing a circle. Real profiler shit.

The fundamental theorem of Euclidean geometry says that through three distinct, non-collinear points, there passes one, and only one, circle. Given those three points (i.e., the three crime scenes Hotch just picked out on the map), you’re supposed to find the center of that imaginary circumference first, using some geometry trick you absolutely learned at some point and have since… well... whoops.

So… admit defeat?

You nudge the marker sneakily slow (if you move slow enough, the predator won’t eat you?) toward his hand. He’s very hot. His hand is very hot. The confused and hazily sympathetic microexpression that crosses his face does absolutely nothing to help.

“You don’t remember the construction?” he asks, beating you to it.

His tone is… sweet. Almost honeyed, if that’s even possible. It pulls you straight back to that first day, when he scribbled Tara-something at the bottom of your notebook and, for a fleeting moment, seemed… not a complete bitch. You don’t think you’ve heard this version of him since.

It’s beguiling enough that, for a single tick of his very silent (because it is very expensive) Rolex, neither of you lets go of the marker. Awkwardly sandwiched between your hands. Not quite as awkward as the way his smile softens his features, in a way that reads almost… fond? Like your complete lack of geometrical competence is somehow endearing to him.

(Aw. You don’t know shit a first grader would. Cute. Give me a second, I’ll call Gideon so I can finally get rid of you, xoxo.)

“The center of the circle is the intersection of the perpendicular bisectors of the triangle’s sides,” Bush chimes in, punctuating it with an enthusiastically loud, double bro-smack to Hotchner’s shoulder.

Safe to say Hotchner did not expect that. He jerks (he hates physical contact that much?) but then immediately snaps back at the poor detective into his usual homicidal expression. Spell broken. Midnight strikes. Hotchnerella exits the ball, probably drops his FBI badge instead of a glass slipper, because to him efficiency matters more than mystery.

Beneath the pure terror in the glance Bush flicks your way, you catch the quick did I do something wrong? in his eyes… but you don’t get the chance to answer. Hotchner calls your name.

“A word.”

Can Agent Hotchner count? Just asking.

Because “I hope you’re aware there’s a very high probability - given that the unsub targets locations along county lines, across different jurisdictions and park services, and consistently leaves the victims’ wallets in the car - that we could be looking at someone in law enforcement”…

…is definitely more than one word. He is so confusing.

“I thought we ruled that theory out on day one,” you say. And also - if it has to be someone - Detective Bush is the last person it could be.

Did he forget you’re the one juggling York County, James City County, Gloucester County, Williamsburg, the National Park Service, Virginia State Police, and every fucking local department in a fifty-mile radius? (Likely. Considering he handed you this mess, he probably did forget how much coordination it actually takes just to figure out who even responds to a call out here.)

What exactly makes him think that, out of all the cop sausages working this area, it’s Bush?

“I’d discourage you from engaging with him as much as you have been,” he says. Is that his business? “We need their cooperation, but you should limit what you share until we have an official profile to present.”

“Cooperation isn’t one-sided,” you huff.

“If we’re called in, it’s our case. We set the parameters. We don’t owe them full disclosure before we’re ready.” His face softens all of a sudden (has he finally heard himself?) His broad hands settle on either side of your arms, like he’s trying to reassure you. (Reassuring what, exactly?)

“Look, I’m not suggesting we mislead them. Just… hold back a portion of our working theory until it’s confirmed. It helps avoid misunderstandings… besides, you can never be too sure.”

Your spidey senses are screaming there’s a subtext here he’s politely refusing to spell out.

“I do think your read on him moving south is solid,” he adds. (Oh, wow. Actual praise from Agent Hotchner that is not wrapped in legalese nor buried under ten layers of condescension? Someone check the fucking temperature in here.) “I’d prioritize narrowing search areas along the southern stretch of Hemlock Trace, especially along the riverbanks, even if the latest victims turned up further north.”

You nod. “Cool.” (You are the opposite of cool. You are thriving.)

His hand lingers, again, at the side of your arm.

“Good job,” he says, almost like an afterthought, then he’s already stepping away.

Bro.

You’re grinning like an idiot. You would, theoretically, be doing backflips in the middle of the precinct - if a) it weren’t full of people, b) you knew how to do a backflip in the first place, and c) you hadn’t just spotted Gideon and Reid’s SUV pulling back in outside the window.

And the fact that Reid already has the front pieces of his bowl cut tucked behind his ears (his go-to coping mechanism) tells you everything you need to know. Not good.

“So?” you ambush Agent Rigged the second he drifts toward the water dispenser. You glance past him, Gideon and Hotchner are already talking behind the glass door. “How did it go?”

Reid sighs. “The bodies were already in the process of skeletonization, and it’s been less than two months since they were left out in the woods. The examiner couldn’t determine a definitive cause of death… I think I saw trace marks consistent with stabbing on the female victim, but it could also be postmortem damage from scavenging animals.”

Basically, the fucker you’re looking for didn’t even bother burying them - just covered them with an electric blanket from the victim’s car and left them out in the open. Which means he was confident no one would stumble across them, and comfortable enough with the area to pick a spot two miles deep in the woods, just off a busy Interstate 64.

Overconfident, local, comfortable in the area... nothing new.All you can really contribute to Reid’s beautifully structured monologue is:

“Man, that sucks…” You’d pat him on the shoulder, if only he didn’t despise physical contact even more than Agent Hotchner. And unlike a certain someone, you actually respect your peers’ boundaries. #DreamTeammate

No, but really… it does suck. A killer’s still out there, and it means you’re stuck here longer than you ever signed up for.

“There are donuts in the staff room, by the way,” you add.

Nothing boosts morale quite like Agent Bush’s entire table’s worth of donuts. Very generous of you, really, sharing something that isn’t even yours. (You desperately need the good karma.)

Also… if - hypothetically - you just happened, completely innocently, to deliver one of those cop delicacies straight into Gideon’s hands so he could personally witness how amazing you are… and if that involved strategically leveraging a man’s sacred bond with a custard and strawberry jam-filled long donut (he seems like a classic, old-man-flavors kind of guy)… who’s to say that wouldn’t translate into solo field opportunities with the Jedi Master himself?

“Do you think Gideon likes donuts?” you ask, trying to make it sound like an afterthought.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat,” Reid shrugs.

…Not as helpful as you’d hoped.

Through the glass, Hotchner’s eyes magnetically entangle with yours, then slip right back to Gideon the second you notice. Cool. So he’s definitely talking about you.

You just hope he does you the basic human courtesy of leaving out the whole geometrical-construction humiliation. Then again, you don’t even know why you’re still holding onto the idea of making the cut when Agent Reid exists.

You’re losing so much of your training just by being here…

“Williamsburg brought in a suspect.” Ah. Gideon. Always the bearer of good news. “From what they told me, he had contact with the solo male victim - Grant - the night of the murder. I don’t think he’s our guy, but he lives within the area Hotch and…”

He’s staring at you. The same man who will correct anyone within a five-mile radius for calling his golden boy Agent instead of Doctor Reid, and yet - not to play the victim - you have the vague suspicion he still hasn’t memorized your name.

“…you traced on the geographical profile today, so it’s worth a try. I told them to hold him until we get there.”

Reid tucks his hair behind his ear. He does it again on the other side. He’s nervous about the interrogation.

You know it because you’ve seen what happens when he’s put in that position. The last time local PD brought in a suspect and he had to assist Detective Bush without Gideon or Hotchner there, his hands were already trembling before it even started, and he spent the entire interrogation tripping over his own words.

…Safe to say it didn’t go well.

He does have one thing going for him, though - excellent timing. No one who actually matters was there to see it. (And yeah, sure, the guy they brought in turned out to be innocent. Minor detail. Almost beside the point, really.)

Still, failures that go unwitnessed don’t exactly count against you. Which must be nice.

Gideon notices it too. His gaze flicks to Reid, then, unescapably, lands on you. It feels less like he’s seeing Reid and more like he’s seeing you seeing Reid, which is…one hell of a mouthful.

You don’t know whether to feel included or exposed. For all it’s worth, he’s finally noticing you - just… not independently of someone else. You almost preferred it when he corrected people for calling Reid “Agent” instead of “Doctor”, while still not remembering your name.

“Hotch also found a case in the cold files out of Henrico that matches our unsub’s modus operandi,” Gideon says. “Vehicle left in the woods with keys still in the ignition. Bodies located by following a blood trail from the car, hidden under a blanket. Same as our latest victims.”

“The case is from August 2000,” Hotchner - Hotch - adds. “Could be our unsub’s first victims.”

“A road trip, then,” Gideon nods. “Henrico County should have more documentation on the case. We’re still working with limited data, but this could give us direction. We need to go through those files as quickly as possible and minimize the window before he strikes again.”

And who, in this room, just so happens to read at an inhuman speed of twenty thousand words per minute while the rest of you peasants struggle through two hundred?

Reid already looks like he’s won the lottery. Win-win. He gets to disappear into a pile of old, fucked-up case files and spend quality time with Agent Hotchner, completely free of interrogation pressure or performance anxiety. Meanwhile, you-

Gideon flicks his hand vaguely in your direction. “You-” Oh, this is painful. He’s trying. He’s really trying to remember your name. He just… can’t. “…you go with Hotch.”

Son of a-

“Oh, and Aaron- if it gets too late, you were a prosecutor do… something.” He does that thing with his hands. The mystical wave that translates to figure it out I do not have the time (but I trust you.) “Convince them to hand over the files… tell them we’ll bring them back. I don’t know. Improvise.”

And so great is the folly of mortals that, when they obtain things that are of little importance and low value - certainly recoverable - they accept that these be charged to them; yet no one who has received time considers themselves indebted in any way, even though it is the one thing that not even a grateful person can ever repay.

Damn. You have to give it to Aaron Hotchner… his stupid no music in the car rule does have one very specific effect.

Not even five minutes into the drive back from Henrico, the silence catapults you into a full-blown moment of existential clarity, where you start auditing every decision you’ve ever made and realize that, at every possible intersection, you somehow took the wrong turn.

You should’ve skipped the shower this morning and gone straight to breakfast early, caught Gideon alone before the line formed instead of showing up late and getting swallowed by the crowd.

Yesterday, you should’ve used that extra hour to keep up with your linguistics class instead of obsessing over the casefiles, hoping for some miraculous epiphany that would finally impress him.

Maybe you should’ve applied to a different course altogether instead of being stubborn enough to choose behavioral science in the first place - or at the very least, on day one, you should’ve just agreed with Agent Hotchner when Gideon asked, even if it wasn’t true.

Maybe then, every time Gideon paired you with him on this case, it wouldn’t feel like walking on thin ice. Maybe you’d even be allowed to play some music.

And to think, when you first started, you were euphoric at the mere possibility of getting out on a real case earlier than expected.

Blessed be those who keep fighting a losing battle. Condemned be those who refuse to fight at all.

But what’s the point of fighting, of pushing yourself to be the “best version” of yourself, when you already know that version still won’t measure up? Are you any less for recognizing your limitations? Or are you only less for not having recognized them - and surrendered - much earlier?

“Are you alright?” Hotchner asks.

Not now. You can’t believe you’re so fucked up that even his most monotone delivery imaginable manages to siphon all the oxygen out of the car. You need to calm down. And you need to do it quietly, so he doesn’t notice (that would be so humiliating.)

You can feel the lump in your throat.

“Yeah.” Your eyes start to tickle. Why the fuck is this igniting a crying response? He doesn’t even care.

“So?”

“So what?” You bite the inside of your lip, turning your face up toward the window so your eyes won’t give you away.

He exhales sharply through his nose… is he mad at something? “What’s the difference between theories of criminality and theories of crime?”

Oh. You must’ve missed that. You shrug. Who cares.

“I don’t know.” Your voice sounds brittle. You can’t help it, you keep fucking up. You’re not even strong enough to stop your stupid lips from trembling like a fucking child. “Does it matter?”

You’d love to evanesce into the line of loblolly pines outside if only to escape the reflex of checking him in the side mirror anyway. There’s something about his eyes that midwives the truth out of you, forces air back into your lungs whether you want it or not.

“I really try, you know. I study in whatever spare time we have, I try to keep up with everything else, I try to-” you swallow. You want to carve out your eyes from your skull. “-to not fall behind because you and Gideon just… assume we already know everything, and I try to balance it with everything else I’m supposed to keep up with.”

You choke on your own laugh. Why are you even laughing?

“But does it even matter? Any of it? The rushing, the effort, the constant catching up - if Gideon’s already decided who he wants? Why do you keep doing this? With these stupid questions. Every single time. Just to me.” stupid, stupid hiccups. “Not to Reid.” can you at least have control of your own body? You sound so stupid like this. “And I’m never enough. It just-” again? “-it just makes me feel so stupid.”

Ouch. You can already tell this is going to become part of the nightly ritual - replayed on a loop right before sleep, with full-body, teeth-clenching secondhand embarrassment. Great. Another flawless wrong turn.

“And nobody cares when Reid’s wrong. Or if he can’t even handle a gun. Or if he falls apart in an interrogation. He still gets picked. Hic. Every time. Hic. Oh, fuck this. Because Gideon wants him. Because he actually cares about his growth - and no one else’s. Hic. And I’m sorry you have to deal with me every fucking time, because I fucking suck at this. Sorry for being so pathetic right now-”

Hotchner glances at you every few seconds, but only through the rearview mirror. He’s so visibly uncomfortable at this whole thing it would almost be funny, if you weren’t busy choking on your own breathing.

“I swear I don’t even know why I’m saying any of this. I can’t do one fucking thing right. I don’t usually cry in a superior’s car like a fucking child.”

He looks like he’s never been issued a single guideline on how to handle a situation like this in a Bureau-approved way, so he defaults to… nothing. Impassively stares at the road. (God forbid the U.S. government finds out he’s capable of empathy. Or, you know, any human emotion at all.)

“Sorry, but you’re so bad at this,” you let out a broken laugh.

Still, he doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t even usually drive with both hands on the wheel, but he is now… probably because he has no idea where else to put them. (Up his ass, maybe.)

“Really, it looks like you don’t even know what to do.”

He lets the silence stretch, before flicking a quick glance at you in the rearview mirror, like he’s checking whether you’re actually done with the bitching and moaning.

“I wish I could help you with that,” he says. “But it’s not my call to make those decisions.”

Useless and humiliating. This is exactly why you shouldn’t have broken down in front of Agent Hotchner. What the hell were you even thinking?

“Yeah, I know… sorry-”

“There are tissues in the compartment to your side.” (…) He reaches for his phone. It’s almost impressive how quickly he dials, considering the size of his thumbs versus the microscopic keyboard.

“How much do you need?” he murmurs, his voice so low it’s almost not there at all as the line begins to ring.

“What do you mean?” (What is this, are you on a quota now? Limited tissues per emotional breakdown?)

“Hey, Jason,” Fuuuuuuuuuuck.“I’m seeing some traffic on I-64 near Richmond.”

You turn to him immediately - what? there’s no traffic - you mouth. He cuts you off with a quick lift of his hand.

“That’ll slow us down, thirty minutes, more or less…” he adds, already steering toward a rest stop sign. “Sure. Keep me posted.” And he hangs up. “If you need more time, just tell me… I can probably stretch it to an hour.”

“I-” you genuinely don’t know what to do with that. He wouldn’t lie to a superior. He definitely wouldn’t lie for you. And yet. “I’m fine… you didn’t have to lie… what if- what if Gideon finds out?”

He shrugs. The dildo of consequences never arrives lubed, and yet Agent Hotchner seems completely unbothered by this particular development - so unbothered, in fact, that he breaks his own no food in the car rule without what appears to be a second thought when he silently pulls into a rest stop and refuses to acknowledge any of your increasingly mortified apologies.

He comes back with water (extra electrolytes… exactly the kind of thing you’d expect him to buy for someone who just cried out half their internal fluids) and silently invites you to take from the very precariously wedged bag of chips he’s balanced between the cup holder and the emergency brake. Structurally speaking, it’s a crumb disaster waiting to happen. It’s so out of character you suspect this is somehow another one of his psychological tests.

“I’m sorry for… you know. My whole pity party.”

You’ve probably apologized a thousand times already, but how does it go? Better sorry when you can’t be safe. Or something like that. (:P)

“It’s okay,” he soothes you, as if he’s afraid the cars passing behind might hear him. And that’s it. Still no defense or commentary on the - admittedly lame - accusations you threw at him.

You both stare out through the windshield.

The James River cuts somewhere beyond the line of trees, one of the unsub’s two preferred hunting grounds. This rest stop sits right on that exedra where I-64 pulls away from the river by barely a mile, and the towering loblolly pines give way to rows of cars and massive parked trucks, some stacked with stripped trunks.

There has to be a sawmill nearby.

Your face is starting to feel crunchy now that the breeze has dried the tears, but the air here still sits eerily against your skin. Even with all of downtown Richmond between you and the water, the river refuses to be ignored. It invades everything, dampening the air. You’d know it was there even if no one told you.

Thirty miles east, along this same stretch of I-64, is where Sloane and Danner were found, the same bodies Gideon and Reid went to see today, hoping to find something and coming back with just a hole in the water.

That probably explains the knot in your stomach.

“Can I be frank with you?” Hotchner asks, out of nowhere.

“Shoot.” Your eyes drift to the line of parked cars. What are the odds one of them belongs to him? Reid would probably have a number ready.

“For what it’s worth, I think you have good instincts… and that’s not something anyone can teach. You either have it or you don’t.” He reaches into the bag of chips like this is just… a casual conversation you’d have with someone who isn’t built like a closed door.

“But you’re severely lacking on the theoretical side. Same as most of your peers,” he adds, slightly muffled, because apparently Agent Hotchner does talk while eating. That’s… disorienting new. Like he’s letting you see a part of him that feels… intentionally unpolished.

At least he covers his mouth.

“Because you don’t trust your own process. A solid theoretical backbone would give you something to anchor to.” he adds. A dig, delivered between bites of chips - almost funny, if it didn’t still sting exactly like one.

“I would study the theory if you actually gave us the time to do it… like any other course.” You emphasize it by reaching into the bag yourself. He immediately warns you to keep the crumbs to a minimum (old habits die hard…)

“Instead of all this extra office work and ‘practice’ - which, yeah, it’s useful, I’m not saying it’s not - but it creates this… divide where the whole competition aspect makes it impossible for anyone to admit they don’t know something. No one’s going to ask for help if that automatically puts them out of the running… that’s not an excuse but-”

You reach for the bag at the exact same time he does. You’re not even looking until your fingers almost close around his wrist. You stop short.

“…but?” he prompts.

“I-” you clear your throat, staring anywhere but at him… or his hands. “I forgot.” The veins on his hands are so prominent…

Trying to bond with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner comes with its own… very specific set of difficulties. Especially when he seems completely unbothered by saying things like-

“You’re capable of getting to the right place. You just don’t always know why you got there. So you keep going, stacking more questions on top of it - questions that come from insecurity - until you end up somewhere else entirely. And when you don’t get immediate validation, you keep every option open instead of committing to the one that was already right.”

He keeps glancing at you every time he reaches for the chips, like he’s making sure you won’t go in at the same time. There’s something almost endearing about it - when your eyes meet, his lips (now dusted with a few salt crystals) press into a thin line, and he gives a quick, restrained nod, like he’s quietly thanking you for letting him go.

His dimples are kind of adorable.

“You won’t always have someone there to confirm you’re right. On the job, you make the call. You have to be sure… and precise. That’s why I’m pushing you.” He gives you the smallest smile at the end, stingy with it, as if he’s either being earnest or refusing to overindulge.

He starts licking the salt off his thick fingers. Your eyes are drawn to the reflection of the quick gesture in the rearview mirror. There’s something about the ease of it, the complete lack of self-consciousness when his tongue flicks over the top of each digit, that gets under your skin a little. Like he has no idea how that reads from the outside.

And then, as if none of that just happened, he opens the door and steps out of the car without so much as a glance back. He’s so profoundly puzzling it’s starting to feel organised.

The more you replay his silence from earlier, the way he let you talk without interrupting, the more you realise that you were wrong. He’s not bad at this at all. If anything, he’s too good. Like letting you unravel first was intentional.

And for someone who operates with that kind of control, how does he not lose it in a job like this? It would be nice to know. But your gut tells you the control might just be the façade.

“I have something for you.”

He’s back before you can overthink it further, a worn tin box in his hands - the same one you’ve always seen tucked into his briefcase. The metal creaks softly as he forces it open, the veins in his hands standing out with the effort. He’s wearing the proudest, most idiotic smile.

Inside, two thick stacks of flashcards in plastic cases, so overstuffed they nearly spill out the moment the lid lifts. At first glance, they look like they’re all in his handwriting.

“Not to brag,” he says, which is exactly what someone says when they are absolutely about to brag, “but I was pretty well known for these when I was a trainee. Some of them are still circulating.”

How humble. He goes on to name-drop some apparently legendary agent – YouHaveNoIdeaWhoThatIsButYouNodAnyway - who, according to him, got top marks in behavioral science thanks to these exact cards.

“Wow, you’re…” such a dork. “…so cool.”

“My advice,” he says, keeping his head down… probably hoping you won’t notice the way the apple of his cheeks have gone bright pink right after being called cool. (He’s actually being nice. You cannot laugh in his face.) “is to shuffle them and go through every single one at least three times a day. Don’t make copies because I will find out. And most importantly, keep your hands clean when you use them. Put them back in the tin when you’re done. No food or drinks nearby. And never - ever - take them out of the plastic sleeves.”

So… basically, wrap it before you tap it. “…Are you trying to pass these down to your firstborn?” you joke.

“I would be honored if my son decided to follow in my footsteps-”

Why is he such a loser? “Do you even have someone to have a son with?”

He glares at you. Safe to say, you did not think that through. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

That’s because he doesn’t want to admit he has no bitches. Who would hit that?

When, exactly, is the appropriate moment to inform Agent Hotchner that your insistence on pushing for a stakeout today (despite fully expecting Agent Reid and Gideon to take the glory and go themselves) is based primarily on a dream? Which may or may not have occurred while you were briefly unconscious on top of the case files (forty-five minutes to an hour, so technically a nap).

A dream involving a gigantic, electric-blue trout with Belgian waffles for tires and suspiciously large hands, knocking on a willow tree. Behind which, Agent Hotchner was hiding, wearing a voluminous curly wig with a full blowout and a like a virgin bridal ensemble, complete with the boy toy belt.

It’s not in any FBI manual you’re aware of, but if you interpret it - suspend all prejudice, given you are, admittedly, clueless - the knocking could tie into the preliminary profile. An unsub with voyeuristic tendencies, approaching victims while they’re inside their vehicles, possibly initiating contact.

So. Knocking (on windows?)

Then you add the whole “knock on wood” thing. Luck. Which, considering the situation (and the very real possibility that Agent Hotchner might not appreciate your… oneiric genius), you’re probably going to need.

Put the two together, and it almost (barely) reads like an omen that this might be the right moment to act. You’re still not entirely sure how the electric-blue trout or Agent Hotchner in a Madonna costume fit into any of that, though.

Maybe some things simply aren’t meant to be profiled. Like how you’re not meant for stakeouts.

“Has it been three hours yet?” you ask Agent Hotchner. You’re staring so hard at the dashboard just to stay awake you’re pretty sure you could triangulate every single speck of dust in this car… which is concerning, considering when you first got in you would’ve sworn it was spotless.

He checks his Rolex. “Almost an hour.”

Almost an hour. You can feel your inhibitory brakes already gone. You choose to blame it on the psychological whiplash of discovering that Agent Hotchner wears prescription glasses - and, worse, that he chose tonight to ambush you with them.

Dainty, rounded silver frames - completely dissonant with the rest of him - soften the defined lines of his face, suggesting a version of him that might, theoretically, exist off-duty if you squint hard enough and indulge in a little wishful thinking. They look really good on him. But this is not where you wanted to go.

“Don’t you think the Rolex is a bit… out of character for-”

For pretending you’re a horny couple parked out here to have sex in his hunting ground.

But because you are, clearly, the ideal stakeout partner anyone could ever hope for - the kind the BAU should be fighting over, the obvious superior choice over Agent Reid for a permanent position and lifelong stakeout companionship with the delightful human being that is Agent Hotchner - you stop yourself from proceeding any further.

Out of sheer, unparalleled generosity, you spare him. You’re convinced that if you actually say the word sex out loud, Hotchner might have a stroke. (And, given the complete lack of signal out here, you’d be the one stuck performing CPR and then explaining to emergency services how exactly that happened. Hard pass.)

“-this situation?”

You have to remind yourself that everything that happens tonight will need to be documented in an official report and may be subject to review.

“You mean it’s too obnoxious?” he asks, completely serious. You do, in fact, think it’s obnoxious in general to have something on your wrist that costs more than a car, but-

“Yeah… I mean, a man wearing a Rolex isn’t exactly the type who ends up in a parked car-” having sex. But again: stroke. Best not to risk it. “-because he ran out of better options.”

“What if my character-” (Aw. My character. What is this, did scary Agent Hotchner used to run DnD campaigns in a past life, or did boredom get him shit-talking too?) “-likes the risk of breaking the law?”

His argument is full of holes. And sure, every hole is a goal, but…

The fact that his brain immediately jumps to breaking the law instead of just saying having sex in public tells you everything you need to know. He’s probably one sentence away from citing the exact statute, subsection, and every possible penalty attached to it.

“I hope you’re a good actor,” you shrug.

He cuts you a sideways look. The scary tightening between his brows - even if softened by the warm yellow light catching on the frames - is enough to tell you you’ve offended him. Damn it. What a pussy delicate ecosystem. Makes you wonder how much of you he could take. (You are bored.)

“Because even if my character were desperate for some dick-” Quick check: his face doesn’t look like it’s drooping on one side yet. Good. Still alive. “- and willing to overlook her partner’s complete lack of fashion sense, no one is choosing that orange sweater if they’re trying to look sexy.”

“It’s burgundy,” he deadpans.

“No, man. You must be colorblind. That is clearly orange.”

“The color looks warmer because of the yellow light in the car,” he defends his infallible thesis. “And it fits the situation.”

Still not saying sex. Incredible. Wait! Is that why, in your dream, he was dressed in full Like a Virgin bridal drag? Because he’s actually-

“It’s… put together. Not trying too hard,” he adds, gesturing at himself (the fact that his hands hovers around his knockers confuses you for a second), then the car.

He’s lucky you’re fluent in whatever the hell this cryptic, repressed dialect is supposed to be. Car sex equals casual outfit. Casual hookup. Low effort, no need to impress. As opposed to, apparently, the formalwear required for sex in an actual bed.

“Is that your college T-shirt under the sweatshirt?” you’re proving your point. You had to buy a whole miniskirt to commit to this bit (currently regretting it, given the way the leather seat is sticking to your skin), and he shows up dressed for Sunday service? “Because I’m not convinced anyone’s buying this. Who even has sex wearing that many layers?”

“If you profiled criminals with the same accuracy you apply to this… petty analysis, you wouldn’t need any of my notes.”

“So I’m the petty one?” you ask, unable to stop the smile tugging at your mouth. You’re unsure whether more offended or impressed by this side of him.

“You started it,” he shrugs, his gaze nailed to the road ahead - on the complete nothingness of the black mass of the trees swallowing even the moonlight.

You catch the fractional delay before he looks back at you, as if that might absolve him - as though you wouldn’t still be looking at him, that telltale smile already ghosting across his face. He doesn’t even attempt to retreat into his usual austere composure… probably because he knows he’s been made.

It’s too much. You can’t stand looking at him for too long, so you lean forward and - completely unauthorized - pry open the glove compartment.

“What are you doing.” Hotchner doesn’t even bother to shape it into a question.

“If we’re trying to attract a maniac - or at the very least not look more suspicious than we already do - we need music.”

You sift through the contents. His glove compartment is so meticulously organized it takes almost no effort to retrieve the entire collection: one, two, three CDs. And if there’s one song threading through your head right now, it’s Like a Virgin by Madonna - the association growing less metaphorical by the second, given what you’re holding.

From left to right: The Beatles Anthology 1, Etta James’ At Last (the album - unfortunately, it is not at last for these choices), and 80s Greatest Hits.

You would pay good money to hear the story behind any of these.

“Go on, which one of these is your sex playlist?” you ask, fanning them out. You generously give him the dignity of choosing his own humiliation. It’s so bleak you don’t even want to guess this time.

“We’re in a public spot in the middle of the night… if we were to have sex, the priority would be not drawing attention from patrol units… music is the last thing you’d want to play unless you want to be arrested for public indecency.”

Right… he reroutes the entire conversation into logistics… which can only mean two things: he’s either deliberately dodging the question, or he’s never had sex in a car.

You give him the benefit of the doubt. “You don’t strike me as the type to raw dog whatever the radio decides to throw at you at night. So one of these has to be your sex playlist.”

You watch him, weighing your options. What’s worse? Getting pounded to Yellow Submarine, IIIIII WANT A … Sunday kind of love, or Girls Just Want to Have Fun (Is anyone actually sure Agent Hotchner is capable of having fun?)?

You catch his eyes flicking - more than once, and not as subtle as he probably thinks - toward the CD in the middle. Well… you would’ve never pegged (… #:D) Agent Hotchner as the hopeless-romantic type.

He shifts forward all of a sudden, leaning across your side of the passenger seat to dig back into the glove compartment. And that’s… very close. All you get is a distracted, almost too-formal “excuse me” from him. All you can see is the back of his head. All you can feel is the weight of his broad hand pressing into the soft part of your bare upper thigh as he steadies himself.

Absolutely nothing to unpack there. You stare straight ahead, very deliberately not reacting, because acknowledging it would mean thinking about it, and thinking about it feels like… something? Nothing?

He sits back upright a second later with… a cassette. A Walkman. And a pair of earphones. He nudges his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with one broad finger.

“Oh. So you’re old - oooold school.”

No, seriously, what is this? Is he one of those music snobs who insists every occasion demands a specific analog format? Like sex somehow requires the gritty authenticity of a cassette? Is this a generational heirloom? Passed down from one Hotchner to the next?

What worries you is that he doesn’t even answer. He just glances up at you with a smirk as he slides the cassette into the Walkman. You… don’t like that. That, or the way his dimples sit at the corners of his mouth. Mischievous does not belong on Agent Hotchner’s face. It looks wrong. Unsettling.

Because what, exactly, does someone like him have to be mischievous about? (You can’t tell.) His hand is too big, covering most of the cassette, but you catch a glimpse of the label as it disappears into the player. Brudos.

He abruptly reclines his seat all the way back.

“What the fuck are you-” You don’t even make it to the end of the sentence.

“Do you want to be productive and learn something while we wait,” he says, propping himself up slightly on his elbows, “or do you want to keep asking questions I’m not going to answer?”

You just stare at him. There are… several things happening right now. You’re not entirely sure which one deserves priority.

Agent Hotchner slides one side of the earphones into his right ear. “This is the original interview Agent Gideon and Rossi conducted in ’89 with Jeff Brudos,” he continues.

(What the-)

“The Lust Killer,” he adds, like you might need clarification. Of all the things you’re confused about right now, that is not one of them.

“Yes, I know who he is… how did you even get that?” you ask. But from the look he gives you, you can already tell this is one of the questions he’s not going to answer. Fine.

You have to play his game. You recline your seat all the way down too, matching him, letting him make the next move.

It’s just that - horizontal (…) - he suddenly feels closer. And hotter. Objectively hotter. Thermodynamically speaking, of course (you know… heat transfer, science, behavioral science, tomato-tomahto.) Nothing weird.

Now that he’s away from the direct light of the rearview mirror and feels like a brawny fallen tree among the dark pines towering above you, you can see that his sweater is, in fact, exactly as he said - burgundy, not orange. (Whoops. Point for Hotchner.)

Proximity makes you notice things you couldn’t bring yourself to before.

The corner of his mouth lifts, like he’s pleased with himself, as he hands you the other earphone. Your fingers brush. Which is… entirely explainable given how thin the cord is. The eye contact, however, is rather less so.

“See?” he says absentmindedly. “I’ve always said you’re more perceptive than anyone else in the class. More than some of our agents.” (Whore.)

“When?” (He is 100% shitting you.)

“More like to whom would be the appropriate question.” (Your mom?) No shit. Wait.

“…Gideon?” you ask, a little too quickly. No, really. There’s no way. He has to be fucking with you.

“Don’t let it get to your head…” he deadpans. And then he presses play. But he does that thing again. That small pause before turning his head back toward you, that selcouth private smile still sitting there.

(But hey! Gideon knows you’re perceptive.)

“…and I advise you to take notes. These recordings stay with me.” He winks.

This is going to be fun.

This is not fun.

Mainly because there are, in fact, no words - none of the hundreds of thousands available in the English language - that adequately capture the experience of lying inches away from Agent Hotchner while attempting to take notes on one of the most infamous serial killers who also has a foot fetish… especially when he pauses the recording and asks:

“What’s the most notable thing here?”

You really thought you were past the pop quizzes. It’s just… difficult to snap back into place when the truth is that the most notable thing is the fact that, when he turns to look at you, the distance shrinks even further, and you can’t take your eyes off even his most meaningless details. The single delicate white eyelash on his left eye. The wear along the edge of his glasses.

The longer you stay this close, the more intoxicating whatever the hell he decided to put on today becomes. He must’ve changed it. It’s not his usual. There’s something warmer about it now - the smoothest, buttery oud with a vanilla dry-down - that makes you a little stupid.

You wonder if this is what he wears after dark and you’re only noticing it now, or if it’s one of those calculated “what would my character wear” decisions. Maybe it’s always been like this, and you’ve only just started to pay attention.

You shake your head.

“The third-person tactic Gideon uses with Brudos is pretty smart… at one point, instead of asking, ‘Why did you kill them?’ - which already shut him down when Rossi tried it - he reframes the question so Brudos isn’t forced to own the acts directly. I believe he said something like, ‘Do you think the killer planned his attacks?’ So it feels like Brudos is helping the FBI build a case against someone else… but by speculating, he starts talking about planning, fantasies, decisions, escalation… he’s really just describing his own process.”

“Yes, it’s projection… good catch.” He smiles at you. It almost makes you want to keep being right. “After studying Brudos, I’d say the real reason he responds to that isn’t about appearing as the ‘good samaritan,’ but about preserving his ego. Externalizing the behavior allows him to maintain distance.”

It’s nice to listen to him talk. And somehow, when he does, he lowers his voice down, as if he won’t risk being overheard by the moon while discussing classified material. It’s just you and him, but in this car, it’s his parish.

“His crimes are tied to fantasy and fetish, and his sense of self depends on not fully integrating those acts into his identity. So, when you structure the interview that way, you bypass that resistance - and that’s when you get the most information… why am I not seeing you write this down?”

Stop bitching. You’re not taking notes because the logistics are completely fucked. One set of earphones (clearly designed for a single human head) split between two people means any attempt to move even half an inch in the name of comfort or legible handwriting goes straight into the pit.

So, without really thinking about it, you inevitably end up turning onto your left side because, truly, entirely by accident, the only stable surface still within reach for your notebook becomes… Agent Hotchner’s bicep. What a terrible, terrible inconvenience.

He doesn’t even seem to mind.

“Do you think we’ll have to use that third-person strategy with our unsub too?” you ask, mostly to make this situation feel less awkward. “Or is he going to be more like… Kemper, who couldn’t shut up about his murders?”

The warmth of his breath brushes your space as he turns his head. You can see the sculptural lines of his neck tightening as his bewildered glance peeks over his shoulder at you.

Nothing. He must not have heard you.

“Hotchner?” you prompt.

He gives a quick nod, as if you’ve just caught him in something. “You tell me… also, you can call me Hotch. I’ve told you,” he adds. The words slip out his tongue in a low susurrus.

Whatever makes you comfortable, Crotch.

“I just want to know what you think, Hotch.” It really doesn’t roll off the tongue well. You tilt your head up at him. Happy now?

Hotch looks down at you. His gaze drifts over your face for a moment, before settling back on your eyes.

“What I think doesn’t matter.” He glances down vacantly, shaking his head. He must’ve used less product tonight, because the raven strands he’s been absentmindedly pushing back all evening fall perfectly loose across his forehead again. He’s sort of pretty like this.

“God, you’re so lame,” you deflect.

His head snaps back up, one brow arched in disapproval. “Try that again.”

He glares at you - dead serious, except for the glint in his eyes behind the lenses that betrays he’s not entirely serious. Pussy. Exactly like that, he breaks into a single chuckle, looking back down with a soft smile. (Agent Hotchner has a sense of humor?!)

He hastily resumes the interview. (What a party pooper… but maybe for the best this time. It was starting to feel buzzy.) The problem is you can’t really escape him. Every time you try to write something, you’re doing it on his arm.

It’s a universal law, right? The harder your prefrontal cortex goes don’t go there, the faster your limbic system ignores it, the amygdala flags it as alarmingly relevant, the reward circuitry lights up, dopamine does its thing, and suddenly your entire operating system downgrades to: huh. That’s… firm.

You want to touch it, see how beefy he really is. Especially when he’s so nosy he keeps leaning in a little too close to check what you’re writing, like it’s stronger than him - and he gets so focused he ends up catching his bottom lip between his teeth without probably even realizing it.

Anyways.

Brudos - the lust killer - is a difficult subject to interview, mostly because of how evasive he is. He lies constantly to protect his ego. He tells Gideon the cuts on his wrists are from a jealous girlfriend chasing him with a knife for sleeping around with college girls, instead of admitting they’re fresh from being jumped in prison.

And sure, every subject they’ve interviewed over the years has their own way of responding - truth, lies, silence - and those patterns are what eventually shape the categories of offenders. But with someone like Brudos, getting him to talk about anything real - especially the parts that threaten his sense of masculinity - is a different kind of challenge.

The cross-dressing. Stealing clothes off neighbors’ lines. The fetishes that fed into the killings. The hundreds of size-16 shoes in his garage that he insists belong to his “shopaholic wife.” He won’t go near any of it. To get him to open up, to actually push past the surface and into his psyche, there’s a moment in the recording where Rossi and Gideon shift tactics. Out of nowhere, they bring out a shoebox.

You can hear it immediately. The way the tone of his voice loosens up, how he starts offering more gore details without being pushed as much as before. It’s like the object unlocks something in him - like he’s drawn to it, hypnotized, and in that state he forgets to hold back.

It makes you wonder what that would look like on video - whether he’d keep talking while his eyes stayed fixed on it, locked onto his own object of desire, like everything else in the room had just… dropped away, but also, most importantly-

“Is that why Gideon always says everyone has their own shoe?”

“Here I’ve been thinking he was just passionate about footwear for the past seven years,” he shoots back.

His crow’s feet crinkle when he chuckles. Your gazes meet somewhere in the middle, both of you turning at the same time. You’re kind of incapable of looking away. His mouth parts a touch, softening the line of it, before he gives you a small smile and tips his head back against the seat. His eyes drift up to the ceiling of the car.

“Sometimes I don’t understand what Gideon says,” he adds, idly, as he pulls out his earphone and, just as casually, starts peeling off his burgundy sweater over his head.

The fabric drags on the way up - some obnoxiously expensive wool-cashmere blend that probably does wonders for insulation but absolutely nothing to tame the static, clinging like it’s in no rush to let go as it hauls the shirt underneath with it, riding it up almost to his sternum.

It exposes the soft, flushed creases of his stomach as he shifts upright. His lower belly tips perfectly halfway over his belt buckle. You shamelessly follow the dark, curled trail of hair that starts there, spreading along the defined cut of his V-line before slipping out of sight below-

“Do you think we’re the unsub’s shoe tonight…?” You swallow. The yellow overhead lighting of the car casts a baroque play of light and shadow over his veined arms. Woah. The slut show is only barely toned down by the fact that his glasses have climbed up clumsily and now rest endearingly crooked on his forehead. “You know… I mean… that thing he desires so much that it makes him reveal his true self without even realizing it.”

The dopamine hit of having been right about him wearing his Georgetown Law University (since 1789) shirt under the sweater is ephemeral. Your eyes immediately latch onto an opaque patch on the side of his biceps. Is that…

Hotch folds the sweater and places it under his head like a pillow. He lets out a breathy sigh of relief when his neck finally sinks back against the seat. “What makes you so sure he wasn’t aware of revealing himself, and not that he chose to? That he accepted giving parts of himself away because it got him what he wanted? And that the repression, the lies he built to protect what he didn’t want seen, is exactly what ends up making him obvious?”

You roll your eyes. He really can’t help himself. Peacocking 24/7 or he’ll die.

“Yeah, okay, okay. You’re good.” Your gaze doesn’t move. You’re very aware you’re staring at the patch on his bicep. And you’re even more aware that he knows you are.

“You’re going to be great too, if you give yourself more time,” he says, almost reprimanding, but it softens at the end with a small smile. (You figure, at some point, you’ll build immunity to whatever that does to you.) “And I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t agree with your theory about the unsub circling back to his original hunting ground, now that the press is calling him the Hemlock Trace Murderer.”

How generous of him. And while anything remotely resembling praise from him still sends an embarrassing flutter through your chest, it’s… somewhat undermined by the fact that your eyes keep flicking from his face right back down to the patch on his arm with a kind of embarrassingly childish fixation you should’ve outgrown years ago.

He sighs. “Nicotine patch… I’ve got another one here.” He taps his right trapezius with the opposite hand. (You really shouldn’t be watching that as closely as you are.)

“…Aren’t you supposed to just use one at a time?”

It’s a strangely mundane thought, all things considered. But then again, the real shock isn’t that SSA Aaron Hotchner - future-FBI-director-in-the-making - is, apparently, at the mercy of something as ordinary as nicotine. It’s why he gives it away.

Why he tells you about the second patch, about the fact that his addiction is worse than it looks, when you never would’ve noticed in the first place. If anything, you’d expect him to minimize it, not… casually make it worse.

He could’ve easily kept that entirely to himself and preserved the illusion.

He’s always been very good at that. Up until now. Because this isn’t him. Not the man who’s always trying to make himself smaller - now leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head, taking up as much space as possible, like he’s finally allowing himself to.

The swell of his bicep, the tease of hair at the cuffs of his shirt, the thick vein running along his arm - he looks statuesque. Always so composed and immovable, even in the way he relaxes. He’s the one who trained you not to miss, to account for every signal before forming a judgment.

Which is exactly why you don’t miss the way his eyes drop to your bare legs every time you shift, uncross them, or adjust how you’re sitting. The way his gaze latches where your skin starts to feel warm and sticky. How it lingers before he recalibrates and pulls himself back. Like he’s aware of it, choosing not to linger when he can feel his control starting to slip through his fingers.

Too bad he keeps falling for it. It’s embarrassing how predictable it’s become.

He’s the one who’s been drilling it into you from day one - choose your path, leave no room for hesitation or doubt. Say it clearly. Some other pretentious bullshit. And make sure anyone listening understands exactly where you stand.

Anyway, Agent Hotchner must be proud of you when you deliver your conclusion directly on his lips. For once, he’s got nothing to correct you about.

His mouth tastes like he’s been wanting you for a long time but is still trying, stubbornly, to take it slow, to keep himself from showing you just how much. He’s giving you mixed signals - except for the way one broad hand steadily cradles your face, not letting you go.

You can feel the grit of the calluses he’s grown over the years from gripping a gun too often dragging lightly against your heated skin. You wonder if he can feel your own hands learning that same language against his neck.

He rests his forehead against yours, brushing the tip of his nose against yours to catch a breath.

“What are we even doing?” he murmurs. He bashfully ducks his head to chuckle. His laugh shouldn’t sound like a siren call that makes you wish you’d claimed him sooner.

“I don’t know,” you laugh. (Old habits die hard.)

“I swear, I usually don’t do this-”

Oh. Shut the fuck up already. You move before you can think better of it, climbing into his lap. Your skirt rides up your thighs as you straddle him, and you rush back to his mouth, kissing him just to shut him up, because you know where he’s going with this.

One more word about how principled he is - how he’s not that kind of man, how he’s never crossed that line with a trainee because he’s too respectful - and you’re going to fuck him just to wear him down, even in the most underwhelming pair of underwear you own.

Now that doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all…

He turns the kiss unexpectedly tender, far too tender for the way his hands dig into the flesh of your thighs, pushing you further onto his lap. You feel your eyes roll all the way up toward the starry sky as the movement makes the cold metal of his belt buckle brush against your pussy.

You bite your lip to keep from making a sound too soon, but you can’t stop yourself from instinctively chasing the ecstatic coil of pleasure again, canting your hips against it. There’s something about the difference in temperature that knocks the air out of your lungs; it’s so good it’s almost painful.

He’s so… wow. Your hands don’t know where to settle, overwhelmed by how much of him there is beneath you. They roam greedily - over the softness of his stomach, up to the solid breadth of his endowed knockers chest, down the curve of his bicep, and along as much of the tense muscle of his back as you can reach (you’re almost certain you’ve found that second nicotine patch exactly where he tapped it earlier).

You can’t seem to choose one place, can’t seem to get enough, when you’re already riding white-hot waves of pleasure just from imagining how the hard line of his dick, skimming against your inner thigh, might feel where you admittedly, desperately want him - fantasizing about the way he could stretch your pussy so, so, so well.

Agent Hotchner - no, Hotch – absolutely terrifying, Aaron? (Woah, woah, woah. Are you even allowed to call him that?) The male specimen deepens the kiss, and something breathless slips out of you the second his tongue finds your mouth. It’s that sound - yours - that does it. His hips jerk up into you, unguarded, (casually?) hitting your clit just right, like his body moved to his own accord. Another moan slips out of you.

You only manage to catch your breath when his mouth leaves yours, tracing a fiery, wet path down the length of your neck before finding that one spot that turns your back into a bow, while your fingers tangle tighter in the coarse hair at the nape of his neck, scratching - anything to keep him right there.

And still, it’s not enough. It’s never enough. He’s the only person who can make your blood boil with irritation even while you can feel how soaked your panties are for him, slick dripping down your thighs, while he’s still playing careful and keeping those damn hands laced in a God-honoring way around your waist like he’s afraid to take more.

Does he fucking need a diagram of the erogenous zones of a woman?

Perhaps he needs a little guidance.

You grab his hand - trying very hard not to dwell on the fact that it’s so much bigger than yours, rough with calluses (seriously, someone in the Bureau needs to get this man some hand cream), yet unexpectedly softer along the back, where a faint scatter of hair does something mildly distracting to your brain - and drag it, impatiently, up over your ribs.

Your breath hitches when you finally press his palm where you’ve been wanting it, molding it over the curve of your breast like - there, see? Not that hard.

A muffled laugh ghosts against your neck where his mouth is still busy. “I was just trying to be respectful.” (Just trying to be a virg- no. Better to keep that one to yourself.)

He pulls back, propping himself up on his elbows, a little short of breath (is he the kind of man who waits until marriage or-?). His glasses are completely fogged up, hazed over with the same warmth clouding the inside of the car. A genuine (underline genuine - you’d never laugh in his face…) snort slips out of you at the sight.

“Can you not?” he frowns, reaching for them, but you slap his hand away before he can even try.

“Nope.” You really lean into the p. You take the glasses yourself, lifting the hem of his T-shirt to wipe the lenses clean, far more thoroughly than necessary, merely to stretch the time. The brush of hair along his stomach keeps tickling your hand.

He’s smiling like an idiot, holding your gaze (like a whore) while you settle the glasses back onto his face, lightly brushing the hair at his temples back. A few strands of white are starting to show here and there.

He mutters the smallest “thank you.”

You don’t think you’ve ever heard him say it like that… but you also can’t help the soft, gooey feeling settling in your limbs at how cute (is that appropriate?) - pretty (better?) something along those lines - he looks.

His mouth is a little wet and pouty from the kissing, his cheeks warm and rosy, his hair completely messed up from your hands. There’s a piece at the top sticking straight up like an antenna. He looks… kind of ridiculous. And yet you can’t look away.

It could be twenty seconds or twenty full minutes - time does that strange, elastic thing - where you’re just there, sitting on his lap, staring at each other while his hands move slowly up and down your thighs. He’s so grounding.

“There are patrols at every entrance to Hemlock Trace… right?” you ask. You don’t want to fuck this up. Would acknowledging it turn him closed off all over again?

He hums back, lazily. He needily tilts his chin up, like he needs you back, silently urging you to keep kissing him. He’s so starry-eyed when you cave in and lean down to press your lips to his.

“If they see anybody come in,” he props himself up for another chaste kiss, “they’ll tell us, like we’ve planned.” Another kiss. “The radio signal is the only thing that works here.”

The warmth of his fingers keeps moving farther and farther inward along your upper thigh. You’re surprisingly squirmy as you feel his thick digits press against your cunt.

“Even if the unsub stole a police radio to keep up with us, he’d still have to find his way in here,” he says.

The fabric of your panties clings to your skin more than his fingers ever could as he starts spreading the honeydew up and down your folds, teasing you with more pressure every time he comes across your core. He can still draw sounds out of you even while avoiding your clit.

“And if someone gets close, we’d hear the noise of the car,” you add. You’re both trying to convince yourselves it’s going to be okay. “So…”

“Only if you want.”

So this is what it comes down to.

You’ve just discovered that the fastest way to stop second-guessing yourself - to pick one path and not spiral into a thousand competing theories - is thinking with your pussy. A sort of speed-dial Occam’s razor. Questionable margins of error. Still, technically consistent with the holistic idea: when faced with competing hypotheses, choose the one that requires the fewest assumptions.

It all holds up beautifully until a National Park Service guard starts sweeping a flashlight toward the car and you’re reminded that 14th-century logic only works if your hypotheses are actually… you know, thought through.

“Did you remember to redirect the National Park Service to New Kent County tonight and reassign Virginia State Police to Hemlock Trace?” he asks, not quite looking at you, warm hazel eyes tracking the beam of light instead. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples.

Old habits die hard with Aaron Hotchner. Second-guessing you is basically foreplay at this point.

“Of course I did,” you mutter. “Right after you and Gideon delivered the profile… there’s no way National Park Police should be here unless-”

Oh. In the mild haze of almost getting laid, you may have both overlooked one very small, very critical detail: the unsub could already be inside the perimeter - or on foot - in which case, no, you wouldn’t hear a damn thing coming.

The beam of light vanishes. Moonlight bleeds back in, catching on something beyond your peripheral vision. Golden, shoulder-length hair concealed beneath the brim of a beige Stratton hat, refract the pale light in ruptured winks that never quite let you see him whole. He raps his knuckles against the driver’s window, but the sound lands as if it’s right beside your head.

“Are you two having fun in there?” comes a muffled voice from outside.

“Don’t even try to start-” Hotchner warns you.

If Midas turned everything he touched to gold, your touch makes things rot. Gold, famously, doesn’t. And yet, you’ve managed to corrupt even the FBI’s golden boy.

Aaron Hotchner - the man who keeps his academy notes like heirlooms for a hypothetical inexistent son who might one day follow in his footsteps, the man with a career and an actual future to lose - just ripped the arrest report out of your very replaceable rookie hands and put himself on the line for up to five years in prison to falsify it.

All to cover what the two of you were doing in that car. The same thing that got the unsub close enough to matter in the first place. For you. When you have… what, exactly, to lose?

“But I started-”

“Go help Reid with the chain of custody paperwork,” he barks - not even looking up, eyes locked on the form. (Woof.)

Ten minutes.

That’s all that’s left before Wade Miller - the motherfucker - is done with the polygraph Gideon insisted on. Ten minutes until Gideon walks out of that interview room, and his face alone will tell you everything: whether Miller’s heartbeat finally betrayed him over the twelve people he killed… or whether he saw you and Agent Hotchner violating several extremely clear HR policies the night of the arrest, and your future is about to become prosecutable.

“Do you think it means anything that Miller has a Virginia license plate reading E-M-R-A-W?” Reid asks.

You’re not really listening. Your eyes keep drifting toward the desk across the room, where Hotchner sits as composed as ever, looking completely unbothered while doing something you genuinely never thought you’d witness him do.

“EM-RAW?” you echo absently. “As in… eat them raw?”

“…Yeah. Now it makes sense.”

Nine minutes.

Agent Hotchner lifts his eyes from the file. He scans the room like he’s searching for the source of a disturbance before inevitably landing on you. Even from across the room, you can feel the disappointment - the flare of his nostrils, the tilt of his head silently telling you to focus.

(What are you even supposed to be focusing on anymore?)

Oh. Right. You’re supposed to be working. You log into the laptop. Your fingers hammer uselessly against the keyboard, though you can barely feel the keys over the lingering memory of the rough stubble along Hotchner’s jaw.

“I asked the technical analyst to dig into Miller,” you begin. “Married for eight years, but apparently his wife suddenly left with their two-year-old son and never came back. Happened around two months before the murders of Vale and Hargrove on Hemlock Trace.”

Detective Bush appears beside Hotch’s desk carrying a paper cup you assume is coffee and gives him an easy pat on the shoulder before walking off.

“That would fit as a primary stressor,” Reid nods. “If she’d filed for divorce officially, we probably would’ve flagged him sooner.”

You catch the quiet “thank you” slipping from Hotch’s mouth before he blows across the surface of the drink. Your eyes follow the large hand wrapped around the cup, every movement suddenly slowed by the simple fact that he’s under your scrutiny.

“Bummer,” you mutter. “I’m sure there are, what, like… three divorced fishermen in all of Virginia. Should narrow it down nicely.”

“Statistically, approximately 17,000 licensed commercial and independent fishermen operate in Virginia’s coastal regions,” Reid replies immediately. “Based on state divorce rates-”

The data isn’t nearly as crucial as latching onto the way Hotchner’s Adam’s apple works when he swallows. The way his shoulders loosen afterward, the visible exhale leaving him like a man finally getting his fix after hours of withdrawal. The way his tongue flicks discreetly across his upper lip - like even that tiny act would violate some etiquette manual he’s sworn allegiance to - catching the trace of coffee there.

Something ugly twists in your stomach at the thought that maybe you’d gotten a little too attached to the ephemeral idea of that mouth being yours too.

“I just hope the saliva DNA they pulled from the Belgian waffles he was eating in the car matches the partial profile we found on the victims,” Reid sighs.

Ew. You really didn’t need the mental image of Wade Miller’s syrup-slick fingers while you were trying to handcuff him.

“Yeah,” you mutter, “but it still won’t be enough. We never recovered a full print. And even if the marine rope in Miller’s truck matches the fibers from the first pair of victims, it’s still circumstantial. Same as everything else we’ve got. If we actually want to keep him, we need a confession, otherwise he’s just gonna walk right back out of here in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Technically, law enforcement can usually hold a suspect for up to forty-eight hours before they have to formally charge or release him. Virginia follows the constitutional standard established in County of Riverside v. McLaughlin in 1991, which set that general probable-cause window after a warrantless arrest.”

If you close your eyes, either Hotchner has consumed your psyche down to the cellular level or Reid’s cadence is genuinely starting to sound like his whenever he slips into one of those dense legalese monologues. (Reid doesn’t irk you nearly as much, of course.)

That’s beside the point. What’s really sitting glacial at the base of your spine is the realization that Wade Miller - who barely existed a few hours ago outside of a hypothetical profile - has already become someone you know more intimately than Agent Hotchner.

You know Miller’s divorce timeline. His fishing routes. His eating habits (the fucker desperately needs to incorporate more fiber.) His preferred brand of marine rope (which is objectively pathetic, though maybe still less pathetic than keeping exactly three CDs rattling around in his car). The contents of his electric blue truck down to the smell. You know he picked up a second job at a sawmill, which explains why he felt just as comfortable navigating deep wooded areas as he did the riverbanks you originally believed were his primary hunting grounds.

Hotchner remains vexingly evasive about anything that isn’t related to work.

Is he avoiding the… um… subject because it meant nothing and there’s nothing to say? Or because it meant enough that he doesn’t trust himself to talk about it at all?

Is it even your place to ask? You’re still on the clock. 5 minutes. Your job is to understand men like Miller. Not to sit here trying to profile the exact emotional significance of Agent Hotchner letting you kiss him. And then kiss him back. And then…

You grip the computer mouse hard enough that you’re sure you could crack the plastic if you really committed to it. The burnt office coffee hanging in the air doesn’t stand a chance against the warm, saccharine smell of him hovering over your shoulder, intoxicating you like the most addictive narcotic.

“What are you two talking about,” Hotchner asks, “that’s preventing you from keeping up with your work?”

Always a dick.

“I was just saying that putting Miller on a polygraph before even attempting a proper interrogation is a stupid idea.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Reid turning toward you looking absolutely blanched by the statement. Which cannot possibly be low blood sugar - you literally just watched him ingest a coffee containing roughly four tablespoons of sugar).

Jeez. You’ve long suspected Gideon’s preferred teaching method involves psychologically conditioning his protégés into a permanent state of sacred improv-rule “yes, and” obedience, whereas your dynamic with Agent Hotchner has somehow evolved into the oxymoronic “no, wait” or, on particularly inspired occasions, “absolutely the fuck not” (the “the fuck” being more spiritual than grammatical).

But seeing Reid’s complete inability to openly disagree with a superior for the first time makes you a lot less jealous that you never got the chance to spend that much time under Gideon. (Literally…)

(Sure, Hotchner looks fully capable of vaporizing a person when he frowns like that, but so far he hasn’t actually done it. Statistically, your odds remain decent.)

“Why?” Hotchner asks. Oh, come on. Is that not so fucking obvious?

“There’s a high chance the results come back inconclusive if Miller’s a sociopath,” you reply.

“We don’t have enough evidence to conclude that.” Always so calm.

He’s annoying. (You want to rip his expensive clothes off with your teeth.) But you can also tell by the way the dimples carve into his otherwise composed face that he’s provoking you on purpose. (Doesn’t he have anything more important to do than psychologically tormenting you during working hours?)

“No one’s ever needed a formal diagnosis to acknowledge the possibility,” you shoot back. “If he’s emotionally detached enough - or genuinely believes his own delusions - the test not only becomes completely useless, but we also waste hours telling a potential serial offender exactly which questions we care about. You know that.”

“All throughout my career, I’ve seen people confess before the machine was even attached, more often than you’d think. The process itself creates pressure. We made him wait all night, too - I saw it myself, he’s becoming more susceptible. And Gideon clearly knows what he’s doing.”

His voice is so soothing it almost works, but he still doesn’t seem to understand what you actually mean. (Then again, even Aaron Hotchner is a sausage first and foremost.)

It’s not really about whether Miller is a sociopath. Or whether Gideon’s strategy technically makes sense. It’s the fact that the deeper you get into behavioral science, the more you start realizing there’s significantly less science involved than people like to pretend and a far more alarming amount of luck instead.

Everybody in this field talks about profiles and probabilities with such absolute certainty that eventually you’re expected to stop noticing how often the outcome still boils down to whether another human being arbitrarily decides to crack or not, and there’s absolutely nothing you can really do to control any of it except sit here hoping the odds land in your favor this time.

Cool. Apparently that’s just how this works. But if that’s the case, then why the hell wouldn’t you choose the option that gives you the highest possible chance of success?

“You believe interrogating him first would’ve been the better move?” Hotchner asks, softly resting a hand on your shoulder. In public?

“Yes!” His hand is still there.

“Based on?”

Oh, so he’s choosing to be a dick while simultaneously, and very out of characterly, transmitting body heat through that huge broad hand resting on your shoulder.

“He’s an attention whore.” (Wade Miller might not currently be the only man in the room with that particular affliction.)

Okay. You might actually be completely fucked up, because there is no conceivable reason you should find only Aaron’s - ew. Absolutely not. Back to proper nouns. Agent Hotchner’s - discomfort around swear words this endearing.

(Sorry, Reid. He’s technically the first person in the room to visibly regret the sentence, but unfortunately his reactions simply do not hit the same.)

Must be something about the addictive restrained disapproval of it all.

The way Hotchner instinctively crosses his arms - thank you, freedom, finally, though you admittedly already miss the weight of his hand on your shoulder - like physically containing his reaction is the only thing preventing him from acknowledging what you just said out loud.

Dayum. The Bureau ought to sanction all of his fitted dress shirts in the interest of workplace functionality because it is objectively difficult to maintain a professional disagreement under these conditions. (You should’ve fondled those knockers when you had the chance.)

Then there’s the eyebrow raise. That silent paternalistic look telling you to elaborate. The fact that you somehow understand exactly where the line is with him and keep dancing one inch from it anyway.

“The press starts calling him the Hemlock Trace Killer, every patrol unit in the state is crawling all over the Trace even though we’ve repeatedly said his actual hunting grounds were more likely riverbanks and deep wooded areas, and instead of choosing literally any other isolated stretch off the James that would’ve been safer, that dude goes right back to the exact road attached to his name.”

Hotchner doesn’t comment on it, nor does he counter with one of his usual Socratic follow-up questions. The absence of a reaction prickles under your skin so badly that you get the physical need to push further purely for the satisfaction of provoking one.

“I don’t know about you, but that’s sounding a lot like this revolutionary little concept introduced around 1900 by an Austrian psychologist named Freud called ego.” You shoot him a cheeky smile and nearly get drunk on the irritated huff of air that leaves his nose.

“Freud didn’t formally introduce the structural model involving the ego until 1923,” Reid cuts in.

You hope he’s doing this because he feels comfortable enough around you to interrupt your bullshit and not because being trapped between you and Hotchner has triggered some kind of intellectualized third-wheel trauma response. (Sorry, Reid. Spencer. Whichever level of acquaintance currently permits him to publicly fact-check you.)

“…In The Ego and the Id. And the philosophical concept of the ego predates Freud by… quite a lot, actually. Freud didn’t invent the concept, he was inspired by-”

The only thing apparently capable of stopping Reid in the middle of an academic deep dive comes striding into the room roughly two minutes - practically unheard of for a man who treats punctuality like an optional social construct - before anyone would’ve expected him back from the interrogation room.

Gideon.

Without preamble, he starts sweeping case files off the desk and shoving them into Hotchner’s briefcase. (Gideon, famously opposed to earthly possessions. Or at the very least to carrying his own.)

“Pack everything. We’re done here.”

What?

“What about Miller’s polygraph?” Hotchner looks pissed. He fixes Gideon with a stare so intense that you’re the one getting goosebumps. You keep forgetting how genuinely terrifying Hotchner can look when he’s angry (probably because, completely absentmindedly, he’s also pushing his jacket back to plant one broad hand on his hip.)

(Whor-)

“Inconclusive.”

The disgust that flashes across Hotchner’s face is ineffable.

“So Miller walks out of here with no charges?” You can hear the strain underneath Hotchner’s voice from the raw effort of trying to force Gideon into giving one concrete answer for once in his life. You don’t know how he manages not to lose his temper with him. How he keeps all of that frustration leashed so cleanly beneath the surface. Always so mighty, Agent Hotchner.

“Most likely.”

Hotchner follows him toward the victim board. “Jason… it’s him. We can’t just let it-”

“They’ve got it from here, Aaron. We’ve done everything we could.” The absent pat he gives Hotchner’s shoulder afterward feels as intimate as Judas’ kiss.

One by one, the notes disappear from the board. Your handwriting. Reid’s annotations. The overlapping circles. The highlighted river access points. Hours of profiling. Then the map itself.

Nothing but bare cork.

There are moments when you get so busy dissecting how fucked up Wade Miller is that you forget he came out of a fucked up system to begin with.

You’re going to miss the breeze of the loblolly pines drying your cheeks. The distant smell of burnt coffee. The steady sound of Agent Hotchner’s dress shoes getting closer across the concrete.

He brushes dust and dirt off the outdoor step with one hand before sitting down beside you.

“I haven’t seen you drink anything all day,” he says, lowering his voice to a quiet susurrus.

“Thanks.” It’s all you can manage while waiting for your words to return to you.

If only he knew how terrible caffeine is for hydration… but you like the warmth of the cup against your fingers. You rotate it in your palms, waiting for it to cool enough to drink, and a strangled huff slips from your nose when you realize he gave you his own mug. The obnoxious FBI logo stamped across it is something only Aaron Hotchner could consume from sincerely.

He tilts his head toward the mug. “They give a bunch of these out every year at the anniversary event… they also have caps, if you’re interested.”

He says it with such dead seriousness that it makes you laugh.

“I’m good.”

“Are you sure? Rumor has it they’re doing lunchboxes this year too…”

You can tell by the woebegone little smile tugging at his mouth that he’s only leaning into the joke to distract you from… all of this. It’s nice nonetheless. Even if it’s fabricated. Unlike the angle of his hand resting respectfully against the concrete beside him, pointed unconsciously toward your thigh like it doesn’t know what it’s allowed to do.

You wish you could turn off your ability to read microexpressions and body language for, like, five consecutive minutes. Especially when it comes to him.

“Did you pack everything?” he asks.

“Yeah… I was just out here for some air. I was about to head back-”

“There’s still time. It’s okay… that’s why I’m here too.” He exhales softly. “They’re putting surveillance on Miller around the clock. He won’t be able to hurt anyone, you know?” The only thing reassuring is how much his voice is mending you from the inside out.

“And that’s okay for you?”

“Fuck no…” He chuckles.

He pulls a pack of lame-ass Marlboro Reds from his jacket pocket. Not a fresh pack either, judging by the worn paint along the corners and the softened cardboard from repeated use. He taps the top absentmindedly with his index finger. Like a clock ticking. It looks so small in his hands.

“You can smoke, don’t worry, I’m totally cool-”

The ease with which he flips the pack open using only his thumb makes it so obvious he’s been a smoker for a very long time.

“God, I wish…” He tilts the box toward you with a laugh. There are no cigarettes inside, just a nearly finished stash of nicotine gum.

The vein running along his hand flexes with the effort of his much larger thumb pushing one piece free from the foil. Every trick in the book to fool his brain into thinking it’s still getting what it wants, apparently. Coming outside to chew them probably helps too. Easier to satisfy the ritual without other people noticing the weakness attached to it.

Except he keeps choosing to let you see it every single time he gets the chance.

And he’s right - there’s still something uncanny about watching someone as tightly controlled as Aaron Hotchner reduced to bargaining with himself that makes it impossible to stop staring at him. There’s something so ineffable in the way his features seem to rise toward the idea of Beauty itself when he lets the restraint slip for even a second.

You’re going to miss this too.

You swallow and tighten your grip around his mug, clinging to the warmth of it more than anything else. “Would you sign my references for internships? I know I’m not getting the spot here, so… probably better to try my luck somewhere else.”

“You’re not doing your internship with the BAU?” Genuine surprise slips into his voice. “You can get fieldwork even during your first year as an office agent. It’s not nearly as paperwork-heavy as people think-”

“Honestly, I don’t know if I can after this one,” you cut him off, instinctively placing your hand over his fingers to stop him.

His head lowers at the contact. Slowly and uncertainly, he parts his fingers until his ring finger hooks clumsily over your hand. His thumb brushes softly along the side of it, ever so tenderly.

“You keep proving to me every day why I couldn’t have made a better choice picking your file for the course,” he says, gently. “More than I even expected.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Gideon lets me select one trainee every year,” he smiles. Why is he so handsome? “I’m the one who reads the applications, afterall.”

“Really?” Oh no. Oh, fucking shit. Why is that so embarrassing?

He nods. “I still remember your CODIS section. You wrote about expanding DNA indexing to include deceased offenders whenever possible in order to identify links to unsolved homicides. You argued that even decades later, families still deserve the chance for closure.”

“That part was barely even about behavioral science,” you mutter weakly. Your whole face feels hot in the uniquely violating way it probably would if he’d somehow gotten access to your diary from when you were twelve.

“And that’s exactly why it stood out to me,” he says, still caressing the side of your hand. “Most people can talk about behavioral science. But usually when someone mentions CODIS, they only focus on the scientific value of it. You were thinking about what it meant for the families afterward. So I hope you believe me when I tell you that you already have everything we need. And I’m not saying that because you and I- because we-”

His eyes drop to your joined hands. He shakes his head once with a disbelieving chuckle, but he still doesn’t let go.

“I, uh- yeah,” you mumble. “I got it.”

You watch color immediately rise across his cheeks, bright pink climbing all the way up to his ears.

“Besides-” he clears his throat, “Gideon just got called onto a bombing case in Boston. That’s why we’re leaving.”

“You’re not going with him?”

“He asked me to stay behind and coordinate while he’s gone. He said it could take a couple of weeks… which technically leaves us one extra agent short.”

Then, before you can fully process what’s happening, he leans down and presses a quick kiss against the side of your head as he rises to his feet.

“I expect your internship curriculum on my desk by the time we’re back in Quantico,” he says. “And don’t forget my notes.”

The grin he gives you afterward looks so unexpectedly boyish that you consider the logistical feasibility of biting him. (Respectfully.)

“Can I keep your flashcards for another week?” you ask. “I still can’t get the legal section into my head.”

“Five days. And I can help you go through it on the drive back.”

Oh. The drive back.You don’t think you’ve ever been this happy about the prospect of getting into a car with Agent Hotchner.

“I hope your excitement is for the tutoring,” he deadpans, stepping backward toward the precinct doors, “because if it’s for anything else, I believe you’d be very disappointed.”

He’s right.

You do need tutoring from him, because you still have absolutely no idea how to legally interpret the wink he gives you before disappearing back inside.

Maybe change into your nicer pair of panties this time. You know. As a precautionary measure.

taglist: @aria-chikage ; @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @crying-ang3l ; @domitaylorsversion ; @decadentcatcrusade ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @fox-saturn ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @heartofthebeach ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @outofstyles3 ; @pastelpinkflowerlife ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @poseidons-lovechild ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @thiswildandpreciouslife ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

SUPER GIGA MEGA HUGE BIGGEST thanks to my beloveds @hotchology and @sweetheartsocks for helping me and putting up with my wips throughout this journey... I tried to be as secretive as possible and not spoil too much, but I believe you’ve already read 80% of the fic... sorry, my loves

If you want to know more about the real case that inspired this fic, I strongly recommend reading this incredibly detailed wiki article (it’s also where I got the maps from!)

Yours truly! Phi <3

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

get a window seat, honey, there is so much to see