hi friends!
this blog just a junk journal for the tv shows and movies that I love. my fics are under the cut, so if you want to get some reading in, you can search through there to find something you like!
enjoy!
Stranger Things
occasionally subtle

★

if i look back, i am lost
cherry valley forever
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
dirt enthusiast
RMH

Janaina Medeiros

⁂

shark vs the universe

No title available
Acquired Stardust
Sade Olutola

Discoholic 🪩
Claire Keane

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
we're not kids anymore.
d e v o n
Jules of Nature
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Germany

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Romania
seen from Türkiye

seen from United Kingdom
seen from South Africa

seen from Mexico
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Canada
@teamhappyme
hi friends!
this blog just a junk journal for the tv shows and movies that I love. my fics are under the cut, so if you want to get some reading in, you can search through there to find something you like!
enjoy!
aaron hotchner
a series of promising events:
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
my love will find you
i hope you’re happy
general headcanons
what your engagement ring and wedding dress would look like if you married the svu boys
rafael barba
to care for you
sonny carisi
warmth
“he’s an idiot. but he’s my idiot.”
peonies
peter stone
“shut up before i kiss you”
“I remember practicing to ask you out in the mirror”
as long as I have you
your heart was glass, I dropped it (champagne problems)
mike dodds
tell me a love story
take a break
all that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing
nick amaro
my world is grey without you
“you and I together... would that be so weird?”
jake seresin
it only feels this raw right now
josh lyman
It’s time to go
An adjustment period
── profiled ; aaron hotchner
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
He nods. “Good.”
You frown.
“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”
Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given. DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You? DCRunner00: I get bored easily. DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment. You: Sounds like a public safety issue. DCRunner00: Depends who you ask. DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should. You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man? DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’. You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few. DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like? DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person. You: Nah. That’s my boss. You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours. You: Weird hours. You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people. You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring. DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of. You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked. You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy. You: Probably. What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run. DCRunner00: Read. DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally. You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is. DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes. You: Occupational hazard, I guess. DCRunner00: And you always answer? You: Pretty much. You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm. DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man? DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online. DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep. You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke. DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot. You: Workaholic, remember. You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason. Garcia: So there IS a reason? You: Shh. I’m working. Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me? DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing DCRunner00: Most people hide too much. You: Depends what they’re trying to hide. DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide? You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing. DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight. You: Long day. DCRunner00: I noticed. You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
He tilts his head.
Then—
“Oh my God.”
You close your eyes. “Spencer… don’t.”
© 2026 geminiwritten
RIVALS | 2x05
bonus:
RIVALS | 2x02
RIVALS (2024 - ) S01E03
I’M AN ASTRONAUT, YOU’RE THE MOON
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
Robby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Your stomach drops.
Jesus.
"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight
FRIENDS
7.14 | The One Where They All Turn Thirty
MONSTERS INC. (2001) Dir. Peter Docter
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
sprains & refrains | jack abbot
jack abbot x nurse!reader ⋆˚꩜。
summary: you decide to come into work with a sprained ankle and hide it from abbot. he is not happy when he finds out.
warnings: minor injury, reader goes through like 10 different mood swings, flirting, teasing, forced proximity, reader also cries because abbot raises his voice at her, 2x sweetheart bombs, abbot is kinda mean for a sec but then makes up for it so its ok! yearning as always, because i am nothing without it ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 4.7k
A sprained ankle is not a broken ankle. It’s simply a ligament that’s been twisted thanks to your own clumsy self who, for reasons that felt valid at the time, decided to go for a run and ended up catching it on a bit of uneven pavement that, frankly, should be investigated.
Because really, what kind of surface just does that?
You keep telling yourself it’s not broken, because you know it’s not, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting like an absolute bitch.
You did everything right before your shift. Iced it, elevated it, laid there with your leg propped up like you were in recovery from something far more impressive than a failed attempt at cardio. You even gave it time, which felt generous, considering your life does not pause just because your ankle decided to have a me-day.
And it worked. Sort of. It took the edge off enough that you could stand, walk, test a few steps without immediately wanting to swear at inanimate objects. Enough to convince yourself you could get through twelve hours.
You could’ve called in sick.
You did consider it, briefly, in that fleeting, rational window where you acknowledge what you should do before immediately choosing something else. But then you remembered your current financial situation, and decided to get your ass into work.
You have a wishlist. Not a small one either. A growing, evolving document that reflects your needs, your wants, your emotional state, and occasionally your poor impulse control. And unfortunately, your bank account seems to view it as more of a suggestion than a plan.
And bills, of course. Who could forget those. Always there.
And the closest thing you’ve had to financial support lately is Abbot dropping extra into your swear jar like he’s personally invested in your bad behaviour.
Which would be helpful. It really would.
If you hadn’t already spent it.
So you’re now limping into a twelve-hour shift instead of being horizontal in your bed like a sensible person. You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder as you near the hospital entrance, your pace severely delayed. Your balance and posture off too.
It’s fine. You can manage. You’d once stayed out for ten hours straight in eight-inch heels, this is basically the same thing. If anything, this has more arch support.
The automatic doors slide open like they’re welcoming you back into the worst possible environment for an injured ankle—bright lights, hard floors and a department that runs almost exclusively on people moving quickly and not looking where they’re going.
It all seems fine, until someone rushes past you with a stretcher, wheels rattling, and you instinctively shift your weight to avoid getting barged. Which is a terrible idea. You feel exactly how bad it is as soon as a sharp pain jolts your ankle, your whole body stalling mid-step.
You see white, your vision slipping somewhere unhelpful, jaw clenching, fingers flexing uselessly at your side.
You still until the pain fades and you can see colour again, before wobbling your way over to the nurses’ station.
“Nice of you to show up,” Diaz greets without looking up.
“I’m actually early today,” you bite back, dropping your bag under the desk and trying not to wince about it.
He glances up just as you’re taking in the patient screen, clipping your badge on, pretending everything is completely fine.
“How crazy has day shift left it?” you ask, turning back to him and doing your best to walk over normally to a seat. You lower yourself into the chair before Diaz has responded.
You look up at him, brows lifting in a silent well?
“Busy,” he says finally. “Couple holds, triage backed up for a bit.”
“So the usual then,” you mumble, scanning your badge and logging into the computer like that’s the only thing you care about right now, and not the throb trapped inside your shoe.
“You’re being weird.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. Weirder than usual. Why are you walking like that?”
“New shoes,” you supply smoothly, clicking through charts.
Diaz looks down at your feet then back up at you.
“You wear those every shift.”
“Okay, that’s not true,” you say defensively, turning to face him and regretting the sudden movement because your ankle reminds you promptly what got you in this predicament. “I like to match them to my underscrub tops when I can. You don’t have to shame a girl so loudly.”
He narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Was it a patient?”
“No,” you scoff. “I’ve just walked in—I haven't had the chance to piss someone off that quickly. It’s my own fault.”
“What does that mean?” he presses annoyingly.
“It means,” you sigh, like this is already being blown wildly out of proportion, “I might’ve slightly twisted my ankle on a run. That’s literally it. It’s fine. Barely even worth mentioning.”
“And you thought coming into work was a good idea?”
“I’ll walk it off ,” you counter quickly. “It’ll be fine. People do it all the time.”
He just stares at you like you’ve unlocked a new level of unbelievable. “You can’t walk off a sprain. That’s the exact opposite of what you should be doing.”
“Wow, really?” You blink at him. “Have you ever considered being a doctor?”
He shakes his head, a shit-eating smirk appearing. “Abbot’s going to send you home.”
“Abbot is going to do no such thing because he’s not going to find out. Now, don’t you have other things to be doing?”
“Yeah,” he nods, rapping his knuckles against the counter. “I do, actually—since both of my legs work and I’m capable of basic exercise without injuring myself.”
“Blow me,” you shoot back just as he’s walking away.
“Not on shift,” he throws over his shoulder.
By hour four, you’d decided that your bad mood was now a shared experience. Which, yes, was not entirely fair. But you’re never in a bad mood at work. You’re pleasant, you’re accommodating, you laugh at things that aren’t funny, you entertain the annoying patients, you care.
Which means that you’re allowed to be a little snappier, a little shorter, a little less interested in being everyone’s emotional support nurse today.
And anyway, you’re in pain. Which should legally excuse at least three personality defects per shift.
On the plus side, you’ve been very strategic about it. You’ve managed to limit your interactions with Abbot to moments where you’re already sitting down, which has worked beautifully. He can’t comment on your walking if you’re not walking.
It’s a solid system.
Except it only works if you never have to actually…do your job.
Which, unfortunately, is not how nursing works. Because as ahead as you are on your admin and charting, you still have actual patients to deal with.
You’ve just taken a patient’s bloods, chased up meds that should’ve been charted an hour ago, redone a set of obs because someone swore the machine was wrong (it wasn’t), helped reposition a patient who absolutely could not get comfortable, answered three separate calls that were somehow all urgent but also not urgent at all, and explained, again, that no, you cannot speed up lab results just because someone is bored.
And now—now—you are done.
Not with your shift, unfortunately, but with standing.
You are desperate for a sit down. Even if it’s just while you go pee.
Which is exactly where you’re going, keeping your head down to avoid eye contact with anyone who could possibly stop you and derail your very reasonable plan of resting your godforsaken ankle for two minutes. Maybe three.
You pass a patient bay, forcing your expression into something neutral when someone looks up at you, offering a quick, polite smile that says I’m here if you’re dying but, as long as you’re breathing, please do not bother me.
Everything seems to be going well—until you round a corner and slam straight into a very solid figure, taking a step back onto your bad foot which nearly makes you see heaven.
“Jesus Christ, watch where you’re going!” you snap, the words coming out tight, bitten through clenched teeth.
You realise who’s hand is on your forearm, and your mood gets worse. His eyes are already narrowed on you, giving you a slow once-over.
“Easy,” Abbot says lowly.
“Use your eyes next time.” You pull your arm back and try to step around him, but your ankle protests, your movement stuttering enough to give you away.
There’s a pause, long enough for you to think he hasn’t noticed, that maybe your bad attitude did its job and scared him off, so you do your best to continue walking.
“Wait—what was that?”
Maybe not.
You turn back to him. “That was you walking into me like you’re the only person in this hospital, apparently. Be more careful.”
“Okay,” he comes back pointedly, making a whole show of it—brows lifting, arms folding across his chest like he’s personally affronted. “Now I know something’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“With that attitude? Yeah. There is.” He tips his head, watching you a little too closely for your liking. “What did you do?”
“Tripped.”
“Was it a patient?” he asks, like he’s just picked that straight off a script everyone seems to be working from today.
“That tripped me?” you shoot back, irritation climbing.
His expression doesn’t change. “Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult,” you snap. “You asked a stupid question.”
“I asked if someone hurt you.”
“No one hurt me,” you explain quickly. “It’s my own fault. I sprained my ankle on a run this morning and I’m walking it off. It’s fine.” You gesture vaguely past him. “Can I go now and do my actual job?”
“You’re walking it off?”
“Mhm. It’s not even that bad.”
“I think you’re lying,” he argues, eyes dropping briefly before coming back up. “You can’t even put any weight on it.” His arm lifts expectantly. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes. N—O. One syllable. Very popular word. Frequently ignored by annoying people.”
He sighs, slow and long, like you’ve personally worn him out, and shakes his head like he’s reached the end of his patience. “Alright.”
You narrow your eyes. “Alright what—”
His hand lands on your waist before you can finish the sentence.
“Abbot—”
He doesn’t even dignify your protests with a response, just adjusts his grip like you’re something inconvenient he’s decided to deal with anyway, shifting you up and into him. Your arm gets hauled over his shoulders, his hand firm at your waist, pulling you close enough that arguing about it feels…theoretical at best.
And then he moves.
Which means you move.
Because the alternative is eating tile, and as much as you’d love to make a point, you’d love not faceplanting in front of half the ER more.
“This is degrading,” you mutter, glancing around for witnesses, and of course Diaz is there. Watching this unfold like it’s the highlight of his shift. You look away immediately, deciding you’ll deal with that problem later. Much later. Possibly never.
“Well, maybe if you cut back on the attitude, you would’ve been able to get here on your own.”
He nudges the door open to an empty room with his shoulder, holding it there as he finally lets go of you. His hand leaves your waist, your arm slipping from his shoulder, and you try very hard not to register how much easier it had been with him holding you up.
“Can you walk to the bed?”
“Can I—? Yes. Obviously. I’ve been walking this whole time,” you reply, waddling in.
“Just get on the bed.”
You turn back to face him. “Jeez. Want my clothes off too?”
There’s a very small, but noticeable pause.
“Not unless you’re planning on making this significantly more complicated than it needs to be.”
You tilt your head, feigning thought. “Depends. Would that get me out of the lecture?”
“No.”
“Shame.” You turn back towards the bed and drop onto it with a quiet exhale, the relief immediate once the weight’s off your foot. The sharp pain dulls into a deep, throbbing pulse, like your heartbeat’s relocated to your ankle just to spite you.
You flex your foot.
Instant regret.
You grimace.
Abbot doesn’t comment on that, but you can feel him clock it anyway. He grabs a stool, dragging it closer with a scrape that feels louder than it should, and settles in front of you like he’s exactly where he intends to be.
He pats his lap. “Let me see.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Let me see the damage.”
You reluctantly lift your leg up. Your calf brushes his thigh as you shift, your ankle settling into his lap, this whole ordeal feeling more intimate than it should. You decide you hate that. His hand slides along your leg and settles on your heel, the other bracing your ankle as he starts easing your shoe off.
But it moves wrong, making your breath stutter, the pain flaring up quickly.
He glances up immediately. “Sensitive?”
You swallow, eyes darting literally anywhere but his face. The ceiling. The wall. The floor. “Yeah. A little.”
“A little,” he repeats, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.
“Okay, fine. Not a little. It hurts. Are you happy now?”
“Over the moon.”
“Shut up.”
“Hold still.” He manages to get your shoe off, setting it down on the floor. His fingers hook around your sock next, peeling it down slowly. It shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s just a sock. Cotton. Friction. Basic physics. Except you can’t help but fixate on the way his hand seems to swallow your foot, which has probably tripled in size from the swelling.
“You planned to walk this off?” he asks, carefully lifting your leg so you can actually see the bruising starting to form—and properly take in the fact that your foot has, in fact, tripled in size, with absolutely no chance of it going back into your trainers without you cussing out the entire floor.
“It wasn’t that bad earlier,” you say weakly, noticing the pattern of bruising spreading across your foot like a bad anklet. You’d much rather something gold or silver with charms. Instead, you get tight skin with dark patches starting to bloom. That’ll look great with your sandals.
He meets your gaze, completely unimpressed. “Of course it wasn’t that bad earlier. You’ve spent hours on it.”
“I’ve spent hours working,” you correct, because that matters.
“You’ve spent hours making it worse, when you should’ve been resting it.”
You frown, the edge in his tone catching somewhere it wasn’t supposed to. “I didn’t think it was that serious,” you mutter, looking away.
“That’s the problem. You didn’t think. You just came in and decided to ignore it.”
You shift a little on the bed, the earlier irritation dulling into something else. “Okay—”
“You can’t put weight on something like this and expect it to just fix itself,” he continues. “You’re lucky it’s not worse.”
“I said okay.”
He doesn’t stop.
“And walking on it like that—”
“Can you not—” you start, but your voice catches and you feel that awful, familiar sting building behind your eyes. Oh, no. Absolutely not. Not here. Not now.
You blink hard, like that’s going to fix it. It never does. Then you try pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, apparently a trick that’s supposed to work, according to a very desperate Google search titled how to stop crying in situations that do not require tears.
Nothing.
You cannot be crying in front of your boss. That’s humiliating. That’s practically career-ending. At the very least, Diaz will somehow find out, and then you’ll have to relocate. Change your name. Start over.
He looks up and you look away.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now, thumb tracing circles over the sore skin.
“Just stop yelling at me. I get it. I made it worse.”
“I’m not yelling,” replies gently.
“Could’ve fooled me.” You’re still not looking at him, blinking suspended entirely because you can feel the tears sitting at your waterline, just waiting to embarrass you. One blink and it’s over.
“I’m sorry for coming in hot. It’s just—I know you know better. You could’ve texted me, taken the day, and came back on the next shift. Now you’re probably going to need twice the time with all this swelling.”
That right about does it. The way his tone changes completely. Your eyes slip shut for a second and the tears fall. You let out a frustrated breath, turning your head away like that might undo it.
It does not.
“…Oh my god,” you mumble under your breath, mortified, trying to swipe quickly at your cheek like you can get ahead of it.
“Hey… hey,” he murmurs, softer now, shifting closer. His hand stills where it’s been resting against your ankle.
“Ignore it. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I am.” You pause, wiping under your eyes again, annoyed at yourself more than anything. “This is so stupid.”
“Hey,” he repeats, a little firmer now. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You hesitate, mostly because your mind has now latched onto the sweetheart part.
“Look at me,” he echoes, and you reluctantly turn your head to face him again. “It's okay to be upset. You’re in pain, you’re tired and I was being an ass. I’m sorry for making you feel worse.”
“It’s fine,” you sniff, wiping the stray tears again, tidying them away so you can move on from the most mortifying shift ever. “Can we please never speak of this again?”
He nods, going back to your ankle, fingers pressing in different areas. “But you were kind of an ass to me too earlier,” he mumbles. “Very mean. I think I might’ve had tears in my eyes too.”
“You’re mocking me now. Very funny.”
“A little bit,” he admits sheepishly.
You stare at him, unimpressed. “I’m pouring my heart out—”
“You told me to use my eyes.”
“—and this is what I get?” you finish, ignoring that completely.
“You also told me to be more careful,” he adds. “Very aggressive tone.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I was being a raging bitch?”
He pauses at that, looking up at you. “No,” he replies, a little more seriously. “I’m saying you were in pain and took it out on me.”
You swallow because even now he’s still being nice to you, even though you probably don’t deserve it. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“I just—” you exhale, frustrated. “It really hurt, and then you were there, and—”
“And I got the attitude,” he finishes lightly.
“Yeah. You always do.”
That earns the faintest smile from him—because, yes, he does. He constantly puts up with your attitude, your badly timed flirting, your mood swings, all the things he very much does not have to tolerate—and yet he does. Every time.
“I am sorry, by the way. Just so we’re clear.”
“You’re forgiven,” he replies easily, like it’s not even a question. “Besides, you’ve got nothing to apologise for. I was only busting your balls out of pure enjoyment.”
“…That’s a terrible thing to admit out loud.”
“Honesty,” he shrugs.
“Is not always attractive.”
“Seemed to get your attention.”
“Well, if you’re so desperate for my attention, you could just ask next time,” you quip, right as he lifts your leg from his lap and carefully lowers it back down. “I’ll be more than glad to provide it.”
He very conveniently ignores that.
“Very cute,” he says instead, nodding towards your baby pink painted toes.
“Oh, so that’s what we’re focusing on right now?”
He laughs as he pushes his stool back and stands. “No. What we’re focusing on is you spending the rest of your shift off that ankle.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Lay down properly,” he continues, gesturing to the bed. “We’ll get some ice on it, keep it elevated, and try to get the swelling under control.”
“I’ll just drive home instead if I'm being benched. No point in taking up a perfectly good bed that could go to someone who actually needs it. Gloria would have my head on a stick if she found out.”
“You wouldn’t even be able to get your shoe back on,” he counters. “Let alone brake suddenly if you had to. Just lay down and let me worry about the rest.”
You pause mid-argument, because…irritatingly, he’s not wrong, and you don’t particularly fancy starring in your own ER admission later tonight. “I’ll just order an Uber,” you pivot instead.
“No you won’t. Just lay down and stop arguing with me. I’ll get Diaz to bring you an ice pack, and I’ll drive you home at the end of the shift.”
“Please not Diaz,” you say immediately. “Anyone but Diaz.”
“I’ll bring you one then. Now will you please lay down.”
You roll your eyes and shift on the bed, swinging your legs up as you try to get comfortable, which is now an impossible task.
“Can I trust you to be alone for five minutes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to find you somewhere down the corridor?”
“No,” you answer, a little too quickly. Then, because you have some self-awareness, you add, “Probably.”
He gives you a look.
“Okay, no,” you correct with a sigh. “I’ll stay here. Scout’s honour.”
He nods, tucking the chair back into the corner as he moves to the door. “Be good.”
“Yes sir,” you call out, just as he gives you one more pointed look before opening the door and leaving.
You feel a gentle tap on your shoulder, then hear your name being called.
You hum in response, somewhere between asleep and not, face turned into a pillow you definitely did not have before you conked out, limbs heavy in that delicious, disorienting way that says you’ve been gone for a while.
“Wake up, sweetheart,” you hear Abbot say.
You groan, dragging yourself back into consciousness inch by inch. “M’awake,” you mumble, which is a lie.
You think he called you sweetheart again—but you’re still half under, brain slow and syrupy, and honestly it could just be your subconscious trying to sweet-talk you into waking up. Your mind does weird things when you’re this out of it.
“Are you?”
“Absolutely.”
“You were knocked out pretty good.”
“I was?” you ask, voice thick with sleep.
“Yup. You were even drooling.”
Your eyes snap open. “I was not.”
“You were. Right there.” He points to his own cheek.
You immediately wipe at your face, mortified. “You’re lying.”
“Nope. Even left a stain on your pillow.”
You glance down quickly, scanning the fabric like it’s evidence in a trial, relieved when there’s no obvious damp patch staring back at you. At least… not one you can see. Which somehow makes it worse, because now there’s doubt.
“How’s your ankle?” he asks, walking towards the end of the bed, his hand careful as it comes to inspect it.
You follow his gaze, like you forgot it existed for a second. “Not as sore I don’t think. But I haven’t tried walking yet.”
“That was the whole point. Think you can make it to my truck, or do I need to carry you?”
You sit up slowly, rubbing at your eye with the heel of your hand, still dragging yourself out of sleep. Everything feels slightly out of sync. “Is it already morning?”
He nods, that familiar almost-smile pulling at his mouth, like he’s enjoying this more than he should. “It is indeed. You can’t hear Dana yelling?”
You go still trying to hear it, and your brain manages to tune into the right frequency just in time to hear a very clear Jesus Christ almighty.
“…Oh my god,” you mumble, blinking around like the room might have changed overnight. “That’s aggressive.”
“It’s called day shift.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You’re not staying for it.”
You reach for your shoe, only to realise your sock’s been crammed inside it, another thing you also don’t remember doing. But before you can untangle that mystery, Abbot gets there first, picking the shoe up and tugging the sock free.
“Hold on.” He drops into a crouch.
Your brain lags a second behind your mouth. “I can do that,” you protest. “You don’t need to be abusing your old man knees.”
He scoffs, rolling the sock between his hands. “My old man knees are fine.”
“Well I’m pretty sure your leg feels worse than my ankle after twelve hours on your feet.”
“I’m fine,” he assures you in that voice that means the conversation is over whether you agree or not, guiding your foot forward and easing the sock back over it. “How does that feel?”
“Like I could go on another morning run.”
“Don’t put me in a bad mood.” He straightens, one hand instinctively coming to your thigh to steady himself as he pushes up, his joints giving a very audible crack on the way which sells him out.
You smile smugly. “Yeah. Sounded great, that.”
“Need me to help you up?”
You shake your head and brace your hands either side of you as you push yourself up. It’s not graceful and you let out a grunt once you stand properly. Abbot hovers anyway, close enough to catch you if you tip even slightly off balance.
“...Thank you,” you say once you’re steady.
“For what?”
You gesture between the two of you, because it’s easier than listing it all out. “For all of this. I know I made your night ten times more difficult by coming in.”
“You didn’t,” he says, too quickly for it to be brushed off as polite.
You lift a brow. “Be serious.”
“I am.” His tone doesn’t waver. “You didn’t make anything difficult.”
You don’t believe him. Even if he is using that same voice again. You know you push it with him. Always have. There’s a part of you that’s permanently braced, waiting for the moment it tips too far, when he finally has enough and decides you’re more effort than you’re worth. Like he’ll take one too many hits of you and realise it’s too much, spit it out, be done.
But that moment never comes.
And you don’t really understand why.
Half the time, you have enough of yourself.
So the fact that he hasn’t—hasn’t even come close, as far as you can tell—sits somewhere under your ribs, awkward and hard to place. Not quite comforting. Not quite anything you know what to do with.
“Come on, let's get out of here before Dana starts throwing things.” He pulls you back to earth, like he always does, like he can tell when you’ve drifted too far in your own head. “We can grab breakfast at a drive-thru before I drop you home.”
“You’re too good to me.”
He snorts under his breath, as though you’ve said something ridiculous. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” you insist, even if it comes out lighter than it feels. “You are.”
“Can’t be that good if I had you in tears just a few hours ago.”
You wave him off, taking a step closer. “That literally happens several times a day, don’t even worry about it.”
He reaches out as you close the distance, his hand settling at your waist, pulling you in enough to keep you balanced. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Well,” you shrug, lifting your arm loosely over his shoulders, “I do tend to cry less once I get a greasy breakfast and an iced coffee in me.”
“Is that right?” He turns towards you then, and it hits you properly, how close you are. Not just now. Several times throughout the shift. Closer than you probably should’ve been without either of you saying anything about it.
He smells good. Which feels unfair, considering he’s just come off a twelve-hour shift.
“…Proven method,” you add quieter, because you’ve momentarily forgotten your own argument.
“Well, we better hurry up then.”
You hum, even though there’s no real urgency in you. If anything, you’d rather drag it out as long as you can. You don’t say that, obviously. You just do your best to fall into step beside him and hope that he’s in no rush either.
➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜。
......fancy fussing over a different old man?
#actualdialogue
THE WEST WING | 3.20 'WE KILLED YAMAMOTO' | 05.15.02 John Amos as Admiral Percy Fitzwallace John Spencer as Leo McGarry
real yearners miss shit that never even happened
This isn't Coyote Ugly, okay? Bud, people are starting to get mad.
but I'm the crazy one for shipping it. okay




