Wonderland

“Don’t ever sell yourself short like that, kid,” Derek warned, his finger pointed at you. “If anything, Hotch is lucky that you’re looking at him.” 

“Hear, hear,” Emily agreed. “You are a bombshell, and he’s,” Emily looked towards Hotch, “just a man.” 

“You’re the best thing for him,” Derek said softly. “I’ve never seen him this happy.” 

You smiled at the kind words thrown by them, it was nice to have it wash over you until you looked over to the cause of your pain. She was touching his arm now, practically on top of him. He never allowed the team to touch him, minus you. 

“I’m gonna head out to lunch before everyone takes the brisket again,” you removed yourself from the group and heading towards the cafeteria. 

You were too in your head that you didn’t realise that Spencer called out your name, pouting slightly when you didn’t respond. “Don’t take it personally, kid,” Derek clapped his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “She thinks that Hotch is in love with the new recruit.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Spencer replied, confusion in his tone. “Everyone knows that Hotch is in love with her.” 

“Well,” Derek stretched out the word and looked at Hotch and Madeleine. “Can you blame her though?” 

“It’s probably not what it looks like,” Spencer frowned. “Maybe she just has daddy issues and Hotch is fulfilling that role.” 

Derek barked out a laugh, while Emily grinned in amusement. “Don’t think that helps the scene, kid.” 

The conversation naturally died down as Hotch approached the table, Madeleine in tow. Emily couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Sure, Canavan was a nice kid. A bit too nice for Emily’s liking, a bit too fake and green-eyed, but maybe she was biased. She was fond of you afterall. 

“She’s gone,” Emily provided, not looking up from her book and before Hotch could ask the question. “To lunch.” 

All she received was a frown from Hotch. Taking out his phone, he looked at the screen before humming and excused himself before leaving in the same direction that you did. 

“Oh no, kid, don’t even think about it,” Derek stopped Madeleine from following Hotch. “That’s their time. I would not interrupt that. And I would not get in between them.”  

“Yeah, one time I did and not that Hotch would ever admit it, but I think he hated me at that moment,” Spencer smiled tightly, looking at Madeleine. 

“Are they together?” 

“Worse.” 

“Worse?” She repeated, not quite getting the obvious inside joke between the team. 

“They’re practically in love but too them to say anything,” Emily snarked, looking at the girl in front of her. Narrowing her eyes briefly, she saw the despondent look on the other girl’s face. 

“Oh.” 

“So, don’t think about it,” Derek warned. “As nice as you are, those two only ever revolve around each other.” 

-

“There you are,” Hotch said, a smile appearing on his face as he saw you. “Brisket?” He nodded towards the food in your hand. 

Grinning you nodded, “Finally managed to grab some before DT grabbed everything. Got you some,” you tapped the tupperware next to you. 

“Thank you, honey,” placing a soft kiss on your head, he sat down next to you. “Are you okay?” 

You took a beat to say anything, just chewing your food and thinking. Maybe now was the right time to bring it up, everything that you were feeling. The insecurity and jealousy that’s been brewing inside of you. That for the first time since this started between you and Hotch, you felt that you were on unsteady ground. That you didn’t know where you fit into his life. 

However, as you looked around, you realised that bringing this up during work was not something you could do. 

And if Hotch said the worst things that your brain could conjure up, there’s no place to run or hide from him. You still had a good six hours until you clocked off. Plus, the embarrassment, there was no way you were getting embarrassed at work due to a man. 

“Just tired,” you eventually landed on. Which wasn’t a lie, technically. But you still needed a few days to figure out what you were going to say to him. 

Hotch looked at you, and as much as he didn’t want unprofessional feelings in the workplace, he couldn’t help it. You were mesmerising. Everything you did managed to leave him in awe. As if whatever you were doing was the first time he was seeing it. 

“Do I have sauce on my face?” You asked, your free hand tapping your face softly. 

Hotch shook his head, a small fond smile on his face, “You’re beautiful.” 

You softened, your foot tapping his, “I know.” 

Chuckling he couldn’t help but lean and kiss your forehead again. 

-

You watched, arms crossed as Hotch delegated the tasks, eyes flicking towards you every now and then. You gave him an encouraging nod as he began to shift his attention to the local police department. 

You waited for the orders, everyone pairing off. You perked up as you heard your name, and his, along with two others. Clenching your jaw as you saw her bound up to Hotch, too happy in this context, you turned your head to search for the other person in your little team. 

“Price,” the man held out his hand which you gladly took. It was rare that the local pd respected any of you, let alone the women. Introducing yourself, you both began to exchange information. 

Hotch and Canavan moved to where the two of you were, heads bent together as you discussed the different entrances that the warehouse had. “I’ve got your back, if you have mine,” Price looked to you, and for a moment you were lost in his blue eyes. 

If you met him two years ago, maybe you would have taken him out for a drink after the case, maybe you would have exchanged numbers. However, it was now, and a gentle hand on your back brought you out of your reverie, you looked towards the culprit who barely acknowledged his tender touch. 

“‘Course, Price,” you gave him a soft smile. 

“Officer Price,” Hotch interrupted your conversation, “if you could show Agent Canavan the layout of the warehouse,” he nodded to the woman standing next to him, looking a bit distraught as he sent her off. 

“He’s awfully happy to be partnered with you,” Hotch stated as he kept the man in his line of sight, his hand still on the small of your back, absentmindedly rubbing small circles.  

“You partnered us, remember?” You quipped back. “Price and I can take the inside of the warehouse, if you and Canavan want to go around the perimeter,” you suggested, already forming a plan in your head. That would be the easiest and most logical. 

“I’ll go with Price, stay with Maddy,” Hotch amended. “It would do her well to be with someone like you. I trust you to keep her safe.” 

“Maddy,” you mocked quietly, but not quiet enough as Hotch heard you. At his questioning look, “Nicknames, already?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Gonna start calling her honey as well?” You accused, envy embedding itself in every nerve you had. You stepped out of his hold and you watched as his hand stayed in the air for a moment, and then dropping to his side, a small clench of his fist. 

It was a standstill for a moment between the two of you, you too in your head that you didn’t notice the way that Hotch was studying you. The concentrated look that he only ever has when he’s trying to piece together a particularly frustrating puzzle. 

“As much as I want to listen to this telenovela, we have a case,” Rossi interrupted as he looked between the two of you. “Lives are at stake, remember?” 

You nodded, ashamed in your brief outburst. Rossi was right. This was an active case. People were dead and will die if you didn’t stop acting like a jealous, hormonal teenager. 

Hotch watched you leave as Rossi studied him, a knowing look on his face. “What, Dave?” Hotch exhaled. 

“Do you seriously not see it?” 

“See what?” 

Rossi made a noise and smiled tightly at him, “You know, for a brilliant profiler, you’re very stupid.” At Hotch’s glare, Rossi held up his hands. “All I’m saying is, how do you not realise why (Y/N) is mad at you.”  

--

“Canavan, stay back!” You ordered, shoving your hand in front of her. “Fucking, don’t go charging in there, we know he’s armed and he has accomplices, that may or may not be in there with him. So stay the fuck back.” 

“They have the victims in there!” She pointed to the room at the end of the hall. 

“We wait for back-up,” you commanded. “We don’t know if they have the victims in there, and again we don’t know if he’s alone.” 

“The victims are in there,” she all but growled, finding the strength to kick your leg and push you out of the way. 

“Son of a fucking bitch,” you angrily followed her, gun held to your side. “Canavan,” you whispered angrily, trying to keep up with her. “Fuck, Canavan!” You saw her getting yanked inside, screaming as she went. 

Without another thought, you ran towards her, from your memory, this was a big room. There were plenty of craters that you could hide behind, but it was far too dark to really see anything. If shots were fired and you didn’t know where it came from, you were screwed. But you had to try. 

As best as you could, you hid yourself behind a crater, as vicious as the unsubs were, they were stupid. Ego the gods could envy, they didn’t bother hiding when they were trying to shoot. 

Seeing your chance, you quickly straightened, once your eyes were on him, you shot two bullets into his chest. Running quickly, you took his gun and confirmed that he was dead. Suddenly you felt yourself being shoved into the wall, your head banging harshly against the concrete. Fumbling with your knife, you quickly pulled it out and lodged it in his ribs causing the unsub to groan and throw another punch at your face. 

Twisting the knife as much as you could, the man screamed in agony as he swayed back away from you, allowing yourself to stand up. Grabbing the metal, you tried to swing down at the man when he came up, grabbing it and directing a punch underneath your rib, causing you to drop to the ground. Taking the pipe from your hand, you saw the man grin as he raised it up, poised to hit you until you heard two gunshots. 

“Unsub down,” you could hear Derek tell the walkie talkie. “There were two,” you could vaguely hear Derek describe the scene, the ground in front of you suddenly the most appealing thing to look at. 

You could hear voices in your earpiece, vaguely hearing your last name, then your name, each call getting more panicked when you didn’t answer. 

“Shit, Hotch,” Derek ran over to you, “she’s down, unsub hit her.” 

“Canavan,” you muttered, trying to point to where you saw her last. “Knocked out.” 

Derek looked towards the girl, conscious and now slouched over by the corner of the room. Briefly glancing at her and seeing no visible injuries, he turned his attention back to you. “Alright, mama,” helping you up, Derek looked at your wounds. 

You saw the rest of the team run in, Hotch at the helm. He partially looked at Canavan, then nodded to Emily and headed straight to you. 

“What were you thinking?” Hotch started as he looked at you. The words coming out sharper than he intended as he saw the state of your injuries. 

“Hotch, man, back off,” Derek stood between the two of you. “We all heard that it was Canavan that came charging in. If there was anyone at fault,” he looked towards the girl who was now in Emily’s arms, eyes trained on Hotch. 

“Shit,” you wiped the blood from your nose and grimaced as you felt more blood gush down. The throbbing in your head escalated as the room became louder. You felt overstimulated as everyone gathered in the room, lights suddenly on and you felt like throwing up. 

You slapped his hand away, “I’m fucking fine, Hotch,” you groaned as you stood up. “Derek,” you handed off the unsubs gun, and he took it with a nod. Holstering your own gun, you began walking to the medic. 

“Where are you going?” Hotch walked with you, the team forgotten behind. 

“Medic,” was all you said. Gritting your teeth as you felt the throbbing underneath your ribs. 

“I thought you said you were fine,” Hotch commented, a worrying frown on his face as he took notice of you holding your ribs. He ignored the woman who called his name, his attention all on you. 

“Yeah, well, I know it’s going to cause a shitstorm if I don’t get it checked out,” you clenched your jaw as pain shot through your body due to the uneven ground. “Fucking,” you cursed under your breath as you felt Hotch catch your body, causing you tense momentarily. 

“Easy,” Hotch mumbled softly.

“I’m fine,” you tried your best to shove yourself off him, you could see the ambulances now, just a few feet away. “Fuck off,” you cursed at him. 

“What is going on with you?” Hotch narrowed his eyes, refusing to abandon you. 

You turned back to him, and you didn’t know if it was the frustration that’s been building up, your new injuries or the fact that everything was just too loud and too bright, you exploded. “Why don’t you go back to your girlfriend?” You spat the word out as if it offended you personally. As if it wasn’t what you’ve been wanting from him. 

Hotch briefly took a step back as if you’ve just slapped him, your eyes instantly zeroing on the hurt that flashed across his face. “What are you talking about?” 

Opening your mouth, you gritted your teeth as pain began to worsen in your head.

“Forget about it,” grumbling, you walked away from Hotch, slowly making your way to the ambulances. 

--

“She has some injuries, but you’re fine, well as much as you can be,” the medic finished taping up your wound. “She shouldn’t be alone, just in case.” 

“She’ll stay with me,” Hotch announced, eyes trained intently on you. 

“Jesus Christ, give me a break,” you mumbled under your breath, earning a breathy laugh from the medic beside you, which quickly stopped as he saw the look that Hotch gave him. 

“Thanks,” nodding to the medic, you slowly jumped off the edge and began walking to the team that was now outside. 

“Morgan!” You called out, “Need someone to supervise me tonight.” 

Grabbing your elbow lightly, Hotch pulled you towards him, “She’s fine, Morgan. I’m looking after her.” 

Whatever smartass comment Derek wanted to say was stopped by the stern look on Hotch’s faces, and the grip he had on you. Moving you towards the car, he helped you up and placed your seatbelt. “I’m not a child,” you frowned, yanking the seatbelt from him and clicking it yourself. All you got was an exhausted huff. 

“Are we going to talk about this now or are you going to wait until we get back to the room?” Hotch asked, as he got into the car, and when you didn’t respond, he let out a sigh and began driving. 

--

“Why are you being so stubborn?” Hotch asked as the two of you walked into his hotel room. “I can get your stuff or you can wear mine, I know that you feel more comfortable in them sometimes.” 

Ignoring his question, you rolled your eyes, tired from the night, from the case, from the situation that you found yourself in with Hotch and the trainee. You were a grown woman, and here you were feeling the same things and doing the same things you were doing when you were sixteen. 

“Why are you here?” 

“This is my room,” Hotch stated dumbly, and for the umpteenth time that night, you rolled your eyes. 

Exhausted, you stared at him, and exhaled loudly. “I mean why are you here with me, when your precious Canavan is also injured and needing to be looked after.” 

“I want to make sure you’re okay,” Hotch said softly, taking a step forward but stopping when he saw you taking one back. “I frankly don’t care about her right now.” 

“That’s not a very Unit Chief thing to say,” you quipped, removing your jacket, wincing as you stretched your arm too much. 

“Honey,” Hotch started, moving towards you, hands out ready to help. 

“Don’t,” you snapped, finally removing your jacket. You moved towards his bathroom, intending to shower until you heard him shuffle behind you. 

You exhaled loudly, turning to face him, exhaustion on your face, “What do you want, Hotch and if you say it’s because you want to make sure I’m fine, I’m going to castrate you in your sleep.” 

Hotch couldn’t help but chuckle at your retort, even when you were injured and in pain, you still managed to be so you. 

“You heard the medic, I just need some rest,” you waved him off and began to remove your trousers. “If that’s all,” you gestured to the bathroom door. 

“That isn’t all.” You looked at him expectantly, “You’ve been ignoring me.” 

Scoffing you paused your movements and ran your hand through your hair, “And? In case you haven’t noticed we’ve been on a case.” 

“Don’t be naive,” Hotch chided. “We’ve been different,” at the solemn look on his face, a small part of you softened. “We have been for a while,” Hotch confessed softly. What he won’t tell you was he was racking his brain, trying to think of anything that he could have possibly done to make you drift away from him. 

Did you finally realise that you were too good for him? That he was a damaged old man and you deserved someone who could keep up with you? That you deserve someone good?

“I wonder why that is,” you commented under your breath.

“What?” 

You scoffed, exasperated by everything and especially at the man in front of you. “Hotch, why don’t you just do us both a favour and just go relieve Morgan from his duty of taking care of Canavan. We both know you want to be in her room anyway,” you moved to close the bathroom door, a growl practically escaping you when he moved to block it. 

“Why would I go into her room?” By the narrowness of Hotch’s eyes and animosity in his voice, you knew that you had to tread carefully. 

“I’m sure she needs the big boss to comfort her after the big night she had,” you mocked and you felt like a bitch. Again, you wouldn’t feel this way, you normally wouldn’t say things like this, if it wasn’t for everything. You knew she was probably scared, it was one of her first times on the field and she got attacked. You closed your eyes at the guilt you felt. 

“What the fuck?” It wasn’t the first time you heard Hotch curse, you were one of the few he allowed to hear him like that, but the tone severity of his tone took you back. “Why would I go into her room?” He repeated again, this time enclosing in your space. “Why do you keep bringing her up when I don’t care about her outside of work?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you and her not eye fucking the entire case?” You laughed bitterly. “For weeks, ever since I came back, all I can see are the two of you practically humping each other whenever you were in the same vicinity. I had to watch you laugh with her, Hotch!” 

“Is this why you’ve been such a pain the last few weeks?” Hotch frowned, but there was an underlying tone of teasing that you didn’t like. 

“Fuck you,” you spat at him, you shoved him from your space and stomped back to the bedroom. “Guess since I’m not the youngest, I lost my shine, eh?” You mockingly winked at him, venom in your tone. “She’s new, young, probably your type. Like I was once upon a time,” you almost regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. You bravely stared at Hotch, ignoring the fluttering in your chest and the churn of your stomach. 

Hotch hissed your name in warning. “Do not,” Hotch warned. “Look at me,” he directed you.

There was something in his tone and his demeanor that made you keep your eyes on him. He was breathing heavier, his face flushed in anger. At you? At the situation? You didn’t know. 

“I’m in love with you,” Hotch said seriously, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been in love with you since the first day that I saw you, and I fall in love more every single day I talk to you.” 

Standing there in shock at the confession, you didn’t know what to say. It was the first time that either of you put anything to what you were feeling. What this was between the two of you. Your shoulders sagged a bit, a small bit of the fight leaving you, but a big part of you who’s been on the edge of crashing out needed this fight. 

“You never did anything to tell her that you were taken!” 

“What did you want me to do? We’ve never talked about this!” Hotch raised his voice, eyebrows to his hairline. “I didn’t want to put words into your mouth in case you didn’t feel the same way.” 

Never felt the same way? You thought bitterly. Is he an idiot? 

“You never stopped her! You instigated things, Hotch. Don’t think I don’t have eyes,” you bit out. “Is it because I was away for a week? That suddenly you forgot me and she appeared.” 

“Do not insult me with the thought that my feelings are that fickle,” Hotch snapped. “That all it takes to forget my love for you is some woman throwing herself at me,” walking towards you, Hotch kept his gaze on you. Every step, every word was deliberate. “I didn’t realise what you saw, what you perceived was me eye fucking her, or practically humping her, when those actions are only ever reserved for you.” 

“I was being nice, I’m her boss,” he explained, more gently this time but still a firmness in his tone that isn’t usually directed to you. “This job is already hard, you’ve told me plenty of times that I need to be kinder, put myself in their shoes, to not be a hardass,” at that you couldn’t help but chuckle, Hotch mirrored it with his own smile. “I want to be kinder for you. You make me want to do that.” 

“I’m sorry for not stopping it, I’m sorry for allowing her to think that there was ever a possibility of me being into her when all I think of is you,” he moved forward now, internally elated when he saw you stay put. “I’m sorry for making you believe that I don’t live for you.” 

Hotch was frustrated to say the least, not at you but at himself. For not seeing what Canavan was trying to do. The hurt that you felt all because of him, because he was being an idiot. All he could do was hope that you gave him a fighting chance. That he wouldn’t lose you because of this stupid, careless misunderstanding. 

You briefly looked at him, you knew that he wasn’t lying. If there was one thing that Hotch would never do to you, it was to lie. You watched as he went through the different emotions, eventually landing on something that he only wore around you. 

Walking towards you, he took the risk of gently placing his hands on your neck, “I’m in love with you and I’m sorry. You are the only thing that makes me sane, the one that actually makes me want to come to work because I can see you,” he admitted. “Please don’t let me not know what it’s like to see you first thing in the morning, or what kind of furniture you want for our home.” 

And you wanted that. You wanted that with him. You wanted everything with Hotch, the good, the bad and the ugly. You wanted to know what kind of pots he preferred, if he liked multiple blankets on the bed. You wanted the laughs, the fights and bickering. You didn’t want that with anyone else. 

“You let her touch you,” was all you could say. Thoughts running a mile per minute. You cringed inwardly as your behaviour from the past couple of weeks bombarded your brain. Were you really that petulant? That juvenile? You could feel the tears of embarrassment line your lashes. “And you’re an idiot for not seeing that she wanted to jump you.”

“And for that I’m sorry. I promise that you’ll be the only one that gets to touch me.”

“Good,” you said defiantly, and you watched as the left side of his lips tilted up. Raising your hands, you placed them on his chest. “Because I swear, if that ever happens again, Aaron,” you threatened. 

“I know, honey,” Aaron nodded solemnly. He knew that if anything like this happened, you would be gone. Whatever future he wanted with you would be gone. 

“You know though right?” You said softly, hoping to convey what was caught in your throat. You followed Hotch as he sat down on the bed and pulled you to him. 

“Know what?” He teased, wrapping his hands around your waist. 

“You’re being annoying and I’m injured,” you whined, your arms slowly falling to his shoulders. “You’re annoying,” you spoke as you slowly sat down in his lap. 

“Baby, say it,” he hovered his hands around your waist, being extra careful of your injured side. 

“I’m kinda in love with you,” you rolled your eyes playfully, “and baby? Really?” You arched a brow. 

“Kind of?” Aaron smiled up at you. “I wanted to try something new,” he shrugged. “Weird?” 

“No,” you shook your head. “Just different. I love it.” 

“Oh, so you love that, but you’re kind of in love with me,” Hotch teased, fingers drumming against your waist. 

“It’s because you’re being annoying,” you supplied. “But ask me tomorrow morning and it may change.” Leaning down, you smiled at him, the tension and anger washing away as you looked down into his eyes. “Now kiss,” you pouted and bent down, slotting your lips slowly to his. 

It was soft and slow, like you had all the time in the world, and for the moment, you did. You grinned as you felt his stubble graze your skin. Placing one hand on the small of your back and the other on your thigh, Aaron pushed you closer to him, opening his mouth to allow your tongue to slide in. 

Tracing the inside of his mouth, you felt his tongue slowly try to dominate yours, allowing him, you let out a moan as you felt Aaron’s hand drift down to your ass. He squeezed once, eliciting another moan into his mouth as you pushed yourself closer, hips flushed together.

“You’re beautiful,” Aaron whispered against your lips, as he pulled away from you. “My beautiful girl.” And there was no lie in what he said. You are beautiful, on top of him, slightly panting and face flushed. “I love you.” 

“I’m kinda in love with you, Aaron Hotchner,” you grinned before kissing him again. Pushing him down, you began to slowly grind against him, hands grasping his shirt. 

“Honey, you’re injured,” Hotch smiled against your cheek, as he sat up. Kissing from your cheek to the path to your ear, Aaron gave your lobe a kiss before he whispered, “Once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor-,” 

“Pound town?” You finished for him, arching one brow. You flinched a bit as a bellowed laugh came out of Aaron. 

Smiling largely at you, you couldn’t help but be entranced by the dimples of his cheeks and the light in his eyes. “Yes, honey. Pound town.” 

--

You woke up to someone shuffling around the room, grimacing as you felt the telltale of a headache. “You okay, honey?” You felt the bed dip next to you. Opening your eyes, you were met with the beautiful sight of one Aaron Hotchner, wet hair and a towel wrapped around his hips. Before you could even truly appreciate the scene, a stabbing pain erupted behind your eye. 

“Headache,” you groaned and closed your eyes. 

Aaron tutted and moved around the room, opening his bag and running the tap. “Here, honey.” 

“Thanks, love you,” you automatically said Aaron handed over some meds and water. 

You didn’t see the lovestruck look on Aaron’s face, “Kinda in love with me or love me love me?” 

“You’re more annoying in the morning,” you chided, handing him over the empty glass. “But love you, love you.” 

Leaning down, he kissed you lightly, “Once this headache is gone, prepare for some serious smoochin’,” you warned. “Now come back, we have two more hours before we meet the others.” 

“You want breakfast?” He asked as he climbed into bed with you, towel forgotten on the floor. “Fruit might help you with your headache.” 

“Do you think they have scones?” You wrapped yourself around him, enjoying the warmth his body brought. “You smell good,” you placed a kiss on his neck, hand slowly drifting down. 

“Honey,” he warned. “You’re injured, I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I’m not going to do anything strenuous,” you rolled your eyes, “yet,” cuddling closer to him, you couldn’t help the noise of content you let out. “I have three weeks of touching you to make up for, Aaron Hotchner.”

--

“What’s gonna happen to Canavan?” You asked as you traced nonsensical patterns on his forearm. Breakfast in front of the two of you, and Hotch was right (not that you’d ever say it) about the fruit helping with your headache. 

Hotch made a noise above you, shifting a bit to allow his back to be more comfortable. “Discipline from the board, I assume. Then they’ll have to look at her files, she may get kicked out of the academy if they deem her unsuitable. She’s out of the BAU, though,” Hotch commented. He didn’t wish any harm on people, but he came very close when he found out she was the reason you went into that room. The reason why you got injured. 

“She’s a good kid,” you muttered.

“I thought you hated her,” Hotch asked, leaning your body so he could look at you. 

“I hated how she made me feel but I don’t hate her. I’m pretty sure that I would have done the exact same thing when I was her age,” you shrugged. “But she’s a good agent. Maybe not for the BAU, but somewhere else.” 

It was silent for a little while, too long for your liking so you turned your head and realised that Aaron had been staring at you. “What? Did I say something wrong?” 

“You’re something, you know that?” Hotch said quietly. “You’re wonderful and I love you.” 

--

“Finally!” Spencer exclaimed as he saw the two of you walk into the jet. He grinned as he saw Hotch’s arm around you. “I knew it!” 

“Reid, please try to keep it down,” Aaron cautioned, as his grip tightened on you. 

“So it only takes for (Y/L/N) to get beat up for you to confess you’re in love with each other,” JJ teased as she gave you a hug and once over to make sure you’re okay.

“You guys couldn’t have become a couple like normal people?” Emily asked, as she raided her wallet and handed Rossi a fifty. 

“I told you,” Rossi waved his money and winked at the two of you. 

“Come on, honey,” Hotch guided you to your usual seat, hand drifting down too close to your ass. 

“Honey!” Derek chortled as he and Emily shared a look. 

“I’m sorry that you only have your hand to go home to, Derek,” you sniped, a grin on your face. Derek rolled his eyes as Hotch followed you with a knowing smile. 

“I booked my appointment with Doctor Mohan,” you told Hotch, as you put your phone on top of the table. “She should give me the all clear today, if we land on time.” 

“Not today,” Hotch chuckled lightly, his hand landing on your thigh and giving it a squeeze. 

“You said, and I quote, ‘once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor’,” you stared Aaron down. “Don’t tell me you’re a liar.” 

The rest of the team, minus Canavan, who was holed up in her own seat, watched as the two of you bickered. 

“So, kid, how long do you think they’ll take before he pops the question,” Derek questioned, opening up his notepad. 

“Six months,” Rossi instantly piped up. 

“You say that as if you know something,” JJ looked at Rossi who all but shrugged. 

1.

The sound of the door opening was almost so light that he didn't hear it, but your footsteps made it obvious to Aaron that you were there.

He knew it was bad practice to leave his door unlocked when he was an FBI agent. He knew that, which is why you had a key. He still left the door unlocked, anyway.

"Hey, Mr. H."

He gave you a brief nod of acknowledgement, busy gathering his files for his briefcase. He had half a mind to correct you, It's Aaron or you can call me Hotch, but Mr. H might be as informal as you'd ever get. He should know—he tried.

Though he didn't look up at you, he still spoke. "I'm really sorry to call you in on a Friday night. I know you must have other plans." Now he looked up, seeing you standing there, fiddling with the strap of your bag. You must've come straight from school, he thought.

How late are they keeping them at school nowadays?

"I, uh—" you shook your head. "No, I don't have any other plans." He hoped you weren't just saying that for his sake.

He drove his point home. "Regardless, I apologize. I was supposed to have the night off, but this meeting was called last minute." You opened your mouth to interrupt, but he didn't let you offer the assurances he knew you'd give. You were a teenager. Of course, you had better ways to spend your Friday night than with his kid. "And Haley is out of town with Jessica."

"Really, Mr. Hotchner." You pursed your lips into what he assumed was meant to be a smile. It looked more... nervous (and maybe even painful) than anything. But you tried. "It's fine."

He resisted the urge to sigh, both at the return of the moniker and your quick dismissal. You did that often, he noticed. Dismissing yourself. He wished you would stop.

You were a good kid. 

He sometimes wondered if you knew that.

He chose not to worry you anymore with the conversation. He didn't want to make you feel like you had to smile. It was almost as bad as the way you cocooned into yourself, trying not to take up space. Opening the door quietly as to not disrupt. Making yourself smaller despite his efforts to let you know that there was enough room for you here.

He was running late, anyway.

He picked up his bag. "Alright then. Jack is in his room. I should be home by," he checked his watch, "nine. Maybe ten or eleven at the latest."

You nodded absentmindedly as he made his way to the door. Just as he was about to turn the knob, another thought crossed his mind. 

He quickly turned around, perhaps too quick. He barely caught it. If he'd have blinked, he would've missed it. A flinch, sudden and reflexive, before you could stop it. You collected yourself within the same second.

His brows furrowed, but he didn't mention it. Don't read into it, he told himself. (He was already reading into it).

Instead, he just went with his original question. "I forgot to ask earlier, but your parents are okay with you staying out this late, right?"

Again, it was almost too fast for him make out. If he wasn't a profiler. But he was, and he could see the look that passed over your face clear as day. Surprise. Discomfort. Embarrassm—

Stop profiling her.

(He was already profiling you).

"Oh, yeah." You waved a hand in the air. "They're totally cool with it. Don't worry about it, Mr. H." The weird smile was back on your face. Nervous.

He'd be more content that you were back to "Mr. H" if it weren't for the fact that you were trying to placate him. For what, he wasn't sure.

His attempts not to profile had failed. A preliminary profile had already built in his head, filled with bullet points and question marks. He tried to shake it off.

He was late.

He nodded to you. "Okay." He made a mental note to ask you about it later, but right now he had somewhere to be and other promises to keep.

He was out the door before the "bye" could leave your lips.

—

When Aaron got home, he wasn't expecting you to be asleep. He wasn't sure why: you were a kid, and it was normal for kids to be tired at the end of the week.

Maybe because you had never fallen asleep there before, not once in the year that you'd been Jack's babysitter.

You were curled up on the couch, the TV still running in front of you. He should wake you up. He was home, and you deserved to be home, too. Your parents were probably wondering where you were.

It was only then that he realized you were completely still. Not twiddling your fingers or awkwardly trying to find the right way to stand when he was in the room. You were just... there. And because of that, he could now see the bags under your eyes clearly.

His shoulders fell. You were tired. He wanted to let you sleep.

But responsibility won his internal turmoil. He lightly shook your shoulder. "Y/N?"

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, disoriented. "Hm?"

"My meeting ended."

It took you a few seconds to understand. When you did, you bolted up, his hand falling in the process. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. "Oh, um—" you ran a hand through your hair. "Jack went to bed a while ago after I fed him dinner. I didn't mean to fall asleep, too. I'm sorry."

His brows knitted together more prominently this time. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I told you, when you're here, you can treat this place as your own." It almost sounded like a scolding.

You winced. "Right. Sorry, Mr. Ho—"

He cut you off, "Hotch." He couldn't help it. You looked confused, so he elaborated, "You can call me Hotch. Or Aaron. Either or."

"Okay... Aaron?" Your voice lifted at the end like you were testing yourself. He gave you a reassuring nod.

He thought he was done, but he added, "And you don't need to apologize for everything, Y/N. You've done nothing wrong." He tried to make eye contact with you so that you'd know he was being earnest, but you avoided it.

"Sorry—" you screwed your eyes shut, very obviously kicking yourself. "Sorry."

He sighed. This was progress. In... some way.

"It's fine." Because he didn't want to make you feel bad about it, he switched the subject. "I can walk you home. It's dark out." You lived right down the street, but he'd seen too many horror stories of young girls who walked home alone and never made it there.

Your mouth opened and closed and opened and then closed again. You looked like you were scanning your brain for something to say. Your profile was brought right back to the forefront of his mind.

"That's okay, Mr— Aaron," you corrected yourself. "I'll be fine." You were already standing up and grabbing your things.

"Y/N—"

"I'll text you when I'm home safely. Good night." 

You practically sped out of the house. The door closed a little louder behind you this time. Not a slam, but not the controlled quiet it normally was.

Aaron was left standing in the middle of the living room. He looked to the couch and then to the door. In a flash, you were there, and then you were gone. He didn't even get the chance to pay you.

Any worries he had that he was overthinking had disappeared. He'd never seen you react like that, let alone cut him off.

You were... skittish. You always watched what you said. You were tired. Maybe overly tired. And your parents. Hotch hadn't ever spoken with your parents. You seemed anxious when he brought them up.

He was worried about you. It was easy to be worried about you. You were so quiet, and in many ways, too independent. In some ways, you reminded him of a younger version of himself of himself. And that scared him.

Aaron knew what he was like when he was a kid, and he also knew why.

His phone dinged, pulling him from his thoughts. He took it out of his pocket, checking the notification.

Y/N (babysitter): Made it home.

A bit of relief flooded his chest. At least you made it home safe. He just hoped you stayed safe. 

He prayed his suspicions were wrong.

But, deep down, he knew they weren't.

2.

It was a weekend. For the first time in a while, the Hotchner house was full. Aaron was playing with Jack. They didn't often get to do this together, so he tried to seize these opportunities whenever he could.

"Hey, buddy, I'm gonna go check on mom real quick, okay? I'll be right back."

Jack nodded without looking at him, too immersed in his toys. Aaron was glad.

It wasn't totally a ruse. He was checking on Haley. Maybe that wasn't the full reason, but it was true.

He walked into their shared bedroom, finding her folding laundry on the bed. She looked up, a smile crossing her face. "Aaron," she playfully teased. His lips quirked up in response, a stark contrast to how things had been between them recently.

"Hi, honey." He kissed her cheek, taking a seat across from her on the bed. "I've been wanting to talk to you about something." She raised a brow, so he added, "It's about Y/N."

Her face twisted in confusion, then concern. "Y/N? Why, has something happened to her?" She fully sat up, angling her body toward him. The clothes in her hands were long forgotten.

He didn't reply as quickly. He didn't have the answer she wanted. He wasn't sure if he had the answer he wanted. What he knew was that something was happening to you. He just didn't know what.

Some foolish part of him didn't want to know. 

Some part of him already did.

Finally, he responded, "I think that... something may be happening with her parents." He didn't have to say another thing. A look of understanding dawned her face, and he knew she knew what he meant.

He watched as her eyes softened. She set the clothes aside entirely, cupping his cheek in her hand. "Oh, baby." She understood. Too well.

Haley was there for him in high school. She didn't know everything, but she knew enough. She knew that sometimes his ribs hurt just as much as his heart. She knew enough.

He wanted to lean into her but resisted. This wasn't about him. This was about you.

She removed her hand of her own volition. "Aaron, I think that if you think something, then it's probably true. I mean, if... if you have reason to believe something's wrong..." she trailed off. And Aaron knew what he had to do.

He proposed his idea to Haley, being met with her agreement. He kissed her softly, knowing his sweet wife hadn't seen what he'd seen but that she was just as cautious. Cautious and kind.

He hoped he could extend that kindness to you.

— 

"Y/N, come in."

Aaron surprised you by waiting at the door this time. You were used to entering silently, but there he was, waiting. 

"Thanks, Aaron."

He let you walk into the house, guiding you to the couch. "Here, take a seat."

You hesitated. He could see you taking in his attire—not work clothes—and listening in to hear the quiet of the house. You sat down in spite of whatever you were noticing, but you swallowed. "Is— did I do something wrong?"

His brows furrowed. He took a seat across from you. "No, Y/N. You did nothing wrong," he assured you.

"Are you firing me?"

He wondered why you kept jumping to the worst conclusions, but his profile told him exactly why. It wasn't so often that he hoped his profiles were wrong. "No, I'm not firing you."

"Okay, so," you wrung your hands together, "what's wrong then?"

Aaron didn't say anything for a moment, just staring at you. He noted the long-sleeve sweater, even though it wasn't that cold yet. "Is there something wrong?" he prompted.

You stammered, "I— I don't understand." Your hands wouldn't stop moving.

He glanced down at them before making full eye-contact with you. Softly, he said, "Y/N, I don't like to assume things. But I'm afraid that's what I'm paid to do."

Another swallow. "I'm really not sure what you mean."

Hotch had seen tens of kids like you at work. Children of unsubs, victims, and witnesses alike. He saw you whenever he looked at old photo albums of himself as a child, too.

He was hoping he was wrong.

But he wasn't.

He paused, trying to find a way to go about this without causing you to curl into yourself. "Your parents... do they ever hurt you?"

Your eyes widened. "What?"

He repeated himself. "Do they hurt you? Do they leave you home alone for stretches at a time? Are you in that house alone?" Hotch's questions were starting to sound less like questions and more like statements.

Because you both knew everything he was saying was true.

"I—" he watched you get defensive, looking more frustrated than he'd ever seen you—more frustrated than you'd ever allowed yourself to be seen. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" He leaned forward, trying to catch your eyes. "Y/N, I can help you—"

Finally, you broke, and Aaron felt guilty for wanting that outcome. "How?" Tears welled in your eyes. You blinked and one went racing down your cheek. "How can you help me, Mr. Hotchner? Are you— are you gonna alert the authorities and then have me sent to some foster family?" You shook your head. "I— I know you think I'm a kid, but I'm not stupid."

"Y/N, you are a kid." He needed you to believe that. But he needed you to believe what he was going to say next even more. "And you are not alone. You deserve to be supported, just like any kid does."

You sniffled. "And how is that gonna happen?"

Aaron felt a little piece of his heart break. He didn't know how long you'd been in this situation, but it was clear you'd gotten yourself to believe there was no way out of it.

Not if he could help it.

"What if I could get you out and you wouldn't have to go to a foster family?" he proposed. "You could come stay with us."

Now, your eyes widened more than ever. You rapidly declined, shaking your head fervently. "No— no, I couldn't."

Aaron didn't move to touch you at all, too worried he'd overstep a boundary. But he did get closer. "Yes, you could. You wouldn't be imposing. You already help out so much with Jack. It would be fine."

You met his eyes directly, and Aaron could tell that you were at least considering it. "How would you be able to even pull it off?"

"I used to be a lawyer," he reasoned, shrugging. He wanted to be as relaxed as possible so that you knew this wasn't any trouble for him. "I'm confident I can do it."

You wiped your eyes, crossing your arms. Still defensive, but he knew he made it somewhere because you said, "You can try. But— but nothing's going to happen."

He would certainly try. Because Aaron Hotchner wasn't the type of man who just "tried" things. 

He got them done.

3.

Aaron insisted on carrying in your box, despite your protests. It was a single box, a little heavy, and it was quite literally the only thing you had. In his mental checklist of things to do for you, he added: Buy her new clothes.

You had a distinctive style hiding beneath your appearance. Another mental note: Introduce her to Garcia.

He set the box down in your room. It had always been your room, just in case you needed to stay over. Now, it was permanent. 

Just as you were entering the room, his phone chimed. He pulled it from his back pocket, seeing a message from JJ. He didn't have to read it to know what it would say.

It seemed you knew what that meant, too, because you were looking up at him expectantly. Still nervous. Another note (a recurring note): Work on that.

"Sorry, honey. I have a case." It slipped out before he could stop it. Work on that.

You nodded like you didn't notice it at all, perking up just slightly. "That's okay! I can watch Jack for you." If he didn't know any better, he'd say you were happy to see him go. (He knew better).

Work on that.

Still, he felt guilt seeping into his veins. He was pulling out his wallet automatically while simultaneously watching your face drop. "Here," he pulled out a crisp hundred dollar bill, holding it out to you. "Buy yourselves something to eat and then keep the rest."

Your mouth opened and closed, sputtering, "Mr. Ho— sorry— no, not sorry. Aaron. I can't take that."

He raised a brow. "I don't see why not."

"You—" you gestured to him then to the rest of the room, "you're already giving me a place to stay. I can't just take your money."

He found your reasoning ridiculous, but he tried not to show it on his face. You were still all too nervous. Instead, he gently reached for your hand and enclosed it around the paper. "Think of it as an allowance." Parents do that for their kids, he wanted to add. But you weren't his kid, even if it felt like that now more than ever.

Work on that.

"An allowance?" you echoed, breathing a laugh. "You're giving me an allowance even though you're already doing so much for me?"

"You deserve it," he said, still gentle but now a touch firmer. The kind of voice you couldn't quite argue with. "Haley will be home soon. And I promise I'll try to be back as soon as possible."

You nodded, a soft "Okay" leaving your lips. He went to go say goodbye to Jack right after.

It felt like leaving his children. He had to remind himself that he only had one child.

He was working on it.

4.

"Hey, kids, are we feeling like it's a superhero night or an animal night?" Aaron shouted, holding DVDs of Spiderman and Madagascar in alternate hands.

From the kitchen, Jack shouted back, "Episode III!"

Aaron turned to you and gave you a funny look, making you laugh. "Jack, buddy," he groaned, "we watched Episode III the other night."

Jack didn't seem to care, repeating, "Episode III!" as he ran in the living room. Behind him, Haley came running, picking him up and contradictorily scolding him, "Jack! No running in the house. You could get hurt."

She took her seat next to you on the couch, giving you a little smile before looking to Aaron. The smile became a little more exasperated. "Aaron. Don't we think that Star Wars is a little too mature?"

Aaron, for lack of a better word, looked sheepish. For a lawyer, he didn't have much of a rebuttal, and you—taking pity on him—pitched in. "If it makes you feel better, Haley, I was watching much worse when I was his age."

Hotch could tell by the look on her face that it didn't make her feel better, but she still upturned her lips nonetheless. A sigh of defeat left her. "Okay. I suppose Episode III, it is."

Jack cheered while you giggled. Aaron watched the two of you contentedly. His kids. His kid and the kid that wasn't his kid (but felt like it, anyway). It warmed his chest to know that you felt more comfortable participating in family discussions now. And as he stared at you, Jack, and Haley sitting on the couch, that's what this felt like. A family.

He got rid of his initial choices and picked up Episode III, taking the disc out of the casing. He always handled it by the edges with careful fingers, but it was still scratched from previous use. He'd deal with the buffering, though, if it made Jack happy.

The best thing about the suspension from Strauss were these movie nights. Time chasing killers turned into time watching his family grow.

He turned off the lamp and sat down as the opening credits started rolling. Amidst the darkness, Haley's eyes met his. A wordless conversation took place, but he was enough of a profiler and enough of a husband to tell what she was saying. The tilt of her head. The soft quirk of her lips.

See? Isn't this better? Spending more time with your family instead of being halfway across the country?

A small feeling of guilt crept up his spine, knowing there were other things he was missing. He tried not think about them.

Instead, he nodded back to her, and then turned to the TV, watching a movie he'd all but seen countless times.

When he got back to the BAU, he would put in for a transfer to a desk job. It was what was best for his family.

—

Yeah, well, make sure you give your son a kiss before you leave.

Hotch closed his eyes tightly, reaching a red light. Haley's words had been echoing throughout his head the entire time he was in Milwaukee. Time had passed since he last saw her, but the conversation still played through his head on a loop.

I can't just switch off my loyalty, Haley.

Who are you being loyal to?

He didn't know how to balance it. How to be the husband and father his family needed and a leader for his team. He was trying. He wanted to make it right—he needed to make it right.

He pulled into his driveway, quickly slinging his bag across his shoulder and beelining for the door. All the lights in the house were off except for the kitchen, so he hoped Haley was still awake and that he could talk to her. That he could make it right.

But when he walked into the kitchen and found you sitting at the dining table, his confident step halted. "Y/N?"

When you looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, he nearly forgot what he was doing in the first place. 

He dropped his go-bag to the ground, rushing to the seat next to you. "Hey, hey, hey, what's wrong?" 

His hands found your forearms effortlessly, like comforting you was an evolutionary instinct he couldn't control. And, truthfully, he couldn't.

His mind was already running a mile a minute, doing mental calculations to tell how long you'd been sitting here, alone, crying to yourself. He started to wonder where Haley was, but then—

You sniffled, "Aaron, I'm so sorry." You couldn't get through saying his name without your voice breaking.

Aaron's left hand moved to wipe a tear as it fell. "Sh, sweet girl," he whispered, wiping away another tear like he'd been caring for you his whole life. "What could you possibly need to be sorry about?"

"I— I couldn't stop her. I tried." You shook your head lightly. "But I couldn't stop her."

Suddenly, Aaron understood exactly what you were saying, no matter the wobble of your voice. His heart dropped into his stomach. 

Make sure you give your son a kiss before you leave.

He knew what happened, but, if not just to torture himself, he asked, "They're gone?" It wasn't a question.

Slowly, you nodded. He blew a breath through his lips. They're gone.

He was halfway through processing it when you spoke up. "Aaron, I am so sorry. I swear, I can leave—"

He was pulled out of his trance by your apology, making him pinch his brows together and cut you off. "Y/N." He faced you head-on; you didn't look away. That was good, because he needed you to hear what he was saying. In the same manner he talked to his team, he firmly said, "This is not your fault."

You didn't look convinced, protesting immediately, "No, I showed up and then look what happened—"

"Y/N." He re-positioned his hands so they rested on your shoulders. Then, he repeated himself. "This did not happen because of you. Haley and I had an argument about my work. This is my fault, not yours."

The dam in your eyes broke despite what he said. "I'm sorry."

He engulfed you in his arms without a second thought, and you quickly returned the embrace. Your cries tugged on his heartstrings like you were a musician and he was a guitar. He shushed you, wanting to make this terrible song end. "Sh, you have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart."

He didn't know if you believed him. He rubbed your back hoping you would understand that he was telling the truth. But the truth was simple.

You still believed you had to apologize for your existence. His act of leaving to join the case had set you back months in confidence.

And it set him and Haley back years in their marriage.

But he just kept rubbing your back, kept holding you, in hopes that he could keep at least one part of his family.

5.

It'd been a few months since Haley left. Aaron had been working through divorce proceedings with her. They agreed that she should have full custody of Jack, who was too young and deserved a kind of stability that the unit chief of the BAU couldn't provide. You, on the other hand, stayed with Hotch. You asked to stay with him, so you did.

There were some undeniable facts of your relationship with Aaron, including the fact that you would be leaving for university sometime soon. Haley believed you shouldn't be moved around so often, so she let Aaron keep the house. At least for the time being.

"What about Georgetown?" he suggested. "I went there for my undergrad before GWU."

The two of you were sat at the dinner table yet again. The difference this time was that college pamphlets were scattered across the table.

"Or, if you don't want to be in DC, I have a colleague who vouches for Yale tremendously. Another for CalTech, but you haven't mentioned anything about technology, so I assumed—" he glanced away from the pamphlets momentarily, seeing you wringing your hands nervously. He turned his full attention. "Hey, are you okay?"

You opened your mouth, but then it looked like you swallowed the words. He waited patiently for you to be able to express what was wrong. Finally, you said, "Aaron, I don't think I can go to any of these schools you're talking about."

He furrowed his brows, confused as ever. "Why not? You have the grades to do it. I've read your report card." Your senior grades had improved immensely since you started living with the Hotchners. You qualified for all the advanced classes you wished to take. You just took the SAT. In his mind, you could make it anywhere.

You opened and closed your mouth again. This time, he knew you had the words, but you were clearly reluctant to share them. "It's not about that."

He tilted his head. "Then what is it about?"

All the telltale signs of a flush appeared on your face, signalling that you were embarrassed. He was even more confused, but you explained, "I don't... I don't have the money for Georgetown or Yale, or... anywhere, really."

Realization dawned on him. "Y/N—"

"I mean, I'm not a super-athlete, so I can't really get any major scholarships, and financial aid won't pay nearly enough—"

He called your name a second time. "Y/N." You stopped rambling, choosing to gnaw at your bottom lip instead. And, for what felt like the thousandth time, Aaron felt his heart snap in half at the look on your face.

He wasn't your dad. He wasn't. But you felt like you didn't have any parent to turn to at all, and that caused a burning in his chest that nothing could get rid of.

He maintained eye contact with you and tried to keep his voice steady, despite the lump growing in the back of his throat. "You don't ever have to worry about that. You can go wherever and do whatever you want. Let me take care of the money." That's what parents do for their kids.

You chuckled the same way you did whenever he gave you money. Only this time, you were discussing a lot more than a hundred dollars. But to Aaron, the dollar value didn't matter.

You were worth every penny.

"You can't keep spending all this money on me—"

"I have the money," he interrupted. He tried to lighten the mood by adding, "You're not going to put a dent in my wallet, I promise."

It clearly worked, because your lips curved up into a smile. Albeit, it was bittersweet, but you were smiling, nonetheless. "Aaron, you have a kid who's probably going to go to college, too—"

"Don't worry about that," he said. "Just let me take care of this." Let me take care of you.

You bowed your head down, and he knew he had you. Still, you insisted, "I will get a part-time job, and I will help pay."

He smiled one of his rare smiles. They were never rare around you. "Sure, sweetheart." He picked back up the first pamphlet he saw. "Now, what about UPenn?"

He didn't say You're my kid, too. But somehow, he hoped you heard it.

+1

Hotch sat at his desk, reading over reports from his team. He skimmed them, checking everything was correct before he signed his name in black ink. 30 minutes in, and the stack on his desk still stood tall.

He was halfway through signing when the telephone rang. He picked it up without lifting the pen from paper. "Hotchner."

"Uh, hi, sir." He raised a brow at the sound of Anderson's voice, already moving onto the next file. "There's a kid here to see you."

He paused, the file still mid-air. "A kid?"

"Yeah, says her name's Y/N." Aaron dropped the file onto his desk; it would have to wait until later. It wasn't even noon yet—you were supposed to be in school. "She's not listed on any log, so they called me down to verify—"

"Bring her up," Aaron ordered. He hung up the phone and stood up in the same breath, heading for the door. His gut churned with something intuitive, knowing you wouldn't be here if something wasn't wrong. He'd meet you at the elevator.

He took the steps down from his office two at a time, finding Rossi at the bottom. With a coffee cup in cand, the greying man raised his brows. "Case?"

Aaron's response was automatic. He said it without thinking about the implications or the weight his words held. "No, it's my daughter."

He didn't wait around to see the way Rossi's brows raised even higher. He didn't even wait to process what he said himself. He strode toward the elevator with his heart thumping louder by the second.

He got there just as the doors were opening. As soon as your face was in view, he could've sworn his heart stopped.

Because, even though it was faint, he could see the unmistakable beginnings of a black eye.

He got his bearings, racing to you. Anderson seemed to get the memo, stepping away while Aaron wrapped his arms around you. He barely gave you the chance to hug back before he was pulling away, holding onto your shoulders. "Sweetheart, what happened?"

You gave him a pained smile—pained because you were nervous and because it looked like it was actually hurting you to do. "We should probably get out the elevator before I dive into the details," you joked.

Through profiling Through living with you, Aaron had learned that you didn't take your trauma seriously. You liked to joke about things or deny that they ever happened. But considering that you were there, giving him a heart attack, he figured that you did plan on telling him.

Trying to calm his heart, he stepped out of the elevator, his hand on your back. He nodded to Anderson, telling him in no words to go away.

He turned back to you, his eyes practically gluing themselves to your bruise. He all but demanded, "What happened?"

You sighed. "Don't freak out."

He might as well have just blown a fuse. "Honey, I'm not sure if you're aware, but I'm kind of already freaking out."

You took a deep breath, and then you let the words speed out of your mouth. "I got into Georgetown, but Stephanie didn't, and it was her dream school, and she hates me, so she hit me, but don't worry, it doesn't even hurt!"

Aaron blinked, trying to process everything you just said. Then, a smile spread across his face. "You got into Georgetown?'

You let out another sigh—of relief, this time—and you reciprocated his expression. "Yes."

You weren't even finished enunciating before Aaron was engulfing you into his arms again, making you squeal as your feet lifted off the ground. He knew by now that agents must've turned in your direction, but he couldn't find the will to care about anything but the fact that you into university and—

His eyes narrowed, and he set you down. "Who is this Stephanie girl?"

You screwed your eyes shut, then opened them again because it likely hurt. "I thought the whole Georgetown part trumped the Stephanie part."

"It did. Momentarily. Now, who is she?" He crossed his arms together, slipping back into his work persona almost seamlessly. "I can have Garcia find her. I'll make sure she doesn't get into any university on grounds of violence toward another student—"

You stopped him, putting your hands on his arms. "Dad. I'm fine, I promise." It took you a few seconds to realize what you said, but Aaron realized instantly.

Dad.

You called him dad.

If his heart didn't stop before, it certainly stopped now.

You slapped your hands on your mouth, your eyes going wide. "Oh, my gosh, I'm so—"

He didn't let you finish whatever apology you were going to spout, opting to give you his third hug of the day. You shut up immediately.

With wet eyes, he muttered, "I told you, Y/N. You don't need to apologize for everything."

"I'm s— right. You're right."

He huffed a small laugh. You were the most endearing person he'd ever met. He'd even forget about Stephanie—momentarily—so that he could be here, with you. 

He kissed your temple and didn't hesitate before he told you, "I love you, kid."

You went stiff for a moment, and he almost got worried, but you soon relaxed, hugging him even tighter. "I love you, too, dad."

And in that moment, Aaron knew that, no matter your blood, you were his kid through and through.

He would never reject the thought ever again.

Double Bonus!

Inside the bullpen, the BAU had ceased pretending to do work. Their paperwork lied exactly where they left it as they crowded around Spencer's desk, peeking out to the glass doors where their boss stood with a girl with a black eye in front of the elevators.

"Look, he's hugging her again!" Emily whisper-yelled, smacking Spencer's arm.

"Ow," he muttered, but no one paid him any mind.

"Do you think she's his girlfriend? Ooh, or a long, lost niece!" Garcia guessed.

Morgan made a face. "Ew. She looks like a kid. I doubt Hotch would ever go that young." He shuddered at the thought, despite having no idea how old you were. He nudged Reid on his other shoulder. "Reid, c'mon, pretty boy. Read those lips. What are they saying out there?"

"I'm trying!" he defended. "The girl was talking too fast for me to tell what she was saying." He spun around in his chair, facing his colleagues. "Given his behaviour, though, I would say she has to be some form of close family. She's far too young for her and Hotch to be romantically involved. There are around 439 teenagers in the immediate Quantico area. If you include the rest of the Washington Metropolitan Area, where Hotch lives, that's 819,578—"

This time, Garcia pushed him. "Shut up, nerd, they're talking again!"

Reid turned back around, his eyes squinting and flying over your lips to see what you were saying. "She's talking about someone named Stephanie."

"Stephanie?" Prentiss echoed. "Who's Stephanie?"

"I don't know," he answered, watching as your lips stopped moving. "I think Hotch's is saying something now. I don't—" he cut himself off, his eyes widening.

"What? What, pretty boy, what is it?"

"I—" Reid was having a hard time jumpstarting his brain again, stuck in shock. "She just called him dad."

"What?" Garcia screeched.

Emily followed up with, "No way. She's like seventeen!"

"How the hell is that possible?" Derek asked. "He's never said anything." At the sight of Rossi passing by with what looked like his second coffee of the day, Derek called to him. "Hey, Rossi!"

Rossi stopped walking, turning to them with an all-too-smug and all-too-knowing look on his face. He looked them up and down. "What do you nosy kids want?"

"What's this about Hotch having a daughter?" Morgan interrogated, crossing his arms.

Rossi glanced out to the elevators then turned back to the team. A smirk grew on his face. "It's true." He shrugged, already starting to walk away. In a sing-song voice, he confirmed, "She's his kid."

With those three simple words, chaos erupted in the bullpen. 

Hotch would have to deal with it later.

After all, that's what parents do for their kids.

taglist: @saturnscomedown @pastaparker @rethasavedlives @alexxavicry @vivs30 @gael2020 @person-005 @hiireadstuff @cicadasexfest @zaddyhotch @tatumemma2021 @bookworm-in-disguise @percysley

1. The myth

Quantico, Virginia, 2004

The interrogation room was cold and your fingers felt frozen against the metal of the table, but you doubted it had anything to do with the fact that it was December. If anything, you'd bet good money that as soon as you stepped out of the room, the heat would return. You'd bet good money that a certain Agent Hotchner sitting across from you had fucked with the AC unit.

Nonetheless, you didn't show your discomfort, keeping a poker face.

Well, as much of a poker face that you could keep.

You had a smile on your face, a twinkle in your eye. While you preferred not to spend time in police stations, this really was turning out to be quite interesting.

Agent Hotchner didn't seem to hold the same opinion as you. The frown on his face was unmoving, his expression stone cold. High-strung, you thought, and then you wondered what crazy things he might've seen to make him that way.

You turn to the man sitting next to him (the boy really), and asked, "Does he ever smile?" You pointed to the man in question to emphasize your point, even though it was clear as day who you were referring to.

Spencer, as you'd learned his name was, looked somewhat flustered at your question, like he wasn't expecting you to speak to him, but he ignored you regardless. You took that as a no. "Ms. Y/L/N, you're known throughout the United States and many other European countries as 'The Angel of Death.'" Your smile widened at your nickname. "They say that, as soon as you contact someone, they're as good as dead."

"Oh? Is that what they say?" Your voice was sly and teasing.

Spencer ignored you yet again. Rude. "You send them a message through various online media, and then they mysteriously turn up deceased."

"Do they?" you drawled.

The stoic and silent Agent Hotchner took this as his cue to speak up. "As of late, your existence has been nothing more than a rumour, an urban legend amongst criminals and internet sleuths. A myth."

You hummed.

"But your recent attempt on Congressman Baylor has failed. You got sloppy," he deadpanned. "You went for a fish bigger than you could handle, and now the myth is likely headed for life without parole unless you tell me who you're working for."

You were silent for a moment as you held his stare, and he thought that finally, he was getting somewhere with you, but then you broke that silence with a giggle so bubbly it was almost hard to believe you were assassin.

"That's cute," you remarked.

He narrowed his eyes. "What's cute?"

You shrugged nonchalantly. "The fact that you think you can convict me."

It was Spencer this time that spoke up, his voice soft in comparison to the jagged edges of his partner's. Perhaps this job hadn't broken him yet, you thought. "Y/N, arrogance isn't gonna get you out of this."

You snorted. "No, trust me, this isn't arrogant. It's self-assured." You didn't give them a chance to get another thing in. "Tell me, what exactly has your technical analyst, Penelope Garcia, been able to dig up on me?" You saw slight alarm flare up in Agent Hotchner's eyes, surprise in Spencer's. "She's FBI, yeah, and you guys sure do like to play by the rules, but she isn't an agent like you, Hotchner. She must get impatient, bend the rules, perform some illegal activity that you don't question because it helps you with your case. That's why I'm a bit surprised that, even though she likely did run an illegal background on me, she didn't find my records. I mean, they're not that sealed. I bet I could unseal those bad boys right now."

He's lucky you didn't put money on that bet, because you would've won.

Aside from his eyes, no emotion other than irritation showed on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you poor sweet things." Another chuckle left you. "Have you ever heard of this little thing called immunity?"

Hotch was quick to dispute. "No. You do not have immunity."

You contested, "Oh, yes, sweetheart, I do. And if you had checked my pockets for anything other than a pistol, then perhaps you'd have noticed this." Since they hadn't cuffed you, you reached into your back pocket easily and pulled out your badge, the words Central Intelligence Agency catching their eyes immediately. 

Hotchner scoffed, the most emotion you'd seen from him since you met. "You're CIA?"

You cocked your head. "Y'know, for some of America's supposed best minds, I'm a little unimpressed."

Reid leaned forward in his seat. "You're—"

"Yes, I am. So your girl back at HQ seemed to miss a few details about me, and you have missed more than a few details about this case— if a case is even what you could call it." You stood up and rested your hands on the table, getting bored of this game already. "What you have, SSA Hotchner and Dr. Reid, is not a serial killer. I hope your victimology analysis picked this up already, but the quote-unquote victims you have are all bad people, people who have broken the law in irreparable ways. And when I say irreparable, I don't just mean Bill Clintoning it up with minors, despite many of them having done that. I mean selling government secrets, espionage, treason. Things that threaten national security, things that my bosses do not like. I'm sure you catch my drift, don't you?"

Before Agent Hotchner could respond, the door to the interrogation room was opening, and a smirk automatically arose on your face. About damn time. 

A man who you instantly recognized as Jason Gideon stood in the doorway. You briefly met once, but you doubt he remembered you. His face was stern, too, and reluctance shined through his voice. "Hotch, the Secretary of Defense is here, and the DOD is demanding she be released."

You maintained Hotch's stare all the while Gideon spoke. The clench in his jaw was small, but you caught it. Something told you this man didn't like to be challenged—you'd keep that in mind.

Eventually, he nodded.

You grabbed your coat from behind your chair, stowed your badge away and flashed them your million-dollar smile. "Well, it was nice meeting you, boys. Let's do this again sometime, yeah?"

Then you were out the door, and Hotch thought that if he went forever without seeing you, it'd still be too soon.

And when Congressman Baylor was found dead a few hours later, he wasn't surprised.

2. Smile

Langley, Virginia, 2006

"I've got the personnel files all set up for you guys. Video, whatnot—it's all there in the conference room. Now if you have any questions, feel free to talk to my senior officers. This is Gina Sanchez, she's the Associate Director of Field Operations. And that guy up there is Kruger Spence, the Assistant Director of Operations. The lady with him is his second-in-command, Olivia Hopkins. And then there's, of course, my boss."

Gideon's brows went up. "Your boss?" he echoed. The rest of the team's confusion was just as palpable. When he was brought in by Bruno Hawks to assist the CIA in finding their mole, he assumed he was the one running point. As far as he was concerned, Hawks didn't even have a boss that'd be there.

"Yes, she's flown in from an assignment to help with this case." Right on cue, you walked out of an office, heels clicking on the floor and the same smile on your face that Hotch could remember from two years ago. "Meet Director Y/N Y/L/N; she's head of a CIA black ops initiative and envoy from the NSA."

Your voice was smug. "Oh, trust me, Bruno, we've met before." This time, Hotch couldn't conceal his scoff. He felt Elle glance at him in confusion—she's the only one who didn't know who you were. "Agent Gideon, it's a pleasure to meet you formally." He shook your hand, albeit unenthusiastically. "Agent Hotchner, I knew I'd be seeing you again." He rolled his eyes, making your smile widen, but out of his strong urge to be polite above all other things, he shook your hand, too, pulling away as fast as he could. "Dr. Reid." He nodded back to you, almost hesitant. You nodded to the rest of them individually. "You two I haven't met, but you must be Derek Morgan and Elle Greenaway. I wish we had more time for pleasantries, but lives are on the line, so I'd like to get moving ASAP."

With that, you swiftly turned and walked back to the office you'd made your own. You didn't often spend time at headquarters, but a mole in the Agency was enough to pull you away from the case you'd been working previously.

As you left, you heard Reid explain to Elle in a hushed tone, "That was The Angel of Death."

You stifled a chuckle. Let's see if Agent Hotchner's team was as good as they claimed to be.

❧

You and Hotch stood on either side of Bruno on the platform as he spoke to the entire office, Gideon off standing alone, seemingly in thought. "Now, we all know why BAU and Ms. Y/L/N are here. They have their job and we have ours. And we're down to the wire on this. Aaliyah Nadir risked everything, and now she and her children deserve our fullest attention. Let's find her."

They all walked off after Bruno dismissed them, all but Gina Sanchez. You glanced at her from the corner of your eye as she went to talk to Agent Gideon. You didn't hear their conversation, but you saw the hostility painted all over her face. Interesting.

After she left, Gideon made his way over to where you were standing, speaking quietly. "We think the agent who's tipping off Hassan may have had some kind of extreme event in their life."

"Something that distorted or redefined their belief system," Hotch added.

Bruno was quick to get defensive. Why, you weren't sure. "No, every agent undergoes regular psych evals. You know that. They're trained to cope with extreme events"

"Well, whatever turned this agent must not've been something you can train for," you cut in. You didn't miss the way Hotch glanced at you.

Bruno gestured outward with his hands. "Well, you're welcome to everything I have. Every op undertaken by these guys is on file."

You snickered a bit under your breath. Your ops certainly weren't "on file."

"What about the ones that aren't on file, like the wiretaps of the Saudi Embassy?" Hotch questioned.

"Those don't even exist," Bruno said. You didn't confirm nor deny that statement.

"How long has your department been running operations in Riyadh?" Hotch turned to Bruno, back straight and eyes sharp.

"We have a declared presence in Riyadh, monitoring US interests there. You know that. Now if that's all, I have an informant to save." You hummed as Bruno walked off, finding his attitude quite intriguing.

"And you, Agent Y/L/N?" You turned to face Gideon. "What do you think?"

You tilted your head. "Aren't you and Bruno friends? Why not ask him?" Because he had the same feeling you have.

He responded without missing a beat. "You don't have a belief system—this job is all you believe in."

This caused you to chuckle. He wasn't wrong. "Good profiling, Agent Gideon. And yes, I have my suspicions, but until further information is gathered, I'm not at liberty to discuss them. For everyone's safety." You gave one last glance to Agent Hotchner. "I look forward to see what your team has brought together."

❧

Not long after your talk with Hotch and Gideon, you stood with the latter and Agent Greenaway in a supply office where the body of Olivia Hopkins was lying dead.

Gideon turned to you expectantly. "It's your job to clean house. You do this?"

You scoffed. "If I wanted to kill a CIA senior officer, believe me, you wouldn't have thought it was a murder at all." You glanced around the room you were in. "And I certainly wouldn't have done it in a federal building."

He must've believed you because he ended his line of questioning there, turning back to Elle. "Have any other agents seen the body?" When she shook her head, he replied, "Good. We can use this to our advantage. Get the others."

You met up with the rest of the BAU in their designated conference room as Gideon quickly explained the situation. Your suspects filed into the room shortly after, each confused and annoyed. You analyzed their body language closely, standing next to Agent Hotchner.

"You're pulling us away from our assignments?" questioned Kruger. "There's a woman out there whose life depends on us."

Defensive. Self-centred. Rude. But not your guy.

Gina was the first to ask where Olivia was, which was either genuine or she was covering her ass.

Hotch was the one to answer. "Olivia Hopkins was murdered 10 minutes ago. Her neck was snapped."

"Just like John Summers," you drawled.

Kruger let out a scoff, but you kept your eyes on the other two as he spoke. "What are you talking about?" Gina looked spooked, but Bruno's expression was cold, even as he tried to imitate warmth. "You're lying. Where is she?"

"Right now, she's dead," you emphasized, not really caring to be sensitive.

Kruger looked at you like you'd just killed his dog. "Look, people don't just... get murdered inside the CIA."

Gina looked at him with betrayal in her eyes as if he were a traitor. Shifting blame.

Hawks spoke up. "I realize the enormity of this, but Hassan Nadir is still out there looking to kill his wife, and I need every agent on this." You tilted your head. Deflecting. He didn't even acknowledge that his own colleague, his responsibility, was dead.

Gina was the first to leave the room, deeply frazzled. Gideon followed after Hawks, but you didn't go with him. You stayed in the room with Hotch while the rest of his team filed out.

You weren't expecting him to talk to you, let alone ask for your opinion, but he did. "What are you thinking, Y/L/N?"

You hid your surprise, nodding to the door Gina and Kruger walked out of. "My money's not on her; it's not on Kruger, either."

He furrowed his brows, lowering his voice. "You think Bruno Hawks is the mole?"

You shrugged your shoulders. "Bruno's been leading this unit for all of, what, ten years? And he hasn't advanced at all? Someone like him must have higher ambitions, like leading the Agency one day, but that's not in his cards. Gina Sanchez and Kruger Spence have bright futures here; Hawks is already at the end of the line. So what's the next best thing in this city besides power?"

Realization dawned upon him. "Money."

"And by the looks of the old car he drives, that's something he's lacking, but something that he wants," you deduced, pausing. "But I'll let you continue your investigation."

He caught your hand just as you turned away, and you ignored the small spark that was sent through your body. His eyes were earnest and curious, but most of all you realized that they were beautiful. "Y/N, what's going to happen to the mole when we find them?"

You ignore the unfamiliar flutter you felt after he said your name for the first time, and it's then that you remember Hotch was a prosecutor. Before he was unit chief Agent Hotchner, he was just Aaron Hotchner, a man who valued balance and believed in justice. Even now, after climbing the ladder, he still didn't seem to understand that his own government was different.

In matters like these, the United States government didn't value justice.

They valued revenge.

But still, if not just to help him retain his faith in his country, you shrugged and told him, "The scales will be evened, Hotchner." 

Then you pulled your wrist out of his light grip and walked away, and he couldn't tell if he wanted to know what you meant.

❧

Sanchez and Morgan were on their way to rescue Aaliyah and her children, and then you were made aware that Hassan was already there.

Bruno turned to Gideon. "Look, we can't arrest him. This is still a CIA matter. You do know that?" He then turned to you, like he was expecting to you to back him up.

You shook your head as Gideon said what you were thinking. "How are you going to explain this to the Saudi government?"

"Explain what?" he fired back. "This isn't happening."

You crossed your arms. "That's not how this works, Bruno. You don't just kill a Saudi diplomat and get away with it—that is how wars begin."

He scoffed at you. "Look who's talking. The Angel of Death, giving me a lecture on in-house cleaning."

You narrowed your eyes and stepped forward. "I don't know who the hell you think you're talking to right now, but you need to double back because, at the end of the day, what I. say. goes."

Bruno opened his mouth to argue, but Jason mediated, "Let's just get Aaliyah and her children back alive. We'll worry about Hassan's life after."

You gave Bruno one last hard stare before you turned back to the screen showing the Nadirs with Morgan and Gina outside. "Make the arrest, Morgan," Gideon called out. "It's FBI jurisdiction. You're in charge."

You listened to them over the comms. [FBI! Let the lady go and put the gun down. I said, put the gun down!]

The movement of heat on the screen told you that Hassan listened. [Diplomatic immunity, my friend], he said, and you chuckled.

[Uh-uh, you got it wrong, my friend. This container hasn't passed through customs. Officially, we're not on US soil. Summers was a smart man.]

Suddenly, you heard Gina's voice. [That he was.] Pause. [Drop the gun.]

The feed cut in and out as the figures moved out of the container. Confused, you called out, "Morgan, Sanchez, what's going on?"

Hawks turned to you and Gideon, and you wanted to wipe the smug look right off his face. "You two still certain that Gina isn't the mole?"

Gideon ignored him. "Morgan." No answer. "Morgan, what's going on?"

[Gideon, we got a situation here.]

You raised your voice. "Gina, don't do this. Do not do this."

"She doesn't take orders from you," Bruno snided. 

You took another step forward to him. "Listen here, asshole—"

Gina cut in, [Bruno, what do you want me to do?]

"Gina, you put down that gun. That is an order—"

[Bruno?]

This made you turn to Bruno, and if you were in an animation, smoke must've been coming out of your ears. "Hawks, I swear to god, if you don't stand down, you will be endangering the security of this country—"

Bruno only responded to Gina. "You know what to do."

[Say it!]

"This is not your call. It is not your fucking call, Bruno."

He finally turned to you. "This is strictly in-house and you know it."

"I don't give a damn. It is still not. your. call."

"Finish him."

"Gina, don't you dare do this."

[You're going to cut the visual feed, right, Bruno?]

"Of course. Cut it now. Cut it," he ordered, and the feed was off before you could even protest.

And then you heard four gunshots. 

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. White hot anger rushed through your veins in contrast to your normal playful demeanour. Meanwhile, Bruno turned to Gideon, saying, "I want to thank you, Jason, for your help."

You stayed quiet as Gideon responded, too angry to speak. "Why?" He paused, genuine disbelief evident in his tone. "Why'd you turn against everything you believe in?"

"What are you talking about?"

"When someone asks you how you feel about... losing one of your colleagues, the only human answer is 'I feel guilty,' isn't it?"

Bruno nodded and mocked, "But as you so brilliantly deduced, Kruger Spence is the guilty one." Following that statement, you watched as Elle walked up to where you three stood, a tiny paper in hand that she gave to him. Based on the ignorant smile that graced his face upon reading it, you could guess what it said. "Ridiculous," he deflected, tucking the paper into his jacket pocket. "Absurd."

That's when you snapped out of your anger-induced stupor. "No, Bruno." You shook your head. "The only thing that's absurd is how arrogant you are to believe that you're getting away with this."

Bruno pursed his lips, flashing you a sarcastic smile. "Unfortunately, with Hassan now dead, you have no proof."

"Oh, you son of a—"

Dr. Reid cut you off, announcing to everyone, "Actually, Hassan is alive and well. He's en route—that's all the proof we'll need." At this, you let out a chuckle. You certainly didn't need that proof, but it was nice to prove Hawks wrong before he was sent to where he deserved to be.

He clenched his jaw, stepping closer to Gideon instead of you, likely because he knew he couldn't shake you. "You are a fool if you think they're going to put me in prison with all that I know." He glanced at you and your lips quirked upward, because this was true.

"Why'd you have to kill Olivia?" Elle interrogated. She was straight to the point; you liked her. 

"Economics," Gideon replied, staring straight at Bruno. "Olivia was looking into your financial records when you snapped her neck."

Elle scoffed under her breath. "So she knew your dirty little secret."

"Which one?" Bruno asked. "I have so many."

You stepped closer to the trio. "The one that involves you cashing out through Hassan, maybe buying a real Rolex instead of the fake you don so proudly."

You could see Bruno's façade cracking, his frustration leaking through. "Twenty-million from Hassan will go a very long way to help occupy my mind on a beach somewhere."

Gideon wasn't fazed. "The only beach you'll see is on a postcard I send you from my vacation. Let me have your gun."

Knowing there was no way out of this, Bruno did what he said willingly, but he still had to taunt. "You know, I think the consequences of what you're doing to me, my friend, are going to be a lot harder to live with than you think."

Jason stared at him without blinking, and he stared until Bruno walked out, escorted by agents left and right of him. You found it comical, that petty thieves were escorted to the back of police cars in chains, yet a man who nearly started a war could walk out freely.

Well, you supposed Bruno Hawks wouldn't be free for much longer.

And it was your job to see to that.

❧

You were packing up your things in your office when a knock sounded. You turned to see a raven-haired man in a suit standing there, a hand in his pocket. A grin came to your face. "Agent Hotchner," you greeted. "Congrats on solving the case."

He let out a chuckle that surprised you. Aaron Hotchner didn't look like a man who laughed often. "Yeah, well, thank you, but I have a feeling you knew from the beginning."

Your grin widened. "Ah, I just needed proof." You continued to pack your things. "And besides, I wanted to see what your team was capable of."

He hummed, and you thought he'd leave after that, but he stayed, looking around the room with a careful interest. "No pictures," he noted. "No personal artifacts. It's extremely clean in here—untouched, almost. How much time do you spend here?"

You fully turned to him after that, giving him your full attention. With comments like those, that must've been what he was after. You crossed your arms, but the smile never left your face. "Perceptive, Hotchner," you remarked. "Profiling me now?"

He shook his head. "Not profiling, just observing."

Now it was your turn to hum, looking him up and down. You found that you liked what you saw, visually, but the implications to what you saw weren't very fond. "Well, what I observe, is an accomplished man in a nice suit, but you don't wear that suit because you're unit chief, you wear it because you got used to it as a prosecutor and now it makes you feel on top of things... professional. You're stiff and stoic, but that's because you like to separate your work life from your home life. At home, with your wife and kid, you're lively and relaxed, but that's also to compensate for the fact that this job takes a lot out of you; you're not home often, and that puts a strain on your marriage, which is why you haven't called your wife once today." Your voice was soft as you delivered that final blow. Hotch looked both uncomfortable and, surprisingly, impressed. But thus far, nothing about Aaron Hotchner was what you were used to. "Tell me, Agent Hotchner, was I correct?"

Hotch lightly snorted, but he didn't answer. Instead, he took to staring right back at you. You'd been stared at by bad men, murderers, rapists, terrorists and the like, but for some reason, his stare bothered you. You turned back around and packed one last thing into your bag. Then you walked toward the door, stopping just before you made your exit like an invisible barrier was holding you back. 

You patted his shoulder, telling him, "You should smile more, Hotchner. It'd suit you."

And then Aaron watched you leave for the second time in his life, except this time—for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom—he hoped he'd see you again.

3. The games we play

Washington, D.C., 2007

The air in Washington was always crisp. There was something different about it—like you could smell the power in the air, like you feel it. When you were home, in your apartment, it was suffocating. There was enough politics in this city that you could drown in it, politics you didn't care for. You saw enough of it as is.

Nevertheless, you weren't home often, so it wasn't too troublesome. Today, however, you were home, except you weren't here to rest.

You stepped out of your Mercedes as soon as you parked, locking the car and walking straight into the alleyway. Men in blue stood in your path, hands out. "Ma'am, this is a crime scene—"

You wordlessly held up your badge, effectively shutting him up. With red climbing up his neck, he nodded and lifted up the yellow tape for you.

When you made it past them, there was a woman in a red dress there. She'd be beautiful, you thought, if she weren't sprawled out dead on the ground. Her dress was so dark you almost couldn't see the blood stain. 

But the blood pooled around her was a telltale.

Next to her body was a card with typed-out letters and numbers that appeared random. 

But you knew better than that.

There was a woman taking photographs of the scene and a detective analyzing it. He was just as confused as those officers when you showed up. "Excuse me, who are you?"

You gave him a short smile. "Detective Walker, I wish we could've met under better circumstances. I'm Y/N Y/L/N." You held one hand out and simultaneously held up the other with your badge. "I've been instructed to take over this case."

He furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry, Ms. Y/L/N, but I've already alerted—"

"Detective Walker."

At that, you screwed your eyes shut and cursed under your breath. You recognized that voice—hell, you recognized the sound of his footsteps. And he was exactly what you didn't need.

Composing yourself, you spun around with your signature smile. "SSA Hotchner."

Hotch looked momentarily stunned at your being there, but that was quickly wiped away. "Y/N. What are you doing here?"

"Well, if you mean in the city, I live here. And if you mean at this scene, then that's because it's mine." You paused, letting that soak in. "This is my case."

Confusion was visible on his face. For a second, you thought it was cute. "No, this is a BAU case. Series of murders, victimizing high-level escorts—forgive me, but I don't see why this would require a CIA presence."

Of course, you don't, you thought, but for once, you didn't say what you were thinking. Instead, you explained, "I understand that 4 women have died in the past week, but believe me, Agent Hotchner, that is not the case I'm here to solve." When his brows knitted together, you elaborated, "These women are not the targets of these attacks."

"What do you mean?" 

You sighed, pointing over to the woman's body. "See that card over there?"

"Yeah, it's the unsub's signature."

"No, it's more than that. It's not a way for him to get off; it's not something he does compulsively. It is a taunt," you stressed. "Those letters aren't random. They're part of a code."

"A code to what?"

"A code to an NSA file recording every single undercover operation the United States has in foreign countries." Like your words were a vacuum, they sucked anything lighthearted out of the atmosphere—if there was any to begin with—and left tension in their wake. "6 high-level analysts have parts of that code. I'm guessing that 4 of them are already dead." You glanced back at the dead body before looking back at Hotch. "The unsub isn't a serial killer, Agent Hotchner. He's a traitor with a mission to annihilate everything in his wake."

❧

After looking at the scene, you sent Detective Walker away, telling him it wasn't personal but this case was too sensitive to be worked by local police. They didn't have the clearance nor did they have the means to help. You asked him to send you all of his evidence, and he complied easily, but someone wasn't so easily persuaded.

"You're going to need help."

You snorted. "Thank you, but I think I'll do just fine without it." Just as you reached your car, Hotch grabbed your wrist. 

You turned around, but before you could say anything, he spoke. "You could use my team, and you know it."

Your eyes ever so slightly narrowed. "All due respect, Agent Hotchner, but this is above your pay grade."

He held your stare for a few seconds until you saw his jaw tense. He glanced to the side before he exasperatedly muttered, "Please, Y/N." He looked up at you. "I want to help with this case."

Unknowingly, you straightened your back. Aaron Hotchner surprised you more and more each time you saw him. The corners of your lips curved upward, but something about your smile was more sincere. "You're not a man who says please much, are you?"

He rolled his eyes and neglected to answer. "Does that mean you'll accept our help?"

You paused. Was that what you meant? Your mouth didn't correspond with your brain as you replied, "I'm running point on this." Hotch's shoulders imperceptibly relaxed and he nodded. "I'll tell Detective Walker to send his stuff over to the BAU. I'll meet you there to brief your team." You turned away before you could see him nod a second time.

You don't know why you said yes, but you did. On the drive over, you told yourself it was because he was right, you could use some extra hands, and it helped that the BAU were good at what they did.

Yes, that's why I didn't send him away. 

You didn't explore any other option.

❧

Hotch got to the BAU before you but waited for you to arrive before walking into the building. To make sure you got to the right place, you reasoned. 

You went through the typical security procedure: removed your guns, walked through the metal detector, and showed your ID. In the elevator, you cracked a couple jokes that he didn't laugh at, asshole, but you nearly caught him slipping at one.

"This city's so damn power-hungry that even the serial killers would prefer a fucking computer code over sex. What a nerd. Hey, how often does that happen in your line of work, Hotchner?" You turned your head for his response when you saw his lips twitching.

You let out a dramatic gasp. "Agent. Hotchner. Are you..." you lowered your voice, a devious smile crawling to your lips. "smiling?"

His efforts to suppress his little smile failed after that. "Let's focus on the case, Y/L/N."

"Sureeee," you drawled. The elevator dinged and opened. "Better be careful, Agent. I might just start thinking you have a soul."

He shook his head at you and walked out of the elevator ahead of you so that you couldn't see him as a full smile graced his face. However, once you got to the conference, Hotch erased any sign of that smile and walked in full-stride.

You gave the room a cursory glance, duly noting that they must've spent a lot of time in here. You noticed immediately afterward that some faces were missing, and on the other hand, some new ones had appeared.

You followed Hotch to the front of the room in front of their TV. 

"Everyone, this is Director Y/N Y/L/N from the CIA. She'll be leading this case—and as some of you may recall, she's already worked with us on an investigation about a year ago," he announced, subsequently gesturing around the table. "Y/N, this is SSA Emily Prentiss, SSA David Rossi, our communications liaison Jennifer Jareau, and our technical analyst Penelope Garcia."

You nodded, smiling at them. "It's nice to meet you all—"

"You're— you're her."

You turned to the blonde with pink highlights that'd cut you off, Penelope, and furrowed your brows. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh my god, you're her," she whispered, her eyes wide and her face awestruck. "You're The Angel of Death."

You held back a laugh. "That is what people to tend to call me, yes."

She opened and closed her mouth repeatedly before eventually blurting, "I— you're an icon. I've read some of your code before in snippets, and it's beautiful. And, I mean, when you can code like that and then do what you do, it's no wonder that the government would want you all to themselv—"

"Garcia." At Hotch's command, Penelope's mouth snapped shut and snickers were heard around the table. "We are here to work," he told her, trying to be serious, but you could hear the amusement hiding behind his tone.

"Yes— yes, Sir. Work. Working," she said, but her eyes remained trained on you even as she spoke.

Morgan laughed, swivelling his chair toward you. "Sorry, angel. She gets a little..." he twirled his finger next to his head, "Comicon-y whenever things involve computers."

This snapped her out of her trance and made her whip around to point her finger at him. "You better shut it, Morgan, before I show everyone those pictures of you at Comicon with me."

His smile dropped. "Babygirl, you wouldn't."

"Oh, yes, sugar, I would."

Hotch exasperatedly cut their very entertaining banter off. "Work."

"Morgan, you've been to Comicon?" Without even looking at him, you could hear the smirk in the man's words.

"Leave it, Rossi. You heard the bossman: we've got work," he changed the subject, but based on the fiery look being sent his way by Reid and the teasing one by Emily, you'd bet that this conversation wasn't over.

Hotch signalled for you to start, so you stepped forward, got a little more serious for his sake, and began, "The serial killer you've been phoned in on is not a serial killer. The women he's killed are unfortunately collateral damage to a much bigger problem." Behind you, pictures of the paper left next to the bodies appear on screen. "The unsub is going after high-level members of the NSA who have fragments of a specific code. He's been leaving those fragments at the crime scenes. So far, he has 4—there are only 2 more. Once he gets the last two, it'll only be a matter of time before he's able to unlock a classified file, detailing every undercover op we have or have had in other countries."

The room was quiet. Morgan was the first to question, "So, he's a whistleblower?"

"No, not necessarily. Given his M.O. and need to taunt us with these papers, his goal isn't to expose the government—it's only a stepping stone to what he truly wants, which is chaos."

Emily spoke up next. "Well, he's clearly a narcissist, and he's sadistic at that. Otherwise, he wouldn't have killed these women like this."

Dr. Reid nodded, keeping his eyes on the file in front of him. "Craves control, finds a way to manipulate the situation and mold it into what he wants it to be." He looked up, talking with his hands while explaining, "Narcissists are devoted to themselves and will further themselves in whatever way possible. They lack empathy and find enjoyment in causing others pain, stemming from their grandiose sense of self-importance. Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb were drawn in and obsessed with Nietzsche's idea of Übermenschen, supermen who possessed such high intelligence that it put them above the law. They later confessed to the police that they sought to commit 'perfect crime.' This unsub is likely suffering from the same sense of entitlement."

Rossi tipped his pen at him, agreeing, "Yeah, he's arrogant and he believes he can get away with this, hence the taunting. All he wants is to feed his ego, but he hides behind the whistleblower façade to absolve himself of blame."

"And he's impatient," Derek added. "4 bodies in one week. We don't have much time before he strikes again."

"No, we don't," you said. The screen changed to display the pictures of two men. "The last two people with the code are Malik Hussein and Ethan Torrie. I believe he'll go after Ethan first; he's in D.C. for this big gala tonight. That's where the unsub will make his move."

Emily looked between you and Hotch, almost as if she was unsure who she was addressing her question to. "So what's our plan?"

You, too, glanced at Hotch before looking back at her, splaying your hands out in front of yourself. "Well, we only have one course of action: wait for the unsub to approach Ethan."

Unexpectedly, Hotch interrupted you, saying, "Y/N and I will go in undercover." What? You held yourself back from widening your eyes and whipping your head around. "The rest of you will be waiting for our signal. Garcia, can you get us on the guest-list?"

"Already on it, Sir."

He nodded, firing orders away, "Alright, Morgan and Prentiss, I want you both to go back to the crime scenes. Talk to the owners of the establishments, bartenders, doormen—anybody who could've seen the unsub leave the building with the victims. Garcia, consult with CCTV footage. Rossi and Reid, I want you looking at his M.O. and why he didn't leave the men there with the women. JJ, contact The Post and tell them not to run the latest murder; it's imperative we keep this and the unsub's true motives out of the press. Y/N and I will go over tonight's plan."

They all voiced their confirmations and, like clockwork, filed out of the room until it was just you and Hotch left standing. The air suddenly got heavier—with what, you had no idea.

It felt different, old and new all at the same time, like everything and nothing you'd ever felt before. You couldn't pinpoint it, couldn't describe it.

Growing bored of the silence, you raised a brow, repeating, "'Y/N and I will go undercover?'"

Hotch, who was in the middle of collecting his things, paused and raised a brow of his own, turning to face you. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

You looked him up and down, taking your time and not bothering to be subtle about it. After a moment, you responded, "No." A smirk slowly came to your face. "Let's go over that plan."

He maintained his stare for a few seconds, reminding you of when you met. Eventually, he nodded and got to it. All the while, your mind ran rampant—but not with the case.

Agent Hotchner continued to surprise you.

And you'd be sure to return the favour.

❧

After planning for hours, you and Hotch came up with a decent story. He'd be going as himself. You'd pretend you were his girlfriend, his tag-along for the party, with a fake identity. His presence would make sense, but if people found out Y/N Y/L/N was there, they'd start to wonder things that this plan couldn't afford.

Your name wasn't widely known, nor was your face, but at a party like this, you had to be careful.

That's what you explained to Hotch.

"I don't understand. Nobody knows who you are. Not even Garcia could figure out who you really were when we met." He furrowed his brows in confusion.

You sighed, "There's going to be a lot of powerful people there, Hotchner. Everybody knows The Angel of Death, but there are some big fish in Washington that know she's Y/N."

This seemed to confuse him more. You surmised that he didn't like not knowing things. "Why do you say it like that—say your name as if it's not your name?" 

You gave him a look.

His eyes widened. And for the second time that day, you found yourself thinking that Aaron Hotchner was cute. "It's not your name?"

"Why do you think Penelope had such a hard time finding my credentials?" you inquired. You went on before he could answer. "I take it she didn't find my records at The Academy, either. She found that I went to Caltech, but she didn't find yearbook photos or my social media. She found that I grew up in Massachusetts, that my parents are dead, that I was born in '79. But otherwise, I'm a ghost, aren't I?" Your voice was somewhat playful.

Hotch didn't seem to find the humour in what you were saying.

"So everything about you is a lie." It wasn't a question.

Your eyes glinted with amusement. You leaned in to where he sat across from you on the other side of the table. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that Agent Hotchner stiffened. "'Nothing more than a rumour, an urban legend amongst criminals and internet sleuths. A myth,'" you whispered. "Does that sound familiar?"

He didn't respond.

"As you said, Agent Hotchner, I am a myth. I am not meant to exist. So find me another identity and show me that you're up for the task before this entire plan is derailed by a name."

Your memory was cut off by a knock at your door. You swiped your lipstick across your lips and they immediately quirked upward right after.

You took your time getting the door. Whether Agent Hotchner realized it or not—or rather, whether he was willing to admit it or not—this was a game. And you were nothing if not a damn good player.

Without knowing it, he started it when he picked you up off the street that day in '04. He moved another piece on the board when he walked into your office in '06. And then he asked to work on this case.

It didn't matter what he thought about you or what your name really was. All that mattered was the next move.

You opened the door and his eyes immediately widened on their own accord. They travelled down your body, tracing the outline of the red dress you'd picked out, finding the slit on the side. But this was all within a split-second.

In the blink of an eye, his eyes were back on yours. If you hadn't been paying attention, you would've missed it. He was hoping you did.

But you didn't.

You did, however, miss his ears going red when you turned around, leaving the door open as an invitation inside. 

"You're wearing a suit," you noted, smirking. "How out of character for you."

You heard the door shut, and then footsteps behind you. "Funny, Y/N."

You chuckled. "Please, I know you think I'm hilarious."

He lightly shook his head as you stood in front of your mirror, putting on your earrings. He took that moment to look around your apartment, eyes scanning over your living room. No pictures anywhere, no plants or art. You had a couch, but no television. He glanced to the adjoining kitchen. There was an espresso machine, but he was willing to bet that if he checked your fridge, it'd be empty. 

"You can stop trying to profile my apartment," you informed him, still adding the finishing touches to your outfit. "I don't stay here often."

"I can tell."

He watched as you picked up your heels then went to sit on the couch to put them on. He tried not to let his eyes wander, instead trying to look around the room some more, but even without having his eyes on you, he still couldn't get your picture out of his head.

Distractedly, he heard you absentmindedly ask, "Hey, whatever happened to Gideon and Greenaway?"

He looked at you to respond, seeing you get up. "Things with the job. Certain cases take more of a toll on others." He didn't explain that Elle spiralled or that Gideon lost everything he held dear. He preferred not to think about it.

You tilted your head. "Did things happen with you, too?"

He didn't answer, instead opting to suggest, "Let's go over the case one more time."

You nodded and let him get away with it.

Hotch schooled his expression. "You're Deirdre Carter. You're a CPA. We met years ago on a work conference but hit it off recently. We've been dating for five months."

"Dating," you repeat.

His brows furrowed. "Yes." He didn't understand why you were hung up on it until he saw you glance down at his hand. It's then that he realized he was still wearing his ring. "Oh."

Your voice got softer, and you didn't know if that was part of the game or not. "Look, Hotchner, you don't have to do this if you don't want to. I can do this solo."

"No—" he sighed, looking down at the ring he'd worn everyday for years on end. "I'm divorced. I guess I just wear it out of habit," he revealed.

"Oh."

He took it off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. "Let's head out," he said. You nodded, leading him out.

And you didn't mention the ring again.

❧

Once you got to the building, you met Derek, who was in a secuirty uniform, at the front. He momentarily disabled the metal detector for you so that the guns on your thigh and in Hotch's boot weren't caught.

In the hall, the music played ceremoniously, an orchestra of jazz players working tirelessly to entertain D.C.'s wealthiest and most powerful. The President would be making an appearance later. You hoped to get this done and get out of here before that happened.

Your eyes found Torrie within a minute, subtly signalling his location to Hotch. He was by the bar, a redhead on his arm. The two of you went that way.

He ordered you drinks at the bar that he wouldn't drink, but as soon as your martini was in front of you, you were picking it up and taking a sip.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, talking through his teeth. "We don't drink on the job."

You smirked at him. "You don't drink on the job. I'm just keeping up appearances." You then took the olive and bit into it. For some reason, you enjoyed getting under Hotchner's skin.

He rolled his eyes at you, likely about to reprimand you again, but a voice in your ears stopped him. "Do the two of you have eyes on Torrie?"

Hotch turned to you and brought his hand to your face, cupping your cheek. To those surrounding you, he was just a man caressing his girlfriend—hell, the leap in your chest told you that you nearly bought it. But you knew he did this so that the mic hidden in his sleeve would be at your mouth. You held his stare, a sweet smile gracing your face as you replied to Rossi, "Yes. By the bar."

"Good. Prentiss is on the floor with the ambassador if you need her."

You leaned into Hotch, too, running your hands down his suit jacket while he glanced around for Emily. "Got it."

The next voice you heard was Garcia's. "Hello, my lovelies, I am watching you on camera. Hotch, to your left is the door through which you'll take our bad guy. It's being guarded by Reid and JJ as we speak."

You lowly thanked her, to which she stammered out a "you're welcome." Hotch took his hand away from your face and you removed yours from his chest, cursing the part of yourself that missed his touch.

If you weren't on a case, you'd have thought more about how pretty his eyes were.

The music suddenly changed, becoming a slow song. Your eyes darted behind Hotch to see Ethan and his date making their way to the dance floor. You downed the rest of your martini then grabbed onto his hand, wordlessly pulling him to the floor.

You felt him lightly tense when you put your hands around his neck. "Relax," you whispered. "Just go with it."

At that, he eased up, wrapping his hands around your waist. You moved to the beat of the song, taking control of your dance while he kept a close eye on Torrie. No one had approached them yet, you gathered.

The dance came easy to you, too easy, like it'd been rehearsed or like it was something you'd been doing all your life. Your feet moved synchronously like they had a mind of their own. You didn't have to think about it—it just happened.

It was funny, almost. The stiff and stoic Aaron Hotchner could dance. Your mind went back to when he smiled in the elevator earlier. It made you wonder what he was like before. Before he was a profiler or unit chief.

You know you were different before you were in this life, before you became Y/N.

You wondered what would've happened if you met back then, when you were just you and he was just him.

And just as soon as you started wondering, you no longer wanted to think about it. Instead, you asked him, "Did you ever think you and I would be dancing together like this when we met?"

He glanced down at you then looked away. "No." A ghost of a smirk came to his lips. "I thought I'd be putting you behind bars."

You chuckled. "I know. It was quite entertaining."

"To you, maybe." He glanced down at you again. "I don't like being blindsided."

"Oh, I know." When he glanced down at you this time, he saw your eyes twinkling. "That is precisely why it was so entertaining, Agent Hotchner."

He chuckled under his breath, and something in you fluttered. "You're something else, Y/L/N."

You hummed, murmuring, "And don't I know it?"

He was gonna say something else but then something in his expression changed. He was back to stoic, eyes hardening. You straightened your back and stopped dancing. "7 o'clock," he muttered.

You unwound your hands from his neck, turning around to see a man beelining at Torrie from across the room. But if you had your way, which you would, then he wouldn't make it to Ethan at all.

With Hotch hot on your heels, you headed his way, moving through the crowd effortlessly. Just before he was about to reach them, you inconspicuously unholstered your gun from your thigh and pressed it against his back, stopping him in his tracks.

Hotch caught up to you, standing to the side and obstructing the view. "Careful, friend. I wouldn't want to shoot you in front of all these people, but I will." As a warning, you clicked the safety off. 

The man tensed as Hotch grabbed his arm. Your voice was sweet in comparison to your sour words. "Now, you're gonna follow him or I'm gonna pump you full of lead. Capisce?" Neither you nor Hotch waited for a response, leading him towards the side doors that Garcia had notified you of.

Upon getting there, Reid and JJ opened the doors without a word and closed them immediately after you'd gone through them.

As soon as the doors closed, the unsub twisted Hotch's arm, prompting him to yelp. Simultaneously, he knocked the gun out of your hand, sending it thudding across the floor. 

He shoved you against the wall, knocking the wind out of your lungs. Meanwhile, Hotch threw a punch his way. A crack resounded through the hallway followed by the unsub growling. He threw a punch back that Hotch narrowly dodged, but in one quick motion, he pulled Hotch's tie, catching him off guard.

In a flash, he had Hotch in a chokehold, fighting for breath. You acted quickly, reaching for the knife sheathed on your thigh, running up behind the ubsub and holding it to his throat, causing him to go rigid.

"Let him go or I slit your fucking throat," you spat.

He didn't ease his hold, making you bring the knife closer, knicking him. "I said, let. him. go."

Begrudgingly, he let Hotch go, who was gasping for breath. You let him catch his bearings for a moment, but you had to alert him, "Hotchner, the cuffs."

He coughed but nodded, grabbing the cuffs from his pocket. You took them from him, shoving the unsub against the wall just as he did to you and pulling his arms behind him. You wrapped the cuffs around his wrists and tightened them until you heard him grunt.

"In case you didn't get the memo, you're under arrest, asshole."

Knowing this would never reach a courtroom, you didn't read him his rights or tell him what he was being arrested for. He knew.

Where he was going, he'd never forget it.

❧

You and Hotch stood to the side in an alley after you'd shoved the unsub into the back of a black sedan, watching the car drive off. 

"I know that you're just itching to interrogate him," you commented, your voice echoing in the night. "But trust me, that's somebody else's job now." You felt Hotch's eyes on you, but you didn't look at him.

His stare burned into the side of your head. "That wasn't a cop car," he said.

"No," you finally looked back at him. "it wasn't."

"Who was driving that car?"

"A CIA agent."

"And where is he going now?"

"To pay for his crimes," you slowly answered, narrowing your eyes. "Stop worrying about it."

He stepped closer to you. "He should be doing that in a federal prison, with a sentence decided by a judge and a jury. The families of those analysts, those women— they deserve closure."

You shook your head, an incredulous laugh leaving you. "You still don't get it, do you?" Your voice was teasing, but your undertone was hard and serious. "A trial means telling a bunch of people, including civilians, about ops that are not meant to exist. It's just not gonna happen."

Hotch kept staring at you for what felt like forever but was really only a few seconds, giving you the urge to squirm under his gaze. For some reason, you didn't like the way he was looking at you. Finally, he looked away, exhaling, "It's not right, Y/N."

Somewhere, deep inside, you felt a pang. You touched his shoulder, softly telling him, "You should know better than anyone that the law isn't about right and wrong." 

He still didn't look at you.

You sighed. "Thank you for your help, Agent Hotchner." You patted his shoulder one last time and then left the alley, walking through the door you came out of and, in doing so, you felt something change. 

The game was over.

You just couldn't tell who won.

By the time Aaron had noticed this change, he tried to follow you, but when he opened the door only to see an empty hallway, he realized it was too late.

You were gone.

And he didn't know why that disappointed him so much.

4. Unpredictable

New York, New York, 2008

Whenever Aaron was in New York, he liked to pick up good coffee and eat good food. But as he stood over a dead man's corpse, he felt his appetite vanish.

He and his team stood at the crime scene, analyzing it. It was different, but he couldn't shake the feeling that everything about these murders were different. There was something off about them, and he couldn't figure out exactly what it was.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black car pull up next to the yellow tape, the Mercedes logo glinting in the light. He furrowed his brows then shook his head, thinking better of it. Stop thinking about her.

"Uniforms are rounding up witnesses."

Detective Cooper and Brustin's arrival made him look away from the car and toward them instead. "Doesn't sound like anyone got a clean look," Cooper said.

Morgan looked up at the security camera that should've caught everything but in reality caught nothing useful. "It's over in a flash," he remarked. "He's probably gone before anyone even realizes what's happening."

Right beside him, Kate asked, "Is this what it felt during the Son of Sam?"

Just as Brustin was about to answer, a new voice sounded from behind them. "Son of Sam is the least of your worries." His breath hitched. They all turned around, and Hotch instantly realized that he was right: that car was yours—and now you stood right in front of him.

You gave him a glance but then your eyes were back on Kate. "What you should be focused on is another 9/11."

Kate lightly scoffed. "My apologies— who are you?" 

"Y/N Y/L/N, CIA," you introduced yourself, flashing your badge. Recognition briefly flickered through her eyes. "And you must Kate Joyner, head of New York's field office." To be polite, you held out your hand, and she reluctantly shook it. "I'm here as the Agency's delegate, and I'll also be representing Homeland Security for the time being."

"Homeland Security?" You looked to Morgan. "It's nice to see you again, angel, but what does Homeland Security have to do here?"

You went to answer, but Joyner cut you off, "I'll ask the questions, Agent Morgan, thank you." Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, and a quick look at Derek told you that his did, too, but then Kate was looking at you again, waiting for you to answer.

Your mind was brought back to the situation at hand. You glanced at Hotch once more to see he was already looking at you, but then you looked away. "I have reason to believe that this guy is more than a serial killer. In fact, I have reason to believe this is more than one guy."

Kate crossed her arms. "What are you suggesting?"

Every time Hotch had seen you, no matter how serious the situation was, you were lighthearted, amused, knowing you'd come out on top. But this time, your voice was devoid of its usual playfulness as you disclosed to them a fact that changed their entire investigation.

"If I'm right, Agent Joyner, then we're dealing with terrorists."

❧

Once the initial shock from your revelation died down, you told them that you'd explain everything back at the field office. Unexpectedly, Morgan asked to ride back with you and you obliged, figuring his company wasn't too bad.

Hotch stared at you the entire time as you got in the car, and he continued to stare at you until you sped out of sight.

You didn't look back once.

"So, terrorism, huh?"

You glanced at Derek and smirked, finding that playful nature again. "I told you, I'd explain at the Bureau."

He shook his head at you, a similar smirk on his face, then he quizzed, "Hey, did Hotch happen to tell you why Joyner's giving me attitude?"

You furrowed your brows as you came to a stop light, turning toward him. "What makes you think I've talked to him?"

Derek snorted. "Please, every time I've seen the two of you together, you're all flirty—even when he was still with Haley."

"So what? I've flirted with Spencer before—doesn't mean I wanted to get into his pants," you defended.

His smirk widened. "I never said you wanted to get into the boss' pants."

"You insinuated it."

"Why, angel? Do you want to get into his pants?"

You deadpanned, "No, I do not." Despite yourself, you couldn't stop red from crawling to your cheeks.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that." Right after, the light turned green, as if saving you from whatever this was. Then the teasing disappeared from Morgan's voice, replaced with curiosity. "Wait, so you're seriously telling me Hotch didn't call you?"

"Yes, Derek. That is exactly what I am telling you," you insisted, then you glanced back at him. "But to answer your question, Kate doesn't like you for the same reason she doesn't like me: power." He stared at you confusedly, so you elaborated, "Word on the steet is that the FBI wants to reassign her, and you're their star replacement."

"What?" Shock laced through his voice.

"What, are you telling me you actually didn't know?"

"No, I thought the Bureau was so proud of itself for stealing her away from Scotland Yard."

"Well, don't ask me to explain FBI politics to you. I'm in an entirely different organization, my guy."

Derek groaned in exasperation, making you laugh and forget about Hotch, even if it was only for a second.

❧

By the time you and Derek got to the field office, you were all business, unlike any time Hotch had ever seen you.

With the team gathered around you, you stood in front of the evidence board and started, "The unsubs' behaviour is questionable. They're disciplined, they're using countersurveillance. They take a quick shot then leave the scene immediately, not stopping to watch or enjoy the kill at all. There is nothing sexual about it, and that is because these killings are not the work of a serial killer. They're methodical. They look like mob hits at first glance, simulate gang initiations. They seem random, but they're not. The murders, just like the Death card you received, are a smoke screen."

Kate cut you off. "How can you be so sure?"

You suppressed your irritation at being interrupted and kept calm. Cooly, you explained, "Murders like these create panic— not just amongst the general population, but amongst law enforcement, as well; it is terror. It serves their greater goal." You gestured with your hands as you spoke. "The murders simulate a bombing. From there, they station someone to watch, gauge how long it takes police to respond."

Understanding flashed through Morgan's eyes. "At which point they bring in a second bomb."

"Exactly," you affirmed. "The goal is always to take out a first round of civilians, followed by a second wave of emergency responders. It's trial and error—it's how they practice. And if someone catches the shooter, that's fine because we just end up thinking we have a murderer; the cell is never compromised. And in creating such panic, they ensure the most urgent response time short of a bombing. It's by far the smartest way to plan for a terrorist attack."

You crossed your arms, giving them time to absorb your words. You didn't expect anyone to respond so soon, and you certainly didn't expect that person to be Hotch. "It's a theory, Y/N." His voice was soft, and that seemed to only add fuel to the fire.

You resisted the urge to scoff, sharply retorting, "Isn't any profile?"

He didn't answer. Perhaps that was the smartest choice; he didn't want to pick an argument with you, not now.

Hesistantly, Spencer spoke up, "I think— I think she's right." He walked behind you to the board, picking up a red marker and circling spots on the map before turning back around to face you. "I think they're targeting points of entry. All the murders have taken place near a bridge or tunnel."

"Holland Tunnel, Midtown Tunnel, Manhattan Bridge," Emily muttered.

"If bombs went off, emergency response would shut down any ability to get in or out of the city," JJ remarked. "It's— it's like people would be trapped on the island."

It looked like you had everyone convinced, even Hotch—despite his reluctance to believe you—but for some reason, Kate Joyner just couldn't let up. She crossed her arms. "I still fail to see how you came to the conclusion of multiple shooters."

Unbothered, you replied, "Having followers do the shootings would ensure they're willing to kill or be killed for their cause."

She countered, "But is there any evidence that that's the case?" 

You narrowed your eyes, going to respond when someone's ringtone sounded. Derek picked up his phone and put it on speaker. You could almost thank whoever it was for stopping you from saying something you would or wouldn't regret. 

"Talk to me, babygirl."

Penelope's voice came through the phone. "Okay, I have bad news then badder, connected news. What would you like me to start with?"

Derek glanced up at you, then at Hotch. "Gimme the bad news, Garcia."

"Alright, well, I was looking at the surveillance footage from the murders, specifically the most recent compared to the previous, and found something very, very off. I'll share my screen with you." Emily turned on the laptop on the table closest to all of you, and the footage immediately appeared. Silently, you watched the videos one after the other, and you had a feeling that Garcia was just about to vindicate you. "You guys see what I saw?"

"Well, he sprints off in one and walks calmly in the other. It's two entirely different demeanours," Morgan said.

"Exactly, my dove. So check it out, I did a digital perspective analysis rendering on all the shootings we have footage of. Now the first two were inconclusive, but again, in the last two, I found something très weird." Garcia did a freeze-frame, her analysis software appearing. "Your calm, walking type—he's about 6 foot 1." The screen changed to the other scene. "But your sprinter, he's like 5'9", 5'10" tops."

While the air in the office got colder, you stood there holding back the urge to smirk. You saw both Morgan and Hotch glance at you from the corner of your eye, but you only turned to Kate, seeing somewhat of a defeated expression on her face.

"Is this evidence enough for you, Agent Joyner?"

❧

That surveillance footage was enough confirmation for you, no matter what Joyner had to say about it. Following Garcia's revelation, you walked away from the team's makeshift conference room and walked into the bullpen, pulling out your phone and dialling Homeland Security.

You notified them of the situation at hand and that you were expecting something big soon, but not yet, telling them not to act without your say-so. It was of vital importance that you controlled the situation; you couldn't let the unsubs know you were onto them, so you couldn't make any moves just yet, either.

You hung up the phone, sighing. You hated cases like these. Being The Angel of Death was something you got used to; you could control that, but dealing with a cell like this wasn't just more challenging—it was unpredictable, and unpredictable was something you weren't quite fond of.

You turned around and nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw Hotch standing right behind you. Your hand slapped against your chest. "Holy shit, Hotchner, don't they teach you not to a sneak up on a girl in FBI school?"

Something almost like a smile came to his lips, the last thing you were expecting from him, especially at a time like this. "I'd hardly call that sneaking up on you. And according to you, you've been to 'FBI school,' so you should know."

You scoffed. "Regardless." Hotch's eyes remained on you, and the corners of his lips never went down. An uncomfortable silence then settled between you, despite the loud bustling in your surroundings.

You were hoping you could've gone this entire visit without speaking to him alone.

He must've noticed this, because his next words were, "You've been avoiding me."

You tensed ever so slightly. You'd been here all of five minutes, and he thought you were avoiding him. "I have not been avoiding you—"

"Yes, you have."

"We have bigger problems to deal with. Not everything is about you, Hotchner."

"Why are you avoiding me, Y/N?" You hated how his voice sounded, calm and soft. You hated the fact that he was even asking you this right now. You wanted him to be the stoic guy he always was. You didn't like this. And deep down, you knew that that was why you were avoiding him.

You didn't like the unpredictable.

And Aaron Hotchner was just that.

In lieu of responding, you dodged the question, biting back, "Why do you care?"

Hotch stilled as if you'd just hit him with the question of the century. It was then that he realized he didn't know. He couldn't answer you because he didn't have the answer himself.

He didn't know what he was going to say when he opened his mouth, and he supposed he never would, because a second later, a phone rang.

A sigh left his lips as he went to pick the phone up off some agent's desk, and you watched as the stoic man you knew returned. Yet, for some reason, you weren't as relieved as you thought you'd be.

"Hotchner." Kate chose that moment to walk out of her office while Morgan and Rossi came up from behind you. Hotch's voice became grave. "Does it look it could be one of our guys?"

Derek took the words right from your mouth. "What's going on?"

Hotch put down the phone. "We've got eyes on one of them," he answered. "He's on the subway platform at 59th and Lex."

"59th—? We could've been right there." He looked at Kate with an accusatory glare. The fury that lit up in his eyes and the way she refused to look back told you there was a conversation between them that you missed.

Over the phone, you heard Garcia let out a shaky breath, telling you all that the unsub shot the woman.

Kate paced. "Where the hell are the police?" 

Meanwhile, you picked up another telephone from the adjacent desk. "This is Y/N Y/L/N with the CIA. We have a murder suspect on 59th and Lex, subway platform. Hurry."

You slammed the phone down as you heard Penelope fret, "God, he's getting away."

"Garcia, can you get eyes on him above ground?"

A few clicks were audible as she responded, "He's heading west on 59th Street."

Kate spoke up, stating what you already knew. "If he makes it to the park, we've lost him."

"We lost the visual," another woman said.

Derek scoffed while Rossi questioned, "Are the police on the scene?"

"Negative."

And just like that, without another word, it was clear to everyone in the room that you just lost your only suspect. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose, cursing under your breath. Next to you, Derek made his frustrations much more known. "We could've had that guy," he snapped.

Kate finally looked at him. "Even if we were on that platform, odds are he would have moved onto someone isolated."

This didn't console him at all. "Maybe, but it was worth taking a shot—"

"I had every available man on the street."

Morgan stepped forward, seething. "And I suggested to you that you use this team." Realization came over you. Now you understood why he was so angry; Kate let her resentment of him get in the way of the case, and that decision may have just cost you a life.

Just as you thought Hotch couldn't get any more unpredictable, he scolded, "Morgan, second-guessing doesn't do us any good right now."

Your brows raised, but he didn't look at you, nor did he look at Derek. 

"Hotch, we have a possible terrorist attack coming. How am I supposed to look these cops in the eye and tell them that we're actually here to help them?"

Hotch's reply was sharp. "We're here to present a profile. That's what we need to do."

Derek ignored him, pressing, "I said to put as express stops. 14th, 42nd, 59th— and that's exactly where they hit—"

"It's not your place to have this discussion." This time, Hotch did look at him, and his eyes were hard.

Immediately, you cut in, spitting out his name. "Agent Hotchner." Hotch's eyes went right to you. You stepped forward, firing, "We have six bodies. And right now, I have to call Homeland Security and tell them that we not only have another one, but we also just lost a valuable chance to find one of the perpetrators."

"Which is exactly why we need to stay focused."

"Focused?" Derek echoed. Then he took a step closer, standing eye to eye with his boss. "From where I'm standing, all your focus is on her."

Kate's head ducked down, and from there, it didn't take much for you to connect the dots. All of a sudden, it made sense why Derek had asked you about Kate earlier instead of going straight to Hotch.

And to think that, just a few moments ago, he'd been going after you.

With a tick in his jaw, Hotch commanded, "Take a walk. Now."

Derek stared at him for a split-second before walking off without another word. 

"You know, I think I'm gonna take that walk with him," you muttered. And just like that, it was as if Hotch realized you were still there.

He went to say your name, but you were turning your back and walking away before he could even utter the first syllable.

Unpredictability. What a fickle thing.

You hated it.

❧

You found Derek at a nearby bar, the closest bar to the field office. Contrary to what you said to Hotch, you didn't come looking for him; he just so happened to find the same place you did.

Before you even pulled out the barstool, he was sighing. "I know. I was out of line."

You lightly snorted. "I'm not here to chastise you, Derek." He looked up at you, surprise flashing through his eyes. "I'm just here to drink." Right on cue, the bartender came up to you and asked you wanted to drink, to which you ordered brandy, neat.

When said drink arrived in front of you and you downed it in one go, it prompted him to ask, "Aren't you still on the job?"

A slight chuckle left you. "Morgan, I run an entire CIA ops division and then I also get asked to do things like this." You then deadpanned, "Trust me, I can hold my liquor."

He held his hands up in surrender, an amused expression on his face before something serious took it over, wiping the smile from his face. "I'm sorry about Joyner, by the way." When you look at him confused, he explained, "I didn't have to say that. Not in front of you."

You sighed. Not this again. "Derek, I have nothing going on with your boss. So whatever the deal is with him and Kate is absolutely none of my business." For some reason, the words stung coming out of your mouth, and you didn't like it one bit.

He left it alone and didn't press the issue further (thankfully). You glanced at the beer in front of him. You nodded toward it, stating, "You haven't touched that."

He glanced at it. "Guess I don't have the appetite for it right now."

You hummed. "Or you want to go back."

He let out a long, dramatic sigh, nearly making you laugh. "I have to apologize to her, don't I?" This time, when you nodded and he ran a hand over his bald head, you did laugh. "Fucking hell."

You sarcastically patted his shoulder. "Don't sweat it, sweetheart. I'll walk back with you."

"Sweetheart?" you heard him question as you stood up, putting enough money down for both of your drinks. "And now you're paying for me? You're threatening my manhood here, angel."

"Get over it, Morgan."

And as he let out a hearty laugh, you let yourself pretend that you didn't have a different agent on your mind entirely.

❧

Upon getting back to the office, you suddenly wished you'd had another drink as you were informed that there was not only another shooting, but Detective Cooper was shot after he and Prentiss chased after him.

Kate seemed to have taken Derek's suggestion and sent the team out on the streets in the hour and a half you were away. In that time, Prentiss and Cooper nearly got one of the shooters, but he was fast; he could've gotten away. Yet he stopped and shot Cooper, prompting Emily to fire a shot of her own.

Suicide by cop.

You hung up the phone, walking back into the room after telling Homeland that you'd be calling with another update soon. "Three shootings in one day," you said, catching everyone's attention. "They're ramping up to something."

Morgan held his phone up in the air and wiggled it. "Yeah, well, while you were on the phone, Garcia called. They hacked into at least one camera at every scene and have been watching from day one."

You cursed under your breath just as Kate called your name. "Y/N." You looked up at her in half-veiled surprise, seeing her standing with her arms crossed, a somewhat uncomfortable look on her face. "Aaron told me more about your position in the CIA, how you're more well-versed in situations such as these." It looked like she had a hard time getting the words out, despite the sincerity in her tone. "I'd like you to take the lead on this." 

You were sure that the surprise must've shown on your face, courtesy of fatigue, but you quickly masked it and nodded. You took one deep breath, and then you dived in. "We need to hit the ground running." You turned to everyone individually as you gave them instructions. "Rossi, I'd like you to talk to the Commissioner. He'll be familiar with you." He nodded and left the room. "Derek, you brief Homeland Security, tell them I sent you. I want them to know we're expecting them to strike any minute now."

"You got it, angel."

You turned to Emily, who was already ahead of you. "I'll head to the hospital, check on Cooper, and brief Detective Brustin."

"Good. And Spencer—"

He (with a creepy accuracy) anticipated what you were going to say before you even said it. "JJ and I will talk to the Port Authority Police."

You nodded then realized that left only two people, unwelcome dread filling you. Out of a stubborn attempt to prove his earlier claim about avoiding him wrong, you looked to Hotch but still didn't meet his eyes. "Agent Hotchner, you and Kate should speak to the mayor. I have to make some calls to the DOD. We'll all meet back here as soon as possible. We are crunched for time, but the one advantage that we have is that they don't know we know they're watching."

Everyone who hadn't already left nodded and got to their tasks. Hotch looked like he wanted to stick around and say something to you, but as you said, the clock was ticking. 

You called the DOD and briefly explained what Homeland Security had likely already spoken to them about, that you saw a terrorist event on the horizon. They told you that, luckily, the Deputy Secretary of Defense was in town, only ten, maybe twenty minutes away from where you were. 

Quickly, you gathered your things and made your way out of the building. At the exit, however, you found exactly who you didn't want to see.

Hotch and Kate.

They hadn't left yet.

They stood outside the door, facing each other. He had his hand on her elbow, and he was saying something you couldn't make out. Whatever it was, it made her lips upturn.

You couldn't recognize the feeling that crawled through your veins at that moment. The green monster and you hadn't been acquainted in a while, but for some reason, she was showing up, making your body her home, and you hated it.

Shaking off whatever it was you were feeling, you pushed the door open. Hotch noticed you first. "Y/N," he said. He took his hand off her arm. A weight was lifted off your chest.

"Agent Hotchner," you greeted, promptly turning to the blonde and doing the same. "Agent Joyner. I've gotten word that the Deputy Secretary of Defense is in New York; I'm heading to see her."

Kate nodded. "Good. Aaron and I are on our way to the mayor's office now." She turned, starting to walk away, and then you realized she was heading in the same direction as your car.

Fuck. They parked next to you.

You started walking, too, Hotch now at your side. Kate was ahead of you guys. You're sure that Hotch could naturally walk faster than you, but he remained at your side. This is deliberate, you thought.

Your conversation from earlier hung in the air. With Kate gone, the tension between you was now palpable. But he wouldn't say anything, you assured yourself, not with her in earshot.

But perhaps you underestimated him. With every meeting, Aaron Hotchner continued to surprise you. He had become unpredictable to you.

Yet, the two of you would soon bear witness to just how unpredictable life could truly be.

Just as you were nearing your vehicles, Aaron opened his mouth to say something, but a loud boom cut him off.

Before either of you could register it, you were sent flying backward, shockwaves rippling through your body.

And then everything went black.

❧

New York City has never been so quiet, you thought, blinking your eyes open. And you've never been able to see the stars in this city, either, but tonight, you saw them just fine. Part of you wondered if you were dreaming.

No, not a dream. A hallucination.

There's been an accident.

The thought hit you like a ton of bricks as pain erupted in your side. A groan left you unwarranted. You went to touch it then hissed at the throbbing. There was no blood there, though, no wound, so it must've been the bones.

Nowhere else hurt—not that bad, at least. You tested yourself, trying to sit up. It hurt to do so, but you did it. And when you did, you were met with the sight of an SUV, up in flames.

No, not an accident. This was planned.

But it wasn't your car. It would've made sense if it were your car, if you were the direct target, but you weren't. Your mind ran a mile a minute. Why would they blow up a random SUV?

It's then that you remember it wasn't a random SUV. It was Hotch's.

Hotch and Kate.

They were with you.

With that realization, any and all intellectual thought escape your grasp. You shot upward, the pain becoming nonexistent as a surge of adrenaline flowed through your body. "Hotch!" you screamed. No answer. "Hotch! Kate!" No one answered. "Aaron!" You continued to cry his name but no one answered.

Tears you welled up in your eyes. It was lost on you that you hadn't cried in years. It was equally lost on you that this was the first time you'd ever said his name.

You spun around, letting go of a breath you didn't know you were holding when you spotted a man in a suit, standing there, just staring at the fire. You jogged over to him and called out his name, but he didn't move his head. You tried again. "Aaron." No response. "Aaron!"

Finally, he looked at you. A plethora of emotions could be seen on his face. Confusion. Anger. Fear. Then worry. "Y/N," he breathed. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." That was a lie, but you could handle the pain well. You had good experience. "Are you?"

"Yes, I think so." 

You took a quick moment to examine him, the cut by his brow, the blood by his ear; you think back to how he didn't respond to your calls. Concussion, you thought, and a ruptured ear drum.

You take ahold of his arm, gently but firmly, and slowly asked him, "Aaron, where's Kate?" 

He blinked, glancing back at the wreck and then back at you. You watched him swallow. "I—"

"Hey! Are the two of you okay?"

Your eyes and his simultaneously snapped to the voice that'd just appeared, seeing a scrawny kid stand in front of you. Like a switch had been flipped, the abundance of emotions on his face dissipated into one.

Determination.

"What's your name?" he questioned.

The kid looked at him, confused. "What?"

Hotch repeated, "What's your name?"

As if he thought you two were crazy, he glanced between you warily. "Sam," he replied.

Hotch didn't look at him or acknowledge his name as he ordered, "Call 911." 

"Yeah— yeah, I did."

"Call 911— tell that there's been an explosion."

"Sir, are you okay?" His eyes darted to you. "Ma'am, are you hurt?" Momentarily, he glanced down, his eyes catching the gun on your belt. He looked to Hotch, finding the same thing. Stunned, he looked back up. "Are you guys cops?"

Hotch's eyes were still on the fire. "Call 911. Tell them... that a— that a federal agent—" Without warning, he took off running towards the car, yelling, "Kate!"

"Hotch!" You went to follow him but the kid stopped you.

"Okay so you want me to say you're a federal agent?"

You turned around, eyes blazing. "Call 911. Tell them that there's been a car explosion, involving two FBI agents and one CIA officer." You barely finished your sentence before you were running after Hotch.

By the time you got to him, he was taking off his jacket, about to shield himself and run right into the car but you stopped him. "Aaron!" 

His eyes darted to you then travelled behind you. The dread painted on his features mixed with relief, but you couldn't tell which emotion was stronger. You turned, following his line of sight, and saw Kate lying on the ground, a trail of blood leading to her body.

Without missing a beat, you both ran to her, her coughing becoming more audible as you got closer. Aaron got down immediately, and her first words were, "My purse. I can't find my purse."

He shushed her. "Don't move, don't move."

"Aaron, my purse."

Shock. She's in shock.

If only just to placate her, Hotch glanced around for it. "I don't think you had one," he said.

"I must've dropped it," she gasped, moving her head.

"Kate—" you cut in from above, "Kate, you need to stop trying to move."

She looked up at you, her eyes widening at whatever she saw. "Y/N. Y/N, what happened?"

You ran a hand through your hair. "I don't— I don't know. A bomb. An IED, I think." You glanced back at the car, your mind going back to the same race it was racing in before you found Aaron.

"An IED?" she echoed. "I have to get up."

"No. No, no, no. Lie down. Lie still. You need to lie still," he pleaded with her.

Suddenly, she caught your attention back. "Am I moving my legs?"

Hotch shushed her again at first, then he questioned, "What?"

Both of you glanced down at her legs at the same time. You resisted the urge to cup your mouth.

You were gonna be sick.

Weakly, she asked again, "Am I moving my legs?"

You didn't have the heart to answer her. From the looks of it, neither did Aaron, because he changed the subject. "I'm going to have to turn you and see where the blood is coming from," he said.

"Do it."

"Alright? Okay." He turned her while you focused on the sirens wailing in the distance, getting closer. The sound blended in with Kate's crying until it was all one and the same to you.

Police cars and ambulances soon pulled up just ahead of you, maybe a hundred yards away. You stood taller, yelling, "Officer down!" When they didn't come any closer, you flailed your arms. "Officer down! Here! There's an officer down!"

Kate's voice, ever so quiet, cut through the noise like a knife. "They're not coming." You turned to her, seeing her look at both of you defeatedly. "We told them not to. Remember?"

Your own words rang through your head. The goal is always to take out a first round of civilians, followed by a second wave of emergency responders.

The reality of the situation struck you. They weren't coming.

"The first wave of responders are the targets," she got out. "ESU orders are not— to let anyone in until the area is cleared."

"No." You shook your head. "I'm not taking that as an answer."

"Y/N—"

"We are getting you out of here, Kate, come hell or high water." Your previous aversion to her no longer mattered. She was lying on the ground covered in blood, unable to move her legs. All that mattered was getting her out.

Without wasting another second, you ran toward the barricade. ESU officer braced their rifles, but you had your badge ready as you stood a safe distance away from them. You were trying to think calmly, as calmly as you could. Your ribs stung as you held the badge up in the air.

The words were spoken in an erratic panic. "My name is Director Y/N Y/L/N, I'm a senior officer of the CIA. Behind me are SSAs Aaron Hotchner and Kate Joyner. She is injured— badly—"

A man stepped forward and cut you off cooly, "I understand that, ma'am, but I have orders not to let anyone in—"

You lost it. "Screw your orders! She can't fucking move!"

"Ma'am, my orders are what they are."

"Your orders are what they are," you repeated under your breath, a humourless chuckle escaping. "What's your name?"

He squared his shoulders. "It's Captain Warner, ma'am."

"Well, Captain Warner," you spat. "Allow me to re-introduce myself. My name is Director or Agent Y/L/N, not ma'am. Director. And I am quite familiar with your orders, Captain; I gave them. You are here because I made the call that put you here. And, so help me God, if you don't listen to this order, I will make the call that relieves you of your position."

Warner didn't appear to be shaken, but you could see the cloud of doubt floating in his eyes. You'd think that anyone would grapple for their job, but Warner was being difficult. "I apologize, Director, but I can't do that."

Your nostrils flared. You were just about to continue telling him off when an awfully familiar voice sounded, asking for someone in charge. Your eyes widened. "Derek!"

Derek's head snapped your way. "Holy shit. Y/N!" He came running towards you but was stopped by the same officers that kept you from crossing the barricade, holding up their guns.

"This area is restricted," he said.

He held up his badge. "I'm Agent Morgan, FBI. That's my friend—"

"This area is restricted," Warner repeated, barely looking at him. "I will take care of your friend. Now go back to the Federal Building. There are evac marshaling spots. Check in and make sure they know where you are."

Morgan held his ground, stepping in front of Warner and retaliating, "I am not about to do that."

"Get out of my face or I'll have you bodily removed, Agent."

"Derek." You caught his attention. "Hotch and Kate are down there."

He spun around. "That's my boss down there!"

"My orders are what they are." 

You scoffed at the recycled statement while Derek argued, "I don't give a damn what your orders are!"

"I get it, Agent, but we've been told by you" he gave you a glance "'Responders are the targets.' So, until the blast site is cleared, no one goes in."

Morgan looked back at you then back at the Captain with a renewed resolution, trying a different approach. "You're Marine Corps, right?" Warner didn't respond, looking down. "Right?"

"Please. Go back to the marshaling point."

"I'm not doing it." He pointed to the site. "I'm not just going to let my man lie down there like that."

As if on cue, Hotch screamed, "Someone! Damnit, we're here!" You nearly flinched at the sheer pain in his voice, and Derek certainly didn't look unaffected, either.

"'Never leave a man behind.' You do remember that, don't you?"

Hotch kept screaming as Morgan and Warner stared each other down. It seemed that he must've gotten to him, because within just a moment, he said, "Go."

Derek didn't waste another second, immediately running to you and grabbing onto your shoulders. "Y/N, are you alright?"

"I'm fine! I'm fine, it's Kate."

He nodded and then took off following with you trailing closely behind, but not before you gave Captain Warner a pointed glare.

When you got to Hotch, the kid was back, seemingly tending to Kate as Morgan explained, "They're not letting any ambulances down here until they clear the scene." He glanced at the kid like he just noticed he was there. "Kid, you've gotta get behind the barricades. Let's go." The kid didn't move. "Go!"

"Go, Sam." At Hotch's word, the kid got up and ran, but your attention was focused solely on Kate, checking her vitals.

"Talk to me. Can we carry her?" Morgan barely gave him time to respond. "Hotch, can we carry her?"

"No, I tried. Morgan—" he paused, intaking a shaky breath, "she's going to bleed to death if we don't get her out of here. We've got to do something."

Derek's phone ringing cut off whatever he was going to say. He picked it up immediately. "Garcia, I got Hotch and Y/N, but listen to me, you got to get somebody down here right away. You hear me? Right now." You didn't hear what Garcia said next, but it caused his head to snap up. "What? You're absolutely sure?" He glanced at you then to the kid who you realized never left.

The kid held his hands out like he was asking what you were waiting for, causing you to tilt your head, confused.

Morgan hung up the phone and then his next words shocked you. "Hotch. The kid. He's the bomber."

Your eyes went wide before instantly going to Hotch. "Are you okay to stay here?" you asked.

He didn't even think about it. "Go."

With that, you and Morgan took off running. The kid bolted, leaving you to chase after him.

Despite the heels on your feet (that luckily weren't stilettos) and obvious bruise to your side, you couldn't feel pain. All you feel was the pure adrenaline pumping through your veins. You hadn't been so ready to fight in ages. The anger coursing through your body was unparalleled.

This kid wasn't getting away with this, and you'd make sure of it.

You chased the kid down the street, Morgan ahead of you. An ambulance passed you while you ran, and you prayed it'd be heading Hotch's way.

You kept chasing after the kid, turning a corner and he was gone, but Morgan was already heading down the stairs for the subway, so you knew he was down there.

You ran down the stairs, skipping steps as you went, following Morgan's lead and pulling out your gun. Civilians filled the station, evacuating. "Out of the way!" you screamed, pushing past them.

"Move! Where'd he go? Where?" Some pointed straight ahead, so you kept running.

You got down to where the subway was, but by now, it was empty. You came to a stop next to Morgan, holding up your gun.

"Show your face, you son of a bitch!"

No one showed. You nodded to the train and panted, "Morgan, I'll take the back. You take the front."

Heaving, he nodded, going for the front. You entered the train with your gun held high, pointing it on either side of the door. You walked through the cart slowly, checking beheind yourself periodically to ensure the kid wouldn't sneak up on you.

You pushed open the door to the next cart warily. It was just as empty as the previous one. You went for the next cart. Nothing again. You met Morgan in the middle. "Nothing," you said.

"Me neither. But there's a door at the front. I'm thinking he could've hopped through there," he told you.

You nodded and followed him there, accepting his help and jumping down. Carefully, with your gun and flashlight in hand, you walked on the tracks, avoiding the power supply. You shouted, "We know you're in here, kid. Show your fucking face, you coward!"

A noise sounded, making you turn around to check it while Morgan continued forward. "You've got nowhere to run, man. You hear me? There's nothing down here for you."

"Is that all you see?" At the sound of the kid's voice, you spun around, moving your flashlight around. "Huh? Darkness?"

You caught up to Morgan, and then the kid showed himself. Your flashlight revealed his shoes lying on the ground while he slowly walked on the rail, balancing himself like this was a game. You cocked your gun. "You listen to me, you little shit. This is not a fucking game. Get your ass off the tracks and put your hands on top of your fucking head. Do it now."

When he failed to listen to you, Derek yelled, "Do it now!"

The kid did as you said, but not to listen to you. It was to mock you. "You will lose in the end," he said.

Derek moved forward. "Shut up. Shut your mouth."

"You wanna know why?" He continued on like he'd never said a word. "Because you fear what we embrace."

Before you could do anything, he took one foot off the track and put it on the third rail. "Get off the— no! No, no!" Derek and you were forced backward as the light blinded your eyes. Without even lifting your eyes up, you knew undoubtedly that the kid was dead.

He just killed himself right in front you.

"Damnit." You reached to run a hand through your hair but you were stopped by the stabbing pain in your ribs, suddenly reappearing. You hissed, "Ah, shit."

"Y/N?" Within a blink, Derek was in front of you. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fi— fuck." Your knees buckled, but Morgan caught you, holding onto by your waist. When that caused another hiss, he switched his hold to your arms.

"I think you might've broken some ribs. How the hell didn't you notice this before?"

"I— it didn't feel this bad before."

Morgan cursed under his breath. "Your adrenaline is wearing off. We need to get you to a hospital."

"No, I'm o—" a sharp stab cut you off, making you grunt. "Fine. But what about Kate?" 

"We both saw that ambulance drive their way," he reasoned. "They're gonna be okay. Look, if we get back and they're still there, we can stay, alright?"

You thought over his proposal and eventually relented and let him lead you off the tracks, giving in to the pain. You just hoped that he was right, that they were okay.

Please let them be okay.

❧

You arrived at the hospital in record time, passing through the streets like light work. After receiving confirmation that Hotch and Kate were at Saint Barclays, he drove the two of you there, too, insisting that a doctor see you despite your equal insistence that you were fine.

Now, you sat on an ER bed. You had a few cuts here and there but nothing too deep; you were given sutures for one cut across your cheek. The doctor wasn't looking at you right now; she was looking at your chart, giving you time to glance around the triage room.

You weren't a big fan of hospitals, never were. They were never a source of good news, and every hospital you stepped into smelled the same, like bleach and chemicals. When you were younger, you were convinced that this was to cover up the smell of death.

That wasn't too far off.

The doctor pulled you out of your revierie, snapping the chart shut. "So, Ms. Y/L/N, I've ruled out the possibility of a collapsed lung, but you've broken 4 of your left true ribs," she informed you. "From what your partner has told me, you've over-exerted yourself, and thus exacerbated the issue."

"I'm a CIA officer and had to chase a suspect," was the only explanation you offered.

She deadpanned. "I understand that, Ms. Y/L/N, but you've just made your healing process ten time harder."

You gave her a short smile. "I've been through worse."

She looked at you for a few more seconds before she sighed, re-opening the chart book. "I can prescribe you some medication for the pain."

You declined perhaps a bit too quickly. "No, that's alright."

Slowly, she looked up at you, her eyes questioning. "No? Why not? I can imagine you're in a great deal of pain right now."

At her inquiry, you were reminded of someone else's interrogative questions. Hotch's voice filled your head, Why do you say it like that—say your name as if it's not your name?

Your mind travelled back to a time you weren't Y/N. There was a girl with a different name who wore your face, a girl you separated yourself from entirely. She didn't grow up thinking she'd have a future in law enforcement—she didn't even think she'd have a future at all.

She hung around the wrong crowd and picked up bad habits, habits like oxycodone and amphetamines. But you weren't her anymore.

You were 7 years sober.

You'd rather not explain all of this to the attending in front of you—you'd rather not explain it to anyone. Instead, you just said, "I have a high pain tolerance. I can handle it."

She stared at you warily, but otherwise, there wasn't much she could do but accept your decision. "I'd advise against that, but it is your choice."

You pursed your lips into what you hoped was a small smile. "It is."

She kept her persistent stare until she eventually gave up, leaving the makeshift room. You didn't wait long before you left, too, jumping off the table and pushing back the curtain. You walked through the halls in search of the tan-skinned man you came in with, avoiding looking anywhere but ahead of you.

Hospitals were unpredictacle.

You didn't like that.

You turned a corner, and as if you just had good luck, Derek was there, already walking your way. 

He raised a brow at you. "You all good, angel?" 

You fell into step beside him, letting him lead the way to wherever you were going and flashing him a flirtatious smile. "Never been better, muscles." It wasn't a total lie; the pain had mostly subsided, and you'd felt worse in your life.

Morgan didn't bat an eyelash. "Well, that's good because we need to get moving. The team's on the way."

At the mention of the BAU, your thoughts were re-directed. Without stopping, you glanced over at Derek and gave him a quick once-over. He seemed normal: he was flirting with you, no signs of dejection. So Hotch must've been alright. Still, though, you felt compelled to ask, "Hotchner and Joyner. Are they okay?"

If Derek noticed the small blip in your voice, he didn't say anything. You weren't sure if you even noticed it, either. "Hotch is fine, back to barking orders and being a drill sergeant. Kate's in surgery, though."

You couldn't explain the wave of calm that came over you at that moment. You couldn't explain why you even cared.

But you did.

You nodded in response and changed subjects. "Has anything happened since the first blast?"

"No. Nothing."

An exasperated sigh left you. "That doesn't make any sense. Something should've happened by now." You ran a hand through your hair, your gears turning. "I mean, why go through all this trouble just to hit a single SUV with a few agents? Why not wait until we were in our cars?"

"I don't know," he replied. "What I'm still stuck on is why the kid would stay knowing we'd figure him out."

"Yeah, why would he stay—" suddenly, you halted in your tracks, cutting yourself off as memories rushed to the forefront of your brain.

[Thank you for your input, Ms. Y/L/N. The Secretary of Defense is unavailable at the moment, so the Deputy Secretary will be fielding all defense matters for the moment. She happens to be in town, and she'd like to be briefed in person, if that's alright.]

Yes, I can do that. Just send me an address.

Then you heard the voices of Secret Service agents in your head: I'm sorry, but this hospital is on strict bypass.

"What? What is it?" Derek's voice shook you out of your reverie. You looked up to see him standing in front of you, a worried expression on his face. You would've laughed if it weren't so serious. He probably thought you had a concussion—and while you didn't, what you were going to say was worse than that.

"Derek," you started.

Your tone must've scared him because he stepped closer. "What?"

You paused, mulling over the details in your head. Secret Service was here. Someone important was in the building, someone like the Secretary of Defense. And that bomber just so happened to stick around until an ambulance showed up, taking Hotch and Kate straight here. 

Sam didn't wait until you were cars, and that wasn't a careless mistake. It wasn't because he was so excited that he couldn't wait. It was because that blast wasn't meant to kill you, not on impact.

It was meant to take you here.

When you made up your mind, you took a step closer to him and lowered your voice, not wanting to attract panic in spite of the fact that it'd happen, anyway. Your voice was rigid.

"I think there's a bomb in this hospital."

❧

After quickly explaining your theory to Derek, you parted ways; he went to go find the team while you took off to find the head of that Secret Service detail.

Any uneasiness you felt being in this hospital increased a tenfold, no longer because of the fact that it was a hospital but because it could blow any minute now. You knew you weren't scared, though—and maybe you should've been, but this was the job.

You found the SS soon enough, calling out to them, "Hey, men in black!"

Your volume turned heads, including theirs. The bald man stood up from where he was leaned over on a counter and greeted you first, leading you to believe he was in charge. "Ms. Y/L/N." So he knew who you were. That made this a lot easier.

You didn't waste any time. "The Secretary of Defense is in this hospital, isn't he?"

"Ma'am, I know you're high up on the ladder, but—"

You cut him off briskly, "There is a bomb in this building, and it's rigged to assassinate the Secretary." 

The agent whose name you didn't ask for stiffened but adapted quickly, ordering the agents behind him to hit the alarms all without looking away from you. "Where is it?" he then questioned.

"The ambulance my colleague drove in, I believe." The word colleague tasted wrong on your tongue, but you didn't have the time to dwell on it. "Is it already in the basement?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then you need to evac the building. You need to get the Secretary and everybody else out of here right now."

"We can't do that," he answered. "He's undergoing surgery as we speak."

You were sure that the next words to leave your mouth would be curses, but before you could even get them out, a band of rushed footsteps became audible from behind you. It didn't take you long to recognize who they belonged to.

The footsteps stopped where you were. You glanced to see the team surrounding you, Derek on your left and Hotch on your right. So he was alright. You held back a sigh of relief and kept your eyes off him, directing all your focus to the task at hand. 

Silently, Morgan handed you a Kevlar vest. You nodded to him in thanks and put it on while Hotch hurriedly interrogated, "The paramedic I came in with—do you have eyes on him?"

The Secret Service Agent briefly glanced at you, to which you nodded, prompting him to turn over a computer playing a live feed. 

"Is that a cell in his hands?"

Rossi pressed onto a mic on his chest. "Garcia, can you remote access the grid I'm in and jam all the frequencies?" She said something you couldn't hear and then he added, tone clipped, "There's a bomb in the basement of this building."

Garcia worked quickly, disrupting the satellite feeds in your location within seconds. You could tell she did this by paramedic's actions on the screen. "Look. He's coming back," Prentiss said. "He's going to detonate the bomb manually if he has to."

"Where did Morgan go?" At Hotch's abrupt words, you turned to your left but Derek was no longer there. He'd snuck off while you were paying attention to the feed, and you had no doubt as to where. 

His appearance on the computer screen confirmed your suspicions. You sighed, before tiredly voicing, "He went to find the ambulance."

Hotch's voice was incredulous. "Alone?"

Rossi didn't share Hotch's surprise. "Let's head down."

You were off before he even finished the sentence, trusting the Secret Service agents to do their jobs well enough while you all did yours. You removed your gun from your holster, holding it up and jogging through the now empty hallways with tunnel vision.

You barely noticed the others behind you until Hotch somehow got ahead of you. "He's going to the basement," he called out.

You think it was Emily that replied. "Stairs."

You pushed the door to the stairwell open and Hotch entered quickly, scanning the area with his gun as he moved. It was eerily silent, the only sound being the alarms in the distance and your footsteps rapidly hitting the stairs as you took them two at a time. 

None of you said a word.

By the time you reached the basement, the alarm was non-existent. Your loud footsteps became quieted, soundless with the precision only people like you could have. You could hear a pin drop. 

At the end of the hallway, you wordlessly split into two groups: you with Hotch and Rossi, and Prentiss with Reid.

Hotch led the way while you and Rossi covered him. Your bomber was sitting criss-crossed against the netted gate, gun tossed on the ground with a cellphone in one hand and a knife in the other. Fuck.

You could only pray that Morgan got out before that signal came back online.

You had your gun in the air, even though you knew what was gonna happen. You all did.

Rossi's voice cut through the air. "FBI."

The bomber didn't flinch, staring at the ground with a lifeless look in his eyes. He was a dead man. 

He raised the knife to his neck—and if you weren't with FBI agents right now, you would've shot his shaking hand and knocked that knife straight to the ground. You would've forced him to take accountability—perhaps not in a courtroom, but in a place that would still enforce a semblance of justice.

But you were with FBI agents. And Hotch reminded you of this as he spoke up, "Put it down. It's over."

Yes, it was. Because the coward slit his throat thereafter, and the knife clattered to the ground.

Slowly, you lowered your guns. You holstered yours, and then you were walking away. You didn't spare the body another glance. It wasn't a life lost.

Either way, he would've died. It just shouldn't have been on his terms.

Emily was behind you. She flipped her phone open and then you heard a sigh of relief. "Garcia just messaged me," she told you. "Morgan's okay."

Spencer and Rossi let out their own sighs while you muttered a small "Thank God" under your breath. You hadn't known Derek Morgan for long, but he was good, and he felt like a friend.

You didn't have many of those.

You got back to the floor you were on in little time, and everyone parted ways, likely going to rest. The night was over—this was over. You, on the other hand, still had some administrative work to do, starting with checking on the Secretary of Defense.

But before you did anything, you stood there. You stood there and watched the team trickle out of the area, everyone but Hotch. He was still down there.

You went to glance back to see if he was coming up but then thought better of it, choosing to walk away instead.

He's fine, you thought. He was fine.

And so were you.

❧

You got off the phone with the DOD, your last in a long line of phone calls, telling them that the threat had been eliminated as far as you were concerned. You would've been out of that hospital ASAP, but they asked you to stay there until the new Secret Service detail arrived, and you couldn't really say no.

The lack of action suddenly made you more aware of your surroundings. Your senses returned to you; the smell of bleach became more pungent, and the fluorescent lights seemed to just bounce off the white tile.

With nothing else to focus on, the pain in your side returned, too, but you were good at handling pain. It hurt to breathe, but the alternative was relapsing, and you'd come too far for that.

Normally, when you were craving drugs or just stressed, you'd find a drink. It wasn't the best coping mechanism, but it worked. Alcohol wasn't strong enough to hook you; it was just enough to sate you, to take your mind off the pills.

However, you were in a hospital, and none of that was around. So you went looking for the next best thing: coffee.

You found a mini coffee bar in a nearby waiting room, right next to a vending machine. It was one of the automatic ones that took capsules. The selection was pretty shitty, but you weren't exactly expecting premium Italian coffee, so you plopped a pod into the machine, anyway.

You waited for your coffee to brew in silence, listening to the sound of the machine whirring. The PA dinged in the background and footsteps were muffled. You had a habit of listening for those, for footsteps. Most times, like now, if you weren't preoccupied, you could detect them right away.

You sensed Hotch when he was 5 feet away. You could recognize his footsteps so easily, but that was the habit.

You told yourself it was the job.

Without turning around, you quietly greeted, "Agent Hotchner."

He returned your greeting, grabbing a styrofoam cup and going to stand next to you. "Y/N." His voice was as saccharine as the sugar you poured into your coffee.

 You hated that, and you hated what it implied.

The case was over. The threat was defeated. And now you were alone together with a conversation unfinished, a conversation you'd much rather not have.

To think that, when you last saw Hotch in Virginia, you were all for the game, the chase. But now it felt like the roles were reversed. This was different. He shouldn't be talking to me.

But he was.

"Yo—"

You cut him off, "How's Kate?" Low blow, Y/N. The breath of air he sucked in made you look up from the creamer to his face. His eyes were no longer on you; they were on the machine as it poured his coffee, but you understood. You could taste apology on your lips before you even said the words. "I'm sorry."

Hotch nodded, grabbing his coffee from the tray when it was finished brewing. "She wasn't in pain," he said. That's all there was to say, really. She wasn't in pain when she died, nor was she in pain when you found her.

Kate Joyner was dead the second that blast hit.

But you spoke none of this. You went to grab your cup, intending to walk away, but Hotch stopped you, placing his hand on your arm before you could fully turn away. You stopped yourself from intaking a sharp breath.

"You're avoiding me."

He said it so plainly, like you were talking about a case or the weather, like this was normal, like the two of you didn't see each other every other year at most, like you weren't you and he wasn't him. It made you want to screw your eyes shut, but you didn't. As if to prove a point, you turned yourself toward him fully, facing him head on.

"I'm not."

"You are."

Your eyes narrowed. "I'm not an unsub, Hotchner. I'm not gonna fold to this interrogation tactic."

"I met you as an unsub," he retorted.

"But I wasn't." You let out a little scoff, half amused, half annoyed. "How would you know if I was avoiding you? You didn't know me then, and you don't know me now."

"But I want to."

Whatever reply you were expecting, it wasn't that. Your breath got caught in your throat. His voice was still so soft, a harsh contrast to the cuts littered across his face. He took a step closer to you. "I want to know you."

You blinked once in shock, almost like you were checking if you were hallucinating, but when your eyes opened, he was still there. When you blinked a second time, it was in realization.

He's just been told Kate's dead, and now whatever pain meds they gave him are kicking in.

Reality slapped you across the face. You took a step back, slowly shaking your head. "You don't want to know me, Hotchner."

He took another step forward. "I do."

Another step back. "You don't." You shook your head again, emphasizing your point. "You really don't."

"Y/N—"

The shrill sound of your ringtone cut him off, and you'd never been so grateful. You picked it up immediately. "Y/L/N." The lady on the other end got to it quick; all you had to do was agree. "Okay, I'll be there momentarily. Thanks."

You hung up your cell, snapping it shut. You gave Hotch a glance before you were looking away, letting your eyes wander everywhere else. "That was the DOD. Secret Service is here. I have to go check out with them." You didn't let him get a word in. "I'll see you around, Agent Hotchner."

And then, just like every other time Aaron Hotchner had ever been in your proximity, you were leaving. In his grasp one second, in the mist in the next.

He watched you walk away wordlessly, not knowing when he'd see you again, words he was going to say dying on his lips.

And then you were gone.

He let out a long sigh, and then looked to his coffee on the mini table, spotting a similar one right next to it. 

You left your coffee there, he realized.

With all the other things you left, too.

5. The gavel and the gun

Southbridge, Virginia, 2008

You didn't find yourself down in Virginia too often, not unless you were on business, but Derek assured you that tonight was about everything but that.

"I'm breaking you out of your shell, angel," he said, making a turn on Curtis Drive. "You need to get out more."

You snorted. "One, I don't have a shell. Two, I am literally out so much that my apartment collects dust, and three," you held up a third finger, despite his close attention to the road, "that's bullshit. You just want me to score you some hot chicks."

He let out a burly laugh, something you'd gotten used to after hanging out with him. "Baby, I don't need you to pick anyone up for me. I can do that all on my own."

"What, are you afraid that I'll steal all your girls, Morgan?"

His reply was swift. "Couldn't do that if you tried, Y/N/N. You're still hung up on Hotch."

Your jaw nearly fell, but you were used to this banter you had. You quipped back, "Please, the only one hung up on anyone here is you. You want Garcia."

He choked on his own spit, making you throw your head back and laugh. He didn't see that one coming.

You caught onto Derek's feelings for Garcia early on, but they became especially prominent when he was buzzed one night and told you she was the one on call with him when he drove that ambulance into the field.

That was six months ago. And now, you were in Derek Morgan's car, trying to coax him into asking out a woman with whom he violated many HR regulations.

Derek clearly didn't have a response which only made you laugh harder. You patted his back while he recovered. "Caaaaareful, muscles. I don't want to die on my way to a bar. I'm literally in the CIA—that would be so heavily anti-climactic."

The only thing he heard in that sentence was his nickname, snapping out of his stupor. "Okay, this 'muscles' thing is starting to feel less like a compliment and more condescending." 

You huffed out a little chuckle as he put the car in park. "And 'angel' isn't?"

He furrowed his brows, opening his door. "You love that name."

You copied his movements, getting out of the car before pointedly looking at him. "Yeah, when the words 'of death' follow it."

He snorted. "Cryptic." He held his arm out for you, to which you obliged, wrapping yours in his before walking into the estabishment with him.

You would've responded and teased him further had you not been cut off by an oddly familiar voice. "Morgan!" Your head snapped to a table where not only the object of your teasing stood, but all of their crime-fighting friends. From afar, you watched Penelope's eyes widen behind her glasses. Then she squealed, "And Y/N!" 

To her credit, she did look just the slightest bit embarrassed when people turned to stare at her.

She still wasn't used to you. And God, was that comical.

A smirk crawled onto your face as you walked to their table, glancing at Derek and recalling your earlier quip. "Ooh, careful, Morgan. Your girl's a fan. I might just take her."

For a guy that nearly died in the car at the mention of her, he didn't seem all that startled. In fact, a smirk of his own graced his face. "I doubt you'll be focused on Penelope tonight, angel."

Your brows pinched together, but before you could question what he meant, you reached the table. JJ and Emily greeted you with wide smiles, the latter pulling you in for a hug that was surprising but not unwelcome. Garcia followed right behind her, hesitantly wrapping her arms around you. You cleared this hesitancy by embracing her tightly. Goodness, she's precious.

Over her shoulder, you mouthed to Morgan, Don't fuck it up.

When you let her go, Rossi tipped his glass at you while Reid just gave you an awkward wave. For his benefit, you resisted the urge to laugh.

You spun back around to flash a smug smile at Morgan, eager for him to see that you weren't fazed by this little surprise he so clearly wanted to jar you with, but then your eyes locked with a darker pair and you realized, oh. They weren't the surprise.

He was.

"Y/N."

What was this feeling? Winded? Was it— breathless? You couldn't describe it; you'd only felt it a few times in life, and you didn't know why you felt it right now. Eventually, you realized you had to answer. 

"Hotchner."

You were going to fucking strangle Derek Morgan.

❧

If it wasn't considered rude and you weren't surrounded by a horde of profilers, you would've been texting Derek furiously. It didn't help that the only spot left at the table was next to the man you'd be texting about.

Derek was fun to party with—you went out with him all the time—but whenever he invited you out with the rest of the BAU, you politely declined and came up with whatever excuse was available. Clearly, he caught on to the reason.

You've been avoiding me.

And maybe that was true.

A gasp broke you out of your thoughts. You looked over to see Penelope jumping out of her seat. "Oh, my god, I love this song. Derek, get up right now, we're going to dance," she all but demanded.

It's then that you noticed that JJ and Emily had already beat them to the dance floor, and Spencer was being talked up by some girl at the bar. 

No— "Alright, alright, calm down, mama, I'm coming." You glared daggers at him as he flashed you a sly grin, then he wrapped an arm around Penelope and left. He left you alone with Hotch and Rossi.

At least Rossi's still here— "You know, I think I'm going to get another drink." You're kidding.

Apparently, he was not kidding. Rossi got up, and you could've sworn you saw him wink at Hotch before he left for the bar.

And then there were two.

Fuck.

Now that the others were all gone, you felt his proximity much more prominently. If you moved just the slightest bit, your knees would touch. You hated that the thought even crossed your mind.

But you couldn't leave. If you left, then it'd be obvious that you were, in fact, avoiding him, and you didn't want it to be obvious. It shouldn't have been obvious because there was nothing there to avoid; the two of you were nothing, so you had no reason to avoid him.

You were nothing.

Even if, for a second, you might've felt something.

"What's wrong?" His voice cut into the tension like it was butter. But the question didn't sound like concern; if you didn't know any better, you'd say it was almost teasing. 

You finally looked at him, turning your head and realizing he was closer than you thought. Close enough to see the specks of green in his eyes and the locks of hair falling over his face. Close enough that you could push those locks back if you wanted to. And you wanted to. 

But you didn't.

You schooled your expression and raised a brow, causing him to elaborate, "You were much more flirtatious when we didn't know each other."

Of course, I was, is what you wanted to say. Of course, you were; that was before whatever happened in D.C., before you danced with him and before you let him down. Before reality came knocking and showed him that you were polar opposites, that he was a man of the gavel and you were a woman of the gun. Before he confronted you. Before he told you that he wanted to know you.

So, of course. Of course, I was. Because what the hell was I supposed to do with that?

That's what you wanted to say, but you didn't. Instead, you countered, "Why do you assume something's wrong? Maybe I've just lost interest in our game."

Hotch looked at you like he knew that was a load of bull. He looked you up and down like he could see right through you, and you hated that, because if he looked hard enough, he just might. You thought, for a second, he'd drop it, but then he came back harder. "Is that because you're not winning?"

Taken aback, you laughed to hide how astounded you were, looking away as you deflected, "You must've been one hell of a lawyer, Agent Hotchner." 

He let you re-route the conversation, humming. "I was good at my field," he admitted, pausing briefly. "I actually got my nickname while I was working at the DA's office, Hotch."

"Oh?" you uttered, disinterest shining through your voice that you hoped he'd pick up on.

"Yeah. And now it's what everybody calls me." Another pause. "Everybody but you."

You turned back to him. Clearly, that's what he wanted from you with that statement. He was looking at you expectantly, waiting on you for something—you just didn't know what. "You dwell on what I call you?"

He shrugged like he was unbothered. "It's just an observation. You refer to everyone using their first name, even Kate. At one point, I think you even said our names consecutively. Agent Hotchner and then Kate."

Shit, you didn't remember that, but he was probably right. It must've been a blip, you must not have been paying attention. Still, you shrugged right back at him. "I don't put that much thought into it."

He continued like you'd never said anything. "You said my name after the blast." You stiffened. "Repeatedly. And then, once we were in the hospital, you were back to formality."

You forced a smile onto your face in attempts to mask the discomfort. "So?" you said. Like you weren't affected. Like you weren't surprised that he noticed or equally surprised that he was calling you out on it.

"So," he repeated. "What's holding you back from saying my name?"

Damnit, he had you. He had you, and he knew it. You knew he knew it based on the fire in his eyes, fire with intent to burn.

But you had more. 

You had walked through fire; you were forged in fire, so this was a challenge you'd accept.

You leaned in closer, just until your mouth was next to his ear. He inhaled sharply. Good. Slowly, you breathed, "What's in a name... Hotchner?"

When you leaned back, you were met with a thrown-off-Hotch, but you didn't stick around to savour the image. You hopped off your barstool and left the table, opting to go dance with Emily and JJ as opposed to let him have the last word.

If you had it your way, he wouldn't get another word in for the rest of the night.

If only you could always have it your way.

❧

You danced with the girls the rest of the night, Hotch forgotten. The others were elsewhere, off on their own. They were good company, and it was nice to hang out with other women. Eventually, the dancing wore them out and they decided it was time to head out, making sure to exchange numbers with you and add you to their group chat before they bid you farewell.

Something told you they were a little more than friends, but you weren't sure if they even knew that.

Alone, you decided to get off the dance floor, making your way over to the bar to text Derek. It was getting late; the bar would close soon, and you wanted to head home. But when you opened your phone, you already had a message from him—timestamped an hour ago. Furrowing your brows, you clicked on it.

Sorry, angel, but Pen opened a window for me and I had to take it.

If you know what I mean ;)

Please don't kill me. I'll send a car for you when you're ready.

Audibly, you groaned, closing your eyes in exhaustion. Of course, he shot his shot with Garcia on the night he's meant to drive you home. And you couldn't even be that mad about it. 

You sighed, accepting it and going to open your Uber app when a voice queried from behind you, "Are you alright?"

Fuckkkkkk, you were really hoping he left by now. Reluctantly, you turned around, facing Hotch. "Yeah, Derek was my ride home, but he um," you paused, wiping a hand across your face, "he got lucky."

"With Garcia?"

You laughed at how transparent it was and how quick he, their boss, was to get it. "Yeah, so I'm just gonna catch an Uber home."

"Don't be ridiculous; I'll drive you home." You were shocked at how quickly he shot you down, looking up at him to see he was being totally serious.

"No, you are being ridiculous. I live all the way in Washington."

He shrugged his shoulders like it was nothing, like you were friends and his offer was normal. "I live in Arlington—it's not out of the way. Besides, would you rather pay for an hour-long car ride or have me drive you for free?" 

Honestly, you'd rather do many things besides let Hotch drive you home for an hour, so you excused, "I'm good for the money."

He rolled his eyes. "It's 1AM, Y/N; I'm not gonna let you take an Uber home." He nodded to the exit. "Come on, let's go."

Now you rolled your eyes. He'd made up his mind, despite your disapproval. Yet you still glanced down at your phone, debating it. You supposed that he was better than a total stranger, and it was only an hour.

Maybe you were tired and your judgement was impaired, but for some reason, you obliged. "Fine."

You didn't know if it was a trick of light, but for a second there, it looked like Hotch's lips quirked upward.

For a second.

❧

The car ride was silent if not for the music drumming lowly in the background. You didn't crack any jokes or say anything playful or innapropriate; you were a silence filler, you hated silence, but you'd rather sit in silence than talk to Aaron Hotchner any longer than you had to.

His presence was already pushing it.

If Hotch noticed how quiet you were, which he likely did, then he didn't comment on it. You were sure that he was profiling you silently, though, the same way you were silently profiling him.

He wasn't driving his official government vehicle, but it was still a black SUV. Not a Tahoe, though; it was an Escalade. It wasn't too proud or boastful but it wasn't too unassuming, either. Expensive but not too much of a head-turner.

A glance to the back displayed a car seat. You suspected that his son was with his ex-wife, since he was here at one in the morning and not at home. He was a stable father, and you could tell.

You knew what instability looked like.

The CD he had in when you got into the car was the White Album, Beatles. That, you could've guessed easily. It fit.

The car was clean. It smelled like peppermint and his cologne. If you opened the glove box, you'd probably find a gun. He carried two on his person while working, so he probably had one in here and then another at his place.

Prepared.

But what neither of you were prepared for was the sudden downpour of rain.

Hotch turned on his windshield wipers, then you saw a flash of white followed by a loud clap of thunder. He cursed under his breath, and you then cursed yourself for finding it attractive. "It's a storm."

"I can see that."

He ignored your quip. "Well, we're already in Arlington. My apartment is two minutes away—we could stop there until it's clear."

You held back a sigh. Regardless of your feelings, it was unsafe to drive in this weather. That's why you agreed. "Okay."

He wasn't lying about being two minutes away. With in no time, you were in front of his complex. Running inside barely did anything; you were drenched after being outside for maybe ten seconds.

The thunder was loud and continuous; the only place you didn't hear it was in the elevator. Then it returned once you were out, walking through the halls to his apartment.

You were on your phone while he unlocked the door, checking the weather app. This time you couldn't repress the sigh that left you. "Forecast says this storm's going all night."

"Oh." He opened the door, holding it open for you. "Well, you can stay the night." What? "I'll drive you home first thing in the morning."

"Um—"

He gestured to his living room, suggesting, "I'll take the couch. You can have the bed." Well, it wasn't really a suggestion, and you didn't have much of a choice, either.

So you nodded. He said something about going to change and fetch you clothes, and then you were alone in Aaron Hotchner's foyer.

You. In his apartment.

You thought back to when you met him, in an interrogation room as he accused you of being a serial killer. And you were a killer, just not that kind. Yet, now, he willingly had you, a gun for the government, in his apartment. This was the same Aaron Hotchner who prosecuted criminals, who hunted down evil, and believed in justice and court of law. The same Aaron Hotchner who frowned upon your unseriousness and grey morals. And he was also the same Aaron Hotchner that stood next to you in a hospital waiting room and told you he wanted to know you.

God, it was ironic. Him wanting to know you. You didn't know if he understood what that meant, what that entailed. 

He was the gavel, and you were the gun.

And that was that.

He walked back into the room after a good three minutes, changed into attire more informal than you'd ever seen him. He wore a button-down and jeans to the bar, but you didn't imagine you'd ever see him in sweats.

"Bathroom's on the left," he told you, pointing to it. "Feel free to use the shower. I left some clothes on the bed for you, and if you need anything, I'll be out here."

You nodded, saying a quiet "thanks" before you walked past him to his room. You'd skip the shower; you didn't have any underwear for that.

Closing the door, you took a moment to scan his room. Bed in the middle, navy blue sheets. Window facing the door, dark red curtains covering them. There was a closet to the side, likely filled with suits, then a dresser across from the bed for ties and everything else.

There were two nightstands on either side of the bed, a frame on one. When you got closer, you saw it was a picture of a little boy with a grin so wide that it brought a smile to your face. 

On the bed, Hotch left you a pair of grey jogging pants and a worn blue hoodie with George Washington University painted on in chipped white in the middle. You changed out of your wet dress, and all hesitation for wearing Hotch's clothes went out the door the second you put on his hoodie.

The sweatpants were just as comfortable, despite having to pull the drawstrings immensely far. You could fall asleep like this no problem, but then just as you went for the bed, the light cut out, drowning you in darkness.

You're kidding me.

There was a knock on the bedroom door soon after. You weren't sure if you could find it without stumbling or knocking something over, so you just shouted, "Come in."

Hotch's head poked in, illuminating the room with the flashlight on his phone. "It's the whole neighbourhood. Do you want a candle?"

Yes, I do. You had a thing about sleeping in the dark, but like hell if you were gonna tell him that. A CIA agent, afraid of the dark—you weren't telling anybody that. "No, I'm good, but um," why am I stammering? "Could I get some water, please?"

"Yes, of course." Hotch was quick to leave the room for what you requested, and you were quick to follow him. He was the one with the flashlight.

His kitchen was barely visible, but you caught a glimpse of a few drawings on the fridge. When he lit a candle and placed it on the counter, you saw the the drawings were finger paintings, one of a whole child's hand. Again, you couldn't stop the corners of your lips from curving upwards.

Aaron Hotchner. You'd seen the prosecutor, the profiler, the unit chief, and now the father.

"Here." Hotch's voice cut through your thoughts as he handed you a glass of water. You didn't even hear when he turned the tap on.

You wordlessly took the water, thanking him with a nod. He stood there as you took a sip, watching you with a gaze that felt scrutinizing but probably wasn't. He was good at hiding what he was thinking, but you could still tell that he was thinking, nonetheless.

In a split-second decision, you lost the battle with yourself not to engage in conversation. "What? Did you poison this?"

He ignored you, like always, and questioned, "Are you afraid of the dark?"

You just barely stopped yourself from choking, masking your cough with a chuckle. "What?" How the fuck did he guess that?

Vaguely, he added, "You seem like the type."

"Oh, 'I seem like the type?'" you echoed. "Is that your normal-person way of saying 'it fits with my profile?'"

He shrugged. "More or less."

Another chuckle left you, this time unforced. You were wondering if he was drinking before you and Derek showed up. This confidence and nonchalance was new, but amusing. Maybe you had one too many drinks, too, or maybe something about this version of Aaron was drawing you in, but you indulged him. "Okay, Hotchner. Give me my profile."

He paused, looking at you like he was debating if you really meant it but you saw the moment he made up his mind, decision flashing through his eyes. He gave you a once-over, but not because he needed to; you had a feeling this profile had been brewing for a while now.

"You're a control freak," he started. "This doesn't just shine through in your work—it also appears in your day-to-day life, like your overwhelming need to fill silence or dislike for the dark. This comes from a period of your life when you weren't in control, and now you have to control every situation you encounter. You come off as easygoing, but in reality, you're closed off. You hide behind jokes and arrogance because you don't want people to know the real you, but every once in a while, she reveals herself. She cares, but you can't have that be used against you, so you pretend you don't. You don't have many friends because that opens doors, and you are afraid of what is behind them. That is why, even as you stand in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, you still refuse to say my name. It's a defense mechanism, a way for you to create distance because, as much as you deny it, you feel something."

Somewhere in his explanation, he got closer to you. He never broke eye contact, not once. He stared at you like you were a puzzle he was waiting to solve, and he had too many pieces. You suddenly wished you'd never asked.

You intook a deep breath. "Ho—"

He cut you off, voice now just above a whisper. "What are you hiding from, Y/N?"

What am I hiding from?

Your eyes involuntarily darted down to his lips, and he caught it. He took another step closer, and you let him. What am I hiding from?

Your breath was shaky as Hotch leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. One movement and your lips would touch. You wondered what it'd feel like. To kiss him. To stop hiding. 

What are you hiding from, Y/N?

You leaned in, and then just before your lips met his, the lights turned back on.

Just like that, you pulled away, the sound of your racing heart concealed by the sound of the heater kicking back on. "I should— I should get back to bed now." You kept your eyes on the tile.

"Y/N—"

"Um, thank you for the water—"

"Y/N."

Finally, you looked up at him, concern and confusion swimming in his eyes, and you understood it. One second, you were on the verge of kissing, and now you were on the verge of tears. You didn't understand it, either.

But this, whatever it was, it couldn't happen. This was a lapse of your judgement. He was Aaron Hotchner, the prosecutor, the profiler, the unit chief, and the father: the gavel. You were Y/N Y/L/N, the hacker, the director, the addict, and the killer: the gun. 

This wasn't gonna happen.

So you loaded a round into the chamber, put your finger on the trigger, and took the safety off. Then you aimed it at yourself and fired, "You're a good man, Aaron." Too good for me.

You think he was too shocked by his own name, and that's why he let you walk away.

And as you closed his bedroom door, you had a feeling that it wasn't the only door you just closed.

6. A lie is the truth (link)

taglist: @flow33didontsmoke

"You okay?" He asks once he opens the door, helping you out of your seatbelt.

You're quiet and that worries him. He knows pretty well you're not one to be quite when alcohol is running in your system.

"Mhm. Sorry for this, again." It's probably your fourth apology tonight and he doesn't like that one bit.

"Stop saying sorry." His tone is almost stern but you can feel the affection sweeping through it. "I missed you today, was glad you called." He's too sweet even when you're sure you ripped him out of bed, his crooked quarter zip that's thrown over his sleeping shirt proving you right.

You smile softly at him, regretting it immediately as your nose stings.

Aaron hushes you inside the house, immediately leading you to the bathroom and sitting you on the counter.

He rummages through the cabinets for a moment, pulling out a few cottons and other things you're too dozy too look properly at.

"Oh, sweet girl..." It's only now that he takes the ice pack from your nose that he realizes how painful it must be. There's dried blood right outside your nostrils and the bridge of your nose look another shade.

"That bad, uh?" You mock, holding back a chuckle at his reprehending stare.

Aaron starts cleaning your nose with a wet cotton, mumbling out gentle sorries when you hiss in pain.

You take the time to look at him through half closed eyes. His dishevelled hair, his concentrated expression and most of all his quarter zip paired with stripped pyjama pants. It makes you feel both giddy and guilty that he probably came running to get you once you called.

"You're pretty." You say it before getting to actually think about it. But the fact that you're still tipsy helps you say things shamelessly.

"Thank you, honey. You're very pretty too." He answers with a smile bigger than he intended, just happy that you're finally acting like you normally would while tipsy.

Once the blood is cleaned and the arnica is applied, he reaches for the small band aid box. They all have some kind of cartoon in them, Jack's influence.

"Which one?" He questions with fake seriousness, displaying all the different band aids.

You point to the spider-man themed one, probably Jack's influence as well.

"Very good choice." Aaron pulls it open, carefully applying it over the small cut on the bridge of your nose before pressing a tiny kiss there.

He tells you to wait for a moment before dissapearing into the bedroom, coming back a few seconds later with a large hoodie and one pair of stripped pyjama pants - both his.

You let out a relaxed sigh once you're in them, his scent comforting and similar to what you would call home.

"Gimme a kiss?" You mumble nasally, a chuckle bubbling out of him at the way it sounds more like 'kith'.

"I'll hurt your nose."

"No, it'll heal magically from your kiss." You do little in trying to persuade him, but it's more than enough for him.

Aaron tucks a few strands of hair behind your ears, cupping your warm cheeks and leaning in to place a gentle peck on your lips.

"Better, sweet girl?" It's not really a question, as he knows the answer. His lips trail from your cheek to your temple, lingering there for a moment before pulling to hold your face once more.

"Mhm, much better." You lean into his hands almost involuntarily.

His hands reach under your thighs, picking you up before you can even process it. You let out a surprised gasp, smacking his chest lightly when he laughs.

"You know, my nose is hurt. Not my legs, Aaron." You mumble against his neck, smiling at the way he shivers at the contact.

"Just let me spoil you, yeah?" He shushes you, arms comfortable around you as he enters the bedroom.

Once you're tucked inside the blankets in his so familiar bed, Aaron pulls out his quarter zip. Throwing it on top of the armchair in the corner before rushing to lay beside you.

Almost immediately, your arms find place around his waist. Your fingers trace incoherent shapes on his stomach and your head lays against his chest, his heartbeat lulling you to a sleepy state almost immediately.

"Thank you." It's barely a whisper, but he hears it just fine.

He hums, squeezing his arms around you before pressing a kiss to your hair one last time. "My sweet girl."

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

love you,

Logan had never thought of you as quiet.

Not once. Not in the garage the first night you showed up rain-soaked and glittering under the yellow shop lights, not in his truck when you filled every red light with some story about a goat with attachment issues or your mother calling him your “mechanic boy toy,” not at the rink when you sat with Hannah and Allie and waved like you had personally invented being happy to see someone. 

You were not quiet. You arrived in places and brightened them with your words, sweetened them to the precipice of ruin and left the air smelling like cherries and expensive lipstick. You even looked surprised when people would be enchanted with your demeanor.

But what Logan never thought, what there were apparently levels to it. To you.  

There was campus-you, which Logan knew best. Pretty, polished, chatty, glossy at the edges. The girl who said “oh my gosh” with wide eyes and folded her legs under herself on his passenger seat like she belonged there. 

The girl who had a soft little lilt sometimes, especially when she talked to her mom on the phone, but nothing so obvious he’d ever thought to name it. Just a sweet, bright, vaguely country edge that came out in words like “ma’am” and “reckon” and the way you could call a man “sweetheart” and make him unsure if he had been complimented or put down.

Then there was whatever the hell happened in the hallway outside the bathroom at a party in a house too crowded to breathe in.

The line for the upstairs bathroom had turned into its own social event. Someone had dragged a speaker to the landing, the bass from downstairs thudded through the banister, and at least six girls were standing barefoot with heels dangling from their fingers, bonding through the universal feminine suffering of needing to pee while dressed like someone hotter than God intended them to be. 

You were halfway down the hallway, one hip against the wall, dress still perfect despite the fact that you had been dancing for an hour, red fabric hugging you like it had taken out a lease on your body. Your lipstick had somehow survived. Your hair had that soft, touchable messiness that made Logan’s hands flex every time you turned your head.

He had only come upstairs to find you because Tucker had spilled beer on his sleeve, Dean was loudly attempting to convince Beau that Goose was “the sluttiest Top Gun character,” and Garrett had sent Logan a look across the room that said, very clearly, go check on your girl before she adopts a stranger in the bathroom line.

So he had gone.

Not because he was worried, you were more than capable of handling yourself. 

Logan knew that. Everyone who spent longer than ten minutes around you knew that. You were sunshine, sure, but you were not soft in the way people sometimes assumed sunshine girls were soft. You could be sweet without being stupid. You could smile at someone in a way that made them feel blessed and then, with the same mouth, ask a question so pointed it left an exit wound.

Still, he liked seeing you. That was the pathetic truth of it all, he liked having an excuse to drift through a party toward the place where you were standing, liked the way your face changed when you spotted him, liked the tiny lift in your expression that made something possessive and warm curl under his ribs.

You saw him before he reached you, and when you did your smile bloomed immediately.

“There you are,” you said, and that alone almost made him forget whatever he had come upstairs for.

“Here I am.”

“I thought Tucker kidnapped you.”

“Tucker spilled beer on me and then tried to convince me it was my fault for having sleeves.”

You wrinkled your nose, “That does sound like Tucker.”

Logan stepped in beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed the wall above yours, your perfume cut through the hot crush of the hallway. Cherries. Warm skin. A little bit of vanilla, maybe. Something powdery from your dress or your hair.

“You good?” he asked.

You tilted your head at him, amused, “I’m in a bathroom line at a hockey party wearing a dress shorter than some belts. I am thriving.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Your smile turned wicked, “Can you?”

He gave you a look.

You laughed, tipping your face away, and he had to look at the ceiling for a second because the sound of it did something to him. 

A girl two places ahead of you glanced back.

Logan had noticed her earlier downstairs. Pretty in a sharp, expensive-looking way, dressed in a simple white dress with strappy heels that curled around her legs, and she looked mildly bored by everyone around her- as if the alcohol was failing at its duty.

She had been hovering near the kitchen with a group of girls Logan vaguely recognised from hockey parties, the kind who knew everyone’s names but pretended not to when it gave them social leverage. 

She had looked at you once, then twice, then at Logan, and he had clocked it without caring. People looked at you. People looked at him with you. That was part of the deal.

The girl’s eyes drifted over your dress, your lipstick, the way Logan stood angled toward you without even thinking about it.

Then she smiled, in a not-so-nice way. 

“Sorry,” she said, in the falsely casual tone people used when they were absolutely not, “Are you two, like, together now?”

Your hand, which had been playing with the cherry charm on your bracelet, stilled.

Logan looked at the girl, waiting for the conversation to interest him. 

You smiled back, polite and bright, “Something like that.”

Logan’s mouth twitched despite himself. He knew you liked the tease of the phrase, the little soft landing place between secrecy and declaration. As if he didn’t spend half his life driving you places and the other half finding your lip liners in his truck. As if you hadn’t kissed him against the side of his truck last week until his brain briefly lost contact with the rest of his body. As if you didn’t look at him in public like you were trying very hard not to look at him too much.

The girl hummed, barely anything against the thumping bass of the walls, but it had teeth. 

“Cute,” she raised an eyebrow and shifted her weight, smiling bitterly, “I just didn’t think he was, like… your type. You're...so different.”

Even though the moment seemed like one that deserved pin-drop, instant silence. The hallway didn’t leave enough room for the phrase to breathe, the music kept thudding, someone behind you complained about the wait and downstairs, a crash went up from the kitchen that sparked a chorus of male shouting. 

But in the tight little space between Logan’s ribs, something went very still.

He had heard worse. Much worse. He had been a scholarship kid around rich kids long enough to know the shape of a comment before it landed. Sometimes they didn’t even mean it cruelly, which sometimes made it more painful. 

They just said it like gravity. Like class was weather. Like certain girls came from certain worlds and certain guys belonged in the garage, on the ice, under the hood, behind the wheel, anywhere except beside them.

He wasn’t destroyed by it.

His jaw tightened, sure. A short, humourless breath pushed out through his nose. His eyes flicked over the girl once, unimpressed, already dismissing her as someone who had mistaken being rude for being interesting. He could have said something, he almost did. Something dry and easy that would have made her feel stupid without giving her the satisfaction of knowing she had hit anything substantial.

But before he could, you moved.

You turned your head, and something about you changed so completely that Logan forgot the comment had been about him.

Your smile stayed exactly where it was, glossy and sweet and pageant-perfect, but the warmth drained out of it in a slow, dangerous trickle. 

Your shoulders settled back against the wall. Your chin tipped a fraction higher. Your eyes moved over the girl’s dress, her shoes, her face, and then came back to meet her gaze with an expression Logan had never seen on you before.

When you spoke, your voice had changed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you said.

Logan’s spine straightened.

He had heard you say it before. Tossed casually at Allie when she stole your fries, cooed at Winston when the goat tried to eat a receipt, murmured into your phone when your mom was being dramatic about lunch reservations. But he had never heard it like that. Soft and country and sharp enough to make every girl in a three-foot radius subtly stop pretending not to listen.

Your accent had not appeared out of nowhere. It had been there the whole time, he realised, tucked under the polished version of your voice like a knife under lace. But now it unfurled fully, honey-thick and unmistakable, curling around each word with a sweetness that did not soften the blow so much as make it prettier when it landed.

“I know you’re not standin’ there in that polyester dress talkin’ to me about taste.”

The girl blinked. 

Someone behind Logan made a tiny noise that might have been a laugh strangled into a cough.

Logan couldn’t move, and didn’t even try.  His brain, which had been perfectly functional approximately four seconds ago, had been reduced to one simple thought. Oh.

The girl’s mouth opened, “I wasn’t-”

“No, no,” you said, lifting one hand with delicate patience, like you were calming a horse or addressing someone else’s badly behaved child. “Don’t get shy now. You were doin’ so well.”

Logan slowly turned his head to look at you.

You did not look at him. Your gaze stayed on her, bright and merciless.

The girl flushed. “I just meant-”

“I know what you meant.” Your voice warmed further, and somehow that made it worse, “You meant you thought I’d be with somebody more polished. More appropriate. Maybe somebody with a daddy who owns a boat he can’t drive and a jawline he paid for in installments. And you thought that was a clever thing to say out loud because you’ve confused being mean with having a personality.”

The hallway was definitely listening now, the girl's friends had gone embarrassingly quiet and Logan’s mouth parted slightly. 

Jesus Christ.

He knew you were sharp. It would be foolish to assume otherwise, you noticed too much, remembered more and smiled too sweetly when people underestimated you.

His earlier sting dissolved so fast it was almost embarrassing, what replaced it was a mixture of warmer emotions. Pride, maybe. Definitely an attraction, so immediate and inconvenient it made his hand tighten around the drink he had forgotten he was holding.

The girl tried to laugh, “Okay, wow. It was just a joke.”

“Then tell it better.”

The phrase landed heavier than a boulder in water, and had displaced the noise with a silence that suffocated. 

Somebody actually whispered, “Oh my God.”

Your smile widened, “You wanna insult my boyfriend,” you continued, and Logan’s entire body went still at the word, “you can at least square your shoulders and use your whole chest. Don’t mumble it into the bathroom line like your mama raised you in a hallway.”

Logan made a sound, a short, disbelieving laugh broke out of him before he could stop it. He covered it badly by lifting his cup to his mouth, but you heard. Your eyes flicked to him for half a second, and in that half second he saw the tiniest flash of nerves under the fury.

A flicker of oh God, did I do too much? tucked under the performance of a girl who could gut someone with a smile.

The girl’s face had gone red, “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

Your brows lifted, “Bless your heart,” you said softly.

The girl froze, as if some ancient instinct had warned her that those three words were not a blessing at all.

You tilted your head,  “You thought that helped.”

Logan’s laugh escaped again and he didn’t bother hiding it. 

The girl looked between you and him, clearly recalculating whether this was a fight worth continuing, then muttered something under her breath and turned away with her friends. 

The bathroom door opened at almost the exact same time, and she disappeared inside with the brittle dignity of someone who had lost badly and planned to retell the story in a completely different light.

For two seconds, the hallway held its breath.

Then Allie, who had apparently appeared at some point behind them and was standing with one hand over her mouth, whispered, “Damn.”

You turned, “What?”

Allie’s eyes were huge, “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“What? Why not?,” you replied, eyebrows furrowed- almost insulted. 

“You’re terrifying.”

“I am not terrifying. I'm sweet. Like pie, which reminds me that I saw some cookies downstairs.”

“You just verbally took her apart in a bathroom hallway.”

You adjusted one of your earrings, suddenly very interested in the wall, “She was being rude.”

“She was being rude to Logan,” Allie said, like that explained absolutely everything.

Your eyes cut to Logan then. He could see the uncertainty once more, tiny, almost hidden, but he had learned you too well to miss it. The set of your mouth was still confident, but your fingers had returned to the cherry charm on your bracelet, twisting once, twice.

The line started moving again, noise slowly rushing back into the space. Allie slipped past you with a grin and muttered, “I need to tell Hannah immediately,” which meant half the house would know within the next five minutes that you had nearly exorcised the girl.

Logan didn’t find it in himself to care, instead he was focused on you.

You lifted your chin, “What?”

He stepped closer, he didn’t crowd over you- but he was close enough that your back pressed a little more firmly against the wall and your eyes had to tip up to meet his. 

“You okay?” he asked.

Your expression softened despite your obvious attempt to keep it sharp, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

You gave him a look, “I’m not the one who got insulted.”

“I’ve been insulted before.”

“I know that.”

“I was handling it.”

“I know that too.”

His mouth twitched, “Do you?”

Your eyes narrowed, “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Make me sound like I thought you needed saving.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinkin’ it.”

“No,” He shook his head, and this time the amusement eased into something quieter, “I was thinking she was lucky the door opened.”

Your mouth parted, then closed.

The accent, still lingering around the edges of your voice, softened when you spoke again. “You’re not mad?”

“At you?”

“Yes, at me.”

“For what?”

“For…” You gestured vaguely, the confidence slipping just enough that he wanted to take your hand, “I don’t know. Makin’ a scene.”

The makin’ did it.

Logan’s eyes dropped to your mouth and your brows lifted slightly. By the time he caught himself and looked back up, you had already seen.

“I’m not mad,” he said.

“Promise?”

“Cherry.”

“What?”

“You just called me your boyfriend and bullied a girl into rethinking her bloodline. I’m great.”

Your laugh came out surprised, bright and relieved, “I did not bully her bloodline.”

“You told her her mama raised her in a hallway.”

“She should’ve had better manners.”

“That’s not a denial.”

You tried to fight your smile and failed, “She was mean.”

“She was.”

“And wrong.”

Logan’s smile shifted, from bright and teasing to something softer- aware of what you had just said. You seemed to realise at the same time he did. 

For a second, neither of you moved.

The party swelled around you, the hallway hot and loud and smelling like perfume, beer and hairspray, but Logan only saw the flush creeping into your cheeks. You looked away first, rolling your lips together like you could press the truth back into place before it became too visible.

He reached out and hooked one finger lightly under the cherry charm on your bracelet, tugging once.

Your eyes came back to his.

“Wrong how?” he asked.

You glared at him, but there was no heat in it, “Don’t pry.”

“I’m not prying.”

“You are absolutely prying.”

“I’m curious.”

“You’re proud.”

“Also that.”

Your mouth twitched.

The line moved again, but you didn’t.

Logan leaned his shoulder against the wall beside you, mirroring your earlier position, his face close enough now that he could see the faint place where your lipstick had blurred at the corner from laughing. He wanted to fix it with his thumb. He wanted to ruin it. 

He wanted, with a suddenness that made him feel stupid, to hear you say sweetheart like that again, except not to some girl in a hallway. At him. Around him. In his truck, in his bed, in his kitchen someday when he’d done something to annoy you and you were pretending not to find him charming.

That was the thing about you. Every new piece of you made him greedy for more.

He nodded toward the bathroom door, “So.”

You looked suspicious, “So?”

“You have an angry accent.”

Your entire face changed, “I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“No, I do not.”

“Cherry, you said sweetheart like you were cocking a shotgun.”

You gasped, “That is a wild accusation.”

“You nearly made her apologise to my ancestors.”

“I was composed.”

“You were terrifying.”

“I was ladylike.”

“You threatened her in cursive.”

You pressed your lips together, but your eyes were dancing now, “I did no such thing.”

“You did.”

“Well.” Your chin tipped up, that accent still threaded through your voice now that he had noticed it and impossible to ignore, “Maybe she deserved it.”

Logan grinned.

God, he was done for.

There were many things he could have said then. Something about not needing you to defend him. Something about being fine. Something about how comments like that didn’t matter. All of those things would have been true enough. But none of them felt like the whole truth, and Logan had never been good at dressing things up when the simple version would do.

So instead, he said, “I like it.”

You blinked, “Like what?”

“The accent.”

The flush returned, fast and pretty, “It’s not usually that strong.”

“I know.”

“I don’t always sound like that, Mama says I get it from Nana when I’m mad.”

“That tracks.”

You elbowed him lightly, “Don’t be annoying.”

“I’m serious.”

That made you pause.

Logan dropped his gaze to your bracelet, then back to your face, “You don’t have to smooth it out around me.”

Your expression went soft in a way that made his chest tighten.

You tried to cover it, obviously. You rolled your eyes and said, “I do not smooth anything. I am a very authentic person.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am.”

“You have a campus voice.”

Your mouth opened, offended, “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I have a normal voice and then occasionally people test me.”

“People test you?”

“Yes.”

“And then Nana comes out?”

You pointed at him, “Careful.” You narrowed your eyes, but you were smiling now, helplessly, sweetly. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much.”

Logan’s grin widened, “Enjoying,” he said.

You stared at him.

He knew, immediately, that he had made a mistake.

“Oh,” you said softly.

He laughed under his breath, “No.”

“No, no.” Your smile turned slow and dangerous, “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you just correct me?”

“I was joking.”

“You were jokin’?”

“Cherry.”

“John.”

His full name landed differently with your accented, warmer and rounded- a little scolding, a little sweet. He realised that his name had never sounded like something that could be set on a windowsill to cool in the august breeze, until you said it like that. And Logan, who had willingly let Tucker practice shooting with him, had to shift his weight against the wall to hide his blush.

You noticed and your eyes, for just a brief moment, dropped to his mouth.

Then your smile went bright again, “Oh, you are in trouble,” you said.

He huffed a laugh, “Me?”

“Mhm.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You made fun of my voice.”

“I said I liked it.”

“You corrected it.”

“I corrected one word.”

“You corrected one word in a hallway after I defended your honour. That’s ungrateful.”

“You defended my honour?”

“Obviously.”

“You just said I didn’t need saving.”

“You didn’t. Your honour did.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense if you’re romantic.”

He looked at you, deadpan, “If I’m romantic?”

You sighed dramatically, “Never mind. I forgot you were emotionally slow.”

Logan’s eyes twinkled when you finished your sentence with a stronger drawl than you appreciated. 

“What?”

“The accent.”

You groaned, dropping your face briefly into your hands, “Oh my God, stop listening to me.”

“I’m not gonna do that.”

Your fingers parted enough for you to look at him, “Why not?”

A plethora of answers popped into his head. 

Because it’s you.

Because I like every version of you.

Because I thought I had you figured out and then you opened your mouth and sounded like summer met violence and now I’m fucked.

He said none of that, because he was still him, and you were still in a hallway with a bathroom line moving around you and Allie was absolutely pretending not to watch from the stairs.

Instead, Logan leaned in close enough that his voice could drop under the music, “Because I like when you sound like yourself.”

Your face changed, the teasing smile slipped for a second and your eyes softened as your mouth pressed together like you were trying to not let the compliment send you into a giggling fit.

Then, because you were impossible, you recovered by poking him in the chest, “You are being dangerously sweet right now.”

“Dangerously?”

“Yes. I don’t trust it.”

“You should.”

“I absolutely should not.”

“You should tell your boyfriend.”

You froze; Logan smiled, slowly, dangerously, all teeth and enjoyment of your hindsight. 

Your eyes narrowed. “Do not.”

“Oh wait,” he leaned down to whisper in your ear, “That’s me, you called me your boyfriend.”

“I was making a point.”

“Strong point.”

“It was rhetorical.”

“Didn’t sound rhetorical.”

“It was a debate tactic.”

“You debated her into leaving.”

“She needed air.”

“She needed a priest.”

You laughed, and the sound loosened something in him that the girl’s comment had tightened without his permission. 

The bathroom door opened again. The line shifted. It was your turn.

You glanced toward the door, then back at him, still smiling, “I have to pee.”

“Romantic.”

You shrugged at him, “I’m a romantic girl.”

“I’m learning that.”

You stepped toward the bathroom, then paused in the doorway and looked back over your shoulder. Your red dress caught the hallway light. Your lipstick was still perfect. Your eyes were bright with mischief.

“And Logan?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile curved, “If anybody else says somethin’ stupid about you tonight, I’m handlin’ it.”

His chest warmed.

“Yeah?” he said. “What if I want to handle it?”

You gave him a look so sweetly patronising it should have offended him,“Then, darlin’,” you said, accent curling thick and warm around the word, “you better get there before I do.”

Then you slipped into the bathroom and shut the door, he had half the mind to wait for a minute until you unlocked the door and keep it occupied for longer- but behind him, Allie made a sound that was far too delighted for his comfort.

“Oh, you are so gone,” she said.

Logan turned his head slowly.

Allie was leaning against the stair railing, grinning like she had watched the season finale of her favourite show. Hannah had appeared beside her at some point, and judging by the look on her face, Allie had already given her the essential details in record time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Logan said.

Hannah raised an eyebrow, “She called you darlin’ and you stopped breathing.”

“I didn’t stop breathing.”

“You did a little,” Allie said.

“I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Downstairs, someone shouted his name. Probably Tucker. Possibly Dean. Maybe both.

The party kept going, loud and stupid and alive around him, but Logan stayed where he was, leaning against the hallway wall, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other still holding a drink he had completely forgotten to give you.

He looked at the bathroom door again.

Darlin’

He was never going to hear that word normally again. Logan smiled to himself, small and very quickly hidden when Garrett appeared at the top of the stairs.

Garrett took one look at him.

Then at the bathroom door.

Then back at him.

“What happened?”

Logan cleared his throat, “Nothing.”

Allie snorted.

Hannah smiled into her cup.

Garrett’s eyes narrowed, “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you just got hit by a truck and enjoyed it.”

Logan took a sip from your drink by accident, grimaced at the sweetness, and stared down at the pink liquid like it had personally betrayed him. Then he looked back at the bathroom door, “Cherry has an angry accent,” he said.

Garrett blinked.

Allie started laughing.

And Logan, still tasting sugar on his tongue, realised he was smiling again.

“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.

“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.

“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.

Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”

"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.

“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.

Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner. 

“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”

“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”

You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.

“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face. 

Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”

“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.

“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”

“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”

Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated. 

“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.  

“G, not cool, man.”

Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”

“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder. 

Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”

“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear. 

“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”

Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair. 

“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused. 

“Great, G!”

“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.

Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.

You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk. 

“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.

Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”

“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out. 

Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”

You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”

“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him. 

“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.

Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.” 

“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.

Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.

The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.

The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.

Thunk.

It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.

“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.

You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.

The expression on his face caught you off guard.

He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime. 

You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad. 

Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed. 

“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”

You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large. 

Then back at him.

“Yes, totally.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am serious.”

“I just hit you with my water bottle.”

You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”

He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

He frowned. 

You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again. 

“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”

“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be. 

“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped. 

“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.

“There he is.”

“What?”

“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.

“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.

“Officially?”

He paused, confused, “What?”

“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”

His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”

“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.

“You’re very observant.”

“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.

He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”

“That sounds right.”

“So let me make it up to you.”

“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Coffee,” he offered. 

You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.

“Coffee?” you repeated in question.

“I owe you.” 

“You really don’t.”

“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”

You smiled, “Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you answered again.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.

He followed right behind you.

The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.

Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed. 

The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.

You don’t say anything. 

Neither does he.

The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”

Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”

The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”

“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”

You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”

The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.

You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, beautiful.”

You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett. 

Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it. 

Cute. You thought to yourself.

Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”

You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”

Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”

Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”

“He basically has,” you snorted.

“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”

“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.

Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.

You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”

“What?” he tried to play it off.

“You have that look.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” you insisted.

Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”

That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.

Dean nearly choked. 

“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.

“Don’t what?” he responded.

“That.”

“What?”

“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.

“Yeah.” 

“And?” 

“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing. 

Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing. 

Garrett just shrugged. 

You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.

“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.

“Coffee,” he agreed.

Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.

By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.

At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.

Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.

Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.

No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.

To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,

Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester. 

You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.

Bingo. 

You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her. 

The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in. 

The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.

The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.

“There she is!”

You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”

“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.

Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”

“She still answers it.”

You hated that he was right.

The grin he gave you says he knows it too. 

A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan. 

The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.

“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room. 

“Excuse me?”

“I expected worse,” he shrugged.

You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”

Each of the boys quipped a response.

“A lot.” 

“Enough.”

“Some would say too much.”

“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.

“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.

By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.

You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.

At some point, you realized something. 

You didn’t feel like a guest.

It was almost like you’d always been there. 

And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.

It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume. 

When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”

“I won't forget perfume.”

“You might.”

“I won’t.”

“Baby, it’s there just in case.”

He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room. 

You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.

Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself. 

As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family. 

Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head. 

You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.

It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds. 

Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand. 

“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts. 

You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”

You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there. 

Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.

He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester. 

“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes. 

You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.

You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”

“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge. 

“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.  

Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.

“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”

“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back. 

“Whatcha got, Logan?”

“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes. 

“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile. 

He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing. 

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy. 

“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.

You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted. 

“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted. 

“Up in his room.”

“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.

“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.

The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.

“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter. 

Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table. 

“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.

“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.

You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move. 

The meal was perfect.

You took one bite.

Then another.

Followed by another.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.

Tucker laughed, “What?”

“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.

“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.

“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”

You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”

“Obviously,” Garrett stated.

“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.

“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.

You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”

“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.

“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.

The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness. 

The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.

If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.

Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible. 

It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving. 

You felt like you always belonged there.

The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.

“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular. 

Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”

“A little.”

“A little means yes.”

You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”

“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.

“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it. 

“It does,” Garrett nodded.

“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.

“I’m supporting you.”

“More like interrupting,” you kid.

Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”

You blinked at him, “What?”

Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”

Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”

“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.

“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.

The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”

“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence. 

“You have an idea.” 

The other three just watched the banter between you two.

“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.

“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.

You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.

It felt natural.

“Okay.”

“Done.”

By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed. 

Every Sunday.

One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.

Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.

Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three. 

The dinners became routine. Then tradition. 

Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.

Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.

Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.

By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends. 

Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.

Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.

Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.

You saved him a portion when he was running late.

The pair of you always sat beside one another.

Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.

But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing. 

That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other. 

“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.

Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.

“A shot,” Dean answered. 

“Very informative.”

You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”

Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”

“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.

“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath. 

Dean wiggled his shot. 

You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking. 

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.

“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.

“Probably.”

“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.

“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots. 

“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.

“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished. 

There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.

Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other. 

The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot. 

The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.

“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.

“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.

“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett. 

“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.

Logan nearly doubled over laughing.

Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.

Dean looked personally offended.

And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met. 

The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.

Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out. 

Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.

Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.

You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.

You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside. 

You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs. 

The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall. 

There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore. 

Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom. 

He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours. 

Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other. 

Neither of you said much for a while. 

The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.

Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”

“Exhausted.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.

Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses. 

“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.

You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away. 

Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too. 

Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”

The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore. 

His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.

Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”

Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”

“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”

You blinked, “We are fine.”

“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”

You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second. 

Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”

“Wow.”

“What?” he quirked his brow at you.

“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief. 

“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.

“It definitely did.”

“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”

Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.

Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you. 

Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.

Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship. 

Every time he remembered something small.

Every time he made space for you in crowded places.

Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal. 

Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day. 

You already knew, but hearing it made it real.

“What?”

You smiled, “I know.”

His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”

“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.” 

“In my defense–” you cut him off.

“You gave me a drawer.”

“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.

“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”

The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”

You snickered. “Seriously?”

“I just want confirmation.”

“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”

He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.

“So?”

“So what?” 

You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”

“Missy.”

“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”

Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” you repeated. 

Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time. 

When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”

You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”

“They’re going to be unbearable.”

“Especially Dean.”

“He’ll claim responsibility.”

“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”

He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”

“Agreed.” 

The agreement lasted less than eight hours.

The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon. 

Logan was standing at the stove.

Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands. 

Dean was eating cereal directly from the box. 

Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual. 

Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual. 

Nobody paid attention.

Logan continued cooking his bacon. 

Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.

Dean kept munching on the cereal.

Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.

He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.

“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.

“Morning,” You replied.

You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.

And not normal. 

The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds. 

Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”

You immediately dropped your head. “No.”

“YES.”

“It has been like six hours.”

“I KNEW IT.”

Garrett groaned. 

Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”

“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked. 

“I brought you together.”

“You really didn’t,” you laughed.

Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”

Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.

Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled. 

“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.

“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off. 

“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett. 

Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”

The room erupted.

Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”

Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”

Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”

Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two. 

And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back. 

You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family. 

Garrett was still your favorite person.

Chess boards are like painted mirrors. Grids of black and white pieces reflecting each player's mind. 

There's different types of players. 

If you sacrifice your bishop in h3 you're an attacker. But if you move your bishop to e7, you're a defender. It's like horoscopes but for people who think they're too smart for horoscopes. 

Jason Gideon is more of a strategist. Knight to f3. No, that might not be accurate. Gideon tends to play differently depending on his opponent. Maybe a flexible player. Simple opening pawn to e4 and then adjusting accordingly. 

With Reid, he's strategic. More of a nuanced approach. Because Reid picks up on patterns really fast. So he has to hide his endgame behind subtle moves. 

With Emily, he's tactical. He tends to force her hand. Tries to throw her off balance. 

With Hotch, he's calculated. Hotch doesn't take risks, he always has a solid strategy. So Gideon wears him down slowly, positions his pieces in a way that gradually pressures him. 

He's carefully placing the pieces on his board. You can hear the muffled tap of the pawns landing on their wooden squares. The tiny overhead lamp from the plane shines on his glasses on the little table between your two seats. He starts with the white pieces. He looks intensely focused. He sort of always looks that way to be fair. Lips pulled in a slight frown, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The only reason Hotch gets the brunt of the grumpy old man jokes is that no one is brave enough to call Gideon 'the grandmaster of frowning' to his face.

There's a crease on his shirt. Just above his left elbow. Like it wasn't ironed properly. Or like the sleeve is protesting against being constantly rolled up to reveal his forearms. The top three buttons are undone. Some of his chest hair peeks through. He's done putting down the white pieces. He turns the board gently, and moves on to the black ones. His tongue quickly wets his lips. 

He calls your name quietly. "You play?" he asks. 

"Not really."

He seems slightly surprised. Or disappointed. You can't be sure, it's hard to get a read on him. Maybe he expects everyone to play chess. You don't want him to think less of you because you don't. 

"I like sudoku better," you add. Like you're doing damage control. Or desperately trying to save your king from getting checked. 

He just nods. And starts playing against himself. 

Chess boards are like a ballroom. Checkered black and white floors staging each player's dance. Even if you can play against yourself, chess at its essence is a two player game. You think it suits him. Chess. He seems closed off but he's constantly looking for companionship in his own way. 

You don't really play sudoku with anyone. You could technically. Nothing is stopping you from filling in the grid with someone else's help. What's nice about sudoku grids is that most of them (though not all) are designed to only have one solution. There's a wrong and a right answer for each square. No guess work. That square has to be a 1 because the one on the other row is a 7. 

Maybe that's why Gideon likes chess better. Infinite variables. Infinite scenarios. Each move is mostly just guessing what the other person guessed when they guess their move from their guesswork of what you guessed. Similar to profiling if you think about it. This unsub moved their rook to h5 because their father was an alcoholic. And this one is attacking the king with their pawn because they hate women. 

Or, Gideon could just be a snob who thinks chess is more intellectual than sudoku. You're just guessing. 

When he plays himself, Gideon is a lot more hesitant (this is getting dangerously close to playing with himself). Like he's testing himself. It's interesting to see because when you're playing against yourself, you obviously know which move you're planning to make. So you're stuck in a guessing loop within your own mind.

He takes his time with every move. His hand rests against his chin, index tapping against his lips. He carefully moves a pawn. To you, it doesn't look that different from all the other times he moved one. His fingers gently wrap around the rounded wood to move it. But he lets out a little hum. Like this time, pawn to e5, was a deliberate reflection of an infinite amount of contingencies. All of this might sound misleading. You don't know that much about chess. 

Maybe because he senses that you're still staring at him, he looks up at you from the board. His gaze always feels a bit overwhelming. His eyes are a gentle sort of brown. Like wood. Like they're part of the chess board. 

He moves the pieces around, rearranging them into their original positions. And then slowly, he moves different pieces and tells you how they're allowed to dance around on the board. One square, any direction for the king. Any number of squares, any direction for the queen. One square forward for the pawn, except for the opening move. 

The ring on his finger catches some of the orange light from the plane's lamp each time he moves a piece. You know he's not married anymore. You wonder why he still wears his ring. 

"The best way to get a sense of it is to play," he tells you.

He starts by moving a pawn. You mirror him. 

He moves his knight to somewhere along the center of the board. He's leaning back against his seat. Looking at you softly. It's distracting. 

You move your knight to f6. 

He studies the board for a second before moving his bishop. You're not sure what type of player he is, against you. You're not sure what move to make either. Your fingers absentmindedly play with your lower lip. You look up at him, in hesitation. 

"Try moving your bishop out. Just like I did," he helps you. 

Bishop to c5. "Like that?" you ask. 

He nods. 

He moves a pawn. You move a pawn. 

He moves a knight. You move a knight. 

You feel unsure of every move you make. It's just a game. But it feels like he can see how each piece you pick up feels like a mirror shard. You want to go back to the certainty of your 9x9 grids. 

He moves both his king and his rook. You look at him, confused. 

"It's called castling." His voice sounds quiet. Quieter than you're used to. "It's about protection. Keeping your king safe while getting your rook in the game. You'll see how it changes the board," he explains.

"How do I do that ?" you ask.

"Move the king two squares, then bring the rook across. It's a protective move, getting your pieces in position," he instructs. 

You do as he says. You don't really see how that changes the board. His glasses slowly slide down the table from the plane's movements. 

He moves a pawn. You capture it with one of your own.

"Good," he says with a little smile, before capturing your victorious pawn with one of his knights. 

You feel an odd sense of pride. Even if he took your pawn. It sort of makes you want to avenge it. You take his knight with your knight. In vain it seems, because he quickly takes your knight with his queen. 

You pout without meaning to. He lets out a quiet laugh. It surprises you. It's soft but it almost sounds like there's something warm beneath it. 

"Try moving a piece to help protect your king," he tells you softly. 

He grabs his glasses before they fall, and tucks them into his breast pocket. He doesn't rush you. Your eyes keep dancing back and forth along the white and black lines. You move your rook to e8. 

Gideon looks at the board for a moment. Like he's considering his options. You don't think you're much of an opponent so it makes you wonder what exactly he's considering. He gives you a gentle smile before moving his queen to f6.

"Checkmate," he says. 

You're confused as to how you even lost.

"You'll learn."

You wonder if the way you played told him anything about you. 

Gideon's old projector makes a sort of monotone mechanical sound. Clattering from pulling each film frame into place. And humming from the fan preventing the film from melting because of the light bulb. Charlie Chaplin movies are stripes of black and white film.

You're sitting right next to the projector, in the conference room's table, turned makeshift home cinema. The projector's mechanical efforts almost blend in with the Modern Times's harsh and percussive tune for the factory scenes.   

Gideon is sitting slightly in front of you, to your left. He occasionally glances back at the projector to make sure that none of the frames are snagging against the aperture gate.  

Emily and JJ are focused on aiming popcorn kernels towards Reid's head. He turns to look at them all confused. When he turns his head back towards the movie, you spot a kernel stuck to his hair. Morgan and Garcia are whispering about something you can't hear. His arm is behind the back of her chair. 

You gently slide your own bowl of popcorn towards Gideon. 

He gives you a nod and takes a handful. 

You can hear him laugh quietly at Little Tramp continuing to tighten bolts even when he's left the assembly line. 

You've seen Modern Times enough times that your own hands can match the relentless bolt tightening rhythm. You look at Gideon more than you actually look at the film.

He looks completely relaxed. Leaning back in his chair. His quarter zip is a muted shade of red. It looks warm. And soft. He looks warm. Absentmindedly eating your popcorn. The bowl that you meant to share with him is almost entirely on his side. His face looks so much gentler like this. Almost boy-ish. The soft black and white glow from the film shines back on his face. 

Inevitably, you reach the final frames of the film. The intertitle card that reads " Buck up! Never say die. We'll get along". The shot of Gamine and Little Tramp walking away together, against a vast uncertain landscape. The grainy credit roll.  

The projector's whirring quiets down. 

The others are already drifting away. Emily finally brushes down the lone kernel stuck to Reid's hair. JJ pinches Garcia's side and asks her what she was whispering about with Morgan this whole time. Hotch pats Gideon on the shoulder as thanks.

You don't really move.

The screen is empty. A flash of white before it turned completely black. Like it was telling you clearly, if you didn't get it before : "the show is over". You glance at Gideon. He seems pensive, sort of distant, lost in his own uncertain landscape. Face pulled back again in that perpetual frown. He's carefully taking the film roll out.

"Can we watch another one?" you ask him impulsively. You don't know why. 

"Another one ?" He turns to look at you. His fingers distractedly run along the film. He gives you a soft smile. It's barely there. "Pick one." He nods towards his box of film rolls. 

You slowly look through the rolls. Most of the titles are familiar — City Lights, The Kid, Modern Times — and they all have a familiar feel to them. The film cans are cold under your fingers. You can feel some dents and bumps on their surfaces. There's a couple fingerprint impressions etched on the patina. You wonder if they're his. 

"You've got a lot of Chaplin films," you comment. 

You take out the can labeled Modern Times and hand it to him for him to put the film back in it. Your fingers brush against his for a second.

"There's something about Chaplin," he says quietly, putting the film back in its can. "He has this way of saying so much without saying a word. I suppose it's… more relaxing for me." 

He says it like he's not just sharing a fact with you. Like he's letting you in on something personal, something that matters to him. Like a silent invitation, to understand him a little more. 

And it's sort of endearing. How he finds comfort in Chaplin movies. It's not that they're childish. Not exactly. They just seem that way on the surface. But when he softly laughs at the absurd scenes, it's like for a moment, he's choosing to take bolt tightening at face value. Not looking for any other meaning. About factories or about humanity. Just appreciating the simplicity of it. It's a little like rereading The Little Prince as an adult. It also seems childish on the surface. But if you think about it, it's not. Yet, sometimes, it's nice to read it that way. To forget about the adult complexities and just read it with childlike wonder. Maybe Chaplin's films are like that for him too.  

He gently makes his way towards you. The sleeve of his quarter zip brushes against your hand when he puts the film can back in its spot. It feels really soft. It's a shame that for once, he doesn't have his sleeves rolled up. 

He takes out another can. The label is really faded. More than the other ones. You read "A Woman of Paris" in his messy handwriting. 

"This one's different." It's only the two of you, and yet, he speaks incredibly quietly. Not quite whispering, but almost. Like this is a well-kept and treasured secret he's decided to share with you. "It's the only Chaplin film where he doesn't appear on screen as an actor," he tells you. 

You tilt your head. "Really ? I've never heard of it."

He smiles. He looks lost in his thoughts. Like he's looking back in time. Like he's going through film frames in his head. "It's not a typical Chaplin film. There's no slapstick. No Tramp. It's a drama. About love, loss and the choices we make." He pauses for a moment. Lightly running his finger on top of the faded label. You faintly hear his ring clatter against the metal of the can. 

"He's not in it, but it's his most personal film in a way." 

He turns and looks at you gently. "You should watch it." 

You talk quietly about movies. Not just Chaplin films, but others too. It's easy. Easier than chess. Talking to him. Even though your tastes are different. It doesn't feel awkward. It's warm. And comforting. The way he talks about the films he loves. Calm and certain. No guessing. He's not just discussing the stories. He tells you why they matter to him. And he asks you why the ones you love matter to you. It nice. You don't even end up watching another one. 

There's a mathematical conjecture that 17 is the smallest number of starting clues you can have in a standard 9x9 Sudoku grid that still guarantees only one unique solution. 

The one you're currently playing only has 15. It feels odd, writing down with your pencil different numbers in each square, when you know that it might not be entirely correct. A puzzle having different solutions doesn't mean that any of the solutions is wrong. It's just that there's infinite wrongs and infinite rights. Maybe you've abandoned your need for certainty to feel closer to Gideon in your own way. 

You're sitting down on the red little chair in his office. Right in front of his desk. It's really comfortable. You're almost tempted to rest your feet on the other one in front of you. 

You're waiting for him to finish reviewing your press release form so you can go home. You sometimes look up from your puzzle to stare at him. His glasses are slowly falling down his nose. He's still frowning, but it's in concentration, you've come to learn. The lamp on his desk makes his eyes glow gently. They still remind you of wood. But not as daunting as a chess board anymore. More like a solid reliable tree. He sometimes taps his pen against the desk. Like a metronome of his thoughts. 

This grid isn't going particularly well. You can't fill in most of the squares with any amount of certainty. You usually write down the possibilities on the upper corner of the boxes. A tight line of penciled in numbers. But this time, the possibilities take over the entire square. 1 through 9. You can't even narrow it down. You're pulling at your lower lip with your fingers. Like it'll somehow pull the wrong answers off the page. 

"You're taking longer than usual on this one," Gideon notes. He sounds curious. He's still reading over your report. 

"I'm stuck," you reply simply. 

He tilts his head, glancing up at you finally. "Mind showing me?"

You lean over his desk and put your puzzle over the report.

You point to a specific square with your pencil. Row two, column seven. 

"There's too many possibilities for this one. And I can't narrow it down without having to guess," you complain. 

"And that upsets you," he deduces. 

You hesitate, looking back at the puzzle. You tap your pencil against the square, lost in thought. 

"Yes," you admit finally. "Because I'm not good at guessing."

He leans forward just the tiniest bit. His fingers brush against yours as he shifts the paper to get a closer look. He doesn't move his hand. Neither do you. You're still staring at the offending square. 

"It's not wrong to take your time," he says lowly.  

You look back up at him. Your gaze drops to his lips, then back to his eyes. He holds your gaze. Patient but still intense. Still a bit overwhelming. 

Before you can process it fully, he leans in just enough for your lips to brush. Like he's making the first guess for you. You can feel his breath against your face. You can see the little indent from his glasses at the very top of his nose. 

It's a soft, tentative kiss. His hand moves from the Sudoku grid to your face. Resting gently against your cheek. You have to hold on to his arm to not fall over on his desk. Thank god he has his sleeves rolled up this time. You feel his skin under your palm. It's warm. And you can feel some of the veins beneath the surface. 

The kiss deepens just a little. It's still gentle, still restrained. But his other hand tangles in your hair, at the back of your neck, to pull you closer to him. 

He pulls away slightly. His forehead resting against yours. 

"You don't have to guess everything… sometimes, you just know," he whispers. 

Without thinking, you kiss him again. 

You're not good at guessing. And you're not good at knowing either it seems. 

You're closer to Gideon than before. That you know. He touches you more. And more comfortably. A hand to your lower back when passing by you at the station. Gently caressing your hair when he goes back to his office. His fingers brushing against yours more often, more insistently. Leaning behind you to see how you're doing on your puzzles.

But you don't talk about the kiss. About the guessing. About the knowing. You don't talk about any of it. The silence between you stretches wider, and though the small touches reassure you, they only raise more questions.

And you still haven't solved that Sudoku grid. There's a reason the real, legit grids have the 17 clues. Because otherwise they quickly become impossible to solve. 

This is why infinities don't work for you. 

Things have to be certain. For them to work. For them to matter. 

When a jury deliberates on a verdict, it has to be beyond a reasonable doubt. 

When a surgeon decides to operate on a patient, they have to be sure of every single step. 

Certainty is the essence of trust. You don't trust an "I guess" — you trust an "I'm sure". 

Still, you're full of doubts when you knock on Gideon's hotel room door. The jet is chartered for the night, so you're going back to DC tomorrow. For tonight, Hotch said that you're free to do what you want. But then he saw how deviously Morgan smiled, so he added quickly and sternly, "Don't be late tomorrow morning" with a pointed look.

Gideon opens the door. His expression soft but tired. Glasses still sliding down his nose.

The hallway is oddly quiet. The electrical humming from the neon lamps. The sound of his fingers tapping against the door. Your nails tapping against your deck of cards' cover.

You hold it up to show it up to him.

"Care to play?" you ask

He just gently smiles and opens the door wider for you to come in. 

His room is messy. Not in a careless way, more like an organized chaos. A coat draped over the desk chair. Notes scribbled on the hotel yellow notepad and spread out next to a half drunk cup of coffee. A paperback face down on the night stand, spine cracked (his biggest offence to date. you should get him a bookmark). His chess set on the little coffee table, pieces already weaved through the black and white grid. 

Gideon's space always ends up looking like a still life of someone deep in thought. Not cluttered, just eclectic. Each object left out is like a branch of some thought still in motion. Like his mind is too busy dancing through infinite possibilities to stop and tidy up after itself. It's like him. All those scattered pieces feel like a reflection of the way he sees the world. Never just one answer, or one path, or one explanation. Everything left to an inquisitive doubt. Left open. Everything connected. 

You both settle on the little couch. 

"What do you want to play?" He leans his head against his hand, elbow resting on the back cushion, watching you shuffle.

"Go Fish," you decide. "But with a twist. You get to ask a question each time you complete a set of four matching cards."

You deal the cards out between you. They sharply clatter against each other, landing with a muffled thud against the couch's material. 

He watches your hands carefully, like he's already trying to figure out your cards from the way you shuffle. 

"You go first," he offers. 

You glance at your hand, then up at him. "Do you have any twos ?"

He hums thoughtfully, sorting through his hand. "Go fish."

You draw from the deck. The corners of his mouth twitch slightly. Like he's holding back a smile. 

He studies you for a second too long before asking, "Do you have any fours?"

You sigh and hand one over. "I'm already regretting this."

"I'm not even winning," he says mildly. 

"Yet."

He chuckles softly. "Any nines ?"

"Go fish." 

He draws a card and waits for your turn. You can hear a faint swish when he slides his new card into his hand. 

"Fives ?"

He gives you two. Your fingers brush against each other when he hands you the cards. 

When you collect your first full set — four aces — you stack them in front of you and raise your eyebrows at him. 

"Rules are rules," you say proudly. "I get a question."

Gideon watches you patiently, one eyebrow slightly raised. He's not exactly observing you. Not in the way he typically observes things. Not in the getting into your head and figuring out your deepest secret way. It's more like he's trying to learn you. 

You think for a second. "What's the most ridiculous thing you've ever done for fun?"

A flicker of surprise, and then that soft, fleeting smile. "Fun isn't usually what people associate with me."

"That's why I'm asking," you reply with a soft smile. 

His hand scratches the side of his head. His lips sort of jut out. Like they're also thinking of an answer. 

"When I was in college, I used to sit in the theatre building afters hours. When it was empty."

He shifts slightly, deciding whether to keep going or not to keep going. That is the question. 

"I'd stand on stage and recite monologues. Just to the room. To hear how the words sounded in the air."

"What kind of monologues ?" you ask. 

He laughs lightly, at himself you think. "Andrew Lloyd Weber mostly."

You can't help but let out a little chuckle. "You had a Broadway phase ?"

"I wouldn't call it a phase. I still think Evita is brilliant."

You grin at him teasingly. "Did you sing?"

He hesitates. He looks just the tiniest bit flustered. "Once. I tried Music of the Night."

Your eyes widen. 

"Did anyone hear you?"

He flicks the corner of one of his cards back and forth. "The janitor came in during the last verse." He shakes his head with a nostalgic smile on his lips. "He applauded. I suppose he was being polite."

You're biting your lower lip to stifle some of your laughter but he can definitely hear you. 

"Can you sing something for me?" you manage to ask through your giggles.

"No."

It's still your turn. "Any sevens ?"

"Go fish."

You're still grinning when you reach for the deck. 

"Any fives?" he asks.

You groan. "You know I have fives." You hand him the three fives you had in your hand. 

He lays down his full set of fives. Glances at you over his cards. "My turn, then."

You straighten slightly. 

He only thinks for a second. "What's something you've always wanted to try?"

You blink. Surprised by how gentle he sounds. 

"I don't know," you say honestly. "I think I want to learn how to sail." 

He nods like he understands. 

The game goes on, a few cards traded back and forth. Your fingers brush against each other each time. And each time they linger longer and longer. He hands you a pair of sevens. You hand him one jack. 

Then he wins again. Lays down four fours. 

You pout at him. He doesn't even look smug about it. Just calm. But this time he takes longer before asking : "What's the most vulnerable thing you've shared with someone?"

You look down at your hand of cards. Not because you're thinking of your answer. You already know. One of the sevens he gave you is folded at the corner. Seven of hearts. You smooth it out. 

"I once told someone that I didn't think I was good at being happy. That even when things were going well, I was always bracing for when they'd fall part."

You're counting the hearts on the card. There's seven of them. No surprises there. You look up at him. His expression is still as unreadable as ever. But he doesn't look cold. Just pensive. 

"Did they understand?" he asks.

You nod. "They said they felt the same."

He asks if you have any jacks again. You don't. He draws from the pond. You ask if he has any queens. He doesn't. You draw from the pond. 

You reach for the deck, lift up the top card. It slides gently away from the pile. You look down. Seven of spades. 

The last seven you needed. Lucky. Certain.

You go quiet for a moment then slowly put down your full set forward. Four sevens neatly fanning out against the couch's cushion. 

Gideon looks at them then back at you. Waiting patiently for your question. 

Your heart beats a little faster. You play with the folded corner of the seven of hearts again. Your voice is tentative. Folded in doubt when you ask : "Why did you kiss me?"

You can't bear to look at him. Because you're certain he's going to say that it was a mistake. 

You wait for his answer. You can see his finger tapping against his lips. His hand lifts up behind his glasses to itch the inner corner of his eye. 

"I don't know," he answers plainly. 

That's not good enough of an answer for you. Maybe certainty is the enemy of discovery. You decide to push your luck. Lucky sevens after all.

"Jason," you say. Pleading. Demanding. 

His lips part just the tiniest bit. He looks at you. Really looks at you. He closes his eyes for a second. His finger going from the corner of his eye to the bridge of his nose. 

Checkmate. 

He takes a small breath. 

"I kissed you because… I wasn't sure about anything. But I wanted to be sure about that."

You pull at your lower lip again. Look back down at your cards. You're not sure what to do. Or what to say. "… Do you have any twos?"

He hands one to you. Two of clubs. Hesitation. Contradiction. You add it to your hand quietly. 

And then you put your cards facing down, on the couch besides you. 

You lean forward. One hand finding the side of his face, while the other lands on his knee to keep you balanced. You feel his slight stubble under your palm. 

You kiss him. 

Not like last time. Not as a brush or as a guess. As something infinitely certain and infinitely doubtful. 

He exhales softly against your lips. Like the relief of something he's been holding back finally slipping free. His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer to him with a quiet kind of urgency. 

You vaguely register the sound of his cards falling. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading gently through your hair. 

You tilt your head slightly, deepening the kiss. It's slow but not tentative. Like a conversation you've both been avoiding finally unfolding without words. 

His thumb brushes your cheek as his lips part slightly.

Your knees on either side of his thighs. The world around you narrows down to the warmth of his mouth, the gentle way he hols you and the way your own heartbeat stutters in your chest. 

Your hand rests on his chest. You can feel the soft fabric of his wrinkled shirt, his skin where the buttons aren't closed, the steady rise and fall of his breath. 

You shift your weight slightly, pressing in closer. He lets out a soft groan before pulling away. 

He gently runs his thumb on your cheek before letting out a breathless chuckle. "I don't want to rush things."

You can't help the fond smile that makes its way onto your face. 

"Okay," you say before giving him one last kiss. As sweetly as you can. "It's still my turn I think."

 Jason's quarter zips are definitely as soft as they look. You like the muted red one best. That's the one you steal from him the most often. It's the one you're wearing now. It's warm. A little too big. Smells like him. You're not sure if anyone can tell that it's his. 

You're sitting at your desk, playing chess with Reid to pass the time. It's your move, but your fingers hover over the board without touching a piece. 

Reid studies the board for a moment longer before standing. "You can take your time. I'm going to get coffee."

You nod, still staring down at the black and white grid. The pieces blur slightly as your thoughts drift. 

You don't really notice Jason approach until he's already beside you. He doesn't say anything right away. Just gently caresses the top of your head. He leans down, voice low enough that only you can hear it.

"Move your bishop to c4," he murmurs. 

You turn to look at him. He's close. Closer than he probably should be with this many people around. If either of you leaned in a little more, you could kiss. 

You don't. Lean in a little more. Of course not. 

"You're not sabotaging me, are you?" you ask quietly, a teasing edge to your voice. 

He lets out a soft laugh, and shakes his head fondly. "No darling."

You reach up, and casually push his glasses back up his nose. 

He gives you one last look, soft and warm, then straightens and walks back towards his office. 

You look back at the board. Bishop to c4?

You paused. A frown tugged at your brow.

Drip.

The sound echoed faintly through the room.

You glanced around the kitchen.

Drip.

This time, you looked up.

A single drop of water fell from the ceiling and splattered against the countertop.

For a second, you simply stared. Then you sighed.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

Another drop followed.

Then another.

Within thirty seconds, the occasional drip had become a steady trickle. Within five minutes, it was practically raining inside your apartment. Water streamed down the walls and pooled across the hardwood floor. The ceiling bulged ominously overhead, swollen with trapped water that looked seconds away from collapsing entirely. Panic and exhaustion made for a terrible combination.

You spent the next hour alternating between swearing, dragging furniture across the room, and desperately trying to reach your landlord.

Towels covered every available surface.

Buckets appeared from closets you hadn't opened in months. A mixing bowl from your kitchen ended up catching water in the middle of your living room.

By the time the emergency maintenance crew finally arrived, your apartment looked less like a home and more like a disaster zone.

The verdict wasn't encouraging.

A pipe had burst in the apartment above yours.

Water damage. Extensive repairs. Several days at minimum. Possibly weeks.

You stared at the maintenance worker as if he had personally offended you.

"So I can't stay here?"

The man winced apologetically.

"I wouldn't recommend it."

You laughed once. It sounded slightly unhinged.

"Fantastic."

Apparently being exhausted wasn't enough.

Apparently the universe had decided to make a point.

The moment the maintenance crew left, you collapsed onto the one remaining dry corner of your couch and rubbed both hands over your face.

The apartment smelled damp already.

The air felt heavy. Water still dripped somewhere in the background.

Your home no longer felt like home.

And that realization hit harder than you'd expected.

Your apartment wasn't anything special. The furniture didn't match, half the decorations had been purchased during sleep-deprived online shopping sessions.

But it was yours.

It was where you came after difficult cases.

Where you could finally stop being an FBI profiler and simply exist.

Your phone buzzed.

You pulled it from your pocket.

Aaron Hotchner.

Briefing at 0700. Be prepared to present victimology findings.

You stared at the message. Then at the water dripping from your ceiling. Then back at the message.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, the sound bordered dangerously on hysteria.

Before common sense could intervene, you typed:

Small problem.

The reply came almost instantly.

Define small.

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.

My apartment is currently trying to become an indoor swimming pool.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Are you safe?

The question caught you off guard.

Not What happened?

Not Call your insurance company.

Just—

Are you safe?

Something warm settled unexpectedly in your chest.

Yeah. Just kinda homeless.

Several seconds passed before your phone rang.

You answered immediately.

"Are you injured?"

The concern in his voice stopped you cold.

"No."

A brief pause.

"Good."

The single word was calm and controlled.

Yet underneath it, hidden beneath years of discipline and professionalism, was unmistakable relief. You leaned back against the couch.

"I'll figure something out."

"Such as?"

You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Because the truth was you didn't have a plan. Hotels cost money. Your apartment was flooding. Your car was currently sitting dead in the BAU parking lot waiting for a mechanic.

And it was almost midnight.

The silence stretched, the kind that made people confess things.

Finally, Aaron spoke again.

"Your car is still in the parking lot?"

You frowned, confused.

"How did you know that?"

"Morgan mentioned it."

Of course he had. Morgan knew everything.

"Yeah."

Another pause.

"Pack a bag."

You blinked.

"What?"

"Pack a bag."

"Hotch—"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Your heart stumbled unexpectedly.

"What are you talking about?"

"You need somewhere to stay."

His voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. As if this decision had already been made.

"I can get a hotel."

"With what transportation?"

You opened your mouth and closed it right after.

His silence felt suspiciously like victory.

"Sir, seriously," you said. "I don't want to impose."

"You won't."

"But—"

"You are not sleeping in a flooded apartment."

The firmness in his voice left little room for argument.

Then it softened. Just slightly.

"And you're not wandering around D.C. at midnight looking for a hotel."

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.

Like the thought genuinely bothered him.

You looked around your ruined apartment.

At the puddles.

The soaked carpet.

The overturned furniture.

Part of you knew he was right.

The other part was painfully aware that Aaron Hotchner was offering to let you stay in his house.

The thought alone was enough to make your stomach twist.

"Twenty minutes."

Before you could argue again, the line disconnected.

You stared at your phone.

Somewhere between the burst pipe, the broken car, and Aaron Hotchner deciding your housing crisis was now his responsibility, your day had become significantly more complicated.

And somehow, despite everything, the knot of anxiety in your stomach had loosened just a little.

Because for the first time all evening, you weren't dealing with it alone.

You managed to pack two bags before the knock came.

Clothes.

Toiletries.

A handful of books.

A laptop.

Enough essentials to convince yourself this was temporary.

Nothing more.

The knock sounded exactly twenty minutes later.

Not twenty-one.

Not nineteen.

Twenty.

You shouldn't have been surprised.

"It's me."

You opened the door.

Aaron stepped inside.

The cool night air followed him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

His eyes swept across the apartment immediately.

Assessing.

Cataloging.

Taking in every detail.

The water damage.

The damp carpet.

The collection of towels spread across the floor.

The exhaustion written plainly across your face.

You appeared in the bedroom doorway, blowing a loose strand of hair from your eyes.

His gaze landed on you.

"Are you okay?"

The question was simple. But something about the way he asked it made your breath catch.

His voice remained calm.

Controlled.

Professional.

Yet beneath it lingered something softer, warmer.

Something that had nothing to do with Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.

You shrugged.

"Just annoyed."

A pause.

"And tired."

His expression softened almost imperceptibly.

His eyes dropped to your bags.

Without another word, he crossed the room, picked them both up effortlessly, and headed for the door.

You blinked.

"That's it?"

He glanced back.

"What?"

"No lecture?"

A reluctant smile tugged at your lips.

"No speech about emergency preparedness?"

A flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.

"I think you've had enough excitement for one day."

The warmth that spread through your chest caught you completely off guard.

You smiled despite yourself.

For the first time all night, Aaron smiled back.

Small.

Brief.

But real.

"Come on."

You followed him outside.

And despite the uncertainty waiting ahead, for the first time since the ceiling started leaking, you felt something suspiciously close to relief.

The drive there had been quiet. Not uncomfortable—just quiet in the way most things were with Aaron. Comfortable silence had always been one of his strengths. You sat in the passenger seat, watching the city lights blur past the window while exhaustion settled deeper into your bones.

At some point, the adrenaline from the flooding apartment had worn off.

Now all that remained was fatigue.

The kind that made your eyelids heavy and your thoughts slow.

The kind that reminded you you'd been awake far too long.

When Aaron finally pulled into the driveway, you stared at the house for a moment.

Aaron's house was exactly what you expected.

And somehow nothing like you expected at all.

Warm light glowed from several windows.

The porch light had been left on.

It looked welcoming.

Lived in.

Safe.

Something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly.

Because while you'd worked with Aaron for years, this felt strangely intimate.

The BAU knew Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief, profiler, leader.

The man who always had a plan.

The man who somehow remained calm while everyone else was losing their minds.

But this wasn't Hotch's house.

This was Aaron's.

And for some reason, that distinction felt important.

Aaron grabbed your bags before you could protest.

You followed him inside.

The moment the door opened, warmth greeted you.

Not just physical warmth.

The kind that came from a home people actually lived in.

Family photographs lined the hallway walls.

A backpack rested beside the staircase.

A pair of sneakers sat near the front door.

Jack's drawings covered the refrigerator in colorful chaos.

There were magnets holding up spelling tests and crayon masterpieces.

A toy car sat abandoned beneath the coffee table.

The faint scent of garlic and tomato sauce lingered in the air from dinner.

Evidence of life.

Evidence of things Aaron never brought to work.

For the first time, you realized how carefully he separated those worlds.

His professional and personal life.

And somehow you had just stepped directly into the second one.

"The guest room is upstairs."

His voice pulled you back to reality.

"Thank you."

Aaron looked at you.

Really looked at you.

And something in his expression softened.

"You don't need to thank me."

"I kind of do."

"No, you don’t."

The sincerity in his voice surprised you.

For a second, neither of you looked away.

The air felt strangely still.

You were suddenly aware of how quiet the house was.

How close he was standing.

How tired you were.

You cleared your throat.

"I'll figure something else out as soon as I can."

A small smile appeared.

The kind of smile Aaron rarely showed at work.

"There isn't a rush."

Your stomach did something strange.

You chose to ignore it.

Then, after a brief pause, he added—

"And outside work, you can call me Aaron."

The words hit you harder than being invited into his house.

Your brain stalled completely.

"Oh."

The smile widened slightly.

"Is that a problem?"

"No."

Your answer came entirely too quickly.

"No. Not a problem."

A flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.

"Good."

You swallowed.

"Aaron."

The name felt unfamiliar.

Dangerously personal.

Something unreadable crossed his expression.

Gone almost immediately.

"Get some sleep."

You nodded.

"Goodnight."

The guest room was simple but comfortable.

Clean sheets.

Soft lighting.

A neatly folded blanket at the foot of the bed.

You changed into pajamas, sat on the edge of the mattress, and listened to the quiet house around you.

No dripping water.

No maintenance crews.

No collapsing ceiling.

Just silence.

Safe silence.

The realization washed over you unexpectedly.

You hadn't realized how tense you'd been all evening until now.

The knot in your shoulders loosened.

Your breathing slowed.

For the first time since walking into your flooded apartment, you relaxed.

And within minutes, you were asleep.

The arrangement was supposed to last a few days.

Maybe a week.

Just long enough for repairs.

Then you'd go home.

Simple.

Temporary.

Reasonable.

Unfortunately, water damage had other plans.

One week became two.

Two weeks became three.

Apparently replacing flooring, drywall, plumbing, and half a ceiling took significantly longer than anyone had originally estimated.

By the beginning of the third week, something unexpected had happened.

You'd developed a routine.

Every morning, you woke before six.

Every morning, Aaron was already awake.

Without fail.

You'd find him sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee and a stack of case files.

Reading.

Annotating.

Working.

The first few mornings consisted mostly of practical conversations.

Need a ride?

How's the apartment?

Did you sleep okay?

Simple things.

Professional things.

Then gradually, without either of you realizing it, those conversations changed.

One morning became breakfast together.

Then another.

Soon, sharing coffee before work felt normal.

Comfortable.

You started discussing books, cases, current events, random observations about human behavior.

Sometimes one conversation would lead to another until suddenly twenty minutes had passed and it was time to leave for Quantico.

Other mornings neither of you spoke much at all.

Aaron would read and you'd drink coffee.

The silence between you settling naturally instead of awkwardly.

It surprised you how much you enjoyed those mornings.

The BAU lived in chaos. Deadlines. Darkness.

But here?

There was coffee, morning sunlight, sound of pages turning.

And Aaron sitting across the table.

Little by little, you learned things about him.

Not because he volunteered information. He rarely volunteered anything.

But details slipped through anyway.

You learned he preferred his coffee black.

No sugar or cream.

You learned he reread reports whenever he was worried about a case.

You learned he loosened his tie almost immediately after walking through the front door.

As though shedding the weight of responsibility one careful inch at a time.

Most surprisingly of all—

You learned he smiled.

Frequently.

Far more frequently than anyone at the BAU would ever believe.

The first time you pointed it out, he looked genuinely offended.

"I smile."

You laughed.

"You really don't."

"I do."

"No."

"I do."

"You absolutely do not."

Aaron looked mildly scandalized.

Which somehow only made it funnier.

You laughed harder.

He rolled his eyes.

The sight nearly killed you.

Because Aaron Hotchner rolling his eyes was somehow one of the most unexpectedly charming things you'd ever witnessed.

Jack adapted far faster than either of you.

Children were like that.

Adults complicated things.

Kids simply accepted them.

By the end of the first week, Jack treated your presence as completely normal.

By the second week, he'd started knocking on your bedroom door every morning before school.

By the third week, he routinely appeared beside you on the couch while doing homework.

One evening, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor while Jack enthusiastically explained the rules of a board game.

You were losing.

Badly.

"You're terrible at this."

You stared at him.

"I've known the rules for seven minutes."

"Still terrible."

"I think you're exploiting a loophole."

Jack gasped dramatically.

"You sound like Dad."

The front door opened.

Aaron walked inside.

His gaze immediately found the two of you.

It always did.

You tried not to notice that.

Tried and failed.

He loosened his tie as he crossed the room. Then paused. Jack was winning. You were clearly not. The board reflected this reality mercilessly.

Aaron raised an eyebrow.

"How's it going?"

"She's terrible."

You pointed accusingly.

"I'd like it noted that I'm being bullied by a child."

Jack looked delighted.

Aaron laughed.

Actually laughed.

Not a brief chuckle.

A genuine laugh.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor.

Aaron immediately realized his mistake.

His amusement vanished.

"Don't."

"That was a laugh."

"It wasn't."

"It absolutely was."

"It wasn't."

Jack looked at you.

You looked at Jack.

Neither of you believed him.

And for one brief moment, watching Aaron attempt—and fail—to maintain his dignity, happiness settled warmly inside your chest.

The dangerous kind.

The kind you weren't supposed to feel.

The problem wasn't living with Aaron.

The problem was getting used to him.

Getting used to seeing him relaxed.

Getting used to the way his eyes softened when he looked at Jack.