png.rae

“Look, all I’m saying Spence is if you’re looking for a little more experience, I’d be happy to help. I’m curious what’s under the hood.”

Morgan chokes on his coffee at that last part.

“You sound like a pervert.” Spencer frowns.

A dirty giggle escapes your lips, the expression on his face reminiscent of shell-shock.

“This conversation is so inappropriate.”

JJ falls for the wounded innocence on Spencer’s face and apologizes. You’re not that easily fooled. He smirks at you.

“Besides, statistically speaking, it’s unlikely you could handle what’s under the hood.”

That makes you cackle in the least feminine way imaginable, which is unfortunate because Hotch happens to enter the room right as the sound comes out of you.

Fearing a scolding from the World’s Most Serious Boss™, you clear your throat and sit up straight. Garcia shuffles some paperwork on the desk, handing out files to each of you. Rossi hits several buttons on a remote with great force until the screen finally turns on.

Unable to look away, you find yourself fixated on the images of the three young women. Their throats have been cut deeper than you’ve ever seen before. It’s grotesque and unimaginable, but that’s not what unsettles you the most. Each of the women is wearing a 1950s swing dress, their hair has been styled, and they look alarmingly like you.

Reading your mind, Prentiss mutters under her breath.

“Freaky.”

Everyone settles down as Hotch addresses the room.

“We’ve been invited to New York to help with an unsub targeting high-class, career women. Garcia.”

Garcia nods, oversized pink kitten earrings jiggling a little as she does.

“Yep. Um, all three of these women were badass business babes, and it looks like this slimy bastard didn’t like that so he took them, uh- did- that to them, and dressed them up like Stepford Wives after.”

JJ taps a pen against her lips, deep in thought.

Prentiss takes the floor first.

“Well obviously this can’t be someone who was in their prime in the 50s. He’d be dead or at the very least ancient and completely immobile by now. There has to be some connection to, or nostalgia for, that era.”

Morgan nods, leaning back in his chair.

“Pretty safe bet our unsub’s a white male.”

It’s your turn to float a theory now. You avoid Hotch’s intimidating glare as you speak.

“What if we’ve got someone lashing out at the shift in women’s place in the world?”

Rossi’s lip quirks up in a subtle proud smile.

“Go on.”

“They’re all modern, high power businesswomen. Probably quite outspoken, and they sure as shit wouldn’t dress like that voluntarily. Plus there’s the obvious overkill with the wound.”

Hotch’s eyes bore into you.

“Elaborate.”

“If you’re a weak man that can’t live up to today’s societal ideals of masculinity, you’d want to bring back what you perceive as better times. When women were well-behaved, controllable, stayed at home, dressed like this — kept quiet.”

He nods, expression unreadable. You don’t let it throw you off.

“The depth of each laceration is vicious, and unnecessary for the kill alone. That amount of force is pure rage. He’s silencing these women in the most aggressive way possible.”

Hotch places his file back on the desk and heads toward the door.

“Good. Garcia, start with powerful women in New York who have recently divorced their inferior husbands. That’s likely our trigger. Wheels up in 30.”

---

Curled up in your seat on the jet, you scrutinize the case files for the seventh time today.

Prentiss and Rossi are busy trying to figure out Spencer’s latest card trick, JJ is having some alone time with her beloved cheetos, and Hotch is staring at his computer screen with such intensity you wonder if he’s hoping it will explode.

Morgan, on the other hand, is in the seat opposite you, blatantly profiling you.

“Could you stop that? Is there not some sort of unwritten rule that we don’t do that to each other?”

He feigns innocence.

“No idea what you’re talking about, baby girl.”

The sound of a throat clearing though the speaker of Morgan’s macbook puts a wide grin on his face.

“Come on Garcia, you’ll always be baby girl number 1, but you know I’m a sucker for a woman in uniform too.”

Garcia’s grumbled protest fades into the background as the realization slowly hits you.

“Holy shit.”

Morgan leans forward, laser focused now.

“What is it?”

“A woman in uniform. Garcia, the women all attended fundraisers on the week of their deaths right?”

Frantic keyboard clicking down the line draws the attention of the rest of the team.

“Correct. Gimme two ticks.”

A beat. More keyboard clicking.

“Looks like two were veteran benefit dinners and one was an NYPD gala. Does that mean something?”

“I think our victimology is more complex than just successful business women. We thought they went to these events in a business capacity, but what if that’s not the case? Did any of them serve?”

Garcia continues working her magic down the line. Hotch is clearly listening to what’s happening, eyes still fixed on his screen.

“Lemme see, uh, yeah vics number one and two were marines and our third girl was a sheriff’s deputy in Atlanta.”

You grin, thrilled the noose around this bastard is tightening a little.

“Great, that narrows it down.”

Hotch chimes in next, always waiting in the wings to piss in your cheerios.

“Hardly.”

You focus all your efforts on not groaning at his response. Luckily though, it’s Spencer to the rescue — your favourite nerd puts in his two cents.

“Actually, that does help. We know he’s escalating, so he’s likely to kill again in a matter of days. If we can pinpoint the next event that fits his victimology, we could have a shot at catching him there.”

Hotch shakes his head, eyes scanning the case files on the table.

“His hunting ground’s too vast. There’s thousands of guests there, hundreds of whom could fit his victimology. It’s an impossible operation to control, let alone find the right victim in all the chaos.”

You catch Prentiss’s eye, she tilts her head in silent suggestion. You nod in agreement. 

Hotch is more likely to listen to her, so she speaks up.

“Unless we plant one.”

She waits until he looks at her, then gestures her coffee cup in your direction. You sit completely still, anxiously awaiting his decision.

“No.”

You huff out a frustrated laugh.

“With all due respect sir, I could be sisters with each of these women. We have the same hair color, eye color, and body type, I was a detective before the FBI recruited me, and I’m also classy as fuck.”

Prentiss scoffs at that comment. You stick your tongue out in retaliation. 

Hotch’s eyes search for Rossi’s, silently pleading with him to be the voice of reason. Unfortunately for him, Rossi knows you’re right.

“Kid’s got a point, Hotch.”

“There’s no guarantee he’ll choose you.”

You recoil dramatically at that, slamming a closed fist to your chest mimicking a knife to the heart.

“First off, ouch — way to bruise a girl’s ego. Second, I’ll make sure he chooses me.”

JJ pokes her head round, eager to hear what’s coming next.

“How’re you gonna do that?”

You shrug.

“He wants a tough, loud, woman that needs taming. So I’ll talk loudly about my time as a detective, how much I love to make money, and how I’m the man of the house. He’ll hate me so much he’ll be compelled to kill me.”

“No. We’re not doing this.” Hotch barks out.

Rossi’s eyes narrow from across the jet, intrigued by the outburst.

“It’s our best shot and you know it.”

---

Several hours of being dragged around high-end stores later, JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia via video call have successfully helped you find the perfect dress for the gala this evening.

You step out onto the streets of New York in a slinky black number that makes you feel like the hottest woman on earth.

Spotting the team huddled behind the SUVs for a final briefing, you scan the lot to check it’s safe to join them. 

The plunging neckline of your dress flusters Spencer, who doesn’t know where to look. Morgan, ever the professional, knows exactly where he shouldn’t look, but drinks you in anyway. 

“Damn, woman.”

You flash him your cutest smile and twirl, giving the dress its moment.

Hotch glares at you. The heat of his gaze would normally make you feel exposed, but you’re feeling brave tonight so you look him up and down. It feels more suggestive than it should. Now there’s a line you’d love to cross.

He shifts uncomfortably for a second.

“It’s a bit much, no?”

You wonder how on earth Hotch ever came to have a son with his clear aversion to women and sex. Or maybe it’s just you? a voice in your head teases.

Prentiss laughs, brushing him off.

“Absolutely not. Our unsub wants to tame a wild animal, and he’s a sexually motivated killer. This is the perfect dress.”

That shuts him up.

---

One hour of mingling is all it takes to remind you why you never come to these things. 

They’re boring, half the people attending have no right to be there, and heels really hurt your feet. 

Hotch has been hovering at the end of the bar like an angry wasp, watching your every move. You’re not sure what you did to make him hate you, but you’ll unpack that another day.

As you throw back the last drop of your champagne in a minor act of defiance, a man who can only be described as short and pathetic looking sidles up to the bar behind you.

Right where you want him, you ignore his presence and continue your insufferable conversation with the CEO of nobodygivesafuck-incorporated.

“I mean, that’s exactly why I left my ex-husband. Forgive me for being so crass, but the man was a total pussy.” 

Tossing your head back so you invade the unsub’s space slightly, you let out a bitter laugh, going in for the kill.

You can tell instantly that your plan has worked. It’s almost as though the temperature in the room has dropped five degrees. The unsub’s icy stare burns a hole in your back.

Ready to finally catch the fucker, you mumble some excuse to your conversation partner and push off the bar, ready to disappear off somewhere alone looking deliciously abductable.

Unfortunately, Hotch has other ideas. A hand grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the bar, dragging you across the ballroom until you’re out of site behind a pillar.

“What the fuck, Hotch? I had him!” you hiss.

Still holding your wrist, Hotch clocks a waiter approaching from behind. Needing a diversion, he leans in close and drops his gaze to your lips. His free hand lightly traces your curves.

Frozen in place, you watch as the waiter disappears, oblivious to the pair of you.

“He’s gone.”

As though he’s repelled by you, Hotch jolts backwards, creating some distance and leaving you feeling somewhat needy — though you’d never admit that, of course.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re gonna scare him off.”

“Good.” he grits out.

“Good? We have him.”

Hotch’s gaze drops back to your lips for a split second. It happens so fast, you wonder if you’re imagining it.

“I’m calling this off. It’s too dangerous.”

Now you really lose your cool.

“Oh. My. God. What is your problem? I’m just as capable as everyone else on the team. Do you seriously not trust me to get this done?”

Hotch almost looks hurt by the implication. He exhales, eyes flicking up at the ceiling.

“It’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

“What if he makes his move tonight? He’s escalating. I can’t guarantee your safety and you’re unarmed.”

You narrow your eyes, challenging Hotch more than you normally would. Maybe it’s the champagne.

“I am not.”

Hotch drags his eyes over your form slowly, studying every inch of you. You silently question whether someone has suddenly turned the thermostat up.

“Where are you keeping your gun? You’re practically naked.” he spits out.

Raising a brow at that word, you hold his eye. Hotch averts his gaze.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m calling it off.”

You search his face, forcing him to look at you. This time he doesn’t look away.

Unsure if it’s bravery or stupidity that takes over, you allow yourself to step out of line for a second.

“Is that an order as my boss, or something else?”

Eyes fixed firmly on your own, Hotch’s hands hover over your hips, fingertips lightly grazing your skin through the silky fabric.

With a little bit of trouble behind your eyes, you raise your chin closer to his. He leans into you, cautiously placing his hands on your waist.

Neither of you say a word. You don’t need to — the air is electric.

Before you even realize what’s happening, your hands are unbuttoning his pants. Then your hands are on him. He presses a desperate kiss to your lips as you stroke his hard length. 

Throwing his head back, one thing is crystal clear to you in this moment: Hotch has completely lost control.

Skin on fire, pulse hammering, you give in to your desires completely. 

Looking up at him doe-eyed and full of want, you study his face. He looks wildly turned on and furious simultaneously.

You’ve always felt something between you, but it’s only at this exact moment as you drop to your knees behind the pillar that you realize: it’s not hatred, it’s lust.

Already past the point of no return, Hotch tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your mouth onto him. He groans when you flick your tongue over his tip.

As he fucks your mouth, you slide your hands under his shirt, pleasantly surprised by the definition of his muscles.

The next few minutes are a complete blur. You’re a mess. Eyes watering, mascara running, hair unsalvageable. And yet, somehow, Hotch looks even worse. He swipes a thumb across your lip, tucking himself back in his pants.

Reaching a hand out to help you stand, he doesn’t say a word. He pulls you close and hovers over your mouth, tasting himself as he presses a final, searing kiss to your lips.

Nodding down the corridor behind you, he avoids eye contact.

“Bathroom.”

Understanding the instruction, you glide down the hall and disappear behind the oak door to clean up.

Hotch leaves in the opposite direction.

JJ startles you as you slip out of the bathroom, good as new. Looking around, she makes sure nobody’s watching before speaking in a hushed tone.

“Hey. Do you know where Hotch went?”

You top up your lipstick in the mirror behind her, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact.

“Nope, he chewed me out for drinking on the job, then he just disappeared.”

Her eyes scan the room, suspicious.

“Huh. That’s... out of character.”

---

Never before have you been so delighted to have a creep watching you. You breathe the biggest sigh of relief as you spot the unsub out the corner of your eye at the hotel breakfast buffet.

You may have ruined your professional relationship with your boss, and consequently quite possibly your whole career, but you haven’t ruined the case.

There is, however, one minor hiccup. You left your gun back in the room. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue and you’d simply sneak back up and grab it, but the predatory look in this man’s eyes tells you there won’t be a chance for that.

Gearing up for what’s to come, you inhale deeply and saunter toward the exit, making a beeline for the smoking area.

You’ve barely got one foot out the door before you hear a sickening crack, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of your skull. 

Your vision fades to black as a warmth spreads across your head. Your final thought before falling unconscious is that you wouldn’t have bothered washing your hair this morning if you’d known it was going to be covered in blood.

---

Stirring awake in a cloudy haze, you wince at the unwelcome combination of the mother of all headaches and a supremely unpleasant ringing sound in your ears.

Any plans you had to check your wound are swiftly ruined by the sudden realization that your hands are tied. 

Fully conscious now, you take in the scene before you. You’re in an abandoned 50s-themed diner, tied to a chair. Your knees are all fucked up and scraped too.

You feel a presence looming behind you.

“Did you seriously have to drag me across the ground? Are you too weak to lift a 130lb woman?”

With all the restraint of a petulant child, he kicks the chair leg closest to him. It does nothing other than move you a few inches across the floor.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

You bark out a laugh.

“Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Truly.”

Logically speaking, you know you should be buying time, not aggravating him further, but he’s so pathetic you genuinely can’t help yourself.

It’s a decision you come to regret pretty much instantly as he holds a chef’s knife to your throat.

“Women like you need to learn your place.”

Taking slow, shallow breaths and wriggling to avoid the blade biting into your skin, you run the numbers. 

One exit, one murderous asshole standing in the way of said exit. One big ass knife. Four chair legs. You could kick backwards, but your hands are tied behind your back, so you’ll probably land on them and get stuck. You could pretend someone’s at the door, but that buys you five seconds tops. Or you could try to talk your way out of it.

You open your mouth to give option three a shot, but there’s no need. A gunshot followed by the sound of the lock shattering forces the unsub to pull away from you. The knife draws blood as he retreats like a complete coward, but it’s just a superficial cut.

Hotch bursts into the door, and no matter how minor your injuries are, the second he lays eyes on you he sees red. 

Watching in shock, you sit helpless and hazy as Hotch lays into the unsub. You hear the unforgettable crack of the man’s nose breaking before Hotch slams him into the ground.

Standing over him, boot crushing the unsub’s throat, there’s venom in his words when he speaks.

“If you ever put your hands on her again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

The unsub chokes out a garbled sentence. You’re pretty sure you hear “whore” in there somewhere, but the rest is fuzzy.

Your vision starts to black out again, accompanied by the soundtrack of knuckles repeatedly making contact with bone. Agonised grunts come from both men as they engage in a violent scuffle you don't have the privilege of witnessing.

Hotch yells out in pain and the helplessness of being tied up stirs you once more. You're paralysed with the nauseating fear that he could be being killed just a few feet away from you right now.

Chaos descends upon the diner as the rest of the team bursts in, guns trained on the unsub. 

You’re not sure at what point it happened, but when you look back over at the unsub, he lies motionless on the floor with Hotch’s hands wrapped around his throat.

Rossi grips your face, checking for signs of life. You wince at the sudden reminder of the throbbing pain at the back of your head.

“You doing okay, kid?”

You manage to nod, still unsure what the hell happened across the room.

“How did you find me?”

Crouching down behind you, Morgan gets to work untying your hands.

“Garcia identified the unsub as the caterer. You’re sitting in the straw that broke the camel’s back. One post-divorce, failed business.”

Prentiss and Reid have successfully peeled Hotch away from the unsub. He stands opposite you, shirt spattered with blood, eyes dark and fixated on your own.

Taking it all in, you search Hotch’s face for a reassurance you know he can’t offer you right now. 

The team are all here and all eyes are on you, so instead he approaches you cautiously, inspecting the matted blood on the back of your head. 

“Rossi’s going to take you to the hospital.”

His eyes land on the body on the ground. A flicker of disgust crosses his face.

“I’ve got some paperwork to fill out.”

You sit unmoving, not sure what the right thing to say is. Bodies move around the room in a blur and you’re having trouble focusing on anything right now.

Hotch checks nobody is watching, then leans in close, lips grazing your ear.

“I’ll swing by the hospital later. Alone.” 

You hate yourself for it, but you have to ask the question, so you do.

“Is he dead?”

Hotch lets out a small sigh.

“Yes.”

You lower your voice.

“Did you do that for me?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

You don’t know what this means. Whether Hotch will get in trouble, whether you still even have a job, whether the team will look at you differently — whether Hotch will look at you differently. 

Sensing your impending downward spiral, Hotch lifts your hand feigning a wound-check, squeezing it lightly.

“Everything’s fine. I promise.”

And even though your head hurts like hell and a man is dead, you trust Hotch implicitly when he says those words.