FUCK OFF

Hotch, for some reason or another, had been an absolute ass throughout the entirety of the case so far. Body tensed as if he were ready to pounce at any given moment, frown somehow more severe, and his eyes the definition of broody. Morgan had texted Garcia about it no less than three times but didn’t risk anymore in case Hotch got onto him about that too. He seemed to be waiting for something, like a shoe to drop, but didn’t even know what he was looking for. 

One thing was clear though; There was nothing to be found from the university. They left once that became clear, settling into their designated spot in the university police department's office. It felt odd to be surrounded by so many young people, hearing the way they talked to each other and bounced around one another. Lively, if a police department could be described as such. They had three bodies, dead end witnesses, and an invisible clock ticking behind them, reminding them that there wasn’t much time between this and the next victim. 

Unfortunately by day three the next victim had been picked: Natalie Clawson. A senior in the data science program, she had a job set up as a data analyst for Ulta Beauty. This time they call in the friend group, especially since two of them last saw her. Cameron, again, and then you. You who stands at the front of the group, hair blown out perfectly, your makeup sharp like the rest of your outfit. You’ve got a black mini skirt on over a pair of tights, a form fitting button down clinging to your figure, a blazer over your arm along with the Birkin bag you’re sporting, gold jewelry glinting off your ears, neck, and wrists, only one ring on your hand. Red bottom shoes and a scent like heaven clinging to you, you look highly unimpressed when they emerge. 

For a moment they still under the weight of your disgust that you haven’t even bothered to disguise, “Nice of you to show your face around here for once.”

Hotch sighs, head tilting back as he resists the urge to drag his hands down his face, “Can we please focus on the case for the moment? Everything else can come after.”

Wrong words to say judging by the way your glare sharpens, mouth pulling into a line that speaks of unfathomable disappointment, “Alright. Lead the way Sir.”

All around both parties exchange looks of absolute bafflement, shrugging shoulders as they attempt to piece together the information. Especially when you and Hotch wind up falling into step together, although you’re clearly agitated by him and he’s stuck between trying to concentrate or talking to you. There’s not a word said that could warm the frigid silence you and him have created around each other, spreading to everyone else as well. 

Once inside Hotch turns to look at you all, fingers already pointing, “Morgan take Cameron again, Emily, you can take her. We’ll interview the rest of them here.”

He turns to you, something like a plea in his eyes when you glare right back at him, “We just need information.”

You scoff, eyes already rolling in a way that surprises your friends. To them you’re the epitome of future lawyer, president, whoever. Clean cut lines, never a minute off the dot for meetings and deadlines, cold but present, passionate too, even if it shows in different ways. You don’t do things like roll your eyes, and they don’t ever see Hotch tilt his head back in such clear, obvious frustration that it’s almost jarring. 

“Just information is what you shall receive then. Let’s not waste time.”

The four of you leave the rest of them in confused but charged silence, one that Hotch doesn’t elaborate on any further as they start to talk to the friends. Camerons’ goes by quicker, mostly because they’ve already interviewed him before, and Emily? Well, she’s trying to get through to you but it’s like talking to a wall of steel. You give her clinically perfect answers, everything remembered clear as day and with all the details she could need. 

You’re innocent, that much is clear, and you’re also not going to let her dive deeper than that. She has the things she needs to know, but your personal life is made abundantly clear that it is just that; Personal. You don’t know her and she can profile you all she wants but she’s never going to get anywhere further than that. She comes back an hour later exhausted with her efforts knowing that she’s lost to a twenty-two year old college girl. 

Hotch raises his brow at you when you both return, “You gave her a hard time.”

You grab your blazer and purse, shrugging, “I gave her the information needed. Are we done now?”

“Technically we have what we can get, but there’s a few more things we need to go over. Did Natalie have any enemies or on the flipside, admirers?”

The purse gets set down with a thump, “Natalie was good and kind, she didn’t like Aiden Thomas because he’s arrogant, she didn’t like Shaera Kingsley because she’s stuck-up and sleeps her way to good grades, and she’ll sleep her way into a comfortable life. One where she’ll never amount to anything besides an occasional name on a check for a donation to charity. She didn’t like Julian Borough because he liked to hit on her even after she told him she wasn’t interested, but like clockwork he invites her to his frats party every two weeks whenever they throw. These are the three people she complained about the most and saw on a somewhat average basis. The closest to admirer and enemy she possessed.”

“What about professors, did she have good relationships with them?”

Your eyes flash, something dangerous there, “Freshman year she didn’t like Professor Angela Crone because of the way she graded things. Sophomore year she didn’t care for Professors Boeing and Chimney, Boeing for the way he taught and Chimney for his material, she thought he didn’t understand it correctly. Junior year her least favorite professor was Monoville, she had clashing opinions that were often verbalized. This past semester her least favorite is Professor Monroe for how he teaches, she thought it was incompatible for the majority of those taking his class, all the TAs she got along with.”

“Any conflicts in the friend group here with her?”

“Beyond skirmishes of who puked in whose car and if someone stood someone up there’s nothing that could reasonably result in something like this.”

“Friends outside of you all, did she have very many?”

“She’s in a sorority, pi beta phi, you should ask the sisters, or I can tell you and we can sit here for two hours talking about all her relationships with the sorority sisters and then we can go another four hours talking about where she stands with the other sororities, and tomorrow we can go over the frats. But just so you know in her sorority alone there’s 178 current members. If we factor in that there’s 1,893 sorority sisters on campus and 1,957 fraternity brothers then we’re looking at 3,850 relationships that go one on one alone. Then you factor in dynamics between a third variable that interrupts the one on one relationship because humans are unpredictable. You can be friends with someone on a solo level and not like each other in a group setting, sometimes vice versa. This leaves us with 7,419,000 possible relationship outcomes surrounding one person.”

Automatically they turned to look at Spencer, who was looking at you with something funny in his eye, like he’d struck gold as you were speaking, “Reid, is that right?”

He jolted, just for a second, cheeks pinkening at having been called out, “Yes, she’s correct, and that’s the simplified number too. We don’t have enough time to go over everything and ask all these people. We need to make an overall statement, might help narrow things down.”

You nod, finger tapping against your bag, “If you’re interested in watching how they’ll react to the news, separate them into their cliques. I trust you, the profilers, to figure out who goes with who. Do this for pi beta phi, kappa kappa gamma, and delta gamma. The rest of them can withstand a mass announcement if you go house to house. Do this, and you’ll have until approximately midnight before all of campus knows about your involvement with the case.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

His question makes you shrug, “Either you’ve finally found your seats for the unsubs show or you’ll figure it out. I hope that it’s the latter, now, is there anything else you all need from us? Or can I go get briefed on my case?”

Hotch perks up, just a bit, “You have a case?”

You don’t glare this time, you just look at him with that measured look that spells for a knife about to be twisted, “I’m a lawyer, didn’t you know that? Aren’t you happy you predicted me right?”

“I didn’t know you were still interested in pursuing law.”

“You don’t know what I’m interested in, period. You made sure of that too.”

“I know.”

For a second you simply stare at him, so clearly displeased, but then you turn on your heel to stride out the door, letting it slam shut behind you as you make your way out of the building. They watch you go, your imposing figure quickly vanishing into the foray of people, and then around the corner. Katalina, one of your close friends, peers at him, “You’re, you’re Agent Hotchner, aren’t you?”

He looks at the young woman, “What gave it away?”

“You both glare the same way. Like you’ll keep people away with it.”

Emily is the one to connect the dots, “She’s your daughter. Oh my god you have a daughter?”

Hotch sighs, standing as he does, “Yes, if she’ll even admit it.”

Morgan stares, then he looks at Spencer, who’s looking at Hotch funny, then back to said man, “She seemed ecstatic to see you again, I thought you and Haley had been married this whole time.”

“Not always, we dated in high school and broke up after college, I came out to San Francisco to be a prosecutor, I met her mother, we wound up having her, and then I left for the BAU…and Haley.”

Your friends wince but they stand up too, gathering their things and quietly muttering goodbyes as the team is left in an awkward, strained silence. He shuts his eyes briefly before clenching his hands once, then he smoothes them out, “I will tell you this once, and only once. I was in her life, consistently, and then I was not. I will not be answering any questions regarding our relationship, but she can do as she pleases.”

And that’s that. 

____________

Hotch knows it’s a bad idea to knock on your door, but he does it anyway. He hadn’t known what your face looked like as an adult until now and it’s hard to reconcile the idea of you, baby faced with your wild hair and dirt stained cheeks. With you now, sharp featured and dark lined lips, high heels and degrees under your belt despite being twenty-two and in your senior year of college (again). He paid for one semester of your college, always, which was how he knew where you were going, but beyond that he didn’t know anything. 

Part of him hadn’t expected to actually see you today, he’d thought you might accept under the condition that he not be there, but you’d shown up without protest. You had wanted to see him, despite it all. He knocks on the door, and you answer him a moment later. You’re still dressed as you were earlier but you’re no longer wearing the heels, those have been tucked away already. He smells something cooking from inside, something good and something that reminds him of the life he left behind, the life he traded. 

“Can I help you with something?”

He nods, glancing inside, “Can I come in?”

Your jaw works as you think it over before you step aside, letting him in. Your apartment isn’t what he expected, he’d thought you’d go for a minimalist look, something that fit the coldness rolling off of you. It’s a pleasant surprise when he sees the artwork displayed on the wall in alternating heights and placements, colorful flower arrangements displayed proudly with thick coffee table books scattered around the place. You’ve got pictures on display, deep reds, purples, your home is borderline whimsical. 

“Expecting somebody?”

“No.”

He slips his shoes off because you and your mother were always adamant about no shoes in the house. A rule that used to make you giggle. He remembered from when you were little, your chubby fingers prying at his laces that he’d purposely unlace slowly just to make you laugh with impatience and attempt to help or tug him inside. He’d given that up though, and now you won’t look him in the eye. He’s not even really welcomed into your apartment. 

If he stayed would he have a key to your apartment just for emergencies? Would his picture be up there beside the one of you and your mother? He doesn’t know, he’ll never figure it out either. Instead he turns his attention back to you, to your kitchen and whatever you’re cooking. There’s textbooks open, stacks of files open, scattered almost, but he sees the control in your chaotic spread, “What has your schooling looked like?”

He watches you tense, lips pursing for a minute as you stir the liquid in your pot, “I graduated high school at fourteen after six months of being there, I then went here, to Berkeley, for political science and psychology. I was…determined, to do as much as I could. I did two degrees in two years, went to law school, got it done in two years, I was eighteen when I finished. I spent nineteen as a public defender, then I came back to school so I could study linguistics and neuroscience.”

“What’s your IQ?”

“176, it matches my LSAT scores.”

“When did they conclude that you’re a genius?”

“When I turned eight.”

After you left. It goes unspoken, but it’s true. Hotch left when you were five for Seattle, he’d spend the next six years there, keeping contact consistently up until you were eleven, when he was transferred to the BAU in Quantico. It was after the transfer, after he reconnected with Haley (who was almost your middle name), communication started to fall apart. You were sixteen when it finally clicked in your head that he didn’t want anything to do with you, or at least you just weren’t high enough on his list of priorities to keep up with. You were sixteen and graduating from UC Berkeley with two degrees under your belt and he didn’t show up to it. He’d left the seat empty, so you stopped saving one for him. 

He’d gone to UC Berkeley for his degree, and you followed him in his footsteps because no matter what you did you just couldn’t escape him or his legacy that literally flowed through your veins. You were a prosecutor for a year, just enough to help with bills and gain experience. Then you did school for the past few years while simultaneously juggling cases. You lived a very, very busy life, but you wouldn’t have it any other way either. 

“You’ve done well for yourself.”

The praise makes you shudder. It’s something you’ve craved for so long and learned to resent when it wasn’t given. All you had wanted was for him to say you were doing well, that he was proud, that he wished he could be there to celebrate your accomplishments. What you got was 2,833 miles between you and him, empty voicemails and a number that sat untouched on your contacts list. Strained silence despite the lack of the others presence, now it was oppressive, unbearable. 

You regret letting him in, seeing the face that isn’t yours but it belongs to you standing right outside your door, pleading to be let in. He doesn’t belong in your space, it’s made clear from the way he stands between the chairs on your island and the couch, unsure of where he should be. Part of you wants to throw your hands in the air, tell him to get the hell out because you needed bim then but you don’t need him now. The other part is still the little girl who waited by the door for her dad to come home but he never did, the girl who waited by the phone for it to ring and cried herself to sleep when the chime you set for him never came through. 

“How’s Virginia?”

How’s Haley? Hotch doesn’t even know where to begin, if he should even bring up the existence of his son. He doubts you’d react well to it, so he keeps his mouth shut even if he might regret it later, “Virginia is fine, it’s different than theWest coast, the people are faster, sharper. You’d fit in over there.”

Except you wouldn’t fit in over there because that’d mean fitting into Hotch’s life and you both know you don’t. You’re the estranged daughter, the genius he helped make but couldn’t raise, the product of a relationship that shouldn’t have happened. The clothes you wear, the way you carry yourself, that could make you an East coaster, but it’s your existence that prohibits it from happening, even if you want to leave for the other side. 

“I thought about DC.”

Warily, he takes a seat at the island, “But you’re not going there yet.”

You shake your head, “No, not yet, there’s more degrees I want to get first.”

“You sound like Spencer, except he’s stopped at five.”

“I intend to out-degree him.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that, he might take it as a challenge.”

“You can tell him I’ll win it then.”

Spencer intrigues you. A fellow genius with a slightly higher IQ than you, it doesn’t matter to you though. You’re doing what you need to do and as long as he doesn’t interfere with that then you can peacefully co-exist with him. Now if your father could stop interfering with your life as it is now, you’d be peaceful too. (You wouldn't, you know it to be too truthful to admit to though). 

“You’ve grown up.”

It’s truthful too, and you hate that. You’ve grown up, you wear bras and pencil skirts, you line your lips and fill it in with gloss, you blowout your hair every morning and you drink protein shakes for breakfast. There’s case files on your counter, Birkin bag on the counter spilling with notes and evidence. Wine on your kitchen counter, floor cleaned and living room tidy. Your bills are paid, you graduate (again) in a semesters’ time, you’re what any young adult aspires to be. 

Healthy, well maintained, comfortable. Yet distinctly isolated despite the friends you’ve made and unattainable to most people around you. They aren’t allowed to see the depth of what you’re feeling, they don’t get to come close enough to offer comfort even when you desperately need it. You prefer it that way though, you dislike when people can see through your cool facade, you hate it even more when they call you on it too. If you could, you’d prefer to be thought of as something almost inhuman, more robot than flesh, simply because it’d mean people would stop trying to get into your head and see what lies there. 

Profilers, you think, are some of the worst people in the world simply because their whole job description is reading people. Your father read you easier than a book when you were younger and you doubted much had changed despite the distance between you both. The rest of his team could read you too and you’d be a fool to think otherwise, but it didn’t mean you had to be open or talk about things. They could know, but it’d also never be acknowledged. 

“I have.”

You grab two bowls, because you’re not going to be rude and eat alone in front of him, and also because now he has no choice but to eat what you’ve cooked. The rice goes first, then the curry, then the chicken you’ve put in the oven to drain off oil and keep warm. He blinks when you hand him the bowl, surprised, especially when water comes with it, but he thanks you anyway as you take a seat beside him. It gives you the urge to flee, but you’re not going to run away after agreeing that you’ve grown up because that’d be childish. 

“You’ve inherited your mother’s skill in the kitchen.”

Simple words, a simple compliment, a reminder of the life he threw away. Your parents had been in love, you knew that much, you saw it with the way they kissed when coming home, how they took care of each other during the long hours and rough cases. The life they’d made with you was good too, Hotch had doted on you as a child, had loved you and done what he could to make sure you knew that. They’d been young when they had you -an accident- and your mother always made sure to tell you she’d do it all over again if given the choice. 

Five years your family had been wonderful. Tight-knit and loving, they’d discussed marriage, they’d been engaged, they talked about giving you a sibling. Then the Seattle profiler branch had called and everything had come crashing down within the span of a month. One week your dad was there, the next he wasn’t, and from that point on it was more wasn’t than was and part of you still doesn’t know how to bridge the two together. Now he’s here eating curry in your apartment when you’re twenty-two and supposedly thriving. He knows better though. 

Hotch sees it in the way you carry yourself, the hard set of your jaw and mouth that things aren’t as perfect as you work for them to be. You’re weighed down by your own consciousness, as if existence is a chore for you to deal with on a daily basis. Lost, he should say, you look lost. Lost in the way that Hotchner’s look, because you and him are one in the same. Feelings of internal strife and conflict are dealt with by throwing yourselves into work as a distraction for the truth of what’s really there. Hotch knows you’re like this because he’s like this, and you took after him more than either of you cared to admit. 

“Haley and I are getting divorced.”

There goes his resolve at being level-headed, about easing into things with you. Because when it comes to you there’s no rhyme or reason, it’s you, and therefore everything he’s so precariously balanced is thrown off of its axis. You’d been talented at doing that to him from the moment of your conception and it seemed that distance nor time managed to take that away from you. 

“Really?”

“Mhm. How’s your mother?”

You blink twice, processing, “Mama’s fine, she’s ah, divorced now.”

Hotch hadn’t even known about your stepfather, he hadn’t known anything since he resolved to stay out of your life as much as he could. He knew he’d hurt you badly and as a form of penance decided to ignore the details of your life despite being able to access all of it if he wanted to. It felt wrong to invade your privacy like that though, it felt wrong to keep tabs on you and not call you. 

“Really? How long?”

“Two years now, and it’s a good thing, she’s over it now too which helps.”

“If I saw her do you think she might kick me or eviscerate me?”

Against your will a tiny, amused, huff leaves you. Hotch’s sense of humour wasn’t extensive by any means, but the dry wit you’d inherited allowed you to tell when he was trying to be at least a little humorous. Your mother had always said that if he cheated, or if he fucked up bad enough she’d eviscerate and castrate him all in one go. 

“I think she might get you banned from the state of California.”

“At the very least San Francisco.”

The rest of dinner isn’t as tense as it was when he first came in, despite the layer of tension and discomfort of it all. He does the dishes because you’ve cooked and for a minute you imagine that this is what your entire life has looked like. Like your dad comes over once a week for dinner and cleans because you’ve cooked and you two get to discuss cases, analyze human behavior, talk about how screwed up the world is. Bathe in the satisfaction of putting these people away, helping other innocent people find peace or protection, you enjoy that, you do. 

The spell is broken once the last dish is set to dry and he turns to you, confusion about how to proceed etched in each line of his face, and you realize it’s up to you how this will go. You clear your throat, shifting as you reach for all the right words. As always when it comes to your father you find yourself frustrated with the amount of things you want to say but can’t proceed correctly when using them. Words are your strong suit, they’re your safety net and when it comes to him you have none whatsoever. It infuriates you, even makes you want to cry. 

“Will you keep me updated on Natalie?”

He nods, “I will, and can I ask you to be a consultant for this case? You know the student body better than anybody on campus, and with your memory you’d likely be able to help us trace things that we would overlook. You can say no of course if it’d be too much, but I do think you’d be a valuable asset for the team.”

Will you spend time with me? Will you let me be present just this once? I’m sorry for leaving you, come with me one more time? These are all the questions layered under professionalism and as his daughter, his firstborn, you know these questions by heart years later. He’d taught you to read between the lines and hear what wasn’t spoken, listen to the silence and see what it had to say. 

“I’m up for it. I’ll inform my professors that I’ll be taking the week off to act as a consultant for the BAU in regards to the case of multiple murders on campus.”

“Thank you, I’m sure the rest of the team will be interested in getting to know you, Reid in particular has shown interest.”

Your lips twitch upwards, just a bit, “We’re geniuses, it’s natural to be interested in figuring out the other genius in the room.”

“Just don’t try to outcompete one another for intellect.”

“No promises.”

He lingers at the door, trying to find what to say until he settles on, “I’ll see you tomorrow then, goodnight.”

You lock the door behind him, relief flooding through your veins when you hear his footsteps fading away down the hall. On a side note you notice your hands are trembling, heart racing and body warm in a way it usually isn’t. Uncomfortable, yes, and most certainly anxiety inducing. Dinner with your father, it’s a sentence you thought you’d never say again after you turned eighteen and yet it happened anyway. He ate your curry, he’s divorcing Haley, he’s in Berkeley, one of your best friends is missing, there’s a case to read on your coffee table, and you’re going to be a consulting member to your fathers fancy FBI team. 

You need to send some emails. 

_____________

The next morning you come in with a cup of coffee, perfectly blown out hair, and a new outfit this time. You’re in black business pants, the baggy kind that sits just right and shows what it needs but not too much. This time you’re in a black, sleeveless halter neck blouse, gold jewelry all over your body and makeup once again done to perfection. You come in smelling like apples, lemon, brown sugar, and rain all rolled into one, a perfectly intoxicating fall scent that leaves heads turning as you walk. 

Now that they look at you and Hotch they see the similarities they didn’t before. The severity of both your expressions like a mirror, the hair. If you’d inherited one physical trait from Hotch it had to be the hair. Soft and sleek like raven feathers, the exact shade of his sprouting from your own head. Everything else is your mothers, or just you. Your bag gets set down, your coat put up and with that you take a seat at the table as if you’ve always belonged there. 

Hotch gestures to you as he stands at the board, the one filled with evidence and possible connections, “As we’ve noticed Miss. Hotchner is in the room with us, she’ll be acting as a consultant for this case not only for her connections to the latest victim but for the connections to the university as well. Feel free to ask her questions pertaining to the case or student body, she’ll likely have the answer. She also knows this campus well, use that to your advantage.”

He begins to brief them, and by extension you, on what they’ve gathered so far, and what they’re going to do for the day. You’ll be going with Spencer and Emily to interview Natalie’s professors, the TAs included, and once that’s done you’ll come back to discuss. You’re thankfully not in heels this time as you lead the two of them around campus, pointing certain things out as you walk. The campus is big and crowded, students milling about in every direction, you pay no mind to it though. 

Emily walks behind you and Spencer, who asks about each building even though he knows the history of them, and then about the professors, the classes that you even take. She hides her amusement carefully, opting to listen in on your careful explanations, you keep things concise where Spencer would usually start rambling, another Hotchner trait you’ve seemingly inherited. You both walk step in step together and it’s fitting she thinks. Two geniuses dressed like runway models for whatever reason walking the campus to solve a murder case. It feels almost like a movie in far too many ways. 

It’s a little strange watching two geniuses interact, both of you feeding off of one another in ways she can’t hope to keep up with. Ideas and theories bouncing off of one another, facts recited in perfect detail and discussions about things she knows neither of you specialize in but clearly know well enough to have opinions. You’re warmer like this, when you’re in your element called academia and more importantly, not in the same room as Hotch. She doesn’t know what happened between you two, she won’t pry, but something had shifted between the reunion from yesterday to today. As if there was some unspoken agreement to get along. 

Eventually the three of you dip into a building, you know the layout from when Natalie showed you around, the sleek interior, the empty corridors. You take them to Professor Mardi first, she has no classes for an hour so they’ll have time to talk. It’s odd, walking the same path that Natalie did, she’d walked the halls like this at least twice a week. She walked it with friends, by herself, soaked in rain or fresh from her apartment on a perfect hair day. Now she’s missing and you wonder if she’ll ever walk the halls again. 

You try not to think about what might be happening with her now, where she might be and who might be doing something to her. There’s no point in dwelling with thoughts like that, it won’t help find her. Instead you push the door open to her classroom that’s just emptied out, her projector off, files being sorted together. She looks up when the three of you enter, eyes widening in surprise, “Miss. Hotchner, I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

Her voice grates on you, soft and motherly as if she has the right to act like that with you, “I’m here as a consultant with the FBI to look into the recent happenings on campus, they’d like to speak with you about Natalie Clawson.”

“She went missing yesterday, right?”

“She did.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss. Hotchner, I know you two are close.”

“No apology needed, are you amenable to a conversation?”

“Of course! Come, sit, sit.”

For three hours you lead the pair of FBI agents around to talk with professors and state your reasoning, Spencer and Emily observe, they ask seemingly random questions but you know better. You know that the preferred color of socks can tell you all about somebody's insecurities or where their ideals lay. You know that certain products that people will use often feature a common factor that they subconsciously associate with themselves, which often shows you more than they’d care to know. Hotch taught you all of this when you were little, and when he left you continued to apply the skills until it became second nature. 

At lunch you all meet up again, except this time you all are hungry and there’s nothing anybody can do when hungry. Hotch turns to you, expectant, “Pick a place, we’ll go eat there.”

You raise a brow, “Budget?”

“The government.”

“Are we going to take one of your SUVs?”

He sighs, “Yes, we can take the SUV.”

“Great, we’re going to Baozi.”

Hotch, inexplicably, gets this look on his face like he wants to shoot himself in the kneecaps rather than go to Baozi, wherever that is, “And you’re driving.”

“Of course I am.”

He says it like it’s the most depressing fact on Earth, as if there’s not pictures of corpses pinned up behind him. You, on the other hand, look as pleased as you can be in this situation. Spencer siddles up next to you, already asking things about something or another that distracts you well enough on the way towards the car, where there’s the unspoken agreement that you’re in the passenger seat. They can at least understand the gift that is Hotchner family drama, even Spencer knows this, and so they without protest climb into the SUV all as one. 

“Do you still eat there often? Baozi?”

You hum, adjusting your bracelets as you do, “I eat there for whenever I graduate. So I guess I’m due for another visit in about eight months.”

“I see.”

The drive is borderline painful for the two of you up in the front, you fiddle with your jewelry, Hotch fights the urge to crash the car. Baozi. You’d gone there frequently as a kid but specifically with Hotch. He’d take you on the rare times it was just you and him, usually on the days when your mother had something important to do that day. It was a ritual you both had fallen into and it was a ritual that transitioned into every time he came to visit you, the two of you would go. 

It’s thankfully not far and when you enter there’s a middle-aged Taiwanese woman whose eyes crinkle when she sees you, a grin splitting her face when she pulls you into a tight hug, “My, my, look how beautiful you’ve grown! It’s been nearly three years, but there’s no graduation today, so what’s the occasion?”

Your head tilts towards Hotch, “He’s in town.”

Her eyes widen, jaw parting as she stares at Hotch before she swats him with her shoe in the next instance “You! YOU! You leave my two girls alone, never showing your face, always busy, busy, BUSY! You show your face now? Huh?”

You chortle, one hand coming to her arm to steady her, “We’re working on it, and trust me he’s been groveling, I’m making him grovel more too. Hence why we’re here.”

She laughs, her amusement infectious, “Okay, okay, only if you insist though, let’s get you to the round table.”

“Thank you.”

You follow her to the table, settling in easily with Hotch on one side and Spencer on the other. You know what you’re getting, Hotch knows too, and neither of you bother with opening up the menus because of that. It looks the exact same as it did from when you were a child. With peeling red booths and orange walls, there’s glass with faded paintings of pandas on it. Stereotypical but charming in a way that’s well loved throughout the passage of time. Your memory allows you to relieve them, and times spent in Baozi are some of the ones you revisit often, even if you don’t try to think about it very often. 

It feels strange to be making a new memory like this, not reliving one from a time long ago. If you look to the left you can see a five year old you learning how to hold chopsticks while the guy beside you teaches it to you. Fingers unfailingly gentle as he directs your tiny fingers to work the wood properly. You’d gotten the hang of it eventually, but it took time, and now they come as natural as breathing to you. There’s no need for the rubber band trick anymore. 

You order for the group seeing how you’re the only one capable of speaking Mandarin, for a while you content yourself with listening to the team tell their stories, discuss possible theories and try to pinpoint who the unsub might be. It’s a lot, but you soak up every word of it. The jargon reminds you of the stories Hotch would use when he put you to bed, his words never softened for you, and maybe that’s why you’re so smart. Maybe it’s because you were put to bed with legal jargon as a lullaby, human behavior as a soothing ailment to your restless mind. 

The food comes looking delicious as ever, and this is where you falter, just for a second. Hotch doesn’t say a word when he slides over a little dish made up of ginger, soy sauce, vinegar, a dash of fish oil, and a heaping spoon full of chili oil. You’re the one with the rarest memory on Earth, and he’s remembered how you make your dipping sauce for xiao long bao and other dumplings. He couldn’t call you, but he remembered how to make your dumpling oil combination as if it were a written down recipe he’d memorized. 

He confuses you like nothing else ever has. An absent father who felt a step away, never there when you needed him to be, yet there’s an invisible list of facts about you in his head that he’d never forgotten. The familiar anger of his abandonment rises in you, risky and for a second, uncontrollable, but then you bite into the dumpling, the sauce combination being the first thing you taste. It’s vinegary, spicy, salty, you feel the cut of ginger and it’s perfect. Instead of wanting to hit him you want to cry. 

There’s the other thing: He left, and you stopped crying. You already felt weak from him leaving and you weren’t going to feel weak for yourself. It was something you couldn’t afford to happen because you needed strength to make up for what he had stolen from you. So you didn’t cry, but when you bite into that dumpling you feel the urge to do so. It rises up sharply, quicker than you expected, and yet you refuse to give in. You won’t give the satisfaction of giving in. 

To them it’s clear Hotch is struggling too, making them wonder if this was the way you two liked to punish yourselves. Hotch by giving you control, and you for picking someplace you knew would pack a punch for the both of you. You remember everything in perfect clarity from the past, you remember what he’d said to you, the way he dressed, the thing you ordered to drink. You remembered the emotion too, when you were so pleased, so proud to be sitting at the table with him. The feeling of being loved by him, your subconscious reassurance that it’d be like this forever. 

He remembers sitting with you in the booths, teaching you how to use chopsticks, watching you graduate from the white foam cups to the plastic ones they used. If he knew what he knows now, would he trade it for what could’ve been with you? Would he stay with you, watching you grow from not the sidelines but the front row, would he sit still or would he fidget? The man hadn’t even bought a ticket. 

You sit behind him in stilted silence, nothing but memory and muscle to keep you going. Neither of you can look at each other, the misery of each other’s company too much to fight against. It’s not the right place to ask questions, there’s not enough time for explanation. Your friend is missing, you’re eating lunch with your dad again for the first time in forever in the restaurant that had forgotten his face but felt the weight of his absence, and you’re truly, stunningly, miserable. 

It’s the kind of misery that you hadn’t let yourself dwell in for a long while. You’d felt it the first time he missed your birthday, or the tenth time that he didn’t pick the phone up. Over the course of time you’d learnt to swallow it down until it stopped coming back up. This you can’t ignore though, not when the origin is sitting less than a foot away from you and the tray of dumpling dip sits innocently between the two of you. You have him here, now, in a stolen moment brought upon by the disappearance of your friend and the murder of three other girls on campus. Because it seems the only time he’s there is when it’s convenient for him. 

The team watches you both fall into the trap that is history the longer lunch goes on. There's a familiar rhythm between you two but it’s clear that it’s a routine neither is comfortable participating in any longer. They’ve never seen Hotch so quiet, so guilty, and you’re the stranger that’s familiar to them in the most confusing of ways. You and Hotch are one in the same, daughter and father separated by bad choices and the lack of time despite the way it drags on from days to weeks to months to years. 

There’s the way you both eat the same, calculated dips and perfectly placed bites, neither of you willing to step outside of the dance you two know. You look nothing like Hotch and yet when you glare, when you move a certain way, it’s all Aaron and that jars them in ways they didn’t expect. They’ve seen Jack, the subtle markers that tell them he’s Aaron Hotchner’s son, but you? You. You’re different, you’re grown up and even though there’s that distance, the knowledge that you didn’t get to watch him as you grew so you could mimic his mannerisms but they’re just built in you from the get go. That’s something else entirely. 

Spencer knows. He knows because he knows when there’s another kid whose dad abandoned them too early, he sees you in him and what you are because five years ago he was you. A genius doing well for themself, thriving at a glance because why wouldn’t you be thriving? You’re working with a law firm, you’re getting two more degrees under your belt, you’ll have PhDs by 25 without a doubt. You live in a nice apartment, you wear red bottoms and the jewelry clinking off your wrist is pure gold, heavy and thick with luxury. By all means, you’re walking perfection. 

He knows better though. You’re just pieces of a body stapled together and wound so tightly you can’t fall apart. It’s not thriving, it’s survival. You busy yourself with so many things because if you don’t then you’ll have to feel things you can’t let yourself feel for fear of them taking control over your body and most importantly, your mind. Your mind, the most crucial thing your body has to offer, brilliance encased through a layer of bone and thick skin not easily exposed to the world. If you can’t control that, then it means you control nothing. 

This is something Spencer knows intimately, he understands it, he understands you. At least on this particular aspect. Seeing you with Hotch makes him wonder about what would happen if he sat down for lunch with William Reid. Would they hold their forks the same? Would they reach for certain sauces or would they have completely different flavor pallets? It makes him wonder when he sees you two over there. Different tastes in food but similar mannerisms, it’s like you two don’t want to be anything like the other but your subconsciouses refuse to allow that truth to come true. 

Thinking is difficult when it comes to you and Hotch, this much is apparent. Difficult for you and him simply because of everything that is laid between the two of you. Difficult for the team because Hotch has never been so out of it, so confused before, all because of you, the physical manifestation of a different life. West coast versus East, daughter versus son, prosecutor versus profiler. Nobody can truly wrap their heads around it all. 

Lunch ending is a celebration, it means that the case moves forward, that nobody is exuding an air of such downtrodden grief that it roots their hearts in their stomachs. It’s easier to talk about murder with Hotch than school or what you’re doing with your life. He finds it easier to question your memory, the sequence of events, than ask if you prefer to party or stay inside. He can’t profile you, he refuses, and even though the team wants to profile you it feels wrong. Besides that, you won’t let them profile you. 

You’ll let them see what you’re willing to show but beyond that it’s all clinical detachment or attachment. Returning back to campus is a strained affair, not that you acknowledge it when you all set up shop again in the room the PD gave them. You bring your laptop out, immediately throwing yourself into the art of homework as Spencer sits next to you so he can read through the information for things that they might’ve missed. You of course can’t have access to everything, but you know enough, and if you really wanted to you could find out. 

Which is what you’ve busied yourself in doing. You want the details, you want locations, pictures, all of it. Hotch wouldn’t give it to you, not the nitty gritty details that you need in order for all of it to work out. It’s laughably easy to get access to it all, dates, names, locations, coroners exams. If Penelope on the other end knows you’re there she hasn’t called to tell you to get out. Naturally, you dig, and you dig, and you dig. 

Because you’re a lawyer, you’re a Hotchner, and digging is what you do. 

____________

When you hear a knock on your door you half expect it to be Hotch, the other half expects a friend. You don’t expect it to be Spencer Reid standing on the other side, his fingers are slotted together loosely, held at his chest, bag slung over his shoulder as he rocks on his feet. His hair’s messier than it was earlier, tie a little crooked, “Can I come in?”

You step aside easier for him than Hotch, and upon noticing the shoes at the doorway he slides his off as well, “Does he know you’re here at my apartment?”

Spencer winces at the mention of your father, you won’t even say dad, or father, or biological unit, but also because, “No, I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.”

Hotch would most certainly not appreciate it. Doesn’t matter that you and him are estranged and this is the weird pause on that, doesn’t matter that you’re both two adults and you can decide who you want to talk to. For Spencer your dad is still his boss, and the last thing he wants to do is piss the guy off when he’s clearly already emotionally compromised. 

Something shifts as soon as the words come out of his mouth. It’s not a break in the case that he’s come knocking on your door about, but something personal. You move into the kitchen, pulling two wine glasses from your shelf before peering into the small wine cabinet the apartment had built into it, “Red or white?”

“Why don’t you guess?”

You’re the kid of a legendary profiler helping them with their case, he’d be surprised if you didn’t know the basics of profiling, “You like red, but the sweeter ones that taste like berries after they’ve been warmed by the sun. Aged, because you prefer the way things taste after they’ve had time to develop an edge. You don’t like dry wines because it sucks everything sweet about it out.”

Then you look at him whilst holding a bottle up of something older, something more expensive than he’d care to think about with a little twitch to your lips, “I think I might have one that you like.”

You pour it perfectly even, graceful in the way it doesn’t slosh when you turn around to hand a glass to him before settling on your couch, letting him follow your lead. It’s sunset now on the bay, which you have a lovely view of from your big windows. The apartment isn’t by any means low to the ground, with tall buildings framing your vision and the gold tinted water in the distance, you’ve certainly earned this particular view. 

“You didn’t come here because of the case.”

Statement, fact, not a question in your voice, just a prompt for him to start talking. It’s very Hotchner of you to do that, he notes, but he doesn’t dare say it out loud, not yet at least, “I came because you’re a fellow genius, you know how rare that is.”

More statement over question. With two geniuses in the room the word is absolute, “So you came for my brain?”

He tilts his head, there’s a subtle layer of mischief in your tone, as if you’re testing the waters with him, “I came because I wanted to see what a genius does to shut their brain off. I never really, I wasn’t like you when I was in college. I didn’t make friends, I didn’t have a presence in the university besides being a prodigy and proving that I could handle myself just fine. You do though, you can blend in just fine with the rest of the population.”

Your eyebrows raise a bit, “You’re asking me what I do for fun.”

His cheeks flush, just a little bit, “Yes.”

“Do you swear none of this gets back to Quantico?”

An opening, not one he intends to waste, “Yes. I swear.”

“And you’re wearing….the world’s best teachers assistant outfit I’ve ever seen in my life. Sweater vest, khakis, permanent helmet hair, if you want to blend in, we need to find you something different to wear.”

“Where exactly are we going?”

Your smile widens, just a bit as you raise the glass to your lips, “Out.”

Then the wine is going down the hatch, and in an effort to keep up Spencer tilts his head back too. You shouldn’t be doing this, going out when Natalie is somewhere out there, maybe dead, maybe alive, probably in pain. But there’s a plan in your mind too, the unsub has clearly been attracted to girls with dark hair and striking features. Beautiful, young, going places and in college. Technically, you fit that description to a textbook definition. 

Two days before Natalie had gone missing -Thursday- you and her had gone out for a night on the town. You remember the night, the faces you had seen, you want to find familiar ones, because if you do then you can find these faces, run your tests, maybe you can narrow it down. It’s something you need to do, and it doesn’t matter if you’re drunk, you might black out in the moment, but when you sober up you’ll remember it. At least it’s how it works for you. 

Spencer follows you to your bedroom, your big, wonderful bedroom with the bed unmade and fragrances crowded together on a nightstand that you don’t use. Warm lighting, and a different view of the city. This one is into the city itself, bright twinkling lights, the cars passing below, it’s a sight that’ll haunt you just as much as it brings you peace. Your bed is pushed up next to it, especially with the way the window wraps around to the other side of the wall, it’s insane, and so incredibly worth it. 

You work on him first, having him sit on your bed as he thinks about what you might do to him. Because even at lunch when it was so clear that you and Hotch were one in the same for certain things, he knows that you’ve come into yourself in ways that Hotch would never dream of. You’ve grown up without him, you’re not him. Hence why you tell him to run his fingers through his hair, mess it up a little and to please, please, ditch the sweater vest. He does as told, going so far as to remove his tie as well. 

“These will be too big on you, but it’ll work, so wear these.”

He’s handed a pair of your business slacks, they’re already loose on you so he knows he’ll be almost drowning in them himself, but he does as told, emerging a few minutes later from your bathroom holding the fabric up for dear life. He’d really like to avoid accidentally dropping his pants in front of you. It makes your teeth poke through when you see him though, a soft snort leaving you as you take the tie he discarded to turn it into a belt. Then for the final touch his shirt gets unbuttoned a little bit, just enough to let go for a second. 

But after him it’s your turn, and he sits on the bed while you move around your room to assemble an outfit together. It takes thirty minutes, but once you’re done you emerge in all of your early twenties glory. A halter top with no back, no front either if he’s honest, there’s just mesh that flows around you except it splits in the middle to show off your smooth skin and belly button. The top of it too is low, your tits pushed up and a golden sun charm right in the center. You pair it with jeans that cling to your curves, widening after the knee to brush your feet and floor. 

You’re gorgeous, and he definitely shouldn’t be thinking of that but the wine is buzzing pleasantly in his mind, and from an objective point of view, you are beyond a simple aesthetically pleasing description. He watches you as you select your shoes, your jewelry, even the perfume on the nightstand. There’s something captivating about how you move around your space, a fluidity to your movements that speaks of practice and excitement. 

“You go out often.”

“Mm, I do.”

Once you’re done with that you grab your shoes and lead him back to the kitchen where this time you’re grabbing two shot glasses, “You wanted to know how I blended in, well I’ll tell you I don’t usually start with wine, although it’s better at getting people drunk than anybody ever acknowledges.”

Spencer can attest from the slight disconnect between his mind and body, the little lag between his thoughts. He’s not a lightweight, but he’s also not a heavy drinker by any means. Liquor like the one you’re pouring into those little cups is something Spencer rarely indulges in. He’s not like Morgan who takes it with a grin and a kiss and maybe a little something more because alcoholic shots spell for a good time in his opinion. 

“So what are you poisoning us with instead?”

You glance at him as you prepare chasers, you know he won’t do well without one, “The simple stuff; Tequila.”

Tequila isn’t simple stuff in his book, but to you, to a good chunk of the student population, tequila is simple. Tequila comes in the form of cheap indulgence for long lasting effects, it comes with blurred memories and a weightless feeling that young people chase when they start to feel the heavy weight of adulthood creeping in too close for their liking. Spencer indulged in classic literature, puzzles, things that fed his brain until it was too stuffed to take anymore. Not tequila. 

He drinks it though, drinks it when he knows he shouldn’t because he’s got a job to do and it feels kind of like New Orleans. In that bar when he had a plane to catch but missed on purpose. Except this time he isn’t missing anything because this is where he’s supposed to be. He’s blending in and he came here for multiple reasons, but amongst them was to try and profile you without profiling you. So he supposes getting to know you is the better term for it. 

You and him take three shots before you grab your purse, the going out one, and together you both head out to the streets of San Francisco. It’s a city he’d thought about going to, he liked the idea of it. Closer to his mother, closer to familiar things, but ultimately he’d gone to Quantico, to Virginia and Washington D.C. and became a profiler there. But the glimpse at what it could’ve been is nice, especially when he can smell your scent of coffee, vanilla, cherry, and chocolate. 

The thoughts of your beauty, of you in general are only amplified with the alcohol coursing through his veins. It’s wrong, he knows it’s wrong, but from the moment you’d walked through those doors like hell was in the palm of your hand he’d been captivated. Power and precision drove you to the top of the food chain, a place you were most comfortable being, and he liked it. He liked the way you never lowered your gaze to anybody, unafraid of inviting discomfort to the floor. 

He follows your lead when you pull him into a little ramen restaurant in an alley he’d never think of looking into, but he’s drunk and admittedly hungry so he goes without thinking too much about it. You and he get sat in a small booth where you both have to take your shoes off and settle on the seating which consists of a low table, pillows so neither of your asses go numb, and a private divider between the outside of the booth and inside. Like a personal little bubble, he stretches out because he can, and he’s too drunk to think not to. 

“So what’s this place?”

You hand him a menu, “Furikake, can you read Japanese?”

“Mmm, not right now, which isn’t great because the whole menu’s in Japanese.”

He sits up again, slouching onto the table as he peers at the words written down. Everything’s done by hand, the paper crisp and worn in his hold but most certainly legible. It’s clear that the restaurant is old but beloved, and well maintained despite its location, “What is this place? It feels…not San Francisco.”

He watches your lips twitch again, “Furikake is one of the older Japanese restaurants around here, and real Japanese too, not the Americanized version of it. Fresh fish, fresh ingredients, they opened up in the seventies and became a community staple. They have English menus, but you have to ask for one. So it gives you two options, you can either try and figure it out yourself, or you can go through the embarrassment of asking for an English menu. What have you, Doctor Reid?”

Spencer pouts, he won’t admit that he is but he most definitely is regardless. Cheeks puffed out and mouth set in a distinctive line, he can’t read Japanese, he can read, speak, and write in Korean (specifically South), but not Japanese. You know Mandarin, English, now Japanese, and he’s interested to know in any others you might have up your sleeve. For now though he pouts because he doesn’t know and that’s unusual for him. 

“I’ll let you order for me, yeah?”

It’s an easy solution, but you give him a pass since he’s clearly feeling the glass of wine and shots from earlier. Once there’s food in his stomach he’ll settle some more and then he’ll be ready, but in the meanwhile you’ll give him some leniency. The waitress comes by not long after, her smile warm when she greets you and her laughter delicate when you point at Spencer and order for him. He should be embarrassed but the alcohol just makes him laugh, it’s funny even though it’s at his expense. If it makes you crack a grin then you’re happy with it. 

He hopes that somewhere at the end of the night he can make you smile, but Hotchner’s are so difficult when it comes to expressing enjoyment. Yet again another trait you’d inherited from Hotch. He doesn’t even know what to call you sometimes, Miss. Hotchner, little Hotchner, he’s definitely not calling you Hotch. Hotch and Hotchner. Two different things, and nobody ever says Hotchner in full when referencing your father. It doesn’t feel right though, like Hotchner doesn’t fit you, at least not yet. 

He looks up at you from where he’s spilling over the table, hazel eyed bambi through and through as he thinks for a second how you look like an angel with the light behind you making a halo. He shouldn’t be here, drunk and in a private booth with you. Daughter of his boss, an academic equal, he’s curious, always curious, especially about you. He’d asked what a genius like you did for fun, and you’re getting him drunk for a night on the streets. He’d be a fool to think you’d stop at a hole-in-the-wall of San Francisco whilst drunk, not when the sun had just gone dark. It’d be cooler outside now than it was earlier, maybe even with a drizzle. 

“What’d you order us?”

You give him a look, like he isn’t fooling anybody with his drunken haze, “I got us a few things, you’ll see when they get here, I’ll explain as we eat.”

“Are we sharing?”

“Of course we are, food was made to share with people.”

He blinks, it’s not a Hotchner answer, but something else entirely, “Did your mother raise you by those ideals?”

You nod, “She did, and I’m guessing nobody knows who she is?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I’ll show you a picture then.”

He blinks again when you pull out a flat screened phone from your bag, swiping a few times to gain access before showing him a picture. The quality isn’t bad, good lighting even though the details aren’t as good as the naked eye but nonetheless it’s a photo of high definition, “Is that the iPhone? They came out with those earlier this year.”

“Mhm, we pre-paid for ours so we didn’t have to worry about not getting one when they were released.”

“I didn’t know you were rich like that. I thought the red bottoms and fancy jewelry was from your earnings as a prosecutor. Since you’re in the Bay Area they pay you higher, for a woman of your talents they pay higher. But you said “our” which indicates multiple people, you go to school, Berkeley of all places, you have wines that cost three-hundred dollars in your apartment that you chug without second thought. The ring is generational, you act like old money, so tell me, was Hotch the sugar baby?”

Being drunk lets him say the most ridiculous things, lets him feel a confidence he only possesses when he’s absolutely certain that he’s got it right when he catches the unsub, when he’s explaining his fields of expertise, that sort of thing. It apparently even lets him accuse Hotch of being a sugar baby and he hopes beyond measure that you don’t tell the man he said that. It would never be forgotten, and he’d spend the rest of his career being reminded of it. But it also gets you to stare at him for a second before a giggle of all things falls from your lips. Forget the smiling, he’s made you giggle. 

“Apologies, it’s just, nobody knows him like you guys do, and I suppose like me as well, so the idea of him as my mothers’ sugar baby is certainly an idea.”

He groans, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, “Please do not tell him I said that, I think I might be banned from the BAU if you do.”

“Fear not, I’ll keep my lips sealed.”

“Thank you.”

“And for the record, yes, my mother is old money and he married into wealth. Of course he didn’t see a single penny of it from my mother, she refused to ever send a penny to him. Her fathers side of the family owns a firm over here, they were some of the first lawyers in San Francisco and they stayed in San Francisco. My grandmother though, she immigrated over here and when her children grew up they’d spend a year in San Francisco and a year in her home-country. It was doable, and it allowed her fathers’ family to put roots down in her country.”

You pause as the door slides open again for the drinks and appetizers, you thank her politely as Spencer perks up at the arrival of food, “This is wakame, a staple in my opinion, cucumber salad, and okonomiyaki, and we each have a little thing of cold soba.”

He, over the last few years, had picked up on the art of chopsticks, but in comparison with you it’s not great. You have practice with it, Spencer does too but not like you. His plate gets filled, but it’s not heavy food, it’s light, refreshing, and as you two make your way through the appetizers you continue. 

“Alright, so now my mother has spent half her life in the homeland, has connections everywhere across the world through her schooling because she’d spend a year with one friend group and a year with the other. She kept in contact with everyone, just like my aunts and uncles did with their other school friends. Now this results in my family opening up law firms everywhere, literally everywhere, and it certainly helps that we’ve been in business for over two-hundred years. But my mother just so happens to be the eldest daughter of her family, which happens to be the main line of inheritors of the firm as a whole.”

Not just rich. But rich. No wonder you could afford the view of your apartment, and it made him really, really, wonder what Hotch’s life looked like when he was still in the picture. Was he secret glitz and glam, pulling strings from behind the curtain, what was it like to be in a firm like the one your family runs? Old and established, roots in all sorts of places, wealth established in areas he wouldn’t even think of just for the sake of curating a lasting legacy. For a family in San Francisco to hold a title of some of the first means something he won’t understand beyond what it means on paper. 

“So what do you inherit?”

Your lips twitch, just a bit, “It means that if I stay here in San Francisco I’ll keep doing well for myself, but I’ll always have family dinner on Sunday. But it also means that if I want to I can pack my things up and leave San Francisco behind. Either option is a good option, and if more family firms pop up in my area then I’m in charge of them because I was there first. For some reason the family is big on the whole ‘I was here first’ thing, so whoever was there from the beginning is the one in charge. That’s how it works. For example my grandfather is the one running things here. My oldest uncle is his heir, my mother is his voice of reason, the entire reason why there are still dinners on Sundays.”

His eyes are practically sparkling, and if you were sober it’d freak you out. However, you’re drunk and he looks rather handsome in the warm lighting despite the way his eyes betray his drunken state and how he’s a tiny bit sweaty. He listens, he understands and beyond that he listens to the things between your sentences because he’s smart, he knows what to listen for. A tight-knit family that loves and cares but it’s a little too tight, a little bit on the edge of perfection that doesn’t allow much give to it. You can leave, they’ll let you, but they won’t stop reminding you. 

“They want you to continue with law, will you?”

“Wherever I go I’ll be with some form of law, I was practically spoon fed it from birth. You know, my-he used to put me to bed by reading his law textbooks. Bedtime law was our hour, exactly sixty minutes he’d sit there and read to me about things like ‘capitol offense’ or my rights. At least once a week we went through the amendment and what random ones stood for, he’d question me at breakfast in the morning without fail.”

The thought of Hotch reading law textbooks to put you to bed is an image that tugs at him and an image he desperately wishes he couldn’t see. Little raven locked you yawning while Hotch told you about gun rights isn’t something that should give him the urge to cry, but it kind of does. Hotch had been a good father to you then, he’d been kind, he’d been patient, he’d been loving. William had been that too all those years ago, he clears his throat after he swallows a bite of his food. 

“I, when I was little, my dad would go through all the sports with me, he’d change it up every week. Sometimes it was hockey, sometimes it was bowling, but every Saturday night it was a different sport. I wasn’t interested in sports, but it was one of the few things he could drag me into, especially because he knew it’d keep me quiet and retreat into sleep. That was how we spent Saturdays until he left.”

You eye him a bit as you sip your drink, and just like that the energy in the booth shifts again. Two peas in the pod you and he. Young geniuses with daddy issues and a little too much in common to ignore. You think of gravity, the pull that turns to revolving, a circle that moves so fast it roots you into place as you stare at what lies between the both of you. It should scare you, but it doesn’t, not this time. 

“He’s your boss.”

“I know.”

Pull. Force. Attraction. He’s five years older than you, the co-worker of your estranged father, and yet you’re spilling your guts to him in a private booth like you’ve never done before. It’s a bad idea, a terrible idea, but it’s an idea nonetheless. You know that with enough force, if something revolves fast enough, what gets inside stays inside, the only way out is to be violently flung. So not only a bad idea, but a dangerous one. 

You’re rational, you always have been, and so has Spencer. Two geniuses where control over oneself is the only way to live, taken like an oath branded in every decision made. Upon collision all of it flies out the window, there’s no rational way the chemicals in your brain mix and spark together, no indicator of why. There is though, but you can’t think of it, not like this. Not even when the food is brought does the tension snap, neither of you acting on it, nor acknowledging it, but it’s there. It’s there. 

Somehow, you both make it to the club, and because you’re you the line doesn’t apply to you, by extension it doesn’t apply to him either. The inside is loud, bathed in red with smoky lights strobing out to the crowd that’s on the floor. There’s girls in basically nothing with bottles in hand, cheering and laughing as the music blares. You though? You’re like a fish in water. 

You take him by the sleeve, making your way to the bar where you greet the bartender with two kisses on the cheek and your lips pulled into an easy smile while you shout something in her ear and hand her your purse. She steps away while you turn to Spencer, eyes already a little lidded as you beckon your head to the floor before you pull him down to yell in his ear, “I’m gonna go dance after a few shots, join me?”

He nods even though he’s never really danced at a club like this, especially not with a woman like you. Soon enough four shots of something pink is set down in front of you two, right along with two glasses of water and from there it’s a game of keep up for him. You take your shots and down your water, he nearly chokes at the speed, but he manages, and then you’re taking him to the floor. 

There’s too many people, the music too loud, but you begin to dance as you wade through the crowd. Hips starting to shimmy, your shoulders rolling as songs he’d heard on the radio to work start blaring with an edm twist thrown in. He tries, the alcohol helps, but you’re truly something else when you bend over and another girl starts humping you as you grind back on her, ass somehow in motion despite the jeans. Spencer is, undoubtedly, amazed by how you make it look easy. He is also mortified to an extent because you’re you and this was not what he was expecting. 

Somehow he’d thought you would go to the bar, stay on the outskirts, give a little movement every now and then. Not get down on your hands and throw your ass back or start letting a girl roam her hands over your body. But here you were, grinning as you let a girl touch over your chest, roam her hands down your hip and suckle a hickey onto your neck. Spencer stared because he didn’t know where else to look, and after you parted with the girl you came to him. 

You looped your arms around his neck, you weren’t grinning, you were just looking at him like the most satisfying puzzle you’d ever had was completed. Instinctively his hands came to your body, first your waist, and as you stepped closer to him, they went lower. He began to rock with your movements, letting the alcohol cloud further judgement when he grabbed a handful of your ass. In the next moment you turned around, pressing yourselves together as one of his hands came to your hip, the other holding your hand. 

You began to circle your hips whilst pressed to him, grinning as you felt him stiffen a bit beneath you despite the way his body kept moving. He felt good, like something new and exciting all at once in ways you didn’t expect as you moved. You didn’t shut your eyes, instead you looked at every face around you. You’d remember their faces, you knew you would, but you could also enjoy the good doctor while you were at it. Afterall, you had to sell it if you were going to find Natalie. 

Spencer’s hand trailed up, skimming your waist until it was creeping up, up, up, squeezing your tit lightly once he had found his target. You shivered under the touch, body moving a little wider, a little bolder as your nipple stiffened under the shirt. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your jaw, and as you tilted your head your neck, your shoulder, but it was when he bit your neck did you know it was time to go home. 

He went willingly when you pulled him out of the place, drunkenly making your way back to your home as you clung to his arm, finding yourself in a talkative mood as you walked back to your place. Yet as soon as the door shut it was a different story. You found yourself backed up to the wall while he kissed you, hands roaming freely now that you weren’t under the public eye. Your fingers clumsily undid his buttons, and then his tie which made your pants drop off his waist. But he wasn’t the only one getting stripped down, he’d gotten your pants off, and your shirt was next. Luckily for you both a bra wasn’t involved. 

You dragged him to your bedroom as the stripping went on, until it was him in just his boxers while he parted your legs easily. The attention to your spread legs made you flush a bit, especially when he eased his way down to kiss at your inner thighs. He looked good like this, city light to illuminate the both of you, hair messed up and face flushed from alcohol. You like the sight of him between your thighs, especially when his mouth finally dips down where you need it to be. 

His mouth works you exactly how you need it, and he eats like there’s no greater purpose than to be between your legs. He remembers all the anatomical books he’d read, the sex organs, the seven spots of pressure that create pleasure in a woman's body. He’d memorized where they were, so when he slips two fingers into you it’s not difficult to press and rub against that little piece in you that has your fingers in a white-knuckle grip on the sheet despite the melanin in your skin. When he moans against your clit, having it in his mouth and his fingers drenched in your cunt you can’t help the way your body shoots itself into an orgasm. 

You moan because you can, there’s no neighbors to hear you fall apart as pleasure unfolds you for him. His hands don’t stop wandering over your body, occasionally thumbing your nipple, caressing your side, squeezing your thigh hard enough to leave the vague impressions of his fingers. He presses kisses to your body as he hauls himself up to slot himself between your legs, his own arousal poking at yours, but not quite there yet. He sucks hickies into your skin, a few here, a few there, and then the random bite mark that never fails to make you jolt as pleasure blooms from that particular pain. 

Finally he makes his way to your mouth, you can taste yourself on his tongue, but you don’t mind it. Not really, not when your fingers can roam over his back, fingernails tracing so lightly on his skin he can’t help but shiver. He draws himself up eventually so he can align himself with your entrance, the blunt head of his dick pressing down and you just know you’ll be ruined for any other man's cock after this. It’s not fair that Spencer has it all in your eyes. He’s smart, excellent job, and he has a dick that makes your mouth water. It’s always the nerds you remember, always the nerds that are packing nine or so inches with a girth that tells you you’ll need both hands to handle. 

“Is….is my dick okay? You’re staring at it rather intensely."

Your eyes flick up to him and wordlessly, you scoot your hips down a little bit, just enough to get the head in, “Spencer, I swear to god if you don’t put it in my right now I’m going to flip us over and do the job for you.”

His eyes widen, but then he grins, the one that tells you he’s just gotten a major confidence boost, and just like that you know you’re going to have the dicking down of your life. He holds your legs down as he eases his way in, the stretch everything you could have asked for, apparent in the way your thighs quiver as he sinks himself into you. Inch after inch vanishing into your straining folds as he seems to split you open, “Breathe for me, okay? Final stretch.”

You inhale deeply, and when you exhale Spencer pushes the rest of him inside with one thrust. There’s no choice but for you to open up to him except it nearly makes you shriek from the burst of stinging pleasure, the pressure in you nearly unbearable as his full length sits inside of you. You can feel every vein, ridge, every time he twitches or shifts. His thumb lazily circles your clit as you adjust to him, helping loosen you up a bit more, “You still with me?”

“Yes.” Somehow you manage to choke out an answer, it’s not strong by any means but you’d gotten it out, and that’s what matters. He smiles, leaning down to kiss your jaw, “You’re doing so good for me, want me to move now?”

“Please.”

“Good girl.”

His praise makes you shudder, but there’s no time for that when he drags part of himself out before pushing back in. You may be quiet when getting eaten out, when you’re in the midst of foreplay, but as soon as you get a dick stuck up your cunt? All that control over your words and embarrassing noises fly right out the window. With Spencer all you can do is take it, take the rhythm he sets and feel his hands on your body, touching you like he worships you. 

You’re not as drunk as you were before, but you’re tipsy enough to where the edges blur a bit and the pleasure only gets heightened by the lowered inhibitions you wear tonight. One of his hands comes to stroke your cheek, cradling it there and you lean into it, going so far as to kiss his palm whilst staring directly at him. Your hands move up then, pulling him down to where you can drag your fingernails all over his back, drawing thin red lines on his pale flesh. He whines when you scratch at the nape of his neck, or when you bite down on his shoulder. 

In a move that can only be described as bold you latch your lips to his wrist to suckle a hickey on his skin there. Truthfully, you didn’t know if it’d be one of his sensitive spots, you guessed it might be, and with the way he all but collapses onto you, whimpering with a fresh bruise right there, you know you’ve nearly shot him to the edge. Your fingers drag up his back, to his hair, tugging it until he looks at you with those big watery eyes of his, “Spence.”

He sighs at the call of his name, “Sweetheart.”

Intimate, it’s too intimate, but you both let it happen anyway because with two geniuses in the room all self-restraint goes out the door. He’s still moving in you, still chasing that high, you’re getting close to it, you know he is too, “Want it inside, please?”

He kisses you as an answer, hands gripping your hips so hard you know there’s going to be purple prints left behind. The orgasms, when they do arrive, are strong enough to make you two go boneless as pleasure clouds your visions for a second. Your pussy wrapped tight around him, milking him for all he has to offer and his dick twitching inside of you as he empties himself. For a moment you both lay there, nothing but bodies lax with post-orgasm bliss and the pleasant buzz of alcohol coursing through both of you. Then the spell must be broken by getting up to pee and shower because you’re both disgusting. 

There’s the spell of the night when the consequences of tomorrow haven’t arrived yet, quiet and lovely because for these spare hours it is just you and he and nothing else matters. For a few hours the world outside of your apartment doesn’t exist, it doesn’t matter, it’s you, him, the mountain of combined daddy issues and the urge to fuck each other stupid. Because geniuses make other geniuses stupid. 

For the night you two fall into bed with each other, acknowledging that gravity level draw that had you both in the club tonight, from a private booth in a pocket of Japan to you crying out for his dick in your unmade bed. Tomorrow will be a crucial day in order to find Natalie, you’ll be throwing everything you have into it, and so will Spencer, so will everybody. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow-

___________

Tomorrow. Spencer scrambles when the alarm goes off, and so do you. He’d fallen asleep with you curled up on him and he’d woken up to your back pressed against him with his arm slung over your waist. He’s got thirty minutes to get to the hotel, get changed, and hopefully avoid the prying eyes of the team because he knows that you’ve marked him up good, and he did a number on you as well. Thankfully, he’s so very thankful, it’s fall which means long sleeves and high collars. 

You grumble when he stirs but he presses a kiss to your head and murmurs that he’ll see you in a few hours. You sigh, tugging him down for a proper kiss before waving him off, “Go, go, see you soon.”

Then just like that you drop back to sleep, he snorts at the sight before pulling on his clothes from the night before, but not just his clothes, the clubbing clothes. He’d done it absentmindedly, and then he does his walk of shame back to the hotel room, he’d been put up with Morgan, but Spencer hadn’t come back during the night. Unfortunately for Spencer there’s really not enough time to get in the shower or bathroom to change properly, it’s more a mad scramble of other things. 

Which means when he peels his shirt off Derek Morgan gets the full view of his back and how you’ve borderline claimed him via fingernail scratches. He freezes when Morgan whistles, a low sound that’s prideful, letting him know he’s absolutely been caught, “I was wondering where you were at last night, didn’t realize you were having a night, I thought you were going to visit little Hotchner?”

This is territory that Spencer absolutely cannot fall into, but there’s also no way in hell that he’s going to be able to hide this from him, not with Garcia on the other end that can trace him to where he’d spent the night, “Oh, I did see her, I talked with her a little bit and found out that Natalie and her went clubbing a few days ago. She took me to the club that they were at, and I uh, I got distracted at the end.”

Morgan raises his brow, “Distracted, by whom?”

“Oh, you know, some girl, don’t remember her name or anything like that. Did you know the statistics of a relationship happening after a one night stand are actually higher than people would think? An average median of 28% of one-night stands lead to successful relationships, which is really interesting because-”

“Spencer.”

His mouth clicks shut as he finishes tugging his pants on, “Yeah?”

He hates how his voice goes quiet, how meek he sounds because it’s not hard to put the pieces together, “If I call Garcia and ask her where you were last night is she going to tell me you were at Hotch’s daughters’ apartment?”

Spencer sighs, shoulders slumping, “I didn’t plan on it.”

Morgan groans, running his hands down his face, “Oh no you are into her. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, but I didn’t think you two would jump each other like that! What happened last night?”

Now it’s Spencer’s turn to groan as he speed brushes his teeth, quickly spitting it out before rising his mouth, “I went over intending to ask her about the case, about any personal details she might have omitted because she might not have wanted to say something due to Hotch being there. I mean, we all saw how lunch went down yesterday. I’ve never seen two people want to be there with each other so badly and be so miserable about it. I came over, she poured wine, we ended up at the club, at a restaurant, and then we got super drunk and came home, then we fucked each other, and now I’m never going to be able to look Hotch in the eye.”

“Did you at least find out anything from the club?”

Spencer shakes his head, frowning, “I didn’t find anything, but she did.”

He grabs his bag, following Morgan out the door, “I know she was there to scan the area, see if there were any familiar faces in the crowd that might’ve been there when she went with Natalie. Her memory, she’s got hyperthymesia meaning she can recall just about every single detail of every day of her life perfectly. You can ask her what she was doing February 7, 1994 and she can tell you what she did. She can give you faces, what people said to her, what she ate and how she felt that day. She can look back at her memories and see what’s there, review it like footage but it’s her memory.”

“That’s more detailed than your eidetic memory.”

He smiles at the comment, “I know, I think it’s fascinating though. Mine isn’t even scientifically proven despite my existence and hers is rare enough that there’s three other people who have been diagnosed with it.”

“Meaning she’s basically a walking recorder. But specifically through her eyes.”

“Exactly, her mind is incredible, she’s like the ultimate witness.”

The paused at the elevator, not yet going down as Morgan turned to look at Spencer, an unfamiliar glint in his eye, “Last night wasn’t a one time thing, was it?”

Spencer pauses, he remembers the way he’d touched on you last night, the way you’d tugged him close as if he might just up and leave you after the act was done. He knows what it’s like, he knows what you need, and in turn you know what he needs, “I don’t think so. Will you, are you going to tell Hotch?”

“Nah man, I’m not about to be the postman of your murder.”

Reassurance had always been Morgan’s strong suit. 

___________

Emily gives him a look once he appears, “I heard you didn’t come back last night.”

Spencer shrugs, “Had a night.”

Morgan grins, because he might not be able to tease Spencer on who he slept with, but he can tease him over the fact that it happened, “Our doctor over here certainly did have a night. Boy came in running, I’ve never seen so much damage done by fingernails and teeth.”

Their eyebrows shot up as Spencer’s face reddened, “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh yeah? Show them your wrist, pretty boy.”

“Derek.”

He laughed, thumping Spencer on the back as the team moved out, “Don’t worry, we’re happy for you.”

Hotch wouldn’t be when he found out who was on the receiving end of Spencer’s night out, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. They stop for coffee along the way, and an hour into getting to their room you roll up. This time you’re fully covered but nobody thinks twice about it because of the weather outside. You glance at Spencer, a silent confirmation to not say a single word about the night prior. Hotch glances at you, taking note of the circles hidden underneath the concealer and the way you’re sitting a bit tensely, “Did you sleep alright?”

Spencer locks his gaze in on Morgan, who busies himself with his files as you nod, “Yes, I was just out late though. I went to the club Natalie and I went to two days before she vanished to see if I could spot a familiar face. I found two people who were within a twenty foot proximity that were also in the same area when Natalie and I were there.”

“Do you have names?”

“Give me a second.”

You go still, eyes glazing over for a second as you pick a memory to review, and after a few minutes you nod, “Brian Fishner and Jacob Teems. Brian’s a psych major, Jacob is classical art. Brian’s a senior, Jacob’s a sophomore. Brian’s about 6’2, 180-185 pounds, he’s into streetwear. Jacob’s around 5’9, 130-135 pounds, he’s creative with his clothes.”

The names get written down as Morgan flips his phone open, “Hey babygirl, we’ve got two names I need you to look into, you ready? Brian Fishner and Jacob Teems. Alright, thank you sugar.”

He snaps the phone shut, “Alright, now where would they be?”

You tilt your head, “Brian’s probably at home, Jacob could be anywhere. Brian was still at the club when I left, Jacob left earlier. Don’t ask me their schedules or where their addresses are, I don’t keep tabs on everyone.”

“Noted, how do we want to do this?”

Hotch pursed his lips, “We split into two teams, one will go to Brian’s apartment, the other will find Jacob and pull him in for a conversation. Natalie’s parents are giving a statement later today, around two PM. If we’re following the unsubs patterns then today is Natalie’s last day, we need to find her by tonight.”

You try not to flinch at his words, it’s just the truth, but nonetheless it hurts to hear. You’d held yourself together through the ordeal, but knowing that you’re so, so close to losing one of your best friends is something you didn’t think you’d be dealing with at twenty-two. All you want is to feel her arm pressed against yours and her infectious laughter as you and her hang out in your apartment. Shopping, hair, nails, you and her had been two peas in a pod. 

You’d met Natalie in Freshman year in line for a party, you’d both decided to go out by yourselves, and along the way had met each other, and other people too. Three times of running into each other at the club you’d both exchanged numbers and the rest was history. She was the kind of friend that you knew with absolute certainty that she’d be a bridesmaid and contender for maid of honor. Now she was somewhere out there, and if dawn broke the next morning without her you knew you’d wake up to her corpse on campus. 

With this in mind, you step outside to make a call, phone already pulled up as you reach for your other friend, Rumi, who you met at the club with Natalie in Freshman year. He picks up on the second call, breathless, “Sorry I was in class, what’s going on? Is there an update?”

For the first time in years your breathing goes a bit shaky, “It’s, it doesn’t look good right now. I went back to the club to see if there was anybody familiar, there was, and we’re looking into them now. But it’s just, today's the deadline.”

“The deadline?”

“According to the FBI the unsub has a pattern, every fourth day the corpse shows up on campus. But during those three days the victim is alive. But come nightfall they’re killed. We have less than twelve hours to find this guy.”

“Oh my god. That’s, how are you holding up?”

“I think I’m going insane, just a little bit.”

“Want me to come get you?”

“No, no, I need to help with this investigation. It’ll increase the chances of us finding Nattie if I’m a present consultant.”

“I forgot, your dad is on the team too, isn’t he?”

“He is.”

“How is it?”

“Weird, god it’s weird. He’s got wrinkles in his face, there's grey hair, if I stand in front of him with my heels I can look him in the eye instead of looking up. It’s like, I catch myself doing things that he does too, and I know we don’t look very much alike but he’ll make a face and it’s my face too, it’s weird. Really weird.”

“I can’t imagine, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, just, would you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Get the friend group together, I’ll come by later, I’ll give a rundown of what goes down today and deliver the verdict after, okay?”

“I can do that, what time were you thinking?”

“Let’s do six, that sounds good?”

“Perfect, I’ll see you at six, my place or yours?”

“We can do mine, you have a spare key.”

“Great because mine is a disaster.”

You chat with him for a few more minutes before you call your mother, she takes a few rings to answer, but eventually she does, “Hi baby, you doing okay?”

Her voice makes you want to cry, all you want is to see your mom, to hug her and breathe her scent in, but you’re in college, you’ve been in college, you’re grown. Supposedly, “Hi Ma, I-I really want to see you.”

“We can do that, how about tonight?”

“Can we do tomorrow? I’m, if today doesn’t go right then I’ll be with my friends.”

You can practically see the way her face morphs on the other end, “Of course, how about we grab lunch tomorrow, noon?”

“Yes, yes, please. I-did you know Dad was going to be here?”

She’s silent on the other end, just for a second and it’s enough to tell you that yes, she knew, “Have you told my brothers their dad is in town?”

“No. Not yet.”

You shift uneasily, “Will you tell them?”

She sighs, “I don’t know, they were, they were so young when he left. They don’t remember things like you do.”

“Mama nobody remembers things like I do. You need to ask them if they want to meet him, that’s their choice.”

“I know it is but Aaron, he’s-he’s him. God there’s so much of him I can’t think straight. Not when it comes to your dad.”

You know it too, you know how your parents' marriage panned out from when you were a baby to now, you remember the details, you remember the words. You’d watched them love each other and then you’d watched them hate each other. They’d loved each other, deeply, enough to have three children together within three years of one another. There was going to be a wedding, and you knew, you knew like you knew your measurements that if the BAU hadn’t called your mother would have met him at the altar. 

“You really think I should ask them?”

“Yes. They’re old enough to make these kinds of choices for themselves. They’re twenty Mama, they’ll be mad if you don’t offer the chance to them.”

“Will you tell them?”

“Mama.”

“Sorry, sorry, I know it’s not your job to be your father.”

You love your mother, she’s friend and guardian rolled in one and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Despite her intelligence, despite her confidence, her everything, she never could figure out how to deal with Hotch. Those first few years after Hotch left, really left, your mother was a wreck. She’d never admit that she was, she wouldn’t acknowledge those years really. If you thought it was bad when you were a kid it was downright horrendous as a teenager. 

She’d realized upon your second graduation, the one from law school when you were seventeen, that she spiraled hard. Your brothers were fourteen, just starting high school, and you were working your first year of the firm. At some point you’d moved out to an apartment and taken your brothers with you, it was after your stepfather divorced from your mother and took what he could with your stepsiblings. He did what he could for you and your full brothers but with mouths to feed on his side he couldn’t fully take care of you all. 

Eventually she’d gotten better and you could finally breathe again. You’d been the twins’ primary caretaker, mother and older sister forced to be one person. It’d been an interesting time to say the least. The three of you grew closer than ever, but it also saw the three of you grow up way too much without the safety net you all needed. It was without contest the absolute lowest point of your life. 

“Tell them within the hour, we’re going to lunch together, okay?”

She sniffles, it makes your heart ache because that’s your mother, the strongest woman you know, and your father has made her cry again despite their lack of interaction, “Is he with you now? Aaron?”

“We’re in the same building, why?”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Mama it is not the time for this, Natalie is missing and we cannot be distracted right now.”

“Baby please, just five minutes, I need five minutes.”

“Lunch. You’ll have a whole lunch later, you’ll have it tomorrow. Now Mama I have to go. If we can’t find Nattie by sundown she’s going to turn up tomorrow morning as one of those god-awful corpse statues. I-I can’t see her like that, I can’t. So can we please put a pause on our feelings until we know Natalie is safe? Look, if by sundown we’ve found her I’ll call you back, I’ll put him on for you, and you can talk to him all night long. But not right now. Please?”

She’s silent for a long moment on the other end and fuck how you want to cry. Unbidden, your eyes start to tear up, you hate fighting with your mother. You argue with people for a living but you can’t tell your mother no without feeling like you’re getting the shit kicked out of you. Finally, you hear her breathe, “You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow, I’ll ask the boys, they might call you later. I’ll send you an address.”

Your head tips back, eyes shutting in relief, “Thank you Mama, and if they do call I’m available after eleven, I can’t promise I’ll be in the right state to pick up the phone.”

“I’ll let them know, it’s okay, I promise it’s okay.”

“I miss her Mama, I miss her so much.”

“I know you do, but you’ll see her soon.”

You will see her soon, she just might not be alive. With a new blanket of misery cloaking your being you make your way back to the room where you plop down, not bothering to hide your displeasure. Hotch arches a brow at you, “Is everything okay?”

He doesn’t flinch when you look at him, mouth downturned even as you speak, “Everything’s perfect, and heads up, Mama’s coming to lunch tomorrow, she might bring the twins.”

“Are you serious?”

“She said she’d text where we’re going to meet.”

“Can she still not let anybody pick where to eat when going out?”

“What do you think?”

Hotch grunts in acknowledgement, lip curled in mild disgust as he waves his hand, “Text the address to me later, I’ll be there. You said the twins might come?”

You shrug, “They might, Mama hasn’t told them you’re here.”

“She hasn’t?”

“They have like max three memories of you, they were two when you left. Mama was on the verge of making me play messenger and delivering the news to them that their dad who they haven’t seen in a decade is in the city. But can we please focus? My friend is dead as soon as that sun dips below the horizon.”

Spencer clears his throat, “Garcia’s on line one.”

Hotch reaches over, and then her voice is there, “I, the faithful messenger you all adore, have come with some information, but not a lot. Brian Fishner checks out, he had an alibi and was at the club well into three am, past the time of Natalie vanishing. Jacob Teems however has no alibi, he’s not seen anywhere and the contacts in his phone were all nowhere near to him or with him.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Wait is femme Hotchner in the room with us?”

Hotch tilts his head from you to the call, and you clear your throat, “Are you Garcia?”

“Oh my god you’re real, you’re so real. I didn’t believe them at first, you’re really Hotch’s flesh and blood?”

“Unfortunately.”

She laughs, Hotch does not, you decide you like Garcia, “Well, well, I expect photos and comparisons and nobody is getting out of it. You hear me?”

“I do.”

Then you throw yourself into the case, head tilting back as you recall the events from the last time you saw Natalie. Spencer eyes you carefully, clearly you’re on edge, the looming loss of Natalie creeping over you faster than you can process. You’ve worked really, really hard on the case. Tonight will be difficult for you, no matter what it is there’s no getting around the fact that some part of you will break. They’re just waiting for the shoe to drop. But in the meanwhile you sharpen your focus, filtering, sorting, your memory and intellect are a dangerous combo in a situation like this. 

Spencer nudges your thigh, “What’s Natalie’s favorite coffee shop?”

You glance at him, “She liked going to Chai House when she wasn’t on campus, but on campus she preferred going to Baker and Commons. Thursdays were reserved for coffee study sessions.”

“It’s Thursday, what time did she usually go?”

“Around two, she’d stay until five.”

Hotch nods at him, “Go to the one she frequented outside of campus, Morgan and Emily can set up shop in the one on campus. Don’t stay longer than three-thirty, we’re getting close but not close enough.”

It was around eleven when you got a new phone call, one from Katalina, you answered her easily, stepping outside when you did, “What’s up?”

“Rumi said to gather at your apartment, at six, he said it wasn’t looking good. I’m with Veronica right now, we just, what’s going on?”

You swallow because it’s the one thing you can do, “We’re trying to narrow down who it is. You know that.”

“I know, but seriously, this is-how bad is it? Is Nat coming home or not?”

Your eyes shut, “I don’t know. It’s, I think we need to prepare for the worst.”

She’s silent for a moment, “You don’t think she’s coming home.”

“I don’t think I know anything right now.”

“You’re literally a genius, your LSAT scores match your IQ, you’re on degree number four and you’re twenty-two. How can you not know what’s going on? Why can’t you find her? What’s wrong?”

“Katalina I’m trying over here, I’m pouring everything I have into finding Natalie. You’re frustrated? How do you think I feel?”

“I think you’re sitting on your ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“Cameron was at the club last night, so were you. What could you possibly need to find while grinding against the FBI agent closest to you in age?”

You struggle to get your thoughts in order, just for a second, “Katalina I was blending in, we both were. Natalie and I were at the club two days before she vanished. I saw two people there who were also in a twenty-foot proximity to us that night there again. You think I went to the club because I thought I could use some fun? Like I just want to forget that somewhere out there our friend is getting fucking murdered?”

“I think you want to forget a lot of things, doesn’t surprise me you know, with your dad being there and all. Bet you feel like you’re five again, huh? Daddy’s little girl who sits on his lap and reads her big girl books. Are you gonna fall apart when he inevitably leaves again?”

You try telling yourself it’s grief, it’s justified anger and she’s just saying things because she’s upset, but you’re tired of being the level headed one. You’re so sick of being the voice of reason, the one who drives people home from the club, the one making sure people are hydrated, “Fuck you.”

“What?”

The disbelief in her voice satisfies something in you, only fueling the ever 

growing pit of rage that’s been slowly starting to bubble in your stomach, “You heard me Katty. Fuck. You. If one of us ever goes missing I better see you sitting front row working the case, I know I’ll be there. But where the hell are you going to be? Because it’s been three days since Natalie went missing, and the most I’ve heard from you is about how you have to paint a banner for your sorority. Color theory got your tongue?”

Without waiting for a reply you end the call and step back into the room, Morgan raises his brows at you, “Sounded pretty serious out there. You ever say fuck before?”

Your cheeks warm, “Apologies. I let my feelings get the better of me.”

“No, no, I’m sure whatever you’ve said was warranted.”

That makes your face sour, “She’s always been great about pointing out everyone else's weak points but when it comes to her own self she can’t take the criticism. At least I know I’m a frigid bitch.”

Hotch clears his throat, “Language.”

You roll your eyes, going boneless in your chair as your brows furrow, “Wait, did Katalina have an alibi for when Natalie went missing?”

Emily pauses her reading to look up at you, “Are you putting your friend as a suspect?”

“Katalina was with us that night at the club. She left before us, and said she was going home with a guy. But Katalina never mentioned anything about him the next day, which is odd, since she always recounts her one-night stands in detail. She’s been more focused on her sorority than Natalie, and now she calls me with the intention of throwing me off.”

Hotch sighs, “Your anger at your friend isn’t enough to warrant her as a potential suspect. Although the information is convenient, are you absolutely sure that you want to throw her under the bus like that?”

You glance at him, “Take this out of personal perspective. Does she look like a potential unsub?”

“With that information, yes, but that is besides the point. You and her get in a fight and you accuse her of kidnapping a mutual friend? Did she even have connections to the other girls on campus?”

“Sorority life, all the other girls were part of sororities.”

Hotch hesitates, taking a look around the rest of the team, “I’m not promising anything, but I’ll have Garcia look into her.”

“Thank you.”

“What did she say to you that warranted such a strong reaction? Clearly she got under your skin.”

They all very pointedly try to make it look like they aren’t listening to a damn word when you purse your lips, “It was about you.”

“Me?”

“She asked what I was going to do when you inevitably leave again. There was other stuff, but that was the main question.”

You hold your hand up when he opens his mouth, body shutting off away from him, “Don’t answer her question yet. You can tell me later, whatever you decide can’t possibly do more damage than what came around the first time.”

He relents, backing down and away after a moment where it looks like he might leap, “Alright. Tomorrow, at lunch, we’ll discuss it with your mother.”

“Okay.”

You’re too strung out to argue against anything at the moment. Natalie is almost on the cusp of being gone completely, Katalina is picking fights with you, and there’s almost an unsub, almost a name to be held accountable. But it’s not enough. Time slips past you as you review the names of everyone interviewed. Sculpture students, professors, her friends, you included. 

It’s weird to see your profile there, your student ID and then right beside it your name, Hotchner written down just as it always is but it still feels wrong. You don’t know why you kept the name, your mother had offered to change it, but you refused. Now it’s on a case file for your friend, “When will you bring her in for an interview?”

“As soon as we can, what else could make Katalina the unsub?”

You shut your eyes, retreating into the space of memory for a second before you look at your father, “Are you sure it’s just one unsub?”

The question makes the room go still as Hotch tilts his head at you, “Go on.”

You glance at the bodies pinned up on the wall, “These were sorority girls, this one, Jennifer Thompson, was the secretary for her sorority, Delta Zeta. Maria Ramirez was chair of Philanthropy, Rosey Blank was vice-president of Delta-Sigma. Natalie was treasurer for Pi Beta Phi. All of them held a position of power in their sorority. Whoever is targeting them is making a cabinet of corpses. Meaning the next victim is going to be someone of importance to a sorority, you’re looking at the President or recruitment officer since the other four slots have been filled.”

The realization makes your body go taut as you take it in, “A sorority girl who ran for a position of importance but didn’t make it. Katalina ran for recruitment officer and lost to Brianna DeMarcos. Katalina’s made banners for her sorority for the past four years, she’s been the one putting things together, making things pretty. Didn’t we say the unsub was an underappreciated artist?”

“But who's kidnapping the girls and murdering them? I doubt Katalina is doing all of that.”

“Every woman with sex appeal knows that all you have to do is find the guy who nobody pays attention to for your dirty work. You bat your eyes, tease him, give him the illusion you need him, that you’ll repay him however he likes, as long as he does this favor for you. You used to tell me that in a duo who murders there’s always a dominant and submissive partner. Katalina is the dominant partner, the guy is the submissive and she’s using him to kill the girls. She picks them out, she lures them in because she’s a sister, she’s welcoming, friendly, nobody thinks twice about a sister asking them for help or joining up. Katalina’s a chemistry major, she’s got access to chemicals that make easy date-rape drugs or substances that impair judgement, making the victim pliant, maybe a bit disoriented. Easy to drag off.”

You tap the first pose, “She’s forcing them into demeaning positions because she feels insulted. The higher the position of power the more degrading the pose becomes. She’s….coming to my apartment tonight.”

Your body turns to look at Hotch, “I’m president of Phi Alpha Delta. Just like you were.”

“You’re a target then.”

“She called me to throw me off my game. She used the points that she knew would hurt me.”

“So you’ll slip up, it can be blamed on the heat of the moment but it adds up too well, she knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

“Because I’m too close to the case, I told her we were close to figuring it out. She asked how I couldn’t know who it was, she asked how I couldn’t figure it out. She didn’t ask for Natalie’s sake.”

“She asked because she’s upset you haven’t figured it out yet.”

“She’s an underappreciated artist.”

“You’re the president, you’re the one with all the recognition, she’s upset about it. She wants you to recognize her.”

“Because I’m the end goal.”

Hotch’s frown deepens, “Because you’ve been a target this entire time. You’ve been the target.”

You nod once, like it's a fact, “How do you want to do this then? We rush her then she might have her guy go ahead and kill Natalie, and this is assuming she’s still alive. We don’t rush her and she might kill Natalie herself.”

“It’ll look suspicious if we call her to the station, she might not even show up if we do, especially if it becomes apparent we know.”

“So we act like nothing is wrong?”

“Exactly, you’re going to go home and grieve with your friends, we’re going to wait outside and as soon as you’re in we’re going to get her.”

“What about Natalie?”

“Does Katalina have an apartment?”

“No, she lives in the sorority house. If Natalie’s being held anywhere it’s the submissive partner's place.”

“She would’ve seeked a guy out with his expertise in human anatomy and sculpting.”

“So a guy who studies the human body but loves art. He doesn’t go to Berkeley if that’s the case, he probably goes to UCSF, they’re nationally ranked for the med programs. But he probably does sculpting or art here in Berkeley. We have a program, Berkeley Art Studio, it offers various classes and is open to the public so anybody can join a class. Katalina signs up for sculpting, she finds a guy perfect for her needs, she might’ve even made him into what she needed in order to get her way. It’s just a bonus that he’s from a different university.”

Hotch turns to Morgan, “Get Garcia on the line.”

A few moments later her voice is there, “What can I do for you people way beyond the indignity of a frat party?”

“Garcia, I need you to access the list of people who took a sculpting class through Berkeley Art Studio, narrow it down to students, and from there pre-med students in UCSF.”

“Specific concentration?”

“Surgery.”

“I’ll get back to you with what I can.”

“Thank you.”

Hotch turns back to you, “Do you have a gun?”

You give him a look, “Of course I do, who do you take me for? I have a revolver in my purse.”

“Good, you might have to use it tonight.”

“Fantastic, just what I wanted to hear.”

“You’re inviting the unsub into your apartment, I’m not taking any risks.”

“Do I get to arrest her?”

“You don’t have that power despite being a prosecutor.”

“Can I tell her she’s going to be arrested?”

“Fine.”

Your nerves despite being raised smooth themselves over. You know what’ll happen tonight, you know what might come, “What do we do if things don’t go according to plan?”

“We adapt.”

“Reassuring.”

He sighs, “You’ll be surrounded by law enforcement as soon as the party begins. We’re a call away and we’ll also send you in with an earpiece so we can listen in on the conversation. If things start going south then we’ll be ready.”

You eye him, “Are you also going to be there?”

“I will be.”

Marginally, you relax. It aggravates you that knowing he’ll be there is a comfort, but knowing what’s going to go down tonight is different. You might have to shoot somebody, you’re going to face Katalina, cry over Natalie and watch as she cries over her too despite knowing the truth. Nobody else knows and you intend to keep it that way if you’re going to pull this off. The day moves on, fast and slow and then there’s the coffee shop, that just gets turned into a discussion of the plan. 

An hour before the deadline you stand, brushing your clothes off from invisible dust as you grab your things, “I need to go prepare for people tonight.”

Before Hotch can speak you cut him off, “And before you make me recite the plan or what I need to do I’ve had these procedures memorized since I was three.”

He relents with a tip of his head, “Alright, but at the first sign of something suspicious you tell us, that’s an order, understand?”

“I do. I’ll see you later.”

You step away from the building, from the safety net that you’ve subconsciously reattached to Hotch. You think of calling your mother again, maybe one of your brothers. Tell them what’s happening, that no matter what tonight entails you’re always thinking of them. You think of Spencer, the way his ankle had tangled with yours under the table and he brought you your preferred order from the coffee shop without asking. He could be something, he could be nothing. You think of your father, stoic in his ways, serious like he hadn’t been when you were a kid, and how you want him to tell you everything will be alright again. 

Hotch doesn’t do well with promises though, no Hotchner does. There’s no guarantee about how tonight will fare. If Natalie will be found alive, if you’ll walk away without blood stained hands. You don’t know, nobody knows, but what matters is that you’ve found an unsub, and you’re inviting her in tonight. 

____________

Katalina finds you ten minutes into your walk home, her face deceptively apologetic as you shift uneasily, “Kat?”

“I’m sorry, about earlier. I wasn’t thinking right and it was wrong of me to say.”

Pretend like nothing’s amiss. That’s a rule, and one you intend to follow through. Your face softens, “I know it’s difficult, she’s our friend.”

Relief bleeds through her body language, you doubt it’s because you’ve forgiven her, “I know, it’s just, we haven’t seen much of you at all these past few days and then you go out last night with that guy looking like you’re having the time of your life. It was jarring to see that.”

You raise your brow at her, “I thought Cameron saw us, were you there too?”

“No, but he sent a video.”

“Mm, I see.”

“Did you sleep with him? The agent?”

“I did.”

“That didn’t distract you from the case?”

You shake your head, allowing a little smile to grace your face, “I’d say it helped us focus if I’m honest.”

“What’s his name?”

“Spencer, he’s fun.”

“He looked fun, looked at you like he wanted to devour you.”

“Well, he kinda did.”

She gasps, but there’s laughter in her voice and if you didn’t know what you do now it would feel like any other day after class or work. The mood sobers quickly though when she nudges your side, “What are you planning for tonight?”

You resist the urge to dock her in the face and demand what she has planned for tonight. If she’ll laugh when Natalie gets hacked to pieces, if she’ll gasp in awe when the statue is complete. 

“I was going to make us something easy, something comforting. You want to help?”

“If you’ll let me.”

“For Natalie, I’ll make an exception. Let’s go get groceries.”

“I’ll pay for them then since you’ll be doing the cooking.”

For the most part it’s normal, you’re just two girls doing some grocery shopping in the most expensive luxury grocery store that sits between campus and your apartment. You get to shop there because you have money in your pockets, lots of money, and because you used to take Natalie there for a sweet treat every now and then. She had loved the baklava, and considering the fact that you aren’t going to bake that, you buy a sheet of it because you can. 

It’s five when you get to your apartment, and once the key unlocks you feel the heavy weight of knowing it’s too late. The sky is darkening outside, there’s maybe thirty minutes left of daylight before darkness takes over completely. You and Katalina both know there’s not even an hour left for Natalie, and you just hope that your father has figured out where she’s being held. 

Nonetheless you begin to cook, a dance you find comfort in. You know exactly what’s in what, when to add things, how to cook other ingredients for maximum flavor profile. Guests will be arriving soon, you know some will be in tears, others will keep themselves strong. You get a text from Hotch once, a simple we’re in the area and your heart wants to hammer but you keep calm. 

You pause your cooking when the text comes through as you turn to Katalina, “Do you mind watching the stove while I pee?”

“Of course not, you go.”

Quietly you slip away to the kitchen so you can text him back, “Katalina is in here with me, guests are due to arrive in a few minutes.”

There’s a ping a few seconds later, Spencer this time, “Your dad looks ready to crawl out of his skin.”

You can’t imagine what that might look like to them, what they might be witnessing from their fearless leader. You finish up your business before coming back to the kitchen, Cameron is there now. Red hair and pale skin, his lip trembles when he sees you, “Is it true?”

Cameron is innocent, you know it like you know your memory. He reminds you of one of your younger twin boys, a bit of naive innocence clinging to him despite everything, “It’s true.”

“Oh. Oh.”

You grab a tissue wordlessly when the tears start to spill over, “I-I didn’t think it’d be true.”

“It’s alright, I didn’t want to believe it either.”

He hugs you, face pressed to the crook of his neck as he falls apart for a few 

minutes. You let him because you’re falling apart a little bit too, you don’t have confirmation on Natalie, you don’t have confirmation on everything. To top it off the offender is standing three feet away from you cooking on your stove acting like she feels remorse for what’s going on. You have to pull away first, smoothing some of his hair back as you wipe the tears away with a tissue, “I need you to be strong for a little bit longer, can you do that?”

Cameron nods, although he’s still sniffling, “I can do that, but can I ask why you were at the club yesterday?”

You’d slipped away to the bathroom to put your earpiece in, so now you know that whatever you say they can hear, “I was undercover for a little bit, I needed to scope out the club to see if there was anybody familiar standing too close.”

“You didn’t find anybody there?”

“I didn’t, but we think we’ve found the guy responsible for all of this. I’ll tell you all more when everyone sits down, I want everyone to know.”

“Okay.”

Veronica comes next, so does Nikolas, followed up by Julian, Priyani, Abdul, and lastly, Lucca. They come in with varying states of misery, but the company helps. Your friends can lean on each other while you keep cooking, losing yourself to the rhythm of stirring, flipping, the warmth of the stove decreasing the stiffness in your fingers. Katalina pours wine for people beside you while a few others set the table. There’s not much said, not much anybody can say if they’re honest. 

A few hours of this, of pretending and mourning and hoping that Natalie is found before the sunbreaks. You wait for the moment that they burst through to declare Katalina the unsub, putting her under arrest as the hunt for Natalie takes a few steps forward. You hope you won’t have to put a gun to her temple. She might be the one behind the murders, the reason why Hotch is inexplicably back in your life, the reason why Natalie isn’t sitting at your table anymore. But yesterday she was a friend, a good one too. Yesterday she had been Katty to you, the girl you went to parties with and took photos of. 

Tonight she’s the bitch with an end goal to murder you. Part of you itches to reach for the gun, to let it go straight through her head even without a confession. The other part wants to scream and cry why in her face, demand answers and have her plead it was a misunderstanding even when it isn’t. The worst part is; You don’t know which option you’ll be forced to take, it could be any of them depending on circumstance. Now you wait for the FBI to burst in, to traumatize your friends and leave you to pick up the pieces.

Dinner finishes and moves to the living room for baklava and tea, nobody says a word, nobody speaks, it’s like there’s a countdown hanging above your heads. The silence isn’t comforting for you, and when you look up, Katalina is staring directly at you, “So what information do you have?”

Go time. You know your father will be moving now, you just have to time it right, “We know the unsub is likely a white male in his early twenties. Quiet, unassuming, he’s taken a class at Berkeley Art Studio in the past six months. He goes to school at UCSF for surgery, but he’s pre-med. Insecure, he’s likely a virgin. You could even say this guy is submissive, but he’s very, very intelligent. He might not be particularly handsome, but enough to where his ugliness isn’t noticed, but right there on the side where he’s never someone’s first pick.”

Katalina shifts as you reach into the cushion to draw your revolver out, nobody sees, you’re too careful for that, “And more importantly, he’s not working alone. Because when two killers get together there’s always one focal dynamic; A dominant, and a submissive. The dominant one in this case is a woman, a sister, one who’s clearly upset by the power system in place. She feels unappreciated, like her art hasn’t been recognized, or better yet, because art is a representation of oneself, she feels unrecognized, unappreciated. She’s a narcissist, a psychopath, she doesn’t feel empathy, she doesn’t feel remorse. She’s sitting in this room.”

The doors burst open and you try not to flinch when your fathers voice rings in your ears, “Katalina McKinny you’re under arrest for the murders of Jennifer Thompson, Maria Ramirez, and Rosey Blank.”

She’s on her feet in an instant, “This isn’t right, I haven’t done anything!”

You stand, something cool, something dangerous on your face as you circle around her, your father stepping forward and god you look so much like him. Revolver in hand and a deceptive calm over your face, “Yes you have, you have. You watched your partner take those girls apart and you drew up the poses you wanted to put those girls in. The higher their position the more degrading the pose would be. You couldn’t stand it, could you? All that work, banner after banner, everything you’ve ever created, all for it to get discarded in the end. How long have you been planning my murder Katalina?”

She’s got her hands up but her eyes won’t leave you, she grits her teeth, silently analyzing her options, “Where’s Natalie? Where have you stored her?”

For a moment there’s nothing, then she shuts her eyes and tilts her head up towards your ceiling, “Anna Head Alumnae Hall. Third floor, second door on the right from the west stairs.”

“Is she alive?”

“No.”

Hotch moves, dragging her wrists into cuffs as she’s hauled out of the building, but when you start to head out Spencer steps in front of you, hands gripping your arms, “Let us go get her. Not you. Please.”

You frown at him, “Spencer-”

“Please. You’re not part of the BAU officially, you don’t need to see her body.”

“I do, I’ve worked this case right there with you and I need to see it finished.”

“I know but please, just, you’ve had a night. You can see tomorrow.”

Your brow arches, “I want updates tonight and I get to see tomorrow.”

“Deal, thank you, just please, go be with your friends.”

He leaves, you lock the door behind you and in a display of a rare lapse in control, you slide down the front of it until you’re on the floor. Natalie is dead, Katalina confessed her murder, she confessed what she had done. You’ve cracked the case, you’ve followed your fathers’ footsteps. Katalina will be put behind bars, the perfect future she’d envisioned for herself gone in the blink of an eye. For a second you just sit there, head thumping against the door when you tilt it back. 

You’re exhausted, you hadn’t realized it, but you’re absolutely exhausted. The bone deep kind that tells you if you want you could sleep until Sunday, but you won’t. Because you’re waiting on updates and tomorrow you’ll see Natalie, or what remains of her. You wonder how long Natalie has been dead for, if you’re too late by a day, or an hour, you’ll find out soon enough. You open your eyes when you hear footsteps approaching you. Above you stand your friend group, all of them in varying states of shock, but more importantly, Nik is extending a hand to you. 

“How long did you know Katalina was the murderer?”

You take the hand, letting him haul you to your feet as you sway, “Noon. We’re narrowing down who the partner is, but earlier when Katalina called me she gave herself away.”

“What’d she say?”

Perhaps it’s the shock but your lips curve into a dazed smile, “She tried to throw me off my game. But she asked how I couldn’t not know, how I couldn’t figure it out. She challenged my intelligence, and then she went for feelings. She tried to rile me up using my dad as ammo, she asked, and I quote ‘I think you want to forget a lot of things, doesn’t surprise me you know, with your dad being there and all. Bet you feel like you’re five again, huh? Daddy’s little girl who sits on his lap and reads her big girl books. Are you gonna fall apart when he inevitably leaves again?’”

You make your way to the living room again, grabbing another slice of baklava, “Unfortunately for her I can do something called emotional processing and compartmentalizing. I can deal with my personal issues another day. What I won’t do is let words keep me from catching a serial killer.”

Veronica stares at you for a second, “That’s-That’s kind of scary.”

You shrug, “It’s only scary because you don’t understand how it works. It got me through dinner with her, it let me ask all the questions we needed answered. There’s a confession, a location, they’ll work on getting her partners’ name and recovery. We got what we needed and this weekend, once I can catch a fucking break, I’ll deal with my emotions.”

“You don’t deal with them as soon as they come up?”

“Vi I’m a Hotchner, and Hotchner’s don’t do things like emotions, not when we’re out in the field.”

“You’re not in the field anymore though, not right now, you’re in your apartment so please show something other than this unnerving calm. Please.”

You shoot her a look, “I’m not asking you to stop showing emotions so do not ask me to show them because you’re uncomfortable that I’m not.”

“Are you uncomfortable with us showing emotion then?”

You stand, you’re tired, you feel sick to your stomach, there’s filth everywhere in your apartment and this is why you don’t host but maybe twice a year. There’s too many people, your clothes are clinging to you in ways that make you want to peel your skin off. Your hair is touching you and they want you to be more emotional. Then they’ve gone and flipped your words on you. 

“Get out. Now.”

“Excuse me?”

You level your gaze at her, “Here’s my emotions, front and center. Get. Out.”

“This isn’t-”

“What you wanted? What you expected? Did you want my hands to shake, did you want me to start crying maybe? Maybe I’d throw something against the wall. What, did you want to see me fall apart or something?”

“Of course not, it’s just, we’ve got confirmation Natalie is dead, she’s gone and you’re just-just-”

“Standing here with a grip on myself because I can’t afford to fall apart at the moment. You do realize there were two of them and one of them is still out there, right?”

She falters and Priyani tugs at her arm gently, “Now isn’t the time. This is a case, you know how she handles cases.”

“By being an unfeeling, icy bitch?”

This time it’s emotions driving her words, they’re not spoken to throw you off your game, they’re just spoken because she doesn’t know what else to say or how to say it. You could stand here and take it, but the case is personal, “I won’t repeat myself, get out before I force you out. Natalie is dead, I intend to find the one who physically took her life.”

Veronica, caught between her anger and denial, shakes her head, “No, no, we’re staying here. You’re going to include us in every detail, you’re going to share every update with us, she was our friend too. You don’t-you don’t get to just hold that information from us.”

“And you’re delusional to think that’s going to happen. Are you the prosecutor in the room, are you the one with an autobiographical memory? Where were you in that damned room looking at every nitty gritty detail of those girls' corpses? Were you the end target to a string of gruesome murders? Did you have to pretend like you weren’t seconds away from putting a bullet into who should’ve been a friends’ mouth? Was that you? Or was that me?”

She opens her mouth and closes it like a fish, “That isn’t-”

“It’s the truth. Now get the fuck out of my apartment so we can both process that. I can’t think with all of you in here, or with the fifty-six dishes that wait for me or the fact that I’ve been in the same socks for fifteen or so hours. I’m waiting for pictures of Natalie’s corpse, I do not need any of you in here right now, or this mess.”

They leave because there’s nothing they get out of staying. You clean because it’s the one thing you have control over. Leftovers get put away, dishes left to soak and others in a washer that you’ve started. Then you thankfully, blissfully, get to shower, and when you shower you don’t hear the door open again. Why would you? You need a key to get into the building, your apartment door is locked too. You go through your night-routine easily, and it’s only when you hear the click of a gun that you feel your blood run cold. 

“Put on a pair of underwear, a bra, and a big coat to conceal yourself.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Milo Lovelette. Katalina let me in, she gave me a mission to complete.”

“You’re the sculptor.”

“I am.”

You turn to face him. He’s got a gun pointed at your chest, he’s tall, muscular, his face average but leaning towards ugly. His hands are steady. Surgeon hands. He’s in control right now, and he knows it, “Do you have a matching set?”

“I do.”

“What colors?”

“Black, pink, green, purple, red, orange.”

“Wear the red set.”

You have no weapons here, you also know you can’t make a break for it, so you’ll do what you can. As you rummage through your clothes you twist some shirts to spell out SOS before grabbing what you need. You’re already naked so you get dressed in front of Milo, acutely aware of how he hovers close, too close, “Wear these with it, and go do your makeup.”

There’s no choice but to comply, hair being done up again as you do a fresh face of makeup. You draw on your calmness, the ability to compartmentalize. You need to focus, you need to escape somehow, someway. Somewhere out there your father searches for Natalie’s corpse, with your eyeliner you write down on the inside of the sink Milo Lovelette and then you finish getting ready with a perfume of his choice. He takes you aggressively, arm latched with his and a purse you rarely use slung over your shoulder, phone left behind on the table. 

He drags you to his car, it’s a shit box and it smells but none of it matters when you start trying to think of how you can get out of the situation, “Why did you make me put lingerie on?”

Milo works his jaw as he glances at you, “Katalina promised you to me.”

“Promised?”

“She asked what I wanted most in the world. I told her a muse, she gave me one. You.”

You think you might puke, right there in the car all over your three thousand dollar shoes, “Oh.”

He takes you to a part of San Francisco you haven’t frequented often, and then he starts making his calls. He refers to you as Scarlett even though it isn’t your name and it makes you wonder what you’ve been dragged into. Then he takes you into the building, it’s lavish despite the outside of it. Sleek hallways and warm lighting that should ease you but it feels wrong to be there. Your heels click as you walk, and the farther you go the more unease you feel. Milo takes you into a room, the lighting is darker here but there’s big windows overlooking the city and a bed. The bed is bloodstained. 

“Take the coat off.”

You let it pool to the floor, trying not to flinch when his hand takes a fistful of your ass and gives it a squeeze, “You’re perfect, did you know that?”

You glance at him, at the obsessive look in his eye when he drinks your body in, “I knew from the moment she showed me a picture of you that you were meant to be mine. That you’d look stunning in my bed. Katalina said you didn’t have a boyfriend, that you needed to be taught how to be a proper woman. Do you know what a proper woman is?”

Answering feels like a death sentence, but your silence might not save you either, “Tell me?”

He smiles, knuckle caressing your face, “You women don’t know anything, not really. There’s no reason for any of you to be in universities unless it’s to assist us men. I know you’re a smart thing, but smarts don’t matter when you have a pretty face. I don’t know why you insist on all these degrees when your true purpose isn’t bound to a court room but a home. Don’t worry though, I promise I’ll show you what you really need. I’ll make you a wife, a mother, but only once you’ve proved yourself as my wife. Tonight, we’ll make it official.”

“How so?”

“I’ve called some people, they’re going to watch us consummate our marriage.”

You’re going to be raped, and people are going to watch. It makes your head spin in the worst way possible, “And after?”

“And after I’m going to have your heart for eternity.”

Which means you might be dead by sunrise, “How’d you kill Natalie?”

Milo’s smile widens, “I thought she looked like you, so with her I practiced how to be a good husband. I didn’t need her heart though, I only need yours.”

“Why can’t my family be at our wedding?”

“Because they’ll try to take you from me, especially your dad, the FBI agent. Don’t worry, he can have you back eventually, but he’ll never have your heart.”

It’s not often that you’ve felt fear before but in this moment you feel nothing but fear. Raped and murdered, that might be how you go down and you refuse for that to be your legacy. You’ve earned four degrees, you’re president of the oldest law fraternity on campus (it’s technically pre-law but they begged you to come be president). You’re a prosecutor, you’ve been entertaining the idea of the BAU for the past few days since you got thrown on the case. 

“When will you consummate our marriage?”

“As soon as our witnesses arrive, go, lay down on the bed.”

The bloodstain is not welcoming, even more so with how wet it is. Fresh blood, Natalie’s blood, and you’re getting covered in it. The shoes stay on and you stare at the ceiling, hoping, praying, that you’re rescued or you find an escape route. You think about it, how you’d rather die than be assaulted like he plans on doing. 

“Have you had other wives before?”

You hear him sharpening a blade, “I’ve had six wives.”

“Who were they?”

“Deborah Hank, Loralie Harvey, Anastasia Cove, Angelina Pear, Constance Smith, and then there was Bianca Lane. You’ll be the seventh wife, lucky number seven.”

You don’t feel lucky, you feel all shades of awful as you plan how to get out of the building, “Will I still be pretty once you’ve gotten my heart?”

“You’ll be the prettiest one in the room. Always.”

Then there’s nothing to do but wait. 

__________

Hotch knows something’s wrong as soon as he steps into your apartment, the phone ringing on your counter. It’s empty, he knows that as soon as he’s inside. The team waits outside for him, he said it’d be a quick check in, but when he comes to your bathroom, when he spots the name you’ve written down, he knows it isn’t going to be quick. He’s got Reid on call in an instant, “Get the team up here. Now.”

He goes to your bedroom, the light is on but you’re gone. A coat is missing, so is a pair of shoes, he yanks the drawer open to find the SOS sign staring back at him. The door opens again and the light comes on, “Hotch?!”

Hotch stalks his way out, “Milo Lovelette, he’s kidnapped her. He’s the second unsub.”

Spencer straightens up, “Where did you find that?”

“She wrote down his name in the bathroom sink with eyeliner. I opened up one of her dresser drawers and found sos spelled out with her shirts. She’d showered so he probably came in when she was showering, made her get dressed and put on makeup so suspicions wouldn’t be raised when she left.”

“How’d he get in here?”

“Katalina let him into the building, he probably picked the lock to get into her apartment, Morgan have Garcia pull up security footage and a home address or any address associated with him. With Katalina in our hold he knows he doesn’t have the luxury to take his time with her.”

Morgan nods, phone already flipped up with Penelope on the other end as Spencer heads to your room to look at the SOS signal, he’d told you to stay behind. He didn’t want you to see Natalie’s corpse knowing that you’d already seen enough and even if you didn’t see it he and Hotch could see that you were nearing your limits. Hence why they made you stay behind, but you’d been kidnapped from your own home, and now they were running on a strict time-limit. 

JJ takes her turn with the drawers, opening one up in particular that makes her shut her eyes, “Looks like our unsub wanted her in something particular, she’s missing a lingerie set.”

Hotch does not want to imagine that, Spencer at least knows time and place. Now is not one of those occasions, “That’s different than what the other girls were found in, none of them were wearing lingerie.”

Morgan flips the phone shut, “Natalie’s results haven’t come back yet but none of them showed signs of sexual abuse."

Emily doesn’t dare look at Hotch, “She was the final target, she obviously held some sort of superiority over the other girls. What if she was part of Katalina’s deal with the unsub in order to get him to do her bidding? Like an arrangement.”

“We need to talk to Katalina again then, she might know something.”

They take off, heading back to Katalina in her interrogation room. She hadn’t cried or thrown a fit, she’d just stayed stubbornly silent. That wasn’t going to happen anymore though, not when Hotch all but ripped the door open. She flinched hard when he stepped in and although the team exchanged looks they didn’t interfere, not when he was like this. 

“Milo Lovelette. Where would he hide?”

Her eyes widen for a second before her face smoothes down, “How should I know?”

“You’re his accomplice, you promised my daughter to him, where has he taken her?”

She shrugs, “Again, how should I know?”

“Tell me do you like solitude?”

“What?”

“Do you like the quiet, when it’s just you and your thoughts? Can you stand that noise that fills your ears when there’s no noise to fill them up except for your voice when you speak to yourself?”

“I don’t talk to myself, what does this have to do with anything?”

“Because depending on your answer you’re either going to solitary confinement for a few years or for life. You’re manipulative, vindictive, and you have a thirst for revenge that’ll turn the prison yard into your playground. All traits of someone that’ll land them in a white walled room where they see someone once a day and it isn’t on a personal basis either. It’s clinical, cold, you’re going to be alone. Now, do you want that to be your future? Or do you want that to be something you endure until you learn how to be with people again?”

Katalina stares at him for a second before she turns away, “The address is 3321 Cod Circle. Fifteenth floor, go to the left, then turn right, and go to the apartment in the corner at the end of the hallway.”

“Good, now what does he want with her?”

“She’s going to be his wife. The guy is weird, has an obsession with wives and teaches them how to be perfect for him.”

Hotch is silent for a second, and then he stands, “You will never, ever, be allowed to eat lunch with another person ever again. I hope you know that.”

He leaves her there with an address in hand and a hope that you’re still untouched wherever you are. Lingerie, makeup, a big black coat and heels. Hotch is going to put a bullet through Milo’s head, he’ll make sure of it. 

____________

You didn’t expect for there to be twelve men watching the consummation of marriage. They wore white and sat in chairs that had been set up by Milo, they wore masks over their faces, silent and straight backed as they stared at you. You who laid in the bed, an uncharacteristic tremble in your body when you felt the bed dip under his weight. You didn’t dare look when his knife ran along your thigh before digging in and dragging. 

Warm blood began to run down the side, pooling onto the bed below as you did your best not to flinch or make a sound, “See? She’s learning already.”

Your other thigh received the same treatment, then he dragged the knife up to your stomach, right where your womb lay, “This is your most prized possession. Within this you can create life, you can grow my offspring within you, and when I rejoin you in the afterlife you and the rest of my wives will have my children raised for me. Because that is what you’re good for; Breeding, and raising. As a woman this is your god-given duty, and as a man I will ensure you fulfil this creed.”

Then the knife dips into your skin and he begins to carve a circle around your stomach, it isn’t deep but it’s enough to make it to where you bleed, you know it’ll scar if given the chance. Your fingers twitch to take the knife from him, to drive into his face, his neck, and you might go down trying but at the very least it’ll mean you went down fighting. You endure it though, waiting for the right moment when he drags the knife up, up, up. 

Your hand shoots up to grip his wrist, and in his surprise you manage to deliver a kick to his head. His grip loosens just enough for you to grab the knife and once you feel it in your hand you bring it down on him. Right into his chest, but unfortunately another man manages to grab you and shove a different knife into your side. It makes you shriek as pain blooms beneath your eyes, so strong your vision fades for a second, especially when he removes it and more blood spills out your side. 

That isn’t enough though, you reach behind you to stab him too, right in the neck and then the other men are amongst you. But you stab like a frenzied animal, with two knives in hand and nothing but blind desperation to get out of the place. The pain makes you sluggish but adrenaline fuels you, allowing you to injure enough men that you can flee. You remember the route, heels clicking faster as the men shout to follow you but you’re already farther ahead than them. You won’t fail, even when you get dizzy as your bloodstained fingers desperately push at the elevator button. You plead for it to open as the footsteps hurry, but the door opens and you scramble to close it, pressing the ground floor level and the door closes just as a singular knife flies through the air, embedded itself into your shoulder. 

Not that it matters, you press a hand to your wound, bracing yourself to run again as the doors open and you fly out of the place. You don’t stop running either. It doesn’t matter that you’re in nothing but lingerie and heels, you’re covered in blood and it hurts. Oh god it hurts. You know you’re running out of steam, the adrenaline is fading, but you also know stopping means your death. You need to find a place to hide, a place you can escape to. 

Someplace the men can’t reach you. You look around frantically in an attempt to find some sort of civilization but there’s none, and hiding in an alley isn’t an option since you’re leaving a blood trail behind. You keep running, you can’t stop running. You take twists and turns and finally a convenience store is there, a gas station attached to it. You stumble in, ignoring the horrified gasps from people as you all but claw your way to the cashier, “Phone.”

They hand it to you quickly, and you dial Hotch’s number, he answers on ring two, “Who is this?”

“Dad.”

You don’t regret saying it, not when you sway dangerously and you pass the phone to the cashier who gives the address then back to you, “They’re-They’re coming after me, hurry.”

A woman locks the doors just as your legs give out. The people shout but you’re too far gone to stop yourself. You shriek as the pain hits you full force, there’s blood coming out from your side, a knife sticking out of your shoulder. You’re borderline nude and you know your hair is messed up six weeks to Sunday. None of it matters though, not when your vision is going in and out and you know you’re running out of time. You gave it hell, gave them hell, whoever they are. 

You’ve done your best, you know that. You can die satisfied knowing that you ended this man who took so many other lives before you. He didn’t get you though, you got him. A woman kneels beside you. She’s older, closer to your mothers age but she takes your hand, it’s warm, comforting, “Can you tell me your name?”

Because you need to live, you need to survive, you tell it to her, “Hotcher.”

“Alright Miss. Hotchner, can you tell me what happened?”

You swallow, letting your eyes shut, “Milo Lovelette, he kidnapped me, tried to rape me, he had twelve companions in white robes and masks who sat around the bed and watched. I-I stabbed him, I killed him. I killed seven of them, the rest are cha-chasing me. Ohhh fuck-”

For a moment sound fades away while your body lurches forward, vomit spilling from your lips to splatter against the floor beside you but you don’t care about that very much. You feel floaty, yet in so, so much pain, something is wrong, horribly wrong, “That’s okay Miss. Hotchner, that’s okay, let it out.”

There’s something wrong with the vomit, it’s too red, you didn’t eat anything red for dinner, “I need my Dad, he’s-he’s workin’ the case, gotta tell him I caught the guy, Mama will-she will, bars. Mhmm.”

“How old are you, Miss. Hotchner?”

“M’ twenty-two.”

“Are you in college?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What for?”

You have to think for a moment, everything’s farther apart, harder to recall despite it all, “Li-Linguistics and brain science.”

“Wow Miss. Hotchner, those are some good degrees, are you excited to graduate?”

Her question makes you smile, even though your mouth is full of blood, “Yuh, I-I want my Dad to be there this time. I graduated thrice, he has to be there this time.”

“You’ve graduated three times?”

“Mhm, high school, college, law school, now this, next Spring.”

“You must be brilliant.”

“M’a genius, 176, same as my LSAT scores.”

“Well can you use that big brain of yours to keep your eyes open? Your parents want to see you, they’d be sad if you were asleep when they came by.”

Everything’s getting fuzzier and you aren’t sure if you’ll be able to stay awake. You think of your mother, the strongest woman you know. Your brothers, the physical extensions of you that you adore with all your heart. Your father who left and came back and you should hate him, but you want him back nonetheless. You think of your friends, the heartbreak on their faces as they sit around your table and you don’t think you can crush their spirits anymore. You think of Spencer, the possibilities are endless with him, possibilities you want to explore. 

“Would you-would you tell them I’m sorry? I ran so fast.”

Her face does something funny, you can’t really tell though with how your vision starts to get fuzzy, “Tell-tell my Dad I know why he did what he did, it’s okay now, because he’s back.”

More blood spills over your mouth, dripping onto your chest, “And my Mama, she-she can handle it. The twins have to graduate, I want a seat saved. My friends can raid my closet, and Spencer. I would’ve liked having a chance with Spencer.”

She shakes her head, cupping your face, “Now Miss. Hotchner, they’ll be here any minute, you can’t leave them waiting.”

A hot tear spills down your cheek, the first in years, “I just wanted to make someone proud.”

“They’re very proud of you, I promise you that much. You’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re kind, all you have to do is hang on, okay?”

“I think I might disappoint them this time.”

“You won’t be disappointing anybody, no matter what happens.”

You sniffle, “I’m tired.”

She croons softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your head, “I know you’re tired, but stay awake a little bit longer, okay?”

Her voice sounds far away though, and everything’s getting brighter. You see her lips moving but you can’t hear what she’s saying, you can’t hear anything, but you think you see red and blue lights flashing in the distance and you smile for it because, “My Dad’s here, he’s here.”

__________

Hotch doesn’t know what he expects when he bursts through the doors, but you on deaths’ door isn’t one of them. You had sounded strained on the phone call, not, not this. The woman sitting beside you scrambles out of his way when he kneels beside you, “Honey I need you to respond to me, I need you to talk.”

But there’s nothing coming out of you, just that faraway look in your eyes as your body starts to fail. It’s a look he’s seen on people before, the look that tells him it’s going to take a miracle for you to survive. He has to see it through though, he has to see your eyes again, to hear your voice. You’d been so strong, so vibrant despite the dark color pallet and aura around you. Your jaw moves, something a little more alive returning to your eyes, “Dad, you came.”

He exhales sharply, he hadn’t even known he was holding his breath, “Of course I came, I’ll always come from now on.”

“No promises.”

“This is a promise.”

You huff, breath laboured and shallow, “I’m sorry, I-I couldn’t-”

“None of that, you did your best, you did plenty, you’re going to be okay, alright?”

The glassiness creeps back in, “I like pancakes on Tuesdays.”

Tuesdays, once upon a time, had been a reserved time for breakfast for dinner instead of actual dinner. It was like that because you never got to eat breakfast with your parents who left for work too early to do such a thing. So Tuesdays were reserved for breakfast instead of dinner. You’d loved pancakes, you liked it best if you had a plain one and another with chocolate chips in it. 

“We can make pancakes on Tuesday.”

You don’t respond, and Hotch’s fingers fly to your pulse, it’s thready, barely there. You won’t last much longer, “How long until the paramedics get here?!”

Spencer kneels on your other side, they’d done what they could for your wounds but with the damage sustained they could only do so much, “ETA one minute tops.”

Then your pulse falters and your body goes completely limp, slumping towards Hotch who catches you, immediately setting you down to start compressions on your chest as Spencer shouts that you’re down. Morgan is the one to shove Hotch aside to take over chest compressions, Emily grabs him in the same motion, dragging him back, “He’ll take care of her.”

Hotch can only stare as your body jolts, and then get transferred to the ambulance, he watches as you get sped away. Spencer is the one to guide him to the car and the rest spread out to search for the others, and the building Katalina had named. They go to the hospital, Spencer behind the wheel, and he feels like he’s floating from somewhere far away. You’d died, your pulse gone and eyes blank, your body drenched in blood both from you and whoever you attacked to get to freedom. 

He walks with steady feet but doesn’t zone in until the doctor approaches, her face grim as she calls for Hotchner. He stands first, quick with purposeful strides as he goes to her, “I’m her father, how is she?”

The doctor grimaces, “She’s extremely unstable but in surgery. Her iliac artery was nicked when she was stabbed and not to mention the incredible amount of strain her body went through when she escaped. With all her injuries she ran over a mile towards safety, that’s borderline inhuman. Unfortunately these are the only updates I can give for right now, I’ll try to come when I can. Have you informed any of her other family?”

“Not yet, what should I inform them?”

“To come quickly, urgently. There’s no guarantee that she’ll see the sunrise.”

“Thank you.”

She nods once, “And for what it’s worth, your daughter is incredible for all she’s managed to do. I hope her strength lasts when she’s on the table.”

Hotch all but collapses back in his seat as Spencer focuses on the area around them. You’re in surgery, it doesn’t look great, and someone needs to call your mother. Hotch resigns himself to the task, “I’m going to inform her mother.”

“I’ll be here.”

Hotch steps away to a small room when he flips his phone open, dialing a number he thought he might never have dialed again. Your mother picks up on the last ring possible, voice thick with sleep, “Aaron?”

He shuts his eyes as her voice comes over him. A voice he’d loved and lost, and he doesn’t know how to face this, how he’s going to tell her that you’re dying on the surgery table, “Aaron did something happen?”

“Our daughter is in the hospital, she-she might not make it through the night.”

“What?”

“She was kidnapped from her apartment and in her escape sustained potentially lethal injury. We’re at UCSF Medical Center, just, please. They don’t know if she’ll make it off the table.”

“Oh my god, oh my god. We’re on our way, oh god, oh god.”

She hangs up and Hotch takes a second to himself. You might not make it off the table, he’d watched every fathers’ worst nightmare come to life before his very eyes. He doesn’t even know if you’ve been raped by that man. On the way back to Spencer he gets a call from Morgan, “Hey we just checked out the apartment, she uh, she got eight of them, Milo included. Hotch, she fought like hell in here.”

“She killed eight men?”

“Sure did, we’ll have pictures but it’s an absolute blood bath in here. We didn’t even need to figure out which apartment she was being held in, there’s bloody red bottom shoe prints coming from the door to the elevator.”

“She ran a mile in those shoes.”

“How’s she doing over there?”

“Not well, they’re preparing for her not to make it off the table.”

“Oh hell, we’ll get this wrapped up over here and then head over.”

“Get me those pictures, I need to see them.”

“Will do.”

The line goes dead and he returns to Spencer, eternally fidgeting Spencer who all but jumps when Hotch takes a seat again, “How’d it go?”

“Her mothers frantic, Morgan’s getting photos from the crime scene. According to him she left bloody stiletto prints all the way from the apartment to the elevator, and then she also left eight bodies to cool in that room.”

Spencer blinks, “Eight bodies?”

“Milo included. The other eight have yet to be named.”

“I see.”

They fall silent for a minute, maybe ten, before Hotch sighs, “And if you didn’t think I’d notice you two playing footsie under the table you’re mistaken.”

“Oh god.”

Hotch raises a brow at him, “According to sources, you were at my daughter's apartment last night. All of last night, except for of course when you two went to the club. And Morgan was very vocal about your activities the night prior.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-I-”

“Reid.”

Spencer’s mouth shuts with an audible click as Hotch raises his hand, “When my daughter recovers well enough you’re going to take her on a proper date. You’re going to give her more than a club and drunken fornication.”

“Sure, yes, one hundred percent you got it.”

“And for what it’s worth, I can see you two being good for each other.”

Spencer pauses, unsure of where to go with this information, “Really?”

Hotch tilts his head back, eyes shutting, “You’re both geniuses who graduated early and started getting degrees like the British took over countries. Your emotions are worn on your sleeve, hers are stored away in a pandora's box. If anybody is curious enough to open that box it’s you, and out of anybody, you’re the most equipped to help her handle them.”

“I’ll do my best then.”

“I know you will, hence why I’m giving you this one pass.”

“Thank you, Hotch.”

“Mm, now shut your eyes, they’re going to strain themselves looking for things you can’t see yet.”

____________

Your mother comes in an hour later, your younger brothers hot on her heels. For all that you look like your mother, your brothers take an awful lot of Hotch after them. Of course they see your mother in them, like their skin tone and the lips. But the brows, the nose, the eyes, the hair, the face structure, all of that is Hotch. Like if Hotch were brown, that’d be them. 

She comes in a frenzy and as soon as she sees Hotch, your blood all over him, she breaks apart, “What happened? Aaron, tell me right now where is our baby girl? What did they do to her?”

Hotch sits her down, swallowing at the looks of incredulousness on the other two boys' faces. They were so young when he left, they’d known him through phone calls and rare visits, but they were thirteen when he officially exited their lives. When he married Haley. When she pursed her lips every time he called and clicked her tongue when he used his vacation to go over to see you and the twins. He doesn’t know why he gave in, why he went the route that he did. 

“We’ve been working on the case of the sorority girls turned statues. Natalie went missing, she got pulled in on the case because she was one of the last people who’d seen her and her memory. Her knowledge of the student body and the people around her, it’s unparalleled. She unraveled the case and found out our unsub was actually two people, amongst them Katalina. Who we arrested earlier tonight after our daughter hosted a dinner party with her friends.”

He sighs, body dropping a bit, “They left, and we didn’t know that Katalina had let the second unsub in. Milo Lovette, who had an obsession around making innocent girls into his wife, the only one with full details on what he was doing and planning to do is her. We believe she was not his first victim, but she was certainly his last. It’s reported that there were twelve men in the room, not including Milo. Who broke into her apartment once everyone left and forced her to get ready. We believe he was planning on assaulting her sexually before he inevitably murdered her. As far as we know it didn’t happen, she left eight bodies, including his, behind during her escape. She ran a mile in her heels to safety.”

Your mother stares at him, something broken all over her face, “How could this have happened to her?”

“I don’t know. It was ultimately Katalina’s fault for putting the idea of her as a wife for Milo in his head. She was using him to kill the other sorority girls so she didn’t even have to lift a finger.”

“She called me earlier today, we were supposed to get lunch tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“And she’s-she’s still in surgery?”

“She is, we’ve had no updates since the first one.”

“Alright. We can-did you see her? Before the ambulance took her?”

“I did.”

“Was she coherent?”

“Barely, she, the last thing she said was she likes pancakes on Tuesdays.”

Your mother breaks then while your brothers grip each other's hands and stare off into the distance. Spencer stands, almost abruptly, “I need to call her friends and inform them of what’s going on.”

He leaves quickly, leaving the Hotchners to grieve for someone who’s almost dead, but not quite there yet. He doesn’t need to listen to the conversation that’ll happen when he’s gone, instead he takes the list of contacts that belong to your friends and dials the first one: Nikolas. 

“Hello?”

“This is Doctor Spencer Reid, are you Nikolas Perez?”

“I am. What’s going on?”

Spencer braces himself, “Small Hotchner’s in the hospital, she was kidnapped by the secondary unsub after you all left. She escaped, but we don’t know if she’s going to survive. How fast can you gather your friends and come to UCSF Medical Center?”

“Oh my fuck we’ll be there within the hour, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck went wrong after we left?”

“A lot of things, but she fought tooth and nail to get out, she succeeded.”

“What do I tell people?”

“You tell them she’s in the hospital in critical condition, tell them to get their asses up and over here.”

“Right, of course, we’ll be there shortly.”

Spencer hopes so for your sake. 

_____________

Morgan comes in our hour five to a whole waiting room full of familiar faces, even though three of them he hasn’t been introduced to yet. He hands the file over to Hotch regardless, “It was a cult that abducted her. Milo was the leader of it, but there's a lot of evidence, and we might’ve accidentally stumbled on something bigger than we anticipated.”

Hotch opens the folder and there’s the bloody footprints. Your bloody footprints, the trail of dripping blood joining. The next picture is the elevator, your blood swept over the buttons, and then down the panel on the inside. The pool of blood is bigger there. The next photos are of the path you took, the blood trail you’d left behind up until the gas station where they’d found you. The next pictures are the bodies. Men in white with red stained robes, Morgan was right about the bedroom looking like a bloodbath. 

Spencer looks at them with him, eyebrows raised when he sees the level of violence that went down in the room. Your bodies rest in mostly whole pieces, but there’s an ear, some fingers, and a nose on the ground found in various places. Your coat pooled on the floor, the evidence of you in the bed through blood stains, some fresher than others. Fought like hell he’d said, he was right about that too. 

“Have we managed to identify the seven other bodies?”

Emily glances his way, “We’re sending dental records in, there should be matches pulled up soon enough. They’re young men, similar age, varying degrees of attractiveness, Milo might’ve been the leader but I doubt he was the big boss of this operation.”