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hi!?! could you please write slowburn with hotch.. like working at the bau and being a little oblivious and udhhd until it eventually resolves with smut?? I lack fics without previously established relationship
you're the risk i'm gonna take it
pairing: aaron hotchner x reader, background michael robinavitch x reader
summary: request above
word count: 3.7k
tags: jealous!hotch, possessive!hotch, angst, hotch is lowk toxic but it works out for him, reader is oblivious but also kind of dumb, the pitt mention (helloo hyperfixation) dr robby is down bad, not proofread.
author's note: thank you for this request angel! i hope you like this and ty for being so patient xx
The first time you meet Aaron Hotchner, youâre ready to hightail it out of the room. Your transfer to the Behavioural Analysis Unit was something done out of necessityâyouâd spent a long time in private practice before deciding to branch out and were lucky enough to score an opening with the FBI.
Hotchner wasâŠa lot. Of what? You werenât entirely sure. Youâd been made aware he had a reputation for being a hardass and somehow also one of the best team leaders in the FBI.
He was calm, confident and at times abrasive, but you wouldnât have gotten to this point if you were unable to work under pressure. He had been strict and clear in his expectations of your role on the team; you were new and had to fight to prove yourself.
âI look forward to working with you Agent.â He had remarked, barely looking up from his pile of papers as he dismissed you from the meeting. If you were any less professional, you would have scoffed but all you did was offer a tight smile and nod.
âI do too, have a good day further Agent Hotchner.â
And that was that.
Ëâàżà»â â
The BAU was a learn as you go workplace and you quickly figured out it was also a seemingly do as I say, not as I do environment. If you had a dollar for every time you witnessed one of your coworkers pull some kind of self-sacrificing bullshitâyouâre fairly sure youâd never have to work ever again.
You would be lying if you said it didnât bring some sort of spark back into your life, despite the dead bodies and sadistic murderersâyou had found that missing puzzle peace.
The team sat on the plane back from one of their most recent cases, half-asleep on the red eye whilst you had your laptop out, typing away at your report so youâd be able to sleep as soon as you got back.
âYou should sleep.â Hotchâs voice startles you despite being barely above a soft murmur. Heâs watching you over a case file whilst sitting across from you.
You snort, âYeah, no chance.â
Hotch frowns, âYou having a hard time sleeping?â His tone is concerned and it brings a stiffness to your shoulders. You shouldnât have said that. Youâre completely capable of doing your job and itâs not like youâre the only one on this plane who has a hard time closing their eyes at night and not picturing every other gruesome thing theyâve encountered.
âNo,â you smile tightly, shuffling your laptop closer to you as you squint at the screen. âIâm fine.â
Hotch stares at you for a second, as if heâs deciding whether or not to call you out on the blatant lie but instead heaves a sigh, slumping into his own seat.
âYou shouldnât squint like thatâit will hurt your eyes.â He reprimands lightly and this time you canât help the amused raise of your brow as you meet his dark gaze.
âGod, youâre old.â You snort, immediately trying to muffle your laugh when his expression turns perplexed.
âOld?â he mutters in disbelief.
âSorry,â you giggle, slapping a hand over your mouth as you watch him shake his head in fond amusement.
âYouâre trouble for a manâs ego.â He points at you with a wry smile on his face as you flush.
You shrug, âGotta keep emâ humble.â
Hotch flashes his teeth as he grins softly. Silence grows between the two of you as you continue to work on your own respective tasks.
As you continue to write your report, nibbling on your bottom lip you are seemingly unaware of the soft looks Hotch sends you in between his own reading.
Ëâàżà»â â
Your relationship with Hotch is complicated. There are times where youâll catch him staring at you from his office, small smile on his face or thereâs times where he inconspicuously accommodates you more than he would someone else.
Heâs just being nice is what you tell yourself, because any other option would be ludicrous to even consider. Though there are moments that make you start to question whether those options might be reality.
Youâre on a case in Pittsburgh, somewhere near the hospital you used to work at before transferring to the BAU and itâs just your luck that one of your key witnesses is currently being held in the ED.
Youâre more than happy to accompany Hotch to the ED to try and get something useful out of the guy and you really struggle at schooling your face of excitement of seeing any of your past colleagues.
It doesnât slip passed Hotchâs notice who quirks a curious brow at you from the driverâs seat, âYouâre quite eager to be meeting a witness.â He remarks dryly but thereâs no hiding the humor in his expression.
You grow shy, nibbling on your bottom lip and drawing his attention to your action. âI used to work in the psychology department at PTMC.â You admit softly, wringing your hands in front of you.
Hotch hums interestedly, itâs not often in their line of work that Agents are transferred into the FBI from outside of the academy. Heâs willing to take any chance to know the parts of you heâs been yet to discover and visiting your work is what brings him hope that this might just push you both closer together.
You havenât been outwardly dismissive of his advancements, but he would be lying if he said it wasnât killing him inside that you werenât as forthcoming. Sure, it had been a while since heâd had to whip out his flirting tacticsâhis first and last relationship being well his late wife.
But you were so enigmatic that he just couldnât help but want to be near you, heâd been making every effort to impress. Well, at least he thought he had, if your blatant obliviousness to his affection wasnât sign enough.
Hotch had found himself gritting his teeth one too many times after heâd been blatantly flirting with you only for you to respond in your sweetest smile yet most professional tone.
He knew it wasnât right, that he had no business crushing on his subordinate but Lord help him if you werenât the only woman who had made him feel things he didnât think himself capable of.
When Hotch parks the car, you practically launch yourself out of the vehicle to speedwalk your way into the entrance. Youâre fast enough that Hotch has to jog a little to catch up to you with a breathy chuckle before matching your strides.
âSo, you can run in those heels,â he teases softly, his arm coming back to rest on the curve of your back to guide you to the entrance.
You lift your hand to swat at his chest half-heartedly with a playful scowl that diminishes the moment you step into the bustling ER, the both of you adopting your composed manner of professionalism despite your simultaneous twitching lips.
Ëâàżà»â â
Youâre met by a blonde nurse whose smile is as wide as can be when she catches sight of you, her southern drawl echoing as she crosses the room, âWell, arenât you a sight for sore eyes sunshine? Who knew weâd be seeing your face again!â she remarks happily, wrapping her arms around you in a motherly hug.
âDana, I missed you.â You say softly, hugging her back before throwing a sheepish expression to Hotch who shrugs.
âAnd whoâs this with you?â Dana sizes up Hotch, staring him down something fierce and he feels himself paling a little.
âUhââ you chuckle nervously. âThis is Agent Hotchner, heâs umâheâs my boss.â You say.
Dana turns to you, quirking a brow that makes you roll your eyes fondly. âWeâre here on a case, Pittsburgh PD should have called ahead, weâre here to interview a James Harlow? He was inââ
âMVA, Yeah Robbyâs got him down in South 12, you remember where that is donât you? Heâs gonna be real excited to see you.â Dana drawls teasingly.
Hotch expects you to laugh and wave off the statement, but heâs surprised to see you fluster, your shoulders hiking up towards your ears as you shove Dana softly.
âStop,â you chastise her through a whine and Hotch feels like a rock had lodged itself in between his heart and ribcage. Who the hell is this guy?
He has no right to be jealous, the two of you arenâtâŠanything. Youâre both colleagues, heâs your superior but Hotch feels his gut clenching and palms sweating all the same.
He coughs, clearing his throat which draws your attention back to him. You have the decency to look embarrassed but without further mention of it you say a hasty goodbye to an amused Dana who looks like sheâs sizing him up and drag the both of you to what he assumes is South 12.
Ëâàżà»â â
When the curtain is drawn away, you both are met with the sight of your witness and what Hotch assumes is âRobbyâ explaining his blood test results to.
âUh,â your witness mutters awkwardly, gaze switching between yourself and the man behind you. You suppose you must look quite intimidating in your formal wear and FBI badged plastered to your lapels, but you school your expression into something that you hope resembles comfort.
âSunshine.â Robby remarks surprise as you muster a shy smile and an awkward wave while Hotch behinds you clenches his jaw.
Fuck. Granted, Hotch couldâve rationalised his jealousy if the guy were your age (no he couldnât have) but Robby must be his age if not older. Heâs all crowsâ feet and greying hair that Hotch canât help but measure himself up against.
He hates this. Never once has something so personal jeopardised his ability to maintain professionalism yet you have a way to test all of his boundaries. He hates how Robby is looking at youâlike youâre some kind of miracle that he never thought heâd have the chance to see again.
Itâs how Hotch looks at you. He knows that look, he wears that look every day with a feeling of pride because up until nowâhe had no reason to doubt that it was a matter of when not if you returned his affection.
Now? Now he feels the urge to drag you out of this ED and make you promise to never look at another man ever again. But he canât, so he doesnât.
âI uhâweâre here to interview Mr. Harlow. Weâre with the BAUâwe just have a couple of questions about what you saw today,â you murmur reassuringly to the wary man whilst glancing back at Robby.
Hotchâs firm voice startles you slightly when he moves from behind you to stand next to you, effectively acting as a barrier between you and Robby, âWe need you to go over anything you can remember from this morning.â
Robbyâs gaze turns amused when he notices Hotchâs posturing, snorting to himself as he shuffles out of the room, âIâll leave you to it.â
You nod meekly, opening your mouth to start the cognitive interview before Robbyâs voice interrupts you, âDinner later Sunshine? Would be good to catch up.â He offers, an easy smile in his place.
Your heart warms, as much as youâve enjoyed your time at the BAU, the day shift were the first people who made you feel like you were part of a community.
âYeah,â you offer easily. âIâm working a case right now, but Iâd like that. Maybe you could invite the restââ
âAgent, weâre in the middle of something.â Hotch spits out, his eyes ablaze as he stares you down.
You shrink into yourself, not noticing Robbyâs frown at your demeanour though he leaves after you give him a reassuring smile. You give your full attention back to your witness and proceed with the interview.
Ëâàżà»â â
You somehow feel like youâve done something wrong despite the interview being a complete success. You walk out of the room with the feeling that Hotch isâŠmad at you? Frustrated?
Youâre not entirely sure, only that he speaks to you in one word responses if heâs not supplied a grunt of some kind. It gets worse when you confirm your plans with Robby as you walk out, offering for Hotch to go on without you when you notice other Pittsburgh PD officers also in the ED.
âItâll give me some time to ask him a couple more questions and you can go over what we already know with the rest of the team, Iâm sure the officers wonât mind.â You reassure him.
Hotch fights the growl that wants to burst out of his throat. He minds. He minds that Robbyâs been waiting not so patiently to get you wrapped around his dirty little fingers, for you to decide that maybe you donât want Hotch and instead want to trade up to some fucking ER Doctor.
âNo, we came together. Iâll drive you back.â His answer is curt and your confusion doubles. What is his problem?
âBut Iââ
âSunshine, my truckâs sitting outside if youâd rather drive that. I donât mind coming and gettingâ it from you later before dinner.â Â Robby offers, interrupting your conversation Hotch thinks bitterly.
Of course he drives a truck, and of course heâd offer for you to take it. Any excuse in the book to get to see you again huh? Well Hotch can deal with that.
âThat wonât be necessary, we have everything that we need to form a working profile and time is really of the essence here. We need to go. Now.â He orders, leaving no room for misinterpretation as he grabs your arm despite the gasp you let out, sparks shooting up your arm as your dragged out the parking lot.
âWhat? Hotchââ you squeak out, trying to tug your arm from his hold as he pulls you into the car, lifting you by your hips and plopping you into the passenger seat. You squawk in protest squirming as he adjusts your legs slightly and closes the door, jogging to the driverâs seat and getting in with a scowl still planted on his face.
Ëâàżà»â â
Youâve been silent and matching Hotchâs scowl the entire drive back to the precinct, âThis is kidnapping you know.â You remark sarcastically, folding your arms over your chest..
Hotch blows out a frustrated breath, âWe had to leave, we didnât have time for you be chummy with your friends.â He growls out, hands tightening on the wheel until heâs white knuckling it.
âYeah sure, blame me when youâre the one with a stick up your ass.â He hears you mutter to yourself, forcing his resolve to break.
âThatâs it.â He snarls, pulling off onto the shoulder of the road. There are barely any cars on this stretch of road, but it still brings a gasp to your lips at the jerky movement.
âWhat is wrong with you!â you hiss out, clutching at your seatbelt and the handle of the door as your eyes grow wide in panic.
âYouâre being a brat.â Hotch growls out, his gaze dark and heavy as his chest heaves up and down in frustration. Your gaze drops to his chest, your mouth growing parched as you shake yourself out of your stupor.
âIâm a brat?â You say incredulously, âIâm a brat when youâre the one who nearly got us into an accident because you were too busy having a temper tantrum over what the fuck ever?â
Hotchâs jaw clicks from how hard heâs clenching it, his glare focused on you, âWell I wouldnât have been so on edge if you werenât distracted while on the job.â
If itâs even possible, your scowl deepens, as you unbuckle your seatbelt thrusting your pointer finger into Hotchâs chest with vehemence, âDonât you dare insinuate that I canât do my job, I told you I couldâve gotten a ride with a different officer. Hell, even Robby offeredââ
âDonât fucking say him name.â Hotch threatens.
You falter, expression turning into bewilderment, âYouâve got a problem with Robby? You just met him howââ
âBecause he was hitting on you!â Hotch bursts out, running his hand over his jaw as he blows out a frustrated breath as he chuckles without humor.
âHuh? Robby? He wouldnâtââ
âOh, trust me,â Hotch taunts, âHe would and he did. I had a front row seat to that entire segment.â
You frown looking as puzzled as ever, âThatâs why you were angry? Why does it matter what Robby thinks, it doesnât impact the caseââ
âFuck, youâre irritating.â Hotch grounds out, launching himself over the counsel and swallowing your annoyed sound with his lips. He kisses you fiercely, his chapped lips borderline bruising your own as he prods at your lips with his tongue, seeking entrance.
He muffles your whimpers with his drawn out groan as he licks into your mouth, his hand coming up to cup your face, angling you to deepen the kiss as he threads his fingers through your hair.
Your hands come up shakily to clench around his t-shirt as you whine into his mouth, lazily licking into his mouth like youâre trying to play catch up with him.
When he draws himself away, you follow his lips unconsciouslyâyour own puckered with a whine as he takes in your dazed expression. He licks his lips watching you, already half hard in his pants from the taste of you.
âI was jealous.â He admits, his voice low. Heâs still looking at you, watching for any change in your expression.
Your eyes widen, âWhy?â you mumble aloud.
Hotch scoffs a laugh, âBecause I like you? Because I wished that I had worked up the nerve to ask you out before that hotshot doctor did? Because I was too much of a wuss because I was scared youâd say no? you take your pick.â He says, smiling without humour.
You frown, your hand hesitantly lifting to cup Hotchâs cheek. You nibble on your bottom lip, drawing a groan from Hotchâs chest.
âIâI like you too.â You admit shyly, your expression growing abashed as you avoid eye contact with him.
âLook at me.â He demands firmly, his hand cupping your chin to force you to meet his gaze.
âIâm sorry I lashed out at you, that was unfair of me.â He says softly. You shrug, rubbing your thumb up and down his cheek.
âSâokay, I know you didnât mean it.â You mumble.
Hotch shakes his head, âNo.â he states firmly, âI didnât mean it but that doesnât make it right, you donât deserve to be treated like that. Iâm sorry.â He insists.
You smile softly, âForgiven, you can be so emotional sometimes.â You tease softly.
Hotch canât help but roll his eyes, âYou mean it though? youâyou like me?â he asks hoarsely.
You grow shy, nodding softly. âSay it again.â He demands petulantly.
You snort, âWhat will I get if I do?â you taunt.
Hotchâs expression grows devilish, âAnything you want.â He mutters darkly, gazing at you with heat in his eyes. His dick twitches inside of his pants as he has to fight the urge to thrust up into empty space.
Your pupils dilate, âI like you.â You say breathily and Aaronâs smirk grows wider.
âThat right?â He taunts softly, his hand dropping to your thigh and slowly moving upwards.
You shudder softly, your thighs slipping open as you gaze grows heavier. âIs this okay?â Aaron checks in with you.
You nod softly, your own hand coming to rest of his shoulder as you feel him run his index finger over the inseam of your tailored pants.
A sharp gasp escapes you, âFuck.â Aaron mutters as he watches you squirm.
âTake off your pants.â He orders and you scramble to pull your pants and underwear off in quick succession.
Aaronâs breathing grows heavier as he catches sight of your wet cunt, glistening from its moisture as you spread your legs shyly.
His groan is loud in the car as he runs his thumb over your sticky entrance, pausing to press indecently over your hole softly before running it back up and down through your wetness.
You whimper, grabbing hold of his bicep as you make half-hearted thrusts against his thumb, clenching down emptily on the tip of his thumb each time he teasingly enters your cunt.
âIâoh.â You gasp, feeling Hotchâs thumb start to rub circles on your clit mixed with your wetness. You feel yourself start to leak between your thighs, grinding your hips up into Hotchâs thumb.
âDoes that feel good?â he grunts, using his other hand to circle your entrance with his index finger, slipping it in as he rubs your clit and watching in fascination as your pussy swallows his finger whole, clenching down so tightly on him that he canât help but imagine how tight youâd be on his dick.
âHotch, Iâ" you whine as he thrusts his finger in and out, curling it slowly to brush against that soft spongy area inside of you that turns your legs into jelly.
âAaron,â he orders you. âYou call me Aaron while I make you feel good.â
You nod nonsensically, barely even listening as your focus is on the feeling of Hotchâs fingers in you. âAnotherâwant, oh my god, another.â You beg him, leaking all over his fingers as you thrust harder, seeking more friction.
Hotch adds his middle finger easily enough, drawing out a guttural moan from you as you feel yourself climbing closer to the edge. You can feel every callous and groove on Hotchâs fingers and it makes you even wetter.
God you want his fingers inside of you forever, stretching you out and making you cum. âI canât, closeââ you mumble softly, throwing your head back as you clench your hand down on Aaronâs shoulderâyou expression scrunching in pleasure.
âYeah?â Aaron coos, âCum on my fingers babyâthatâs a good girl, cum for me.â He growls, fucking his fingers into your harder as you hurtle towards the finish line.
Your cunt clenching down harshly as you walls spasm around his fingers, your vision whiting out from pure pleasure as Hotch milks you for your orgasm until youâre left twitching and spent on the seat.
âGood girl.â He mumbles softly, laying a soft kiss on your forehead before taking his fingers out of you, bringing them to his own mouth, and sucking as his own eyes roll back into his head.
Youâre about to offer to suck him off when youâve recovered when you notice the wet patch that blooms over his crotch.
Girl Iâm obsessed with two things right now⊠Aaron Hotchner and the way you write him!!!
đ·Can I request more of the age gap married au? Maybe their earlier days as a married couple? Him not being able to keep his hands to himself (the whole âthe have seen worseâ came to mind) and just dominant jealous Aaron? Maybe a guy your age tries to make a pass at you? And me men is all territorial, I may put your head to the nearest wall and have at you from behind a wall (bathroom, fitting room, alley you name it)
canât take my eyes off of you
ăâă summary: jealous!hotch stakes his claimâunfortunately for you, itâs semi-public/request above
ăâă cw: 18+ jealous!hotch, SMUT MDNI!!! dom!hotch & sub!reader. exhibitionism, semi public sex, somewha dubcon but reader does want it, no p in v, grinding, humping, coming in oneâs pants, hotch is a bit of an asshole, accusations of cheating (nothing happens dw!) afab reader, not proofread!
ăâă wc: 2.3k (whoopsie!)
ăâă authorâs note: hi pretty!! thank you for this request, i had so much fun, this was supposed to be a blurb but apparently i got lost in the sauce (free me from the hotch shackles) (iâm right where i wanna be!) i hope you like this!
Hotch doesnât think heâs ever been happier in his life. Laying in bed with you in his arms, he thinks he might just be content to stay here forever.
The rising sun cascades through the bedroom windows, brushing across both your frames and painting your face in warm orange lighting.
Marital bliss is everything Aaron had ever hoped for, peace, love and pure unbridled joy.
âDo I have something on my face?â you whisper, your eyes still closed and voice groggy from the sleep youâre rousing from.
Aaronâs smile feels like it might just split his face wide open. âNo.â he says, his voice whisper soft, as if heâs afraid to break the tranquil silence of the bedroom.
âThen stop staring at me you weirdoâ you tease, a small smile making its home on your lips as you turn and snuggle further into the pillowcase under you.
Aaron snorts, âHowâd you even know?, your eyes are closed!â he accuses, the grin never leaving his face.
You peak one eye open and lift your arm lazily to wag a finger in front of his face as if youâre telling him off, âI could feel your gaze on me Hotchnerâ you grumble.
âThat doesnât work if your last name is also Hotchner now.â He teases
âDamn, you think itâs too late to change it?â
âAlright, thatâs it.â Aaron grunts, launching to land himself on top of you as he starts to blow raspberries onto your neck. Your squeals of laughter and pleads with him to stop fill all the empty corners of the room.
Yeah, Aaron might just be content to stay in the moment forever.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Later that morning, you both walk into the bullpen. Hotch is already frowning at his phone, probably reading through the emails heâd left unattended over the weekend while youâre seemingly content reading the case file in your hands.
When you walk through the doors, the grim faces of the team set you both into motion. Aaron leaves your side to speak to JJ about briefing, and you make your round of greetings to the team.
Whilst you all have some time to yourself, you speak about each otherâs weekends before youâre inevitably called into the meeting room to brief for the case.
Itâs set in Las Vegas, Reidâs well known hometown and itâs bad. 6 girls, all mutilated from the waist down and found with their body parts scattered around the unsubâs chosen dump site.
The pictures start to make you feel queasy, so you pass them on as soon as possible. Youâre all instructed to meet on the jet in the next 10 minutes and with grim determination you school your expression and prepare yourself for the gruelling days ahead.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
When you all reach the Las Vegas police station, Hotch takes the lead. He sends Spencer and Emily off to survey the crime scene, Morgan and Rossi to handle any potential witness accounts and JJ to handle the press while the two of you stay behind to deal with the leads.
Youâre partnered with a local police officer, Ryan Woodsâwhoâs kind and charming and all around a sweetheart. Heâs blonde with blue eyes, what some might call an unsettling combination, but you find it suiting the boy-next-door vibe heâs got going on.
Hotch and you start to plan out a timeline with Officer Woods before heâs pulled away by the police chief.
âSo, how long have you been on the force?â you ask Officer Woods while taking note of the amount of time between the murdersâalmost 3 months exactly.
âItâll be 3 years in Juneâstarted right out of University.â He responds pleasantly and you hum.
âYeah?â you ask distractedly, marking down the coordinates to determine the murderers comfort zone.
âYeah! I went to NYU for criminology and ended up here by pure chanceââ he rambles, sorting through the files of all the victims.
âNo shit?â you light up, turning to him in shock with a smile on your face.
He looks perplexed, âUhâyeah? I graduated inââ
â2022! I did criminology at NYU too, how havenât we seen each other?â you ask in shock.
Ryan practically starts to vibrate in excitement, and you canât stop the laugh that bursts from you, heâs like an overexcited puppy.
âNo ways! Did you have Professor Davids for CRIM101?â He asks, his smile wide.
You gasp softly, âYes!â you agree excitedly âShe would start every lecture with that stupid PSA aboutââ
ââNot using your laptop and having to use a pen and paper to take notes!â he snaps his fingers as he crows excitedly
âYeah!â you laugh, smacking your hand on the table lightly. This is probably the lightest youâve felt since youâd all started the case.
âWow!â Ryan blows out a breath, âI canât believeââ
âAgents!â Hotch barks from the open door of the police chiefâs office. He looks tense and bothered by something.
You frown, worried that the talk might not have gone well. His jaw clenches when he catches sight of how close you and Officer Woods stand.
âIs uhâis everything okay?â you ask, sharing a confused glance with Officer Woods.
âEverythingâs fine.â Hotch firmly states, âI just think it would be beneficial for all law enforcement officers if we treated this case with the professionalism it requires.â
Without further explanation, he stalks off past the two of you and into one of the empty rooms that the local PD had set up for interviews.
Ëââ§ê°á ⊠à»ê± â§âË
Hotch thinks his skin is buzzingâin fact he knows that his skin is buzzing. He feels it in the way he wants to rip his suit off of his body, in the way he wants to punch that fucking punk that had you giggling and smiling a couple minutes ago.
Deep down he knows heâs being irrational; he just doesnât care.
Not when youâre out there being âbuddy buddyâ with some hotshot 20-something year old cop while heâs thinking of the back pain the office chairs are going to cause him.
Itâs not fair on you, he knows that. You were probably just being friendlyâyour usual warm and loving self that Aaron loves. Well, loves when itâs him on the side of your affection and sweetheart nature.
But apparently loathes when youâre kind to perfect 2000s boyband looking cops that are far more appropriately in your age range than a nearing 40 year old grumpy FBI profiler with no semblance of a social life.
âHeyâyou okay?â you voice disrupts his thoughts. Your head peaks through the door of the empty room and you hesitate before deciding to come inside.
You look nervous and Hotch hates it. Youâre never nervous around himâat least not in a bad way. Heâs never made you nervous in a bad way until now.
âIâm fine.â He mutters gruffly despite trying to force himself to sound polite and composed. You frown and he realises that you know heâs lying.
Good job on him for marrying a profiler.
âTell me the truth.â You plead.
âThereâs nothing wrong.â
You scoff, crossing your arms, âYeah and Iâm the pope. Câmon what was that out there? You never undermine me like that.â Your voice is soft yet unyielding and he knows heâs not getting out of this easily.
He sighs, ââŠThat cop you were with.â He reluctantly admits.
You frown, âRyan?â
Hotchâs gaze hardens with anger and your jaw slackens slightly, He laughs coldly.
âYeah,â He mocks, âRyan.â
You tense, âDonât do that.â
âDo what? Call out that youâre being distracted by some pretty boy cop?â he frowns
âFuck off, donât belittle me. Iâm your wife not your lapdog.â You grit out.
Hotch deflates, âIââ he blows out a breath, his jaw clenching tightly and you soften your resolve slightly.
âJust talk to meâwhat am I missing?â you frown, pressing him for answers.
âYou justâfuck, I justâI saw you laughing with that dick and Iââ
ââYouâre jealous.â You finish for him, your eyes sparkling with dull amusement as your lips twitch slightly.
âYou think this is funny?â He asks incredulously.
You raise your eyebrow, âWould you rather me be upset that you tried to accuse me of cheating on you?â
Hotch slumps into himself, tugging at his tie and running his hand through his hair.
âI know, I know, I shouldnât haveââ
âNo,â you agree. âYou shouldnât have.â
âIâm sorry.â He whispers softly.
âItâs justâgod, I hate not being able to stake my claim on you in publicâitâs likeââ He blows out a breath in frustration and turns to look at you. His eyes are wild as he stalks over to you.
You tilt you head confusedly and yelp as he pushes you against the wall. Youâre out of view from the windows but if anyone passing by were to look into the glass, theyâd be able to see you two.
âHotchâwhat?â you gasp, his hand coming up to rest next to your head, against the wall. His breathing grows heavier and his nostrils flare.
âDonât call me thatânot here.â He orders. âYou call me that only outside of this roomâright now Iâm your husband, not your boss.â
You look up at him in shock and confusion, shaking your head you mutter, âOkay sure fine, whateverâbut whatââ
âStop talking.â
You snap your mouth shut, looking bewildered by the turn of events.
âYou donât even know how good you look,â His voice is low, barely above a whisper as he crowds you into the wall. You can feel his bottom half meet yours and your eyes start to flutter shut at the feeling of his cock pressed against your hip.
âTheyâre all filthy fucking animals;â he whispers into your ears, his arm travelling from the wall down to your chest and brushing against your nipple as he drags it down. âTheyâre all just waiting for the right moment to sink their teeth into you.â He hisses.
Your eyes flutter shut as he presses a wet kiss to your neck. You drop your head back into the wall, further exposing yourself to him as his hand continues to move further down.
His hand reaches the waistline of your jeans, and you think heâs going to pop the button and shove his hand inside, but he forgoes them entirely, instead following the inseam to the middle of your legs.
You gasp sharply as he presses harshly against your clit through your jeans, the fabric rubbing against you perfectly to stimulate you. You feel your panties start to grow damp and lurch to grab ahold of Aaronâs arm.
âAh!â you gasp, resisting the urge to thrust yourself forward onto his hand to grind against him. âThat feel good honey?â he croons softly in your ear, his thumb pressing harsher against your clit as he starts to rub rough and quick circles over your clit.
âIâuhnâAaron we canâtâ you whimper, looking up at him. You feel the dampness of your slick grow over your panties, and you clench your legs around Aaronâs hand.
âUh uh,â he tuts at you, tapping against your inner thigh to have you open up. With a distressed whimper, you do as youâre told and canât help the moan that bubbles out of your throat when Aaron removes his hand to shove his thigh between your legs.
He pulls you down onto the muscle of his thigh harshly and jostles you back and forth. The inseam of your jeans is still rubbing against your slit, but you can feel the clenching of Aaronâs quad muscles under your opening.
âYeah, thatâs it baby.â Aaron groans, moving you back and forth to grind on his pants. âYouâre gonna cum on my leg like a good girl.â He orders.
You stifle a whine and look up at him, your hands clutched onto his shoulders as you ride his thigh with jerky movements, chasing your high.
âI canâtâsomeone will seeâcanâtââ you gasp out, eyes rolling back in pleasure as you feel your orgasm fast approaching.
Aaron swallows a growl as he watches you, your eyes glazed over and your expression completely fucked out.
âThen you better cum fast before someone sees,â he taunts mockingly, one hand moving to cup and squeeze your breast as you whine and jerk over his thigh. He can feel the material of his suit pants growing damper and heâs never been more grateful for wearing black.
Your dark wash jeans will hide your own stain well enough until Hotch is able to get you a different change of clothes.
âIânngâgonnaâah! Cumming cumming cummingâ you whine out, jerking heavily as your orgasm crashes over you in waves, your legs clench tightly over Hotchâs thigh as you ride it out in jerky movements.
You can hear Hotch murmuring praises and reassurances as you cum, your body shaking and wrung out. You blink blearily when itâs over and you catch sight of Hotchâs evil smirk.
You half-heartedly swat at him while you catch your breath.
âAsshole,â you huff out. âYou did that on purpose.â
He just smirks, as if heâs proud of his accomplishment. When youâve both made yourself presentable and make your way back into the area where the team is working on the profile, you make your way to sit down next to Emily, acting as normal as you can and trying not to squirm from the feeling of your damp underwear.
âNext time you two wanna fuck around, make sure youâre out of sight from the parking lot too.â She whispers, turning back to her report as if nothing happened while you look at her in shock and embarrassment.
It takes Derek calling your name 3 times for you to pay attention after that.
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detachedâwhile quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchnerâso here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (iâm so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosyâno, theyâre just⊠perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesnât work on all of themâyou glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a bookâat least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. âYouâre wearing a skirt.â
You cross your legs and lean back. âExcellent observation, Reid.â
âItâs impractical,â he says simply. âEspecially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. Youâre significantly more likely to trip while running.â
You roll your eyes. âGood thing Iâm not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.â
âIgnore boy genius, baby girl,â Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. âYou look good.â
You flash him a grin. âSee? Somebody appreciates me.â
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. âInteresting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotchâs proximity.â
Your stomach flips. âSpence.â
He lifts one shoulder. âWhat? Heâs not listening.â
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
âThatâs not the point, Spencer,â you mutter, turning back to him. âYou need toââ
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks inâfiles tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
âMorning,â he says, dropping the files on the table. âHope everyone had a good weekend.â
Morgan snorts. âWhat weekend?â
âYeah,â Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. âI was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.â
âThatâs because you alphabetise your paperwork,â you point out.
She gives you a look. âI enjoy being proficient.â
âWell,â you say lightly, leaning back in your chair âsome of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.â
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. âOoh, look at you. Was there a man involved?â
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. âIâm choosing to plead the fifth.â
Morgan points across the table. âThat means yes.â
âOr,â Reid says without looking up from his book, âit means she enjoys making people speculate.â
âAw, Spence,â you tease. âDonât sound so bitter.â
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threateningâbecause he knows what youâre doing. Itâs what you always do. Itâs how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the teamâReid more than the rest, because heâs your scapegoat... and your best friend.
Heâs the only one who can see through the charade. Not because heâs emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret youâre trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanationâharmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attentionâthey wonât notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. âWell, lucky for all of you, itâs a quiet week.â
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
âNo active cases as of this morning,â Hotch continues. âWhich means weâll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyoneâs apparently been neglecting.â
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
âIâm bored already,â Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. âWeâve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, Iâll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.â
Rossi nods once. âYouâll have them.â
âGarcia,â Hotch continues, âthe Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.â
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. âBut I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasnât supposed to be due for another fortnight.â
Morgan blinks. âYou colour-code your schedule?â
âObviously,â Garcia says. âHow else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?â
Reid straightens. âTechnically, organising information activates the same reward pathways asââ
âDonât,â Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. âI was just going to say gambling.â
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldnât make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. Youâre on the receiving end of it often enoughâwhenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you canât breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
âMoving on,â he says evenly, âJJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.â
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focusedâbut itâs hard. Itâs hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you canât help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what heâs actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when youâ
âThe briefing ended three minutes ago,â Reid says.
You blink hard. âWhat?â
He closes his notebook with a sigh. âThe meetingâs over. You can stop internally monologuing now.â
You frown. âIâm notââ
He gives you a look.
âUgh,â you groan. âYouâre so annoying.â
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but youâre not surprised that heâs right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desksâkeyboards clicking, pens scribblingâand thereâs a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12â18. â Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. âYou know most people throw those away, right?â
You glance sideways at him. âI donât want to forget the page numbers.â
He hums. âSure.â
âYou know,â you say, turning your chair to properly face him, âyouâre being particularly judgemental today. Whatâs your problem?â
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
âIâm experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,â he says plainly. âAnd repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, wellâyouâre increasing my irritability.â
âExactly,â he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comebackâbut your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for whatâs shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviourâuntil forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars sheâd never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollarsâ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdownâan impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you canât come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled womanâchecking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isnât enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. âReid.â
âHm?â
âTell me if Iâm overthinking this.â
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesnât stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files youâve got carefully laid out.
âOops,â he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
âThe behavioural shift feels manufactured,â you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. âBut thereâs enough legitimate stressors here that I canât tell if Iâm forcing a pattern because itâs too clean.â
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
âYouâre focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,â he says. âStress explains escalation. It doesnât explain inconsistency.â
You frown slightly.
âShe suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.â He taps the timeline. âShe still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isnât usually selective.â
Your brows lift. âSo, Iâm right?â
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. âYouâre right.â
âWhatâs she right about?â
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotchâs voiceâlow and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
âShe thinks the behavioural shift is staged,â Reid says. âAnd I agree.â
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thighâand suddenly, you canât breathe.
Heâs close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
âItâs too compartmentalised,â Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. âReal behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a personâs routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawalâsomething.â
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongueâthen flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too smallâbut you canât move. Not with Hotchâs hand still on the back of your chair.
âBut this is curated,â Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. âThe impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.â
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. âYou caught that?â
You clear your throat. âI just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.â
âHer behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,â Reid says. âI canât find a flaw in it.â
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
âGood girl,â he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
âKeep it up,â he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You donât say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldnât even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
âYou know,â he says thoughtfully, âthe age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.â
You finally blink. âWhat?â
âBecause the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraintâespecially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.â
You frown. âWhat are youââ
âBut the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you donât actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.â
Your eyes go wide. âSpencerââ
âYou have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.â
âReid.â
âFor example,â he goes on, ignoring you completely, âyou spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotchâwhich likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.â
You freeze. âReid, I swear toââ
âYou donât react this strongly to older men generally,â he continues. âYou react strongly to Hotch because heâs emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, andââ
He pauses, tilting his head.
âVery obviously your type.â
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report heâs typing. JJâs desk is empty, as usualâsheâs probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. âYou are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.â
He shrugs. âWouldnât matter if they did.â
Your brows pull together. âWhatâs that mean?â
âYouâre good at redirecting attention,â he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. âYouâre less good at hiding physiological responses.â
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
âWhatever,â you mutter. âItâs warm in here.â
Reid glances around the bullpen. âItâs sixty-eight degrees.â
âI hate you.â
âNo you donât.â
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, thereâs a brand-new stack of files on your deskâonly this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
âHotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,â Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. âSaid he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.â
âGreat,â you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath itâwritten quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. â Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. Thatâs pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJâs the first to head outânot long after fiveâtaking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that heâs got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, whoâs been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
âYou coming?â he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
âNot yet,â you reply, blinking tiredly. âHotch needs these by morning.â
Reid tilts his head. âWant me to wait?â
You wave a hand. âNah, go ahead. Iâll get security to walk me to my car.â
âAlright,â he says, already turning away. âJust remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.â
You glare at his back. âIâm reporting you to HR.â
âYouâd have to explain the context,â he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didnât miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired stateâbut youâre used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotchâs note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologneâenough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
Thereâs still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater heâd been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly heâd been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until theyâre perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind youâthe way itâd been before you stepped inside.
It doesnât take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until youâre safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leiaâyour cat, whoâs very unimpressed by your late arrivalâtake a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but youâve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you donât get to them soon, youâll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldnât have set up your own profile if youâd really wanted to.
Noâthis profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while youâd been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadnât contributed to the conversation, but youâd known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the âmessagesâ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and youâve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messagesâones youâd seen pop up on your phone but couldnât be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, youâre not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person whoâs either very funny or very mean. Iâm willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits arenât mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
âHey, sassy girl,â you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. âAlright. Sorry for loving you.â
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: Thatâs probably the best possible answer you couldâve given.
DCRunner00: So whatâs your worst personality trait? I feel like thatâs more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. Itâs late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
âMorgan, youâre with me at district court this afternoon,â Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. âThe defence attorneyâs pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so weâll need to review our timeline before the hearing.â
Heâs wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when heâs wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. âNothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.â
Hotch ignores him completely.
âJJ, I want the media requests filtered through Straussâs office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when youâre done.â
He glances once around the table.
âIf anything urgent comes in, youâll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.â
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you donât quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, whoâs watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your bossâ ass as he walks out of the room.
âYou should probably blink.â
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. âIâll blink when I want to blink.â
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know heâs fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviourâbut thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app theyâre both obsessed with.
Youâre just about to pass Hotchâs office door whenâyou hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotchâs office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. âSir?â
âHow late were you here last night?â he asks.
You lift a shoulder. âAbout ten.â
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. âThatâs late.â
âMorgan said you needed them done by the morning.â
âI didnât mean first thing,â he says, smoothing the end of his tie. âYou couldâve finished the rest before lunch.â
You blink. âOh.â
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
âYou donât need to stay late to impress me.â
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. âOhâuhâgood to know.â
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
âStill,â he says, lower this time. âI appreciated it. The files, and⊠everything else.â
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
âAnytime, sir,â you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You donât need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he wonât admit it because he doesnât want the team to think heâs shutting them out. Heâs just more comfortable in privateâit helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You canât help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than âWorkaholicâ.
You: You read Stephen King?
âHey, you busy?â
You glance over at Reid. âArenât we all?â
He tilts his head. âYouâre on your phone.â
âI could be working.â
âAre you?â
âNo.â
âGood,â he says, shuffling the files on his desk. âHotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.â
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. âAnd by âusâ you mean...?â
âI could use your help.â
âFine,â you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossiâs few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and mapsâeverything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
âWhere do you want to start?â
âIâm trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,â he says, âbut half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns donât align.â
You nod. âOkay, walk me through where it stops making sense.â
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. Youâve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
âItâs physically impossible,â you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
âWell, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.â
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. âIf you know so much, then why canât you figure this out?â
He still doesnât turn away from his screen. âI will. Eventually.â
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
âNo, listen to me carefully.â
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
âYou donât need to explain the problem again,â he says evenly. âYou need to tell me how youâre fixing it.â
He pauses briefly beside Reidâs desk, listening.
âThen prioritise the transfer first,â he says. âIf the paperwork isnât filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.â
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
âNo,â he says after a moment, voice lower now. âIâm not asking you to stay late. Iâm telling you this needs to be finished tonight.â
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
âGood,â he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. âCall me when itâs done.â
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. âDo you think he talks you through it?â
âProbably,â Reid says, turning back to his screen. âHigh-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.â
You go still. You hadnât actually expected an answer.
âSomeone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,â Reid continues. âThe immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.â
Your face heats.
âEspecially because heâs not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. Heâd want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.â
Oh my God.
âAnd honestly,â Reid goes on, âpeople with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investmentââ He pauses briefly. âWhich means heâd probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking heâdââ
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
â...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didnât I?â
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. âJust a couple.â
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now youâre hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throatâ
Fortunately, it doesnât take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what heâs saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. Itâs a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. Youâre not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: Iâve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messagesâbut you canât reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
âThanks, pretty girl,â Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. âAnything for you, gorgeous.â
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: Whatâs your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an âanswers emails at midnightâ type of person.
You: Nah. Thatâs my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
âThanks,â Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotchâs office. You can see through the window that heâs not on the phoneâfor onceâso you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. âI didnât ask for coffee.â
âI know,â you say quickly. âBut itâs almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didnât answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldnât, by the way.â
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
âAnd I know youâve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and youâre going to try to leave early, but someoneâs definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so youâll only have enough time to get to the courthouseânot enough time to stop for coffee.â
You set the cup down in front of him.
âSo,â you tilt your head, âcoffee.â
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
âThatâs some pretty solid profiling, Agent.â
Your face heats instantly.
âWell,â you say, backing slowly toward the door, âmaybe now you owe me two.â
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but itâs enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You canât help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reidâs desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they wonât be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossiâthen you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your carâs AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. Sheâs always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry foodâbut apparently that isnât good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So youâre one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. Itâs not like you can just say youâre in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents canât just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. Itâs dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
Youâre not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: Iâm starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think Iâd get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. Thereâs nothing youâre really interested in watchingâsince you donât usually have the time to keep up with any showsâso you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
Heâs already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogsâwhatever makes them seem interestingâbut this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: Heâd only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: Iâm starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
Thatâs... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but heâs the one asking all the questions about your job. Itâs a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around himâin more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think youâre spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
âOkay,â you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. âThatâs enough.â
You: Iâm going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while Iâm gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
âCome on,â you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
Youâre a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didnât even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messagesâand decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
âHeyâwoah.â Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. âYouâre early.â
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
âIs Garcia in yet?â
He frowns slightly. âI think so. Why?â
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
âI justâI need her.â
Youâre already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. Youâre just about to round the corner toward the elevators whenâ
âHeyââ Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. âSlow down. You alright?â
His hand is hovering near your waistânot quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. âSorry. Yeah. Uhâtotally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.â
His brows pull together slightly.
âAlright, well, Garciaâs not going anywhere,â he says evenly. âTake a breath.â
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
âRight,â you mutter. âBreathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.â
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth liftâbut then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garciaâs lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. âSweet mother of encryption, knock first!â
âSorry,â you say, breathless. âI need you.â
âWell, obviously,â she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. âIâm the backbone of this entire operation.â
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
âYou cannot judge me for what Iâm about to show you.â
She glances up, brows lifting. âOh. So this is serious?â
You grimace. âI donât know.â
âOkay,â she says slowly. âSlightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me whatâs happened.â
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
âYou remember the dating profile you set up for me?â
She nods.
âAlright, so, I wonât lie, I havenât really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When Iâve got time, you know? And I donât have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldnât reply all that quickly, but he didnât seem to mind.â
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
âNothing really felt out of place untilâwell, he wouldnât talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, orâI guessâlack of schedule.â
You wince.
âSo now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I donât know.â
You hesitate.
âBut then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.â
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
âMmm. Nope. Donât love that,â she says, shaking her head. âThat is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.â
You sink back in your chair. âThatâs what I thought.â
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
âHave you told Hotch?â
âNope.â
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. âYou answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.â
âBecause the answer is no,â you say firmly, leaning forward again.
âMm-hm.â She keeps scrolling. âOkay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.â
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
âYou do mention Hotch kind of a lot.â
Your head snaps up. âHeâs my boss.â
Garcia gives you a long look.
âOkay,â she says slowly. âSure.â
âGarcia.â
âIâm just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, weâd all be making faces.â
You point at the screen. âFocus.â
âRight. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.â
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
âOkay. Hereâs what weâre going to do. Donât block him yet.â
You sigh. âI donât love that idea.â
âNeither do I, babycakes, but if heâs routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.â
You frown. âIn English?â
She gives you another look. âTimestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips upâbasic digital stalking fun.â
âOh, of course,â you say sarcastically. âNormal stuff.â
âFor me, it is normal.â She points toward the laptop. âNow reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.â
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. âOkay, I officially donât like him.â
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. âI feel sick.â
Garciaâs expression softens slightly. âMaybe you should tellââ
âNo.â
She sighs quietly. âOkay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?â
You nod.
âGood. Donât overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.â Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. âIâll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.â
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
âYouâre the best, Pen.â
âI know.â She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. âNow go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.â
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboardâtoo anxious to have it with you during the meetingâthen quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
âHey,â you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. âEverything alright?â
You nod. âYeah. Fine. Iâll explain later.â
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterdayâs court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. Youâre pretty sure itâs the first briefing in years where you havenât spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notesâand when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
âOkay, now Iâm concerned,â he says.
You glance at him. âWhy?â
âYou didnât look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.â
You roll your eyes. âSpenceââ
âSomething must be seriously wrong.â
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
âOkay,â you say quietly, turning back to Reid. âIâm having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.â
His brows shoot up. âA guyââ
âOnline,â you add quickly.
He tilts his head. âIâm confused again.â
You sigh. âRemember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?â
âYou mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?â
You glare at him. âYes. That one.â
âThen yes, I remember it very clearly.â
âWell,â you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, âI had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now itâs gotten... weird. So, Iâm getting Garcia to look into it.â
His forehead creases. âHave you toldââ
âNo.â
âMaybe you shouldââ
âI said no.â
âAlright.â He raises both hands in surrender. âOkay. Iâm dropping it. Itâs justâŠâ
You narrow your eyes at him.
âWell, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions donât escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.â
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
âHowever,â he adds, âcyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.â
You stare at him.
âIn cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.â
He pauses, frowning faintly.
âThat was supposed to be reassuring.â
ââŠThanks, Reid,â you mutter, turning away from him slowly. âNow I feel so much better.â
When you get back to your desk, you decide itâs time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to typeâknowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: Youâre weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
Youâre about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops upâfrom Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why youâre still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, thatâs not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. Iâm working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesnât work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notificationâbut thereâs nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if heâs ever gone quiet on you beforeâbut he hasnât. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
Itâs a calculated move. If heâs paying attention to response patternsâand at this point youâre pretty sure he isâthen following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think youâre pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesnât feel rightâwhich keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, youâve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. âOh my God.â
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. âAre you wearing blue?â
âYou saw me this morning.â
âI canât remember,â she says. âAre you?â
You drag a hand through your hair. âYes.â
âHoly shit,â she whispers. âYouâve got to tellââ
âNo.â
âAre you insane?â
âMaybe, butââ You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. âOkay, justâhear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. Itâs a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.â
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
âAnd does this unsub know you work in a government building?â
âDonât call him that,â you snap. âAndâwell, kind of. I didnât tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.â
âI swear to God,â she mutters, âif I have to identify your body next week, Iâm going to kill you.â
You press your free hand against your forehead.
âYou wonât,â you say firmly. âAlright? Weâre getting ahead of ourselves.â
Garcia scoffs loudly.
âSeriously,â you insist. âIt could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.â
The line goes quiet againâthen she sighs.
âWhy are you so against telling Hotch?â
âBecause I donât want to bother him,â you say quickly. âWeâve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I donât want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.â
She sighs again, louder this time. âFine. I wonât go to Hotch.â
Your shoulders sag. âThank you.â
âOn one condition,â she adds. âIâm sleeping over tonight.â
You nearly choke. âWhat?â
âNon-negotiable.â
âPenelope, thatâs insane.â
âNo,â Garcia says firmly, âwhatâs insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.â
âHe is not stalking me,â you protest, keeping your voice low.
âMm-hm.â
âYouâre overreacting.â
âAnd yet,â Garcia says, âif you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.â
You frown. ââŠMorally complicit?â
âAccessory to murder-adjacent,â she corrects. âAnd my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. Weâre having a slumber party.â
You let out a long sigh. âOkay. Fine.â
She hums, satisfied.
âI need to reply to him again.â
âWell, donât ask me,â she mutters. âYouâre the one whoâs apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.â
You laugh despite yourself. âThanks, Pen.â
âMm-hm. And just so weâre clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.â
âI was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.â
âAbsolutely not.â
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. âFine. Romantic comedies it is.â
âGood,â Garcia says firmly. âNow hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotchâs office myself.â
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You donât have to think too hard about what to type. You donât want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three oâclock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while sheâs stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory heâs working through out loudâwhich means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotchâs voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them offâand for the first time in God knows how long, you donât stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
âHello?â
âPack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.â
You snort softly. âAlright. Iâll see you soon.â
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
âSee who soon?â Reid asks.
You glance at him. âGarcia.â
He tilts his head.
âSheâs staying over tonight.â
His brows lift. âBecause of your stalkââ
âGirlâs night,â you interrupt, eyes widening. âThatâs all.â
His gaze narrows. âShould I be worried?â
You scoff. âAbout me? Never.â
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
âReally?â Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. âBecause youâve spent most of the day staring at your phone like itâs a bomb, you spent most of Rossiâs profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.â
You pause mid-motion.
âAlso,â he continues, âyou usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerningââ
âOkay!â you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âGood talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.â
He doesnât say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. Youâre just about to press the button for the elevator whenâ
âAgent.â
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isnât frustrated or disapprovingâitâs curious.
You force a small smile. âSir.â
His eyes move over your face briefly. âYou alright?â
You nod once. âOf course.â
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. âYou sure?â
Your breath catches.
Heâs close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
âYouâve seemed distracted today,â he says.
You swallow hard. âUhâno. No. Sorry, I justâI didnât get much sleep last night.â
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if heâs about to say something elseâpress harder, maybeâbut then seems to think better of it.
âAlright,â he murmurs. âGet some rest tonight.â
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You donât move immediately. You canât. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
âHello?â Garcia calls from behind you. âI cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.â
You shake your head. âShit. Sorry.â
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Thenâ
âSo, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason youâre still singleâŠâ
You shut your eyes. âPenelope.â
âIâm just saying,â she continues lightly, âunless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, Iâm starting to develop theories.â
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then itâs only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until theyâve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat sheâs ever met that doesnât like her.
âLeia hates everyone,â you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. âEven me.â
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once sheâs satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
âHave you seen his latest messages?â she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. âNo.â
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating siteâbecause apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe youâre just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like youâre overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe Iâm just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far sheâs managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still canât lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she canâtâapparently that part would actually be pretty easyâbut because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isnât an official investigation.
âThe second I start pulling the fun federal strings,â Garcia says, typing furiously, âthereâs paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.â
You lean against the counter. âWe donât want that.â
âNot yet.â Her expression sharpens slightly. âAlso, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, thereâs always a chance heâs monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someoneâs looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.â
Your stomach twists. âOr escalate.â
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what theyâre trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that Iâm exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
âNight, Pen,â you murmur, rubbing your eyes. âThanks again... for everything.â
âNight, gorgeous,â she calls, peering over the back of the couch. âWake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides itâs my time.â
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
Youâre not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasnât gone quiet for this long beforeâbut if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... itâs not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last nightâwhich is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his motherâs basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isnât entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAUâs next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until youâre both back at the office.
âHey,â Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. âYou havenât been murdered.â
You frown slightly. âGood morning to you too, Spence.â
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. âUhâwhy are we getting murdered?â
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. âBecause sheâs potentially being cyberstalked by aââ
âOh, wow, look at the time,â you interrupt, glaring at Reid. âWouldnât it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.â
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. âCyberstalked?â
âNobody is cyberstalking anybody,â you say as you drop into your chair. âAnd nobodyâs getting murderedâbut great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.â
Morgan chuckles quietly. âDamn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.â
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
âTechnically,â Reid says, âshe only implied it by refusing to answer Garciaâs question during Monday morningâs briefing.â
âAh.â Morgan leans back in his chair. âI knew this was a drought issue.â
You scowl at him. âA drought issue?â
âStatistically speaking,â Reid adds, âpeople experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.â
Morgan looks at him. âMan, just say she needs to get laid.â
âOh my God,â you snap. âI do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very muchâand frankly I think itâs deeply inappropriate that youâre all this invested in whether or not Iâm orgasming regularly.â
Reid tilts his head. âYouâre having sex?â
Morganâs brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him whenâ
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neckâbut you donât turn around. You canât.
âBriefing room. Five minutes,â Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. âJJâs got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.â
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, tryingâand failingâto smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but thereâs something dangerous lurking beneath itâsomething suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
âBe right there, sir,â you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
âOh, you are never recovering from that,â Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. âBaby girl, that was painful to watch.â
You drop your head into your hands.
âYou somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,â Reid says thoughtfully.
âI hate you all,â you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperativeâwhich Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
Itâs not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isnât much you wouldnât give to pick the sociopathâs brains. One hour with him feels dangerously shortâthat is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
âWe donât have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,â Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. âIâll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.â
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the roomâbut you donât move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You donât even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. âYep. Just thinking about how Iâll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.â
He shrugs. âHotch probably isnât even thinking about it anymore.â
You glance up at him hopefully.
âMorgan definitely is, though.â
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then thereâs a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isnât until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, thereâs one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
Youâre with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
âWow,â Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. âHe picked you pretty quickly.â
You shoot him a warning look. âSpence.â
âIâm just saying, he usually deliberates longer.â
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
âYou and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,â Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. âThat sounded more suggestive than I intended.â
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful heâs being when your phone buzzes twice against your deskâlike it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message threadâand your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. Itâs grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the streetâbut your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
âIs that... your apartment?â Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You donât answer him. You canât.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Untilâ
âIâm done!â Garciaâs voice cuts through the static. âI canât do this anymore!â
Sheâs marching right toward you, your laptopâthat sheâd still been monitoringâtucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. âWait. Is thatââ
Morgan straightens in his chair. âWhatâs happening?â
âHotchâs office,â Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. âNow.â
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
âWhatâs going on?â
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when heâs trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to youâand something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
âWhat happened?â he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back upâright at youâand something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
âWho sent this?â
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
Itâs funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to youâsomething realâthatâs when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe itâs because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides theyâre emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe itâs just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didnât do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourselfâand your friendâin danger.
âGet everyone in the briefing room,â Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. âNow.â
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reidâs wristâmaking a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotchâs eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
âReid,â he says. âPrint the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachmentsâall of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.â
You swallow hard. âTheâthe entire message history?â
Fifteen minutes later, youâre back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
âOkay,â Prentiss says. âWhere do we start?â
âVictimology,â Morgan answers immediatelyâthen he glances at you. âSorry, baby girl.â
You wave him off. âReidâs been profiling me all week. Go for it.â
Thereâs a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. Heâs sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like heâs trying very hard not to look directly at you.
âWe need to be careful building a victimology this early,â he says evenly. âEspecially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.â
Reid tilts his head. âNormally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.â He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. âStatistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.â
You grimace. âFantastic.â
âMost victims also know their stalkers,â Reid continues. âApproximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.â
âOkay,â JJ says carefully, looking toward you. âIs there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified againstâanything like that?â
You snort quietly. âDoes every criminal Iâve ever interviewed count?â
The room goes still for half a second.
âWait,â Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. âActually, that makes sense.â
Hotchâs eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
âThis escalation happened fast. Less than a week. Thatâs not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratchâthatâs somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.â
âOr angry,â Morgan adds.
âExactly,â Prentiss says. âHe doesnât lash out until she has Garcia over. Thatâs jealousy. Possessiveness.â
You sink lower in your chair.
âAnd he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,â Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. âThatâs territorial behaviour. Heâs fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.â
âNot the only one fixating on him,â Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
âOw.â
Hotch glances up sharply. âSomething to add, Reid?â
Reid straightens. âUhâno. No, I think Rossi covered it.â
Hotchâs eyes narrow slightly, like he knows thereâs something heâs missing, but he lets it go.
âGarcia,â he says instead, âtell me you found something useful.â
âOh, I found things,â Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. âDeeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.â
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing âinternet goblinâ across the table to JJ.
âOkay, soâprofile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.â
Hotch leans forward slightly. âHow sloppy?â
âSloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,â she says. âAnd before anybody asks, yes, Iâm already pulling traffic cams.â
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
âMorgan, Prentissâstart canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if thereâve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaintsâanything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.â
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
âI want to help,â you say suddenly. âThis is my mess, let me fix it.â
âYou can help,â he says evenly, âby going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what weâre dealing with.â
You open your mouth to argue.
âI mean it,â he adds, voice low.
âIâll take her,â Reid offers immediately.
âNo,â Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. âYou go with Morgan and Prentiss.â
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
âIâm taking her home.â
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, whoâs already in full FBI investigation modeâher screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender youâve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions youâd long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isnât until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his officeâfiles in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
âReady?â he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
âYep,â you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You donât even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. Itâs not like you havenât been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadnât asked for directions the whole way here.
âWait,â he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbeltâyour hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzyâbut once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, youâve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
âIâuhâwasnât really expecting company,â you say as you push the door open. âSorry.â
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trillâprobably wondering why youâre home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. âYou have a cat.â
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. âIs that really the most surprising thing youâve learned about me today?â
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. âItâs unexpected.â
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinnerâuntil she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
âOh, she doesnât really like people,â you say quickly. âSo donât take it personally if sheââ
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotchâs mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances brieflyâthank Godâinto your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. Youâve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different waysâjust not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, heâs going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, heâs going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, heâs going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstandâand then youâll actually have to fake your own death.
Because youâve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. Itâs easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isnât unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you canât really help it. Youâre strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunatelyâbut not unsurprisinglyâremains no help whatsoever.
By seven oâclock sheâs fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotchâs lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you havenât been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
âAre you hungry?â you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leiaâs back while she purrs in his lap.
âIâm fine.â
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. âAny updates?â
He glances back down at his screen. âGarcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should haveâMorgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossiâs pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who mightâve had access to your name outside the official reports.â
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
âAre you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?â
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
âYou think this is nothing?â
His voice stays calm, but thereâs something firmer underneath it now.
âYouâve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still havenât identified,â he says. âMorgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossiâs pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garciaâs been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.â
His jaw tightens slightly.
âMy job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,â he says quietly. âLet me do that.â
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasnât said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasnât.
Heâs just doing his job. Looking out for his team. Heâs not here because he wants to be. Heâs here because someone threatened one of his agents.
Thatâs all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. âIâmâuhâIâm just going to shower quickly. If thatâs alright.â
He nods once. âWant me to clear theââ
âNo,â you say immediately. âGod, no. No. Itâs fine. Totally fine.â
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while youâre dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isnât totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, theyâre just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least theyâre not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
âNo, wait for Morgan before you approach,â Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. âIf the registrationâs fake, I donât want you making contact until we know exactly whoâs inside.â
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
âAlright. Keep me updated.â
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emergedâand for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. Itâs only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
âGarcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,â he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. âThe driverâs been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldnât pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.â
Your stomach tightens.
âThe name on the reservation was fake,â he continues, âbut the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.â
The name hits you immediately.
âEthan Mercerâs brother,â you say quietly.
Hotch nods. âRossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.â
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
âEthan barely spoke during the trial,â you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. âI donât think I ever even met his brother.â
âYou wouldnât need to,â Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. âPeople build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when theyâre looking for someone to blame.â
Your skin prickles. âYou really think itâs him?â
âIt fits,â Hotch replies evenly. âEstablished emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.â
He straightens, turning back toward youâand for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. âThis probably isnât something heâs done before. But his brother has.â
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
âWell,â you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. âOn the bright side, I still think Iâve dated worse.â
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always doâeasy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
âWhy do you do that?â
You frown. âDo what?â
âDeflect.â He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. âEvery time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.â
You lift a shoulder. âMaybe Iâm just charming.â
âNo.â His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. âNo, because it changes depending on the situation.â
Your pulse stutters.
âWith Morgan itâs competitive,â he continues, setting the papers back on the table. âYou tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.â
âWow,â you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. âStarting to feel a little attacked here.â
But Hotch doesnât seem to hear you.
âThe dating profile doesnât fit,â he says, almost to himself. âNeither does the apartment.â
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
âYou project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.â His eyes flick back toward you again. âYou live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.â
âLeave Leia out of this.â
âShe doesnât like strangers.â
âShe likes you.â
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
âYou keep people at a distance,â he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. âEven the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.â He hesitates, brow furrowing. âExcept Reid.â
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
âYou trust him,â Hotch says. âNot just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when youâre stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.â He pauses, watching you carefully now. âAnd earlier you said heâd been profiling you all week.â
Oh God.
âWhich means Reid already noticed the pattern.â
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few monthsâyearsâin real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought youâd hidden quickly enough.
âYou track me.â
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like heâs still realising them.
âYou know my routines,â he continues slowly. âYou anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you canât see me.â He steps closer again. âYou know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.â
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
âYour breathing changes when I get too close to you,â he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
âYou stop fidgeting,â he continues. âYou go completely still.â His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. âLike youâre afraid movement alone is going to give you away.â
Your heart is beating so hard now youâre half-convinced he can hear it.
âYou lose verbal fluency,â he says, voice lower now. âYou trip over words you normally wouldnât. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing itââ
His eyes lock onto yours.
âYou redirect.â
You can barely breathe now.
Heâs standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where youâre perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus heâd bring to an unsubâexcept this time the thing heâs slowly uncovering is the fact that youâve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
âFigured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?â you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And thenâ
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
âHotchner,â he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You donât hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morganâs muffled voice, but you canât quite hear what heâs saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
âThey got him.â
Your head snaps up. âThey what?â
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
âIt was him. Daniel Mercer,â he says. âMorgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.â
âOh.â
âLocal PD recovered notebooks too,â he continues. âNames, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercerâs conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.â
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
âGarcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,â Hotch adds. âOnce Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. Heâd been building the grievance for months.â
He pauses, then looks at you.
âBut they got him.â
âGood,â you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
âLocal PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,â he says, sliding the papers into his bag. âGarciaâs already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorneyâs Office. Youâll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.â
You nod. âOkay.â
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
âThereâll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,â he says. âAnd if you donât want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.â
âIâll be fine,â you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. âYou can stop babysitting me now.â
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
âBabysitting?â he repeats.
âYou know what I mean.â
He steps toward you, brows drawn. âI donât think I do.â
âYou solved the case,â you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. âYou profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktailââ You let out a short, humourless laugh. âYou can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.â
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise heâs moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where heâd been when you asked him if heâd figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
âYouâre being deliberately provocative now because youâre embarrassed,â he says. âBut embarrassment isnât actually your primary response here.â
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
âIf it was,â he adds quietly, âyou wouldnât still be looking at me like that.â
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you canât.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt youâve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isnât entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
Itâs not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like heâs still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesnât last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everythingâand somehow thatâs what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip itâs deliberate, measuredâa sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere youâve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing heâs making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
âAaronââ
âBedroom,â he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. âNow.â
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakesâ
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowlyâso slowlyâtoward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
âDo you really get up this early?â he asks, voice rough with sleep.
âYeah,â you murmur. âMost days.â
His brows pull together slightly. âWhy?â
You let out a small, breathless laugh. âBecause my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.â
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
âSounds like a terrible boss,â he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater againâhard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
âYeah,â you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. âHeâs awful. Very demanding.â
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
âHeâs really hot, though,â you add, smiling despite yourself. âSo I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.â
âOh, he notices.â
Your stomach flips. âReally?â
âMhm.â
His arm tightens around your waist. âHe notices the skirts.â
Heat floods your face. âAaronââ
âHe notices the tights.â His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. âThe ones with the seam up the back.â
âOh my God.â
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
âAnd the red bra,â he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
âNoticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.â
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but itâs no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
âMy washing machine broke that week,â you whine. âIt wasnât my fault.â
âMm, sure.â
You twist around immediately. âIâm not lying.â
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesnât quite believe you, but before you can protest againâhe kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
âCareful,â you murmur, breathless against his mouth. âDonât want to be late.â
You feel his lips curve.
âGood thing Iâm the boss.â
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a âWhat Now?â conversationâthat ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadnât even hesitated when youâd finally asked what happens next. In fact, heâd answered a little too quickly.
The first thing heâd asked was whether youâd be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because heâs worried about the team finding outâhe trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point heâd even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureauâs fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed himâeffectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because heâd clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, heâd already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
âAlright, gorgeous,â Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. âTheyâll be ready for you downstairs in ten.â
You glance up at him, brows drawnâand it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what heâs talking about.
âOh.â You blink. âRight. Yeah, Iâll head down soon. Thanks.â
Prentiss looks over from her desk. âYou gonna be okay?â
You lift a shoulder. âSure. Whatâs another case report?â
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. âItâs not exactly every day youâre the victim, baby girl.â
âYeah, but nothing really happened.â
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
âBecause of the team,â you add quickly. âYou guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.â You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. âThanks for that, by the way.â
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
âYouâre in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,â he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. âMaybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.â
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvincedâbut he doesnât push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutesâwhen a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
âRossiâs taking Wallace with you next week,â Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. âI thought you were leading the interview.â
âI was.â
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
âWallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,â he says. âEspecially women.â
You frown. âHotch, Iââ
âAnd if he says something to you in that room,â he continues evenly, âor looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.â
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yoursâsteady, intense, devastatingly honest.
âRight now,â he says quietly, âIâm not sure thatâs me.â
Then heâs gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasnât just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if youâd been focused on it at all in the first place.
ââŠHuh.â
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity heâd been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
summary: working alongside Aaron Hotchner at the BAU means most people have no idea youâre married. But when a local detective starts taking a little too much interest in you during an out-of-state case, Aaronâs patience begins to wear thinâ until he finally decides to make your relationship impossible for anyone to misunderstand
Aaron Hotchner x Reader
authors note: I hope you enjoy. Your support for my writing is very much appreciated đ„°đđ
The thing about working at the BAU with your husband is that people rarely realize youâre married.
Part of it is Aaron.
Aaron Hotchner isnât exactly the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. He doesnât hover around you, doesnât sneak kisses in hallways, doesnât drape an arm around your shoulders during briefings. To everyone else, heâs Unit Chief first and husband second.
To you, though?
Heâs the man who brings you coffee exactly how you like it before every flight. The man who always notices when youâre tired. The man who calls you sweetheart in a voice so soft nobody would ever believe it came from the same person who can stare down serial killers without blinking.
The other part is you.
You keep things professional. You donât want your marriage becoming office gossip, and honestly, the team respects that.
Morgan knows.
Garcia definitely knows.
Reid figured it out three years ago because he noticed Aaron unconsciously turns toward you whenever someone raises their voice.
The rest of the world?
Not so much.
Which is exactly how you find yourself in the middle of a homicide investigation in Colorado with a problem neither of you expected.
His name is Detective Ryan Walker.
And Detective Ryan Walker has decided he likes you.
A lot.
The first time Aaron notices it, he says nothing.
Youâre standing at the local precinct reviewing victim files when Walker appears beside your desk.
âNeed anything?â he asks.
You smile politely. âJust the autopsy reports.â
âI can get those.â
Aaron looks up from across the room.
Walker stays.
For twenty minutes.
Talking.
Laughing.
Asking questions.
Aaron tells himself heâs imagining things.
Then Walker starts finding excuses to be around you.
Every briefing.
Every crime scene.
Every witness interview.
If youâre there, somehow Detective Walker is there too.
You notice it eventually.
Mostly because Morgan notices it.
âOh, heâs got it bad,â Morgan says while the two of you wait for coffee.
You nearly choke.
âWhat?â
Morgan grins.
âThe detective.â
âHe does not.â
âHe absolutely does.â
âNo.â
âBaby girl, yes.â
You roll your eyes.
But then Walker appears from nowhere holding your coffee.
Your coffee.
The exact one youâd ordered.
Morgan doesnât even try to hide his laughter.
âSee?â
You groan.
Unfortunately, Aaron sees it too.
And Aaron is handling it⊠poorly.
Well.
Poorly for Aaron.
Which means nobody else notices.
Except you.
You notice the slight tightening of his jaw whenever Walker stands too close.
You notice the way Aaronâs answers become shorter whenever the detective directs questions toward you.
You notice the glare.
God.
The glare.
Walker seems completely oblivious to the fact that your husband is staring at him like heâs considering several felony-level solutions.
One night, after fourteen straight hours on the case, you finally find Aaron alone in the conference room.
Heâs reviewing geographical profiles.
You close the door behind you.
His eyes lift immediately.
The tension in his face softens.
Just a little.
âHey.â
âHey.â
You walk over and sit beside him.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
Then you reach for his hand under the table.
His fingers immediately lace with yours.
âYouâre jealous.â
Aaron stares at the case file.
âNo.â
You laugh.
âAaron.â
âNo.â
âAaron.â
His expression remains perfectly serious.
âHeâs a local detective.â
âWho flirts with me.â
âHe hasnât actually said anything inappropriate.â
âHeâs flirting.â
Aaron finally looks at you.
âHe is.â
âThere it is.â
His jaw clenches.
You smile despite yourself.
âAaron.â
âWhat?â
âI love you.â
His expression softens immediately.
Like magic.
Like it always does.
You squeeze his hand.
âI married you.â
âI know.â
âYouâre the only person I want.â
A long silence follows.
Then:
âI know.â
You lean over and kiss his cheek.
The faintest hint of pink appears on the tips of his ears.
Itâs adorable.
You never tell him that.
The case drags on for another four days.
Four very long days.
Four days of Walker appearing beside you every chance he gets.
Four days of Aaron pretending he isnât bothered.
Four days of Morgan looking increasingly entertained.
Then everything goes sideways.
The unsub takes a hostage.
A chase follows.
Hours pass.
Nobody sleeps.
Everyoneâs exhausted.
And by the time the case finally ends, every nerve in Aaronâs body is stretched dangerously thin.
The arrest happens just before midnight.
The team gathers outside the precinct while paperwork gets finalized.
Everyoneâs tired.
Everyoneâs relieved.
You lean against a patrol car while waiting for Aaron.
Walker approaches.
Again.
At this point youâre almost impressed by his dedication.
âLooks like weâre done here.â
âLooks like it.â
He smiles.
âI was thinking maybe before you leave townââ
You already know where this is going.
âOh.â
âMaybe dinner?â
Your heart sinks.
Not because youâre interested.
Quite the opposite.
You actually feel bad for him.
Because standing twenty feet away is Aaron Hotchner.
And Aaron has definitely heard that.
Every.
Single.
Word.
You open your mouth.
âAaron and Iââ
Before you can finish, a familiar voice cuts through the night.
âDetective.â
Walker turns.
Aaron walks toward you.
Slowly.
Calmly.
Looking every bit like the Unit Chief everyone fears.
Except his eyes are fixed entirely on you.
The detective straightens.
âAaron.â
Aaron doesnât answer him.
Instead he stops directly in front of you.
Close enough that your heart immediately starts racing.
His gaze drops to yours.
For a second, the world seems to disappear.
Then Aaron reaches up and gently brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.
The gesture is unexpectedly intimate.
Your breath catches.
The detective looks confused.
Morgan, somewhere in the background, starts grinning.
Aaron never takes his eyes off you.
âYou ready to go home, sweetheart?â
Sweetheart.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The detective freezes.
You feel your lips twitch.
Aaronâs hand settles against your waist.
Possessive.
Certain.
Completely unbothered by the audience.
And suddenly Walker understands.
His eyes widen.
âOh.â
You almost laugh.
Aaron finally glances at him.
The look he gives the detective is perfectly polite.
Which somehow makes it worse.
âMy wife and I have an early flight.â
The silence that follows is spectacular.
Walker blinks.
âWife?â
âYes.â
Aaronâs arm tightens slightly around your waist.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to remind everyone exactly where he stands.
And where you stand too.
The detective immediately looks horrified.
âOh my God.â
Morgan actually snorts.
âI didnât know.â
âSo Iâve gathered.â
You bury your face against Aaronâs shoulder to hide your smile.
Walker mutters several apologies before practically fleeing the scene.
The second heâs gone, the team loses it.
Morgan is laughing.
Garcia is cackling over speakerphone.
Even Emily looks amused.
Aaron ignores all of them.
âLetâs go.â
You look up at him.
âFeel better?â
âNo.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You raise an eyebrow.
Aaronâs mouth twitches.
Just slightly.
Then he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.
Right in front of everyone.
A collective chorus of shocked noises erupts from the team.
Aaron doesnât care.
For once, he genuinely doesnât care.
His hand finds yours.
And when he looks at you, all the jealousy and frustration from the last week has vanished.
Replaced by something much softer.
Something that belongs only to the two of you.
âCome on, sweetheart.â
You smile.
âHome?â
His expression finally breaks into a rare, genuine smile.
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summary: after a case goes wrong and youâre injured protecting Aaron Hotchner, the reality of how dangerous life in the BAU truly is finally catches up with both of you
Aaron Hotchner x Reader
authors note: as I keep saying, itâs been a while since Iâve properly wrote anything so please be nice, I hope you enjoy reading & please if you have any ideas for future writings, then send them my way đđ
The safe house smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee.
You sat on the edge of the narrow hospital bed in the temporary FBI medical unit, fingers trembling around a paper cup you hadnât actually drunk from in over ten minutes. Outside the closed curtain, agents moved back and forth in hushed voices, radios crackling occasionally through the quiet.
Aaron sat beside you with his sleeves rolled up and dried blood still staining the cuff of his white shirt.
Your blood.
Every few seconds his eyes flicked back to the bandage wrapped around your ribs like he still expected to see it soaking through again.
âAaronââ
âYou shouldâve stayed behind the barricade.â
His voice was low. Controlled. Too controlled.
You knew that tone. It was the same one he used in interrogation rooms when he was trying not to let emotion interfere with his judgment.
You leaned back carefully against the pillows. âThe unsub had a gun pointed at you.â
âAnd you stepped in front of me.â
âYou wouldâve done the same thing.â
âThatâs not the point.â
His jaw tightened sharply, dark eyes fixed on the floor now. You watched the muscle feather in his cheek, the barely restrained anger that wasnât really anger at all.
Fear looked strange on Aaron Hotchner.
Quiet. Precise. Terrifying.
The doctor had said the bullet only grazed you. A few inches over and it wouldâve punctured a lung.
A few inches.
You swallowed hard at the memory of Aaron dropping to his knees beside you on the warehouse floor, one hand pressing desperately against your side while he barked orders into his radio with the other.
âStay with me, sweetheart.â
Youâd never heard his voice shake before today.
Now, sitting here hours later, he still hadnât fully let go of your hand.
His thumb moved absently over your knuckles as he stared ahead.
âWe should postpone it,â he said suddenly.
Your stomach dropped.
âThe wedding?â
âYou almost died.â
âThatâs exactly why we shouldnât postpone it.â
Finally he looked at you.
There it was again â that raw fear hidden underneath all the discipline and professionalism. Aaron always carried himself like a man impossible to rattle, but you knew him better than anyone now.
You knew how deeply he loved.
And how deeply he feared losing people because of it.
âAaron,â you said softly, squeezing his hand, âIâm okay.â
âYou were bleeding out in my arms.â
The words came out rougher than he intended.
You saw him glance away immediately after, composure slipping for only a second.
The room fell quiet.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the city skyline, rain tapping softly against the windows.
You reached up carefully, brushing your fingers against the back of his hand.
âDo you know what I thought when I hit the ground?â you asked.
His eyes lifted reluctantly.
âI thought I wasnât going to get to marry you.â
His expression cracked.
Barely. But enough.
Enough for you to see it.
Aaron exhaled slowly through his nose and leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees. For a moment he just sat there with your joined hands hanging between you.
Then, quieter:
âI already lost one marriage to this job.â
Your chest tightened instantly.
He rarely spoke about Haley in moments like this. Not because he didnât love her once â but because the grief surrounding it still lived somewhere deep inside him.
âYouâre not going to lose me,â you whispered.
âYou canât promise that.â
âNo,â you admitted. âBut neither can you.â
That hit him.
You saw it in the way his shoulders sagged slightly.
For two profilers, neither of you were particularly good at lying to each other anymore.
The job was dangerous. It always would be. There would always be guns and unsubs and late-night phone calls and the possibility that one of you wouldnât come home.
That was the truth of loving someone in the BAU.
Aaron stood abruptly then, pacing two slow steps away before stopping with his hands on his hips. His tie had long since disappeared, hair slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it all evening.
God, you loved him.
Even now.
Especially now.
âYou know what Garcia said to me?â you asked gently.
He glanced back over his shoulder. âWhat?â
âShe said if this didnât convince us to stop dragging our feet with wedding planning, she was personally going to kidnap us and force a courthouse ceremony.â
To your relief, the corner of his mouth twitched faintly.
âA threat sheâs probably capable of carrying out.â
âAbsolutely.â
A small silence followed.
Then Aaron looked at you fully again.
Not Unit Chief Hotchner.
Not the profiler.
Just your Aaron.
The man who made you coffee every morning because he remembered exactly how much sugar you liked. The man who kissed your forehead absentmindedly while reading case files. The man who called you honey or sweetheart so often it had stopped sounding like a nickname and started sounding like your real name.
He crossed back toward you slowly.
When he spoke this time, his voice was softer than youâd heard it in weeks.
âHow quickly do you think they could put together a ceremony?â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âIf we moved it forward.â
Your heart skipped.
âAaronâŠâ
âIâm serious.â
He sat carefully beside you again, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
âI donât want to wait another year,â he murmured. âOr six months. Or even another few weeks if I can help it.â
Emotion clogged suddenly in your throat.
âYou want to elope?â
âI want to marry you before this job gets another chance to scare the hell out of me.â
You laughed softly through sudden tears.
âThatâs possibly the least romantic proposal update ever.â
A tiny smile finally appeared.
âItâs honest.â
âThatâs very you.â
His forehead rested lightly against yours.
For a long moment neither of you spoke.
The rain continued outside. The bullpen noise faded somewhere down the hall. Everything narrowed until it was just him holding you carefully like you were something precious.
Something he refused to lose.
âYou know,â you whispered, âIâd marry you tomorrow if you asked.â
if you leave this kind of comment on any fanfic writerâs work or if you think this shit is okay and isnât the reason more and more writers are choosing not to share their works with your entitled ass for free anymore, you should be ashamed of yourself.
if you suspect a fic is ai and if that bothers you, quietly close the tap and leave the fic. no one forces you to stay.
hereâs my masterlist!
pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader / shy!reader
word count: 2.4k
genre & cw: fluff, a little jealousy and pining angst if u squint, mentions of made-up case, different use of cm character
a/n: thank u so much for all the support i've been getting on my fics!! hope you love this one as much as i do, i really enjoyed writing this one the most!
Today was a bad day. That much was clear. From the moment you woke up to the minute you arrived at the BAUâ youâre convinced that the universe has simply gone the extra mile to make your life a little harder.Â
You slept through your alarm and a few phone calls from Garcia, making your morning stressful and complete chaos. You didnât have time to grab a cup of coffee or a snack, and apparently you also didnât have time to remove the colorful pimple patches that adorned your face.Â
Your blouse is buttoned asymmetrically, your hair resembling a bird's nest, and you left your ID at home, making your arrival more delayed as you had to employ Garciaâs help in presenting a copy of your ID to let you through.Â
That too was not without stress given that your phone was on the verge of dying as you were in the call, but thankfully you could finally breathe in the elevator. Or so you thought.Â
There were two things that immediately caught you off guard as you walked into the bullpen: one, almost all the desks were deserted and two, Reid and Morgan were watching you- as if waiting for your reaction, which led you to look around in anticipation. Is there a surprise? A prank? Did I miss a patch? IâmâŠwearing pants, right?Â
Not wanting to prolong your search, you look at the two for any indication or clue. Tilting your head to the side as if to ask what? But to your surprise, they both nod their heads in one direction. Oh.
Strauss was in Hotchâs office, along with Rossi and a woman you donât recognize. Hotch looked a bit tense, Strauss firm, Rossi is as relaxed as ever, and the woman⊠is looking directly at Hotch. Just Hotch. Huh.Â
You were stood just shy of your desk when you shook thoughts out of your head, slowly approaching your desk to settle your things. Dozens of scenarios were running through your head, trying to make sense of new additions to an otherwise normal day.Â
But the way she was studying him made your chest tight like someone was stepping on it.. and you couldnât figure out why.Â
You approach the two rascals only to lean on Derekâs desk as you whisper under your breath, âWhatâs happening there?âÂ
Morgan shrugs but his focused face remains, âI donât know, kid. I tried Garcia but she doesnât have a clue either.â Eyes studying the people in the room, noting anything that could tell them something.Â
Mulling over more possibilities, you hum in response. Turning to Reid, you ask him- hoping that his eidetic memory can tell you anything about the woman even if theyâd only met in passing.Â
âDo you know anything, Spence?â But Reid only pouts at you, a sign that heâs thought about it hard but is coming up empty.Â
Shaking his head, he soberly replies, âNo..I donât think so. Iâ Iâve never seen her before. Sorry.âÂ
Before any more thoughts could be voiced between the three of you, the door to Hotchâs office opens and all four of them file out- the woman walking a little too close to Hotch.Â
-
Youâre approaching your usual seat on the jet beside Morgan and across from Hotch when suddenly Agent Seaver overtakes you and sits on your seat. Caught by surprise, your eyes instinctively go to Hotch whoâs already looking at you.Â
He nods to himself, moving from the aisle seat to the one by the window. But it appears Agent Seaver misunderstood his gesture and moved beside him, âOh! Thank you, sir.â Even going as far as touching his arm and leaning closely.Â
Now, youâve never been a violent person. Rage has just never overcome your senses like that but today.. of all daysâ you couldnât help the image of spilling your hot chocolate all over her cream blouse.Â
You donât even notice that youâre frowning as you sit beside Morgan, somehow still unaware of how much their closeness really upsets you. You honestly thought youâve maintained an expressionless face until Morgan looks up from his file and leans close to whisper in your ear, âYouâll need claws not paws, baby girl.â Winking at you as you separate.Â
You steal a glance at Hotch only to see him watching you and Morgan with furrowed brows. He almost looks normal if it werenât for the clenching of his jaw thatâs his tell of irritation. Moving your gaze to Seaver, in case you missed something thatâs causing his new mood, you find her reading the case file.Â
As you return your gaze on Hotch, you watch as Seaver touches his arm again and engages him in conversation about the case. Itâs through the whole jet ride that you had to stomach the constant Agent Hotchner, Agent Hotchner! paired with a giggle or a slight touch. UGH!
If it werenât for Strauss personally recommending Agent Seaver as a consultant for this case, you would have doneâ âŠstill absolutely nothing. You had no claim whatsoever over Hotch. Morgan and Rossi may tease the two of you occasionally, forcing that he treats you specially or whatever but his behavior could simply be chalked off as him being a good and attentive boss.Â
And yes, okay fine. You may have some moments here and there⊠but! they could honestly just be built up in your head because of the feelings you have for him. Like when he said he likes it when you stare? Come on, being stared at can be flattering and thatâs just a universal truth.Â
-Â
After a whole day of coming up with theories, visiting crime scenes and M.E.âs, youâre all completely spent. Lounging in the makeshift discussion room, all of you are still working tirelessly on the case given that the unsubâs on a spree and his timeline is alarmingly short.Â
Reidâs been silently staring at the board for 20 minutes while Morganâs pretending to read files of potential suspects with his legs stretched out and feet on the table, âThis is impossible. We just donât have enough.â He exclaims as he tosses the file on the table with a thud.Â
To the left of Morgan, youâre also silently mulling over files of potential suspects. Not wanting to admit that heâs right, you guys donât have enoughâŠbodies. You barely have anything on the guy, barely any clues- for a working profile.Â
You sigh heavily, peeling your eyes off the paper and looking at the board. âReid?â The boy genius shakes his head softly, confirming that the known dump sites donât say much about the unsubâs comfort zones or hunting ground.Â
You suddenly wonder where Seaver, Hotch and Rossi are. You and Morgan got back to the precinct at around 11PM, and you realize you havenât seen any of them, âWhere are the others?âÂ
Morgan, in an effort to lighten the mood, jumps at the chance to tease you, âHmm. I think what youâre really asking is: Whereâs Hotch and is he with Seaver?â He punches your arm lightly, making it obvious heâs only teasing.Â
The smug, playful smile on his face makes you fight one of your own, desperately trying to not give yourself away, âShut up,â hitting him in the head softly with the file in your hand.Â
While you two were exchanging playful glares, Reid interjects, âSeaver wanted to turn in early since sheâs also the one meeting with the families tomorrow so Hotch brought her to the hotel.âÂ
You instantly lift your gaze to him and watch as he removes the markerâs cap and scribbles rapidly on the board, quickly adding âAnd Iâm pretty sure Rossiâs getting us coffee from the diner around the block.âÂ
You want to blame it on your exhaustionâ your inability and ineffectiveness at hiding how you truly feel about what Reid just revealed to you, groaning loudly in pain and frustration. You put your head in your hands, muffling the sounds youâre making that are somehow a combination of a laugh and a sob.Â
Morgan understands your reaction immediately and laughs out loud.Â
âItâs not funny!â There was honestly no point in hiding it. As much as Morgan teased you, you knew he wouldnât tell anyway, and Reid.. well, he was honestly an even better keeper of secrets than Morgan, Rossi and Garcia.Â
He puts a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, âBaby girl, worry not. You know you hold a special place in boss manâs heart.â Then gripping both your wrists to pry your hands off your face.Â
Pressing your face even further into your hands, you let out a muffled version of âThatâs not true!â that came out more as âDaffs noft thwu!âÂ
When Morgan successfully pries your hands off your face, youâre surprised to see Reidâs moved from the board to behind Morgan, half leaning half sitting on the table, curiously watching you.Â
Morgan turns around to look at the door behind you, making sure the coast is clear before he says, âKid. Be real with me for a sec⊠are you blind?â That was not the question you were expecting.Â
You must have looked so lost because he continues, âHotch cares for you. Deeply. And not in the same way he does for us. Youâve gotta have felt that, kid.â Funny, you are starting to feel like a kidâ the only thing missing are his hands on your shoulders to complete that huddle pep talk experience.Â
âThatâs just notââ you try to start. But Reid swiftly raises his hand, signing you to stopâ
âDid you know that every morning Hotch makes sure all the pens and mug handles on your desk are pointing to the rightâ the way you need it to beâ in case the night janitors move any out of place?â
âOr that he never really ate lunch in the office before but started bringing sandwiches and other food he could microwave, while timing his lunches with yours presumably so he could strike up a conversation with you during break?âÂ
âOr do you remember that one time the AC in the bullpen broke and we were all sweating badly, and I said the heat was making me too thirsty then he disappeared into his office and came back with a bottle of water and an orange juice box only to give it to you?âÂ
Morgan lets out a loud laugh at that one while Reid pouts playfully, âI mean I was genuinely dying then.âÂ
Not without his own input, Morgan smiles softly at you with a raised brow âDid you know he personally restocks your favorite hot chocolate in the pantry and on the jet? Including the marshmallows.âÂ
You breathe in deeply, the revelations sounding too good to be true but winding nonetheless. You crack a small joke, trying to play it off âAnd I thought the bureau was just feeling really generous.âÂ
The two, who have grown to be such brothers, give you the exact same look of Really?Â
As Reid rounds the table to go back and stand by the board, Morgan catches your attention and holds your eye, âLook, thereâs so much more, kid. But they all point to the same thing.â He says this as softly as possible, as if to not scare you away.Â
You let out a soft, breathy laugh. Shaking your head, âThat just canât be true.âÂ
With all three of your backs to the door, you donât notice Rossi nearing. You just suddenly hear his voice from behind, rounding the table and settling the coffee cups in front of all of you, âCoffee, anyone?âÂ
As if trapped in the null of the previous conversation, youâre still looking at Morgan as you lean back in your chair, slumping further to seek non-existent cover. Reid, who is now back in his own world with the board, is handed a cup by Rossi, who didnât even turn to look- only stretching out an arm to receive it and mumbling a distracted âThanks.â Â
Rossi, who is simply too smart for his own good, impressively senses something hanging in the air, nonchalantly asking about the tailend of a conversation he was not supposed to hear, âSo⊠what canât be true?âÂ
Back to lounging excessively on a chair that is a tad too tiny for him, with legs outstretched and feet on the corner on the tableâ Morgan spouts, âThat sheâs Hotchâs girl, and has no reason to be jealous of Seaverâ who by the way needs the HR orientation more than Penelope and I.âÂ
-
Nowâ all of your backs are to the door except Rossiâs. Not one of you tried to move due to fatigue, let alone look.
Unbeknownst to you, Morgan, and Reid, on the way back to the precinct from the hotel, Hotch had the genius thought of picking up Rossi so the latter wouldnât have to walk a block with trays of coffee on hand.
Hotch and Rossi arrived together. And as Rossi went around the table to give you your cups of coffee, Hotch stayed behindâ leaning on the doorframe with arms crossed, watching you and the team.
Imagine his surprise, hearing what Morgan just said. His heart skipped a beat, his stomach dropped. His entire being froze entirely.. What? Jealous?Â
In his mind, he had two choices: Act like he didnât hear it and save you from embarrassment or use it to his advantage and make his intentions clear..ish.Â
-
You gasp loudly at his bluntnessâ and in front of Rossi! Straightening in your chair and pointing an accusatory finger at Morgan, âYou littleâ I am NOT jealous! and I am NOT HotchâsââÂ
Cut off by someone loudly clearing their throat from behind all of you, you all freeze, including Reid who hasnât been actively paying attention until now.Â
The hair on your neck stands up as you hear the nearing footsteps, already envisioning digging your own grave in your head when finally, Hotch is standing right beside you.Â
Youâre all still pretty frozen, save from the slow movement which is your eyes slowly lifting its gaze to the man in question until they meet his hazel orbs. He holds your stare as he leans on the desk, arms straining in his shirtâÂ
Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rossi fighting a smile, and just as youâre about to mentally curse him in your head, youâre broken out of your thoughts by a deep voice,Â
summary : spencer hints at the need to change himself to be deserving of love, but why would he compare himself to others, and who is he trying to impress ?
word count : 1.2k
pairings : spencer reid x bau!reader (idiots in love, workplace romance)
notes : pretty boy worries about his fitness test and falls for the promotion of toxic masculity, glowups and looksmaxxing... morgan's fault ? mentions of a high protein diet and yes i cringed writing this, who's gonna tell him we love an adorable skinny nerd ?
there were a lot of bad days at the BAU.
obviously, the place wouldn't run without the existence of negativity in the world. the everlasting presence of crimes, death, meant there were inevitably going to be a lot of bad days. victims you won't save in time , unsubs you won't catch, it was something all members of the team were at peace with by now.
there would be bad days, terrible ones even, but the sun would rise again the next morning, bright and announcing hope. another chance at making the world a better place.
the bad days at the BAU, the one spencer reid truly feared until his heartrate sped up and his breath caught in his throat, were a bit more silly. he'd grown up not to let himself be afraid of anything, except one.
the fitness tests.
"good morning, spence !"
when you entered the tiny kitchenette space to make your ritualistic daily coffee, your voice sounded cheerful. oat milk, lots of ice and a dash of vanilla syrup. iced latte was your fuel, and spencer didn't need to turn around to see look. he knew the way you liked it by heart like a catchy melody stuck in his head. he felt your presence in the room before you even spoke.
the lack of reaction made you frown when no one greeted you in return.
"morning," he answered simply. his hair looked particularly soft and ridiculously good in the way he'd decided to style it today - brushed back, curls rebelling agaisnt gravity - but you wished he'd turn around to hand you your mug. just like he always did.
today, he didn't.
the ice cubes hit the bottom of the glass and clinked, highlighting the unusual silence stretching between you. his shoulders looked slumped from behind, and you couldn't help but crane your neck to look over his tall figure.
it wasnt coffee he was drinking.
in his personal labeled mug, the one that had its spot on the shelf next to yours for convenience and unspoken rules - the first one to arrive makes coffee for two - was some sort of sloshy, pale mixture.
"holy fuck, what is that thing ?" you exclaimed in a voice too high for his sensitive self. too early to be the center of attention, too.
"nothing. i mean it isn't nothing, but it's nothing important"
judging by the knot your brows formed, he could tell you'd never accept to drop the subject.
"i have my fitness test this afternoon, i got the email last week and... i don't know, i guess it's not exactly a moment i look forward to."
"oh... none of us do, really."
your answer is simple, not inconsiderate. he knows you too well to be sure the latter would've included an eye roll and some giggling.
you move to the tiny fridge to find the bottle of oat milk kept on the top shelf, and feel the need to break the silence. "and drinking vomit is the best form of suicide you came up with ? babe, you could've made it work with the toaster"
there it is, the confirmation. you don't take him seriously, never have and probably never will.
"it's not vomit !" he retorts, crossing his arms to show how offensed he was. "it's a shake. with fruits and stuff... and protein as well"
by the sudden tilt of your head, lips parting and hand stilling mid pour, spencer felt his cheeks burn.
"they're full of micronutrients and can provide an energy boost, especially in the morning which is great for-"
"i know what a smoothie is, reid."
he looks down bashfully. âof course you do⊠iâll let you have the spaceâ
taking a couple steps to the right to give you the privilege of having the counter space, the conversation quietens when he sees you stare, dumbfounded and curious.
âthis isnât you.â you say in matter of factly tone. nothing is easier than knowing him. âyou hate cold drinksâŠâ
even coffee, actually. your beloved ice cubes you luckily always find in the freezer donât interest him. and even though heâd never tell you heâs the one to refill the mold behind your back, heâd rather drink the coffee scalding hot.
âi do, but morgan recommended it.â
you sigh, rolling your eyes. âof course he did. what for, you know you could run backwards and the bureau would still keep you. youâre an asset to our teamâ
the little dimples of his you love so much make an appearance under the neon lights of the kitchenette, and you decide to keep going.
âmorgan is just a cocky flirt.â your arms cross, droplets of condensation forming on the outside of the glass.
âaaaaand if you want my opinion, heâs probably suffering from some undiagnosed bigorexia. which to be honest, is really common in menâ
not spencer, though. never spencer.
instead he shifts on his feet, and the distance between you seems like too much as a tight feeling in your chest urges you to protect him from all external forces.
âitâs not exactly like he forced me to do anything.â he retorts under his breath.
âi just think maybe⊠maybe i could put on some muscle. to be more efficient on the field.â
but his eyes are soft.
his eyes are soft as he opens up to you, the only person who ever listened. his slender fingers linger next to you, on the handle of the utensils drawer, and he looks like an absolute dream without even realising it.
when every breath and step he takes nearly undo you, how on earth could he possibly think heâs not enough.
âyouâre perfect.â
those oh so perfect brown eyes look up and you melt.
âcoffee is too good to be replaced with a bland protein shake you donât even like. and you get too cranky when youâre lacking caffeine.â
it all comes to you naturally, too naturally. the reassuring words. the protective feelings when it comes to your beloved colleague.
âyou hate exercise and thereâs not a single reason why you should force yourself to do something you donât enjoy for the purpose of changing yourself. itâs silly.â
swiftly you grab the handle of the mug with one hand and flick his forehed with the other.
"ouch- hey !" he exclaims in a high pitched voice. "what's that for ?"
âbringing you back down to earth. seriously,â the first sip you take is cool, the ice slightly melted already. âitâs not worth it.â
seconds pass before he actually says something, rubbing the spot you just hurt to make you feel bad about it.
now, his eyes find yours again. it doesnât take a trained profiler to notice the change of posture.
âit does sound stupid when you say it like thatâŠâ he admits, chin higher and lips pursed.
you laugh, a full on burst of laughter at his self awareness.
âbecause it is. itâs so- unlike you.â
quieter, the sound of his chuckles mimic you. something warm contrasting with the iced drink you sip on.
âitâs not. iâm actually dying for a chocolate donut right now.â
this isnât who he is.
the guy who cares about his physique more than anything and bends to societyâs expectations. and amongst the false excuses he made and lies he tried to give you, you saw the truth immediately.
spencer is spencer. the guy who likes his coffee black with a donut on the side and calls it breakfast. he knows how you like your coffee and trades the opportunity to sleep in for more time with you in the morning.
and he is, in your eyes, the closest to perfect that there's ever been.
two people, one coffee shop, one very unfortunate lid. ivy is six months into dc and spencer reid is on his way to work and neither of them is looking for anything.
prompt â meet cute, coffee shop, strangers to numbers, soft start warnings â none
word count â 2.1k
note â part one of somewhere between - she's been in my head for a while and i'm so glad she's finally here. I normally dont use names. but since I want to make this like a big story I decided to use one :O
the coffee shop on the corner of M street is the kind of place that exists in every city â small, slightly too warm, smelling permanently of espresso and something baked. ivy had found it three weeks into being in dc and had been coming back ever since, mostly because the woman behind the counter remembered her order after the second visit and there is something about being remembered in a foreign city that feels disproportionately important.
six months in and dc still does this thing where it surprises her. not dramatically. just small things â the way the light hits the monuments in the morning, the sheer amount of people who walk fast and look at nothing, the fact that everything here feels like it means something even when it doesn't. amsterdam was never like this. amsterdam was familiar in her bones. dc is still something she is learning, like a language she can read but hasn't quite learned to dream in yet.
she is thinking about none of this when it happens.
she is thinking about the paper she has to finish by thursday and whether brennan will actually review her notes before the weekend and whether she remembered to lock her apartment â the usual low hum of a tuesday morning â and she's turned slightly from the counter, reaching into her bag for her card, when something hits her.
warm. immediately warm. and then the smell of coffee, very close and very sudden, and she looks down at her jacket and thinks, oh.
"oh godâ"
she looks up.
the man standing in front of her is tall â genuinely tall, the kind that takes you a second to fully process â with curly hair that looks like it was almost neat this morning and an expression of pure horror that is, objectively, very funny. he's got an empty coffee cup in one hand and his other hand is already reaching toward her like he might be able to reverse what just happened through proximity alone. he cannot. the damage is done. her jacket has a very large, very warm coffee stain spreading across the front of it and he looks like he might actually pass out.
"i'm so sorry â i wasn't â the lid wasn't â statistically the failure rate of these lids is actually remarkably high, there was a study done in 2009 that found that approximately thirty percent of spillage incidents in coffee shops are attributable to faulty or improperly secured lids rather than user error, which is â not that that's relevant right now, i'm â are you okay? are you burned?"
ivy looks at him.
then she looks down at her jacket.
then she looks back at him, at the horror still sitting plainly on his face, at the empty cup, at the way he is clearly vibrating with the effort of not continuing to recite statistics at her â
and she laughs.
not a polite laugh. a real one, the kind that comes from somewhere unexpected, and she has to press her hand briefly over her mouth because the expression on his face when she does it is somehow even funnier â like he had prepared for every possible response except this one and now he doesn't know what to do with himself.
"i'm fine," she says, when she can. "i'm not burned."
"you're â laughing."
"yes."
"your jacketâ"
"is a jacket." she looks down at it again, still smiling. "it will wash."
he stares at her for a second like she is a maths problem he can't quite solve. then something in his expression shifts â the horror fading into something more uncertain, softer around the edges.
"most people would be angry," he says.
"i know." she unzips the jacket and pulls it off, draping it over her arm. underneath she's fine â just a shirt, untouched. "but it was an accident and you look like you're about to be sick about it, so."
"i really am sorry."
"i know that too." she glances at the empty cup in his hand. "you lost your coffee."
he looks down at it like he'd forgotten. "...yes."
"then we're both having a bad morning." she turns back to the counter, where the woman behind it is watching this entire exchange with barely concealed interest. ivy catches her eye. "can he get another one?"
the woman looks at the man. looks back at ivy. smiles. "sure."
his name is spencer.
she finds this out approximately four minutes later, when they are both waiting for their orders and he has apologised twice more and she has told him twice more that it's fine and somewhere in between the second and third apology they have started actually talking, which neither of them quite planned for.
"spencer," she repeats, the way you do when you're filing a name away. "i'm ivy."
"ivy," he says. and then, because she's already learned he cannot help himself: "it's from the latin hedera. the plant has been used symbolically across cultures for centuries â the ancient greeks associated it with dionysus, god ofâ" he stops. closes his mouth. opens it again. "sorry. i do that."
"do what?"
"just â say things. facts. it happens when i'm nervous."
ivy considers this. "you're nervous?"
"i just spilled coffee on a stranger."
"fair point." she leans against the counter. "i don't mind. the dionysus thing is interesting actually. i'd never thought about where the name came from."
he looks at her like she's said something surprising. "really?"
"really." her order arrives and she wraps both hands around the cup. "where i'm from people don't usually find it interesting. they find itâ" she searches for the word. "a lot."
"where are you from?"
"the netherlands. amsterdam, originally."
something lights up behind his eyes â she will come to recognise this, the specific quality of his attention when something catches it, the way he goes slightly more still. "you're a long way from home."
"yes." she says it simply, without the weight that sometimes sits under it. "i'm at georgetown. grad program." she tilts her head at him. "and you?"
a very brief pause. just long enough to notice.
"i work nearby," he says. which is, she will think later, a very specific way of not answering the question.
"nearby," she repeats.
"yes."
she decides not to push it. there's something about him â not suspicious, nothing like that â just private in a specific way, like there are parts of his life that live behind a door he doesn't open for strangers in coffee shops on tuesday mornings. she can respect that. she has doors too.
his order arrives. he takes it and looks at the cup and then at her jacket, still draped over her arm.
"i really amâ"
"if you apologise again," ivy says pleasantly, "i'm going to assume you don't believe me when i say it's fine."
his mouth closes. and then, slowly, he smiles â and it's different from the nervous energy of the last ten minutes, something quieter and more real, like she's said exactly the right thing without meaning to.
"okay," he says.
"okay." she straightens up, shifts her bag on her shoulder. "i have to get to the metro."
"right." he shifts his weight slightly. something moves across his expression â a decision being made in real time, she can almost see it happening. "i â can iâ" he stops. starts again, and she gets the impression that this is not something he does often, this particular kind of starting and stopping. "can i give you my number? in case the jacket doesn't wash and i owe you a replacement."
ivy looks at him.
the jacket will absolutely wash. they both know this.
"that's a very practical reason to exchange numbers," she says.
"i'm a very practical person."
she smiles. holds out her phone.
she is three stops into the metro ride when her phone buzzes.
this is spencer. from the coffee shop. i hope the jacket survived.
ivy reads it twice. looks out the window at the dark tunnel going past. looks back at the message.
it's in my bag. jury's still out.
the reply comes quickly, quicker than she expects.
i'll take that as a positive sign. statistically, cold water within the first hour improves outcome by about sixty percent.
she laughs, quiet enough that the man across from her doesn't look up from his newspaper.
i'll keep that in mind, spencer from the coffee shop.
a pause. then:
just spencer is fine.
ivy tucks her phone into her pocket and looks back at the window, at her own reflection in the dark glass, at the faint smile she is not quite managing to hide.
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summary: spencer wants you to meet his team at rossi's, theo is scared of their reaction.
tw: mentioning of absent dad, fluff and comfort, dad!spencer vibes.
word count: ~1.7k
Part 2 of big shoes to fill
CHOSEN FAMILY
Spencer planned to pick you up at 5:30 p.m. He had gotten home pretty late last night from a case in California, so he went straight to his place, not wanting to wake you or Theo up.
You spent two hours getting ready, searching for the right outfit, doing your makeup, and styling your hair. You needed to look nice. It was the first time you were meeting Spencer's friends at one of their houses for a dinner night.
Eventually, you picked your favorite blue dress that flowed from your waist to your knees, with tiny daisies printed on it. You waved your hair and chose the special-occasion perfume you'd once received as a birthday gift.
"Mom..."
You looked in the mirror, meeting your son's worried eyes.
"What's up, Bug?" You smiled softly before turning to him and crouching down to his level."What if they don't like me?" he asked, playing with the hem of his shirt.
"You are an amazing, bright, and kind eight-year-old boy. Why wouldn't they like you?" you asked gently, taking his hands in yours and giving them a reassuring squeeze.
"Dad already doesn't like me," he mumbled.
That broke your heart in two.
You never had the best relationship with his dad, Evan, but you'd tried hard to maintain the relationship between Theo and him. Eventually, the contact became less and less frequent, fading away completely a year ago when he started "his proper family." Now it was just birthday cards in the mail and occasional child support around Christmas and the beginning of the school year.
Theo had a half-sister he didn't know existed because you didn't want to hurt him even more.
"I'm sure that's not true, baby," you said softly, wrapping him in a hug.
"I love you so, so much, Bug. And I know Spencer loves you too. That's important, right? And he loves his friends. Do you think he would be friends with people who wouldn't notice what an amazing young man you are?"
Theo thought about it for a moment.
"No," he said eventually, though you still saw the doubt in his eyes.
"Exactly. He wouldn't. So how about we get you dressed in a nice shirt, pick up the cookies we made after school, and wait for Spencer? He should be here any minute."
You glanced at the clock above the bathroom door.
"Okay."
Theo kissed your cheek before grabbing your hand and leading you to his room.
At exactly 5:30, a soft knock sounded at the door before Spencer let himself in.
"Hi, guys! You ready to go?" he called from the hallway as you appeared.
"Almost ready."
You hurried over to kiss him hello, smiling as you wrapped your arms around him.
"Theo had a hard moment," you said quietly. "He got scared your team won't like him. He said... he said they might not like him because his dad doesn't. I don't know what to do, Spence."
You rested your forehead against his chest and closed your eyes for a moment.
"You want me to talk to him?" he asked softly, resting his cheek on top of your head.
"No, no. It's not your job to raise him and solve all the dad-not-present-related drama. I got this. I just neededâ"
He stopped you right there, tilting your head up so you could see him. There was care in his eyes and a soft, reassuring smile on his lips.
"Hey, baby, stop. I love you, and I love your son. And if you let me help raise him in any way, it would be my honor."
You exhaled a shaky breath before nodding once.
"Alright," you whispered, unable to break eye contact. "Thank you, Spencer. I love you too. And I'm sure he does too."
He squeezed your hips reassuringly before stepping back.
"I'm gonna talk to him, and then we can go. Will you take the cookies out to the car in the meantime?"
Spencer knocked on Theo's partially open door and peeked inside.
"Hey, buddy." He smiled softly as he walked into the room. "Can I sit with you?"
"Yeah."
Reid sat down beside him, casually brushing his arm against Theo's in reassurance.
"Your mom told me you were worried about meeting my friends," he began, watching as Theo bit his lip and looked down.
"I also know they'll be thrilled to meet you."
He reached over and wrapped his fingers around Theo's small hand.
"You sure?" Theo looked up at him, still worried. "I don't want them to dislike me, 'cause then you'd dislike me, and you'd leave, and I don't want you to leave like Dad."
Tears filled his eyes as the fear of being abandoned again tightened in his chest.
"Heeey, don't cry, T."
Spencer immediately knelt in front of him and gently stroked his cheek with his thumb.
"I'm not going to leave you, okay? Never. I love you too much to do that. I'd miss you too much."
His heart broke just as yours had a few moments earlier.
"And I know my friends will love you too. Because they're my family. And you're my family. You and your mama. Sometimes the family we choose is more important than the one we're born into. And that's okay.
"I know you miss your dad, but I also know it's his loss that he walked out of your life. Because he won't get the pleasure of watching you grow up and do amazing things. And I'm freaking grateful that you let me witness it."
Theo stared at him for a moment, unable to put his feelings into words.
Instead, he leaned forward and threw himself into Spencer's arms, burying his face in his shirt.
Reid hugged him tightly, one arm around his back and the other in his hair.
"I love you too," Theo whispered into Spencer's neck.
"I know, buddy."
You arrived at the huge Rossi house ten minutes late. Spencer had called ahead to warn everyone about Theo's worries.
Theo walked between you and Spencer, holding both your hands when the door opened to reveal a bright blonde woman.
"Here's the big guy I've heard so much about! And the beautiful woman! Oh my God, I'm so happy to meet you! This genius boy was so secretive about you two that I wasn't sure you actually existed!"
"Y/N, Theo, meet Penelope Garcia. Pen, this is my girlfriend, Y/N, and my boy, Theo."
You saw the spark in Theo's eyes when Spencer called him his.
Penelope hugged you tightly before crouching down to give Theo the same warm welcome.
The rest followed. Hugs were exchanged, and then everyone was ushered to the table.
"I love your shirt!" Michael grinned at Theo, his missing tooth and mischievous smile on full display.
"Thank you! It's Charmander, my favorite!"
The conversation was easy, the food was delicious, and when Spencer brought out the cookies you'd made, everyone was over the moon.
"Theo, you baked these?" JJ asked, smiling as your son sat with her two boys on the couch.
"Yes! I helped Mama shape and decorate them, and she let me mix the eggs!"
He sounded so proud that you couldn't help smiling.
You looked over at Spencer as the boys started talking about space because apparently every boy that age wanted to be an astronaut. He smiled back, wrapping an arm around you so you could lean against him and enjoy the easy, pleasant evening with the people who were his family.
You watched Theo holding Morgan's hand as they searched for the best board game to play and couldn't help smiling when he hesitantly asked if he could call him Uncle, like Spencer had suggested.
Derek's eyes lit up immediately.
"Of course you can!"
He picked Theo up because apparently hugging his new nephew was necessary to make the arrangement official.
You stood in the doorway leading to the patio, wine glass in hand, watching Spencer perform magic tricks for the boys.
You sensed someone approaching but couldn't take your eyes off them.
"You're good for him," JJ said softly as she stepped beside you, her own glass in hand.
"I don't know why, but I could tell he was happier these last few months. Calmer. Checking his phone more. Now I know why."
She smiled and rubbed your arm gently.
"And I'm happy he found someone steady in his life."
Then she added quietly, "Just please don't break his heart."
You shook your head.
"How could I purposely break his heart when it would mean destroying three hearts in the process?"
You looked back at the boys just as Theo launched himself into Spencer's arms, laughing loudly.
Later, the boys were asleep on the couch, a tangle of limbs and soft breaths, while a video game still blinked on the television.
You and JJ collected abandoned devices while Will picked Henry up, leaving JJ to carry the younger boy.
You bent down to lift Theo when you felt a warm hand on your back.
"I've got him."
Spencer smiled and kissed the top of your head, so you simply watched as he carefully lifted your son into his arms before saying quiet goodbyes to the team.
You helped him with the door and buckled Theo into his car seat before climbing into the passenger seat.
"Thank you for today," you said, looking over at Spencer.
He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he leaned over and kissed you sweetly.
"Thank you for being here with me today. It's nice to finally share them with you. They already love you and Theo."
You smiled.
"I love them too. Let's go home, Spence."
"Yeah," he said softly. "Home."
Then he started the car and turned toward your place.
summary á° you always try so hard to not rely on your boyfriend because you know how busy he is. so naturally when thereâs a power outage in your apartment you hesitate to let him know about it which leads to a very disappointed aaron behind you door.
warnings á° angst with fluff end. lots of pauses (sue me i want the dialogue to go slower) swearing & language.
one thing about being with a man that was a manâ which, by that, you mean a man who was so unlike the little boys you had dated beforeâwas that he was extremely assertive, mature, and overall just knew how to take care of you just right.
and one thing about being with so many little boys unlike him was that over time you had learned to shut down, because they always made you feel like you were too much.
asking for too much, when the whole time it was beyond the bare minimum.
so naturally, whenever you had issues, you dealt with it yourself.
like right now when you had a power outage on your whole street, meaning everything was shut. your fridge, electricity, elevator (which meant you had to climb up and down eight floors), and most importantly, your stove.
you didnât call your boyfriend because you felt like it was too much.
shit, you couldnât even use your phone to order food because it was dead let alone try to call him.
it was running on 5%, and you had just enough to let your best friend know that you were alive and that if you didnât answer, it was probably because you ran out of battery. while she insisted you leave your house and maybe go over to aaronâs, since she herself was all the way in the other side of the country for a work trip, you had refused, because seriously, itâd be embarrassing.
sure, youâd crashed at his place since youâve been together for almost three years, thatâs normalâbut this just didnât feel right. you werenât about to go bother him and ask if you could stay at his place for god knows how many days until the electricity was fixed. that was too much. at least, thatâs what you thought it was.
it was fine. you were going to be able to survive on a dead phone, dead stove, absolutely no lights, all alone in your apartment.
but it wasnât fine when aaronsâs eighth call to your phone went straight to voicemail and he hadnât heard from you all day, which was so unusual, because you usually responded no matter what.
naturally, his only solution was calling your parents, your family, anyone he knew, but they also hadnât heard from you. that left him with one last person: your best friend, who he essentially forced an answer out of until she finally cracked and told him what was going on.
âsheâs fine, she just. . didnât want to bug you,â she had sighed through the phone. âpowerâs out. the lights and everything. she refuses to leave.â
âand she didnât even try to call me?â heâd asked, voice going flat.
âyou know how she is.â
hearing that heâd cursed under his breath, grabbed his keys and jacket, and headed out the door, worry swirling in his gut the entire thirty-minute drive to your apartment.
he parked near your buildingâs garage, said a quick hi to your doorman, then went to the elevator. when he realized it didnât work, he took the stairs two at a time, jaw tight.
another string of curses left him. he was beyond irritatedânot at you, never at his sweet girlâbut at the fact that you felt like you couldnât rely on him, like you always had to solve your problems alone.
if he couldnât help you on your worst days, then why was he even there?
he finally got to your door, only to realize the doorbell didnât work either. of course. he knocked, harder than he meant to.
a few seconds later, you opened the door in your pajamas, hair up in your crazy big rollers he still didnât fully understand the point ofâsomething about volume and blowouts or whatever youâd explained to him a hundred times.
you were probably getting ready to sleep off the night alone in the dark.
âhey,â you breathed out, staring at him. from the look on his face, you knew you might be a little screwed.
âhi,â he said simply, eyes scanning you quickly, alive, breathing, upright, before the tension in his shoulders eased the tiniest bit.
âcome in.â you give him a light peck on thr lips before you cleared your throat and stepped aside, trying not to do anything to intensify the situation further.
âwhatâs up with the lights?â he asked as he came in, toeing off his shoes like he always did, acting like he didnât already know.
âpower outage,â you muttered, leading him toward your bedroom. there was still a bit of light from outside, but not much.
âhave you eaten?â he asked, following close behind, hands in his pockets.
ânot yet,â you admitted with a wince. âmy stove doesnât work, and my phoneâs dead, so i canât order takeout.â
you flopped down at your vanity chair, turning away a little as you started taking your rollers out, trying not to look directly at him.
aaron watched you for a beat, then came up behind you, catching one of the rollers you fumbled. âand you didnât bother telling me about all this?â he murmured, standing behind you as he gently started helping with your hair, fingers careful not to tug.
âmy phone died?â you offered, glancing at his reflection. he looked calm, but you knew himâyou could see the tick in his jaw.
âyeah?â he said quietly, setting another roller down. âbefore or after you decided to play pioneer in the dark instead of calling me from literally anywhere else?â
you chewed your lip. â. . before,â you whispered, then sighed. âiâm sorry.â
you finally blurted it out; you knew it was due.
ânot a word,â he said, stepping back and shaking his head. âget dressed, pack a bag. youâre coming with me.â
âbaby, you know you donât have toââ you started, then froze when he gave you a look. firm, not angry, but very, very clear.
âiâm not asking,â he said, tone soft but absolute. âiâm telling you. pack a bag.â
you swallowed and nodded quickly, turning away to change into proper clothes. you grabbed a small overnight bag and started shoving in necessities makeup, skincare, some clothes, your laptop, and your dead phone, while he waited in the doorway, arms folded, eyes following your every move.
he was quiet, and with the way he was quiet, you knew he was more hurt than mad.
âdone,â you breathed out, holding up the bag.
âgood.â he walked over, took it from you without a word, and with a hand on the small of your back, gently steered you out of your apartment after youâd double-checked everything and locked the door.
you both walked in silence down the eight flights of stairs and out to his car. he opened the passenger door for you, waited until you were settled, then put your bag in the back and got into the driverâs seat.
the car was quiet as he pulled away from the curb.
his hand wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles pale from the pressure. you stared at it for a few seconds, realizing you couldnât take it anymore you gave in and reached over, gently prying his fingers away so you could lace your hand with his left hand on the center console.
âyouâre mad at me,â you said softly, thumb rubbing over the back of his handâthe hand you were honestly obsessed with.
âiâm not,â he sighed, squeezing your fingers. âiâm justââ he cut himself off with a deep breath, jaw clenching.
âi shouldâve told you. iâm sorry,â you said, filling the silence. âyouâre right. i shouldâve called.â
âyou shouldâve told me,â he agreed quietly. âi shouldâve been the first person you thought to ask.â
you looked over at him, seeing the faint frown lines between his brows, the way he was staring straight ahead like if he looked at you too long heâd say something heâd regret.
âi know,â you said. âi just. . didnât want to bother you.â
he huffed out a humorless laugh. âbother me? you think you bother me?â
you swallowed. âi know youâve got stuff to do. and besides. . itâs just a power outage. i felt dumb calling you just for that â
âyou live on the eighth floor with no lights, no elevator, no food, and a dead phone,â he said slowly. âthatâs not nothing, sweetheart.â
âstill. it felt like a lot to ask.â
âfrom me?â he asked, finally turning his head to really look at you. âafter three years? after everything? youâre allowed to ask me for things. thatâs kind of the point.â
you bit your lip, shoulders hunching. âi just got used to hearing i was too much, you know? wanting too much.â
his expression softened immediately. his hand tightened around yours.
âlook at me,â he murmured.
you did.
âyouâre never âtoo muchâ for me,â he said, voice low, steady. âyouâre my girlfriend. youâre supposed to call me. youâre supposed to need me. if you donât, then what the hell am i here for?â
your eyes stung a little. âyou do enough already.â
âclearly not if youâre sitting in the dark, hungry, pretending youâre fine,â he countered gently.
you didnât have an argument for that, so you just squeezed his hand instead, letting the silence settle between you, softer this time.
by the time he pulled into his driveway, the knot in your chest had loosened a little. he parked, killed the engine, but didnât move right away.
âfor the record,â he said, still looking straight ahead, âyou never âbotherâ me. if itâs you, itâs not too much. ever.â
your throat went tight. âokay,â you whispered. âiâll try to remember that next time.â
âdonât try,â he corrected quietly, finally turning to meet your eyes. âjust call. right away with absolutely no hesitations.â
you nodded, and that seemed to be enough for him. he leaned over, pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, then climbed out to grab your bag before opening your door.
later after he made sure you ate he moved around to plug your phone in, for you to answer calls from your mom and letting everyone know you were fine, all while you curled against him on the couch while some random 90s movie played in the background. his arm was around you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder as he breathed you in, quietly enjoying the feeling of holding you.
âaaron?â you murmured.
âmm?â
âthank you for coming to get me,â you said quietly.
he pressed his lips to the side of your head. âalways.â
âand. . iâm sorry i didnât call. iâm trying to be better at that,â you admitted. âitâs just. . leftover crap from before you.â
âi know,â he said. âiâm not mad at you for having history. i just need you to let me be different from it.â
you swallowed. âyou are different.â
âthen treat me like it,â he said gently. âlet me show up for you.â
you shifted, turning so you could look up at him. âokay,â you whispered. âi will. i promise.â
âgood,â he murmured. âmy girlâs safe. thatâs all i need.â
Youâd been bracing for this the second you stepped through the door.
The victimâs mother had the same wild, searching look youâd seen a hundred times beforeâthe desperate need to blame anyone, anyone, other than the abstract monster who took her daughter. Grief curdling into rage at the nearest warm body. Youâd taken point instinctively, not because you were the senior agent, but because Hotchâs gaze had already flicked to you in silent question. Can you handle this? You gave a single nod. Iâve got it.
âMrs. Hartwell, I know this is unbearable. But every piece of information you can give usâher schedule, anyone new she mentionedââ
âYou donât know anything.â
Her composure shatters on the word. Her hands claw at the air between you, fingernails catching the kitchenâs fluorescent light like small, dull blades. âYou stand there with your fancy credentials and your clinical words. My Maggie is gone.â
You hold your ground, even as your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. Donât flinch. Donât feed the spiral. Youâve seen grief turn feral beforeâwatched it coil and strike like a cornered animal. Youâve also seen what happens when you back away: it tells them their rage is justified, that youâre afraid of the very pain youâre asking them to relive. So you stay. Soften your voice, but not your stance. âI understand. And Iâm so sorry. But the small detailsâher routine, anyone new in her lifeâthose could be the thing that brings her home.â
Thatâs when the father snaps.
Heâd been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too lateâthe draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth.Â
Thereâs no room to dodge.
His palm catches you high on the shoulderâa glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasnât slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then backâthe crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.
White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.
The room tilts.
Your knees buckle.
You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesnât match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you canât remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.
Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.
Spencer.
Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.
This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got looseâall that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.
He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room.Â
His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thudâthe kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's plantedâweight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.
"Keep your hands off her."
Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpsesâwhen he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.
It isn't a plea or a warning.
It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.
"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.
Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutralâopen, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.
Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gazeâthe one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existingâsweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.
"That was an assault on a federal agent."
His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once beforeâon a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.
"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."
His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eyeâthe only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongueâa denial, maybe, or a defenceâsomething about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.
Spencer cuts him off.
"Don't."
The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room.Â
"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper nowâhoned to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."
The man sits.
It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bendâa controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.
The mother makes a soundâsomething caught between a sob and a gaspâand Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.
But you're not watching any of that.
You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twiceâa deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.
He's shaking.
Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presenceâand now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.
Only then does Spencer turn.
His eyes find yoursâand for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned joltâthe way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.
His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the lightâthe overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.
Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.
His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at itâthat single red line across his skinâand something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.
"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.
It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the fatherâthat same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.
You nod. Just once. Small.
His throat works as he swallowsâa visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.
Then he blinks.
And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully releaseâit's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deepâbut he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.
You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.
But you've never seen him do it this fast.
His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtleâjust a few inchesâbut you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.
Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wideânot afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.
"Did⊠did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"
The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reidâwho once apologized to a door he walked intoâjust made a grown man shrink.
A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emilyâs face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.
"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the roomâa human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's⊠actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."
She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencerâon the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.
Curious, her expression says. Very curious.
JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrowâjust a fractionâand something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.
She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in.Â
Spencerâs thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.
"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanningâforehead, temple, cheekbone, lipâwith the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarilyâ"
But Morgan isn't done.
"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."
Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower backâa nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold ontoâbefore he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.
He clears his throat.
"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neckâthe one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."
Morgan crosses his arms. His head tiltsâthat slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.
"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"
Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lightingâthat particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path.Â
His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.
You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.
It was three minutes and seventeen secondsâtoo defensive, too precise.
She was injuredâtoo obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in.Â
âThat's not protocol, that'sââ He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.
That's personal.
Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to youâjust for a secondâand there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.
But he's not going to make it easy, either.
"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."
Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabricâa white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's notâ" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."
"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"
The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's faceâsearching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.
Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.
Noâwell. No would be even worse.
Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.
Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."
"I don't know what you think you're implyingâ" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.
"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."
Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pocketsâwhen did that happen?âand they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.
"Iâ" He stops. Starts again. "It's notâ"
He can't finish the sentence.
He can't say it's not what you think because it is what Morgan thinks. It's exactly what Morgan thinks, and maybe more, and maybe worse, and maybe the most terrifying thing Spencer has ever had to name out loud.
summary: spencer wants you to meet his team at rossi's, theo is scared of their reaction.
tw: mentioning of absent dad, fluff and comfort, dad!spencer vibes.
word count: ~1.7k
Part 2 of big shoes to fill
CHOSEN FAMILY
Spencer planned to pick you up at 5:30 p.m. He had gotten home pretty late last night from a case in California, so he went straight to his place, not wanting to wake you or Theo up.
You spent two hours getting ready, searching for the right outfit, doing your makeup, and styling your hair. You needed to look nice. It was the first time you were meeting Spencer's friends at one of their houses for a dinner night.
Eventually, you picked your favorite blue dress that flowed from your waist to your knees, with tiny daisies printed on it. You waved your hair and chose the special-occasion perfume you'd once received as a birthday gift.
"Mom..."
You looked in the mirror, meeting your son's worried eyes.
"What's up, Bug?" You smiled softly before turning to him and crouching down to his level."What if they don't like me?" he asked, playing with the hem of his shirt.
"You are an amazing, bright, and kind eight-year-old boy. Why wouldn't they like you?" you asked gently, taking his hands in yours and giving them a reassuring squeeze.
"Dad already doesn't like me," he mumbled.
That broke your heart in two.
You never had the best relationship with his dad, Evan, but you'd tried hard to maintain the relationship between Theo and him. Eventually, the contact became less and less frequent, fading away completely a year ago when he started "his proper family." Now it was just birthday cards in the mail and occasional child support around Christmas and the beginning of the school year.
Theo had a half-sister he didn't know existed because you didn't want to hurt him even more.
"I'm sure that's not true, baby," you said softly, wrapping him in a hug.
"I love you so, so much, Bug. And I know Spencer loves you too. That's important, right? And he loves his friends. Do you think he would be friends with people who wouldn't notice what an amazing young man you are?"
Theo thought about it for a moment.
"No," he said eventually, though you still saw the doubt in his eyes.
"Exactly. He wouldn't. So how about we get you dressed in a nice shirt, pick up the cookies we made after school, and wait for Spencer? He should be here any minute."
You glanced at the clock above the bathroom door.
"Okay."
Theo kissed your cheek before grabbing your hand and leading you to his room.
At exactly 5:30, a soft knock sounded at the door before Spencer let himself in.
"Hi, guys! You ready to go?" he called from the hallway as you appeared.
"Almost ready."
You hurried over to kiss him hello, smiling as you wrapped your arms around him.
"Theo had a hard moment," you said quietly. "He got scared your team won't like him. He said... he said they might not like him because his dad doesn't. I don't know what to do, Spence."
You rested your forehead against his chest and closed your eyes for a moment.
"You want me to talk to him?" he asked softly, resting his cheek on top of your head.
"No, no. It's not your job to raise him and solve all the dad-not-present-related drama. I got this. I just neededâ"
He stopped you right there, tilting your head up so you could see him. There was care in his eyes and a soft, reassuring smile on his lips.
"Hey, baby, stop. I love you, and I love your son. And if you let me help raise him in any way, it would be my honor."
You exhaled a shaky breath before nodding once.
"Alright," you whispered, unable to break eye contact. "Thank you, Spencer. I love you too. And I'm sure he does too."
He squeezed your hips reassuringly before stepping back.
"I'm gonna talk to him, and then we can go. Will you take the cookies out to the car in the meantime?"
Spencer knocked on Theo's partially open door and peeked inside.
"Hey, buddy." He smiled softly as he walked into the room. "Can I sit with you?"
"Yeah."
Reid sat down beside him, casually brushing his arm against Theo's in reassurance.
"Your mom told me you were worried about meeting my friends," he began, watching as Theo bit his lip and looked down.
"I also know they'll be thrilled to meet you."
He reached over and wrapped his fingers around Theo's small hand.
"You sure?" Theo looked up at him, still worried. "I don't want them to dislike me, 'cause then you'd dislike me, and you'd leave, and I don't want you to leave like Dad."
Tears filled his eyes as the fear of being abandoned again tightened in his chest.
"Heeey, don't cry, T."
Spencer immediately knelt in front of him and gently stroked his cheek with his thumb.
"I'm not going to leave you, okay? Never. I love you too much to do that. I'd miss you too much."
His heart broke just as yours had a few moments earlier.
"And I know my friends will love you too. Because they're my family. And you're my family. You and your mama. Sometimes the family we choose is more important than the one we're born into. And that's okay.
"I know you miss your dad, but I also know it's his loss that he walked out of your life. Because he won't get the pleasure of watching you grow up and do amazing things. And I'm freaking grateful that you let me witness it."
Theo stared at him for a moment, unable to put his feelings into words.
Instead, he leaned forward and threw himself into Spencer's arms, burying his face in his shirt.
Reid hugged him tightly, one arm around his back and the other in his hair.
"I love you too," Theo whispered into Spencer's neck.
"I know, buddy."
You arrived at the huge Rossi house ten minutes late. Spencer had called ahead to warn everyone about Theo's worries.
Theo walked between you and Spencer, holding both your hands when the door opened to reveal a bright blonde woman.
"Here's the big guy I've heard so much about! And the beautiful woman! Oh my God, I'm so happy to meet you! This genius boy was so secretive about you two that I wasn't sure you actually existed!"
"Y/N, Theo, meet Penelope Garcia. Pen, this is my girlfriend, Y/N, and my boy, Theo."
You saw the spark in Theo's eyes when Spencer called him his.
Penelope hugged you tightly before crouching down to give Theo the same warm welcome.
The rest followed. Hugs were exchanged, and then everyone was ushered to the table.
"I love your shirt!" Michael grinned at Theo, his missing tooth and mischievous smile on full display.
"Thank you! It's Charmander, my favorite!"
The conversation was easy, the food was delicious, and when Spencer brought out the cookies you'd made, everyone was over the moon.
"Theo, you baked these?" JJ asked, smiling as your son sat with her two boys on the couch.
"Yes! I helped Mama shape and decorate them, and she let me mix the eggs!"
He sounded so proud that you couldn't help smiling.
You looked over at Spencer as the boys started talking about space because apparently every boy that age wanted to be an astronaut. He smiled back, wrapping an arm around you so you could lean against him and enjoy the easy, pleasant evening with the people who were his family.
You watched Theo holding Morgan's hand as they searched for the best board game to play and couldn't help smiling when he hesitantly asked if he could call him Uncle, like Spencer had suggested.
Derek's eyes lit up immediately.
"Of course you can!"
He picked Theo up because apparently hugging his new nephew was necessary to make the arrangement official.
You stood in the doorway leading to the patio, wine glass in hand, watching Spencer perform magic tricks for the boys.
You sensed someone approaching but couldn't take your eyes off them.
"You're good for him," JJ said softly as she stepped beside you, her own glass in hand.
"I don't know why, but I could tell he was happier these last few months. Calmer. Checking his phone more. Now I know why."
She smiled and rubbed your arm gently.
"And I'm happy he found someone steady in his life."
Then she added quietly, "Just please don't break his heart."
You shook your head.
"How could I purposely break his heart when it would mean destroying three hearts in the process?"
You looked back at the boys just as Theo launched himself into Spencer's arms, laughing loudly.
Later, the boys were asleep on the couch, a tangle of limbs and soft breaths, while a video game still blinked on the television.
You and JJ collected abandoned devices while Will picked Henry up, leaving JJ to carry the younger boy.
You bent down to lift Theo when you felt a warm hand on your back.
"I've got him."
Spencer smiled and kissed the top of your head, so you simply watched as he carefully lifted your son into his arms before saying quiet goodbyes to the team.
You helped him with the door and buckled Theo into his car seat before climbing into the passenger seat.
"Thank you for today," you said, looking over at Spencer.
He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he leaned over and kissed you sweetly.
"Thank you for being here with me today. It's nice to finally share them with you. They already love you and Theo."
You smiled.
"I love them too. Let's go home, Spence."
"Yeah," he said softly. "Home."
Then he started the car and turned toward your place.
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It had been a rough night for Ellie, and that was putting it mildly.
After you left for your night out, she sat solemnly by the front door for a while, despite Aaronâs attempts to comfort her and his promises to play whatever game or watch whatever movie or show she wanted. All he got in response were harsh cries and tearful demands for you.Â
When she finally wandered back to join him and Jack on her own, she seemed quieter than before - distracted, almost - and for a little while, Aaron thought maybe the worst of it had passed.
Then bedtime came.
She was overtired; the earlier meltdown had completely worn her out, and without her usual bedtime routine, without you, she seemed lost. Antsy and not herself. It also didnât help that it was already past her normal bedtime.
But then Aaron grabbed the wrong pajamas, and all hell broke loose.Â
Eventually, he managed to calm her down enough to get changed (into the right pajamas), brush her teeth, and now the three of them - Aaron, Ellie, and Jack - were crammed together in her tiny bed, Ellie wedged safely in the middle while Aaron read bedtime story after bedtime story.
"Okay, I think thatâs enough for tonight." Aaron said after the fifth book, closing it it with exaggerated finality and repeating the line for the second time in the hope that maybe, this time, sheâd agree.
Of course, she didnât.
"One more," Ellie protested immediately, a pout settling on her face as she tugged the blankets tighter beneath her chin.Â
"Ellie..." His expression and voice softened, he was bound to read her entire bookshelf at this rate. Usually, she wouldâve fallen asleep halfway through the stories, but she was stubbornly fighting it. He couldnât blame her; tonightâs routine was just too different. "It's getting late. You gotta get to sleep, sweetheart."
"One more," she whimpered, kicking a foot under her comforter in frustration.
The aching desperation in her voice tugged painfully at his chest. She was exhausted. He could see it in her glassy eyes, in the way she kept rubbing at them with the sleeve of her pjs. In the back of his mind, he wondered if she was keeping watch - trying her best to wait up until you returned home.Â
To make her happy, and to provide as much comfort as he could, of course heâd read as many as she wanted. That wasnât a problem, he just didnât want it to come at the price of her not getting a restful nightâs sleep.Â
He reached over and grabbed the next book from the stack youâd prepared before leaving, all of Ellieâs favorites.Â
"Okay," he agreed, and he felt Ellie instantly relax beside him. "One more."
"Dad," Jack whispered, quietly from beside him.Â
Aaron looked over, catching the smile Jack was unsuccessful in fighting back.
âSheâs hustling you," he said, his voice playful. Brotherly teasing.
"Itâs fine," Aaron said amidst a chuckle, turning to the first page.
Halfway through, Ellie interrupted.
"Thatâs not how Mommy does the bear voice." She stated, slight offense in her voice.
"Well," he said carefully, "Momâs better at bear voices than me. How does she do it?"
"She makes him sound grumpy." Her eyes narrowed, as if emphasizing her point. "'cause he's a meanie old bear."
"Meanie old bear, got it." Aaron backtracked, deepening his voice for the bear's dialogue. It seemed to suffice; she remained quiet as she listened along, her cheek smushing against his arm.
Aaron found himself settling into it more than he expected. The steady rhythm of his voice, the weight of her small body tucked against him, the way she went quiet just a little longer each time he turned a page.
It stirred something deep in his chest - the quiet familiarity of a bedtime routine heâd missed while being away. Moments like this made him wish he could be here for more of it.
And every so often, a brave little sniffle left her, a small sign of all the sadness she was trying to hold back from missing you. Her little body could only hold so much, after all.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Jack watching too, quieter now - no teasing. Just a kind of reluctant patience as the stack of books beside them slowly shrank.
Aaron turned a page, only to realize Ellie hadnât interrupted in a while.
Glancing down, he found that her eyes were finally closed, lashes still damp against her cheeks, one small hand fisted tightly in the fabric of his shirt like she didnât trust him to stay otherwise. Even asleep, every now and then her brow twitched faintly, like she was still upset somewhere deep in her dreams.
"Is she asleep?" Jack whispered from beside them. His own voice was groggy too, as if the stories were slowly luring him to sleep as well.
"I think so," Aaron murmured, switching off the lamp on her bedside table, enveloping the room partially in darkness. He was gentle with his movements as not to nudge or awaken Ellie, especially due to her death grip on him.
So he stayed, even after Jack had retreated to his room, trapped beneath blankets and books and the weight of her tiny hand holding onto him. Until the sound of rolling tires on the driveway signaled your return, and you entered Ellie's room shortly after.
"Hey." You whispered in greeting, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips, still carrying the warm, loose ease of a good night out. It softened even further at the sight of them, Aaron cramped awkwardly on the bed with Ellie fast asleep against him.
tw: light cm violence, reader gets hurt, hurt/comfort & fluff
a/n: just a little something cuz who doesn't like to being taken care of
KEEP YOU WARM
Everyone in the BAU knew you and Hotch had crushes on one another. It was clear as day to everyone with eyes â everyone except the two of you.
Every morning, you brought him coffee from the nearby coffee shop on your way to the office, and he repaid you with a bottle of water left on your desk during the day. You claimed it was nothing special. You tried to be nice to your friends, but nothing was as regular as this. You brought donuts once a month, baked cookies occasionally, and made coffee runs for the others during exhausting cases. So, to you, the morning coffee was simply a kind gesture.
For Hotch, it was not just something nice. It was the reason he got out of bed every morning, wanting to arrive a few minutes early just to see you and personally thank you for the cup. Occasionally, your fingers brushed, and the contact made his skin prickle even hours later.
A new case: three murders, one kidnapping. You were in Minnesota for four days already, and you really hoped to be back home by the end of the week. Your go-to travel bag was catastrophically unprepared for the cold November weather, and you were beginning to wonder when your last warm sweater would start to smell.
You busied yourself with a copy of the latest victimâs diary, trying to find something â literally anything â that could help you identify the unsub.
Someone cleared their throat right in front of your desk, making you look up. There he stood in front of you, wearing a navy blue sweater and dark slacks, handsome as ever. However, his face was now set in a frown.
âHave you been eating?â
You looked at him in confusion, trying to remember the last time you had eaten.
âYeah, I think so? I had a donut for breakfast and coffee later. I was just finishing reading the victimâs diaries andââ
âBreakfast was at 7:30 a.m. Itâs 3 p.m. Have you eaten since then?â
You looked around, shrugging as you tried to dismiss the problem.
âIâll eat lunch when Iâm done,â you said eventually.
Hotch just looked at you before gently closing the file, sliding it farther away, and placing a takeout container in front of you along with a bottle of water.
âEat. I need you focused, not starving,â he announced before leaving you with Chinese takeout. You glanced at his back dumbfoundedly as he approached Rossi to discuss the case.
The breakthrough came the next day. Someone recognized the unsub, and Garcia found their location in record time.
You jumped into the SUV with JJ and Morgan, with Rossi, Hotch, and Reid hot on your tail. The drive was short and frantic when every second counted.
You arrived at the place in record time, running around the house with guns in hand and Kevlar vests strapped on.
The sudden movement at your side caught your attention, but it was too late. A fist connected with your jaw, knocking you out for a moment, making you lose your balance and fall right into the small pond you had been checking moments before.
âY/N!â JJ called at the same moment Morgan tackled the unsub, cuffing him and throwing him to the ground harder than necessary.
Hotch didnât wait. He jumped in after you immediately, not allowing fear to paralyze him. He pulled you out of the water, soaking wet but slowly regaining consciousness.
âHey, honey, wake up,â he mumbled before he could even process the words that had slipped out.
âAaron,â you smiled weakly, calling him by his first name out loud for the first time.
âItâs me. Letâs get you warm and checked out, okay?â
You nodded weakly, eyes fixed on his face as he carried you to the EMTs. A paramedic wrapped a towel around you and checked your head for injuries. You were cleared after fifteen minutes.
âI need to change,â you said, shivering as the cold wind cut through your wet clothes.
âYes, letâs go. You can change at the precinct, and then weâll go home.â
You sat in your usual spot on the jet, wearing black leggings you normally used as pajamas and a long-sleeved shirt, since it was the last clean thing in your bag. You were still cold, curled up with a cup of tea in your hands, damp hair loosely braided so it wouldnât cling to your face or clothes.
âHere. Wear this. Itâll keep you warm.â
You looked up at Hotch as he handed you his sweater. Hesitantly, you took the navy fabric and pulled it on, instantly wrapped in the scent of his cologne.
âThank you,â you smiled as he took the seat next to yours.
âDonât mention it. Are you feeling better?â A soft smile danced on his lips as he looked down at you.
âYes. Now I am.â
And if your head dropped onto his shoulder as exhaustion took over and you fell asleep, no one dared to comment on the gentle smile on Aaronâs face or the hand resting protectively over yours.
Just to keep them warm, he justified to himself.
âFive bucks says he asks her out by the end of the year,â Morgan whispered to Rossi as they watched the two of you from the other side of the plane.
âTen bucks says he does it by the end of the month.â
âCome on, theyâve been dancing around each other for months now. He wonât speed things up that fast,â Derek laughed quietly.
âBut nothing pushes a man to take action like keeping his woman safe.â
And if Derek had to hand Dave the money by the end of the next week, after the two of you left the office hand in hand... well, no one else needed to know.