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Summary: It was well known within the team that there was one other person that had captured their team leader's heart. You knew Aaron back when he and Haley took a break from their relationship and he went to the academy and met you. What the team doesn’t know is that you have been with the FBI ever since, working the west coast mainly until you get requested to join the BAU.
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word count: 6.5K
an// the timeline is a little different in this from the show, Aaron spent longer as a prosecutor before going to the academy and joining the FBI for this to work and to make the reader younger than Aaron. This is also a world where Foyet never happened and Haley is still alive.
-
Aaron barely remembers walking back to the apartment and getting his cell phone to dial 911. His heart was pounding in his ears, racing at the severity of the situation. The first officer showed up and you had been gone for less than ten minutes.
This was a moment when he hated being good at his job. All of his instincts were screaming the same things at him over and over. This was organized, targeted, and planned.
Which meant whoever took you had likely been preparing for this for a long time. That made him grip his phone a little tighter. It only lessened when Rossi appeared. There were a dozen officers in your apartment and surrounding the area combing for anything.
“What do you need?” He’s watching Aaron fall apart in front of him while trying his best to keep it all wrapped up inside.
“Get the team together.”
It was two o’clock in the morning, but without hesitation Rossi steps out into the hall and starts making calls. The team wasn’t happy to already have their phones ringing when they landed less than three hours ago but as soon as he uttered your name your name they were on their feet.
The offices were dark, most of the building was empty at this hour. Everyone was wearing varying combinations of sweatpants, jackets, and whatever could be hastily thrown on. Garcia looked paler than normal and wasn’t cracking any of her usual jokes.
“What happened?” Morgan asks, his fists balled up at his sides.
Aaron shifts into unit chief mode. He knows that he needs to in order to get you home.
“Y/n was abducted from her apartment approximately fifty minutes ago.” He swallows, he takes a second to choose his words carefully “I was there.”
That got everyone’s attention instantly, heads snapping in his direction. There’s a million things they want to say but they know this isn’t the time.
“They have to be organized, maybe even professional. No signs of entry and they pulled it off silently. Gone within a minute.”
“Who would do this?” JJ asks, flicking away angry tears from her waterline. She crosses her arms in front of her chest protectively.
“That’s what we need to find out.” Rossi nods.
“I got a partial plate and gave it to the police, but I want you to look into it too.” Aaron nods at Garcia and she opens her laptop eagerly, “We also need to look into every single case Y/n has worked.”
Garcia blinks a couple times before looking up at him.
“Sir, every-”
“Everything.” He nods, “Before the BAU.”
Los Angeles. Human trafficking, kidnappings, violent crime, organized crime, cold cases, everything.
“We start with motive.”
Morgan nods, “Enemies.”
“Exactly.” Aaron looks around the room with a serious look on his face, “Who benefits the most from taking Y/n?”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable because everyone knew the answer. A lot of people. You are exceptional at your job, which unfortunately means you’ve spent the last decade ruining very dangerous people’s lives.
Garcia frowns while typing, “Her file list is enormous, there’s hundreds of possible suspects.”
Both Morgan and Prentiss speak up at the same time.
“Give it to Reid.”
Everyone gets to work quickly, eager to find a lead to get you home. It isn't lost on anyone at the table the grim expression on their boss's face. Rossi doesn't say a word as he reaches out a hand to his shoulder, giving it a careful squeeze causing Aaron to look over.
"We'll get her back, Aaron." He reassures.
It takes a moment for him to reply.
"I love her."
"We know."
-
Ten years ago.
The snow started sometime after midnight. You knew it because Aaron had snuck over to steal you away to his apartment for the night. He was very convincing. The big flakes had just started to fall. By six o’clock that morning, Quantico had effectively shut down.
Outdoor drills were postponed. Roads were buried, leaving instructors stuck at home. Training exercises canceled. The academy looked like someone had dropped it inside a snow globe. You celebrated by stealing one of Aaron’s sweatshirts and staying in bed all morning. Aaron got up to make each of you a cup of coffee and to open the curtains. The snow is still falling, the room glows brighter than normal with the sun reflecting off the snow.
“Nice.” He smirks, pulling at the neck of his hoodie, effectively pulling you lightly onto his side of the bed. He sets both mugs of coffee on his nightstand and slides back under the covers. Aaron never gets away with a lazy morning lie in, but here he is getting back in bed and wrapping you against his side.
“Finders keepers.” You argue.
“That’s a poor argument.” He shakes his head, a small grin gracing his face.
“Mmm.” You hum to disagree and his fingers tickle your waist under his hoodie.
“You steal things.”
You grin, “You love me anyway.”
The words come out completely casually on your end. A joke, a throwaway comment. At least until you feel Aaron freeze. The apartment suddenly gets very quiet, his TV playing softly in the background. He stares down at you and you sit up to get a good look at him.
“Oh my god.”
He looks away, which is a confession by itself.
You gasp, “Oh my god.”
“Y/n-”
“You do!”
Aaron closes his eyes briefly and you feel absolutely delighted. He was already regretting everything, it wasn’t how he planned this happening.
“You are enjoying this entirely too much.” He mumbles.
You were grinning so hard your face was starting to hurt. Aaron reaches out toward his nightstand to grab his coffee and take a long sip.
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Aaron.”
“No.”
“Aaron.”
“I love you.”
You move closer to sit on top of his lap, “Really?”
He snorts out a laugh and shakes his head in disbelief, “After all of that and now you question it?”
You laugh softly and reach out a hand to run through his hair. It’s more casual than normal, loose strands falling down on his forehead. He looks the least stressed that you’ve ever seen him.
“I love you.” He repeats, his eyes looking deeply into yours.
“I love you too.”
The words come out easily, Aaron stares back at you with a widening smile. You lean down to press a quick kiss against his lips. His expression has softened in a way you had never seen before. For a moment neither of you speak, just looking into each other's eyes.
He pulls you down against his chest, his arm wrapping around you so you can both look out the window at the snowstorm. You can hear his steady heartbeat beneath you.
The rest of the morning disappeared, movies played but neither of you paid much attention. The morning was spent lazily making love and never leaving the bed. Aaron has been absentmindedly playing with your hair for nearly twenty minutes, neither of you mention it.
The snow kept falling.
The apartment stayed warm.
Eventually you sit up a little, “We should go outside.”
He frowns, “No.”
“Why?”
He gestures toward the window.
“Snow.”
“Exactly.” You turn in his hold to look up at him.
“It’s cold.”
You roll your eyes, “You sound eighty.”
He pinches your hip lightly making you squeal.
“I sound smart, they closed down class today because of the snow.” He reminds, but you grab his hand and start to slowly pull him up out of bed.
"Who said anything about driving anywhere?"
He gives you a look.
“C’mon.”
He lets out a groan.
“Please?” You give him the biggest puppy dog eyes you can muster.
“If the two of us leave this dorm, one of us is going to get kicked out of the program.” He teases.
“I didn’t say we should go have sex outside.” You laugh.
His ears turn red, “That’s not what I meant but I know you’re creative enough to come up with something. I never know with you.”
You lightly smack his shoulder and roll your eyes.
“It just looks so pretty out there.” You turn back toward the window. He hesitates and you look back at him. You can see your stare is working, his brows soften and he sighs.
“Why do you always win arguments?”
“Because I’m hot.”
“That’s not how arguments work.”
“It is with us.”
Ten minutes later the two of you were outside. Obviously.
You practically bounded down the stairs, Aaron followed less enthusiastically. His hands instantly got shoved deep into his coat pockets. It had snowed nearly a foot and a half overnight. The academy grounds remain untouched, it was quiet and beautiful.
You spin in the middle of it, laughing. Aaron can’t stop watching you. You look happy. Really happy. The kind of happy that made his chest ache and he wanted to burn it to his memory for the rest of his life.
The two of you walk around looking at the trees that look like they came straight out of a Hallmark movie. The two of you make a very small snowman, the lack of gloves for either of you makes it short and sweet.
“Ooh, a snow angel!” You cheer, finding a clean spot of snow to lay down in. Aaron shakes his head with a smile he can’t hide standing over you while you fan your arms and legs back and forth.
“You’re gonna freeze.” He warns.
“Aren’t you gonna warm me up?” You smirk.
You reach out a hand so he can help you up without destroying it. You pull against him to reach out a crooked halo at the top of your creation. You lean into his side after you're done, both of you looking down at your work.
After a little while the wind starts to pick up. A sharp gust cuts across the open grounds and your smile vanishes.
“It’s cold!” You shriek.
Aaron stares while you shiver dramatically.
“Oh my god, it’s so cold.”
Aaron starts laughing, he doesn’t waste a second. It was the hard kind of laugh that almost never escapes him.
You point a finger at him, “Don’t.”
“You wanted this.” He holds up his hands, still chuckling.
He looks absolutely delighted.
“Shut up.”
He laughs even harder and wraps his arm around your shoulders a little tighter. The heat pours off of him and he blocks some of the wind.
“Have you gotten your fill of the winter wonderland?” He asks, raising a brow that says ‘I told you so’.
“Almost.” You smirk, by the time he catches the look in your eyes it's too late. A handful of ice cold snow gets tossed in his face. You run from his hold, the smile on his face becoming dangerous.
The two of you slip and slide in the fresh snow while he chases after you. Your heart is racing, cheeks growing rosy from the cold air. The two of you looked ridiculous, but neither cared one bit.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
For one perfect day, the future didn’t matter. The choice of where the two of you would end up was not yet a thought. Two people so hopelessly in love you couldn’t imagine a world where you wouldn’t always be together.
-
The lightbulb overhead was still buzzing, your head pounding. Every heartbeat sent a wave of pain through your skull. The concussion wasn’t helping, and neither was the metal chair you had been tied to for hours.
Brendan had left you alone for stretches of time, each time one of his minions would check in it would confirm that he wasn’t interested in killing you. At least not yet. Somehow that was worse.
The heavy mental door groans as it opens, you don’t bother looking up.
“Back already?”
Brendan’s steps echo in the large room.
“You know, most hostages aren’t this sarcastic.”
You finally raise your head, “Most kidnappers aren’t this desperate for attention.”
He lets out a deep sigh and squats down in front of you to be at eye level.
“Still trying to get under my skin?”
“Well. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
His jaw tightens, his fingers flex into fists at his sides. This older version of Brendan was more dangerous than the one you had known before. The teenager that was arrested had been angry and impulsive. The man in front of you was surprisingly patient and restrained.
He holds up a bottle of water in front of your face, cracking the seal on it before holding it to your lips. You couldn’t take the bottle into your hand if you tried, the ropes are still biting into your wrists. After you get a few large gulps he takes the bottle back. Brendan grabs a chair and sets it up directly across from you. He slowly lowers himself to sit on it while watching you closely.
“What?” You eye him.
"Just admiring." He holds up his hands before leaning back, “I was just thinking.”
You ignore him, letting him continue.
“My father would’ve killed you already.”
You look around the room to stretch your neck, “Well, your father wasn’t exactly known for thinking rationally.”
He smiles, completely ignoring you.
“He would’ve made it messy.” He continues, “He would’ve enjoyed you in every way possible and then killed you right here. Paid someone to bury you somewhere your family would never find you. Somewhere your team would never find you.”
“And?”
“I’m not my father.”
That made your stomach tighten. The calm ones were always worse.
“I have a plan.”
There it is.
“Well, let's hear the speech you’ve been practicing.”
His brow wobbles.
“This isn’t a joke.” His grip tightening on the bottle making it crinkle, he suddenly stands. You remain calm, even while having each instinct screaming at you that this is bad.
“I had years to realize that this better be worth the wait.” He studies you, “Killing you is easy, it’s quick…”
His breath shudders, he’s enjoying this too much. It sends a chill deep into your bones. He's so excited he's actually getting himself worked up in front of you.
“It’s not what you deserve after taking away my family. You’ve done this to countless people-”
“Countless criminals.” You correct.
He sucks his teeth and shakes his head, "I should rip out your tongue."
He takes a quick step forward and grips your face tightly in one hand, your cheeks being pulled tightly.
"You and I both know it's your biggest asset." He licks his lips and your skin crawls, "No more sharp comments? That's a Y/n I think I could grow to like."
He lowers his face closer to yours, enough so you can feel his breath hit your face.
"Don't worry, I meant it when I said it's your biggest asset. People with money will buy anything.”
Your stomach drops, not following where he's going with this. He can see it on your face and for the first time since being abducted he feels like he actually has the upper hand.
“I'm putting you on the open market.” He finally lets go of your face but his hand moves to tuck your hair behind your ear, “For the highest bidder… The cartels, gangs, crime syndicates? All of the people you’ve put away. All of the families out there that you’ve destroyed. People out there would love the chance to return the favor, and I can’t wait to see who you end up with. I will give them ideas, no doubt.”
You force your eyes to remain steady on his, “You’re just as pathetic as your father was.”
He lets out a frustrated huff, you can see him fighting the urge to hit out. Fighting to stay in control, with a couple deep breathes through his nose he manages. He runs a hand back over his hair, plastering on a false smile.
“I wonder if you’ll choose the coward’s way out like he did.”
That does it. You officially strike his last nerve and he raises a hand to your face with a closed fist. Your cheekbone explodes with pain at the contact, your head falls to the side. You let out a pant and he fights to catch his breath.
He runs a hand over his hair again, trying to regain control.
“Okay!” He claps, “Let’s get you ready for the camera.”
-
Hours passed and sleep had become totally irrelevant to the team. The sun came up hours ago and no one even flinched. Everyone is following different leads or old cases that could be relevant.
Reid has been working the list and eliminating the cases that weren’t likely. Morgan and Prentiss went back to your place to try and figure out how they broke into your apartment without a trace. JJ coordinated with the local law enforcement.
Aaron was working on everything. Every lead, profile, and possibility. Nobody tried to tell him to take a break, no one would be bold enough to suggest it right now. Not even Rossi. Everyone had seen Aaron determined before, but they had yet to see it with such personal fear underneath it.
Real fear.
That scared them too.
“I focused on offenders with demonstrated fixation behaviors and cases where she testified with the most involvement.” Reid states, finally done filtering through hundreds of cases, “I’ve landed on a trafficking case, a cartel, and two serial killers.”
“How lovely.” Garcia shivers.
Aaron thinks for a second, his gut screaming at him.
“Tell us about the trafficking case.”
“It passed around several agents before Y/n got it, she was the one who decided to go undercover.” Reid informs and everyone sinks with the realization about why this is so personal. You went undercover and betrayed someone, that’s why they are coming after you now.
“It was five years ago, a multi-state operation with major convictions and dozens of victims were rescued by Y/n.”
Silence falls over the room and Aaron recalls your speech from all those years ago. That was two years after this case, it’s clearly what pushed your career forward. He strains to remember the details you talked about, he had been so nervous to see you.
“What would have happened if you weren’t there when she was taken?” Rossi asks him, the look on Aaron’s face tells them the gears are turning.
Aaron shrugs, “It would’ve been hours before anyone knew she was missing.”
“Exactly.” Rossi nods, “Even then, you can’t even file a missing police report until it’s been twenty-four hours.”
The case details flash in Aaron’s mind. They got their victims without a trace due to how they broke in. Being on the inside was how you had discovered they would watch their target’s routines before abduction. They would break in while the victim was away and take them directly from t
“Morgan, Prentiss.” Aaron looks over at them, “Go back to her apartment and look for places someone could lie in wait.”
They both nod and grab their jackets before quickly leaving the room.
“You think the unsub was there when the two of you came home?” Rossi asks.
“That would explain how they took her silently.”
“One of the defendants from that trafficking case was a juvenile.” JJ reads from the file.
“Name?”
“Brendan Thomas.”
“Garcia.”
“On it, sir.” She types away, “Brendan Thomas has been in Lawrence Correctional Center for the past five years, he was just released early for good behavior four months ago.”
“That’s him.” Aaron says confidently.
“Sir, we should-”
“That’s him.”
-
You’ve gotten used to the damp smell of the concrete in the room. It’s clear that it’s getting dark out from the small windows along the far wall.
Brendan walks in carrying a laptop and two men follow in behind him. That’s new.
“Ooh, has the evil villain speech evolved to the point of having a power point?”
He ignores your quip. The two men bring in a small table and they set it up a few feet in front of you. He sets the laptop down and connects a small camera to it. Your stomach tightens involuntarily.
“Brendan.”
He looks up, “Yes?”
“What is this?” You ask.
He smiles, “I told you. Now, let's make some money!”
Your pulse starts to kick harder. Brendan claps before rubbing his hands together, his two henchmen smiling at his side.
He adjusts the camera until it frames you perfectly. Your bruised face, tied hands, and dried blood along your hairline are clear as day. The dingy warehouse behind you is visible, but he tries to keep as little in as possible.
The image was deliberate. It was clearly proof of life. Proof of possession. Proof that he had successfully taken a FBI profiler.
“You’re out of your mind.” You eventually spit.
He looks up from the laptop.
“You're finally going to lose.”
He continues to type away.
“You know what surprised me?” He says like it’s any other normal conversation, “How many people were invested when I started asking around if there was any interest in you.”
You stay silent and he grins.
“Cartels. Gangs. Crime groups. All of the countless people you’ve put away.” He looks genuinely impressed, “You’ve been very busy over the years.”
You let the cold resolve settles in your chest, “You don’t care who buys me.”
“I told you before, I hope it’s someone terrible.”
He focuses back on the laptop and after a few seconds the camera’s red light glows. His eyes light up.
“And we’re live.”
-
Back at Quantico Garcia’s fingers fly across her keyboard. The team is now chasing any potential leads on Brendan since he got out of prison. Upon a second look, Emily and Morgan found footprints in the entry closet that match the scene. The unsub was hiding in the closet waiting for you to come home from the case. They had no way of knowing Aaron would come home with you, meaning they were waiting in the apartment while the two of you were together.
“I found something weird in connection to one of the trafficking forums.” Garcia says quickly, “It’s encrypted, invitation only, and connected to several accounts linked to the Thomas organization.”
Aaron was already looking over her shoulder.
“Open it.”
Garcia swallows, her finger hesitating to click ‘ACCEPT’.
“I don’t have a good feeling.” She openly admits, but she clicks it anyway. Her screen is shared with the large monitor so everyone can see what it opens. You stare back at them from the monitor, bruised, tired, and tied to a chair. An active live video feed.
Garcia makes a broken sound in the back of her throat, “Oh my god.”
JJ’s hand flies to her mouth, and Emily goes pale. Morgan’s face instantly reveals murderous anger. Aaron doesn’t move a muscle.
He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe.
You were alive.
The relief hit Aaron so hard it almost hurt, but it didn’t last long before the terror replaced it. Beneath the video feed text scrolled across the screen.
‘FEDERAL ASSET AUCTION. LIVE IN ONE HOUR. OPENING BID 1,000,000 USD. STATUS ALIVE (CURRENTLY).’
Tears stream down Garcia’s face.
“He’s selling her.” Emily looks sick.
“Not just selling her,” JJ adds quietly, “He’s advertising her specifically as an FBI agent.”
“Can we trace it?” Morgan frowns.
“I’m trying, but it’s bouncing through too many relays. He’s hiding it between six different countries.”
On screen they can see you talking to someone off screen. The feed is muted so they can’t hear anything, but it’s clear you’re still fighting.
Aaron forces himself back into motion but he can’t pull his eyes away from you, “Who has access? Who else has this invitation?”
Garcia pulls up a scrolling list of usernames that are all encrypted.
“Old cartel contacts, gangs, anyone with money connected to cases Y/n worked.”
Derek looks ready to punch through a wall. Aaron’s heart slams painfully against his ribs.
Rossi steps closer to the monitor, “Can we bid when it opens?”
The countdown has already started, less than an hour until you were up for sale on the black market.
“No,” Garcia shakes her head immediately, “Not like this at least. We’re not actually inside the network, I found a viewer access point. We can’t interact without exposing ourselves.”
Emily folds her arms against her chest, “So we’re just forced to watch criminals bid on one of our own who will do god knows what to her?”
“No.” Aaron says quietly.
Everyone looks at him. His expression had changed, he looked more focused now. Colder.
“I need a list of everyone Brendan invited.” Aaron looks back at Garcia, his eyes leaving the screen for the first time since it went live. “Cross reference it with people still in prison that Y/n put away.”
She gets to work, working the list down to five.
“Get me everything on Luis Castillo.” Aaron pulls the name from the list.
“He’s serving life in California.”
“Good.”
JJ frowns, “Hotch, he’s a cartel leader.”
“Right now, he’s our best lead.” He reaches for his jacket and puts it back on, “I need a secure line with the attorney general in California.”
“Sir-”
“Now.”
Forty minutes later Aaron is standing in his office on a call with the U.S California Attorney General. He sounds exhausted and Aaron doesn’t sound any better.
“You want me to negotiate with a cartel leader that is serving life?” The AG rubs her forehead, “What are you offering him?”
Aaron doesn’t hesitate, “Transfer to a lower security federal prison with improved visitation privileges."
The AG frowns, “For information?”
“For Y/n Y/Ln.” Aaron corrects, “Which if I can remind you, without her he never would’ve landed in your possession."
That changes the tone of the call. The AG straightens at her desk on the other side of the country.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
She goes silent for a moment as she thinks it over.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
When the call ends Aaron finally lets himself look back at the feed. Everyone else is still in the conference room working together with it pulled up, but he has it on his laptop now too. You still have a stubborn look on your face like you’re refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear.
“That’s my girl.”
The team watches Aaron alone in his office. It was jarring seeing how scared he really was. Every second closer to the auction it was closer to you potentially disappearing into a world where they may never find you again.
Everyone was focused on the timer that only had ten minutes left until the open bidding would begin. Reid and JJ were cataloging every warehouse in a fifty mile radius. Aaron’s phone rings and he answers it, putting in on speaker for the room to hear.
“Hotchner.”
The voice on the other end belonged to the AG of California.
“We’ve got him."
Aaron straightens.
Luis Castillo. One of the highest ranking cartel leaders that you had helped convict years earlier. Currently serving multiple life sentences.
“He’ll accept the deal, but he’s requesting to hear it from you directly.”
Aaron looks around the room, everyone is focused on the call too.
“Fine.”
A minute later Garcia has him on a secure video call in a prison interview room. He looks older than his case file, prison has clearly been hard on him. His eyes remain sharp.
“Do you remember Agent Y/LN?”
He smiles faintly.
“She’s a hard woman to forget.”
Aaron fights to keep his voice even, “That’s not why I’m here.”
Castillo leans back in his seat, “I know the organization.”
“Brendan Thomas?” Hotch clarifies.
“That kid always dreamed bigger than his Pops.” Castillo actually sounds impressed, “I heard he was rebuilding what his dad had.”
Aaron voices the question everyone wanted answered.
“Can you get us access to the auction?”
“Yes.”
Four minutes later the auction opens and Garcia is logged in with the information Luis provided.
“I cannot believe I’m about to pretend to be a cartel accountant.”
“Focus, Garcia.” Aaron reminds.
Morgan squeezes her shoulder, “You’ve got this, babygirl.”
The secure credentials flash across the screen. Verified and authenticated, the auction page immediately changes. A private bidder portal opened and new information appeared. There was an encrypted chat of people talking and discussing shipping preferences that Garcia pretended not to read.
“Bid.” Emily nods.
Garcia looks up, “It’s already at eight million.”
“Bid.” Rossi stands, “I’ve got the money.”
Everyone looks at him.
“What?” He shrugs, “The government's slow, I can mortgage the beach house.”
Morgan blinks, “You’d spend all your money?”
“For one of our own?” He looks almost offended by the question, “Without blinking.”
Aaron gives him an appreciative nod before looking back at Garcia.
“Keep bidding.”
-
You had lost track of time, once the auction opened a new gleam started to shine in Brendan’s eyes. He watches the numbers climb on the screen, total delight on his face.
“You’re popular.”
The bids keep climbing.
Nine million. Nine point five. Ten.
Each ding signaled a new bid, your stomach twisting. Not because of the money, but because each time it represented someone who wanted to hurt you. A new fate you would have to face.
He laughs loudly, “The Castillo cartel really wants you.”
You look away.
“Didn’t you bring down that whole ring? Half of them are in prison now and the others fled the country.”
He was right. You had made enemies. Lots of them.
“Are you scared yet?”
You turn to look back at him slowly. Your voice comes out dry, you haven’t had any water in hours.
“I always figured I’d be expensive.”
He barks a laugh, “There she is.”
“You could’ve at least brushed my hair.” You sigh, rolling your neck to the side.
-
“It’s slowing down.” Garcia watches the bid timer closely.
“Who’s left?” Aaron’s eyes study the names left on the screen.
“Just us and one anonymous account.”
Aaron looks over at Rossi before back at her, “Keep going.”
Fourteen million.
The room held its breath. Ten seconds. The other bidder answered fourteen-five.
Garcia groans, “They’re not stopping.”
She clicks to up the bid again, putting it back in their hands. The timer counted down, three…two… one… Everyone stared as the screen went black.
WINNING BID CONFIRMED.
“We got her!” Garcia cheers, standing up from her chair and throwing her hands up in the air.
Morgan actually picks her up in a hug, Emily smiles and JJ laughs in relief. Rossi lets out a long breath, but Aaron doesn’t celebrate. Not yet.
“Wait.” Garcia leans to type on her keyboard again, “I have buyer access now.”
“What do you see?” Reid asks.
“I can see system information, he was routing through multiple servers but someone got lazy. They didn’t apply it to the auction winner after the auction closed.” Her voice shakes with excitement, “I’ve got the metadata.”
Reid moves in closer, “Can you isolate the origin?”
“I’m trying.”
Lines of code race across the screen and the team continues to hover over her shoulder.
“I’ve got it, she’s outside of Annapolis.”
“Notify the Baltimore field office, I want tactical support.”
“Yes, sir-”
The team was up and moving before Garcia could even finish her sentence.
“Let’s move.”
Rossi claps him on the shoulder, “Let’s go bring our girl home.”
-
Five minutes later the rhythmic beat of the helicopter blades fill the air. The team sits shoulder to shoulder, meeting SWAT on the ground. Nobody said anything, there wasn’t anything left to say.The warehouse was in a rough neighborhood, most of them abandoned in the area. It was remote for being in a city.
Several armored vehicles were positioned around the perimeter as the helicopter lands in a parking lot. The SWAT commander jobs over as the team files out, weapons in hand.
"Perimeter's secure, we’re ready to breach.” He points to a blueprint and Aaron looks over his shoulder, “Thermal imaging is showing at least twenty individual heat signatures.”
“Small army.” Derek mutters.
The commander looks at Aaron, “Ready?”
Aaron looks back at his team and everyone nods. No hesitation.
“Let’s go.”
The warehouse doors explode inwards, “FBI!”
“Federal agents!”
Chaos instantly breaks out. Everyone reaches for their guns, but SWAT is faster. Two drop quickly, but the noise alerts the others. Two flee toward the exit only to be met with another tactical team, they surrender. They clear room by room, still no sighting of you.
Aaron never stops moving, his finger pressing firmly on the trigger and a flashlight in his other hand.
There’s a heavy steel door at the end of the hallway, the team gets in formation before entering. The second they do, they see how large the room is. At the very center of it you’re still tied to a chair. Bruised, exhausted, and very much alive. Aaron’s entire world narrows to you, his heart pounding in his ears.
Brendan is standing directly behind you, men flanking his left and right side. He has one hand holding your shoulder tightly, the other is holding a gun aimed straight at your head.
“Don’t come any closer!” Brendan shouts, the barrel of the gun pressing harder against your temple.
SWAT spread across the room, you look up and see your entire team ahead of you. The moment you see Aaron your expression changes from fear to slight relief.
“It’s over.” Aaron steps closer.
Brendan shakes his head, “No, I don’t think it is.”
One of Brendan’s guys looks toward a side entrance, just for a second. It’s enough for them. Two shots echo almost simultaneously, both gunmen drop to the ground. Brendan jerks in surprise, looking at both men writhing on the ground.
It was the exact opening Aaron needed.
One precise shot lands squarely in his forehead. He slowly falls backward, landing motionless behind you. Aaron is running toward you before Brendan actually hits the ground.
“I’m here.” Aaron cries, he reaches into the back of his vest to pull out a knife. His hands shake as he cuts away the restraints at each wrist before moving down to your ankles. The second the last one falls away you try to stand.
Your legs give out and Aaron catches you before you hit the floor, you bury your face into his shoulder and wrap both arms around him. Holding onto him with everything you have left. He holds you back just as tightly.
Aaron closes his eyes for several seconds, he takes in a deep inhale. Somehow your hair still smells like your shampoo from last night. He’s confident it’s the same shampoo you used ten years ago too. For several long seconds neither of you speak, the room just disappears behind you.
Nothing else matters, you’re both alive. He can feel your steady heartbeat, you pull back just enough to look at him.
“You look terrible.” You joke, trying to lighten the energy in the room.
"I love you." Aaron blurts.
You blink, “What?”
"I love you and I never stopped." He runs a hand back over your hair with tears in his eyes, "You've never been my almost. You've never been anything other than my always. I'm always going to love you."
He closes the gap between the two of you, not caring about the team being mere feet away. You push through the pain of your split lip to kiss him back, letting him deepen it. Eventually the two of you pull back, he presses a couple more pecks to your lips. He can't help himself.
"I love you, too." You admit, a small smile growing.
He lets out a sigh of relief, "I am never letting you out of my sight again."
He presses a kiss to the top of your head and pulls you tight against his chest.
"Otherwise you'll call in a full tactical operation?" You nod to the SWAT agents sweeping the rest of the building and a laugh escapes him. Half relief that you can crack a joke already.
“I missed you too.”
You reach up carefully, brushing a thumb across his face, “I know.”
He leans down to rest his forehead against yours, “I thought I lost you.”
Your smile softens to a kinder one, “You’ve got to stop thinking like that.”
Before Aaron gets the chance to answer Morgan’s voice booms next to the two of you.
“Can we interrupt the reunion?”
You both pull back, neither of you thrilled about it.
JJ steps forward to reach out for a hug, you laugh and hug her back. Everyone steps up, checking in one by one. Rossi lingers the longest, he would deny the tears later but everyone sees them. You end up getting two hugs from him, Aaron still close by your side. You have a feeling he won’t be leaving it for a while.
“You scared the hell out of us.” Rossi sighs.
You smile weakly, “Sounds like someone cares.”
“You think?”
“Rossi was gonna put up the beach house!” Morgan calls.
You raise a brow, “Wow, now I feel special.”
Reid looks relieved enough to have forgotten his usual displeasure for physical contact, he also manages to bend down in an awkward hug.
“You let them get the drop on you, superstar?” Morgan throws a careful arm over your shoulder to pull you into a side hug.
“To be fair, I blame the concussion.” You shrug, “Or the sex. That was kind of distracting too.”
“Y/n.” Aaron sighs, shaking his head but it’s clear he isn’t embarrassed or surprised.
Rossi lets out a groan, “Now this takes me back.”
JJ grins, “Hotch you’re looking at her like she hung the moon.”
You cover a laugh, watching the team look between the two of you.
“Yeah, look at him still holding her.”
Aaron looks down and sure enough his arm was still firmly around Sophia’s waist. He hadn’t even realized he was gravitating toward you. You look up at him with a teasing smile.
“You can let go, I can stand now.”
He looks down at you, not moving a single muscle.
“No.”
The entire team erupts, Morgan doubles over laughing.
“I knew it!” Emily points triumphantly.
You lean into him a little more even though you’re feeling better. Stretching your legs helped, your cheek still aches slightly.
“Okay, get me the fuck out of here.” You nod toward the door.
“Let's go.”
The team heads back toward the door. Hotch leads you out carefully, you look back once to where Brendan still lays dead. This could’ve ended so poorly, but it didn’t.
You have the team to thank for that.
You have Aaron to thank for that.
He intertwines his fingers with yours. He wasn’t going to let go, and neither were you.
-
an// YOU GUYSSSS OMFG JUST THE EPILOGUE LEFT NOW! please give me all your thoughts on this and thank you for letting me live out my ultimate exgf!bau!reader moment. it is all i could have dreamed of and more
summary: Sean Hotchner was your high school ‘sweetheart’, however his older brother Aaron always insisted you were too smart for him. Years later you find yourself landing at the BAU, it doesn’t take long for you to realize maybe you had the wrong Hotchner all along…
word count: 10.3K
warnings: BAU cases and the violence and creepiness that comes with them. squint when looking at Aaron’s career timeline in this lol
-
The BAU was not known for being welcoming. It wasn’t always intentional, but it came with the skillset required for the job. They spent their days studying monsters, chasing killers, and delivering bad news. Which is why when everyone was called to the conference room first thing this morning, they were preparing for the worst.
Aaron waits until everyone sits down, he remains standing at the end of the table with a file in hand.
“We have a new agent joining the team.”
“Really?” Morgan asks, leaning back in his chair.
“A transfer.” Hotch confirms.
Prentiss looks up from her coffee, “A good transfer or a political transfer?”
“Good transfer.”
Hotch’s immediate and positive answer got everyone’s attention. He was the last person to willingly alter the team dynamic by throwing someone new in the mix. Hotch wasn’t one for compliments either. If he said someone was good, they were good.
“Who is it?” Reid asks.
Hotch opens a file and sets it down on the table. The room skimmed the highlights. Top of your class at Quantico, fluent in three languages, multiple commendations and a highly decorated agent. You’ve spent recent years a part of the counterterrorism task force and hostage negotiation before that.
Morgan whistles, “Okay.”
“She’s twenty-eight?” JJ asks.
“That’s annoying.” Emily sighs.
Rossi smirks, “She’s making the rest of you look lazy.”
The conference room opens and before anyone can continue, or hide the evidence of your career on the table, you walk in. Everyone glances up and Aaron forgets to breathe for a second. He simply stares. The woman in front of him looked different than the teenager he still had in his mind.
You looked more confident and polished. It looks dangerous. But your smile is exactly the same. It is still warm, bright, and familiar.
“Aaron!”
The entire room stills, hardly anyone called him Aaron. Morgan looks between the two of you and his jaw actually drops when Hotch smiles. An honest to God smile that the team hadn’t seen from him in months. Maybe years.
“Y/n.”
You break into a grin of your own.
“Aaron Hotchner!”
Hotch stands tall still, somehow the smile got bigger.
“I think the last time I saw you was your high school graduation.” Aaron admits quietly.
You roll your eyes and nod, you step forward and he gives you a careful hug. You turn back to face the team and two of them look like they could fall out of their chair.
“Wait,” Morgan holds up his hands, “you didn’t know he was gonna be here?”
“You know, they said it was his team but I didn’t really believe them.” You tease.
Aaron rolls his eyes, but he’s still looking at you fondly.
“Hold on,” Rossi points at Hotch, “you know how to smile?”
He shoots him a look, immediately dropping the grin which causes you to laugh.
“Oh, so that hasn’t changed?” You bite.
He does a poor job of trying to keep his smile to a minimum.
“Does he still do that thing where he stares at you until you feel guilty?” You ask.
“Every day.” Prentiss answers quickly.
Hotch sighs and the room erupts into laughter.
“You haven’t changed much.” Aaron comments, a lie.
“That’s rude.”
“You still talk too much.”
“Definitely rude, I’m so contacting HR.”
“Shut up.”
The teasing came naturally, it was effortless. The team watches it with way too much joy for nine in the morning. They had never seen Hotch interact with anyone like this. Ever.
Even Rossi looked surprised.
“So,” Rossi breaks in, “one of you explain.”
“I dated Sean in high school.”
“Sean Hotchner?” JJ clarifies and you nod.
“Little Hotch?” Garcia shrieks.
“All throughout high school.” Aaron shakes his head, a teasing smile still creasing his face.
“Aaron thought I was too smart for Sean.” You roll your eyes.
“Well, you did end up here.”
“Aaron!’ You scold, the big brother side coming out on rare display, “He was the scary one-”
“I wasn’t scary-” He defends.
“Oh, the stories I could tell-”
“Y/n.” He warns and your smile grows even wider.
It had been years, but you practically lived at the Hotchner house. You and Sean dated for years on and off in high school, it was never great but he was your first real boyfriend. Aaron was ten years older than the two of you so he wasn’t always around. You remember him studying for law school and then eventually bringing home case files but somehow he still had the time to help you with your college applications.
Back then he always seemed so impossibly grown up. Catching killers during the day, but still finding a way to come back home for a weekend every month to see his brother. But now you’re standing in the same room and you’re older than he was then. It feels familiar in a way you can’t place.
“You did well, Y/n.”
His words are simple but they mean a lot. You knew Aaron did not give out praise easily and you feel your smile soften.
“So did you.”
“So, are you going to introduce the rest of us?” Morgan asks, gesturing to the entire team at the table.
Everyone laughed and with burning red ears Aaron introduced the rest of the team. Everyone explained their current case load and the ones they are monitoring, everyone is on standby for a case if a call comes in.
Judging by the way the team kept staring at Aaron’s rare smile, you learned something very important. No one on the team knew the version of Aaron Hotchner you knew long ago. The one that laughed and teased. Somehow that made joining the BAU feel a little less intimidating.
-
Eventually everyone broke out into the bullpen, settling in at their desks and you follow Aaron to his office to finish up the last of the transfer paperwork.
You glance around his office while he gets everything in order. It’s exactly what you could’ve expected. Minimalist. Organized. Awards and accommodations lining his shelves as well as pictures of Jack. There’s still one picture of Jack and Haley, she’s wrapping him up in a tight hug. You step closer, your finger dancing over the edge of the frame. Aaron clears his throat behind you and you turn to face him.
You glance back at the picture frame briefly before focusing back on him, “I’m so sorry to hear about Haley.”
His expression remains calm, years have passed. Jack was older now and life had moved forward but it was clear that the pain would never disappear completely.
“I appreciate that.”
You open your mouth to speak and his expression shifts.
“How’s your father?” He changes the subject, handing you paperwork and turning back toward his desk. You groan and sit down in one of the chairs facing him.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“The classic Hotchner deflection.”
His mouth twitches. Barely, but you catch it clearly. Changing the subject to avoid being vulnerable was something both him and Sean were masters at.
“My dad is good.” You eventually offer, “Retired, but still finding a way to complain about everything.”
“That’s reassuring.” He smiles.
“He’s proud.”
“He should be.”
You smile, “Look at you giving out the compliments today.”
He rolls his eyes, focusing back on the paperwork in front of him.
“It was one compliment.”
“Two.”
“It was one-”
“Defintley two-”
“Red alert!” Garcia walks right into the office, teetering on her heels. She freezes looking between you and Hotch.
“Oh, were you guys having a moment?” She grins, her eyes shooting higher than the frames of her lime green glasses.
“No.” Aaron answers immediately.
“Absolutely.” You answer at the same time, saying anything to get Aaron riled up.
“Don’t get Garcia started, she’ll never drop it.” Aaron warning, pointing an accusatory finger at you.
You hold up your hands in mock defence, “Noted.”
Aaron can tell you don’t mean it one bit.
She squints her eyes looking between the two of you, “I knew it.”
“Garcia.” Hotch warns.
“Right. Horrible murder.”
The mood in the office shifted instantly. Aaron stands from his desk and reaches out to take the file from her hands.
“Montana.”
Aaron starts looking through the case file and images, everyone else in the bullpen looking in their direction catching the news.
“Three victims in twelve days. Rural county, the closest neighboring town is forty miles away.”
Aaron continues to scan the report, “Victimology?”
“Different ages and occupations without any obvious connection. They actually called us in because every four days someone goes missing, and that same day the previous missing person is found.”
Aaron closes the file, “Wheels up in thirty. Tell the rest of the team.”
Garcia nods rapidly and leaves the room as hurriedly as she had burst in.
“You’ve got a go bag?” He glances at you.
You give him an offended look, “Do you really need to ask?”
Thirty minutes later the team settles onto the jet. Garcia is coming with too, looking deeply unhappy to be there.
“I don’t belong in nature.” She huffs, crossing her arms and looking out the plane window.
“You’ll survive.” Morgan nudges her shoulder.
“Will I?”
The case photos appear on the screen, everyone has the file in front of them with the details.
“Let’s start.” Aaron announces. It’s weird having him as your superior and seeing him manage a team, but you know it’s what he was best at. He was bossing around Sean as soon as he could walk, you witnessed it first hand for years.
“Remote location suggests he’s comfortable with the area.” Rossi offers.
“Local hunter?” Morgan raises his brows.
“Maybe.”
“Most serial offenders operate within a comfort zone. Rural offenders generally hunt closer to home.” Reid vocalizes.
You study the map and something bothers your gut. Screaming at you to correct it.
“What if we’re looking at this backwards?”
Several heads turn toward you, Aaron watches silently.
“The bodies were recovered here,” You point out each spot on the map.
“So?” Morgan questions.
“What if that’s not where he hunts?”
Reid frowns, “The distance would be inefficient.”
“Unless efficiency isn’t the point,” The jet cabin goes quiet while you continue, “Everybody assumes remote offenders want privacy-”
“Which is statistically true.” Reid interrupts.
“Usually.”
You put a little more emphasis on the word when you say it and it makes him pause.
“What if he’s moving them intentionally?”
“Why?”
“Control.” Rossi answers, immediately catching onto what you’re theorizing.
“Exactly.” You smile, “These sites aren’t random.”
Aaron notices it, his eyes narrow.
“Water.”
Every body had been found near a water source. Streams, creeks, even a small river.
Reid leans forward, “Interesting.”
“Thank you.” You smirk.
“I’m not agreeing with you.” Reid argues.
“You will.”
Aaron hides a smile and Reid continues on unphased now. Aaron can remember you trying to debate him while you were in mock trial and he was a practicing prosecutor. You somehow held your own back then and it would appear that hasn’t changed now.
“If water is important to our unsub it could represent cleansing.”
“Or disposal.” Emily adds.
“Or symbolism.” JJ jumps in.
“Or all three.” You shrug. The debate continued back and forth between everyone for the rest of the flight. You held your ground every step of the way, but easily meshed with the group's ideas. It was exactly the way a group of experienced profilers should operate.
“She’s fitting in fast.” Rossi leans in toward Aaron to say it quietly. It goes unnoticed by everyone else, still exchanging ideas.
“Mhm.” Aaron doesn’t look up at the older man.
Aaron wasn’t surprised with your intelligence. You said it yourself, he knew you were too smart for Sean and he made that known back when the two of you were dating. He was still a little surprised with how well you were slipping into a rhythm with everyone. The challenge and the willingness to defend a theory without taking disagreement personally.
Outside the jet windows the vast Montana wilderness stretches below. Somewhere out there was someone dangerous, the case would be difficult but you felt certain of one thing. You were exactly where you were supposed to be.
-
Five days.
Five days in rural Montana and the team was no closer to catching the unsub than when you had first arrived. Everyone was exhausted, small town cases were surprisingly difficult. The sheriff’s office had become a second home to everyone, coffee cups littered every open spot on the table.
Morgan doesn’t hesitate in giving you a hard time, making you feel more welcomed than it should by annoying you. Prentiss demands embarrassing stories about Hotch and has invited you out for drinks whenever the team gets back. JJ seems genuinely relieved to have another woman in the field. Garcia adores you and wants details about everything early twenties Hotch. Reid was somehow fascinated by the fact that this was your third FBI specialty before thirty and enjoyed debating with you. Rossi found you entertaining, loving the new side of Aaron that you seem to bring out.
Dozens of interviews and countless hours in the field had turned up nothing. The unsub was still out there, and as of two days ago the fourth victim was found and he had someone new. Eighteen year old Madison Cooper was taken from a gas station, her car still waiting at the pump. Victim photos stare back at you from the board ahead, your brain replaying the past few days over and over.
The newest body was discovered mutilated by a shallow creek twenty miles from where she had disappeared. She was clean, no traces of DNA or anything else left behind. The pattern continued and no one could kick your water theory from the table.
“I’ve searched every registered hunter, fisherman, trapper, and landowner in a fifty mile radius.” Garcia reminds, still typing away rapidly at her keyboard.
Morgan sighs and runs a hand over his face.
“And?”
“Nothing.”
You continue to pace in front of the boards, unable to sit still any longer.
“Every fishing license and criminal record known in Montana state.” Garcia continues, “I’ve reached the stage where more people look suspicious than not.”
You turn away from the boards to face the team again.
Reid squints, “You’re smiling.”
“You’re about to disagree with me.”
“I am?”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.” You grin.
He shakes his head.
Emily leans in closer to JJ, “She fits in way too well.”
“Yeah, she’s already annoying.” Morgan jokes, turning in his chair back and forth. His eyes jump over to you with mischief.
“Annoyed that I’m already right more often than you?” You smirk, “Get used to it.”
Hotch chuckles at the far end of the table and everyone notices. You look back to study the map again, thinking about all of the disappearances and the amount of time he’s with them.
You grab a marker, “The water.”
Morgan sighs, “You’ve been talking about the water for five days.”
You circle all of the locations where bodies have been recovered.
“Look.”
Everyone turns their attention onto you and the board.
“We’ve been assuming these were disposal sites-”
“They are.” Reid interrupts.
“Not just that.” You argue and the certainty in your voice makes the room go quiet, “I think these are the closest locations he can get to.”
Aaron frowns, “Explain.”
“What if he isn’t bringing them there because of convenience? It’s a necessity to him.”
Rossi picks up on what you’re saying before anyone else, “He needs the water?”
“Exactly, the bodies were cleaned and for whatever reason he doesn’t have access to do that privately.” You nod.
The room froze.
JJ blinks and crosses her arms, “Cleaned?”
“The forensic reports mention minimal trace evidence every time but we don’t have any idea what he used.”
Reid’s eyes widen, “He washed them in the water.”
The pieces start to click together for everyone.
“The water isn’t of the fantasy,” Emily discusses, “It’s part of the disposal.”
“Garcia, instead of looking for properties can you look for RV titles?” You ask.
“Oh yes I can!” She begins tying more rapidly, talking to herself as she filters out her search, “Oh my god. Joseph Dixon has an RV for his primary address and has lived in the area for the past thirty years. His wife drowned at the beginning of the year,” Garcia frowns, “He lost the house a few months after and has been in the RV ever since.”
Ten minutes later FBI SUVs tear down a dirt road with lights flashing. Garcia had found all of the RV campsites in town and eliminated the previously occupied locations, narrowing it down to one stream.
It was a remote site, surrounded by tall trees that creak and sway with the evening wind. You get out of the car and Aaron circles everyone together before approaching.
“Remember, Madison is likely still alive if he is still following his timeline.” Aaron looks between everyone with sharp focused eyes.
Everyone acknowledges him and moves to surround the RV with weapons drawn. Morgan breaches the front door and half the team floods inside behind him. The smell hits your nose immediately, strong with bleach and moisture.
Joseph is standing toward the back of the RV with Madison barely standing in his arms. He holds her up as a shield with a knife held to her throat.
“FBI!” Aaron shouts, “Drop the knife.”
The man looks wild and desperate which is never what you want to talk down.
“You don’t understand.” Joseph shouts back, tears starting to stream down his cheeks.
You could see the grief and obsession all over his face. The loss of his wife and then his house has created this delusion.
“They have to be clean.” He whispers, the room going still, “They have to be clean.”
You keep your voice calm, “Let her go.”
He shakes his head, “She isn’t ready.”
You step forward carefully, making sure not to block anyone’s line of fire.
“You couldn’t save her.” Your voice is soft, and more tears flood his vision, “And you think you’re saving them now, but you’re not.”
His expression breaks, just enough to lessen his hold. He closes his eyes briefly to wipe at the tears and Morgan moves instantly. The takedown happened in seconds and you have Madison before she can reach the ground. She was safe, and now the unsub was in custody.
A nightmare was finally over.
You help Madison over to the back of an ambulance and return to the team once EMTs start checking her out. Morgan puts Joseph in the back of the sheriff's car.
“Not bad.” Rossi calls out as you approach.
You smile tiredly, “High praise from the founder of the BAU.”
“You called the water on day one.” Reid has a confused look on his face.
“Of course I did.” You smirk, some energy returning to your eyes, “You guys are going to have to get used to it.”
Emily groans, “Oh god.”
Aaron just smiles, shaking his head and following you and everyone back to the SUVs. For the first time in nearly a week the entire team looked relieved. The case was closed and the victim was alive.
He finds himself watching you without being able to help it. You were a new agent to the team, but you were still a familiar face. You walked into the BAU less than a week ago and somehow it felt like you had been there for years. You look back and catch his eyes, when your eyes meet you smile. He smiles back and this time, no one on the team seemed surprised by it.
-
Four short months, and several cases later, you finally had become one of them. Not the new agent. Not the transfer. Not the girl who knew Hotch. You were just one of the team members of the BAU and it was impressive considering how difficult it was to truly earn your spot with them.
Aaron was impressed with it as well, but he wasn’t surprised. It was part of your skill. You were smart enough to challenge Reid without being intimidated. Confident enough to stand your ground with Rossi. Capable enough in the field that Morgan trusted you at his back without hesitation.
You make people laugh, and that was surprisingly valuable in a unit that spent most days facing humanity’s worst moments. You brought energy into rooms. Life. A little chaos. It was the kind that reminded everyone that there was still good in the world. Even Aaron. Especially Aaron.
Which is why everyone was becoming increasingly suspicious.
“Tell me I’m not crazy!” Morgan holds up his hands, looking around at everyone sat at their desks in the bullpen.
JJ doesn’t even look up from her paperwork.
“You’re going to need to be more specific.”
Emily leans against her desk, glancing back to where you and Aaron are standing in the conference room still talking after the morning meeting.
“The way Hotch looks at Y/n.”
JJ finally looks up and peeks back to where Emily is still looking.
“Oh.”
“Right?” Morgan claps.
“Definitely.” JJ nods.
Aaron was smiling as he was standing in front of you. Again. Not a full smile. Not the rare surprised laugh they occasionally managed to pull from him. Just a little crinkle around his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“I’ve been saying it for weeks.” Derek shakes his head.
Emily points at him dramatically, “Thank you!”
Reid finally looks up from his book, “I don’t understand.”
He looks up between everyone and they stare back at him.
“You don’t see it, Spence?” JJ asks.
He simply purses his lips and shrugs, Morgan looks horrified.
“Kid.”
“What?”
“They’ve got chemistry.”
“Who’s got chemistry?” Rossi asks, stepping out of his office and down the stairs to lean against the edge of Spencer’s desk. Derek points up in the direction of the conference room.
Reid shakes his head, “They’re just discussing victimology.”
“Exactly.” Emily nods, “When has Hotch ever looked that happy to do that?”
Reid studies him for a long moment before letting out a “Ohhh”.
Inside the conference room you and Aaron are surprisingly unaware of the curious eyes behind you. At least mostly unaware. You were aware of one thing.
Aaron.
It was becoming a problem that you didn’t know what to do about. Logistically it was ridiculous. Aaron was older. Significantly older. And he’s your boss. The Unit Chief. The man you have known since you were fifteen years old. The man whose younger brother you dated on and off for years. Every reason possible told you this was a terrible idea.
Somewhere between Montana and now you started to look forward to seeing him most days. You noticed little things about him you didn’t pay attention to or have the privilege of knowing before now.
The way he loosens his tie when he is tired. The way he pinches the bridge of his nose when he’s frustrated. The rare smile that appeared when Jack came up in conversation. The new smile that appeared when you were involved. This is dangerous territory.
So naturally, you’re ignoring it as much as possible, which is becoming harder and harder to do.
Aaron wasn’t doing any better. He knew every practical reason that told him no. Every professional instinct told him no. Every ethical concern told him no. And yet every time you walk into a room, it is getting harder and harder for him to hide.
You make him laugh and challenge him. You understand him in a way that very few people do. It wasn’t because you’re a profiler, it was because you knew him before. Before he was in the BAU. Before Haley died. Before Foyet. Before the walls.
You knew the version of Aaron Hotchner that existed before the grief and you somehow have a habit of bringing pieces of that man back.
“Sir.”
He looks over to see a panicked Garcia standing in the doorway with a tablet in hand.
“What is it?” His brows instantly drop together.
“Florida.” She simply answers, making a face.
“That’s bad.” You sigh.
He nods immediately, taking the tablet from her and looking through the case. He steps out of the conference room and stops at the rail.
“Everyone cancel your weekend plans,” He looks out over everyone in the bullpen, “Wheels up in thirty.”
A chorus of groans pass around the room. It was a Friday and everyone had looked forward to spending the weekend doing various things. It didn't take long for everyone to round up and grab their things. By the time the team reached the jet, it was already fueled and ready to go.
“Three women missing over the last month.” Garcia explains over the monitor, “All of them taken from touristy parts of Miami.”
Aaron skims the report in front of him, “Abductions?”
“Likely.”
“No bodies?” Reid questions, looking up toward the screen.
“Not yet.”
Nobody liked that answer.
“What about victimology?” You ask.
“Different ages, backgrounds, and occupations.” Garcia sighs, “I’m looking for other connections.”
You frown. No bodies and no obvious connections was a rough start. You look out toward the window where sunlight is streaming in. After a minute Aaron’s foot bumps yours and you look back over at the table and then up at him.
He nods back to the monitor and you roll your eyes before focusing on the case again. Somewhere in Florida an unsub was waiting for all of you.
-
The second the jet door opens, you are regretting today’s outfit choice.
“Oh, absolutely not.” You groan.
Morgan laughs, following you down the jet stairs, “You’ve been here for three seconds.”
The humidity hit like a physical force the second the air hit your face. You push your sunglasses onto your head to keep your hair away from your face.
“Who lives like this?”
“People who live in Florida.” Reid answers and you roll your eyes dramatically.
“Where are the cars?” Aaron asks, looking out over the tarmac where SUVs would typically be waiting.
“Oh god,” Morgan sighs, “She’s gonna melt.”
You bump his shoulder, but regret the physical contact. He practically sticks to you for a second. You unbutton the top button of your dress shirt and fan at your neck.
Aaron’s eyes automatically follow your hands, watching you pull at the collar of your blouse. The heat was already turning your cheeks a rosy shade of pink. A few loose strands of hair were blowing around, a sheen of sweat gathering from the humidity.
His gaze lingered, and for a second too long. You look over and catch him, immediately smirking.
“Hotch, you staring?” Morgan asks, it would seem he caught the moment as well.
He blinks, looking over at him.
“What?”
Morgan bursts out laughing and you shake your head, “That wasn’t even remotely convincing.”
Aaron adjusts his bag on his shoulder, “The heat seems to be affecting your judgment.”
“Interesting.” You nod, “It would seem I’m not the only one.”
Emily has to use her hand to cover her mouth in an attempt to hide her laugh. Morgan’s grin was outright dangerous. Aaron shoots everyone a look, landing on you last.
“Good talk.” You walk ahead, noticing the SUVs finally pulling up.
Twenty minutes later everyone arrives at the Miami police department. The local task force that had requested the BAU was already waiting. The case board covered an entire wall. Three women from three different tourist-heavy areas. No witnesses and no bodies.
You step closer to the board to get a better look at the pictures. The youngest victim was twenty-two, here on a college break. The oldest was thirty-four and was there as a travel blogger. It looked like the unsub was selecting his victims based on opportunity.
The conference room door opens, a detective walks in carrying a stack of files and copies for everyone. You look up and the detective looks to forget what he was doing. Aaron noticed the sudden falter in his steps. Detective Gabriel Martinez was in his mid-thirties, former military with a good record and a strong reputation. And apparently he was incapable of hiding his attention.
“Sorry,” He walks toward you, “Didn’t realize we'd be getting reinforcements.”
Morgan physically bit his lip and watches you smile politely at the detective.
“Agent Y/FN Y/LN.”
His smile widens, “A pleasure.”
Aaron suddenly found him significantly more annoying than he had thirty seconds ago.
You accept the file from him, “Catch us up?”
Martinez moved happily beside you, Aaron watched the entire interaction closely. The detective points out spots on the map and you nod thoughtfully. The two of you laugh about something and Aaron actually frowns.
Morgan glances over and sees it instantly. It was very entertaining, for nearly an hour. Everyone was still reviewing evidence and trying to get a baseline for the unsub. You spent the hour exchanging theories with Detective Martinez and trying to get a locals perspective, everything was purely professional.
“Hey, there’s a coffee cart downstairs...” The detective clears his throat. The team exchanges glances, darting between you and Hotch.
You look up from the file, “What?”
“Coffee?”
“Actually,” Hotch interrupts, “The briefing is in ten minutes, we need to prepare.”
You raise your brows at Hotch, surprised at him interjecting at this. He’s never opposed a quick coffee run on a case before.
The detective clears his throat again, “Right, I’ll just go. Would you like one?”
You eventually pull your eyes from Hotch to look back at Martinez, “I’d love one.”
The detective laughs before walking out of the room. You look back at Hotch, who is avoiding your gaze. You shake your head before turning back to the file in front of you. The entire team was watching Aaron and he was pretending not to notice. It was a poor strategy considering it was a team of profilers.
“Hey, Y/n,” Rossi asks, “Can you call Garcia and give her an update?”
You roll your eyes but stand up anyway, “Even though we’re only ten minutes away from the next briefing?”
You snatch your phone from the table and walk out of the room to call Garcia. The second you disappear out the door, Morgan strikes.
“You’re jealous!”
Aaron doesn’t even look up, “No.”
Rossi laughs loudly, “Aaron.”
“I’m not.”
Emily sighs, “Oh, you absolutely are.”
He finally sets down his file and looks up at everyone.
“Can you explain why you’ve spent the past hour glaring at him?” Rossi questions.
“I haven’t.”
Emily and JJ laugh, and even Reid looks skeptical. Aaron looks around the room and has no allies, none of them believe him for a second.
“Let’s review,” Morgan leans back in his chair, “You’ve been glaring, and you interrupted him twice.”
“Case-related.” He defends.
Derek shakes his head, “You corrected his profile.”
“He was wrong.”
Rossi’s smile widens, “Not entirely.”
Aaron sighs and now everyone else’s smile gets bigger. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, somehow making it even funnier.
You walk back into the room and everyone immediately becomes professional again. You stop in your tracks and narrow your eyes. Aaron snaps up to look at you and your eyes scan everyone else.
You look at Aaron, and then Rossi, and then back to Aaron.
“Why do I feel like I just walked into something?”
Aaron immediately stands, “Let’s get back to work.”
“Right,” You straighten, “Can’t be late.”
-
The briefing wasn’t great, there still wasn’t a lot of information to go off of. By seven that evening, the case had officially worsened. A fourth woman had gone missing. Twenty-four years old and taken near the boardwalk in broad daylight.
The good news? Garcia was briefly able to ping her phone before it was ditched, it wasn’t enough to locate her but it was enough to paint a better picture of the unsub’s hunting ground. The bad news? That was all they got and the clock was ticking.
The conference room buzzes with tension, Garcia remains on speakerphone but she’s uncharacteristically quiet. Reid and JJ are comparing timelines between victims. Morgan and Prentiss just got back from getting witness statements. Detective Martinez is back at your side again while you review the maps. Aaron notices immediately, of course he does.
At this point, noticing you had become second nature to him.
“You know,” Martinez leans against the table casually, his eyes drinking you over, “I’ve been thinking.”
You don’t even look up, “Dangerous.”
He laughs.
“I’m serious.”
“That’s even more concerning.”
Martinez smiles, god he thought you were flirting. Everyone could see the reality, except for Martinez. You continue reviewing your work, not even paying him any attention. A missing woman had you very focused on the case at hand.
“We should compare notes after this.” He pauses, “Maybe over dinner.”
That finally caught your attention, you look up and he’s smiling confidently at you.
“A real dinner.”
There it was, any poor attempt at subtlety was gone. His offer was not professional or ambiguous and that made you sigh internally.
“That’s kind of you,” You say politely, “But no.”
A beat passes and Martinez blinks a few times.
“What?”
Your smile remains the same, “No, thank you.”
“Oh, are you seeing someone?” He questions, relief briefly settling on his face. You won’t let it last.
“No.”
Somewhere at the table behind you Hotch snorts and coughs in an attempt to cover it in the quiet conference room. Silence fills up the room after that and for a moment you thought that was the end of it. Then his expression changes, and it was the kind that women noticed immediately.
Martinez laughs, a short dismissive sound, “Seriously?”
Your smile instantly disappears.
“Seriously.” You say it slowly and nod as you do so.
The heads of your team members turned, now openly watching instead of pretending they weren’t watching this all unfold.
“Wow.” He shakes his head.
Your eyes narrow, “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” He smiles bitterly, showing how hurt he really is and shakes his head again. It was clear it meant something, “I just figured all the smiling meant you were interested.”
The room freezes.
“Detective-”
“No, it’s fine.” His tone was far from fine, “Should’ve known.”
Aaron’s head snaps over and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. You recognize the look on his face instantly and know it’s not a good one.
Martinez wasn’t finished, “You BAU people come in acting like you’re better than everybody else anyway.”
Your jaw tightens, now you are genuinely annoyed.
“Maybe don’t act interested next time, save a guy some effort.”
The words had barely left his mouth when Aaron stood. The entire room felt the danger in the shift and Martinez’s confidence vanished instantly. He crosses the room toward him in quick strides, every profiler in the room gives up on working for the next few minutes.
“She said no.” Aaron stops directly in front of Martinez and he towers over him. His voice wasn’t raised, yet.
The detective swallows, “I wasn’t-”
“She said no.” Aaron repeats for emphasis, he remains calm and cold and it’s terrifying. Martinez glances around the room looking for support but doesn’t find sympathy in anyone.
Aaron takes a step closer, “If an FBI agent politely declines your invitation and your response is to insult her professionalism, that’s a reflection of you.”
Nobody moved a muscle. Garcia didn’t even utter a squeak.
Martinez’s face reddens, “I didn’t mean-”
“No, you did.” Aaron’s voice booms, “You implied she led you on because she treated you with basic professionalism courtesy.”
The detective looked like he wanted to disappear. You honestly weren’t sure you’ve ever seen someone fold so quickly and Aaron wasn’t done.
“You are a detective working an active investigation,” The conference room feels even smaller, “And if your ability to work with female colleagues depends on whether or not they agree to date you, you are in the wrong profession.”
Complete silence. This is Aaron Hotchner angry, which was a rare occurrence. It took a lot to actually make him mad.
“I apologize.” Martinez finally mutters.
“To her.”
The detective looks in your direction now, “I’m sorry.”
Aaron stares, “I think it’s a good idea for you to find a new case to work on.”
He nods and actually escapes the room, the door closes loudly behind him. Nobody spoke, took a breath, or even moved a muscle. Finally Aaron breaks his staredown with the door to look over at you, letting out a pant of adrenaline. Your arms are crossed over your chest and it’s clear that you’re still mad.
You look up at him and point toward the door, “Outside.”
“What?”
“Now.”
You walk out the door and know he follows, the gaze of every pair of eyes in the room watches the two of you go. You walk downstairs and right out the front door of the building to get some fresh air. The sound of downtown traffic breaks up the silence and the heat from the day is lessened now that the sun is down. The look on your face tells Aaron that this isn’t going to be fun.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
His jaw tightens, “He was out of line.”
“He was.” You nod.
He looks confused, “Then why-”
“I can handle myself.” You interrupt with the real issue.
He sighs running a tired hand over his face, “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Y/n.”
“No.” You gesture upstairs toward the building behind you, “You didn’t even give me the chance back there.”
He looks away from you, dodging your eyes which told you everything. Your eyes narrow, reading him better than anyone else.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” He questions suddenly looking back and you laugh once in disbelief.
You take a step closer to him, “So that’s what that was?”
His expression becomes cautious but he lets you continue.
“So was that protective ‘older brother’ Aaron back there?”
He winces as the words leave your mouth.
“Or was that Unit Chief Hotch, defending my honor?”
You pause.
“Or was that the man who has been staring at me for months and pretending not to back in there?” You raise your brows to show how serious you’re being.
“Y/n.” He warns.
“You were jealous earlier.” You cross your arms over your chest again.
The air felt like it disappeared, his expression doesn’t change. You hold his gaze, waiting for him to admit what he knows you can see on his face.
“Y/n.”
“Aaron.”
“Y/n.” He repeated himself but now his tone is a warning, telling you to shut up and pretend this conversation never happened. Pleading with you. Neither of you can look away, you feel drawn closer somehow. Like two magnets fighting the inevitable. Eventually Aaron sighs and it’s a slow surrender, he’s tired of pretending. He relaxes, his head tilting slightly to the side as he melts a little.
“You’re right.”
Your heart skips a beat. Aaron looks down briefly before meeting your eyes again.
“I was jealous.”
The words land and you don’t even crack a joke.
“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” He continues quietly.
Your pulse quickens, “He wasn’t the first.”
“I know.”
“Then why now?”
Aaron laughs softly without any humor because he knew exactly why. This time he cared, far more than he should.
“You know why.”
Your breath catches and he notices.
“Say it.” You dare.
Aaron rubs a hand across his jaw, his eyes studying you openly. He knows once he puts it out there, he can’t take it back.
“I don’t know what to do about this.”
Your heart softens at the admission. The honesty surprised both of you
“Aaron…”
His eyes dart between yours, and he wishes he could hear you saying his name like that on a loop. For the first time since you joined the BAU, he didn’t have any walls up and he takes a step closer to you.
“I know every reason this is a bad idea,” He sighs, “My brother,”
You nod.
“I’m your supervisor.”
“True.”
“The age difference.”
“Yep.”
He sighs again, “And yet… I cannot bring myself to stop wanting you.”
You smile at him softly, “Will you just kiss me?”
Shock flashes across his face and now it’s his turn for his breath to catch, “That was your takeaway after all of that?”
Neither of you move to step away from each other.
“Is that a no?” You smirk, “Because if you-”
He doesn’t let you finish the sentence, cutting you off with his lips. His hand cups the side of your face and you let him deepen the kiss. You melt against his touch and welcome his tongue to explore your mouth. After a few seconds you hum, pulling back while remembering exactly where you are. Directly outside of the Miami PD with your entire team close by.
“I want you too.” You admit, you hadn’t really confirmed that earlier other than by asking for a kiss.
“Can we try and figure this out sometime after we get back from this case?” He asks, his hand still holding your face.
You nod immediately, leaning back in to steal another kiss and a quick peck. You take a step back from his hold, the two of you need to straighten back up again. Just in time too as Morgan bursts out the doors and jogs over to join you guys, “If the sexual tension is gone, we have a serial killer to catch.”
You roll your eyes, but you and Aaron follow him back into the police department anyway. Neither of you miss the smiles on each other’s faces before heading back inside. For the first time, neither of you was pretending anymore.
-
It's been a couple months since Miami and everything has changed. The team noticed it immediately, of course they did. They were profilers and noticing things was literally the job. You and Aaron were taking things slowly. Kind of.
It was a few dates after returning on the rare nights that the two of you got out of the office at a decent hour. The team tried to trip the two of you up, placing bets on who would crack first. Neither you nor Aaron had any idea one of Jack’s soccer games would destroy any last denials from the two of you.
Garcia and Morgan wanted to surprise Jack on their Saturday off, and it paid off tenfold when they saw you sitting on the bench passing out orange slices. Garcia nearly passed out when Aaron lean down to press a kiss to your cheek.
Things were going really well, even now that the team had been clued in on it for a week now. You would wait in his office after everyone left, it felt comfortable and steady. Aaron would tempt you into coming home with him rather than back to your apartment. It was becoming more frequent for the two of you, and you were loving every second.
“We’ve got a case.” Garcia walks into the bullpen, carrying on all the way into the conference room without stopping. Aaron walks out of his office and you automatically look up and catch him staring. You smirk and he immediately looks away, Morgan catches the entire exchange.
Everyone settles around the round table and Garcia connects her tablet to the bigger screen to display the crime scene photos.
“What do we know?” Aaron asks.
“New York City.” She clicks through the images and you wince instantly, “It’s bad.”
Bad was an understatement because the crime scene photos were brutal. Young women in their early twenties with extensive injuries completely mutilated and found in abandoned warehouses. The killer was deliberate, organized, and angry.
Emily frowns, “That’s overkill.”
“Extreme overkill.” Reid agrees.
Garcia swallows, “It gets worse.”
Nobody liked the sound of that.
“All of these have occurred in the last nine days.”
Six different victims were in the file, meaning there was rapid escalation. This unsub has no intention of slowing down.
-
The jet had just reached an altitude high enough to cruise, everyone is buried in the case file at this point. You sit next to Aaron, Reid and Rossi taking the spots across the table from the two of you.
“It feels personal, he’s got a serious hatred for women.” You comment.
“It does.” Reid agrees.
Morgan leans forward from the couch, “These women have to remind him of someone specific.”
“All of the victims had dark hair.” Emily notices.
The team continues to work, it isn’t a long flight. Rossi looks up from the file between you and Hotch.
“Hey,” Rossi starts, “Doesn’t Sean live in New York?”
Without thinking the answer came quickly from you, “Yeah, he does.”
Morgan smirks and leans in even closer, “The brother?”
You roll your eyes and nod before turning your focus on Aaron, “We should call him?”
Aaron looks up at you, a second of panic flashing across his face.
“See when he’s off work?”
He doesn’t say anything and the smile fades from your face.
“Aaron?”
He hesitates, “It’s been a few years since I’ve spoken to Sean.”
You stare at him, completely surprised and convinced you had misheard him. You knew they weren’t as close as they used to be, but you had no idea it was this severe.
“Years?”
The team exchanged looks and it was clear that everyone else was aware of this fact. Aaron hates how genuinely shocked you look.
You lean back angling yourself toward him, “You seriously haven’t talked?”
He remains silent.
“What happened?”
Everyone sits back quietly because this clearly has become more interesting than the case for the time being. The Hotchners had always been close. That was how you knew Aaron so well, he came back so frequently to see his brother even when he was busy with school and work. The two of them were close because of how distant they were with their parents, Aaron’s dad has never been someone they could look up to.
“He hasn’t seen Jack since he was three.” Aaron sighs, “I haven’t talked to him since he didn’t come to Haley’s funeral.”
“Oh.”
Silence envelops the entire jet.
Rossi breaks it, “Does he know?”
“Know what?” Aaron plays along obliviously.
Derek gives him a look, “Hotch.”
“No.” You answer simply, “We haven’t told him.”
Morgan grins and your eyes narrow.
“He doesn’t know?” Emily almost jumps up from her seat.
Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose briefly and you close your eyes for a few seconds.
“We haven’t-”
You can’t finish the sentence. There is absolutely no good way to finish that.
Morgan still looks delighted, “You haven’t told him.”
You look at Aaron.
Aaron looks at you.
“That’s going to be a fun call.” Rossi leans back in his chair.
You cover your face, “This is going to be terrible. This is worse than I thought it would be.”
You and Aaron always knew this was something that would have to be addressed, but both of you had written it off as a future issue. You knew it wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, but you didn’t know he and Sean weren’t even in communication.
“You could always do it later.” JJ offers.
“Yeah,” Derek claps, loving this way too much, “He could always find out on the Christmas card.”
You roll your eyes, “Such an ass.”
“Merry Christmas. Also, I’m dating your brother.”
The team breaks out in laughter, but it slows when Aaron’s glare levels the room. You knew it was something deeper that would keep them apart for so long. Something unresolved and painful, the teasing around the room faced away.
You hold his gaze, everyone else focuses on themselves again.
“We should call him.”
He looks at you, his face void of annoyance or defensiveness now. After a moment he nods and reaches out under the table to grab your hand and give it a squeeze.
“Together?” His expression is warming.
“Together.” You nod.
Unfortunately the heartfelt moment lasted about three seconds. Then Morgan spoke.
“Oh, this is serious serious.”
It wasn’t long before the New York skyline slowly appeared out the windows. You were confident that Derek’s rapid texting was updating Garcia back home on the recent revelations. Everyone now had a new mystery to obsess over.
-
The case has gone one for two more days after the team lands in the city. Three more bodies have been found, the unsub was still escalating. The profile had narrowed, the suspect pool was shrinking.
You called Sean the minute you landed, you forced Aaron to stand next to you on the tarmac so he couldn’t back out of it. The call itself was relatively easy, you and Sean have been in contact for years.
“Hey stranger.” He answered.
The conversation picked up like no time had passed, like it always did. By the end of the call, he agreed to dinner with the two of you without hesitation. The only problem was that he couldn’t get away from work for the next two nights.
Which gave Aaron days to dread the conversation that was to come.
Now the dreaded evening has arrived.
“Don’t forget your date.” Rossi chuckles, looking between you and Aaron.
Aaron doesn’t even look up from the evidence board, “Not a date.”
“Family dinner night.” Morgan corrects with a wicked grin.
“God, that’s even worse.” You groan.
Derek cuts you a look, “Coming from the girl dating brothers.”
“Shut up!” You smack his shoulder.
“I’ve been waiting for this all week!” Garcia cheers from the laptop.
You step closer to where Aaron is standing.
“If you say something about how long his hair is, you’ll sound just like your dad.” You threaten, knowing that will stop him more than anything else you could possibly say.
“Jesus.” He mutters under his breath.
“Sorry,” You look back at him and offer a small smile, “we just don’t need to start this off on the wrong foot.”
Aaron knows you’re right, this isn’t going to be an easy conversation. Sean was meeting the two of you at the precinct, you guys didn’t really have time to stray far in case anything developed in the case.
“Hello, hello!” Sean knocks on the open door and walks into the conference room.
A smile appears before you can stop it. He looks older than the last time you saw him, a little more tired, but unmistakably Sean.
“Y/n!’
He wraps you up in a big hug, the kind that’s reserved for people who you have known for a long time.
“Look at you!”
You laugh and Sean steps back.
“I can’t believe you’re on Aaron’s team, what are the odds?”
“What are the odds indeed.” Morgan says quietly enough for most of the room to miss it.
He shakes his eyes and his eyes finally land on his older brother. The smile on his face fades slightly, but not completely. Aaron steps forward and offers him a hand.
“Sean.”
The younger of the two nods and meets his firm handshake, “Aaron.”
The exchange was civil but definitely awkward. Apparently neither Hotchner knew how to communicate in the presence of the other. Sean starts to notice the group, the famous BAU he had seen briefly a couple times over the years.
“Morgan, right?” Sean reaches out to shake his hand.
“Yeah man, good to see you again.”
He exchanges polite conversation with everyone, making the rounds. You stand at Aaron’s side by the door, his eyes rake over your figure and you can tell he’s nervous. A rare side of Aaron. You give a reassuring nod and small smile to try and offer some comfort.
Sean clears his throat, the two of you snap up in his direction. His expression slowly changes the longer he stares at the two of you.
You straighten, “Ready?”
He doesn’t move, blinking a few times. The slow painful realization was becoming clear on his face as he looks between the two of you.
“No way.” He says weakly.
Prentiss covers her mouth to hide her reaction and JJ has to turn away. Aaron closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Sean-” You try.
“No.”
He walks right past the two of you, straight out of the precinct. You and Aaron both follow behind all the way out onto the sidewalk.
“Sean.” Aaron calls after him several times.
He keeps walking.
“Are you kidding me?” He tosses over his shoulder, not slowing his stride.
“Sean, please.” You call, his steps falter for a second before he stops and turns around to face the two of you.
Twenty minutes later the three of you are sitting in a small Italian restaurant. The shock had not worn off at all and the table was quiet. Aaron looks exhausted and Sean looks like he would rather be anywhere else on the planet.
“This is unbelievable.” Sean shakes his head, breaking the silence that had been sitting with them since the waiter left, “Aaron, you’re dating my ex girlfriend?”
“From high school.” Aaron reminds defensively.
Sean points in his face, “Still.”
“It was over a decade ago.”
Morgan would’ve loved this. Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh.
“How long?”
You decide to answer, “A couple months now.”
“Since you joined the team?” His brows raise and you shake your head.
“Not right away.”
“Huh.” He reaches forward and takes a piece of bread that had been sitting in the center of the table the entire time. “And you’re both happy?”
You tilt your head, “That’s it?”
He shrugs, “What do you want me to say?”
“Aren’t you mad?”
Sean laughs, “Y/n.”
His expression softens and you and Aaron look at each other unsure and confused.
“We broke up a decade ago.” Hotch holds up his hands at Sean’s words, but he continues anyway, “We’ve been friends ever since. It’s a little weird, but I’m not mad.”
Aaron looks completely surprised.
“Aaron did tell you for years that you were too smart for me.” Sean reminds.
You snort loudly.
“I do, however, reserve the right to make fun of the two of you about this.”
“That’s fair.” Aaron cracks a small smile.
“Extensively.”
Aaron sighs, “There it is.”
For the first time all evening, the tension eased. The conversation shifted to lighter topics. Old stories and family memories dominated the meal. Work was part of it, but it didn’t last long since you had to step on Aaron’s foot to drop the judgement over his career path. Some time after the table was cleared and leftovers boxed up, Aaron and Sean started talking. Really talking.
Years of distance could never just disappear overnight, but it was a start. You noticed the way the two of them had both relaxed. They would never admit it to the other, but they missed each other.
Eventually Sean points at you, “You know she’s the one responsible for this?”
Sean is staring closely at his brother. Aaron would admit that this conversation wouldn’t be possible without you. After the years had passed, Sean missing core moments of Jack’s life, he never thought they could get back to this place.
Aaron nods, “I know.”
For a moment the younger Hotchner looks genuinely happy. It wasn’t about the relationship, or even the weirdness of it, but just being happy to see his brother smile again. He knew things had been rough, he wouldn’t deny either of you the happiness you clearly bring each other.
Sean raises a glass, “To questionable life choices.”
You laugh and Aaron groans.
For the first time in years, both Hotchner brothers laughed together.
-
You and Aaron take your time walking back to the hotel. The team let you both know that everyone was heading back to the hotel for the night, hoping fresh eyes tomorrow would help. For a few hours the two of you weren’t behavioral profilers. The warmth of the dinner had almost felt surreal considering how it had started.
It was a brother reconnecting with his family and two friends reuniting.
The elevator ride up was quiet in a comfortable way. You lean against his side as he watches the floor number flash as you climb higher.
“Tired?” You ask, looking up at him.
He huffs a laugh that even sounds tired, “Very.”
“Emotionally?” You tease.
He glances down, “Mostly.”
You smile and the elevator doors open. The two of you were only a few doors apart, standard BAU procedure. Separate rooms and separate spaces were the professional way. The two of you stop outside your door. Neither of you are eager to separate.
“Goodnight, Aaron.”
His expression softens, “Goodnight.”
He waits for you to get into the room and for the door to lock before walking down to his room. You immediately move toward the bathroom to take a shower and wash off the day. After the fact you reach into your bag and pull out one of Aaron’s old law school hoodies. It was something you were quick to claim the first time you came over to his place.
It was faded and comfortable. You saw him wear it a dozen times all those years ago.
You’re brushing your teeth when your phone lights up on the bathroom counter.
Aaron.
You smile instantly and answer the phone and put it on speaker.
“Miss me already?”
He pauses and it’s long enough you look down at the phone to see if the line is still connected.
“Yes.”
You freeze, toothbrush halfway to the sink.
“What?”
He sighs and you can practically see him rubbing a hand over his face.
“I’m aware how that sounds.”
You laugh, “Aaron.”
Another pause.
“I do. Miss you.”
Your smile was impossible to wipe off now. This was not the composed Unit Chief most people knew, this was the one you have been seeing for months. This is your boyfriend being the needy man he is. You move to your bed, taking your phone with you and sliding under the covers.
“I’m right down the hall.”
“Yes.”
“LIke twenty feet away.”
“I’m aware.” He passed out everyone’s keys, of course he’s aware.
You’re smiling so wide it’s starting to pull on your cheeks, “You know, you’re quite needy.”
He lets out a surprised laugh.
“You’re to blame for that.”
You laugh loudly, not expecting that.
“Sneak in then.”
The line goes quiet for a few seconds. You can practically see him debating it. It’s late enough now, few people on the team would even be up at this point. The two of you have not done this once since the relationship started.
“They’ll notice.” He eventually says.
“Not if you’re careful.”
He takes a few more seconds to debate.
“You make terrible suggestions.”
“Hey, you’re the one who called me all breathy saying ‘miss you’.”
He laughs suddenly and the sound brings another smile to your face.
“Twenty seconds.” He hangs up and the line goes dead.
Less than twenty seconds pass and there’s a quiet knock at the door. You chuckle to yourself and walk over to open the door.
“Aaron.” You smile.
He walks straight in, his arms wrapping around your waist. His lips find yours, pressing hard as he backs you up closer to the bed. He pulls back after a few more seconds pass, pressing a couple quick pecks after.
You smile and run a hand through his hair. You can see the weight of the last few days lessening.
“Hi.” He smiles.
His smiles weren’t rare anymore, they happened all the time now. You still appreciate seeing them every time. The two of you move to get under the covers, he doesn’t miss the hoodie you’ve managed to get ahold of. He’s confident this isn’t the only one you’ve got.
Aaron pulls you in against his chest and reaches out to turn off the lamp. The room goes dark, but you can still faintly see his outline in the moonlight.
He lets out a deep sigh after a few moments pass, holding you a little tighter.
“Rough day?” You ask, sensing the tension leaving. You trace your hands up and down his arms that are wrapped around you.
“Long day.” He pauses, “A good day.”
Your expression softens because you know exactly what he meant. The conversation and the relief afterward had been a lot to worry about. You could see that he was carrying it for days. Everything you had been worried about somehow worked out.
“You okay?”
“Better than okay.” He leans in closer to press a kiss behind your ear, “I was worried.”
“About Sean?”
You feel him nod behind you and squeeze his hand.
“He loves you.”
“I’m glad tonight happened.” He quietly admits.
“Me too.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
The words were simple but they meant everything.
“Me too.”
For the first time that Aaron could remember he felt completely at peace. Even if it was only for one night and the two of you would likely have to face another crime scene tomorrow. Tonight was all he needed. He has you in his arms and that’s enough.
-
an// a little one shot turned LONG one shot just as a mini break from the Hotch series i’ve been working on! so fun, i love dating brothers even tho it’s so so wrong lmao. the beauty of fiction, my loves! please let me know your thoughts, i’m dying to talk about this!
Summary: It was well known within the team that there was one other person that had captured their team leader's heart. You knew Aaron back when he and Haley took a break from their relationship and he went to the academy and met you. What the team doesn’t know is that you have been with the FBI ever since, working the west coast mainly until you get requested to join the BAU.
series list
word count: 3.8K
warnings: lil smut aheadddd. minors DNI.
an// the timeline is a little different in this from the show, Aaron spent longer as a prosecutor before going to the academy and joining the FBI for this to work and to make the reader younger than Aaron. This is also a world where Foyet never happened and Haley is still alive.
-
It took another hour for the plane to land back home. Everyone still looked exhausted but you and Hotch had renewed energy. The team shuffled off the jet carrying their go bags, Aaron stands at the bottom of the stairs waiting for everyone to get off.
“Go home.” He instructs, “Nine a.m. tomorrow. Everyone get some rest.”
Garcia sighs dramatically, “I’m not setting an alarm.”
She goes off with Morgan, walking toward their cars. Within minutes everyone scattered, ready to spend the night in their own beds and homes. Everyone was too tired to see you and Aaron heading in the same direction.
The drive was quiet, you didn’t have to give him directions. It was comfortable, but part of you was still replaying everything that has happened since you came here. You didn’t know what to expect when joining the BAU, but you didn’t think it would push you back into Aaron’s arms. That was something you had given up hope on. It was something you didn’t think you even wanted anymore. At least until you’ve had to see him nearly every day again for months.
The streetlights pass overhead the entire commute. Aaron drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console. Eventually you reach over and your fingers intertwine automatically. It felt like muscle memory. You catch him looking down at your hands briefly while a small smile threatens the corners of his mouth.
By the time the two of you reach your apartment building, the city has grown quiet for the night but the two of you are wide awake. You unlock your front door and toss your bag down on the couch. Aaron remains by the door, bag in hand like he’s unsure what to do with it.
“Aaron?”
His eyes meet yours.
“Do you wanna take a shower?” You take a couple steps back toward your bedroom, “Together?”
He blinks. You can see it processing on his face before that rare smile makes an appearance.
He huffs a small laugh, “Only a fool would say no to that.”
He follows your lead, leaving his bag in your room. You reach into the shower to turn on the water, steam rising from it. The room starts to fill with heat, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of the room.
You turn back to see Hotch leaning against the doorway, watching you with warm eyes. Desire written all over his face. He steps forward without hesitating, until the space between the two of you collapses. The heat from his chest brushes against yours, his hand reaches for your jaw tilting your head up toward him.
He’s waiting. Asking without asking.
“Aaron.” You practically beg.
His eyes darken and his hand finds the curve of your jaw. His mouth meets yours and it’s not soft. It’s deliberate and certain. His lips are warm and familiar, even after all these years. His palm slides to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair. He deepens the kiss like he’s finally getting a taste of what he’s needed for years.
When he breaks it, his forehead rests against yours while you both catch your breath. His grip on your neck hasn’t loosened, you pull him against you again by the collar of his dress shirt. Your teeth catch his bottom lip and the sound he makes is low and dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Y/n.” He murmurs your name as his mouth finds your jaw, then your throat. The kisses are open mouthed and unhurried like he’s addicted to tasting your skin. His hands slide down your sides, his thumb tracing the curve of your ribs. His breath is hot against your collarbone.
You reach forward to undo the buttons of his shirt and push it back off his shoulders so he can be free of it. Scars litter his chest that weren’t there ten years ago.
His mouth reclaims yours, hungrier now. He isn’t as careful now, his hands find the hem of your shirt and he sneaks his hands under the material. You arch into his touch and the shirt comes off in one smooth motion, tossed somewhere behind him on the bathroom floor.
His eyes travel all over you and his breath catches. It’s barely audible, but you hear it. He lowers to his knees and it’s almost ceremonial. His hands find your hips, his thumb hooking on the waistband of your pants. He pulls them down slowly, mouth trailing after the newly revealed skin.
He pauses when his eyes catch on something. His thumb brushes over the ink on your hip.
“This is new.” He looks up, his eyes meeting yours. You nod, biting back a smile. You’ve had it for years, but for him it’s new. His eyes visibly darken before he looks back to press a kiss over it. “I like it.”
His mouth finds the soft inside of your thigh, continuing each kiss. His hands guide your legs apart and you brace a hand against the wall. Each kiss is slower than the last and building heat in their wake. You let your other hand reach down and find his hair, fingers threading through the short dark hair.
He looks up at you as he presses another open wet kiss to your thigh before finally reaching you. It’s soft at first, barely there. Then his tongue parts you, flat and warm. Aaron’s grip on your hip tightens and his eyes flutter shut. You can see it on his face, he’s savoring it. His tongue circles and finds a rhythm. Every couple of seconds his nose brushes against your clit, making your moans fill the bathroom.
One hand leaves your hip to slide up your stomach before cupping your breast. His thumb brushes your nipple while his mouth continues to work on you. He hums and the vibration travels through your core, pulling a loud gasp from you. He doesn’t speed up, he draws it out like he never wants the moment to end. Your grip on his hair tightens and he knows you’re close. The pressure builds tight and hot until you can’t hang on anymore.
“Okay,” You say a little breathless, “Now can we shower?”
He stands and smiles proudly before nodding. The shower was still hot thankfully, you tilt your head back to let it wash over your face. When you open your eyes again Aaron’s joined you, his eyes openly drinking you in. You reach out to pull him under the stream with you and he pulls you in close. The water makes his hair even darker and plasters it to his forehead. He looks younger like this, before taking a hand to brush the damp hair away from his face.
With a grin still plastered to his face, “I missed you.”
You unsuccessfully fight off your own smile, “I missed you, too.”
He pulls you in for a deep and all consuming kiss. Your back meets the cold tile and his hand braces beside your head. The water runs down the two of you but neither care to break away. You melt against him.
“I think we should do this forever.” He mumbles against your lips, “But tonight you still have a concussion.”
You laugh, pulling back enough to press your forehead against his. He’s right, the two of you probably shouldn’t take it further than this tonight. You reach around him for your soap and a wash cloth. You lather it up and bring it to his chest and he stills under your touch. He isn’t exactly tense, but you can tell it’s been a long time since anyone has done this for him.
You spread the soap across his shoulders, over the broad planes of his chest. His eyes close and he lets you pass over his scars without flinching. You take your time, working down his arms as well. You turn him gently and he lets you. You drag the wash cloth down the stiff ridge of his spine.
“Y/n.” He says your name quietly like a prayer he didn’t mean to say out loud.
You continue, finishing at his hips and tracing the muscle that frames them. His head drops forward and he pulls you up to stand under the stream of water with him again.
“Your turn.” He smiles again.
He washes you like he’s done it a hundred times, and it would be a lie to say it was the first time. It was the first time in this decade at least.
He works slowly, moving across your collarbone and down your arms. His hands are impossibly gentle and careful. These are the same hands that throw punches at unsubs, but you would never know that now. His lips brush your shoulder, you feel him exhale.
“Thank you.” He says with another quiet exhale. He says it so quietly the water almost swallows it. You turn in his hold and lift a hand to touch his jaw.
“For what?”
Your question is soft and curious. He doesn’t answer right away and his hands settle on your waist. His thumbs trace idle patterns and the shower spray drums against his back.
“For trusting me again.” His voice is still low but he meets your eyes without a mask. He doesn’t try to hide anything anymore. He’s just a man standing under hot water holding you like he’s dreamed of this for years.
It took effort on both ends, but you guys eventually wrap things up and get into bed. The apartment was quiet in a peaceful way that you hadn’t experienced in a long time. Hours of adrenaline, bombings, near misses, confessions, and years of unresolved feelings were finally catching up to the two of you.
You toss the covers off quickly, stealing one of Aaron’s shirts right out from his open go bag.
“Where are you going?” He leans back against the pillows, watching your every move with a smirk.
“I need water.” You roll your eyes and walk out of the room. Aaron watches you disappear into the hallway and he hears the fridge open. A few more seconds pass and nothing. The silence returns and Aaron settles against the pillow. A minute passes. Then another.
A strange feeling settles in his stomach. It wasn’t panic, it was instinct. The same instinct that had kept him alive through years of profiling.
He sits up, “Y/n?”
Nothing. His heart rate accelerates and he’s up and out of bed before he consciously decides to move. He crosses the bedroom in a second and rounds the hall toward the living room. A thin strip of light spills into the apartment from the hallway outside, your front door left partially open. He glances toward the kitchen to see the door to the fridge wide open, an empty glass still on the counter next to it.
Aaron’s stomach drops because he knows something is wrong. Very wrong. Years of profiling suddenly scream at him. No signs of struggle and no broken furniture. No yelling and no noise. This was fast and professional.
He grabs his weapon from where he left it near the entry table when they got home. His pulse hammers and he’s moving out the door down the hallway before he can stop himself. Bare feet pound against the stairs, he takes them three at a time. He flies down the three floors and bursts out the door toward the parking lot. No one is out here at this hour, but at the far end of the parking lot there’s a van leaving.
Aaron raises his gun but lowers it after a few seconds. It was too far and there were too many unknowns. It was too much risk and it cost him because the van accelerated away from him. He sprints to get a good look. White cargo van. Passenger side rear panel dent. North Carolina registration. Three letters and two numbers. He burns it into memory as he stops running in the middle of the street, breathing hard.
He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.
His professional instinct eventually takes over, crushing the panic taking over him. The abduction was planned and executed with fast extraction. There was no ransom demand or communication of any kind left behind. This is not random.
This is someone who knows exactly who you are and how to take you. Whoever they are, Aaron is confident they just made the biggest mistake of their life. He was going to find you no matter what it takes.
-
Five years ago.
The case haunted the Los Angeles field office long before you ever touched it. When it finally landed on your desk, you had heard the horror stories already. Several agents had been given this case without success.
Girls were disappearing. Mostly foster kids and runaways, but there was the occasional girl that caught the mainstream media attention. It sickened you that they were the only ones noticed, not the four dozen others in the file.
They operated across state lines and over the border, moving victims between California, Arizona, Nevada, and Mexico. Every time the FBI got close, they would disappear and evidence would vanish. The case had been open for nearly ten years.
“Do you understand what you’re asking?” Your SAC has asked you.
You sat across from him calmly, “Yes.”
“This isn’t a two-day assignment, L/n.” He reminds, “You would be alone with them for months to get the information you’re looking for.”
“I know.” You clear your throat, “Whatever it takes.”
It took eleven weeks to work your way into their circle. Eleven weeks of pretending to be desperate, vulnerable, and recruitable.
You were young enough to be a good tool for them. The girls trusted you which was something that didn’t come along very often. Your job was caring for the girls, which was easier said than done. After weeks of working in their operation you discovered it was led by a married couple known simply as Hector and Susan.
They were monsters hiding behind smiles.
The longer you stayed embedded in the group, the more evidence you collected against them. Names, routes, bank accounts, safe houses, and corrupt contacts. Every piece mattered, but it got harder and harder to stay. The victims were young and some hadn’t seen their families in years.
You listened to them. Their names, birthdays, families, and dreams. You made it your mission to get every last one of them out of there unharmed. You couldn’t move too quickly, or else the entire network would disappear and rebuild after time.
Hector and Susan had a son named Brendan. He was dangerously smart and knew to stay quiet. He was only seventeen, but he was integral to their operation at this point. He handled logistics for them and was a wealth of guarded information.
Every time you were in the same room as him, you felt more unsettled than usual. The lack of innocence or sympathy in his emotions was obvious.
The operation ended on a random Tuesday. You had gotten enough information for them to coordinate simultaneous raids across four states. There were forty-seven arrests and hundreds of victims recovered. One of the largest trafficking busts in FBI history. You would never forget the chaos of all the SWAT teams moving in while trying to get the girls to safety.
Hector. The leader. The architect. The man responsible for everything that happened here for years. They found him barricaded in one of the safe houses. Armed and cornered. One gunshot rang out before they could even breach the room.
He chose death over prison, refusing to surrender and take accountability. A man like that refuses to face justice.
The trials went on for months, you were called back to the stand constantly to testify against different people. Brendon took a reduced sentence, claiming abuse and parental control forced him into coercion. He was painted as another victim trapped by his parents’ crimes, and to an extent that was true, but you knew who he truly was.
He received a significantly reduced sentence compared to the adults involved. You saw him in the courtroom that day, waiting for sentencing. His glare followed you rather than focusing on his future that was on the line. Hatred radiated from every inch of him.
The marshals move him toward the exit, but he fights against them for a few seconds.
“I’ll never forget this!” He shouts, still glaring at you and still furious.
You watch him disappear through the courthouse doors and eventually walk away, leaving him and the case behind you.
-
Your vision came back slowly, every part of your head throbbing again. Your neck feels stiff as you try to hold your head up, your eyes blinking to focus. The room smells concrete and mildew. Definitely not your apartment.
Something restrains your wrists and you blink more forcefully so you can look down. Rope is tied tight, binding your arms together behind you, your legs tied to the chair legs. You force yourself to breathe, years of training taking over. You need to assess and survive.
The room is dark, a single lightbulb poorly lighting the industrial space. A warehouse maybe? There’s a faint drip of water somewhere in the room. A voice calls out from the darkness.
“There she is.”
A chair scrapes somewhere in the dark.
“I was starting to think we got the dosage wrong.”
You turn your head to the sound and freeze. A man steps into the light, he’s older now. Older than the teenager you saw in that courtroom. His shoulders are broader and his features have grown sharper to match his fathers. His eyes still hold the same hatred. You know him instantly.
“Brendan.”
His smile widens.
“Oh good,” He steps closer, “you remember me.”
You stare at him, watching him circle you.
“You should still be in prison.”
He laughs.
“And you should’ve stayed out of my family’s business.”
There it was. The anger was untouched by time, unaffected by prison.
You lean back against the chair, “Brendan-”
“No.” His expression darkens. You stay quiet and he studies you for a long moment.
“I spent five years in a cell because of you.” He spits, “My mother is still in a cell because of you. My father-my father is dead because of you.”
“Your father chose a coward's way out.”
His smile vanishes instantly.
“There she is.” He swallows, “The same righteousness, it’s sickening.”
You track every moment and try to take in the environment behind him. The doors, windows, and cameras, or even anything you could use as a weapon. He notices.
“You always were smart.” He smiles again, “I knew it then, you were too smart to work with us. I tried to tell my dad, but I think he liked you too much to see the real you.”
He circles you again.
“My father thought he was a genius and my mother thought she was the strategist.” He lets out a bitter laugh, “But they never noticed who was actually keeping everything running.”
He stops directly in front of you and leans in closer, reaching out a hand to your hair.
“But you noticed.”
You feel your stomach drop.
You keep your voice calm, “You rebuilt it.”
He’s picked up where his parents left off. You can see it in his eyes, the desire to prove himself. This is the moment he’s been waiting for.
“Gold star for the golden agent!” He claps, pacing again, “I’ve done it better than they ever could’ve!”
The room felt even colder because you actually believe him. Years ago he was the one handling all of the transportation, communication, money, and the infrastructure. He kept the machine moving and now he’s had experience, resources, and time.
“People are going to die.” You remind, trying to remain steady.
He shrugs, “You know what prison teaches you?”
He leans in closer when you don’t answer.
“Patience.”
He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear and you turn your face away from his. He crouches and grabs your chin.
“I’ve had five years to think about everything you took from me.”
You stare him down, “You lost everything because of what your family did.”
His smile disappears again and for a second you can see the seventeen year old boy again. The one screaming in a courtroom desperate to blame someone.
He stands, “You still don’t get it.”
“Get what?” You watch him carefully.
The silence stretches and he smiles again which makes you feel worse. Worse because the anger is gone now, just certainty.
“I always wanted you to understand what it feels like.” His eyes never leave yours, “To have someone decide your future.”
The room goes quiet while the threat hangs in the air. Your chest rises a little faster, the rope biting at your wrists. Alarm bells are screaming in your head because now you understand something critical. This isn’t just revenge, he didn’t kidnap you just to kill you.
No.
If he wanted you dead, you would already be dead. He wants something else. He wants fear, power, and control over you. The same things his family had built an empire around. The same empire you took down.
“You’re older than our ideal target, but with a face like that?” He reaches out to grip your cheeks, “You’ll do just fine.”
This is his endgame. Kidnapping you and forcing you into a sex trafficking ring was what he had dreamt of for years while stuck in a cell.
He lets go, pushing your face back harshly before walking back toward the door. He knocks twice and an armed man opens the door for him.
“I almost forgot,” he turns back to look at you one last time, “Your team is looking for you. We’ll have to keep an eye on that.”
-
AN// HOTCH ON HIS KNEES FINALLY!!! I have been WAITING for this moment!!! But can our girl just catch a break 😭 Also, I am so sorry for the delay in updating! Between graduating, moving, and a new job OMG life has been insane! But I will try to be more consistent again going forward, this should settle a bit now! Only one more part and an epilogue to go 🫣🥺
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summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
I deadass think steve rogers ending was character assassination and conservative rhetoric (send the progressive man back to the decade epitomes with traditional values for a white picket fence life) but it was also just cruel to steve and bucky. “oh ur just mad ur ship didn’t go canon” no im mad the friendship that was the most important thing in both of their lives was tossed aside and the audience was gaslit into believing it didn’t matter despite three films proving otherwise. steve dropped the shield twice for bucky and would have died rather than live in a world where bucky didn’t remember him. bucky broke thru 70 years of brainwashing at the sound of steve’s voice. their catchphrase was essentially “til death do we part”. the fuck
Summary: It was well known within the team that there was one other person that had captured their team leader's heart. You knew Aaron back when he and Haley took a break from their relationship and he went to the academy and met you. What the team doesn’t know is that you have been with the FBI ever since, working the west coast mainly until you get requested to join the BAU.
series list
word count: 4.4K
an// the timeline is a little different in this from the show, Aaron spent longer as a prosecutor before going to the academy and joining the FBI for this to work and to make the reader younger than Aaron. This is also a world where Foyet never happened and Haley is still alive.
-
You had gotten hours of sleep back at the hotel, but the night dragged on anyway. The unsub’s countdown kept ticking by on the monitor at the far end of the table. You have half scribbled behavioral notes that are all heavy on the guesswork. Prentiss and Morgan checked in periodically from the field, still retracing the previous bomb sites looking for overlap.
Every check in ended the same way on both ends. No solid leads.
Across the room behind you Aaron remains stretched across the couch. Every so often you find yourself looking over involuntarily. Each time you force yourself back toward the case board. Seeing Aaron asleep felt strangely intimate. Sure, everyone’s had a nap on the jet, but this was just the two of you.
He looked too human. Too soft. Without the rigid posture and constant focus he looked younger and it reminded you of a version of him you tried to keep blocked out.
You rub your eyes tiredly before leaning back in your chair. You were missing something. The unsub is building toward a final event. He isn’t random. It’s not chaos for chaos’ sake. He had intention and you could feel it.
“Any luck?”
You look toward the door expecting Morgan and Emily but instead find Mark. He’s in a new suit but it’s clear he didn’t sleep much either.
You sigh, “Not enough.”
He nods once before looking over the new things you had added to the board. He glances over at the couch, spotting Aaron. He looks back at you right after.
“I’m heading out for coffee.”
You perk up and he smirks.
“I knew that’d get your attention.” He laughs, “I remember something about ‘bureau coffee tastes like battery acid’.”
You smile, “Let me ask you this, when was the last time someone cleaned that thing?”
You gesture to the ancient machine sitting along the far wall, he holds up his hands in defence and takes a couple steps backward toward the door.
“Same order?”
You nod immediately and his eyes flick over your shoulder toward Aaron again.
“What about him?”
You blink a couple times, honestly surprised he was offering. It must’ve shown on your face too because he snorted softly.
“We’re all working to catch the son of a bitch together.” He shrugs, “Team morale or whatever.”
You huff a small laugh before looking back toward the couch.
“Large black coffee.”
He nods and disappears out into the bullpen. The silence in the room takes over again and you give it exactly three seconds.
“You really gotta work on your poker face if you’re going to make a habit of eavesdropping.”
Silence.
“Does it count as eavesdropping if I’m in plain sight?” Aaron eventually answers.
You spin around in your chair and he still has his eyes closed. You don’t know the exact moment he woke up, but you knew he was awake when you looked over at him when Mark asked about his coffee. He sits up, his hair messy and in all directions from the throw pillows.
“You could’ve told him your coffee order yourself.”
A faint near smile crosses his face.
“That was a surprise.” He admits, “He’s a good man.”
You raise your brows to show how surprised you are at the admission.
“He is.”
“Why didn’t you marry him?” He asks boldly and you sigh. You run a hand back through your hair to buy yourself a couple seconds to come with the answer. You know you can’t lie to him, there’s no use.
“After our break up I told myself I would never settle for less.” You confess, wanting to dodge his stare, “I knew if I went through with the wedding… “
You stare off for a second, not finishing the thought. You can’t and not to him of all people. After a second or two you look back at him and where he’s still focused on you.
“He deserved better.” You nod, leaving it at that.
Aaron swallows, finally looking down and wiping his palms on the top of his thighs in front of him. You turn back toward the table and press your elbows into it with your hands folded together. The converging maps still lay out in front of you.
You shift back into work mode and he rolls up the wrinkled sleeves of his button down to reveal his forearms and leans forward to put his shoes back on.
“Any breakthroughs?”
“Maybe.”
That got his attention. You grab one of the subway maps and he stands up and leans over your shoulder. You point toward the locations of each bombing.
“We’ve been assuming escalation meant bigger casualties.”
He nods, “But?”
“I don’t think he’s targeting our response time. I think he’s testing the traffic patterns at different hours and locations to see what gives him the biggest fallout.”
He nods and you continue.
“The first attack was the car bomb, and the passengers were the only victims, the road was only closed for a few hours. The second bomb was at a subway platform, which closed that train but the lines were still running. The coffee shop shut down access for a block radius. The most recent one? That line is still closed because of the wreckage and thousands of people are using alternate routes.”
“The fewer routes, the more people condensed on the alternate routes.” He continues, catching on immediately.
You nod, “He bottlenecks people to specific trains and then targets them heavily.”
Your eyes meet at the same time at the realization. This unsub wasn’t simply trying to cause panic, he was looking to harm thousands of civilians.
Mark comes back with a tray of coffees, the rest of the team following behind him. JJ and Reid look more alive than when you last saw them. You offer Mark a quick ‘thank you’ when he hands you your drink. He then turns toward Aaron and offers his. Rossi’s eyes follow the motion and his shoulders move with a silent chuckle.
“Thank you.” Aaron takes it.
“Oh this is messy.” Garcia’s eyes widen, looking between everyone in the room.
“Garcia.” You warn, cutting her a look.
“First thing in the morning…” She sits down and opens her laptop and continues mumbling mostly to herself, “Where’s my coffee?”
Everyone settles in around the table.
“We have two hours.” Aaron announces and you look over to the countdown. It’ll go off at 8 o’clock this morning, during the start of the morning rush. He continues, “Y/n has a theory I think we should pursue.”
He looks over to you and nods.
You point at the maps, “I think he’s trying to target train lines to get more people on the alternate routes. The alternate routes are the real targets, they’ll be more crowded than usual.”
JJ’s face pales slightly, “That’s thousands of people commuting.”
“And a dozen different train lines that he could be targeting.” Morgan’s expression hardens, “We can’t cover every line with bomb squads fast enough.”
“So we don’t.” You cut in.
Aaron nods, “We’ll pair off. Morgan and Emily take the A line. JJ and Rossi take the 7 line. Reid and Garcia, monitor surveillance and coordinate the remaining lines with local agents. Y/n and I will take the F line.”
-
The subway platform beneath Manhattan felt crowded before you and Aaron had fully descended the stairs. Commutters were packed shoulder to shoulder, moving in both directions getting in and off passing trains. You are hanging on every second, Reid just announced in your earpiece that the unsub’s timer has run out.
You and Aaron are scanning people constantly, your shoulder is barely brushing his as you face different directions. You’re looking for everything. Behavior. Movement. Nerves.
“I have a bad feeling.” You frown, Aaron glances over at you for a split second.
The energy was wrong. You had a pit in your stomach that was telling you to run.
“I feel it too.” The ever so rational Aaron Hotchner admits.
The train shutters to a stop, all the doors opening simultaneously. There’s an exchange of people getting off and then on the train. Moms with strollers pass through, elderly couples, and dozens of people heading in for work.
The train doors shut after a few seconds and then immediately bounce back open with the conductor cracking on the PA. Everyone lets out a collective groan.
“Train delay.” The train conductor announces, “Something blocking the line, please hold.”
This is it.
“Aaron-”
“Yep.”
Both of you immediately shift to get people moving.
“Everybody off the train NOW!” You shout, waving people out toward the stairs and guiding them out. People start flooding past the two of you.
“FBI” Aaron yells, “Off the train!”
The panic was immediate, people screaming and shoving. Everyone is trying to force themselves toward the exits. You and Aaron move through the chaos like experts, helping mothers get their children to the stairs, trying to get everyone as far away as possible.
The train is empty and nearly everyone is moving up the stairs. Everything moving in seconds, you turn to look for Aaron.
You press on your ear piece, “Reid get emergency services to the F train and figure out which alternate lines he would target if he takes out the F train.”
“Y/n has there been an attack?” Reid answers quickly.
“Not yet-”
“Let’s go.” Aaron reaches out his arm and gestures for the two of you to leave. You look back once to make sure no one was left behind and he pushes you forward ahead of him closer to the stairs.
And then the world exploded. The blast hit like a physical wall, glass shattered violently and metal screamed. For one long terrifying second, nothing existed except for white noise and intense pressure.
The sound comes back rushing, you slowly lift your head. Smoke has taken over the station forcing you to cough violently as you try to reorient yourself. Pain is throbbing near the top of your forehead. Warm blood slides slowly down your temple as you get up on wobbly legs.
“Aaron?” You call, squinting through all the smoke. The lights have gone out and the stairs are clouded with distant daylight. You can see a few remaining civilians flee, running up to the street level. Panic punches in your chest at the lack of response from him. You walk back toward the subway platform where there’s small flames and the edge to the platform is gone. The subway car is in warped pieces and the concrete ledge is crumbling away.
You turn back to see Aaron standing. Barely. Something about the look on his face made your stomach drop. You take quick careful steps toward him, avoiding the rubble.
“Aaron?”
He looks up and his balance wavers and you catch his arm before he can trip over his own feet.
“You’ve got glass in your hair.” He shouts it like you’re still standing across the station instead of inches away.
You freeze as his hands come up instinctively to your head, brushing off the glass in your hair.
“Aaron, we’ve gotta get out of here.” You gesture toward the stairs, your lungs craving fresh air. The sound of sirens is getting louder from the street above.
His eyes look distant like he doesn’t follow.
“I think you’re in shock.”
He frowns and you nod toward the stairs. He follows you as you carefully make your way upstairs, coughing while the dust is still trying to settle. Police are flooding in while people are screaming for help.
You reach for your earpiece to talk to Reid but it would seem you lost it in the blast. Hopefully he is looking into the alternate route for the closure, you and Aaron may have bought the critical seconds needed to avoid mass casualty. Maybe.
A black SUV pulls up right next to you with lights flashing. Morgan and Prentiss get out before he fully puts it in park.
“Are you guys okay?” Emily asks, concern written all over her face as she takes you two in.
“I don’t think he can hear.” You explain.
“Again?” Derek sighs.
“This has happened before?” Your eyes go wide.
“Not even the first time in New York.” He shakes his head and you look horrified.
“Jesus.” You mutter, clutching the top of your head where it pounds.
You can still feel Aaron staring at you like he’s trying very hard to stay grounded. It’s pure chaos around all of you while people are being treated for minor injuries and hundreds of people are flooded into one spot, narrowly avoiding the bomb that knocked you and Aaron on your asses.
“You with me?” You ask carefully. His eyes are focused on reading your lips, he slowly nods.
“Reid is sending the bomb squads to the M stations.” Morgan explains, “He said you guys called it in before the blast.”
You nod once, tiredly. Paramedics begin to crowd the two of you, checking out his hearing and the wound on your head that won’t stop bleeding. The adrenaline and smoke are still burning through you, but you catch Aaron’s eyes every few seconds through the chaos.
-
Reid managed to get the bomb squad evacuating the alternate route and the tactical team caught the unsub attempting to plant the secondary explosive on a crowded inbound train. He was swarmed with no other option but to surrender and they didn’t give him the chance to self detonate.
Hundreds of lives were saved.
Just like that, over forty-eight hours of terror over the city came to an end. JJ called it in to confirm for everyone that he had been taken away in handcuffs while screaming incoherently. Hours later after you and Aaron have both been cleared by medical, everyone ends up back in the conference room with packed go-bags and bare evidence boards.
It still looked like a warzone, coffee cups littered everywhere. You’re sitting at the table with everyone else, trying hard to focus on your paperwork rather than the stitches throbbing along your hairline. The jet is fueling and the official medical clearance to actually fly home should be coming any second.
“You look even more badass now.” Garcia insists.
“Thanks, Garc.” You smile.
Aaron’s hearing had mostly returned, by his standard. He was still a little off balance, but it had mostly returned after the initial blast ringing faded. Every once and a while he’d miss the beginning of a sentence and try to hide it.
“We’ve gotta stop coming to New York.” Morgan shakes his head, “One of us always nearly gets blown up.”
“Yes,” Aaron agrees, “let’s not make it a habit.”
“Says you.” You bite, “You’re two for two.”
Garcia lets out a tired sigh, “Can we all just agree bombers are the worst forever?”
The room offered her nods to agree.
Reid looks up from his notes, “If we’re talking statistics, they’re among the least empathetic offender groups.”
Emily points at him, “Reid, I cannot handle any more statistics
Out of the corner of your eye you see Mark approach the open door.
“Hotchner.”
Aaron looks up at him, but everyone’s head’s snap up in surprise. Everyone looks too fast and Mark nods behind him outside of the room.
“Can we talk?”
Aaron nods and stands up from his chair, following Mark outside the room and a few feet away.
“No way.” You mutter. You can’t help but shake your head, watching the two of them talk without any context.
Emily smirks, “You’re trying to figure out what they’re saying.”
“Obviously.” You sit up taller, “And I’m making sure neither of them puts the other in a headlock.”
Rossi nearly chokes on his coffee and Morgan lets out a deep laugh. Aaron looks back toward the room at the noise and you immediately look down. You throw your pen at Rossi when he can’t hide his laugh and nearly blows your cover.
Out in the bullpen the noise inside the conference room faded. Aaron stood across from Mark for a silent moment before either of them speak.
“I owe you an apology.” Aaron admits.
Mark looks mildly surprised and it encourages him to continue.
“My behavior was unprofessional.”
“That’s one word for it.” Mark folds his arms on his chest.
He took that without argument. He deserved it.
Mark’s posture shifts, he leans back and lets out a short laugh.
“For what it’s worth, I probably would’ve done the same in your shoes.”
That caught Aaron off guard and Mark can’t help but grin at his expression.
“She has that effect on people.”
Aaron couldn’t deny that. Silence settles between them briefly and Mark looks toward the conference room where you’re sat arguing with Morgan.
“Treat her well.”
Aaron’s posture shifted. It was subtle, but instant. Mark noticed it.
“Yeah,” He says quietly, “I thought so.”
Aaron looks at him carefully and Mark looks back at him.
“You and I both know what it feels like to lose a woman like that.”
Aaron remains silent. He didn’t know what he could possibly say to that.
“When she called off the wedding I couldn’t even be angry with her.” Mark admits.
Aaron frowns and Mark laughs softly at himself.
“I tried to, believe me.”
“What happened?”
Mark looks down the distant hallway for a second before answering.
“She told me I deserved someone who loves me completely.”
Aaron goes very still.
“She said she knew the real thing and wouldn’t be my almost.”
The words land hard for Aaron because he understood immediately.
Mark smiles faintly without humor, “She was sincere about it too. That was the worst part.”
Aaron swallows once and shifts his weight.
“I’m sorry.”
Mark shrugs lightly, “She wasn’t wrong. She just realized it before I could.”
He looks back over toward your direction.
“I don’t know if anybody’s ever gonna measure up to her.”
Aaron follows his gaze to where you’re still talking with the team. It’s clear you’re arguing about something you’re passionate about. It’s the only time you get that wild look in your eye and a wry smile that hides your sharp tongue.
“But I’m still looking.”
Aaron looks back at him. Understanding had passed between them now. Mark extends his hand forward and Aaron meets it. Firm. Respectful.
Then Mark smirks, “Try not to make her homicidal.”
Aaron gives him a rare smile, “Easier said than done.”
The two of them walk back into the conference room and the entire team looks up. Everyone’s faces freeze, not expecting them to look like they were getting along. Was Aaron smiling?
“Well that was anticlimactic.” Derek sighs, spinning in his seat and bumping into your chair with his leg.
“Oh go find a door to kick in or something.” You roll your eyes, pushing Morgan’s seat away from yours.
Aaron snorts and not a single person in the room misses it.
Rossi points between the two men who are still standing side by side, “I was hoping for at least a shove.”
“You guys need help.” Aaron shakes his head.
Garcia gasps dramatically, “Did you two bond?”
“Oh god.” You groan. An actual nightmare.
Mark shakes his head with a light laugh, “This team spends way too much time together.”
“Occupational hazard.” Emily shrugs.
“So?” You turn your attention to the two men, “What did the two of you talk about?”
Your tone is teasing, but there’s a sliver of real curiosity.
“The case.” Aaron holds up his file.
“Liar.” You roll your eyes.
Mark smirks lightly and pats him on the shoulder, “Good luck with that, Hotchner.”
Your jaw drops, “Hey!”
“I’ve got to head up and brief the director.”
You get from your spot to say goodbye and he pulls you in for one last hug. This time Aaron watches it without visibly bristling.
“Take care of yourself.” He says over your shoulder, giving you one last squeeze before letting go.
“You too.”
Mark glances back toward Aaron behind you once before looking back at you.
“Try to go easy on him.” He gives you the smallest hint of a smirk.
You push him toward the door, “Get out of here.”
He shouts a couple goodbyes over your shoulder and you turn back to see all of the BAU team openly staring at you.
“What?”
Emily points at Aaron, “He didn’t even glare once.”
Aaron sighs, “Wheels up.”
-
The city skyline glowed orange against the early evening sky. Everyone looked wrecked in their wrinkled clothes and exhausted eyes. You’re coming up on twenty-four hours awake after working through the night and being in an explosion this morning. What a day.
JJ and Emily passed out almost immediately. Garcia was curled up, leaning on Morgan’s side with a movie playing on her laptop in front of them on the table. Reid and Rossi are talking quietly on the other side. You and Aaron ended up toward the back of the plane, the two seats facing each other.
Somehow that had become your spot on the way home. Wordlessly the two of you would take these seats the last few weeks.
You wince slightly when you accidentally bump your hairline. Aaron notices it right away.
“Still hurting?”
“Barely.”
He leans back in his seat and studies you quietly for a moment. The bruise near your temple was still darkening. The glass left you the large gash that needed stitches and several small scratches.
You catch him and you don’t even have to say the words. He knows he’s caught. The two of you let the hum of the jet settle around you. Minutes pass as Aaron works up the courage to ask a dangerous question in a confined space.
“Why didn’t you marry him?”
“Aaron, you already asked-“
“I know.”
You look up slowly because you know there’s no pretending with him. Aaron has always seen everything about you whether you wanted him to or not. He knows that you’ve been strict with dealing out information of your life for the past ten years. You lean back in your seat as you consider the question and giving him an answer longer than the couple of sentences that felt like muscle memory telling everyone else. He’d already heard that one and it would seem he wasn’t going to settle for that.
“Because he deserved better than almost.”
He stills for a second before swallowing, but he doesn’t say anything to stop you from continuing.
“I could’ve married him.” You admit, “But then I would’ve been you.”
The anger creeps in slightly, you can’t help it. He lets you continue, the pain flashing in his eyes.
“He’s a good man.” You look down at your hands.
“I know.” Aaron nods.
“And I care about him.” You look back up, “But… I knew what real love felt like.”
The words settle between you heavily. Aaron didn’t move or dare interrupt. Your voice is still calm, and almost too soft with his hearing right now, but he hangs on each word.
“I couldn’t stand in front of him and promise him forever knowing part of me would always compare it to something else.”
Aaron’s chest tightened before thundering so harshly the jet may as well be going down.
You let out a humorless laugh, “That sounds horrible saying it out loud.”
“No.” He answers quickly, “It sounds honest.”
You look over to the dark cabin.
“When I told him I couldn’t go through with the wedding I told him he deserved someone who could love him completely.”
Aaron remembered Mark saying almost the exact same thing earlier. You look back at him finally.
“I knew what big love felt like.”
You put it out there. It wasn’t subtle or hidden and you couldn’t take it back. Aaron swallows again, knowing you’re talking about him. You always had been. The confirmation warms his chest, he finally feels like he can breathe again.
“And once you know what that feels like…” You admit quietly, “everything else feels unfair.”
Silence takes over the corner of the cabin that the two of you occupy. The dim overhead lights glow just enough to reveal the expressions crossing Aaron’s face. You shake your head and turn toward the window.
“Y/n.”
You look back and he’s leaning forward, if he reached out he’d be touching you. Your chest tightens at how emotional he looks. No more walls.
“I’m sorry.”
Your brows furrow slightly but he holds your gaze steadily.
“For ever making you feel passing time.”
Your breath catches softly, “Aaron-”
“No.” He shakes his head, “You were right back then.”
Apparently when you said whatever was going on between you and needed to wait until after the case, he was taking that very literally.
“I never should’ve made you feel like that.” He lowers his voice slightly, “You were never just almost to me.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“You are… everything to me.
He hesitates like saying it might be too dangerous. He can’t take this back either.
“You are my biggest love.”
He’s looking at you with an honesty so stripped bare it almost hurt.
“The standard nobody else has ever met. Not that I want anyone to.”
You blink a few times. The realization of what he’s admitting wrecks your composure for half a second. Aaron notices you soften.
“And I think you ruined me a little.” He continues.
An unexpected laugh escapes you, “A little?”
The corners of his mouth finally lift. You look down and shake your head to try and regain control of yourself. This is dangerous territory. Confessions at thirty thousand feet after surviving a bombing together.
It was very unhealthy. It was very you and Aaron.
You look back up eventually, his eyes still trained on you.
“This doesn’t magically fix everything.”
He nods, “I know.”
“I’m still angry.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still annoying.”
He tries to hide his surprised smile by wiping at his mouth.
“Also aware.”
You study him for a long moment.
“Thank you for finally saying it.”
He reaches out his hand to take yours and you let him. His hand is warm, maybe more callused than the last time you held it. Immediately his finger extends to your wrist. Your steady pulse is comforting to him, it’s something mindless he used to do back at the academy.
“Thank you for listening.”
You can’t help but grin and lean in, “If I change my mind tomorrow, I’m blaming the concussion.”
“You have a concussion?” Concern taking over his face, replacing the joy.
You nod, “Yeah, I think you were still hard of hearing when we established that. But, I have good news.”
“What’s that?”
“I need someone to keep me up all night long.”
an// eeee happy Friday my loves! but you guys are WE KIDDING??? the pure chaos of ALL of that. let me hear all the thoughts plz bc OMFG FINALLY
Summary: It was well known within the team that there was one other person that had captured their team leader's heart. You knew Aaron back when he and Haley took a break from their relationship and he went to the academy and met you. What the team doesn’t know is that you have been with the FBI ever since, working the west coast mainly until you get requested to join the BAU.
series list
word count: 5.2 K
an// the timeline is a little different in this from the show, Aaron spent longer as a prosecutor before going to the academy and joining the FBI for this to work and to make the reader younger than Aaron. This is also a world where Foyet never happened and Haley is still alive.
-
Aaron managed to spend the rest of the weekend anticipating the conversation you needed to have with him. One that you asked for in advance. It remained in the back of his mind until late Sunday night when his phone rang. A case came in, forcing him to call everyone in.
It was dire enough for him to instruct everyone to head directly to the airstrip. You're the last to arrive, with wet hair opting for a quick shower after you got the call. Everyone is on board, including Garcia who will be coming the team with for the case.
“Possible spree evolving in Manhattan, the New York field office requested immediate assistance.”
“What do we know?” You swing your bag off your shoulder and take the open seat next to Aaron sitting at the table.
Garcia turns her laptop on the table so everyone can see the pictures she’s clicking through.
“Three explosions in the past thirty-six hours, but one was vacant at the time.”
Directly to your left Aaron’s posture straightens.
“Casuaualties?”
“Four dead from the first bombing, and seven in the second. The third was actually avoided because the coffee shop was closed for a leak in the basement.”
“What’s the timeline?” Reid asks.
“That’s the problem,” Garcia admits, “He’s accelerating fast.”
You flip through the file, "Especially once he finds out that no one was hurt in the most recent bombing.”
Bombers were bad. They were unpredictable and emotionally detached. An accelerating unsub in such a densely populated city had the potential to be catastrophic.
You focus on the crime scene photos. A burned-out taxi cab. A destroyed subway platform. And a shattered coffee storefront. Garcia looks pale as she continues to click through more detailed images that include charred remains.
“The unsub is improving explosives with increasing sophistication,” Aaron observes, “First attack was a low-grade car bomb. The second on the subway showed an escalation in destruction.”
Garcia clicks to a distorted image of the New York skyline with 06:00 flashing on it in red.
“This was also sent to the NYPD. They believe it’s a warning that the next one will be going off at six in the morning today.”
“Which is why we got on the jet at 11:47 at night.” Morgan sighs, wiping at his eyes.
“It’s a threat.” Aaron ignores Derek and addresses the image.
The cabin grows quiet while everyone has the same thought. Six hours was not enough time, not in New York. Not with millions of people asleep and unaware someone might be planning another attack.
“What’s his target type?” Prentiss asks.
Garcia shakes her head, “Unknown. Right now there aren’t any direct connections, it looks random.”
“He wants visibility, public fear, and control.” You add, Aaron looking over at you, “He’s forcing anticipation, the waiting becomes part of the attack.”
JJ sighs, “He wants the whole city scared before he even hits again.”
“Which means he enjoys this.” Rossi finishes grimly.
“The head of counterrorism is the one who requested our assistance due to the erratic timeline and timed threat.”
Your head snaps up to look at Garcia.
“Mark Hayes?” You ask.
She types quickly, “Uhhh, let me see. Yes! Mark Hayes, you know him?”
You swallow, “Mm, you could say that.”
The team eagerly waits for you to explain and you figure it’s better to explain now than in front of him after landing.
“We were engaged.” You answer simply.
The jet bursts with more energy than you thought was possible for midnight on a Sunday.
“You were engaged? Garcia shouts.
“What?” Morgan smirks.
“How did we not know this?” Rossi’s brows furrow.
Aaron remains perfectly still next to you. Too still.
“It wasn’t a big deal, it was a few years ago.” You shrug.
Emily leans forward enthusiastically, “Okay, so he was terrible?”
“No.”
“Toxic?” Garcia asks.
“No.”
“Cheated?” JJ blurts.
“No.” You laugh, shaking your head.
Reid frowns, “Statically speaking, calling off the wedding becomes significantly less common when those are not relevant factors.”
You point at him, “See, this is why nobody tells this team anything.”
Aaron finally speaks, “When did you end it?”
His tone comes out surprisingly calm for how hard he’s trying to keep everything contained.
“A few weeks before the wedding.”
He nods once, like that was all. You know him better than that.
“This is amazing!” Garcia cheers, “I need more details!”
“We land in twenty minutes.” Aaron’s unit chief voice cuts in, “Let’s focus on the case.”
Everyone quieted in the cabin, aware of his shift in mood. After landing, the city hit them like a wall. The city never slept and tonight it was actively on edge. Lights and sirens were everywhere chasing false reports and concerned citizens.
It was after one in the morning when you guys entered the Manhattan field office. Agents were scrambling between briefing rooms and operations centers. In the center of it all, standing tall in a sharp suit, was Mark Hayes.
You hadn’t seen him since you called off the wedding, but things ended on surprisingly good terms. He had the look of a kind man born for federal leadership, and the team could not deny that you definitely have a type.
Mark turns when he hears the team approaching, he smiles when he spots you.
“Well, this is one hell of a reunion.”
You smile back easily, Aaron notices it right away. You step forward and before the team can prepare themselves, Mark pulls you into a hug. Morgan’s eyes dart back and forth between the hug and Hotch’s reaction. His jaw tightens, but other than that he shows little reaction.
You pull back first, “You look exhausted.”
Mark smiles, “Bombers will ruin anyone’s weekend.”
His eyes shift past you to the rest of the team.
“And you must be the BAU.”
Introductions happen quickly, he goes down the line shaking everyone’s hands. He reaches Aaron last and you could argue that the handshake looked firm enough to qualify as combat. Rossi noticed. You absolutely noticed. Mark however seemed oblivious.
“I’ve heard good things about your team.”
Aaron’s expression stays neutral, “We’re here to stop your unsub.”
Morgan coughs into his elbow to hide a laugh and you short him a warning look.
Mark turns back toward you, “Still impossible for you to get sleep before a case?”
“She drank six shots of espresso before a case last month.” Rossi adds, shaking his head.
Aaron looks at you, mildly alarmed, “Six?”
You turn to Rossi, “Narc.”
The room lightened slightly at the banter, still aware of the threat looming overhead. Everyone except for Aaron, who still remained stiff as a board and glaring at Mark whenever he spoke to you directly.
Mark had everyone set up in the large conference room with multiple boards containing victim timelines and transit maps. The team worked nonstop for hours. Garcia was scanning the city’s surveillance for any potential cross over of witnesses watching the aftermath of the explosions.
So far they hadn’t come up with anything solid enough. No identity, target pattern, or clear motive. Six o’clock was getting closer.
Aaron is standing in the center of the room looking over the boards, hoping to unlock something new. Reid and Morgan are comparing explosive residue reports trying to figure out the unsub’s style. You and Rossi are going over witness statements. Mark is on the other side of the room, directing agents as they rush in and out constantly.
Everyone was moving, but no one was succeeding.
Garcia lets out a sigh from her laptop, “I hate this guy.”
She focuses on the seconds passing by on the corner of her laptop screen. It’s almost time if they had correctly understood the unsub’s message.
Morgan rubs tiredly at his eyes, “Welcome to bombers.”
“He’s escalating too fast.” Emily exhales, “The next one will be bold after the last failure.”
Reid nods quickly, “The decreasing cooldown period suggests emotional acceleration and increased confidence.”
You stand up to stretch your legs and to get a closer look at the boards again.
You point to the specific attack locations, “They aren’t random high casualty targets. Look at the distance between each of bombings and the closest precinct.”
You trace your finger between the locations.
“The first bombing two bombings targeted public transportation, why switch to the coffee shop-”
You’re cut off when suddenly every phone in the room begins to chime. A second later the TV feed cut to breaking news footage. Smoke was pouring out a subway tunnel with screaming people flooding the street.
“Oh my god.” Garcia cries, pulling up footage of the blast, “It’s six o’clock.”
An agent rushes into Mark directly.
“Confirmed explosion on the downtown A train.”
The room froze, Aaron looks up from his phone.
“Causalties?” He demands.
The agent swallows, looking between Mark and Aaron.
“The current estimate is at least thirteen.”
Silence envelopes the room.
Mark folds his hand across his forehead, bracing his temples.
“The A train is a popular commuter train this time of day, the early morning crowd.”
Aaron watched the footage and his jaw looks tight enough it could crack. The unsub had kept his promise, he kept to his time. The field office was controlled chaos surrounding them, phones still ringing.
“Did we have officers stationed there?” Aaron asks, raising a harsh brow at Mark.
“I’ll have to check.”
“You don’t know?” Aaron’s tone easily switching to disrespectful.
Mark looks at him, “No, I don’t know each individual subway platform’s assignment.”
“It would be beneficial if you did.” Aaron bites, turning his attention back to the screen where Garcia is pulling up the surrounding area’s footage.
“Right.” Mark steps out quietly, pulling a couple agents.
You turn to look at Aaron, you thought the tight jaw was coming from failure of not catching the unsub but it relaxes once Mark has left the room. He’s actually ridiculous.
Everyone around the room moves, there’s no time for grief. Hours and hours pass and the team was still nowhere near an arrest. Rossi, Morgan, and Emily went down to the scene to see if there were any new clues. Mark eventually dared to return to the room and rejoin the team.
You pace in front of the board again, thinking.
“He’s not escalating randomly.”
Aaron and Mark look up immediately and you step back toward the map.
“He’s building towards something symbolic. He wants to highlight that we can’t do anything to stop him, no matter how close or fast we are.”
Mark moves behind you, “Mass casualty finale.”
“No.” You shake your head, “Something personal. It’s possible the police have let him down, maybe he lost someone and is blaming the police.”
Aaron picks up quickly, “He wants public fear and anticipation to highlight our failure. He can give us a time of attack and we still can’t prevent it.”
Reid nods slowly, “Psychological dominance over institutions.”
“Exactly.” You snap your fingers.
“So the subway bombing wasn’t the goal. It was a demonstration.” Mark continues as he steps closer to the board.
Aaron crosses his arms, “Meaning?”
“He wants law enforcement reacting predictably. That means his final target will be federal response infrastructure.”
Aaron frowns, “No.”
Mark looks over, “No?”
“If his motivations were to target the real object of his rage he would be targeting precincts. He’s seeking to humiliate and ruin the idea of protection connected to police presence.”
Mark’s jaw tightens, “Not necessarily-”
“Yes, necessarily.” Aaron counters, “Terrorists seeking symbolic collapse need public recognition.”
Mark folds his arms too, mirroring Aaron’s stance. Your eyes widen watching this escalate.
“And if he’s not seeking the collapse of the police system?”
The back and forth between them continues, no one else on the team getting a word in. Emily turns toward Morgan and mouths ‘Oh my god’. Rossi looks like he’s getting a headache and you would have to say the same.
“Your approach is widening the suspect pool unnecessarily.” Aaron spits.
Mark gave a short humorless laugh, “And yours has gotten us exactly nowhere.”
There it was. It settles heavy over the room and Aaron’s expression somehow turned colder.
“Excuse me?”
Mark holds his ground, “You were right about one thing. We’re running out of time.”
You turn toward JJ, “The testosterone levels in here are getting unbearable.”
Aaron steps closer to him, “And you think panic improves judgment?”
“Alright-” You stand from your seat, ready to shut the two of them down. It’s clear that neither of them is capable.
“I think ego gets people killed.”
“Okay, enough!” You announce loudly, “Speaking of humiliation?”
With wild eyes you look between the two men who still look like they could hit the other. Neither can break the angry staredown they’ve become locked in.
“You.” You point directly at Aaron, “Out. Now.”
Your tone alone makes Morgan sit up straighter in his seat. You march straight out of the room and hear his sharp steps behind you. You push on the heavy metal door that leads to the stairwell. It slams loudly behind him, echoing and leaving the two of you standing there in silence. Plain concrete walls with harsh fluorescent lights.
You spin around and face him, you’re simmering with anger at this point.
“What the hell was that?”
His expression remains cold, “We had a disagreement.”
“No,” You snap, “You picked a fight.”
He scoffs, “That’s not what happened.”
“No?” You raise your brows, “That was practically a dick measuring contest.”
“Y/n.” He warns your name, anger flashing in his eyes directed at you this time.
“What? Now you have decency?”
He lets out a long exhale and runs a tired hand over his face. He takes a step closer to you, you don’t step back.
“This isn’t the time.”
“You’re right, it isn’t.” You scoff, “But you just made it the time when you went head to head in the middle of operations.”
“That had nothing to do with you-”
“Bullshit.” The word echoes through the stairwell. He almost looks stunned that you had said it, “I can sit through your son’s soccer game with your ex-wife, that you left me for-”
“That’s not-” His face softens.
“Over a decade ago!” You continue with a shout, “And you can’t even work a case with someone I was engaged to but didn’t even marry?”
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He knows there isn’t an answer for that and you let out a sharp laugh of disbelief.
“Wow.”
“Y/n-”
“That’s pathetic.” The word hits hard and you intended it to. He actually looks away from you for a second, and you cross your arms over your chest.
“You don’t get to stare Mark down across briefing rooms like some jealous college boyfriend.”
“I wasn’t.” He argues.
“You were.”
He falls silent again. He opens his mouth to say something but hesitates. Aaron had seen you angry many times before but this was the first time it was rendering him speechless. The only sound in the stairwell is your uneven breaths following the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
“You knew I was engaged before I told the team.” You call out, calling to attention the real reason you both know he’s acting like this. His eyes dart to yours, finally shifting his expression.
“You didn’t even flinch when I said I was engaged. Everyone else was surprised, but you weren’t. You were contained.”
He exhales, “Y/n-”
“How did you know?” You search his eyes, looking back and forth between them.
The stairwell goes quiet, other than the distant office noise filtering in. Aaron rubs a tired hand over his face before straightening to look at you seriously.
“I went to see you.”
You frown immediately, “What?”
His eyes are fixed on you, the mask off. He looks devastated and raw. The most open he’s been since the two of you were in the academy.
“Years ago when Haley and I first separated.”
You simply stare at him. Haley’s question from Saturday flashing in your mind. Did he reach out to you after we separated? You swallow once.
“You came to Los Angeles?”
He nods, “There was a conference on human trafficking.”
The recognition flashes on your face instantly. You remembered that conference vividly, it was one of the biggest presentations of your career at that point. Aaron offers a short humorless laugh.
“You were incredible.” The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten, “I stayed through the entire presentation. Everyone was in awe, so was I.”
You continue to stare, your anger now mixing with confusion.
“But you didn’t talk to me?”
There it was. The regret on his face was deep enough to drown in.
“I saw the ring.”
The engagement ring. Mark’s ring. The very one that lived on your left hand for over a year.
“I saw you had moved on and didn’t want to bother you. I left because I had absolutely no right to feel devastated by seeing it.”
You cross your arms tighter, “But you were.”
“Yes.”
He says it without hesitation or excuses.
“I left before you even saw me.”
His eyes hold yours steadily now. You laugh sharply once, overwhelmed now more than angry.
“All this time.” You mutter, pacing to turn away from him. “I thought you never looked back.”
“I always looked back.”
That hurts. It’s something you had always wanted to hear, but never expected at this point. With tears in your eyes you turn back to face him.
“And then I joined the BAU.”
He nods, “Without the ring.”
And you thought you were clever for catching his missing one.
“So what? You just haven’t been with anyone since? You just waited?”
“Of course I waited. I said you were what I wanted.”
You swallow at his admission, his eyes burrowing into yours.
“And if I never joined the team? If I had married Mark?”
He takes a step closer to you, you fight the urge to retreat. His figure looms over you and having him this close again reminds you of the warmth that rolls off of him.
“You told me exactly what would happen.”
You look at him sharply, “What?”
“Back at Quantico.”
Your breath catches slightly. The fight. The breakup.
Someday you’re going to wake up beside her again and wonder why it still feels like something’s missing.
“You were right.”
Your jaw falls slack in surprise at the honest admission. Aaron is finally admitting something he’d buried for years. The stairwell felt too intimate, too dangerous at this point.
“I’m sorry for hurting you. I can’t make myself regret the decision because it got me Jack, but I regret letting you go. Those eight months meant everything to me, and I was foolish to think following the plan was the right thing to do.”
He shakes his head, “I never moved on after that. Everyone thought it was from the divorce, but the truth is you. I just… It’s only been you.”
You take a step back eventually to create distance. This conversation was headed somewhere neither of you could afford right now. Not during an active bombing case.
“This-” You gesture between the two of you, “needs to wait until after the case. We need to focus on catching this unsub.”
He nods, stepping back and straightening his tie.
“You acted like an ass in there.”
He nods again, “I know.”
“Mark didn’t deserve that.”
He tilts his head to debate for a second and your stare straightens him.
“You’re lucky that I’m trying very hard to be mature.”
He has a quick faint smile.
“We need to get our heads back on straight.”
His expression shifts back into unit chief again. Focused and controlled.
“You’re right.”
When the two of you walk back into the conference room, the entire team looks up. It was a dramatic exit and no one was even going to bother with pretending to mind their own business.
“Well, at least you both came back alive.” Morgan leans back in his chair.
Emily nearly chokes on her coffee, spinning to face away and hide her grin.
JJ looks carefully between you two, “You guys okay?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
You both answer at the same time and the room erupts. Rossi tries to hide his delight with his hand blocking his mouth.
“We need to refocus.” Aaron moves back to the board trying to restore order through sheer professionalism.
Morgan points at him, “See, that voice right there means he’s embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.” He frowns.
“You absolutely are.” Emily presses.
Before Aaron could attempt to redirect the room, Rossi stands from his chair decisively.
“Okay, new idea.” He claps, “You all look terrible.”
Morgan looks offended, “I always look good.”
“Everyone has been awake too long and tired profilers make mistakes.” He points out, “The unsub hasn’t made his next move and we don’t want to get sloppy now.”
Aaron nods once, “He’s right.”
Rossi starts to assign with the confidence of a tired Italian father, all too used to wrangling this chaos.
“Morgan, Prentiss, and Y/LN. Head back to the hotel.”
“Why me?” You ask, “If anyone needs a nap it’s him.”
The team chuckles when you point at Hotch.
“We’re not giving you anymore caffeine.” JJ admits with a sympathetic smile, “Reid’s been keeping track.”
You cut him a look, “Of course you are.”
“Plus you look about ten seconds away from threatening a federal agent.” Rossi sighs.
You raise a brow, “Who’s to say I haven’t already?”
Chuckles pass around the team but it’s clear you won’t win this fight.
“Hotel.” Rossi points toward the door, “Now.”
You grab your bag while Emily and Derek do the same. The door opens again and this time Mark walks back in. His sleeves are rolled up and the exhaustion and frustration are clearer now.
His eyes land on you, “You leaving already?”
You sling your bag over your shoulder, "I’m being forcibly sedated.”
He smiles, “Probably for the best. You get scary after twenty hours awake.”
Morgan leans back in anticipation, this was dangerous territory and he was pressing on a nerve. Garcia’s eyes widen, drinking Mark in entirely and hiding it behind a big mug.
“Unless you’re being kept up for a good reason.”
You roll your eyes at his lack of subtlety, shaking your head as you walk over to the door.
You pat his cheek, “You’re an ass. Everything after this is on you now.”
Hotch managed to hide his emotions well, he knew he had everyone’s eyes waiting on him already. He said absolutely nothing which surprised everyone, including Mark. After the conversation in the stairwell he knew better than that. He wasn’t willing to risk another argument and it softened your irritation just a fraction.
“Get some sleep.” Mark calls.
You head toward the elevator with Morgan and Prentiss following behind. The second the doors close and you start to descend Morgan turns toward you.
“Oh, Hotch is down bad!”
Emily bursts out laughing.
You shake your head, “Don’t ever say that again.”
“I’m serious!” Morgan continues, “That man was fighting for his life in there.”
“He was trying not to piss her off again.” Emily corrects.
You lean back against the elevator wall, letting them go back and forth highlighting everything else. The exhaustion is starting to settle into your bones and Aaron’s words start to sink in deeper.
The hotel room was dark thanks to the thick curtains. A faint line of light escapes the bottom where there’s a small gap, you stare at the ceiling overhead.
Morgan had disappeared into his room with the simple raise of a peace sign and Emily insisted she was setting three alarms. You changed into an oversized FBI hoodie and managed to stare at the ceiling for a full hour without moving. Your brain could not shut up.
Aaron had gone to Los Angeles. Years ago. He admitted you were right in the ugliest moment shared between you two. You had spent years furious with him, while still knowing that no one had ever loved you like that. A decade of the two of you quietly carrying unresolved feelings like idiots. He was making it harder for you to hate him.
You roll onto your side with an annoyed groan.
Aaron Hotchner had been yearning for you for years. Without the safety net of a wife. Quietly. Patiently. Without saying a word. You genuinely don’t know what to do with that.
-
Exhaustion eventually caught up with you until hours later the ringing of your phone had you violently sitting up. You reach out for it on the nightstand and answer it.
“Y/LN.”
A brief pause.
“We got another message.” Aaron’s voice comes in. That wakes you up fully.
“What kind of message?”
“The unsub posted a countdown.”
Your stomach drops.
“How long?”
“Twelve hours.”
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed.
“I’m on my way back in.”
He hesitates for a second, “Get coffee first.”
You snort, surprised. “Is that an order?”
“The only stuff we’ve got here is the shitty drip that you hate.”
You pause while putting on your shoes.
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Hurry.”
The line disconnects and you roll your eyes. Twenty minutes later you’re walking into the Manhattan field office with a coffee in hand. The operation center looks even worse now, more clutter and down to a half dozen agents still here working.
Emily and Morgan are already there and it would seem this was a trade out. JJ, Reid, and Rossi went back to the hotel to get some sleep for the night. Aaron clearly had no intention of going with them. A couple more hours crawl by, Derek eventually escorting Garcia back to the hotel before coming back.
The subway maps all begin to blur after staring at them for so long.
“The timing isn’t about casualty numbers.”
Emily frowns, “What?”
You point between the different attack locations.
“He’s following emergency response routes. He’s creating them in places that would require reroutes for emergency routes.”
Aaron moves closer to look over your discovery.
“Every attack forces the city to redirect resources. He’s learning response patterns.”
Morgan’s eyes narrow, “Which means his final target could depend on delayed coverage.”
You nod, “He could be trying to inflict enough chaos and fear to funnel resources into one spot, and then targeting that location.”
“We should check the previous target sites and see what he was looking for.” Morgan studies the map.
You nod, “You and Emily should go check it out.”
He looks between you and Hotch before getting up. Emily grabs her jacket off the back of her chair and the two of them are off.
The room becomes quiet again once they leave. Tall stacks of files. Cold coffee sitting in the pot in the corner of the room. There’s a small TV playing the news quietly on a constant cycle. You look up from your laptop just in time to catch Aaron trying to hide another yawn behind his hand.
“You need sleep.”
He slowly looks up from the file, meeting you with heavy, tired eyes. Still watery from the yawn.
“I’m fine.”
You raise an unimpressed brow, “Aaron.”
“I’m not leaving.” He insists.
“I know.”
Your answer makes him pause slightly. You gesture toward the back wall of the room behind you. There's a small grey office couch along the wall with ugly green throw pillows.
“I know you won’t go to the hotel, but you do need to get sleep.”
“No.” He shakes his head.
“You’re exhausted.”
“We’re running out of time.” He argues.
“And having a delirious unit chief is going to help?”
He looks amused briefly before he has to rub tiredly at his eyes. Aaron looks at you for a long moment, still stubborn as ever and clearly weighing his options.
“I’ll still be working.” You remind.
“And if you find something?”
“I’ll wake you up.”
Reluctantly he scoots his chair back and stands, “Fine.”
You try not to look too victorious until he slowly loosens his tie before pulling it free entirely. The movement felt weirdly intimate with just the two of you in the quiet room. You turn your focus back to your laptop and he rounds the table for the couch behind you.
Without the tie and jacket he looks a lot less like Unit Chief Hotchner and more like Aaron. It felt dangerous.
He settles onto the couch with obvious reluctance, letting out an annoyed sigh. You spin around in your chair to look at him. He’s laying on his side facing out toward you and the rest of the room, his eyes closed forcibly and his feet hanging off the other end of the couch.
“You look miserable.” A laugh escapes before you can help it.
He squints open to peek at you, “You force me to sleep on the couch and now you make fun of me for it?”
“Yeah, so what?” You smile, spinning back quickly to get back to work. You begin typing again trying to find more emergency city plans for any potential overlap.
Minutes pass and you know he isn’t asleep yet.
“You’re still angry with me.” He eventually calls out.
You don’t move a muscle, still focused on your laptop. Aaron stares at the back of your head, following the outline of your neck to where it disappears into your bureau hoodie.
“Yes.” You answer honestly.
He nods slightly like he expected that, “You should be.”
This gets you to look over your shoulder. His eyes are still on you and there’s no defensiveness to it, just acceptance.
“Aaron.”
“I meant what I said earlier.”
Your chest tightens, “You can’t say things like that and expect things to magically be okay.”
“I know.”
The frustrating part was he did know. You could see the open regret on his face.
You exhale quietly and run a hand through your hair, “Go to sleep.
A smile touches the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You roll your eyes instantly and turn back to your work, “Don’t start.”
His eyes were already drifting shut, he had fought it long enough. Aaron Hotchner finally fell asleep and you sat quietly at the table. Listening to the soft hum of the TV and Aaron’s easy deep breathes. Every once and a while your gaze drifts back behind you toward the couch.
Toward the man who had apparently been carrying you with him for years. The man that you were still furious with. The man that somehow understood you better than anyone else in the world.
That terrified you a little.
-
an// Happy Monday, my loves! Lemme hear it ALL you guys, replies seriously make my day! Aaron is such an idiot but OH my god the yearning PLZ! Also the engagement was in fact real, but sadly we all know no one quite measures up to Aaron Hotchner (even when he is so in the doghouse).
Do you know what happened to @dyspneagrimes from wattpad?? 😭 I was around during peak 2020 fan fics but never saw if she posted a goodbye or something. Possessed was my fav fic
omg i haven’t been on wattpad in ages tbh and i haven’t been active in the marvel fandom so im not too sure what happened
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Summary: It was well known within the team that there was one other person that had captured their team leader's heart. You knew Aaron back when he and Haley took a break from their relationship and he went to the academy and met you. What the team doesn’t know is that you have been with the FBI ever since, working the west coast mainly until you get requested to join the BAU.
series list
word count: 4.0 K
an// the timeline is a little different in this from the show, Aaron spent longer as a prosecutor before going to the academy and joining the FBI for this to work and to make the reader younger than Aaron. This is also a world where Foyet never happened and Haley is still alive.
-
Saturday morning came way too quickly. Garcia can claim responsibility for getting you to the field, promising to pick you up and get coffee on the way. She parks and you can see the rest of the team is waiting to find the field together.
“She made it!” Morgan smiles, giving you a side hug as you approach.
You push him off, “I said I would be here.”
Cars filled the parking lot with children sprinting out of their parents' minivans and taking off in different directions. You take a longer sip of your coffee and slide a pair of sunglasses on.
“You’re nervous.” Emily comments.
“I am not,” You roll your eyes, “I’m just aware of when I’m surrounded by profilers placing bets against me.”
JJ laughs.
“Only on who’s gonna throw the first punch.” Morgan holds up his hands with a wide grin.
“Does it count if it’s aimed at you?” You wind up, finally cracking a smile.
Reid manages to find the right field and everyone follows his lead. Rossi and Aaron are standing in the middle of the field, surrounded by a dozen seven year olds. They have clipboards and whistles, Emily bursts out laughing.
“I cannot believe this is real.” Morgan is losing it.
Rossi happens to catch the group walking up to the field and lightly taps Aaron’s shoulder.
“Told ya.”
Aaron’s head snaps up toward the parking lot. He sees the entire BAU, including you, walking toward the field. Morgan cheers when he notices them looking and you lightly wave at them. You can see it in his face that he didn’t actually expect anyone to give up their Saturday morning for this. Rossi looks delighted next to him.
They end up leading the kids back to the bench and the team walks over.
“You all came!” Rossi grins.
“You made it mandatory.” Reid reminds.
The kids are darting around and a little girl stops right in front of Aaron, he instantly kneels to retie her cleat without even disrupting conversation. Something pulls in your chest unexpectedly, he looks up when he’s finished like he could feel you staring.
You raise a brow, “Coach Hotchner.”
His mouth twitches, “Agent Y/LN.”
Garcia leans in to Morgan to whisper loudly, “And people say we flirt.”
“We’re not.” You both answer automatically, not exactly helping the situation. Your eyes flick back to each other again before looking back at the team. Aaron’s eyes shift behind you toward the bleachers. You follow his gaze and see why. Haley.
She’s sitting halfway up the small set of bleachers wearing a simple jeans and a t-shirt. Her focus is on Jack who is running circles around the bench with a friend. She looks beautiful in an effortless way and suddenly it all feels very real. You could feel it in your chest immediately, the erratic beating. The history passed between the two of you, and you’ve never even met. Until now.
You look back toward the group and catch Rossi watching you.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.” You roll your eyes.
“Kid, this is payback from the two of you back in the academy.”
Your cheeks flush, Aaron’s ears burn red. Just like the good old days.
“Okay, let’s go find seats.” JJ pulls Garcia and Reid toward the stands, effectively getting everyone moving in that direction. She climbs to the row behind Haley and starts sliding down, you let everyone keep filling in before you step back down to Haley’s row and take the seat right beside her.
“Haley, right?”
“You must be Y/n.” Haley smiles, and you slide your sunglasses on top of your head.
Parents are chatting away next to them, but you can tell the team is only listening to the two of you eagerly. You had no plan of being hostile with her, you couldn’t really blame her for Aaron’s choices. There was no desire to meet her back then, it was all too fresh. Now it had been ten years. You have healed a lot since then.
“Guilty.” You nod.
She continues to smile, “Aaron told me you had joined the team.”
The game started and Aaron was focused on his team running up and down the field. He did however look back several times at the two of you.
“Is it bad that I’m enjoying the fact that he’s freaking out about this right now?” You ask.
Haley laughs loudly, making Aaron glance back yet again.
You turn back to look at Morgan, “That’s the bet I would’ve put money on. Will Aaron spend more time watching the team he’s coaching or Haley and I’s reactions?”
Haley crosses one leg over the other and angles herself to face you.
“I need to admit something terrible.” She says lightly.
You look over cautiously, “Oh god.”
“I used to be jealous of you. Severely.”
That surprises you. It surprises you even more that she admits it.
“What?”
“He left for training, and I waited for him to call, but he never did. I always thought we would get back together, but he didn’t take my calls for months. It wasn’t until he was close to graduating that he finally did.”
You gulp because you know exactly why he hadn’t for so long.
She shrugs softly, “After Quantico, after his time at the academy, he wasn’t the same. He wasn’t my Aaron anymore.”
You go very still.
“He never denied you existed. He spoke highly and honestly of you but I don’t think I realized the magnitude of what the two of you were.” She laughs quietly to herself, “I think we were up against that our entire marriage.”
“Trust me,” You swallow, “He’s always had you in his heart.”
You mean it. Honestly. You may have called this marriage not working and him having doubts, but you could see it in his eyes the day you left. He loved her, that was a fact.
Instead of looking reassured, her expression turns complicated.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
A sharp whistle pulls both of your attention back to the field for a few seconds. Aaron is highfiving Jack after scoring a goal.
“Did he reach out to you after Aaron and I separated?”
Her question completely throws you off guard. A quiet moment passes between the two of you while her worried eyes scan your face.
“Two months ago when I joined the team was the first time I had seen Aaron in a decade.” You admit quietly and the surprise is clear on her face.
“Spread out!” Aaron calls from the sidelines. All the kids ignore him, two of them chasing a butterfly. Rossi is standing next to him with his hands on his hips as he lets out a deep laugh and Aaron shakes his head.
“He wasn’t always this serious.”
You look over slowly and she’s looking at Aaron before following Jack across the field.
“You know that already, though.”
You lean back, feeling the cold from the bleacher starting to seep into the back of your thighs.
“He still jokes sometimes.” You admit.
Haley laughs softly, “Then you’re getting more than most people.”
You know that she’s right. Morgan had already called him out for using sarcasm out in the field twice, something he had never seen his unit leader do before you joined the team. Emily said he was the closest to relaxed after a case she had ever witnessed. Rossi admitted he hadn’t seen this side of Aaron in years. It seemed it was one he used to know. One you did too.
“He’s impossible.” You mutter, shaking your head.
“You don’t have to be a profiler to see whatever happened between the two of you affected him.”
You look back in her direction and she holds your gaze calmly.
“It changed him.”
You frown feeling exposed, her expression softens slightly.
“Aaron’s very good at commitment,” She admits, “Responsibility. Loyalty. Showing up. But sometimes I think he only really lets himself feel things when he loses them.”
You swallow because it sounds painfully accurate. A loud whistle blows loudly signaling the end of the game. It became a blur of excited kids and eager parents, everyone standing up. Haley reaches out a hand to your arm, keeping the two of your sat a few seconds longer than everyone else.
“I want Aaron to be happy.”
“Haley-”
“No, I mean it.”
You don’t even know what to do with that. This woman could hate you and you couldn’t truly blame her for it, but here she is rooting for you. It makes everything so much more complicated, it would have been easier if she was just bitter.
“Mom!” a voice yells, pulling Haley’s attention instantly.
Jack sprints over from the bench where he had been standing with Aaron and the rest of the team. Haley stands just in time for him to collide with her legs. Aaron follows slowly and you stand.
“Hey, buddy!” Haley crouches down and hugs him.
The team joins all of you as well.
“Jack,” Aaron turns toward you, “this is Y/n. She’s on the team.”
Jack knew everyone else on the team at this point from stories and previous run-ins or holidays spent at Rossi’s. He looks up at your unfamiliar face.
“Hey, superstar.” You offer a high five and he jumps to slap it.
“You work with my dad?” He asks, looking up at you curiously.
You nod, “I do.”
He looks over at his mom who is still standing right next to you.
“And you’re friends with my mom?” He asks.
“Uhh-” You hesitate, not expecting these kinds of social clues from a seven year old. It should’ve been expected with Aaron’s kid.
“We are.” Haley cheerfully answers, everyone can see that she genuinely means it.
Aaron cautiously looks between you two and the team barely hides their chuckles. You smile at her and nod to agree before looking back at Jack.
“Did you see me score two goals?” He continues.
“I did!” You laugh, “That was pretty awesome.”
Jack looks up at you with innocent and curious eyes.
“Does my dad like you?”
Three and a half years ago.
Four days after Aaron had been served divorce papers in the bullpen of the BAU, he had them signed and sitting on his kitchen counter. They sat there, mocking him. They were still waiting there when he returned from a case to his empty apartment. It was new, he moved out of the house last week.
He knew his marriage with Haley was ending long before it actually did. He would never say it outloud, but he knew it the day of their wedding. It was a long busy day that should have been full of so much love, but he was kept up that night. One thought playing on a constant loop in his head.
You were right.
This isn’t the life he wanted, it was the easier one. It was the one he had been building since he was seventeen and everyone in both of their families was expecting.
He sat with the divorce for weeks, you still popped up in his mind again. It was unescapable. You had been a ghost in their marriage, not because he compared the two of you, but because you represented something that truly terrified him.
You represent a version of himself that had wanted things recklessly and selfishly. That was the one and only time he was able to be himself without permission. You were his freedom.
Which is why two weeks later and a long weekend away from the team, he found himself in Los Angeles. He had tried to convince himself the entire flight that this wasn’t some sort of catastrophic mistake. He barely noticed the room around him, he was scanning every person for your face.
He found out you were speaking at a conference for the Bureau. The FBI Human Exploitation Task Force Symposium banner stretches across the stage and the rows of seats start to fill in. He wants to move closer, but settles for a spot toward the back. He misses them announce your name, but his focus is trained on your figure as you walk out behind the podium.
You look the same and completely different all at once. You’re older, obviously, but sharper around the eyes. You carry yourself confidently in a way that commands the room, that isn’t new. He was looking forward to seeing you, but wasn’t actually prepared for the impact of seeing you again for the first time in over seven years.
It physically panged in his chest. You move easily across the stage as you speak, clicking through case photos and a trafficking network map behind you.
“No victim willingly walks into exploitation,” Your voice is steady, “Traffickers identify vulnerability before victims even recognize it in themselves.”
The entire room was listening to your every word, Aaron included. He couldn’t help it, you were extraordinary. You spoke with clear authority, field experience woven effortlessly into behavioral analysis and negotiation psychology.
Aaron watched as local law enforcement and agents scribble notes frantically. He felt weirdly proud which felt ridiculous since he hadn’t spoken to you in so long. He remembered the woman he knew in class and it’s clear how far you’ve come.
You click to another slide, “Traffickers thrive on predictability, isolation, and emotional dependency. They count on the assumption that victims will blame themselves before they blame the people exploiting them.”
Aaron remembered that tone. It was the one you used when you deeply cared about something, and he knew firsthand that it always made people listen. He missed you, and the feeling sat heavy in his chest.
At the end of your presentation the auditorium erupted into applause. You smiled politely, professional and controlled. It was nothing like the woman who used to kiss him breathless in academy stairwells. Nothing like the woman that managed to defile him in every single study room on campus.
He waited near the back while people crowded toward the stage. Agents, detectives, and conference organizers all wanted a piece of your attention. You handled it well, even after a long presentation you managed to answer questions and shake hands. As more people cleared out, his heart began to pound in a way that felt embarrassing at his age.
Waiting to speak to you again somehow felt more nerve-wracking than facing an armed unsub. He started to walk down toward the stage, but you lift your hand while talking to another agent. He saw the sparkle in a flash. The ring. A huge diamond sitting on your left hand, impossible to miss.
He froze, the room dulling instantly. Of course you had moved on, how dare he even be surprised? You were brilliant and beautiful and impossible not to love. Somebody else had figured that out. Somebody else had made the right decision and was going to build their life with you. The realization hollowed him out with brutal efficiency.
You laugh softly at something the agent says, still completely unaware he was even there. He stares at the ring for a second longer before stepping backward into the crowd. He did it quickly and without turning back before he could embarrass himself by reopening something that clearly remained in your past.
He left the auditorium without saying a word, stepping out into the bright California sun felt blinding. The air was too hot and he needs to go home. You belong to someone else now.
-
“Does my dad like you?” Jack asks, looking up at you innocently.
The sentence hangs in the air and the group does a terrible job of trying to act normal. Morgan had to physically turn away to hide his laugh and Emily looked like she was about to burst. Aaron crouches down beside Jack with red ears and a calm mask on.
“Buddy,” He says carefully, “some thoughts can stay inside our heads.”
Jack frowns immediately, “Why?”
Rossi answers before Aaron can, “Because your dad survives entirely on emotional repression.”
You snort a laugh and Aaron shoots David a look that would level an unsub. Haley looks suspiciously entertained too, a small smile growing on her face. Jack moves on, already onto his next thought and forgetting the awkward moment he unknowingly created.
“Can we go get lunch?” He asks, “We always get lunch when we win.”
Now Aaron shoots you a look that would level an unsub. Jack looks up toward the entire team, reminded that it isn’t just his parents here when you spoke.
“Can they come too?”
Aaron blinks a few times.
Morgan points at Jack with a wide grin, “I love this kid.”
“Jack, the team probably has other plans. It’s their weekend-”
“We don’t.” Garcia interrupts instantly.
“I’ve got nothing.” JJ shakes her head, looking over the rest of the team agreeing.
Emily crosses her arms, “Absolutely free.”
“Staticially,” Reid nods, “spontaneous group meals improve team cohesion.”
Aaron looks deeply betrayed by everyone, you watch him try to escape this situation gracefully. Jack turns to Haley next.
“Mom?”
Haley took one look at Aaron’s face and decided this was too fun to put to an end.
“I think it sounds nice.”
Aaron instantly inhales through his nose. You can see the hesitation clearly on his face. It’s not that he doesn’t want them there, it’s because he clearly cares about it going well. It was easy to expect disaster, but everyone was fitting together unexpectedly easily.
“Well, I guess it’s settled then.” Aaron smiles at his son.
Jack grabs Aaron’s hand and starts walking toward the parking lot. He’s already talking about what he plans to order. The restaurant was noisy, it was a little family spot nearby that was clearly overwhelmed with other families that had the same idea.
You slide into the large booth between Emily and Garcia. Jack is sitting next to Rossi and Aaron, excitedly talking about the game still. Aaron has one arm resting behind Jack automatically, listening to everything his son is saying.
It’s different seeing Aaron like this, it’s close to what you had imagined all those years ago. You knew he would be a great dad, it’s clear that you were right. He and Haley work around each other easily, both chiming in on Jack’s friends that played too.
Rossi points at Aaron suddenly, “You guys should have heard him at halftime,”
“David.” Aaron warns.
“He gave a motivational speech.”
Morgan lets out a loud laugh, “You didn’t.”
“I believe I heard the phrase ‘maintain formation’ twice.”
“To seven-year olds?” JJ asks, raising a brow.
Aaron looks unashamed like it was obvious, “Spacing matters.”
“They’re seven.” Emily reiterates, causing everyone else at the table to laugh.
“They still need structure.”
Haley leans in toward you, “He color coded snack assignments last season.”
You burst into another laugh and Aaron looks horrified.
“Haley.” He sighs.
Lunch lasted longer than any of you had intended. The teasing turned into stories and eventually circled all the way back to soccer strategy. You couldn't help but notice even with the chaos of today, Aaron looked closer to the man that you once knew. He looked softer and less guarded. He wasn’t Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, he was just Aaron. He looked happy, you noticed it and so did the team.
Everyone had finished eating but no one had moved from their spots. Jack had asked Reid an endless stream of questions, hoping to stump him but was unsuccessful.
“Who is the best shot?” Jack asks yet another question about the team. It’s clear to see how proud he is of his dad.
“Technically your dad is.” Reid nods.
“That wasn’t always the case.” You tease, taking a sip of your drink.
Aaron simply raises a brow to challenge and Jack turns his attention to you now.
“What do you mean?”
“Back in the academy your dad lost. A lot.”
“It was not a lot-” Aaron defends with a warning look. It only encourages you more.
“You trained with my dad?” Jack asks, looking between you two.
You nod, “It was a long time ago.”
“You were better?” Jack’s smile widens.
“Much.”
“Alright!” Aaron reaches out a hand to stop you, “There may have been a couple training exercises that you performed better-”
“Right, I was only the top of the class for eleven of the fourteen rounds.” You remind, a smile growing on his face at your competitive nature. It’s something you both share. “You even prepped a full tactical report-”
“Preparation matters.” He directly cuts off, his smile never wavering.
“For a fake apartment with cardboard suspects.” You shake your head.
The back and forth had come so naturally that you hadn’t realized the entire table went quiet watching the two of you. Aaron noticed too, you both stop talking at the same time. Jack seemingly is the only one oblivious and picks right back up with his questions.
“And now he’s the best?”
You glance back over to Aaron once more before answering. He has a slight smirk and looks down to watch the exchange between you and his son.
“Debatable.”
Aaron laughs first, it’s short but it’s surprisingly loud. It was so real and raw that the entire table froze. Hotch laughing was rare, but openly because of you? That hadn’t happened in over a decade.
Rossi looks like he could cry, “I’m gonna remember this day forever.”
“You need hobbies.” Aaron mutters, rolling his eyes at the older man’s flair for the dramatic.
Everyone eventually began to move out of the booth, mostly due to Garcia threatening a group picture. Out in the parking lot Jack hugged everyone goodbye, including you. He is waiting in front of you and looking down at his shoes.
“You’re coming to another game.” He informs seriously.
You can’t help but smile, “That sounds threatening. I’m in.”
“Good.”
Aaron watches the entire interaction with Haley at his side. A strange warmth settles in his chest watching how natural it was. It felt like you had always belonged somewhere near this part of his life. It was a very dangerous and greedy thought for him to have. Even Haley has a smile on her face, not a hint of discomfort. He didn’t think it would ever be like that. Maybe it’s because the two of you are just teammates now.
Haley eventually wrangled Jack into her car after another goodbye to everyone. You had ridden with Garcia who is currently petting a stranger’s dog on the sidewalk. It gave you just enough time to catch him.
“Aaron.”
He looks up right away, halting his stride to his car. He could hear it in your tone that something had shifted from the energy just moments ago.
“What’s wrong?” He raises a concerned brow.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
He waits, you glance back toward the rest of the team all making their ways to their cars.
“I need to speak with you Monday morning.”
He nods, but studies you carefully. “Professionally or personally?”
You hesitate and his concern grows. The conversation with Haley had left a question in your head and you won’t leave it unanswered.
“Both.”
He goes very still, the noise of the parking lot fading to the background for a moment while the two of you stare at each other. It’s clear you aren’t giving up enough to give him a clue what this is about. You start to take backward steps toward Garcia’s waiting car.
“I’ll see you Monday.”
He watches you go, and for the rest of the weekend Aaron could not stop thinking about exactly what ‘both’ meant.
an// now i know y’all did not expect her and haley to be chill like that!! At the end of the day Aaron is the one we should be mad at, not Haley ✋🏼 also that flashback??? Like c’mon Aaron 😭 PLEASE let me know your thoughts, I’m already onto the next part!
Summary: It was well known within the team that there was one other person that had captured their team leader's heart. You knew Aaron back when he and Haley took a break from their relationship and he went to the academy and met you. What the team doesn’t know is that you have been with the FBI ever since, working the west coast mainly until you get requested to join the BAU.
series list
word count: 4.3 K
an// the timeline is a little different in this from the show, Aaron spent longer as a prosecutor before going to the academy and joining the FBI for this to work and to make the reader younger than Aaron. This is also a world where Foyet never happened and Haley is still alive.
-
You’ve been with the team for nearly two months and it’s safe to say you’re fitting in better day by day. It took some time getting used to so much cross-country travel for cases, that was something totally foreign to you. Everyone else made crossing time zones look easy, but you were getting better at it. Not that you would let anything else show.
You step out of the elevator, pinching a file against your coffee in that the cart downstairs had aggressively overfilled. You’re reaching for the glass door handle when a cold voice calls out.
“Agent Y/LN.”
You immediately straighten and turn around to see Erin Strauss waiting near the elevators where you just came from. She has a sour expression and her suit is ironed to perfection. You know she rarely comes down to this floor. Usually it’s because something is wrong.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder and change the coffee in your hands awkwardly.
“Section Chief.”
“I need a word.”
You glance back to the bullpen where the rest of the team is already getting to work.
“Now?” You turn back to her.
You can see it on her face that this is not a request and something cold settles in your stomach.
“Yes.” Strauss turns and presses the elevator button, instantly calling it and stepping inside. You falter for a second before taking slow strides to join her. Neither of you say another word until you’ve landed in the chair across from her desk. Her office is too quiet. Too formal.
“I’m assuming this isn’t social.” You joke lightly.
Strauss folds her hands carefully on her desk.
“You’ve integrated with the team quickly. You’re doing well.”
Your guard immediately goes up because she doesn’t say it like it’s a good thing.
“That’s the idea.”
She doesn’t react.
“You’ve earned an impressive reputation throughout the Bureau.”
She’s using a measured and strategic tone that makes the conversation even more unsettling.
You remain still, “What exactly is this conversation?”
She openly studies you for a moment before answering.
“I’m concerned about Agent Hotchner.”
Shock takes over instantly. It isn’t visible to Strauss, but you can feel it ripple through you.
“What?”
She remains calm, “Aaron has been under increasing personal and professional strain and no longer is able to operate this team to its fullest capabilities.”
You stare at her in disbelief.
“With all due respect, he runs this team exceptionally well.”
“He runs it obsessively.” Strauss corrects, “There’s a difference.”
Your jaw tightens. You had been back long enough to know the truth. Aaron carries this team on his back. Every single case. Every single agent. Every single decision. He sacrifices himself for the job constantly, and from what you’ve heard he’s always been like that.
“The Bureau values stability in leadership positions.” Strauss continues carefully.
“And you think he’s unstable?”
She clears her throat, “I think he’s compromised. You’ve demonstrated exceptional leadership capability, Agent Y/LN.”
There it was.
You instantly feel anger flare under your ribs, “No.”
Strauss blinks once, “I haven't actually asked the question yet.”
“You don’t have to.”
You let the silence stretch between the two of you, eventually crossing your arms and leaning back in the chair.
“You want me to step into his position.”
She doesn’t deny it.
“You would be considered. You would be the top applicant.”
You stare at her for a long moment, waiting until she squirms under your gaze. You let out a sharp disbelieving laugh.
“You seriously brought me here to undermine him?”
“Agent Y/LN-”
“You have tried poaching me for years.” You continue, shaking your head.
“Agent Y/LN.” Her voice is still calm, but concern is growing on her face.
You stand from the chair, picking up your bag from the floor and coffee off her desk.
“Aaron Hotchner is one of the best unit chiefs the Bureau has.” You admit.
Strauss’s expression had cooled slightly, “Your personal history may be affecting your objectivity.”
Your hand hovers over the doorknob, “You know what affects my objectivity? Watching someone spend years giving everything they have to this job and still having people look for excuses to replace them.”
Her gaze sharpens on you.
“I didn’t come here to take his team.”
“Leadership transitions happen.” She purses her lips.
“Not like this.” You exhale through your nose, “Am I dismissed?”
Her expression hardens, but she takes her time before eventually nodding.
“For now.”
You took the stairs down and your heart was still racing by the time you made it back to the bullpen. The anger was still sitting sharp under your skin. The bullpen was empty, making your stomach drop slightly until you see the conference room. A case, of course.
You push open the door, Garcia is in the middle of briefing everyone on the case details. You find the last available seat.
“Look who finally decided to show up.” Morgan mutters, getting a few chuckles.
“Shut up.” You roll your eyes.
“You’re late.” Aaron’s voice harsh. He finally looks up at you from the file and instantly knows that something is wrong.
“Strauss.” You answer simply.
The room collectively groaned.
“Yikes.” Emily mutters.
Aaron’s eyes remain locked on you. You know he’s assessing and trying to figure you out.
“What did she want?” He questions.
A dangerous question. You keep your face neutral and maintain eye contact with him.
“Administrative nonsense.”
He knows immediately that you are lying, but the rest of the team doesn’t catch it. Aaron doesn’t catch you on the words, but because even after all these years he still knew exactly what you looked like when you were angry. Right now, you looked furious.
You hold his eyes evenly, trying your best to say not here and not now. He holds your gaze for a second longer before finally nodding and letting Garcia continue with the briefing.
“To recap-” Garcia smiles at you, “we have three victims over eleven days. All women between twenty-five and thirty-three.”
She clicks to reveal photo after photo. All of the victims look different, they don’t share any obvious physical consistency.
Morgan frowns, “No victim preference.”
“Not outwardly.” Reid corrects, studying the images carefully.
“But, all three did attend large social events within forty-eight hours of abduction.” Garcia adds.
You look at the file. A fundraiser, an engagement party, and a bridal shower.
Emily raises a brow, “Oddly specific.”
“Not really.” You shrug.
“Meaning?” Aaron looks over.
“Big events. Emotional environments. People are distracted, drinking, they let their guards down.”
“Or,” Rossi adds thoughtfully, “Maybe he’s targeting women who represent something specific to him.”
“Commitment.” JJ suggests.
“Control.” Reid counters.
You add quietly, “Fear.”
Aaron looks back at you right away and you point toward the photos on the screen.
“These aren’t rage kills.”
“No overkill.” Aaron agrees.
“And the staging is too deliberate.” You continue, “This feels compulsive, like he’s trying to prove something to himself.”
Morgan frowns and spins back and forth in his chair, “About women?”
Your mouth curves, “Maybe about himself around women.”
Aaron’s eyes narrow on you slightly. You were onto something and he could tell.
“Wheels up in thirty.”
-
You settle into your seat across from Morgan while Garcia’s voice fills the speakers on the jet.
“I already pulled social overlap between victims. No direct connections yet, but I will keep digging!”
Reid sits up slightly in his seat, “Statically major life transitions do correlate with increased psychological stress responses.”
“Marriage especially.” Emily mutters.
Morgan points, “See? Even Prentiss thinks marriage is terrifying.”
You hum, “It happens.”
Aaron looks down at the file in his hands. You notice. And because you can’t bite your tongue, you just can’t help yourself.
“People panic when they realize they’re locked into a future they’re not sure they want.”
Silence. JJ’s eyes flick between you and Hotch. Morgan leans back in his seat like he was watching a tennis match. Aaron remains perfectly composed, but it means nothing because you once knew him too well. His jaw eventually tightens. Bullseye.
You look back down at your file pretending innocence. Rossi hid his smile poorly behind his coffee cup.
“This feels pointed.” Morgan mutters.
“It’s definitely pointed.” Emily agrees.
Aaron finally speaks, without looking up at anyone.
“Focus on the case, please.”
Your mouth twitches slightly, “Yes, sir.”
Morgan chokes.
-
The smaller town forty minutes outside of Philadelphia greeted you with gray skies and cold rain. The local precinct had already set up boards when the team arrived. Everyone split up to go to the dump sites before returning to the station. They had photos, maps, and timelines. Aaron stepped up naturally to assign tasks while local detectives listened carefully.
You hung back near the boards trying to take it all in again. Something itched at the back of your brain that wasn’t fitting right.
“You’ve got the look.”
You hadn’t even noticed Rossi approach quietly beside you.
“What look?”
“The one where you’re about to ruin everyone’s day by being right.”
You snort loudly, capturing Aaron’s attention now that the detectives are gone.
Your eyes narrow slightly at the newest victim photo. She has a bright silver bracelet that looks new with a small charm attached.
“What’s that?” You ask.
JJ looks over, “Bridesmaid gift.”
You go still, and Aaron notices it right away. He steps closer to you and the board.
“What?”
You scan over the board again. Engagement party. Bridal shower. Wedding fundraiser. Everyone is looking at you, waiting for you to share whatever epiphany you’re having.
You look over at Aaron and mutter, “You’re so not going to believe me.”
He simply raises a brow, “Talk.”
You turn away from the boards finally to face the team that already all have eyes on you.
“He’s escalating around weddings.” You point to the events.
“Meaning what?” Morgan asks.
“He’s engaged.” The room stays quiet, waiting for you to continue, “He’s spiraling because he feels trapped. Every kill is tied to women connected to marriage or commitment.”
JJ’s eyes widen, “He’s acting out before his own wedding.”
“The wedding is the stressor.”
“That would explain the compulsive escalation behavior.” Reid nods, “He’s externalizing fear and resentment through violence.”
“He sees this as his last chance of freedom. He’s getting his thrills out now while he still can.” You blurt. Aaron looks at you sharply at your phrasing. You both know it wasn’t because you were wrong, it was because it was familiar. You ignore him completely.
“So, he’s punishing women because he blames them for his life changing.” Emily comments.
“Not just women,” You correct, “Commitment itself.”
Aaron picks up the thread immediately, “He doesn’t actually want marriage.”
“But he’s doing it anyway.” Rossi finishes.
“Exactly.” You nod.
Garcia’s voice finally comes on “Oh, I can work with this. Filtering men with upcoming marriage licenses in the area, cross-referencing with event attendance and employment flexibility.”
You can hear her typing aggressively. It took some time before she found a thirty-two year old man who is supposed to be married in eight days. He’s a construction supervisor and all three victims are connected through wedding venues his company recently services.
“That’s him.” You nod.
Hotch agrees, “That’s our guy.”
Garcia tracked his work vehicle to one of their maintenance buildings, it was starting to get dark out. Rain continued to hammer against the rusted metal roof. SWAT had formed a perimeter and the team was moving in carefully. A loud scream came from inside making everyone move a little faster.
Morgan kicks open the door and everyone filters in with trained eyes locked on the unsub. He’s pacing and has a young woman clutched tightly against him. He has one arm locked around her throat and is effectively using her as a shield.
Gun shaking in his hand, “She lied to me!”
His fiancé.
Aaron’s posture straightens beside you.
“Easy,” He calls out calmly, “Nobody here wants anyone hurt.”
The unsub starts yelling and waving the gun around more frantically. You take a step closer and lower your weapon so he can see the motion, Aaron’s aim becoming a little more focused.
“You don’t want to do this.” You say softly.
Aaron knew that look on your face. That was the negotiator in you.
“She trapped me!”
You stay calm, taking another cautious step closer.
“No, you trapped yourself.”
His grip falters slightly and you slowly ease forward again.
“I know what you’re feeling.” You relate, “You wake up one day and realize that your whole future is happening before you’re ready.”
The unsub stares at you, breathing hard. The rain is still pounding hard but you keep your tone even.
“But all you can think about is whether you’re making a mistake.”
You’re sure if Aaron wasn’t trained on the gun with laser focus making sure he has no chance of harming you he would be cutting you a look.
“You think once the wedding happens, your life stops belonging to you.”
The unsub’s grip on his fiancé loosens slightly.
“She’s taking everything from me.”
“No,” You say gently, “You were afraid, and that’s okay.”
You step closer yet again.
“You still have a choice, but if you pull that trigger? That choice will disappear forever.”
The woman whimpers softly.
“No one is saying you have to live the life everybody planned for you.”
Aaron felt that deep in his chest.
“You can walk away and admit you’re unhappy before you destroy your life or someone else's."
The unsubs' hands shake violently. He looks between you and then down at the woman in his arms, finally the gun clatters to the floor and he lets go of her. Morgan moves in immediately to put him in handcuffs, JJ steps in front of you to guide the victim out of the building. SWAT was shouting commands as chaos was erupting around everyone. You stay in your spot for a moment longer, exhaling slowly as the adrenaline starts to dip.
Aaron hadn’t moved from his spot behind you either.
“Hey.”
You turn to look at him, a blank expression on his face.
“You did a good job.”
You take a deep breath, “He wanted someone to understand him.”
He studies you carefully.
“And you did?”
Your eyes hold for a second too long, with way too much baggage sitting underneath it. Too many things that neither of you will say.
“That’s the job.”
-
Ten years ago.
Your apartment smelled like burnt coffee and takeout noodles. Case files were covering most of the available surfaces with behavioral notes scribbled on them. Aaron is sitting at the counter with his sleeves rolled up while you’re sprawled out on your couch with a file in hand.
Training just started a few weeks ago, the two of you still had nine months of training and education to complete before graduating the program. You and Aaron were quick to become study partners, it seemed like he was one of the only men in the class that didn’t have a problem with a woman’s input.
So it had become a thing for the two of you to have late night study sessions, training drills, and even mock interviews and interrogations. You don’t know if he feels the same gravitational pull that was definitely affecting you, but there was a growing tension between the two of you.
“Don’t forget to blink every once and a while.” You call casually.
He doesn’t look up, “I blink.”
After a few more minutes Aaron lets out a deep sigh and stands up to stretch, he walks over to the end of the couch and lifts your feet up so he can sit down. He sighs again once he’s sat, letting his eyes close as he holds your legs in his lap.
You set down your file, “You got quiet today when Gideon mentioned spouses.”
He doesn’t shift, but you can feel his fingers tighten on your leg for a split second.
You soften your voice, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
He doesn’t answer you right away, you nearly pick your file back up to let the moment pass. He opens his eyes again, his head resting against the back of the couch. He turns to look at you directly.
“I wasn’t married, but we had been together since high school.”
You stay quiet.
“She’s the only relationship I’ve ever had.”
There was no bitterness to his voice, but it was clear there was exhaustion. You turn in toward him on the couch more.
“What happened?”
“I think…” He pauses briefly, “I think we kept waiting for the right time to get married. But every time it came up we would end up fighting.”
He lets out a small humorless laugh.
“About my hours, school, work. If I was ever actually home enough to build a life with.”
You melt a little at the admission and seeing the pain on his face. He rubs a tired hand over his jaw.
“I kept telling myself things would be better between us after law school. And then after the prosecutor’s office.”
“But it wasn’t.”
He shakes his head. The apartment felt quieter now than it had earlier. The position of the two of you combined with the admission was making it feel intimate somehow.
“She wanted stability and I kept giving her reasons to wait. It didn’t feel like we were actually building a life together, it felt like going through the motions because it was safe.”
You study him carefully.
“You were dragging your feet.”
He huffs lightly, “Probably.”
“Why?”
His thumb begins to trace back and forth absentmindedly on your ankle. The question sat between the two of you for a second before Aaron answered honestly.
“Because every time we talked about marriage, it felt like proof we weren’t ready for it.”
Your eyes look over his face, “You loved her though.”
“I did.” He admits.
Did. Past tense. He notices you catch his phrasing and he looks away immediately. The two of you had just sat side by side in a class explaining the importance in the choice of someone’s words.
“The academy was the last straw.” He admits quietly, leaning forward to take the last swig of his coffee from the coffee table, “Me leaving prosecution to come here. She thought I was choosing work over our future again.”
“Were you?”
He stays quiet, which was answer enough. Somewhere down the hall a couple of trainees laugh loudly before a door slams shut.
“I don’t know.” He finally admits.
It feels painfully honest. You watch him for a long moment, several emotions crossing his face. Regret. Guilt. Fear.
“You wanna know what I think?” You ask eventually.
He finally looks back at you with tired eyes, “This should be interesting.”
You smile and roll your eyes.
“I think you’ve spent your life doing what you’re supposed to do.”
HIs brows furrow slightly.
“Good student. Good boyfriend. Good prosecutor.” You shrug, “You’ve probably been good to every single person who expected it from you.”
His mouth twitches slightly, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, but I think it’s sad.”
You lean forward.
“What do you actually want, Aaron?”
He opens his mouth to speak but stops. He hesitates because he can’t think of a time that someone had actually asked him that. Not without expectations attached to it as well. He almost looks frustrated by the question.
“I don’t know.”
You hold his gaze, “Then maybe that’s the problem.”
The silence stretches across your apartment again, heavy and charged. He looks like he’s trying to figure something out in real time.
“You said it yourself,” You continue, “You don’t even know if you’ve really been living.”
He swallows once and there was something devastating about how tired he suddenly looked. He looks like a man that spent years building a life he wasn’t sure he even wanted anymore.
“So start living.”
He stares at you.
“What?”
You smile, “What do you want to do?”
The question hangs in the air. His eyes flick down briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. You notice it immediately and feel the air shift.
“Really?”
Neither of you move away or look away.
His voice comes out soft, “I think this is probably a bad idea.”
Your pulse starts to race.
“Probably.”
“But you don’t care.” He realizes.
“Not at this moment.”
That did it. Aaron crosses the short space between the two of you on the couch before he could think himself out of it. His hand slides against your neck as he kisses you. You knew there was tension but the chemistry was explosive in a messy way. He kissed you like a man who had been holding back for months and you had only known him a couple weeks…
You pull him closer against you by gripping the front of his academy shirt. You make a surprised noise against his mouth and he swallows it immediately. He waits until your lips are starting to swell to pull back enough to breathe.
“We should stop.”
Your lips brush against his while you catch your breath.
“Then stop.”
He kisses you harder instead, making you laugh against his mouth. You can feel his smile and pull back so you can finally see it. His lips are red and swollen to match yours at this point. He looks like he just won the lottery.
He wasn’t the polished prosecutor or the disciplined trainee. He was just Aaron and he was taking something for himself.
His forehead rests on yours as you both catch your breath.
“You’re a terrible influence.” He murmurs.
You grin instantly, “You like it.”
“I really do.”
He kisses you again, this time it’s slower. It feels warmer and more intentional. It felt like the start to something neither of you was prepared for.
-
Everyone was wide awake climbing the steps to the jet eager to get home. It was late, but technically you guys were only in Pennsylvania for fourteen hours. You sit down in the first open seat, Rossi is walking up behind you.
“That was quick turnaround, kid!” Rossi presses a kiss to the top of your head as he passes and you lightly push him off, “Getting called away for a case on a Friday I assumed Aaron and I would miss the game tomorrow.”
You watch him settle into the chair across from you with a proud look on his face.
“What game?” You ask. Aaron settles into the seat next to Rossi and you scoot in so Morgan can take the aisle next to you.
“Jack’s soccer team.” Rossi answers, “Aaron coerced me into helping him coach with him on the weekends.”
You glance over at Aaron cautiously catching him visibly tense.
“You volunteered.” Aaron finally speaks, focusing on the file rather than anyone at the table.
“I was manipulated.” Rossi corrects.
Aaron looks over at him with a rare quick smile, “You like the kids.”
“They’re sticky.”
You laugh, “You coach Jack’s team?”
Aaron looks over at you and nods.
“It’s one day a week-”
“It’s glorious!” Rossi interrupts, “These seven year olds act like they’re in the World Cup and they don’t even keep score.”
You burst out laughing again and Rossi notices Aaron looking at you a little too long because of it.
“Let me guess, color coded schedules?” You lean in toward Rossi with a smirk while Aaron simply shakes his head and focuses back on the file.
“Oh, there’s a spreadsheet!” Rossi grins, “You should come tomorrow.”
The laughter dies instantly and you blink a couple times. The team stills as well, the cabin becoming silent.
“What?”
“The game.” Rossi shrugs innocently, “You should come.”
You can see Aaron in the corner of your eye looking up fully now. There was a subtle panic to him now and you caught it immediately.
“That’s okay-”
“Everyone should come, actually.” Rossi turns his focus to the rest of the team that was solely focused on this conversation anyway.
You glance toward Aaron carefully now. It felt more loaded than a soccer game should and the team could feel it too. Everyone knew Haley would be there as well to see her son play. Judging by the look on his face he had already had that realization.
Morgan grins slowly, “I would pay money to watch Hotch coach children.”
“Why? We see him with us everyday?” You joke, trying to lighten the tension a little and distract a little.
“I’m going to make it mandatory for everyone,” Rossi waves his hands, “None of you have excuses anyway. Technically we’d still be working this case tomorrow if Y/n hadn’t wrapped things up so quickly.”
You narrow your eyes, “You’re weaponizing my competence.”
“Bingo.”
You roll your eyes and everyone answers with various forms of ‘yes’ to agree to the game tomorrow. You look at Aaron once more while you consider. You know this is strangely vulnerable and it’s not even his own idea. He offers you the slightest of nods after a few seconds.
“Well?” Morgan turns to you, waiting on your answer.
You exhale softly through your nose.
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
Morgan claps loudly and Garcia cheers through the speakerphone. Emily grins and you can already see her sharing a look with JJ. Aaron’s jaw remains tight with his focus back on the case file.
You turn to look out the window and think about the day you now have ahead of you after landing. Meeting Haley wasn’t something you ever expected or had given much thought to. Now it was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not…
AN// omg back to back days of posting?!? i loveeddddd the parallels of Aaron and the ubsub and her being RIGHT! thank god honestly.
Summary: It was well known within the team that there was one other person that had captured their team leader's heart. You knew Aaron back when he and Haley took a break from their relationship and he went to the academy and met you. What the team doesn’t know is that you have been with the FBI ever since, working the west coast mainly until you get requested to join the BAU.
series list
word count: 3.7K
an// the timeline is a little different in this from the show, Aaron spent longer as a prosecutor before going to the academy and joining the FBI for this to work and to make the reader younger than Aaron. This is also a world where Foyet never happened and Haley is still alive.
-
It took three more days for you guys to close up in Miami. You and Aaron still argued, obviously, but it was clear that you were easily fitting in with this team. It helped that you already knew two pillars of the team fairly well, but everyone else was coming naturally as well.
The case ended with you disobeying Hotch. Morgan and Rossi were already around the back of the unsub’s house and the two of you had the front. He wanted to wait for additional back up to arrive, but you didn’t want to risk the last victim and breached the front door anyway. He was forced to follow, but it ended with the unsub going away in cuffs and no more lives lost. It was a win for the team, but Hotch wasn’t acting like it.
“She’s gonna give that man a coronary.” Morgan mutters to Rossi as they clear the rest of the house.
With the unsub in the back of a cruiser, you close the door and turn and immediately face Hotch. He towers over you and his eyes reveal his anger.
“I told you to wait.”
“If I had waited, he could’ve killed her.”
“You disobeyed orders.” His hands tightening at his sides.
“He would’ve escalated seeing the FBI on his front lawn.” You argue.
“We don’t know that.”
“He could have. Were you willing to risk her life?”
You gesture to where the victim is sitting in the back of an ambulance being checked for minor injuries. Aaron simply stares at you for a long moment and the team all pretend not to watch.
“You don’t get to decide which orders matter.” He says eventually.
Your expression sharpens immediately, “And you don’t get to confuse control with leadership. Do you seriously not think that between us, Rossi, and Morgan we wouldn’t be able to handle him?”
You nod to where the unsub is still waiting in the back of a police car, it pulls away after a few minutes. Morgan winces when he sees Aaron’s jaw tighten. Your expression hasn’t faded, maybe even still a hint of a smile.
“Now, let's go get a confession.” You nod, your ponytail swinging with you as you get into the passenger seat of Hotch’s SUV. He hesitates for a moment, taking a controlled breath before rounding the front of the car and getting in.
Back at the precinct the team couldn’t help but watch the two of you interrogate the unsub. It only took twenty minutes for the two of you to completely dismantle him, a perfect balance with Aaron’s controlled pressure and you destabilizing him emotionally. Aaron cornered him and you baited him. It was so seamless, it almost looked choreographed. Rossi was thinking of the masterclass the two of you could teach if you would both survive it.
By the end of the twenty minutes the unsub was sweating through his shirt and confessed to all of the murders. The local PD began to process the arrest and the team gathered outside under the heavy Miami evening heat.
Morgan shook his head slowly, “I hate how good that was.”
“I liked it.” Emily confesses and JJ shoves her lightly with a laugh.
Reid looks genuinely fascinated, “Their communication style appears almost entirely conflict-based, yet they consistently produce effective outcomes.”
Rossi claps him on the shoulder, “Congratulations, kid. You should’ve seen them push each other to the top of their class.”
Aaron exited the precinct at that exact moment, you follow a few seconds later. You’re still carrying leftover adrenaline. You glance toward the team that is watching the two of you walk toward them.
“Oh, don’t start.” You roll your eyes.
Morgan raises both hands, “I didn’t say a word!”
“You were thinking several.”
“Definitely.”
Aaron looks tired next to you, but the team would argue that he looks lighter than he typically does after a case. It wasn’t dramatic, he wasn’t suddenly cheerful. They could see him hiding small smiles at your quick wit all week.
Tiny moments. Dry remarks. Actual banter.
It was because of you.
-
The jet ride home was much quieter than the flight out. The case was closed and the adrenaline was fading. The team was pretty spread out to sleep or work quietly with the lights dimmed. Morgan nearly walked into a chair when he saw you and Aaron take the two seats facing each other toward the back of the plane.
You sit with one leg tucked underneath you, Aaron straight in front of you reviewing paperwork. At least he was pretending to, he hadn’t turned a page in several minutes.
“You’re staring again.” You murmur, not pulling your gaze from the window. You can see tiny lights far down below glowing, the only thing showing through the dark night sky. The occasional silhouette of a dark cloud.
He doesn’t flinch, “You still say that.”
“Apparently you still do it.” You finally turn to look at him. A faint smile is briefly tugging at the corners of his mouth. You glance down toward Aaron’s left hand resting against the file. No ring. You noticed the first day, of course you did, but this was the first time the two of you had a quiet moment long enough to address it.
“So, you and Haley...” You simply comment, not needing to continue for him to follow.
He doesn’t show much of a reaction, “We divorced three years ago.”
You nod once.
“How’d you know?” He questions so you glance back down to his hand again and he catches it this time. He huffs slightly, flexing his hand out in front of himself, “Right.”
A quiet moment follows that isn’t awkward, but careful on both ends.
“I’m sorry.”
He thinks for a long time before replying.
“We wanted different things for a long time.” He keeps his voice even, “Eventually that catches up to people.”
You nod, knowing the truth to that all too well. At one point in time you had voiced that.
“We have a son together.” He shifts the conversation, “Jack.”
You smile, “That’s a good name.”
You always pictured him being a dad, it was something he knew he wanted even back then.
“He’s seven.” Aaron lights up with the brightest smile you’ve seen since you came back.
“That’s amazing, Aaron.”
He looks down briefly, something warmer crossing his face.
“He’s… everything.”
You smile back and nod, turning to look back out the window.
“You’d like him.” He says it before he can stop himself, your head snaps back to look at him surprised.
“Yeah?”
He nods, “Yeah.”
The words linger between the two of you, he shifts in his seat and eventually closes the file and simply rests it on his lap.
“I’ve heard rumors.”
You laugh softly, “That sounds ominous.”
“They usually are when they involve you.”
“That’s fair.”
You can feel his full focus on you, studying every inch of you. You take the time to do the same. He’s older, more worn down but somehow more open in the ways that matter.
“You once talked down an armed unsub for forty-three minutes without backup.”
You groan, “Oh god, now you sound like Emily.”
“It’s a serious accomplishment.”
He knew it was, he didn’t really need to tell you that. You had received several awards for it, everyone in the bureau had heard about it.
“It sounds worse than it was.”
“You talked down two armed suspects without backup and without any of the fifteen hostages being injured.”
“I had backup eventually.”
Aaron ignores that, “I also heard Strauss has tried recruiting you to this team twice before this.”
You are surprised at this, you didn’t realize he was aware you had been offered a spot already.
“You keepin tabs on me?” You grin.
“No.”
A beat. Your brows raise slightly to show you don’t believe him.
“Not intentionally.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head. Aaron continues before you can tease him too much.
“You have built an impressive career.”
Simple words, but coming from him after all of these years? They land heavy.
You lean back in your seat, “I worked for it.”
“I know.”
And he did. He knew you in the academy when you were relentless and fearless. Far too smart to stay unnoticed. He knew that you would be exceptional, the bureau just took a little longer to come to that conclusion.
“I know you were requested by several departments. We’re lucky Strauss convinced you to come here.” He admits.
You study him carefully.
“Well,” You say softly, “don’t make me regret it.”
Aaron’s answer was a small smile. Rare and real before eventually reopening the file, you turn back to the window.
-
Ten years ago.
The fight had started over nothing. Aaron would realize after having years to think about it, that it actually started weeks earlier and it was all his own doing. You were standing in the small kitchenette of his bureau housing apartment pouring coffee into your mug. He’s sitting at the counter with field office placement paperwork in front of him.
“You’re seriously considering staying local with D.C?” You ask, moving to stand next to where he’s sitting. His hand slides up your bare leg and under the hem of his tee shirt. It’s doing a good job of tempting him this morning with where it hits on your thigh.
“It’s a good office.”
“What happened to Seattle?” You ask, leaning against his side and looking over the paperwork fanning out in front of the two of you.
“It’s still on the table. I just haven’t closed off my options.” He sighs, a deep frown settling on his face.
“Seattle and Los Angeles aren’t too far. At least it’s the same coast.” You offer a smile and run your fingers through his hair at the back of his head. Los Angeles was where you were sure you would end up. You had gotten several offers, but the LA office was capable of kickstarting your career.
He watches you for a second too long.
“You’re gonna take it?”
You turn slowly in his hold so you can focus on him, mug still in hand.
“I think so." You shrug your shoulders but nod anyway.
He stiffens, his eyes darting to the paperwork and unable to meet yours.
“Hey,” You reach out carefully, “Are you okay?”
You know he’s tired, everyone is at this point being so close to graduating from the academy.
“Fine.” He cooly replies.
“Aaron.” You warn, letting him know you aren’t just letting this go.
His jaw tightens almost immediately.
“Haley called me.”
He feels you still completely at his words, you fight the urge to step back out of his hold and he can tell. Your feet itching to step back and get a real look at him. He clears his throat, finally meeting your stare.
“We’ve been talking.”
This time you do step back, his hand slipping from you.
“Talking?” You repeat, the word tastes as bitter as it sounds.
He sets down the paper in his hand, “We were together for years.”
“And?” Your brows pull together, “We’ve been together for eight months.”
He sighs, “That’s not what I meant.”
The apartment suddenly feels too warm and too tight. You’ve spent more time here than your own place the past few months, but now you’d rather be anywhere else. He rubs a tired hand across his face.
“Y/n-”
“What was your plan here?” Your voice is climbing in volume.
His eyes snap back to you, looking less tired and more concerned.
“What?”
“You graduate, we go our separate ways, and you go back to her? I was just a placeholder while you were back in school?”
He shakes his head, “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? You just want me to disappear to California while you stay here with her."
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“She was in my life for a long time.”
“And I’m only temporary?” Your voice finding a dangerous calm.
He hesitates, “No.”
It’s tiny. Barely noticeable, but both of you catch it. It was enough for you to crack. What you had been feeling for weeks but refusing to admit was coming to an ugly head. You knew that Aaron loved you, but there was a tether pulling him back toward the life he thought he was supposed to have.
The safe life. The life he planned.
You finally set down the cup of coffee and spin on your heels for his bedroom. His chair scrapes against the floor when he quickly stands. You race around the room picking up your clothes he had ripped off the night before. He follows, saying your name over and over trying to stop you.
“You know what your problem is?” You pull your pants on, “You want certainty more than you want happiness.”
He stops in the doorway, watching your every move.
“That’s not true.” Pain flashing in his eyes.
“It is.” You snap, the force behind it surprises both of you, “You love things you can control. Plans. Structure. Rules. Haley fits into the life you mapped out before you even knew who you really were.”
He swallows, his jaw clenching.
“That’s not fair to her.”
“This isn’t about her!” You shout, still picking things up frantically.
But it was. At least a little.
Aaron’s voice hardens, “You don’t get to decide what she meant to me.”
“And you don’t get to act like I’m crazy for noticing she still does.”
Heavy breathing is the only sound in the room, Aaron looks away first which somehow hurt worse. You laugh once under your breath.
“There it is.”
He looks back sharply, “What?”
“You’ve already made your choice.”
“I didn’t say that-”
“You didn’t have to.” You interrupt, trying to push past him but he doesn’t move from the doorway. His frustration at your accusations is surfacing.
“You’re acting like this relationship meant less to me because I’m trying to think realistically about the future.” He boldly reaches out for your hand, but you dodge it.
“No,” You shoot back immediately, “I just won’t beg someone to stay who is already halfway out the door.”
“That’s not true.” He tries to step closer, you step back.
He opens his mouth again, but stops. You simply stare at him, waiting. Silently begging for him to just say it. Choose something. Choose anything. But Aaron had never been impulsive with his heart. Even loving you had terrified him.
You nod to yourself, painfully composed.
“Enough, Aaron. Move.”
“Y/n-”
“No, it’s okay.” You force, “I get it now.”
Aaron’s concern sharpens, “You’re twisting this into something it’s not.”
“No, Aaron. I think you can’t even admit to yourself exactly what this is.”
“You think I don’t love you?”
He reaches out a hand, this time you don’t step back from it. You let his hand cup your face because you know it’ll never happen again. Even with all the anger you’re feeling, you want to soak it up one last time. Him loving you wasn’t the problem, that might be the worst part.
“You do.” You admit softly, your voice turning cold as tears flood your vision, “But someday you’re going to wake up beside her again and wonder why it still feels like something’s missing.”
His eyebrow twitching, jaw tightening again.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” You insist, “Men like you always want what they can’t have.”
That one hits hard. His expression closes off immediately, you can practically see him putting the walls back up. His hand drops from your face.
“You’re trying to hurt me.”
“No.” You sigh humorlessly, stepping out of his hold and backing toward the door, “I’m trying to tell you the truth.”
He shakes his head once, “You think you have everything figured out.”
You make it to the door, your hand hovering over the doorknob. You turn around to face him one last time.
“You wanna know what the worst part is?” Tears slowly streaming down your face.
He doesn’t answer, but you can see the pain growing on his face. The longer you stand there, the worse he is at hiding it.
“You’re going to be a really good husband someday.” The words nearly sound cruel coming from your warm voice, “You’re going to love her and build a life, and convince yourself that it’s enough.”
His face tightens.
“But part of you will always wonder.”
“Y/n-”
“I won’t spend my life being someone’s almost.”
Pure devastation settles between the two of you. He looks like he wants to say something, fight harder and fix it. You pull on the door, and you don’t look back. Aaron doesn’t follow you, proving your point.
You spent the remaining weeks leading up to graduation dedicating any free time toward training. You managed to secure the top of the class, ensuring you had your pick of any field office. Los Angeles was where you were headed and you had even reached out to your unit leader to see if you could start immediately. You were due to be in California in thirty-six hours. You’ll miss graduation.
A soft knock on your doorframe has your head snapping up toward it. David Rossi has one hand raised, he leans against it once he has your attention.
“We’re you really planning on leaving without saying goodbye?”
You turn back to the box you had been taping shut before answering him.
“I haven’t actually left yet.”
He takes a couple steps inside and sits on the FBI issued couch.
“You weren’t gonna stop by anyway.”
He’s right. You were gonna leave without a word to anyone, a clean break.
“Los Angeles will suit you well.” Rossi continues, “I know a couple people out that way. I’ll pass your them your name to keep an eye on you.”
“You don’t need to do that.” You finally look up and meet his eyes. They are warm and it brings you a little comfort, but you can see exactly what you were hoping he would hide better. Pity.
He shrugs, “I’ll do it anyway.”
You keep packing, not letting him slow you at all.
“You really can’t stick around for graduation? All this work and you won’t even celebrate it?”
“Some celebration.” You mutter.
The last place you want to be this weekend is graduation with all of the spouses and partners coming to celebrate the accomplishment. You know who else will be coming too and that’s not something you need to see.
You can feel Rossi’s eyes on you while you continue to pack. He’s waiting patiently for you to give in. You hold off for a few minutes before the thoughts are too loud to stay in your head.
“Aaron is getting back together with Haley.” Your voice is the softest Rossi has ever heard. It didn’t sound like you if he was honest.
“How can you be sure?” The surprise is genuine on his face, “and if that's the case, he’s been looking pretty miserable lately.”
“Trust me, I’m sure.” You scoff, “I could see it in his face, it was over. I could see how bad he felt about it, it was pathetic. So, he is now free to go back to her.”
An uncomfortable shiver runs up your spine.
“But you don’t really want that.” He comments and you let out a sigh.
“I won’t be second pick, Rossi. And from the sound of it I won’t need to.”
You huff again, finally giving up on packing and taking the other half of the couch.
“I could always be like you when I grow up.” You finally crack a smile, “What are you on, marriage number three?”
He rolls his eyes and shoves your shoulder lightly.
“I came here out of concern and care and you insult me?”
“It’s making me feel better.”
“Fine.”
By the time graduation day was actually here, you were not. You had already hopped on a flight and sent all of your belongings ahead as well. Aaron looked for you in the sea of people, but instead his eyes only landed on Haley…
She insisted on coming to see him graduate, he had to bite his tongue to not remind her that this is what broke them up in the first place. She was laying it on thick, and he could tell. Haley was aware of the relationship he had with you, and it was clear that something had brought her back into his orbit.
The day after graduation Rossi finds Aaron at the academy firing range after hours. It was clear he hadn’t been sleeping well.
“You look terrible.” Rossi observes.
“Thanks.” He pulls off his ear protection and reloads his gun.
Rossi leans against the divider next to them, “Y/LN is in Los Angeles, she left early.”
Aaron freezes briefly before resuming. He wasn't expecting Rossi to tell him where you were. He knew it was likely where you would end up, he just had no idea you were going to leave before graduation. Part of him was looking forward to seeing you one last time, even if it was likely that you would be shooting him daggers.
“You know for someone so smart, you handled this remarkably poorly.”
Aaron lets out a humorless laugh.
“Noted.”
Rossi leans in closer, “She was giving you such an aggressive cold shoulder the other instructors were talking about it. They’re placing bets on what finally did it. The two of you almost made it to graduation. That would’ve been a bureau record.”
Aaron looks down briefly, shame written on his face. He’s right, you had turned into ice around him. You were still professional, but nothing more. You had cut the emotional wire clean through, and that hurt him more than the break up itself. You channeled all of your energy into your work, and secured the top rank for yourself. He was honestly proud, but he could never tell you that. You wouldn't want to hear it.
“She thinks you’re going back to Haley.” Rossi says eventually.
Aaron doesn’t answer right away, which was answer enough.
Rossi sighs softly, “Jesus, Aaron.”
“I loved Haley for a long time.” Aaron finally speaks.
“And now?”
Aaron simply swallows, because the truth was awful. He loved you too. Differently than Haley. It was enough that losing you felt like something had been ripped out of him in real time. Rossi watched the realization hit him all over again.
“You really screwed this one up, huh?”
Aaron stared ahead toward the target on the opposite wall because, yeah. He really had screwed it up.
AN// Thank you everyone for your patience with this! It took me so long to update because I was doing some rough framework for the entire series! i can't wait for what i have planned, and you can also expect the next part this weekend (if not sooner)! also, please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist :)
summary: reader is a smoker and craving a cigarette, hotch is kindly helping reader sublimate. and there was only one bed ofc
word count: 7k
content: implied age gap, reader is a smoker, mentions of cigarettes/smoking, mentions of vaping, mentions of cigar equipment, nicotine addiction, oral sex (both receiving), fingering (reader receiving), freaks in the best way, cock appreciation, aftercare (if u squint), both reader and hotch are bratty, teasing, no use of Y/N, small references to a case, references of other criminal minds characters, lots of build-up before the smut, reader and Hotch have banter, reader is implied female
warnings: MDNI, 18+ only, explicit sexual content
a/n: reposting this from a while back with some tweaks. any interaction with this would be greatly appreciated
————————————
“We can take it from here, Agent.” You nod and spot some officers coming in via a footpath before taking it to the main road, knocking the palms of your hands against each other to brush off any debris from the woods as you walk. You spot a pair of car lights ahead and are relieved to see SSA Aaron Hotchner leaning against a black SUV.
Hotch is holding a sealed bottle of water in his hands, and when you’re close enough for him to catch your eyes he unseals the cap and holds both of his hands out to you, one with the bottle and one the cap. The action of unscrewing the bottle for you seems to catch him off-guard and he furrows his brows mostly to himself. Nonetheless, you accept the gesture and take a drink, glad for it.
“I-uh- dad instinct,” perhaps his face reddens at the verbal clumsiness, but you assume that the pink in his cheeks are due to the cold Alaskan air as you start to shiver, the adrenaline from taking down the unsub having already worn off. Hotch opens the passenger door for you and waits until you’re seated before shutting it and crossing over to the driver’s side. The car lights reveal that his regular, professional, emotionless expression has returned. “That was good work, Agent. It was very quick thinking of you to subdue the unsub when you did. I was close to calling it but you managed to make him reveal the motive and CSI should confirm that the dumpsite checks out soon.” He had had the heat blasting before you entered the car and you couldn’t be more grateful.
“Thanks, Hotch.” This wasn’t your first time going undercover since joining the team but as you try to relax in the passenger seat, it starts to feel like your skin is pulling at itself, itching to return to normality after spending the past few hours clothed in bait. You shuffle to the left of your seat and bring your right foot to your waist to reveal the fiddly clasp of your too-tight heels. Going undercover tonight was your idea and while it paid off, digging around the precinct lost-and-found to find an outfit for your persona was less than ideal.
“I believe the department has invited the team to a local dive tonight. We can’t leave Alaska until the snow clears, which the ladies at the hangar estimate is at least mid afternoon so-“ Hotch sees the relief wash over you when you finally free your foot from the shoe and laughs, “but I can drive us to the hotel also.” You’re relieved and Hotch can see it on you.
———
The drive to the hotel is pleasant enough. The two of you discuss the local Alaskan police department and the fun that you’re both sure the team will have tonight, although, when Hotch pulls in to the hotel parking lot, you’re silently thankful as it feels like the two of you have run out of professional, yet casual conversation material. Having been free of them momentarily, slipping your feet back into the too-tight boots is akin to walking on broken glass, and Hotch chuckles almost teasingly when you wince. He shuts the door behind you before you realise he’s there, and when you turn to him you feel almost spoiled to see him handing you his suit jacket, if just for the short walk to the hotel from the car. The night is dark barring a lamppost across the street, and Hotch matches your gait.
The hotel is homely, if somewhat old. Reds cover the floors and couch cushions, broken apart only by faded brown table legs and dust balls carefully swatted under corners and other out-of reach places. Hotch’s shadow is lit up by a small lamp on the unmanned reception desk, and you see Hotch stop moving the very second you stop too.
“Hotch,” the kind of panic reserved for exhaustion sets in your voice, “I don’t have my room key.” You place your fingers to your temple, “I left everything in the precinct locker before I went undercover. I gave the locker key to Morgan.”
“That’s okay, don’t worry. I’ll speak with the night manager about getting you in your room.”
Of course, you can live without your wallet for a night, even your phone really. But what you would struggle without tonight is the freshly opened pack of cigarettes you bought this morning under the guise of making a breakfast run for the team. You’d said that you needed the walk when really you asked a uniform where the nearest convenience store was and bolted.
You don’t always smoke but picking up an old vice after a situationship had become routine for you as of late, something to occupy yourself between romantic stints and stings. You’re always careful not to let the team on to your bad habit, if mostly to avoid the lectures.
Hotch is pressing down on the service bell a second time when he sees an older gentleman, entirely unhappy to have been woken up, approach the desk. He explains that you don’t have your key card but his efforts are in vain. “I don’t know about that sir. The system. Its wireless now, last Tuesday, ‘cause my grandson clouded it all. I used to run this place with real keys that you hold in your hand…” The man begins to ramble, “My grandson has to boot up the system to make a new card from the clouds. Reconfigurate the Wi-Fi.”
“Sir,” Hotch stands straight, “is your grandson here right now?”
There’s a minute or so of back and forth and it becomes clear to you that you’re not getting into your hotel room tonight, or at least until Morgan shows up with your things from the precinct. Hotch turns around to you, looking defeated and the two of you make for the elevator. “I’ll see if I can get through to the team.” Hotch presses the elevator button to call it, looking ahead. “Of course, you can spend the night in my room. Or until the team gets back at least.” You both step in to the elevator and Hotch selects the third floor, “My phone is, um-” he looks almost through you and motions to your torso. Your mind goes blank before you remember that you’re wearing his jacket, and you reach into the breast pocket for his phone. “My phone is out of battery.” Hotch smiles, defeated. “My travel charger is at the precinct.” Your eyes meet and you and Hotch begin to laugh together, if mostly due to shared tiredness. The mood between the two of you is lighter than it was in the car, the air of professionalism that usually sticks to Aaron seems to have evaporated after his fruitless talk with the night manager.
The elevator dings and it seems to sober you both before you follow Hotch through the corridor to his room. “Would you like to have a shower?” Hotch reddens at his own words as the room door swings open. “In the meantime I can see if the front desk has a spare cord-” You bring your hand to Hotch’s chest to stop him.
“Do you honestly think Father Time down there knows where to find a USB-C? Or what one is? You think he’ll reconfigurate us one?” Hotch’s heartbeat pulses through his shirt and you pull away the second you realise how intimate the moment feels. You linger in the doorway a moment, wanting to give him a moment of peace in his own space before you invade it. There’s a small wobble as you lean against a wall to slide out of your shoes again, but the carpet beneath your feet is welcoming. Your balance is slightly shaky as you step further in to take in the room, realising quickly that he’d been granted one of the better rooms. It’s much bigger than yours, and you immediately notice the balcony that your own room lacks. Of course, it’s not like you’d ever dream of smoking in front of your superior, nor could you, given that you have no money, no wallet and, no real clothes - except for the threads on your back which are entirely not enough for the cold Alaskan winter. “They set you up good, don’t they?” You scan the room and see Hotch’s clothes folded beside his open suitcase atop a couch. You take his suit jacket off and hang it on a chair neatly. The bed is made with neat and precise lines, no doubt made by Hotch this morning. “You could flip a coin on that.”
“When locals hear that SSA Aaron Hotchner, unit chief of the BAU is in town…” Hotch trails off, playfully shrugging his shoulders. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Hotch engage in any physical humour, but it is endearing. He hands you a white towel and turns the bathroom light and fan on. “I’ll see who I can get through to with the landline and have your things from the department locker messengered in the morning. You can take the bed and-”
“No that’s ridiculous. I will-”
“That”s ridiculous.” Hotch has never interrupted you before.
“I’m happy to share the bed then.” Spills out of you quickly, a gallon of anxieties coat the words like oil in a hot fryer. “I couldn’t make you sleep on the couch and it could be nice.” Your tone raises at the end involuntarily. Mortifyingly. “As in-“
“I’ll have some clothes ready for when you finish, Agent.” Hotch interrupts again, welcome bad habit forming, you hope. The words are a touch cold but you’re too glad to shed your undercover costume to give it a second thought. You bring your underwear into the shower with you and wash them as the hot water runs down you. You notice that Hotch had stocked the shower with his own products from home when it hits you that you’ll be sharing a bed with him tonight. Of course, field agents share hotel rooms all the time, they probably share beds all the time too. Do they always share their green apple shower gel? This was a first for you and Aaron. And tonight of all nights is when he decides to start clowning around?! What’s next, his tight five?
The nerves set in as you wipe yourself dry. You glance at the clean but wet black panties hung on the towel rack and you curse yourself. Surely when FBI agents share a bed they wear underwear! You wrap yourself before stepping out of the bathroom, clutching your own matching black bra wrapped between the clothes you’d borrowed from the local PD.
Hotch appears startled when he sees you, you catch his eyes glance up and down you before settling on a spot behind you. Its unnerving to be wearing only a towel in front of your fully clothed boss and you assume it goes both ways. “Use whatever you please.” He says curtly before grabbing a towel and walking around you into the bathroom, careful to not even brush shoulders. You place your bundle on a desk and find a pile of perfectly folded clothes on the left side of the bed and promptly dress. Hotch has left you a pair of grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and some socks. He’d also left you a pair of his boxers but you place them by the rest of his clothes, surely wearing your boss’s boxers violates some HR guideline? Beside the clothes pile Hotch had also left a small bag with some toiletries and skincare. The sheets are cold as you settle into them and pull the bag onto your lap.
Dior men’s face cream? Prada cologne? You snoop through to be greeted by a handful of serums, creams, toners, and balms- all expensive name brand, most claiming to reduce fine lines, some hydrating, other’s detoxifying, you giggle at the idea of SSA Aaron Hotchner doing skincare and set them out in rows in front of you.
“Yes, sir!” Hotch knocks curtly on the bathroom door to announce his intention to come out and you respond promptly, feeling a laugh already brewing in your throat. “So do I start with the cleansing balm first or the-” Hotch emerges with his hair dripping wet and nothing but a towel around his waist. He glances at you and the many potions in front of you briefly before crossing the room to his clothes. You try not to stare but notice him pick up the pair of boxers that you’d put there and a warmth washes over you, it feels weirdly intimate for him to choose that pair, though logically you know that they were on top. He grabs a white t-shirt before returning to the bathroom.
He’s clothed when he shuts the bathroom lights off and he’s palming his hair dry with his towel as he approaches you. You start to feel silly, having emptied Hotch’s toiletries out and being caught playing with them before Hotch picks one up.
“Don’t be jealous of my skin!” He leans over you in the bed and holds his cheek close to your face in an over-the-top way, demonstrating his perfect skin, before grabbing one of his bottles. Hotch applies a serum wand directly onto his cheeks before bringing it to your face too. “So this is a hydration serum. You put it on before any moisturisers to lock it in.” You bring your hands to your face and Hotch holds your hand to stop you. “No, you use the tips of your fingers.” He spreads the serum on your face with his fingertips and you giggle. His fingers are warm on your skin, his movements gentle. He watches you intently from above and for a moment it feels like his hand is lingering under your chin.
Hotch takes a small step away from you before you realise that you had been sat at eye level with his crotch. Smoothly, he picks up a second product.
“This is for the eyes,” He opens the cap, taps some onto his finger and reaches it out to you to also sample, “it’s quite scientific, really. They recommend using your ring finger for this. Its the daintiest of the fingers.”
The seven-step process continues, with Hotch having you complete it with him at every step until he returns his potions to their toiletry bag and discards it on the desk with your clothes from earlier. It’s odd to see him so goofy, but welcome.
From the desk he grabs a television remote, throws it gently beside you, and turns the ceiling lights off.
“I’m easy.” He declares, clambering into bed beside you. He joins you beneath the covers and sits upright to face the television too. “Really? The local news? What do you suppose happens in here?”
“We took down a trafficker literally today.”
“That was an undercover op. Press won’t run it until the secondary site checks out.”
“If it checks out.”
“You don’t need to do that. You don’t need to doubt yourself after the fact. We built the profile, we followed it, we identified a key player in the trafficking industry, and you took him down. Leave the rest to the prosecutor’s office.” It’s comforting to see the ultra-professional SSA Aaron Hotchner rear his head after joking around, if only for a moment. Quickly, he snatches the remote from you, selects the guide and scans it quickly before selecting a new channel. The screen flashes and you chuckle, dumbstruck. “Do you think if things were different and Spencer hadn’t met Gideon he’d have turned into Sheldon Cooper?”
“I don’t think things would have to be too different, have you seen Penelope’s instagram dump from when they went to Comic-Con?”
———
Sleeping next to Aaron Hotchner- nay, pretending to sleep next to Aaron Hotchner, is a lot like going undercover, except, instead of throwing a person together from a musty lost and found bin, you were wearing Hotch’s clothes, Hotch’s skin-care, Hotch’s lipbalm, and impersonating someone who doesn’t care about these truly vital details. More so, you feel like like you’re actively trying to push down your own habits, you can’t sleep too close to the middle of the bed, or keep the television on for a bit longer, or, most importantly, go down and smoke a cigarette.
Now would typically be when you’d have one, and afterwards you’d be lulled to a dreamy sleep by the nicotine in your system. There’s nothing you can do about that now, but the craving has rendered you restless. You’re not sure whether Hotch is asleep but the idea of waking him with your tossing around would certainly break cover.
Perhaps what’s most irritating is the television opposite you, as you know that all you need is something to keep you from thinking to allow you to drift off. The grey box is annoyingly clear to you as the room is still bright, with the starry night sky shining through the curtains of the balcony door, adding to your frustrations.
“Why did you and Cassanova call it quits?”
“Pardon, sir?”
“You pick up smoking for a week or so every time things in your love life hit a wall.” Hotch replies cooly. “Sometimes it isn’t necessarily a break-up. Nor always cigarettes actually. You know, last April I had to explain to Rossi what a cotton candy ice elf bar is because one of your Romeos asked you to move in with them. Morgan thought you’d changed shampoo but when Garcia mentioned scented hand wash on the sixth floor ladies’ room I knew it had to be you vaping in there.”
“Hotch- I-I’m so sorry. For the vaping and the smoking and the keeping you up right now.” Your voice is laced with nerves, choppy compared the calm in your boss’s voice.
“You can call me Aaron. We’re not on the clock right now. I don’t care about the smoking, as long as you pass your physical I can turn a blind eye. I don’t love that you vaped in the Quantico restrooms but I hustled Morgan to do a week of paperwork if you’d break up with your boyfriend in a week and you did it in two days,” you can hear a smile on his face, “so out with it. What was wrong with Mr Robinson?”
“I didn’t tell anyone I was dating that guy in April.”
“Welcome to the BAU?” Hotch rolls onto his back, his words wrapped in snark.
“Isn’t there a rule about profiling each other?”
“Doesn’t apply to me.”
"How do you kn- why do you think-… Why does he have to be a Mr Robinson?”
“You tend to persue older men.” Hotch states. You pause, thinking it over yourself, and combing through what you’ve revealed to your colleagues about your love life. Hotch takes this as an opportunity to elaborate. “Your boyfriends only ever take you for fancy dinners, sometimes shows, you never say movies.”
“Wow.” You deadpan. “My steak is too juicy, my lobster too buttery, my-” Hotch shoves his hand over your face lightly.
“Are you confirming?” You gargle a negative response behind his hands, but the warm palm over your cold nose is pleasant.
“I have more evidence. I actually did some research after you hosted friendsgiving last year, did you know your cigar cutter costs four times what Rossi’s premo cutter costs? You said it was a gift and I deduced that it had to be from a romantic partner, family wouldn’t buy something cigar-related, friends wouldn’t be so generous, a man your age wouldn’t spend that much on a girlfriend, but an older man, financially comfortable, definitely an old man gift.”
“That’s hardly proof!” You move Aaron’s forearm with both of your hands from your face,
“A few months ago when JJ and Emily invited you to their brunch and axe throwing double date, I saw you stifle a laugh, like it was absurd. I suppose the older ones can’t always keep up physically. need to compensate somehow…”
“He’s fourty, hardly a mall-walker!” You point out in jokey-desperation.
“So why did you break up with Cassan-older?” Aaron’s voice is dripping with pride. You turn to face each other.
“He proposed.”
“That tracks, you’re also a commitment-phobe, which is actually why you go for men who tend to be emotionally unavailable. Older men.”
“Do you profile everyone on the team, Agent?”
“Yes, Rossi and I share our thoughts. Usually with scotch, sometimes we loop in Penelope and she makes mai tais.”
“And why am I privy tonight?”
“Because we’re sublimating.”
“I don’t think it works if you specifically state it.”
“Are you craving a cigarette?”
“Well now you mention it, yes.”
There’s something new in the air now, peaking out from the small space between your face and Hotch’s.
“Then let me try something else, Y/N.” There’s a beat before you realise what he means, and when you do your mouth opens but your voice doesn’t work. You nod, your body frozen momentarily. Smoothly, Hotch moves your hair behind your ear and leans closer to you, “I want to hear you say yes.” His breath is warm against your neck, and his thumb trails deliberately over the spot, waiting for further clearance.
“Yes please, Sir.” Hotch’s fingers tap the back of your neck gently.
“Call me Aaron.” You guide Aaron’s hand from your neck to your mouth, pressing his wrist to your lips. “This is only if you’re certain though-” Your mouth trails up the palm of Aaron’s hand to his index finger and you spit lightly on it as you continue pressing kisses.
“I’m certain Aaron.” He reclaims his hand from your grasp and you see his eyes darken at your words. He licks his thumb and presses it back to your lips, so you open them obligingly. At this, it seems you both realise that you haven’t yet kissed, and you push Hotch onto his back lightly before sitting on his chest and leaning down to his face. The two of you lock eyes and smile, before you close the space between you. The kiss is slow and sensual, not as lustful as the tension had suggested, but almost careful, as though one of you could awaken from a dream. “I’m certain, Aaron.” You whisper beside his ear and press your tongue to his neck, mapping the skin with playful kisses.
“Kiss my face like that too.” You do as told, pecking fiendishly at Aaron’s cheeks and nose. The act is playful, as if you’ve done this a million times. His hands find your back under your shirt- his shirt- sneakily, and he draws his fingers against the full length of your skin, like he also wants to leave no inch untouched. You giggle briefly, and pull back to see him smiling at you. “Too ticklish?” You shake your head no and move to lift your shirt off before he puts his hand over yours. “Can we turn the lamp on? Can you reach sweetheart?” Hotch places his hand on your ass as you lean over him to turn the lamp on, and the look on his face when you’re seated on him is one you’ve never seen before. You look down to meet his gaze and see that your nipples are visible through the white fabric. You raise the hem of the shirt slowly and watch the excitement and lust in Aaron’s eyes grow tenfold. “Can I-”
“Stop asking. Yes. Please.” The white of the t-shirt flashes over your eyes before it’s thrown to the floor and the cold air is quick to hit your upper body. Hotch readjusts underneath you so that you’re sitting closer to his face and spits generously on his hands before rubbing your nipples between his fingers, his knees prop you upright and you melt backwards. The silence from him feels almost scientific before he takes a deep breath and you rise and fall gently with his chest. The small movement seems to shock him and you laugh, reaching behind you to find his cock with your hands. “Can I?” Aaron’s dick is pressed to the side of your ass, “Me first.” You declare, attempting to raise yourself.
“Absolutely not.” Hotch’s hands catch your waist, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. “I also happen to know that you’re not wearing underwear.” Hotch lifts you gently and places you on your back. “Are you cold?” You kick the sheets to the side and begin to take your sweatpants down. He helps your feet out and sits between your open legs, taking you in with his eyes.
He spits onto his hand before rubbing his fingers between your open thighs. “So pretty.” His hand draws closer to your pussy and you feel yourself throbbing, aching for his touch. He brings his fingers directly to your cunt and swipes them back out just as fast. “Already wet.” He tastes you from his fingers and his eyes close involuntarily, savouring you. He leans forward and you open your mouth for his fingers too. “We can stop any time.”
“I know,” you make a show of licking Hotch’s fingers before he pulls them back. He brings his gaze back to your pussy, spread for him to admire. “But I’m not usually patient, Aaron.”
“I didn’t think you would be.” His thumb brushes against the inside of your thigh as his index and middle fingers paint a cool line on your legs, like mint on the rim of a cocktail glass. Hotch spreads your other leg further, studying your face for any signs of discomfort. His gaze is driving you close to the edge, with his light but masterful touches and slow calculated moves building your anticipation. With your legs spread you’re more aware of the wetness pooling from your pussy, and Hotch’s hands are refusing to acknowledge it, tugging instead at the skin of your thighs and hips, leaving small scratches. When you start struggling beneath him, Hotch brings himself eye-level to your pussy, “Touch your breasts.” He spits on your throbbing clit and touches you gently with his thumb, waiting for your reaction.
You lick your fingers again before bringing them to your nipples, keeping one hand at your waist, close to Hotch’s head but not touching him.
“You’re doing so so good.” Hotch’s eyes meet yours, still toying with your clit and painfully close to your cunt. “Do you still want a cigarette?”
A finger pushes slowly into your cunt and you moan shamelessly, “Fuck.” Hotch sits upright next to you, the other arm to steady himself. He spits on your clit from the height, and uses his free thumb to spread the wetness.
“Is that a yes?” Two fingers now, plunging deeper into you.
“No.” Your neck rolls back as Hotch’s thumb begins to rub circles on your clit. “No! No. No, I don’t want a cigarette. Thank you.”
“Its not time to thank me yet. You’ll know when it is,” he finds a slow rhythm as he pumps his fingers inside of you, still also playing with your clit, your breathing is becoming chaotic as he starts to undo you.
“I might, well I will actually.” You laugh sweetly. “I’m actually going to cum soon if you keep on.”
“Not as soon as you think.” his laugh is almost dorky, but before you register his words, he pulls his fingers from your thighs, robbing you. Hotch pulls the blanket over your body before stepping over to his go-bag.
“What are you doing? Is something wrong? Hey is that a-“ Hotch places a sealed box of cigarettes and a black lighter in front of the television before returning to the bed. In the corner of your eyes you see him put the fingers that had just been inside you into his mouth. He swallows before addressing you.
“You can have one now. And we can go to sleep. Or you can have one after, but I won’t let you cum. Or I can fuck you, and if you make me cum, I’ll fall asleep and I theoretically won’t know if you have one.”
The small box sings quietly to you beneath the questions spinning in your head.
You raise to your knees and make your way to the edge of the bed, pulling Hotch closer by the strings of his sweatpants.
“Do you think you’re fucking funny, Hotchner? You tug his pants down swiftly and guide him onto the bed as he clumsily steps out of them. “We’re off the clock. You’re not SSA right now, sweetheart.” You pull brashly at his t-shirt before he pulls it off. “You get off being a tease, don’t you?” His boxers, the ones you’d held a few hours ago, have grown several wet patches now. “Off.” Hotch’s dick hits his stomach with a quiet thump, and you catch his hand before he can hold it. “If you think you’re a tease…” One of your hands curl around the base of his cock and you spit above the tip, intentionally letting the liquid miss his cock by a millimetre before catching his eyes.
A look of surprise is plastered upon his face, with his mouth curved to speak for several beats before: “I bought the pack in Ohio.”
“June.”
“Yes, June.”
“I wasn’t asking if it was June. I’m stating.” You quip, feeling Hotch’s dick twitch in your hand.
“On the penultimate night there I bought it cause you’d had four coffees, one cup noodle, and no break in fourteen hours.”
“And why not give it to me then?”
“Well-“ you wait for Hotch to begin speaking before licking a line from the base to the middle of his cock.
“Did you want to do it like this?” You guide Hotch to sit upright on the bed before leaning over his lap and grazing your cheek onto the tip of his cock. “You wanted to put it there and play like this?” Your hand is still around the base of his cock, and you point your index finger to the cigarette box, moving his dick as well. “What do you want me to pick?” You slide between Hotch’s legs onto the floor to face him. Spit pools at your lips and you brush his cock from your lips to your cheeks. “I can have one now,” you kiss the stubble of Hotch’s waist, “And we stop.” Your hand travels to the middle of Hotch’s cock. “I can have one later,” you spit onto Hotch’s dick again, and spread it along the length. “But you won’t make me cum before.” You hold Hotch’s dick without moving again, still at the middle. “Or you can fuck me on the balcony. And I will be smoking during that.” You raise to your feet and step out from between Aaron’s legs.
The cigarette box is wrapped in plastic, and gives a small thud as you place it down after its inspection. Hotch’s eyes are firmly set on your ass, and he seems almost guilty when you turn around to see his hands around his cock.
“I won’t fuck you on the balcony. But the other two remain.”
“That won’t do.” You lay on the bed again, beside him.
“Door number three, I eat you out, and we will have successfully sublimated the craving as you cum on my face.” Hotch’s hands are warm as they trail up your thighs.
“I can let you try,” you twist over to lay on your back.
Hotch rises from the bed again and goes to his jacket, pulling something out of his wallet. Before he returns to the bed he stands the cigarette box upright again to face you.
He stretches over you to place a condom onto the nightstand and looks at you seriously.
“You’re sure you want this?”
“I’m certain.”
“You’re certain you want me to make you cum over and over again? Until you can barely think? Let alone hold one of those between your pretty fingers?” Hotch’s two hands clasp around your own, drawing deliberate strokes between your index and middle fingers, then brings your fingers to your nipple, placing the two on either side as if holding a cigarette. His tongue is warm on your breast, lapping at your nipple with a sense of worship. A moan escapes you as you focus on the sounds of his lips smacking on your skin, unfiltered and lustful. His hair knots in your other hand and you hold his head to you gently.
A line of spit rides from one nipple to the other as Hotch moves his attention to it, this time using his hands to massage the whole of your breast. His touch is firm and confident, and you can feel his smile on your skin as you moan out again. A hand travels down your torso and finds your clit impressively fast, your body jumping slightly at the new sensation.
“Spread.” His fingers pat between your thighs before you oblige, “You taste as pretty as I imagined. Sweet and refreshing.”
“Crisp?” You offer in fake solemnity; he nods and bows his head between your thighs before looking up at you.
“I don’t think you taste like a green apple.” Your laugh bursts from your chest as you wrap a leg around Hotch’s neck, his own laugh vibrating above you. “Are you always this bratty?”
“Are you always this domineering?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“Right, you need to shut up now.” Hotch’s fingers quickly hit the walls of your cunt, stretching you open as they curl inside of you. “That’s fantastic. See?” Hotch points at the cigarette box behind him, and waits for your eyes to follow his hand before spitting on your clit and spreading it with his thumb. He brings the hand to your clit and uses both of his hands on you, as he did earlier. “You’re doing so well for me. Keep looking at the box sweetheart.”
“It isn’t sublimating if I’m literally looking at the cigarettes while you try-“
“I’m not trying yet,” he lowers his head, “and it’s working.” His words are garbled out from between your legs, the sound of his tongue lapping against your clit punctuating them.
His movements are faster than before, though still restrained, like he’s signing his name over and over again against your body, practiced and rhythmic. His thumb is drawing swatches over your clit, followed closely by his tongue, and his other fingers are curled inside of your entrance, teasing the walls of your cunt. You can both feel your body beckoning him further inside, to be more rough with you.
You bring your legs over Hotch’s back and gently nudge his shoulders further into you, it isn’t subtle and he laughs against you.
“More.”
“No please?”
“You know my vices.”
Hotch brings his fingers from inside you and paints a wobbly circle around your nipple, still thumbing your clit, the action apparently mindless. He reaches behind himself and grabs the box of cigarettes, using his mouth and free hand to open it before turning it upside down and shaking one out. He returns it to the table behind him before securing one of your legs over his shoulder and stretching over you to place the cigarette on the bedside table beside the condom. It begins rolling as Hotch asks:
“Do you want me to finish or would you like to have that?” His thumb speeds up against your clit, and he uses his other hand to bring his spit to your cunt. “Answer.”
You make a show of rolling your eyes and you adjust your hips, though they were perfect before. “Please finish.”
The cigarette on the bedside table finishes rolling before it falls, though you still stretch your arm slightly to nudge it back to the middle before sitting up. His spit and your own wetness have left finger prints on your waist and thighs, as if to point at the man between your legs.
“Come here.”
“I’m in the middle of something, Agent.” With more force than necessary you use your legs to roll Hotch onto his side, into the middle of the bed.
“Up more. It’s my turn.” You nudge Hotch onto his back and finally take in the sight of his glistening cock, throbbing with need. He moves clunkily higher up the bed before sitting back on the pillow you had been on. Hotch’s face is flushed and red, his cheeks and lips shining with your wetness. With your knees either side of Hotchner’s face, you crawl over Hotch until you’re at eye level with his dick and bring it to your face. His precum is salty and warm on your lips, a soft groan escapes you as you adjust yourself over Hotch, arching your back and making sure to keep your cunt an inch from his face. You rest on your elbows and knees, as Hotch’s chest rises beneath you erratically and he palms at your body, unfocused and desperate. His hands feebly attempt to bring your thighs closer to his face, though his movements unravel as your tongue flicks over the tip of his dick. You keep your knees firmly in place.
“That was a sweet show you put on,” Hotch’s cock twitches in your mouth when you take him in. “So I can go for a smoke right now and then we’ll fall asleep?” You drag your nails on Hotch’s thighs as you bob your head back down. He grumbles something beneath you, his voice stretched and thin with desperate need. You establish a slow rhythm above him, sinking closer to the base of his cock every time he whines.
Hotch hands remain desperate to bring your legs further up, to his face but you hold your position, knowing how invigorating the sight of your cunt must be, almost dripping as you savour his cock in your mouth. Eventually, Hotch’s hands fall to cup your knees and stay there, as his head falls back in pleasure.
His moans escape him freely as you take Hotch’s dick in your mouth at a steady pace. You use one hand to work at the base while the other holds you upright. Hotch’s precum is sweet on your lips, and in between dives down you rub the tip of his dick against your cheeks and neck, savouring the warm wetness coating your skin, like a treat almost more for you than Hotch.
Holding his shaft against your face with one hand, you bring your other hand to your clit and spread your legs further. The shift rouses Aaron’s attention and his swats your hand away, the sound of your slick on his fingers quickly punctuates your breathy moans.
“Mm, fuck, thank you Aaron, fuck, fuck.” He rubs his hands down your inner thighs and fumbles with your clit lightly, his hands also covered in your juices.
“You’re doing so so good. Keep arching, put your head down - oh yeah. Yes good girl, stay like this.” Hotch’s lips are soft on the inside of your thighs, his tongue slipping against your skin with reverence. Hotch’s cock is raw in your mouth and you can sense how close you’re bringing him to finishing.
Just as you resolve to hastening your pace, Hotch’s tongue joins his fingers at your entrance and dips against the walls of your cunt, making you moan and shudder in surprise. The vibration also pushes Hotch over the edge, and you barely register his warning as his cock twitches in your mouth and you begin to taste him. You bring your head further up his cock but keep your lips around him. Hotch’s hands leave your pussy and hold you steady at your waist until you swallow.
“Good god. Oral fixation. God. Thank you. Wow. Christ.” He clears his throat, perhaps attempting to bring his voice down an octave. “Let me-“ your leg passes over the chief’s head.
“Would you do it on the balcony?”
“Absolutely not. Stay here.” Hotch returns from the bathroom a few moments later, holding two wash cloths, a warm damp one and a dry one. He takes care to wipe and dry you from your face to your breasts and then your thighs, though not before swiping his tongue over your clit. There’s a serenity as he ambles around the room putting his clothes back on, and returning some socks to your feet before throwing the bed quilt beside you. He circles the bed and smiles as he rolls you in the duvet like a spring roll and brings you to your feet. He grabs the pack of cigarettes and lighter before saying: “You’ve more than earned this, agent.”
“What’s wrong with this picture?” His smile drops and his eyes begin to study you anxiously. “My arms, Hotch.” Relief washes over him and you snort with laughter. “Come outside and hold it for me please? You know how to use a lighter, right?”
“Shut up. I’m against this fundamentally.”
You and Hotch huddle together on the small balcony, he begrudgingly lights the cigarette for you, after two frankly pathetic attempts, and holds it to your lips. He helps himself to a single drag and then positions you in front of him, with his spare arm holding you to his chest.
Toto Wolff x reserve!driver!reader ; Lando Norris x reserve!driver!reader (flirting)
Summary: Miami turns into emotional chaos: you avoid Toto after the banquet, Lando flirts, Rosa notices everything, Kimi wins, and one private conversation with Toto finally exposes the whole truth about his marriage — and your feelings.
Saturday morning arrives with sunlight, heat, and the kind of emotional hangover that has absolutely nothing to do with alcohol. Which is unfair. If you are going to feel this destroyed, you should at least have had three cocktails and made a questionable karaoke decision. Instead, you have one sleepless night, one banket disaster, and one very vivid memory of Toto Wolff’s hands on your hips. Fantastic.
You stare at yourself in the hotel mirror for a full minute. Your face looks normal. That feels offensive. Because internally, you are a collapsed building. A smoking ruin. A woman who should be wrapped in caution tape and removed from the paddock for public safety.
You touch your cheeks. Still warm. Ridiculous. “Get it together,” you tell your reflection.
Your reflection looks unconvinced. Fair. Because what are you even supposed to do now? Walk into the Mercedes garage and act normal? Smile? Drink coffee? Pretend you did not spend half the night remembering the way Toto held you against him, the way his voice dropped when he said your name, the way your body reacted before your brain had even filed a formal complaint?
No. Absolutely not. You grab your bag from the chair. “You are going to work,” you say firmly. “You are going to focus. You are going to avoid him.”
A pause. “And maybe move to another continent.”
That part sounds reasonable.
*
The paddock is already alive when you arrive. Miami does not wake up slowly. Miami wakes up loud, glossy, overheated, and far too pleased with itself. Cameras are everywhere. Fans are pressed against barriers. Sponsor guests float around in expensive sunglasses, acting like they know the difference between qualifying and a tire blanket. Somewhere near hospitality, someone is laughing too loudly.
You walk straight into the Mercedes garage with one goal. Do not see Toto. Naturally, the first person you see is Rosa. She is waiting near one of the workstations with a coffee in hand and the expression of someone who has been collecting evidence. “Oh good,” she says. “You’re alive.”
You stop. “Barely.”
“Mhm.”
You narrow your eyes. “What?”
She steps closer. Slowly. Suspiciously. “You’ve been weird all weekend.”
“I’m always weird.”
“No,” she says. “Usually you’re fun weird. This is panic weird.”
You look away. “Jet lag.”
“Try again.”
“Miami heat.”
“Cute.”
You sigh. “I’m tired.”
Rosa crosses her arms. “You landed in Miami acting like someone had punched your soul. Then yesterday you disappeared from the banquet like the building was on fire.” Her eyes narrow. “Did Lando do something?”
Your head snaps toward her. “What? No.”
“Because if he did—”
“He didn’t.”
“I can fight him.”
“You cannot fight Lando Norris.”
“I can emotionally damage him.”
“That I believe.”
She watches you for a second longer, softer now. “So what happened?”
Your throat tightens. Nothing. Everything. Your father. His hands. My dignity leaving my body.
You force a shrug. “I was tired.”
Rosa gives you a look that says she believes this about as much as she believes Paul owns only one camera. Before she can push further, the air in the garage shifts. You feel it before you see him. Toto walks in from the paddock entrance, shirt sleeves pushed slightly up, face calm, focused, unreadable. He says something to Bradley, then glances toward the garage. Toward you.
Your stomach drops. For one second, his eyes meet yours. And everything from last night flashes back so fast you almost forget how to breathe.... His hand on your waist. The kiss. His breath near your neck. Your fingers curled into his shirt. Your own voice, broken and embarrassed. His voice saying your name like it cost him something.
You look away immediately. Coward. “I have something to do,” you say quickly.
Rosa blinks. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Things.”
“What things?”
“Important things.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means goodbye.”
You turn and walk away before she can stop you. Behind you, you hear her mutter, “Oh, this is very bad.”
Correct. For once, Rosa Wolff is absolutely right.
You hide near the back of the garage for ten minutes. You pretend to look at data. You pretend to read notes. You pretend your entire inner world is not currently held together with duct tape and fear. Because here is the truth you do not want to say, even to yourself: you cannot keep doing this. You cannot keep standing near him, laughing with him, letting him look at you like that, letting him touch you like that, letting your heart build a whole stupid little fantasy out of half-sentences and dangerous silences.
You know how this ends. You know you will be the one hurt. Because Toto is married. Because Susie exists. Because the world sees them together and believes in them. Because even if their marriage is “not what people think,” it is still something. A history. A life. A home. A child. A thousand shared things you cannot compete with and should not even want to. And now, after last night, you have also added a wonderful new item to the list.
You made a total idiot of yourself in front of your married boss. Great career move. Five stars. Would recommend to emotionally unstable drivers everywhere.
Yes, he had been there too. Yes, his hands were on you. Yes he kissed you. Yes, his mouth had been at your neck. Yes, his control had cracked enough for you to feel exactly how much he wanted you.
But still. You were the one who panicked. You were the one who ran. You were the one who did not reply to his messages. And now you are here, hiding behind race data like a professional coward. Wonderful.
But sprint day does not care about your emotional breakdown. Sprint day cares about tire temperatures, track limits, start procedures, and the fact that Lando Norris is starting from pole. Which, frankly, feels personal.
Kimi is P2. George is P6. Both Mercedes drivers are already in their purple Miami edition race suits.
You would usually have material for at least twenty minutes. But today, you are silent. George notices immediately. He stands in the garage with his helmet tucked under one arm, looking at you like you have personally disappointed him. “You’re not going to say anything?”
You glance up. “About what?”
He gestures at himself. “This.”
You look at the suit. Then at him. “It suits your complexion,” you say flatly. “And your dreamy eyes.”
Kimi, standing beside him, lets out a laugh so sudden he almost drops his gloves.
George stares at you. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“No Milka joke? No grape joke? No insult about us looking like nightclub furniture?”
You shrug. “I’m maturing.”
George narrows his eyes. “No. Something is wrong.”
Kimi nods, serious now. “Yes. She is broken.”
“I’m not broken.”
“You did not insult us properly,” Kimi says. “That is concerning.”
George points at you. “Exactly.”
You sigh. “Fine. You both look like limited-edition chocolate wrappers.”
Kimi smiles immediately. “Better.”
George nods. “There she is.”
You roll your eyes, but the smile barely reaches your face. George sees it. His expression softens a fraction, but before he can ask, an engineer calls both of them over. Sprint preparations. Final checks. No room for personal questions now. Thank God.
You watch them go. Then feel someone’s gaze on you again. You do not turn. You know. Toto is on the other side of the garage, speaking with Bradley and one of the engineers, but his attention keeps finding you anyway. Quietly. Carefully. Like he is waiting for the moment you stop running.
You do not give him one. You escape into the paddock ten minutes later under the excuse of needing air. That is technically true. You need air. You also need a new personality and maybe a medical professional.
The paddock is packed. Miami does not understand the concept of space. People flow around you in waves: team staff, media, influencers, sponsors, drivers, fans beyond the barriers screaming names every two seconds.
You keep your head down. Bad idea. Because you nearly walk straight into orange.
“Careful,” a familiar voice says, amused. “Would be a shame to take out a Mercedes driver before the sprint.”
You look up. Lando is standing in front of you, race suit tied around his waist, McLaren shirt fitted perfectly, grin bright enough to annoy you on principle. Oh. Fantastic. Because apparently Miami has decided subtlety is illegal.
“Hi,” you say, already suspicious.
Lando tilts his head, still smiling. “That’s all I get?”
“You nearly caused a collision.”
“You walked into me.”
“You were standing there in papaya. Hard to miss.”
He laughs, easy and warm, like you have just given him exactly what he wanted.
“You disappeared last night,” he says.
Your stomach tightens. Of course he starts there. You fold your arms. “Did I?”
“Yes,” he says, grin softening a little. “We danced, we talked, you insulted my entire team color palette, which I was honestly starting to enjoy, and then suddenly— gone.” He snaps his fingers. “Like Mercedes had activated emergency extraction.”
You look away for half a second. “I was tired,” you say.
Lando studies you with that bright, curious expression of his. “That’s the official statement?”
“Yes.”
“Very PR trained.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Mercedes?”
“No. Panic.”
He laughs again, and you hate that it helps. Just a little.
“Well,” he says, stepping half a pace closer, “I thought maybe I scared you off.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You?”
“Could happen.”
“You’re five percent dangerous at most.”
“Ouch.”
“Seven if you’re holding a padel racket.”
His grin widens. “Speaking of that…”
You close your eyes briefly. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” He leans slightly against the barrier beside you, looking far too pleased with himself. “Did you think about my invitation?”
You look at him. “You invited me last night while holding a glass of champagne and explaining why McLaren orange is actually fashionable.”
“It is.”
“It is a safety warning.”
“It’s iconic.”
“It’s traffic cone couture.”
He points at you. “That’s exactly why you should come. You need to relax.”
“I relax.”
“You ran away from a banquet.”
“I strategically exited.”
“You vanished.”
“Efficiently.”
“Exactly,” he says, smiling. “Padel. Tonight. No banquet. No sponsors. No weird speeches. Just a game.”
You hesitate. Because honestly? That sounds… nice. Normal. Light. Something that is not Toto’s hands on your waist, his voice against your skin, or the unbearable silence that followed when you ran.
Before you can answer, two voices appear behind you. “Oh, absolutely not.”
You close your eyes. George and Kimi. Of course. You turn slowly. George stands there with his arms crossed, looking personally betrayed by the entire concept of McLaren interaction. Kimi stands beside him, holding a bottle of water and wearing the expression of someone who knows this is about to become entertainment.
Lando looks between them. “Do you two always arrive like security?”
George points at him. “Only when enemies approach.”
Kimi nods solemnly. “Very suspicious orange activity.”
You sigh. “We were talking.”
“With McLaren,” George says.
“With Lando,” you correct.
“Same thing.”
Lando lifts a hand. “I do have a name.”
George gives him a dry look. “Unfortunately.”
Kimi leans toward you. “Careful. He is trying to lure you away.”
“To padel,” you say.
“Exactly,” Kimi replies. “Gateway sport.”
Lando laughs. “Gateway to what?”
“Secrets,” George says immediately.
“Ah yes,” Lando nods. “I’ll extract Mercedes strategy between serves.”
“You joke,” George says, “but I don’t trust papaya.”
Lando looks offended. “Papaya is friendly.”
“Papaya is suspicious.”
“Papaya is fast.”
George’s smile turns thin. “For now.”
Kimi takes a sip of water. “This is fun.”
You look at him. “You’re not helping.”
“I know.”
Lando turns back to you, still amused. “See? This is why you need to come. Your team is overprotective.”
George straightens. “We are not overprotective.”
Kimi nods. “We are normal protective.”
“You’re acting like bodyguards,” Lando says.
George folds his arms tighter. “She’s Mercedes.”
“I’m a person,” you cut in.
George points at you. “A Mercedes person.”
“That sounds worse.”
Lando’s grin softens when he looks at you again. “So? Tonight? I’ll pick you up from the hotel.”
George makes a choking sound. “Pick her up?”
Kimi’s eyebrows lift. “Bold.”
Lando shrugs. “I’m confident.”
George snorts. “Win the sprint first.”
“I plan to.”
“Then get pole again?” Kimi asks dryly.
“That too.”
George looks at you like this should be enough evidence for immediate rejection. “He’s unbearable.”
Lando winks at you. “Only when it works.”
You should say no. You know you should. Because this is already messy. Because George and Kimi are staring at you like you’re about to defect. Because Toto exists somewhere behind this whole thing like a storm you are trying very hard not to look at. But maybe that is exactly why you say yes. Because you need air. You need something simple. You need one evening where your heartbeat is not being held hostage by a married Austrian with impossible control and very dangerous hands.
So you shrug. “Fine,” you say. “Padel.”
George stares at you. “Fine?”
Kimi whispers, “Betrayal.”
Lando’s smile turns victorious. “Good.”
You point at him immediately. “No weird McLaren recruitment tactics.”
“I make no promises.”
“Lando.”
“Fine. Minimal recruitment tactics.”
George groans. “I hate this.”
“You hate everything orange,” Lando says.
“Correct.”
Kimi nods. “Consistent.”
Lando steps back, still smiling at you. “I’ll text you the time.”
“You don’t have my number.”
He grins. You blink. “How do you—”
“Paddock,” he says simply.
You narrow your eyes. “That is deeply concerning.”
“It’s efficient.”
George looks horrified. “This is how espionage starts.”
Lando laughs, then gives you one last look, bright and playful.
“See you later, Mercedes girl.”
Then he walks off toward McLaren like he hasn’t just added another active fire to your weekend.
George watches him go, jaw tight. “No.”
You look at him. “No?”
“No.”
“You’re not my father.”
“I’m older than Kimi, so I’m the responsible adult here.”
Kimi frowns. “Why am I involved?”
“Because you’re enabling this.”
“I said betrayal.”
“That’s enabling with commentary.”
You rub your forehead. “It’s just padel.”
George gives you a look. “With Lando Norris.”
“And?”
“And he flirted with you yesterday.”
You shrug, trying very hard to look unaffected. “Everyone flirts in this paddock.”
George’s eyes flick, just for a second, toward the Mercedes garage. “Some more dangerously than others.”
Silence. Your whole body goes still. Kimi looks at George. George immediately regrets having a mouth. You force a small smile. “Good luck in the sprint,” you say.
George clears his throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Kimi gives you a softer look. “You okay?”
You lift your chin. “Perfect.”
None of you believes it. But for once, nobody says it out loud. You stay in the paddock for a moment longer, exhaling slowly. You close your eyes briefly. “…great.”
*
You spend the rest of the day avoiding Toto. With the kind of strategic precision that, honestly, Mercedes should consider putting into a race plan. Unfortunately, Toto Wolff is not an easy man to avoid. He has the deeply inconvenient habit of being everywhere. Garage. Briefing room. Media area. Hospitality. Standing near screens. Talking to engineers. Appearing in doorways like some very tall, very expensive ghost sent specifically to destroy your emotional balance.
At least two times, he tries. But not obviously, not in a dramatic cornering-you-against-a-wall way. Toto has too much control for that. Too much discipline. Too much annoying elegance. But he tries.
Once near the garage entrance, when he steps beside you and says, low enough only for you to hear, “Can we talk?”
And you immediately pretend to be needed by an engineer who is, unfortunately, not even looking in your direction.
“Later,” you say quickly. “I have to— data.”
Toto’s eyebrow lifts. “Data?”
“Yes.”
“Very specific.”
You leave before he can say anything else.
The second time is after a sponsor meeting, when you are both walking out at the same time and his hand almost touches your elbow. You move away first. His expression changes for half a second. You hate that you notice. Then Bradley appears with a tablet, and suddenly Toto is being pulled toward another obligation while you are dragged into media content. Which is wonderful. For once, you love schedules. Beautiful schedules. Protective schedules. Blessed schedules that keep you from standing in front of your married boss while remembering exactly how his hands felt on your hips. Fantastic.
Paul finds you near the Mercedes hospitality area twenty minutes later. He appears with a camera, sunglasses, and the energy of a man who has never respected anyone’s peace in his life.
“There she is,” he says. “Miami’s most emotionally unavailable Mercedes driver.”
You glare at him. “I’m available for violence.”
“Good. Strong brand.”
“Paul.”
“What?” He lifts the camera slightly. “Say something for the fans.”
“Go away.”
He grins. “Perfect. Authentic.”
You walk past him. He follows. “You’re quiet today,” he says after a moment.
You glance at him. “Jet lag.”
He hums. “Everyone in Formula 1 uses jet lag as emotional camouflage.”
“That sounds like something you made up.”
“It sounds true though.”
“Barely.”
He studies you more carefully now, camera lowering slightly. For once, he is not smiling as much. “Seriously,” he says. “You okay?”
That almost gets you. Because beneath all the teasing, Paul notices things. Too many things. The exact kind of things you wish people would politely ignore.
You shrug. “I’m fine.”
He looks unconvinced. “You’re not insulting me properly.”
“I told you to go away.”
“Yes, but without passion.”
You huff a tired laugh despite yourself.
“There she is,” he says softly, then immediately ruins it by adding, “My favorite hostile content subject.”
“Don’t get attached.”
“Too late.”
Before you can answer, Rosa appears from behind him like she has been summoned by gossip. “There you are,” she says, pointing at you. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
Paul steps back slightly, immediately interested. Rosa’s eyes sparkle. “I heard something.”
You already hate this. “What?”
She folds her arms. “You agreed to go on a date with Lando.”
Your soul leaves your body very calmly. “It is not a date.”
Paul’s head snaps toward you. “Oh?”
You close your eyes. “No.”
Rosa grins. “Padel with Lando Norris sounds like a date.”
“It is sport.”
“Sport can be a date.”
“It’s padel.”
“Exactly. Flirty tennis.”
You stare at her. “That is not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Unfortunately, Rosa is not quiet. Rosa has never been quiet. Rosa says this with enough cheerful volume that two people standing a few meters away definitely hear. One of them is Paul. The other is Toto. Toto is standing beside Bradley, mid-conversation, but his gaze shifts immediately. Calm. Controlled. Too controlled. He does not interrupt. He does not ask. He just listens. And that is somehow worse.
Paul turns slowly toward him, delighted beyond all reason. “Oh,” he says. “Boss probably won’t approve of fraternizing with the enemy.”
You groan. “Paul.”
He lifts one hand. “Unless this is a tactical operation. Sabotage Lando with emotional distraction, weaken his form before tomorrow’s race…” He nods seriously. “In that case, I support it with my whole black Mercedes heart.”
Rosa laughs. You do not. Because Toto is still silent. His face gives away very little, but not nothing. There is something tired there. Something heavier. He looks at you, and for one second, the whole paddock seems to narrow down to that quiet, unreadable sadness in his eyes.
Your chest tightens. You look away. “It’s not a date,” you repeat, sharper this time. “Lando is just nice.”
Paul raises both eyebrows. “Nice,” he echoes.
Rosa hums. “Dangerous word.”
You give her a look. She smiles sweetly. Toto says nothing. Nothing at all. Then Bradley says something to him, and Toto nods once, turns, and walks away toward the garage. Your stomach drops with him. Which is ridiculous. You are allowed to play padel. You are allowed to talk to Lando. You are allowed to do something normal with someone who is not your boss, not married, not wrapped in complications thick enough to require legal review. So why does it feel like you just did something wrong?
*
The sprint arrives before you have time to spiral properly. The garage sharpens. Engineers settle into position. Mechanics clear the area. Headsets go on. Voices drop. Screens glow. Lando starts from pole. Kimi P2. George P6.
You stand near the back with Rosa on one side and Paul hovering somewhere nearby, unusually quiet for once, which almost makes you more nervous.
The lights go out. The sprint is messy from the start. Lando gets away well and keeps control. Too much control, in your personal opinion. Kimi loses position early, the purple Miami suit suddenly looking less “questionable fashion choice” and more “tragic grape.” George fights hard but gets boxed in, losing rhythm just when he needs it most.
You watch with your arms folded tightly across your chest. “Come on,” you mutter under your breath.
Rosa leans closer. “This is not ideal.”
“No.”
Paul exhales. “Papaya is annoying today.”
“Papaya is always annoying,” you say.
Still, Lando drives well. Clean. Confident. Too good. He wins the sprint. George finishes P4. Kimi P6. Not catastrophic. But for Mercedes? With this car? With this season? It feels weak. The garage applause is polite. Controlled. Thin around the edges.
George climbs out looking frustrated. Kimi looks quiet in that dangerous way drivers get when they are already replaying every mistake in their head.
Even the purple suits look like they have lost confidence.
You cross your arms tighter. “…well,” you murmur, “that was not pretty.”
Rosa sighs. “No.”
Paul looks toward the Mercedes garage. “I’m going to hide before Toto starts looking at people.”
“Good instinct,” you say. But you do not move fast enough. Because soon after, everyone is called into the briefing room. And Toto is angry. Not shouting-angry. Toto rarely needs to shout. This is worse. Calm anger. Controlled anger. The kind that sits low in his voice and makes the whole room straighten without thinking.
He stands at the front of the room, arms crossed, face unreadable. “We are not here to be distracted,” he says.
The room goes still.
“We have a car capable of winning. We have drivers capable of winning. We have a team capable of executing at the highest level.” His gaze moves across the room, but somehow never quite lands on you. “So I expect full focus. From everyone.”
Your stomach twists. Everyone. The word feels too pointed. Maybe it is not about you. Maybe it is about the sprint. About execution. About mistakes. About Lando winning when Mercedes should have been fighting harder. Maybe. But you feel it anyway.
“Not nonsense,” Toto continues, voice clipped. “Not noise. Not distractions.”
Your throat tightens. There it is. You look down at your notes, though you are not reading anything. Because suddenly you feel exposed. Small. Stupid. Like everyone in the room somehow knows. Like every joke from earlier, every mention of Lando, every time you dodged Toto’s gaze has built into this one sharp moment.
He still does not look at you. That makes it worse. The meeting continues. Technical points. Tire behavior. Track evolution. Adjustments for qualifying. Focus for Kimi. Recovery for George. By the end, everyone looks grim. George’s mouth is a flat line. Kimi stares at the table. You glance at them and feel something sink in your chest. Even their horrible purple suits look like they have given up. The meeting ends. Toto takes his phone from the table and walks out without another word.
You sit there for a second too long. Then Kimi quietly says, “That was not fun.”
George exhales through his nose. “No.”
You force a weak smile. “Well,” you say softly, “at least the suits can’t get worse.”
George looks at you. “Even your insults are sad today.”
You look down. “Sorry.”
That makes both of them go quiet. Because you never apologize for insulting the suits. Not unless something is wrong.
*
Qualifying saves the day. A little. The garage feels tense at first, like everyone is holding their breath and waiting to see whether Mercedes can reset properly after the sprint.
You stand with Rosa and Paul near the back, while Toto sits forward, headset on, eyes locked on the screens. You try not to look at him. You fail once. Only once.
He looks exhausted. Focused. Cold around the edges. Still beautiful, which is frankly rude considering the circumstances. You look away quickly.
Qualifying builds slowly. Q1 is clean. Q2 sharper. Then Q3 arrives with that familiar tightness in the air, the kind that makes every movement feel important. Every lap matters. Every sector lights up like a verdict. Lando is quick. Too quick. George struggles slightly, not bad, but not where he wants to be. And then Kimi. Kimi delivers. Purple sectors. Smooth lap. Controlled aggression. Pole position. The garage erupts. Properly this time. Applause. Cheers. Mechanics clapping each other. Engineers smiling with the kind of relief that looks almost painful.
Rosa grabs your arm. “Pole!”
You grin despite everything. “Pole.”
Even Paul looks genuinely impressed. “That kid is ridiculous.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
George ends up P5. Lando P4. Not ideal for George. Dangerous with Lando that close. But after the sprint? This is better. Much better.
Toto stands, nodding once, accepting congratulations from engineers and team members with that reserved satisfaction of his. Then he turns. Toward you. For one second, you think about looking away. But he steps closer and lifts his hand. A high five. Simple. Public. Safe. You give it to him. His palm meets yours, warm and firm. Your chest tightens so fast you almost hate yourself.
“Good recovery,” he says quietly.
You nod. “Yeah.”
You avoid his eyes. Again. His hand drops. The moment passes. But not for you. Never for you.
You leave the paddock later than planned.The air outside is still warm, the evening light turning everything gold and pink, the noise of the paddock softening behind you. You adjust your bag on your shoulder and head toward the parking area, ready for the hotel, a shower, and pretending you are not about to play padel with a McLaren driver mostly because your own feelings terrify you.
You get maybe ten steps before Rosa catches up. “Hey.”
You glance over. She falls into step beside you, unusually quiet. That alone makes you nervous. “What?” you ask.
She watches you for a moment. “What is going on between you and Papa?”
You nearly trip. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
You keep walking. “Do what?”
“Treat me like an idiot.”
You stop. She stops too. For a second, the paddock moves around you, people passing, laughter, distant engines, camera crews, all of it blurring at the edges. Rosa looks at you directly. “Did you fight?”
“No.”
“Is it Lando?”
“No.”
“Because you’ve been acting strange since you landed. And today you looked at my father like you were trying to avoid a crime scene.”
You exhale sharply. “Rosa—”
“And before you deny it, please don’t. I have eyes.”
You look away. That is apparently enough answer for her. Her expression softens, but not with pity. With understanding. Which is somehow worse.
“You like him,” she says quietly.
Your head snaps back. “No.”
She gives you a flat look. “I said don’t treat me like an idiot.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” She crosses her arms. “You and Papa spent the last few weeks teasing each other nonstop. Half the time it looked like flirting with extra steps. And now suddenly you can’t even look at him.”
Your throat tightens. You want to protest. You really do. But nothing comes out.
Rosa sighs softly. “It’s okay,” she says.
You blink. “What?”
“It’s okay if you like him.”
You stare at her. “He’s your father.”
“Yes.”
“He’s married.”
Her expression shifts slightly. “I know.”
That lands differently. You swallow. “Then it’s not okay.”
Rosa looks away for a moment, toward the line of team cars waiting near the parking area. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “I know my father affects women.”
Despite everything, you almost laugh. “Rosa.”
“What? It’s true. I grew up with it. Women act normal around him for about three seconds and then suddenly everyone forgets language.” She shrugs. “It’s annoying, but not exactly a state secret.”
A tiny laugh slips out of you. Weak. Tired. She smiles a little. Then her expression becomes more serious again. “But with you… it’s different.”
You shake your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I know him.”
That stops you. Rosa breathes in, slower now, like she is choosing her words carefully. “I don’t know how much you know about Papa and Susie,” she says.
Your heart starts beating harder. “Not much,” you admit quietly.
Rosa nods. “They’re… complicated.”
You say nothing. She looks down briefly, then back at you. “Susie is good. She’s brilliant, actually. And she’s been kind to me. She’s my stepmother, and I respect her.” A small pause. “But that doesn’t mean everything is happy.”
Your chest tightens. Rosa’s voice drops even more. “My father isn’t happy the way he used to be.”
The words settle between you. Heavy. Too heavy. She seems to realize that too, because she looks away again. “I mean—” She exhales, closes her eyes for a second. “I shouldn’t say too much.”
“Rosa…”
She opens her eyes and gives you a small, sad smile. “All I know is that since he started joking with you, teasing you, being completely ridiculous with you…” Her smile grows faintly. “That spark came back.”
You go still. She shrugs, trying to make it lighter, but her voice gives her away. “He smiles more. Real smiles. Not press smiles. Not polite smiles. Real ones.”
You feel something crack quietly inside your chest. Because that is the worst thing she could have said. The sweetest. The most dangerous.
“Rosa,” you whisper, “that doesn’t mean—”
“I know,” she says quickly. “I know it doesn’t solve anything. I know it’s messy. I’m not saying you should do anything. I’m not giving you permission like this is some weird family council.” She makes a face. “God, that sounds awful.”
Despite yourself, you huff a tiny laugh. She smiles. Then softly, “I just don’t want you to think you imagined it.”
You look at her. And for a second, you cannot breathe properly. Because that is exactly what you have been afraid of. That you imagined it. That you built something out of glances and warmth and teasing because you wanted it to be real. That you were stupid. That you were alone in it.
Rosa’s expression softens. “You didn’t,” she says.
Before you can answer, a loud voice cuts through the moment. “Ladies!”
You both turn. Paul is walking toward you from the paddock entrance, camera bag over one shoulder, looking far too cheerful for someone who has definitely interrupted something important. “Can I ride with you to the hotel?” he asks. “My car disappeared. Or I lost it. Hard to say.”
Rosa stares at him. “You lost a car?”
Paul shrugs. “Emotionally, yes.”
You drag a hand over your face. “Of course.”
Paul looks between you. “Did I interrupt a secret meeting?”
Rosa smiles sweetly. “Yes.”
“Excellent. I love those.”
“You weren’t invited.”
“I rarely am.”
Rosa glances at you then, a small, knowing smile touching her mouth. You do not know what to do with that smile. Or with anything she just said. So you start walking again toward the parking area, where the Mercedes cars are waiting under the fading Miami light. Rosa falls into step beside you. Paul follows, already talking about dinner, content, lost vehicles, and something involving a flamingo inflatable that you refuse to acknowledge.
You barely hear him. Because your head is spinning again. Toto. Susie. Rosa’s words. That spark came back.
You close your eyes for one second while walking. Great. Just great. As if your heart needed more evidence. As if Miami was not already doing enough damage.
The car ride back to the hotel is quieter than it should be. Or maybe you are quieter than you should be. That seems more accurate.
You sit by the window, staring at the Miami lights sliding past the glass in bright, blurred streaks, while Rosa and Paul talk across the back seat like two people who have personally decided silence is illegal.
Paul is telling some dramatic version of the day’s events, which somehow includes him “saving Mercedes media strategy with pure instinct.”
Rosa snorts. “You took photos.”
“I captured emotion.”
“You filmed my father looking annoyed for six minutes.”
“Exactly. Emotion.”
You would normally say something. Something sharp. Something about Paul confusing content with harassment. But tonight, the words don’t come. You only watch the reflections in the window and try not to think. Which, of course, means you think about everything. Toto’s face during the briefing. Toto’s silence when Rosa mentioned Lando. Toto looking at you after Kimi’s pole. Rosa’s words.
Fantastic. Truly. Your emotional stability is now being handled by a your boss daughter with excellent eyeliner and zero fear.
The car stops outside the hotel. Paul climbs out first, still talking. “I’m just saying, Miami content is going to be insane tomorrow.”
Rosa follows. “Please don’t make anyone wear sunglasses indoors again.”
“It was artistic.”
“It was criminal.”
You step out last, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, and follow them toward the entrance. The hotel lobby is all polished floors, glass walls, palm arrangements, and lighting so warm it makes everyone look like they’re starring in a luxury watch commercial. You hate how pretty it is. It feels personally offensive.
By the elevators, Paul waves dramatically. “I’m going to my room before someone gives me work.”
“You mean your job?” Rosa asks.
“Exactly. Terrible concept.”
He disappears toward the other hallway. You and Rosa step into the elevator together. For a few seconds, there is silence. Suspicious silence.
Then she turns to you. “So.”
You close your eyes. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You said ‘so.’ That’s worse.”
She leans against the elevator wall, watching you carefully. “Are you actually going to play padel with Lando?”
You open your eyes again. “Yes.”
“And is that serious?”
You stare at her. “It’s padel.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is very much an answer.”
She hums. “Okay.”
The elevator doors open on your floor. You both step out, walking side by side down the quiet corridor.
Rosa doesn’t let it go. “And whatever happened with Papa,” she says more softly, “whatever you two fought about… I hope you get back to normal.”
Your steps slow. Normal. What a ridiculous word. Because what are you supposed to say? That you kissed her father only a few meters away from the banquet where she, Susie, and half the paddock were still smiling under sponsor lights? That you lost yourself in his arms like the world had narrowed down to his hands, his breath, his mouth, his voice? That you used him? Or maybe he used you? Or maybe neither of you used anyone and that somehow makes it worse?
That you ran away afterward because the second the heat faded, shame hit you so hard you couldn’t breathe? That now you are afraid to look him in the eye because you are not sure if you want to apologize, cry, scream, or walk straight back into his arms? Yes. Very casual hallway conversation.
You force a small shrug. “We’re fine.”
Rosa stops walking. You stop too. She looks at you for a long moment. The teasing is gone now. Completely. “Did something happen?” she asks.
Your stomach drops. “Rosa—”
Her voice becomes quieter. “Did he… did Papa do something? Did he take advantage of you?”
Your reaction is immediate. “No.” Too fast. Too sharp. Too honest.
Rosa exhales, like she had been holding that fear somewhere in her chest all day. “Okay,” she says softly. “Good.”
You swallow. “He didn’t. I swear.”
She nods, relief clear on her face. “I know my father. I do. But…” She looks down for a second, then back at you. “I still had to ask.”
Your chest tightens. Because that is the thing about Rosa. Under the jokes, the teasing, the chaos — she cares. Deeply. Fiercely. In a way that catches you off guard.
“I wouldn’t want him to break your heart,” she says.
You look away. Too late, you think. But you don’t say it. Before either of you can say anything else, your phone starts ringing.
You pull it out. Lando.
Rosa sees the name. Her expression shifts. Not judgment exactly. Something softer. A little sad.
You answer. “Hey.”
Lando’s voice comes through bright and easy. “Hey, Mercedes girl. Still alive?”
“Barely.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes from the lobby.”
“You sound very confident I’m coming.”
“You said yes.”
“I make terrible decisions under pressure.”
“Perfect. Wear comfortable shoes.”
“I’m a racing driver, Lando. I understand footwear.”
“Great. See you soon.”
He hangs up before you can insult him properly. You lower the phone.
Rosa gives you a small smile. “Have fun.”
Something about her tone makes your chest ache. “It’s just padel.”
“I know.”
She steps closer and squeezes your arm lightly. “Still. Have fun.”
Then she walks to her room, unlocks the door, and disappears inside.
You stand in the hallway for a second longer. Alone. Phone still in your hand. Head full of her words. I wouldn’t want him to break your heart.
You laugh once under your breath. Small. Miserable.
“Fantastic.”
You shower quickly. Too quickly. Because if you stand under hot water for too long, you will start thinking again, and thinking has been a dangerous activity for the last forty-eight hours. You change into sportswear — leggings, a loose top, trainers — then tie your hair back and stare at yourself in the mirror.
You look fine. You hate that. You feel like you should look like the inside of your head. Messy. Overheated. Slightly on fire.
Instead, you look like a woman going to play padel with Lando Norris. Which is, apparently, a sentence your life has decided to contain. “Normal evening,” you mutter. “Completely normal.”
You grab your phone and head downstairs. The lobby is calmer now, though still annoyingly glamorous. Soft music. Warm lights. Glass walls reflecting palm leaves outside. People moving in little polished groups, dressed for dinner, drinks, sponsor nonsense, whatever wealthy people do when left unsupervised in Miami. You step out of the elevator and head toward the entrance. Then stop. Because near the far side of the lobby, half-hidden between tall indoor palms and the glass wall leading to the terrace, you see them. Susie. And Lewis. At first, your brain refuses to understand the image. Then it does. Susie is standing close to him. Very close. Lewis has one arm around her, his head lowered toward hers. They are speaking quietly, almost whispering. She smiles at something he says, not the bright public smile from the stage, but something softer. Private. Familiar. Then she leans into him. Enough for your stomach to drop. Oh. Oh. What the hell is happening?
You freeze near one of the columns, your hand tightening around your phone. Your mind grabs at pieces. Toto in the car after Silverstone. My marriage with Susie… it’s not what people think it is. Rosa in the hallway. I don’t know how much you know about Papa and Susie.
Susie and Lewis now, tucked away in the golden shadows of a Miami hotel lobby, looking like people who know exactly where the cameras are not.
Your pulse picks up. Is this what he meant?.Is Susie with Lewis? Does Toto know? Of course he knows. He has to know. Toto notices everything. So what is this? An arrangement? An open secret? A marriage held together for Jack, for image, for legacy, for the clean public story?
Your thoughts spiral so fast you almost feel dizzy. And then, because the universe has wonderful timing, Lando appears near the entrance. He spots you immediately. “There you are.”
You turn too quickly. “Hi.”
He looks at you for half a second, smile softening. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Convincing.”
“I’m always convincing.”
“You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Miami decor is aggressive.”
He glances around. “Fair.”
Then he steps closer, bright again, easy again, simple in a way you desperately need. “You ready?”
You nod. “Sure.”
As you walk toward him, movement on the other side of the lobby catches your eye. Toto. He is standing a little farther back with Bradley, Rosa, and Paul, probably heading out for dinner. Bradley is saying something, Paul is gesturing with both hands, Rosa is half-listening, half-scanning the room. Toto sees you. Then he sees Lando. And then Lando, because apparently every man in this paddock has been sent to test your survival instinct, leans in and kisses your cheek. Light. Friendly. Warm. Still enough.
His arm slips briefly around your shoulders as he says, “Come on, I booked the court before some influencer steals it for a photoshoot.”
You force a laugh. It sounds almost normal. But your eyes flick toward Toto before you can stop them. His expression does not change. Still calm. Still controlled. Still the man who could sit through a board meeting, a race disaster, and possibly a small explosion without blinking. But his eyes... Something flickers. Pain? Hurt? Jealousy? Maybe all three. Maybe none. It is gone almost instantly. But you see it. And it lands in your chest like a stone.
You look away first. Again. Then you follow Lando out of the lobby.
Behind you, Paul’s voice floats faintly through the space. “Oh, that was interesting.”
Rosa says something you don’t catch. Bradley probably regrets every choice that led him to this job. And Toto says nothing.
*
Padel with Lando should be fun. Technically, it is fun. The court is beautiful. Miami apparently refuses to provide ugly locations for emotional distractions. Lights overhead. Warm evening air. Palm trees beyond the glass. A faint breeze moving through the space.
Lando is charming. Annoyingly charming. He makes jokes. He teaches you the scoring system like you are not capable of understanding numbers. You threaten to hit him with the racket. He looks delighted.
“You’re competitive,” he says after you nearly send the ball straight at his shoulder.
“I drive race cars.”
“That doesn’t answer my point.”
“It absolutely answers your point.”
He grins. “You’re fun.”
You almost smile properly. But your thoughts keep drifting. Toto in the lobby. Susie and Lewis. Rosa’s words. Toto’s eyes when Lando kissed your cheek. Toto’s hands on your hips.
The ball flies past you. Lando stops. “Okay.”
You blink. “What?”
He rests the racket against his shoulder. “You’re not here.”
You grimace. “Sorry.”
“You keep apologizing. It’s very suspicious.”
“I’m tired.”
“That’s your official statement for everything, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He walks closer, expression gentler now. “You don’t have to tell me. But if this was supposed to distract you, I’m clearly doing a terrible job.”
That makes you laugh softly. “There it is,” he says, smiling. “Tiny victory.”
You shake your head. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“Usually.”
“You should work on that.”
“Maybe next season.”
You do play after that. Badly, at times. Better at others. Lando wins, which he handles with exactly the amount of smugness you expected.
“Graceful in victory,” you say flatly.
He bows. “Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“I accept it anyway.”
When he drives you back to the hotel later, the mood is lighter. Not fixed. Nothing is fixed. But lighter.
At the entrance, he walks you inside. “I had fun,” he says.
You nod. “Me too.”
It is not a lie. It is just not the whole truth. He studies you for a second. Then leans in and kisses your cheek again, softer this time. “Try to sleep, Mercedes girl.”
You huff. “Bossy.”
“Only with enemies.”
You shake your head, but you smile. Then he leaves. And the second he is gone, the lobby feels bigger. Quieter. Less simple.
You go upstairs alone. Your phone buzzes before you even reach your room. Rosa.
You open the message in the hallway.
Rosa: Hope you had a nice evening with Lando.
Rosa: Also… sorry for earlier. I know that conversation was a lot. I love my father and I want him to be happy. But I don’t want you to feel pushed into anything because of that. I saw you with Lando in the lobby. You looked kind of sweet together, honestly. So just… follow your heart, okay? Yours. Not mine. Not Papa’s. Yours.
Rosa: Goodnight. Kisses. See you tomorrow morning
You stop outside your door and stare at the screen. For a long moment, you do not move. Then you unlock your room, step inside, and close the door behind you. The silence is immediate. Heavy.
You drop your bag near the chair, kick off your shoes, and sit on the edge of the bed with your phone still in your hand. Follow your heart.
You almost laugh. Your heart is currently an unreliable idiot with a death wish. Following it sounds like how people end up in documentaries.
You set the phone down. Then pick it up again. No message from Toto. Maybe that is better. Maybe it is worse.
You lie down eventually, still dressed in your sportswear, staring at the ceiling while the Miami lights bleed softly through the curtains.
You should sleep. You really should. Tomorrow is race day. The team needs focus. Kimi starts from pole. George needs a strong recovery. Lando starts too close for comfort. Toto will be in the garage. Susie will probably be there too. Rosa will see too much. Paul will say too much. A perfectly normal Sunday. You turn onto your side. Then onto your back. Then onto your other side.
Nope. Sleep does not come. Again. Because your thoughts keep circling. Susie and Lewis, hidden between palms and glass. Toto’s voice and hands. Rosa’s sad little smile. Lando’s kiss on your cheek. Toto’s eyes when he saw it. The way you ran from him. The way you still want to run back.
You drag a pillow over your face and groan into it. “This is getting ridiculous.”
The pillow does not answer. Rude. You drop it beside you and stare at the ceiling again. And somewhere between exhaustion, confusion, shame, jealousy, curiosity, and one very inconvenient ache in your chest, you realize Miami has done exactly what you feared it would do. It has made everything worse. And somehow, somehow, the race has not even started yet.
*
Sunday morning arrives too early. Which is impressive, because technically you arrive even earlier. By choice. A terrible choice, maybe. But still a choice.
You leave the hotel before anyone sane would be properly awake, because the race start has been moved three hours earlier due to a weather alert, and also because you have absolutely no desire to accidentally run into Toto over hotel breakfast while trying to look normal holding toast.
You are not emotionally equipped for toast with Toto Wolff. So you escape. The car takes you through Miami while the city is still half-asleep, all glass towers, empty roads, and palm trees standing black against the growing light. The sky slowly changes from deep blue to soft gold, the sun rising over the horizon like it has no idea your life is currently a romantic disaster with sponsor branding.
You watch it through the window, silent. For a few minutes, everything feels peaceful. Too peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful. The sunlight spreads across the streets, brightening the edges of buildings, catching on windows, turning the whole city warm and glowing. It is beautiful. Annoyingly beautiful.
You exhale softly, resting your head back against the seat. “Okay,” you murmur. “That’s… actually nice.”
The driver does not answer. Good. Perfect conversation. By the time you reach the paddock, the place is still quieter than usual, though not empty. Formula 1 never fully sleeps. It just becomes less loud for a few hours and pretends that counts as rest.
You step out of the car, adjust your bag on your shoulder, and walk toward the Mercedes area. Race day. Kimi on pole. George P5. Lando P4. Weather alert hanging over everything like an unwanted dramatic subplot.
And your personal life? A disaster. Excellent. Very balanced.
About an hour later, the paddock has properly woken up. The quiet is gone, replaced by the usual race-day buzz — people moving faster, radios crackling, cameras appearing from nowhere, mechanics already locked in, engineers walking with tablets like they contain holy texts.
You are standing near the Mercedes hospitality entrance, holding coffee like it is a medical device, when Rosa appears. “There you are,” she says, looking far too awake.
You glance at her. “You look suspiciously functional.”
“I slept.”
“Disgusting.”
She grins and pulls you into a quick hug. “Good morning.”
“Debatable.”
Then Susie arrives beside her. Elegant, of course. Fresh, warm, calm, wearing sunglasses pushed into her hair and looking like she has never once stared at a hotel ceiling at 3 a.m. wondering if her emotional choices should be investigated by a committee.
“Good morning,” she says, smiling at you.
It is a lovely smile. Soft. Genuine. And immediately your brain supplies the image from last night. Susie tucked close to Lewis between the palms and glass. Lewis lowering his head to whisper something. Susie smiling in that private, quiet way.
Your coffee suddenly becomes fascinating. “Morning,” you say, slightly too fast.
Susie tilts her head just a little, like she notices. Apparently everyone in the Wolff family and surrounding emotional ecosystem is built to notice too much.
Before she can say anything, salvation arrives. Loudly. “There she is!” Paul shouts from somewhere behind you. “My favorite underpaid content weapon.”
You close your eyes for half a second. Thank God. You have never been so grateful to be harassed by a man with a camera. You turn toward him. “Paul, I swear to God, if you point that thing at me before I finish this coffee—”
He lifts the camera immediately. “Perfect. Threatening. Very authentic.”
“I will throw the coffee at you.”
“Hot or iced?”
“Boiling.”
“Great energy.”
Rosa laughs. Susie smiles, clearly entertained. Paul steps closer, circling slightly like an extremely annoying documentary filmmaker stalking a tired animal.
“Race day content,” he says. “Big day. Kimi on pole. George recovery. You pretending not to hate social media. Beautiful narrative.”
“I don’t pretend.”
“You do. Badly.”
“Fuck off, Paul.”
He beams. “And there she is.”
You point at him. “Your timing is the only reason you’re alive right now.”
He places a hand over his heart. “I accept this emotional tribute.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“It was.”
“It really wasn’t.”
Behind you, Rosa snorts. “I missed this.”
“Don’t encourage him,” you mutter.
Then your attention shifts. Toto has entered the area. He walks in with Bradley beside him, already in race-day mode, controlled and focused enough to make the entire space tighten around him without him saying a word. Your stomach does something pathetic.
He approaches Susie first, leaning down slightly to say something close to her ear. You see Rosa watching them. Her expression is difficult to read. Not sad. Not surprised. Not happy either. Just… still. And suddenly her words from yesterday echo in your head. They’re complicated. My father isn’t happy the way he used to be. That spark came back.
You take a slow sip of coffee. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. As if Mercedes itself were not already a dysfunctional family with expensive headsets, now you have apparently been emotionally dropped into the Wolff household subplot too.
Just perfect. What is this family? What is this marriage? What is happening? Why is Susie charming? Why is Lewis involved? Why does Rosa know everything? Why does Toto look at you like that and then stand beside his wife like the world still makes sense?
Your brain gives up and throws a tiny internal clipboard into the sea.
Toto turns then. His eyes find you. For a second, the noise around you softens. His smile is small. Almost shy. Careful. Because you are still keeping distance. Because he knows it. Because unlike everyone else, he is not pushing. He just nods. A quiet good morning. You nod back. It is the safest exchange two people can have. It still makes your chest ache. Then he shifts slightly, like he might come closer. Your pulse jumps. But before he can take more than one step, Paul’s hand lands on your shoulder.
“Come on,” Paul says, already dragging you lightly away. “You can flirt with the boss later. Right now we have social media to disgrace.”
You choke. “Paul.”
He keeps walking. “What? Race starts early. Weather alert. Condensed schedule. No time for emotional tension.”
You glance back once. Toto has stopped moving. His expression does not change much, but his eyes follow you. You look away first. Again.
Paul keeps pulling you toward the filming area. “Kimi and George get serious briefings with engineers. You get me and a camera. Beautiful reserve driver curse.”
You sigh. “I hate how accurate that is.”
“It’s because I’m wise.”
“It’s because you’re annoying.”
“Same thing in media.”
The next twenty minutes are pure humiliation. Or as Paul calls it, content. You stand near the Mercedes show wall while he and one of the admins make you record race-day clips. Predictions. Quick reactions. A stupid “Miami race day mood” shot. A transition where you pretend to adjust your sunglasses and look confident. You refuse three times. They make you do it anyway.
“This is not why I became a racing driver,” you say flatly after take four.
Paul checks the camera. “No, but you’re weirdly good at it.”
“Insulting.”
“Compliment.”
“Still insulting.”
The admin laughs behind the phone. “Fans love you.”
“Fans should raise their standards.”
Paul points at you. “Say that again but with a smile.”
“I’m going to delete your memory card.”
“Great. Threat number two. We’re building a reel.”
You are about to insult his entire profession when a familiar voice cuts in.
“Well, this looks serious.”
You turn. Orange. Again. Lando walks toward you with that stupidly easy grin, race suit tied around his waist, hair slightly messy, sunglasses hooked at his collar, looking entirely too relaxed for a man starting P4 in a race that may be disturbed by weather chaos.
“Morning,” he says.
Paul immediately lifts the camera. You glare at him. “Don’t.”
He whispers, “Gold.”
Lando reaches you and, because apparently boundaries in this paddock are merely decorative, leans in to kiss your cheek. Light. Warm. Friendly. Still enough to make your brain shout: Ah yes, consequences.
“Had fun last night,” he says, stepping back with a grin. “We should do it again.”
You fold your arms.“You mean when you beat me at padel and spent fifteen minutes being unbearable?”
“Exactly. A bonding experience.”
“I bonded with regret.”
He laughs. “You weren’t as terrible with balls as you claimed.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. Paul makes a strangled sound behind the camera.
“Lando,” you say slowly, “please think before you speak.”
His grin turns wicked. “I did.”
“Oh, wonderful.”
He winks. Full flirt mode. One hundred percent. No mercy. “Well,” he says, backing away toward the McLaren side, “cheer for me today, Mercedes Star.”
You snort. “I think you’ve confused teams.”
“Maybe.” He grins wider. “Or maybe I’m expanding my fanbase.”
“Win something first.”
“I won yesterday.”
“Annoying.”
“That too.”
He gives you one last wink, then disappears toward the McLaren garage like he has not just left a fresh pile of emotional explosives in the Mercedes filming area.
You stare after him for a second. Then turn slowly toward Paul. He is smiling. Too much.
“No,” you say immediately.
“Oh yes.”
“Paul.”
He lowers the camera just enough to look at you over it. “You turned Lando Norris into a golden retriever with a world championship and a flirting problem.”
You roll your eyes. “What an achievement. Truly. Put it on my CV.”
He grins and glances toward the Mercedes garage. His expression shifts into something sharper, more knowing.
“You know,” he says casually, “Toto doesn’t look very thrilled about you charming the enemy.”
Your stomach tightens. You keep your face neutral. “I’m not charming anyone.”
Paul gives you a look. “Please. Lando just called you Mercedes Star and looked like he wanted to write it on his helmet.”
“That’s his problem.”
“And Toto’s, apparently.”
You glare at him. “Shut up.”
Paul lifts both hands. “Unless this is still a sabotage strategy. Emotional damage to Lando before the race. Very advanced. Very Mercedes. I support it with my whole black Mercedes heart.”
You point at the camera. “Finish this content before I throw you into a palm tree.”
He looks thrilled. “There we go. She’s back.”
“I’m serious. The race starts three hours earlier. We don’t have time for your nonsense.”
“My nonsense is part of the brand.”
“Your nonsense is a health hazard.”
The admin laughs. Paul turns the camera back on. “Okay,” he says brightly, “one more clip.”
You stare into the lens with a dead expression. “Race day in Miami,” you say. “Everything is fine. Nobody is emotionally unstable. Please enjoy the weather alert.”
Paul lowers the camera. “Perfect.”
You blink. “Really?”
“No. But emotionally, yes.”
You drag a hand down your face. Behind him, through the moving crowd and garage chaos, you catch sight of Toto. He is standing near the entrance with Bradley, headset now on, eyes fixed in your direction for one brief second.
Then he looks away. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable. Except you know better now. Or at least, you think you do. And that is the problem. Because in this family, in this team, in this entire ridiculous Miami weekend, nothing seems to mean only one thing anymore.
*
The race gets closer with that strange, electric pressure only Sunday can create. The garage changes before the cars even leave for the grid. Everything sharpens. Voices lower. Engineers stop joking. Mechanics move with that fast, focused rhythm that always makes the room feel like one giant machine with a heartbeat.
You stand in your usual place inside the Mercedes garage. Reserve driver. Headset on. Arms crossed. Eyes on the screens. Right beside Toto. Like always.
Except nothing feels like always.
Rosa is on your other side, watching the screens with bright, nervous energy. Paul hovers somewhere behind you with his camera, because apparently even race-day tension must be documented for the internet. And further back, away from the main camera angles, Susie stands quietly. She is not hiding exactly. Susie Wolff does not hide. But she knows where the cameras are. Everyone does. She is the head of F1 Academy. She is also Toto’s wife. People know that, of course. Everyone knows that. But knowing and seeing are two different things. The optics of her standing too visibly in her husband’s Mercedes garage during a Grand Prix would be discussed by people who like turning air into controversy.
So she stays just out of shot. Elegant. Calm. Present. And you try very hard not to look at her. Which is going about as well as everything else in your life right now. Badly. You stare at the screens, but your awareness keeps drifting left. To Toto.
He is close enough that if you moved your hand just slightly, your knuckles could brush against his sleeve. You do not move. He does not either. The space between you feels louder than the garage. You miss it. That is the worst part. You miss the jokes. The little comments. His dry voice close to your ear. The way he used to tease you until you forgot to be nervous. The way you could answer back without thinking. The way everything between you had been sharp and light and dangerous in a way that somehow felt safe.
Now there is only silence. Professional silence. Polite silence. The kind that hurts more than yelling.
Toto watches the screens, jaw set, headset on, face unreadable. You keep your eyes forward. Rosa glances between you once. Then twice. You pretend not to notice. She definitely notices that too. Fantastic.
The race starts badly for your blood pressure. Which, honestly, feels personal.
The lights go out, and immediately Miami becomes chaos. Charles gets a better launch than expected and slips into the lead. Lando is aggressive from the start, sharp and confident, pushing in a way that makes the whole garage tense. Kimi holds on, loses, fights back. George gets boxed in again, trying to carve something useful from a starting position that already feels like punishment.
You lean forward slightly without realizing it. “Come on,” you whisper.
Toto says nothing. But his posture shifts. Small. Tight. Focused. You know that posture now. The one where he is calculating ten possible outcomes before anyone else has finished reacting to the first.
The first laps are brutal. Charles leads. Then Lando. Then the pit cycle cracks everything open. Weather threatens but never fully commits. The track temperature changes. Strategies split. Ferrari tries something aggressive. McLaren responds. Mercedes holds Kimi out just long enough that you feel your heart climb into your throat.
“Please tell me they know what they’re doing,” Rosa mutters beside you.
You exhale. “They usually do.”
“Usually?”
“Comforting, right?”
She gives you a look. On screen, Kimi exits the pits. The timing tower refreshes. P2. Then Lando pits. Kimi pushes. Kimi leads. The Mercedes garage erupts for half a second, then immediately clamps itself back down because there are still too many laps left to celebrate.
Toto’s hand lifts slightly, palm down. Calm. The whole garage listens, even without him speaking. And from there, Kimi drives like he has ice in his veins and fire in his hands. Lap after lap, he holds it. Lando comes at him hard. Too hard. The McLaren is fast, dangerously fast, and for several laps the gap sits close enough to make you want to physically fight the timing screen. But Kimi does not crack. Not once. George fights too, but it is not clean. He is still stuck in traffic, still dealing with penalties hanging over him like a storm cloud, still forcing the car through places where the race refuses to open for him. P4 on the road, but uncertain. Dangerous. Fragile. He is already doing the math. He already knows Kimi is pulling away in the championship. And that will hurt. It will hurt badly.
The final laps stretch forever. Kimi leads. Lando P2. George P4.
You press your fingers against your headset, as if that will somehow help.
“Come on, Kimi,” you breathe.
Rosa grips your arm. The chequered flag falls. Kimi wins. P1. Lando P2. George P4. For one second, the whole garage holds its breath. Then it explodes. Cheers. Applause. Mechanics hugging. Engineers clapping each other on the back. Paul shouting something triumphant behind the camera. Rosa nearly crushing your arm in excitement.
“He did it!” she laughs.
You grin before you can stop yourself. “He did.”
Toto exhales. That is the first thing you notice. Not the cheers. Not the noise. Not even the win. Toto exhales like he has been carrying the entire weekend in his chest and finally, finally gets to put some of it down.
It was a hard weekend. Messy sprint. Tension. Distractions. Pressure. Weather. McLaren breathing down their necks. George struggling. Kimi carrying the result.
But Kimi won. Again. Nineteen years old and driving like the future has already signed his name. The garage celebrates around you, loud and bright, but you still see George on the screens. P4. Not enough. Maybe not even safe if the stewards decide to make his day worse.
Your smile fades a little. Rosa notices. “George?” she asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“He’ll be angry.”
“He should be.”
Not at the team. Not fully. Not even at himself. At the gap. At the fact that Kimi is slipping further away in the drivers’ championship. At the knowledge that being very good is not the same thing as being the one who wins. That hurts in Formula 1 more than anything.
The post-race chaos swallows everything. Kimi’s side of the garage is pure joy. Cameras. Hugs. Applause. Mechanics lifting fists in the air. Engineers looking like they have aged five years and recovered three in the span of ten minutes.
Susie steps forward just enough to congratulate Toto when the first wave of celebration hits. They hug. It is brief. Warm. Natural.
You see it. Your stomach tightens immediately. Stupid. So stupid. You look away, but not fast enough to stop the feeling.
Then Toto turns toward you. And for one impossible second, you cannot escape.
He approaches slowly, carefully, as if he expects you might run. Which is fair. You have been doing a lot of that.
His smile is small. Uncertain. Softer than you are prepared for. “Good race,” he says.
You nod. “Good race.” A tiny pause. Then he opens his arms slightly. Not demanding, asking. That somehow hurts more.
You step into the hug. Just for a moment. His arms close around you, warm and firm, and your whole body remembers before your brain can stop it. The banquet. His hands. His mouth at your neck. His voice saying your name.
Your breath catches, barely. Toto feels it. You know he does. But he does not hold you too long. He does not push. He only squeezes once, gently, then lets you go. When he pulls back, his smile is still there. Careful. Almost hopeful. Then someone calls his name. He looks over his shoulder, then back at you. Duty wins. It always does. “I have to—”
“I know,” you say quickly.
He nods once. Then he moves on, swallowed by the team again, shaking hands, accepting congratulations, leading like nothing inside him is complicated at all.
You stand there for a second, trying to breathe normally.
Paul appears immediately. Camera up. “Perfect,” he says. “Emotion. Relief. Slight heartbreak. Excellent lighting.”
You glare at him. “I will commit a crime.”
“Say it to camera.”
“Paul.”
“Fine, fine.” He angles the camera anyway. “Quick reaction. Kimi P1. George P4. Lando P2. Go.”
You take the microphone with a sigh. And because, horrifyingly, you are getting better at this, you manage to speak like a functioning person. “Massive result for the team,” you say, smiling into the camera. “Kimi was incredible today. Really controlled drive under pressure, especially with Lando pushing behind. George had a harder race, but still brought important points home. The whole team did an amazing job after a difficult sprint yesterday.”
Paul lowers the camera slowly. You blink. “What?”
He looks almost proud. “That was… actually good.”
You hand the mic back. “I hate that.”
“You’re growing.”
“I’m suffering.”
“Same thing in motorsport.”
*
Podium. Interviews. Celebrations. Photos. More content. More noise. By the time everything begins to settle, you feel wrung out. Your body is tired, your face hurts from smiling, your head is full of things you are trying not to think about.
Rosa finds you near the hospitality entrance. “So,” she says, appearing beside you with suspicious brightness, “you’re flying back with us, right?”
Your whole body tenses. You knew this was coming. That had been the plan. Before Miami. Before the banquet. Before Toto’s hands on you. Before shame turned every thought of being alone with him again into a full internal emergency.
You adjust the strap of your bag. “Actually,” you say carefully, “I think I’ll fly back with the rest of the team.”
Rosa frowns. “What? Why?”
“No reason. Easier logistics.”
She gives you a look. You hate how well she has learned that look from her father.
“It’s already arranged,” she says. “Papa said—”
“I know,” you cut in gently. “But it’s fine. Really.”
A voice behind you says, “You were supposed to come with us.”
Your stomach drops. Slowly, you turn. Toto is standing a few meters away. Of course he heard. Because apparently this entire weekend has been designed so that every sentence you try to avoid saying privately gets overheard publicly. He looks tired. Still calm. Still composed. But there is something else under it now. Something quieter.
You force a small smile. “It’s okay,” you say. “I don’t need to. I can go with the team.”
His eyes stay on yours. “That is not what I asked.”
Your chest tightens. Rosa looks between you both. Paul, mercifully, is not here. Small miracles exist.
You shift your bag higher on your shoulder. “Really, it’s fine,” you say, lighter now, too light. “I don’t want to be the fifth wheel when you’re flying back as a family.”
The words land badly. You know it the second they leave your mouth. Toto’s face barely changes. But his eyes do. Rosa inhales softly beside you.
You look away. Coward. Again. “I need to grab my backpack,” you add quickly. “It’s in the social room.”
Then you turn and walk. Fast but not running. Very dignified emotional escape.
You make it maybe eight steps. Then his voice follows you. “Wait.”
You stop. Every muscle in your body goes tense. Behind you, he says, quieter but firm, “I want to talk to you.”
You close your eyes for one second. No. No no no. Not here. Not now. Not after two days of avoiding him. Not when your heart is already beating like it has been thrown into qualifying mode. But there is nowhere to go. No meeting to pretend to attend. No engineer to use as emotional cover. No Paul to interrupt. You turn back slowly.
Toto is already walking toward you. Not angry. That would be easier. He looks calm. Sad maybe. Determined. Worse. Much worse.
“This way,” he says quietly.
And you follow. Because what else can you do?
Your feet move after him through the Mercedes hospitality corridor, past team members packing up, past someone laughing in the distance, past the bright polished chaos of a race weekend ending around you.
Your heart is going insane. This is the first time you will be alone with him since the banquet. The first time since his mouth touched yours and your neck. The first time since you fell apart in his arms and ran like a coward because the truth of how badly you wanted him scared you more than any race ever could.
You stare at his back as he walks ahead of you. Tall. Broad. The man who has been in your head for weeks. The man you are trying not to love. The man who may or may not already be breaking your heart.
He opens the door to his office and steps aside. You walk in. The room is quiet. Too quiet. Toto closes the door. Soft click. And suddenly the world outside disappears. No mechanics. No celebration. No Paul yelling about content. No Rosa searching for you. No Miami heat pressing through the windows.
Just silence. Awkward, heavy, impossible silence.
You stand near the middle of his office with your bag still on your shoulder, fingers wrapped too tightly around the strap. Toto remains near the door for a moment, one hand resting against the handle, his back slightly turned.
He breathes in. Long. Deep. Then he turns to face you. “Why are you running from me?”
Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You look down. “I’m not.”
His expression barely changes, but one eyebrow lifts. Even now. Even here. The man still has the audacity to look unconvinced with style.
“You are,” he says quietly. “And you need to stop.”
Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
He takes one slow step closer. “If you want a boundary between us, then say it. If I made you uncomfortable, say it. If you want me to step back, I will.” His jaw tightens slightly. “But don’t disappear on me. Don’t change flights, avoid rooms, refuse to look at me, and pretend this is logistics.”
Your throat tightens. He looks tired. Not angry. That would be easier.
He looks resigned. Sad. Like these last two days have worn him down in a way even a difficult race weekend could not.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
His face softens immediately. “No,” he says. “I crossed the line. I wanted to apologize for that.”
A strange laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. He frowns slightly. “What?”
“You crossed the line?” You look at him, face already heating. “Toto, I was basically climbing you like a complete idiot.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you wish the floor would open and swallow you whole. Your cheeks burn. “Oh my God,” you mutter, covering part of your face. “Forget I said that.”
For the first time since you entered the room, his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But almost. “I don’t think I can.”
“Please try.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
You drop your hand and glare at him weakly. There it is. The smallest crack in the tension. Tiny. But enough for both of you to breathe.
Toto steps closer, stopping just far enough away that it is still safe. Still careful. Still giving you a choice. “That night,” he says more softly, “was not only your fault.”
You swallow. “I ran.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t answer your messages.”
“I noticed.”
“I made everything awkward.”
“You are very talented in that.”
You stare at him. He almost smiles. You hate that it helps. Then his expression grows serious again. “But I was there too,” he says. “I held you. I kissed you. I let it go further than I should have.” A pause. “And then you were gone, and... I didn’t know if I had hurt you.”
Your chest aches. “You didn’t hurt me.”
His eyes stay on yours. “Then why did you look at me like I had?”
You cannot answer immediately. Because that question lands too close. Too honest. You breathe out slowly. “Because I was embarrassed.”
His brows draw together slightly.
“And scared,” you add, quieter.
“Of me?”
“No.” Your answer is immediate. “Of myself.”
That stops him. You look down again, fingers twisting around the strap of your bag. “I didn’t recognize myself,” you admit. “I don’t lose control like that. I don’t do things like that. And then it was you, and you’re…” You laugh weakly. “You’re you.”
“That is very specific.”
“You’re my boss.”
“Yes.”
“You’re older.”
“Yes.”
“You’re married.”
His expression shifts. There it is. The word sits between you like something sharp. He looks away for half a second. Then back. “Yes,” he says quietly.
You breathe in. “And then there was Lando, and everyone joking, and you looking at me like—”
“Is it serious?”
You blink. “What?”
He holds your gaze. “Between you and Lando.”
For a second, you just stare at him. Then you let out a breath. “Seriously?”
His face remains calm, but his eyes are not calm at all. “I’m asking.”
“It was padel.” you say.
“He likes attention.”
“So do you.”
Toto’s eyebrow lifts.
You cross your arms, defensive now because it is easier than being honest. “You’re warning me that Lando likes turning girls’ heads?” you ask. “Really?”
His jaw moves slightly. “I’m saying be careful.”
“Because you care?”
“Yes.”
“Or because you don’t like him?”
A pause.
“Both can be true.”
You huff a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “So what, he’s dangerous because he flirted with me? Is that the concern?”
Toto says nothing. You take a step closer now, because suddenly the sadness has turned into something braver. “Because that’s rich coming from you.”
His eyes sharpen. You lift your chin. “You turned my head, Toto. You did. You looked at me like that, teased me, touched me, called me your little she-wolf, made me feel like I was losing my mind, and now you’re warning me about Lando?”
His face stills. The room goes quiet again. This time, it is different. Less awkward but more dangerous. More honest.
Toto looks at you for a long moment. Then he exhales. “I know.”
Your anger falters. “I know,” he repeats, quieter. “And I shouldn’t have let it happen.”
That hurts. More than you expect. You look away quickly. “Right.”
“No.” He steps closer. “That is not what I mean.”
“It sounded pretty clear.”
“I mean I should have been wiser.”
You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “You always are.”
“Not with you.”
That shuts you up. Toto looks at you now with something open in his face. Something raw enough that your throat tightens.
“I have not felt this good with anyone in a very long time,” he says quietly.
Your heart starts pounding. He gives a small, helpless smile.
“I like our teasing. I like that you answer back. I like that you never looked at me like I was untouchable. You were never afraid to call me out, never afraid to be difficult, never afraid to make me laugh when I had no intention of laughing.”
His eyes move over your face. “And your smile,” he adds softly. “God, your smile...”
You stop breathing properly. He looks away for a second, like he needs to gather himself.
“I know what it looks like,” he says. “I know I am your boss. I know you are much younger. I know you have your whole career ahead of you. And yes…” His voice lowers. “I have a wife.”
Your chest tightens.
“But I care about you,” he says. “A lot. Too much, maybe. More than I intended. More than I should.”
You feel your eyes sting.
“I tried to keep it harmless,” he continues. “A joke. A flirtation. Something light. But after that moment at the banquet…” His gaze returns to yours, and there is no hiding now. “After you lost yourself with me like that, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
Your breath trembles. Everything inside you goes soft and terrified at once. And you say it — the truth slips out before you can stop it.
“I love you, Toto.”
He goes completely still. Focused on you. You barely recognize your own voice.
“I fell in love with you like a total idiot,” you whisper. “And I tried not to. I really did.”
For one second, he only looks at you. Then his expression breaks. “Oh,” he whispers, voice rough. “My little she-wolf...”
He steps closer, slowly closing the space between you, and for once you don’t move away. You can’t. His hands rise to your face, warm and careful, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he touches you too quickly. His eyes search yours for one last second. A question. A warning. A choice.
You barely breathe. “Toto…”
And then he kisses you. Not carefully this time. Not like the dangerous, half-controlled heat from the banquet. This kiss is softer at first, almost unbearably tender, like he is trying to tell you everything without scaring you. His mouth moves against yours slowly, deeply, and your whole body forgets every reasonable thought it has ever had.
Then you answer. And that is when the kiss changes. His fingers slide into your hair. Your hands find his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt because your legs are suddenly not cooperating with the basic concept of standing. He pulls you closer, not roughly, just firmly enough to make it clear he wants you there. And God, you want to be there. You melt into him like an idiot. A complete, hopeless idiot. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it. Maybe he can, because he makes a low sound against your mouth, almost a breath, almost your name. That ruins you a little. You kiss him back harder.
For a few seconds, there is no Miami. No team. No Susie. No Lando. No cameras. No impossible questions waiting outside that door. Just him. His warmth. His hands. His mouth.
Then he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead almost touching yours.
You stare at him, stunned. “I said it,” you whisper. “I actually said it.”
His thumb strokes your cheek. “Yes.”
“And you kissed me.”
“Yes.”
You swallow, trying to catch up with your own life. “This feels like something HR would want to discuss.”
A tiny laugh breaks out of him. “Probably.”
You nod weakly. “Great. I’ll put it on my list. Right under emotional collapse and accidental love confession.”
His smile fades into something warmer. Deeper. “You are not accidental to me.”
Oh. That is unfair. Deeply unfair. Your throat tightens. “So,” you whisper, because if you don’t make a joke soon, you may actually start crying, “what now?”
Toto’s hands stay on your face, steady and gentle. “Maybe,” he says quietly, “we start with you not running from me.”
The laugh that escapes you is small and broken. He pulls you closer again, not kissing you this time. Just holding you. His lips brush lightly over your temple, then the edge of your hairline, soft enough to make your chest ache.
Your hands rest against his chest. And there it is. His heartbeat. Fast. Fast like yours.
Something about that almost undoes you. Because Toto Wolff, terrifying team principal, walking strategy machine, man who can silence a room with one look, is standing here with his heart racing under your palm. Because of you. And then the memory of the banquet returns. Your face heats again. Your body goes stiff with embarrassment.
He feels it immediately. His fingers slide gently under your chin, lifting your face. “Look at me.”
You hesitate.
“Please,” he adds. That does it. You look. His eyes are calm now. Soft. Serious.
“Everything depends on you,” he says. “If you are not comfortable, we set boundaries. If you need space, I give you space. I expect nothing from you. Nothing.” His thumb brushes once along your jaw. “But please don’t treat me like air again.”
Your throat tightens. “That hurt?” you ask quietly.
His eyes stay on yours.
“More than anything this weekend.”
You blink fast. He exhales softly.
“That is the worst part,” he admits. “The weekend was difficult. The sprint was poor. George is frustrated. The team needed focus. And still my thoughts kept coming back to you.” His voice drops. “To whether I had scared you. Whether I had hurt you.”
You can’t help it. You step into him again and wrap your arms around his middle.
He holds you immediately. Like he was waiting.
Then... a knock hits the door. You both freeze. Of course. Of course.
“Boss?” Paul’s voice comes from outside. “We leave for the hotel in twenty minutes. Also, have you seen our star? She vanished and Rosa is about to organize a search mission.”
You lift your head slowly. Toto looks down at you. You are still in his arms. Your face is flushed. Your hands are on him. His hands are on you.
The situation is deeply not workplace compliant. Toto’s expression shifts into something very calm. Suspiciously calm. “No,” he calls back. “Maybe check with the mechanics.”
You press your lips together. Paul pauses. “Mechanics? She hates being filmed with greasy lighting.”
“Paul.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll look.”
His footsteps move away. For three seconds, silence. Then you burst into a quiet laugh against Toto’s chest. He looks down at you, mouth twitching.
“Well, well,” you whisper. “The boss is already hiding me.”
His arms tighten slightly. “You are not my secret.”
“No?”
“No.” His voice softens. “You are my little she-wolf. And I want to protect you.”
That melts something inside you so quickly it is almost embarrassing.
He guides you toward the sofa then, and you let him because apparently your bones have resigned. He sits first and pulls you gently with him until you are tucked into his side, your shoulder against his chest, his arm around you.
“Five minutes,” he murmurs. “Please. Give me five minutes.”
You close your eyes. His hand moves slowly over your back. The other rests carefully against your thigh, still, warm, nothing more. Just contact. Just grounding. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then the question comes out quietly. “How is it, really?” you ask.
His hand stills. You open your eyes, staring at the fabric of his shirt. “With you and Susie.”
Toto says nothing for a second. So you continue, softer. “I saw her with Lewis. A few times. Yesterday in the lobby too. It looked… intimate.”
His arm tightens around you slightly. He breathes in. Long. Heavy. Then he pulls you a little closer. “What I said after Silverstone and on the banquet is true,” he says quietly. “My marriage with Susie has not been what people think for years.”
Your heart beats faster. He looks toward the window. “It is mostly PR now,” he says. “And care for Jack. And respect for what we were once. We built a life together. We still protect that life.” A faint, tired smile touches his mouth. “From the outside, it looks perfect.”
“And inside?”
“Inside, we are friends who know each other very well and sleep in different rooms.”
You absorb that slowly. All the photos. The book event. The smiles. His hand around her waist.
Your stomach twists again. “So all those things you said about her during the book promotion,” you say, lifting your head slightly, “that she is your hero, that she’s brilliant, all those beautiful words…”
His smile is weak. “Good PR can still contain truth.”
You frown. He sighs softly. “I respect Susie. I admire her. She is brilliant. She is strong. But the way people read those moments…” He shakes his head. “Yes. That part is directed.”
You look at him. “And Lewis?”
There is a long pause. His face changes. A sadness settles over him like a shadow. “Susie and Lewis are lovers,” he says.
Your chest tightens.
“She told me herself. It began before he moved to Ferrari.” His mouth curves, but there is no humor in it. “The dream of driving for Ferrari made a beautiful explanation. And maybe part of it was true. But mostly, he could not stay at Mercedes and look at me every weekend while sleeping with my wife.”
You say nothing. Because what do you even say to that? There is no joke for it. No sharp comment. No easy escape. You look at his face, at the tired lines around his eyes, at the calm he wears like armor because maybe if he stops wearing it, everything underneath will finally show.
Your heart aches. “You must have felt so lonely,” you whisper.
His gaze returns to you. Soft. Too soft. He lifts a hand and touches your cheek. “Don’t pity me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m sad for you.”
“That is dangerously close.”
You cover his hand with yours. “I mean it.”
His thumb brushes your cheek once. “We made decisions,” he says. “Together. For Jack. For the life we built. For the work. For the public version that protects everyone.”
“And you?”
He gives a faint smile. “I have moments.”
“Lonely moments?”
“Yes.”
Your throat tightens again. “If Susie has Lewis,” you ask quietly, “why didn’t you find someone?”
Toto lets out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I could.”
“Oh, you definitely could.”
His eyes flicker with amusement. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t exactly a compliment. More like an objective warning.”
Now he does smile. A real one. Small, sad, beautiful.
“I have never wanted only bodies,” he says after a moment. “Not really. I need depth. Trust. Someone who understands silence and pressure. Someone who challenges me. Someone who comes close not because of what I am, but despite it.”
You go very still.
“And then,” he continues, voice lowering, “you appeared. With your sharp tongue. Your terrible timing. Your complete lack of fear.”
You huff softly. “I have fear.”
“Not of me.”
You look down.
“No. Not of you.”
He pulls you a little closer and rests his face briefly against your neck. The gesture is tired, intimate, almost fragile. You hold him instinctively, fingers curling into the back of his shirt.
“I fought it,” he murmurs. “Of course I did. You are so young. You have your career ahead of you. I am your boss. My life is complicated. Everything about this is complicated.” He lifts his head and looks at you. “And I know how this may sound now. After everything I have told you. Like I am lonely and you appeared at the right time.”
You look at him carefully. “Are you afraid I’ll think that?”
“Yes.”
You touch his face then, softly. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
His eyes close for half a second. Then he turns his head and kisses your palm. “I owed you that.”
The tenderness of it nearly ruins you. For a while, neither of you speaks.
Then you ask the question that has been sitting quietly in your chest since the beginning. “Have you thought about separation? Divorce?”
Toto looks at you. You continue, softer. “If neither of you is happy like that. If Susie loves Lewis. If you…” You hesitate. “If you’re lonely.”
His gaze lowers for a moment. Then he says, almost too quietly, “Every day.”
Before you can answer your phone vibrates. Both of you look down. Rosa.
Toto sees the name and smiles faintly. “You should answer,” he says. “Knowing my daughter, she is about to search every room in the motorhome and find us in a very questionable position.”
You look at yourself. Curled into him. His hand on your back. Your legs tucked close to his. His face still much too near your neck.
You press your lips together. “Fair.”
You answer. “Hey.”
“Where are you?” Rosa demands immediately. “Paul and I are looking for you.”
You sit up slightly, though Toto does not let you go completely. “I felt a little sick,” you say, trying to sound convincing. “I got stuck in the bathroom for a bit. I’ll come down now.”
Toto lowers his face against your neck again. Your brain stops. His breath warms your skin. You close your eyes briefly. Cruel man.
“Meet me at the parking lot in five?” you add, somehow still sounding human.
Rosa pauses. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. Just tired.”
“Okay. Five minutes.”
She hangs up. You lower the phone slowly. Toto lifts his head, looking far too innocent for someone who absolutely is not.
You take his face in both hands. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
He smiles, but it is sad around the edges. Then he kisses your temple.
“Don’t disappear from me again,” he says softly. “You don’t have to decide anything. You don’t have to promise me anything. Just… don’t cut me out.”
Your eyes sting. “Toto…”
He brushes your hair back from your face. “Your presence gives me happiness I haven’t had in years,” he says softly. “You are my little she-wolf. And somehow… my little light too.”
Oh. That does it.
Your eyes fill before you can stop them. His expression changes instantly. “Hey,” he whispers, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “No, no. Don’t cry, my little she-wolf.”
You lean forward and kiss him. You do not think. You just do it. Toto responds immediately, pulling you close, his hand firm at your back as the kiss deepens for a few breathless seconds. You end up closer than before, half in his lap, half against him, your hands tangled at his shoulders while his hold stays careful but strong. He breaks the kiss first. Barely.
His breath is uneven now. “You should go,” he murmurs. “Before Rosa starts inspecting toilets.”
You let out a shaky laugh against his mouth. “Probably.”
He studies you for a second. “Are you still flying back with the team?”
You look at him. Then, despite everything, despite the tears still in your eyes, you manage a tiny smile.
“Well,” you say softly, “the boss may have convinced me to return on his ridiculously fancy jet.”
His face warms. “Even with my chaotic daughter?”
“Even with your chaotic daughter.”
“And Paul.”
You grimace. “That is a sacrifice.”
“And Susie.”
Your smile falters slightly. Then he adds, carefully, “And Lewis.”
You choke. “Wonderful.”
Toto’s smile becomes so gentle it almost hurts. “It will be all right.”
You believe him. Which is probably dangerous. Before you leave, he kisses you once more Soft at first. Then you deepen it, because you cannot help yourself. Because in this moment, with his hand at your cheek and his heartbeat still too fast under your palm, there is no pretending left.
You are completely in love with him. Completely. Terribly. Beautifully. You pull away before you forget the parking lot, Rosa, Paul, the plane, the entire outside world.
“I really have to go,” you whisper.
“I know.”
He lets you stand. Reluctantly. You pick up your bag, smooth your hair, and then point at him weakly.
“You look too normal.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do I?”
“Yes. It’s offensive.”
That makes him laugh quietly. A real laugh. Yours. You hold onto that sound as you slip out of his office and into the corridor, closing the door gently behind you.
The noise of the paddock returns all at once. People. Bags. Radios. Laughter. The end of a race weekend. But everything feels different now.
You walk toward the parking lot with your heart still racing and your lips still warm from his kiss.
Rosa is already waiting near the cars. She spots you immediately. “There you are,” she says, eyes narrowing. “You do not look like someone who was sick in a bathroom.”
You stop in front of her. Think fast. “I recover beautifully.”
She stares. Then her gaze drops very briefly to your mouth. Back to your eyes. A slow smile starts to form. Oh no.
You point at her. “No.”
She grins. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Keep not saying it.”
Paul pops up beside the car. “Who are we not saying things about?”
“You,” Rosa says instantly.
He looks pleased. “Good. My favorite topic.”
You roll your eyes and climb into the car before either of them can look too closely at your face. As the door closes, you glance back toward the Mercedes hospitality. Through the glass, just for a second, you see him. Toto. Standing in the corridor. Watching you leave. This time, you do not look away. And when he smiles, small and quiet and only for you, your heart does that stupid, hopeless thing again. But now you know what it means.
*
The private jet is quieter than you expected. Not silent, of course not. Paul is here, so silence would require medical intervention. He sits opposite Toto, talking with his whole body, hands moving through the air while explaining some “genius content strategy” that probably involves humiliating you in high resolution again. Toto sits back in his seat, legs crossed, documents open on his lap, listening with the calm patience of a man who has survived board meetings, media storms, and Paul Ripke before breakfast.
Rosa sits beside you, curled into her seat with her phone in hand, but you can feel her watching you more than the screen.
Across the cabin, George and Carmen sit close together, their heads leaned against each other. George looks exhausted. Worse than exhausted. Hollow around the edges. Carmen’s hand rests gently over his, thumb moving slowly, quietly. No words needed. Miami has taken something from him today, and you know he will carry it all the way back to Europe.
A little farther away, Susie and Lewis sit side by side. Close. Not too close for anyone who doesn’t know. Perfectly acceptable. Perfectly friendly. Two old friends, maybe. Two people with shared history, warmth, and easy conversation. But now you know. Now you see everything differently. The angle of Lewis’s body turned toward her. The softness in Susie’s smile. The way their hands almost touch and then don’t, like they have practiced restraint for rooms full of people.
You look away. Straight toward Toto. Mistake. Because the second your eyes land on him, heat rises in your cheeks. Again. Fantastic. Truly fantastic. At this point your face should invoice him for overtime.
He does not look up immediately, but somehow you know he feels it. He always does. His eyes lift from the documents for one brief second, find yours, and soften. Small. Quiet. Only yours.
Your heart trips over itself. You look down at your hands. Because what else can you do? This weekend ruined you. The banquet. His hands on your hips. Your body falling apart against him. Your shame afterward. His office. His voice. His confession. His loneliness. His mouth on yours. The way he said you gave him happiness he hadn’t felt in years.
Your throat tightens. God. For years, the world has looked at him and Susie like a perfect power couple. Motorsport royalty. Elegant. Strong. Untouchable. And the truth is sitting here in this cabin, breathing quietly between expensive leather seats and carefully chosen public smiles. A marriage that became PR. A wife in love with someone else. A man who stayed lonely because duty, image, Jack, history, and loyalty tied him in place.
And now you. You, sitting beside his daughter, falling in love with him so completely it terrifies you.
What are you supposed to become? His secret? His affair? Another hidden thing tucked between flights, offices, hotel corridors, and careful glances? Like Susie and Lewis? Are you ready for that? Could you survive it?
Your career is just beginning. Toto is your boss. He is older. Powerful. Married. Complicated in ways no young driver should ever be stupid enough to touch.
And yet. You already touched him. You already kissed him. You already love him.
If this comes out, it will explode. Headlines. Gossip. Sponsors. Team politics. Every person in the paddock suddenly deciding your heart is public property.
You exhale quietly. There is no easy answer. No clean one. No painless one.
Beside you, Rosa shifts. “You’re quiet,” she says softly.
You glance at her. “I’m tired.”
She gives you a look. A very Wolff look. Dry. Unimpressed. Slightly lethal.
“Sure.”
You sigh. “It was a long weekend.”
“It was,” she says. Then, after a beat, quieter, “Did you and Papa make peace?”
Your fingers tighten slightly in your lap. Across from you, Toto turns a page. Too slowly. He heard. Of course he heard.
You keep your face neutral with heroic effort. “We talked,” you say.
Rosa studies you. Then she smiles. Not teasing this time. Soft. “Good.”
You look at her, and something in your chest aches again. Outside the window, the night stretches black and endless beneath the wing. Inside the cabin, Toto’s gaze finds yours once more. This time, you do not look away immediately. You can’t. Because whatever happens next, whatever this becomes, whatever price this asks from both of you, you already know one thing.
Miami changed everything. And there is no going back now.
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Summary: It was well known within the team that there was one other person that had captured their team leader's heart. You knew Aaron back when he and Haley took a break from their relationship and he went to the academy and met you. What the team doesn’t know is that you have been with the FBI ever since, working the west coast mainly until you get requested to join the BAU.
word count: 4K
an// the timeline is a little different in this from the show, Aaron spent longer as a prosecutor before going to the academy and joining the FBI for this to work and to make the reader younger than Aaron. This is also a world where Foyet never happened and Haley is still alive.
-
You haven’t been driving the winding roads into Quantico since you were graduating from the academy. Driving the familiar stretch feels comforting in a bizarre way that still makes your stomach drop. For the past decade of your career, you’ve spent it on the West coast. The Los Angeles field office kept you busy and gave you quite a reputation with the bureau. One that landed you the open spot on the BAU.
Nine months of training had seeped into your bones and left something behind. Maybe it had to do with your training partner during this period. Aaron Hotcher was new to the bureau, older than the rest of your class. He had spent a decent amount of years as a prosecutor before deciding he would rather catch the evil and put an end to it than put it behind bars. Haley was sick of waiting to move forward with their life and didn’t want to wait around for him to start his career over when they still hadn’t gotten married. They broke up, leaving Aaron single for the first time since he was in high school.
You had just graduated from Georgetown and went directly into the academy after graduating. You had partnered up with Aaron early on in training, the two of you had a long nine months ahead of you. Aaron had spent the last eight years with the same person, and you were so different from her. It didn’t take long for the lines to blur between the two of you, breaking about a half dozen bureau rules.
“Agent Y/Ln.”
“Chief Straus.” You greet, shaking her hand. She leads you to the elevator, giving you your access badge to have credentials to the building.
“We’re lucky to have secured you with our team. I think we will benefit from having your input and hard work.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” You nod.
The doors open and you follow her lead again as she walks out to the open lobby. She points through a set of glass doors.
“The conference room is just inside. I believe you already know SAC Aaron Hotchner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” You nod yet again.
“Wonderful.” Her lips purse, “I hope that confirms your hard work with the bureau won't be manipulated by how he runs his teams.”
You still at her words, not expecting them one bit. You may have your own feelings about Aaron as a person, but you have never doubted his work ethic and his care for helping people.
“I’m not sure I follow.” You stand a little taller, watching her eyes scan over you.
“Aaron Hotchner is a very stubborn man who tends to go rogue.”
Oh, she really doesn’t know you or your file if she thinks he tends to go rogue.
“I think the team will benefit from your input.” She gestures to the doors again, “I’ll be in touch to check in on your transition with this team.”
She nods once stiffly and turns back for the elevator and you push open the doors. The conference room is at the top of a short set of stairs. You knock lightly before letting yourself in, all eyes snapping over to you. David Rossi doesn’t hesitate, jumping up from his seat.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” His face lighting up.
It wasn’t professional, and it caught almost everyone else off guard. There weren’t many people they had seen Rossi jump up to hug.
You let out a soft laugh, returning the hug, “Rossi.”
“Look at you!” He pulls back enough to take you in, “Your name has been floating around for years, I was waiting for you to finally be reunited with us!”
Hotch goes very still in his spot at the far end of the table.
Morgan’s brows had fully shot up, “Who are we hugging?”
Rossi turns back toward the table where the rest of the team is waiting and waves them off.
“Kid here was one of the best to come out of Quantico.”
Rossi’s eyes flicker to Aaron, just briefly. Then he looks back at you. He lets out a delighted chuckle and gestures between the two of you.
“This is going to be interesting.”
Your expression shifts while still looking at him, a slight warning. You should know better than to expect David Rossi to bite his tongue.
“What? What is it?” Emily leans forward immediately.
Rossi looks downright pleased with himself. You know what he’s about to say before he can even open his mouth. There’s a certain twinkle in his eye that screams mischief and payback.
“Oh no.” You mutter under your breath, briefly focusing down on your shoes.
“David.” Aaron warns, seemingly picking up on the same exact thing. You finally look over at him, taking him in for the first time. You can tell he’s aged, but it’s done him well.
“She used to get written up for sneaking off with Aaron here all the time.” He goes on, casual as ever.
The entire table leans in. You shift your weight back, standing uncomfortably in front of them.
“Jesus Rossi, that’s quite the ice breaker. Thanks.” You roll your eyes.
“No way!” Morgan barks a laugh, repeating it over with ‘Not Hotch’.
“Wait, you’re the one between Haley?” Garcia asks bluntly with an eager smile.
Between Haley. You couldn’t have said it better yourself.
You clear your throat, “Yeah, that would be me, I guess.”
The team was aware of the one and only relationship he had other than his high school sweetheart, that he had eventually married. For the longest time it seemed impossible to imagine him in a relationship with someone other than Haley, but two years ago they had gotten a divorce. That changed things. That changed Hotch. Now seeing you standing in front of them, they could see why he fell.
You make your way around the table, shaking hands and officially introducing yourself.
Garcia’s smile grows impossibly wider, “This is incredible.”
You look back at Aaron and he looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Morgan points at Hotch, “When you and Haley broke up, you said there was one other girl.”
Now Aaron looks like he wants the entire building to come down with him.
“Three different SACs requested me, and this is what I’m reduced to.” You shake your head.
“Yeah, for the record,” Emily cuts in, “her file is terrifying. She once talked down an armed unsub for forty-three minutes without backup.”
“Thank you.” You smile proudly.
“Sorry, sorry.” He holds up his hands in defence, “We just have known him for a long time. For a while you seemed like a myth, kind of a legend around here.”
Hotch clears his throat, “That’s enough.”
It doesn’t even remotely stop them. You can see it on their faces, everyone’s minds running a mile a minute.
“Everyone out.”
The team scrambles, still laughing and throwing looks over their shoulders. You take one of the newly open seats, listening to the door click shut behind them. He doesn’t look at you right away. You lean back in your chair casually, exhaling slowly.
“Well, that went worse than expected.”
His head snaps toward you.
“Worse?”
You nod, “Yeah, I didn’t exactly expect Rossi to bring up our history so blatantly. Now they’re going to want the whole play by play-”
“Y/n.” He warns.
That had earned you the sharp warning look that was annoyingly familiar.
“I expect professionalism.”
“You’ll get it.” You reply, your typical teasing tone gone, “I didn’t come back here to derail anything, I’ve worked too hard to risk anything. I’m here because I was requested to be.”
A beat.
“By Strauss.” He states.
“Yes.” You nod easily.
He studied you for a long moment. You think a full minute passes before he gives you a controlled nod.
“We have a case.”
You stand, smoothing out your jacket, “Good,”
He stands suddenly to lead you out, but you pass him.
“I’m sure I can find my desk. Also, next time you’re reliving your glory days you could at least have the decency of giving your ‘frivolity’ a name.”
You walk straight out to the bullpen, pretending to be normal for all the trained eyes on you. Morgan was waiting, of course he was.
“This one is open.” He points to the one across from him.
He’s already grinning, “So, academy misconduct, huh?”
You meet his gaze briefly before seeing your bag down on the desk and sitting down.
“Allegedly.”
Prentiss laughs and Rossi leans back in his chair from his office. Satisfied with the chaos he created, he knows he’ll be hearing about it from Aaron later. Aaron was watching from the doorway of the conference room before making sharp strides back to his office, pausing once before going in.
“Wheels up in thirty.”
Morgan jumps up grabbing his go bag from under his desk, the room snapping into motion.
“Hope your bag is packed, Y/Ln.” Emily calls, grabbing her bag as well.
“Always.”
The engines cut through the morning sky as case files were passed out.
“Miami PD flagged three victims in the last ten days,” JJ begins, clicking through pictures on the laptop sitting on the table, “All female, late twenties to early thirties, found in upscale neighborhoods.”
“Cause of death?” Morgan asks.
“Stragulation.” JJ answers, “Minimal signs of struggle.”
Reid leans forward to scan for details, “That suggests a controlled environment. Either the unsub gains trust quickly or uses surprise and restraint.”
“Or both.” You add, “He could be ambushing them in a place where he has the power.”
Aaron doesn’t even look up from the file in his hands.
“Are the victims connected?” He asks.
“No obvious ties, but Garcia is already diving deeper. Different professions and different neighborhoods.”
You shake your head, “It’s not random.”
That got attention.
Reid turns to look at you, “You’re sure?”
“The presentation is too consistent. Location staging is intentional, he wants them found on his own timeline.”
Aaron finally picks up his head to look at you. He has the same trusting look in his eyes that he did back in school, never doubting you or questioning your skill.
“The cooling off period is shortening,” He seamlessly continues off of you, “he’s escalating.”
You nod, “Which means we’re coming in mid-cycle.”
Rossi leans back in his seat and has to hide his smile with his hand while he takes it all in.
“Well,” he says it mostly to himself but everyone hears him, “that hasn’t changed.
Emily glances over at him, “What hasn’t?”
Rossi lazily gestures between you and Aaron and Morgan immediately smirks.
“You mean the part where they talk like they’ve already had the conversation?”
Rossi smirks, “That’s exactly what I mean.
Aaron ignores them entirely.
“Geographic profile?” He looks to Reid, shifting focus.
Reid picks up instantly, “Given the distribution of the dump sites-”
“He’s local.” You cut in.
Reid nods quickly with a surprised smile growing faintly, “Y-yes. That aligns. Likely comfortable moving through multiple neighborhoods without drawing attention.”
“Professional?” JJ asks, already taking notes and looking around to everyone.
“Or someone who blends in well.” You offer, “The service industry provides property access without being noticed.”
Hotch nods, “We’ll coordinate with local PD and cross reference employees with access to all three areas.”
Morgan leans back against the couch, he tucks his arms behind his head, “Man… you guys are making this look easy.”
You don’t miss a beat, “It’s not.”
“It’s not.” Aaron echoes at the same exact time.
You look up, that you will give the team because it was weird. You and Aaron worked well together, there was no denying that, but it wasn’t quite like this. Rossi can’t help the laugh he lets escape after a few seconds of silence.
The jet dips lower and the Miami skyline is stretching out beneath you. The team stands to gather their things after landing. You get off quickly, Morgan close at your side.
“So this whole finishing each other’s sentences thing-”
“We don’t do that.” You interrupt and raise a brow.
He holds up a finger and waggles it to show his disbelief.
“Nuh uh, you just did.”
You roll your eyes and keep walking, very aware of the rest of the team walking just behind you now. JJ is checking her phone.
“Local PD is expecting us.”
“Good.” Aaron nods, “Morgan and Prentiss, canvass the first victim’s neighborhood. JJ and Reid take the second victim’s neighborhood. Rossi and Y/LN are with me.”
Morgan’s mouth twitches, “Of course she is.”
You sling your bag over your shoulder and carry on for the waiting SUVs.
“Try to keep up.” You call over your shoulder, unphased.
Morgan laughs, “Oh, I like her.”
Rossi stops next to him, “I missed her.”
-
Miami Metro was buzzing when you guys got there after going to the most recent scene. Everyone else had already returned from their neighborhoods. Hotch insisted on picking up a few pizzas on the way back so they could all stay at the station to work the case.
He scans the crime scene boards in front of him detailing each victim. You cross your arms over your chest, already feeling the challenge pulling at your throat.
“Organized offenses can still be impulsive.”
His eyes narrow on you, “He planned all the dumpsites.”
“And escalated anyway.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Morgan is standing at the other end of the table and leans in close to whisper to Emily. You and Aaron are so focused on combating what the other has to say, neither of you hear the conversation happening on the other side of the conference room.
“I’m beginning to see why this didn’t work out.” He chuckles and Emily just elbows him.
Rossi leans in, having caught the comment.
“This….” He chuckles, shaking his head, “is exactly how they used to work.”
Reid frowns, “They disagree constantly.”
“Mhm,” Rossi nods, “and yet their conclusions are largely still aligned.”
Aaron has turned back to face the board, no longer wanting to face your proud smile that he knows could do this all night long.
Ten years ago.
You and Hotch were friends first in the academy. Being a few years older than everyone gave Aaron the maturity not to be intimidated by the fact that you were a woman and better than the rest of them.
Three months into the academy training, everyone knew that you and Aaron Hotchner were a force to be reckoned with. Officially, the two of you were simply high performing partners who were highly competitive. Unofficially? The two of you were attached at the hip, and falling harder every day.
Aaron didn’t think it was possible for him to fall for someone other than Haley. She had given him an ultimatum, it came down to the academy or their future. He moved to Quantico without her. He would never say it outloud, but it was freeing to be single for the first time in his adult life. He was about to turn thirty, and being able to explore getting to know someone new was totally foreign to him. It didn’t take long for you to be on his radar, a sharp tongue you weren’t afraid to use against classmates. You were one of the only women in the entire class, so he made his support for you clear and the two of you turned it into a partnership. It didn’t take long to evolve into more than that...
Rain pounds against the windows while the room full of trainees work through a behavioral analysis report. Everyone in the room is working in silence, David Rossi at the front of the room watching over it closely.
Aaron glances over from his work to you, you catch it instantly.
“There it is.” You smirk, but continue writing without pause.
“What?” He quietly voices, leaning in closer to you.
“The smile you’re pretending isn’t there.”
You look up now, seeing your boyfriend’s face was closer than you had expected. The corners of his mouth curling up, barely.
“I wasn’t.”
“Liar.” You bite your bottom lip.
Across the room, Rossi watches the exchange and rolls his eyes. It wasn’t from the relationship itself, but the fact that the two of you were unbearable now. He’d seen academy relationships before, and he knew that most of them burned out within a couple weeks due to the stress. Somehow, this had made the two of you sharper.
Rossi claps his hands once to gain the room's attention, “Alright, listen up. Everyone needs to turn in their analysis tomorrow, and if I catch anyone violating academy conduct again-”
You mutter under your breath, “So, specifically us.”
Aaron rubs a hand over his mouth.
Rossi points at you immediately, “Especially you.”
You hold up your hands in defence but the smirk tells everyone this isn’t a real denial, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rossi’s brows raise.
“Scouts honor.” You salute and you can practically feel Aaron’s entire body tense beside you.
“The two of you were caught in the gym last week.” Rossi leans back on his desk, looking forward to the rest of the classroom but mainly you and Aaron.
“We were training.”
“I think you know that kind of training is not in our curriculum.”
You can feel the heat behind the blush growing on your cheeks. Aaron’s ears go completely red.
“Hotchner,” Rossi turns his focus to him, “You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”
You snort so loud you nearly choke and Aaron shoots you a look.
“If only you knew-” you whisper.
“Yes, sir.” Aaron cuts off loudly.
The class is dismissed and the two of you decide to work in the library for a couple hours to finish up the analysis. It was mostly empty now, you and Aaron had managed to snag one of the study rooms to work in. He was reviewing case notes by the time you came back with two cups of vending machine coffee.
“You know, normal people go to sleep when they finish their work.” You set down the cups.
He takes the coffee without looking away from the file.
“Normal people also fail qualification exams.”
You let out a huff and plop yourself in his lap before he can complain. He still has the file in hand, but the other arm wraps around your back to secure you there.
“Aaron,” You look directly in his eyes, “we have the top two scores in the class.”
“That’s not the point.”
You shift in his lap, letting your eyes drag over him. His sleeves are rolled up, giving you the delicious opportunity of seeing his forearms. His tie has been tugged loose at this point too. He looks exhausted, but still so painfully serious about everything. His eyes however are warm and linger on your lips, causing his own to lift slightly.
He notices the change in your expression, “What?”
“You know, Haley was wrong about one thing.”
The room shifts slightly at the mention of her, but he doesn’t tense or look too surprised.
“What’s that?”
You reach out a hand to run it back through his hair.
“You do know how to have fun.”
He huffs softly, “That’s debatable.”
“No, I’m serious.” You turn impossibly closer to face him, “Most people only get this version of you.
You gesture vaguely to his posture and professionalism he was known for. The walls he had designed himself, but for some reason never put up with you.
“But I get this one.” You lean in and press a quick kiss to his lips. It tastes like bitter black coffee, but it’s so Aaron. His hand tightens along your waist, pulling you closer still. He pulls away after a few seconds, you steal one more peck.
“You know what your problem is, Hotchner?”
“I assume you’re going to tell me.” He smirks.
“You think too much.”
“That’s literally my job.” He argues.
“You think too much about everything.”
His hold on you was instinctive now, his hand settled securely around your waist. At this point in private it had become second nature. Like breathing.
You tilt your head, “You’ve got that look again.”
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth again. Caught. You smile immediately,
“There you are.”
You kiss him again without hesitation. Every stolen moment between the two of you was addictive. He kisses back immediately, finally setting down the file so he can have both hands on you.
You grin against his mouth, “See? Better.”
“You are such a distraction.”
“And yet you’re still fighting me for top of the class.”
He actually laughs softly, the kind of laugh almost no one got from him. You pull back enough to really look at him.
“That’s one of my favorite things.”
“What?” He questions.
“That sound.” You smile, “Your laugh.”
For a second he just looks at you, undone and exposed in a way he wasn’t sure he had ever been. His hand reaches for the back of your neck, pulling you back in. His kiss is greedy now, sitting up taller so he can truly devour you. Until the door swings open.
You and Aaron both freeze, heads snapping to the door. Rossi is standing in the doorway, looking disappointed as ever.
“Unbelievable.”
You blink, “Okay, in fairness-”
“I don’t want fairness.” He holds up hands, and you slowly get up from Aaron’s lap.
“We did finish our work-”
“Uhp!” He holds up a hand to cut you off, his stare turning to lock on Aaron.
He straightens in his chair, clearing his throat, “Sir.”
“You!” Rossi points at him, “are one of the most disciplined trainees I’ve ever taught.”
Rossi spins his attention back to you.
“And you-”
You swallow.
“are a menace!” He finishes, tossing his hands up in the air before turning around and walking out of the room muttering to himself on the way out.
Aaron looks over at you, still flustered but trying to recover the professionalism.
You grin, “Worth it.”
He stares at you for another second, before a tiny and reluctant smile appears again.
“Come on.” He stands, packing up his stuff, “Let’s go before you get us both kicked from the program.”
-
an// eeeeeee i’m sorry i think i have to do a mini series with them! I love it. I love them. PUH-LEASE let me know your thoughts and if we need more of them 💖
Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak.
Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED]
Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack)
Word Count: 6.6k
Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD
masterlist
The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.
That was probably your second thought.
Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.
Still.
Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:
He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.
Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.
Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.
At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.
You don’t know how he does it.
It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.
(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)
But instead, you just hum.
And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:
“Can you keep doing this forever?”
Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.
And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.
And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.
Not on purpose.
(Probably?)
(…Definitely.)
Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.
Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)
Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.
(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)
(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)
Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.
It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.
Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-
“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)
“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”
“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.
It doesn’t.
What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-
“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-
“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-
“Sweetheart”.
All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.
The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.
(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)
“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.
Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.
(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)
“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.
All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.
Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-
“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”
And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.
If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.
It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.
So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:
“Could you go lower?”
“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.
Now you’re face-to-face with him.
Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.
Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:
Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)
Still, since profiling is such a complex job –
(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)
so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-
So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.
(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)
(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)
(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)
And apparently, he does.
Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:
“Again?!”
Ah. Yes. Again.
Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.
So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:
Close. The. Curtains.
(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)
But it’s fine. It’s fine.
You fixed it.
You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.
Just the essentials.
Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.
You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)
…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.
You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)
Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.
Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.
Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.
They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.
Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.
And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”
Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.
“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)
“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”
He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.
Fond - yes.
Amused - definetely.
Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.
Veeeery humbling experience.
And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.
“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”
Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.
Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)
You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.
Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.
And he doesn’t stop.
Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.
You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.
Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)
Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.
One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)
Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.
Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).
It’s… a moment.
You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;
It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.
And still, he manages to outdo himself.
Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.
“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”
(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)
“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.
You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”
Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.
He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.
Mouth open. Tongue flat.
You start cursing everything.
Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.
Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.
Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.
Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.
He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.
Then again. And again.
Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.
Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.
(Thank God.)
“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.
You were so fucking wrong.
His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.
It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.
“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.
He fucks you with it.
Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.
You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.
The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-
“Aaron- Aaron, please-”
Not your best work. Not ideal.
You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.
But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.
(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)
You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.
(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)
He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.
And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.
The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…
…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.
Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).
(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)
So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.
That first stretch.
That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”
(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)
You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.
“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”
He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.
And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.
(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)
“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.
(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)
(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)
(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)
(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)
(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)
(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)
“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.
Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.
He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”
Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.
White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.
(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)
“Do you feel it?” he asks.
You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.
Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-
“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”
Wrong answer, apparently.
Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.
(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)
“Lift your hips,” he instructs.
“What-”
“Just do it.”
You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.
(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)
He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.
“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.
“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.
He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.
Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.
You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.
A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.
So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.
(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)
You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.
“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”
You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.
Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”
(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)
“Trying,” you pant.
“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.
He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.
Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.
“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”
“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”
He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”
It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."
Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.
But you never find it. You never find him.
And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)
So instead, you settle. Again.
You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.
And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)
He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.
That’s the reason.
(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)
(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”
“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”
“Here where?”
“Shut up.”
Another slap.
Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)
“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”
You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.
“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)
He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.
“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.
You’re not really in the conditions to answer.
Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-
“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”
And oh… you feel it.
The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”
His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.
And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.
The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-
It almost slips out.
That thing.
The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.
“F-fuck, Aaron-”
“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”
And you do.
You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat
You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.
Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.
He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.
He doesn’t pull out.
Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.
His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.
Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.
"You're okay,"
"Got you,"
"So good, baby..."
Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.
Your chest hurts.
Because he means it.
He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.
“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”
He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.
You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”
You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.
“Please don’t call anyone.”
These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.
But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?
The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.
He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.
You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.
You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.
Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.
“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”
Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.
Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.
“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”
He shakes his head - fond. Touched.
Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.
He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.
You watch in awe.
Reverence.
…Horniness.
So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.
“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”
He doesn’t even flinch.
Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.
Occasionally hums.
If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.
Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.
He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.
Which is immediately suspicious.
You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.
Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.
Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.
Not even the question. He’s already answered it.
He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.
Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)
(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)
And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.
He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.
“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”
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