#bau!reader

You’re leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.

“You trying to get fired, kid?” he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.

You don’t even look at him. “Just keeping him on his toes, David.”

He hums, unconvinced. “He’s gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.”

You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. “We’ll see.”

Hotch’s voice cuts across the bullpen. “L/N. My six. Now.”

You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “Yes, sir.”

You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.

The rest of the room pretends they’re suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.

“You’re off the raid,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.

You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re staying here with the locals.”

You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. “No, I’m not.”

“That wasn’t a request.” His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.

“And this isn’t a negotiation.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. “You want me on a leash, Aaron, you’re gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.” You cross your arms over your chest.

His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, “Fine! You’re with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.”

You lick your bottom lip. “Promise?”

He turns on his heel before he does something he can’t take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.

The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.

Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. You’re already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.

“Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?” He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.

You spin, grinning up at him. “Only if you’re the one pulling the trigger.”

He looks like he’s two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.

Morgan’s voice crackles over comms. “Hotch, we’re set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?”

You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. “We’re coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chief’s just having a little performance anxiety.” You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.

Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.

You whistle, low and a little playful. “That’s destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.”

He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until you’re nose to nose. There he is. “You do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.”

You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.

He releases you like you’re radioactive.

The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.

He hisses your name, barely audible.

You ignore him.

You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. He’s reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.

You raise your weapon before you step into the open.

Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but you’re already talking.

“FBI! Drop it!”

The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.

You don’t flinch.

Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. “Come on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.”

The unsub’s finger tightens on the trigger.

Hotch’s arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.

You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.

He’s shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls into your face.

You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. “You’re welcome.”

Another shot pings off metal above your heads.

Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. “Stay. Down.”

This time, you finally listen.

He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.

Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.

Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where you’re pushing to your feet.

You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.

The unsub is down.

The cuffs are clicking.

And Aaron Hotchner looks like he’s deciding exactly how long it’s going to take to make you cry tonight.

The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.

Everyone’s exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.

You’re leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, “Two singles.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Separate rooms,” you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. “How very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldn’t want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.”

The night clerk’s eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.

Hotch doesn’t flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.

“Room 312,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you won’t sit for a month.”

He walks away before you can answer.

You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.

He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator who’s finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.

“Strip!”

You arch a brow at him. “Please?”

He’s on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.

“Don’t push me any further tonight,” he warns. “You’ve used up every last ounce of patience I have.”

“Good.” You smile slowly up at him.

He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until you’re gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.

His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.

“You’ve been begging for this all day,” he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. “Every smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like it’s a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.”

He drags your hips back until you’re bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.

You push back, greedy for him to enter you.

He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.

“Stay still,” he growls. “You move when I tell you to move.” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “Color?”

“Green,” you breathe, already trembling. “So fucking green.”

He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.

He doesn’t enter you. Not yet.

Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Beg!”

“Please, Sir—”

“Louder.”

“Please fuck me, Sir, I need—”

He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.

Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.

He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.

“Look at you,” he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. “Acting like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?”

“Maybe I wanted them to know,” you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t belong to—”

He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.

He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.

“Say it,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Finish that sentence.”

“I belong to you,” you sob, clenching around him. “Only you—fuck—Aaron—”

“That’s right.” He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. “You’re mine. And tomorrow, when you can’t walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, you’ll remember exactly who you answer to.”

He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where you’re swollen and aching for him. He doesn’t move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.

You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.

“Stay,” he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. “You take what I give you.”

Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.

Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.

He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.

“Cum,” he orders, voice cracking with restraint. “Cum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.”

The command rips through you.

You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.

He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.

You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to your skin.

He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You can’t help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.

A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.

Hotch’s chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you can’t move an inch further than you've already wiggled.

“You think we’re done?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my time to play.”

He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, he’s already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.

In seconds, he’s gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.

He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.

Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.

“Hands up,” he orders.

You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.

A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.

He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. You’re so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Stay just like that.”

He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.

It doesn’t take long before you’re writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Please! Sir, I’m close,” you whimper.

He pulls out completely.

You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isn’t there.

“Shh.” He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. “Calm down a little. We’re nowhere near done.”

He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.

He does it four times.

Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until you’re sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.

The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining “Please, please, I can’t—” spilling out over and over.

Hotch clicks his tongue. “Too noisy, baby.” He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. “Open.”

You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.

He arches a brow. “Open that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.”

Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.

“There we go,” he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. “Much better.”

He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.

Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.

Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess he’s made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. You’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.

Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.

He kisses you softly. “Up,” he murmurs.

You’re boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.

He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.

When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.

But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.

“No.” His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. “You don’t clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until we’re wheels-down at Quantico and you’re standing in my shower at home. You’re going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. You’ll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?”

You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.

“Sleep, trouble,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re going to need it.

You’re already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.

“Next time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I won’t wait until we’re in a hotel room.”

You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.

“Next time,” you mumble, “I’ll be worse.”

He bites your shoulder in warning.

You wake up to the alarm on Hotch’s watch at 5:47 a.m. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.

He glances back, eyes satisfied.

“Up,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. “Wheels up in forty.”

You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.

He watches you struggle into yesterday’s jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.

The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.

By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.

“Damn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?”

You flip him off with the hand that isn’t clutching your go-bag strap for support.

Hotch doesn’t say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.

On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesn’t jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t wreck you so thoroughly that you’re still tasting him through your pussy.

He starts with the profile review. You’re supposed to contribute. Instead, you’re hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.

Hotch’s eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Agent L/N,” he says smoothly, “care to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. “Uh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted within—”

Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.

Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotch’s gaze keeps drifting to your lap like he’s cataloging every squirm.

Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotch’s hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.

You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. You’re praying no one notices the way you’re walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.

Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice.

“Atta boy,” he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.

Hotch doesn’t answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.

You flip Rossi off behind Hotch’s back.

Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, “Feel better, kid.”

You’re going to kill them both.

Later.

Much, much later.

When you can walk again.

“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.

He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.

Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.

You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.

Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.

Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.

“Beth!”

Oh.

“Oh”

“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”

Oh (but harder).

“That’s… good?”

“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.

“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.

“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.

You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.

“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.

“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.

They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?

Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.

So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?

Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.

As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.

When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack. 

And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.

You felt like an outsider.

The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie.  You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut. 

When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.

Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.

It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.

You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut. 

When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.

Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.

One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.

Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.

When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.

You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.

You wanted her gone.

The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?

It was maddening. It had to stop.

It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.

When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.

Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.

You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.

Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.

But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.

So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.

It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.

You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.

“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.

Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.

“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.

“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.

Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.

“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”

You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.

Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.” 

Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.

“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.

“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.

“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.

Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.

When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.

“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.

“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.

Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.

“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.

Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”

He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.

“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”

“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”

“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.

“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”

And that’s when it hit you: he knew.

“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.

“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.

“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.

“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.

“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”

You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”

“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.

“Stop.”

“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”

“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”

“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”

“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.

“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”

“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”

“And you don’t?”

You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”

“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”

“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”

“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”

“It’s hard.”

“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”

You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.

“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.

“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.

Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.

When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.

Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”

Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.

You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.

“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it  out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”

Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.

“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.

He blinks. And then chuckles.

When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.

“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.

“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.

“Your name?”

“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.

You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”

“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.

“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.

“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.

You try again “It’s not that hard.”

“I won’t.” 

That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.

His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?” 

“I… there’s a lot going on.”  you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.

“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”

Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.

“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”

He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.

“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”

“Bullshit.”  he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”

“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.” 

He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”

“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?” 

“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.

“I didn’t, you did.” 

“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.

“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would  never…” 

“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.

“There's no he. It’s Beth.” 

Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”

“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”

“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”

Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”

“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.

“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.

“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”

“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”

The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should. 

When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.

You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.

A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”

“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”

“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”

Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”

Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him. 

How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.

“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”

You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.

“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”

“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.

“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”

You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.

“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”

“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.

“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”

After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.

He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.

Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”

“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.

“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”

You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.

“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.

When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.

“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”

“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.

“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.

“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.

“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”

“Jack will see it.”

“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.

“That’s rude. And humiliating.”

“That’s what you get for stealing.”

Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”

“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.

“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.

“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”

You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”

Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.

Okay, that’s not true — he does. When he has to. When there’s a case file in his hands and you’re just another member of the team he needs to brief — another agent he’s in charge of. When there’s a question about geographical profiling or victimology and you’re the one who can answer it. When he’s assigning roles and has to say your name.

But everything outside of that? Nothing. Cold silence. Controlled distance.

And it killed you.

You wouldn’t even know you kissed him. More than once. Wouldn’t know how his hands felt in your hair, or how he’d said your name like it physically hurt him. Wouldn’t know that there was a moment — no, a string of moments — where he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth.

Because now? Now he’s pretending none of it ever happened.

And the worst part?

You know he still wants you.

Not in the arrogant way. Not in the I’m-so-irresistible kind of way. No — you know it because you see it. In the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. In the way his jaw ticks when Morgan jokes too casually with you. In the way he goes quiet when your laugh cuts across the room — his lips pressing into a thin line while his body tenses, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing along.

He wants you. And he’s made that clear before.

But he’s also your boss. Older. Emotionally constipated. A man who shuts people out just before they get too close.

So of course, he made the decision for both of you. Of course, he pulled away, said it wasn’t appropriate, said you needed to keep it professional. Of course, he slammed that wall up between you and iced you out like he didn’t miss you the moment he left.

And now? Now you’re in Florida. The local PD is stretched thin, there’s a suspected spree killer hitting tourist-heavy areas along the I-4 corridor, and you’re operating out of some small, humid precinct where the AC rattles and no one knows how to use a case board.

Hotch pairs you with Officer Pretty Smile — an actual cop, around your age, golden tan, charming, full of casual grins and easy compliments. You don’t even hear most of what Hotch says when he assigns you; you’re too busy fuming at the fact that he’s done it again.

Just like the last two cases, he pairs you with some random officer, keeps you away from the scene, away from the precinct, away from anywhere he might be — in a way, he’s not letting you do your job.

Distanced from the rest of the team, you’re not much help.

How is that professional?

You know the game he’s playing. Avoidance. Distance. Control.

You’re sick of it.

But Officer Pretty Smile — his name’s Ryan — doesn’t seem to mind the stormcloud hanging over your head. He makes it easy to forget, just a little. He’s perceptive, actually listens when you talk, knows when to make you laugh and when to stay quiet. It’s a relief.

He flirts — lightly, respectfully — and you flirt back. Why shouldn’t you?

Aaron’s the one who put this wall up. He’s the one not speaking to you.

You don’t owe him your loyalty if he won’t even look at you outside of a damn case briefing.

The case wraps up after a few days of gruelling profiling, false leads and one late-night stakeout that finally caught your UnSub at a rest stop. You’re debriefing the locals, coordinating transport and starting to pack things up when Ryan walks you out to the parking lot.

He offers you his number, and you take it, pocketing it with a smile that widens when he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s innocent, really. Careful and sweet, but when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His face stays close, breath brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours.

Then his gaze drops — not just to your lips, but the space between you — like he’s weighing the distance and what to do about it. It takes a breath or two before he meets your eyes again.

He leans in, slower this time, and his lips just barely graze yours. A featherlight touch that barely classifies as a kiss. It’s more of a hesitation. A silent question — do you want this too?

Yes, you do.

You answer by lifting a hand and placing it gently on his jaw, your touch light but certain.

He exhales softly, and his hands move to your waist, holding you like he’s been wanting to all day.

Your lips are so close, a breath away, and just as you’re about to close the gap—

“Agent!”

Aaron’s voice cuts through the humid Florida air like a gunshot, sharp enough to turn heads. It’s not just a call — it’s a warning. A demand. His tone carries weight, and everyone nearby instinctively pauses, glancing over to where he stands near the SUV, his jaw tight, posture coiled like he’s seconds away from snapping.

You freeze.

Where the fuck did he spawn from?

Ryan pulls back, but not completely. His hands stay on your waist, holding you close, as his eyes look over your shoulder.

You, however, don’t turn around — stubbornly refusing to give Hotch the satisfaction of ruining this moment.

He can wait.

He can watch.

You keep your gaze locked on Ryan. On his lips that are a bit further away than before, parted in confusion as he stares at your boss.

Your fingers shift slightly against his jaw — a gentle nudge meant to draw his attention back to you. And it works. His eyes flicker away from whatever intensity Hotch is radiating behind you and settle back on yours.

You lean in, slow and deliberate, and the moment you do, he seems to forget everything else as he leans in too.

And, just like before, just as your lips graze—

“Agent!”

Somehow, his voice is harsher than before — each syllable laced with barely contained fury.

Your hands fall from Ryan’s face and drop to your sides as you sigh, letting your head dip forward slightly.

“What’s his problem?” Ryan murmurs, his frustration mirroring yours as he shoots Aaron a brief, irritated glance before turning his attention back to you.

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes again, and mutter, “I don’t know. He’s just—” You wave a hand vaguely behind you. “A hardass.” You pause. “Or an ass. A normal ass. Whichever floats your boat.”

Ryan snorts, nodding as he looks back at Aaron. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You smile, wide and genuine. “Well then,” you say, looking up at him, “duty calls.”

He nods, looking a bit reluctant as he returns your smile and asks, “Will I see you again before you go?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before finally glancing over your shoulder.

Hotch stands by the entrance of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office — arms crossed, back stiff, jaw tight. His eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to dissect every inch of the moment he just interrupted. He looks furious. Controlled, as always, but furious nonetheless.

You look back at Ryan. “Probably not.”

There’s a brief pause — just a breath of silence — before he nods. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more. Instead, he steps in and kisses your cheek again, soft and quick, like a quiet goodbye. When he pulls back, he lets his hand brush down your arm before stepping away.

You turn without another word, lowering your head as you approach Aaron. With each step, the feeling of his stare on you burns hotter, sharper.

You stop in front of him, standing there for a moment before you glance up.

His blazer is off, his blue button-up clinging slightly to his skin. His sunglasses perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.

You hate yourself for thinking that he looks hot.

You cross your arms, exhaling sharply before saying, “You called?”

He doesn’t waste a second. “Get the scene logs from the officers inside. I want them scanned and uploaded before we leave for the jet.”

His tone is dry, detached. The words hang in the air like a weight that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. His expression is stone-cold, all business, and it only fuels the frustration coursing through you.

You blink, your chest tightening. That’s it? That’s the urgent reason he called you out of a kiss like the sky was falling?

It’s a bullshit task. You both know it.

But he’s your Unit Chief. And right now, he’s pulling rank — not for the case. The case is over. Solved.

He’s doing it for himself, and it makes you want to scream.

You bite back the thousand things you want to say, give a tight nod, and walk past him without a glance.

—

On the jet, the tension is unbearable.

Aaron is sitting near the front, a stack of case files spread in front of him that he hasn’t touched since takeoff. He just stares at them, unmoving, like he’s willing them to make him forget.

You’re in the back, headphones on, glaring out the window as your forehead rests against the glass of it.

The others feel it — the tightrope tension stretching across the cabin. No one says a word.

After a while, you can’t help but glance his way, your eyes rolling when you see how he’s glaring at the files in front of him.

He’s clearly seething. The image of you, about to kiss someone else, seemed to be carved into his memory.

If he’d been closer, he might’ve punched the guy. Hell, if he wasn’t so goddamn professional, he might’ve dragged you away himself.

But he didn’t. He waited. He watched.

He hates that he waited.

And now he’s stewing in it.

When the jet lands, everyone moves quickly — eager to escape the static pressure in the air. You stand, grabbing your go-bag before heading for the stairs.

And then — low, sharp, right in front of you:

“Stay.”

He’s still seated, leaning forward slightly, elbow propped on the table. His hand is pressed to his face, fingers buried in his hair while his palm digs into his temple like he’s desperately trying to hold his thoughts together.

His eyes are closed — not from sleep, but something heavier — and despite the jet landing, his papers are still out, strewn in front of him. Clearly, he’d given up trying to read them — or pretending to read them.

His face is taut, shadowed — caught in a quiet storm of exhaustion or thought. Maybe both.

He looks really hot.

Swallowing, you will that thought away.

‘Stay.’ He had said, in a tone that made you freeze — one that left no room for argument.

You hesitate, your grip on your bag tightening a bit as you stare before deciding.

No.

With your lips set in a frown, you start walking again.

Just as you’re about to move past him, though, his hand reaches out to wrap around your wrist.

You tense, his touch making you feel warm and a bit breathless despite your anger.

“I said stay.” His voice cuts through the quiet — steady with an edge that sends a jolt through you.

Shit.

You look down at him, jaw set. “Let go.”

He doesn’t move at first — just lifts his eyes to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he exhales before rising to his feet in a fluid motion. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen as he stands over you, shoulders squared.

You falter, thrown by the sudden nearness. “Hotch—”

“Aaron.” He interrupts you, his eyes narrowing as he stares down at you. His tone is sharp, stern like hearing his last name offended him.

“Hotch.” You repeat it, just to piss him off.

If distance is what he wants, distance is what he’ll get.

He stares at you for a second before exhaling, a tired look in his eyes as he says, “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice rises a bit and you barely manage to hold back a laugh. “You ignore me for weeks, send me off like I’m a problem you can delegate, and now — suddenly — you want to talk?”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”

“No. You don’t get to—“

Before you can finish what you’re saying, he uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him. Fuelled by everything he hasn’t said, it’s not a gentle gesture.

You gasp as you stumble forward, crashing into his chest. Your cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt and your hand splayed instinctively against him for balance. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s already looking down at you — jaw tense, eyes dark, your faces now inches apart.

“You were going to kiss him.” His voice is quiet, but the words hit harder than if he’d shouted them.

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes. The sight of you both leaning in replays in his mind — the tension in his jaw is visible as his lips press into a line. His expression looks as if the image physically hurt him.

When he opens them again, his eyes lock onto yours, searching, checking to see if you understand the severity of it.

Your lips are parted as you stare at him.

You’re not surprised that he brought it up. You knew it was coming, but the way he says it — the weight in his voice — wasn’t something you were expecting.

His words carried an undertone of pain that make you falter. It’s not just about the kiss, you realise. It’s about everything he’s been holding in.

“You were about to kiss him.” He repeats, slower than before, his eyes still boring into yours.

Hearing the word ‘kiss’ a second time, along with the sudden proximity, had your gaze falling to his lips.

You couldn’t help it.

You looked back up quickly to find his eyes still on you.

A flicker of guilt creeps into your chest — something small, unwanted. Maybe it’s the way his voice quietened when he said it. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, like he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt him — you almost kissing someone else.

For a split second, you start to feel bad.

But it doesn’t last.

Not when you remember the last few weeks — how he’s iced you out, kept his distance like you didn’t matter, like the moments you shared never happened.

Your jaw tightens and your brows furrow in the way they always do when you’re annoyed.

“Stop.” You say, the word sharper than you intended. Shaking your head, your voice comes out quieter the second time. “Just… stop.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you — eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to read you.

Like he’s trying to profile you.

What happened to never profiling each other? Probably the same thing that happened to being ‘professional’.

“You’re being unfair, Aaron.”

You avert your gaze, unable to hold his anymore. It drops to his chest — the fabric of his shirt stretched a bit beneath your hands that are still resting there. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, slightly faster than it should be.

He has no right to be upset, you think, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud first. But when you look back up at him, your anger catches fire again, sharp and unforgiving.

“You’re the one who pushed me away.” You bite out, voice low. “You iced me out. For weeks, Aaron.”

Your words land heavy in the space between you, but you don’t stop.

“You told me we couldn’t—” You falter slightly, pain catching in your throat, “—that we had to keep things professional. And then you avoided me. You acted like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw flexes again, but he says nothing.

“And now what?” you continue. “Now you’re upset because I almost kissed someone else? You don’t get to pull me in two different directions like this. You can’t tell me to stay away, and then look at me like that when someone else gets close.”

His hand is still on your waist, his grip on your wrist still firm. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t backed off, and that makes it worse — the contradiction of it. The ache of being wanted but not claimed.

“It’s confusing. You’re confusing.” My voice goes back to being quiet as I lower my gaze again, missing the way his expression softens a bit.

It softens because he knows you’re right.

He can’t argue with you, not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Or rather, not looking at him at all. Your eyes are fixed on his chest now, lips pressed together in that tight little frown that always means you’re trying not to show how hurt you are.

He can’t argue with you because you’re right.

He’s being unfair, and the guilt of that realization hits him instantly, swallowing him whole. The weight of his own selfishness also sinks in, making him feel stupid for not realizing how much he’s hurt you.

When the silence stretches for too long, you look up, and your frown deepens when you see how he’s watching you.

“Stop profiling me.” Your voice shakes a bit as you try to yank yourself free of his grip. But Aaron doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your waist, like letting go would mean losing something he’s not ready to give up.

It only makes you angrier.

You shove at his chest, hard, but he barely budges. “Let go.” you snap, glaring up at him, but his expression doesn’t shift. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the shield of his silence.

That silence cuts deeper than anything.

“You ignored me for weeks!” you shout, your voice rising, cracking with something raw. “You didn’t even look at me. You shut me out like I meant nothing!”

You try again to pull away, like his touch burns. Like the heat of his hands is searing through your skin, cracking you open.

And it hurts him — more than he thought it would. Watching you try to escape him like he’s done something unforgivable — which he has — makes something twist in his chest. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Every word you throw at him lands like a blow, and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

He just hurts.

“Let go!” you yell, louder now, fists balled as you push at him again. “I said fuck off, Aaron!”

You look up at him then — eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger, your frown etched deep into your face. The fury in your expression is undeniable, and it hits him like a punch.

And before he even realizes what he’s doing — he kisses you.

It comes out of nowhere. Like something snaps inside him, like instinct. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s angry and desperate and messy—like he’s trying to shut you up and apologize all at once. Like everything he’s been holding back has just erupted, too big to contain.

You freeze at first, tensing against it, breath caught in your throat.

But then you break.

Your hands fist in the lapels of his blazer, gripping hard like you need something to hold you upright. Your lips move against his with the same kind of fury you’d just thrown at him — like this is a fight, too. But somewhere in that chaos, your shoulders slump, and so do his.

Like you’re both exhaling for the first time in weeks.

Like this is the first breath either of you has taken since everything fell apart.

His hands move — one, then both — rising to cradle your face, fingers splayed across your cheeks like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You pull back first, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your own. His grip loosens, and for a second, something like a whine escapes him — soft and involuntary — like he can’t believe you’re already pulling away.

You’re breathless. Lips swollen. Heart racing.

“You’re such an asshole.” you hiss, voice low, hoarse, but still furious.

His eyes darken. “You were gonna kiss him.”

“Stop repeating that!” you snap, but there’s no bite behind it now — just exhaustion and heat and emotion so tangled you can’t separate any of it.

You don’t even think about it — you just lean in again, drawn like a magnet. And this time, he meets you halfway. Your lips part just before they touch, and when they do, it feels like the ground shifts beneath you. Like the jet could be spinning or crashing and you wouldn’t even notice.

It’s slower, deeper — but just as intense. His hands are still on your face, and yours are clinging to him like you don’t trust gravity anymore.

But then he pulls away.

His forehead drops to yours — close, so close — and for a moment you almost let him stay there. But something in you twists, and you turn your head just slightly, breaking the contact. You keep your eyes shut, breathing shallow, your face turned toward the wall of the jet like if you don’t look at him, you can hold onto the last piece of your anger.

His heart sinks.

“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice quieter now. Cracked open. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

You don’t move. Don’t look.

“I— I thought it was the right thing.” he says, and now it’s all unraveling, everything he’s shoved down clawing its way out. “I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you. I didn’t know if I should. So I convinced myself the best thing — the most responsible thing — was to shut it down. To shut you out.”

He lets out a breath, sharp and rough. “I told myself you’d be better off. That you didn’t need someone like me — someone older, someone who barely knows how to process his own shit, let alone drag you into it. My hours are a nightmare, I’m exhausted all the time, and I have nothing to give you except… this mess.”

His voice softens but doesn’t steady. “And if Strauss found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull you off the team. To punish you for something that was always my fault.”

You still don’t speak. Your eyes remain closed.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says again, quieter now, like it physically hurts to say. “But it felt like cutting off my own oxygen. Seeing you every day, hearing your voice, pretending you were just another agent — it fucking destroyed me. Every moment I stayed away, I felt like I was unraveling. But I thought… if I could just hold the line a little longer, maybe I could let you go.”

His voice cracks then, barely above a whisper. “But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

You don’t say anything, and the silence eats at him. He shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read anything — any flicker of emotion, of softness, of something.

“Please say something.” he murmurs.

There’s no anger in him anymore. Just regret. Just longing.

“I haven’t slept,” he says, after a second. “Not really. Not since I let you go. You’ve been in my head every day. Every night. You walk into the room and I can’t think straight. I hear your voice down the hall and I forget what I’m doing. It’s pathetic.”

Then gently — cautiously — he reaches out, fingers brushing against your chin. He turns your face to him, coaxing your eyes to his.

And when you look at him, he looks wrecked.

There’s exhaustion in his features, shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s the look in them that breaks you: raw, sincere, desperate. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth right now.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to give. Like he means it with everything he’s got.

And he does.

It’s silent for a second.

His eyes search yours, unsure and a little frantic, like he’s trying to profile you again — trying to get an understanding of whatever’s going on in your mind.

He gives up quickly, wanting to find out whatever it is your thinking from you yourself. But just as he’s about to ask, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your hands stay on him, sliding down to his chest where you can feel the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Aaron.” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not. I barely have my own shit together half the time. And I’m not looking for some ideal version of you — just you. The version that cares too much and thinks too hard and carries everything on his back like it’s his job to keep the world spinning.”

You pause, your eyes searching his, and he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want anyone else.” you say, more firmly now. “I can’t want anyone else. My heart’s already decided. It’s you. It’s always been you. These past few weeks without you—feeling you pull away, watching you pretend like nothing mattered—that was hell. And if you think I just brushed it off and moved on, you really don’t know me at all.”

You don’t stop there, because you can see it — how he’s still doubting, still not sure what you see in him. So you tell him.

“You don’t even realize how much I see you.” you whisper. “How good you are. You’re strong, yeah, but you’re also… unbelievably kind. You’re the one who makes me feel stable when everything else is a mess. You make me feel safe without trying to control me. You make me feel… things I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.”

His brow creases like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like it’s too much, too pure.

“And I don’t give a damn about your age. If anything, it makes you hotter.” you add with a breath of a laugh. “It means you’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you listen. You make me feel taken care of in a way no one ever has.”

He’s blinking at you like his brain short-circuited somewhere along the way.

“As for Strauss…” You shrug a little. “She’s not a profiler. We barely even see her. If we keep things professional at work, we’ll be fine. We’re good at this — at keeping calm under pressure. This isn’t gonna change that.”

Then you take one of his hands and hold it tightly, pressing your fingers to his palm.

“All I want,” you say, voice low, “is for you to let me love you.”

Something in him breaks. Or maybe it mends. You can’t quite tell.

His eyes widen just a little, and for a second he just stares at you — like his brain is still catching up. Like the word punched the breath right out of him.

“What?” he asks, the word so soft it’s barely audible.

“I just want to love you, Aaron.” you repeat, quieter this time, like it’s a promise.

His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward again — not kissing you yet, just resting his forehead against yours, like he needs the grounding.

“I love you.” he says, the words raw and unfiltered. “And I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you next time — really talk. I won’t shut you out again. I won’t let myself forget what this feels like.”

“You better not.” you murmur.

And then he kisses you again.

It’s steadier now. Certain. Like he’s finally, finally giving in to the truth he’s been denying. Like he knows what he wants — and it’s you.

As your lips move together, the world outside the jet fades into the background. His hand moves slowly, purposefully, down your side, and then it shifts, lowering until he reaches into your pocket.

You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Before you can fully process it, he pulls out the small piece of paper — the one with Ryan’s number scrawled on it.

Your heart skips a beat. He saw that?

The thought stings for a second — had he seen everything? You’d assumed he’d stepped outside for some reason and had just happened to catch a glimpse of you two — coincidentally, when you were about to kiss.

But Aaron’s mind works in a different way. He had seen you leave with Ryan, noticed the way you two were talking, the smiles on your faces. And something in him tensed. He didn’t like it. The way you were walking so close, how easy it seemed between you. So he followed, curiosity gnawing at him. He hadn’t meant to — but it felt like he had to know.

You break the silence with a quiet question, still trying to make sense of it all. “You saw that?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens, his face flickering with a flash of frustration, then quickly hardening as he remembers it.

“I saw all of it.” he says, his voice colder than you expected. A wince pulls at his expression as he scrunches the paper up in his hand, turning to toss it in the small bin beside the exit of the jet, the movement sharp and final.

You can’t help but let out a small, amused laugh despite the tension. His reaction, his possessiveness — it’s almost too much to ignore. But then, before he can get too far in his thoughts, you soften and murmur an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a question of his own, his gaze still intense as he watches you, his tone now a little guarded. “Were you actually going to kiss him?”

You blink, surprised by the bluntness, but you can’t help the smirk that slips onto your face. “Hey, you’re the one who paired me with him.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, the hint of frustration fading a little, but you can still see the sharp edge to his expression. “From now on, you’re with me for every case.”

You laugh at the thought, shaking your head, but the joke settles in as you reply, “I don’t think that’d help with keeping Strauss off our trail.”

Aaron chuckles, his eyes softening just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll risk it. It’s fine.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and it warms Aaron’s heart more than he’d care to admit. He’s missed hearing it, hearing you so carefree, even when things feel a little chaotic.

He pulls you a little closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist as if he can’t let you go now that he’s got you. He starts guiding you off the jet with that same quiet confidence he always carries, but there’s something different now — a sense of peace between you both, even if the world outside still feels a little unsettled.

“You’re coming to my place.” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m making you dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

When you first joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, you were told the team was a family. You didn’t believe it, even as the agents stood and greeted you with smiles.

Yet, you’re here now. Years later, you’ve fallen into a comfortable, trusting, and surprisingly familial routine with the people closest to you.

Hotch answers begrudgingly when you refer to him as “Pops;” Penelope drags you out on the town a few weekends a month and claims being hit on boosts your ability to read people and react to them; Derek speaks to you without actually talking and carries your bag to the plane when you leave Quantico; and Spencer… Spencer brings a unique sense of home to your life. Whether he’s bouncing his leg and rattling your desk, listening to an educational podcast through the headphones you got him two Christmases ago, or telling you about something that he somehow makes relevant to the conversation even though you’re always lost at first, being near Spencer is being somewhere safe, somewhere you’re accepted and appreciated.

As your team leaves Virginia yet again to work a kidnapping case, you smile at the familiarity of the routine. Derek carries your bag, grunting dramatically as he slides it into the bin at the back of the plane. Spencer takes the seat beside you and opens a book in his lap, the rhythm of his leg bouncing as unsurprising as the roar of the engines as the plane takes off. This is your family; the idea of doubting that now makes you laugh.

“Matthew Connors was reported missing yesterday morning by his grandparents, who are his legal guardians,” Hotch begins.

“Seventeen years old,” JJ reads from her copy of the report. “Are they sure he’s missing?”

“Friends and family support the grandparents’ position that Matthew wouldn’t run away.”

“No chance they had an idea of who would have abducted him?” you assume.

“Unfortunately, no,” Hotch answers flatly. “That part is up to us.”

“Adolescence is a time of shifting and strengthening social circles; it’s a time when self-esteem and identity are constantly affected,” Spencer offers. “Regardless of his character, a sudden change could have pushed him to act rashly.”

“But we have to assume he’s really been taken,” you interject. “So, let’s find out who abducted Matthew Connors and why they did it.” You glance at the report and narrow your eyes. “He’s a star student? Any idea if college is in his future?”

“Does it pose a difference to our case?” Hotch wonders. “Past speaking to his character and the unlikelihood of his disappearance being willful departure?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe.”

“I’ll find out then,” he offers. “Catch up on what we’ve got. Sheriff and D.A. are waiting for us when we touch down.”

“What do you think?” Spencer asks you, his hand moving against the armrest.

“That this is more than a ransom or revenge kidnapping,” you murmur. “Unless, of course, I’m wrong.”

Spencer shakes his head, then slides his headphones on and bounces his leg while he reviews the facts of the case.

Wagoner, Oklahoma. 9:15 p.m. CST.

Sighing, you underline a note before tossing your pen onto the hotel room desk. Working difficult cases is nothing new – the opposite, really; it’s the norm for the BAU – but having the Wagoner County Sheriff and D.A. watching your every move makes the already stressful case that much harder.

Immediately after he met with the Sheriff and D.A., Hotch pulled your team aside to “pass along a message directly from the D.A.’s office.” It was more or less something a kindergarten teacher or high school drama instructor would say: be on your best behavior, smile, and remember that people are watching you at all times.

After years of working at Spencer’s side, you’ve grown used to his fidgeting. When it becomes noticeable, you glance at Derek, share an amused look before he rolls his eyes, and then move on. Today, that was not the case. Spencer’s fidgeting was apparently distressing the victim’s grandmother (the D.A.’s words) and distracting the officers on the case (the Sheriff’s words). Between their direct comments and Spencer actually distracting someone or disturbing something, everyone was aware of Spencer’s energetic movements. Four hours into your first day on the case you whispered to Spencer that he was shaking the table; Hotch then snapped at him and sent him back to the hotel. You went with him, managed to make him feel a little better before Hotch knocked on the door and apologized. Yet, something nags at you, something telling you that you need to do more.

It's getting nearly impossible to focus, but you can’t sleep either. So, you text Hotch: Are you awake?

Your phone rings nearly immediately.

“Is there imminent danger or a case-solving find?” Hotch inquires when you answer.

“No,” you admit softly, leaning back in the desk chair. “I just wanted to ask if I could borrow the car.”

“To go where?”

Reaching for the pen you tossed aside, you answer, “Walmart. Or a convenience store, whatever’s open.”

“I can see both from my window. Why can’t you walk?”

“It’s 10 o’clock at night, dark, in a town I don’t know, Hotch,” you argue. Then, for good measure, you plead, “C’mon, Pops.”

He sighs before you hear keys rattling.

“What? No offer to drive me?” you question.

“The last time I offered, you handed me your license and reminded me that women no longer need escorts and can wear pants.”

You smile at the reminder, then thank Hotch. After you get the key from him, t’s a short drive to the Walmart Supercenter across the street. Entering the building, you navigate through the nearly empty store like a woman on a mission. The first thing you need is easy enough to find, and you happen across another item in the same aisle that may work. Then you cut through the home decor section to gather a few craft items. Finally, you get a few snacks and a drink, then head to the empty checkout lanes.

Tomorrow, you’ll be better prepared for Spencer’s fidgeting. The goal isn’t to change him or make him feel bad for something that’s simply part of him, but to get him through the day without another incident like today.

Mission: (Temporarily) Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting begins now. Or after you return Hotch’s keys and provide him with a few goodies as thanks.

Attempt 1 to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting

The next morning, sitting beside Spencer, it’s impossible to ignore him moving. Though his eyes are steady on the topographic map before him, his hands move restlessly along his thighs, his fingers tapping across his quad, down to his knee, and back up toward his hip. The shifting of his arms is visible to everyone in the office, so when he lifts one hand toward the desk, you decide to act.

The item you went to the store for last night is at the top of your bag, so you pull it out and slip it into Spencer’s left hand without drawing any more attention. He stops moving, frowning as he turns the item over in his hands. You sigh a breath of relief when he drops his chin and begins working on solving the Rubik’s Cube rather than fidgeting. The judgmental woman – Elise Connors, the victim’s grandmother, you remember – sitting across the room from you lifts her chin when you glance toward her. Something about Mrs. Connors has bothered you since you arrived at the station, and the way she explained-

Before you start thinking about it, Spencer returns the Rubik’s Cube. It’s been less than a minute, but he’s already solved it, matching the sides without even looking down. So, you shift the pieces and pass it back to him. Spencer seems content to solve the cube again, then passes it back to start again.

“What are your thoughts?” Hotch asks you.

The officer beside him is glaring at you without a semblance of being bothered to hide his sexist disposition, which is the only reason Hotch is asking you to present what you have on the unsub so far. When you walked in, the officer had refused to shake your hand, and when JJ slipped in a few minutes later, he rolled his eyes. If you weren’t busy thinking about Spencer, you’d take a bit more pleasure in showing him your worth.

“The victim, as you know, had strong social ties with both his family and the people he knew through work,” you say. You’re interrupted by Spencer placing the Rubik’s Cube in your hand for the third time. Twisting it as you speak, you continue, “The items we found in his room pointed toward a more independent mindset than any of the interviews or the initial report led you to believe. Considering the condition of the scene where you believe he was taken, we have reason to believe that- that-“

Your train of thought is broken as Spencer gingerly sets the cube against your thigh.

“That what?” the officer snaps.

“Give her a second,” Derek interrupts. “She’s doing your job for you.”

“Oh, yeah, because every second I spend in this office listening to her yap about feelings is another second that kid is completely fine out there! We have a job to do, and it doesn’t involve holding hands and singing about feelings.”

Derek pushes up to stand from his seat, but immediately backs down when Hotch shakes his head.

“What I was trying to say,” you sigh when Spencer abandons the cube and begins fidgeting again. “Is that our unsub is likely someone incredibly close to the victim. Someone who considered their relationship to be in danger because of his independence. Perhaps a job offer, or a conversation revealed an uneven dependency in the relationship and the other party snapped.”

“Which aligns with the evidence at the scene and in the victim’s home,” Hotch agrees. “Matthew was clearly an independent young man, whether or not he wanted people to see it. His relationships are related to this case whether you like it or not, Officer. We should interview his closest friends and relatives.”

“We already did that,” another officer interjects.

“And your cocker spaniel movements and half-cocked ideas won’t get you any further than it got us,” another mumbles.

“Don’t underestimate us,” Spencer calls as he stands, his fingers still moving against his leg.

You glare at the officers as you follow your team out of the office.

“Sorry,” Derek offers. “I know you can fight your own battles.”

“All good,” you assure him.

“Take up a new hobby?” Hotch inquires, gesturing to the Rubik’s Cube in your bag.

Spencer’s shoulders draw inward before you smile easily and say, “Gotta show something off the next time you force me to babysit Jack.”

Attempt 2 to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting

It’s your second full day in Oklahoma when your team begins interviewing the people closest to the victim. Despite what the young boy’s grandparents told the police and the media, you think the victim either ran away or, more likely, was abducted by someone close to him. There’s a scene with enough circumstantial evidence to reasonably be the location where he was abducted but – excusing the unofficial and unprovable statement – there’s something about this case that doesn’t sit well with you. Behind a diner between the Connors residence and Matthew’s school, there’s evidence of a fight, and the victim’s English textbook was located beneath a picnic table. It looks like he was taken, but with absolutely no idea of who would abduct him on his way home from school or why they would do it, it’s hard to convince the people looking for him to shift their perspective.

“What did Deputy Everett say about Matthew?” you check, tapping your pen against your opposite palm.

“That ‘the boy is bright and faithful, a good student and a better friend,’” Spencer answers.

You’ve been sitting beside him for nearly four hours, since before the sun rose over Wagoner. His fidgeting has faded into the background, simply part of the day. But when Spencer shifts his hands and begins picking at the sensitive skin around his nails, you know you have to do something. Not because he’s bothering you or being a distraction, but because he might hurt himself. You hope he knows you well enough to see that.

You abandon your desk, ignorant of Spencer’s eyes following you as you move. He turns in the chair, watching you cross the hotel room with purposeful steps. As you bend forward and dig through a plastic bag, Spencer’s movements don’t stop, but his mind refocuses. He inhales sharply when he draws blood, and your sympathetic sound works to bring him back to the present.

“Need a band-aid?” you check.

Spencer shakes his head, his hair brushing against his glasses frames. You smile, returning to his side to reach past him and open your laptop. Your shirt brushes against his arm and the lingering scent of your favorite body wash is familiar and comfortable to Spencer. Since he got to know you during your first weeks at the BAU, he’s seen you differently. When you tap his hand mid-conversation, he doesn’t immediately think about where the closest sink is to wash his hands, nor does he remember a time you made him feel like he was too much. As much as he loves Derek, there have been times where he knew he went too far. Never with you.

“Here,” you say.

Spencer blinks. There’s something in his hands, the item on the left soft while his right-hand fingers curl around a cool metal rod.

“Beginner crochet projects,” Spencer reads quietly, glancing at the video loaded on your computer. “Crochet?”

“Would you prefer to knit?” you check. “I bought the stuff for you to try both. We all need a way to unwind, and I just thought maybe… Sorry.”

“No, I-” Spencer clears his throat, then says, “Thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll be right here, but find another video, do whatever you need.”

Spencer nods and reaches toward the keyboard. He stops the moment your fingers brush his arm.

“Seriously, Spence. If you need anything, I’m here.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes bore into yours. The tutorial starts after a quiet introduction and the moment ends. While Spencer focuses on the craft in his hands, the rest of his body remains still. You struggle to focus on the case with Spencer so close to you, his sweatered arm moving in your peripheral vision and quiet hums of understanding as impactful as a lighthouse in a stormy night.

“Done,” Spencer announces as you reach for a page of Hotch’s notes.

“Done?” you repeat incredulously. “Spencer it’s been like ten minutes.”

He nods, then offers you the scarf. You chuckle and pull it around your shoulders. Within a minute he’s turned on a video claiming it can teach anyone how to knit, hunched over the knitting hooks as you find your place in the police report.

“Matthew, the missing kid, had a fight with his grandpa the day before he went missing,” you read from the transcript of the initial interviews.

“About what?” Spencer asks without looking away from the purple yarn you chose.

“College.”

“Sounds like you were right,” Spencer hums.

He finishes another scarf and ties it off. It’s a little too short and it’s crookeder than the one he crocheted, but he doesn’t seem intent on fixing it. Instead, he takes the edge of the scarf on your shoulders in his fingers and resumes his fidgeting. For some reason, it’s easier to think with his movements against you, the feeling like home.

“The grandmother is hiding something,” Spencer says.

“Any idea what?” you check. “There’s nothing especially interesting in the officers’ field notes.”

“Maybe she knew about the fight… Or she knows something else about Matthew’s independence that she doesn’t want to get out.”

You turn to Spencer, slowing when you realize how close he is.

“Like what?” you whisper in the proximity.

“Something worth getting him out of town.”

Nodding, you allow Spencer to tug the scarf and pull you closer. Before you can forget about the case and why you’re here, the door lock beeps. Jerking away from each other, you and Spencer attempt to look natural as Derek enters the room. He looks at you, and when you tear your eyes away, he smiles like he knows exactly what happened.

“Don’t,” you warn softly.

Derek shrugs and leans against the wall. He knows – somehow – yet he simply says, “Nice scarf.”

“Scarves,” Spencer points out, pointing his chin toward the knitted one on the desk.

Attempt 3 to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting

Standing between Spencer and a Sheriff’s Deputy in the observation room, you watch Hotch and Derek interview Matthew’s grandmother. When you and Spencer had presented your theory, Hotch quickly agreed that the older woman was hiding something. Derek hypothesized that Matthew had a secret relationship, which was the real reason behind the argument that preluded Matthew’s disappearance.

“Tell us more about the argument,” Hotch requests. “What was it about? What exactly was said?”

Spencer shifts on his feet, rocking back and forth from left to right, then heel to toe. His hands are clasped tightly together, but it isn’t stopping him from fidgeting.

The deputy beside you exhales noisily, his jaw tight. You run your tongue over your lip nervously, hoping that he doesn’t say anything to Spencer.

“Excuse me,” you murmur. Stepping back, you open your bag and withdraw the object you hadn’t anticipated buying for Spencer. “Here,” you whisper as you slip it into his hand.

He looks down at the plastic fidget spinner, then lifts his gaze to see you. The offended look in his eyes makes you smile, but you turn back toward the glass and Spencer stills. He flips the spinner over in his hands at his side.

“A word,” one of the men working for the Sheriff’s office interrupts, asking the deputy beside you to step out of the room.

Alone with Spencer, you extend your hand. He places the fidget spinner on your palm and watches closely as you demonstrate how to spin it. Then, he takes it back, spinning it carefully before balancing it on his thumb.

“Get anything?” Derek asks as he steps inside.

“One thing she said,” Spencer says. The fidget spinner wooshes softly against his words. “She said that they were planning to move to Georgia for school. Who’s they, besides Matthew?”

“Precisely what we’re going to ask the grandfather,” Hotch interjects. “Actually, you talk to him,” he tells you. “I think he’ll respond better to a woman.”

You agree, then leave Spencer alone in the observation room. When you return fifteen minutes later, Derek and Hotch are still there, too.  There’s no sign of anyone from the Sheriff’s Department, which you’d hoped for.

“Matthew had an online girlfriend,” you announce. “One his grandparents didn’t approve of. In fact, Grandma Elise in there threatened to disown Matthew if he chose a college just for some – and I quote – ‘no good hussy he met on the internet.’”

“Which complicates things,” Derek sighs.

“How so?” Spencer wonders.

“That’s good reason for Matthew to leave,” Hotch explains. “He’s the only family they have, and she and Mr. Connors aren’t willing or able to leave Wagoner.”

“There’s more,” you add.

“Go on,” Hotch invites.

“Why did we even talk to them if you were going to get all the good stuff?” Derek jokes.

“Matthew told his grandfather that one of his classmates found his girlfriend’s phone number and started harassing her. Recently, he graduated to blackmailing Matthew or he’d expose him for abandoning his grandparents for a ‘nonexistent girl.’ I guess if you’re a good student and a good person in a small town, that’s worth responding to.”

“Motive,” Derek, Spencer, and Hotch realize.

Hotch steps out to catch everyone up on your findings. You salute Derek as he leaves, making him laugh. Alone, Spencer looks down at the table beside him, and you follow his line of sight.

“Spence,” you sigh.

He has the decency to look apologetic as he shifts one of the pieces of the deconstructed fidget spinner. “I wanted to look at the weight system,” he explains, rocking back and forth yet again.

Attempt 4 to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting

You’re out of things to distract Spencer with. While Derek and a Sheriff’s Deputy talk to the classmate who was blackmailing Matthew, you’re trapped in an awkward staring contest with a police officer who looks ready to punch Spencer for bouncing his leg and dancing his fingers across the table. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it, rambling about annual blackmail statistics in the U.S.

“… and the average American teenager encounters approximately seven occurrences of blackmail or blackmail-adjacent incidents each school year,” Spencer concludes.

With no other option, you pull your necklace off and pass it to Spencer. With something between his fingers, his other movements cease. The officer nods and asks a question, still clearly annoyed but seeming to be less aggressive than before.

“If you’re worried about blackmail, maybe you should consider the government stipend that disappears the minute that kid moves out of state,” someone says.

“Wait, stipend?” you interrupt. “Government assistance?”

“Wouldn’t that end when Matthew turns 18 regardless of where he is?” Spencer adds, twisting your necklace around his fingers.

The officer that looked so angry at Spencer’s fidgeting before leans toward you and explains, “Matthew’s grandparents get government assistance because they’re raising him. He’s graduating early, so he’s eligible for another year and three months of assistance if and only if he continues residing with the grandparents.”

“What about college?”

“That’s the thing. If he goes to a college in Oklahoma, a whole ‘nother set of benefits becomes available to him and his grandparents.”

“That’s worth keeping him here,” Spencer muses.

You stand quickly, reaching for your phone. “We have to alert our team. Thank you, Officer.”

He nods once, and then Spencer thrusts your necklace into your hand to follow you. By the time you make it to the car, you’ve determined that nothing helps Spencer stop fidgeting. It’s going to happen. Maybe it’ll be easier to tell other people to ignore it.

+1 Unforeseen Attempt to Stop Spencer’s Fidgeting

“The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI executed an arrest warrant on Elise Connors early this morning,” JJ announces, looking toward the cameras on the other side of the podium.

“Spencer,” Derek hisses.

You lean forward slowly, unsurprised to see Spencer fidgeting on the other side of Hotch. The press conference started over an hour ago; you’re getting impatient, so it’s really no surprise that Spencer is moving more than usual.

“Trade seats with me?” you ask Hotch. When you bat your eyelashes, he stands and lets you slide over to sit beside Spencer. “Thanks,” you tell him.

“Make it worth it,” he responds under his breath.

You nod, then glance at Spencer. You don’t have anything with you – no Rubik’s Cube, no crochet hook, nothing to distract Spencer, nothing else for him to channel his energy to. So, you try to redirect his attention. You look at the screens on the other side of the room, feigning interest in hopes that Spencer will follow. He does for a minute or two, but as JJ offers the specifics of the arrest, Spencer shakes your seat with his movement.

Derek meets your eyes behind Spencer’s back, his brows raising as he asks Why aren’t you stopping him? You shrug, hoping to communicate that you can’t do anything. Then you remember something. Spencer would do absolutely anything to help you and deserves the same in return.

So, you shove your hand between his. Spencer freezes; his hands rest on either side of your wrist and his foot falls flat on the ground as his leg stills. Spencer hesitates briefly, then brushes his thumb over your palm.

“Elise Matthew spoke to the Wagoner County Sheriff’s Office, admitting to kidnapping her grandson Matthew to prevent him from leaving for college,” JJ concludes. “The BAU believes her motivation to act so unexpectedly and rashly was both monetary motivation and a socially-deviant response to the possibility of being separated from the only family she has left.”

Spencer sits still for the rest of the conference, something that you have never witnessed in your years with the BAU. With your hand in his, you find that you aren’t as uncomfortable or impatient as you felt before.

“Fidgeting serves as a physical outlet for innumerable cognitive responses,” Spencer muses when the cameras turn off, your hand still in his. “I know it bothers people.”

“You’re not fidgeting now, pretty boy,” Derek points out with his eyes on your joined hands.

“Whatever works,” Hotch sighs as he stands. “Sorry again for yelling at you, Reid.”

“It’s okay,” he assures.

“No,” you sigh. “I think we all need ice cream to make up for it, Pops.”

Hotch sighs, but nods as if he’s agreeing. You stand with Spencer, his body language calm as you walk with your fingers linked through his. When Penelope finds outs about this, she’ll have more to say than “you’re not fidgeting now.”

Two hours later on the plane, your hand is in Spencer’s, his scarf around your neck. “Thanks,” he whispers.

“Anytime,” you promise. Then, you murmur, “Pretty boy.”

much like leon, your job held sensitive information that you were not allowed to talk about. from the first date, you and leon had agreed not to ask too many questions about each other’s job. all he knew was that you worked for the FBI as a field agent. that was it. you knew he worked for a counterterrorism agency. which one, you didn’t know.

sure the secrecy was hard but it was a requirement with both of your jobs. the only reason it really worked was because on the rare occasions you were both home for more than a few days at a time, you were too focused on making the most of your time to ask questions.

however, leon had begun to notice that you were gone, a lot. more than him. which is saying a lot because he was always top pick for missions. 

he also noticed the haunted look in your eyes when you returned. he knew that look well, from all the horrors he, himself, seen. still, he never questioned because he knew better. instead, he’d make your favorite meal (or get your favorite takeout) and put on the show you two had started. and slowly but surely, the look would be replaced by content and peace. that is, until you were called away again.

he knew what you did was important, but he couldn’t help but worry for you. especially, when you would come home from a particularly hard case. you had told him not to worry, that he already had enough on his plate with his own classified job. 

not knowing where the other was had taken a slight toll on your relationship. secrecy was never good for a relationship, especially a new one, but you both had taken an oath. 

you had been with leon for a year when you finally told him what unit you worked for. actually, you didn’t tell him per say. more like he found out.

after a long mission leon had come home to your shared apartment, where he found a manila envelope taped to the door. inside he found a series of surveillance photos. some were of you outside the apartment, or grocery shopping. some had you and leon together. others were of him. although they all had him worried, the one that had him frozen in his spot was a picture of you laid out in your shared bed, sound asleep during the night. on the back of each picture was a date, the most recent one being the picture of you sleeping while he had been away on the mission he had just returned from.

after clearing the apartment, he made his way to FBI headquarters in quantico. he had to show his DSO badge to get the receptionist to track you down. luckily you were still in the building.

you were certainly shocked to see leon walking through the doors of the BAU, his face stone cold. you could feel the eyes of your team members watching you as leon set the manila envelope on your desk. even though he held a neutral face, you could tell just by looking in his eyes that he was worried.

you didn’t question why he was there or how he had found you. “these were taped to the door.” you opened the envelope as your unit chief, hotch, began to make his way over to check on you.

you were shocked to say the least. you didn’t hesitate to meet hotch half way, the pictures in hand.

before long, an investigation had been started and both you and leon were subjected to a series of questions.

and during the entirety of it all, you never once left leon’s sight. when you finally got a minute alone you were able to try to explain everything to him.

you told him what you did, why you might be a target, and who could be stalking you. to say leon looked like he was about to pass out was in understatement. 

even after the culprit was caught, leon would rarely let you out of his sight. he took time away from the DSO (except for any major missions he was absolutely needed on), he would drive you to and from work, even walking you to your unit. he installed new locks, adding an in-home security system.

he slept with a gun in his nightstand, which was one of many kept hidden in the apartment for you in case of an emergency.

you finally put your foot down when he tried to get you to stay with claire redfield during one of his missions that he couldn’t get out of.

you told him repeatedly that you could take care of yourself, but he still didn’t seem to want to listen. it’s not that he didn’t believe you, because he knew deep down you were more than capable of taking care of yourself. he just couldn’t imagine losing you.

finally, after much convincing, you managed to get him to chill out in the protection department. while you appreciated his concern, you were more than capable of handling yourself in a bad situation. of course, you had to give him your file (with approval from your boss) to show him but he did lighten up a bit after that.

“You think that’s the connection, then?” You ask him. “We tell people not to go out on jogs for a bit and the killings could stop?” 

“I don’t think his MO would change.” Spencer adds then. “I think it has less to do with what the victims are doing and more to do with the fact that they’re available.” 

“You think it’s a coincidence?” JJ asks with a touch of incredulity. 

“Not necessarily, but there have been studies that suggest living near bodies of water encourages a more active lifestyle. There’s only a specific window this unsub is willing to operate during; the early hours of the morning. The only people available during those hours are people trying to get a jog in before the day starts. If the elderly were in the practice of going for a walk at that time, or if businessmen in their suits and ties opted to take the scenic route to the office earlier than usual, they could have the same risk of being targeted. It’s the fact that the trail is only as unsuspecting as it is during certain hours.” 

“There’s not a lot of traffic which leaves no witnesses, the shade from the buildings against the rising sun allows him to stay hidden.” You agree with a nod. 

Spencer nods quickly. “It’s interesting, really. Besides encouraging a more active lifestyle, living near bodies of water is also said to promote longevity. Which is ironic because it also increases the risk of living near a serial killer. Did you know that the three states with the highest number of known serial killers actually-”

“Reid, thank you.” Hotch interrupts as he moves to stand. “Wheels up in thirty.” 

With this, the team begins collecting their case files and exiting the conference room, ready to grab their go-bags. 

You pause, waiting for everyone to leave until it’s just you and Spencer. 

“Hey,” you murmur as though you’re sharing a secret, “what were you saying about bodies of water and serial killers?” 

Spencer’s entire being brightens from the inside out and you find yourself feeling infinitely warmer as a result. 

“I was just mentioning that while studies have suggested that living near bodies of water correlates to longer life spans – be it from a more active lifestyle, a sense of calm and lower stress, or other contributing factors – the three states with the highest numbers of known serial killers recorded all have some kind of coast line or access to large bodies of water. New York comes in first place with 18 known serial killers which saw a number operating within New York City and Long Island, but the state also borders Lake Ontario and Lake Eerie. The second highest number of serial killers per state is California which, well-”

“Is all coast line.” You interject, a touch shy. He beams at you, though, which causes your shyness to warp into something fond and gooey in your chest. You’re pathetic.

“Exactly. And then third place is Texas, and they have over 3,359 miles of coastline.” 

“So,” you start as you make it to your desk, grabbing your bag as you wait for Spencer to grab his own, “you may increase your lifespan by living near a body of water, but you might also end up the target of a serial killer?” 

Spencer purses his lips as he tilts his head back and forth in a so-so manner. “If you look at the data simply, then yes, perhaps. But I think it’s more complicated than that. Obviously, the number of serial killers is still much lower than the populations themselves, meaning the statistics of serial killers ending someone’s life and the statistics of living near a body of water contributing to longevity are hardly comparable. At the end of the day, the chance of being the victim of a serial killer is really only 1 in 645, 000.”

The two of you are making your way towards the elevators when you notice Derek holding the door for you both, looking at you with a raised brow.

“What?” You ask him as Spencer carries on ahead. 

Derek huffs a laugh at you. “Why do you let him do that?” 

Where his brows go high, yours fall low. “Let him do what?” You ask, equal parts confused and defensive. 

“Talk your ear off.” He laughs, nudging you in the shoulder as if it was obvious. 

You shoot him a glare that he takes good naturedly; a good sport. 

“I like listening to him.” You admit, probably regrettably knowing you’ll never hear the end of it. “It costs me nothing to hear him out, and we both enjoy it.” 

Later, the two of you step onto the plane to find your seats when Derek snorts a laugh. “Something tells me you don’t enjoy listening to him yap nearly as much as he enjoys yapping to you.” 

With this, you look up to see Spencer sitting in his usual spot, pulling out a book with a still-beaming smile on his face. 

You don’t admit this to Derek, but you disagree. You don’t think anyone could enjoy anything more than you enjoy listening to Spencer.

“I think the profile is wrong,” you point out, crouched in a spinning office chair in the Milwaukee precinct.

You’re nibbling on the end of a pen as you glare half-heartedly at the blurry foreground you see.

You stop yourself spinning belatedly when you realise you’ve caused a static hum of silence to fill the once bustling conference room.

Everyone is looking at you, Reid in curiosity, Morgan in vague interest and Emily in that suspicious frown of hers.

Hotch is the worst of all; he looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. It’s no secret that he’s led the team to basically establishing this profile, he had laid most of the groundwork within minutes of examining the case file.

Though the more you look at it, the more you become unsure of the conclusion you’ve all drawn.

“What?” Hotch asks brusquely, his expression bordering on annoyed as his brows furrow in a tell-tale sign.

You’re aware this will set you all back, you’d already been here longer than you’d like and pushing back on an already mostly completed profile will undo hours—if not days of work.

But you can’t let it go.

“We know he changes his method of killing for each kill, yeah?” you mutter loud enough for them all to hear as you shuffle your chair closer to the roundtable as you space out the crime scene photos.

“Yes, we’ve established that already. Where are you going with this?” Hotch frowns, looking at the photos and motioning for you to get on with it.

“So, why a different MO? Why choose something different for each victim? we thought it was just convenience but what if he’s choosing them to die this way specifically for a reason?”

Reid gives a thoughtful hum, “Like a fantasy of sorts,” he adds.

You snap your fingers, “Exactly! These aren’t coincidences, he’s too organised for that. He has everything done in a specific way, all of his victims are the same, why is his execution different?”

“That’s just a hunch, we have almost a fully completed profile, why change it?” Hotch protests, folding his arms as he scrutinises you.

You flounder, second guessing yourself and Hotch seems to falter simultaneously as he watches you.

Fire builds within you, you’ve done everything in your power to get to where you are. You know you’re right, you’re a damn good profiler and Hotch knows that.

You and the team also know that you don’t have time for second guessing right now.

“Because you know that profile isn’t right, if we go out there and we give those cops that profile, will you be able to sleep peacefully tonight knowing we let a murderer get away?” You persist, your gaze determined and mouth set in a firm line.

You’re not going to let this go

Hotch schools his expression, his cold façade falling into place as you question his integrity. He nods once, turning to face the board pinned with all the victims and sighs.

“Morgan, get Garcia on the phone, get her to run through the databases of every hardware store in a 5 mile radius of the dumpsite. I want to know every customer that bought a shovel, hammer and a sledgehammer within a two week period.” Hotch instructs.

Derek dials Penelope as you watch Hotch’s back. You bite back a smirk as you can’t help but silent gloat in victory, You: 1 Hotch: 0

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s only later when the unsub is apprehended and in custody and you’re all on the jet that you hear him.

He’s having a muttered conversation with who you assume is Morgan as the rest of the team falls victim to the all-nighters and high caffeine intake in regard to the case.

“You could’ve said something to her Hotch, she’s new man, you know she did well today,” Morgan says softly, probing at the issue.

You hear Hotch scoff, “She doesn’t need me to hold her hand Morgan, She’s an adult. She doesn’t get a high-five for doing her job”

Tetchy, you can’t help but think as you bite back a giggle. You must have really touched a nerve with that whole fiasco down at the precinct.

Who knew Aaron Hotchner couldn’t handle a blow to his ego.

This might just be your favourite piece of information yet.

It’s not that you dislike Hotch, far from it actually. You admired his work ethic, his profiling abilities and for the last couple of months…the more superficial aspects of his person.

You liked when he wore his grey Armani suit to work, so you’d tease him that it made him look old. When he gelled his hair back one day and you’d nearly choked on your coffee, you happened to ask him if he’d fallen face first into a puddle.

Granted it probably wasn’t the best way to get on his good side. Nobody ever said flirting was your strong suit.

Though it did make you want to kick your feet whenever you managed to make that little nerve pop out on his forehead.

You took great pleasure in being an annoyance in Aaron Hotchner’s day to day life. It really was the little things in life.

Not to assume that your teasing was a one way street, no. If anything, it could be argued that Hotch was the first to start this little rendezvous.

After a particularly bad morning, you’d opted to wear your new heels to work and because the cosmic universe seemed to have it out for you, you were called into a case in rainy Florida, making you struggle to walk and ruin a perfectly good pair of heels.

Hotch had been tense from the resistance from the local PD and had stated in a moment of crass irritation that, “maybe the next time you dress yourself, try to take into account that we travel for work.”

You had stopped dead still in the moment, shocked at the reprimand but had rolled with the punches and continued with the case.

You were perfectly polite with Hotch during the case, but distant. No smiles or jokes or even a slight clinginess to prove your worth. Hotch had noticed almost immediately but had waited until after the case to question it.

Except, you’d fallen asleep before he’d had the chance to talk to you.

So, he had taken it upon himself to seek out JJ, to ask her about her own perspective. And under a slow probing, it had come to light that Hotch had actually meant what he said in a purely concerned manner and was somewhat apologetic about his unconscious insult.

Though he did apologise at a later stage, it seemed like you had thus taken it upon yourself to single-handedly deal out his own karmic retribution.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

“Do you think they’ll ever just…kiss?” Emily ponders as she whispers to JJ.

They’re both at Emily’s desk, pretending to peruse over their reports as they glance towards Hotch’s office where the blinds lay open.

You and Hotch stand separated by his desk only, having a heated argument by the looks of things.

You’re gesturing at Hotch quite animatedly with a sarcastic expression on your face as Hotch stands firm as ever with a frown to his face.

“I think we have a better chance of dying before they ever figure it out,” JJ murmurs, resigned.

Emily bites back snort, sighing as she watches Hotch run a hand through his hair as he interrupts you to argue back.

Your jaw snaps shut and you look increasingly more frustrated the longer Hotch talks.

Emily glances back to her report, noting an inaccuracy that makes her sigh and grab her pen to strike it out.

She’s halfway through re-reading when JJ smacks her shoulder. With a sharp yelp she turns to catch sight of Hotch’s office.

You both have your arms on the desk separating you, talking as your faces grow closer to one another.

JJ squeezes Emily’s shoulder in hope and Emily clenches her eyes shut, praying to whatever god there is that what they think is about to happen, actually happens.

Hotch and you are basically nose to nose, smirks on both of your faces and Emily and JJ wait in excited silence.

Only for Spencer to knock on Hotch’s door, completed case file in hand and completely disrupting your moment.