#hotchner reader

           "Where is my wife?" His tone cracked, unrecognizable even to himself. The fear coursing through him was real, raw, and it took everything in him to keep from shouting. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if you were too late.

           The paramedic’s eyes softened, and she motioned toward the building in the distance - smoke still rising from its shattered windows. "They brought her out a few minutes ago. She’s over there—" The paramedic had worked with Hotch several times before and knew who he was referring to.

           Hotch didn’t wait to hear the rest. His legs moved on instinct, feet pounding against the pavement as he sprinted toward where the paramedic had pointed. Everything around him became a blur as he neared the edge of the chaos, his eyes scanning desperately for you.

           Then he saw you.

           You were lying on a stretcher, surrounded by EMTs, your body battered and bruised. Blood stained your clothes, your face ghostly and covered in small cuts, and for a moment, Hotch felt his heart stop. His world narrowed to just you - lying there so still, so vulnerable.

           "Y/N," he whispered, almost afraid to say your name, as though speaking it aloud would make the reality of your injuries too real to bear.

           You blinked slowly, your head turning toward the sound of his voice. Despite the pain etched across your face, your lips trembled into a small, fragile smile. "Aaron…"

           He was beside you in an instant, kneeling next to the stretcher, his hand gently cupping your cheek. "I’m here. I’m right here." His voice was soft, but the tremor in it betrayed how close he was to breaking.

           Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and Hotch's heart skipped a beat as he panicked, his hand tightening around yours. "Hey, stay with me. Please, stay with me."

           You opened your eyes again, your gaze locking with his, and you gave the smallest of nods. "I’m okay… just a little… shaken."

           The sight of you, injured but still fighting, broke something inside of him. He felt his throat tighten, his chest constricting with emotions he hadn’t let himself feel since Haley. Fear, helplessness, love - all of it swirled inside him as he pressed his forehead gently against yours. "I was so scared," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I’d lost you."

           You squeezed his hand weakly, your eyes searching his. "You didn’t lose me… I’m still here."

           His breath hitched as he pulled back slightly, taking in every inch of your face, every bruise, every cut. The sight of you in so much pain, and yet still trying to comfort him, made his heart ache. He gently brushed his thumb across your cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped down your skin. "You’re going to be okay. We’ll get through this."

           But the guilt weighed heavily on him - he hadn’t been there when you needed him most. He had failed to protect you. The thought gnawed at him, threatening to pull him under, but you tugged weakly on his hand, grounding him back to you.

           "Don’t… don’t blame yourself," you murmured, your voice thin. "I knew you’d come. I knew you’d find me."

           Hotch's jaw tightened as he blinked back his own tears, his heart swelling with love and relief. You trusted him, even when he doubted himself. He bent down and kissed your forehead softly, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than usual as if that would somehow keep you safe.

           "I love you," he whispered against your skin, his voice filled with a desperate tenderness.

           "I love you too," you breathed, your smile small but genuine, even through the pain.

           The EMTs moved in to check your vitals again, and Hotch stepped back, his hand never leaving yours as they worked around you. He watched them carefully, not willing to let you out of his sight for even a second. He couldn’t shake the fear that something might happen, that he might lose you if he blinked.

           But as the minutes passed and your condition stabilized, the panic that had been clawing at him began to ease. The doctors said you’d be okay - that your injuries, though serious, weren’t life-threatening. Relief washed over him in waves, but the fear lingered, the memory of almost losing you haunting him.

           When the EMTs finally finished, Hotch sat beside you again, his hand cradling yours gently. He could see the exhaustion weighing heavily on you, your eyelids fluttering as you struggled to stay awake.

           "It’s okay," he said softly, brushing your hair back from your face. "You can rest now. I’m not going anywhere."

           You gave him a tired smile, your hand weakly squeezing his once more before your eyes closed, finally succumbing to sleep. Hotch watched you for a long time, his heart still heavy, but you were safe. You were alive.

           And that was all that mattered.

"Jack, what happened?" Aaron furrowed his eyebrows as he took in the sight of the seventeen year old. His clothes were covered in mud, blood smeared under his nose, and a bruise was beginning to form on his cheek. Aaron's eyes flicked to Jack's hands, knuckles bloodied. You sat next to Jack, almost curled into your older brother's side with your knees pulled close to your chest, your head was angled down, but from what Aaron could see, your lip was beginning to swell and your cheek was a deep red. Jack was only two years older than you, but he had always been protective over you - this only seemed to heighten when you came out as transgender last year.

Jack shrugged at the question, "Not much." He answered vaguely.

"Jack, I need you to tell me what happened." At the stern tone, Jack turned to you - heart clenching when he was your eyes were red, dried tears down your cheek, your lip was beginning to swell but at least it had stopped bleeding, and your cheek was beginning to bruise too. You gave a small nod.

"They deserved it, dad," Jack began, "They've been picking on (Y/N) since he came out - misgendering, deadnaming, using slurs, saying everything they could think to try and hurt his feelings."

You gulp, looking down at your hands when Aaron turns his gaze to you. "They never hit him," Jack continued, "Not that he's told me anyway. But they did today and I saw and I lost it."

"(Y/N)?" You look up at your dad, "Have they hit you before?"

You let your eyes flick back to your hands as you give a small shrug at the question. You really didn't want to answer that.

"(Y/N)?" Jack's voice is uncertain and coated with worry.

"Only a few times," You mumble, "And it was never anything serious,"

Aaron sighed heavily, dragging his hand over his face. "How old are they?"

"They're my grade," Jack said, clenching his jaw. "They're seventeen, what was I supposed to do, Dad, ignore it?"

"I didn't say that," Your dad responds. "(Y/N), did you try and tell anyone?"

You swallowed slightly, "I told my history teacher," You muttered.

"What did she say?"

"That it was a part of growing up," You shrugged, watching as both your dad and your brother clench their jaw angrily.

"That's bullshit!" Jack exclaims.

"I agree. But, language." Hotch gives a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Alright, come on."

"Where are we going?" You ask quietly.

"I want to speak to your principal," He says. "The fact that this has been going on for so long is unacceptable."

"Dad-"

"Don't argue with it." Aaron says, you sigh, knowing nothing you could say would change his mind.

Greg was practically beaming when you walked into the lab with Grissom and Catherine.

“I don’t have time for your games. Tell me what you have before I shoot you in the foot.”

The monotone of your voice made him get right back on task. So did the threat.

“Right, well the hairs we recovered weren’t from your typical animal. It’s specific to a certain kind of rodent. Anyone want to take a guess of which one?”

He looked around with a grin and when you placed your hand on your waist, impatient, he cleared his throat.

“The white tailed woodrat. Fun fact, southern woodrats live in caves and cliffs. In the west, woodrats occur from the deserts to the mountains.”

Grissom hummed.

“So we were right, our suspect was out there with the victim.”

Catherine smiled.

“Looks like John has some explaining to do.”

She gave Greg a pat on the shoulder.

“Good job.”

He nodded with a triumphant smile, leaning over with his eyes closed as if to receive a kiss. You just walked out.

“Next time for sure!!”

He called.

That was typically how all your visits went. He’s known for his antics, so you’re not even surprised when you come in sometimes to see a wacky t-shirt or crazy garment on his head, much like today.

The next case had led to a murder at a circus. You weren’t even phased when you entered for your evidence and he was wearing a red curly haired wig and similar round rosy colored nose stuck to his face.

“Did you know circuses originally started for individuals with body deformities? They were outcasts and the circus is where they found themselves."

“I’m surprised you didn’t join one.”

“Hah, that was actually clever. I’ll give you that one.”

He turned back to the microscope.

“So you were right about the fabric. There were traces of the same cleaning detergent on the wife’s jacket. Same with the boots. We have a match.”

He moved back, wheeling over to the other desk as he swiped a sheet of paper. When he rolled back to you he held it out. You were about to take it, but he pulled it back and you just glared.

“Nuh uh, what’s the secret word?”

“Hand it to me or I'll shoot you.”

He gulped.

“Close enough.”

You took it, walking right out, oblivious to the look Greg sent as you made your way down the hall.

He was used to hostility. You were probably the only person that threatened him whenever he went on his tangents. Catherine had warmed him countless times to stop pushing your buttons. She insisted that one day you might actually follow through and shoot him.

Heaven knows sometimes she’s thought about.

Maybe Grissom has too.

A casual snack on a late night case is what you need. You felt like you’d been working for days which had in fact just been about twelve hours. Greg had walked into the kitchen to grab himself a snack, making some coffee. Apparently he had the same idea. When you saw him you lifted a brow.

“You’re still here?”

He nodded, taking a seat with a smile.

“Grissom wanted his best on the case so I decided to reign in the calvary.”

“I heard they were down a guy that’s why you’re out in the field.”

“Potato, tomato.”

He waved his hand, then placed both elbows on the table dropping his chin into his palms as he looked at you. For a while you didn’t really say anything, just had your meal. But the longer he sat there the more irritated you seemed to become.

“Quit staring at me.”

You grumble.

“Can’t help it.”

He was wearing a dopey smile and you just sent him a blank look before you rolled up your trash and stood, tossing it. You didn’t even bid him goodbye, but he still waved, the very same smile on his face.

Yes, you were certain that you disliked the young CSI. He talked too much, made terrible jokes at the worst possible times, and he seemed hell bent on chasing you which really was in poor taste. You were positive you’d done everything to discourage him but he seemed like a dog with a bone. You’re almost positive that you’d never said anything remotely nice to him, yet he kept smiling at you like a lovesick puppy.

His presence was a nuisance.

That’s what you told yourself. Any day that you didn’t have to see him was a blessing.

At least that was the thought.

When you got called to DC to work a high profile case with your brother, you were happy to assist. You’d only been there for two weeks. You hated to admit it, but it was strange going to a crime lab and not seeing the smile you were used to, or poorly concocted pick up lines.

When you returned to Vegas you felt strangely calm, or maybe just comfortable. You had a nice rhythm here. That was it. That’s all it could be.

You shook the thought and went right back to work the following week. Given the close partnership with your department, you did a lot of cases with them, just like Brass.

When you came to collect your sample you expected the spiky haired over zealous scientist, what you got was Hodges.

“Where’s Greg?”

It was strange.

You’d never worked a shift where he was absent.

“Is that a joke? Everyone knows he’s in the hospital. He got shot a day ago.”

Hodges looked up when he realized it was you.

“Oh, welcome back I guess.”

His tone was anything but welcoming and you just went back to work. You meant to inquire about Greg getting shot, but Grissom walked in.

“You’re back. How was DC?”

You turned.

“What happened to Greg?”

Grissom shifted.

“He was shot. Luckily it went through his shoulder and missed anything vital. It happened in our last case. We were out in the field. He actually saved my life. He hasn’t stopped boasting about it either.”

Somehow you felt relieved knowing that at the very least he was well enough to act like the annoying guy he is.

“Are you worried about him?”

Grissom lifted his brow and you didn’t respond, just kept your face neutral.

“We should get back to the case.”

You moved to get the evidence from Hodges and Grissom merely walked over, a small smirk on his lips.

The shift carried on and as much as you tried to avoid it, your eyes would drift to Greg’s work station. Grissom explained that he would be back in a few weeks. Apparently he himself was getting antsy being bed ridden. You were certain that you weren’t even affected. If anything you should be happy for the peace.

But the quiet just felt..empty.

Catherine and Warrick explained that they had set up shifts to visit him. Yesterday was Nick, the day before Sara. Today was supposed to be Grissom.

“You’re going to see him?”

Everyone in the room looked over at Grissom’s words.

“Yes. I don’t think it would look very good if everyone did but me.”

Catherine did her best to hide her smile.

“Of course. You’re right. Have fun.”

She was smiling a bit too wide. Right then she must have realized that your request to see him was more than just a means to save face. You didn’t stick around to entertain any more questions, just left.

Now walking down the hallway, you didn’t realize how heavy your heart felt until you saw him lying on the bed through the blinds. He had a comic book in his hands, and his eyes were focused on the page, but his gaze seemed a bit distant.

When you got to the door that weight all but disappeared. You gave the door a soft knock, opening it as you stepped in.

The second he saw you he was wearing that grin. You closed the door, taking in the many flowers and balloons on the table at the entrance.

“You look comfortable.”

He nodded, almost puffing his chest.

“Well, you know what they say about heroes.”

There was the boasting Grissom mentioned. You were about to say something in response, but your eyes caught the slight tremor in his right hand. You looked up, just in time to see him tuck his hand under the sheet, planting a smile on his face.

“So you came and forgot to bring me flowers, that’s not very subordinate of you.”

He was teasing, and you would have just taken it as his usual playfulness, but you saw the quick change. He’d done what he could to mask that moment of weakness. Nothing about him seemed out of place. His hair was still spikey, he was smiling and he wasn’t wearing a brace, so you could only assume that he was healing nicely.

He was fine.

At least on the outside.

Having a profiler brother made you more aware of things.

Moving closer, you took a seat on the chair that was pulled up to the side of his bed.

He didn’t say anything and you suppose you could have said any number of things, but at the moment it became clear that there was one thing that he needed. Maybe your blunt nature had made you more observant and willing to say what was on your mind.

Reaching over, you gently took his hand that was somewhat buried under the covers. He looked a bit stunned. Whether for the observation or the simple touch, you weren’t sure. What you did know was one thing.

“I’m glad you’re okay Greg.”

Your hand closed over his palm, and you saw the slight waver in his eyes. He’d been scared, rightfully so. You know more than anything he’d probably put up a brave face. Due to his goofy nature it worked. At least for a while.

You’ve had your fair share of bullet wounds and it always left you with some unsettling feelings. For Greg, that must be amplified because he’s not used to being out in the world the way the rest of you are.

When he squeezed your hand back, this time you felt the tremor in his hand. The comic book was now laying in his lap, and he let out a dry laugh, raising his free hand to wipe at his eyes, possibly to get rid of any tears that threatened to spill.

With a soft exhale, he lowered his hand, this time looking at you with a sincere smile.

“Thank you..”

           It all started a week ago. Since the Reaper had killed Haley, you’d decided to take a gap year between high school and college so that you could stay home and help raise Jack, permitting Hotch to continue to take cases and stick killers behind bars. As much as you hated that you’d lost your mother, and as well as you knew how much she had grown to detest Hotch’s career, you also realized that the Reaper could have just as easily killed someone else to taunt Hotch and left that woman’s daughter in the same state that you’d been in. Hotch had an important cause to work for and you supported it, so in turn, he financially supported you while you worked a part-time job during Jack’s school days and played the role of his guardian the rest of the time. Just this year, you had decided that, since Hotch had Beth helping your small family out, you could afford to start taking a few classes at the nearby college. While there, you met Olivia. You hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone, but Liv refused to take your silence as an answer. The two of you could have been sisters; it was a little bit strange at first to look at her and first wonder what was wrong with the mirror. You had the same color of hair and eyes, the same thick hair and easy, slightly messy hairstyle, were only a fraction of an inch apart in height, and similar skin tones. There was ten pounds of a weight difference at most. What was crazier? She had a twin.

           There were three people who looked like you on campus, and it drove the professors nuts in the two classes that you and Liv shared.

           It was the Halloween party that probably sealed the fate. Everyone acted like a freak on Halloween, but someone had decided to take it a step two far. Twisting Dr. Seuss, you, Liv, and her sister had all gone dressed in skirts and red shirts as Things One, Two, and Three, wearing thick white face paint and heavy pink eyeshadow to further obscure the differences between you. When they’d picked you up from home, Jack had run to Marie and started excitedly telling his “sister” about his day at school, and Hotch had given Liv a list of chores that he wanted done by the end of the week. Then you’d come down the stairs, Jack and Marie had emerged from another room, and both males looked as though they’d seen ghosts.

           “Too many of you,” Jack complained, tugging on Marie’s long red sleeve. She giggled and patted his hair and told you that your brother was cute.

           You’d had more fun than you would have thought. The twins had taken you to a frat house and you’d become the center of attention of a handsome boy who came on way too strong. Luckily, he turned out not to be a complete jerk – once Liv saw you were in trouble and intervened, politely asking the young man to back off and informing him that you weren’t comfortable with all of the attention, he had apologized profusely, given you a crooked smile, and told you that he was around for help if you needed it. His name was Seth, and he was a sophomore. You didn’t see him again that night.

           You didn’t see much of anything else that night, either, because the party was broken up by the police being called when Liv found her sister’s body in a huge puddle of blood in one of the bathrooms. She had screamed. You were normally uncomfortable talking to large groups of people, but adrenaline and concern had pushed you to power through, and you cited your father’s profession and shoved your way through. The few frat boys who had thought it was a prank hadn’t even bothered to check Marie’s pulse, just assuming she was having them on. You felt her throat and as soon as you felt the very real, and unfortunately very familiar texture of blood, you knew you weren’t going to find a heartbeat. If she wasn’t wearing face paint, you would have known she was dead instantly, the same way you had known when you saw Haley’s body on the floor of your old house.

           A murder had transpired, and you did the first thing you could think of and called your dad. Why wouldn’t you? Beth was called to stay with Jack while Hotch came and got you, and after you gave your statement to the police, he took you to your favorite restaurant and didn’t comment when all you did was pick at your food, stomach rolling.

           That morning, you were contacted immediately by the police and brought in for a series of questions. You weren’t a suspect, but they thought you might be in danger, because Liv’s parents had gotten back from a meeting with a funeral director and found Liv changed into her Halloween costume, murdered just like her sister, with her body splayed out over the kitchen table. The police thought that having forced her into the same outfit the previous victim had worn might be a little bit significant, and yeah, you agreed. Even you saw the danger in it, so as soon as you told Beth that you couldn’t pick up Jack from school, you called Hotch. The stress finally caught up with you and you told him through tears where you were and that you needed protection.

           The BAU was on the case before it had even been sent up through the right government channels, and your father assured you that you would stay with only the agents he trusted most, and you would never be left alone. If you weren’t going to be in a secure room with the technical analyst he considered family, then you were going to be with Rossi, Reid, JJ, Blake, or Morgan (the names meant nothing to you), who were all armed and wouldn’t let anyone touch you.

           Hotch glanced behind him to look at you and see your face. You were still nervous about meeting his coworkers. He assured you that they were all people he trusted with his very life, but you had always been timid about meeting new people. You’d been introverted for as long as you could remember, and only grown more so after Foyet.

           “You’ll be okay,” he promised, reaching for you. Without moving, you let him hold his hand to your lower back and guide you in through doors that he held open with his other arm. Crossing your own over your chest, you rubbed your arms and kept your head down, looking around but careful not to make eye contact with anyone.

           The bullpen didn’t seem like it was loud, but it became very hushed when you and your dad were noticed. Most of the agents towards the wall by the doors and mezzanine looked straight to Hotch before they checked you out, but no one seemed anything but sympathetic and curious, until a woman came up to you both, leaving the desk of a black man with a gun at his hip, which you noticed with a slight grimace. Guns were not your favorite. You’d like them for as long as they kept you safe, but after being threatened with one by the Reaper, you’d be happy if you never saw anyone with a firearm again. Yet, if Dad said that he trusted these people, then you supposed you would, too.

           This woman in particular looked out of place in the bureau. You looked at her clothes rather than her face and hoped that she wouldn’t take offense. Other than noticing the frames of glasses and streaks of a coral-pink color in her blonde hair, all you saw were gold bangles on her wrists, manicured fingernails, and bright-colored clothes, including pastel tights, purple pumps, and a dress with swirls and polka dots splashed with a rainbow.

           “Is this her?” She asked Hotch with a note of wonder in her voice. Your dad nodded. You nodded a little bit, too, interested to know who she was. Hopefully, she would take it upon herself to explain so that you didn’t have to ask. “Oh, chica,” she sighed, holding her hands out. She reached halfway between you and stopped, giving you the power to decide whether or not she touched you. You lifted your hand to shake hers and she had a tight, motherly grip. “I’m so sorry, darling, but I promise you, you’re gonna be so safe here that if you get a papercut, we’ll arrest the printing machine.”

           You giggled a little bit.

           “Y/N, this is Penelope Garcia. She’s our technical analyst. If you have any homework for your computer programming class, she’s the person to ask,” Hotch chuckled warmly at both of you. “Garcia, this is my daughter, Y/N. She’s majoring in computer sciences.”

           “Gosh, have you come to the right place!” The analyst was kind and worked herself into optimistic excitement, pulling you gently by the hand away from Hotch’s side. She started leading you away from the other desks. Over your shoulder, you looked at Hotch in alarm. “You’re gonna love my lair. Well, it’s not actually a lair, it’s an office, but I call it my lair because it’s not as drab. What’s the fun in going to an office? But a lair, no one says no to going to a lair.”

           “Don’t you think she should meet the rest of the team first?” Dad called after you both, making Garcia halt in her tracks. One of her hands stayed on your wrist, which you didn’t mind too much. You didn’t not like people, you just weren’t a big fan of socializing. Having friends was fun. Making them was intimidating.

           “Right! Yes!” Garcia gasped and pulled you back towards your father. Your head was going to spin if your entire stay consisted of being commandeered and driven around the FBI. You had a lot to deal with already, and you just hoped that this team was as good as you thought they were and could catch the killer. You wanted justice for your friends’ wrongful deaths. “Yes, Chickadee, come on. I’ll show you to your honor guard. I promise they won’t bite.”

           My honor guard? Well, at least she was taking the “protective custody” thing seriously.

           First, she took you to the desk that she had been at before she noticed your entrance. Several agents were all looking at you and watching the proceedings, but the one Garcia had been standing with rotated his chair around so his feet were out from under the desk and had covered up his sidearm with his jacket since you’d seen it. Maybe there was an advantage to being looked after by profilers; he must’ve noted your negative reaction. Other than appearing athletic and well-built, he seemed friendly and exuded warmth and hospitality.

           Garcia was excited to introduce you to him. If you had to guess, you’d say she had a clear favorite. “Y/N, this is Special Agent Derek Morgan, and he will defend you heroically because he is my, and now your, knight in shining FBI-issue Kevlar.”

           You smiled shyly at Agent Morgan, who didn’t reach for your hands, so you didn’t offer. “Hi,” you said quietly.

           “Hey, sweetness,” Morgan returned kindly. Unlike the frat kids who would’ve sounded lecherous, drunk, or flirty, Morgan managed to make the endearment sound like an actual endearment, the same way that Beth sometimes called you “honey” or Hotch called you by your nickname. “This computer over here is Reid.” He pointed over his desk to the one behind it, to a young guy with dark brown hair and a lanky, tall figure, even when sitting down.

           “Reid Dr.,” Reid told you, standing up hurriedly and rubbing his palms over his thighs. He realized what he’d said and frowned. “Dr. Reid,” he corrected himself, switching the words back around. Instead of relaxing, his frown just intensified. “Dr. Spencer Reid.” Finally, he seemed satisfied, smiled at you a little awkwardly, and sat back down, scratching the back of his neck.

           Sure, the introduction was a little bit comedic, but you knew better than probably anyone else in the room how mean it could be to tease someone for a little difficulty with presenting themselves or mixing up their words, what with being sensitive to it yourself, so you ignored the mistakes and nodded, getting out a ‘nice to meet you.’ “Why did he call you a computer?” You asked. Garcia had let go of your hand, so you wrung your fingers in front of you to control the urge to shut up and go back to your father’s side. College wasn’t so bad when you were soft spoken, but the FBI was much more intimidating. Not only were they federal agents with guns, but you were there because of a killer, which made it ten times more stressful.

           “Watch this,” Morgan grinned. “Reid, what’s thirty-six to the power of four divided by seventeen squared?”

           Reid looked up to the ceiling, but only for a couple of seconds before he had done all of the mental math on his own. “Five thousand, eight hundred eleven, point eighty-two… when rounded to the nearest thousandth.”

           “Wow,” you commented, blushing along with Reid, who seemed pleased but unused to being complimented. Both of you looked away from each other when Garcia cooed.

           “And this is Alex Blake!” She turned around and indicated for you to come with her, going to the next row. On the outer desk was an older woman, maybe in her forties, with brunette hair and a black blazer over her long-sleeved shirt. Blake smiled at you and held out a hand. You shook her hand with a loose grip and ended it when she did. “She can scare off a bad guy in four languages,” Garcia cheerily bragged.

           “I have a PhD in linguistics and I’m a licensed translator,” Blake supplied in explanation.

           The next person that Garcia dragged you over to was your father again. “There’s also Rossi and JJ, but JJ’s not here right now and Rossi’s been locked in his office like a recluse for the last two hours,” the techie told you conversationally. She didn’t seem to mind being the one doing most of the talking, instead being compassionate to that you weren’t the most outgoing person in the world. “You can always meet them later. No, really, you definitely will. Rossi’s been bugging the G-Man about you ever since he told us he had a daughter, and JJ’s excited to meet you, too. Is that all you brought?”

           It took you a minute to realize she’d changed topics and was now asking about your backpack. “Yes,” you answered, looking down to your hand as you fisted the strap over your front.

           Garcia smiled. “That’s okay, sweetie, I’ve got lots we can do that can’t fit in a backpack and I’m sure we can convince someone to get you to a laundromat if you need one.” Personally, you’d been banking on the investigation being closed pretty quickly. You weren’t looking for something just a step short of Witness Protection; a day or two sleeping in the FBI, and then you could go back to your normal life before you got too far behind in your courses. Garcia moved on breezily. “On to the Batcave, Robin, where magical worlds of computer software await. If you’re a computer geek, you’re gonna do a backflip when you see everything I got. Would you believe the FBI gives me thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment when they only actually hired me so they could stop hunting me?”

           It had been maybe five minutes, and your head was already spinning. You hoped Garcia elaborated on that last part.

~ ~ ~ Halloween ~ ~ ~

           You had never taken to anyone as quickly as you took to Garcia. Maybe it was her kind and loving nature, or maybe it was just how she was so wild and outgoing that you didn’t feel like you could be judged for being your normal, quiet self. All you knew, or really cared to know about it, was that she made you feel comfortable, especially once you were a little bit more used to her. You started to speak a little bit more, didn’t worry about muffling your laughter when you were amused. With her huge monitors, Garcia pulled up your favorite movie franchise and the two of you watched as much as you could before you were yawning, even with the assistance of coffee.

           The next morning, you changed clothes and took care of your hygiene in the bathroom. Garcia had fallen asleep after you had, so you didn’t know how long she’d actually been resting, and hadn’t wanted to wake her up. The FBI in general had to be a pretty safe place. Transferring your visitor’s badge onto your new outfit, you pushed back your hair and ventured back into the bureau. Your dad had had to go home – he did have another child to care for, after all – but maybe it was late enough in the morning for him to be back. You weren’t sure what you’d do if he wasn’t.

           Six in the morning was not, as it turned out, late enough. No wonder you were so tired… if you’d thought to check the time before changing, you’d have just gone back to sleep. The bullpen was practically empty. But was that – yes! It was! There was a light on under the doorway of one of the offices up on the mezzanine. Your dad had told you that his office was up there. Being the unit chief, he had the seniority and the authority to have a specially-large office instead of just desks on the floor level.

           Keeping your head down, you went up the mezzanine steps to the raised walkway along the wall and followed it past a dark office to the one with the light on it. You knocked to be courteous, but one of the few agents that was in was looking at you. Being up higher than the desks made you more noticeable. Eager to get into a smaller space where you didn’t feel like you’d be in trouble for no reason, you walked inside without being invited… and regretted it, because the man at the desk was not your father.

           A tiny, anguished squeak made its way out of your mouth. How embarrassing…

           “Um.”

           “Well, hi,” the man said behind the desk, swiping reading glasses off of his face. He wasn’t that tall. Even sitting, he seemed less intimidating than your dad. He was European, maybe Italian or Spanish, and older than your dad, at least fifty, with the beginnings of a salt-and-peppered beard. He was dressed business casual, with a comfortable black blazer, and a piping mug of hot coffee with the steam still rising sat near his right hand. “I didn’t know I was expecting company.”

           There was no reassuring hand at your back or preppy analyst to help you out. Shifting to your other foot and swallowing hard, you took a deep breath. You were here in protective custody, not in interrogative custody. No one was going to hurt you, and the guy seemed amused, not angry. “Well, um, you weren’t… I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

           You held your breath then. Your wardrobe was pretty typical for a college student, and while you owned a few nice things for practical reasons, dressing professionally hadn’t been your biggest concern when you packed your things for your field trip to the BAU. So, while you tried to present yourself as an innocent and insignificant individual who made a mistake with no ill intent, you stood there in your jeans and t-shirt with the band name emblazoned on the front. You did not fit in.

           “Don’t tell me,” he said dryly, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. Obediently, you shut your mouth and looked down. If he didn’t want you to tell him something, well, by God, you were not going to tell him something. “Hotch’s little girl, right? Though, I guess, you’re not all that little.” Grimacing, you nod. He put his mug down and leaned over the desk, rolling his shoulders and crossing his forearms on the table. “SSA David Rossi. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

           “Thank you, Agent Rossi,” you murmured.

           “Dave.”

           “Okay.”

           He studied you intently. “How is it that you escaped the clutches of the Good Witch?”

           “Galinda’s asleep over her computer, so I popped on out of Oz via yellow bricks,” you quipped, leaping without thought onto the references. Then your eyes widened, blood rushed to your face, and you wished you could just disappear.

           Rossi seemed to think you were funny, though, because he chuckled heartily. “I like you, kid,” he said in what was clearly supposed to be a praising way. “Have you had anything to eat?” You shook your head. He stood up. “Well, I’ve been staring at this one page for twenty minutes, so I could use a break. C’mon. It’s not DiGiorno, but there is a place downstairs where we can pilfer some food. What do you say?”

           Dad wasn’t in, Garcia was unconscious, and none of the three agents she had introduced you to were around yet. Rossi was the only person you knew. As nervous as you were that you might do something wrong or make some horrible social faux pas that existed only between federal agents that you didn’t know about, you would prefer being with someone you barely knew to being completely alone… especially since two of your friends had died and the Halloween costume that you had all worn seemed to be pivotal to the murders.

~ ~ ~ Halloween ~ ~ ~

           You spent nearly an entire forty minutes in the cafeteria with Rossi before his phone rang with a notification alert, and he announced that you both needed to go back to the BAU – yourself as proof of life and Rossi as brain trust to work the case. Hotch was a little aggravated that you weren’t within sight when he went to try to find you, but relaxed and gave you a hug when you said that you were fine and that Rossi had just been helping you. You hadn’t even realized you were hungry until the profiler had suggested it.

           In the meantime, you went back to Garcia’s lair, expecting just to find the techie you’d grown to tentatively like. Only, when you got there, Garcia wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by a tall, slim blonde, who introduced herself as JJ, the media liaison-turned-profiler. She was beautiful and kind, and had a child at home with her husband. You were warmed to her before she’d even opened her mouth, and she quickly became one of the first people you went to talk to in the next few days.

           You had to stay longer than you had thought. When the un-sub didn’t find his third victim – AKA, you – he seemed to go to ground for a while. You wanted to be optimistic and say he had never intended to target you, but Beth had taken Jack home after dinner two nights into your protective custody only to find that the house had been broken into, your bedroom door broken in, and a broken vase on the floor that you used to hold a bouquet of flowers in. When he hadn’t found you, he’d thrown a temper tantrum and made your bedroom look terrible. Dad didn’t let you see the pictures, but Garcia had wrapped you up in a short hug and promised that she would take you shopping for some new things.

           Three days, and you were content with staying right where you were. If you had fought with Hotch on whether or not you needed protecting, you very well may have lost your life.

           Four days, and you were starting to feel a little bit of cabin fever, but overall, you were still content with staying where your safety was ensured.

           Six days going on a week, and all you wanted was to shoot the killer yourself so that you could go sleep in your own familiar bed, and maybe read your brother a bedtime story. You always read Jack a bedtime story, unfailingly, until someone had decided they wanted to plunge a knife through your back.

           You played with the hem of your nightgown when you ventured out of the little cavern of Garcia’s office that you had been holed up in for the majority of most days. It was barely past one in the morning and most of the sane people had gone home, even Hotch. After the break-in, you felt immensely guilty that the un-sub might’ve encountered Jack or Beth, and believed it to be nothing short of dumb luck that they had decided to go out to a restaurant. Hotch refused to concede that you were in any way to blame, but, just to be safe, he and Beth had both agreed that it was better if the three of them stayed at a hotel until the case was solved.

           If you wanted anything, you had a technical analyst who had all but cried several times just from trying to imagine how you felt and several agents in the building at any given time to respond to your distress call. However, you couldn’t remember a time you had felt more alone – isolated in a building full of people who didn’t really know you, with someone wanting to murder you in a Halloween costume you had swiftly grown to loathe, and without the chance to partake in any of the normal activities you enjoyed. Sure, you were learning a lot from Garcia, and your professors had been appraised of the bare necessities of the situation and had given you projects in lieu of classes, but you still had so much time to be lonely that it was hard to keep your chin up much longer.

           Part of your assignment involved making your own website, so, with a sigh of your shoulders and a gentle roll of your head around on your neck, you took your laptop and travelled out to the kitchenette. Hotch usually locked his office door when he left, but he’d been leaving it open for you if you needed to be alone. You’d not really been given a chance to mourn for your friends before you got swept up in everything else. The logic you used was that you could get some of the cheap bureau coffee and get some homework done in his office. You felt terrible and your heart wouldn’t be in it, but you could always touch up on it later.

           At this rate, it seemed like you wouldn’t be going back to school for weeks.

           Your plan was derailed halfway through making your coffee. Someone cleared their throat and coughed, startling you, and with wide eyes, impulsively feeling guilty for using coffee that belonged to an organization you weren’t really a part of, you started to apologize.

           Reid held up his hand, a mug in the other, and with a gentle smile, he quieted your apologies and calmed your nervousness. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that. I thought you would still be asleep.”

           “Nightmares,” you mumbled, sinking back against the counter and out of the way. Reid slipped past you, going to make his own coffee refill, while you moved your filled mug out of the way and sought out the milk in the little fridge. You were acutely aware of his presence, but tried not to act like you were on edge by it. He didn’t make you feel threatened, just a little awkward. What were you supposed to talk about?

           “I used to have those,” he responded empathetically while his coffee brewed.

           You looked up to him curiously. You’d seen one of your friends’ corpses, touched her dead body while looking for a pulse that wasn’t there, felt her blood on your hands. “How did you make them go away?”

           Reid’s smile became a little crooked. “I didn’t, not at first.” He, too, leaned against the counter, hands behind him and pressing on the edge. “And sometimes, they still come back. But I manage them, because I remember that I may have memories that my brain can scare me with, but I’ve also shored up a list of things that make me feel better, too. Safer. Less lonely.” He paused. “Gideon – an agent who used to work here – he helped me by giving me a photograph of a little girl we saved, not long after I joined the team. Maybe you could ask Hotch to bring you a photo of your brother.”

           “I have plenty on my phone,” you replied.

           He shook his head. “It’s not the same as having a physical picture to touch,” he disagreed, and you had to hand it to him – his calm tone was soothing you, his quiet voice making you feel like you weren’t quite as abandoned and hopeless as you had thought.

           You swallowed. Most of the time, you didn’t want to talk. You still didn’t, but you thought maybe it would be worth speaking up a little if it meant that you got to have a little more of Reid’s time and his relaxing attention. “What are you still doing in? I thought everyone would have wanted to go home.”

           Reid’s smile turned confused, yet remained polite. “I don’t think anyone would be going home if they could help it,” he told you earnestly. “But everyone has someone to go back home to. Even Rossi – one of his ex-wives is in town. Hotch has, well, Jack, and Garcia has a cat she has to feed. Blake’s husband is visiting, Morgan has a girlfriend, and JJ has a son. If they didn’t have responsibilities at home, I don’t think they would’ve left you here on your own.”

           “So what about you?” You questioned, unable to let your curiosity rest. The notion that a bunch of adults who didn’t personally know you would give up the comforts of their homes for your sake if not for other personal obligations seemed weird and abstract when applied to anyone but your father, and maybe Beth. Why was Reid still there, talking with you, when he could’ve been with someone he cared about? “Why stay when you have someone else?”

           “Well, my mom lives in Las Vegas, so I can’t really visit her every day,” he said, aiming to make a joke. You giggled a little bit and he smiled, pleased to have lessened some of the tension. The bumbling, awkward doctor you’d been introduced to seemed much more at ease when it was just the two of you. “And… I don’t know, Y/N. The thought of you being here on your own, when you might need to talk… when you apparently do need to talk,” he amended, looking at you meaningfully, because that was what you were doing right then. “I didn’t want that to happen if I could prevent it, so here I am.”

~ ~ ~ Halloween ~ ~ ~

           You and Reid quickly became friends, to the point where you interacted with him as much as you did with Garcia. Your late-night chats became the norm for the pair of you. Reid tended to come in later in the morning, but because Hotch knew that he was keeping you company long after the sun had gone down, he pretended not to notice. In your head, you stopped thinking of him as Reid and instead as Spencer, your friend, and although you hadn’t had enough time together to talk about everything, you did seem to talk about anything.

           Your nightmares persisted, but you felt like you had more control over them. Spencer didn’t ask you to talk about them, but he didn’t say not to, either. Instead, you talked a little bit about his life growing up, and a bit about the funny misadventures he had when he and the team were off the clock. You were amazed by Spencer’s intelligence. Three PhD’s by the time he was twenty-one, and finishing up high school before he was even old enough to have a driver’s permit. Spencer tried to pick up some of your language skills from you, since you’d taken four years of a foreign language in high school, but you’d found out that he was great at memorization while terrible at pronunciation. You told him about a boy you’d dated during your senior year of high school, and added a detail you hadn’t even told Hotch: he had broken up with you because he thought you were spending more time with your family than with him, and this was while you were practically raising Jack, because your mother had been murdered. He had known what had happened, and he’d still cited your prioritizations of taking care of your baby brother as a reason to break up with you. You grew sullen while you talked about it, but it felt good to get it off your chest for the first time. Obviously you couldn’t tell Jack, and you hadn’t known Beth at the time, and you hadn’t wanted Hotch to feel bad about the responsibilities you were taking on as well as being a student, so you made up a lie about how you broke up with him peacefully so you’d both have more time to focus on school and SATs.

           You talked about lighter things than your lives, too. The two of you bonded over shared interests in science fiction and “geek” movies. Spencer had developed a healthy appreciation for Marvel after you talked him into bringing a box of popcorn so that you could watch the Iron Man movies together one night. Your unofficial plan was to watch all of the movies with the individual superheroes and lead up to The Avengers. There was a convention coming up in the next few months that Spencer invited you to go to with him. He wanted to dress as Tom Baker’s incarnation of the Doctor, his personal favorite, and you theorized that maybe you could go as Tegan or Sarah Jane.

           “If I even live that long…” You’d muttered under your breath, hit by a wave of pessimism. At nearing two weeks of bureau captivity, it was getting harder to believe that the un-sub would be caught. You’d seen enough horror movies to know that the minute your guard was let down, you’d be murdered in your bed. The problem was that not letting your guard down meant staying in the FBI for the foreseeable future.

           Spencer had set down a mug of fresh coffee that he seemed to live off of and touched your knee with his hand, rubbing his thumb over your thigh and leaning forwards to meet your eyes. Spencer wasn’t much of one for a lot of touching, and he was rather conscientious of everyone’s personal space, so it was shocking enough that he’d touched you, much less when he locked eyes with you in an intensity that made your stomach flutter.

           “We will catch him,” he stated simply, and then went on to tell you everything they’d gotten. Partial (unidentified) fingerprints from the house break. A profile (white male around your age, disorganized, with a fixation that revolved around the identical nature of your and your friends’ costumes). They had reason to believe that he lived nearby, and knew he’d been at the party to kill Marie, and suspected that he may even be one of the frat kids in order to commit the crime without standing out. “So, Y/N, I promise you, you won’t be here forever.”

~ ~ ~ Halloween ~ ~ ~

           The next night, you came to Spencer reasonably early. You were sure that the rest of the team, Hotch included, had gone, because you wanted the privacy to be uninterrupted and the security that came with having someone you trusted to be honest yet sensitive leading you. Then you approached Spencer’s desk with a mug full of his favorite flavor of coffee and approximately four tablespoons of pure sugar dumped in, delivered it to his desk, and locked your hands behind your back.

           “So, I was thinking about something, and I realize it may not be fun, but I’d rather be a little upset for a while than let this continue.”

           The genius finished what he was doing on the computer in a few seconds, saved the document using the control shortcut, and then pushed the chair away from the desk, swiveling it around to face you. He planted both shoes on the floor and leaned over, hands in his lap, and met your eyes, giving you his full attention.

           “You said that you think the killer was at the frat party,” you reminded, grimacing even as you said it. You couldn’t believe you’d been talked into going to a frat party. “And I picked up somewhere that serial killers like to see the results of their actions. So maybe it’s possible that he was there when Marie-“ You flinched, took a breath, and started again, trying to depersonalize. “-When the body was found?” Spencer nodded slowly, encouraging you to continue. “I want you to do a cognitive interview on me,” you announced, looking down to your toes. “When I heard Liv scream, I took over. I pushed everyone away and instructed someone to call the cops. I even blocked people from the bathroom to preserve the evidence. If there was someone trying to nose their way in, I probably would’ve seen them.”

~ ~ ~ Halloween ~ ~ ~

           You breathed a little bit faster. Liv’s scream echoed in your ears, just as loud and heart-wrenching as it had been when you’d heard it for real. Although you kept your eyes screwed shut as Spencer had instructed, you had a hard time seeing the black of your eyelids when what you were thinking back to was full of colors and movement. The only grounding sensation you felt was Spencer’s larger hand in yours, gently squeezing your palm in reassurance.

           “You’re doing so well,” he praised, half-cooing in comfort. “You have to push a group away from the door. What happened next? Do you recognize any of them?” His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

           While you were reasonably sure you were supposed to be focusing on your memory, you instead paid more attention to his hand, swallowing hard and squeezing. You were sure your grip was too tight to be nice, and possibly a little sweaty from nervousness and apprehension, but Spencer didn’t move or comment, for which you were grateful.

           “I recognize some of them,” you said, imagining yourself in the shoes you’d worn three weeks ago. Some of the colors were unclear, faces distorted, but the ones that stood out weren’t always the ones that had just been closest to you at the time. Flashes of features through the door of a frat boy you shared a calculus class with, although you’d only glimpsed the side of his face in passing over the shoulder of a blurry zombie costume. “Mostly from around campus, but a few are in sports teams. Oh, and Seth,” you added as an afterthought, scoring your eyes across the doorway, refusing to move your eyes to the right. You knew you’d see the blood-filled bathtub in your flashback if you did.

           “Who’s Seth?” Spencer asked, pressing calmly for more details.

           You didn’t think it was that important, but you went along with it. He was the profiler. “Just some guy that we met earlier that night. He came onto me, Liv asked him to back off, he said he was sorry for being too forward, and he left. I didn’t speak to him again.” In your recollection, you could vaguely place his voice, maybe saying something. Maybe saying your name. At the time all you could hear were Liv’s screeches, alternating between heartbroken and furious. “He’s taller than me. Shorter than you, though. I… he had a cup in his hand. Probably something alcoholic, because he didn’t look completely with it. Drinking messed with his red face paint.”

           “What was he?” Spencer pushed his fingers into your palm, pressing on the back of your hand with his thumb, the pressure relaxing your grip. “Who did he dress as?”

           “Tate Langdon,” you answered with a slight grin, remembering how you’d initially jumped when he’d come and tapped your shoulder. Then you’d hid behind a bottle of water and laughed, recognizing the cosmetics and the black hoodie.

           “Who?”

           “Oh. He was a character from American Horror Story,” you explained. “He wore the outfit from when Tate shot up his school. Um, dark black and oversized sweater with a hood up, and black, white, and grey paint to draw a skull on his face.” You faltered as you explained. That was right. When you’d recognized him from his face paint, he had been dressed just like Tate. And later, he’d had red face paint. “Oh…”

           “Oh?” Spencer drew you out before you got too far wrapped up in your realization. You realized your hands were trembling. Spencer covered your hand in both of his and held on, silently promising that he wasn’t going anywhere. “What is it? What do you see?”

           You swallowed. “He wasn’t supposed to be wearing red face paint,” you said dryly. “And it was on his hoodie, too.”

~ ~ ~ Halloween ~ ~ ~

           October 31st. Your least favorite holiday.

           “Are you okay by yourself, Chickadee?” Garcia, respectfully wearing a dull-colored outfit, touched your shoulder while you stared down at the two headstones side-by-side.

           Wordless, you nodded, clutching a bouquet of black-painted roses in your hands, with a silk ribbon wrapped around the flowers in your murdered friends’ favorite color. Garcia left you alone in the cemetery, finding the path and going back to your car. It was the anniversary of Marie’s death. Soon it would be the anniversary of Liv’s. In mere days, you would be standing in the same spot, a bouquet of the same flowers in hand, the same dress on your body, the dress you’d worn to their funerals.

           Seth was nailed on all charges – first-degree homicide, stalking (to find your and Liv’s addresses), breaking and entering, and trespassing with malicious intent. He would never get parole, but after several appeals by a lawyer his high-income father had hired onto his retainer, it seemed as though he might be declared mentally unfit and taken off of consideration for a life sentence. You personally hoped that would never happen, and in the upcoming weeks, you would be called into court to testify against the decision.

           “I won’t let him walk from what he did to you both,” you whispered to their graves. A gentle rush of wind acted up and teased your hair, lifting it over your shoulders, strands curling against your cold cheeks. Kneeling down, you deposited the bouquet gently on Marie’s grave, the flower petals a gentle cushion against the granite headstone.

           On your way out of the cemetery, you were met by Spencer, who took one look at your face and then reached for your hand. He held onto your hand and entwined your fingers loosely, pulling you to walk by his side as he led you to the car. Tiredly, you rocked your head onto his shoulder. “Thank you for coming with me,” you whispered to the man who had become your best friend in the last year, tying with Garcia in the role.

           Halloween sucked for you, but Spencer loved it. You thought it was time you got some closure. The holiday was never going to be your favorite, but if Spencer adored it, then you would learn to be okay. You were determined not to see any real corpses that night. Spencer was going to go to the opening night of a horror film and follow it up by attending the Safe Treat event that you, JJ, and Garcia were all taking Jack and Henry to. The Safe Treat was hosted by your college, and it was the first annual event of its kind, founded in honor of the two students who had died the year before. Faculty and students alike were attending to game, candy, and pumpkin-carving booths, there were going to be photograph opportunities, a costume contest was arranged, and campus security had enlisted their full staff, as well as volunteers from the local police, to make sure that everyone was safe and secure while they had their spooky fun.

           “Of course I came,” Spencer responded back to you softly, turning his head to rest his cheek over your hair. While you slowly walked together down the block towards your car, he pressed his lips against the top of your head. “I love you.”

~~~

~~~

A/N: Happy Halloween everyone! I wrote this a couple of years ago, took it down, and am now reposting it here.

"What happened this time?" Aaron sighed as he approached you. You kept the tissue pressed firmly under your nose. Despite the tissue covering the majority of your mouth, Aaron knows your smirking. You look a little worse for wear, a small amount of blood smeared along the lower side of your face, eye slightly red. Your hair - which was dyed a bright pink - was no longer in it's neat Mohawk, but rather a little... askew.

"Some dickheads." You give a small shrug, a glint in your eyes.

"First off, language." Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose for a second. "And what were these... individuals doing?"

"Turns out, they've been bullying a gay kid two grades below us."

"Okay, and what exactly happened today?"

"I saw them, told them to leave him alone. They told me to get fucked, shoved him, so I stuck up for him." You summarised, finishing your explanation with a shrug.

"Did you try a peaceful negotiation first?"

"Obviously." You scoffed, "I have my morals."

Aaron really couldn't argue with that. "Alright."

"Alright?"

"Yeah." Aaron sighed, "I'm assuming the principal wants to speak to me again?"

"You guessed it."

The principal wasted no time ushering the pair of you in. You didn't bother to wait for an invitation to sit down - you had been here often enough to skip the pleasantries.

"Agent Hotchner."

"Principal Williams."

"Please, take a seat." You rolled your eyes as your dad sat next to you, the principal sitting back in his desk chair. "I wanted to know what you will be doing at home, to reinforce that this type of behaviour is not acceptable."

"What do you mean?"

"What will the consequences be at home for (Y/N)?"

"I'm not going to punish him."

"He needs to understand that this type of reoccurring behaviour is not acceptable."

"That's an opinion." Your dad's voice is clipped and you have to duck your head to hide your smirk.

"Excuse me?"

"He's defending other students. Each and every time you have called me in here, telling me my son is being disruptive, when he is protecting others. Not to mention that violence is always a last resort when protecting another student - which, I believe, is your job?" Aaron phrases the last part as a question, and it takes all of your might not to laugh. "Perhaps it would be best if your time and energy went on preventing bullies, rather than punishing my son for standing up to them."

The team were going to absolutely love hearing about this.

"Now, if you excuse us, I'm going to be taking my son home." Aaron said, standing up. You followed suit, throwing your backpack over your shoulder.

"You're so cool." You mumbled as you both left the office. "Can I get my lip pierced?"

You weren’t pissed per se, just more… shocked, and maybe a little hurt, that Derek hadn’t spoken to you. One moment you were trying to fill out paperwork from a million different files, the next Derek and Garcia were telling the team they had found Declan. You had opted to wait with Garcia for Aaron to come back. It had been a hot minute since you’d seen him.

“Holy shit, you grew a beard?!” Is the first thing that slips out of your mouth. 

From there, everything was a blur. Doyle was in custody, he wasn’t exactly being helpful - which was annoying as it was his son you were trying to find afterall. 

“You get anywhere with Doyle?” Reid asked, as JJ, Derek, and Rossi walked back into the round table room.

“Doyle doesn’t think Gerace has the guts to take him on.” Derek said, you rolled your eyes. Of course he doesn’t, the man has a massive ego.

“But that’s definitely Gerace on the tape.” Garcia sighed as she sat down. 

Derek turned to your brother as he walked into the room. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks. Everybody take a seat.” You frowned, his tone (and eyebrows) indicating that something was definitely up. 

“Why? What’s going on? Is everything alright?” Derek asked, taking a seat next to you.

Aaron looked at you all, you were with Jack on this, you were not a fan of the beard. “Seven months ago I made a decision that affected this team.” Your brother stated. “As you all know Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle.”

You swallowed, hand reaching for Derek’s under the desk.

“But the doctors were able to stabilise her.” Aaron continued. “And she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration.”

You looked at your brother in disbelief, this didn’t make any sense. “Her identity was strictly need-to-know. And she stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to for her security.” 

“She’s alive?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed. 

“But we buried her.” Reid stated, looking up at Hotch from his seat. 

“As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.”

“Any issues?” Derek asked, his voice clipped. “Yeah, I got issues.”

You turned, seeing Emily. Your face dropped. What the fuck. Maybe you were going insane? That was the only other option. Otherwise your brother had lied to you. The one person (apart from Derek) that you thought would never lie to you.

You turned to Aaron, who winced when he saw the hurt and betrayal that filled your eyes. You took a deep breath and just like that, the mask was up and the betrayal was hidden. You turned to Emily, “It’s great to see you’re okay,”

“It’s good to see you too.” She said, giving you a smile. 

You listened patiently as they all discussed the case. You didn’t have it in you. You just listened. As they continue, realising that the alpha of the team (a phrase you struggled to take seriously) was in fact a woman. When the team parted ways to investigate, you stood to make your way to the bathroom. 

“(Y/N)-”

“I don’t want to speak to you right now,”

“(Y/N), please just listen-”

“What, Aaron? You are the one person I could always trust and I did,” You paused, “There was no one else I trusted completely. I trusted you so much, you’re my big brother Aaron. I’ve always trusted you- not mum, not dad, heck I don’t even trust Sean as much, but you? I’ve always trusted you,”

“I’m sorry,” Aaron said, “We couldn’t tell anyone, it was for Emily’s safety,”

“We?”

“Me and JJ,”

“Right,” You said shortly, “JJ knew.”

“Just let me explain,”

“There’s nothing to explain.” You said shortly. “Emily’s alive and you chose to keep it from me.” 

“I had to,”

“Why because of protocol? Because it needed to be confidential?” You knew what you said was right because Aaron’s eyebrow softly twitched. “Who else would I have told Aaron? Who else? I don’t speak to anyone outside of this team! I don’t have a family, a Haley, a Will, children, fuck, I don’t even have a Sergio! I’ve got this team, that’s it! I wouldn’t have told anyone because I don’t have anyone to tell! You know that. That’s what hurts Aaron. So no, I don’t want to listen to you come up with some lame, half-ass excuse about safety.”

“(Y/N), I couldn't tell you in case you told anyone.” 

“Who would I have fucking told Aaron?! Who would I have told?!” You yell, fist slamming into the desk in front of you. “I have fuck all else! My life is this team and that's it! And you fucking know it! So please, tell me, who would I have told!”

You watch Aaron open his mouth for a split second before closing as he looks down.

You just couldn’t focus. Your mind was going a mile a minute, you were talking to your dad at lunch and then with little to no explanation, he had hung up. You had texted him and the team multiple times but no one got back to you. You had then tried to phone Garcia, but the line was engaged, so you resorted to texting her. You felt sick and anxiety swarmed in your chest, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You had tried everyone you could possibly think of and no one was answering. That usually meant something bad had happened or they were about to go into a bad situation. And then the bell rang. 

“Mr Hotchner, focus please.” You looked up, feeling yourself blush as the class turned their attention to you. You mumble an apology as you start to note down the points written on the board. 

“That doesn’t exactly look like the work I set you, Mr Hotchner.” You bit your tongue, mumbling an apology. You weren’t going to snap back. No matter how anxious (and now annoyed) you were. You just turn back to your work, flipping back a page to your work.

Within ten minutes, he was back, peering over your shoulder. “You haven’t made it very far, have you, Mr Hotchner?”

“Will you just fuck off?!” You knew it was a mistake the minute it came out, his eyes darkening as he took a step forward, now in front of you.

“What did you just say to me?” His voice is low and you feel yourself gulp involuntarily. 

“I just- I’m sorry, but I need a minute,” Your voice is shaking and you do your best to push your worries aside, to control the tremors in your voice as you stood up. 

“You’re not in charge here. You’re the student. I’m the teacher. Sit your ass down,” You glare at him before squaring your shoulders.

“I would like a minute to calm down before I sit down.”

“You don’t get a choice.” He responds, you can feel his voice vibrating through your chest as he booms. “Either you sit down or you’re dismissed and are to go straight to the principal's office, so, what’s it going to be?”

You grip your backpack strap tightly in your hand, “See you next lesson then, Sir.”

And then you leave. You would deal with the repercussions of your actions later. Right now, all you know is that you needed to see your dad. You were worried out of your mind, nausea, the lot. But you were going to the principal’s which meant they’d call your dad, maybe for him to come pick you up.

If he can.

You do your best to push down the worries and the thoughts. They wouldn’t do anything to help right now. You knew that, but they seemed to have a mind of their own and didn’t seem to be budging. The nausea was back, this time making its way up to your throat. You swallowed taking some deep breaths. Everything was fine. If something was okay, you would have been told by now. Surely you would have been told by now. Soon enough, your leg’s shaking and your anxiously picking at your nails as you look around the hall. 

You turn your head to the right again, hoping that you’ll see your dad walking down the hall, face stern and ask what happened. And he is there, he’s okay. Relief spreads through your chest in an instant and your shoulders drop the tension they were holding immediately. He was okay. 

“What happened?” Aaron makes sure to keep his voice level but you can’t help but think that he’s pissed. He couldn’t help thinking that perhaps you were going through a rebel phase, it was common at sixteen to start rebelling. 

You shrug for a moment, eyes flicking to Hotch for a moment before you look back at your hands. Aaron raises an eyebrow and you cave, “You hung up and I couldn’t get a hold of anyone. I asked to wait outside for a moment to calm down and he wouldn’t let me, I asked again and I snapped. I tried to cool it down after that but it didn’t exactly work. He said either sit down or go to the principal's office,” 

Aaron sighs for a moment, “I’m sorry you couldn’t contact anyone, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“The last time it happened you were really hurt,”

“I know,” Aaron says softly before he places a hand on his shoulder, “But no more snapping at teachers, okay? I know you were worried and you thought something had happened, but you’re responsible for your actions, no matter the circumstances, okay?”

“I know,” You reply, Aaron brings you into a tight embrace  and you draw in a deep, calming breath. He was okay, everyone was okay. “I’m glad you’re okay, dad.”

“I will always fight to be okay, you hear me?”

“I know.”