tarsier

“I don’t do girls' nights.”

“Oh trust us, we've learned,” Emily deadpans, arms crossed. “That’s why you’re far overdue to finally join us.”

You glance up. “Is this supposed to be, like, an intervention?"

“Think of it more like exposure therapy,” JJ offers.

“I’m still saying no.”

Emily tilts her head, clearly done playing nice. “If you skip out, you’re losing your Sergio visitation privileges.”

Your jaw drops. “That’s emotional manipulation!”

Emily shrugs. “Think of it as an incentive. No girls’ night, no more hangouts with Sergio. He said so himself.”

Goddamn traitorous cat.

You sigh through your nose, clicking your pen closed. “Fine. But if one of you tries to make me play truth or dare, I will not hesitate to pull my taser out.”

Garcia beams. “Perfect. You can bring the tortilla chips.”

—

You show up twenty minutes late on principle.

Garcia’s apartment smells like lime zest, and she greets you in pajama pants covered in tiny unicorns. There’s a pitcher of margaritas on the coffee table alongside a tray of tacos arranged in disturbingly symmetrical rows.

JJ is already sipping her freakishly fluorescent drink while Emily flips through Garcia’s DVD shelf like she’s analyzing evidence.

You hesitate in the entryway. The apartment’s warm and inviting, lit by fairy lights and the orange glow of the kitchen. The Broadway version of “Mamma Mia” screeches out through the speakers.

This is not your scene.

But before you can bolt, Garcia presses a glass into your hand and says, “Here. It’s mysterious and spicy. Like you!”

You sniff the drink suspiciously. It smells vaguely of an extremely strong jalapeño margarita, but when you inspect it further, you realize it has glitter in it. “Did you make this in a mad scientist’s lab?”

Garcia grins. “If my blender classifies as a lab, then yes.”

—

You don’t mean to relax, but it happens in increments anyway.

One taco. A second margarita. A conversation about Hotch’s ability to seemingly go hours without blinking. Another margarita. It’s all very chill, until it isn’t. Until your eyeliner smudges, your boots come off, your knees end up tucked under you on the couch, and your internal monologue starts sounding suspiciously fuzzy.

Emily dramatically reenacts her high school goth phase. JJ throws a pillow at Garcia for revealing that she once went on an accidental date with Reid at — of all places — a football game. Somewhere around margarita four — or is it five? — your cheeks start to ache from smiling. You feel it in your ribs, too. The loose warmth, the way laughter bubbles up before you can catch it. You’re a little dizzy, a little soft around the edges.

You find yourself curled into one end of the couch, almost too at ease for your own good. Emily’s on the floor beside the coffee table, arms crossed over a throw pillow. JJ’s leaning into the crook of the couch, her socked feet up on the cushions, and Garcia is pouring another margarita from the pitcher and humming along to the 10 Things I Hate About You soundtrack.

Your cup’s empty. You’re flushed and warm and pleasantly dazed, and your usual armor has been shed somewhere on the floor with your boots and dignity.

JJ stretches as she turns to look at you straight on. “So. How’s it going with Spence?”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

Emily lifts her eyebrows like this is the exact question she’s been waiting for.

Garcia stirs. “Wait, what’s going on with you and Reid?”

“Nothing’s going on with me and Reid,” you reply too quickly.

“That was convincing,” Emily teases.

JJ grins. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

“I’m not trying to fool anyone,” you insist, straightening up. “He’s just—he’s—” You wave your hand in a vague, unhelpful gesture. “He’s Reid.”

Garcia tilts her head with a soft gasp. “You liiiiike him!”

“No, I don’t.”

“You definitely like him,” JJ corrects.

“I tolerate him,” you lie. It’s a clumsy dodge, and you know it. You’ve been dodging for weeks now — glances, conversations, and the slow, creeping realization that he might be the first person in a long time who makes you feel safe.

“Mm-hmm,” Emily says, sipping.

Your voice falters. “He’s just… very sincere. And weird. And kind. And smart. And—” You cut yourself off.

“Oh my god, you think he’s cute!” Garcia yelps.

You scowl into your drink. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it,” JJ says, clearly enjoying herself now.

“Our resident boy genius isn’t quite my type, but I can totally see it for you,” Garcia says. “He’s got, like, perfect bone structure, and great hair, and freakishly large hands, which, you know what they say…”

You groan. “Can we not talk about his hands? I’m trying to maintain some level of plausible deniability here.”

Garcia laughs so hard she almost spills her drink.

You sink lower into the couch cushions, face flushed, heart stupidly warm. There’s a voice in the back of your head telling you this is dangerous — that comfort is a slippery slope — but it’s quieter than usual tonight. Drowned out by limes and laughter.

JJ nudges you. “Seriously, though. He’s been looking at you lately like you hung the stars.”

You scoff. “He looks at everyone like that.”

“That’s not true,” Emily says softly. “He doesn’t look at any of us like that. It’s just you, Greenaway.”

You meet her eyes. There’s something knowing in them.

That scares you more than you’d like to admit.

—

The margaritas catch up to you all at once. One minute you’re arguing over who’d survive longest in a zombie apocalypse, and the next you forget how to work the volume buttons on your phone. Your face is hot. Your tongue feels fizzy. The room tilts when you close your eyes, but not in a bad way — more like the soft spin of a carousel. You could almost float if you weren’t so weighed down by the sudden ache of wanting something you haven’t let yourself name.

You try to stand and misjudge your center of gravity so badly you have to sit back down, laughing breathlessly into a throw pillow.

You’re drunk.

Not blackout, not messy. But… undignified enough that your usual armor is largely shed and your self-restraint is floating somewhere above you, waving a white flag.

Emily’s already called a cab and offered for you to share, but her place is totally across town from yours so the logistics make no sense. JJ’s on the phone with Will, who’s on his way with sleeping baby Henry in the backseat. Garcia is passed out on her own couch hugging a sequined throw pillow.

You blink down at your phone.

You could call a cab. You could walk — ok, that’d probably be a bad idea given the time and your current level of intoxication, but you could. You could pass out in Garcia’s bed and take the metro home in the morning as soon as it opens.

But you don’t want to do any of those things.

You’re not usually a drunk dialer. You’re not a “help me” kind of girl. But tonight you’re a margarita-softened, tequila-loosened version of yourself who forgets that her walls are supposed to stay up.

So when you open your contacts and your finger hovers, there’s really only one name it wants to land on.

You don’t even think about it.

You just press call.

The line rings once. Then twice. You briefly consider hanging up — but then:

“Hello?”

“Reid,” you say, voice low. “Are you awake?”

There’s a beat. You can almost hear Spencer’s eyebrows furrowing.

“Do sleeping people usually answer their phones?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Another pause. Then, gentler: “Yeah. I’m awake.”

You smile, stupid and sideways. “Hi.”

“Hi. Are you okay?”

You squint up at the fairy lights strung along Garcia’s ceiling. “Define okay.”

“…Are you safe?”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yes, Boy Scout. Perfectly safe. I’m at Garcia’s. There were tacos. And drinks. Possibly several drinks.”

“You’re drunk,” Spencer says.

“No,” you reply, indignant. Then, after a beat: “Okay, yes. I’m drunk. But in, like, a totally charming way.”

“I see,” he says with a smile you can hear in his voice. “How charming are we talking?”

You glance down at your cup. “Mmm, wouldn’t you like to know,” you tease, dragging the syllables out a little too long.

A soft laugh crackles through the receiver. “I would.”

There’s a beat of quiet. You should hang up. You should not be doing this. But your tongue feels loose and your heart feels stupid and you’ve never been very good at restraint when margaritas are involved.

“Spencer?” you say, voice suddenly small.

“Yeah?”

You lean your head back against the couch. “I think Penelope poisoned me.”

“…What?”

“She put glitter in my drink. Glitter. I’m probably dying.”

He huffs a laugh — the kind that sounds like he’s trying not to be charmed but failing anyway. “I don’t think food-grade glitter is lethal, but I’ll look into it.”

“You better,” you mumble. A hiccup bubbles out of you before you can stop it

There’s another beat. You can almost feel him debating what to say next.

Then: “Do you need a ride?”

You blink. “I didn’t say that.”

“I know.”

Your stomach flutters. “I live across town.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Don’t you have, like, books to alphabetize or something? A crossword to finish? A documentary about fungus to cry over?”

He chuckles, and you picture him rubbing the back of his neck, already halfway out the door.

“I want to make sure you get home safe. I’ll sleep better that way.”

You hesitate. Then, more vulnerable than you meant to sound: “I didn’t plan to call you.”

“I know,” he says again — but this time it’s softer. “But I'm glad you did.”

There’s another pause. Then you hear him moving, keys jingling faintly.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he says. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“No promises,” you reply, already slumping deeper into the couch.

“Try anyway. For me.”

“Fine,” you huff. “But if I die of glitter poisoning before you get here, I want you to have my record collection.”

“…Really?”

You smirk. “No. But I like how excited you sounded at the prospect.”

Another laugh, then he hangs up.

And you sit there — cheeks flushed, pulse loud in your ears, heart doing something it has absolutely no business doing — and wait for him.

—

You hear the car before you see the headlights. A short, almost polite beep startles you — it makes you giggle, tipsy and unguarded — and you scramble to your feet, boots half-laced, leaning to peek through the window. And there he is:

Spencer Reid, leaning against a car, curls slightly flattened by the wind, one hand shoved in his coat pocket and the other lifted in an awkward wave.

You push yourself up from the couch and bound out the door, hit by the crisp night air and the sheer absurdity of seeing him outside Garcia’s apartment building, standing beside—

“Do you drive a time machine?” you blurt, squinting at the car’s boxy silhouette.

He glances toward the curb. “It’s a 1966 Volvo Amazon. I don’t drive it often, just when the metro’s down or someone needs—” He trails off, eyes sweeping over you. “Are you cold?”

You’re not, not really. You’re warm all over, blanketed by tequila and adrenaline. But you say, “Maybe,” just to see what he’ll do.

He shrugs out of his coat without a word.

You blink. “Reid, I was joking. I’m fine.”

“Too late,” he says, already draping it over your shoulders. “Let’s get you home.”

—

His car is different from what you expected, but it somehow makes sense for him. Faded light blue paint. Vinyl seats. No center console. The faint scent of books and bergamot and something sharper you can’t name.

He opens the passenger door for you, of course.

“Chivalry and a vintage car. You’re full of surprises, boy genius.”

He smiles, shutting the door behind you after you get in.

“You didn’t have to come,” you murmur once he’s in and buckled.

Spencer glances over at you before easing the car into gear. “You called,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s the simplest answer in the world: You called, I came.

You smirk, slouching a little in your seat. “You make it sound so… ordinary. As if this sort of thing is a common occurrence for you.”

He shakes his head. “Common? Not even a little bit. It’s not every day I get late-night calls from attractive women asking for taxi service,” he says, eyes on the road.

You blink. Then laugh — sudden and delighted. “Did you just call me attractive?”

He flushes instantly. “I didn’t— I mean, yes, but I didn’t mean to say it like that. Not that it’s not true, just—objectively, you’re—well, yeah. But I didn’t—”

“Reid.”

He glances at you again.

“You’re really bad at this.”

This. Flirting.

“I’m aware.”

You rest your head back against the seat, turning just enough to study him in the passing glow of the streetlights. Hair tousled. Cheeks flushed. Lips bitten pink from nerves. Fingers tapping the steering wheel. He’s all sharp jawline and soft gaze, and it shouldn’t work, but it does.

It hits you then — piercing and low in your stomach — just how fucking handsome he is. It’s in a bookish, nervous, kind-eyed way that no one would expect to be your type but apparently is very much your type.

It’s disarming. And frankly, inconvenient.

“You’re not supposed to be this hot.”

His eyes go wide. “What?”

Shit. You did not mean to say that out loud.

“Nothing,” you mumble. “I think Penelope drugged me. I’m having a moment.”

He chuckles under his breath, cheeks flushing even further, and for a second you almost think he’s going to press the issue — but he doesn’t. He just nods and keeps his gaze fixed on the road.

There’s a lull after that. Your hand drifts to the hem of your skirt, adjusting it absently. His coat swamps your frame.

“I like the car,” you say finally. “It suits you.”

“I don’t know about that,” he replies. “But I always liked the idea of driving an antique car. There’s so much history behind the design and manufacturing. Plus, it’s got more character than a modern car. Manual transmission. No power steering. It doesn’t let you coast — you’ve got to work for it.”

You glance over at him. “Of course you’d like something that fights back.”

He looks over at you, smiling crooked. “Is that why I like hanging out with you?”

The truth in that question almost makes you shiver.

You’re not simple. You don’t make things easy. You fight everything: change, softness, connection. But for some reason, he seems to gravitate towards you in spite of all that. He chooses to spend time with you over everyone else on the team, every single opportunity he gets. He’s gone out of his way for you, more than once now, just because he wants to. And you aren’t blind to the way he’s been looking at you lately, either. You know what that look means, even if you’re still actively refusing to acknowledge it.

“Touché, Doctor,” you murmur after a long moment, turning your gaze out the window.

—

You’re five minutes from your apartment when Spencer breaks the quiet that’s fallen over you.

“You know, it’s not lost on me that you could’ve called anyone,” he says.

“I could’ve,” you agree. “Well, okay, not anyone. Half the people I know in this city are just as drunk as I am tonight, or otherwise occupied.” You exhale, then add, softer: “But I didn’t want to call anyone else.”

There’s a pause as he sucks in a sharp breath. “I know.”

Your heart does something sideways, and you sneak a glance at him — the way his jaw ticks, the way he’s holding the wheel a little too tightly, like if he loosens his grip the car might spin off the road. Or maybe you might.

He pulls up outside your apartment and parks. There’s an extended pause before he lets go of the wheel and looks over at you.

“You gonna let me walk you to your door?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “More chivalry?”

“Just trying to avoid feeling responsible for a drunken slip-and-fall tragedy.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt and reach for the door handle, but he’s already out, circling the front of the car to your side.

And when he opens it, you hesitate — not because you’re stubborn, or proud, or still drunk — but because he holds out his hand.

Palm up. Steady. Waiting under the façade of helping you up.

You stare at it for half a second too long. Then, finally, you take it.

His fingers close around yours, and you try to ignore the zing it sends down your spine. You try not to think about the last time you touched his hand, in the car on that stakeout a few weeks back. And you try desperately to push down the memory of what his hands did to you in that dream you had while you were sick.

You step out, heels hitting the curb, his coat still draped around your shoulders, your fingers still tangled in his.

He doesn’t let go.

Not yet.

And neither do you.

The two of you stand there for a moment, suspended in that soft, stupid kind of silence that surrounds things left unsaid. His fingers are warm around yours. His coat still hangs off your shoulders, heavy and a little ridiculous, swallowing your frame.

Finally, you speak. “You gonna keep holding my hand or…?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, sheepish, and drops it. “Right. Sorry.”

You’re not sorry.

The stairs to your apartment feel longer than usual. Maybe it’s because of the way he walks beside you: careful and quiet and too polite to make fun of you when you stumble once near the top. You glance sideways. He’s watching you from the corner of his eye like you might fall again.

You won’t.

You’re not that wasted.

Just… drunk enough to think about how nice his coat smells. Just drunk enough to stare at his profile in the glow of the hallway light and think things you should not be thinking about a coworker. Just drunk enough to pause at your front door and feel something flutter, stupid and half-formed, in the base of your throat.

“Thanks for the ride,” you murmur, fiddling with your keys.

“Anytime,” he says softly. “Really.”

You unlock the door, but don’t open it. You hesitate for a beat too long.

You should go inside. You know that.

Instead, you glance up at him, eyes a little glossy from the alcohol. “You wanna come inside for some coffee?”

It’s casual, or at least it’s meant to be. But he hears the subtext in it. You both do.

He doesn’t answer immediately — just studies you for a second, gaze steady, hands in his pockets. You notice the pulse ticking fast in his neck.

“I think you might regret that in the morning,” he says finally, taking a small step back. His voice softens when he adds, “And I don’t want to be something you regret.”

It’s the softest goddamn rejection of all time. It could win awards for how soft it is, really. Wrapped in concern, ribboned with restraint. The kind of letdown that almost sounds like an apology — like he’s trying to protect you from yourself, no matter how badly he wants to say yes.

You stare at him, then huff a breath and look away. “God, you’re annoyingly noble.”

“Someone has to be.”

You shake your head, half-blushing despite yourself, and push open your door.

“I’ll see you Monday, Greenaway,” he says with a shy, lopsided smile.

You nod, looking back at him over your shoulder. “Right. See you Monday, Reid.”

You forget to give him back the coat.

—

Morning arrives far too quickly. You wake up to the sound of something — maybe a knock, maybe just the wind — with your mouth dry and your mascara smudged. There’s glitter on your cheekbone and a dull ache behind your left eye and someone else’s jacket tossed at the end of your bed.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Then you groan, flashes of your drunk dial and too-intimate ride home rushing to the forefront of your mind. Shit, shit, shit. You drag yourself up and head toward the door because there’s a decent chance you forgot to lock it last night and because you still think it might’ve been a knock that woke you.

When you open it, there’s no one there — just a to-go coffee cup in front of your door in the hall, steam curling out of the hole in the lid.

There’s a note scribbled on the sleeve.

Added a shot of espresso. I figured you’ll need it today. Also: No glitter. Not poison. Promise. - S.R.

You press your forehead to the doorframe and lean against it, letting out a quiet laugh, followed by a sigh.

You remember it then — the way you’d stood at your door, keys in hand, his coat slipping off your shoulders, asking him to come inside for coffee.

COFFEE. At nearly 2 in the morning.

Smooooth.

Someone should seriously revoke Penelope’s tequila privileges.

You pick up the cup with a groan and thumb open your phone.

[text, 9:38am]

you: thanks for the caffeine fix

you: and for the rescue last night

you: and for not judging me (you better not be judging me)

you: also, i was very drunk

you: so if i said or did anything incriminating, you imagined it. i am not responsible.

Minutes later, your phone buzzes.

[text, 9:41am]

Dr. Reid: Understood.

Dr. Reid: I'll redact the evening from my memory.

Dr. Reid: But for the record, you were charming, just like you said you’d be. Dangerously so.

You stare at the screen, heat prickling at the back of your neck as you take a long sip of coffee.

Dangerously so.

Nope. You’re not blushing. You’re just hungover. Obviously.

You take another sip, letting the bitterness ground you. Despite your best efforts not to, you think about his hand in yours, and that stupid stunned look on his face when you’d asked if he wanted to come in, and the sound of his voice quietly shaking as he turned you down.

Put that thought down, you think to yourself. Back on the shelf where it belongs.

But it doesn’t go.

It lingers, warm and buzzing, right beneath your ribs.

ᝰ.ᐟ

“Not bad,” you say. Another thing about James is that in addition to his relentless geniality, he’s ferociously attractive. It takes all of your willpower not to let your eyes dip from his face to where his short sleeves conform to his biceps when he leans that way, but your face heats regardless. “Yours?” 

“Pretty good, actually.” He smiles easily. “It’s gorgeous out, have you felt the weather?” 

You shake your head. “I haven’t been out yet.” 

James nods like he knows this already, humming noncommittally. You think you spy a bit of judgment in his look, but you can’t be sure. “So,” he says, “I have something to ask you.” 

You tense. “Okay…” 

“I know you value your privacy, and I totally respect that, but I feel like as your roommate it’s my responsibility to at least ask.” 

You feel your eyes narrowing as you nod for him to continue. 

James schools his face into seriousness, a frown on his lips that looks like it doesn’t belong. “Do you not eat?” 

You laugh, relieved and bemused. “Of course I eat.”

The smile he gives you is strained, clearly for your benefit rather than his. “You sure about that? Because this morning I just saw you have one—one—piece of toast for breakfast, and then for lunch you had…what?” 

You shy, more because of his notice than anything else. The microwave beeps and you use it as an excuse to turn around. “Some cheese and crackers.” 

When you pivot with the steaming bowl, James is looking at you incredulously.

“They’re really filling!” 

“That’s a snack, love, not a meal. Both of those are snacks. Did you have anything else?” 

You hold up the bowl in your hand. “I’m about to have some beans.” 

His laugh is monosyllabic. Appalled. “You’re not serious.” 

You roll your eyes at him even as your face heats. “Listen, it’s not my most nutritious day, but I’ve been in a rush, and…” You were going to say more, but decide against it. “Anyway, there’s protein in the beans, so.” 

James isn’t having it. “And what?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Something.” He raises his eyebrows at you. “C’mon, spill, or I’m going to call your mum and tell her about your big day of—“ He draws quotes in the air, full lips curving he does “—beans and crackers.” 

“And toast,” you joke. James’ smile is small and short-lived. Does he really have your mum’s phone number? He can’t possibly. 

You sigh. “Okay, it’s nothing to do with you, but I…I’m a bit weird about being in the kitchen at the same time.” James’ thick eyebrows meet in the middle, and your shoulders hunch instinctively but you force yourself to finish explaining. “I just want to grab whatever is quickest and go before I make things awkward, or something. But I know it’s stupid.” You shake your head. You could burn the apartment to cinders with the heat from your face. “I don’t own the kitchen. You have every right to be here, and I’ll get used to it eventually. It’s just that you’re new to me right now.” 

James' expression clears. “Oh, you’re shy.” 

You must look even more embarrassed at that, because he hurries to say, “That’s alright, it’s good to know how you feel about things. And now I don’t have to call your mum.” He grins, and it widens when you make a tiny effort to reciprocate. “I don’t mind stepping out of the kitchen so you can cook every now and then.”

“You really don’t have to.” 

“It’s no trouble.” He waves you off. “Honestly, it’s too small for both of us to comfortably use at the same time anyway. Careful by the way, that pan’s hot.” 

You glance behind you, and you’ve backed yourself nearly into the stove. You move away, squeaking out a thanks. 

James’ smile softens. “I do hope you're right about getting used to me eventually, though.” He gives you a kind look, and you have no idea how he can maintain eye contact with that much sincerity in his big brown eyes. You envy the skill. “I’d like to get to be friends, but we’ve got time for that.” 

It doesn't take more than that for Hotch to click into work mode. "Stay on the phone with me. Don't talk. I'm going to put you on hold to call Morgan. I will be ten seconds at most. Don't panic. Don't hang up. If you think you can leave without being seen or heard, leave, but if you can't, don't show him where you are." 

The invader's footsteps track to the bedroom. You know at once that your tired mind isn't hallucinating a bad scenario to keep you up —this is real. 

You had the hindsight to close your laptop and push it under the bed along with your go-bag, a rucksack full of clothes that you take on cases in different states as part of the BAU. You'd made a quick assessment —your job more than prepared you for this— based on the little information you had. Either the invader knows nothing about you and has assumed you'd be home, or they watch you enough to think you'd be elsewhere. If they think you're here, you're in danger of being assaulted, kidnapped, or murdered. If they think you're away, you're in danger of being robbed. One scenario is a thousand times more preferable than the other. 

You can't help but think of the horrible things you've seen. You know intimately what kind of damage one person can do to someone at their mercy. 

The hold sound is a quiet droning that freaks you out. If you can hear it, the intruder might be able to, too. Like the low hum of the fridge at night or the bumping of the dyer. 

You hang up the phone. 

"I know you're here." 

Your pulse flies through the roof. It pounds so hard you can feel it everywhere, the tip of your nose, your eyelashes. You look through the dark of your closet and panic in the fullest definition of the word. Your heart can't sustain this for long. 

You failed to think of a third possibility. The intruder watches you enough to know you're home. The BAU has a lot of enemies. Anyone could be waiting for you on the other side of the door.

"Come out and I'll be kind," the intruder sing-songs.

You type out a text with shaking hands, your message nearly illegible. 

They knowa 8m hjome. Cant talkk dontcall me

Thirty seconds elapse. A reply comes through. You smother the chirp with your chest. It sounds loud as a shot in the relative quiet. 

Police dispatch 5mins. I'm 10mins. Morgan 12. I will be there as soon as I can. Protect yourself 

That's easy for him to say. You drop your phone in defeat but scramble to pick it up again when you realise it's your best weapon. Or… You crawl to the opposite end of the closet to your shoe rack and slide the shoes apart with honey slow movements, your breath coming in quick, too-loud pants. You never expected to feel this way, you thought you'd know exactly what to do, how to react, but this feels outside of reality. 

You brace the long heel of a shoe between your fingers. Your hand is a vice. 

In your bedroom, the intruder goads you. "I know you're home, Y/N. There's only so many places for me to look, you know? But if you make me check each one, I'll be unhappy when I find you." 

What the fuck? you think. Breaking apart the fear like a knife is anger, a new shot of adrenaline. Who is this guy? You want to spring from the closet and show him how unhappy you are, but your chances of survival improve the longer you can hide. If he has a gun, that's it. You could be dead in the next two minutes. No amount of anger would save you. 

You could be dead in the next two minutes. 

thank you dpr everything, for being my friend aaron, you text. You know how embarrassing it will be to have said goodbye if nothing bad happens to you, but you also know how haunted Hotch will be if he can't get to you in time. You aren't foolish enough to unravel your feelings for him over text, but you're sentimental enough to think they'd matter to him. He'd want to know. 

If things go bad please knoeew that I loved my life and my work and you and the tram more than anything

After a moment, you add, If things don't go bad please nevrr mentiom this 

Footsteps at the closet door. A pause that feels gargantuan, the silence so heavy it threatens to snap the floorboards beneath your knees. 

"Found you." 

You leap up and throw yourself at the closet door as hard as you can, gasping when it swings on the hinges and clips your opposition in the leg. You don't think, you don't look at his face, you simply drive the point of your shoe into his collar. 

He gasps. Something hard and rigid whips upward, your neck snapping to one side as the skin of your cheek splits, gunmetal glancing off of bone. You drop down onto your ass, half out of necessity and half to get away from the pain. You can't outrun it, nor can you escape the forthcoming assault, grunting in shock as the bottom of the gun comes down atop your head. It was likely meant to incapacitate you, but all it does is hurt. 

You flip onto your front, stagger onto your hands and knees, and launch yourself up through the bedroom doorway. You only have to get away. 

He sweeps your legs from under you barely ten feet down the hall. 

You fall. Your knees hit the hallway slats and your face follows, the nerve endings in your teeth ringing one by one and your eyes tearing up as your nose makes a huge thwacking sound. Gasping, you rush to cover your face though the damage is done. Your gasp turns to a sob, hands quickly wetted by blood. 

"Stupid bitch," he hisses. 

You crawl into the kitchen. He steps on the back of your thigh. 

"I have a G43 pointed straight at the back of your fucking head."

"Good for you?" you say, eyes squeezed closed. 

You whimper as he grinds his foot into your leg. 

"Don't think I won't use it when I'm done with you." 

You shake your head from side to side. That can't be what he's here for.

You should ask him what he wants, or threaten him with the approaching police sirens. You should've tried to climb out of your fire escape. You should've set the door alarm as soon as you came home, but you're just so fucking tired lately you must've forgot. Everything feels like a chore. Right now, you're exhausted. 

"What are you going to do?" he asks you. 

You won't negotiate. You don't answer.

Forceful, no time to protect yourself, he kicks you in the side of the face. It hurts worse than the fall, that shattering pain like a firework under your skin. You struggle to keep your mouth shut, hoping that your whining cry is less audible to him than it is to you, scrambling backward toward the cabinets. You're defeated. Maybe you deserve it, for it to happen so easily. Three minutes and you're down. 

"I asked you what are you going to do, Agent?" 

"What am I supposed to say?" you ask. Even to your own ears, you sound pathetic. 

"Whatever I want you to. Now get up, honey." You cringe. "Unless you want to stay on the floor like a dog?" 

"Don't call me that," you say, wincing at the grinding sensation of your jaw. 

"What, a dog? Or… honey?" His tone is smug. "I thought you'd like that. It's what your boss calls you, isn't it? Late at night when he drops you off. Not strictly professional." 

You groan and turn onto your side. The police sirens are getting close. You live in a busy place near a main road, the sirens could be for anybody, but you need them to be for you.

"Get up, honey. You can pretend I'm him, if you like. I'll make it easy on you. I can be nice." 

You deliberate. Do as he says, or risk further agitation. Do what he says. Live to see the end of the night. 

Or drag it out. Give Hotch enough time to get here. 

"You'll pretend to be him?" you ask, sniffing. You can't tell if you're crying or there's blood on your face. 

"Aw. To begin with, sure." 

You sit up. For the first time, you look your attacker in the face. It's difficult to tear your eyes from the barrel, but you do. He has a cruel face, as tall and formidable as Hotch is but with none of his lightness. You put on your softest expression, gazing at him through tears. When you speak, the fear is real, even if you're attempting a facade. "You'll be gentle?" 

"No. You think he'd be gentle? Agent Hotchner?" His lip curls in disgust.

"I don't know," you mumble, looking down at the floor. "You said you'd be nice." 

"We both know you don't like nice." 

"I do," you say, finding your footing in the charade, the sorry victim, whatever he needs you to be for now. You hate giving him anything, but you know in the moment that you'll do what you need to do to save yourself from injury. "I haven't… I haven't done stuff in a long time, I can't just rush into things." 

The gun makes a quiet clicking sound as he points it with more fervour. "Like I believe that. You're probably fucking Hotchner on the side." 

There, that jealousy. He's been watching you, he knows where you live, what you want, and he's still convinced that you're fucking Hotch. It's not logical.

You cling to the threads, trying to pull apart his composure. You'd assumed him an anger-excitation rapist, unafraid to hurt you as he already has, but now you're thinking something else. 

"You think I'm sleeping with my boss? Why?" 

"Besides your constant need to be touching him? It's disgusting, you throw yourself at someone who doesn't want you. You're pathetic. I can make you better." 

You see movement in the corner of your vision. Dark hair, a stony expression. Hotch stands at the precipice of the kitchen in a bulletproof vest, a finger to his lips. Sh. 

Your relief knocks a breath out of you. The invader takes it for pain at being read. 

"Look," he says, softer. Not genuine softness, but practised. As soon as you give in, he'll drop it. You're both acting for one another, but only one of you is a profiler. "You'll forget all about Agent Hotchner once we're done. So just get up." 

You hold out your hand. His eyes light up with malice as he leans down to take it, his gun finally aimed away from your face. 

Hotch moves in. 

"Drop the weapon." 

Your attacker whirls. Hotch doesn't hesitate. Front sight, controlled trigger press, follow through. A bang like a clap of thunder fills the room. 

You flinch down into yourself. Everything goes a little white for a while, people running into the room, a gun skittling across your kitchen tile. Your ears ring from the bang of two bullets and you're sure you've been hit, you're hurting so much, but hands squeeze under your arms to tell you otherwise. 

"You're okay," Hotch says, knee against your thigh, face ducked down to meet your eyes. "Hey, can you hear me?" 

You shake your head. You can hear him, but you're far from okay. Hotch bites commands over his shoulder, holding your waist in his hands like he's worried you'll slip out of them. Tight. Too tight. You suck in as big a breath as you can manage and choke on it, coughing, the wild sting of your wounds a ringer. 

"You did so well," he says as he catalogues your injuries, his frown deepening. He tilts your head up to the light. 

"I knew you were on your way," you deflect.

"You were talking him down." 

"No, I was surrendering." 

"You didn't give in until you saw me. You weren't surrendering." 

"But I would have," you whisper, closing your eyes.

"Doing what you need to to survive isn't easy. But you do it." 

You hang your head. 

— 

Hotch winces at the sound of your skin being sewn closed. Morgan sits beside you in the back of the ambulance holding your hand, your fingers twitching between his with every tug. They dosed you and applied a general anaesthesia, but the pain is pervasive. His eyes keep moving back to your hand in Morgan's. He isn't jealous —he's annoyed with himself. Hotch should be the one holding your hand.

He should've hugged you. The absence of it feels awkward between you, though he's positive that that's the last thing you're thinking of right now.

"Will you have to set her nose?" Morgan asks. 

The paramedic shakes his head. "Not broken. Just very badly bruised. Even the bone." 

"That doesn't need a cast?" 

Hotch should hold your hand, should hug you, should be organising the scene. Should, should, should. The only thing he's managed to do since he incapacitated your stranger is watch you for signs of life. 

You're despondent. In shock, no doubt. You let your friends pass you from place to place with little more than pained sighs for input.

JJ does an excellent job of surveying the goings on, while Rossi and Reid take care of some of the bigger questions: who is this guy, what did he want, and how did it come to happen? 

What did he want? Hotch can guess. Rage collects like the heart of a furnace, a molten cup of steel in his throat as what he heard you say plays over and over in his head. 

You'll be gentle? 

No. You think he'd be gentle? Agent Hotchner?

He'll never forget the way you sounded asking that question. Terrified, begging for a scrap of mercy. 

Emily approaches from behind. "We have a name." Hotch tips his head to show he's listening. "Paulo Danvers. He was part of a crew that installed her security parameters a few months ago. He was vetted. This shouldn't have happened." 

"No, it shouldn't have." Hotch lowers his tone, "She said she wasn't sure she set the lock." 

"It wouldn't have mattered. He disengaged it from the outside." Emily takes a few steps closer to the ambulance. "Hey. Morgan taking care of you?" 

"Don't I always?" Morgan asks, clapping your arm gently. 

You don't answer. 

"What, you're not talking to me?" Emily asks. She's not mad, the opposite. Concern lines her eyes, thin brows pinching together at the starts, though she does her best to smile through it. 

"I don't feel well," you say quietly. 

"Yeah? You're not squeamish, are you?" 

"Don't think so." 

"It's shock," says the paramedic. 

"What's your pain like?" Hotch asks. He's the only person you'll give a straight answer to. "Bad?" 

"Yeah." Your hand is lax in Morgan's. 

"I can give you slow release tramadol to last the night or codeine pretty much immediately. It's up to you. And I'm really not comfortable with releasing you without next of kin. Do you have family in the area?" 

You shake your head. "It's just Hotch. Agent Hotchner," you correct yourself, nodding at him.

"You're her partner?" the paramedic asks. He can sense the disapproval. 

"Her boss." 

"Not her partner?" 

"He's my closest friend," you say. 

He's never heard you say that before, but it's true. 

"I wish you were my boss," the paramedic jokes, turning back to her supplies as she peels off her gloves. "Maybe I'd get better sick pay." 

You're given slow release tramadol and officially pronounced to be on the mend. If he didn't have an FBI badge, you'd be spending the night on a ward. He'd prefer if you did, but you clearly don't want to be somewhere alone right now, and he just wants to give you what you want after having your choices held over your head.  

He's not offended when Emily asks if you'd prefer to stay with her. It's harrowing what might have happened to you had you not heard the initial break in, and the perpetrator would've been a man like Hotch. Tall, white, dark-haired. He wouldn't blame you for needing space from him to feel safe tonight, but he's relieved when you turn her down. 

"You don't have to act like something happened to me," you say.

Hotch clicks down the locks of his car and turns on the overhead light. You squirm in the passenger seat, looking wrecked. Your chin is split, your nose a dark purple mess cut by white splint. You have a cut on your cheek and another just above your eye. 

"You don't think something happened?" he asks, hands on his legs. He can tell you wish he would start the car and take you home without pressing. 

"No, I know, I look awful, but he didn't do anything to me." Why is it so hard to say what it could have been? "You don't have to act like I'm gonna wig if you touch me." 

"You won't mind if I hug you?" he asks. 

"No. No, I want you to." 

It's thankfully a short gap to cover as Hotch leans over the console. He's careful of your face and still you mumble a tired, "Ouch," in his ear.

He rubs your back, slow and soft. "You okay?" he asks. 

You don't answer for a while. It doesn't matter, Hotch'll sit here in his parked car for hours if you want him to, hands on your hunched back. Your face hides away. He can feel and hear your distress building, and he wants you to cry if you need to, but it'll hurt.

"Sh," he hushes you gently, "it's okay." 

"I'm fine." You sound welled up. 

"Someone broke into your home and held you at gunpoint. You don't have to be fine." 

"Yeah, I do. It's my job." 

"No, that's not your job," he says, closing his eyes. "This has nothing to do with your job. This is about something bad happening to you. Don't put walls up now. It won't work, it never does." 

He tries to back away in case you're overwhelmed.

"Wait," you say, your panic like a cough. 

"I'm not going anywhere," he says. 

You sniffle, nodding into his chest. Hotch has comforted a hundred victims of violent assault. He's held the faces of women he didn't know hoping to give them something solid to lean on. But it's different with you, because you and Hotch aren't simply friends. There's a deeper vein of affection, and tonight's event is a jagged slash against it, bringing every unbidden feeling he has for you to the surface. He can't get how scared you sounded out of his head. He knows that feeling is still there. 

"How did you get here so fast?" you asked. 

"I took the side road. And went unavoidably fast." 

You make a small, small sound. He's known you for long enough to understand what it demarcates, unsurprised when the trembling of your shoulders turns to pained shaking. Hotch holds you delicately. He's done so much in his life, made a thousand and one mistakes, used a heavy hand when he could've been sweeter. He's determined to get this part right. 

"I'm with you now," he says. "I'm sorry I couldn't–" This is harder than he imagined. He presses on. "Couldn't protect you from the start." 

"You know why I called you?" you ask, your tone similarly soft. 

Hotch doesn't bother answering. The answer is unsaid, loudly heard. 

"I knew you'd come," you finish.

He puts a hand on your neck to encourage you into place, kissing the side of your head. Hotch will always come when you call. 

That night, you ask to sleep in his room. I'll sleep on the floor, just don't want to be alone. You're in ragtag clothes he'd scraped together for you, and after helping you wash the blood from your hair and face, you're even more impossible to say no to than usual, looking small in a way you haven't before. Hotch sets you up in bed next to him and wonders if he'll ever sleep next to someone he hasn't let down. 

You put that notion straight in your sleep. Hotch lays awake sick with the idea that he's failed you, and you, frowning, snoring, covered in cuts, curl into his side. You cling to his arm so hard he's certain you're awake at first, a bouquet of bruises painted across your cheek. 

Hotch pulls the blanket up over your shoulder, planting a chaste kiss to your forehead. 

He whispers your name, not sure what he'd say if you answered. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

spencer turns at the sound of your voice, "hi sweetheart," he hums, looking up at you just as you dip to kiss him quickly before pushing the bag of food onto his lap

"hey," you smile softly at your boyfriend before turning to his colleagues, "hey guys, how are we all?" you ask, getting a mixed bunch of replies back

"how's painting?" derek laughs, looking at your appearance and the state of your clothes

you slide onto spencer's desk, pulling your legs up to sit cross legged, "standing six feet up a ladder trying to hold a tray of paint and a brush is hard, i've nearly fallen off twice," you huff,

spencer hands you the sandwich he knows is yours and then seemingly looks at you properly for the first time since you've been there, "hey," he says, almost breathlessly

"hello?" you question, head tilting slightly, "you've already said hi," you say, looking at emily and jj who just snicker and shrug their shoulders but spencer doesn't reply, "oh before i forget!"

your boyfriend watches you carefully as you produce a piece of paper from the tiny pocket on the front of your dungarees, flapping it around to unfold it, your other hand busy clutching your food

"the living room is next, i need to know how much paint to buy," you explain, handing the paper to him, "the cans are one litre or five litres, i can't figure it out"

truth be told you hadn't bothered to try and work it out, knowing spencer would be able to reel off the answer like it's nothing, naturally, he knew the exact measurements of every wall in his house

the boy stares up at you blankly, big brown eyes soft and sparkly. your cheeks heat up under his gaze, your eyebrows raising slightly, "spence?" you nudge him with your knee

he jumps ever so slightly, his head shaking a bit, "hmm?" he asks before only just registering you've handed him something, his eyes scan over it, "oh!" he blushes, turning his chair to face his desk

"what colour are you doing the living room?" jj asks while she stabs at her salad like it's offending her. you'd consulted the girls with all of the decorating developments.

"a light brown i think, we have so much to hang on the walls," you pause to swallow, "so something neutral," you finish with a slight nod

a door opening to your side grabs your attention, aaron coming out of his office with his lunch. he comes down into the bullpen, sitting on the edge of emily's desk, "the paint fighting back?" he asks you, slight smile creeping over his face

you roll your eyes at him, playfully, while the other laugh at your expense, "very funny but i don't see any of you offering to help"

penelope scoffs, "actually, i did" and she was right, however her idea of getting wine drunk and decorating had been quickly shut down by spencer, the only input he's actually offered up in the whole process

giggling, you turn back to your boyfriend who's been far too quiet, "boy wonder?" you say gently, pushing your fingers through his hair, "got an answer for me?"

usually he would have an answer within seconds, his minutes of silence making you frown, he turns to you with the same frown painted across his face, "i don't know," he says

people around you gasp, loudly too, "what do you mean, you don't know?" emily almost chokes on her lunch, sitting forward to gawp at the boy

"i do not know how much paint we need" he confirms

derek scrambles, pulling his phone out of his pocket, "say it again, i need record of this moment" he pleads while garcia smacks him

"well there's a first," david says, wandering over after hearing spencer say i don't know for possibly the first time, ever

your boy stares at the paper in his hand and then up at you, confused, "i have to go and work it out, excuse me" he says, rushed, as he stands and takes off towards circle table room

after a moment of shocked silence you turn to the team who are all staring directly at you, "i'll go check on him, i wonder what's wrong?" you say to no one in particular as you hop off of the desk

"i think i know," jj sing songs and the others hum in agreement as you hop up the stairs and along the walkway into the room.

when you get into the room spencer is stood in front of the biggest whiteboard you've possibly ever seen, marker in hand though the board is still empty of his handwriting

"spence? angel?" you say quietly, staring at his back as he starts to write the measurements of the walls in his living room, "everything alright?"

he hums, not turning to look at you as he continues to work through the problem, "yeah, fine, just can't think properly when you're around," he admits, "not when you look like that," he turns slightly to look at you

"oh, do you want me to leave?" you're sad, its obvious in your voice. nervously you start fiddling with the sleeves of your sweatshirt

your boyfriend gasps, "no, no, honey that's not what i meant!" he says, holding his arm out. you slide into the space, head resting on his shoulder, "you're so beautiful and i love you so much, so so much, my brain just switches off when you’re around"

"really?" you giggle, looking up at him. he hums and nods his head, a light blush rushes up his neck before taking over his cheeks, "i love you too,"

he's taller than you, forcing you onto your tip toes to kiss him, not caring when someone, emily, whoops from the bullpen. gentle hands squeeze at your waist, while you hold his face with one hand, the other resting on his shoulder

"three litres," spencer mumbles against your mouth, you pull away with a sight hum, forgetting what you'd asked of him, "you need three but it's cheaper to just buy five and have left over, now come back" he huffs, his arm wrapping tighter around you to pull you back in for another kiss