Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART 1: illicit affairs

“Katie!” You yell and run to catch up with your roommate. You sling your crossbody further up onto your shoulder, walking side by side with her..

“Are you ready for our first day of law school, Einstein?” She nudges you with a smile.

You roll your eyes at the nickname and open your phone and glance down at the schedule, “Yep. Room 221, Aaron Hotchner, Criminal Law.” You lock the phone and shove it into your pocket, “So what do we know about this Hotchner guy? You always seem to know something.”

“I heard he’s kind of a sexist asshole,” She walks alongside you across the lawn. The weather is still warm so the whole campus is covered with students. You try your best to contain the combination of nerves and excitement but the large coffee you have in hand isn’t exactly helping.

“I mean most men are,” You laugh playfully, “But how bad is it?”

“Apparently he picks one person each year that he just grills and utterly tears apart during class. It’s usually a female student.” You open your thermos as Katie talks and take a long sip.

“Jesus, what a prick,” You chuckle and shake your head, “Probably thinks most of the female students aren’t as qualified.”

“Apparently he’s a fucking ruthless grader. He only gives one student in the entire class an A each semester.” She looks at you, “So don’t take it too personally when you don’t get an A.”

You roll your eyes at her. You’ve only known Katie a few weeks but she’s already become your best friend. As your best friend, she takes every opportunity to tease you about everything. Especially the fact that you’re only 20 years old. You’re not a genius by any standard. You just work hard. School is everything to you. Intelligence is everything. It’s what you have the most confidence in. Don’t get it twisted, you don’t think you’re unattractive. You just never feel more confident than when you’re in an academic environment. So Katie teases you. Guess the nickname for today is Einstein.

As you adjust the bag on your shoulder you can’t help but notice how light it feels. “Holy fucking shit,” Your eyes widen and you freeze in your tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Katie walks a few steps ahead before realizing that you’ve stopped a little behind her.

“Fuck! I forgot my textbook and my laptop on my bed!” You rifle through the bag, pulling all your books out of the bag and into your arms.

“Do you really need them?”

“All of my notes about the reading are on my computer!” You hand Katie a few things from your bag as you empty the whole thing out, all your materials for the class missing from the bag.

“I mean who assigns reading on the first day anyway,” Katie shrugs, “I barely skimmed the reading. You don’t need that stuff. And if he asks questions about it, I’m sure you’ll remember enough.”

You groan loudly at her nonchalant attitude, taking your belongings back from her arms and dropping them back into the bag. “I have to go back and get my stuff.” You turn on your heel and start running as fast as you can back to your apartment building.

Katie calls from behind you, “Einstein! Y/N! You’ll never get to class on time!”

Her voice fades into the background as you run across the street, running as fast as possible back to your apartment building. You sprint up the stairs, skipping steps as you go and burst through your door. You snatch up the textbook and laptop thrown on the comforter. Your lungs are burning, the thermos of coffee in your hand sloshes aggressively as you take off at top speed back across the lawn and into the law school building.

You run down the halls, trying your best to read the classroom numbers as they fly by. You grip the handle of the door and pull it open before rushing inside.

As soon as you step into the classroom a curse flows from your lips, “Fuck.” Unluckily for you, the entrance is not at the back of the lecture hall. You can’t slip in quietly and slide into a seat. There you stand, at the front of the classroom, every single eye trained on you. Your professor was talking when you entered the room but now he’s gone silent. You’re terrified to look up at him.

You immediately lock eyes with Katie who reaches to slide her belongings off the chair next to her. She saved you a seat. You take your first step, but Professor Hotchner loudly clears his throat. You look up at him.

Holy god he’s terrifying. He stands tall, insanely tall, compared to you. His button down shirt is rolled up to his elbows and the top button unbuttoned. His brow is furrowed deeply as he stares at you. “Miss…” He trails and turns to grab the roster from his desk, giving it a quick once over, “Y/L/N.”

“Yes, sir,” Your voice is a small squeak in comparison to his commanding voice.

“Would you mind reminding us all what time class starts?” He quirks up a brow at you.

“11:00,” You let out. His piercing glare keeps you locked into place, he’s not letting you seek safety of embarrassment by at least taking a seat.

“I’m sorry I misspoke. See,” he crosses his arms and moves a little closer to you. He points out at the lecture room full of students. You follow his hand and look at all of them, your face growing hotter by the second, “Your classmates didn’t need that reminder, seeing as they all showed up on time.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Sir. I forgot my notes–”

Professor Hotchner doesn’t let you finish that thought, “I don’t care. You realize that you have now wasted not only my time, but the time of all your classmates. Your tardiness demonstrates to me your irresponsibility as you couldn’t be bothered to wake up on time. Or maybe you just simply do not respect your classmates.”

Your hand clutches tightly at the strap of your bag. The other hand holding your cup trembles and you curse yourself both for letting the intimidation affect you and for letting it show. You open your mouth to protest but Professor Hotchner holds up a hand to stop you.

“Tell me, Miss Y/L/N, Which is it? Are you irresponsible or disrespectful?”

At that you don’t even bother to concoct some form of response. Hotchner lets out a small disappointed sigh before giving a small flick of his hand that tells you that you can sit down.

You scurry to slide into the desk at the front next to Katie. Once you take your seat and have settled in, Professor Hotchner turns away and moves to lean against the board at the front of the room, resuming lecturing about what he was before you interrupted.

“Told you it was a bad idea, Einstein.” Katie nudges you lightly with her elbow.

“Gideon vs. Wainwright,” Professor Hotchner places a hand flat on the desk, leaning on it slightly. You scramble to get your notes out. “Miss Y/L/N, summarize the facts of the case.”

“Oh-” You stammer slightly and glance at your notes, reading directly from them, “Clarence Earl Gideon was charged with breaking and entering. He attempted to appear in court without a lawyer—”

“Did you read the case?” Hotch cuts you off before you get through the second sentence.

“Yes, sir I did. As you can tell I was just starting to summarize—” Once again Hotch doesn’t let you finish your thought.

“You should know the facts of the case instead of reading from your laptop,” He strides forward and places a hand on your laptop, shutting it forcefully. You jump back a little in shock, “Start over.” He commands loudly and turns to go back to his position leaning against the blackboard at the front of the room.

You’re taken aback by his attitude and take a second before attempting to recollect your thoughts, “So the trial court did not appoint him a lawyer. He thus had to represent himself and was found guilty and sentenced to a few years in prison.” You take a second and just as you open your mouth to speak, Hotchner tsks slightly at you.

“A few years,” He uses his fingers for air quotations. “Can anyone tell me how long the original jail sentence was?” He looks around the classroom. You hear the clicking sound of everyone’s keyboards as they rapidly search for the answer.

“Five,” You grip the edge of your desk frustratedly at the inane questions he’s asking. “I wasn’t quite finished, sir.”

Professor Hotchner raises an eyebrow at your snippy remark. He moves back to leaning against his desk. He waves his hand, “Pardon me then, Miss Y/L/N, go on.” He crosses his arms across his chest. A small smirk is teasing at the corner of his lips. He’s fucking enjoying himself. He’s enjoying embarrassing you. What a pretentious prick.

You nod a little and pick up where you left off, “The Florida Supreme Court denied habeas corpus relief. Gideon then filed to the US Supreme Court. The court agreed to hear his case.”

“The main constitutional question of the case?” Hotchner fires back at you.

“Whether the Sixth Amendment’s right to counsel in criminal cases extends to felony defendants in state courts,” You rattle off and sit back in your seat. All shame and embarrassment from the terrible beginning of class fades away at this point. You finally feel comfortable and confident.

Hotchner nods slightly and stands up, pacing around at the front again, “The decision and its impact?” He looks around at the rest of the class.

You open your mouth to answer but without even turning his attention to you, Hotchner holds his hand up to stop you, “How about instead of dominating the class conversation you let your peers participate and learn as well?”

All confidence you thought you gained disappears instantly. Your face is white hot again and you shrink down in your chair.

“Einstein… I think we know the student he’s going to torture this year,” Katie mumbles beside you and raises her hand to answer the professor’s question.

“It’s entirely unfair.” You grumble under your breath. You put your head down to your notebook. Normally, you’d be frantically taking notes on every single word the professor utters but your mind is just stuck on the massive amount of embarrassment you’ve endured in just the first 20 minutes of class. Unfortunately, Professor Hotchner seems to enjoy embarrassing you just a little too much.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

Your head snaps up, “Yes, sir?” You realize in that moment he asked a question and you have absolutely no clue what it is. “I’m sorry, could you repeat your question?”

“Irresponsible, disrespectful, and distracted,” Hotchner shakes his head, “Anyone else have the answer?”

Hands shoot up all around you but Professor Hotchner’s eyes never leave yours. He gives a small shake of his head before calling on a different student.

The class continues in a similar manner and you find yourself staring at the clock hoping that the time will fly by faster. But it doesn’t. It drags on and on. And Professor Hotchner is relentless. He rapid-fire questions every student, scrutinizing every single detail, every single word that they say. Especially you. Every single time you start to feel that rush of confidence, the security in your intelligence, Hotchner undermines you, pointing out the subtle flaws in your logic, reasoning, and word choice. Finally, you see the clock hit 12:15 and the torture is finally over.

You stand up from your desk and attempt to hurry out with Katie but just as you reach the doorway, Professor Hotchner calls out from behind you, “Not so fast, Miss Y/L/N.”

You freeze and shoot Katie a small glare, “I’ll wait for you outside class.” She mutters under her breath and gives your arm a small supportive squeeze.

“Show up late to my class again and I will lock you out, understand?” Hotchner doesn’t look up from his desk as he gathers up his materials, slipping them into a small briefcase.

You nod your head slightly, forgetting that he isn’t looking at you.

“I asked if you understand,” He sighs impatiently and looks up at you, causing you to shrink in place even more, “You’re going to have to learn to use your words around me, Y/N.”

Hearing your first name fall from his lips makes your face flush even further, “Yes, sir, professor Hotchner I understand. It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t,” He starts to walk to the door but holds out a paper for you. You reach down to take it, your fingers brushing against his own. You look down at the syllabus he’s handed you.

Jesus fucking christ it’s going to be an interesting semester.

Chapter Text

"Please don't tell me you started this paper last night," You groan as you hold out your hand for Katie's essay as you intend to hand them in to Professor Hotchner.

"Fine. I didn't start this paper last night," You roll your eyes as a shit-eating grin spreads across your best friends face

"God you're so judgy, Sigmund," She snorts and starts shoving her books into her bag. You furrow your brows in horror at the nickname.

"Absolutely not," You laugh.

She smiles at you, "Freud?"

"Why can't we just stick with Einstein?" You argue with her, your classmates filing out all around you.

"Come on kid, changing the nickname is funnier," She stands up, slinging her bag onto her shoulder.

"Funnier for who? You or me?"

"Both of us."

"For someone nearly 5 years my senior you sure act like a child," You roll your eyes and turn to walk your papers to the front of the class. You try to avoid Professor Hotchner's eye line, but he glances up from tucking his papers into a briefcase to take the two essays from your hand. Your fingers touch his as you hand them in but you're quick to pull away, "Sorry, sir."

To say you're terrified of Hotchner would be an understatement. After your disastrous first day of class, you can't catch a break. He's overly critical of every fucking word you say in class. So much so, that you've resigned to barely participating at all. But that just spurs him on to cold call on you.

"Freud?" Hotchner quirks up an eyebrow as he looks over your essay, flipping through the pages.

Your face grows to a wonderful shade of pink and you focus your eyes on the essay in his hands. Then you realize you're staring a little too much at his hands. "I hope my work is to your satisfaction, Sir."

You don't have to look up at him to know that fucking pompous smirk is quickly spreading across his face, "We'll see."

You nod, turning away to snatch up your bag and grab Katie's hand dragging her out of the class as fast as possible.

She's unable to contain her laughter as you speed out, "Oh my god! You're such a little teacher's pet."

"Will you shut up?"

"I hope it's to your satisfaction sir!" She teases you, mocking the high pitch tone of your voice.

"You're insufferable," You punch her arm lightly.

You shiver slightly, wrapping your arms around your body. You're not wearing much which isn't helping with the chilly New York air. However, getting into a club under the age of 21 means less clothing and a lot of confidence, a pairing that seems kind of counterproductive. You glance over at Katie and your larger group of friends.

One of your male friends, Charlie, walks over to ruffle your hair playfully, "Don't worry kid, we'll get you in."

You roll your eyes, "Charlie, I'm not a kid."

"You're the youngest here, therefore you are the kid in this friend group." He hands you the small flask from his pocket and you down the remaining liquor inside of it.

"I've had boyfriends older than you," You hand it back, pressing it against his chest as you do. "Besides, I'm the most responsible one here."

He raises a brow, "Says the girl who just downed nearly two shots of tequila from my flask." As you step to the door of the club the bouncer gives you a fast once over before looking among the group of friends before simply letting you inside. "See? So nervous and for what, da Vinci?" He grins as you step inside.

"Da Vinci? Really?" You laugh, "Not you too."

"Did you know da Vinci actually had one of the highest IQs in history? Estimated at nearly 220!" As you step further into the club, the music starts to drown out Charlie's ramblings.

"That's it!" You chuckle as Katie is quick to bring over a round of shots, "No more stupid nicknames." You gesture at your group with the shot in hand before downing it.

"Aw, I thought Sigmund was gonna stick," One of your friends pipes up and you flip them off.

"I'm not giving up on Einstein, that's fucking cute," Charlie rests an arm on your shoulder.

"See! That's what I said," Katie smirks.

"Einstein is better than 'kid,'" You roll your eyes. "And Freud? Really?"

"Sorry I embarrassed you in front of your boyfriend," Katie teases, hiding her large smile behind her glass.

"Einstein has a boyfriend?" Charlie turns to you.

"No." You reply curtly.

"Oh, Professor Hotchner I hope you like my essay! Oh, Professor Hotchner, I'm sorry I was late. Sorry, sir, won't happen again." Katie continues to tease you, mocking your voice, "Oh Hotchner if I mess up you can spank me!" At that Charlie laughs harder and throws his arm around your shoulders.

"I hate you all." Your face is burning, not only from embarrassment but the alcohol you very quickly consumed is finally getting to you. You establish a vice grip on Katie's wrist and drag her out towards the dance floor. A few of your friends follow the two of you.

"You can't deny he's hot!" Katie yells over the loud music as you and all your friends begin to dance around like idiots.

"Of course he's hot," A friend agrees.

"Yeah but he's an asshole," You shake your head.

"That makes him a million times hotter," Katie smirks at you.

"You have some serious issues," You roll your eyes but you can't help but agree with her. Is he an asshole? Yes. But the way he looks at you. The way he's so confident, so smart. He commands the attention of the whole classroom with just his presence. The way he can reduce you to stuttering just from leaning against his desk or taking a few strides towards you. The way his hands brushed against yours today when you handed in your paper.

"I would drop everything to fuck him," Another one of your friends joins in agreement with Katie.

"Maybe that's the key to getting an A in his class," You scoff and shake your head, "He obviously doesn't care about hard work, preparation, participation."

"Oh you're just bitter because he doesn't worship you," Katie laughs, "You know you can't be every professor's favorite all the time."

"Yeah but—" You turn to her and someone far behind her catches your eye, "Oh you have to be fucking joking." He's sitting at a table in the back of the bar. He's next to another man around his age, you assume another professor or a work friend of his. However, he doesn't seem to be paying any attention to what the man next to him is saying.

"What?" Katie whips around, following your eye line to the back of the bar. "Holy shit he looks good!" She grins.

Professor Hotchner's eyes are trained on you and his focus is unwavering. Little by little all your friends turn and notice him sitting there watching you. He raises his glass with that smug smirk on his face, almost as if to greet you.

Like a group of lovesick teenagers, all your friends give him sweet smiles and little waves. You roll your eyes, "Can we please get away from his eyesight? He's making me sick to my stomach."

"Sick to your stomach? He looks hot," Katie gives another laugh and wave to Hotchner and he shakes his head slightly. You can tell he isn't paying attention to your friends, he's just looking at you.

"It's in his name," Your other friend jokes as the three of you walk to the bar, to get away from the hot, crowded dance floor, "Hotchner."

You lean against the bar, slightly sweaty and panting as you slide onto the stool. "Could I just get a glass of water?" The bartender nods, sliding over a small glass. You trace your finger around the rim. "Isn't it creepy that he's here?"

"Creepy? It's a popular bar."

"Well, he has to know students come here to hang out."

"We're all adults."

"Well most of us," Charlie teases as he comes up behind the three of you.

"Last time I checked, anyone over the age of 18 is an adult," You elbow his chest, "Oh wait, you're 24 and you're still a child."

He sticks his tongue out at you and takes your glass of water, sipping from it.

"Hey! That's mine!" You laugh and he shrugs before disappearing back onto the crowded dance floor with your other friend.

"He was looking at you a lot," Katie chuckles, "Maybe he doesn't hate you as much as you think."

"No he hates me," You groan and lean more of your weight onto the bartop. "Which it really does not help that he's so fucking hot right now—" You turn to look around to where he was sitting previously to see that he's no longer there.

"Having a good night, ladies?" You hear a deep voice come from your left and you nearly jump out of your seat. When you turn to look, Professor Hotchner stands right next to you and Katie.

"Professor Hotchner!" You jump slightly. "We were just—"

"Heading out for a dance," Katie grins and turns, leaving you alone at the bar with your professor.

You give an awkward, forced smile as Professor Hotchner slides into a seat two away from yours. "Whiskey, neat, and..." He glances over at you, "Whatever she wants."

"Vodka soda," You nod at the bartender, who pauses and looks at you for another second. Usually, your friends order the drinks for you so as not to get you thrown out but you're putting on your best face of confidence.

"I think she asked you for a vodka soda," Hotchner repeats a little firmly as he holds out a black card. The bartender's eyes shoot down to the card. He takes it and gives a small nod and smile your way.

"Thanks," You glance at him and pull the glass close to you. You can feel Professor Hotchner's eyes on you as you pull it up and take a long sip.

He chuckles lightly and slides into the seat next to you, "Einstein?" He glances at you and you finally look up into his warm brown eyes.

"Uh yeah... it's a nickname," You try not to maintain his eye contact for too long.

"Any particular origin story of it or...?"

"I'm the youngest in my friend group," You nod. "And probably the smartest."

"How modest of you," He teases.

"It's just the truth."

"It's cute," He laughs and looks down into his glass.

You attempt to remain icy towards him, "So do you buy every one of your students drinks or just the ones you hate the most."

"Who said I hate you?" He looks back over at you.

"Please," You roll your eyes at him.

"So I'm tough on you, doesn't mean I don't like you. I actually like you quite a lot," He replies honestly, leaning in closer, "You're very bold in class. Always ready to correct your classmates when they're wrong. Very... passionate," He glances down at your body quickly before looking back into your eyes.

"Professor Hotchner—" You start but he cuts you off.

"Hotch," He smiles and you glance over at him. Here, in this bar, he's just about the most handsome, charming man you've ever met but all you can think about is the ruthless law professor who never lets you get a word in edgewise in class.

"Hotch," You start, but it feels wildly uncomfortable when you see the smile growing on his face as you do, "Look, sir, please don't take this as disrespectful, but full transparency I've had a little bit too much to drink to be polite. You're quite frustrating and confusing." He lets out a laugh at that and it catches you off guard, and not because he's laughing but because it's so unexpected. For such a mean, harsh, professor, his laugh is full of vibrancy.

"Are you laughing at me?" You furrow your brows.

"Sorry, but were you trying to be mean? " He teases, "Because it was very adorable."

Your face flushes again, "No I just... I think your actions are confusing."

"What actions?"

"Buying me this drink and flirting with me in this bar and embarrassing me in class." You huff out and start to stand.

"Well, you were extraordinarily late," He shrugs and you dig through your purse, before slamming down a 20 dollar bill in front of him.

"Thank you for the drink but good night," You reply angrily, before adding, "Sir." In fear of getting further on your professor's bad side. You storm away, pushing through the crowds of people as you try to exit the bar. You take a few steps outside and look around, not quite sure why you bothered to storm out, knowing you have nowhere to go and your friends are still inside.

You shake your head and turn to go back in and that's when you see Hotch exit the bar looking around for you. "Oh god," You groan softly.

"Like I said, very adorable when you're angry." He teases you with a smirk, his hands shoved in his jean pockets.

You turn and try to walk down the street away from him, but again, realize you have nowhere to go, and wandering around alone, and drunk, late at night out of anger is not the best decision. You stop a little bit away from him and turn to look at him. Just as you expect, he's staring at you with that smug grin of his. He starts to walk towards you slowly, his eyes running up and down your body slowly. "Do I scare you?"

"No," You try to keep your posture confident and your voice firm but you stumble just a little bit as he draws closer to you and you attempt to move away. "Look, you can't do this."

"Do I intimidate you?" He smirks and takes a few steps closer to you. As he moves closer and closer, you feel your heart thumping rapidly against your chest.

"No, but—" You pause, "You can't bully me in class and then get flirty with me in a bar. It's confusing and cruel—" At this point your back hits the brick wall of the club behind you.

Hotch moves in close, placing one hand flat against the wall right by your head. He cranes his neck down so his face is just inches away. You avert your eyes away, scared to look up into his, scared of what you might do. He places his fingers under your chin tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him. Once your eyes meet his, you arch your back, bringing your face closer to his, "So you don't want me to kiss you right now?"

He grins down at you and you find yourself leaning up towards his lips, "No," You let out breathily. You let your eyes flutter closed and arch even closer. You suck in a small breath as his calloused fingers run up your bare thigh, slip just under the hem of your dress.

You find yourself gripping his shirt tightly in your fist in an attempt to pull him closer. The moment seems to last forever, with your chest pressed against his warm, muscled chest. His fingertips rise higher and higher. He grips your thigh firmly in his large hands and pulls you completely flush against him, eliciting a small moan from you.

Just as you feel the slightest brush of his lips against yours you can feel a smirk spread across his face. "That's what I thought." He grins and the warmth of his body that was just so close to yours disappears. As soon as you open your eyes, he's already disappearing down the street and turning out of sight.

And you're left standing in the cold, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Chapter Text

"Most of your essays were... well, to put it bluntly, they were abysmal," Hotch paces at the front of the classroom the stack of essays piled in his arms. Your eyes remain focused on those arms of his, just slightly exposed by his rolled-up sleeves. You can't stop thinking about how it felt, his fingers on your skin. The way he was so close. The way his lips just lightly brushed yours. Even now as he occasionally strolls past your desk you can swear you smell his cologne.

"Unless clearly stated on your paper, please don't show up unannounced to my office. You can get on your knees and beg me, but I won't change your grade." At that, your mind floods with images of you on your knees in front of your professor, his hands tangled in your hair, holding it away from your face. Hotch slides the paper onto your desk, pulling you out of your daydreaming. You glance up at him and you can see the smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth.

You try your best to reciprocate a small smile, but you get the impression that he can read your mind and knows exactly what you were so focused on. You flip the paper over and your heart drops into your stomach. A big red C is circled at the top of the page with a note at the bottom that says 'Come see me. Immediately.'

You feel Katie leaning over your shoulder to look at your paper and she lets out a small noise of surprise, "Wait... Did I do better than you?"

"I'm telling you, he hates me," Your grip on the paper tightens, the edges crinkling in your hands. This whole hot and cold thing is starting to piss you off. You busted your ass over this paper and you got a C? You don't get Cs. You flip to your schedule, looking for when Hotchner's office hours are: this afternoon. Great.

You block out the rest of class, unable to focus on anything but your horrible grade. You flip through the pages of your essay, seeing minimal markings on the nearly 12-page essay you slaved over for hours. With every minute your anger grows. By the time Hotchner is dismissing the class, you feel like a cartoon character with steam coming out of your ears.

"Hey, kid," Katie nudges your arm as she packs her bag, "It's just one paper. You'll recover."

"I hate him," You mutter through your clenched jaw. You shoot the professor one last hate-filled glare but he barely catches your eye-line as students swarm his desk, holding their papers out, already begging for grade changes and explanations.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," Katie grabs your upper arm and pulls you towards the door, "You got time to get lunch with me?"

"Yeah, his office hours aren't until 2:00." You nod glumly.

"Hey," She smiles and stops for a second to stand in front of you. She reaches forward and tilts your chin up with a smile, "Keep your chin up."

"That was terribly cheesy," You tease but can't resist returning her smile.

"He's being an asshole. But you're going to go into his office and you're going to be confident, prepared, and tell him that you worked hard. You want to do well in his class," She grinned, "You're going to kiss his ass like you always do, teacher's pet."

You roll your eyes, "He said he wouldn't change the grade though."

"Who knows?" She shrugs before resuming walking and you hurry to catch back up with her, "Maybe you'll be the exception to that rule. Maybe you can change his mind. Melt that cold dead heart of his just a little bit."

Katie drags you to get lunch but you can't stomach anything but another coffee which just makes you more jittery and on edge about your meeting with Hotch. Honestly, you're terrified to be alone with him. He's intimidating and cruel and cold and purely mean, but there's something so attractive about him to you. You want to hate him, you do hate him, but every time you think of him, you think of the way his hand felt under your chin, pulling your face up to look at him. You think of the way you get sucked into those warm brown eyes.

"I have to run but you're strong and smart and capable," Katie stands up from your table, ruffles your hair a little bit before giving your arm a supportive squeeze.

You furrow your brows and attempt to fix the mess she's made of your hair. "Thanks, Katie."

"See you at home," She grins before walking across the quad towards your apartment building. You let out a small shaky breath and look over the essay you've had clutched in your hands for the past hour. The edges are crumpled, the text is a little smudged from you running your fingertips over it, reading and re-reading your work, and there's a small coffee stain on the third page. You stand up, throw out your hardly-touched lunch, and start back towards the law building.

Your heart is pounding up in your ears as you walk down the quiet hallway of offices on the third floor. Your eyes fall on the nameplate you're looking for:

#335

Aaron Hotchner, J.D.

Criminal Law

You see the door is closed and you can hear two voices coming from inside. You resign yourself to leaning against the wall just outside the office and start to read your paper for what feels like the hundredth time.

The conversation inside his office grows louder in volume and you can faintly hear two distinct voices: the deep voice of Professor Hotchner and another, higher-pitched female one. You lean in a little closer, unable to help your curiosity when the door swings open and you stumble backward out of the way of a young girl storming out of his office, tears streaming down her face.

Just as you watch the girl hurry down the hallway and you turn to walk into the office, practically colliding with Professor Hotchner who stands in the doorway. He has his hands tucked into his pockets, sleeves rolled up sloppily, and he leans a little against the doorframe, "Miss Y/L/N." He nods at you.

"Professor Hotchner—"

"Hotch," He cuts you off, "Come on inside, we have a lot to talk about." He steps out of the way, leaving just barely enough room for you to make it through the door frame so that when you walk through, your body brushes up against his. You take a few steps into his office and take a look around.

You hear the door shut behind you but you can't turn around to face Hotch just yet. Your eyes are running over the massive wall of books. The entirety of one wall of Hotchner's office is shelves upon shelves of books. Your eyes scan the wall, noticing that, surprisingly, most of the books aren't law textbooks or any titles that you recognize that relate to law in any way whatsoever. You look around at the rest of the office. For such a strict, harsh, professor, there are papers everywhere.

The entirety of his desk is covered in loose-leaf pages of paper, pens tossed around haphazardly. There are crumpled balls of paper around the trashcan. You notice a small antique typewriter on the edge of his desk. The blinds are closed, making the office dark, the only light comes from his desk lamp.

Hotch clears his throat behind you, finally pulling your attention back to the reason you're standing in the middle of his office. "Miss Y/L/N? I assume you didn't just come here to ogle at my books or judge my mess."

You while back around, embarrassment filling you and your entire demeanor, "I'm sorry Professor, I've just never seen so many books." Your anger and frustration has disappeared as you're so entranced by his collection.

"You're here because of your essay? I'm not in the habit of changing grades if that's why you're here,"

"Sir," You furrow your brows, growing confused at his actions. He's always fucking confusing, "You're the one who wanted to see me."

"Oh yes," He nods and moves past you to lean against his desk. He places his hands firmly gripping the edge of the wood. Sitting against the desk has lowered him to your height, his eyes directly at your eye line. "But not really about the essay."

"But sir–" You hold out your paper.

Hotch takes it from you, "Hotch. Remember? I don't think you were that drunk that you can't remember."

You stumble over your words a little before starting again, "Hotch. I worked really hard on this essay and I know I deserve better than a C. I don't mean to sound stuck up but for christ's sake, Katie started her essay the night before, I'm sure mine is better than hers. If you just look," You take a few steps towards him and lean forward to point out a few places in your essay. Just as you lean forward you see his eyes dart up off the paper, first glancing at your chest and then at your eyes. You pause before continuing, "If you just look again you'll see–"

"You're right." He puts the paper on the desk beside him, "Your essay is better than everyone else's. But you can do better than this. This?" He places a hand on the paper next to him, "This is C work for you."

"Professor" You start and you see him raise a brow at you, "Hotch... that's entirely unfair."

He suddenly stands up and moves past you, looking over his bookshelf, pulling out a book before turning to you, "You said it yourself, you're smarter than every one of those fucking morons kissing my ass every day."

You're slightly taken aback by his language and glance down at the book in his hands. He gives a subtle nod before continuing, "You have the potential to be a great lawyer. I want to give you the knowledge you get with years and years of interning experience." He holds out the book and you take it from his hands.

You flip it over, noticing it has no title, no name on the spine but once you open it, it's filled with practically illegible scribbling. You finger through the pages quickly, "Sir, is this yours?"

"They're notes from some of my most prominent cases," He takes a step closer and points down into the page you're on, "That was one of my first cases as a federal prosecutor."

Now you're really confused, "So you gave me a C on my paper to tell me I'm smart and capable?" You look up, his face much closer than expected and your eyes dart down to his lips.

"I gave you a C because your work should be way better than what you handed in,"

"You have to grade me against the same criteria as everyone else." You shake your head. You're definitely not as angry as you were when you stormed in here, and maybe it's the way that his whole office smells like his cologne, or how close he's standing to you right now. He notices you staring at his lips for a second too long before smirking. That urges you to force your focus back on the book in your hand.

"Do you want to be great or do you want to be like everyone else?" He crosses his arms across his chest.

"I'm just confused–,"

"I want to tutor you, once a week," He doesn't let you finish your thought.

"I really am grateful, Sir, but this book is... I can't take—"

Hotch reaches down, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him, "As much as I love hearing the word 'Sir' come out of that pretty little mouth of yours, I mean it. Call me Hotch."

You stumble over your words a little, feeling the heat both rising in your cheeks and throughout your whole body. His fingers are still under your jaw, his thumb gently stroking your chin lazily. You know exactly what he means. He wants to tutor you and sleep with you. And God, do you want to sleep with him. You know it's a bad idea. You know he's manipulating you. He's taking advantage of your aspirations for success. You pull out of his grip and hold the book tightly against your chest, moving to lean against his desk.

It feels as if he can read your mind because the next words out of his mouth are, "You don't have to have sex with me for the lessons." He clarifies.

Your eyes shoot up to his, widening slightly at his blunt phrasing, "I didn't think that—"

"I'm offering you a chance at greatness here," He walks closer to you again. "No matter what, I want to help you reach your fullest potential." He reaches his hand up to cup your cheek but you sense him pause, closing his fist before lowering it a little. He's waiting. He might be an asshole, but he's waiting to get a sign from you that it's okay to keep touching you.

You put the book down on the desk, standing up straighter. Your body close to his, "When do we start?"

"Every Wednesday, 2 pm," He nods, a smile spreading across his face. He lifts his hand, cupping your face, thumb rubbing your cheek gently, "I'm going to push you to your limits, think you can handle that?"

Your eyes flutter closed at his touch and you let out a soft 'mhm' in response.

"Look at me," Hotch commands and you feel him jerk your head up, so that when you open your eyes you're looking up at him.

"What I wouldn't do," His fingers slip through your cardigan, gently brushing the bare skin of your shoulder, "To tear these clothes off your irresistible little body," His voice is hoarse and low and you immediately regret looking up into his eyes.

His lips are on yours in an instant. Every time he pulls away from the kiss for a second, you feel his hot breath fan over your face. You quickly slip off your cardigan, leaving you just in your tank top.

"You had some dirty thoughts today in class," He groans against your lips.

You mumble in agreement as his hands run up to rest on your waist. He gives a tight, bruising squeeze to your hips before roughly lifting you up onto the edge of his desk.

"Wanted to get on your knees like a little slut, didn't you," He growls out, kissing under your jaw, nipping your skin roughly.

"Yes," You moan out.

"Tell me what you want," He reaches for the strap of your tank top and yanks it down, revealing the silky cups of your bra. He palms your breast fiercely, your skin and hot and pliable in his hands.

"To pleasure you," Then you realize what he wants. You can read him perfectly. You know exactly the kind of man he is, "Sir." You purr out the last word and he growls into your mouth.

You open your legs so he can stand between them. His hands are rough and the pace the two of you are moving at is wild, uncontrollable because you don't want him, you need him.

He presses his firm form against you, his hands splayed, groping and exploring your flesh. Your skin is warm in his hands. Your kisses are frantic, his mouth warm and wet on yours. It's chaos. It's wild, animalistic. You grip the collar of his shirt tightly in your fists, his hot breath fanning over your neck, then your collar bones, then the tops of your breasts. He pulls your tank top up over your head. You attempt to pull him closer, wanting to grind your hips against his.

"Look at you," He drawls out against your bare shoulder, his long fingers ghosting over your ribcage and then down to the top of your pants. He slowly works to unbutton them. "A moaning, squirming mess and I haven't even begun to touch you."

"Please, I'm sick of you teasing me," You let out impatiently. At that his hand comes to your throat, his thumb jutting under your chin harshly. He brings his face close, eyes searching yours.

"If you can't handle this," He tuts disapprovingly, the same tone he takes when you get something wrong in class, "What I have planned for us will absolutely ruin you." You find yourself clenching your pussy around absolutely nothing at that. Just his words manage to make you unbearably aroused.

He releases your neck, fingers hooking into your pants and underwear at the same time to rip them down off your legs. "What do you want from me?" He groans his hand slipping between your bodies, two fingers lazily stroking your clit.

"Please," You whine and jump at his touch, "Please sir." You're begging. You need more.

"Please, sir." He mocks you, taunting you, trying to sound bored, "Please, sir... what?"

You moan in response as his fingers circle your clit harder. "Well?" He grips the nape of your neck, forcing your face close to his, your noses pressed against one another but he keeps you at a distance so you can't kiss him. "Remember I said you have to learn to use. Your. Words." At that last word, he gives a small smack to your clit before resuming his slow but harsh circles.

"Please," You grip the edge of the desk tightly, "I want to fuck your mouth." You stumble over your words through the moans. Hotch released your head forcibly, placing his hands on your thighs, pushing you further onto the desk. You place your feet on the edge, spreading your legs to give him full access.

He releases a small moan in response, eyes focusing on the view between your legs right now. Then he's sinking to his knees in front of you, burying his head between your thighs and absolutely devouring you with his tongue.

You knot a hand into his hair, messing it up and tugging slightly at the roots. Your moans are loud and unrestrained. His tongue laps against you, exploring you and sucking lightly on your clit. As he works you over, you let out a string of curses and chants, 'Fuck just like that! Please, sir more! Professor!' He seems to like the names you're calling him instead of Hotch now.

You're melting under his touch. The way his tongue smoothly laps against your heated skin, the way he pays attention to what makes you moan louder and then proceeds make your eyes roll back in your head. He's not just good, he's amazing. Your stomach tightens and you feel the familiar tingle of pleasure working its way through your body.

Your breathing stutters as you attempt to form any sense of coherent thought as the powerful rush of pleasure fills your whole body. You hear yourself chanting 'Yes sir' over and over as your orgasm rocks your body wildly. Hotch's mouth and tongue are unrelenting, stroking, licking, and sucking throughout your whole orgasm.

He pulls away as your heart rate slows down. You let your eyes close for a second as you catch your breath and he steps between your legs again, reaching for your cheek to kiss you again. Once you catch your breath and open your eyes you settle on the growing bulge in his slacks. You reach in between the two of you, palming him through the fabric, tracing the outline of his hard cock. He hisses response but soon grips your hands tightly stopping you.

"Did I say you could do that?" He wrenches your hands away.

"I just want to return the favor, sir," You pout up at him and he forces your hands back to your sides.

"Oh you will," He nods, stepping away to walk around and sit at his desk chair behind you. He pulls out a paper and you scrunch up your face. You crane your head around to look at him. "Just not now." He gives a small nod, "See you on Wednesday."

You hop off the desk rushing to get dressed and gather up your things. He holds out the notebook from earlier and you take it from him, your hands brushing against his, sending sparks up your arm. You're not even quite sure what to say to him. You can sense he's getting impatient as you linger there longer. You turn to the office door and when you place your hand on the knob he calls out from behind you, "Miss Y/L/N."

"Next meeting... wear a skirt," Hotch gives you a small wink and you nod, quite honestly still reeling from the events of the past hour.

Chapter Text

Your eyes stick to every person that walks down the hall past you. You feel wildly out of place. You reach down fidgeting with the hem of your skirt. It's the only daytime appropriate skirt you own and it's extremely uncomfortable.

You're not sure why you agreed to wear the damn thing. It's not like not wearing a skirt would have any impact on your grade or Hotch's opinion of you. It's clear he doesn't like you... well, he definitely likes you. He just doesn't respect you. Well... he respects your work ethic and your intelligence. But physical attraction is different from genuinely enjoying your presence and liking your personality. He might want to fuck you but that doesn't mean he wants to spend time with you. You settle on: He tolerates you enough to agree to tutor you.

You look down at the notebook he gifted you a few days ago. You place a hand on the soft leather cover before opening it up. You've read it every single day since he gave it to you and you can tell the man is a genius. You have a million questions, a million things you want to discuss. Normally, you'd mark the pages up with highlights, little notes in the margins, and post-its sticking out of the sides. So you had to settle for your own notebook of questions, nearly as thick as the original work. At least your handwriting is more legible than Hotch's chicken scratch.

Even if Aaron Hotchner doesn't actually like you personally, you're growing more and more captivated with him every day.

The office door opens behind you and you turn, coming face to face with Hotch's chest, forgetting just how tall he is compared to you. You look up at him and he gives a small smile, placing his hand on your back, guiding you into his office. His large hand is warm on your back and your heart rate immediately picks up in his presence.

"Did you fill that whole notebook with notes?" His eyes dart down to your arms. He reaches forward to take the book from your clutches. You nod, struggling to calm your mind down enough to sort through the thoughts racing through it. He moves around you to lean against the edge of the desk, the book open in one hand, the other hand fingering through the pages.

You stand awkwardly in the center of the office, rubbing your fingers together at your sides, feeling oddly exposed now that you're not clutching the books tightly against your chest. "I'm sorry I just had so many questions and once I started writing them down, I couldn't just stop."

Hotch glances up from your notebook and you see a smile on his face. It's not that pretentious, shit-eating grin that spreads across his face when he embarrasses a student in class or outsmarts you. It's this beautiful, toothy grin. His eyes crinkle at the sides and as fast as his eyes are on you, they go back down to the notebook in his hands, "This is... amazing." He smiles wider, "Come on, sit down," He points towards the chair in front of his desk.

You hesitate slightly before moving to sit in front of him in the chair. You tug at the bottom of your skirt again, hoping for some more coverage.

"So you enjoyed the notes?" He doesn't look up from the book but reaches behind him for a pen and starts jotting things down alongside your handwriting.

"What I could read, yes," You tease him playfully, attempting to loosen up. He's intimidating and scary, but you desperately want to impress him.

"Something wrong with my handwriting, Miss Y/L/N?" He quirks up an eyebrow at you and this time, you're giving him the snarky grin he always gives you.

"Oh it's utterly atrocious," You lean forward resting your chin in the palm of your hand.

From the way Hotch laughs and looks over you, you could be entirely convinced he's genuinely enjoying your presence. "You wore a skirt," He nods a little, putting the book down at his side on the desk. He places both hands against the edge of the desk, gripping the lip of the wood.

"I'm not an idiot." You roll your eyes and shake your head. "I do know how to follow simple directions."

"I know you can," He grins before shaking his head, "I should've guessed," Hotch pushes his sleeves up his arms, exposing the tanned, veiny forearms that immediately draw your attention.

"Guessed what?" You furrow your brows at him. He smirks and gestures towards you and you stand up, putting your books down on the chair and moving close to him. With this orientation, your face is almost at eye level with his as he leans against his desk. He still looms over you. He places his hands on your hips and yanks you closer. You let out a soft gasp in response and his smirk grows.

You search his eyes, waiting for a response to your question. He runs his eyes over your entire body before lifting a hand to your cheek. He runs his hand over the skin before tangling his fingers in your hair at the nape of your neck, yanking your head back, giving him full access to the base of your neck. He cranes his head down placing a few soft kisses on the skin. "I should've guessed you'd be a brat." He mumbles against your throat and the vibrations of his deep voice send tingles up into your face and jaw.

"Am I really a bra—" He nips your skin and you lose the ability to speak, letting out a small moan in response.

He smirks against your skin, "You seem to have a smart mouth," He groans, "How about we put it to good use?"

You nod. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you," Your breathing rate picks up as Hotch continues to nip at your neck down to the tops of your breasts. His lips ghost over your cleavage peeking out of the top of your shirt.

"I can tell," Hotch's grip in your hair loosens but he tilts your head back down to lock his lips onto yours. Your head is already spinning with pleasure and he's barely touched you. With his open mouth on yours, all you can do is submit to him and give yourself over to his passion.

His hands move all over your body. His actions are motivated and urgent but he's not frantic. His touches are deliberate. He yanks you as close as possible so that you're standing fully between his legs. First, his hands are trailing up your bare thighs, his fingertips just barely ghosting up under your skirt.

"I thought about you," You breathe out, and your eyes flutter closed, taking in the feeling of your professor's hands on your body. You suck in a small breath as his hands continue to travel up your body before taking your warm pliable breasts into his hands. You throw your head back, "All last night... alone. Touching myself, wishing it was you, professor." You whine.

You need more. Every touch of his hands sends sparks across your body. You've never felt this attracted to someone, this alight with pleasure, this sensitive. At your words, he stands up from the desk placing his arms on your shoulders harshly, "I distinctly remember you mentioning something about getting on your knees for me." He pushes you down to the ground and you let out a small yelp as your knees hit the carpet and you swear you feel the seams in your skirt snap.

You sit up a little on your knees and reach forward for his belt, seeing the bulge in his pants growing. He places one hand over yours, stopping you. He reaches down with the other hand, tilting your face up to look at him. "This what you pictured? Getting on your knees? Begging for my cock?"

You bite your bottom lip and nod at him. He slaps your face gently before gripping your chin tight in his hands, pulling your attention back to him, "Words, my pretty girl. Use your words."

"I want to please you... sir." You pout up at him. He lets you unbuckle his belt and you push down his jeans and boxers. He leans against the desk again and you take his cock into your hand, pumping him slowly. A small groan escapes his mouth and you smile in response.

You place your mouth around the tip, swirling your tongue slowly before taking as much of him into your mouth as possible. He bucks his hips slightly in response, forcing him deeper into your mouth. He brings a hand down, tangling his fingers in your roots.

You bob your head faster, running your tongue up his entire length, using your hand to stroke what you can't fit in your mouth. He grips your hair tighter, tugging at the roots and forcing himself deeper into your mouth, thrusting harder, "Relax your throat pretty girl, you're going to take all of me." He groans even louder and you feel tears prick at your eyes, gagging as he continues to fuck your mouth.

Your lungs burn for air and you suck in through your nose but continue to pick up the pace, pulling almost entirely off of his cock before taking the whole length back into your mouth. Hotch's hand remains tangled in your hair as he lets out loud groans, muttering praise with each thrust.

You're thoroughly enjoying this and it's evident from the way you've got your thighs clenched together. His breathing is staggered, strangled grunts and moans escaping his throat. Plus the praise he gives you— Good girl. Just like that. Keep going. Don't stop, pretty girl—is turning you on more and more.

Just as he begins to buck his hips more erratically and you feel his cock twitch in your mouth, he pulls away, leaving a trail of saliva dripping down your chin. Your cheeks are running with tears, no doubt entirely smudging your mascara. You look up at him, upset that he stopped you just before you could make him cum. He's panting heavily attempting to catch his breath and glances down at you.

You smirk cheekily and he grips your face, "Look at what a mess I've made of that pretty face." He uses the pad of his thumb to attempt to wipe one of your cheeks. "Stand up." He orders sternly.

He pulls you to your feet, unable to keep his hands from running over your skin. He moves his hands up under your skirt again. This time, he hikes the hem all the way up to your hips. His hands clutch at your bare ass as he presses his lips against yours forcefully. You feel weak and soft under his touch. "You've done that a lot before," He groans against your mouth, his tone a little disapproving. You smirk against his lips.

"Did I make you feel good, professor?" You moan out. At that, Hotch flips you around, pushing you forward over the desk. You bend at the waist and catch yourself on your hands. Without warning, he presses his hard cock against your ass. You crane your head around to look at him, a small cocky smile growing on your lips. You're very quickly learning exactly what kind of man Professor Hotchner is. What he likes, what he doesn't like, and what you should do and say to get a rise out of him.

He pushes your face down against the wood of the desk, keeping your head pinned down. He bends down to your ear, "You think you can talk to me like that?"

"Sorry sir," You breathe out. He's being rough but it's because he knows you want it. He can sense that you're egging him on, trying to get a reaction. So he reacts just the way you want him to. He delivers a hard smack to your ass, sending jolts of pain and pleasure throughout your entire body.

He trails his fingers up your legs, teasing your wet, heated skin. He slips two fingers into you, eliciting a small gasp that dissolves into a moan. "Already tightening around me and I've barely done anything." He chuckles under his breath and he slowly thrusts his fingers, your moans becoming loud and uncontrollable. Just the simple insertion of his fingers already has your head feeling fuzzy and your heart races. You've been waiting so long for him to touch you again. The past few days have been torture.

You couldn't stop thinking about the way his tongue explored every inch of you. The way his hands feel on your body. The way his mouth feels on yours. He's rough with you, but never in a way that scares you, it excites you. He knows you can take it. You barely know the professor but it feels as if he knows your body intimately well and he hasn't even fucked you yet. That's what excites you.

The grip on your head has loosened so you're able to try to turn and look at him and his hooded eyes run over your body slowly. As his fingers move in and out of you agonizingly slowly you can't help but gasp at the pleasure and Hotch groans, feeling proud and lustful at the way your cheeks flush. He can feel your skin heating up with every thrust. He can see your eyes growing glassy and bright with lust. He sees your mouth fall open, soft gasps and whines escaping your mouth. He can't wait any longer and neither can you.

"Please," Your voice is a breathy whisper.

Hotch removes his fingers and guides himself against you. He barely presses his skin against you and you're already moaning louder than ever. Your legs feel like jelly as he presses into you. He groans with your reaction and thrusts deeper into you. Your body is already shaking with pleasure by the time he ruts into you fully.

That seems to spur Hotch on and he thrusts deep, not taking it slow, too impatient and needy to take his time with you. Strangled groans escape from him, meshing with your heavy panting. You collapse against the desk, unable to continue holding yourself up. Hotch reaches down, yanking you up by your hair to press your body closer against his. Your back arches against his chest and you decide to allow him to fully take charge. "Is this how you pictured it? In all those dirty fantasies of yours?"

You can barely muster a response but you know he wants to hear your words so you let out a strangled, 'Yes, sir' between your moans.

He's going at you with a sense of desperation. And god that makes you a million times more flustered. The idea that he wants you so bad, he needs you so bad. That he's so desperate to feel your skin. He's so desperate to fuck you. He's desperate. And you love it. You love that he wants you so bad.

The built-up anticipation of this exact moment with your professor means you don't last terribly long, and neither does he. His hands are gripping at your hips tightly, fingers digging into the skin. He thrusts into you wildly a few more times. He reaches down, rubbing your clit in slow circles as he throws his head back, moaning loudly, his movements growing erratic.

You feel the euphoria overwhelming you, the tension building in your body, your legs trembling. You fumble around the desk for something, anything, to grab onto. The stars coat your vision and your body shakes wildly with pleasure as his fingers rub your clit in faster circles.

It feels as if your orgasm lasts forever, your head feeling light and it buzzes with pleasure. You both just remain there for a long moment. Each of you is trying to catch your breath. He releases your head, being much more gentle, and you rest your face on the wood for a second, the cool surface a nice contrast to your sweaty skin. "Such a pretty mess I've made of you," He mumbles against your skin as he places a soft kiss on your spine.

Hotch steps a bit away from you and the warmth of his body close to yours disappearing, but the air in his office is hot and humid from your body heat. Another long, silent moment passes and you can't help but feel disappointed because you can tell he's about to kick you out. Just as you turn to face him, he's already pulled himself together. He's pulled his pants back up, adjusted his shirt, and is smoothing out his hair.

You hurry to pull the hem of your skirt back down and retrieve your cardigan from the floor. Hotch moves away from you, walking around to the other side of his desk. He reaches into his drawer and hands you a paper, "I want you to rework this memorandum for next week. Your writing skills need to be improved further." You're not surprised at how he switches from explicit to professional so quickly, but it is admittedly, quite jarring. You reach a shaky hand forward for the paper and take it, stacking it on top of your belongings.

His eyes linger on you and your eyes linger on him. You want to say something. You feel like you should, but just as you open your mouth, his office phone cuts you off.

He reaches down and picks it up, "Hotchner."

You grab your books, holding them close to your chest, standing awkwardly in front of Hotch's desk. He settles into his desk chair and finally glances back up at you. He pulls the phone away from his ear and nods towards the door, "You're free to go."

You'd be lying if that didn't sting a little, but you knew what you were getting into by sleeping with your professor. You hesitate for a split second as Hotch turns back to the phone conversation, searching around for a pen and pad to jot some notes down.

You walk to the door and open it, giving Hotch one last glance. You give him a warm smile before you walk out and you swear that you see the corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly in response.

Chapter Text

"You almost ready, Einstein?" Katie calls from the other side of the door. You hurriedly slather on another layer of concealer on the fading bruise on your neck. It's still pretty god awful after your meeting with Hotch yesterday. The deep purple splotch is the only one visible because it's right smack under your jawline. It's been hell trying to hide it from Katie. If she saw it, she would inevitably get curious and since you spend almost every moment together, you couldn't simply lie and tell her that you had hooked up with someone randomly yesterday.

"We're going to be late! You're just asking for the sexy professor to yell at you!" She teases and knocks again on your door. You roll your eyes at the nickname for Hotch and scramble to pick out some clothes.

"I'm coming, just one more minute!" You glance over yourself in the mirror. You smooth out your skirt. It's the only other skirt you own and it's definitely not daytime appropriate. It's a matte black fake leather skirt. Turns out, you did indeed rip the seams in your skirt the other day when you were busy on your knees. You hurriedly pull on some sheer black tights, tuck your shirt into the skirt and slip on your boots.

"Y/n, I swear to god-" Just as Katie is about to yell at you again you swing the door open, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"No more yelling. I'm ready," You shake your head at her and move around her in the door frame.

"You look... nicer than usual," Katie teases and hands you a to-go cup of coffee. "Dressing up for someone special?

Your heart picks up in pace, thinking about how Hotch will react to your attempt to dress up for him. It worries you, how desperate you are to impress him. It's not out of character for you to seek validation from respected figures, but you've never been one to seek validation through looks or appearance. That's not to say you're not good-looking, because you know you are. But you don't pride yourself on being the hottest, most attention-grabbing woman in a room.

Just over two weeks ago, you were hoping for attention from Professor Hotchner, but not this kind of attention. You want him to shower you with compliments in relation to your hard work, your intellect, your drive. You want to know you're the star student. It's obvious, you're the smartest student in the class. He's made that clear to you. But he holds you to such a high standard. It's as if your work will never be good enough for him. That would normally anger you, but this new, more personal kind of attention has distracted you from the intense standards he has for you. You love that he can't get enough of you. He can't keep his hands off of you.

Sleeping with your professor was never something you necessarily dreamed about or fantasized. You had exes try and role play with you but it never really turned you on. This new fling with Hotch has made you truly understand the appeal.

The idea that he can't resist you. He's so into you he has to have you. The stolen glances in class. He's risking everything. His career, his job, his standing as a professor, all just to sleep with you. Just to have you. That's how irresistible you are to him. And damn, that makes you feel good about yourself. But it feels as if you've sacrificed your need for respect for unbridled, animalistic passion.

"Huh?" You glance over at Katie, realizing you've ignored her question, losing yourself in your thoughts of Hotch, "No. No one special."

"Not even Charlie?" She smirks over at you, smiling behind her coffee cup like a giddy school girl.

You feel your face growing hot, "Charlie? No, I'm... I'm over that."

"Over that?" Katie stops in her tracks and latches a hand onto your arm, "When were you ever," She pauses, "On that?"

You laugh at her word choice and shake your head, "He's cute! And really sweet to me and smart and we have really good conversations and—"

"So then why are you 'over that'! He's always finding ways to touch you casually," Katie throws an arm around your shoulders, imitating Charlie. You roll your eyes. If only she knew about your extracurricular activities with a certain 'sexy professor.'

"I don't know." You shake your head, "He's just so... So unfocused. Don't get me wrong, he's smart, he really is. But I need someone driven like me. I need someone who understands my mind." Katie rolls her eyes and lets out a small scoff at you.

"I'm not saying you have to marry the dude, but you have an opportunity for a very," She wags her eyebrows as you open the door to the lecture hall, "Very fun time in bed with him."

You laugh boisterously at Katie as you step into the classroom. The class is loud, every student talking and socializing with those around you. Your eyes land on Hotch. He's leaning against the whiteboard at the front. You swear you can see his eyes widen as they run up and down your figure. You give a smirk and turn your attention back to Katie.

"If you like him so much, you can sleep with him," You put your stuff down by a seat at the front. Katie takes the seat next to you like always.

Something about knowing you've caught Hotch's attention is empowering you. You're feeling bold. You keep your focus on Katie as she rambles on about your social activities. "This isn't about me. This is about you, Einstein. And you? You need to get laid. I'm sure that Charlie would be more than willing to be that man for you."

"Katie!" You scold her and shove her arm playfully. You glance around to make sure that Charlie hasn't heard any part of your conversation. He glances up from his friend to give you a small wink and a wave. As you take your seat, you bring your eyes back to Hotch. His brows have furrowed, his arms crossed against his chest. You give him another smirk and lean back in your chair, parting your legs just enough that it's clear your actions aren't innocent.

He clears his throat, "Alright everyone, quiet down. Time to get started." His eyes flick back to you. He gives you a glare that says 'behave' but you simply lean back a little more in your chair, parting your legs just enough to draw his attention. You see his line of sight travel down and you swear you hear him stumble over a word or two as he starts today's lecture.

Hotch has never been much of a fan of teasing. He likes to be in control. And looking at the way you've parted your legs, the black leather tightly clinging to your skin, and the devious sparkle in your eyes, he knows exactly what you're attempting to do, and he's not amused.

A mix of frustration, irritation, and desire bubbles inside of him with every passing minute he looks at you. He tears his eyes away from your velvety figure, pushing his attention onto the 50 other students in the class. He tries his best to hide the growing heat in his body but he practically lets out a groan when he looks back over to see the way that you're pressing the end of your pen to your plump lower lip.

Hotch stumbles over his words for a second, seeing that damnable smirk of yours quickly growing as he does. There's only one word he can think best describes you right now: wicked. Your whole demeanor, your outfit, it all reminds him just how much he hates being teased. He wants to grab you by the front of your shirt and take you over his knee, show you just how much he won't tolerate such wicked behavior. He hates that he's let you affect him, have some sense of power over him.

Just as he's regaining his composure, you lean a little forward, flashing your cleavage in his direction. "Miss Y/L/N," He has to avert his eyes from you, not sure how he could possibly hold himself together while you look like that, "You mind giving a small summary of the facts of the case I've just discussed and its importance in the context of the history of criminal law and the state of the country at the time of the court's decision."

"Oh not at all," You pause, "Sir." You give a small nod. He's hoping to trip you up. Hopefully, you've been so distracted by your cunning little charade that you haven't paid attention to his lecture. He's hoping to regain some sense of power back. If he can remind you just how quickly he can embarrass you, he'll feel less powerless.

To his surprise, however, you begin reciting an eloquent and complete response to his questioning. He mentally curses you. He's not sure why he expected anything less from you. His mistake is underestimating just how powerful your mind is. You're utterly intolerable. A wicked mind and a wicked little body. How is he supposed to remain composed?

"Was that enough? To your satisfaction, Sir? Or shall I go on longer?" That knowing little smirk hasn't left your face and Hotch shakes his head.

"Good enough, Miss Y/L/N," It feels like the glow of his cheeks and the lustful look in his eyes will give him away to the rest of the lecture hall. He's almost positive that every student can sense exactly what's going on and that simply cannot stand. "Try to wipe that blank look off your face and at least pretend to be engaged in the lecture." He scoffs before forcing his attention back to the prepared lecture.

You don't pull any more stunts the rest of class but just your appearance is enough to drive him wild. His head feels as if it's in a haze. Hotch isn't even really quite sure how he manages to get through the lecture. He decides to dismiss everyone a few minutes early but he can't let you get away with such utterly unacceptable behavior.

"Miss Y/L/N," Hotch calls from the front of the room as the entire class begins to pack up and file out. He gives a small gesture of his fingers to tell you to come to the front before pointing down at the ground.

Katie gives you a confused look and Hotch sees you mumble something to her as she glances between the two of you, hesitating a little before finally leaving

You're not sure whether or not to be terrified or proud. It's clear your actions have gotten your professor's attention. It's also clear that he's frustrated and/or upset. You gather up your books and throw your bag over your shoulder, making your way over to Hotch's desk.

His eyes dart around the classroom as the last few students file their way out the door. In a blink, his hand grabs at the front of your shirt, yanking you close to him, "What the hell was all of that?"

You smirk. As soon as he grabs your shirt, you know he's not actually angry with you. "Have I done something wrong, professor?" You glance up at him. Your tone is innocent but your body language tells a different story. You press your pillowy breasts into his chest and place your hands on his shoulders, attempting to brace yourself.

"I can't wait a full week to see you," He mutters under his breath. You feel his hands ghosting over your body. He wants to touch you. His hands are itching to feel your skin, to take your warm skin in his hands. He wants to feel your lips moving with his. You want his touch. The feeling of his rough hands running over your body. "Come with me to my office now," You hear an almost pleading tone in his voice.

You smirk, his lips inching closer to yours every second, "I have plans. Sorry."

A low groan erupts from his throat but he tears himself away from your tempting, enchanting form. You feel him slide something small into the palm of your hand and you glance down at it, his messy scrawl is a series of numbers.

He walks around to grab his briefcase, packing up the classroom, "It's my number."

You're a bit confused, assuming that your interactions wouldn't be more than just the weekly meetings and every day in class. He's not some schoolboy crush that you're going to call on a Friday night, sitting on your bed, your feet in the air, giggling and laughing to yourself over the phone with him, arguing about who will hang up first. He's a man. A much older one at that. He's over 10 years older than you. This isn't a silly little flirtation. It's rough, it's messy. It's purely physical and animalistic.

When Hotch looks up at you, he can sense the confusion in your expression at the gesture, "I'm not saying we're going to talk on the phone each night but you know... just in case I have to get in contact with you."

You almost laugh at the diplomatic way he's going about this, "Right. Well, I'll put the number in my phone in case of an emergency." Now your word choice brings you to the brink of laughter.

In case of an emergency? What kind of emergency? An emergency booty call?

You turn away from him with a small nod and walk towards the door but he calls out stopping you, "Miss Y/LN,"

You turn back and Hotch stands at the desk, running his eyes languidly down your figure, taking it all in one last time, "Pull a stunt like that again and you'll be sorry." He quirks a brow in disapproval.

"It won't happen again, sir," You grin.

"And wipe that smirk off your face," He rolls his eyes. You press your lips tightly together, struggling to hide your pride as you leave the classroom.

You meet Katie outside the lecture hall. She stands up straight, pulling away from the wall she was leaning against. Just as you open your mouth to explain to her you feel an arm swing around your shoulder, pulling you close to a warm body.

"You get in trouble again, Einstein?" You're pressed close to Charlie and you can feel his voice rumbling in his chest as he speaks.

"You know actually," You turn his arms to look up at him. He keeps his arm wrapped around you, holding you close so that when you turn, your chest presses against his. Your face is much closer to his than expected, "It's none of your business."

Charlie glances down at you, a boyish smirk plastered across his face, "I like the new look," He grins and looks over your outfit. Katie lets out a small laugh and shakes her head at the two of you.

"Don't be creepy, Charlie." She walks closer to the two of you.

"I'm not! I'm being genuine, I think you look really nice, Y/N," Charlie lets you go but wraps his free arm around Katie's shoulder, bringing her in close to him as well. You laugh at the image of the three of you, Charlie's arms around each of you, all laughing animatedly.

"Mr. Miller, I don't mean to interrupt such an utterly enthralling conversation, but I do need to get to my office at some point." When you turn around you see Hotch standing in the doorway, that you, Katie, and Charlie have managed to block. His head is tilted slightly down as he scours at the three of you. Well, there goes his good mood.

"Sorry, sir," Charlie's voice is soft and small as he releases his grip on Katie so she can move to the right, but keeps an arm wrapped around you, pulling you to the left so that you all move out of Professor Hotchner's way.

You feel Hotch's eyes linger on you for a second before he goes storming down the hallways to his office.

"I swear to god that man is the devil spawn," He shakes his head, twirling a ring around his finger.

"He's not that bad," You roll your eyes, pulling your bag up on your shoulder.

"Not that bad? Einstein, I'm pretty sure he hates you more than me if that's even possible." Charlie teases, dragging you down the hallway with him and out into the cold outdoors.

You shake your head with a laugh and lean into Charlie's arms out in the cold, Katie trailing close behind you, "It's fine. I can take it."

"So what are our plans for tonight, ladies?" Charlie glances back at Katie behind the two of you who simply responds with a little shake of her head.

"Our plans," Katie pulls you out of Charlie's grip and you laugh, feeling a rag doll being pulled between the two of them, "Are to watch a movie and get drunk in our apartment."

"Sounds like fun," He grins.

"Aw too bad you're not invited," Katie gives him a small little pouty face.

"I never agreed to getting drunk," You shake your head, "It's a Thursday and we have class tomorrow. How do you expect me to get through the day if I'm hungover?"

"God you know sometimes you can be such a buzzkill, Einstein."

"Do you ever stop to think that maybe I'm so much younger and smarter and more successful than you two because I work hard?" Your words might seem harsh but it's just how you interact with your friends. You all tease each other, make fun of one another.

"Yeah, yeah we know, high IQ, blah blah blah, you're basically a kid genius," Charlie rolls his eyes.

"Well, kid genius," Katie chuckles, "Could you just humor me? One or two drinks?"

"The things I do for you."

Katie was not joking when she said she was planning on getting drunk because she's already finished off a bottle of wine herself and you're barely halfway through the movie you two are watching together.

Your phone buzzes on the couch and you reach for it, flipping it open to see a text from Hotch. You furrow your brows slightly and read the message.

What are you doing tonight? -AH

You bite your lip at the message, taking a second to glance over at Katie, whose eyes are glued to the tv screen.

Drinking, watching a movie. You?

The texting feels unnatural. Again, he's your professor, not some cute 20-something-year-old boy that you casually text on a Thursday night.

Isn't drinking alcohol illegal at your age?

You roll your eyes at his response. He has so flagrantly demonstrated a lack of respect for rules, aka, not sleeping with students.

Contrary to what you might think of me, I don't always follow the rules

His responses are rapid. What happened to getting his number in case of emergencies?

I think I prefer you when you listen to instructions.

Where's the fun in that?

There's a long pause in which he stops replying. You let out a breath and turn your attention back to Katie, whose eyes are starting to droop closed, the wine bottle tightly wrapped in her clutches.

You reach across her body and pull the bottle away, "Okay drunk-o, time for bed for you. And time to drink some water," Katie lets out a small groan and rolls over on the couch a little. You grab the empty bottles and cans, carrying them to the kitchen to recycle them.

"Einstein!" Katie's shrill, wine-soaked voice rings throughout the apartment.

"One second, K," You call back, dropping everything into the recycling.

"Who the fuck is A.H. and why is he texting you?" Your heart sinks into your stomach. You let the last few cans clatter into the bin with an aggressive clang before rushing into the living room to snatch the phone out of Katie's hands.

"Do you have a secret admirer?" Katie wags her brows at you.

"No. You're drunk. Go to bed." You point at her bedroom like a disapproving mother.

"No, I can't let you clean everything up by yourself." She stands up, swaying a little as she does. She reaches down for an empty glass but you're quick to scoop it out of her hand.

"Please just go to bed." You laugh a little, still clutching your phone tightly against your chest, out of her reach.

Katie grumbles out a 'fine' before turning and disappearing into her room.

You finally get a chance to steal a look at your texts.

I'm still at work. Meet me at my office. Now.

You teeter back and forth on your toes, waiting outside Hotch's office. You glance down at your phone again, checking the time. Hotch texted you nearly an hour ago. It's only been one week and Hotch is already switching up your agreement. You're not upset about it, you're actually excited to see him more. You do wonder, whether or not this infatuation he has with you will soon fade. Will he get bored of you? Will he realize that the initial attraction was all physical, nothing more than a few slip-ups? You know there's more to you than just appearances, but does he know that?

You let out a long drawn-out breath, flipping open your phone to look at the time again. If he wasn't going to show, he should've let you know. You take one step away from the office door when Hotch catches your arm to stop you. You let out a small gasp in shock.

"Going somewhere?" Your eyes snap up to his and there's a hint of a smile playing on his mouth, "You're not going to bail on me, are you?"

"Me?" You shake your head, "You texted me nearly an hour ago! I've been waiting for you."

Hotch sighs and reaches for the key to unlock his office door, leading you inside, his grip still firm on your upper arm. In an instant, Hotch whirls you around, pressing you back against the door, trapping you between it and his body.

"Do you know how impossible it is to be around you all day without touching you?" He inches in closer to you and you can feel his hot breath fan across your face. His lips gently brush against yours. You instinctively lean your head up, wanting to press your lips against his fully. "That little stunt you pulled today?"

Your breathing stutters as his hands roam your whole body, squeezing. Your hot flesh in his hands is pliable and you melt under his touch. "You liked it," You pant out.

His hand comes up to your neck, wrapping around it tightly. He forces your face up so you look at him and he slams your head back against the door, "Don't be so fucking snippy with me." He growls and yanks you by the neck to press his lips to yours. His mouth is hot and needy. The kiss lasts a long time, one hand still firmly wrapped around your neck, the other tangling in your hair at the base of your neck.

He kisses underneath your jaw before hooking his hands up under your legs and lifting you off the ground. You cling to him tightly, hoping he doesn't drop you. He slams your back against the wall and you let out a small gasp, both out of pleasure and excitement. "This is what you wanted, right?"

You're panting heavily already and he's barely touched you, your skin on fire. "Mhm," You manage to moan out. You're amazed at how Hotch is still managing to hold you up against the wall. You gasp out as he presses hard against you, spreading your legs widely, pushing up your skirt so it bunches around your hips.

His head buries into your neck, kissing and nipping gently. Both of his hands move to cup your breasts, his palms filling with your warm skin. You let out a loud moan at the touch and Hotch chuckles under his breath at the sound. You grip his shoulders tightly and only manage a small whimper as you clench your thighs together.

Hotch brings his mouth up to meet yours once again, hungrily devouring your moans. You want to tangle your fingers in his hair and tug at it. You want to cup his cheeks and hold him close. He presses even closer to you, leaving no space between his body and yours.

"I can't stop thinking about this," Hotch groans, pushing your shirt open more, now only holding you up with one arm. You can see the muscles in his arms rippling, the veins protruding. He tugs aside your bra and palms your breast, his rough hands on your velvety skin. He rubs your nipple between his fingers, "Your mouth, your body, us together."

You rock against him, pressing the hardness in his pants against you, eliciting a loud moan from you and a small growl from him at the pleasure you send radiating through him.

Your hands drop to start to undo his belt. He pulls you away from the wall spinning you around to place you on the edge of his desk. You push the fabric of his slacks down and stroke his warm skin. He hisses and grits his teeth in response, pulling away from your kiss to throw his head back.

"Be careful," You smirk, "Someone might hear us, professor."

"Let them." He shakes his head. Hotch's eyes snap back down to yours and he doesn't care about anything but pleasuring you. He pulls your mouth back against his and he feels himself consumed by your scent. He reaches down, gripping your thighs in his hands, placing your feet on the edge of the desk, parting your legs wide, all for him.

You slide closer, rubbing yourself against him. You need him. You want him and you're so fucking tired of waiting. His hand trails between your bodies, rubbing you slowly, dipping just one finger into you, thrusting it ever so slowly.

"Please," You whine and as you throw your head back, Hotch's mouth clinging to your throat, sucking and biting, kissing over the fading marks from your last rendezvous.

"Please what?" He grumbles against your neck.

"Fuck me," You can barely get the words out before he lifts you up, flips you over onto your stomach and thrusts up into you, in one motion. He thrusts hard and deep and you let out a moan, louder than anything.

Your body moves with his, your hips going back slightly to meet his every thrust. He fills you in just the perfect way and you're panting and chanting his name, "God yes, sir, just like that."

He reaches around to grab both of your wrists, pinning them behind your back. "You wanted me to do this. To get angry. To take you. Show you, you're mine, right?"

You struggle to let out a throaty 'mhm' in agreement. He keeps your wrists pinned with one hand and grabs your hair, yanking you up.

"That's why you put on that little show today, right?" He growls close to your ear. You grind your hips back against his, "Use. Your. Words." He demands. He yanks on your hair a little tighter, in an attempt to remind you who has the dominant position.

"Yes!" You whine out, "This is what I wanted!"

"Good girl," His voice has a malicious tone, but not in a way that scares you. It excites you. He's rough. He's wild. He's uncontrollable. And you're the one who makes him feel that way. That's powerful.

You arch back, your chest pressing against the wood on his desk. Hotch keeps your wrists pinned tightly behind your back as he pounds into you relentlessly. He bottoms out with every thrust, which leaves you struggling to cry out with pleasure. You cry out senselessly, every muscle in your body trembling, "Fuck daddy!" The words tumble out of your mouth and you barely take notice of them, your eyes rolling back in your head as you do.

"Did you just call me daddy?" Hotch releases your wrists to bend down and grab your neck. He wraps a large hand almost entirely around the base of your throat and yanks you up, your back pressed fully against him.

"Sorry," You attempt to moan out as Hotch continues to fuck you harder.

"Don't apologize, pretty girl," He groans against your ear, "Say it again."

"Fuck, daddy!" The pace increases into something animalistic. Your body is shaking wildly at this point and you feel the pleasure building steadily, surging through you with every thrust. You feel his grip on your wrists loosening as his palms grow sweatier.

It's not long before you're tightening around him, desperately wishing for something to grab onto. You're squirming under his touch, the pleasure almost too much as he barrels into you. You come hard and fast and he continues to fuck you through it, yanking you up against him again, a hand wrapped tightly around your throat.

He thrusts into you a few more times and you're practically crying out in response, your eyes watering, tears running down your cheeks at the overstimulation. He soon comes to a halt, shuddering and groaning, throwing his head back as he releases into you. He lets you down back onto the desk gently, your overheated damp skin contrasting against the cold, smooth wood.

You lie there a second, attempting to catch your breath and steady your heart rate. You feel Hotch press a small tender kiss along your shoulder blades and spine and it's oddly comforting. "That's it pretty girl." He says against your skin. He helps you sit up, "I knew you could take it."

You wipe your face, attempting to clean any smudged makeup but you know you must look a mess. Your eyes are glossy and your face is flushed. Your hair is a knotted mess from where he's tangled his fingers into it. You right yourself, fixing your skirt, tucking your shirt back in.

There's a long drawn-out moment of silence where you glance at Hotch awkwardly, not sure what you would say to him now. It's odd how you two are so intimately equated with each others' bodies but you feel flustered just speaking to him. "I guess I'll... head home." You smile softly.

You start towards the door but Hotch stops you, "You shouldn't-" He sighs and grabs his briefcase from the desk, "You shouldn't walk home alone. It's dark outside."

"I live just one or two blocks from campus, I should be fine," You shrug, "Plus I'm sure you want to get home. You've been working all day."

Hotch rolls his eyes and practically pushes you out of his office as he shuts the lights and locks up, "Stop being so stubborn and just let me walk you home."

You simply shut your mouth and nod, knowing there's no point in arguing with him over this. You walk out of the building, Hotch walking alongside you.You wrap your arms around yourself as you step out into the cold, a small shiver running through you.

"You should've brought a jacket," Hotch nods slightly at your shivering.

"I didn't really think to grab one when I was rushing out the door," You tease. Hotch smiles in response and the conversation comes to a lull as you both walk alongside one another. You glance down for a second to see Hotch rubbing his fingers together at his side. It's something you've seen him do a few times, whether it's while he's lecturing or when he's focused or when he's reading. "You do that a lot." You uncross one of your arms to point down at his hands. "That thing with your fingers. You rub them together."

He glances down at his hands and gives a small shrug of his shoulders, "It's just something I do, I guess."

"It's how I know you're really focused on something," You nod letting silence take over once again. You try to focus on the sound of your shoes on the pavement or steadying your breathing. Your heart is beating fast. It always is around Hotch.

"That's good," Hotch speaks suddenly. It's as if he was having a conversation with himself before speaking out loud, "Being observant. It's a good quality for a lawyer."

"How so?" You glance over at him, eyes trailing over every single facial feature. You smile at the way the cold air has given his cheeks a slight pink tinge. The wind tousles the little hairs at the top of his head.

"Being able to observe and understand your opponent's behavior. The jury's behavior," He nods, "you need to know what flusters people, what trips them up. You need to know their tells, their weaknesses, their strengths. If you can understand and observe the behavior of all the people in that courtroom... you have full control over them."

"So by analyzing behaviors... you gain some sense of how to control people," You nod, reciting back to him. There's a pause in conversation again. "Do you know my behaviors?"

A wide smirk starts to spread across Hotch's face, "Yes. I know when you're angry, or when you're focused. I can tell when you're..." He trails and glances down your figure, "Excited. I know what makes you feel good."

You feel the heat rising up your neck and into your face. Suddenly the cold air isn't as biting anymore. "Care to share any of these behaviors of mine?"

"I'm pretty sure you said it yourself earlier... something along the lines of 'where's the fun in that?" He laughs and you give his arm a nudge.

Another pause. You're nearly a block from your apartment, do you just give up and resign yourself to silence?

"What's your favorite color?" You blurt out and turn to look at him.

"My favorite... what?" He laughs and shoves his hands deeper into his pants pockets, "Are you serious?"

"Fine, nevermind." You shrug, "I'm just trying to get to know you."

"By asking about my favorite color?" There's a judgmental tone to his voice but when you look over his face, that small hint of a grin lingers.

"I said nevermind," You stop in place and nod up at your apartment building. "Well... this is my stop." You joke. You feel a strong urge to stick your hand out to shake his which would be incredibly awkward, but you're not sure what kind of send-off is appropriate. A goodnight kiss is simply far too intimate and a hug is too friendly. You settle for an uncomfortable nod and tight-lipped smile, "Good night Hotch."

"Aaron," He nods, "You can call me Aaron."

Your cheeks ache from smiling so hard. You give one last look before walking up the steps to the front door of your building.

"Hey, Einstein," Aaron calls out and you freeze in your place a little. Something about hearing that nickname come out of his mouth is incredibly endearing. You turn to him, "Blue."

"What?" You furrow your brows at his words.

"My favorite color. It's blue." He smiles. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, suppressing your smile.

"Good night, Aaron," You repeat and open your door.

"Good night, Einstein."

Chapter Text

You throw your legs languidly over the chair in the corner of Hotch's office. "I've already studied the material you gave me extensively." You rest your head against the arm of the chair, your eyes fluttering closed.

"If you don't want the help we can stop these little sessions. That's fine to settle for mediocrity. Truly, that's your own mistake," Hotch huffs disapprovingly and you hear him stand up from his chair.

"I'm sorry. I'm just tired," You groan softly and force your eyes open, to see him leaning on the desk arms crossed against his chest as he looks over you. A small smile fights its way onto your face. He looks absolutely amazing today. He's much more casual than usual. He has a green polo on and the top two unbuttons are undone just enough to let a little chest hair peek out. It's got you all kinds of unfocused.

"There's an exam in three days. You need to be prepared," Aaron raises a brow at you, waiting for you to sit up properly and pay attention.

"Isn't it kind of unfair for you to help me study for an exam you're writing?" You laugh a little under your breath, swinging your legs around to sit in the chair normally. You lean forward, resting your chin in the palm of your hand.

"I'm not giving you the exact exam questions. Just testing you on the material. Plus, I'll throw in some questions about the extra stuff we've been discussing," Aaron nods and reaches across his desk for a notebook.

You let out another sigh and reach for your own notes. "God this is so boring." You pout.

Aaron raises a brow at your childish attitude and rolls his eyes, "You have something you'd rather do?"

"I have quite a few ideas." You grin and raise your eyebrows twice in jest. Aaron shakes his head at you, narrowing his eyes, "Fine. Fine!" You sigh frustratedly. You're shocked he's forcing you to study. Something about it is endearing, knowing that he does still care about your success in the class, not just purely driven by his sexual attraction to you. He holds out another sheet of information and you quickly scan the page, reading it at a pretty fast pace. "Yeah I already know all of this."

"You sure?" He countered, shoving his hands into his pockets, his thumbs hooked on the edges.

"Yes, Aaron, I'm sure," You hold the paper out to hand it back to him.

"How well do you know all of it? Is it practically ingrained in your brain? Can you recall it at a moment's notice? This is a timed exam after all." Hotch rattles off the interrogatory questions and you practically scoff at him.

"You have such little faith in my study habits it's genuinely concerning. I've already made an extensive study guide, studied said study guide, and could take the exam today if I had to." You point out before leaning back in the chair again.

"How about we test your knowledge then?" He raises a brow crossing the room to stand directly in front of you. You crane your head back to be able to look at him. The way you're positioned, you sitting, him standing, he towers over you, inevitably making his dominance over you more oppressive and obvious.

You scrunch your face up, feeling confused by his actions. "Stand up," He commands and gestures with his hand for you to move out of your chair. You stand up hesitantly but don't move from your spot, unsure where he's going with this. He sighs frustratedly and practically lifts you on your feet, moving you out of his way before sitting down in your spot.

You place your hands on your hips, frustrated with him, "Hotch, if you just wanted my seat you could've—" Before you can finish your sentence, however, Hotch grips you tightly, yanking you down, laying you across his lap. You let out a small screech in response, fearful you're going to fall onto your face, but Hotch is quickly to catch you and hold you steady. "What are you—"

"Shut up," He groans out. He reaches forward, practically ripping off your blouse before rolling your skirt up to bunch at your hips. "I'm tired of the attitude today. You're going to keep that wicked little mouth of yours shut until I tell you to open it, do I make myself clear?" Hotch's large rough hand trails up your bare legs, before cupping one of your ass cheeks, rubbing and groping it.

You pause, unsure if you should verbally respond so you give a small nod. Hotch draws his hand back, smacking your ass, sending sharp stings of pain throughout your body. You yelp but sink your teeth into your lip, attempting to mute your sounds.

"I asked you a question," He growls out, rubbing over the spot he just smacked, both his hand and your skin warm from the contact. "Do I make myself clear?" He asks once more, placing heavy emphasis on each word and drawing out each syllable.

"Yes," You breathe out, attempting to catch your breath.

"Good girl," He uses his other hand to gather both your wrists, pinning them behind your back. "Corpus Delicti. Define it."

You furrow your brows, "What?"

Smack, smack. He doles out two insanely hard spanks to your ass and you cry out in response. "I asked you a question. Give me the answer," He growls, releasing your wrists so he can fist your hair in hand, "Define corpus delicti."

Your head is fuzzy from the pain and arousal as you squirm around, feeling his firm body below yours. "Corpus delicti," You pant slightly and struggle to find your words, "Also called body of a crime. It's the principle that there must be facts or evidence that show the occurrence of a crime."

"Good," His hand runs lazily over both cheeks of your ass, his hand slightly cooler than your burning hot skin. He hooks his finger into your panties and pulls them down your legs. "The two components of corpus delicti?"

Just as you open your mouth to give an answer, Hotch thrusts two fingers into you at an achingly slow pace. His fingers are thick and fill you wholly and he curls them just right. "Oh fuck," You moan out, unable to contain your arousal.

He pauses for a moment and stills. "Don't stop!" You whine impatiently. Just as the words leave your lips, you remember the question he asked you. "Wait, wait!" You cry out but Hotch brings his hand down harder than ever on your ass three times in rapid succession.

"Evidence that a crime has been committed and someone is criminally responsible for the act," You cry out, missing the feeling of his fingers inside of you, "That fucking hurts," You whine in pain, your head feeling fuzzy. You can barely think straight. Your bottom is on fire, your eyes sting with tears and you're just aching for his touch again.

"You know what to say if you want me to stop," He tuts disapprovingly and the safe words you two have discussed race through your brain. You're not going to say one. You're in a whole world of pain but you're most definitely enjoying, "Now if I recall, you're not supposed to speak," He clamps a hand over your mouth, leaning his face in close to your ear, "Now be quiet. Otherwise, someone might hear you making all this unnecessary noise."

He's taunting you. He raises his hand, spanking your ass, again, and again, and again. You're not quite sure what spurred this on, but you're assuming it has to do with the way you cursed at him. He finally lets up after another five spanks, your moans and cries muffled by his hand. At this point, your legs feel weak and you struggle to hold your head up. Tears stream down your cheeks freely.

"The principles of criminality?" Hotch runs his hand up your bare back, reaching for your bra clasp and undoing it to slide your bra off.

Your breathing is wildly erratic and just about everything you've ever learned seems to have disappeared from your memory. But out of fear of more smacks to your stinging cheeks, you rush to get the answer out, "Legality, actus reus, mens rea, fusion of actus reus and mens rea, harm, causation, and stipulation of punishment." You rattle off, letting out a small sigh of relief.

You feel his hand leave your skin and you squeeze your eyes tightly shut already anticipating the slap before you get it. He gives you two more electrifying spanks, "Ow!" You cry out, "What the fuck was that for?" You burrow your face into the arm of the chair and feel him chuckle softly beneath you. He keeps you pinned to his lap, pressing his erection hard into your stomach.

Hotch doesn't reply simply pushing you up off his lap and back onto your knees. You sit back on your heels, squeezed in the small space between him and the arm of the chair. His hands go to his belt, undoing it and unzipping his slacks just enough to push his boxers down and free himself from his pants. He's already hard, obviously aroused from the punishments he had been doling out to you. "Let's put that mouth of yours to good use."

You bend down, taking almost all of him into your mouth. You wrap one hand around the base, pumping and stroking the remaining length that doesn't fit in your mouth. You bring the other hand to cup and fondle his balls, eliciting a long, loud groan that rumbles deep in his throat. "That's my good girl." He gathers up your hair in his hands, holding it out of your face.

You bob your head faster, picking up the pace as you run your tongue along the entirety of his cock. You pull all the way out to the tip before taking all of him back into your mouth again. His cock hits the back of your throat, causing you to choke out a gag, tears stinging your eyes again. You breathe through your nose as he tightens his grip on your hair. "Just like that... don't stop. Take all of me, pretty girl."

Just as you feel him twitch in your mouth, beginning to buck his hips quite wildly, he pulls your head away.

"Why'd you stop I—" Hotch silences you with a passionate kiss, wrapping one hand around your neck to pull you closer, but not really tightening his grip in a way to cut off airflow. You moan into his mouth loudly and he guides you onto his lap.

You place your knees on either side of his hips, grinding against him. Your mouth focuses on meeting his, taking in every one of his moans. "Please, daddy," You whine, "I need you now." The name spurs him on and he lifts your hips just enough to push into you.

It's a familiar feeling, but even now it still elicits a small gasp from your lips as you throw your head back in pleasure. This exposes the entire base of your neck to him, which he soon litters with small nips and kisses as he resists the urge to move you or thrust into you.

You squirm a little but he keeps your hips glued in place, "Please. Please I need more," You beg pathetically. You bring your eye line back down to look at him and he has that hungry, lustful glint in his eye that you love so much.

"What do you want me to do, pretty girl?" He mumbles against the skin of your neck and the vibrations of his deep voice send chills down your entire body. Your ass is on fire and every nerve ending feels electrified with his cock buried deep inside you like this.

"Please," Your begging intensifies and Hotch trails a hand between the two of you, rubbing your clit, increasing the pressure steadily, "Please, daddy, fuck me!" You need some form of friction, anything at all. He's torturing you and you're fucking sick of it. You're hot and sweaty and horny and you need to finish.

"When are you going to learn?" He tsks softly and reaches up with his other hand to massage your breast, taking your nipple between his fingers. "You need to use your words." You whine impatiently.

"Please. I'm begging you," you tilt your head down and lean forward to kiss him quickly, nipping at his lips and aching to taste him. You let out a small cry in pleasure when he finally lifts your hips, just to slam you down onto him. He's taking a rough pace with you. He's wild and uncontrollable but you don't even notice because your body feels so overstimulated. Between the pain in your bottom and the overwhelming pleasure, your head feels as if it's in a haze.

You're on top of him, but he makes it evidently clear that he still has control, even in this position. His hands grip your hips with bruising strength and he thrusts his own hips up to meet yours with every bounce. He hits deep inside you and you cry out in pleasure, holding onto his shoulders tightly for balance.

Your skirt slides down from your hips a little, almost hiding the image of him thrusting up into you. You don't last long, feeling the familiar pressure building between your hips, "Can I come? I want to come around you!" You cry out, "Fuck please daddy!" You struggle to get coherent words out, devolving into a series of incoherent curses and moans as Hotch continues to slam you down onto his cock.

"Go ahead," He mutters softly and leans in to kiss your cheek and down under your jaw, "You've been a good girl you deserve it," He speaks close to your ear and the feeling of his hot breath fanning across your face sends a small shiver through you as your eyes roll back into your head. You come hard around his cock, chanting his name and letting out loud, strangled cries of pleasure.

You can barely hold yourself up and you burrow your head into his neck as Hotch continues to fuck you through your orgasm, his pace unrelenting. You feel your legs trembling as Hotch's pace grows erratic, his panting turning into guttural deep groans. "That's it, daddy," You purr, nipping at his earlobe.

"Fuck!" Hotch cries out and thrusts into a few times before coming to a shuddering halt and throwing his head back onto the chair, breathing heavily.

You both stay there for a while, attempting to catch your breath and to get the strength to stand up. Hotch soon lifts you up, placing you back on your feet. He stands up soon after, tucking himself back into his pants and reaching for his belt. He walks back around to his desk. You both exist in silence, moving about the room, cleaning yourselves up. You bend down for your bra and blouse that Hotch so carelessly discarded.

"Come over to my place tonight." Hotch's voice cuts through the silence as you are getting dressed. Your head shoots up to look at him and he can read the confusion that coats your face. He glances away from your line of sight and back at his desk. He busies his hands with some papers on the desk.

You pull your blouse on, attempting to button it before realizing a few buttons are missing. "Isn't that a little... different for us?" You attempt to decode Hotch's mannerisms but he keeps his focus down on the materials on the desk.

"I'm tired of hiding out in this stuffy office," He shakes his head, "Plus there's only so many surfaces I can put you on here." He glances up at you, that mischievous smirk plastered across his face. "My apartment has a working AC system, food, drinks, and most importantly, a very large, very comfortable bed."

You hesitate, not sure how to respond. You want to go over to his place. It sounds nice but you have a sinking feeling you're growing just a little too attached to your law professor.

"Well, I won't be over until late tonight." You respond as Hotch picks up your bag from the floor, holding it out for you. You reach to pull it onto your shoulder. You glance up to see Hotch's quizzical look, "I promised Charlie I would help him study. For your exam actually." You laugh softly and see Hotch's face fall into a frown.

"Charlie Miller?" He clarifies and you nod.

"Yeah," You breathe out, attempting to right your clothing and smooth out your hair, "Something wrong?"

"He's... just not someone I would picture you wasting your time with," Hotch crosses his arms against his chest, eyes focused down at you. You want to quickly dismiss his judgment, attributing it to Charlie's lack of work ethic but you sense something else in his tone. Is that... jealousy?

You smirk widely, "Oh really? Are you sure that's what's bothering you?"

"What are you insinuating?" He tilts his head to the side, raising his brows, his voice flat and unimpressed.

"Oh I'm not insinuating anything, professor," You drawl out the title and grin at him cheekily.

He grips the front of your blouse, pulling you close to him, "Watch the attitude. Unless you want me to show you what real punishment is like tonight." He reaches down to grab and grope at your ass, eliciting a small hiss in pain.

You stay like that for a minute, your chest pressed against his, his hands roaming your body once more. He lets out a strained breath before letting you go, "Call me if you're going to come over."

You nod, "Bye Aaron," You smile before turning to close his office door.

"I'm serious, Charlie, we have to focus," You laugh as he places a beer in front of you on your kitchen table.

"One beer is not going to kill your focus, kid genius," He rolls his eyes cracking open each of the bottles, "Besides, I'm the one who needs help with studying."

You grin and pull the beer out of his hands, "Fine. Then you get this back when we're done."

"What? Are you punishing me?" He places a hand over his chest feigning shock and hurt.

You roll your eyes, reaching over to nudge his shoulder playfully, "Let's just get started" You notice that Charlie has scooted his chair a little closer to yours, his thigh pressing firmly against yours. He brings his hands down to rest on his lap, his fingers brushing gently against your leg. The small contact doesn't make you uncomfortable. It just doesn't send sparks through your entire body the way Hotch's hands do. You clear your throat, feeling your face flush. Your bottom is still wildly uncomfortable sitting here on the hard wooden chairs in your apartment.

"Outline the principles of criminality." You turn on a small smile. As Charlie starts to rattle off his answers, your mind wanders back to your study session with Hotch from earlier. Your ass is still stinging wildly. Your mind is still sort of foggy and you're fucking exhausted. The aching between your thighs hasn't ceased and you're sure it won't be going away any time soon if you decide to go over to Hotch's tonight.

"Was that correct?" Charlie's question startles you out of your thoughts. "Hey... y/n, you okay?" He places a hand on your shoulder.

You glance back at Charlie, realizing you've entirely missed what he said, "Uh yeah... let's just move on. "Ex post facto?"

"After the deed or after the fact." He recites before giving a large grin, "So how am I doing, Einstein? Living up to your expectations?"

"You just might exceed them, Miller," You taunt but you can't seem to get into the natural teasing rhythm with him. You can't stop thinking about Hotch. You force your eyes back to Charlie, who seems to return the same level of unwavering eye contact.

Yes, it's amazing when you're with him. You're never unsatisfied. The passion between you and your professor is unmatched. You can't keep your hands off of him. But when you leave you can't help but let your mind wander. Every interaction feels so static. Like your relationship is simply an exchange of services and it leaves you feeling used. Like you're unimportant and worthless. Yet at the same time, he manages to make you feel seen. Hotch simultaneously sees the greatness in you, he acknowledges the potential and the intelligence you hold, while also treating you like every other man in power treats women. He sees you the way you want to be seen while reducing you to just your looks. You wonder if Hotch grows bored of you... what is to become of this arrangement? Do you lose the respect of your professor as soon as he no longer wants to sleep with you?

That's when your mind stumbles over a thought you had never considered until right now: Are you the only one? He seems so comfortable with the dynamics of a student/professor affair. Are there other students he's showering with praise before burrowing his head between their thighs?

"Y/n? Are you okay? You seem so distracted and lost today." Charlie's voice is soft and warm.

"Yeah," You have to break his eye contact, unable to look at his features any longer, glancing down at your hands. His whole presence is the exact opposite of Hotch. Hotch is rough and blunt. His eyes are warm, the most beautiful light brown tone, contrasting with his jet black hair and warm skin tone. Hotch's touch is rough, needy. His voice is gruff, abrasive. Charlie's voice is smooth and velvety. Every touch from him is gentle, inviting. His skin is pale and his eyes are a bright blue. Hotch is a man and Charlie is... well Charlie is practically a boy. Still older than you, but immaturity and inexperience run rampant through him.

His hand reaches under your chin, tilting your face up to look at him. He doesn't speak, his eyes just searching yours. And suddenly you're kissing him.

His hands are warm on your cheeks. He pulls you close, your hands resting on his bare chest, easily accessible because the top buttons of his shirt are open. His mouth is soft and warm against yours. One hand comes to the back of your neck, the other trailing down to your back. He pushes your back, your body arching against him.

Soft slow kisses turn into more rapid, needy ones. Your hands explore his body and you notice just how different he is from Hotch. His skin is smooth and heavily muscled. He pulls you closer, attempting to remove any distance that remains between your bodies. You don't have time to think, he just lets your hands explore his torso. His hands move steadily down, resting on your bare thighs before sliding just under the hem of your skirt.

Your fingers work at the buttons on his shirt and his large hands rest on your hips under your skirt. In a second, he pulls you as close as possible, settling you onto his lap. You let out a soft moan in response. And Charlie lets out a low chuckle that vibrates through your entire body. That's enough for you to pause and think for a second.

What are you doing? What the actual fuck are you doing?

You freeze, stopping the kiss to pull away. You look over Charlie's flushed features, his eyes alight with lust and his lips plump and swollen from your kiss.

"I'm sorry. I can't," You start to speak and get off of his lap, taking a few steps away. You're struggling to catch your breath and you haphazardly grab your belongings.

Charlie grabs your hand lightly, "Wait, wait where are you going?"

"I'm sorry I shouldn't have done that," You shake your hand, yanking your hand from his grip. "I shouldn't have..."

"Did I do something wrong?" Charlie scrunches up his brows confused.

"No! No," You reassure him, maybe just a little too forcefully, "I just... I really have to go." And with that you're practically running out the door, running out of your own apartment just to clear your mind and get some air.

As soon as you step outside, your first thoughts are of Hotch. You're not dating him, nothing is solid, there's no exclusivity. He could be sleeping with a million other students for all you know, but for some reason, you feel dirty. You feel guilty. You can't possibly comprehend why you feel like this. There are hardly any real moments of connection between you and Hotch. You enjoy each other's company but it's not as if you would ever spend time together without having sex. That would make what you and Hotch have too real. And it's not. It's just sex, no promises, no commitments. Just pure, animalistic acts of passion.

You think about Charlie. You've led him on. You let out a frustrated groan, walking down the block from your apartment. The weather is getting colder every day and you shiver slightly. As your feet scrape against the pavement you think about the other night when Hotch walked you home and you feel the guilt growing inside of you. Maybe there is some connection between the two of you. Or maybe that's entirely one-sided.

Either way, whatever just happened with Charlie was incredibly wrong and should never have happened no matter how good it felt or how nice and kind he is to you. You have this thing with Hotch. Whatever the thing is, all you know is that you can't think of anyone other than Hotch, even as Charlie's hands gripped and massaged your skin. Your heart is pounding and your breathing is tremulous. It's getting so cold that you can see your breath hang in the air.

You dig into your bag for your phone. You flip it open and dial the number. "Aaron? I'm on my way over now."

Chapter Text

After your call, Hotch finds himself straightening up his living room, cleaning the day-old cups, plates, and bottles off the table, and washing all the dishes in the sink. He’s not sure why he’s so worried about keeping the place clean, but he just knows you’ll make some comment about it when you get here. You’re always making sarcastic, snippy comments about everything he does. That’s not to say he doesn’t laugh at you or enjoy your biting humor, it’s refreshing to meet someone driven who is still able to maintain levity and positivity.

His eyes dart to the clock, checking the time once again, hoping you’ll knock on the door soon. His mind wanders back to your previous rendezvous in his office. He feels the blood rush to his face and neck, already feeling excited to see you. You’re absolutely wicked… and he loves it.

He’s hypnotized by you. It’s in the way you always press that pen of yours to your bottom lip and pull it down a little. You know just how to catch his attention and make him stumble over his words, and he’s pretty sure you manage to do it without even consciously trying. That’s what mystifies him the most. The way you’re so naïve to your own power over him.

He’s sure that when asked, you would merely deny it, laughing off the idea. You would argue that it’s he who has the power in this relationship. Deep down, it's you. You will always have power over him. He is truly risking everything for you. It’s not like he hasn’t done all of this before, but with you he’s already taken more risks than ever. He’s broken a daily meeting schedule. He’s texting you from his private number. He’s inviting you over to his house.

The loud knock at the door pulls him out of his thoughts and he rushes over to answer.
He lets a large smile come over his face but it falls once he sees you. Your cheeks are flushed, your hair falling around your face wildly, probably from running your hands through it so much. Your arms are firmly crossed against your chest. You look as if you’re actually about to explode with rage.

“Please, be less excited to be here,” Hotch tries to joke and tease you but you barely crack a smile, pushing past him into the house.

“Fuck Charles Miller,” You groan out and drop onto the couch in Hotch’s living room.

Hotch is plenty familiar with Charles Miller. In all honesty, he would love to never hear about or see Charles Miller ever again. “He did something to you?”

You glance over at him, biting your bottom lip fiercely, “He kissed me. Well… I kissed him.” You pause, “No he kissed me.”

The room is completely silent for a second, the only sound is your heavy breathing as you attempt to calm down. Hotch isn’t sure what to say. For starters, he’s definitely not happy to hear you’re going around kissing other men. Boys. Not men. Charlie Miller is hardly a man.

“It’s just… who the fuck does he think he is? I’m just absolutely sick of men who think that just because you show them the smallest modicum of kindness, it means you want to sleep with them. For fuck’s sake, Charlie is my best friend, was he just thinking about sleeping with me this whole time?” You heave out another long sigh, “Listen I’m not entirely innocent, I kissed him back but he was so touchy, you know? So really it’s his fault. And mine… I don’t know.”

Hotch knows that you could ramble on forever if he doesn’t say something. To be honest, he doesn’t care about the specifics of who kissed who. Something about that boy’s hands all over you makes his anger levels rise. “He did what?” His voice is strained and he sounds much angrier than he intends to.

Your eyes snap up to his, obviously aware of the intense tone of his voice. “Did you not listen to what I just said?”

“I heard what you said,” He feels himself grinding his teeth together, tightening every muscle in his jaw. He crosses his arms, holding one hand up to his face, rubbing his fingers together slightly. Your eyes dart down to his hand and that’s when he stops the small motion. He’s doing the hand thing again. The thing you pointed out to him. Now that he’s aware of it, he feels intensely vulnerable. Almost exposed. You can tell this is getting to him and it’s because of that damned hand thing.

“Are you angry with me?” You stand up from the couch and Hotch stays grounded in place. What he really wants to do is walk over to you, wrap his hand around your neck, yank you close to him, and kiss you until you’re weak in the knees. He wants to remind you just how good you are with him. Just how amazing it feels to be passionate with you.

“No,” His curt reply gives him away. He can’t pretend that this information about you and Charlie isn’t eating away at him.

“You’re mad at me.” You say it again, as a statement of fact. In reality, he’s not angry with you. He’s angry with himself. He’s angry at himself for letting you affect him so much. He’s angry at himself because he knows he’s growing attached. He knows it’s not fair to be possessive with you. He can’t ask you to be exclusively sleeping with him when he has no intentions to pursue anything real with you. It’s a physical attraction. Does he enjoy spending time with you? Yes. Does he ever foresee himself spending time with you without having sex with you? Probably not.

“I’m not mad at you.” Hotch shakes his head slightly but his closed-off body language is giving him away. He curses himself again for teaching you so well. For telling you all about reading body language to understand people better. He curses himself because he sees the way those wide eyes of yours run over his body, drinking in every detail of him. Your eyes are back on his face, tracing over the lines of his face. He’s always prided himself on a good poker face, but it’s insanely obvious the discomfort he feels at the current moment.

You scoff, “I’m going to leave. I can’t… it’s late and I don’t feel like fighting with you over this,” You keep your arms firmly crossed and walking back towards the front door, but Hotch shoots his hand out to grab your arm. He can’t let you simply walk out of here.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” His replies are short. He doesn’t really know what to say. He can’t possibly tell you that the jealousy surging through him is burning him. It’s shredding him apart and he doesn’t know if he can hold it all in. He doesn’t want anyone else to put their hands on you the way that he puts his hands on you. No one will appreciate you the way he does. He understands you. He knows how you work. He knows how your mind works. That’s why he gets to have you. At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.

He understands your drive for success, your passion to be at the top. He recognizes the same qualities in you as he sees in himself. There’s a long moment where the two of you just stand there. His hand firmly gripping your upper arm and your eyes searching his facial expression for any sign of what he might be thinking.

“You have no right to be mad at me. For all I know you could be sleeping with every other bright-eyed, ambitious law student that runs up to you after class begging for extra help,” He feels you starting to pull away from him but he keeps his grip on your arm tight to keep you close.

He shakes his head subtly, furrowing his brows, “But I’m not. I haven’t slept with anyone else since I started this with you.” He pauses for a second, “Have you been sleeping with other people?”

“No, no,” You shake your head, “It’s just you. I’m only sleeping with you.”

Hotch expects that to ease the knots and turning of his stomach but it doesn’t. He still feels the anger and jealousy coursing through him like fire rippling under his skin.

—

“I don’t like that he—” Hotch pauses as he glances down at his hand that is still firmly wrapped around your arm. You can sense that he's struggling with his words. He’s looking for the right way to say what he’s thinking. It confuses you. Hotch confuses you. How could someone so intelligent, so composed, so utterly ruthless in the courtroom, so attention-grabbing, so demanding and dominant in every sphere of life struggle to form words around you?

“I don’t like that he put his hands on you. I don’t like that he touched your body.” Hotch’s jaw clicks into place, tensed with clenched teeth. Now it’s your turn to struggle with your words. What could you possibly say to alleviate what he’s feeling? You can’t tell him how Charlie had his hand up your skirt. So you do the only thing that you know will make him feel better. The only thing that will pull him out of his head right now.

You move in close and kiss him passionately. Immediately, you can sense just how riled up he is. His hands race over your body, grabbing any flesh he can in his needy grip.

Hotch pulls away from you for a second, breathless, cheeks flushed, “I don’t want anyone else touching you like this,” His voice comes out as a low gravelly moan and he kisses you again.

Between kisses and moans, you utter, ‘Bedroom?’ and Hotch simply takes you through his home, only breaking the kiss for a second to lead you upstairs. He grabs your hand in his, practically pulling you up the stairs behind him. Within seconds of stepping into his room, he has you pinned up against the wall behind you, his lips passionately meeting yours.

“Care to show me all the ways that no one else is allowed to touch me?” You smirk as his head burrows its way under your jaw, his mouth nipping lightly at your skin.

“You know one of these days that smart mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble,” He grabs your face, shoving his thumb into your mouth. You grin at him as you slowly suck, swirling your tongue around his thumb, showing him just how much your ‘smart mouth’ can do. When he drags his thumb from your mouth, he trails a line of saliva down your chin but doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

“Sorry, sir,” You pout slightly and from the way his glossy eyes run down your body, you know that you two won’t be able to tease each other for long tonight. Both of you just need each other right now. Your body is practically begging him, the deep fire of arousal growing in the pit of your stomach.

Every single touch sets you on fire and you know that together you are explosive. You and hotch are dynamic. He takes your breath away just to shock you back to life with every electrifying touch, look, kiss, and word.

In this moment, as the two of you barrel backward towards the bed, you’re aware just how deep into this you are already. You’re already being sucked into this whirlwind of an affair with Hotch. But if there's anything you know of illicit affairs, eventually the fire will dwindle. The excitement of it all will fade. You don’t know when, and you don’t know how, but you just know it will. But you don’t have time to consider that now, while Hotch continues his assault on your neck, his hands traveling all the way down your torso, his fingertips featherlight on your skin contrasting with the small sharp nips he gives your neck and collarbone.

His fingertips ghost up under your shirt, tracing over the bare skin on your abdomen and you let out a hiss over your clenched teeth when his warm hands begin to massage your breasts through the cups of your bra.

“You don’t need anyone else,” His hands make quick work of removing your shirt and pants and unclasping your bra. You attempt to keep up with his fast pace reaching for his shirt and pulling it up over his head. “I think I need to remind you,” Once all your clothing now lives in a pile on the floor, Hotch moves to hover over you, his lips inching ever closer to yours but never touching, “That no one can fuck you like I can.”

“Please,” You whine helpless and submissive in his presence, “I need you, sir.”

“No one can touch you like this,” Hotch leans in close to murmur by your ear. Your heart is racing as his fingers thrust into you at an agonizingly slow start. You scrunch your eyes shut in an attempt to contain your pleasure.

“Eyes open, look at me pretty girl,” He grabs your chin in his hands, tilting your face up towards him, “I want to see your face when I make you come.”

His fingers work faster and deeper, rough and unrelenting, sending you closer and closer to your orgasm. You lean up, to press another kiss to his lips, your legs feeling shaky as you struggle to breathe properly, the tension building in your body like a sneeze.

You’re reduced to a series of incoherent pants and chants but you settle on just begging him. “Please sir, please! Please make me come, Sir.”

Hotch doesn’t let up on his motions but reaches to rub your clit with his thumb. The sensation is enough to send you toppling over the edge, screaming and moaning his name as you tighten around his fingers.

Hotch practically lifts you entirely up off the bed, to flip you over so that your face is pressed into the mattress. He runs his rough, calloused hands over your ass, which is turning a myriad of lovely colors at this point. You hiss at the sensitivity which elicits a wicked chuckle from Hotch, “I see I have a lasting impression on you,” He braces himself, rubbing just the tip of his cock against you. You attempt to squirm around, hoping to gain just a little bit more contact from him. Your heart is still racing wildly, your breath coming in short pants after your first orgasm.
He immediately buries himself inside of you and your eyes start to roll back in your head.

“Oh fuck daddy, you’re so big,” You let out a strangled groan and cry of pleasure, your body trembling and shaking uncontrollably.

“And you’re going to take all of me, aren’t you doll?” His hands claw and grab at your ass and hips, as he attempts to steady himself. He thrusts into you, bottoming out before pulling out entirely just to slam into you over and over again. That, in combination with the dull aching pain from your bottom, causes you to grab the comforter and sheets on the bed tightly in your fists.

Your mind is spinning with the combination of pain and pleasure, biting down harshly on your bottom lip to contain your loud cries.

Hotch tangles a hand in your hair, simultaneously yanking you up closer while he bends down close to your ear, “Don’t go quiet on me now, baby,” His voice gets caught in his throat a little in between moans, “There’s no one else here. Let me hear just how good I make you feel.”

Hotch releases your head forcefully and you have to stick your arms out to keep from smashing your face into the mattress. You let out a series of curses as Hotch continues his reckless pace. He raises his hand to smack your ass again and this time it hurts, like really fucking hurts and you can’t help but scream out, “Fuck!”

“I’m gonna come again, sir!” You moan louder and louder with each unrelenting thrust and you attempt to crane your head around to look at him. Your arms are shaking and you can barely hold yourself up as you feel your orgasm take over your whole body, vision blurring, your mind falling into the foggy high.

“Good girl,” Hotch grunts and continues to fuck you through your orgasm, which just seems to heighten the immense pleasure coursing through you. You’re so spent you don't even realize that he’s finished and his thrusts have come to a shuddering halt. He rolls over next to you, and the both of you just stay there for a few moments as you attempt to catch your breath. You don’t roll over to your back, way too weak to even move at the moment. You feel Hotch’s arm tuck underneath your body, helping you roll over, sliding you up on the bed a little.

“You alright?” He looks over you. You finally get a good look at him and you smile widely at the small pieces of hair that have fallen out of place. There's a slight sheen on his forehead and cheeks, and the way his chest rises and falls rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath has you feeling flustered all over again.

“Mhm,” You moan and stretch your arms up, your muscles already growing sore. He nods in response and turns his attention away from you, throwing his head back, leaning against the headboard. You tuck your legs under the cool sheets on his bed, finally getting some nice relief for your completely bruised and flaming hot bottom.

You both sit there in silence for a few minutes, the only sound is the soft hum of the ceiling fan which seems to be what’s drawing Hotch’s attention. Your attention, however, can’t be pulled away from him. You trace your eyes over his hooked nose, his soft lips, his sharp jawline.

You avert your eyes before you speak to him, “I don’t want other people… other women to get to touch you like this either.”

The room goes silent. He’s much quieter than you expect. Not that Hotch is much of a conversationalist after sex, or even in general. The space between your bodies suddenly seems like a great divide when nearly seconds ago your bodies couldn’t be any closer. He huffs softly.

“What?” Your ego takes a heavy blow from the way he dismissively lets air out of his nose again. You force a little laugh to hide your confusion and discomfort, “Is that so unreasonable for me to ask of you?”

“I already told you earlier, I haven’t slept with anyone since we started sleeping together,” He shifts in the bed. You swear you see his fingers start to rub together but as soon as your eyes dart down to his hand he stops.

“Well, that isn’t exactly the same as what I’m asking of you.” Your firmer tone catches Hotch’s attention. He looks over at you.

“When would I find the time to sleep with someone else. I’m busy with the three courses I teach and I have my hands full with you already.” His jaw is set tight, his eye line unwavering from the focus on your face. There is not even a ghost of a smile on his face. He’s stone-cold, unreadable, completely stoic.

“Your hands full? What does that even mean?” Scrunching up your brows you attempt to move a little closer to him. It feels as if the room just got colder and the space between the two of you grows by the second.

“I spend a lot of time with you, that’s all. There’s no one else I would sleep with right now anyway.” He starts to pull off the covers and swings his legs around to the side of the bed, forcing you to look at his back. He’s hunched over, running his hands over his face, resting his elbows on his thighs. You can see the frustration with you in his body language. I mean his body is practically screaming at you to shut up and leave him alone. Have you really upset him that much by simply asking him not to see other people?

That’s when you start gnawing at your bottom lip. He’s dodging your request. He’s giving you responses, but not a simple, ‘I won’t sleep with anyone else.’ His responses are conditional. He’s not sleeping with anyone else just because there isn’t anyone else who interests him. But if there was someone who did? Would he sleep with them? Even though he has you?

It’s wildly unfair. You’re not allowed to see anyone else but he gets to dance around your question and act all vague and mysterious., Not only does it show a lack of respect for you, but it's becoming increasingly clear that he doesn’t see you as his equal in any way. He doesn’t believe he has to hold himself to the standards that you hold him to.

“It’s late. You should get home soon, I’m sure you have class early tomorrow.” Hotch gets up from the bed, walking into his bathroom.

You hear the shower water run in the bathroom and Hotch steps back into the room, walking to his dresser to get out clean clothes. You’re speechless, barely managing to get out the word, “What?” You sit up to get a better look at him, pulling the sheets to wrap around your body.

“I can call you a car or something so you can get home,” He nods, adjusting the towel wrapped around his waist. Is he really kicking you out on your ass at this hour? It’s nearly two in the morning, and he’s kicking you out?

“No, I can call a car myself,” You gather up your clothes in your arms, wishing to be clothed and out of his home as soon as possible. Hotch wordlessly disappears into his bathroom. The door closes and it seems to rattle you deep down. That last slam of a door is the one thing that seems to finally break you out of the dreamy, lust-filled haze that has been your time with Professor Hotchner. The rose-colored glasses come off for you to realize that this agreement is inherently flawed.

That’s the thing about torrid affairs with their stolen glances and electric touches. Eventually, the spark dies. The mystery and thrill of it all fade away. Eventually, it stalls. It starts to die. And from there?

Well, there’s only one way to go from there.

Down.

Chapter Text

After leaving Hotch’s apartment this past weekend you thought it would be the last time you break your routine with him. The weekly meetings were working for the two of you. No more surprise late-night visits, no more off-schedule meetings in his office. You would see him every Wednesday like you two agreed and nothing more. It was growing to be too tiring, the constant back and forth with him. One minute he’s displaying his jealousy, the next he’s walking you home to your apartment, talking to you quietly and telling you his favorite color, and then the next he’s kicking you out on your ass barely giving you a second look.

It doesn’t even hit you how tiring the whole routine is until Wednesday rolls around. You had an exam in the morning, for which you felt entirely unprepared because all you did was spend the first two days of the weekend trying to keep your schedule revolving around Hotch’s whims.

You feel a serious migraine coming on as you struggle to maintain your focus on Hotch, who paces back and forth at the front of the lecture hall. Your eyes drift closed, the bright fluorescent lighting managing to aggravate the growing head pain.

“Miss Y/L/N,” His deep baritone seems to radiate off every surface in the classroom, intensifying the dull ache in your head. “If you require nap time, please remember this isn’t a daycare or your bedroom. Wake up.”

“Sorry, sir,” You mutter under your breath, struggling to hold your head up and focus. The words on the whiteboard are blurred, fuzzy through your hazy migraine brain. His eyes linger on you, reading your body language. He knows that something is off. You don’t get all flustered like he expects you to. You barely give him any reaction at all. You swear you see a flash of worry across his face, a small pause in the lecture but if he does it’s barely noticeable and cannot be attributed to your lack of energy at the current moment.

The rest of the class is just as much of a blur as the first half and as you’re packing up your belongings, the deep baritone voice calls out, “Miss Y/L/N, stay back for a second.”

Katie shoots you a look, muttering, “Damn, does he ever let you catch a break?”

You shake your head, not having enough energy to muster up a substantial response. You ignore his calls and continue packing up before turning to follow Katie to the door.

“Y/N, he called you,” She glances over her shoulder to see you close behind.

“So?” You bring your hand up to rub your temple roughly.

Katie sighs, “Look, I’ll wait for you outside. Just don’t anger him more than you already do. I would like for you to live until your 21st birthday.” She teases, managing to put a smile on your face despite your sour attitude.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping your mind will clear once they’re open again, but as you turn and open your eyes, Hotch’s piercing gaze sends your thoughts into a scramble. You stand by the door uncomfortably, watching as the last few students file out.

You avoid his eye contact and keep your feet planted firmly in place, knowing that he’s too addicting, too irresistible for you to consider getting any closer to him.

“Y/N, is something wrong?” He glances over you and takes a few steps closer.

As soon as he moves closer, you take a few steps back, “I’m tired today and I need to get to a study session.” You’re practically backpedaling all the way out of the classroom.

“Wait, Y/N,” He calls and moves a little quicker to get closer to you, "Is there something going on with you that I should know about?”

You push down the small scoff and resist the urge to tell him off. From the way he’s treated you the past few days, he doesn't deserve any information about you. If he wants to show a complete lack of respect for you, there's nothing about your life he ‘should know about.’

“No. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have exams to study for. Goodbye Professor Hotchner.” You rush out the words and turn on your heel.

“Wait,” He calls after you, “Einstein!” His efforts to stop you are to no avail. You push open the door, hooking your arm in Katie’s, practically dragging her away from his classroom.

“Whoa, slow down, kid,” She laughs. You ignore her, continuing to drag her further away from the lecture hall and out of the building onto the quad. “Damn, is he really that bad?” She holds you back, forcing you to slow down.

“I’m so fucking sick and tired of him,” You let out a frustrated groan.

“Really?” Katie raises a brow but continues to walk with you towards the small café where you always get lunch. “Huh.” She lets out and you turn your attention to her.

“What? Don’t believe me?” You let go of her arm.

She shrugs, “He just seems like the type of guy who’s an asshole in public but actually a smooth talker and charming when you’re alone with him.”

It actually pisses you off how right Katie is about him. Except for the fact that he can be an asshole in private too. Especially when he kicks you out of his house at 2 in the morning.

“No matter how charming he is in private, he’s still an asshole the other 50% of the time,” You snap, “Come on. I have an exam to study for.”

The two of you pick up coffee and some lunch before burying yourselves deep in the stacks in the library. Normally, on a Wednesday, you would be rushing to grab a quick bite for lunch, get some work done as fast as possible so that you could rush back to Hotch’s office for your weekly afternoon meeting. You weren’t planning on blowing him off, at least, not when the day started. But after actually seeing him, you feel no desire to spend an hour with him, letting him enjoy and explore every inch of your body. He doesn’t deserve a minute of your time. But even then, it’s not that simple to blow him off, because despite telling yourself you deserve better, you still find yourself glancing at the clock every few minutes as the time inches closer and closer to 2:00.

Are you pissed at him right now? Yes, but that doesn’t change the way that your heart swells when you think of the time you’ve spent together. For every moment that he’s pissed you off, you can think of another where he’s made you smile and laugh. And for every moment he’s hurt your feelings or bruised your ego, you can think of one where he’s praised your hard work and boosted your confidence. For every moment he’s made you feel unimportant, you can think of one where he’s made you moan, made your toes curl, and made you feel like the most irresistible woman on planet earth.

You bounce your knee repeatedly, and Katie reaches a hand under the table to place over your bouncing leg, trying to calm you down, “You alright, Einstein?” She doesn’t look up from the textbook she’s reading but gives your knee a soft squeeze before letting go.

“Yeah,” You glance at the clock again, watching the second-hand pass 12 and the minute hand shift to hover over two, lining up with the hour hand. 2:10 pm. Wednesday 2:10 pm. As if on schedule, you hear your phone buzzing in your bag. You place a hand over your bag, hoping to dull the noise of the vibrations.

But it doesn’t help. You dig around in your bag for the phone and ignore the call before shoving it back in and attempting to turn your focus back down to your notes. Another call. More vibrating.

Once again, Katie speaks without looking up, “You going to get that?”

“No, it’s not important.” You fight the urge to check the phone. You already know who it is without looking at it.

“How do you know it’s not important if you don't look at it?” She puts the highlighter down and looks at you. You see her eyes narrow slightly as she makes it extremely obvious she’s trying to read your expression right now.

“I’m sure it’s nothing important,” You force your eyes back down onto your notes. Focus, damn it. Just focus on your work.

Your attempts are in vain. Your phone buzzes about 3 more times over the next 20 minutes, which just further concerns Katie, who is now thoroughly convinced you have lost your mind. And maybe you have. You feel off. Your heart aches in your chest. Your mind is in a fog and you can’t think clearly. Every time you start to dive back into studying, your mind wanders back to your professor.

You wonder what he’s doing right now. Is he pacing in his office, waiting for you to walk in the door? Or is he calmly sitting at his desk as if it doesn’t faze him? Does it faze him? Does he even care if you didn’t show up? He’s called you five times already. But maybe it’s not about you. He’s not the type of man that takes no for an answer and he doesn’t like being told what to do. Maybe it’s all about the dynamic. He likes the idea of you as a younger girl fawning over him, worshipping him, hanging onto every last word that comes out of his mouth.

In reality, maybe he doesn’t even care about you at all. He just knows you’re attractive and that’s enough for him.

You want that to be the answer. That would be much easier to swallow. That would be easier to deal with. Knowing that he just wants you for your body is easy to cope with. But there’s something about the little things he does. The way he trusts you with his personal notes. He lets you read his annotations in the novels he lends you. He doesn’t just give you work to do, but he listens to what you have to say, really listens. He makes photocopies of your notes. He lets you annotate in the margins of his books.

You swear that when you crack a joke or make fun of him, you can see a smile spread across his face. Just last week, you teased him about his horrible handwriting, and you could’ve sworn his handwriting was a little neater in the comments of your recent essay.

You feel comfortable around him. He loosens up around you. He’s harsh and unrelenting when it comes to criticism, but he knows you can handle it. He understands you want the truth. You want honesty. You want guidance. He understands that. He seems to understand you better than you know yourself.

So how come you seem to be so in the dark about him? You can never understand his motivations for anything. One minute, he’s scolding you in class, the next he’s praising you in private. He’s inviting you over to his place, but soon after tossing you out. He walks you home, indulges your silly questions, but then makes you feel like an unimportant one-night stand as if he’s only sleeping with you because you’re available to him.

It was the conditional nature of it all: ‘There’s no one else I would sleep with right now anyway’

The words sting. He’s only exclusively sleeping with you because you’re all he has. His only option.

You pull yourself out of your head. Finally turning your attention back onto the notes in front of you. No more wasted energy on Hotch. You have work to get done, and you’re sick and tired of letting him have so much control over you.

You manage to avoid Hotch for the rest of the week. You don’t have his class on Thursday and you know his class schedule well enough to be able to dodge seeing him in the halls or accidentally running into him while meeting with other professors. Even after Wednesday’s migraine fades away, you’re constantly running on low battery. Your brain is mush and your thoughts are unorganized and disjointed.

None of your schoolwork manages to hold your attention. You can’t think clearly anymore and it pisses you off. Even without spending time with Hotch, he’s ruining you. Absolutely, completely, ruining you.

Your depressed mood doesn’t go unnoticed, either. Katie grows so concerned for you that she proposes you both skip your classes on Friday, sleep in, and then have a really fun night, drinking with all your friends. The craziest part of it all? You agree. So you skip class on Friday. Your agreement shocks Katie. She’s happy about it, stating that you need a break and it’s okay to miss class every once in a while, saying “None of the professors even take attendance. They won’t notice that you skipped. And if they do, they know you’re a good student and would only miss class for a valid reason.”

But you know that your absence will not go completely unnoticed. You know that your absence in one class, in particular, will not bode well for you. Hotch will inevitably lay into you even harder on Monday in class. He will torture you, embarrass you in front of the whole class for skipping.

Again, you’re sick and tired of letting him have control over you.

“And another one bites the dust!” You tease playfully as you pour the last of the vodka into your cup, “Let me go see if we have a bottle of wine.” You stand up from your seat on the floor, giving Katie’s shoulder a small squeeze as you pass by. You step into the kitchen, open the liquor cabinet, and pull out a bottle for you and your friends. Just as you pull out the cork and place the bottle down on the coffee table, there’s a knock at the door. “I’ll get it.” You nod.

“I hope it’s not our upstairs neighbors complaining again. We’re not even that loud!” Katie yells and you laugh, knowing that she has no sense of volume and spends mostly every weekend screaming at reality television when the two of you drink a little too much. If you lived above your apartment, you’d be bothered too. You roll your eyes at Katie’s comment and reach forward to open the door.

“Hey sorry about the—” You’re about to start apologizing for the noise when you see him standing there at the door. You let out a small breath, “Charlie.” You say softly and he returns a sheepish grin.

He holds up two bottles in his hands and shrugs, “I brought sustenance.”

“I didn’t think you would come,” You admit honestly, but step aside to let him into your apartment. You hadn’t talked to Charlie in nearly a week. The last time you even spoke to him was right after you made out with him and then ran out on him.

“Well, Katie invited me and I thought it would be the perfect time to apologize for being such an ass last week.” He shakes his head. He opens his mouth, probably to continue to apologize but you don’t let him speak.

“No, Charlie, I’m partially to blame,” You argue and take the bottles from his hands, “I shouldn’t have kissed you back.”

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone, I never would’ve kissed you,” You’re just about to step into the living room to rejoin the rest of your friends, but you grab his arm and hold him back a little.

“Wait, what?” He looks down at you with a grin, but your face is twisted into one of horror. Does he know about you and Hotch? Did he see something he wasn’t supposed to? Hear something?

“Oh come on, Einstein. You’re way more distracted than usual, you’ve got a little extra pep in your step, and you always have a little,” He reaches forward hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt, pulling it down slightly to reveal a small fading bruise just at the top of your breasts, “Mark on your neck.” He teases.

You smack his hand away, feeling your face grow hot, “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Oh, really?” Charlie smirks, “So why’d you run away from that kiss as if you had just committed an act of adultery?”

You roll your eyes, but laugh a little at his teasing. It’s nice to have one of your best friends back, “I’m not in a relationship.” You clarify.

“So you are seeing someone… friends with benefits?” He grins and throws an arm around you.

“Are you asking about the guy or making a proposition for us?” You jokingly flirt back with him, attempting to establish the normal witty banter the two of you usually have together.

“Whichever you’d prefer,” He grins and pulls you back to the group, “Now that I’m here, we can get the actual party started.” He pulls you down to sit on the floor next to him before reaching to steal your cup and finish it off.

“I’m pretty sure that was mine,” You laugh and lean back against him.

“Oh… really? My bad,” He shrugs with a sneaky little smirk, before reaching for another cup to pour you both new drinks.

“You just can’t help putting your hands all over things that aren’t yours, huh?” At that, Charlie erupts into loud laughter and your heart surges with happiness. Finally, you’re able to push Hotch from your mind. You forget about him altogether as you spend the night laughing and drinking with friends.

————

You close the door behind your friends, the last of them finally leaving, and lean against the door with a small sigh. “Jesus, I am exhausted. This week has felt like hell on earth,” You complain and move towards your living room, dreading cleaning up the myriad of bottles, cups, and food wrappers left behind from the night’s festivities.

“I’m going to shower and immediately pass the fuck out,” Katie fights through a yawn, “Don’t worry about the mess. We can clean it up together tomorrow.” She waves her hand before turning to walk through the apartment to the bathroom.

“You know I can’t go to bed and leave a mess!” You yell over the sound of the shower water running. You place the last few bottles into the recycling and hear your phone vibrating obnoxiously in the other room. You rush to grab it, only to see the familiar number that you’ve ignored nearly 20 times in the past 3 days.

You slam the phone down frustratedly. You want to see Hotch. More than anything, you want him to wrap his arms around you, pull you close, and kiss you until you’re weak in the knees. Aside from the sex, you have missed his company. He’s intelligent and he sees the complexities of your mind. He makes you smile. You like to think you’re one of the few people who manage to make him smile. He spends so much of the day with his face screwed into that emotionless frown. You like being able to be the person to relieve that tension, whether it’s while you’re on your knees in front of him or simply with a witty, sarcastic remark. But you deserve respect. And you’re tired of settling for anything less from him.

You walk to turn out some of the lights in your living room when you hear your phone buzz on the couch again. You want to ignore it but something inside of you urges you to check the message. You pick up the phone and check the most recent message.

Come outside.

“What the fuck?” You speak softly, worried that Katie will somehow hear you over the roaring shower water. You walk to the window in your living room and pull back the blinds. You glance down at the front of your building. There he is. Aaron Hotchner is standing in front of your building, leaning against his car, staring right back up at you. You glance down at the phone and dial his number.

He picks up quickly, continuing to keep his eyes focused on you through the window, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Can you just come down? We need to talk.” He tilts his head looking up at you and gestures for you to come down.

“Isn’t it obvious I don’t feel like talking to you right now?” You want to shut the blinds and hang up but you get the feeling Hotch isn’t going to take no for an answer.

“Just come down. I’m not having this conversation over the phone.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing with it slightly. You can see he’s in casual sweats and a t-shirt.

“Oh, I wasn’t aware there was going to be a conversation.” There’s a pause as you both stare back at each other. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as the tension and anger build up inside you. He’s managed to ruin a perfect night with your friends. How does he manage to invade every moment of your life? “This is creepy, Hotch. You can’t just show up to my apartment like this.”

“I’m not talking over the phone. If you want to yell at me or scold me or something you’re going to have to come down here to do it.” He shakes his head disapprovingly and stands up from the way he was leaning on the car, taking a firmer stance with you.

“Hotch—” Before you can get another word out, he hangs up on you. You glare down at him, and he simply shrugs, crossing his arms across his chest. By the time you make it down the stairs and out the front door of your apartment complex, you’re absolutely seething with rage.

“You cannot be here. You cannot just show up here whenever you want and expect me to be okay with that.” You storm out to meet him, wrapping your arms around your body defensively. You keep your distance, worried about what you’ll do if you or he get too close to one another. It has been nearly a week since you’ve had your hands on him and you’re convinced the irrational, hormone-driven part of you will dominate once you get one whiff of his cologne.

“Why’d you blow me off? Why haven’t you been answering my calls? You didn’t even show up to class today. I was worried,” He seems genuinely concerned, his eyes running over your body, almost as if he’s checking you for injury.

You’re not even sure how to respond, only managing to get out, “Worried?”

“It’s not like you to skip class. I figured out pretty quickly you were mad at me, for some reason that I haven’t been able to decipher, but I didn’t expect you to resort to skipping class.” He takes a few steps towards you, and you curse yourself for not maintaining the distance between the two of you. From here, you can see a little more dep[th in those beautiful brown eyes of his, and you can see the way his arms tense and strain a little against his jacket.

“For some reason?” You scoff, “Are you really that blind to the impact of your own actions?

Hotch glances away for a second, frustrated with you, letting out a long breath, “Look, Y/N, I don’t know what you expect from me.” He talks with his hands, expressing the sentiment that he’s exasperated with you as if you’re being ridiculous.

“I expect you to treat me with a little bit of respect, Aaron,” You have to be firm with him. You’re not going to let him manipulate you or walk all over you.

“I respect you.” He states simply.

“You threw me out at two in the morning.” You point out and you see his firm demeanor falter a little.

“I offered to call you a car.” You chuckle bitterly and shake your head at his responses. You know he’s not stupid. He’s actually one of the smartest people you’ve ever met. He can usually read you so well, what is so confusing about this that he can’t get it through his dense head?

“You told me there was no one else you’d want to sleep with. The only reason I’m the only woman you’re sleeping with is that there’s no one else you want to sleep with.” You’re struggling to keep your voice steady and calm, but you feel your voice tremble a little as the pain in your chest increases, recalling the events of the past weekend. You’re fighting to keep from letting him see how much his words have hurt you. You don’t want him to think you’re too emotionally invested, but you also don’t want him to get away with hurting you.

Hotch swallows. He clenches his jaw. He realizes. He knows what he said and he knows what it meant. “I told you I haven’t slept with anyone but you.”

You roll your eyes. He’s clearly not getting it. “But would you? If given the chance, would you sleep with someone else?”

Hotch hesitates. That hesitation is enough confirmation for you. “Go home, Aaron,” You let out frustratedly and turn to walk inside. He catches your wrist and pulls you back around for a kiss. You melt against him a little, forgetting just how much he makes you go weak in the knees. You haven’t felt his touch in nearly a week and it shows in the way you’re completely surrendering yourself to him in seconds. But you pull away for a second to catch your breath, realizing you can’t just get sucked back into him again.

You sigh, “You can’t just kiss me to get me to stop talking.”

He kisses you again, a little softer this time, running his hands up to cup your face, thumbs running over your cheeks lightly. You start to pull away again. “I don’t want to sleep with anyone else.” He breathes against your lips. “I just want you. No one else. You’re all I need.”

And just like that, you’re falling into him all over again. The promise of some form of exclusivity, some amount of commitment to you, manages to soften your anger. It dulls your frustration. In all honesty, it hurt you to be away from him for a week. You feel lost without his company and now, in this moment, the haze that you had been living in for the past week has seemed to lift. The fog in your brain clears, you feel a little less disorganized. You can think clearly again.

“I only want you too,” You let out before pulling him close for a heated kiss. His hands roam your body hungrily and you press into him, your pillowy breasts pushing against his firm chest. His scent invading your senses, his hands gripping your face.

“I have—” You speak between heated kisses, “I have to go back inside. Katie,” You pause to let out a soft moan as Hotch’s lips leave yours and travel under your jaw, “Katie is inside.” You manage to tear yourself away from him, “You have to go, someone might see you here.” You nod, “I’ll see you Monday.”

He nods in response and you turn to walk up the steps to your door, and just like that night he walked you home, he calls out to you before you get to the door, “Einstein!” He comes running up to you, placing one last kiss on your lips, “I’m sorry.” He says it so softly you barely catch it. There’s a moment. A pause. After he says it, he stands there. His hands on your cheeks, holding your face in place so that he can look down into your eyes. And when you look up at him, you get the sense he genuinely means it. He doesn’t want to hurt you. You stand there, both looking at each other for a moment. But the moment is fleeting. He soon turns and walks back to his car before you can fully process the apology. You turn into the building, taking your time to walk up the steps, wanting to savor the euphoric feeling that comes with Hotch's presence.

You step back into your apartment closing the door behind you, pausing to take a slow breath in. Your heart is still racing after that kiss. Just like that, Hotch has managed to suck you back in. His soft words, his rough hands on your body, his mouth warm moving against yours. The warning signs are there. You know you need to stay away, but he’s just so fucking mesmerizing. There’s something so exhilarating about risking it all, about sneaking around with him. Something about the stolen glances in class and the heated midnight kisses. You take another second to catch your breath before turning around.

“Why was Professor Hotchner outside our apartment?” Katie has her arms crossed against her chest, her hair dripping onto her shirt from the shower, “And why the fuck were you kissing him?”

Chapter Text

"Katie," Your heart is still racing from the kiss and the surprise of your friend coming up behind you. "I thought you said you were going to shower and go to bed." It's a stupid comment. Obviously, she didn't just go straight to bed.

"What is Professor Hotchner doing outside of our apartment?" Katie crosses her arms across her chest, "No actually, more importantly, what is Professor Hotchner doing kissing you?"

"What?" Just like that, your IQ falls about 80 points. Play dumb. That's definitely the best choice in this situation.

"Y/N... please tell me you are not seeing our professor." Katie brings a hand up to hold her temples.

"Okay, I'm not seeing our professor," You attempt to push past her and she shoots a hand out to grab your wrist, pulling you back to stand in front of her. You hope your long-drawn-out sigh is enough to warn her that you're really not in the mood for a scolding or beratement or even to chat right now. It's been a long week. "Please Katie just..."

"Just what? Let it go? Pretend I didn't see it?" Katie's eyes search your face but you roll your eyes, "No, we're talking about this."

"I'm exhausted and I want to sleep," You groan, cursing the fact that your drunken buzz is rapidly fading, "This doesn't have to be a big thing."

"It's already a big thing." She argues. You open your mouth to protest, to fight her off, but if you know anything about Katie, it's that when she's dead set on something, there's no excuse, no possible escape. So you let out a sigh and move to lean against the kitchen island, a small distance away from her. Where do you begin? How do you explain it all to her?

"How long has this been going on?" Katie's body language loosens up and she pulls the towel from around her neck, drying her hair lightly as she looks over at you.

So you tell her. You tell her everything. Well, not every single detail of the sex, but you tell her how many times you've seen him, you tell her about the late-night booty call, you tell her about the kiss with Charlie, you tell her about the weekend at his apartment. You tell her about blowing him off all week. You don't tell her about him walking you home, you don't tell her about the conversation the two of you just had outside your building. You leave out the fights with him. You leave out the way he kicked you out on your ass this past weekend.

Katie shakes her head, and the words that you already know are coming fall from her lips, "Y/N, you can't... you cannot keep seeing him."

Your eyes look away from her piercing, searching gaze. Deep down, you know she's right. This isn't a relationship and it's not just a fling anymore. The way you felt all week being separated from him? It made you sick to your stomach. You couldn't focus on anything, your mind always wandering back to him. Not just wandering back to the sex, but to his voice, his hands, his eyes, his laugh, his smile. The way his brows furrow deeply when he's reading. That damned hand thing he does. The way he subtly bites at the corner of his lips when concentrating. "I really... I really like spending time with him. He understands me, you know?"

"I know it might feel that way but at the end of the day he's using you." She argues, "It's not right. He's using the power he has over you as a professor to get you in bed."

You don't come up with anything to say back so Katie keeps going, "If you guys get caught... he could lose his job. Your reputation will be ruined. All that you've worked hard for, all this work to establish a name for yourself..."

"Don't you think I fucking realize all that?" Your frustration and exhaustion bubble up into anger. You're not a child, and right now Katie is lecturing you like one. "It's not just sex anymore," You bite back, "It's companionship. He listens to me. He indulges my mind. We enjoy each other's company. And he doesn't treat me like a child, unlike you and all of our other friends." The last part isn't really true. Katie, for the most part, treats you with just as much respect as anyone else her age. The rest of your friends baby you. It's evident in their behavior, the way they tease you and laugh at you. The nicknames, 'kid genius' or just 'kid.'

You're tired of being treated like a child. You're plenty capable of making your own decisions. This thing with Hotch is the first fully independent decision you've made. It's not what your parents expect from you, it's not what your friends want from you, it's entirely what you want. And that complete freedom of choice? It feels fantastic.

"Oh my god." Katie's voice has fallen to hush. Her hand comes to her mouth, covering it slightly.

You stutter out a quick apology, "I'm sorry, Katie that's not what I meant..."

"Oh my god," She repeats, taking a few steps closer to you, "Oh my god. You're... falling for him."

Your face flushes hot with embarrassment. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, suppressing the small smile threatening to ruin your angry, frustrated façade. "No," You look up into her kind eyes, "Maybe. I don't know."

"Oh, Einstein," She chuckles sadly. You can sense she feels bad for you. She pities you, like you're some sad lovesick child, chasing after some unattainable ideal love that will never be reciprocated, but she didn't hear what Hotch said outside. She didn't see the way the two of you looked at each other at the front door. She didn't hear how soft his voice got when he apologized. He wouldn't act this way if he didn't care for you. You're all I need.

He wouldn't say that if he didn't mean it. He wouldn't. That would be cruel of him, to play with you like that. As much as he's mistreated you, you know he's not capable of such disrespect and manipulation.

"You know I'm always in your corner." Katie leans against the counter next to you.

"Then why do you make me feel like a teenager who snuck out past curfew?" You try to crack a joke, lighten the mood, pull yourself out of your own thoughts.

"I'm not angry with you." She rubs your shoulder comfortingly.

"It sure feels that way," You scoff and look down, picking at your nail beds.

"If anything I'm angry with him," She almost laughs, reaching for your hand, preventing you from tearing at the skin any longer. She wraps her hand around yours supportively, "He's your superior and it's wrong to use you like this," You shoot her a glare and she sighs, "If he's using you."

"I don't know what to think, Katie," You feel that pit in your stomach that makes you queasy, "Whenever I'm with him I feel like the most important woman in the entire world. I make him laugh. How could anyone possibly fake all of that?"

"Maybe he's not," She wraps her other arm around your shoulders and pulls you in close to rest your head on her shoulder, "You're so beautiful, inside and out, Y/N... it's impossible for him to avoid falling for you too."

Her words give a small boost of happiness. It's amazing to know she's always on your side, but the doubts you have about Hotch don't seem to be disappearing. He's never made any real commitment to you. He barely shows any sense of care for you besides when you blow him off. But again, you decide that it all feels too authentic to be manipulation. He's too enchanted by you, and you, with him. What you feel for him is real. He must feel the same... he has to.

You knock lightly on Hotch's office door but receive no response. You glance around the hallways to make sure that no student or professor sees you entering his office. It would be quite hard to explain why Hotch would let you go into his office if he wasn't there. You push open the door, surprised to see Hotch hunched over at his desk, writing furiously with one hand, the other hand holding his forehead.

Your entrance into the office doesn't even seem to draw his attention. "Aaron?" You call. He looks up at you and you can see his eyebrows plastered into that signature frown of his. "Sorry I didn't mean to barge in. I can go if you-"

"No come in," He waves you in and turns his attention back down to his work.

"Are you okay?" You ask tentatively. You sit in the chair directly across from his desk, placing your bag on the floor and cozying up a little. You feel comfortable in his office. It's always warm and the room smells like him. You've run your eyes over the hundreds of books on the walls, reading the spines, memorizing every single title that he has in his collection, making mental notes of ones that are missing that you think would pad out his collection properly.

"I just... my third-year ethical issues students are all struggling quite a bit and it's a difficult class I'll admit but I can't help but feel like..." He sighs and shakes his head. "Like it's due to my failings as a professor and mentor."

You find yourself at a loss for words. You can tell he's stressed. His hand is tangled in his hair and it's all messed up and fluffy. His grip on the pen is tight, his knuckles practically going white as he writes notes rapidly. You've never seen him so vulnerable... so normal and human. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I'm just trying to restructure the lectures and the curriculum. I've lightened the workload because I know all of them are scrounging for internships and job opportunities or are already juggling an internship but they're just not getting it." He drops his pen, which causes a little bit of ink to spray out from the fountain pen nib and onto his notes. He holds his head in his hands, covering his entire face with his palms before rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up.

You bite your lip and put your things down, standing up to walk around and sit against the edge of the desk to the right of him. "Can I take a look?" You hold out your hand.

"How could you help me with this?" He looks up from his hands at you.

"Well, seeing as I am a student, I can probably help figure out what is and isn't working for them, which weeks you're assigning too much work for them to actually get done." You smirk and he leans back in his chair. There's a small moment before a smile starts to spread across his face.

He places a warm hand on your knee, rubbing it gently. It's not an inherently sexual gesture, it's comfortable. He leaves his hand there, thumb tracing circles on your thigh absentmindedly, "I don't think you're a good judge of the average student. There's no such thing as too much work to get done for you."

You roll your eyes, "Aaron will you stop being so stubborn and just hand me the damn syllabus." You stick out your hand and he reluctantly sits up, handing over the sheet scribbled with his notes. "You're lucky I've learned to decode your horrendous handwriting."

"It's not that awful." He mutters under his breath and leans forward to look over the sheet while it's in your hands.

"I don't even know what that says," You point to an especially atrocious line, "Seriously, Aaron, are you trying to make it harder for your students on purpose?"

"You seem to do okay," He teases, giving your thigh a light squeeze.

You chuckle, reaching across him for a pen, making marks all over the pages. "Yeah well, I work about three times as much as anyone else here."

"What are you doing?"Hotch leans further forward to get a better look at what you're writing but you lean away from him so you can work on it uninterrupted, "Wait, you can't just cross that out they need to—" He reaches out a hand, ready to snatch the syllabus from your clutches. You hold your arm fully extended out away from him like you're keeping a toy from a little child before placing a soft quick kiss on his lips.

"Now stop arguing and let me work," You smirk and pull away. Despite cutting him off, a small grin remains on his face. You sit there for a few minutes longer, crossing off items on the syllabus, rearranging the schedule, and writing down suggestions. Hotch resigns himself to the fact that you will not be relinquishing your hold on the paper until you've made it exactly perfect. He knows you too well, you won't stop until you think you've nailed it.

After a few minutes, you hand the paper back to him, thoroughly satisfied with all the changes you've made. He takes it from you, eyes scanning through the notes, flipping through the pages at a steady pace, "Hm," He lets out a small hum and you lean forward, attempting to spot which line he's reading, "These are... really good changes." He nods and turns to look up at you, your face much closer now that you've leaned into him.

"Really?" Your heart flutters as his eyes flit down to your lips and back to your eyes, "I mean... of course they are," You tease, putting on a fake air of arrogance, but deep down your heart swells with pride that he's impressed by your help.

He runs a hand along your jaw, hand wrapping around your throat, but it's not tight or dominant like usual. His fingers are light on your skin and he just pulls you enough to bring your lips to his for a slow, sensual kiss. Your eyes flutter shut and you run your fingers up to knot in his hair, tugging on the roots. You're the first to pull away from the kiss, "Now get back to work." You point down at the stack of essays on his desk.

"But it's Wednesday," He's practically pouting up at you, "I set aside this time to be with you." His hand travels back on your neck, cupping your face, thumb rubbing your cheek, his fingers at the base of your neck.

"You obviously have a lot to get done. Don't worry about it," You wave your hand dismissively, give a reassuring nod and get up, digging around in your bag to take out a book. You hold it up, "I have ways to entertain myself."

"You can come back later in the afternoon once I'm done all of this," He starts but you hold up your hand to stop him, settling back onto the edge of his desk.

"Get your work done. I don't mind just sitting here with you," You give a warm smile before opening your novel and diving right in. He takes that as a sign that it's okay to go ahead and continue working, and you both seem to fall into a rhythm, the only sound coming from the occasional creak and groan of the heater working overtime to combat the cold wintery weather outside.

He rests his right hand on your thigh again, every once in a while giving it a small squeeze, while his fingers trail over your skin. He uses his other hand to continue grading papers. It's a comforting position. You sit there, fully focused on the book in your hand, but enjoy the comfort of his warm hands on your skin.

You both sit there in silence for nearly half an hour before you come to the end of your book closing it with a small sigh. You glance at the walls of titles and stand up from the desk, drawing Hotch's attention away from his work. You hold your book close to your chest, slowly strolling past the shelves and shelves of books.

"Take any one you want." He gestures with his head in the direction of the shelves.

"Really?" You're giddy with excitement, just itching to take the first 10 titles down and dive into reading them. You step closer, taking a moment to read every single spine and cover carefully.

"Mhm," Hotch mumbles under his breath, attempting to look at his work but his eyes are stuck on you as you slowly drift from shelf to shelf, eyes wide, trying to take in every single title.

"You know my birthday is next Friday," You hum softly and run your fingers over the spines of the books on the shelf. You turn and lean back against them, wagging your eyebrows playfully at him, "What are you going to get me?"

"I—" Hotch seems at a loss for words, his smile faltering slightly, "I'm not really great at giving gifts. I don't ever feel like I know the person well enough to give them a meaningful gift."

"I'm teasing you," You laugh at his slight stuttering and discomfort, "I'm not the type to make a big fuss about my birthday."

"It's your 21st. That's a big deal," He nods, eliciting a small scoff and roll of your eyes.

You turn back around and pull a book from the shelf, turning through the pages quickly, "Is it? I mean I've always thought of age as something so irrelevant." You put the book up onto the shelf. Your eyes travel up to the higher shelves. The books higher up are probably some of the ones he doesn't reach for as often, but you find yourself spotting some of your favorites up on the higher shelf. You stand up on your toes, reaching for his copy of Dracula.

"Why's that?" He stands up from his chair and comes up behind you, reaching up over your shoulder to grab the book and hand it to you. You look over your shoulder at him with a small smile.

"I just don't think age is necessarily a marker of any sense of intelligence, maturity, sophistication, experience," You walk around the office as you read through the pages, ignoring the written words, focusing all your energy on understanding his annotations. The pages are littered with highlights and notes on every free space on the page. The grin on your face grows more as you read it.

"Sorry, I forget you're such a kid genius sometimes," Hotch teases you playfully.

You barely hear what he's saying, taking a moment to absorb the thoughts present in the margins of the novel, "You really don't like this book, huh?" You close it shut in one hand and look over at him. "You missed some of the most important parts."

"Oh did I?" He chuckles and leans against the shelves, crossing his arms.

"Yes! You missed the complexities of the point of view changes and the greater metaphors for sexuality and female sexual prowess." You protest angrily. Your love for literature is coming out at this moment and his smug, arrogant smirk, which you know so well, demonstrates he's not going to be receptive to your opinion and will continue to believe his ideas are correct.

"I understand those arguments and see their evidence in the literature but it's taking such a modern view of a Victorian novel. That's not what the implications are to the Victorian reader or in the historical context of the book," He shrugs, "It's such a reach."

"But isn't that the only way to enjoy literature? That's the only way a literary work can be timeless. Can you take it into a modern context and still enjoy it while deriving some greater conclusions about the world around you?" You tut at him disapprovingly, "Whatever, I'm not taking literature advice from someone who doesn't even own a copy of The Great Gatsby."

"Classics are overrated." His words are like a knife to your heart. Your jaw falls slack with shock and you can sense him resisting the urge to make a dirty joke.

You shake your head firmly, "First of all, some classics are overrated, but some are worthy of the title of classic. Second, The Great Gatsby is my favorite novel of all time so I will simply not tolerate any criticism. I cannot believe you don't have it."

"I never understood the infatuation. The writing seems so... simplistic, the imagery is predictable and cliched." Yeah. Just go on and twist the knife more.

You whirl around to look at him, placing a hand over your chest, feigning hurt feelings, "First of all, I am now taking this as a personal attack," He chuckles and shakes his head at your dramatics, "And the simplistic writing is what makes it so amazing. It seems so simple on the surface, and you can take the cliched, surface-level metaphors and imagery and derive some bored, tired conclusions about Fitzgerald's opinion of the American Dream. But there's so much more!" You shake your head, struggling to reach to put the book back up on the shelf.

"Okay, okay," He walks close to take the book from your hands placing it back in its rightful position, "I get it. My literature analyses are not good enough for you."

As he turns his attention back to you, you maintain his eye contact giving him a small shrug of your shoulders, "If you spend all your energy attempting to divide everything into strict categories or make stark divisions of good and bad, you miss the important subtleties of the world around you." His brows furrow as he attempts to understand your point.

"I just think your law background has forced you into taking on a black and white mindset." You continue, "But the beauty in life is in the grays."

He pauses for a second, letting the smile grow wider on his face. He leans forward, again connecting his lips with yours. His hands wrap around you, pulling you closer to him, pressing your soft warm body against his. You glance at the time, knowing that you're going to be late for your next class, but you continue to kiss Hotch. You don't want this moment to end.

Everything feels so perfect. You're so happy, so content. But nothing this good can last forever.

Chapter Text

"Just a reminder! Your final exam will be this Monday, proctored in this room, by me," Hotch paces at the front of the classroom, but your mind is elsewhere. You watch him, a smile growing on your face as he lectures the whole class. It's finally your birthday, and Hotch set aside some time late in the day to spend with you. He also mentioned a small surprise and though you're not usually one to get excited about gifts or surprises, you can't wait to see what he has planned.

"Miss Y/L/N. Focus," Hotch calls out your name and you sit up straighter, attempting to suppress the grin on your face. "I won't turn away anyone who shows up late for the exam, but you won't be given the full time. Do I make myself clear? This exam starts at 11:00 sharp. I can promise you will need the full three hours to complete the whole thing. So I mean it. Don't be late."

"That seems pretty relaxed for Professor Hard-Ass," Charlie leans forward to mumble into your ear and you bite your lip, suppressing a laugh. You want to tell him to thank you since you're the one who convinced Hotch that turning people away is cruel. At least let them try to finish the exam. A 50% is better than an actual zero.

Hotch shoots both you and Charlie a side glance which quickly shuts you up. You struggle to stifle small giggles and see Katie shaking her head off to the side, "You're both children."

"You can't be mean to me on my birthday," You protest under your breath, hoping Hotch doesn't see you two goofing off. It's your birthday and the last day of classes, he can ease up on you. He can cut the hard-ass, bullshit act for one class. It's established that you're not his favorite. Well, at least that's what the class has been thoroughly convinced is the truth. You know, or at least you hope, the truth is the opposite. The semester has been a whirlwind from start to finish. Although you're not quite at the end of it, you've been fundamentally changed since it started.

"Yeah? Watch me," Katie taunts, "Can't let you get a big ego, Einstein."

"Assholes," You mutter under your breath, faking anger at your friends, but the large smile never leaves your face.

"I wish you all the best of luck. It was a pleasure to have all of you in this class," Hotch nods putting down the chalk from the board where he's written his contact information, "Reach out to me if you require anything like a recommendation letter. No promises I'll do it though." He teases and flashes a cheeky smile to the whole class, "Class dismissed."

As you start to pack up your stuff, your attention flits over to Hotch a few times as a swarm of students begin to crowd his desk, already shoving cover letters and resumes and job applications in his face. You shoot him a small apologetic look and mouth a 'sorry' before Katie and Charlie hook their arms in yours, pulling you to the door.

"We have a million things to do before the party tonight," Katie starts to ramble off the list of things she has planned. Katie, quite dissimilar to you, loves birthdays and planning parties.

"Party?" You glance at her, "I thought we were going to drink a little and then go out to a bar."

"When have we ever showed up to a bar sober?" Charlie rolls his eyes, "Alcohol is expensive. You'll buy yourself a shot or something small for the significance. And you can buy the alcohol for the pre-party."

"I'm sorry, are you trying to get my stomach pumped tonight?" You laugh and before you even have a second to breathe Charlie pipes in with a 'yes.' to which Katie replies with a soft punch to his arm.

"So what time can we get together to organize everything?" Katie gives you a small knowing look, suspecting that you'll probably disappear for an hour or two to see Hotch.

"Oh god, please don't tell me you're spending your birthday studying," Charlie lets out a strained groan, "It's bad enough I have to meet with Professor Hard-Ass for missing one too many lectures."

"How is that my fault in any way at all?" You roll your eyes and turn back to Katie, "Let's all meet at our apartment at like 7:30 pm? Gives us time to run errands, pick up liquor, eat some dinner, get ready and then start the party at 10."

"That works perfectly for me," Katie smiles, wrapping an arm tightly around your shoulders. "My little baby is all grown up," She mocks in a dramatic, teary, weepy tone and pretends to wipe tears from her eyes.

"I hate you all," You shake your head as your best friends drag you off to get lunch.

You pull your knees up to your chest and thumb through the pages of the novel you're currently reading. It's not your favorite thing you've ever read, but it's managing to maintain your attention for the time being. You're sitting on the floor a few doors down from Hotch's office, as you wait for him to get back from his last class of the day. You've managed to go all semester without drawing any suspicion or attention, the only person who's seen through your guise of secrecy is Katie, but you know she would never tell or do anything to possibly endanger you or ruin this.

You hear his deep voice from down the hall, your eyes shooting up as soon as it rings out. You attempt to play it off, but you can't peel our eyes off of him. You already saw him this morning, but just the time you've spent waiting to see him again this afternoon has made you forget just how good he looks today.

His black polo shirt strains a little against his arm muscles as he carries his books and papers under his arm, a student trailing behind him as he walks down the hall towards his office. You can see the frustration written all over his face as the girl nags him over and over again. He manages to push past the hordes of people in the hallways, the girl occasionally getting lost in the swarms and needing to run to catch up to him.

You start to stand up from the floor but pause when you see her follow him all the way to his office door. "Listen, the grades you receive are final. End of discussion. You could've submitted any paper for a regrade, but that deadline was the end of classes. Which for your seminar, was yesterday."

"But—" She starts to speak up. You see him roll his eyes and turn his back on her, digging around in his pocket for his keys and unlocking the office door. He opens it and begins to step in, the girl eager to follow him. He whirls in place and blocks her from following him inside.

"Miss Hunter," His voice is steely and you slowly make your way to the office, still standing a good distance away as you watch the situation unfold in front of you. "I have made the rules abundantly clear. Now I have meetings with a few students who have actually managed to garner my respect. So please, stop wasting my time."

There's a moment of silence. The girl tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, and you can tell she's struggling not to cry in front of Hotch, and his harsh focus is unwavering. He just stares her down, waiting for her to leave. After a few seconds, her attempts to fight tears fail and she turns her back on him, rushing away down the hall before disappearing into the bathroom. You watch and turn back, Hotch finally taking note of you standing in the hallway. He shakes his head, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. The worry lines in his face leave creases in his skin even after he's unfurrowed his brow.

You seem to have forgotten how cruel he can be. Every snide remark, snippy comment, insult he's thrown at you, it's clear that they're part of this whole ruse. You try not to think too hard about the comments, but you wonder just how many of them he means or how many are all part of the act. His tongue is biting. He's impatient and stubborn. He doesn't play into social niceties. He sees no need to make others feel comfortable.

Hotch nods his head at you and walks back into his office, expecting you to come follow him. You push the interaction to the back of your mind before rushing to follow Hotch. You step into the doorway and see him, one hand on his hip, the other placed firmly on the edge of his desk. His eyes running over the papers he's just placed down on the surface.

His head looks up, the corners of his mouth pulling at the sight of you. You barely pay attention to anything but him. You give the door a push to close it and drop your stuff onto one of the chairs, rushing to him with a wide smile.

You press your lips to his, kissing him slow but needy. You grip his shirt in your hands, attempting to press as close to him as possible.

His mouth is hot and heavy on yours but he pulls away for a second, those enchanting eyes of his sweeping over every inch of your body, "Happy birthday, pretty girl," He mumbles, one arm wrapped around your back, holding you close to him, the other hand reaching up to push the hair out of your face so he can really look at you.

He pauses. His eyes stay focused on you for a while, memorizing the details of your face as if it's the first time he's seeing it, or like it'll be the last time he sees it. He studies the curve of your lips as if the memory of you will be all he gets.

He soon breaks the pseudo staring contest, pushing his chair out of the way and lifting you up onto his desk, so he can stand between your legs. You arch your back, pressing your plush breasts against his firm chest. You feel his muscles shift and flex under his shirt. He leans in closer to you, one hand tangled into your hair, the other placed firm on the desk next to your body.

His mouth is so warm against yours. You lose yourself in him. Nothing and no one manages to make you feel the way he does. He's started a fire within you and every moment spent with him, every look, every touch, every smile is tinder for the flames. The fire of the two of you sucks the oxygen out of the room. You're breathless around him. Who knew suffocating could feel so good?

There's something innately beautiful about Aaron Hotchner. He's sexy, he's confident, but above all, there's something simply enchantingly beautiful about him. He does everything with such purpose, such ease, but those moments of beauty: the tug at the corners of his lips when you talk to him, the shine in his eyes when he gets to discussing something he's passionate about. There's no other way to describe him besides utterly beautiful. At least, that's how you see him.

You wrap a hand around his bicep, gripping it tightly as his mouth travels down from your mouth to your neck, nipping at the skin. Your head falls back, your own mouth gaping open, soft whines erupting from your swollen lips. "I thought you said you were bad at giving gifts." You tease breathlessly. Aaron pulls away from your neck, looking at you with those warm, intelligent eyes, his lips equally plump. The confusion spreads across his features, "You." You mutter and cup his cheeks, "This. You're enough of a gift. This time with you." You say softly.

An unreadable expression reaches Aaron's face. As much as you try to understand the man, he remains mysterious and closed off to you. You worry that you've said something to offend him or scare him away. It's no secret you enjoy spending time with him. It's no secret you care about him. You assume that much is clear to him. But then again, for as intelligent and perceptive as he seems to be, you wouldn't be surprised if your admission comes as a shock to him.

Aaron's hands move to trail up your bare thighs and up under your skirt, fingers hooking in the waistband of your lacy underwear. "I better make it a worthwhile gift then," He leans in, close enough that you think he will kiss you, but instead he rests his forehead against yours, his lips ghosting over your own. You lean forward to press your lips to his. You want to regain the feeling, the tingles it sends down your spine as his hands roam your body.

He evades your kiss, pulling away and bending down as he pulls your underwear all the way down your legs, tossing it off to the side. You smile and laugh at the action, glancing over at how your underwear has landed, draped across the arm of the chair in the corner.

"Something funny?" He grabs your chin, pulling your attention away from your discarded undergarment and back to him. His tone is serious, but the corners of his mouth are upturned in a slight grin.

"No, nothing at all," You tease and push him back into his chair, taking the opportunity to straddle his waist, grinding against him tauntingly.

"What's this?" He raises his brows at the shift in the power dynamic, but it's clear he's not complaining from the way his large hands rest just at the bottom of your ribcage, thumbs circling the skin just to the side of your breasts. The little gesture, the feeling of his fingers so close to where you want yet not quite touching you exactly there, drives you crazy. You lean forward, your hair falling in your face as you kiss him.

"Taking what I want," You moan against his skin. He peels the sweater from your body, your black tank top hugging tightly to every curve. He balls the sweater and tosses it over your shoulder onto the floor.

This time, you can't suppress the loud laugh, "You going to do that with every article of clothing?"

"I just might," He taunts and pushes your hair out of your face with both hands once again, wanting to see your face. As he kisses you, you reach for his belt undoing it and unzipping his jeans, "You're in a rush. Don't you want to savor your birthday gift?"

You roll your eyes, "I'm pretty sure since it's my birthday, I get to decide what I want." You smirk and plunge a hand deep into his briefs, pulling his hardening cock out of his pants. You take his hot flesh in your hands, pumping it a few times, trailing your fingertips over his tip, eliciting an absolutely sinful groan from him.

He throws his head back, and you watch with pride as the man begins to come undone in front of you. You watch as his neck tenses, his jaw clenching as you continue to pleasure him. His chest rises and falls rapidly. You stop your motions, pulling your skirt up a little, just enough for him to plunge deep into you. You sink onto him with a long and loud groan, gripping his shoulders for support. Your skirt falls down around the two of you, seemingly shielding your actions from the world.

Your actions are agonizingly slow, wanting to savor every moment with him, wanting this feeling to last forever. The pure bliss you feel as his head dips, pushing the collar of your tank top down enough to free your breasts. He sucks a nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly and lightly biting, just the way he knows sends your head into a haze. His hands rest on your hips, but they're not gripping them, he's letting you take it at your pace.

You're so caught up in the lustful trance that you almost miss it. A knock at the door.

"Professor Hotchner?" A familiar voice calls from the other side.

You freeze. "Charlie?" You whisper at Hotch.

"Shit," He curses under his breath. "I've double-booked myself." He shakes his head, trying to swiftly get you off his lap. "I'll be with you in one minute!" He calls through the door, glancing down at his watch with a small groan.

Hotch tucks himself back into his pants, struggling to zip them up and tuck his shirt in a timely manner. You scramble to do the same, readjusting your tank top and scooping your sweater from the ground. You run your fingers through your hair and wipe your mouth, knowing that you must look like a flustered, overheated mess.

Hotch gives you a small sideways glance before sitting at his desk more properly before nodding. "Come in." Just as the door opens and Charlie steps in, you realize you've forgotten something vitally important: your underwear. It's too late. He's already in the office and you have no idea how you can smoothly pluck your black lace panties from the chair without drawing his attention.

"Einstein?" He glances at you confused.

Your mouth falls open but you can't seem to come up with anything to say, "Charlie." You smile. You glance at Hotch, "Sorry Professor, I didn't realize you had meetings today." You stare at him a little too long, hoping he can suddenly read your mind in which you're screaming at him about the underwear hanging off of the chair.

"Why didn't you mention your meeting earlier?" Charlie asks you but Hotch clears his throat slightly, saving you from needing to come up with a reasonable answer.

"It was a last-minute request on my part," Hotch covers for you two, "I apologize for running overtime with Miss Y/L/N and into our meeting time."

"No, no I'll just wait outside," Charlie turns to leave the office and your heart sinks into your stomach.

"No!" You call out a little too forcefully. But it's too late. The black lace panties catch his eye.

"On second thought I'll just..." Charlie turns to look at you, tightening his grip on the strap of his bag, glancing between both you and Hotch, "I'll just leave you two..." He shakes his head and turns, getting out of the office as fast as possible. You groan frustratedly and look over at Hotch as you rush out after Charlie.

"Charlie wait!" You call out, garnering attention from the few students in the hallway. You catch up to him and grab his hand, "Please."

He turns to you, letting out a sickeningly sinister and bitter laugh, "I am such an idiot. I don't know how I never saw it."

"Please let me explain myself," You beg him, pulling his hand into yours, but he's quick to yank it away.

"You just had to be the person to get an A in his class, huh? You couldn't handle the possibility of being anything less than the best." You wrap your arms around yourself as he shakes his head.

"No... that's not what this is about." You argue back with him, hoping he'll understand, the same way Katie seemed to.

"Is this how kid genius got to law school at 20? By sleeping your way to the top?" He lowers his voice so that anyone else in the hallway can't hear you, but his words are just as venomous and biting.

He takes a few steps towards you, pointing back towards Hotch's office, "He's using you. You know that, right? He doesn't love you. He doesn't care about you. I can't believe you'd be so fucking naive, so, so... so stupid."

You open your mouth to speak, but Hotch cuts you off, coming up behind the two of you, "I understand you'll be discreet about what you saw, Mr. Miller."

Charlie's eyes narrow at Hotch, his chest puffing up in anger. "And if I'm not?"

"You'll find that it will greatly benefit you and your success in my class if you are." Hotch's focus on Charlie is unwavering and the harsh demeanor that seems to be so natural and comfortable for Hotch returns. His voice is hushed, "Now I suggest you turn around and forget what you saw, or take this conversation somewhere more private, for everyone's sake."

Charlie goes silent. His gaze shifts to you. You can't read what his face is saying but it's a mixture of disbelief, anger, and what seems to be disappointment. With a small scoff and shake of his head, Charlie turns and disappears down the hallway.

You take a step forward, hoping to go after him and explain yourself, explain everything, including your feelings for Hotch. You want him to know you haven't done it to get ahead in life but because you genuinely enjoy spending time with Hotch. That you genuinely enjoy his company, but Hotch reaches and grabs your wrist, pulling you with him.

"You have to let me go after him! I have to talk to him. He could ruin your career," You let out frantically as Hotch pulls you by the arm back into his office, "Or my reputation."

"He won't," Hotch gives you a small tug, causing you to catch your feet on the rug and trip a little as you get through the doorway of his office. He's careful to move around you to close and lock the door firmly. He turns to you before turning back to the door, jiggling the handle a few times to test the lock, ensuring that there will be no more unwanted interruptions.

"Aaron, you can't just give him a good grade to shut him up," You argue, "That's- that's immoral, that's wrong." You bite your lip.

"And what we've been doing isn't?" He rubs his face with both hands.

You have no response to that because he's right. What the two of you have been doing for the past semester is immoral and unethical on every possible level. "How do you know he won't report you anyway?"

"Because he cares about you," Hotch clarifies, but you find yourself lost. You're not sure how that means Charlie will definitely keep his mouth shut, "He knows that reporting this will hurt you just as much as me, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt you. He's in love with you, isn't that obvious?"

You shake your head, still not entirely convinced that Hotch's bribery will work on Charlie. "Aaron... You might lose your job. I can't be the reason that you—" He places a soft slow kiss on your lips. "You know I hate when you kiss me just to shut me up."

He gives a warm smile, "Don't worry about it. It'll be okay, I promise." He rubs his thumb over your cheek comfortingly, "I have something to take your mind off it, off of him." He moves away from you, walking around his desk and opening the bottom drawer. He pulls out something but quickly hides it behind his back.

"Something for me?" You grin and try to look around his back to see what it is.

"It is your birthday, isn't it?" Hotch holds out a small parcel, wrapped with brown paper, tied up with a small string, "I'm not uh— I'm not great at wrapping things. Or giving gifts." You take the package from him, the warm sensation of happiness spreading throughout your entire body.

"No matter what it is, I'll love it because you gave it to me," You undo the string, and start to tear at the corner. You open the package delicately, as just the gesture of the wrapped parcel is enough for you. You didn't expect anything from Hotch. Actually, you just expected birthday sex.

You peel back the paper and smile, feeling waves of emotion wash over you as you pull the nice, leather-bound book from the wrapping. "You remembered?" You look up at him and a small sheepish grin spreads across Hotch's face.

"Open it." He nods.

You look down at the book, running your fingers over the gold lettering on the cover that reads "The Great Gatsby." You open the cover flipping through the pages to see them all full of annotations, highlights, and small notes. "Are these your annotations?"

He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets, "I gave it a second chance. Tried to look past my initial perception of it. Tried to see it through your eyes."

"And?" You struggle to tear your eyes away from the pages, looking for your favorite quotations, trying to read his notes alongside them.

"And I loved it." He reaches a hand and turns to the front page for you, where he's written a small note. The note is barely legible in his scrawl, but to you, it's perfectly clear.

Y/N,

The beauty of life is in the grays. Thanks for being the gray in mine.

— A.H.

Your heart swells at the message and you close the book pressing it firmly to your chest. "This is... the best birthday gift I've ever gotten." You reassure him. "I wish I could celebrate with you all day."

He places his forefinger under your chin, tilting it up to place one last soft kiss on your lips, "Go. Have fun with your friends. Stay safe, okay?"

"I will," Your eyes stay on his. There's so much you want to say to him. So much you want to ask him. You want to reveal everything to him. You want to tell him how much he means to you. You want to share how he's changed your life. You want to tell him you don't want to spend time with anyone but him. You want to tell him that you're falling for him. But you stop yourself. You don't want to rush it all out here standing in his office. You want to tell him at the right moment.

You've exposed so much of yourself to him, but to bare your soul in such a rushed manner in his office feels inappropriate and ill-timed. "I'll see you again this weekend, yeah?" You ask him.

This time, you can tell he's the one who wants to say more. There's something bubbling under the surface that he wants to let out to you. You hope that what he is holding inside is the same as what you're holding back. He hesitates a little before finally nodding.

You don't want to pull away from him. You don't want to move out of his grip, out of his warmth, it feels too much like a goodbye. You manage to pull away and grab your bag from the floor, keeping the book close to your heart as you turn and leave his office.

You scan the room for what feels like the hundredth time within an hour, looking for the familiar face in the crowd of people.

"He'll show up. I'm sure he will," Katie throws her arm around your shoulders, handing you another shot.

"No, K, I don't think he will," You look around your crowded apartment, filled mostly with faces that you barely recognize from your classes, but there's one person in particular who has yet to make an appearance: Charlie. You told Katie what had happened, and she was definitely shocked at Hotch's reaction to the situation, but she hid it well enough, wrapping her arms tightly around your body to comfort you.

"He was so angry, so disappointed in me," You sigh and take a long sip of your beer, "He was so hurt."

"I understand his desire to protect you, I really do, I feel the same way," She nods and settles into the couch right next to you, "But at the end of the day, you are responsible for your own decisions and no one else has a right to tell you what you should and shouldn't be doing with your life."

"I know," You rub your face, "But I don't want to make decisions that hurt my best friends."

You worry that this signifies the loss of a friendship. The loss of one of the most important people in your life. A loss that you can withstand if Hotch remains in your life but even that is up in the air. You find yourself wondering whether you'll be forced to choose: a continued relationship with Hotch, if you can even call it a relationship, or your friendship with Charlie.

"Please, don't let stupid Charlie ruin what should be a super fun night," Katie pulls you up from your seat, reaching for a shot of her own, "To us, to our friendship, and to kid genius no longer being a kid." She teases and clinks her glass against yours, downing her shot. You mimic her actions, the alcohol sliding down a little bit too easily now that you're indulging your sorrows.

The small get-together at your apartment only lasts a little while longer, just long enough to get everyone plenty tipsy before you all head out to a bar. You play drinking games and a few of your friends indulge you by taking shots with you, sharing drinks, pouring you drinks. Despite the fact that you're entirely surrounded by people, you feel devoid of love tonight. Katie is pouring over you, hugging you, teasing, attempting to lighten your quickly souring mood, but Charlie probably isn't coming at all and you can't invite the person you want most to spend your birthday with.

Within another hour, the whole group has managed to get you drunk enough to forget about the pain in your chest every time you think about Charlie. They drag you out of your apartment and you all start the long walk in the cold to the best bar in the city.

You look around the neighborhood, recognizing it as Hotch's, and the pain in your heart comes back harder than ever. You wonder what he's doing right now. You can picture him perfectly: hunched over his desk, scribbling away some illegible comments on a student's paper. You can see yourself perched on the edge of his desk, telling him off for grading every student so harshly.

He would roll his eyes but place a comforting hand on your thigh, leaving it there while he works, occasionally squeezing lightly or rubbing circles into the skin. You flash the bouncer your real ID earning a round of cheers from your group of friends and a small smile from the big muscle man at the door, "Congrats kid." He teases, letting you all slip into the crowded bar.

"First round is on me! Everyone make sure Einstein doesn't have to pay a dime for her own drinks tonight!" Katie cheers as she drags you to the bar for more drinks.

Every time your mind wanders to either man, Hotch or Charlie, you finish a drink, take a shot, order a new one. Anything to distract you. You check your phone every few minutes, finally deciding to send Charlie a single text.

We're at the bar now. If you decide to show up. Please come.

You get no response. You decide to pretend he probably hasn't seen it. He's asleep or studying. He's busy. Something came up. That's why he's blown off your birthday. He's one of your best friends. He'll show.

Along with desperately checking your phone for a reply from Charlie, some part of you is hoping, praying, even, that Aaron will surprise you. You hope that he'll come walking through the door, walk up to the bar, and buy you a birthday drink. He'll ignore the fact that most of his students are present and do it for you because it would make you happy. However, you know that he can't. He can't risk it.

So you keep drinking. A lot. You end up drinking a lot.

Hotch finishes off his comments on another student's suboptimal essay, writing a large B in dark green ink at the top of the page before circling it. He rubs his hand over his forehead tiredly. As much as he attempts to direct all his focus on the work in front of him, he can't stop thinking about you. It seems to be a common problem recently. You invade his every waking thought, hell, you've even seemed to invade his dreams as of late.

Everything reminds him of you. He looks over the collection of novels on the walls of his home office, wondering what your opinions of his favorite titles are. He wonders what books would draw your attention. He can picture you in here perfectly, telling him that he should be focused on his work when he can't take his eyes off of you. You would tell him to focus but do just about a million things that he finds all together way too charming and endearing to ignore.

Your scent invades his mind. It's utterly intoxicating. The way he can tell when you've freshly showered, your shampoo smelling of lavender and vanilla. He thinks about the way his fingers feel all tangled up in that hair of yours.

He thinks of how soft your skin is, in contrast with his rough calloused hands. He thinks about how beautiful you look when you're focused on something. He wishes you were here with him. He wishes he could give you the birthday you deserve.

He wouldn't let you leave his clutches all night. He'd keep you tangled up in the sheets of his bed, moaning, laughing, talking, smiling, whatever you wanted to do, he'd do it with you.

It's a troubling position he's in. He can't say he's ever felt this way about anyone before. He's been a solitary man most of his life. He had friends throughout schooling, but he always much preferred his own company. He's never wanted to be around someone as much as you.

You seem to comprehend exactly how his mind works. He questions whether you can truly read minds because you always manage to say exactly the right thing at the right time. He knows he's gotten himself in too deep. He realized when he found himself speeding through the pages of the Great Gatsby, a novel he had never been fond of, purely because he was picturing the way your face would light up when he handed it to you.

He knows he's getting too emotionally involved. It's not a sustainable relationship.

His phone vibrates on the desk next to him and when he picks it up, he's shocked to see your name on the screen. "Y/N?" He picks up, expecting a drunk dial.

"Professor Hotchner— Aaron," Katie's voice rings through the phone, "I need... you need to come pick her up." Her words are slurred together.

"Kaitlin?" He asks confused, "Katie," He corrects himself, "Is she okay? What's wrong?" He stands up grabbing his keys and wallet, shoving them into the pocket of his joggers, rushing to slip his sneakers on.

"She's had too much to drink and I don't think I can get her home myself." Katie sighs out and Hotch can faintly hear your voice on the other end, slurring and yelling something about letting Katie take the phone.

"What bar? I'll be there as fast as I can," Hotch takes note of the address, which, thankfully, is just two blocks away from his apartment. "Get her water. Get her outside into the fresh air. If she gets really bad, don't hesitate to call 911." He hangs up the phone. What he really wants to do is scold Katie for letting you drink so wildly. Just because it's your 21st birthday, doesn't mean that you need to drink yourself to death. At the same time, he feels the deep sting of guilt, knowing that your strained relationship with Charlie probably encouraged more drinking than usual.

He makes his walking pace brisk, rushing the two blocks to get to you. He feels responsible for letting this happen to you. It's not as if he could've been at the bar with you, it would've drawn an intense amount of scrutiny and suspicion, but he could've made plans with you, told you to ditch your friends for him.

As soon as Katie catches sight of him from down the street, she struggles to hold you up, trying to walk you over to him, "I'm sorry to call you, I hope I didn't wake you up, Professor, I just didn't know who else to call for help. Everyone else is equally drunk and normally I'd trust Charlie with her but—" She glances down at you, as you clutch at her shoulders for support, eyelids half closed, "He isn't here to help."

"Fuck Charlie. I mean I don't want to fuck Charlie, I mean like fuck him for not coming," You slur slightly and Katie hoists you up, holding you out for Hotch to help keep you steady.

"No, I'm glad you called," Hotch replies with a nod. Katie's focus lingers on him for a while and he can sense the judgment behind her eyes. She wants to say something to him. The drinking has lowered her inhibitions and he's sure that as your best friend she probably has a few choice words for him. But right now, he can't take the time to listen to her or even argue with her. Right now, he just wants to get you to his home and get you to safety.

"Take care of her, okay?" Katie finally lets out before digging around in her purse for a pen and grabbing Hotch's hand. She scribbles her number, a little messily due to her elevated blood alcohol level but legible enough, "Call me if anything happens to her."

Hotch nods, "I will." He turns all his attention onto you and starts to walk you back towards his apartment, knowing that the 5 minutes it took him to jog to the bar will turn into a 10-minute endeavor, carrying you to his apartment.

"I'm sorry, Aaron," You mumble into his shoulder, "I shouldn't have drunk so much I just..."

Hotch shushes you softly, rubbing his hands on your upper arm as he holds your trembling shoulders. "You should've brought a jacket." Your foot catches on the pavement, and for a second, it looks as if your face is going to collide with the sidewalk, but Hotch's grip is so tight that he keeps you from falling.

"Didn't go with the outfit." You laugh and weakly gesture over your body with your hand.

Seeing you like this, it stirs something inside him. Anger and frustration build like wildfire deep in the pit of his stomach. How could you act so irresponsibly? How could your friends be so careless with you? If he was out with you on your birthday, you never would've gotten so dangerously drunk.

"My apartment isn't far from here, remember?" He's practically holding up your entire body weight at this point.

"I remember," You nod, "Charlie, he didn't come."

"I know." He slows down your walking pace as you struggle to keep up, your feet dragging along the ground, "Katie told me."

"Katie is mad at you, you know?" You regain a bit of your balance and strength, walking on your own, but hardly walking in a straight line. "I'm not mad at you. She's just worried about me. I guess Charlie is worried about me, but he sure has a silly way of showing it, right?"

"It's important to have people that care about you like they do," He's choosing his words diplomatically, knowing that he can't let on how much he's been thinking about you, how much it angers him to see you so dangerously drunk. He's not sure why he's so careful of his word choice, as if you will remember his exact wording tomorrow.

After an eternity of practically carrying you for two blocks, you reach the steps of Hotch's apartment. The steps are a complete other task. In which Hotch is tempted multiple times to simply pick you up entirely and carry you upstairs, but he worries that will just make you sick and the last thing he wants to do is clean your vomit off of his apartment building's staircase.

"I'm sorry you have to take care of me," You whine, holding onto his shirt as he helps you into his apartment. "But I'm 21!"

"I know," Hotch's heart races as you stumble along in your heels. It's terrifying to see you like this. He realizes just how fragile you are, how easily you can slip through his fingers.

It should make him want to sink his fingers into you, dig his heels into the ground, hold you close and never let you go, but he's motivated to do the opposite. He wants to run and hide from you. If he sinks himself too deep into you, he can never get out and if he loses you once he's in too deep, what will happen when you get hurt? What happens when he's the one to hurt you?

He'll inevitably disappoint you. He knows you expect a lot from him. He can see it in the way you look at him, with those warm, intelligent eyes, so full of adoration.

"You think you can get yourself up the stairs to bed while I get you water?" Hotch walks you carefully to the bottom of the stairs. You nod, reaching for the wall next to the stairs, to help balance.

Hotch watches you with a close eye, making sure that you make it all the way up before going to the kitchen. He reaches up into the cabinet for a glass and some ibuprofen that you will inevitably need by tomorrow.

He puts both down on the counter, taking a minute to place both palms on the surface firmly, taking a deep, steadying breath. It's almost the end of the semester. After Monday, he's no longer your professor. That should be a relief. He doesn't have to feel this internal conflict. The morality of his actions has never concerned him before. That was before you.

When he's with you, he's more conscious of the imbalance of power. He's aware of what it looks like from the outside. The way Charlie looked at the two of you today was confirmation of that. Confirmation of the perception that he used to never care so much about until he met you. Reducing you to just another student fling feels wrong. But that's what you are, right? There's been no confession of feelings, no grand gestures, no romantic dates or picture-perfect movie moments.

Despite the lack of relationship structure, everything with you feels different. It feels so intensely genuine. That's the only way Hotch knows how to describe it to himself. Being with you makes him feel alive.

But if being with you is living, why does he feel this growing dread in the pit of the stomach as he walks up the stairs? He steps into his bedroom expecting to see you draped across his bed or struggling with the zipper on your dress, but he doesn't see you anywhere, "Einstein?" He calls and then he sees the light coming from under the bathroom door and the distinct sounds of you sick in the bathroom.

He pushes open the door to see your arms on the toilet, your face hovering over the bowl. He lets out a small breath, bending down to your level so he can pull your hair out of your face. He pulls the hair tie off your wrist and messily ties your hair into the best ponytail he can manage. You groan in pain and he rubs your back gently. "Shh, you're okay. I've got you," He presses a small kiss to your temple.

"I don't want to have to choose," You let out a strangled cry and a small hiccup, lying your head on your forearms on the seat of the toilet. Hotch's heart sinks at your words, "I can't choose between falling for you and keeping my friendships."

"You won't have to," He gets to his feet, reaching for a washcloth and dampening it in the sink. He bends back down to your level, gently lifting your head from your forearms, wiping your face and mouth, "Let's get you up off the floor, okay?"

"Make the world stop spinning, please," You hold your arms up so he can lift you off the floor.

He sits you down on the edge of the bed, bending down to unzip your heels, placing them on the floor.

"He didn't come. He's my best friend and he didn't come to my birthday," You chew at the skin on your lip, holding back tears, not wanting to turn into a weepy drunk. Especially in front of Hotch. He reaches around unzipping your dress, helping you out of it.

"I'm sorry," The apology is soft but Hotch knows it's partially his fault Charlie never showed. You're right, you shouldn't have to choose between him and your friends. He can already tell the way you're pushing them away for time with him.

He helps pull one of his shirts over your head and pulls back the covers for you to crawl into his bed. "Please hold me," You mutter softly, "At least until the room stops spinning." Looking down at you, the way your eyes are threatening to spill over with tears, the mascara smudged, your hair tied back messily, pieces falling out of the ponytail, you look so helpless, so pure, so innocent and loving. He can't stop himself from nodding and sitting next to you on the bed. He puts his arm behind your head, wrapping it around your shoulders.

"I don't want to lose him to keep you," You lay your head against Hotch's chest, gripping at his shirt tightly. Your tears fall against his dark green shirt, leaving small wet splotches. "I can't let you go." You sniffle and shut your eyes in an attempt to get some rest and ease the sick feeling in your stomach.

"You won't lose him." He shushes and gently plays with the ends of your hair, wrapping his other arm around the front of you, holding you tight against him. Your sniffles start to die down as you drift off to sleep, Hotch listening closely to your steady breathing.

He knows he's not being fair with you. Every affair, every relationship he's had, has been so simple, so uncomplicated. The semester is coming to an end soon and he knows exactly what he has to do. But sitting here staring down at you, the way your face is scrunched up in your sleep. He doesn't want to let you go. It's not just your body, it's not the sex. It's your biting wit, your intelligence, your humor.

It's not how you look. It's not the way that he knows your body better than he knows himself. It's your heart and mind that captivate him. He's so used to being and feeling alone, but you always make sure he never feels that way. It's not in the obvious things. It's in the subtleties. It's in the small smiles you give him in passing. It's in the way you always ask him about his day. It's in your reassuring eye contact. When he speaks, he knows you're listening. And you're not just listening when he's teaching or tutoring or sharing new information, you're listening when he talks about himself.

Like today in his office. There was a palpable difference in the energy between you two. He knows that gift was personal, but he wanted to give it to you, and the way your face lit up when he did, tells him it was worth it. He wants to be selfish and hold onto you forever. He wants to spend every minute with you, but he knows that the more he draws you to him, the more he draws you away from your friends, from the world, from everything you want to achieve in life.

And that's why, staring down at your sleeping form, he knows this must end.

Chapter Text

It's late afternoon when you finally manage to haul yourself out of bed. Your head feels like it will explode and you rush to the bathroom, already feeling nauseous. You push the toilet seat lid up and gather your hair in one hand before completely emptying your stomach into the toilet. You haven't eaten anything in hours so you heave and gag painfully for a little before sitting back on the cold, tiled floor.

You stay there for a bit, attempting to recall everything that happened last night. You remember the multitude of shots, you remember the heartbreak of your best friend's absence, you remember Hotch picking you up. Hotch.

You stand up from the floor, looking around the empty bedroom for any sign of him. He was up out of bed pretty early. His clothes from last night are neatly folded at the edge of the bed. You reach for a pair of sweatpants from his floor, pulling them on, tying the string tightly to keep them from falling down.

Your birthday dress is draped over the edge of the chair in the corner. You walk over and pick it up, taking a smell of the fabric and you smell the clean scent of laundry detergent. He washed your dress for you. Your lips turn up in a small grin, picturing Hotch with his sleeves rolled up doing laundry for you. The pounding headache from your hangover is slowly fading at the prospect of finally getting the quality birthday time you want with Hotch.

You look to the side table, seeing a small glass of water, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a small note. You take the pills and down some of the water before reaching for the small folded-up note. You unwrap it to see that familiar handwriting never fails to make you happy, thinking about the man that the handwriting belongs to.

Einstein,

Had to run to the office to get work done. Not sure when I'll be done. Drink some water and get something to eat.

-A.H.

Your heart sinks at the thought of missing out on precious time with him but shove the note into your pocket anyway. You walk down to his kitchen, making yourself a large cup of coffee, pouring another glass of water, and attempt to find something to eat.

You expect that Hotch will be home soon, but even after you've cooked yourself some breakfast, finished eating, and cleaned up all the dishes, he still shows no sign of showing up anytime soon.

So you sit and wait for him. You settle into his couch with a book hoping to pass the time. The sun starts to set and still, no sign of him. You reach into your pocket for your phone, looking for any sign of a message from him, any notification that would tell you why he has been gone all day.

You end up waiting for him for so long that you even consider calling Katie to come to pick you up and take you home. If he didn't want you there why would he bring you back to his apartment last night? He could've just helped Katie take you home to your place, but he didn't. He brought you here. So where the fuck is he?

He doesn't owe you anything, you know that. You know there's no formal agreement between the two of you. However, you'd be lying if you claim it doesn't at least sting a little bit that he won't take advantage of free time to spend with you.

You rack your brain for anything you might've said last night to upset him. You remember crying about Charlie. Could that be it? He knows Charlie is your best friend, you hope he would at least be understanding of that. You close the book in your hands, barely paying attention to it at this point. I can't choose between falling for you and keeping my friendships.

You told him you're falling for him. It's the truth. Every waking moment is consumed by him. Every moment just feels so real. You feel everything with him. Life just feels worth living around him. Being with him makes you feel alive.

You hear the door unlock and open. Your head shoots up and you see Hotch by the door slowly kicking off his shoes and putting away his jacket and keys. When he finally looks at you, you know that something is wrong. His face looks worn and tired. His eyes are a little bloodshot. He sighs, a long dramatic sigh, "You're still here." He doesn't necessarily say it as a question, just a statement of fact.

You're confused. He didn't ask you to leave. His note was very vague, "I didn't know you would be back so late. Your note made it seem like I should stick around."

He nods and walks past you without even really acknowledging your presence, "You feeling better?" He reaches for the mail on the coffee table, sorting through it, giving you no focus.

"Hungover, but overall okay," You untuck your feet from under you, ready to stand up, hoping to garner at least a smidge of attention from him.

"Good. I have a lot of grading to get done," He gives you a quick once over before disappearing into his office.

You're frozen in place. Is he really mad at you for getting too drunk last night? You force yourself to your feet and follow him into his office.

"I'm sorry about last night," You mutter softly, standing in the doorway of Hotch's home office, seeing him hunched over at his desk.

He looks over at you but doesn't hold your gaze for long before turning back to his work, "You shouldn't have drunk so much."

You chuckle softly, "It was my 21st, doesn't everyone get a little bit too drunk on their 21st birthday?"

"It was irresponsible." His replies are short and blunt. You're taken aback by his icy demeanor. Just yesterday you were completely encapsulated by happy bliss, now he's giving you the cold shoulder.

"If you didn't want to take care of me all night you should've just helped Katie take me back to my own apartment," You stand your ground now. Just because he seems to be having a bad day doesn't mean he gets to take it out on you.

"That's not the point, Y/N," He rolls his eyes, standing up, pushing his chair in, "The point is, I can't believe you would act so immaturely and irresponsibly. You acted like a child." He brushes past you through the doorway, attempting to end the conversation with him getting the last word.

You follow him to the kitchen, "I am not a child." You argue.

"Well, you sure acted like one last night," He shakes his head. The tone of voice he takes with you is a familiar one, one he's taken time and time again with you. It's the tone he takes in class when he's trying to embarrass you. When he's acting like he hates you, but right now, it doesn't feel very much like acting.

"I acted like any other 21 year old would." You scoff gripping at your coffee mug tightly. Hotch walks to lean against the countertop, that angry yet smug look burned into his features.

He shakes his head as he speaks and rolls up his sleeves frustratedly, "Maybe I just thought you were different from every other 21 year old."

"Look, Aaron, I'm sorry that you were upset by my actions last night. I'm extremely grateful to you for taking care of me and making sure I was okay and safe. Let's just not fight, okay?" You're not sure what you're apologizing for since you have nothing to be sorry for. You didn't call him and ask him to come to pick you up. Katie didn't tell him to take you back to his apartment, she just called for help. He didn't have to take care of you. That was his decision.

"Don't you have an exam to get home to study for?" He reaches up into his cabinet for a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He pops the cork and pours himself a glass. "The term ends Monday. Aren't you worried about finishing with good grades?'

You furrow your brows. You're not even sure you recognize the man in front of you. Never, ever, has he been so short and harsh with you. He's only harsh with you in class but he's never been mean and right now he's being pretty damn mean and unfair to you.

"Speaking of, what happens after the term ends?" You trace your finger around the rim of your coffee mug, keeping your eyes trained on the contents of the mug, not wanting to look up at Hotch.

"What do you mean?" Hotch takes a long sip from his glass.

"Well after the exam Monday," You clarify, taking a few steps towards him, "I'm technically not your student anymore."

"Correct. And?" He gives you a bored look.

"And... I'm just wondering how often I'll see you after that. What happens to us?" You shrug.

"What do you mean what will happen to us? Isn't it obvious?" He crosses his arms and straightens up, so that he stares down at you, a judgemental glimmer in his eyes, "There is no us."

"What?" Your voice wavers. Your heart sinks into your stomach. You knew this moment was coming. Deep down, you knew that this couldn't last forever, this perfect happy state of contentment the two of you seemed to exist in for the past two weeks. Yet another part of you thought you would be enough for him. It all felt so real, how could it not have been real?

"I thought... I know neither of us intended for this to be anything real but—" You pause, struggling to form a coherent thought, "I know you feel something too. This isn't just casual sex anymore." You look up at him, but his face hasn't changed from the angry, dismissive look he has plastered on his features. You spend a minute just staring back at each other. Does he really not feel it too? Was it all in your head? You can't hold his gaze any longer, you have to look away, "I'm sorry, I just thought—"

"Thought, what?" He pauses to laugh. His laugh is bitter as he rolls his eyes, "You didn't really think I could love you." The way his tone is dripping with disgust at the mere mention of the word. "You're nothing more than a good distraction. Something to entertain me."

Your eyes prick with angry tears. You bite them away. He clearly sees you as an immature child, you can't let him continue to think that by crying. "If that's all I am, how do you explain the birthday gift? How do you explain last night? Why would you do all that for me?"

Hotch lets out a haughty scoff and shakes his head, "I like taking care of what belongs to me."

You know Hotch is pushing you away. He would never have said these things to you before. That doesn't change the way that you feel sick to your stomach at his words. That doesn't change the way that your hands tremble slightly. You know you're young, you haven't experienced much life yet but could you have been so naive? He treated you so well, so different from a fling. He remembered your favorite novel. He walked you home. He took care of you. You don't do that for someone that you don't truly care about. Hotch has never treated you so rudely, but that was before you revealed your feelings. That was before last night.

"Our meeting is canceled this week. There's no use for it as the final exam is tomorrow." He waves his hand dismissively, snatching the mug from your hands, dumping it in the kitchen sink.

"I'm not delusional, Hotch," You're startled by the way he grabs the mug from you. "I know you care about me. This wasn't all in my head. I know that."

"What do you know about anything?" He narrows his eyes, that sinister look in his eyes making you feel exposed and vulnerable. "Kid genius seems to have gotten herself too wrapped up in some childish fantasy of romance. Sometimes sex is just sex, Y/N."

"You know what?" You point an accusatory finger at him, moving closer, "I feel sorry for you. I do. It's truly pathetic the way you refuse to let yourself feel anything real. What happened that made you so bitter and unloveable?"

Hotch rolls his eyes and turns away from you to lean against the kitchen counter, both hands far apart, spread wide on the counter.

"You are truly the most wicked, disgusting man I have ever met," You spit at him and within seconds he's whirled around to you, and gripped the front of your shirt in his fist. It's not the first time he's grabbed you like this, but it's the first time you're scared of him. Your heart is pounding wildly like it's going to burst out of your chest and your attempts to fight away tears are failing. Despite the tears that roll down your cheeks, your face is hot with anger.

"I have given you everything you could possibly want," He growls out, his grip on your shirt tightening as he pulls you closer to him. "I have made you what you are. So in 10 years from now, when you're at the top of your career, know that it's all because of me." His words sting harder than ever before and as his eyes search yours. It's one thing to make you feel naive and misguided in your judgment of the caliber of your relationship, but to insinuate that this was all for you to get ahead in life is insulting to your character. You never needed his help to succeed. You never pursued him for the grade boost or the extra studying. You wanted to see him because you wanted him. Your bottom lip trembles. So much for staying strong and standing your ground.

Your eyes shoot down to his hand on your shirt. You've never been scared of him. You've seen how cruel he can be, but never have you felt that he would hurt you. Until now. Until you see the anger flash in his eyes and the grip on your shirt tightens. Your skin stings from where he scratched your chest when grabbing the fabric. Your heart races harder.

"Let me go." Your voice is soft and small in comparison to his. There's a moment of hesitation. He glances down at the way he's holding on to you. As if he realizes how much he's scared you. He lets you go much gentler than the way he grabbed you. He turns away from you again, leaning against his counter. You stand there, your body shivering as you feel sick to your stomach staring at the man in front of you. You really thought you cared for him. You really thought he cared for you.

"Just get out." Hotch pants slightly and you watch the muscles in his back strain against his white button-down with every breath. Something is stopping you from moving from your spot. Maybe it's the shock of it all.

"Jesus fuck. Get out, Y/N!" He yells at you, slamming his fist down on the counter. You jump out of your daze and shake your head, turning to leave his apartment. You dig into your pocket for your phone as the tears stream wildly down your face at this point.

"Hey. How are you feeling? Are you-" Katie's chipper voice comes through the receiver but you don't give her a moment to speak.

"Come pick me up. Please," Your voice is trembling and you have your arms wrapped tightly around your body.

"I'm on my way now."

You hang up the phone, walking down the street hoping to get away from his house. Hoping to stop the way that your body shakes and shudders with each tear that rolls down your cheeks. You don't understand what went wrong. What made him switch from someone who makes you feel so alive to someone who terrifies you? Is he that closed off to feeling anything real? Is he that emotionally damaged? Just a few hours ago, you believed that being with him made you feel alive, but maybe this entire time it was the opposite.

Maybe the line between living and dying is slim. If loving is living, then your relationship with Aaron Hotchner is like dying.

"Y/N," Katie opens the door to your bedroom, letting the light from the apartment flow into the room. "Come on, you're going to be late for the final."

You pull the sheets up to your neck, never having gotten any good sleep last night. Everything in your body hurts. Your head is pounding, you feel sick to your stomach, but overall, you feel numb.

"Einstein—" She starts but you sit up in bed.

"Don't call me that." You say softly and pull the sheets aside, placing your feet on the ground, your legs shaking as you do. "I'm up."

You push past Katie to get to your bathroom. You grant yourself the first glance in the mirror since you left Hotch's and the past 36 hours of pain have clearly left their mark. The bags under your eyes are dark and purple. Your hair is a matted mess on your head. Traces of the makeup from nearly 3 days ago still exist on your face. You look over your clothes, still wearing Hotch's t-shirt and sweatpants. You grip the edge of the fabric and lift it to your face, taking a small sniff. Hotch's cologne is fading from the fabric quickly but you can still slightly sense it. Your first instinct is to smile at the scent, warm and musky, yet slightly sweet.

You lift the shirt over your head, staring back at yourself in the mirror. You can see a few faint scratches on your chest from where Hotch's fingernails dug through the shirt. From when he grabbed you so tight you lost your breath. When he pulled you so close with so much anger that you were terrified of him. You run your fingertips over the fading red marks.

You can't bring yourself to cry anymore. You have no tears left to cry over him. After today, four scratch marks along your chest, a pair of joggers, and a tattered t-shirt will be all you have left of Aaron Hotchner. Even then, the scratches will soon fade. The clothes will lose all traces of his cologne. Then you'll be left with that book. That damned book.

You go back to your room, leaving Hotch's shirt tossed aside on the bathroom floor. You reach for a clean t-shirt and your eyes look over to your bed. There, tangled up in the sheets, lies that leather-bound book. You sit on the edge of the mattress and reach for it again.

Y/N,

The beauty of life is in the grays. Thanks for being the gray in mine.

—A.H.

You run your fingers over his initials again. You've read through the whole book a million times in the past 36 hours. Every time you felt like crying or screaming or you couldn't sleep you opened that cover, read that note, and that all too familiar first line... "In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone, he told me, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

You close the book, knowing continuing to stare at the green ink that coats the margins of every page will do you no good.

One more final. One exam. Three hours. That's all the time you have left with him.

Staying awake for the past day and a half has allowed you to run over every interaction with him in your head. Every word, every glance, every touch. A day and a half ago you would've run to him, begged him to stay, begged him to hold onto you. But now, you just feel stupid. You feel foolish. You should've known.

You wonder whether you'll just become another name on a list. A list of girls that Professor Hotchner has used and manipulated before tossing aside. If there's one thing Aaron Hotchner is good at, it's keeping the lines and boundaries blurry. You think back to the moments you were most fed up with him.

That night outside your apartment. He seemed to know just how to keep you infatuated with him. He didn't let the flame die. He kept the spark inside you going. Just with that one apology. How did he manage to make it all seem so real? How did he manage to trick you into feeling loved? Into feeling cared for?

Overall, Hotch loved to play hot and cold with you. When it was hot, it was really hot. The passion and lust burned you. Every touch was like fire on your skin, and it all was so irresistible. The stolen glances and the secret kisses behind closed doors were so exhilarating. But when he was cold, like he was on Saturday, it stung. You wonder how he became so good at compartmentalization.

More than anything, the past day and a half have made you wonder what happened that made him feel so worthless and undeserving of love? Some part of you is even more hurt by that thought. It's selfish, but you wonder why you weren't enough for him. How come your company, your care for him, your feelings for him, weren't enough to make him want to change?

"Y/N," Katie knocks on the doorframe, standing in the way, blocking the light from the hallway, "You ready?"

"No," You sigh softly and put the book back on your bed, "But I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Katie gives you a look of pity, that makes you want to crawl under the sheets and never face anyone ever again. You don't want the pity looks or the whispers, or the walking on eggshells around you. You want to get rid of this feeling. You want to go back to the start of the semester. More than anything, you want to forget what it felt like to love Aaron Hotchner.

You and Katie walk in silence across the campus. Usually, on your morning walk to class, the two of you are laughing and joyful, discussing anything and everything, but class today holds too much meaning for you to muster up the energy to talk with her.

Katie wraps an arm around your shoulder, helping to walk you into the lecture hall, "I've got you. You're going to do great. You know this shit like the back of your hand," She mutters some words of encouragement and you know you should fight the urge to look up to see Hotch but you can't help yourself.

As soon as you look up at him, he's looking directly back at you. Your red, swollen eyes must be a dead giveaway, because you swear, almost for a second he looks as if he's going to call out to you. He opens his mouth but the words he speaks are not what you want to hear from him, "Everyone hurry to take your seats. The exam will start in exactly two minutes."

You look around the lecture hall and, of course, the only seat open for you is your normal seat at the front. The thick exam booklet is placed down in front of you, but you don't look up at the man who put it down. You don't need to. You know the way he's looking at you. There'll be something about his eyes that tells you he cares, the soft glimmer you've seen a million times before. But the rest of his face will be stone cold. Stern. Emotionless. You wonder how a person's eyes could say so much while their actions and body language tell a totally different story.

The exam begins, but you just sit there for a while. You never open the booklet. You think about him. You think about the first time you ever kissed him. The way his stubble tickled your cheeks. You think about the way he called your nickname that night. Hey Einstein... Blue... My favorite color. It's blue. You think about how jealous he was when he heard about Charlie, and how attractive you thought that was. You think about the way he showed up at your apartment, no warning. At first, you thought it was creepy, but you grew to appreciate the gesture, seeing as he didn't seem to care who saw him there. He just wanted to see you. You think about the other day in his office when you were able to just exist with one another. You watched him grade, his hand on your thigh. The way he gave you full access to his book collection. You think about your birthday, the way he studied every detail of your face before kissing you.

Did he know then? Did he know he was going to break your heart? Was that his version of goodbye? You think about the small blush that spread over his cheeks when he gave you your birthday gift. The way he kissed you and told you to stay safe. You think about how gentle he was with you while cleaning you up and changing you while you were drunk. You think about how tight he held you while you fell asleep, shushing you softly and rubbing your arm gently.

You think about the way you feel with him.

Being with him is comfortable. He reminds you of a rainy day when all you want to do is curl up in the sheets or sit by the window, watching the rain race down the glass. He's like reading a book late at night when it's storming outside but it's completely peaceful inside. The storm might be banging against every wall of the house, but you feel safe and secure at home, sipping coffee and losing yourself in the words on a page.

That was before. Now every time you look at him you feel this growing sense of dread in your stomach. The scratches on your chest sting.

You sit like that for a while. Just thinking. Your lack of work doesn't go unnoticed by Hotch. He glances over at you every few minutes, hoping that you'll pick up your pen and start the exam soon. But you take your time.

You're delaying the inevitable. Once you finish the exam, once you hand it in, this whole thing is truly over. If there's one thing you've learned, however, is that it's pointless to fight against inevitables. Some things are just born to die. You need to accept that. So you pick up your pen and start writing.

You watch as each student rushes to the front of the room to hand in their exams. A small swarm forms around Professor Hotchner as they begin to heckle him about recommendation letters, internship opportunities, and possible grade changes.

You're slow to stand, holding the thick exam booklet daintily at its corner. The weight of the exam does not come from the nearly 20 pages bound together, but from its implications. You know that as soon as you hand in the exam, you and Hotch are through. He made that abundantly clear the other night. This whirlwind of a semester, the sneaking around, the wild sex, the companionship... it all will come to an end.

And what happens after all this? Are you just supposed to nod at him in the halls? Pretend that he didn't toss you out like trash just when you were starting to feel something real for him?

You feel like you're moving in slow motion as you push past the swarms of students. You push to the front holding your exam out for Hotch to take from you, "Done, Miss Y/L/N?"

"Yeah. I'm done," You attempt to maintain the icy demeanor but you know your swollen red eyes give you away. You want him to think his words didn't affect you. But you swiftly turn on your heel and leave his classroom. You're practically speeding to get out of the stuffy old building and out into the fresh air. When you do, the cool winter chill hits your face, pulling you out of the enchantment that Hotch's presence seems to suck you into.

You're just grateful you never have to take another fucking step into his class ever again.

What you wanted more than anything was a winter break full of meaningless sex, something to take your mind off your brute of a law professor, but as much as you wished, you found yourself unable to follow through. There wasn't a single moment in the day that the memories stayed away.

Beyond the memories, it was impossible to exist at school without feeling his presence. It wasn't that you saw him constantly, you avoided him like the plague. You weren't even ashamed to stop and turn in the opposite direction when you saw him coming.

But besides that, there was always this lurking feeling that he was just a few feet away from you. The idea that he's just a classroom over or just a flight of stairs away or he could be just around the corner of every hallway haunts your every moment on campus. Even now, as you attempt to simply hand in a paper to your professor, your mind wanders to last semester.

You walk down the all-too-familiar halls, looking for office #336. You know exactly where it is. Directly across the hall from Hotch's. You come to find your legal methods professor's office door shut and hear him chatting away with another student. As a result, you're forced to wait outside, your focus unwavering from Hotch's closed door.

You can just picture him: sleeves rolled up, tie askew, hunched over a student's paper, grading furiously. You feel a smile prick at the corner of your lips, thinking of taunting him about his furrowed brow and harshly bitten lip.

A small timid voice strikes you from your thoughts. "Excuse me? Is this Professor Hotchner's office?"

You resist the urge to laugh at the girl. She practically shrinks away under your gaze and you see fear dance around in her shimmering eyes. You want to laugh, seeing as she's probably older than you, but you can tell she's new from the shy way she looks at you. You simply raise a finger, pointing at the nameplate besides the door that reads:

#335

Aaron Hotchner, J.D.

Criminal Law

She nods and looks down at the paper she's clutching against her chest. Your eyes wander and you see a large red C that is circled and Hotch's unmistakeable chicken scratch handwriting scrawled just below the grade that reads: 'Come see me. Immediately'

That's when it really sinks in. Hotch was right. You weren't anything special. You were just a momentary obsession. You were convenient. It was easy. You fulfilled his needs just for him to toss you away once it became too complex. Too inconvenient.

Your heart is racing, anticipating Hotch opening his door first. You let out a small sigh of relief when you hear the office door of your professor open, but at the exact same time, the door opens across the hall. The young girl immediately explodes with nerves, "Professor Hotchner, sir. We need to discuss my grade, I really put a lot of work into it."

You know you shouldn't look, but you do. You glance over at his office door, your eyes locking with his immediately. At least this time, it's not completely obvious how much he's hurt you. The last time you saw him, your eyes were bright red and irritated from lack of sleep and tears that were wasted on him.

Your presence doesn't faze him. That unmistakable voice like velvet and the words he says to her are not ones that are unfamiliar to you.

"Call me Hotch," His smooth voice is unwavering, "Come on inside, we have a lot to talk about." His eyes never leave yours until he places a hand on the small of her back and leads her into his office, the door slamming shut behind them.

And you're grateful that's the last time you ever see Aaron Hotchner again. At least, that's what you thought.

"It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment" — F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

END OF PART 1

Chapter Text

PART 2: mad woman

It’s almost eight years until you hear the name Aaron Hotchner again.

You’re anxiously awaiting the call about your reassignment within the FBI. You had completed your year of mandated leave, gone through the required psych evaluations, gone through the training protocols. You’re ready to get back into the action, or, at least, you’re ready enough to get back to work. That’s when you receive the final message.

Your reinstatement was to be within the Quantico headquarters. This way, the brass could keep a close eye on you, while still utilizing your skills in the best possible way. So you flew into Quantico late Saturday night, moving into the cheapest apartment you could find. It was in a terrible area but being out of work for a year leaves you without much spare cash to live lavishly. Without your government-issued weapon, you check the deadlock every time you turn your back to the door for too long.

You have hardly any furniture in the apartment, most of the decor being the piles and piles of boxes in the center of your living room. You’re exhausted, in every possible way, so you settle for a fast shower, during which you’re entirely paranoid someone is going to break into your apartment. You collapse onto your bed, barely having the energy to even put the sheets on the bed to make it. The call comes through your phone shortly after you fall asleep, which means you don’t check your messages until early Sunday.

“This is Erin Strauss of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m calling to inform you that the council has processed your psych evaluation and administered a new gun registration and badge for you. You will now be working under me as a profiler within the BAU. It is my understanding that you’ve taken quite a few profiling classes in your training as a negotiator and you’re well equipped for this job. There will be a slight adjustment period but nothing that I do not believe you are capable of handling. You will start in your new position on Monday. Meet me at my office and I can brief you about the basics and then Agent Aaron Hotchner, BAU Unit Chief, will take it from there.”

You practically drop the phone. Your hands shake slightly, as you click off the phone and place it back onto your bedside table. You write Strauss an email in response, apologizing for missing her call, accepting the position, thanking her for the opportunity, and expressing your immense gratitude for such an esteemed position with such a great team. But that’s a lie. For a split second, you believe it's possible that this Aaron Hotchner is a completely different one than your Aaron Hotchner. You’ve never been a believer in fate or destiny. But for this to be a coincidence is simply unbelievable. Isn’t he supposed to be tormenting more students, torturing more girls, breaking more hearts? How did he end up as the BAU Unit Chief within the FBI?

You’re in shock, Strauss only leaving you about 24 hours to process it all and prepare for a new job. There’s no way you could request reassignment to a different unit. You’ve already been given your second chance. It’s now or never to get back into the FBI.

You’ve been out of work for a year. For a year, you’ve been struggling to cope with the loss of coworkers and innocent people. A loss that’s completely on your shoulders. Blood that’s on your hands. It was enough of an adjustment to get back to normal. Well as close to normal as can be. Your government-issued therapist, as you like to call her, attempted to dismantle this idea. She tried her best to remove the guilt from your mind, but after the government aid for the sessions ran out, you abandoned all hope of restoring yourself to the mental state you were in before. Everything in your life now is the after. You can’t live in the before. It’s too painful.

But now? Now it feels like all the work you’ve done to heal, to move on, to continue your life is rapidly unraveling in front of you. How would you adjust to seeing Aaron Hotchner once again? You hope that by now, he won’t have as much of an impact on you. You’ve experienced so much life, so much living, so much loss since then.

You’ve had other relationships, loved other people, slept with other people, but the impact that Hotch had on your life is permanent. When you think about it too long it feels ridiculous, the fact that a silly little fling in your early 20s has managed to change you so much. So much so, that now, at 29, you can still sense remnants of his impact on your life. They’re small moments, in which you realize that your behavior has changed so drastically over the years because of him. Your tongue is sharper. You stand up for yourself more often, and you never ever let anyone walk all over you the way he did.

You spend the day worrying yourself sick about the new position. You can’t turn it down. This job is your last chance.

Monday morning, your alarm rings wildly next to you in bed, but your eyes are already open. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past hour unable to sleep. You’ve been tossing and turning restlessly, unable to focus on anything else but the last few memories you have of Aaron Hotchner. Your mind first goes to that last day of classes, thinking about the way he smiled at you from across his desk. The way that damn leather-bound book felt in your hands. The way that he kissed you. He made you feel so special. Your mind then travels to the rest of that weekend, one in which he managed to rip your heart out of your chest and tear it into a million little pieces.

You think of the last thing you heard from him. Those same words he had spoken to you once before, but spoken to someone else. At that moment, you realized that you were nothing special. You were just another girl Professor Hotchner used for sex.

You’re hopeful that you will be able to move forward with professionalism. There’s a second where you consider the possibility of becoming friends with Aaron Hotchner, but you know that’s impossible. You can’t look at him and ignore all the hurt he caused you. You can, however, be professional. You know you can work with him. It might just tear you up inside, but you can do it. You have to.

However, you wonder what kind of person he’s become in the past eight years. You know you’ve changed dramatically, but what has happened to him? How has his life gone? How did he end up in the FBI?

You wonder if he’s learned to love. The man that you knew was one who was seemingly incapable of ever loving anyone. It’s clear to you that back then he was too selfish, too wrapped up in his own head to dedicate anything real to anyone else. And if he ever did feel anything real for you, he was too emotionally damaged to handle it, work through it, or to tell you about it.

Your alarm rings again. You snooze it again. What will you say to him? What do you want your first words to be to him? Will you tell him off? Should you even acknowledge the past? Or should you just put on your best air of professionalism and approach this as you would any new job? It seems impossible to push aside the past and treat him as a new person. Because he’s not a new person. He’s a man who has shaped every decision you’ve made in your life since knowing him.

You eventually convince yourself to get out of bed, reminding yourself that it’s pointless to fight inevitables. You dig through the moving boxes, pulling out your coffee maker and a thermos, filling it up to the top, already expecting the Quantico office coffee to be bad. You haven’t worked in a year, but you do remember always having to make your own coffee before work.

While the coffee brews, you pack a go-bag, an item that Strauss heavily emphasized the importance of for this job. You would be traveling a lot for each case, and you have to be ready to leave at any moment. You’re not sure why your reassignment is with the BAU. Your therapist emphasized a lifestyle of structure and predictability. If there’s one thing you’ve heard about the life of these profilers, it’s that the hours are irregular.

You get dressed, slipping on a clean pressed, black pair of slacks and a white button-down blouse. You slide on a comfortable pair of boots, ones that look nice and professional but don’t hinder your movement in the event that you get called away on a case.

One benefit of the irregular hours is that your personal time is limited. If you can occupy your mind with work, you can avoid getting sucked up into your own head. Like right now. You grip your bag as it jostles against your side on the bus. You drink your coffee a little too fast, which doesn’t ease the unnatural level of fear coursing through you.

This shouldn’t scare you so much. But the old wounds that you fought so hard to turn to scar tissue are reopening and they hurt just as much as the day Hotch inflicted them upon you.

You get to the Quantico headquarters a few minutes early, giving you enough time to get your new ID from the front desk. You get into the elevator, rocking back and forth on your toes anxiously. He’s here. He could be anywhere. Every time the elevator doors open to a different floor, you fear that you’ll come face to face with him. You’re sure that he’s probably on the sixth floor. The BAU floor. He’s probably in his office waiting to welcome the new agent. Does he know that you’re the new agent? Does he know who you are? Does he know what’s happened to you this past year?

You were assured that most of the details of your ‘leave’ were kept confidential. All that was publicized was a tragic bombing. The bomber sacrificed himself for the cause. Only a few people were able to escape, but all with severe injuries. The FBI didn’t want to admit their involvement. Their failure to save those people. Your failure to save those people.

You get to Strauss’s office, struggling to pay attention as she walks you through the basics, hands you your new badge, and a new gun. You holster the weapon, pulling your go-bag onto your shoulder, fiddling with the straps nervously.

Strauss finishes her introductory speech and takes a moment to look you over, “Agent, are you sure you’re ready to get back to work?” It doesn’t take a profiler to notice your nerves. Ever since the start of your leave, nerves and anxiety aren’t an uncommon occurrence, but this is more than usual. Your body is practically vibrating.

Despite the sick feeling in your stomach, you manage a nod, “I’m sorry.” You apologize for appearing distracted, “Yes ma’am. I’m ready.”

You can tell she’s unconvinced. Strauss leads you through the relatively crowded bullpen. You spot an empty desk across from a woman with long black hair, who is too busy laughing with the blonde sitting on top of her desk to notice that the tall skinny one across from them has just spilled coffee all over himself and his paperwork. You assume that the empty one is to be your desk. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as you glance up at the two offices on the catwalk. One of them has the blinds tightly drawn and through the other, you can just barely see an older gentleman working on his laptop. David Rossi. You know him. You read just about every single one of his books on Sunday in preparation for this new job.

Your profiling skills are mediocre at best. Strauss argues that out of all possible candidates you had the most office experience and field experience. You’re really not sure how that helps. How could a traumatized and failed crisis negotiator who hasn’t been in the field in nearly a year provide anything helpful for the BAU?

Old habits resurfaced and you buried yourself in published literature and textbooks and research. You weren’t about to walk into a new job feeling unprepared, especially not one in which Aaron Hotchner would be your new boss. Now, at this moment, trailing behind Straus, as your body seems detached from your mind, dreading the moment that she opens that door to Aaron’s office, no amount of studying or preparation seems sufficient.

Rossi steps out of his office just as you and Strauss reach the top of the stairs. You lock eyes with him and despite not even knowing who you are, he gives you a reassuring nod. Damn profilers. Your body language is probably a dead giveaway. Strauss knocks on the door.

“Come in.” That voice. You could never forget it. Strauss reaches for the handle and you’re tempted to run away. Turn around and walk away. At least then you could leave with your sanity semi-intact. However, your curiosity has been piqued at this point. You have to know. You have to see him. You step through the doorway into the office and finally get a good look at the man.

He's hunched over, body turned slightly away from the desk. He has a phone pressed to his ear and he’s speaking in a gentle, hushed tone, "Yeah I know buddy." He glances over at you and Strauss. As if out of a movie, he does a double-take. It’s almost as if it takes a second for his eyes to really process what he’s really seeing. And what he’s really seeing is you. The look on his face tells you that he barely recognizes you, now eight years older, in professional clothes, and a face that’s just a little more weathered from all that you’ve been through.

Your memories of him are not faint as your eyes stay locked with his. They’re not just faded remnants of your moments together. Staring at him, eyes drinking in every inch of him, it all comes back more vivid than ever. You can practically feel his fluffy hair tangled in your fingers. From your position, you can just faintly smell his cologne. That’s a scent that hasn’t changed. The sensory memories are overwhelming. The passion, the secrecy, the pleasure. But that quickly changes, making the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach grow at an all-consuming rate. That night. That night he grabbed you by the front of your shirt, the way he snapped at you, the completely ice-cold manner in which you spoke those last few words to him, I’m done.

That Aaron Hotchner is not the man sitting in front of you. You barely recognize him. His hair is shorter, more strictly gelled in place. His white shirt is buttoned all the way up. He has a suit jacket on. His tie is done up perfectly. You can’t help but take note of the bags under his eyes, the increase of lines on his face. Obviously, he’s aged, but the way his face has changed, it’s not just age. You can see his eyes are dull, glossed over. For as neatly put together he is from the neck down, his face looks tired.

Hotch seems to forget he was just on the phone, entirely taken aback by the fact that you’re actually there, standing in front of him. "I’m sorry I can’t be with you right now but get a lot of rest and I’ll be home before you know it. I have to go. I love you too." He hangs up and you try to hide the shock on your face as those words come out of his mouth. Words you dreamt of him saying. Words that haunted you for months nearly a decade ago.

"Agent Hotchner, this is the crisis negotiation transfer I was discussing with you," Strauss nods at you, and Hotch stands up, smoothing out his tie, placing his hands flat on the desk. "This is Agent—"

"Y/N." His voice is firm. Hearing his name fall from your lips is enough to send you running in the opposite direction. Fear and anxiety overcome you, your legs going weak as he sticks out a hand to shake yours, but you can’t seem to get yourself to move forward to touch his hand, "I’m sorry, Agent Y/L/N." He corrects his mistake.

His hand hovers in the air for a moment, waiting for you to reach forward to shake it. Your shoes drag across the carpet, as you reach forward to shake his hand. His warm, rough hand envelops yours. At one point in your life, just the touch of his skin against yours would send sparks up and down your arm. Just that handshake would’ve been enough to ignite your skin and make you feel alive.

You feel nothing. Just a simple handshake. Your heart is attempting to jump out of your throat, beating rapidly and pounding against your ribcage so hard you think your chest visibly moves. However, his touch no longer thrills you. Maybe you are finally over Aaron Hotchner.

"You two know each other?” Strauss gestures between the two of you.

"No," You reply without missing a beat. You shake your head, finally able to get words out. You have to force your eyes off of Hotch and look at Strauss, "Well, yes. Agent Hotchner lectured at my law school a few times. When he was a federal prosecutor.”

Strauss gives a small nod of acknowledgment, “Agent Hotchner can show you the ropes from here. I expect updates from the field,” Her eyes shoot over to you. Updates about you, she means. In case you manage to fuck up again.

You watch as Strauss leaves the office not turning your eyes to Hotch at the desk in front of you. You look out the window, gesturing to the agents in the bullpen you passed, “I’m assuming the extra desk in the bullpen is mine?”

Hotch tilts his head down, letting out a small breath, “Yes. However, Agent Y/L/N—”

“And everyone in the bullpen, is that the whole team? I know Agent Rossi’s office is next to yours and I only saw three agents in the bullpen but I assume there are more?”

“Yes. We have a technical analyst and another member of the team. You’ll be introduced to them shortly, however–” that’s not what he really wants to talk to you about. It clear that there’s so much he wants to say, but you don’t give him a chance to speak. You keep your mind focused on the important questions on there about the job. You know that a conversation with him about anything else just might break you.

“And in terms of training, you can see I passed my gun qualifications again. Are there any other evaluations or training protocols? Or will my time from the academy be sufficient preparation for this position?” You rattle off your questions. His face is a mixture of shock and frustration. He has his arms crossed against his chest. He tucks his bottom lip in, biting at it lightly.

“Y/N,” He places his hands firmly down on the desk. This time he doesn’t answer your questions. He’s tired of your avoidance, “What are you doing here?”

You take a pause at the sound of your first name, swallowing slowly, “I’m here on reassignment from crisis negotiation. I’m supposed to be working as a profiler on your team in the BAU.”

“You know what I mean,” Hotch presses the issue a little further.

“With all due respect, I’m not sure what you are searching for from me but if the implication is that I am here for anything other than the job then you are sorely mistaken,” You huff out and cross your arms against your chest, mirroring his closed-off body language. “Sir.”

“That’s not what I was implying,” Hotch places a hand on his forehead, rubbing roughly, trying to ease his frustration. You’re not quite sure where he gets off being so short and snippy with you. “I’m just… The last time I saw you, you were on track to be a lawyer and now you’re standing in front of me, in my office, joining my team. It just all seems very—”

“Sir?” You turn and see a different blonde standing in the doorway. She has a bright pink floral dress on, two large flowers in her hair, a file in her hands, and a pink fuzzy pen tucked behind her ear. “Sorry to interrupt,” She steps forward, stumbling a little in her high heels, sticking her hand out to shake yours, “Penelope Garcia, technical analyst, computer geek, and all-around wizard of the keyboard.”

You smile at her and stick your hand out to introduce yourself, “It’s great to meet you.”

“Sir, you remember that the Indiana PD contacted us about a possible serial?” She lets out a shaky breath, squinting her eyes and looking away as she opens the file, holding it out to Hotch, “Another body.”

Hotch has to reach past you to take the file and you audibly suck in your breath as his arm glides past your torso. “Same signature?” He looks over the photos.

Garcia lets out a small shudder, “Yeah the victim’s hands… the unsub he… don’t make me say it, sir.” She squeaks out.

“Gather the team,” He gives a nod before finally looking back at you, “You think you’re ready to get back to work?”

“Yes Sir,” You sigh, pull your go-bag further up your shoulder. You start to follow him out the door but he stops short in front of you.

“We’ll talk later,” He stumbles over his words a little. You’re making him nervous. You see his hand at his side. His fingers rubbing against one another. There’s one thing that hasn’t changed in years. He still has the same nervous behaviors.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” You mumble under your breath as you follow him to the conference room. You speak quietly but from the way he tilts his head, stretches his neck, and takes a deep breath, you know your comment was loud enough for him to hear.

You take a seat at the roundtable, watching as the three agents from earlier are now joined by a tall, muscular black man who ruffles the top of the skinny kid’s head, messing up his hair, “I’m just teasing kid, I like the haircut. Makes you look young.”

“Yeah like I need anything to make me look younger. Everyone already thinks I’m a teenager,” The skinny one tries to smooth his hair back into place, but it doesn’t really help, leaving small strands sticking up in the air.

“Everyone this is Agent Y/L/N, she’s joining us from Crisis Negotiation,” Hotch pulls out his chair, right next to yours. You feel your whole body tense up, as the close proximity really allows you to smell his familiar cologne. Eight years and he still hasn’t bought a new one. Great.

“Joining us?” The muscular one stands just a bit behind you, making himself a cup of coffee but turns and walks to take a seat, giving you a slow once over. It’s not a flirtatious one, but a wary scan of your body. You’re becoming acutely aware of how exposed you feel in a room full of professional profilers.

“Strauss thinks we need the extra help, especially with the recent increase in requests for BAU help, and I don’t disagree with her,” Hotch looks around the table at his coworkers before looking to you, “Agents Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau, Rossi, and Dr. Reid.” Hotch points out each member, who all give you small nods and waves of acknowledgment as he introduces them.

“Crisis negotiation, huh?” Morgan continues to push the subject. You can tell he’s not really happy about a new addition to the team. You’re guessing it’s coming from a place of protectiveness of his team. You understand his hesitance. The team probably works well together, a new person is a whole new dynamic. If you could pick any other position you would, you have no specific interest in the BAU, but it’s a second chance and you’re not going to screw it up, no matter how much you wish that anyone else in the world besides Hotch was unit chief.

“I think the job took a small amount of profiling,” You shrug and give Agent Morgan a smile, hoping to get in his good graces soon, “Obviously not as much as this but it did take a level of interpretation of the behavior of criminals who take hostages in addition to a complex understanding of intergroup dynamics and how that might impact a situation.”

“There’ll be time to play nice and get to know each other later,” Hotch cuts the introductions short. “Garcia, the case?”

“Right,” She clicks on the monitor at the front while Hotch slides a tablet over to you. You take it from him, your fingertips just brushing against his. Everything about the interaction feels like eight years ago. He manages to keep his best poker face, all the while you feel the small sparks shoot across your skin. Those damn sparks. Except you’re very quickly realizing that the Hotch in front of you is nothing like eight years ago.

There’s something deeply broken about his eyes. You could never forget those eyes. When you first met him you thought they were deep brown. Then you spent enough time watching him, studying every detail of his face and learned that they were a beautiful light brown. Small golden flecks in his eyes become more pronounced in the sun. His eyes are different now. First of all, the deep undereye bags that frame them make him look years older than his actual age. His brow seems permanently set in that furrowed position. It’s a familiar expression of his. You had the joy of seeing that brow lift when the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. Smiling seems to be the last thing this current Aaron Hotchner wants to do.

You realize you’re staring a little bit too long and tune back into Garcia’s case briefing, “All three victims were undergraduate students. Indiana’s campus hosts both undergrad and grad students from the law school and med school.”

“Which means a huge suspect pool.” Hotch points out.

“How are we sure that the unsub is from inside the community?” You look around the table. You can see the way that Morgan’s brows raise at the question. How else are you going to learn without asking questions?

Rossi, however, swoops in to save you from embarrassment, “The first victim had mace in her backpack, however, she never used it. The second victim had no defensive wounds on her body. The third victim—”

“Was killed in an office meeting room. To gain access to that building you need a school ID,” You nod, filling in the gaps. “I forget that technology and security have dramatically improved since I was in school.”

“Come on, kid, at least you had cell phones in college,” Rossi gives a small smile, nudging your arm.

“And how do we know these are all connected?” Morgan gestures to his tablet in front of him.

You scoff slightly and look up at Morgan, “I’m sorry, I know it’s important to find common victimology, MO, or signature before connecting the crimes but how many violent crimes occur on college campuses in this short of a time? They have to be connected.”

“Statistically, some of the most dangerous and violent college campuses report that nearly 10 students for every 1000 will be a victim of violent crime. However, that statistic seems to include any form of violent crime meaning murder, negligent manslaughter, aggravated assault, robbery, but most prevalent on most college campuses is rape as a form of violent crime. In terms of how frequent—” The tall skinny one, Reid, rattles off a series of facts at you and you can’t help but smile. He’s cute. He looks about your age, “That was more of a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?”

You fight a smile at Reid’s confused face and nod. “All the victims had the same cuts on their hands,” Prentiss points up at the monitor.

“Weird,” You mumble under your breath.

“What?” JJ turns to you.

“Oh. Nothing it’s just… hands are a weird thing to mutilate. Damage to the face shows high levels of rage and a deep hatred for the victim, removal of eyes or ears or damage to the mouth could symbolize the removal of a sense in order to punish the victims for some misuse of those senses. But hands… hands are different.” You tip your pen back to your mouth, placing the end on your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly as you think. You can feel Hotch’s focus on you. If you turn, you’re sure you’ll just catch him as he looks away.

He’s profiling you. You don’t need to look at him to know that. He was always good at reading you, not that you did much to hide your feelings back then. You felt everything so openly. You were so full of passion, so determined to be the best at everything you set your mind to. Hotch made you realize that feeling everything so deeply, so freely, opens you up to a world of hurt. You put on your best poker face, keeping your body language neutral while you still feel his eyes on you.

“Hands are not inherently symbolic of one thing.” Reid agrees with you.

“So we have to try and decipher why this mutilation is a compulsion for the unsub,” Hotch nods, “Wheels up in 30.” Everyone tucks all their belongings away. Hotch is quick to stand up from his seat at the table, storm down the catwalk back to his office, closing the door loudly. You try to ignore the weird looks from the team as you introduce yourself to all of them.

You watch as Morgan is one of the first to leave the conference room, walking after him, “Hey, Agent Morgan!” You run to catch him at the top of the stairs, “Look I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off so rude in there.” You shake your head.

“No problem,” He states simply, intending to walk down the stairs.

“I get it, I’m new, I’m throwing off the team dynamic and you don’t seem like the type to trust me immediately.” You stick out a hand to shake his, “But I’m committed to this team and I want to earn your respect in time.”

He nods, giving you one of those judgmental once overs again, “From what I can tell, Hotch doesn’t seem too pleased about you being here. Now just because he’s my boss, doesn’t mean I have to always agree with him, but if he’s wary, then I’m wary.” He avoids shaking your hand. Your suspicions about Morgan seem to be proven before your eyes. He doesn’t trust easily. He’s been burned by someone he trusted in the past. You can relate to that. You’re not a very open or trustworthy person anymore either.

“Agent Hotchner and I knew each other a really long time ago. A lifetime ago. Way before his time at the BAU. I’m sure he’s just not thrilled about his past colliding with his present,” You nod taking a few steps back to let Morgan continue down the stairs, “I just hope… I hope you can learn to trust me, and I, you.” You smile softly. Morgan seems stuck in his place. You can’t tell whether or not he’s surprised by your manners, or if you’ve just driven further the wedge between you two.

“See you on the jet,” He speaks up as he walks down the stairs, scooping his go-bag from under his desk and disappearing around a corner down the hallway.

When you turn to walk back to the conference room, you catch Agent Hotchner’s eye line through the blinds of his office. He’s watching you, studying you, trying to read you. However, he definitely does not get access to you anymore.

You’re determined to keep your animosity towards Hotch private. No reason for the team to detect that anything is wrong. But throughout the case, there are moments it slips. First, it was on the jet...

You step onto the jet, looking around, taking the entire environment in. You were never blessed with a private jet in your time in crisis negotiation, just stuck with driving from place to place. Morgan reaches across you, taking your bag and stowing it away in the back for you. It’s a simple gesture, but from the look in his eye as he does it, you can tell Morgan is already reevaluating his judgment of you.

You’re one of the last on the jet and you see everyone settled around the table and surrounding seats. The only available seat is the one next to Hotch by the window. You’d have to ask him to get up… or squeeze past him. You try to cover it up but nearly everyone notices the way that you eye the seat before deciding against it. You end up leaning against the arm of the sofa that JJ is sitting on. Once again, Hotch’s gaze lingers on you as you do. He’s taking note of the way you’re actively avoiding him, and he’s right. You’re actively avoiding any alone time with him. Minimize the alone time, minimize the pain.

You run through the facts of the case again, Reid rambling on about the significance of hands throughout different cultures, the importance of sensory neurons on the skin of your hands, and how hand size is an indicator for a lot of things. You share a small smirk with Morgan, who is clearly warming up to you because you both know the one thing that hand size is rumored to correlate with.

Morgan shoots you a small smirk before saying what you were both thinking, “That’s interesting and all kid, but any knowledge in that big brain of yours about whether hand size is related to—”

Hotch cuts off Morgan, “Focus, please.” He gestures with his hand to stop the conversation and you have to hide your smile. It’s nice to smile. You weren’t expecting to feel anything but pain today. Hotch puts a fast end to that feeling of happiness.

“When we land, JJ and Rossi head to the local police and talk to the families of the victims. Prentiss and Morgan, you’ll head to the ME, get a better evaluation of the state of the body,” Hotch pauses for a second. He takes in a slow breath as if preparing himself for what he’s about to say. Once he says what’s coming next, it’s all official. You start your first case. He’s your boss, you’re his subordinate. You’re in each other's lives again whether you like it or not. “Y/L/N, Reid, and I will go to the most recent crime scene,” Hotch nods and you feel the blood drain from your face, that sick and twisty knot growing in the pit of your stomach. You knew you’d have to work with him, that’s part of the job, but he’s already keeping you close to him. Maybe he doesn’t trust you.

From the way he spoke to you in his office, it’s clear he thinks you’re here as some sort of revenge. Some convoluted vindictive scheme to ruin his life.

“You look terrified,” Prentiss tries to tease you.

You look around at the team and shake your head, “College campuses,” You scrunch up your face in disgust and shake your head, “Undergrad sucked because I was younger than everyone, so I missed out on all the fun.”

“Damn, we got another kid genius on our hands, don’t we?” Morgan reaches out a hand to high-five you. “Like our own female Einstein.” Your eyes immediately flick to Hotch. That nickname. No one’s called you any form of that nickname since him. “Watch out Reid, you’ve got competition.”

“I was 14 when I was in college,” Reid states in an attempt to one-up you, but it’s clear that he’s just joking. He knows he’s smart but he doesn’t seem like the cocky type, at least what you can tell so far.

“Don’t worry, brainiac,” You laugh at him, “You are the only genius on this team.”

“And grad school?” JJ pipes up, catching onto the way you dropped the sentence.

“I dropped out of law school after my first year,” You clear your throat uncomfortably, “Wasn’t for me I guess.” The air seems suffocating. Your face is burning hot. You feign extreme interest in the crime scene photos on your tablet, knowing that if you look up, your face will give you away to Hotch. The last thing you want is for him to know how much he affected you.

He said it himself: So in 10 years from now, when you're at the top of your career, know that it's all because of me. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Everything that has happened for the past eight years happened because of his impact on your life.

You remind yourself yet again to try and keep the conversations focused on the case. The team wants to get to know you, but every personal conversation seems to lead back to Hotch.

The second slip-up comes when you arrive at the crime scene...

“She told her roommate she was coming here to study, that she had booked the meeting room just for herself.” Reid lifts up the crime scene tape, holding it up for you to slip under. You give a small smile at the gesture.

“But she told her friends she was meeting with her professor here for extra help.” Hotch shakes his head, pulling on a pair of gloves. You glance over at Reid as he does the same.

He looks at you for a second before he raises his brows in realization, letting out a small ‘oh.’ He digs into his pocket and hands you a pair of gloves. “I usually grab them from the crime scene team,” He nods.

You take them from him, “Thank you.” You like Reid. He’s kind and smart and polite. He’s your age, but you can see that he’s worlds ahead of you in terms of knowledge. You wonder just how much is going on inside that brain of his. When you look at him you can see the gears constantly turning, he’s always working over something in his brain, forming theories, or running through facts.

“She was stabbed in the back and the back of the head, correct?” You glance over at Hotch for confirmation.

“Yes.” He plays with the fingertips of his gloves, paying more attention to you rather than the scene. Without the body, there’s not much to go on, it’s your average office space. You see a log on the wall with the names of who has scheduled the room. They haven’t wiped away the victim’s work from the whiteboard. It looks like some form of math.

“Linear algebra,” Reid speaks up as he sorts through some of the papers left on the table in the center of the room.

You nod and smile, “Math never was my strong suit in school. I was definitely more entranced by a book rather than formulas and numbers.”

Reid’s face lights up with joy, “If you ever want any book recommendations, please do ask. I just finished an absolutely amazing biography about Albert Einstein. It’s not that long of a read. It’s only about 1200 pages. You know I’m sure that I have a copy…” He catches sight of Hotch’s stern expression, stopping himself mid-sentence.

You both go silent as you skim through the pages of work scattered on the floor. You then analyze the writing on the whiteboard, leaning in close. Hotch speaks up again tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in confusion at your behavior, “What are you thinking?”

“It wasn’t random. This was planned out. The unsub specifically sought out her.”

“How do you figure that?” Hotch questions you, but not in the hostile accusatory way you’re expecting.

You hesitate, losing your train of thought the longer you look at Hotch, so you look back to the whiteboard, “When you’re waiting to meet someone, you expect someone to come in, right? So if she had her back turned, writing up equations on this whiteboard, she wouldn’t think twice of the door opening. If you’re not expecting someone and you hear the door open.” You point at the whiteboard.

“You would turn around to see who it is,” Hotch finishes your sentence.

“That’s why all her wounds were to the back,” You fall into a rhythm with Hotch. He’s following your train of thought.

“So the unsub had to know she would be here ahead of time,” Hotch sighs and digs in his pocket for his phone, “Garcia, I need your help.” He clicks his phone onto the speaker and places it down on the table.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Her chipper voice comes through the phone. You can picture her office probably matches her appearance. Probably bright, full of color. For a technical analyst, she probably still has a hefty collection of colorful and funky pens. You remember the octopus mug she was holding when she walked into Hotch’s office this morning.

“This building has a key card access system. Can you access the log of everyone who swiped into this building on the day and around the time of the third murder?”

“Sir, it’s not a matter of can or can’t. You know I can,” Her voice is laced with a smile.

“Check that list for the professor that she claimed she was meeting with,” Hotch adds.

“He…” She trails and you hear the ambient sounds of her rapid typing and clicking. There’s a pause. Her voice grows small, “He accessed the building around the time of her death.”

“He’s our prime suspect. We need to bring him in,” Hotch concludes, “Garcia, you’re the best.”

“Aw I know,” She giggles softly, “PG out!”

“Imagine that,” You chuckle bitterly, “She comes in here to meet her professor, someone she trusts, and she gets stabbed in the back.” You shake your head, the words slipping out before you even realize the weight of what you’ve implied.

Reid doesn’t catch on to the look that you and Hotch exchange. Hotch looks as if he’s seen a ghost. He’s not shocked by what you’ve said, but by the fact that you even said anything. It’s the first sign of hostility towards him. The first crumb or clue into how you feel about him after all these years. The answer is betrayed. You still feel betrayed.

“We should deliver the profile.” Hotch leaves the crime scene at a brisk pace, leaving Reid clueless, and you and that damned twisting knot of anxiety in your stomach.

The rest of your interactions with Hotch are limited for most of the case, restricted to only group discussions that are entirely professional. No more slip-ups, no more sideways glances. What all your interactions were rife in, was that intrusive look of his eyes. Every few minutes you can feel his eyes on you, scanning your posture, your facial expressions, searching for any idea of what you might be thinking or feeling.

You try your best to avoid it, opting to go check out every lead, just for the opportunity to get some space from him. You feel smothered and suffocated. You’re so on edge, you’ve torn your nail beds to shreds. He is seemingly unfazed by your presence. That is if you don’t consider how often you catch him rubbing his fingers at his side or up by his face or biting his bottom lip. Every time you catch him, however, he stops.

You’re having a difficult time reading how he feels about you being here. You just want to know how he feels about you after all these years. Does he still harbor feelings for you? Does he still care about you? The sleep deprivation from working so hard and the excess caffeine you’ve consumed don’t help to slow down your thoughts which seem to be moving at a million miles a minute. At least while you’re working you can put all your energy into solving the case, helping the team, and parsing through evidence.

It gets worse at night when you’re alone in the hotel room. You try to bring the case file back into the room, working on it in bed until you can barely keep your eyes open, but you find that you don’t get any work done, your brain a continuous stream of questions.

You’ve been able to profile every member of the team pretty efficiently. You have a good understanding of how Reid’s brain works. The comfort that he has with numbers and facts. He uses his intelligence to cover up for his social insecurities. Morgan puts on a tough exterior, but really he’s hesitant to let people in and trust them. Prentiss, similar to Morgan, seems to keep everyone at arm's length, preferring to be the confidant rather than the one doing the confiding in someone else. JJ struggles to separate her emotions from the work, a quality that is not in and of itself a flaw, but you can tell it weighs on her heavily. Rossi has the most experience and constantly feels inclined to be a figure, a leader while trying to balance cooperation rather than individualism. He’s used to being a lone wolf, doing the job on his own.

This new Aaron Hotchner is a mystery. He’s closed off. He is entirely business. Even when Garcia cracks a joke or embarrasses herself. You all laugh and smirk at her, but his face never changes. When you all get off track, he sternly reminds you of the importance of the case at hand. That’s his job, but there’s something more to it that you can’t quite figure out. There’s a sense of urgency, as there usually is with these cases, but almost this feeling that he’s constantly running out of time.

Even his office provided you with very little to profile. You remember a few photos from Hotch’s office. One of him and a small boy. A son, possibly? There was another of him and a blonde woman hugging the little boy. Your first guess is wife, but you don’t remember him wearing a ring.

You can’t profile him. He’s closed himself off to that. Yet you find yourself coming back to the same question over and over again, does he still care about you? You get a glimpse at the answer as you and the team track down the location of your unsub, three days into the case.

You lean forward from the backseat of the SUV, looking between Morgan and Hotch in the front, “What does the profile say about this kind of unsub’s behavior once faced with police and authority like us?”

The two men exchange knowing looks. You have your suspicions but you really just want them to vocalize what you’re thinking, “He won’t let us take him in without a fight.”

“Suicide by cop,” You mutter frustratedly, “Great.”

“It’s likely, but that doesn’t mean we don’t try to talk him out of it.” Hotch clarifies, gesturing with an outstretched palm that he takes off the wheel temporarily. He pulls up to the small house, sirens off. “A big show will just scare him into making sudden moves to get us to shoot to kill. Morgan, you head around the back. Y/L/N and I will take the front.”

You nod, knowing the rest of the team isn’t far behind you all, but they’ve all been instructed to try and appear as discreetly as possible. You get out of the SUV, watching as Morgan runs around back. Both you and Hotch approach the door. Hotch kicks the door down. The unsub sits casually in an armchair, holding a gun that he twirls in his fingers. He knew you were coming.

Then Hotch does something that complicates your questions about him. It’s subtle but you notice it immediately. He instinctively moves a little in front of you. He doesn’t block your line of fire, but he blocks the unsubs. He’s shielding you with his body.

Your profile is right, the unsub doesn’t want to be taken in peacefully, resulting in Morgan putting two bullets in him from behind when he raises his gun to you and Hotch. AT first, you think Hotch put his body in front of yours by accident.

It wasn’t an accident. He gave a small look over his shoulder at your location before taking a few steps right, to block you. Then you assume it was purely because of his status as team leader. He doesn’t want the members of his team to get hurt. That also doesn’t seem to make sense to you. No matter how much he wants the team to be protected he wouldn’t do that. He would trust Morgan to get the shot if you two couldn’t.

So why would he shield you?

Almost everyone but you, Rossi, and Hotch are sleeping on the jet home. You have a book out in front of you, but you’re barely reading, just attempting to look deeply enchanted by the novel to avoid any awkward eye contact or conversation with Hotch. The only sounds in the plane are the whirring of the engines, the wind outside, and Hotch’s typing on his computer as he finishes up the report for the case.

Rossi sits down across from you on the jet, placing down a small glass of some amber liquid, which you assume is whiskey, in front of you.

“Trying to get me drunk, Agent Rossi?” You tease him, tearing your eyes away from the book you weren’t reading.

He laughs heartily, taking a sip from his own glass, “I thought I’d welcome you with something from my own personal stash.”

“Where do you keep it hidden in here? You know… just in case I’m curious,” You smirk and reach for the glass. It’s nice of Rossi to sit with you and talk to you.

Rossi just smiles, shaking his head a little, “You did well out there, kid,” He puts the glass down, to roll his ring around his finger. You’ve noticed he does it a lot when he’s thinking. “You can read all the books in the world, but profiling in the field, thinking on your feet, analyzing a crime scene, it’s all much different than the words on a page.”

“I’m realizing that,” You trail your finger around the rim of the glass, “My previous position incorporated a lot of what you guys do here.”

“I’m sure that makes this job a lot harder. You probably want to put the past behind you.” Your head snaps up to look at him. No one told the team where you came from. Even Hotch doesn’t know. “I remember hearing about the incident.”

“The FBI tried to bury their involvement,” You sigh and finish off the glass, noting how smooth the alcohol goes down. You’ve learned how to handle alcohol really well this past year. “They keep all the details top secret. However, that didn’t stop them from throwing me under the bus.”

“What happened in New York was not your fault.” Rossi’s voice drops in volume as he leans closer, keeping your conversation more private, “The brass has a habit of blaming agents instead of criminals. You couldn’t have stopped it. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

You exhale loudly, air rushing over your teeth as you give a little shake of your head in disagreement, “Agent Rossi, I’m sure you’re experienced enough to know this, but as reassuring and comforting it is to hear you say those words it doesn’t necessarily—”

“It doesn’t change how you feel. I know. I understand,” He pauses, “Don’t let it consume you. All of us have been where you are right now. Some of us are currently where you are right now, constantly consumed by guilt over something that wasn’t even our fault.” You get the sense that he isn’t talking about himself. You don't need to reply. The both of you sit in silence for a while.

You start up a conversation again, this time about Virginia and DC, where you’re living, when you moved, what you studied in school, where you grew up. Rossi loves to tease you and every few sentences he’ll simply reply, ‘I already knew that’ acting as if he could profile every fact about you.

You like him a lot. You like everyone a lot. Just as the jet lands and you’re all packing up your desks back at Quantico, Rossi offers to drive you home.

“Let me just check in with Agent Hotchner before I leave,” You glance up at the office. You know you have to check in with him, it’s your first case finished, you’re new, he’s your new boss, but so far, you’ve managed to avoid being alone with him and you’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.

You knock lightly on the open door, to which Hotch responds, “Come in.”

“I just wanted to check-in, you know, with it being my first case and everything,” You nod, taking just a few steps into the office, leaving as much distance between you and Hotch. He stands at his desk, focusing intently on your face. You know he’s trying to read your intentions. He’s searching for the hidden meaning behind your words. And for once, in the past few days, you don’t have any meaning behind your words. You have had enough small slip-ups and double meanings. This time, you truly just mean to check-in.

“You did really good work out there, Agent. You’re a fast learner, you pay attention to details, you work well with the team,” He rattles off a series of compliments, “Strauss is going to request a formal evaluation with me and I’ll be sure to report how quickly you’ve adapted.”

“Thank you, sir,” You try your best to function with the utmost composure.

“Hotch,” He corrects you.

You ignore the correction, “Is that all, sir?”

“If you need anything… I mean I’ve read through your psych evaluations and I know the details are classified but–“ Hotch is struggling with his words. You know what he’s trying to say. He wants to tell you he’s here for you. Funny. Really, it is. Funny that he doesn’t realize the one thing that might send you spiraling is being around him. “I just mean if it all gets to be too much, it’s okay to take a step back. I… I understand.”

“You do?” Your words come out more bitter than intended. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. You had gone this whole case without snapping. It’s childish and immature. You can be professional. But right now, you can only see one thing: boiling hot rage at Hotch. How could he possibly understand how you feel? You pause to take a breath, “Thank you, but I’m okay. Goodnight, sir.” You walk to the door, wanting to get away from him as fast as possible.

“Y/N—” Hotch calls out, his voice softer, less firm, less professional.

“Please,” You beg, finally breaking. Your voice is raw with emotion. You’ve been holding all the pain in for the past three days and your plea comes out sounding more broken than you intend to. You don’t turn around but place a hand on the doorframe. “Please… don’t make this harder than it already is.” You wait for a moment, hoping, praying, that he doesn’t try to talk to you anymore. A moment of silence serves as confirmation that he isn’t going to keep pushing you to talk.

You get down the stairs, meeting Rossi at the elevators. “Thank you… for driving me home.” You try and hide your face from him, hoping he doesn't see the sheen in your eyes as you fight away the tears that have been fighting their way out for the past three days.

“Anytime,” He nods, holding an arm over the elevator doors for you as they open. You think he can sense something is wrong. He’s probably been able to sense something is wrong between you and Hotch since the minute you made eye contact with him your first morning. If he does, however, he also knows not to ask or press the issue.

You flick the lights on in your apartment. You look over the boxes, still left unpacked. Not much of a home yet. You have no place of safety, of comfort yet. You feel like a guest in your own place. However, the thought of unpacking all the boxes right now is way too intimidating.

Deep steady breath in. Shaky breath out. You bite at your lip harshly. You haven’t cried over Aaron Hotchner in years. You drop your bag by the door, kicking your shoes off. You turn to close the door and everything starts to bubble up inside you. The anger, frustration, sadness, heartbreak. It’s all too much. You’ve been through so much these past eight years. This shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. But fuck. It hurts.

You let out a frustrated yell. It’s a scream that feels good to let out but ends up scratching your throat. You slam your fist against the door, ignoring the way it sears your knuckles. You pace your apartment, trying to steady your breathing.

You’ve been suffocating the past three days. Three long days of close quarters with Aaron Hotchner. Even after all these years, he manages to suck all the oxygen out of the room, leaving you breathless. In another life, you remember thinking how much you loved suffocating around him, but now, it tears you up inside. Your chest burns and aches, your head is fuzzy, and his presence is dizzying. It’s not exhilarating. It’s not exciting. It’s not all-consuming in the way you remember. You’re just trying to keep your head above water, but the current is strong and the rapids are relentless. You’re sinking under the surface quickly and you don’t know how to pull yourself up out of it.

You walk over to the stack of boxes, pushing them aside until you find the exact one you’re looking for. You rip open the top, tearing the tape off. The box is full of books, one of many that you brought with you. It’s organized perfectly so that when you unpack it you can set up your personal library just the way you had it back home in New York. So it doesn’t take you long to find that book. That damned book. The cover is faded. The dark brown leather is weathered and much lighter. The spine has lost all structure and the pages have changed color.

You sit down exactly where you stand, cross-legged on the floor, you open to that first page. You look at the all-too-familiar note. You were tempted, over the years, to burn the book, tear that first page out, cross out every one of his notes. But you never could do it. Deep down, no matter how bad he had hurt you, the book seemed to remain separate from that.

Maybe it’s because it’s a constant reminder that you weren’t some naive, foolish, young child. You hadn’t deluded yourself into thinking Hotch cared for you. He did. There was some sense of care and attention to detail. The book is evidence of that. However, it forces you to hold on to an image of Hotch that clearly is not the prevailing personality. Looking at the book reminds you of the bashful, almost embarrassed, man who handed it to you in his office so long ago. The careful way he traced your jawline, the way he tangled his fingers in your hair, pushing it out of the way to really get a good look at your face. That image of him sometimes wins out when you think of Aaron Hotchner. You want to remember him that way, but that only seems to prolong your pain. It makes you want him back.

You lay down on the floor pressing the book close to your heart. You could simply pick up the phone. You could just call him, tell him you want to start all over. But you can’t start all over. Being with Aaron Hotchner was a lifetime ago. That doesn’t change how vividly you can remember being with him. For the first few years, you hated him with every fiber of your being. You thought about what would happen if you ever saw him again. You would scream at him. Tell him off, curse him out. But as the years passed, you stopped hating him. There’s a fine line between love and hate. And as you know, Aaron Hotchner has always been good at keeping lines blurry.

Everything in you is screaming at you to pick up the phone. You’ve dreamed of hearing his voice tell you, “Let’s try again... please.” But you fight the urge. You close your eyes, the cold floor of your apartment sending a chill through you, enough to keep your wits about you.

Hotch runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes forcing himself to stay awake, forcing his attention back to the case report. His attempts to work fail, his mind always traveling back to you. He knew you would be a different person. It’s been eight years. He’s a different person. What he didn’t expect was how much of you is still the same.

That bright look in your eyes while discussing the case was one he had seen so many times while you poured over a novel in his office. You still talk with your hands, punctuating every sentence with a little shake or gesture of your fingers. You crack your knuckles when you’re thinking.

The differences are clear to him too. You don’t hold your tongue. You’re blunt. Brutally honest, almost to a fault. You seem to have pushed aside any attempt at politeness, or social niceties. You no longer feel so openly. He finds it much harder to read your face and body language. Your thoughts are not as clear to him as they used to be. He used to know exactly what you were thinking. He can tell you’ve practiced your poker face. He tried his best the past three days to get a read on how you feel about him. He doesn’t want to dwell on the past. All of that was before Haley. And indulging in thoughts of before is just simply too painful for him.

He walks to the window, looking out at the city. He wonders where you are tonight. Are you thinking about him? Are you hurting? Or has it been so long that he’s unimportant to you? Is someone holding you close to them, pressing soft kisses to your lips, whispering comforting words?

He could just pick up the phone and call you. He could profusely apologize. Not that his apology would mean anything, but it’s a speech he’s been rehearsing for years. He loved Haley with his whole heart. She was his whole world, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret how he treated you. Haley showed him a world of love, yet he managed to ruin that as well. He prioritized the job over her. Look where that got him.

Hotch knows you will never forgive him. He has never forgiven himself, but he can’t help but think about what would happen if he showed up on your doorstep. Would you immediately turn him away? Or would you let him in? Would you hear him out?

He shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the lights of DC. He walks to the kitchen, pouring a fresh mug of coffee. He can’t call you. Too much has happened. He thinks about the sleeping little boy upstairs. Every night he’s tormented by memories. He can still remember what it felt like to hold Haley’s lifeless body in his arms. When he does get sleep, visions of Haley’s dead eyes, his bloodied clothes, Foyet’s knife, invade his dreams. He frequently wakes up coated in sweat, the scars on his chest and stomach stinging with the same intensity as the day Foyet inflicted the stab wounds.

Which is why he feels immense guilt over the fact that three days ago, he shook your hand to welcome you to the team, and it ignited every nerve in his body. Everything has changed, but your hand in his made him feel alive.

Chapter Text

You find yourself having more sleepless nights than ever before. Every time you close your eyes you’re facing the terrifying horrors your brain has managed to conjure up. The sounds of people screaming for help as debris rains down around you. You’re fighting against the arms of two firemen. Someone has to help them!

Your alarm is still hours away from ringing, yet you glance at the time every few minutes, every minute dragging along like it’s an hour. Your eyes are glued to your ceiling fan, watching as it swings back and forth slightly with each rotation of the blades.

After your first case with the BAU, things have started to slow down. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t have cases every single day of the week. Most of your days of work are summarized by piles and piles of paperwork. The team seems to be perpetually behind on every case report. The team tries to write up a general profile for every case that requests the BAU assistance that you can’t help with in person. In addition, Strauss loves to load the whole team with special talking events and lecture series. There’s hardly a day where everyone is in the office at the same time and when you are, you’re all soon called away on a case.

You haven’t been called away on a case since your first with the team. You actually don’t mind doing paperwork most of the day. The main reason is that it gives you an easy way to stay away from Hotch. You’ve jokingly struck up a deal that for every one of your files that Reid walks up to Hotch’s office for you, you’ll buy him a coffee. So far you owe him nearly two weeks of coffee.

Hotch is not completely oblivious. He’s caught on to your little game and so far, he’s been kind enough to give you some distance. He’s stopped pressuring you to talk to him. Maybe he finally sensed the raw emotion of your voice the other day in his office.

You resign yourself to the fact that you’re not going to fall back to sleep before your alarm rings. You pull the sheets off of you, kicking your feet off to the side, wrapping your arms around your body tightly as a shiver runs through you. The temperature in Virginia is dropping rapidly as winter takes over. You love when it’s cold. You love the way the cold, blustery air bites at your skin and makes you tingly. It’s a nice reminder that you’re alive. After everything you’ve been through, you’re still standing. You can still feel something. You can feel the cold.

You go through the motions of your morning routine, taking a shower to wake yourself up, brushing your teeth, pulling on some slacks and a nice blouse. You turn on some music while you get ready but even your favorite songs can’t seem to pull your head out from the haze you are living in recently. Your body is working on autopilot because before you know it, you’ve finished your makeup. It’s not even 6 AM.

You pop half of a bagel into the toaster, make a cup of coffee in your thermos, and then cover the bagel with cream cheese and honey. You look around your half-empty apartment, taking your time to eat your small breakfast.

Today is just going to be one of those particularly difficult and painful days. You can sense it. Your body feels lit up with nerves. Eating your breakfast is difficult, just the taste of the food making you sick to your stomach.

Your thoughts bounce between two topics: your past in the FBI and your past with Aaron Hotchner. It’s hard to believe that the Aaron Hotchner you see every day is the same Aaron Hotchner you once knew. You glance at the time, if you don’t leave soon you‘ll miss the train and be stuck at home for another hour. You rush out the door, walking to the train station. You settle into a seat, pulling your headphones on, hoping to drown out the rattling and humming of the train. You reach down to dig through your bag for your thermos of coffee. Shit.

The thermos is sitting on your counter. You can practically see it in your mind, right there on the edge of the counter. It’s almost become a joke at this point the horrible quality coffee of the BAU. You and Reid have a running joke about starting up a collection fund for better quality coffee, at least for your BAU floor. Nearly every team member brings their own coffee, settling for the shitty stuff in the conference room or on the jet in place of their second or third cup that day.

You get off the train, tempted to call Reid to bring you coffee, but according to your deal, you’re supposed to be the one doing that for him. You let out a tired sigh, calling a car to drive you to the office, wincing at the cost of your morning commute. You really need to get a car.

The parking lot is almost completely empty. You swipe your ID at the door. The night guard hasn’t switched out for the morning guard yet. You recognize him from some of the late nights you’ve had within your first week of work and give a small smile and nod. Your heart thumps into your throat every time you step onto the elevator in this building. All this in an attempt to avoid being alone with Hotch.

You reach forward to press floor six, when a voice calls out, footsteps moving rapidly towards the elevator, “Hold the elevator please!” You see a black briefcase swing up between the closing doors as you lunge for the door hold button. “Thank you—” There’s a slight hesitation in Hotch’s voice as he pauses and looks over you. “Agent.” He steps into the elevator. You make room for him, putting as much space between the two of you as possible.

You attempt your best, most polite, professional smile and nod, “Good morning, Sir.” You rock back and forth on your toes. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him open his mouth to say something before closing it again. There’s a long pause.

Should you say something? A normal employee would ask their boss how they are and make small talk. But this isn’t really the most normal boss/employee relationship. It seems frivolous to make small talk with someone who has seen the most intimate parts of you.

“You’re here early again,” Hotch finally speaks up. The elevator’s cool blue fluorescent lighting somehow emphasizes just how warm those brown eyes of his are. Those intimate parts of you that you keep shrouded from the naked eye, every single weakness you have shoved down, seem to be on full display in the way that he looks at you.

“I was already up. Thought I’d come in and get some work done,” The only way to keep the profiler in him at bay is to tell him some version of the truth. It’s true. You were already awake. You did decide it would just be better to come in and get started on work. However, you know that the exhaustion in your face is something you can’t hide away from his analytical eyes. There’s something in his expression that you can’t quite place as he gazes back at you. It’s a cross between disbelief and pity.

Pity. That’s definitely something you don’t want. Especially not from him. But maybe it’s not pity? Concern?

“I work out in the mornings,” Now you’re just fully lying, “I finished early and thought why not come in.”

“Y/N-” His voice lowers in volume as if someone’s listening to your conversation. He says your name like it’s a swear word. Like the name is some secret, forbidden phrase that he shouldn’t be saying, especially not at work. The elevator doors ring and they open to the BAU floor. Thankfully, there’s a worker from the night crew waiting to get on, interrupting whatever Hotch planned to say, and you’re quick to step off, moving around the man.

Hotch knows better than to follow after you to continue the conversation. There’s no one else in the offices yet, but the elevator is like neutral territory. A space separate from the job. Some sort of limbo between personal and professional. If the elevator is neutral, the BAU floor is the war front.

The situation is comical. You speed away from him, but he has to walk right past you to get to his office. What you don’t expect is the small coffee cup that he places on your desk before continuing right up to his office.

You remember him holding a tray of coffees in the elevator. Did he always intend to give you one of them? Is this attempt at a truce?

You remove the lid from the cup. The steam erupts wildly, just the smell of the coffee alone enough to already start perking you up. Once the initial small burst of heat clears, you stare down into the cup, expecting to see completely black coffee, the way that Hotch takes his. To your surprise, it's a light caramel color and you can smell a slight sweetness. You take a long sip. It’s perfect. You haven’t changed the way you take your coffee. He remembers your order. Is that supposed to mean something?

You realize you’ve been staring into your coffee for too long once you see Morgan and Garcia step off the elevator, his arm casually thrown around her shoulders. You can’t hear their conversation, but she says something, vibrantly gesturing with her hands, as Morgan lets out a laugh, flashing those perfect teeth of his. He gives Garcia’s arm a reassuring squeeze. She turns and scurries off to her little lair while Morgan turns towards the bullpen, digging around for a file in his bag.

“You’re always here early, new girl,” Morgan teases with a playful smack of the file to your head as he walks past.

“I have a name, Morgan,” You roll your eyes, attempting to fix your hair.

“What can I say? I’m a big fan of nicknames,” He grins and starts to walk towards the stairs.

“Wait! Can you take this file up to Hotch?” You hold out the papers from your desk. You give him your best, most innocent, pleading eyes. Usually, that works pretty well to get Reid to do things for you. Flirting really trips Reid up. The problem with Morgan is that he doesn’t get flustered or uncomfortable like Reid, he plays into your flirtations. You get along much better with Morgan now that he’s had about a week to warm up to you.

He still doesn’t trust you and you can tell that he questions your skills. So occasionally, you’ll indulge him. You’ll ask him for advice on something you’re working on. You’ll ask him to check your work before you hand it in to Hotch. You want him to know you respect him.

You don’t trust easily and neither does he, a quality that you have both noticed in each other. Morgan doesn’t push you to indulge him with your past. The other team members haven’t pushed you necessarily, but they seem to dance around the topic of your dismissal. Morgan avoids the topic entirely. You get the feeling that you and Morgan are way more similar than it would appear on the surface.

“Pretty boy gets free coffee, what do I get?” He stops and walks back closer to you.

“What do you want?” You smirk and lean forward placing your chin in the palm of your hand.

Morgan pauses and thinks for a second, “You come out with the team for drinks sometime, first round on you.”

You roll your eyes, “Fine. Deal.” You hold out the files and he takes them with a smile.

“I would’ve done it just to be nice, you know,” He laughs and walks up to knock on Hotch’s door. “Just wanted to see what I could get out of the new girl.” He opens the door, disappearing into the office. Emily finally arrives for the day, Reid trailing close behind her.

“All I’m saying is there are so many scientific fallacies built into the Jurassic Park franchise that it's totally reasonable to watch the films as comedies. I mean mixing Jurassic DNA with any other species just produces new species, not the same exact dinosaurs from the Jurassic period.” Reid rambles on and Emily just shoots you a look.

“This is why I don’t offer to carpool anymore,” She taunts and smiles at you.

“Not even me?” You smile, giving Reid a playful kick under the desks as he sits down.

“Are you going to annoy me about the minuscule details of every great award-winning movie?” She raises a brow, unpacking her belongings, setting a large cup of steaming coffee down.

“Well, I don’t know shit about science,” You shake your head, “I might complain about different book to screen adaptations and the number of details lost and the symbolism lost in the transfer of the work to the screen.”

“It’s moments like these that make me hate that the rest of the team has their own offices,” Prentiss sighs, already reaching for her headphones. You’re not really supposed to listen to music while working, but she breaks that rule all the time. She argues it helps her focus, but you really think it helps distract her from the horrors on the page. In the past week, you’ve learned that Emily Prentiss is great at compartmentalizing.

She’s easily able to push aside personal for professional, however, that comes at a great mental cost for her. She reminds you a little bit of Hotch in that way. She pushes the personal feelings down so deep that it’s hard for her to retrieve them when she needs to, so she’s wary of how detached she gets. But being emotionally detached from the work is the only way to avoid pain. So she listens to music.

Only two case reports later, the day is almost over. The days of sleep deprivation are finally taking a toll on your work ethic. Your brain is in a haze. You thought the two servings of caffeine would help clear your mind, but instead, they’ve just heightened your anxiety, making you more on edge than you already were. It doesn’t help that every few minutes your eyes drift up to the blinds of Hotch’s office, looking up at him while he focuses down on his work.

How can he be so… okay? He pretends as if your presence isn’t immensely distracting. Maybe it isn’t for him. Whatever he felt for you all those years ago was never love, you know that. Maybe he liked the ego boost of the way you worshipped him, hanging on to every last word out of his mouth. Maybe he just liked your body. He broke your heart, yet he sits in his office like everything is perfect.

“Today’s cases?” Reid stands next to your desk, a large stack of files in his arms already.

“How do you get those done so fast?” You shake your head at him and hand him your two, very slim, files.

“Eidetic memory, high-speed reading, genius-level IQ,” Emily pipes up without looking at the two of you. “Any of those options is a good explanation.”

“Thank you, Spence. I am forever in your debt,” You tease him as he gives a cute little tight-lipped smile, rushing up the stairs to hand in the work from the day.

As if on cue, Garcia, Morgan, and JJ step into the bullpen, their bags slung over their shoulders and Rossi comes down from the catwalk to meet the three.

“So how about that drink now?” Morgan once again has an arm wrapped around Garcia who then glances between the two of you.

“Yes! The newbie has to join us for drinks!” She smiles wildly, “Oh I just know you’re going to be so much fun. Plus, I have so much I want to interrogate you about.” It’s a light-hearted joke, a turn of phrase, but you know that Garcia probably vetted you within minutes of your time at the BAU. Penelope Garcia has the biggest heart of anyone you’ve ever met. She has so much love and joy for her family, this team, but you also know that she will do anything to keep her family safe. She’s not a violent person, but you know that if she had to die to protect this stand-in family, she would.

You glance among the faces of your new team, each more hopeful and excited than the last. They’ve all been immensely welcoming, despite their individual reservations about you. “I guess I could be down for a drink or two.” You start packing your bag. You hear Hotch’s office door open.

“Pretty boy, you down for drinks? Y/L/N is buying the first round!” Morgan calls up to Reid. You smile up at him, but it quickly drops when you see him.

Reid’s eyes flit to yours and there’s an apologetic look on his face, “Y/N, Hotch wants to talk to you.” The team exchanges a series of looks, your face getting warm as soon as you can feel all eyes on you.

You wave at them dismissively, “You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up if I have time,” You force a smile, pulling your bag onto your shoulder, practically dragging yourself up the stairs. As you pass Reid, he gives your hand a small touch. It’s small, but it means the world to you. You know how weird Reid is about contact and germs. He hugs or touches the team because he trusts them. He feels a sense of family with them. It’s only been a week, yet you and Reid have shared countless passionate conversations about books.

He gives you recommendations and you rush to buy them. You indulge his rambling rants. Sometimes you ride the train together. He gets off much later than you on the train, taking it all the way to DC, but he makes the ride seem like seconds, not minutes. You love to see what people are passionate about and Spencer Reid is passionate about everything. He loves to learn, a feeling you relate to heavily.

You knock on the hardwood door, the nameplate seeming to stare back at you, taunting you. It isn’t new that a door with Aaron Hotchner’s name on it haunts you, but this one is different. It holds so much more potential. Just a little strip of metal adhered to the dark wood. Yet it holds your past life with him and about a million different possible future ones both with and without him.

You hear a deep ‘come in’ through the door and push it open to see Hotch hunched over, focused on the work on his desk, the same way he’s looked all day through his blinds. “Please, sit,” He reaches for a pen and your eyes go to the form on his desk.

You smooth out your pants as you take the seat across from him. “You wanted to see me?”

“Interesting system you’ve worked out with Morgan and Reid.” If you weren’t looking directly at him you would swear he was smiling through the comment, but instead, you're faced with those emotionless eyes of his.

“I’m sorry,” You stumble over your words a little. Did he call you up here to reprimand you for not walking your own work up to his office? “It’s just a little silly thing I was doing. It’s childish I’ll—”

“That’s not why I needed to see you,” He cuts you off, waving his hand. He leans forward, one arm resting on the armrest of his chair, the other hand holding his pen. He rubs his fingers together with the pen in his hand.

Needed to see you. He didn’t mean those words that way, but your brain takes them and runs with them, forcing you to need a second to breathe. As always, Hotch sucks the oxygen out of your lungs, leaving you breathless, scrambling for some sense of sanity.

“Strauss suggested—” He pauses and corrects himself, “Well, Strauss requested an evaluation of you after your first week on the job and I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”

“Right now?” You question him and he gives a slight nod in response.

“I know you’ve been through a lot and Strauss wants to make sure you’re really ready for this job.”

“I am. I was gone for a year. I don’t need more time off. I need to get back to work and back to feeling useful.” You answer decisively. It’s that simple. He has your psych evaluations and your therapists notes. So does Strauss. What more do they want from you?

You can tell he takes note of your exact word choice, eyes narrowing as you say ‘useful.’He jots something down on the pad in front of him, “You’ve gotten great work done these past few days. You’re an excellent agent and you have a real skill for profiling.”

“Thank you, Sir,” You play off the compliment, but truthfully, it terrifies you how much you feel joy coursing through you at the praise. His approval still means everything you. You can’t and won’t be dependent upon him. “The rest of the team definitely has a lot more experience though.”

“Is that why you ask Reid questions that you know the answer to? Or ask Morgan to look over your work even though you’ve already checked it over twice and know that it’s perfect?” You meet his gaze reluctantly and this time there is a small upturn to his lips at the corners.

You’re rendered speechless temporarily. Fair enough. Just as much as you’ve been profiling and analyzing him, he;’s been observant. He’s paying attention to your behavior. That is his job after all. “Excuse me?”

“You want everyone here to like you. You want to prove yourself to everyone, to me. You don’t need to do that.” The look in his eyes makes your heart pound aggressively against your ribcage so wildly that you’re convinced he can see your chest moving with each thud. He’s saying he’s noticed the signs of sleep deprivation. That’s what the coffee was about. That’s why he’s called you in for this evaluation. “I think you’ve been through something traumatic. Now, I don’t know exactly what you’ve been through, I understand that the details of your removal from your original post have been made confidential but I think this job takes a lot from you.” He scoffs a little and shakes his head, “No actually, this job will take everything from you. It’ll eat you alive, but you need to find a way not to let it.”

You’re sure that the state of both of you is enough to scare off anyone from wanting to join the BAU. Both of you are poster children for sleep deprivation. You’re working yourself overtime to prove yourself to the team while distracting your mind from the past. And Hotch? It’s clear he works himself overtime to make up for something. You haven’t quite figured out what yet, but he’s trying to make up for a past mistake. He’s trying to be the best that he can in his position. What did the job take from him that’s left him a shell of himself?

“Is there a question in there, sir?” You try to play off the instinct to snap at him.

“Do you have someone to talk to?” There’s that confusing look on his face again. The one that makes you feel like you’re being pitied, “You don’t have to talk to me, I mean, of course, you can talk to me, but you need to talk to someone. Do you have someone?”

You nod, “I can always call my therapist if I need her. And if I need someone, I’ll find someone. No need to worry, Sir.”

“Hotch,” He corrects. Your answer doesn’t satisfy him. “I’ve seen a pattern before, with agents that come back from trauma. They’re desperate for acceptance and approval, yet they have trouble trusting their coworkers. This team can’t function without trust. So do you?”

“Do I what?” You’re clenching your toes in your shoes, in order to hide the anger that the question fuels inside you. With every question, this feels more like an interrogation.

“Trust your fellow agents? Trust this team? Trust me?” He waves his hand around like it’s the simplest question he could ask you as if he hasn’t given you a million different reasons to be distrustful.

“I think trust is a fickle thing. Easy to lose, nearly impossible to gain back when lost. In addition, it takes time to build trust.” Your hands fidget a little at your sides and his eyes dart down to notice the behavior. “I don’t expect any of the other agents to trust me right away but I don’t plan on giving them any reason not to. I hope they’re just as understanding with me as I am with them.”

With the two of you, it’s never been about what is said, but always what goes unsaid, and this conversation, so much seems to be going unsaid.

“This team only works because we value cooperation and we respect one another,” He nods and looks back at the form in front of him, “I’ll be sure to tell Strauss how well you’re fitting in.” As he continues to talk, you gather up your things. “I’m impressed by how much you’ve accomplished these past few years in the bureau.”

“Thank you, Sir.” There’s so much more you want to say to him. There’s so much you want to ask. You want to yell and scream and curse him out, but you also want to throw it all in his face. How much you achieved without his help. You’re almost out the door but you can’t seem to bite your tongue any longer. When you look back at him, he’s standing, collecting his things, “How are you so… so okay?”

“I’m sorry?” His brows furrow into confusion.

“I can’t breathe around you. I can’t think straight. I can’t get my work done,” You let out, your voice tired and weak as you let the truth out, “I go home and I can’t get you off my mind. How are you just so professional and composed as if I’m just like any other employee? Did I really mean so little to you? Did I delude myself that much?”

Hotch pauses and clears his throat. He closes himself off to you by looking at his work, as if the answer he’s looking for is in one of those files, “That was… was a long time ago and I think it’s just best we focus on our responsibilities here as agents, rather than indulge the past.”

“Unbelievable,” You scoff, “It’s sad that you haven’t changed. You are still so opposed to letting yourself feel anything. I can barely get up each morning and bring myself into work to face you, but glad to know you’re doing great.” You wait a moment to see if he has anything to say, but he keeps that stern emotionless veil over his face. “Good night, Sir.” Just like a week ago, you’re almost out the door. Almost free.

“I’ve never stopped thinking about you,” Hotch calls out. You freeze.

“Bullshit,” You breathe out clenching your fists at your side, trying to take another step away from him.

“You were important to me. I cared about you.” He hesitates, like he’s weighing his next words, choosing them carefully, “You’re still important to me. I still care about you, now that you’re a member of the team.”

“Bull. Shit.” You grit out, take a few steps closer, forgetting how much taller he is than you, but you’re determined to stand your ground. “How many were there?”

“Excuse me?”

“How many other girls? How many before me?” You shake your head. You’re not sure that you even want the answer. It’s a question that’s stuck with you ever since that day outside of his office so many years ago. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even bother saving you the heartbreak. He welcomed that girl into his office the same way he did to you without thinking twice.

“I–” He’s at a loss for words, pushing his focus down to the papers on his desk, trailing a finger over the edge of the wood, actively avoiding the question.

“It’s not a difficult question, Hotch,” You’re firm with him. Despite his position of authority over you, as he was before, you’re no longer intimidated by the repercussions of speaking out. You have too much dirt on him. Too many things you could throw in his face at this point. He can’t fire you for speaking your mind. You know he won’t. He can’t threaten your career. If he fires you, he has to explain himself to Strauss. What is he going to say? He can’t explain your history together.

“I don’t remember,” He stumbles over his words, “Three... no four. Definitely four.”

You pause. There’s still one question that has weighed on your mind every day for the past eight years, “And after me?” It’s a question you definitely don’t want the answer to, knowing that in all honesty, the answer doesn’t really matter. It won’t change much. You’ve considered every answer to the question. Every alternative hurts. If he did sleep with that student after you, it solidifies your unimportance in his life. If he didn’t, why would he hurt you the way he did?

It’s a question Hotch clearly never thought you’d actually ask. He finally meets your eye contact, “None.”

You scoff, “You’re a liar.”

“I couldn’t... go through with it with anyone else. I just saw you everywhere in that office. Everywhere I looked. I couldn’t erase the traces of you.” He shakes his head, “And I wanted to go through with it.” That stings, “Because I wanted to forget you. Get you out of my mind and I couldn’t.”

You gnaw at your bottom lip, “Clearly you were able to move on pretty easily,” You gesture to the pictures of the blonde women and the little boy on the bookshelf behind him.

That’s when he completely shuts down. Any sense of humanity you were starting to see in him slowly slips away from you. He’s back to that stonewall of a unit chief. You’ve hit a nerve. “That is not a topic up for discussion.”

“How old is your son? Five? Six?” You cross your arms against your chest, “Don’t act like I was important to you if it was that easy for you to move on. It’s funny, you seem to have everyone around here fooled into thinking you’re some morally just, decent man. I wonder if she knows the truth about you.”

Now you’ve really hit a nerve. “Don’t talk about things you know nothing about, Agent.” He gathers up the papers on his desk, shoving them into a file. “You’re dismissed. Evaluation is over.”

“Good night,” You pause, “Sir.” you snatch up your bag from the floor. Was that even a real evaluation? Or just an excuse to force you to finally sit down and talk to him? He was prying for personal answers. Do you have someone? Do you? Trust me? What he really meant was, Are you seeing someone? Are you still mad at me? Do you hate me? You made sure he didn’t get those answers. The answers being no and you don’t know. You feel like you don’t even know him. He barely even looks like the man you found yourself hopelessly falling for.

You text Reid that you’re just too tired to meet the team for drinks. Calling a car to take you to the train station.

Hotch has somehow managed to become a completely different person, yet still maintains some similarities to the person he was before. You still think of the same words to describe him, but for entirely different reasons.

He’s firm and stern. Now, in this position, he’s big on following protocol. Following the rules is what has to be done. Following rules and respecting the chain of authority is essential to keeping everyone safe. Before, he didn’t care about rules, but he had high standards of performance.

He’s cold. Before, he was cold to distance you from him. Now he’s cold as if letting someone in might break him. Like you might warm him from the inside out and he might not be able to withstand the heat. Letting someone in might lead to a complete meltdown.

Despite the icy exterior he puts on, you see small glimpses of warmth and care. Care for his team, especially. He’s patient with Garcia. He indulges her quirks. He’s firm with Reid because if not he gets sidetracked pretty quickly. But he’s also gentle with him. He doesn’t cut him off or guide him back on track in a rude manner. He knows when the job is overwhelming for JJ. She fields so many cases, being forced to decide which people most need the help. Every single day this week, you’ve seen them both hunched over his desk pouring over yet another armful of files. He reassures her that they’ve made the right decisions.

So you don’t know if you hate him. You don’t know him. That’s the problem.

By the time you get to your apartment, both the mental and physical exhaustion have finally caught up to you. You open your mailbox, pulling out the mail that’s been accumulating over the past few days. You sort through it quickly, most junk mail and bills. You get to the top of the stairs and unlock your door pushing through and you see a small envelope at the bottom of the handful. There’s no return address, just your name scrawled across the front in almost illegible handwriting.

You furrow your brows, dropping your bags by the door, kicking off your shoes, and walking into your kitchen as you tear at the envelope. As you do, a small square photograph falls out. You reach in for the other small slip of paper. Your heart sinks and you feel a sick sense growing in the pit of your stomach.

On the small paper, in the same scrawl as the front of the envelope: I’m still out there.

You bend down for the photograph that fell. It’s a picture of Hotch, his suit jacket blowing open slightly in the wind. He has his phone in his clutches, pressing it up to his ear. He’s got his briefcase under one arm and a tray of coffee in that hand. You look a little closer and notice the pattern on the tie he’s wearing in the photo… the photo was taken today. You flip over the photo, to see a second and final note.

This is between you and me. Break any of my rules, tell anyone about this, and he dies.

Chapter Text

Aaron Hotchner is a man who has always been accustomed to loneliness. Not that he lacks in company, all his time is split between work with his team and his son. But he has no one to share himself with. He has no one to open up to. To just say whatever he’s thinking out loud.

He’s grown used to needing to bury his emotions deep inside of him. Feeling everything all at once has become too painful. He needs to be solid and ever-present in his son’s life. He needs to be strong for his team. Though he tells them all, ‘it’s okay to lose it sometimes,’ he will never allow himself to lose it again in front of them. He wishes he could act emotionally, the way Morgan and JJ and Reid do. He wishes he could break down every once in a while without everyone thinking differently of him. But what kind of leader would that make him?

He’s a man who has a deep respect for the chain of command. He understands the need for structure and rules and protocol, yet at the same time, he wonders how much easier his life would be if he just broke the rules a little bit. What if he had taken that deal with Foyet? Maybe, just maybe, Haley would still be alive. Jack could have his mother in his life.

He’s acutely aware of the fact that as a leader he must put others' needs before his own. He follows protocol for a reason. He knows that Morgan sees him a little bit like a dictator. A stubborn, hard ass. Maybe even a little bit of a bully. But he doesn’t follow the protocol or the rules to be difficult. He does it because most of those rules are in place to keep people safe. To keep his team safe.

He’s plenty comfortable with this personality he has to put on. He’s accustomed to this role. He is comfortable in it. The problem is you. You come from the time in his life before all this. Before the shift. You remind him just how much fun you can have by breaking the rules. You remind him of giving in to his emotions. You remind him of feeling. Feeling anything. Feeling everything.

Whatever he once felt for you, it’s not lingering around. It’s been eight years. He doesn’t still harbor feelings for you. He’s had his great love. Haley. Haley was his great love. He’s not sure that his heart has the capacity for any more love, and if it does, he owes it to Jack to give him all the love in the world. The kid has lost enough.

It’s not that he wants you back in any capacity, but he feels this urge to explain himself to you. He knows doesn’t have to explain himself to you. He’s your boss. It would be best to keep everything professional. That’s what he’s been trying to do. He’s been doing a pretty great job at keeping everything bottled up. Not just keeping what he wants to say to you tucked away, but everything he feels— has been feeling— since he lost Haley a few months ago, tucked away.

But when you turned to look at him and asked how he was so okay, that little voice in his head was urging him to spill it all to you. To tell you everything. Tell you how much he cared for you. How much he still cares for you. He wants the best for you. He always has.

You had the potential to be his great love. The feelings were there, but back then he didn’t know how to love. He didn’t know what it meant to give your everything to someone. To bare your soul to someone. He did know, however, that you would’ve given him all of you. No matter the cost to you, you were willing to give him all of yourself. He didn’t know much, but he knew that was unfair to you. He knew he had to put a stop to it because you gave him everything and he gave you nothing.

He wanted the best for you. He was incapable of being the best for you. You deserved better than him, and he was not able to be better. That’s on him. He knows that. That’s no one’s fault but his own. You deserve an explanation better than what he gave you.

He doesn’t want you back, but he has been finding new levels of beauty within you. Within this new you, that he’s just meeting for the first time. You’re not a completely different person. The things he once found himself falling for, your wit, your intelligence, your smile, your humor, they’re all still there. Yet there’s so much new to discover, that he can’t help but find himself being drawn into you all over again.

You’re much more confident. You stand your ground. He knows that he is to blame for that. He showed you what it was like to have someone walk all over you. You have this air of wisdom that has clearly come about with age and experience.

There’s something deeply tragic within your eyes. They were once so bright and full of hope in the world. He can tell that spark has died. Maybe it’s something he resonates with, a loss of belief in the good in people, that has him gravitating towards you all over again. He knows you’ve been through a fair share of tragedies. So has he.

Whoever said opposites attract applies to relationships was dead wrong. There’s nothing more appealing to Hotch than someone who completely understands him. Someone who completely understands his motivations, his mind, his feelings. Yet he believes he will never be able to open himself up to love again.

But you seem to give him hope. You might be just what he needs. He has this intuition that if he opened up to you, you would understand him. You would simply listen to him. You’ve always been good at listening. Maybe you’ve always been the right person for him. Maybe this is the second chance for the two of you.

Hotch visibly shakes his head, as if attempting to shake the thoughts from his head in the way a swimmer shakes their head to free the water from their ears. Every thought of you feels like a betrayal of his love for Haley. A betrayal of what he had with her. One look at the clock convinces Hotch he should be getting home. It’s long past Jack’s bedtime but that doesn’t mean he can’t be there when the kid wakes up. They’ll spend the weekend together, doing something Jack loves.

Hotch looks down at the stack of unfinished case files. He still has to check over the team’s work from the past week and he’s very quickly falling behind the more his mind seems to want to focus on you. He’s going to have to do a lot of paperwork this weekend. That’s not new for him.

He digs around his pockets for his personal cell, getting ready to text Jessica that he’s on his way home. She’s probably already asleep, but a text can’t hurt. The sound of his work cell ringing fills his body with a deep sense of grief and guilt. Guilty for not seeing his son more often, guilty for tearing JJ away from time with her family, guilty for forcing Garcia to see more of the worst of humanity, guilty of depriving Morgan, Reid, and Prentiss of sleep, guilty of depriving Rossi of his weekends, guilty of forcing you to spend any more time with him.

He reaches for the phone, “Hotchner.”

You don't get stuck in place. The instinct to call Hotch and tell him what’s going on has to be suppressed. You can’t tell him. The threat of the letter seems real. The picture is enough evidence of that. It’s not a picture of him at work, or on a case. It’s personal. He’s walking out of the coffee shop. A coffee shop you assume is close to where he lives. Close to his son. Close to a wife? A girlfriend? His son’s mother? You still haven’t heard the details of that whole situation.

It’s something you’re not sure you want to hear anyway. At first, you feel pathetic. For god's sake, you’re still hung up on this man from eight years ago? Get a grip.

But you’ve come to realize you’re not hung up on him. It’s not about the love you felt for him. It’s not a feeling of still being in love with him. It’s not about rage. It’s not about holding a stupid grudge. Yeah, he broke your heart. It was the worst relationship you’ve ever been in. But none of this is about love or rage. It’s about the way he made you feel. This feeling of worthlessness. A feeling that you can’t— won’t ever forget. A feeling you plan to avoid at all costs for the rest of your life.

You turn the photograph over in your fingers a few times. You don’t want anything to happen to Hotch. You’re not sure how you feel towards him. But you know this much is true: you want to keep him and his family safe. You have a sinking feeling that you know exactly who is behind the threat. It’s always been a possibility that he survived, no remains were recovered among the rubble. You’re quick to get to work.

You walk to your bedroom, flipping on the light in the closet and pulling out some of the remaining storage boxes you have yet to unpack. Your eyes fall on the safe in the back of the closet. Pushing everything out of your way, you crouch down, turn the dial and pull a box out. You walk by the door, checking the locks again. He knows where you live.

You open the small box, removing the manilla folder from inside. You pull out the contents: a photocopy of the incident report. The date on the top is just over a year ago. You haven’t looked at the photos since the accident. Your therapist warned against it, telling you it would likely trigger an episode. She wasn’t wrong. The anxious feeling builds in the pit of your stomach, nausea washing over you as you look through each of the photos.

There has to be something here. Something to tell you how he survived, why he did it, why he’s back. You find the transcripts of each of your calls with him. You think about how much easier this would be to decode with the help of the team. Reid would find some specific markers in the language he used when talking to you that would help demonstrate his obsession with you and why it took nearly a year for him to make contact again.

You set up a small workstation on your kitchen table, spreading all the information out. You tape the note and the photo up on the wall. You’re on your own for this one. Speaking to anyone, about anything, would be too risky. You’re not willing to risk Hotch’s life.

One thing is certain, you’re not getting much sleep tonight. You place a defensive hand on your gun holster that you haven’t taken off. You walk to the window lifting it up to study the fire escape. You see no one outside and squeeze through the open window back inside. You close the window, double-checking the lock. You place a small glass on the edge of the window, so that if someone does open it to break in, the glass will fall, alerting you of an intruder.

You never turn your back to the door as you work. The gun stays close to your side. You make a cup of coffee to keep you awake. Your profiling skills are getting better by the day, but you still know that you’re not well enough equipped to handle this all on your own. You pull the profiling handbooks off the shelf. You open Rossi’s books, poring over the words, again and again, noting anything you think might help you, noting any statistics.

It’s nearly two in the morning when your phone rings, startling you. You’re on edge. You reach for it, looking at the caller on the screen. “Agent Hotchner?”

“The team is meeting in an hour on the jet. It’s an emergency.” As much as you wish it didn’t, his deep stern voice soothes your anxiety ever so slightly. It’s nice to hear that he’s okay. He’s safe for now.

“Okay. See you then, Sir,” As you say it, you realize that the trains don’t run at this hour. You have no way of getting into the office or to the airstrip for that matter, “Hotch?” You say quickly before he can hang up. His name slips from your lips. You don’t mean to call him that.

“Yes? Something wrong?”

“I would just call another team member but I assume you haven’t left the office yet… I uh,” You’re embarrassed. Do you really want Hotch to see the shit apartment you live in? Do you really want him to know you don’t own a car? “I don’t have any way of getting into the office or to the airstrip. Usually, I take the train but… they don’t run at this hour.”

There’s silence on the other line for a second. For a moment you think the service has gone dead. You open your mouth but just as you’re about to ask him if he’s still there he speaks up, “Send me your address. I’ll come and pick you up.” This time, you do freeze in place. You half expected him to say he would send Anderson or a car service, but the gesture isn’t surprising for Hotch.

At least not surprising for the Hotch you seem to be meeting all over again. Not all the traces of who he was long ago are gone but there are so many new layers to him you find yourself discovering. He’s immensely regimented. He follows rules. He respects authority. He’s the most giving leader you’ve ever seen. He manages to balance the right amount of rigidness and emotional detachment from the job while still acknowledging that his team is inherently composed of human people. People who deal with emotions and grapple with a myriad of different flaws and obstacles to their success. He always knows the right thing to say to each person.

You know that despite tearing his head off a few hours ago, Hotch is still the type of leader to drop everything to help you. If that means picking you up at 3 AM so that you don’t run into the possible dangers of taking a taxi cab this late, then he’s going to pick you up.

It’s equally unsurprising when you hear a buzz through the intercom to let him inside the building and up the stairs. Hotch doesn’t half-ass anything. If he’s going to pick you up, he’s going to come directly to your door instead of sitting outside in the car waiting for you.

You buzz him up, looking around at the disarray you have managed to cause. The case files are scattered across the kitchen table. The picture of him from outside the coffee shop still hangs on your wall. You don’t have time to hide it all. You know Hotch would never force himself inside your apartment, but you worry about what the consequences would be if Hotch found out about the note.

His knock at the door is firm, pulling your attention away from the photo and all the case notes. You shove a few of the case files into your bag and rush to the door. “One second!” You call yanking a jacket off a hanger in your closet and hurriedly sliding your boots on. You wince a little, your feet sore from wearing the shoes the entire day at work but you fight through it and open the door just enough for you to squeeze out without letting Hotch glance into your apartment. He gives you a weird look but doesn’t attempt to look around you into your apartment. “You didn’t have to come to pick me up, you could’ve sent a car or something.”

Hotch shakes his head. “Do you always take the train?” He reaches down, taking your go-bag from your hand, carrying it down the stairs of your apartment for you. You appreciate the gesture yet resent it all at the same time because of who it’s coming from.

“I didn’t need a car while in New York. Public transit got me everywhere. Now that I’ve moved here, I’ve started saving up for a car.” As soon as you step out of your building, Hotch instinctively moves to stand behind you, looking both ways around the empty early morning streets. He has your back as if he’s keeping a lookout.

Nice to know that the shitty living situation you have is not going unnoticed by him. He puts your go-bag into the back and opens the side door for you. Then something happens. As he opens the door for you, his hand drifts to your lower back, gently guiding you into the car. That’s when you feel it. A warmth that spreads throughout your body from where he touched you. You’re quick to move away from his touch and the expert profiler that Hotch is, immediately sense that he’s put you on edge.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” He rushes out and averts his eyes from yours, moving around to the other side of the car. You reply with a curt nod as if to tell him that it’s okay but not to do it again. Or do you want him to do it again?

The only thing you’ve felt for the past year is numb. And when you aren’t numb, you’re angry. Not at Hotch, just at the world, at yourself, at the FBI, at the way your life has turned out. So the warm fluttery feeling stirring around your stomach is comforting. It’s comforting to be reminded you can truly feel something, yet this isn’t the kind of something you want to feel right now.

There’s a moment of silence as Hotch starts to drive the two of you to the office.

“What—”

“I—”

Both you and Hotch start speaking at the same time. You fumble over your words as Hotch speaks up, “You go first.”

“What’s the emergency case?” You look over the lines in Hotch’s face and his side profile as he drives. Hotch presses his lips into a thin line and tilts his head down a little, wringing his hands around the wheel.

“It’ll be better to explain to the whole team but if I’m honest… it’s not good.” He sighs and looks over at you. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it, switching his focus between you and the road.

“You were saying something?” It’s so dark in the car that you can barely make out his features. The only time you can clearly see him is when you drive past a street light, which illuminates the whole car. He doesn’t immediately answer you. You watch as he seems to run over things in his head like he’s preparing his words before he says them.

The car pulls to a stop at a red light right outside the FBI building. Hotch finally looks over at you, “I’m sorry.” The bright red light on the side of his face somehow seems to soften his features and the way his voice is soft, hushed almost, keeping the conversation trapped in the car between the two of you, “For being so callous with you earlier and for pushing you to talk and for…” The light changes to green. Like a switch, he focuses on the road again.

“For?” You raise a brow, unable to pull your eyes away from him. He’s utterly enchanting. Aging has done something wonderful to his features. The lines next to his eyes tell you that though it doesn’t seem like he does now, he did at one point do a lot of smiling.

“For hurting you. I am truly sorry,” He breathes out. It’s relieving to hear him finally say the words. To finally own up to what he did. You always thought about this moment, when he finally apologizes for everything. You thought it would feel much better. You always pictured you would look him in the face and scoff lightly, acting as if you had gone on to so much bigger and better things than he ever expected from you.

But right now, you don’t want to be pompous. You feel no urge to throw the apology back into his face. You almost, almost, feel bad for him. It never slips your mind how beaten down Hotch looks. You’re sure you don’t look your best right now, running on minimal hours of sleep over the past few days, but from the minute you started this job, he looked exhausted. Exhausted from what? That’s what you want to figure out. You have this strong urge to reach over and take Hotch’s hand as if you’re the one apologizing to him, not the other way around.

You don’t touch him but only force another nod, “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. It was unprofessional of me.”

Hotch laughs softly, opening the car door and getting both of your go-bags from the back seat, “Nothing about this whole situation is professional.” His breathy laugh brings a smile to your face. Did Aaron Hotchner just make a joke?

You both walk in silence into the building, flashing your badges at the night guard, who recognizes the both of you from when you left earlier in the night. The two insomniacs of the BAU. Both too proud to admit to the demons haunting them when they close their eyes, chalking up their late nights to an excessive amount of work.

Any friendly, playful attitude that Hotch had in the car with you dissipates as soon as you step onto the BAU floor. You can feel him tense up, standing a little taller. His face sinks into that unmistakable frown. You smile at the team as you step into the conference room, ignoring the screwed-up confused glance Rossi gives at the fact that you and Hotch enter the room at the same time.

“Hotch, what’s the emergency?” Morgan asks, standing to make himself a cup of coffee.

Hotch walks to the front of the round table by the monitor, “Columbus PD just contacted us about two recent murders.”

“Okay?” Prentiss glances up at him, “Why does it necessitate immediate BAU assistance?”

“They entered the information into the database and came up with a match, to the case we just closed.” He reaches for the remote to turn on the monitor, “Two college-aged girls on Ohio State’s campus were stabbed to death,” He clicks through the photos.

“The mutilation of their hands,” Rossi nods, almost knowingly.

“Did we get the wrong guy? Has he crossed into a different state to avoid connecting him to Indiana? Columbus, Ohio and Bloomington, Indiana can’t be that far apart. ” Prentiss points out gesturing with the pen in her hands.

“228 miles apart to be precise,” Reid interjects.

“But how is that possible? Everett Wilson, we arrested him, he’s detained, awaiting trial as we speak.” You shake your head. “He confessed to the crimes.”

“The rate of false confession is much higher than you might think,” Reid leans forward in his chair, sitting up straighter as he does, “27 percent of people accused of homicide give false confessions. That number skyrockets to a hefty 81 percent when you isolate it just to people with intellectual disabilities and/or mental illness accused of homicide.”

“So we either have a copycat or we caught the wrong guy,” JJ deduces sounding altogether defeated.

“That’s what Columbus PD needs us to figure out.” Hotch nods, “I think our time will best be spent split between Ohio and Indiana.”

“Indiana?” You look up from your tablet.

“Someone has to interview Wilson,” Rossi fills in the gaps.

Hotch confirms with another small nod, “We’ll fly into Ohio. I think two of us should drive to Indiana to interview Wilson for a few days. Wheels up.”

Hotch reaches forward, turning down the brightness on his laptop, attempting not to disturb his coworkers, who are currently attempting to get a little bit of sleep during the short flight to Ohio. There are only two other sources of light on the jet. One comes from Dave’s tablet. He’s looking over the details of the case again. The other is from the opposite side of the jet. You have the overhead light on, your eyes scanning quickly over the pages of a novel.

Hotch finds himself distracted from the work in front of him by you. You let out a long yawn. The overhead lighting is not doing your under-eye bags any favors. He wonders how long it’s been since you’ve slept. Really slept. A full night of uninterrupted sleep.

He thinks of the neighborhood you live in. He thinks of the apartment complex. He worries about your safety, living alone in a place like that. Do you live alone? The way you slinked out of the door, barely opening it, not allowing him a view inside, makes him think you were shielding someone from him, hiding someone from his eye line.

Or maybe you were just worried about his wandering judgmental eyes. He wouldn’t be surprised if you made every attempt to keep your personal details completely secret from him. He knows he has no right to that information, but he can’t keep the curiosity at bay. No matter what the reason, your secretive behavior hasn’t gone unnoticed by him.

You pull your feet up under you in the chair. He watches as you shiver slightly, reaching up to turn off the air vent above you. He feels an urge to offer you his jacket that sits on the seat across from him. He doesn’t, but he wants to. It’s a strange compulsion. Is it possible these urges to care for you, keep you safe that were put to rest eight years ago are still ingrained in him?

He needs to control himself, to remain composed and professional. He knows you don’t want anything to do with him. That much is clear from the way you moved when his hand landed on your lower back. He didn’t even consciously intend to touch you. He just opened the door to be polite. As you got in, he instinctively placed his hand on your back to help guide you into the car. It gave him that feeling again. The small sparks at the contact. The same small sparks from just over a week ago when he welcomed you to the team.

His eyes are lingering on you too long. Dave slides into the seat across from him, cutting off his clear line of sight. Rossi notices that Hotch’s focus is not on the laptop in front of him.

“So you’re going to Indiana to interview Wilson?” Rossi nods, leans forward on the table, folding his hands.

Hotch lowers the screen of his laptop, darkening the jet and shielding his features from Rossi’s profiling gaze, “He’s expecting higher-ups from the FBI. He’s not going to talk unless we fuel his ego. Make him feel important enough that I want to come and talk to him.”

“You know he’s not going to give you everything you need just with you there.” Rossi’s mouth forms a thin line as he shakes his head, “You need to throw him off. You need some behavioral cues as well.”

“I know that,” Hotch sighs, rubbing his fingers together on top of the table. “Prentiss is an intimidating female presence. I think she can elicit the right responses from him.”

Rossi pauses and glances off to the side at Emily who has fallen asleep, leaning her head against the closed jet window, “Emily has a lot of experience. She’ll be good.” He glances back at Hotch. Hotch knows what he’s leading to. It’s a fact Hotch is not oblivious to in the slightest. He knows exactly who the best partner for the interrogation will be. He knows exactly which team member will make Wilson the most uncomfortable.

Hotch shakes his head, “She’s not an option, Dave. She needs more profiling experience with the team.”

“She’s the youngest on the team. She’s not far behind Prentiss in age but she could easily pass for a student. That’s exactly his type,” Rossi argues, “I know there’s something going on between the two of you, but you can’t let that get in the way of this case.”

Hotch keeps his voice hushed so you can’t hear them, “Dave, I can’t do that. What if she breaks down? What if something happens to her?”

“What’s going to happen with you there?”

“To get what we need out of him we need to let him say everything he wants to say. We need to see his honest reaction to a challenging female presence. I don’t think she’ll be able to remain composed,” Hotch argues back with Dave, realizing his voice has raised a few decibels. He shoots a look at you, making sure you haven’t caught any part of the conversation.

“You think she won’t be able to remain composed… or you won’t?” Rossi points out. The old man is always capable of seeing right through Hotch. He goes silent and Rossi finally sits back in his chair, a smug smirk on his face, “There’s always something about your first.” He teases.

“Stop,” Hotch practically cuts him off, “There’s nothing between us.”

That smirk never leaves Rossi’s face. The lights flick on in the jet. Hotch feels the jet start to make an attempt to land. He knows what has to happen when you finally land, yet he is dreading it more than anything.

The team rouses from sleep as you land. You close your book, not having made much progress on it, your mind focused on the way Hotch’s eyes kept darting over to you. The shift between the two of you has rattled you. Maybe getting some of the feelings out there in the open has permitted a change in dynamic.

You were honest with him. He was honest with you. You didn’t necessarily want to hear any of his side of the story, but he answered your questions. There’s no doubt in your mind that he told the truth. Unit chief Aaron Hotchner is brutally honest, almost too honest. There’s a callousness to his honesty. He knows that truth can hurt, but sometimes you just need to hear it.

Sometimes you think it’s fate that has brought you back together. Destiny, maybe. But you’ve never believed in fate nor in destiny. You like to think you have some form of autonomy and you get to dictate how your life runs. The problem with not believing in destiny is that there’s no higher power or greater being to blame when your own reckless and stupid decisions end up hurting the people you love.

“Agent Y/L/N and I will drive to Indiana to interview Wilson. I’ve already made the necessary hotel arrangements. The rest of you will run the investigation from the Columbus PD headquarters. We’ll keep you updated and join in on the investigation by tomorrow.” Hotch nods and your head shoots up to look at him. He couldn’t have told you that earlier?

As soon as you step off the jet, there are three SUVs waiting for you. Hotch leads you to one, once again taking your bag from your grip and putting it in the back.

You find yourselves in the same position as just a few hours earlier, Hotch at the wheel, you in the passenger's seat, except this time, the sun is just rising as you start the three-hour drive to Indiana.

“Have you gotten any sleep tonight?” He looks over your face for the split second that he’s able to take his eyes off the road.

You nod, lying, “I got some sleep before you called us all in.”

He hesitates, wringing his hands around the steering wheel. He’s always been fidgety with his hands. When he’s not driving, he still does that little finger rubbing thing at his side. Sometimes he twirls a pencil in his fingers when he’s thinking. He’ll rub his hands over his face or continually place them on his forehead, rubbing at his skin a little. When he drives, he rubs his hands over the steering wheel. It’s even more obvious when he’s thinking. He’s debating whether or not to call you out on the lie.

He clearly decides against it, “Get some sleep if you need to. I’ll wake you up to brief you before we get to the detention center.” And that’s the last thing he says to you for a while. You would reach for your book, to soothe your anxiety, but Hotch put the go-bags in the trunk.

Most of the drive is spent in silence until you’re about 20 minutes out from the prison. You attempted to get some rest but the fact that you’re about to practically be bait for a serial killer isn’t really the most calming pre-nap thought.

Hotch begins to brief you, “Wilson has an ego. He’s a narcissist. This is a game to him. He’ll turn every question back to you or me as another question. He’s going to try and trip me up. Tell me that I’ve gotten something wrong about him.”

You nod and Hotch continues, “Then he’s going to turn all of his attention on you. You’re a young, attractive, successful woman.” You try to ignore the small warmth in your stomach when he says the word attractive, “You’re his exact victim type. He’ll hate you, but he’s also going to want to impress you.”

“That’s why you picked me,” You reach for your tablet, looking over the details from Wilson’s case. You wrote the case report, yet you still want to feel as prepared as possible.

“It’s likely he remembers both of us from his arrest. He’s going to want to describe to you in graphic detail every violent thing he did to those women. How he planned to kill them, how he followed them, how he felt killing them.” Hotch’s voice is steady but you see a slight sheen on the steering wheel from his clammy hands. He’s nervous. Does he not trust you to do a good job? Does he think you’re going to screw up?

“To freak me out?” You glance out at the window as you pull down a long windy road towards the detention center.

“To have control over you. To draw you into his fantasy. Don’t let him know it gets to you. Remain charming with him. Don’t get antagonistic with him. It’ll cause him to shut down.” Hotch pulls to the guard tower, flashing them his credentials. You reach for your own and do the same. The gates open, letting Hotch drive through and into the lot.

“He’s still awaiting trial but he’ll be in handcuffs. I won’t let them uncuff him when he’s alone with you,” Hotch parks the SUV.

“Alone?” You have to admit the thought terrifies you.

“He’s going to want to tell you more without me there,” Hotch turns off the engine. You see a guard exiting the front doors, walking towards you two. You give another wary nod and reach for the car door.

Hotch reaches for your arm, grabbing it gently. Your first name slips from his lips as he does. His grip isn’t harsh, it’s just enough to stop you from getting out, “Nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t let anything happen to you.” You look down at his hand on your arm, the feeling sending tingles all the way through your shoulder and down your back. He tracks your gaze and removes his hand, “And if it ever is too much and you feel overwhelmed, you just leave. It’s okay to need to take a breath. This isn’t going to be easy.”

“I’ll be okay,” Your shaking voice gives you away. You open the car door and extend a hand to introduce yourself to the detention officer. He leads both you and Hotch inside. You take off your gun holster and Hotch does the same for both of his guns.

A loud buzz signifies that the door is unlocked for you two to enter the center. Two armed guards lead you and Hotch down rows of cells holding prisoners that are all awaiting trial. A few of them call out, hollering and catcalling as you walk by. You resist the urge to wrap your arms around your body to shield yourself from them.

“Just keep your eyes forward,” Hotch speaks up from beside you. “He’s going to want to see the crime scene photos.”

“We can’t show him,” You argue. “We’re not here to give him a gift.”

“We need him to cooperate with us.” The next door is locked and you both stand there waiting for it to open. You finally catch a glimpse of him. His face is furrowed into that stern interrogation look of his, but his eyes are warm as they look at you, “You don’t have to do this.”

Another loud buzz. The guards push open the door. “Yes, I do.”

You step into the interrogation room. Everett Wilson stands to greet you. “Aaron Hotchner,” He smirks and just his smile sends a shiver through your body. That’s when his cold, steely eyes turn to you, “And you… I remember you.” He grins, speaking your name in a much more dulcet tone than he uttered Hotch’s. “I would shake your hand but,” He lifts his shackled wrists.

“Sit down,” Hotch is solid, unmoving. The way he speaks almost terrifies you. He slams a file down in front of Wilson.

“I assume you’re here because of my wonderful admirer,” He snickers and reaches for the file.

You place a palm on top of it, dragging it away from him, almost teasingly. You open it up, but keep it shielded from view, “You already have admirers?”

“Did one of those exclusive interviews with a newspaper,” Wilson nods his eyes running over you at a slow pace, as if he’s attempting to savor every last inch of your appearance, “The letters are already pouring in.”

You know he’s lying. He’s exaggerating the truth already, just like Hotch said he would. He’s only been detained for about 10 days. There’s no way he’s gotten that much attention in such a short period of time. You also remember Hotch told you to play into his ego as much as possible. “I’m not surprised. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit fascinated by you.” You raise your voice a few tones, letting a small smile grow on your face.

Immediate disgust at your actions fills you. You’re flirting… with a man who brutally stabbed multiple women.

“It’s not possible that you know who is committing these crimes,” Hotch’s voice cuts through the tension between you and Wilson. Wilson doesn’t bother to look away from your eyes as Hotch speaks. You want to tear yourself away from his chilling gaze, but it's almost as if you’re having a standoff and you don’t like to lose or give up.

“It isn’t?” He finally breaks eye contact. He’s questioning Hotch, just as expected. “And how are you so sure of that, Agent Hotchner?”

“You haven’t had any visitors,” He argues, “And according to the guards, very little correspondence.”

“And you don’t believe this imitation could’ve reached out to me?” He tuts and shakes his head, condescension oozing from every inch of the man, “So frequently incorrect, Aaron,” He turns to look at you again, “But how could anyone focus on anything when working alongside such a beautiful, young woman?”

You’re not sure how to act. Do you smile? Do you nod? Do you scoff? What you want to do more than anything is reach across the table, grab him by the neck and slam him up against the wall, demanding answers, “Can we see these letters?”

“No.”

“No?” You ask incredulously, glancing at Hotch for guidance.

“Not until I see those photos and confirm it’s my acquaintance from the letter,” He nods at the file you have trapped under your arms.

Hotch reaches an arm across you for the file but you stand up from the chair, picking the file up, “A word?” You mutter, looking down at Hotch. He nods and stands, following you out.

“If you can’t handle this just step away,” Hotch starts and reaches again for the file once you’re outside the room.

You move it out of his grip, “No I can handle it just fine. I just… this feels like a reward for him. I want him to give us more before we give it up.”

“What else are you expecting from him?” He crosses his arms across his chest.

“I want to know why. Why those girls? Why the hands? If we can identify the differences between his murders and these, we can figure out where the motivation stems from for these. “

Hotch hesitates, “Okay but if—”

“I’m fine. I’m not going to lose it. I can handle this,” You roll your eyes. You appreciate his consideration, but it’s starting to feel less like he cares about you and more like he doesn’t have faith in you to be able to do this.

You step back into the room, this time, alone. “Uncuff him,” You nod at the guards. They look to each other, then to you again and you nod. Wilson stands so they can remove the shackles from his wrists. He lets out a contented sigh once they’re removed and rolls his wrists around a little to loosen them up.

“Ready to show me what we’re dealing with?” He cracks his knuckles, almost threateningly.

“Not just yet,” You emphasize placing your hand flat on the file, holding it close. You talk a lot with your hands, “You see, I don’t get you. Or maybe I do. That’s the problem. Those women, what drew you to them? Was it their beauty? Or was it their age? You took pride in preying on younger women. You’ve always had a preference for them haven’t you?”

Wilson maintains that smug look on his face, but you notice that his eyes dart6 down to your hands often.

“That’s why your first run-in with the law was with your wildly underage girlfriend. Isn’t that right? Statutory rape. That will put a real damper on your career goals, won’t it?” You tsk softly, “Poor Amanda Reinhardt.”

“I loved her. We were in love. It was her parents’ fault,” He argues. You can tell his anger level is rising.

“I think your defense went something along the lines of this,” You open the file, pulling out some of the notes from Wilson’s history, “It was her fault. She was always teasing me, ruining me with those looks. With the way her hair smelled and the way her hands felt on my body.’ You remember saying that?” His jaw tightens as you recite the words back to him. “You didn’t love her. You grew to hate her. Her accusations ruined your career.”

“She loved me back. I swear she did.” His tone gets sharper.

“So when you killed those women, you really were thinking of killing Amanda, weren’t you?” You push him, finally sliding the file across the table to him. You open it, turning to one of the photos of the newest victims.

“It’s not right,” He growls, “He didn’t do it right!” He slams a fist down on top of the file. You jump back a little. Wilson reaches forward flipping to the next photo, “Not right!” He yells and you start to grow fearful of him. His anger level is quickly rising. You have hit a nerve. He shoves the file back across the table, the papers and photos scattering around as he does. “You don’t know! You don’t! You’re ruining everything!” He lunges towards you but before he can reach you the guards grab him by the shoulders. At the same time, two hands reach and grab your shoulders, yanking you out of his reach.

It’s Hotch. Hotch is pulling you away from him, placing his body between you and Wilson. “We’re done here.” He replies firmly.

Just as you turn to leave and follow Hotch out, Wilson yells one last thing at the two of you, “He’s just getting started! This is far from over for you, Y/N!” Ice water down your back as you hear it. Could the copy cat be connected to the note and photo you received? But this is all too up close and personal. The man who haunts your past never got up close and personal with his victims. Bombs. That was always it. Distance from the victims. This can’t be connected to him.

It takes you a second to realize Hotch is calling your name. He places a hand on your shoulder, which seems to draw your attention back to him, “Are you okay? I told you to step out if you needed to.”

“I’m fine.” You reply curtly.

“What was he saying in there at the end? Do you know who this copycat is?” You follow him back down the halls of cells, towards the exit, and out into the air. You take a few long deep breaths. Hotch repeats your name firmly.

“I don’t know what he was talking about. I think he was just trying to get under my skin,” You shake your head. “Something in those photos set him off. It’s clearly a copycat, and it’s clearly not someone who bothered to get to know Wilson’s original motivations.”

“But why are they doing it? To get his attention? To get him released?” Hotch walks with you back to the SUV.

You look down at your watch and realize just how long you and Hotch have been at this. What felt like minutes in there with him was really hours. “God I indulged him.” You mutter under your breath.

“It’s part of the job,” Hotch starts the engine, “We should get back to the hotel. You can get some rest. We’ll leave for Ohio in the morning.”

You sit in silence, running over the whole interaction in your head. You leaned towards him. You smiled back at him. You even laughed at him. You got valuable answers, but what did you lose in the process? Your dignity? Your self-respect? “I don’t think the copycat is even doing it for Wilson. I think he’s doing it for us. To get our attention. To get the FBI involved.”

“You think this unsub has some sort of personal connection to the BAU?” Hotch pulls into the hotel and parks the car.

“It’s the best explanation.” You meet his gaze.

“I shouldn’t have let you go to talk to him.” Hotch lets out and you feel frustration rising in you.

“Will you stop treating me like I’m incapable of handling this?” You open the door and step out, reaching for your bag in the back.

Hotch follows close behind you into the hotel. The man at the front has already checked you in and hands Hotch two hotel room cards. “I don’t think you’re incompetent. I just think you’ve been through a traumatic experience. It’s okay to be fragile after what you’ve been through.”

You push the elevator button with quite a bit of force. “With all due respect, you don’t even know half of what I’ve been through.”

The doors open and you step inside, Hotch right on your heels. You’re praying that someone else will come running, telling you to hold the doors, so that Hotch doesn’t continue this conversation, but the doors close with ease, leaving the two of you alone. “I know I’m the last person you’d confide in, but everybody needs to lose it sometimes.” You reach forward pushing the emergency stop button, “What are you—”

“Do you want me to lose it?” You question him, “Because you act like you actually want to see me lose it like you’re encouraging it.”

“I just care about you. You’re a part of my team,” Hotch speaks as if his line of logic is the simplest, most normal thing in the world. As if there isn’t a whole life you two lived together years ago.

“Because if you want me to lose it, make a scene, blow up on you, I can do that,” You chuckle bitterly. “Sometimes it really feels like you’re trying to push me to the edge and see how strong I am. How long I hold on before I lose it.”

Hotch doesn’t reply right away. You reach forward and release the elevator, feeling it lurch as it starts climbing the floors again. The elevator only rises four more floors before Hotch reaches forward and stops the elevator again.

“Would that help you? To lose it? To let it all out and yell and scream at me? Would that make you feel better?” His voice is eerily level. “Because if you need me to be your punching bag, I’ll do that.”

He’s telling you the elevator is like neutral territory for the two of you, again. Whatever you say in here won’t leave. You can’t look him in the eyes. You don’t start the elevator again. “I look at you and I don’t see you. I just feel the air disappear from my lungs. I feel pain. In my chest, in my head. I feel sick.”

You take a pause. Hotch doesn’t react. He’s giving you the opportunity to let it all out. To tell him everything you’re thinking. “I’ve tried to imagine how my life would’ve been without you in it. I could, and I felt so much better. The problem is no matter how good it felt to picture life without you, I still wouldn’t choose it over a life with you in it. I hate you, yet I don’t want to live a life without you in it.”

Another long pause. Neither of you moves from your spot in the elevator. You keep your eyes trained on the closed elevator doors. "The worst part of this whole fucking situation is that after all these years, you still manage to have a hold on every decision I make."

“What are you talking about?” He’s giving you an opening. He can tell that something is wrong. Something is off about you. He can tell that this frantic, paranoid energy you’re radiating isn’t because of your past with him. It’s something else. That picture, that note, it’s put you on edge. He noticed from the moment he picked you up at your apartment. You can’t tell him about the letter. You tell him and you risk his life.

You reach for the elevator button, bringing it to life once more. It rises the last few floors to the floor with your and Hotch’s hotel rooms.

“Have a good night, Hotch,” You huff out a breath, stepping off the elevator and walking down the halls to find your room. You desperately want to collapse on the bed and sleep until morning. It’s only late afternoon at this point, but you’re so emotionally drained you just might actually get some sleep.

You open your door, tossing your bag onto the chair in the corner of the room. You draw the curtains, quickly stripping off your clothes, muscles aching for a hot shower. What you want more than anything is a drink, but you know Hotch would have your ass if he found out you were drinking while technically on the job.

You walk to the bathroom, turning the shower all the way to hot. The bathroom fills up with steam and you stand around in it, letting yourself get the slightest bit light-headed in the steam. You step into the shower, hoping to scrub away the disgust you have for yourself after today.

You’re not sure how long you’re in the shower, but at some point, you sit on the tiled floor. You let tears well up in your eyes. You don’t know why you’re crying but it just sort of happens. It’s just so much. It’s all so much. This life, this job. It’s so hard.

Your therapist’s voice rings through your head. Your interpersonal skills will take a hit. You’re going to be more irritable. Easily angered. Easily provoked. Almost like angry outbursts triggered by almost nothing. You think about how quickly you turned on a dime, snapping at Hotch in the elevator. You’ll feel like you can’t trust anyone. You’ll have days where you feel nothing at all, just numb. You might have overwhelming waves of sadness or guilt. Your tears start to merge with the soapy water flowing down your cheeks and all over your body. You might struggle to sleep. Sleep deprivation will aggravate the other symptoms.

The steam is so thick in the bathroom you can’t see your hands in front of your face. The glass is completely foggy. You can barely breathe. Your eyelids are drooping closed with exhaustion, so you haul yourself up off the floor and turn off the water. You reach for the towel wrapping it around your body gently.

You walk back into your room but freeze in place when you see a note delicately placed on top of your go-bag. It’s a small white envelope. The front of it has the same writing as the one delivered to your apartment.

He was in your room. Just now. He got into your room. You fumble around for your gun, looking around the tiny hotel room, still only wrapped in a towel. You swing open the closet doors, frantically aiming your gun. You see a breeze from the balcony, blowing the curtains back and forth. You creep slowly towards them and yank the curtains open, stepping out onto your balcony, seeing no one out there.

The envelope is still sitting on top of your bag. You turn back into the room and open it, still dripping water everywhere as you do. Another photo. Another note. This time, the photo is of Penelope and Derek. They look like they’re leaving a movie theatre. Morgan’s arm is wrapped tightly around Garcia’s shoulders. You pick up the note:

Ready to follow my rules? Rule 1: Play nice with Aaron Hotchner. He’s an expert profiler. He’s going to catch on to those mood swings of yours. Enough with the hot and cold with him.

Nausea grows in the pit of your stomach. He’s been watching you. He was in this hotel. He might still be in this hotel. He knows about your fights with Hotch. How?

You keep your gun close by your side even when you settle into the bed. You leave all the lights on. You check the locks on the door and the sliding glass doors every hour. All hope for sleep slips through your fingers.

You and Hotch travel the three hours back to Ohio the next morning in complete silence. You don’t mention the second note. He can tell you didn’t sleep. You don’t care. Your mind is hyperfocused on that stupid fucking note. Now it’s clear the man taunting you has eyes on Hotch, Garcia, and Morgan. They’re all in danger.

The main problem is with the copycat case. The case goes cold. You all stick around Columbus, Ohio for another two days. No new murders. No new leads. Nothing. You have nothing to profile. All the components of the profile seem to be leading to dead ends. Rossi explains that it’s one of the most frustrating parts of the job. Sometimes what you need to solve the case is another body, but another one never comes. It’s a good thing in retrospect, but it means that the team has failed.

You’re not much help to the team the two days you spend grasping at straws because you’ve retreated so far into yourself you barely speak. You do what Hotch asks of you but he notices your change in behavior. Then you realize you’re supposed to be normal. Play nice with Aaron Hotchner.

By day three, the team has decided there’s nothing more you can do. You have to return to Quantico. From the energy of the entire team on the jet, you can tell you all feel as if you’ve failed. It doesn’t seem like the team is used to unsolved cases. Everyone is frustrated and tired and angry.

One by one, the team starts to fall asleep, all thoroughly exhausted from the past two days. You eye the seat across from Hotch, the only bright place left on the plane. He has the overhead light on as he works on his laptop. You keep your book clutched tight against your chest and sit across from him.

He only looks up to smile at you before diving back into his work. You’ve never had a problem existing in silence with Hotch. Until now. There’s so much that’s happened between you. Yet like always, it’s not about the things that you said to him a few days ago. It’s about whatever isn’t being said. And at this moment, across from him, pretending to read, you can tell there’s so much he’s not saying. You look up at him to find he’s looking right back at you.

“Something wrong?” You ask, not sure if you really want the answer.

“Something you said the other day. It’s sticking with me,” He tilts his head down a little, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. “You said you hate me.”

“Oh,” Did you mean it? You don’t know. You don’t think you’ve ever hated Hotch. You could never hate him.

“It’s sticking with me because,” Aaron takes a slow deep breath, closing his laptop like he’s preparing himself for what he’s about to explain to you. What he’s about to discuss is going to hurt more than both of you can comprehend in that moment. “Because,” He’s loosened his tie, letting it hang crookedly around his neck, “If you’re going to hate me, I need you to see all of me before you do.”

So he tells you everything. He tells you about Foyet and Haley and the events of the past two years of his life. He starts with the deal Shaughnessy made with The Boston Reaper all those years ago. He goes over the case, in detail, describing the process that led them to Foyet. He describes Foyet’s escape from prison. He didn’t stop searching for him after that. Every free minute in the day, he dedicated to tracking anything and everything he could to find Foyet. But he had gone underground.

Then he gets to his attack. The details start to fade out from there. “That’s when—” Hotch pauses as he speaks. He averts his eyes from yours, taking a second to breathe. He presses his lips into a firm line. It’s hard for him to get the words out, “When he attacked me in my home.”

He doesn’t tell you much, besides the fact that Foyet stabbed him and dropped him off at the ER. As Hotch talks, you just simply sit there and listen. You feel your heart sinking further into your stomach. Your first impressions were correct. The man in front of you is a man who has been through a world of hurt. You could see it in his eyes that first day on the job. He’s deeply broken.

You feel bad for him. It doesn’t take away from the hurt he caused you in the past, but you find yourself starting to understand this current Aaron Hotchner more and more with each word out of his mouth.

You don’t know how you feel about Aaron Hotchner. You don’t know what the future of your relationship with him holds, a fact you remind yourself of constantly. But when he starts to talk about the attack, you see him closing off. You can see him suppressing just how traumatic and painful it all was. He glosses over the details, but just the look on his face makes you want to reach for his hand. You want to hold it, show him that you’re listening to him. You care about what he’s saying.

You resist the urge and resign yourself to attempting to demonstrate just how intently you’re listening to him. He explains how Foyet killed Haley while she was on the phone with him. He was too late. He couldn’t save her. Jack was unharmed. He’s not sure Jack fully understands what happened yet. He’s still not really old enough to understand that his mom isn’t ever coming back.

It’s ill-timed, but you can’t help but feel the pain in your chest as he continues to talk about Haley. He was deeply in love with her. She was his person. His one true love. She was able to show him true love. You feel intensely disappointed. You weren’t enough for him to change, but Haley was. He explains that he met her in high school and they separated a few years later as he pursued his career. They were reunited not long after he quit his teaching position. Right when he started his job in the FBI.

Now she’s gone. His true love, ripped away from him, all because of his job. “I lost her to the job twice.”

“I’m sorry,” Is all you can manage to get out after he stops talking.

“What are you sorry for? It wasn’t your fault,” He has to clear his throat a little, his voice getting caught in the back of his throat. You swear his eyes have glossed over with tears.

“For bringing her up the other day. That was cruel of me.” Your voice is small. You’ve never seen him so vulnerable, so weak, so emotional.

“You didn’t know.” He waves his hand, dismissing your apology.

“Still. I’m sorry,” You pause, “Also I’m sorry for wishing a horrible life on you.”

“When did you do that?” He scrunches his brows up, confused.

You bite back a smile, “Oh just uh… eight years ago?”

Then something beautiful happens. Aaron Hotchner lets out a full-bodied, amazingly childish laugh. It makes you think that maybe, just maybe, there is hope for the two of you after all.

Chapter Text

Monday. Five days since the second note.

Two notes. Same handwriting. You compared the first photo to the second. Both in public spaces. Whoever took them wouldn't have stood out. The photos are a bit blurry. Not professional or digital camera quality. It's easy to take a quick photo on a phone and print it. A phone can be easily concealed and wouldn't stand out. Easy to blend into a crowd with an iPhone. There was no way Garcia, Morgan, or Hotch would've noticed someone taking a picture of them like this.

Garcia and Morgan in the photo are smiling widely. They wouldn't think to be on high alert. They're enjoying their life. You've just met them and you've already put them in danger. You let out a long breath and turn to pin the photo back up onto the wall.

You want to get help. At first, you thought that you might be able to send the notes to a lab and get them analyzed, but you have a sick feeling about the man doing this. You know him. You're sure of it. There'll be no evidence. He's too good. Even if you thought there was a shred of DNA evidence on the notes, going for any help would immediately pose a risk to Garcia, Morgan, and Hotch.

Hotch. He's occupying a lot of space in your mind these past few days. He opened up all of himself to you, and you cannot deny it's changed your image of the stern unit chief. He's closed off, but for good reason. He's stern and regimented with the team, but only because he sees protocol as a necessity to keep the people he cares about from harm.

You can't ignore the hurt he caused you so long ago, but the pain you feel when you look at him has faded significantly. Instead, you see much more of him. You see how lost he is without Haley. You see how his compassion is shrouded by an authoritarian exterior. You see a single dad simply trying his best.

The job is everything to him. He's deeply passionate about what he does and his work at the BAU. He's proud of the team, though he hardly expresses it. You can tell he worries about everyone constantly. If Reid's under-eye bags are more pronounced than usual, Hotch notices. He'll tell Reid to be sure to sleep on the plane. He'll let the team stop working for the night to get some rest.

When JJ goes silent, he knows that means she's overwhelmed. Seeing victim after victim, many of whom are around her age, her height, even sometimes looking exactly like her, it takes a toll. So when JJ gets silent, Hotch makes sure to stick close to her side. He'll direct her to go wherever he goes. Usually, she comes back a little more talkative, ready to work again, and you know that means Hotch pulled her aside to talk to her. He probably tells her that he understands it's overwhelming. He probably tells her that it's okay to need a second to take a step away from the work. It's okay to break down every once in a while, although he would never allow himself the same luxury.

Aaron Hotchner is deeply attuned to the feelings of his team. He knows what everyone needs. Morgan is passionate and unabashedly himself. He's not afraid to talk back to Hotch. He's not afraid to question Hotch. Hotch knows he doesn't have to explain himself to Morgan, but Morgan needs an outlet. Hotch doesn't mind being the enemy if that means that Morgan can ease his anxieties.

Emily never lets her feelings out. She doesn't crack. She's strictly professional. She is eerily good at compartmentalizing. However, Hotch isn't fooled by her act. He knows that compartmentalization takes its toll. He's acutely aware of the repercussions of becoming too detached.

Rossi acts like he's full of wisdom for everyone, yet Hotch knows that sometimes the old man deeply fears being a useless part of the team. He's afraid of being left behind and of being left in the past. Retirement is dangled in front of him constantly by the brass, but without the BAU, who is he?

Then there's his complex relationship with Garcia. On the surface, the two seem to be the least compatible members of the BAU. Seeing the two of them next to each other is almost comical. Garcia exudes positivity, sunshine, happiness. Hotch looks like he's never been relaxed ever in his life, but he clearly has the deepest respect for Penelope Garcia. She sees the best in people. She likes to see the good in the world. He wishes he could be as positive as her, and the last thing he wants is for the job to ruin her the way it seems to have ruined him. So he lets her be herself. He doesn't crackdown on the knickknacks in her office or her unprofessional dress or her tendency to get a little emotionally involved. He wants her to stay true to herself.

You realize you've been standing staring at the makeshift case board on your wall, thinking about your entire team for too long. You don't know what to do. You can't go to anyone without risking their lives and that's something you're not going to let happen.

It's clear this whole thing is more about you than them to begin with. This guy has a history with you. He's already deduced that this team means more to you than you even fully understand.

They mean everything to you. You've spent no time with them outside of work, yet they have already welcomed you into their little family with open arms. Garcia was the hardest to win over, as she, aside from Rossi, seemed to be the only one to sense the tension between you and Hotch. She's deeply protective of the family she's built at the BAU and Hotch's indifference towards you was a red flag for her.

Hotch, an icon of professionalism, was, and still is, slow to trust you with the full responsibilities of being in the BAU. To her, that meant there was good reason to be wary of you, but after a few free coffees and cute new knick-knacks for her office, she fell in love with you.

Your eyes burn as you stare at the picture of Garcia's heartwarming smile with Morgan's arm wrapped around her tightly. He's pressing a small kiss to her temple. She's leaning into him fully. He's her protector. You've violated that.

You glance across your tiny apartment at the flashing time on your oven. You've been up all night. You tried to sleep on the couch earlier but ended up tossing and turning endlessly.

The strong scent of coffee fills the apartment as you brew yourself your first large cup. You change into a pair of slacks, a t-shirt, and a blazer for work. You pass your dining table while walking back into the kitchen and shove a few of your notes on your stalker into your work bag. You want to keep it from falling into the hands of your team, but every free minute you have needs to be devoted to stopping this guy.

Your coffee is gone before you even step onto the train. You're going to need the caffeine boost to make it through the day. Your go-bag sits under your seat but you keep your messenger bag close to you. He could be anywhere, at any time. You don't want him to know you've been investigating him. At the same time, you're sure he already knows. He knows you, arguably better than you know yourself, and he seems to know your every move.

You pull out the photos again in the cab. This time focusing your attention on the photo of Hotch. The edges on the photo are already rolling from you handling it so much. There's a few small pinprick holes as you've repeatedly hung the photo up on your wall and then taken it down.

There's nothing special about the photo. You have it practically burned into your memory at this point but you still continually look it over. Hotch's briefcase and bag are tucked up under one arm. He doesn't have sunglasses on, so he is squinting to block out the sun. He has his phone pressed up to his ear. Hotch is a picturesque man. Never a hair out of place, his tie is never crooked, his clothes are wrinkle-free. This photo is no exception.

The car pulls to a stop and you hop out, paying the cab fare, and shoving the photos back into your bag. You dig around for your ID and scan your way into the building, flashing your photo to the front desk.

You reach the BAU floor and all the lights are dimmed. You hear the hum of a vacuum down the hallway, meaning the overnight cleaning crew still hasn't left. You walk around, flipping on the lights, putting on a fresh pot of coffee, and turning on the copy machines and the television.

A stack of case files from last week still sit atop Prentiss's desk. You reach over, take a few off the top and drop them onto Reid's. He will one hundred percent know that those weren't on his desk when you guys left for the case in Ohio last week, but you know that he'll complain for two seconds before finishing them in a matter of minutes.

You take two more off the top and put them on your own workspace. You already have a long list of work to get done but you will take any reason to stay late at the office. Going home is the last thing you want to do.

Your apartment isn't a home. It's just the place you store your belongings and you sleep at night, yet you don't have many belongings and you hardly ever sleep. A home is your solace from the outside world. A home is where you feel comfortable. Home is where you can be authentically yourself. Where you can break down and cry, where you laugh, where you feel loved. Home is where people love you.

At your apartment, you're intensely attuned to your loneliness. Being alone with your thoughts terrifies you. Some days, it doesn't feel like you're alive. The feeling of being alive is what you've missed more than anything this past year.

When you laugh so hard with your friends and family that your ribs sting and you feel like you can't breathe. When someone's smile is so infectious you can't help but smile right back at them. When you see the person you love and it all just feels right. You look at them and your stomach turns over, your heart races, and your cheeks ache from grinning at them. They make you laugh, they make you feel loved, and they make your eyes roll back in your head. You can't keep your hands off of them. You want to latch on and never let them go. When you step out of the house in the early morning and you smell the fresh air. The wind has that unmistakable bite to it in the early months of winter. That's what it feels like to be alive.

You hear a soft clunk of ceramic to your right. A mug of piping hot coffee sits atop the stack of paperwork on your desk. Just as you look up you watch Hotch give you no second glance. He just continues up the stairs to his office.

You fight a smile. You think the two of you are starting to see each other. You're starting to see him for what he truly is now. You have no idea what he's been through for the past few years but he gave you the smallest amount of insight, and it was enough to break the icy cage around your heart.

The team files into the office at their own respective paces, Reid and Prentiss extremely punctual as always. As soon as Prentiss's eyes fall onto her desk, you can tell she doesn't notice the reduction in paperwork. As you predicted, Reid's increase in work does not go unnoticed.

"Emily!" He whines in a childish tone, "You can't keep giving me your work when you don't want to do it."

You stifle a laugh, keeping your eyes glued down on the paperwork in front of you. "Reid, I swear on my life I didn't put them on your desk."

"I did not have any paperwork left on my desk before this weekend. You had..." Reid pauses, waving his fingers in the air slightly as he does, "About seven case files on your desk, three briefings, and those rookie assessments you volunteered to finish."

Prentiss shoots you a look and you shrug, "Do you expect anything less from him?" You throw your thumb in Reid's general direction.

"I'm telling you, I didn't take anything off my desk." Prentiss shrugs off her jacket and lays it over her desk chair.

"Emily, I have an eidetic memory, you're really going to argue with me?" Reid gives Emily a cute little tight-lipped, sassy smirk.

As Reid is talking you give Prentiss a small wink, "Reid just do the paperwork. You know you can finish it faster than any of us."

"Just because you always stay here late doesn't mean we have to," Reid bemoans the inconvenience a little while longer before finally resigning himself to just completing the work for Prentiss.

Rossi then gets to work, taking a second to shoot you a comforting wink and smile. He tucks his sunglasses into his shirt, soon disappearing into his office.

JJ comes into the office in a rush, complaining about how she must've lost power in her house overnight because none of the alarms went off, making Henry late for school, and her and Will almost late for work.

Morgan and Garcia are the last into the office. You hear Morgan's vibrant laughs from all the way out in the hallway. You glance over your shoulder as they step into the bullpen. Morgan's arm is thrown casually around Garcia's shoulders, just like in the picture. Your heart sinks. The pictures. For a moment you had forgotten about them. You feel guilty for forgetting about the way you've endangered them.

You watch them, their conversation just out of earshot. Morgan gently taps Garcia's nose with his finger. She blushes slightly, though it's hard to tell as her cheeks are already painted a rosy shade of coral. You see her mouth something along the lines of 'my hero' as she gives his bicep a small playful punch. The two of them part ways, Derek walking off to his office and Penelope to hers.

You see how blissfully unaware they are. Everyone is. The team is happy. They have no reason not to be. They have no idea you've put them all in harm's way. You wonder how you can ever make sure they're safe. Give yourself up to this stalker? It's clear he has an ulterior motive. He's planning something and he needs you on his side. He needs your help. What if you refuse to help him? What if you cut off his only link to everyone? Cut him off to you.

That would be the simple solution. If you die, he loses everything. He loses his leverage, his access to the team, his person on the inside. It'd be easy. The bureau would bury it all. Blame the whole thing on your mental status. You'd been erratic and deeply traumatized since your dismissal from the crisis response team. You'd blame all the lost lives on yourself. They'd say that the PTSD manifested itself as a deep self-hatred. You didn't want to go on living with the guilt so you put a bullet in your brain as punishment. Retribution. Justice.

"You want me to take that up to Hotch?" Reid reaches down to take the file from in front of you.

"What?" You barely catch his words and stand up, taking back your work and even taking his, "You know what? I'll take it all up to Hotch."

"Okay but I'm not buying you a coffee for doing it." He narrows his eyes a little, obviously thrown off by your gesture.

You smirk, "No more of that stuff. It's time I stop being lazy and do it myself." You decide to stop avoiding Hotch's office. The two of you eventually need to get used to this arrangement. It doesn't seem to be going away anytime soon. You both have aired your grievances with the other. It's time to stop being angry.

You knock on the door and wait for Hotch's muffled 'come in' before stepping into the office. You open the door and immediately notice the room is stuffy and warm. He has his blazer thrown over the back of his chair. His tie has been loosened a bit and the top button of his shirt is undone.

"Something wrong?" Hotch's profiling eyes run all over you as you stand a good bit away from him in the doorway of the office.

You shake your head, finally taking a few steps inside to place the stack of files on his desk, "These are all completed. Just waiting on your signature."

Hotch reaches forward, taking the files from you, his fingers brushing against yours. The warmth of his hand against your ice-cold ones sends warm tingles all the way up your arm. "So how many coffees do you owe Reid? Do these files cancel those out?" You see a smirk playing on his lips though his eyes remain down at the files as he signs them.

A rush of air flows out of your nose in a soft laugh, "No more free coffees for him. I'll go broke if I keep that up." You rock a little on your heels as you stand in front of Hotch's desk.

He looks up at you through those dark lashes of his, "You can take a seat while I finish these." He gestures to one of the open chairs with the pen in his hand.

You take a seat across from him, gathering your hair up in your hands and off your neck, "You should really keep your door open. It's so warm in here."

Hotch seems to freeze a little in place, his eyes stuck on you as you hold your hair off your neck and fan your face. It seems to take a little force for him to turn his attention back to the files. "It's really not bad."

"I have never seen you take your jacket off or loosen your tie at this job," You chuckle, watching his face flush a little at your attention to him and his habits, "Don't be so stubborn, Agent Hotchner."

He shakes his head. Another small smirk. He stands up handing you back the files, "Good work. At this rate maybe you all can get out of here early today."

You ignore the comment, knowing that you won't leave until as late as possible. Not that he is going to leave early, either. "Thank you, sir." You nod.

"For what? For noticing your hard work?" He scrunches his face up at your question, tilting his head a little.

"No uh," You clutch the files against your chest, crossing your arms over them. "For the coffee this morning. And the coffee the other morning. It's a really nice gesture. Thank you."

"Oh that," He waves his hand at you, "That's nothing. No need to thank me."

"It's not nothing. You remembered my coffee order and everything," You smile, "Thank you." You see Hotch open his mouth, and you know he's about to tell you to stop thanking him, "Like I said, always so stubborn. Just accept the thanks, Agent Hotchner."

"Hotch," He corrects you.

"Oh for god's sake just say you're welcome," You tease before shaking your head, turning on your heel and leaving the office. You swear you hear him mumble a soft 'you're welcome' right as you leave, but that could be your imagination playing tricks on you. Your sleep-deprived mind isn't even close to its best right now.

The rest of the day continues on just the same. You, Prentiss, and Reid attempt to power out as much work as possible, but Prentiss and Reid end up taking a long lunch break. While they're gone, you can't find the motivation to work efficiently. The absence of their company has your mind stuck on the photos and notes shoved down in the bottom of your bag.

It's something straight out of Edgar Allen Poe's The Tell-Tale Heart. You see that sickening green handwriting on every file you read. A small voice in the back of your head reads the content of those two notes at a deafening volume.

You continue to bring your work up to Hotch's office. After you left, he didn't get up to close the door. You don't talk to him about much besides work-related topics, but whenever you step into the office you exchange polite smiles. A little bit of small talk. You bring him a mug of coffee in the late afternoon to repay him for the one he gave you in the morning. Every once in a while your hand brushes his again as you hand him the file and the warmth of his fingertips warms you over and over again.

In contrast to the way the whole team slowly trickled into the office in the morning, they all pack up their stuff, heading out at around the same time. "Y/L/N, are you leaving soon?" Garcia calls out to you from the door. She's saddled up close to Derek again, his arm tight around her like always.

"Uh yeah soon!" You lie, "You guys go ahead. I gotta bring one or two more things up to Hotch's office." Lie. "Then I'm out of here." Another lie.

"Don't overwork yourself," Derek warns, pointing an accusing finger at you. His tone is firm but you know he's looking out for you and he cares about you.

"I promise I won't," You smile and wave your hands, shooing them out, "Go, go. Get home. Get rest. Don't worry about me."

With almost everyone gone from the office, you feel much more secure taking out the notes and the work on your stalker friend. No peering eyes. No nosy coworkers. Just you and your notes and research. So you get to work. You start to lose track of time. The office grows darker and darker.

Hotch lets out a long breath, leaning back in his office chair. The stack of cases to be reviewed is tauntingly large. So many requests for BAU aid and he hasn't made a dent in sorting through them. He needs to mark high-priority ones and then decide which ones require on-the-ground work and which ones can get by with a written consultation.

It's late. The time on his computer makes his heart sink. It's past Jack's bedtime. He's missed it. Again.

He reaches for his briefcase and shoves some of the files into the bag. He's not sure if he'll get work done when he gets home, but there's no harm in taking them home in case he does find the time. He texts Jessica, thanking her for taking care of Jack and putting him to bed.

Hotch stands up from the desk, tossing the blazer over his arm. He reaches for the lamp to turn off the lights in the office, but now from this standing position, he sees the bullpen still lit up. He leans forward to see you hunched over your desk.

You reach for a mug next to you. He wonders how many cups of coffee you've had today. He's noticed how tired you always are. You get into the office early, you leave the office late. When do you find the time for sleep?

You can't run yourself into the ground like this. He knows he's being hypocritical, yet in some respects, he thinks it's too late for him. His son and the job. That's all he has left. Additionally, he's the boss. He's supposed to have more work than the team. He knows that if he asked any of you for help you would all take up extra hours to help him get home to Jack on time.

That's the exact reason he worries. He can take the hit. He can survive the extra work. The job can't take much more from him. He doesn't have much left to lose. His team? They're all still so full of joy and hope.

The job will kill you if you let it, and he has no intention of letting it ruin you. You've been through a lot. The details of which he's sure he will never get to know, but it doesn't take a profiler to see that there's something constantly weighing on you.

Hotch sits back down at his desk. He reaches into his briefcase, pulling out the files. He doesn't want you here alone. As long as you're at the office, he's going to stay with you. If you're there, he's there. Someone has to look out for you, and deep down he wants to be that person.

Friday. Nine days since the second note.

"Come on pleaaaase," Garcia begs you with her best puppy dog eyes. She leans against Reid's desk across from you. She's assembled almost the entire team in the bullpen, trying to persuade you to go out for a round of drinks with them.

"I don't know..." You sigh and shake your head.

"You don't have work. I know you don't." Reid points out, "We're up to date on all of the case reports, Hotch doesn't have any more consultation letters for us to write, and those training course evaluations are done."

"So there! No excuse. Unless," Garcia lets out a dramatic gasp, "Oh my god do you have plans? Like a big date?"

"Alright," Derek laughs, "Female Einstein is getting some!" He holds up his hand for a high five.

You roll your eyes, both at the nickname and Garcia's tendency to jump to conclusions, "No. I just don't know. I live kind of far from everyone else and I don't want to inconvenience you all."

"I will personally pay for your Uber," Rossi smirks, "You are coming with us."

You sigh and hold your head in your hands, convinced that this time you won't be able to get out of going out with them. This isn't the first time they've all cornered you about going out with the team. You just can't relax and let loose with them. The BAU feels safe. You can keep an eye on them. You worry that every minute you spend with them is another minute you put them in danger.

"Hotch, are you joining us for a drink?" Rossi calls out as Hotch descends the stairs with his bags. You're relieved, knowing that Hotch will also turn down the offer.

There's a long pause. "Jack is sleeping over at a friend's for the night so... sure."

The whole team goes silent. "Oh my god, that means you have to come!" Garcia squeals and jumps up excitedly.

The team piles into a few cars and you find yourself sliding into the passenger's seat of Hotch's small black sedan. "Thanks. For driving me." You nod.

"I'm glad you're going out with the team. It's going to make Garcia very happy," He teases, wringing his hands around the steering wheel. "Plus I think you deserve a nice night out as a break."

"What do you mean?" You pick at your nails a little in your lap.

"I just mean you work so hard. You get to the office early all the time, you always leave late. I think you should cut yourself some slack." Hotch gestures a little with his right hand, leaving the other on the wheel.

"I do." You lie. There's a moment of pause. You can't tell if Hotch realizes you're lying and is trying to find the words to call you out, or if he simply doesn't know what to say next.

"Look, I understand that it can be hard to turn it all off and get a good night's sleep sometimes." His tone tells you that a lecture is coming on.

"Really, I'm okay, sir." You stop him before he can continue.

"Hotch." He corrects you.

"If I wasn't okay I would tell someone," You shrug, you pause for a second, "I would tell you, Hotch."

"Would you?" His question is genuine, his voice taking on a serious tone.

"I wouldn't have come back to work if I thought I wasn't okay enough to do this job." You reassure him.

"Just.. try to have fun with the team tonight. I know they're going to be so happy. They all really love you." He takes a slow breath, giving you a sideways glance, "We're lucky to have you on the team."

"You're such a hypocrite, you know that?" You cut through the heavy feeling in the car with your lighthearted, teasing tone. "You get to the office just as early as I do and leave just as late."

"I'm the boss. I'm supposed to have more responsibilities than you." He argues.

"You work yourself too hard," You shake your head disapprovingly which triggers a small laugh out of Hotch, "Plus, you have a son you need to get home to."

Hotch shakes his head, "And you're telling me you have no plans with anyone ever?"

"Nope. I just moved here a few weeks ago." You shrug simply.

"I don't believe it," He chuckles, "Someone like you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" You huff in confusion.

"It means you're a charismatic, successful, beautiful woman and you live just a short ride outside of DC, a major city. You're telling me there's no one dying to make plans with you?"

"Nope." You repeat, yet you can't seem to hide the flush that spreads up into your neck at his compliment.

"You are so difficult, you know that?" That stunning smile of his grows, flashing his teeth.

"Yeah, and you're the most stubborn man I've ever met," You smirk and unbuckle your seatbelt as Hotch parks the car.

"I swear to god you age me more and more these days, and I have a 5-year-old son," He rolls his eyes and you follow him into the bar with a loud laugh.

The rest of the team is already set up at a bar top table with a round of drinks for everyone. Garcia holds up her glass, "A toast is in order. To our new family member," She points her colorful cocktail in your direction, "We are so lucky to have you."

You smile, avoiding her eye line, knowing that your face will flush bright red if you look at her. You glance to your side instead, which is an even worse decision as you lock eyes with Hotch who seems to be staring back at you with the utmost admiration.

"And you are now, never allowed to leave because now I'm attached and I've welcomed you into this family and we've lost too many family members already," Garcia continues the toast, pulling your attention away from Hotch's enchanting eyes.

"To Y/N," Hotch speaks up from beside you. Your first name seems to fall from his lips effortlessly. You turn and clink your glass with all your coworkers, giving each a little smile as you do.

"Okay, I need to dance. Now." Garcia grins and latches onto Morgan, pulling him out to the crowded part of the bar where everyone is dancing and mingling.

Reid settles into a chair, already talking JJ's ear off about something he brought up on the car ride to the bar. You slide into one of the high chairs next to Hotch. For a while, you just sit there in silence, watching as Prentiss joins Garcia on the dance floor to replace Morgan, who's been whisked away to dance with some beautiful girl.

You don't know how to make non-work-related small talk with Hotch, so the only thing you can do is sit and finish off your drink. Garcia ordered you some super sweet drink and it's hurting you to get the whole thing down, but you do it. You turn to Hotch, hoping to crack some joke about Garcia's taste in cocktails but he's stood up from his chair and walked to the bar.

You watch as he leans against the bartop, handing his card over to the bartender. For a moment, you catch a glimpse of the man you used to know. He's casually draped against the bar, leaning with one arm. His shoulders are relaxed. He's not as uptight as you're used to seeing him in the office. He grabs the cocktail and walks back to slide in next to you again, "I got you a gin and tonic. If my memory serves me right, you were always very simple with your drinks."

"You remember my coffee orders and my drink orders?" You look at him quizzically and take the drink from his warm, large hands.

"You took up a lot of space in my thoughts," He shrugs. This time, his neck flushes a little, "Much more than I was willing to admit at the time."

Before you can say anything more, Garcia's hand wraps around your upper arm tightly and yanks you out to the middle of the bar. "Garcia!" You laugh and shoot a look back at Hotch. Hotch is smiling widely at the two of you.

You mouth a small 'help me' to Hotch and he laughs, shaking his head. He holds his arms up in defense. "Nothing I can do now!" He calls after you.

Garcia is quick to pull you out to dance, twirling you around playfully. You dance around with her for a song but the entire time your eyes keep flicking back to Hotch. He's making idle chit-chat with Rossi, but he struggles to maintain eye contact with him as they talk. He keeps looking over at you and Garcia. You and Garcia disappear more into the crowd, yet you can see as he searches for you guys every few minutes, making sure he still sees where you are.

In time, everyone starts to tucker out. Garcia, however, has unlimited stamina and it takes Morgan practically dragging her off the dancefloor to leave. Everyone piles into separate Ubers and just as you reach for your phone to call one for yourself, a large hand rests on your shoulder. "Let me just drive you home." Hotch offers.

You jump a little at the unexpected contact, not because you don't enjoy the feeling of his hand on you, but more because he startled you, "No I can't ask you to—"

"I'm not going to take no as an answer so can we just cut out the bickering?" He teases.

"Fine," You bite back your smile, trying to pretend to be angry as you follow him back to the car.

"Did you have fun tonight?" Hotch asks after a few minutes of silence.

You almost laugh at the small talk, feeling like a teenager being picked up by their parent after a party, "Garcia really goes hard." You laugh, "Did I see no-nonsense unit chief Hotchner smile tonight? Is it possible you know how to have fun?"

"I know how to have fun," Hotch rolls his eyes at you, "Someone has to be the serious one to keep all of you in line."

"Right, like we all need that much discipline," You shake your head.

"Have you met Morgan and Prentiss?" He glances at you for a second before turning his eyes back to the road. The car is dark but you can still see that bright shine of his teeth in his smile.

"They're not that bad," You argue for them. "Childish? Sometimes. But they get their work done!"

"Do you remember last week when they rigged Reid's phone to keep blasting that awful rock song while we were all sleeping on the jet?" He shakes his head, "I'm in charge of a team of children."

"Okay, okay you're right, that was a bit chaotic." The car comes to a stop in front of your apartment building.

"A bit?" Hotch shakes his head, finally able to fully turn and look at you, "I thought I was going to have to tell the pilot to open the emergency door and throw them out." At that, you let out a loud, full-bodied laugh. It's nice to see Hotch letting loose, letting his humor shine through.

You open the door and step out, hearing Hotch following behind. Of course, he insists on walking you to the door. You speak through the last of your little breathy laughs, "Thank you for driving me home, Hotch." You turn once you reach the door, seeing him close behind you.

"Aaron," He corrects softly.

You pause and nod, the shoulder of your jacket falling off, "Aaron." You repeat. He takes a step closer to you, reaching forward for the jacket, pulling it back up onto your shoulders. His fingertips brush against your arm and you feel those small sparks all over again.

You want to blame the alcohol, but you know one drink wouldn't produce this tingly feeling that grows all over your body. He's not too close to you, but close enough you can feel the warmth of his body. You swear you can feel your heart beating in your ears. You smell his cologne. He's still dressed in his work clothes but he's loosened the tie around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone underneath it.

Your eyes flit down to his lips and you don't hide it. You look back up at him and the way he's looking down at you is just absolutely sinful. Yet it's not the look of lust deep in those memories you have of him.

He looks at you with... with something you can't quite decipher. His eyes are warm and the corners are turned up ever so slightly as he smiles at you. Well, as much as Aaron Hotchner smiles these days.

His hand still hovers on your arm from where he pulled your jacket up. It feels like ages before you finally decide to speak. You don't want to ruin the moment. The overhead lighting at the front door of your building, casting long shadows across his face. His strong brow keeps his eyes a little shaded from view but that look is piercing. That look of... adoration?

You shiver a little, the temperature in the area falling every day. "I should get inside." You don't want to pull away from him. You're so close. You're falling into him. He's pulling you right back into him. Yet he's not the same man. You're falling for Aaron Hotchner all over again. You force your body away from his.

"Einstein, wait," He grabs your arm, and hearing that name fall from his lips has your heart jumping into your throat. He pulls your back to him and in an instant, you're pressed against him. There's no space between your bodies. Your hands rest on his chest, your head tilted up at him, leaving just a few inches between his lips and yours.

It's like the past eight years have been drowning and this Hotch, unit chief Hotch, understands it more than ever. He's fighting the current right alongside you. He's done his fair share of drowning, yet it's time he helps you out of the water. It's time you both come up for air.

Just as your faces inch closer, your eyes fluttering closed, waiting for the feeling of those soft lips on your own, he sucks in a little breath. The warmth of his body disappears from yours. You open your eyes to see him stepping away, "Good night," he clears his throat, "See you on Monday." He shoves both hands into his pockets and turns away from you.

You want to call out to him or grab his hand and pull him back to you. You want to tell him about the notes. You want to save him. You want to tell him you've missed him. You've missed his smile. His small little jokes. The little gestures. You want to tell him what's been tugging at the back of your mind this entire week. The feeling deep in the pit of your stomach that has been growing day by day. The thing you feared the most when you started this new job. The thing you were dreading. Yet, somehow, deep down you knew it was inevitable.

There's so much you need to say to him, but the both of you have always struggled with what needs to be said. So you let him walk back to his car, and you turn into your apartment complex.

You trudge up the stairs, the feeling of his lips so close to yours haunting your mouth. You reach your fingers up, rubbing your lips as if there's something left on them. Yet when you pull your hand away there's nothing there, and the tingly feeling remains.

The warmth in your body lingers all night. It keeps you up, eyes trained on the ceiling. You watch the fan circle around, over and over. Have you been deluding yourself? The small touches, the coffee every morning, the way he holds the elevator for you. He never leaves the office before you do. These past few nights you've stayed late to avoid coming home.

Your home should be a place of safety, security, yet these days, it feels like this note-sending friend of yours could snatch you without anyone noticing you've disappeared. You can't sleep. Plus, at the BAU you can keep a close eye on everyone. You can keep a close eye on Hotch. You can make sure your team is safe.

On Monday, you knew he was done with work. You saw him reach for the lamp in his office to turn it off. You saw him pack his briefcase through the blinds. He was trying to leave. Yet you were still there. So he stayed. Tonight, at the bar, he kept close to you. He was right by your side. He was glued to you, drawn to you, even. You were drawn to him.

The smile he flashed you over the top of his glass had the world falling down around you. You and Hotch's respective years of life experience melted away. All the past disappeared. Just you and him. Just a girl and a guy in a bar enjoying each other's company.

The hum of the air-con next to the bed lulls you almost asleep. Visions swirling behind your eyelids, no doubt a result of consuming alcohol for the first time in a while. You keep replaying the scene in your brain. The feeling of Hotch so close to you. He leans in. His lips are so close to yours. It's been so long but you don't forget the way it feels to kiss him. It always starts slowly at first. It's never harsh or rushed, but as soon as you taste him on your lips it's hard to stop yourself from grasping for more. Hands wander, soft mewls of pleasure. You can remember it all so well. But he didn't kiss you. He was just oh so close, just close enough that you—

A creak. A squeak of the floorboards.

You sit up alert in bed. You reach over to the side table for your weapon, pausing slightly as the bed squeaks with your movements. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribcage. The thumping is so strong it pounds up into your ears, but you're desperately trying to listen for any other noises.

The door hinges creak. The front door closes softly. You can't tell whether or not that means someone has entered your apartment or just left.

You wrap your fingers fully around your firearm and pull out the side table drawer, grabbing the small flashlight, clicking it on with your thumb, and stepping out of bed. You creep slowly towards your bedroom door.

The knob is cold as your fingers wrap around it tightly. Every movement is slow and calculated. Any small excess noises make your fear increase exponentially.

You turn the knob and pull back the door. You look out into the darkness of your apartment, flashing your light over every available surface. You do a full sweep, checking under every table and chair, in every closet, and the locks on every window. There's no one there.

But you know what you heard. You heard your front door close. You heard someone walking around the apartment. You flick the lights on. There's a manila envelope pinned to your makeshift case board in the living room. The front of the envelope has that same familiar sickly green ink. Your name is written with a small heart.

You put your gun down on the table in front of you, reaching forward with shaky hands to take the envelope off the wall. You pull out a stack of photos from the folder, coupled with a sheet of paper with some numbers and code on it. Last is the small note.

Rule 2: You will get me whatever information I want. When I want it.

You sort through the photos. The whole team is there. Multiple photos of JJ, Reid, Prentiss, Morgan, Garcia, and Hotch. All taken over the course of the past week. You recognize their outfits from work.

You don't know what to do anymore. All you really want is to call Hotch and tell him everything. You're tired of feeling unsafe in your own home. You're tired of the past. You want to put everything behind you, yet this asshole won't seem to let you move on. He won't let you heal. You reach for your phone and dial his number.

"Y/L/N? Something wrong?"

You let a long pause go by without speaking.

"Y/L/N?" Hotch's voice is a little groggy. He was probably sleeping.

"I was just making sure you got home safely. My bad. I should've told you to text me or something." Your voice is trembling.

Another pause.

"I'm sorry," Your breath catches in your throat a little as he says that, "I'm sorry to worry you." He clarifies the apology, but you know what he really means. Sorry for almost kissing you.

You don't reply, but you don't hang up the phone either. You just sit there, with the phone pressed to your ear. You don't want to hang up. It feels like nothing bad will happen to you while you're talking on the phone with Hotch.

"Y/L/N? Are you sure everything is okay?" His voice is a little clearer now. He's waking up more.

"Yeah. Sorry for disturbing you. See you on Monday." You don't let him get another word in, embarrassed that you've wasted his time, embarrassed of the way you feel about him, embarrassed that he clearly doesn't feel the same. The almost-kiss was a mistake. He apologized. He doesn't want it to mean anything.

You leave all the lights on in your apartment, somehow comforted by the idea that the light is fighting off anything or anyone that could lurk in the shadows, but you know there's no chance in hell you get a bit of sleep.

Monday. Three days since the third note.

You don't hear from Aaron Hotchner all weekend, yet that's not even close to the forefront of your mind. The note. You pour over the lines of code. You would kill for some help from the famed Penelope Garcia. So that's what you decide you're going to do when you walk into the office.

You're early like always, yet this time, Hotch isn't there as early. He comes in at the same time as everyone else. You'd be lying if you said seeing him get off the elevator didn't quicken your heart rate. He looks good. You give him a small smile, one that he doesn't quite return.

He moves past your desk, giving a very general, 'Good morning' to the whole team.

He's being distant. Weird. He doesn't plop down a full mug of coffee on your desk as he has been recently. The slam of his office door solidifies your suspicions that something is amiss.

You try not to take it to heart. Maybe it's not about you. Maybe it was a rough week with Jack. Maybe there's a lot of work to be done this week. You remember the mysterious code from your stalker in the bottom of your bag. You pull the paper out and head for Garcia's office.

You step into her small lair of computers, "Hey," You knock on the door.

"Hey, love!" She squeals, turning in her chair, but her face drops quickly when she sees you're not in much of a joking, playful mood. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing I just," You move to sit on the edge of her desk, "I need you to look at this and tell me if you understand what it is." You hand her a paper where you've rewritten the codes from the letter.

"I have to look into it." She pulls up an open window on one of her many monitors, her keys clacking away as she copies the string of numbers. "Oh?"

"What is it?" You stand up from the edge of the desk, placing your hand on the back of her chair, leaning forward a little. The computer still looks like a nonsense screen of numbers to you.

"It's like an encrypted online dropbox. You put the information in, yet both sides of the exchange can't track one another," She rattles off quickly. She pauses for a second, "Wait, why do you need this?"

You sigh and take the code back from her, "Following a lead on an open case."

"What open case? You want me to add this to the file?" Garcia starts to question you but you're already halfway out the door. So he wants information from you. He wants to use you for your connections. You drop information into this dropbox and you can't track him. You shove the sheet of code deep into the bottom of your bag and toss it to the side of your desk.

"Y/L/N, please?" Emily pouts a little, holding a file out to you, "You're already standing up."

You roll your eyes, "I've seen you all run out in the field. Don't even pretend to be incapable of taking on a flight of stairs," You tease but still take the file from her. It gives you a good excuse to test the waters with Hotch.

You knock on the door, wait for the small 'come in', and step into the warm office. "What did I say about getting some air in here?" You laugh and place the file down on his desk. Hotch barely gives you a second glance. He takes the file from you with a small thanks. You hesitate for a moment, yet decide not to say anything else. Hotch hands the file back to you.

In contrast to how the past week has gone, the whole interaction feels so static. It feels so impersonal. You should've known better. Hotch hasn't changed. He's still so hot and cold with you. He still doesn't know what he wants.

"Y/L/N," He speaks up. Finally, "I want to apologize for my behavior on Friday. That was unprofessional of me."

Your jaw goes a little slack. You're not even sure how to respond. "Excuse me?"

"I don't mean to send you the wrong message—"

"You really haven't changed at all, have you?" You cut him off. You keep the volume of your voice down, but your tone still has a bite. "You're still so scared. Of what, I can't seem to figure out. Of real feelings? No, because clearly, you've experienced those before." You don't mean to turn the conversation onto the topic of his wife, now understanding the sensitivity of that but you're tired of confusing signals from Aaron Hotchner.

Hotch breathes out an exasperated sigh. "I shouldn't have acted the way I did."

"Say something real. Anything. Please," You beg him, yet he still maintains that icy, professional exterior, "What are you so fucking scared of, Aaron?" Your first name falls from his lips unintentionally.

"I'm scared of everything," He finally breaks, "I'm scared to touch you because as soon as I do I know I will lose myself in you. I can't go back to before Haley. I just can't"

"Can't or won't?" You snap.

There's a sense of desperation in his voice. "No I can't," He emphasizes it heavily, gesturing with his palms face down, "Because being with you feels like eight years ago. It feels like being a person I left in the past. I can't go back to being that person, because that person hasn't seen or done what I have done."

"Do you think I want you to be that person again? The man who made me fall in love with him just to let me down. You think I want that man back?" You cross your arms against your chest.

"I never made you do anything." Hotch lowers his voice as he speaks, shooting a sidelong glance at the bullpen, checking to make sure you're still out of earshot of the team.

"Jesus, are you so dense that you really think I wouldn't develop feelings after what we did? I was falling in love with you! With everything about you," You shift on your feet a little. It was clear you fell for him all those years ago but to say it out loud is a completely different thing.

Hotch's eyes drop down to the desk. He runs his finger over the edge of the desk distractedly, "You don't think I fell for you too?"

"What you felt for me back then, Aaron, it wasn't love," You cross your arms, breathing out shakily, "Because you don't hurt the people that you love."

The desperation and exhaustion are present in his expression and the way he continues to trail his finger along the edge of the desk, "It was the only way I knew how to love someone at that time in my life."

"That's not good enough. I deserve better than what you gave me," You feel sick to your stomach and your heart is practically pounding out of your chest.

"I'm sorry," His voice is soft. You're almost convinced he means it this time.

There's a small knock on the open office door behind you. You turn to look at Garcia, who realizes she's interrupted something that goes beyond work. She holds up a file.

"Garcia?" Hotch straightens up a little, clearing his throat and returning to his previous level of professionalism.

"Sorry to interrupt, boss, but we have a serious problem," She stutters over her words a little, "New York has a serious problem. Multiple bomb threats across the city, one went off this morning. The signature is eerily familiar to an old case and they're desperate for BAU help."

"Gather the team on the jet. Wheels up as soon as possible," Hotch nods and gathers up his things, moving around you to follow Garcia out of the office.

You stand there for a second, partially paralyzed by your conversation with Hotch. However, it's the thought of returning to New York that makes you unable to move. Bombs in New York. Your blood runs cold, chills up and down your back. This case is going to be difficult, and the tremulous status of your relationship with Hotch isn't going to help.

Chapter Text

You cross and uncross your legs. Your mind feels fuzzy. You finish off a cup of coffee, feeling your limbs already tingling and buzzing with the increase of caffeine. You’re trying your best to keep your mind focused on the team’s initial profile of the bomber. You can’t bring yourself to look down at the file in your lap. You force your eyes out the window and watch as the jet takes off.

“The signature matches that of a bomb from a year ago in New York,” Hotch rubs his forehead frustratedly, “However, most of those case details are confidential. The brass is not budging.”

“What? How are we supposed to profile the bomber or figure out if it’s the same psycho with no previous case information?” Morgan’s anger is understandable. He doesn’t like dealing with government politics. Hotch doesn’t have a response and just gives Morgan a small frustrated shake of his head.

There’s a lull on the jet. “How many casualties from the first bomb?” JJ’s voice is soft and small.

Hotch’s eyes flit up to hers. He doesn’t want to answer, “15 dead, 20 more seriously injured.”

“So how are we supposed to profile this?” Prentiss picks up with the same question as Morgan.

“By the bomb makeup? The location of the explosion? The location of the threats?” Reid rattles off a series of ideas.

“All of it,” Rossi confirms.

“I’m more intrigued by the language of the message. It profiles like two different unsubs.” Reid pulls the small paper out from the file, “First the message starts by listing off the locations. It’s all so straightforward. But then the message ends with this poetic metaphor for sunset.”

“One of these will be blown away by the time the paints of pink and purple splash across the sky” Morgan reads at the end of the transcript.

“Bombers like this usually don’t team-up. They’re usually alone,” Prentiss counters, looking between Reid and Morgan in response to their focus on the message.

“Are we supposed to be functioning on the assumption that this is the same bomber from before?” JJ shakes her head and shuts the file, placing it on the table a little bit away from her as if keeping it close is poisonous. Hotch opens his mouth to speak.

“It’s not the same guy.” You cut him off, finally joining the conversation. You sit up in your chair and look over at them. All eyes turn to you. “That guy is dead.”

“How do you know?” Prentiss looks over your face, her brows furrowing a little.

“I was on the ground that day. I saw that building crumble to the ground.” You pick at the chipped nail polish on your fingertips. Hotch’s eyes sweep over you. He senses your nerves. You feel the anxiety building up in the pit of your stomach. You take a few slow deep breaths. “He was inside that building. What the brass doesn’t want you to know is that they didn’t know who he was. We never got a real name or identification so, of the hundreds of human remains found at the site, they couldn’t decipher which one was the bomber.”

There’s a long silence in the jet. You can tell the 6 sets of profiling eyes are taking in every microexpression and every inch of body language. Slow breaths. In and out. The screams of those poor innocent people rattle around in your brain. That man’s sick voice through the headset. The click of the button. The earth-shattering power of the explosion. It’s all flashing around in front of your eyes.

“Y/N,” Hotch replies firmly, “You need to tell us everything you remember about that bomber.”

You shake your head, “I don’t know much. I wasn’t in direct contact with him,” A blatant lie. You feel Rossi’s eyes on you. You remember the conversation you had with him during your first week with the team. You remember he mentioned the case. You wonder how much he knows. How much of your involvement is he aware of? “The signature isn’t easily replicable. The way he built his bombs took care. The only thing I remember distinctly was not being able to trust his word. He would threaten one place then bomb another. He only gave us a nickname. Ace.”

“So how are we supposed to track this new guy down? Hypervigilance? Placing response teams at every location?” Prentiss suggests but you shake your head before she can finish.

“That’s a waste of resources.” You disagree.

“And he’ll just pick a different spot as soon as he sees that we have teams in position at every single one.” Hotch hasn’t taken his eyes off of you since you started speaking. He’s profiling you, watching your every movement. Every subtlety, every twitch of your lips, every nervous crack of your knuckles. He notices everything.

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Morgan’s frustration level rises by the minute. You can’t get the information from the previous case to guide this one and you barely know where to start with a new profile. It’s frustrating. You don’t blame him for his anger.

You don’t have a good answer. “I don’t know.” You wish you could give more insight. You wish you could help. There’s a few details that you think would help guide the team in the right direction but your inclination to stay secretive and protect the team takes over. Your stalker made it abundantly obvious from the beginning. Tell anyone, the team suffers. You can’t drag them into all your shit. They have a job to do. The last thing they need is to be constantly worried about dodging the wrath of your obsessive new friend.

Hotch’s eyes linger on you pushing you far into discomfort. You keep your eyes glued onto the file in front of you, but feel his harsh gaze locked onto you. You can see him in your peripheral vision. He senses your hesitation. He senses your apprehension. However, there’s no hope for him to understand what’s rattling around in your mind. The steel walls have come down, blocking out anyone and everyone from reading you. Specifically, barricading Hotch from both your heart and your mind.

Hotch isn’t easy to read. You two have that in common. Maybe it’s just something you picked up from him. Either way, you feel his frustration. Frustration at the case, frustration at the bureaucratic roadblocks, and likely, frustration with you. You can’t tell whether it’s more anger-based frustration or a much softer, more emotional frustration. You can’t tell anything about him.

This past week has led you to believe that what you had been feeling for Hotch was reciprocated. Maybe not reciprocated, but you thought there was a level of mutual respect developing once again. You two would finally be able to form some sort of relationship, one in which you care for one another. Look out for each other. However, Hotch is a master at internalizing everything.

It’s not the first time Hotch has done a full 180 and flipped the switch, descending into icy detachment. As much as you want to curse him out, damn him for being selfish and yell at him to consider your feelings for once, you realize that his actions are motivated by his intense selflessness. You hate the excuse that he ‘can’t be enough for you’ because, in your mind, that shouldn’t be an excuse. You always think, ‘you say I deserve better, then simply be. better.’

But you know Aaron Hotchner. He may be closed off and guarded, but you do know him. He is extremely in tune with his capabilities, limits, and feelings. He knows his emotional capabilities. He knows what he has to give, and these days you’re seeing that he has no more to give. All this is not to say that means you deserve to be tossed back and forth as he struggles to find his realm of comfort, but you understand why he acts so hot and cold.

As soon as the jet lands in New York you find it just a little bit harder to take a deep breath. Every inhale feels shallow like your lungs can’t fill. The team has to hit the ground running. You don’t have time to freak out. You don’t have time to fall apart.

“I don’t know how much there is at the bomb site and it will be hard to get a good look at the site. First responders and emergency crews are still trying to stabilize and process it.” Hotch leads the team out of the airport, towards the four SUVs waiting for you. “However, I still want you to profile the surrounding area. The location is what is important. Morgan and Prentiss, I want you to go check it out. JJ and Rossi I want you to go back to Ace’s original bomb site, check out that area. Reid, you’re with me, we’re going to try to talk to as many of the original agents on the Ace case.” His attention turns to you, “You’re going to go to the police station.”

You step a little forward, into Hotch’s eye line, “What am I supposed to do at the station alone?”

“You’re going to sit and recall every detail you possibly can about Ace’s New York bombing last year.”

“Sir I—” You pull him off to the side, a little out of the team’s earshot. You can feel them looking at the two of you intensely. You lower your voice, “I don’t know if,” You hesitate to attempt to draw in a deep breath, “I don’t know if that’s the best course of action for me.”

“You know this case better than all of us. You’re going to dig and dig into your memory and find us something we can use, you understand?” Hotch doesn’t keep his volume low. Your conversation immediately draws the attention of everyone else. “Now let’s all get to work.” The team piles into each SUV, and you get into one alone. As soon as you’re alone in the vehicle you allow yourself just one second to falter.

Just a second. There’s no time for anything longer than that.

You stare down at the practically blank legal pad that’s been sitting in front of you on the desk for the past two hours. The top reads ‘Case notes’ however there’s hardly a coherent thought written on the paper. You push your chair away from the table and walk to pour more lukewarm coffee into your mug. You overload it with sugar and milk to balance out the acrid burnt flavor of the poor-quality coffee that’s been sitting out too long.

You gulp it down like it’s water and hope that the extra jolt of caffeine will counteract the haze your brain seems to be functioning in.

Five locations. Five possible bombs. You only have one plan and that’s to call the bomber on his bluff. You wanted to do that last year in New York. Your instinct with Ace was that his goal was always to outsmart you. That’s why you think doing nothing is better than sending emergency response teams to these locations.

Ace wanted to impact the most damage. Take out the most amount of civilians, first responders, and agents. It wasn’t about public image. It wasn’t about destroying a landmark. It was more about the people. It was always about the game.

This bomber doesn’t seem to be much different. It’s about messing with your team. If you never give him the satisfaction of picking a location, he never gets to outsmart you. You know what will happen. Your team will pick one of the locations, he’ll bomb one of the others. All he needs is access to a police radio or the ability to tune into the frequency. It’s not hard to do.

You look up out the window, watching the sun sinking rapidly in the sky. The team has been out for a few hours now. They’re canvassing and assessing every location of the bomb threats. What the team wants to do is to evacuate all locations. They’re trying to do it little by little because a mass exodus would trigger too much suspicion.

You warned them that evacuating all the people all at once would lead this bomber to set off the bomb too early. You need to play by his rules.

The doors to the conference room are pushed open, the entire team filing in. You feel their eyes on you, prying, probing, hoping you’ve come up with a plan.

“So? What have you come up with?” Hotch crosses his arms against his chest. You hate him right now. He’s not being fair to you, but when is he ever fair with you? He pushes you and pulls you, he’s hot and cold, and then he demands the most of you. How are you supposed to single handedly come up with a plan to stop this unsub? Isn’t this a team? Isn’t that how the BAU works? You should all be working together. Instead, he’s let some inane, ridiculous personal conflict get in the way of the work.

Aaron Hotchner loves to excuse his behavior as ‘acting professionally’ when ironically, it’s the exact opposite. He gets too personal. Then, to counteract the fact that he’s crossed the line, he attempts to be staunchly professional. This dramatic shift in and of itself is deeply unprofessional. He’s let the personal impact his behavior on the job.

He claims that the lines between personal and professional are too frequently blurred but it’s his fault for all the confusion. He has always wanted everything to be black and white. Personal. Professional. Keep the two separate. You marvel at how quickly he’s managed to forget about all the shades of grey in between.

“In all honesty, sir, I think we need to call this guy on his bluff,” You push the legal pad forward so the team can read your small notes. “I went over the previous case with Ace in New York. It was always about the game. About tricking us. It’s not about the status of the location, it’s not about the highest number of casualties. It’s about outsmarting the authorities.”

“We can’t just do nothing. We have five major locations on high alert,” Prentiss argues with you.

“I’m telling you. We send a team to one of these locations, and one of the other ones gets bombed.” You shake your head and stand up, crumpling the paper coffee cup. You drop it into the trash and lean against the desk, placing your palms flat on the surface.

“I can’t authorize us to sit back and watch as people die,” Hotch keeps his eyes on the map of the city, “Pick one location. We’ll send the team there.”

“No,” You bite back. You catch sight of the orange hue to the sky out the window. You feel your nerves building. Maybe you’re wrong… you’ve been wrong before. That didn’t turn out well. All eyes on you. It all comes down to you, you, you…

“Agent Y/L/N, you know this guy better than any of us,” Hotch’s tone is sharp. You run your hands over your face. “Which of these locations do you think is the most likely?”

“I don’t…” You feel your heart racing. Your mind is cloudy. You can’t think straight. Sirens, screaming. The way the debris and dust settled around you. You remember the ringing in your ears as you stared up at the building as it collapsed. First responders rush around you. Smoke billowing out of windows. “I don’t know. None of them… all of them.”

“What about this one?” Morgan reaches and points to one of the locations. “It has importance in the community, it has a social relevance.”

“No, no,” You shake your head and wring your hands, “It wasn’t about destroying a community. It always seemed personal.”

“Then where?” Hotch pushes you a little more. He’s being firm. He hands the walkie-talkie over to you, “You make the call. Where do we dispatch the emergency response team?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, okay!” You snap angrily at Hotch.

“We don’t have the time for you to not know,” Hotch snaps right back at you. All day, you’ve expected him to cut you some slack. He knows that you were dismissed from your position. He knows that you’ve suffered extreme emotional trauma. He’s read your psychological evaluations. He knows New York is painful for you. He can see how much just being here has affected you.

He can see that your profiling skills are limited. Your mind is elsewhere. However, it’s equally clear that his determination to re-establish your ‘strictly professional’ relationship has won out. He’s pushing you to your limit. He’s pushing you to do your job. There’s no room for feelings. There’s no time for a breakdown. He’s right. There’s no time for hesitation. No time to not know what to do.

Everyone is relying on you to provide the background knowledge for the case. Everyone is counting on you to profile the bomber. Everyone is counting on you to get it right before it's too late. You can’t. You’re stuck in place. you open your mouth to speak. No words. No ideas. Your mind isn’t blank. It’s the opposite. Your mind is swarmed by a cloudy haze of panic.

There’s too much history in New York. It’s all flashing before you. Secret affairs, stolen glances. Whispers and promises of love and passion spoken against your skin. All-consuming midnight kisses. Wandering hands. Warm smiles. Streetlight cracking through the curtains on the window. Bookshelves and crumpled papers. Pen marks up and down your hand. Heart-shattering pain. Failure. Rejection. Smoke billowing around you. Screaming families. Crying children. Numbness.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Morgan shakes his head, “Theatre district has the highest pedestrian count at this time of day. Every theatre in that area is a staple to the New York performing arts community.”

“Of all the threats he’s leveled, that’s the most high profile location,” Prentiss agrees with Morgan’s assessment.

“But if we follow the precedent set by Ace last year, it’s not about the status of the location. It’s always about outsmarting us. It’s about power over the most powerful figures,” Reid recites your earlier statement almost word for word.

“Reid’s right,” Your voice is small but it’s enough to draw Hotch’s attention. His head turns as if on a swivel. He looks between you and Morgan. He’s weighing the options. He’s trying to decide whether or not to give you a few more minutes to give a decision or to go with Morgan’s decision.

The walkie is snatched from your hands, “All units to 51st and 8th. Suspected bomb threat. Immediate evacuation protocol.” Hotch’s voice is heard through the station through the emergency alert speakers. Your face falls. He’s making a mistake. You told him repeatedly. Prominence is not the most important element of the profile.

“Hotch you’re making a mistake—” You attempt to argue with him but he doesn’t listen.

“We don’t have the time to sit and wait for you to get your head together. We need to act and we need to act now. Your head is elsewhere. We can’t rely on you to make this call.” He adjusts his gun holster. The team pushes through the doors of the conference room.

“But I’m telling you, it’s about power over the FBI. I think doing nothing is a better plan—” It’s almost instantaneous. Just as the police station around you devolves into a swarm of officers gearing up, the entire building seems to rattle. A loud crack erupts from outside the station. It’s unmistakable. A bomb has gone off and not far from where you and your entire team stand.

You watch as horror spreads across the faces of every single agent, police officer, and first responder in the station. Your team was wrong. You made the wrong decision. Not only has Hotch made the wrong decision, but you’ve failed again. You couldn’t save anyone. Yet again, your inability to do your job properly has killed people.

“I told you we should send response teams to every location. Every location!” Morgan runs his hands over his head. He throws his hands up and turns away from the table and the rest of the team.

“We didn’t have that kind of manpower and you know that,” Rossi speaks softly.

“Guys,” JJ’s voice cracks a little as she points your attention towards the window. You all step over and watch as a pillar of smoke rises from a few blocks away. The night is dark but there’s a sickening glow coming out around the high-rise buildings in the neighborhood.

You’re going to be sick. You have to fight off the urge to empty your stomach contents. Your body is covered with that fuzzy, on-fire feeling. The tears prick your eyes. It’s uncontrollable. You immediately turn away from your team. You can’t let them see you break. After all, this is your fault. It’s all your fault.

Turning away from the team and walking off to the nearest conference room feels like you’re wading through molasses. Your whole body is heavy. Your legs tremble with every movement. You can’t even get the conference room door completely closed before the pain wracks your whole body. You wrap your arms around yourself and just sob.

Hotch knocks on the partially open door. There’s no response. He waits another minute for your voice. He knocks again on the door. He hears a soft shaky breath in. He steps a few feet into the room. He sees your shoulders shaking violently.

You hesitate before slowly turning to face him. His composure falters once he sees you. For how much you two have fought, how much you’ve hurt him, how much he’s hurt you, he’s never seen you like this. He’s seen you get choked up, he’s seen you get angry. Hotch has never seen you cry. Seeing you sob like this, it feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest.

“I can’t breathe,” You sob, tears flowing freely down your cheeks, dragging your mascara down. You choke out a few more tears and take a few shallow deep breaths in.

Hotch is paralyzed. He barely even recognizes you like this. Since joining this team you’ve always been so composed. Even when he can tell you’re going through something, you never fail to keep a professional face. That is until now. Your body is wracked with sobs. You’re trembling violently. What he wants to do more than anything is wrap his arms around you and hold you tight against him. He wants to calm you down. He wants to reassure you that he’ll always keep you safe. He wants to press a kiss to the top of your head.

But he can’t. This isn’t about him. It’s about the case. It’s about digging up your past.

“I know this is a hard case for you,” He struggles to maintain a diplomatic, professional appearance. He wants to console you, but he has already blurred the lines between professional and personal. “But remember this is not your fault. This is not our fault. This guy is ruthless.”

Hotch watches as you take a breath in, trying to calm down. You press your lips together firmly to mute the strangled sobs. Your bottom lip trembles intensely. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself and Hotch wishes that he could give you the comfort of his arms in place of your own.

There’s an extended silence between the two of you as you struggle to steady your heart rate. You look so different like this. To Hotch, he’s always seen how strong you are. You’re a little bit too much like him in that regard. You keep yourself closed off. He remembers how open and carefree you once were so many years ago. Now, he only sees the walls you put up around yourself. You keep everyone out.

But like this? You look so small and helpless. So strikingly… human. In the past few weeks, he has never seen you break except to get angry at him. He’s only seen this emotion out of you when he screws up and you tell him off. Those moments make him equally sick to his stomach, thinking about how much hurt he’s caused. He feels his heart sink at how much anger you hold towards him.

This moment makes him sick to his stomach in a different way. You’re so emotionally raw. And he feels guilty. You’re torn up about the case, but something about the way you’re looking at him, he feels exposed. He feels like your shining, sad eyes are trying to tell him something else. So much goes unsaid between the two of you. Hotch wishes that he knew what you were trying to say with so few words. He wishes that he knew what you’re saying with your eyes.

“I’m so tired,” Your voice cracks a little. It’s soft, barely even reaching Hotch from his cemented position across the room. He hasn’t taken a step towards you. “I’m exhausted.” Hotch can see you try to hold it together but a small sob escapes again.

Hotch opens his mouth to speak. He prides himself on being a competent, well-spoken man. He is never rendered speechless. He always knows how to choose his words carefully and exactly what to say, yet with you, he always finds himself struggling. “I’m sure this case brings up a lot of… painful memories.”

You stop him before he can continue, “You don’t know how exhausting it is.” You take a few steps closer to him and he feels his heart rate pick up.

“I’m sorry?” His heart is pounding up into his ears and he swears you can see his pulse throbbing in his neck. He feels on display. His nerves, his desire to hold you close, it’s all so evident in his body language. He makes no effort to hide it.

Your voice wavers, “It is so exhausting hating you.” Hotch watches as your bottom lip shakes again, more tears collecting in the corners of your eyes, “Do you know how hard you make it to hate you?”

Hotch’s jaw relaxes, unaware that he was holding so much tension in his body in the first place. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, you cut him off, “God, I’m so tired of hating you and pushing you away and pretending that— that,” You stutter over your words. Hotch can tell you’ve stopped yourself from saying something. Again, there’s so much you want to say. Hotch feels the same. There’s so much he wants to say to you.

“That?” He tries to push you to talk. You’re both so close to something real. Finally, what needs to be said. He knows what you’re implying. He knows what you’ll say if you pick up the sentence where you left off. Tired of pretending that…

“I’m just exhausted,” You whisper. You’re closing off again. Hotch’s grip on your true intentions is slipping. He wants you to open up but he is still holding so much inside. He runs his eyes up and down your form. “I don’t want to hate you anymore.”

Speechless, yet again. “I’m sorry for pushing you today.” Hotch rubs his fingers at his side and nods his head a little, “There’s nothing more we can do here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll rework the profile from the new bomb site.” Hotch struggles to return his voice to a steady detached tone, “Go back to the hotel for the night.”

You try to wipe your face clean. You look down at the black makeup smudges on your hands.

“We can’t solve this case without you. Get some rest. You’re going to need it to start fresh tomorrow.” Hotch knows that he’s pushing you into your discomfort with this case. He knows that the details of your involvement with the previous case in New York are more complicated than you seem to let on. He wants you to feel comfortable enough to open up to him, but he also knows that the two of you are teetering on the boundary of dangerous territory. You’re both falling into old habits and old feelings while simultaneously exploring the altogether newness of your situation.

Hotch remains in place as you softly thank him and leave the conference room to head back to the hotel. There’s something deeply troubling you, and Hotch wants to help, but he has a sinking feeling you’re not going to tell anyone, especially not him.

You step onto the elevator in your hotel, still sniffling away. Your heart rate has finally begun to slow and your tears have dried. You feel immensely vulnerable. Never have you let anyone see you cry or break down like that. The last person you wanted to see you like that is Hotch and he just saw you at your lowest. You hate to admit it but you’ve cried like that over Hotch a million times, but never in front of anyone. Never do you let people see you like this.

The hotel card dings, the light on the lock turning green. You push open the door. You immediately feel the chill of a cool breeze and notice the curtain blowing on the door of the balcony. Your heart sinks. You’re so fucking tired of the fear. So fucking tired of the surprise notes and break-ins.

“Alright! Where’s the note, huh?” You yell out to your stalker. You feel like you’re losing your mind. He’s not here anymore. He wouldn’t risk getting caught. He wouldn’t risk hanging around in the hotel the FBI is staying in. You know he’s in this city. You know he has been following you.

You reach for your weapon and step out onto the balcony. A small envelope has a hole punched through it, a string through the hole, and tied to the balcony railing. It blows around in the breeze. You rip it off and tear open the envelope. That fucking green ink.

Rule #3: Tell no one our story. Tell no one our conversations. Tell no one about our special relationship.

You toss your firearm onto the bed, not bothering to close the sliding door behind you as you come in from the balcony. There’s no point in locking yourself away anymore. This guy can get at you wherever and whenever he wants.

A loud knock at the door makes you jump. You rush to shove the note into the bottom of your bag, putting your clothes on top of it. As you zip up the bag, the knock happens again. “One second!” You call and walk to the door. You keep one hand on the holster as the other reaches for the door. You grab the knob, turning it a little before swinging the door open.

Hotch’s eyes dart over you, looking at the way your hand is readied on the holster of your gun, your hair a tousled, tangled mess, and a wild shine to your eyes. “There’s been a mix-up with the rooms,” He pauses and sighs holding up his go bag a little, “Looks like we’re roommates.”

Chapter Text

You’re stuck in place, staring back at Hotch as he stands at the door of your hotel room. You don’t move out of his way so that he can come inside.

“Look I know this is uncomfortable,” He takes a second to breathe, “For both of us, but there’s nothing I can do.” He holds his go-bag down at his side while the other hand does that damn thing, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. Your eyes flit down to his hand then back up to his face. Without saying a word you step aside to let him in.

“I can take the couch,” You say softly, letting the door close behind him as he steps in. You rush around him to clean off the bed, taking your go-bag off of it and tossing it onto the chair in the corner.

Hotch raises his brow at you as he neatly places his bag on the rack in the closet. You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, reaching for a hanger, “That’s hardly a couch. You can’t sleep on that.” He nods at the bed, “We can share. There’s plenty of room.”

You go silent. He methodically pulls out the few clothes from his bag and begins hanging them up. You glance at the ball of your clothes thrown on the chair, noting the extreme difference between your travel styles.

“Unless you’re uncomfortable with that,” He clears his throat a little and nods, “Because I can call and have them bring up a cot. I’ll sleep on it I totally understand if you don’t feel comfortable—”

“I’ll be okay,” You nod and wrap your arms around yourself a little. You sort of just stand in the middle of the room, watching as Hotch folds and organizes all his clothes before moving on to loosen his tie and roll up his sleeves.

Hotch walks towards you and you suck in a small breath as he brushes past you to close the sliding door out to the balcony, “You mind if I close this?”

“Oh yeah,” You nod, “Go ahead. I’m just going to uh,” You stumble over your words, and even your feet, a little, as you grab some clothes from the ball, “I’m going to go change and wash up really quick.”

“Take your time,” He nods and pulls out the chair at the desk, laying out some of the files, “I’m going to get some more work done on the case before I shower.”

You resist the temptation to comment on his inability to put the work aside for a few hours to get some sleep. The job is emotionally taxing enough, but Hotch never seems to put the job away.

You decide against the joke, scurrying off to the bathroom and closing the door with a bit too much force. Sharing a bed with Hotch, what could possibly go wrong? You almost want to laugh at the comedy of it all. After what has been shaping up to be the worst day in your entire time at the BAU, the universe laughs at you and forces you into bed with the man you’re simultaneously hating and falling for all over again.

If you stand in the bathroom thinking over everything for too long you know you’ll freak yourself out and beg someone on the team to switch rooms with you. Asking someone to switch will bring up too many questions, too many confused looks, and too much explaining. In all honesty, you’re exhausted and you want nothing more than to curl up in the bed and try your best to get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow.

The events of the day haven’t left your mind. You can’t bring yourself to turn on the TV or ask Hotch how many casualties the most recent bomb has caused. You enjoy living in this state of ignorance. The reality is just too painful to face. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as you think. Maybe no one got hurt.

You can take it all on tomorrow but you want to shut out the world. You rush through your night routine, momentarily forgetting about the man you’re about to share your room with. When you open the bathroom door to step back out into the room, you almost run into Hotch who stands with his hand raised about to knock.

You mumble a quick apology and step to one side to move around him, but he steps to the same side as you. You both stutter out a few awkward sorries as you both repeatedly move into each other’s way. You finally get around him and hear the bathroom door shut and the water start.

The desk in the corner of the room is still littered with papers and files from the case. There’s a yellow legal pad on top of all of it. It’s coated in random notes in green ink. The team always teases that Hotch’s handwriting is illegible but you can read it all perfectly. However, the green ink is distracting and you can’t focus on his notes at all.

You glance at the bathroom, the sound of the shower still muted by the closed door. You look to your bag and then to the door again before digging around for the note you shoved to the bottom. You don’t know what compels you to compare the handwriting to the notes on the legal pad. There’s no connection besides green ink and you’re not sure what motivation Hotch has to threaten his whole team and his own life, yet you set it next to the papers on the desk.

There’s no similarity in the handwriting. Even if Hotch tried his best to write as neatly as possible, the letter is written by someone right-handed, and Hotch is left-handed.

You feel a little ridiculous for even considering the possibility of the note being from Hotch. It’s impossible. But is it? Threatening the team, threatening himself, it would all divert suspicion away from him. But what does he gain from torturing you? He wouldn’t need to set up a one-way dropbox for FBI files, he could just access them himself.

The shower water stops. The room is so quiet you can hear Hotch moving around in the bathroom. The note ends up underneath all the clothes in your bag and you decide against suffering through any more awkward silence with him in the room. You shut the lights and curl up under the covers. It’s warm and stuffy, but you keep your sweatpants on. Normally you’d sleep without pants or in shorts, but Hotch’s presence in the same bed as you seems too risky.

He’s respectful and wouldn’t comment. He wouldn’t make a move. It’s not Hotch you’re worried about. You don’t trust yourself. You’ve felt yourself slipping down into old habits recently and you need to avoid all temptation. You’re more than pissed at him for his behavior, yet that stupid warm fluttery feeling in your stomach doesn’t show any signs of disappearing.

The bathroom door creaks open, letting light pour into the bedroom. Your back is to the doorway, shielding him from your view, yet you can’t seem to get comfortable. You toss and turn a little, settling on the other side. It’s dark in the room, but there’s enough light for you to just barely make him out.

He stands at the open closet doors, digging around in his bag. His hair has a sheen to it from the water. It’s a floppy tousled mess on the top of his head. You think about how you love his hair a little bit longer. It’s grown out a little. He would probably argue he needs a haircut and that his hair looks unprofessional like this. You love the little bit of wave that settles into his hair as it dries.

Your eyes dart down to the towel that hangs low on his hips. He has a hand firmly gripping the side, keeping it closed. He pulls his clothes out of the bag and shuts the closet, your eyes locking onto the way his back muscles glide and contract under the skin.

Just as he turns to walk back into the bathroom to change, you force your eyes closed to give the impression you’re sleeping. You turn back onto the other side so that you don’t have to watch Hotch any longer. A few minutes later you feel the bed sink and bounce a little with his weight. He pulls the covers up to his neck wordlessly and you both settle into the mattress.

The darkness of the room weighs on you. The stuffy room and complete silence are suffocating you. You can’t fall asleep. You flip over onto your stomach, then onto your back, then onto your left side. No position feels right. It’s too humid in the room. You feel like you’re sweating a little. You kick the covers down a little, swinging one leg on top of the comforter hoping to cool down.

You don’t know how much time passes like this, constantly squirming and wiggling. Your face itches, your hair is in your face, you’re too hot. You can’t relax. You flip onto your right side and end up just a few inches away from Hotch’s body.

You let your eyes flutter open and look over his sleeping form. Even in sleep, his face doesn’t relax. He still has that crease in his brow from frowning so much. His left hand rests on his chest, the other resting listlessly at his side. His chest rises and falls slowly. You watch as the plain white t-shirt strains a little with each inhale.

He should look peaceful like this. Sleep should provide him some respite from the stress of the job, yet he’s tense. It’s not just his furrowed brow, but the hand at his side is clenched in a fist. You know that if you don’t turn your back to him you will never look away. He’s enchanting. Every one of his features is beautiful to you.

His heavy brow, his pointed nose, his strong jaw. His face is angular and harsh, and the fact that he’s never relaxed doesn’t help diminish this cold exterior, however, the best word to describe Aaron is beautiful. You know you should look away, but you don’t. He’s so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him. You can smell the shampoo and aftershave on him. Something about looking at Aaron sleeping next to you brings you peace. You’re not sure how long you lie there, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, but it feels like an eternity before exhaustion starts to finally set in.

You start to slip away, drifting to sleep when Hotch starts tossing and turning next to you. Every few seconds his body gives a little jolt. You try to ignore it, however, Hotch doesn’t settle.

You sit up to look at him, only able to see him because of the small crack in the curtains that lets the glow of the city lights into your room. He’s on his side, his back to you. His body is curled up into a ball. He lets out a small groan in his sleep. His face is contorted into a harsh frown. He gives another jolt and you realize what’s happening. He’s dreaming. More accurately, he’s having a nightmare.

You wait a few seconds, hoping it will go away on its own. You watch as his chest rises dramatically, a small strangled gasp tumbling from his lips. You feel sick watching him suffer like this. You reach your hand out, not making contact with his shoulder. Your hand hovers there for another second. Should you wake him? He will surely be embarrassed. He won’t be willing to talk about it. He’ll be dismissive with you, brush you off.

Another small gasp from Hotch. You can’t let him continue to suffer. You place your hand on his warm shoulder, shaking him gently. “Hotch.” You squeeze a little but he doesn’t rouse from sleep, the nightmare still running its course.

You give him a more firm squeeze and shake, “Hotch, wake up.” You raise the volume of your voice, “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

It all happens so fast. He flips you onto your back, sitting on your hips, crushing you into the mattress with his weight. One hand wraps firmly around your neck, pressing down with bruising strength, smashing your trachea. You can’t breathe. That’s when you feel it. The chill of the gun pressed to your temple. His other hand is wrapped firmly around his firearm.

You claw at the hand around your neck, scratching his skin, trying to choke out anything to get him to stop. His hand wraps around your throat tighter, your eyes burning and your head pounding with the pressure. Your attempts to speak devolve into hoarse screams. The panic begins to set in. Your boss is going to kill you right here without hesitation.

You can’t get him off of you, he’s too heavy. Your hips are screaming in pain as he crushes you further into the mattress. He’s squeezing you on both sides with his knees, sending a stinging shock through your stomach. You start to feel lightheaded as you struggle for air.

The fear is still coursing through Hotch, as it takes a second for him to realize that you’re not an attacker. It takes a second for him to realize that he’s choking you with his gun pressed to your head, ready to blow your brains across the pristine white pillows of your hotel room.

The realization completely transforms his face. The angry frown melts away and his eyes grow wide. “Oh my god,” The words tumble out with a shaky breath. He tosses his gun off to the side, wanting to get it as far away as possible. He releases the grip on your neck and moves off of you.

Air rushes into your lungs. The collision with the carpet burns your knees when you roll away from him and collapse onto the floor. You cough violently, bringing a hand up to your throat, rubbing at the sore spots. That’s going to leave a mark.

“Oh my god,” Hotch’s voice is clear now and you see him come around to kneel beside you. His hands hover in the air near your body. He wants to help you up, and make sure you’re okay but he’s also wary not to touch you, “Oh my god, are you okay? I’m so sorry. God, I’m sorry.” His voice is hoarse and ragged like he’s on the verge of tears.

You cough again and try to clear your throat, “I’m okay,” You nod and look up at him, “Are you okay?” You glance over him, scanning his body. You see scratch marks on his wrist from where you were clawing at him. You reach for his hand, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He shakes his head, a small scoff erupting, “You’re apologizing?” He places a hand on your back and practically lifts you off the floor, helping you onto the bed. He flicks on the lamp on the bedside table, “I’m the one who hurt you. God, I could’ve…” He trails and looks over at his gun.

You sit on the edge of the bed and he crouches in front of you, “But you didn’t. I’m okay.” You nod. You don’t have time to process what just happened or the fact that your boss was about to blow your brains out because all your mind wants you to do is worry about him. His breathing hasn’t steadied. His heart is still racing. That fear still lingers in his eyes.

“I’m sorry I was having a bad dream,” He shakes his head.

“A nightmare. I know. I was trying to wake you up,” You reach for his hand again and look at the bloody scratches on his wrist. He pulls his hands away.

“Stop worrying about that. You needed to snap me out of it,” His voice is so small. He’s terrified of himself right now. You’re scared of who he was just a minute ago, but the Hotch in front of you now is so damaged. So scared of his own mind. You rub your neck, feeling the bruising growing under the skin. “Let me look at you,” He moves your hands away.

His calloused fingers are soft on the skin of your neck as he traces over the red marks from his hands. You wince a little as he surveys your skin, “God, I’m so sorry,” There’s a break in his voice again. He clears his throat, hoping to rid of the scratchy, raw emotion in his tone.

You reach forward and cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you, “Hotch, I’m okay. It was a bad dream and you got scared.” You’re not okay. Your body is screaming out in pain. Fear runs rampant through your body. However, your mind takes over, forcing you to focus on Hotch. You can handle pain. Bruises will fade. What Hotch is suffering with is from wounds that don’t, won’t ever heal.

It’s hard to explain, but this moment seemingly connects you to Hotch more than ever. It reveals just how much you two share. The nightmares that rule the world behind your closed eyes are unspeakable and terrifying. You understand why he woke up ready to fight, ready to save himself or even save someone else.

Hotch doesn’t speak, he just looks into your eyes. There’s something behind those brown eyes as he searches your face. He’s still trying to make sure you’re okay. Like said, you’re not okay. Your neck is sore, your head is pounding, and you almost lost your life in a dark hotel room in the middle of the night. But it’s Hotch.

The dream tormented him and felt real enough that he woke up terrified. “Thank you for… for waking me up.”

“Of course,” You rub his cheek with your thumb slowly. “You know you can trust me, Hotch.” He leans into your touch.

“I know,” He sighs before pulling away and standing up, “I’m going to get you ice,” He tilts your chin up again, looking over your neck and face.

About an hour and a heated argument with the hotel kitchen staff later, you and Hotch are sitting on the bed. He holds a napkin full of ice to your neck as you spoon ice cream into your mouth. The room is dim, only the bedside lamp is illuminated. “Thanks for the ice cream.” Your voice is still a bit scratchy but it’s getting better. You smile, looking at Hotch. His brows are furrowed and he won’t look up at you, only focused on the bruising on your neck that gets deeper in color by the minute.

“You should’ve gotten tea for your voice,” He shakes his head. You shrug and scoop up more ice cream and hold it out for Hotch. He glances at the spoon and then at you, “Seriously?”

“Sweet things always cheer me up,” You wait for another second, hoping he’ll take you up on the offer. You roll your eyes, turning the spoon back towards yourself, cleaning it off. There’s a long silence in which Hotch continues to avoid meeting your eyes. You place the bowl on the nightstand, “Hotch.” You say sternly.

“Y/N,” He mocks your tone, dabbing at your neck more.

You push his hands away from you, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” He gives a short, humorless laugh. “How I almost killed you?”

“The nightmare.” You clarify. His face softens a bit as you continue “I meant what I said. You can trust me, with anything,”

He lets out a strained sigh, “We should try to get some sleep. You should get some sleep. I’ll call for a cot.” He moves to get up from the bed but you reach out to grab his wrist, not letting him move.

“Aaron,” His voice slips from your lips without a second thought. He looks at you with something in his eye you haven’t seen in a while. There’s this intense admiration and care in those eyes of his. The kind of look that melts you from the inside out. The kind of look that has you falling into him all over again. Stoking a burnt-out fire. Pushing around the simmering coals. All you need is a small spark and you’d be set aflame again. “Neither of us is going to be able to sleep tonight.”

He settles next to you once again. “It starts the same every single night.” He continues to gently press the ice to your neck as he speaks. He describes the nightmare to you.

“It’s all so realistic. It feels more like a memory than a dream. I run into the house and it’s eerily quiet. There’s blood on the staircase, blood along the banister. All the lights are off. I grab the flashlight from the kitchen. My heart is racing. And my… my cheeks are wet. I’m crying.” Hotch’s eyes don’t ever meet yours. You remove the ice from your neck, prying it out of his hand. Your hand takes the place of the makeshift ice pack. His fingers are freezing.

“I know she’s dead already. I’m too late, but I keep going. I keep going because I know he’s in my house. I know he’s in my house and my son is in there with him.” He zeroes in on your hands intertwined. The way your thumb rubs into the back of his hand. He notices how soft your hands are in contrast to his own. Hardened calluses from where his firearm usually sits in his grip. Dark coarse hair coating the back of his hand and his fingers. Your hand is so small in his.

“So I keep going, but I know what I’m about to find. I know that when I walk up those stairs…” A voice crack. He stumbles over his words.

You squeeze his hand, “You don’t have to,” You nod. That’s when he looks up at you. His eyes are red and shining, threatening to spill tears.

“Once I get to the bedroom, I see her. She’s just on the floor. Her shoe is off, probably from running from him. She’s covered in blood and her eyes are open. She’s staring at me. And though she’s dead, those eyes of hers follow me everywhere,” He sucks in a shaky breath. “She always had such beautiful eyes but something is missing now. Life is missing from them. This is where the dream starts to diverge from reality.”

Your heart sinks at the thought that every thus far is the true reality of what has happened to him. He chews at his lip a little, “Haley calls to me and tells me to go save Jack. She’s screaming for him. She’s screaming that I’m too late. So I run to my office and open the bin, but he’s not there. I can’t find my son. I can’t find Foyet. Then I hear him crying out for me, ‘Daddy, daddy!’ but everywhere I look, I can’t find him. And then the screaming stops. It’s silent. Yet I don’t stop running around the house. But they’re nowhere to be found. I’m too late. My wife is gone, my son is gone, and their killer is gone.”

There’s not much to say. You wipe the tears off of his cheeks and jaw where they have trailed down his face. Your fingers run over the smooth skin. His face is so warm in your hands. “I’m so sorry, Aaron,” His first name comes easier to you. It felt foreign at first, that night out in front of your apartment. “But nothing is going to happen to Jack. You’ll keep him safe.”

“That’s what I always said about Haley,” He places his hand over yours, closing your hand between his palms. “You would think that with Foyet dead, I beat him. He won. He’s dead and I’m alive, yet he won. He wanted to ruin me, destroy me, leave an irreversible mark on my life.”

“Your monster is dead, yet he haunts you still. His impact on your life is ever-present. You can’t even get away when you sleep.” You pull your hand away from Hotch’s, massaging away the knots in your back and neck. “And you start to convince yourself that you don’t deserve to be happy.”

“You seem like you speak from experience,” You can only manage a nod as he continues, “The kind of love I had for Haley…” He exhales slow, “It’s a once in a lifetime kind of love. I screwed up. That means I don’t get a second chance. I don’t deserve one.”

You realize then, that no matter how much history you share with Hotch in the past, there is never going to be a future. You know that you should comfort him, tell him that it’s not true. You should reassure him that he can get a second chance at love, but you’re not quite sure you believe that yourself. For all the hurt that your failings have caused, you’re not sure you deserve a second chance to be happy.

“Do you do that often?” You break the comfortable silence.

“Do what?” He tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at the question.

“Dwell on the past.” You ask again.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t think about all the mistakes I’ve made in my past,” He sucks in a small breath and glances down at his hands. He rubs around his ring finger that now lacks a ring, reminiscing about his love for Haley.

You want to ask if he thinks about you. You want to ask if he regrets letting go of you, but you don’t. “We have that in common.”

Hotch wants to tell you that includes what he did to you all those years ago. If he could go back in time and change it he would, but he can’t. He understands why your guard is up around him. He knows you gave him your heart just for him to turn around say goodbye. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it.” You push two hands through your tangled, knotty hair.

“So what happened?” Hotch senses that you don’t want to talk about it, knowing it will bring up bad memories, but you have to talk about it.

“I was… closer to Ace than I might’ve let on,” His face contorts a little at that and you know you’re going to catch some heat for lying to the team earlier. “I was on the team that had direct contact with him. We took turns talking to him, communicating, negotiating. I thought I had gotten him to stop. He surrendered.”

“He lied,” Hotch fills in the story.

“I remember hearing a click of a button and then the whole earth shook. It was deafening. My ears were ringing. Everyone was screaming and crying. All those people lost their lives because I couldn’t do my job right,” Your heart picks up in pace as you think about how you let the same thing happen today, “So the FBI dismissed me from my position. Covered up the entirety of their involvement in the event. Cited it as a random, unpredictable terrorist attack.”

“They put all the blame on you,” He continues to pick up where you leave off.

“The worst part was that every day the sun still rose and set as nothing happened. But everything had happened. I had lost everything. I couldn’t save all those people. I can’t even save myself these days.” The tears sting at the corners of your eyes, and you curse yourself for crying in front of Hotch again. This time you fight off the tears.

“The FBI has never really cared much about the people who make up the agency. Their main focus has always been on maintaining the agency’s image.”

“They did get me months of free therapy,” You try to joke but Hotch barely cracks a smile. There’s a pause before what he says next.

“Being in love is not a weakness, you know?” He sighs softly, “I know, in the past, I have shown you otherwise, but love is the greatest motivator. Having someone you love to fight for, makes everything you do here feel significant.”

Hotch thinks you’ve grown jaded and numb to love. He’s thoroughly convinced you still hate him. Little does he know, everything you’ve done recently has been to keep him from getting hurt. The secrecy about your stalker, the lack of connection with the team, the lies about Ace, it’s all out of fear of retaliation from this obsessive friend of yours.

“I don’t have anyone left to love or to love me,” Your eyes dart down at your hands in your lap, picking at your nails and cuticles, “No friends, no family.”

“That’s not true.” He dismisses you almost immediately.

“Who do I have to fight for, Aaron?” You have an answer in mind.

He opens his mouth as if to give you an answer, but he closes it, reaching forward to tilt your head up. He cringes at the number he’s done on your neck. “I can’t believe I…” He trails, rubbing his thumb over the bruises.

Hotch is a bit taller than you, even sitting on the bed like this, so when he tilts your face up to inspect your neck, all you can see is his face. You study every inch of it, the way those analytical eyes look over your purple skin. “I’m okay.” You reassure him and this time, you mean it.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” He stops inspecting your neck, but keeps your face tilted up so he can look down at you. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, “I’m tired of hurting you.”

“I’m tired of being hurt,” You practically whisper. His face is so close to yours. He still smells like a mixture of shampoo and aftershave. It’s not overwhelming or overpowering, but intoxicating. The room has a warm glow that brings out the rich golden tones in his eyes. He glances down at your lips. His face relaxes more and more as he looks at you.

“Earlier, you almost said something,” Hotch’s tone is slow and sultry. He’s thinking carefully about his words, “You said you were tired of pretending.”

“Yeah, I was just… I was having a panic attack,” You stutter out a lackluster excuse, not breaking eye contact.

“Come on, Y/N,” Hotch’s voice is breathy and light. A smile teases at the corners of his mouth, “You and I both know what you meant, what you wanted to say. And I…” He trails, “I’m—” It’s like the words continue to get caught in his throat.

He doesn’t need to speak. You’re both masters of decoding the other’s silence. He knows what you meant to say. You meant to say you’re tired of pretending you’re not falling for him all over again. You’re tired of pretending that you don’t care about him. What his silence tells you is that he’s equally tired of pretending. He’s tired of fighting off the urge to hold you.

His face is so close to yours. If you just inch a little closer, you can press your lips to his. You want to kiss him. You want him to press you close to him and never let go. You know just how amazing Hotch can make you feel. Yet you know that he has no capacity for any more love in his life. Are you ready to accept that sacrifice yet again? You’ve fallen for him once before, just to have him unable to give you the love you deserve. Will history repeat itself? You’re not sure.

You can’t predict the future, and maybe it’s inevitable that history repeats itself, so there’s no use in fighting it. Before you can question it for another minute you grip at the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer to you. Your eyes flutter closed anticipating the warmth of his mouth on yours.

Hotch’s phone buzzes across the room. Both of you whip your heads around to look at the source of the sound. He groans frustratedly and moves to the edge of the bed to reach for it, “Hotchner.” Just a second ago so personal and intimate, his whole demeanor and tone have switched to purely professional Unit Chief Hotchner. “Thank you. My team and I will be there as soon as possible.”

“What’s going on?” You swing your legs over the side of the bed, ready to spring into action and get dressed. Hotch is quick to pull on a pair of slacks and throw a button-down on.

He points a finger at you, “I don’t want you joining us until you feel better. You get some rest, join us in the morning when you’re ready,” He pulls a tie from a hanger in the closet, hangs it around his neck, quickly tying it.

“Hotch, I told you, I’m fine. You need my help out there,” You argue, throwing your hands up in frustration.

“A survivor from the explosion is awake and ready to give an eyewitness description of our unsub. Equipped with that, we can build the profile up. Find this guy.” Hotch leans against the deks to slide on socks and his dress shoes, “But we can start all that without you. Your health is more important.”

“Hotch I—”

“That’s an order, agent. Stay here.” He points a finger at you, scooping up his suit jacket from the chair and his firearm from the floor, “I’ll leave a car here for you to take when you’re rested and ready. Only when you rest.” He commands before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

You lay back against the headboard, trying to relax, but the thought of your team out there putting in work while you get to rest doesn’t feel right. You pull the blankets off and grab clothes from your bag. It’s not quite cold enough yet in New York for a turtleneck but you need something to cover up the extensive bruises.

You snatch your gun, bag, and keys from the room and leave. You step out of the hotel and hold your hand out, feeling the rain. You’ve always loved the rain. It’s like the sky is crying and god knows you’ve cried enough. Tonight, you have the sky crying for you.

You reach into your pocket for the keys but a wave of heat flushes your face. A loud crack.

You’ve always been grateful that in your time as an agent you’ve never been shot. You’ve fired a gun hundreds of times, maybe even thousands if you include training and time in the academy. Never has a bullet ripped through your skin, burning a line of fiery pain in its path. Tearing through flesh and muscle, staining your clothes and skin with blood. You’ve always been happy to know that you’ve never been shot. Never experienced that pain.

You’ve always been grateful that in your time as an agent you’ve never been shot. That is until now.

Chapter Text

"Hundreds of buildings across the city are out of power as yet another explosion rocks the city. The bomb was reported to have gone off just over an hour ago." The television set rambles on in the background of the crowded police station.

The team bustles around one another, trying to coordinate with the frantic police officers. "Do we have any more information about the location of the bomb?" JJ walks over to stand with Hotch, staring up at the television set.

"It's close. Midtown. That's all we know." Hotch's responses are short, clipped. His mind has already traveled to the worst possible case. He's just waiting for his team to catch up with his thinking. The FBI has made their presence abundantly clear in the city. There's no way that the unsub wouldn't know about the team. They gave a press conference just the other day. Correction. You gave the press conference with him. Your face on that TV. How could he not have thought about this? The press conference clearly made you a target.

"Injuries?" Prentiss looks around at the team, finally taking note of the one missing member. Hotch watches as each member of the team starts to note your profound absence.

"Reports of a car explosion near midtown, right outside the Hotel Pennsylvania. Currently, police have evacuated the area and are looking for the cause of the explosion and any possible victims." The television volume is as loud as it goes but the bustling police station drowns it out.

"Wait, wait. Did they just say right outside the Hotel Pennsylvania?" Rossi speaks loudly, trying to get everyone's attention. The team inches closer to the TV. The precinct is still too loud.

"Hotch..." Morgan trails, glancing over at Hotch. Hotch's eyes are glued to the television. The muscles in his jaw tense and shift under the skin. He told you to stay at the hotel. He wouldn't let you leave. He thought it was safer there. Why would he think that you'd be safe anywhere but by his side? "Please tell me that she's not still at the hotel." Morgan's voice drops low as if speaking too loudly will make it any less true.

"Everyone quiet." Hotch's commanding voice bellows through the station. He ignores Morgan's question. The commotion mellows down to a low-level buzz of walkie-talkies and muttered directives.

Hotch takes a step closer, trying to hear exactly what the reporters are saying. "Firefighters and ambulances have been dispatched to the hotel. The entirety of the block has been shut down so plan on alternate routes. Traffic will be heavy in the area. Officials have relayed that there is no immediate danger, no need to flee the city in a panic. This is an isolated event. Possibly just a faulty gas leak in a car."

"Come on, come on," Hotch mutters under his breath.

"They're not saying anything about injuries," Prentiss says, almost reading Hotch's mind.

"As of right now, there are no reported injuries. The car seems to have exploded at the perfect moment when no pedestrians were close by. We will continue to keep you updated as we hear more from the authorities," The newscaster signs off and the feed cuts to a commercial break. Hotch wastes no time.

He reaches for his phone, dialing your number, pressing it to his ear. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. "Hi! You've reached—" Hotch hangs up. He rings you again. He waits, holding his breath, waiting for the sound of your sleep-ridden voice. He's hoping you went back to sleep, sleeping off the events of the night. He's waiting for you to pick up the phone and groan into it, the way he knows you do when someone wakes you from a nap on the jet. The way you groan and swat their hands away always has him suppressing a small laugh.

He can practically picture it. Even after all these years he still remembers what it was like to wake up next to you, though it wasn't often. You hardly stayed the night with him way back when, but he remembers the way you'd squeeze your eyes shut in response to any light. You'd stretch and moan in that delicious way that had him aching to push into you before you could even mutter a good morning. He wants that with you. He's realizing more and more with each passing day. He wants to wake up next to you. He wants to hold you again. He wants to claim your body, own every moan, and make you come so hard you see stars. He wants to comfort you, wipe your tears, be there every time the world feels like it's collapsing in on itself.

He would dedicate his life to being the one who makes sure your world keeps spinning. You can't be hurt. You have to be okay. He needs to get his second chance with you.

"Nothing?" Reid accepts Hotch's stern, pale visage as a sign of bad news.

"Hi! You've—" Hotch hangs up again, "Fuck," he mutters under his breath. Reid's eyes widen at the curse. Hotch doesn't have a foul mouth and he never ever curses on the job. "Reid, JJ, Rossi, I want you to stay here running point on the crisis response. Send out every available team. We are catching this son of a bitch, and we are catching him tonight. No one sleeps, no one stops, no one rests until we find him."

No one on the team questions that. He doesn't need to give that order when it's one of you in the crosshairs. There's no letting up, no sleeping, no stopping until there's justice.

He grabs the keys to the SUV and nods to Morgan and Prentiss to follow him. "Hotch, we don't know if we're going to be able to get close to the explosion, or even the hotel. The first responders are going to want to clear the area before we go—"

Hotch doesn't let him finish that sentence, "I don't care about protocol. That is one of us. That is a member of my team in danger or stuck in that hotel."

"We don't know that she's in danger—" Prentiss steps between the two men, feeling the tensions rising rapidly.

Hotch turns his piercing gaze onto Prentiss, "So your expert opinion is that the bomber that we've been trying to catch has just conveniently managed to bomb a car right outside the hotel that we are staying in when one of our team members is there alone and vulnerable? Just a coincidence?"

Hotch's tone is sharper than he's ever taken with the team. He never loses his calm composure. But he needs you to be okay. Diplomacy be damned. The world, him included, has thrown challenge after challenge into your path. You've suffered more than anyone ever should.

"Let's just..." Morgan reaches for Prentiss' arm pulling her back a little. Neither Morgan nor Prentiss have been known to be capable of holding their tongues around Hotch. They don't let him boss them around beyond the scope of reason. "Let's just see how close we can get. I'll keep trying her phone."

Hotch knows he's out of line. He's cracking down on his team out of fear. It's unnecessary. Except that it's entirely necessary. He would burn down the world if it meant keeping you safe.

Hotch holds no punches. He drives as fast as possible, white-knuckled and blasting the sirens. He weaves in and out of traffic, catching sight of the way that even Morgan grips the seat tightly. You have to be okay. If you're not okay and he let you stay at the hotel... He shakes his head hoping to rattle away the thousands of hypothetical negative outcomes. It doesn't work. They persist.

You groan and open your eyes, your vision blurry. Someone stands in front of you. There are two people, actually. Wait... maybe just one? You can't seem to decipher what is double vision and what is reality. You go to sit up but the hand of the people—person pushes you back a little. The first thing you notice is your headache.

Your head is splintering down the middle, searing with pain when you try to look around and note your surroundings. You're in an alleyway across the street from the hotel. The charred remains of the SUV you were supposed to get into are being doused with water from a firetruck.

Then you feel your lungs on fire. You can't get a thorough good breath in. You begin to assess the damage. Clear concussion from the way your head is pounding. Smoke inhalation. You look at the fiery skeleton of an SUV. Explosion. Did you explode? You shake your head from side to side hoping it'll jog your memory. Your neck is sore. You go to reach your left hand up to touch your neck. Pain shoots up and down your arm. You turn your head. Four—no, two hands are pressing something red against your shoulder. No. Your shoulder is causing the red. You were shot.

"Ma'am please don't try to move." The voice of the double person speaks to you. You try to focus on them but it seems like your body is finally waking up. This means the adrenaline is fading and your arm is searing with pain.

"I need..." You try to speak. Your voice cracks violently and another paramedic with a stretcher comes into view, "Aaron," You stutter out and hiss as they try to get you onto the stretcher.

"This is going to hurt, a lot, but I need to keep pressure on that wound," The female paramedic says softly. "Can you tell me your name? Keep talking to me." She speaks slowly as they lift you onto a gurney and wheel you towards the ambulance.

"You're very cute," You note as the double vision clears a little. The woman smiles and shakes her head.

"The wound looks like it's through and through," She nods before grabbing some gauze in the back of the ambulance and placing the entirety of her body weight onto your shoulder wound.

You let out a blood-curdling shriek of pain as every single nerve in your body lights on fire. Your head goes heavy and your vision spins. You worry you might pass out. Or throw up. Or both.

"Try and breathe through it. I'm sorry," The woman says softly and keeps holding pressure, "My name is May, can you tell me yours?"

"May, you are by far the prettiest paramedic I have ever met," You grit your teeth, hoping to flirt your way through the pain. You give her your name, "I need my credentials, I'm FBI." You look around for your bag. "My bag. My phone." You glance at her and try to sit up, but you're weak, and her weight on your arm keeps you from moving at all.

You get dizzy again and lay back down, your head just barely slamming on the cushioned gurney, but the contact seems to rattle your brain around like a pinball. "You're in the ambulance. We didn't retrieve any belongings at the scene."

That immediately draws your attention, "Son of a bitch," You curse. May's eyes snap to you, looking over your body, thinking the curses flow out as an admission of pain, "He has everything. My files, my FBI badge, my credentials," You fumble at your side, "He has my fucking gun!" You start to sit up again and gather a bit of strength to shift May off of you. It doesn't last long, however, because you screech out in pain as she attempts to push you down.

"I'm sure that your team will track down whoever it was. Aaron? Is that who did this?" May's face is full of concern. She calls out something to the other paramedic as they hop into the front of the ambulance and start driving.

"No," You correct through gritted teeth. You slam your eyes closed as nausea rolls through the pit of your stomach at the pain, "He needs to know I'm okay." You pause and correct the line of thought, "My team needs to know I'm okay. Please radio the police, anyone you can get in contact with. I'm an eyewitness and I need to help the team."

A small laugh erupts out of the tiny paramedic whose strength is insane for the way she presses on your shoulder, "You are one stubborn woman." She shakes her head, "What needs to happen is that you let us take care of you. You're losing a lot of blood and if you keep trying to move you might permanently damage that arm. I don't think you want that, do you?"

"No ma'am," You grumble, eliciting another small laugh from her.

"Good, now the authorities worry about catching the person who did this and you let us worry about fixing you up. Put all your mental energy into staying with me. Can you do that?" She removes one hand from your shoulder to gather up a few more gauze pads and press them into the wound. Every rock and bump of the ambulance sends waves of splintering pain from your head down into your neck and your shoulder down your entire arm. You close your eyes, the lights inside the ambulance aggravating the pounding in your head.

You rack your brain for the memories of what happened after you left the hotel. It was raining. You remember sticking your palm out to feel the rain. You were happy. You love the rain. Hotch was... Where's Hotch? Oh god is he hurt too? Your eyes shoot open and you go to sit up but the paramedic's weight keeps you pressed firmly down. You don't have enough strength to get up anyway. Your memory is terrible.

Start over. Go back. You let your eyes flutter closed again.

The nightmare. Hotch had a nightmare. You comforted him. You told him about your past. And then... Then Hotch seemed to want to admit something to you. He was going to tell you that... What was he going to tell you? And then he left. Why did he leave?

Deep breath. Reset.

He left because of the case. New information in the case. Why didn't you go with him? Your neck. Your neck was sore. He choked you. By accident. You stepped out of the hotel into the rain. You love the rain. You were happy. It's raining. Hotch was safe with the team following a lead. You remember the heat on your face. That must of been the explosion. Then why does only your shoulder feel like it's in searing pain?

A gun. You stumbled. The ground shook. The explosion blew you back into the building. You hit your head on the brick. You were slumped on the ground when he approached. Someone in a hood... who? He raised his gun. You didn't have time to think. He shot you. But that was in front of the hotel... right?

The details get fuzzy. You start over. Walk through every step over and over again.

He shot you. He bent down in front of you. His breath was hot on your face. You remember that clearly. He said something... something about breaking rules? The gun at your face again. He hit you with it. Your good hand instinctively goes up to your temple. You wince feeling a large bump forming on the side you remember he hit.

The details get blurry again but you try to implement your own team's tactics. Focusing on the other qualities of the moment. What did it smell like? Smoke. Smoke and blood. What did you hear? Distant sirens. The crackle of the fire consuming the SUV. And his voice. You knew his voice. You weren't scared, you were angry. But you couldn't move. Everything was in slow motion. Sluggish. Two hits to the head inhibited you, slowed you down.

You got up and collapsed in the alleyway... no, that's not right. You were dragged. Your legs. That's the itch and ache in them. They must be scratched and scraped from being dragged. He grabbed you by your collar and dragged you along. He said one last thing before dropping you to the ground. It was weird... poetic maybe? It sounded like a riddle. Or maybe it just sounded like nonsense to your clearly concussed brain.

You repeat the details over and over to yourself. You can't forget them. You won't. Your team is relying on this information. This is to catch your unsub. Even after the ambulance comes to a stop. Even while the doctors poke and prod you. Even after they cut your clothes from your body.

You hardly listen to the doctors treating you. Running over the memories from the scene. Memory of an event degrades as the retention interval increases. You need to continue to recall the memories as much as possible without changing the details.

For every minute you sit in the hospital, the adrenaline rush has worn off. You've been given something for the pain but your brain still feels like it's been dropped into a blender and then poured back into your skull. It's hard to maintain a coherent line of thought.

A small knocking on the frame of your bed pulls you from your retrieval of the memories. The paramedic from earlier gives you a warm smile. "Hi," She nods at you, taking a step closer surveying your injuries. The bleeding from your shoulder has slowed but the doctors are still discussing whether or not it necessitates surgery. "May, remember?" She points at herself, "I was the one sitting on top of you inflicting maximum pain to keep you awake and alive." Her tone is light and teasing.

Your lips are cracked and your mouth feels dry as you open it to speak, "I remember. Thank you."

"I'm off shift for the night but I just wanted to check on you." She takes a small step closer, treating you as if you're a cornered animal ready to bolt at any quick movements. She thinks you're scared. She thinks you're traumatized. She thinks this is the worst thing to ever have happened to you. "I also hear you haven't been speaking or cooperating with the doctors much. Well, when I heard that I thought it had to be a lie since you were so friendly and cordial as I was smothering your body into the gurney."

Your lips twitch in a small polite grin that disappears just as quickly as it's formed, "I need a pen and paper."

"I'm pretty sure that's not great for your burgeoning concussion," She clucks her tongue at you in disapproval, leaning her hands on the railing on the side of your bed.

"Please, May," You croak, "I need to remember everything."

She removes her hands and leans into her hip a little, crossing her arms over her chest. "If I get you a pen and paper, will you at least give the hospital someone to contact for you?"

You nod in agreement. May steps out of the room and returns with a few blank sheets of printer paper and a hospital-branded pen. You look at the name: Mount Sinai Hospital. You lapse into silence, frantically writing down the entire account, exactly as you remember it. There are few blank moments. You can't really describe your attacker's face. You vaguely remember his voice. You can't remember what he said to you.

Realization dawns on you as you continue writing. It was him. He muttered something about rules, about breaking rules. You think back to your conversation with Hotch in the hotel room. You told him how close you were with Ace. You told him about the explosion.

The explosions. The voice. Ace. You had your suspicions about Ace's survival. But to see him right in front of you like that? Given your memory is still hazy, you can barely make out the features of his face. You never got to see what he looked like back then. You never got to put a face to the name of the person who ruined everything for you. The letters, the taunts. They've been from him. There's no sliver of doubt any longer. The reality of the threats sinks in. This was his way of following through on his threats. You reveal information about him, to anyone, and he retaliates with violence. You can't put anyone else in the crosshairs. This is your fight. Your battle. Protect the ones you care about. Then you can protect yourself. They come first. The team comes first.

You go back to the statement, crossing out any identifying information about Ace. You can't tell your team about him. It's clear from your hospitalization status that he won't hesitate to retaliate. He makes good on his threats.

As you write your statement, you see the doctor and a few others step into the curtained-off area you are temporarily calling a room. They start to say a few things about prepping you for surgery. It's minimally invasive. The surgeon says the word arthroscopy and you almost write that down on the paper instead of your memories. You fold up the paper and hold it out to May so that the nurses can start prepping you for the surgery.

She glances down at the paper, confusion evident on her dark features, "I'm going to need you to write down that emergency contact."

"I told you who to contact." You wince as the nurses remove the small bandage from your shoulder, getting ready to shave a small area for the surgery.

"Was I supposed to call every police station hoping to get in contact with the FBI?" She teases, "Plus you weren't very coherent."

"I wasn't?" You could've sworn you were speaking clearly to her in the ambulance.

"No," She says sadly, "Who can we call for you?"

You open your mouth but pause, "The 14th precinct. Tell them to send over an officer to pick up that written statement. Assure them that I'm fine and that the team needs to stay on the case. Tell them I don't need anyone to come here."

May raises an eyebrow and you let out an exasperated sigh, reaching forward for the papers. You scribble down a note on the front of them.

Stay on the case. I'm okay. Promise. Just some scrapes and bruises. Catch this motherfucker.

You hand the papers back, "14th precinct. Tell them to send an officer. Not anyone on my team."

May nods and takes a few steps back, letting the nurse flit around you, checking the machines, unplugging you from them, and setting up the bed to be transported. "Stay safe, firecracker," She teases playfully and pulls the curtain aside to leave.

You lay your head back against the pillows just as the nurses start to move the gurney. More faces surround your bed. You keep your eyes up at the ceiling. Through the doors. Into the operating room. The last thing you see is the gas mask being placed over your face. You don't bother counting backward from ten as they instruct. There's no shot you'd get to one anyway.

"...tell Morgan I'm giving him authority...the investigation..."

You want to open your eyes but they feel crusted shut. You're just on the edge of consciousness. That in-between feeling where everything feels like you're dreaming. You try to track all the sounds in the room. There's a mechanical whirring noise coming from somewhere outside the room. The machine to your right beeps in time with what you think is your heartbeat.

"...shouldn't be alone right now..."

You keep your eyes shut, giving your brain a chance to catch up with the current situation before introducing the possibility of overwhelming visual stimuli. You start to catch more than bits and pieces of the conversation next to you. Hotch is pacing back and forth in a small section of the room. The sound of his suit shuffling as he moves his arms. His shoes click against the tile for a few seconds before stopping. A pause. Click click click. In the other direction. A pause. Click click click. Back the way he came.

The door opens. Someone steps in. "I need to check the wound dressings and her vitals."

"Of course. Thank you," You assume he nods in response. "Dave," Hotch lowers his voice as he speaks to Rossi, "I can't..." He lets out a breath, clearly searching for the words, "I don't want to leave her here to wake up alone. You and I both know the team can do this without me. You guys have done it before."

You can just faintly hear Rossi on the other end. "Without you? Sure. Without both of you? That's more challenging. Low morale here, Aaron. We're down two team members."

"I'm not going anywhere," Hotch's tone communicates finality. There's nothing up for discussion. "She's... She's going to be okay."

"You know as soon as she wakes she's going to kick you out. Tell you to get back to the job. Tell you to go catch this son of a bitch with us. She told you not to come."

A scoff from a bit closer to your bed. Hotch's foot pattern has changed. He's changed location in the room, "Yeah and the whole team was going to fight over who was going to come and stay with her."

"Riiiight. What was it you said? I think it was something like 'You all stay on the case. I'm going to her. That's an order.' Explain that to me, Aaron." You can hear the smile in Rossi's tone.

A sound to your left. You feel the nurse gently touching the tube that comes out of your arm, and adjusting the pulse monitor on your finger.

You start to open your eyes. The room would be entirely dark, except the bright lights of the city come through the open blinds, bathing the whole room in blue and yellow hues. Just that small amount of light is too much. Splitting pain behind your eyes. A strong throbbing sensation starts in your temple and grows with each second your eyes stay open. You let out a completely inhuman groan/whine of pain, squeezing your eyes shut again.

"The team can handle this." Hotch moves away from your bed. From the glimpse you catch, he has his back to you, looking out into the hallway through the doorway on your right. "She needs someone right now, Dave."

"She doesn't need someone, Aaron. She needs you."

You start to open your eyes again. Slower. Letting the light in a little bit at a time. "I'm pretty sure I need her mor—"

"Well look who's awake." The nurse coos softly and moves further into your line of vision. She adjusts your left arm so that it lies more solidly across your abdomen.

"Ow." You attempt to speak but it comes out as a squeak.

"I have to go. She's awake," Hotch murmurs into the phone. You want to turn your head to look at him but your neck feels like it's wooden. He tucks his phone inside his jacket. He steps into your line of vision. He has that deep crease in his brows and the top button of his shirt is undone. The tie is loosened and his hair looks like he's run his hands through it just about two dozen times.

You open your mouth to speak again but you can hardly manage a croak. Hotch reaches for the small pink plastic cup and pitcher by the bedside, pouring you a glass. He holds the straw up to your mouth. You can barely lean your head forward to sip from it. You lay your head all the way back on the pillows so he can set the cup aside.

There's a long pause as he looks at you expectantly, clearly waiting for you to say something, "Well you look like shit." You can finally communicate something other than strangled groans of pain. You grin at him, as much as you can manage with the ongoing pain, and you swear you see just the corner of his mouth turn up a tiny bit.

"Yeah, you've looked better too," He teases you right back. Just as quickly as that smile appeared on his lips, it disappears. He mutters your name, almost reverently, and you see something like guilt flit across his features, "I'm sor—"

"I swear to God if you apologize right now," You cut him off before he can even finish the sentence. The nurse who has been tending to you stifles a small laugh and glances between the two of you with a knowing smirk. Knowing in the sense that there's so much more that lies beneath the surface of an employee/boss relationship.

Hotch mutters your name under his breath again, yet this time it comes out more like a warning than a whisper, "You're a member of my team. I gave the order for you to stay at the hotel. This wouldn't have happened if—"

"Aaron." It's your turn to carry an air of finality. You're making it clear to him that this is not a point you will debate. It's not his fault. If anything, your injuries are your own fault. You shouldn't have spoken to him about Ace. You shouldn't have broken the rules. Who knows who could be next? Garcia? She's all alone in Quantico right now. Anyone could attack her.

You don't realize how panicked you are until you notice the frantic beeping of the monitor next to you. Hotch's eyes flit from you to the monitor. He takes a step towards your bed and raises a hand to your cheek but stops himself before his hand makes contact. He puts the hand back to his side. He says your name softly, "Look at me. You're okay." His voice is low and steady but there's a low level of panic and concern in his eyes.

"I'm okay," You affirm, "I'm okay." You repeat it again but he seems unconvinced.

Something unspoken passes across his features and just as you think he's about to vocalize whatever thought is bouncing around in his head the doctor steps into your room. "Glad to see you're awake." She gives you a warm smile, two residents trailing in behind her. "I just need to take a look at your surgical wounds."

Her gaze darts to Hotch and back to you, looking for approval, "He can stay." You nod before looking over at him, a slight hesitation in your tone, "You'll stay... right?" Your right hand fumbles to reach for his.

Hotch steps as close to the bed as possible, taking your hand in his. He intertwines his fingers tightly with your own and gives a gentle squeeze. It's a small show that he won't leave you.

The doctor steps around the other side of the bed. She looks over the small insertion wounds from the surgery and the sutures along the gunshot wound itself. You wince a little and look away. Hotch squeezes your hand again, silently encouraging you to look at him instead.

You look over, expecting him to be focusing in on your wounds as well but your eyes solidly meet his. You don't expect a smile or reassuring words, but his subtle nod is enough. One of the doctors replaces the bandaging over your shoulder, telling you to take it easy for the next few weeks. The surgeon reaches for your chin, gently tipping it back to assess the bruising on your neck.

"This bruising is a bit more advanced," The doctor notes, prodding gently.

You see hurt flash over Hotch's features and now it's his turn to flinch, however, unlike you, he doesn't look away. You know why. He's punishing himself. Forcing himself to look over what he's done to you. He does so the entire time the doctor examines you.

No intense physical activity. You'll need a sling for a week or so. You can resume desk job activities but no going out into the field for strenuous activities for at least a month. They want you to remain for another 24-48 hours to monitor your concussion. The doctor places a small pamphlet on your bedside table, something with some guidelines and rules for recovery. You thank her in a soft tone and Hotch does the same.

"I have some more questions for your surgeon," Hotch moves to follow the doctor out but you keep your hand firmly in his, keeping him locked in place. "I have to know how to keep you safe, get you better, how to help you."

"You can help me by staying," Your voice sounds uncharacteristically weak.

Hotch hesitates, turning to the door and then back to you. He nods and tries to pull away again. You squeeze his hand tight in yours. A low chuckle erupts from his throat, "I'm just getting the chair." He lifts your knuckles to his lips, "I promise you, I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls the chair to the edge of the bed. Silence overtakes the both of you. Hotch clears his throat in a way that has you knowing that there's no stopping what will come out of his mouth next. "I am... truly sorry. I should've been there to protect you." His voice has a rough edge to it. It crackles a little as he starts the next sentence, "I know that we have a tumultuous history, but please, believe me when I say this. I care for you, more than you know. Seeing you hurt... I've already hurt you so much. I can't bear it." He opens his mouth to speak again and you gently place your fingertips over his lips.

He tries to speak around them but you cut him off. "As much as I appreciate what you're saying, I can't focus on a goddamn word out of your mouth with this much light in the room." You shut your eyes unable to even find the energy to laugh softly.

Hotch's hand slips away as you keep your eyes closed. You hear him stride towards the window, pulling the blinds before crossing the room and shutting the door to the hallway. He takes his position in the chair next to you and takes your hand in his again, "It's as dark as I can get it in here."

You open your eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the low light so you can make out Hotch's features again. "It's not your fault this happened to me, Hotch. It's part of the risk of our job. We put our faces out there during that press conference. We knew that we were making ourselves targets."

"I know that," He agrees with you but shakes his head as he does it. "I don't have to like it, though. I keep hurting you and I want to stop." His eyes track over your whole body, taking in the extent of your injuries before looking at the purple and yellow bruising on your neck. He winces. But again, never tears his eyes away. "I don't know what... what's going on here. Between us. All I know is I have you here, in front of me again, and I know I don't want to let you go again."

The admission rattles you. Your mind fractures into a million separate lines of thought. You can't tell if that's just Hotch's effect on you or a result of the concussion.

"God I thought—" Hotch sucks in a shaky breath, "I thought I was going to get to the hotel and find your lifeless body on that sidewalk. I thought I was too late. I thought I was going to see them zipping you up in a body bag."

You don't know what to say. The two of you have been dancing this fine line. Just edging over the line into dangerous territory. Both of you have come so close to vocalizing this rekindled attraction. This rekindled care for the other. Something has always gotten in the way. A call, a case, a threatening note. Nothing is stopping Hotch now. There's no more veiled, double meaning, statements of affection. No small gestures that mean more than what they really are.

He's laying it all out. Explicitly.

You don't think before reacting. If you do, you're sure you will overthink it, talk yourself out of doing what you really want to. You wince and reach your injured arm across your body to tip Hotch's chin back up so he's looking at you, "But you didn't. I'm right here. It's not that easy to get rid of me, Hotch."

Instead of easing his worry, he just frowns and moves your injured arm back across your chest. "Aaron." He murmurs, rubbing the skin on the back of your hand lightly.

"What?"

"Please, just call me Aaron again," Aaron tips his head in a slight nod and you smile a little.

"Aaron." You test the name on your tongue and lay your head back against the pillows resting your neck.

His warm hand slides between your neck and the pillow, prodding his firm fingers into the spasming muscles, kneading and massaging out the tension. You bite your lip to stifle a groan as he does it. "I'm waiting for the part where you argue with me and yell at me to go back to help the team."

You let your eyes flutter closed as he continues to ease the stiffness in your neck. You hum contentedly, "Would you listen to me if I did?"

"No," His answer is quick and final. You can't help but grin with satisfaction.

"Seeing as I was shot, I don't see the point in using my energy on that argument then," You taunt him, letting a cheeky smirk drift onto your lips as you say it.

Aaron's fingertips hesitate on your neck before continuing, "You need to get some rest. You can sleep. I'll be here the whole time."

You burrow deeper into the thin sheets on the bed. Your body aches all over and the shitty hospital bed mattress isn't easing a bit of it, but the methodical way that Aaron's fingers continue to work over your tired muscles has you feeling woozy.

"I won't leave you." He says a bit softer. The statement holds more weight than it seems, especially coming from Aaron.

The next few hours are a blur of you drifting in and out of sleep. When you're awake, you try your best to catch bits of every phone call Aaron takes. You try to catch a glimpse at his tablet as he continues to work the active case. Aaron, however, does his best (which is pretty fucking good) to keep it all away from you. You don't know if it's because he just wants you to focus on getting better instead of working, or if he thinks you're not mentally stable enough to jump right back into the action.

The nurses pump you full of pain meds and Aaron practically forces glasses of water down your throat nearly every time you're awake. His insistence to keep you hydrated leads you to need to use the restroom often. The first time you pull the sheet back and lean your weight on your good arm to step out of the bed, Aaron comes quickly to your side. "Where are you going?" He asks confused.

You stammer a little and attempt to brush him off, "I can get up on my own." You insist on doing it on your own, though you can feel how weak and wobbly your legs are as soon as you put more weight on them. Aaron holds you tighter. "I need to go to the bathroom." You glance up at him.

He continues to walk you to the bathroom door, "Leave the door open a crack."

"Aaron," You sigh frustratedly, "I can go to the bathroom on my own. I have a concussion and had minimally invasive shoulder surgery."

"And if you close and lock that door and something happens, how am I supposed to get in there to help you? How am I supposed to hear you?" He opens the door but takes note to leave the light off. His attention to detail sends warmth radiating out from your heart to the rest of your body.

"I'll scream as loud as I possibly can," You pull away from his grip and walk into the bathroom. "I have no difficulty being loud," The joke slips out before you can stop it, and you feel your cheeks heat a little at the underlying, unintended innuendo of it. You're quick to close the door to hide your burgeoning flush but you leave the smallest crack just as Hotch asked. You do your business and wash your hands. When you step out, Aaron is, no surprise, waiting for you just inches away from the door, his focus down at the phone in his hand. He looks up at the sound of you stepping out, walking you back to bed and helping you into it.

The next time you need to use the restroom, you fight Aaron a little less on the way there. You don't protest when he reminds you to leave the door cracked.

The third time, you have simply surrendered to Aaron's overprotective nature and just let him support you much more fully. Admittedly, your body is still weak from the whole ordeal and the aches and pains when you walk are lessened when he helps you. Right before you close the door (only partially closed) you glance at Aaron's worry-stricken face, "You know, Hotchner, I'm starting to think this whole crack the door thing is a little ploy to get a glimpse of me."

Aaron doesn't even indulge your ridiculous taunt but rolls his eyes. He reaches forward and closes the door for you. He helps you back into bed and pulls the sheets back up to your chin as you let out a slow yawn. He pauses for a second, eyes trained on your face. You can't tell if your face is cut and bruised since you haven't turned on the lights in the bathroom and his intense scrutiny has your fingers fumbling onto your face to feel for something. He doesn't say anything, simply brushing strands of wiry hair out of your face, letting his fingertips ghost over your skin a little too long.

He steps back and settles back into his chair by your bed, taking your hand in his again, giving you the opportunity to get rest again. You let your eyes close and feel the weariness deep in your bones as you start to completely relax into the mattress. You just barely feel the press of Aaron's lips on your hand. You just barely him whisper against your skin, "Get some rest, sweetheart."