10 - The Reaper Aftermath

10 - The Reaper Aftermath

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: slow burn, fluff, weird stuff Summary: After a tense night together, you and Hotch navigate a strained morning at work, where the unspoken weight of your shared intimacy lingers. Rossi’s sudden retirement adds to the turmoil as Hotch steps into his new role as lead profiler amidst a challenging new case involving the Reaper, a killer whose chaotic pattern masks a deeper psychological game. Despite the emotional undercurrents, you both reaffirm your partnership, finding solace in the familiar rhythm of working side by side, trusting each other completely. Warnings: Use of alcohol, implied sexual intercourse, CM case, ungodly privation of the filthiest smut ever known to mankind. Word Count: 7.8k Dado's Corner: I don't know about you but I'm obsessed with their quick-witted humour, I could write a whole chapter of them just teasing each other. I chose to approach the Reaper case with a more psychological focus, emphasizing the emotional and mental shifts that occur during the investigation rather than the details of the case itself. (especially since the details of the case are already explored in 4x18, and I will probably touch on that in Act 2). Feel free to hate me for the lack of... you'll see.

previous chapter ; masterlist

The morning after that last night out with Hotch, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, meticulously buttoning your shirt from the bottom up. Each button felt like a tiny act of defiance against the emotions swirling inside you, your fingers pausing over the last one at the collar, the one you never left undone. This morning, you paid even closer attention, fastening it tightly as if the extra effort could hold back the flood of thoughts and emotions from the night before. You tugged at the fabric, straightening it in an attempt to hide the unease lingering beneath your usually composed exterior.

The drive to Quantico felt quieter than usual, the familiar route stretching out before you like an endless loop of half-formed thoughts. Everything felt heavy, from the overcast sky outside your windshield to the weight of your own footsteps as you made your way inside the building. It wasn’t like you to feel this out of sorts; usually – as Hotch always seemed to remind you - you were the second one in, eager to start the day. But today, you had let yourself linger too long in the quiet of your apartment, the memories of last night’s closeness replaying in your mind, making you hesitant to face the day ahead.

When you arrived, it was almost on time - not early, not rushing in at the last second, but exactly when you were supposed to be there. It was a stark contrast to your usual punctuality, and it made the bullpen feel off-kilter, like you were arriving in a world that wasn’t quite your own.

You walked past the familiar rows of desks, noting the absence of your early morning routine: the extra coffee you usually grabbed for Hotch, the quiet moments where you caught up before the office filled up. Instead, you felt the eyes of your coworkers, subtle but present, as if they could sense something had shifted between you and Hotch, even if they didn’t know exactly what.

You dropped your bag onto your desk, letting the thud of it break the silence that seemed to hang over everything. Hotch was already seated across from you, his posture stiff and his focus unnervingly intent on the paperwork in front of him. You were used to seeing him like this - calm, composed, always in control - but today, there was something else. A stillness, a carefulness in his movements that felt forced, as if he was deliberately trying not to meet your gaze.

“Morning,” you said, your voice sounding strangely formal, even to your own ears. It was a simple greeting, but it felt loaded, heavy with the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

“Morning,” Hotch replied, his tone equally distant, almost clinical. He glanced up for the briefest of moments, his eyes locking with yours in a fleeting exchange that was too intense, too knowing. It was as if he was searching for something in your expression, but when he found nothing, he quickly looked away, burying himself back in his work with a determined focus that only made the awkwardness between you more palpable.

There was no banter, no teasing remarks, none of the familiar rhythm that usually defined your mornings together. Instead, you both fell into an overly professional demeanor, a sharp contrast to the easy comfort you usually shared. It felt like you were tiptoeing around each other, careful not to let your eyes linger too long or your words stray too close to the truth.

You stole a glance at him, your eyes tracing the familiar lines of his face, searching for some indication of what he was thinking. But Hotch was strangely unreadable, his expression a careful mask that gave nothing away. His fingers tapped rhythmically on his desk, a subtle, nervous habit that you’d seen him do only when he was deep in thought or wrestling with something he couldn’t quite put into words. The sight of it sent a pang of something uncomfortably close to guilt twisting in your stomach.

You knew why this morning felt so strange, why the air between you was thick with a weight neither of you dared to address. The silence, once easy and familiar, now hung heavy, echoing everything that had transpired the night before.

It was all still so vivid in your mind: the way his touch lingered when he’d pulled you onto the dance floor, his fingers grazing your skin as if testing a boundary neither of you had acknowledged but both knew existed. His voice, soft and intimate, had dipped to a lower register, words murmured close, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver through you that you couldn’t ignore.

The laughter, the shared drinks, the sway of your bodies in perfect rhythm, it all felt like a game you’d played a thousand times, only this time, the rules were different. Each step, each touch, blurred the line between friendship and something deeper, something uncharted.

And then, as if it were the only possible outcome, you crossed that line.

It wasn’t just a kiss or a fleeting moment of weakness; it was a quiet, reckless decision that led you into his bed, the unspoken tension finally breaking.

Later, in the stillness of his apartment, everything had shifted. The way he whispered your name in the dark, soft and vulnerable, filled with an emotion you’d spent months pretending wasn’t there, shattered any illusion that this was just a one-time mistake. It wasn’t casual; it wasn’t simple. It was the culmination of the months of stolen glances, lingering touches and hidden feelings that you could no longer deny.

Now, in the cold light of morning, you both knew: there was no going back, no way to tuck what had happened neatly back into the box of “what ifs.”

But you’d both agreed - silently, in that unspoken way you often communicated - that it couldn’t happen again. You were partners, first and foremost, and whatever had happened last night couldn’t be allowed to interfere with that. Yet sitting across from him now, the absence of your usual camaraderie felt like a physical ache, a reminder of everything that had shifted in the space of a few hours.

Your eyes flicked back to him, lingering longer than necessary on the bruise just visible under his jaw, a faint shadow that stood out against his otherwise immaculate appearance. You knew exactly how it got there, and the sight of it sent a rush of heat flooding your cheeks, your mind replaying the moment when you’d pressed your lips to his skin, lost in the haze of too many unspoken words and too many – but in reality just enough - drinks.

You hesitated, the silence between you thick with unspoken tension. Unable to take it any longer, you broke it with a quiet, pointed remark. “You missed a spot. Bottom left, under your jaw.” The words were soft, but they landed like a dart, sharp and deliberate. You watched as Hotch's eyes flickered with something you couldn't quite name, his expression hardening.

His hand automatically went to the spot, fingers brushing against the faint bruise. His gaze turned razor-sharp, locking onto you, and in that moment, everything you’d been avoiding was laid bare between you. It wasn’t just the hickey you were pointing out, it was the fact that you both knew last night had crossed into dangerous territory.

“You weren’t exactly subtle yourself,” he replied, his voice low, almost gruff, as he dropped his hand and straightened his posture. His jaw clenched, as though willing the conversation to end there, to move on as if nothing had changed. But the bruise remained, a visible reminder of how close you’d both come to losing control.

You glanced down at your desk, pretending to shuffle through papers you didn’t need, trying to distract yourself from the way your mind kept drifting back to the feel of his touch, the way his breath had hitched when you’d moved closer. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

You’d been so sure that if you ever gave in to the tension between you, the crush you’d nursed for the past month would diminish, that it would finally be out of your system, allowing you to go back to the easy camaraderie you valued so much. But instead, it had done the opposite. Your feelings hadn’t lessened, they’d deepened, complicating everything in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

You stole another glance at Hotch, but he was focused on his work, his face a mask of concentration that did little to hide the tightness in his shoulders, the way his pen tapped absently against the desk. You wondered if he was thinking about it, too - about how last night hadn’t felt like a mistake, but something far more significant.

Before you could linger on the tension any longer, a second realization tugged at your focus: the absence of Rossi. His desk, typically the source of chatter, knowing looks, and smug remarks - especially when it came to you two - was oddly quiet. You had been bracing yourself for his inevitable teasing, the sly comments you were certain would come after last night, but there was none of that.

The papers on his desk were neatly stacked, untouched, and his chair sat conspicuously empty, the usual hum of his presence missing from the room. It was unusual, and for the first time that morning, a small sense of relief crept in.

You exchanged a puzzled glance with Hotch, the shared silence between you breaking just enough to shift your focus away from the awkwardness of your own situation. It was rare for Rossi to be late, even rarer for him to miss a morning without so much as a heads-up. You both stared at his empty desk, the unease you’d felt all morning now tinged with a new kind of worry.

Hotch cleared his throat, his voice low but steady as he spoke. “Have you heard from him?”

You shook your head, the tension between you momentarily forgotten as concern took over. “No, nothing. And he usually -”

Before you could finish, the sharp buzz of Hotch's phone broke the silence, the sudden noise jolting both of you. He grabbed it quickly, his brow furrowing as he listened, the seconds stretching into minutes. With each passing moment, his expression darkened, the tension in his features deepening. The lines of his face tightened, hardening into a mask of unreadable intensity, his eyes distant as he absorbed whatever news was being delivered on the other end.

“What is it?” you asked, the uneasy feeling in your gut growing stronger.

Hotch hesitated for just a moment, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. Whatever he was about to say, you knew it wasn’t good.

Hotch’s eyes met yours, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for some unspoken reassurance. He looked back down at his phone, the subtle tremble of his hands betraying his usually composed exterior. You had never seen Hotch look quite like this, caught between disbelief and a sense of duty, grappling with emotions he couldn’t quite show.

“It was Gideon,” Hotch began, his voice tight and strained. “Rossi has decided to retire. Effective immediately.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a second, you couldn’t quite grasp them. Your mind flashed back to the night before: Rossi belting out karaoke tunes with exaggerated flair, his face alight with mischief as he dragged the two of you into the chorus. He had been so full of life, so present. The idea that he had been planning this, that he was ready to leave everything behind, felt surreal.

“What?” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “He didn’t say anything last night. We were with him. He was - ” You trailed off, unable to reconcile the man who had been the life of the party with the one who had just walked away without a word.

Hotch nodded, his jaw clenched, his eyes darting to Rossi’s empty desk as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. “I know. Gideon said he didn’t want to make a fuss, didn’t want to say goodbye. But… it’s done. He’s gone.”

The finality of it hit you like a punch to the chest. Rossi was more than just a colleague; he was a mentor, a friend, the glue that held the team together when the cases got too dark. You glanced over at his desk, neatly organized, as if he’d planned his departure meticulously. It felt like a betrayal, not because he left, but because he hadn’t trusted any of you enough to tell you. You had thought you knew him, thought you could see through his bravado, but now you were left with the unsettling realization that maybe none of you had really seen the signs.

You tried to piece together the clues from the night before, replaying every interaction, every smile. Had there been a moment when Rossi seemed distant, a flicker of something behind his eyes that you missed? You remembered his laugh, loud and genuine, the way he had raised his glass to toast to more adventures, the way he winked at you and Hotch like he was in on some private joke. It hadn’t seemed like the last night of anything.

Hotch’s voice pulled you from your spiraling thoughts. “There’s more,” he said, his tone filled with a heaviness that made your heart drop. “We’ve got a new case.”

The words were like a slap, jarring you back into the present. There was no time to process Rossi’s departure, no moment to grieve the sudden loss of his presence. Your stomach tightened as you tried to keep up with the shift in focus.

“A new case?” you echoed, still disoriented. “But… who’s going to lead? Hotch, who…?”

Hotch looked at you, his expression resolute yet laced with a flicker of doubt that you’d never seen in him before. His next words were soft but firm, tinged with a reluctant acceptance of the reality before him.

“I am,” he said, the weight of the admission settling between you like a heavy stone.

You stared at him, absorbing the significance of his words. Hotch had always been driven, tirelessly dedicated to the job in a way that made him seem almost invincible. Every late night spent poring over case files, every sacrifice he made in his personal life was a testament to his commitment to this role.

You knew that leading the BAU was something he had worked toward for years. But seeing him now, his face shadowed with the weight of his new responsibilities, it was clear this wasn’t the triumphant moment he’d dreamed of.

“Hotch…” you began, but the words faltered. You wanted to tell him that he deserved this, that you trusted him more than anyone to lead the team, but you could see how deeply he was struggling with the suddenness of it all. There was no joy in this victory, no time to celebrate a promotion. It was just an abrupt shift in power, thrust upon him without warning, in the wake of a friend’s quiet betrayal.

Hotch straightened his posture, the flicker of vulnerability quickly replaced by the stoic resolve you were used to seeing. He opened the case file on his desk, his movements precise and deliberate, as if falling back into the familiarity of work could steady him. “We’re heading to Boston. Detective Tom Shaunessy requested our help,” he explained, flipping through the pages. “He’s been chasing this killer for a while, but it’s gotten out of hand. He wants us to take over.”

You nodded, the gravity of the situation slowly taking precedence over the turmoil in your heart. Hotch read the details aloud, his voice firm, but you could hear the undercurrent of determination driving every word. “We’re looking at a series of brutal murders dating back to 1995. Nineteen victims so far. No clear victimology. He kills men and women of all ages, no specific type. He’s erratic. The press has named him ‘The Reaper.’”

You listened closely, your mind already working to piece together the profile. The randomness of the victims was unsettling: no patterns, no predictability. It was the hallmark of an omnivore, a killer who could strike anyone, anywhere.

But it was the signature that caught your attention: The Eye of Providence. You knew it was more than just a calling card; it was a message, a symbol that carried layers of meaning about control, power, and perception. You could feel the challenge of the case already pulling you in, your philosophical background itching to untangle the complexities behind the Reaper’s twisted mind.

Hotch turned to you, his expression softening slightly as he acknowledged your expertise. “I need you on this,” he said, the intensity in his eyes making it clear how much he was counting on you. “Your insight, your understanding of symbolism, it’s going to be crucial. The Reaper doesn’t just want to kill, he wants to send a message, and I need you to help us understand what that is.”

You nodded, swallowing the knot of emotions still lodged in your throat. “Of course. I’m with you, Hotch. All the way.”

Hotch’s shoulders eased slightly, the faintest trace of relief crossing his features. He gave you a small, appreciative nod, and for a moment, the heavy tension between you lightened just enough for you to feel that familiar connection, the unspoken bond that had always made you such effective partners.

But then the weight returned, heavier now that you were both staring down the reality of this new chapter without Rossi. Hotch turned his attention back to the task of assembling the team, calling on Gideon, who looked as shaken by Rossi’s departure as you felt, and Peter, who was eager but visibly unnerved. Everyone was trying to process the absence of Rossi, and it left the team feeling unbalanced, vulnerable in ways that none of you were used to.

As Hotch briefed the group, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him, watching the way he stood at the head of the table with a mix of determination and quiet fear. This was his moment, his chance to prove himself, but it came at a cost none of you had anticipated. The room felt different without Rossi’s larger-than-life presence, the silence of his empty chair serving as a constant reminder of how quickly everything had changed.

Hotch addressed the team, his voice strong, commanding, but there was an underlying edge to it, a strain that hinted at the pressure he was under. You could see it in the way his fingers tightened around the file, the way his eyes flicked briefly to Rossi’s desk before he refocused. He was trying to hold everything together, to be the leader the team needed him to be, even as the loss of Rossi lingered like a phantom in the room.

You looked around at your colleagues: Gideon, who was visibly struggling without his long-time partner; Peter, who had been left stunned by the news; and Hotch, standing at the helm, carrying the weight of leadership on his shoulders. It was a team in transition, a group of people trying to find their footing in the wake of unexpected change.

As you gathered your things to head out on the case, Hotch pulled you aside, his expression serious but softened by an unspoken concern. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, his voice low and tinged with the hint of last night’s lingering awkwardness. “After everything… after what happened between us, I just need to know you’re okay.”

You looked up at him, feeling the familiar pull of your emotions, the ones you had been trying to suppress since that morning. “I’m okay, Hotch,” you reassured him, your voice steady even though your heart was anything but. “We got a job to do, and I’m with you.”

He nodded, relief flickering across his face, and you could see the gratitude in his eyes, mingling with all the unspoken things neither of you were ready to say. He placed a hand on your shoulder, a brief but reassuring touch that sent a jolt through you, a reminder of the connection you shared, of the trust that bound you together even when everything else felt uncertain.

Hotch’s voice softened as he looked at you, his eyes holding a mix of gratitude and determination. “And I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know how this is going to go, but I know that with you on the team, we’ve got a shot.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle into your chest. It was more than just professional respect, it was trust, a mutual reliance that had been built over countless cases and long nights spent dissecting the darkest parts of human nature. But now, with Rossi gone and Hotch unexpectedly thrust into the role of lead profiler, that bond felt even more vital, more fragile.

As you turned to head out, the tension between you and Hotch still hummed beneath the surface, unspoken but palpable. Every stolen glance, every touch lingered longer than it should have, and it was impossible to ignore how last night’s encounter had shifted something between you. The professionalism you were both desperately clinging to felt like a thin veil, barely concealing the emotions roiling beneath.

The ride to the crime scene was quiet, the usual banter replaced by a heavy silence. Hotch sat beside you in the SUV, his gaze fixed out the window, lost in thought.

You could sense the storm brewing inside him: the pressure to perform, the weight of filling Rossi’s shoes, and the lingering awkwardness from the night you’d spent together. Every so often, he’d steal a glance at you, as if seeking reassurance, and each time your eyes met, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of yet another new, uncharted territory you found yourselves in.

You reached the scene, a stark contrast to the quiet of the drive. Detective Tom Shaunessy greeted you, his face lined with fatigue and frustration. He was an old-school cop, worn down by the relentless chase of a killer who always seemed to be one step ahead. Shaunessy’s voice was gravelly as he filled you in, his tone edged with a mix of desperation and begrudging respect for the BAU’s expertise.

“We’ve been after this bastard for years,” Shaunessy said, his gaze shifting between you and Hotch. “The Reaper’s not like the others. He doesn’t have a type. He doesn’t play by any rules we can figure out. He’s just… hunting. For sport, for fun…I don’t even know anymore.”

Hotch nodded, listening intently, his face betraying none of the emotions roiling inside. He was back in his element now, the weight of leadership pushing him into action. But you knew him well enough to see the subtle tension in his posture, the flicker of self-doubt that lurked just beneath his composed exterior.

As you arrived at the police station, the atmosphere was thick with tension, every officer’s expression tinged with frustration and exhaustion. The walls were lined with photos of the Reaper’s victims: men, women, and children of all ages, each face a reminder of the indiscriminate nature of this killer. The room felt heavy, filled with the unspoken dread of a case that had plagued the Boston PD for years without any hope of resolution.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with Hotch, examining the board filled with crime scene photos, articles, and evidence. His proximity was comforting, but today it felt charged, every brush of his sleeve against yours sending sparks that you tried to ignore. Hotch’s focus was laser-sharp, but you could sense the weight of Rossi’s absence pressing on him, every decision carrying the burden of his new role.

Hotch’s voice cut through the quiet, steady and analytical. “We’re not dealing with your typical killer. He doesn’t have a clear type, he doesn’t fit into any neat boxes. The Reaper’s victims range from teenagers to the elderly. Men, women, different ethnicities, there’s no commonality except for one thing: his need to dominate. He’s not just killing; he’s proving that he’s in control.”

Gideon, who was pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back, nodded, though his usually confident demeanor seemed muted. Without Rossi beside him, he seemed adrift, his eyes darting restlessly as if searching for the right words. “He’s a narcissist. It’s not about the kill, it’s about the power he gets from it. Every murder is a performance, a way to manipulate the narrative and assert his superiority.”

You took a step closer to the evidence board, staring at the dark, foreboding symbol of the Eye of Providence that had been carved into every crime scene, its triangular shape and watchful eye casting a shadow over the investigation. The weight of its meaning settled in your mind, and you could feel Hotch’s gaze fixed on you, waiting. He knew the significance of your insights, the philosophical perspective that often unlocked pieces of the puzzle others might overlook.

“The Eye of Providence,” you began, your voice steady but tinged with unease, “is more than just a symbol. It represents an omniscient force, an all-seeing presence that’s often tied to themes of divine judgment, control, and authority. To most, it’s a symbol of God’s watchful eye over humanity, but to the Reaper…” You paused, searching for the right words as the team’s eyes turned to you, each face a mix of focus and anticipation.

Hotch’s brow furrowed slightly, and he leaned forward, his intense gaze never wavering. “What does it mean to him?” he prompted, his voice low, urging you to continue.

“To the Reaper,” you said, meeting Hotch’s eyes briefly before returning your focus to the symbol, “it’s more than a calling card, it’s his way of asserting power. He’s saying, ‘I see you. I am above you.’ This isn’t just a game for him; it’s a declaration of superiority. He’s setting himself up as judge and executioner, and that symbol is his throne.”

Peter, standing to the side, crossed his arms, his jaw clenched as he considered your words. “So he’s just some narcissist who thinks he’s God?” he asked, but there was an edge to his tone, a mix of frustration and anger directed at the man they were hunting.

“Not just narcissism,” you replied, shaking your head. “It’s deeper than that. Michel Foucault, a French philosopher, explored the concept of constant surveillance as a form of control. He talked about the panopticon: a design for a prison where the mere possibility of being watched was enough to alter behavior. The Reaper uses this symbol not just to leave a mark, but to instill fear and submission. He’s telling everyone that he is always watching, even when we don’t see him. He’s creating his own psychological prison.”

Hotch nodded, the lines on his face deepening as he absorbed your insight. “He’s weaponizing the idea of being watched,” he said, almost to himself, his mind clearly turning over the implications. “He’s not just taunting us. He’s controlling us, making us feel his presence every time we look at this symbol.”

Gideon, who had been listening quietly, stepped closer, with a feeling of grim understanding. “It’s a power play,” he added, his voice thoughtful. “But it’s also personal. He’s not just some detached observer; he’s putting himself in the role of a god, and he’s making sure everyone knows it.”

You glanced at Gideon, then back at the board, the discussion pulling at the threads of deeper meanings. “Philosophers like Nietzsche warned about individuals who saw themselves as beyond conventional morality. What he called the Übermensch, a figure who creates his own values, sets his own rules, and places himself above the rest of humanity. The Reaper is doing just that. By using this symbol, he’s telling us that he’s not just playing by his own rules; he’s making them. He believes he answers to no higher authority, because in his mind, he is the highest authority.”

Peter stepped forward, his arms wrapped around himself, a contemplative look in her eyes. “It’s like St. Augustine’s idea of divine providence,” he said, catching your attention, recalling your mother’s Italian literature lessons at University. “Augustine talked about God’s omniscience being active - guiding, shaping, and controlling human destiny. The Reaper isn’t just watching; he’s actively shaping the fate of his victims. He’s not passive. He’s taking on the role of the one who decides who lives and dies.”

Hotch’s expression tightened, his eyes dark and focused. “So every time he leaves that symbol, he’s reinforcing his belief that he’s untouchable,” he said, his voice filled with determination. “That he’s the one in control of this game.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of it all settle over the team. “Exactly. This isn’t just a message; it’s a declaration of dominion. He’s trying to tell us that he holds all the power, that in his mind, he’s not just a participant in this twisted game. He’s the god who sees all, who judges all, and who decides the final outcome. And until we break that illusion, he’s going to keep playing with us like we’re his puppets.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the reality of your words sinking in. Hotch turned back to the board, his jaw set in determination. The game wasn’t just about catching a killer anymore; it was about dismantling the delusion that the Reaper had constructed around himself. And until they did, he would continue to watch, and act, from above.

Gideon, who had been silently studying the photos, broke his silence. “He’s not following any set rules. He’s an omnivore. Most serial killers have a type, a preference, but the Reaper’s all over the place. It’s like he’s trying to prove that he’s untouchable, that he can kill whoever he wants, whenever he wants.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, the strain of the case visible in the lines of his face. He leaned closer to the board, his eyes tracing the patterns in the killings, his mind working overtime. “He’s escalating. He’s testing us, seeing how far he can push before we catch up. And the victims... the younger women, he focuses on them with his knife. It’s personal. The knife becomes a substitute for penetration, a way for him to assert even more dominance.”

Gideon’s gaze flickered to Hotch, his voice quieter than usual, filled with a sense of urgency. “We need to be careful. He’s already evolving, and if we don’t get ahead of him, he’ll keep pushing boundaries. He thrives on chaos, and the more unpredictable he is, the more control he feels.”

Before you could add your thoughts, the door swung open, and Detective Shaunessy strode in, his face pale and lined with exhaustion. The stress of years chasing an invisible predator showed in every step he took, every furrow in his brow. “We’ve got another one,” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of anger and defeat. “But this time, there’s a survivor.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, each of you processing the rarity of that statement. Hotch’s head snapped up, his expression a mix of hope and determination. Survivors were almost unheard of in cases like this, they could be the key to unraveling the Reaper’s patterns, to finally understanding the mind of the man behind the mask. “Who is it?” Hotch asked, his voice laced with urgency.

Shaunessy handed over a thin file, his hands trembling slightly. “George Foyet. Twenty-eight years old. He was found in his car, severely injured but alive. His date, Amanda Bertrand... she didn’t make it. The Reaper got to them both, but somehow, Foyet survived.”

Hotch’s face hardened as he skimmed the report, his grip on the file tightening with every line. Foyet had been stabbed repeatedly but had miraculously pulled through. Amanda, just nineteen, had been left to bleed out beside him. And once again, the Reaper had marked his territory with the Eye of Providence, drawn in blood on the car window.

Gideon glanced over Hotch’s shoulder at the file, his eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and resolve. “He’s getting bolder. He’s not even trying to hide anymore. Leaving a survivor wasn’t a mistake, it was deliberate. He’s taunting us.”

Hotch nodded, his focus razor-sharp. “We need to talk to Foyet. He might have seen something, heard something, that can give us insight into the Reaper’s methods. We can’t afford to let this slip through our fingers.”

But before you could move, Shaunessy’s voice cut through the room, filled with an unexpected bitterness. “It doesn’t matter what he saw. We’re shutting this down.”

You blinked, stunned by the sudden shift in Shaunessy’s tone. “Shutting it down? We’re finally getting somewhere -”

Shaunessy rubbed his temples, his expression strained. “The DA wants to cut our losses. The city’s in a panic, the mayor’s breathing down our necks, and they think we’re chasing shadows. They’re calling it. You’ve got to pack it up.”

Hotch’s composure wavered, frustration seeping through his usually calm demeanor. “This isn’t the time to back down. We’re close. We’ve got a survivor, a lead-”

Shaunessy’s voice was flat, weary. “I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner. Orders came from the top. We’re done here.”

The team was left standing in the silence of the conference room, the sting of defeat heavy in the air. It wasn’t just a case ending, it was a door slamming shut on the first major challenge Hotch faced as the new lead profiler. He stood there, file still in hand, shoulders tense, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. This wasn’t just about the Reaper; it was about his leadership, the responsibility of carrying the team forward without Rossi.

Back at Quantico, the bullpen felt heavier than usual, the usual hum of voices and movement replaced by a somber, almost stifling silence. Hotch sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on the scattered files in front of him, each one a stark reminder of how close they had been, and how far they still were. The frustration and guilt hung over him like a cloud, every document, every photo another jab at what they hadn’t been able to finish.

From your own desk, you watched him, feeling the pull to reach out. It wasn’t just about the failed case; it was the unspoken weight of everything that had happened between you in the past twenty-four hours. Summoning your courage, you stood and walked over, perching on the edge of his desk as you searched for the right words.

“It’s not your fault,” you said softly, breaking the silence between you. “We did everything we could. The Reaper’s been playing this game for years, and we were closing in. You did a great job, Hotch.”

Hotch looked up, his eyes meeting yours. In that brief moment, you saw the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. “But it wasn’t enough,” he said, his voice raw and edged with frustration. “Rossi would’ve handled this differently. He always found a way.”

You leaned in closer, offering him a reassuring smile. “Rossi left because he trusted you to lead, Hotch. He knew you’d step up, and you have. And if he were here, he’d remind you of the same thing: it’s not over. The Reaper’s still out there, and we’re going to find him.”

But as you worked in companionable silence, Hotch’s demeanor shifted. You noticed his brow furrow, a telltale sign that something was bothering him. His eyes flicked over the crime scene photos again, more intently this time, as though searching for a hidden detail.

“There’s something off about this case,” Hotch murmured, his voice low, almost as if he was speaking to himself. “Something we haven’t seen yet.”

You paused, glancing at him, your curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

Hotch picked up one of the photos: the Eye of Providence scrawled in blood on the window of George Foyet’s car. His thumb brushed over the image, his expression darkening. “It’s not just about control. The symbol, the randomness… it’s all too calculated. We’ve been looking at this like it’s all part of his MO, but what if it’s more than that? What if there’s a pattern we’re not seeing?”

You leaned closer, your focus sharpening as you tried to connect the dots he was hinting at. “You think he’s using the randomness to hide something? Like there’s a method in the chaos?”

Hotch nodded slowly, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of frustration and determination. “Yes. It’s like he’s hiding in plain sight. We need to go back through everything: the timelines, the locations, the victim profiles. We’re missing something, and I have a feeling it’s right in front of us.”

The urgency in his voice sent a chill through you. It wasn’t just a hunch, it was the kind of instinct that had saved lives before, and you knew better than to ignore it. You picked up the nearest file, flipping through it with renewed purpose, your mind racing alongside Hotch’s.

“We’ll figure it out,” you said firmly, meeting his determined gaze. “Whatever he’s hiding, we’ll find it.”

Hotch looked down, a faint, weary smile tugging at his lips. The exhaustion in his eyes was still there, but your words had sparked something, a glimmer of renewed resolve. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For being here. For… everything.”

The weight of his gratitude hung between you, thick with unspoken emotions that neither of you seemed ready to address. You could sense the frustration gnawing at both of you, knowing the Boston PD had shut you out of the case just as things were beginning to make sense. But you knew better than to let the burden fall entirely on him. So, without hesitation, you reached over and grabbed half of the paperwork from his desk, pulling it toward you.

“Hey,” Hotch protested, his voice tinged with both surprise and amusement.

“Don’t even start,” you interrupted, flashing a playful grin. “They made you lead profiler and then doubled your paperwork load without so much as a warning. Seems a little unfair, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to,” Hotch said, shaking his head slightly, though the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a bit.

“I want to,” you insisted, picking up your pen, the one Hotch had given you a few days ago, engraved with a small ‘200’. You held it up with a smirk. “Besides, this pen is way better than the garbage I used to use. I could file reports all day with this thing.”

Hotch chuckled, a sound so rare it almost felt out of place in the tense atmosphere. “I’m still the one required to do them. You’re just trying to get out of your own work.”

You glanced up at him with a mock-innocent expression. “You’re welcome to report me to Gideon if you want. You could even throw in how highly unprofessional we were last night.”

Hotch’s smile faltered, his eyes flickering with that mix of embarrassment and amusement you’d grown to appreciate. “Let’s not touch on that,” he muttered, his voice low but carrying a dry, wry edge.

“Oh, I agree,” you teased, keeping your tone light despite the undeniable tension that lingered between you. “Highly unprofessional. I mean, drinks, dancing, and then… well, you know. I think HR might have a field day.”

Hotch shook his head, glancing back at the paperwork, but the tension between you was briefly replaced by a shared, private joke. “Yeah, let’s keep last night out of the official report.”

You both laughed, the sound cutting through the heavy silence. For a fleeting moment, the weight of everything - Rossi’s departure, the case, the uncertain lines you’d crossed - lifted, even if just a little. But the chemistry between you lingered, unshakable, no matter how hard either of you tried to focus on work.

You tossed your pen down for a moment, giving Hotch a pointed look. “Honestly, I think we’ve moved well past ‘highly unprofessional.’ I mean, dancing that close? I’m pretty sure we crossed some boundaries that even the handbook doesn’t cover.”

Hotch gave you a mock-serious look, the smile tugging at his lips betraying him. “They’ll probably have to write a whole new chapter for us. Something like, ‘How Not to Conduct Yourself at an After-Hours Team Gathering.’”

You leaned in, raising an eyebrow. “Right? And then there’s the ‘Never, Under Any Circumstances, End Up in Your Coworker’s Bed’ subsection. That one’s definitely bolded and underlined for emphasis.”

Hotch rubbed his hand over his face, but you could see the grin threatening to break through. “You’re forgetting the appendix. The part that says, ‘Absolutely No Whispering Your Colleague’s Name in the Dark Like You’re in a Damn Romantic Drama.’”

You burst out laughing, and Hotch finally let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. You both knew how ridiculous it sounded, but there was something comforting in the banter, something that made the tension between you easier to bear.

“Honestly,” you leaned back, arms crossed, a teasing glint in your eyes, “at least we didn’t end up doing karaoke. Can you imagine the disaster if we’d ended up singing a duet on top of everything else?”

Hotch’s eyes widened in mock horror, raising a finger as if warning you. “No. Absolutely not. That’s where we’d draw the line. The second someone suggests karaoke, we’re leaving the bar.”

“Aw, come on, Hotch,” you teased. “I bet you’ve got some killer Sinatra vocals hiding in there somewhere. ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ perhaps? I could see it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head with an amused sigh. “I’d rather chase the Reaper through the dark again than face that kind of embarrassment.”

“Too late,” you grinned, tapping the paperwork pile between you. “You already slow-danced with me in public to Celine Dion last night. The ship of embarrassment has definitely sailed.”

Hotch gave you a playful glare, leaning in just slightly. “I think I need to file a new report: ‘Behavioral Inconsistencies in BAU Members Post-Tequila.’”

“Oh, you mean me being the perfect model of professionalism at all times?” you shot back, unable to suppress your laugh.

“Sure,” Hotch deadpanned, though the smirk was still there. “Except for the dancing. And the… well, everything that followed.” He paused, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary, and you felt the tension ripple back between you. He chuckled softly, but his voice was more serious now. “Let’s not make ‘that’ a habit, okay?”

You winked, leaning back in your chair, your voice light but with just the slightest edge. “What’s ‘that’ exactly?!”

Hotch’s lips twitched at your response, a faint smile breaking through his otherwise serious expression. He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. “You know what ‘that’ is,” he said, his tone low but teasing.

You laughed, folding your arms across your chest, challenging him with your gaze. “Oh, come on, Hotch. You’re going to have to be more specific. Dancing? Tequila? Or maybe it’s the part where we-”

He cut you off, raising a hand in mock surrender. “Okay, point taken.”

The moment stretched between you, a mixture of playful banter and something deeper lurking beneath. It was a balancing act you both seemed to be performing, skirting around the edges of the unspoken while pretending everything was back to normal. And yet, somehow, it felt like you were falling back into your rhythm, the natural back-and-forth that made you such strong partners on the job.

“Partners,” Hotch finally said, his voice steadying, as though reminding both of you what mattered most. “We’re partners first. Whatever else happened… that’s what needs to stay the priority.”

You nodded, feeling the seriousness return, but also the reassurance that this conversation, this acknowledgment, wasn’t meant to push you apart, it was to bring you back to where you belonged.

“Agreed. Partners first,” you echoed, softening the weight of your words with a smile.

The tension in the room seemed to ease, and Hotch’s expression reflected the same. His shoulders relaxed, and the silence between you shifted from awkward to comfortable again, like slipping into something familiar after a long day.

“So,” you continued, leaning forward and placing the paperwork back on his desk with a deliberate thud, “shall we tackle this mess, partner?”

Hotch nodded, that quiet, steady determination settling back into his features. “Let’s get to it.”

As you both dived into the files, it felt like old times, just the two of you, working side by side, falling into the familiar groove of sharing ideas, analyzing details, and teasing out the patterns that made sense of the chaos. The banter flowed easily now, with Hotch giving you subtle smiles every so often, and you returning them with your quick-witted remarks, each one a reminder of why you worked so well together.

Hours passed, the silence between you only broken by the occasional flip of a file or the tap of fingers on the desk. It felt like the old days again: before the case, before the night out, before things had gotten complicated. There was comfort in that, and you were grateful for it.

Finally, as the evening started to creep in, Hotch leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly. “You’ve still got some paperwork left,” he pointed out, glancing at the pile on your side of the desk.

You looked at the stack, then back at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk. You’ve barely made a dent.”

Hotch’s smirk returned, that rare, dimpled smile that he only showed when he was truly at ease. “I’m the lead profiler. I delegate.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress your grin. “Uh-huh. Convenient.”

He pushed his chair back slightly, standing up and stretching more fully now. “Come on. We’ve done enough for today. Let’s get out of here.”

You stood too, collecting your things, feeling a sense of peace that you hadn’t expected. The tension between you had simmered down, replaced by something more solid, friendship, partnership, and that unspoken bond that you both knew was there, but didn’t need to be addressed right now.

As you walked out of the office together, side by side, Hotch glanced over at you, his expression softer than usual. “You know,” he started, his voice thoughtful, “I wouldn’t have gotten through this without you.”

You looked up at him, surprised by the honesty in his words. “Hotch-”

He cut you off with a small shake of his head. “I mean it. We’re a team. And I trust you. More than anyone.”

For a moment, the air between you shifted again, a quiet understanding passing between you both. There were no grand gestures, no dramatic confessions, just the acknowledgment of what had always been there, the trust, the bond, and maybe something more that didn’t need to be named.

You smiled, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. “Right back at you, partner.”

Dado's Corner pt.2: Is it okay if I say I am unwell? With this we mark the end of Act 1. I'm going to miss them so much, especially because in part 2 there will be the whole team as well, so we won't probably have as many solo moments between the two. They're so cute, help I'm obsessed. Also in Act 2 there will be Unit-Chief Aaron (aka grumpy Aaron, dad Aaron and much more). I will miss this light-hearted version of him so much - although this doesn't mean it will be lost forever. I've only written the 1st chapter of Act 2 so - if you have any suggestions - feel free to share them! Also - prepare yourself to cry for the interlude. Probably it will be the most bittersweet chapter so far. BYEEEEE

12 - Goodbyes & Partners

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: uuum you tell me Summary: The BAU team discovers that Hotch had a former partner, a brilliant female profiler who left the unit abruptly. Gideon reveals you were one of the best, sparking curiosity among the team. As they dig deeper, they uncover your impressive credentials, speculation grows about your close relationship with Hotch, with theories ranging from unspoken feelings to complicated personal dynamics. Warnings: none - or at least that's what I think - who would have thought. Word Count: 7.1k Dado's Corner: OKKKKK let's gooo! First time meeting Aaron's children the team, who's excited?! Peter canonically the most hated character of this fic. This chapter, like many others in this fic, has a sister chapter coming up in exactly 7 hours. After leaving you with your mouth dry yesterday, I figured it’s only fair to keep the anticipation going! Let me know what you think of the team! Also if you have ideas for this particular fic, my inbox is opened, feel free to leave as many suggestions as you would like!

previous chapter ; masterlist

No one at the BAU was ever good with goodbyes.

It was a team built on unspoken bonds and shared burdens, a group of people who had seen the darkest parts of the world and each other. For all the skills they had in reading human behavior, they were never quite able to express what it felt like to lose one of their own. Words often felt inadequate, insufficient to capture the weight of what they’d been through together: the late nights, the close calls, the quiet moments that held more significance than any case file.

Goodbyes were messy, uncomfortable, and often avoided altogether.

Rossi had been the first to leave, and even though Hotch knew he had been restless for months, it still came as a shock. One day, Rossi was there, with his dry humor and his endless stories, and the next, his office was empty, the walls bare, as if he had never really been there at all, if it weren’t for Gideon’s call, he would have never reached out. Only later he left behind a brief note, neatly folded on Hotch’s desk, with a few lines about “needing a change” and “time to start the next chapter.” It was classic Rossi: vague, detached, like he didn’t want to make a fuss. Hotch had read the note a multitude of times, hoping to find some hidden message, but there was nothing. No explanation, no real goodbye. Just Rossi, slipping away on his own terms, halfway to his next adventure before anyone had a chance to ask him to stay.

Then the most recent was Gideon’s. After Boston, after the case that had broken him in ways none of them had fully understood, Gideon’s silence was deafening. Hotch remembered the last time he’d seen him, sitting alone in his office, staring blankly at the case files scattered across his desk. Gideon hadn’t said a word, hadn’t offered any explanation or farewell. He just looked up, his eyes hollow and distant, and Hotch knew that whatever had been holding him together had finally snapped. By the next morning, Gideon was gone, his desk cleared out, his badge left behind like a discarded shell of who he once was. There were no letters, no phone calls, just the ghost of a man who had once been a legend in the field but was now too broken to even say goodbye.

Both of those men had left him with new responsibilities: Rossi’s departure had made him a lead profiler, and Gideon’s exit had eventually thrust him into the role of Unit Chief. Though Hotch had always been an ambitious person, the way he’d earned his promotions often felt like a double-edged sword, each step up tinged with a sense of loss. It was as if there was an unspoken rule that he could never fully enjoy his achievements without bearing the weight of the absences that had made them possible, leaving him to wonder if success always had to come at such a cost.

Hotch had never mastered the art of letting people go. The departures always felt like tearing pages out of a story that had been written together, each blank space a reminder of what had been lost.

But you, you were different.

You were the only one who was extraordinary at goodbyes.

It had been a few months after his wedding when you made your announcement. The BAU had just wrapped up a grueling case, the kind that left everyone drained and hollowed out, and Hotch had retreated to his desk, hoping for a moment of peace. You had come in, hesitant at first, fiddling with the bracelet on your wrist - a nervous habit he’d come to recognize over the years. You took a breath before speaking, your voice laced with the kind of excitement that only comes when you’re standing on the edge of something new and terrifying.

“I got an offer,” you said, your words tumbling out in a rush. “To teach. It’s a position I never even dreamed of. The first-ever Behavioral Sciences courses, all across Europe. They want me to lead them.”

Hotch remembered the way his heart sank when you first told him, though he tried his best to keep his expression neutral, hiding the ache beneath a composed facade. He had always known you were destined for more; your talent, insight, and your relentless passion for sharing knowledge had set you apart from the very beginning. You were the team’s quiet genius, not just in profiling but in connecting dots others couldn’t see, blending psychology, philosophy, and the art of communication into something extraordinary.

You laid out all the details with an excitement that was hard to contain: Rome, London, Paris - places you had only glimpsed on rare vacations now calling on you to bring your expertise to their prestigious institutions. It was a perfect fit, a job seemingly tailored just for you. Your fluency in multiple languages, from Italian and French to German and Swedish, made you uniquely qualified to teach across Europe, bridging cultural gaps with the ease of someone who had spent their life immersed in the subtleties of language and human behavior.

It was everything you had worked for, and everything you deserved. Hotch knew that it was fate, really - that someone with your knowledge, your intellect, and your gift for teaching would eventually end up in front of a classroom, shaping the next generation of minds. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. You were finally getting the recognition you deserved, but for Hotch, it felt like the beginning of the end of something he hadn’t been ready to let go of.

Hotch had listened intently, though the tightness in his chest made it hard to breathe. He could see the flicker of conflict in your eyes, the way you glanced at him, searching for something: approval, reassurance, maybe even permission to take this leap.

You had always been strong, but this decision was monumental, and Hotch could sense your need for his support. As you spoke, your words came out in a rush, filled with excitement yet underlined with an uncertainty that made his heart ache. When you finally paused, breathless and hopeful, he forced a smile, pushing back the knot of emotions building inside him.

“You always told me I should find my happiness,” he said softly, echoing the words that had once helped pull him through some of his darkest times. “Maybe it’s time you did the same.”

He watched as your expression softened, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. Hotch could feel you on the verge of saying something more, something that lingered just beneath the surface. But instead, you nodded, your smile bittersweet, tinged with an understanding that broke his heart just a little more.

“Thank you, Aaron,” you whispered, your voice so quiet, yet so full of sincerity it nearly undid him. “I needed to hear that.”

And he knew, in that instant, that his words had given you what you needed. But the cost of that comfort weighed heavily on him. This was it - this was the moment he had been dreading. The goodbye that followed was simple, yet it carried a depth of emotion that neither of you dared to fully express. There were no tears, no grand declarations, just the two of you standing in the bullpen, surrounded by the echoes of shared memories and silent understanding.

When you moved to hug him, Hotch felt the familiar warmth of your presence wrap around him. For a second, he held on tighter than he should have, his hands lingering at your back, memorizing the way you felt against him. He wasn’t sure how long he held you there, but it wasn’t long enough. It would never be long enough. The realization hit him hard, this might be the last time he’d feel the steady comfort of you by his side, the last time he could call you his partner in the same way.

“I’m going to miss you,” you said, your voice thick with the emotions you’d worked so hard to keep at bay. And though Hotch tried to respond, his throat tightened, and all he could do was nod, hoping that somehow you’d understand all the things he couldn’t find the words for.

“Don’t forget to write,” you had said, pulling back with a small, teasing smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. It was a half-joke, half-promise, but Hotch had clung to it.

When you finally pulled away, it felt like something inside him had shifted, like a piece of him had gone with you. He watched as you gave him one last, lingering look before walking out of the building, the door closing softly behind you. The silence that followed was suffocating. Hotch stood there for a long time, staring at the space where you had been, already feeling the weight of your absence settle deep in his bones.

You both knew phone calls wouldn’t work - the time zones were unforgiving, and your schedules were a mess of lectures, seminars, cases and travel. Trying to coordinate would only lead to missed calls and voicemails, the kind of slow drift that ends in silence. But letters, letters were something else. They were tangible, personal, a way of staying connected even when the rest of the world pulled you in different directions.

For Hotch, the idea of writing to you felt right. It reminded him of the hours you had spent together in the bullpen, sitting across from each other as you filed endless reports and bantered over cases. Your handwriting, always in blue ink - never black, because you said it felt too clinical - was something he had come to cherish. He still remembered the way you had teased him, claiming that black ink was for lawyers and pessimists, and he had laughed, knowing you were right.

Your first letter arrived a few weeks after you left. Hotch had found it waiting on his desk one morning, nestled between case files and memos, and just seeing your name scrawled across the envelope made something in his chest tighten.

He opened it carefully, unfolding the pages with the same kind of reverence he might have shown an old photograph. The letter was filled with details of your new life abroad: how strange it was to be teaching in a classroom instead of chasing down criminals, how the students were eager but occasionally overwhelmed by the intensity of your lessons. You wrote about your tiny apartment in Rome, the cobblestone streets that twisted like a labyrinth, and the late nights spent sipping espresso as you prepared your lectures.

But it wasn’t just the big moments you shared; it was the little things, too. The frustration of dealing with Italian bureaucracy, the odd comfort of hearing a student quote something you’d said in class, and the quiet evenings when you missed the familiar hum of the BAU. Every word was laced with your personality: your humor, your insight, the way you saw the world with a blend of sharp intellect and boundless curiosity. Hotch read that first letter at least a dozen times, absorbing every detail, and when he finally put it down, he felt closer to you than he had in weeks.

Writing back to you became a ritual for Hotch, a quiet refuge at the end of his long, exhausting days. Once the cases were filed, the team had gone home, and the dim glow of his office lamp was the only light left in the bullpen, he would settle at his desk, the silence his only company. The act of writing to you felt both familiar and soothing, a tether to a time when you sat just across from him, lost in your own thoughts yet always attuned to his.

Hotch’s letters were a blend of work updates, personal reflections, and glimpses into the ever-changing dynamics of the team. He would tell you about the latest cases they were working on, the challenges that kept him up at night, and the way the BAU had evolved in your absence. You were always keen to know how the team was adjusting, and Hotch made sure to keep you in the loop, filling you in on the new agents who had joined and the unique personalities that now made up the BAU.

He told you about Derek Morgan, the first agent to join after you left. A former Chicago police officer with years of experience in the bomb squad, Morgan brought a fierce determination and a protective instinct that quickly made him an invaluable asset. But there was also a softer side to Morgan, one that emerged when he talked about his past or reached out to support his teammates. In many ways, his drive and unwavering loyalty reminded Hotch of you, and he knew you would have liked him.

Next came Penelope Garcia, the flamboyant technical analyst whose quirky style and unmatched brilliance with computers brought a new energy to the team. She was a ray of light in the otherwise dark world of profiling, and Hotch often found himself amused by her unique way of looking at the world. Despite her unconventional approach, Garcia was a genius with technology, hacking into systems with ease and always finding the crucial piece of information that made the difference. Hotch thought of how you would have loved her spirit, her warmth, and her unfiltered way of connecting with others.

Then there was Jennifer “JJ” Jareau, the new media liaison who had quickly proven herself to be on of the most important resources in the team. JJ was calm under pressure, compassionate, and fiercely dedicated to the team’s mission. She was a bridge between the BAU and the outside world, handling the delicate task of managing public perception and dealing with victims’ families with grace and empathy. Hotch admired her poise and her quiet strength, qualities he often found himself describing to you, knowing you’d appreciate how she balanced the team’s intense work with her soft-spoken resilience.

And then there was Dr. Spencer Reid, a young genius with an IQ of 187. Gideon had brought him in, recognizing his potential - just as he did with you back then - even though Reid was still so green, fresh out of the academy with a mind that worked on an entirely different level. Hotch wrote about Reid’s unique brilliance, the way he could recite obscure facts at lightning speed, and notice patterns no one else could see. But he also told you about Reid’s vulnerabilities, when his intellect clashed with his emotional sensitivity. Reid’s innocence and earnestness were tempered by the heavy weight of the cases, and Hotch often found himself mentoring him.

Lastly, Hotch wrote about Emily Prentiss, the newest addition to the team, an experienced agent with a knack for languages and a drive that matched his own. Prentiss was smart, resourceful, and relentless in her pursuit of justice, and her multilingual skills often put her in the center of complex international cases. She was bold, unafraid to speak her mind, and determined to prove herself, even when the odds were against her. Hotch appreciated her dedication and saw echoes of your tenacity in her work ethic, her unyielding desire to understand every angle of a case.

As Hotch became Unit Chief, he had worked hard to build a cohesive team, one that felt more like a family than just a group of agents. He made it a priority to cultivate an environment where each member’s strengths could shine, creating an expanded, stable unit where everyone had their own area of expertise: Morgan with tactical support, Garcia with technical prowess, JJ with media relations, Reid with his unparalleled intellect, Prentiss with her international insight and Gideon – just being Gideon.

It was a dynamic mix, and though the team had grown and evolved, Hotch never stopped missing your presence among them. You were the missing piece, the partner who had helped lay the foundation for what the BAU had become.

But his letters were not just filled with work updates; they were laced with personal moments, too. Hotch shared glimpses of his life outside the office, the small joys that kept him grounded. He wrote about his son Jack, who was growing up faster than Hotch could keep up with. He also wrote about Haley, who had found solace in gardening, transforming their backyard into a small oasis of color and life.

The lines between work and personal life blurred in his letters, just as they always had with you. You were more than just a partner at work, you were the person who had been there through the highs and lows, his best friend who understood the burdens he carried without him having to say a word. And though you were an ocean away, your presence lingered in every word exchanged, each letter a lifeline that kept you connected despite the distance.

You never just sent letters, though. There were always little extras tucked inside: clippings from newspapers, photos of the places you were exploring, and, most often - to still honour your long lived tradition - books.

You had a way of choosing the perfect titles, each one reflecting the country you were living in or the experiences you were having. When you were teaching in Italy, you had sent him a cookbook called “Pizza, Pane e Focacce,” a whimsical collection of traditional recipes that made Hotch laugh out loud. He had imagined you in the tiniest Roman kitchen, trying your hand at kneading dough, and the thought was so charmingly incongruous that he couldn’t resist teasing you about it in his next letter.

“Italian pizza and philosophy, a natural combination,” he had written, the playful tone feeling both familiar and distant. “Let me know when you’re ready to challenge Rossi to a cook-off. I’ll bring the wine.”

But the most meaningful gift had come when Hotch had told you about Haley’s pregnancy. It was a vulnerable confession, written in the quiet hours of the night when he felt the weight of impending fatherhood pressing down on him.

He hadn’t expected anything in return, but a few weeks later, a package arrived, a book titled “Guide for New Dads.” It was in Swedish, a nod to one of the first books he’d ever given you about coin collecting, and this time to prove him you had long mastered that language, every page was carefully translated into English with sticky notes in your familiar blue ink.

You had filled the margins with little jokes and notes of encouragement, turning a practical guide into something deeply personal.

“This one’s actually useful, Hotch,” you had joked.

“I promise, the Scandinavians know their thing.” Or

“It’s not the easiest language,” you had written on one of the notes, “but then again, neither is parenthood. You’ve got this, partner.”

Those two words - “you’ve got this” - had stayed with him, becoming a quiet mantra in the moments when doubt threatened to creep in. You always seemed to know exactly what he needed, even from halfway across the world.

Today, Hotch was sending you something in return. After years of toying with the idea, he had finally co-written a book on crisis negotiation, a project that had taken countless late nights and long hours of reflection. It was something he was proud of, a culmination of his years in the field, and it felt only right that you should be one of the first to see it. He carefully packed the book, adding a handwritten note on the first page, a Hegel quote about partnership that he knew you would appreciate.

"Partnership, like friendship, is an expression of freedom that arises from the recognition of others as individuals, bound by a common ethical life." - (Philosophy of Right, unfortunately, not Hegel for Dummies)

“Hopefully, you’ll like this one in particular,” he had added in a playful scrawl, imagining the way you would roll your eyes at his attempt at humor. It was a small gesture, but it felt like a continuation of the conversation you had been having for years, the dialogue that never really ended.

Six years had passed, but some things never changed. You were still his partner, the person who understood him in ways no one else ever could. But now, your life had taken a different turn - you were engaged to Peter, your best friend since you were fifteen. Hotch knew Peter well, how he had been there when you needed a shoulder to cry on, when you were too stubborn to ask for help, and how, despite winning that date with you back at his welcome back party, you’d never really given him a fair chance.

Peter had always been that steady presence, always willing to wait, always there in the background, a constant in your life when everything else felt uncertain. And though you had resisted his quiet, unwavering affection for years, something in you had shifted: a desire for something safe, something dependable, something that felt like home.

In your letters, Hotch could feel the warmth and affection you had for Peter radiate from every line. You described him with such tenderness: the way he would surprise you with breakfast on mornings when you were buried in work as your usual, how he would wait up for you when your classes ran late, and how he would listen, truly listen, to every word you said, even when his own responsibilities at Interpol were just as demanding. There were little moments, too: the way his eyes would light up when he saw you walk into a room, and the quiet nights spent talking about everything and nothing.

Hotch could tell Peter cherished you in a way you deserved: patiently, deeply, without reservations. He could see that Peter was the one who was there to hold you through your doubts, the one who made you feel understood when the rest of the world seemed incomprehensible.

He remembered the letter you had sent announcing your engagement, how you described Peter’s proposal on a quiet evening in Vienna, the two of you standing on a bridge overlooking the Danube. You wrote about the gentle way he had asked, how it felt so natural, so right, that you hadn’t even needed to think twice before saying yes.

You were building something beautiful, and he was happy for you. Truly, he was. But there were moments, in the quiet solitude of his office or in the late hours of the night, when he couldn’t help but feel the weight of your absence like an old, familiar scar.

He sealed the package with the book and his note inside, pausing to add a small card with a few lines scribbled in his neat handwriting:

“To my partner, the only person who could ever make a philosopher out of an FBI agent. I hope this book finds you well. I’m proud of you, always. Don’t forget to write.”

He had kept your latest letter on his desk, re-reading it whenever the weight of the day became too much. You wrote about the small joys of your new life - the café near your apartment in Paris, where you and Peter would go on Sundays, the excitement of teaching your students about behavioral analysis, and the bittersweet feeling of missing the team. It was the kind of letter that made Hotch smile, filled with all the small details that made him feel like you were still just a phone call away.

But life at the BAU had moved on. Hotch was Unit Chief now, a position he had worked years to attain, and the team was evolving with new faces and new dynamics. Haley and Jack were thriving, and Hotch found solace in their little routines, the stability of home life that had once seemed impossible. But no matter how full his days were, there was always that quiet moment when he would think of you: wondering where you were, what you were doing, and if you ever missed him the way he missed you.

He hadn’t seen you in six years, hadn’t heard your voice except for in memories, and yet you were still so present, woven into the fabric of his everyday life in ways he hadn’t fully understood until you were gone.

.

Back in the bullpen, Emily Prentiss, still trying to find her rhythm with the BAU team, leaned against her desk, her eyes trailing toward Hotch’s office. She had been with the team for a few months now, and while she was learning the ropes and getting comfortable, Hotch remained somewhat of a mystery to her.

He was always calm, collected, and focused - a leader who kept a firm grip on everything around him. But when it came to his personal life, he was a locked vault. It intrigued her, in a way that felt almost frustrating. With a sly smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, she tossed out the question she’d been wondering for weeks. “Does Hotch even have friends? I mean, besides his endless pile of case files?”

The bullpen, which had been filled with the familiar hum of typing and low conversations, quieted as everyone processed the question. Morgan, sitting across from Prentiss, was the first to break the silence with a low snicker. He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, flashing his trademark grin. “Hotch? Friends? Nah, that man’s married to the job. Friends would require, you know - fun - and I don’t think he’s ever met the word.”

JJ, who had been sorting through a stack of papers at her desk, laughed softly. “Yeah, he definitely seems more like the ‘spend Saturday night in the office instead of watching a game with buddies’ type. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even have time for friends.”

Prentiss grinned at that, shaking her head in agreement. "Or maybe he has a secret club of workaholics where they get together and solve cold cases for fun."

Garcia, standing behind Morgan’s chair and draping her arms around his shoulders, gasped dramatically, her eyes widening with an over-the-top look of mock horror. She placed a hand theatrically over her heart, shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh, can you imagine Hotch at a dinner party?” she exclaimed, her voice dropping into a stiff, deadpan impression of him. “‘So, how do you feel about the rising murder rates in the Midwest?’”

She shivered dramatically, clutching Morgan a little tighter for effect. “Honestly, the worst small talk ever,” she declared, rolling her eyes with a playful shudder that sent the team into laughter.

Laughter rippled through the group, the shared image of Hotch awkwardly navigating social situations becoming a source of amusement. But as the laughter died down, Reid - who had been quietly sifting through old case files - looked up, his expression thoughtful, as if he had been contemplating the question more seriously than the rest.

“I don’t think it’s that he doesn’t want friends,” Reid mused, his tone thoughtful as he leaned back in his chair. He absentmindedly flipped through a stack of old case files in front of him, though it was clear his mind was elsewhere. “It’s more that he doesn’t *prioritize* them. His work-life balance is… well, skewed. I think he probably sees relationships outside of work as distractions. They pull him away from his responsibilities, and that’s something he can’t afford.”

Prentiss nodded slowly, taking in Reid’s assessment with a soft hum of agreement. She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight, her gaze flicking toward Hotch’s office, where the blinds were half-drawn and the lights were on. “Yeah,” she said, drawing out the word, “I can see that. But still… doesn’t everyone need someone to talk to? I mean, even Hotch?”

Morgan, leaning back in his chair with a casual grin, was about to drop a classic sarcastic retort when something stopped him in his tracks. He noticed the subtle shift in the room - a presence just behind them, commanding yet silent. The playful banter faded as everyone instinctively glanced up.

There, standing quietly at the edge of their conversation, was Jason Gideon.

His mere presence had a way of quieting a room. Unlike Hotch, whose authority was overt and rooted in his leadership, Gideon’s was understated, more psychological. He didn’t need to bark orders at them; he simply had to be there, and everyone would fall silent. He looked between them, his eyes calm but sharp, assessing the scene with a quiet understanding.

Gideon had clearly overheard enough of the conversation to know what they were discussing. His expression was thoughtful, as though he was deciding just how much he wanted to reveal. Finally, in his familiar, measured voice, he broke the silence. “Yes, he does have friends.”

The simplicity of his statement landed like a bombshell in the middle of the room. All eyes snapped to Gideon, the weight of his words sending shockwaves through the group. The notion that Aaron Hotchner - stoic, ever-serious Hotch - had a social life outside the walls of the BAU was almost laughable.

Morgan was the first to react, leaning back with an incredulous grin as he raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” He let out a disbelieving chuckle. “You’re telling me Hotch has friends? Like, real, actual friends? Not just old case files and unsolved murders?”

JJ, sitting a few desks away, blinked in surprise and lowered her papers, clearly caught off guard by the idea. “Friends?” she echoed. “I mean, I know Hotch is close to his team, but I didn’t think he really had time for anyone outside of work.”

Prentiss, her curiosity instantly piqued, leaned forward, her arms now resting on the back of a chair. “Wait, hold on. Hotch has a friend? Who?”

Gideon’s gaze swept the room, and the corners of his mouth tugged upward in a subtle smile, enjoying the ripple of disbelief he’d caused. He took a step closer, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. “She used to work here,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate, almost as if the information he was dropping wasn’t about to throw the entire team into a frenzy. “One of the best profilers we’ve ever had, Hotch and her were partners.”

The weight of that revelation hung in the air like a thick cloud of mystery, and the group fell silent again, processing what had just been said. A female profiler? Someone close to Hotch? Who had left the team without a single mention in all these years? The idea felt like a puzzle, one they couldn’t help but start piecing together.

Garcia, always the quickest to act when it came to uncovering mysteries, perked up immediately. Her fingers hovered eagerly over her keyboard, itching to dive into the archives. “Wait, wait, wait,” she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. “She? A female profiler? Who worked here? And Hotch’s partner?” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “We need details, Gideon.”

JJ, her brow furrowing in confusion, leaned against her desk and glanced at the others. “Why didn’t Hotch ever mention her? I mean, if she was one of the best profilers we’ve had, wouldn’t we know about her?”

Morgan scoffed lightly, shaking his head in disbelief. “This has got to be a joke, right? Hotch had a female partner, one of the best profilers, and he never said a word? Not even in passing?”

Prentiss, now fully engrossed in the mystery, added, “And why did she leave? People that good don’t just walk away. Something had to have happened.”

But Gideon, ever enigmatic, simply shrugged as if he were tossing breadcrumbs to a group of hungry detectives. “She moved on to bigger things,” he said, almost wistfully. “She’s in Europe now. Teaching. Brilliant mind.” And just like that, before anyone could ask more questions, he gave a small nod of finality and turned to walk back to his office. He left the group standing there in stunned silence, their collective curiosity now burning hotter than ever.

JJ blinked rapidly, still trying to process what had just been revealed. “That’s… cryptic, even for Gideon.”

Morgan, arms crossed over his chest, glanced back at Hotch’s office, his brow furrowing deeper. The blinds were half-drawn, but he could still make out the familiar figure hunched over case files, as usual. “Hotch had a partner like that and never mentioned her once? Not even a hint? That’s not just weird, it’s suspicious.”

Prentiss raised an eyebrow, a sly smile playing on her lips as she shook her head. “If she was that good, why isn’t she still here? There has to be more to the story than Hotch is letting on. You know how he is with secrets.”

Garcia’s eyes were immediately already glowing with excitement. “Well, my darlings,” she said, leaning forward with an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper, “it seems we have ourselves a delightful little mystery to solve. And you know there’s nothing I love more than a good digital dig into the archives.” She clapped her hands together. “To the Batcave!”

Morgan chuckled, standing up and stretching. “Alright, alright, lead the way, baby girl. Let’s see what you’ve got on this mystery woman.”

With an excited flourish, Garcia waved them all into her colorful sanctuary, the tech-laden, light-filled Batcave that was her pride and joy. Stepping inside, it was like entering another universe, a world of colorful bobbleheads, blinking lights, and eclectic posters that shouted Garcia's unique personality. Her desk was lit up with the glow of multiple monitors, all showing scrolling lines of code and flashing icons.

She wiggled her fingers theatrically over the keyboard before diving into the search. “Prepare to be dazzled, my friends. You’re about to witness hacking magic.”

Prentiss leaned against the edge of Garcia’s desk, smirking. “Do we get popcorn for this?”

Garcia flashed her a grin. “Popcorn comes later, my dear. Right now, we’re after intel.”

The rest of the team gathered around Garcia’s chair, their curiosity piqued. Morgan leaned over her shoulder, watching as she quickly navigated through various secure databases, her fingers flying over the keyboard in rapid succession. The sound of keystrokes filled the air, the tension rising with each tap. After a few moments, Garcia’s face lit up, her fingers pausing as she let out a theatrical gasp. “Oh. Oh my God.” She spun around dramatically in her chair, eyes wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… her.”

The monitors flickered, and suddenly, the screen filled with your personnel file. A younger version of you stared back at them from the photograph - a sharp, focused gaze beneath determined brows, your expression serious yet full of life. There was something magnetic in the way you carried yourself, even in a still image.

Morgan leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the picture. “Well, damn,” he muttered under his breath, letting out a low whistle. “She’s exactly my type.”

Prentiss nudged him playfully, raising an eyebrow. “You say that about every woman who’s both breathing and talented, Morgan.”

Morgan grinned, flashing her a playful wink. “Yeah, but this one’s different. Hotch kept her under wraps. That’s like a glowing recommendation.”

Garcia, enjoying the banter, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Easy there, tiger,” she teased, spinning back to her computer. “I’ll share her with you, but only because I love you. Remember, I’ve called dibs.”

The team erupted in laughter, Garcia’s infectious energy cutting through the room. Even Reid, who had been quietly studying your file, let out a small smile, though his focus remained intensely on the details unfolding before them.

“She was hired here at 21,” Garcia read aloud, her voice laced with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “Straight out of university with degrees in philosophy, psychology, and linguistics. And - oh, my God - she spoke 16 languages fluently when she joined.” She paused dramatically. “Now they’re up to twenty-six, tewnty-six.”

Reid’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. “Twenty-one? She was recruited younger than I was?” He blinked, his mind racing as he processed the information. “That’s… incredible.”

Morgan grinned and elbowed Reid playfully. “Looks like someone beat you to the genius profiler title, pretty Ricky.”

Reid shot Morgan a mock glare but couldn’t hide his amazement. “Twenty-six languages?” His voice was filled with admiration as he scrolled through your file. “I’ve read her work. She pioneered an entirely new method of geographical profiling, 3D models that incorporate topography. Elevation, terrain changes, natural barriers… it completely changed how we understand unsub movement patterns.” He leaned forward, growing more animated. “Traditional geographical profiling looks at a flat map, but she recognized that criminals don’t move across flat landscapes. She factored in hills, rivers, even forests,anything that could affect the unsub’s route or escape. She mapped out the terrain as the unsub would see it, considering how natural barriers influence decisions.”

Prentiss nodded, intrigued. “So, she wasn’t just tracking where they went, but how they moved through the landscape?”

“Exactly!” Reid’s excitement built. “She created a ‘criminal terrain map,’ layering traditional geographic data with topographical maps. She used it to predict choke points, places where terrain forces an unsub to make specific choices. She even factored in the psychological impact, organized offenders would avoid risky terrain, while disorganized ones might take dangerous paths without thinking. She didn’t just consider where they were going, she understood why they made those decisions, based on both the landscape and their psychology.”

Prentiss raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “So, basically, she was a legend?”

Garcia continued scrolling through your file, her fingers moving methodically as she scanned more of your achievements. “And she didn’t just stop there,” she said, excitement building in her voice. “After leaving the BAU, she went on to teach behavioral science and criminology all over Europe: Italy, France, Spain, Greece, Sweden – you name it – even Iceland. Lecturing in multiple languages, of course. She’s giving a guest lecture at Quantico today.”

Morgan let out a low whistle, leaning in closer as though he could learn more about you just by studying your photo. “Hotch’s friend is an international superstar. That’s why he didn’t tell us about her. He didn’t want us feeling inferior.”

JJ chuckled from the other side of the room, still processing the idea of Hotch keeping someone like you under wraps. “Of course, Hotch would keep someone like that close to the vest. It’s so like him to have a secret weapon tucked away.”

Prentiss, crossing her arms, seemed to grow more curious by the second. “If she’s this brilliant, why did she leave? And why didn’t he ever mention her?” She scanned the faces of her colleagues, clearly unsatisfied with the pieces of the puzzle they had so far. “There’s something else going on here. Hotch doesn’t just let people disappear.”

Morgan scratched his chin thoughtfully, glancing back toward Hotch’s office, which seemed to be shrouded in even more mystery now. “Yeah, something’s not adding up. She was that good, and then she just… vanished from the BAU? I bet there’s a whole story we’re missing. The question is, why did she leave?”

Garcia, never one to miss out on a juicy bit of gossip, spun around in her chair with a conspiratorial grin. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it… she left just a few months after Hotch’s wedding.” She wiggled her eyebrows dramatically, enjoying the shocked looks from the others. “Coincidence? Or was there something more going on?”

JJ’s eyes widened, and she laughed softly, shaking her head. “You think she and Hotch were… what? Secretly involved? No way. Hotch is way too straight-laced for that.”

Morgan leaned against Garcia’s desk, crossing his arms. “I don’t know… maybe. She leaves right after his wedding? That’s a pretty big red flag. Maybe she had feelings for him, and when he married Haley, it was too much. She couldn’t handle being around him anymore.”

Prentiss raised an eyebrow, half-amused but also intrigued by the theory. “Or… maybe Hotch had feelings for her, and she left to avoid a messy situation. I mean, Hotch isn’t exactly one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Maybe it was all too complicated.”

Reid, who had been silently absorbing the conversation, finally spoke up, ever the voice of reason. “Or,” he said, “it could just be a coincidence. People leave jobs all the time for personal reasons. She was clearly brilliant; maybe she just wanted to pursue teaching or research.”

Garcia grinned at him, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come on, genius. Even you can’t deny that the timing is suspicious. She leaves only months after Hotch gets married? There’s gotta be more to that story.”

Morgan nodded, his expression serious but playful. “Yeah, kid, you don’t leave the BAU, the best profiling team in the country, unless something major goes down.”

Prentiss tilted her head, her curiosity still running wild. “What if they had some kind of falling out? Maybe they were super close, and after the wedding, things got awkward between them.”

JJ leaned against the wall, looking thoughtful. “It’s possible. People don’t usually leave a close partnership like that without a good reason. Especially someone like Hotch, he doesn’t form bonds easily, but when he does… it runs deep.”

Morgan grinned. “Whatever it is, I can’t wait to find out. If we’re lucky, we might get some answers when we meet her. Maybe she’ll drop some hints about what really went down.”

Garcia, her fingers flying across the keys again, pulled up more details about your guest lecture. “Well, lucky for us, she’s not going to be a mystery for much longer. Her lecture is in just a couple of hours at the Academy. How convenient for us to take a little field trip.”

Reid, his eyes lighting up, nodded eagerly. “I’d love to hear her lecture. I’ve read so much of her work - it would be fascinating to see how she applies her theories in person. Maybe we’ll even get some insight into her departure.”

Prentiss smirked, clearly enjoying the intrigue. “And I wouldn’t mind getting a sense of what she’s like. She sounds like a force to be reckoned with. Plus, if she was that close to Hotch, there’s gotta be some interesting history.”

Garcia swiveled around to face them, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Well, what are we waiting for? Field trip, anyone?”

JJ pushed away from the wall, smiling as she glanced around the room. “I’m in. Let’s go meet the legend.”

The team exchanged eager glances, the sense of excitement in the air palpable. There was more to this than just a lecture, they were about to meet someone who had not only shaped the field of profiling but had also left a deep, unspoken mark on their unit chief, Aaron Hotchner. They couldn’t help but feel like they were about to uncover a part of the team’s history that for some reason had been hidden for far too long.

Hi there! Can you write some HotchxColonelReader?! Like the Team comes by morging and sees Hotch, Strauss, Rossi and a woman from the army discussing something at Hotch's office about a case. Then, then discovery that THAT is the Hotchs' wife?! Sorry about my english. :) And Thank yoouuuuuuu!! I love all your work!!!

Absolutely!!! This was so much fun to write, and such a different prompt to what I usually get 🫶 Don't worry about your english ;) i'm not a native speaker 💕😘

Reverence | [A.H]

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘈𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘔𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘊𝘞: 𝘔𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘱, 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴, 𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘞𝘊: 1𝘬

           The early morning haze clung to the bullpen, and the rhythmic hum of coffee machines mixed with the muffled clicks of keyboards as the team settled into their desks. The quiet lull of routine was only broken by Morgan’s curious gaze as he caught a glimpse of Hotch’s office from across the room. The blinds were open, revealing an unusual scene - Hotch, Strauss, Rossi, and an unfamiliar woman standing together in what could only be described as a tense, closed-door meeting. The three agents looked on edge compared to her.

           “Hey,” Morgan called out quietly, his voice low with intrigue as he nodded toward the glass window. “What’s going on in there?”

           JJ glanced over from her desk, noticing the woman in uniform standing alongside the senior agents. Her sharp, tailored military attire contrasted starkly against the office's corporate formality. The woman exuded authority; her posture was stiff, shoulders back, chin raised with the kind of self-assurance that comes from years of commanding subordinates.

           “Who is she?” JJ whispered, leaning forward. “She looks like she’s ready to bark out several orders any second now.”

           Morgan folded his arms across his chest, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Definitely military or marines. Look at that posture. You don’t stand like that out of free will unless you’ve seen action.”

           Reid, already drawn into the mystery woman, was fidgeting with the edge of his sweater trying to piece the puzzle together. “Maybe she’s part of an interagency collaboration? It could be something related to national security.”

           As the team watched, the woman turned slightly, her profile sharp and no-nonsense. Her movements were measured, and deliberate - every inch of her seemed to be about precision and control. Even though they were observing her through glass, it felt like her presence dominated the entire office.

           They didn’t have long to speculate before the door to Hotch’s office clicked open. Strauss emerged first, her usual expression in place as she nodded to the agents, followed by Rossi, who sported his signature knowing grin with a quick wink. But it was the woman who truly commanded attention as she stepped into the bullpen. The clack of her polished boots against the floor was precise, each step purposeful and calculated. Her uniform gleamed under the fluorescent lights, the medals and badges catching the glint of rays from the morning sun through the windows. She held her head high, her gaze sweeping the room like a hawk surveying its territory.

           Morgan straightened in his chair as she walked past, eyes wide with respect. “She’s definitely not here for pleasantries.”

           Before anyone could add another word, the woman stopped, her sharp gaze locking onto the team. It wasn’t just a glance - it was the kind of stare that felt like being x-rayed. The whispers, the subtle looks, the quiet gossip - they hadn’t gone unnoticed. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and with a swift motion, she crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze narrowing.

           The air in the room shifted instantly as she addressed them. Her voice, though calm, carried the unmistakable weight of authority. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

           The team froze. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it was firm, resonating with the controlled power of someone who was used to giving orders. It sliced through the air like a knife, leaving a lingering tension in its wake. JJ’s mouth opened slightly, Morgan leaned forward, and even Reid looked uncharacteristically startled.

           “No, ma’am,” they responded in unison, almost instinctively. The words tumbled out, a reflex to the command in her voice. It was as if, for a brief moment, they were recruits in boot camp being called to attention.

           Her eyes lingered on them for a moment, assessing, before a flicker of amusement danced across her features. Her posture remained as strict as before, but there was the faintest hint of a smirk at the corner of her mouth. She nodded once, satisfied with their response, then turned her attention back to Hotch, who stood quietly in the doorway of his office.

           “I’ll be returning to base,” she said, her voice noticeably softer, though still firm. She gave Hotch a look that lingered just a fraction too long for it to be strictly professional.

           “Thank you for coming by,” Hotch replied, his tone warm but restrained. There was something different about the way he spoke to her - his usual clipped authority was replaced by an almost imperceptible tenderness.

           “Of course,” she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. Then, her voice dropped into something far more intimate. “Aaron.”

           The use of his first name hung in the air, so casual, so familiar, yet it sent shockwaves through the team.

           JJ’s eyes widened. “Did she just call him Aaron?”

           Morgan’s jaw nearly dropped. “Hold up. Did she just—?”

           The woman didn’t wait for their reactions. With a brisk turn, she walked out of the office, her boots echoing down the hallway as she left, her military bearing never faltering. It was only after the door had swung shut behind her that Rossi, who had been watching the whole thing with barely concealed amusement, let out a chuckle.

           “Looks like the cat’s out of the bag,” Rossi said, crossing his arms as he leaned against a desk in the bullpen. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is Hotch’s wife.”

           The team stared at him, slack-jawed.

           “His wife?” JJ managed, her voice unbelieving.

           “Colonel actually,” Rossi clarified, eyes twinkling with mischief. “She’s been in the army for years. Taught Hotch everything he knows about being strict.”

           “She’s tougher than Hotch,” Morgan added, still trying to wrap his head around the revelation.

           “Way tougher,” Rossi said, winking at the team.

           “That was… something else.” Emily managed to say through her disbelief.

           They turned to look at Hotch, before he returned to his office, his expression unreadable as he resumed his work. For a brief second, though, as his gaze flicked toward the team, they could see the faintest smile - a private, almost imperceptible curve of his lips.

           “You never asked,” he said simply, allowing a rare smile to tug at the corners of his lips before turning his attention back to his office and paperwork, leaving the team still gaping.

11 - May You Be Satisfied (interlude)

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: heartbreaking slow burn Summary: You watched Aaron, the man you loved silently and selflessly, marry Haley, knowing you had pushed him toward the happiness he deserved but could never find with you. In your heartfelt speech, you spoke of love, resilience, and the myth of two halves finding each other. Despite your pain, you hid your unrequited feelings behind support and encouragement. Warnings: Heartbreak incoming. Word Count: 8.1k Dado's Corner: No words, just tears.

previous chapter ; masterlist

You lingered at the back, tucked away behind the crowd of guests, clutching your champagne flute like a lifeline. The laughter and chatter around you felt distant, muffled, as if you were listening through glass.

Your eyes were fixed on Aaron, the center of it all, his every movement pulling you deeper into a familiar ache. He looked more at ease than you had ever seen him, shoulders relaxed, eyes bright, his smile unrestrained in a way that was both beautiful and painful - and when he looked at Haley, it was as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them.

It was the kind of love that you had seen from afar but never up close, the kind you had never been able to hold in your hands. The kind of love you had convinced yourself he needed. The kind you thought you couldn’t give.

Your chest tightened as you watched him lean in, his forehead brushing against Haley’s, the world around them fading into nothing. You could almost hear the steady beat of his heart, could almost feel the warmth of the happiness that radiated from him, happiness that felt just out of your reach. Your own heart ached with the weight of a choice you had made long ago, a decision that had seemed selfless at the time but now felt like the cruelest kind of betrayal.

.

The hotel room was dimly lit, with only the small lamp on the nightstand casting a warm, golden glow across the space. You were exhausted, the weight of the case settling heavily on your shoulders, but there was comfort in these quiet routines you and Hotch had fallen into. This had become your sanctuary after hours: sitting in silence, each absorbed in a book, allowing the world to melt away just for a little while.

You stretched, feeling the tightness in your muscles release as you let out a long sigh. Hotch glanced up from his own work, and you caught the subtle shift in his expression - concern, a softness reserved only for these moments when his stoic mask slipped away.

His gaze lingered on you, a hint of something deeper flashing behind his dark eyes, before he reached into his bag and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package.

“Here,” he said, tossing it toward you with the kind of casual ease that belied the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. “Thought you might need a little distraction.”

You caught it mid-air, feeling the warmth of his attention settle around you like a blanket. He always had a way of noticing the small things: your exhaustion, the way your shoulders slumped when the day had been particularly rough, and now, this little gift.

You tore open the paper with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, revealing a book: Coin Collecting for Beginners. The cover showed neatly organized rows of shiny, historical coins, their intricate details reflecting the soft light.

You blinked at the book, then looked up at him, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Coin collecting, Hotch?” you said, tilting your head in disbelief, unable to hide the affection behind your teasing tone. “This is... unexpected.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I used to collect coins when I was a kid. Figured it might be something you’d enjoy after you subjected me to Hegel for Dummies a few months ago.”

You burst out laughing, recalling the moment you’d handed him that book, his initial look of quiet horror, quickly replaced by begrudging curiosity. You had meant it as half a joke, half a genuine attempt to bring him closer to your world of philosophy, hoping to share a piece of yourself with him. “So this is payback? You’re trying to teach me the fine art of coin collecting in return for a deep dive into German philosophy?”

“Something like that,” he replied, his amusement deepening as he watched your reaction. “It’s a bit easier on the brain, at least. Less… existential dread.”

“Easy, huh?” you grinned, flipping through the book, feeling the pages beneath your fingers. It was such a Hotch move - thoughtful, a little surprising, and wrapped in just the right amount of sincerity and humor. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot. Maybe I’ll become an expert and give you a run for your money, no pun intended.”

But as you continued flipping through the pages, your grin faded into confusion. The words on the pages weren’t what you expected, they weren’t even in English. You squinted at the unfamiliar text, your brows knitting together in surprise.

“Wait a second… Swedish?” you said, your voice filled with disbelief as you stared at the incomprehensible words. “Hotch, this entire book is in Swedish!”

He barely suppressed a grin, clearly relishing in your reaction. “Oh, is it? Must have been a mix-up at the bookstore.”

You shot him an incredulous look, your amusement bubbling back up as you realized this was no innocent mistake. “A mix-up? Really?” You held the book up, waving it slightly in mock accusation. “You bought me a book in Swedish?”

“Well,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his voice taking on that teasing edge that always made your heart flutter, “about a month ago, you mentioned you were learning Swedish. Something about expanding your ‘already impressive enough linguistic repertoire,’ if I remember correctly.”

You stared at him, genuinely surprised. That had been a late-night conversation, one of those quiet moments where you were both so wrapped up in work that anything you said felt like a confession shared in secret. “You remember that? I barely remember saying it, it was like one in the morning. I was half asleep.”

Hotch shrugged, but there was something undeniably tender in his gaze, an unspoken care that made your pulse quicken. “Of course I remembered. You don’t have to say something more than once for me to pick up on it. Besides,” he added, his voice dropping a little lower, just enough to make your breath hitch, “you’re my partner. It’s kind of my job to know these things.”

The word “partner” hung in the air, rich with a meaning that went far beyond the job. The way he always said it felt like a promise, like he was telling you that he saw you - really saw you - and that he was paying attention, even when you didn’t think he was. It made your heart skip a beat, a familiar rush of warmth flooding your chest as you tried to keep the growing smile from spreading too far.

You tried to play it off, giving him a teasing smile that you hoped masked the way he made your heart race. “So this is your grand plan? Testing me to see if I’m really learning Swedish?”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, the mischievous glint in his eyes becoming more pronounced as he watched your reaction. “Exactly. I figured this would be a good way to track your progress. Plus, it’s more fun than flashcards, don’t you think?”

You laughed, shaking your head, trying to ignore how his attention made you feel, seen, valued. “You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

“Always a few steps ahead,” he replied, his voice laced with that familiar confidence. But there was something else there too, something softer, as his gaze lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you.

You glanced down at the book in your hands, flipping through the pages again, the Swedish text taunting you with its complexity. “So how am I supposed to read this if I’m still barely past the basics?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Hotch said, his voice dropping into that low, teasing tone that always made your cheeks warm. “I’ll help. I’m planning to quiz you on the first chapter in… let’s say, twenty minutes.”

Your eyes widened, and you shot him a look of mock indignation. “Twenty minutes? You can’t be serious.”

He raised an eyebrow, the smirk on his lips unmistakable. “I’m very serious. If you’re learning Swedish, you better prove it. Think of this as motivation.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” you said, shaking your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re just looking for an excuse to make me suffer.”

He chuckled, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine, his laughter rich and warm, like the rarest of rewards. “Not suffer, learn. Big difference.”

“And how exactly are you going to quiz me if you don’t speak Swedish either?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you leaned forward, closing the space between you ever so slightly.

He paused, his smirk widening as his eyes met yours, that familiar spark of playfulness lighting up his expression. “Simple. I’ll make you translate it out loud. That way, I can see if you’re telling the truth.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the absurdity of it all, the way he always seemed to know how to push just the right buttons. “You’re really going to put me on the spot like that?”

“You did give me Hegel, Hegel for Dummies, but still Hegel” he countered, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous light that sent butterflies swirling in your stomach. “Consider this payback.”

Your heart fluttered as you watched him, the flush creeping up your neck as you tried to keep your voice light. “Alright, fine. But don’t be surprised when I start throwing Swedish insults your way.”

Hotch leaned forward again, his eyes locked on yours in that way that always made your breath catch, like he was daring you to cross a line neither of you had fully acknowledged. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The air between you crackled, the playful teasing only serving to underscore the deeper connection that had grown between you over the months. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way he looked at you, the way his gaze lingered, warm and attentive, like you were the only person in the room. It was the way his smile softened when you laughed, and the way he seemed to remember every little thing you said, even in the quiet moments when you thought no one was listening.

As you picked up the Swedish book again, flipping through the pages with renewed determination, you couldn’t help but glance over at Hotch, your heart fluttering as his soft smile lingered in your mind. The air between you had settled into a comfortable quiet, a kind of sanctuary you both retreated to after the chaos of the day. But something was different.

You noticed a heaviness in the way Hotch’s shoulders slumped, the slight tension in his brow as he stared blankly at the file in front of him. He was present, but his mind was miles away, lost in thoughts you couldn’t quite reach.

“Hotch,” you said softly, breaking the stillness between you, your voice gentle but probing. “Is everything okay?”

He looked up at you, and for a moment, the confident, composed Aaron Hotchner you knew so well seemed to flicker, replaced by something raw and uncertain. His eyes, usually so steady, were clouded with doubt. He hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully, and you could see the struggle playing out in his expression.

“It’s… Haley,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual, laced with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. “She reached out to me recently. We’ve been talking, catching up on our lives. And today, she told me she wants to try again with us. She said she never stopped loving me.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, the weight of his confession hanging heavy in the air. You felt your stomach drop, a sinking, twisting feeling that left you momentarily breathless.

You had known that Haley was always a part of him, that their bond was something deep and unbreakable, but hearing it spoken aloud made it feel so much more real. The quiet hope you’d harbored - foolish and unspoken - crumbled in an instant, leaving you with nothing but the sharp sting of reality.

He was hers. He always had been. And you, for all your quiet moments and lingering glances, would never be more than his partner, the one who stood beside him but never crossed the line. You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a smile that you hoped would disguise the hurt.

“How do you feel about that?” you asked, your voice soft and careful, though each word felt like it was slicing through you.

Hotch ran a hand through his hair, the gesture full of frustration and uncertainty. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to believe it could work, that maybe this time it could be different. But I’m afraid - afraid of messing it up again. She deserves more than what I can give her. I’m still the same man I was back then, always chasing monsters across the country. She deserves someone who can be there, who doesn’t have one foot always out the door.”

He looked away, his gaze distant and pained. “And now, with Rossi gone, the responsibilities are piling up. The team needs me more than ever, and I can’t keep pretending that I’m someone I’m not. I don’t know if I can be the man she needs me to be. And what scares me most… I don’t even know if I can be happy.”

The confession hit you hard, deeper than you expected.

Here he was, this strong, resilient man who had faced the darkest parts of humanity, admitting that he didn’t know how to let himself be happy. It broke something in you, because in that moment, you saw how much he carried alone: the guilt, the doubt, the endless chase for something he couldn’t quite grasp. And you couldn’t help but feel that same restlessness in yourself, that yearning for a peace that always seemed just out of reach.

You hesitated, feeling the sting of your own emotions threatening to overwhelm you, but you knew you had to say something. Despite the ache in your chest, you couldn’t let him drown in his own fears. You took a breath, steadying yourself, and leaned forward, your voice gentle but firm.

“Aaron, you deserve to be happy,” you said, your words laced with a quiet urgency. “I know you’re afraid. I know you’re scared of making the same mistakes. But you’re not the same person you were back then. When things ended with Haley, you were still working as a DA, buried in your ambition, trying to prove yourself. You were driven, relentless. But look at where you are now. You’re not just chasing your career, you’ve built something. You’ve made it.”

He listened, his eyes locked onto yours, and you could see the flicker of doubt mixed with something else - hope, maybe, or the desperate need to believe in what you were saying. You continued, feeling the weight of each word as it passed your lips.

“You’re a lead profiler, Aaron. You’ve achieved everything you set out to do, and you’re doing it better than anyone ever could. You’ve worked so hard, and you’re finally in a place where you can allow yourself to take a breath. You’ve earned it. And you’re so close to that promotion, to being Unit Chief. You’ve proved to everyone, including yourself, that you’re more than capable.”

You paused, searching his face for any sign that your words were getting through to him, but his expression remained conflicted, his eyes shadowed with years of unspoken fears. “Aaron, you’re allowed to be satisfied. You’re allowed to find happiness outside of work. It doesn’t make you any less dedicated. You’re not the man you were back then. You’re better.”

He looked down, the smallest smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wish it were that simple. I want to believe you, but I keep feeling like… I’m never satisfied. No matter how much I achieve, no matter how far I go, it never feels like enough.”

Your heart clenched at his admission, and you knew, instinctively, that he wasn’t just talking about his work. There was a part of you that wanted to reach out, to tell him that maybe his restlessness was a sign that he was meant for something more, something beyond the life he was clinging to out of fear. But your own insecurities held you back, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say the words.

Instead, you tried to offer him the one thing you could, your unwavering belief in him. “Aaron, happiness isn’t a destination. It’s not something you can chase down like a criminal or lock away like a case file. It’s messy and imperfect, and sometimes, it’s just allowing yourself to be enough. It’s letting go of the ‘what ifs’ and the regrets. You have a chance to rebuild something with Haley, to find that piece of your life you thought you’d lost. Why not take it?”

His gaze lingered on you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find the answers he so desperately needed. And in that moment, you saw something you hadn’t expected - vulnerability, a quiet plea for reassurance. It was like he was asking you, without words, if you thought he could be happy, if you believed in him enough to push him toward the life he deserved.

“You always know what to say,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You cut through all the noise in my head and make it sound so simple. How do you do that?”

You gave him a small, bittersweet smile, your own heart aching with the unspoken truth that you wished you could tell him. “I just know you, Aaron. I know how much you’ve sacrificed, how hard you’ve worked. And I believe that you deserve to let yourself have something good. To be happy.”

He nodded slowly, his expression softening, but there was still a shadow of doubt in his eyes. “And you? Are you happy?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. You wanted to tell him that happiness was a fleeting thing for you, something that came in brief moments - like the way he looked at you when you made him laugh, or the quiet nights when you worked side by side in companionable silence. But you knew that your happiness was tied to him in a way that could never be spoken aloud, and admitting it now would only complicate things.

You took a breath, your smile tinged with sadness. “I’m… I’m working on it. But that’s okay. I think sometimes, the pursuit of happiness is just as important as finding it. And I think you’re closer than you realize.”

He gave you a long, searching look, his eyes filled with an unspoken understanding that hung between you like a fragile thread. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and the familiar banter slipped back into his voice, though softer, edged with something vulnerable.

“You should write a book,” he teased, his smile warm but weary. “Something about the philosophy of happiness. I’d read it.”

You laughed, though it was tinged with the bittersweet realization that even in these moments, the lines between you would always remain. “I’d call it ‘How to Be Satisfied: A Guide for Stubborn FBI Agents.’ It’d be a bestseller, not like the crap that Rossi seems to be writing now.”

He chuckled, the sound low and comforting, and for a brief second, it felt like you were back to the way things always were - teasing, pushing, but never quite touching the truth. But there was an undercurrent now, something deeper, a shared understanding that you were both too afraid to voice.

Hotch watched you, his expression softening into something almost tender. “You’re the best partner I could ask for,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere. “I hope you know that,” he repeated softly, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. For a fleeting moment, it felt like he was reaching out, like he wanted to say something more but didn’t quite know how.

You forced a smile, trying to keep the emotions at bay. “I’m just doing my job,” you said lightly, though your voice wavered, betraying the quiet ache beneath your words. “Keeping you out of trouble and making sure you don’t forget to take care of yourself in the process. Somebody’s gotta do it.”

Hotch’s smile was small, tinged with a sadness that mirrored your own. “You do a lot more than that,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”

There was a weight in his gaze, something unsaid that hung heavy between you, and you found yourself wondering if he felt it too, the pull, the unspoken longing that neither of you dared to acknowledge. You wanted to ask him, to push just a little further and see if there was a chance, however slim, that he felt the same way. But you knew that wasn’t fair, not to him, not to the partnership that had kept you both anchored when everything else seemed to fall apart.

So instead, you leaned back, letting the silence stretch, filled with all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say. “You know,” you started, trying to find your footing again, “I think happiness is a lot like those coins you used to collect. You spend your whole life searching for the rare ones, the ones that seem impossible to find. But sometimes, the ones that mean the most are the ones you didn’t expect, the ones you stumble upon when you’re not even looking.”

Hotch watched you closely, his expression softening as your words sank in. “Is that how you see it?” he asked, his voice tinged with something almost hopeful, as if he were searching for meaning in your metaphor.

You nodded, your smile bittersweet. “I think happiness is something you can’t chase down. You have to let it find you, in the quiet moments, the unexpected ones. It’s not about being perfect or having everything figured out. It’s about letting yourself feel whatever it is you feel, without guilt or fear. It’s messy and complicated, and it’s never what you think it will be. But that’s what makes it worth it.”

He looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of the book on his lap, as if he were trying to gather his thoughts. When he looked back up at you, there was a softness in his eyes, a vulnerability that made your chest tighten. “You make it sound so easy,” he said, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “I wish I could see it the way you do.”

You reached out, hesitating for just a moment before placing your hand gently on his. It was a small gesture, but it felt monumental, like crossing a line you’d both been dancing around for too long.

“It’s not easy,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But you deserve it, Aaron. You deserve to find the kind of happiness that doesn’t come with strings attached, that doesn’t make you feel like you’re constantly running.”

His gaze fell to where your hands touched, his thumb brushing yours in a subtle, lingering movement that sent a shiver through you. There was a depth in his eyes that you couldn’t quite read, a mixture of gratitude and something more, something that felt dangerously close to the way you’d been feeling for him all along.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been the one keeping me steady, reminding me why I do this. You make it bearable.”

You squeezed his hand gently, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a warm, heavy blanket. It was everything you’d ever wanted to hear from him and yet not enough, because it was tinged with the painful truth that you could never be more than this, his partner, his confidant, the one who steadied him without ever asking for anything in return.

“I’ll always be here,” you said, your voice trembling with the effort to keep your emotions in check. “No matter what. Even when it’s hard, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. I’ll be here.”

Hotch nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, and for a moment, it felt like he might say something, something that would change everything. But he hesitated, the unspoken fears holding him back, and you knew then that whatever he was feeling would remain locked away, just like yours.

He pulled his hand back gently, the warmth of his touch lingering on your skin. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “For everything.”

You nodded, trying to keep your composure, but the sadness of the moment was like a tidal wave crashing over you, pulling you under. You picked up the Swedish book again, using it as a shield against the rising tide of emotions, but the words on the page blurred as tears welled up in your eyes. You couldn’t let him see how much it hurt, how deeply you wished things could be different.

As the silence between you grew, you stole a glance at him, watching as he stared at the wall, lost in thought. You knew that his heart was torn between what he wanted and what he thought he deserved, and all you could do was hope that he would find his way, whatever that looked like.

“Aaron,” you said quietly, your voice breaking through the stillness. “I know it’s scary, but you’ve been through worse. And if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you don’t give up. Not on the people you care about, and not on yourself. So maybe… maybe it’s time to stop punishing yourself for things that are out of your control. Maybe it’s time to let go of the guilt and let yourself be happy.”

He turned to you, his eyes filled with a raw, unspoken gratitude that made your heart ache. “How do you always manage to pull me out of my head?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the voice of reason I never knew I needed.”

You smiled, the tears finally spilling over as you tried to laugh through the pain. “Well, somebody has to keep you from spiraling into existential dread. And who better than your favorite philosopher?”

He chuckled, a soft, heartfelt sound that eased some of the tension between you, and for a moment, it was like you were back to the familiar rhythm of your banter, the safety of your partnership holding you together. But beneath it all, the truth remained, a quiet, unspoken longing that neither of you could bring yourself to say aloud.

As the night wore on, you both retreated back into your books, the silence between you comfortable yet tinged with the bittersweet knowledge of everything that would never be. And though the room was dimly lit, filled with the soft hum of the night, the warmth of Hotch’s presence beside you felt like the only light you needed, even if it wasn’t quite enough.

Because as much as you loved him, and as much as he seemed to love having you by his side, there would always be a line you couldn’t cross. And so you would stay here, in this quiet corner of his life, offering what you could, even if it meant letting go of what you wanted most.

For now, you were content to be his anchor, his voice of reason, his silent supporter in the moments when he needed it most. And though your heart ached with the knowledge that he would never truly be yours, you took solace in the fact that, in some small way, you were his.

.

But now, watching him stand before her, so sure and so full of hope, you were forced to confront the painful reality: you were the very reason he was here.

You had pushed him right into her arms.

The realization tore through you, a sharp and bitter reminder of the unspoken sacrifices you had made. You loved him, but you had buried those feelings, convinced yourself that your partnership was too important to jeopardize, that he needed Haley more than he could ever need you. And now, standing here, you couldn’t deny the truth: you had done the right thing, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

As the ceremony concluded, the guests erupted into applause, and you clapped along, though the sound felt distant, muffled by the weight of your own thoughts. Aaron and Haley kissed, sealing their vows with a promise of forever, and the room filled with the warmth of their shared joy.

You watched, your smile tight and forced, trying to keep the ache from showing on your face. This was their moment, and you wouldn’t let your own pain ruin it.

The reception began, and you found yourself moving on autopilot, mingling with guests, offering polite smiles and congratulations. But your mind was elsewhere, trapped in the moments leading up to today.

The sleepless nights spent writing and rewriting the speech Aaron had asked you to give, the way your heart had clenched every time you tried to put into words how much he meant to you. You had used the pen he had given you years ago - engraved with the number “200,” a small reminder of that friendly rivalry that had started it all. That pen had been your constant companion, a quiet symbol of the bond you shared, and as you sat alone in your room, writing the speech that would let him go, it had been your only comfort.

But as you reached the final lines, the ink had run out, sputtering and fading just as you tried to finish. You had watched, helpless, as the words disappeared, the pen leaving nothing but a faint, ghostly impression on the page. It had felt like a cruel metaphor for your love for Aaron, something beautiful but ultimately doomed to run dry. It was as if the universe was telling you that this was the end, that it was time to let go.

Now, standing before the crowd, holding the faded notes in your trembling hands, you felt the weight of that moment all over again. You had written the speech with every ounce of love and heartbreak you had left, and now you had to deliver it with a smile, pretending that you weren’t saying goodbye to the one person who had meant more to you than you ever dared to admit.

As you approached the microphone, you took a deep breath, trying to steady the trembling in your voice. Aaron and Haley were watching you, their expressions warm and expectant, and you forced yourself to meet his gaze, even as your heart twisted painfully.

“When Aaron asked me to speak today,” you began, your voice steady but lined with the cracks of unspoken emotion, “I was honored - and a little terrified. Because, well, how do you find the right words for someone who’s meant so much to you? How do you sum up what makes a person like Aaron so special in just a few minutes? But Aaron has always had a way of asking more of me than I think I can give, and somehow, he makes me want to rise to the occasion every single time.”

You glanced at him, your eyes lingering on his smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, full of pride and gratitude. It was the look he always gave you when you did something he thought was impossible, when you pushed yourself beyond what anyone else expected. And for a fleeting moment, it felt like you were back in those quiet moments, just the two of you against the world.

“Aaron is one of those rare people who loves deeply, even if he doesn’t always show it,” you continued, your voice softening as you spoke the words that had been weighing on your heart.

“He’s the kind of person who cares quietly, in ways that are often unseen. He remembers the small things, the details most people miss. He listens, really listens, and he makes you feel like you’re the most important person in the room. His love is not about grand gestures or dramatic declarations, it’s in the way he stays, the way he shows up, even when it’s hard.”

You saw Haley’s smile grow as she looked at Aaron, and your chest tightened with the bittersweetness of it all. You had fallen for him in those very moments - the nights when he stayed late just to make sure you weren’t alone, the mornings when he brought you coffee without you ever asking, the quiet, unspoken ways he showed he cared. But now, those moments were no longer yours to hold onto. They were hers, as they had always been.

“I remember when Aaron first told me about Haley,” you said, glancing at her with a warm smile that you hoped hid the ache in your chest. “It was like he was talking about the other half of his soul, this person who knew him better than anyone, who saw him completely, flaws and all, and loved him anyway. Haley, you’ve been his light in the darkest times, the constant he could always rely on. And you never gave up on him, even when things were hard. That kind of love… it’s rare, and it’s worth fighting for.”

You took a shaky breath, feeling the tears prick at the corners of your eyes. It was so hard to stand here, to speak about the man you loved and the woman he belonged with, knowing that your place in his life was always destined to be on the outside. But you couldn’t let your own pain show, not here, not today.

“Aaron, you’ve always been the one to carry so much on your shoulders,” you continued, your voice trembling slightly. “You’ve faced things that would break most people, and yet, you keep going. You keep fighting. And you’ve earned the right to be happy, to have the life you’ve always wanted. You deserve to let yourself be loved, fully and without hesitation.”

You glanced down at the notes in your hands, the faded ink barely visible now, and you felt the full weight of your own words - the words that had run out just as you tried to say what was in your heart.

“There’s a story I’ve always found beautiful,” you began, your voice soft but steady, though you could feel the tremble in your hands. “It’s from Plato’s Symposium, a dialogue about love. In it, the playwright Aristophanes tells a myth about the origins of human beings. He says that, long ago, humans were not like we are now. We were whole - complete, with two faces, four arms, and four legs, perfectly self-sufficient, rolling around the earth like spheres. We were powerful, so powerful, in fact, that the gods grew jealous and fearful of our strength, worried that we might challenge them.”

You glanced at the crowd, seeing faces lit with curiosity and confusion, but your eyes found their way back to Aaron. He was watching you intently, his expression soft, his attention unwavering. There was a flicker of something in his eyes that made your heart ache, a recognition of the story you were telling, of the deeper meaning that threaded through your words.

“To prevent us from becoming too strong, Zeus decided to split us in half,” you continued, your voice tightening as the weight of the myth pressed down on you, as if it were more than a story but a mirror of your own silent struggle. “We were cut apart, left incomplete, forever searching for the other half that made us whole. And ever since, humans have been wandering the world, driven by this aching desire to find that missing part of themselves - their other half, their true soulmate.”

You paused, your gaze flicking between Aaron and Haley, who were standing side by side, their fingers intertwined, as if to prove that they had already found what the rest of the world was still searching for. The sight of them - so connected, so complete - sent a pang of bittersweet recognition through you. They were each other’s missing pieces, brought back together by time, by fate, by love.

“It’s a beautiful metaphor,” you said, your voice quivering with the weight of your own unspoken emotions. “Aristophanes tells us that when two halves find each other, there is a recognition, a knowing. It’s not just attraction or desire - it’s a profound sense of homecoming, of finally feeling whole. It’s that quiet understanding that you’ve found the person who completes you, who sees you for exactly who you are, and loves you anyway.”

You looked at Aaron, your eyes locking with his, and for a moment, it was as if the entire room had fallen away. All you could see was him, the man you had watched from the sidelines, the man you had loved in secret, the man you had pushed toward his happiness, even when it meant breaking your own heart.

He was Haley’s missing half, just as she was his, and you were simply the bystander, the one who had helped them find their way back to each other.

“Aaron and Haley,” you continued, your voice thick with emotion, “you are living proof of that myth. You found each other once, were torn apart by life and circumstance, and yet, here you are again, standing side by side. You’ve overcome so much, and through it all, you’ve never stopped searching for one another. That’s what makes your love so extraordinary. It’s not about perfection; it’s about resilience, about holding on even when it’s hard.”

Your throat tightened as you thought about how Aaron had told you he was afraid, how he had doubted himself, worried that he would never be enough. You had seen his fears up close, the way he carried the weight of his responsibilities, his guilt, his longing for something that always seemed just out of reach. But today, he stood before everyone, willing to try again, to let himself be vulnerable and open to the possibility of happiness.

“I believe that when two people are meant to be, nothing - not time, not distance, not even the hardest challenges - can keep them apart,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “That’s what Aristophanes wanted us to understand: that love is not a straight path. It’s messy and complicated, full of twists and turns, but if you’re lucky enough to find that missing piece, it’s worth every moment.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes misting over as you forced yourself to continue. “Aaron and Haley, you are each other’s missing halves. You are each other’s home. And today, you stand before us, not as two separate people, but as a whole, as something that the world tried to keep apart but couldn’t. You’ve found your way back to each other, just like you were always meant to.”

“And that’s my wish for you both,” you finished, your voice trembling with the effort to hold back your tears. “That no matter what life brings, no matter how difficult things get, you always find your way back to each other. Because that’s what love is. It’s the quiet recognition of your other half, the person who makes you feel whole, even when the rest of the world feels broken.”

You looked down at your notes, the faded ink barely visible on the page, and you felt the full weight of everything you had given up - every silent hope, every unspoken confession, every small piece of your heart that you had handed over to him without ever asking for anything in return.

“May you always be satisfied.” you whispered, barely able to get the words out, knowing that they were as much a wish for him as they were a farewell to the dreams you had kept hidden.

You stepped down, your heart heavy but resolute, and as the applause swelled around you, you felt the bittersweet satisfaction of knowing that you had done what you came here to do. You had given him everything - your support, your guidance, your quiet, unspoken love - and now it was time to let him go.

As you sat back down, the applause was a distant, muffled roar, the noise of celebration barely cutting through the fog of your thoughts. The room was filled with the sounds of joy - laughter, clinking glasses, the faint strains of music in the background - but all you could feel was the ache that had settled deep in your chest, heavy and relentless.

You had poured your heart into that speech, laid bare every piece of your love for him in words that you could never say directly, and now it was done. You had done your duty, fulfilled the role you’d been playing for so long: the loyal friend, the steadfast confidant, the silent lover who never asked for anything in return.

Aaron and Haley stood at the center of the room, surrounded by well-wishers, their smiles wide and radiant. Aaron looked lighter than you’d seen him in years, the weight that usually hung on his shoulders lifted, even if just for this day. He was happy.

You could see it in every gesture, every smile, every soft look he gave Haley. This was what you had pushed him toward, the happiness you had convinced him he deserved. But now, watching them together, it felt like your heart was being slowly, quietly torn apart.

You were lost in your thoughts, trying to swallow back the rising tide of tears, when you noticed Aaron making his way toward you. He moved through the crowd with that calm, steady grace that was so distinctly his, the kind that made everyone step aside as if drawn by his presence. And suddenly, there he was, standing before you, his expression open and soft in a way that made it hard to keep your composure.

“Aaron,” you said, your voice cracking as you tried to mask the raw emotion you could no longer contain. You quickly wiped away a tear, forcing a smile that felt far too fragile to hold back the pain. But Aaron saw right through it, he always did.

He sat down beside you, closer than you expected, his presence both a comfort and an agony. He looked at you with eyes that were full of gratitude, a quiet intensity that made your heart ache with the weight of everything you’d never told him. It was the look he saved for moments of deep sincerity, when he let his guard down just enough for you to glimpse the man beneath all the layers.

“I knew you’d do a great job,” he said, his voice warm and low, laced with a depth of feeling that you hadn’t expected. “But what you said up there… you outdid yourself. You made today feel like it was always supposed to happen, like it was all meant to be.”

His words were too kind, each one slicing through you like a knife. You looked away, unable to bear the warmth in his gaze, the quiet gratitude that you knew was undeserved. “I just… I wanted it to be perfect for you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You deserve this, Aaron. You deserve to be happy.”

Aaron’s expression softened, his eyes filled with a tenderness that you had come to know so well. “I wouldn’t be here without you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve been there for me through everything. When I didn’t know how to move forward, you were the one who kept me going. You’ve been my rock, my anchor. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you.”

But at what cost? You had stayed by his side, helped him rebuild, guided him back to Haley, all the while knowing that your own feelings would never be returned

“You don’t owe me anything, Aaron,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “The truth was always inside of you. I just… helped you find it, simple maieutics.”

He looked at you, his brow furrowing slightly, the familiar look of confusion that always made you want to explain everything in a way that would make sense to him. And then, as if trying to lighten the heaviness of the moment, he offered a small, sad smile. “I knew, you would find a way to lecture me on philosophy, even on my wedding day.”

You forced a laugh, though it came out shaky, the sound breaking under the weight of everything you were holding back. “Yeah, well, old habits die hard,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, even as your heart splintered. “You know, Socrates believed that the answers weren’t given to us by others - they were already within us, just waiting to be drawn out. That’s what maieutics is. I didn’t teach you anything you didn’t already know. I just helped you remember.”

Aaron’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, it was as if the rest of the world had fallen away. He looked at you with such deep, unspoken gratitude, his eyes glistening with the emotion he rarely let show. “I wish I had your wisdom,” he said softly, his voice thick with something that felt dangerously close to regret. “You have always known exactly what to say. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough.”

You tried to smile, but it faltered, your breath catching as you felt the full weight of his words. You had always been the one to lift him up, to give him the strength he didn’t realize he had, but you knew that what he saw as wisdom was just your way of coping - your way of making sense of the unrequited love that had shaped so much of your relationship with him. You had given him everything, and now you had to find a way to live with the empty space he left behind.

“I just wanted you to find what you were looking for,” you said, your voice breaking as the tears finally spilled over. “I wanted you to be happy, Aaron.”

His hand found yours, warm and solid, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles in a gesture so tender it nearly undid you. He held on, just for a moment, as if grounding himself in your presence, and the intimacy of that touch felt like a quiet, painful goodbye to everything that could never be.

“You’ve done so much for me,” he said, his voice cracking slightly as he squeezed your hand. “More than I think you’ll ever know. You’ve always been there, and I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat too tight with the tears you couldn’t stop. You had been there, you had given him all the pieces of yourself that you could spare, and now you had to watch him walk away, back into a life that didn’t have room for you in the way you had once dreamed.

As Aaron stood, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer, but then he was gone, walking back to Haley, his hand slipping into hers as if it had always belonged there.

You sat there, alone in the crowd, feeling the quiet devastation of everything you had lost.

And as you looked down at your lap, at the faded speech you had written with the last of the ink from the pen he’d given you, you realized that it was over.  But you knew, deep down, that you had done the right thing. You had given him the push he needed, helped him remember the truths that were buried inside, and now he was free.

He was free to be the man he wanted to be, to find the happiness you had always wished for him. And though it hurt more than you could ever put into words, you found some solace in the knowledge that, in some small way, you had been part of his story, even if your role was never meant to be the one you had longed for.

Maybe, now he would be satisfied.

job interview with aaron and as soon as you shake hands your apple watches shows the high heart rate alert (more in a cute crush way than a serious life threating way please💀)

You're not nervous, per se, but there's certainly something that's heating your face and twisting your stomach. You're in the FBI headquarters. You're about to interview for the most prestigious position you've ever laid eyes on, and if you get the job, you'll be set for life. All you're waiting on is your interviewer, and you feel the buzz of your watch on your wrist alerting you to the meeting in your calendar at the precise second that the door beside you opens.

"Y/N Y/L/N?" Your interviewer asks, and you're already halfway out of your seat before he can get your last name out of his mouth. You're impressed with and grateful for his punctuality, but when you turn to face him you discover you've got a whole other reason to be hot in the face.

He's hot in the face.

His eyes and hair are matching dark hues that makes his soft pink smile all the more delicate and tender. His shoulders are broad and tightly hugged by his neatly pressed suit, and the hand that he holds out to you is strong when you shake it.

"I'm Aaron Hotchner," He introduces himself, and you'd known that, but you're infinitely grateful to hear the words out of his own mouth. Anything to prolong the time you get to spend listening to his voice.

Another vibration comes from your watch, this time accompanied by an invasive chime. You rush to shut it off, positive that you'd put the device on silent, but you realize why it's bypassed your settings: it's a medical alert.

Your heart rate has spiked, and while it's not exactly heart-attack material, it's not resting either. Something about this encounter is sending you into a frenzy, and you're quite certain it's not the job interview.

"Sorry," You try playing the situation off with a good-natured laugh, but there's a similar watch resting on his wrist, and you're sure he's heard the alert-specific chime before, "I thought I set it to silent."

"Medical alerts always make a sound," His heavy brows furrow into compassionate concern, and he moves forward to set a hand on your shoulder to guide you forwards into his office, "Come, sit down. We'll prolong the interview for a few minutes until you're feeling better."

Another chime sounds barely seconds after his hand begins resting on your shoulder, and you know right then and there that if he's going to wait until your heart rate is back to normal, the interview won't ever start.

Criminal Minds + MBTI

"The bond between colleagues is sometimes stronger than that between family, and the team that hunts monsters together never breaks." – Aaron Hotchner (Season 3, Episode 16)