12 - Goodbyes & Partners

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.

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

7 - Cogito, ergo Sum

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: slow burn, sad just sad stuff, angst

Summary: On a train to Riverhead, you confront buried memories of your father’s death and the complex emotions stirred by Peter’s welcome back party, where Hotch’s past with Haley left you feeling like an outsider. Hotch, haunted by memories of his abusive father and first love with Haley, grapples with his choices and regrets. Meanwhile, Hotch and Peter clash over your safety and personal boundaries on the job, discovering the next target of a series of poisonings. Warnings: Grief, domestic violence, emotional abuse, anxiety, CM case. This is quite sad

Word Count: 4.5k

Dado's Corner: Not me sobbing like a kid while writing this haha. Poor Aaron you deserve a hug. That said, I experimented a bit with the style of this chapter - it's quite cinematic. I drew inspiration from Suits' 2×08 where Harvey goes to visit his father's grave and the narrative interlaces flashbacks, present and the characters' point of view so beautifully. Also - this has a sister chapter coming up next so don't worry.

previous chapter ; masterlist

The train rattled gently as it made its way toward your hometown, Riverhead, each passing mile pulling you deeper into a past you had long avoided. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks was a steady, relentless metronome, marking each second that brought you closer to face your father’s grave.

You glanced up to see a little girl holding her father’s hand, her tiny fingers wrapped tightly around his as they made their way to a seat just past yours. The sight was simple, ordinary - something that happened every day - but today, it felt like a punch to the chest.

Watching them, you felt the train become a catalyst for everything you’d been trying to bury; the pain surged, raw and unfiltered, hitting you all at once. The easy affection between them, was a reminder of what you could never have again. Your throat tightened, and tears pricked at your eyes, threatening to spill as you stared at the floor, trying to swallow the ache of everything you’d lost. In that fleeting moment, the emptiness of your own hands felt unbearable, as if the absence of your father’s presence echoed a thousand times harder in the quiet hum of the train.

You stared out of the window, but the passing trees and fading buildings blurred into the background, their muted colors mingling with the fog of your thoughts. You’d taken the rare step of taking a day off to make this journey, a day that was supposed to be about finding some semblance of closure, or at least confronting the loss you’d tucked away behind your work.

But you hadn’t been able to think only of your father. Your mind kept drifting back to Peter’s welcome back party the previous week. Where you sat at the table, Gideon’s words lingering in the air, the concept of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis feeling painfully apt in that moment.

“Everyone, this is Haley,” Hotch said, his voice carefully controlled. “We… we go way back.”

Only now you could clearly see at how Haley smiled, but her eyes were constantly on Hotch, her presence radiating a sense of ease that only came from years of knowing someone deeply. “It’s been a long time, Aaron,” she said, her tone gentle but layered with unspoken memories. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You watched the interaction with a heavy heart, feeling like an outsider in your own team. The connection between them was undeniable, and for a moment, you felt a pang of jealousy, a sharp twist in your chest that you hadn’t prepared for.

You had just started to let your guard down with Hotch, to allow yourself to see him not just as your stoic coworker who would crack a joke every once in a while - but as someone you could trust, someone who understood you. And now, here was a piece of his past that you hadn’t been privy to, thrown in your face without warning.

As the evening wore on, you tried to engage, to laugh at Rossi’s jokes and nod along with Gideon’s stories, but your mind kept drifting back to Hotch and Haley. You couldn’t help but feel the sting of not knowing this part of him, of realizing that no matter how close you’d gotten, there were still walls between you.

At one point, Hotch caught your eye from across the table. His expression softened, a silent question in his gaze, as if he could sense your discomfort. But before he could say anything, Haley leaned in, pulling his attention back to her, and the moment passed.

Gideon, ever observant, leaned closer to you, breaking the awkward silence that had settled over you.

“You know, Y/N,” he said thoughtfully, tapping the cover of the book you’d bought for Hotch, “Hegel’s all about finding balance. Sometimes, the only way forward is to let go of what you thought you knew and embrace the contradictions.”

You nodded, but the words felt too close to home. You weren’t sure how to find balance in this moment, how to reconcile the sudden wave of emotions crashing over you. All you could do was hold on and hope that, somehow, things would make sense again.

Now your mind was buzzing with a mix of emotions: shock, confusion, and a sinking feeling of being completely blindsided. It was in the way Hotch and Haley exchanged glances, the comfortable proximity, the shared history etched in every small gesture. It hurt more than you’d ever thought it would, making everything sounded distant, muffled, like you were underwater.

The gathering had been a lively affair, full of laughter and shared stories, but a specific moment kept replaying in your mind: Haley’s warm smile as she said goodbye to Hotch, “It was really good to see you, Aaron, I’m glad you’re doing well. Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”

Hotch nodded, his expression warm yet tinged with a hint of sadness. “Yeah, Haley. Take care of yourself. See you around.”

With that, she gave a small wave to the table and headed back to her group of friends, leaving Hotch standing there, momentarily lost in the past. As he returned to his seat, you could see the way he was grappling with the emotions stirred up by the unexpected reunion. He caught your gaze briefly, offering a small, almost apologetic smile that only deepened your sense of uncertainty.

As she walked away, Rossi had thrown a smirk Hotch’s way, raising an eyebrow as he quipped, “So, old flames burning bright again?”

Hotch rolled his eyes, though there was a faint, embarrassed flush to his cheeks. “Rossi, don’t start,” he warned, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

“Oh, come on, Aaron,” Rossi continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Haley’s quite a catch. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a little lovestruck.”

Hotch sighed, but there was a softness to his demeanor that hadn’t been there before. “It’s not like that, Dave. We… had our time. It just didn’t work out. She wanted a family, a stable life. I was too caught up in my career, trying to make it into the Bureau. We were just… heading in different directions.”

There was a pause as the table absorbed his words, the rare glimpse into Hotch’s personal life catching everyone a little off guard. You could see the flicker of understanding in his eyes, the acknowledgment of choices made and paths taken, and it resonated deeply with you. It wasn’t just about Haley; it was about the sacrifices, the regrets, and the constant pull between duty and desire.

You had stood on the sidelines, listening, and telling yourself it wasn’t jealousy you felt, but something else entirely. Hotch and Haley’s history was full of things you couldn’t touch, memories you couldn’t rewrite.

The ease between them that felt unreachable, at least for you. It highlighted your own struggles, the way you and Hotch danced around each other’s guarded edges, each too closed off and too stubborn for way too much to admit the walls you’d built were anything but necessary. You had worked hard to break through those barriers, inching closer to something that resembled real friendship with Hotch, but seeing him with Haley made it clear how far you still had to go.

One of your coworkers, ever the instigator, smirked and raised their glass, turning the conversation light again. “Ah, first loves. We’ve all been there, right? High school sweethearts, college crushes, and then… life happens.”

They nudged Peter playfully, their grin widening. “I bet you’ve got some stories, too. You and Y/N? Seems like you two have your own history.”

The comment, though playful, struck a chord. You could feel all eyes momentarily on you and Peter, the unspoken insinuations hanging in the air. Peter chuckled, leaning back in his chair with a casual ease that belied the tension simmering beneath the surface. “Oh, come on, let’s not dig up the past. Y/N and I? We were just kids. We studied, we got into trouble, and then we grew up.”

Rossi, always enjoying a chance to stir the pot, raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? ‘Just kids,’ huh? I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Seems like more than just studying to me.”

Peter shot you a sideways glance, his smile both teasing and sincere. “Well, you know me, Dave. Always mixing business with pleasure.”

You forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to your ears. “Please, don’t encourage him. Peter was more like the annoying older brother I never asked for.”

The table erupted in laughter, and for a moment, the awkwardness eased. But underneath it all, there was a thread of unspoken tension, a reminder that you and Peter’s relationship, much like Hotch and Haley’s, was layered with complexities that no amount of jokes could untangle.

Hotch watched the exchange quietly, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—was it understanding? Regret? You couldn’t quite tell, but it was clear he was processing his own thoughts amidst the lighthearted teasing. The parallels between his past and what was unfolding now weren’t lost on him.

Then memories shifted, drawing you deeper into the party’s ambiance: the clinking of glasses, the chatter of old friends reuniting, and Peter’s infectious laugh as he moved through the crowd.

You remembered the moment he found you in the corner of the room, handing you a glass of wine with a casual, “So, are you ever going to let me take you out on that date?”

You had laughed it off, deflecting with a joke. “You’d have to catch me when I’m not buried in case files.”

Peter’s smile had softened, and he leaned against the wall beside you, his eyes searching yours in that disarming way he had. “I’m patient. You know that.”

There it was, an offer that seemed perfect on paper. Peter was kind, funny, and someone you could talk to for hours without feeling the need to perform or pretend. He had always been a constant, someone who understood your messy family dynamics and never judged you for them. Yet, for reasons you couldn’t quite name, you had hesitated.

It wasn’t just fear that a relationship might ruin your friendship, though that was part of it. No, this hesitation was something deeper, something that had started to shift within you over the months you’d been at the BAU.

The job had changed you, had made you see the world differently, and maybe that change had rippled into the way you saw Peter, too. He was familiar, a comfort you could rely on, but when he looked at you with that earnestness, you felt a strange dissonance, like you were two notes that no longer harmonized as they once did.

You shook off the thought and turned back to the scenery, trying to refocus. The landscape outside shifted, becoming a blur of rolling hills and scattered houses, but all you could see were memories of the afternoons you’d spent with Peter.

He was a piece of your past that felt safe, steady, and uncomplicated. You remembered the day he’d chosen your mother as his thesis supervisor, the excitement in his eyes as he explained why.

“She’s brilliant,” he had told you, sitting at your kitchen table, his hands animated as he spoke. “I mean, I’ve read everything she’s published. Working with her is like… I don’t know, getting to play with a master.”

Your mother had smirked from the kitchen, where she was brewing tea. “I’m not sure if ‘play’ is the word I’d use,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “But I’m glad you’re eager. I could use someone with your enthusiasm.”

Those afternoons felt like moments frozen in time, filled with academic debates that stretched into the evening. You would sit with Peter, surrounded by books and papers, discussing everything from human behavior to obscure psychological theories. Your mother would occasionally join in, her sharp insights cutting through Peter’s eager optimism, and you would feel an odd sense of belonging, of being seen and understood in a way that was rare. You and Peter fit so easily then, like two pieces of a puzzle that made sense together.

So why now, when Peter had finally asked, did you feel that familiar comfort turn into something that almost felt suffocating? It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was something more complex, more tangled.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but whatever it was, it had kept you from saying yes. Part of you wondered if it had to do with the person you’d become at the BAU, the person who had learned to live in the shadows, to thrive on the unspoken and the unsolved. There was a distance between the you that Peter knew and the you that existed now, and you weren’t sure how to bridge that gap.

As the train chugged closer to Riverhead, you let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of your own thoughts settle in your chest. This trip was supposed to be about your father, about facing the memories you’d buried along with him. But as the scenery continued to blur outside your window, you realized it wasn’t just him you were here to confront. It was yourself, and all the tangled, unresolved things you’d left behind.

.

Back in his apartment, Hotch stood motionless in front of his closet, the faint hum of the city outside barely reaching his ears. It was supposed to be a simple, mindless task: changing out of his work clothes, slipping into something comfortable to signal the end of another long case. But that morning, the weight of the past lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating, refusing to be ignored. Seeing Haley again had shaken something loose inside him, memories that he had tried to bury beneath layers of duty, responsibility, and the unyielding armor of his carefully crafted stoicism.

He stared at the closet door as if it were a portal to another time, a past version of himself that he had spent years trying to forget. His hand hovered over a hanger, hesitating before he finally pulled the door open. He reached for a pair of sweatpants, the movement automatic, but his fingers brushed against something unexpected, something soft and familiar. He pulled it out, holding it up to the dim light of the room. It was an old pirate hat, worn and faded, buried at the back of the closet like a forgotten relic.

The sight of it was enough to send a rush of emotion coursing through him, his heart tightening with the weight of memories long left untouched. It was a small, silly thing - a costume piece from a high school play - but it held the echoes of a time when life had felt simpler, when love had been a lifeline rather than a distant, unattainable dream.

Hotch turned the hat over in his hands, his thumb tracing the worn edges. It felt lighter than he remembered, the fabric frayed but still holding the shape that had once made him feel like someone else - someone braver, someone who didn’t wake up every day terrified of what the morning might bring.

Holding it now, he was transported back to those days in high school, when he had first met Haley during their school’s production of The Pirates of Penzance. He could still remember the nerves that twisted his stomach into knots as he stepped onto the stage, feeling every bit the awkward, shy boy who never quite knew how to fit in.

His father’s presence loomed over every aspect of his life, a dark, volatile force that made every day feel like a minefield. Mornings were the worst; he’d wake up before dawn, his heart pounding with the dread that his father would already be up, the stale stench of whiskey on his breath and anger simmering just below the surface.

Every morning, Hotch would lie still in his bed, his ears straining to hear the slightest sound - a creaking floorboard, the clink of a bottle, the unmistakable thud of something heavy being thrown against the wall. He’d close his eyes tightly, his breath catching in his throat as he braced himself for the inevitable: the harsh sound of his father’s voice, slurred and laced with venom, cutting through the stillness of the house like a knife.

“You worthless piece of shit,” his father would sneer, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched. The insults were always the same, a relentless barrage of contempt that felt like punches to the gut. And sometimes, they were. The bruises left behind were easy to hide, but the fear lingered, seeping into every corner of his mind.

But then there was Haley.

Haley, with her bright smile and infectious laugh, had entered his life like a beam of light piercing through the darkness. She was everything his world was not: warm, kind, and unafraid to be herself. He could still see her as she had been that first day, standing backstage with an easy confidence that seemed to light up the entire room. He had been fumbling through his lines, tripping over words as he tried to keep his hands from shaking, feeling the familiar grip of anxiety clawing at his throat. But then she had turned to him, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Not bad, Hotchner,” she teased, her voice light and teasing, breaking through the wall of his self-doubt.

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder, her touch gentle but grounding. “But if you’re going to be a pirate, you’ve got to look the part.” She reached up and tilted the hat on his head, adjusting it with a flourish. “There. Much better.”

He had laughed then, a rare, unguarded sound that felt almost foreign to his own ears. It was a laugh born of something deeper than humor - it was relief, joy, and a sense of being seen in a way he never had been before. That moment had been the start of everything: the stolen glances, the whispered secrets shared between classes, the way she’d lean in close, her eyes bright with something that made the whole world seem less terrifying.

Haley became his first thought in the morning, replacing the dread that had once greeted him when he opened his eyes. Instead of the anxiety that his father would be there, ready to strike, his mind was filled with thoughts of her: the way she smiled, the sound of her voice, the softness of her lips whenever they kissed, the easy way she’d tease him about his nervousness on stage. She was his anchor, the one person who made him feel like he wasn’t drowning in his own fears.

Every morning, instead of waking up with his heart racing at the thought of his father’s rage, he’d wake up thinking of Haley. He’d think of their rehearsals, of the way she’d roll her eyes when he messed up a line but would always follow it with a grin that told him she was proud of him anyway. She had made him feel safe, like maybe, there was more to life than the fear that had defined his every waking moment.

Hotch hadn’t just fallen in love with Haley; he had clung to her like a lifeline. She was the first person who had shown him what it felt like to be cared for, to be valued for who he was, not for what he could endure. She was his sanctuary from the storm that raged inside his home, and for a while, she had made him believe that he could have something good, something real.

But as he stood there now, holding the hat, those memories were tinged with the bittersweet realization of what he had lost. The love that had once saved him had crumbled under the relentless weight of his ambition and the demands of his career.

He had chosen the Bureau, chosen to bury himself in the pursuit of justice, thinking that if he worked hard enough, if he dedicated himself to the job, he could finally be free of the shadows that haunted him.

But in the process, he had lost Haley. He had lost the last piece of innocence that had made him believe he could balance it all: love, career, and a future untangled from the pain of his past. Now, the hat felt like a symbol of everything he had tried to bury, a reminder of the boy he used to be and the love that had once made him feel whole.

Hotch closed his eyes, a wave of grief and regret washing over him as he placed the hat gently back in the closet. The memories of Haley, of the warmth she had brought into his life, were still there, but they were shrouded in the painful truth that he had let her slip away. He had spent so long running from the fear of his father, trying to replace it with something brighter, but in the end, he had pushed away the very thing that had saved him

The shrill ring of his phone cut through his thoughts, jolting him back to the present. “Hotchner,” he said, masking the turmoil beneath his usual calm.

Gideon’s voice came through the line, urgent and clipped. “We’ve got a situation. A series of poisonings in Long Island, targeting public spaces. Libraries, parks, shopping centers. It’s escalating, and the unsub’s leaving messages. We need you here, now.”

Hotch glanced back at the pirate hat before slamming the closet shut. “I’ll be there in twenty,” he replied, shoving the memories aside as he grabbed his coat and headed out the door. There was no time to dwell on the past; the present demanded his full attention.

At the BAU, the team gathered around the conference table as Gideon outlined the details of the case. The poisonings were strategic, each attack aimed at places where people gathered, spreading panic through the community. The unsub’s taunts came in the form of cryptic messages, each one hinting at the next target.

Hotch’s jaw tightened as he scanned the crime scene photos, feeling the familiar pull of duty override everything else.

“We’re splitting up,” Gideon said, his gaze sweeping across the room. “Hotch, you and Peter will head to the latest crime scene. Rossi and I will cover the first.”

Hotch nodded, his face impassive as he gathered his things. He was already mentally mapping out the approach, compartmentalizing the emotional weight of the morning. But as they drove, Peter, clearly uncomfortable with the silence, tried to break the tension.

“You know, about that bet I won,” Peter began, glancing over at Hotch with a hint of a smile. “The date… with her. I’ve been trying to figure out how to make it special.”

Hotch’s eyes stayed fixed on the road, his expression tightening at Peter’s words. The mention of you - the team member who had started to break through the cracks in his own carefully guarded exterior - sent a surge of conflicting emotions through him. His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“Have you really thought this through?” Hotch asked, his voice low, almost a growl. “You and her, both in the field, both seeing the worst of what people are capable of… it’s not as easy as you think.”

Peter shrugged, trying to maintain his casual demeanor, but there was a defensive edge creeping in. “We’ve always been good at separating things. She gets it - she’s smart, one of the smartest people I know. We can handle it.”

Hotch’s frustration boiled over, his tone sharpening. “It’s not about being smart, Peter. This job… it changes you. It gets into your head, your heart. And you’re fooling yourself if you think it won’t affect you both. What happens when you’re forced to make a choice - her safety or the job? How do you keep that from clouding your judgment?”

Peter’s smile faltered, and his eyes flicked toward Hotch, the beginnings of anger flashing across his face. “You don’t think I know that? You think I haven’t thought about it every damn day since I realized I wanted more with her? At least I’m honest about where I stand. I’m not hiding behind this job like it’s the only thing that matters.”

The tension between them was palpable, the car’s interior charged with unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. Hotch’s gaze remained fixed on the road, but his mind was racing. Peter’s words hit closer to home than he cared to admit, scraping against wounds that had never fully healed. Peter’s willingness to embrace his feelings, to take the leap Hotch had always hesitated to make, stung in a way that was hard to articulate.

“You don’t get it, Peter,” Hotch said finally, his voice quieter, more resigned. “You have no idea what it’s like to live with the consequences of those choices. I’ve seen what it does to people, how it tears them apart. This job… it doesn’t let you have a normal life, no matter how hard you try.”

Peter stared at him, searching for something in Hotch’s expression that he couldn’t quite find. “Maybe not. But I’d rather take the risk than spend my life wondering what could have been.”

They lapsed into silence, the argument left hanging between them, unresolved. Hotch felt the weight of Peter’s words settle heavily on his shoulders, mingling with the guilt and regret that had been simmering beneath the surface since seeing Haley again.

He didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know if he even had the right to. Peter’s defiance, his willingness to fight for what he wanted, was a painful reminder of the choices Hotch had made and the things he had lost in the process.

When they arrived at the crime scene, Hotch pushed all of it down, shoving the emotions into that familiar place he rarely let himself go. The crime scene was chaotic, with officers milling about, evidence markers scattered across the library floor.

Hotch’s keen eyes scanned the room, piecing together the unsub’s method, the subtle clues left behind. But something caught his attention: a bulletin board crowded with flyers and notes, too chaotic at first glance, but hiding something.

He moved closer, pulling back layers of paper until he found it: a cryptic message, written in neat, deliberate script. As he read the words, his blood ran cold, the implications settling like lead in his stomach.

The riddle painted a clear picture of the next target. Hotch’s hands trembled slightly as he stepped back, the reality sinking in.

Riverhead.

The place you were right now.

Without a word, Hotch turned and sprinted out of the building, his heart pounding with a fear that went far beyond the professional. This wasn’t just another case. It was personal, and every second mattered.

And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like, "I love you."

AN: Since you guys seem to like the Shy!Reader drabbles!

Other Writing | Ao3

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Shy!Fem!Reader!

Word Count: 5.2k

Rating: Everyone

TW: shy!reader, alcohol mention

Five times you were shy around Aaron Hotchner because of your underlying feelings for him + one time, Aaron Hotchner was shy around you because of his underlying feelings for you.

one.

The office was unusually quiet, save for the occasional rustle of papers and the soft hum of computers. The rest of the team was out in the field, leaving just you and Aaron Hotchner behind to finish reviewing the case files for the next briefing.

You glanced at the clock. It was just after 6 p.m. Most people would be winding down their day, but for the BAU, the hours always seemed to blend together. Of course, you didn’t mind—working with the best agents in the FBI was an honor, but working directly under Aaron Hotchner, your team leader and a respected figure in the bureau? That was something else entirely.

And today, you were supposed to help him with the case files for the recent kidnapping case. Alone.

“Ready?” His deep voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you nearly jumped. You didn’t have the time to dissect why this man--your boss, made you feel this way. As if every time he looked at you, it felt like he could see things differently--more than anyone else. You felt a level of exposure you were not quite used to. It wasn’t bad, no. Just made you feel sort of funny inside. 

“Uh, yes, yes, sir. Just—just a second.” You scrambled to gather your papers, your hands suddenly clammy as you fumbled with the file in front of you. Great start, you mentally scolded yourself.

You could feel his eyes on you, calm and patient, as you tried to compose yourself. Hotch, with his sharp features and intense gaze, sat down beside you at the long conference table, his presence commanding even though he said nothing. As usual, he was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, tie still impeccably knotted despite the long day.

He always looked so put together, so composed, and here you were, barely able to keep from dropping the entire file on the floor.

And that was the thing about Aaron Hotchner’s microscope; it was never him purposefully looking at you--through you with judgment. Just through a different lens, you could feel it. 

“Okay,” you breathed out, finally opening the folder and staring at the first page, willing yourself to focus. But of course, all you could focus on was him sitting beside you, his arm brushing ever so slightly against yours as he leaned in to review the documents.

Hotch’s voice broke the silence again. “I noticed some inconsistencies in the witness statements,” he said, pointing at a section in the report. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the proximity making your heartbeat quicken.

“Right, um, inconsistencies. Yes, I—I saw those too,” you stammered, your voice just a little higher than usual. You could feel your cheeks burning. Pull it together.

As you reached to turn the page, your fingers trembled slightly, and the edges of the papers crinkled under your grip. You cursed yourself internally. He’s going to think I don’t know what I’m doing.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Hotch glance at you. His brow furrowed, not in frustration, but in something softer—concern, maybe? Before you could stop yourself, you began speaking too fast, trying to fill the silence.

“I mean, the statements are definitely off, like you said. I was just thinking, you know, we could um, cross-check them against the surveillance footage from the convenience store and maybe, uh, match the timestamps, because—well, um, obviously, you’ve probably already thought of that, but I just thought…”

You trailed off when you realized Hotch wasn’t looking at the file anymore. He was looking at you. And oh god, that made things so much worse. You felt the tips of your ears burning now, and you quickly looked down at the paper in front of you, pretending to reread the same line over and over just to avoid his gaze.

“You’re doing fine,” Hotch said softly, his voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts.

You looked up, blinking in surprise. His expression was calm, reassuring even, as though he could sense how flustered you were. For a moment, you thought you saw the tiniest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“I—thanks,” you managed to say, your voice barely a whisper. You bit your lip, cursing yourself for sounding so meek. This was Aaron Hotchner—your boss, your colleague. And yet, here you were, acting like a nervous schoolgirl with a crush.

Well, because you did have a crush. A big one. A ridiculous, all-consuming crush that you had been battling for months now. And being this close to him, feeling his presence so close—it was like your brain short-circuited every time. His cologne, his energy--everything that surrounded your senses was just like a drug making your brain work in ways it really shouldn’t be when you have a job to do.

Hotch nodded, his attention returning to the file in front of you, but the moment didn’t pass unnoticed. The air between you felt different now--lighter. As if he understood, on some level, that your nerves weren’t because of the case, but because of him. 

You worked in silence after that, the tension slowly ebbing away. But every now and then, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he was still watching, still noticing.

And for the first time, you let yourself wonder if maybe, just maybe, Aaron Hotchner noticed you too.

two.

It had already been a morning and a half. The team had gathered for a debrief, with everyone scattered around their desks reviewing the latest case notes. You felt the weight of exhaustion after the last long night, and from the looks of it, so did everyone else. It was natural for these long hours to catch up to you all eventually. 

“Coffee run?” you asked, glancing around at the others. JJ and Spencer immediately nodded, followed by Morgan flashing you a grateful smile.

“I could use about three cups,” Emily quipped, massaging her temples.

You smiled back and quickly made your way to the break room. As you stood by the machine, the familiar hum of it brewing filled the room. You glanced at the lineup of mugs in your arms, including the one you had specifically set aside for Hotch. His was easy to pick out—simple, just like the man himself.

For some reason, even the simple act of grabbing coffee for him made you feel jittery. Maybe it was because of the way he always carried himself—calm, collected, completely in control. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you, like he was always assessing, always paying attention.

Or maybe it was because you had the world’s most inconvenient crush on your boss.

You sighed and shook your head. It's just coffee. Be normal.

When the machine finally finished, you loaded the cups and returned to the bullpen. As you handed the team their drinks, your nerves started to build as you approached Hotch’s office. His door was slightly ajar, and through the gap, you could see him typing away on his computer, his brow furrowed in concentration.

You knocked softly, pushing the door open a little wider. “Coffee?”

Hotch glanced up, his eyes softening for a brief moment as he saw you standing there, juggling the last two mugs. “Thank you,” he said, his voice warm but as professional as always.

You stepped forward, holding out his cup. “Uh, here,” you said, your voice coming out a little I quickly. As he reached for it, your fingers accidentally brushed against his.

The contact was fleeting but sent a jolt through your whole body. Your breath hitched, and suddenly, you were hyper-aware of how close he was. Your heart thudded against your ribcage, and you swore he must have heard it. You tried to ignore how your hand trembled slightly, but it was impossible with Hotch standing right there.

For a second, he didn’t move. His gaze flickered down to your hand, then back up to meet your eyes, and you could have sworn there was a flicker of amusement in his expression as if he was beginning to catch on to the hold he had over you. He took the cup from you carefully, his touch deliberate and slow. 

“Thank you,” he repeated, but this time, there was something softer in his tone. His lips curved ever so slightly—a small smile, barely noticeable if you weren’t paying attention, but you were. You always were.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. Why am I such a mess around him?

“Oh—uh, no problem,” you managed to stammer, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. You took a step back, desperate to escape before you embarrassed yourself further. “Enjoy your coffee, Hotch.”

You turned to leave, feeling your face burn with embarrassment. Behind you, you heard him chuckle softly—a rare sound, one that sent another rush of heat through you. You could only hope he didn’t notice how flustered you were. But then again, judging by that tiny smile, he already had.

three.

A grueling case with long hours and high tension called for alcohol and camaraderie. When Rossi suggested they all unwind at a nearby bar after wrapping things up, no one argued. The idea of a drink and a few hours of normalcy was too tempting to pass up--and much needed.

You found yourself sitting at a long table with the rest of the team, squeezed between JJ and Hotch. Normally, that would have sent your nerves into overdrive, but after the first glass of wine—and then the second—you felt your anxiety loosen just a bit. Just enough to breathe without overthinking every little move you made next to him.

The conversation flowed easily around you, with Morgan and Garcia trading playful banter while Spencer tried to argue some statistic about criminal behavior. You laughed along, but every time Hotch spoke, your focus snapped to him. You couldn’t help it. It was like your mind was on high alert every time he addressed the group, or worse—you directly.

“Good work on the case,” he said at one point, turning to you with that intense gaze of his. “You managed the witness interviews really well. I think it made a difference.”

Your heart lurched. He was complimenting you—praising your work in front of the whole team. The sudden attention made your pulse quicken, and you could feel your face heating up despite the buzz from the drinks.

Before you could stop yourself, the words just spilled out.

With a slightly bolder tone than you usually used around him, you turned to face him fully, giving him a playful smile. “Well, maybe I just wanted to impress you, Hotch.”

The second the words left your mouth, you realized how bold they sounded. You raised your glass slightly, locking eyes with him for a moment longer than necessary. You’d just flirted with your boss. There was no going back now.

Hotch blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but then a slow smile—rare but devastating—appeared on his face. “Is that right?” he replied, his voice low and most definitely amused. 

Your heart practically stopped, but before you could spiral too much, JJ leaned over with a laugh. “Well, someone’s confident tonight.” 

You hadn’t even realized that not only did you flirt with Hotch, but you happened to do it in front of your coworkers--your profiling coworkers. Ones that were well-trained and versed in all sorts of fucked up psychology that “having an apparent crush on your older boss” would fall under. 

The moment passed quickly, and the conversation shifted again, but your head was spinning. The buzz from the drinks had officially worn off, leaving you hyper-aware of everything. You spent the rest of the night trying to avoid looking directly at Hotch, hoping that maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t taken your words too seriously.

By the time you walked into work the next morning, the weight of what happened at the dinner hit you full force. I flirted with Hotch. The realization felt like a brick sinking in your stomach.

You avoided his office all morning, burying yourself in paperwork and case files. Every time someone walked past your desk, you jumped, paranoid that it would be him coming to say something—anything—about last night.

Why did I have to say that? What was I thinking?

By midday, you were a ball of nerves. Every interaction with Hotch now felt loaded, as if you were walking on a tightrope. When he passed by your desk and gave you a small nod of acknowledgment, you nearly knocked your coffee over, your hands trembling as you tried to act casual.

You could still feel the burn of embarrassment every time you remembered how easy the words had slipped out. And the worst part? He hadn’t seemed uncomfortable at all. If anything, he had smiled. That tiny, knowing smile that you couldn’t get out of your head.

Later, when you were both in the conference room, going over case files, the tension felt unbearable. You barely managed to string together coherent answers every time he asked you a question, your brain too busy screaming Don’t be awkward.

But even in your shyness, you couldn’t help but wonder if he remembered what you said. If maybe, somewhere behind that calm, professional exterior, Aaron Hotchner had actually been flustered, too?

four. 

Everyone else had left hours ago, but you were still there, finishing up some paperwork that seemed never-ending. The only sound was the soft clicking of your keyboard and the occasional creak of your chair as you shifted positions. Being the newest member on the team, you often double- or even triple-check everything, afraid it would be wrong. This cost you a lot of your spare time, but in fairness, what else did you have going on? 

You weren’t surprised that Aaron Hotchner was still there, too. He was always the last to leave, always pushing himself past his limits. It was one of the things you admired about him—and maybe one of the reasons you found it so hard to concentrate whenever you were alone with him.

You glanced at the clock. It was well past 9 p.m., and the fatigue from the long day was starting to settle into your bones. You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your eyes when you heard footsteps approaching. Before you could turn around, Hotch’s calm, steady voice cut through the silence.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” he said softly, standing just behind your desk. “Maybe it’s time for a break.”

Your breath caught in your throat for a moment. You hadn’t realized how quiet it was until his voice filled the space. His tone almost vibrating against your ears. 

You quickly straightened up, trying to act casual, though you could already feel your pulse quickening.

“Oh, uh, yeah… probably a good idea,” you said, a bit too quickly. You glanced up at him, and for a split second, you wished you hadn’t. He was standing close—too close—and the sight of him with his tie slightly loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sent a fresh wave of nervousness through you. Why did he always have to look so effortlessly composed?

Hotch tilted his head slightly, as if considering something. “I was about to make some tea,” he said, his voice low and calming. “Would you like some?”

Tea. Something about the simplicity of the offer made your heart flutter. “Sure,” you replied, smiling faintly. “Tea sounds nice.”

A few minutes later, Hotch returned with two steaming mugs. He set one down beside your stack of papers and took a seat in the chair next to yours. 

You quickly pulled your hand back, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way your breath caught in your throat. But of course, he noticed everything. That’s who he was.

“Long day,” he said quietly, sipping his tea and glancing over at you.

You nodded, trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling. “Yeah. Feels like the days are getting longer.”

Hotch smiled softly, a rare but welcome sight. “I’d say you handled it well.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Compliments from Aaron Hotchner were few and far between, and when they came, they always seemed to hit harder than you expected. You swallowed nervously, feeling the familiar heat rising to your cheeks.

“T-Thanks,” you stammered, looking down at your tea and willing yourself not to blush. But it was no use. You were hyper-aware of how close he was, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. Every word you could have said stuck in your throat, as if your mind had gone blank.

There was a brief silence, the kind that felt charged with something unspoken. Hotch leaned back in his chair slightly, his gaze steady on you. You could feel it—his calm presence, his quiet strength—and it only made your nerves worse. How did he manage to make small talk feel so intense?

“You don’t have to push yourself so hard, you know,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “You’re already doing more than enough. There’s nothing you need to prove--you deserve to be here.”

Your breath caught again. Was he worried about you? The thought made your heart race even faster. You tried to find the right words, but they felt stuck. All you could manage was a small, awkward laugh. “I guess I’m just trying to keep up with you.”

Hotch’s expression softened further, and for a moment, you swore there was something in his eyes—something warmer, more personal. He didn’t respond right away, just held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

Your cheeks felt like they were on fire now, and you quickly took a sip of your tea, hoping it would calm your racing heart. But the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like a quiet understanding had passed between the two of you, something unspoken but undeniably there.

Maybe he put together all of the pieces and realized you were hopelessly crushing on him, so he had pity and let you be. Maybe he thought men made you nervous--but then again, he’d seen you all buddy-buddy with Reid or even Morgan.

As the minutes passed, the tension slowly ebbed away, but the closeness remained. Hotch’s presence beside you felt reassuring, yet it kept your pulse thrumming in a way that made you wish you could stay like this just a little longer. Even if it meant fumbling over your words, you wouldn’t mind.

five.

The overhead lights buzzed softly, and the air was thick with the smell of coffee. You were sitting at the round table in the conference room, papers spread out in front of you, piecing together a presentation for the case debrief tomorrow. Your focus was sharp, and for once, you weren’t thinking about how close Hotch was sitting. Well, almost.

Aaron Hotchner was seated at the head of the table, reviewing files and notes from his section of the case, his brow furrowed in concentration. The silence between you felt comfortable—until it wasn’t.

Out of nowhere, Hotch spoke up, breaking the quiet. “Your organizational skills are impressive,” he said, his tone casual but sincere. “I don’t know how you keep all of this together so efficiently.”

You froze, your pen hovering above the notebook in front of you. He complimented you--again. The words sunk in slowly, and you could feel your face start to burn. Why did he always catch you off guard like this?

“I—uh, thanks,” you stammered, suddenly feeling the need to escape. Your heart raced as you realized how flustered you must look, your cheeks burning under his calm gaze. You barely managed to glance up at him, but his expression wasn’t teasing. It was soft, warm even.

“I just try to stay on top of things,” you mumbled, pushing your chair back too quickly. The sound echoed through the room, making you cringe. You could feel your face turning crimson as you gathered up your papers in a rush, trying to hide your embarrassment.

Why did he have to say something so nice? Why did you have to react like this every time?

You gave him a brief, awkward smile and practically bolted for the door. “I-I need to get this to JJ,” you blurted out, even though you had no intention of doing so.

As you reached the doorway, your hand on the handle, you heard him call your name—soft but unmistakable. You froze in place, half-turned, not daring to look back fully.

“By the way,” he said, his voice still calm but a touch more serious. “You don’t need to rush out every time I give you a compliment.”

Your breath caught, and for a split second, you weren’t sure if you could move. There was no teasing in his tone, no sharpness—just a quiet, sincere warmth. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, Hotch noticed more than you thought.

You finally turned slightly toward him, meeting his gaze briefly. “I… I’ll try not to,” you whispered, your voice shaky but honest. Without waiting for a response, you slipped out of the room, your heart pounding in your chest.

And as you left the room, you heard Hotch chuckle softly to himself. It wasn’t cruel; it was amused, affectionate even. That only made things worse.

As you walked down the hall, the sound of his words still echoed in your mind, replaying over and over. You didn’t need to rush out every time he complimented you. And for the first time, you wondered what might happen if you didn’t.

+one

It had been weeks since the last case that left you fleeing the conference room after Aaron Hotchner’s casual compliment about your organizational skills. You’d spent every day since trying to keep your interactions with him as short and as professional as possible, but avoiding him entirely wasn’t exactly an option. You were part of the team, and your role often required working closely with him. That only made your constant nervousness more exhausting.

Every time he passed by your desk, every time he said your name in that calm, authoritative tone, your heart would skip a beat. The nerves were always there, simmering just under the surface. You weren’t sure if he noticed how flustered you got around him or if he simply chalked it up to work stress. Either way, it made every interaction with him feel like walking on a tightrope.

And today was no different after another intense case had finally been closed. You were finishing paperwork at your desk when you saw Hotch step out of his office, his eyes scanning the bullpen. The moment his gaze landed on you, your stomach twisted.

He started walking over, his strides purposeful. You tried to keep your face neutral, even as the heat rushed to your cheeks. Stay calm. It’s just work.

You looked up at him when he stopped before your desk, forcing a smile. “Do you need something?”

Hotch’s expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes seemed different today. Less intense, more… hesitant? “Can I see you in my office for a moment?”

Your heart thudded in your chest, and you quickly nodded, not trusting your voice. You grabbed your notepad, assuming it was something case-related, and followed him back into his office.

As you stepped inside, he closed the door behind you. The click of the latch made the room feel suddenly smaller--more intimate. You turned to face him, clutching your notepad like a shield.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of your voice.

Hotch didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he walked over to his desk, leaning against it, his arms crossed. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in the way he looked at you—something that made your pulse quicken.

“I’ve noticed,” he began, his voice measured but quieter than usual, “that you’ve been avoiding me.”

Your stomach dropped. He noticed. You hadn’t thought it was that obvious, but of course, this was Aaron Hotchner. He noticed everything.

“I… I h-haven’t been avoiding you,” you stammered, though you knew it was a lie. “I’ve just been busy. Lots of cases lately, you know.”

Hotch’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not what it feels like.”

You swallowed hard, your nerves threatening to overwhelm you. He wasn’t angry; his tone wasn’t harsh or accusatory, but there was a weight to his words that made your throat go dry. He uncrossed his arms and took a small step toward you, closing the gap between you just enough to make your breath hitch.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he continued, his voice softer now. “But I’ve noticed how you’ve been acting around me. And I have to admit, it’s been difficult to ignore.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest, your mind racing. Was he going to reprimand you for being unprofessional? Did he think you couldn’t handle your job because of the way you acted around him? Would he send you off to report to someone different? You felt the familiar heat rising in your cheeks and wished you could disappear.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been… awkward,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. At this moment, you felt like a small child, “It’s just—”

Before you could finish, Hotch interrupted, his expression softening in a way you hadn’t seen before. “You don’t have to explain. I think I know why.”

His words hung in the air between you, and suddenly, everything felt different. You blinked, your breath catching in your throat. “You do?”

Hotch took another small step forward, his gaze never leaving yours. He was so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. For the first time, you noticed the way his usually composed features seemed more vulnerable—like he was grappling with something inside himself.

“I’ve noticed because I’ve been feeling the same way,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart stopped. He feels the same way? Your mind struggled to process what he was saying. Aaron Hotchner, your boss—the man who was always in control, always so composed—was confessing that he had feelings for you?

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Your thoughts were a tangled mess, and all you could do was stare at him in stunned silence.

Hotch ran a hand through his hair, an uncharacteristically nervous gesture that sent a ripple of shock through you. He seemed just as uneasy as you were, as though he wasn’t used to being in this position—being vulnerable. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for a while,” he continued, his eyes searching yours for some kind of reaction. “But…but I can’t anymore.”

The silence between you felt thick with unspoken words, with all the tension and longing that had been building for weeks, maybe even months. And now it was all out in the open.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Hotch smiled—just a small, almost shy smile that you’d never seen from him before. He let out a soft chuckle, “Neither do I. This is… new for me.”

Your mind was still racing, but somewhere amidst the chaos, you realized that he wasn’t just confessing to you. He was just as nervous, just as unsure. For the first time, Aaron Hotchner—the man who always seemed unshakable—was standing in front of you, vulnerable and open.

You felt a surge of courage then, maybe fueled by the realization that this wasn’t one-sided. He was just as affected by you as you were by him. Slowly, you took a step closer, closing the remaining distance between you.

“I didn’t think you’d ever notice,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly, though steadier than before. You took a breath, forcing yourself to keep eye contact, despite the fluttering nerves in your stomach. “I thought I was just… making a fool of myself. That you’d think I was unprofessional.”

Hotch’s expression softened, his gaze never leaving yours. He shook his head gently, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name, something more tender than you’d ever seen from him before. “You haven’t,” he said softly. “Believe me… I’ve noticed everything.”

The weight of his words hit you, and for the first time, you realized how closely he’d been watching, how much attention he’d been paying to all the little moments you thought were only one-sided. A warmth spread through you, melting away some of the nervous tension that had been building for months.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore—it was charged, yes, but it was also full of something else. Understanding. Relief. The unspoken truth you’d both been dancing around finally laid bare.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just stood there, the distance between you feeling impossibly small. You took a deep breath, your heart still pounding but lighter now, and offered him a small, hesitant smile. “So… what happens now?” you asked, your voice quieter, as if you weren’t sure you wanted the spell to break.

Hotch’s smile was subtle, but it reached his eyes this time, easing some of the tension in his shoulders. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “But I do know this… whatever we decide, we don’t need to rush.”

His words were steady and reassuring, and for the first time in a long while, you felt like you could breathe. The uncertainty was still there, yes, but so was the certainty that you weren’t alone in this anymore. That the feelings you’d been so afraid of had been mirrored all along.

You nodded slowly, a smile tugging at your lips. “Together, then?”

“Together,” he echoed, his voice quiet but firm.

And just as you turned to leave, feeling the tension melt away, Hotch called your name again. This time, his tone was softer, almost hesitant. You turned back to face him, your breath catching in your throat.

“One more thing,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “I’ve spent a lot of time noticing you. Maybe now… we don’t have to hide it anymore?”

His words lingered in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You swallowed hard, your heart racing again, but it wasn’t from nerves this time. It was from the hope that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something real.

You smiled a genuine smile this time. “I’d like that.”

With that, you left his office feeling lighter than you had in months. And for the first time, the uncertainty ahead didn’t feel so daunting.

tag list:

@zaddyhotchzaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

hiiii

soulmate au with Aaron Hotchner in which your scars show up on each other’s bodies?

love you 🤍🤍

today is multiverse monday! send me any au you can think of :)

love you too my darling <3

--

You'd almost fallen over before your shower this morning. There was no warning, no pain in the night, you'd gone to sleep with a bare torso and woken up with scars. Nine of them, dotted around your abdomen like polka dots, but much less whimsical and far more sinister. They warp and glisten as you twist in the mirror, and you wonder how they look on whoever was unfortunate enough to receive them. While you only got the end result, surely wounds like this hadn't healed all too well on the actual victim.

Your phone rings, and you realized you've spent ten minutes surveying your new body.

"Hello?"

"Hey," Emily's on the other line, "I know you're not coming in for a bit, but can you call Hotch? He's not answering, and it's really weird for him to withdraw like this. I've gotta go, we've got a case, but I'll fill you in when you get here."

"Oh! Uh, yeah," You nod, hastily navigating your way to Hotch's contact before she hangs up so that you don't forget, "Bye, Em."

"Bye," You hear the click of the phone, then she's gone. You try to forget about your new scars, hoping that they weren't fatal to a victim. Bearing the scars of an attack that killed your soulmate would be emotional torture on you.

The line rings as you dial Aaron's number, but he doesn't pick up. His overly formal voicemail 'greets' you, and your voice is slightly shaky as you shake out your hair in preparation to wash it in the shower.

"Hey, Hotch," You tuck the phone to your ear, tugging off your sock as you speak, "Prentiss asked me to call you, she said you didn't pick up when she called, either. I, uh- I hope everything's alright, she says we've got a case. Are you going to be in later? Just- let us know, okay? See you then."

You're minorly worried about Hotch. You ponder in the shower, soaping up your hair and wincing as you feel the tender skin of your scars burn in the hot water, He's never late. Never. And he's never MIA either, completely detached from his phone and out of contact. You hope for his sake that he's just sleeping in, or maybe he's taken a vacation you haven't heard about.

Fortunately for you, a stalking case makes one hell of a distraction. Hotch's presence is definitely missed during the investigation, but Rossi and Morgan trade off authority, and you function fine without him. You're just debating a curious call to Strauss about him when you get one from Emily, and you pick up assuming she's got a new lead.

"Y/N," She pants, and you're instantly worried, "It's- it's Hotch. He's hurt, he-" Your eyes widen, and your stomach drops as she speaks, "He's been stabbed, nine times."

"In the torso," You breathe, nearly crushing the phone in your grip, "Emily, get him to a hospital, now. He- he has to be okay."

"Yeah, yeah, I- How... how did you know where he got stabbed?" She trails off, and you have two options. Reveal yourself as his soulmate, or implicate that you'd stabbed him yourself."

"Uh, lucky guess." You throw a protective hand over your stomach, real slick, "Just- I'll meet you there, okay? Don't you dare let him die on me, Prentiss."