Ok Shy Bau Reader And The Team Finally Managed To Get Her To Come A Rossi Dinner Party So She Can Meet

ok shy bau reader and the team finally managed to get her to come a rossi dinner party so she can meet the rest of the team families that she hasn’t met yet, maybe after her first date with hitch and the team realized quickly she softened very fast with the kids and jack and her just seemed to click really fast and jack had her talking more than any of the team has so far… hotch is star eyes

hotch x shy!bau!reader \\ Dinner and Delights

Warnings: brief mention/allusions to Christianity. Otherwise, fluff! More insight into what Aaron is thinking :) I got very carried away, I hope you enjoy <3

"Woah hot stuff, where are you going so fast?" Morgan intercepts you with an arm around your shoulder as you attempt to slip out of the BAU unnoticed. "Hopefully to get ready for our big dinner plans?"

It's not that you don't want to go to one of Rossi's famous dinner parties, you're just afraid that your sub-par social skills would be noticeable by tenfold in a more casual environment.

At work, you can hide your quietness by talking about the psychology of the unsub, your specialty as a licensed psychologist. You can pretend you're not hiding in your shell when the team is all laughing and talking about personal lives by quietly listening while pretending to read your maps and journals. You can observe them and spend time with them, because you do truly love them all at this point, without feeling bad that you prefer to listen over talk.

And that's really it - you prefer to listen to them. You would say you've all but warmed up to all of them. You like Morgan's teasing, Emily's stories, Reid's rambling, Rossi's sarcasm, and Hotch's...

Everything, but the thought snaps you back to the present before you can dwell on memories of a sweet date in a dark restaurant.

"Of course," you succeed, nodding and sending him a tight-lipped smile.

"Hey," he slows you down and stops in the hallway, turning you to face him gently before lifting his hands in a placating gesture as if you were an animal he expects to run. "You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with but I promise none of us are trying to lead our little lamb to slaughter. We know you're quiet," the admission embarrasses you and makes you feel guilty pleasant that he sounds so gentle about it, "and nobody minds, I think it's cute and I think the rest are just happy our other genius isn't as vocal as Reid."

Your nose scrunches at the small dig and you open your mouth to protest at putting Reid down to lift you up.

"And look at that! Another thing we all love - you're quiet but won't let anyone say anything about the other behind their back. You're a good person, we all just want to spend some less-intense time with you. So, go home and doll yourself up, and get ready to see Hotch wine tipsy. We all know that's your main motivator." Morgan winks at you and moves quickly down the hall and away from you, laughing, before you can protest.

He's not wrong, though, and you shake your head as you move toward the elevator.

You end up on Rossi's doorstep, choking the neck of a bottle of expensive wine between two sweaty palms. Your heart is in your throat, nerves humming in anticipation.

Your team cares about you. Nobody expects you to be anything you're not. Gentle affirmations meant to soothe over your skin in gently lapping waves erupt into steam; like water hitting lava rock. You're too tense, too worried about not saying enough or too much; saying the wrong thing or saying the right thing only once and never living up to the expectation of repeated occurrences.

"Hey," Emily says from behind you. You turn to see her jogging up to stand beside you, brushing off her pants and adjusting her jacket. "You brought wine!" She cheers happily, reaching past you to turn the nob and open the door.

She gestures you inside, making no comment about your obvious hesitance. With her by your side, your nerves are calmed. Aside from Aaron, she's the easiest for you to be around. You don't feel any expectations with Emily. She doesn't talk too much or too little, doesn't push, doesn't ever send a pitying look when you opt out of activities outside of work.

"Château Lafite," you say to her, lifting the wine and shaking it gently in the air as you walk inside.

"Oh! Fancy wine."

"Wine?" Rossi asks, rounding a corner. He's dressed slightly more casually in a soft sweater and jeans, drying his hands off with a pristine dish towel. "The more the merrier, bring it in here."

You follow his gesture back into the kitchen, leaving Emily to go to what you presume is the living or dining area.

"Where did you find this?" Rossi asks, taking the wine from you to examine it and letting out a low whistle as he appreciates it.

"Just my local winery," you say, neglecting to admit that you go there often enough that the owner leaves the nicer stuff behind the counter for you.

Lonely nights crave wine, twisting them into lovely things you can appreciate. You enjoy your own company after years of quietly observing others. You've learned how to observe yourself, too, after all of these years.

And, even though you don't quite realize it, the self-awareness carries like confidence. That's what Aaron sees in you: observant eyes darting across a room and noticing everything, understanding flickering before anyone else catches a cue, deft movements across the paper while taking notes, and swift motions always with a purpose.

It's what he sees now, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans while he leans in the doorway of Rossi's kitchen, watching you. How could he not? You're a lovely creature, always begging for his eyes to settle on you for another second, and then another.

He knows the moment you realize he's in the room, minutes before Rossi. You stand straighter, tilt your chin lower, and are aware far before you tilt your head to the side to send him a soft smile. He returns it before Rossi can catch him. It's a warmth he wants to reserve for you.

"Dave," he interrupts the other man's monologuing about the wine he's sure you already know all about, "Jack would like to know if he and Spencer can use your chess set when he gets here?"

"Of course, I'll get it from my study." Rossi leaves, passing you the wine and gesturing to the opener.

Aaron steps in before you can start the process of opening the wine. He doesn't quite know why, but he wants to do it for you. He finds himself wanting that more and more recently: to do simple tasks for the sole purpose of you not having to do them. Opening doors and pulling out chairs are simple gestures that he did with Hayley, but he wants to do sillier, smaller, things, too. Straighten the pens on your desk back into their cup, reorganize the files on your desktop, untangle the wires of the headphones he really should reprimand you for using at your desk, open a damn bottle of wine he can't pronounce the name of but that he heard you say so gently to Emily as you walked in.

"Jack's here?" You ask, handing him the wine and crossing your arms over your chest as you lean back against the counter to watch him work.

He relishes how your eyes focus on his arms, pupils dilating, as his muscles work under his thin henley.

"Yes, I have him this weekend and he likes to spend time with Reid and Garcia."

He has to step closer to reach above you to get the wine glasses. He could ask you to step aside, tuck his hand against your waist to move you himself, or simply walk into the next room to grab the glasses sitting on the table. But, instead, he tucks one foot in between yours, puts one hand on the back of your head to guard it from the cabinet, and opens it to find the nicer crystal there.

Your breath hitches across his neck and he remembers the chaste kisses he's given you before. Nothing serious, nothing has been yet because he's waiting for you to lead him into that, but tantalizing nonetheless. He steps back to pour the wine, standing closer to you than he started.

A little for you, passed gently, and then a little for him. Dave could pour his own glass.

You take the wine and sip it slowly, tongue darting out to taste before you sip. He's reminded of communion as a child. The blood of christ, sacred, something to be tasted but not meant to satiate. Reverence in a sip, devotion in a small act.

He wants to give you the same thing. The desire hits him in the sternum, suddenly, leaving him winded as he watches you lower the glass. Your eyes are locked on his, you haven't seemed as hesitant about holding his gaze recently - something that makes him melt - and he wonders if you can feel how he wants to take care of you. How he wants to show you the same force that water uses to carve canyons. Persistence and pressure, time and care. He's willing to take his time, he's filled with the same patience as everything all together in nature. He's a rabbit perched on its hind legs, sniffing the wind for safety before darting forward; the bird hung in flight between beats of wings, the whisper of wind carrying small seeds miles away to wait and watch the growth. Wait, wait, wait, however long it takes, he's there. For you.

It's a strong feeling to fully realize in David Rossi's kitchen, but he's grateful for it, anyway.

"It's good," you comment softly, eyes smiling.

"Is it?" He asks, setting his glass down and retaking his spot nearer to you. He misses your warmth. "Can I?" He asks, brushing his fingers across your jugular before cupping your cheek.

"Taste the wine?" You tease, eyes flickering to his glass. The gentle jest pulls a chuckle from his chest. Another thing you've become more comfortable doing around him. His blood and bones sing at how familiar you can be with him.

"Yes," he says in a breath, dipping his head down to brush his lips against yours.

And you're reciprocating - you've always reciprocated, enthusiastically, just never in the pressing way you are now. You set down your own glass to hold his arms in both of your hands. Fingers dig into his arm as you sigh and open your mouth, new lands to explore, tilting your head back to grant him full access.

"Daddy?" Jack asks and Aaron pulls away, a man parched and staring at an oasis in the middle of a desert, before Jack can round the corner. He doesn't go far, though, hand traveling down to the small of your back as he turns.

"Jack?" Aaron replies, waiting for him to come around the corner.

"Hello," Jack says, stopping in the doorway and looking up at you with wide eyes.

You've met him a few times before, always in passing, but you still smile warmly and wave at him.

"Hi, Jack."

"Do you know how to play chess?" Jacks asks. Aaron smiles at the eagerness on his son's face.

"Yes, I do. Would you like to play?"

"Yes please!" Jack jumps forward to grab your hand, pulling you into the living room before you can react.

You go easily, though, following him with a gentle laugh that warms the coldest parts of him. Pieces of him he doesn't think have seen the light in years brighten at the sound. He's heard you laugh before but something about the sight of you laughing because of Jack illuminates needs that he didn't even know he had. Needs you're meeting before he can feel the yawning desire of them.

He follows, unable to resist the desire to see you two interact over and over again. You're setting up the board, listening to Jack chatter on, nodding intently.

13 - Soulmates

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: fluff Summary: Reid and Morgan attend your lecture, curious about your mysterious connection to Hotch, and are quickly outplayed by your keen instincts. During the lecture, you seamlessly blend psychological concepts with philosophical insights, leaving them impressed. Afterward, Hotch, unaware of your return, is stunned when he finally sees you, the bond between you two immediately apparent. The team watches in awe as you and Hotch exchange playful banter, the deep connection between you two undeniable. Warnings: CM-style graphic case descriptions, Reid and Morgan being oblivious Word Count: 10k Dado's Corner: Try not to say mommy challenge. You will all miserably fail. Y/N is a savage, I love her, the more confident version of her is so fun to write.

previous chapter ; masterlist

Later that day, Morgan and Reid found themselves seated in the middle of a packed lecture hall at the Academy. It wasn’t exactly protocol for the two of them to be there -especially not together - but the team had orchestrated this “mission” carefully: it was a case file day, which meant there was a low chance of being called out, but leaving the bullpen entirely would have raised suspicion. Especially if they wanted to keep their operation secret from Hotch and Gideon, both clueless of what was about to unfold.

The mystery surrounding you - why Hotch never had spoken about you - had quickly become a quiet fascination within the team, escalating over the course of just a few hours. It wasn’t just curiosity about a former colleague; there was an unspoken sense that your departure had left an impact that went far beyond a routine job change. Intrigued by the potential layers to the situation, the team knew they needed to investigate, and they chose Reid and Morgan as the perfect pair for this undercover operation.

Reid’s youth and sharp intellect made him blend in effortlessly with the students, but it was his deep academic curiosity that truly set him apart. In preparation for the lecture, Reid had spent the afternoon poring over all of your published work, and he quickly became captivated by your ability to seamlessly interlace psychology, culture, and philosophy in ways few could manage. The depth of your insights, the connections you drew between human behavior and broader cultural forces, sparked something in him - a rare sense of admiration.

For Reid, this mission wasn’t just about gathering intelligence; it was an opportunity to engage with a mind he respected. Your ideas, complex yet accessible, offered an intellectual challenge he was eager to dive into. He wanted to hear your thoughts firsthand, not just to uncover the truth about your past with Hotch, but because he truly respected the brilliance of your work.

Morgan, on the other hand, had entirely different motivations for being there. His cop’s instinct told him something wasn’t adding up, and that gnawing curiosity wouldn’t let him rest. A particular photo he’d seen back in Garcia’s lair - of you and Hotch, caught in a candid moment of shared laughter - had stuck with him ever since.

Hotch didn’t laugh like that anymore.

There was something about you that had unlocked a side of their otherwise stoic unit chief, a version of Hotch that Morgan had never seen before, and it bothered him. That rare glimpse of joy on his boss’s face hinted at a deeper story, one that Hotch had kept carefully hidden. Morgan was determined to figure out what had really happened between you two, to uncover why Hotch never spoke of you and why your departure still seemed to hang in the air like unfinished business.

Unlike Reid, who could slip into the crowd with his youthful look and scholarly demeanor, Morgan stood out. His broad shoulders and confident stance made him look more like a security detail than a student. His sharp gaze constantly swept the room, not in casual curiosity, but in the way of someone who was trained to assess for threats, even in the seemingly safe confines of a lecture hall. Morgan wasn’t here to blend in; he was here to find answers.

“Man, these kids are young,” Morgan muttered under his breath, taking in the sea of eager, fresh faces around them.

Reid, already scribbling notes, glanced up with a slight smirk. “It’s the Academy. They’re supposed to be young. You’ll survive.”

Morgan rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, his thoughts still caught between the mission at hand and the uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake. There was something more in the air, something heavier than just academic interest.

“Just remember,” Morgan whispered, leaning closer to Reid, “we’re not here for the lesson. We’re here to figure out what Hotch isn’t telling us.”

Reid glanced up, clearly torn between his genuine academic excitement and the need to stick to the plan. “I can do both, you know.”

Morgan smirked. “Sure you can, kid. Just don’t get lost in the lecture.”

Just then, the door at the front of the lecture hall swung open, and you walked in with an air of quiet confidence that silenced the room instantly. The soft shuffle of papers and whispered conversations died down as you made your way to the podium, a stack of notes in hand. Reid and Morgan immediately locked onto you, and though Reid had never met you in person, he instantly recognized you from the photo Garcia had shown them earlier.

You looked strikingly similar to how you had in that picture: poised, elegant, with that same calm authority that demanded attention without effort. But now, in this academic environment, there was a subtle difference. Reid noted how much more relaxed you seemed, despite the structured setting. There was a lightness to you, as if shedding the rigid confines of the BAU had allowed you to embrace something more natural, more authentic.

Your hair, worn in its natural texture, was a stark contrast to the sleek, pin-straight style you had sported back when you were chasing down criminals. It made you seem more yourself, more at ease, as though time had allowed you to settle into a version of you that didn’t need to conform to the high-pressure world of profiling. And yet, despite these differences, Reid could see the parts of you that hadn’t changed at all.

You still wore your signature all-black suit, sharply tailored and immaculate. The only splash of color was your light blue shirt, buttoned all the way to the top but hidden beneath a fitted black vest. It was a subtle uniform, one that spoke of your meticulous attention to detail, just as Reid had expected from the person whose work he had admired.

As you set your notes down on the podium, there was no need to ask for the students' attention. Your presence alone commanded it, radiating a quiet authority that both Reid and Morgan could feel from across the room.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes studying you intently. The way you moved, the way you carried yourself, it was almost uncanny. You had the same presence as Hotch, the same quiet yet commanding energy that made people listen before you even spoke. The way you walked to the podium, the slight tilt of your head as you scanned the room, the controlled yet effortless manner in which you handled your materials, it was all too familiar.

Morgan couldn’t shake the feeling that it didn’t make sense to him how you could still carry such a striking similarity to Hotch after all these years. You had only worked together for three years, and it had been six since you’d last seen each other, yet those brief moments watching you confirmed that there was an unspoken bond, a shared approach to leadership and presence that ran far deeper than the passage of time could diminish.

What stood out to him even more was how mature you seemed, not just in your authority but in the quiet confidence you exuded. You were four years younger than him, only five older than Reid, but there was something about the way you carried yourself that made you feel more seasoned, like you’d lived a life beyond your years. And yet, your warmth was undeniable. Your smile was far more approachable than Hotch’s, inviting curiosity and dialogue, yet it carried the same weight of experience and intellect.

What truly set you apart, though, was the care you showed to the students. Even though this was just a guest lecture, and you had no prior connection to any of them, there was a gentleness in the way you treated them, as if each one mattered individually. Rather than pointing out sections of a textbook or directing them to impersonal reading assignments, you handed out your very own notes. Pages written in your careful, flowing handwriting, offering glimpses into your thought process. The act of giving them your personal materials made everyone in the room feel seen and taken care of, as if they were receiving something more than just information, they were receiving a piece of you.

As you approached Reid and Morgan’s row, handing out the notes, your instincts kicked in almost instantly. Something in their body language - Morgan's guarded posture, the way Reid’s eyes darted over every detail - gave them away. They weren’t students, not with that level of awareness. Your instincts, finely honed from years in the field, told you immediately they were agents, not here for the lecture but for something more. You paused for only a fraction of a second as you handed Reid his copy, then Morgan’s, but in that brief exchange, everything clicked into place.

You knew exactly who they were, they weren’t just agents.

They were Hotch’s agents.

Even without having seen their pictures, Hotch’s letters over the years had painted such vivid portraits of his team that recognition came as naturally as breathing. Reid’s intense curiosity, the way his mind seemed to be running a mile a minute as he absorbed every detail of the room, was exactly as Hotch had described. And Morgan - sharp, ever-watchful, his presence commanding without a word - fit the description perfectly. Hotch had done more than just mention them; he'd crafted a detailed profile of each one, and in that moment, you were impressed by how well his words had aligned with reality.

But despite recognizing them, you gave nothing away. No raised brow, no startled reaction - just a slight, knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you handed them their notes with the same care and warmth you extended to the rest of the class. It was as if, in that brief moment, you acknowledged the deeper connection between all of you but chose to let it remain unspoken, just as you had done with so many things in your life.

You decided you would let them continue their undercover game, but in your mind, you were already several steps ahead. You knew their plan. You understood the intrigue. And while you didn’t mind playing along for now, you knew this encounter would unfold on your terms, not theirs.

Reid’s eyes lingered on the notes you handed him, immediately captivated by the intricate, handwritten connections sprawling across the page. The blue ink, fluid and purposeful, revealed a map of your mind - each word carefully placed to weave together psychological phenomena, historical events, and philosophical insights with stunning clarity. The structure, the flow, the careful attention to detail - it was all there.

Morgan’s attention, however, was pulled elsewhere. As you handed him his notes, he caught the glint of something he hadn’t expected. The engagement ring. His eyes locked on it for a moment longer than they should have, the band gleaming on your left hand as you moved past him. There it was, a piece of the puzzle he hadn’t accounted for. Whoever you were now, you weren’t just Hotch’s former partner. You had a life, a future, and someone waiting for you.

Morgan glanced over at Reid, whose eyes were still glued to your notes, clearly fascinated by the web of ideas you had laid out. But when Reid noticed Morgan’s gaze, the flicker of recognition passed between them. The mission just got a lot more complicated.

As you moved back to the podium and began your lecture, Morgan couldn’t help but continue noticing the subtle echoes of Hotch’s body language. The way you paused before speaking, the careful consideration in your words, it was all too familiar. Reid, ever the observer of patterns, was clearly noticing it too. The way you stood at the podium, hands placed just so, the deliberate pacing as you spoke. It was eerily reminiscent of Hotch, and yet there was something different. Where Hotch exuded strict efficiency, you brought warmth, a sense of curiosity that made people lean in, eager to hear more.

“I came here today because they told me to discuss the phenomenon of folie à deux,” you began, your voice calm yet authoritative, “and its implications not just in psychology but in philosophy and culture.”

The room stilled as you spoke, your presence effortlessly commanding attention. Morgan and Reid exchanged a quick glance, fully engaged now in the way you were weaving complex psychological concepts with larger, philosophical questions. There was something magnetic about the way you approached the topic, pulling in the room with every word.

“Folie à deux is a rare psychological phenomenon,” you continued, “where two or more individuals, typically in a close relationship, share the same delusion. It’s often seen in couples, siblings, or very close friends. The dominant partner transmits their delusion to the other, creating a shared reality.”

You paused, letting the weight of the concept settle over the room. “This raises profound philosophical questions. Take Kant’s idea, for instance. He believed that we don’t perceive the world as it truly is, but instead, we experience the world through the lens of our minds. In other words, our reality is shaped by how our minds organize and interpret what we see, hear, and feel.”

You let that thought settle before continuing. “Now, if two people share the same delusion, for them, that becomes their reality. Even though it's false to us, it’s their truth, because their minds are filtering and organizing information to fit that shared belief. In Kant’s terms, it challenges the very idea of ‘objective reality’ - because what we think is real might just be how we’re perceiving it, not how it actually exists outside of our minds.”

You smiled warmly at the class. “So, in a way, our subjective experiences - what we believe, what we feel - shape the world we live in. And when two people share the same distorted view, that shared perception becomes their reality, no matter how far it drifts from the truth.”

Reid leaned forward, his pen flying across the page as he absorbed every word. He was captivated, not just by the subject matter, but by the way you framed it, how you elevated the psychological disorder into a philosophical discussion about the nature of truth and perception. You made complex ideas seem simple yet profound, interconnecting psychology and philosophy into one seamless, thought-provoking narrative.

Morgan, though less academically driven, found himself equally drawn in. The way you spoke made even the most abstract concepts accessible, your words carrying weight not just in their content but in how you delivered them, with a clarity that left no room for misunderstanding, yet a depth that left room for reflection.

You began to explain a specific case you had worked on during your time at the BAU, a case that had stayed with you due to its sheer brutality and the disturbing dynamic between the killers. “I worked on a case a few years ago involving a series of brutal murders. The victims were found hanging from the ceilings of abandoned warehouses, their bodies mutilated in ways that suggested not just violence, but performance.”

The room grew eerily still as you spoke, your voice taking on a darker tone. “The killers were a couple, completely lost in their shared delusion. They believed that by killing their victims in such a specific, ritualistic manner, they were cementing their bond, as if the act of murder itself was an expression of their twisted love.”

You paced slowly across the front of the room, your words heavy with implication, and the students hung on every word. “The crime scenes were brutal, but what stood out most were the patterns - blood splattered in what appeared to be a deliberate, almost choreographed way. It wasn’t random violence; it was as if they were performing a ritual.”

Reid’s pen scratched furiously against his notebook, his brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to capture every detail. Morgan, meanwhile, glanced around the room, feeling the palpable tension you were building with your story.

“The first victim, a 21-year-old student, was found suspended from the ceiling of a derelict warehouse. Her body had been methodically sliced, the cuts precise, deep, but not immediately fatal. The killers had taken their time, savoring each wound, letting her bleed out slowly. The scene was a nightmare: blood splattered everywhere, but not haphazardly. It seemed purposeful, like an abstract painting.”

You paused, gauging the room’s reactions. The students sat frozen, entranced, and even Reid, who had seen his share of brutal cases, seemed visibly affected.

“The second victim, a 36-year-old plumber, was found in a nearly identical state in another warehouse. Another body, another grotesque dance of violence. His blood, like the first victim’s, had been splattered across the room in swirling patterns, as if the killers were moving in deliberate, controlled steps. It was clear this wasn’t about the victims themselves, but about the act. They weren’t just killing, they were performing.”

You nodded at the young woman’s question, already anticipating the curiosity it sparked. “At first glance, the victims appeared unconnected - different ages, different backgrounds. But the killers didn’t choose them at random. The victims were symbolic, representations of the killers’ own internal dynamics. One victim reflected the youth and innocence of one partner, while the other embodied the experience, the world-weariness, of the other. In a twisted sense, they weren’t killing strangers - they were killing versions of themselves, surrogates, to solidify their bond through these acts.”

Reid’s hand shot up, his mind clearly racing with the case details. “Did your team profile them as a couple right away?”

You nodded, already expecting Reid’s instinctive question. “Yes, very early on, we suspected it was a folie à deux. The crime scenes told us as much. The way the blood was deliberately splattered, almost choreographed, was a shared act of performance. The footprints intertwined, moving in tandem, telling a story of two people completely absorbed in their collective delusion. It was clear that this wasn’t just violence, it was ritual, a form of communication between them.”

Here, you paused, adding a layer of deeper reflection. “Philosophically, it raises an interesting point about identity and connection. In cases like this, the delusion becomes more than just shared, it defines them. Think of Hegel’s concept of the dialectic. Two opposing forces interact, shaping and defining each other through their opposition. These killers were engaged in that process, only instead of a philosophical exchange of ideas, their connection was expressed through violence. They became more themselves through their shared acts, solidifying their identities through the bond of their crimes.”

Morgan shifted in his seat, slightly unsettled by the complexity of the killers' psychology and the patience it must have taken to unravel their twisted connection. He didn’t often think of criminals in such philosophical terms, he saw them through the lens of the law, of right and wrong.

“And then,” you said, your voice growing quieter, more deliberate, “there was the dance.”

The air in the room grew heavier, as if everyone collectively held their breath. “Each crime scene had one distinctive feature,” you continued, “the footprints left in the blood. They weren’t random or chaotic - they moved in deliberate loops and turns, forming a grotesque choreography. This was no ordinary crime - it was ritualistic, deeply personal. The killers were reliving a significant moment between them, reenacting their bond through this macabre dance.”

You paused, letting the students absorb the gravity of what you were saying. “And here’s where we dive deeper - into the philosophy of ritual. Durkheim talks about how rituals are essential to the creation of social bonds, how shared rituals bring people closer, giving them a sense of identity and belonging. For these two, the act of murder became their ritual. It was how they maintained their connection, how they affirmed to each other that their shared reality - their delusion - was true. The blood on the floor wasn’t just evidence. It was a testament to their bond, a mark of their unity.”

You let the silence hang, watching as the weight of those words sank in. Reid was furiously scribbling notes, his brows furrowed in concentration, clearly processing the philosophical layers you were laying down. Morgan, on the other hand, glanced around the room, sensing the discomfort among the students, while he himself struggled to imagine how such a deep connection could manifest in something so horrific.

A student’s hand shot up from the middle of the room. “How did you catch them?”

You paused for a moment, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips, holding back the laughter threatening to escape at the memory. “It wasn’t easy,” you began, your voice steady and measured. “My partner and I had to go undercover to a dance event where we suspected the unsubs would be. We spent an entire night - and the following day -perfecting a slow dance routine just to blend in, hoping to draw them out.”

There was a ripple of interest across the room, but Morgan and Reid exchanged a glance that held more weight than simple curiosity. Morgan’s brow furrowed, his lips quirking in disbelief. He leaned toward Reid, whispering, “Hotch? Dancing?”

Reid, always serious, blinked in surprise, his pen frozen mid-air. “Hotch? Dancing?” he echoed, as if the concept itself was too far-fetched to be real.

Morgan’s disbelief quickly morphed into amusement. He leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming mischievously as he pulled out his phone, keeping it low under the desk. Without missing a beat, he sent a quick message to Garcia.

To Garcia:

Find footage of Hotch dancing. ASAP.

You caught the exchange from the corner of your eye, and the flash of recognition in your gaze wasn’t lost on either of them. You knew what they were up to. You’d seen it before - agents who thought they could outmaneuver you. It didn’t bother you. In fact, a touch of mischief tugged at your own lips as you pressed on with the story.

“We had to immerse ourselves completely in the role,” you continued smoothly, not missing a beat. “Everything had to be perfect - our interactions with the other dancers, the timing of our steps. We had to give the appearance of just being another couple enjoying the evening.”

You paused, letting your words settle in, and your eyes - sharp and assessing - swept over the room, briefly lingering on Reid and Morgan. They thought they were here undercover, sizing you up, but you were already several steps ahead.

“As you can imagine,” you said, your tone casual but laced with intent, “undercover work is about blending in. It’s about becoming invisible until you’re ready to act. One of the worst things you can do is stand out before you have what you need.”

Morgan’s posture stiffened. He exchanged a subtle glance with Reid, who was still scribbling furiously, caught up in the lesson. But Morgan, with his instincts sharpened by years in the field, noticed the change in your tone. Reid, still oblivious, looked up, blinking in confusion as he tried to catch the thread.

“For example,” you continued, now pacing ever so slightly in front of the room, “if you’re attending a lecture and trying to blend in, you wouldn’t want to sit right in the middle, where everyone can see you. You’d want to sit somewhere unobtrusive - close enough to observe, but not so obvious that you stand out.”

Reid’s pen stilled. He blinked rapidly, glancing down at his notes as if unsure how to respond. Morgan, on the other hand, shifted in his seat, straightening up. He could feel the eyes of the room on them now. This wasn’t just a lecture anymore. You had them in your sights.

“And of course,” you added, with a sly smile barely visible at the corners of your lips, “you’d want to keep steady eye contact with the people you’re observing. Avoiding eye contact is a classic tell that you’re hiding something.”

Reid’s head snapped up, wide-eyed, and he finally caught on. His gaze flicked nervously between you and Morgan, his face flushing a deep shade of red. Morgan, meanwhile, smirked, the game now fully exposed. He chuckled under his breath, turning to Reid with a playful glint in his eye.

“I think we’ve been made,” Morgan whispered, leaning closer.

Reid’s response came in a low mutter, “I think she’s profiling us.”

You didn’t miss the exchange, though you pretended not to hear. The game was laid bare, and now it was time to pull back the curtain. “The key to any good undercover operation,” you continued, eyes still fixed on them even as you addressed the entire class, “is to stay in character, no matter what happens. And when someone mentions having to learn a choreographed number to catch unsubs, you definitely don’t text your technical analyst to hunt down footage because the man in question happens to be your emotionless, overworked Unit Chief.”

Both Morgan and Reid’s jaws dropped, their reactions a perfect mirror of disbelief and embarrassment. Reid blushed furiously, stammering as he attempted to regain his composure. Morgan bit back laughter, his shoulders shaking as he slid his phone into his pocket. You were right, of course. There was no getting around it, they’d been caught red-handed.

Garcia, no doubt, would be on the receiving end of Morgan’s follow-up text telling her to drop the hunt for footage.

You let the silence linger for a beat, allowing the full weight of the moment to sink in. The rest of the class sat transfixed, watching what they believed was just a masterclass in teaching. Little did they know the game of cat-and-mouse unfolding between you and the two agents in the back.

You took a breath, your voice resuming its measured cadence. “Undercover work,” you continued, “is about subtleties. It’s about knowing how to blend in, how to observe without drawing attention. It’s about choosing the right moment to act and making sure you’re invisible until the exact second you need to be seen.”

Your gaze lingered on Reid and Morgan just a moment longer, a soft smile tugging at your lips. They thought they were here to gather information on you, to figure out who you were and why Hotch had never spoken of you. But in reality, they had only gotten a taste of your true skill, the ability to read people long before they ever realized they were being seen.

Reid, his face still flushed with embarrassment, leaned over to Morgan. “She just pulled a Hotch on us.”

Morgan grinned, shaking his head in admiration. “She’s good. Really good. No wonder Hotch never talks about her… he’s probably still recovering.”

The tension in the room eased, but you knew that whatever questions Morgan and Reid had come with were far from answered. They had expected to size you up, maybe catch you off guard, but instead, you’d turned the tables on them.

You continued with your lecture, now fully in control of the room. “And that’s what we did with the case,” you concluded. “We chose the right moment, and when we did, we caught them in their own delusion, wrapped in their performance. They never saw it coming.”

Reid’s pen resumed its frantic scribbling, while Morgan, arms crossed, watched you with a new sense of respect. Whatever answers they sought, they knew now that you wouldn’t be easy to read. And that was exactly how you liked it.

You finished your lecture smoothly, returning to the details of the case and the eventual capture of the unsubs, weaving in philosophical insights about reality, perception, and the power of shared beliefs. But throughout it all, you never lost that air of quiet confidence, knowing you had just outplayed two of the best profilers in the FBI.

As the lecture came to a close and students began to file out of the room, Morgan and Reid remained in their seats, waiting for the others to leave. When the room had finally emptied, you approached them with a knowing smile tugging at your lips.

“Well,” you began, your tone light but teasing, “I hope you two learned something.”

Reid blushed deeply, looking down at his notebook as if it could somehow shield him from the embarrassment. Morgan, on the other hand, held out his hand with a wide grin, unfazed by the fact that they had been caught. “I’ll give it to you - you got us. I haven’t been outplayed like that in a long time.”

You laughed softly, shaking his hand. “I recognized you both the moment I walked in, Hotch talks about his team all the time. But I appreciate the effort, you blended in better than most.”

Reid finally found his voice, still fidgeting with his satchel as if to ground himself. “I-I just wanted to say I’ve read your work on geographical profiling. It’s... groundbreaking.” His voice held genuine admiration, the kind that went beyond the mission they were on.

Your warm smile softened further, and you nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, Dr. Reid. That means a lot, especially coming from you.” You could see the boyish pride flash across his face at the compliment.

Morgan, ever the protector, chuckled and nudged Reid with his elbow. “See? You two are cut from the same cloth. A couple of geniuses.”

You turned to Morgan, raising a brow with amusement. “And you’re Derek Morgan, the infamous charmer. Hotch warned me about you.”

Morgan smirked, flashing a look of mock offense. “Warned you, huh? Well, I’m flattered, but he probably undersold me.” His teasing grin was infectious, but beneath the bravado, you could see the respect he held for you.

You shook your head, still laughing. “He’s actually spoken about your loyalty more than anything else. I can see why.”

Morgan, momentarily caught off guard by the sincerity in your words, gave a small nod of appreciation. Then, ever the flirt, he added with a playful glint in his eye, “Now I get why Hotch never talks about you. You’ve probably got him all figured out.”

The smile faltered for just a moment, a soft wave of nostalgia passing over you. “Hotch is... the best partner I’ve ever had,” you said quietly, your tone laced with something deeper. “And a good friend.”

Before the conversation could turn more personal, the door creaked open, and all three of you turned toward the sound of footsteps. Both Morgan and Reid stiffened, instinctively straightening in their seats. You followed their gaze toward the door, where none other than Jason Gideon appeared. His familiar, warm presence filled the room immediately, his keen eyes scanning the scene before him.

Gideon’s gaze first landed on Reid and Morgan, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before a knowing look settled in. He shook his head slightly, clearly imagining how Hotch would react when he found out his agents had gone rogue for this unsanctioned mission. But then his eyes found you, and his expression softened into something else - pride.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of all the years and experiences you’d shared. “Who would have thought? Not even a decade ago, you were sitting in these very desks, and now you’re traveling the world, revolutionizing our entire approach to behavioral analysis. You’ve become a legend.”

His words, spoken with genuine pride, struck something deep within you. Despite yourself, a wave of emotion surged in your chest, and for a moment, you were the young student again, sitting across from him in that same room. You stepped forward and embraced him, the gesture spontaneous but full of meaning. The hug was brief but genuine, and you pulled back slightly, your eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Thank you, Gideon,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion you hadn’t expected. “I owe all of this to you. I still feel like I’m only scratching the surface compared to what you’ve accomplished.”

He stepped back, his hands gently resting on your shoulders as he met your eyes. His gaze was as steady as ever, filled with a deep affection and respect. “You’ve done more than you realize,” he said quietly. “You’ve surpassed every expectation I had, but I always knew you would. From the moment you walked into the BAU, I knew you were going to change everything.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you shook your head slightly, trying to brush off the weight of his praise. “Well, I’ve certainly made a few changes.”

Gideon’s eyes sparkled with nostalgia as he looked at you. “You’ve changed too,” he said softly, his voice brimming with fondness. “No more straight hair.” He smiled, clearly remembering the younger version of you who had tried so hard to project confidence. “You used to work so hard to make sure no one underestimated you.”

You laughed, though the sound was a little choked with the emotions you were trying to keep in check. “I stopped worrying about that a long time ago,” you admitted, feeling the gravity of your journey settle in your chest. “Letting people underestimate you can be a real advantage.”

Gideon chuckled, nodding as if he had always known you’d figure that out on your own. “I always knew you would,” he said with quiet pride. “You’ve grown into yourself. More than that, you’ve become someone people look up to.”

You grinned, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. “And you haven’t changed a bit,” you teased, though your voice betrayed the depth of the connection you still felt with him.

Gideon’s smile was soft, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he took in the sight of you. “I have,” he said, his voice gentle but knowing. “But that’s how it’s supposed to be. Time changes us all, but I’m proud of you, Y/N. Truly.”

The moment felt heavy with unspoken words, the bond between you and your mentor palpable. Reid and Morgan, watching from the side, felt the significance of it. Reid, always the observer, took mental note of the exchange, while Morgan could see how deeply you and Gideon were connected.

Gideon looked around the room, then turned back to you with a small, knowing smile. “It’s good to have you back,” he said, his voice softer, full of the warmth that only a mentor could offer. "Why don’t you come with me to the BAU? I know Hotch would want to see you.” His tone softened further, the words deliberate, as if he sensed the emotional weight they carried. “You’re not an ocean away anymore. You’re just a moment away.”

The mention of Hotch’s name sent a wave of emotions crashing over you. Your heart skipped a beat, your breath catching in your chest as the reality of it settled.

Six years.

Six long years since you’d last stood face to face with him, since you’d held his gaze and heard the familiar, steady tone of his voice. The prospect of seeing him again stirred something deep inside you - not just nostalgia, but the weight of everything you’d shared. You’d still felt the connection in every letter exchanged over the years, every small piece of your old selves that you shared across time zones.

But letters were safe, written words couldn’t fully capture the presence Hotch carried, the way he could fill a room with just his silence, how his quiet, intense gaze could ground you when everything else was chaotic. That was what you missed most: the steady, unspoken understanding that had defined your partnership.

You tried to steady yourself, but the memories came rushing back: the late nights in his office, where neither of you needed to speak to understand one another. The silent communication born out of years of working cases together, where you could anticipate his thoughts, his moves, before a word was uttered. He had been more than just a partner in the field - he had been your anchor in the storm of the BAU, a constant presence that you trusted with your life.

And in that trust, without even realizing it at the time, you had also given him your heart.

But time had changed things. In the six years since you left, you had found love with Peter, now your fiancé, someone who brought light and stability into your life in ways you hadn’t thought possible after the intensity of working at the BAU. Peter had followed you to Europe, and together you had built a new chapter - one full of love, shared adventures, and a future that felt secure. Meanwhile, Hotch had built his own family, raising Jack and finding his happiness with Haley.

Both of you had moved forward, creating lives apart from each other, but the bond you shared, that deep-rooted partnership, had never faded.

It had evolved. What once might have been an unspoken attraction had transformed into something deeper – the most profound friendship built on mutual respect and care for each other. Hotch had been there for you in ways no one else had, and even though life had taken you on different paths, that connection would always be there. He was still your partner, and you knew that no matter what, you would always have care for each other.

Gideon, ever perceptive, seemed to sense the emotions you were bottling up. He turned toward Morgan and Reid, who were standing awkwardly at the back, clearly feeling guilty for sneaking into your class during work hours.

“I think the two of you owe Y/N a proper introduction to the team,” Gideon said, his voice carrying that familiar mentor-like authority, though there was a teasing note beneath it. He knew exactly what he was doing—giving you a little more time to gather your thoughts.

Morgan, for once, looked slightly unnerved, and Reid fidgeted with his bag, clearly realizing that their undercover mission might get them into more trouble than they had anticipated. The thought of Hotch finding out they’d been snooping on his old partner without permission seemed to hit them both at the same time.

“Yeah, uh… about that,” Morgan began, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Hotch is not gonna be happy when he finds out we snuck out to come here.”

Reid nodded fervently, his fingers tapping nervously against his satchel. “If he finds out,” he muttered, clearly hoping that somehow Hotch wouldn’t discover their little operation.

You couldn’t help but smile at the two of them, their dynamic so familiar, reminiscent of how you and Hotch used to move in sync. It was strange, seeing this new generation of agents, people who had become extensions of the world you had left behind. But even in that strangeness, there was a comfort, a sense of continuity.

The BAU had changed, but the bond between partners, the loyalty, was still the same.

The thought of seeing Hotch again made your breath catch in your throat. Six years was a long time, but the way your heart quickened at the idea of hearing his voice, standing in front of him, told you that the connection between you two hadn’t faded. You had built a life with Peter, and Hotch had built his family, yet there was still something between you that transcended time and distance. It wasn’t romantic, not anymore, but it was profound. He was still everything that mattered.

You swallowed hard, pushing aside the rush of emotions as you nodded, a soft, almost tentative smile tugging at your lips. “I’d love to.”

Morgan, catching the momentary hesitation in your voice, smirked, his profiling instincts kicking in immediately. “You didn’t tell Hotch you were coming back, did you?”

You grinned, a flicker of mischief lighting your eyes. “Of course not. I wanted to catch him off guard. I think you know better than I do how much he hates surprises.”

Reid blinked, clearly taken aback by the casual ease with which you spoke about Hotch. “You planned to surprise him… just to annoy him?”

Your smile widened, the playfulness evident. “Exactly. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

Morgan chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Man, Hotch is in for a rude awakening. I almost feel sorry for him.”

“Almost,” you teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “But let’s be honest, you’re just as curious to see his reaction as I am.”

.

The elevator ride up to the BAU felt like an eternity. Every passing floor seemed to stretch time longer, and the soft ding of each level only heightened your anticipation. Gideon stood beside you, calm and composed as always, offering a reassuring presence without a word. Reid and Morgan’s casual chatter about the last case floated around you, but their words didn’t register.

Your mind was consumed by a thousand different thoughts, scenarios of how this reunion might go, and the heart-pounding reality that, in just a few moments, you would see him again.

Would Hotch be angry? Would he be surprised? Or had too much time passed for him to feel anything at all?

When the elevator doors finally slid open onto the familiar floor of the BAU, your breath caught in your throat. The bullpen, once your daily world, hummed with activity. Agents moved briskly between desks, their voices blending with the ringing phones and the hum of printers.

Everything looked so familiar and yet subtly different. More desks, new faces, an expanded workspace. But it wasn’t the changes that struck you - it was the energy, the same sense of family that had always made this place feel like home.

Your eyes wandered, scanning the room until they landed on two desks right in the center of the bullpen, still facing each other after all these years.

Your desk and Hotch’s - just as they’d been before.

A memory stirred, flooding you with images of late nights ande early mornings spent side by side, the sound of rustling papers and quiet conversations exchanged in the dim glow of desk lamps. The thought of those quiet moments made your heart ache with a bittersweet familiarity.

Suddenly, a voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Oh my God,” JJ gasped, her eyes wide with shock as she spotted you from across the room. She walked quickly toward you, her excitement barely contained. “You’re the profiler Hotch never talks about, aren’t you?”. You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “So I’ve heard.”

Before you could say more, the blur of pink and sparkles that was Penelope Garcia appeared at your side, practically bouncing on her toes with enthusiasm. “You’re *real*!” she squealed. “Twenty-six languages, three master’s degrees… you’re like a myth come to life!”

Her joy was infectious, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the warmth of it spreading through your chest. “It’s twenty-eight now,” you corrected with a grin. “But who’s counting?”

Garcia gasped dramatically, her eyes wide in amazement. “Twenty-eight?! Oh, honey, we have so much to talk about!”

Prentiss approached next, arms crossed but a warm smile on her face. “Well, well,” she said, appraising you with a glint of admiration. “Didn’t think I’d ever meet the one who kept Hotch on his toes all those years. Welcome back.”

You smiled back at her, feeling the weight of the years melt away as these new members of the team welcomed you with such ease. It was as if no time had passed at all, yet everything had changed. Each word, each gesture reminded you of the family you had left behind. And as you stood there, catching up with them, you realized how much you had missed this.

But even as they asked about your time in Europe, about the classes you’d taught and the cases you’d worked on, your gaze kept drifting upward, toward the glass-walled office above the bullpen. And there he was.

Aaron Hotchner, sitting at his desk, oblivious to the commotion below. His head was down, focused intently on the file in front of him, his expression as serious and stoic as ever. Your heart clenched painfully at the sight of him.

He looked the same, almost unchanged from the day you left - strong, composed, but with a heaviness in his posture that hadn’t been there before, as if the weight of the years had settled on his shoulders.

You barely registered the questions from the team as your eyes locked onto him. It was as if the world had narrowed down to just the sight of him, and suddenly, all the anticipation, all the nervous energy that had been building inside you, rushed to the surface.

Just then, as if sensing the weight of your stare, Hotch lifted his head. His eyes scanned the bullpen, narrowing slightly as he noticed the entire team gathered in one spot. His brow furrowed in confusion as he stood from his desk, closing the file in front of him. But from where he stood, he couldn’t see you yet. You were still hidden among the team, your presence shielded by the circle of agents eagerly chatting around you.

With his familiar, quiet precision, Hotch began descending the stairs. Each step echoed in your chest, your heartbeat quickening with every moment that brought him closer. The room seemed to fall silent, your attention fixed on the sound of his approaching footsteps. You hadn’t heard his voice in six long years, and now, in just a moment, you would.

“What’s going on here?” Hotch’s deep, steady voice cut through the air, commanding attention as it always had.

Everything inside you stilled.

The team parted slightly, giving Hotch a clear view of the person they’d all been gathered around. And when his gaze finally fell on you, the air seemed to shift - heavy with the weight of unspoken words, shared history, and all the time that had passed.

Hotch’s usually composed expression faltered for just a split second. His eyes widened ever so slightly, the surprise flickering across his face before he quickly regained his composure.

But you saw it, the momentary break, the shock of seeing you standing there, as real and unexpected as a ghost from the past.

He stopped mid-step, his breath catching as his gaze locked with yours.

The bullpen fell silent around you, the rest of the team fading into the background as you stood there, face-to-face with the man you hadn’t seen in six years. The man who had been more than just your partner, the man who had been your anchor, your confidant, your best friend.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. It was as if time had stopped, and all the years, all the distance, dissolved in that single moment.Then his eyes found you. For a moment, he didn’t move. His expression froze, shock rippling across his normally stoic features. His mouth parted slightly as though he was about to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Hotch stood there, frozen for what felt like an eternity, his sharp eyes locked onto yours. The bullpen, the agents, the noise - it all faded into the background, leaving only the two of you suspended in the heavy silence of six years apart.

Your heart raced as you took him in, noting every detail. He looked the same, and yet different. His hair had a touch more gray, the lines around his eyes slightly deeper, but his presence - strong, steady, and commanding - was unchanged. But there was something else too, something that only you could sense. A heaviness in his eyes, the kind that spoke of burdens carried silently, of long nights and sleepless hours. It hit you like a wave: time hadn’t been kind to him, but it hadn’t eroded that fundamental part of him either.

"Aaron" you finally breathed, breaking the silence between you, your voice softer than you had intended.

His name hung in the air, delicate, almost tentative. The warmth in your tone - familiar, tender - made something flicker in his expression, something that went beyond surprise. His mouth twitched, like he was trying to speak but couldn’t quite find the words. He took a slow step forward, his movements careful, measured.

“Partner...” he said at last, his deep voice rougher than you remembered, as though your name had been lodged somewhere in his chest for too long.

Without thinking, you rushed toward him, your legs moving on instinct alone. And as you closed the distance, he did the same, meeting you halfway. The second your arms wrapped around him, it was like the dam broke. His grip on you was tight, desperate, as if he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. And for the first time in years, you felt truly home.

He buried his face in your shoulder, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The years apart, the distance, the longing, it all disappeared in that one embrace. His breath was warm against your hair, and when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were filled with a depth of emotion that you had never seen in him before.

It was a mixture of disbelief, relief, and something far more profound, an unspoken bond that transcended words. His usually stoic, unreadable face had softened into something vulnerable, raw. He looked at you like he was seeing a ghost, like he was trying to convince himself that you were real, that this wasn’t some dream he might wake from.

“I… I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Hotch whispered, his voice thick with emotion. The disbelief in his tone almost broke you.

Your own breath trembled as you smiled up at him, blinking back the tears that were threatening to fall. “Surprise.”

His hand tightened slightly on your arm as though grounding himself in the moment, ensuring you weren’t about to disappear. He let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh, a sound you hadn’t heard from him in so long. His gaze swept over your face, memorizing every detail as if he was afraid this might be the last time.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low, full of the weight of the years between you.

You glanced at the team, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Well, I heard there was a class that needed a guest lecturer. Thought I’d pop in, see how the new generation of agents is shaping up.” You took a step closer, your voice growing more serious. “It’s good to see you, Aaron.”

His lips parted, but before he could speak, you caught the flicker of emotion that passed through his eyes. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you saw it.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said quietly, his gaze searching yours. “You really didn’t warn anyone.”

You shrugged, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “I wanted to catch you off guard. Thought I’d remind you what it’s like not to be in control of everything for once.”

A small smile played on Hotch’s lips, and for a brief second, you saw a flash of the old Aaron, the man you had spent countless nights with, the one who could let his guard down when it was just the two of you.

The team, meanwhile, stood frozen in stunned silence. Morgan, who was rarely lost for words, finally found his voice, though it came out as more of a disbelieving mutter. “Did - did Hotch just chuckled? Like, a real laugh?”

Garcia, standing beside him, clutched her chest dramatically. “Not just a laugh, Derek. He’s smiling - with teeth! This is… I mean, someone pinch me, because this is a miracle!”

Reid blinked rapidly, looking as though he had just witnessed a phenomenon that defied all logic. “I’ve never seen him like this,” he whispered, his eyes wide as he tried to process what he was seeing. “This is… wow.”

Prentiss, who had been quietly observing from the sidelines, finally stepped forward with a small, teasing grin. “Well, Hotch, it’s nice to see you actually have emotions.”

You chuckled at that, turning to face the team, but Hotch’s hand never left your arm, as if he still wasn’t ready to let go. There was a softness in his expression that lingered, something none of them had ever seen before. His usual composure was cracked, but in a way that made him more human, more real.

Gideon, never one to let anything slide, reported the undercover mission of the two agents to Hotch with a sly smile. “It seems someone else was very eager to see her.”

Hotch's expression instantly shifted back to the familiar frown you remembered all too well, the one that usually followed when he was about to reprimand someone. His stern gaze turned toward Reid and Morgan, and he wasted no time. “Morgan, Reid, we’ll talk about this in my office in ten minutes. What on earth were you thinking?”

Morgan scratched the back of his neck, offering a sheepish grin, clearly bracing for the scolding. “She outplayed us, Hotch. We tried to sneak in, but she caught us the moment she walked into the room.”

Before Hotch could dive deeper into his reprimand, you stepped forward, raising a hand to intervene with a teasing smile. “Oh, come on, Unit Chief. Don’t be too hard on them. I just embarrassed them in front of my entire class. Give them a break, would you?”

The team chuckled quietly, sensing the playful tension between you and Hotch. He looked at you, his frown softening just slightly, though he kept his stern tone. “I hope this bravado isn’t something I’ll have to address again.”

You met his gaze, a playful challenge in your eyes as you raised an eyebrow. “It’s always a pleasure keeping up with your humor, Hotch.”

For a split second, the corner of Hotch's mouth twitched as if fighting back a smile, but he quickly composed himself. “We’ll see about that,” he said, his voice carrying the hint of affection he couldn’t quite hide.

“Hotch, you have a lot of explaining to do,” JJ said, stepping forward with a wide smile. “I mean, Hotch has never said a word about you. It’s like you’re this mystery we’ve all been trying to solve.”

You shook your head with a playful smirk, glancing up at Hotch. “Is that so? You’ve been keeping secrets? Well, don’t be mad if I’m the one pulling surprises, then”

Hotch’s gaze flickered to his team briefly, but then his attention returned to you. His eyes softened at the sight of your playful smirk. “I should’ve known you’d find a way to keep me on my toes. You haven’t changed.”

"Neither have you," you teased, though your eyes reflected something deeper, more sincere. "Except maybe a little grayer around the edges."

Hotch let out a brief soft chuckle, running a hand through his raven hair, and for a second, you caught that familiar crease between his brows - the one that appeared when he was genuinely trying to figure out if you were serious. “Yeah, well… the job does that.”

"Oh, not just your hair," you said, your tone playfully mischievous. His expression was puzzled, and the fact that he wasn’t catching on immediately made it even sweeter to make fun of him. You leaned in slightly, narrowing your eyes as if studying him closely. Then, with the precision of a detective pointing out evidence, you motioned toward his face. "Partner, you have a white eyelash - here, left eye."

Hotch blinked, genuinely surprised. He clearly hadn’t noticed it before, and his reaction was one of almost childlike disbelief. “A white eyelash? I didn’t even know that was possible.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. "You’re getting older, partner. It happens to the best of us."

There was a moment of stunned silence in the bullpen as Hotch - stoic, serious Hotch -stood there with the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips. And then, in the most unexpected twist of events, he actually laughed, the kind of sound that was so rare it felt almost sacred. The sound of it sent a ripple through the bullpen, where agents who were usually laser-focused on their tasks couldn’t help but turn their heads in disbelief.

Garcia, who had been standing nearby, looked like she might faint. Her hands fluttered toward her heart as if she couldn’t physically take much more. “Am I hearing things?” she whispered, her voice barely above a squeak.

Morgan, standing next to Reid, leaned in, eyes wide in astonishment. “Is this actually happening?” he whispered, glancing around as if waiting for the universe to correct itself. "Did she just-"

"Yes," Reid responded before Morgan could finish, his voice full of fascination, almost as if he were observing a rare natural phenomenon. "She did."

Hotch raised an eyebrow at you, amused by how easily you’d disarmed him in front of his own team. “A white eyelash, huh? You’ve been away for six years and the first thing you do is point out my aging process?”

You grinned. “Someone has to keep you humble.”

His eyes softened as he looked at you, and for a moment, the noise of the bullpen seemed to fade into the background. “I see you haven’t lost your touch either.”

“Neither have you," you said, more seriously now. "You’re still the same Hotch I knew, grayer hair and rogue eyelashes included."

The air between you settled into something familiar and comfortable, the kind of ease that comes with a partnership that ran deeper than time or distance. The team exchanged glances, clearly picking up on the history, the quiet connection between the two of you that they hadn’t been privy to before now.

Garcia looked like she might faint, her hands fluttering toward her heart as if she couldn’t take much more. Morgan leaned in toward Reid, whispering in disbelief, “Is this actually happening?”

Reid nodded slowly, still trying to process it all. “It’s happening,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “It’s really happening.”

Prentiss couldn’t help but laugh at their reactions. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Hotch is human after all.”

Hotch shot her a mock-glare, though there was no real bite to it. He was still too caught up in the moment, the reality of your return sinking in. “Watch it, Prentiss,” he warned, though his tone was light. He glanced back at you, his eyes softening again. “It’s good to have you back.”

Your heart clenched at the warmth in his voice, and for a moment, the years of separation seemed to melt away. “It’s good to be back,” you whispered, feeling the weight of the emotion behind those words.

As you and Hotch stood side by side, the team watched in stunned silence, the banter between you two flowing so naturally, as if no time had passed at all. The bond between you and Hotch was palpable, and though the team had only just met you, they could sense that this was something rare. This was more than friendship, more than partnership, it was a connection forged through years of trust, loyalty, and something even deeper.

JJ, sensing the depth of the moment, exchanged a glance with Morgan and quietly asked, “So… what were they, really?”

Morgan, still in awe of the connection between you and Hotch, could only shrug. “I don’t know, but whatever it is… it’s real.”

Gideon, who had been watching the entire interaction with quiet satisfaction, stepped forward, his gaze flickering between you and Hotch with a knowing smile.

“Soulmates,” he said simply, the word carrying a depth of meaning that everyone felt but couldn’t quite explain.

The bullpen fell silent again, the word hanging in the air like a truth that had finally been spoken aloud.

Soulmates.

Soulmates in the way that two people could understand each other so completely, so thoroughly, that it transcended words. You and Hotch had always been that for each other: partners, confidants, the steady presence in each other’s lives no matter how far apart you were.

You looked up at Hotch, your heart full, and smiled. “I guess we never really lost each other, did we?”

Hotch’s eyes softened as he looked down at you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “No,” he said quietly, the weight of the years in his voice. “We never did.”

And with that, everything felt right again.

The BAU was a family. And now, it felt like it was whole again.

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.

8 - Law & Self-Awareness

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: angst, sad stuff, fluff

Summary: Hotch and Peter confront a tense situation as they rush to Riverhead, where the unsub is expected to strike next, but conflict arises when Peter wants to warn you, fearing for your safety. Hotch insists on following procedure, though both men struggle with personal fears and the ethics of their choices. At Riverhead, you visit your father's grave, reflecting on past decisions and realizations. In a quiet moment later, surrounded by your team, you come to understand a truth you've been trying to avoid.

Warnings: Grief, CM case

Word Count: 6,1k

Dado's Corner: Here's the sister chapter of the previous one! The narration is still inspired by Suits' 2×08. Funny how Aaron making physical contact with you occupies 57 paragraphs while Peter doing the same thing ½ of a line. Also this is probably the first chapter in which Y/N's physical appearance is mentioned sooo let me know if you imagined her in this way (it's still very vague don’t worry). That said, bring out your finest china, we're celebrating!

previous chapter ; masterlist

“Riverhead,” Hotch said, his voice taut, barely containing the urgency that trembled beneath the surface. “He’s going there next.”

Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief, his immediate reaction pure instinct as he reached for his phone, fingers fumbling desperately to find your contact. “We have to call her. She needs to know -”

Hotch’s hand instinctively shot out, grabbing Peter’s arm with a force that matched the fear hiding behind his calm eyes. “No, we can’t. If we warn her, we risk tipping the unsub off, causing chaos, panic. It’s not just about her, Peter. It’s about every person in Riverhead. We have to handle this the right way.”

Peter wrenched his arm free, his anger flaring like gasoline igniting in the confined space of the SUV. “You’re seriously going to let her walk right into this? She’s in danger, Hotch! And you’re just going to sit back and do nothing?”

Hotch’s expression remained steely, but there was a tremor beneath the surface, a vulnerability he kept tightly under wraps. “This isn’t just about her. There are hundreds of people in Riverhead who could be at risk. If we alert her and it gets out, we’re not just endangering her, we’re endangering everyone. It’s not fair to warn one person and not the others. You can’t let your feelings dictate your decisions.”

Peter’s laugh was sharp and scornful, tinged with a mix of disbelief and fury. “Feelings? Don’t talk to me about feelings, Hotch. You’re always hiding behind the rules, always standing on the side of the law like it’s some infallible god. But this isn’t just about following orders - this is real, and she’s walking into something she can’t see coming.”

Hotch’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles going white as the weight of Peter’s words crashed over him, each one a blow to the carefully built walls he’d constructed around himself.

He shot Peter a side glance, his voice simmering with restrained anger. “I’m not doing this because it’s easy, I’m doing it because it’s the only way to stop this from getting worse. If we tip him off, if she gets scared and acts on it, it could cause a domino effect that puts even more lives at risk. We have to be smarter than that.”

Peter turned to fully face Hotch, the intensity between them palpable, a charged current of frustration and fear. “You keep talking about doing the job, about being ‘smart,’ but what about being human? What about doing the right thing for once instead of hiding behind procedure? What happens if something happens to her, Hotch? Are you really going to look me in the eye and say we did the right thing?”

Hotch’s expression tightened, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his emotions in check. He kept repeating the same words, not so much to convince Peter, but to anchor himself - to hold onto some semblance of control as much as possible. “This isn’t just about one person, Peter,” he said, his voice a bit strained with the weight of the impossible choice they faced.

“We can’t put her safety above everyone else’s. It’s not how we do things. If this gets out, if people panic, we lose everything. That’s exactly what the unsub wants: to see us unravel, to watch us make decisions with our hearts instead of our heads. We can’t give him that satisfaction. We can’t let him win.”

Peter scoffed, his anger bubbling over as he stepped closer, his eyes blazing with frustration. His voice rose, each word laced with a mix of fury and desperation. “You’re always so damn obsessed with the law, Hotch,” he snapped, his breath coming faster, as if the force of his emotions was too much to contain. “But what about ethics? What about the people behind the profiles, behind all these damn statistics and protocols? This isn’t just a case file, it’s about real people.”

Peter’s tone shifted as he tried to reach Hotch, his next words softening, laced with an urgent plea. “You know Y/N. I know Y/N. And if she were standing here, right now, listening to us argue like this, she wouldn’t hesitate for a second. She’d probably quote some damn philosopher she loves - Sophocles or whoever - about how there’s more to this than just sticking to the rules. She’d remind us that the law isn’t the only thing that matters, that there’s a fine line between what’s legal and what’s just.”

Peter’s voice cracked slightly, his gaze searching Hotch’s for any flicker of understanding. “She’d be talking about the balance between law and justice, that sometimes what’s right and what’s legal are not the same thing. And you know she’d be right, Hotch. We’re not just here to enforce rules. We’re here to protect people. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you’ve lost sight of why we’re doing this in the first place.”

Hotch felt something inside him twitch at Peter’s words, a sharp, painful pull that he couldn’t ignore. The truth of what Peter was saying sliced through his defenses like a scalpel, precise and unyielding. It was as if Peter’s voice had reached into the guarded, unspoken places of his mind, exposing the doubts he worked so hard to bury. He could almost hear your voice echoing in his head, clear and insistent, the way it always was when you spoke up during team meetings.

You had a way of looking at cases that was different from anyone else, this deep, almost philosophical curiosity that refused to settle for the easy answers. You’d sit there, arms crossed, eyes locked in that thoughtful gaze, and when you spoke, you’d often pose questions that hung in the air, challenging every assumption. You never just saw suspects and victims; you saw people - complex, flawed, human. You’d remind them all that beyond the evidence, beyond the profiles, there were lives and stories that couldn’t be reduced to simple binaries of right and wrong.

Hotch could almost picture you now, leaning forward in your seat, the intensity in your eyes as you dissected every aspect of the case. You were never satisfied with just the black-and-white - you thrived in the gray, constantly urging the team to see beyond the rigid lines of the law. At how you’d quote philosophers, pull wisdom from literature, history, anything to make your point. It wasn’t about showing off. it was about challenging everyone, especially him, to rethink their approach. You’d often remind him that justice wasn’t just about following rules, it was about finding the truth that lay hidden beneath the surface, about doing what was right, even when it wasn’t easy.

Peter’s words hit Hotch hard because they echoed what you would’ve said, what you always said. It was that relentless pursuit of justice, that constant push to go beyond the status quo, that made you such an irreplaceable part of the team. And right now, it was tearing Hotch apart, knowing that you weren’t there to challenge him, to remind him of the bigger picture, to make him question the very things that had once felt so certain.

Peter noticed the crack in Hotch’s demeanor, and he pressed on, his voice softer now but no less intense. “But none of that matters if she doesn’t make it out alive, does it? You can stand here all day talking about rules and duty, but if she’s gone, who’s going to remind us of the difference? The dead can’t debate law and ethics, Hotch. Only the living can do that.”

Hotch’s breath caught in his throat, Peter’s words hitting him with a force that felt physical, like a punch to the gut. He could feel the fear that had been clawing at his insides since the moment he realized you were in danger, the fear he had been trying so desperately to keep at bay. The fear of losing you - of never getting the chance to understand what this thing between you could be, of failing to protect the one person who had managed to breach the walls he’d spent years building.

“You think I don’t know that?” Hotch’s voice broke, his control slipping for just a moment. “You think I don’t feel it? But it’s not just about what we want, it’s about what we have to do. You want to protect her, and so do I. But again, this isn’t just about saving her. It’s about stopping him. It’s about making sure no one else gets hurt because we let our guard down.”

Peter’s gaze softened, but his frustration remained, an unresolved tension simmering between them. “Maybe you’re right, Hotch. Maybe we have to think about everyone. But that doesn’t mean you’re not scared. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you don’t care. So stop pretending you’re above it all, because you’re not. You’re just as terrified as the rest of us.”

Hotch looked away, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he tried to regain his composure. Peter was right, he was terrified, but not just for you. He was terrified of what it would mean if he let this get personal, if he let himself care too much and it all fell apart. But as they hurtled toward Riverhead, the truth of Peter’s words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not now. But the fear, the aching fear that he was making the wrong call, that he was letting his own walls cost him something irreplaceable, was a battle he was losing with every mile closer they got to you.

And in the silence that followed, the weight of those unspoken fears hung heavy between them, a fragile truce bound only by their shared desperation to protect you, no matter the cost.

You had finally arrived at Riverhead.

The cemetery was quiet, shrouded in a stillness that felt heavy with the weight of unspoken memories. Each step toward your father’s grave felt deliberate, slow, as if every movement pulled at something deep within you that you hadn’t touched in years. You hadn’t been here since the funeral, and the sight of his name etched into the stone brought a fresh wave of emotions you weren’t prepared for: grief, anger, regret, all tangled up in the memories you had tried to bury.

You knelt beside his grave, your fingers trembling slightly as you placed a single orchid on the cold, gray headstone, the delicate petals were a sharp contrast to the starkness of the granite. Orchids had always reminded you of the first case you ever worked on at the BAU - a case that had tested every part of you, that had made you realize what it truly meant to carry the weight of other people’s pain. The purple flower was a fitting tribute, an unspoken apology for not being there when he had needed you most, for choosing a path that had pulled you away from his final moments.

You traced the letters of his name, feeling the grooves under your fingertips, and memories of the past surged forward, unbidden. You thought back to the day you told your parents you wanted to become a profiler - a day that, despite all the tension that often simmered between you, had stood out as one of the rare moments of connection between you and your father.

It had been a rainy Sunday afternoon, the kind that kept everyone indoors and made the house feel smaller, the air thick with the unspoken tensions that seemed to linger in every corner. You had been pacing your bedroom, rehearsing the words over and over in front of your mirror, heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and dread. Telling them that you wanted to be a profiler felt like exposing a piece of yourself that you had kept hidden, especially from them.

You finally gathered the courage, walking down the stairs with resolve. Your father was at the dining table, surrounded by stacks of paperwork, his glasses perched on his nose as he scribbled notes on a report.

He was always working, always lost in something that seemed more important than anything happening in the room. It was his way: work was sacred, an escape, and a duty that defined him. You often resented it, the way he would get so caught up that he’d miss dinners, birthdays, the small moments that you had yearned for as a child. But there were also times when you admired his dedication, his unspoken belief that what he was doing mattered.

Your mother was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with an efficiency that matched her exacting nature. She always seemed to be in motion, always doing, rarely resting. She was the professor, the academic who had spent her life studying the human mind, dissecting theories, and teaching students who idolized her. To her, intellect was the highest form of achievement, and anything less was a waste of potential.

You stood in the doorway, feeling the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in your chest, but you pushed forward, clearing your throat to catch their attention. “Mom, Dad… I need to talk to you about something.”

Your father glanced up first, pulling his glasses off and setting them on the table with a raised brow, his expression curious but calm. “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, glancing between them, searching for the right words. “I’ve decided what I want to do after graduation. I… I want to be a profiler. I want to join the FBI.”

The room fell silent, the only sound the steady chop of your mother’s knife against the cutting board. Your father’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t speak right away, just watched you, his gaze heavy with a mix of concern and something you couldn’t quite name. Your mother, however, set her knife down sharply, her brow furrowing as she turned to face you.

“A profiler?” she repeated, the disbelief clear in her voice. “Y/N, do you have any idea what that entails? You’re talking about diving into the minds of criminals, putting yourself in danger every day. This isn’t some classroom exercise, this is real life.”

You braced yourself, taking a deep breath. “I know what it means, Mom. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I don’t just want to study the human mind, I want to understand what happens when it breaks. I want to make a difference, to stop people from getting hurt.”

Your father remained quiet, but his gaze never left yours, absorbing every word. There was something in his eyes that told you he was listening, that he understood the weight of what you were saying.

“Do you really understand what you’re asking for?” your mother continued, her voice laced with frustration. “You’re brilliant, Y/N. You have so much potential. You could do anything: be a researcher, a professor. You’d be safe, you’d be respected. Why throw all that away to chase criminals?”

It stung, but you had expected her reaction. For as long as you could remember, your mother had pushed you toward her path, believing that academia was where you belonged. But as much as you respected her work, it had never felt right for you.

The endless theories, the dissection of literature studies in sterile classrooms, it all felt too detached, too far removed from the gritty reality of the world you wanted to understand. You wanted to do more than just read about what broke people; you wanted to see it, to confront it, to fight against it.

“I don’t want to be safe, Mom,” you said, your voice firmer now, carrying the weight of all the arguments you’d been rehearsing for months. “I want to be out there. I want to see the truth of what people can become, the good and the bad. I can’t just sit back and write papers about it.”

Your mother’s mouth tightened, the disappointment etched in her features, but your father leaned back in his chair, studying you with a quiet intensity. He cleared his throat, and you braced yourself for the inevitable disapproval. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low, contemplative, carrying the weight of his own unspoken struggles.

“If this is really what you want,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care, “then you have my support.” He paused, glancing at your mother before returning his focus to you. “Work is… sacred. It’s a calling, not just a job. I know I haven’t always been there, and I know you’ve seen the toll it can take. But I also know the satisfaction that comes from doing something that matters, something you believe in.”

Your heart swelled, caught off guard by the unexpected warmth in his words. It was one of the few times you’d felt truly seen by him, and the memory of that moment, of his quiet nod of approval, had stayed with you ever since.

Your mother turned away, picking up the knife and resuming her chopping, her movements more forceful now. “Just don’t come crying to me when it all falls apart,” she muttered, the bitterness barely hidden in her tone. “There’s no glory in risking your life. There’s no reward for choosing danger over reason.”

But you held on to your father’s words, his silent validation, and in that moment, it had been enough. Even if he wasn’t always present, even if his own work often kept him away, he had understood the drive that pulled you toward the unknown, the need to carve your own path, even if it led you away from everything they had envisioned for you.

As you stood at his grave now, the weight of that decision felt heavier than ever. You had chosen this life, knowing full well the risks, knowing the sacrifices that would come with it. And yet, in this quiet moment, you couldn’t help but wonder if he would still be proud, if he would still see the value in the path you had chosen.

You stood up, brushing the dirt from your knees, feeling the rough earth cling stubbornly to your clothes. As you turned to leave, something caught your eye near the cemetery entrance: a line of sleek, black SUVs parked in formation.

Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized the unmistakable outlines of the BAU vehicles, their dark, imposing presence impossible to miss. But what truly made your breath hitch was the sight of Hotch. Even from this distance, you recognized him instantly, not by his face, but by his unmistakable posture, the way he stood with that rigid, commanding presence, his stance was familiar, almost comforting in its certainty, a figure you’d know anywhere, even among a crowd.

It was only after a moment that your gaze shifted and you noticed Peter beside him, standing just as tensely, their expressions hard and urgent. Hotch’s sharp, focused demeanor contrasted with Peter’s more animated stance, but there was no mistaking the tension that hung between them, like a taut wire ready to snap.

Despite the distance, you could feel the weight of their conversation, the urgency that radiated from them both, and it made your pulse quicken. You hesitated, watching them, knowing that whatever they were discussing, it was serious, and you were about to be pulled right into the heart of it.

A surge of fear shot through you as you rushed toward them, your heart pounding with a mix of dread and confusion. As you got closer, you could see the strain etched across Hotch’s face, the urgency in his eyes that told you something was terribly wrong.

“Hotch?” you called out, breathless, searching his expression for answers. “What’s going on?”

Hotch turned to you, his eyes meeting yours, and for a split second, you saw the raw fear that he usually kept buried deep within. His jaw tightened, the weight of everything he couldn’t say hanging heavily between you, and you knew, whatever this was, it was bigger than any case you had ever faced.

Hotch’s normally composed demeanor was strained, his eyes revealing the fear he had been fighting to suppress all day. Peter, usually quick with a grin, looked torn between anger and the overwhelming relief of seeing you safe.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, breathless from both the sudden sprint and the weight of dread that settled in your chest. “Why are you here in Riverhead?”

Hotch exchanged a quick glance with Peter, an unspoken conversation passing between them before he turned back to you, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “The unsub’s been leaving clues at each crime scene, riddles hinting at his next target. The latest message… it mentioned Riverhead.” He paused, the gravity of his words sinking in, his gaze unwavering. “We think he’s planning his next attack here.”

Your stomach dropped, the weight of his revelation hitting you like a physical blow. The peaceful cemetery, a place you had come to seek closure and quiet, suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable, and fraught with danger. You looked around, the once comforting silence now suffocating as you imagined the unsub watching, waiting. You turned back to Hotch, trying to make sense of the layers of fear and determination that flickered across his face, unspoken and raw.

Peter, attempting to cut through the tension that gripped you all, forced a smile, though his voice was tight with the day’s unrelenting strain. “Luckily, Hotch cracked the code before anything happened. Sharp as ever, saved us all a lot of grief.”

You barely registered Peter’s words, his voice a distant murmur against the roar of your own thoughts. Guilt and self-reproach surged within you, crashing over like relentless waves. You were supposed to be better than this: your instincts, your training, everything you had learned should have protected you. But you had been caught off guard, blindsided by a danger that crept too close, too fast. Your eyes flicked back to the gravestones, their cold, silent presence now bearing witness to your vulnerability, each one a haunting reminder of how close you’d come.

Hotch, always attuned to the unspoken, stepped closer, sensing the spiral of self-doubt threatening to consume you. His hand found your shoulder, his touch firm and grounding, pulling you back from the edge of your own unraveling. The contact was startling at first, his touch warmer and steadier than you expected, cutting through the noise in your head like a lifeline.

It was a simple gesture, but it felt like an anchor in the storm, grounding you when everything else seemed to be slipping away. Hotch's touch was rare, almost unheard of, he was always so composed with his steady presence always keeping his distance, preferring words over gestures. But this, the solid weight of his hand on your shoulder, meant more than he could ever say.

His touch was warm, steady, a silent assurance that seeped past your defenses. It wasn’t just a comforting squeeze; it was Hotch’s way of saying what he rarely ever said aloud: I’ve got you. You’re safe. We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.

The unspoken promise behind that touch cut through the chaos and fear, wrapping around you like a shield against the overwhelming feeling of guilt and self-doubt. It was as if he was lending you his strength, even for just a heartbeat, and in that moment, it was enough to keep you from completely falling apart.

“We’ve alerted local law enforcement,” Hotch said, his voice lower, more gentle now, the usual edge softened as if he was speaking directly to the turmoil inside you. “They’re securing the area. The unsub’s been targeting public spaces to create fear and chaos, but we won’t let him succeed. Not here, not today.” His words were calm, steady, the kind of reassurance that cut through the panic clawing at your chest.

You nodded, the knot in your throat tightening painfully as you fought to swallow the rising wave of emotion. The breath you drew felt unsteady, like the first real one you’d managed in minutes, but even as you tried to gather yourself, the stark reality of how close you’d come to danger clung to you, gnawing at the edges of your composure.

Hotch’s hand stayed firm on your shoulder, grounding you in a way that was both comforting and unnerving. It was a constant, quiet reminder of your vulnerability, a presence that made it impossible to hide from the fear you so often buried deep.

Desperate to shift the mood, you forced a strained smile, hoping to lighten the heaviness in the air. “Since we’re all here… how about we grab dinner?” you suggested, your voice wavering but hopeful. “There’s this local spot I used to go to when I was a kid. It’s nothing fancy, just this cozy little place, but it’s familiar, and… I could really use some company that feels like home right now.”

Hotch’s hand lingered for a moment longer, as if he was reluctant to let go, his touch a silent reassurance that even in your most vulnerable moments, he was right there with you. The smallest flicker of understanding passed between you, unspoken but felt deeply, as if he knew exactly why you needed this, why you needed them.

Peter’s grin was immediate, though it was tinged with the lingering shadows of what could have been. He clapped his hands together, trying to inject some much-needed levity into the moment. “Now you’re speaking my language. Food, friends, and hopefully a strong drink or two. What do you say, Hotch?”

Hotch hesitated, his mind still half-entangled in the day’s events and the potential dangers that loomed. But then he looked at you, really looked - saw the exhaustion etched into your features, the traces of pain you’d been carrying since your father’s grave. He knew this wasn’t just about a meal; it was about finding a moment of respite, about reconnecting when the job tore so much away.

“I’ll join you,” Hotch said quietly, his voice softer than you’d expected. “But I’ll catch up in a bit. There’s something I need to take care of first.”

You watched him turn back toward the cemetery, his figure fading into the sea of gravestones. It wasn’t like Hotch to delay; he was always so determined, so single-minded when it came to the job. But you sensed this wasn’t just about duty, it was about finding his own moment of stillness in a day that had been anything but.

Peter placed a comforting hand on your back, his touch gentle and familiar, guiding you toward the restaurant with an ease that belied the day’s tension. The small, local eatery was exactly as you remembered: warm, inviting, with the kind of worn wooden tables that made you feel instantly at home. The faint hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows, all of it wrapped around you like a comforting embrace.

Rossi and Gideon joined soon after, settling in with the kind of camaraderie that came only from years of shared battles and late-night stakeouts. There was a tiredness in all of you, a bone-deep fatigue that only people in your line of work truly understood, but for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t just about the job - it was about being together, about finding solace in each other’s presence.

Rossi leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling with a blend of mischief and genuine curiosity. “So, thesis, antithesis, synthesis,” he mused, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement. “Come on, kid. Educate us. What’s that all about in these weird Hegelian stuff you always talk about?”

You chuckled softly, grateful for the distraction. “It’s about the constant cycle of conflict and resolution. The synthesis - the so-called solution - doesn’t end the cycle; it just becomes the new thesis. Life is always evolving, always challenging us to adapt. Every resolution leads to a new conflict, a new question. It’s never really over.”

Rossi nodded thoughtfully, his gaze flicking between you and the empty seat that Hotch had yet to fill. “Sounds like something we could all stand to remember,” he said, his tone softer now, more reflective.

Meanwhile, back at the cemetery, Hotch stood alone in front of your father’s grave, the silence hanging heavy and profound. The orchid you had placed there was still fresh, its vibrant petals striking against the cold, unyielding stone.

Hotch understood the significance of that flower, the way it linked back to the very first case you’d ever worked at the BAU, the first time your paths had crossed.

It was the unsub’s calling card, a chilling detail that had haunted the case and marked the start of your journey in this unforgiving world. It was the first time he saw you not just as another agent but as someone uniquely brilliant, fiercely determined, and carrying a burden that ran deeper than anyone could have guessed.

Hotch knelt slowly, the memories of that first meeting mingling with the present, a bittersweet reminder of how far you both had come. He thought of you standing in that briefing room, so composed and meticulous, always immaculate in your appearance.

Your hair, always perfectly straightened, framing your face in a precise way that left nothing to chance. You wore black almost every day, the monochrome only broken by subtle variations in texture: sleek, tailored fabrics that gave the faintest hint of depth but no room for distraction.

He knew it wasn’t just a preference; it was armor, a way to command respect in a field that often doubted you because of your youth. On days when you felt a little lighter, a little braver, you’d occasionally allow yourself the small rebellion of a white shirt, a glimpse of something softer beneath the carefully crafted exterior.

He remembered noticing the deliberate choices you made, how you often wore masculine, tailored suits, sometimes even a three-piece, to project authority and mask the youth that others might use against you.

You were always striving to appear older, tougher, less vulnerable, less feminine, crafting an image that demanded to be taken seriously. And while it worked on most, Hotch never needed the sharp suits, the perfectly placed hair, or the carefully chosen colors to see your worth.

From the beginning, he had valued your insights, your sharp mind, and your relentless drive. He had never looked down on you, never needed you to prove yourself in ways that others did. He saw past the façade to the strength and vulnerability beneath, and he respected you all the more for it.

As he placed the small replica of the Guggenheim Museum beside the orchid, the gesture felt heavy with meaning - a tribute not only to your father but also to the history you both carried.

It was an offering of understanding, a quiet acknowledgment of everything unsaid between you. As Hotch lingered by the grave, he couldn’t help but think of the first day he met you, how determined you were to make your mark, and how, even then, he had been grateful for your presence. You challenged him in ways that reminded him of why he had started this journey, refusing to let the darkness win.

For a moment, Hotch allowed himself to feel it all: the gratitude for having met you, the fear of losing those he cared about, and the faint, fragile hope that maybe, he could find a way to let someone in without losing himself completely. As he stood there, surrounded by the quiet of the cemetery, he found a flicker of peace, a rare, delicate solace that, for the first time in years, made him feel less alone.

When Hotch finally made his way to the restaurant, the sight that greeted him was a balm to his weary soul. You were seated at the table, laughing at something Peter had said, your eyes sparkling with a light that had been missing all day. Rossi and Gideon were leaning back, more at ease than he had seen them in a long time, their expressions softened in a way that only moments like this could bring out - rare and fleeting for men who had spent their lives chasing shadows. It was a simple scene, but it was enough.

It was a reminder of why Hotch fought so hard, why he kept pushing forward, even when the weight of his responsibilities felt like too much to bear.

Without hesitation, Hotch took the seat directly across from you, mirroring the way your desks were always arranged back at the office.

It was deliberate, instinctual - a configuration that felt as natural as breathing. There was comfort in this alignment, in the way his eyes always found yours first, no matter how hectic the day had been. It wasn’t just about proximity; it was about connection.

Sitting across from you allowed him to see you fully, to catch those fleeting, unguarded moments when the professional masks slipped, and the real you shone through.

It was the angle that felt right, where he could read the subtle shifts in your expression, the small smiles that hinted at unspoken thoughts. It was where he could feel the bond between you most acutely, a silent acknowledgment of the trust and understanding that had grown over time.

You looked up as Hotch sat down, your gaze meeting his with a warmth that said more than words ever could. In that moment, the noise of the restaurant faded away, leaving only the quiet understanding that had always existed between you.

It was as if the world had shrunk to just the two of you, anchored by the familiar rhythm of shared space, the unspoken promises that bound you together. You had always understood each other in ways that transcended words - both driven by the same relentless need for justice, both carrying the weight of lives you couldn’t always save.

“I thought you’d never come, partner,” you greeted him, your voice carrying a mix of relief and something deeper, something that spoke to how much his presence truly mattered. It wasn’t just relief, it was comfort, knowing that he was here, that he always showed up, no matter what.

Hotch’s response was immediate, his voice softened with sincerity. “How could I miss this?”

The words were simple but carried so much more meaning. It wasn’t just a casual remark, not from him. It felt like a reaffirmation of something deeper, a silent promise that went beyond tonight.

It was a declaration that he was there, not just for this moment, but always. His presence was grounding, steady, the kind of anchor you hadn’t realized you needed until it was there.

As the night went on, you couldn’t help but reflect on how everything had unfolded - especially the train journey that had brought you to this point.

Or how the out-of-the-blue conversation with Rossi about Hegel’s thesis, antithesis, and synthesis now felt almost fated, as though the universe had nudged him to ask you once again – to make you acknowledge the truth you kept hidden within you.

Maybe the irony was the point: Hegel’s idea of the synthesis, the resolution that comes from the collision of opposing forces, was exactly where you found yourself.

The journey to self-awareness wasn’t linear; it was filled with contradictions, moments of doubt, and unexpected realizations.

Every step you had taken, every case, every sleepless night, now made sense, as if you had reached a vantage point from which you could see it all clearly for the first time.

It was like standing on the top of a mountain after a long, hard climb, finally able to look back at the winding path that had led you here.

And standing at that vantage point, you could see why you had been hesitant about the date with Peter, why something in you had resisted moving forward with him. It wasn’t because you didn’t care about him - it was because your heart had already chosen someone else.

The truth settled in gently, like a quiet revelation you had always known but hadn’t fully accepted until now.

It was Hotch.

It had always been Hotch.

The connection between you, the understanding, the trust that went deeper than words, it was more than just friendship or partnership.

You had admired him, respected him, but now you could see it for what it really was.

The reason you had hesitated, the reason you hadn’t been eager for anything else, was because the person you truly wanted was sitting right across from you.

You had a crush on Aaron Hotchner.

●

Extras: here are some pics of the Guggenheim Museum by Frank Lloyd Wright! It inspired me to write the case you read in "Thesis" and Aaron Hotchner to show his love support to Y/N in this chapter.

5 - Antithesis

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: angst, slowest burn in history

Summary: The BAU tackles a complex case involving international victims and cryptic messages. Hotch’s growing insecurity intensifies as an agent returns from an undercover operation, revealing his close past with you. At the hotel, you and Hotch have a heated argument, exposing hidden vulnerabilities and unspoken boundaries between you two. Hotch struggles with his feelings of being just a replacement and questions his connection with you. Rossi confronts Hotch, encouraging him to be the partner you truly need.

Warnings: Usual CM case stuff, grooming (it feels to me, at least. To someone wouldn’t but idc), angst

Word Count: 6.1k

Dado's Corner: the dreaded chapter, I've been working on it for a week and still I'm not completely satisfied yet. I had to use another OC character, I'm sorry if you're bothered with that, but even if I hate him with all my heart he will be helpful in the future to narrate Y/N's backstory. If this broke your heart, synthesis might even more

previous part ; masterlist

Hotch’s gaze dropped, the weight of your accusations settling on him. “I thought that’s what was best,” he murmured, the admission almost painful. “I thought… I thought it was enough.”

●

It was yet another early morning at the BAU, and as usual, you walked into the office to find Hotch already at his desk, a cup of black coffee in hand, looking as composed and sharp as ever. No matter how early you tried to get in, Hotch always seemed to be one step ahead and especially today, you couldn’t help but comment on it.

“You know, Hotch, that’s 76 coffees you owe me now,” you said, dropping your bag on your chair and crossing your arms, pretending to be stern. “Maybe it’s time to rethink your strategy. You could try showing up late, just once. Shake things up.”

Hotch glanced up, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I could, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, I have to keep beating you just to remind you of your constant failure.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the side of his desk. “Wow, Hotch, who knew you were this petty? I bet you’d stay up all night just to make sure you’d beat me here.”

He chuckled softly, not denying it. “Well, someone has to keep you grounded. Can’t have you thinking you’re invincible, partner.”

In the past couple of months, the term “Partner” had become a running joke between you two. Whether by design or coincidence, Gideon and Rossi kept pairing you together on cases, and even when they didn’t, you’d find yourselves seeking each other’s opinions anyway – you were desk mates after all, it was impossible not to rely on each other’s expertise. Yet the nickname stuck, a testimony that had made working together more natural than either of you could have ever predicted.

Your familiarity with Hotch’s desk arrangement had grown, too. You knew his precise system of organizing case files, the way he stacked them according to urgency, but today, something was different. As you glanced at his desk, your brows furrowed in confusion: the stack of case files was unusually tall, casting an odd shadow that didn’t quite match its usual shape. It looked as if something bulky was hiding underneath.

“Hotch, what’s with the fortress of case files?” you asked, pointing at the strange shadow. “Are you hiding something under there?”

Hotch hesitated for a moment, as if he didn’t expect to be caught in the act. With a slight, amused shrug, he grabbed the files and lifted them off the hidden unknown object – or the unob - revealing a thick book on architecture history.

You raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “A World History of Architecture?! Didn’t take you for the type, I’m surprised.”

Hotch looked down at the book, his expression a mix of embarrassment and pride. “I picked it up after the Frank Lloyd Wright case,” he admitted, almost shyly. “That night we spent going over his designs at the library, I don’t know why but something about it stuck. I guess I wanted to know more. So I’ve been reading this during my ‘waiting for you to show up’ time.”

You smirked, leaning in to examine the book. “SSA Aaron Hotchner, secretly an architecture buff. Who would’ve thought? Next thing I know, you’ll leave the Bureau and go to architecture school, you would still owe me 76 coffees though.”

He scoffed playfully, closing the book and setting it aside. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to go that far. But it’s been... nice. You know - learning something just because I want to, not because I have to.”

You gave him a teasing nudge. “Hey, don’t underestimate yourself, partner - maybe one day you’ll be the next Frank Lloyd Wright of the FBI. Designing prisons, interrogation rooms, you name it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ll stick to profiling, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Just as you were about to tell him your kitchen needed some renovation – so he could start with something easy – an unexpected way-too-familiar voice interrupted from behind.

“Y/N!”

You turned around, and there was SSA Peter Rogers - one of your closest friends you ever had since you were fifteen - standing in the bullpen with his easy smile and that overly confident stance of his, just as you remembered him.

“Pete!” you exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you rushed to hug him, the familiar warmth on your body you missed so much made you hold on to him a little longer. “What are you doing back so soon? I thought you were still overseas.”

Peter shrugged with a modest grin. “Operation wrapped up early. Figured I’d come back and see what kind of trouble you’ve been causing around here.”. That smile of his had the ability not to change one bit since the first time you saw each other, causing you to travel six years back in time.

▪︎

It was the first day of your mother’s Italian Literature class at the university. You were just fifteen, juggling between high school and university courses, your hunger for knowledge insatiable as a shield from what was daily happening between the walls of your own house. You always sat in the front row, scribbling notes furiously, letting your brain disconnect from reality in order to lose yourself in the lyrical beauty of Leopardi’s poetry.

Peter had been sitting a few rows back, finishing his degree in linguistics. He’d noticed you immediately, you were quite easy to spot as you were visibly way too young to sit in that room – and if it wasn’t enough, you made sure to ask at least a question to the professor, at least once in the lesson, always being deeply engaged with the material. Hence why after that particular class, he approached you with curiosity.

“Hey, you’re not the typical student, are you?” Peter asked, leaning against the desk beside you. “You’re taking university classes while still in high school? That’s quite impressive.”

You looked up, a little taken aback by his easy confidence but not put off. “Yeah, I’m kind of…double-booked,” you replied with a shy smile. “I just really love literature. My mom’s a professor here, so she lets me sit in when I can.”

Peter nodded, intrigued. “I’m Peter, by the way. Linguistics major. So you must be some kind of prodigy, huh?”

You laughed. “No, not a prodigy. Just…curious. I love philosophy, languages, psychology, all of it.”

The two of you clicked instantly, and since that encounter both of you would always exchange notes, in order to make sure none of you ever lost a word said in the class. Peter became a sort of unofficial mentor, “Have you ever thought about profiling? It’s all about understanding people, their languages, their motives. With your skills, you’d be amazing at it.” He asked one day after class.

That was the very day you learnt what a profiler was.

▪︎

Peter greeted Hotch with the same familiarity. “Hotch! Good to see you again, man. I missed having my desk buddy around.”

Hotch stood up, shaking Peter’s hand with a polite but reserved smile. “Welcome back, Peter. I heard about the undercover operation. You handled it exceptionally well, no one expected for you to come back so soon.”

Peter shrugged, his usual modesty in place. “Thanks, Hotch. It was a tough one, but we got the job done.” He immediately turned his gaze towards you “Y/N, who knew you would have stolen my desk too”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, glancing at the two of you briefly. That “too” echoed in his mind, the sudden realization just hit that there was more history between you and Peter than he’d previously understood, founding himself feeling like an outsider.

Peter, ever observant, caught the flicker of something in Hotch’s expression. “So you know Y/N? She’s one hell of a smart cookie,” he said, looking between you and Hotch with a teasing smile.

You rolled your eyes playfully, brushing off the compliment. “Oh, please Pete let’s not start with this just yet”

Peter laughed, leaning closer to Hotch as if about to reveal a secret. “Did she ever tell you she can sing? Like, really sing. She’s incredible. I’ve heard her at a few college events back in the day.”

Hotch looked at you, surprised, taking in this new piece of your past. “No, she never mentioned that.

You felt your cheeks heat up, flustered by Peter’s unexpected praise – especially because you were both standing in your workplace. “That’s because it’s not important,” you said, trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “Besides, Peter’s just exaggerating. I’ve only been in the field twice with Hotch anyway, so there’s not that much to tell, most of my work has been here at the office.”

▪︎

A year ago, you attended a conference at the FBI Academy, and Peter was there as a speaker, discussing linguistic analysis in criminal profiling. It was the first time you’d seen each other in years, and the connection was immediate, even stronger than your days together at the university.

‘’Y/N is that really you?! You’ve grown so much you’re making me feel kind of old” Little did you knew that you would spend the entire evening catching up, sharing stories of your separate journeys still having in common your mutual love for the complexities of language and behavior.

“You’re exactly where you’re meant to be,” Peter told you as the two of you sat at a table, away from the noise of the main event. “I knew it from the moment I met you. You’ve got the mind for this work.”

You’d been touched by his confidence in you, feeling like the teenage girl he’d mentored all over again. “Thanks, Pete. But you’ve always been the one pushing me forward, I don’t know if I’d have chosen this path without your nudging.”

Peter’s smile was genuine, warm. “You would’ve found your way, Y/N. You always do.”

▪︎

The more Hotch listened to the two of you catching up, the more he felt that gap, as if Peter was pulling you back into a shared history that he hadn’t been part of.

Peter grinned, nudging you playfully. “Always aiming for perfection, huh?

You tried to brush it off, cheeks warming under their combined scrutiny. “Oh, please. That was a long time ago.”

Peter shrugged, turning back to Hotch. “But she hasn’t changed. I can see it in your eyes, you know?! Same drive, same brilliance. So, how’s she been doing? What cases has she solved?”

Hotch took a moment, his expression unreadable as he considered Peter’s question. “She’s been doing great,” Hotch said finally, his voice measured. “We’ve worked on a few tough cases together, a few high-profile cases. She’s brilliant, as you know, we’ve had our hands full. But it’s good to have you back - we can always use the extra help”

Peter nodded, his enthusiasm palpable. “Looking forward to jumping back in”

Before anyone could say more, Rossi approached, cutting through the atmosphere with his usual flair. “Well, looks like we’ve got our team for the day. Gideon’s out, so Peter, you’re coming with us. We’ve got a complicated case ahead, and I’d rather have all hands-on deck, we might be in desperate be of two linguists on this one”

Peter’s eyes flicked to you, then to Hotch, his smile never wavering. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The team’s arrival at the police station was met with a wave of unease that hung heavy in the air. The case they were stepping into was far from simple. Multiple international tourists had been brutally murdered, each crime scene marked by cryptic messages in different languages. This was a killer who thrived on complexity, and with every new clue, the puzzle seemed to grow more intricate.

Rossi led the team inside with his usual calm authority, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced ease of someone who had seen too many crime scenes in his career. Peter and Hotch moved in tandem, flanking him on either side as they entered the station. The moment they stepped inside, the chaos enveloped them like a wave crashing on the shore.

The police station was a flurry of frantic movement and tension. Officers darted between desks, paperwork scattered in their wake, and phones rang incessantly, demanding attention that no one seemed able to fully give. The space, clearly not designed to handle the intensity of a high-profile investigation, felt claustrophobic and stifling, the walls closing in under the pressure of a case spiraling beyond control.

The air was thick, not just with the stress that permeated the station but with the unmistakable grit of dust being churned by the old, neglected air conditioning unit overhead, blowing more dirt than relief, only adding to the oppressive atmosphere. Everyone was on edge, their nerves stretched thin by the weight of a situation they were ill-equipped to handle. Rossi could almost taste the desperation in the room, a palpable sense of urgency that clung to every officer as they hustled to keep up with demands they were never trained to meet.

Rossi exchanged a knowing look with Hotch, both of them wordlessly acknowledging the uphill battle they were about to face - not just against the unsub but against the limitations of a team clearly overwhelmed.

The lead detective, a grizzled man with a permanent scowl, approached Rossi, barely acknowledging the rest of the team. “Agent Rossi, we appreciate the Bureau’s help, but I hope you realize this is a time-sensitive situation. We’ve got international press breathing down our necks, and the mayor’s about ready to pull his hair out.”

Rossi nodded calmly, his authoritative presence immediately establishing control. “We’re here to provide a profile and assist in any way we can. What can you tell us about the latest victim?”

The detective began briefing but his eyes kept darting towards you, flickering with something between doubt and annoyance. Finally, he couldn’t hold back any longer. “I’m sorry, but are you sure you brought the right team? She looks like she should be at a college lecture, not a crime scene.”

The comment hit like a slap, and you felt the familiar burn of frustration flare up. You’d been here before, countless times, actually. You were used to your youthful appearance and academic background drawing skepticism, but that still didn’t make it any easier to swallow, especially in that particular case. Before you could respond, Peter jumped in, his voice carrying a mix of defense and pride.

“Detective, she’s not just some college student. Y/N’s one of the best linguists you’ll ever meet, and she’s cracked more complex cases than most agents twice her age. I’d trust her instincts over anyone else’s, any day.”

There was a quiet confidence in Peter’s words that seemed to force the detective to take a second look, though his skepticism remained stubbornly in place. Hotch, noticing the tension, stepped forward, his expression firm. “Agent Y/L/N’s skills are exactly what we need for this case. If anyone can figure out what the unsub is communicating, it’s her.”

The detective hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “Fine, but we don’t have time for trial and error. Every minute we waste is another chance for him to strike again.”

“We’re all already aware of this, Detective. I’m sure you know that making my work any more difficult than it already is isn’t going to benefit any of us.” You finally had the courage to bite back.

As you settled into the briefing room, you felt Peter’s hand gently squeeze your shoulder, a silent but reassuring gesture as he said, “Don’t let it get to you.” You glanced at him, grateful for his unwavering support, and gave a small, determined smile in return. You were here to do a job, and you weren’t going to let some old-school cop’s doubts throw you off your game.

Once inside, the team gathered around the evidence board, covered in photos, maps, and printed copies of the unsub’s cryptic messages. Hotch and Rossi started dissecting the behavioral aspects, but your eyes were immediately drawn to the linguistic patterns.

Peter set up next to you, and the two of you fell into an easy rhythm, just like old times. “This one’s in German,” Peter pointed out, highlighting one of the messages. “It’s a proverb that loosely translates to ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ but it’s the context that’s strange. He’s placing blame close to home.”

You nodded, your mind already racing through the implications. “And this one in French, ‘Nul n’est prophète en son pays’ - ‘No one is a prophet in their own land.’ He’s building a narrative where he’s the misunderstood hero, vilifying his victims in the process.”

Hotch watched from the corner of his eye, noting the seamless back-and-forth between you and Peter. It was clear that you two shared a deep understanding of each other’s thought processes, effortlessly piecing together the unsub’s motives and the cultural implications behind each message.

Rossi leaned over to Hotch, his voice low. “They’ve got something, don’t they?”

Hotch nodded, keeping his expression neutral even as a flicker of something uncomfortably familiar passed through him. “Yeah. They do.”

As you and Peter continued to dissect the messages, the detective returned with another dose of skepticism. “So, what’s the point of all this? We know he’s targeting tourists, but what’s the endgame?”

You hesitated, feeling the weight of his judgment holding yourself to punch him in the face, but Peter jumped in, his confidence never wavering. “The messages aren’t just random: they’re statements about identity, belonging, and betrayal. He’s targeting people who represent something he feels threatened by, probably linked to his own experiences.”

The detective was confused by the complexity of the message Peter was trying to communicate but at least he seemed less doubtful. Hotch and Rossi exchanged another look, Peter’s ability to not only support but elevate you was undeniable, and it left a lingering question in Hotch’s mind that he couldn’t quite shake, an unresolved history between you and Peter that was palpable to everyone in the room, even if no one dared to say it aloud. As the team continued to piece together the unsub’s twisted narrative, it became increasingly clear that the linguistic clues were the key to unlocking his motive.

“Here’s the first message,” Peter said, pointing at a wall covered in scrawled Italian text. “‘Chi semina vento, raccoglie tempesta.’ He’s quoting an old Italian proverb. It translates to ‘He who sows the wind shall reap the storm.’ Classic justification tactic. He’s blaming his victims for their own deaths.”

You nodded, running your fingers along the paper. “He’s using cultural proverbs to deflect responsibility. It’s not just about justifying his actions; he’s making a statement that he’s in the right, that the victims somehow deserved this.”

Peter smirked, recalling your sharpness from years ago. “You know, you’ve always had this annoying habit of being right. Remember that time back in your mom’s class? You corrected Professor Ricci about Dante’s theological influences.”

You laughed, half-embarrassed. “Oh, God, don’t remind me. I just couldn’t let it go.”

Peter turned to the others, Rossi didn't throw away his shot. "Remind us, Peter. I'm not going to let an opportunity like this slip from my fingers"

Peter jokingly cleared his throat. “Y/N stopped the guest professor right in the middle of the lecture and said,”

He made sure to pitch his tone up in order to mimic yours “While Dante’s work is often linked to the influence of Saint Augustine, we also need to remember that his beliefs were also shaped by the dominant philosophy of his time: Platonism, especially the Neoplatonists and Plotinus.’ The whole room was stunned, and Professor Ricci just stood there.”

Hotch couldn’t help but smile, picturing a younger version of you challenging a university professor with such confidence. Yet there was something more bubbling up in his blood, this was another glimpse into a part of your life he hadn’t seen, hadn’t known. It made him feel strangely out of the loop, like an outsider looking in.

Peter continued, still caught up in the memory. “You finished him when you also provided proof to support your thesis”

“Of course, how else was I supposed to-“

He immediately cut you off. “Early Christian thinkers adapted Greek philosophical ideas, particularly Plato’s concept of eternal forms from which the material world originated. This was quite convenient for the Christian theologians of that time, indeed this philosophical influence is evident in the biblical phrase - and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.' You had everyone in the room, including the professor, rethinking what they knew about Dante.”

You shrugged modestly, glancing at Hotch, who seemed both amused and thoughtful. “I wasn’t trying to show off. It just… bothered me that no one pointed it out – and because of that my mom forbid me to attend her class for two weeks straight. Pete, I’m still thankful for your notes.”

Hotch chuckled softly, meeting your eyes. “Some things never change.”

The team continued working for hours straight, but the frustration began to mount. Despite your and Peter’s best efforts, the linguistic puzzles refused to crack completely. The police officers were growing visibly impatient, and you could feel their skeptical glances as they hovered around the room.

One officer, who had been particularly dismissive, sneered as he walked by. “So, this is the genius team the FBI sent us? Still no answers?”

The comment hit harder than it should have, and for a moment, you felt the sting of self-doubt. Peter, noticing your silence, shot the officer a glare. “We’re not here to waste time, Detective. We’re here to solve this.”

Peter leaned closer to you, his hands grabbing your shoulders, speaking softly so only you could hear. “Don’t listen to them. We’ll get it, like we always do.”

You nodded, trying to focus on his words rather than the creeping sense of inadequacy. Hotch watched the exchange, noting the way Peter seemed to know exactly how to lift you up when you needed it most. He wanted to say something reassuring himself, but the moment passed, leaving him feeling strangely sidelined.

The hours dragged on, and eventually, the team left the station to get some rest. At the hotel, Rossi and Hotch were assigned to share a room, while you and Peter were given the one next door. As you walked down the hallway, Rossi turned to Hotch with a pointed look.

“You know, Aaron,” Rossi said with a grin, “if I catch you working tonight, we’re gonna have words. You need sleep just as much as the rest of us. I’m serious when I say I’m a light sleeper, so I swear, if you keep me up with that damned desk light, you’re a dead man.”

Hotch gave a tight-lipped smile, appreciating Rossi’s concern – even if he expressed it in his own unique way - although he knew he’d never be able to turn his mind off. “Don’t worry, Dave. I’ll try my best.”

On the other hand, in your room, you and Peter settled in, and immediately surrounded yourselves by case files and coffee cups. You tried to solely focus on the work, but as the night wore on, the conversation drifted, after all it had been over six months since you’d seen each other, and there was a lot to catch up on. Peter leaned back, studying you with an easy smile.

“You’ve changed, Y/N,” he said, his tone light but sincere. “You’re still that perfectionist who can’t let a puzzle go unsolved, but… there’s something different.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “I don’t know about that. I’m just… trying to keep up, I guess.”

Peter reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear in a gesture that was both familiar and affectionate. “You’ve always been better than just keeping up. Don’t forget that.”

You found yourself caught between the comfort of Peter’s presence and the tug of unresolved emotions that you hadn’t quite figured out.

“Let’s go to sleep, shall we? I think we’ve done enough work for today” He winked at you as he placed his hand on the small of your back guiding you towards the bed.

“Oh don’t worry, you should sleep though. I think I might go down the lobby to clear my head for a bit.” You lied to him, but you couldn’t ignore your gut feeling telling you that there was something else you hadn’t considered yet.

Similarly, just across the corridor, the case weighed heavily on Hotch’s mind, and despite Rossi’s threat, he knew he wouldn’t rest until he’d figured out what was missing. Hours passed with Hotch lying in the dark, the puzzle pieces of the case refusing to align, finally, at nearly two in the morning, he couldn’t take it any longer. Careful not to wake Rossi, he grabbed his files and slipped quietly out of the room, making his way to the lobby to continue working.

To his surprise, he found you there too, hunched over a table with notes sprawled out, lost in concentration. You looked up when you heard him approach, unable to hide your surprise.

“Partner,” you said with a grin, noting his rare appearance in his white t-shirt, checkered blue pants pajamas, with the slippers provided by the hotel at his feet. “I’ve got to admit, this is new. Did Rossi finally threaten you into losing the suit?”

Hotch smirked, taking the seat across from you. “He did, actually. But desperate times, right? I didn’t think anyone else would be up.”

You chuckled, enjoying the casualness of the moment despite the late hour. Hotch spread out his files, his brow furrowing as he glanced over them. “I think there’s something we’ve been missing, there’s a pattern in the language choices. It’s not random. He’s escalating with each message.”

You leaned closer, your fingers tracing the messages. “You’re right. It’s chronological. He’s building something: a timeline, like each phrase is a step toward his endgame. It’s not just blame; it’s justification.”

Hotch nodded, grateful for the way your mind seemed to work so fluidly alongside his, especially in the late hours of the night. But as you continued to dissect the sequence, Hotch’s thoughts drifted back to earlier, watching you and Peter work so seamlessly together. The old familiarity, the easy way you bounced ideas off each other, it had been hard to ignore. And now, in the quiet of the night every sensation was amplified, especially the ones he’s been trying to brush off for the entire day, they stung a little more than he wanted to admit.

The ease of the moment was shattered when Hotch suddenly broke the flow of your thoughts with a wry comment. “You know, I’m surprised you’re even here working. I figured you’d be busy... catching up with Peter. He’s been flirting with you nonstop since he came back.”

You froze, your jaw tightening as his words sank in. The casual, almost careless tone hit a nerve, and you could feel a flicker of anger flare up inside you. “What’s that supposed to mean, Hotch?”

Hotch leaned back, crossing his arms, trying to mask the hint of frustration that was seeping through. “Nothing. Just an observation. It’s not like you haven’t been a little distracted since he got back.”

You stared at him, incredulous. The casual arrogance in his words struck a nerve, and before you could stop yourself, the frustration that had been building all day came spilling out. “You really think you know everything about me, don’t you? Just because we work together, you think you’ve got me all figured out.”

Hotch’s expression tightened, caught off guard by the sudden burst of anger. “That’s not—”

“No, let me finish,” you said sharply, your voice steady but laced with a quiet intensity. “You don’t know me, Hotch. You have no idea what I’ve been through or what I’m dealing with. You’ve worked beside me for months, calling me partner, acting like you’ve got me all figured out, but you don’t. You don’t know the first thing about who I am or what’s going on beneath the surface.”

Hotch opened his mouth to respond, but the sting of your words left him speechless. You were relentless, every word cutting through his composure. “You think just because we’ve been working together constantly, you’re entitled to know me? To judge me? But you know what, Hotch? You’re wrong. You don’t know a damn thing.”

Hotch’s jaw clenched, the carefully maintained façade he wore slipping for just a moment. “I’m not judging you,” he said, his voice low but strained. “I’m just trying to figure this out, okay?”

“Figure what out?” you shot back, your frustration boiling over. “The fact that you’ve been constantly analyzing everyone around you while keeping yourself locked away? You think that you’re the only one capable of reading people like an open book? You act like you’re open and honest, but you’re not. You insist on wanting to be called ‘Hotch’ on the job by everyone, and you think I wouldn’t catch onto that? You do that because ‘Aaron’ is too personal and ‘Hotchner’ is too formal. You straddle the line because you’re scared to be either. You’re terrified of being too close to anyone, yet you don’t want to seem too distant. It’s like you don’t even know who you are.”

Hotch stared at you, your words hitting deeper than you knew. You had seen right through him, through the carefully constructed barriers he put up to keep everyone at a manageable distance. He didn’t know how to respond because, for once, someone had called him out on the one thing he feared the most: his own inability to truly connect.

“I keep things professional because it’s easier,” Hotch admitted, his voice tinged with frustration and a hint of vulnerability. “Because it’s safe.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Safe? You call this safe? You’re so busy keeping people out that you don’t even realize how much you’re missing. We’ve been partners at work, sure, but that’s all it’s ever been, right? Professional, compartmentalized, no mess, no feelings. That’s how you want it.”

Hotch’s gaze dropped, the weight of your accusations settling on him. “I thought that’s what was best,” he murmured, the admission almost painful. “I thought… I thought it was enough.”

You sighed, your anger waning but the hurt still fresh. “You don’t have to figure out anything, you said that yourself – I thought - It’s not enough for you Hotch, and not even for me.”

There was a long, heavy silence between you, both of you staring at the scattered papers on the table, as if the answers you sought could be found in the scrawled handwriting and cryptic messages. But this wasn’t something that could be solved with profiling or deduction. It was messier, more personal, and neither of you were sure how to navigate it.

“I’m sorry,” Hotch said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “For making you feel like you’re just another piece of the job.”

You nodded, the tension easing but not entirely gone. “I appreciate your apologies but if you really want to change things up all you have to do is to agree to be vulnerable with me, that’s all.”

You turned your attention back to the case, pushing through the lingering discomfort to focus on what you could control. You worked in silence, each of you lost in thought, both aware that this argument had pulled something to the surface that couldn’t be ignored.

By the time you finally cracked the pattern in the unsub’s messages, the sun was beginning to rise.

As Hotch made his way back to the room at nearly 4 a.m., he was trying to be as quiet as possible, mindful not to wake Rossi. But as he slipped inside, he was met with the sight of Rossi already awake, leaning against the edge of his bed, arms crossed, his expression a mixture of amusement and disapproval.

“Couldn’t resist, could you?” Rossi’s voice was low but carried a playful edge, tinged with the knowing tone of someone who had seen this behavior from Hotch too many times before.

Hotch tried to hide his fatigue, rubbing a hand over his face as he set the files down on the desk. “It was important. I found something we missed. Had to double-check.”

Rossi’s smirk didn’t waver. “You found something, huh? Or did you just need an excuse to get out of this room and clear your head?”

Hotch stiffened, but he knew there was no point in denying it. “We figured out the sequence, the messages weren’t just random. They were chronological, like a timeline leading to his next target. We were close, but we couldn’t afford to miss it.”

Rossi nodded, his expression softening just a little. He knew Hotch was right; they were on a tight timeline with no room for errors. Still, he couldn’t resist teasing his friend. “You could have figured that out in the morning, Aaron. You can’t solve every problem by burning the candle at both ends.”

Hotch sat down on his bed, glancing at the clock, Rossi’s words lingered, cutting through the tension Hotch had been carrying all day. “I know. But you said it yourself—we can’t miss anything.

Rossi studied Hotch for a moment, his voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone. “You’ve been different since Peter came back,” Rossi said, watching Hotch’s reaction closely. “It’s like you’re working twice as hard, pushing yourself even more than usual. What’s going on?”

Hotch’s expression tightened, his usual stoic demeanor wavering under Rossi’s probing gaze. He knew exactly Rossi could read from his face what had just happened between the two of you. “I just… wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything,” he repeated, his tone defensive.

Rossi wasn’t buying it. He moved closer, sitting on the edge of his own bed, facing Hotch directly. “You’re not fooling me, Aaron. I’ve seen this before. You’re not just worried about the case. This is about Y/N, isn’t it?”

Hotch looked away, pretending to be preoccupied with the files on his lap. But Rossi’s words hit too close to home, and he couldn’t ignore the knot of emotions that had been building inside him since Peter’s return. “It’s not what you think,” Hotch said quietly, though even to him, it sounded unconvincing.

Rossi leaned back, giving Hotch a knowing look. “Look, it’s natural. You and Y/N have been working closely, you’ve got this rhythm. Peter comes back, and suddenly you’re reminded that you’re not the only one who clicks with her. But it’s not a competition, Aaron. You’re more to this team, and I’m sure you are to her as well, than a stand-in.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened. He had spent the last few months building a partnership with you, appreciating your insights and the way you challenged him. But Peter’s return had stirred up insecurities he hadn’t even realized he had.

“It’s not that,” Hotch said finally, though the weight in his voice suggested otherwise. “I just want to make sure we get this right. Peter’s good at what he does. It’s just… different.”

Rossi gave him a pointed look. “Different isn’t bad, Hotch. And you’re still you. You don’t have to prove anything: to her, to Peter, or to anyone else.”

Hotch nodded, though Rossi’s words did little to ease the knot in his chest. “Thanks, Dave. I know.”

Rossi watched him for another moment before standing up, his tone lightening as he made his way back to his bed. “Just remember, she was never looking for a replacement for him while he was gone. She’s looking for a partner. And you’ve already proven you can be that.”

Hotch lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Rossi’s words echoed in his mind, he knew he needed to get some sleep, but his thoughts were restless. It wasn’t just about the case anymore, it was about finding his place, about understanding what you truly meant to him beyond the walls of the BAU. As he finally drifted off, he promised himself that whatever happened next, he wouldn’t let his insecurities cloud his judgment. He’d be the partner you needed, and maybe, just maybe, he’d find a way to fit into your life outside of work, too. If you ever let him after today.

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.