ssa-danhotchner

[ssa-danhotchner]

inspired by @ssa-dado

[ssa-danhotchner]

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Wishful Thinking

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, Derek Morgan x reader Summary: When power struggles in New York sprout, you feel trapped. If only you weren't so used to the feeling. Warnings: assistant!reader, layered angst, cm-level violence, jealousy, pining, complicated relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unrequited love, musical reference to "if i ruled the world" by nas and lauryn hill, implied that r is shorter than hotch, jemily agenda, money!hotch, bureaucracy inaccuracies Eps incl: S3E20 (lo-fi) Words: 6.9K

Series Masterlist | CM Masterlist | Navigation

a/n: woah now, off into the deep end we go (parallels to every part so far? i think so)

You were accustomed to walking into Hotch's office without knocking. It was an old habit, drilled into you after spending long days at the DA's office and since fortified by long days at Quantico.

Typically, though, you weren't met with him raising a hand to silence you. Your brows lifted, but he was too busy writing something down to notice. He kept speaking into the phone as you placed your files down on his desk.

You caught the tail-end of the conversation. "Yes, my team will be right there. I'll see you soon, Kate." Kate?

Your brows uncontrollably raised even higher, but you schooled your expression by the time he hung up the phone. "Do we have a case?" you asked.

Hotch replied quickly, "Yes. Please go tell the rest of the team to meet at the roundtable."

You nodded slowly at his clipped tone and the way he didn't even look at you, leaving the room to do as he said.

You tried to shake off any ill-feelings as you made you way to JJ's office. Not personal.

"Jayje." You lightly knocked on the door, nodding toward the hall. "We've got a case."

Her eyes met yours confusedly. Normally, it was her telling you things like that. "Nothing's come across my desk."

You shrugged. "It went straight to Hotch," you said. "I'll get the rest of the team."

You understood her confusion. You were the two administrative powerhouses of the BAU: everything came through one of you first.

This case was different.

❧❧

You were on the plane before Hotch could say wheels up. He made it clear to all of you that time was running out. All you knew was that someone was making random kills in New York, striking in the middle of the day.

You took your seat next to Hotch as Rossi asked, "The victims?"

"Each killed in a completely different neighbourhood," Hotch answered. "Hell's Kitchen, Murray Hill, Lower East Side, Chinatown, East Harlem."

"That's a wide range of places," you commented, glancing at him. He briefly glanced back at you.

Across from you, Reid translated what you said to fit profiler-language. "Yeah, that's a large comfort zone. It doesn't make any sense. There's no common victimology. No sexual component, no robbery, no geographical connection." He paused. "I mean, do the police have any leads?"

The look on Hotch's face told you No, they don't have any leads. "He's killing roughly every 2 days. The press is having a field day, and it sounds like the mood on the street's getting pretty edgy."

Rossi raised a brow. "It's a joint FBI-NYPD task force?"

Hotch nodded. "Kate Joyner heads up the New York field office. She's running point on the case and called me directly." Kate. So that's who he was on the phone with. He looked to JJ, sitting closest to the cockpit, and asked her to tell the pilot you were ready to take off before continuing, "Kate's starting to to butt heads with the lead detectives and wanted a fresh set of eyes."

You couldn't help but note Hotch's continued use of Kate, meanwhile Derek said, "Joyner. I know her. She's a Brit, right?"

"No, dual citizenship," Hotch replied. "Her father's British, her mother's American. She was a... big deal at Scotland Yard before coming to the Bureau."

Your hands twitched. That was a lot of information to know about another unit chief in another state.

"I heard she can be a little bit of a pain in the ass."

You all looked to Morgan after his remark, your brows going up slightly. That was happening a lot today. 

"I didn't think so," Hotch said.

Finally, you spoke your mind. "You know her?"

Again, he briefly glanced at you, but he directed his response to the entire team. "We liaised when she was still at Scotland Yard."

You knew Hotch was often particular about his word choice. You wondered if he noticed the words he was choosing to describe Kate.

Rossi glanced at you before looking back to Hotch. "And she's good?"

"I think we're lucky to have her." That was quick.

This time, you felt both Morgan and Emily glance your way, but you ignored it. You could remember sitting in a bar with Derek not that long ago, him asking if you were okay, you asking why you wouldn't be. There was no reason then, and there was no reason now. There was no reason for anyone to be glancing at you.

As the pilot announced take-off, you thought of what he said to you that night. 

You've gotta take care of yourself, Y/N.

You were trying.

You buckled your seatbelt, opening a file and deciding to go over it, pretending not to notice Morgan still glancing at you. Because you were okay. 

There was no reason not to be.

❧❧

You got off the elevator, walking straight into the FBI field office with Hotch ahead of the rest of you. A blonde woman in black walked in your direction, her lips lifting higher as she got closer to you. She looked just like— 

JJ leaned toward Garcia, whispering just loud enough that you still heard it. "Is it just me, or does she look exactly like Haley?"

She did. You swore she could've been Haley's sister.

Hotch greeted her, "Kate."

"Aaron." You blinked. JJ and Garcia exchanged a glance in front of you. "How have you been?"

"Well, thank you. This is my team." He angled his body to face the rest of you. "Kate Joyner, this is David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid, and Y/N L/N."

You put on a smile to be polite, nodding your head at her when Hotch introduced you. 

"Thanks for being here. Anything you need, just tell me. Please don't stand on protocol."

Garcia stood a little taller at the back, asking, "What can you tell us about the city's surveillance system?" 

"It's run by the NYPD. It's still in the infant stages. It's been rather controversial." Kate turned to the woman next to her, muttering, "American privacy laws." She shook her head. "Um, but they've had some success."

"And I'll have complete access?"

"They're already expecting you," she confirmed. Again, she turned to the woman beside her, beckoning, "Shelly?"

Oh. As Shelly led Garcia away, you realized she was likely Joyner's assistant. You tried not to let it rub you the wrong way that she hadn't introduced her at all, but it was already leaving an impression.

"I'd like to get a map of the borough," Reid requested, just as two men were walking up to you. "I want to do a comprehensive geographical profile of the area in order to ascertain the unsub's mental map before it's clouded by our own linkage blindness." 

One of the men gave Spencer a side glance. "I see you've brought your own computer."

Kate gestured to them, displeasure painting her face. "Detectives Brustin and Cooper. I'll let you do the introductions."

"You caught the first shooting?" Rossi asked.

"Uh, they've all been in different precincts," Cooper responded. "It wasn't until the third murder that anyone even made the connection."

Next to him, Brustin sarcastically spoke, "I guess this is where we play nice and ask you what you need."

Kate chuckled, like this was something she was used to. "I'll let you all figure out what that is. I just ask that you run everything back through me. It's been my experience that having one butt on the line is enough."

Brustin scoffed. "Yes, ma'am."  

Kate ignored him, stepping closer to Hotch. "Can I have a word with you in private?"

This time, you returned Morgan's glance, sharing his surprise. There was nothing she should have to talk to him about that didn't include the rest of the team. You tried to tell yourself that was the only reason why you were surprised, not because of the way she said it.

Hotch was none the wiser. "Sure. Excuse me." He brushed past you, letting her lead the way to his office.

Behind you, Emily filled in the gaps for JJ, emphasizing the same word your brain had already highlighted and annotated to death. "They, um, liaised when she was at Scotland Yard." 

You hated the sound that left JJ, like she was realizing something irrefutable. "Of course."

Morgan kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye, like he still had a reason to glance at you. Like he was worried about something. You didn't want to see it.

You turned away, preparing to ask someone to bring you up to speed on the admin work when he called out to you.

"Pretty girl." He placed a light hand on your shoulder. 

You closed your eyes before turning around to face him. "Yes?" You fixed the same smile on your face from earlier, hoping he wouldn't pull any profiler tricks out of his hat and notice.

He didn't need them.

His eyes softened. "You okay?"

You didn't let the smile waver. "Why wouldn't I be?" Memories of yourselves sitting in a bar and denying the obvious came running through your head. Because the obvious didn't exist. It couldn't.

Derek knew that. So he just nodded. "Okay." 

You nodded back. "Okay." 

You turned back around, already erasing the conversations from memory.

❧❧

You did exactly what you set out to do: your job. You faxed files, got a headstart on typing up the team's preliminary profile to send to Strauss, and cut through any red tape that'd get in the way of the team doing their job. 

In that entire time, you hadn't seen Hotch once. It was highly unusual—you were his assistant—but you weren't ungrateful. It gave you space to do your job and breathe without thinking about things you'd rather not think about.

Still, you couldn't avoid everything.

You sought out Kate as she was coming off the elevator. "Agent Joyner."

She barely glanced at you. "What is it?"

You didn't let her tone deter you. "I need some records of your correspondence with the NYC commissioner—"

She abruptly turned around, fully facing you for the first time since you'd entered the building. Her lips curved into a smile less friendly than before, more on edge, more political. "And why would you need that?"

Your brows knitted together. "It's protocol. For a task force, we have to collect files on interagency communications—"

She cut you off, "I'm sorry, who are you again?"

Your smile was tight. You hoped it was a smile. "Y/N L/N, I'm Hotch's assistant."

A look crossed her face, a mix between realization and gratifcation. "Ah, that's right. Aaron's... assistant." The word left her lips like it didn't quite belong in her mouth. Like Aaron came easy but assistant didn't. Like you didn't quite belong there. Her smile became a little more cutting. "Well, if you're his assistant, don't you have other things to worry about?"

You inhaled lightly, reminding yourself that this was the New York Unit Chief you were talking to. Hotch's friend. The one he liaised with. You'd dealt with a lot of people who didn't believe you belonged where you were, but never had you met one who was so immediately hellbent on disliking you.

Just as you opened your mouth to say something, Hotch suddenly appeared at your side, coming between the two of you. His grim eyes made you stand straighter and turn your attention to him, but he was fully focused on Joyner.

"There's been another murder."

❧❧

Hotch didn't ask you to come to the crime scene with him, but that's what was customary. You avoided Joyner as much as possible from the backseat of the SUV, and nobody tried to strike up conversation with you, anyway.

It felt childish to care about something like being put in the backseat, but it sure felt like you were being sidelined. Doesn't matter. Not personal, you reminded yourself.

As you got out of the car, all of that ceased to be important.

"Uniforms are rounding up witnesses," Cooper informed, walking up with Brustin at the same as you. "Doesn't seem like anyone got a clean look."

Morgan was staring up at the camera above the traffic light before turning to the rest of you. "It's over in a flash. He's probably gone before anyone even realizes what's happening."

Kate asked, "Is this what it felt like during the Son of Sam?" 

You felt a chill travel up your spine at the name. Brustin responded, "First, we realized that, if the violence was truly random, there was almost no way of stopping it. Seems like these people have figured that out."

Morgan pointed to the camera he was staring at. "From the placement of that camera, odds are the only view they're going to get is the back of his head."

Kate barely waited until the words had finished leaving his mouth, countering, "Let's not be too quick to decide what we do or don't have."

Your eyes widened, looking to Hotch immediately, but his eyes were trained on the ground. What— 

Kate walked off, cueing Brustin to say, "The Duchess of Work has spoken." He and Cooper both went in the opposite direction from Joyner, leaving just the three of you.

You scoffed, shaking your head while Morgan turned to Hotch. "You mind telling me why I'm catching attitude from her?"

Hotch looked like he didn't want to answer the question at all. His wet his lips before replying, "FBI brass has made it clear to her that if she doesn't bring this case home, she's gonna be reassigned." Derek opened his mouth, but Hotch continued, "And you are at the top of the list to replace her."

So that's why she didn't was so bothered by you asking for files. You couldn't help but scoff a second time. Hotch glanced over at you with furrowed brows, but aimed his gaze back to Morgan.

"You're kidding me."

"Why should you be surprised? You're good at your job." Hotch tilted his head slightly. "People notice that."

Derek glanced backward, where Kate was. "What happened to the Bureau patting itself on the back for stealing her away from Scotland Yard?"

"I don't know. Politics here are different," Hotch said, shrugging his shoulders like the answer was beyond him. "And you can see she doesn't pull punches." He re-directed quickly, nodding further away. "Y/N, come with me."

He didn't wait for you to follow him, placing a hand on your back and guiding you to wherever it was he wanted to go. You sharply inhaled, feeling the weight of his hand more than you should've. 

If Hotch noticed your discomfort, he didn't say anything. Only when you were far away enough from everyone else did he remove the hand on your back, and you felt like you could breathe again.

His stared down at you with a piercing gaze. "Is something wrong?" The way he said it told you he wasn't asking you; he said it like he was an interrogator and already knew the answers to the questions he was asking.

You didn't know why he was asking in the first place. Even more so, you didn't know why it bothered you that he was asking. 

You stared up at him, opting to look at his forehead instead of in his eyes. Wind whipped at his hair, knocking the carefully styled locks out of place. He shouldn't have had to ask. 

He knew you better than anyone. He should've already known.

Finally, you met his eyes. Because you had to. Because you were his assistant, not anything else. You opened your mouth. "I—"

"Aaron." You looked away as the blonde approached the two of you, not acknowledging you. "I need you over here."

Hotch glanced at you one last time before he was following Kate. You shook your head.

Mentally, you repeated, Doesn't matter, not personal.

And you followed them, too. Because you were his assistant. And that was your job.

❧❧

By nightfall, the team was making their way into the hotel, planning to give the profile the next day. You'd already typed up their preliminary thoughts, and the unsub struck midday, so there was nothing more you could do.

"Look at this." Emily picked up a newspaper on a side table. "The late edition doesn't miss a beat."

The headline read, EXECUTION STYLE with a picture of the latest murder. The rest of the front page was filled with appendages about the downfall of New York City. You gave JJ a sorry glance; she gave you a tired smile in return. It'd be her job to remedy all this in the morning.

Spencer took her attention. "JJ." He nodded ahead of you guys to a man sitting on a chair, waiting for someone. 

JJ started walking over immediately. "Will."

Will stood up, meeting you all in the middle, looking nervous. "Hey, I took a shot and flew to DC, but when it didn't work, I figured a train ride to New York was only a few more hours."

Hotch extended a hand to him. "Detective." You heard the skeptic undertone, and so did Will. 

"Look, I'm sorry for showing up like this. I know you're working. But, um," he looked back at JJ, "I can't stand you being on this case and me not being near." JJ started shaking her head, but he added, "Not with what's going on."

Hotch looked between the couple. "Is there a problem?"

For a beat, neither of them answered. JJ let out a breath, turning to face you again and confessing, "I'm pregnant."

No one said a thing, stuck processing what she said. You were the first to break the silence, smiling a real smile for the first time since you landed in New York. "Jayje, that's amazing." You pulled her in for a hug. "Congratulations!"

Emily was the next person to engulf her. You caught Hotch shaking Will's hand as the latter said, "I've asked JJ to marry me."

She promptly turned around. "Will." 

"Well, we're working out some kinks." 

You chuckled at him, feeling your chest warm. An idea hit you of how to kill two birds with one stone. "Oh, well, Em, since Will's here, I'll just room with you."

Emily nodded, agreeing, but you felt Hotch glancing at you. You knew he caught your attempts at avoiding him, but he didn't say anything about it. When you didn't meet his eyes, he looked to JJ and Will again, telling them, "We'll, uh, give you both some privacy."

He walked away alone with JJ soon on his tail. You didn't look in their direction. You knew Hotch was probably hurt by JJ not telling him, but you didn't want to think about him being hurt right now. Not when your first instinct was always to help him.

You turned to Emily, suggesting you head upstairs. You gave her a smile like you weren't thinking about Hotch at all.

You walked to the elevator with her and willed yourself not to think about how off it felt to be doing this without him.

❧❧

Emily sprawled across her bed when you got out of the shower, drying your hair. "Hey, what if we raid the minibar?"

You snorted, sitting down on the bed across from her. "We're on a case, Prentiss."

She groaned, getting up to face you. She rubbed at her forehead. "God, if I could just forget this entire day."

You raised a brow at her. She was dressed in her pyjamas now, an old FBI t-shirt and some shorts, but she looked the least bit relaxed. Her shoulders were stiff, filled with tension that you were sure a case couldn't have given her. This was bad, but it wasn't so bad to the point that it'd bring her to this point.

You kept scanning her for a few seconds before speaking your mind. "Emily, what's wrong?" Concern laced through your voice, worried for your friend who never talked too much about herself.

There was a pause as she just looked at you before she dryly retorted, "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

You tensed, but you knew her bite was nothing more than a distraction. You replied, "I asked you first."

Her head dipped low. She looked like was contemplating it, battling whether or not to tell you or keep it to herself. The way you all did at the BAU. 

This time, it was too much for her to keep in.

When she looked back up at you, you were surprised to see water welling in her eyes. She sniffled. "A pregnancy?" She chuckled, wiping at her eyes. "Marriage?"

Suddenly, you understood what this was about. 

You understood better than anyone.

"I mean, she's building a whole life with him, Y/N." She laughed again. "And I'm just... left behind. Didn't—" A tear fell down her cheek that she didn't wipe away in time. "I thought it meant something."

Tears built in your eyes against your will. "Oh, Emily." You got up and sat down next to her on her bed, wrapping your arms around her. She accepted your embrace and her tears fell steadily, hitting your shoulder.

You tried not to cry with her, knowing exactly how she felt. You watched the man you were in love with get married and have a beautiful baby boy. You said yes when his wife asked you to be the baby's godmother. Now, you worked with him everyday, pretending that it didn't all tear you apart inside.

You don't know how long you held Emily, how long she allowed herself to be held. But eventually, she pulled away. 

She met your eyes, half-curious, half-pleading. Then, she whispered, "How do you do it?"

You didn't have to ask what she meant. You knew. She was asking you about the one thing you didn't talk about. Even when Derek asked you, you didn't talk about it. 

It was easier to pretend it didn't exist than to admit. It was easier to pretend you were just his loyal assistant than to admit you upended your life for him. 

But Emily was going through the exact same thing as you. You didn't know how deep it ran, but she was you. She was you 15 years ago.

So you told the truth.

"I do the work. And I try to be his... friend."

You could tell she wasn't fully satisfied with your answer. "Do you think it'll ever change?"

You wanted to tell her what she wanted to hear. You wanted to tell her that it was possible. But you knew that was unnecessary hope and it'd only make it worse.

So you told the truth again.

"No."

❧❧

7:00AM came too soon. You were down in the lobby before everyone else. It was a habit from rooming with Hotch. You either woke up earlier than him or waited for him to wake you up.

So, it was 6:30AM, and you were at the counter of the the hotel café, ordering for everyone. 

"Two black coffees, one americano, one caramel macchiato, a regular latte, one black three sugars, and—"

"One latte with two shots of espresso and a pump of vanilla." You didn't have to turn around to know who was behind you. If it weren't for his voice, then it was the confident recitation of your coffee order. 

Hotch.

You forced your lips to upturn for the barista's sake, confirming, "What he said."

"Alright, ma'am. And how would you like to pay today?"

You didn't get to answer. Hotch stepped forward, holding a black card. "Amex."

The barista nodded, walking off to go make the order while Hotch paid. Once he was done and the two of you were walking to the side, you scoffed.

He raised a brow at you, subtle amusement in his expression that you'd learned how to read ages ago. "What?" he asked.

You shook your head, your lips quirking upward. "You just love to wave that thing around, don't you?"

He feigned ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about." You chuckled, and his lips twitched into that almost-smile he sometimes had. Then his lips downturned again. Not a frown, but not an almost-smile anymore. "I thought we could finish our conversation from yesterday," he said.

You sighed. He could've just forgotten about it, but he had to bring it up. "You mean from before Joyner cut us off?"

Now, his lips became a full frown. "Y/N, what's wrong?"

Another sigh left you as you looked away from him. You don't know what it was that made you so bold. Maybe it was your conversation with Emily. Or maybe it was just the constant view of the woman who looked like his ex-wife. "You know, Hotchner, for a profiler, you sure can be dense sometimes."

He recoiled, like you'd slapped him. "Excuse me?"

You closed your eyes. "You heard me—"

He cut you off brusquely, "Don't do that."

You opened your eyes, pure exasperation filling them. But when you met his eyes, you couldn't read them. "Don't do what?"

"You don't call me Hotchner," he said. Suddenly, the emotion in his eyes started to read a lot like hurt. "I'm Hotch. I've always been Hotch to you."

You sharply took in a deep breath. When you blinked, the memories flashed behind your eyelids like a movie. When you met Aaron and accidentally cemented him as Hotch forever. When things were less complicated but still so tangled at the same time.

You maintained eye contact with him, asking, "Do you actually care?"

He almost looked offended that you'd even ask. "Yes. It's important to me that we're okay."

You always wished he wouldn't say things like that. Those wishes never came true.

You caved, "Fine, Hotch. Nothing's wrong."

He gave you that look. The look he gave Jack when he was caught in a lie. Pursed lips and stern eyes. Flatly, he said, "You knew I wouldn't believe that."

You laughed. Of course, you did. He knew you. You weren't always sure if he deserved to know you to the levels that he did, but he did. "Yeah, I did," you admitted. You paused as your laughter died down. You debated whether you'd say it or not. Then you decided you would. "It's Kate."

Hotch's brows drew together. "What about her?"

You tilted your head at him as if to say, You know. "She doesn't like me." He opened his mouth to say something, but you added, "She's made it clear that she doesn't like me— or respect me. And she doesn't like Morgan either."

Hotch sighed. "She's just... she's under a lot of stress. I'm sure she didn't mean to take it out on you." You weren't convinced, and he could see it on your face. "Listen, even with what's happening to her personally, she wouldn't let it affect her professional judgement."

He sounded like he genuinely believed that. So, without even putting up much of a fight, you already let up. "Okay. I trust you."

His lips tugged up again into the almost-smile. You reciprocated just as the barista called out, "Two black coffees, one americano, one caramel macchiato, one regular latte, one black three sugars, and one latte with a pump of a vanilla."

You gave the barista a smile, walking up to the counter where your drinks were waiting on trays. "Thank you."

"Ooh, is that coffee I'm seeing?"

You turned your head, seeing Derek walk up to you guys. Your smile got wider, pulling a cup from the tray and holding it out to him. "Yes, it is. One black coffee for one Derek Morgan."

He grinned at you, a stark contrast to his expression for the majority of yesterday, taking the cup from your hand. "Pretty girl, you are incredible."

You hummed, easily replying, "Don't I know it?"

He pointed a finger at you. "You better."

You laughed as more of the team started trickling out of the elevators. And for a few moments, eveything felt okay.

❧❧

You sat in the field office's bullpen, sending e-mails left and right. The team just gave the profile, so you were summarizing it and sending it back to Quantico. 

Two unsubs (one of which has a stable job), likely fit a dominant-submissive profile; organized, use countersurveillance, left behind a Death tarot card similar to the DC Sniper— 

Suddenly, the sound of a phone ringing caused your hands to pause on the keyboard. Hotch strode over in seconds, picking up the phone immediately. "Hotchner." 

You stood up as his face became dour, walking over from the side at the same time as Kate came out of her office and Morgan and Rossi were getting out of the elevator. 

"Does it look like it could be one of our guys?"

Morgan questioned, "What's going on?"

Hotch hung up the phone, responding, "We've got eyes on one of them. He's on the subway platform at 59th and Lex."

"59th—" Morgan's voice was filled with incredulity, confusing you. "We could have been right there." He looked to both Hotch and Kate with fire in his eyes; neither of them looked back. 

You glanced between Hotch and Derek, wondering what the hell he was talking about. On another line, Garcia informed you, "He's got a gun." Not even a second later— "He shot her."

Kate paced back and forth. "Where the hell are the police?" She picked up another telephone. "This is Kate Joyner with the FBI. We have a murder suspect, subway platform. 59th and Lex."

Garcia's shaky voice sounded. "He's getting away."

Your jaw tensed as you asked, "Garcia, what about above ground?"

"He's heading west on 59th Street."

Kate looked to the rest of you, defeat already written on her face. "If he makes it to the park, we've lost him."

Someone else on the line spoke, "We've lost the visual."

Rossi asked, "Are the police on the scene?" 

Typing could be heard on the other end before Garcia said, "Negative."

You exhaled. You had him before he even shot anyone, and now he was gone. 

Morgan shook his head, seething, "We could've had that guy."

Kate looked up at the ceiling. "Even if we were on that platform, odds are he would have moved onto someone isolated."

Derek didn't let up, stepping forward. "Maybe, but it was worth a shot."

"I had every available man on the street," she defended, but she no longer had the same passion in her arguments as before. Her voice was weak, like she knew she was losing.

Derek took another step forward. "And I suggested to you that use this team."

Realization dawned on you as a silent gasp left your mouth. That's what you were missing. Kate turned down his idea when you could've actually helped that woman, but now she was dead.

Hotch's words from earlier echoed through your head. She wouldn't let it affect her professional judgement.

That was a lie.

You turned to Hotch, waiting for him to say something, to defend Derek like the leader you were used to, but instead he reprimanded, "Morgan, second-guessing doesn't do us any good right now."

You jaw would've dropped if you hadn't clenched it so tightly. You kept your eyes on him, but his gaze was trained on the ground.

Morgan retaliated, "Hotch, how am I supposed to look these cops in the eye and tell them that we're actually here to help them?"

Hotch finally looked up, turning to face Morgan completely. "We're here to present a profile. That's what we need to do." He turned away, as if he saying the conversation was over.

Derek didn't stop. "I said to put us at express stops. 14th, 42nd, 59th, and that's exactly where they hit."

Hotch turned back around and raised his voice just enough that it was noticeable. "It's not your place to have this discussion."

You scoffed. Across from you, Rossi gave a warning glance, but you ignored it. "My place?" Morgan echoed.

Hotch no longer looked like the man you were talking to just a few hours ago. The boss you'd known for years was replaced by a cold unit chief you didn't recognize. Sharply, he told him, "You need to back off."

Derek's brows furrowed in anger. Like he was trying to convince Hotch to do the right thing, he reasoned, "We've got 7 bodies, man."

Hotch snapped, "Which is exactly why we need to stay focused."

Derek's eyes widened. "Focused?" He took a step closer to Hotch, looking him dead in the eye before delivering his final blow. "From where I'm standing, all your focus is on her." 

You weren't expecting it to feel like such a stab, but it did.

You looked to Kate, who was bowing her head down. You shook your head, resisting the urge to say anything stupid.

Hotch didn't respond to what Morgan said. He just ordered, "Take a walk. Now." 

Derek stared at him for a few seconds before he spun around and walked away. You didn't even think before following after him.

A hand grabbing onto your wrist stopped you in your tracks. The point where his skin made contact with yours burned, but at that moment, your entire body felt like it was burning with rage.

"Y/N—"

You ripped your wrist from his grasp, sending him a scathing look. "Don't, Hotchner."

You barely caught the look on his face before you were making your way out of the bullpen. All the while, his words still played through your head.

It's important to me that we're okay.

The two of you were okay that morning. 

You weren't okay now.

❧❧

You and Derek ended up in one of the SUVs. Not driving, just sitting there. You hooked your phone up to the aux and gave it to him. Soon after, he was playing his playlist from your phone, and Lauryn Hill filled the car.

If I ruled the world.

Imagine that.

You sat in silence like that for a while, the same way you always did when things got like this. You were extending to him the same courtesy he'd always given to you, the courtesy of not having to talk about it, even though not talking about it served you all the same. 

After 3 songs had played through in their entirety, he spoke up. "I know. I was out of line." He lowered the volume of the music, turning to you. His eyes were much softer than earlier. "I'm sorry."

You tilted your head. "What do you have to say sorry to me for?" You wondered, what did he have to say sorry to anyone for?

Derek just stared at you, pursing his lips, but he didn't elaborate. He just shook his head. "I didn't mean to go off like that."

"I know you didn't," you said. You couldn't even blame him for it. You lightly tapped your finger against the wheel. "You just... you care. A lot."

"I'm just sick of feeling like nothing helps." He glanced down before looking back at you, a mix of anger, sadness, and defeat filling his eyes. "I'm sick and tired of feeling helpless, Y/N."

You hated seeing him like this. Derek Morgan, the protector. Arguably the strongest man you'd ever met. You hated the idea of someone so courageous feeling helpless, and you being helpless to do anything about it.

You kept tapping your finger against the wheel as a thought suddenly popped into your head. You opened your mouth, then closed it, scared to find answers to your questions. 

Derek noticed. He always noticed. "What is it?"

Your fingers stopped tapping as he called you out; instead, they wrapped around the wheel. "The... job," you said. Your eyes darted everywhere else before you looked at him again. "If they offered it to you, would you take it?"

Derek paused, like he hadn't thought about it before. He answered honestly, "I don't know." He shook his head. "It might be nice to finally be the one making the calls."

Your shoulders fell. "Oh."

Derek was looking out the windshield as he said, "The BAU... it wears people out. Look at Gideon." He looked back at you, conviction strong in his eyes. "That man was the best, and in the end, he simply ran away. I mean, Hotch hasn't even thought about cracking a smile in over a year. You see him, Y/N."

Your gaze dropped to your lap. You could compare the almost-smiles to the smiles from before. They weren't the same. Not since Haley left and took Jack, because of this job. Because Hotch couldn't let it go.

"That man has to take a personal day just so he can have a conversation with own kid." He paused, his voice softening, "And what about you?"

You inhaled, looking back up at him. "What about me?"

"When's the last time you had any time to yourself?" he asked. But he knew the answer. 

You were at Hotch's beck and call. Hotch never left the BAU. So you didn't, either. 

You didn't want to think about yourself anymore. You'd done enough thinking about that in the past 2 days. You switched the subject expertly, redirecting the focus to Morgan. "Look, Derek, I get it. This job takes a lot. But that's why we go through it together." 

You reached out and grabbed one of his hands. He looked surprised, but you didn't stop and question it. "You've never not had my back," you said. "And I'll always have yours."

Derek looked at you with a note of something in his eyes that you couldn't discern, but it was gone before you could bother analyzing it. He just gave you a faint smile.

"Deal."

❧❧

By the time you got back to the federal building, the day was already over. Morgan, Rossi, and Hotch all had a talk in Joyner's office. Normally, you would've been there, but you didn't exactly feel like being around either of them—Hotch or Kate—if you didn't have to.

As soon as Derek was done, you planned on catching a ride with him back to the hotel. 

Just as he exited Agent Joyner's office, you were standing up, bag in hand, ready to go. Until Hotch came out behind him. 

His eyes locked on yours. Don't—

"Y/N," he called your name from across the bullpen, catching the attention of other agents. "May I speak with you?"

Derek glanced at you. You held back a sigh. You couldn't say no to your boss when he was asking you to do something in front of multiple people, and he knew it. You nodded to Derek. "It's okay," you whispered. "Go on without me."

He didn't look too keen on listening to you, but he reluctantly nodded back at you, anyway, shrugging on his leather jacket and leaving. 

You walked over to Hotch, letting him lead you to an empty office. He held the door open for you and then closed it as soon as you were inside.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. "Sir, it's late—"

Hotch sighed loudly. "Come on, Y/N, I thought we talked about this."

You dropped your hands from your eyes, letting him see the exhaustion on your face. He didn't look any better. If it were any other time, you'd make a comment about frown lines. 

This wasn't any other time.

You huffed a breath through your nose. "Yeah, I thought we did talk about it." You looked up to the ceiling, shaking your head. "God, what was it that you said? That it wouldn't cloud her judgement, her professional judgement?"

Hotch took a step closer to you. "Kate is doing what Morgan suggested. She's putting the team on the streets tomorrow."

"Yeah, after the fact," you scoffed. "And after you already lied about it this morning."

"Y/N, I'm sorry." He grabbed your shoulders, startling you. His eyes bored into yours, standing closer to you than he'd stood in you-didn't-know how long. Too close. "But you can't honestly tell me that this just about what happened earlier."

You inhaled. Deep down, there was a part of you that was mad for another reason. Reasons you didn't have the right to be mad about. So you stuck to the surface level reasons. They were all you had.

You told him, "Hotch, you have sidelined me. It's like we, the team, we haven't existed to you since we got here."

Most people wouldn't know where to look to read Aaron Hotchner, but you saw the moment hurt filled his eyes. He protested, "That's not true—"

You cut him off, "I know. You would never put yourself above the team. That's not what I'm saying." I would never say that travelled unsaid. "What I'm saying is, you've seen how Joyner treated Morgan. How she disregards me. And you haven't done anything but stand by her side."

Hotch looked down. When he looked back up, you saw genuine remorse in his eyes. "I'm sorry. If I've made you feel disregarded or unappreciated, or like your input doesn't matter, since we've been here, I'm sorry," he apologized. 

You sighed, closing your eyes. "Thank you."

His hands fell from your shoulders, travelling down your arms. "I'll speak to Kate first thing tomorrow. I'll tell her she has to cooperate with you."

You opened your eyes. "Thank you."

Another almost-smile graced his face. You rarely ever saw them if you weren't alone. Finally, he fully dropped his hands, and you embraced the cold you felt afterward.

"I can't have my right hand thinking she's unappreciated," he said. You sent him a smile that hurt to form. You wished he'd stop saying things like that.

But your wishes never came true.

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additional commentary: AHHH this is my second time writing for lo-fi. never gets old. i love the dynamics in this one! it's reader and hotch, reader and derek! and, on top of that, there's reader and emily, and reader and jj (who r hasn't been close with in other parts). like, jj and reader were much closer until she left. i kinda js wrote this for the aches, but i might do a part 2 to show mayhem. lastly, food for thought, but this was my thought process for the team's coffee orders: hotch (black three sugars), reader (latte w vanilla), emily (black), spencer (latte), derek (black), jj (no coffee bc preggo), rossi (americano), penelope (caramel macchiato).

[ssa-danhotchner]

Luck

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, eventual Derek Morgan x reader Summary: You meet Aaron Hotchner. Warnings: assistant!reader, pre-bau prosecutor!hotch era, r wears glasses, allusions sexism Words: 1.6K

Series Masterlist | CM Masterlist | Navigation

a/n: the beginning before they knew it was the beginning

Today wasn't your day.

You stumbled to your desk, setting your coffee down gently and then dropping a pile of files and your purse on your desk unceremoniously. Too quick, maybe. But all you wanted was to sit down, organize the files, and then drink your coffee. Your luck wasn't having your wants. Your luck wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself for having wants at all.

Instead of what you wanted, the files knocked over your coffee. Brown liquid that was maybe a tad too light streamed out of the cup. Audibly, you groaned, rushing to pick it up.

Tissues, tissues— tissues! Your hands latched onto your Kleenex box, pulling out tissues and wiping up the coffee. It was unsalvageable now. A complete waste. 

You were already going to sigh. There was no more appropriate reaction. Then your eyes drifted left and the sigh that left you was purely involuntary.

You felt like luck was playing a big joke on you, because the coffee didn't spill onto the files you came in with. It didn't even touch your files. It only spilled onto papers that were already there, clearly given to you by someone else.

You were already thinking of ways to explain this, ways to explain I spilled coffee everywhere and onto important legal files to the big shot lawyers here who all treated you like you were their assistant.

You weren't. You were one person's assistant. But that person was currently gone, and another was taking his place. Today.

That thought made you narrow your eyes. You glanced back at the papers, squinting at them through your glasses. A post-it note was attached, reading Anthony Raymond Cases, Replacement A. Hotch.

You felt relieved, knowing now this was just a summary of Raymond's ongoing cases. You had a pretty sound mental log of those, so you wouldn't need the coffee-assaulted papers, anyway. They were illegible. Even the post-it note was blurred, making it hard to read.

Hotch, you repeated to yourself. His name didn't sound familiar, so he had to be a newer lawyer. Regardless, you'd have to get on his good side.

You threw out the papers and your coffee cup, swinging your purse on your shoulder. You needed a new coffee. If he was a lawyer and he was going to be working here, he needed coffee. You would get yourselves coffee.

Luck was not on your side that day. But you decided it didn't matter. Your boss would like you. You were praying he was a decent person, hopefully younger than Raymond and more likely to respect you.

If all else failed today, his liking you would be the least luck could give you.

❧❧

You knocked on the office door. The writing on the glass still read Anthony Raymond, but you assumed they'd be getting it fixed anytime soon. 

From inside, a smooth voice responded, "Come in!"

You took that as your cue, strolling into the room with a bright smile to hide the fact that you'd had a shitty morning. Still, you said, "Good Morning, Mr. Hotch!" You set down a coffee on his desk before holding your hand out. "I'm Y/N Y/L/N, your assistant."

He looked up at you with a pinch of confusion, but it was gone in a flash. He stood up to shake your hand, glancing between you and the coffee. You kept eye contact with him, and you berated yourself for noting things like how alive his eyes were. 

It was normal, you told yourself, to notice things like how brown his eyes were, or how his hair seemed to fall in just the right direction. That was observation. But what you noticed immediately was the promise.

He didn't look like a lawyer.

He looked like he wanted much more than to be a lawyer.

You wondered if Hotch was noticing anything about you while you were noticing all these things about him. You would never know, really, because he moved on quite quickly. "Raymond had an assistant?" he questioned, letting go of your hand.

An assistant he thought was a ditz, you thought. You didn't say that. "Yes, Sir. I'm here to help with whatever you need."

He glanced back to the cup you'd placed on his desk. "And the coffee?"

"Welcome gift," you replied. "It's black, three sugars. I wasn't sure how you'd take it. I like mine a little more sweet, but most people I've met in DC don't."

He raised a brow, almost looking amused. You didn't know him, so you didn't know. "How much sweeter?"

You lightly chuckled through your nose. "I drink lattes, so it's two espresso shots with a lot of milk."

This time, you could tell clearly that he was amused. "Thank you for the coffee, Y/N."

"No problem." You got back to business. "Raymond's files should already be in order of priority on his desk. Please let me know if you need anything, Mr. Hotch. I'll just be at my desk."

You saw another flash of confusion, but you were already closing the door.

❧❧

Your day got significantly better. Hotch didn't call for you too often, but when he did, you were at the ready. He was very kind, very unlike what you were used to, not wanting to bother you. You had to assure him multiple times that it was as much his job to bother you as it was your job to be bothered.

You put yourself to work, planning out his schedule a month in advance until your hands were smeared with ink and your fingers cramped. You had packs of white-out waiting if things changed. Lawyers could be a bit unpredictable—your job was to add stability.

You knocked on Hotch's open door with blue ink still coating your palms, walking in thereafter. Your eyes floated to his office window, where the sky was darkening, before looking back to him with the same chipper smile.

"So," you started, "you have a meeting tomorrow at 8; that should run until 10. Your next meeting is at lunch with Jackson to discuss the Wyatt case."

He looked up from the papers on his desk, surprised with the same hint of amusement you saw earlier. "That was fast."

"Yes, Sir. Everyone wants to meet you."

The amusement in his eyes only grew, like there was an inside joke you weren't getting. "I meant you," he clarified. "You're fast."

"Oh." Your cheeks heat up; you weren't sure why. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." It felt like praise.

But then, he outright complimented you, and you nearly short-circuited. "You're really good at your job."

You fought not to make a face or say "oh" a second time. He'd laugh at you—you knew he would—no matter how polite or kind he was being right now.

You forced yourself not to focus on how attractive he was, or how he was nice things to you when you thought he'd be an asshole, or how he was saying nice things you'd barely ever heard. You swallowed. "Thank you, Sir."

He shook his head, a small smile gracing his face. And damnit, it only made him look more beautiful. "And you don't have to me call me sir, Y/N."

"Right!" You seemed to get your wits back, smiling back at him to avoid staring awkwardly. "Hotch. Well, I should be heading out now." You turned to the door. "Have a good night—"

"Wait." You screwed your eyes shut while your back was still turned to him. 

Just when you thought your luck was turning up.

You turned back to him, lips upturned. "Yes?"

His brows drew together, like he was about to ask a question, but he looked like he didn't want to ask it. He seemed to wrestle with it for a few seconds before he let it out. "I've been meaning to ask... Is there a reason why you keep calling me Hotch?"

Now, your brows furrowed. "What do you mean? Is that not your name?"

"It's Aaron. Hotchner."

Your face blanched. Images of a coffee-soaked sticky note flashed through your mind. Suddenly, every time the word Hotch left your lips that day ran through your head, and you realized it should've been Hotchner. 

Just your luck.

"I—" you sputtered, "Sir, I'm so sorry— there was a post-it with your name on it, and I spilled coffee everywhere, and—"

Somewhere, in your panic, he'd stood up and made his way over to you. Not too close, but close enough for you to register it. "Hey, it's fine." He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I thought it was some sort of nickname."

You couldn't have been more embarrassed. Your boss thought you tried to nickname him. And he didn't say anything about it the entire day. "No, I— I'm sorry. I won't say it again."

"Really, it's fine, Y/N. You don't have to stop." He shrugged. "I don't dislike it."

You paused for a moment so that you didn't stammer something out, only to repeat, "You don't dislike it?"

His lips quirked up again. "No. I don't."

"Are you sure?"

"Really," he answered. "I'm sure."

"Okay..." You didn't know what more to say. "Well, then, I guess I'll get going. Goodnight... Hotch."

You caught his eyes just to make sure he was okay with it, and when you saw no discomfort, you promptly left the room, planning to go home and pretend not to exist. You cursed the universe for dealing you bad hands after bad hands today.

And you didn't know it then, but that day would change your entire life. For better and for worse.

One day, you would think of it as pure luck.

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[ssa-danhotchner]

lover, you should've come over | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!fem!reader

warnings: angst

wc:1.3

Of all the nights for the sky to open wide and weep, of course it had to be tonight.

From the window of your small apartment—the one you’d promised was just temporary, just a stepping-stone—you watched the rain fall in sheets across the parking lot, cascading over the gutters, bouncing off windshields, turning the asphalt into running rivers of grief. The streetlamp flickered, then glowed steadily through the curtain of gray. Somewhere in the distance, thunder grumbled low like a wounded animal.

Hands wrapped around a mug of now-cold coffee, you didn’t blink. Couldn’t. Because every time your eyes closed, he was there. Aaron.

Hotch.

Your Hotch.

Except… he wasn’t yours anymore.

The silence in the apartment was deafening, but it was easier than music. Music would make you think in words again, in lyrics that would crack open your chest. So instead, you listened to the rain. You tried not to think about how it seemed to mock you; you’d once told him that rain felt cathartic, poetic even. He’d smiled that tiny smile, that sideways, secret thing of his, and said of course you’d find poetry in a thunderstorm.

God, how many lifetimes had passed since then?

You pressed your forehead to the cool windowpane. Below, a funeral procession shuffled through the cemetery across the street—black umbrellas, slow steps, the sharp hiss of tires rolling through puddles. Even grief had company, had shared sorrow. You wondered if those mourners knew how lucky they were not to be alone.

Because that’s how you felt now.

Alone

You’d walked away. You’d told yourself you had to. That he was too wrapped in tragedy, too wounded by a lifetime of sacrifices and losses. You thought you could wait for him to heal, but the ache of loving him in silence had hollowed you out. So you tried to save yourself before you drowned. You left with shaky hands and a suitcase full of what-ifs.

Maybe you were too young to know how to keep love from going all wrong. Maybe you never really stood a chance once you allowed yourself to love someone like Aaron Hotchner.

But tonight… tonight he’s on your mind.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but memories crawl beneath your skin: his hand cradling the back of your neck when he kissed you, tender but possessive; his laugh in the rare dark hours after a case, head thrown back on the sofa as you curled into his side; his whispered “stay” when you tried to leave his bed to answer your phone, his voice rough with sleep and maybe fear that you’d vanish without warning.

You had stayed, then. But not forever.

“Where are you tonight?” your whisper fogged the glass.

You imagine him — maybe sitting in his office long after everyone else has gone home, lamp casting golden light over case files he doesn’t really see. Maybe his fingers skim over his phone again and again without dialing your number. Maybe he aches too, but keeps it buried under layers of steel and self-denial.

It would be so easy to call him. Walking away didn’t erase the part of you that still belongs to him. You’re too old to pretend it didn’t mean anything, too tired to keep pretending you don’t want to run back into his arms, crash right into that dangerous, overwhelming love.

But would he even answer? Would he want to?

Sometimes a man gets carried away, you think. Sometimes he wakes up and realizes he’s managed to lose the one thing he never thought he could.

You have tried to move on. Dated half-heartedly. Let nice men buy you drinks and tell you you’re beautiful. But none of them could make you forget the sound of Hotch’s voice murmuring your name like a prayer, or the way he made your world feel steady even when it was spinning out of control.

None of them tasted like coming home.

And now… now your body aches with the need to close the distance, to bridge the silence, to go back.

Could you?

Would he even let you?

“I’ll wait for you, love,” you murmur to the empty room. “And I’ll burn.”

You bring the mug to your lips, but the liquid is bitter and lifeless. Just like everything else since you left him. Sleep has become a myth—you toss and turn, bedsheets cold no matter how many blankets you pile on. You wake up reaching instinctively for a man who’s no longer there, fingertips brushing against nothing but loneliness.

Your kingdom, you think with a dry, broken laugh. You’d give your kingdom for a single kiss to his shoulder. For the sound of his smile against your skin. For the silky, rough slide of his palm down your spine.

It’s never over, not really. Because he is the tear that hangs in your soul forever.

The grief is endless, and yet…

It hits you with sudden clarity—the thunder, the rain, the aching pulse of your heart.

You still love him.

And maybe—maybe it isn’t too late.

The puddles shimmer in the parking lot. You grab your keys.

---

The drive to Quantico is a blur of wet asphalt and windshield wipers whipping furiously. You don’t think. You just move. Because if you think, you’ll panic. If you think, you’ll talk yourself out of the biggest leap of faith you’ve ever taken.

You pull into the nearly-empty parking garage beneath the BAU building. His car is there, shadowed but unmistakable. Your knees wobble as you step out onto the concrete, clutching your coat tight to your body as the storm’s wind howls through the open edges of the garage.

The elevator ride feels endless. You catch your reflection in the mirrored door – eyes wild, hair wind-tangled, lips bitten raw. There’s a flush to your skin that has nothing to do with running through rain and everything to do with hope.

Ding.

The bullpen lights are dim. Everything is silent except for the hum of computers in sleep mode and the distant rumble of thunder outside.

And then… his office. The door cracked open. Light spilling in a warm pool.

You swallow.

Take one step forward.

Then another.

Your hands shake so badly you don’t bother to knock. You simply push the door wider.

He’s standing by the window, jacket draped over his chair, white shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms. His tie is gone. He looks tired—devastatingly, breathtakingly tired. But beautiful. Always beautiful.

His head snaps toward you.

The moment his eyes land on you, something in you almost breaks under the weight of it.

He says your name, his voice is low, rough, like gravel and velvet all at once. As if saying your name tastes both forbidden and familiar. “What are you—“

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, stepping inside before you lose your nerve. Your voice trembles, but your eyes don’t leave his. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have… I thought I was protecting myself but all I did was hurt both of us.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at you with an expression you can’t read—shock, fury, pain, hope? All of it?

Your heart pounds so hard you think you might faint.

“I still love you,” you whisper, tears pressing against your lashes. “And if you tell me you don’t want me anymore, I’ll walk out right now. I swear. But I had to try. Because I can’t do this anymore, Aaron. I miss your voice. I miss your laugh. I miss being yours. I—”

You choke on a sob. He hasn’t moved. A fresh wave of humiliation burns in your gut. “I’m probably making a fool of myself. I’m sorry. I’ll—“

“Don’t,” he rasps, stepping forward so fast it startles you. “Don’t go."

It is all the warning you get before his arms wrap around you, crushing you to his chest. He buries his face in your hair, breath shuddering.

You cling to him like a drowning woman grabbing hold of a lifeline. His warmth seeps into you, as if thawing you from the inside out.

“I tried to forget,” he says against your temple, voice fractured. “I tried… but it’s never stopped hurting. You left and it…” He pulls back slightly, cups your face in his hands. His thumbs swipe at your tears. “I thought I lost you forever.”

“I thought you were better off without me,” you whisper brokenly.

He exhales in something like disbelief. “I’m not. I’ll never be.”

You reach up, fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “Can we try again?”

His answer is a kiss: fierce, burning, desperate. It’s not gentle. It’s a reclamation, a plea, a prayer. You melt, your knees almost giving way as he backs you into the wall, one hand splayed against the small of your back, the other tangled in your hair.

When you part, you’re both gasping.

“I love you,” he says it like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes for the chance. “And I don’t want to waste another moment.”

You laugh through your tears, brushing your lips to his again and again. “Aaron,” you breathe, tasting the rain on his mouth—or maybe those are your own tears.

Outside the storm keeps raging, but inside his office it’s just you and him, wrapped in the heat of something that never died. That couldn’t die.

“Stay,” he whispers against your lips. “This time… stay.”

You press your forehead to his, smiling through the ache.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

As thunder shakes the sky and water drums against the windows, you finally let yourself believe: it’s not too late.

Not for you.

Not for him.

Not for this love that refuses to grow cold.

Because you’ve come over this time.

And you’re never turning back.

[ssa-danhotchner]

What Parents Do For Their Kids

Pairing: father figure!Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: 5 times Aaron remembers that you're not his kid (+1 time he knows that you are). Warnings: r is a teenager (around 16 at the start), abusive family, child neglect, allusions to aaron's abuse, haley and hotch divorce arc, mentions of the s3 suspension, reference to 3x02, r is anxious, violence, bullying, inaccurate legal info (don't ask me ab logistics bc hotch is a lawyer who does magic), hotch is such a dad Words: 6.4K

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1.

The sound of the door opening was almost so light that he didn't hear it, but your footsteps made it obvious to Aaron that you were there.

He knew it was bad practice to leave his door unlocked when he was an FBI agent. He knew that, which is why you had a key. He still left the door unlocked, anyway.

"Hey, Mr. H."

He gave you a brief nod of acknowledgement, busy gathering his files for his briefcase. He had half a mind to correct you, It's Aaron or you can call me Hotch, but Mr. H might be as informal as you'd ever get. He should know—he tried.

Though he didn't look up at you, he still spoke. "I'm really sorry to call you in on a Friday night. I know you must have other plans." Now he looked up, seeing you standing there, fiddling with the strap of your bag. You must've come straight from school, he thought.

How late are they keeping them at school nowadays?

"I, uh—" you shook your head. "No, I don't have any other plans." He hoped you weren't just saying that for his sake.

He drove his point home. "Regardless, I apologize. I was supposed to have the night off, but this meeting was called last minute." You opened your mouth to interrupt, but he didn't let you offer the assurances he knew you'd give. You were a teenager. Of course, you had better ways to spend your Friday night than with his kid. "And Haley is out of town with Jessica."

"Really, Mr. Hotchner." You pursed your lips into what he assumed was meant to be a smile. It looked more... nervous (and maybe even painful) than anything. But you tried. "It's fine."

He resisted the urge to sigh, both at the return of the moniker and your quick dismissal. You did that often, he noticed. Dismissing yourself. He wished you would stop.

You were a good kid. 

He sometimes wondered if you knew that.

He chose not to worry you anymore with the conversation. He didn't want to make you feel like you had to smile. It was almost as bad as the way you cocooned into yourself, trying not to take up space. Opening the door quietly as to not disrupt. Making yourself smaller despite his efforts to let you know that there was enough room for you here.

He was running late, anyway.

He picked up his bag. "Alright then. Jack is in his room. I should be home by," he checked his watch, "nine. Maybe ten or eleven at the latest."

You nodded absentmindedly as he made his way to the door. Just as he was about to turn the knob, another thought crossed his mind. 

He quickly turned around, perhaps too quick. He barely caught it. If he'd have blinked, he would've missed it. A flinch, sudden and reflexive, before you could stop it. You collected yourself within the same second.

His brows furrowed, but he didn't mention it. Don't read into it, he told himself. (He was already reading into it).

Instead, he just went with his original question. "I forgot to ask earlier, but your parents are okay with you staying out this late, right?"

Again, it was almost too fast for him make out. If he wasn't a profiler. But he was, and he could see the look that passed over your face clear as day. Surprise. Discomfort. Embarrass—

Stop profiling her.

(He was already profiling you).

"Oh, yeah." You waved a hand in the air. "They're totally cool with it. Don't worry about it, Mr. H." The weird smile was back on your face. Nervous.

He'd be more content that you were back to "Mr. H" if it weren't for the fact that you were trying to placate him. For what, he wasn't sure.

His attempts not to profile had failed. A preliminary profile had already built in his head, filled with bullet points and question marks. He tried to shake it off.

He was late.

He nodded to you. "Okay." He made a mental note to ask you about it later, but right now he had somewhere to be and other promises to keep.

He was out the door before the "bye" could leave your lips.

—

When Aaron got home, he wasn't expecting you to be asleep. He wasn't sure why: you were a kid, and it was normal for kids to be tired at the end of the week.

Maybe because you had never fallen asleep there before, not once in the year that you'd been Jack's babysitter.

You were curled up on the couch, the TV still running in front of you. He should wake you up. He was home, and you deserved to be home, too. Your parents were probably wondering where you were.

It was only then that he realized you were completely still. Not twiddling your fingers or awkwardly trying to find the right way to stand when he was in the room. You were just... there. And because of that, he could now see the bags under your eyes clearly.

His shoulders fell. You were tired. He wanted to let you sleep.

But responsibility won his internal turmoil. He lightly shook your shoulder. "Y/N?"

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, disoriented. "Hm?"

"My meeting ended."

It took you a few seconds to understand. When you did, you bolted up, his hand falling in the process. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. "Oh, um—" you ran a hand through your hair. "Jack went to bed a while ago after I fed him dinner. I didn't mean to fall asleep, too. I'm sorry."

His brows knitted together more prominently this time. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I told you, when you're here, you can treat this place as your own." It almost sounded like a scolding.

You winced. "Right. Sorry, Mr. Ho—"

He cut you off, "Hotch." He couldn't help it. You looked confused, so he elaborated, "You can call me Hotch. Or Aaron. Either or."

"Okay... Aaron?" Your voice lifted at the end like you were testing yourself. He gave you a reassuring nod.

He thought he was done, but he added, "And you don't need to apologize for everything, Y/N. You've done nothing wrong." He tried to make eye contact with you so that you'd know he was being earnest, but you avoided it.

"Sorry—" you screwed your eyes shut, very obviously kicking yourself. "Sorry."

He sighed. This was progress. In... some way.

"It's fine." Because he didn't want to make you feel bad about it, he switched the subject. "I can walk you home. It's dark out." You lived right down the street, but he'd seen too many horror stories of young girls who walked home alone and never made it there.

Your mouth opened and closed and opened and then closed again. You looked like you were scanning your brain for something to say. Your profile was brought right back to the forefront of his mind.

"That's okay, Mr— Aaron," you corrected yourself. "I'll be fine." You were already standing up and grabbing your things.

"Y/N—"

"I'll text you when I'm home safely. Good night." 

You practically sped out of the house. The door closed a little louder behind you this time. Not a slam, but not the controlled quiet it normally was.

Aaron was left standing in the middle of the living room. He looked to the couch and then to the door. In a flash, you were there, and then you were gone. He didn't even get the chance to pay you.

Any worries he had that he was overthinking had disappeared. He'd never seen you react like that, let alone cut him off.

You were... skittish. You always watched what you said. You were tired. Maybe overly tired. And your parents. Hotch hadn't ever spoken with your parents. You seemed anxious when he brought them up.

He was worried about you. It was easy to be worried about you. You were so quiet, and in many ways, too independent. In some ways, you reminded him of a younger version of himself of himself. And that scared him.

Aaron knew what he was like when he was a kid, and he also knew why.

His phone dinged, pulling him from his thoughts. He took it out of his pocket, checking the notification.

Y/N (babysitter): Made it home.

A bit of relief flooded his chest. At least you made it home safe. He just hoped you stayed safe. 

He prayed his suspicions were wrong.

But, deep down, he knew they weren't.

2.

It was a weekend. For the first time in a while, the Hotchner house was full. Aaron was playing with Jack. They didn't often get to do this together, so he tried to seize these opportunities whenever he could.

"Hey, buddy, I'm gonna go check on mom real quick, okay? I'll be right back."

Jack nodded without looking at him, too immersed in his toys. Aaron was glad.

It wasn't totally a ruse. He was checking on Haley. Maybe that wasn't the full reason, but it was true.

He walked into their shared bedroom, finding her folding laundry on the bed. She looked up, a smile crossing her face. "Aaron," she playfully teased. His lips quirked up in response, a stark contrast to how things had been between them recently.

"Hi, honey." He kissed her cheek, taking a seat across from her on the bed. "I've been wanting to talk to you about something." She raised a brow, so he added, "It's about Y/N."

Her face twisted in confusion, then concern. "Y/N? Why, has something happened to her?" She fully sat up, angling her body toward him. The clothes in her hands were long forgotten.

He didn't reply as quickly. He didn't have the answer she wanted. He wasn't sure if he had the answer he wanted. What he knew was something was happening to you. He just didn't know what.

Some foolish part of him didn't want to know. 

Some part of him already did.

Finally, he responded, "I think that... something may be happening with her parents." He didn't have to say another thing. A look of understanding dawned her face, and he knew she knew what he meant.

He watched as her eyes softened. She set the clothes aside entirely, cupping his cheek in her hand. "Oh, baby." She understood. Too well.

Haley was there for him in high school. She didn't know everything, but she knew enough. She knew that sometimes his ribs hurt just as much as his heart. She knew enough.

He wanted to lean into her but resisted. This wasn't about him. This was about you.

She removed her hand of her own volition. "Aaron, I think that if you think something, then it's probably true. I mean, if... if you have reason to believe something's wrong..." she trailed off. And Aaron knew what he had to do.

He proposed his idea to Haley, being met with her agreement. He kissed her softly, knowing his sweet wife hadn't seen what he'd seen but that she was just as cautious. Cautious and kind.

He hoped he could extend that kindness to you.

— 

"Y/N, come in."

Aaron surprised you by waiting at the door this time. You were used to entering silently, but there he was, waiting. 

"Thanks, Aaron."

He let you walk into the house, guiding you to the couch. "Here, take a seat."

You hesitated. He could see you taking in his attire—not work clothes—and listening in to hear the quiet of the house. You sat down in spite of whatever you were noticing, but you swallowed. "Is— did I do something wrong?"

His brows furrowed. He took a seat across from you. "No, Y/N. You did nothing wrong," he assured you.

"Are you firing me?"

He wondered why you kept jumping to the worst conclusions, but his profile told him exactly why. It wasn't so often that he hoped his profiles were wrong. "No, I'm not firing you."

"Okay, so," you wrung your hands together, "what's wrong then?"

Aaron didn't say anything for a moment, just staring at you. He noted the long-sleeve sweater, even though it wasn't that cold yet. "Is there something wrong?" he prompted.

You stammered, "I— I don't understand." Your hands wouldn't stop moving.

He glanced down at them before making full eye-contact with you. Softly, he said, "Y/N, I don't like to assume things. But I'm afraid that's what I'm paid to do."

Another swallow. "I'm really not sure what you mean."

Hotch had seen tens of kids like you at work. Children of unsubs, victims, and witnesses alike. He saw you whenever he looked at old photo albums of himself as a child, too.

He was hoping he was wrong.

But he wasn't.

He paused, trying to find a way to go about this without causing you to curl into yourself. "Your parents... do they ever hurt you?"

Your eyes widened. "What?"

He repeated himself. "Do they hurt you? Do they leave you home alone for stretches at a time? Are you in that house alone?" Hotch's questions were starting to sound less like questions and more like statements.

Because you both knew everything he was saying was true.

"I—" he watched you get defensive, looking more frustrated than he'd ever seen you—more frustrated than you'd ever allowed yourself to be seen. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" He leaned forward, trying to catch your eyes. "Y/N, I can help you—"

Finally, you broke, and Aaron felt guilty for wanting that outcome. "How?" Tears welled in your eyes. You blinked and one went racing down your cheek. "How can you help me, Mr. Hotchner? Are you— are you gonna alert the authorities and then have me sent to some foster family?" You shook your head. "I— I know you think I'm a kid, but I'm not stupid."

"Y/N, you are a kid." He needed you to believe that. But he needed you to believe what he was going to say next even more. "And you are not alone. You deserve to be supported, just like any kid does."

You sniffled. "And how is that gonna happen?"

Aaron felt a little piece of his heart break. He didn't know how long you'd been in this situation, but it was clear you'd gotten yourself to believe there was no way out of it.

Not if he could help it.

"What if I could get you out and you wouldn't have to go to a foster family?" he proposed. "You could come stay with us."

Now, your eyes widened more than ever. You rapidly declined, shaking your head fervently. "No— no, I couldn't."

Aaron didn't move to touch you at all, too worried he'd overstep a boundary. But he did get closer. "Yes, you could. You wouldn't be imposing. You already help out so much with Jack. It would be fine."

You met his eyes directly, and Aaron could tell that you were at least considering it. "How would you be able to even pull it off?"

"I used to be a lawyer," he reasoned, shrugging. He wanted to be as relaxed as possible so that you knew this wasn't any trouble for him. "I'm confident I can do it."

You wiped your eyes, crossing your arms. Still defensive, but he knew he made it somewhere because you said, "You can try. But— but nothing's going to happen."

He would certainly try. Because Aaron Hotchner wasn't the type of man who just "tried" things. 

He got them done.

3.

Aaron insisted on carrying in your box, despite your protests. It was a single box, a little heavy, and it was quite literally the only thing you had. In his mental checklist of things to do for you, he added: Buy her new clothes.

You had a distinctive style hiding beneath your appearance. Another mental note: Introduce her to Garcia.

He set the box down in your room. It had always been your room, just in case you needed to stay over. Now, it was permanent. 

Just as you were entering the room, his phone chimed. He pulled it from his back pocket, seeing a message from JJ. He didn't have to read it to know what it would say.

It seemed you knew what that meant, too, because you were looking up at him expectantly. Still nervous. Another note (a recurring note): Work on that.

"Sorry, honey. I have a case." It slipped out before he could stop it. Work on that.

You nodded like you didn't notice it at all, perking up just slightly. "That's okay! I can watch Jack for you." If he didn't know any better, he'd say you were happy to see him go. (He knew better).

Work on that.

Still, he felt guilt seeping into his veins. He was pulling out his wallet automatically while simultaneously watching your face drop. "Here," he pulled out a crisp hundred dollar bill, holding it out to you. "Buy yourselves something to eat and then keep the rest."

Your mouth opened and closed, sputtering, "Mr. Ho— sorry— no, not sorry. Aaron. I can't take that."

He raised a brow. "I don't see why not."

"You—" you gestured to him then to the rest of the room, "you're already giving me a place to stay. I can't just take your money."

He found your reasoning ridiculous, but he tried not to show it on his face. You were still all too nervous. Instead, he gently reached for your hand and enclosed it around the paper. "Think of it as an allowance." Parents do that for their kids, he wanted to add. But you weren't his kid, even if it felt like that now more than ever.

Work on that.

"An allowance?" you echoed, breathing a laugh. "You're giving me an allowance even though you're already doing so much for me?"

"You deserve it," he said, still gentle but now a touch firmer. The kind of voice you couldn't quite argue with. "Haley will be home soon. And I promise I'll try to be back as soon as possible."

You nodded, a soft "Okay" leaving your lips. He went to go say goodbye to Jack right after.

It felt like leaving his children. He had to remind himself that he only had one child.

He was working on it.

4.

"Hey, kids, are we feeling like it's a superhero night or an animal night?" Aaron shouted, holding DVDs of Spiderman and Madagascar in alternate hands.

From the kitchen, Jack shouted back, "Episode III!"

Aaron turned to you and gave you a funny look, making you laugh. "Jack, buddy," he groaned, "we watched Episode III the other night."

Jack didn't seem to care, repeating, "Episode III!" as he ran in the living room. Behind him, Haley came running, picking him up and contradictorily scolding him, "Jack! No running in the house. You could get hurt."

She took her seat next to you on the couch, giving you a little smile before looking to Aaron. The smile became a little more exasperated. "Aaron. Don't we think that Star Wars is a little too mature?"

Aaron, for lack of a better word, looked sheepish. For a lawyer, he didn't have much of a rebuttal, and you—taking pity on him—pitched in. "If it makes you feel better, Haley, I was watching much worse when I was his age."

Hotch could tell by the look on her face that it didn't make her feel better, but she still upturned her lips nonetheless. A sigh of defeat left her. "Okay. I suppose Episode III, it is."

Jack cheered while you giggled. Aaron watched the two of you contentedly. His kids. His kid and the kid that wasn't his kid (but felt like it, anyway). It warmed his chest to know that you felt more comfortable participating in family discussions now. And as he stared at you, Jack, and Haley sitting on the couch, that's what this felt like. A family.

He got rid of his initial choices and picked up Episode III, taking the disc out of the casing. He always handled it by the edges with careful fingers, but it was still scratched from previous use. He'd deal with the buffering, though, if it made Jack happy.

The best thing about the suspension from Strauss were these movie nights. Time chasing killers turned into time watching his family grow.

He turned off the lamp and sat down as the opening credits started rolling. Amidst the darkness, Haley's eyes met his. A wordless conversation took place, but he was enough of a profiler and enough of a husband to tell what she was saying. The tilt of her head. The soft quirk of her lips.

See? Isn't this better? Spending more time with your family instead of being halfway across the country?

A small feeling of guilt crept up his spine, knowing there were other things he was missing. He tried not think about them.

Instead, he nodded back to her, and then turned to the TV, watching a movie he'd all but seen countless times.

When he got back to the BAU, he would put in for a transfer to a desk job. It was what was best for his family.

—

Yeah, well, make sure you give your son a kiss before you leave.

Hotch closed his eyes tightly, reaching a red light. Haley's words had been echoing throughout his head the entire time he was in Milwaukee. Time had passed since he last saw her, but the conversation still played through his head on a loop.

I can't just switch off my loyalty, Haley.

Who are you being loyal to?

He didn't know how to balance it. How to be the husband and father his family needed and a leader for his team. He was trying. He wanted to make it right—he needed to make it right.

He pulled into his driveway, quickly slinging his bag across his shoulder and beelining for the door. All the lights in the house were off except for the kitchen, so he hoped Haley was still awake and that he could talk to her. That he could make it right.

But when he walked into the kitchen and found you sitting at the dining table, his confident step halted. "Y/N?"

When you looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, he nearly forgot what he was doing in the first place. 

He dropped his go-bag to the ground, rushing to the seat next to you. "Hey, hey, hey, what's wrong?" 

His hands found your forearms effortlessly, like comforting you was an evolutionary instinct he couldn't control. And, truthfully, he couldn't.

His mind was already running a mile a minute, doing mental calculations to tell how long you'd been sitting here, alone, crying to yourself. He started to wonder where Haley was, but then—

You sniffled, "Aaron, I'm so sorry." You couldn't get through saying his name without your voice breaking.

Aaron's left hand moved to wipe a tear as it fell. "Sh, sweet girl," he whispered, wiping away another tear like he'd been caring for you his whole life. "What could you possibly need to be sorry about?"

"I— I couldn't stop her. I tried." You shook your head lightly. "But I couldn't stop her."

Suddenly, Aaron understood exactly what you were saying, no matter the wobble of your voice. His heart dropped into his stomach. 

Make sure you give your son a kiss before you leave.

He knew what happened, but, if not just to torture himself, he asked, "They're gone?" It wasn't a question.

Slowly, you nodded. He blew a breath through his lips. They're gone.

He was halfway through processing it when you spoke up. "Aaron, I am so sorry. I swear, I can leave—"

He was pulled out of his trance by your apology, making him pinch his brows together and cut you off. "Y/N." He faced you head-on; you didn't look away. That was good, because he needed you to hear what he was saying. In the same manner he talked to his team, he firmly said, "This is not your fault."

You didn't look convinced, protesting immediately, "No, I showed up and then look what happened—"

"Y/N." He re-positioned his hands so they rested on your shoulders. Then, he repeated himself. "This did not happen because of you. Haley and I had an argument about my work. This is my fault, not yours."

The dam in your eyes broke despite what he said. "I'm sorry."

He engulfed you in his arms without a second thought, and you quickly returned the embrace. Your cries tugged on his heartstrings like you were a musician and he was a guitar. He shushed you, wanting to make this terrible song end. "Sh, you have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart."

He didn't know if you believed him. He rubbed your back hoping you would understand that he was telling the truth. But the truth was simple.

You still believed you had to apologize for your existence. His act of leaving to join the case had set you back months in confidence.

And it set him and Haley back years in their marriage.

But he just kept rubbing your back, kept holding you, in hopes that he could keep at least one part of his family.

5.

It'd been a few months since Haley left. Aaron had been working through divorce proceedings with her. They agreed that she should have full custody of Jack, who was too young and deserved a kind of stability that the unit chief of the BAU couldn't provide. You, on the other hand, stayed with Hotch. You asked to stay with him, so you did.

There were some undeniable facts of your relationship with Aaron, including the fact that you would be leaving for university sometime soon. Haley believed you shouldn't be moved around so often, so she let Aaron keep the house. At least for the time being.

"What about Georgetown?" he suggested. "I went there for my undergrad before GWU."

The two of you were sat at the dinner table yet again. The difference this time was that college pamphlets were scattered across the table.

"Or, if you don't want to be in DC, I have a colleague who vouches for Yale tremendously. Another for CalTech, but you haven't mentioned anything about technology, so I assumed—" he glanced away from the pamphlets momentarily, seeing your wringing your hands nervously. He turned his full attention. "Hey, are you okay?"

You opened your mouth, but then it looked like you swallowed the words. He waited patiently for you to be able to express what was wrong. Finally, you said, "Aaron, I don't think I can go to any of these schools you're talking about."

He furrowed his brows, confused as ever. "Why not? You have the grades to do it. I've read your report card." Your senior grades had improved immensely since you started living with the Hotchners. You qualified for all the advanced classes you wished to take. You just took the SAT. In his mind, you could make it anywhere.

You opened and closed your mouth again. This time, he knew you had the words, but you were clearly reluctant to share them. "It's not about that."

He tilted his head. "Then what is it about?"

All the telltale signs of a flush appeared on your face, signalling that you were embarrassed. He was even more confused, but you explained, "I don't... I don't have the money for Georgetown or Yale, or... anywhere, really."

Realization dawned on him. "Y/N—"

"I mean, I'm not a super-athlete, so I can't really get any major scholarships, and financial aid won't pay nearly enough—"

He called your name a second time. "Y/N." You stopped rambling, choosing to gnaw at your bottom lip instead. And, for what felt like the thousandth time, Aaron felt his heart snap in half at the look on your face.

He wasn't your dad. He wasn't. But you felt like you didn't have any parent to turn to at all, and that caused a burning in his chest that nothing could get rid of.

He maintained eye contact with you and tried to keep his voice steady, despite the lump growing in the back of his throat. "You don't ever have to worry about that. You can go wherever and do whatever you want. Let me take care of the money." That's what parents do for their kids.

You chuckled the same way you did whenever he gave you money. Only this time, you were discussing a lot more than a hundred dollars. But to Aaron, the dollar value didn't matter.

You were worth every penny.

"You can't keep spending all this money on me—"

"I have the money," he interrupted. He tried to lighten the mood by adding, "You're not going to put a dent in my wallet, I promise."

It clearly worked, because your lips curved up into a smile. Albeit, it was bittersweet, but you were smiling, nonetheless. "Aaron, you have a kid who's probably going to go to college, too—"

"Don't worry about that," he said. "Just let me take care of this." Let me take care of you.

You bowed your head down, and he knew he had you. Still, you insisted, "I will get a part-time job, and I will help pay."

He smiled one of his rare smiles. They were never rare around you. "Sure, sweetheart." He picked back up the first pamphlet he saw. "Now, what about UPenn?"

He didn't say You're my kid, too. But somehow, he hoped you heard it.

+1

Hotch sat at his desk, reading over reports from his team. He skimmed them, checking everything was correct before he signed his name in black ink. 30 minutes in, and the stack on his desk still stood tall.

He was halfway through signing when the telephone rang. He picked it up without lifting the pen from paper. "Hotchner."

"Uh, hi, sir." He raised a brow at the sound of Anderson's voice, already moving onto the next file. "There's a kid here to see you."

He paused, the file still mid-air. "A kid?"

"Yeah, says her name's Y/N." Aaron dropped the file onto his desk; it would have to wait until later. It wasn't even noon yet—you were supposed to be in school. "She's not listed on any log, so they called me down to verify—"

"Bring her up," Aaron ordered. He hung up the phone and stood up in the same breath, heading for the door. His gut churned with something intuitive, knowing you wouldn't be here if something wasn't wrong. He'd meet you at the elevator.

He took the steps down from his office two at a time, finding Rossi at the bottom. With a coffee cup in cand, the greying man raised his brows. "Case?"

Aaron's response was automatic. He said it without thinking about the implications or the weight his words held. "No, it's my daughter."

He didn't wait around to see the way Rossi's brows raised even higher. He didn't even wait to process what he said himself. He strode toward the elevator with his heart thumping louder by the second.

He got there just as the doors were opening. As soon as your face was in view, he could've sworn his heart stopped.

Because, even though it was faint, he could see the unmistakable beginnings of a black eye.

He got his bearings, racing to you. Anderson seemed to get the memo, stepping away while Aaron wrapped his arms around you. He barely gave you the chance to hug back before he was pulling away, holding onto your shoulders. "Sweetheart, what happened?"

You gave him a pained smile—pained because you were nervous and because it looked like it was actually hurting you to do. "We should probably get out the elevator before I dive into the details," you joked.

Through profiling Through living with you, Aaron had learned that you didn't take your trauma seriously. You liked to joke about things or deny that they ever happened. But considering that you were there, giving him a heart attack, he figured that you did plan on telling him.

Trying to calm his heart, he stepped out of the elevator, his hand on your back. He nodded to Anderson, telling him in no words to go away.

He turned back to you, his eyes practically gluing themselves to your bruise. He all but demanded, "What happened?"

You sighed. "Don't freak out."

He might as well have just blown a fuse. "Honey, I'm not sure if you're aware, but I'm kind of already freaking out."

You took a deep breath, and then you let the words speed out of your mouth. "I got into Georgetown, but Stephanie didn't, and it was her dream school, and she hates me, so she hit me, but don't worry, it doesn't even hurt!"

Aaron blinked, trying to process everything you just said. Then, a smile spread across his face. "You got into Georgetown?'

You let out another sigh—of relief, this time—and you reciprocated his expression. "Yes."

You weren't even finished enunciating before Aaron was engulfing you into his arms again, making you squeal as your feet lifted off the ground. He knew by now that agents must've turned in your direction, but he couldn't find the will to care about anything but the fact that you into university and—

His eyes narrowed, and he set you down. "Who is this Stephanie girl?"

You screwed your eyes shut, then opened them again because it likely hurt. "I thought the whole Georgetown part trumped the Stephanie part."

"It did. Momentarily. Now, who is she?" He crossed his arms together, slipping back into his work persona almost seamlessly. "I can have Garcia find her. I'll make sure she doesn't get into any university on grounds of violence toward another student—"

You stopped him, putting your hands on his arms. "Dad. I'm fine, I promise." It took you a few seconds to realize what you said, but Aaron realized instantly.

Dad.

You called him dad.

If his heart didn't stop before, it certainly stopped now.

You slapped your hands on your mouth, your eyes going wide. "Oh, my gosh, I'm so—"

He didn't let you finish whatever apology you were going to spout, opting to give you his third hug of the day. You shut up immediately.

With wet eyes, he muttered, "I told you, Y/N. You don't need to apologize for everything."

"I'm s— right. You're right."

He huffed a small laugh. You were the most endearing person he'd ever met. He'd even forget about Stephanie—momentarily—so that he could be here, with you. 

He kissed your temple and didn't hesitate before he told you, "I love you, kid."

You went stiff for a moment, and he almost got worried, but you soon relaxed, hugging him even tighter. "I love you, too, dad."

And in that moment, Aaron knew that, no matter your blood, you were his kid through and through.

He would never reject the thought ever again.

Double Bonus!

Inside the bullpen, the BAU had ceased pretending to do work. Their paperwork lied exactly where they left it as they crowded around Spencer's desk, peaking out to the glass doors where their boss stood with a girl with a black eye in front of the elevators.

"Look, he's hugging her again!" Emily whisper-yelled, smacking Spencer's arm.

"Ow," he muttered, but no one paid him any mind.

"Do you think she's his girlfriend? Ooh, or a long, lost niece!" Garcia guessed.

Morgan made a face. "Ew. She looks like a kid. I doubt Hotch would ever go that young." He shuddered at the thought, despite having no idea how old you were. He nudged Reid on his other shoulder. "Reid, c'mon, pretty boy. Read those lips. What are they saying out there?"

"I'm trying!" he defended. "The girl was talking too fast for me to tell what she was saying." He spun around in his chair, facing his colleagues. "Given his behaviour, though, I would say she has to be some form of close family. She's far too young for her and Hotch to be romantically involved. There are around 439 teenagers in the immediate Quantico area. If you include the rest of the Washington Metropolitan Area, where Hotch lives, that's 819,578—"

This time, Garcia pushed him. "Shut up, nerd, they're talking again!"

Reid turned back around, his eyes squinting and flying over your lips to see what you were saying. "She's talking about someone named Stephanie."

"Stephanie?" Prentiss echoed. "Who's Stephanie?"

"I don't know," he answered, watching as your lips stopped moving. "I think Hotch's is saying something now. I don't—" he cut himself off, his eyes widening.

"What? What, pretty boy, what is it?"

"I—" Reid was having a hard time jumpstarting his brain again, stuck in shock. "She just called him dad."

"What?" Garcia screeched.

Emily followed up with, "No way. She's like seventeen!"

"How the hell is that possible?" Derek asked. "He's never said anything." At the sight of Rossi passing by with what looked like his second coffee of the day, Derek called to him. "Hey, Rossi!"

Rossi stopped walking, turning to them with an all-too-smug and all-too-knowing look on his face. He looked them up and down. "What do you nosy kids want?"

"What's this about Hotch having a daughter?" Morgan interrogated, crossing his arms.

Rossi glanced out to the elevators then turned back to the team. A smirk grew on his face. "It's true." He shrugged, already starting to walk away. In a sing-song voice, he confirmed, "She's his kid."

With those three simple words, choas erupted in the bullpen. 

Hotch would have to deal with it later.

After all, that's what parents do for their kids.

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[ssa-danhotchner]

lover, you should've come over | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!fem!reader

warnings: angst

wc:1.3

Of all the nights for the sky to open wide and weep, of course it had to be tonight.

From the window of your small apartment—the one you’d promised was just temporary, just a stepping-stone—you watched the rain fall in sheets across the parking lot, cascading over the gutters, bouncing off windshields, turning the asphalt into running rivers of grief. The streetlamp flickered, then glowed steadily through the curtain of gray. Somewhere in the distance, thunder grumbled low like a wounded animal.

Hands wrapped around a mug of now-cold coffee, you didn’t blink. Couldn’t. Because every time your eyes closed, he was there. Aaron.

Hotch.

Your Hotch.

Except… he wasn’t yours anymore.

The silence in the apartment was deafening, but it was easier than music. Music would make you think in words again, in lyrics that would crack open your chest. So instead, you listened to the rain. You tried not to think about how it seemed to mock you; you’d once told him that rain felt cathartic, poetic even. He’d smiled that tiny smile, that sideways, secret thing of his, and said of course you’d find poetry in a thunderstorm.

God, how many lifetimes had passed since then?

You pressed your forehead to the cool windowpane. Below, a funeral procession shuffled through the cemetery across the street—black umbrellas, slow steps, the sharp hiss of tires rolling through puddles. Even grief had company, had shared sorrow. You wondered if those mourners knew how lucky they were not to be alone.

Because that’s how you felt now.

Alone

You’d walked away. You’d told yourself you had to. That he was too wrapped in tragedy, too wounded by a lifetime of sacrifices and losses. You thought you could wait for him to heal, but the ache of loving him in silence had hollowed you out. So you tried to save yourself before you drowned. You left with shaky hands and a suitcase full of what-ifs.

Maybe you were too young to know how to keep love from going all wrong. Maybe you never really stood a chance once you allowed yourself to love someone like Aaron Hotchner.

But tonight… tonight he’s on your mind.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but memories crawl beneath your skin: his hand cradling the back of your neck when he kissed you, tender but possessive; his laugh in the rare dark hours after a case, head thrown back on the sofa as you curled into his side; his whispered “stay” when you tried to leave his bed to answer your phone, his voice rough with sleep and maybe fear that you’d vanish without warning.

You had stayed, then. But not forever.

“Where are you tonight?” your whisper fogged the glass.

You imagine him — maybe sitting in his office long after everyone else has gone home, lamp casting golden light over case files he doesn’t really see. Maybe his fingers skim over his phone again and again without dialing your number. Maybe he aches too, but keeps it buried under layers of steel and self-denial.

It would be so easy to call him. Walking away didn’t erase the part of you that still belongs to him. You’re too old to pretend it didn’t mean anything, too tired to keep pretending you don’t want to run back into his arms, crash right into that dangerous, overwhelming love.

But would he even answer? Would he want to?

Sometimes a man gets carried away, you think. Sometimes he wakes up and realizes he’s managed to lose the one thing he never thought he could.

You have tried to move on. Dated half-heartedly. Let nice men buy you drinks and tell you you’re beautiful. But none of them could make you forget the sound of Hotch’s voice murmuring your name like a prayer, or the way he made your world feel steady even when it was spinning out of control.

None of them tasted like coming home.

And now… now your body aches with the need to close the distance, to bridge the silence, to go back.

Could you?

Would he even let you?

“I’ll wait for you, love,” you murmur to the empty room. “And I’ll burn.”

You bring the mug to your lips, but the liquid is bitter and lifeless. Just like everything else since you left him. Sleep has become a myth—you toss and turn, bedsheets cold no matter how many blankets you pile on. You wake up reaching instinctively for a man who’s no longer there, fingertips brushing against nothing but loneliness.

Your kingdom, you think with a dry, broken laugh. You’d give your kingdom for a single kiss to his shoulder. For the sound of his smile against your skin. For the silky, rough slide of his palm down your spine.

It’s never over, not really. Because he is the tear that hangs in your soul forever.

The grief is endless, and yet…

It hits you with sudden clarity—the thunder, the rain, the aching pulse of your heart.

You still love him.

And maybe—maybe it isn’t too late.

The puddles shimmer in the parking lot. You grab your keys.

---

The drive to Quantico is a blur of wet asphalt and windshield wipers whipping furiously. You don’t think. You just move. Because if you think, you’ll panic. If you think, you’ll talk yourself out of the biggest leap of faith you’ve ever taken.

You pull into the nearly-empty parking garage beneath the BAU building. His car is there, shadowed but unmistakable. Your knees wobble as you step out onto the concrete, clutching your coat tight to your body as the storm’s wind howls through the open edges of the garage.

The elevator ride feels endless. You catch your reflection in the mirrored door – eyes wild, hair wind-tangled, lips bitten raw. There’s a flush to your skin that has nothing to do with running through rain and everything to do with hope.

Ding.

The bullpen lights are dim. Everything is silent except for the hum of computers in sleep mode and the distant rumble of thunder outside.

And then… his office. The door cracked open. Light spilling in a warm pool.

You swallow.

Take one step forward.

Then another.

Your hands shake so badly you don’t bother to knock. You simply push the door wider.

He’s standing by the window, jacket draped over his chair, white shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms. His tie is gone. He looks tired—devastatingly, breathtakingly tired. But beautiful. Always beautiful.

His head snaps toward you.

The moment his eyes land on you, something in you almost breaks under the weight of it.

He says your name, his voice is low, rough, like gravel and velvet all at once. As if saying your name tastes both forbidden and familiar. “What are you—“

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, stepping inside before you lose your nerve. Your voice trembles, but your eyes don’t leave his. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have… I thought I was protecting myself but all I did was hurt both of us.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at you with an expression you can’t read—shock, fury, pain, hope? All of it?

Your heart pounds so hard you think you might faint.

“I still love you,” you whisper, tears pressing against your lashes. “And if you tell me you don’t want me anymore, I’ll walk out right now. I swear. But I had to try. Because I can’t do this anymore, Aaron. I miss your voice. I miss your laugh. I miss being yours. I—”

You choke on a sob. He hasn’t moved. A fresh wave of humiliation burns in your gut. “I’m probably making a fool of myself. I’m sorry. I’ll—“

“Don’t,” he rasps, stepping forward so fast it startles you. “Don’t go."

It is all the warning you get before his arms wrap around you, crushing you to his chest. He buries his face in your hair, breath shuddering.

You cling to him like a drowning woman grabbing hold of a lifeline. His warmth seeps into you, as if thawing you from the inside out.

“I tried to forget,” he says against your temple, voice fractured. “I tried… but it’s never stopped hurting. You left and it…” He pulls back slightly, cups your face in his hands. His thumbs swipe at your tears. “I thought I lost you forever.”

“I thought you were better off without me,” you whisper brokenly.

He exhales in something like disbelief. “I’m not. I’ll never be.”

You reach up, fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “Can we try again?”

His answer is a kiss: fierce, burning, desperate. It’s not gentle. It’s a reclamation, a plea, a prayer. You melt, your knees almost giving way as he backs you into the wall, one hand splayed against the small of your back, the other tangled in your hair.

When you part, you’re both gasping.

“I love you,” he says it like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes for the chance. “And I don’t want to waste another moment.”

You laugh through your tears, brushing your lips to his again and again. “Aaron,” you breathe, tasting the rain on his mouth—or maybe those are your own tears.

Outside the storm keeps raging, but inside his office it’s just you and him, wrapped in the heat of something that never died. That couldn’t die.

“Stay,” he whispers against your lips. “This time… stay.”

You press your forehead to his, smiling through the ache.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

As thunder shakes the sky and water drums against the windows, you finally let yourself believe: it’s not too late.

Not for you.

Not for him.

Not for this love that refuses to grow cold.

Because you’ve come over this time.

And you’re never turning back.

[ssa-danhotchner]

The Pause

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, Derek Morgan x reader Summary: 6 times Derek and Hotch call while he's in Pakistan, and 5 times they talk about you. Warnings: assistant!reader, angst and fluff, back in the s6-s7 gap, references to doyle arc, cm-level violence Eps incl: S7E1 (it takes a village) Words: 2K

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Morgan and Hotch set up a system before he left: weekly calls. Not so often that it felt meddling or that it interfered with Hotch's work, but enough so he could still guage how his team was doing. Sometimes (more often than not), they'd miss a call if the team took a case.

They only talked about what was happening in Quantico. Derek would ask about Pakistan, to be polite, but he never got any straight answers.

Call #1

Derek threw a rubber ball into the air, catching it. "So how are things over there?"

On the other end of the line, Hotch barely hesitated. "Hot. Any new cases recently?"

"Yeah, we had a serial in Manassas. 3 victims. Found the unsub, shut it down, saved the fourth victim," he recapped, saving the actual details of the case. These calls weren't long enough for that. "I've got Y/N scanning to see what we're doing next."

There was a pause. No profiler wouldn't have noticed. Then— "How is she?"

They both heard the way he asked, like he didn't want to. Like he knew he shouldn't, but couldn't help himself. 

Morgan sighed. "She's fine," he said. Knowing Hotch wouldn't be satisfied with that, he added, "She's working." He left out the part where you drank in Hotch's office the day you found out he left, or how your concealer didn't cover the sleepless nights anymore.

"Working," Hotch repeated, sounding like he was testing the word, trying to figure out what it meant. He cleared his throat. "Right. Would you get her on the line next time? I'd like to speak to her."

Morgan agreed, "Yeah, I'll tell her." He didn't say that he didn't think you'd want to be there, and he didn't say why.

They both knew why.

"Update me on the next case."

"Will do."

Call #2

Derek started setting up the phone to call Hotch when you walked into his office.

"Hey, Morgan, I think I have a case for us," you said, glancing down at your tablet. You were settling into this new role seamlessly, fulfilling multiple responsibilities simultaneously without taking credit. Derek made a mental note to talk to you about that.

He looked up at you, knowing the case would have to wait. "I'll look at it in a sec." Remembering Hotch's request to him, he held the phone out to you. "I'm about to have Hotch on a secure line. You can brief him on the case, too, if you want?"

He saw the second your face dropped and knew automatically what your answer would be. He'd already brought it up to you before, and Hotch had asked to speak to you two phone calls ago, but your answer would still be no.

"No, that's alright. I'll e-mail you the file."

You were turning around before your name could even finish exiting his mouth, leaving him to sigh. 

He didn't blame you for not wanting to call. He just didn't know how to explain that to his boss. He wasn't sure if you knew how to explain it, either.

He began to dial the number, anyway. Hotch answered on the third ring. 

"Hotchner."

"Hey, man. We're about to take a case." He opened his tablet, finding your e-mail instantly. "Kentucky."

"Okay. Has Strauss spoken to you at all?"

Morgan's face contorted in displeasure, knowing he'd have to say your name. "No. Barely. Y/N's been handling all administrative communications."

Yet another pause from Hotch, even though he normally had rapid-fire questions. Derek used that opportunity to skate around the potential questions about why you weren't there. "The rest of the team is fine. Reid's bouncing back, I think. Garcia's picking up new hobbies like they're stuffed animals. Rossi's... Rossi."

"And Seaver?"

Derek almost forgot about her. "She transferred over to Domestic Trafficking. Swann requested her." He shrugged. "It's tough with a team of 4, but we're making ends meet." 

Derek didn't mean for that to be a jab, but the way Hotch inhaled slightly told him it came of that way, anyway.

Hotch didn't mention it. "Okay. Call me if anything happens."

Derek nodded like Hotch could see him, already getting up to head to the briefing. "I will."

Call #3

"JJ's back with the team. She's training to be a profiler," Derek said. "It's the only way the brass allowed her back. We argued we needed someone with previous profiling experience, and JJ had just the right amount."

Both Morgan and Hotch knew that when he said 'we,' he meant you. But Hotch didn't question that. "Okay, that sounds fine. It's good for the team."

"It is. I'm surprised the State let it happen." Another thing Morgan left out was that, even if it was good for the team, he wasn't sure it was good for you. But he was getting good at leaving those details out. He felt less bad each time.

But Hotch knew better. "How's Y/N taking it?" he asked.

Derek closed his eyes. Of course, he'd know. He wondered why Hotch would leave if he knew you so well, but many of his questions didn't have answers these days.

"She's... adjusting," he responded. "It's a pretty big jump. But she's doing most of the communications work. JJ only helps here and there."

"Does she need the help?" He was still asking about you.

Derek didn't have to think about his answer. "No. She's a natural for this kind of stuff. It's like she's been doing it her whole life." 

He wondered how often you had to clean up messes or spin stories to get so good at it. He figured Hotch would have better insight.

You worked for Hotch when he was still a prosecutor. He knew you. He knew what leaving would do to you after so many changes had already happened within the team.

But he did it, anyway.

In that regard, Morgan could understand why you refused to take part in these phone calls. He understood why you were sitting in your office at that very moment, knowing this call was taking place, yet you still kept your distance.

His cellphone chimed with a message, making him look down at it. It was listed with your contact.

Case.

The call had to be cut short. "Hey, we just got a case. I have to go."

Hotch said the same thing he said every time. "Okay. Update me with what happens."

"Got it."

Call #4

Derek tapped the telephone against the desk rhythmically. He didn't want to make this call. But he knew he had to.

He brought the phone to his ear, clicking the numbers the way he always did. Three rings.

"Hotchner."

"It's Morgan," he greeted. "We finished up that case in Charleston."

"And? How'd it go?"

Derek hesitated. "Y/N ended up taking the unsub down."

He could hear Hotch's face twist through the phone. "Y/N?"

Morgan wet his lips and then he started explaining himself. "Unsub was Carter Wilson. We profiled he'd be irritable, insecure. We had him at his house, but he had the victim there. Our best bet was to send a woman in, and JJ was at his workplace. Y/N insisted—it was our only option."

He told himself that you insisted, that it was their only option, but he knew it was his call. It was his call that got you— "Was she hurt?" Hotch questioned. Not if Vanessa Peters was alive. Not if the unsub was alive. 

You.

Derek didn't sugarcoat anything. "Yes. The unsub cut her while she was taking him down. She ended up shooting him with her second gun."

Morgan knew exactly where you got the inspiration to keep a gun on your ankle. So did Hotch.

Hotch sighed. "She shouldn't be in harm's way," he said. It sounded like he was reprimanding you and Morgan as much as he was reprimanding himself.

"I know," Derek admitted. There was no other way to put it. But these were the risks of being in the BAU. The risk of being in the field meant you could get hurt. The risk of being given sidearms was that you'd eventually use them. But it was better than the risk of you not having a gun at all.

"Is she okay?"

Derek's lips twitched upward. This was the first time he felt like he didn't have to lie about your mental state. "Yeah. She was all smiles after."

Pause. Then, Hotch echoed, "That sounds like her." It was you.

It was all you.

Morgan and Hotch ended up being on the phone longer that night, even though not many words were said.

Call #5

"How's the team doing?" Hotch started.

Derek blew a breath through his lips. "Good. They're settling into a rhythm now." Rhythm. He tried not to think of how you danced with him in his office, how you kissed him as the beat dropped. He tried not to think of ride or die, or this is real for me.

It felt wrong, like betrayal. He knew there wasn't really anything to betray, nothing with a label, but there was something. Something neither you nor Hotch named. And so he felt guilty.

But he knew that, if Hotch found out in that moment, he couldn't apologize. He wouldn't. Not after finally finding out what it was like to kiss you. Not when Hotch had the chance and left.

So, really, he felt guilty for not feeling guilty enough.

"That's good," Hotch replied, not making any moves to extend it beyond that.

Morgan knew it was only a matter of seconds before he asked about you. It was never if—always when. So he spared Hotch the trouble and said, "L/N's been doing really good handling the press and local police." Using your last name was a form of distance; he could still feel your name on his lips from that morning. 

Hotch didn't need to know that. 

Slowly, Morgan told him, "I'm thinking of offering her the gig full time."

He was met with silence on the other end. He knew what he was proposing. He wanted to give you a position where you could be fully recognized for what you did. But doing so would also give you a position independent of Hotch.

Hotch had been doing this job with you for so long that Derek didn't know if he'd be able to do it without you. 

That's why he didn't think Hotch would even entertain the idea, let alone say yes. But when his voice sounded, softer than Morgan had ever heard it, he was proven wrong.

"I think that's a great idea."

Call #6

"Morgan, I didn't authorize this."

Derek fought the urge to sigh, jumping to defend himself and the cause he was arguing for. "I know you didn't, Hotch, but listen to me. I think Doyle may have found Declan, too."

Hotch responded just the way Morgan expected him to. "Alright, I'm coming back."

"You want me to wait?" he questioned.

"Morgan, it could be a trap. You make sure you have eyes on Doyle."

"And if it is him?"

"Then you take the shot."

"Okay." Derek hung up the phone thereafter, planning to go tell the rest of the team all the while thinking about what this meant. He was going to go find Doyle. And Hotch was coming back.

He didn't know what that meant for you—for the both of you.

You and Derek had been living in this pause, under the assumption that things would resume. It was the pause before Hotch would ask about you over the phone. The pause before JJ declared Emily was dead. The pause before you told him to kiss you again.

Now, Hotch was coming back, and that changed things.

The pause was over.

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[ssa-danhotchner]

The Hotchner Charm

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, Derek Morgan x reader Summary: You meet Jack Hotchner. Warnings: assistant!reader, angst, brief flirting (this is a slow burn ppl) Eps incl: S1E7 (The Fox) Words: 978

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a/n: 2 updates in a day? i'm shocked. officially the shortest thing i've ever written

"He's so gorgeous," JJ cooed. You couldn't find the will to disagree with her.

The newest addition to the Hotchner family, Jack, was in Hotch's arms. You didn't think you'd ever seen Hotch smile as hard as he was in that moment. He looked so proud to be a father. You couldn't have been happier for him, even if your heart hurt a little.

You smiled just as hard, focusing your attention on the bundle of joy he was rocking. "She's right," you said. 

Haley thanked you right as Spencer commented, "If you find baldness and wrinkles attractive."

You only laughed slightly, hitting him on the chest at the same as Garcia. "Look at his little widdy biddy nose." You laughed again, seeing Morgan come up behind you from your periphery. Garcia glanced at him, her grin widening. "Don't you want one of these?"

Derek threw an arm around your shoulders, humming like he was contemplating. Then he smirked right at you. "I'll stick to practicing."

He walked off right after, leaving you to cover up how flustered you were by scoffing a laugh. He did that often: flirting with you and not even giving you the time to respond, smirking as he watched you flush. This time, everyone else was too enthralled by Jack to notice a thing. 

Elle walked up to you guys, curtly congratulating the couple. Hotch and Haley responded in unison, "Thanks." 

You looked away from the perfect couple—more for your sake than anyone else's—meeting Elle's eyes. The look on her face told you there was a case. Bad. You didn't exactly feel excited by the fact.

Hotch went on, praising his wife. "She's amazing. I'm a little terrified."

Haley chuckled, her eyes flitting to you before going back to Hotch. "Well, uh, we should get going."

Awkwardly, Spencer raised a hand to wave at her while Hotch put the baby back in the stroller. "A pleasure seeing you, Mrs. Hotchner."

Haley waved back, but her eyes went back to you, lighting up with possibility. "Y/N, do you mind if we talk for a second?"

Your brows raised. You looked to Hotch, but he only nodded at you in approval, now looking as though he was suppressing a smile. 

You were more than confused, but you looked back at the blonde with the same practiced smile. "Of course. We can head to my office."

Hotch bid Haley goodbye, the rest of team parting ways to prepare for the briefing while you led Haley to your office. It only occurred to you once you reached the stairs that your office was at the top of the landing, same as Hotch's, and there was no ramp.

You turned back to Haley apologetically. "I'm sorry, it completely slipped my mind—"

She waved you off. "Oh, don't worry about it. I'll just take him out of the stroller." Haley unstrapped him and picked him up, suddenly turning to you. "Actually! Do you want to hold him?"

Your eyes went wide. "Uh—" you cut yourself off, at a loss for words. You didn't know how exactly to say that you were afraid you forgot how. "I—"

Haley kept shining brighter than the sun. "Come on, I'm sure you'll be a natural. I'll guide you." Without waiting, Haley ushered him into your arms. You quickly adapted, holding him and adjusting your hands the way she said to.

Once you were holding him just right, she stepped back. Still shining, she gushed, "Gosh, I wish I would've grabbed my camera. You're amazing." She truly had no idea how scared you were, because she only gestured to the stairs. "Lead the way."

"Right," you muttered under your breath, walking up the stairs slower than you normally did, hyperaware of the baby in your arms. Hyperaware of whose baby it was.

Haley opened the door for you once you told her which one it was, since your hands were full. You went to lean against the desk, and only once you stopped moving did you look at Jack.

The smile on your face became a little more real. He frowned in his sleep. It reminded you all too well of his father.

Remembering his mother was right in front of you, you looked back up, trying to look as unaffected as possible. "So, what's up?"

Haley wrung her hands together, walking so she that she could stand right next to you against the desk.  "Well... Aaron and I had something to ask you." Your brows furrowed. "I knew it'd be easier if he could just do it, but I asked him if I could do the honours."

"What is it?"

She glanced at Jack, then back at you. Softly, she asked, "How would you feel about being Jack's godmother?"

Your mouth fell open. You, too, glanced down at Jack before meeting her eyes again. Breathily, you asked, "What?" You didn't know you'd be rendered speechless so many times in one day.

She explained, "I know you and Aaron hadn't talked in a while before you started working here. But I think the only person he could possibly trust more than you is Gideon. And— well, he's not exactly what I picture when I think 'godparent.'"

You and Haley shared a laugh at that, but it didn't stop the tears from building in your eyes. You didn't know what to say. You didn't even know how to feel.

"Haley..."

She placed a hand on your shoulder, looking at you the same way Hotch did when he asked you to come work for him. "Please say yes."

You looked back down at Jack and realized that maybe they were all just like this. Maybe the problem wasn't you. It was just the Hotchner charm.

So, you looked back up at her and gave her your best, bittersweet smile of the day. 

"Yes."

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[ssa-danhotchner]

The Sweetest Thing

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, Derek Morgan x reader Summary: Hotch rereads the letter he wrote you. Warnings: just some silent pining, unspecified time but after s7 Words: 1.2K

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a/n: here is the letter! this gif only bugs me bc hotch is canon left-handed.

Hotch sat in his office, idly tapping his pen against his desk. He had a stack of papers lying there, waiting for his signature. I's to be dotted, T's to be crossed.

Matters that needed his attention were waiting. Yet his attention was drawn by what was happening in the bullpen.

You, laughing at something Morgan said. Your smile radiated across the room just the way he remembered. He'd almost forgotten what it looked like.

You smiled less around him, but that didn't mean you smiled less. If anything, you smiled more.

Morgan's back was turned to his office window, but he could imagine he was grinning back at you. He treated making you laugh like it was his duty; whenever he succeeded, he didn't even look satisfied. Just hungry, waiting for the next chance to do it again.

Hotch swallowed, looking back down at his desk. He had work to do.

But, like his hands had a mind of their own, he found himself opening the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a white envelope. The seal was broken. It had long since been opened.

Not by you.

He'd resigned himself to the fact that it would never be opened by you.

Slowly, he pulled the papers out the envelope and unfolded them. 

He didn't need to read it. He'd already memorized what it said and could recite it back word-for-word without any eidetic memory necessary, but there was something about seeing the words on the page.

His chest twisted as his eyes met black ink.

Dear Y/N,

I know you have many questions, but I want to start by stating how sorry I am. I don't know how much weight those words will hold, but I am sorry. By the time you receive this letter, I'll already be gone. Strauss asked me to lead an investigative task force in Pakistan; the order came from above her, and there was nothing we could do. You know firsthand the kind of scrutiny the BAU is under; we aren't in a position to make demands, not without compromising the team altogether. I didn't tell you because I knew you would've tried to fight it, but we couldn't. 

If I know you half as well as I think I do, then I know you're angry with me. I'm sorry for leaving, and I'm sorry for not saying anything. I couldn't tell you. What I can tell you is that I didn't make this decision lightly. I don't want to leave the team, nor do I want to leave Jack. Perhaps most of all, I dont want to leave you. I know you've been struggling these past few months. You don't ask for help nearly as much as you should, you shoulder everything by yourself, and I didn't want to add my absence as another thing for you to worry about.

You are the force holding this team together. You have held me together more times than I can count and more times than I have ever thanked you for. I can't quantify my gratitude in words. You have been by my side for nearly a decade, but I want you to know you are so much more to me than an assistant. I've left Morgan in charge of the team, and I want you to know that your position here will be upheld. I will be gone, but that doesn't mean you're going anywhere. You are an asset to the bureau and this team. Moreover, you are undoubtedly the reason I am still standing.

You are my right hand, my greatest confidant, and my best friend. I kick myself for bringing you to the BAU, for letting you witness the horrors you've seen, but you are the greatest decision I have ever made. I write that knowing you are more than a decision. Not a single inch of your success should be attributed to me. You are incredible, and you only have yourself to thank. I suppose that is why I fell for you. 

I agree that it is cruel for me to tell you any of this in a letter, but I couldn't leave without telling you, even if I lack the courage to tell you face to face. I love you, Y/N. I think I've been in love with you for longer than I've allowed myself to admit. I don't expect you to respond, but please talk to me when we get the chance. I'll call. I'm aware I don't deserve the courtesy of hearing your voice after denying you of an explanation, but please take this letter as a peace offering. 

I love you. Please take care of yourself.

Hotch

He dropped the letter onto his desk after he reread it twice. You didn't take his calls. He didn't blame you. You never even knew he asked.

He sighed, taking a glance out into the bullpen. You and Morgan were gone, back in your own offices. 

At some point, you'd knock on his door and drop off your files. You'd tell him which cases needed priority, which cases to keep an eye on, which cases had already been solved by local police. You'd even put the files down on his desk in that order. But you wouldn't stay longer than you had to.

If he was lucky, you'd ask about Jack; he could tell you a story, and he'd get to see your smile directed at him. It wasn't like you didn't speak to him. He didn't feel your anger simmering beneath the surface anymore, nor did he feel your endearment, or your indifference.

It just wasn't like before.

Just as he predicted, knocking sounded at his door. He didn't have time to get rid of the letter still on the desk before you opened it.

You didn't come in any farther, just sticking your head inside. "We have a case," you said, your tone clipped. Quick. Efficient. "I've e-mailed you the details."

He straightened his back, standing up. "Gather the team at the roundtable."

You nodded, leaving the room with the door open. You didn't look the desk once.

Hotch folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope, sliding open his drawer and tucking it away. You would never see that letter. He had to be okay with that. It was his job to be okay with that.

It was only fair to you.

When he walked into the conference room and saw Morgan's hand ghost across your back as he sat down, he knew it was only fair to you. The way your lips briefly curved up only proved it.

Your smile was the sweetest thing he'd ever seen.

Life needs a little sweetness to it, you'd once said. You were right.

As long as Hotch could keep your sweetness in his life, he would be okay with letting true words sit in a drawer in his office. As long as you were happy.

Even if you were happy with someone else.

taglist: @saturnscomedown @percysley @c-losur3 @todorokishoe24 @lons-story-blog @pastaparker @ssa-danhotchner @rethasavedlives @alexxavicry @vivs30 @gael2020 @person-005 @mrsxyz480 @chasinghxran

link to join a taglist → here if you're currently on the taglist for this series, please note that is both a derek and hotch series. let me know if you don't want to be tagged for every fic.

[ssa-danhotchner]

The Love You Take

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, Derek Morgan x reader Summary: Hotch is back, and you watch many things come to an end, even if they never began in the first place. Warnings: angst, assistant!reader, direct references to doyle arc, title and lyrics from "the end" in Abbey Road (beatles), r smokes (for like a millisecond), unrequited love, sexist remarks, cm-level violence, murder, grief, complex mental health issues Eps incl: S7E1 (it takes a village) Words: 3.2K

Series Masterlist | CM Masterlist | Navigation

a/n: this is part 2 to eleanor rigby! more hotch-centric bc they have lots to discuss. more is otw!

November 7, 2011

"Ms. L/N, you have worked under Agent Hotchner before he began his career in the FBI, is that correct?"

Your jaw tightened, and you unwound it. "Yes, sir. However, I have reported to acting unit chief Derek Morgan for the past 4 months."

Senator Cramer looked down at you with a hard stare, narrowing his eyes. "Yes. And you've received a promotion while he was in charge, if I'm correct." He was no longer asking you.

You were too used to this dance. Too used to men in power staring at you like a silly little girl. This had been your career for years. You knew the inside of a courtroom like the back of your hand—this was not new to you.

Boredly, you drawled, "Do you have a question for me, sir?"

"Watch your tone, Ms. L/N."

You fought not to show any contentment on your face. Your team's fate hung in the balance, and you needed to change that.

Even if the team itself had been torn apart.

October 23, 2011

You stood next to Emily in front of the glass holding Doyle. You hadn't said much—you didn't know what to say. She was alive. 

She was alive, but you thought she was dead.

The team was following a lead on Declan while you waited here. You could tell Emily wanted to say something, but you didn't know what. All you knew was that you missed her.

You cleared your throat, half-glancing at her from the corner of your eye before looking back at Doyle. "So, Paris, huh?"

Emily had turned her full attention to you, even though you still weren't looking at her. She softly smiled. "Yeah."

"I bet it was really beautiful."

She nodded, agreeing, "It was." Pause. "But I wish we could've seen it together. I really missed you."

Your eyes started to burn, so you redirected your gaze to the ceiling. You understood that she was alone in Paris and that she truly did miss you. But for 7 months, you missed Emily because you thought you'd never see her again. And now here she was, standing right next to you.

There was a lot to say, but there was a child missing and not enough time to go through everything, so you just settled for saying, "I missed you, too."

The sound of your phone ringing brought you back to reality. You wiped under your eyes and cleared your throat a second time, answering the phone without looking at the ID. "L/N."

"Gerace's dead," Hotch said, causing you to tense as his voice filled your ears. "Declan's gone. We think Chloe and him are with McDermott and they're about to leave the country."

You screwed your eyes shut and promptly hung up the phone, relaying the information to Emily. Your mind raced a mile a minute, but you were backed into a corner. You were running out of options.

You knew one thing for certain, and that was that you weren't letting Declan out of the country after everything Emily sacrificed to keep him safe.

Without putting much thought into it, you made a beeline for the interrogation room, letting the door slam as you entered.

Doyle looked up, confused. You hadn't met before. But you weren't going to let that stop you.

You didn't waste any time. "Chloe's working with Lachlan McDermott." You watched Ian look down immediately. "How would he leave the country?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know. He's got endless funds. You'll never stop him."

From this angle, with his hands cuffed, you thought Doyle almost looked human. He almost didn't look like the monster who tried to kill your friend; instead, he looked like a defeated father. But you knew exactly who he was.

He ruined your team, just like he ruined lives everywhere.

"He hates you," you stated.

A little too proud, he replied, "More than you do."

You stepped closer to him, lowering your voice. "Then maybe, we should give him what he really wants." Doyle looked even more confused now, but you clarified, "You."

❧❧

You were on the phone with Hotch as you marched through the halls of the BAU, telling him your plan. You got Emily on board; you just needed him and Strauss to agree. Like he was reading your mind, he asked, "Is Strauss still there?"

"Yes."

"We need full support."

You could've laughed. It was like he didn't know you at all. "Already on it," you said. "Doyle said McDermott's family imported weapons to a private airfield in Maryland."

"Is it close?"

"Yep, and I'm sending you the coordinates right now."

You hung up the phone just as you reached Strauss' door, clicking the send button as you wrapped your knuckles against the wood. You barely waited for a response before walking in. 

Strauss sighed as if she didn't want to see you again. "Y/N—"

"Chief Strauss, the team needs authorization to exchange Ian Doyle for his son."

Her eyes went wide, and she took her glasss off. "I'm sorry?"

You pursed your lips. "Lachlan McDermott wants Ian more than Declan. The team will make sure he doesn't get away, but we need to do this in order to get Declan back."

Strauss' voice was hard as she spoke to you like you were a child who didn't understand what she was asking for. "Ms. L/N, this breaks several protocols."

"I'm fully understand that, ma'am, but I'm telling you, it is only a matter of minutes before they leave the country and Declan is gone for good."

Strauss folded her hands together. "But what makes you think they won't take off with Doyle and his son?"

"We won't let that happen," you reasoned.

"You can't guarantee that!"

You had known Strauss for too long. Too many meetings and too many communications. So even if you didn't have the greatest relationship with her, if you could leverage it to get what you needed, then you'd do it.

You weren't big fans of each other, but you knew she respected you at the very least.

You leaned down. "Erin,  I am certain that, if we don't do this, there is a very good chance that little boy will die."

Strauss looked away from you, and that's when you knew you made it through to her. "The team's already on their way, aren't they?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She nodded, so you turned around, thinking the conversation was over. She called your name just as you were about to leave.

"Y/N."

You turned around, seeing her stare at you the same way she stared at you earlier that night. A little cold, a little detached, and a little attached at the same time. 

"I hope that, when it comes down to it, Aaron will defend you just as avidly as you defend him."

You inhaled a sharp breath. "I'm doing this for the team, not for Hotch."

And then you left her office without another word.

November 7, 2011

"It was your idea to release Ian Doyle, was it not?"

You stopped yourself from rolling your eyes, but the urge was strong. "Yes, it was."

Senator Cramer hummed. You hated how smug he looked. "Was that decision a personal one?"

"No—" 

He barely let you answer. "I just find it interesting that Agent Hotchner's assistant is suddenly promoted and then given leeway to make decisions pertaining to terrorists. Were you given that authority because of your personal relationships within the team?"

You understood what he was implying immediately, narrowing your eyes. "A boy's life was at stake. My only concern at that time was helping my team save a life, as it has always been," you countered. "And as for any 'leeway' I have— well, senator, I have worked with the BAU for nearly 7 years. I have the experience to assess a situation and make a decision. So if you want to punish me for taking a risk to save a life, then I suggest you do so, but do not put the rest of my team on trial for a successful rescue."

Cramer held his mic a little tighter. "Calm down, Ms. L/N."

"This is calm," you retorted. But in contradiction to that statement, you took a deep breath. "If you have any other questions for me, senator, I'd be happy to answer them." That was bureaucratic speak for: shut up or say something meaningful. Cramer was doing neither.

He stared down at you with a quiet storm brewing in his eyes, eager to make you or any one of your teammates slip. His colleagues glanced at him questioningly, but he finally said, "That'll be all, Ms. L/N. Send in Agent Reid on your way out."

"Yes, sir," you replied, standing up and hoping Reid would tear him a new one. You'd let him be the one to correct the senator and highlight the PhD.

You exited the courtroom as quickly as was socially appropriate. When Hotch was still a prosecutor, you saw the inside of a courtroom more times than you could count. It used to excite you. Now, it had lost its novelty, and you would've rather been anywhere else.

In the hall, Rossi, Derek, and Spencer all turned their eyes to you. No one was sitting.

You looked at Reid and motioned to the double doors. He glanced between the three of you, and then he wordlessly walked into the room.

Derek raised his eyebrows at you. "You okay, pretty girl?"

Your lips quirked up ever so slightly before being pulled down by an imaginary force. You sighed. "He's a dick."

"Careful there, Y/N," Rossi warned, mirth sparkling in his eyes. "We are on trial."

You let your eyes roll. "He's drawing a lot of conclusions in there."

"So he draws," Rossi said. "I would grab my coloured pencils, too, if I had nothing better to do."

You snorted. Rossi could make it funny in hindsight, but you really were getting angry in there. You opted not to mention how Cramer implied you were sleeping your way to the top, or the relationships you made in order to get to where you were.

Like he could sense you weren't okay, Derek angled his body toward you. Likewise, you found yourself leaning toward him. Your hands weren't quite touching, but they were close. 

Right now, all you wanted was to go back home and lay in his arms. You could be suspended for all you cared; you just didn't want to be here. You wanted to leave before—

"How was your interview?" Hotch.

You all looked to him, but he was only looking at you. One of your hands twitched.

"Y/N was just about to colourfully draw us a picture about it." Rossi snickered at his own joke, but any humour you had left was just sucked out of your body.

Hotch must've thought he could corner you in public and it'd work. 

You knew better than that.

"I'm actually going to take a smoke break." You excused yourself altogether, walking away before anyone else could say anything and practically daring him to follow you. He wouldn't. That was the point.

You could think of countless other times when you wanted Hotch to follow you, and he didn't.

Now, it was too late.

June 13, 1994

"I didn't know you smoked."

You turned your head from the brick it was leaned against, seeing a blonde standing right next to you, a curious smile on her face. You tried to give her a real smile back. "I don't. It's just— stress."

Haley giggled. "What are you stressed about? Is Aaron working you to the bone?"

You faked a laugh in response. You weren't sure if it was because of the Aaron drop or if it was because your answer to her question was no, the exact opposite. "No, he's actually calmed down a lot at work with the wedding approaching."

The wedding. Tommorow, your brain reminded you. You didn't really need any reminders while you were at Haley's bachelorette party.

She invited you. You couldn't say no. But now that you were really there, listening to her talk about becoming Mrs. Hotchner and how she wanted a little Aaron, you wished you just declined.

But of course not. Of course, you said yes. That was precisely why you were outside of the bar, ready to light a cigarette. Even though you hadn't smoked since you were a teenager. Even though, the last time you tried to pull out a pack, Hotch scolded you.

Haley snorted. She was a little tipsy, not totally drunk. She didn't strike you as the type of person to get drunk. "That's because he's too busy preparing to go to 'the Academy.'" She did a mock deep voice, bursting into another fit of giggles.

You whipped your head toward her, too surprised to hide how surprised you were. "He got in?"

"Yep." She popped the 'P,' then sighed. "Could I have one of those?" She motioned to the cigarette in your hand.

Your brows raised to your hairline. You were too disoriented by it all that you didn't question it, pulling another stick out of your bag and handing it to her. You lit both yours and hers, and then you took a long inhale.

The two of you exhaled at the same time. She continued, "God, a guy asks to marry you, and then he tells you he applied to be an FBI agent." Her laugh was bitter this time. She took another drag of the cigarette, so you did, too. Blow.

She turned her head toward you, giving you the same picture perfect she gave everyone. Only, this time, the picture seemed cracked. "Let me tell you, Y/N. Never fall for someone with a law degree. They'll ask you to uproot your entire life and then convince you it was your idea."

You stared at her for a second before looking away, bringing the cigarette back to your mouth. You didn't respond. 

You didn't know how to say you already did.

Smoke filled the night air, and neither of you said another word.

In the morning, you would watch Haley Brooks become Haley Hotchner, and you would never bring up what she said again.

October 24, 2011

You slammed the door to your office, anger rolling off of you in waves. The door flung open right afterward, then it was closed much more gently, as if the person pitied your door hinges.

"Y/N—"

You cut Hotch off sharply, "Don't talk to me."

The case was over. Doyle was dead and Declan watched him die, but he was safe. The last 24 hours of your life were filled with bureaucracy and pleasantries you'd rather not have had, but now that it was all over, all you could feel was the white hot anger flowing through your veins.

Hotch still tried to defend himself. "I had to do it. It was the only way to keep Emily safe—"

"Are you kidding me?" You spun around, incredulity painted all over your face. You walked closer to him, making direct eye contact for the first time since he revealed Emily was alive. "Emily is safe. You did what you had to do. I don't give a damn about that. What I care about is the fact that you left."

Hotch's jaw tensed. "I was given orders."

"Orders?" A cold, humourless laugh left you. You shook your head. "Right. Orders. Your orders made you flee like a coward without saying a word."

He took a step toward you, his brows drawing together. "I left you a letter."

"You didn't tell me!" You threw your hands into the air haphazardly, your voice raising no matter how hard you tried to keep quiet. You pointed to your chest. "Me. I'm supposed to be your guy. I'm supposed to be the one you tell when you want to go to fucking Pakistan after faking our friend's death. I was supposed to be person you told, and you didn't tell me!"

Hotch's voice strained, repeating words he already said. "I left you a letter."

"God, Hotch." You ran a hand through your hair, another laugh parting from your lips. You hadn't laughed so much with Aaron in years. As tears built in your eyes, you realized you hadn't cried so much around him, either. "I know the way you take your coffee. I know the way you like your files organized on your desk. I know the order you prefer to have your meetings. But when you went to Pakistan, I didn't know about it."

You told yourself you wouldn't cry. You told yourself you were over it. You told Derek you were over it. Yet there you were, on the verge of tears.

It was hard not to cry when you spent years propping another man up, only for him to leave you at his earliest convenience.

"Y/N—"

"I know. You left me a letter." You sighed, looking away from him as you wiped under your eyes. The laughter in your chest had dissipated, replaced by emptiness. When you looked back at him, your eyes were empty, too. "Well, I didn't read your letter."

Hurt flashed across his face. You couldn't even feel satisfied. "What?" he echoed.

"I didn't read your letter," you repeated. "You wanted to leave without telling me? Well, I wanted not to know what you had to say after the fact."

He sighed, looking exasperated. You could imagine that leading a task force in Pakistan would do that to someone, especially if that someone was overachiever Aaron Hotchner. The same Aaron Hotchner who left the DA's office at the height of his career to start at the bottom at Quantico. The same Aaron Hotchner who had already left you once before.

He put a hand on his forehead. "If you had just read the letter—"

"You know, at least the first time you left, you had the decency to tell me," you interrupted. All the things you'd held in for months were leaving your mouth. "At least then, I didn't have to wonder if my job was secure."

He narrowed his eyes, stepping toward you. "Your job security was never questioned. If you had just read the letter—" 

"Oh, really?" You chuckled. Your hands clenched into fists in the air. "My job didn't exist without you, Hotch!"

He ran a hand through his hair. "That doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does." You scoffed. 

And at that moment, you understood Haley Hotchner more than ever.

"You know," you shook your head. "I uprooted my entire life for you. And you convinced me it was my idea."

Hotch looked pained, even though he didn't have the right. "Don't say that." He sounded like he was pleading with you.

"I said it," you snapped. "I'm done. We're done."

You made your way past him and out of the room, letting the door slam a second time on your way out. 

It wasn't lost on you that there was no we to be done with, but you meant it. You were done.

This was the end of something that never even started.

And in the end, the love you take

Is equal to the love you make.

taglist: @saturnscomedown @percysley @c-losur3 @todorokishoe24 @lons-story-blog @pastaparker @ssa-danhotchner @rethasavedlives @alexxavicry @vivs30 @gael2020

additional a/n: do u guys see the parallels🤭

[ssa-danhotchner]

The Love You Take

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, Derek Morgan x reader Summary: Hotch is back, and you watch many things come to an end, even if they never began in the first place. Warnings: angst, assistant!reader, direct references to doyle arc, title and lyrics from "the end" in Abbey Road (beatles), r smokes (for like a millisecond), unrequited love, sexist remarks, cm-level violence, murder, grief, complex mental health issues Eps incl: S7E1 (it takes a village) Words: 3.2K

Series Masterlist | CM Masterlist | Navigation

a/n: this is part 2 to eleanor rigby! more hotch-centric bc they have lots to discuss. more is otw!

November 7, 2011

"Ms. L/N, you have worked under Agent Hotchner before he began his career in the FBI, is that correct?"

Your jaw tightened, and you unwound it. "Yes, sir. However, I have reported to acting unit chief Derek Morgan for the past 4 months."

Senator Cramer looked down at you with a hard stare, narrowing his eyes. "Yes. And you've received a promotion while he was in charge, if I'm correct." He was no longer asking you.

You were too used to this dance. Too used to men in power staring at you like a silly little girl. This had been your career for years. You knew the inside of a courtroom like the back of your hand—this was not new to you.

Boredly, you drawled, "Do you have a question for me, sir?"

"Watch your tone, Ms. L/N."

You fought not to show any contentment on your face. Your team's fate hung in the balance, and you needed to change that.

Even if the team itself had been torn apart.

October 23, 2011

You stood next to Emily in front of the glass holding Doyle. You hadn't said much—you didn't know what to say. She was alive. 

She was alive, but you thought she was dead.

The team was following a lead on Declan while you waited here. You could tell Emily wanted to say something, but you didn't know what. All you knew was that you missed her.

You cleared your throat, half-glancing at her from the corner of your eye before looking back at Doyle. "So, Paris, huh?"

Emily had turned her full attention to you, even though you still weren't looking at her. She softly smiled. "Yeah."

"I bet it was really beautiful."

She nodded, agreeing, "It was." Pause. "But I wish we could've seen it together. I really missed you."

Your eyes started to burn, so you redirected your gaze to the ceiling. You understood that she was alone in Paris and that she truly did miss you. But for 7 months, you missed Emily because you thought you'd never see her again. And now here she was, standing right next to you.

There was a lot to say, but there was a child missing and not enough time to go through everything, so you just settled for saying, "I missed you, too."

The sound of your phone ringing brought you back to reality. You wiped under your eyes and cleared your throat a second time, answering the phone without looking at the ID. "L/N."

"Gerace's dead," Hotch said, causing you to tense as his voice filled your ears. "Declan's gone. We think Chloe and him are with McDermott and they're about to leave the country."

You screwed your eyes shut and promptly hung up the phone, relaying the information to Emily. Your mind raced a mile a minute, but you were backed into a corner. You were running out of options.

You knew one thing for certain, and that was that you weren't letting Declan out of the country after everything Emily sacrificed to keep him safe.

Without putting much thought into it, you made a beeline for the interrogation room, letting the door slam as you entered.

Doyle looked up, confused. You hadn't met before. But you weren't going to let that stop you.

You didn't waste any time. "Chloe's working with Lachlan McDermott." You watched Ian look down immediately. "How would he leave the country?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know. He's got endless funds. You'll never stop him."

From this angle, with his hands cuffed, you thought Doyle almost looked human. He almost didn't look like the monster who tried to kill your friend; instead, he looked like a defeated father. But you knew exactly who he was.

He ruined your team, just like he ruined lives everywhere.

"He hates you," you stated.

A little too proud, he replied, "More than you do."

You stepped closer to him, lowering your voice. "Then maybe, we should give him what he really wants." Doyle looked even more confused now, but you clarified, "You."

❧❧

You were on the phone with Hotch as you marched through the halls of the BAU, telling him your plan. You got Emily on board; you just needed him and Strauss to agree. Like he was reading your mind, he asked, "Is Strauss still there?"

"Yes."

"We need full support."

You could've laughed. It was like he didn't know you at all. "Already on it," you said. "Doyle said McDermott's family imported weapons to a private airfield in Maryland."

"Is it close?"

"Yep, and I'm sending you the coordinates right now."

You hung up the phone just as you reached Strauss' door, clicking the send button as you wrapped your knuckles against the wood. You barely waited for a response before walking in. 

Strauss sighed as if she didn't want to see you again. "Y/N—"

"Chief Strauss, the team needs authorization to exchange Ian Doyle for his son."

Her eyes went wide, and she took her glasss off. "I'm sorry?"

You pursed your lips. "Lachlan McDermott wants Ian more than Declan. The team will make sure he doesn't get away, but we need to do this in order to get Declan back."

Strauss' voice was hard as she spoke to you like you were a child who didn't understand what she was asking for. "Ms. L/N, this breaks several protocols."

"I'm fully understand that, ma'am, but I'm telling you, it is only a matter of minutes before they leave the country and Declan is gone for good."

Strauss folded her hands together. "But what makes you think they won't take off with Doyle and his son?"

"We won't let that happen," you reasoned.

"You can't guarantee that!"

You had known Strauss for too long. Too many meetings and too many communications. So even if you didn't have the greatest relationship with her, if you could leverage it to get what you needed, then you'd do it.

You weren't big fans of each other, but you knew she respected you at the very least.

You leaned down. "Erin,  I am certain that, if we don't do this, there is a very good chance that little boy will die."

Strauss looked away from you, and that's when you knew you made it through to her. "The team's already on their way, aren't they?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She nodded, so you turned around, thinking the conversation was over. She called your name just as you were about to leave.

"Y/N."

You turned around, seeing her stare at you the same way she stared at you earlier that night. A little cold, a little detached, and a little attached at the same time. 

"I hope that, when it comes down to it, Aaron will defend you just as avidly as you defend him."

You inhaled a sharp breath. "I'm doing this for the team, not for Hotch."

And then you left her office without another word.

November 7, 2011

"It was your idea to release Ian Doyle, was it not?"

You stopped yourself from rolling your eyes, but the urge was strong. "Yes, it was."

Senator Cramer hummed. You hated how smug he looked. "Was that decision a personal one?"

"No—" 

He barely let you answer. "I just find it interesting that Agent Hotchner's assistant is suddenly promoted and then given leeway to make decisions pertaining to terrorists. Were you given that authority because of your personal relationships within the team?"

You understood what he was implying immediately, narrowing your eyes. "A boy's life was at stake. My only concern at that time was helping my team save a life, as it has always been," you countered. "And as for any 'leeway' I have— well, senator, I have worked with the BAU for nearly 7 years. I have the experience to assess a situation and make a decision. So if you want to punish me for taking a risk to save a life, then I suggest you do so, but do not put the rest of my team on trial for a successful rescue."

Cramer held his mic a little tighter. "Calm down, Ms. L/N."

"This is calm," you retorted. But in contradiction to that statement, you took a deep breath. "If you have any other questions for me, senator, I'd be happy to answer them." That was bureaucratic speak for: shut up or say something meaningful. Cramer was doing neither.

He stared down at you with a quiet storm brewing in his eyes, eager to make you or any one of your teammates slip. His colleagues glanced at him questioningly, but he finally said, "That'll be all, Ms. L/N. Send in Agent Reid on your way out."

"Yes, sir," you replied, standing up and hoping Reid would tear him a new one. You'd let him be the one to correct the senator and highlight the PhD.

You exited the courtroom as quickly as was socially appropriate. When Hotch was still a prosecutor, you saw the inside of a courtroom more times than you could count. It used to excite you. Now, it had lost its novelty, and you would've rather been anywhere else.

In the hall, Rossi, Derek, and Spencer all turned their eyes to you. No one was sitting.

You looked at Reid and motioned to the double doors. He glanced between the three of you, and then he wordlessly walked into the room.

Derek raised his eyebrows at you. "You okay, pretty girl?"

Your lips quirked up ever so slightly before being pulled down by an imaginary force. You sighed. "He's a dick."

"Careful there, Y/N," Rossi warned, mirth sparkling in his eyes. "We are on trial."

You let your eyes roll. "He's drawing a lot of conclusions in there."

"So he draws," Rossi said. "I would grab my coloured pencils, too, if I had nothing better to do."

You snorted. Rossi could make it funny in hindsight, but you really were getting angry in there. You opted not to mention how Cramer implied you were sleeping your way to the top, or the relationships you made in order to get to where you were.

Like he could sense you weren't okay, Derek angled his body toward you. Likewise, you found yourself leaning toward him. Your hands weren't quite touching, but they were close. 

Right now, all you wanted was to go back home and lay in his arms. You could be suspended for all you cared; you just didn't want to be here. You wanted to leave before—

"How was your interview?" Hotch.

You all looked to him, but he was only looking at you. One of your hands twitched.

"Y/N was just about to colourfully draw us a picture about it." Rossi snickered at his own joke, but any humour you had left was just sucked out of your body.

Hotch must've thought he could corner you in public and it'd work. 

You knew better than that.

"I'm actually going to take a smoke break." You excused yourself altogether, walking away before anyone else could say anything and practically daring him to follow you. He wouldn't. That was the point.

You could think of countless other times when you wanted Hotch to follow you, and he didn't.

Now, it was too late.

June 13, 1994

"I didn't know you smoked."

You turned your head from the brick it was leaned against, seeing a blonde standing right next to you, a curious smile on her face. You tried to give her a real smile back. "I don't. It's just— stress."

Haley giggled. "What are you stressed about? Is Aaron working you to the bone?"

You faked a laugh in response. You weren't sure if it was because of the Aaron drop or if it was because your answer to her question was no, the exact opposite. "No, he's actually calmed down a lot at work with the wedding approaching."

The wedding. Tommorow, your brain reminded you. You didn't really need any reminders while you were at Haley's bachelorette party.

She invited you. You couldn't say no. But now that you were really there, listening to her talk about becoming Mrs. Hotchner and how she wanted a little Aaron, you wished you just declined.

But of course not. Of course, you said yes. That was precisely why you were outside of the bar, ready to light a cigarette. Even though you hadn't smoked since you were a teenager. Even though, the last time you tried to pull out a pack, Hotch scolded you.

Haley snorted. She was a little tipsy, not totally drunk. She didn't strike you as the type of person to get drunk. "That's because he's too busy preparing to go to 'the Academy.'" She did a mock deep voice, bursting into another fit of giggles.

You whipped your head toward her, too surprised to hide how surprised you were. "He got in?"

"Yep." She popped the 'P,' then sighed. "Could I have one of those?" She motioned to the cigarette in your hand.

Your brows raised to your hairline. You were too disoriented by it all that you didn't question it, pulling another stick out of your bag and handing it to her. You lit both yours and hers, and then you took a long inhale.

The two of you exhaled at the same time. She continued, "God, a guy asks to marry you, and then he tells you he applied to be an FBI agent." Her laugh was bitter this time. She took another drag of the cigarette, so you did, too. Blow.

She turned her head toward you, giving you the same picture perfect she gave everyone. Only, this time, the picture seemed cracked. "Let me tell you, Y/N. Never fall for someone with a law degree. They'll ask you to uproot your entire life and then convince you it was your idea."

You stared at her for a second before looking away, bringing the cigarette back to your mouth. You didn't respond. 

You didn't know how to say you already did.

Smoke filled the night air, and neither of you said another word.

In the morning, you would watch Haley Brooks become Haley Hotchner, and you would never bring up what she said again.

October 24, 2011

You slammed the door to your office, anger rolling off of you in waves. The door flung open right afterward, then it was closed much more gently, as if the person pitied your door hinges.

"Y/N—"

You cut Hotch off sharply, "Don't talk to me."

The case was over. Doyle was dead and Declan watched him die, but he was safe. The last 24 hours of your life were filled with bureaucracy and pleasantries you'd rather not have had, but now that it was all over, all you could feel was the white hot anger flowing through your veins.

Hotch still tried to defend himself. "I had to do it. It was the only way to keep Emily safe—"

"Are you kidding me?" You spun around, incredulity painted all over your face. You walked closer to him, making direct eye contact for the first time since he revealed Emily was alive. "Emily is safe. You did what you had to do. I don't give a damn about that. What I care about is the fact that you left."

Hotch's jaw tensed. "I was given orders."

"Orders?" A cold, humourless laugh left you. You shook your head. "Right. Orders. Your orders made you flee like a coward without saying a word."

He took a step toward you, his brows drawing together. "I left you a letter."

"You didn't tell me!" You threw your hands into the air haphazardly, your voice raising no matter how hard you tried to keep quiet. You pointed to your chest. "Me. I'm supposed to be your guy. I'm supposed to be the one you tell when you want to go to fucking Pakistan after faking our friend's death. I was supposed to be person you told, and you didn't tell me!"

Hotch's voice strained, repeating words he already said. "I left you a letter."

"God, Hotch." You ran a hand through your hair, another laugh parting from your lips. You hadn't laughed so much with Aaron in years. As tears built in your eyes, you realized you hadn't cried so much around him, either. "I know the way you take your coffee. I know the way you like your files organized on your desk. I know the order you prefer to have your meetings. But when you went to Pakistan, I didn't know about it."

You told yourself you wouldn't cry. You told yourself you were over it. You told Derek you were over it. Yet there you were, on the verge of tears.

It was hard not to cry when you spent years propping another man up, only for him to leave you at his earliest convenience.

"Y/N—"

"I know. You left me a letter." You sighed, looking away from him as you wiped under your eyes. The laughter in your chest had dissipated, replaced by emptiness. When you looked back at him, your eyes were empty, too. "Well, I didn't read your letter."

Hurt flashed across his face. You couldn't even feel satisfied. "What?" he echoed.

"I didn't read your letter," you repeated. "You wanted to leave without telling me? Well, I wanted not to know what you had to say after the fact."

He sighed, looking exasperated. You could imagine that leading a task force in Pakistan would do that to someone, especially if that someone was overachiever Aaron Hotchner. The same Aaron Hotchner who left the DA's office at the height of his career to start at the bottom at Quantico. The same Aaron Hotchner who had already left you once before.

He put a hand on his forehead. "If you had just read the letter—"

"You know, at least the first time you left, you had the decency to tell me," you interrupted. All the things you'd held in for months were leaving your mouth. "At least then, I didn't have to wonder if my job was secure."

He narrowed his eyes, stepping toward you. "Your job security was never questioned. If you had just read the letter—" 

"Oh, really?" You chuckled. Your hands clenched into fists in the air. "My job didn't exist without you, Hotch!"

He ran a hand through his hair. "That doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does." You scoffed. 

And at that moment, you understood Haley Hotchner more than ever.

"You know," you shook your head. "I uprooted my entire life for you. And you convinced me it was my idea."

Hotch looked pained, even though he didn't have the right. "Don't say that." He sounded like he was pleading with you.

"I said it," you snapped. "I'm done. We're done."

You made your way past him and out of the room, letting the door slam a second time on your way out. 

It wasn't lost on you that there was no we to be done with, but you meant it. You were done.

This was the end of something that never even started.

And in the end, the love you take

Is equal to the love you make.

taglist: @saturnscomedown @percysley @c-losur3 @todorokishoe24 @lons-story-blog @pastaparker @ssa-danhotchner @rethasavedlives @alexxavicry @vivs30 @gael2020

additional a/n: do u guys see the parallels🤭

[ssa-danhotchner]

😭

Universal Truth³

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: After the core truths of your relationship are called into question, you and Aaron work to find the truth that you can still believe in. Warnings: ANGST! d1 grovelling (i hope), mentions of home invasion, aftermath of trauma, references to foyet arc and haley's death, cm-typical cases, complicated relationships, one reference to ep where hotch crashes his car Words: 5.4K

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a/n: this is the end, friends! i hope you enjoy!

You woke up screaming. That happened a lot, but you didn't like to acknowledge that truth very much.

Footsteps hurriedly sounded, then your bedroom door opened, sending light from the hallway into the room. Your chest fell up and down rapidly, but you still squinted, seeing Aaron standing in the threshold with worry written all over his face.

He didn't say anything. He always waited for you to calm down first, which you appreciated. Only when you wiped all your tears did he finally ask, "Are you okay?"

It was a stupid question, no matter how softly he asked, but it was the only thing he could say. Hoarsely, you responded, "Yes." Just like always. But one of these days, you might just say no, and he was waiting for it. Not in a malicious way, but in the way of a man who just wanted to hold his woman. 

You wouldn't let him.

He always stood in the doorway after that, as if your mind would change and you would ask him to hold you. You wanted that, too, despite denying yourself of it. It's why you wrapped your arms around yourself, even though you weren't cold at all. 

You held your ground. "I'm fine, Aaron."

He stared at you like he could unravel you with his eyes. Profiler. He didn't believe you. But he wouldn't dare question you on it. Instead, he nodded. "Okay." His gaze went downcast as if to spare you from seeing the defeat, and then he lightly closed the door.

As soon as he was gone, you let out a shaky breath. Aaron didn't say I love you when he checked in on you, and that was upon your request. It hurt too much to hear.

Albeit, being in this house in two separate rooms hurt all the same. He gave you the master bedroom while he slept in the guest room. He woke up before all three of you anyway, so there was no worry of Jack seeing and wondering why you weren't sleeping together.

It was difficult to explain to an eight-year-old. Even more difficult to explain to a band of profilers when the sparkly ring on your finger seemed to disappear.

You pulled your necklace out from beneath your shirt, fiddling with the ring hanging from the chain. A sigh left you. Of course, all this had to happen at the height of your relationship.

But then again, you knew the saying as well as anyone. It had become a universal truth.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

— 

"Taylor Swift on the line, speak now or forever hold your peace!"

You lightly snorted at Garcia's opening as Morgan responded, "You're on speaker, babygirl. Do you have anything on the victim's last whereabouts?"

Penelope glanced over at you, so you took over. "Yes. Sarah's credit card was last used at a grocery store, similar to Vicky. I'm assuming this means your unsub's a family man, or that he can blend in well with the crowd. Pen and I are combing security footage now to see if we can find anyone looking sketchy."

A new voice started over the line. "I agree with your assessment. Thank you, Y/N."

Your breath got caught in your throat. Of course, being on speaker meant Hotch was there. He was still your boss, you still had to talk to him—you still did talk to him—but not without this awkward silence first. 

He would compliment you, tell you something about doing a good job. Then, the team would glance between you, like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even Penelope went quiet during your interactions. But you tried your hardest not to make it weird for everyone else.

"Uh, no worries. I sent you guys the store's address, so... we'll be off now." Just like that, you clicked the red button on the phone, ending the call. 

You turned back to your computer right away, trying to avoid Garcia's pitying eyes. Softly, she said your name. "Y/N/N—"

You cut her off, "It's fine, Garcia." Your voice was a little too sharp to mean it, but after a few seconds of staring at you, she dropped it, turning back to her computer.

It's fine. It's fine. It's fine.

If you said it enough, maybe it'd become the truth.

—

A ringing pulled you out of your sleep. You blinked your eyes open, reaching for your phone.

Groggily, you said, "Hello?"

You were met with JJ's voice, apologetically telling you that you had a case. You glanced at your bedside table, where a picture frame of you and Aaron stood next to a clock. It read 5:31 AM. 

You sighed, rubbing at your eyelids. "Okay, I'll be in soon."

You quickly got up and got dressed, haphazardly putting on whatever was closest to you and trying not to graze your bullet wound. It was fully healed, but you could still feel phantom pains that you'd rather ignore. The therapist Aaron ordered for you thought it was unhealthy, but you didn't care much for either of their opinions on the matter.

You opened the door to the room, finding him standing right on the other side. Your body roughly jerked, and you immediately slapped a hand over your heart. "Fuck, Aaron, you scared me."

Despite looking sorry, you still caught the gleam in his eye. It happened whenever you said his name— only when you were tired, and only when you were at home. 

"Sorry," he said. "But we have a case."

"I know. JJ told me."

"Well, I've called Jessica, and she's on her way." Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him starting to rub his forefinger against his thumb. Automatically, you tensed, already sensing the direction this was going in. "I thought we could drive to the office together."

You exhaled a breath, searching for a way to put what you wanted to say in the nicest terms as possible. You really were trying. "No, I should probably drive myself, since you'll be leaving anyway."

He shrugged. "The case is local. And Garcia can drive you home later." You knew that. That used to be your whole routine when he left for cases before; you tried to find any opportunity to spend more time together. Driving to work together was that opportunity.

Was.

At that small reminder, you pursed your lips into a smile. "I should probably leave before Jess gets here."

His face immediately fell, causing a stabbing sensation in your heart. You pushed past him so you wouldn't have to see it.

"Y/N—"

"Sorry, Hotch, I've gotta go." You tried to keep the bite out of your voice, but it wound up there, anyway. If anything, you were grateful for it, because it got him to stop talking. Which was good because, the more he talked, the foggier your brain got.

You picked up your bag from the couch, half-glancing at the mantle as you did. You could remember a picture frame that used to sit there—of you, Aaron, and Jack all smiling. 

You looked away promptly, remembering exactly when that picture frame broke.

Symbolically, you knew the glass wasn't the only that thing that shattered.

You slung the bag around your shoulder a bit rougher than you needed to, and then you were out the door without another word.

— 

Since the case was local, the office was fully populated with the BAU. You still managed to avoid Hotch as best as you could, swerving past him whenever he tried to speak to you, leaving the room when he did.

This was your latest of attempts at trying to hide away from him, standing before the washroom mirror just so that you could avoid whatever conversation he was trying to have with you.

Since your accident, you'd learned that Aaron would go to any lengths to talk to you, including masking his intentions with work. Like psych evals you didn't want to have. Asking you about pain. Please drop the file off in my office. You'd resorted to e-mail.

You took a shaky breath, gripping the counter with shakier hands. You're fine. You're fine. You're fine. You're—

The door opened mid-chant. Expecting Garcia, you shouted, "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Not Garcia.

You spun around with furrowed brows, finding Emily standing behind you. Her gaze came with an edge, cutting away at you with surgical precision. Like you were still a subject lying on an operating table and she was profiling you to see how long you'd last— if you'd last.

"Yes," you confirmed. You crossed your arms defensively, trying to re-direct. "What is it? Is there a new development in the case—"

"Please, Y/N, stop it about the case for just a second." She held a hand up to your face, looking exasperated, like you were suggesting something outlandish. To you, this entire exchange was outlandish.

Your brows only knitted further together. "I'm confused. We are on a case."

Emily's lips parted and then closed as if she was stopping herself from saying something. Then she took a step closer to you. "Y/N, I know. We all know. But you bury yourself in the work like it's the only thing you see."

Your jaw ticked. "We're the BAU, Prentiss. I'd say we're all workaholics."

She scoffed. "And then there's that. Closing yourself off, distancing yourself from the people closest to you." You took in a breath as sudden guilt rushed through your veins. Emily's expression softened. "Y/N, what's going on? You almost died, and you're not even talking to Hotch—"

You swallowed, feeling a lump grow in your throat. "Emily—"

"You're not wearing your ring anymore—"

"Emily, please stop." Your voice cracked. Abruptly, you turned your back to her, trying to wipe away the tears before they could fall. They kept falling, anyway. "You don't get it," you breathed.

Her hand rested itself on your shoulder. You met her gaze in the mirror, finding determination staring back at you. "So help me get it."

You don't know why exactly you did it, but the words were spilling out of your mouth before you could stop them, re-telling every aspect of the argument right to when Hotch left. All the things you'd kept inside were now making their way out into the open, things you tried to repress but couldn't.

When you were done, sobs were wracking through your body, your shoulders shaking.

Emily was quiet and motionless throughout your explanation, save for the hand on your shoulder. Then, suddenly, her low voice cut through the silence. "I'll kill him."

You sniffled, "Emily—"

"No, how dare he?" You turned back around to face her, seeing a fire brewing in her eyes that rivalled unit chiefs across the bureau. "To say you aren't needed? That you aren't Jack's mother? Over that? Does he have any idea what you do for this team, for your family?"

"I don't know, I just—" you paused, rubbing a hand over your face. Your head felt fuzzy. "It's been a long time since it happened. And then the—" you searched for the word, having a hard time phrasing it. "the accident. It's been a lot. Maybe I should just get over it."

Emily's response was immediate. "No. Absolutely not. What he said to you was unacceptable, Y/N. You have to know that."

"Of course, I know that. I just—" Again, you stopped yourself, sighing. The words escaped you. At that moment, what you felt was beyond words.

Emily, fluent in many languages, seemed to be able to translate your feelings perfectly. Her eyes softened. "You love him," she said.

You responded without having to think about it. "Yes."

You loved Aaron Hotchner more than the hurt he made you feel.

If there was any universal truth, then it was that.

—

You opened the door to Aaron's office, asking, "You said you had an urgent matter, Sir?"

Any other time, he would've accused you of being teasing, but neither of you needed to be a profiler to tell you were trying to distance yourself with honorifics. Hotch didn't dwell on your phrasing, opting to nod to the seat in front of his desk with serious eyes. "Please, take a seat."

You hesitated. This could've easily been another ambush. But at work, you didn't have the right to just refuse your boss when he was outright asking you to do something. And you weren't a child.

Like you were trying to prove something, you sat down in the chair in front of him. It was only when you were right in front of the desk that you noticed the brown paper bag placed on top of it.

Your eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

Aaron wasn't deterred by your tone. "We're going to eat lunch together."

The sigh that left you was full of exhaustion. "Hotch, I told you. I need time."

"You've not been eating properly," he stated, making you look up at him. He looked stern and resolute, telling you you're not leaving this office without having to say a word. "So don't focus on the together part so much as the eating part." 

You clenched your jaw. "Fine."

Aaron opened the bag, starting to take the food out. "It's your favourite," he commented. You noticed the tiny traces of hope in his voice.

You glanced down at the containers. Then, you nodded. "It is." 

Your favourite food. A tiny truth embedded into truths too big to tackle.

So you focused on that truth and avoided all the others.

—

"Momma, can I have ice cream after dinner tonight?" 

You pause chopping carrots for just a second, glancing up at Jack before glancing over at Aaron whose expression betrayed nothing. You looked back down at the vegetables like you'd never looked up at all. "Sure, bud. As long as your dad agrees."

It was a new development: Jack sometimes calling you Mom, sometimes calling you by your name. You had no issue with it either way. The kid had no idea how it tugged at your heartstrings. Aaron, on the other hand, did.

'Mom moments' didn't happen often when he was around. But whenever they did, the word lingered in the air, interspersing between the two of you in a big mess that you didn't know how to clean.

You didn't dare look up from the cutting board, but you heard Aaron respond, "If you eat all your veggies, I don't see why not."

"Awesome!" 

Jack ran off after getting approval, leaving you and Aaron all alone. Not too long ago, being around him made your heart race. Now, it still did, but for completely different reasons.

You tried not to show how affected you were, turning around and tossing the carrots into the pot. You hoped he wouldn't talk to you, but your prayers hadn't been being answered much.

"You know, he asks you first because he knows you'll always say yes," he said. The atmosphere in the kitchen felt heavy, but his voice was light and easygoing. Nothing about this was easy for you.

You wiped your hands with the cloth on the counter, and then, on a whim, you turned around to face him. There he was, on the opposite side of the island. The last time you were positioned this way, he was telling you that you weren't Jack's mother and then walking out the door. Turning a golden doorknob that haunted your nightmares.

That night gave you a lot of bad memories, yet you remembered the argument the best.

This time, you said his name to catch his attention. "Aaron, I'm not trying to replace Haley."

He was quick to reply, "I know that." He was quiet, like he always was, with conviction lying under his voice. That same conviction was in his eyes as he tried to make eye contact with you. "I know that. And I know I haven't done a good job of showing you that, but I do."

He stood up from the barstool and made his way around to your side of the island. You let him.

And when he tried to put his hands on your arms, you let him do that, too.

"Y/N, words can't describe how sorry I am for ever accusing you of that," he said. "You could never replace Haley, and that's not what you've tried to do. You've raised Jack in a way she would adore. You have given him the love she wanted him to have. And you have protected him the way a mother would. She is his mother, but that does not negate your place in his life."

You didn't know when the tears started building in your eyes, but they did. Too afraid that they'd fall, you just settled for, "Okay."

Aaron hesitated, like there was more he wanted to say. He did that a lot recently. Then, he said, "It doesn't negate your place in mine, either."

You swallowed and stepped back out of his hold, missing the way his face fell as you wiped at your eyes. Again, you repeated, "Okay."

It was all you could say.

You didn't have any better truths to tell.

— 

Stuck in the bat cave and surrounded by screens, you stopped what you were doing to rub your eyes. Your disliked your job most when it cause your head to pulse. You had already spent all night staring at screens, specifically ones in your mind that replayed the same nightmare over and over.

Garcia was off visiting Kevin, so you didn't feel like you had to hide how terrible you felt. It wasn't her fault for being so worried about you all the time, but you didn't have to like it. 

You were trying to get better. It was hard to do that when everyone kept looking at you like you were about to fall apart.

The sound of the door opening caused you to lift your head up back at the computer, your hand on your mouse like you'd been working the entire time.

You waited for Garcia to sit down, only she didn't. Instead, a cup of steaming coffee was placed beside you.

Your brows drew together and you looked up, finding Aaron standing right next to you. He stared down at you with a bit of concern and a little bit more love. 

"You didn't sleep well last night," he reasoned. He didn't mention that you woke up screaming again. Soft and a little cautious, like he knew you didn't want to talk about it. You didn't.

You glanced away from him, choosing to look at the coffee instead. Your voice was quiet, reflecting the quiet gesture. "Thank you."

He left the bat cave soon after, but you felt his presence all the same.

—

You gave Jack a grin through the rearview mirror as he got into the car. "Hey, don't forget your seatbelt, little man!" 

"I know, Y/N, I'm not a baby," the boy grumbled, doing as you said. Your smile just got wider; it wasn't lost on you that you really only smiled around Jack.

"Of course not, sweetheart."

You took the car out of park as soon as he was buckled in, driving away from his school. Jack rambled on about his day at school while you tried to guide yourselves to the ice cream parlour that he liked. You already clocked out of work, so you could take Jack out and then head home.

Your plan was to head home—that is, until a text from Garcia flashed across your screen.

Need all my favourite crimefighters back at the office ASAP!

Your fingers twitched nervously around the wheel. You glanced back at Jack, still talking about math and science projects and things Spener would have a ball about. You tapped the wheel, glancing back at your phone.

The smart thing to do would be to get Jack his ice cream, then take him to his aunt's. That was your initial inclination. But—

You don't get to bring him to his aunt. You are not his mother.

You exhaled a heavy breath through your lips, picking up the phone automatically. "One second, Jack," you interrupted him mid-rant. "Let me just call your dad."

You clicked on the first contact in your favourite, bringing the phone to your ear where you could hear your heart already thumping rapidly.

Aaron answered on the second ring.

"Honey?"

You took in a sharp breath at the pet name, forcing yourself not to pay attention to it. "Hi, Aaron." More tapping against the steering wheel. "Um, I have Jack now."

You could hear his confusion through the phone. "Okay. That's good."

"Yeah, but— uh," how were you supposed to phrase this? "Garcia said to come in. Do you want me to— do I bring Jack to Jess? I was going to get him ice cream first, but I can just— I can stay here, too. Garcia can hold down the fort just fine. Just—" you cut yourself off, realizing you were rambling. Blood rushed to your cheeks. "What do you want me to do?"

Aaron was quiet on the other end of the line, making you think the worst. Shouldn't have asked, shouldn't have— 

Finally, he spoke up. "You can still get the ice cream if you want, and then you can drop him off at Jess'. You—" he paused, sounding strained. "You don't have to ask, Y/N."

Your mouth opened and closed, unsure of how to respond. "Right. Okay, I'll, uh, see you at the office." You hung up before he could say anything else, letting out a breath once the conversation was over.

You took a glance at the mirror, putting back on your best smile. "Okay, bud. We're gonna go get your ice cream and then I'll take you to your aunt's, alright?" Jack nodded, prompting you to raise a brow. "Okay, now what were you telling me about the solar system?"

Jack continued where he left off, telling you about exploding stars and galaxies. 

And at that moment, you felt like the universe was a less complicated truth to understand than your relationship.

—

By the time you got to Quantico, you had just missed the briefing and everyone was packing up to leave. You were gonna head straight to the bat cave when Hotch's voice sounded, calling your name.

You looked up to see him standing on the landing. "May I have a word?" He nodded toward his office.

You pursed your lips, glancing to see the rest of your coworkers all staring at you. You resisted the urge to fidget, nodding and walking up the stairs to his office.

Aaron held the door open for you, closing it as soon as you were inside.

Carefully, you started, "Hotch—"

"I'm sorry."

You spun around and met his eyes effortlessly. He was already looking at you with a pool of sincerity in his eyes so large you could drown in it. Earnestness, guilt, and other emotions you'd rather not name.

Unlike that night when he spoke to you like a suspect, he now spoke to you like you were a case he believed in. He continued, "I am so sorry for what I said to you. For making you believe that you need permission to do your job. To do what is right for our son. And I am sorry for making you doubt your place in our life." He took a step toward you, but didn't move to touch you. "You're not some girlfriend of mine that needs to ask to take Jack to his aunt. You are my co-parent and the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. I'm sorry for ever insinuating otherwise."

Water welled in your eyes, and against both of your predictions, you grabbed onto his hands. You were grateful that he let you make that choice for yourself. But as soon as you did it, the floodgates opened. A tear raced down your cheeks because, God, you almost forgot what it felt like to hold his hand.

You never wanted to let go.

"Thank you, Aaron." You meant that, because you knew he meant it. "I know you're trying. And believe me, I'm trying too." Another tear fell. "I miss you so much. And I haven't given up on us. I just— it hurts. It hurts a lot, and I'm trying to figure out how to be in this relationship without feeling that."

He swallowed, resting his forehead against yours. He whispered, "I am so sorry for hurting you. I have no excuses for it." He paused. The only sound you could hear was your own breaths, intermingling together. "I love you so much."

A little laugh left you. It didn't hurt as much to hear. "I know." Pause. "I love you, too." 

He removed his forehead from yours, and you mourned the loss of contact. "Can we talk more when I get back?" There was that hope again, lighting up his eyes.

You couldn't say no this time. "Yes. We'll talk when you get back." You didn't want to avoid it any longer.

You would talk about the good truth, the bad truth, and all the truths in between.

—

You raced to the elevator as soon as you heard the team was back, your heart moving at an even faster pace.

The elevator doors opened and the team filed out, but the only face you could focus on was Aaron's.

The second he was within reach, you threw your arms around him, hugging him tightly. He hugged you back with the same fervour.

Your heart only slowed down when you realized he was real. He was real and he was alive. Alive and in your arms.

"Idiot," you muttered, your voice muffled by tears. You pulled back just enough to see his face and the bandage covering his forehead. Immediately, you shoved your head back into his chest. "How dare you let yourself get hurt before I've talked to you?"

He rubbed his hands over your back. "It was just a car accident," he said. Like that made it any better. Like you weren't on the line when he crashed into the unsub's car. Like your heart didn't stop then and there.

You exhaled. "Don't ever do something like that again, Aaron."

He kissed your head, and instead of getting angry, you leaned into it. "I'll try not to, honey."

You sniffled. You didn't know what you would've done if he wasn't okay. If he wasn't okay before your relationship could be okay.

You mumbled, "You really scared me, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry." It went unsaid that you'd scared him before, too. He didn't have to say it for you to know.

When you got shot, there was only one truth you wanted Aaron to know. So that's the truth you told him. "I love you."

He hugged you even tighter, and you reciprocated. As you hugged him for the first time in what felt like forever, the truth finally felt tangible.

"I love you, too."

—

Aaron was driving the two of you to work, like he had been for a few weeks. It was a big change, but you meant it when you said you were trying. You were both trying.

This relationship wasn't something you were willing to lose, and that truth was important to you. So here you were, trying. Trying to care for wounds and say the quiet truths out loud.

You furrowed your brows. "Aaron, you missed the exit."

He kept his eyes on the road, glancing at you for a half-second. "The case is in the suburbs. We're going to go meet with the victim's family first."

"Oh. Okay." Confusion laced through your voice, but you accepted his explanation. You didn't often go into the field, and if you did, you never talked to anyone. But you figured that Aaron was just bringing you since he had to drive you to work, anyway.

The drive wasn't to the victim's house wasn't too far away, only about 5 minutes from the office. It looked like an extremely nice neighbourhood, the perfect place to raise a family. It made you wonder what exactly happened to the people living there.

Aaron pulled into driveaway and got out of the car. Soon after, he was at your door, opening it for you. Your eyes widened a bit, but you concealed it, letting him help you out. "I'm coming in with you?"

"Yeah, it could take a while, so you might as well," he said.

With his hand on your back, he led you to the front door. He didn't knock or ring the doorbell. He just opened the door himself and walked right inside.

This time, you couldn't hide your shock. "Aaron!"

He didn't match your emotion, entirely indifferent. "Sh, sweetheart. Come inside."

You were too shocked to say a word. Aaron never used nicknames at work, and you couldn't imagine that he'd abandon that professionalism right as you entered a victim's home.

You stepped inside the house, looking around and waiting to see an appalled family staring at you. But there was no one there.

Your confusion only skyrocketed. You looked back at Aaron, questioning, "What's going on?"

He ignored your question. "So, what do you think?"

"What do I think?" You frowned. "Are you okay?"

He huffed a laugh through his nose. "I might have embellished slightly." He shortened the distance between you. "We're not at a victim's house."

"So whose house did we just break into?"

He sent you a soft smile. "It could be ours, if you want it."

Your world stopped. You glanced around in shock before looking back at him, your eyes wide. "Are you serious?"

Aaron grabbed your hands. "This is only one of the options," he said. "If you don't like this one, there are about five more lined up for us to look at."

Your eyes darted between him and the rest of the house. You couldn't stop looking. "This place looks like it costs more than my salary. A lot more. And then some."

"Don't worry about that," he told you, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. "Just worry about if you like it. Do you like it?"

"I— I love it." You were breathless. "But— a whole house? We have a house already."

He looked down for a second before looking back up at you. "I know. But you're not comfortable in it." You swallowed, and he stepped closer to you. "I know you're trying to suppress the memories, but it's difficult to move past something so traumautic. I don't want you to have to live in a house that doesn't feel like a home. Not if I can help it."

You blinked as tears gathered in your eyes. Aaron had seen you struggle with nightmares for months. He watched you avoid the living room. A profiler through and through, but more than that, he was the man who noticed the little things. He was the man who loved you. And you no longer had a single doubt about it.

"Aaron," a breathy laugh left you. "This might be the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

He smiled a real smile, the kind of smile that the rest of the world seldom saw. "So," he repeated, "what do you think?"

You smiled back at him. For the first time in a while, the smile reached your eyes. "I think... I love it." You removed your hands from his grasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. "And I love you."

His eyes softened. "I love you, too."

You leaned in, hugging him tightly. This house wouldn't fix everything, but it could give you a fresh start. It wasn't a clean slate; it wouldn't make you forget all that happened, but it could help you stop looking back. For once, you were looking forward.

You'd honour the truth of what happened the same way you'd honour the truth of what lied ahead.

You once had five simple truths. Now, you had one. It was faith that, no matter what happened, your family would pull through. Aaron believed in that just as much as you did.

One day, when you got married, you would hold that truth in the same light as your vows. It was a universal truth.

And neither you nor Aaron would ever forget it.

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[ssa-danhotchner]

apollo

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x sunshine!reader Summary: Aaron thinks you're just about the most radiant person he's ever met. But then you fly too close to the sun, and all your light disappears. Warnings: grumpy x sunshine turned not sunshine, references to greek myth of icarus and the sun god helios, apollo lore, violence, mentions of reaper arc, heartbreak, complicated relationships, avoidance, unresolved trauma, feelings, hopeful ending Words: 4.8K

Masterlist | icarus (part 1) | helios (part 2)

a/n: this is the end! thank u for all the love! i love this series sm, and i'll prolly end up writing lil blurbs for it (esp at ur request). there's sm feelings in this one. enjoy!

"I need to leave, Y/N."

"Wait— wait, we can talk about this, can't we?" You stepped closer to her, distraught colouring your face. "We can get you help."

She shook her head, a sad smile crossing her face as if she was saying she knew you wouldn't understand. Poor, sweet Y/N, her eyes said. Too good for this world. Too naïve. Too hopeful. What she ended up saying was, "No, Y/N. I can't."

"I— I don't understand." Tears welled up in your eyes. Her words didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

The smile on her face never fell. Only a single tear did, racing down her cheek. It occurred to you then that you'd never seen her cry.

"Oh, Y/N/N." She grabbed your hand, squeezing it tightly. "I hope you never have to."

When she let go of your hand, you knew there was nothing more you could say. She was leaving, and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

But, deep down, you knew she'd already been long gone.

"Goodbye, Y/N."

And before you knew it, she was out the door, too far away to hear you whisper back.

"Goodbye, Elle."

When Elle left, you didn't understand it. As the only female profilers, you stuck together like glue. You both came from units where you were at the top of your game, just to be shuffled back down to the bottom, having to learn an entirely new competence.

You didn't get it. The work tore her away. The job took too much away from her, took too much out of her. But that was the job. But what about you?

She could walk away from the job, fine. But why did she walk away from you?

You didn't get it then. Too young. Too naïve. Too hopeful.

But now you were older. You knew too much. The hope had been sucked out of you.

You understood now.

You understood what it meant to not be able to take it anymore, to not be able to face the people you loved while knowing you weren't the same. And you wanted to. You desperately wanted things to go back to the way they were. 

You wanted to go back to Rossi ruffling your hair, cracking jokes about your age but always knowing he took you seriously. You wanted to go back to lunch breaks with Penelope, talking about your nails and boys and feeling like a teenager. You wanted to back to laughing in Emily's apartment, her cat crawling across your lap. You wanted to go back to watching sci-fi movies with Reid, too convoluted to grasp. You wanted to go back to when Derek would tease you instead of treating you like you were made of glass. You wanted to go back to watching JJ's son without her wondering if you were in the state of mind to do it.

And Hotch.

Aaron. 

You wanted to hit rewind to before everything happened, if not just to be at his side again. Before you tried to kiss him and before he pulled away. Before a serial killer decided he was God and your life was his to play with.

But you couldn't, and now you understood Elle better than you ever did. Because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't be the same sunshine everyone loved. 

You couldn't stay there anymore.

You submitted your resignation. You didn't know what happened next—you never thought further along than the BAU.

But you had to leave.

You understood now.

You wished you didn't.

— 

The words echoed throughout your head on a loop.

Hotch. Accident. Hospital.

The Reaper.

If it hadn't been for Morgan, you would've jumped into that SUV and driven there immediately. But he stopped you, taking away the keys and regarding you with a soft but firm stance. You both knew it wasn't safe for you to drive.

You didn't talk about the reasons why.

Now, you sat to Aaron's left. He was sleeping. He'd never seemed so peaceful.

How ironic it was that he had to be stabbed before he took a break. Even if you knew it wasn't peaceful, not really.

A U.S. Marshal had just come and retrieved Jack and Haley, taking them to an undisclosed location. Their lives were upended. His life was upended.

Your fearless leader, stony and brave. He approached every challenge with determination, like he knew he could beat it. Aaron Hotchner was a man who won battles. But when you walked into that hospital room, for the first time since you met him, he looked afraid.

He looked like he'd already lost.

Your heart squeezed in your chest. It wasn't fair. 

Suddenly, a mumble broke you out of your thoughts. "I can hear you thinking in my sleep."

You looked down, seeing him slowly open his eyes. You fixed him with a smile, even though it didn't feel right on your lips. Be brave, Y/N, your mind chided. He'd be brave for you. "Really? I can hear you thinking in your sleep."

His face remained blank, unfazed by your attempt to change the subject. He did that often—calling you out. Never maliciously, always with the greater good at heart. But he knew you. Sometimes, it felt like he knew you too well.

You wondered, did you know him as well as he knew you? 

You liked to think so.

Like usual, you crumbled under his gaze, looking away. If you kept looking at him, nothing would stop the onslaught of tears from making their way down your face, and you wouldn't do that to him. You wouldn't cry; it wasn't your right to. You weren't his wife. 

But you were something. Enough of something to feel the need to cry, anyway.

A shaky exhale left your lips. "Why do bad things always happen to good people?"

The room was silent after your question, the only sounds being his heart monitor and the shuffling of the hospital outside. The beeping felt like a taunt, a reminder that Aaron's life hung in the balance, that he could've died.

It made you realize that you weren't specific enough. What you really meant was, why did bad things always happen to him?

Aaron Hotchner. The leader. The father. A good man. The best man you'd ever met.

The man you'd fallen in love with.

When he responded, you could hear the despair in his voice, like he had the same questions.

But for once, he didn't have the answers.

"I don't know."

—

You didn't have to knock on Aaron's door long before he was opening it, having expected you. You grinned, holding up the brown bags in your hands. "I come bearing gifts. Chinese."

"You're a godsend," he praised, undoing his house alarm. You had helped him install it when he got out of the hospital, no questions asked. 

While he did that, you placed the food on the table, going to grab some plates and drinks. This was the rhythm you'd settled into, a routine. You came over every other night under the guise of updating him with your cases, but really, it was a lot more than that for you.

You hoped it was for him, too.

You always brought food. Sometimes, he even cooked (it was edible). It was your way of making sure he ate.

You never talked about what happened. He never talked about Haley or Jack, even though you knew they were the only thing on his mind. You talked about work, and the weather, and what movies you were gonna be watching after dinner, but never anything that mattered.

You didn't need to. This, being here, mattered. You didn't need anything more than that.

You just wanted him to know he wasn't alone. No matter what happened, you'd always be there for him. This was your way of showing that.

After watching a movie you didn't pay much attention to, you stood at the door, shrugging on your coat. You were just about to leave when his hand enveloped your wrist, making you turn around.

Curiously, you stared up at him. "Hotch?" Your voice was soft, the kind of soft that came with fragile things. Fragile. Delicate. Valuable.

Aaron opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking like he knew exactly what he wanted to say without knowing how to say it. He could command a room with quiet confidence, negotiate with the most unstable unsubs and power-hungry police chiefs, and give a profile like no one you'd ever met. But when it came to his own emotions, he was at a loss for words.

You weren't used to seeing that. There was something about it. You didn't like watching him struggle, but some part of you was satisfied that you could make him pause. It made you think that, maybe, he thought about you the same way you thought about him.

Just maybe.

When he seemed to collect his thoughts, he spoke. "Thank you." He didn't take his eyes off you, making sure you knew how earnest he was.

Your breath got caught in your throat. The weight of his gaze told you everything else he wasn't saying. How this wasn't just a thank you for the food or the DVD. This was a thank you for everything.

But, in your eyes, he had nothing to thank you for.

So you smiled and said, "Don't mention it."

And you hoped he knew how earnest you were, too.

—

You awoke to loud pounding on your door.  You remained motionless, hoping the person would get bored and go away, but the knocking persisted.

Glancing at your alarm clock, you groaned. It was far too early for anyone to be visiting you. Today, any time would be too early. But the knocking only continued, so with another groan, you rolled out of bed, throwing on a sweater in a hassle as you yelled, "I'm coming!"

You muttered curses to yourself all the way to the door, hastily unlocking it. When you finally threw it open, you were ready to give someone a piece of your mind, only to bet met with who you were least expecting.

Your mouth fell open slightly, all your curses dying on your tongue. And like you'd been doused in water, you suddenly felt wide awake.

On the other side of the threshold, Derek Morgan gave you a soft smile, his expression light while his eyes carried all the heavy things you thought you left at the BAU.

Now, all those things were at your doorstep.

"Hi, princess." He paused. "We have to talk."

— 

You would've thought that, after all your time in the BAU, you would've gotten used to hospitals.

Apparently not.

As your eyelids fluttered open, you were disoriented, instantly closing them again at the sheer bright lights. The sound of feet shuffling came to your ears, followed by a flicking sound.

When you opened your eyes again, the lights were off, and Derek Morgan stood in front of you. He gave you his classic smile, but for some reason, it looked a little tighter than usual, a little bit harder to conceive.

What had happened? Why did he look so sad? Was he okay?

"D-Derek?" you croaked, interrupted by a cough.

Quick on his feet, he was soon passing you a glass of water, guiding the straw into your mouth. "Easy there, easy. There you go." He was tending to you like you were a sick child. You weren't sick. You weren't a child.

What happened? Why was he taking care of you? Why did you need to be taken care of?

When he removed the straw from your mouth, you repeated your question. "Derek, what's wrong?"

He looked like he didn't want to answer you. Instead, he countered, "Y/N, do you remember what happened?"

As if his question singlehandedly opened pandora's box, pain suddenly radiated from your lower body, aching all over. 

Your brain caught up with your body, and then the pain intensified.

You shakily exhaled. "Yes."

Derek exhaled, too, but his looked more like relief than anything. Relief that he wouldn't have to explain this to you. Relief that he wouldn't have to say the words out loud. 

"You were in surgery for a while," he said. "Yesterday night. The doctors say you'll make a speedy recovery."

You didn't respond.

"Garcia's still flying in. She won't believe anything I say until she sees it with her own eyes," he lightly chuckled. But his tone was heavy. No jokes could erase that. "The others'll be on their way back when they wake up. I told 'em you were in good hands."

You wanted to laugh. You tried. The only thing that left your mouth was a sob.

Derek was immediately at your side, cradling your head into his chest, letting your tears soak his shirt and not saying a single word about any of it. You wanted that to make it feel better, but you just felt empty.

Like there were holes in your body.

—

You sat on your couch, wrapped in a warm blanket as Derek rummaged through your cupboards, looking for something to give that was fit for human consumption. You would've been a good host and offered him tea, but he already had a pot on the stove.

He said you looked like you hadn't eaten. You didn't deny it.

"Everything in your fridge is expired, so I ordered us some breakfast from that place downtown," he informed you, setting down two mugs of tea on the coffee table and taking a seat in the armchair across from you. 

You watched the steam twirl into the air, nodding blankly.

Derek sighed. "Kid, I'm worried about you."

You sighed back in response. "I'm fine." The words came out harsher than intended.

Derek's eyes softened. "You quit your job, Y/N. You love the BAU."

Love. Loved. You shook your head, lightly scoffing through your nose. For the first time in a while, you were honest. "I love the BAU when it isn't taking everything away from me." You could count the things this job had taken from you on two hands too many, turning your reflection into a stranger.

It made you wonder what you'd do without it.

Derek's eyes didn't meet yours, looking down at the floor instead. The room went quiet. You could hear the cars outside, the rest of the world moving on while you stayed right where you were, stagnant.

Right now, you were in your apartment. Your feet were touching your hardwood floor. Your fingers played with a loose string on your blanket. Derek sat across from you. Your body was here.

But in reality, your mind was stuck in that house. Stuck walking into a trap with Morgan right behind you.

"I'm sorry."

At his sudden words, you looked up. His eyes locked with yours. You didn't know how long it'd been that you'd sat in silence, but you certainly didn't expect it to be broken with those words.

You furrowed your brows. "What?"

Despite the long period of quietness that came before, he didn't stay quiet now. He didn't even look like he had to think about what he was saying—almost like he'd thought it all a thousand times before. "Y/N, I'm sorry that you're in pain. And if I could switch places with you, I would— in a heartbeat." He leaned forward in his chair. "There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about what happened. About how I left you alone." His voice tightened up. "But Y/N, I swear to you, if you come back to the BAU, I won't ever leave you alone like that again."

Strong conviction laced his voice, like he was under oath. For a moment, you were confused by what he was saying. He never left you alone— oh.

Oh.

Tears welled up in your eyes. "Derek—" your voice cracked. Oh, you felt terrible. So, so terrible.

How long had one of your best friends blamed himself for something he had no control over? How long had this slipped past you?

You were supposed to be one of the best profilers in the nation.

But right now, you just felt terrible. 

"Derek, I never blamed you." A tear slid down your cheek against your wishes. "This isn't your fault. It never was."

Your vision was so blurry that you didn't see him crying, but you did see him wipe at his eyes. That made you get up, and he met you in the middle, wrapping his arms around you and engulfing you in his embrace.

In his arms, you cried freely, just like that morning in the hospital. You cried for all the things you pretended not to cry about. For all the things you lost. The things you didn't see. The person you were. The person you could've been.

"I'll never leave you alone again, you hear me, kid?" Derek hugged you tighter through his muffled words, making sure you didn't just hear them but that you felt them. "We're family."

Family.

You hugged him back just as tight. If you lost everything, you still had that. You might have lost yourself, but your family was right there, shining a light in the darkness, looking for you.

You prayed they'd find you.

— 

When Morgan left, it was dark out. He only left after a lot of crying and even more food, but you felt different. Reminded of what you still had.

You weren't okay. Nothing was okay. But you wanted to things to be able to get better. You didn't just want to give up and walk away from it everything. You built a life at the BAU with people you loved. Maybe there was one person you even loved too much.

God, he hurt you. He hurt you in irreversible ways, leaving you out in the cold multiple times, begging for him to see you just for him to turn away. 

And you knew he cared about you. No one acted the way he did without caring. Sometimes, you thought Aaron Hotchner cared too much, masking it behind a wall of indifference. 

Before all this happened, you were allowed behind the wall. He showed you the man he hid from others. You fell in love with that man. You missed him.

You just wanted to go back to those versions of yourself. The Y/N who would make a stupid joke late at night and the Aaron who would be too tired to pretend not to smile.

But Hotch wanted to talk about it. Aaron did, too, but it was mostly Hotch. A different version of him that was too concerned, too focused on drilling the truth out of you.

Could you give it to him? There was a time when you would've given him anything; all he had to do was ask. Now, you weren't so sure. There were certain parts of yourself you couldn't just hand out, certain things you wanted to keep for you and you alone.

You had already given up so much. You already gave your heart to Aaron Hotchner once, and he discarded it. Who was to say this time would be any different?

No. You couldn't give him everything.

But you'd give him something.

—

You found the route to Hotch's apartment the same way you did time and time before, like a dance you still knew the steps to. You knew when to turn right and when to turn left, when to keep going straight and when to stop. Nothing about this was unfamiliar.

Aaron Hotchner was once the most familiar person you'd ever known.

But you knew things were different.

Even though the elevator up to his floor hadn't changed and he still had the same mat outside his door, you knew that you weren't the same. You had changed. You weren't familiar anymore.

And so, when he opened the door and his brows raised up to his hairline, you understood the surprise. You didn't just do this—you didn't just show up at his apartment unannounced, not anymore.

His lips parted. You weren't sure if he was going to speak or if he was just in shock. You spoke first regardless.

"I, um," you wrung your hands together, "I don't have food this time." A nervous smile lit up your face, no less nervous than your first time in his office. Maybe more nervous this time. Maybe you hid it better back then.

And maybe he could hide his emotions better back then, too. The shock on his face didn't clear until after you had spoken. He blinked, then opened his door wider. "Please."

A small thank you left your lips as you walked in, crossing the threshold into a world you knew you wouldn't be able to leave again.

The apartment looked like it hadn't changed at all. The only thing that caught your eye were the toys splayed out on the living room floor.

Your heart spiked, but as if Hotch could read your mind, he said, "Jack is asleep."

Glad you weren't interrupting anything, the tension in your shoulders was released. You wondered if that's what he saw: visual cues that indicated your mental state. Was it mind reading or behaviour?

Was he a profiler, or did he just know you as well as you both thought he did?

You couldn't really tell anymore.

"Would you like something to drink?" he queried.

"No, I uh..." this was small talk. You weren't here for this; you didn't even know what you were here for, but it was for more than this.

Whatever you were here for, you had to figure it out before you lost your nerve.

You turned around, finding him right behind you. You inhaled a sharp breath. The last time he was this close to you— 

"You hurt me, Hotch." The words tumbled out of your mouth before you even had the time to filter them. You watched his face fall. You continued, anyway. "You hurt me when you left me alone that night. And I— I can't fault you for rejection. But you left me all over again when I— when I needed you."

"Y/N." He took a step closer.

You took a step back.

"I needed you. I really, really needed you." Tears built in your eyes. "But you weren't there." You wiped away the tears in your eyes before they could fall, refusing to cry. "And then you have me go on the record to talk about the most horrible experience of my life, and suspend me when you don't get what you want. Like I'm just some rookie agent."

Unlike the previous conversations you'd had, Aaron didn't say anything to his defense. He stood there, unmoving, letting you say what you needed to say. You were equal parts grateful and equal parts angry. Exasperated.

You wanted him to say something. You wanted to know if it was really all in your head, if it really happened or if you imagined it. "Is that—" you faltered, "is that all I am to you, Hotch? Just an agent? Did I ever—" you swallowed, "did I ever mean anything to you?"

"Yes." His response was rapid, his eyes narrowing as if he was insulted by the question. As if he was shocked you could ever think otherwise. He took a step closer to you, and this time, you didn't step back. "If I have ever made you feel like you are 'just an agent,' then I sincerely apologize." He paused, his eyes boring into yours. "Y/N, you are one of the most qualified and accomplished agents I have ever met, let alone had the pleasure of working with. And I can say with absolute certainty that you are one of the best people I have ever known. You are beautiful, inside and out, and full of so much light that you have brightened every room you've walked into." His words reverberated through the quiet room, soaking into your bones and into every fibre of your being. "So, if I've pressured you since your return, it is because I am worried."

Your breath hitched as he took another step closer. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry for leaving you alone that night and every other night afterward. I was—" he took a breath, looking down briefly. When his eyes met yours again, they were just as honest. Brave. Afraid. "I was terrified I'd lose you. That I would ruin what we had. And then I was scared for what happened to you. Too afraid to look you in the eye after I made a decision that almost cost you your life. By the time you got back to the BAU, my fear wasn't just losing you physically. It was losing you. Your heart. Your spirit. All the things I love about you."

Your heart might've stopped then and there. After a few seconds, you echoed, "Love?"

Aaron didn't back down or retract what he said. He nodded, like he was confirming it you and to himself. "Yes."

There were words he wasn't saying; you understood that. There were words you weren't saying, either.

But you knew what it meant for things to go unsaid. People blamed themselves. People crumbled. They said things they didn't mean to compensate for what they weren't saying. They were crushed under the weight of it all.

You didn't want that to happen anymore.

You took a step back, not because you were stepping away from the conversation, but because you were stepping into it. You nodded toward the couch. "Let's have that talk."

Aaron's eyes flooded with relief. You both made your way to his couch and sat down.

And then you talked until the sun came up.

— 

Your talk with Aaron wasn't easy. And despite your best promises to yourself, you still ended up crying, anyway. 

You weren't naïve. That may have been the first conversation you had, but it wouldn't be the last. There was still so much you had to talk about, so much you had to work through, but you had the time to do it.

Your suspension was lifted, but you didn't return to the BAU. At least, not right away. You decided not to throw yourself back into it, to let yourself find your footing first and process everything you tried to shove down.

Every member of the team supported you, and you knew there was a spot waiting for you when you were ready. Garcia had reassured you there were issues with your resignation, anyway (which you knew was undoubtedly her doing). You thanked her for her troubles.

She visited you often while you were home alone, updating you on the team's shenanigans. And Rossi visited you with enough food to feed a shelter, rendering it pointless to go grocery shopping at all. You accused him of spoiling you. He retorted that he could cook for the whole team if he wanted to.

And that's how you ended up where you were, underneath the fairy lights in his backyard as Reid summarized Greek mythology to you.

Gesturing his hands in the air, he explained, "No, actually— although thought to be, Apollo is not the sun god. Helios is. Helios is meant to be a personification of the sun—the sun in human form. But Apollo is god of the sun—an important distinction in categorization. He's not the sun, but he's not supposed to be. He just has sunlike features, and— I'm sorry. I'm rambling, aren't I?"

He looked sheepish, but you were leaning forward in your seat. "No, not at all." You gave him a reassuring smile. "Please, keep going."

Spencer's eyes lit up, and he went on, "Well, Apollo has many more characteristics that make him an interesting god to look at it, like his love of truth, music, poetry, healing, and..."

As he continued, you couldn't help but connect what he was talking about to yourself.

He's not the sun.

But he's not supposed to be.

Inadvertently, you realized what you'd been trying to learn for so long. The answer was right in front of you the whole time, but now, you finally understood it.

You kept trying to be this person that didn't exist. The sun. A work of fiction. But you couldn't be that. The sun wasn't up all the time. It wasn't always bright. It was impossible to be light at every waking moment. The light didn't define Apollo, and it didn't define you.

No, you realized. You weren't the sun.

You were so much more than that.

taglist: @ithinkitzleslie @burrithorr @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @bunchofcells-blog @hotchspearl @famouslywaiting @lailamares @avis-writeshq @zoeyredbird1 @dyslexicreader64 @lolagaming23 @thomasshelbyswife @spct0r @qualitygiantshoepsychic @duruxoxo @idontlikesleeping

[ssa-danhotchner]

AUCH?

helios

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x sunshine!reader Summary: Aaron thinks you're just about the most radiant person he's ever met. But then you fly too close to the sun, and all your light disappears. Warnings: grumpy x sunshine turned not sunshine, references to the greek myth of icarus and the sun god helios, graphic descriptions of violence, murder, mentions of abduction, heartbreak, complicated relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unresolved trauma, aaron is a bit of a jerk (with reason) Words: 3.1K

Masterlist | icarus (part 1) | apollo (part 3)

a/n: part 3 otw (don't kill me; we can talk about the next part of the grey area later)

When you first met Hotch, you knew he was wondering why you'd apply for the BAU. Most people wondered why you'd work for the Bureau in the first place. To make the world brighter, you'd thought.

But now your world was so dark that it made you wonder what the point of any of it was.

Did it matter if you helped some people? Did you really help anyone? You used to think so.

Now you were on the other side of the equation, and it didn't seem that way anymore. You weren't the agent, just the victim. And now you wondered—could you ever truly help anyone? Or were they all just dead the moment they were taken?

You never stayed long enough to see the aftermath, what happened to the victims after the unsub was apprehended. You now wished you did. Did this feeling ever go away?

It didn't feel like that right now.

Nonetheless, you still found yourself sitting at the BAU round table, coffee in hand in attempts to remedy your lack of sleep. It didn't help much, but it made you feel like you were doing something. Lately, everything in your life felt that way.

You sat across from Spencer, between Emily and Derek. They were talking about this movie they saw; Reid was arguing about innaccuracy and statistical probability. They invited you to go, too.

No thanks, guys. I'm busy this weekend. You didn't elaborate further.

You remembered the look of disappointment that washed over Spencer's face, but he covered it with a smile. You reciprocated it the best you could.

Smiling felt harder.

"Hey, Y/L/N, you listening?"

You blinked, turning to see Morgan looking at you expectantly. "Sorry. What?"

"I said, drinks. After this case. It's all on the old man's tab." Rossi made a sound of protest in the background, but Morgan barely glanced his way, keeping his eyes on you. "You in?"

Your mouth opened, but you didn't know what to say. You were running out of excuses. This felt like a test—

"Let's start the briefing."

At Hotch's entrance to the room, you felt a weight being lifted off your shoulders despite the air somehow getting heavier. You trained your eyes on the screen, relieved that you wouldn't have to answer.

JJ started, "Baltimore's seen a series of child abductions over the past few months. Jimmy Porter was abducted from the mall a week ago." She clicked to the next slide. "His body was found dumped by the harbor 2 days ago."

Diving into profiler mode, you tilted your head at the picture. "Dumped is a nice way of putting it," you commented. "The positioning shows an ample amount of remorse."

"And he dumped the body where it could easily be found," Hotch built off your point. He usually did that. It almost felt like things were normal between you.

Please, Y/N.

You cleared your throat. "Have the other bodies ever been found?"

JJ sighed, automatically indicating you wouldn't like her answer. "Baltimore PD is sweeping the water as we speak." She clicked to the next slide. "Last night, Max Campbell was taken from his home while his parents were asleep."

Derek sat up straighter. "That's a hell of a risk to take."

"To go from abducting from common hunting grounds like a mall to one's own home is extremely unlikely. It shows an immense jump in confidence and victimology, going from victims of opportunity to a specific victim in a specific location," Reid said, making gestures with his hands. 

You tipped your head in his direction. "There must be something specific about Max Campbell that made the unsub take him without even cooling off."

Hotch nodded, agreeing. "We'll discuss this further on the jet. Wheels up in 30." 

You all stood up, grabbing your things. You were about to leave the room when Hotch called your name. 

"Y/N." You turned back, seeing his soft expression that was simultaneously devoid of emotion. "Could I speak to you for a moment, please?"

No. Whatever he wanted to talk about could wait. He already got his fill the night before. You had nothing more to talk about.

But you couldn't say that. You'd already said too much. So, you reluctantly nodded, waiting for everyone to file out of the room and ignoring the glances they shared.

Rossi closed the door on his way out, like he could anticipate that you wouldn't want anyone to hear this conversation. You didn't know if you wanted to thank him for it or be angry at the assumption.

Most of your feelings were torn between extremes.

Sadness and anger.

Relief and intensity.

And as you stared at Aaron, standing there with stiff arms, hate and love.

He started slowly as if he was pacifying an unpredictable animal. "Y/N... I would like you to stay with Garcia for this case."

You involuntarily recoiled, shocked at the notion. If he was ashamed, he didn't show it. You scoffed. "What?" He opened his mouth, but you didn't let him get a word in, taking a step forward. "Hotch, that's ridiculous. Child offenders are my specialty. Are you seriously taking me off this case?"

"I'm not taking you off the case," he reasoned. "You'll be more help here—"

"How?" A look of offense crossed his face, but you couldn't care less. Maybe you would've been more scared to go against Hotch before, but this was now. He'd never suggested something so ludicrous.

Emily called you yin and yang, two sides of the same coin. He trusted you on all fronts. This didn't feel like trust.

It felt like punishment.

Hotch's eyes hardened, giving you a look you'd never seen directed at you before. "Agent Y/L/N, as your unit chief, I am ordering you to stay here. Your input is valued; you will still contribute. But effective immediately, you will not be joining us in the field until a psychological evaluation deems you fit."

Another scoff left you. "Psychological evaluation? That's what this is about? All because I wouldn't fucking talk to you—"

"Watch your tone—"

"You have my doctor's note. I am physically and mentally capable for this job. You are not a licensed psychologist—"

His voice raised as he cut you off. "I reserve the right to make decisions about the agents on my team." He gave you one final once-over, like he was daring you to say another word, give him a reason to do something more drastic. You clenched your jaw, holding back all the words you wanted to let flow. That seemed to satisfy him enough. "You will stay here. End of discussion."

Hotch grabbed his briefcase and promptly left the room, not sparing you another glance as you just stood there, left once again by Aaron Hotchner.

Yin and yang, Emily had said. It almost made you laugh. The coin was flipped.

He was leaving you in the shadows.

— 

Derek passed by your desk as you were grabbing your things, getting ready to go to Penelope's bat cave. He raised a brow at you. "Hey, where's your go bag?"

Without meaning to, you sighed, immediately regretting it when you saw the smile on his face falter. "Sorry, I'm—" not mad at you, "I'm not coming. Bossman's orders." You threw in a smile, trying to smooth things over, but it came out more sarcastic than anything.

He stared at you in silence for a few seconds with that same look that everyone had been giving you since you came back. The same way you'd look at a pressure-activated bomb. Careful not to move too fast, press too hard, press in the wrong areas.

Derek seemed to decide that whatever he was thinking was worth saying. "Kid, you know he just wants what's best for you." Kid.

Were you not grown up now?

You pursed your lips before responding, "Yeah." It was sure as hell hard to see it that way when you were being benched, punished for something that wasn't your fault.

You couldn't help but think that Hotch would never do this to Derek. Or anyone, for that matter. It was just you.

Morgan sighed, but he left it at that, sensing the cut was too fresh. His eyes travelled lower. Silence again.

You knew what he was looking at. You resisted the urge to cover your stomach.

"Does—" he hesitated. Derek Morgan never hesitated. "Does it still hurt?"

You sharply inhaled. The scars had two months to heal. Sometimes, you could still feel the knife ripping into your body. Once. Twice. Three times.

You could feel it most times, actually.

The medications could get rid of the pain, but they couldn't get rid of the sensation of that knife in your body. Sometimes, you thought nothing ever would.

"I'm told it doesn't hurt anymore than it should," you said. Whatever that meant. Apparently, you were in pain paradise. This is the spot you want to be at, you doctor told you.

You didn't call bullshit when he said that, but Morgan looked like he might do it for you in real time.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but he was cut off by Emily. 

"Are you guys coming?" Right after she spoke, her eyes darted between you both, asking you a different question with her eyes. Am I interrupting something?

You shook your head, giving her a smile that looked more practiced. No, you're not. "No, I'm not coming. I'll see you guys when you get back." You dodged any more questions by quickly turning around. Morgan could explain it to her if she asked. You didn't feel like answering any more questions, being treated like a ticking time bomb.

You just wanted things to go back to normal. Once they started treating you like they did before, then you could be the same as you were before.

You're not the same, Y/N.

Nothing was.

—

Penelope couldn't get through to you. You were quiet all day except to share your theories. The next day was the same. And the next. And the next. Until the bastard was caught.

Max Campbell was rescued. You weren't there to see it, but you wondered if it really made a difference. He was just a boy, so full of light.

Would that light ever come back to him?

You exhaled, running your hand over your face. Even though you stayed home, you were exhausted. You didn't sleep more than an hour at a time, but that wasn't much different from your new routine.

You were starting to see more of the moon than the sun.

When the team returned, you greeted them all with smiles. There, just like before. The only difference was that you didn't talk to Hotch.

He glanced at you, wordlessly telling you to talk to him, but you weren't gonna do that.

Rossi noticed the lack of communication between you. Everyone did, but he was the only one who'd say something about it.

Stirring his coffee in the break room, he started, "Aaron is... stubborn. But he's extra hardheaded for the people that he loves." Loves.

Your hand stilled halfway to grabbing the coffee pot, but you recovered quickly, grabbing it and pouring yourself a cup. You glanced side to side, checking to see if anyone was around to hear him and whatever he was implying. 

When you found no one else, you replied, "Okay." You weren't going to dignify that claim with any other response.

You knew Aaron cared about you; you'd be a shitty profiler not to know that. But love was a strong word.

Love didn't leave you all alone when you begged it to stay. Love didn't stay away from you while you were lying in a hospital bed. Love didn't interrogate you and make you sit on the sidelines when you didn't answer its questions. Love didn't make you feel so cold when all you wanted was to feel warm.

Rossi stopped pretending to pay attention to his coffee. You didn't meet his eyes. "Bellissima, you're going to have to talk to him eventually."

"Can you pass the creamer, please?"

"No." Finally, you looked up, meeting Rossi's passionate gaze. "It gets worse before it gets better. You have to let that happen."

You clenched your fists, digging your nails into your palms. You didn't see how it could possibly get worse than this.

"You know, I don't really think I want this coffee anymore." You left the mug on the counter, exiting the break room and leaving the conversation altogether.

— 

"Hotch, please. The case is right here—"

"No."

"Come on, I'll be right by your side the whole time," you argued. A new case came in, just over in Montclair, and you were trying to negotiate your way into it. Two cases had passed where he made you stay in Quantico. It was becoming nonsensical.

You thought he'd crack by now, but he remained firm in his resolve, refusing to let you in the field until you talked about what happened. And "talking about it" was something you didn't want to do, much less with him.

His gaze had more heat than the sun outside. You could tell he was contemplating it. Even he must've been able to see how absurd this was, holding you back from your work when he wouldn't do the same to anyone else.

When it was him on the other side of this, he came back to work. He went into the field 30 days after being stabbed nine times. You only endured a third of that.

You thought back to that day. You'd rushed to the hospital and didn't leave his side. You visited him every day, keeping him company and updating him on your cases. You never iced him out the way he was isolating you right now. You never avoided him when you knew he was hurting.

If you talked to him—if you had that conversation—then that's what you'd say. You'd end up saying something foolish about the things you felt, feelings he wouldn't reciprocate. You'd reopen wounds you were desperately trying to close.

So you wouldn't.

You didn't say a word of what you were really thinking, sticking to the script. Please let me go. I'll be fine. I'll stay by you.

Eventually, he made up his mind. "Fine."

You could've nearly smiled.

— 

The case finished speedily. You captured the unsub and found the girl just in time. Happily ever after.

Hotch didn't seem to think so.

As soon as the elevator doors opened to the sixth floor, he was storming past you all, his footsteps thunderous against the floor. Garcia's smile fell from her face when she saw.

Without turning back, he called, "Y/L/N. My office, now."

You rolled your eyes, following him and ignoring the looks your colleagues exchanged. They did that a lot, lately. But everyone stayed silent, electing not to make commentary. It was smart, not wanting to add fuel to the fire.

But you... you were the most fire you'd been in months. For the first time since what happened, you didn't feel cold. White hot anger coursed through your veins, lighting a fuse that no one could get rid of.

You slammed Hotch's door on your way in. He immediately turned to you, seething, "That was reckless and stupid—"

"It got the job done—"

He raised his voice. "You walked into the house alone, without backup—"

"I talked him down—"

"You could've died!"

"It wouldn't be the first time!" you snapped. Your chest heaved as if you'd just run a marathon, phantom pains in your abdomen supporting your words. 

He glanced downward before meeting your eyes again. For a second, it was almost like you were looking at Aaron. It was almost like he was understanding. 

You got quieter, but your voice was no less firm. "It certainly won't be the last."

And just like that, Aaron disappeared. No longer your friend. Back to the prosecutor, the unit chief who took your words as a challenge. His eyes narrowed. "Yes, it will be." It took you a moment to understand what he meant, but he soon made it very clear. "Your gun and your badge, now. You're suspended for the next two weeks."

You took a step backward as if his words were a slap in the face. "What?"

Hotch didn't lighten up, his face completely impassive. "You are a danger to yourself, and I cannot allow you into the field in good conscience." He held his hand out. "Gun. Badge. Now."

You echoed, "You're suspending me?"

"Yes."

An incredulous scoff left you. He was suspending you after everything? When he had done the same and worse?

He was allowed to use his judgement and keep things to himself, but the second you stepped out of line, he wanted to suspend you? You couldn't believe it. You wouldn't believe it.

In a split second, you made a snap decision. If he didn't want you here, then it wouldn't be on his terms.

You unholstered your gun and unpocketed your badge, shoving them in his chest as opposed to handing them to him. You didn't take your eyes off him once, maintaining your glare.

You hoped it burned.

"You're not suspending me," you rebutted, taking a step closer to him. Realization dawned on his face. "I quit."

Hotch's face morphed into something that almost looked like regret. You wouldn't stay long to savour it.

You spun on your heel, marching out of his office with him right behind you. The team, who no doubt heard small bits of your conversation, looked confused. You didn't stop for any of them.

"Y/N, this conversation isn't finished." He must've thought that'd get to you. His unit chief voice, big and loud. But your feet didn't stop moving.

With your back still turned to him, you retorted, "No, but I am."

You reached the elevator, pressing the ground floor and close button within seconds of each other. When the doors closed, Hotch's approaching figure was gone, replaced by your own reflection.

A shaky breath left you. The fluorescent lights in the elevator were blinding. It was brighter in there than it was anywhere else in the building. But when you got out to the parking lot, it was just dark.

Artificial lights. Not the sun.

They didn't last. They had switches; you could turn them off.

Your switch was flipped, too. For a second, you were hot and blazing, burning brighter than you'd ever burned before. But as soon as you left the building, that changed completely.

You were immersed in darkness.

And you were alone.

[ssa-danhotchner]

Sweetness Series Masterlist

*note: the banner is mine

Derek Morgan x reader | Aaron Hotchner x reader You fall in love with your boss when you first meet him. Over 10 years later, you meet Derek Morgan and he falls in love with you. or, a slow-burn across the seasons until you realize what's right in front of you.

Series warnings: angst, assistant!reader, unrequited love, emotional infidelity maybe, r wears glasses, fades-to-black intimacy, cm-level violence, murder, complex mental health issues, very slow burn, (love triangle? not really), many time jumps

Before

You meet Hotch

Season 2

Emily joins the team

Profiler, Profiled

Season 4

Lo-fi

...And Back

Season 5

Nameless, Faceless

Haunted

Outfoxed - 100

Season 7

Eleanor Rigby (It Takes a Village) — Part 1

[ssa-danhotchner]

Eleanor Rigby

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, Derek Morgan x reader Summary: When your boss leaves for an assignment without saying anything, you think you're all alone. Derek Morgan shows you otherwise. Warnings: angst, assistant!reader, takes place in the gap between s6 and s7, references to doyle arc, hotch goes to pakistan, musical references to eleanor rigby from Yellow Submarine (beatles) and the world is yours from Illmatic (nas), r wears glasses, unrequited love, emotional infidelity maybe, satc reference, fades-to-black intimacy, cm-level violence, murder, complex mental health issues, very slow burn, (is this a love triangle? it's not), many time jumps, long Eps incl: S6E18 (lauren), S7E1 (it takes a village) Words: 11.4K

Series Masterlist | CM Masterlist | Navigation

a/n: new series alert!! yes i will bring u a part 3 to simple truths. for now, here's this! i plan to show the slow burn throughout the seasons of cm.

June 13, 2011

You found out about Aaron leaving from someone else. 

Derek was offhandedly saying he didn't want to be to chief. "Hotch's job is a pain in the ass," he said. "But he's gotta go, so I guess I have no choice but to take it."

It was almost like you didn't hear it right. You kept pouring creamer into your coffee until you jolted forward, like some external force was acting on your body, spilling the creamer onto the breakroom counter.

"Woah, Y/N, are you good?"

You turned to him, your face a picture of confusion. "What do you mean 'he's gotta go?'" you repeated. 

That didn't make sense. You were Hotch's assistant. You planned the meetings and made the calendar. If he had to go anywhere, then you knew about it. No— you were the first to know about it.

Knowing that simple fact, Morgan's brows furrowed. "Pakistan. He leaves today?" He phrased it like a question. It wasn't a question.

You picked your jaw up off the floor, shaking your head. "I—" you set your coffee down, nearly dropping it on the floor. "I have to go."

"Y/N—"

You were out of the breakroom before he could say another word, traversing the bullpen and climbing the steps to Hotch's office like you had tunnel vision. 

You threw the office door open, finding it empty but so full at the same time. The picture frames on his bureau hadn't been touched. But the files on sitting there were organized so neatly that they didn't look touched. The same files you dropped off last night.

You slowly scanned the room. You would've thought he never even entered the office that morning, had it not been for the envelope placed in the middle of of his desk.

Narrowing your eyes, you strode over to the desk until you were close enough to read the messy cursive handwriting.

Y/N.

You stopped in your tracks. A shaky breath left your lips. Something like a laugh. Something like the exact opposite.

Footsteps sounded behind you. Then, "You didn't know."

The solemn tone of Derek's voice sealed it in for you. It was real. This really happened.

Hotch left.

"No." You paused. "I didn't."

Quiet words had never been so loud.

❧ ❧

Hotch's favourite song off Yellow Submarine was Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds. You weren't much of a Beatles fan, but after working for Hotch for nearly a decade, you'd picked up some of the songs.

At that moment, Eleanor Rigby played on your head in a loop.

All the loney people. Where do they all belong?

"Want me to top you off?"

You glanced up, seeing Derek standing above you, holding the bottle of scotch. Maybe it was wrong to drink in your boss' office after hours with his replacement. But maybe it was wrong of him leave you in the first place. "Yes, please," you requested, holding the glass out.

It was awful to think of it like that, and you knew it. Like Hotch left you. He left all of you, not just the assistant he brought to the BAU. But that's what it felt like. It felt like he left you with nothing to show for your relationship except a letter in an evelope you wouldn't open. 

Maybe that was your problem. Thinking you and Hotch had a "relationship" in the first place.

Derek took his seat next to you on the couch. "I can tell you're thinking hard about something," he commented.

You were. But these were quiet thoughts you'd never voiced out loud. So you traded one bad thought for another and shared the least worse one. "I'm wondering if I even have a job here anymore." Right after you said it, you took a swig of the scotch, hoping it'd take the edge off. It didn't.

Incredulity was all over Derek's face, and his voice carried the same sentiment. "What?" He put his glass down on the coffee table, despite never having taken a sip. "Pretty girl, what are you talking about?"

"He didn't tell me, Derek." Finally, you looked up at him, your eyes laden with defeat. "I'm his assistant, and he didn't tell me. I mean, this job basically doesn't exist. I don't have any real place here—"

"Woah, woah, woah, I'm gonna stop you right there," he cut you off, a tiny fire blazing in his eyes that you'd only seen a few times before. "Y/N, your place on this team is not dictated by anyone else's presence. You're not just anyone's assistant—"

"Derek—"

He didn't let you say a single thing, fixing you with a steely gaze. "I'm being serious. This train wouldn't run without you. The things you do for this team are indispensable, and you have a mind we'd be fools to let go of."

You pursed your lips like you didn't quite believe what Derek was saying, but you ended up sighing, dropping the argument. He took that as a win.

He grinned. "Besides," he bumped shoulders with you. "You can be my assistant now."

That caused a real smile to spread across your face, only making Derek's grin widen. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "I mean, I'm no Hotch, but if you need a new ride or die—"

"Ride or die?" Laughter laced through your voice.

He chuckled with you. "Yeah. Ride or die."

You shook your head at his antics, but then nodded right after. "Okay," you said. "Ride or die." You held your pinky out to him, pretending and failing to look serious.

Derek's laugh became hearty, but he linked his pinky with yours, anyway. You spent the rest of the night finding things to laugh about.

You think Hotch's office saw more laughter that night than it ever did.

March 7, 2011

The whole of the BAU sat in a hospital waiting room. Spencer walked back and forth, coffee in hand. He'd offered you one, but you were wide awake without the caffeine, despite the exhaustion seeping into your bones.

Your leg bounced up and down uncontrollably, only stopped when Hotch put his hand on your knee. 

You swallowed, looking at him to see that his eyes were already trained on you. His expression didn't give much away, but you could trace the concern outlining his eyes.

"Tell me she's gonna be okay," you whispered. It wasn't fair of you to ask. None of this was fair at all.

Hotch opened his mouth only to close it right after. You almost thought he had something to say. But then the sound of heels clicking ended your conversation before it even started.

Your head turned to see JJ walk into the room, her eyes rimmed with red. Her lips wobbled. The silent words reverberated throughout the room before she even said a word.

"She never made it off the table."

The sob that left you wracked through your body. "No—" Hotch wrapped his arms around you, letting you cry into his chest. Your tears immediately soaked his white shirt. But he held you, and he didn't cry at all.

And when he eventually asked Morgan to console you, you were too out of it to even notice him walk into the hallway, let alone to notice JJ following him.

None of this was fair.

July 2, 2011

You entered Derek's office with your tablet in hand. The door was open, so you didn't knock. Not like you knocked much these days, anyway. 

"Hey, Morgan, I think I have a case for us."

"I'll look at it in a sec." He barely glanced at you, too busy fiddling with the telephone on his desk. But when he looked up, it was to say something unrelated. "I'm about to have Hotch on a secure line," he told you, holding the phone out like an olive branch. "You can brief him on the case, too, if you want?"

Your mood soured instantly, and it showed on your face. "No, that's alright," you declined. "I'll e-mail you the file."

"Y/N—" Derek tried to call your name, but you were already out the door. You couldn't have been out of there sooner.

You knew what Derek's stance was on all this. He thought you should at least try to talk to Hotch. You wouldn't get these chances often—you didn't know how long he'd be gone, so the right thing to do would probably be to pick up the phone and talk to him.

But you couldn't. How could you when he left? How could he leave after— 

You found yourself standing in front of Emily's photo, on a wall of other dead agents you'd never met before. Now, after the amount of times you'd stood there, their names were etched into your memory.

You took a deep breath, and then you returned back to the bullpen, walking to your office.

The sixth floor had never felt so empty.

April 9, 2005

"Sorry I'm late."

You set your menu down on the table, a smile lighting up your face. "No, that's alright. You're a big-shot FBI agent now; it's expected."

"Expected, huh?" The corner of Hotch's lips curved up into a crooked smile as he pulled his seat out across from you. This café came at his recommendation. He knew the city better than you, despite both of you having lived in DC and despite the fact that he lived in Seattle for a time while you stayed right there.

"Yes, I expected it, and I ordered you a coffee. Black, 3 sugars," you clarified, only the slightest bit smug. "If that's still you take it?"

Hotch huffed a laugh through his nose. "Yes, it is."

"Good, it's on its way." Your smile widened just enough to still be real. "Speaking of expecting things, how's Haley?"

Hotch's smile became more real. "She's good. The baby is, too. This kid I work with—he's a child prodigy—told me it's the size of a pear now. It never ceases to amaze me."

You didn't know if he was talking about the child prodigy part or the pear, but you didn't ask. You just congratulated, "I'm happy for you."

You really were happy for him—for them. Haley was a friend, too. But your happiness came with an ache in your chest you couldn't get rid of, no matter how hard you tried or how many years it'd been.

The server arrived, setting both of your coffees down on the table. You smiled at him in thanks.

Hotch nodded at your cup. "Let me guess: latte with 2 shots of espresso, filled to the brim with milk."

Playfully, you narrowed your eyes. "Okay, Mr. Profiler. You missed the pump of vanilla, but I'll give it to you."

He raised a brow, taking a sip of his coffee. "Vanilla? That's new."

When you were done taking your first sip, you shrugged. "Life needs a little sweetness to it."

The crooked smile was back. "How's life going at the DA's office?" 

You sighed. This was the part of the meeting you weren't looking forward to. While Hotch had climbed the ranks all the way to one of the FBI's most elite units, you stayed stagnant. "I'm a receptionist now. I answer phones all day, basically," you told him. "Not as exciting as being your assistant if I'm being honest, but it pays the bills."

Hotch took one more sip of his coffee, and then he set it back down on the table. Almost sheepishly, he admitted, "That's actually why I asked you here."

Your brows raised. "You asked me here to discuss how I'm a receptionist?"

"No." He folded his hands together on the table, making himself look more serious but still giving you the same soft look as before, like a friend and not a boss. "I'm here to discuss a job proposition for you."

You went silent. At first, you didn't process it, but the surprise was on your face within seconds. "What?"

"What if I offered you a job as my assistant again?"

Hotch didn't speak in hypotheticals. You leaned forward. "You're offering me to be a job as your assistant?" you echoed.

He tilted his head at you. "You said it yourself. Things were better back then."

You ignored him. "Do you even have the authority to offer something like that?"

He sighed, as if he didn't want you to ask any questions at all. "My unit chief has been on leave. They want me to take over in his place."

Your eyes widened. "So the position you're talking about doesn't even exist?"

"Doesn't exist yet, Y/N," he corrected. Just like the Hotch you remembered. Finding loopholes and jumping through them like it was effortless. He paused, a more serious look overtaking his features. "I'll tell them I won't take the job unless you can come with me."

"Hotch!"

He wasn't even listening to you. "You have a dual degree in psychology and criminal justice. I'll make it a no-brainer for them."

You scoffed a laugh, dumbfounded by how sure of himself he sounded. "Are you being serious right now?"

He replied in an instant. "Extremely." 

The smile on your face faltered. He was being completely serious. Confident and collected, like the only version of him you had ever known. You tried to reason, "It's been nearly 10 years since we last worked together."

"It feels like it was just yesterday to me." God, he had no idea how hard that hit you, no idea how much you were still wrapped around his finger. "So," he continued, his eyes earnest. "Will you do it?"  

He didn't even have to hear the word leave your mouth to know your answer.

July 16, 2011

The team trudged into the hotel lobby with Morgan immediately going to the front desk to get your room keys. He was just as eager as the rest of you to get to your rooms and sleep.

The flight wasn't long enough for any shut-eye, and it didn't help that you left at 2 in the morning. You really hated that it was now your job to make that call, waking everyone up in the middle of the night.

It surprised JJ. This was her first case back with you—not as a liason, but a profiler-in-training. 

"I didn't know you took over so much of my old job," she'd said.

Part of you wanted to bite back, Who else would it have been? But you saved yourselves both the trouble, replying, "Yeah." The words travelled unsaid, anyway.

When Derek got back, it was with 4 cards in hand. "4 rooms," he confirmed. He didn't look any more excited than the rest of you.

"I call the single," Rossi announced, jumping at the opportunity to go solo. That left the rest of you staring at each other, uncertainty in the air. JJ's eyes met yours.

It wasn't lost on any of you that JJ and Emily used to room together. The same way you and Hotch used to room together.

Neither of them were here now.

JJ's mouth opened to say something, but Reid was faster. "Do you wanna room together?" He turned to her with hope in his eyes. You could've nearly thanked him for it.

She glanced at you one last time before smiling back at him. "Sure, Spence."

Derek looked down at you. "Guess that leaves you and me, pretty girl." He smirked like it was an inside joke. You were sure it was; you just didn't get it.

You played along. "Lead the way, Morgan."

You all departed to your rooms. You were so tired your legs felt like jello. That must've shown, because Morgan offered you the shower first. You weren't polite enough or awake enough to refuse.

The hotel's water pressure wasn't great, but it was warm enough to distract you from that. You could've fallen asleep right there. You couldn't remember a time in your life when you had ever been so tired but so unable to rest. So exhausted but running faster than you'd ever been.

When you got out of the shower, you got dressed, moisturizing your face. You looked at yourself in the mirror, analyzing the dark circles beneath your eyes. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

You're okay, Y/N. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay, you chanted. You chanted that to yourself until you believed it.

Derek was up and off the bed as soon as you left the bathroom, going to take a shower for himself. He'd taken the bed closest to the door, so you went to the other one.

Instead of lying down, you pulled your tablet out of your bag and sat criss-crossed on the bed, putting your glasses on so you could go over the case file again.

You weren't a profiler. But Hotch had taught you to never stop looking for puzzle pieces in everything you saw, until it all fit together.

Stop thinking about him, your mind chided. You sighed.

Some puzzle pieces just didn't make any sense. Not anymore.

You don't know how long you were staring at the same sentence until Derek's voice broke you out of your trance, remarking, "Hey, you don't wear glasses anymore."

You looked up, throwing him a lazy smile. "I wear contacts in public."

He smiled back at you. In the jogging pants and T-shirt, he looked more like the Derek you were used to than the one that wore suits. "I always thought the glasses were cute, y'know."

You fought the warmth rising on your cheeks. "Shut up, Morgan."

"No, really, I did." His smile turned into smirk, like he was admiring the embarrassment he caused. It confused you—the embarrassment confused you. Then, the smile lessened altogether. "You wanna talk about why you were so reluctant to room with JJ?"

You sighed. Lately, Derek had been keen on knowing your 'reluctance' about everything. "I wasn't reluctant," you denied.

"You were."

Your jaw tensed, annoyance building within you. "Is this you as unit chief trying to see if there are any rifts in your team?" 

"No." He sat down on the bed, facing you. "This is me as your friend, trying to see if you're okay."

This time, when you sighed, it was signalling that you gave up. "She just came back, Derek. Out of the blue."

"She never wanted to leave, Y/N."

"I know that," you responded. "And I've never held it against her that she had to go. But— but would she be here if Emily hadn't died? It..." you paused. "It feels like she's trying to fill a spot on the team that isn't open to take."

He sighed. "Y/N..."

"Look, I know it's irrational—"

"It's not irrational. You're entitled to how you feel, especially after all that's happened this year." His words carried an extra weight, and you weren't sure if he intended for them to have it.

Maybe it's because you were tired. Or maybe it's because you didn't like the way Derek was looking at you, with pity in his eyes. But you whispered, "Nothing ever happened between us, you know." You didn't state anyone's name, but you could tell he knew who you were talking about.

Derek gave you a sad smile. "I know, Y/N."

The two of you sat there looking at each other for too long before you took off your glasses, making the world a bit blurrier. "Goodnight, Derek."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You turned off your sidelamp, engulfing the room in darkness.

May 30, 2005

A knock resounded through your new office just as you were placing a box down. Quickly, you turned around, finding a man with warm brown skin standing in your doorway. You gave him a smile. "Hi. Can I help you?" You omitted the fact that it was your first day and you likely couldn't help him if you tried. He could probably tell, anyway.

The man's lips curved upward. "Hi, I just came by to see who the new pretty girl was."

You breathed out a laugh, despite a flush overtaking your face. "Oh, really? Pretty girl?" You wiped your hands onto your jeans. "Does that work with every girl?"

"No, I just hope it works on this one." You laughed again, having no other real response. He stepped past the threshold, extending his hand to you. "Derek Morgan. Really, I'm not using a line on you. The glasses just remind me of my colleague—I call him pretty boy."

"Oh." You adjusted your glasses and shook his hand, unsure if you were disappointed that he wasn't flirting or relieved. You didn't know what colleague he was talking about, but he himself was certainly pretty. "Nice to meet you."

The smirk on his face didn't relent. "Can I know your name? Or should I just keep calling you pretty girl?"

Another laugh. You hoped he couldn't tell how flustered you were, but if he was a profiler, then there was no use.

"I—"

"Morgan, don't pester my assistant."

You both turned to the door, seeing Hotch walk in. He stopped when he was right beside you.

Derek's brows furrowed as he glanced between you. The smirk on his face had disappeared. "Your assistant?" he echoed.

Hotch sighed, and you not only realized that Derek was a member of his team, but also that this was something he hadn't explained to them yet. "This is Y/N Y/L/N," he introduced. "She's going to be handling administrative tasks for me."

Derek continued to glance between you curiously. His eyes landed on you for too long before they were back on Hotch. "The brass just handed you an assistant?"

"No, Y/N and I worked together in '92 up until I joined the Academy."

You weren't a profiler by any means, but you could see the moment something in Derek's countenance shifted. As if something had just clicked and then closed off a door altogether.

When he turned back to you, it was different from before, less free, more practiced, more controlled. "Well," he held out his hand a second time, "It's nice to meet you, Y/N."

You shook his hand again. "Likewise, Derek."

You had a light handshake back then, light but firm. You were so young, thinking you were so old.

Young and excited for what lied ahead of you.

July 17, 2011

Morgan drove fast on the road, whizzing past cars like it was no issue for him as you gave directions. "Go right."

He followed your instruction, swerving onto another street. The other FBI issued SUV had already gone left about 4 blocks ago, heading for the unsub's workplace while you took the house.

"Keep going straight."

Cars turned into blobs on the road. Reid told you a statistic on sirens once, how the sound could give victims hope. You hoped this victim was still alive to hear it.

"There, stop!"

The car came to a screeching halt in front of a rundown house. You, Morgan, and Rossi got out of the car immediately. They reached for their guns; yours stayed in the same place, resting heavy on your hip.

You used your eyes instead, immediately spotting the sight in the window.

Rossi's face turned grim as he stared at the same thing as you. "They're in there alright."

There was your unsub, Carter Wilson, holding a knife to Vanessa Peters' throat. "He's obscuring his face," you remarked. "You don't have a shot."

Morgan sighed, speaking to Rossi. "We have to wait for JJ and Reid. Profile says he's insecure; he'll be agitated if a man walks in there. Might kill her, anyway."

Your brows knitted together, and then you turned around before you could really think the idea through. "What if you send me in there?"

Derek immediately protested. "No, absolutely not—"

"We don't have enough time," you reasoned. "I'm wearing a vest—I can do it."

Rossi cut in, "You don't have any negotiation training, Y/N."

"I've seen enough negotiations to have a basic idea," you countered. "Look, you said it yourselves, he'll respond best to a woman. This is the best chance we have with time."

You turned back to Morgan, nearly pleading with your eyes for him to see it your way. Eager eyes met troubled ones. You felt crazy for even asking—Hotch never would've said yes to something like this.

But Derek wasn't Hotch.

To both Rossi's and your surprise, he conceded. "Fine." You didn't let your shock show on your face. "You need to appear unarmed. Do you have—"

"Yes." You took your gun out of its holster, placing it on the hood of the car.

"Okay. You need to seem empathetic. Agree with everything he says. Don't make it about Vanessa. Make it about him. Him surrendering, his best option. Do you understand?"

You nodded. "Yes." Your heart thumped wildly in your chest.

"Okay." Derek nodded back at you. "Go."

Without wasting another second, you turned around, walking straight for the house. You thanked God your legs weren't shaking, recalling every negotiation you'd ever seen. Many were led by Hotch, and many were led by Morgan; that's how you knew you could do this.

The wooden boards of the porch creaked as you stepped onto it, twisting open the golden doorknob and walking into the house. You announced your presence. "Carter Wilson?"

"Who the fuck are you?!" His seething voice resounded throughout the small area, mixing in with the Vanessa's sobs.

You swallowed, stepping further into the house. "I'm unarmed—"

He cut you off, "You think I won't kill her?" He stepped away from the window. Good. He was stepping toward you, giving you his attention. "I will slit her fucking throat right now."

Vanessa's cries got louder. You raised your hands into the air. "Mr. Wilson, my name is Y/N." Inflate his ego, make yourself smaller. "I just wanna talk, okay?"

"You just wanna talk." He laughed maniacally, then jabbed the knife at you. "All you fucking whores say that!" He quickly placed the knife back at her throat, but you were getting somewhere. If you could get him to redirect his anger—

"I know, Mr. Wilson. But I really do just wanna talk." You stepped forward. "I know what she did to you. She made you feel unwanted—"

"You don't know shit about what she did to me!"

You inhaled. Move on, make a connection, build rapport. "I know what it's like to feel unwanted." Another step forward. "But if you do this, you won't ever get to see her again." Make him feel in control of what happens.

He scoffed. "I won't get to see her again either way."

"Mr. Wilson, if you kill her and go to prison, you won't even be able to see her grave." Another step forward. "You won't get to see the way her family cries over her death. You won't get to see the way any of your hard work pays off."

"And what are you suggesting, Y/N?" He spat your name out like it was poisonous. You could've flinched. "That I'll magically be able to see that if I let her live?"

Deep breath in, deep breath out. "If you let her live," another step, "then you leave her forever knowing that she could've died right here, and you granted her that mercy when she didn't deserve it."

You were playing into his grandiose sense of self-importance, making him feel like God. You just needed to wait for a— 

Crack. Your eyes zeroed in on his hand, shakily leaning away from her neck and into the air. If he wasn't holding her tight enough, then this could work. If you redirected his anger at you.

"Vanessa, run."

Before either of them could fully process your words, you were crashing into Carter, aiming for the side of his body holding the knife so that it was angled as far away from her as possible. Startled, his grip on her loosened, and you repeated yourself. "Vanessa, run!"

Vanessa took off, bolting to the door while you succeeded, making Carter angry. 

"You bitch!"

Carter threw you to the floor, knocking the wind out of you. But you could see his figure marching toward you, causing adrenaline to rush through your veins.

Quickly, you reached for your ankle, grabbing the gun hidden under your pant leg and aiming.

Front sight, trigger press—

Follow through. You kept your aim even as his body fell to the ground, keeping your breathing level.

You stayed that way until footsteeps came rushing into the house, Morgan shouting your name. "Y/N!"

Finally, you let out a sharp breath. "I'm fine!"

He ran to the unsub first, checking his pulse, and then he was immediately making his way toward you. His brows pinched together. "You're bleeding."

"What?" you panted. You looked to your shoulder, seeing a cut that you hadn't noticed before. As soon as you looked at it, you felt the stinging pain, making you wince.

Derek helped you up, grabbing your non-injured arm as officers came in for the unsub. "Come on, let's get this patched up."

As he guided you out, you didn't look at the body on the floor once.

❧ ❧

You sat on the back of an ambulance as the EMT stitched up your wound. All the while, Derek watched with a critical eye.

As the EMT finished up and walked away, you turned to Derek, reassuring him, "I'm fine, you know."

He didn't look quite convinced. "You got hurt on my watch."

"Morgan, it's just a graze. I've been hurt worse on the job before." That was the whole reason why you were gun-certified, anyway. To help you better protect yourself.

He clicked his tongue in disagreement. "I shouldn't have let you in there."

"Derek, it's fine." You got up, wiggling the newly stitched arm to prove it to him. "See?"

"Stop— Y/N— will you stop doing that—" Abruptly, he grabbed your arm, stopping the motion. "Fine, I believe you. Just— just take it easy, alright?"

You smiled at him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, we're ride or die, remember? You're gonna have to do a whole lot more than that to get rid of me."

He shook his head at you, but you could see the beginnings of a smile making its way onto his face. And a smile from Derek was nothing if not contagious. 

"Nice shot in there, pretty girl." Pretty girl. That's how you knew you were okay. Derek switched the subject. "So how'd you get him to let his guard down enough to let Vanessa go?"

You shrugged your shoulders, ignoring the slight ache, and quirked your lips up. "I think I might've used some Morgan techniques."

He snorted. "Really? Not Hotch techniques?"

For the first time in a while, your smile didn't fall when hearing his name. "No. Not as much."

Not as much at all.

December 20, 1993

"Is it true that Mr. Brown was an unreliable person?"

You lifted your shoulders into a shrug. "I never said that."

"You implied it—"

You cut him off, "Stop arguing with me. Arguing with the witness makes you look unorganized, and it makes it seem like you're trying to push your own narrative."

Hotch sighed, rubbing one hand between his brows and using the other to drop his notes on his desk. His tie was loosened, and his blazer was sitting on his office chair. Yours was discarded in a similar fashion.

When Hotch asked you to help prepare for his cross-examination the next day, you didn't expect to still be at the office until 12AM. But then again, when he asked you to jump, you had a habit of asking how high.

You didn't particularly like staying at the office so late with your boss. Not because you didn't enjoy the company, but because of this. The camaraderie that came after too many cups of coffee. The feeling that felt like more than camaraderie when he started rolling up his sleeves. The feeling of guilt when you realized that, even though his finger was naked now, a ring would soon be sitting there.

He and Haley were engaged. High school sweethearts. You wondered if they were the couple who coined the term; Haley was a sweetheart if you'd ever seen one. That's why you felt so guilty. So terribly, terribly guilty.

"Sorry," Hotch apologized, dropping his hand from his face. He sat down on his desk beside you. "I'm just frustrated. This is the biggest trial of my career."

You sent him a teasing smile. "You've barely started your career, Hotch. I'm sure more trials will come."

He didn't look any more at ease after you said that. A pensive look overtook his face. In the year that you'd been his assistant, you'd learned that Hotch was the kind of man who thought too much for his own good.

Suddenly, he questioned, "Does it ever bother you?" When he saw your brows furrow, he added, "Knowing that there's always gonna be another trial. Does it bother you?"

Your brows didn't unknit. "Are you asking if the work bothers me?"

"No, I mean—" he let out a breath, looking as though he couldn't find the right words. "Not the work. But knowing that there will always be people comitting crimes to be tried for?"

Slowly, you nodded. "It does. But that's just the nature of the job." 

In truth, you and Hotch didn't have the same job, so it couldn't compare. He was the prosecutor; you were the assistant. Albeit, you were a legal assistant, so you handled more than just a typical PA, but still.

Sometimes, it was the job that bothered you. You always wondered if you should be doing more, if you were doing enough. With your degrees, you didn't think you'd end up anyone's assistant, but that was the job that was available to you, so you took it.

It wasn't all terrible. You'd grown to like it. But sometimes you wondered if you liked the job, or if you just liked the fact that you worked for Hotch. You tried not to think about it.

Hotch lightly shook his head. "This case... Harrison Brown murdered 2 people in cold blood. And I get to prosecute him, sure, but... it feels like I'm too late."

You tilted your head. "Hotch, it's not like you could've prevented any of this. None of it is your fault."

"No, but what if— what if I could prevent it?" He turned his entire body to you suddenly, conviction swimming in his eyes.

"How would you do that?" you asked. You hoped he didn't suggest becoming a vigilante.

Later, you'd think that vigilantism might've been a better option. "I applied to Quantico."

Your eyes narrowed. "Quantico? Like the FBI Quantico?"

He didn't at all look deterred by your tone of voice, confirming, "Yes."

"Hotch, what?" You didn't have to say what you thought for him to know. The incredulity was brightly painted onto your face.

"I took a chance. I don't even know if I'll get in."

You were too in shock to form any other thoughts. "Does Haley know?" The way he grimaced told you your answer. You scoffed, "Hotch—"

"I just want to see what happens," he rationalized. He was good at rationalizing things. You weren't sure if this could be one of them.

"But if you get in, you'll go?" It was a pointless question to ask. You knew the answer. You both knew the answer; he only gave you the grace of pretending to think about it.

"Yes."

You sighed, and because you felt your eyes start to burn, you looked away from him. You didn't know why. You didn't have the right to be upset. If anything, it was his fiancé who was about to be blindsided, not his assistant. Not you.

It wasn't wrong of Hotch to want to pursue another career. When you met him, you knew that this couldn't have been it for him. He looked like he wanted to change the world.

How could you fault someone for wanting to do so much good? For wanting to be great?

You couldn't. That's why you stood up, looking for your blazer. "We should probably get going," you said. "It's getting late."

He followed you up, searching for your eyes as you refused to make eye contact. "Y/N—"

You looked at him, forcing a smile. "Hotch. It's getting late. You need to be sharp for your cross-examination tomorrow. We can talk about this another time."

His pursed his lips. "Promise me we'll talk about it another time." You didn't know why he cared so much.

"I promise." You didn't intend to break that promise. When you could find a way to feel about this, you'd talk to him. Until then, you wouldn't.

You grabbed your blazer, quickly bidding him goodnight and leaving his office before he could say anything else.

He didn't try to stop you as you left.

July 20, 2011

You sat down in front of Morgan's desk, a mug in your hand fill to the top with coffee that you tried to not to spill on all the files splayed out in front of you. 

Derek's voice sounded in front of you. "Come on, pretty girl, you don't have to stay this late."

Once you had comfortably settled, you raised a brow. "Please. You stay, I stay. You know how this works by now." And that he did. At this point, you spent more time at the BAU then you did at your own house.

The rest of the bullpen had cleared out by now. On paperwork days, most people worked until 5, maybe 6 or 7 at the latest. Most people were not the unit chief and his assistant.

You understood why Derek didn't want this job. It was full of paperwork. And considering everything that'd happened in the last few months, you had a lot more paperwork than usual.

Derek's eyes crinkled in a way that told you you'd get your way. "Fine. But we leave at 10."

The corner of your lips quirked up. "Fine."

It was easy to work with Derek. He'd play old hip hop as you worked, the voices of Lauryn Hill and Nas gracing his office. It was as far away from the Beatles as you could get, and that made you appreciate it so much more.

Whose world is this? The world is yours.

The world is yours.

The sound of papers thudding against wood made you look up, seeing Derek put his pen down and lean back in his chair. You glanced at the clock, seeing that it read 11:39.

You dropped the file you were working on, rubbing your eyes. "I guess we worked past when we were supposed to." Your voice faded into a yawn at the end of your sentence.

"Alright, pretty girl. Let's go—I'll drive you home." Derek was standing before you could process it.

You stood up, too, your brows pinching together. "What? But my car—" your voice trailed off as Derek helped you into your jacket. It didn't escape you that he grabbed yours before his own.

He waved you off. "Don't worry about it. I'll just pick you up in the morning."

"But—"

He fixed you with a half-amused, half-serious gaze. "Y/N. It's too late, and you're tired. I just wanna make sure you get home safe."

You gave in, a quiet "Okay" slipping past your lips.

You didn't say you could take yourself, or that you lived in a secure apartment building, or that you weren't that tired. If Derek wanted to drive you home, you would let him. He'd been more protective ever since the Wilson case, so if this made him feel better, so be it.

Being chief was hard enough as is. Like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The world is yours.

You and Derek got into his car with you giving him instructions on how to get to your apartment. Nobody from the team had ever been there except for Hotch. He was the one who helped you find a place closer to Quantico so the commute wouldn't kill you.

Emily had come over once, too. It was one of her first Christmases with the Bureau, and she didn't want to spend it with her mother. You just didn't want to spend it alone. She gave you a bottle of wine, wouldn't tell you how much it cost, and then said to save it for a celebration.

That bottle had never been opened.

Derek pulled into your parking lot. He insisted on walking you upstairs. "Such a gentleman," you teased. It was the least you could do to invite him inside for a cup of tea.

"Nice place you got here," he noted, stepping past the threshold.

You replied while undoing your alarm. "Thanks." Meanwhile, Derek locked the door for you. And if he thought the number of locks you had was unusual, he didn't say anything about it. 

You made your way into the kitchen, opening up the cupboard where you kept the tea. "Black or green?"

"Green, please."

You pulled out the box of tea bags and pretended the wine wasn't there at all. Then you filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The rickety dial creaked as you turned the heat up.

You went to go sit next to Derek at your table while you waited for the water to boil. Not wanting to sit in silence, you said, "Y'know, you've never struck me as much of a tea man." 

Derek's lips lifted into a soft smile, different from the playboy smirk you were used to, but it tugged at your heartstrings all the same. When he spoke, his voice was dulcet like honey. "And what kind of man have I struck you as, Y/N?" 

You inclined your head, giving him a good look. The dark blue dress shirt that he made look casual. The leather band of the watch on his wrist. How nothing about him screamed for attention yet he still had it anyway. And the way he knew it.

"I don't know. Strong, like coffee. The kind of guy who wakes you up." 

Derek probably meant for his words to be light, but you felt its weight hit you at full force. "You know, when I met you, I thought you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen."

You inhaled, and then—just like when you met—you exhaled a laugh. You laughed because he wasn't laughing. Because he sounded like he meant it. "Are you flirting with me right now?" You really didn't know.

He didn't respond right away, as if he had to think about it, but then he responded, "If I was?"

Maybe it was the fact that he didn't look like he was joking. Maybe it was because you were tired. Or maybe it was because confessions came easy with Derek. But the whisper left you before you could stop it. "I would tell you to keep going."

"Okay." He maintained eye contact with you, not once breaking it. "I still think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Your heart sputtered. Not pretty. He called you beautiful. "Beautiful?" you echoed.

"More than beautiful." He leaned forward in his chair, no longer laid back, like he wanted you to know how much he meant what he was saying. "Brilliant. You could have the world in the palm of your hand, if you wanted to."

The world is yours.

"Do you want to?" he asked.

Did you? You leaned forward. "Yes."

Derek continued to lean toward you. Your eyelids fluttered closed in waiting. And just as you felt his breath on your face, you heard the kettle whistle.

Your eyes flew open. Derek quickly stood up, walking over to your stove and turning it off, moving the kettle to another burner. You followed suit. "Derek—"

Within less than second, he spun around and his lips were on yours. You felt it all at once—the passion, the longing, desperation. He kissed you like time was running out, like he was chasing something bigger than himself. 

This was bigger than the both of you.

You kissed him back with the same fervour, knowing that this was Derek Morgan, the same man you'd worked alongside for years, the same man who called you his pretty girl like the term meant nothing. But this meant everything.

He pulled away from you, cupping your face with two hands. He made you feel warm all over. His forehead leaned against yours. "I've been waiting a long time to do that," he confessed.

Your chest rose up and down. Your first instinct was to ask Why didn't you do it sooner? but the answer came to you after barely having to think about it. And you didn't want to think about it. So instead you asked, "Why don't you do it again?"

Derek's lips curved up, and you could feel his smile as his lips met yours. And as he kissed you, you could feel him kicking down the doors you'd locked up tight.

Then, when he opened the door to your room, the loop of Eleanor Rigby in your head went silent, replaced by Illmatic melodies.

The world is yours.

March 14, 2007

You sat at the bar, running your finger along the rim of your glass. You'd ordered a cosmo, wanting something sweet, but it didn't look as appealing now that it was in front of you.

Life needs a little sweetness to it. You were right when you said that.

Nothing about this life was sweet.

"Hey, pretty girl."

You looked up to see Derek standing beside you. You tried reciprocating his smile as best as you could. You should've known he'd see right through it.

"You okay?" he asked. Quietly, like any loud noise could cause an explosion. Worriedly, like your own worry hadn't been hidden well at all.

You sighed, glancing around to see the rest of the team scattered around the bar. You had half-expected Derek to find a group of girls to go dance with, yet there he was, staring at you as he waited for an answer.

You didn't bother with the smile again. "Why wouldn't I be okay?" you countered. Fatigue laced through your tone, like you were saying, No, I'm not okay, anyway.

You both knew why you wouldn't be okay. You also knew that Derek wouldn't say it out loud. It was a catch-22: you both knew the answer, but it didn't help either of you.

He sat down on the barstool next to you and lied, "No reason."

Memories from earlier flashed through your head. Hotch, standing in the middle of bullpen, being served divorce papers. Hotch, secluding himself away right after.

There was the reason. But in reality, it was no valid reason for you to not be okay. This is why neither of you voiced it. But it was so obvious that the words might as well have been tattooed on your skin.

Sometimes, you wondered if Hotch's name was like that. Like a tattoo on your mind that you couldn't get rid of. To the point where he asked you to pick up everything and start over and you did it.

Like he could hear your thoughts, Derek suddenly said, "You've gotta take care of yourself, Y/N."

You glanced up from your drink, seeing him already staring at you intently. It felt chastising and caring at the same time. I'm trying, you wanted to say. You didn't know if either of you would be able to believe it.

So you just nodded, telling him, "I know." I know, and I'm trying. I'm trying my best.

You felt silly. Wanting for what you couldn't have. Sitting over your cosmo like you were Carrie Bradshaw, wanting for a Mr. Big that would never want you back.

You felt like everyone knew and they were just being polite by not mentioning it. Then you wondered if Hotch knew and your heart started to hurt.

Neither you nor Derek talked about it anymore. He changed the subject, talking with you about random things and office gossip, making you forget why you were down in the first place.

He sat with you the whole night.

July 21, 2011

When you woke up, the sky was still dark, and you were lying on something rock solid. In the darkness, you could make out Derek lying next to you.

So it wasn't a dream.

You slept with Derek Morgan. Derek Morgan slept with you.

You let out a breath, trying not to make noise. It was surreal to you. You never thought it'd escalate past flirting, that the cord of tension between you would snap. There was always a wall between the two of you, a line drawn in the sand of what was real and what was play.

And God help you, this felt real. This felt so real that you could feel your heart hammering against your ribcage. This felt more real than anything you'd ever done, and that terrified you.

You knew what it was like to fall for important men. To be in over your head. Was this the same thing?

Derek's chest shifted beneath you. "I can feel you thinking," he murmured, his eyes still closed.

You tensed, thinking of all the other similar situations. Derek asking you what you were thinking about only for you to lie. It was a defense mechanism, a way to protect yourself from having to deal with a reality that wasn't sweet by falsifying sweeter things.

But you wanted to be truthful. You wanted to know— "Is this real?" You immediately wanted to hit yourself. Too blunt. Too honest. Too scared.

Derek's eyes opened. And despite how tired you both were, you could tell he was being sincere. "It's real to me." He paused. "Is it real for you?"

You both knew what he meant, the question beneath the question. But for the first time in a long time, you weren't thinking about a cold man who left you behind. You were only thinking about the warmth of the man who was staring at you currently.

"Yes," you whispered. "This is real for me." 

The way he was looking at you, like you were the only dream worth paying attention to, was real. The way his arm was wrapped around you was real. The way you felt like you could finally breathe was real.

"What happens now?" you asked. What you wanted to know was, Does this change everything?

Derek's response was natural, but it wasn't easy. "We can see where it takes us." Yes, it changes everything, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing.

You nodded, telling him that would be okay with you, and then you laid your head back down on his chest. His heart was thumping just as wildly as yours.

Yes, this was real.

And you were okay with that.

August 3, 2011

Your voice was amplified by the microphone in front of you. "This man is someone's neighbour, someone's coworker, someone's friend. You know him. He'll be behaving strangely, paranoid and keeping secrets. You might be worried about him. So please, seek help. If you have any insight on his identity, please contact the tip line. Thank you."

You concluded the press conference by stepping away from the podium. The cameras continued to flash and reporters continued to ask questions, even as you walked away, but you were less fazed by it now. It was getting easier each time you did it.

Derek stood waiting for you on the inside as you entered the station. He wore his approval the way he wore his badge: proud but unobtrusive.

He complimented you, "You did good out there, pretty girl."

Your lips curled into a smile, the same way they always did when he said it. Pretty girl. You were never anything but that, and nobody else could receive the title but you. 

It felt a little different now, ever since what happened. More than casual teasing between friends. As if you were his pretty girl.

His pretty girl. You liked that more than you'd admit.

"Thanks, D."

He cocked his head at you curiously. "You ever think about it? Taking the job full time?"

You tilted your head back. "Like becoming the liason? Officially?"

"Liason. Communications director." He shrugged his shoulders. "Something that gives you the credit you deserve."

You took in a breath. What Derek was talking about was giving you recognition. And he was talking about it like you deserved it. 

He was offering you a chance to do more, to be more after being an assistant for years.

His voice echoed throughout your head. You're not just anyone's assistant.

After a beat, you responded. "I'll... I'll think about it."

Derek nodded, not looking surprised by your answer at all. "Think about it. We can talk later."

His voice was resolute, as it always when he was talking to you. Like he was trying to prove to you that you were more than what you thought you were.

Like you were worth the trouble.

September 2, 2011

You sat in Derek's office, no file in your hand, just ideas. Ideas bouncing off the walls of your brain to the point where it was giving you a headache.

You found out about his secret project about a month ago when you were still his assistant. It was hard for someone to keep secrets from their right hand, let alone their partner.  

You'd been trying out the word girlfriend in private, feeling shy every time you thought about it. Derek didn't bring it up to you, so you weren't sure, but you felt like that's what you were.

Girlfriend. Communications director. You were still settling into so many new roles. And now, despite the novelty of it all, you were looking over an old case with new eyes.

Garcia waltzed into the room, her heels click-clacking against the floor. "Okay, Emily needed to get Declan a new identity." She sat down in the chair next to you. "So she must have used someone she trusted."

You chuckled. "That's not a very long list." You weren't too bitter about it. If you were a spy, you wouldn't trust anyone, either.

"It's probably not even written down," Derek added. "Even if it was, she's had contacts all over the world."

"Oh, tell me about it," Penelope chimed, handing him a file. "Two columns, domestic and imports."

"Hey."

The three of you simultaneously turned to the new voice, seeing JJ hanging in the threshold with an easygoing smile. "You guys seen Spence?"

You watched in real time as Garcia's light extinguished. "He's at the firing range."

JJ raised a brow. "Again?" 

You felt irritation simmer beneath your skin at her question, because it forced Garcia to explain, "Ever since Prentiss died, he..."

JJ at least had the decency to look sorry for asking. "Right." She glanced at you, then looked away. Her eyes always flitted in your direction but never stayed on you for long, like there was a conversation she was supposed to have with you but didn't want to initiate. "Uh..." she stepped forward, her tone becoming hopeful. "Did you guys get a new case?"

Derek shook his head, dismissing it. "It's just an old one." 

JJ still looked hopeful, proposing, "Do you want some fresh eyes?"

Politely, Derek declined, "Not just yet."

"Okay." JJ hid her dejection behind a smile, glancing at you one last time. "Um, well, let me know."

Garcia's face fell as JJ left the room. She looked at Derek. "Shouldn't we tell her?"

You looked down, hating the way you could hear the longing in her voice. Whereas you could only feel the rift in the team now, Garcia just wanted to bridge it.

Derek set down the file in his hands. "Garcia, this has been a long shot for 6 months. Why get her hopes up?"

Quickly, she asked, "What about Hotch?" She glanced at you right after, almost apologetically. You were noticing that people did that whenever he was brought up.

Derek glanced at you, too, but in a different way. Only he and you knew you were dating. You thought it'd be better that way, but it was times like these that made you wish everyone else knew. 

"He knows I'm doing this," he responded.

You wondered how much truth there was to that. You made a mental note to ask him later. You didn't sit in on their phone calls, and Derek had long since stopped asking you to.

Garcia was just as surprised. "He does?"

Derek made a face. "Not technically, but he knows I'm not about to let Doyle roam free."

"Does he know we're looking for Declan?"

Another odd face, telling you both no. "I just figured I'd call him when I have something to report," he justified.

Seeing the dissatisfaction on Garcia's face, you gave Derek a look. She followed up, "Okay. But it feels weird not sharing."

"Baby girl. You don't have to do this." He looked at both of you. "Neither of you do."

She assured him, "I know."

He looked to you, but you didn't have to say a word. "I told you. Where you go, I go."

His eyes softened. "Okay." Promises of ride or die echoed in your head. You hoped he knew you meant it.

You re-directed to the case at hand. "Okay, what about domestic contacts?"

Garcia perked up. "Yeah, Em was already in the states when she faked Declan's death, so... her associates must be in Boston?"

Derek lightly shook his head. "No, Garcia, she would have covered her tracks better than that." Garcia sighed, resting her face on her fist while Derek fiddled with a pen. "Alright, why did Prentiss join the BAU?"

You furrowed your brows. Why did you join the BAU? Besides Hotch, what reason did you really have? "For a different life," you answered. "A normal life."

"She could have gone anywhere with her skillset, but she chose DC."

Garcia suggested, "Maybe to be close to her mom?" 

"No. No way, that was just by default. She did all of this protect a child."

"Right. So you're saying... she came here just so she could be close to the kid."

You tilted your head in Garcia's direction. "Which would mean she had people she trusted right here."

Garcia lifted her finger, looking down at her papers. "Right. Domestic contacts. There are a surprising few in our nation's capital... one of which is dead." She handed Derek a paper. "Ben Corelli."

Derek looked at the list, recognition flickering across his face. "He was the forger. Doyle killed him and Prentiss' friend. He worked out of his apartment, remember?"

Your eyes widened, the realization dawning on you. "Oh my God, we processed his belongings."

And just like that, the puzzle pieces fell together.

October 23, 2011

You, Morgan, and Garcia found Declan living in Stafford county, Virginia. 

All signs point to a really well-adjusted kid, she'd said. He's an honour student. He plays lacrosse. He's winning science fairs. It looks like he's got the life Emily wanted him to have.

Talking about Emily always made your chest feel heavier, but you couldn't deny that she did good.

Derek ended up watching him whenever he could. You knew it was important to him to have Declan under surveillance, to know when Doyle would come out of the woodworks.

And then exactly that happened.

Garcia found footage of Doyle in his son's neighbourhood. You'd hit the ground running since then.

Doyle was in FBI custody, but Declan was missing. Derek was interrogating him as you underwent an entirely different interrogation in your office.

"Chief Strauss—"

"Do you have any idea the gravity of this situation?" she cut you off, her voice shaking with anger. "A terrorist in our custody while that boy is God knows where!"

You took a deep breath, trying your best not to yell back at her. "Agent Morgan is making progress. We will find him."

You might as well have been lying. You had no idea if Derek was making progress or not. You'd been stuck here ever since he got back, but you hoped he was doing okay.

"And how can you be sure of that, Y/N?" You weren't. She stepped closer to you. "Did you and Agent Morgan just think you could go rogue, investigating whatever you please?"

You matched her fury, stepping forward. "All due respect, ma'am, but if it weren't for Agent Morgan, a terrorist would be out roaming the streets. If anything, you should be thanking him for capturing a national threat."

A fire burned in Strauss' eyes, reminiscent of all the other times she had argued with you. Then, it was about Hotch, but now— "You best be careful, Y/N. People might become curious why you defend your superiors so ferociously."

You caught the veiled threat, but you were running on so many fumes that it only fed you. You stepped closer, and then just above a whisper, you shot, "If I were so pedantic, I would read into that, too."

"Chief Strauss." The hairs on your neck stood up at the sound of the gruff interruption. Strauss glanced behind you, looking no more pleased. "May I have a word with Y/N?"

Strauss sent you one last glare. "Fine. But I want you in my office in 5 minutes, Aaron." 

She angrily strode out of the room, leaving you alone. The door closed behind her.

You didn't turn around. He didn't ask you to. Instead, he walked in front of you, practically forcing you to look at him. And then there he was.

Hotch.

Bearded and different, but still the same Hotch that left you in Virginia. Even if you weren't the same you.

You cleared your throat. "What are you doing in here?'

His head inclined. "We have to talk."

Remnants of your argument with Strauss still lingered in your body, making you more honest than you might've been under different circumstances. "No. You had the chance to talk 4 months ago and chose not to, so now isn't the time."

His brows pinched together. "I left you a letter."

A bitter laugh left you. "A letter. Look, Hotch, we have things to do, so if you don't mind." You actually didn't care if he minded at all.

You didn't wait to see if he'd listen to you—because when did he ever listen to you—and instead you swung open your office door and left.

4 months of distance. 4 months, and now he was here.

You had never been farther away.

April 7, 2011

You sat on your couch with Hotch sitting right next to you. The TV droned on quietly in the background, but neither of you were paying attention to it. Neither of you were talking, either. Lately, you and Hotch had developed a habit of sitting in silence.

The silence gave you time to think. Time to think of everything you did wrong. Everything you could've done better. Time to wish you could've profiled Emily and realized what was wrong before it was too late.

Only now, it was too late. Her body was in the ground, but her ghost haunted your apartment and every dream you had.

Sometimes, when it was quiet, you swore you could hear her voice. Perhaps that's why you spoke up. "It's been exactly one month since she died." Your voice was hoarse and low. You'd been crying earlier.

You heard Hotch take in a breath. "I know." You all did.

Tears welled up in your eyes, no matter how hard you tried to stop it. "I miss her so much." Your voice broke into a sob. One sob snowballed into another, and another.

Hotch cradled you into his chest, but said nothing. Nothing he said could comfort you, and you both knew it.

All he said was, "I miss her too."

Your cries rang through the apartment.

October 23, 2011

Your fingers brushed against Derek's as you followed him and JJ into the briefing room. 

"You get anywhere with Doyle?" Reid immediately asked.

Derek sighed, his fingers parting from yours as you entered the room. "Doyle doesn't think Gerace has the guts to take him on."

Garcia disagreed, "But that's definitely Gerace on the tape."

Behind her, Hotch walked into the room, and your whole body tensed. Your fingers twitched, reaching out for Derek's again, but you knew better, stopping yourself.

Derek glanced at you from the corner of his eyes before looking back at Hotch. "Welcome back."

"Thanks," he said before promptly ordering everyone to take a seat. You furrowed your brows. Everyone but you, him, JJ, and Derek sat down. JJ went to stand next to Hotch while you and Derek remained on the other side of the table, making it oddly feel like you were in teams against one another.

"Why?" Derek questioned. "What's going on? Everything alright?"

Hotch didn't answer outright, continuing to look down at the roundtable instead of at any of you. A pit grew in your stomach. "7 months ago, I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle."

You interrupted him. "I don't understand. Why are we talking about Emily?"

Hotch's eyes met yours, and you didn't have to be a profiler to see them flicker with remorse. "The doctors were able to stabilize her," he stated. "And she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration."

You recoiled. What Hotch was saying didn't make any sense. This didn't make any sense— 

"Her identity was strictly need-to-know. She was reassigned to Paris where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to, for her security."

The silence was thick until Garcia tearily broke it. "She's alive?"

Your eyes were zeroed in on Hotch, waiting for him to answer the question. He expertly dodged your gaze.

Spencer cut in, voicing your confusion. "But we buried her."

Hotch looked to Spencer before looking to the rest of you. "As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me."

You scoffed while Derek echoed, "Any issues?" His voice raised. "Yeah, I got issues."

Hotch looked like he was about to respond, but then everyone's attention turned to the door. Tears raced down Penelope's cheeks like a waterfall.

You turned around, and your heart stopped. Because standing right there was Emily Prentiss, alive as ever.

A tear fell down your cheek, and Emily looked at you, a small, sad smile arising on her face. "Y/N."

"Oh, my God." That was her voice. On instinct, you walked towards her, tentatively reaching out, but nothing about Emily's movements was tentative. She pulled you into her embrace, hugging you tightly. 

More tears fell down your face. After months of wishing you could hug her again, she was here.

She was alive.

Realizing that fact, you pulled away. Emily took the opportunity to hug Reid and Garcia while your mind was reeling. She was alive.

"I am so sorry," she apologized. "I really am. Not a day went by that I didn't want to—" her eyes darted to Derek, still standing there in shock. She walked toward him. "Really, I— you didn't deserve that. And I'm so sorry."

She wrapped her arms around him. Slowly, he reciprocated. But she was alive.

But JJ told you she was dead. She said she never even made it off the table. Those words had been engraved into your memory, and now Emily was alive?

That could only mean—

You looked at JJ, and then you looked at Hotch while everybody else was distracted, seeing him already looking at you. The words left your mouth instantly. "You lied."

He didn't have anything to say in his defense. He lied. 

And just like that, Eleanor Rigby was back in your ear, destroying any semblance of peace you thought you had.

All the lonely people.

Where do they all belong?

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[ssa-danhotchner]

Eleanor Rigby

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, Derek Morgan x reader Summary: When your boss leaves for an assignment without saying anything, you think you're all alone. Derek Morgan shows you otherwise. Warnings: angst, assistant!reader, takes place in the gap between s6 and s7, references to doyle arc, hotch goes to pakistan, musical references to eleanor rigby from Yellow Submarine (beatles) and the world is yours from Illmatic (nas), r wears glasses, unrequited love, emotional infidelity maybe, satc reference, fades-to-black intimacy, cm-level violence, murder, complex mental health issues, very slow burn, (is this a love triangle? it's not), many time jumps, long Eps incl: S6E18 (lauren), S7E1 (it takes a village) Words: 11.4K

Series Masterlist | CM Masterlist | Navigation

a/n: new series alert!! yes i will bring u a part 3 to simple truths. for now, here's this! i plan to show the slow burn throughout the seasons of cm.

June 13, 2011

You found out about Aaron leaving from someone else. 

Derek was offhandedly saying he didn't want to be to chief. "Hotch's job is a pain in the ass," he said. "But he's gotta go, so I guess I have no choice but to take it."

It was almost like you didn't hear it right. You kept pouring creamer into your coffee until you jolted forward, like some external force was acting on your body, spilling the creamer onto the breakroom counter.

"Woah, Y/N, are you good?"

You turned to him, your face a picture of confusion. "What do you mean 'he's gotta go?'" you repeated. 

That didn't make sense. You were Hotch's assistant. You planned the meetings and made the calendar. If he had to go anywhere, then you knew about it. No— you were the first to know about it.

Knowing that simple fact, Morgan's brows furrowed. "Pakistan. He leaves today?" He phrased it like a question. It wasn't a question.

You picked your jaw up off the floor, shaking your head. "I—" you set your coffee down, nearly dropping it on the floor. "I have to go."

"Y/N—"

You were out of the breakroom before he could say another word, traversing the bullpen and climbing the steps to Hotch's office like you had tunnel vision. 

You threw the office door open, finding it empty but so full at the same time. The picture frames on his bureau hadn't been touched. But the files on sitting there were organized so neatly that they didn't look touched. The same files you dropped off last night.

You slowly scanned the room. You would've thought he never even entered the office that morning, had it not been for the envelope placed in the middle of of his desk.

Narrowing your eyes, you strode over to the desk until you were close enough to read the messy cursive handwriting.

Y/N.

You stopped in your tracks. A shaky breath left your lips. Something like a laugh. Something like the exact opposite.

Footsteps sounded behind you. Then, "You didn't know."

The solemn tone of Derek's voice sealed it in for you. It was real. This really happened.

Hotch left.

"No." You paused. "I didn't."

Quiet words had never been so loud.

❧ ❧

Hotch's favourite song off Yellow Submarine was Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds. You weren't much of a Beatles fan, but after working for Hotch for nearly a decade, you'd picked up some of the songs.

At that moment, Eleanor Rigby played on your head in a loop.

All the loney people. Where do they all belong?

"Want me to top you off?"

You glanced up, seeing Derek standing above you, holding the bottle of scotch. Maybe it was wrong to drink in your boss' office after hours with his replacement. But maybe it was wrong of him leave you in the first place. "Yes, please," you requested, holding the glass out.

It was awful to think of it like that, and you knew it. Like Hotch left you. He left all of you, not just the assistant he brought to the BAU. But that's what it felt like. It felt like he left you with nothing to show for your relationship except a letter in an evelope you wouldn't open. 

Maybe that was your problem. Thinking you and Hotch had a "relationship" in the first place.

Derek took his seat next to you on the couch. "I can tell you're thinking hard about something," he commented.

You were. But these were quiet thoughts you'd never voiced out loud. So you traded one bad thought for another and shared the least worse one. "I'm wondering if I even have a job here anymore." Right after you said it, you took a swig of the scotch, hoping it'd take the edge off. It didn't.

Incredulity was all over Derek's face, and his voice carried the same sentiment. "What?" He put his glass down on the coffee table, despite never having taken a sip. "Pretty girl, what are you talking about?"

"He didn't tell me, Derek." Finally, you looked up at him, your eyes laden with defeat. "I'm his assistant, and he didn't tell me. I mean, this job basically doesn't exist. I don't have any real place here—"

"Woah, woah, woah, I'm gonna stop you right there," he cut you off, a tiny fire blazing in his eyes that you'd only seen a few times before. "Y/N, your place on this team is not dictated by anyone else's presence. You're not just anyone's assistant—"

"Derek—"

He didn't let you say a single thing, fixing you with a steely gaze. "I'm being serious. This train wouldn't run without you. The things you do for this team are indispensable, and you have a mind we'd be fools to let go of."

You pursed your lips like you didn't quite believe what Derek was saying, but you ended up sighing, dropping the argument. He took that as a win.

He grinned. "Besides," he bumped shoulders with you. "You can be my assistant now."

That caused a real smile to spread across your face, only making Derek's grin widen. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "I mean, I'm no Hotch, but if you need a new ride or die—"

"Ride or die?" Laughter laced through your voice.

He chuckled with you. "Yeah. Ride or die."

You shook your head at his antics, but then nodded right after. "Okay," you said. "Ride or die." You held your pinky out to him, pretending and failing to look serious.

Derek's laugh became hearty, but he linked his pinky with yours, anyway. You spent the rest of the night finding things to laugh about.

You think Hotch's office saw more laughter that night than it ever did.

March 7, 2011

The whole of the BAU sat in a hospital waiting room. Spencer walked back and forth, coffee in hand. He'd offered you one, but you were wide awake without the caffeine, despite the exhaustion seeping into your bones.

Your leg bounced up and down uncontrollably, only stopped when Hotch put his hand on your knee. 

You swallowed, looking at him to see that his eyes were already trained on you. His expression didn't give much away, but you could trace the concern outlining his eyes.

"Tell me she's gonna be okay," you whispered. It wasn't fair of you to ask. None of this was fair at all.

Hotch opened his mouth only to close it right after. You almost thought he had something to say. But then the sound of heels clicking ended your conversation before it even started.

Your head turned to see JJ walk into the room, her eyes rimmed with red. Her lips wobbled. The silent words reverberated throughout the room before she even said a word.

"She never made it off the table."

The sob that left you wracked through your body. "No—" Hotch wrapped his arms around you, letting you cry into his chest. Your tears immediately soaked his white shirt. But he held you, and he didn't cry at all.

And when he eventually asked Morgan to console you, you were too out of it to even notice him walk into the hallway, let alone to notice JJ following him.

None of this was fair.

July 2, 2011

You entered Derek's office with your tablet in hand. The door was open, so you didn't knock. Not like you knocked much these days, anyway. 

"Hey, Morgan, I think I have a case for us."

"I'll look at it in a sec." He barely glanced at you, too busy fiddling with the telephone on his desk. But when he looked up, it was to say something unrelated. "I'm about to have Hotch on a secure line," he told you, holding the phone out like an olive branch. "You can brief him on the case, too, if you want?"

Your mood soured instantly, and it showed on your face. "No, that's alright," you declined. "I'll e-mail you the file."

"Y/N—" Derek tried to call your name, but you were already out the door. You couldn't have been out of there sooner.

You knew what Derek's stance was on all this. He thought you should at least try to talk to Hotch. You wouldn't get these chances often—you didn't know how long he'd be gone, so the right thing to do would probably be to pick up the phone and talk to him.

But you couldn't. How could you when he left? How could he leave after— 

You found yourself standing in front of Emily's photo, on a wall of other dead agents you'd never met before. Now, after the amount of times you'd stood there, their names were etched into your memory.

You took a deep breath, and then you returned back to the bullpen, walking to your office.

The sixth floor had never felt so empty.

April 9, 2005

"Sorry I'm late."

You set your menu down on the table, a smile lighting up your face. "No, that's alright. You're a big-shot FBI agent now; it's expected."

"Expected, huh?" The corner of Hotch's lips curved up into a crooked smile as he pulled his seat out across from you. This café came at his recommendation. He knew the city better than you, despite both of you having lived in DC and despite the fact that he lived in Seattle for a time while you stayed right there.

"Yes, I expected it, and I ordered you a coffee. Black, 3 sugars," you clarified, only the slightest bit smug. "If that's still you take it?"

Hotch huffed a laugh through his nose. "Yes, it is."

"Good, it's on its way." Your smile widened just enough to still be real. "Speaking of expecting things, how's Haley?"

Hotch's smile became more real. "She's good. The baby is, too. This kid I work with—he's a child prodigy—told me it's the size of a pear now. It never ceases to amaze me."

You didn't know if he was talking about the child prodigy part or the pear, but you didn't ask. You just congratulated, "I'm happy for you."

You really were happy for him—for them. Haley was a friend, too. But your happiness came with an ache in your chest you couldn't get rid of, no matter how hard you tried or how many years it'd been.

The server arrived, setting both of your coffees down on the table. You smiled at him in thanks.

Hotch nodded at your cup. "Let me guess: latte with 2 shots of espresso, filled to the brim with milk."

Playfully, you narrowed your eyes. "Okay, Mr. Profiler. You missed the pump of vanilla, but I'll give it to you."

He raised a brow, taking a sip of his coffee. "Vanilla? That's new."

When you were done taking your first sip, you shrugged. "Life needs a little sweetness to it."

The crooked smile was back. "How's life going at the DA's office?" 

You sighed. This was the part of the meeting you weren't looking forward to. While Hotch had climbed the ranks all the way to one of the FBI's most elite units, you stayed stagnant. "I'm a receptionist now. I answer phones all day, basically," you told him. "Not as exciting as being your assistant if I'm being honest, but it pays the bills."

Hotch took one more sip of his coffee, and then he set it back down on the table. Almost sheepishly, he admitted, "That's actually why I asked you here."

Your brows raised. "You asked me here to discuss how I'm a receptionist?"

"No." He folded his hands together on the table, making himself look more serious but still giving you the same soft look as before, like a friend and not a boss. "I'm here to discuss a job proposition for you."

You went silent. At first, you didn't process it, but the surprise was on your face within seconds. "What?"

"What if I offered you a job as my assistant again?"

Hotch didn't speak in hypotheticals. You leaned forward. "You're offering me to be a job as your assistant?" you echoed.

He tilted his head at you. "You said it yourself. Things were better back then."

You ignored him. "Do you even have the authority to offer something like that?"

He sighed, as if he didn't want you to ask any questions at all. "My unit chief has been on leave. They want me to take over in his place."

Your eyes widened. "So the position you're talking about doesn't even exist?"

"Doesn't exist yet, Y/N," he corrected. Just like the Hotch you remembered. Finding loopholes and jumping through them like it was effortless. He paused, a more serious look overtaking his features. "I'll tell them I won't take the job unless you can come with me."

"Hotch!"

He wasn't even listening to you. "You have a dual degree in psychology and criminal justice. I'll make it a no-brainer for them."

You scoffed a laugh, dumbfounded by how sure of himself he sounded. "Are you being serious right now?"

He replied in an instant. "Extremely." 

The smile on your face faltered. He was being completely serious. Confident and collected, like the only version of him you had ever known. You tried to reason, "It's been nearly 10 years since we last worked together."

"It feels like it was just yesterday to me." God, he had no idea how hard that hit you, no idea how much you were still wrapped around his finger. "So," he continued, his eyes earnest. "Will you do it?"  

He didn't even have to hear the word leave your mouth to know your answer.

July 16, 2011

The team trudged into the hotel lobby with Morgan immediately going to the front desk to get your room keys. He was just as eager as the rest of you to get to your rooms and sleep.

The flight wasn't long enough for any shut-eye, and it didn't help that you left at 2 in the morning. You really hated that it was now your job to make that call, waking everyone up in the middle of the night.

It surprised JJ. This was her first case back with you—not as a liason, but a profiler-in-training. 

"I didn't know you took over so much of my old job," she'd said.

Part of you wanted to bite back, Who else would it have been? But you saved yourselves both the trouble, replying, "Yeah." The words travelled unsaid, anyway.

When Derek got back, it was with 4 cards in hand. "4 rooms," he confirmed. He didn't look any more excited than the rest of you.

"I call the single," Rossi announced, jumping at the opportunity to go solo. That left the rest of you staring at each other, uncertainty in the air. JJ's eyes met yours.

It wasn't lost on any of you that JJ and Emily used to room together. The same way you and Hotch used to room together.

Neither of them were here now.

JJ's mouth opened to say something, but Reid was faster. "Do you wanna room together?" He turned to her with hope in his eyes. You could've nearly thanked him for it.

She glanced at you one last time before smiling back at him. "Sure, Spence."

Derek looked down at you. "Guess that leaves you and me, pretty girl." He smirked like it was an inside joke. You were sure it was; you just didn't get it.

You played along. "Lead the way, Morgan."

You all departed to your rooms. You were so tired your legs felt like jello. That must've shown, because Morgan offered you the shower first. You weren't polite enough or awake enough to refuse.

The hotel's water pressure wasn't great, but it was warm enough to distract you from that. You could've fallen asleep right there. You couldn't remember a time in your life when you had ever been so tired but so unable to rest. So exhausted but running faster than you'd ever been.

When you got out of the shower, you got dressed, moisturizing your face. You looked at yourself in the mirror, analyzing the dark circles beneath your eyes. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

You're okay, Y/N. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay, you chanted. You chanted that to yourself until you believed it.

Derek was up and off the bed as soon as you left the bathroom, going to take a shower for himself. He'd taken the bed closest to the door, so you went to the other one.

Instead of lying down, you pulled your tablet out of your bag and sat criss-crossed on the bed, putting your glasses on so you could go over the case file again.

You weren't a profiler. But Hotch had taught you to never stop looking for puzzle pieces in everything you saw, until it all fit together.

Stop thinking about him, your mind chided. You sighed.

Some puzzle pieces just didn't make any sense. Not anymore.

You don't know how long you were staring at the same sentence until Derek's voice broke you out of your trance, remarking, "Hey, you don't wear glasses anymore."

You looked up, throwing him a lazy smile. "I wear contacts in public."

He smiled back at you. In the jogging pants and T-shirt, he looked more like the Derek you were used to than the one that wore suits. "I always thought the glasses were cute, y'know."

You fought the warmth rising on your cheeks. "Shut up, Morgan."

"No, really, I did." His smile turned into smirk, like he was admiring the embarrassment he caused. It confused you—the embarrassment confused you. Then, the smile lessened altogether. "You wanna talk about why you were so reluctant to room with JJ?"

You sighed. Lately, Derek had been keen on knowing your 'reluctance' about everything. "I wasn't reluctant," you denied.

"You were."

Your jaw tensed, annoyance building within you. "Is this you as unit chief trying to see if there are any rifts in your team?" 

"No." He sat down on the bed, facing you. "This is me as your friend, trying to see if you're okay."

This time, when you sighed, it was signalling that you gave up. "She just came back, Derek. Out of the blue."

"She never wanted to leave, Y/N."

"I know that," you responded. "And I've never held it against her that she had to go. But— but would she be here if Emily hadn't died? It..." you paused. "It feels like she's trying to fill a spot on the team that isn't open to take."

He sighed. "Y/N..."

"Look, I know it's irrational—"

"It's not irrational. You're entitled to how you feel, especially after all that's happened this year." His words carried an extra weight, and you weren't sure if he intended for them to have it.

Maybe it's because you were tired. Or maybe it's because you didn't like the way Derek was looking at you, with pity in his eyes. But you whispered, "Nothing ever happened between us, you know." You didn't state anyone's name, but you could tell he knew who you were talking about.

Derek gave you a sad smile. "I know, Y/N."

The two of you sat there looking at each other for too long before you took off your glasses, making the world a bit blurrier. "Goodnight, Derek."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You turned off your sidelamp, engulfing the room in darkness.

May 30, 2005

A knock resounded through your new office just as you were placing a box down. Quickly, you turned around, finding a man with warm brown skin standing in your doorway. You gave him a smile. "Hi. Can I help you?" You omitted the fact that it was your first day and you likely couldn't help him if you tried. He could probably tell, anyway.

The man's lips curved upward. "Hi, I just came by to see who the new pretty girl was."

You breathed out a laugh, despite a flush overtaking your face. "Oh, really? Pretty girl?" You wiped your hands onto your jeans. "Does that work with every girl?"

"No, I just hope it works on this one." You laughed again, having no other real response. He stepped past the threshold, extending his hand to you. "Derek Morgan. Really, I'm not using a line on you. The glasses just remind me of my colleague—I call him pretty boy."

"Oh." You adjusted your glasses and shook his hand, unsure if you were disappointed that he wasn't flirting or relieved. You didn't know what colleague he was talking about, but he himself was certainly pretty. "Nice to meet you."

The smirk on his face didn't relent. "Can I know your name? Or should I just keep calling you pretty girl?"

Another laugh. You hoped he couldn't tell how flustered you were, but if he was a profiler, then there was no use.

"I—"

"Morgan, don't pester my assistant."

You both turned to the door, seeing Hotch walk in. He stopped when he was right beside you.

Derek's brows furrowed as he glanced between you. The smirk on his face had disappeared. "Your assistant?" he echoed.

Hotch sighed, and you not only realized that Derek was a member of his team, but also that this was something he hadn't explained to them yet. "This is Y/N Y/L/N," he introduced. "She's going to be handling administrative tasks for me."

Derek continued to glance between you curiously. His eyes landed on you for too long before they were back on Hotch. "The brass just handed you an assistant?"

"No, Y/N and I worked together in '92 up until I joined the Academy."

You weren't a profiler by any means, but you could see the moment something in Derek's countenance shifted. As if something had just clicked and then closed off a door altogether.

When he turned back to you, it was different from before, less free, more practiced, more controlled. "Well," he held out his hand a second time, "It's nice to meet you, Y/N."

You shook his hand again. "Likewise, Derek."

You had a light handshake back then, light but firm. You were so young, thinking you were so old.

Young and excited for what lied ahead of you.

July 17, 2011

Morgan drove fast on the road, whizzing past cars like it was no issue for him as you gave directions. "Go right."

He followed your instruction, swerving onto another street. The other FBI issued SUV had already gone left about 4 blocks ago, heading for the unsub's workplace while you took the house.

"Keep going straight."

Cars turned into blobs on the road. Reid told you a statistic on sirens once, how the sound could give victims hope. You hoped this victim was still alive to hear it.

"There, stop!"

The car came to a screeching halt in front of a rundown house. You, Morgan, and Rossi got out of the car immediately. They reached for their guns; yours stayed in the same place, resting heavy on your hip.

You used your eyes instead, immediately spotting the sight in the window.

Rossi's face turned grim as he stared at the same thing as you. "They're in there alright."

There was your unsub, Carter Wilson, holding a knife to Vanessa Peters' throat. "He's obscuring his face," you remarked. "You don't have a shot."

Morgan sighed, speaking to Rossi. "We have to wait for JJ and Reid. Profile says he's insecure; he'll be agitated if a man walks in there. Might kill her, anyway."

Your brows knitted together, and then you turned around before you could really think the idea through. "What if you send me in there?"

Derek immediately protested. "No, absolutely not—"

"We don't have enough time," you reasoned. "I'm wearing a vest—I can do it."

Rossi cut in, "You don't have any negotiation training, Y/N."

"I've seen enough negotiations to have a basic idea," you countered. "Look, you said it yourselves, he'll respond best to a woman. This is the best chance we have with time."

You turned back to Morgan, nearly pleading with your eyes for him to see it your way. Eager eyes met troubled ones. You felt crazy for even asking—Hotch never would've said yes to something like this.

But Derek wasn't Hotch.

To both Rossi's and your surprise, he conceded. "Fine." You didn't let your shock show on your face. "You need to appear unarmed. Do you have—"

"Yes." You took your gun out of its holster, placing it on the hood of the car.

"Okay. You need to seem empathetic. Agree with everything he says. Don't make it about Vanessa. Make it about him. Him surrendering, his best option. Do you understand?"

You nodded. "Yes." Your heart thumped wildly in your chest.

"Okay." Derek nodded back at you. "Go."

Without wasting another second, you turned around, walking straight for the house. You thanked God your legs weren't shaking, recalling every negotiation you'd ever seen. Many were led by Hotch, and many were led by Morgan; that's how you knew you could do this.

The wooden boards of the porch creaked as you stepped onto it, twisting open the golden doorknob and walking into the house. You announced your presence. "Carter Wilson?"

"Who the fuck are you?!" His seething voice resounded throughout the small area, mixing in with the Vanessa's sobs.

You swallowed, stepping further into the house. "I'm unarmed—"

He cut you off, "You think I won't kill her?" He stepped away from the window. Good. He was stepping toward you, giving you his attention. "I will slit her fucking throat right now."

Vanessa's cries got louder. You raised your hands into the air. "Mr. Wilson, my name is Y/N." Inflate his ego, make yourself smaller. "I just wanna talk, okay?"

"You just wanna talk." He laughed maniacally, then jabbed the knife at you. "All you fucking whores say that!" He quickly placed the knife back at her throat, but you were getting somewhere. If you could get him to redirect his anger—

"I know, Mr. Wilson. But I really do just wanna talk." You stepped forward. "I know what she did to you. She made you feel unwanted—"

"You don't know shit about what she did to me!"

You inhaled. Move on, make a connection, build rapport. "I know what it's like to feel unwanted." Another step forward. "But if you do this, you won't ever get to see her again." Make him feel in control of what happens.

He scoffed. "I won't get to see her again either way."

"Mr. Wilson, if you kill her and go to prison, you won't even be able to see her grave." Another step forward. "You won't get to see the way her family cries over her death. You won't get to see the way any of your hard work pays off."

"And what are you suggesting, Y/N?" He spat your name out like it was poisonous. You could've flinched. "That I'll magically be able to see that if I let her live?"

Deep breath in, deep breath out. "If you let her live," another step, "then you leave her forever knowing that she could've died right here, and you granted her that mercy when she didn't deserve it."

You were playing into his grandiose sense of self-importance, making him feel like God. You just needed to wait for a— 

Crack. Your eyes zeroed in on his hand, shakily leaning away from her neck and into the air. If he wasn't holding her tight enough, then this could work. If you redirected his anger at you.

"Vanessa, run."

Before either of them could fully process your words, you were crashing into Carter, aiming for the side of his body holding the knife so that it was angled as far away from her as possible. Startled, his grip on her loosened, and you repeated yourself. "Vanessa, run!"

Vanessa took off, bolting to the door while you succeeded, making Carter angry. 

"You bitch!"

Carter threw you to the floor, knocking the wind out of you. But you could see his figure marching toward you, causing adrenaline to rush through your veins.

Quickly, you reached for your ankle, grabbing the gun hidden under your pant leg and aiming.

Front sight, trigger press—

Follow through. You kept your aim even as his body fell to the ground, keeping your breathing level.

You stayed that way until footsteeps came rushing into the house, Morgan shouting your name. "Y/N!"

Finally, you let out a sharp breath. "I'm fine!"

He ran to the unsub first, checking his pulse, and then he was immediately making his way toward you. His brows pinched together. "You're bleeding."

"What?" you panted. You looked to your shoulder, seeing a cut that you hadn't noticed before. As soon as you looked at it, you felt the stinging pain, making you wince.

Derek helped you up, grabbing your non-injured arm as officers came in for the unsub. "Come on, let's get this patched up."

As he guided you out, you didn't look at the body on the floor once.

❧ ❧

You sat on the back of an ambulance as the EMT stitched up your wound. All the while, Derek watched with a critical eye.

As the EMT finished up and walked away, you turned to Derek, reassuring him, "I'm fine, you know."

He didn't look quite convinced. "You got hurt on my watch."

"Morgan, it's just a graze. I've been hurt worse on the job before." That was the whole reason why you were gun-certified, anyway. To help you better protect yourself.

He clicked his tongue in disagreement. "I shouldn't have let you in there."

"Derek, it's fine." You got up, wiggling the newly stitched arm to prove it to him. "See?"

"Stop— Y/N— will you stop doing that—" Abruptly, he grabbed your arm, stopping the motion. "Fine, I believe you. Just— just take it easy, alright?"

You smiled at him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, we're ride or die, remember? You're gonna have to do a whole lot more than that to get rid of me."

He shook his head at you, but you could see the beginnings of a smile making its way onto his face. And a smile from Derek was nothing if not contagious. 

"Nice shot in there, pretty girl." Pretty girl. That's how you knew you were okay. Derek switched the subject. "So how'd you get him to let his guard down enough to let Vanessa go?"

You shrugged your shoulders, ignoring the slight ache, and quirked your lips up. "I think I might've used some Morgan techniques."

He snorted. "Really? Not Hotch techniques?"

For the first time in a while, your smile didn't fall when hearing his name. "No. Not as much."

Not as much at all.

December 20, 1993

"Is it true that Mr. Brown was an unreliable person?"

You lifted your shoulders into a shrug. "I never said that."

"You implied it—"

You cut him off, "Stop arguing with me. Arguing with the witness makes you look unorganized, and it makes it seem like you're trying to push your own narrative."

Hotch sighed, rubbing one hand between his brows and using the other to drop his notes on his desk. His tie was loosened, and his blazer was sitting on his office chair. Yours was discarded in a similar fashion.

When Hotch asked you to help prepare for his cross-examination the next day, you didn't expect to still be at the office until 12AM. But then again, when he asked you to jump, you had a habit of asking how high.

You didn't particularly like staying at the office so late with your boss. Not because you didn't enjoy the company, but because of this. The camaraderie that came after too many cups of coffee. The feeling that felt like more than camaraderie when he started rolling up his sleeves. The feeling of guilt when you realized that, even though his finger was naked now, a ring would soon be sitting there.

He and Haley were engaged. High school sweethearts. You wondered if they were the couple who coined the term; Haley was a sweetheart if you'd ever seen one. That's why you felt so guilty. So terribly, terribly guilty.

"Sorry," Hotch apologized, dropping his hand from his face. He sat down on his desk beside you. "I'm just frustrated. This is the biggest trial of my career."

You sent him a teasing smile. "You've barely started your career, Hotch. I'm sure more trials will come."

He didn't look any more at ease after you said that. A pensive look overtook his face. In the year that you'd been his assistant, you'd learned that Hotch was the kind of man who thought too much for his own good.

Suddenly, he questioned, "Does it ever bother you?" When he saw your brows furrow, he added, "Knowing that there's always gonna be another trial. Does it bother you?"

Your brows didn't unknit. "Are you asking if the work bothers me?"

"No, I mean—" he let out a breath, looking as though he couldn't find the right words. "Not the work. But knowing that there will always be people comitting crimes to be tried for?"

Slowly, you nodded. "It does. But that's just the nature of the job." 

In truth, you and Hotch didn't have the same job, so it couldn't compare. He was the prosecutor; you were the assistant. Albeit, you were a legal assistant, so you handled more than just a typical PA, but still.

Sometimes, it was the job that bothered you. You always wondered if you should be doing more, if you were doing enough. With your degrees, you didn't think you'd end up anyone's assistant, but that was the job that was available to you, so you took it.

It wasn't all terrible. You'd grown to like it. But sometimes you wondered if you liked the job, or if you just liked the fact that you worked for Hotch. You tried not to think about it.

Hotch lightly shook his head. "This case... Harrison Brown murdered 2 people in cold blood. And I get to prosecute him, sure, but... it feels like I'm too late."

You tilted your head. "Hotch, it's not like you could've prevented any of this. None of it is your fault."

"No, but what if— what if I could prevent it?" He turned his entire body to you suddenly, conviction swimming in his eyes.

"How would you do that?" you asked. You hoped he didn't suggest becoming a vigilante.

Later, you'd think that vigilantism might've been a better option. "I applied to Quantico."

Your eyes narrowed. "Quantico? Like the FBI Quantico?"

He didn't at all look deterred by your tone of voice, confirming, "Yes."

"Hotch, what?" You didn't have to say what you thought for him to know. The incredulity was brightly painted onto your face.

"I took a chance. I don't even know if I'll get in."

You were too in shock to form any other thoughts. "Does Haley know?" The way he grimaced told you your answer. You scoffed, "Hotch—"

"I just want to see what happens," he rationalized. He was good at rationalizing things. You weren't sure if this could be one of them.

"But if you get in, you'll go?" It was a pointless question to ask. You knew the answer. You both knew the answer; he only gave you the grace of pretending to think about it.

"Yes."

You sighed, and because you felt your eyes start to burn, you looked away from him. You didn't know why. You didn't have the right to be upset. If anything, it was his fiancé who was about to be blindsided, not his assistant. Not you.

It wasn't wrong of Hotch to want to pursue another career. When you met him, you knew that this couldn't have been it for him. He looked like he wanted to change the world.

How could you fault someone for wanting to do so much good? For wanting to be great?

You couldn't. That's why you stood up, looking for your blazer. "We should probably get going," you said. "It's getting late."

He followed you up, searching for your eyes as you refused to make eye contact. "Y/N—"

You looked at him, forcing a smile. "Hotch. It's getting late. You need to be sharp for your cross-examination tomorrow. We can talk about this another time."

His pursed his lips. "Promise me we'll talk about it another time." You didn't know why he cared so much.

"I promise." You didn't intend to break that promise. When you could find a way to feel about this, you'd talk to him. Until then, you wouldn't.

You grabbed your blazer, quickly bidding him goodnight and leaving his office before he could say anything else.

He didn't try to stop you as you left.

July 20, 2011

You sat down in front of Morgan's desk, a mug in your hand fill to the top with coffee that you tried to not to spill on all the files splayed out in front of you. 

Derek's voice sounded in front of you. "Come on, pretty girl, you don't have to stay this late."

Once you had comfortably settled, you raised a brow. "Please. You stay, I stay. You know how this works by now." And that he did. At this point, you spent more time at the BAU then you did at your own house.

The rest of the bullpen had cleared out by now. On paperwork days, most people worked until 5, maybe 6 or 7 at the latest. Most people were not the unit chief and his assistant.

You understood why Derek didn't want this job. It was full of paperwork. And considering everything that'd happened in the last few months, you had a lot more paperwork than usual.

Derek's eyes crinkled in a way that told you you'd get your way. "Fine. But we leave at 10."

The corner of your lips quirked up. "Fine."

It was easy to work with Derek. He'd play old hip hop as you worked, the voices of Lauryn Hill and Nas gracing his office. It was as far away from the Beatles as you could get, and that made you appreciate it so much more.

Whose world is this? The world is yours.

The world is yours.

The sound of papers thudding against wood made you look up, seeing Derek put his pen down and lean back in his chair. You glanced at the clock, seeing that it read 11:39.

You dropped the file you were working on, rubbing your eyes. "I guess we worked past when we were supposed to." Your voice faded into a yawn at the end of your sentence.

"Alright, pretty girl. Let's go—I'll drive you home." Derek was standing before you could process it.

You stood up, too, your brows pinching together. "What? But my car—" your voice trailed off as Derek helped you into your jacket. It didn't escape you that he grabbed yours before his own.

He waved you off. "Don't worry about it. I'll just pick you up in the morning."

"But—"

He fixed you with a half-amused, half-serious gaze. "Y/N. It's too late, and you're tired. I just wanna make sure you get home safe."

You gave in, a quiet "Okay" slipping past your lips.

You didn't say you could take yourself, or that you lived in a secure apartment building, or that you weren't that tired. If Derek wanted to drive you home, you would let him. He'd been more protective ever since the Wilson case, so if this made him feel better, so be it.

Being chief was hard enough as is. Like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The world is yours.

You and Derek got into his car with you giving him instructions on how to get to your apartment. Nobody from the team had ever been there except for Hotch. He was the one who helped you find a place closer to Quantico so the commute wouldn't kill you.

Emily had come over once, too. It was one of her first Christmases with the Bureau, and she didn't want to spend it with her mother. You just didn't want to spend it alone. She gave you a bottle of wine, wouldn't tell you how much it cost, and then said to save it for a celebration.

That bottle had never been opened.

Derek pulled into your parking lot. He insisted on walking you upstairs. "Such a gentleman," you teased. It was the least you could do to invite him inside for a cup of tea.

"Nice place you got here," he noted, stepping past the threshold.

You replied while undoing your alarm. "Thanks." Meanwhile, Derek locked the door for you. And if he thought the number of locks you had was unusual, he didn't say anything about it. 

You made your way into the kitchen, opening up the cupboard where you kept the tea. "Black or green?"

"Green, please."

You pulled out the box of tea bags and pretended the wine wasn't there at all. Then you filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The rickety dial creaked as you turned the heat up.

You went to go sit next to Derek at your table while you waited for the water to boil. Not wanting to sit in silence, you said, "Y'know, you've never struck me as much of a tea man." 

Derek's lips lifted into a soft smile, different from the playboy smirk you were used to, but it tugged at your heartstrings all the same. When he spoke, his voice was dulcet like honey. "And what kind of man have I struck you as, Y/N?" 

You inclined your head, giving him a good look. The dark blue dress shirt that he made look casual. The leather band of the watch on his wrist. How nothing about him screamed for attention yet he still had it anyway. And the way he knew it.

"I don't know. Strong, like coffee. The kind of guy who wakes you up." 

Derek probably meant for his words to be light, but you felt its weight hit you at full force. "You know, when I met you, I thought you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen."

You inhaled, and then—just like when you met—you exhaled a laugh. You laughed because he wasn't laughing. Because he sounded like he meant it. "Are you flirting with me right now?" You really didn't know.

He didn't respond right away, as if he had to think about it, but then he responded, "If I was?"

Maybe it was the fact that he didn't look like he was joking. Maybe it was because you were tired. Or maybe it was because confessions came easy with Derek. But the whisper left you before you could stop it. "I would tell you to keep going."

"Okay." He maintained eye contact with you, not once breaking it. "I still think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Your heart sputtered. Not pretty. He called you beautiful. "Beautiful?" you echoed.

"More than beautiful." He leaned forward in his chair, no longer laid back, like he wanted you to know how much he meant what he was saying. "Brilliant. You could have the world in the palm of your hand, if you wanted to."

The world is yours.

"Do you want to?" he asked.

Did you? You leaned forward. "Yes."

Derek continued to lean toward you. Your eyelids fluttered closed in waiting. And just as you felt his breath on your face, you heard the kettle whistle.

Your eyes flew open. Derek quickly stood up, walking over to your stove and turning it off, moving the kettle to another burner. You followed suit. "Derek—"

Within less than second, he spun around and his lips were on yours. You felt it all at once—the passion, the longing, desperation. He kissed you like time was running out, like he was chasing something bigger than himself. 

This was bigger than the both of you.

You kissed him back with the same fervour, knowing that this was Derek Morgan, the same man you'd worked alongside for years, the same man who called you his pretty girl like the term meant nothing. But this meant everything.

He pulled away from you, cupping your face with two hands. He made you feel warm all over. His forehead leaned against yours. "I've been waiting a long time to do that," he confessed.

Your chest rose up and down. Your first instinct was to ask Why didn't you do it sooner? but the answer came to you after barely having to think about it. And you didn't want to think about it. So instead you asked, "Why don't you do it again?"

Derek's lips curved up, and you could feel his smile as his lips met yours. And as he kissed you, you could feel him kicking down the doors you'd locked up tight.

Then, when he opened the door to your room, the loop of Eleanor Rigby in your head went silent, replaced by Illmatic melodies.

The world is yours.

March 14, 2007

You sat at the bar, running your finger along the rim of your glass. You'd ordered a cosmo, wanting something sweet, but it didn't look as appealing now that it was in front of you.

Life needs a little sweetness to it. You were right when you said that.

Nothing about this life was sweet.

"Hey, pretty girl."

You looked up to see Derek standing beside you. You tried reciprocating his smile as best as you could. You should've known he'd see right through it.

"You okay?" he asked. Quietly, like any loud noise could cause an explosion. Worriedly, like your own worry hadn't been hidden well at all.

You sighed, glancing around to see the rest of the team scattered around the bar. You had half-expected Derek to find a group of girls to go dance with, yet there he was, staring at you as he waited for an answer.

You didn't bother with the smile again. "Why wouldn't I be okay?" you countered. Fatigue laced through your tone, like you were saying, No, I'm not okay, anyway.

You both knew why you wouldn't be okay. You also knew that Derek wouldn't say it out loud. It was a catch-22: you both knew the answer, but it didn't help either of you.

He sat down on the barstool next to you and lied, "No reason."

Memories from earlier flashed through your head. Hotch, standing in the middle of bullpen, being served divorce papers. Hotch, secluding himself away right after.

There was the reason. But in reality, it was no valid reason for you to not be okay. This is why neither of you voiced it. But it was so obvious that the words might as well have been tattooed on your skin.

Sometimes, you wondered if Hotch's name was like that. Like a tattoo on your mind that you couldn't get rid of. To the point where he asked you to pick up everything and start over and you did it.

Like he could hear your thoughts, Derek suddenly said, "You've gotta take care of yourself, Y/N."

You glanced up from your drink, seeing him already staring at you intently. It felt chastising and caring at the same time. I'm trying, you wanted to say. You didn't know if either of you would be able to believe it.

So you just nodded, telling him, "I know." I know, and I'm trying. I'm trying my best.

You felt silly. Wanting for what you couldn't have. Sitting over your cosmo like you were Carrie Bradshaw, wanting for a Mr. Big that would never want you back.

You felt like everyone knew and they were just being polite by not mentioning it. Then you wondered if Hotch knew and your heart started to hurt.

Neither you nor Derek talked about it anymore. He changed the subject, talking with you about random things and office gossip, making you forget why you were down in the first place.

He sat with you the whole night.

July 21, 2011

When you woke up, the sky was still dark, and you were lying on something rock solid. In the darkness, you could make out Derek lying next to you.

So it wasn't a dream.

You slept with Derek Morgan. Derek Morgan slept with you.

You let out a breath, trying not to make noise. It was surreal to you. You never thought it'd escalate past flirting, that the cord of tension between you would snap. There was always a wall between the two of you, a line drawn in the sand of what was real and what was play.

And God help you, this felt real. This felt so real that you could feel your heart hammering against your ribcage. This felt more real than anything you'd ever done, and that terrified you.

You knew what it was like to fall for important men. To be in over your head. Was this the same thing?

Derek's chest shifted beneath you. "I can feel you thinking," he murmured, his eyes still closed.

You tensed, thinking of all the other similar situations. Derek asking you what you were thinking about only for you to lie. It was a defense mechanism, a way to protect yourself from having to deal with a reality that wasn't sweet by falsifying sweeter things.

But you wanted to be truthful. You wanted to know— "Is this real?" You immediately wanted to hit yourself. Too blunt. Too honest. Too scared.

Derek's eyes opened. And despite how tired you both were, you could tell he was being sincere. "It's real to me." He paused. "Is it real for you?"

You both knew what he meant, the question beneath the question. But for the first time in a long time, you weren't thinking about a cold man who left you behind. You were only thinking about the warmth of the man who was staring at you currently.

"Yes," you whispered. "This is real for me." 

The way he was looking at you, like you were the only dream worth paying attention to, was real. The way his arm was wrapped around you was real. The way you felt like you could finally breathe was real.

"What happens now?" you asked. What you wanted to know was, Does this change everything?

Derek's response was natural, but it wasn't easy. "We can see where it takes us." Yes, it changes everything, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing.

You nodded, telling him that would be okay with you, and then you laid your head back down on his chest. His heart was thumping just as wildly as yours.

Yes, this was real.

And you were okay with that.

August 3, 2011

Your voice was amplified by the microphone in front of you. "This man is someone's neighbour, someone's coworker, someone's friend. You know him. He'll be behaving strangely, paranoid and keeping secrets. You might be worried about him. So please, seek help. If you have any insight on his identity, please contact the tip line. Thank you."

You concluded the press conference by stepping away from the podium. The cameras continued to flash and reporters continued to ask questions, even as you walked away, but you were less fazed by it now. It was getting easier each time you did it.

Derek stood waiting for you on the inside as you entered the station. He wore his approval the way he wore his badge: proud but unobtrusive.

He complimented you, "You did good out there, pretty girl."

Your lips curled into a smile, the same way they always did when he said it. Pretty girl. You were never anything but that, and nobody else could receive the title but you. 

It felt a little different now, ever since what happened. More than casual teasing between friends. As if you were his pretty girl.

His pretty girl. You liked that more than you'd admit.

"Thanks, D."

He cocked his head at you curiously. "You ever think about it? Taking the job full time?"

You tilted your head back. "Like becoming the liason? Officially?"

"Liason. Communications director." He shrugged his shoulders. "Something that gives you the credit you deserve."

You took in a breath. What Derek was talking about was giving you recognition. And he was talking about it like you deserved it. 

He was offering you a chance to do more, to be more after being an assistant for years.

His voice echoed throughout your head. You're not just anyone's assistant.

After a beat, you responded. "I'll... I'll think about it."

Derek nodded, not looking surprised by your answer at all. "Think about it. We can talk later."

His voice was resolute, as it always when he was talking to you. Like he was trying to prove to you that you were more than what you thought you were.

Like you were worth the trouble.

September 2, 2011

You sat in Derek's office, no file in your hand, just ideas. Ideas bouncing off the walls of your brain to the point where it was giving you a headache.

You found out about his secret project about a month ago when you were still his assistant. It was hard for someone to keep secrets from their right hand, let alone their partner.  

You'd been trying out the word girlfriend in private, feeling shy every time you thought about it. Derek didn't bring it up to you, so you weren't sure, but you felt like that's what you were.

Girlfriend. Communications director. You were still settling into so many new roles. And now, despite the novelty of it all, you were looking over an old case with new eyes.

Garcia waltzed into the room, her heels click-clacking against the floor. "Okay, Emily needed to get Declan a new identity." She sat down in the chair next to you. "So she must have used someone she trusted."

You chuckled. "That's not a very long list." You weren't too bitter about it. If you were a spy, you wouldn't trust anyone, either.

"It's probably not even written down," Derek added. "Even if it was, she's had contacts all over the world."

"Oh, tell me about it," Penelope chimed, handing him a file. "Two columns, domestic and imports."

"Hey."

The three of you simultaneously turned to the new voice, seeing JJ hanging in the threshold with an easygoing smile. "You guys seen Spence?"

You watched in real time as Garcia's light extinguished. "He's at the firing range."

JJ raised a brow. "Again?" 

You felt irritation simmer beneath your skin at her question, because it forced Garcia to explain, "Ever since Prentiss died, he..."

JJ at least had the decency to look sorry for asking. "Right." She glanced at you, then looked away. Her eyes always flitted in your direction but never stayed on you for long, like there was a conversation she was supposed to have with you but didn't want to initiate. "Uh..." she stepped forward, her tone becoming hopeful. "Did you guys get a new case?"

Derek shook his head, dismissing it. "It's just an old one." 

JJ still looked hopeful, proposing, "Do you want some fresh eyes?"

Politely, Derek declined, "Not just yet."

"Okay." JJ hid her dejection behind a smile, glancing at you one last time. "Um, well, let me know."

Garcia's face fell as JJ left the room. She looked at Derek. "Shouldn't we tell her?"

You looked down, hating the way you could hear the longing in her voice. Whereas you could only feel the rift in the team now, Garcia just wanted to bridge it.

Derek set down the file in his hands. "Garcia, this has been a long shot for 6 months. Why get her hopes up?"

Quickly, she asked, "What about Hotch?" She glanced at you right after, almost apologetically. You were noticing that people did that whenever he was brought up.

Derek glanced at you, too, but in a different way. Only he and you knew you were dating. You thought it'd be better that way, but it was times like these that made you wish everyone else knew. 

"He knows I'm doing this," he responded.

You wondered how much truth there was to that. You made a mental note to ask him later. You didn't sit in on their phone calls, and Derek had long since stopped asking you to.

Garcia was just as surprised. "He does?"

Derek made a face. "Not technically, but he knows I'm not about to let Doyle roam free."

"Does he know we're looking for Declan?"

Another odd face, telling you both no. "I just figured I'd call him when I have something to report," he justified.

Seeing the dissatisfaction on Garcia's face, you gave Derek a look. She followed up, "Okay. But it feels weird not sharing."

"Baby girl. You don't have to do this." He looked at both of you. "Neither of you do."

She assured him, "I know."

He looked to you, but you didn't have to say a word. "I told you. Where you go, I go."

His eyes softened. "Okay." Promises of ride or die echoed in your head. You hoped he knew you meant it.

You re-directed to the case at hand. "Okay, what about domestic contacts?"

Garcia perked up. "Yeah, Em was already in the states when she faked Declan's death, so... her associates must be in Boston?"

Derek lightly shook his head. "No, Garcia, she would have covered her tracks better than that." Garcia sighed, resting her face on her fist while Derek fiddled with a pen. "Alright, why did Prentiss join the BAU?"

You furrowed your brows. Why did you join the BAU? Besides Hotch, what reason did you really have? "For a different life," you answered. "A normal life."

"She could have gone anywhere with her skillset, but she chose DC."

Garcia suggested, "Maybe to be close to her mom?" 

"No. No way, that was just by default. She did all of this protect a child."

"Right. So you're saying... she came here just so she could be close to the kid."

You tilted your head in Garcia's direction. "Which would mean she had people she trusted right here."

Garcia lifted her finger, looking down at her papers. "Right. Domestic contacts. There are a surprising few in our nation's capital... one of which is dead." She handed Derek a paper. "Ben Corelli."

Derek looked at the list, recognition flickering across his face. "He was the forger. Doyle killed him and Prentiss' friend. He worked out of his apartment, remember?"

Your eyes widened, the realization dawning on you. "Oh my God, we processed his belongings."

And just like that, the puzzle pieces fell together.

October 23, 2011

You, Morgan, and Garcia found Declan living in Stafford county, Virginia. 

All signs point to a really well-adjusted kid, she'd said. He's an honour student. He plays lacrosse. He's winning science fairs. It looks like he's got the life Emily wanted him to have.

Talking about Emily always made your chest feel heavier, but you couldn't deny that she did good.

Derek ended up watching him whenever he could. You knew it was important to him to have Declan under surveillance, to know when Doyle would come out of the woodworks.

And then exactly that happened.

Garcia found footage of Doyle in his son's neighbourhood. You'd hit the ground running since then.

Doyle was in FBI custody, but Declan was missing. Derek was interrogating him as you underwent an entirely different interrogation in your office.

"Chief Strauss—"

"Do you have any idea the gravity of this situation?" she cut you off, her voice shaking with anger. "A terrorist in our custody while that boy is God knows where!"

You took a deep breath, trying your best not to yell back at her. "Agent Morgan is making progress. We will find him."

You might as well have been lying. You had no idea if Derek was making progress or not. You'd been stuck here ever since he got back, but you hoped he was doing okay.

"And how can you be sure of that, Y/N?" You weren't. She stepped closer to you. "Did you and Agent Morgan just think you could go rogue, investigating whatever you please?"

You matched her fury, stepping forward. "All due respect, ma'am, but if it weren't for Agent Morgan, a terrorist would be out roaming the streets. If anything, you should be thanking him for capturing a national threat."

A fire burned in Strauss' eyes, reminiscent of all the other times she had argued with you. Then, it was about Hotch, but now— "You best be careful, Y/N. People might become curious why you defend your superiors so ferociously."

You caught the veiled threat, but you were running on so many fumes that it only fed you. You stepped closer, and then just above a whisper, you shot, "If I were so pedantic, I would read into that, too."

"Chief Strauss." The hairs on your neck stood up at the sound of the gruff interruption. Strauss glanced behind you, looking no more pleased. "May I have a word with Y/N?"

Strauss sent you one last glare. "Fine. But I want you in my office in 5 minutes, Aaron." 

She angrily strode out of the room, leaving you alone. The door closed behind her.

You didn't turn around. He didn't ask you to. Instead, he walked in front of you, practically forcing you to look at him. And then there he was.

Hotch.

Bearded and different, but still the same Hotch that left you in Virginia. Even if you weren't the same you.

You cleared your throat. "What are you doing in here?'

His head inclined. "We have to talk."

Remnants of your argument with Strauss still lingered in your body, making you more honest than you might've been under different circumstances. "No. You had the chance to talk 4 months ago and chose not to, so now isn't the time."

His brows pinched together. "I left you a letter."

A bitter laugh left you. "A letter. Look, Hotch, we have things to do, so if you don't mind." You actually didn't care if he minded at all.

You didn't wait to see if he'd listen to you—because when did he ever listen to you—and instead you swung open your office door and left.

4 months of distance. 4 months, and now he was here.

You had never been farther away.

April 7, 2011

You sat on your couch with Hotch sitting right next to you. The TV droned on quietly in the background, but neither of you were paying attention to it. Neither of you were talking, either. Lately, you and Hotch had developed a habit of sitting in silence.

The silence gave you time to think. Time to think of everything you did wrong. Everything you could've done better. Time to wish you could've profiled Emily and realized what was wrong before it was too late.

Only now, it was too late. Her body was in the ground, but her ghost haunted your apartment and every dream you had.

Sometimes, when it was quiet, you swore you could hear her voice. Perhaps that's why you spoke up. "It's been exactly one month since she died." Your voice was hoarse and low. You'd been crying earlier.

You heard Hotch take in a breath. "I know." You all did.

Tears welled up in your eyes, no matter how hard you tried to stop it. "I miss her so much." Your voice broke into a sob. One sob snowballed into another, and another.

Hotch cradled you into his chest, but said nothing. Nothing he said could comfort you, and you both knew it.

All he said was, "I miss her too."

Your cries rang through the apartment.

October 23, 2011

Your fingers brushed against Derek's as you followed him and JJ into the briefing room. 

"You get anywhere with Doyle?" Reid immediately asked.

Derek sighed, his fingers parting from yours as you entered the room. "Doyle doesn't think Gerace has the guts to take him on."

Garcia disagreed, "But that's definitely Gerace on the tape."

Behind her, Hotch walked into the room, and your whole body tensed. Your fingers twitched, reaching out for Derek's again, but you knew better, stopping yourself.

Derek glanced at you from the corner of his eyes before looking back at Hotch. "Welcome back."

"Thanks," he said before promptly ordering everyone to take a seat. You furrowed your brows. Everyone but you, him, JJ, and Derek sat down. JJ went to stand next to Hotch while you and Derek remained on the other side of the table, making it oddly feel like you were in teams against one another.

"Why?" Derek questioned. "What's going on? Everything alright?"

Hotch didn't answer outright, continuing to look down at the roundtable instead of at any of you. A pit grew in your stomach. "7 months ago, I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle."

You interrupted him. "I don't understand. Why are we talking about Emily?"

Hotch's eyes met yours, and you didn't have to be a profiler to see them flicker with remorse. "The doctors were able to stabilize her," he stated. "And she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration."

You recoiled. What Hotch was saying didn't make any sense. This didn't make any sense— 

"Her identity was strictly need-to-know. She was reassigned to Paris where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to, for her security."

The silence was thick until Garcia tearily broke it. "She's alive?"

Your eyes were zeroed in on Hotch, waiting for him to answer the question. He expertly dodged your gaze.

Spencer cut in, voicing your confusion. "But we buried her."

Hotch looked to Spencer before looking to the rest of you. "As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me."

You scoffed while Derek echoed, "Any issues?" His voice raised. "Yeah, I got issues."

Hotch looked like he was about to respond, but then everyone's attention turned to the door. Tears raced down Penelope's cheeks like a waterfall.

You turned around, and your heart stopped. Because standing right there was Emily Prentiss, alive as ever.

A tear fell down your cheek, and Emily looked at you, a small, sad smile arising on her face. "Y/N."

"Oh, my God." That was her voice. On instinct, you walked towards her, tentatively reaching out, but nothing about Emily's movements was tentative. She pulled you into her embrace, hugging you tightly. 

More tears fell down your face. After months of wishing you could hug her again, she was here.

She was alive.

Realizing that fact, you pulled away. Emily took the opportunity to hug Reid and Garcia while your mind was reeling. She was alive.

"I am so sorry," she apologized. "I really am. Not a day went by that I didn't want to—" her eyes darted to Derek, still standing there in shock. She walked toward him. "Really, I— you didn't deserve that. And I'm so sorry."

She wrapped her arms around him. Slowly, he reciprocated. But she was alive.

But JJ told you she was dead. She said she never even made it off the table. Those words had been engraved into your memory, and now Emily was alive?

That could only mean—

You looked at JJ, and then you looked at Hotch while everybody else was distracted, seeing him already looking at you. The words left your mouth instantly. "You lied."

He didn't have anything to say in his defense. He lied. 

And just like that, Eleanor Rigby was back in your ear, destroying any semblance of peace you thought you had.

All the lonely people.

Where do they all belong?

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