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hoe4hotchner · 14 hours ago

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Chapter 8 - Under pressure

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 10.3k

Warnings: Emotional struggle, self-doubt and anxiety, a lot of forensics in the beginning, emotional support, bar scene, alcohol mentioned.

A/N: I promised I would relay this info from Y/N about their only interaction in this chapter: "Hotch is a little bitch"

Masterlist

The locker room was mostly quiet, a silence only broken by the low murmur from the forensic team, each member meticulously working their way through the crime scene. Gloved hands carefully collected evidence, cameras clicked softly, and the occasional hushed exchange passed between team members, their voices barely above a whisper. Every movement was precise and deliberate, ensuring the scene's integrity remained undisturbed to the best of their abilities. The dim lights cast an almost sterile glow across the room, highlighting the dust motes suspended in the air.

Hotch stood by the doorframe, arms crossed, his sharp gaze tracking every action. His imposing figure served as a barrier, ensuring no one else would enter and disrupt the investigation. As he observed, the weight of his responsibility was evident in his intense expression, his attention fully devoted to the scene before him.

A forensic technician crouched near a faint stain on the tiled floor, signaling to a colleague with a subtle wave. “We’ve got what appears to be trace blood spatter here,” she said, her voice was low. Her gloved fingers traced the edges of the stain without making contact, her eyes scanning the pattern with attention, trying to put the pieces together to form a theory of what had gone down. "The distribution looks inconsistent. The angle suggests some kind of lateral force — maybe a blunt object brought down from above.” She suggested, lifting her hand up in a fist as if holding the murder weapon. She moved her hand down again in a smooth strike, trying to act out the scene.

Her colleague crouched next to her, adjusting his gloves as he pulled out a small magnifying lens to study the details. He leaned closer, observing the discoloration and faint smears. “Could indicate that she tried to defend herself,” he murmured, his tone speculative. “Or possibly just post-mortem bruising... though we’ll need lab confirmation to be sure.” His gaze shifted thoughtfully as he took in the body next to him. He raised an eyebrow, as if considering something further. "Did we retrieve samples from her hands? Any fibers or skin under the nails?”

"Already bagged and sealed,” another technician responded, holding up a small evidence bag. Inside, beneath a clear strip of tape, were faint traces of what looked like skin fragments. The delicate specks of tissue clung to the tape, almost imperceptible against the plastic, but they could hold significant answers to getting closer to slowing this whole mess. “Looks like fragments of epithelial tissue. And they found it under her nails?” he asked, his voice quiet as he focused on not disturbing the rest of the forensics team.

He gave the bag a light shake, causing the tissue to shift slightly within. “We’ll send it over for DNA analysis. It should tell us whether the traces are her own or possibly from an assailant.” His tone carried the weight of years of experience; he knew how much hinged on this small but critical piece of evidence.

Hotch’s brow furrowed as he listened, absorbing every detail from the exchange. His gaze sharpened, and with a slight tilt of his head, he caught the attention of the lead forensic analyst nearby. “Do we have any indication of the time of death?” he asked, his tone was low but, though it cut through the quiet of the room.

The analyst looked up from her meticulously detailed notes, her expression neutral. “Based on initial observations of lividity and rigor mortis, along with body temperature readings,” she began, glancing momentarily toward the body before looking back at her notes, “we’re estimating the time of death to fall between midnight and 3 a.m.” She paused, her eyes shifting past him catching a glimpse at the ice lurking just behind Hotch's figure. “The environmental conditions here — specifically the colder temperature — may have impacted these markers slightly, but it’s a preliminary estimate for now. The autopsy should give us a tighter window.”

Her explanation was clinical and precise, yet held a hint of caution, acknowledging the limits of field estimates. Hotch nodded, absorbing the timeline, his mind already beginning to map out the next steps for the investigation.

Hotch nodded. “What about fingerprints?” he asked.

One of the forensic team members held up a clear strip of tape with faint, smeared fingerprints barely visible along its surface. “We’ve found a few partials,” she explained, angling the tape so the faint ridges caught the light. “Some of them are likely hers, based on the positioning and the smudging pattern. But we’ll process every print we find.” Her gaze shifted to the lockers, her expression darkening slightly. “The locker handles were clean, though. Could indicate they were wiped down, or that the unsub wore gloves.”

A subtle tension flickered across Hotch’s face, his jaw tightening as he processed this added complication. The unsub was way too good at what he was doing. “Make sure we document every single print, even if they’re smudged,” he instructed, his voice firm. “Cross-reference them with any recent visitors and staff on-site if possible. If the unsub left anything behind, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, sir.” She gave a quick nod, her focus already shifting back to her work, determined to extract every detail from the fragmented prints. Her gloved hands moved swiftly, preparing the evidence for lab analysis, while Hotch remained positioned in the doorframe, the team meticulously gathered every possible clue they could.

In the corner a photographer worked methodically, the rapid clicks of the camera punctuated the silence as he documented each aspect of the room. He moved from corner to corner, crouching low or stretching upward to capture every angle, pausing now and then to reframe his shots. Each image was a careful study of the crime scene, ensuring nothing went unnoticed, from the faint blood stains on the tile to the scattered belongings and the way the girl's hair lay curled around her head on the floor.

The forensics team operated with an almost mechanical coordination.

Hotch observed them in silence, his gaze sweeping across the room one more time. He absorbed every detail — the overturned bench and the streaked stains on the floor. His sharp, assessing eyes missed nothing, cataloging each point of interest as he mentally reconstructed the events the way they must have unfolded in the dark of the night.

As forensics concluded their initial examination of the scene, one of the technicians approached Hotch quietly. “We’re ready to move the body, Agent Hotchner,” he said.

Hotch gave a solemn nod, his gaze settling on the still shape lying on the tiled floor. Her face held a sense of tranquility that was disturbing, yet almost looked peaceful as she rested in her final slumber.

With careful movements, two technicians knelt beside her, unfolding the heavy-duty, dark body bag — which they'd done many times before. They moved gently, each gesture as respectful as possible, as mindful as possible, trying to preserve whatever dignity remained for her in death. The bag’s fabric unfurled with a soft rustle, and, together, they began the process of transferring her. Hotch’s jaw tightened as he watched, he hated when kids were involved, and even as his mind continued piecing together the puzzle of her final moments, he couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness underneath his gruff exterior.

As they lifted her, carefully sliding her lifeless form into the body bag, Hotch stood by ready to move or help if needed. He too had been here before — many times in fact — bearing witness to scenes of unimaginable loss countless times. But despite the familiarity, despite knowing what to do, it never got easier — especially not when it was someone so young, someone who had barely begun to explore her path.

The technicians zipped the bag shut. The metallic sound sliced through the silence, reverberating through the room like a cold punctuation mark. The air grew heavier, marked by the collective awareness of the body about to be rolled out of the room. They all looked up from what they were doing. The team moved seamlessly, lifting the bag onto the waiting stretcher. They secured the straps, their faces set in concentration.

Hotch walked slowly behind the stretcher, his footsteps echoing in the silence that had fallen over the locker room and that followed them into the arena. As the forensic team guided her toward the exit, other team members paused their work, their heads instinctively bowing as the stretcher passed — a momentary gesture of respect, acknowledging the life now gone.

Near the doorway, a young forensic intern hesitated, her face was pale, and eyes wide as she watched the body being taken away. She looked up at Hotch, clearly shaken as reality settled heavily upon her.

“First time?” Hotch asked quietly in a low murmur meant only for her to hear, it carried a softness that seemed to calm her a little — or at least enough to gain control of her mind.

The intern nodded, swallowing hard, she was unable to shift her gaze from the stretcher. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, her voice ready to break. “It’s…harder than I expected.”

Hotch offered a small, understanding nod, the slightest flicker of empathy breaking through his normally stoic expression. “It always is,” he replied, his tone was gentle — he was always gentle with the new kids on the team. With a subtle reassurance in his gaze, he gestured for her to continue, and together they followed as the stretcher disappeared down the corridor, before being loaded into a van to be taken to the morgue and examined.

Under the bright clinical lights of the morgue, the air was heavy with the pungent scent of formaldehyde. The room was silent only broken by the hum of refrigeration units in the room over, the ticking clock, and the occasional soft echo of footsteps against the floor as the examiner moved around. Hotch and Reid stood on opposite sides of the steel examination table, latex gloves snug on their hands, their expressions furrowed as they took in the white piece of cloth covering the young skater's body.

Across from them, the examiner prepared for the autopsy, his movements slow and methodical as he organized the array of instruments laid out on a sterile tray, each one carefully placed in a specific pattern — one where he knew where all the instruments were without looking. From an outside perspective, he would seem way too calm based on what his job entailed, but he was used to the grim work. He glanced up briefly, acknowledging Hotch and Reid with a quick, silent nod before returning his focus to the tools he would soon wield. A scalpel, forceps, probes — each piece a necessary instrument in the search for the truth.

“Agent Hotchner, Dr. Reid,” he finally greeted. “Thank you for coming down so quickly.”

Hotch acknowledged him with a returning nod, his gaze fixed on the cloth. “I appreciate you starting on this quickly. Time is of the essence.”

With a careful pull, the examiner peeled back the sheet covering the victim, exposing bruises marring her slender arms and faint, reddish discolorations circling her wrists. The ligature marks were evident, indicating that she had been bound at some point. There were signs of what potentially was her final struggle. Hotch’s face remained composed, every line of his expression hardened as he took in the sight before him. For a moment, his gaze softened as he remembered just how young she had been, but he steeled himself, pushing the thoughts aside.

Reid, standing just beside him, held a clipboard with one hand, pen poised as he looked over the notes and findings up until now. His own face was tense, eyes darting from the bruises and ligature marks and back to the notes, adding and cataloging more evidence as he noticed it. But even as his pen moved, Reid’s jaw tightened slightly — he too dwelled on the fact that the girl had passed way too soon.

The examiner reached for a light, adjusting its angle to illuminate the area near the girl’s collarbone, wanting to take a better look while the agents were present. Pausing, he noticed an unusual discoloration — the faintest mark, almost hidden against the pallor of her skin. With careful movements of his hand, he picked up a small magnifying glass on the tray beside him, leaning in to study it more closely. The discoloration suggested a pattern, though the exact cause was unclear. He frowned, examining the delicate skin with increased interest as if it held the key to understanding one more piece of the puzzle.

“I think I’ve found something interesting here.” The examiner’s gloved finger traced a faint, stray strand on her skin, its color and texture distinct against the muted backdrop of her skin. “It’s a fiber. Unusual color and texture, definitely not something standard to the clothing she was wearing when she came in.”

Reid leaned in, tilting his head to get a closer look at the small, off-color thread. Its faint sheen caught the light. “That doesn’t look like any typical textile fiber,” he murmured, his tone thoughtful. “It’s thicker. Possibly synthetic, maybe a blend — something designed to withstand stress or friction. It could indicate that the unsub works in a more labour-heavy setting.” He looked to Hotch as if waiting for a sign of approval. Hotch only nodded, not wanting to interrupt the trail of thoughts and the interaction between Spencer and the examiner.

The examiner too nodded, reaching for a pair of tweezers from his tray, his movements were cautious. “This fiber could tell you a lot, I hope,” he said, gently gripping the strand between the tweezers. “I’ll bag it up as evidence. It’s embedded just slightly in the epidermis here, so there’s a good chance it was transferred from contact not long before her death.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed, watching the careful extraction. “Could this indicate she struggled more than just in her bonds?” he asked, now realizing that the unsub most likely had captured her sometime before killing her — why no one had reported her missing yet was a mystery to him.

“It’s possible,” the examiner replied, sealing the fiber in a clear evidence bag and labeling it. “If this thread belongs to another person’s clothing or equipment, it could lead you to the unsub — or at least tell you more about what happened.”

Reid took a note, writing down the specifics of the fiber’s texture and placement, his mind already racing through the implications. He handed it to Hotch, knowing that he would hand it over to the forensics lab at the academy.

“I’ll have forensics take a closer look once we’re back,” Hotch said.

“The synthetic quality could mean it’s from carpeting, furniture…possibly even a vehicle.” Reid continued his trail of thoughts.

“Or it could have been from someone’s clothing,” Hotch added, brow furrowed as he considered the possibilities. “The fact that it was found near the ligature marks could suggest it was transferred during her restraint.”

The examiner, meanwhile, continued his external examination. “Based on the bruising and the angle of the contusions on her wrists and arms she likely tried to pull away — hence the deep abrasions here,” he said, gesturing to the raw edges of skin around her wrists. “This fiber is probably from whoever or whatever held her down — my best guess is either from hemp rope or possibly heavy-duty work gloves.”

Hotch nodded as he stepped closer, his posture was calm but vigilant. "Anything else you’ve found so far?"

The examiner paused, his gaze shifting to the girl’s head as he gently tilted it, exposing a faint, dried smear near her hairline. His brow furrowed slightly as he focused on the subtle mark. “There’s something here,” he murmured, using a cotton swab to carefully lift a trace of dark, dried blood just above her temple.

Hotch’s attention zeroed in on the spot, eyes narrowing as he absorbed the new detail. “A head wound?”

“Possibly,” the examiner replied, his tone thoughtful. “It’s minor — likely not a fatal blow — but there’s a small, shallow laceration here. Could be from striking a hard surface or perhaps from a mild blow. It’s hard to say definitively just yet, but at most it would've given her a concussion.”

Reid leaned in too, studying the location and nature of the injury. “Since it isn't the primary cause of death. It might have been incidental, meant to disorient her rather than to inflict serious harm.”

The examiner nodded, bagging the swap. “The blood pattern is faint and slightly smeared, suggesting there was some movement afterward — either on her part or by someone else’s hand. If someone else made contact here, there could be trace elements of DNA left behind in the blood.”

Hotch’s expression remained focused. “Let’s be thorough though. Get more samples for DNA and trace analysis on this. If it isn’t her own blood, or if there’s any foreign material, it could lead us to our unsub if there's a match in our databases.”

“Understood,” the examiner replied, giving a confirming nod. “I’ll expedite the sample for lab analysis to ensure I can give you a result as soon as possible.”

Hotch acknowledged him with a quick nod, his gaze lingering on the wound for a moment longer, as though searching for answers. “Good. The smallest details might be what breaks this case open.”

The medical examiner double-checked each detail as Reid handed him back the clipboard, scanning for any remaining traces before closing his laying the board aside and pulling the sheet back over the victim’s body. “Please keep me posted if the lab picks up anything significant on this,” he said, curious about the potential findings. He’d seen far too many cases end here in the morgue, but he never let himself forget the weight of each one.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” he said, his tone neutral but with a hint of respect that wasn’t lost on the examiner. He turned, glancing briefly at Reid, with their work here complete, the two agents made their way to the morgue’s exit, the silence following them like a shadow.

As they stepped into the hallway, their minds were already racing through the next steps. Hotch’s thoughts sifted through the evidence — every cataloged detail, the fiber, blood smear, and head wound — as he considered how it might all connect. Reid, equally focused, was already piecing together possible timelines and scenarios, mentally processing the clues they would present to the team back at Quantico.

Hotch stepped into the sterile atmosphere of the academy’s forensic lab, the evidence bag containing the fiber sample cradled carefully in his hand. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, mingling with the subtle undertone of other lab chemicals that he couldn't quite recognize. The hum of the equipment provided a low, steady buzz to the air. Across the room, the chief forensic analyst was already preparing for the evidence, her workstation was arranged meticulously with an array of microscopes, testing agents, and delicate tools — each with their own specific use. She turned as Hotch approached, nodding in greeting.

“Agent Hotchner,” she acknowledged, slipping on a fresh pair of latex gloves with a swift, practiced motion — she knew what she was doing. “Let’s take a look at what we’re dealing with.”

Hotch handed over the evidence bag. “This fiber might be our only tangible lead in the case right now,” he said. “We need a full comparative analysis against textile databases — origin, composition, and any trace chemicals — if that is possible. Anything that might narrow down a source or point us in a specific direction.”

The chief's eyes sharpened as she handled the evidence, carefully transferring the fiber to a glass slide beneath the microscope. “Understood. I’ll also run a dye analysis as well. Certain textiles have unique dye markers that can sometimes trace back to a manufacturer if they're trademarked, or even a specific production batch if we’re lucky.”

Hotch crossed his arms, watching as she began the delicate work. “The smallest detail could matter here, I'll take anything I can get” he added. “Even if it’s something as minor as a manufacturing flaw or residue. We have to assume our suspect left this trace unintentionally.”

She nodded, already adjusting the microscope settings to bring the fiber into focus. “If there’s anything out of the ordinary, I'll find it — There's a reason why I'm the chief,” she assured him with a wink, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll flag any anomalies right away.”

Hotch nodded, his gaze locked onto the microscope as if he saw the magnified fiber as well. The step might've seemed minute, but he knew that solving cases with an unsub this meticulous, this organized often hung on such tiny fragments — one thread could lead to a name, a place, or even the dismantling of an alibi.

He watched closely, the weight of the investigation resting heavily on his shoulders — he couldn't help but think about you and your competition. “Would a spectrograph reveal any pollutants?” he asked, his brow furrowed with thought. “If the fiber originated from an industrial source, we might find trace chemical signatures that could narrow it down.”

The analyst glanced up at him, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Look at you being all scientific,” she teased, her eyes bright with amusement. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Aaron.”

He allowed himself a brief smile. “I dabbled a bit with science back in college. Mostly the parts that sounded impressive.” The subtle warmth in his voice added a slight levity to the otherwise grim circumstances of their meeting.

“Well, your instincts are spot-on,” she replied, preparing the sample under a high-powered microscope. “A spectrographic analysis will absolutely tell us if there’s anything unusual, down to certain chemical markers. But we’ll have to account for any contamination from trace elements or DNA that might have come from the locker room.”

Hotch nodded his focus back on the fiber.

The analyst’s gaze sharpened as she brought the fiber into view, her hands moving quickly. “I’ll start with the dye signature, then run it through spectrographic imaging to see if the fiber picked up any industrial pollutants or specific residue.” She adjusted the settings on her microscope.

As she initiated the spectrographic analysis, Hotch held his breath, watching as the machine began scanning the fiber for any unique chemical compositions. The wait was agonizing; they were so close to potentially finding a lead, but with every second, uncertainty loomed larger.

Finally, a series of lines and peaks appeared on the monitor, and the chief leaned in, her eyes scanning the data. After a few moments, she exhaled softly and turned to Hotch. “Here’s the initial breakdown. The fibers are cotton-based but treated with a blend of chemicals typically found in weather-resistant clothing — mostly silicon compounds. There’s also an unidentified polymer, likely synthetic.” As Reid suggested, Hotch thought as the chief spoke.

Hotch’s brow furrowed, leaning in to examine the data on the screen. “Weather-resistant… that could suggest outdoor clothing. Can we pinpoint anything more specific?”

The analyst tapped her pen against the screen, her gaze locked on the data. “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. The trace polymer we’re seeing isn’t exclusive. It could be used in a variety of jackets or even upholstery fabrics or gloves. The compounds are common enough in the industry that they don’t carry any unique markers. No region-specific elements or manufacturer identifiers.”

Hotch let out a quiet sigh, disappointment settling into his expression. “So, we’re looking at something mass-produced, nothing that singles out a specific item or brand.” If he had been alone he would've groaned in frustration. It couldn't be right that the unsub was this good at hiding his steps.

She nodded. “Yes. The chemical makeup is generic — common to a lot of brands of clothing, even some household items. The polymer itself is low-grade, suggesting that it isn't high-end manufacturing.”

“Then we’re back to square one on the fiber — and the rest of the case. What about cross-contamination?" Hotch straightened, taking a steadying breath. "Could these fibers have transferred from something in the rink itself?”

“It’s a possibility,” she confirmed. “Without a stronger match, we can’t rule out incidental transfer. The results are too generalized to tie back to the crime scene directly.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “For now. But I’ll keep running a few more tests. Sometimes, even the smallest variable can reveal more than we expect. I'll call if I find anything”

“Thank you,” Hotch said finally, forcing himself to maintain his composure. “I appreciate your help.”

As Hotch left the lab, the weight of disappointment settled heavily on his shoulders. The investigation had hit another wall, and frustration churned within him, though he refused to let it slow him down. There had to be something they were missing, some angle or piece of evidence that could be uncovered. He made his way back to his office, his footsteps echoing through the halls.

The familiar scent of paper files and polished wood greeted him as he entered. He closed the door with a soft click locking it behind him. With a deep sigh, he sank into his chair, its worn leather shaped by years of use. He leaned back in it, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to ease the tension pounding in his head.

Images from the crime scene replayed in his mind — the young girl, then they shifted to the sight of Branson at your place, then to Leah and the way you'd been shocked out of your mind. His protective instincts instantly roared to life, as always, but this time, they went beyond just the need to catch the unsub. He thought of you, your bright spirit and dedication to skating, your commitment to make it through your competitions as you chased your Olympic dreams.

You were so focused, so passionate, your every move on the ice fueled by ambition and hard work. But now, with you becoming the focal point of the unsub more and more, a dark, gnawing fear had taken root in him — a fear that the unsub might reach you too — sooner than he would like to think about.

He clenched his fists. You had come so far and still had so much to achieve. The thought of any harm coming your way made him all the more determined to solve the case. Hotch knew he couldn’t afford to let his worry show, not to you, not to anyone. But in the privacy of his office, he allowed himself a brief moment to feel the weight of it.

Then, steeling himself, he reached for the files on his desk, flipping through them. The hunt wasn’t over — not by a long shot — even if he had to move back to square one. He would find a lead, no matter how deeply it was buried, and ensure that no more dreams were shattered by this unsub.

The thought of forbidding you from competing in sectionals churned relentlessly in his mind, a constant tug-of-war between his professional duty and personal feelings. He knew it would be wrong — he knew that. You had worked too hard and sacrificed too much for this opportunity to let fear dictate your choices now. “It could ruin her career,” he whispered under his breath. The thought struck him like a cold punch to the gut. He could almost hear your voice in his mind — your tone sharp, frustrated, defiant — if he even dared suggest such a thing to you.

Yet the risks were undeniable. You were vulnerable, and he could not ignore that. The idea of you stepping onto the ice now felt like a potential battleground. There were so many ways the unsub could get to you without even touching you — even under the competition. The thought sent a shiver crawling down his spine, tightening the knot in his chest. "It’s my mess to take care of," he thought bitterly, gripping the edge of his desk as if it might anchor him to something stable.

Hotch leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers digging into the wood as he fought his internal battle. He could picture you clearly in his mind — poised and ready to compete, the determination in your eyes — he admired that strength. Then bang and you were injured — maybe even dead — he couldn't let that happen.

“What if something happens?” The thought refused to leave him. His mind cycled through every worst-case scenario he could think of, each one worse than the last — poison, stabbed, shot — everything he had seen in previous cases resurfaced in his mind. What if you were caught off guard, what if the unsub found a way to exploit your vulnerability, what if he couldn’t protect you in time?

But he couldn’t stop you. He couldn’t ask you to stop. You had worked too hard, and the truth was, he didn’t want to see you give up on what you loved, what you were meant to do. The decision wasn’t just about your safety; it was about respecting the very thing that made you who you were. And so, Hotch wrestled with that truth, torn between wanting to protect you and knowing that your fight was your own to face. As he sat there, the silence of his office pressing in on him, he knew there was no easy answer. No matter what, he would be caught in the middle — between keeping you safe and letting you live your life.

Finally, an idea began to form — a temporary solution, at least. “I could put her under surveillance,” Hotch mused aloud, the thought offering a small, yet comforting flicker of reassurance. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a way to keep you safe without completely stripping you of your passion. He could allow you to focus on sectionals, and stay in the game, while keeping a close eye on you, just in case. “Just until after sectionals. After that, I can reevaluate,” he decided, more to himself than anyone else.

But as the plan settled into his mind, a new wave of dread washed over him. The thought of confronting you with this idea felt almost unbearable. He could already see the fallout in his mind — the arguments, the anger, the disappointment. He could hear your voice, it was sharp and accusatory: “You’re treating me like a child, Hotch!” The imagined words cut through him. He knew you would feel betrayed and suffocated by his overprotectiveness.

He didn’t want to do that to you. He didn’t want to take away your autonomy, your ability to make your own decisions. But the reality was, he couldn’t stand the thought of you being in harm’s way, not with everything that had happened. The idea of surveillance seemed like a compromise, something temporary to bridge the gap between your safety and your dreams, but it was a fine line to walk. He or another agent would be hovering in the background, trying to protect you without making you feel like you were being controlled.

But it was a necessary risk. He had to do something — he couldn’t sit back and hope for the best. He couldn’t let you go into the rink, into the unknown, without some kind of safeguard.

With a deep sigh, Hotch leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace before having to confront you. He could only hope that when the time came to explain himself, you would understand. He was doing this for you, to protect you.

Hotch took a deep breath, bracing himself for the conversation. He had anticipated this moment all day and knew it would be difficult, but now that it was here, the weight of it pressed down on him harder than he’d expected. The silence in his office felt suffocating, as though the walls themselves were closing in. He glanced at the clock — time was slipping away, and he could no longer put off the inevitable. The longer he waited, the harder it would be.

With a reluctant sigh, he reached for the phone on his desk, his fingers feeling heavier than usual as he dialed your number. His heart was thudding in his chest, the pulse loud in his ears as the rings echoed through the line.

“Hotch?” she answered, he could hear the curiosity in her voice.

His grip tightened on the phone, trying to steady himself. “Can you come to my office?” he replied, keeping his tone as neutral as possible, though it still carried a weight that he hadn’t intended. “I need to talk to you about something important.”

He could feel the shift in the air as your breath caught slightly on the other end. You didn’t respond immediately, and in that silence, he knew you were already picking up on his tension. Your voice, when it came, was a little more cautious. “Is it about the case?” you asked, a slight sense of anxiety creeping into your tone.

“Yes,” he confirmed. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again. “Just come to my office.”

He could hear you hesitate for a second, and he braced for the inevitable questions you would ask once you arrived. He didn’t have all the answers yet, and he wasn’t sure how to explain everything without making it worse. "I’ll be waiting," he added quietly, hanging up before you could say anything more, before you could protest.

As the silence settled in the room, Hotch couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation was going to be just the beginning of something far more difficult.

An hour later, there was a soft knock at the door, and Hotch gestured for you to enter. You stepped inside. He could see the weariness in your eyes, the toll of the recent events, and the weight of your training settling in your features. You were trying to hide it, but he knew the stress was wearing you thin.

"Sit down," he instructed, motioning to the chair opposite his desk. You did so without protest, dumping your skating bag beside the chair and folding your arms tightly across your chest as if to shield yourself from what was coming. The way your posture stiffened told him that you sensed the gravity of the conversation already.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice shifting to a more defensive tone as if bracing for impact.

Hotch took a deep breath, leaning forward, his hands clasped tightly together. “I’ve been thinking about your safety,” he started slowly, his voice steady but laced with the concern he had been holding in. “About the upcoming sectionals. Given what happened… with Leah and the others, I’ve decided to put you under 24/7 surveillance until after the competition. An agent will be with you at all times”

Your eyes widened in disbelief, and you immediately shook your head. “What? Hotch, you can’t be serious. You’re going to treat me like I’m a child? I can take care of myself!” The frustration in your voice was unmistakable, the words barely containing the anger that was building inside you.

“This isn’t about treating you like a child,” Hotch countered, trying to keep his tone calm — raising his voice at you wouldn't help his case, you'd just get more frustrated. He leaned forward slightly as if hoping the distance between you could be bridged by his sincerity. “You’re in a vulnerable position right now. I can’t risk losing you too.”

“Risk losing me?” you shot back, your voice rising. “I’m not going to let fear control my life! I have sectionals in just a few days. I need to train!” The frustration boiled over, your fists clenching in your lap as you fought to keep your composure. “I can’t just stop everything because of some… some threat that may not even be about me!”

Hotch’s jaw tightened as he met your gaze. He could see the defiance in your eyes. “I understand how important sectionals are to you, but this isn’t just a threat — someone was murdered — several people were murdered, and it’s your world and community that’s been disrupted.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but Hotch pressed on, his voice more commanding now. “I’m sending Agent Anderson with you to the rink to ensure your safety while you train. You can’t be alone right now.”

“Agent Anderson?” you exclaimed, disbelief written all over your face. “You’re sending a babysitter? This is ridiculous! I’m not some damsel in distress, Hotch!” Your voice cracked slightly, frustration and embarrassment flooding through you. How could he even think you needed someone else to look after you? You had worked too hard, fought too long to be treated like this.

“Stop! Just stop!” he snapped, his calm demeanor finally breaking as his frustration seeped through. The sharpness in his voice took you off guard, but it also made something inside you tighten. “I’m trying to protect you. I can’t let you lose anyone else or yourself, and I refuse to sit back and do nothing. You may not like it, but this is the best option we have right now.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but the words felt like they were stuck. Instead, you turned your head, looking anywhere but at him. The heat of anger was still there, but now there was a dull ache in your chest — a mix of hurt and confusion. He wasn’t supposed to treat you like this. You had always been able to handle things on your own, but now he was making you feel small.

The silence stretched on until you finally spoke, your voice quieter but still carrying your disapproval of the situation. “You don’t trust me,” you whispered, the accusation hanging in the air between you two. “You think I can’t handle this on my own.”

Hotch’s features softened slightly, his jaw unclenching a little as if he were trying to find the right words. “That’s not it,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I trust you more than anyone, but right now, I have to prioritize your safety above all else. Please try to understand.”

You took a deep breath, your shoulders slumping as if the weight of the conversation had drained the fight out of you. “Fine. But this doesn’t mean I agree with it,” you said, your voice low, but firm. “I’ll still train, and I’ll still do my best at sectionals. You can’t take that away from me.” The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but there was no way you were going to let this be the thing that stopped you.

Hotch’s face softened almost in a grin, but there was an edge of tension still present. “Of course,” he said, his voice carrying a note of relief. “Just know that this isn’t forever. It’s temporary until we figure something else out.”

You nodded. “I just hope you know what you’re doing,” you muttered, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you give in completely. With that, you stood up, turning toward the door, the space between you now thick with tension.

As you stepped out, you could feel Hotch’s gaze on your back. It lingered like an echo, reminding you that the conflict wasn’t resolved — even if it hadn't been much of a conflict — it was just postponed for now. You didn’t know what he thought, but the way he’d tried to control everything, to keep you safe in a way that felt suffocating, made you question everything between you two.

As you walked away, you couldn't shake the feeling that this decision — however well-meaning — might only push you further into the isolation the unsub so desperately wanted.

As you stepped onto the ice, the familiar chill wrapped around you, though it was a comforting feeling today it felt sharper, cutting through to your core. The vivid colors of your outfit and the music that filled the arena felt muted. Each time your skates carved into the ice, the sound seemed louder, the harsh scrape was a reminder of everything that had changed lately.

You took a steadying breath, letting the air settle in your lungs, and began your warm-up routine. Starting with long, smooth glides, you pushed off the boards, your skates cutting steady lines into the newly resurfaced ice. The rhythmic sound of your blades gliding over the surface brought back a semblance of peace to your mind. Leaning into each movement, you transitioned into a series of spirals, stretching one leg behind you in a graceful arc, the wind catching your hair as you moved. For a moment, you felt a whisper of that old freedom — the joy in every graceful turn.

Building confidence with each lap, you shifted into more complex elements. First came a simple jump, the toe pick of your skate pressing firmly into the ice as you gathered momentum, launching yourself into the air. The split second of weightlessness was a welcome escape, the rush of adrenaline momentarily lifting you out of your grief. Tucking in tight, you spun, your muscles were tense but controlled, before landing cleanly, your other skate gliding effortlessly across the ice. For a moment, you felt normal again, almost powerful.

But as you completed the jump, that feeling faded, and a wave of sadness crashed back over you. Leah’s face filled your mind, her laugh, her smile, her quiet strength. She had been by your side through so much, always pushing you to be better, to reach higher. You could almost feel her presence. You blinked back the sting of tears, shaking off the encroaching sorrow, and continued, determined to reclaim this space for yourself, for her memory.

With each subsequent jump — an axel, a lutz, then a loop — you pushed yourself harder, landing each one. Your focus narrowed, muscles tightening with every leap as you worked to perfect the technique, to perfect your routine. The burn in your legs somehow fueled you, pushing you to keep going, to drive past the exhaustion. As you soared through a series of triple salchows, the rush of adrenaline surged as you rotated in the air.

But in the midst of your routine, a nagging sensation prickled at the edge of your attention, distracting you. You glanced quickly toward the bleachers, where Agent Anderson sat, his expression stone-faced, his eyes trained on you as if analyzing your every movement. A small notebook rested on his lap, and he was scribbling something, like he was documenting your performance — or worse, assessing your vulnerabilities while on the ice, or perhaps he was simply just working on a case file. The sight of him made your stomach twist.

His presence felt intrusive, as though you were under suspicion rather than simply preparing for the biggest competition of the year thus far. The thought lingered, you knew he was there for your safety, but the constant watch felt more like you were an animal in a zoo, caged in and made to be looked at all day.

You gritted your teeth, forcing the irritation aside. This was your space — your life. Taking a steadying breath, you centered yourself, tightening your core as you began a flawless spin, willing yourself to shut out Anderson.

You moved into your footwork sequence, letting each step flow seamlessly into the next. Your arms lifted gracefully above your head, your fingers reaching out as though drawing shapes in the air, feeling every nuance of the music.

Each movement was deliberate, transitions crisp as you executed twizzles and turns, your skates cutting patterns into the ice. You spun into a series of twirls, your body bending and stretching, almost like you were telling a story of your resilience, of elegance. But as you moved into a complicated turn, the ache surged, a reminding you of what — and who — you’d lost. The pain broke your focus for a moment, and you stumbled, your blade catching awkwardly, the balance slipping. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Anderson rise to his feet.

A flash of frustration rose, but you took a steadying breath. “Focus,” you murmured under your breath, forcing the emotion aside as you squared your shoulders, your determination flaring stronger. You weren’t just here to skate; you were here to win.

You transitioned smoothly into a series of spins, starting with a sit spin, your body lowering gracefully toward the ice, your extended leg forming a perfect line as you balanced precariously close to the cold surface.

As you twirled, snow forming on the ice beneath you, reality clawed its way back. A shiver ran through you, a cold that had nothing to do with the rink.

But you refused to let it hold you back. Pouring every ounce of your energy and frustration into your routine, you launched into a series of edge jumps, each leap a desperate attempt to shake the memories clinging to you. Yet, even at the height of each jump, you couldn’t fully escape the void left in Leah’s absence, the hollow space where her encouragement and guidance had once been.

As you landed one final, breathtaking jump, your skates hit the ice with grace, but the effort had taken its toll. The familiar satisfaction of a well-executed move was overshadowed by an exhaustion that settled deep into your bones. You slowed to a stop, catching your breath.

Your gaze drifted back to the edge of the rink where Agent Anderson was once again sat down, watching intently. "I don’t need a babysitter", you mumbled to yourself, your fists clenching at your sides.

With a sharp exhale, you forced yourself to unclench your fists, shaking your hands in an attempt to get the frustration out while also trying to channel the frustration and turn it into determination. You were stronger than this, stronger than the unsub.

As much as you resented being watched, a small part of you understood why it was necessary. But understanding didn’t mean you had to like it. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself of sectionals just days away.

Pushing yourself away from the boards and gliding across the ice, your movements started to lose their rhythm, slipping beneath the weight of your swirling thoughts. The cold stung your cheeks. Each slice of your blade seemed to echo with the whispers that had taken root in your mind since Leah’s death.

You missed the familiar faces of fellow skaters who’d once been your companions on the ice.

The absence of the camaraderie you'd been used to felt like a wall being built between you and everyone else. Where there had been smiles and encouragement, there was now distance. You couldn’t shake the feeling that they saw you differently now, that they might resent you for being allowed at the Pavilion.

The thought gnawed at you. “What if I can’t do this?” The words grew louder with each second in your head, intensifying the pressure that had already settled on your shoulders. You had trained relentlessly for this moment, dedicating countless hours to perfecting your routine. But now, after everything, the stakes felt impossibly high.

“What if I freeze out there? What if I can’t remember the routine?” The questions spiraled out of control, your heartbeat thundering in response. You could almost hear the judges’ cold, detached evaluations in your mind, the faint, disapproving murmurs that you imagined would follow each imperfection, and the unbelievably low score. "You’re not good enough. You’ll never make it to the Olympics. You’re a failure.” The wave of self-doubt coiled around your thoughts like a serpent, its grip tightening until each breath felt labored and heavy.

Your legs felt as though they were weighed down, every movement lacking grace. As you practiced your transitions, the fluidity you were known for seemed lost, each step feeling clumsy, awkward — like you were a mere shadow of the skater you’d once been, a puppet with tangled strings.

The rink felt big — too big. But even as doubt loomed, a stubborn part of you refused to give up, whispering that Leah wouldn’t want your downfall. That voice — her voice — faint but persistent, was all you had to cling to.

Pushing through the anxiety, you attempted a series of jumps, each leap feeling more strained than the last. “What if I fall?” The thought replayed, like a mantra of failure, taunting you as you launched into the air. You twisted and landed, but the moment was overshadowed by the wobble on your feet. You could almost hear Leah’s voice, telling you to believe in yourself, to not let everything that had happened affect you.

You glided to the edge of the rink, each breath escaping in shaky gasps as you leaned against the boards, desperate for a rescue from the storm brewing within you.

Your gaze drifted across the empty seats of the pavilion, rows of silence witnesses to countless practices, moments of triumph, and hours spent. A creeping thought tightened your chest: would the judges see you as the skater you were, or would they see only the girl who’d lost her coach just days before? Would they pity you? Or worse, dismiss you and tell you to check your dreams for another 4 years?

The thought wrapped around you, squeezing until you could barely breathe. For a moment, the idea of giving up flickered in your mind, tempting you with the promise of relief. But as quickly as that thought emerged, it also disappeared. It wouldn't be right — you couldn't let everyone gone down. They had believed in you — the little girl had even looked up to you — it wouldn't be fair.

You took a breath, clutching onto the boards. “I need to do this,” you murmured softly. Leah had taught you to be strong, to fight through the pain. You straightened up. This wasn’t just for you. It was for her — for them. And for the part of you that still believed you could rise above.

With renewed resolve, you pushed away from the boards, breathing in the sharp chill of the rink. The air filled your lungs, fueling the embers within you. Just as you prepared yourself for another round on the ice, the familiar rhythm of your skates was interrupted by the sound of a commotion near the rink’s entrance. Curious, you turned around and glanced over — and your heart skipped a beat.

There, bursting through the door, were Emily, JJ, and Garcia, the girls who had quickly become your friends away from the ice. Their arrival felt like a burst of color, piercing through the melancholic atmosphere.

“Hey, superstar!” Garcia’s voice rang out, full of enthusiasm, her words echoing across the empty seats. Her smile warmed you from across the ice, and in that moment, the weight you’d been carrying felt just a bit lighter. She waved with her signature flair, wrapped in layers of sequins that sparkled under the lights. Emily and JJ followed closely behind, grinning widely as they shrugged off their jackets, each of them exuding their own unique sense of support. JJ’s warm smile and Emily’s confident nod made your heart swell with gratitude; they were here to back you up, even in a world as foreign to them as figure skating.

Agent Anderson, relieved of his duties as your guard, stepped aside, a faint, amused smile playing on his face as he watched the trio claim their place by the rink. "I'll just be over here," he said with a nod.

“Show us what you’ve got!” Emily’s voice boomed with encouragement. “We’re here to watch you shine!”

You felt your lips curve into a smile, a real, genuine smile, as their support radiated through you. The rink felt brighter, as if a spotlight had turned on just for you, illuminating not only the ice but also the path that lay ahead.

Drawing a deep breath, you embraced the sense of purpose they had reignited within you. You pushed off, lapping once around the rink before settling into your routine.

As you launched into a sequence of jumps — an axel followed by a lutz —their cheers filled the air, urging you onward. Every leap felt lighter, every rotation more effortless. “Yes! That’s it! Beautiful!” JJ shouted, her voice resonating with genuine admiration, her pride reaching across the ice and pulling you higher.

The harmony of their voices intertwined with the soft sound of your blades, created a symphony of support and motivation. With each graceful movement, you felt yourself shedding the weight of self-doubt, the warmth of friendship allowing you to reach further, leap higher, and embrace the freedom you had been missing.

You glanced over at them, catching Garcia’s enthusiastic dance as she tried to mimic your moves, her playful antics making you chuckle mid-performance.

With each pass, you became more attuned to your body, your confidence growing as you executed your routine with precision. You attempted a particularly difficult combination, your heart racing as you soared into the air, the cold whipping around you as you twisted and spun, landing cleanly on the ice with a flourish.

“Stunning!” Emily exclaimed, her eyes wide with admiration. “You’re going to blow everyone away at sectionals!”

You rounded the rink one last time, the rhythm of your skates guiding you into the final stretch of your routine. The anticipation built in your chest as you prepared for the last element, the triple axel — a jump that always felt like a leap into the unknown, both thrilling and terrifying. It was so easy to mess up. You'd aced it a few times while training with Branson, but he had always been on the ice with you, ready to catch you before you'd injure yourself. Now you were all alone.

You focused, blocking out everything around you, channeling the energy and support from your friends.

With a deep breath, you launched yourself into the air, your body soaring upwards in a fluid arc. The world below you seemed to blur, the only sound was the rush of wind against your cheeks. Time stretched — almost in slow motion — in those precious moments as you spun, feeling the freedom of flight before you landed, your blades gripping the ice perfectly. The impact resonated through your body, and as you completed the jump, you transitioned seamlessly into the final glide of your routine.

You'd done it.

You came to a graceful stop in front the girls, a triumphant smile spreading across your face as their cheers erupted like confetti around you. “That was incredible!” JJ shouted, her voice full of excitement as she clapped enthusiastically.

“Seriously, you nailed whatever that jump thing was! I can’t believe how perfect it was!” Emily added, her eyes shining.

Garcia was practically bouncing on her feet, a grin plastered across her face as she whistled loudly, her admiration filling the air. Her boundless enthusiasm spurred you on, a rush of joy surging through you with every cheer. As you skated toward the boards, exhaustion tugged at your limbs, your muscles aching from the day's session — but it was overshadowed by the accomplishment and satisfaction that now flowed through you.

“Come here!” you called out, reaching over the boards, unable to contain the grin spreading across your face. They immediately leaned in to meet you, laughter bubbling up as they pulled you into a warm, tight embrace. The moment you crossed that threshold, you felt their arms wrap around you, their combined warmth and excitement creating a cocoon around you. You melted into the hug, the weight of the past weeks lifting as you basked in the simple joy of their presence.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this!” Garcia’s voice was muffled, but her excitement was unmistakable as she hugged you even tighter. “You’re going to absolutely crush it at sectionals!”

“Thanks, you guys,” you managed, stepping back just slightly to catch your breath, a laugh escaping as you took in their encouraging faces. “I really needed this today. I was honestly starting to worry I wouldn’t be able to do it without Coach. But you all…” You paused, swallowing down the emotions that threatened to surface. “You all reminded me why I started in the first place.”

Emily’s hand found your shoulder, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said, her voice steady and sincere. “Branson would be so proud of you.”

The words settled over you, filling the spaces left by grief in your heart “Let’s do this,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

“Of course!” JJ said, her smile soft. “But enough about ice skating for now. Tonight, we want you to wind down and just relax!”

“Wait, what?” you asked, eyebrows raising as curiosity sparked. You glanced around at their mischievous expressions, trying to piece together their plan.

“It was all Garcia’s idea,” Emily said, throwing her hands up in defense before nudging Garcia with a playful smirk. Garcia responded with an exaggerated look of innocence, placing a hand over her heart in mock sincerity.

“What? I just thought you deserved a little fun to shake off the nerves before sectionals! You’ve been working so hard, and we’ve seen the toll it’s taken.” She grinned, unable to hold back her excitement. “So, we’re taking you out! Girls’ night, no skating, no stress — just good vibes to celebrate how amazing you are.”

You felt your heart swell with a mixture of gratitude and surprise. “You guys really don’t have to do that. I should probably be focused on practice…”

“Nope, no arguments,” JJ cut in with her mom voice, her expression firm but light. “We’re going out, and you’re coming with us. You’ve earned a break, and a little downtime will do wonders for your headspace!”

A small, delighted sigh escaped you as you finally gave in, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Okay, okay. I guess I can spare a night for some fun.”

“Perfect! I’ll grab the music, and we’re hitting the town!” Garcia clapped her hands, running as fast as she could to the electrical cabinet where your phone lay connected to the speakers.

The rest of you gathered your things. You quickly wiped your blades before you slipped the guards and soakers on them. Together, you headed out into the night, anticipation filling the air.

The lively atmosphere of the bar enveloped you the moment you stepped inside. Laughter mingled with the upbeat music. Dim lights cast a warm glow over the wooden tables, and the scent of pub food wafted through the air, making your stomach rumble. You had decided to forgo alcohol for the evening, opting instead for water. After all, with sectionals just around the corner, the last thing you needed was to jeopardize your focus.

As the four of you settled into a booth, the girls wasted no time in ordering drinks — JJ on the fruity cocktail, Emily opted for a beer, and Garcia excitedly picked a colorful drink that looked more like a dessert than a beverage. You watched them with a smile, feeling a sense of ease wash over you. It felt good to be surrounded by supportive females who genuinely wanted to hang out with you, not out of duty or competition.

“Okay, let’s make a toast!” Emily declared, raising her glass, her voice rising above the music. “To our girl, who just nailed that triple axel thing!”

“To Y/N!” JJ echoed, her eyes sparkling as she clinked her glass against Emily’s and Garcia’s. You felt a warm flush creep across your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. It was refreshing to hear such genuine cheers, compared to the competitive banter you often faced in the skating community.

Garcia leaned across the table, her energy radiating as she leaned in to ask, “So, tell us about your routine! What are you most excited about for sectionals?”

You took a sip of your soda, gathering your thoughts. “Honestly, I’m excited to show everyone what I can do. I’ve worked so hard this season, but it’s also nerve-wracking. I’ve been worried about performing without Branson… it just feels different.”

“Of course, it does,” JJ said, her voice softening. “But remember, you have all of us and the boys behind you. You’re not alone in this.”

“I know, it really helps to have you guys here,” you admitted. “Most of the friends I have in skating are also my competitors, so it can be… complicated. It’s nice to finally relax around girls who aren’t competing with me for once.”

Emily nodded, a knowing smile on her face. “It’s easy to feel isolated, especially when everyone is focused on their own goals. But this — this is what real friendship looks like.” She grinned, making big arm movements.

You chuckled, feeling lighter as you realized how true that was. “Yeah, it’s refreshing. I didn’t realize how much I needed a night like this until now.”

Garcia reached across the table, squeezing your hand in hers. “We’re here for the laughs, the late-night talks, and everything in between. No competition here, just support.”

The night continued with playful banter, stories of past competitions, and laughter that echoed through the bar. You found yourself sharing more than you ever anticipated, recounting the challenges you faced, the triumphs you celebrated, and the absurd moments that made you laugh out loud.

As the evening wore on, you all decided to hit the dance floor. The pulsating music drew you in, and before you knew it, you were twirling around with Garcia, while Emily and JJ joined in with playful dance moves. The laughter was infectious, filling the air with a sense of freedom that made the weight of your worries seem miles away.

You may not have been drinking, but in that moment, surrounded by friends who genuinely cared, you felt like you were celebrating life itself. The joy of being part of something bigger, of finding a sense of belonging, lifted you higher than any jump or spin ever could. You danced until your feet ached, savoring every moment, knowing that the bonds you were building tonight would carry you through the challenges that lay ahead.

Tag list: @love4lando @therealbaberuthless @crazyunsexycool @pear-1206 @bookworm124 @itsmytimetoodream @c-losur3 @lumestar @evvy96 @booknerd2004 @werebearcocoon @reidluv3 @jazzimac1967 @gamingfeline @soyobi-wankenobi

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hoe4hotchner · 1 month ago

Text

Chapter 1 - First impressions

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: Case talk, mansplaining, mentions of murder, mentions of kidnapping.

A/N: Here ye here ye!! Chapter 1 is here for everyone to read. The amount of times I mention the word "discipline" and "weight" in this chapter is crazy.

Masterlist

The conference room at the BAU was buzzing with a quiet and anticipatory energy as the team filed in, each member cradling a cup of coffee and carrying their files. It was early - earlier than usual - but no one seemed surprised. It was not unusual for them to be called in early. This was routine. Yet, something felt different. They didn’t have all the details, but the call for a briefing sounded urgent and hinted at a case that would require every ounce of their focus.

Hotch stood at the front of the room, his expression unreadable as usual, but the slight tension in his posture was enough to make the others take notice. Morgan slid into his seat, casually glancing at the iPad in front of him while Reid shuffled through his usual pile of notes. Emily and JJ exchanged brief, curious looks shot towards Hotch, their voices hushed as they speculated about the case.

"Alright, listen up," Hotch said, his voice cutting through the hum of the room as he moved in front of the screen. The screen was still blank behind him, it stood like a canvas waiting to be filled with the details of their current nightmare. He clicked the remote in his hand, the screen flickering to life, displaying the images of young women. One by one, their smiling faces filled the frame - each picture a snapshot of life before it looked to have been ripped away.

"These women," Hotch continued, gesturing toward the images, "have all gone missing from the same local area over the past month." The room fell eerily silent, eyes fixed on the screen. The women were similar, maybe a little too similar - each in their 20's, all athletic, with the same builds. Their smiles, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed haunting as pictures of the first two victims' dead bodies flashed onto the screen and painted a grim picture.

The team’s focus sharpened, the weight of their faces settling in. Reid leaned in slightly, eyes darting over the patterns he could already see emerging. Each woman had lived a life filled with potential and discipline.

"Athletes," Hotch added, his voice quieter now but firm. "Every one of them. Fit, disciplined, and otherwise healthy." His words hung in the air as the team began to form their own theories. A disturbing pattern was taking shape, though none of them knew yet just how far the darkness stretched.

He clicked again, bringing up a detailed map on the screen. Red markers indicated the precise locations where the women were last seen and likely abducted. "As you can see," Hotch said, gesturing toward the first two marks, "the first two victims were last seen leaving local gyms in the early evening. Both were alone, security cameras showed them heading to their cars, and when their car leaves the frame that is the last image we have of each victim."

He paused, then pointed to the third marker. "Leah Connors, our most recent victim, was taken from this parking lot outside the Ice Pavilion, where she trained late at night, four days ago. She had just finished her skating practice when she was abducted. The security cameras in the lot were offline, and no one reported seeing anything suspicious in the neighborhood at the time."

Morgan leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map intently. He traced the lines connecting the crime scenes with his finger, the pattern beginning to form in his mind. "So, what we're dealing with here," he said, voice low but firm, "is someone who's deliberately targeting a specific type of woman. These aren't random grabs Hotch; he’s choosing women who are strong and fit, and certainly doesn't lack discipline. They likely represent something to him, something personal."

Morgan’s eyes lingered on the photos of each victim, each woman’s face radiating vitality and ambition. His gaze hardened as he thought through the unsub’s motives. “These women... they could represent control, strength, maybe even perfection to him,” he said, his voice heavy with the thought of what they were about to unravel. "Whatever it is, he’s fixating on women who push their bodies to the limit - athletes who excel physically, women who embody discipline and hard work." His hand gestured toward the images.

He paused, searching for the right words to capture the darkness of the unsub’s obsession. "It’s like he’s trying to take something from them. Maybe it’s about proving something to himself - dominating women who represent everything he can’t be or control."

Hotch nodded, stepping forward to add to Morgan’s analysis, his expression grim as he clicked through more slides, each woman’s profile now paired with disturbing notes on their abductions. “According to the initial eval from the field office,” Hotch began, his voice steady but sharp “the unsub may otherwise also be fixated on women he perceives as physically perfect. This could be about asserting dominance over women he feels are unreachable - and as you said Morgan - out of his control.”

He pointed to the reports beneath each victim’s image. "His method of abduction supports that theory as well. There are no signs of a struggle, no chaos left behind. He’s quick and efficient, which suggests planning. He's organized and methodical." He looked at the team, the weight of his words settling in. “There’s no indication that these women had any chance to fight back. He took them swiftly, without warning - meaning he’s done this before, and he knows how to overpower them.”

The room was tense as they absorbed the initial profile, each member of the team seeing the chilling precision with which this unsub operated. The victims weren’t just targets - they were symbols, reflections of something he needed to control, no matter the cost.

“There’s another possibility we need to consider,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “The precision of these abductions suggests he might be more familiar with the victims than we might initially think. Since there’s no sign of a struggle, it’s possible these women knew the unsub, or at least didn’t perceive him as a threat when he approached them.”

Morgan nodded, leaning forward. “Maybe he’s someone from their world. A coach, trainer, someone who works behind the scenes - someone who blends in.”

“It would explain why there are no signs of force near the abduction sites. If they trusted him, or at the very least didn’t suspect him, they wouldn’t have their guard up.” Reid added quietly.

Hotch glanced back at the board. “If that’s the case, the unsub may have been watching these women for a while - learning their routines, embedding himself in their lives just enough to get close without raising suspicion. We need to find out if any of them had contact with the same person before they disappeared.”

It was a chilling thought, and the room seemed to grow heavier as the possibility settled in. The unsub wasn’t just a predator lying in wait - he could be someone they knew, someone they had trusted.

Hotch clicked the remote again, and Leah’s photo appeared prominently next to those of the other victims once again, their smiling faces a stark contrast to the grim reality of the case. “Leah’s abduction is what ties us to a new lead. Her figure skating coach, Mark Branson, has a documented history of controlling behavior. Several athletes he’s worked with have come forward with complaints about his intense training regimens, which they described as bordering on abusive. He pushes them beyond their limits - physically and mentally - creating an environment that fosters both fear and dependency.”

He paused for emphasis, letting the significance of the information settle in the room. “Despite these allegations, he’s never faced charges, but his name came up during Garcia's background check, and we can’t afford to overlook him when time is running out. He’s a potential link to the victims that needs further investigation.”

“How do we know Branson's not just a demanding coach?” Prentiss interjected, tapping her pen thoughtfully against the table. “That’s pretty common in high-level sports. Coaches often push their athletes hard to achieve success. It could be a case of bad coaching practices rather than anything sinister.”

Morgan leaned forward. “That may be true, but in high-pressure environments, there’s a fine line between motivation and manipulation. If these athletes felt threatened or coerced, it could indicate a deeper issue. We need to dig into his past and see if there are patterns in his behavior beyond just coaching.”

“Exactly,” Hotch conceded, his tone measured as he acknowledged Morgan's point. “But we also have a witness who claims she saw someone matching Branson’s description near one of the gymnasiums where one of the other victims trained, just days before she was taken. This isn’t just speculation; it’s a significant lead that connects him to the timeline of these disappearances.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed thoughtfully over his chest. The creak of the chair echoed in the quiet room as he contemplated the implications. “Sounds like we need to dig into Branson’s background more thoroughly. We should look for any history of obsession or unusual behavior, particularly any connections to the victims that go beyond just being their coach. If other athletes trained under him, we might uncover more troubling patterns.”

Reid, flipping through the file in front of him with a sense of urgency, added his insights. “Branson’s control issues could align with the profile. He might see them as a challenge - individuals he needs to break down in order to feel powerful.”

Morgan nodded in agreement, his expression serious. “And if that’s the case, we need to act fast. He’s likely not going to stop with just these three victims. If we don’t catch him soon, another woman could easily go missing. We have to get ahead of him before he strikes again.” The urgency in his voice emphasized the gravity of the situation, rallying the team’s focus on the task ahead.

Hotch's expression darkened as the weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders. “The field office has already questioned Branson, but we need to go in and talk to him ourselves. It’s crucial that we either rule him out as a suspect or dig deeper into his background. Morgan, Rossi and I will be heading to the rink as soon as possible to speak with him and gather more information.”

Reid, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scanned his notes, “Do we know if Leah’s body has been found yet?” The question hung in the air, filled with apprehension.

Hotch shook his head grimly. “No. Leah Connors has not been missing long enough according to the M.O. Every moment that passes decreases our chances of finding her alive. The longer she’s gone, the more likely it is that we won’t recover her.” His voice carried the weight of his experience and understanding of what this case demanded.

Prentiss glanced at the photos on the board, her expression tightening as the faces of the victims stared back at her. “If Branson’s involved, he might already be planning his next move,” she noted, her voice steady yet tinged with concern.

As the team began to gather their things, the air was thick with determination. Morgan turned to Hotch, a serious look in his eyes. “You think Branson’s our guy?”

Hotch paused, his expression contemplative as he narrowed his eyes slightly, weighing the implications. “I don’t know yet. But I want to be sure before we move on. We need every lead we can get. If he’s involved, we need to find out how deep it goes. If he’s innocent, we’ll need to look elsewhere, but either way, we can’t afford to waste time.”

Morgan nodded in agreement. “Then let’s go see what this guy’s all about.” His words carried a reminder of the stakes involved in their investigation.

The ice rink was surprisingly serene, a stark contrast to the storm brewing outside. The sound of blades gliding across the frozen surface echoed through the empty arena, creating a delicate rhythm that filled the vast, and chilly space. The agents stepped onto the concrete floor, their breath visible in the crisp air as they scanned their surroundings.

Hotch walked ahead, his expression unreadable, exuding an air of focus. "Morgan, with me," he said, his voice cutting through the faint melody playing over the rink’s speakers. The soft notes mingled with the sound of skates on ice, creating an almost haunting atmosphere. "Dave, see if you can find the rink manager. We need details on Branson’s schedule, especially who he coached the past couple of weeks and any unusual behavior." The agents dispersed.

As Hotch moved forward, his gaze lingered on the ice for a moment longer than necessary. There, moving with effortless grace, was a woman - you - performing a series of elegant spins and leaps, perfectly synchronized with the music that filled the space. Your concentration was palpable, every movement executed with the kind of precision that only years of practice could cultivate. You were completely immersed in your art, blissfully unaware of the agents and the investigation unfolding around you.

Hotch watched as you landed another jump, the smallest hint of admiration creeping into his thoughts. It wasn’t just your skill - it was the focus, the sheer dedication reflected in your every move. Something about your determination resonated with him, a reminder of the relentless pursuit of excellence he had valued in his own work throughout his career. Yet, he quickly pulled his attention back to the case, mentally chiding himself for allowing a moment of distraction.

"Agent Hotchner?" A voice broke through Hotch's concentration, pulling him back to the present. Branson had appeared at the rink’s edge, wiping his hands on a towel as he approached the team. He was older, in his mid-fifties, with a stocky build. His gruff demeanor was punctuated by a furrowed brow, a clear indication that he was not accustomed to or happy about being questioned.

"Mr. Branson," Hotch greeted, extending his hand firmly. "We need to ask you a few questions regarding our current investigation." His tone was professional but carried an undertone of authority that left no room for misunderstanding or protests.

The questioning commenced in typical BAU fashion - focused and direct. Hotch and Morgan exchanged glances, silently communicating their strategy as they probed Branson about his whereabouts during the timeline of the abductions. They inquired about his relationships with his skaters and whether he had any connections to the victims. Branson’s posture stiffened slightly at the mention of the girls, but he maintained eye contact, giving his responses with a defensive steadiness. "I don’t know anything about these girls," he insisted, his voice edged with frustration. "My only concern is my athletes and getting them ready for competitions. I have no interest in anything else. Leah's disappearance doesn't bother me as long as I have her" Branson nodded toward you on the ice.

Hotch studied him closely, noting the slight tremor in Branson's hands as he spoke and the way his gaze flickered when he mentioned the victims. While his answers didn’t raise immediate red flags, there was still an unsettling quality about his proximity to the victims that couldn’t be ignored. Throughout the years the team had learned that the most dangerous unsubs often blended seamlessly into the backgrounds of their targets, and Branson's defensive stance only heightened Hotch's suspicions. As the conversation progressed, Hotch sensed that there was more to Branson's story, a deeper layer lurking beneath the surface that demanded further investigation when time allowed it.

"He's clean," Rossi murmured, pulling Hotch aside as he returned from questioning the rink manager. "Alibis line up. I don’t think he’s our unsub."

Hotch gave a brief nod, though his gaze remained locked on Branson, who was still speaking with Morgan near the rink’s edge. There was no immediate threat, no telltale sign of guilt, but something about the coach kept Hotch’s instincts on alert. "Still," he replied, voice low, "we’ll keep him on the list until we can be sure."

Branson had the right alibis and nothing overtly suspicious in his behavior, yet Hotch knew better than to dismiss him entirely. People like Branson, who operated in tight-knit athletic communities, often hid things beneath the surface - control issues, power dynamics, unresolved anger. There was always the possibility that something darker lurked just out of sight.

As the conversation wrapped up and the team prepared to leave, you finally noticed the group of agents lingering near the rink’s entrance as the last notes of your setlist faded. You had been completely absorbed in your routine, unaware of their watchful eyes until now. Slowing your pace, you glided to a stop, chest heaving with exertion but keeping your expression calm and composed. It wasn’t every day a team of federal agents appeared at one of your training sessions.

"Is everything alright?" you asked cautiously, stepping off the ice and reaching for your jacket draped over the railing. Your eyes flickered briefly to Hotch, catching his gaze just long enough to feel the intensity behind it.

"We’re investigating a case that might be connected to someone at this facility," Hotch replied in his usual clipped tone, offering no more information than necessary.

You nodded slowly, glancing toward your coach, who was still speaking with Morgan. Branson’s stern face gave nothing away, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. And something about Hotch’s posture - the way he stood with such composed authority, never fully relaxed - made you uneasy. It was clear that, even though your coach had been cleared, the FBI’s interest in this place wasn’t over yet.

"Should I be worried?" you asked, trying to keep your tone light, but the tension in your voice betrayed your real concern. There was a part of you that couldn’t help but feel that this investigation, whatever it was, might touch your life more directly than you’d like.

Hotch's gaze softened just enough to feel reassuring. "We don’t believe you’re in any immediate danger miss," he said, his eyes meeting yours with a steady intensity. "But it’s best to stay cautious. If you notice anything unusual - anything at all - don’t hesitate to contact us." Hotch handed you his business card, something so natural to him, but reassuring to you.

As you pulled on your jacket and gathered your things, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time you’d see Agent Hotchner.

The BAU's visit to the rink had been brief, but the weight of it hung heavy over the team as they regrouped in the conference room. The table was littered with new notes, files, and evidence photos, each one a potential piece to the puzzle that still remained frustratingly incomplete. As the team settled in, their usual energy subdued, Hotch found his thoughts drifting, his focus momentarily splintered in a way that felt unfamiliar.

It wasn’t like him to let his mind wander. Normally, he was able to compartmentalize everything - his thoughts, his emotions - keeping them all in neat, orderly boxes. Yet today, something lingered in the back of his mind, something that pulled him away from the stacks of files and images before him. It wasn’t just the case that weighed on him; it was you - the way you moved with an intensity and purpose, the way you'd looked so innocent, so angelic while practicing your routine on the ice.

It wasn’t just your grace on the ice, though that was undeniably striking. It was something more intrinsic, something about the way you carried yourself as if you had spent your entire life fighting through obstacles - physical, mental, emotional even. He saw it in your posture, the way you pushed yourself through the routine despite exhaustion, your expression tight with focus and determination. It reminded him of the same relentless drive that kept him going on the job, the way he forced himself to be stronger, to endure, no matter the pain and personal cost.

As he sat at the head of the table, files splayed open in front of him, Hotch couldn’t shake the image of you mid-leap, suspended in the air for what felt like a heartbeat. He could still recall the sound of the blades of your skates hitting the ice as you landed. Your face had been a mask of concentration, and in that brief moment, he recognized something deeply familiar. The discipline, the perseverance, the quiet strength - it was as if he had seen a reflection of himself. And though he couldn’t quite place why, an odd sense of admiration crept into his thoughts, catching him off guard.

“Hotch?” Morgan's voice cut through his trance, pulling him sharply back to the room.

Hotch blinked, momentarily disoriented, before clearing his throat and sitting up straighter in his chair. "Yeah," he said, his voice firm, though there was a slight edge to it, betraying the brief lapse in his usual composure. "What’s our next step?"

Morgan didn’t press Hotch further. "Garcia’s doing a deep dive into Branson’s finances and personal life," Morgan explained. "So far, nothing out of the ordinary, but we’re still waiting on some records. She’s combing through everything - credit reports, phone records, anything that could give us a lead."

Hotch nodded, but even as he listened to Morgan’s update, part of his mind still lingered at that rink. There was something about this investigation that felt different. Something that, for better or worse, had struck a chord in him.

“What about his connections?" Prentiss asked, her voice laced with curiosity. "Any personal relationships with the victims beyond coaching?”

“None that we’ve uncovered so far," Rossi replied, "but there’s definitely a pattern forming. Even if Branson doesn’t have direct ties to these women, all of them were deeply involved in their athletic circles right before they vanished. It’s possible the unsub may be targeting these communities, using them as a hunting ground.”

Hotch nodded in agreement as he sifted through the case files in front of him, his eyes scanning each piece of information carefully, dotting down a few scribbled notes along the way. “We need to broaden our investigation,” he said, flipping another page. "If Branson isn’t directly involved, then we could be looking at someone who’s still connected to these places. Maybe a spectator, a sponsor - someone who blends in at these events but stays under the radar.”

The conversation moved forward, focusing on logistics and the next steps, but Hotch’s mind wandered back to the rink, back to you.

But he couldn’t afford distractions. Not now.

Back at the rink, the air felt sharper than usual as you replayed the events of the day in your mind. The presence of the FBI had been jarring, a reminder that the world beyond the rink was far from safe. Your coach had barely contained his frustration during the questioning, his agitation palpable even after the agents left. It wasn’t every day that a federal investigation collided with your life so directly, and it certainly wasn’t every day that you crossed paths with someone like Aaron Hotchner.

His presence had been impossible to ignore, though it wasn’t in the way most people might expect. Hotch’s quiet intensity was unsettling, but not in a bad way - it was just that he carried himself with such calm authority, that it demanded attention. You couldn’t shake the feeling that his gaze had lingered on you during practice, though it never felt intrusive. If anything, it felt like he was studying you, but not in a way that made you uncomfortable.

As you completed another lap around the rink after your break, the sound of your blades slicing through the ice should have calmed you. Usually, the rhythm of skating helped clear your mind, the repetitive movements allowing you to focus. But today was different. The weight of the investigation, the fact that Leah seemed to have disappeared completely from the roster, and the FBI’s looming presence throughout the rink made it hard to concentrate. You couldn’t help but wonder if the investigation would interfere with your training in any way - if the agents would come back and disrupt your routine again.

Leah’s absence weighed heavily on your heart. She wasn’t just a fellow skater; she’d been your friend. You usually spoke at least once a day, but her sudden disappearance from your life had left a deep void, not only in your small circle but in the rink itself. Everyone was on edge, whispering about what had happened, if it had anything to do with the other athletes having gone missing, who would be next - as if skating wasn’t dangerous enough already. You shivered at the thought.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Branson’s gruff voice calling out to you from the edge of the rink. “Hey," he said, breaking through the fog in your mind as you slowed to a stop near the boards. "You alright?"

You nodded, though you weren’t entirely sure if that was the truth. "Just thinking about Leah," you replied, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as you caught your breath. "Do you think... someone took her?"

Branson’s usual stern expression softened, but there was still tension in his posture as if the whole ordeal had him on edge too. He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face before replying, “I don’t know, kid. But the FBI’s involved now. They don’t mess around. If anyone’s going to find her, it’ll be them. You just focus on your routine. Nationals are in a few weeks, and we need you at your best.”

You nodded, though the reassurance did little to ease the gnawing unease in your chest. Leah’s fate hung in the air like a storm cloud, and no matter how hard you tried to focus on skating, the uncertainty remained, creeping into your thoughts with every glide. As you turned to skate away, you couldn’t help but glance at the spot where Agent Hotchner had stood earlier, wondering if you’d see him again - and if this nightmare would be over soon.

Later that evening, Hotch sat in his dimly lit office, the soft amber glow of his desk lamp casting shadows across the stack of files and reports spread before him. The weight of the case pressed heavily on his shoulders, but his focus kept slipping, drawn back to the rink. To the investigation. And, much to his frustration, to you.

He stared blankly at the notes scattered in front of him, but the words blurred together, failing to hold his attention. It wasn’t typical for him - he was known for his ability to set aside distractions and zero in on the task at hand. But something about today was different. He couldn’t shake the memory of watching you on the ice, the effortless way you moved. There had been such precision in your performance, every movement executed with an intensity and control that mirrored the way he approached his work. It stirred something in him, a recognition of sorts.

It wasn’t attraction - not in the usual sense, anyway. It was more of an understanding.

But this wasn’t about him, and it certainly wasn’t about you. Hotch closed his eyes briefly, exhaling deeply as he tried to push the distractions aside. Leah Connors was still missing, and every minute that passed made it less likely she'd be alive when they found her. This case was about her, about finding the truth before it was too late. Not you.

With a tired sigh, Hotch closed the file in front of him and leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift in weight. Tomorrow, they’d return to the rink. Tomorrow, they’d dig deeper, unraveling the web that surrounded Leah and perhaps Mark Branson. They were running out of time, but Hotch was determined to get closer to the truth.

Still, as he sat there in the quiet solitude of his office, he couldn’t help but wonder why you kept lingering in his thoughts. What was it about you that had struck such a chord? Was it the way you reminded him of the person he used to be before the job consumed him? Or was it something else entirely? He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. Tomorrow, he told himself.

Tomorrow, he’d figure it out.

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