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Why Does a Business Need Video Conferencing to Be Successful?
Video conferencing is essential to ensuring that everyone in your company is on the same page, whether you have remote employees, offices spread across many locations, or teams of experts that frequently travel.
An online conference where two or more people communicate in real-time via the internet is known as Video conferencing. When utilizing a laptop, smartphone, or meeting room, a webcam combines Video and audio to build a digital face-to-face chat so you can see others' reactions while hearing what they're saying.
Businesses of all sizes may benefit from the ability to unite people, make collaboration simpler, increase efficiency, and save money. If you haven't already, you're undoubtedly considering adopting Video conferencing. Here are some benefits of Conference Call Services for Businesses so you can decide if it's appropriate for you while you consider the options:
Makes communication better
Aids in fostering connections
Reduces costs
Reduces time
Makes collaboration easy
Increases effectiveness
As a competing business, you need Video conferencing to deliver more productivity to your customers. Video conferencing is now the life jacket for every remote working business. So, you should also start using it.
To proceed with reading, just click on this link: - Why does a business need Video conferencing to be successful?
#Video Conferencing#Multicaller#voice conferences and consultations#Conference Call Services for Businesses#Conference Call Service Providers
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Enhancing CRM Integration with DSNLâs Telephony Solutions
Contact Center Solutions Provider - Elevate your customer service with DSNL, India's top provider of cloud-based contact center solutions.
#best cloud telephony service provider in india#bulk voice call service provider india#bulk voice messaging services provider india#cloud telephony solutions provider in india#audio conferencing services provider in india#application development#software#telecommunications#audio conference#Web Conferencing Solutions In India
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Holy crap, I didn't think Biden would be able to get the Climate Corps established without Congress. This is SUCH fantastic news.
--
"After being thwarted by Congress, President Joe Biden will use his executive authority to create a New Deal-style American Climate Corps that will serve as a major green jobs training program.
In an announcement Wednesday, the White House said the program will employ more than 20,000 young adults who will build trails, plant trees, help install solar panels and do other work to boost conservation and help prevent catastrophic wildfires.
The climate corps had been proposed in early versions of the sweeping climate law approved last year but was jettisoned amid strong opposition from Republicans and concerns about cost.
Democrats and environmental advocacy groups never gave up on the plan and pushed Biden in recent weeks to issue an executive order authorizing what the White House now calls the American Climate Corps.
âAfter years of demonstrating and fighting for a Climate Corps, we turned a generational rallying cry into a real jobs program that will put a new generation to work stopping the climate crisis,â said Varshini Prakash, executive director of the Sunrise Movement, an environmental group that has led the push for a climate corps.
With the new corps âand the historic climate investments won by our broader movement, the path towards a Green New Deal is beginning to become visible,â Prakash said...
...Environmental activists hailed the new jobs program, which is modeled after the Civilian Conservation Corps, created in the 1930s by President Franklin D. Roosevelt, a Democrat, as part of the New Deal...
Lawmakers Weigh In
More than 50 Democratic lawmakers, including Massachusetts Sen. Ed Markey and New York Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, had also encouraged Biden to create a climate corps, saying in a letter on Monday that âthe climate crisis demands a whole-of-government response at an unprecedented scale.â
The lawmakers cited deadly heat waves in the Southwest and across the nation, as well as dangerous floods in New England and devastating wildfires on the Hawaiian island of Maui, among recent examples of climate-related disasters.
Democrats called creation of the climate corps âhistoricâ and the first step toward fulfilling the vision of the Green New Deal.
âToday President Biden listened to the (environmental) movement, and he delivered with an American Climate Corps,â a beaming Markey said at a celebratory news conference outside the Capitol.
âWe are starting to turn the green dream into a green reality,â added Ocasio-Cortez, who co-sponsored the Green New Deal legislation with Markey four years ago.
âYou all are changing the world,â she told young activists.
Program Details and Grant Deadlines
The initiative will provide job training and service opportunities to work on a wide range of projects, including restoring coastal wetlands to protect communities from storm surges and flooding; clean energy projects such as wind and solar power; managing forests to prevent catastrophic wildfires; and energy efficient solutions to cut energy bills for consumers, the White House said.
Creation of the climate corps comes as the Environmental Protection Agency launches a $4.6 billion grant competition for states, municipalities and tribes to cut climate pollution and advance environmental justice. The Climate Pollution Reduction Grants are funded by the 2022 climate law and are intended to drive community-driven solutions to slow climate change.
EPA Administrator Michael Regan said the grants will help âcommunities so they can chart their own paths toward the clean energy future.â
The deadline for states and municipalities to apply is April 1, with grants expected in late 2024. Tribes and territories must apply by May 1, with grants expected by early 2025."
-via Boston.com, September 21, 2023
#climate change#climate crisis#climate anxiety#climate news#climate corps#biden#biden administration#democrats#voting matters#congress#environmental activism#environmental protection agency#environmental justice#climate activism#united states#us politics#good news#hope#hope posting#green jobs#hope punk#seriously this is SUCH a huge deal#climate hope#green energy#disaster preparedness#natural disasters#ecosystem restoration
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21 - Physics
Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, slight angst, whump Summary: Aaron Hotchner navigates the chaos of a teammateâs tragedy, personal struggles, and unresolved emotions toward you, with fate as his only constant. Past and present blur, coincidences and camaraderie intertwining as if tied by a red string. A case hits too close to home for everyone, forcing him to confront buried fears while managing the fallout as Unit Chief. But as events unfold, he realizes that nothing - neither relationships nor outcomes - ends quite the way he had foreseen. Warnings: violence, trauma, mentions of what happens in 3x09 & 3x11, use of alchool, some cuss words here and there, Hotch being a lot in his head, mentions of the fact you and Hotch fucked once, whoops. HOTCH SMITTEN LIKE A FOOOOL Word Count: 20.5k Dado's Corner: Flustered and smitten Hotch are peak Hotch. Also, Iâm proud of finally nailing down a phrase that perfectly sums up their dynamic: he overthinks, while you overtalk. Oh, and one more thing: I officially have a new favorite character now, hope you love her as well. This chapter is a bit of a wild ride. A bit of fan service and the fan is me.
masterlist
In Stoic philosophy, physics (physikÄ) explores the nature of the universe, its structure, and the principles that govern it, providing the foundation for understanding humanityâs place within the cosmos.
For the Stoics, mastery of Physics was essential because it revealed the rational order (logos) underpinning all things, emphasizing the interconnectedness and inevitability of events.
The Stoics believed that fate (heimarmenÄ), the unbroken chain of cause and effect, binds all events in a web of necessity, with every occurrence unfolding as part of a rational, divine plan.
---
Sometimes, thereâs just too much to do.
And honestly, sometimes, that feels like a blessing. A distraction.
Something to keep your mind from wandering back to the chaos of the past week. Not the mountain of paperwork waiting. Not the echoes of a case that clung to your thoughts. And especially not the emotional wreckage left behind.
No, youâd had a to-do list long enough to drown out anything else.
First, there had been guest lectures to prepare - because, God forbid, you gave up the career youâd built on your own before coming back to the BAU. That was yours and yours only, and you could never giving it up entirely.
Then, the FBI conference materials. A seminar on terrorism to finalize. Hours of research and fine-tuning to make sure it had been flawless, because that was the standard youâd set for yourself.
And letâs not forget the decadeâs worth of solved cases youâd sifted through for examples to present. Because nothing screamed âproductiveâ quite like revisiting every horrifying thing youâd helped stop.
Then there was the apartment.
The apartment you still werenât sure you wanted to call âhome,â even though the rent youâd just paid suggested otherwise. Half of the boxes Aaron had helped you carry inside were still unopened, stacked against the walls.
And, of course, there was the team. The team that wouldnât stop offering to help.
âWe can chip in,â JJ had said.
âItâs no big deal,â Derek had insisted.
âThink of us as your moving dream team,â Penelope had declared, complete with jazz hands.
You had turned them all down. Firmly. Politely. And then less politely.
Aaron didnât push, though.
He hadnât insisted since your first no. He understood - probably better than anyone else - that you had to do this alone.
At least now you felt safe. For the first time in a year. And wasnât that a luxury?
Another luxury? The fact that Hotch let you stay up late in the bullpen without questioning it too much. Not that he could afford to comment on your habits without opening the door to some pointed remarks about his own hypocrisy.
Because he stayed late, too.
Both of you. Night owls. Just like old times. Well, not exactly like old times.
Back then, you stayed late out of pride.
Who could solve the most cases? Who could earn the higher stats by the end of the quarter?
âIâm just saying,â Aaron had said one night in â99, leaning against your desk with the kind of smugness that made you want to throw your stapler at him, âif I were you, Iâd revise page ten of the case file. You clearly missed something.â
You, of course, had bristled. âMissed? I missed something?â
His reply was maddeningly neutral. âIâm just saying.â
You spent the next two hours poring over the file, only to realize, to your horror, that he was right. The unsubâs pattern was buried in the details youâd overlooked.
âOh, you think youâre so clever,â youâd muttered as you shoved the solved case onto his desk.
âNot clever,â heâd replied with a faint smirk. âEfficient.â
Efficient? Well, now it was war.
What started as a casual rivalry quickly devolved into a full-blown competition. Nights in the office turned into marathons of who could close the most cases, complete with snarky comments and ridiculous one-upmanship.
âDid you just solve two cases in one night?â youâd asked incredulously one evening, staring at his smug face.
âThree, actually,â heâd corrected, leaning back in his chair like some kind of overachieving Greek god of profiling.
âOh, itâs on,â youâd muttered, dragging another file off the pile and practically slamming it onto your desk.
By the end of the year, the two of you had obliterated every record the short-lived BAU had.
Even Gideon, who was famously difficult to impress, couldnât believe it. Heâd handed you a plastic trophy with the words âMost Productive Agents: 1999â scrawled on it, muttering something about how heâd never seen anything so hideous.
âLet me remind you,â Gideon had said, handing over the trophy, âRossi left the FBI before the end of the year. So, technically, you broke our streak by default.â
Neither of you cared. Youâd still done it.
The trophy? Aaron had it proudly displayed in his office, perched next to his battered copy of Hegel for Dummies with a spine so broken it looked like it had been run over.
Yours? It was buried in one of those unopened boxes in your new apartment, its significance too bittersweet to face just yet.
Now, though, things were different.
The late nights werenât about pride anymore.
They were about survival.
Aaron, in his office, scribbling away as if Haleyâs forgiveness could be found at the bottom of yet another case report. You, in the bullpen, scratching out notes for your lectures with the same relentless drive - but this time, with the weight of a broken soul behind it.
Both of you would go home to spaces that felt more hollow than comforting.
Aaronâs was an empty house, caught in the eternal limbo of Haleyâs indecision. Would she forgive him for being, in his words, a terrible husband and father? Or was he bracing for yet another blow in what felt like an endless cycle of disappointment?
Yours wasnât much better. An apartment that didnât feel like yours. Foreign surroundings that refused to settle into something familiar. Which was strange. For years, youâd thrived on not knowing where you were.
Changing countries more often than you changed your phone plan, living out of suitcases, hopping between temporary homes without so much as a second thought.
So why now? Why did this emptiness sting in a way it never had before?
âMaybe Iâm getting soft,â you muttered under your breath, scribbling a note so aggressively you nearly tore the paper.
âTalking to yourself already?â Hotchâs voice carried down from the mezzanine, his tone calm but laced with just enough amusement to catch your attention. He stood leaning casually against the railing, looking down over your desk, which happened to be situated directly beneath him.
âWouldnât have to if you came out of your cave every once in a whileâ you shot back, not looking up.
There was a long pause before he answered. âFair enough.â
But even as you bantered, you knew the truth: this wasnât about the apartment.
It was about everything youâd tried to suppress catching up to you all at once.
It was fear. Fear of what had happened. Of what might still happen. Of being alone.
You sighed, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling. Admitting it to yourself felt like defeat but at least, it was the first step forward, wasnât it?
âEverything okay?â his voice cut through your thoughts again, quieter this time.
âFine,â you said, your voice sharper than intended.
There was a pause. Then he said softly âYouâre allowed to say youâre not, you know.â
You glanced up toward him, and sighed. âSo are you,â you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then, as if fate had synchronized your thoughts, both of you said it at the same time. âIâm not.â
You blinked, looking at him, unsure whether to laugh or crumble under the sheer awkwardness of it. He seemed just as taken aback, standing there with that signature furrow of his brow, like he couldnât quite believe heâd said it out loud.
âWell,â he said finally âthatâs one way to break the tension.â
It felt strange - refreshing, maybe - to hear it spoken aloud. Even though youâd known, deep down, that neither of you was okay, sometimes you just needed to hear the words.
To have it acknowledged. Somehow, knowing he felt the same made it just a little easier to carry.
You nodded toward the stack of papers on your desk, eager to redirect the moment before it got too raw. âWell, since weâre both in the mood for honesty, Iâve got something for you.â
He tilted his head slightly, now moving down the stairs and crossing the bullpen toward you. âYou always know how to make the best gifts,â he said, a touch of dry humor lacing his tone.
âOh, this oneâs a real treat,â you said, sliding the folder toward him.
Aaron opened it, skimming the first page, and raised an eyebrow. âCase summaries. You shouldnât have.â
âYouâre welcome,â you replied with a wink.
He chuckled lightly, closing the folder. âIâll review them and file them in the system immediately. Truly, a gift worth cherishing.â
âOr,â you countered, leaning back in your chair, âthey could wait until tomorrow morning.â
His brow lifted, probably not convinced of your ungodly offer. âAnd you think Iâd waste your hard work like that?!â
âNo,â you said, shrugging. âI think they could be the very first thing you file tomorrow morning. None of my efforts wasted, and you get to go home.â
You could tell he considered it for a moment, even if he kept his gaze steady on yours. âYou make a compelling argument.â He said in mock formality.
âI know,â you said, smirking slightly.
He glanced back at the folder, then at you, and sighed. âAlright,â he said finally. âTomorrow morning.â
âGood choice,â you said, your voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.
Hotch leaned slightly against your desk, holding the folder in one hand. âThat applies to you too, you know. Whatever youâre working on⊠it can wait until 8 AM tomorrow.â
You opened your mouth to respond, barely managing to say âAlri-â before the sharp ring of his phone cut through the air.
His expression shifted instantly.
That composed, slightly softer look heâd had moments before hardened into something sharper - focused, intense. You recognized it immediately, the way his jaw tightened and his posture straightened. Something was wrong.
âHotchner,â he answered, his voice low. The sudden shift in his tone made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
You didnât need to hear the other side of the conversation to know it was serious. The single word he barked into the phone - âWhere?â - told you everything.
You shot out of your chair, your heart already racing, and rushed toward his office. By the time he hung up, you were there, pulling his coat from the rack and holding it out to him. His eyes met yours as he moved toward you, his pace quicker than you ever remembered.
âWhat happened?â you asked handing him his coat, though you had a sinking feeling you didnât want to hear the answer.
He didnât even hesitate.
His eyes locked on yours, and in that split second, you saw everything you needed to know.
âGarcia got shot,â he said.
---
âWhat do we know?â Rossi asked as he walked into the hospital waiting room, headed straight for him.
âPolice think it was a botched robbery,â he replied, his voice clipped, with a tense jaw.
Emily, looked toward you, her eyes wide and disbelieving, the shock still fresh. âWhereâs Morgan?â she asked, her tone edged with worry.
You shook your head. âHeâs not answering his phone.â
Hotch could sense the strain beneath your calm exterior, the cracks starting to show despite how hard you were trying to hold it together.
Why were you doing that? He was there for that reason.
Spencer didnât even pause. He turned away immediately, his usual hesitance replaced only by urgency. âIâll call him again,â he said over his shoulder, already pulling out his phone as he strode toward the corner of the room.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch saw Rossi move closer, when he spoke, his voice was low, only meant for him. âWhat arenât you saying?â
He didnât look at Rossi right away, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point across the room. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than before, almost a whisper. âI spoke to one of the paramedics who brought her in. It doesnât look good.â
And so, all you could do was wait.
Time moved strangely there, in this place of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells, where the hum of machinery and the distant shuffle of footsteps filled the silence.
Seven FBI agents in a room.
But the titles didnât matter there. Because each of you felt completely useless.
There were minutes of restless movements, of silent prayers, of thoughts no one dared to voice aloud. Some paced the hallway, unable to sit still, as if walking could somehow outrun the helplessness threatening to suffocate them. Others fidgeted, their hands twisting and folding into patterns born of nervous energy.
But eventually, you all stilled.
Emily and JJ sat down together. Emilyâs hand found JJâs, gripping it firmly, as if she could siphon away some of her fear, absorb the weight of it into herself.
Across from them, Spencer perched on the edge of a chair, his arms crossed tightly, his right hand rubbing absentmindedly up and down his left side in a motion that felt almost protective, almost desperate.
Rossi stood apart from the rest of you, his back turned, his figure outlined by the stark light of the hallway. He held a gold bracelet in his hands, the same one he always carried, his fingers moving over it in a rhythm that suggested it was as much for grounding as it was for comfort.
And then there was you.
You sat to Spencerâs right, your brow furrowed, your breaths slow but audible. Your eyes moved rapidly, scanning nothing and everything all at once. He could tell you were buried deep in your thoughts, lost in the labyrinth of your mind.
He wanted to know what you were thinking - wanted to reach into the chaos and pull you out.
He couldnât, that thing he knew.
Probably, you were still sifting through philosophies, trying to find the right citation to cling to, the one that would hold you steady. Something wise and comforting, something that would tell you this wouldnât end in tragedy.
And him?
He stood still, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He knew he had to keep it together - for all of you, for himself.
He stood so close to your left that he could feel your knee brushing the fabric of his pants every so often, a touch so faint it barely registered but still managed to tether him.
He observed his team, each of you unraveling in their own quiet way, while he avoided, at all costs, the thought clawing at the back of his mind.
The thought of living this again - he knew what it felt like, this helplessness. He remembered it too well.
Back when it was you lying on an operating table, under needles and lights, fighting to come back to him. That same sense of uselessness had consumed him then, and now it was here again, circling like a vulture.
But his mind, cruel as it so often was, always found new ways to torture him.
It conjured new voices, fresh what-ifs, flashes of memories he didnât want, tethering him to the fear that churned relentlessly in his chest. None of it was helpful. None of it worth listening to more than once.
And yet, amidst the noise, it was something small that healed him now.
Your touch.
Your knee pressed fully against the side of his leg, a quiet, grounding gesture that pulled him from the spiral before it could drag him any deeper.
He glanced down at you instinctively, and when your gaze met his, it was steady, knowing, and impossibly calm.
It wasnât extravagant - there was no dramatic gesture, no soft-spoken reassurance. Just a nod.
A simple acknowledgment, because you knew.
You knew he needed to hold it together. As Unit Chief. As the leader. As the anchor in this storm of uncertainty.
And yet, in that single nod, in the quiet understanding etched into your expression, you told him something else, too: if it were just the two of you, youâd let go.
Together.
If you could, youâd be wrapped in each otherâs arms, sinking into one of those uncomfortable chairs, your head resting on his shoulder, his leaning gently against yours.
Just like you had in his living room that one night when everything else had fallen apart.
That memory burned in his mind, as vivid as if it had happened moments ago. The way you had leaned into him, your hand brushing against his chest, anchoring him in a way he hadnât known he needed.
Heâd been thinking about it for weeks, replaying it over and over, striving for it without even realizing.
Your touch had burned itself into his memory. It was solace, it was safety, it was the only thing that made the world make sense when nothing else did.
And then, without warning, the moment broke. None of you moved first - you didnât have to. Derekâs hurried steps into the waiting room shattered the fragile quiet.
âSheâs been in surgery a couple hours,â JJ said softly, her voice almost hesitant, as though saying it aloud made it worse.
âI was in church,â Derek responded, his voice tight, his eyes darting to Hotch. âMy phone was off.â
Spencer spoke up, his voice quiet but insistent, trying to reassure Derek, but Hotchâs gaze softened as it drifted to him, the tension in his team mate's expression contrasting starkly with the rigid lines of his suit.
He barely noticed your shoulder brushing against his arm - because apparently, personal space was just a suggestion with you - but he didnât mind.
If anything, the contact softened the edges of his thoughts, kept him tethered to the present.
Then, the door opened, and a doctor stepped in. âPenelope Garcia?â he asked.
Hotch stepped forward immediately. âYes.â
âThe bullet went in her chest and ricocheted into her abdomen. She lost a lot of blood. It was touch and go for a while,â The doctorâs tone was clinical, detached, but the words carried the weight of everything theyâd been dreading. âBut we were able to repair the injuries.â
Aaron felt his breath hitch.
âSo, what are you saying?â JJ asked, her voice strained.
The doctor hesitated for a moment before continuing. âOne centimeter over and it would have torn right through her heart. Instead, she could actually walk out of here in a couple of days, and Iâd say thatâs a minor miracle.â
The words barely registered, muffled under the synchronized exhale of relief from everyone in the room, including him.
His chest rose and fell heavily, the tension still coiling so tightly in his body that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from letting it all spill out.
He couldnât cry. Not here. Not now.
âShe needs her rest. You can see her in the morning,â the doctor said before being immediately thanked and leaving the room.
Hotch straightened, forcing his composure back into place. He had to focus. He had to do what needed to be done.
âDavid and I will go to the scene,â he said, the words leaving his mouth almost automatically. âI think the rest of you should be here when she wakes up.â
Your brow arched slightly, the corners of your lips twitching upward for just a moment.
âI donât care about protocol,â he added firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. âI donât care whether weâre working this officially or not. We donât touch any new cases until we find out who did this.â
Because when the family is involved, the law can go to hell.
You gave him another nod, this one filled with something more - pride, maybe.
---
But the consequences of his choices - of that particular decision, of every decision since - were harder to ignore.
It had started as something small, almost imperceptible. The kind of shift you only notice when looking back, piecing together the moments that led to now.
You spoke to him less on the job.
Maybe it had begun after Penelope was shot. Maybe it was even earlier than that - after that argument in the car the day Rossi rejoined the team.
It wasnât as though he hadnât noticed. Heâd thought about it more times than he cared to admit, replaying conversations and briefings in his head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment it changed.
Still, whatever the catalyst, it was there - distance.
You were more careful now, more reserved.
The way you hesitated before voicing disagreements during case discussions, when you used to challenge him so freely, so instinctively.
The way your once-abstract musings - philosophical detours that most of the times used to drive him to the brink of frustration - were almost entirely gone. He rarely heard them from you anymore.
It was Reid now, who would bring up some concept or theory, his voice filling the space that used to be yours.
And Hotch would sit there, listening, waiting - hoping, even - for your voice to cut in, to weave those extra threads of detail, to challenge or expand the discussion in that way that had always been so uniquely you. But it never came.
Your language had shifted, too.
Gone were the sweeping truths and nuanced arguments that once made every discussion with you feel like a labyrinth. Now you were grounded, concrete.
Practical. Logical... ironic, really.
The very thing that sometimes frustrated him - the way you could lose yourself in abstraction, dissecting every nuance as if it held the key to the universe, even when a case demanded quick action - was the same thing that made you indispensable to his being⊠to work.
Indispensable to work.
It was why the two of you had been able to crack so many cases together - at work.
The confrontation was what made it work.
Necessary. Vital.
His logic sharpening your abstractions, your ideas loosening the rigidity of his structures. Because both of you wanted to be right.
And in that pursuit, you always found the balance - in the balance, you caught killers. In the balance, you saved lives. Different truths, coexisting.
But now? Now, he found himself paying more attention to the details that had slipped through the cracks.
Youâd stopped calling him âPartnerâ.
It wasnât the word itself that mattered. It was what it signified. How for a brief amount of time it had even become a running joke, how youâd introduce him to people as âmy partner,â and how theyâd inevitably misunderstand, assuming you were together.
Maybe it was the way you talked about him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you... back then.
Anyways, it was gone. Because now, on the job, you only called him "Unit Chief".
Clinical. Precise. A title that left no room for interpretation. Best friends outside of work; your superior within it.
But he missed the ambiguity.
He missed the way youâd once spoken to him on the job like he wasnât just your colleague, or your boss. Like he was someone you trusted - completely.
And maybe that was what stung the most. That sense of trust between you, once so natural, now felt⊠guarded.
He wanted to fix it, but how could he, without crossing some invisible line?
Because pairing himself with you on a case would have been the easiest solution, but heâd never allow himself that.
He never did. He couldnât. To do so would feel selfish, like he was abusing his authority to serve his own ends⊠even that thought alone made his stomach churn.
So, instead, he paired you with Reid for geographical profiles or with Rossi in the field, keeping you at a polite, professional distance, telling himself it was better this way.
Telling himself it didnât matter that you barely spoke to him unless you had to. Telling himself that your sudden carefulness wasnât personal.
And yet, outside the job, it was a completely different story.
You two had grown closer - seeking each otherâs company in ways that felt almost inevitable.
You didnât plan it, but somehow, you always ended up together. And considering how close youâd already been, it was startling, almost disorienting.
Your shared tragedies should have been the sole reason for it, forging something unshakable, but this⊠this was different. It was more intimate, more vulnerable.
It felt more⊠familiar, though with what exactly?
Maybe it was the way you always seemed to gravitate toward each other, how his phone would buzz with a text from you - asking if he had time to grab dinner or if he could help you pick out furniture for your new apartment.
âDonât worry,â youâd said that morning, flashing him a grin that instantly made him suspicious. âI just need your muscles, not your opinion. Unless you want to tell me Iâm wasting money.â
He raised an eyebrow, following you into the store like a man marching to his doom. âYou brought me for labor but not to stop you from making bad decisions?â
âExactly,â you replied, already strolling ahead like you owned the place. âAnd donât worry - itâll take a couple of hours at most.â
He stopped dead in his tracks, letting out a disbelieving laugh. âA couple of hours? Wars have been declared, fought, and peace treaties signed faster than it takes to shop for furniture.â
âWhat, you think Iâm indecisive?â you shot back, turning to face him.
âI know you are,â he replied, his tone flat. âAnd meticulous, which doesnât exactly speed things up.â
âJust trust me, Aaron,â you said, your grin widening in a way that felt more like a warning.
Indeed, it didnât take a couple of hours. It took the entire day.
And by the time you got back to your apartment, he was certain heâd pulled at least three muscles he didnât even know he had.
âNext time,â Aaron said, panting slightly as he set the box down with a loud thud. âIâm bringing a forklift. Or an entire moving crew.â
âNext time?â you asked innocently, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. âYouâre already signing up for next time?! Thatâs so thoughtful, Aaron. Wow, youâre such a friend.â
âYouâre lucky I have patience,â he muttered, glaring at the box like it had personally wronged him.
âPatience?â you laughed, crossing your arms. âYou were ready to snap at that poor woman asking about the extended warranties!â
âThatâs because she asked me six times,â he snapped, the memory still fresh.
âWell,â you said, grinning as you grabbed a water bottle from the counter and handed it to him, ânow that torture is over, I think you deserve your prize. I have some office gossip for you.â
Aaron scoffed, took a sip from the bottle and crouched down to unbox the bookshelf. âI donât care about your office gossip,â he said, his tone betraying none of the interest that actually was bubbling inside of him.
â...You donât have to stay and build this, you know,â you offered, watching him carefully slide the first plank out of the box. âIâve already dragged you into enough.â
âIâm staying,â he replied, glancing at you briefly. âI want to help.â Then, after a beat, he added, âSo, what were you saying?â
You raised an eyebrow at him, making him regret what he just said. âOh, so you do want to know?â
âYou were going to tell me anyway,â he replied, pretending to be slightly annoyed.
âWell, now Iâm not so sure,â you teased, plopping down next to him.
Then it happened.
Your hand reached for the instruction manual at the exact same moment as his, and your fingers brushed briefly. He froze, just for a second.
It wasnât anything dramatic. No jolt of electricity, no world-tilting moment. Just⊠a touch.
Ordinary. Mundane.
And yet his brain, apparently bored of rationality, decided to hit pause.
You didnât even seem to notice, already flipping open the pages of the manual like it was nothing â because it was. Meanwhile, he forced himself back into motion, his hand retreating too quickly as he muttered, âSorry.â
âFor what? Existing?â you quipped, glancing at him with a smirk that teetered on the edge of infuriating. âItâs fine, Aaron. Donât worry, no need to be so polite.â
Polite. Yes, thatâs what he was. Polite.
Not distracted. Not caught off guard. Certainly not anything else.
âItâs not a habit I plan to break,â he replied, his tone as steady as he could manage, focusing intently on pulling out the next piece of wood.
He just needed his personal space. You were close, physically, and his brain had momentarily overreacted. Thatâs all it was. It wasnât significant. It wasnât anything.
âI always forget Iâm friends with the Queen of England,â you said, deadpan.
He shot you a flat look, holding up a piece that vaguely resembled part of a shelf. âSo - are you actually reading those instructions, or are you just turning pages for fun?â
You squinted at the manual. âI mean⊠how hard can it be to put a rectangle on top of some other rectangles?â
He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. ââŠIâll take that as a noâ As usual, you got lost in your thoughts, your half-finished sentences going nowhere - resulting in still no gossip for him.
Thankfully, Aaron was used to that by now.
âSo,â he said pointedly, cutting through your ramble, âthe gossip you were so desperate to tell me?â
âRight,â you began, leaning in slightly, âI think Garcia and Kevin Lynch are dating.â
Aaron glanced at you, his brow furrowing. âBased on what?â
âOh, come on, you were the one who planted the seed in my brain!â you said, pointing an accusing finger at him. âYou met him first and said theyâd be perfect together.â
âI told you theyâd get along,â he corrected, his voice calm. âNot that theyâd date, it was an observation.â
âRight,â you teased, leaning toward him. âBecause Mr. Rulebook doesnât meddle in office relationships.â
âI donât,â he replied flatly, though the precision with which he was aligning the screws suggested otherwise.
âBut youâre not denying it,â you teased, as you handed him the missing screw to complete his geometrical composition.
He sighed, already regretting the conversation. âFine. I might have⊠noticed some things.â
Your eyes widened dramatically. âYouâve been paying attention? To gossip?â
He shot you a look so dry it couldâve absorbed a flood. âNot gossip. I noticed sheâs been flirting with Derek over the phone less often in the past couple of weeks.â
You stared at him, probably trying to decide whether to be impressed or amused. âOh so you do keep track of Penelopeâs flirting habits?!â
âItâs hard not to notice, when all of this happens less than five feet away from meâ he replied, focusing a little too intently on tightening a bolt. âShe used to call him âchocolate thunderâ at least twice a day. Now itâs barely once.â
You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth.
âWhat? If youâre going to accuse me of gossip, I might as well be thorough.â He frowned, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
You burst out laughing, sitting back on your heels. âOh my God, I knew it. You secretly love this.â
âI donât love this,â he said firmly, though his tone lacked conviction.
âSure you donât,â You smirked, glancing at the instructions and pretending to read them, just enough to give the illusion that you were actually contributing in some meaningful way. âSo, whatâs your theory? Think theyâre dating?â
He shook his head, clearly weighing his words. âIf theyâre not already, theyâre on the verge. Kevinâs nervous around her, and sheâs not exactly subtle.â
You grinned, leaning closer. âI knew it! Now admit it, Aaron. You like the drama.â
Aaron sighed, picking up a screwdriver and turning his attention back to the pile of screws, as if sheer focus might absolve him of this entire conversation. âI donât like the drama,â he said flatly. âI like efficiency. And indulging you in this nonsense means I wonât have to hear about it in bits and pieces over the next week.âÂ
You gasped, clutching your chest with exaggerated offense. âNonsense? This is workplace anthropology, Aaron. This is about human behavior, relationships, and the intricate web of connec-âÂ
âGossip,â he interrupted dryly, cutting you off mid-monologue.Â
You rolled your eyes, but your grin was unrelenting. âYou are so reductive. This is about understanding the human condition! Philosophers have been debating the nuances of human relationships for centuries. Aristotle, PlatoâÂ
He glanced up, giving you a look that bordered on skeptical. âIf this is about Aristotle and Plato, Iâm out of here.âÂ
âOh, come on,â you said, nudging his arm. âYouâve read Hegel. You know this stuff!âÂ
Aaron straightened the piece of wood he was working on, his voice impossibly dry. âIâve read âHegel for Dummies.â The most philosophical thing I got from that book was the idea that contradictions eventually balance out.âÂ
âExactly!â you said, pointing at him. âWhich is why gossip is just the dialectic in action - thesis, antithesis, synthesis. Weâre observing interpersonal contradictions and resolving them through discourse. Hegel would be proud.â
âHegel would ask for his name to be removed from this conversation,â he replied, his tone bone-dry. Â
âThatâs not true!â you said, laughing. âThis is exactly his philosophy. I know him.â
âHeâs dead,â Aaron replied.
You froze, your hand hovering over a plank as your face morphed into an expression of exaggerated shock.
âDonât tell me youâre going to cry because I reminded you heâs been dead for 200 years,â he added, the corners of his lips twitching despite his best efforts to stay serious.
âYouâre heartless,â you said, glaring at him dramatically. âIâm grieving, and youâre mocking me.â
âYouâre grieving a man you never met,â he pointed out, turning the screwdriver.
âWell, Iâm sure we would have been friends,â you said, tilting your chin defiantly. âHe would see me for who I truly am. A philosopher. A visionary.â
Aaron snorted quietly, shaking his head. âHeâd last five minutes before walking out of the room.â
âWrong,â you shot back. âHeâd last five minutes before asking me to co-author his next book.â
He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. âItâs a shame you werenât born two centuries earlier. Youâd have spared him from obscurity.â
âYes!â you exclaimed, pointing at him. âThank you. See, this is why youâre my best friend.â
Aaron stilled, glancing at you briefly before returning his focus to the plank in his hand. âBecause I humor your philosophical ramblings?â
âBecause your dry humor is just a cover for the fact that you secretly love my ramblings. And Iâd say you also agree with some of them.â You corrected, leaning in slightly.
He tightened a bolt, refusing to look up. âYouâve cracked the code. My lifeâs work of masking my enthusiasm has been undone by your unshakable confidence.â
âYouâre so sarcastic,â you replied, grinning. âBut seriously, Aaron. Youâre the best.â
Before he could respond, you slid your arm around his shoulders in a quick side hug, leaning your head briefly against the curve of his neck.
It was nothing, really, again, just a fleeting gesture, casual. And thatâs exactly why it felt so strange. So different.
He stilled, not visibly - at least he hoped not.
It wasnât like those rare hugs of yours, the ones that seemed to stretch on for hours. This was just a fraction of a second, over before it even began, and yet it lingered, leaving behind a sour taste of wanting.
Maybe that was why it unsettled him. Your relationship didnât rely on physical contact, it never had. Mostly because he wasnât the type to invite it. Not intentionally. It just always felt too⊠intimate. Too exposing. It wasnât that he didnât like it - it was just⊠too much.
Too raw. Too close.
But you didnât seem to mind. You always knew how to adjust, to make things work between you without pushing too hard or pulling too far.
And still, now once again you pulled back like it was nothing, grinning as though the moment hadnât shifted anything at all.
Thatâs what got to him, he realized. The ease with which you could offer something like that and let it go, as though it didnât mean anything. He envied it.
Jealousy, he thought, was too strong a word. Or maybe it wasnât.
âBut Iâll never be Hegel,â he said finally, his tone dry, laced with irony as he reached for the next piece of wood.
You blinked at him, tilting your head like heâd just said something utterly ridiculous. âAaron Hotchner,â you began, your tone a mix of exasperation and fondness, âyouâre better than Hegel.â
He glanced at you briefly, his expression somewhere between skeptical and resigned. âOh please donât you start.â
âI mean it,â you insisted, sitting up straighter, your grin turning softer. âHe mightâve been a genius, but youâre⊠well, youâre you. Thoughtful. Smart. Kind. Youâre my best friend, and I wouldnât trade you for any dead philosopher.â
As much as he tried to act like he was above it, like he didnât need the reassurance, he couldnât deny how heartwarming it was to hear those kinds of words. Cheesy as they were. Deep down, he was a sentimental man, after all.
And so he sighed, but the small smile tugging at his lips probably betrayed him. âCould you please just hand me the next piece before this takes another century?â
âAnything for you, Queen of England,â you teased, passing him the next piece with an exaggerated flourish.
He gave you a look, the kind that said he was both exasperated and quietly amused. âThank you,â he said, his voice dry but undeniably softer.
âAnytime, Your Majesty,â you replied, grinning as you reached back for the instruction manual. âNow, whatâs next? Philosophical insights on brackets?â
âJust read the instructions.â He had just aligned another plank and was reaching for a screw when the sharp knock at the door interrupted the quiet rhythm of assembling furniture.
He froze, mid-motion, and then glanced at you. âThatâs Mrs. Lee,â he muttered, already resigned.
Of course, it was Mrs. Lee.
She lived across the hall and seemed to have an uncanny ability to sense whenever he was over. In her late seventies, retired, widowed, and far too invested in both your lives, she had made it her unofficial mission to drop in with sweets every time Aaron was around.
Coincidentally, these sweets only ever appeared when he happened to stay over, as though he were the primary recipient and you were just a necessary middleman.
Well, it wasnât exactly true - she adored you - but it was clear where did her preference lay.
Mrs. Lee, as Aaron had come to learn, was an enthusiastic watcher of outdated rom-coms, a self-proclaimed expert on âyoung loveâ - a category she had prematurely placed you and him into - and an avid admirer of âhandsome men in suits.â
Naturally, she adored him.
You, softhearted as ever, had figured out early on that Mrs. Lee was lonely. So you occasionally let her hang out in your living room. Sheâd settle onto your couch with her movies, chatting about her glory days while Aaron begrudgingly assembled whatever piece of furniture youâd roped him into.
It had become a tradition he hadnât agreed to but couldnât seem to escape. And so the knock came again, more insistent this time.
âYou want to get that?â he asked, already knowing the answer.
You grinned, tossing the instruction manual aside. âOf course. Itâs probably for you anyway.â
Aaron sighed as you opened the door, revealing Mrs. Lee in all of her five-foot glory, holding some freshly baked pie.
âHi, sweetheart,â came the familiar greeting, warm and affectionate as always. Then her eyes landed on Aaron, and her grin widened to near cartoonish proportions. âOh, Aaron! I knew youâd be here.â
He glanced up briefly, bracing himself. âGood evening, Mrs. Lee.â
âI brought some blueberry pie,â she announced proudly, stepping inside and placing it on your counter. âI know how much you like blueberries, Aaron.â
He blinked, momentarily thrown. âHow do you-â
âOh, you just strike me as someone with good taste,â she interrupted as she made herself comfortable on your couch.
You turned to him, barely concealing your grin. âI think sheâd be a great profiler.â
He agreed.
âMrs. Lee, if only we werenât already overstaffed, Iâd hire you right away,â Aaron replied, his polite tone perfectly measured.
âOh, Aaron dear,â Mrs. Lee cooed, waving her hand as though batting away a compliment, âyouâre so kind. But I could never work at a job with a boss as handsome as you. Iâd be far too distracted just watching you talk.â
Aaron froze, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the t-shirt he was wearing.
âHow do you work with him every day, sweetheart?â Mrs. Lee asked you, her tone conspiratorial.
You laughed, leaning back. âOh, itâs easy. I just remind myself that under the suits, heâs really just a big softie.â
Aaron shot you a pointed look, his voice deadpan. âNot helping.â
Mrs. Lee giggled as she made herself comfortable on the couch, clearly entertained. âSo, whatâs todayâs project?â
âBookshelf,â you replied, gesturing toward the pile of wood and screws scattered across the floor.
Aaron frowned at the chaos. If it could even be called a bookshelf, it certainly didnât look like one yet.
âItâs a bookshelf,â you insisted, catching the look he was giving it. âItâll look better once you stop glaring at it and we actually continue working on it.â
âYouâll forgive me for not being optimistic,â Aaron muttered, crouching down to inspect the mess.
Mrs. Lee immediately chimed in, turning to you. âOh, donât listen to him, sweetheart,â she said, waving you off. âIâm sure itâll be beautiful once itâs done. You two always make such a good team.â
Aaron sighed, already resigned to the commentary. âWeâre not a team. Iâm the one building this thing while she-â
âSupervises,â you interrupted brightly, leaning over to grab a stray screw. âYouâre muscles and Iâm brain, donât forget about it.â
Mrs. Lee clapped her hands together in delight. âOh, itâs just like my Charles and me! Iâd dream up all sorts of projects, and heâd grumble the whole time but do them anyway. Thatâs how you know itâs love.â
Aaron froze mid-turn of his screwdriver, he glanced up. âWeâre friends, Mrs. Lee,â he said firmly, keeping his voice as even as possible, though the comparison to her late husband didnât exactly sit comfortably.
Mrs. Lee just laughed. âOh, shoosh, Aaron, really, youâre exactly like my Charles,â she said, her tone fond but pointed. âToo serious, too practical. All logic. He was a lawyer, you know.â
Lawyer. Ha.
Weird how the coincidences had a way of piling up like bricks whenever Mrs. Lee was around.
Before he could deflect, you jumped in, far too quick for his liking. âWell, that must be fate! Mrs. Lee, did I ever mention that Aaron used to be a prosecutor before he joined the FBI?â
Her gasp was so loud it startled him. For a moment, Aaron thought she might drop her pie.
âA prosecutor? You?â she exclaimed, clasping her hands together as though sheâd just unearthed some life-altering revelation. âOh, Aaron, that is just too perfect. And I bet you were ruthless in the courtroom, werenât you?â
Aaron opened his mouth to respond, but the words barely made it out. âMrs. Lee, I-â
âDonât be modest, dear,â she interrupted, brandishing her fork like it was a judgeâs gavel. âI can just picture it - some poor defense attorney sweating buckets while you paced the courtroom like a lion on the huntâ She paused dramatically, then added an actual ârawrâ for emphasis, because apparently, the imagery wasnât enough. âMy, my, my. You mustâve been a sight to behold.â
Aaron rubbed the back of his neck, wishing desperately for the bookshelf to magically assemble itself so he could escape the conversation.
âYou shouldâve told me this sooner!â Mrs. Lee continued, turning to you as if youâd kept some scandalous secret from her. âI bet all those courtroom skills come in handy now, donât they? You must be able to intimidate anyone with just one look.â She squinted the best she could, doing what Aaron assumed was her impression of his so-called âserious faceâ.
You laughed, nudging him playfully with your elbow. âSheâs not wrong, you know. The Hotch Stare has probably solved more cases than our actual profiles.â
Aaron turned to you, leveling you with the exact look you were referring to - but the effect was slightly ruined by the warmth creeping up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. He could feel it, much to his dismay, and he looked away quickly, clearing his throat.
âThe bookshelf,â he said dryly, but the flush in his face betrayed him entirely, and he knew it. Damn it.
You bit your lip, trying - and failing - to suppress a grin. âYouâre blushing,â you pointed out.
âOh, donât tease him too much,â Mrs. Lee said, her grin widening as she leaned forward. âHeâs probably shy. Arenât you, Aaron?â
He didnât need to look in a mirror to know the flush had deepened. Great. Now he was even redder. Wonderful.
âExtremely,â he replied deadpan, tightening the bolt in front of him with more focus than necessary, trying to ground himself in the mechanics of the bookshelf rather than the conversation swirling around him.
You couldnât help but laugh at his failed attempt to use sarcasm. âDonât worry,â you said with a smile that was far too fond for his peace of mind. âIt's actually very cute when you blush.â
Aaron froze. No, no, no.
That was not something he was prepared to handle. He was already red, that much he knew - but now? Now, he could feel it spreading like wildfire.
He cleared his throat, his fingers tightening around the screwdriver with more force than necessary. âI donât think thatâs the kind of feedback the instruction manual had in mind,â he said dryly, though his voice wavered just enough to betray him.
You laughed again, soft and warm, and it only made things worse.
âOh, come on,â you teased, leaning forward just slightly, your grin far too mischievous for his peace of mind. âYou canât possibly hate a compliment that much.â
âI donât hate it,â he countered quickly, almost too quickly, still refusing to meet your eyes. âI just donât think itâs relevant to⊠this.â He gestured vaguely at the bookshelf, hoping the movement would divert some of the attention away from his face.
He never thought heâd see the day when heâd be genuinely grateful for Mrs. Lee to launch into another one of her stories, but here he was. Apparently, miracles did happen. Sheâd managed to cut through your conversation, sparing him from further embarrassment.
âYou two remind me so much of me and my Charles,â she said, a nostalgic sigh punctuating her words. âWe teased each other constantly too. Oh, heâd look at me with those serious eyes of his and say, âYouâre impossible, Sharon.â Every single time.â
Aaron glanced up, her voice the reminder that, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, his heart wasnât made of stone. Far from it, in fact.
âAnd Iâd tell him, âNo, Charles, youâre boring,ââ she added with a chuckle. âAnd oh, the arguments weâd have! But they were the best arguments, you know? The kind that keep you sharp. Keep you⊠alive.â
Mrs. Leeâs expression softened, her smile turning bittersweet. âWe got married after four months of knowing each other,â she said, her voice quieter now. âFifty-two years of marriage. It wasnât always easy, but Iâd do it all again in a heartbeat. Â And I still miss him every single day.â
He was lucky enough to know what love felt like, but he could only hope to be as fortunate as her, to know what it felt like for a love like that to last even half as long.
He didnât dare look at you. He already knew youâd give her that soft, understanding smile you always did.
âSome people are just meant to be, arenât they?â you said, your voice quiet but carrying the kind of certainty that made it feel like a universal truth.
âWise words, dear.â But then she grinned suddenly, the mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes. âStill, he was a pain in the ass sometimes. Wouldnât let me watch âThe Love Boatâ as much as I wanted. So, you know what? Fuck him.â
Aaron blinked, srprised. He caught the way your mouth twitched before you burst into laughter, and he shook his head, half-amused, half-incredulous.
âMrs. Lee,â he said, his voice flat, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
As you handed him another piece of wood, Mrs. Lee leaned forward. âSpeaking of love,â she began, her tone dangerously casual as she turned to you, âSweetheart, donât be shy about asking me to turn off my hearing aid tonight⊠you know, if the two of you need to unleash all that stress. Especially you Aaron, you need to loosen up.â
Aaron froze, screwdriver slipping slightly in his hand.
What?
Both of you blinked, eyes wide, before instinctively turning to each other to confirm if youâd just heard the same thing - or if it was some bizarre, shared hallucination. Then, in perfect sync, you turned back toward Mrs. Lee.
She was grinning, eyebrows raised expectantly, as if sheâd just offered you an excellent tip on couponing and was waiting for your gratitude.
Oh, so sheâs seriousâŠ
âMrs. Lee,â you managed finally, your voice shaking with suppressed laughter, âwhat on earth makes you think we need to, um⊠âunleashâ anything?â
She raised an eyebrow, looking far too pleased with herself. âOh, honey, Iâve been around. I notice things. Itâs been a tough week for you at the BAU, hasnât it? All those cases piling up. All that stress. I can see it.â
Aaron set down the screwdriver, his jaw tightening. âHow do you even know what kind of week itâs been?â
Mrs. Lee sat back, crossing her arms like sheâd been waiting for the question. âI know everything, dear. I have contacts.â
Aaron exchanged a look with you, utterly baffled. âContacts?â
She nodded sagely, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. âI play bridge with a lady from the FBI cleaning staff. Lovely woman. You know⊠we simply talk.â
He couldnât exactly fire the entire cleaning staff over this⊠but, for a fleeting moment, the thought had crossed his mind. Maybe just reassignments.
Practical. Strategic. Manageable.
But then the mental image of the inevitable paperwork reared its ugly head, and his idyllic fantasy died a quick and unceremonious death.
Heâd just have to endure this one bookshelf and hope Mrs. Lee didnât decide to take up poker with the IT department next. The idea of Garcia and Mrs. Lee joining forces was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.
Mrs. Lee twirled her fork between the two of you, her grin devious. âAnd I also know youâve been pushing yourselves too hard with all those late nights. Thatâs why Iâm saying⊠you should just do it. Trust me, it works wonders.â
Oh, he knew. He definitely knew. Youâd both made that mistake once. But no - never again. Absolutely not.
âMrs. Lee,â he said evenly, âI donât think this conversation is appropriate.â
âOh, Aaron, donât be such a prude,â she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. âJust fuck and then youâll thank me.â
Charles was right, she really was impossible.
He turned to you, half-expecting to see the same look of disbelief mirrored on your face.
But instead, what he got the moment your eyes met was worse - infinitely worse.
You laughed. A real, unfiltered laugh, bubbling up and spilling over as though the absurdity of everything had finally caught up to you.
The sound was so unexpected, so you, that he couldnât help it. That was it. A chuckle escaped him before he could stop it, and then another.
God help him, he was laughing too. Unguarded. He could feel it, the exasperation, but also something almost electric, different.
That feeling. That lightness.
When was the last time heâd felt that?
---
1998.
Aaron Hotchner liked to think of himself as a rational man.
A man who could look a brutal truth in the face without flinching, who could hold himself together when the world around him was falling apart. He prided himself on composure, on logic, on not succumbing to the whims of emotion.
But apparently, all it took to unravel that carefully cultivated persona was you showing up in a miniskirt and lace tights.
Really? A miniskirt? This was what undid him?
Not an unsub with a gun, not the horrors of the job⊠no, it was a skirt that wasnât even all that short.
It was the perfect length, actually - tasteful, stopping just above the knee, not too long, not too short. The kind of length that somehow drove him to the brink because it hinted at more without being too much.
Perfect.
Why was he even thinking about the length of your skirt?
He was a grown man with a law degree, a rising star at the BAU, and yet here he was, mentally cataloging the specific placement of a hemline like some Victorian prude scandalized by the sight of a womanâs ankle.
It wasnât like heâd never seen legs before.
Everyone had legs. Heâd seen hundreds of them. Thousands. He even had his own pair of legs, for Godâs sake.
And yet, here he was, sitting across from you, hyper-fixating on the floral lace pattern winding up your tights - roses, specifically - and spiraling into thoughts so unholy that he half-considered ordering another drink just to drown his embarrassment.
It didnât help that youâd picked a rose-scented perfume to complete the ensemble, as if you werenât already doing enough damage.
Subtle but it hung in the air every time you shifted in your seat or leaned forward, wrapping itself around him like it was mocking his rapidly dwindling self-control.
Forget a taunt - this was an ambush, and he wasnât sure heâd survive the assault without visibly combusting.
Fantastic. Death by roses. How poetic.
And as if the scent alone werenât enough, his brain - traitorous thing that it was - kept linking it back to the roses on your tights.
It was as if fate had decided he wasnât already pathetic enough, so it hit him with a one-two punch of matching visuals and aromas, because God forbid he forget for even a second where else heâd seen roses tonight.
Seriously? Did you want him to lose the last shred of dignity he had left? Of course not, you were oblivious to the chaos youâd wrought. Blissfully unaware.
And now he was mentally punching himself for being this ridiculous. He was better than this... he had to be.
So he told himself it was nothing. Just surprise, thatâs all. He was simply adjusting to seeing you out of your usual loose-fitting work pants, a new variable.
Of course, thatâs it. A new variable. Totally normal reaction.
And yet, despite all his internal lectures, he couldnât stop his thoughts from spiraling every time his gaze drifted south, the delicate floral patterns climbing up your legs in a way that was almost cruelly mesmerizing.
And why was he even thinking the word âmesmerizingâ? It was fabric. Just fabric.
He tried to justify it - he was just being thorough. After all, he was a trained investigator. Thoroughness was part of the job. He definitely wasnât looking because the curve of your legs had rendered him incapable of rational thought.
Heâd just wanted to make sure you still had both legs. Thatâs all.
Limbs accounted for, Agent, move on.
Except, of course, he couldnât move on. Not technically. His brain had a knack for circling back to things - moments, words, details he shouldâve let go of but couldnât seem to shake.
This time, it was a few days ago. The way youâd casually invited him out tonight, as if it were nothing. Like it wasnât a big deal. Like thatâs just what friends do. Because, apparently, thatâs what you were - friends.
Never mind that your so-called friendship was still in its embryonic stages. Never mind that youâd somehow managed to completely upend his world with one offhanded sentence.
âMind joining me for a couple of drinks on Friday?â youâd said, so effortlessly it was almost infuriating.
Friday. Your day off.
The one day of the week you didnât see each other.
You were asking to see him again on the only day you didnât have to.
What were you doing to him?
Did it mean you actually wanted to spend time with him? Someone boring like him - not out of necessity, not because you were stuck at work or chasing down leads, but because you wanted to?
Why would you?
Why would someone as amazing, competent, smart, beautiful, and funny as you - someone who wore lace tights and a miniskirt on their Fridays off, and yes, Aaron, circling back to that again, apparently - want to spend time with him?
Bland. Broken. Overworked. With a sense of humor so dry even he didnât fully understand it half the time.
And yet, before he could fully process what was happening, heâd agreed to your request... of course he had.
Because what was the alternative?
Spending yet another Friday night alone, replaying the worst parts of the week in his head?
Trying to convince himself that bad takeout and reruns of movies as old as you were somehow counted as "self-care"?
Going out with other colleagues and getting lost in the noise of too many conversations, only to utter a grand total of four sentences all night and come home feeling even worse?
OrâŠthis. You.
Sitting across from him, lighting up the entire room with another absurdly entertaining story, because the universe had somehow decided you were its favorite magnet for chaos.
It wasnât fair how easily you turned misfortune into something bordering on comedy gold, but he wasnât complaining. He wasnât even sure how youâd gotten here, exactly.
One moment, heâd managed to summon the courage to ask what youâd done on your day off - a monumental feat, as far as he was concerned - and the next, you were recounting it with the kind of unrestrained enthusiasm that could make a trip to the post office sound riveting.
Because, of course, you - a federal agent with an inexplicable knack for philosophical musings and a seemingly endless need to keep busy - had spent your day off at a flea market.
Except, as soon as you mentioned which market, his stomach dropped like a stone.
That place? That wasnât a flea market - that was where good judgment went to die.
Heâd made the mistake to even voice it out loud, so here it came. That spark in your eyes, the one that always appeared when you decided to mount your intellectual soapbox to prove him wrong. âDo you even know the history of that area?â
He blinked, halfway through lifting his glass, because no, he didnât.
Maybe he did that to himself because straight up asking it wouldnât make you raise your brows in such a disarming way when you voiced you facts.
And the words you used? Completely disarming. Most of them sounded like theyâd been plucked straight from some forgotten 19th-century manuscript, one that had probably been touched by a handful of scholars and a few unlucky grad students. Words no one in casual conversation would ever use - except you.
Who even talked like that?
And, God, why was that so damn attractive?
It wasnât like he was unfamiliar with big words - he was a lawyer by training, after all. Heâd spent years with his nose buried in legal jargon and Latin phrases. He shouldnât be so affected by vocabulary.
But what probably didnât help was the fact that he was a history nerd. A big one.
He prided himself on knowing every obscure fact there was to know about Washington - dates, places, people. He could rattle them off in his sleep. And yet, youâd managed to pull out something heâd never heard before.
That was probably why now he was clinging to every word - because, naturally, youâd managed to hit his competitive streak, too... you just had to outdo him, didnât you?!
He should say something to prove he wasnât completely in the dark. Maybe casually mention that he used to collect coins as a kid.
But no. He wasnât going to tell you that.
Not because it wasnât true - it was, and he still did it sometimes, if he found one interesting enough - but because the second those words left his mouth, youâd know exactly what kind of loser he really was.
And what was worse? Youâd probably tease him for it. Which, honestly, was the last thing he needed.
Or maybe the first. Hell, he didnât know anymore.
âYouâre really pulling out Reconstruction history to convince me itâs a flea market?â he said finally, lifting his glass to his lips in a poor attempt to hide the smile threatening to betray him.
âYes,â you said simply, leaning back and crossing your arms with an air of victorious confidence. "Because it is a flea market. The absence of your knowledge does not negate its existence."
Aaron bit the inside of his cheek harder this time, half to keep from smiling and half to stop his brain from melting entirely.
God, you were insufferable. And brilliant. And - he really hated himself for thinking this - beautiful.
He could easily argue back.
He could tell you the truth - that the place you went to had devolved into anything but a market. That it was the kind of place he wouldâve chased down suspects, not strolled through on a lazy afternoon.
But then you said the phrase âintegral point of trade,â and Aaron swore he nearly choked on his drink. He busied himself taking another sip, just to avoid staring at you any longer.
He sighed softly, just enough to get you to glance at him. âWhat?â you asked, narrowing your eyes like you were daring him to say something contradictory.
Aaron shook his head, leaning an elbow against the table as he set down his glass. âNothing,â he said smoothly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch. âIâm just impressed.â
Your brow furrowed slightly, clearly suspicious. âImpressed?â
âMm-hmm.â He tilted his head, pretending to scrutinize you. "With how effortlessly youâve managed to transform a casual conversation into a dissertation defense."
The look you gave him was preciously smug. âYouâre just jealous you didnât know any of this.â
Jealous? No⊠yes, kind of.
Bewildered? Yes.
Smitten? Â Absolutely.
But Aaron - trained professional, seasoned profiler, master of keeping things close to his chest - only picked up his drink again, hiding behind its edge as he muttered, âSure. Weâll go with that.â
He let you have this one.
You looked far too pleased with yourself, your lips curved just slightly, your chin lifted like a challenge. It was a rare thing to see you so smugly triumphant, and as much as he wanted to argue - to win - he couldnât bring himself to ruin it.
Youâd never know that, technically, you were the one who was wrong. And that was fine.
Because if you knew, you wouldnât be rambling so happily about your day, weaving it together with that unrestrained enthusiasm that made every mundane detail sound like it was something crucial.
You were, in a word, adorable.
The kind of adorable that made him laugh - not the polite, carefully curated chuckle he usually offered, but a real, startled laugh that felt foreign in his chest, like dusting off an old, forgotten relic.
The kind of adorable that came with you talking with your entire body, hands darting through the air as though you were trying to physically sculpt the story from nothing.
And somehow, Aaron found himself hanging on every word.
Even when the plot made no sense. Even when the punchline was nowhere in sight.
Adorable. Absolutely maddening. But utterly, ridiculously adorable.
And God, he was so completely smitten with you it was almost embarassing.
ââŠand then, as if the day couldnât get worse, this guy completely cuts me off at the table. Like, who does that? It was so rude!â you said, your hands gesturing wildly and accidentally knocking the edge of the salt shaker.
He caught it just before it toppled and set it back in its place.
Oh, how you talked.
If Aaron was someone who overthought everything, you were someone who overtalked.
It was a paradox, really. You knew more languages than anyone heâd ever met. You were a genius, with a vocabulary so vast it could send people running for dictionaries. And yet, somehow, synthesis wasnât in your lexicon.
You could spend twenty minutes setting up a punchline for a story that shouldâve taken two, and he never minded.
You were recounting your flea market disaster like it was the most thrilling adventure, and of course, you werenât just telling him. No, that wouldnât be enough for you. You had to make him see it, live it, feel it the way you had.
âWait, Hotch, youâre not getting it,â youâd said, your tone urgent, like it was a matter of life and death. And then, without warning, you grabbed his hand.
His heart did something humiliating - a stutter, a skip, whatever it was, it made him feel ridiculous.
Like a teenager with a crush. Which, of course, he wasnât. He was a grown man. A rational man. One who shouldâve been able to handle something as simple as you taking his hand to demonstrate a story.
But no.
You pressed his hand flat against the table, arranging his fingers like they were vital props in your reenactment. âThis is the table,â you said with all the seriousness in the world, completely oblivious to the fact that youâd just stolen another year of his life with that one touch.
Your hands were on his.
Aaron Hotchner: a sheep in his nursery school Christmas recital, Pirate Number Four in his high school production of The Pirates of Penzance, and now - a table. A progression so absurd it might have made him laugh if he werenât so desperately trying to breathe.
Stay calm, Hotchner. Itâs just a table.
He should have felt ridiculous. Sitting there, his hand splayed out, but instead, all he could think about was how hollow his hand would feel the second you let go.
You had no idea, of course.
Oblivious to the fact that his brain was screaming at him to pull it together while simultaneously begging you to never stop touching him.
âAnd this is me,â you said, gesturing to yourself with your free hand.
Still, all he could think about now was the warmth of your hand on his, the way your fingers fit so easily against his own.
Itâs a table, Hotchner, again. Just a table. Donât lose your mind over a damn table.
âAnd this - oh, wait, I need something-â you said, pulling your hand away to grab the salt shaker, and in that instant, you proved his theory correct: his hand felt utterly and painfully empty without yours.
The salt shaker landed beside his hand, completing your bizarre little scene. âThis is him,â you declared, as if it all made perfect sense.
âSalt shaker guy. Got it,â he said, his voice steadier now that you werenât touching him.
You shot him a look. âDonât make fun of the salt shaker. Heâs pivotal to the story.â
He almost laughed at himself, for sitting there like a lovesick fool, hanging on your every word and praying for an excuse for you to touch him again.
Put them back. Please, for the love of God, put them back.
And then, as if youâd heard his silent plea, you reached for his hand once more, rearranging it.
Perfectionist. Adorable perfectionist.
âSo,â you said leaning closer, âIâm here, looking at this table, minding my own business, when this guyâ - you gestured to the salt shaker - âjust swoops in out of nowhere and starts taking things. Like blatantly stealing!â
You were still holding his hand, your thumb brushing against his as you were, recounting how the âsuspectâ had made off with a brass dolphin statue, of all things.
âA dolphin,â heâd said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.
âYes, Hotch, a dolphin. It was hideous, and I needed it,â you said, narrowing your eyes at him like he was the one whoâd stolen it.
âAnd then - get this - the guy starts knocking over everything. A lamp falls, hits the table, and it all comes down.â you said, grabbing his other hand. Both of his hands now in yours. He was gone. Absolutely gone.
You continued âSo - what am I supposed to do?â You looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for his answer. Because, naturally, thatâs what questions are for.
He straightened up slightly, clearing his throat. âYou called the police because youâre FBI and have no jurisdiction-â
âI arrested him,â you interjected with flair, as if this were the most logical and inevitable conclusion. âCitizensâ arrest, it was humiliating. There was a crowd. They were staring. I had no choice. Society would crumble if we let salt shakers like him run wild.â
Aaron shook his head, his lips twitching as he fought off a grin. âAnd what? You read him his rights?!â
You adorably groaned, burying your face in your hands. âWorse - I might have told him, âSir, drop the dolphin.ââ
That was it. He lost it.
His laugh erupted, loud and unrestrained, turning heads at the bar. A few strangers even chuckled along, unaware of the joke, but Aaron didnât care. He couldnât stop.
For a man who lived by control, it should have been unsettling - the way he couldnât rein himself in, the way his body betrayed him with laughter that felt too big, too loud.
But it wasnât, not with you.
Because youâd managed to do what no one else could: make him forget himself. Make him let go.
And so he did.
His mind drifted away, pulled by a current he couldnât control.
Aaron blinked, the memory of your hands on his burning his skin like an old scar. For a moment, he was back there: you across the table, reenacting the chaotic events of a flea market fiasco with a salt shaker and his hands, the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears.
But then the world shifted.
The small table stretched, the edges elongating, growing wider and longer until it wasnât just the two of you anymore. The air thickened, filled with louder sounds - voices, overlapping conversations, a cacophony of presence.
This wasnât 1998 anymore.
Now, the long table was crowded.
JJ sat at one end of the long table, her hand lightly resting on a glass of water as she laughed at something Penelope had said, her cheeks slightly flushed.
Whatever they were talking about, Aaron couldnât quite make out - though the dramatic hand flails and an occasional squeal from Penelope made it clear it was probably something absurd.
On the closer side of the table, however, the conversation was significantly⊠less wholesome.
Next to JJ, Emily leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her face shifting between disgust and reluctant amusement, like she couldnât quite decide whether to roll her eyes or encourage it.
Across from him, Derek grinned like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, his hands moving in exaggerated, circular motions that left no room for interpretation.
It was amazing, really.
When these two were this animated, it was either because they were dissecting some niche crime novel theyâd both read or... this.
âAnd Iâm telling you,â Derek declared, spreading his hands wide, âthey were this big. Unreal, man. Youâd have to see it to believe it - the biggest pair of - â
âBoobs, Derek?â Emily cut in, raising an eyebrow so sharp it couldâve sliced through his bravado. âSubtle. Really. Iâm impressed by your dedication to being as respectful as a middle schooler on spring break.â
Derek leaned forward, his grin turning downright wicked. âOh, please, Em. Donât even try it. Iâve seen you straight-up melt over a girl in a button-down. Subtle ainât exactly your thing either.â
Emily rolled her eyes, taking a deliberate sip of her drink before setting it down with a smirk. âFirst of all, button-downs are hot. Second of all, mind your business, Morgan.â She leaned back in her chair. âAt least Iâm not out here narrating a National Geographic special on boobs. Talk about subtle.â
And then there was Spencer.
Of course, Spencer. Talking fast - too fast - gesturing wildly as he rattled off some philosophical theory that had to involve at least three different German philosophers whose names Aaron couldnât spell, let alone pronounce.
And you.
Sitting at Aaronâs left, your hands flitted into Spencerâs space every other second, countering his arguments with rapid-fire points that seemed to form their own language.
Aaron caught maybe a couple of words out of every ten.
Something about Nietzsche. No, wait - you hated Nietzsche. Kierkegaard? Possibly.
Honestly, it could have been both. Or neither. For all he knew, you were inventing philosophers now just to keep the conversation interesting.
The two of you had been talking nonstop for the past hours - since the moment you boarded the jet. It had gone on so long, so consistently, that the noise was no longer conversation but had evolved into a kind of background static.
The rest of the team had tuned it out completely, treating your relentless back-and-forth as white noise punctuated by occasional bursts of excitement whenever one of you discovered a particularly âthrillingâ point.
...thrilling for you, anyway.
Aaron was fairly certain no one else on the jet had ever found Kant âthrillingâ - at best, just a dead guy with a vaguely suggestive name that occasionally got a laugh.
It stung a little, though, when Aaron thought about how the team had spent a good portion of that time joking about you and Spencer - probably their way of coping with the relentless noise of your debates.
âOkay, seriously,â JJ had groaned at one point. âwhen we get to the bar tonight, they are sitting at a separate table. I canât handle this anymore. And with alcohol involved? Forget it. My brain will shut down.â
Emily, sitting across from her, smirked. âOh, come on, JJ. Donât you want to learn about something completely useless while sipping a margarita? Could be fun.â
JJ shot her a look. âPass.â
âWe could all sit together at first and then just sneak off,â Derek said, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. âTeach and Pretty Boy probably wouldnât even notice⊠you know what they say - philosophyâs the language of loooove,â he added in a sing-song tone, waggling his eyebrows.
Penelope, who had been giggling quietly behind her hand, finally chimed in. âAw, like two adorable little nerdy lovebirds. Itâs so sweet!â
Lovebirds. Aaronâs jaw tightened as he stared straight ahead.
They were joking, of course. Obviously. There was no way they actually thought you and Spencer could be a thing. Relationships at work were strictly forbidden, after all.
It was in the rules.
Not that Aaron was thinking about relationships. That would be absurd.
It wouldnât work - not because he didnât like Spencer. Hell, Spencer was practically his first child. But the idea of you and Spencer together? It just didnât make sense.
Sure he was brilliant, compassionate, genuine - all the qualities anyone could ask for. But Spencer wasnât⊠well...
He just wasnât for you.
Not that Aaron knew what your type even was. It wasnât as if heâd spent the better part of a decade cataloging your preferences. That would be ridiculous.
But he did know one thing - you liked clever people. And Spencer was clever. A genius. Of course, it made perfect sense to everyone else that youâd be potentially a good match. Didnât it?!
And what about him?
Aaron felt like he was drowning.
The table was alive with energy, with three conversations firing off simultaneously. And Aaron sat in the middle of it all, the only one not speaking.
Still, he absorbed it all: every word, every shift in tone, every burst of laughter. He didnât interrupt, didnât interject, even when he had something to say.
He just listened.
He wished he could do more than that. He wished people could see that he cared, that he was invested in what they were saying, even if his quiet nods and glances didnât scream it like everyone elseâs chatter did.
Because that was the thing about Aaron: listening came naturally to him. Reacting? That was harder.
He watched as Penelope exclaimed, âNo way!â her hands flying up dramatically, her voice a beacon of enthusiasm. JJ chimed in with a soft âReally?â that pulled everyone into her orbit for just a second. Derek countered with a smug remark that had Emily rolling her eyes, but even she couldnât suppress a grin.
And Aaron? Aaron just sat there, absorbing it all while his voice disappeared.
An hour could slip by without him saying a word, until someone finally remembered he was even there.
And that was the irony of it all: he was probably the most physically imposing person at the table, but his silence erased him. The conversation moved forward, leaving him stranded somewhere back in the past topic, unheard and unnoticed.
Most of the time, he didnât mind. He didnât need to be the center of attention, didnât crave the spotlight - not here, not after a long day of being the Unit Chief.
But when he did notice? It hit him like a freight train.
Suddenly, he became hyper-aware of everything. The way his arms rested awkwardly on the table. The position of his hands. The stiffness of his posture. The sheer weight of his silence.
He felt out of place. Like a ghost at his own table.
Aaron shifted in his seat, stimming with his fingers - a small movement, but one that betrayed his discomfort. He glanced at the others, wondering if anyone had noticed, if anyone might throw him a lifeline.
But the table buzzed on, oblivious.
It started to sting when Aaron realized no one had asked him a question in the last 45 minutes.
He sat there, at the table with his team, feeling like a ghost at his own gathering. The laughter and voices surrounded him, a cacophony of sound that made it impossible to pinpoint one conversation from the next. He could barely hear himself think, and yet, inside his own head was where he remained, trapped, desperately wanting to be part of the moment but unsure how to step back into the light.
Thereâs a theory that says you donât exist unless someone calls and you respond.
So there was light.
A warm touch of a hand on his left shoulder.
Aaron froze.
And then, it happened. Finally, a question. At him.
âSo, are you going to New York tomorrow?â you asked, your hand still resting on his shoulder.
He hesitated for a second, as if needing to confirm that you were actually speaking to him. But the look in your eyes, the way they searched his, and the slight tilt of your head in his direction were more than enough to prove that you were.
It was strange. He wasnât really used to being addressed like this in group settings - directly, personally. When people spoke to him, it was always about work, requests to stretch the days off into a long weekend, or about Jack, asking if heâd seen him recently.
No, he hadnât. Not really.
Heâd seen Jack about a month ago for barely a minute. Heâd been asleep. Aaron had only gone to Jessicaâs house because heâd needed to, after the worst case heâd handled all year.
Even now, guilt lingered for intruding like that, for being selfish enough to need that quiet moment, and it only deepened when questions like those came up, pulling him back to what he hadnât done, to who he hadnât been.
And yet, no one ever asked him about that. About him.
The questions were always for Hotch the Unit Chief or Aaron the dad. They were never about just Aaron.
âI-I donât know yet,â he muttered, his voice barely audible. He half-expected you to nod politely and return to your conversation with Spencer. But you didnât... why?
âWhat play were you planning to see?â you asked, your voice soft but curious, as though the answer genuinely mattered to you.
He paused, caught off guard by the question. He wasnât sure why you even bothered. You knew next to nothing about musical theatre - less than he knew about philosophy, and that was saying something.
Because, if he were honest, he probably knew more about musical theatre than you did about philosophy. And you had a PhD in philosophy. Every paper youâd ever published had some philosophical angle, every argument you made seemed rooted in it. Hell, your mind practically breathed in philosophy. But musical theatre? That was his realm.
He wasnât just an occasional fan - he was a theatre nerd, borderline obsessive. The kind of person who read scripts for fun, hummed overtures from shows no one else remembered, and had opinions on whether revivals ever truly lived up to the originals.
So why did this simple question throw him? Why did it feel like there was a weight behind it he couldnât quite place? Maybe because you didnât know that about him - not yet, at least.
Sure, you knew he loved musical theatre - which, honestly, was already an achievement. He rarely felt safe enough to share that detail with anyone. You knew he made it a point to see a Broadway play every time he was in New York.
But the rest? The details? Those he never shared. Not with you, not with anyone.
You didnât know how often he went back to see the same shows, over and over again, as if they were old friends waiting to welcome him home.
Or how much he cherished the intimacy of tiny off-Broadway productions - the kind performed in spaces that barely qualified as theatres, where the air buzzed with raw, electric talent.
And he wasnât sure how to tell you all of that without sounding like⊠well, like him.
Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief. Father. Theatre Nerd.
âI havenât really decided yet,â Aaron began, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. âBut Iâve been thinking about catching this play. The original cast is coming back for a limited run this month to celebrate the anniversary⊠itâs kind of a big thing.â
What the fuck had he just said?
He sounded like one of those pretentious purists who thought only the original cast could do a show justice - the kind of person who wrote overly passionate forum posts about âartistic integrity.â
The same kind of person, ironically, heâd wasted too many hours of his life arguing with in comment sections, armed with nothing but a sense of logic, proper grammar, and the faint hope that maybe he could introduce them to the concept of reasonable thought.
And now? He sounded exactly like them. Great. Just great.
He needed to fix it. Immediately. Before he dug the hole any deeper.
âItâs not that I donât like the current cast ,â he added quickly, as if that would save him. âFar from it. Theyâre incredible. I saw them last year, and they were just as powerful as I remembered. ButâŠâ
Oh, great. There was the but.
âThe first time I saw itâŠâ He trailed off for a second, feeling a pull he couldnât quite articulate. âIt was on opening night, back when it was still off-Broadway. No one really knew about it yet. It felt⊠raw, I guess. Intimate in a way that stayed with me.â
Intimate. Really, Hotchner?
He immediately winced internally. Now he sounded like a creep. Fantastic.
That was probably why you were smiling at him like that, with those soft eyes and that too-kind expression. Compassion. Pity.
That had to be it. You were humoring him.
Perfect. Just perfect. Can he do at least one thing right in his life? Just one? Apparently not.
The words started coming faster, his attempt to salvage whatever dignity he had left. âI mean, itâs the themes,â his hands twitched as if to emphasize the points, but he forced them to stay still. âTheyâre⊠timeless, but also distinctly modern. Community. Survival. Resilience. Love in its purest and messiest forms.â
Now he was waxing poetic. Could he even hear himself?
âPeople finding each other and holding on, even when everything around them is falling apart,â he continued, fully aware heâd gone too far but somehow unable to stop. âItâs hard to explain, but thereâs something about it - the music, the storytelling. Itâs honest, but itâs hopeful. It doesnât shy away from how ugly life can be, but it still manages to show thereâs beauty in the fight.â
He finally stopped, feeling his face grow warmer by the second. He might as well have just stood up and shouted, âHi, Iâm Aaron Hotchner, Iâm 42 and Iâm currently experiencing a complete emotional breakdown over a musical. Please be kind.â
What was he even doing? Did he think this would impress you? No, worse - for once he didnât think at all. That was the problem.
âI donât know,â he added quickly, trying to reel himself back in. âIâm probably just being sentimental.â
Beautiful, Hotchner. Very subtle. He was officially done talking. Forever, if possible.
You still smiled, leaning in slightly, and Aaron braced himself for the inevitable teasing, the polite thatâs nice before you turned the conversation elsewhere. But instead, you tilted your head and said softly, âThat doesnât sound sentimental to me.â
He blinked, caught completely off guard. That wasnât what he was expecting. Not even close.
âIt sounds⊠personal,â you continued, your voice steady and calm. âLike it left a mark on you. I think thatâs kind of incredible, actually.â
Aaron stared at you for a second, his mind scrambling - you werenât laughing at him. You werenât humoring him. You were listening.
âI-â he started, but the words caught in his throat.
You tilted your head, your smile growing just slightly, like you could see how much he was struggling to process this. âReally, I mean it. The way youâre describing it⊠honestly, it sounds beautiful. You connect with it. Thatâs the whole point of art, isnât it? To find meaning in it, to feel heard.â
Beautiful.
Now you were waxing poetic. But somehow, hearing it from you didnât make him wince the way his own words did.
He huffed a small, almost nervous laugh, more to himself than to you. It was infuriating how easily you could do that, just be this way. âI guess it isâ
âOf course it is.â You teased lightly, sitting back in your seat but keeping your eyes on him. âNow, are you finally going to tell me the name of this life-changing musical, or is it some kind of classified information?â
âIt doesnât really matter,â he muttered, already trying to move past it. âYou probably wouldnât know it.â He caught himself. âItâs not important.â
You tilted your head, your smile unwavering, clearly not letting him off the hook. âIt sounds important to you,â you said softly, leaning forward just a little. âAnd if itâs important to you, itâs important to me.â
He huffed a small breath, glancing down at his hands. He couldnât tell if your persistence was infuriating or disarming - or maybe it was both.
âItâs called Rent,â he finally said, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.
âI know it,â you responded without hesitation, and he was so surprised that he couldnât help but chime in again.
âYou do?â he asked, the surprise clear in his voice - not because Rent was niche, far from it. It was one of the most iconic musicals ever.
But coming from you? This felt like a monumental achievement, especially considering that the last time you two talked about musicals, youâd admitted to not knowing The Sound of Music was anything more than a movie. At this point, heâd learned to expect anything from you.
âYes,â you said with a small smile. âItâs actually the only live show Iâve ever seen. My mom practically dragged me to it ages ago⊠it was the day I finished my PhD in linguistics.â
Aaron didnât know where to begin. Well, that wasnât entirely true. He did.
He knew youâd lived in New York while working on your PhD at Columbia, just a stoneâs throw away from the very theatres heâd spent hours traveling to whenever he could manage a free weekend.
And yet, in all that time, youâd seen exactly one show. One.
It was baffling. Almost impressive, really - your sheer commitment to avoiding the arts.
Was it a conscious effort? A statement? Honestly, he wasnât sure whether to be disappointed or begrudgingly admire the consistency.
âI donât remember much of the songs, sorryâ you admitted, your tone softer now. âI do remember, ironically, when we came in, they said the creator had passed the day before from a heart attack. I really could feel the emotion in the room. It was amazing - one of the most beautiful things Iâve ever seen.â
It couldnât be.
âJanuary 26th, 1996,â he said, the words spilling out before he could stop himself.
You paused, your brows knitting together as you thought. âOh, wow,â you murmured after a moment. âYes, thatâs right. How could you possibly know that?â
He felt his cheeks flush even as the words formed on his tongue. âThat was opening night,â he said softly, almost hesitantly. âI was there too.â
You stared at each other, eyes locked. Silence.
He couldnât quite put into words what it was that made the realization feel so⊠heavy.
Maybe it was the sheer improbability of it. How, out of all the places in the world, your paths had crossed that night in a tiny theatre in New York.
Because in 1996, you didnât know each other. You were strangers in the truest sense of the word - two lives moving parallel, unaware of the otherâs existence.
Of course, you wouldnât remember seeing each other. How could you? The thought was absurd, and yet, the thought of it - of you there, somewhere in that 199-seat theatre, maybe half full - flustered him.
Had your eyes met in the foyer, just for a fleeting moment, the way they were meeting his now?
Had you brushed past him, two strangers moving toward seats that would bring you close but never quite close enough?
The thought sent him spiraling, not because it felt impossible, but because it didnât. It felt inevitable.
Maddening and beautiful all at once, the kind of paradox that left him breathless.
There was a sweet, aching ignorance in the idea.
Neither of you had any way of knowing what you would one day mean to each other.
Of knowing that the stranger sitting nearby, lost in the same music and emotion, would one day become one of the most important people in your life.
It had to be fate.
You, sitting just as you were now - beside him, to his left. Or at least, thatâs how liked to imagine it. Maybe youâd even leaned toward your mother then, the way you leaned toward him now, smiling.
Some people are just meant to be, arenât they?
Fate, he thought again. Because if that wasnât fate, he wasnât sure what was.
So maybe he should go to New York. All the streets seemed to lead there.
Besides, someone he knew had just been assigned to lead the NYPD, maybe he should pay her a visit.
---
Hotch hadnât expected how much the latest case would affect his team - or himself, for that matter.
Heâd noticed something was wrong with JJ the moment they stepped into the first crime scene together.
There was a heaviness about her, a stillness heâd learned to recognize in the years theyâd worked side by side. It wasnât unusual for these cases to take a toll, but this one felt different.
Heâd confronted her almost immediately, pulling her aside when Reid and the officer werenât within earshot. Heâd told her he understood - how could he not?
Ever since Jack was born, cases involving children had clawed at him in ways he couldnât fully prepare for, no matter how many times he tried to steel himself.
But for JJ, it was different. It was worse. Every case they worked on - every horror they encountered - came across her desk first.
Every victimâs file landed in her hands before it reached anyone else. And far too often, those victims were women her age, mothers, daughters, lives cut short in ways too cruel to fathom.
Heâd told her it was okay to lose it every once in a while, that no one could carry this job without feeling its weight. She hadnât looked convinced, and he couldnât blame her.
Coming from him - the Stoic - it must have felt hollow.
He saw it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders barely eased under his reassurances. She was still carrying it, even after the case was over.
And so he tried again.
He approached JJ as the officer closed the door on the car, securing the unsubâs wife, Chrissy, inside. She had killed him, desperate to protect their future child from his violent legacy.
âYou okay?â he asked gently.
JJ stared blankly into the distance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It took a moment before she answered, her voice low and reflective. âYou stop caring, you're jaded. If you care too much... it'll ruin you.â
âJust know that you did everything you could,â he replied softly. âSometimes we get it right with a little luck, and most of the time we don't. That's the job. It's never perfect.â
He paused, his gaze shifting to her as his tone softened further. âIt's still better to care.â
âYou really believe that?â JJ asked, finally turning to look at him, her arms still folded defensively.
Of course not. Caring too much destroys you - it always does. Look at what it had done to his own life.
He shook his head slowly, his mouth twitching as if suppressing a more honest reply. âI believe it's never perfect.â
And maybe thatâs what haunted him the most - how helpless he felt in the face of it. Because he knew better than anyone that words could only do so much. Pain like that didnât dissipate because someone told you it was okay to feel it.
It lingered. It lingered in the quiet moments, in the spaces between cases, in the dark corners of your mind when you finally stopped moving.
Another one who didnât show the weight of the case quite as visibly as JJ, but was no less affected, was Prentiss.
She was better at masking it - that much he could see. But Hotch also knew her well enough to recognize the way she carried her thoughts.
The motive behind this case, the layers of injustice, had settled heavily on her shoulders. It wasnât hard to imagine why. Her frustration wasnât so different from JJâs in essence, it came from the same place - a longing for justice.
But for Prentiss, it wasnât just about the crimes committed. It was about the deeper, systemic unfairness that had brought them here in the first place.
He could tell she was thinking about Chrissy, the young mother caught in an impossible situation.
About how, in a patriarchal society, the person who would truly pay the price for all of this wouldnât be the perpetrator alone - it would be Chrissy, the woman who had tried to protect her child in the only way she thought she could.
It was horrifyingly unfair.
Aaron could feel her anger in the quiet moments, the way her jaw tightened when Chrissyâs name was mentioned, the way she avoided eye contact with anyone when the case wrapped. He understood it, but he didnât say anything.
How could he? He had no right to.
As a man, he knew he was part of the very system she was furious with. Even unintentionally, even passively, he benefited from it. So he stayed quiet.
But that didnât mean he did nothing. As a former prosecutor, he understood the gravity of Chrissyâs situation. The trial would not be easy. The legal system often wasnât.
But he also knew the power of a voice within that system, the importance of framing the narrative with care. So he took the only step he could think of, the only one that felt right.
He sat down and wrote a letter addressing the complexities of the case. He focused on the circumstances that had forced Chrissy into a decision no one should ever have to make. He laid out the context, the systemic failures, the humanity of it all. And when it was done, he filed it with the process.
It wasnât much, but it was a step.
It was all he could do - to have faith that the trial would deliver justice, not just for the victims, but for Chrissy as well.
With Morgan and Reid, the reasons were different - the questions a case like this left behind were vast, yet the two of them had latched onto the same one, albeit in opposing ways.
The cyclical nature of violence. The profound impact of familial legacy on individual behavior. Can you pass down the gene of evil? Is it inevitable? Or can it be changed?
It was ironic, really - how the same theme could yield two entirely different interpretations, juxtaposed like night and day.
For Morgan, who was slowly reapproaching a faith heâd long abandoned, the answers came from above. Or at least, he hoped they would.
Morgan searched for meaning in something greater, for the divine to offer clarity in a world that often seemed devoid of it.
Hotch couldnât offer much in that regard; he understood it too well. Heâd grown up in a family that confessed the same beliefs, heard the same hymns, recited the same prayers. And while the answers Morgan sought were his own to find, Hotch could offer a small gesture of solidarity.
So, when he went to the kitchenette for coffee, he made one for Morgan too. He didnât say anything, just handed him the steaming cup, hoping the caffeine would keep him awake long enough to wrestle with those questions and, luckily, find some peace before it spiraled further.
He added an extra touch - his last dark chocolate truffle. He wanted it for himself, truthfully, but Morgan needed it more. It wasnât much, but it felt like the right thing to do.
Because if there was one tenet of faith Aaron could still believe in, it was this: âbe kind to one another.â And sometimes, kindness came in the form of caffeine and chocolate
Then there was Reid. For him, the search for answers took a different path, one turned inward.
He sought them in the vast expanse of his mind, a database larger and more intricate than anything Hotch could fathom.
He knew that Reidâs healing process often began in solitude, pouring over facts, theories, and philosophical musings until they settled into something resembling clarity.
So, when he made coffee for him, he took care to prepare it the way Reid liked it - sickeningly sweet, almost more syrup than coffee. He didnât interrupt Reidâs silent contemplation. It was still too early, the thoughts too embryonic.
Handing Reid the mug, he let the younger man be, knowing that if Spencer needed logical confrontation, he would come directly to him. Theyâd discuss the meaning of words, the patterns of human behavior, and then Reid would likely move on with his day.
What concerned him, though, was the possibility that Reid might go to you instead.
It wasnât that Hotch doubted you - quite the opposite. If there was anyone who understood Reidâs need to dive deeply into the cultural and philosophical nature of humanity, it was you.
You had a way of peeling back layers, of digging into the complexities of existence, even when it required hours of intellectual and emotional suffering to do so. Hotch trusted you more than he trusted himself to guide Reid in those moments.
But if Reid came to you, it would mean the case had struck him harder than Hotch had realized.
Because you werenât the first step in Reidâs process - you were the last. The one who could challenge him, pull him deeper, and help him emerge on the other side.
Hotch took a sip of his own coffee, glancing toward Reid, who was already lost in thought, and then toward Morgan, who sat quietly with his faith and his chocolate.
Theyâd find their answers in time, he knew. Whether above, within, or through someone who truly understood.
Rossi though was, without a doubt, the most frustrating one to figure out.
It wasnât that Hotch didnât understand why the case had affected him - he did. The reasons were as plain as day.
But Rossiâs stubbornness and unyielding pride made it nearly impossible to offer any kind of help, let alone get close enough to understand the full picture. He was still adjusting to the group dynamic, still learning to balance respect for everyoneâs boundaries with his old habits of calling the shots.
Sure, there had been progress.
Rossi had made small steps toward blending in since rejoining the team, he was more open with him especially - but there were moments when his gaze drifted backward, to how things used to be.
That same tendency to look to the past was what Hotch knew had cut deepest in this case. The past haunted Rossi.
Hotch had seen it in the way his demeanor shifted, the way he threw himself into conversation with the local detective, whose story mirrored something unspoken in Rossi.
The detective had just closed a case that had haunted him for 27 years - a case that had cost him everything. His job. His mental sanity. His sense of self.
Rossi wasnât as different from him as he probably wanted to believe.
Hotch had overheard more than one of their conversations, seen the way Rossi leaned in when the man talked about his regrets, about the weight he carried. And more than once, Rossi had mentioned his own âunfinished business,â those words lingering in the air like a loaded gun.
Hotch didnât push. He couldnât. Rossi had to face it on his own first, to admit - to himself, above all - that there was something he needed to confront.
But he hoped that when the time came, Rossi would find the strength to do more than just admit it. He hoped heâd find the strength to let it go.
Only an agent was left - two, if he counted himself.
It didnât surprise him that the reason this case had shaken you was the same as his own, even if you hadnât told him yet.
You didnât need to. He knew you too well by now, and silence wasnât as opaque as you probably hoped it would be.
And the thing that would help you was the same thing he knew would help him: dialogue. A confrontation of two broken individuals, trying to make sense of the same chaos from different angles.
You and him, speaking two completely different languages: physics and metaphysics. One grounded in logic and structure, the other stretching toward something bigger, intangible.
You sought answers in the abstract, in the why, while he clung to the tangible, the how.
Together, somehow, you always found your way.
Hotch made his way down the aisle of the jet, paperwork in hand, catching sight of you before he even reached your seat. You were hunched over a file, so engrossed that you didnât notice him until he stopped beside you and cleared his throat.
Predictably, you snapped the file shut in an instant, like you were hiding state secrets. Too bad for you - he already knew.
âThereâs no need to be so secretive about that case file,â he said, his tone deceptively casual as he lowered himself into the seat across from you, one hand tugging his tie back into place. âEspecially when weâre both working on the exact same one.â
Your eyes flicked up, skeptical, and then down at the file he placed on the table - its size dwarfing yours like a monument to over-preparation. âImpossible,â you said, your arms crossing defensively. âYours is the size of an encyclopedia.â
âProbably because it seems Iâve worked on it more than you have,â he replied, allowing himself the faintest hint of a smile. âTell me, is it the Boston Reaper case by any chance?â
Caught you, Philosopher.
Your eyes widened, the look of someone watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. âHow? Why?â
That was all you managed to say, and Hotch had to fight back the urge to laugh. The great oracle of philosophy, reduced to caveman syntax. You sounded exactly like Jack when he was first trying to string together sentences as a toddler.
Those questions werenât even for him - they were clearly for yourself.
How does he know? Why is he working on this case?
And honestly, Hotch thought, the answers were so obvious it was almost endearing that you bothered to ask.
He knew why you were both silently working on that case on the jet back to Quantico. It was your way of coping with the uncomfortable fear todayâs investigation had stirred - that an old, unresolved case like this one could resurface, leaving a new trail of victims in its wake.
Fear - that you might end up like the detective from today, unprepared. All this time later, and still haunted by what could have been done differently.
The Boston Reaper wasnât just another unresolved case. It wasnât just about the local police pulling both of you off it before youâd even had the chance to work on a proper profile.
That had been frustrating, sure, but the ties to this case ran deeper.
For him, it had been his first case as a lead profiler, thrust into the role just as Rossi had abruptly left the team without so much as a warning.
For you, it had been your ever first unresolved case, the kind of professional scar that stayed with you no matter how many victories followed.
And then there was the part neither of you would ever mention aloud.
It had been the case assigned to both of you the morning after what could only be described as a monumental lapse in judgment - a lapse Mrs. Lee, would still gleefully encourage you to repeat.
âFear,â Hotch said simply, answering the unspoken why. He didnât dare meet your eyes as he added, âAnd you already know the âhow.ââ
Because of course you did.
That unspoken moment of realization between you was something he definitely didnât want to linger on - mainly because the second he saw it in your eyes, heâd probably blush like an idiot, and youâd never let him hear the end of it.
âSo,â he said briskly, gesturing toward your file, âcan I read the Oracleâs thoughts on the case now?â
You hesitated for a moment, then handed him the file. âI got stuck,â you admitted, your tone less defensive now. âThereâs barely anything in there.â
âWell, thatâs why Iâm here. Letâs see -â he said, flipping open the file.
His eyes immediately landed on one word written larger than the others, circled as if it demanded top billing in the drama of your thoughts.
âFate,â he murmured, his lips twitching at the irony.
Of course it was fate.
If the past few days had taught him anything, it was that the universe had an excellent sense of humor - albeit a twisted one.
You leaned forward slightly, pulling him back to the present. âHe uses the Eye of Providence as a symbol for his killings,â you explained, saving him from the philosophical essays youâd undoubtedly penned in the margins... thank God.
You continued âThatâs where I started. But it led me nowhere. Then I thought about how he wrote âfateâ on the windshield of one of his victims in their own blood.â You paused for a bit. âWords are more powerful than symbols.â
That struck a chord. Words required intent, precision. They carried weight. They cut deeper.
Hotchâs eyes dropped back to the file, scanning your notes as he absorbed what youâd said. Pieces started clicking into place, fragments of thought aligning in a way that sparked something.
 He looked up at you. âWhat if he sees himself as the personification of fate?â he theorized, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.
âWell, didnât you read my mind, Unit Chief?!â you said with a grin. âThatâs exactly what Iâm trying to prove.â That look - the one you knew drove him just slightly mad - prompted him to respond before he even had the chance to think better of it.
âAnd to do that, you had to go back quite a bit. Since Christianity influenced Western culture, we donât talk about fate anymore - thatâs more pagan. Instead, we talk about providence,â he said, his voice steady, almost clinical. âAncient Greece, on the other hand, is full of myths where fate is one the central themes.â
Your grin only widened, amused and maybe a little impressed. âWow. You really are good, Agent Hotchner,â you said with a mock coo. âYes, exactly.â
Of course.
You were teasing him - again - but there was a glint in your eye, a genuine spark that reminded him why he always ended up drawn into these conversations with you, whether he wanted to be or not.
âI did try the those first,â you continued âbut the imagery didnât match. To explain it, I had to revisit Stoicism. They saw the universe as governed by this entity called logos - a rational, divine order where everything connects in an unbroken chain of cause and effect. What I found particularly important is that fate, in their view, isnât something chaotic but part of a structured system. Itâs revolutionary.â
He wasnât used to your characteristic back-and-forth during cases anymore. He hadnât paired you with him in what felt like ages - since long before Rossi rejoined the team. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it wasnât. He didnât want to think too hard about it.
But hearing you now, rattling off ideas with that same unstoppable energy, he realized just how much heâd missed it. Your wits, your knowledge, your uncanny ability to pull connections out of thin air - it was as maddening as it was impressive.
Not that he particularly missed the mock praise youâd thrown his way earlier. That could stay firmly in the past where it belonged. Or, at the very least, it could try to sound a bit more genuine.
Not that he wanted to hear it, of course.
âŠOkay, maybe it was better to change the subject entirely.
He missed you.
âSo, by presenting himself as âfate,ââ you continued, âthe Reaper excuses himself entirely. Heâs not making choices - heâs just the inevitable result of the universeâs design. Or at least, thatâs how he sees it. Responsibility lies with the deterministic nature of existence itself. Quite of a sophisticated delusion.â you added, leaning back with a wry smile.
Hotch tilted his head. âInteresting⊠but if he truly believed that, why leave a signature? Why call 911? Thatâs ego. He wants us to know itâs him. Thatâs not someone surrendering to inevitability - thatâs someone demanding recognition.â
âThatâs why Iâm stuck,â you admitted, with a frustrated sigh. âThe contradictions donât align. His actions suggest ego, yes. A desire for attention, for dominance. But that one 911 callâŠâ
He leaned forward slightly. âWhat about it?â
âThe call bothers me,â you continued, your voice softer now, more introspective. âToo deliberate. Too⊠purposeful. I feel they arenât just challenges. Thereâs something else, I canât see it yet, but itâs not just about superiority. It doesnât feel like pure ego.â
He responded to you way too quickly. âThen what does it feel like?â
You hesitated, searching for the right words. âSomething human, maybe,â you said finally. âThereâs something⊠ordinary about the Unsub. Normal. He blends in so seamlessly that even his grandiosity doesnât seem entirely self-serving.â You gestured at the file in front of you. âI canât connect these pieces. The deterministic philosophy. The theatrical ego. The calculated call. Itâs like he exists in two worlds at once - one of chaos, and one of order.â
His gaze lingered on you for a moment. âAnd you think the truth lies somewhere in the contradiction.â
You shrugged. âDoesnât it always?â
Hotch exhaled softly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you.
You couldnât help yourself, could you? Always had to end with something emblematic, like you were writing the last line of a novel. Throw in a fade to black, and you were set.
âWhen youâre done making fun of me,â you said, raising your eyebrows at him, âcould you explain how, with the same lack of material, you somehow have a file twice the size of mine?â
He couldnât help the brief laugh that escaped him. Of course, youâd noticed.
âIâm not particularly proud of thisâŠâ he began, his tone measured but edged with a hint of self-deprecation. âBut after we were pulled from the case, I went back to Boston a couple of weeks later.â He paused, gauging your reaction before continuing. âI got George Foyetâs testimony while he was still in the hospital.â
Your head snapped up, staring at him, completely stunned. âYou?â you said slowly, suspicion lacing every syllable. âYou went back to Boston? The man who practically has the Constitution tattooed on his soul took a statement after being removed from the case? That wasnât even legal, was it?â
âIt wasnât,â Hotch admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make you narrow your eyes further. âBut I knew theyâd write a book about the Reaper case eventually. Once it became public domain, the testimony would be usable. I was just⊠proactive.â
âProactive,â you repeated, shaking your head with a disbelieving laugh. âThatâs barely ethical.â
He didnât miss a beat. âI blame you.â His tone was deadpan. âYou brought out the worst in me back then.â
You snorted, leaning back in your seat with an exasperated smile. âHow convenient, blaming it all on what were actually your overthoughts after some drunk sex.â
Oh no. Absolutely not. He was not going there.
He looked down at the file on the table, hoping the angle would save him from the inevitable reddening of his face.
Why, of all the things you couldâve said, did you have to bring that up? It wasnât even relevant - well, not entirely relevant.
Deflection. That was his only move now. Luckily, the one he had in mind was at least partially truthful.
âWeâre landing in a few minutes,â he began, keeping his tone calm and measured, âso how about this: when weâre back, we exchange files. You can go through the testimony, and Iâll take another look at where you got stuck with the phone call. We both take the night to work on it, and tomorrow, we compare notes.â
You tilted your head, skepticism written all over your face. âAnd what if someone finds out weâre working on a closed case?â
âThatâs why weâre doing it at your place,â he said, his tone completely matter-of-fact, like this was the most logical solution in the world. Because it was. It wasnât an excuse, at all.
You blinked, caught off guard. âOh, so now youâre inviting yourself over?â
âHavenât seen Mrs. Lee in a few weeks,â he said smoothly, like that was somehow a perfectly valid justification.
You laughed at that, shaking your head. âRight⊠You know what? She might adore you, but letâs not forget who she entrusted with her blueberry pie recipe.â
What?
And you waited all this time to tell him that?
So this is what betrayal feels like. A little less dramatic than expected, but still, very disappointing.
---
If there was one universal truth about the BAU team, it was this: no matter how different you all were, no matter how much tension simmered beneath the surface after a long case, there was one sacred ritual that bound you together - going out for drinks.
Especially after the cases that were draining, but not devastating.
The ones that left you raw but still intact, just enough to crave the company of those who understood the madness you faced.
This case had been one of those.
There was a quiet hum of unspoken agreement as everyone wrapped up their notes, pens clicking shut, desks tidied with a precision that came from mutual understanding rather than coordination.
It wasnât planned, but somehow, you all ended up converging in the bullpen at the same time, like a gravitational pull none of you could resist.
The collective exhaustion that had hung heavy all day began to lift, replaced by a singular, unifying hope: to fuck up your livers just enough to lighten the weight pressing on your minds.
It was Derek who broke the silence, standing up from his chair and tossing his notebook across his desk with a grin. âWhoâs up for a drink?â
Emily cheered like sheâd been waiting for this exact moment. âWhoâs up for five?â
âFive bottles, you mean?â you chimed in, feigning doubt as though you were on the verge of saying no.
âEach,â Emily clarified with a playful wink.
That was all it took for you to reach for your pen, clicking it closed with a dramatic flair before placing it back into your holder.
âCount me in,â Rossi said casually, like this wasnât the teamâs collective miracle of the week. For someone who had only recently started joining you on these outings, this was practically a declaration of loyalty.
âI donât know,â Spencer muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag - a move so predictable it immediately set off Derek.
âStop with the âI donât know.â Youâre in, kid,â Derek said, striding confidently across the bullpen, leaving no room for argument. âJJ?â
âIâd love to, but Iâm gonna have to take a rain check,â JJ said, offering a soft smile that carried just enough warmth to make Emilyâs heart squeeze.
That meant only a single person remained.
âUnit Chief,â you said, striding toward him with that determined glint in your eye. âJust one beer.â
Hotch exhaled, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at you. âSure,â he said simply, afterall he couldnât say no to that, not after a case like this.
But apparently, his mere will hadnât been enough to seal the moment.
The sound of the bullpen doors opening pulled his attention, the heavy glass swinging wide as a man in a suit entered. He moved with purpose, his expression unreadable, carrying an envelope and a folder that seemed too heavy for their size.
âAgent Hotchner?â the man called out.
Hotch straightened immediately, his spine rigid, the shift so automatic it was almost reflex. âYes,â
What happened next took seconds, maybe less, but it felt like a lifetime compressed into the space of a breath.
His left hand moved to sign the notice, his name scrawled neatly onto the blank space with a pen he didnât remember reaching for.
The man nodded once, taking the signed folder back with an efficiency that bordered on mechanical.
And just like that, he was gone - disappearing through the same doors he had entered, leaving destruction in his wake as swiftly as heâd brought it.
All that remained that could prove his existence was the envelope in Hotchâs hand, the weight of it far heavier than paper should ever be.
The bullpen was suddenly too quiet. Too still.
âWhat is it?â Emily asked, her voice cutting through the silence.
He really didnât want to look up, but he still did anyways.
He gestured faintly with the envelope, his voice quiet, flat, as though detachment might dull the edge of it. âHaleyâs filing for divorce.â
He paused, his gaze drifting back to the envelope, as though it might explain itself if he stared hard enough. Then he spoke again, his voice even quieter this time, almost resigned. âIâve been served.â
Before anyone could respond, he turned on his heel, the envelope still clutched in his hand like a foreign object he didnât know what to do with. He walked out, back through the glass doors, the weight of their closing behind him louder than it had ever have been.
You stared after him, your hand falling away from where it had hovered, wanting to reach out but knowing better.
You didnât want to drink anymore.
And him?
Somewhere beyond those glass doors, Hotch kept walking, as though forward motion might somehow keep him from falling apart entirely.
The envelope burned in his hand, and every step felt heavier than the last, carrying him into a night that suddenly felt colder and far too empty.
Because now, it was real.
---
Phiâs Corner: Did I just waste 5 hours of my life discovering that Tumblr only allows 1,000 text blocks max and had to re-edit everything? Yes, I did. Because Iâm a sucker for distanced one-liners, and the universe clearly hates me. Also⊠did you catch the little countdown? Hehe. Iâm evil. Oh, and for the record - I am Mrs. Leeâs #1 stan. Donât forget it.
taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24
#aaron hotchner#hotch#criminal minds#hotch x reader#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotch x reader#criminal minds x reader
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Tell No Lies
[Part One of the third Synovus installment.]
Living on a tropical island didnât mean the weather was always sunny.
Your island wasnât in quite the right spot to really get the worst of the monsoon season - too far on the eastern side of the Pacific - but you did still get plenty of rainstorms. When that happened, your group of minions battened down the hatches, triple checked the generators, and usually played cards or other bored games. Sorry, board games.
Sometimes you played, sometimes you didnât. You werenât playing this time, because you were catching up on some reading. Sans costume, slumped sideways in a chair, one hand on the cup of hot chocolate you had requested and immediately forgotten about.
Then your phone had dinged.
That was weird, because during storms you didnât usually have service - technology hadnât yet beaten Mother Nature entirely. But there were the underwater cables that had been set up to provide internet access, and emergency calls.
And that was more than enough for an entity like Optix to get through when it wanted to. Even when your phone was set to silent.
With a small sigh, you had set the book aside and reached for the screen. An email from Optix: the subject line, in all caps, âINVITATION.â
Intriguing.
You opened it, scrolling past the gold-adorned letterhead to the digital party invitation. You read it. You deleted it. You reluctantly pulled it from the trash folder to read it again. You forced yourself to read it a third time.
âThank you for informing me.â You replied to Optix, before sliding the phone away. The book came to rest comfortably against your chest, pages down, probably doing all kinds of damage to the spine. You stared up at the ceiling, ignoring the present to alternate between stewing over the possibilities of the future and miring yourself in the past.
Eventually, your field of vision had been interrupted by a slow-moving face, drifting in from your peripheral. One eyebrow raised, only inches from your own face, it continued moving slowly and smoothly past where most people would have reached a limit.
âDude.â Alexandria said, âYou havenât even blinked in like. Two minutes.â
Your erstwhile âapprenticeâ was using her abilities to float over you. Wearing her suit, which had been modified recently to include panels of bright color against the near-black gray youâd initially designed, she looked sleek and surreal. And older than seventeen, though maybe you just couldnât judge ages past âyoungâ anymore.
âHello, Menace.â Youâd greeted her placidly. âHow goes the Great Pacific Vandalism Project?â
Alexandria beamed, and floated away an inch or so to a more comfortable speaking range. Sheâd finally gotten a better handle on equilibrium in flight, so her gestures as she talked no longer caused her to wobble in whatever direction she indicated. âIt went great! We finally managed to get that CEO.â Her grin widened, âRight in the middle of a press conference.â
âIt was satisfying.â A different voice had agreed, as another costumed figure moved into your general field of view. This one didnât lean over you, but rather settled into the chair opposite, and helped themself to your hot chocolate. Cold chocolate, by now.
A bit of concentration had changed that, as the thief raised the mug to consider it. Their dark blue form-fitting suit had changed in recent times as well, now featuring more delicate details around the neck and wrists. Not quite scales, not quite flourishes, not quite vines, picked out in a slightly darker shade. The short cape at the hips now had flared ends, rather than a pointed tip. It had an elegance that Menaceâs suit lacked.
Or perhaps that was the wearer?
âNaiad.â Youâd been certain that your tone hadnât changed. âWelcome back.â
Minerva had lifted the stolen mug in salute, and allowed you a trace of a smile. Crime agreed with her - even if she only rarely agreed with it. Once the straight-laced, impeccable hero Athena, she was now known much more widely as the Naiad: a bioterrorist with a strong cult following among ecology groups.
Over the past year, she had very publicly and very precisely targeted companies who were responsible for much of the pollution going into the Pacific Ocean. Working alone at first, then allowing Menace to join her, she had made trips to the great garbage patches that floated in the oceanâs wide expanse, and returned their contents very directly to sender.
Cars, homes, persons, factories and distribution centers (while they were closed and no one was present; employees were innocent until proven guilty) were all fair game. The only way to be sure of immunity from the Naiadâs attacks was to publicly document cleanup efforts, make donations to the groups who did the same, and implement vast reductions in pollution.
It was good mother/daughter bonding time for the two of them. You knew your presence would only overshadow their efforts, so you simply offered aid and tips during the planning phases. And there was the standing unspoken fact that you would appear to bail them out, if it ever became necessary. So far, it had not been necessary.
Minerva had even admitted, grudgingly, that this new angle on life was, at times, fun.
And that, really, plus the trace of a smile, is what had given you a terrible idea.
â------------------------------
What was even more terrible was that Minerva had agreed.
She stood now at your shoulder, just a step behind, while your invitation was inspected by a man who had gotten very tense at your approach. His costume was patterned in pale yellows and purples, a strip of rainbow draped over his collarbones. You couldnât make out much expression behind the mask, but you didnât really need to when you could hear the material creaking as he prepared to square up.
âI am⊠confused.â He allowed, considering the printed invitation. âYou - do know this is a heroâs wedding, right?â
âIâm aware.â You answer flatly, the helmet giving you a wonderfully crisp punctuation. Youâve made only the slightest concessions to the eventâs formality in the form of a nicer, gilt-edged cape with decorative clasps, and white rose corsages at your wrists to indicate your intention of peace. âI donât begrudge you the confusion, Sun Dog. I will be grudging if you attempt to deny me entry.â
Sun Dog hesitated a moment more. You really didnât want to hurt the man, no one you knew of did - which was probably why he was the bouncer at this particular event. It was hard to hate the person whose sole job was disaster response and relief.
Just when you were resigning yourself to this going poorly at the gate, Naiad leaned forward over your shoulder. Her costume had been adapted to include a floor-length skirt in a blue ombre, slit to the thigh on the sides and revealing the usual suitâs leggings beneath, and her arms were bare to the shoulder except for jewelry in the places of her normal accents. Sheâd pinned her hair up with sea-shell and coral pins, with deep purple pearls for earrings. You stopped breathing, attempting to be as still as possible to prevent any of those decorations catching on part of your ensemble.
âParhelion. Weâll cause no trouble.â
The name clearly meant something to him. Sun Dogâs body language changed, shifting rapidly through a few shades of things you didnât know him well enough to identify. None of them were hostile, though, so you gave the man his moment to process.
âI⊠had my suspicions, butâŠâ Sun Dog shook his head, âSorry. Not the time or the place. Glad youâre alright - Naiad, is it?â At her confirming nod, he continued, âAnyway, the invitation is legitimate, Iâm just surprised you actually came. Uh. Guest book is ahead, gift table to the left. Good luck?â
You nodded regally and moved further into the venue, gaudily bedecked in white and taupe and glittering silver and gold. At the guest book, you confined your signature at first to the simple stylized S that was popular among bored schoolchildren. Naiad signed more gracefully, and pressed the pen back into your hand. You contemplated stealing it to make a point, but added the remaining letters to your name in a normal script instead.
Naiad was also the one to place your gift - a small black box with a silver ribbon - among the bright and shiny assortment of well-wishes, though that was more a matter of practicality. If youâd put it there, everyone wouldâve assumed it was a bomb.
And the entire time, you were surrounded by people in costume. Some had made little to no alteration to their standard getups. Others had clearly commissioned outfits specifically for this event. Those who were part of the wedding party were all in what felt to you like mockery of their usual garb; the same shapes and silhouettes, but in shades of champagne and adorned with glitter, their masks or helms altered to match each other.
You didnât stand out as much as you mightâve. There were heroes who dressed in dark colors and full-coverage helmets. It was the cape that really made your silhouette distinctive, which was why youâd shortened it from its usual wide floor-length to a slimmer, knee-length drape. And besides, who would invite Synovus to a wedding? Particularly this wedding?
Abruptly, you wished that changing your outfit hadnât felt like so much of a concession, a surrender. You wished that you couldâve hemmed and hawed between narrow or wide skirts, short or long sleeves, backless or high necked. Layers of chiffon, of deep blue with tiny flickering gems in blues and greens and purples, a clear blue sash at the waist, or perhaps a shawl around the shoulders -
But that kind of wishful thinking is what got you here in the first place. The moment passes. Your suit is familiar, fitting, and practical. The rosettes at your wrists feel like chains.
You hear the first whispers from one of the bright costumes around you. Is that Synovus?
You turn to Naiad, âWe should find our seats.â
â-------------------------------
You were, rather mercifully, seated to the back and one side, in a portion of the room not quite as well lit. The set up was rather traditional, with everyone split down rows, and the aisle in the center. You were on the brideâs side, and couldnât honestly have said what the name of the groom was.
A few of the heroes had taken to eyeing you. Before they could investigate or act on their suspicions blindly (you knew which one you thought was more likely), the music started.
And the lights went out.
Your hand found Naiadâs in the darkness, and you lifted it to your helmet so she could feel you shake your head. Not me. Your power was quiet, the shadows entirely natural. You remained still, watching the attendees shift and begin to whisper. Most of them must have been warned ahead of time - prudent, considering how many of these people youâd fought. How many of them had you given a fear of the dark?
When a light appeared, it was not natural, nor electric. Nor was it yours. A pale silver glow began at the foot of the aisle, illuminating from beneath one high heel. Then another. On the next step, the first light began to float, turning from a spot on the floor into a small orb of light. Others joined it, like so many small sparkling stars.
In this way the bride, the hero Dazzler, made her way down the aisle.
You had to admit, it was a stunning display. On occasion, one of the lights would twirl around her, granting tantalizing glimpses of her dress and playing off the crystals in her hair. The pale silver glow was soft and alluring, and in the darkness of the room, it made her seem as though she were a deity of creation; the steps she took forming reality in her wake.
At the altar, she paused, to hand off her bouquet. Then she turned to face the crowd, raised her hands, and called all of the globes of light to encircle her and the man in a suit who was presumably her groom. They formed the shape of a heart, then faded as the roomâs lights came back on.
Everyone oohed and awed appropriately. Naiad shifted, and you realized you still held her hand. Without conscious thought, your grip had tightened. Abruptly, you let go.
The two of you sat in silence as the ceremony began.
â----------------------------------
Once everyone had moved to the tables, you actually thought you might get through this without being officially recognized by anyone other than Sun Dog. That was both a relief, and mildly insulting.
Naiad had given you questioning glances since you had left the ceremony, but youâd yet to provide an answer. Youâd warned her before you arrived that you would speak as little as possible once inside the venue - your voice would certainly give you away. Naiad had said that was the consequence of being a monologuer. Youâd protested, vociferously, because it was true.
But as the guests were mingling, the open bar being besieged, the instant your shoulders started to relax, there was a high pitched shriek from somewhere behind you. Not a shriek of terror or anger or surprise. One of joy.
Of course.
The syllables of your name filled the air, broken into three and a half parts. There was a frantic rustle of cloth and the rapid clicking of heels. Then arms wrapped around your middle, and a heavily perfumed, glittery weight slammed into you.
You, very judiciously, did not move.
âIâm so glad you came!â Dazzler gushed, moving around in front of you. She let her arm trail as she did, so that she never lost contact with you. You felt like you were being circled by a shark. Up close, the makeup and glitzy hair-pieces felt like an attack. âYou never RSVP'd! Iâd almost given up hope!â
You still had not moved, even to turn your head. Dazzler pouted at you, and you tried to ignore that you knew she was just looking at herself in your helmetâs reflection. Around you, half the guests had abandoned their chairs or their place in line at the bar, half-starting, ready to leap into action. Every single pair of eyes in the place was fixed on the two of you.
And you knew that this was exactly why Dazzler had invited you. Youâd known when you received the invitation. You knew when you decided to attend. Because this kind of bullshit was exactly why youâd harassed her into moving to a different continent.
âMany felicitations, Diane.â You reply, as though she isnât doing her damnedest to make a scene. As though sheâd cornered you in a hallway, instead of the middle of the banquet hall. âI get invited to so few parties - I canât imagine why.â
Laughing, Dazzler moves to swat you on the arm, and transitions from that to looping her arm through yours. âOh, Syn. People just donât know you, thatâs all! Come on, say hello to everyone with me, itâll-â
You have no intention of being dragged off by Dazzler to become arm candy. But before you can find a way to elegantly maneuver out of the situation, Naiad is stepping between you.
âPerhaps things have changed since my wedding.â Without a filter, Naiadâs voice is not far off from Athenaâs. Sheâs taking a terrible risk to do this, that someone will identify her by her past persona and its questionable end. But Athena never took quite that tone of condescension. âBut greeting the guests is typically something one does with their groom.â
âOh.â Dazzler steps away, a tiny frown creasing her brow. Sheâs not used to having competition. Not used to being thwarted by anyone who isnât you. Still, she recovers quickly, laughing again and holding the back of one hand to her forehead. âOf course! With all the preparations and everything, I forgot thereâs so many steps! You must remember, right? All the decisions you have to make, and then thereâs so many people here -â
Again, Naiad cuts her off, âThen we wouldnât want to monopolize so much of the brideâs time. Happiness - and many years of it - to you both.â
She raises an arm to your back, and automatically, you reciprocate. It makes you a unified front, automatically reinforcing her words. You know everyone here will remember this. Naiad is now permanently associated with Synovus.
âBe well, Dazzler.â You add, so no one will think this is some kind of catfight you allowed to happen. Youâre not sure that thought was coherent, actually, but saying something seemed important at the time.
Together, you and Naiad turn away, moving to your assigned seats in a corner. The rest of the room is silent, except for the music no one thought to pause. Dazzlerâs bridesmaids - most of them heroes themselves - swarm her, whispering furiously.
Dazzler raises her voice to be heard by everyone when she responds, âOh, we used to date.â
âââââââââââ
âI dislike that I canât even call that woman a menace without besmirching my daughterâs name.â Naiad said, some time later.
The two of you had sat in silence while the room slowly restored itself to a cautious order. No one had forgotten you were there, but some seemed to accept that you were here peacefully. Given that you were not going to remove your helmet, and therefore could not actually consume anything, both you and Naiad had eaten before you came. This also spared the nervous waitstaff the task of servicing your - otherwise empty - table.
You let out a long, slow exhale, below what your helmet will verbalize. âCalling her anything will please her, in the end. Any attention is good attention, and if it lets her play the virtuous victim, all the better.â
Naiad glances back at you, gauging something. âShe fooled you?â
You wince, attempt to communicate something solely by facial expression, and fail utterly because youâre wearing a helmet. How to describe what youâd seen in Dazzler once?
âIâŠ. Wanted very badly to be someone worth effort. She caught me by surprise. It wasnât until much later I realized she actually believedâŠ.â You break off, grimacing.
Naiadâs head tilts in a way that suggests sheâs raising her brows at you. âBelieved you loved her?â
âNo - no, I knew she thought that. I wasnât - I was young.â
These had been the days before Rosie, before Doll. Before there had been anyone but you, still running from and hunting any of Sunhallowâs surviving lieutenants. Nineteen and alone and then suddenly there was someone telling you otherwise, someone with a power of light so like and so different from your fatherâs.
âShe felt.â You say finally, âThat we were⊠destined. Her light, to my darkness. That I was⊠tameable.â
It had taken some years of retrospection to put the pieces together, but you had. Dazzler had wanted a tame villain; proof she was worth loving enough that it erased your identity in the process. Justification for everything she was, because she was the âgoodâ half. The âpureâ one.
âOh for fuckâs sake.â Naiad mutters. She raises one hand, as though to pinch the bridge of her nose, but settles for bracing against the maskâs thick material.
âThat too. But as I said - we were young.â Your voice was dry, and a little bit weary. Dazzler exhausted you, even now.
âDoes she-?â Naiad cuts herself off, looking to re-affirm that Dazzler (and her groom) are on the other side of the room. Still, she lowers her voice, âDoes she⊠know, then?â
Your laugh is bitter, but it is a laugh, âNo. No, I got away before she learned all my secrets.â
You tap the table, curving your hand to make a small alcove where only you and Naiad can see your palm, and summon a small flicker of light. Then you let your hand fall flat again, extinguishing it.
âI am complete without her, by whatever metric you care to use.â
Naiad nods, accepting that explanation. There had been glasses of water on the table when you arrived, and sheâd pulled one closer to claim it. You can tell sheâs thinking by the way she traces its rim. You can tell sheâs upset in some way by the way the water in the glass rises to follow her movement.
âHowâd you explain the tattoo?â She asks mildly.
âShe never saw it. I think she believes I have scars I donât want anyone to see.â
A tattoo was a kind of scar, in a way, so it hadnât been a lie. And it had fit with the image of you Dazzler so wanted, for you to have been broken and abused. Ashamed.
Naiad narrows her eyes, âIf you were lovers, then-â
âDonât ask questions you donât want answers to, my dear.â
She leans back in her seat, taking the glass with her. She sips at the water and surveys the crowd. You pretend not to be surveying her. Dazzler was not a secret, per se, but the details of how youâd felt about it are not something youâve ever shared.
You need to stop giving Minerva your secrets. Particularly when she doesnât realize how many of them she holds.
The music is upbeat and space-filling. Loud enough that conversations are confined to their groups, but not loud enough you have to shout to be heard. Youâre pretty sure this song is on one of Menaceâs playlists - something by Chappell Roan.
âSynovus, why are we here?â Naiad asks finally. You willingly give up any attempt to identify the song to consider the question.
âBecause Iâve never been to a wedding. Well, no, thatâs not quite true. Iâve never been a guest at a wedding.â
Naiadâs gaze drifts to the middle distance, and she downs the remaining water like she wishes it was something stronger. You silently slide another glass over towards her - they set the tables for six apiece.
âWhose wedding were you in?â She asks, making conversation.
âMine. Technically.â Itâs a long story.
Minerva - no, Naiad, you need to think of her that way in the field - had been toying with the stem of the second glass. Now she stopped, becoming very still. At first, your attention pivots to your surroundings, searching for the threat.
Then Naiad says, flatly, âExplain.â
âIt wasnât - like this.â You wave a hand. âI - this was after Dazzler. There wasnât - Iâm not still married.â
âSynovus.â
âIt lasted a week, as weâd agreed at the start, the identities were fake, and we swore to never speak of it to each other again.â
It had been a last grasp at normalcy. You didnât have a social security number, you hadnât had a community in which to undergo rites of passage that werenât geared towards Sunhallow. Youâd never been to a public school or a prom or a fucking football game. But getting Vegas married and having a honeymoon, then immediately divorcing?
Well that you could do.
âWho did you even do this with?â Naiad asks, flabbergasted and possibly appalled.
âAh.â You wish you could sip water, to buy yourself time. âTallflawes.â
Naiadâs outraged, âWhat?â Is drowned out, however, by the sound of shattering glass, as a blurred figure drops through the roof.
âââââââââââ
Itâs a bad idea to crash a wedding. Lots of people, most of them easily rallied to at least half the attendeesâ defense. Itâs worse when more than half the guests have superpowers.
The good news was that no one had to worry about the falling glass - there were four or five different barriers flung up immediately.
The bad news was that it was absolute fucking chaos for five minutes. You hope no one attending had epilepsy.
You, of course, had no intention of intervening. This wasnât your doing, you were going to be blamed for it regardless, so you might as well enjoy the show. But then youâd recognized the invader as Prodigy. And he was alone.
And the only thing he was yelling, over and over, was your name.
So you stood, removing the white rosettes at your wrists as casually as someone adjusting cuff links. You called to the shadows youâd been keeping at bay. You dialed up the volume of your helmetâs speaker.
And as everyone in the room except Naiad - including Prodigy - found themselves wrapped in solid darkness, you bellowed into the room,
âBE SILENT.â
You also had a small loop of shadow kill the music, because you never did a thing by halves.
As the room suddenly quieted, Prodigy came to drift in the middle of the space. The hum of his hoverboard was the loudest thing in the room at the moment. He wasnât even struggling against your bonds.
And when he neither complained nor cracked a smile, only looking at you with wide wild eyes and tendrils standing on end, you felt your stomach drop. You knew even before he said, âTheyâre coming, Synovus! My homeworld - they sent a ship!â
ââââââââââââââ
[I did say this was the one where they went to space. Buckle up, everybody, itâs time to dance!
Which Chappell Roan song is playing? Whichever one you personally believe is funniest and/or most tragic. Tag it!
Links to Ao3.]
#synoverse#synovus#Tell No Lies#Personally I liked the idea of the song being Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl#but I see potential in other options#Also#what are peopleâs thoughts on Dazzler?
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Room Service
A Dave York x F!Reader one-shot
Pairing: Dave York x F!Reader
Word count: 2290
Warnings: EXPLICIT 18+ basically PWP; smut central; alcohol consumption; strong language; thigh riding; oral sex (F receiving); fingering; light bondage; unprotected PiV; praise kink; a little aftercare; sweetness among the smut. No physical description of F! Reader beyond her outfit (dress, stockings, high heeled shoes).
Summary: Youâve been summoned to Room 755 of the conference hotel by a man you know only as Dave.
A/N: Does this need explanation? Iâm firmly in the Dave York Pit. I had to get this out of my system. Smut is the result.
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The trick with passing unnoticed through the lobby and to the elevators is to walk like you should be there. Dress like you should be there. Donât give them any reason to think you arenât actually a guest at this glossy but generic business hotel, the kind of place that makes all of its money on conferences and overnights on company accounts.
The kind of place youâve been called to before, for exactly the same reason.
Room 755. You have taken a note of it in your phone. You get into the elevator, adjust your belted trench-coat and dress, and check your hair in the mirror before pressing â7â.
He had confirmed heâd be there at this time. A clear schedule for the rest of the day, he said, and he would like to make the most of it.
You walk confidently down the neverending hallway towards the hotel room. A firm knock. You can sense that heâs peeking through the peephole to make sure itâs who heâs expecting. And then it opens.
âHi there. You found it okay, then?â
âI did.â You step past him into the room, undoing your belt and unbuttoning the coat to reveal the fitted red dress beneath. âSo what do I call you? What would you like me to call you?â
He double-locks the door to avoid any unwanted interruption before taking your coat.
âDave is fine.â
***
Dave offers you a glass of red wine and you sit beside him on the small sofa near the hotel room window. You can feel his eyes roving over your body, taking you in inch by inch. Your high heels. Your stockings. The glimpse of your thighs. The way the dress clings perfectly to your tits.
He sips his wine and licks his lips lasciviously, edging closer to you.
âSo youâve got a free afternoon, Dave?â
He nods.
âCompletely free. And Iâd like to enjoy it.â
You cross and uncross your legs as you shift your body and lean forward, letting the line of your tits brush ever so slightly off his chest. âThat can be arranged. Iâd like to enjoy it too, though.â
Daveâs dark eyes sparkle with lust and he grins, eyes locked on your lips. âI wonât have a good time if you donât.â
You chuckle. âIâll hold you to that, Dave. Even if Iâm the one providing theâŠservice.â
He whines softly, so quietly you almost miss it. But itâs there. You can feel it. Sense how much he wants it. How much he wants you.
âSo with that in mind⊠where would you like me to start?â
Your fingers find the sturdy muscle of his thigh, trailing over the grey fabric of his dress pants and nudging closer and closer to his crotch.
Dave gasps as he reaches for you, leaning in for a kiss.
âTell me, Dave. Iâm at your service.â
âGet on my leg. MyâŠfuck, get on my thigh.â
You break the kiss and stand up to hitch the skirt of your dress up, exposing the lacy tops of the stay-up stockings youâve chosen for today. He instantly reaches for your thighs, squeezing the flesh as he pulls you towards him.
âGet on my fucking thigh, baby.â
You straddle his firm, thick leg and wrap your arms around his neck. Daveâs dark eyes are burning, now; the lusty sparkle replaced by wanton desire and need. He puts his hands on your hips and starts to move them for you, dragging over and back.
âRide like this.â
You nod obediently and kiss him deeply as you start to move, crying out at the sensitivity of your swollen clit and pussy dragging over the fabric. Dave never takes his eyes off you, occasionally grabbing your ass firmly or reaching for your tits.
âFuck, Dave, feels so fucking good. Wanna get off on you like this.â
He begins to suck at your neck, making you moan loudly with pleasure and sending a wave of wetness to your core as you fuck his thigh faster and harder.
âLet me hear you, baby. Câmon. I want to hear you.â
You give him what he wants. Itâs his time, after all. You grip his shoulders and ride his leg like a woman possessed until you come on him with a roar. Even before youâve lifted yourself off him, you know thereâs going to be a wet patch.
âGood girl.â He pulls you to him, still sitting on the sofa, and presses his face to your belly. His long, clever fingers work their way under the folds of your pulled-up dress and find the lace trim of your panties, tugging down the fabric over your ass and thighs. He takes you in, encouraging you to part your legs slightly, before he buries his face against your pussy, bending and tilting his head just so in order to sweep his tongue through your soaking folds.
âTaste good, Dave?â
He nods, lapping up your wetness like itâs his last meal. âFucking delicious. Fucking delicious little pussy, so fucking sweet and wet for me.â
When he breaks away you see your own slick glistening over his perfect mouth and the tip of that beautiful nose. You lean in and kiss him deeply.
âTasting yourself?â
You nod. âWith a little of you mixed in.â
He laughs, low and purposeful. âGet on the bed. Keep the dress on.â
***
He kneels at the foot of the bed, looking up at you sitting pretty above him.
âLike butter wouldnât melt.â
You huff a laugh. âAppearances are deceptive, you know.â
His broad hands start to caress your thighs, slipping over and back against the silky nylon stockings and hitching up your dress a little further with each pass.
He hisses at the sight of your flesh, the tops of your thighs bare above the stockings, the promise of your wet, warm, perfect cunt primed and ready for him.
âLie back.â
You follow his orders. Daveâs hands move down to the bend of your knees as he tugs your body forward until his nose is rubbing gently off your pussy. You whine with anticipation, thighs pressed against his cheeks. Heâs clean shaven, but with enough stubble to tease and titillate your sensitive skin.
âWhat do you want to do to me, Dave? I was here for you, not the other way around.â
He chuckles and presses his tongue flat against you, sending your hips bucking upwards. âI want to eat you out until youâve come twice more. And then I want to fuck you until you come again around my cock.â He traces a slow circle over your swollen clit with the tip of his tongue, pulling a cry of need from your throat.
âDoes that sound okay to you?â
You nod, desperate for his mouth to be back on you.
âWords.â
âThat sounds fucking perfect to me, Dave.â
He looks up at you for a moment, hips and pussy exposed for him, dress hitched around your waist, black stockings emphasising the flesh of your thighs. His hardening cock twitches in his pants, and he undoes the belt and tugs down the zipper before focusing again on you.
And then he pauses.
âYou okay?â
He stands up and walks around to the side of the bed, belt in hand. âArms above your head, baby.â
You donât break his penetrating gaze as you follow his instructions, stretching your arms out above you. A mewl of pleasure and submission escapes your lips as he wraps his belt around your wrists: not too tightly, he checks; just enough to keep your hands together.
Dave settles back between your thighs, taking a final look at your prone form before licking a long, slow stripe through the lips of your pussy. Your hips buck and writhe at the sensation, the feeling intensified by the restraints on your wrists.
He chuckles as he comes back for more, and he makes good his promise. You come for a second time as heâs sucking on your clit, for a third time as heâs flicking the tip of his tongue over the swollen bud while his fingers work you from the inside, expertly finding and massaging the perfect spot until he has you wrung out, boneless; slick covering his clean-shaven face and coating your inner thighs.
He lies beside you, naked now, shirt and dress pants discarded, and undoes the belt from around your wrists before pulling you tight to him, enveloping you in a kiss that sets your body aflame. Dave carefully helps you sit up and unzips your dress before easing it off you, pausing to admire you stretched out before him in your bra and stockings.
His broad palm follows the curves of your hips and belly, eyebrows furrowed as he studies your body from head to toe.
âYou said youâd fuck me until I came again.â
Daveâs eyes sparkle as he chuckles, a smile spreading across his handsome face. âI did.â
âAndâŠ?â
âAndâŠhow would you like it?â
You sit up and caress his face, placing gentle kisses on his nose and forehead, before moving into position on all fours.
âLike this, I think. Does this work for you?â You canât resist offering him a little wiggle of your ass, and you smirk with satisfaction when you hear Dave moan in response behind you.
He shifts into place, hands squeezing your ass and stroking your back before slowly sinking into your pussy with a long, low whine of pleasure. âIt works fucking perfectly, baby.â
The angle is just right, and the combination of his rhythm, the feel of his cock massaging your most sensitive places, and his fingers seeking out your clit has you careening over the edge before long. Your ecstatic cries are muffled, thankfully, by the duvet and pillows as he tilts you forward and fucks you until your cunt flutters, delighted, around him.
He pulls out and watches you flop onto the mattress, chest rising and falling as you come down from your high.
âGood?â
âThatâsâŠfuck. Thatâs one way of putting it.â
You reach for his cock, hard and ready, and languidly stroke it with one hand as you move to straddle him.
âYour turn.â He grins up at you. âArms above your head.â He obeys, and you reach for his belt to return the favour before sinking down onto him, pussy still throbbing and sensitive from your own orgasms.
âDo you want to come for me?â
Your hips roll over and over in a perfect, steady rhythm that has Dave panting and moaning with every pass.
âY-y-yes. Want to come.â
Pick up the pace, a little. He whines.
âGood boy, youâre so close.â You watch the flicker of excitement in his eyes at your praise, and take satisfaction in how well you can read him. âSo good, baby. Good, good boy.â
You lean back a little, cupping his balls with one hand while the other reaches for his, bound and stretched above his head. Your fingers intertwine as you watch him edge closer and closer to release, pleasure written all over his face.
âTell me when you want to come, Dave.â
Heâs bucking up against you now, desperate for it, eyes closed and mouth open as his breath hitches and stutters.
âNowâŠneed to come now. Now, baby.â
You purr the words into his ear.
âCome.â
He lets go with a roar, coming hard inside you until he has nothing left to give. Both spent, you flop back beside him on the bed, fingers tracing over the rivulets of perspiration on his beautiful, strong body.
Gently, you remove the belt, examining his wrists for any friction or pressure marks. He does the same in turn, turning your hands over gently as he studies the skin.
âIâve got some skin balm stuff in the bathroom, if youâd like.â He kisses your palm with a kind of delicate care that belies the man whoâd been begging to come just moments before.
âIâm fine.â Your eyes meet his, lost in the chocolate warmth of his hazy, post-coital gaze. âYou want some, though?â
Dave shakes his head and pulls you to him for a kiss.
***
You werenât supposed to fall asleep. You blink awake an hour later, naked under the hotel covers, Dave snoring lightly beside you.
âDave. Dave.â
He mumbles as he warily opens one eye, turning to face you.
âHi.â
âI fell asleep. Shit.â
His mouth meets yours before dropping to your breasts as he absentmindedly sucks on your nipples.
ââS okay, though. Right? You were going to stay anyway.â
You feel the strong muscles of his forearms, fingertips following the pattern of the freckles speckled across his golden skin.
âYou want me to stay, Dave?â
He furrows his brow. âThat was the plan, wasnât it? Did you bring your bag?â
âI did. Left it in the car, though, just to - I dunno. Add to the atmosphere, I guess.â
Dave chuckles as he pulls you in again, his laugh resonating through your two bodies as they press together: warm, soft skin on skin; the dew of post-sex perspiration still fresh.
âWell, it fucking worked, baby.â He kisses your forehead affectionately and caresses your cheek. âAnd the kids didnât mind going to Maiâs?â
You grin. âA long weekend at their cool single auntâs house with a pool in the backyard? I didnât see them for dust.â
He lies back and laughs. You nuzzle into his side, admiring the glint and gleam of your wedding band as you rest your left hand on Daveâs tummy.
A tell-tale rumble interrupts the blissed-out, post-coital mood.
âHungry, are we, Mr York?â
Your husband smiles at you like a mischievous kid. âWorked up an appetite, baby.â
âThen letâs call room service. Weâre not done here.â
(MDNI banner by @cafekitsune)
#room service fic#dave york smut#dave york x reader#dave york x f!reader#dave york fanfiction#equalizer 2#the dave york pit#davide yorque#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal
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Matchmade Part 10
Millionaire! Joel Miller / Reader
Having experienced traumatic, life altering events, a freshly divorced Joel worked to repay his debt to the person he owed his life to.
@peelieblue @feenoire @vickie5446 @liciafonseca @drewharrisonwriter
WARNINGS:
Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Soft Joel (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Joel Lives (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Character Death, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut.
SERIES MASTER LIST
Part 9
---
It was a lovely service. You said goodbye to the woman whose help had pulled you and Allie through all those years, and whose teachings and tips had a hand in who you were as an adult. She looked beautiful in her favourite dress. Tanya looked inconsolable. You said hello to your old neighbours, one of whom was Mrs Andersâ best friend, Alice. Alice had left the neighbourhood when she got married - you were about five or six â but she remained best friends with Mrs Anders, visiting her every single week, having girlsâ days together. You would run into her over the years, but you had never met her husband, who she introduced you to at the funeral today.
As it turned out, you had met her husband. Weeks ago, at the conference.
George, or Georgie, as Tanya called him.
He averted his gaze when you and Joel shook his hand, and you cringed internally at Tanya accepting hugs and condolences from his wife.
Oh, Tanya.
You had tried to be there for her, asking her if there was anything you could help her with for the funeral, but she brushed you off. Maybe the fact that Joel was with you every time you saw her didnât help. You had gone to see her as soon as you got to the venue, and she had, at first, looked as if she was going to hug you. But when she saw Joel, she snapped her eyes back at you and turned around.
He refused to let you go see her without him. He told you, that day, when the two of you had ice cream, something about her didnât feel right to him. You wanted to be angry at him, how dare he try to tell you what you can and cannot do? But, really, if you thought about it, he had a point. She was often volatile with you, but you had always been in public, with people. God knows what she could do to you if you were alone with her.
Was he being protective of you?
Nah⊠he was just making sure his tenant was safe. Thatâs all.
The tenant he almost kissed.
He hadnât tried again after you got the phone call. But what he did do, was take your hand as you were leaving after making dinner for him and Sarah that Monday, giving you his seat and serving you a plate. He and Sarah then proceeded to give you eerily matching puppy dog eyes that could rival a truck full of starving puppies looking at chow.
Okay, you surrendered.
And that was the beginning of the three of you having meals together.
When you received that phone call from Tanya, he had held you in his arms as you cried and cried for the loss of the woman you had considered a second mother. You couldnât believe it. She was so healthy. You were just talking to her earlier in the day.
And then, the next day, you received a visit from the cops, asking you of the nature of your relationship with Mrs Anders. They asked you to go to the PD with them, Joel immediately calling Maria to join the two of you. You were let go after they handprinted and fingerprinted you, and Joel provided an alibi for you, CCTV footage from his home showing them you were with him at the time Mrs Anders took her final breath.
Thatâs when you found out â she was hit on the head with a heavy object, her distraught daughter found her when she got home and called 911. The object was missing, they were considering it a robbery, since her jewellery, phone and cash were missing.
As you were leaving the funeral, one of your old neighbours, Mr Cohen, called your name. He told you he was the executor of Mrs Andersâ estate. He asked if you could join in on the reading of the will that next Thursday.
When Tanya heard this, she immediately retaliated. Why would you be involved in the reading of the will? Why would her mother possibly leave you anything? She looked dangerous, so much so, Joel grabbed your hand and pulled you away from her, holding you tightly against him, turning, shielding you from her. Mr Cohen grabbed Tanya to try and calm her down. She finally calmed down on her own and walked back inside, still seething from the news.
Joel asked if you were going to go, he was going to take time off for it, and bring Maria with the two of you. There was no way he was going to let you go alone. Heâd had a bad feeling about Tanya since he first met her, and the feeling had escalated to the point of no return. Simply put, he did not trust her at all. You told him youâd have to think about it. He decided he was going to take the day off anyway, and made sure Maria was available.
You spent the rest of the week thinking about it. On the one hand, you wanted to respect her wishes for you to be there, and on the other, you really didnât want to give Tanya more ammo to hate you more.
Come Thursday morning, you decided you would be going. You called Julie to tell her you wonât be in that morning, and that Sarah was going to be out too. Maria and Tommy came to the house early, having breakfast with the three of you, impressed that Joel and Sarah were eating well these days. She briefed you on what to expect, and that she would make sure everything was legit and true for you. Tommy left with Sarah, taking her to his parents for the day before going to work.
Tanya was the only other person there. She saw that you came in with Joel and Maria, and didnât cause any scenes, although her expression soured a lot when Joel put his arm around your shoulder when you sat down, his other hand above yours on your lap.
The session was short. She left you her house, Allie her car, and Tanya her savings. Since Allie had passed, the car would go to you too. Tanya didnât react, which was shocking, she simply signed what was asked of her. You, on the other hand, signed a document that said you declined the inheritance, giving Tanya everything instead. You didnât want her to have any beef with you, and this way, she could finally leave you alone.
She looked stumped that you chose to decline the inheritance.
She ran after you as the three of you were leaving, thanking you for your consideration. She was going to be homeless if you hadnât done that. You just smiled and held her hand for a bit. Joel offered you his hand to take, and you did. You gave Tanya a warm smile goodbye as you got into the elevator.
That felt good. You had never taken anyoneâs money unless youâd earned it. Why take someoneâs home away from them? You had a place to stay, a job, and some savings to get you going should this arrangement fall apart. You didnât need to take anything that didnât belong to you.
Surely, Tanya will leave you alone now.
**********
The next day after work, you took Sarah to a cafĂ© near the daycare for dinner. Joel had a work dinner going on and wonât be eating at home. You drove Joelâs new car that day, your rusty tin can refusing to start at all. You parked directly in front of the cafĂ© and went in, Sarah firmly in tow.
You said hi to Will, the 19-year-old working behind the counter, and told Sarah this was Benâs big brother. He made a fuss over Sarah, so this was the little girl his little brother wouldnât shut up about, promising her a brownie if she finished all her vegetables for dinner. The two of you had fun having a girlsâ dinner, talking about Ben and his cowboy rocking horse, and how Apple now seemed to like Ben now, too.
Tanya walked in just as you finished, saying a shockingly friendly hi to you as she saw you and Sarah. You thought to yourself, what a difference a few days made â she had gone all friendly with you now. Maybe things will be okay now. Will came by the table with the check, and you gave him Joelâs card, placing it on the holder he brought the check in. Tanyaâs face turned stoic when she saw the card, Joel Miller printed out on it. But she didnât say anything, so you and Sarah left after a quick goodbye to her.
You just got Sarah in her booster seat, about to buckle her in when Tanya pulled you roughly by the arm out of the car.
You were honestly too shocked to respond. Your hand splayed across the open door, shielding Sarah from her. You tried to shut the door so Sarah would be safe, both physically and mentally from what she was about to spew at you, but she blocked you.
âThis is why you declined the inheritance? Youâre his sugar baby now? Spending his money, warming his bed, pretending to be nice to his daughter to pay for his kindness? How is it that you always, always get everything and I get nothing? Huh? What, did you fuck him senseless, like the whore you are? Is that why he gave you all this? Hiring fancy lawyers for you, buying you cars, bringing you home to live with him, playing family with him? Why do people like Jimmy, like Joel Miller always go head over heels for you, and I get nothing?â she was enraged, her face red from screaming, spit flying out of her mouth. She looked demented.
âTanya, this is not my car. My car wonât start, he let me borrow this so I can drive Sarah. He let me stay at his guesthouse. We are friends, thatâs all. You just bought a brand-new car, I could not afford one, remember? And as for the inheritance, I gave you everything back, I donât want any of it. I thought we were past this. Please donât do this in front of Sarah.â
âOh, sure, you gave everything back. And you know what people are saying? Good old Addie. How kind of her, to give Tanya everything back, such a good-hearted Addie. And what about me? Iâm the bitch whose mother hated her so much, she gave her house away to you! You always had to be the saint, donât you? Saint Addie. The goody two shoes who deserves everything good while I get scraps!â
Her hand moved to get something from her pocket, and you instinctively moved to block Sarah from her, and before you knew it, a sliver of silver flashed before your eyes, a piercing pain going through your forearm, which had reflexively come up to shield your face.
All you could feel was pain, and all you could hear was Sarah yelling your name, yelling at Tanya to not hurt you. Â
You yelled at Sarah to run, as Tanya tried to grab at her. But you pushed her off, and she fell, the knife she had used clattering away from her hand. Sarah jumped out of the car and went running into the cafĂ©, screaming for Mr Benâs Brother to come help you.
Tanya immediately got on her feet and scarpered. By the time Will, the staff and patrons of the cafĂ© came out, Will making sure Sarah was safe behind the closed doors, Tanya had run away, and you were left on the sidewalk, your forearm bleeding profusely. The manager of the cafĂ© called the cops and ambulance, while Will went to get a hysterical Sarah from the cafĂ©, screaming for you. You kept telling her you were okay, Iâm okay Sarah, Iâm okay, sweetie. You stay with Will okay? You didnât want her to see the blood on your arm.
The paramedic was looking at your arm when a panicked looking Joel and Tess arrived, Joel immediately getting a crying Sarah from Will, checking her for injuries. You felt so guilty. You had put his BabyGirl in danger. You kept telling him you were sorry, youâre so sorry. He handed Sarah over to Tess, and came to check up on you, asking you if you were okay. His face turned beet red when he saw the cut on your arm, his eyes checking the rest of your for other injuries. When he was satisfied that you were otherwise okay, he immediately pulled you in for a hug, his lips finding your temple, whispering thank God. You kept saying sorry, and he shook his head, telling you that you had done nothing wrong.
The police questioned you and everyone in the cafĂ©. Although, apparently, they didnât need to. Joelâs new car had 360 degrees cameras. So did the cafe. Everything was caught as it happened. Tanya will not be getting away with this.
Sarah refused to be parted from you, forcing Joel and Tess to take her with you to the hospital. She at least conceded to staying with Tess in the waiting room while you and Joel went in to get your cut looked at. Tommy, Maria, Anita, Jake, Julie, Jimmy and Cece all arrived soon after, all worried sick for your well-being. Julie immediately asked Tess what happened?
âThe bidge lady cut Miss Addie,â Sarah said, her face still puffed up and wet from crying. âShe yell at Miss Addie and cut her. Miss Addie tell me to run.â She started crying again, Tess hugging her tight to console her.
Everyone except for Anita and Jake knew immediately who she was talking about.
About an hour later, you and Joel came out, you with a bandage on your arm, twenty stitches hidden under it. Sarah ran straight to you and hugged your legs, asking you if you were okay. Joel picked her up and she immediately lunged at you, wanting to be close to you, but Joel told her that your arm was hurt, letâs not hurt Miss Addie some more okay? She nodded. But asked her Daddy to stay close to you. She spent the car ride home patting your arm, just above the bandage, giving you all sorts of âmedicalâ advice on how to take care of your âboo-booâ.
The ladies all helped you undress and get clean, despite your protests. Julie offered to stay with you, but you declined. Itâs okay, you said, they gave you some strong painkillers. Youâll be knocked out anyway. Anita and Maria made sure you ate, opting to stay with you at least until you fell asleep. Anita and Jake were staying over in case Joel needed to take you back to the hospital.
Joel had called the security team that guarded his office building and dock. They sent people over to stand guard at his house. Until Tanya was arrested, he was not taking any chances.
Just after you had your pills, Joel knocked on the door, Sarah in his arms. She wanted to say good night, he said. She immediately sidled down from his arms and climbed onto your bed, cuddled up to you. You let her. She refused to leave. So Joel let her lay there with you until she fell asleep, thinking he will lift her up to bed once she did. But when he tried that, she held on to you tighter, not wanting to leave Miss Addie alone. You told him itâs okay, she could stay. He found himself dragging his own feet to leave, worried about leaving you and Sarah alone, the two of you being as traumatized as you were.
âDaddy, come sleep here,â Sarah said sleepily, patting the empty space beside her. Joel looked at you, and you nodded. The pills were starting to take effect, and you were too happy to think that you wonât be alone, that he will protect you. Joel laid in bed with the two of you, stroking Sarahâs hair until she fell back asleep.
You were fighting sleep, somewhere in the back of your head you feared waking up finding Tanya in your studio. Joel took your hand in his, and spoke to you in his soft, low baritone, telling you everything will be okay. He wonât let anything happen to you. When you finally dozed off, he spent about an hour just watching you and Sarah sleep, before turning the lights off to sleep himself. He went to the kitchen to get glasses of water for the three of you. One of the guards shone a light across the backyard, and he thought he saw Allie sitting in one of the armchairs across from the bed watching him, an approving smile on her lips.
When he turned to look properly, she was gone.
**********
That Saturday, you were served breakfast in bed. You protested, your forearm was injured, but the rest of you was fine. You could walk, do everything you wanted to do. No problem. Nope, Anita said. Rest. Everyone converged around your bed, having breakfast together, Sarah stealing the raisins from her Daddyâs bowl. Joelâs phone rang. He spoke on the phone away from the rest of you for a bit, and you could see his shoulders went from rigid to relieved.
âTanyaâs in custody,â he said, a satisfied smile on his face. âThey need you to come in to make a positive ID. Are you up for it?â
Of course you were. Anything to sleep better at night again.
You quickly got ready and went to the PD with Joel. Tanya was sat in an interrogation room, looking down on her luck, her tears falling like waterfalls. After you had confirmed that it was indeed her who attacked you, Joel didnât waste any time asking how long she would be in prison for the assault, but was told that due to new developments, they were unable to share that information yet.
Joel took you home, where Sarah insisted on the three of you lying in your bed watching The Little Mermaid, because you need to rest. Naturally. You did fall asleep, your medication helping you zone out of the singing lobster faster than youâd like.
**********
When you woke up, you were greeted outside by an awkward looking Joel, nicely dressed in his nicer pair of jeans and flannel.
âSarah has requested that you get ready for dinner. In a dress, she said. Her words, not mine.â
You were befuddled, and not from the medication. Huh?
âSheâs⊠cooking⊠for you. And me. For us.â He was looking at his shoes, finger tracing the gate of the swimming pool. âI swear it wasnât my idea. She made me. Sheâs in the kitchen, âcookingâ. Tommy and Maria are helping her. I swear.â
You thought about what he said.
âSheâs forcing us to have dinner together?â
He pouted in contemplation, âMore like⊠a dinnerâŠÂ date.â He stopped, trying to gauge your reaction to that little piece of news.
You gave an âoh, thatâs so cuteâ pout, and said youâll be back, ready for the âdateâ, complete with air quotes.
Joel wanted to smile, but the air quotes gave him pause. Yes, he was just entertaining his daughterâs wishes too, but did you not want this as much as he did?
No matter, he thought. Heâll take any time he could spend with you.
You came out about 30 minutes later, dressed in your nicest summer dress. Joel came to get you at your door, offering his arm for you to take. The two of you sat at the gazebo, and before long, Tommy came out carrying a basket, a dish towel on his arm.
You could see Sarah peek at the two of you from the patio door, her body practically vibrating from excitement.
Tommy placed two pre-packaged bread rolls on your table, and a bottle of mineral water and a juice box each for you and Joel. He then took a bow and said he will be back with the first course.
Which turned out to be a cracker and a Kraftâs cheese.
You and Joel toasted each other, âclinkingâ the crackers together before taking a bite, both pretending itâs the best thing you had ever tasted. You can hear Sarah giggle with happiness, Maria ushering her back in, telling her the main course was almost ready.
âThank you for playing along,â Joel said to you, taking a sip from his water bottle.
âItâs not playing along if I want to do it. This is very sweet of her.â
âYou donât mind that my daughter basically tricked us into having a date? Where the first course is stale crackers with cheap sandwich cheese?â
âBest first course ever!â you said, taking another bite of the combo, closing your eyes and exaggerating another âyum!â.
He laughed. âThank you anyway, for entertaining her. I assure you, if I were to really take you out on a date, it would be much nicer than this.â
âDonât you dare mock this date, Joel Miller. This is the best date Iâve ever been on so far!â
âWhen was the last time you went on a date?â
âLetâs just say, my parents were still alive.â
He looked shocked. He had known you were focused on Allie, but not even a date? Shit. He needed to make this count.
âHow about you?â
âBefore Sarah. My honeymoon, I think?â he smiled, but then looked a bit lost in thought.
God, you couldnât imagine it. It sucked when you were basically a nun for 12 years, but to have a partner like he did, and be treated the way he was? Shit. This man must be a saint.
Tommy came back before you could say anything else, bringing you the main course. Boxed microwaved Mac and Cheese. He and Joel had a hard time keeping their faces straight. You had to smack both of them with your napkin. Sarah is watching, you doofus. Joel couldnât help it, telling you itâs his fault. He served her this meal every week. The safe meal that he couldnât burn, and he told her that. Heâs pretty sure thatâs why she chose this meal to be on the menu. That got you laughing too, remembering his feeble but admirable attempts at cooking for his little girl.
The main course was surprisingly good, bringing you back to when you and Allie would have them on the days you didnât feel like cooking, watching TV and laughing together. Tommy sent the dessert, caramel pudding in a cup, before telling the two of you the kitchen was now closed. You immediately demanded to see the chef, and when Sarah came out, the four adults gave her a resounding clap for a job well done, earning sweet, sweet, proud giggles from her. They hugged you and Joel goodnight, Maria telling you she and Tommy are taking Sarah home with them, before leaving with a wink.
As they left, Tommy played the song Sarah had chosen for the after-dinner dance. The Bluetooth speakers blared, Kiss the Girl playing softly in the background.
Joel stood up and offered his hand to you, leading you in a slow shuffle. You placed your head on his shoulder, feeling certain you could hear his heart beat. Or was that yours?
You didnât dare look at him.
But then you felt his head tilt towards you, and you looked up to him, just in time to see him glance at your lips, before capturing them in his.
Your feet stopped moving, as did his. Both of you just focussed on tasting each otherâs lips, the feel of your bodies pressed up against each other, how his shoulders felt in your hand, how your waist felt in his.
You couldnât help the soft moan that escaped you, pulling him down closer to you. he groaned, lifting you up and carrying you into your studio, kicking the door closed before placing you gently on your bed, kissing you some more, as if his life depended on it.
The two of you were like teenagers that night, spending hours talking, getting to know each other, making out, talking, laughing, and making out some more. You told him how nervous you were, you hadnât had a man in your bed since before your parents died, and he reciprocated, he and Liz hadnât had sex since they found out she was pregnant with Sarah.
Ooh, thatâs what, four years? Totally the same as twelve.
He laughed, kissing you silly. Weâll take it slow, he said, before kissing you breathless again and again, and again.
You fell asleep in his arms.
**********
A presence in the room woke you up. It was early, but the sun had come up a bit.
Allie was sitting in the armchair facing your bed.
She looked sad, defeated, and somehow, angry at the same time. There were tears in her eyes.Â
âAllie?â
âIâm sorry, Oldie.â
âWhat do you mean?â You turned the lights on, and just like that, she was gone.
âWhatâs going on?â Joel asked, awoken by the sudden light.
âAllieâŠâ you said. He immediately got up, looking at the armchair.
âHow did you know to look there?â
âShe came to me the night you got injured. She didnât say anything, though. Just smiled.â
âShe smiled?â
âYeah, why? Whatâd she say to you?â
âShe said sorry.â
You burst into tears. You couldnât help but cry, all your feelings came out. You missed her. You would do anything to bring her back. You felt guilty for moving on. Guilty for not giving her everything you could. Guilty for having a good life without her. Joel held you tight, rubbing you back, letting you cry into his chest. Why was she sorry?
**********
Both your phones beeped. A text from the detective who called Joel the other day, asking you to come in one more time.
Joel made sure you were calm enough to leave. He brought you to the brunch place for breakfast before taking you to the PD, calling Maria to have her there with you.
The developments on Tanyaâs assault, you found out, was the fact that she was found on a property belonging to a certain government higher up, someone who also knew Mrs Anders, through his wife, as well as Tanya herself. A property, where the murder weapon, an antique rotary telephone, was found, with Tanyaâs prints in blood on them.
âShe killed her own mother?â you thought out loud, unable to believe what you just heard.
Thereâs more, the detective said. A car was found in the garage attached to the property. Upon her arrest, a CCTV footage was sent anonymously to the PD. He placed a tablet on the desk in front of the three of you, and hesitantly pressed play.
It was the Traffic Cam footage that was missing from Allieâs accident. You felt your insides go cold.
You watched as Allie was walking to school. She stopped at the crossroads, looked around for incoming cars, and continued walking. A familiar car approached, slowed down, before gunning it, sending Allie hurtling into the drains. You willed yourself to continue watching, as the driverâs window rolled down.
Tanya looked out the window where Allie had fallen, as if making sure she wasnât moving, before taking off again.
---
Part 11 - Allie
#joel miller x reader#the last of us fanfiction#joel miller#joel miller fanfiction#tlou fanfiction#joel miller x you#millionaire Joel Miller
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Excerpt from this Conservation Works blog on Substack:
Michael SoulĂ©, the founder of conservation biology, used to say that one of the most important pieces of advice he got as a young scientist was âwhen in doubt, count.â Monitoring â counting or otherwise measuring organisms in the same place over time â is the foundation of conservation biology, and in many ways itâs the foundation of conservation, too. Unless someone counts how many lizards, salmon, ferns, or species of butterflies live in a certain place, and repeats the count at regular intervals, that group of organisms can decline or even die out unnoticed. Before an organism can be conserved, it has to be counted.
But whatâs the point of counting organisms that seem doomed to extinction? Thatâs the question tropical biologist Peter Edmunds addresses in a recent BioScience essay titled âWhy keep monitoring coral reefs?â
For nearly four decades, Edmunds has been monitoring coral reefs at two locations in the U.S. Virgin Islands, using annual photographs to measure changes in the relative extent of coral and algae. He started the project in 1987, less than a year before the first known Caribbean-wide coral bleaching event; since then, coral extent at one of his sites has shrunk by 92 percent and at the other by 52 percent. Both reefs used to be dominated by boulder star coral, a large, stony species that provides structure to Caribbean reefs and protects the regionâs coastlines from erosion. Now, they are dominated by fast-growing âweedyâ corals and algae. Given that climate change continues to drive up water temperatures and increase the frequency and intensity of hurricanes, writes Edmunds, âthe prospects for community recovery are bleak.â
Yet he argues that monitoring matters, and will continue to matter. The series of photographs Edmunds and his colleagues have accumulated, for instance, suggests that acute disturbances such as hurricanes and major bleaching events cause less damage over time than the everyday stress of rising water temperatures. Moreover, as he writes drily, âthe past is an imperfect predictor of the future, ensuring that old data can never fully take the place of new information.â Even a grievously altered system such as the Virgin Islands reefs will continue to change in different ways for different reasons, and understanding those changes will be essential to protecting the life that persists â both at sea and on land.
I was reminded of Edmundsâ argument earlier this month, when I attended the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem Biennial Scientific Conference, held this year in Big Sky, Montana. One of the speakers was Tom Olliff, an ecologist who, like Edmunds, has dedicated himself to one ecosystem: he spent 32 years living and working in Yellowstone National Park, eventually directing its Science and Resource Management Division.
Olliff noted the remarkable changes in and around Yellowstone during the course of his career, including the reintroduction of wolves, the recovery of grizzly bears, the boom in visitor numbers, and the excruciating and still-growing development pressure on private lands. He called on his listeners, who included many colleagues and friends, to undertake âaudacious acts of conservation,â projects that take a long time to realize and may face determined opposition.
Olliff named some headline-grabbing audacious acts, like wolf reintroduction and dam removal. But he ended his talk with a quieter example. In his current position as a regional research manager for the National Park Service, he has been working with wildlife biologist Don Swann on the long-term monitoring of saguaro cacti in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona and Mexico. Though adult saguaros are still common, young saguaros are struggling to survive as temperatures rise. How long should scientists plan to monitor the population? Four decades from now, a report on the saguaro population might be as grim as Edmundsâ assessment of the Virgin Islands reefs.
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A friend of a friend posted this to hatebook:
Annnnnnd.... He's back.
Musk left Washington to try to make a $100 Billion hostile takeover of OpenAI. It was a fail.
So he raced back to Washington to do damage control. Seems like his hostile takeover of the US government is in danger of failing too, after pushback from Judges.
And then he failed again, at a joint press conference with Trump today. He actually took over at one point, pushing Trump aside, to explain American democracy to the Press.
Oh BTW. We should mention that The Associated Press was not there. Trump banned them from the White House after they did not call the Gulf of Mexico the Gulf of America, like he ordered them to do. Their reporter was turned away from the Oval Office.
It should be noted that The Associated Press is not an American newspaper, but an international organization of journalists and media sources that shares information. It is non-profit, receives no government funding, and has contributing reporters from every US state and from 100 other countries.
It should also be noted that while the US President can rename a location in his own country, the Gulf of Mexico is in international waters, and it IS the legal name that the WORLD knows it by. Since the Associated Press provides its services world-wide, THAT is how the Gulf should be referred to.
Anyway. Back to the press conference. Which apparently from now on will only be for press loyal to Trump. Not the Free Press. The First Amendment of the Constitution has been banned by Trump, along with the Associated Press.
And also apparently, along with democracy.
Seems like Trump and Musk have their OWN definition, and Musk expained that definition of democracy for the press.
"If the people cannot vote and have their will be decided by their elected representatives, in the form of the president and the Senate and the House, then we don't live in a democracy we live in a bureaucracy," said Musk.
Sooooo ...... Democracy is what ELECTED officials do, and that is GOOD.
But if UNELECTED officials do something, then they are a BUREAUCRACY, and that is BAD.
Um. Wait. Hold on.
Aren't YOU an unelected official, Elon? Isn't your DOGE organization a bureaucracy by your own definition?
No no no, says Musk. I was APPOINTED by Trump, who is an elected official. And then I was qualified to chose my workers. See?
Stop. Wait. Isn't EVERY Department head chosen by the president, and confirmed by elected representatives in the Senate? Aren't THEY qualified then to choose THEIR workers?
Apparently not. The reason everyone was in the Oval Office was because Trump was signing another Executive Order, which ordered that âagencies will undertake plans for large-scale reductions in force and determine which agency components (or agencies themselves) may be eliminated or combined because their functions arenât required by law.â
(Musk specifically has the Department of Education and the Department of Labor in mind.)
Trump's Executive Order also said that agencies should âhire no more than one employee for every four employees that depart from federal service.â
Wait. Three quarters of the workers in EVERY department must go? No matter WHAT it is they do?
Oh. Trump said there are supposedly "plans" for exceptions when it comes to immigration, law enforcement and public safety. But those were not spelled out.
Maybe they are just "concepts of plans". Like Trump's concepts of plans for healthcare and FEMA and Social Security. Or maybe like foreign aid and farm grants, they'll just go poof, and disappear in a later whim. Who knows? Who cares?
Apparently quite a few judges, who are starting to push back. Hence the air of desperation and panic from Those Who Must Not Be Questioned.
U.S. District Judge Carl Nichols, a Trump appointee, issued a stop order Friday on an unthought out plan to place thousands of USAID employees on leave. And the judge also agreed to block an order that would have forced the thousands of overseas USAID workers just 30 days to move their families and households back to the U.S.
The next day U.S. District Judge Paul A. Engelmayer blocked DOGE from accessing Treasury Department records that contain sensitive personal data such as Social Security and bank account numbers for millions of Americans.
But there is some question if this order has been obeyed, or if the 19 year old kid that Musk ordered to ransack it the Treasury computers is still holding on to all the information he gathered.
Less than an hour after Musk and Trump concluded their joint "press conference" on Tuesday, a federal appeals court refused to halt a judgeâs order requiring the Trump administration to release billions of dollars in federal grants and loans. States say the money remains frozen even after a court blocked a sweeping pause on federal funding.
Trump's Justice Department under Attorney General Pam Bondi, had argued that the sweeping lower court order to keep all federal grants and loans flowing was âintolerable judicial overreach.â
The Justice Department USED to be independent, working with all three separate and equal branches of government, the Judicial, Executive, and Legislative. It had authority to investigate any member of the three branches, including the president. And it did. It investigated Trump.
It will never do so again. Like the FBI, it is no longer an independent agency. And anybody who did their job investigating Trump has been purged.
That is Trump and Musk's idea of democracy. A bureaucracy run by Trump alone.
(Fb) in case you're wondering. Let everyone know that this is happening.
#fuck elongated muskrat#project 2025#government#donald trump#fuck elon musk#elon musk#elongated muskrat#president trump#fuck trump#trump 2024
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By Monica Showalter American Thinker
February 22, 2025
The U.S. Catholic bishops have lawyered up.
And theyâre out to claw back âtheirâ money â at last count $65 million in taxpayer cash â which they use to advance the entry of millions of illegal migrants into the U.S. and leave the taxpayers with the bill for their permanent upkeep.
According to Catholic News Agency:
The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) is suing the Trump administration over what the bishops say is an unlawful suspension of funding for refugee programs in the United States.
Upon taking office last month, President Donald Trump issued sweeping executive orders that, among other measures, directed a freeze on foreign assistance funds and grants, with the White House seeking to uproot left-wing initiatives in federally funded programs.
The orders have led to a flurry of legal challenges from advocates and nonprofit groups arguing that the funding freeze is unlawful. Other groups such as Catholic Charities have urged the Trump administration to reconsider the freeze, citing the âcrucial careâ the funding helps provide.
âCrucial careâ? Are they talking about the transport flights to ferry in so-called âasylum-seekersâ into the country on chartered jets at no cost to them; people who might not have even thought to enter the U.S. without authorization as âasylum seekersâ with residence privileges in the U.S. had this taxi service had not been provided them, courtesy of Catholic Charities?
Or the free legal advice, which teaches illegal migrants how to clam up for immigration authorities in order to get away with their illegal entries?
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Belleview Chapter Two: Triage
Notes: Don't believe anything I say about medicine, politics, or the workings of government agencies.
Belleview: Chapter 1
TW: Institutionalized slavery, a little tiny bit heavy on the exposition
â„ â„ â„
As far as âday oneâs go, Lincoln thinks, it could have been worse. That is the best he can offer himself now. He looks down at his hands, which feel, no matter how many times he scrubs them, as if they are still covered in the blood, both metaphorical and physical, of the residents. They did not ask for his help, and by most metrics do not seem to want his help, and yet still, he is here. Helping? It weighs heavily on him. His hands shake, a product of adrenaline and exhaustion and, maybe, partly of desperation for some kind of emotional release.
Organizing the volunteers had gone smoothly enough. He had four doctors, eight nurses, and fifteen good samaritans (and a list of hundreds of others who were ready to step in if more help was needed), all eager to find their place in this beautiful hellscape.
After the former handler, Jared, was escorted to a waiting police car, Lincoln took a deep breath and rounded up the crew. The de facto Commissioner for the splintered Department of Labor Services in Florida, once responsible for the privatization and trafficking of low-level criminals and now responsible for sorting out the undoing of that system itself, estimated that there would be additional guidance available within two weeks and, between him and Lincoln, suspected that ultimately the residents would be placed in a sort of âfosterâ situation, where they would be pseudo-adopted into the homes of long time opposers of the system while they accessed medical care and were slowly reintegrated. It was all a lot to stomach, and for his part, Lincoln tried not to look too closely. It was clear that the residents here all, at minimum, required some degree of inpatient medical treatment, and he was qualified to provide that, if nothing else.Â
Lincoln had been contracted for four weeks, with the soft warning that it would likely extend beyond that, and the sincere gratitude of the Commissioner as well as a slew of other high ranking officials. His work is important, he was told countless times. Itâll be a hard job, but they can think of no better hands than his to leave the care of these men in.Â
After accepting the position, Lincoln began forming something of a plan. He was given a budget and a list of items already at the site. He was sent lists of hundreds and hundreds of doctors, nurses, cooks, mechanics, police officers, former handlers, teachers⊠anything he could think of, he had available to him. People from across the country offered their support in any way they could. He selected his team, his backup team, and held a list of other local residents that he could rely on for support.
The initial team was small but mighty, fierce in their dedication to help. Four doctors. Five, including him. Twenty-one residents (with only twenty files, but that was for another day). Eight nurses. Fifteen volunteers. Enough for every resident to receive medical attention, with extra volunteers to sort out groceries and clothing and removal of the evidence of what had happened here, with extras to help keep everything flowing.
It was experimental, and no one knew exactly what it would look like. But this team was ready to throw themselves wholly into early recompense and that was all he needed. They would work the rest out as they went.
â„ â„ â„
The volunteers look to him for guidance as he enters the conference room and, given that he has run through his plan a hundred times in his head by now, he wastes no time in laying out the loose threads of what he is calling the âplan.â There are people working throughout the building, sealing off some unused wings, repurposing others. They are irrelevant to what Lincoln is doing and have no impact on the residents he now oversees. They will not enter this unit, and his group will not be asked to leave. It does not matter what happens beyond the walls of C-wing anymore.Â
There are two empty rooms at the end of the longest, main corridor, that were previously used for something adjacent to medical exams. This is not exactly the highest priority, but the easiest to get started.Â
âYang, Richmond, Jacoby, and Gilman,â Lincoln says, scanning the volunteers as people identify themselves. He hands them each a sheet of paper with a list of items that each room should have. âA truck should be arriving within the next thirty minutes,â he continues. âStart clearing out the exam rooms of anything not on this list, sanitize the hell out of them, and then work with the delivery people to get them set up. Use the south entrance so no one is wandering the halls. Theyâll need to be fully functional by tomorrow at the latest.â The volunteers take to task quickly, and Lincoln moves to the next on his list.
âDeLuca and Dhar,â he says next. âGroceries were delivered earlier, letâs get everything put away. There was a large break room for the handlers here,â he says, as he points to the map on the tablet, âbut no cafeteria. To the extent possible, clear it out. There are bins for anything that you find that looks remotely criminal. Weâve been asked to refrain from discarding the personal effects of the handlers or anything that might need to be reviewed down the line. Everything can go into storage, someone will come pick it up at some point this evening.â
They exit, and Lincoln is left standing with the medical staff and a small handful of remaining volunteers. He assigns four to scrubbing the common areas of all traces of abuse, the hope being that the residents can eventually comfortably navigate the wing without fear of encountering excessive reminders of their own suffering. Â
âWeâre going to start triaging,â he says to the medical team. âWe have more volunteers ready if we need them, but I am concerned about overwhelming the residents with too muchâŠâ He gestures, and is met with nods and muted agreements. âJust, with too much.â
The residents are all, as of this moment, still locked in their rooms. Every doctor has already been assigned a caseload, the files sent out the day before, with each resident grouped first based on the severity of their need for medical attention, and second on their proximity to one another. The most severe cases get seen by the doctors first, with the nurses doing preliminary exams on the less severe cases and making modifications to the plan as needed.Â
Lincoln expects four residents to require the most substantial medical support. The local hospital is prepared to provide aid in diagnostic testing, scans, or large scale inpatient procedures in the event that those needed, but all units are overwhelmed by the sudden influx of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people who require care and are in the first wave of full release.
Triage first, he reminds himself. Each of them has four or five men total to see, and he watches as they make their own plans with the nurses on their team.Â
Lincoln has one file and two patients. River London, a twenty-four year old man who has been in the system for three years and in Belleview for two of those, and âFelix,â whose file is uniquely absent. The handler told him that Felix had come to Belleview a year prior, and that he wasnât sure if the handlers were ever told his real name, but if they were, no one remembered it. They estimated his age to be around twenty-two, and the information available was all from the past year. The DOH was working to trace his origins but, to Lincolnâs understanding, his file had been sealed when he was assigned to Belleview, and unsealing it was low in the list of priorities.
âIâm Philip,â the nurse who stands next to him says, holding out his hand. âReed. I came down from Maryland, Iâve been working with the DoLS there to help organize and staff pop-up clinics in underdeveloped cities with heavy influxes of former workers for the last couple years.â
Lincoln nods and shakes his hand. âLincoln Prescott,â he says. He doesnât offer any details beyond that, although Philipâs expectant gaze lingers for a moment too long.
âDid you pick the short straw or volunteer for this?â he asks as Lincoln grabs the lone file from the table.
âA little of both, I guess,â Lincoln responds, flipping open Riverâs file.
The good news, he thinks, is that there are ample state of the art medical supplies littered throughout the unit already. All of the volunteers brought their own supplies as well, but there is a fully stocked pharmacy and most basic supplies already in house. The bad news is that he is not one hundred percent sure where the volunteers are at with sorting through everything, and if he has to wade through sixty years worth of whips, chains, shock collars, restraints, or whatever other torture devices live within these walls, he might have a nervous breakdown before he even gets started.
The volunteers disperse, the remaining extras assigned out to sorting deliveries and, hopefully, removing any obvious remnants of what this building used to stand for.
Lincoln closes his eyes and talks himself through what the next hour will look like. Minimally, he reassures himself, he has an amazing team and the residents are in good hands. They will be given food, blankets, phones or tablets, books. They will be treated with kindness. They did not ask for their help and he will likely be met with resistance, but it is a consequence of years or abuse, and his intent here is to help. There is a voice, soft but persistent in the back of his mind, that keeps him grounded in the reality that, at least on some level, he will be acting as a captor in a new kind of prison for these men.
If he is met with resistance, he reminds himself now, he will modify his course. He will act as a stepping stone toward freedom and that is all he can do right now. His job today, within the walls of the workersâ rooms, is straightforward. When heâs done talking himself down, he stands straighter, shoves the file into his bag, and makes way to 19-C.
â„Â â„Â â„Â
Belleview Taglist:
@pigeonwhumps @peachy-panic @whump-cravings @pirefyrelight @i-eat-worlds
@taterswhump @squishablesunbeam @inpainandsuffering @distinctlywhumpthing @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi
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Hello! Do you mind providing me a link to the most current version of the handbook and just noting which sections have the changes about trans policies? I'm having trouble finding it to show my dad.
Some of the changes people are talking about are contained in a supplement to the Handbook, this is the first time such a "supplement" has been issued containing specific rules. It includes rules limiting a trans person to only attending meetings & activities which align with their gender assigned at birth, forbids trans youth and young single adults from overnight activities, restricts trans members from almost all callings, and has specific rules about under what circumstances a trans person may use the restroom.
As for the Handbook itself, right at the very beginning of the Handbook is a page summarizing the recent changes. However, the amount of changes regarding trans members is so extensive they didn't give a summary, they simply provided links to the sections which were changed.
This makes it difficult to know what was changed unless you were familiar with what was there before. Here's a link to the Handbook as it existed in April 2022
For starters, the Handbook section 38.6.23 used to be called "Transgender Individuals" and now it says "Individuals Who Identify as Transgender." The section also says "members who feel their inner sense of gender does not align with their biological sex at birth" instead of "transgender person."
The Handbook used to say: "Most Church participation and some priesthood ordinances are gender neutral. Transgender persons may be baptized and confirmed as outlined in 38.2.3.14. They may also partake of the sacrament and receive priesthood blessings. However, priesthood ordination and temple ordinances are received according to birth sex."
Now it says, "The ordinances of salvation and exaltation are received according to a personâs biological sex at birth." It also suggests that the ways a trans person can participate in the church is by family history and service to others.
The Handbook used to say "A transgender person may be baptized and confirmed if he or she is not pursuing elective medical or surgical intervention to attempt to transition to the opposite of his or her biological sex at birth (âsex reassignmentâ)."
Now it says, "Baptism and confirmation are received according to a personâs biological sex at birth. Worthy individuals who do not pursue surgical, medical, or social transition away from their biological sex at birth may be baptized and confirmed."
It used to say, "Some children, youth, and adults are prescribed hormone therapy by a licensed medical professional to ease gender dysphoria or reduce suicidal thoughts. Before a person begins such therapy, it is important that he or she (and the parents of a minor) understands the potential risks and benefits. If these members are not attempting to transition to the opposite gender and are worthy, they may receive Church callings, temple recommends, and temple ordinances.
Now this carve out for someone to receive hormone therapy under medical supervision for their mental well being and still be considered worthy has been eliminated.
ââââââââââââââââ
The Handbook says "These individuals often face complex challenges. Theyâand their family and friendsâshould be treated with sensitivity, kindness, compassion, and Christlike love. All are children of God and have divine worth." Do these changes seem like they're sensitive, kind, compassionate and full of love?
What they've actually done is indirectly say there is no such thing as a transgender person and anyone who feels they are needs to repent. Basically, we don't want you around our children, we don't trust you to even go to the bathroom, if you feel like we don't want you here, please know we're telling you this "with love and respect."
In the October 2020 General Conference, President Nelson delivered a talk titled "Let God Prevail" in which he said, "Today I call upon our members everywhere to lead out in abandoning attitudes and actions of prejudice. I plead with you to promote respect for all of Godâs children." I wish the church truly strove to follow this admonition.
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The Internet Is Forever: Part Two
Pairing:Â Spencer Reid x Female!Reader
Word Count:Â ~1.9k
Summary: A man is going around killing women in their homes and filming it for all to see. It's heartbreaking to watch but you're determined to catch him before he can hurt anyone else.
Warnings:Â canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill
Season Five Masterlist
Authorâs Note:Â I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them.
x
Penelope logs out of video chat to continue doing her work. You have the video now so you go over it with a fine tooth comb. The unsub walks up the stairs and briefly looks into the camera. Only his eyes are shown.
"Look at that. He's acknowledging the camera. He knows his audience is watching. We know the MO, so the question is how. What kind of job gives him access to the victims' houses?"
"It has to be a network job like an IT guy. You know, someone to hook up your internet. It gets them inside their house and into their computers."
"I went through all the women's internet service providers with a fine-tooth comb. They all used different companies and had no overlap with sales reps," Detective Fordham says.
"What about the onsite tech support?"
"Clean as a whistle. They all had alibis with no criminal records."
"What I don't understand is why he takes the bodies with him after they're dead. It'd be one thing if he took them while they were still alive, but he's accomplished his task. He murders them and he completes the performance. Why risk carrying a corpse to his car?"
"There must be some postmortem behavior or signature or something we're not seeing."
"Let's think about that for a second. He's sharing this murder with a crowd of onlookers. What could he be doing to these bodies just for himself?"
"Hey, guy." Derek walks into the room while on the phone. "Garcia's got something for us." He puts her on speakerphone. "Go ahead, baby girl."
"I have some good news. First, here is the thing that sucks. I located the network the unsub is using in Boise, and it is the victims' own wireless network."
"Does he hack in before he starts the murder?"
"I don't think so. Hacking is obscenely time-consuming. I just make it look easy because I'm a genius, and he's not me. My guess is that he's got to lurk around their network for at least a couple of days to a week before he kills them."
"That's brilliant on his part," John says.
"Yeah, he knows when we follow his online paper trail. It'll lead us right back to the murder site."
"What's the good news?" you ask.
"Hackers are very loyal to their spoofing techniques, and if they think no one's watching, they'll use the same roads over and over. If he goes through Russia, China, and North Korea again, I will catch him so fast he won't know what hit him.
"That's only going to help us if he commits another murder."
"Yes, that's also true."
"Garcia, if he does stream this again, how much time will you need to find the network?"
"I'm just guessing here but seven minutes?"
"That's not fast enough. He's in and out of the house in five."
"Shoot. I'm going to have to trim my time down, then."
"Garcia, get it done. JJ, we need to call a press conference. Now that we know how he's killing these women, we need to get it out there," Hotch says.
"Okay," she nods.
Spencer walks into the conference room with the picture of Dorris he took from the fridge.
"I know what connects the victims. I was staring at pictures of the victims and I knew there was a pattern connecting them, but I couldn't tell what it was until I broke it down mathematically. Why are we so drawn to celebrity faces? Because there's a symmetry to their beauty--the eyes, the ears, and the ratio of the forehead to the chin. The more balanced they are, the more appealing they are to our eyes."
"These women aren't celebrities," John says.
"No, but there are similarities between them, and it wasn't until I scanned their pictures and got it to the guys at Quantico that I had a full breakdown." He pulls up a picture of all three female victims. "Strip away eye color, hair color, and skin tone." He does so and reveals their geometric faces. "What are we left with geometrically?"
"They're all slightly dystopic. The left eye is slightly lower than the right eye on all the victims. All the noses are narrow. The forehead has the same ridge."
"He might not even be aware that he sees it in them. There have been studies that suggest that we pick our spouses subconsciously based on facial symmetry that we recognize. Consciously or unconsciously, when he recognizes it, he has to destroy it which means he only has interest in the bodies as they relate back to him."
"What if they are a reflection of him?" you ask. "Remember what he did at the end of the video with Dorris? He wiped a tear away. It's another act of compassion he's not capable of. His narcissism prevents him from that. In the Greek myth, Narcissus was so self-absorbed that he fell in love with his own reflection in the water."
"Exactly," Spencer backs you up. "He finds women with the same face, he strangles them, and then stares at them after they've died. Whose image does he really see? His own."
You now have a profile to give to the Boise police department. John gathers his men and women to hear what your team has to say.
"Most of us take the internet for granted. We forget about texts that we share or updates we put on social networks, but the internet never forgets. Once it's out there, it's out there forever. We all know about the horrific deaths that get shown on the web--the murder of a journalist or the stoning of an Iranian dissident. Those murders are immortal. This unsub craves that same immortality."
"He recognizes his face in theirs, and he kills them as a way of saying, 'This is what I look like.' We think this also informs his compulsion to take the bodies with him. He takes them to a secondary location where we believe he preserves them so that every time he looks at them, he sees his own ego reflected," Spencer explains.
"Fortunately for us, this means we have a good idea of what he looks like. Based on the shape of the victims' faces, we have a rough composite sketch." JJ passes the sketch around. "This unsub is an expert with computers and home networks. Look into criminal records of men with extensive computer training."
"We know you've already looked into the victims' computer IT settings, so we'd like to expand the search. Look into electronic stores, computer distributors, and IT departments where the women worked," Spencer says.
"We overuse the term narcissistic in our culture, but we're going back to the psychological definition," you say. "Every aspect of this man's life has been constructed around an inflated sense of self. Unsubs like this are particularly vulnerable to what's called narcissistic injury. If his self-worth is attacked or damaged, he will lash out."
"If you find this unsub, do not challenge him publicly. Say you just want to talk to him to see if he knows anything about the brilliant mastermind who's stalking these women. Under no circumstances should you denigrate him. As difficult as it is, we need to talk up his exploits as if we respect him," Hotch says, concluding the profile briefing.
JJ is able to get a last-minute press conference with the local press. She shows a picture of the sketch she passed around. He's a white male, roughly five-foot-ten, and highly skilled with computers and networks. She encourages everyone to monitor the information people post about themselves on social media. When she opened up for questions, she didn't realize the backlash she might get.
"How did the FBI generate this sketch if there were no eyewitnesses?"
"Can you comment on the rumor he has some sort of facial symmetry with his victims? Does he look like them?"
"Why would he target women who look like him?"
"What should people do to protect themselves? Change their face?"
Who the hell told them about the profile before the FBI was ready to release it? JJ handled it like a pro but she waltzed back into the station with a look of annoyance and frustration.
"Hotch. Somebody leaked our profile. The press started asking questions about facial symmetry."
"It must have been one of your officers," Hotch says to John.
"Look, my guys were checking their cell phones but that's just habit now."
"I talked to the press independently, and I can get this off the 10:00 PM news but this went out live."
"What are the chances he didn't see it?"
"Not good," Hotch sighs. He takes out his phone and dials Penelope. "How are you doing with pinning down the network?"
"I was just about to call you. Remember how I said he was spoofing his signal off different servers? Well, it turns out some of those are a decoy meant to waste my time."
"Does that mean you can find him faster?"
"Yes. I can write a program that filters out the decoy--" Alarms start ringing on her computer. "Oh crap."
"Is that him?"
"Yeah, okay, I'm going to have to filter this one on the fly."
"Can you send us the feed?"
"Yes. I think I can intercept it in Ukraine."
Hotch pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at everyone.
"He's going live."
Penelope sends the live feed through and you take a seat because you know you're going to be overwhelmed. The video starts and the unsub is practically running toward a house.
"Look at the way he's moving. He's not slow and deliberate. This guy's pissed."
"He saw the press conference," you sigh.
"Alright, what do we see? Any determining markers?"
"It's a one-story cottage."
"It could be anywhere."
"Is there a number on the house?"
"No, he's already at the door."
"Garcia?" Hotch asks and places her on speakerphone.
"He's using twice as many proxy servers."
There is a small white box behind the live footage of words coming through like a comment section on a Youtube video.
"This window here on the bottom, is that the chat room?" Emily asks.
The video switches to a camera inside the house, inside the kitchen. You're so anxious that you're bouncing your leg rapidly to try and give you something else to focus on. A woman is by her fridge looking in while the unsub enters her back door.
"There she is."
"He's in the house, guys."
"He's completely changed his MO. It is way too early. There's too much light. What happened?" Derek asks.
"Someone asked the wrong question at the press conference," JJ answers.
"Turn around," you whimper. "Please just turn around."
The man gets closer to her. The camera keeps switching angles from inside the kitchen, inside the dining room looking into the kitchen, and the POV camera on him.
"Maybe she can fend him off."
"She has new kitchen appliances. Can we track them through work orders?" Spencer asks.
"He'll be gone by then."
"Garcia, give us something," Hotch urges.
"I'm stateside now. I'm almost to Idaho. I just need more time."
"You're not gonna have it."
"Yes, I will. I will," Pen panics.
The unsub reaches the woman and begins strangling her on live video. You put your thumbnail in your mouth and begin biting it while still bouncing your leg. You can't seem to look away.
"Forget the unsub. Can you run a trace on everybody in the chat room?" Hotch asks.
"I can't do both, sir. Let me do this."
"Garcia, tag the viewers. That's an order."
It's too late. She's already dying. Tears are rolling down your cheeks but you don't make a sound. She gasps for breath but stops fighting him off. She's losing. She's dying... She's dead. Penelope quietly gasps and you wipe your tears.
"Penelope, don't do that to yourself. I know what you're thinking. It's not your fault."
She appreciates your comfort but she doesn't believe you.
x
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#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid angst#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds fluff#criminal minds angst#criminal minds series rewrite#criminal minds season 5
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Noah Hurowitz at The Intercept:
Donald Trump has made no secret of his desire for revenge.
On the campaign trail, he joked about being a dictator on âday oneâ in office, pledged to jail journalists, and threatened to retaliate against political foes who he felt had wronged him. Now, just days after he secured a second term in the White House, Congress is already moving to hand a resurgent Trump administration a powerful cudgel that it could wield against ideological opponents in civil society. Up for a potential fast-track vote next week in the House of Representatives, the Stop Terror-Financing and Tax Penalties on American Hostages Act, also known as H.R. 9495, would grant the secretary of the Treasury Department unilateral authority to revoke the tax-exempt status of any nonprofit deemed to be a âterrorist supporting organization.â The resolution has already prompted strong opposition from a wide range of civil society groups, with more than 100 organizations signing an open letter issued by the American Civil Liberties Union in September.
[...]
No Evidence Needed
Under the bill, the Treasury secretary would issue notice to a group of intent to designate it as a âterrorist supporting organization.â Once notified, an organization would have the right to appeal within 90 days, after which it would be stripped of its 501(c)(3) status, named for the statute that confers tax exemptions on recognized nonprofit groups. The law would not require officials to explain the reason for designating a group, nor does it require the Treasury Department to provide evidence. âIt basically empowers the Treasury secretary to target any group it wants to call them a terror supporter and block their ability to be a nonprofit,â said Ryan Costello, policy director at the National Iranian American Council Action, which opposes the law. âSo that would essentially kill any nonprofitâs ability to function. They couldnât get banks to service them, they wonât be able to get donations, and thereâd be a black mark on the organization, even if it cleared its name.â
The bill could also imperil the lifesaving work of nongovernmental organizations operating in war zones and other hostile areas where providing aid requires coordination with groups designated as terrorists by the U.S., according to a statement issued last year by the Charity & Security Network. âCharitable organizations, especially those who work in settings where designated terrorist groups operate, already undergo strict internal due diligence and risk mitigation measures,â the group wrote. âAs the prohibition on material support to foreign terrorist organizations (FTOs) already exists, and is applicable to U.S. nonprofits, this proposed legislation is redundant and unnecessary.â If it proceeds, the bill will go to the House floor in a âsuspension vote,â a fast-track procedure that limits debate and allows a bill to bypass committees and move on to the Senate as long as it receives a two-thirds supermajority in favor. [...]
Pro-Palestine Groups at Risk
In the past year, accusations of support for terrorism have been freely lobbed at student protesters, aid workers in Gaza, and even mainstream publications like the New York Times. In unscrupulous hands, the powers of the proposed law could essentially turn the Treasury Department into an enforcement arm of Canary Mission and other hard-line groups dedicated to doxxing and smearing their opponents as terrorists. With very few guardrails in place, the new bill would give broad new powers to the federal government to act on such accusations â and not just against pro-Palestine groups, according to Costello. âThe danger is much broader than just groups that work on foreign policy,â said Costello. âIt could target major liberal funders who support Palestinian solidarity and peace groups who engage in protest. But it could also theoretically be used to target pro-choice groups, and I could see it being used against environmental groups.
HR9495 needs to be opposed, as this civil liberties-violating bill could broadly define any organization a âterrorist supporting organizationâ, such as pro-reproductive rights/abortion access, pro-LGBTQ+, pro-Palestine, and progressive groups such as Indivisible.
#118th Congress#Donald Trump#US House of Representatives#Civil Liberties#HR9495#Stop Terror Financing and Tax Penalties On American Hostages Act#Canary Mission
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An Introduction to Cybersecurity
I created this post for the Studyblr Masterpost Jam, check out the tag for more cool masterposts from folks in the studyblr community!
What is cybersecurity?
Cybersecurity is all about securing technology and processes - making sure that the software, hardware, and networks that run the world do exactly what they need to do and can't be abused by bad actors.
The CIA triad is a concept used to explain the three goals of cybersecurity. The pieces are:
Confidentiality: ensuring that information is kept secret, so it can only be viewed by the people who are allowed to do so. This involves encrypting data, requiring authentication before viewing data, and more.
Integrity: ensuring that information is trustworthy and cannot be tampered with. For example, this involves making sure that no one changes the contents of the file you're trying to download or intercepts your text messages.
Availability: ensuring that the services you need are there when you need them. Blocking every single person from accessing a piece of valuable information would be secure, but completely unusable, so we have to think about availability. This can also mean blocking DDoS attacks or fixing flaws in software that cause crashes or service issues.
What are some specializations within cybersecurity? What do cybersecurity professionals do?
incident response
digital forensics (often combined with incident response in the acronym DFIR)
reverse engineering
cryptography
governance/compliance/risk management
penetration testing/ethical hacking
vulnerability research/bug bounty
threat intelligence
cloud security
industrial/IoT security, often called Operational Technology (OT)
security engineering/writing code for cybersecurity tools (this is what I do!)
and more!
Where do cybersecurity professionals work?
I view the industry in three big chunks: vendors, everyday companies (for lack of a better term), and government. It's more complicated than that, but it helps.
Vendors make and sell security tools or services to other companies. Some examples are Crowdstrike, Cisco, Microsoft, Palo Alto, EY, etc. Vendors can be giant multinational corporations or small startups. Security tools can include software and hardware, while services can include consulting, technical support, or incident response or digital forensics services. Some companies are Managed Security Service Providers (MSSPs), which means that they serve as the security team for many other (often small) businesses.
Everyday companies include everyone from giant companies like Coca-Cola to the mom and pop shop down the street. Every company is a tech company now, and someone has to be in charge of securing things. Some businesses will have their own internal security teams that respond to incidents. Many companies buy tools provided by vendors like the ones above, and someone has to manage them. Small companies with small tech departments might dump all cybersecurity responsibilities on the IT team (or outsource things to a MSSP), or larger ones may have a dedicated security staff.
Government cybersecurity work can involve a lot of things, from securing the local water supply to working for the big three letter agencies. In the U.S. at least, there are also a lot of government contractors, who are their own individual companies but the vast majority of what they do is for the government. MITRE is one example, and the federal research labs and some university-affiliated labs are an extension of this. Government work and military contractor work are where geopolitics and ethics come into play most clearly, so just⊠be mindful.
What do academics in cybersecurity research?
A wide variety of things! You can get a good idea by browsing the papers from the ACM's Computer and Communications Security Conference. Some of the big research areas that I'm aware of are:
cryptography & post-quantum cryptography
machine learning model security & alignment
formal proofs of a program & programming language security
security & privacy
security of network protocols
vulnerability research & developing new attack vectors
Cybersecurity seems niche at first, but it actually covers a huge range of topics all across technology and policy. It's vital to running the world today, and I'm obviously biased but I think it's a fascinating topic to learn about. I'll be posting a new cybersecurity masterpost each day this week as a part of the #StudyblrMasterpostJam, so keep an eye out for tomorrow's post! In the meantime, check out the tag and see what other folks are posting about :D
#studyblrmasterpostjam#studyblr#cybersecurity#masterpost#ref#I love that this challenge is just a reason for people to talk about their passions and I'm so excited to read what everyone posts!
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