#EP Broken Silence

[ilyricshub]

Addicted Lyrics - Tegi Pannu x Navaan Sandhu

Addicted Lyrics Tegi Pannu x Navaan Sandhu #Addicted #TegiPannu #NavaanSandhu #TejiSandhu

[softichill]

Never before has something managed to grab my heartstrings and fucking snap them from the sheer force of their pull until this series

[marsbotz]

my hottest take ever. i think the the christmas danielle incident cld have saved their marriage

[mrs-kmikaelson]

What's in a Name?

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: 5 times you and Agent Hotchner questionably cross paths over the years, just for him to watch you walk away (+1 time you don't). Warnings: long asf, murder, violence, addiction, unhealthy coping mechanisms, corruption in government, allusions to abuse, one made-up case, hotch is a lil ooc (not rlly), and reader has grey morals (lmk if there's more) Eps incl: S1E21 (secrets and lies), S3E20 (lo-fi), S4E1 (mayhem) Words: 24.4K

Masterlist | Bonus (no.6)

a/n: this is the longest fic i have ever written. guys, one section is literally 10k words long— and i didn't notice!! it's too long for one part (there's a 1k block limit on tumblr) so the bonus is linked above and at the bottom. it took me... a while. so i hope u enjoy! might do a part 2. also i'm only on s4 of cm rn (even tho i know too much alr) so pls don't spoil. ly guys!!

1. The myth

Quantico, Virginia, 2004

The interrogation room was cold and your fingers felt frozen against the metal of the table, but you doubted it had anything to do with the fact that it was December. If anything, you'd bet good money that as soon as you stepped out of the room, the heat would return. You'd bet good money that a certain Agent Hotchner sitting across from you had fucked with the AC unit.

Nonetheless, you didn't show your discomfort, keeping a poker face.

Well, as much of a poker face that you could keep.

You had a smile on your face, a twinkle in your eye. While you preferred not to spend time in police stations, this really was turning out to be quite interesting.

Agent Hotchner didn't seem to hold the same opinion as you. The frown on his face was unmoving, his expression stone cold. High-strung, you thought, and then you wondered what crazy things he might've seen to make him that way.

You turn to the man sitting next to him (the boy really), and asked, "Does he ever smile?" You pointed to the man in question to emphasize your point, even though it was clear as day who you were referring to.

Spencer, as you'd learned his name was, looked somewhat flustered at your question, like he wasn't expecting you to speak to him, but he ignored you regardless. You took that as a no. "Ms. Y/L/N, you're known throughout the United States and many other European countries as 'The Angel of Death.'" Your smile widened at your nickname. "They say that, as soon as you contact someone, they're as good as dead."

"Oh? Is that what they say?" Your voice was sly and teasing.

Spencer ignored you yet again. Rude. "You send them a message through various online media, and then they mysteriously turn up deceased."

"Do they?" you drawled.

The stoic and silent Agent Hotchner took this as his cue to speak up. "As of late, your existence has been nothing more than a rumour, an urban legend amongst criminals and internet sleuths. A myth."

You hummed.

"But your recent attempt on Congressman Baylor has failed. You got sloppy," he deadpanned. "You went for a fish bigger than you could handle, and now the myth is likely headed for life without parole unless you tell me who you're working for."

You were silent for a moment as you held his stare, and he thought that finally, he was getting somewhere with you, but then you broke that silence with a giggle so bubbly it was almost hard to believe you were assassin.

"That's cute," you remarked.

He narrowed his eyes. "What's cute?"

You shrugged nonchalantly. "The fact that you think you can convict me."

It was Spencer this time that spoke up, his voice soft in comparison to the jagged edges of his partner's. Perhaps this job hadn't broken him yet, you thought. "Y/N, arrogance isn't gonna get you out of this."

You snorted. "No, trust me, this isn't arrogant. It's self-assured." You didn't give them a chance to get another thing in. "Tell me, what exactly has your technical analyst, Penelope Garcia, been able to dig up on me?" You saw slight alarm flare up in Agent Hotchner's eyes, surprise in Spencer's. "She's FBI, yeah, and you guys sure do like to play by the rules, but she isn't an agent like you, Hotchner. She must get impatient, bend the rules, perform some illegal activity that you don't question because it helps you with your case. That's why I'm a bit surprised that, even though she likely did run an illegal background on me, she didn't find my records. I mean, they're not that sealed. I bet I could unseal those bad boys right now."

He's lucky you didn't put money on that bet, because you would've won.

Aside from his eyes, no emotion other than irritation showed on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you poor sweet things." Another chuckle left you. "Have you ever heard of this little thing called immunity?"

Hotch was quick to dispute. "No. You do not have immunity."

You contested, "Oh, yes, sweetheart, I do. And if you had checked my pockets for anything other than a pistol, then perhaps you'd have noticed this." Since they hadn't cuffed you, you reached into your back pocket easily and pulled out your badge, the words Central Intelligence Agency catching their eyes immediately. 

Hotchner scoffed, the most emotion you'd seen from him since you met. "You're CIA?"

You cocked your head. "Y'know, for some of America's supposed best minds, I'm a little unimpressed."

Reid leaned forward in his seat. "You're—"

"Yes, I am. So your girl back at HQ seemed to miss a few details about me, and you have missed more than a few details about this case— if a case is even what you could call it." You stood up and rested your hands on the table, getting bored of this game already. "What you have, SSA Hotchner and Dr. Reid, is not a serial killer. I hope your victimology analysis picked this up already, but the quote-unquote victims you have are all bad people, people who have broken the law in irreparable ways. And when I say irreparable, I don't just mean Bill Clintoning it up with minors, despite many of them having done that. I mean selling government secrets, espionage, treason. Things that threaten national security, things that my bosses do not like. I'm sure you catch my drift, don't you?"

Before Agent Hotchner could respond, the door to the interrogation room was opening, and a smirk automatically arose on your face. About damn time. 

A man who you instantly recognized as Jason Gideon stood in the doorway. You briefly met once, but you doubt he remembered you. His face was stern, too, and reluctance shined through his voice. "Hotch, the Secretary of Defense is here, and the DOD is demanding she be released."

You maintained Hotch's stare all the while Gideon spoke. The clench in his jaw was small, but you caught it. Something told you this man didn't like to be challenged—you'd keep that in mind.

Eventually, he nodded.

You grabbed your coat from behind your chair, stowed your badge away and flashed them your million-dollar smile. "Well, it was nice meeting you, boys. Let's do this again sometime, yeah?"

Then you were out the door, and Hotch thought that if he went forever without seeing you, it'd still be too soon.

And when Congressman Baylor was found dead a few hours later, he wasn't surprised.

2. Smile

Langley, Virginia, 2006

"I've got the personnel files all set up for you guys. Video, whatnot—it's all there in the conference room. Now if you have any questions, feel free to talk to my senior officers. This is Gina Sanchez, she's the Associate Director of Field Operations. And that guy up there is Kruger Spence, the Assistant Director of Operations. The lady with him is his second-in-command, Olivia Hopkins. And then there's, of course, my boss."

Gideon's brows went up. "Your boss?" he echoed. The rest of the team's confusion was just as palpable. When he was brought in by Bruno Hawks to assist the CIA in finding their mole, he assumed he was the one running point. As far as he was concerned, Hawks didn't even have a boss that'd be there.

"Yes, she's flown in from an assignment to help with this case." Right on cue, you walked out of an office, heels clicking on the floor and the same smile on your face that Hotch could remember from two years ago. "Meet Director Y/N Y/L/N; she's head of a CIA black ops initiative and envoy from the NSA."

Your voice was smug. "Oh, trust me, Bruno, we've met before." This time, Hotch couldn't conceal his scoff. He felt Elle glance at him in confusion—she's the only one who didn't know who you were. "Agent Gideon, it's a pleasure to meet you formally." He shook your hand, albeit unenthusiastically. "Agent Hotchner, I knew I'd be seeing you again." He rolled his eyes, making your smile widen, but out of his strong urge to be polite above all other things, he shook your hand, too, pulling away as fast as he could. "Dr. Reid." He nodded back to you, almost hesitant. You nodded to the rest of them individually. "You two I haven't met, but you must be Derek Morgan and Elle Greenaway. I wish we had more time for pleasantries, but lives are on the line, so I'd like to get moving ASAP."

With that, you swiftly turned and walked back to the office you'd made your own. You didn't often spend time at headquarters, but a mole in the Agency was enough to pull you away from the case you'd been working previously.

As you left, you heard Reid explain to Elle in a hushed tone, "That was The Angel of Death."

You stifled a chuckle. Let's see if Agent Hotchner's team was as good as they claimed to be.

❧

You and Hotch stood on either side of Bruno on the platform as he spoke to the entire office, Gideon off standing alone, seemingly in thought. "Now, we all know why BAU and Ms. Y/L/N are here. They have their job and we have ours. And we're down to the wire on this. Aaliyah Nadir risked everything, and now she and her children deserve our fullest attention. Let's find her."

They all walked off after Bruno dismissed them, all but Gina Sanchez. You glanced at her from the corner of your eye as she went to talk to Agent Gideon. You didn't hear their conversation, but you saw the hostility painted all over her face. Interesting.

After she left, Gideon made his way over to where you were standing, speaking quietly. "We think the agent who's tipping off Hassan may have had some kind of extreme event in their life."

"Something that distorted or redefined their belief system," Hotch added.

Bruno was quick to get defensive. Why, you weren't sure. "No, every agent undergoes regular psych evals. You know that. They're trained to cope with extreme events"

"Well, whatever turned this agent must not've been something you can train for," you cut in. You didn't miss the way Hotch glanced at you.

Bruno gestured outward with his hands. "Well, you're welcome to everything I have. Every op undertaken by these guys is on file."

You snickered a bit under your breath. Your ops certainly weren't "on file."

"What about the ones that aren't on file, like the wiretaps of the Saudi Embassy?" Hotch questioned.

"Those don't even exist," Bruno said. You didn't confirm nor deny that statement.

"How long has your department been running operations in Riyadh?" Hotch turned to Bruno, back straight and eyes sharp.

"We have a declared presence in Riyadh, monitoring US interests there. You know that. Now if that's all, I have an informant to save." You hummed as Bruno walked off, finding his attitude quite intriguing.

"And you, Agent Y/L/N?" You turned to face Gideon. "What do you think?"

You tilted your head. "Aren't you and Bruno friends? Why not ask him?" Because he had the same feeling you have.

He responded without missing a beat. "You don't have a belief system—this job is all you believe in."

This caused you to chuckle. He wasn't wrong. "Good profiling, Agent Gideon. And yes, I have my suspicions, but until further information is gathered, I'm not at liberty to discuss them. For everyone's safety." You gave one last glance to Agent Hotchner. "I look forward to see what your team has brought together."

❧

Not long after your talk with Hotch and Gideon, you stood with the latter and Agent Greenaway in a supply office where the body of Olivia Hopkins was lying dead.

Gideon turned to you expectantly. "It's your job to clean house. You do this?"

You scoffed. "If I wanted to kill a CIA senior officer, believe me, you wouldn't have thought it was a murder at all." You glanced around the room you were in. "And I certainly wouldn't have done it in a federal building."

He must've believed you because he ended his line of questioning there, turning back to Elle. "Have any other agents seen the body?" When she shook her head, he replied, "Good. We can use this to our advantage. Get the others."

You met up with the rest of the BAU in their designated conference room as Gideon quickly explained the situation. Your suspects filed into the room shortly after, each confused and annoyed. You analyzed their body language closely, standing next to Agent Hotchner.

"You're pulling us away from our assignments?" questioned Kruger. "There's a woman out there whose life depends on us."

Defensive. Self-centred. Rude. But not your guy.

Gina was the first to ask where Olivia was, which was either genuine or she was covering her ass.

Hotch was the one to answer. "Olivia Hopkins was murdered 10 minutes ago. Her neck was snapped."

"Just like John Summers," you drawled.

Kruger let out a scoff, but you kept your eyes on the other two as he spoke. "What are you talking about?" Gina looked spooked, but Bruno's expression was cold, even as he tried to imitate warmth. "You're lying. Where is she?"

"Right now, she's dead," you emphasized, not really caring to be sensitive.

Kruger looked at you like you'd just killed his dog. "Look, people don't just... get murdered inside the CIA."

Gina looked at him with betrayal in her eyes as if he were a traitor. Shifting blame.

Hawks spoke up. "I realize the enormity of this, but Hassan Nadir is still out there looking to kill his wife, and I need every agent on this." You tilted your head. Deflecting. He didn't even acknowledge that his own colleague, his responsibility, was dead.

Gina was the first to leave the room, deeply frazzled. Gideon followed after Hawks, but you didn't go with him. You stayed in the room with Hotch while the rest of his team filed out.

You weren't expecting him to talk to you, let alone ask for your opinion, but he did. "What are you thinking, Y/L/N?"

You hid your surprise, nodding to the door Gina and Kruger walked out of. "My money's not on her; it's not on Kruger, either."

He furrowed his brows, lowering his voice. "You think Bruno Hawks is the mole?"

You shrugged your shoulders. "Bruno's been leading this unit for all of, what, ten years? And he hasn't advanced at all? Someone like him must have higher ambitions, like leading the Agency one day, but that's not in his cards. Gina Sanchez and Kruger Spence have bright futures here; Hawks is already at the end of the line. So what's the next best thing in this city besides power?"

Realization dawned upon him. "Money."

"And by the looks of the old car he drives, that's something he's lacking, but something that he wants," you deduced, pausing. "But I'll let you continue your investigation."

He caught your hand just as you turned away, and you ignored the small spark that was sent through your body. His eyes were earnest and curious, but most of all you realized that they were beautiful. "Y/N, what's going to happen to the mole when we find them?"

You ignore the unfamiliar flutter you felt after he said your name for the first time, and it's then that you remember Hotch was a prosecutor. Before he was unit chief Agent Hotchner, he was just Aaron Hotchner, a man who valued balance and believed in justice. Even now, after climbing the ladder, he still didn't seem to understand that his own government was different.

In matters like these, the United States government didn't value justice.

They valued revenge.

But still, if not just to help him retain his faith in his country, you shrugged and told him, "The scales will be evened, Hotchner." 

Then you pulled your wrist out of his light grip and walked away, and he couldn't tell if he wanted to know what you meant.

❧

Sanchez and Morgan were on their way to rescue Aaliyah and her children, and then you were made aware that Hassan was already there.

Bruno turned to Gideon. "Look, we can't arrest him. This is still a CIA matter. You do know that?" He then turned to you, like he was expecting to you to back him up.

You shook your head as Gideon said what you were thinking. "How are you going to explain this to the Saudi government?"

"Explain what?" he fired back. "This isn't happening."

You crossed your arms. "That's not how this works, Bruno. You don't just kill a Saudi diplomat and get away with it—that is how wars begin."

He scoffed at you. "Look who's talking. The Angel of Death, giving me a lecture on in-house cleaning."

You narrowed your eyes and stepped forward. "I don't know who the hell you think you're talking to right now, but you need to double back because, at the end of the day, what I. say. goes."

Bruno opened his mouth to argue, but Jason mediated, "Let's just get Aaliyah and her children back alive. We'll worry about Hassan's life after."

You gave Bruno one last hard stare before you turned back to the screen showing the Nadirs with Morgan and Gina outside. "Make the arrest, Morgan," Gideon called out. "It's FBI jurisdiction. You're in charge."

You listened to them over the comms. [FBI! Let the lady go and put the gun down. I said, put the gun down!]

The movement of heat on the screen told you that Hassan listened. [Diplomatic immunity, my friend], he said, and you chuckled.

[Uh-uh, you got it wrong, my friend. This container hasn't passed through customs. Officially, we're not on US soil. Summers was a smart man.]

Suddenly, you heard Gina's voice. [That he was.] Pause. [Drop the gun.]

The feed cut in and out as the figures moved out of the container. Confused, you called out, "Morgan, Sanchez, what's going on?"

Hawks turned to you and Gideon, and you wanted to wipe the smug look right off his face. "You two still certain that Gina isn't the mole?"

Gideon ignored him. "Morgan." No answer. "Morgan, what's going on?"

[Gideon, we got a situation here.]

You raised your voice. "Gina, don't do this. Do not do this."

"She doesn't take orders from you," Bruno snided. 

You took another step forward to him. "Listen here, asshole—"

Gina cut in, [Bruno, what do you want me to do?]

"Gina, you put down that gun. That is an order—"

[Bruno?]

This made you turn to Bruno, and if you were in an animation, smoke must've been coming out of your ears. "Hawks, I swear to god, if you don't stand down, you will be endangering the security of this country—"

Bruno only responded to Gina. "You know what to do."

[Say it!]

"This is not your call. It is not your fucking call, Bruno."

He finally turned to you. "This is strictly in-house and you know it."

"I don't give a damn. It is still not. your. call."

"Finish him."

"Gina, don't you dare do this."

[You're going to cut the visual feed, right, Bruno?]

"Of course. Cut it now. Cut it," he ordered, and the feed was off before you could even protest.

And then you heard four gunshots. 

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. White hot anger rushed through your veins in contrast to your normal playful demeanour. Meanwhile, Bruno turned to Gideon, saying, "I want to thank you, Jason, for your help."

You stayed quiet as Gideon responded, too angry to speak. "Why?" He paused, genuine disbelief evident in his tone. "Why'd you turn against everything you believe in?"

"What are you talking about?"

"When someone asks you how you feel about... losing one of your colleagues, the only human answer is 'I feel guilty,' isn't it?"

Bruno nodded and mocked, "But as you so brilliantly deduced, Kruger Spence is the guilty one." Following that statement, you watched as Elle walked up to where you three stood, a tiny paper in hand that she gave to him. Based on the ignorant smile that graced his face upon reading it, you could guess what it said. "Ridiculous," he deflected, tucking the paper into his jacket pocket. "Absurd."

That's when you snapped out of your anger-induced stupor. "No, Bruno." You shook your head. "The only thing that's absurd is how arrogant you are to believe that you're getting away with this."

Bruno pursed his lips, flashing you a sarcastic smile. "Unfortunately, with Hassan now dead, you have no proof."

"Oh, you son of a—"

Dr. Reid cut you off, announcing to everyone, "Actually, Hassan is alive and well. He's en route—that's all the proof we'll need." At this, you let out a chuckle. You certainly didn't need that proof, but it was nice to prove Hawks wrong before he was sent to where he deserved to be.

He clenched his jaw, stepping closer to Gideon instead of you, likely because he knew he couldn't shake you. "You are a fool if you think they're going to put me in prison with all that I know." He glanced at you and your lips quirked upward, because this was true.

"Why'd you have to kill Olivia?" Elle interrogated. She was straight to the point; you liked her. 

"Economics," Gideon replied, staring straight at Bruno. "Olivia was looking into your financial records when you snapped her neck."

Elle scoffed under her breath. "So she knew your dirty little secret."

"Which one?" Bruno asked. "I have so many."

You stepped closer to the trio. "The one that involves you cashing out through Hassan, maybe buying a real Rolex instead of the fake you don so proudly."

You could see Bruno's façade cracking, his frustration leaking through. "Twenty-million from Hassan will go a very long way to help occupy my mind on a beach somewhere."

Gideon wasn't fazed. "The only beach you'll see is on a postcard I send you from my vacation. Let me have your gun."

Knowing there was no way out of this, Bruno did what he said willingly, but he still had to taunt. "You know, I think the consequences of what you're doing to me, my friend, are going to be a lot harder to live with than you think."

Jason stared at him without blinking, and he stared until Bruno walked out, escorted by agents left and right of him. You found it comical, that petty thieves were escorted to the back of police cars in chains, yet a man who nearly started a war could walk out freely.

Well, you supposed Bruno Hawks wouldn't be free for much longer.

And it was your job to see to that.

❧

You were packing up your things in your office when a knock sounded. You turned to see a raven-haired man in a suit standing there, a hand in his pocket. A grin came to your face. "Agent Hotchner," you greeted. "Congrats on solving the case."

He let out a chuckle that surprised you. Aaron Hotchner didn't look like a man who laughed often. "Yeah, well, thank you, but I have a feeling you knew from the beginning."

Your grin widened. "Ah, I just needed proof." You continued to pack your things. "And besides, I wanted to see what your team was capable of."

He hummed, and you thought he'd leave after that, but he stayed, looking around the room with a careful interest. "No pictures," he noted. "No personal artifacts. It's extremely clean in here—untouched, almost. How much time do you spend here?"

You fully turned to him after that, giving him your full attention. With comments like those, that must've been what he was after. You crossed your arms, but the smile never left your face. "Perceptive, Hotchner," you remarked. "Profiling me now?"

He shook his head. "Not profiling, just observing."

Now it was your turn to hum, looking him up and down. You found that you liked what you saw, visually, but the implications to what you saw weren't very fond. "Well, what I observe, is an accomplished man in a nice suit, but you don't wear that suit because you're unit chief, you wear it because you got used to it as a prosecutor and now it makes you feel on top of things... professional. You're stiff and stoic, but that's because you like to separate your work life from your home life. At home, with your wife and kid, you're lively and relaxed, but that's also to compensate for the fact that this job takes a lot out of you; you're not home often, and that puts a strain on your marriage, which is why you haven't called your wife once today." Your voice was soft as you delivered that final blow. Hotch looked both uncomfortable and, surprisingly, impressed. But thus far, nothing about Aaron Hotchner was what you were used to. "Tell me, Agent Hotchner, was I correct?"

Hotch lightly snorted, but he didn't answer. Instead, he took to staring right back at you. You'd been stared at by bad men, murderers, rapists, terrorists and the like, but for some reason, his stare bothered you. You turned back around and packed one last thing into your bag. Then you walked toward the door, stopping just before you made your exit like an invisible barrier was holding you back. 

You patted his shoulder, telling him, "You should smile more, Hotchner. It'd suit you."

And then Aaron watched you leave for the second time in his life, except this time—for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom—he hoped he'd see you again.

3. The games we play

Washington, D.C., 2007

The air in Washington was always crisp. There was something different about it—like you could smell the power in the air, like you feel it. When you were home, in your apartment, it was suffocating. There was enough politics in this city that you could drown in it, politics you didn't care for. You saw enough of it as is.

Nevertheless, you weren't home often, so it wasn't too troublesome. Today, however, you were home, except you weren't here to rest.

You stepped out of your Mercedes as soon as you parked, locking the car and walking straight into the alleyway. Men in blue stood in your path, hands out. "Ma'am, this is a crime scene—"

You wordlessly held up your badge, effectively shutting him up. With red climbing up his neck, he nodded and lifted up the yellow tape for you.

When you made it past them, there was a woman in a red dress there. She'd be beautiful, you thought, if she weren't sprawled out dead on the ground. Her dress was so dark you almost couldn't see the blood stain. 

But the blood pooled around her was a telltale.

Next to her body was a card with typed-out letters and numbers that appeared random. 

But you knew better than that.

There was a woman taking photographs of the scene and a detective analyzing it. He was just as confused as those officers when you showed up. "Excuse me, who are you?"

You gave him a short smile. "Detective Walker, I wish we could've met under better circumstances. I'm Y/N Y/L/N." You held one hand out and simultaneously held up the other with your badge. "I've been instructed to take over this case."

He furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry, Ms. Y/L/N, but I've already alerted—"

"Detective Walker."

At that, you screwed your eyes shut and cursed under your breath. You recognized that voice—hell, you recognized the sound of his footsteps. And he was exactly what you didn't need.

Composing yourself, you spun around with your signature smile. "SSA Hotchner."

Hotch looked momentarily stunned at your being there, but that was quickly wiped away. "Y/N. What are you doing here?"

"Well, if you mean in the city, I live here. And if you mean at this scene, then that's because it's mine." You paused, letting that soak in. "This is my case."

Confusion was visible on his face. For a second, you thought it was cute. "No, this is a BAU case. Series of murders, victimizing high-level escorts—forgive me, but I don't see why this would require a CIA presence."

Of course, you don't, you thought, but for once, you didn't say what you were thinking. Instead, you explained, "I understand that 4 women have died in the past week, but believe me, Agent Hotchner, that is not the case I'm here to solve." When his brows knitted together, you elaborated, "These women are not the targets of these attacks."

"What do you mean?" 

You sighed, pointing over to the woman's body. "See that card over there?"

"Yeah, it's the unsub's signature."

"No, it's more than that. It's not a way for him to get off; it's not something he does compulsively. It is a taunt," you stressed. "Those letters aren't random. They're part of a code."

"A code to what?"

"A code to an NSA file recording every single undercover operation the United States has in foreign countries." Like your words were a vacuum, they sucked anything lighthearted out of the atmosphere—if there was any to begin with—and left tension in their wake. "6 high-level analysts have parts of that code. I'm guessing that 4 of them are already dead." You glanced back at the dead body before looking back at Hotch. "The unsub isn't a serial killer, Agent Hotchner. He's a traitor with a mission to annihilate everything in his wake."

❧

After looking at the scene, you sent Detective Walker away, telling him it wasn't personal but this case was too sensitive to be worked by local police. They didn't have the clearance nor did they have the means to help. You asked him to send you all of his evidence, and he complied easily, but someone wasn't so easily persuaded.

"You're going to need help."

You snorted. "Thank you, but I think I'll do just fine without it." Just as you reached your car, Hotch grabbed your wrist. 

You turned around, but before you could say anything, he spoke. "You could use my team, and you know it."

Your eyes ever so slightly narrowed. "All due respect, Agent Hotchner, but this is above your pay grade."

He held your stare for a few seconds until you saw his jaw tense. He glanced to the side before he exasperatedly muttered, "Please, Y/N." He looked up at you. "I want to help with this case."

Unknowingly, you straightened your back. Aaron Hotchner surprised you more and more each time you saw him. The corners of your lips curved upward, but something about your smile was more sincere. "You're not a man who says please much, are you?"

He rolled his eyes and neglected to answer. "Does that mean you'll accept our help?"

You paused. Was that what you meant? Your mouth didn't correspond with your brain as you replied, "I'm running point on this." Hotch's shoulders imperceptibly relaxed and he nodded. "I'll tell Detective Walker to send his stuff over to the BAU. I'll meet you there to brief your team." You turned away before you could see him nod a second time.

You don't know why you said yes, but you did. On the drive over, you told yourself it was because he was right, you could use some extra hands, and it helped that the BAU were good at what they did.

Yes, that's why I didn't send him away. 

You didn't explore any other option.

❧

Hotch got to the BAU before you but waited for you to arrive before walking into the building. To make sure you got to the right place, you reasoned. 

You went through the typical security procedure: removed your guns, walked through the metal detector, and showed your ID. In the elevator, you cracked a couple jokes that he didn't laugh at, asshole, but you nearly caught him slipping at one.

"This city's so damn power-hungry that even the serial killers would prefer a fucking computer code over sex. What a nerd. Hey, how often does that happen in your line of work, Hotchner?" You turned your head for his response when you saw his lips twitching.

You let out a dramatic gasp. "Agent. Hotchner. Are you..." you lowered your voice, a devious smile crawling to your lips. "smiling?"

His efforts to suppress his little smile failed after that. "Let's focus on the case, Y/L/N."

"Sureeee," you drawled. The elevator dinged and opened. "Better be careful, Agent. I might just start thinking you have a soul."

He shook his head at you and walked out of the elevator ahead of you so that you couldn't see him as a full smile graced his face. However, once you got to the conference, Hotch erased any sign of that smile and walked in full-stride.

You gave the room a cursory glance, duly noting that they must've spent a lot of time in here. You noticed immediately afterward that some faces were missing, and on the other hand, some new ones had appeared.

You followed Hotch to the front of the room in front of their TV. 

"Everyone, this is Director Y/N Y/L/N from the CIA. She'll be leading this case—and as some of you may recall, she's already worked with us on an investigation about a year ago," he announced, subsequently gesturing around the table. "Y/N, this is SSA Emily Prentiss, SSA David Rossi, our communications liaison Jennifer Jareau, and our technical analyst Penelope Garcia."

You nodded, smiling at them. "It's nice to meet you all—"

"You're— you're her."

You turned to the blonde with pink highlights that'd cut you off, Penelope, and furrowed your brows. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh my god, you're her," she whispered, her eyes wide and her face awestruck. "You're The Angel of Death."

You held back a laugh. "That is what people to tend to call me, yes."

She opened and closed her mouth repeatedly before eventually blurting, "I— you're an icon. I've read some of your code before in snippets, and it's beautiful. And, I mean, when you can code like that and then do what you do, it's no wonder that the government would want you all to themselv—"

"Garcia." At Hotch's command, Penelope's mouth snapped shut and snickers were heard around the table. "We are here to work," he told her, trying to be serious, but you could hear the amusement hiding behind his tone.

"Yes— yes, Sir. Work. Working," she said, but her eyes remained trained on you even as she spoke.

Morgan laughed, swivelling his chair toward you. "Sorry, angel. She gets a little..." he twirled his finger next to his head, "Comicon-y whenever things involve computers."

This snapped her out of her trance and made her whip around to point her finger at him. "You better shut it, Morgan, before I show everyone those pictures of you at Comicon with me."

His smile dropped. "Babygirl, you wouldn't."

"Oh, yes, sugar, I would."

Hotch exasperatedly cut their very entertaining banter off. "Work."

"Morgan, you've been to Comicon?" Without even looking at him, you could hear the smirk in the man's words.

"Leave it, Rossi. You heard the bossman: we've got work," he changed the subject, but based on the fiery look being sent his way by Reid and the teasing one by Emily, you'd bet that this conversation wasn't over.

Hotch signalled for you to start, so you stepped forward, got a little more serious for his sake, and began, "The serial killer you've been phoned in on is not a serial killer. The women he's killed are unfortunately collateral damage to a much bigger problem." Behind you, pictures of the paper left next to the bodies appear on screen. "The unsub is going after high-level members of the NSA who have fragments of a specific code. He's been leaving those fragments at the crime scenes. So far, he has 4—there are only 2 more. Once he gets the last two, it'll only be a matter of time before he's able to unlock a classified file, detailing every undercover op we have or have had in other countries."

The room was quiet. Morgan was the first to question, "So, he's a whistleblower?"

"No, not necessarily. Given his M.O. and need to taunt us with these papers, his goal isn't to expose the government—it's only a stepping stone to what he truly wants, which is chaos."

Emily spoke up next. "Well, he's clearly a narcissist, and he's sadistic at that. Otherwise, he wouldn't have killed these women like this."

Dr. Reid nodded, keeping his eyes on the file in front of him. "Craves control, finds a way to manipulate the situation and mold it into what he wants it to be." He looked up, talking with his hands while explaining, "Narcissists are devoted to themselves and will further themselves in whatever way possible. They lack empathy and find enjoyment in causing others pain, stemming from their grandiose sense of self-importance. Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb were drawn in and obsessed with Nietzsche's idea of Übermenschen, supermen who possessed such high intelligence that it put them above the law. They later confessed to the police that they sought to commit 'perfect crime.' This unsub is likely suffering from the same sense of entitlement."

Rossi tipped his pen at him, agreeing, "Yeah, he's arrogant and he believes he can get away with this, hence the taunting. All he wants is to feed his ego, but he hides behind the whistleblower façade to absolve himself of blame."

"And he's impatient," Derek added. "4 bodies in one week. We don't have much time before he strikes again."

"No, we don't," you said. The screen changed to display the pictures of two men. "The last two people with the code are Malik Hussein and Ethan Torrie. I believe he'll go after Ethan first; he's in D.C. for this big gala tonight. That's where the unsub will make his move."

Emily looked between you and Hotch, almost as if she was unsure who she was addressing her question to. "So what's our plan?"

You, too, glanced at Hotch before looking back at her, splaying your hands out in front of yourself. "Well, we only have one course of action: wait for the unsub to approach Ethan."

Unexpectedly, Hotch interrupted you, saying, "Y/N and I will go in undercover." What? You held yourself back from widening your eyes and whipping your head around. "The rest of you will be waiting for our signal. Garcia, can you get us on the guest-list?"

"Already on it, Sir."

He nodded, firing orders away, "Alright, Morgan and Prentiss, I want you both to go back to the crime scenes. Talk to the owners of the establishments, bartenders, doormen—anybody who could've seen the unsub leave the building with the victims. Garcia, consult with CCTV footage. Rossi and Reid, I want you looking at his M.O. and why he didn't leave the men there with the women. JJ, contact The Post and tell them not to run the latest murder; it's imperative we keep this and the unsub's true motives out of the press. Y/N and I will go over tonight's plan."

They all voiced their confirmations and, like clockwork, filed out of the room until it was just you and Hotch left standing. The air suddenly got heavier—with what, you had no idea.

It felt different, old and new all at the same time, like everything and nothing you'd ever felt before. You couldn't pinpoint it, couldn't describe it.

Growing bored of the silence, you raised a brow, repeating, "'Y/N and I will go undercover?'"

Hotch, who was in the middle of collecting his things, paused and raised a brow of his own, turning to face you. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

You looked him up and down, taking your time and not bothering to be subtle about it. After a moment, you responded, "No." A smirk slowly came to your face. "Let's go over that plan."

He maintained his stare for a few seconds, reminding you of when you met. Eventually, he nodded and got to it. All the while, your mind ran rampant—but not with the case.

Agent Hotchner continued to surprise you.

And you'd be sure to return the favour.

❧

After planning for hours, you and Hotch came up with a decent story. He'd be going as himself. You'd pretend you were his girlfriend, his tag-along for the party, with a fake identity. His presence would make sense, but if people found out Y/N Y/L/N was there, they'd start to wonder things that this plan couldn't afford.

Your name wasn't widely known, nor was your face, but at a party like this, you had to be careful.

That's what you explained to Hotch.

"I don't understand. Nobody knows who you are. Not even Garcia could figure out who you really were when we met." He furrowed his brows in confusion.

You sighed, "There's going to be a lot of powerful people there, Hotchner. Everybody knows The Angel of Death, but there are some big fish in Washington that know she's Y/N."

This seemed to confuse him more. You surmised that he didn't like not knowing things. "Why do you say it like that—say your name as if it's not your name?" 

You gave him a look.

His eyes widened. And for the second time that day, you found yourself thinking that Aaron Hotchner was cute. "It's not your name?"

"Why do you think Penelope had such a hard time finding my credentials?" you inquired. You went on before he could answer. "I take it she didn't find my records at The Academy, either. She found that I went to Caltech, but she didn't find yearbook photos or my social media. She found that I grew up in Massachusetts, that my parents are dead, that I was born in '79. But otherwise, I'm a ghost, aren't I?" Your voice was somewhat playful.

Hotch didn't seem to find the humour in what you were saying.

"So everything about you is a lie." It wasn't a question.

Your eyes glinted with amusement. You leaned in to where he sat across from you on the other side of the table. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that Agent Hotchner stiffened. "'Nothing more than a rumour, an urban legend amongst criminals and internet sleuths. A myth,'" you whispered. "Does that sound familiar?"

He didn't respond.

"As you said, Agent Hotchner, I am a myth. I am not meant to exist. So find me another identity and show me that you're up for the task before this entire plan is derailed by a name."

Your memory was cut off by a knock at your door. You swiped your lipstick across your lips and they immediately quirked upward right after.

You took your time getting the door. Whether Agent Hotchner realized it or not—or rather, whether he was willing to admit it or not—this was a game. And you were nothing if not a damn good player.

Without knowing it, he started it when he picked you up off the street that day in '04. He moved another piece on the board when he walked into your office in '06. And then he asked to work on this case.

It didn't matter what he thought about you or what your name really was. All that mattered was the next move.

You opened the door and his eyes immediately widened on their own accord. They travelled down your body, tracing the outline of the red dress you'd picked out, finding the slit on the side. But this was all within a split-second.

In the blink of an eye, his eyes were back on yours. If you hadn't been paying attention, you would've missed it. He was hoping you did.

But you didn't.

You did, however, miss his ears going red when you turned around, leaving the door open as an invitation inside. 

"You're wearing a suit," you noted, smirking. "How out of character for you."

You heard the door shut, and then footsteps behind you. "Funny, Y/N."

You chuckled. "Please, I know you think I'm hilarious."

He lightly shook his head as you stood in front of your mirror, putting on your earrings. He took that moment to look around your apartment, eyes scanning over your living room. No pictures anywhere, no plants or art. You had a couch, but no television. He glanced to the adjoining kitchen. There was an espresso machine, but he was willing to bet that if he checked your fridge, it'd be empty. 

"You can stop trying to profile my apartment," you informed him, still adding the finishing touches to your outfit. "I don't stay here often."

"I can tell."

He watched as you picked up your heels then went to sit on the couch to put them on. He tried not to let his eyes wander, instead trying to look around the room some more, but even without having his eyes on you, he still couldn't get your picture out of his head.

Distractedly, he heard you absentmindedly ask, "Hey, whatever happened to Gideon and Greenaway?"

He looked at you to respond, seeing you get up. "Things with the job. Certain cases take more of a toll on others." He didn't explain that Elle spiralled or that Gideon lost everything he held dear. He preferred not to think about it.

You tilted your head. "Did things happen with you, too?"

He didn't answer, instead opting to suggest, "Let's go over the case one more time."

You nodded and let him get away with it.

Hotch schooled his expression. "You're Deirdre Carter. You're a CPA. We met years ago on a work conference but hit it off recently. We've been dating for five months."

"Dating," you repeat.

His brows furrowed. "Yes." He didn't understand why you were hung up on it until he saw you glance down at his hand. It's then that he realized he was still wearing his ring. "Oh."

Your voice got softer, and you didn't know if that was part of the game or not. "Look, Hotchner, you don't have to do this if you don't want to. I can do this solo."

"No—" he sighed, looking down at the ring he'd worn everyday for years on end. "I'm divorced. I guess I just wear it out of habit," he revealed.

"Oh."

He took it off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. "Let's head out," he said. You nodded, leading him out.

And you didn't mention the ring again.

❧

Once you got to the building, you met Derek, who was in a secuirty uniform, at the front. He momentarily disabled the metal detector for you so that the guns on your thigh and in Hotch's boot weren't caught.

In the hall, the music played ceremoniously, an orchestra of jazz players working tirelessly to entertain D.C.'s wealthiest and most powerful. The President would be making an appearance later. You hoped to get this done and get out of here before that happened.

Your eyes found Torrie within a minute, subtly signalling his location to Hotch. He was by the bar, a redhead on his arm. The two of you went that way.

He ordered you drinks at the bar that he wouldn't drink, but as soon as your martini was in front of you, you were picking it up and taking a sip.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, talking through his teeth. "We don't drink on the job."

You smirked at him. "You don't drink on the job. I'm just keeping up appearances." You then took the olive and bit into it. For some reason, you enjoyed getting under Hotchner's skin.

He rolled his eyes at you, likely about to reprimand you again, but a voice in your ears stopped him. "Do the two of you have eyes on Torrie?"

Hotch turned to you and brought his hand to your face, cupping your cheek. To those surrounding you, he was just a man caressing his girlfriend—hell, the leap in your chest told you that you nearly bought it. But you knew he did this so that the mic hidden in his sleeve would be at your mouth. You held his stare, a sweet smile gracing your face as you replied to Rossi, "Yes. By the bar."

"Good. Prentiss is on the floor with the ambassador if you need her."

You leaned into Hotch, too, running your hands down his suit jacket while he glanced around for Emily. "Got it."

The next voice you heard was Garcia's. "Hello, my lovelies, I am watching you on camera. Hotch, to your left is the door through which you'll take our bad guy. It's being guarded by Reid and JJ as we speak."

You lowly thanked her, to which she stammered out a "you're welcome." Hotch took his hand away from your face and you removed yours from his chest, cursing the part of yourself that missed his touch.

If you weren't on a case, you'd have thought more about how pretty his eyes were.

The music suddenly changed, becoming a slow song. Your eyes darted behind Hotch to see Ethan and his date making their way to the dance floor. You downed the rest of your martini then grabbed onto his hand, wordlessly pulling him to the floor.

You felt him lightly tense when you put your hands around his neck. "Relax," you whispered. "Just go with it."

At that, he eased up, wrapping his hands around your waist. You moved to the beat of the song, taking control of your dance while he kept a close eye on Torrie. No one had approached them yet, you gathered.

The dance came easy to you, too easy, like it'd been rehearsed or like it was something you'd been doing all your life. Your feet moved synchronously like they had a mind of their own. You didn't have to think about it—it just happened.

It was funny, almost. The stiff and stoic Aaron Hotchner could dance. Your mind went back to when he smiled in the elevator earlier. It made you wonder what he was like before. Before he was a profiler or unit chief.

You know you were different before you were in this life, before you became Y/N.

You wondered what would've happened if you met back then, when you were just you and he was just him.

And just as soon as you started wondering, you no longer wanted to think about it. Instead, you asked him, "Did you ever think you and I would be dancing together like this when we met?"

He glanced down at you then looked away. "No." A ghost of a smirk came to his lips. "I thought I'd be putting you behind bars."

You chuckled. "I know. It was quite entertaining."

"To you, maybe." He glanced down at you again. "I don't like being blindsided."

"Oh, I know." When he glanced down at you this time, he saw your eyes twinkling. "That is precisely why it was so entertaining, Agent Hotchner."

He chuckled under his breath, and something in you fluttered. "You're something else, Y/L/N."

You hummed, murmuring, "And don't I know it?"

He was gonna say something else but then something in his expression changed. He was back to stoic, eyes hardening. You straightened your back and stopped dancing. "7 o'clock," he muttered.

You unwound your hands from his neck, turning around to see a man beelining at Torrie from across the room. But if you had your way, which you would, then he wouldn't make it to Ethan at all.

With Hotch hot on your heels, you headed his way, moving through the crowd effortlessly. Just before he was about to reach them, you inconspicuously unholstered your gun from your thigh and pressed it against his back, stopping him in his tracks.

Hotch caught up to you, standing to the side and obstructing the view. "Careful, friend. I wouldn't want to shoot you in front of all these people, but I will." As a warning, you clicked the safety off. 

The man tensed as Hotch grabbed his arm. Your voice was sweet in comparison to your sour words. "Now, you're gonna follow him or I'm gonna pump you full of lead. Capisce?" Neither you nor Hotch waited for a response, leading him towards the side doors that Garcia had notified you of.

Upon getting there, Reid and JJ opened the doors without a word and closed them immediately after you'd gone through them.

As soon as the doors closed, the unsub twisted Hotch's arm, prompting him to yelp. Simultaneously, he knocked the gun out of your hand, sending it thudding across the floor. 

He shoved you against the wall, knocking the wind out of your lungs. Meanwhile, Hotch threw a punch his way. A crack resounded through the hallway followed by the unsub growling. He threw a punch back that Hotch narrowly dodged, but in one quick motion, he pulled Hotch's tie, catching him off guard.

In a flash, he had Hotch in a chokehold, fighting for breath. You acted quickly, reaching for the knife sheathed on your thigh, running up behind the ubsub and holding it to his throat, causing him to go rigid.

"Let him go or I slit your fucking throat," you spat.

He didn't ease his hold, making you bring the knife closer, knicking him. "I said, let. him. go."

Begrudgingly, he let Hotch go, who was gasping for breath. You let him catch his bearings for a moment, but you had to alert him, "Hotchner, the cuffs."

He coughed but nodded, grabbing the cuffs from his pocket. You took them from him, shoving the unsub against the wall just as he did to you and pulling his arms behind him. You wrapped the cuffs around his wrists and tightened them until you heard him grunt.

"In case you didn't get the memo, you're under arrest, asshole."

Knowing this would never reach a courtroom, you didn't read him his rights or tell him what he was being arrested for. He knew.

Where he was going, he'd never forget it.

❧

You and Hotch stood to the side in an alley after you'd shoved the unsub into the back of a black sedan, watching the car drive off. 

"I know that you're just itching to interrogate him," you commented, your voice echoing in the night. "But trust me, that's somebody else's job now." You felt Hotch's eyes on you, but you didn't look at him.

His stare burned into the side of your head. "That wasn't a cop car," he said.

"No," you finally looked back at him. "it wasn't."

"Who was driving that car?"

"A CIA agent."

"And where is he going now?"

"To pay for his crimes," you slowly answered, narrowing your eyes. "Stop worrying about it."

He stepped closer to you. "He should be doing that in a federal prison, with a sentence decided by a judge and a jury. The families of those analysts, those women— they deserve closure."

You shook your head, an incredulous laugh leaving you. "You still don't get it, do you?" Your voice was teasing, but your undertone was hard and serious. "A trial means telling a bunch of people, including civilians, about ops that are not meant to exist. It's just not gonna happen."

Hotch kept staring at you for what felt like forever but was really only a few seconds, giving you the urge to squirm under his gaze. For some reason, you didn't like the way he was looking at you. Finally, he looked away, exhaling, "It's not right, Y/N."

Somewhere, deep inside, you felt a pang. You touched his shoulder, softly telling him, "You should know better than anyone that the law isn't about right and wrong." 

He still didn't look at you.

You sighed. "Thank you for your help, Agent Hotchner." You patted his shoulder one last time and then left the alley, walking through the door you came out of and, in doing so, you felt something change. 

The game was over.

You just couldn't tell who won.

By the time Aaron had noticed this change, he tried to follow you, but when he opened the door only to see an empty hallway, he realized it was too late.

You were gone.

And he didn't know why that disappointed him so much.

4. Unpredictable

New York, New York, 2008

Whenever Aaron was in New York, he liked to pick up good coffee and eat good food. But as he stood over a dead man's corpse, he felt his appetite vanish.

He and his team stood at the crime scene, analyzing it. It was different, but he couldn't shake the feeling that everything about these murders were different. There was something off about them, and he couldn't figure out exactly what it was.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black car pull up next to the yellow tape, the Mercedes logo glinting in the light. He furrowed his brows then shook his head, thinking better of it. Stop thinking about her.

"Uniforms are rounding up witnesses."

Detective Cooper and Brustin's arrival made him look away from the car and toward them instead. "Doesn't sound like anyone got a clean look," Cooper said.

Morgan looked up at the security camera that should've caught everything but in reality caught nothing useful. "It's over in a flash," he remarked. "He's probably gone before anyone even realizes what's happening."

Right beside him, Kate asked, "Is this what it felt during the Son of Sam?"

Just as Brustin was about to answer, a new voice sounded from behind them. "Son of Sam is the least of your worries." His breath hitched. They all turned around, and Hotch instantly realized that he was right: that car was yours—and now you stood right in front of him.

You gave him a glance but then your eyes were back on Kate. "What you should be focused on is another 9/11."

Kate lightly scoffed. "My apologies— who are you?" 

"Y/N Y/L/N, CIA," you introduced yourself, flashing your badge. Recognition briefly flickered through her eyes. "And you must Kate Joyner, head of New York's field office." To be polite, you held out your hand, and she reluctantly shook it. "I'm here as the Agency's delegate, and I'll also be representing Homeland Security for the time being."

"Homeland Security?" You looked to Morgan. "It's nice to see you again, angel, but what does Homeland Security have to do here?"

You went to answer, but Joyner cut you off, "I'll ask the questions, Agent Morgan, thank you." Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, and a quick look at Derek told you that his did, too, but then Kate was looking at you again, waiting for you to answer.

Your mind was brought back to the situation at hand. You glanced at Hotch once more to see he was already looking at you, but then you looked away. "I have reason to believe that this guy is more than a serial killer. In fact, I have reason to believe this is more than one guy."

Kate crossed her arms. "What are you suggesting?"

Every time Hotch had seen you, no matter how serious the situation was, you were lighthearted, amused, knowing you'd come out on top. But this time, your voice was devoid of its usual playfulness as you disclosed to them a fact that changed their entire investigation.

"If I'm right, Agent Joyner, then we're dealing with terrorists."

❧

Once the initial shock from your revelation died down, you told them that you'd explain everything back at the field office. Unexpectedly, Morgan asked to ride back with you and you obliged, figuring his company wasn't too bad.

Hotch stared at you the entire time as you got in the car, and he continued to stare at you until you sped out of sight.

You didn't look back once.

"So, terrorism, huh?"

You glanced at Derek and smirked, finding that playful nature again. "I told you, I'd explain at the Bureau."

He shook his head at you, a similar smirk on his face, then he quizzed, "Hey, did Hotch happen to tell you why Joyner's giving me attitude?"

You furrowed your brows as you came to a stop light, turning toward him. "What makes you think I've talked to him?"

Derek snorted. "Please, every time I've seen the two of you together, you're all flirty—even when he was still with Haley."

"So what? I've flirted with Spencer before—doesn't mean I wanted to get into his pants," you defended.

His smirk widened. "I never said you wanted to get into the boss' pants."

"You insinuated it."

"Why, angel? Do you want to get into his pants?"

You deadpanned, "No, I do not." Despite yourself, you couldn't stop red from crawling to your cheeks.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that." Right after, the light turned green, as if saving you from whatever this was. Then the teasing disappeared from Morgan's voice, replaced with curiosity. "Wait, so you're seriously telling me Hotch didn't call you?"

"Yes, Derek. That is exactly what I am telling you," you insisted, then you glanced back at him. "But to answer your question, Kate doesn't like you for the same reason she doesn't like me: power." He stared at you confusedly, so you elaborated, "Word on the steet is that the FBI wants to reassign her, and you're their star replacement."

"What?" Shock laced through his voice.

"What, are you telling me you actually didn't know?"

"No, I thought the Bureau was so proud of itself for stealing her away from Scotland Yard."

"Well, don't ask me to explain FBI politics to you. I'm in an entirely different organization, my guy."

Derek groaned in exasperation, making you laugh and forget about Hotch, even if it was only for a second.

❧

By the time you and Derek got to the field office, you were all business, unlike any time Hotch had ever seen you.

With the team gathered around you, you stood in front of the evidence board and started, "The unsubs' behaviour is questionable. They're disciplined, they're using countersurveillance. They take a quick shot then leave the scene immediately, not stopping to watch or enjoy the kill at all. There is nothing sexual about it, and that is because these killings are not the work of a serial killer. They're methodical. They look like mob hits at first glance, simulate gang initiations. They seem random, but they're not. The murders, just like the Death card you received, are a smoke screen."

Kate cut you off. "How can you be so sure?"

You suppressed your irritation at being interrupted and kept calm. Cooly, you explained, "Murders like these create panic— not just amongst the general population, but amongst law enforcement, as well; it is terror. It serves their greater goal." You gestured with your hands as you spoke. "The murders simulate a bombing. From there, they station someone to watch, gauge how long it takes police to respond."

Understanding flashed through Morgan's eyes. "At which point they bring in a second bomb."

"Exactly," you affirmed. "The goal is always to take out a first round of civilians, followed by a second wave of emergency responders. It's trial and error—it's how they practice. And if someone catches the shooter, that's fine because we just end up thinking we have a murderer; the cell is never compromised. And in creating such panic, they ensure the most urgent response time short of a bombing. It's by far the smartest way to plan for a terrorist attack."

You crossed your arms, giving them time to absorb your words. You didn't expect anyone to respond so soon, and you certainly didn't expect that person to be Hotch. "It's a theory, Y/N." His voice was soft, and that seemed to only add fuel to the fire.

You resisted the urge to scoff, sharply retorting, "Isn't any profile?"

He didn't answer. Perhaps that was the smartest choice; he didn't want to pick an argument with you, not now.

Hesistantly, Spencer spoke up, "I think— I think she's right." He walked behind you to the board, picking up a red marker and circling spots on the map before turning back around to face you. "I think they're targeting points of entry. All the murders have taken place near a bridge or tunnel."

"Holland Tunnel, Midtown Tunnel, Manhattan Bridge," Emily muttered.

"If bombs went off, emergency response would shut down any ability to get in or out of the city," JJ remarked. "It's— it's like people would be trapped on the island."

It looked like you had everyone convinced, even Hotch—despite his reluctance to believe you—but for some reason, Kate Joyner just couldn't let up. She crossed her arms. "I still fail to see how you came to the conclusion of multiple shooters."

Unbothered, you replied, "Having followers do the shootings would ensure they're willing to kill or be killed for their cause."

She countered, "But is there any evidence that that's the case?" 

You narrowed your eyes, going to respond when someone's ringtone sounded. Derek picked up his phone and put it on speaker. You could almost thank whoever it was for stopping you from saying something you would or wouldn't regret. 

"Talk to me, babygirl."

Penelope's voice came through the phone. "Okay, I have bad news then badder, connected news. What would you like me to start with?"

Derek glanced up at you, then at Hotch. "Gimme the bad news, Garcia."

"Alright, well, I was looking at the surveillance footage from the murders, specifically the most recent compared to the previous, and found something very, very off. I'll share my screen with you." Emily turned on the laptop on the table closest to all of you, and the footage immediately appeared. Silently, you watched the videos one after the other, and you had a feeling that Garcia was just about to vindicate you. "You guys see what I saw?"

"Well, he sprints off in one and walks calmly in the other. It's two entirely different demeanours," Morgan said.

"Exactly, my dove. So check it out, I did a digital perspective analysis rendering on all the shootings we have footage of. Now the first two were inconclusive, but again, in the last two, I found something très weird." Garcia did a freeze-frame, her analysis software appearing. "Your calm, walking type—he's about 6 foot 1." The screen changed to the other scene. "But your sprinter, he's like 5'9", 5'10" tops."

While the air in the office got colder, you stood there holding back the urge to smirk. You saw both Morgan and Hotch glance at you from the corner of your eye, but you only turned to Kate, seeing somewhat of a defeated expression on her face.

"Is this evidence enough for you, Agent Joyner?"

❧

That surveillance footage was enough confirmation for you, no matter what Joyner had to say about it. Following Garcia's revelation, you walked away from the team's makeshift conference room and walked into the bullpen, pulling out your phone and dialling Homeland Security.

You notified them of the situation at hand and that you were expecting something big soon, but not yet, telling them not to act without your say-so. It was of vital importance that you controlled the situation; you couldn't let the unsubs know you were onto them, so you couldn't make any moves just yet, either.

You hung up the phone, sighing. You hated cases like these. Being The Angel of Death was something you got used to; you could control that, but dealing with a cell like this wasn't just more challenging—it was unpredictable, and unpredictable was something you weren't quite fond of.

You turned around and nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw Hotch standing right behind you. Your hand slapped against your chest. "Holy shit, Hotchner, don't they teach you not to a sneak up on a girl in FBI school?"

Something almost like a smile came to his lips, the last thing you were expecting from him, especially at a time like this. "I'd hardly call that sneaking up on you. And according to you, you've been to 'FBI school,' so you should know."

You scoffed. "Regardless." Hotch's eyes remained on you, and the corners of his lips never went down. An uncomfortable silence then settled between you, despite the loud bustling in your surroundings.

You were hoping you could've gone this entire visit without speaking to him alone.

He must've noticed this, because his next words were, "You've been avoiding me."

You tensed ever so slightly. You'd been here all of five minutes, and he thought you were avoiding him. "I have not been avoiding you—"

"Yes, you have."

"We have bigger problems to deal with. Not everything is about you, Hotchner."

"Why are you avoiding me, Y/N?" You hated how his voice sounded, calm and soft. You hated the fact that he was even asking you this right now. You wanted him to be the stoic guy he always was. You didn't like this. And deep down, you knew that that was why you were avoiding him.

You didn't like the unpredictable.

And Aaron Hotchner was just that.

In lieu of responding, you dodged the question, biting back, "Why do you care?"

Hotch stilled as if you'd just hit him with the question of the century. It was then that he realized he didn't know. He couldn't answer you because he didn't have the answer himself.

He didn't know what he was going to say when he opened his mouth, and he supposed he never would, because a second later, a phone rang.

A sigh left his lips as he went to pick the phone up off some agent's desk, and you watched as the stoic man you knew returned. Yet, for some reason, you weren't as relieved as you thought you'd be.

"Hotchner." Kate chose that moment to walk out of her office while Morgan and Rossi came up from behind you. Hotch's voice became grave. "Does it look it could be one of our guys?"

Derek took the words right from your mouth. "What's going on?"

Hotch put down the phone. "We've got eyes on one of them," he answered. "He's on the subway platform at 59th and Lex."

"59th—? We could've been right there." He looked at Kate with an accusatory glare. The fury that lit up in his eyes and the way she refused to look back told you there was a conversation between them that you missed.

Over the phone, you heard Garcia let out a shaky breath, telling you all that the unsub shot the woman.

Kate paced. "Where the hell are the police?" 

Meanwhile, you picked up another telephone from the adjacent desk. "This is Y/N Y/L/N with the CIA. We have a murder suspect on 59th and Lex, subway platform. Hurry."

You slammed the phone down as you heard Penelope fret, "God, he's getting away."

"Garcia, can you get eyes on him above ground?"

A few clicks were audible as she responded, "He's heading west on 59th Street."

Kate spoke up, stating what you already knew. "If he makes it to the park, we've lost him."

"We lost the visual," another woman said.

Derek scoffed while Rossi questioned, "Are the police on the scene?"

"Negative."

And just like that, without another word, it was clear to everyone in the room that you just lost your only suspect. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose, cursing under your breath. Next to you, Derek made his frustrations much more known. "We could've had that guy," he snapped.

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

This didn't console him at all. "Maybe, but it was worth taking a shot—"

"I had every available man on the street."

Morgan stepped forward, seething. "And I suggested to you that you use this team." Realization came over you. Now you understood why he was so angry; Kate let her resentment of him get in the way of the case, and that decision may have just cost you a life.

Just as you thought Hotch couldn't get any more unpredictable, he scolded, "Morgan, second-guessing doesn't do us any good right now."

Your brows raised, but he didn't look at you, nor did he look at Derek. 

"Hotch, we have a possible terrorist attack coming. How am I supposed to look these cops in the eye and tell them that we're actually here to help them?"

Hotch's reply was sharp. "We're here to present a profile. That's what we need to do."

Derek ignored him, pressing, "I said to put as express stops. 14th, 42nd, 59th— and that's exactly where they hit—"

"It's not your place to have this discussion." This time, Hotch did look at him, and his eyes were hard.

Immediately, you cut in, spitting out his name. "Agent Hotchner." Hotch's eyes went right to you. You stepped forward, firing, "We have six bodies. And right now, I have to call Homeland Security and tell them that we not only have another one, but we also just lost a valuable chance to find one of the perpetrators."

"Which is exactly why we need to stay focused."

"Focused?" Derek echoed. Then he took a step closer, standing eye to eye with his boss. "From where I'm standing, all your focus is on her."

Kate's head ducked down, and from there, it didn't take much for you to connect the dots. All of a sudden, it made sense why Derek had asked you about Kate earlier instead of going straight to Hotch.

And to think that, just a few moments ago, he'd been going after you.

With a tick in his jaw, Hotch commanded, "Take a walk. Now."

Derek stared at him for a split-second before walking off without another word. 

"You know, I think I'm gonna take that walk with him," you muttered. And just like that, it was as if Hotch realized you were still there.

He went to say your name, but you were turning your back and walking away before he could even utter the first syllable.

Unpredictability. What a fickle thing.

You hated it.

❧

You found Derek at a nearby bar, the closest bar to the field office. Contrary to what you said to Hotch, you didn't come looking for him; he just so happened to find the same place you did.

Before you even pulled out the barstool, he was sighing. "I know. I was out of line."

You lightly snorted. "I'm not here to chastise you, Derek." He looked up at you, surprise flashing through his eyes. "I'm just here to drink." Right on cue, the bartender came up to you and asked you wanted to drink, to which you ordered brandy, neat.

When said drink arrived in front of you and you downed it in one go, it prompted him to ask, "Aren't you still on the job?"

A slight chuckle left you. "Morgan, I run an entire CIA ops division and then I also get asked to do things like this." You then deadpanned, "Trust me, I can hold my liquor."

He held his hands up in surrender, an amused expression on his face before something serious took it over, wiping the smile from his face. "I'm sorry about Joyner, by the way." When you look at him confused, he explained, "I didn't have to say that. Not in front of you."

You sighed. Not this again. "Derek, I have nothing going on with your boss. So whatever the deal is with him and Kate is absolutely none of my business." For some reason, the words stung coming out of your mouth, and you didn't like it one bit.

He left it alone and didn't press the issue further (thankfully). You glanced at the beer in front of him. You nodded toward it, stating, "You haven't touched that."

He glanced at it. "Guess I don't have the appetite for it right now."

You hummed. "Or you want to go back."

He let out a long, dramatic sigh, nearly making you laugh. "I have to apologize to her, don't I?" This time, when you nodded and he ran a hand over his bald head, you did laugh. "Fucking hell."

You sarcastically patted his shoulder. "Don't sweat it, sweetheart. I'll walk back with you."

"Sweetheart?" you heard him question as you stood up, putting enough money down for both of your drinks. "And now you're paying for me? You're threatening my manhood here, angel."

"Get over it, Morgan."

And as he let out a hearty laugh, you let yourself pretend that you didn't have a different agent on your mind entirely.

❧

Upon getting back to the office, you suddenly wished you'd had another drink as you were informed that there was not only another shooting, but Detective Cooper was shot after he and Prentiss chased after him.

Kate seemed to have taken Derek's suggestion and sent the team out on the streets in the hour and a half you were away. In that time, Prentiss and Cooper nearly got one of the shooters, but he was fast; he could've gotten away. Yet he stopped and shot Cooper, prompting Emily to fire a shot of her own.

Suicide by cop.

You hung up the phone, walking back into the room after telling Homeland that you'd be calling with another update soon. "Three shootings in one day," you said, catching everyone's attention. "They're ramping up to something."

Morgan held his phone up in the air and wiggled it. "Yeah, well, while you were on the phone, Garcia called. They hacked into at least one camera at every scene and have been watching from day one."

You cursed under your breath just as Kate called your name. "Y/N." You looked up at her in half-veiled surprise, seeing her standing with her arms crossed, a somewhat uncomfortable look on her face. "Aaron told me more about your position in the CIA, how you're more well-versed in situations such as these." It looked like she had a hard time getting the words out, despite the sincerity in her tone. "I'd like you to take the lead on this." 

You were sure that the surprise must've shown on your face, courtesy of fatigue, but you quickly masked it and nodded. You took one deep breath, and then you dived in. "We need to hit the ground running." You turned to everyone individually as you gave them instructions. "Rossi, I'd like you to talk to the Commissioner. He'll be familiar with you." He nodded and left the room. "Derek, you brief Homeland Security, tell them I sent you. I want them to know we're expecting them to strike any minute now."

"You got it, angel."

You turned to Emily, who was already ahead of you. "I'll head to the hospital, check on Cooper, and brief Detective Brustin."

"Good. And Spencer—"

He (with a creepy accuracy) anticipated what you were going to say before you even said it. "JJ and I will talk to the Port Authority Police."

You nodded then realized that left only two people, unwelcome dread filling you. Out of a stubborn attempt to prove his earlier claim about avoiding him wrong, you looked to Hotch but still didn't meet his eyes. "Agent Hotchner, you and Kate should speak to the mayor. I have to make some calls to the DOD. We'll all meet back here as soon as possible. We are crunched for time, but the one advantage that we have is that they don't know we know they're watching."

Everyone who hadn't already left nodded and got to their tasks. Hotch looked like he wanted to stick around and say something to you, but as you said, the clock was ticking. 

You called the DOD and briefly explained what Homeland Security had likely already spoken to them about, that you saw a terrorist event on the horizon. They told you that, luckily, the Deputy Secretary of Defense was in town, only ten, maybe twenty minutes away from where you were. 

Quickly, you gathered your things and made your way out of the building. At the exit, however, you found exactly who you didn't want to see.

Hotch and Kate.

They hadn't left yet.

They stood outside the door, facing each other. He had his hand on her elbow, and he was saying something you couldn't make out. Whatever it was, it made her lips upturn.

You couldn't recognize the feeling that crawled through your veins at that moment. The green monster and you hadn't been acquainted in a while, but for some reason, she was showing up, making your body her home, and you hated it.

Shaking off whatever it was you were feeling, you pushed the door open. Hotch noticed you first. "Y/N," he said. He took his hand off her arm. A weight was lifted off your chest.

"Agent Hotchner," you greeted, promptly turning to the blonde and doing the same. "Agent Joyner. I've gotten word that the Deputy Secretary of Defense is in New York; I'm heading to see her."

Kate nodded. "Good. Aaron and I are on our way to the mayor's office now." She turned, starting to walk away, and then you realized she was heading in the same direction as your car.

Fuck. They parked next to you.

You started walking, too, Hotch now at your side. Kate was ahead of you guys. You're sure that Hotch could naturally walk faster than you, but he remained at your side. This is deliberate, you thought.

Your conversation from earlier hung in the air. With Kate gone, the tension between you was now palpable. But he wouldn't say anything, you assured yourself, not with her in earshot.

But perhaps you underestimated him. With every meeting, Aaron Hotchner continued to surprise you. He had become unpredictable to you.

Yet, the two of you would soon bear witness to just how unpredictable life could truly be.

Just as you were nearing your vehicles, Aaron opened his mouth to say something, but a loud boom cut him off.

Before either of you could register it, you were sent flying backward, shockwaves rippling through your body.

And then everything went black.

❧

New York City has never been so quiet, you thought, blinking your eyes open. And you've never been able to see the stars in this city, either, but tonight, you saw them just fine. Part of you wondered if you were dreaming.

No, not a dream. A hallucination.

There's been an accident.

The thought hit you like a ton of bricks as pain erupted in your side. A groan left you unwarranted. You went to touch it then hissed at the throbbing. There was no blood there, though, no wound, so it must've been the bones.

Nowhere else hurt—not that bad, at least. You tested yourself, trying to sit up. It hurt to do so, but you did it. And when you did, you were met with the sight of an SUV, up in flames.

No, not an accident. This was planned.

But it wasn't your car. It would've made sense if it were your car, if you were the direct target, but you weren't. Your mind ran a mile a minute. Why would they blow up a random SUV?

It's then that you remember it wasn't a random SUV. It was Hotch's.

Hotch and Kate.

They were with you.

With that realization, any and all intellectual thought escape your grasp. You shot upward, the pain becoming nonexistent as a surge of adrenaline flowed through your body. "Hotch!" you screamed. No answer. "Hotch! Kate!" No one answered. "Aaron!" You continued to cry his name but no one answered.

Tears you welled up in your eyes. It was lost on you that you hadn't cried in years. It was equally lost on you that this was the first time you'd ever said his name.

You spun around, letting go of a breath you didn't know you were holding when you spotted a man in a suit, standing there, just staring at the fire. You jogged over to him and called out his name, but he didn't move his head. You tried again. "Aaron." No response. "Aaron!"

Finally, he looked at you. A plethora of emotions could be seen on his face. Confusion. Anger. Fear. Then worry. "Y/N," he breathed. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." That was a lie, but you could handle the pain well. You had good experience. "Are you?"

"Yes, I think so." 

You took a quick moment to examine him, the cut by his brow, the blood by his ear; you think back to how he didn't respond to your calls. Concussion, you thought, and a ruptured ear drum.

You take ahold of his arm, gently but firmly, and slowly asked him, "Aaron, where's Kate?" 

He blinked, glancing back at the wreck and then back at you. You watched him swallow. "I—"

"Hey! Are the two of you okay?"

Your eyes and his simultaneously snapped to the voice that'd just appeared, seeing a scrawny kid stand in front of you. Like a switch had been flipped, the abundance of emotions on his face dissipated into one.

Determination.

"What's your name?" he questioned.

The kid looked at him, confused. "What?"

Hotch repeated, "What's your name?"

As if he thought you two were crazy, he glanced between you warily. "Sam," he replied.

Hotch didn't look at him or acknowledge his name as he ordered, "Call 911." 

"Yeah— yeah, I did."

"Call 911— tell that there's been an explosion."

"Sir, are you okay?" His eyes darted to you. "Ma'am, are you hurt?" Momentarily, he glanced down, his eyes catching the gun on your belt. He looked to Hotch, finding the same thing. Stunned, he looked back up. "Are you guys cops?"

Hotch's eyes were still on the fire. "Call 911. Tell them... that a— that a federal agent—" Without warning, he took off running towards the car, yelling, "Kate!"

"Hotch!" You went to follow him but the kid stopped you.

"Okay so you want me to say you're a federal agent?"

You turned around, eyes blazing. "Call 911. Tell them that there's been a car explosion, involving two FBI agents and one CIA officer." You barely finished your sentence before you were running after Hotch.

By the time you got to him, he was taking off his jacket, about to shield himself and run right into the car but you stopped him. "Aaron!" 

His eyes darted to you then travelled behind you. The dread painted on his features mixed with relief, but you couldn't tell which emotion was stronger. You turned, following his line of sight, and saw Kate lying on the ground, a trail of blood leading to her body.

Without missing a beat, you both ran to her, her coughing becoming more audible as you got closer. Aaron got down immediately, and her first words were, "My purse. I can't find my purse."

He shushed her. "Don't move, don't move."

"Aaron, my purse."

Shock. She's in shock.

If only just to placate her, Hotch glanced around for it. "I don't think you had one," he said.

"I must've dropped it," she gasped, moving her head.

"Kate—" you cut in from above, "Kate, you need to stop trying to move."

She looked up at you, her eyes widening at whatever she saw. "Y/N. Y/N, what happened?"

You ran a hand through your hair. "I don't— I don't know. A bomb. An IED, I think." You glanced back at the car, your mind going back to the same race it was racing in before you found Aaron.

"An IED?" she echoed. "I have to get up."

"No. No, no, no. Lie down. Lie still. You need to lie still," he pleaded with her.

Suddenly, she caught your attention back. "Am I moving my legs?"

Hotch shushed her again at first, then he questioned, "What?"

Both of you glanced down at her legs at the same time. You resisted the urge to cup your mouth.

You were gonna be sick.

Weakly, she asked again, "Am I moving my legs?"

You didn't have the heart to answer her. From the looks of it, neither did Aaron, because he changed the subject. "I'm going to have to turn you and see where the blood is coming from," he said.

"Do it."

"Alright? Okay." He turned her while you focused on the sirens wailing in the distance, getting closer. The sound blended in with Kate's crying until it was all one and the same to you.

Police cars and ambulances soon pulled up just ahead of you, maybe a hundred yards away. You stood taller, yelling, "Officer down!" When they didn't come any closer, you flailed your arms. "Officer down! Here! There's an officer down!"

Kate's voice, ever so quiet, cut through the noise like a knife. "They're not coming." You turned to her, seeing her look at both of you defeatedly. "We told them not to. Remember?"

Your own words rang through your head. The goal is always to take out a first round of civilians, followed by a second wave of emergency responders.

The reality of the situation struck you. They weren't coming.

"The first wave of responders are the targets," she got out. "ESU orders are not— to let anyone in until the area is cleared."

"No." You shook your head. "I'm not taking that as an answer."

"Y/N—"

"We are getting you out of here, Kate, come hell or high water." Your previous aversion to her no longer mattered. She was lying on the ground covered in blood, unable to move her legs. All that mattered was getting her out.

Without wasting another second, you ran toward the barricade. ESU officer braced their rifles, but you had your badge ready as you stood a safe distance away from them. You were trying to think calmly, as calmly as you could. Your ribs stung as you held the badge up in the air.

The words were spoken in an erratic panic. "My name is Director Y/N Y/L/N, I'm a senior officer of the CIA. Behind me are SSAs Aaron Hotchner and Kate Joyner. She is injured— badly—"

A man stepped forward and cut you off cooly, "I understand that, ma'am, but I have orders not to let anyone in—"

You lost it. "Screw your orders! She can't fucking move!"

"Ma'am, my orders are what they are."

"Your orders are what they are," you repeated under your breath, a humourless chuckle escaping. "What's your name?"

He squared his shoulders. "It's Captain Warner, ma'am."

"Well, Captain Warner," you spat. "Allow me to re-introduce myself. My name is Director or Agent Y/L/N, not ma'am. Director. And I am quite familiar with your orders, Captain; I gave them. You are here because I made the call that put you here. And, so help me God, if you don't listen to this order, I will make the call that relieves you of your position."

Warner didn't appear to be shaken, but you could see the cloud of doubt floating in his eyes. You'd think that anyone would grapple for their job, but Warner was being difficult. "I apologize, Director, but I can't do that."

Your nostrils flared. You were just about to continue telling him off when an awfully familiar voice sounded, asking for someone in charge. Your eyes widened. "Derek!"

Derek's head snapped your way. "Holy shit. Y/N!" He came running towards you but was stopped by the same officers that kept you from crossing the barricade, holding up their guns.

"This area is restricted," he said.

He held up his badge. "I'm Agent Morgan, FBI. That's my friend—"

"This area is restricted," Warner repeated, barely looking at him. "I will take care of your friend. Now go back to the Federal Building. There are evac marshaling spots. Check in and make sure they know where you are."

Morgan held his ground, stepping in front of Warner and retaliating, "I am not about to do that."

"Get out of my face or I'll have you bodily removed, Agent."

"Derek." You caught his attention. "Hotch and Kate are down there."

He spun around. "That's my boss down there!"

"My orders are what they are." 

You scoffed at the recycled statement while Derek argued, "I don't give a damn what your orders are!"

"I get it, Agent, but we've been told by you" he gave you a glance "'Responders are the targets.' So, until the blast site is cleared, no one goes in."

Morgan looked back at you then back at the Captain with a renewed resolution, trying a different approach. "You're Marine Corps, right?" Warner didn't respond, looking down. "Right?"

"Please. Go back to the marshaling point."

"I'm not doing it." He pointed to the site. "I'm not just going to let my man lie down there like that."

As if on cue, Hotch screamed, "Someone! Damnit, we're here!" You nearly flinched at the sheer pain in his voice, and Derek certainly didn't look unaffected, either.

"'Never leave a man behind.' You do remember that, don't you?"

Hotch kept screaming as Morgan and Warner stared each other down. It seemed that he must've gotten to him, because within just a moment, he said, "Go."

Derek didn't waste another second, immediately running to you and grabbing onto your shoulders. "Y/N, are you alright?"

"I'm fine! I'm fine, it's Kate."

He nodded and then took off following with you trailing closely behind, but not before you gave Captain Warner a pointed glare.

When you got to Hotch, the kid was back, seemingly tending to Kate as Morgan explained, "They're not letting any ambulances down here until they clear the scene." He glanced at the kid like he just noticed he was there. "Kid, you've gotta get behind the barricades. Let's go." The kid didn't move. "Go!"

"Go, Sam." At Hotch's word, the kid got up and ran, but your attention was focused solely on Kate, checking her vitals.

"Talk to me. Can we carry her?" Morgan barely gave him time to respond. "Hotch, can we carry her?"

"No, I tried. Morgan—" he paused, intaking a shaky breath, "she's going to bleed to death if we don't get her out of here. We've got to do something."

Derek's phone ringing cut off whatever he was going to say. He picked it up immediately. "Garcia, I got Hotch and Y/N, but listen to me, you got to get somebody down here right away. You hear me? Right now." You didn't hear what Garcia said next, but it caused his head to snap up. "What? You're absolutely sure?" He glanced at you then to the kid who you realized never left.

The kid held his hands out like he was asking what you were waiting for, causing you to tilt your head, confused.

Morgan hung up the phone and then his next words shocked you. "Hotch. The kid. He's the bomber."

Your eyes went wide before instantly going to Hotch. "Are you okay to stay here?" you asked.

He didn't even think about it. "Go."

With that, you and Morgan took off running. The kid bolted, leaving you to chase after him.

Despite the heels on your feet (that luckily weren't stilettos) and obvious bruise to your side, you couldn't feel pain. All you feel was the pure adrenaline pumping through your veins. You hadn't been so ready to fight in ages. The anger coursing through your body was unparalleled.

This kid wasn't getting away with this, and you'd make sure of it.

You chased the kid down the street, Morgan ahead of you. An ambulance passed you while you ran, and you prayed it'd be heading Hotch's way.

You kept chasing after the kid, turning a corner and he was gone, but Morgan was already heading down the stairs for the subway, so you knew he was down there.

You ran down the stairs, skipping steps as you went, following Morgan's lead and pulling out your gun. Civilians filled the station, evacuating. "Out of the way!" you screamed, pushing past them.

"Move! Where'd he go? Where?" Some pointed straight ahead, so you kept running.

You got down to where the subway was, but by now, it was empty. You came to a stop next to Morgan, holding up your gun.

"Show your face, you son of a bitch!"

No one showed. You nodded to the train and panted, "Morgan, I'll take the back. You take the front."

Heaving, he nodded, going for the front. You entered the train with your gun held high, pointing it on either side of the door. You walked through the cart slowly, checking beheind yourself periodically to ensure the kid wouldn't sneak up on you.

You pushed open the door to the next cart warily. It was just as empty as the previous one. You went for the next cart. Nothing again. You met Morgan in the middle. "Nothing," you said.

"Me neither. But there's a door at the front. I'm thinking he could've hopped through there," he told you.

You nodded and followed him there, accepting his help and jumping down. Carefully, with your gun and flashlight in hand, you walked on the tracks, avoiding the power supply. You shouted, "We know you're in here, kid. Show your fucking face, you coward!"

A noise sounded, making you turn around to check it while Morgan continued forward. "You've got nowhere to run, man. You hear me? There's nothing down here for you."

"Is that all you see?" At the sound of the kid's voice, you spun around, moving your flashlight around. "Huh? Darkness?"

You caught up to Morgan, and then the kid showed himself. Your flashlight revealed his shoes lying on the ground while he slowly walked on the rail, balancing himself like this was a game. You cocked your gun. "You listen to me, you little shit. This is not a fucking game. Get your ass off the tracks and put your hands on top of your fucking head. Do it now."

When he failed to listen to you, Derek yelled, "Do it now!"

The kid did as you said, but not to listen to you. It was to mock you. "You will lose in the end," he said.

Derek moved forward. "Shut up. Shut your mouth."

"You wanna know why?" He continued on like he'd never said a word. "Because you fear what we embrace."

Before you could do anything, he took one foot off the track and put it on the third rail. "Get off the— no! No, no!" Derek and you were forced backward as the light blinded your eyes. Without even lifting your eyes up, you knew undoubtedly that the kid was dead.

He just killed himself right in front you.

"Damnit." You reached to run a hand through your hair but you were stopped by the stabbing pain in your ribs, suddenly reappearing. You hissed, "Ah, shit."

"Y/N?" Within a blink, Derek was in front of you. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fi— fuck." Your knees buckled, but Morgan caught you, holding onto by your waist. When that caused another hiss, he switched his hold to your arms.

"I think you might've broken some ribs. How the hell didn't you notice this before?"

"I— it didn't feel this bad before."

Morgan cursed under his breath. "Your adrenaline is wearing off. We need to get you to a hospital."

"No, I'm o—" a sharp stab cut you off, making you grunt. "Fine. But what about Kate?" 

"We both saw that ambulance drive their way," he reasoned. "They're gonna be okay. Look, if we get back and they're still there, we can stay, alright?"

You thought over his proposal and eventually relented and let him lead you off the tracks, giving in to the pain. You just hoped that he was right, that they were okay.

Please let them be okay.

❧

You arrived at the hospital in record time, passing through the streets like light work. After receiving confirmation that Hotch and Kate were at Saint Barclays, he drove the two of you there, too, insisting that a doctor see you despite your equal insistence that you were fine.

Now, you sat on an ER bed. You had a few cuts here and there but nothing too deep; you were given sutures for one cut across your cheek. The doctor wasn't looking at you right now; she was looking at your chart, giving you time to glance around the triage room.

You weren't a big fan of hospitals, never were. They were never a source of good news, and every hospital you stepped into smelled the same, like bleach and chemicals. When you were younger, you were convinced that this was to cover up the smell of death.

That wasn't too far off.

The doctor pulled you out of your revierie, snapping the chart shut. "So, Ms. Y/L/N, I've ruled out the possibility of a collapsed lung, but you've broken 4 of your left true ribs," she informed you. "From what your partner has told me, you've over-exerted yourself, and thus exacerbated the issue."

"I'm a CIA officer and had to chase a suspect," was the only explanation you offered.

She deadpanned. "I understand that, Ms. Y/L/N, but you've just made your healing process ten time harder."

You gave her a short smile. "I've been through worse."

She looked at you for a few more seconds before she sighed, re-opening the chart book. "I can prescribe you some medication for the pain."

You declined perhaps a bit too quickly. "No, that's alright."

Slowly, she looked up at you, her eyes questioning. "No? Why not? I can imagine you're in a great deal of pain right now."

At her inquiry, you were reminded of someone else's interrogative questions. Hotch's voice filled your head, Why do you say it like that—say your name as if it's not your name?

Your mind travelled back to a time you weren't Y/N. There was a girl with a different name who wore your face, a girl you separated yourself from entirely. She didn't grow up thinking she'd have a future in law enforcement—she didn't even think she'd have a future at all.

She hung around the wrong crowd and picked up bad habits, habits like oxycodone and amphetamines. But you weren't her anymore.

You were 7 years sober.

You'd rather not explain all of this to the attending in front of you—you'd rather not explain it to anyone. Instead, you just said, "I have a high pain tolerance. I can handle it."

She stared at you warily, but otherwise, there wasn't much she could do but accept your decision. "I'd advise against that, but it is your choice."

You pursed your lips into what you hoped was a small smile. "It is."

She kept her persistent stare until she eventually gave up, leaving the makeshift room. You didn't wait long before you left, too, jumping off the table and pushing back the curtain. You walked through the halls in search of the tan-skinned man you came in with, avoiding looking anywhere but ahead of you.

Hospitals were unpredictacle.

You didn't like that.

You turned a corner, and as if you just had good luck, Derek was there, already walking your way. 

He raised a brow at you. "You all good, angel?" 

You fell into step beside him, letting him lead the way to wherever you were going and flashing him a flirtatious smile. "Never been better, muscles." It wasn't a total lie; the pain had mostly subsided, and you'd felt worse in your life.

Morgan didn't bat an eyelash. "Well, that's good because we need to get moving. The team's on the way."

At the mention of the BAU, your thoughts were re-directed. Without stopping, you glanced over at Derek and gave him a quick once-over. He seemed normal: he was flirting with you, no signs of dejection. So Hotch must've been alright. Still, though, you felt compelled to ask, "Hotchner and Joyner. Are they okay?"

If Derek noticed the small blip in your voice, he didn't say anything. You weren't sure if you even noticed it, either. "Hotch is fine, back to barking orders and being a drill sergeant. Kate's in surgery, though."

You couldn't explain the wave of calm that came over you at that moment. You couldn't explain why you even cared.

But you did.

You nodded in response and changed subjects. "Has anything happened since the first blast?"

"No. Nothing."

An exasperated sigh left you. "That doesn't make any sense. Something should've happened by now." You ran a hand through your hair, your gears turning. "I mean, why go through all this trouble just to hit a single SUV with a few agents? Why not wait until we were in our cars?"

"I don't know," he replied. "What I'm still stuck on is why the kid would stay knowing we'd figure him out."

"Yeah, why would he stay—" suddenly, you halted in your tracks, cutting yourself off as memories rushed to the forefront of your brain.

[Thank you for your input, Ms. Y/L/N. The Secretary of Defense is unavailable at the moment, so the Deputy Secretary will be fielding all defense matters for the moment. She happens to be in town, and she'd like to be briefed in person, if that's alright.]

Yes, I can do that. Just send me an address.

Then you heard the voices of Secret Service agents in your head: I'm sorry, but this hospital is on strict bypass.

"What? What is it?" Derek's voice shook you out of your reverie. You looked up to see him standing in front of you, a worried expression on his face. You would've laughed if it weren't so serious. He probably thought you had a concussion—and while you didn't, what you were going to say was worse than that.

"Derek," you started.

Your tone must've scared him because he stepped closer. "What?"

You paused, mulling over the details in your head. Secret Service was here. Someone important was in the building, someone like the Secretary of Defense. And that bomber just so happened to stick around until an ambulance showed up, taking Hotch and Kate straight here. 

Sam didn't wait until you were cars, and that wasn't a careless mistake. It wasn't because he was so excited that he couldn't wait. It was because that blast wasn't meant to kill you, not on impact.

It was meant to take you here.

When you made up your mind, you took a step closer to him and lowered your voice, not wanting to attract panic in spite of the fact that it'd happen, anyway. Your voice was rigid.

"I think there's a bomb in this hospital."

❧

After quickly explaining your theory to Derek, you parted ways; he went to go find the team while you took off to find the head of that Secret Service detail.

Any uneasiness you felt being in this hospital increased a tenfold, no longer because of the fact that it was a hospital but because it could blow any minute now. You knew you weren't scared, though—and maybe you should've been, but this was the job.

You found the SS soon enough, calling out to them, "Hey, men in black!"

Your volume turned heads, including theirs. The bald man stood up from where he was leaned over on a counter and greeted you first, leading you to believe he was in charge. "Ms. Y/L/N." So he knew who you were. That made this a lot easier.

You didn't waste any time. "The Secretary of Defense is in this hospital, isn't he?"

"Ma'am, I know you're high up on the ladder, but—"

You cut him off briskly, "There is a bomb in this building, and it's rigged to assassinate the Secretary." 

The agent whose name you didn't ask for stiffened but adapted quickly, ordering the agents behind him to hit the alarms all without looking away from you. "Where is it?" he then questioned.

"The ambulance my colleague drove in, I believe." The word colleague tasted wrong on your tongue, but you didn't have the time to dwell on it. "Is it already in the basement?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then you need to evac the building. You need to get the Secretary and everybody else out of here right now."

"We can't do that," he answered. "He's undergoing surgery as we speak."

You were sure that the next words to leave your mouth would be curses, but before you could even get them out, a band of rushed footsteps became audible from behind you. It didn't take you long to recognize who they belonged to.

The footsteps stopped where you were. You glanced to see the team surrounding you, Derek on your left and Hotch on your right. So he was alright. You held back a sigh of relief and kept your eyes off him, directing all your focus to the task at hand. 

Silently, Morgan handed you a Kevlar vest. You nodded to him in thanks and put it on while Hotch hurriedly interrogated, "The paramedic I came in with—do you have eyes on him?"

The Secret Service Agent briefly glanced at you, to which you nodded, prompting him to turn over a computer playing a live feed. 

"Is that a cell in his hands?"

Rossi pressed onto a mic on his chest. "Garcia, can you remote access the grid I'm in and jam all the frequencies?" She said something you couldn't hear and then he added, tone clipped, "There's a bomb in the basement of this building."

Garcia worked quickly, disrupting the satellite feeds in your location within seconds. You could tell she did this by paramedic's actions on the screen. "Look. He's coming back," Prentiss said. "He's going to detonate the bomb manually if he has to."

"Where did Morgan go?" At Hotch's abrupt words, you turned to your left but Derek was no longer there. He'd snuck off while you were paying attention to the feed, and you had no doubt as to where. 

His appearance on the computer screen confirmed your suspicions. You sighed, before tiredly voicing, "He went to find the ambulance."

Hotch's voice was incredulous. "Alone?"

Rossi didn't share Hotch's surprise. "Let's head down."

You were off before he even finished the sentence, trusting the Secret Service agents to do their jobs well enough while you all did yours. You removed your gun from your holster, holding it up and jogging through the now empty hallways with tunnel vision.

You barely noticed the others behind you until Hotch somehow got ahead of you. "He's going to the basement," he called out.

You think it was Emily that replied. "Stairs."

You pushed the door to the stairwell open and Hotch entered quickly, scanning the area with his gun as he moved. It was eerily silent, the only sound being the alarms in the distance and your footsteps rapidly hitting the stairs as you took them two at a time. 

None of you said a word.

By the time you reached the basement, the alarm was non-existent. Your loud footsteps became quieted, soundless with the precision only people like you could have. You could hear a pin drop. 

At the end of the hallway, you wordlessly split into two groups: you with Hotch and Rossi, and Prentiss with Reid.

Hotch led the way while you and Rossi covered him. Your bomber was sitting criss-crossed against the netted gate, gun tossed on the ground with a cellphone in one hand and a knife in the other. Fuck.

You could only pray that Morgan got out before that signal came back online.

You had your gun in the air, even though you knew what was gonna happen. You all did.

Rossi's voice cut through the air. "FBI."

The bomber didn't flinch, staring at the ground with a lifeless look in his eyes. He was a dead man. 

He raised the knife to his neck—and if you weren't with FBI agents right now, you would've shot his shaking hand and knocked that knife straight to the ground. You would've forced him to take accountability—perhaps not in a courtroom, but in a place that would still enforce a semblance of justice.

But you were with FBI agents. And Hotch reminded you of this as he spoke up, "Put it down. It's over."

Yes, it was. Because the coward slit his throat thereafter, and the knife clattered to the ground.

Slowly, you lowered your guns. You holstered yours, and then you were walking away. You didn't spare the body another glance. It wasn't a life lost.

Either way, he would've died. It just shouldn't have been on his terms.

Emily was behind you. She flipped her phone open and then you heard a sigh of relief. "Garcia just messaged me," she told you. "Morgan's okay."

Spencer and Rossi let out their own sighs while you muttered a small "Thank God" under your breath. You hadn't known Derek Morgan for long, but he was good, and he felt like a friend.

You didn't have many of those.

You got back to the floor you were on in little time, and everyone parted ways, likely going to rest. The night was over—this was over. You, on the other hand, still had some administrative work to do, starting with checking on the Secretary of Defense.

But before you did anything, you stood there. You stood there and watched the team trickle out of the area, everyone but Hotch. He was still down there.

You went to glance back to see if he was coming up but then thought better of it, choosing to walk away instead.

He's fine, you thought. He was fine.

And so were you.

❧

You got off the phone with the DOD, your last in a long line of phone calls, telling them that the threat had been eliminated as far as you were concerned. You would've been out of that hospital ASAP, but they asked you to stay there until the new Secret Service detail arrived, and you couldn't really say no.

The lack of action suddenly made you more aware of your surroundings. Your senses returned to you; the smell of bleach became more pungent, and the fluorescent lights seemed to just bounce off the white tile.

With nothing else to focus on, the pain in your side returned, too, but you were good at handling pain. It hurt to breathe, but the alternative was relapsing, and you'd come too far for that.

Normally, when you were craving drugs or just stressed, you'd find a drink. It wasn't the best coping mechanism, but it worked. Alcohol wasn't strong enough to hook you; it was just enough to sate you, to take your mind off the pills.

However, you were in a hospital, and none of that was around. So you went looking for the next best thing: coffee.

You found a mini coffee bar in a nearby waiting room, right next to a vending machine. It was one of the automatic ones that took capsules. The selection was pretty shitty, but you weren't exactly expecting premium Italian coffee, so you plopped a pod into the machine, anyway.

You waited for your coffee to brew in silence, listening to the sound of the machine whirring. The PA dinged in the background and footsteps were muffled. You had a habit of listening for those, for footsteps. Most times, like now, if you weren't preoccupied, you could detect them right away.

You sensed Hotch when he was 5 feet away. You could recognize his footsteps so easily, but that was the habit.

You told yourself it was the job.

Without turning around, you quietly greeted, "Agent Hotchner."

He returned your greeting, grabbing a styrofoam cup and going to stand next to you. "Y/N." His voice was as saccharine as the sugar you poured into your coffee.

 You hated that, and you hated what it implied.

The case was over. The threat was defeated. And now you were alone together with a conversation unfinished, a conversation you'd much rather not have.

To think that, when you last saw Hotch in Virginia, you were all for the game, the chase. But now it felt like the roles were reversed. This was different. He shouldn't be talking to me.

But he was.

"Yo—"

You cut him off, "How's Kate?" Low blow, Y/N. The breath of air he sucked in made you look up from the creamer to his face. His eyes were no longer on you; they were on the machine as it poured his coffee, but you understood. You could taste apology on your lips before you even said the words. "I'm sorry."

Hotch nodded, grabbing his coffee from the tray when it was finished brewing. "She wasn't in pain," he said. That's all there was to say, really. She wasn't in pain when she died, nor was she in pain when you found her.

Kate Joyner was dead the second that blast hit.

But you spoke none of this. You went to grab your cup, intending to walk away, but Hotch stopped you, placing his hand on your arm before you could fully turn away. You stopped yourself from intaking a sharp breath.

"You're avoiding me."

He said it so plainly, like you were talking about a case or the weather, like this was normal, like the two of you didn't see each other every other year at most, like you weren't you and he wasn't him. It made you want to screw your eyes shut, but you didn't. As if to prove a point, you turned yourself toward him fully, facing him head on.

"I'm not."

"You are."

Your eyes narrowed. "I'm not an unsub, Hotchner. I'm not gonna fold to this interrogation tactic."

"I met you as an unsub," he retorted.

"But I wasn't." You let out a little scoff, half amused, half annoyed. "How would you know if I was avoiding you? You didn't know me then, and you don't know me now."

"But I want to."

Whatever reply you were expecting, it wasn't that. Your breath got caught in your throat. His voice was still so soft, a harsh contrast to the cuts littered across his face. He took a step closer to you. "I want to know you."

You blinked once in shock, almost like you were checking if you were hallucinating, but when your eyes opened, he was still there. When you blinked a second time, it was in realization.

He's just been told Kate's dead, and now whatever pain meds they gave him are kicking in.

Reality slapped you across the face. You took a step back, slowly shaking your head. "You don't want to know me, Hotchner."

He took another step forward. "I do."

Another step back. "You don't." You shook your head again, emphasizing your point. "You really don't."

"Y/N—"

The shrill sound of your ringtone cut him off, and you'd never been so grateful. You picked it up immediately. "Y/L/N." The lady on the other end got to it quick; all you had to do was agree. "Okay, I'll be there momentarily. Thanks."

You hung up your cell, snapping it shut. You gave Hotch a glance before you were looking away, letting your eyes wander everywhere else. "That was the DOD. Secret Service is here. I have to go check out with them." You didn't let him get a word in. "I'll see you around, Agent Hotchner."

And then, just like every other time Aaron Hotchner had ever been in your proximity, you were leaving. In his grasp one second, in the mist in the next.

He watched you walk away wordlessly, not knowing when he'd see you again, words he was going to say dying on his lips.

And then you were gone.

He let out a long sigh, and then looked to his coffee on the mini table, spotting a similar one right next to it. 

You left your coffee there, he realized.

With all the other things you left, too.

5. The gavel and the gun

Southbridge, Virginia, 2008

You didn't find yourself down in Virginia too often, not unless you were on business, but Derek assured you that tonight was about everything but that.

"I'm breaking you out of your shell, angel," he said, making a turn on Curtis Drive. "You need to get out more."

You snorted. "One, I don't have a shell. Two, I am literally out so much that my apartment collects dust, and three," you held up a third finger, despite his close attention to the road, "that's bullshit. You just want me to score you some hot chicks."

He let out a burly laugh, something you'd gotten used to after hanging out with him. "Baby, I don't need you to pick anyone up for me. I can do that all on my own."

"What, are you afraid that I'll steal all your girls, Morgan?"

His reply was swift. "Couldn't do that if you tried, Y/N/N. You're still hung up on Hotch."

Your jaw nearly fell, but you were used to this banter you had. You quipped back, "Please, the only one hung up on anyone here is you. You want Garcia."

He choked on his own spit, making you throw your head back and laugh. He didn't see that one coming.

You caught onto Derek's feelings for Garcia early on, but they became especially prominent when he was buzzed one night and told you she was the one on call with him when he drove that ambulance into the field.

That was six months ago. And now, you were in Derek Morgan's car, trying to coax him into asking out a woman with whom he violated many HR regulations.

Derek clearly didn't have a response which only made you laugh harder. You patted his back while he recovered. "Caaaaareful, muscles. I don't want to die on my way to a bar. I'm literally in the CIA—that would be so heavily anti-climactic."

The only thing he heard in that sentence was his nickname, snapping out of his stupor. "Okay, this 'muscles' thing is starting to feel less like a compliment and more condescending." 

You huffed out a little chuckle as he put the car in park. "And 'angel' isn't?"

He furrowed his brows, opening his door. "You love that name."

You copied his movements, getting out of the car before pointedly looking at him. "Yeah, when the words 'of death' follow it."

He snorted. "Cryptic." He held his arm out for you, to which you obliged, wrapping yours in his before walking into the estabishment with him.

You would've responded and teased him further had you not been cut off by an oddly familiar voice. "Morgan!" Your head snapped to a table where not only the object of your teasing stood, but all of their crime-fighting friends. From afar, you watched Penelope's eyes widen behind her glasses. Then she squealed, "And Y/N!" 

To her credit, she did look just the slightest bit embarrassed when people turned to stare at her.

She still wasn't used to you. And God, was that comical.

A smirk crawled onto your face as you walked to their table, glancing at Derek and recalling your earlier quip. "Ooh, careful, Morgan. Your girl's a fan. I might just take her."

For a guy that nearly died in the car at the mention of her, he didn't seem all that startled. In fact, a smirk of his own graced his face. "I doubt you'll be focused on Penelope tonight, angel."

Your brows pinched together, but before you could question what he meant, you reached the table. JJ and Emily greeted you with wide smiles, the latter pulling you in for a hug that was surprising but not unwelcome. Garcia followed right behind her, hesitantly wrapping her arms around you. You cleared this hesitancy by embracing her tightly. Goodness, she's precious.

Over her shoulder, you mouthed to Morgan, Don't fuck it up.

When you let her go, Rossi tipped his glass at you while Reid just gave you an awkward wave. For his benefit, you resisted the urge to laugh.

You spun back around to flash a smug smile at Morgan, eager for him to see that you weren't fazed by this little surprise he so clearly wanted to jar you with, but then your eyes locked with a darker pair and you realized, oh. They weren't the surprise.

He was.

"Y/N."

What was this feeling? Winded? Was it— breathless? You couldn't describe it; you'd only felt it a few times in life, and you didn't know why you felt it right now. Eventually, you realized you had to answer. 

"Hotchner."

You were going to fucking strangle Derek Morgan.

❧

If it wasn't considered rude and you weren't surrounded by a horde of profilers, you would've been texting Derek furiously. It didn't help that the only spot left at the table was next to the man you'd be texting about.

Derek was fun to party with—you went out with him all the time—but whenever he invited you out with the rest of the BAU, you politely declined and came up with whatever excuse was available. Clearly, he caught on to the reason.

You've been avoiding me.

And maybe that was true.

A gasp broke you out of your thoughts. You looked over to see Penelope jumping out of her seat. "Oh, my god, I love this song. Derek, get up right now, we're going to dance," she all but demanded.

It's then that you noticed that JJ and Emily had already beat them to the dance floor, and Spencer was being talked up by some girl at the bar. 

No— "Alright, alright, calm down, mama, I'm coming." You glared daggers at him as he flashed you a sly grin, then he wrapped an arm around Penelope and left. He left you alone with Hotch and Rossi.

At least Rossi's still here— "You know, I think I'm going to get another drink." You're kidding.

Apparently, he was not kidding. Rossi got up, and you could've sworn you saw him wink at Hotch before he left for the bar.

And then there were two.

Fuck.

Now that the others were all gone, you felt his proximity much more prominently. If you moved just the slightest bit, your knees would touch. You hated that the thought even crossed your mind.

But you couldn't leave. If you left, then it'd be obvious that you were, in fact, avoiding him, and you didn't want it to be obvious. It shouldn't have been obvious because there was nothing there to avoid; the two of you were nothing, so you had no reason to avoid him.

You were nothing.

Even if, for a second, you might've felt something.

"What's wrong?" His voice cut into the tension like it was butter. But the question didn't sound like concern; if you didn't know any better, you'd say it was almost teasing. 

You finally looked at him, turning your head and realizing he was closer than you thought. Close enough to see the specks of green in his eyes and the locks of hair falling over his face. Close enough that you could push those locks back if you wanted to. And you wanted to. 

But you didn't.

You schooled your expression and raised a brow, causing him to elaborate, "You were much more flirtatious when we didn't know each other."

Of course, I was, is what you wanted to say. Of course, you were; that was before whatever happened in D.C., before you danced with him and before you let him down. Before reality came knocking and showed him that you were polar opposites, that he was a man of the gavel and you were a woman of the gun. Before he confronted you. Before he told you that he wanted to know you.

So, of course. Of course, I was. Because what the hell was I supposed to do with that?

That's what you wanted to say, but you didn't. Instead, you countered, "Why do you assume something's wrong? Maybe I've just lost interest in our game."

Hotch looked at you like he knew that was a load of bull. He looked you up and down like he could see right through you, and you hated that, because if he looked hard enough, he just might. You thought, for a second, he'd drop it, but then he came back harder. "Is that because you're not winning?"

Taken aback, you laughed to hide how astounded you were, looking away as you deflected, "You must've been one hell of a lawyer, Agent Hotchner." 

He let you re-route the conversation, humming. "I was good at my field," he admitted, pausing briefly. "I actually got my nickname while I was working at the DA's office, Hotch."

"Oh?" you uttered, disinterest shining through your voice that you hoped he'd pick up on.

"Yeah. And now it's what everybody calls me." Another pause. "Everybody but you."

You turned back to him. Clearly, that's what he wanted from you with that statement. He was looking at you expectantly, waiting on you for something—you just didn't know what. "You dwell on what I call you?"

He shrugged like he was unbothered. "It's just an observation. You refer to everyone using their first name, even Kate. At one point, I think you even said our names consecutively. Agent Hotchner and then Kate."

Shit, you didn't remember that, but he was probably right. It must've been a blip, you must not have been paying attention. Still, you shrugged right back at him. "I don't put that much thought into it."

He continued like you'd never said anything. "You said my name after the blast." You stiffened. "Repeatedly. And then, once we were in the hospital, you were back to formality."

You forced a smile onto your face in attempts to mask the discomfort. "So?" you said. Like you weren't affected. Like you weren't surprised that he noticed or equally surprised that he was calling you out on it.

"So," he repeated. "What's holding you back from saying my name?"

Damnit, he had you. He had you, and he knew it. You knew he knew it based on the fire in his eyes, fire with intent to burn.

But you had more. 

You had walked through fire; you were forged in fire, so this was a challenge you'd accept.

You leaned in closer, just until your mouth was next to his ear. He inhaled sharply. Good. Slowly, you breathed, "What's in a name... Hotchner?"

When you leaned back, you were met with a thrown-off-Hotch, but you didn't stick around to savour the image. You hopped off your barstool and left the table, opting to go dance with Emily and JJ as opposed to let him have the last word.

If you had it your way, he wouldn't get another word in for the rest of the night.

If only you could always have it your way.

❧

You danced with the girls the rest of the night, Hotch forgotten. The others were elsewhere, off on their own. They were good company, and it was nice to hang out with other women. Eventually, the dancing wore them out and they decided it was time to head out, making sure to exchange numbers with you and add you to their group chat before they bid you farewell.

Something told you they were a little more than friends, but you weren't sure if they even knew that.

Alone, you decided to get off the dance floor, making your way over to the bar to text Derek. It was getting late; the bar would close soon, and you wanted to head home. But when you opened your phone, you already had a message from him—timestamped an hour ago. Furrowing your brows, you clicked on it.

Sorry, angel, but Pen opened a window for me and I had to take it.

If you know what I mean ;)

Please don't kill me. I'll send a car for you when you're ready.

Audibly, you groaned, closing your eyes in exhaustion. Of course, he shot his shot with Garcia on the night he's meant to drive you home. And you couldn't even be that mad about it. 

You sighed, accepting it and going to open your Uber app when a voice queried from behind you, "Are you alright?"

Fuckkkkkk, you were really hoping he left by now. Reluctantly, you turned around, facing Hotch. "Yeah, Derek was my ride home, but he um," you paused, wiping a hand across your face, "he got lucky."

"With Garcia?"

You laughed at how transparent it was and how quick he, their boss, was to get it. "Yeah, so I'm just gonna catch an Uber home."

"Don't be ridiculous; I'll drive you home." You were shocked at how quickly he shot you down, looking up at him to see he was being totally serious.

"No, you are being ridiculous. I live all the way in Washington."

He shrugged his shoulders like it was nothing, like you were friends and his offer was normal. "I live in Arlington—it's not out of the way. Besides, would you rather pay for an hour-long car ride or have me drive you for free?" 

Honestly, you'd rather do many things besides let Hotch drive you home for an hour, so you excused, "I'm good for the money."

He rolled his eyes. "It's 1AM, Y/N; I'm not gonna let you take an Uber home." He nodded to the exit. "Come on, let's go."

Now you rolled your eyes. He'd made up his mind, despite your disapproval. Yet you still glanced down at your phone, debating it. You supposed that he was better than a total stranger, and it was only an hour.

Maybe you were tired and your judgement was impaired, but for some reason, you obliged. "Fine."

You didn't know if it was a trick of light, but for a second there, it looked like Hotch's lips quirked upward.

For a second.

❧

The car ride was silent if not for the music drumming lowly in the background. You didn't crack any jokes or say anything playful or innapropriate; you were a silence filler, you hated silence, but you'd rather sit in silence than talk to Aaron Hotchner any longer than you had to.

His presence was already pushing it.

If Hotch noticed how quiet you were, which he likely did, then he didn't comment on it. You were sure that he was profiling you silently, though, the same way you were silently profiling him.

He wasn't driving his official government vehicle, but it was still a black SUV. Not a Tahoe, though; it was an Escalade. It wasn't too proud or boastful but it wasn't too unassuming, either. Expensive but not too much of a head-turner.

A glance to the back displayed a car seat. You suspected that his son was with his ex-wife, since he was here at one in the morning and not at home. He was a stable father, and you could tell.

You knew what instability looked like.

The CD he had in when you got into the car was the White Album, Beatles. That, you could've guessed easily. It fit.

The car was clean. It smelled like peppermint and his cologne. If you opened the glove box, you'd probably find a gun. He carried two on his person while working, so he probably had one in here and then another at his place.

Prepared.

But what neither of you were prepared for was the sudden downpour of rain.

Hotch turned on his windshield wipers, then you saw a flash of white followed by a loud clap of thunder. He cursed under his breath, and you then cursed yourself for finding it attractive. "It's a storm."

"I can see that."

He ignored your quip. "Well, we're already in Arlington. My apartment is two minutes away—we could stop there until it's clear."

You held back a sigh. Regardless of your feelings, it was unsafe to drive in this weather. That's why you agreed. "Okay."

He wasn't lying about being two minutes away. With in no time, you were in front of his complex. Running inside barely did anything; you were drenched after being outside for maybe ten seconds.

The thunder was loud and continuous; the only place you didn't hear it was in the elevator. Then it returned once you were out, walking through the halls to his apartment.

You were on your phone while he unlocked the door, checking the weather app. This time you couldn't repress the sigh that left you. "Forecast says this storm's going all night."

"Oh." He opened the door, holding it open for you. "Well, you can stay the night." What? "I'll drive you home first thing in the morning."

"Um—"

He gestured to his living room, suggesting, "I'll take the couch. You can have the bed." Well, it wasn't really a suggestion, and you didn't have much of a choice, either.

So you nodded. He said something about going to change and fetch you clothes, and then you were alone in Aaron Hotchner's foyer.

You. In his apartment.

You thought back to when you met him, in an interrogation room as he accused you of being a serial killer. And you were a killer, just not that kind. Yet, now, he willingly had you, a gun for the government, in his apartment. This was the same Aaron Hotchner who prosecuted criminals, who hunted down evil, and believed in justice and court of law. The same Aaron Hotchner who frowned upon your unseriousness and grey morals. And he was also the same Aaron Hotchner that stood next to you in a hospital waiting room and told you he wanted to know you.

God, it was ironic. Him wanting to know you. You didn't know if he understood what that meant, what that entailed. 

He was the gavel, and you were the gun.

And that was that.

He walked back into the room after a good three minutes, changed into attire more informal than you'd ever seen him. He wore a button-down and jeans to the bar, but you didn't imagine you'd ever see him in sweats.

"Bathroom's on the left," he told you, pointing to it. "Feel free to use the shower. I left some clothes on the bed for you, and if you need anything, I'll be out here."

You nodded, saying a quiet "thanks" before you walked past him to his room. You'd skip the shower; you didn't have any underwear for that.

Closing the door, you took a moment to scan his room. Bed in the middle, navy blue sheets. Window facing the door, dark red curtains covering them. There was a closet to the side, likely filled with suits, then a dresser across from the bed for ties and everything else.

There were two nightstands on either side of the bed, a frame on one. When you got closer, you saw it was a picture of a little boy with a grin so wide that it brought a smile to your face. 

On the bed, Hotch left you a pair of grey jogging pants and a worn blue hoodie with George Washington University painted on in chipped white in the middle. You changed out of your wet dress, and all hesitation for wearing Hotch's clothes went out the door the second you put on his hoodie.

The sweatpants were just as comfortable, despite having to pull the drawstrings immensely far. You could fall asleep like this no problem, but then just as you went for the bed, the light cut out, drowning you in darkness.

You're kidding me.

There was a knock on the bedroom door soon after. You weren't sure if you could find it without stumbling or knocking something over, so you just shouted, "Come in."

Hotch's head poked in, illuminating the room with the flashlight on his phone. "It's the whole neighbourhood. Do you want a candle?"

Yes, I do. You had a thing about sleeping in the dark, but like hell if you were gonna tell him that. A CIA agent, afraid of the dark—you weren't telling anybody that. "No, I'm good, but um," why am I stammering? "Could I get some water, please?"

"Yes, of course." Hotch was quick to leave the room for what you requested, and you were quick to follow him. He was the one with the flashlight.

His kitchen was barely visible, but you caught a glimpse of a few drawings on the fridge. When he lit a candle and placed it on the counter, you saw the the drawings were finger paintings, one of a whole child's hand. Again, you couldn't stop the corners of your lips from curving upwards.

Aaron Hotchner. You'd seen the prosecutor, the profiler, the unit chief, and now the father.

"Here." Hotch's voice cut through your thoughts as he handed you a glass of water. You didn't even hear when he turned the tap on.

You wordlessly took the water, thanking him with a nod. He stood there as you took a sip, watching you with a gaze that felt scrutinizing but probably wasn't. He was good at hiding what he was thinking, but you could still tell that he was thinking, nonetheless.

In a split-second decision, you lost the battle with yourself not to engage in conversation. "What? Did you poison this?"

He ignored you, like always, and questioned, "Are you afraid of the dark?"

You just barely stopped yourself from choking, masking your cough with a chuckle. "What?" How the fuck did he guess that?

Vaguely, he added, "You seem like the type."

"Oh, 'I seem like the type?'" you echoed. "Is that your normal-person way of saying 'it fits with my profile?'"

He shrugged. "More or less."

Another chuckle left you, this time unforced. You were wondering if he was drinking before you and Derek showed up. This confidence and nonchalance was new, but amusing. Maybe you had one too many drinks, too, or maybe something about this version of Aaron was drawing you in, but you indulged him. "Okay, Hotchner. Give me my profile."

He paused, looking at you like he was debating if you really meant it but you saw the moment he made up his mind, decision flashing through his eyes. He gave you a once-over, but not because he needed to; you had a feeling this profile had been brewing for a while now.

"You're a control freak," he started. "This doesn't just shine through in your work—it also appears in your day-to-day life, like your overwhelming need to fill silence or dislike for the dark. This comes from a period of your life when you weren't in control, and now you have to control every situation you encounter. You come off as easygoing, but in reality, you're closed off. You hide behind jokes and arrogance because you don't want people to know the real you, but every once in a while, she reveals herself. She cares, but you can't have that be used against you, so you pretend you don't. You don't have many friends because that opens doors, and you are afraid of what is behind them. That is why, even as you stand in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, you still refuse to say my name. It's a defense mechanism, a way for you to create distance because, as much as you deny it, you feel something."

Somewhere in his explanation, he got closer to you. He never broke eye contact, not once. He stared at you like you were a puzzle he was waiting to solve, and he had too many pieces. You suddenly wished you'd never asked.

You intook a deep breath. "Ho—"

He cut you off, voice now just above a whisper. "What are you hiding from, Y/N?"

What am I hiding from?

Your eyes involuntarily darted down to his lips, and he caught it. He took another step closer, and you let him. What am I hiding from?

Your breath was shaky as Hotch leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. One movement and your lips would touch. You wondered what it'd feel like. To kiss him. To stop hiding. 

What are you hiding from, Y/N?

You leaned in, and then just before your lips met his, the lights turned back on.

Just like that, you pulled away, the sound of your racing heart concealed by the sound of the heater kicking back on. "I should— I should get back to bed now." You kept your eyes on the tile.

"Y/N—"

"Um, thank you for the water—"

"Y/N."

Finally, you looked up at him, concern and confusion swimming in his eyes, and you understood it. One second, you were on the verge of kissing, and now you were on the verge of tears. You didn't understand it, either.

But this, whatever it was, it couldn't happen. This was a lapse of your judgement. He was Aaron Hotchner, the prosecutor, the profiler, the unit chief, and the father: the gavel. You were Y/N Y/L/N, the hacker, the director, the addict, and the killer: the gun. 

This wasn't gonna happen.

So you loaded a round into the chamber, put your finger on the trigger, and took the safety off. Then you aimed it at yourself and fired, "You're a good man, Aaron." Too good for me.

You think he was too shocked by his own name, and that's why he let you walk away.

And as you closed his bedroom door, you had a feeling that it wasn't the only door you just closed.

6. A lie is the truth (link)

taglist: @flow33didontsmoke

extra a/n: guys i'm so mad ab this block limit and how this can't be one part but wtv!!

[mitskijamie]

Rip Ted Lasso cheesy sitcom filler episodes. Roy’s 40th birthday episode where he grapples with mortality while everyone runs around trying to throw him a surprise party…Ted and Beard double date episode…flashback episode with the original actors but different haircuts…bottle episode in the locker room!!

YES LITERALLY LITERALLY LITERALLY ....

- X rated Will Kitman antics episode. Drugs. Sex. Booze. Gambling. And he shows up at work the next day looking cute as a button :)

- Team Bonding Trip to a countryside retreat of some kind goes horribly wrong. The boys end up sleeping four to a bed Charlie and the Chocolate Factory grandparents style, it pours rain the entire time, the power goes out, etc. Of course at the end they wind up having a great time and come out stronger as a team, but it's touch and go for a while because Jamie can't blowdry his hair

- Phoebe and Keeley girls' day out episode!!! Roy doesn't come up once, they talk about vampires all day in various scenic locations around London

- Anthology episode where the bus breaks down in a storm and Ted suggests they tell spooky stories while they wait for the tow truck. I know everyone hates anthology episodes but I think they're fun

(Bumbercatch's story is borderline incomprehensible and really more of a conspiracy theory about the Cars franchise than a story. Nate's story is about a guy whose dad is disappointed in the choices he's made for himself. Dani's story is about a ghost dog haunting the person who killed him by sneaking up and biting his nuts while he has his eyes closed in the shower, and it becomes increasingly clear that this is a very real fear he has about Earl. Roy's story of course is so violent and graphic that everyone is genuinely terrified, and Ted has to step in with a campy cowboy ghost story that culminates in a tense silence broken by Beard yelling out and jumpscaring everyone)

- 00s party boy Roy flashback ep (Brett Goldstein in a wig as you said. Obviously)!!!!!!! Near the end he scores some momentous goal and we see Georgie and baby Jamie in a Kent kit celebrating in front of the TV lol

[ohraicodoll]

Be Still

(Gif Credit Joel-Miller) Joel Miller x fem!reader The Last of Us (Show/Game) 1.4k Words (3rd POV) Summary: It takes her a while to see what’s happening to him. Joel is having a panic attack.  (I’ve never written so fast but had to after watching ep 6!!)

It happened twice before she realized what it was.

At first she worried it was a heart attack. That Joel was having a heart attack in the middle of the forest and she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. It wasn’t a knife wound or gunshot, nothing she could patch up and stitch together. She hadn’t been a doctor in any life, was more skilled in killing than healing, and they didn't have medicine to give him. His age had never been a thing she cared about or was too concerned with. The world wore them down equally, harshly, and he always seemed to defy the number. Was stronger than anyone his age like through his rage he could defy his body. It wasn’t a heart attack though. She could see the bright whites of his eyes, the way they unfocused and his breath would hitch under the press of his hand against his chest. The shallow breaths coming in and out in frantic off-kilter beats. It wasn’t the cold like he tried to play it off as, wasn’t his age or at least not entirely. Panic attack. Joel Miller was having panic attacks and was trying his best to hide them. They’d started after a few close calls. Ellie getting hit or her almost getting her head shot off. Running from a small horde that had built up inside a locked shop they’d inadvertently let loose. The more close calls they had, the more she could see his anxiety build up. And now it was flooding over, manifesting in a way she was startled to see in the man who always seemed like an impenetrable fortress. He was never afraid. But that was fear in his eyes as he rubbed his hand over and over against his chest, staring at the infected at her feet sporting a new bullet hole. So close. It’d been so close to her. Had dropped out of the second floor window of the cabin they stood outside of. And she hadn’t reacted fast enough but he had. Her eyes took in the way he stared, the hollow blank gaze, the twisting of his lips as they shook. Panic. There was panic and fear there. “Ellie, go clear out that shack and start laying out camp for the night,” she ordered and tried to keep her voice steady, not wanting to give away that anything was up, “We’ll clean this up and patrol the grounds real fast.” The teen sighed audibly and tucked her gun away into her pocket overdramatically, not noticing Joel’s silence as she walked towards the small open shack a dozen yards away. The house the infected had come from was dilapidated, all the windows broken and looking like it was sinking in on itself. Not the safest. As soon as the girl was a good distance away and out of direct view, she walked towards Joel slowly as if approaching a skittish animal. His breath was a wheeze in the silence and he almost jumped when her hands reached out and touched his cheek. “Sit, come on. Nice and slow, just sit on the ground,” she coaxed him, cupping his face and drawing his attention away from the dead body. His eyes were glazed but he sank to his knees, hard and crunching the dried leaves. He was still upright, not allowing himself to fall onto his heels and sit completely, so she followed his lead. Knees to knees, her breath mingled with his and one hand went over the ones clutched to his chest, “Come on, Miller, I need you to take deep breaths in and deep breaths out. In through your nose and out through your mouth.” He was shaking, fingers digging into his shirt like he wanted to try and claw his heart out. His beard was rough against her palm, the silver hairs catching the dying light. Joel looked so lost. He never looked like that, was a constant pillar of confidence against the world. Unshakeable. To see him look that way, scared for the first time in a long while, had something twist inside her. His breaths were still shallow, lips quivering, so she mimicked the routine. Loud breaths in, deep sighs out, “You gotta breathe for me, Joel. In and out, real steady.” Awareness was slowly seeping into his eyes and her fingers slipped between his, clutched in his grasp. He focused on her and started to breathe, swallowing heavily. They were broken, stuttered gasps but he was trying. Her hand stayed on his cheek and she could feel each attempt, see the color and life come back to him. “There you are,” she whispered with a gentle smile, one that was usually reserved for Ellie. Joel never liked things gentle, rejected softness, so she had never offered it. Everything between them was rough, brutal, from the way they fought to how he would smash his mouth against hers during those tiny moments of privacy. 

They had hated each other and then…they didn’t. But it was never gentle, wasn’t love or even affection. 

She didn’t expect to be the one to keep him from breaking apart. His breathing was getting steadier, more confident. She almost smiled wider, “Okay. Go over the supplies we have in the first aid kit.” A furrow appeared between his brows, the first hint of Joel coming back, “What?” “Just do it, Tex,” it was a command but stayed coaxing, soft even as his fingers gripped her own so hard her bones protested. His eyes flickered all over while he struggled to think and her forehead came to rest against his, “Five things then in the kit.” Their matched breathing warmed her and with a stutter, Joel started listing things. Gauze. Tape. Needle and thread. Scissors. Tweezers. “Technically, that’s six,” she smirked and was pleased that by the end of the list, his breathing was back to normal and he was no longer shaking. “You can’t have a needle without thread. It’s one item,” Joel huffed roughly, not much humor in the comment. Silence took them over and neither moved. She knew his knees had to be hurting against the cold hard ground because hers were starting to, but she didn’t want to be the first one to pull away. She’d stay kneeling there all night if it was what he needed because somewhere along the lines of months they’d all been traveling, Joel had become one of hers. Not only Ellie, but this gruff older man who bit off her head yet gave her the bigger pieces of jerky and would sometimes stop her to kneel and tie her shoes for her. He took care of them both. In the dark he shared his favorite bands growing up and in the light acted like the sight of her made him angry. And now holding him after seeing him deal with a panic attack, she wondered how much of what he felt was hidden under layers and layers. If she’d ever actually get to know Joel and not only what he wanted her to see. Because he wasn’t unstoppable, wasn’t fearless. He was petrified. Slowly, she leaned forward and grazed his nose with her own. The prickle of his mustache and beard against her skin drove tingles across her skin, his breath warm against her lips. He didn’t stop her, didn’t shove her away and walk off even after she’d witnessed a vulnerability. Instead he leaned forward and met her lips with his, the barest of touches. More a press than an actual kiss. It was the gentlest thing she ever felt from the man and it seemed to do more than all the times he tasted her skin and pressed his tongue against her. She pressed harder, kissed him deeper, and tried to pour out everything she knew he would reject out loud. You’re okay. I’m okay. I’ve got you. His hand gripped hers but softened in answer. They wouldn’t talk about it. She knew as much not to push that. But he didn’t try to play it off and instead let her keep that secret of his and take on its burden. It was one of the few things they shared and she would guard it, guard him as fiercely as that little girl.

Even after she broke their kiss, gave him a small smile and helped him get to his feet so they could go check on Ellie, he didn’t let go of her hand.

[arcielee]

lost in a haze

Summary: Alastor isn't sure what to make of Lucifer. Paring: Lucifer Morningstar x Alastor Word Count: 2.3k+ Warnings: m/m, masturbation, blowjob, handjob, fingering, spit as lube to start, unprotected bathroom sex, Lucifer is a fucking top let's be fr Author's Note: Banner artwork credit! Thank you my darling @fallingintoyourlilaceyes for reading this over for me 💜 and thank you to Hozier for your EP that always provides me fic titles. This is my first every attempt at a m/m fic. This idea has been rattling in my brain since I watched the show. I hope you enjoy!

Alastor was panting in the steam-filled bathroom. His one hand was pressed flat to the marble that only the King of Hell would surely have tiled from floor to ceiling, while his other pumped the length of his cock, swollen and aching. But it was a fruitless chase to mollify what had settled into the pit of his stomach, nesting behind the stitches that now lined across his abdomen and gnawing at his organs. 

And it all started several days earlier when he first woke up in an unrecognizable room. There had been a knock at the door and Lucifer walked in. He did not have that narrowed expression sneered across, but seemed more bright, more apathetic as he looked Alastor over. 

It was this look that began an unease that started to mull beneath. 

Lucifer was holding a tray and watched as the Imp that trailed behind him placed a pillow across Alastor’s lap. “Your breakfast,” he almost chirped, placing it on top of the pillow to balance. “I wasn’t sure what you would be in the mood for, so I just went with a classic Eggs Benedict with some potatoes and sausage patties.” 

It felt surreal. The warmth seeping into his lap was pleasant, the savory smells of the meal prepared caused his hunger to rumble with a ferocity that throbbed his sutures. Alastor tipped his chin down to see how they ran diagonal from his chest to his hip. “What happened?” 

He could remember his staggered steps back into the broken radio tower, his wheezing to try and regain his breath, and his fumbling attempts for supplies to try and staunch his bleeding. And then nothing, but this was where Lucifer began. He detailed how he followed the trail of blood, how it was slick on the floors. He continued how he found Alastor closer to a second death than life, and ended with the heroic return home so he could tend to him.

Alastor could only stare and a silence settled over as he processed these words. He thought back to the animosity that burned from the devil with their first meet up in the hotel lobby. It now seemed somewhat comical in comparison to the almost sheepish display he was showing now. 

It prickled his nerves, the unease now coursing through his veins. 

“There was some concern at first, since it was an injury from an angelic weapon and all, but you seem to be healing up nicely,” Lucifer added with an almost shy smile. 

There was the low gurgle of his stomach that punctuated his quiet. 

Lucifer blinked. “I’ll, uh, just leave you to eat then.” He shifted and something twisted across his face; he didn’t say anything and just left Alastor alone. 

The unease remained, a slow curdle of emotions that braised beneath and rattled his bones. As the days passed, it pulled at him, aimless but wanting. This persistent bedevilment carried with his steps, flaring hotly with every awkward interaction he shared with Lucifer. 

The devil, however, seemed unaffected. 

Alastor truly began to study him, noticing how Lucifer tailored to his lithe figure that was always complementing his trimmed waist. His proximity was a prickly heat, amplified whenever Lucifer caught him staring. Alastor struggled to digest those moments whenever Lucifer would look him over with the slow draw of his eyes, his lips hinting but never committing to a smile. 

And he would just go, leaving Alastor with his presence that lingered behind, thickening the air around him. 

Now he stood beneath the water for so long it almost felt cool against his heated skin. Alastor let out a wet sigh that echoed off the walls before shutting off the water, pressing his brow to the marble. There was another hefty exhale as the unwelcomed weight settled back into his core. 

He understood that his only escape would be to return back to the hotel, to leave this accursed place and its smirking-fucking-owner. 

Alastor stepped from the shower,trying to ignore the heavy sway between his slender thighs. He dried off before tucking the towel high around his waist, positioning his flushed cock upright and against his stomach. 

There was a knock and water droplets fell as his ears flattened back. 

“Come in,” he said without a second thought to his current indecency. 

It was fucking Lucifer–as he should come to expect by now. He wore his idea of casual wear, dark slacks and a white collared shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows. There was a few buttons undone that hinted to his smooth, pale planes of his chest beneath, and his blond hair was tousled back. 

Alastor gripped his towel, twisting his shame away and facing the mirror. His palm reached to wipe away the steam and saw that Lucifer was watching him. 

But if he noticed anything, he gave no indication. Instead he said that breakfast was ready. 

“I’ll be out in a minute.” Alastor could feel his blood, hot and thick, coursing through him and rising to the surface. His eyes narrowed on Lucifer in the fogged reflection. “I am almost done here.” 

The silence they often shared returned thick, mixing in the steamy air that surrounded them. Lucifer frowned, stepping fully into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. 

Alastor’s ears perked, his careful watch of the scrutinous gaze as the devil looked him over. He hoped the remaining pink from his shower masked how his blood was now simmering beneath his skin. 

“I said I’ll be done in a moment,” his tone clipped, his hostility clutched as tight as the towel wrapped around his slender waist like a summoned guard against Lucifer. 

He was unfazed, allowing another pregnant pause before he finally spoke. “Thank you.”

Alastor blinked. “I didn’t say anything–”

“Oh, I know,” he cut through, stepping closer, his scrutinous gaze peering over his shoulder into the mirror, “I was helping you find the actual words that you should be saying.” 

Alastor frowned, his eyes narrowing onto the reflection. “May I remind you that I never asked you to rescue me.” 

“You would not have been able to,” he retorted, his tone hot, “you were barely responsive when I fucking found you.” 

Alastor turned to face him, but whatever rebuttal he had caught in his throat. He realized that Lucifer was close, and he noticed the tensity of how his eyes bore through him. The steam that had yet dissipated enriched the rosiness of his alabaster cheeks and his eyes shone bold. 

It felt as if the bathroom were deflating around him, the walls pressing in. 

“How about whenever you finally do something I consider worthwhile,” Alastor rasped, his pride forcing the words from him, “I will then make sure to say thank you.” 

He was testing to see if the demon that thrummed beneath his tailored fits would surface, would erupt to tear open his healing wound. But instead his signature smirk curled onto his lips and he stepped closer, his hand pressing to feel Alastor. 

His touch bolted the length of Alastor’s spine and he hunched over, choking on a gasp from the abrasive hand. Lucifer moved even closer, relishing the throbbing against his palm through the damp fabric. His brow arched. “Then allow me to do something worthwhile.”  

Alastor felt outside of his body as he watched his towel puddle around his feet. The edge of the countertop was cold and dug into his backside as he fell back to balance the weight of Lucifer’s hands pressing onto his thighs. His tension churning was aboiled as the devil sank to his knees, the unfurled trepidation as Lucifer’s jaw unhinged to swallow him. 

The salacious pace set by Lucifer’s forked tongue tasting him pulled every thought from his mind. He let out a gasp when Lucifer pulled back to lick his palm, wrapping it around the base and stroking in tandem with his mouth. The devil sucked to savor, but with a determination that pulled a low groan from the back of Alastor’s throat; he gasped again from the vibration of Lucifer in response. 

He could not catch his breath, the fellatio pulling him upwards to an unknown peak and bolting past, a teasing teetering on a ledge of pleasure that was coiling tight at the base of his spine. The lewd sounds filled the small space and Alastor was close, so painfully close. 

His cock was throbbing and then it stopped. Alastor opened his eyes, dazed, dilated, a desperate search only to see the smug satisfaction that now played on Lucifer’s face. 

Lucifer pulled himself upright, his lips swollen and glossy from his spit, and his hands moved to Alastor’s narrow waist, lifting him enough to sit on top of the counter. He pushed apart his thighs, spitting on his palm again before his hand returned to a languid pace up and down Alastor’s flushed cock. 

Alastor swore his teeth would crack with his suppressed groan, his head falling back against the mirror with a dull thud. He did not see how Lucifer licked his fingers, but felt his hand drop lower, searching. Alastor shuddered from the tentative touch, the slow circle drawn that sparked a new pleasure that licked up his spine. 

Lucifer was coy. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Fuck you,” but the venom he tried for only stammered from his lips. 

Lucifer hummed with a sly smile and hooded eyes. He moved until he was pressed against Alastor’s bare chest, tilting his head to bite the slope of his neck. “Maybe later,” he murmured against his skin, and Alastor could not stop the strangled mewl when a finger curled within him. “But you first.” 

The pleasure bolted back down his spine, causing his cock to jerk. Lucifer watched him, his eyes darkening and his smile stretching across his sharp jaw. “I figured you would like this,” he purred. “Are you ready to thank me yet?” 

The sound Alastor made was his choking attempt to pull the words from the back of his throat, but he could not think, not with how the blood roared in his ears, not with how his heart was reverberating against his bruised bones. 

Lucifer hummed again. “Not quite?” He grinned, pressing another finger into his puckered hole. 

Alastor moaned louder, writhing from the touch. Lucifer quickened the pace of his hands, and he felt the delicious pressure bursting from the pit of his stomach, bright with colors and pulsing hotly onto his own stomach. 

Alastor felt boneless, almost folding when Lucifer pulled away. He only returned to his body with the sound of the sink, of drawers being rummaged through. He saw the devil’s slacks unbuttoned, the glossy sheen that covered the ridges and veins of his cock, thick and heavy. He knitted his slender waist back between his thighs and Alastor canted his hips, moving closer to the edge. 

“Eager, aren’t we?” Lucifer teased him, his lubed fingers touching, lining himself. 

He stayed quiet, his jaw tightening as he focused on the blunt prod. Even with the foreplay it was still a tight fit, but Lucifer was artful with gentle thrusts that filled him, sinking into him. His skin prickled with a cold sweat, a shuddered rasp pulled once Lucifer sheathed completely within him. 

Lucifer paused once his hips were flushed intimately against the cradle of his hips. He watched a moment before his head tipped up to drag his tongue along the curve of Alastor’s neck, his teeth nipping at his pulse. It was the small sounds that spilled that summoned the demon, a bruising hold on his hips and powerful thrusts that sent hot bolts to the ends of his nerves. 

Alastor felt lifeless. His mouth fell open with muted cries as Lucifer pounded mercilessly into him. 

“Let me hear you,” Lucifer pulled him upright, his claws dragging down his back, marking him. 

Alastor reached and his fingertips bit into his sharp jaw, bringing his lips to touch his own. The kiss was desperate and Lucifer bit him; Alastor groaned from the taste of iron, and again when Lucifer dropped to bite into his chest. 

It stirred something deep, something primal within him. 

“Give me one more,” Lucifer rasped against his mouth. It was not a request and Alastor felt his cock jerk. “Touch yourself.”

There was another bite where his pulse was pushing against his skin and Alastor arched against him, his heart bruising to the surface. Lucifer’s mouth trailed upwards with heated, wet kisses, and Alastor moved his hand between them, pushing him backwards so his hand could wrap around his hardening cock. 

Lucifer smirked, returning to the powerful thrusts that filled, coaxing another thundery groan from Alastor, his hand falling in a rhythm around his cock. It built fast and Alastor swelled, breathless and brimming, the faraway command brought his second release and it stricken his bones, the euphoric coil bursting.

For a second time Alastor could feel the slow return back into his skin, blinking to focus on Lucifer and his salacious grin. The mess made began to spill from him and Alastor burned, pressing his hands to the firm chest peeking beneath the white shirt, pushing until Lucifer slipped from him.  

His heady gaze remained. “Fuck breakfast,” Lucifer said, his fingers moving to unbutton his shirt. “I think I’m going to take a shower.” He seemed roguish, his satisfaction obnoxious. “Care to join me?”

Alastor was still splayed on the counter, life drained and filthy. For a moment he thought to leave, but his movement caused the spend to spill.

So instead he said yes. 

“Yes what?”

The devil returned to his teasing tone, but this time it pulled something prurient from Alastor, something he now knew he would no longer try to control. “Yes,” and a moment passed before he decided to play along, “and thank you.”

It was quiet, but it was enough. Lucifer beamed, peeling away his layers and moving back towards the shower. He paused to look over his shoulder, watching with hooded eyes as Alastor pulled himself to follow.

Alastor stared back at him, a sharp grin spreading across his jaw. “After all, it’s my turn now.”

arcie's masterlist

[babiestbubbles]

Huskerdust Drabble

AU where they start dating after ep 4!!

Angel is terrified of ruining his first good relationship so he tries SO hard to be easy to love Meanwhile husk absolutely adores him, flaws and all, and just wants to understand his partner better and be there for him So he constantly tries to get Angel to talk After a couple drinks, or during late nights, or after nightmares. He's always there, he's always listening, and he always wants to help. But he never gets very far, because Angel is just so terrified of being too broken for him And so one night, Husk is walking to their shared room to turn in for the night. He hasn't spoken to Angel all night, Angel came home from work and walked straight past the bar and to their room without a word. And so Husk is like, trudging back to their room all sad mopey wet cat-like. (Yk, his natural state.) And he hears Angel crying and, rushes inside and is like, "Are you okay, what's going on?"

And Angel's like "Husk! Oh shit. No, I'm fine. It's fine" and he's wiping away tears and like, sniffling, insisting he's fine. And Husk is like, "But you don't have to be. I'm here for you. I WANT to be here for you. I want to help. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on?"

And Angel's like, "You've got enough on your plate already. I don't want you to have to take care of me on top of that. Worry about yourself first. Really, I'm okay. Everything's fine, just a hard day at work"

And Husk goes "This IS me worrying about myself. i don't have anything else in my life nearly as important to me as you. I hate seeing you like this, so upset. It upsets me too…" and he's like, reaching out his hand as he's talking going to hold Angel

But when Angel hears him say that, he pulls back and interrupts and goes "WHAT? NO! Please, it's fine. I'M fine. Don't be upset. There's nothing to worry about. Everything's fine…" And Husk just loses it and goes, "I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE! I may have a hell of a lot of patience, but even I have my limits. I'm trying to HELP Angel. I CARE ABOUT YOU. And all you ever seem to do is push me away…" And Angel interrupts and is like, "I just- Don't wanna be too much for ya. I've never done this before. i've never had this before. I don’t know what to do with it? I don't wanna be too hard to love- " And Husk is absolutely infuriated by the idea that Angel can't see that he could Never be too much. That Husk would destroy himself entirely for Angel. He loses himself in his anger. "You can't keep pushing people away, they're only willing to push back so many times. I can take the nightmares. I can take the crying. I can take the lashing out and the flashbacks and Fuck I can understand the addiction. What I can't take is you lying. Hiding it. Acting like you're fine all the time. And pushing away the only person in this goddamned hotel who cares about you." There's a beat of silence, filled only with Angel's sniffling, and ended by a heavy sigh from Husk. "You know what Angel? Maybe you were right. Maybe you are too hard to love." And he turns around. And leaves.

[buckleydiazmp4]

the thing we all feared since the ending of the last ep?? that feeling that something broke, that a line was crossed, that ellie changed forever?? it stabs like a sharp knife in the first few scenes of the finale. it's this silence that we've never gotten from ellie before, not only verbal but in the way she moves, like she's still trapped there. and then only to add salt to the gaping wound they show us that the only one who changed wasn't ellie, but joel too. the second he found ellie in episode 8 he crossed that line that he was dreading to get too close to. he became a father again. and so we get this glimpse of what joel was like before the apocalypse, the kind voice, the asking instead of ordering, the comfort that he strives to provide. he tries so hard to not treat ellie like porcelain and also doesn't ever force her to talk about it, so instead he defers to his Dad mode. tells her stories, makes conversation, tries to joke, offers her to teach her to play guitar!! asks her for puns!! things that he knows would've made pre-episode 8 ellie all energetic and cheery. but it doesn't work!! we all know something is broken and he does too but he's in denial because he's just gotten to be a father again!! he can't lose it!! it would destroy him!!

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Stay, Stay, Stay

Part of my Birthday Bash!

Request: Could you do the prompt "Stay with me tonight. please." with Roy Kent?

Roy Kent x Reader 0.8k words Warnings: Language, takes place the night of the Man City game in Ep 1.10 (so spoilers), angsty and anxious Roy

After Ted’s “sad together” speech, you watched Roy quietly pack up his locker. Usually, he just grabbed his clothes and phone, little things, secure in the knowledge he’d be back tomorrow. But tonight you watched him take down the photos of you and Phoebe and grab his toiletries, all his personal items, silently walking away from an empty locker with you by his side.

“Goodnight,” Sam called with a nod as you followed Roy out the door. All you could do was offer him a tiny wave and a tight smile.

The guys all knew you; they knew you weren’t quite Roy’s girlfriend, technically just a friend, but they knew you were special to him. They could see it in the way you showed up to all his matches, wearing your Roy Kent kit and cheering your heart out. They could see it in the way he always seemed to have his arm wrapped around you, accepting kisses on his bearded cheek and letting you tease him in a way no one else dared. They could see it in the way Roy gazed at you, eyes soft and full of adoration. And they could see it tonight, in the way he all but clung to you as they listened to Ted and realized that not only was their time on the Premier League over, but Roy Kent’s time on the pitch was most likely over as well.

What they didn’t see was that, despite the fact that he was desperately in love with you, Roy couldn’t bring himself to make things official with you, to take that next step, and tonight proved exactly why. He was so fucking old, and broken, and now he didn’t even know what his future held. What the fuck did he have to offer you? You, with your job that you loved and your bright future ahead of you and the men who pursued you, men much younger and less broken than old Roy Kent. But, for whatever reason, you stuck around, right by his side, despite his inability to promise you anything more than… whatever this was.

So, he wasn’t surprised when you climbed into the driver’s seat of his car- the only person he ever allowed to do so- and chauffeured him home. You let him sit in silence; no pop hits coming from the radio, no mindless chatter, or pitiful promises of a better tomorrow. You knew better.

You wordlessly walked inside with him; you knew he’d refuse any help, but you still hovered nearby, just in case. It wasn’t until he was sitting on his couch, staring at the blank television screen, that you finally opened your mouth.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?” You leaned down and kissed his cheek gently, wishing the little peck could somehow make everything better.

As you straightened up, Roy grabbed your wrist, giving a small tug that had you leaning back down so you were eye level with him. In those beautiful browns, you could see every ounce of fear, pain, and insecurity that weighed on him- but you could also see the immense adoration he always seemed to have for you.

“Stay with me tonight,” he croaked, the first words he’d said since walking off the pitch. “Please.”

Your chest tightened as you gazed at him, full of sadness and shame. “Of course I’ll stay,” you breathed. As if you would even want to say anything else.

Roy settled onto the couch as you sat beside him. Without another word, he laid back, laying his head on your lap: a familiar position for the two of you, far more intimate than “just friends” should be comfortable with. You reached out and touched his hair, soft and curly, stroking his locks gently. He closed his eyes, not paying any mind as he heard the television turn on and not stirring as he heard you flip through the channels until landing on some old movie you’d watched a million times.

Even with all the questions swimming in his brain, Roy suddenly knew one thing: he needed you in his life. He needed your smiles and your embraces and your kindness and your laughter, and he needed all the things you wanted to give him that he had been too proud to admit he wanted. There was suddenly so much uncertainty in his life, and he needed to know that you would be there through it all. That, he realized, was the only way he would survive any of it.

Tomorrow, he decided as sleep began to claim him. Tomorrow he’d tell you how much he needed you and how he was an idiot for waiting for so long. Tomorrow he’d ask you to stay by his side, no matter what, even if he wasn’t a footballer anymore. And of course, he knew that tomorrow you’d listen to him complain about his fucking knees, and you’d hold him and assure him that everything would be okay. And because it was you, Roy wouldn’t argue. He’d just let you comfort him and, for the first time, maybe even let you love him. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

But tonight? Tonight, Roy would sleep, safe in your embrace. And for the first time since he walked off the pitch, he finally felt some peace.

[niki-phoria]

i'm so in love with her help

pairing: saebyeok x gn!reader (they/them pronouns) genre: fluff, some comfort word count: 2.4k (longest fic i've ever written :)) )

summary: saebyeok protecting her s/o when the fights break out

warnings: not exactly canon compliant but i tried, mainly based on ep 04, canon typical violence, blood, murder, violence, cussing, reader gets stabbed, reader hits someone with a pipe, deoksu is deoksu

a/n: i've been rewatching squid game and falling in love with saebyeok again so i made this. i'm thinking of writing for her so feel free to send any requests (male/gn only)

requests open !! read my rules first

your shoulder just barely brushes against saebyeok’s as you sit down next to her. you set the soda down by your feet, peeling the boiled egg in your hands. you remain in silence as you watch the other players continue shuffling through the line, each taking one bottle of soda and a boiled egg each. 

your attention is stolen away from your food when a man starts yelling at the guard in front of him. “where’s my food?” 

“we prepared enough food for each of the players.” the guard says. 

“i didn’t get any! how can you prepare enough if you leave five people without anything?” 

from across the room, a woman stands, pointing over at deoksu and his group. he seems unbothered by the sudden attention, simply taking another swing from the bottle of stolen soda. “i saw them take food twice.” deoksu scoffs, looking over at her. the man spins on his heel, walking over to him. he walks up to deoksu, leaning in so their faces almost touch. “do you think it’s funny?” the man asks. “taking someone else’s food?” 

deoksu steps back, tilting the bottle in his hand. “this is yours?” he raises an eyebrow. “i don’t see your name on it.” 

“you asshole!” the man yells out, grabbing at the bottle. deoksu refuses to let go. they scuffle for a few seconds before the bottle slips from their hands, falling to the ground and shattering. soda spreads across the floor, mixing with the broken glass. 

“you fucking idiot,” deoksu hisses, punching the man. you flinch as the man falls to the ground, failing to fight back. deoksu is unrelenting as he continues hitting him until the man lays on the ground, unmoving. he kicks the man’s stomach until he coughs up blood onto the tile floor before finally walking away. 

the guards stand unmoving from across the room. dread builds in your stomach as you watch deoksu walk back to his group. you can almost feel the tension spreading across the room, a silent agreement between the players that a fight is going to break out sooner rather than later. a man walks over to the unmoving man, kneeling down next to him. he shakes him a little. “hey, are you alright?” the man presses two fingers against his neck, searching for his pulse point before looking up, confirming what you’re already fearing. the dread starts turning into fear. the realization that it may not only be the games that kill you, but the players as well, sends shivers down your spine. 

 a man - player 456 stands. “a player is dead!” he yells. he ignores his friend’s pitiful attempt to stop him, walking up to the guards. “how could you just let a player die?” 

the guards don’t respond. behind them, the doors open. two more guards enter, carrying a box. “player 174 has been eliminated.” the announcement plays. your eyes stay glued to the guards as they kneel down to place the man’s body into the box before placing the lid on top and carrying it out of the room. 

you’re brought back to reality when saebyeok gently nudges you with her knee. “are you okay?” she whispers. 

after a few seconds, you reply. “we’re not safe here. what if the fighting continues?”

she glances over at deoksu and his group before refocusing on you. “hey, don’t worry, okay? i’ll protect you.” you look over at her, nodding. despite her reassurances, the fear you’re feeling remains, settling deep into your stomach. saebyeok subtly reaches over to grab your hand, stroking her thumb against your knuckles. “nothing will ever hurt you. not while i’m here. i promise.” 

she stares deep into your eyes. their darkness is alluring. you allow yourself to get lost in them. the death games and murder and your suffocating debts don’t matter. at least not right now, with saebyeok holding your hand and promising your safety. 

you’re stiff as you lay in your bed, staring up at the bunk above yours. “lights out in 30 seconds.” the announcement plays. you can barely see the timer on the wall as it counts down. each second feels simultaneously agonizingly slow and increasingly fast. 

anxiety continues to build in your stomach as the lights shut off. there’s a few seconds of tense silence before you can hear someone leaving their bed. they creep through between the various bunks until they stop moving. his words are barely audible as he whispers something before a woman screams. the sound makes you flinch. your body freezes. the sound paralyzes you. 

you aren’t given any time to react before more people start leaving their beds, mindlessly attacking each other. the overhead lights start flickering above you. you slip out of your bed before the bunk starts falling, desperate to put any distance between yourself and any other players. 

you gasp when someone grabs your arm, pushing you back against the brick wall. the breath is stolen from your lungs as they pin you there. you bring your hands up to protect yourself. something slashes into the flesh of your forearm, barely missing your face. 

you kick at your attacker, trying to get away. their grip falters slightly, but it isn’t enough for you to break free. adrenaline controls all of your actions. the man pinning you to the wall brings his hand up. he’s holding a piece of broken glass from a soda bottle. he stabs forwards, aiming for your chest. you desperately twist your body away from him. it pierces your shoulder instead, digging deep into your flesh. 

you aren’t given any time to dwell on the pain when the man is forcefully pulled off of you. he yells out as he hits the ground, tumbling down away from you. your savior grabs your forearm, pulling you away from the group of men chasing you. 

you pant as you follow them into the darkness underneath a bunk. when the lights flash again, you can finally see who they are. saebyeok. she holds your face, eyes fixated on your own. “i’m okay,” you pant, reaching up to grab her hand. 

“you’re not,” she murmurs, pressing a hand against your shoulder. you wince at the pressure. 

“i will be.” in the flashes of light you can see the blood that coats her jacket and shirt. deep red soaks into the fabric, staining it. “you’re covered in blood.” 

“it’s not mine.” the words bring an odd sense of comfort to you. despite their connotation, you feel selfishly grateful that saebyeok’s life was spared in place of someone else’s. 

your internal debate is interrupted when she grabs your hand. in the momentary break from the chaos she quickly squeezes it three times. your code. i love you. “come on,” she whispers. “we’re not safe here.” you nod, forcing yourself to stand on shaky knees. she lets you intertwine your fingers, leading you to the other side of the room. 

you recognize the man she approaches. player 456. he lets out something akin to a relieved sigh, glancing over saebyeok’s shoulder at you. “you came.” 

“you asked.” the shake in her voice is barely noticeable, but you can tell that it’s there. you squeeze her hand, glancing behind you. deoksu pants, gripping saebyeok’s pocket knife in his hand. you pull her with you out of the way, grunting as your injured shoulder slams against the ground. 

another man steps in, swinging a metal pipe he must’ve gotten from the bunks at deoksu. you clamber to your feet as saebyeok positions her body in front of yours. 

all around you, the fighting continues. you kick another man away from you, wrestling the pipe he holds out of his hands and swinging it against his temple. bile builds in your throat as his body collapses to the floor.

saebyeok’s hand slipping into your own once again spreads relief throughout your body. she keeps you close to her before the old man starts yelling from somewhere above you. “stop it!” his voice shakes. “at this rate, we’re all going to die! i’m scared!” 

the lights turn on almost immediately. the doors swing open to reveal a group of guards. a man in a square mask raises a handgun, firing multiple shots into the ceiling. 

the chaos stops almost immediately. you drop the pipe in your hand, watching as the guards begin to approach. you only let go of saebyeok’s hand when they raise their guns at you, ordering you to turn around as they pat you down. 

your hands shake as you keep them raised. behind you, a guard leans in, his voice low. “player 456, is there a man named hwang in-ho here?” 

“we don’t know each other’s names.” he responds. the guard doesn’t outwardly react, instead moving on to pat down the rest of the players. 

you drop your hands back down to your side when the guards regroup in front of the door. they hold their guns over their chest. behind them, another swarm of guards approaches. they carry coffins decorated to look like a present box. 

you sit back down next to saebyeok on the remains of a bunk bed. she reaches over to grab your hand, squeezing it in hers. you watch as the guards silently pick up each corpse, placing them into the coffins before setting the lid on top and carrying them out - two per box. 

once you’re sure the fighting has stopped, saebyeok turns her attention to your shoulder. her hands are gentle as she peels your jacket out of the way before you slip your arm out of the shirt underneath to give her full access to the wound. she presses a nearby blanket against it to stop the bleeding, cursing under her breath. “i don’t think you’ll need stitches.” 

you nod to yourself. “that’s good.” the words feel as hollow as they sound. 

“do you know who did this?” 

“no,” you wince as she increases the pressure. “it was too dark.” 

saebyeok doesn’t outwardly react again, instead ripping the blanket apart into a makeshift bandage. she wraps it around your arm, checking it periodically to make sure it isn’t bleeding too much. her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks again. she leans in so her lips ghost against your neck, breath warm against your skin. it sends shivers down your spine. it always has whenever she takes care of you. “come find me tomorrow. the fighting won’t stop tonight.”

saebyeok pulls away when you give a curt nod. carefully, you guide your arm back into the shirt before pulling your jacket back up over your shoulder. she reaches over to grab another clean blanket from a different bed. she places it over your lap before sitting down so close to you that your knees touch. she sits on your right side in between you and the group of men you’ve tentatively agreed to work with. you move the blanket so it rests over her lap as well. you can tell she’s grateful when her knee gently knocks into yours three times. i love you. 

silence falls over you for a few minutes before player 456 speaks again. “we don’t know each other’s names.” he says. 

“i know yours,” one of them points. “ssangmun-dong.” 

“ah, that’s where i’m from,” the man chuckles. “my name is seong gihun.” 

“i’m cho sangwoo.” another man introduces. he’s wearing a thin pair of glasses that frame his face. “what’s your name?” 

“ali,” the man smiles, glancing between sangwoo and gihun. “ali abdul.” 

gihun nods before turning to you and saebyeok. “and you?” 

saebyeok glances at him. you keep your gaze fixated on her, waiting for her cue on what to say. “why do you need to know our names?”

“if we’re going to work together we should at least build a little bit of trust, starting with our names.” 

saebyeok looks away, staring straight ahead. “i don’t trust you. especially not someone who was dumb enough to end up here.” 

“you trust them,” gihun gestures to you. this time she glares at him. 

“don’t talk about them. don’t even look at them.” 

he sighs. “you don’t trust people because they’re trustworthy. you trust them because there’s nothing else to rely on.” 

saebyeok glances at you for a second before turning back to gihun. “kang saebyeok.” 

“saebyeok,” he repeats. “that’s a nice name. it doesn’t suit you, though.” 

“l/n y/n.” 

gihun nods in acknowledgement, turning his attention to the old man. “and you, sir? what’s your name?” 

“my… my name…” his voice shakes. his eyebrows furrow. he squints as if he’s searching through his memory. a part of your heart aches for him. you wonder how he’s ended up here. “my name…” 

you can practically watch as gihun’s face falls. he leans down to place a hand on his shoulder, patting it gently. “it’s okay,” he smiles. “you know, sometimes when i get really stressed, i can’t remember my address or my security code.” 

the man dismissively nods at him before he continues staring at the floor. “my name…” he mutters to himself. 

“we should get some sleep,” sangwoo interrupts. “we’ll need it for our game tomorrow.” 

“that’s a good idea,” gihun agrees. he sits down on the stairs, leaning against the metal of the bunk. 

silence falls over the room once again. suddenly, without warning, the lights turn off, leaving you in darkness. apprehension builds in your stomach. saebyeok reaches over underneath the blanket to grab your hand, squeezing it three times. i love you. she coaxes you to lean your head onto her shoulder. “sleep.” she whispers. you glance up at her questioningly. “don’t worry, i’ll protect you.” 

you nod, letting out a sigh. exhaustion hits you hard and sudden. despite your circumstances, saebyeok’s presence next to you manages to make you feel safe, as she always does. her body feels warm against yours. her arm wraps around your waist, coaxing your head from her shoulder down into her lap. she runs her hand through your hair, twisting the strands in between her fingers. a warm feeling spreads throughout your body. overwhelming warmth. safety. love. your body relaxes until you let yourself fall asleep, safe in saebyeok’s protection. 

[mikuni14]

Dead Friend Forever - Ep 11

Another episode, another 10/10 🏆

It never ceases to amaze me how much this series is based in real life. As a person living in a country where the alcohol problem is significant (as almost everywhere 🤷‍♀️), remembering the 80s and 90s, I know situations in which children have to pick up their drunk parents from the streets, endure shame and public humiliation, take care of them as if THEY were the adults. I also know situations in which conflicts over land, the taking of property by someone in power, drove people crazy (I worked with a woman whose MIL went crazy because of it). I also know people who, as children, had to take care of the house because their parents couldn't do it due to their illnesses, addictions and traumas. These are real stories. I KNOW these stories.

Although for a long time I was rather convinced that Non was dead, now, despite the literal facts, I am starting to doubt it 🤡 It's too obvious in this show full of non-obviousness, but on the other hand, the victim's passing in such an ordinary, anticlimactic way is somehow… fitting with the overall painful reality of this show, the banality and ordinariness of evil. Victims often just... go, in silence, without fanfare, without a bang. Although that's why, despite everything, hope somehow grew in me, as if in spite of the facts...

The series amazingly showed love at first sight, the pinkness that accompanied White's entrance, the music, the atmosphere… but it's not the first time, Phee was just as instantly infatuated with Non, as Jin was with Phee.

The series also, consciously or unconsciously, shows that there was a solution when it came to money: there was legal work that did not involve suffering, violence, sex or crime. Tee paid off Non's debts by working at an internet cafe!!! And it's amazing when I think about the fact that Non slept in Keng "out of gratitude" for the money and Tee, looking for money for his father, agreed to work in a criminal organization. And what's more baffling, it's even shown that Tee receives very LITTLE money from his uncle, so it's not even a matter of "selling out to the mafia" for a good money that would allow for professional treatment of his father in the hospital! (I actually thought the whole time that his father was in the hospital and he was paying for his expensive treatment!!!). Even this terrible uncle says:

As I mentioned in another post, I can't bring myself to feel sympathy for Tee because Tee targeted Non, chose him as an easy victim, introduced him to the criminal world, lied about the camera when he really didn't have to (he could have come up with some other lie, for example that they entered the classroom and the camera was already broken, or no one touched it at all and whatever - heh, I came up with this lie in a second so that no one would get hurt - and why did Por bring it to school in the first place?) and then actively work with Top against Non and Keng, although he really, really didn't have to. Tee never de-escalated the situation, he was always the driving force behind events. Even though he didn't have to.

I appreciate that Non is shown to be physically exhausted, which is the result of being beaten. It would be strange if after something like that he just felt good and worked hard. His mental state certainly affects his health as well. How terrible it is that Non thinks that no one is waiting for him at home. that there is no one to return to. It's a child's heartbreaking belief that their parents don't care about them enough to notice that they are gone, to look for them. This is Non's double tragedy: what is happening to him and the fact that he doesn't have something, someone, to give him strength. Even on his note, he states that he is not a loser as his motivation...

The best scenes of course went to Tan, oh how I loved everything. The way he directs Phee towards Tee, the way he incites him. That Tan is not afraid of death. That he has a plan because he didn't trust Phee. It's very possible that for Tan it may no longer be about Non, but about pure revenge and karma and punishment and atonement.

There is an anime that I like, One Outs 😉 There is one scene in this anime in which the main character calls out people, especially politicians, that when they screw up something, they bow, apologize and that's the end of it. That they never pay for their sins, never face real consequences, that they never experience what the victims of their actions experienced. And this scene stays with me all the time while watching DFF. Because we can see, that the boys feel guilty, some more, some less, episode 11 showed that Tee had the greatest sense of guilt of all of them, because he was in the very center of events and knows the most. But what good does it do to Non? Who cares about their guilt and whispered apologies under the influence of drugs, in fear? Did their guilt help his parents or did it help Non and Tan?

None of them ever suffered any consequences or tried to right the wrongs. ON THE CONTRARY. Everyone pretends that nothing happened and is downright furious that this case keeps coming back and ruins their peaceful lives, and it dares to make them uncomfortable. Each of them lives a good life, including Tee, who is in love and happy. The movie is still finished. THE MOVIE IS STILL FINISHED AND THEY ARE PROFITING FROM IT.

Revenge for wrong is one of the oldest tropes in the stories created by people. The Erinyes are some of the oldest figures in the mythology of my part of the world for a reason. It is a disagreement that bad people can get away with their bad deeds. Tan fits this narrative perfectly. He carries revenge, quite possibly only for himself. So somehow I'm glad that "if Non would have wanted it" didn't shake his conviction in any way 💖

I'm still holding off on judging Phee and his behavior towards Tan until the finale. Despite everything, something still doesn't feel right to me 🤔

When things get dangerous at the beginning of the series and they immediately suspect Non's ghost, each of them repeats the same narrative from the past: fear, guilt, the need to escape, to move away from the the problem. In all cultures there is something like prayer, appeasement of vengeful spirits, confrontation with what has been done to these spirits. Notice that all of them, even when they think it might be the "Ghost Non" that is chasing them and taking revenge, not one of them even for a second proposes: let's apologize to ghost Non, let's pray for him, let's promise him and ourselves, that if we come out alive, we will do something about it, we will MAKE AMENDS, do penance, even if it will be inconvenient for us - because that is what penance is about, it is supposed to be "inconvenient", just like the victim was "inconvenient" ffs!!! BUT NO. There is only worrying about themselves, destroying disks, destroying the memory of Non, running away from the problem, blaming others.

Tan is right.​

[hero-ar]

Highlights of Ep 8 of Murder drone to me

The teachers nonchalantness to whole thing is so real. Especially the reaction the little slap.

I found the fact they was no sound during the space seens so cool. Excellent usage of that too.

"Stop :)"

Nuzi canon yay

Lizzy casually text V while she is in the middle of the fight is so funny

Why is the sentinel velociraptor beefing with Lizzy? (Still funny)

Cyn. Is so silly. And also so very terrifying (let me in, let me in, letmein, letmein, letmeinletmein)

Hands! That is so cool

I was at the edge of my metaphorical seats when V crashed through

I sorta wish all the cores look slightly different from one another.

Go- fu- da- it

Khan little moment where he saves N with the door, I adore it

"Wierdly hot robots" immediately made me think of NuziV, I still head canon it

They is something so funny about Cyn/the Solver saying "Kay" so casually after Uzi's speech about being an absolute nerd

She is not at all concerned and only slightly amused, and it for some reason is so funny

And then [amazing battle] also nightcore

Cyn was so cool through out all of it, she is so unserious.

V's absolute disgust with Nuzi is so real, also her disgust when Uzi fistbump her after the secret handshake is so funny

My brother screaming "Eat it, Eat it" into screen only made the moment funnier

Uzi standing like Cyn and swatting the gun away made me chuckle a bit, also her eyes look so cool✨️✨️✨️

(😧 . 😧)

WOMEN THATS YOUR HUSBAND

"Broken OC"

More ammo for my NuziV headcanon.

Doll.. a moment of silence for her

.

.

.

I know it says Solver in the caption, but that is definitely Cyn, Cyn was the one with the bow obsession.

Anyhow.

Khan and Nori. Just that

----------------------------------------------------

Overall, I really liked this episode, the animation was so COOL, I liked the story, and it made me feel some genuine horror sometimes. Generally positive feeling about the ending. Only truly negative feeling being how some questions feels unanswered, but Cyn's silliness somehow made up for it?

No actually criticism from, I don't think I know how to criticise anyway, not the point, I have no problems with the finale, 9/10 series would watch again

If you read through all of this thanks, and feel free to add your favourite moments.

[xxlady-lunaxx]

your fav kamado siblings and giyuu anon here! ill sign off w a purple heart from now on haha 💜

i have another request! setting and context up to you, just giving you some tags!

hurt/comfort (giyuu gets the comfort), fluff, nightmares, literal sleeping together! :) im sorry cant stop thinking about those three 💜

yaay ! ooh okay, purple anon then <3 (i took so long to write this that i js realized it prolly seemed random to any1 else that youre 💜 anon 😭 IM SORRY) it's nice to see you again :D and of course :O i'll do my best cw! nightmares?? idk just a little panicky at the beginning featuring giyuu and his forcefully adopted siblings, and no particular timeline lmfao... also this is short argh

It must be strange for a Hashira to get nightmares. But then again, they had all faced so many horrors, it would be even more pecuilar if they didn't experience them. Even so, Giyuu felt childish. Waking up in a pool of cold sweat, mind racing with the flashes of blood and deattached limbs strewn about. His chest heaved as he desperately drew in air, trying to catch his breath. He pressed a hand to his fast-beating heart, pushing gently, trying to control it. He hated it. He hated the nights when he was given a break from his duties to rest. It seemed to always end up like this.

As he slowly lowered himself back down, his dream came back to him in full force and replayed in his mind, no matter how much he tried to force it away. Panic rose in him again and he shot back up, almost toppling out of the bed, his arm hitting the wooden floor loudly. He flinched, though he was glad for it as it distracted his thoughts from his dream and he focused on making sure he hadn't broken his wrist (which, of course, he hadn't, but it was a better thought than the ones that threatened to take over).

There was a pattering of footsteps and he tensed, hand straying to the katana that sat by his futon. Then Tanjiro and Nezuko entered the room and he relaxed slightly. He had nearly forgotten.

They were staying over at his house tonight, having been too far from any Wisteria Houses after Tanjiro's mission. They must've heard Giyuu's distress because now they were all bunched up under his blanket, snuggling closer to him. Giyuu decided to let them stay, finding the warmth of their presence comforting.

"Are you okay, Giyuu-san?" Tanjiro asked quietly, after everyone had adjusted.

Giyuu nodded slowly. "Ye-ep," he mumbled, internally slapping himself at the crack in his voice.

"We heard you fall, or something, and got worried. Also it was dreadfully cold alone," Tanjiro hummed, scooting closer and wrapping his arms tightly around Giyuu without a care in the world.

Momentarily, Giyuu tensed, unsure how to take this sudden bit of affection. Yes, they had abruptly slipped into his bed, but he wasn't used to this, it had been so long. He didn't even realize he was crying until Nezuko's sillhouette appeared above him as she gazed at him, eyes tense with worry and scrubbing at his cheeks with the sleeve of her kimono. Giyuu flushed, embarrassed. In his shock, he must've let down his guard. God, he had to pull himself together!

Tanjiro, noticing now, tightened the embrace, burying his head in Giyuu's chest. "Don't cry, Giyuu-san. Do you want me to sing you a song? I used to sing lullabies for my younger siblings," he said, his words muffled by fabric.

Giyuu gave a start. A lullaby? "No... No, I'm okay," he said, voice thick. He cleared his throat several times, tugging Nezuko back down and wrapping and arm around her almost protectively. "It's okay."

Tanjiro's head popped back up to look at him. "You sure? It's not bothering us, if that's what-"

"No," Giyuu repeated, nudging him back down. "I'm fine. I'm sorry."

Tanjiro frowned slightly but settled back under the covers. "Okay. Did something happen earlier? Or did you just hit something?" he asked, after a moment of silence.

"I had a... dream. And I sat up too quickly and... yeah," Giyuu said, trailing off. He didn't really want Tanjiro to know him in his weak moments. This was embarrassing enough.

"Was it a nightmare?" Tanjiro asked.

Giyuu hesitated before answering. Tanjiro didn't sound mocking, at least. Well, yeah, he was Tanjiro... but still. "You can call it that, I suppose," he mumbled, tucking his chin down to his chest.

Nezuko, who had fallen asleep at some point, nuzzled closer, her form shrinking slightly and fitting into Giyuu's arm like a little bundle. A smile softened Giyuu's lips, though nobody could see it, and he held her close, wishing he had met the Kamados in any other circumstance.

"It's okay to have nightmares," Tanjiro said quietly, as if sensing Giyuu's reluctance. "I have them too, sometimes. Everyone has them and being a Demon Slayer basically guarantees nightmares—it's like it comes as part of the job. So don't feel bad!"

Giyuu mulled on this. It was probably true. Nevertheless, he still felt like shit about it. If he was a so-called Hashira, shouldn't he be able to fend off something as stupid as nightmares?

"Okay," he said anyway, wanting to please Tanjiro. he paused, a thought occurring to him. "How often do you have them?"

Tanjiro shifted, not answering for a minute. "It's not really... consistent? They just come and go," he said quietly, reaching over Giyuu to cup Nezuko's hand in his own.

"Oh." Giyuu glanced down. Tanjiro's eyes were closed but he was still awake, slowly tilting to the edge of sleep. "If you... want to talk about them? You can come to me. If you want."

Tanjiro's eyes opened by a breath and he smiled at Giyuu's vague direction. "Thank you, Giyuu-san. You can talk to me too. About anything," he murmured, closing his eyes again.

Giyuu lifted his hand, running it through Tanjiro's short hair. "Okay," he said again, closing his own eyes and resting back against the pillow.

Their quiet breaths became the only sound in the tranquility of the room, slowly pacing into sleep. This would become almost a habit, talking quietly to one another when Tanjiro visited until the conversation lulled into a gentle slumber—the warmth of other presence comforting them until they could finally relax.

I'm so bad at endings, it's not even funny anymore

[stylesispunk]

TIME CASTS A SPELL ON YOU, BUT YOU WON'T FORGET ME | CHAPTER 1

Joel Miller x f!oc

chapter 1: 'Til the sound of my voice can haunt you

series masterlist | next | masterlist

summary: Fifteen years ago, amidst the filling of divorce papers and the broken promises of a happily ever after, the world collapsed. Amidst the ruins of cities and the remnants of dreams, Joel's search for his ex-wife began. No matter where he turned, the woman who had once loved him held him captive, a presence he couldn't escape.

Word count: 1,6k

Warnings: tlou spoilers, guns, angst.

the story's main idea is based on the lyrics from "Silver Springs" by Fleetwood Mac,

a/n: Hello, this is the new fic I'm working on now. Just for reference, the story develops from the events in ep 2 of the show because I'm rewatching it and I had to start from somewhere. I really hope you like it, if you do, please comment, reblog, and share your thoughts with me, my asks are always open (please be kind). I love hearing from you guys and I'm really excited to see how this story goes and share it with you. If you want to be added to my taglist, you can tell me. Happy reading 💌

Since the world had ended and transformed into a desolate scenery full of horror, blood, grief, and loss. Joel had witnessed the changes in people, and what they were capable of doing to survive. He, himself, did horrible things to be where he was now, and he often asked himself if she did the same. What could have been if they had been together that fatal night? Would they still be together? Would Sarah still be alive? Those were the things persisting in his mind.

But there had been Tess, his partner in crime and the only person he had allowed himself to care about. She had been there. Yes, in the past, because grief hung over Joel once again. 

Joel found himself in a state of disbelief, taking a moment to remember Tess, losing his partner in crime and confident made him feel cold and gray like a storm cloud passing inside his body. It felt like karma, as if those words that escaped from Emily’s lips years ago were becoming a reality.

She would never let him escape, and he would never be able to escape from her constant torture. 

After a few minutes, he decided to go back to Ellie to their campsite. Ellie was in the same position as when he left. He didn’t utter a word to her, opting just to take his backpack, throwing it over his shoulder, and walking forward. He was avoiding Ellie and Ellie was avoiding Joel. The air felt heavy and full of tension. There was nothing left to do, and Joel had to learn how to live with another scar.

Joel blamed Ellie, but he also blamed Emily and her curse. 

“How much longer?” Ellie asked, breaking the suffocating air.

“Five-hour hike,” he simply answered.

“We can do that ” the teen said as a matter of fact.

Once they were out of the woods, back on the route. Their situation didn’t change. Joel was leading the way in silence and expecting the same gesture in return from Ellie, but he knew damn well Ellie was going to break the silence at any moment.

“You know what?” she said.

Damn, this kid and her questions, Joel thought.

“What?” He asked, exasperated. 

“Back in the woods, when you were there doing, I don’t know what,” she started. “I dug into your backpack.”

“Why would you do that?” Joel’s tone contained a lace-on anger.

“Food,” she confessed. “But that’s not the important.”

Pushing aside his exasperation, Joel forced himself to look at Ellie.

“I found this picture” she continued, digging into her jacket pocket to grab the picture and holding it for him to see. “Who is this woman?” 

Joel's heart skipped a beat once he saw that picture. He had placed that photograph inside his bag a long time ago when he realized he would never find Emily. But he couldn’t find himself to throw it away.

And what a time for her to return to his life, he thought, looking up to the sky as if she was there.

Joel cleared his throat, his voice rough from emotion. "Wife. She was my wife.”

Ellie's gaze remained fixed on him.

“What happened to her?” she asked, cautiously.

“We got divorced a week before this.” He answered, avoiding Ellie’s gaze.

Ellie just nodded, not pushing him anymore. She knew that some stories were painful to tell, and Joel's history was undoubtedly filled with such moments.

As Joel and Ellie kept walking, silence came back. She knew Joel was a man of few words, and Ellie often struggled to find the right words to say.

Ellie's voice, soft and filled with empathy, broke the silence that had settled between them.

"Joel," she said, her eyes searching his face for any sign of emotion, "I'm sorry for bringing up the past for you”

Joel turned his gaze back to Ellie, her concern touching him in a way he hadn't expected. He smiled, trying to give her some kind of reassurance.

"It's alright, kid," he replied, his voice soft. “The past is part of our story; We can’t pretend it didn’t exist.” 

Ellie's eyes brightened with understanding, and for the first time since their paths had crossed, a sense of mutual comprehension blossomed between them. In that fleeting moment, they shared a silent agreement. 

But once again, Ellie broke the silence.

“You should have your picture back,” she said, giving the photograph back to him.

Joel contemplated the photograph in his hand, its edges frayed from years of handling. It was a distant dream now. His gaze lingered on the faded smiles captured in the picture, and he put it back to where it belonged. 

"Thanks," he said softly, with a faint smile.

Joel didn’t want to admit it, but Ellie’s presence didn’t feel like a total burden to him. It was actually bringing him a sense of peace and purpose in life as if he was healing from the wounds the past life placed in his heart years ago. From the day he lost Sarah, and from the day he made Emily run from him. He had carried her as a ghost in his thoughts and in his heart.

His thoughts lingered back to those days for a few moments, the lingering touches and sloppy kisses, the sound of Emily and Sarah's laughter echoing through their house, the one he had once called home.

Joel's thoughts were interrupted as he realized Ellie was still there, walking beside him. Her presence was a reminder that he wasn't alone in this world, that he had someone to protect and care for once, even when it was just a “mission” for him.

"Did she die?" Ellie asked, glancing at him.

He hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. " I looked out for her, but I failed.” 

“Sometimes we do things that haunt us later." She said, carrying an undertone.

Joel's gaze drifted back to the horizon. "Yeah, kid. They sure do."

Night had fallen, and the dark had enveloped Joel and Ellie. It was eerily silent, broken only by the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

“Okay”, Ellie broke the silence “I know I said we could manage the five-hour hike, but I'm tired.” 

"Alright, Ellie," he replied, his voice low and weary, "Let's find a safe place to rest for the night."

They continued walking, searching for a suitable spot to set up camp. The world around them was a haunting canvas of shadows and shapes, capturing the eerie silence, keeping them alert and on edge in case of an unexpected sound.

And then, in the middle of this foreboding night, that haunting voice made a comeback, 

“Stop there.” 

That voice.

Recognition cut through the darkness like a knife. It was her voice, the one that had haunted him for years. Joel's heart began to race, and disbelief washed over him.

Joel's heart ached with longing. He couldn’t believe it. 

He turned and what his eyes saw opened a door he had locked protectively.

When the hopes of finding the love of his life were long gone, the world put her in front of him again. 

"Em," he said, his voice laced with a hint of vulnerability, he took a cautious step forward.

Her once-warm eyes now held a cold gaze as they fell upon Joel. Recognition flashed in her eyes, but her posture didn't waver. The gun in her hands, still remaining there, pointing at Joel. 

"I looked for you everywhere that night " he whispered, raising his hands in surrender. 

Emily's grip on the gun tightened, and she took a step back, putting distance between them, reflecting the same years of detachment between them. 

“Did I allow you to talk?” she said, her voice filled with anger.

“Holy shit,” Ellie said, astonished. “Your wife”

Emily swiftly turned her head toward the teenager, her gaze piercing. 

“Ellie” Joel muttered, attempting to be cautious.   

“Shut up!” she gritted at Joel; her voice devoid of any softness.

At that moment, the woman standing in front of him was not his Emily, but a ghost of hers. At that moment, he didn’t feel the need to hold her. At that moment, the memory he had held of her for the last fifteen years dissipated.

Joel took advantage of Emily’s little distraction and swiftly placed a knife through her throat. He smirked, making up a barrier to hide his true emotions. 

"Just try to hurt my cargo," he warned, "and I'll end you." 

Joel's jaw clenched, and his grip on the knife tightened, as he stood there holding her by her back with the knife against her throat, their prior grievances about their story hanging heavily between them.

Emily smirked back; her defiance undeterred. "Don’t act so rude” she spitted, “I wasn’t looking for you” Emily added, her voice filled with resignation at the end.

Joel's grip on the knife slowly lessened, and he stepped back, releasing her. His emotions were a tumultuous storm inside him. 

“I told you that you would never forget me, Joel Miller” she affirmed, after all those years.

At those words, Joel’s gaze didn't waver, but the mask he had worn for so long was cracking. He couldn't deny the truth in Emily's words, he had never truly moved on from her.

With a heavy sigh, Joel turned away from Emily, his thoughts a turbulent whirlwind. The encounter had reopened old wounds

Joel sighed and looked away from Emily once more, his thoughts a whirlwind. The encounter had rekindled old wounds. He had never forgotten her, even when he tried to bury her memory, and this unexpected reunion was tainted with tension.

As they stood face to face in the same place after a lifetime of separation, both of them knew that the future ahead was uncertain. 

Had fate really brought them back together?

tag: @joeldjarin

[ltash]

Forever

Ep-6 "The birth of Ghost" SimonGhostRileyxFemaleReader

The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not 'get over' the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered."

After the reunion, Simon headed out from Mrs. Riley's home and strolled idly through the streets of Manchester. His mind kept drifting back to Andrea, her absence still a painful weight in his heart. He continued walking, the air crisp and cool.

His thoughts led him toward their old park. He found himself standing before the place where they would often meet in their youth. The park was quieter now, and the swings creaked softly in the wind. The setting felt strangely reflective, as if it mirrored his current turmoil.

Simon took a deep breath and walked over to the bench where they used to sit. He sat down, the cool metal of the bench sending a shiver through him. Memories flooded back: their laughter, their conversations, and the unspoken bond that had always existed between them.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his old messages with Andrea. They hadn't communicated in six years, but he kept the messages as a reminder of the connection they once had. His thumb hovered over the screen, contemplating sending her a message. He wondered if she still thought of him, if she missed him as much as he missed her.

The silence of the park was broken by the distant sound of a car passing by. Simon sighed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He leaned back, looking up at the night sky. Stars twinkled above, their light a faint reminder of the vastness of the world and the smallness of his own troubles.

As he sat there, lost in thought, he couldn't help but wonder what Andrea's life was like now. He had heard bits and pieces through Tommy-how she had moved to the States with her father, The image of her in his mind had shifted from the girl he knew to a strong, capable woman, but the core of who she was remained the same in his heart.

A sudden chill in the air brought him back to the present. He stood up, shaking off the melancholy that had settled over him. The park was just a place, but the memories it held were precious. He knew he couldn't dwell on the past forever.

As he walked back toward his childhood home, he resolved to move forward. He couldn't change what had happened, but he could honor the memories by living his life to the fullest. Andrea had her path, and he had his.

A thin shaft of sunlight filtering through the trees above, casting dappled shadows on the ground. He had come here seeking solace, hoping the serene surroundings would quiet the storm of thoughts swirling within him. Andrea's face kept flashing before his eyes, her concern over recent events etched deeply in his mind.

His phone buzzed, startling him out of his reverie. An unknown number blinked on the screen. With a sense of foreboding, he answered cautiously, his grip tightening on the phone.

"Hello?" Simon's voice was guarded, bracing for whatever unpleasant surprise awaited him.

A low chuckle crackled through the line, sending a chill down his spine. "Manuel Roba," the voice sneered, dripping with malice. Simon's breath caught. Roba-his nemesis, the man who had brought havoc into his life before.

"What do you want, you bastard?" Simon's words seethed with restrained anger, memories of past betrayals flashing before his eyes.

Roba's laughter was a sharp, cruel sound. "What do I want? I want you to go back home and see what I've done to your family." The line went dead with a finality that echoed like a death knell in Simon's ears.

Heart pounding, Simon leaped to his feet, the phone slipping from his hand as he sprinted through the park, desperation lending speed to his steps. Panic surged within him, a tidal wave threatening to engulf his very being. Each stride carried him closer to the place he called home, dread tightening its grip with every passing moment.

When he finally reached the familiar door, he hesitated only for a moment, hand shaking as he reached for the handle. The silence that greeted him was deafening, the rooms empty, devoid of the warmth and laughter that had once filled them. His family-Tommy, the heartbeats of his life-gone, murdered in cold blood.

"No," he whispered hoarsely, denial warring with the harsh reality before him. Anguish clawed at his chest, tears blurring his vision as he stumbled forward, only to look at their lifeless bodies on the floor.

Only the echoing emptiness of a home stripped bare, a testament to the depths of Roba's vengeance. And as Simon sank to his knees, shattered and alone, the bitter echo of Roba's laughter reverberated in his mind, a haunting reminder of the darkness that had once again engulfed his world.

The news of what had happened at Simon's home spread like wildfire through Manchester. The city's newspapers covered the news of the gruesome murders extensively, describing the scene as a "brutal massacre."

Andrea sat in her office, reading the stories with a heavy heart. As she scrolled on her laptop, her phone rang. It was her friend, Emma, calling from Manchester.

Emma's voice was laced with urgency as she spoke. "Have you seen the news?"

Andrea's heart sank as she read the grim headlines on her laptop screen, each word a dagger of disbelief. The office around her felt suddenly oppressive, suffused with the weight of the news from Manchester. She scrolled through the articles mechanically, absorbing the horrific details with a numbness that bordered on shock.

Her phone buzzed, interrupting the silence that had settled like a shroud. Emma's name flashed on the screen, and Andrea's fingers trembled slightly as she answered. "Emma?" Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with unshed tears.

"Have you seen the news?" Emma's voice crackled with urgency, the words hanging heavy between them.

Andrea swallowed hard, unable to find the strength to respond immediately. The reality of what had happened to Simon's family was a crushing blow, a nightmare made tangible by the stark headlines. "Yes," she finally managed, her voice trembling. "I... I can't believe it."

Emma's voice softened, filled with sympathy. "I'm so sorry, Andrea. Is there anything I can do? Do you need to come back?"

Tears welled in Andrea's eyes as she shook her head, though Emma couldn't see. "I don't know," she admitted, her thoughts spinning. Her family was gone, and the distance between her and Manchester suddenly felt insurmountable.

"Take your time," Emma offered gently. "But please know that we're all here for you."

Andrea nodded, her throat tight with emotion. "Thank you, Emma. Please... keep me updated if you hear anything else."

"I will," Emma promised softly before they exchanged goodbyes.

She closed her laptop, the weight of the news settling heavily upon her. She sat in silence, grappling with the enormity of the loss, her mind racing with unanswered questions and a gnawing sense of helplessness. The distance seemed infinite, separating her from the city now engulfed in grief and suspicion.

After the call with Emma, Andrea sat, staring at the blank screen of her laptop, her mind filled with a storm of emotions - shock, sadness, and a burning desire to be by Simon's side.

She knew that Manchester was a world apart, separated by a vast ocean of distance and circumstance. Yet, her heart ached with the weight of what Simon must be experiencing. The thought of him, alone in the face of such a tragedy, fueled her decision.

The night was thick with tension as Simon and his friends, faces etched with grim determination, moved through the shadows of the city. They reached Washington's apartment under the cover of darkness, the air heavy with the promise of retribution. With swift, calculated strikes, they eliminated any obstacle in their path. First, Sparks fell silently, a grim precursor to the storm that would soon follow.

Simon's heart pounded with a fury that consumed him as he confronted Washington. In the heat of the moment, vengeance surged through his veins, driving him to end it swiftly. The gunshot echoed in the night, a stark punctuation to a life marked by betrayal and loss. Flames erupted from the apartment building, licking at the darkness like a vengeful specter, consuming everything in its path.

As Simon emerged from the inferno, his chest heaved with raw emotion. In that moment, something within him shifted irreversibly. Simon, as he once was, died amidst the flames. In his place rose "Ghost," a phantom of justice cloaked in anonymity. He donned a skull-printed balaclava, a solemn vow never to reveal his face again.

His exceptional skills as a sergeant had paved the way for rapid promotion. Joining the SAS, the pinnacle of British elite forces, as a lieutenant, Ghost honed his deadly expertise. He became a shadow, a relentless force of nature on the battlefield, executing missions with lethal precision. Renowned as one of the finest snipers in his unit, he embodied the cold, calculated efficiency of a killer with a mission.

Haunted by memories of betrayal and driven by a singular purpose, Ghost navigated the perilous world of covert operations. Each assignment sharpened his resolve, forging a reputation as a man without mercy, yet one driven by a burning desire for justice in a world stained by treachery.

As Ghost traversed the volatile landscapes of war-torn nations, his mission never wavered: to seek out Manual Roba, the architect of his deepest anguish. Each step through the shadows was a calculated move, his senses honed to detect even the faintest whisper of information regarding Roba's elusive whereabouts.

Months blurred into one another, a relentless cadence of operations and clandestine maneuvers. Ghost operated with ruthless efficiency, his mind a steel trap for details, his instincts finely tuned to discern truth from deception in the murky world of espionage. Amidst the chaos of conflict, he remained singularly focused on the elusive figure who had shattered his world.

Then, like a distant echo gaining strength, a rumor began to circulate within the covert networks that Ghost navigated. It was a fragile thread of hope, a whispered rumor carried on the winds of uncertainty. Roba, it was said, had surfaced in a remote corner of the world, cloaked in shadows but not beyond the reach of those relentless in their pursuit of justice.

For Ghost, this revelation was both a beacon and a test of his resolve. The years spent honing his skills, the sacrifices made in pursuit of a singular vendetta-they all converged in this pivotal moment. With steely determination, Ghost prepared to embark on a new mission, one that held the promise of closure or further descent into the abyss of vengeance.

He knew the risks, understood the perilous dance of cat and mouse that awaited him. Yet, driven by a primal need for retribution and justice, Ghost embraced the uncertainty of the path ahead. In the shadows of war-torn landscapes, where the line between hero and villain blurred with every heartbeat, Ghost set his sights on the elusive figure whose name had haunted his dreams and fueled his darkest desires.

Armed with the tantalizing whisper of Roba's whereabouts, Ghost meticulously prepared for the perilous journey ahead. His movements were precise and deliberate as he packed his gear, each item a testament to his lethal proficiency: small yet potent explosives, spare magazines meticulously filled, and the sleek, deadly rifle that had become an extension of his relentless pursuit of justice.

Night draped the city in a shroud of darkness as Ghost slipped into the familiar urban labyrinth. His steps were soundless, a testament to years of training and experience in the art of covert operations. Shadows embraced him like an old ally, concealing his presence as he navigated the dimly lit streets with calculated ease.

His mind raced with a blend of anticipation and steely resolve. The adrenaline coursing through his veins heightened his senses, sharpening his focus on the mission at hand. Every detail, from the layout of the terrain to the potential threats lurking in the darkness, was etched into his consciousness.

Ghost knew the risks inherent in pursuing Roba-a man as elusive as he was dangerous. Yet, fueled by an unwavering thirst for retribution and closure, he pressed forward. His determination burned like a beacon in the night, guiding him towards the inevitable confrontation that would either bring justice or push him deeper into the shadows of his own making.

With each silent step, Ghost moved closer to the elusive figure who had irrevocably altered the course of his life. The night held its breath, waiting to see if justice would finally be served or if the darkness would claim yet another soul consumed by the relentless pursuit of vengeance.

The journey to Roba's rumored location was a grueling odyssey that tested every ounce of Ghost's resolve and skill. Under the cloak of night, he moved with a predator's grace through landscapes both unforgiving and perilous. His path led him through dense, suffocating jungles where the air hung heavy with humidity and the undergrowth whispered secrets of unseen dangers.

Ghost's footsteps were light, a testament to his training and instinct honed through countless missions. He navigated treacherous mountain passes where each step threatened to betray him to the abyss below, yet he pressed on with a relentless determination. The cold, jagged rocks and biting winds were but minor obstacles to his single-minded pursuit.

Abandoned cities, once thriving hubs of civilization, now stood as silent witnesses to the ravages of conflict and time. Ghost moved through their streets like a specter, his senses attuned to the faintest sound or movement that could betray his presence. Shadows embraced him like a second skin, shielding him from prying eyes as he edged closer to his elusive quarry.

Throughout his journey, Ghost's mind remained a fortress of focus, his thoughts a constant whirlwind of strategy and anticipation. Each passing hour brought him nearer to Roba, the man who had wrought devastation upon his life. The weight of his mission bore down upon him like a leaden cloak, yet he carried it with the stoic determination of a soldier sworn to a sacred oath.

As dawn broke on the horizon, casting a pale glow over the rugged terrain, Ghost knew he was nearing his destination. The air crackled with tension, a palpable sense of anticipation mingling with the echoes of his footsteps. Every mile traveled, every obstacle overcome, brought him closer to the moment of reckoning that had driven him across continents and through the depths of his own darkness.

The dim light of dawn filtered through the dense canopy above, casting a subdued glow over the forest floor where Ghost stood, vigilant and poised. His senses were finely tuned to the slightest disturbance in the natural rhythm of the wilderness around him. The silence that enveloped the forest was unsettling, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of a nearby stream.

Ghost's sharp eyes swept the terrain with precision, searching for any signs of movement or hidden threats. His training dictated caution, each nerve and muscle poised for action at the slightest hint of danger. The rustling in the underbrush, so subtle that only a trained ear could detect it, drew his focus like a magnet.

Instinctively, Ghost's hand slid to the grip of the pistol holstered at his hip, fingers wrapping around the cold metal with practiced ease. His pulse quickened imperceptibly, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he remained motionless, blending seamlessly into the shadowed backdrop of foliage and earth.

Time seemed to stretch into eternity as he waited, the seconds ticking by in tense anticipation. The rustling grew nearer, a cautious advance that hinted at a concealed presence lurking just beyond sight. Ghost's mind raced through tactical scenarios, assessing the potential threat and calculating his response with a calm resolve born of years spent in the crucible of combat.

Silence descended once more, a pregnant pause that hung heavy in the air. With a steady breath, Ghost prepared himself for whatever lay ahead, his senses heightened and his focus unwavering. In the heart of the wilderness, where the line between predator and prey blurred with each passing moment, he stood as a sentinel of justice, ready to confront the shadows that had haunted him for so long.

Ghost's instincts kicked into overdrive as the rustling in the underbrush escalated into a frenzied cacophony. His gaze remained fixed on the source, muscles coiled like springs, ready to react at a moment's notice. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the tension palpable in the air as seconds stretched into eternity.

Then, with startling swiftness, a figure exploded from the dense foliage. Adrenaline surged through Ghost's veins as he registered the wild, feral aggression etched on the figure's face. Instinct and training merged seamlessly as he reacted, drawing his pistol with lightning speed.

"Stop!" Ghost's command sliced through the air with authority, though it was met with a primal roar of defiance from the charging figure. There was no hesitation in Ghost's movements as he assessed the threat, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to defend himself if necessary.

The figure closed the distance with astonishing speed, its intentions clear in the ferocity of its approach. Ghost's mind raced with possibilities-was this a guardian of Roba, a desperate survivor, or something else entirely? His heart pounded in rhythm with each thunderous footfall of the oncoming assailant.

In a split-second decision, Ghost's training guided his hand. With precision honed through countless hours of practice, he adjusted his aim, aiming not to kill but to incapacitate. The shot rang out in the stillness of the forest, a sharp crack that reverberated through the trees.

The figure stumbled, momentum abruptly halted as the bullet found its mark. A cry of pain echoed through the clearing, mingling with the rustling leaves and Ghost's ragged breaths. As the figure crumpled to the ground, Ghost approached cautiously, his senses on high alert.

Kneeling beside the fallen form, Ghost quickly assessed the situation. The figure lay still, its features contorted in agony. A rush of conflicting emotions surged within Ghost-a mix of relief, regret, and the unrelenting resolve that had driven him to this moment.

With steady hands, Ghost removed the balaclava that concealed his face, revealing eyes hardened by years of turmoil and loss. He gazed down at the fallen adversary, seeking answers in the depths of their shared struggle.

As Ghost removed the balaclava that obscured his face, revealing eyes hardened by years of turmoil and a jaw set with unyielding determination, a flicker of fear and recognition flashed in the assailant's eyes. The sight of Ghost, legendary and feared, seemed to crystallize the rumors and legends that had swirled around his name into a chilling reality.

The fallen adversary's breath hitched audibly, a mixture of disbelief and dread washing over their features. The gravity of their encounter with Ghost, a relentless force driven by a singular mission, weighed heavily upon them in that fleeting moment of clarity.

In the silence that followed, Ghost's resolve solidified into action. With steady hands and unwavering purpose, he raised his weapon once more. The air crackled with tension, charged with the culmination of years of pursuit and sacrifice.

One final shot rang out, a sharp echo that reverberated through the forest. The bullet found its mark with lethal precision, ending the elusive hunt for Manual Roba in a swift and decisive manner. Roba, architect of devastation and bearer of Ghost's deepest scars, crumpled to the ground, his reign of terror extinguished.

As Ghost stood over the fallen figure, emotions roiled within him-relief mingled with a profound sense of closure, tempered by the weight of the path he had chosen. The forest bore witness to the end of a relentless quest, the culmination of a journey marked by sacrifice and unyielding determination.

Dawn cast its gentle light over the scene, illuminating Ghost's silhouette against the backdrop of tangled foliage and shifting shadows. He stood alone amidst the aftermath of his mission, a solitary figure at the crossroads of justice and vengeance.