#FBI leadership changes

[latestnews-now]

Kash Patel, a staunch ally of Donald Trump and vocal critic of the FBI, is now poised to lead the agency. Discover how Patel’s plans could reshape the FBI, his ties to Trump, and the controversies surrounding his appointment. Dive into this detailed report for a closer look at Patel’s vision for America’s top law enforcement agency.

[ssa-dado]

20 - Logic

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: everything but smut, suck it. Summary: Aaron Hotchner just so happens to navigate a complex web of professional and personal struggles, reflecting on his dead marriage, his leadership, and his connection with you. The team tackles a case involving a methodical killer while tensions rise between you, Hotch and Rossi over leadership dynamics. Amid the chaos, Hotch wrestles with his feelings for you, as you end an abusive relationship with your now ex-best friend. Everything tied within some good old stoic logic. Warnings: guilt, the unsub commits suicide, a cm case described in detail, Rossi being an asshole, P***r gets mentioned. Word Count: 20.8k Dado's Corner: One month later, here I am again. Hope you missed Philosopher and Lawyer as much as I did. This one is quite fun, I experimented with the style of narration... let me know if you like it.

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In Stoic philosophy, logics (logikē) focuses on reasoning, the methods of thinking, and the structure of arguments, serving as the foundational discipline that allows individuals to discern truth (aletheia) from falsehood.

For the Stoics, mastery of logics was crucial because it equipped the rational mind (logos) with the tools needed to make sound judgments and live in accordance with nature.

The Stoics believed that a proposition was true when it reflected something of the environment to which it referred.

---

The hum of the jet had never felt so loud.

It wasn’t an oppressive sound - it was steady, rhythmic, almost soothing if he let it be.

But tonight, it was the sound of everything else he didn’t want to think about - a lifeline, something to cling to while his mind spiraled into spaces it shouldn’t go.

Spaces he couldn’t seem to avoid.

Hotch stared at the case file in front of him, pen hovering above the paper. His eyes traced the same line for what felt like the fifth time, still not reading, still not processing. The words just blurred into nothingness.

He was just there, replaying the same scene in his head like a tape stuck on a loop.

The rooftop.

The unsub’s detached voice: “I think your worst fear is that you can’t save everyone.”

It wasn’t even a unique insight; Hotch had heard variations of it throughout his career, sometimes from suspects, sometimes from his own team, most of the times from the voices inside his head mocking him of every failure.

Yet tonight, it felt even sharper, as if Howard had carved the words directly into his bones.

So, his mind wandered back to that rooftop.

“Dr. Howard? I’m Aaron Hotchner. I’m with the FBI,” he’d called, his voice steady, his tone carefully modulated.

“Don’t ask me to come down,” Howard had replied, almost amused, as if daring him to try.

“We found at least 15 people dead. It’s over,” he had said, the words mechanical, as if the simple logic of justice could tether the man back to reality.

But it was too late for that, the unsub’s words had already begun to untangle themselves from reason. He had spoken of sacrifice and science, justification wrapped in delusion.

Hotch had seen it way too many times before - a brilliant mind twisted by its own arrogance, spiraling into darkness.

“You know this is the easy way out,” Hotch had said, his voice slightly softening, yet the words sounded almost mocking to his own ears. “If you come down, we’d like to talk to you.”

Howard’s face hadn’t changed, but his voice did. “Most people go into law enforcement because they want to help others,” he’d said, meeting Hotch’s eyes.

And before his subconscious would have started processing it, Morgan’s voice had broken through then, sharp and urgent. “Tell us where Missy is.”

Howard had taken off his glasses, placing them in his pocket with a such calmness that made Hotch’s pulse quicken – it was over. He knew that.

And only then, the unsub uttered towards him the infamous words:

“I think your worst fear is that you can’t save everyone.”

Only three words echoed inside Hotch’s head at the time, something directly from what he learned in his training, when he first learned how to handle these kinds of situations:

Engage. Stabilize. Control.

But over time, the formula had subtly evolved, refined into something more distinctly his own.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

The three steps were almost second nature now, ingrained into him through years of experience. Deflect the unsub’s attempts to personalize the situation, to make it about anything other than the facts. De-escalate their emotions, draw them back from the brink, create space for reason to take hold. And above all, move forward. Always forward. Don’t dwell, don’t linger. Just get to the next step, the next decision, the next resolution.

He was good at it - too good, some might say.

But as he stood there on that rooftop, the biting wind cutting through his bulletproof vest, he realized there was something about this moment he couldn’t fully compartmentalize.

He was fighting for Missy, yes. Every second mattered, and the need to bring her home alive burned brighter than anything else. That was his job, his duty. But as he locked eyes with Dr. Howard, his voice calm, measured, and so sure of his warped reality, Hotch felt the pull of something he couldn’t entirely suppress.

Humanity.

He wasn’t just trying to save Missy. A part of him, buried deep but undeniable, was trying to save Howard too - from himself, from the abyss he’d already plunged into.

It wasn’t in the rulebook.

It wasn’t part of the training manuals or the countless hours of hostage negotiation drills. The law didn’t ask you to save the people who had done irreparable harm, the ones who had broken every moral boundary, destroyed lives, and laughed about it.

The law demanded order.

Justice.

Efficiency.

It told him to prioritize the victim, to see Howard as nothing more than a piece on the chessboard, a threat to neutralize.

But Aaron, for all his stoicism, could never quite strip away the part of himself that still looked for humanity, even in the darkest places.

Was it arrogant to think he could save them both? That he could somehow cut through Howard’s delusions and bring him back from the edge? Or was it something more human? Something he could never bury, no matter how much he wanted to.

Because Howard wasn’t just a threat.

He was a man unraveling before his eyes, clinging to the last shred of control he believed he had. And for all his cruelty, for all the lives he’d taken and the pain he’d caused, Hotch couldn’t fully silence the voice in his head that whispered, If I can reach him, maybe…

But then he was gone.

The sound of the unsub’s body hitting the pavement was muffled by the rush of blood in his ears, the world narrowing to the crimson stain left behind.

He had come too late, once again.

And now, on the jet, across from him, Morgan’s voice broke the silence, pulling Hotch back to the present. “I can’t sleep.”

Hotch didn’t look up. His pen hovered over the file, frozen mid-thought. “Want me to turn off the light?”

Morgan’s smile was faint, tired, but his voice carried weight. “No. I want to be able to sleep.”

With a sigh, Hotch closed the file and set his pen aside, finally meeting Morgan’s gaze. “What’s the matter?”

Morgan leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest as he studied Hotch with a look that was too knowing, too familiar. “What’s the matter with you, Hotch?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened.

“You’re sitting here doing work when you’d normally take a break,” Morgan said, leaning forward, his voice steady but probing. “Please don’t tell me it’s about Gideon leaving.”

Hotch exhaled softly, his fingers pressing into the edge of the table. “You know, we made a deal a long time ago not to profile each other.”

And by "a long time ago," he meant exactly one year. One year since he’d crossed a line, profiling you on why you weren’t wearing your engagement ring back when you invited him for dinner. He still hadn’t told anyone.

“Am I wrong?” Morgan countered, his tone cutting through the thin defense.

Hotch didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The weight of it was written all over him.

“You know, Hotch, today was a huge, huge victory for all of us,” Morgan continued, his voice firm, grounding. “We’re doing just fine without Gideon.”

Hotch gave a faint nod, his mind still trapped in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

Gideon was gone.

Missy was saved, at least.

And yet, he kept playing the rooftop back in his head, rewriting the ending in a dozen different ways, trying to find the version where Howard didn’t jump.

Where his words had been enough.

Where the shadows of his failures didn’t loom so large.

The unsub’s voice yet again still echoed in his mind, that accusation that wasn’t wrong, that he was afraid he couldn’t save everyone.

And worse, it was safe.

It was a truth he could wrestle with endlessly, a familiar weight he knew how to carry.

It was easier to fixate on that failure, on a life lost on a rooftop, than to face the other truth looming over him, the one that cut far deeper.

“Hotch,” Morgan said again, his voice quieter now, pulling Hotch’s focus. “What’s keeping you up tonight?”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

For a moment, he considered deflecting, offering a polished answer like a lawyer presenting a case.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

The formula.

But the weight of the truth was too heavy to hold.

The real fear wasn’t really about saving strangers.

It was about Haley.

About Jack.

The real fear was that he couldn’t save his family.

That they’d already walked out of his life.

“Haley’s left,” he said finally, the confession low, steady, and raw. “And I don’t know if she’s coming back.”

He refused to accept the silence that had taken over his house.

Silence, he’d learned, had a way of amplifying absence, turning every creak of the floorboards into an accusation, every hum of the refrigerator into a hollow reminder of what was no longer there.

He wouldn’t let himself get used to it.

He couldn’t.

To do so would mean admitting that the laughter was gone - the wild, joyful echoes of Jack’s voice narrating stories to Kuna that were much more chaotic than coherent, the tales of a world in which pirates, Jedis, superheroes and pine martens all lived together.

It would mean accepting that there were no more shouts of “Dad, watch this!” accompanied by the rapid patter of little feet racing down the hallway, or conceding that there was no one he was helping build couch forts in the living room.

Jack’s voice used to fill every room, ringing with excitement and joy in a way that made Aaron feel like he could still breathe after even the worst days.

And Haley - God, Haley.

Her voice had this way of wrapping around the walls, filling every corner of the house with a warmth that made everything feel solid, whole. Whether she was calling Jack to dinner or talking to herself as she moved through the rooms, her presence was an anchor.

She could laugh at the smallest things - a poorly timed joke, a misstep in a dance she insisted on doing while cooking - and it was the kind of laugh that lingered, softening even the hardest edges of his day.

Even now, he could almost hear it, faint and ghostlike, as if the house itself remembered her better than he could bear to.

But now, the house was a shell.

Empty.

The walls seemed to lean in, accusing him with their stillness, asking questions he couldn’t answer: Where are they? Why aren’t they coming back? How did you let this happen?

But then you were there, and suddenly, the silence didn’t win anymore.

It wasn’t just the sound of your soft humming as you worked on your notes or the shuffle of papers that had taken over his kitchen table, it was the way your presence seemed to fill the void, adding a warmth he’d been starving for.

A fire.

Like the way you’d rummage through his cabinets, muttering under your breath, teasing him for his predictable habits and lack of variety, as if his limited tea selection were some kind of personal offense.

“You’ve got three kinds of English Breakfast and a chamomile older than Jack,” you announced, holding the offending box aloft as if it were evidence in a trial. “Is this a house or a time capsule?”

Aaron glanced up from his paperwork, one eyebrow arching in his usual understated disbelief. “Chamomile doesn’t go bad.”

You shook the box as if the rattling teabags might groan in protest. “Chamomile shouldn’t go bad, but this box might be the exception. Honestly, Aaron, if you’re trying to poison your guests, there are subtler ways. You’ve been in law enforcement long enough to know better.”

“Duly noted,” he said, deadpan, as he set his pen down. “Next time, I’ll just hide the evidence. You know, plausible deniability.”

Rolling your eyes, he saw you moving to scan the cabinet again, your fingers rifling through his depressingly predictable collection of tea. “And three kinds of English Breakfast,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head. “Who needs three kinds of the same tea? It’s like having three identical suits… oh wait… that’s your thing.”

He chuckled, moving to lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching you rummage through the rest of the cabinet. “Let me guess,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up, “you’re looking for that one black tea so bitter it doubles as a cry for help.”

You whirled around, mock indignation lighting up your face. “It’s not bitter, it’s complex.”

“Complex,” he echoed, his voice steeped in skepticism. “So complex I can taste it from across the table every time you drink it.” His eyes tracked your movements as you tugged on your coat, grabbing your car keys with the efficiency of someone about to launch a rescue operation.

“Where are you going?” he asked, the faintest hint of incredulity coloring his voice.

“To fix this mess,” you shot back, your determination unwavering as you marched toward the door. Hotch recognized your look, the one that meant you were on a mission, and not even divine intervention could slow you down. It was like watching a hurricane in real-time, only you were wearing sensible shoes and wielding car keys instead of gale-force winds.

He sighed, that was his cue.

There was no stopping you - not with reason, logic, or his best FBI glare. But if he went with you, at least your energy would be directed at him instead of some poor unsuspecting night-shift cashier, who didn’t sign up to face your tea-related crusade at midnight.

“It’s midnight. You’re not going alone,” he said, his voice carrying more authority than necessary for what was clearly a caffeine-fueled escapade.

The truth, though, was simpler: if he stayed home, he’d be stuck with the silence, which wasn’t silent at all.

The idea of staying in his house without you was unbearable. The voices - the regrets, the what-ifs - always got too loud too fast, like an overzealous jury in his head, and they never adjourned.

Haley. Jack. Even Gideon.

When you were around, though, it was different. You had a way of filling the air that even the nagging voices in his head, the ones that rehashed every failure and regret, seemed to take one look at you and shut up.

Probably terrified of Philosophers… he wouldn’t blame them.

Afterall, you did have a knack for turning even his most tightly wound logic into a pretzel and serving it back to him with a grin.

“Alright,” you declared in defeat. “Come be my chauffeur. But if I catch you suggesting anything remotely fruity, I’m leaving you in the parking lot.”

As you breezed past him, muttering about proper supplies and “showing him real complexity,” he silently thanked his luck that you were only talking about tea and not a hostage negotiation. Heaven help the world if your special brand ever went extinct - there’d likely be a UN emergency summit convened by sunrise.

And by the time you both returned with your prized tea, Aaron was already questioning his life choices. As you brewed a cup, he leaned against the counter, watching like an unwilling participant in a social experiment.

You handed him a mug, a grin spreading across your face. “Try it.”

He hesitated, eyeing the tea like it might bite him. With the caution of a profiler defusing a bomb, he brought the cup to his lips and took the smallest sip.

His expression didn’t betray much, at first, but then, the barest scrunch of his nose gave him away. “It’s… terrible,” he said simply, setting the mug down like it might offend him further.

Your mouth fell open in mock indignation. “Terrible? That’s bold talk from the same man who just yesterday claimed he actually loves the taste of the Bureau’s coffee!”

“It’s called adapting,” he countered smoothly, his smirk creeping in.

“Oh, sure,” you said, crossing your arms. “Because ‘adapting’ is just fancy talk for ‘giving up entirely.’ I remember still drinking coffee from Bertie back in 1998, and it was already held together with duct tape and prayer. And let me remind you - because I know you’ll deny it - you were the one who wouldn’t stop complaining about it”

He tilted his head, feigning confusion. “That doesn’t sound like me. I’m very pragmatic about my beverages.”

“Oh, really?” you countered, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Because I distinctly remember you telling Gideon that the only way to improve that coffee was to burn the machine, salt the earth where it stood, and consider it an act of public service.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe my standards have evolved.”

“Evolved?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Into what? Stockholm Syndrome? Or,” you pointed at his abandoned mug of tea, “maybe you’ve just lost your edge. This tea, Aaron, has depth. Complexity. It’s for people with taste.”

“It tastes like despair,” he replied, entirely straight-faced.

“Despair,” you echoed with a snort. “And yet, you’ll go back to Bertie tomorrow morning and drink whatever burnt sludge it spits out.”

He shrugged, his smirk returning. “At least Bertie’s predictable.”

“Predictable?” You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Hotchner, Bertie once brewed a cup so vile Spencer thought we’d discovered a new form of carbon. But sure, let’s call it predictable.”

Without missing a beat, Aaron leaned back against his chair, fingers intertwining on the back of his head. “You know,” he said dryly, “I think I finally understand why they threw the tea into the harbor during the Boston Tea Party.” He stopped for a second, making sure you were looking directly at him “It wasn’t about taxes, it was this.”

You froze, staring at him in disbelief, your mug hovering mid-air. Then it hit you, and you burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. “Oh, no,” you wheezed, clutching your stomach. “No, you do not get to be this funny in an argument about tea. I hate that you just made the funniest joke I’ve ever heard about this.”

He shrugged, his smirk growing. “I’m glad my humor’s appreciated.”

You pointed at him, still laughing but clearly refusing to let him have the upper hand. “You’re insufferable,” you declared, wiping a tear from your eye. “Absolutely insufferable. But that was… annoyingly clever.”

“I’ll take annoyingly clever as a compliment,” he replied, straight-faced. “Coming from you, it’s high praise.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, still smiling despite yourself, and though you hated to admit it, the joke was still replaying in your mind. “That joke doesn’t make your coffee standards any less tragic. Enjoy your burnt sludge tomorrow, Boston Boy.”

He still didn’t understand how you manage to drink that stuff, but somehow, your stubborn loyalty to it felt… grounding.

Because for all your muttering and dramatics, you were still there – with him.

Someone who didn’t hate him.

Someone who hadn’t left him, not yet.

---

Philosophy comes with a lot of dilemmas - too many, in fact - but not nearly as many as the ones you inflicted on your colleagues at random while you were all buried in paperwork in the bullpen.

Does a tolerant society have to tolerate intolerance, even if it means undermining itself?

If someone says, ‘This statement is false,’ is the statement true or false?

Do we have free will, or are our actions determined by external forces or natural laws?

The answers were almost always the same: a collective groan or the universal team favorite, “Oh, shut up, Teach.”

But today, your philosophical pondering took a backseat to what you, Morgan, and Prentiss had unanimously subconsciously declared the real dilemma of the century: which was scarier - Halloween monsters or the fact that today marked the arrival of Gideon’s replacement in the team?

Knowing David Rossi - and having worked with his Machiavellian mind before – heavily influenced you to lean toward the latter.

As you sat at your desk, trying to make the endless paperwork feel like less of a soul-crushing abyss by timing yourself every time, you found the smallest thrill in racing the clock.

Your goal was simple: finish as quickly as possible so you could justify a trip up to Hotch’s office.

You could spin it as efficiency - getting the reports filed into the system early - but really, you just needed an excuse to exchange a word or two with him.

The truth was, you missed him being at the desk right across from you in the bullpen, the one he used to occupy nine years ago. Now, instead of a quick glance up to see his face, all you had was his left profile - always stern, always focused, always several feet away, barricaded by a pane of glass and an impenetrable air of authority, framed by the ever-present blinds of his office window.

He left them always open, but still.

Sure, technically, he was still in front of you - his office “just so happened” to align perfectly with your desk, giving you a clear view whenever you looked up.

But it wasn’t the same.

Especially today.

The tension in the bullpen was almost palpable, hanging heavy in the air as if the entire team was bracing for something. It was the kind of day where you’d normally lean over to murmur a comment to Hotch, and he’d respond with that subtle quirk of his brow that, at least to you, spoke volumes.

Instead, you were left wondering if the tension had seeped into his office, into the blinds, into the stiff set of his shoulders or the telltale tightness in his jaw.

Was it bothering him?

Did he even notice?

All you wanted to do was talk to your partner-that-now-happened-to-be-your-boss and check.

And so, as if to break the tension - or throw gasoline on it - Reid appeared, wearing a ridiculously oversized Frankenstein monster head mask. He crept up behind Morgan, who was so absorbed in his paperwork that he didn’t notice the impending doom at all. Reid crouched slightly, arms extended like a cartoon villain, and growled, “I’m going to eat you!”

Morgan shot out of his chair with a yelp, almost sending his file flying in one direction and his dignity in another, making both you and Prentiss immediately burst into laughter. “Reid!” he barked, his hand clutching his chest as though the paperwork might have contained a hidden bomb.

Reid, meanwhile, whipped off the mask with a triumphant grin. “Happy All Hallows’ Eve, folks!” he announced, his voice brimming with glee. “To paraphrase from Celtic mythology, tomorrow night all order is suspended, and the barriers between the natural and the supernatural are temporarily remoooooved!”

He punctuated the announcement by tossing a second, equally ridiculous mask toward Prentiss, who caught it midair with her biggest most contagious grin.

“That right there,” Morgan said, pointing a finger at the frizzy-haired monstrosity Reid had thrown, “is why Halloween creeps me out.”

“You’re scared of Halloween?” Reid shot back, his tone teetering between intrigued and vaguely offended. You couldn’t quite tell if he was about to psychoanalyze Morgan on the spot or just defend Halloween’s honor, but knowing Reid, it was probably both.

“I didn’t say I was scared,” Morgan corrected, wagging a finger at Reid for emphasis. “I said I was creeped out. There’s a difference, youngster. You should look it up.” Then, as if rallying reinforcements, he turned to you, clearly expecting you to back him up. “Tell him, Teach.”

You didn’t even bother glancing up from your stopwatch, which you dramatically clicked off with all the precision of someone timing an Olympic sprint. “Oh, sure thing, because obviously I’m the walking Cambridge dictionary now. Alright, brace yourselves. Lesson one: Example A - Morgan, when Reid jumped out at him like a budget haunted house actor? That’s textbook scared.”

Prentiss and Reid burst into laughter as Morgan pointed an indignant finger at you. “Hey, that’s not what I mea-”

You held up a finger, cutting him off as you scrolled casually through your prized finished reports. “Morgan, being emotionally terrorized by what I’m generously calling a $2 piece of melted plastic? That’s what linguists - namely, me - call creeped out. An expression, by the way, coined in the 1830s by Charles Dickens himself. You’re welcome. Class dismissed.”

Reid doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly knocked the Frankenstein mask off his head, while Prentiss leaned back in her chair, her laughter ringing out unabashedly.

Morgan threw his hands up in mock betrayal. “Y’all ain’t right. I’m just trying to live my life here!”

“Lesson two,” you added as you stood, gathering your reports like they were sacred texts, then made your way toward the kitchenette. You could feel Morgan glaring daggers at the back of your head, but you paid him no mind.

Pausing only to point at Reid, you delivered your final verdict “Never sneak up on a grown man who’s this easy to scare. It’s almost cruel,” you called out, shaking your head as you walked toward the kitchenette.

“Scared and creeped out,” Reid shot back, raising his voice just enough for you to hear from across the bullpen. His grin was smug enough to practically glow in your peripheral vision, and you could already tell he was planning to gloat about this moment for the rest of the day.

At least he got the point of lesson one, small victories.

Probably helped that you were his thesis supervisor, and over the past few weeks, you’d developed the kind of intellectual bond that only two people who regularly debated metaphysics over coffee could manage.

But what really snagged your attention wasn’t Reid’s self-satisfaction. No, it was Morgan muttering under his breath, “Prehistoric Reid.”

Without missing a beat, and without turning around, you raised your voice just enough to carry. “I heard you, Morgan.”

The bullpen erupted again. Prentiss was doubled over with fresh laughter, her face red as she gasped for air. Morgan groaned audibly, slumping in his chair like a man under siege.

“Man, Teach has ears like a bat,” he grumbled, though his tone carried more affection than annoyance, at least.

If the bullpen was chaos incarnate, the kitchenette promised a few moments of relative peace. You believed you’d only spend a minute or two there , but no - Bertie the coffee machine, your ancient nemesis, had other plans.

Some genius had decided to turn her off completely, so now you were stuck coaxing the temperamental beast back to life.

“All right, Bertie,” you muttered, flipping the switch with the cautious energy of someone attempting to detonate a bomb they didn’t really care about saving. Predictably, nothing happened.

No hum, no gurgle, not even the faintest whiff of coffee.

Instead, she let out a sputter so half-hearted it might as well have been the coffee machine equivalent of flipping you off.

Why were you even battling with this relic from the Jurassic era?

Oh, right - because the only thing more necessary to survive the day than caffeine was the faint, irrational hope that your partner-turned-boss-who-somehow-morphed-into-C-3PO-as-Unit-Chief-but-still-cracked-jokes-sometimes-when-he-felt-like-being-human would smile.

Just once.

It wouldn’t fix anything, but seeing Hotch – not Aaron, but Hotch - smile, even the smallest hint of one, could’ve made the mess of Rossi’s grand entrance feel just a little less like an apocalypse.

“Of course,” you muttered, sighing as you resorted to lightly slapping the side of the machine. “You know, I could just use the nice, expensive, functioning coffee maker upstairs, but no. Hotch needs your burnt battery acid because apparently, taste buds are optional for him.”

You gave Bertie another desperate slap, and finally, groaned to life with a sound that could only be described as a dying walrus. “That’s my girl.” You sighed in relief, though you wouldn’t dare celebrate just yet. Bertie had a habit of spitting boiling water at you when she felt underappreciated.

“You’re an overworked, overused, barely holding it together - but somehow still dependable nightmare with the most hideous sense of humor” you muttered as she began churning out liquid that could barely be called coffee. “Which is probably why Hotch likes you so much. He sees himself in you.”

You poured two cups. The first one, predictably, looked like motor oil, but you figured Hotch wouldn’t notice - or care. After all, he was the one who told you that’s exactly how he liked it: strong enough to fuel a jet, with just a hint of bitterness to match his mood.

And who were you to question authority?

Well, maybe his - just slightly.

Not because he wasn’t good enough, far from it, but because behind all that duty and discipline, you could still see the friend who, out of nowhere, had cracked the funniest joke you’d probably ever heard. And he’d done it with a Boston Tea Party reference, of all things.

You grabbed your files and the two cups of coffee, balancing them carefully as you turned back toward your desk, only to freeze mid-step. Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan stood clustered together, their faces locked in expressions so stunned you’d think they’d just witnessed the ghost of Alexander Hamilton himself wandering through the bullpen.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your eyes darting between them, half-expecting an unsub to be lurking behind you with a false-face mask and a dramatic monologue.

Reid, his grin slowly spreading across his face like a kid meeting their superhero, pointed toward Hotch’s office. “You missed him.”

You followed Reid’s gaze to the windows of Hotch’s office.

And there they were.

Hotch. Strauss. Rossi.

And just like that, the universe managed to cram three of your personal nightmares into a single square meter of space. It was an unholy triumvirate. Three people, each of whom had caused you at least one life-long trauma.

Prentiss, ever the empathic, placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re not seriously going to hand him the files now, are you?”

You let out a sarcastic laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, definitely. I’m sure I missed a semicolon somewhere in the report. It’s urgent.”

But then Morgan, out of the blue, shifting to a more serious tone, asked, “What’s Rossi like?”

Million-dollar question.

You paused, choosing your words carefully as your gaze shifted between Reid in the bullpen and the scene playing out inside Hotch’s office. “Think of Gideon,” you began, your tone soft, “but someone completely different at the same time. Rossi is sharp, deliberate, he gets straight to the heart of a problem. Theatrical, sure, but he knows when to push and when to pull back. If you need someone thinking ten, even twenty steps ahead of an unsub, he’s the best there is. Absolutely the best.”

Your eyes flicked briefly to Hotch’s office, catching the moment he and Rossi stepped back from a hug.

Your heart just dropped at the view.

Hotch was smiling.

A genuine, unguarded smile.

Not the polite, guarded expression he usually wore as Unit Chief, but a real, unguarded smile - one you hadn’t seen in what felt like in ages. It wasn’t the professional mask of the man in charge, the one you’d come to respect the most but secretly hate just as much for how it had hardened him.

That what for you was a new version of him - the one so much more consumed by the job - stood in stark contrast to the Hotch you’d known almost a decade ago.

Hotch—your partner.

The Hotch you’d known back then had been just as firm, just as committed, but there had been lightness too. His damned sense of humor, hell, even those hopelessly awkward attempts at flirting with each other.

Even that had become an unspoken contest - who was worse at it. Both of you so bad at it that, inexplicably, it worked. Somehow, amidst the chaos, those moments had grounded you, moments where the weight of the world hadn’t yet crushed him.

Now, watching him with Rossi, you caught a glimpse of that man again - the one who could smile without reservation, who could let go for just a second. It felt like a thread of the old Hotch had been pulled back to the surface, weaving itself into the present.

And for the first time in far too long, it looked like something inside him was starting to mend.

“Rossi and Gideon together were… unmatched,” you continued, your voice softer now, the words slipping out as if they carried their own weight. “They had this instinct, this understanding of the human mind that defied explanation. They were the best at what they did.”

Reid nodded faintly, his gaze dropping as he processed your words. The weight of your unspoken feelings every time the word ‘Gideon’ escaped your lips lingered in the air.

He didn’t need to say anything - he felt every syllable you didn’t say.

Parts of both you and Reid were still adjusting to this change, even with the underlying sense of relief that came with Rossi’s return.

Parts of both you and Reid were still adjusting to the change, even with the underlying sense of relief that came with Rossi’s return. It was bittersweet, but in some strange way, for you, it felt like a piece of the past was coming back to steady you; for Reid, it was a breath of fresh air - a chance to meet the other half of his old mentor’s legendary pairing.

If Hotch could hear your thoughts, you’d have locked eyes across the room and escalated it into one of your infamous, competitive volleys: significant other, partner, spouse, soulmate, bank account sharer, joint mortgage holder, primary beneficiary.

But that Hotch was long gone.

You hesitated, then added, “They were different, but they shared one thing: they believed in the work. In what it could do. And they never stopped trying to be better, even when it cost them everything.”

For the first time in a long while, it felt like something was settling back into place for you as well. Slowly but surely, balance was returning, or at least trying to.

That fragile sense of equilibrium lasted about ten seconds before JJ descended the stairs from Hotch’s office - also known as the cave of your collective traumas - to announce you had a new case.

And then the door to the infamous office opened. Out stepped Rossi, sporting his most enthusiastic smile, with Hotch following close behind, back to his usual professional calm expression. Rossi’s eyes scanned the bullpen, taking in each of you, but when his gaze landed on yours, his grin for some reasons disappeared.

“Europe!” he exclaimed, actually sounding surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Ah, Europe. Another nickname to add to your ever-growing list, courtesy of Rossi and your time stationed abroad. You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms with mock indignation. “What, I don’t deserve a smile as well?”

Hotch, ever the professional despite the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, said in a measured tone, “She’s part of the team.”

Rossi’s grin widened as he clapped Hotch firmly in the middle of the back - hard enough that even Hotch shifted slightly in surprise. “Oh, I see, of course she is. Looks like I can’t get rid of you two, can I?”

You and Hotch exchanged a glance, one of those knowing looks that said everything without needing to speak: Rossi hasn’t changed a bit. If anything, he’s only gotten worse with age.

Rossi, ever the master of reading a room - and especially the two of you - smirked and wagged a finger between you both. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. I missed my favorite early birds couple. Just like old times.”

Never in your life had you witnessed a worse choice of words.

Prentiss immediately coughed into her hand, doing an abysmal job of hiding her laughter, while Morgan’s grin spread so wide you were tempted to suggest it could power Quantico for a week.

“Couple, huh?” Prentiss leaned in, her eyebrows raised in perfect mock innocence. “Should we be calling you Mrs. Unit Chief now?”

You turned to her, eyes narrowing with the sharpness of a blade. “Prentiss,” you said, your tone low, but it only made her grin harder.

“Oh, come on. It’s a valid question,” Morgan chimed in, jumping on the opportunity with relish. “So, Teach, what’s the story? Got something you haven’t told us? Maybe those late-night report sessions weren’t all about paperwork after all. Must’ve been some really close teamwork.”

Your lips pressed into a razor-thin, as you leveled a glare at him, mentally cycling through every possible way to shut this conversation down without landing yourself in handcuffs. “Morgan, you’re about two seconds away from being served Bertie’s first cup of coffee.”

Morgan gasped in exaggerated horror, throwing his hands up in mock surrender as if you’d just threatened to steal his firstborn, if he’d had one, that is. “Alright, alright, no need to go nuclear! But come on, you can’t blame a guy for being curious.”

“Oh, I absolutely can,” you snapped still keeping your voice as low as possible - but before you could say more, Prentiss leaned even closer, her smirk practically predatory.

“To be fair,” she said, her voice soft and conspiratorial, “you two do finish each other’s sentences.”

“That’s only because we worked-” you started, only to stop yourself abruptly, exhaling sharply. “No. I’m not doing this. I am not engaging in this ridiculous-”

“Ridiculous what?” Prentiss interrupted, her tone dripping with feigned sweetness. “Your obvious chemistry? Your perfect synchronicity? Honestly, Mrs. Unit Chief, it’s adorable.”

Morgan let out a bark of laughter, clapping his hands together. “Adorable! That’s the word I was looking for. Prentiss, you nailed it.”

You almost threw your hands in the air, glaring at both of them. “It’s not what you think. Rossi just used a poor choice of words.”

Morgan tilted his head, dragging out the word “Sure” with a level of disbelief so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Prentiss wasn’t done. “You know, this would explain so much. The way you two exchange those looks like you’re having a full-blown conversation without speaking. The mysteriously coordinated outfits-”

“We do not coordinate outfits!” you snapped, your patience officially wearing thin.

“-and let’s not forget the coffee thing,” she continued as if you hadn’t spoken. “You always make him a cup like some doting-”

“That’s because he likes burnt coffee!” you interrupted, your voice slightly louder than you intended.

“Exactly,” Morgan said, pointing at you. “Only love could make someone tolerate that taste.”

Before you could fire back, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye - Rossi and Hotch making their way down to the bullpen. Straightening up, you plastered on your most professional smile, ignoring the smug satisfaction radiating from both Prentiss and Morgan.

Rossi, of course, looked entirely too pleased with himself, and for a moment, you seriously considered that he might have chosen those words on purpose.

Hotch, ever the consummate professional - or perhaps just willfully oblivious - raised a hand to begin introductions. “SSA David Rossi,” he said, his voice steady and calm, ���this is SSA Emily Prentiss.”

Prentiss stepped forward, managing to school her expression into something polite and measured. “Sir,” she said, though her tone had just the faintest edge of mischief.

“SSA Derek Morgan,” Hotch continued.

Morgan extended a hand with his trademark charm, his grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s an honor, Agent Rossi.”

Rossi shook his hand firmly, waving off the formality. “Please, just Dave.”

Hotch moved smoothly on, his calm voice cutting through the lingering mischief in the air. “And Dr. Spencer Reid.”

Reid stepped forward eagerly, his hands twitching as if he couldn’t decide whether to shake Rossi’s hand or launch into a monologue. He went with both. “Sir, if I could talk to you later about your work with the Scarsdale Skinner, I’d really appreciate it. Psycho-linguistics is an incredibly dynamic field, and the way your profile of his reading habits ultimately led to his capture is-”

“Reid,” Hotch interrupted gently, raising a hand. “Slow down. He’ll be here for a while. You can catch up with him later.”

Reid flushed slightly, nodding. “Sorry.”

Rossi chuckled. “No problem, Doctor.” Reid beamed, looking like he’d just been knighted

Hotch glanced toward the stairs, his tone calm but directive as usual. “Maybe you two can talk on the jet.”

Reid’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah, that’d be great.”

Rossi’s expression shifted into one of mild confusion, his brows knitting together. “The jet?” he echoed, his tone laced with disbelief.

Hotch smirked faintly, and for a moment, it seemed like he was recalling a similar scene - a bar, a year ago, and your reaction that had been almost identical. “We have a jet now.”

Rossi’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”

Oh, once he found out he wouldn’t have to share rooms with anyone, Rossi’s happiness would probably rival a kid who just discovered an unlimited supply of Halloween candy.

Hotch nodded, gesturing toward the briefing room. “It comes in pretty handy. Come on, JJ’s waiting.” He placed a hand on Rossi’s back, guiding him toward the stairs.

As they passed, you tilted your head slightly at Hotch, silently questioning why he hadn’t introduced you to Rossi himself. Sure, it wasn’t strictly necessary - Rossi knew you well enough - but still.

Hotch, always razor-sharp, caught your questioning look immediately. “Of course,” he said, his voice betraying just a hint of amusement. “This is Agent and Professor Y/L/N.” He paused just long enough to emphasize Professor, making it clear he wasn’t letting your academic credentials slide under the radar.

Agent and Professor.

As always, he made sure to introduce you like that whenever someone new was around. You were used to it now - your impressive international work, the years of research, everything that set you apart - but you still couldn’t help the little flush that rose on your cheeks.

Hotch was proud of you - more proud of your accomplishments than you’d ever admit to yourself - and he made sure to show it. And honestly, you suspected part of the reason he loved introducing you like that was to see you squirm just a little.

So you always called him Unit Chief in return - mostly to tease him, but also as a reminder that despite everything, he’d finally become exactly what he’d always wanted to be.

Rossi laughed, his grin widening. “Ah, here we go again with you two. Some things never change.”

The team started moving toward the stairs, but Prentiss hung back a step to sidle up next to you. Her voice dropped into an exaggerated mock-sweetness that could’ve melted glass. “You know, it’s actually kind of adorable. You and Hotch, solving crimes, finishing each other’s sentences, burning coffee together... It’s like the FBI version of a rom-com.”

You shot her a glare, opening your mouth to fire back, but before you could even get a word out, Morgan, who had somehow caught wind of the whole conversation despite being halfway up the stairs, glanced back over his shoulder and said. “Oh yeah, I’ve been waiting for this.”

He shook his head with exaggerated pity. “What I want to know,” he said, his voice dripping with fake sincerity, “is who made the first move? Was it Hotch? Was it all brooding and intense, like, ‘I need to talk… about us’?”

Prentiss couldn’t contain herself and burst into laughter. “Oh, I can totally hear it!” she exclaimed, doing her best imitation of Hotch’s deep, serious voice with flawless deadpan. “‘You’re a great agent, but I think it’s time we addressed the… tension… between us.’” She gave a dramatic pause and added, “Hotch, you dog.”

You were so mortified that you didn’t know whether to laugh or shove them both into the nearest broom closet to shut them up. “You two are insufferable. It’s like middle school in here.”

“Oh, come on,” Morgan teased, completely shameless. “You can’t deny it. I bet Hotch even did the Hotch stare. You know the one, intense, like, ‘This is non-negotiable, we need to talk about us.’” He paused, waggling his eyebrows in that way that made you want to crawl under the nearest desk.

Prentiss couldn’t hold it in any longer. She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach as she leaned into you. “I can see it now! ‘I’ve filled out the paperwork for us to move to the next phase - please initial here to confirm your feelings.’”

“Enough, please!” you begged. You weren’t sure if you were frustrated with your team, the teasing, or the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Just then, as if summoned from nowhere, Reid decided to chime in with his usual brand of earnestness. “Actually,” he started, eyes wide and eager, “if you analyze workplace dynamics, there’s often a statistically significant correlation between close professional relationships and perceived romantic tension-”

“Doc!” you snapped, your voice sharp as glass. The sound of your irritation immediately shut him up, though you could tell he was thoroughly enjoying the chaos, must have been the Halloween spirits…

Reid blinked, but then he quickly put his hands up in mock surrender. “Right. I’ll stop.” His lips twitched upward, an impish grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “For now,” he added, as if he couldn’t quite resist the urge to poke the bear just one more time.

“Thank you, I love you all” you muttered sarcastically, walking ahead and not even bothering to look back.

You’d made it to the briefing room, and for once, the usual teasing had quieted. Absurd how death did that, no amount of sarcasm or wit could overshadow the grim reality of murder. It was almost as if the case itself had sucked all the air out of the room, forcing everyone to remember that, yes, this was your job.

This wasn’t just paperwork and profiling.

People died.

People were tortured.

And in the blink of an eye, everything you thought mattered could be stripped away.

Funny, isn't it? How death puts things into perspective - suddenly, the world isn’t so big.

What was so important this morning?

A fight with your team members, a long list of cases? None of it would matter if you were lying cold on the floor somewhere.

It doesn’t matter how many cases you’ve worked, each one chips away at you, no matter how hard you try to harden yourself.

That’s the cruel beauty of this job: it’s a constant reminder.

Every time, it strips something away.

And today’s case? Well, today was no different.

Michelle Colucci from Carrollton, Texas, had received a flyer warning her that she’d soon go missing. The local detective, dismissing it as a Halloween prank, sent her home. But days later, when he went back to check on her, he found her lifeless.

Michelle had been sexually assaulted, her face surgically removed, and the Dallas County M.E. confirmed that she’d still been alive when she was dumped into the creek. It was torture - psychological and physical - and it was planned down to the last detail.

The unsub’s method was chillingly calculated. The flier, part of a twisted game, was designed to break Michelle before delivering the final blow. The "false face" mask left at the scene - a symbol worn during Halloween or Mardi Gras – probably was a grotesque mockery of Michelle’s identity.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, JJ dropped the last bombshell. “Oh, and Hotch - local media’s all over this. The story’s already broken big.”

Perfect.

Because who doesn’t love the media breathing down your neck, making sure you can’t even tie your shoes without a camera crew nearby? As if the job wasn’t already hard enough without everyone wanting a piece of your misery.

Hotch, however, didn’t seem to flinch. “Tell Carrollton we’ll be there first thing in the morning. Let’s stop this one at one.”

---

You didn’t stop this at one.

Just a few moments ago Eneid White, the second target, had called from the motel where she was hiding. Her voice, trembling and desperate, was still a haunting echo in your mind, you couldn’t get her out of your head.

It was the helplessness that got you.

The urgency was seared into every action, and Hotch handing you the keys to the SUV without hesitation was all the confirmation you needed – you needed to get there, fast.

And so, you drove.

Speed limits? Suggestions.

Stop signs? Inconveniences.

The streets blurred into streaks of light and shadow as you threaded the SUV through traffic with a precision that bordered on reckless, but at least never fully crossed the line – or so you thought.

Rossi, riding shotgun, eyed you warily as you floored the gas, the SUV surging forward like a bullet. “She’s not trying to qualify for the Indy 500, is she?” he muttered, gripping the door handle with exaggerated caution.

“She knows what she’s doing,” Hotch said firmly from the back seat, his tone steady, cutting through Rossi’s skepticism. “Take the next left, it’ll cut through the main drag.” Then he added “Eyes on the road.”

“Got it,” you replied, your grip tightening on the wheel as you spotted a ‘Do Not Enter’ sign looming ahead. A shortcut through a construction site was tempting, but the barriers and machinery cluttering the path made it clear this wasn’t meant for civilian traffic.

Still, hesitation barely registered.

You needed to save Eneid White.

They had to leave a road for the trucks transporting material, and in your book, any surface that could support tires qualified as a road.

“Don’t even think about it-” Rossi started, but you’d already made your decision.

“Shortcut,” you said plainly, steering the SUV through the gap in the barriers. Gravel crunched under the tires as the vehicle bounced over the uneven terrain. Dust clouded the air, obscuring visibility, but you still pressed forward.

There was no time.

“Shortcut,” Rossi repeated dryly, clutching his seatbelt as if it might save him. “You’re insane.” He muttered under his breath, gripping the door handle even tighter.

He’d probably said those exact words to Gideon a thousand times over the years they worked together, so he really shouldn’t have been so surprised that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his gaze darting between you and the map in his hands. “Sharp turn coming up. Stick close to the left, you’ll avoid the worst of the debris.”

You followed his instructions without question. “Thanks, Unit Chief”

He didn’t miss a beat, he never did anyways. “Stay steady. You’ve got this.”

And so, as always, he called out directions, and you executed them as precise as you could.

As you burst out of the construction site and back onto the main road, Rossi muttered under his breath, “If we survive this, I’m buying her a GPS.”

“She doesn’t need one,” Hotch countered, a faint note of amusement in his voice.

As far as you were concerned, Hotch was already your trusted GPS.

Now the motel just within sight. The GPS chimed, but Hotch had already beaten it, pointing ahead. “We’re close. Pull in there.”

But as you turned into the lot, your stomach dropped. Despite breaking every law of the road, despite cutting through gravel and narrowly avoiding heavy machinery, you weren’t faster than the unsub.

The motel room was empty.

Eneid White was gone.

Fliers with her face were scattered across the bed, each one bearing the mocking question: “Have you seen me?”

The irony was suffocating.

Of course, you could see Eneid’s face - it was plastered everywhere, an unsub’s cruel hyperbole.

And this stirred something into you - what if the message wasn’t for those looking for the victims? What if it was meant for the victims themselves?

“Have you seen me?” Perhaps it wasn’t a warning, but a connection, a contact. The unsub’s way of forcing recognition, of ensuring he’d been seen, even if only for a fleeting moment.

The victims saw his face before he’d targeted them.

As you carefully gathered evidence from the room, you heard the detective outside, his frustration boiling over. “Twenty minutes. We were here in twenty minutes. I can’t believe we lost her!”

Hotch, ever the anchor in moments of chaos, tried to steady him with some logic. “We may not have lost her,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “He kept Michelle for four days.”

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

All there in one sentence – his version of your ‘Thesis, Antithesis, Synthesis’

“But we got nothing!” the detective snapped, his anger spilling over so forcefully that his words seemed to yank you from the room before you’d even made the conscious decision to step out.

Hotch didn’t falter, his tone firm but composed. “That’s not true. Look at the difference in the scenes.”

As you stepped into the open, your eyes landed on what had apparently become the new team tradition since the briefing on the jet - Rossi, head down, scribbling away in his precious notebook like he was on a deadline for the Pulitzer Prize instead of, you know, actually helping.

By now, you’d lost count of how many times you’d caught him at it today, but it was somewhere between “too many” and “are you serious right now?”

The frustration bubbling under your skin was quickly evolving into a sarcastic internal monologue worthy of Shakespeare, though if it reached James Joyce levels, you’d probably have kicked the man with your own boots just to put an end to it.

It was maddening.

You couldn’t even shoot the damn notebook out of his hands - no matter how tempting - because the paperwork for that would’ve been unbearable.

Paperwork had saved Rossi more than once today.

The detective pressed on, still unconvinced. “What do you mean? There’s the masks, the fliers-”

You glanced at Rossi, your patience wearing thinner than the pages of his notebook - which, at this point, you were certain had a name of Jason, because why else would he be so devoted to it?

But Rossi’s pen didn’t even pause.

Whatever profound nonsense he was jotting down seemed far more important than the actual conversation unfolding in front of him.

Prentiss, following you out of the room, she glanced at the evidence in your hands and finally spoke up herself. “Yeah, but these fliers weren’t tacked up on the wall. They were just thrown around the room.”

You nodded, seamlessly picking up her train of thought, though part of you was already imagining tossing Rossi and his precious notebook into the nearest evidence bag. “Mostly concentrated on the bed, with the rest scattered haphazardly across the floor. Some are even upside down, blank side up - no effort was made to ensure the message was visible, unlike the calculated placement we saw with Michelle Colucci.”

Prentiss gave you a small nod of agreement, her expression grim and focused. This was what it meant to stay on task, to prioritize the case above all else. You spared one last glance at Rossi, still glued to his notebook, as if the world around him didn’t exist.

The detective broke the silence, his frustration cutting through the tension. “So?!”

Hotch, ever the steady voice of reason, clarified the situation once more with the kind of authority that reminded you exactly why he was your favorite Unit Chief. “He left in a hurry, like he knew we were coming.”

Morgan came out of the room, holding up a phone. “Okay, this was under the bed,” he announced, his tone sharp, efficient. He flipped the device around to show the last number dialed. “972 area code.”

“That’s Carrollton,” the detective said quickly, stepping forward to take the phone from Morgan’s hand. “The hotline number.”

“She used a cell phone,” Prentiss added, her brow furrowing.

Morgan nodded, already filling in the blanks. “You can get a cell interceptor at any electronics store.”

The detective blinked at him, surprised. “You can?”

“Yeah,” Morgan confirmed. “They don’t cost that much. He probably sat right out here and heard everything she said.”

The detective rubbed his jaw, his confusion more than evident. “But if he followed her here from Dallas, why wait till she calls us to move on her?”

It was then, like some miracle out of nowhere, that Rossi finally raised his head from that damn notebook. You felt a spark of hope – finally - only for it to flicker and die as his gaze met the detective’s for half a second before dropping back to his scribbling.

Amazing.

Before you could even sigh, your voice came out, somehow you managed to stay calm and firm. “To make sure it was the police who found the mask.”

What a professional.

It was too late for Rossi to catch your disappointed glare you aimed at him, which was a shame because this one was a masterpiece - one of your finest, perfected over years of dealing with ignorant assholes.

And Rossi? Oh, he was currently one of the finest examples of that category.

But, if you were being honest, he wasn’t the only one grating on your last nerve.

You knew Hotch had noticed Rossi’s behavior - of course he had.

His eyes had flicked from you to Rossi to the detective, his jaw tightening ever so slightly in that telltale way that screamed disapproval. You half-expected him to step in, to say something sharp and cutting that would snap Rossi out of his detached aloofness.

But nothing.

Not a word.

His silence was almost as infuriating as Rossi’s scribbling.

At least you got some mileage out of it, directing a few of your most honed disappointed looks at Hotch. Sure, he wasn’t the primary target, but it was better than letting them go to waste.

“We need to gather your men and deliver the profile,” Hotch said to the detective, his tone leaving no room for debate. Without waiting for a response - or the lack thereof - he was already heading toward the SUVs, his stride purposeful and unyielding.

You followed, your steps brisk, each one fueled by the simmering frustration you couldn’t seem to shake.

It was bad enough that Rossi had spent the entire day buried in that infuriating little notebook of his, detached from the team as though this case were some solo act.

But what stung worse - what really churned beneath your skin - was that Hotch hadn’t said a damn word about it.

Hotch climbed into the SUV first advantaged by his hideously long legs, his movements steady and composed, as if the tension of the day hadn’t so much as brushed him. He settled into the passenger seat without a glance back, his calmness only heightening the storm brewing inside you.

You slid into the driver’s side, gripping the wheel hard enough that the leather creaked faintly under your hands.

In the rearview mirror, you caught sight of Rossi strolling leisurely toward Morgan and Prentiss’s SUV, his gait so maddeningly casual it made your teeth clench.

No urgency.

Not even a backward glance.

It felt like a slap, though you weren’t entirely sure why.

Maybe it was the way he walked off without a second thought, or maybe it was the silence that had followed - Hotch’s silence. The kind of silence that spoke louder than words, that implied he was choosing not to address the behavior you’d been biting your tongue about all day.

The door to your side slammed shut harder than you intended, the sound reverberating through the SUV like the snap of a thread stretched too tight. You didn’t even realize how sharp your movements were until you glanced sideways and saw Hotch watching you, his expression calm as usual but his eyes far too knowing.

“Something on your mind?” he asked, his voice even, quiet.

Too quiet.

Like he was already bracing for the storm he could feel rolling in.

His question lit a spark, and that spark found the fuel you’d been holding back all day. “Oh, so you noticed?!” you shot back, starting the engine with a rough turn of the key. “You’re seriously not going to say anything to him?”

“Say what, exactly?” Hotch’s tone remained even, his gaze fixed ahead.

Now he had to be playing dumb.

Which, of course, he wasn’t.

You’d first liked him because he was clever - clever in a way that few people ever were.

You scoffed, throwing the SUV into gear. “I don’t know, maybe something about the fact that he’s been scribbling in that notebook all day, completely checked out, and now he just decides to ditch us? That doesn’t bother you?”

Hotch exhaled slowly, his voice still hilariously calm but firm. “Rossi’s actions haven’t jeopardized the team. There’s no reason to call him out over something minor.”

You wanted to slap that Unit Chief in the face so bad right now…

“Minor?” Your voice rose slightly, disbelief laced in every syllable. “It’s disrespectful, Hotch. To you, to me, to the team. He’s supposed to be contributing, not playing the wise old sage with his notebook. I even tried to talk to him earlier, but he pretended I didn’t even exist. And now you’re just letting it slide?”

Hotch turned toward you then, his gaze sharp and steady, with his innate ability to make it piercing enough to catch your breath. “I don’t need to say anything unless his actions jeopardize the team or the case. That’s the job. His behavior doesn’t warrant a confrontation.”

Your grip tightened on the wheel, the hard leather pressing into your palms as something deeper and more dangerous than frustration combusted fiercely through you. “I’m not necessarily asking you to step in as his Unit Chief. I’m asking you as the only other person here who’s worked with him before. You know him better than I do. Your words might actually mean something to him.”

His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a low, measured tone that carried more weight than volume. “That’s where you’re wrong. My words hold more weight than yours here. I carry the full responsibility for this team.”

Bastard. Absolute bastard.

Hotch’s gaze flicked toward you briefly before settling back on the road, his profile hard as granite. “There is a hierarchy, and there always has been. Even back in 1998, you understood that. You were respectful of authority, even hesitant to speak up sometimes. What happened to that? Where did it go?”

“Where did it go?” you snapped, your voice rising just slightly. Unlike him, you hadn’t mastered the art of lowering your voice the angrier you got. “It went somewhere between Rossi acting like he’s still a lone wolf profiler and you pulling rank on me instead of actually listening to what-”

“Oh no,” he interrupted, his tone cutting through your words, deadlier than a guillotine during the French Revolution. “Don’t talk to me like this. You wouldn’t act this way if it were anyone else in my position. You’re taking liberties with me - ones you wouldn’t dare take with someone else, and you know it.”

Your knuckles blanched as they gripped the wheel. “Because we’re partners, Aaron-”

“Hotch.” The correction was immediate, clipped, and cold.

Hotch?! With you?! Since when exactly?!

Fucker. Absolute fucker.

You fought the urge to slam the brakes or swing the car into a sharp turn – anything to vent the hot, simmering frustration rising inside you.

He was lucky you were driving.

Smart move on his part, but not smart enough. “We’re partners, and I would like to expect some confrontation when it’s needed. I’m not saying you have to agree with me all the time, but right now, it seems that you’re shutting me out just as much as he is.”

“I’m not shutting you out,” he said firmly, as if he hadn’t just corrected you a few moments ago, insisting you use his work name. “And partners or not, there’s still a chain of command. I don’t address things that don’t need to be addressed. What Rossi’s doing isn’t breaking any rules. It’s the law, plain and simple.”

“The law,” you muttered bitterly, shaking your head. “That’s always the answer, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said, unflinching. “That’s how this works.”

You glanced at him briefly, your frustration morphing into something sharper, something deeper. “You’re confusing what’s just with what’s lawful. They’re not the same thing. The law tells you what’s allowed, but ethics - ethics tell you what’s right.”

Hotch’s gaze turned toward you again, steady but edged with a challenge that sent heat prickling up your spine. “And tell me, who decides what’s right? You?”

Your mom Hotch, your mom.

“No,” you shot back, your voice snapping like a whip as you met his gaze head-on. “You. Me. Everyone. We each decide what’s just because ethics come from within. It’s what we’ve learned, what we value, what we believe. It’s shaped by experience, compassion… things the law doesn’t account for. And for the record what really frustrates me is that I can tell you agree with me. You just won’t let yourself act on it.”

Hotch’s brow arched, skepticism etched into every line of his face. His tone was cool, but there was something taut beneath it “And you think personal ethics are enough to run a team? That everyone’s individual sense of ‘what’s right’ is enough?”

You saw him roll his eyes in the rearview mirror, a small flick of dismissal that sent heat roaring in your chest. But at least he didn’t interrupt you this time. It was probably time to educate him apparently, even if he didn’t deserve your philosophy right now. “Sophocles wrote entire tragedies about the consequences of blindly following the law without considering ethics,”

You continued, as convinced as before. “Antigone - she buries her brother against the law because it’s the right thing to do. Justice isn’t just about rules, Hotch. It’s about doing what’s right. There’s a line between what is legal and what is just. Creon followed the law to the letter, but it was Antigone who understood what was right. Blindly following the law doesn’t absolve you of moral responsibility. If we’re not questioning what’s just, then what’s the point of any of this?”

Hotch exhaled through his nose, the sound low and weighted, and turned his gaze forward again, his jaw tight as though he were biting back something far harsher. “We’re not philosophers. We’re law enforcement. If we start ignoring the law, where does it stop?”

“It stops when we stop pretending the law is infallible,” you countered, heat lacing every word.

“The law is the only thing standing between order and chaos.” His voice was cool, measured, but the tension coiling beneath it felt dangerous, like a fuse inching toward its end.

You turned toward him fully now, your pulse hammering in your throat. Your voice dropped, quieter but heavy, almost trembling with the force of it. “Fuck the law.”

Your eloquence always found the way out of you when you were seriously angry.

Fuck him.

His head snapped toward you, his eyes flashing with something that wasn’t just anger, something worse. His face was carved in stone, but his eyes… his eyes burned. His jaw tightened further, the muscle flexing there, and the air between you thickened so much that it was a miracle you both still managed to breathe. Though your breaths came a little too fast, a little too shallow, and yet you couldn’t seem to look away, even as both of your pulses quickened against your will. “You don’t mean that.”

You scoffed, your focus snapping back to the road, but the way your hands gripped the wheel betrayed the crackling storm beneath your skin. “I do mean it. If the law lets Rossi sit there scribbling in his notebook while the rest of us are busting our asses, then maybe it’s time to question what the hell we’re actually enforcing.”

Hotch didn’t respond immediately.

The silence felt like the stillness before a storm, heavy and waiting. “I’ll handle Rossi if and when his actions compromise the team or the case. Until then, you need to focus on what’s in front of you.”

What exactly?!

Him? The road?

The fierce, irrational desire to pull over and tell him to take the rest of the miles on foot, just so you didn’t have to keep feeling the heat of his presence pressing against your skin?

Or maybe, the even fiercer, more maddening part of you that wanted to slam on the brakes for a different reason altogether.

“That’s the problem,” you bit out. “Rossi is the problem. And by brushing this off, you’re part of it.”

Your words hung in the air, daring him to respond.

His silence burned, every second of it pushing against your restraint until his voice came, calm but edged with something razor-sharp. “You think you’re the only one who notices these things? I see everything. Every tension, every hesitation, every misstep. It’s my job to decide when to act, not yours.”

No, it was definitely him.

And the road.

And everything in between.

Your foot slammed the brakes at the stoplight, the SUV jerking forward before settling. You turned toward him, your breath uneven, your chest tight. “Then decide, Hotch. Because the longer you let Rossi pull this crap, the more respect you lose - from the team. And from me.”

Fuck him.

His lips pressed into a razor-thin line, his shoulders taut, every inch of him controlled as though holding himself back from snapping. When he spoke, his voice was low, biting. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” you challenged, twisting in your seat to fully face him. The air between you felt like fire, licking at the edges, threatening to consume. “Because I’ve had enough of watching you protect him like he’s untouchable.”

His voice dropped lower. “Focus on the case, Y/N. People are being murdered.”

Technically it was just a victim now, there was no reason for him to use the plural.

Uncultured.

Fuck him.

“You’re shifting the focus of the conversation,” you retorted, the words tearing through the few inches of space between your seats.

“Y/N.” His voice cut through the air, sharp, laced with a warning that carried the weight of absolute, every meaning layered within it.

The probabilities of stepping into a place neither of you could return from were far too high, and you both knew it.

And so, you drove.

---

Apparently, your frustration was contagious, Hotch was certain of it.

The lead detective’s exasperation was as palpable as the tension in the room, radiating out like a second heartbeat. “So how the hell do we catch an invisible man?”

Hotch, standing tall and composed, responded. “I’m pretty sure we can get him to contact you.”

The detective’s skepticism was immediate, his brows furrowing deeply. “What?!”

Prentiss stepped in, her voice steady and explanatory, trying to ease his doubts. “The crime scenes show he wants to deliver his message to the police. He isn’t going public.”

Hotch turned toward the group of officers gathered nearby, his gaze briefly flicking to the television up in the corner where a news anchor droned on. “Hopefully, by playing on his anger...” His words trailed off as his eyes locked onto the screen.

The mask.

Hotch’s jaw tightened.

There it was - the one detail they had deliberately withheld, the key piece that gave them an advantage. It was the only thing that hadn’t been shared with the public, the detail he had explicitly instructed everyone to keep confidential.

“JJ, how’d they get that?” His voice was a low whisper, his hand gesturing toward the screen in disbelief.

JJ looked stricken, her words tumbling out in hurried defense. “Not from me. I-Hotch, I called all the local police departments, and I stressed withholding the mask.”

He knew it wasn’t JJ’s fault.

He wasn’t even looking at her.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, as if willing the image to vanish, willing this mistake to undo itself. Instead, the camera lingered on the mask, leaving no doubt.

The media had everything.

“I called them,” Rossi’s voice cut through the moment like a razor, its nonchalant tone infuriatingly casual.

What?

“What?” The word escaped him as a whisper, his disbelief palpable.

“I said,” Rossi repeated, turning toward the team with the air of a professor unveiling a lecture’s climax, “the FBI thinks the masks mean” he paused, a smirk curling his lips as he gestured toward the screen “he’s impotent.”

He didn’t just say that.

“Can I speak to you for a second?” Hotch’s voice was barely audible, clipped and strained, as he turned sharply on his heel and began walking.

He didn’t stop until they reached a small room off the main precinct floor. As soon as the door closed, he rounded on Rossi, his composure cracking at the edges. “Why would you do that?”

Rossi leaned casually against the table, his arms crossed. “It’ll make him contact us. He’s screaming for it.”

Hotch inhaled slowly, keeping his voice even. “We aren’t prepared.”

“Prepared?” Rossi repeated, his tone dripping with condescension.

“We need to set up a trap and trace,” he clarified, his voice tighter now.

Rossi smirked, an insufferable little quirk of his lips that made Hotch’s blood pressure rise incrementally. “Trap and trace?” Rossi scoffed, raising his shoulders as if the suggestion were some rookie mistake. “They never stay on the phone long enough for that.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Hotch pressed his lips together, exhaling slowly to keep his composure.

If you were there, Rossi would already be halfway through a philosophical evisceration.

He could almost hear it in his head, the way you’d dismantle Rossi’s overconfidence with the precision of the most skilled surgeon. Something about “hubris being the downfall of great men,” probably referencing some obscure Greek tragedy, and then tying it back to his blatant disregard for teamwork.

And if that didn’t work?

Hotch glanced briefly at Rossi’s smug expression.

You would just talk in ancient Greek.

No, better.

You’d just kick him. Right there, where it hurts most, to make sure he matches the unsub’s supposed impotence for the full-circle effect you loved so much.

“Dave, they’re a lot faster than they used to be,” Hotch managed, his voice firm but even.

Keep it together.

Keep it professional.

Not everyone handles things with Socratic debates and well-placed footwear.

“We also need to prep the detective on what to say to him.” He continued, trying his best to not imagine Rossi helplessly trying to crawl out of the room.

But Rossi didn’t even flinch. “He’s not gonna want to talk to the detective. He’s gonna want to talk to the FBI.”

Hotch stared at him, weighing his words carefully.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

He couldn’t kick Rossi - obviously. There were rules, laws… but you would have found a way to argue that kicking Rossi was just, spinning it into one of your infuriatingly flawless philosophical dissections.

Damn you.

Damn you and your insufferable ability to shred his logic to pieces, leaving him grasping at the tatters of his own arguments.

Damn you because no matter how idealistically abstract your reasoning was, he hated how much it made sense - and worse, how it made him agree with you.

Always with that maddening certainty, as if you’d been put on Earth solely to torment him.

You had no business being in his head right now.

None.

And yet, there you were, smugly perched in the back of his mind, as if you’d claimed permanent residence.

Get her out of your head, Hotchner.

You weren’t even here, and still, he couldn’t escape you.

It was infuriating, really, but he refocused. “We don’t step over the local police like that.”

“They called us in,” Rossi countered, his tone dripping with indifference.

“Yes,” Hotch replied, his voice taking on a sharper edge. Why was he picturing you glaring at Rossi like he was the last man at the base of the food pyramid? “But if the perception is that we’re here to embarrass the locals by telling the media we’re going to fix things, then they’ll stop calling us.”

“Relax, Hotch. I’ve got this,” Rossi said, his confidence unshaken.

Hotch resisted the urge to rub his temples. He could already hear your scathing commentary in his head, something about Rossi’s arrogance being so immense it was practically a separate entity. “You see, that’s the problem, Dave. There is no I. We function as a team.”

Rossi straightened slightly, his smirk fading but his tone turning defensive. “I’ve been doing this before you were out of high school. Probably before the rest of your team was in school at all.”

“I know that,” Hotch replied, his voice lowering as he met Rossi’s gaze directly. “Things have changed.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “The bells and whistles changed. An unsub is still an unsub, and I know how to deal with an unsub.”

Jesus.

“No, Dave,” Hotch said softly, leaning forward slightly, “it’s not just that.”

Whatever Hotch intended to say next was cut off as JJ appeared in the doorway, her expression urgent. “Hotch. Garcia just found something.”

---

The three hours of flight back from Texas were probably the longest of Aaron Hotchner’s career - or at least, they felt that way.

The tension between you hung in the air like heavy smoke, thick and suffocating, smothering even the steady hum of the jet’s engines. It lingered, stubborn and unyielding, because neither of you addressed the argument from the car.

As professionals, you both knew better.

Eneid White’s life had been on the line, and neither of you would risk jeopardizing that over something as trivial - or as personal - as a fight.

So, you sat at opposite ends of the jet, heads bowed over paperwork, the silence between you crackling with the kind of precision only years of practiced restraint - and an almost artful expertise in avoidance - could ever achieve.

He stole glances at you every so often, but you never looked up, your pen moving with relentless determination across the pages. Hotch tried to focus on his own work, but the case wouldn’t leave him - not yet, not completely.

For him, it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

The argument you’d had in the car still lingered in his mind, gnawing at him like an open wound, and he did what he always did best - turned the guilt inward.

It wasn’t just that he’d mishandled Rossi, he’d let the tension between you fester, unchecked. And the thought of what could have happened - what might have been lost if they hadn’t found Eneid White in time - haunted him more than it should have, more than the profession allowed.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward. Now, though, it felt more like: second-guess, overthink, ruminate.

He’d replayed at least a dozen other scenarios in his mind, each one ending in tragedy, knowing full well it was sheer luck that led them to the unsub’s house instead of some remote hiding place.

If he couldn’t rewrite what had happened during the case, he could at least try to mend things with you.

He had to.

So, Hotch rose from his seat and made his way to the kitchenette.

The soft clink of mugs and the quiet hiss of the kettle punctuated the stillness of the jet, breaking the silence that came with the others fast asleep - all except for you and Hotch, and probably Rossi, who was either feigning sleep or doing his best to convince himself he was.

The usual night owls.

He opened the small drawer where you kept your tea and pulled out the packet of your beloved poison, the one you insisted you couldn’t function without. He prepared two cups, sneaking a spoonful of sugar into his own to dull the bitterness - a betrayal you’d undoubtedly call him out on, possibly with a well-aimed kick, if you ever found out.

As he approached, the faint sound of his steps or the distinct aroma of your tea drew your attention.

Your eyes flicked up, and without a word, he set the cup in front of you, the steam curling up like a quiet offering. “I know you like to torture yourself when you’re doing paperwork,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want to deprive you of the tradition.”

Your lips twitched, but whether it was amusement or annoyance, he still couldn’t tell.

“And why are you torturing yourself as well?” you asked, gesturing to the second cup in his hand.

“Can I sit?” he asked, tilting his head toward the empty seat across from you.

You returned your attention to your file, your tone dry as you said, “You’re my superior. I think you can sit wherever you want.” The mockery in your voice stung, a bitter echo of his own stupid words from the car.

Hotch hesitated for a moment before lowering himself into the seat across from you. He set his own cup down and clasped his hands around it, the warmth seeping into his palms, hoping that it could ground the part of his mind that was already playing the worst-case scenario.

You, gone. Him, alone. As it should.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours briefly before glancing away.

No, maybe there was still hope.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he admitted finally.

You didn’t look up, your pen still scratching against the paper. “But you did. Because that’s what you really think, isn’t it?” Your tone was clipped, cool, but there was an edge of something else, disappointment, maybe. “You’ve never put yourself above any of us before. So why start now? Was it because someone wasn’t respecting your authority? Because it made you question your ability to lead in the first place?”

You immediately continued, laying bare the reasons he’d imposed that golden rule against profiling each other in the first place. “Do you really think they made you lead profiler back then just because Rossi wasn’t around? That it wasn’t earned but convenient? And when Gideon left, do you think they made you Unit Chief out of necessity, not because you were the best fit? Is that why you said those things to me? Because in your mind, my actions - or Rossi’s - are just proof that the voices in your head are right? That if I argue with you, it’s because I don’t think you should be my boss? God forbid there could be another reason, any reason besides that. Am I wrong?”

The words hit him squarely, their accuracy cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. He swallowed hard, the weight of them settling like lead in his chest. “You’re not,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, tinged with regret.

You set the pen down, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing as you shook your head. “Aaron,” you said, your voice softer now, “I swear, one day I’m going to find a way to get inside your head and shut those voices up for good. You’re good enough. Hell, you’re the best. So?”

He didn’t speak immediately, his lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you wondered if he would deflect again, but then, he exhaled, a slow, measured breath, and lifted his eyes to meet yours. There was something raw there, something so unguarded. “So,” he said, his voice low, deliberate, “what if I feel like the worst? What if I question every decision, every choice, because I know what happens if I get it wrong?”

You leaned forward slightly, your arms resting on the edge of the table, “Then you’re human, Aaron. You’re human, and that’s exactly what makes you the best. Because you don’t take this lightly. Because you care enough to question yourself, to carry the weight even when it’s too much. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone and let your head eat you alive like that”

He shook his head, a faint, self-deprecating smile flickering across his lips. “But that’s not how it works. It’s my job to make the calls, to take responsibility. If I can’t do that-”

“You can,” you interrupted firmly, your tone cutting through his doubts like a blade. “And you do. Every single day. But you don’t have to shut your team out to do it. We’re here for a reason, Aaron. We’re here because we trust you. Because we believe in you. Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re the kind of leader who doesn’t need to be.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable for a long moment, and then he leaned back slightly, his hands still cradling the mug. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” you said, your tone softening but no less resolute. “But you don’t have to make it harder than it already is. And for the record?” You leaned back in your chair, your eyes locking with his. “I don’t argue with you because I doubt you. I argue because I trust you enough to know you can handle it. That’s what this is about. Not authority, not rank. Trust.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Trust is dangerous in this line of work.”

"Maybe," you said with a small shrug, your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "But it’s what we’ve got. And you’ve earned every bit of it, Aaron. Even when you drive me so insane to make me seriously consider leaving you on the side of the road to enjoy a scenic three-hour stroll back to the precinct."

Hotch shook his head slightly, damned you and your way you used your words with him. “It’s a shame you’re not as meticulous with your paperwork as you are with handling feelings.”

You straightened in your seat, narrowing your eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Your paperwork was impeccable - tedious, sure, but flawless.

Hotch’s lips twitched, and he leaned forward slightly, his finger tapping against the report on your desk. “You missed a semicolon.”

“That’s impossible,” you replied flatly, immediately flipping through the pages to find the supposed error. “I don’t miss semicolons.”

“Right there,” he said, pointing to a line near the bottom of one of the pages, his hand almost brushing against your frame. Damn you and the fact that you had to make mistakes in the most inconvenient places.

You leaned closer, scrutinizing the line he’d indicated, and he swore he could feel your breath on the skin of his hand. “That’s because I got distracted,” you declared, leaning back in your seat, far from him.

Thank God.

“Distracted by what?” Hotch asked, one brow raising slightly.

“By you committing a cardinal sin in the kitchenette,” you said, crossing your arms. “I caught you. Adding sugar to your tea. That’s blasphemy.”

Really?

Hotch blinked at you, clearly not expecting you to have spider sense for your tea, or maybe for him. “I needed something to make it drinkable,” he countered, raising his mug to take another sip. His nose scrunched almost immediately, and he set the mug down with a quiet thud. “God, it’s still terrible. How is that even possible?”

You leaned forward – no, not again, go back, go back “Next time, try it with milk,” you added, your tone lighter now, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

“Milk?” Hotch repeated, his expression turning skeptical. “That’s your solution?”

You shrugged, your smirk widening. “It works for the British… I doubt I will still talk to you if I ever catch you doing that”

Hotch shook his head again. Damn you and your philosophical dilemmas. “Then I’ll consider it,” he said finally, a trace of humor threading through his voice. “But only if you fix that semicolon.”

You smirked, setting your pen down on the table and sliding it toward him. “Go ahead, fix it yourself. You’ve been staring at it so long, I can tell it’s driving you crazy.”

Little did you know…

He picked up the pen with deliberate slowness, as if testing whether it might bite, then flipped the paper over and scanned the line in question. With a precise flick of his wrist, he added the missing semicolon, his lips curling into a quiet, triumphant smirk. “There.”

“Great,” you said, reaching out to take the paper back. But he smoothly pulled it just out of reach, his smirk deepening.

“Hold on,” he said, the faint amusement in his tone far too evident for your liking. His eyes skimmed further down the page. “Let’s see what other treasures we can uncover here.”

“Hotch, give it back,” you warned, narrowing your eyes.

But he ignored you, his brow furrowing slightly as he focused on something you’d written. Without hesitation, he drew a deliberate line through a sentence. “This,” he said, tapping the now-crossed-out words with the pen – your pen, “is too much. What are you trying to do here? Write a dissertation on behavioral patterns?”

He didn’t.

You must be hallucinating.

Your jaw dropped. “I don’t see how it’s wrong.”

He flipped the pen between his fingers, the motion maddeningly casual. “It’s not wrong,” he conceded, leaning back slightly, “but it’s definitely a little… philosophical for a field report.” He leaned closer despite himself, reading aloud “‘The unsub’s detachment reflects a broader existential isolation, a symptom of moral erosion rooted in-’”

You lunged across the table, your hand grabbing for the paper. “Aaron!”

He leaned back in his chair, holding it just out of your reach with the ease of someone far too used to fending off such attempts after two whole years of desk sharing. “No,” he said, his tone light and teasing, his eyes gleaming. “I’m not missing the chance to correct the Professor. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“They’re not mistakes!” you argued, your voice edged with exasperation. “They’re creative liberties!”

Damn you and how you always wanted to be right.

Hotch tapped the pen against the crossed-out section again, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to read aloud. “Creative liberties? That’s not a liberty. That’s a thesis.” He arched a brow and glanced at you with a faint smirk. “How exactly does quoting Plato help us close cases faster?”

“It’s not Plato,” you shot back, but he was already reading.

He smirked as he scanned the next paragraph aloud. “‘The unsub’s selection of a blank mask serves as an emblem of erasure, a deliberate rejection of individuality in pursuit of an abstract anonymity. Yet, his compulsion to inscribe the surface with his own handwriting disrupts this facade, transforming the mask into a paradox: a vessel meant to obscure, now imbued with personal significance. This duality reveals a psyche at war with itself, striving to efface identity while simultaneously asserting it - a fractured self grappling with the irrepressible human need to leave an indelible mark.’”

Brilliant.

He set the paper down and looked at you, one brow still quirked. “Deep. Poetic, even. Were you planning to submit this to a psychology journal, or were you hoping the prosecutor would use it as an opening statement?”

You leaned back in your seat, completely unfazed by his sarcasm. “Fine,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “The unsub uses a blank mask to suggest anonymity but undermines that intent by writing on it in his own handwriting. His actions reflect a contradiction between his desire for detachment and his need for recognition.”

Not your style, definitely.

Hotch tilted his head, considering this. “That’s perfect.”

“That’s boring,” you shot back. “It sounds like something a lawyer would say.”

His lips quirked into a smile, his voice low. “You mean someone like me?”

“Exactly - boring.” you said, jabbing your finger in his direction.

His lips twitched into a small smile, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, again, resting his forearms on the table. “And yet, boring or not, it conveys the same point without sounding like it belongs in a lecture hall.”

“Maybe,” you admitted grudgingly, crossing your arms. “But where’s the humanity in that? The nuance?”

Hotch’s smile widened just a fraction, his eyes flicking back to the report in his hand. “You think the prosecutor or the detective cares about nuance?”

If he still were one, he would.

“Maybe not,” you admitted, leaning forward now too, your elbows braced on the table. “But nuance is what gets us inside their heads. It’s how we understand them. It’s why we’re even called in the first place.”

His gaze softened slightly and so did his voice “You’re not wrong,” he said quietly, his tone almost reluctant, like it pained him to admit it.

“You know?! You should say that more often” you quipped, unable to resist a smirk.

His reply came almost instinctively, before he could think better of it. “What? That you’re right? Or that I notice when you are?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but thankfully quickly recovered. "Oh, shut up," you muttered, leaning back in your chair, trying to mask the faint flush he caught in your cheeks.

He pretended he didn’t see it. “’Shut up’?! Maybe I wasn’t wrong when I said you have a problem with authority,” he said instead.

You raised an eyebrow, keeping your gaze steady on him. “I don’t have a problem with authority,” you replied, your voice smooth, almost playful. “I have a problem with you, Hotch.”

He chuckled softly, that deep, warm sound that always seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “Oh really? What exactly do you have a problem with?”

You leaned forward slightly, your elbows on the table again, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “I don’t understand some things about you still.” You let the words hang in the air, giving him a knowing look.

His expression shifted, something darker flashing behind his eyes for a moment before the usual, controlled Hotch returned. “Oh? And what exactly don’t you understand?”

“I went to your office the other day… tell me, why exactly does Hegel for Dummies have a broken spine?” you asked, your tone a little too casual, as if you hadn’t just delivered a question that made his stomach drop faster than a lead balloon.

Hotch fought the urge to wince.

Maybe he shouldn’t have left it out on his desk in plain sight.

Maybe the bright, cartoonish cover with its garish yellow accents wasn’t the best choice for a desk otherwise populated with leather-bound case files and stark black notebooks.

And maybe he should’ve remembered that you noticed everything.

He considered himself a smart man, but clearly, he’d overlooked the obvious.

And so his gaze softened, his lips curving into a small smile that just showed his dimples. “Maybe because it reminds me of my best friend - the one I never thought I’d get the chance to see again if you’d asked me a year ago, Europe” he said, his voice low, almost wistful.

You had asked for it. Relentless in your pursuit of the truth, always demanding it without compromise. So, he handed it to you - direct, unvarnished, right in your face.

For a moment, you just stared at him, the warmth of his confession settling between you like an unspoken truth - but one that was far from unwritten after six long years of correspondence. “You can’t just say something like that,” you said finally, your voice quieter, almost teasing to mask how deeply it had landed. “It’s not fair. I can’t argue with sentimental declarations. That’s cheating.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, his voice dropping into that low, teasing register you now rarely heard on the job. “Maybe that’s the point,” he murmured. “Throw you off balance. You’re always so quick with your comebacks, it’s nice seeing you pause for once.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, the playful spark in your tone returning as you shook your head. “That’s evil. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Hotch, the Unit Chief, chuckeld – music to your ears “Oh, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” he replied, leaning back again, his smirk insufferable.

“I take it back,” you said, crossing your arms and narrowing your eyes. “I officially hate you.”

You officially loved seeing glimpses of the Hotch you used to share a desk with back in ’98.

Hotch tilted his head slightly. “Now, that’s just ungrateful,” he said, his tone laced with humor. “You’re going to have to make up your mind about me eventually.”

Oh how much you hated him.

Before you could fire back, he stood, moving with deliberate precision. Leaning over the table, he gestured to a spot on the paper you were working on, his hand brushing a little too close to yours - close enough that it almost felt intentional, though he knew better than to let it linger.

His fingers wrapped around the pen you'd set down, as if it were his own. "You even missed the horizontal stroke of the ‘t’ right here," he pointed out, his voice calm, almost teasing, as he tapped the offending error.

But he didn’t wait for your reaction. Without missing a beat, he straightened and turned, heading back to his seat on the opposite side of the plane, still holding the pen, silent victory.

You didn’t notice at first, too blinded by the lingering irritation, which only made it more amusing for him. “You’re never hearing another word from me,” you declared finally, your tone firm, though the frustration beneath it felt almost hollow. “Not ever again.”

From his seat, he didn’t even glance up from the paper he was now just pretending to read. “Good luck keeping that promise,” he replied, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

It took you all of five seconds to realize the pen in his hand was yours. Your gaze snapped to him, narrowing. “Hotch,” you called, your voice sharp. “Give it back.”

Hotch didn’t even try to hide the smirk that tugged at his lips as he looked up, holding your pen like it was some kind of victory flag. “Told you so,” he said, his voice light with triumph.

Fuck him.

--- As soon as they returned from Texas, Rossi wasted no time.

He strode directly into Hotch’s office, and Hotch, who had just settled at his desk, glanced up from the files he was reviewing, his brow knitting slightly in surprise.

“You said out there,” Rossi began, his voice calm but carrying an edge, “the team shares everything.”

“That’s right,” Hotch replied, standing from his chair, his posture stiffening slightly as if his body knew before him what was coming.

“There is no I?” Rossi pressed, his gaze unwavering.

Hotch nodded, his confusion mounting. “That’s right.” Where was Rossi going with this?

“It seems a big thing to withhold,” Rossi continued, his tone measured but cutting. “Separating from your wife, your child.”

Excuse him?

“What are you talking about?” Hotch asked, though he already suspected where this was heading. He needed to hear Rossi say it, to confirm - or hope against hope that he was wrong.

“We’ve been together 48 hours,” Rossi said, his voice low but unrelenting. “I haven’t seen you call Haley. Not even once. You haven’t mentioned her. And you’re not going home now.”

Great.

Rossi paused, his gaze drifting through the blinds toward the bullpen. You were there, leaning over a file on Reid’s desk, likely double-checking that every ‘t’ had its proper horizontal stroke. His expression softened, just a touch, before he turned back to Hotch. “And yet, you’re so protective of her. Always watching, making sure she’s okay. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you still look at her.”

‘Still’?

Now that was a stretch, wasn’t it?!

Before Rossi could say more, Hotch cut him off, his voice sharp, defensive. “What’s your point?”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “I guess you’re just not used to sharing.”

He was currently sharing his house with his best friend, but if he mentioned that to Rossi, it would undoubtedly be twisted into some wildly inaccurate interpretation.

Hotch’s jaw tightened further, his words clipped as he countered, “My private life is not the same as a case.”

Rossi tilted his head slightly, considering that for a moment. Then, with a faint shrug, he said, “I’m just saying, sharing is a learned skill.”

Rossi continued, his tone shifting to something more reminiscent. “You know... when this all started... there were only a few of us. We’d go out on the road alone. We didn’t... groupthink.”

“We don’t groupthink,” Hotch shot back, his voice firm, his eyes narrowing. “We think as individuals, and we share the thoughts with the rest of the team. We don’t write them down in a little notebook and keep them to ourselves.”

As Hotch watched Rossi leave, he caught himself staring down at his hands, his thumb absently brushing over the smooth band of his wedding ring.

It was still there.

The gesture was instinctual, one he’d repeated countless times before, especially when his mind was a storm of noise and chaos.

The weight of the ring was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet its presence remained undeniable. It tethered him - anchored him - to something he couldn’t fully release, even as its meaning progressively seemed to slip further from his grasp.

Logic, he recalled from your notes on stoicism - notes he’d skimmed out of curiosity or irony - was the art of aligning language with reality.

The Stoics believed that a proposition was true when it accurately reflected the environment it described.

Hotch is married.

The statement, so simple, so definitive, had once been unshakably true.

It was true because there was a subject, Hotch - Aaron Hotchner - sitting here, and because there was an object - the ring on his finger that affirmed the predicate.

The ring was proof.

Proof of something that existed. Proof of commitment, of a promise spoken and sealed.

And yet, how fragile was truth, he thought, when absence could strip it away so completely?

If he took the ring off - stopped wearing it - what would that mean?

Would it signify the end of the truth the ring had once affirmed?

Would it make Haley’s leaving more tangible, more real?

Would it mean that everything he’d built, everything he’d fought to hold together, was irretrievably lost?

Or was it already lost, and the ring nothing more than a hollow echo of something that had ceased to be true long before this moment?

That was the paradox of logic, wasn’t it? The truth wasn’t in the ring itself - it lived in what the ring represented.

Yet, despite that, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it.

Not yet.

Removing it would feel like yanking the last fragile thread from a tapestry already worn and frayed. It would unravel completely, leaving him with nothing but the empty space where something beautiful had once existed.

And he wasn’t ready to face that emptiness.

Not yet.

Damn the Stoics and their brain-twisting philosophy.

---

You’d gone somewhere.

You hadn’t told him where.

And so Aaron stood alone in his own kitchen, not entirely alone actually.

Your notes sat at the edge of the table, perfectly stacked, perfectly aligned, like they were waiting for you.

Or maybe for him.

He exhaled sharply, his eyes fixed on the table, as if staring hard enough might unravel the threads in his chest. The ones tightening, pulling, knotting tighter because you were gone and hadn’t said where.

It shouldn’t matter.

It wasn’t the first time you’d left like this, slipping out with a vague goodbye and a light smile that said everything was fine.

But tonight, it felt different.

He couldn’t explain it, just that the air in the house felt heavier without you in it. He could still hear the echo of your voice, could still see the way you lingered at the door, like maybe you had something to say but decided against it.

His gaze drifted back to the notes where your pen rested next to the stack, its placement deliberate, like you’d made sure to leave everything just right before you walked out. Just at the edge, hidden in the eyesight behind a chair.

Always the edge. Always tucked away. Like you didn’t think you had the right to be here.

You did. God, you did.

The neatness of it, the deliberate precision, drove him mad.

It was more than just tidy habits; it was the way you shrank yourself, folding your existence into corners and crevices, tiptoeing through his life as though you were afraid to leave footprints. The way you hesitated before touching anything that belonged to him.

He hated it.

Hated the carefulness.

Hated what it said about how you saw yourself here.

Also because it reminded him of the reality of the situation: temporary.

How you called yourself his guest with that wry, self-deprecating humor of yours.

He hated the word.

A guest didn’t leave their pen perfectly parallel to the edge of the table. A guest didn’t linger just long enough to warm the silence before slipping away again, leaving only the faintest trace behind.

You weren’t a guest to him.

You were the only reason the silence didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

Aaron straightened, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the table as if sheer willpower could force the stack to move - to the center, to the middle of the room, to anywhere that didn’t feel like you were afraid to exist.

He didn’t just want you here. He needed you to be here.

Not carefully. Not quietly. Not tucked away like an afterthought.

He wanted - no, needed - you to bother his space.

To make it yours.

He wanted those papers scattered across his home office desk - the desk you refused to use, no matter how many times he told you it was yours whenever you needed it.

He wanted to walk in and find you sitting there, your head bent in concentration, the faint scratch of your pen filling the silence, and the scent of your bitter tea lingering in the air.

He wanted your books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, their titles in languages he’d long forgotten or never understood, with bookmarks peeking out at odd angles because you could never settle on reading just one.

He wanted your handwriting scrawled on sticky notes taped to the fridge - lists of groceries he didn’t even recognize but that you swore were essential, or little reminders you left for yourself but that he’d read anyway, smiling at the way you seemed to write as fast as you thought, each letter tumbling after the next in a barely legible rush.

He wanted to come home and see the faint glow of your laptop in the kitchen or hear your voice muttering to yourself as you debated some philosophical nuance, oblivious to the fact that he was listening from the doorway.

He wanted to trip over the shoes you’d kicked off in a rush, abandoned in the middle of the hallway because some new idea had swept you up, demanding all your attention.

He wanted the sound of your laughter spilling out when you teased him about his coffee or his barely disguised grimace after sipping your bitter tea, the way you filled the silence without even trying.

He wanted the chaos of you, your quirks and your muttered criticisms about his tea collection and your refusal to use the home office because “it’s your space, Aaron.”

He wanted your presence to become so intertwined with his space that he wouldn’t know where his life stopped and yours began.

To see signs of you everywhere - on his counters, in his cabinets, in the spaces that used to feel too big and too empty. He wanted the proof that you were here, that you were staying, even if it was only for a while.

Because every time he saw the deliberate neatness of your papers, the way you kept your presence confined to the smallest corner of his house, it made him feel lonelier than the silence ever did.

Because the empty spaces of his house never felt as desolate as when you tried to erase yourself from them.

He hated the invisible barrier you seemed to think was necessary.

And what terrified him most was how much he wanted to tear that barrier down.

Yet, those papers…

He told himself not to look. They were your notes, your thoughts, something private, but his eyes betrayed him, flicking down to the top page.

Just a glimpse, he thought.

Philosophy. Always philosophy.

Probably for Spencer.

And, lately, always Spencer.

Aaron leaned forward, just enough to catch the familiar loops of your handwriting and ink smudges on the page in front of him, how they softened the rigidity of Stoic logic written stark against the white page, humanized it in a way Aaron doubted the Stoics themselves ever intended.

Those ancient, precise theories weren’t just alive on the page, they were you.

He knew those smudges. God, he knew them so well.

And once, those smudgs had been for him.

Years ago, back when you were in Europe and he was in D.C., thousands of miles apart but bound together by ink and paper. You’d written to him, pages and pages of letters, postcards, even the occasional napkin with your hurried musings scrawled across the edges.

Every piece carried the unmistakable cadence of your thoughts, the subtle fingerprints of your soul left behind in ink.

He hadn’t just read them. He’d kept them.

All of them.

Six years of letters, still tucked neatly into a box on the right side of his desk. Hidden but never forgotten, each of them categorized.

He still could recite some of them by heart now, not just because of the words, but because of what they represented.

A connection.

A window into your mind.

Proof that, even when you were an ocean away, you’d thought of him.

You’d given him something no one else had, you’d taken hours of your time - time you could have spent on anything else - to explain your world to him. You’d translated the vastness of your intellect into something he could grasp, meeting him halfway, bridging the gap between philosophy and law.

And for six years, those letters had been his.

Just his.

He was the only one who knew what your thoughts looked like in ink, the only one who understood the tempo of your mind when it spilled onto paper.

But now?

Now, those hurried marks, those smudges, weren’t his alone anymore, they were for Spencer.

Aaron’s eyes lingered on the page, his chest tightening with something he refused to name - it wasn’t jealousy.

It couldn’t be jealousy.

That would be absurd.

But the thought crept in anyway, unbidden and unwelcome.

Spencer could keep up with you - he could dive into your world, explore its depths without needing a guide. He could talk with you for hours about philosophy, go deep into the nuances and theories that Aaron could only skim the surface of.

Aaron couldn’t.

He was just a lawyer.

He hated the way it sounded, the way it reduced everything he’d accomplished into something so small.

But compared to Spencer?

Well, Spencer was a genius, after all.

Philosophy wasn’t something Spencer needed simplified.

Spencer didn’t need “Hegel for Dummies.”

It wasn’t that he doubted your friendship, he never had. You’d do anything for each other - that was the kind of unshakable truth most people spend lifetimes hoping to find.

No, it wasn’t doubt, it was something worse.

It was the quiet, biting knowledge that he wasn’t enough.

Because philosophy had always been your thing. Law had always been his. That was the unspoken balance of your relationship - two different worlds, one shared soul, one whole.

It was what made you and Aaron work, in a way that defied logic.

But now, to him that balance felt fragile, precarious, like a scale tipping under a weight he couldn’t identify.

Because now, it felt like Spencer could meet you where Aaron never could.

But did Spencer notice the peculiarities of your handwriting the way Aaron did? The quiet, intimate details that felt like secrets only he was meant to uncover?

He’d teased you once, calling it your “professor handwriting.”

Precise and polished, every letter upright and deliberate. It was the version you used on the whiteboard during case briefings or when writing notes for others to read. People often admired it, praising how clean and professional it looked, almost like it belonged in a textbook.

But Aaron knew better.

That wasn’t really you.

Your real handwriting - the one meant only for yourself, and somehow, for him - was a different thing entirely.

It was messy, rushed, and alive with motion, like it couldn’t quite keep up with your thoughts.

The letters leaned forward, words blending together, the strokes of your t’s and the dots on your i’s often forgotten in your hurry to capture the idea before it slipped away.

He could always tell when something mattered to you because the ink pressed heavier in those spots, as though you were willing the words to stay.

Did Spencer notice how sometimes, in that messy script of yours, a line would trail off mid-thought, only to be picked up again later when you circled back to it?

Did he know how your letters bent slightly to the left when you were feeling uncertain or overwhelmed?

Because Aaron did. He’d been noticing it for years.

And that was the difference, wasn’t it? S

pencer could read the page, could absorb every word - but he knew how it felt.

He told himself it wasn’t rational to feel this way, and Aaron Hotchner was nothing if not rational. He was the one people called stoic, composed, unshakable, detached. He’d been called that more times than he could count, by colleagues, by superiors, even by his team. It was a label that had followed him for years.

Everyone called him stoic.

Everyone but you.

Maybe you hadn’t had the chance, maybe one day you would. Maybe Spencer already had. Or maybe you saw through it better than anyone else.

He sank into the chair, the soft creak of wood breaking the stillness of the kitchen. A breath escaped him - slow, unsteady - one he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

And in the quiet that followed, a single thought surfaced, persistent and undeniable, no matter how much he wished it away: he missed being the one you wrote for.

And the moment you stepped through the door, Aaron knew.

Your movements were hesitant, each step slow and uncertain, as though the weight of the world was pressing against your back.

He saw the faint streaks of dried tears on your cheeks, the way your gaze didn’t lift from the floor, your hands curling slightly at your sides.

But what struck him most - what confirmed what he already feared - was the chain around your neck.

That silver chain had always carried the weight of your engagement ring, resting just over your heart like a quiet reminder of something he’d never been able to name aloud.

Now, it hung bare, empty, as though it too had been unshackled. The sight of it was jarring, a moment of revelation that felt both devastating and freeing.

Aaron froze, his breath catching for the second time in the last couple of seconds in his chest.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do, didn’t trust himself to speak.

He’d spent years taming his emotions, hiding them behind layers of composure, but right now, the dam threatened to break.

His body moved before he could catch up.

In three strides, he was in front of you, his hands settling on your shoulders with a gentleness that felt like gravity itself, steady and inescapable.

It was as if his touch called your name, a language only the two of you understood, because only then did you lift your eyes to meet his.

In that single glance, he saw everything – the raw ache etched into the curve of your expression, the exhaustion. Yet beneath it all, threaded through the cracks of your weariness, there was something else, something only he would have noticed.

Relief.

And without a second thought, he pulled you right into his arms. The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything he wanted to take from you, all the burdens you’d been carrying alone.

His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing firmly against your back, as if sheer closeness could undo the damage that had been done.

He felt the tension in your body give way all at once, and then you broke.

You cried.

It wasn’t quiet, and it wasn’t neat.

It was the kind of crying that shook you, the kind you’d been holding back for so long it felt like it might never end. The sound of it cut through him, sharp and unrelenting, and he closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to stay steady for you.

He couldn’t, not really, not when you were like that.

It was almost like a symbiotic reaction.

He began to rub slow, soothing circles into your back, his voice low and steady as he murmured softly against your hair. “I’m here, let it out. Just let it all out.”

He made sure to keep his sentences short to not give up the emotion in his voice “I’m holding you. I’ve got you.

“You’re okay now. You’re alright. I’m not going anywhere.” His words weren’t just meant for you - they were meant for himself, a quiet mantra to keep his composure while his heart ached in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

The thought of how much Peter had hurt you, how deeply he had left his mark on someone so strong, so capable, made Aaron’s chest tighten.

His jaw clenched as tears began to well in his own eyes.

He didn’t wipe them away, didn’t dare loosen his hold on you for even a second.

You were free from him now - that much he held onto - but the knowledge that you’d had to endure so much pain to get here didn’t sit right with him.

It never would.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured again, his voice thick with emotion. He pressed his cheek lightly against the top of your head, his own tears slipping free now. “So proud of you.”

Your cries grew quieter, softening into shaky breaths as your fingers gripped tightly at the back of his shirt, as though anchoring yourself to him. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words fractured with lingering sobs. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. You were right - you were always right, and I-”

“Shhh,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm, as though willing you to believe him. His hand kept its steady rhythm against your back, grounding you. “It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

You let out a breathy laugh against his shoulder, small but real, breaking through the weight of your tears. “Are we really going to argue about who’s more sorry?”

Aaron chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “No argument. I’d win. And where’s the fun in that?”

Your laugh grew a little stronger, and he could feel the faintest tension in your body start to ease. He didn’t let go, not yet.

If it were up to him, he never would.

Holding you like this felt too right, like he was finally where he needed to be after years of staying too far away.

Only when you finally shifted did Aaron loosen his hold, just barely, giving you enough space to pull back. But his hands stayed on your arms, firm and steady, as though letting go entirely wasn’t something he could bring himself to do - not now, not ever.

Your eyes, still glassy with tears, lifted to his, as if bracing for what you might find.

And that was when he felt it - the faintest, almost involuntary tug at the corners of his lips, a fragile smile breaking through the swell of emotion that threatened to consume him.

A tear slid down his cheek, unbidden and unashamed.

Still, he didn’t brush it away.

He didn’t even think to.

All that mattered in that moment was you.

So he just stood there, rooted to the ground, holding on to you as though you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

Because you were.

“Aaron,” you said softly, your voice trembling, fragile in a way that made something deep inside him twist. The way you looked at him shifted in that moment, your gaze catching on the glistening streaks tracing his face.

His lips curved into the smallest, gentlest smile. “And for the record,” he said, his voice wavering slightly but still warm, “I cry more than you do.” He brushed at his cheek half-heartedly, even as another tear slipped free. “That’s 2–0.”

Your laugh came then, soft, messy, interrupted by the uneven hiccups left over from crying too hard.

But it was real, and it was enough to loosen the tightness in his chest.

Just hearing you laugh again felt like a reprieve.

“You’re impossible,” you said, shaking your head lightly. But then your tone faltered, quieter now, “Don’t you ever dare walk away from me, Aaron. Don’t leave me too.”

“Never,” he said firmly, his voice resolute and strong, he’d never been so sure about anything in his life. He paused, his eyes softening as he searched for your face. Then, almost as if the words carried a life of their own, he added, “We’ve stayed apart long enough.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

Aaron poured a glass of water, setting it in front of you. “Drink,” he said softly.

You accepted it without hesitation, murmuring a soft “thank you” under your breath. He poured a glass for himself as well – rehydration was essential after all the unspoken emotions spilled into just one single room - and positioned himself across from you, the two of you sharing the silence.

But this silence felt different.

It wasn’t empty, it was filled with the quiet comfort of not having to explain yourself.

When you set your glass down, he almost hated he had to break it like that, with a voice as steady as he could. “You’ve got one hour”

You blinked, confused. “For what?”

“To get ready,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m taking you out.”

“Aaron, I don’t think-” you started saying.

“It’s either this,” he interrupted, raising an eyebrow, “or you sit here and tell me everything that happened. Your choice.”

He knew you’d retreat into your own mind, letting your thoughts consume you piece by piece if he let you walk away now. And he knew that all too well.

You studied him for a moment, then sighed in defeat. “Fine. But only if I’m paying.”

“Deal,” he said, a playful glint in his eye. “But I’m choosing the drinks.”

“Make it something strong,” you shot back, a hint of warmth returning to your voice. “I might need it.”

He chuckled, leaning against the counter as he watched you. He had to correct you, he couldn’t help himself. “We might need it.”

And then he wondered why his heart beat faster than yours when he was holding you.

He couldn’t find an answer.

---

BYE BYE P***R AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 15 CHAPTERS OF DESPAIR

taglist: @beata1108 ; @cuddleprofiler ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[vaspider]

Without going too deep into details, and to be clear I only saw this from a distance, last year a group of NANOWRIMO users realized that one of the forum mods was grooming underage site users and pushing them to join a fetish site. They brought this to forum leadership, site leadership, and the FBI in some order. It went several months with no response, then someone from NNWM tipped off the fetish site which purged the relevant data. Eventually the users went public, which finally got a reaction, but still wasn’t handled well by the org

During the fallout to that, large chunks of staff resigned in disgrace or out of disgust. That plus other drama led to local orgs cutting ties en masse, which was reacted to poorly. The site has basically banned under 18s from their social elements now and made other changes, some good, some bad, but they’re under a microscope and no one’s cutting them slack. Sponsors seem to be calling the shots, which would be an improvement over the leadership except that a couple of the sponsors are AI shilling companies and also that’s a bad sign long term

Standard non profit self destructing, just with an extremely awful inciting incident

Jeeeeeesus.

[youbutstupid]

What d’you think is the “best” trait the main bau team members have?

OH I love this question thank you so much. There’s a lot so bear with me

Hotch: his compassion for his team. He’s an extremely compassionate and empathetic leader, constantly allowing for his team to leave work if they need to and following them on their hunches, even if they seem unlikely, purely because he loves and respects each of them. Quite often Hotch is portrayed as stone faced but I’ve honestly never seen a male leading character be so openly loving to their team.

Gideon: how much he cares for the victims in his cases. Gideon is often characterised as being a bit clueless to the feelings of his team, yet he never is to the people he is trying to save because he puts his everything into it. He has always been so open and accepting in cases which was rare for a 51 year old man in 2005; he was very willing to let go of his old ways and what he used to know so that he could evolve with the changes in society in order to best help the people he was saving. We also got to see his book of the people he saved. It was amazing.

Rossi: his ability to read and help the people on the team when no one else does. I wholeheartedly believe that if Rossi was present during the Hankel case, Reid would not have gone through his addiction alone. Rossi is always the one to call out people who try to hide their problems and he puts in so much effort to help them, even using his hours outside of work to do so. We see him waking up early to help Hotch coach Jack’s football matches, him inviting Penelope over for scotch so that she can finally disconnect from technology and him hosting the cooking class, the wedding and Strauss’ funeral dinner ar his house. His character development from being weary about the team to adoring them all individually was amazing.

Reid: I love how despite him admitting that he has trouble with emotions, he is always the one doing everything he can to be an emotional support when people around him are struggling. We see him try and comfort Elle when everyone else disconnected from her, he stayed with Garcia the entire time when she was shot, he is the one to call Emily to ask if she wants to hang out when she started disconnecting due to the Doyle situation, he is the one to try and help JJ with her PTSD in season 10 and so on. He doesn’t like the idea of the people around him going through things alone despite the fact that he often tries to go through things alone and he is extremely selfless in this sense.

JJ: I am constantly inspired by how throughout the show, she is repeatedly putting in effort to try and improve herself as a person and as an agent. We never see her get cocky, even when she deserves to be like she was in the FBI from a very young age, she had one of the most challenging jobs as the press liaison and then she was able to work herself up to profiler where she was one of the most formidable people on the field. Despite how impressive she really is, the audience are never given a chance to consider it because she never boasts about it and instead spends everyday striving to be better.

Morgan: he is always willing to take on a leadership role when he has to, yet he is always willing to give it back to Hotch when he doesn’t need to take it on anymore. I’m not just referring to season 5 either, I’m talking about any time when Hotch is unable to take on his role. Morgan respects Hotch a lot and is always willing to support him by taking on the role of team leader when Hotch can’t anymore, yet he never tries to take the role permanently for himself, despite being told he could by Strauss. Despite his years of experience and his leadership skills, he is willing to give up the role because he sees it as what is best for the team and he respects Hotch too much to keep it.

Elle: her protection of women. Elle was, in my opinion, ahead of her time. She previously worked in the sex crimes division and in season 1, she was the only female profiler and she did not step away from her previous role as an advocate for women in sex crimes just so she could better ‘fit in with the men’ of the BAU; she instead brought her perspective with her and implemented it in her cases. She was the only one in episode 3 to look at the woman who was assaulted and realise how uncomfortable she must have been surrounded by men. She ended her career in the BAU fighting for women and it hurts me that the BAU lost her.

Garcia: she never, ever stops being herself, even when people question her or bring her down for it. Sadly, because Garcia is the brightest person in the room, she is quite often the one who the profilers take their frustrations out on; we have seen JJ, Morgan, Hotch, Rossi and Emily all do this. Despite this, she doesn’t waver, she doesn’t stop being the brightest person in the room just because someone is simply not in the mood for her to be because she knows that she does not need to apologise for simply existing as her authentic self. In the episode The Black Queen, 9x12, her ex tells her that they both used to make fun of girls like her, and she corrects him saying that he made fun of girls like her, this was who she always wanted to be. This is so empowering to me.

Prentiss: my love, she was so unbelievably loyal to those around her and this was clear from the beginning. She was the only one to question Reid’s suffering in season 2, she literally uprooted her life and faked her death so that her team’s lives could be protected in season 6. When she found out JJ was in danger in season 9, she was so quick to jump on a plane back to help her. When the team calls for favours whilst she is in London, she always answers to help them. When Reid got arrested and imprisoned in season 12, she didn’t once believe that he committed the crime of which he was accused and even risked her entire career tampering with possible evidence so that it couldn’t be used against him. She is loyal to a fault and so many don’t acknowledge that.

Todd: we only got Todd for 9 episodes but I loved how human she was. She was the first character to make the audience realise that none of what we were looking at was normal. By season 4, the audience became very desensitised to the crimes that we were looking at and Todd broke us out of that and she also was not afraid to call out the fact that it wasn’t normal that the profilers were desensitised either. I respect how in the end she would rather admit that she couldn’t do the job anymore than lose that human side of her. I also loved how she made sure Hotch never took JJ for granted.

Seaver: we never got to see much of Seaver’s development because of the writers, but I loved her willingness to learn. Seaver hadn’t even graduated from the academy when she joined the team, she was not a profiler, she wasn’t even a qualified FBI agent. Watching her learn and grow in such a traumatising field and take it all in her stride was so incredibly interesting to watch. I also loved watching her friendship grow with the team; going to the cinema with Reid, Morgan and Garcia, gaming night with Rossi and going out for curry with Reid. 

Blake: Blake was so incredibly talented and so unbelievably smart but instead of using it as a way to get ahead of her team, she used it as a way to relate to them and bond with them. She almost became a protective figure over them and she took that role very seriously too. It was honestly amazing watching her mind work and how easily she was able to take on her role as a profiler because of it. I know I just named multiple good qualities but it is incredible to me how much her character was able to grow and be adored in just two seasons, she had no idea what dynamic she was getting into when she joined the team yet she fit in perfectly and adapted to it so quickly in order to help them and gain their trust.

Callahan: her confidence. She went into that bullpen being unapologetically herself from the beginning and she fit herself into that team without an ounce of apprehension. She made so much effort to establish herself and she was not shy about it which I adored; she had banter with Rossi, she opened up to Reid, she carpooled with JJ, she became a close friend for Garcia and she gained Morgan’s trust all within a few episodes; the last two being hard to do as a new member of the team. I love how she didn’t question where she belonged, she knew she belonged.

Simmons: to me, Simmons was just so incredibly sweet. When he first joined and I saw that he was buff and conventionally attractive, I was weary that he was just going to be another jock detective that we see in other shows, but he wasn’t. He, again, was an incredibly strong and skilled agent yet when he arrived on the team he took everyone for who they were and never once acted like he was in any way better than them because he had skills that they did not have. He was just a nice person and that may sound like a basic description but to me, it’s the best description to give a person. I felt genuinely safe with Matt’s character on the screen because it was just lovely to see a man on the screen who was just good.

Lewis: OH I love this woman. Tara brought a new element of self assurance to the screen and also humour. She, again, was very unapologetically herself and she knew her worth, as we saw when she went through her breakup, which was so refreshing to see because it is rare you see a woman know her value and not be portrayed as cocky for doing so. She is also a character that marked her place on the team and I also love how unafraid she was to come out and say that she was dating a woman, which was a risk in itself because the BAU had never had an openly LGBTQ+ profiler before. I also loved how she brought ‘your mum’ jokes to the show because watching a 50 year old woman with a doctorate make multiple ‘your mum’ jokes is all I needed from the show if I’m honest.

Alvez: I don’t want to repeat things too much but I also love Luke’s loyalty, which is something we also saw from very early on in his time in the show. Bear in mind when Reid was in prison, Luke was only on the team for a very short period of time, yet he believed wholeheartedly that Reid was innocent and even made threats for his safety. I also love how he took Garcia’s original dislike of him in his stride and honestly embraced everything about her, whether it was her distrust in him or her ‘quirkiness’ as the team would dub it, he took it all in and loved her because of it all, not in spite of it.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The conservative movement is cracking up

I'll be in Stratford, Ontario, appearing onstage with Vass Bednar as part of the CBC IDEAS Festival. I'm also doing an afternoon session for middle-schoolers at the Stratford Public Library.

Politics always requires coalitions. In parliamentary democracies, the coalitions are visible, when they come together to form the government. In a dictatorship, the coalitions are hidden to everyone except infighting princelings and courtiers (until a general or minister is executed, exiled or thrown in prison.)

In a two-party system, the coalitions are inside the parties – not quite as explicit as the coalition governments in a multiparty parliament, but not so opaque as the factions in a dictatorship. Sometimes, there are even explicit structures to formalize the coalition, like the Biden Administration's Unity Task Force, which parceled out key appointments among two important blocs within the party (the finance wing and the Sanders/Warren wing).

Conservative politics are also a coalition, of course. As an outsider, I confess that I am much less conversant with the internal power-struggles in the GOP and the conservative movement, though I'm trying to remedy that. Books like Nathan J Robinson's Responding to the Right present a great overview of various conservative belief-systems:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/14/nathan-robinson/#arguendo

And the Know Your Enemy podcast does an amazing job of diving deep into right-wing beliefs, especially when it comes to identifying fracture lines in the conservative establishment. A recent episode on the roots of contemporary right-wing antisemitism in the paleocon/neocon split was hugely informative and fascinating:

https://www.dissentmagazine.org/blog/know-your-enemy-in-search-of-anti-semitism-with-john-ganz/

Political parties are weak institutions, liable to capture and hospitable to corruption. General elections aren't foolproof or impervious to fraud, but they're miles more robust than parties, whose own leadership selection processes and other key decisions can be made in the shadows, according to rules that can be changed on a whim:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/30/weak-institutions/

Which means that parties are brittle, weak vessels that we rely on to contain the volatile mixture of factions who might actually hate each other, sometimes even more than they hate the other party. Remember the defenestration of GOP House Speaker Kevin McCarthy? That:

https://apnews.com/article/mccarthy-gaetz-speaker-motion-to-vacate-congress-327e294a39f8de079ef5e4abfb1fa555

Even outsiders like me know that there's a deep fracture in the Republican Party, with Trumpists on one side and the "establishment" on the other side. Reading accounts of the 2016 GOP leadership race, I get the distinct impression that Trump's win was even more shocking to party insiders than it was to the rest of us.

Which makes sense. They thought they had the party under control, knew where its levers were and how to pull them. For us, Trump's win was a terrible mystery. For GOP power-brokers, it was a different kind of a nightmare, the kind where you discover that controls to the the car you're driving in high-speed traffic aren't connected to anything and you're not really the driver.

But as Trump's backers – another coalition – fall out among each other, it's becoming easier for the rest of us to understand what happened. Take FBI informant Peter Thiel's defection from the Trump camp:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2023/11/12/silicon-valley-billionaire-donors-presidential-candidates/

Thiel was the judas goat who led tech's reactionary billionaires into Trump's tent, blazing a trail and raising a fortune on the way. Thiel's support for Trump was superficially surprising. After all, Thiel is gay, and Trump's running mate, Mike Pence, openly swore war on queers of all kinds. Today, Thiel has rebuffed Trump's fundraising efforts and is reportedly on Trump's shit-list.

But as a Washington Post report – drawing heavily on gossiping anonymous insiders – explains. Thiel has never let homophobia blind him to the money and power he stands to gain by backing bigots:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2023/11/12/silicon-valley-billionaire-donors-presidential-candidates/

Thiel bankrolled Blake Masterson's Senate race, despite Masterson's promise to roll back marriage equality – and despite the fact that Masterton attended Thiel's wedding to another man.

According to the post, the Thiel faction's abandonment of Trump wasn't driven by culture war issues. Rather, they were fed up with Trump's chaotic, undisciplined governance strategy, which scuttled many opportunities to increase the wealth and power of America's oligarchs. Thiel insiders complained that Trump's "character traits sabotaged the policy changes" and decried Trump's habit of causing "turmoil and chaos…that would interfere with his agenda" rather than "executing relentlessly."

For Trump's base, the cruelty might be the point. But for his backers, the cruelty was the tactic, and the point was money, and the power it brings. When Trump seemed like he might use cruel tactics to achieve power, his backers went along for the ride. But when Trump made it clear that he would trade opportunities for power solely to indulge his cruelty, they bailed.

That's an important fracture line in the modern American conservative coalition, but it's not the only one.

Writing in the BIG newsletter, Matt Stoller and Lee Hepner describes the emerging conservative split over antitrust and monopoly:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/is-there-an-establishment-plan-to

Antitrust has been the centerpiece of the Biden Administration's most progressive political project. For the left wing of the Dems, blunting corporate power is seen as the necessary condition for rolling back the entire conservative program, which depends on oligarch-provided cash infusions, media campaigns, and thinktank respectability.

But elements of the right have also latched onto antitrust, for reasons of their own. Take the Catholic traditionalists who see weakening corporate power as a path to restoring a "traditional" household where a single breadwinner can support a family:

https://www.capitalisnt.com/episodes/when-capitalism-becomes-tyranny-with-sohrab-ahmari

There's another reason to support antitrust, of course – it's popular. There are large, bipartisan majorities opposed to monopoly and in favor of antitrust action:

https://d3nkl3psvxxpe9.cloudfront.net/documents/Antitrust_Policy_poll_results.pdf

Two-thirds of Americans support anti-monopoly laws. 70% of Americans say monopolies are bad for the economy. The Biden administration is doing more on antitrust than any presidency since the Carter years, but 52% of Americans haven't heard about it:

https://www.ft.com/content/c17c35a3-e030-4e3b-9f49-c6bdf7d3da7f

There's a big opportunity latent in the facts of antitrust's popularity, and the Biden antitrust agenda's obscurity. So far, the Biden administration hasn't figured out how to seize that opportunity, but some Dems are trying to grab it. Take Montana Senator John Tester, a Democrat in a Trump-voting state, whose campaign has taken aim at the meat-packing monopolies that are screwing the state's ranchers.

The right wants in on this. At a Federalist Society black-tie event last week during the National Lawyer's Convention, Biden's top antitrust enforcers got a warm welcome. Jonathan Kanter, the DOJ's top antitrust cop, was praised onstage by Todd Zywicki, whom Stoller and Hepner call "a highly influential law professors," from George Mason Univeristy, a fortress of pro-corporate law and economics. Zywicki praised the DoJ and FTC's new antitrust guidelines – which have been endlessly damned in the WSJ and other conservative outlets – as a reasonable and necessary compromise:

https://fedsoc.org/events/national-press-club-event

Even Lina Khan – the bogeywoman of the WSJ editorial page – got a warm reception at her fireside chat:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0FwdAxOSznE

And the convention's hot Saturday ticket was "a debate between two conservatives over whether social media platforms had sufficient monopoly power that the state could regulate them as common carriers":

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwoO7bZajXk

This is pretty amazing. And yet…lawmakers haven't gotten the memo. During markup for last week's appropriations bill, lawmakers inserted a flurry of anti-antitrust amendments into the must-pass legislation:

https://www.economicliberties.us/press-release/fsgg-approps-bill-must-support-enforcers-not-kneecap-them/#

These amendments were just wild. Rep Scott Fitzgerald (R-WI) introduced an amendment that would give companies carte blanche to stick you with unlimited junk fees, and allow corporations to take away their workers' rights to change jobs through noncompetes:

https://www.congress.gov/congressional-report/118th-congress/house-report/269

Another amendment would block the FTC from enforcing against "unfair methods of competition." Translation: the FTC couldn't punish companies like Amazon for using algorithms to hike prices, or for conspiring to raise insulin prices, or its predatory pricing aimed at killing small- and medium-sized grocers.

An amendment from Rep Kat Cammack (R-FL) would kill the FTC's "click to cancel" rule, which will force companies to let you cancel your subscriptions the same way you sign up for them – instead of making you wait on hold to beg a customer service rep to let you cancel.

Another one: "a provision to let auto dealers cheat customers with undisclosed added fees":

https://www.govinfo.gov/content/pkg/BILLS-118hr4664rh/pdf/BILLS-118hr4664rh.pdf

Dems got in on the action, too. A bipartisan pair, Rep Thomas Massie (R-KY) and Rep Lou Correa (D-FL), unsuccessfully attempted to strip the Department of Transport of its powers to block mergers, which were most recently used to block the merger of Jetblue and Spirit:

https://www.congress.gov/amendment/118th-congress/house-amendment/640

And 206 Republicans voted to block the DoT from investigating airline price-gouging. As Stoller and Hepner point out, these reps serve constituents from low-population states that are especially vulnerable to this kind of extraction.

This morning, Jim Jordan hosted a Judiciary Committee meeting where he raked DOJ antitrust boss Jonathan Kanter over the coals, condemning the same merger guidelines that Zywicki praised to the Federalist Society:

https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/7jxc8dp8erhe1q3wpndre/GOP-oversight-hearing-memo-11.13.23.pdf?rlkey=d54ur91ry3mc69bta5vhgg13z&dl=0

Jordan's prep memo reveals his plan to accuse Kanter of being an incompetent who keeps failing in his expensive bids to hold corporate power to account, and being an all-powerful government goon who's got a boot on the chest of American industry. Stoller and Hepner invoke the old Yiddish joke: "The food at this restaurant is terrible, and the portions are too small!"

Stoller and Hepner close by wondering what to make of this factional split in the American right. Is it that these members of the GOP Congressional caucus just haven't gotten the memo? Or is this a peek at what corporate lobbyists home to accomplish after the 2024 elections?

They suggest that both Democrats and Republican primary contesters in that race could do well by embracing antitrust, "Establishment Republicans want you to pay more for groceries, healthcare, and travel, and are perfectly fine letting monopoly corporations make decisions about your daily life."

I don't know if Republicans will take them up on it. The party's most important donors are pathologically loss-averse and unwilling to budge on even the smallest compromise. Even a faint whiff of state action against unlimited corporate power can provoke a blitz of frenzied scare-ads. In New York state, a proposal to ban noncompetes has triggered a seven-figure ad-buy from the state's Business Council:

https://www.timesunion.com/state/article/noncompete-campaign-raises-state-lobbying-18442769.php

It's hard to overstate how unhinged these ads are. Writing for The American Prospect, Terri Gerstein describes one: "a hammer smashes first an alarm clock, then a light bulb, with shards of glass flying everywhere. An ominous voice predicts imminent doom. Then, for good measure, a second alarm clock is shattered":

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-11-10-business-groups-reflexive-anti-worker-demagogy/

Banning noncompetes is good for workers, but it's also unambiguously good for business and the economy. They "reduce new firm entry, innovation by startups, and the ability of new firms to grow." 44% of small business owners report having been blocked from starting a new company because of a noncompete; 35% have been blocked from hiring the right person for a vacancy due to a noncompete. :

https://eig.org/noncompetes-research-brief/

As Gerstein writes, it's not unusual for the business lobby to lobby against things that are good for business – and lobby hard. The Chamber of Commerce has gone Hulk-mode on simple proposals to adapt workplaces for rising temperatures, acting as though permitting "rest, shade, water, and gradual acclimatization" on the jobsite will bring business to a halt. But actual businesses who've implemented these measures describe them as an easy lift that increases productivity.

The Chamber lobbies against things its members support – like paid sick days. The Chamber complains endlessly about the "patchwork" of state sick leave rules – but scuttles any attempt to harmonize these rules nationally, even though members who've implemented them call them "no big deal":

https://cepr.net/report/no-big-deal-the-impact-of-new-york-city-s-paid-sick-days-law-on-employers/

The Chamber's fight against American businesses is another one of those fracture lines in the conservative coalition. Working with far right dark money groups, they've worked in statehouses nationwide to roll back child labor laws:

https://www.epi.org/blog/florida-legislature-proposes-dangerous-roll-back-of-child-labor-protections-at-least-16-states-have-introduced-bills-putting-children-at-risk/

They also fight tooth-and-nail against minimum wage rises, despite 80% of their members supporting them:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/04/04/leaked-documents-show-strong-business-support-for-raising-the-minimum-wage/

The spectacle of Republicans in disarray is fascinating to watch and even a little exciting, giving me hope for real progressive gains. Of course, it would help if the Democratic coalition wasn't such a mess.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/14/when-youve-lost-the-fedsoc/#anti-buster-buster

Image: Jason Auch, modified https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Antarctic_mountains,_pack_ice_and_ice_floes.jpg

CC BY 2.0

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Seth Mandel

Christiane Amanpour had a problem, and in mid-February CNN talker decided to confront her network’s leadership about it. Her frustration boiled down to the fact that CNN was carefully running its Gaza coverage through its Jerusalem bureau’s fact checkers, which has always included Arab staff based outside of Israel as well. The stakes were too high, and the famous Hamas censorship and propaganda networks too powerful, for CNN to do what many newspapers were doing: run with copy straight from Hamas to print.

The results had thus far been undeniable: CNN anchors like Jake Tapper, Bianna Golodryga, and Abby Phillip were turning in thoughtful, deeply considered segments while holding politicians’ feet to the fire. Because of the plain facts of the war, Hamas’s depraved modus operandi was exposed for all to see. That’s when Amanpour went to management to demand a change.

Well, it’s pretty clear Amanpour’s strongarming worked. Here she is this week leading a sloppy segment playing up an already-debunked piece of Hamas propaganda. Anyone can get fooled by a video, of course—but that was the point of the fact checkers so reviled by Amanpour. This particular hoax was easy to spot: The “mass grave” in Khan Younis—to which Amanpour devotes a “difficult to watch” segment—was dug by Palestinians. After watching the story get notice from other journalists and even members of Congress, it became clear what this was: a real, live, actual disinformation campaign.

Perfect timing, then, for the return of Nina Jankowicz. Jankowicz, you’ll remember, was briefly put at the helm of a Biden administration censorship project dressed up as a “disinformation” board. It immediately became clear that this was the worst idea on the planet: Jankowicz had actually been fooled by disinformation campaigns and even arguably joined one—the attempt by national-security officials to declare Hunter Biden’s very real laptop a Russian trick. As Robby Soave points out, this particular story has had debilitating consequences for free speech and for the institutional legitimacy of national-security and intelligence officials: “Not only were so many so-called experts dead wrong about the Russian connection, they pursued all the wrong policies as a result. Vast efforts to pressure social media platforms to censor questionable content were what followed. Crackdowns by the FBI, DHS, and other law enforcement agencies on election-related information paved the way for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to crack down on coronavirus-related misinformation. This isn’t an insignificant or trivial issue that Jankowicz just happened to get wrong. It was emblematic of an entire approach to dealing with disputed facts—an approach pioneered by academics working in tandem with government agencies and directed at speech on social media.”

[darkmaga-returns]

General Mike Flynn Joins us for Doug Casey's Take [ep.#359}

Doug Casey, LTG USA (RET) Michael T. Flynn, and Matt Smith

Nov 20, 2024

Today we’re joined by General Michael Flynn who delivers a blistering critique of the bureaucratic deep state, the Bidenistas, and the dangerous path the U.S. is treading both domestically and internationally. Flynn doesn’t mince words as he outlines the urgent need for bold and unconventional actions to restore order and accountability in government.

"You see this building behind me? It’s never going to ruin your life again." Flynn describes what real leadership looks like, imagining the moment Trump could shut down the FBI entirely, symbolizing a reckoning for government overreach.

For Flynn, it’s not just about reform—it’s about uprooting entrenched systems: "There’s no trimming the branches here. It’s time to pull it out by the roots."

He draws parallels between historical leaders like Alexander the Great and Trump, emphasizing the need for extraordinary courage to tackle extraordinary times. Flynn warns of the stakes: "If Trump doesn’t take these actions, I’m not sure we’ll course correct in time."

From the dangers of escalating tensions with Russia—“We’re one step from World War III”—to the cultural decay caused by a “woke bureaucracy,” Flynn paints a stark picture of America’s challenges. Yet, he remains optimistic that decisive leadership and a mandate for change can restore the nation to greatness.

Timestamps (from youtube)

00:00 Introduction and Historical Context 01:27 Current Political Climate and Leadership 02:53 International Tensions and Potential Conflicts 04:39 Trump's Potential Actions and Responsibilities 10:26 Government Reforms and Accountability 14:57 Challenges in Government Culture and Efficiency 24:25 The Need for Demonstrated Actions 26:30 Trump's Potential Actions and Bureaucratic Challenges 27:44 Reforming the Defense Intelligence Agency 30:39 The Problem with Multiple Intelligence Agencies 32:50 The Need for Extraordinary Reform 36:27 The Importance of Competent Leadership 42:07 Avoiding Future Conflicts and Civil War 44:51 Closing Remarks and Final Thoughts

[longitudinalwaveme]

Writing a Better Version of the "Two-Rogues-Handcuffed-Together" Storyline in Countdown

@gorogues recently posted a piece about the relationship Evan and Axel had with the other Rogues, including the very hostile relationship between the Pied Piper and Evan.

Reading through the post made me realize that the animosity between Hartley and Evan was probably the most in-character aspect of any of the Rogues during Flash: the Fastest Man Alive, Salvation Run, and Countdown (with the possible exception of James' hand puppets and Hartley blowing up Apokolips with Queen music).

Nothing else makes any sense.

Mick, James, and Piper were all part of the FBI team that was trying to bring down the criminal Rogues. So why does Mick get accepted into the group basically immediately while Pied Piper and the Trickster are forced to prove their loyalty? Captain Cold seemed equally willing to accept both Mick and James back at the end of Rogue War. What changed? Granted, it would later be established that both James and Piper were undercover for the FBI, but the Rogues didn't know that---and even if they maybe suspected, by all accounts it seems like they should have suspected Mick, too. He reformed even before Hartley did!

Why/how did Inertia go from being furious at the people who had made him a living weapon against Impulse, and desperate for the love and affection he'd never had, to a complete sociopath who was basically Eobard 2.0?

Why are the Rogues, undercover for the FBI or not, all so stupid? James and Captain Cold are the worst examples, since James comes across as a complete moron for almost all of Countdown, and Captain Cold should absolutely not be dumb enough to just follow the leadership of an obviously untrustworthy teenaged speedster without any real question, especially since he doesn't really like or trust anyone with super speed. And he should absolutely be able to tell what when a speedster has lost their speed; slowing down the Flash is basically his stock-in-trade. How did he not notice that Bart was no longer moving at super speed? In fact, how did NONE of the Rogues notice that? Also, why did neither the Trickster nor Pied Piper, nor any of the non-undercover Rogues except Kadabra, think to question Inertia's device at any point? You'd think Piper and Trickster, at least, would have wanted to try to see if they could maybe shut down the device when no one was looking or something.

In speaking of Kadabra, why was he with the Rogues? He'd never been a part of the group before, and is definitely not the type who would want to share the limelight. More importantly, why did he stay with them after they were all banished to that alien planet during Salvation Run? It's not like he isn't powerful enough to deal with things by himself. In fact, he's such a powerful reality warper that I honestly don't know why he couldn't have either a) immediately teleported himself back to Earth or b) transformed the planet so it was no longer a danger for him.

Why did both Pied Piper and the Trickster apparently forget that they were reformed? Pied Piper is particularly egregious, since Geoff Johns made it very clear that he was still on Team Good Guy, but even after (I think) Countdown retconned things so that he and James were both working undercover, that story still treated them like they were only just now reforming half the time, rather than having been reformed for years.

If James and Piper were undercover for the FBI, why couldn't James have just...y'know...called the FBI and asked them to tell everybody about him and Piper being undercover after Bart died? It seems like that would have saved both James and Piper a lot of grief (and also kept James from getting shot in the head). Did no one else know about that mission?

Why was James suddenly so horrible to Piper out of nowhere? There was no build-up at all prior to Countdown to suggest that they were mad at each other or anything, and they had been portrayed as good friends before that.

I could go on like this forever.

But that initial point about how Evan and Piper really really hate each other, and how that's one of the few things that F: TFMA and Countdown gets right, gave me an idea for a better version of Countdown.

The most immediately obvious choice to fix Countdown is to keep James and Piper as the two Rogues featured, but don't have James spontaneously lose like 80 IQ points, forget his own character development, and suddenly be uniquely horrible to Hartley for no reason. It would also be good to have Piper consistently remember his character development, and it would be nice if James didn't die.

The next most immediately obvious choice is to keep Pied Piper and Trickster chained together, but have Axel be the Trickster instead of James. Unlike James, Axel hadn't been established as Piper's friend, so it wouldn't seem weird for him to be a huge jerk to him, and, also unlike James, Axel really can be an idiot.

A lot of the promotional material makes it seem like the writers may have been thinking about Axel as the Trickster rather than James, like this Countdown teaser that has what looks to be James in Axel's clothes.

Or this image, with the "yo" gloves that are pretty Axel-exclusive:

Between these two images, I'm half-convinced that the original plan was to have Piper handcuffed to Axel instead of James (though it's also entirely possible that someone at DC just didn't do the research, and this is a very early instance of "Jaxel", where James and Axel have their visual designs sort of merged together regardless of which character it is.)

But I think the most interesting idea for Countdown would have been to have the Pied Piper handcuffed to McCulloch. They really, really hate each other, as underlined by Countdown itself, so it would make sense for them to be hostile to one another and for McCulloch to fill the role James does in the final comic. It would be fascinating to see them be forced to deal with each other for a long period of time, and it might give us some actual closure to their dynamic, which otherwise basically went nowhere before the universe rebooted. That being said, you would have to get rid of most of McCulloch's tech somehow, because otherwise it would just be begging the question of why he doesn't just teleport away.

And apparently great minds must think alike, because I was looking through some old posts by @gorogues and apparently we interpedently hit on the same idea for the best way to fix Countdown.

[truth4ourfreedom]

THE NEW FBI DIRECTOR - WILL HE SHAKE UP THIS CORRUPT AGENCY?

BREAKING NEWS: TRUMP APPOINTS KASH PATEL AS FBI DIRECTOR! EPSTEIN BLACKBOOK FBI EVIDENCE EXPOSED, DEEP STATE IN PANIC!

President Donald J. Trump has officially appointed Kash Patel as the new FBI Director, and the deep state is in a full-blown meltdown. This isn’t just another leadership change—it’s a full-scale assault on the corruption that has gripped America for decades. Justice delayed will no longer be justice denied!

EPSTEIN BLACKBOOK: THE ELITE’S WORST NIGHTMARE Kash Patel has already confirmed the FBI possesses Jeffrey Epstein’s infamous blackbook—a directory of global elites alleged to be involved in heinous crimes. Past FBI leadership buried it. Patel? He’s promising full exposure. No more elite protection. It’s time for accountability, and the names in that book are about to be dragged into the light.

THE NASHVILLE SHOOTER MANIFESTO: TRUTH FINALLY COMING OUT Why has the FBI refused to release the manifesto of the Nashville shooter? What are they hiding? Patel has vowed to make it public. America will finally learn the motives behind this tragedy, exposing what political forces have desperately tried to bury.

COUP TEXTS AND J6 PIPE BOMBER: THE COVER-UPS ARE OVER Deleted coup-related texts? Patel says nothing is truly deleted. The texts exposing government corruption and treason will come to light. And the January 6th pipe bomber? Patel is demanding the release of withheld footage, promising to reveal what the FBI has hidden for years.

RUSSIAGATE FULL REPORT: TREASON EXPOSED The greatest hoax in modern history is about to be unmasked. Patel’s unredacted RussiaGate report will name names and expose the deep state operatives who weaponized lies to undermine President Trump. This isn’t just corruption—it’s treason, and justice is coming.

TRUMP AND PATEL: A REVOLUTION IN JUSTICE President Trump’s appointment of Patel signals the start of a new era—one where the corrupt elites no longer call the shots. Together, they’re dismantling the deep state and restoring America’s faith in justice.

THIS IS IT, AMERICA! The revolution has begun. The Epstein blackbook, the Nashville manifesto, the coup texts, the RussiaGate report—it’s all coming out. Buckle up, patriots. Justice is here, and the deep state is DONE!

Join and share my channel immediately: https://t.me/JulianAssangeWiki

It's official, JD Vance is here and already posting: https://t.me/JDVance✅

[gamma-rae-bursts]

Temily anon here, if you’re comfortable with it please give us the essay-long rant!! No worries if you don’t have the spoons for it, but I would love to hear a more in-depth analysis of their relationship, especially if the person telling it is as passionate about it as you are! :)

Hi Temily Anon! Let's pretend I didn't abandon this idea for well over a year. But here I present to you the essay long rant about how Tara and Emily are literally made for each other!

The Temily Thesis - Exploring the Subtle Chemistry and Romantic Potential Between Emily Prentiss and Tara Lewis in Criminal Minds

This essay is dedicated to @/temily anon, without whom this would not be created, as well as the no.1 Temily stan @gaelic-symphony, my no.1 supporter @nightmarish-fae, and the best of best-brainstorming besties @storiesofsvu

Warnings: heavy lean into academic writing lol

Introduction

The two main characters from the American TV show Criminal Minds, the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit (BAU) agents, are Emily Prentiss and Tara Lewis. Despite sharing an identical team and comparable professional responsibilities, the characters' relationships and story arcs couldn't be more different. By delving into the possibility of a love connection between Tara Lewis and Emily Prentiss on Criminal Minds, the show expands their dynamic beyond their professional encounters and brings the emphasis closer to a personal bond. Looking at their common history, characteristics, and how their current connection may develop is necessary to explore the possibility of a love relationship between these two characters, even though the show doesn't show it happening. Agent Elle Greenaway's replacement, Emily Prentiss (Paget Brewster), debuted in Season 2. Upon her arrival at the BAU, several of her teammates were skeptical since they believed she had been brought there because of her political ties. Nevertheless, Prentiss quickly showed her value and earned the respect and confidence of her coworkers. Her importance in the BAU grew over time, and she was subsequently named Unit Chief. Debuting in Season 11, dr. Tara Lewis, played by Aisha Tyler, is a forensic psychologist who was called in to assist the BAU while other team members were temporarily absent. Tara, in contrast to Prentiss, was accepted into the squad with open arms. Her unique viewpoint was amplified by her extensive training in forensic psychology, especially in the field of psychopathy.

The Development of Their Relationship and Their Characters Initially a mysterious agent, Prentiss transforms into a powerful and compassionate leader during the series. As the team tackles a multitude of challenges, both in their careers and personal lives, her bond with the whole team, and for the purposes of this rant, Tara, deepens. As Emily takes on more responsibility in the bearou, her bond with Tara becomes more settled in one of professional cooperation and mutual regard. Tara grows into a vital element in the BAU, despite her character development not being quite as exciting as Prentiss's. Even while she and Emily have a professional relationship most of the time, there are times when they bond on a more personal level which shows how strong their collaboration is. Tara is a reliable friend for Emily, especially in difficult instances, thanks to her competence and constant presence.

Analysis of the Professional Relationship between the Characters

The dynamic between Prentiss and her teammates, notably Tara, changed from that of a peer to that of a leader as she rose through the ranks of the BAU. Decisiveness, sensitivity, and an in-depth knowledge of her team were hallmarks of Prentiss's outstanding leadership abilities. She frequently consulted Tara for her psychological insights throughout cases, and her leadership approach encouraged team cohesiveness and trust. As a forensic psychology specialist, Tara frequently contributed to the team's case-solving efforts by providing in-depth psychological examinations of suspects. The efforts that Tara made were much appreciated, even if she did not take on a formal leadership position like Prentiss. Both Emily and Tara respected one another; Prentiss was a strong leader, and Tara was an expert in mental health, so it was no surprise that the two had a warm relationship.

Analysis of the Personal Relationship between the Characters

As a trusted friend for her coworkers, Prentiss is known for the deep emotional ties she has with them. Respect and unwavering loyalty are the foundation of her relationships with her teammates. Emily develops a close bond with Tara after years of working with her professionally. This becomes especially clear in later seasons when Prentiss puts her trust in Tara's intuition and judgment at crucial moments. Tara and Emily have a more professional relationship based on trust. Emily's fiery and protective personality is balanced by Tara's cool and collected attitude. Tara is less dramatic than Prentiss, but she proves her devotion by standing behind Prentiss's decisions, even when those are difficult or controversial.

The Evolution from Professional to Personal Relationship

From Tara's joining the team it has been painfully evident that there is a high potential for more than a platonic relationship between the characters. Emily and Tara's common experiences within the BAU are one of the greatest possible triggers for a love connection. As a team, they endure the psychological toll of dealing with terrible crimes, which holds a high potential for strengthening their bond. Emily and Tara's capacity to lean on one another during these challenging moments has the potential to strengthen their bond beyond that of friends and colleagues. Emily and Tara are both highly intelligent, driven women who share a deep commitment to their work. Their intellectual compatibility could be the foundation for a romantic relationship, as they would be able to engage in meaningful conversations and understand the complexities of each other’s professional lives. Additionally, their emotional compatibility—Emily’s empathetic nature and Tara’s calm, grounded presence—could provide a balanced dynamic where both partners complement each other’s strengths and weaknesses. If the writes decided to go into a romance between these two, the foundation for the relationship has already been laid out in previous episodes, the deep conversations between the two characters, opening up to one another on a deeper level, sharing more vulnerable times, and learning to lean on one other more emotionally give a perfect opportunity for expanding the relationship between the two women from simply platonic to a romantic connection. On top of that, in the latest seasons introduction of Tara's new love interest quickly followed by a break of the relationship forms a greater foundation for introduction of a love potential between Tara and Emily.

Given Emily's hesitancy for developing strong emotional connections, it's not out of the question that her feelings for Tara may have already progressed beyond simple admiration and respect and into something more personal, but she is simply too hesitant to admit them to herself, let alone Tara.

Underlying Chemistry and Compatibility

Emily Prentiss is known for her fierce independence, yet she also has a lot of compassion and is very devoted to her team. Throughout her career, she has consistently developed strong bonds with her teammates. Her ability to manage her emotions while still meeting her professional obligations has been on display in her leadership job, which bodes well for a more intimate relationship with someone she admires and trusts, such as Tara. In contrast, Tara Lewis is level-headed, collected, and motivated by her intelligence. Her training in forensic psychology betrays an empath who places a premium on listening, expression, and complexity of feeling. Tara would be a reliable and encouraging companion for Emily because of her level-headed and considerate attitude to all interactions. The chemistry between Emily Prentiss and Tara Lewis is rooted in their shared experiences, complementary personalities, and the way they interact on both professional and personal levels. Chemistry, in this context, refers to the unspoken connection and mutual understanding that can naturally evolve into a deeper relationship. While Emily is a complex character, marked by her resilience, intelligence, and empathy, Tara is characterized by her calm, analytical nature. The chemistry between Prentiss and Tara could be seen in how these complementary traits interact. Both Prentiss and Tara excel in their respective roles—Prentiss as a leader and strategist, and Tara as a psychological expert. Their professional interactions are marked by mutual respect and a recognition of each other’s expertise. This professional respect can be a foundation for deeper personal chemistry, as it is built on admiration for the qualities that each brings to the team. Throughout the series, Prentiss and Tara have worked together on numerous cases, often relying on each other’s insights and instincts. Their successful collaboration, particularly in high-pressure situations, could naturally lead to a closer bond. The ability to work seamlessly together, understanding each other’s methods and thought processes, creates a sense of partnership that can easily extend beyond the professional realm.

Conclusion

To conclude this very academically written rant, I just wanna express my hopes that Temily is going to become canon, considered all of the above I think this would be a perfect wrap up to the show and giving the audience exactly what they want. The characteristics of both of the women outlined above work together in a great harmony, as it is known that both of them always have each others backs. Note to writers: please give us Temily.

Thank you.

Tags: @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @venromanova

[loving-n0t-heyting]

The crazy thing about western Maoists is that while other leftist political ideologies tend to be misrepresented by their loudest online adherents, in my experience Maoists are exactly like that IRL too, which is unfortunate because Maoists tend to both be extremely driven and hands-on with activism and also so personally conflictive that if they make it to any leadership or public-facing position they’re very efficient in turning away most possible potential supporters

In that respect, an anecdote from Avakian is instructive. In his memoir he recounts talking with a comrade who has just returned from Cuba being debriefed by Bruce Franklin and him. At one point the comrade referred to the “Sino-Soviet split,” which prompted the following:

[Avakian] Wait a minute, we don’t talk about the Sino-Soviet split—you mean the struggle against Soviet revisionism that China is leading? And immediately Bruce Franklin jumped in and said to me, “I don’t think you have the right attitude here, this is a bad method you are using. We sent these comrades down to Cuba and, now that they’ve come back, we should be trying to learn from them.” I responded: “Well I’m very anxious to learn as much as I possibly can from them, one thing I don’t want to learn from them is revisionism.”

leonard & gallagher, heavy radicals: the fbi's secret war on americas maoists

plus ça change

[doomsday-architect]

School Shootings....Here we go again....

The same questions, the same answers.

Don't need to repeat them.

But......

Can schools be "hardened" against this type of domestic terrorism?

Absolutely YES!

Is there political will and teachers political (teachers unions) will to do it?

ABSOLUTELY NOT!

Is there community will to force the issue to be addressed?

ABSOLUTELY NOT!

So, the slaughter of innocents will continue unabashed.

Leadership?

Nowhere to be found.

Tell me again how much we care about THE CHILDREN.

What's the price to protect them?

To protect ALL SCHOOLS?

TOO HIGH!

.......and the slaughter continues.

Final? thought.....

If America won't spend the money to air condition all schools with climate change making the world hotter, why would it spend even MORE dollars to protect the children inside from domestic terrorists as young as 14.

By the way, the FBI had ID'ed this kid as a threat a YEAR AGO!

GUTLESS LEADERSHIP!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Emily Singer at Daily Kos:

Donald Trump said over the weekend that he wants the Senate to allow him to make recess appointments, a constitutional provision that allows a president to circumvent the Senate's advice and consent function to install his choices without a Senate vote.  “Any Republican Senator seeking the coveted LEADERSHIP position in the United States Senate must agree to Recess Appointments (in the Senate!), without which we will not be able to get people confirmed in a timely manner,” Trump wrote in a post on X. “Sometimes the votes can take two years, or more. This is what they did four years ago, and we cannot let it happen again. We need positions filled IMMEDIATELY!”  Trump shouldn't need to do recess appointments.  First, recess appointments are supposed to be for temporary appointments, not full-blown Cabinet members, as Trump is demanding. 

[...]

Second, Republicans will be in the majority when Trump is sworn in, with at least 52 votes. Senate nominees need a simple majority for confirmation, after the Senate nixed the filibuster for presidential nominees. Because of that, Republicans should be able to get Trump's picks through—even with a few defections from their own party.

So the fact that Trump is demanding the Senate allow recess appointments is a likely sign that he knows that his picks are so extreme that even a GOP Senate wouldn't confirm them.  For example, Trump has said he wants Robert F. Kennedy Jr. to take a leading role in the country’s health—a terrifying prospect as Kennedy is an anti-vaxxer who also wants to get rid of fluoride in the country’s water systems, something that could lead to a rise in dental decay and infections in children. Trump is also reportedly eyeing Kash Patel to head the CIA, NBC News reported. Patel is a conspiracy theorist and MAGA loyalist who wants to shut down the FBI and target anyone who was involved in the probe into Trump’s collusion with Russia during the 2016 campaign. The three Senate Republicans running to replace Mitch McConnell as leader all quickly came out to say they support Trump’s demand to make recess appointments—a bad sign for anyone hoping that the Senate would serve as a backstop to Trump’s dictatorial impulses. 

[...] Even if Trump wants to make recess appointments, it’s unclear if he’d be able to. The Supreme Court ruled in 2014 that the Senate has to be in a true recess for 10 full days in order for a president to make a recess appointment.  “Of course, now that Congress is effectively a year-round operation, the Recess Appointments Clause has become all-but anachronistic,” legal expert Steve Vladeck wrote in a piece examining whether Trump truly could make recess appointments. “The last time either chamber adjourned before mid-December was 2002. The Senate instead began using ‘pro forma’ sessions in the mid-2000s—at least partly to prevent President George W. Bush from making recess appointments.” However, given the fact that the current Supreme Court has ruled that Trump is above the law, never put it past them to change the rules to allow Trump to get his way.

Donald Trump and the GOP-controlled is seeking to shred the rules to circumvent the body’s longstanding advice and consent function by agreeing to make recess appointments on a permanent basis by adjourning Congress for at least 10+ days per the 2014 NLRB v. Canning SCOTUS ruling.

See Also:

HuffPost: Trump Demands Next GOP Senate Leader Agree To ‘Recess Appointments’

[centrally-unplanned]

“And this is in fact a sociological change by the way - this doesn't describe 1960's radicals. They were weird but not mentally unwell. Its a modern phenomenon, due to how modern society functions (which is its whole deep topic). This is a "type", a social phenomenon. “

What is the evidence for this, and do we know why it happened?

Its gonna be subjective in the end like anything is in this space, but overall the 60's radical factions are very well-documented. We have like hours of interview footage with the Weatherman Underground, Red Army Faction, Black Panthers etc, diaries and contemporaneous accounts. Most of them lived, and weirdly in a lot of cases, became normal members of society - mainly due to the FBI breaking every law on the books investigating them. Bill Ayers co-founded the Weatherman Underground! He is an Education Professor of at the University Illinois, he helped Obama in his early days which fueled mountains of republican conspiracy drivel. If you want to know if he is mentally unwell, just go to his office hours! He co-founded it with his wife, who is a law professor now!

Its not every group of course - the Japanese Red Army definitely had leadership that you can see pathology in, but in the main I think this trend holds.

The reason for this is ofc one million things, but I see the main things as being that the first half of the 20th century was just a maelstorm of social change. The US is one of a handful of governing regimes that survived from 1900 to 1960 (setting Latin America aside at least), radical social experimentation just seemed like the order of the day. It made the idea of like actually being able to overthrow governments seem pretty reasonable, it wasn't weird to believe that it didn't require crazy oddball beliefs to buy into. That isn't true today, the world of developed countries is in fact extremely stable, no major country has gone through a true revolution in decades (this doesn't mean they havent changed, we talking about revolutionary groups here). And its deeper than a rational calculation or strength or w/e, the "accepted space of action" for people is more restricted now. The US *was* radically changing at that time, after all. Whose to say when that had to stop?

It was also a more violent time? Huge swathes of the population had been in the military at some point. Many of the radicals were veterans, or knew veterans, who knew how to do things like make bombs and such. Culture was different to, every level of society was less controlled, more violent or at least physical. The details ofc are deeper but I think you can see the trend - it just isn't a hard sell to someone who sees the world as inherently violent to like bomb a building. It was normal then in a way that is very hard to conceive of now (even if ofc that level of organization to the violence was exceptional, most people still never did).

"Why the 1960'/70's radicalism happened" is both worthy of and the subject of dozens of books, there is so much more than this. The fact that it was a mass movement that spanned dozens of countries and lasted around a decade for it to fully trail off I think shows that it was a structural force in society.

[theculturedmarxist]

By Roger D. Harris  –   Sep 30, 2024

Left-liberals plea every four years that this really is the most important election ever and time to hold our noses and send a Democrat to the White House. The manifest destiny of US world leadership, we are told, is at stake, as is our precious democracy which we have so generously been exporting abroad.

Let’s leave aside the existential threats of climate change or nuclear war. However important, these issues are not on the November 5 ballot. Nor are they addressed in even minimally meaningful ways by the platforms of either of the major parties.

The USA, with its first-strike policy and upgrading its nuclear war fighting capacity, bears responsibility for Armageddon risk. And, in fact, the land-of-the-free has contributed more greenhouse gases to the world’s stockpile than any other country.

But the US electorate never voted these conditions in, so is it realistic to think that we can vote them out? The electoral arena has its limits. Nevertheless, we are admonished, our vote is very important.

But do the two major parties offer meaningful choices? Apparently, the 700 national security apparatchiks who signed a letter endorsing Kamala Harris think so. They fear that Trump is too soft on world domination. They find a comforting succor in Harris’s promise “to preserve the American military’s status as the most ‘lethal’ force in the world.” And oddly so do some left-liberals who welcome the security state, largely because they too don’t trust Trump with guiding the US empire.

Although a major left-liberal talking point is the imminent threat of fascism, their fear is focused on Trump’s dysfunctionality and his “deplorable” working class minions; not on the security apparatus of the state, which they have learned to love.

But fascism is not a personality disorder. The ruling class – whether its nominal head wears a red or blue hat – has no reason to impose a fascist dictatorship as long as left-liberals and their confederates embrace rather than oppose the security state.

Not only were the left-liberals enamored with the FBI’s “Saint” Robert Mueller, but they have welcomed the likes of George W. Bush and now Dick Cheney, because these war criminals also see the danger of Trump.

The Democratic Party has been captured by the foreign policy neoconservatives, who are jumping the red ship for the blue one. It’s not that Donald Trump is in any way an anti-imperialist, but Kamala Harris is seen as a more effective imperialist and defender of elite rule.

The ruling class is united in supporting US imperial hegemony, but needs to work out how best to achieve it. The blue team is confident that the empire has the capability to aim the canons full blast at both Russia and China at the same time. And they tend to take a more multilateral approach to empire building.

The red team is a little more circumspect, concerned with imperial overreach. They advocate a staged strategy of China as the primary target and only secondarily against Russia. This suggests why Ukraine’s president-for-life, who is at war with Russia, in effect campaigned for Kamala in the swing state of Pennsylvania.

The inauthenticity of the left-liberals While some left-liberals support a decisive Russian defeat in Ukraine, their overall concern is beating Trump.

The Democratic Party was transformed some time ago by the Clintons’ now defunct but successful Democratic Leadership Council (DLC), which advocated abandonment of its progressive constituencies in order to more effectively attract corporate support. While both parties vie to serve the wealthy class, the Democrats are now by a significant margin the ones favored by big money.

The triumph of the DLC signaled the demise of liberalism and the ascendancy of neoliberalism. Much more could be said about that transition (viz the Democratic Party has always been capitalist, with neoliberalism being its most recent expression), but suffice it to say the Democratic Party is the graveyard of progressive movements.

Liberals no longer even pretend to have an agenda other than defeating Trump. Their neglect of economic issues that benefit working people has created a vacuum, which opens the political arena for faux populists like Trump.

The now moribund liberal movement is thus relegated to two functions: (1) providing a bogus progressive patina to reactionary politics (2) and attacking those who still hold leftist principles. “Progressive Democrat,” sociologist James Petras argues, is an oxymoron.

Left-liberals have the habit of prefacing their capitulations with a recitation of their former leftist credentials. But what makes them inauthentic is their abandonment of principles. No transgression by the Democrats, absolutely none – not even genocide – deters this inauthentic left from supporting the Democratic presidential candidate.

We can respect, though disagree, with the right-wing for having principled red lines, such as abortion. In contrast, left-liberals not only find themselves bedfellows with Cheney, but they swallow anything and everything that the Democratic wing of the two-party duopoly feeds them.

Consequences of supporting the lesser of the two evils Although today the Democratic Party is arguably the leading war party, we would have cold comfort with the Republicans in power. And domestically the Democrats talk a better line on some social wedge issues that don’t threaten elite rule, such as women’s reproductive rights, although – as will be argued – their walk is not as good as their talk.

Getting back to “this year more than ever we have to support the Democratic presidential candidate,” the plea contains two truths. First, the “more than ever” part exposes a tendency to cry wolf in the past.

Remember that the world did not fall apart with the election of Richard Nixon in 1968. No lesser an authority than Noam Chomsky is nostalgic for Tricky Dick, who is now viewed as the last true liberal president. Nor did the planet stop spinning in 1980 when Ronald Reagan ascended to the Oval Office. Barack Obama now boasts that his policies differed little from the Gipper’s.

Which brings us to the second truth revealed in the plea. The entire body politic has been staggering to the right regardless of which wing of the duopoly is in power. This is in spite of the fact that the voting public is well to the left of them on almost every issue, from universal public healthcare to opposition to endless war.

Moreover, the left-liberals’ lesser-evil voting strategy itself bears some degree of responsibility for this reactionary tide.

The genius of the Clintons’ DLC was that the progressive New Deal coalition of labor and minority groups that supported the Democratic Party could be thrown under the bus with impunity, while the party courts the right. As long as purported progressives support the Democrats no matter what, the party has an incentive to sell out its left-leaning “captured constituents.”

Thus, we witnessed what passed for a presidential debate, with both contestants competing to prove who was more in favor of genocide for Palestinians and an ever expanding military.

The campaign for reproductive rights aborted But one may protest, let’s not let squeamishness about genocide blind us to the hope that the Democrats are better than the Republicans on at least the key issue of abortion.

However, this is the exception that proves the rule. As Margaret Kimberley of the Black Agenda Report noted, after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, there were protests everywhere but at Barack Obama’s house, “the person who could have acted to protect the Roe decision.”

When Obama ran in 2008, he made passage of a ‘Freedom of Choice’ Act the centerpiece of his campaign. Once elected with majorities in Congress, he could have enshrined abortion rights into law and out of the purview of the Supreme Court. Instead, he never followed through on his promise.

This was a direct outcome of the logic of lesser evil in a two-party system. The folks who supported abortion rights had nowhere to go, so they were betrayed. Why embarrass Blue Dog Democrats and antagonize pro-lifers when the progressive dupes will always give the Democrats a pass?

Angst is not a substitute for action The Republican and Democratic parties are part of the same corporate duopoly, both of which support the US empire. Given there are two wings, there will inevitably be a lesser and greater evil on every issue and even in every election.

However, we need a less myopic view and to look beyond a given election to see the bigger picture of the historical reactionary trend exacerbated by lesser-evil voting. That is, to understand that the function of lesser-evil voting in the overarching two-party system is to allow the narrative to shift rightward.

If one’s game plan for system change includes electoral engagement, which both Marx and Lenin advocated (through an independent working class party, not by supporting a bourgeois party), the pressure needs to be applied when it counts. And that might mean taking a tip from the Tea Party by withholding the vote if your candidate crosses a red line. But that requires principles, which left-liberals have failed to evidence. Angst, however heartfelt, is not a substitute for action.

The left-liberals’ lesser-evil voting, which disregards third-parties with genuinely progressive politics, contributes to the rightward trajectory of US politics. It is not the only factor, but it is a step in the wrong direction. As for November 5th, we already know who will win…the ruling class.

[scifigeneration]

An X-Files expert on the show’s enduring appeal – 30 years on

by Bethan Jones, Research Associate at the University of York

On September 10 1993 the pilot episode of The X-Files aired. Thirty years later to the day, I was at a convention centre in Minneapolis with 500 other fans and the show’s creator, Chris Carter, celebrating its legacy.

Ostensibly a show about aliens, The X-Files swiftly became part of the cultural lexicon and remains there to this day. In part its success was down to the chemistry of its two leads – David Duchovny, who played FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder and Gillian Anderson, who played FBI Special Agent Dana Scully. After all, it was the X-Files fandom that invented the term “shipping” (rooting for characters to get together romantically).

But, as I argue in my new book, The Truth Is Still Out There: Thirty Years of The X-Files, what really made the series successful was its ability to tap into contemporary cultural moments and ask us to really think about the times we’re living in.

When the series began in 1993, the US was still grappling with the effects of Watergate and the Vietnam war, but concerns were also rising about the approaching millennium and the economic and cultural divisions within US society. It also coincided with Bill Clinton becoming president – marking the end of more than a decade of Republican leadership.

It’s little surprise that fears about immigration, globalisation, national identity and technology emerged and were adopted – and sometimes foreshadowed – by The X-Files’ writers. Several episodes throughout the first nine seasons dealt with artificial technology, for example, and Eve, an episode in season one about clones, came four years before the birth of Dolly the Sheep.

Critical theorist Douglas Kellner argued in 1994 that The X-Files “generated distrust toward established authority, representing institutions of government and the established order as highly flawed, even complicit in the worst crimes and evil imaginable”. Though I’d argue it was less that the show generated this distrust and more that it leveraged the growing number of reports about the government’s secretive activities to inspire its storylines.

As the public became more aware of the government’s role in – and surveillance of – public life, so too The X-Files considered the ways in which technology could be used as a means of control.

In the season three episode Wetwired, for example, a device attached to a telephone pole emits signals that tap into people’s paranoid delusions and lead them to kill. And in the season six episode, SR 819, a character’s circulatory system fails because he has been infected with nanotechnology controlled by a remote device belonging to a shadow government.

These themes reflected growing concerns about government agencies using technology to both spy on and influence the public.

The X-Files’ enduring appeal

During my X-Files research, carried out with viewers after a revival was announced in 2015, it became clear that the show has remained part of the cultural lexicon. As one fan explained: “The cultural context of conspiracy theories has changed since the beginning of X-Files. Nowadays, every pseudoscience documentary uses similar soundtrack and narrative.”

Of course, the X-Files didn’t invent conspiracy theories, but as one of the show’s writers and producers, Jim Wong, points out, it did “tap into something that was more or less hidden in the beginning when we were doing it”.

The focus on the rise of the alt-right, disinformation and fake news in seasons 10 and 11 seemed like a logical angle from which to approach the changing cultural context the revival came into. Carter and his co-writers dove straight in to what Guardian critic Mark Lawson calls “a new era of governmental paranoia and public scepticism”, fuelled by the 2008 financial crisis, the fall out of the war on terror and scores of political scandals.

Season 10 saw the introduction of a right-wing internet talk show host who argues that 9/11 was a “false flag operation” and that the mainstream liberal media lie to Americans about life, liberty and the right to bear arms. The parallels to conspiracy theorists like Alex Jones and Glenn Beck were obvious.

Carter’s incorporation of topics like surveillance, governments’ misuse of power and methods of social control meant that seasons ten and 11 were very much situated in the contemporary moment. This is perhaps most obvious in the season 11 episode, The Lost Art of Forehead Sweat, which deals with the disinformation of the Trump era head on. The episode’s protagonist, Dr. They, tells Mulder that “no one can tell the difference anymore between what’s real and what’s fake”.

While The X-Files’ search for the truth in the 1990s may have ultimately been a philosophical endeavour, in the 21st century it is a commentary on how emotion and belief can be more influential than objective facts.

Watching the show again while researching my book, I was struck by how it was dated predominantly by its lack of technology, rather than the ideas it expresses. In the second season episode Ascension, Mulder pulls a phone book off a shelf in his search for Scully – now we’d use Google. But in other aspects the show remains as relevant today as it was in the 1990s, encouraging us to think about the big questions relating to faith, authority and truth.