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honeypiehotchner · 1 month ago

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The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part seven

Everything is beginning to unravel 🫣

Warnings: just the usual angst and their bickering! Hotch being...nice? and Reader panicking (but not a full panic attack)

True to Strauss’s words, a new case comes in the next day. You’re admittedly a little more excited than you should be a new serial killer, but you’re tired of so many days in the office. If you’re away on a case, you can’t be called to go speak to Richard Monroe, and Hotch can’t corner you with his suspicions and wild conclusions.

Unfortunately, it does mean that you’ll be forced to interact with Hotch more often. Albeit in conversations focused on the case, but. Everyone has seen how well that goes over for the two of you.

So, imagine your surprise when you board the jet and see every seat is taken, except the one to Hotch’s right.

Now, you could sit somewhere else, but that would mean sitting so far away from the rest of the team that it would look ridiculous. Your only real, responsible, professional option is to sit next to Hotch.

So, fine. You can be a professional. If Hotch has a problem with it, that’s his fault.

You settle into the seat beside Hotch with a slight huff. At least you’re across from Prentiss and JJ. Across the aisle, Reid sits cross legged on the couch, Morgan lounges in a chair, and Rossi sits with a smug smile hiding behind his palm.

Bastard. He probably put everyone up to this, leaving an empty seat beside Hotch.

Fine.

You clear your throat against the silence as you listen to the pilot start the engines. No one is saying anything, so you join Hotch in opening a case file and rereading over some details.

It’s a fairly run of the mill case, except it isn’t, because this is the BAU, and you guys don’t get the normal serial killers.

The Mobile Police Department found the body of Melissa Johnson on a dirt road outside town. Next to remains of another woman who they have yet to identify.

Two weeks ago, the same story, one county over.

A week before that, the same story, one state over, in the De Soto National Forest in Mississippi. Those two women were the worst — if there can even be a competition.

Each of the women were strangled to death, but not by a belt, wire, or anything you normally see. It was with the unsub’s bare hands.

Warning bells go off in your head as you take everything in. The strangulation, the discarding of the bodies like they’re ragdolls, the remote locations, across states, it’s— It’s insane. What it makes you think of. Who it makes you think of.

You inhale sharply and close the file, feeling Hotch’s eyes on you. Subject change is needed immediately.

“Reid, got any new books recently?” you lean your head over to smile at him.

“No,” he says, and sounds genuinely torn up about it. “I haven’t gone to the secondhand store in a few weeks, though, but I might go when we get back. Do you want to come with me? We should—”

“Reid,” Hotch scolds gently, but the glare he gives you is real. You’re positive then that he’s onto you, and it pisses you off. “What do you see?”

“Six strangled women,” you deadpan, turning your head to look at Hotch. “What do you see?”

His jaw tenses. “A startled agent,” he mutters, quiet enough only for you to hear. “When we touch down in Mobile, Reid, I want you to get started on the board, any connections you can see, I want them up there.”

Reid is already scribbling on his case files, circling words and underlining others. Who knows what he sees, but he’ll elaborate when he comes up for air.

“Rossi, take Prentiss and speak with Melissa’s family,” Hotch says.

Which leaves you, Morgan, JJ, and Hotch. You shift in your seat, accidentally pressing your thigh against Hotch’s. You shift again, this time knocking your knee into his.

Fuck this tiny ass jet.

You cease your wiggling, knowing it’s only going to egg Hotch on further. But he runs like a furnace and you can feel the heat of him through your clothes. It’s driving you insane.

“JJ, Morgan, help Reid dig through some of the department’s similar files, I’ve told them to have everything pulled for when we get there.”

You resist the urge to grind your teeth together. You drum your fingers on the table, tilting your head at Hotch. “And what are we getting up to today?”

Hotch stares at you tiredly before looking back down at his file where he has it open on pictures of Melissa’s body. “We’re going to where he left the bodies.”

+++

Hotch drives because he always does. The fact that it also means he gets to watch you and all your nervous ticks while you have nothing else to do means nothing.

You’ve been acting off ever since the jet, ever since you looked at the photos of Melissa’s body and where it was dumped. Your fingers have not once ceased their drumming, and now you’ve added deep breaths every few minutes into the mix.

Hotch can’t recall ever seeing you act this way.

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, bracing himself for your inevitable anger after what he’s about to ask. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” you bite out. Your entire body tenses, all tics coming to a halt. “Why?”

Well, you’re already angry with him — like always. Might as well make it worse. “You seem anxious.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

“Don’t profile me.”

“I don’t have to,” Hotch argues. If they didn’t have somewhere to be, he’d pull over right now and shake your shoulders. “You won’t stop moving.”

“Well, sorry I can’t help being human,” you spit, turning your hand over to pick at your fingernails. “Are you going to tell me I’m breathing too loud next?”

Hotch thinks of your deep breaths. He keeps his mouth shut.

Which, naturally, makes it worse.

“Oh my god,” you scoff. “You’re the one who decided we should go on this merry little drive to look at where he dumped their bodies.”

“I divide up the tasks for every case—”

“Yes, but you didn’t have to pick me,” you protest. “You could’ve taken Prentiss with you. But no, you just had to choose me so we could yell at each other for half an hour.”

Hotch takes his own deep inhale, slowing down when he sees the other police cars up ahead.

He waits until he pulls off the road to say, “I chose you because you saw something in those photos. You don’t have to tell me what you saw right now, but when it’s relevant, I’d appreciate it if you share. Could be helpful. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t wait for your reply before stepping out of the car, though he does catch your shocked expression before you can hide it.

You recover well, following Hotch to meet the officers, your badge clipped to your hip opposite your gun. Hotch wrenches his eyes away from said hips with more difficulty than he will ever admit to.

“Deputy Harris,” the man introduces himself with a firm handshake.

“Agent Hotchner, we spoke on the phone.” Hotch decides to save everyone the grief and let you introduce yourself.

“Agent L/N, nice to meet you,” you put on a smile and offer an equally firm handshake, proving you’re not someone to mess with in the field, lest any officers get any ideas. “Where did you find them?”

“Right this way,” Deputy Harris gestures down the dirt road that might as well be an overgrown path. “There’s a fishing hole just at the end of it. Denis was driving to it when he saw them.”

You start walking down the path, toward the yellow markers. “Is it a private fishing hole?”

“Not necessarily,” Harris shrugs. “If you know Denis, you can fish there. If you don’t, well.”

“Gotcha,” you nod. “And we can trust Denis?”

Your lighthearted tone shocks Hotch, but it gets a chuckle out of the deputy. “Considering he’s back that way with one of my officers still puking his guts out, yeah, I’d say so.”

“Got it,” you let out a laugh. “He’ll be alright.”

Hotch watches you as you walk ahead with the deputy, and he’s even more shocked by the slight accent coming through your words.

The deputy gives you a pleased smile. “You from around here?”

“No, no,” you shake your head, casting a glance in Hotch’s direction. “Further north.”

Hotch’s eyes dart to yours.

“Ah, Birmingham?” the deputy asks.

“No, uh,” you pause, and Hotch waits for you to correct the officer, say you’re from a different state, but you don’t. You avert your eyes to the dirt path ahead. “Huntsville.”

Hotch’s gaze hardens. You and your file told him you were from a different state entirely. One a long way from Huntsville, Alabama.

The file he asked Garcia to retrieve sits in his briefcase back at the hotel — alongside a sticky note written in her famous gel pen that states she does not approve of this kind of snooping. He hasn’t had the time to fully look through it, but he glanced at the first page, including where you’re from, and it did not say Huntsville.

What game are you playing?

“Is this where he dumped them?” you ask, bringing your hand up to shield your eyes from the sun. The deputy nods.

A few crime scene investigators crawl carefully around the area, taking pictures and notes. The bodies have since been taken away, but they’re still searching for anything they can find. You watch them work from a distance, but Hotch studies you for a moment.

Something is bothering you about this case.

You ask the standard questions to gain some extra information from the deputy, but it isn’t much. There isn’t much to these murders unfortunately. At least not that they can see right now.

At least not that you’re sharing.

“Well, deputy,” you turn toward him, the sweet southerness still lacing your words and making Hotch’s mouth twitch at the corners. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else. A few of our colleagues have set up back at the precinct.”

Harris nods. “We’ll see you there, then.” He sticks his hand out for another handshake.

You take it in stride. “Best barbeque in town? I'll be a tough judge.”

The deputy laughs heartily. “I don’t doubt that.”

Hotch takes in the area for a moment longer before nodding to the deputy, and then he’s turning on his heel, heading back to the car. The only way he knows you’re following is your stomping footsteps.

He’s going to have a storm waiting for him when he gets in the car, but so will you.

“Hello?” you shout after him. “Get the creeps or something?”

He slams the car door once he’s inside, waiting for you to do the same. You do.

“Hello?” you repeat, waving your hand in front of his face. “Jesus.” You yank the seatbelt over your body. “Thanks for your help back there. Your questions were so useful.”

Hotch cranks the engine, pulling onto the road to turn around. “Huntsville?” he inquires.

“What?” You rest your head in your hand.

“You’re from Alabama?”

“That is what my birth certificate says,” you deadpan. “Is there an issue with me being born here?”

“No, your—” Hotch stops. What can he say, exactly? If he says that’s not what your file tells him, he’s crossing a line. And you seem…calmer. He doesn’t want to accuse you of lying and set you off before he can get the truth out of you. So, he tries again. “You told me you were from Washington state.”

You shrug. “We moved when I was little. I’m forever split between the two, I guess.”

It’s an uncharacteristic moment of openness between the two of you. Maybe the first ever. Hopefully not the last.

Hotch nods. “Did you like Washington more?”

It takes you a while to answer, and Hotch expects you to poke fun at him, maybe even get angry. But you don’t.

“I did,” you reply, the ghost of a smile crossing your lips. “Did you like where you grew up?”

He lets out a little laugh. “It was okay. My brother and I liked it as much as kids can, I guess.”

“Brother?” you turn to look at him, mischief written all over you. “Let me guess…younger.”

“How’d you know?” Hotch asks, exasperation in his eye roll as he thinks of Sean’s antics.

You hum. “You just seem like an older brother.”

“How so?”

“Pushy,” you blurt immediately.

Hotch scoffs. Looks like the moment of calm was short-lived. “Right.”

“Intelligent,” you add, quietly, looking out the windshield instead. “Protective. You’re used to doing everything yourself and being the boss, steering people around.”

“I am the Unit Chief—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave your hand at him. “But you weren’t when I first met you.”

Hotch opens his mouth to protest, but leaves it alone — for once. He raises one hand off the wheel in surrender. “Alright, fair enough.”

You dial Morgan’s number to give him some updates, but first, “Any ideas for dinner? Got a tip for the best barbeque in town.”

Morgan’s laugh rumbles through the phone, “I love the sound of that.”

+++

Arriving back at the precinct, dinner in hand, you and Hotch are…surprisingly fine. Everyone’s jaw’s practically drop open when you both walk into the precinct in one piece. And on speaking terms.

“Uh…” Morgan takes the drink carrier from you, eyeing you and Hotch carefully. “Good?”

“Yeah,” you say, maybe too quickly. “Fine, why?”

You honestly don’t know what’s come over either of you. You didn’t argue the whole way back. Okay, you didn’t talk either, but you’ll take what you can get. You’re just glad he didn’t use the fact that you couldn’t escape as an excuse to ask questions you can’t answer. The silence was as comfortable as you could hope for, the radio playing at a low volume.

“What have you found?” Hotch asks, looking at Reid. He takes the seat diagonal from you.

“Uh, nothing much so far,” Reid replies regrettably. He reaches for a bag of chips as Morgan steals them away. “The greater cities are all accessible by I-10, but the towns are far off the interstate, so it’s not that relevant. But hey, I was thinking, you know who this is reminding me of?”

Everyone shares a wild look.

“What, kid?” Morgan says with a laugh. “What does it remind you of?”

Around a mouthful of barbeque, Reid says, “Do you remember Carson Adkins? They called him The Strangler.” Reid raises his eyebrows to his hairline.

Your heart stutters to a complete halt. Your lungs constrict.

Around you, the conversation continues.

Morgan: “From the 80s?”

Prentiss: “Didn’t he strike in Georgia and California?”

JJ: “That’s him.”

Reid: “Rossi, wasn’t that when you were with the BAU?”

Rossi: “Thanks, kid, I appreciate the age-check.”

You’re too busy focusing on controlling your breathing to realize you’ve stopped breathing entirely. And moving.

“Y/N?” Hotch’s voice breaks through the fog, and you flinch away from the noise, despite a table separating you.

“Fine,” you say automatically, setting your sandwich down. Your eyes scan the crowd of worried faces watching you. “I’m fine. We were talking? About the…” You dust your hands off. “The Strangler?”

“Yes,” Rossi says slowly, finally looking elsewhere. “It took us years to track him down because he went dormant and we couldn’t figure out why or where.”

“Did you ever figure out why?” you ask, your voice sounding unlike any sounds you’ve ever produced.

Rossi’s eyes meet yours briefly before he looks away. “He had a wife and daughter. It’s more common than you think.”

You swallow around whatever rock has made a home in your throat. “But you found him.”

“We did,” Rossi says quietly. “He eventually slipped up. He got sloppy, reckless. What really led us to him was someone he knew kidnapping his daughter. He did everything he could to lead us to her. Even though he knew it meant we’d catch him.”

You nod, wrapping your hand around your cup, trying not to dig your fingertips in. It’s foam, for fuck’s sake, and the last thing you need is to spill Coke all over these files.

“His poor wife and daughter,” JJ sighs. “I hope they’re okay, wherever they are now.”

“Yeah,” Rossi says, eyes flicking to yours just for a fleeting second. “Me too.”

After a beat, Derek says, “Do we think this is a copycat then, or…?”

“I don’t think so,” Reid says. “There’s too many differences for it to be a total copycat, I just meant it reminds me of how he traveled by—”

Your ears start ringing too loud to hear him, but it’s for the better. You don’t need to hear him list the differences and similarities. You know them already.

You know them because The Strangler was— is your father. And you’re the reason he was caught.

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