#morcia fanfiction

[mrs-kmikaelson]

What's in a Name?

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

Masterlist | Bonus (no.6)

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

1. The myth

Quantico, Virginia, 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do they?" you drawled.

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

You hummed.

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

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

"That's cute," you remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, he nodded.

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

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

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

2. Smile

Langley, Virginia, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just like John Summers," you drawled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Realization dawned upon him. "Money."

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

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

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

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

They valued revenge.

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

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

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Gideon, we got a situation here.]

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

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

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

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

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

[Bruno?]

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

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

[Say it!]

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

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

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

"Finish him."

"Gina, don't you dare do this."

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

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

And then you heard four gunshots. 

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

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

"What are you talking about?"

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

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

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

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

"Oh, you son of a—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was your job to see to that.

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The games we play

Washington, D.C., 2007

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

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

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

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

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

But the blood pooled around her was a telltale.

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

But you knew better than that.

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

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

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

"Detective Walker."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" 

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

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

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

"A code to what?"

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

❧

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

"You're going to need help."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn't explore any other option.

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're— you're her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, yes, sugar, I would."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Already on it, Sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agent Hotchner continued to surprise you.

And you'd be sure to return the favour.

❧

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

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

That's what you explained to Hotch.

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

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

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

You gave him a look.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn't respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I can tell."

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded and let him get away with it.

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

"Dating," you repeat.

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

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

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

"Oh."

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

And you didn't mention the ring again.

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

❧

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

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

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

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

"Who was driving that car?"

"A CIA agent."

"And where is he going now?"

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

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

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

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

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

He still didn't look at you.

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

The game was over.

You just couldn't tell who won.

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

You were gone.

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

4. Unpredictable

New York, New York, 2008

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

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

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

"Uniforms are rounding up witnesses."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

❧

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

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

You didn't look back once.

"So, terrorism, huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You insinuated it."

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

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

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

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

"What?" Shock laced through his voice.

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

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

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

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

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Talk to me, babygirl."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, you have."

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

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

You didn't like the unpredictable.

And Aaron Hotchner was just that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We lost the visual," another woman said.

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

"Negative."

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

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

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

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

"I had every available man on the street."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unpredictability. What a fickle thing.

You hated it.

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hummed. "Or you want to go back."

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

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

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

"Get over it, Morgan."

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

❧

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

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

Suicide by cop.

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

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

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

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

"You got it, angel."

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

"Good. And Spencer—"

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch and Kate.

They hadn't left yet.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. They parked next to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then everything went black.

❧

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

No, not a dream. A hallucination.

There's been an accident.

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

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

No, not an accident. This was planned.

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

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

Hotch and Kate.

They were with you.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I think so." 

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

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

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

"Hey! Are the two of you okay?"

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

Determination.

"What's your name?" he questioned.

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

Hotch repeated, "What's your name?"

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

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

"Yeah— yeah, I did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aaron, my purse."

Shock. She's in shock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were gonna be sick.

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

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

"Do it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This area is restricted," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My orders are what they are." 

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

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

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

"Please. Go back to the marshaling point."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just killed himself right in front you.

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

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

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

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

"I— it didn't feel this bad before."

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

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

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

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

Please let them be okay.

❧

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

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

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

That wasn't too far off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were 7 years sober.

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

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

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

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

Hospitals were unpredictacle.

You didn't like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you did.

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

"No. Nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Derek," you started.

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

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

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

It was meant to take you here.

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

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

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that a cell in his hands?"

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

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

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

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

Hotch's voice was incredulous. "Alone?"

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

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

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

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

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

None of you said a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn't have many of those.

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

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

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

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

And so were you.

❧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You told yourself it was the job.

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

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

 You hated that, and you hated what it implied.

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

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

But he was.

"Yo—"

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

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

Kate Joyner was dead the second that blast hit.

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

"You're avoiding me."

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

"I'm not."

"You are."

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

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

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

"But I want to."

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

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

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

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

He took another step forward. "I do."

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

"Y/N—"

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

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

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

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

And then you were gone.

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

You left your coffee there, he realized.

With all the other things you left, too.

5. The gavel and the gun

Southbridge, Virginia, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was.

"Y/N."

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

"Hotchner."

You were going to fucking strangle Derek Morgan.

❧

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

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

You've been avoiding me.

And maybe that was true.

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

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

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

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

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

And then there were two.

Fuck.

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

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

You were nothing.

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

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

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

But you didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you had more. 

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

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

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

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

If only you could always have it your way.

❧

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

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

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

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

If you know what I mean ;)

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

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

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

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

"With Garcia?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a second.

❧

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

His presence was already pushing it.

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

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

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

You knew what instability looked like.

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

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

Prepared.

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

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

"I can see that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um—"

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

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

You. In his apartment.

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

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

He was the gavel, and you were the gun.

And that was that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're kidding me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. "More or less."

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

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

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

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

You intook a deep breath. "Ho—"

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

What am I hiding from?

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

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

What are you hiding from, Y/N?

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

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

"Y/N—"

"Um, thank you for the water—"

"Y/N."

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

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

This wasn't gonna happen.

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

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

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

6. A lie is the truth (link)

taglist: @flow33didontsmoke

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

[jugheadthelesbian]

sfw requests r open!!

alright im caving. while not feeling completely up to writing new chapters for anything, i am desperate to write something 😭😭

so x reader, x oc, and pairings requests r now open!! just send me ur asks w whatever u want for the following fandoms/characters

criminal minds

🩷 x reader/oc: i will do any of the characters from the team x reader or x oc but i LOVE writing elle, garcia, and morgan specifically

🩷 pairings: morcia, galvez, spencelle, hotchi, jemily, jelle, jarcia, ellemily, rossi x gideon, gideon x hotch

harry potter/marauders

🩷 x reader/oc: harry, ron, fred, george, lee jordan, hermione, ginny, luna, cedric, angelina johnson, lily evans, marlene, remus, sirius, peter, james, regulus, dorcas, mary, pandora, evan, barty, bellatrix, narcissa, alice, andromeda, and rita

🩷 pairings: ronmione, linny, lee x george, lee x fred, jily, jegulus, jegulily, regulily, pandalily, wolfstar, dorlene, marylene, marylily, quillkiller, nobleflower, and rosekiller

the hunger games

🩷 x reader/oc: finnick, annie, johanna, katniss, peeta, haymitch, cashmere, gloss, enobaria, lucy gray, sejanus, and cinna

🩷 pairings: odesta, johannie, everlark, hayffie, cashbaria, clato, and glarvel

mean girls(2024)

🩷 x reader/oc: regina, damien, janis, cady, gretchen, karen, and aaron

🩷 pairings: rejanis, fetchen, cady x aaron, ms norberry x mr duvall

stranger things

🩷 x reader/oc: max, lucas, dustin, mike, will, el, steve, robin, nancy, eddie, jonathan, argyle, and chrissy

🩷 pairings: lumax, elumax, byler, elmax, steddie, platonic stobin, ronance, hellcheer, buckingham, and jargyle

note: i will not do anything beyond making out and i will do angst and fluff :) if a character/pairing was not mentioned, but u want to request it, feel free to ask anyways and i will respond privately if i dont feel comfortable doing it. i can do head canons or full-on drabbles, u pick! i can also do platonic pairings or x reader/oc

as for introductions, im a chronic flirter with an obsession for reading who is loved by one(@siriusblackwannabe)

for more writing, go to my ao3:

[whimsy-core]

does anyone have morcia fic recs 😔

[melacka]

Fictober 2024: "that was good work" (CM, Morcia)

Title: (i try but) i can't fight it by Melacka

Rating: High T (suggestive themes but no actual sex)

Word count: 1750 words

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Penelope Garcia/Derek Morgan

Warnings: apart from the aforementioned suggestive themes (and one awkward boner), nada

Summary: Derek should have known that the self-defence classes were a bad idea.

Tags: Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Suggestive Themes, Flirting, Banter, Awkward Boners, Friendship/Love, Public Display of Affection

You can read it on AO3 here or keep reading below.

Looking back on it later, Derek should have known that the self-defence classes were a bad idea. Not because he didn’t want Penelope to be safe, and it was unlikely that he would trust anyone else to teach her properly, anyway, but he hadn’t really thought about the logistics of the lessons. He hadn’t considered the fact that it would involve him pinning Penelope to the mat again and again and again, only to encourage her to flip him over if she could. If the sight of Penelope pink-faced and sweaty beneath him was a test of his control, the vision of her straddling him, magnificent in her victory and with chest heaving was on a whole other level.

“That was good work,” he said, his voice only slightly strained. “But I think we can do better.”

“I don’t know,” Penelope said airily. “From where I’m sitting it’s looking like the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Again.”

She got off him with a grumble and took up the stance he had shown her as he advanced quickly, reminding himself firmly to keep it professional. She may be the girl of his dreams, but she was also his colleague and one of his very best friends, and he owed it to her to do this right. It had taken weeks of cajoling to even get her in the damn gym with him in the first place, he couldn’t risk messing it up now over something as ridiculous as a poorly timed erection. He wasn’t in high school anymore. He should be better than this, damn it.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to matter how many times he reminded himself to behave professionally, he couldn’t help but feel his arousal slowly build. Luckily, he had years of experience in suppressing his desire where Penelope was concerned, so he knew how to handle it. That was, he knew how to handle it until she managed to send him to the floor with unexpected speed and before he had a chance to even catch his breath, she had settled herself snuggly in the cradle of his hips as she leaned back against his bent legs. She gave a little victory wiggle, delight written all over her face as she thrust her arms into the air.

“Yes!” she cried. “I am the undisputed queen of self-defence. All lesser mortals bow before—”

Derek groaned and closed his eyes in a brief moment of hopeless denial as Penelope suddenly froze in place. He knew that she had felt the unmistakable evidence of his arousal and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it in this position. He bit back another groan as he opened his eyes to see that her cheeks had flushed an even darker shade of pink and her mouth was opened wide in surprise. After a moment of stunned silence, Penelope obviously decided that humour was the best response to any awkward situation, and she leaned down against his chest to whisper in his ear.

“Is that all for me, handsome?” she cooed. “If I’d known that was going to be my reward for all this stupid training, I would’ve suggested it years ago.”

“Very funny,” Derek grunted and closed his eyes again, trying to will his erection away. “You going to get off now?”

“I guess that depends on how much work you put in,” Penelope murmured, still pressed against him. “But we are in public, you know.”

“That bother you?” Derek asked, attempting a light tone.

“Oh, sugar, you know I don’t share.”

Derek let out a laugh and made a show of stretching out underneath her, finishing with his hands cradled casually under his head.

“No need to share, baby girl,” he said seriously. “You know I’m all yours.”

“Do I?” she breathed.

“Don’t you?”

They stared at each other in silence, aware that they stood on the edge of something they’d been avoiding for years.

“Derek,” Penelope whispered eventually, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you should know that I’ve been yours for almost as long as we’ve known each other. And I haven’t brought it up because—”

“Because?” she prompted when he didn’t finish his thought.

“I didn’t think you wanted this.”

“This?”

“Me.” Derek shrugged uncomfortably. “Us. I thought you were just happier being friends.”

“I’m happiest with you in my life, Derek,” she said seriously. “However I can have you, that’s how I want you.”

Derek narrowed his eyes at her in consideration and then sat up, moving to support her with his hands as she adjusted to this new closeness.

“So, if I want us just to be friends, you’d be fine with that?”

“Always have been.”

“And if I want more?”

Penelope’s eyes flicked down to his lips and Derek felt a thrill of anticipation course through him.

“What if I’m more than you can handle?” she said breathlessly.

“Impossible.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself, Agent Morgan.”

“When it comes to you? I’ve never been surer of anything, Penelope.”

“Oh.”

Penelope looked down at his lips again before she darted her eyes back up to his. He smiled encouragingly at her as he slowly took one of his hands off her hip and cupped her cheek.

“May I kiss you, Penelope?” he said, looking into her eyes with as much sincerity as he could muster.

In answer, Penelope threw her arms around his neck and crushed their mouths together. After a moment of frantic kissing, they both moved to gentle the kiss. Penelope let out a little sound of pleasure as her hands slipped from around his neck to grasp at his arms and she squeezed them as she rhythmically massaged his lips with hers. Derek couldn’t quite believe it was happening after all this time, but he’d never been one to turn down a golden opportunity once it presented itself so invitingly and so he ran his tongue along her lips, encouraging her to open to him.

They kept kissing for what could have been a few seconds or several hours, and Derek would have been perfectly happy to continue on through the night, but he became aware of a loud wolf whistle coming from across the gym. He pulled back slowly so as not to startle Penelope and glared over her shoulder at the agent who had interrupted. Unperturbed, the man gave Derek the thumbs up and then wandered away.

“Think we’re in for more workplace training?” Penelope muttered, her gaze fixed firmly on his chest and her cheeks ablaze. “Does this count as sexual harassment in the office? Are we still technically on the clock in here?”

“Breathe, baby. He won’t tell anyone,” Derek said, not entirely sure he believed it himself. “At least, he won’t report it to anyone.”

He was fairly sure there’d been some kind of betting pool going about when he and Penelope would get together, so the news of their kiss was almost certain to spread through at least a few departments. He wondered who was gonna win it. He hoped it wouldn’t be anyone in the BAU. That would just be too embarrassing. But the damage was already done, so Derek saw no reason not to enjoy the moment for as long as he could make it last.

He leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to her lips and then smiled at her.

“Hey,” she said, smiling shyly at him.

“Hey, yourself.”

“You know, I pictured this all sorts of ways,” Penelope whispered, hands still clutched tightly around his arms. “Our first kiss.”

“Yeah?” Derek murmured, leaning forward to press his lips against her neck. “What did you imagine, baby?”

“Everything,” she admitted, throwing her head back to give him better access. “That we’d finally give in after a long night working on a case, or when you were over at mine for a movie night, or under the mistletoe at Christmas.”

“No reason we can’t do all of those.”

“But never, not once, did I imagine that it would happen like this, all sweaty and gross on the floor in the gym.”

She said gym like it was a particularly nasty word that she didn’t care to have in her mouth and Derek laughed softly as he pulled back to look at her.

“You’re not gross.”

“I am sweaty, though. And there are other people here.” She glanced quickly around to see if anyone was staring and accidentally made eye contact with a female agent lifting weights. “Ugh.”

“Poor baby. I hope you’re not disappointed?”

“Derek, my love, you could never disappoint me.” She rubbed her hands up and down his arms a few times, as if quietly thrilling in her ability to do so and not seeming to have a problem with how sweaty he was. “Especially not in this.”

Derek grinned and silently promised himself to make sure her statement would remain true for the rest of their lives.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked, for once not caring how desperate for her he sounded. “I can show you just how satisfying I can be.”

“You sure you’re ready for that?” Penelope asked coyly. “I mean, if I stand up right now, aren’t you going to be giving all your fellow gym-goers a bit of an eyeful?” She rotated her hips in a slow circle, watching his face carefully. “And from what I can feel here, it’s gonna be one hell of an eyeful.”

Derek groaned and threw his head back.

“Penelope, please—”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” she purred, leaning in close. “Maybe we should just stay right here for a bit.”

“My situation ain’t getting any easier,” Derek said dryly. “In fact, it’s only—”

“Getting harder?” Penelope finished, smirking at him. “Believe me, I’m counting on it.”

She gently encouraged him down until her flat on his back, staring up at her in wonder as she reached both hands up, bringing her cleavage in very close proximity to his face. Just as he was about to throw all caution to the wind and just bury his face in those magnificent breasts that he’d tried so hard not to stare at for so long, she was standing up and stepping back.

“Wha—”

She dropped the towel she had retrieved directly on his groin and grinned.

“I’m going to shower,” she said lightly. “Come find me when you can stand.”

And with one last lascivious look up and down his body, she strolled away.

[tevantarlos]

My Criminal Minds New Year's Ficathon 2024 Roundup

These are my 7 fics for the Criminal Minds New Year's Ficathon 2024. Note: Each fic features a different couple. 1 is canon, 6 are not. At Last (Moreid) [1/7] I Would Die for You (Jeid) [2/7] Running Through My Mind (Hotchniss) [3/7] Prettiest Thing I've Ever Seen (Jotch) [4/7] My Future (Jemily) [5/7] How Wonderful Life Is (Willifer) [6/7] Build A Life (Morcia) [7/7]

[mouse15-16]

Criminal Minds

[reasonablerodents]

"if i go down we both go down"

I went a bit left-field for me with this one- I don’t write Garcia anywhere as much as I want to, so I decided to make her the main character in this!

This can be read platonically or romantically- idk which one I meant it to be. Both?

Way Out

Penelope Garcia + Derek Morgan, Angst, Trapped

* * * * * * * * * *

"If I go down, we both go down,”

“That’s not true,” Penelope whispers. “Listen, neither of us are dying today.”

She wants to believe her words as much as she wants Derek to believe them, but it's difficult. Even for her, it’s hard to be relentlessly positive when faced with a situation like this.

“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have let you come with me,” Derek says urgently, unable to hide the way his voice cracks at the end of his sentence. “You don’t even have a gun, Penelope.”

Penelope doesn’t think she’s ever seen him more upset. His eyes are blurred with tears, his eyebrows creased as if he’s begging the very universe for forgiveness. She reaches up to touch his shoulder, stacked bracelets jingling in the silence of the room they’ve hidden in.

“We’re clever enough to get out of this without me needing a gun,” she tells him. A sad smile lifts the corners of her mouth as she continues, brightening her tone as much as possible. “And don’t you give up now. I need my big, beautiful hunk to be the brawn to my brains.”

Derek can’t quite muster a smile himself, but for a single second, she sees the muscles in his cheeks twitch and he nods.

“That’s it,” she encourages. “We’ll be back before you even know it, just you wait.”

Penelope really hopes she’s right.

[cosmicallymundane]

does anyone have any morcia fic recommendations?

i can hardly find any where they arent the background relationship :(

[derekluvbot]

alright my masterlist should he back up and running now

completely forgot that when you change users, you have to update all your links, so the links to masterlist, ask box, and request guidelines has been unusable for months lol

[homoose]

okay so i saw your recent post about wanting morcia requests and this is more of like a suggestion??? i guess i don’t know but it just came into my head and i think you could write it so well omg idk if its already been done BUT

morcia in that episode where morgan is driving the ambulance and its about to explode right well he’s asking garcia to keep talking to him right?? and she just like blurts out in her rambling that she loves him like for real for real

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 the dialogue of the beginning is taken straight from the episode, which is 4x01 Mayhem.

———

Penelope worked quickly with Officer Bartelby to triangulate the signal and shut down the cell towers. Then, she called Derek through her earpiece. “Morgan?”

It felt like an eternity before he replied, “Yeah, baby.”

His breathing was labored, his voice slightly threadier than usual. She kept her tone as even as she could, though her nerves began to build. “You sound stressed.”

“Do I?”

She would have said something snarky, bantered a little, but there was a knot growing in the pit of her stomach. “Where are you?”

He took another heavy breath. “Not where I wanna be right now.” There was a pause. “Garcia, take this down for me: FDNY 108.”

“That’s an ambulance,” she said cautiously, and the nerves became amplified. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied, and she didn’t believe him for a second. “Just track it for me.” And then he let out a stressed, frustrated sigh.

Penelope didn’t say anything, just worked with frantic fingers to get the information he asked for.

Thirty seconds later he was back over the comm. “Oh my god,” he muttered, not meant for her to hear. Then, “Garcia, how long can you keep jamming the cell phone lines?”

Nothing good ever followed an inquiry about a time limit. “Uh— a few minutes. Max. Why?”

“‘Cause I’m gonna have to get this ambulance out of here.”

Her heart went cold. “Or you could just evacuate the building like everybody else,” she corrected, a little desperately.

“No,” he answered. “As soon as the airways are clear this thing’s going up.”

The determination in his voice was enough to have her scrambling. “Going— oh, my god, that’s in, like, three minutes because that’s when the satellite moves position.”

He didn’t respond, and she could hear the slamming of the ambulance door, an incessant beeping sound, and Derek fumbling around, muttering out a, “Come on.”

She could feel the tears starting to well up, watched helplessly as the blocked cell towers blinked on her computer screen. This could not be happening. She was not going to lose Derek Morgan like this.

“Garcia, listen to me.” His voice broke her out of her spiral. “I need you to find an area of town I can drive this thing, and you tell everybody— you hear me, everybody— that I’m comin’.”

She nodded even though she knew he couldn’t see her, fingers slamming over the keys to find the closest open area she could. She heard Derek begging the ambulance, “Come on, baby. Do it. Go.”

And she knew it wasn’t her he was talking to, but it gave her the boost, the motivation she needed to figure this out. To save his ass, like she always did.

“All right, talk to me, Garcia.”

His voice was frantic, and she worked to keep hers level, even though she felt like screaming. “Okay, head north... and floor it. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

She heard Derek’s breathing, the squealing of the ambulance tires, and then what sounded like fireworks. “What was that?” she demanded.

“It was nothing, it was noth— just talk to me.”

She murmured quiet directions to him, tried her best to soothe him, keep him calm and focused. Turn left here, use this side street, keep going north. Derek’s frantic breathing dominated her ears more than the blaring of the siren. He didn’t speak at all, just listened and navigated and drove a ticking time bomb through the streets of New York.

“How am I doing, Garcia?”

“How’s he doing?” she asked Bartelby.

“One minute, fifty seconds,” came the response.

Less than two minutes left with this man who had spent the last five years teasing her, supporting her, building her up, cherishing her— just as she was, and she couldn’t keep it together any longer. “Why does it always have to be you? Why do you always have to do this?”

He didn’t respond to her, and now the panic was turning to anger. “Derek, you don’t have much time. Please be smart about this. Signal’s coming back online.”

“30 seconds to full coverage,” Bartelby warned.

“Derek, drive to the opening and then get the hell out,” Penelope demanded.

“There’s something I really want you to know, Garcia,” he murmured.

“20 seconds.”

“Save it,” she begged, because there was no reason to be doing final confessions. He was going to be fine. “Just get out.”

“No, no, no, I’m not quite there yet.”

The tears bled through in her voice as they rolled down her cheek. “Morgan... please.”

Bartelby’s countdown rang in her ears, and then Derek tried again. “Just listen to me.”

“No, you listen to me, Derek Morgan,” she shot back. “Because you’re not gonna die in that stupid ambulance, but since you’re acting like you will, I’m gonna yell my love at you, and you’re gonna listen.”

She stared at the countdown of the cell towers. “You’re strong and kind and patient and supportive. You’re chivalrous without being chauvinistic, and you’re protective without being patronizing. You’re a hero and the best man that I know. You’re— you are my absolute favorite person.”

She was crying now, tears running hot down her cheeks and burning tracks that she was sure she’d still feel long after the saline dried up. But he needed to know, and she was angry with him for putting himself in this position, and she was angry with herself for being such a coward for so long.

“You can’t die, because I don’t know how I’m supposed to live without you, Derek. I— I love you. I know we’ve said it before, and I meant it then, in that way. But I’m— I’m in love with you. I don’t know when it happened, but it’s— it feels as natural as breathing. Like a fish loves water, like dry ground loves rain, all those pretty, flowery similes they write on planners and coffee mugs.”

Bartelby informed her they had ten seconds, and she rushed out the rest, all the things she’d been holding inside because she wanted to keep Derek in any way she could have him. “But I also love you when it’s hard, when we’re not in very good moods, when we’re struggling with demons that we thought we’d conquered. And I— I’ve never loved anybody like that.” She let out a shaky breath, shook her head and felt a sob building in her chest. “I need you to get the hell out of that stupid ambulance, because I can’t do this without you.”

“We just lost tracking,” Bartelby murmured.

The breath caught in Penelope’s throat, and she closed her eyes. “Morgan?”

The explosion rattled through the earpiece, Bartelby dropped her elbows to the desk in defeat, and Penelope couldn’t breathe. “Derek?”

For a long moment, there was nothing, and she was sure that she’d lost him. The man she should have been able to fix up houses with and play scrabble with and bake vegan treats with and raise children with and grow old with— was gone. And then...

“You know what you are Garcia?”

Penelope’s heart jump started and relief rolled through her like a tsunami, and then she rolled her eyes with absolute and pure (loving) disgust.

“I’ll tell you what you are to me,” Derek panted. “You’re my god-given solace.”

Penelope closed her eyes, brought a shaky hand up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bartelby lean back with a small smile.

Derek continued, “Woman, you promise me one thing— whatever happens, don’t you ever stop talking to me.”

Penelope huffed. “I can’t right now because I’m mad at you.”

“I can wait.” He sighed into her ear piece, and it was the most beautiful symphony she’d ever heard. “And Penelope?”

She sniffed in response, and he laughed a little at her pettiness. “Ditto, baby girl.”

[truegenius]

Why Are You Scared of Loving?

morcia blurb for @temily <3

Summary: Three times Derek says “I love you” and the time Penelope finally says it back.

Pairing: Morcia

Rating: G

tw: none

The first time he said it out loud, it wasn't even to her. Prentiss and JJ had been teasing him in the bullpen on one of their days off.

"Oooooohhhh look at his face," Emily had said to JJ while eying Derek, "He can't stop smiling!"

"Careful Morgan, your face might freeze like that." JJ teased from her spot next to Emily.

"I'm pretty sure it already has!" Emily laughed as she brought her hand up to protect herself from the file that Derek had thrown her way.

"Hey, I can't help it if I love her." Derek had shrugged, still smiling from ear to ear.

"You what?" Derek froze hearing Penelope's voice from behind him. All three agents froze, their smiles slowly dropping.

"Babygirl! I–" Derek started, but she was gone by the time he turned around.

***

The second time it happens, they were on a case. It wasn't even on purpose. It was a slip of the tongue, a habit, like he'd been saying it all his life. The team was gathered around a small table in the local precinct, listening as Garcia debriefed them on what she found on their latest unsub.

"Thanks Garcia," Hotch said as he went to update the local police.

"Stay safe crimefighters! I'll hit you back when I have more details." Garcia said while the others started gathering files and head back into the field.

"Alright, thanks babygirl. I love you." Derek said and everyone froze. It wasn't his usual flirty "love ya mamma" sign off. He hadn't said anything since the day in the bullpen. Every time Derek tried to bring it up, Penelope would always change the topic or find a way out of the conversation altogether.

There was a pregnant pause before Prentiss finally spoke up, "Garcia, are you still there?"

"Yep! Bye!" Penelope said shortly. They heard a click and the line went dead.

***

The third time was after dinner, Derek had made his famous sweet potato pie and Penelope had insisted on cleaning up.

"Baby, you don't have to do that," Derek smiled, coming up behind where she was standing at the sink, "I'll do it in the morning."

"I know, but you made such a wonderful meal and the least I can do is clean it up a bit." She frowned slightly as reached from behind her and took the towel and plate and set them on the counter.

He spun her around so he could look into her eyes, "It's ok, really. Having you here is all I need. I love you."

He could feel her stiffen in his arms. This time it wasn't some offhanded comment to a couple of friends or some passing remark at the end of a phone call. This time, Derek's voice was filled with unspoken promises and a future with a white picket fence and kisses goodnight and growing old together in rocking chairs on a porch overlooking the ocean. This time he meant every syllable of those three small words and Penelope was terrified. Terrified because she could feel all the emotion in his eyes; terrified because she could sense him gazing into her soul and tearing all her walls down; and most of all terrified because she wanted to let him.

Derek could see her mind going into overdrive. He could see the worry in her eyes and he could feel her pulling away even if there was less than an inch between them.

"Babygirl, talk to me" Derek said, moving an out of place strand of hair out of her eyes, "Why are you scared of loving?"

She could feel her heartbeat slowing just from listening to his voice, calm and soothing, "I just–"

He could feel her start to shake in his arms so he poured her a glass of water and slowly moved them to the couch.

"Please don't push me away." Derek said lowly, turning his body to face her.

"It's just that in the past, everyone I've ever loved ends up leaving... My parents– Kevin– God, even Shane. And I can't let that happen to you, Derek. I won't. Because I don't know what I would do without– do without you, " She hiccuped, "And I–"

Tears were running freely down her face and the sight broke Derek's heart. He took both her hands into one of his and wiped her cheek with the other, "Penelope, look at me please."

His hand went to her chin to gently lift her head until her eyes met his gaze, "I'm right here baby. I'm not going anywhere. Do you feel this?"

He brought one of her hands up to his chest, over his heart. She could feel his heartbeat, strong, and steady, and unwavering beneath the soft fabric of his shirt.

"This is me not going anywhere. This is me promising to be right here by your side for the rest of your life. This is me not running from what makes me happy anymore. This is me loving you with every beat of my heart." Derek said, looking at her as her eyes were locked onto where her hand was still placed on his chest. Her breathing was quiet and stable now but her watery eyes still shined brightly in the dim light.

After a long moment she finally raised her eyes to meet his with a small smile, "I love you, Derek Morgan."

taglist: @morcias @hotchsbabygirl @pagetsimp @wheelsup @makaylajadewrites @spencers-renaissance @tobias-hankel @scandinavian-punk @lavenderbau @honeyharreh @morceid @temily @ssa-m-187 @hotchgans (i don’t have an official one so just tagging some people who might like it. please lmk if you want to be added or removed 👉👈)

[jugheadthelesbian]

wip wednesday !!

here’s some morcia dialogue practice ive been working on

Penelope wishes they could’ve stayed in that moment, two girls hopelessly pining for people they couldn’t have, but then the Fisher King attacked them and Penelope fucked everything up and Elle got shot. Derek nearly got blown up.  And it is all Penelope’s fault. They get the weekend off, all three days, because of emotional damage. Penelope, who originally still had to work, goes home at Gideon’s request. She can’t look him in the eyes anymore. “How could you be so stupid?” He told her. Long forgotten are the flowers and MP3 player from a few weeks ago. Shame and guilt stabs her in the heart and she stays in bed for all of Friday and late into Saturday as well, ignoring her phone and the missed calls she lets go to voicemail. 

She keeps replaying Derek’s disappointment in her over and over again in her head. His frown when he realized what she had done. Just him and how he probably hated her. How they all probably hated her. She bet that they were all hanging out together right now, talking about how terrible she is for what she did. For letting the Fisher King hack into her iron fortress of a computer system. She lies curled up in a ball on her bed, sobbing into her pillow like a petulant child. Nearly two days pass like this, she moves like a ghost in her own home, before Derek Morgan shows up at her door.

“Fucking hell, baby girl,” He says, immediately hugging her tight to him once she opens the door. “I was so worried about you. You never ignore my calls.” He speaks into the crown of her head and she breathes in the scent of his soft T-shirt. “Can I… come in?” He asks and Penelope notices how he doesn’t let go until she does. She nods and turns away so he doesn’t see her cry. She’s grateful for confining herself to her bedroom for the past two days because the rest of the house is relatively clean which is good. Of course, Derek has been over at her house before, after hard cases or just when the two of them needed someone to talk to, but this is different. She hasn’t seen him since the attack and she doesn’t even know what to think of him anymore.

She stifles her crying, gesturing for him to sit on the couch while she moves into the kitchen. Her heart hurts and she can’t breathe, she has to push herself to not sob. She’s making this about herself which is  what she always does and she should just like die or something. She hates herself and she’s being dramatic and she can’t breathe. “Penelope?” Derek’s in the kitchen now with her. And she’s sobbing like crazy now. “What’s wrong?” 

“It was all my fault,” She cries out and in two steps he’s hugging her. She doesn’t deserve this, whatever the two of them are. She doesn’t deserve him. “And I can’t do this with you anymore.” She pushes him off of her. 

“Do what, Pen?” He asks with wide eyes, his hands up in surrender, like he’s not a threat. He’s not a threat, she is and the way she feels is and that’s the problem. “I don’t understand, did I do something?” He cautiously inquires, taking a step closer to Penelope, hands still up in surrender because he thinks he did something wrong when she’s the one who ruined everything. Who will ruin everything and wants to cross over the invisible boundary line they’ve created.

@voidratwrites @eico-23 if yall want to share any wips

[missmitchieg]

Like, I knew the writers were gonna screw Garvez, and therefore the shippers, over just because of the way they wrote Morcia.

Think about it.

Hot guy pays positive attention to Garcia and isn't a toxic massive bag of dicks. In Garcia and the stan's dreams.

Hot guy ends up dating hot doctor lady and falling stupidly in love.

Hot guy doesn't help Penelope get the other guy.

It's the same formula done again. (yes, I know Kevin proposed before Derek met Savannah, but still.)

I already sat through a guy fumbling the bag once and I knew it was going to happen again because I got the message the first time.

The only thing about Luke and Lisa that surprised me was instead of getting married, they broke up and I was like Ooh?

And then Luke asked Penelope to dinner and I was like OOH?

And then The Mess That Is S16 happened and I immediately regretted getting excited because I snapped back to reality and then I

And now I sit in my room and I write fanfiction for them.

So anyway, that's my story.

I hate that I know exactly why I didn't want to ship Garvez and I couldn't stop myself falling in love with them. Damn it.

[alexandrablake]

myrtle ave.

summary: “i love you more than i have ever found a way to say to you” ~ ben fold. or five times derek morgan said i love you, and the one time he actually said “i love you”

pairing: morcia word count: 5,427 warnings: slight mention of food. other than that, this is pure fluff. a/n: couple things. 1- this is dedicated to @morcias​​ not only because she actually helped me with this, but because she was my inspiration for this. 2- never written a 5/1, how do we feel? 3- title comes from the mxmtoon song by the same name because it reminds me of them click here to be added to my taglist!

“the most indispensable ingredient of all good home cooking: love for those you are cooking for.” - sophia loren

She was late, oh so late, and to what she wasn’t sure. There was nowhere to go except home, and no one waiting for her except for day old leftovers and a hot shower.

Hot shower would feel amazing. Maybe that’s what she was late for. 

Frigid air filled her lungs as she stepped out of her car, and she immediately hugged her coat even closer to her as some form of protection. Huddling as best as she could from the wind, she made her way to her front door. She fumbled with the house keys because damn were her fingers cold, but the feeling that enveloped her as she finally walked in the room made it worth it.

It was warm in her house, as it always was, and she was rushed by the feeling of familiarity as she always did when she came home. It was always nice to have a place to come home to, a place where she could be herself, a place to be free from the burdens of the world she sees everyday.

In the comfort of her own home, fatigue of her long hours began to set in. She yawned as she made her way down the hallways towards the kitchen and had to rub her eyes several times to confirm that the mirage in front of her was not so.

A plate was lying at her normal seat at the table, complete with silverware. It was haphazardly covered by a pot lid, and she could make out her shocked reflection in it. Steam was collecting against it - the cooking was done recently.

She spun around to find the cook, but her search turned up no one. Setting her bags down on the couch as she passed, Penelope let out a content sigh when she caught a figure she knew all too well lying in her bed.

Derek Morgan was to blame.

Picturesque white clouds billowed out from the lid as she lifted it. There was shuffling from her bedroom, and she looked up to find herself raptured in the gaze of brown eyes.

“It’s masala.”

Her favorite.

“I-I didn’t know you were coming over tonight,” she stammered as she made her way over to him, hands coming to rest on his upper arm.

He leaned into her palm, blinking away sleep. “I wasn’t. Emily called, said you were working late, and I figured you needed something to eat.”

Her heart sang, and she had to resist the urge to kiss him. There was a time and place to speak the unspoken words between them, but then was not the time.

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you, babygirl.”

“gestures, in love, are incomparably more attractive, effective, and valuable than words.” - francois rabelais

For what it was worth, she really did try to have a good day. She smiled at her coworkers as they passed, and there was no horrible case file to cross her desk, and her outfit was incredible, and her wonderful little angel of a godson was brought in, and and and and

Yet, she still felt so bad. 

Everyone had bad days, it didn’t matter who you were or what you did- and everyone included Penelope Garcia. So, she sat through it, frowning at the bright screens in front of her, thinking that she would rather be anywhere but there.

Derek was working from home, so her safe place was away from her. Of course, she could call him, but he was probably working, and she didn’t really want to bother him just to complain about everything and nothing at the same time.

So she waited and waited, tossing a stress ball from hand to hand, and counted down the moments until she could go home. Penelope prided herself on many things, but her patience when it came to getting off of work did not even make the longlist.

For once, however, the universe took pity on her, by way of one Aaron Hotchner. A stark contrast to her, Hotch had a good day and was sporting a rare smile when he knocked on her door.

“Come in.” Penelope didn’t even try to keep her bad mood from surfacing.

Hotch leaned back onto her desk as he said, “Garcia, why don’t you go home? Almost everyone else has, so there’s no use in keeping you here.”

It felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, but she fought to keep her voice from expressing her overwhelming relief. “Thank you, sir, I appreciate it, but are you sure?”

“Garcia.” He shot her a stern look, but there was no menace behind it. “Take it and leave.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice - well, technically he did, but that's besides the point. Hastily grabbing her things, she bid him a quick goodbye and made her way to the elevator. 

On the car drive home, the bad mood came back, the high of getting off work early quickly wearing off. She had to get gas on her way home, and when she made her way back into her car, she put on her sad playlist. It made her day even worse when she realized that, in her huge library of playlists for every mood, she didn’t have one for whatever she was feeling right then. 

Her parking job was bad, but at that moment, she couldn’t care less. Hot tears rushed to her eyes, and she was fighting a losing battle to keep them at bay. 

“Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry,” she chanted as she made her way up the steps. The mantra did not work, and soon she was sitting on the top stair with mascara running down her cheeks. 

It only made it worse that she didn’t have a reason for being so upset.

Cars flew by on the road in front of her, and she stared at them as they passed. Her eyes bounced from them to the little garden that was growing in the courtyard, searching, scanning, for something to ground her. 

Setting with gazing at the clouds, she leaned back onto the stairs. Her back began to ache immediately at the awkward positioning, but, in that moment, she couldn’t have cared less. 

She realized - as she stared at a cloud that looked strikingly like a duckling - that she was allowed to be upset. She couldn’t beat herself up about being in a bad mood, because that would only make it worse. 

That didn’t mean she wasn’t still upset. That doesn’t mean she still didn’t know what was the matter. It just meant that she was allowing herself to be upset.

So she pushed herself off of the concrete steps, tearing her eyes from the fluffy clouds in the sky. Hardening her resolve, she moved towards her door, digging deep into her pockets for her key as she made a half-assed attempt at scrubbing the mascara off her cheek.

The key clicked as she turned it, but Garcia couldn’t make herself open the door, not yet. Inside, there was a very beautiful, loving, joyous man who could probably make her feel better with just one flash of his blinding smile. But, he’d want to talk about what was troubling her so he could fix it. 

That’s who he was. Derek Morgan was a fixer. But Penelope didn’t want to be fixed, because she didn’t even know what was wrong. 

With a huff and a few words of affirmation to herself, she was able to push the door open. 

The sound of dishes clanging and jovial whistling floated down the hall as she shut the door behind her, slipping out of her shoes. She didn’t announce her presence because she didn’t completely trust her voice, but the noises ceased as she made her way to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe.

The man she loved with her whole heart was elbow deep in her sink, and she mustered a smile at the sight of him covered in suds. The whistling cut off when his eyes slid over towards her, and the smile that he saved just for her dropped from his face.

He took in her frazzled state, eyes slowly moving up her body before catching on her eyes. She barely even noticed him drying his hands and moving away from the sink before she found herself swept into a hug.

Pulling away slightly to look at her with crinkled eyebrows, he placed his hands on either side of her face. Penelope didn’t need to be a mind reader to see the thoughts racing through his head.

“Are you-” he cut himself off, eyes understanding, wordlessly letting his hands drop to clutch hers. 

She was grateful for the lifeline and the fact that he somehow knew that she didn’t want to talk. There was no other person in the world that knew her as well as Derek Morgan did, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

She let herself get enveloped by his smell as she leaned her forehead onto his shoulder. Soft kisses were pressed onto her hair, and for the first time that day, a feeling of peace flitted over her. 

She was home and she was safe. 

He stepped back slightly, keeping a tight grip on her fingers. His eyebrows remained pressed together, but there was a small smile on his face.

He pressed a small kiss on her nose, but his eyes told her everything she needed to know. I’ve got you.

She offered him the slightest of smiles back. I know.

Walking backwards and bringing her with him, Derek moved towards the couch. She half-cocked an eyebrow, but she was too emotionally exhausted to do any protesting. 

Her attention was brought to his hands- his oh so beautiful hands. Years of working had hardened and calloused them, but there was a softness in them just for her. She’d spent hours fiddling with his fingers, pressing small kisses to each scar. 

He guided her so she was sitting on the couch, staring up at him in wonder, but he turned away quickly. She watched as he grabbed the blanket that had been lying over a chair and tucked it under his arm. 

The couch cushion dipped beside her and the blanket was thrown over them. The television was turned on and she watched the screen with half lidded eyes as he flipped through movies, finally settling on something that made her smile. 

What Happens in Vegas. It was her favorite movie, but he despised it. He didn’t utter any words but she knew why he put it on.

She buried her head in his chest, and his arm fell over her shoulder. It felt natural, because it was. Slowly, gently, and lovingly, his hands drew words on her back, writing novels that one day she’d love to read.

A single tear slipped out of her eye, but it wasn’t one of sadness. No, she was happy. She’d go through a million more days like hers, just to have another moment like this. As the screen flickered with the movie, she allowed herself to fall asleep, lulled by the presence of her love.

“one person caring about another represents life’s greatest value.” - jim rohn

Penelope had known it would be bad the instant she got the update from JJ. She’d spent years working with him, years loving him, years getting to know him; it was to be expected that she would learn when something would be particularly rough for him.

The texts he sent her were only confirmation of her theory.

Hey, when do you think you’ll get back home? I’ll pick up dinner for us <3

I don’t know

Yeah, that’s okay too! I’ll order something when you get here! 

ok 

She didn’t take his lack of enthusiasm to heart, because she knew the next morning he’d fill her ears with apologies about how he was taking his frustrations out on her and that she didn’t deserve him. She’d heard it a thousand times over, and her response of shutting him up by kissing him senseless hadn’t deviated once. 

The door opened and closed, dragging her away from her thoughts. Derek shuffled into the room, lugging a bag over his shoulder, and shot her a weak smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

He looked worse for wear. The frown lines in his forehead were more pronounced than normal, and the bags under his eyes told stories of sleepless nights. His hands shook ever so slightly as he placed his bags down. 

Her arms engulfed him in an instant.

Words were murmured into his neck as she hung onto his frame as if her life depended on it, but his arms hovered over her back. He almost seemed afraid to touch her. 

“My love,” she said, pulling back to look him in his eyes, “let me help you. I’ll-I’ll heat up some food, and you can talk to me, and then you can soak in the tub until your gorgeous smooth skin is all pruned, and-”

“Penelope.” Her name practically fell out of his mouth as he leaned down to place his forehead on hers. 

She stared at him, and she knew the concern she had for him was shining in her eyes. “Hi.”

His muscles tensed under her hands as she slid them down from his face to his shoulders, but they soon relaxed as she began to pepper small kisses over them. She stopped when she came to the crook of his neck, choosing to bury her nose into it.

“Let me take care of you, honey,” she said, her words only slightly muffled by his skin. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

There was a heavy sigh, and her face was gently guided to look at his. His eyes glistened with tears but she knew he wouldn’t let them fall.

“Hey. Please,” she pleaded.

“Can I just-” his voice was rough and he had to take a moment to compose it. “Can I just be there for you right now?”

Derek Morgan, always the selfless one. Because even at his lowest points, he would always, always be looking for a way to make someone feel better. That’s what made him the man he was.

She gave him a wistful smile and her eyes mirrored his own. As much as she wanted to, as much as she wanted to take care of him, she knew she couldn’t say no to him - not when it came to him needing something as much as he needed a distraction.

“Okay.”

Stepping back with one final kiss to his collarbone, she gave him another smile and offered her hands out. 

“I am yours to pamper.”

And then there was joy in his eyes.

“we are making photographs to understand what our lives mean to us” - ralph hattersley

“Derek, sugar, can you fill out these forms? Hotch needs them for-” she interrupted herself when she lifted her eyes away from the file to find that she was speaking to an empty office. 

She’d always liked the office - and it wasn’t just because of her involvement in its conception. Something about it just reeked of Derek Morgan, which is a scent she would gladly bathe in for the rest of her life. 

Maybe it was the pieces of him she could find in all the nooks and crannies of the room. The signed football with player names encased in glass. The frame containing the piece of flooring from the first house he flipped. His law degree.

But her favorite thing about his office - barring him - was his photo wall. Taking a little something from her, he’d spent quite some time decorating his office with things he loved, things to distract him from the horrors of the world. 

They’d spent several nights together going through old belongings and keepsakes of his, her head leaning onto his shoulder as he told her fond stories of each one. Occasionally, she’d find a baby picture of him, and he’d try to snatch it away, but she’d hold it just out of his reach, giggling maniacally. 

She’d be hard-pressed to find a happier memory.

Placing the files on his desk and scribbling a note onto them, she turned towards the photo collage, taking in the people that Derek loved.

Her eyes were first caught on the beaming smile he wore in a photo with his mother. Both his arms were thrown around her, and she was clutching his forearms. They were slightly blurry, almost as if he was rocking her, and the photographer caught them in the exact moment, forever capturing their joy.

Then her sight slid to the grainy photo next to it. 

There was just as much love in this one, but the Morgan she saw was much younger. Much much younger. He was clutching a football that almost as big as he was and gazing adoringly at his father, who returned the look. Her heart panged slightly, but at the same time, it fluttered at the thought that Derek was able to look at this everyday. 

The next shot looked strikingly familiar. It wasn’t a photo she recognized, but it was one of her. She almost seemed as if she was glowing with happiness.

So, she took a step back and surveyed the entire collage. Derek had obviously been adding to it without her noticing. There were many pictures she didn’t recognize, some of others, but most of her. 

There were selfies, and pictures that it was very clear that JJ had taken, and pictures that he must have taken. But a rush of emotions overwhelmed her as she stared at the wall of people he considered important enough to distract him from their job.

And she just was struck by how many times she was up there.

“for me, small gestures mean a lot precisely because they are small. they do not shout, "look at me" - they simply offer love, quietly”

She had taken much longer getting home than she normally would. Derek was stuck at home, sick with the flu, and the traffic was awful. Her temples had begun a slow and persistent ache as she sat staring at the trunk of a Subaru, willing herself to be home. 

Of course, it hadn’t worked, but it had caused her headache to worsen.

The stop at Starbucks to grab something hot to soothe both of their aches and pains was in-and-out. Even with the boost of caffeine adding the slightest of spring to her step, it seemed far too late that she was ascending the steps to her home- their home. 

It had been five months, and she still wasn’t used to the fact that she was still in a stable relationship with the man of her dreams, sharing a cozy apartment that they'd both fixed up. Granted, he’d done a lot more of the heavy lifting than she had, but it was at his insistence.

It was her favorite place in the world. A perfect mixture of the two of them, she had never felt more at home - his arms wrapped around her in the house they created. 

Because it was the weekend and she had spent her free time of the week before tending to a sick man, said home was not as sparkling clean as she would have liked. As she swung the door open with her hip, clutching the two coffees in her hands, she braced herself for the mess.

There was no mess.

There was no laundry lying in the middle of the hallway that she had left when Hotch called her in for an emergency meeting. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, just sparkling ones next to it. There were no pairs of shoes strewn across the floor, no coats thrown haphazardly over various furnitures. If she looked hard enough, she would almost say the floor was shining, as if it had been freshly polished.

It was clean.

Wondering if the opposite of a tornado had swept through her home, she slipped her shoes off, taking extra time to line them up with the newly organized ones. It was silent in the home, the only noise in her ears the occasional rush of a car on the road.

She opened her mouth to call out her arrival, but the words stopped short as she took in the sight of her couch.

Derek was stretched across the sofa, eyes covered by the crook of his elbow. One foot was propped up on the arm of it, the other was hanging off the edge. She smiled at the sight, he was much too tall to lay on the couch.

The vacuum was right next to him, as was a still open bottle of NyQuil. He must have been tired, as it looked like he had practically collapsed in the middle of cleaning. 

She almost considered not waking him, to let him rest unbothered. But then she took in his position one more time and the uncomfortable way his head was leaning against the sofa arm, and decided to move him.

Moving his arm away, she laid a gentle hand against his cheek and almost retracted at the heat that rolled off of it. His fever had gotten worse, she realized with a frown.

“Derek,” she whispered, stroking his cheek slightly to wake him. He showed no signs of returning to consciousness, so she repeated herself a little louder.

His eyes cracked open a sliver, enough for her to see how bloodshot they were. He waggled his eyebrows slightly as a form of greeting.

“Feeling any better?” she asked, even though she was pretty sure she knew what the answer would be.

His eyes shut again, but he breathed a response, just barely loud enough for her to hear, “No. M’ head hurs’ like a bitch.”

She gave him a light smile as a response, moving her fingers so they cradled the back of his head. “Come on,” she urged. “Go lay down on the bed.”

There was a very slow shuffle before his figure was sitting up on the couch. She pulled his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, not entirely trusting his body to be at full strength. She half-led, half-carried him to the bedroom, his head leaning onto hers.

“Get comfortable,” she told him after he made it into the bed. “I’m going to get you some water. Go back to sleep.”

His response was making a small noise that she just barely heard as she padded out of the room. She filled a water bottle with ice and water, deciding against grabbing him any food, because he hadn’t been able to keep any down yet.

After a little deliberation, she pulled a light blanket from the closet to throw over him as she passed, hoping he would fall asleep before it got to be too heavy. He had buried his head into the pillows, laying on his side with one hand under his head. 

She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching his chest slowly rise and fall. He must have really tired himself out if he fell asleep in the short time she was gone. Careful to keep her steps light, she made her way to his side. 

“You’re too good to me.”

Penelope laughed and placed his water bottle on the nightstand. So he wasn’t asleep. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Tha’s why I cleaned up, ‘cause you were too busy takin’ care of me.”

His eyes were barely open, and he only spoke through exhales. She wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up the next morning with no memory of the interaction.

“Well,” she planted a kiss on his still burning forehead, “you didn’t have to. It’s my week for clean-up duty.”

“Had’ta...pay back.” were the words he pushed out before he fell back into the sandman’s embrace.

“when i tell you i love you, i am not telling you out of habit, i am reminding you that you are my life.”

There was a small post-it note on her computer screen, near identical to the dozen she had in her dress pocket. The handwriting was large and familiar and etched with love that she matched threefold.

I hope the drive in was okay and that you don’t kill me for putting this on your screen. 

It started that morning, when she had woken up to an empty bed. She had lazily thrown her arm out, expecting to connect with a warm and solid body. Instead, she had received the crinkle of paper, and a note that read Good morning, sleeping beauty. Her eyebrows had raised amusedly, and she had expected to find him in the kitchen, smirking as he leaned against the counter.

There had just been another note.

Messages were everywhere. There was one on her coffee cup and one on her steering wheel. There was one on her keys and one on her coat. There was one on her badge. There was even one on Hotch’s desk.

Each one displayed his handwriting, a small joke or a note to not miss her exit. Each one had a small heart in the corner.

She walked with a spring in her step, scanning the halls for the man behind all the words, but he was nowhere to be found. She asked the team, but they were all coy about his location - “around” and “I’m sure you’ll find him” - and they all seemed very happy.

There were bright sunflowers on her desk that she did not recognize, two post-it notes stuck to one of them.

Mom told me about how you sent her flowers and cookies when she got sick last year. She talked about how if I didn’t marry you soon, she’d disown me. She talked about how you called her every week with updates on me

If I had a ring on me, I would have proposed to you right then

She mouthed the words silently. The heart on the notes were a little larger than the other ones. She couldn’t help but wish that he had acted on those thoughts. She couldn’t help but wish that he would propose to her now.

JJ rapped on her door, and she tore her thoughts from the flowers and the message he had scrawled. The blonde wordlessly handed her a file, shooting her an excited smile that didn’t quite seem to match the mood that normally came with the files.

Everyone seemed to know something Penelope didn’t.

Flipping the manila folder open, she was shocked to not find official business, but a collage of herself and Derek. They were smiling in every one, shooting loving looks at each other. A note accompanied

Pick me up my usual?

Shortly after they’d begun dating, their visits to a local pizza parlor had begun to increase. He loved it because they “did pizza correctly.” And she loved it because of the sparkle in his eye that came to when they entered the building. 

It was the only place - that wasn’t the coffee place in their building - that he had a regular order. So, with a rapidly beating heart and a bright smile, Penelope made her way to it. 

She was proud to say that her hands only shook a little bit as she put the car in park in front of the pizza place. It looked unassuming, but that didn’t calm her nerves in the slightest.

Even though her thoughts desperately drifted towards it, she couldn’t yet let herself believe that this would lead to a beautiful man on one knee. But there was something in her that told her that this was going to be her last stop for the day.

The bell clanged as she pushed the door open and eyes shot toward her, but none were the ones she wanted to see at that moment. 

“Penelope,” the manager called from behind the counter, covered in flour and sporting a knowing smile. She dug into her pockets and handed over a flour smudged note.

Out back.

Behind the building was a small community garden. The two of them had spent hours of their life on the bench, planting flowers, working in it. They even had a small plaque dedicated to them because of all the hard work they had spent on it.

It was a home away from home, and although Garcia had damn near memorized every inch of it, there was one thing different about it this time.

In the middle of the garden, surrounded by sunflowers, was the kneeling form of Derek.

She froze in her place. Every muscle screamed to run to him, but she could not move. He offered her a smile, and behind his eyes, she could see his mind running at a million miles a minute.

Forcing her legs to move towards him, small teardrops began to slip from her eyes, no matter how much she willed them to stay at bay. 

This was happening.

She stopped a few feet away from him, and they stared at each other. Neither said a word, and they were almost at a standstill until she saw him take a deep breath and began to move for his pocket.

This was really happening.

Through her tears, she could see Derek fishing in his pocket and pulling out a small object. She leaned her head back to quell her tears and looked back down to realize he was holding a ring box with a sticky note that had her name scrawled on it.

Realizations slammed into her like a freight train, and the tears came rushing back. Joy rose in her throat, and it was all she could do to remain standing at the blinding smile he gave her.

She took the note that said her name and placed it over her heart. It very quickly fell off but she didn’t notice - she was far too enamored with the kneeling man in front of her.

“I spent a lot of time trying to figure out a way to do this, figure out exactly how to express everything I feel for you. But then I realized. I don’t have to because you know - because you do too.”

She nodded, tears flying out of her eyes as she did so. Taking several steps so she was closer to him, she gazed down at him as he continued with his speech.

“I mean, how do you explain something that has never existed before? How do you explain something that never will again? Because that’s our love, Penelope. Its…” he paused, searching for the right words, so she offered something for him, her voice wobbly with unshed tears.

“Ours.”

His eyes swam with love, gratefulness, and emotion at her statement. “It’s ours,” he confirmed. “I’ve loved you since the day I saw you. It took us forever to get to this point, dancing around each other in choreography only we learned, only we perfected. But it was all worth it, babygirl.

“There is no one else in this world that I would rather wake up next to. There is no else in this world that I would share my darkest secrets with. There is no one else who I would rather be with me in every step of the way in my life

“I think I’ve always known I would end up here, down on one knee, proposing to the love of my life - of all my lives, if there were more. I just didn’t know it would be to you. You caught me by storm, you swept me into your life, you entangled me in your web.

“And, now I’m going to ask you to spend the rest of your life with me, so I can keep telling you these truths for every day of it.”

He opened the box, still kneeling, to reveal yet another post-it note.

Will you marry me?

The closest she’d been to describing her feelings in the moment was that her heart exploded in happiness. Penelope nodded quickly, and before Derek was able to hold her hand to slide the ring onto her finger, she had him wrapped in the tightest of embraces - one that he returned with just as much fervor.

Even though he had managed to say it everyday since they’d met, there was only one thing he needed to say at that moment. 

“I love you.”

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[meganskane]

the ways i love you (masterlist)

hello my beautiful besties <3 i’ve been seeing multiple different prompt lists such as, 101 ways to say i love you. so i figured i could use a few and make a little morcia blurb series! i hope you guys like it! <3

summary —twenty of the different ways derek and penelope say i love you.

“in all the world, there is no heart for me like yours. /in all the world, there is no love for you like mine.” – maya angelou

playlist — send me your suggestion ideas

word count (in total): 2.5k

“I bought this for you. It’s in your favorite color…” -> (0.6k)

“There’s that beautiful smile I love so much…” -> (0.6k)

“I know you don’t feel great, so let’s stay home today, okay?” -> (0.7k)

“Go back to sleep, (term of endearment).“-> (0.5k)

“We make the best team”

“I’d like to take you on vacation one day, just the two of us.”

“This is my favorite picture of us”

“It’s an honor just to know you like this.”

“Did it hurt?”

“I’m yours”

“Let’s get you home”

“I can see us growing old together”

“I love you”

“I missed your face”

“Just, make sure you come back to me”

“Marry me”

“Have you been drinking enough water?”

“Come here, let me fix it”

“I pinky promise”

“ I do”

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[sapphiics]

aspectabund

summary: An insight to Derek’s thoughts during 3x09

word count: 1.2k

content warning: mentions of bullets and the Battle arc. also embarrassingly heavy with the pining. Perhaps angst but not pain as much as contemplation.

—————————

Derek wondered where Penelope got it from

Her faith, her devotion to the good in the world. Her ability to believe when all seems lost.

He thinks about her, laying on that cold table in an O.R. How dark her last moments would’ve been, the last face her eyes would ever glance upon being the vile man who decided to steal her life. Doctors probing into her chest, as she slowly bleeds out to death in the cold room. His own mind miles away, his body in a church of all places - the irony isn’t lost on him- as she’s clinging to this world. It springs into his head randomly, his own self punishing him by demanding that he remember how close he came to losing the most important person in his world.

A small part of him wants to think he saved her. This minuscule sliver of his soul wants to believe that his praying kept her alive, kept that bullet from piercing through the biggest heart he’s ever encountered in his life.

Only that would be impossible for a plethora of reasons, many of which Derek doesn’t care to rehash.

The most important being that he didn’t know. When he was sitting in that church, revisiting the painful and broken relationship he once had with a God that he’s long since denounced, he didn’t know. Didn’t know that when she needed him most, was at her most vulnerable, Derek wasn’t there.

The knowledge that he probably pushed her into the arms of that man only sweetens the entire package. That his juvenile jealousy was misconstrued as thinking she was somehow unworthy of a man Derek had never even laid eyes on.

It wasn’t farther from the truth, considering Penelope was better than any person he had ever encountered. She managed to crawl under his skin and settle into his bones, becoming an integral part of his being. He just has this intense want to be with her and enjoy the sacred moments when he can just be. When he’s not on edge, on the defensive, calculating every single word that comes out of his mouth as to not let anybody in too close. When the rigid barrier he’s erected around himself doesn’t need to be in place.

He’s only ever felt that with Penelope.

A piece of him is scared— no, terrified— he’ll never feel that way again if she ever leaves. If there were ever a day she wasn’t here anymore.

That’s when the over protectiveness kicks in. It’s like a feeling, an instinct to shield her from anything that could ever hurt her. If he were a better guy, he might feel embarrassed about it.

But he wasn’t, and he isn’t. It’s plain as day on Hotch’s face, surprised by Derek’s pushback, that he isn’t being as careful with his feelings as he’d hoped. The sudden agitation from his best agent wasn’t one Aaron was expecting.

Guilt festers in Derek’s stomach, and he thinks about going to apologize to the unit chief when suddenly she’s ripping out her IV, the devastation clear in her eyes. The sadness in her face curling around his heart and squeezing it.

Without even realizing it, his hands are pushing through her soft blonde hair, leaning her shoulders back and focusing her eyes on him.

He means every word. It was going to be one hell of a fight to get him to do anything but catch the asshole who did this, IA be damned. Who was he if he wasn’t protecting her?

Finally getting her to sit back in her bed, he slumps into the seat next to her. A sharp downstroke of his hands over his face, and he looks up.

And she’s on her side, her eyes still shining with tears, staring right into him.

“Thank you,” her hand reaches for his. Smoothing over the course hair of his knuckles with her thumb.

He shakes his head lightly, ”Go to sleep Baby, it’s your last night here.”

Her hands are interlaced with his when she dozes off.

—————-

He’s out of his element. And tired. And stressed as all heck because it’s been days and they still haven’t caught this guy.

And mostly because he’s standing in her apartment, her perfect little space that reflects everything she is, and he hadn’t believed he could be more in love with her until he was here.

Even after being shot by someone, someone who was still on the loose, she was thinking about his comfort. As if being with her was a chore he was tiring of doing. Like he had more important things to attend to.

The idea of anybody but her being his first priority was so foreign to him.

There wasn‘t anybody he thought about more, anybody who managed to make him feel so incredibly enamored that it stole his breath. Such a unique feeling that only Penelope Garcia could evoke from Derek.

Cause he loves her. Because he’s in love with her. So painfully in love with her. And everything about Penelope had entranced him from the moment they met and Derek knew it was only a matter of time before he couldn’t store away his feelings for her any longer.

He just thought he had more time. More time to get ready, to be a man deserving of such a perfect woman. More time to know, to be absolutely sure that he’s what she wants before he drops a bomb on their relationship.

He can’t risk losing her. It doesn’t matter in what way she wants him, Derek couldn’t return to a life where she’s not in it. He almost had to unwillingly, and it terrified him. Him and her was something he wasn’t ever going to mess with.

But then she’s turning away and heading to bed and he’s telling her ‘I love you’ before he can even stop himself.

And Penelope, perfect Penelope who always manages to exceed every expectation he could have about her, looks at him. Her lips press together tightly before pushing out into a soft smile. He could see her eyes glisten behind her frames, and when she doesn’t say anything back for a beat he worries that he’s ruined them.

“I love you too.” And it’s the only sound in the room as they look at each other, the bashful look on her face mirrored in his own. It hangs in the air, those three words he hasn’t said to anybody outside of his family, the words that have been resting on the tip of his tongue for months now, were reciprocated in a way better than Derek could’ve ever dreamed of.

He can’t even move, utterly transfixed on the love of his life before him. It isn’t until she shuffled slightly on her feet, her fingers shoving against each other when he comes to.

She’s hurt, scared, and vulnerable. Just this week they were fighting, and the last guy to show interest in her ended up putting a bullet less than an inch away from her heart. Now is not the time for him to spring his wants to be with her, to be her boyfriend and eventually her husband, onto her when she’s still recovering.

So he backs off, smiling at her and quietly commanding she go to bed.

Penelope’s turning around, a small wave and a serene look in her blushed face.

Derek’s climbing into the blankets on her couch, dreaming of a future where they’re together.

—————-

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