wanna be yours [aaron hotchner x reader]

II.III

He reaches for the phone, "Hotchner."

——

You don't get stuck in place. The instinct to call Hotch and tell him what's going on has to be suppressed. You can't tell him. The threat of the letter seems real. The picture is enough evidence of that. It's not a picture of him at work, or on a case. It's personal. He's walking out of the coffee shop. A coffee shop you assume is close to where he lives. Close to his son. Close to a wife? A girlfriend? His son's mother? You still haven't heard the details of that whole situation.

It's something you're not sure you want to hear anyway. At first, you feel pathetic. For god's sake, you're still hung up on this man from eight years ago? Get a grip.

But you've come to realize you're not hung up on him. It's not about the love you felt for him. It's not a feeling of still being in love with him. It's not about rage. It's not about holding a stupid grudge. Yeah, he broke your heart. It was the worst relationship you've ever been in. But none of this is about love or rage. It's about the way he made you feel. This feeling of worthlessness. A feeling that you can't— won't ever forget. A feeling you plan to avoid at all costs for the rest of your life.

You turn the photograph over in your fingers a few times. You don't want anything to happen to Hotch. You're not sure how you feel towards him. But you know this much is true: you want to keep him and his family safe. You have a sinking feeling that you know exactly who is behind the threat. It's always been a possibility that he survived, no remains were recovered among the rubble. You're quick to get to work.

You walk to your bedroom, flipping on the light in the closet and pulling out some of the remaining storage boxes you have yet to unpack. Your eyes fall on the safe in the back of the closet. Pushing everything out of your way, you crouch down, turn the dial and pull a box out. You walk by the door, checking the locks again. He knows where you live.

You open the small box, removing the manilla folder from inside. You pull out the contents: a photocopy of the incident report. The date on the top is just over a year ago. You haven't looked at the photos since the accident. Your therapist warned against it, telling you it would likely trigger an episode. She wasn't wrong. The anxious feeling builds in the pit of your stomach, nausea washing over you as you look through each of the photos.

There has to be something here. Something to tell you how he survived, why he did it, why he's back. You find the transcripts of each of your calls with him. You think about how much easier this would be to decode with the help of the team. Reid would find some specific markers in the language he used when talking to you that would help demonstrate his obsession with you and why it took nearly a year for him to make contact again.

You set up a small workstation on your kitchen table, spreading all the information out. You tape the note and the photo up on the wall. You're on your own for this one. Speaking to anyone, about anything, would be too risky. You're not willing to risk Hotch's life.

One thing is certain, you're not getting much sleep tonight. You place a defensive hand on your gun holster that you haven't taken off. You walk to the window lifting it up to study the fire escape. You see no one outside and squeeze through the open window back inside. You close the window, double-checking the lock. You place a small glass on the edge of the window, so that if someone does open it to break in, the glass will fall, alerting you of an intruder.

You never turn your back to the door as you work. The gun stays close to your side. You make a cup of coffee to keep you awake. Your profiling skills are getting better by the day, but you still know that you're not well enough equipped to handle this all on your own. You pull the profiling handbooks off the shelf. You open Rossi's books, poring over the words, again and again, noting anything you think might help you, noting any statistics.