"Foyet?" Rossi asks cautiously, surveying the note again in disbelief. "The same Foyet that's six feet underground? There's no way he could have done this."
The team studies the note again, this time reading between the lines; they had to have missed something. And as quickly as you arrived, the welcoming celebration for your return quickly dissipated into anxiety and vigilance.
"Reid, what can you tell us from the note, the language? Is there anything to indicate if Foyet had a partner," Hotch asks, turning away from the team as he paced back and forth, fingers twiddling against each other apprehensively.
"Unlikely," you interrupt. "Foyet's profile is that of a typical narcissist. He's unable to see someone as an intellectual equal. He wouldn't trust someone to help him, not as a partner."
Upon your transfer to the BAU, just a few days later after Strauss gave you the job, you fervently studied the Reaper case — even though the team had made an effort of avoiding. You had to know what caused such a shake in the team dynamics, what warranted Strauss to bring in a new agent.
"Reid?" Hotch asks again, ignoring your analysis. Prentiss looks over at you sympathetically noticing Hotch's quick dismissal, trying to give you a warm look of comfort as the briefing room silently turns hostile.
"Well, the language is personal — unlike Foyet's. They use vocabulary that is typically associated with singular identity while taking the time to separate Hotch from the collective team," Reid stammers out, wary of Hotch's cold demeanor staring him down. "This note is evidently new, meaning Foyet didn't write this before he died. Simply put, this could just be a copycat."
"A really good copycat," Rossi mutters out absently.
Garcia unfolds the envelope she had intertwined in her hand and slips out another loose piece of paper, a ripped out scrap with random numbers and words scrawled on it, distinguishably Hotch's straight handwriting. Brooks.
"What is that?" Prentiss inquires as Garcia drops it on the table like her fingers burned just at the touch of it.
"This was in the envelope too," Garcia explains, her voice cracking as she looks back at the victims on the screen. You knew Garcia would blame herself for these deaths, even if she had nothing to do with it.
Prentiss examines it closely, biting the inside of her cheek as she comes to the realization. "This is a piece from Hotch's phone book, remember? The one Foyet had ripped out when he was at Hotch's with Haley's information."
"That's impossible," Hotch reveals quickly, but his voice was tainted with fear more than anything. The usual deep bellow of his voice slightly faltered, catching the attention of the team. "A copycat wouldn't have that, and Foyet wouldn't give that up to just anyone."
"We need to take a step back," Derek reminds the team, grounding all of you back to the case before running with absurd accusations. You and the team had always teased Derek just for being a pretty face, but, when it came down to it, he was the voice of reason and ration. "The note says to look at the victims. The unsub has been trying to distract us by bringing in Foyet."
"Right," JJ agrees, running through the list of victims again. And as much as it hurts her to look at the blonde woman on the screen, who left two children and a husband behind as a part of the unsub's sick, twisted fantasy, she maintains her composure.
"They're us if we weren't in the BAU. Except, two victims are missing: Y/N and Aaron," Rossi announces.
You look over to Hotch, but he doesn't return the glance. His gaze is dead set, steadied on the floor, like the ground beneath him was about to give out the moment he looked away. Although he would never admit it, there's something unmistakably exposed and soft-spoken about his stance.
"What's the point of leaving Hotch and Y/N out of the equation?" JJ asks, combing through the folders again.
"Considering this unsub is pretending to be a reincarnation of Foyet, it makes sense. Hotch is the ultimate target, and Y/N wasn't around when Foyet's case was active. The unsub doesn't need to involve Y/N as it won't play out his fantasy," Reid elaborates, giving you a gentle smile in return.
"No," Rossi states resolutely, looking over at you with a raised eyebrow. "The unsub wouldn't spare a member of this team if his goal was to inflict as much harm as possible."
There's more to the story than you're letting on, like every word in that note was a direct stab at your relationship with Hotch, and you can't help but wonder if you're the problem.
"Then what? We wait until a dead Y/N look alike lands on the BAU steps?" Derek responds hastily, frustrated with the ambiguity of the note.
"No," Hotch answers curtly, lifting his head out of his concentrated haze. "No one else is going to die. Not on my watch."
"And what did it mean by secrets?" Prentiss points out curiously turning back to the piece of paper, and you can see Hotch's shoulders stiffen up at the mention. "Hotch wouldn't break protocol, ever."
"I have no clue," Hotch responds indifferently. He's never directly lied to the team, and you can tell his guilt is gnawing inside him like maggots. He couldn't keep this up any longer. "Let's go home. Get some rest. Pick this up back in the morning. It's getting late."
Everyone nods in agreement; it had been a long day, and a note targeting the entire BAU didn't exactly reassure anyone. Sleeping was an afterthought in the mix of confusion and worry, but you needed to clear your head.
"And do not change any of your plans because of this," Hotch advises adamantly. "Do everything as usual, following your schedule. The unsub wants to see us bend to his will, but we can't let that happen."
You pile case assignments into your bookbag, carelessly stuffing your papers into your bag as your mind wandered back to the unsub's note. At this point, you had every word memorized like the back of your hand, reciting it subconsciously like a broken record. And every thought came back to the numbing reminder that you were a sick pawn in a twisted fantasy of life and death.
As you walk back into the empty parking lot, you hear your name called out in the bitter cold beneath the flushing winds through the trees. The cold is biting at your ears, but Hotch's voice distracts you from the glacial discomfort.
"Did you tell anyone?" he demands, voice cracking with a strange air of vulnerability, but he is still undeniably cold and ruthless in his tone. Even in the face of death, he maintained his composure. "I trusted you, Y/N."
"Of course not," you admit baffled, shaking your head as he stares back at you in contemplation.
"Someone knows, and I don't know how," he confesses, puffs of wispy white air curling up as his breath reacts against the frosty air. "We have to tell the team tomorrow, regardless of the consequences."
"I understand," you reply. "The team will understand."
"All of this is my fault. I shouldn't have brought you into this mess." His jaw clenches around nothing, and his eyebrows furrow in regret. "And the entire team is paying for my mistakes. If I had just gotten off Foyet's back."
"Stop beating yourself up for trying to catch a serial killer. You couldn't let him go. You were doing the right thing," you ressaure calmly, wrapping yourself tighter in your jacket, trying to protect yourself from the nippy weather. "It's part of the job."
"If you want to end things, I understand Y/N," he admits despairingly, stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of his trench coat like he was holding onto any inkling of hope he had left. His usual vibrant eyes fell lackluster, muted.
"Why on Earth would I do something as stupid as that?" you answer, the softness of your voice contradicting his straight demeanor. You fall closer into him, filling the empty space between the two of you, and he doesn't push away.
"We're in the middle of a case," he reminds, but his eyes don't leave you. "A very serious case."
"I remember you saying not to stray from our normal schedules," you explain. "And I think you could use some company tonight."
"Company sounds good. We could both use it after today," he dryly remarks, still with hints of anxiety as his fingers press up against the side of your hips. "Let me buy you dinner. You deserve it."
"So do you," you remind, nudging his shoulder as you enter your car. You drive back to his house, suddenly aware of the severity of the case as the radio lazily fills up the car.
You meet him at his house, the sun already dipping down the horizon as he carefully checks the security system again. This time, he's sure to double check the locks on his front door. He wouldn't risk having the same situation happen again, not when the stakes were so high.
Although your appetite is hardly there after returning back from work, Hotch calls the local diner. You eavesdrop in on the call as Hotch perfectly spells out your order, right down to the insignificant specifics.
You knock your head back in surprise as he cuts the calls. "How'd you know my order like that, off the top of your head?"
He looks at you, a curious smile forming at the corners of his lip. "You don't remember? In Denver, your second case, we all went down to this run-down diner on our last day. You had taken your time, ordering last, surveying every single thing on the menu, saying it was time you tried something new. That is, until you landed back on your regular order. And then you were too nervous to ask the waiter for a salt shaker because you were embarrassed you took so long to order, so I had to do that for you, remember?"
"You remember?" you ask, stunned. How had he remembered something so insignificant for this long?
"How could I not remember?" he answers. "All I could think about was you."
"I thought you hated me," you confessed, looking down at his tie as your fingers fumbled with it playfully. "You made it pretty clear how you didn't want me on the team."
"I never hated you," he responds distinctly. "I hated the idea of falling for a member of my team. I hated the idea of having Strauss breathing down my back."
"Is all you do worry?" you tease, punching him softly in the shoulder. You laugh it off, but you know how this relationship could break both of your careers.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," he whispers out, as the words fell flat on your ears. "This unsub, they didn't choose to target your lookalike for a reason. He knows about us, and I don't want you falling into a mess I made."
"Just for one night, let's forget about work. Whoever this unsub is, they're cowardly, hiding behind Foyet's name. It's all a scare tactic, and I'm not going to let it get to us."
"I just can't shake the feeling we're missing something."
"One night, Hotch. One night," you repeat earnestly, feeling his worry radiate across the room. "We can worry about it tomorrow morning."
"You're a good distraction," he flirts, inching closer to you until your back hits the countertop. His hands are cold against the back of your neck, sending a soft shiver down your spine.
"My pleasure," you hum between breaths as his lips press up against yours. He sets you down onto the countertop, hands traveling to your waistline. His lips sink into your neck softly, inexplicably comforting. Every touch is delicate and refined, and you feel something more than just lust take over.
The doorbell rings, and Hotch slows down. Straightening out his tie, he goes to collect the food from the dinner, setting up the table. He takes off his suit, leaving him in a plain, white button down, and for a spare second you see his glacial front melt.
You offer to help, but he insists on doing it himself — as he did most things.
He looks up at you, through the furrow of his brows while he eats. He takes a sip of his wine, studying you before he sparks conversation.
"So, why'd you join the BAU? Surely it wasn't because you knew you'd be sleeping with your boss," he jokingly asks, a soft, unspoken smile coming to light. "And I already know your stance on the government, so I'm intrigued as to why you joined the BAU."
You shrug your shoulders, mindlessly. "Do you always ask who you're sleeping with about their career goals?"
"I think we both know that this is something more than just sleeping together," Hotch admits, looking down at his plate again. His food is untouched, but he makes a show of eating.
Before you can answer, the steady hum of his ringtone interrupts you. As he picks up his phone, the unnervingly familiar face you had seen on the elevator returns.
He picks up, looking at you prudently before he does anything else. He's focused on the silence, the deafening hum of phone static between the lines continuing until it's almost unbearable.
Finally, a distorted voice creaks through from the other end. "Greetings Agent Hotchner. Enjoying your dinner?" the voice begins, an eerie, mechanical voice grating up against your ears. "Y/N looks so pathetic sitting across from you, you know? Is she getting brownie points for sleeping with her boss? Hell, why don't you just slide the phone over to her so I can ask?"
"No," he sternly lets out, unrelenting to the pressures of the unsub. And while you had seen Hotch handle these types of calls on cases, this time it's different, more personal.
"Don't make me get violent. That technical analyst of yours is ready to go to bed, and I'm sure the last thing she wants is to wake up to the sound of gunshots to her heart," the voice apathetically reveals, void of emotion. "Now, give the phone to Y/N."
"You've already been so violent," Hotch asserts, trying to commandeer the conversation with little luck. "I'm not giving into your pathetic tricks. You're not Foyet."
"No, I'm far worse," the voice responds with utter confidence, striking a nerve with Hotch. "Far worse than Foyet."
"Give me the phone," you urgently whisper out, putting your hand to receive the phone. You couldn't let anyone else get hurt.
"Give her the phone, Aaron," the voice repeats with amusement and dominance. You can tell the unsub enjoys hearing Hotch at odds with his conscience.
He hands over the phone to you reluctantly, wary to see how the conversation unfolds. You weren't skilled in handling phone calls from the unsubs, but you had learned enough in the field to put it into practice.
"Hello," you say into the unbearable emptiness of the other end. You didn't know what to expect, mind filling with the empty buzz of the silent line.
Finally, the mechanical voice speaks. "Oh, if it isn't Y/N. You screwed with my plans, you know? You came into the BAU and messed everything up."
"How did I mess everything up?" you calmly respond, voice steady as you try to find some leeway into the unsub's tactics. "I don't even know you."
"You couldn't keep your tongue down your throat, you whore," the voice darkly replies with a scratchy echo underlying it. "You know he's just with you because his wife is dead, right? You don't mean anything to him."
"Why does that concern you?"
"I'm giving you the chance to leave him, a way out of this mess, and if you don't, I'm going to ruin the only source of happiness Aaron has: you."
author's note:
hello! it's literally past midnight where i am, but i really wanted to update, so here you go! hope you enjoyed the cliff hanger : )
also, sorry if i made any grammatical errors, i'll go back and fix them later this week, i scrambled together this chapter pretty quick. have a great day!