Summary:
You surprise the team with a wild idea - successfully so.
Notes:
YES! THEY YEARN! 💖
also this is that long-ish chapter i had to cut - and im giving u this bcs i have to disappear as i have another fukin presentation
Title from the song by our lord and savior, the queen herself - Mitski
--------------
You all call it a night not too late this time – almost 8.30 - 9ish, because Penelope manages to link all the victims to a few locations that they frequented. But you will go back to work with them tomorrow, searching for Clover. You drive back with Rossi and JJ and it's not until you're inside the house that you realize how relieved you'd been away from it. The rotten aroma of the house engulfs you at once but seeing them trickle into the living room one by one helps dissipate that feeling. You hadn't particularly told anyone your idea yet – but you'd caught Dr. Reid alone before leaving the offices and asked him quickly and in a hushed voice:
"Does anyone have any dietary restrictions?"
He'd looked at you strange, nose scrunching up and eyebrows furrowing. But he doesn't take your vague question to mean anything particular so he answers in honesty that no, nobody has.
So, you decide to finally use the groceries you'd had delivered to your house. You watch them talk amongst each other for a moment, all spread out in the couches and sofas. Even Agent Hotchner who'd been taciturn the rest of the day, seems lighter after finding the connection between the victims. It's written in their easy smiles and the way they joke around now – how important their job is to them. You walk to Rossi, and stand still, spine ramrod straight, waiting for them to quieten down before voicing your idea.
"So, uh" you start, looking at Rossi, "I know we skipped dinner - I was there, of course – so I was going to suggest to cook something for you guys." You don't let your eyes wander to what their reactions are, because it does feel cheesy to say this, especially smack in the middle of the living room like you're standing now.
"I was going to ask for your help, Agent Rossi, so you know that I'm not" you shoot a look at Agent Hotchner, sitting quiet between agents Prentiss and Morgan, "- poisoning you." JJ stifles a laugh at that.
Agent Rossi slaps his hands over his thighs before standing up,
"It would be my honor to be your sous chef, and see those cooking skills you've acquired "
That's all the answer you need.
---
Hotch watches you disappear into the kitchen with Dave – a weird feeling rising in his gut.
Prentiss and Morgan share a look once you're both out, door shut behind you.
"Rossi is smitten" Prentiss says with a smile, causing the others to laugh. Hotch stares at them in wonder – not quite catching the little inside joke they all seem to be on.
"I mean -" Morgan continues with a grin, standing up, walking towards the chimney, admiring the plush furniture and the luxury of the interior design of the room, "she is a rich young widower. It wouldn't be too far-fetched if he was actually smitten. They have gotten pretty close in the span of the time we've been here" He circles back to the coffee table, picking up a small golden ornament resembling a bitten apple.
"And she does have her own money" He says holding the thing up so Prentiss and Reid can see.
"So, we're talking wife number four?" Prentiss asks her audience, matching his grin. JJ and Reid join in their loud laughter – while Hotch feels that weird feeling continue to grow exponentially.
"Statistically speaking" Reid starts, with a raised finger, ready to school them, "it is more common for people to marry within their socio-economic status. And unmarried adults who have been previously married – only 23% of them are likely to marry again."
"There's quite an age difference" JJ reminds them all.
But Reid speaks again - this time none of them interrupts him like they usually do.
"They're both financially stable – and that is in 67% of cases the main reason for divorce."
"So," Morgan says, waving a hand around as if wanting to swat his words away, "you're saying she could also be the one to stick."
They all laugh again, and Hotch finds that same feeling itching at his throat now – wanting to call at them to refocus but he has no real excuse to make them stop joking around – not one he can explain either way. JJ meets his eyes. Her curious gaze lingers over the tight hold he has on the glass of whiskey, something you'd offered when you'd all came back home. She notes the knuckle-white grip he has over it, and the strain over his face, and Hotch forces himself to laugh at their shenanigans. Forces himself.
"Who knows," Prentiss says with a shrug, wiping away the tears that came with the laughter, "maybe they're hashing out wedding plans right now in the kitchen."
Drinking helps, he finds – at playing off easy smiles with them.
---
Your chest expands again at hearing the laughter from the other room – bringing relief to your body and mind. Having people around the house makes the place feel less like a prison.
"Wow" Agent Rossi exhales, impressed at the ingredients over the kitchen island, "Farro spaghetti and salmon?"
You let out a laugh as you hold out an apron to him to take, "Yeah, I was waiting for your instructions actually –do you think salmon or spaghetti is better?"
He puts the apron on, heading to the sink to wash his hands and coming back with a serious face on. Nice to know he's taking this as seriously as you are.
"The salmon is from the area and maybe it's better you finally get to eat something from Seattle as well – no more diner burgers and sandwiches."
He nods with the strict look of a restaurant chef.
"I agree" he says "so what are we making?"
"Whole grilled salmon with chanterelles" you reply, and you point to the ingredients that make the dish one by one as you recount the recipe from memory, "unsalted butter, vegetable oil, chanterelle mushrooms, thyme, garlic cloves - obviously " he smiles, "kosher salad and pepper and then" you point at the whole salmon over the table - "sockeye salmon to be prepared with salad and pepper, 1 thinly sliced lemon, sprigs dill, thyme, tarragon and olive oil"
"Those cooking classes must have been expensive" he says with a grin.
"They were" you admit, "but I make a mean grilled salmon"
"Oh, I don't doubt you one second."
He takes over cooking the chanterelle mushrooms then, both of you settling into an unspoken agreement. After instructing him where to find the appropriate appliances, he moves to the stove – heating a large cast iron skillet over medium-high. You watch him add butter and oil and swirl the pan until butter is melted. You go into preparing the grill to medium-low heat. Using a sharp knife, you make a slit along the belly of the salmon, running from rib cage to tail.
"So," Rossi starts, as he adds mushrooms, thyme and garlic and seasoning on the skillet. "did you frequent horse racetracks often?"
He studies you – watching you turn the salmon on its back and cutting along both sides of the backbone without piercing through the skin on other side. You carefully remove the backbone without tearing the skin, then with small tweezers you remove the pin bones.
"Not often" You answer, with laser-sharp focus on the fish before you, "My husband would beg me to go with him – but I wasn't a fan." You season the inside of the fish with salt, pepper and stuff lemon slices, dill, thyme and tarragon inside the cavity. "I didn't like being around horses – or rich men."
"Oh, so you didn't like the smell of the arenas?" Rossi asks with a grin, "How can someone not like that?"
You snort, "Right. I have nothing against the sport – I mean it's probably better to whatever these wealthy men could be doing instead -"
You feel his eyes on you at the statement, so you clarify.
"You know," you say, "Alex Black was a scumbag and I'd rather he'd been frequenting the stables a bit too often than preying on girls."
He nods, not entirely convinced of your remark. You tie wet kitchen twine around the fish in several places to secure it and then place it on a rimmed baking sheet – all the while rubbing the skin all over with olive oil.
"You weren't a fan of the guy" he states while cooking the mushrooms, tossing the skillet often so they don't burn.
Moving in front of the small indoor grill in the kitchen, you place carefully the uncovered fish on the grill grates – a small sizzling noise coming out of the contact.
"I wasn't a fan of any of them" you say without thinking. "Privileged, rich, never raising a hand for work or knowing what that's like – men like that live in a different universe."
You wipe your hands over the apron, and look out to the garden – suddenly too aware of the fact that the last fight with your husband had been inside this very room, in the kitchen. Heat rises to your neck and face and you move to the air conditioning turning it on. Rossi lets out a hum of approval once he feels the fresh air over the heat of the stove.
"You didn't think your husband was the same?" He asks, back still to you. "He's from the same background after all. And you said he was friends with Black"
You take in a sharp breath – grateful for all the noises around you and the distance that he cannot hear and see how unsteady you are.
"He was different" you say. And he'd been – for the shortest time span. You'd truthfully thought so at one point. It's why you'd been swayed to date him for real, moving on from hooking up. It's why you'd married him after all. If you focus your mind on the first months, you'd met him, even the blissful months as freshly-weds – you can almost remember why you loved him. But it takes everything out of you – emotionally and mentally – to recall everything. Even more to actually state it aloud to Agent Rossi.
"He was considerate and kind. He used to over tip at every single place he went to" you say, keeping your eyes shut – you have to, to make your words sound genuine.
"He had good humor and he was charming and charismatic and beautiful" you say. "He cared about the people around him – and he would listen to every stupid thing someone would say to him, no matter how big or small. His undivided attention made people feel important, like their opinion mattered. Like they were the only one in the world when he used to look them... at you -" you choke up, feeling tremors in your body – the illusion rapidly slipping away from your fingers, "when he looked at me-"
But you cannot continue, tears now falling from your eyes – not because of the sadness, or from missing him – but from the intensity of the anger you feel. You don't want to talk about him – because all of it is lies. He's not considerate, kind or charming – he was manipulative. He was agile and cunning at making people believe he was innocent. The feeling of the knife from that night has never left - you would do it again.
"I'm sorry-" Rossi says, voice soft. He's beside you, handing you a napkin for your tears "I didn't mean to make you sad."
You take the cloth, wiping away the tears, glad that you're able to hide your face and steel your micro expressions before he can study them.
"On a good note – the mushrooms are done." He points to the kitchen island. The mushrooms in the skillet look golden brown and tender. "If you let me," he says in that same voice, "I'll keep an eye on the salmon to turn it. He takes the tongs from your hands. "I'm thinking a Pinot Gris pairs well with grilled salmon. What do you say?"
You cock an eyebrow and he smirks.
"You may be more well-versed than me in some aspects of cooking. But I have been called a sommelier at times."
"Ah" you let out with a laugh, "of course."
You take your cue and head to the cellar – grabbing the wine he'd said. It takes about 10 more minutes before the fish is cooked. Another 10 to let it rest, and you both reheat the chanterelles as you portion the fish – removing the strings and peeling back and discarding the skin from the salmon.
Discarding also the aromatics and removing the skin from the bottom fillet, he helps you transfer everything into platter. You divide the fish in 7, seasoning it with more salt and pepper and spooning warm chanterelles over. There's ooohs and aahs when you make the table and call the others – everyone looking impressed and hungry at the food prepared.
---
The food is spectacular to say the least – Hotch has to admit it too, and he says so, while everyone is complimenting and thanking the chefs. He notices you've grown quieter since returning from cooking and he's curious. He notes the many glasses of wine you drink as well. He tries his hardest not to actually count them – not when the others are drinking the same amount, as another bottle joins the table. They all seem looser around you too. It's almost rounding 10.30 when Garcia calls Morgan and they switch back, trying to regain composure.
"What is it baby girl?" Morgan answers, voice too sultry and slurred than usual. From the other side of the table, you shoot Morgan a surprised look.
He laughs at something Garcia tells him, and then with a warning, "I'm putting you on loudspeaker – please behave."
"Hard to do, my chocolate thunder-"
Hotch sees, amused, the way your face scrunches up more in confusion, eyes darting from the phone to Morgan.
"-but I was scouring the deep dark net, and Brook's because I'm dying to know what Clover is-"
Morgan interrupts her, only to reprimand.
"Are you taking a break as well, though? Because I know that big beautiful brain of yours does not operate at its full potential without sleep and food."
The others around the table chuckle and smile.
"Yes, obviously. But I was too curious over this super-secret rich people's club and you know how I get when you throw secret, mysterious stuff my way, especially -"
Hotch seems to be the most sober out of all of them, being the only one sensing that Garcia is about to spiral into rambling.
"Garcia" he calls. It works at making her stop.
"Right" she says to herself, "As I was saying, I was searching high and low in the seas of information, and I think I might have found Clover "
Hotch sees you straighten up.
"I cannot be sure though, because I only found traces of mentions in the phone messages exchanged between the gentlemen of Brook's. All I can say is that there's going to be a race tomorrow and whoever bids the highest – or shows any kind of interest to participate will be invited in."
She lets her words sink, and they all take a while to think them over.
Prentiss responds first, "So, we go undercover?" she looks at Hotch for directions. All of them do – even you.
"That seems to be only way" he says.
"I can get you in" you shoot from the other side of the table, voice confident and high – effective in catching their attention swiftly. "I'm recognizable – they already know me. If new faces show up, they might be suspicious."
"You're not trained for undercover" he retorts.
"Then train me" you reply just as fast.
"No" he says.
"I can wear wires or whatever it is you want me to. Even a teeny tiny," you pinch with a finger and a thumb, shrugging "-microphone if you wish – relaying to me what you want me to say. And I won't steer away from what you instruct"
"You're not going undercover" he says firmly.
He doesn't catch the way the other look back and forth from him to you, like the audience of a tennis match.
"Fine then I will be a robot and learn all the lines beforehand."
He picks up the glass of wine, wetting his mouth – he feels it dry up for some reason.
"We don't know what Clover even is" he says, words a bit harsher than before, "We have no information over it apart from the fact that the last person who joined was murdered."
That seems to make you pause and rethink your tactic. But it doesn't seem to convince you – not by the way he sees your mouth open again, ready to argue -
"Hotch, " Prentiss interrupts them tentatively, "I can go with her"
"Yes," Morgan jumps in, glad someone else took the fall in cutting off the heated match "We can all be around – doesn't necessarily mean we're rich people or want to join Clover just because we are watching a horse race."
"Right" Reid joins in too, "And it's a good moment to see who is around. I can collaborate with Garcia and feed her information on who the audience is."
Hotch looks at them – becoming aware of the fact that they don't seem to wait for his guidance anymore. Perhaps it's the alcohol that has made them more courageous – or perhaps t's the alcohol that has made him more stubborn.
"I can accompany you" Rossi says, looking at you – in turn you flash him a smile. That same weird feeling is back, bubbling inside his stomach and rising to his throat like acid. He reaches for the tie around his neck, loosening it up with quick hands. It doesn't actually help him breathe easier. Not even when he unbuttons the collar of his shirt.
"I'm rich" he tells the others while staring at Hotch," notoriously so – it won't be that hard to believe if I want to bet on horses"
Prentiss and Morgan share a look, exchanging playful smiles with one another. He knows now what they're thinking.
"No" Hotch hears himself saying aloud, "I'll go with her -" he says not looking your way. "She'll wear a wire, and we can make an actual plan tomorrow, when everyone is sober."
The seriousness of his tone finalizes the conversation, and everyone is quick to agree. It's not until he's the only one in the living room, everyone heading to their bedrooms that he realizes he might have gotten a bit more angry than necessary. Dave returns from the kitchen, picking up the suit jacket he'd thrown over a couch. It takes one quick scan of his friend, to realize the worry that's struck him.
"You know" Dave says, not looking his way, "you catch more bees with honey than vinegar"
Hotch throws him a look. "What?"
"I'm just saying" Dave says smiling, too pleased with himself, "Take that to mean what you want."
He watches Dave head to the door, wanting to go to bed as well.
"Isn't it flies ?" Hotch asks. "The expression is flies, not bees."
Dave chuckles, smug look on his face. "She 's more of a bee, don't you think?"
---
You excuse yourself after some time – in the midst of another joke by Agent Rossi of his time with Gideon, and head to the kitchen to clean up. The long day has drained you completely, as has the necessity to resurface the past with your husband. The silence after a while signifies, they've gone to bed – and the quietude of the house fills you up again.
"You're not going to sleep?" Agent Hotchner asks, walking inside, catching you in the middle of pouring another glass of wine.
His voice is soft. It feels like there's no hidden meaning behind his question apart from genuine curiosity. His eyes wander around the space – taking in the large kitchen island, the green countertops, the small paintings adorning the walls, of the sea and forests, the large floor to ceiling windows overlooking the garden he'd visited not long ago with Gideon. And even your full glass of wine.
"Not yet. It's still early" you reply.
It's almost 11am. But you don't look forward to sleeping in a room where Nathan's face in the large portrait painting stares straight at you in bed. Your eyes linger on his figure. His posture is not as strained as it always is, his hair a bit disheveled as is the tie around his neck, loosened and hanging low from the unbuttoned collar. Your mind rehashes the sound of his voice from this morning – the softness and tenderness of it as he was speaking about his son. You get the same feeling as back then – that you're witnessing a rare occurrence.
He walks in, and pauses in the middle, as if waiting for your invitation to stay first. He'd been inside the kitchen countless times before, even when he helped bring back the plates with JJ and Agent Prentiss.
He runs a hand through his hair and that makes the breath catch in your throat – it makes his strictly-gelled hair sticks out, few strands falling over his forehead above his right eyebrow. You shoot back an answer, placing back the glass over the countertop.
"You?"
Talking seems to remind you who he is and why he's in your house – and what he does for a living.
He shakes his head, "I never sleep well when in the field" he confesses.
"Oh" you let out, nearing him, "is there anything I can help with? Maybe other pillows or sheets and blankets?"
His eyebrows furrow as he throws you a strange look – like you'd offered him knives and guns to sleep with instead.
"No, thanks. It's just... being away from home"
Maybe from his family too.
"Oh"
That seems to be your go-to response to whatever he says tonight.
"I, uh, wanted to talk to you about today" He shoves his hands in his pockets, and his white button-up stretches over the expanse of his wide shoulders with his movements.
"Sure" you nod, mimicking his posture, hands in the pockets of your dress.
"You did exceptional work today – without your help we would still be making up theories about Black with no success."
You scan the room, making it obvious to him that you're doing so. Even as you feel your heart pound in your chest - an effect of his kind words.
"What – what is it?"
"Oh, I'm just looking for a phone to call you an ambulance-" he cocks an eyebrow, "because you're clearly having a stroke"
At that his lips pull tight at the sides of his mouth, dimples surfacing.
"Funny" he retorts.
You shrug, "I am actually concerned. Are you doing okay?" you close in the distance, raising a hand to fan air at him, "Do you feel faint? Or hot? Because you look a bit flushed-"
He shakes his head, the rebel strands of hair moving too.
"None of those are signs of a stroke-"
You hoist yourself up on your toes, a hand up, wanting to reach out for his forehead, even with your smaller stature.
"Are you sure you don't have a fever-"
His hand is fast, gripping your wrist at once. It's not harsh or painful, but it catapults you back to the first time he'd done so, years ago. It's as if the kitchen falls apart around you both, and the walls of your old house build back up. You're back in your dirty trailer, young and naïve for a bit longer, before...
Before he and Gideon had come to crush any hopes – before they'd made you realize the truth about your father. Your eyes go to his tie, remembering the texture on your palm of the red one he'd had that day, paired with that gray suit. The feeling of his large warm hand over yours is the next memory that floods your body like a crushing wave – as is the absolute hatred you'd felt as he'd touched you under the pretense of protecting his colleague. It's insane that you still feel that same intensity of emotion – that you'd held on to it through all these years.
He was just a man – he is just a man, like many others.
"You have a habit of doing that" you hear yourself say, and a breath huffs out of him in response – the smell of wine from his mouth enveloping your senses.
His hold on your wrist loosens, but not before he gives the smallest squeeze – shooting heat straight into your bloodstream. It clouds your thoughts and confounds you more. You pull, wanting to retract your hand and he lets it slip through his fingers. You swallow nothing, feeling your mouth dry up.
His hands don't go back into his pockets.
"If you're not comfortable with tomorrow -" he starts, rehashing the discussion you'd had over the dinner table. "Rossi can accompany you to the racetrack. Even Morgan with a bit of training-"
"Agent Rossi?" you interrupt with a coy smile on your lips, "you want me to become the talk of this town, right? They'll say I'm after some other man with money – my title as a gold digger would really be dusted off."
He scoffs, dimples reappearing once again – he's not glad per se, or relieved – he's just appreciative that you're refusing Rossi. And he's lighter for having let go of the envious feeling he'd gotten before at dinner, seeing you talking so easily with everyone else but him.
"Agent Morgan is good as well." He continues, eyes following the movement of your hands. You cup your chin, looking up at the ceiling as if running it through your mind first.
"Hmm, does he know horse race terminology?"
"No" Agent Hotchner answers with no hesitation – he doesn't even know if Morgan does or not. But he's not going to ask. He has no desire to.
You try to stifle the smile on your lips, with no avail.
"Dr. Reid looks like he does though." You say, testing the waters. It doesn't even feel like a meaningful conversation – it's just an easy push and pull that bounces between the both of you.
He nods, "Could be true" he answers, "but..." he speaks softly, holding your gaze, an eyebrow lifting up, "if you were to be confronted with paparazzi again..."
"Ah," you breathe out, nodding. His mind is unconsciously registering the small exhales you let out, the way your voice sounds almost like honey, drawling out soft and sweet.
"you are right. We wouldn't want that, now would we?"
He shakes his head – he's fishing for something, for the admission that you don't mind his presence anymore, that you could work with him, that you'd want to.
You cock your head to the side, a few red strands of hair falling over your cheek, brushing against your jawline, coming to land over the side of your neck.
"Then, Agent Prentiss?" you ask. "She could be interesting. There's no such rumors about me on the tabloids yet."
You've caught him seeking what –validation - you think? Or he's asking you show gratitude for this afternoon in dealing with that man? Or maybe, he wants you to hear you say the words yourself – and ask him for help? But you're the one helping them. He needs to say it first.
"Agent Jareau, better yet" He offers and you chuckle.
"Then, it's settled." you say.
"It is." he agrees, nodding, but you see his hesitation – come on, you urge him in your mind, just ask.
At this moment – the most inopportune, he realizes - David Rossi's words rattle around in his brain.
You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. He hates it, that he could be right after all.
" I'll follow your lead" he says then. You perk up, slight hesitation marking your features.
"Do you want me to actually call you an ambulance?" you ask – a tad happier over his resignation of the battle.
"I'll even bet on the horses you tell me too, if necessary."
"With whose money?" You shoot back. "You're not rich"
"You don't know how much an FBI unit chief is paid" he says, voice cocky and self-assured, hand going up to his tie – flashing you his Rolex watch.
"Fine" you let out, staring at his large hand and fingers, rather than the object wrapped around his wrist, "I can't wait for tomorrow, then"
"Til tomorrow, then" he says, gaze lingering over your face. He's definitely drunker than he thought. It's the only reason to why he forgets where he is, what he does, or even his name as his entire attention is caught by the curls at the ends of your hair, sticking to the sweat he sees prickling on your neck.
"Til tomorrow" you repeat softly, breathing him in again – his cologne sweetly sharp and musky - not getting enough of it.
He nods, rocking forward an inch and you hold your breath. But he steps away, his sudden distancing taking with him all the heat you felt in your belly.
Your mind is clouded with silly dreams when you sleep that night.
---------------
Notes:
.... yes maybe Hotch was jealous !)
as always! thanks for reading! 💕💕💕
as always: lemme know what you think!