A/N: Yet another 10,000+ word chapter. Again. This felt so chaotic and all over the place to write. But I promise things are going to start to fall into place. Okay. Song time. "when was it over" by Sasha Sloan ft. Sam Hunt.
Content warnings: mention of violence, sexual assault, rape, vague descriptions of PTSD, and symptoms of PTSD
Aaron Hotchner is a man who has always been accustomed to loneliness. Not that he lacks in company, all his time is split between work with his team and his son. But he has no one to share himself with. He has no one to open up to. To just say whatever he's thinking out loud.
He's grown used to needing to bury his emotions deep inside of him. Feeling everything all at once has become too painful. He needs to be solid and ever-present in his son's life. He needs to be strong for his team. Though he tells them all, 'it's okay to lose it sometimes,' he will never allow himself to lose it again in front of them. He wishes he could act emotionally, the way Morgan and JJ and Reid do. He wishes he could break down every once in a while without everyone thinking differently of him. But what kind of leader would that make him?
He's a man who has a deep respect for the chain of command. He understands the need for structure and rules and protocol, yet at the same time, he wonders how much easier his life would be if he just broke the rules a little bit. What if he had taken that deal with Foyet? Maybe, just maybe, Haley would still be alive. Jack could have his mother in his life.
He's acutely aware of the fact that as a leader he must put others' needs before his own. He follows protocol for a reason. He knows that Morgan sees him a little bit like a dictator. A stubborn, hard ass. Maybe even a little bit of a bully. But he doesn't follow the protocol or the rules to be difficult. He does it because most of those rules are in place to keep people safe. To keep his team safe.
He's plenty comfortable with this personality he has to put on. He's accustomed to this role. He is comfortable in it. The problem is you. You come from the time in his life before all this. Before the shift. You remind him just how much fun you can have by breaking the rules. You remind him of giving in to his emotions. You remind him of feeling. Feeling anything. Feeling everything.
Whatever he once felt for you, it's not lingering around. It's been eight years. He doesn't still harbor feelings for you. He's had his great love. Haley. Haley was his great love. He's not sure that his heart has the capacity for any more love, and if it does, he owes it to Jack to give him all the love in the world. The kid has lost enough.
It's not that he wants you back in any capacity, but he feels this urge to explain himself to you. He knows doesn't have to explain himself to you. He's your boss. It would be best to keep everything professional. That's what he's been trying to do. He's been doing a pretty great job at keeping everything bottled up. Not just keeping what he wants to say to you tucked away, but everything he feels— has been feeling— since he lost Haley a few months ago, tucked away.
But when you turned to look at him and asked how he was so okay, that little voice in his head was urging him to spill it all to you. To tell you everything. Tell you how much he cared for you. How much he still cares for you. He wants the best for you. He always has.
You had the potential to be his great love. The feelings were there, but back then he didn't know how to love. He didn't know what it meant to give your everything to someone. To bare your soul to someone. He did know, however, that you would've given him all of you. No matter the cost to you, you were willing to give him all of yourself. He didn't know much, but he knew that was unfair to you. He knew he had to put a stop to it because you gave him everything and he gave you nothing.
He wanted the best for you. He was incapable of being the best for you. You deserved better than him, and he was not able to be better. That's on him. He knows that. That's no one's fault but his own. You deserve an explanation better than what he gave you.
He doesn't want you back, but he has been finding new levels of beauty within you. Within this new you, that he's just meeting for the first time. You're not a completely different person. The things he once found himself falling for, your wit, your intelligence, your smile, your humor, they're all still there. Yet there's so much new to discover, that he can't help but find himself being drawn into you all over again.
You're much more confident. You stand your ground. He knows that he is to blame for that. He showed you what it was like to have someone walk all over you. You have this air of wisdom that has clearly come about with age and experience.
There's something deeply tragic within your eyes. They were once so bright and full of hope in the world. He can tell that spark has died. Maybe it's something he resonates with, a loss of belief in the good in people, that has him gravitating towards you all over again. He knows you've been through a fair share of tragedies. So has he.
Whoever said opposites attract applies to relationships was dead wrong. There's nothing more appealing to Hotch than someone who completely understands him. Someone who completely understands his motivations, his mind, his feelings. Yet he believes he will never be able to open himself up to love again.
But you seem to give him hope. You might be just what he needs. He has this intuition that if he opened up to you, you would understand him. You would simply listen to him. You've always been good at listening. Maybe you've always been the right person for him. Maybe this is the second chance for the two of you.
Hotch visibly shakes his head, as if attempting to shake the thoughts from his head in the way a swimmer shakes their head to free the water from their ears. Every thought of you feels like a betrayal of his love for Haley. A betrayal of what he had with her. One look at the clock convinces Hotch he should be getting home. It's long past Jack's bedtime but that doesn't mean he can't be there when the kid wakes up. They'll spend the weekend together, doing something Jack loves.
Hotch looks down at the stack of unfinished case files. He still has to check over the team's work from the past week and he's very quickly falling behind the more his mind seems to want to focus on you. He's going to have to do a lot of paperwork this weekend. That's not new for him.
He digs around his pockets for his personal cell, getting ready to text Jessica that he's on his way home. She's probably already asleep, but a text can't hurt. The sound of his work cell ringing fills his body with a deep sense of grief and guilt. Guilty for not seeing his son more often, guilty for tearing JJ away from time with her family, guilty for forcing Garcia to see more of the worst of humanity, guilty of depriving Morgan, Reid, and Prentiss of sleep, guilty of depriving Rossi of his weekends, guilty of forcing you to spend any more time with him.
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.
It's nearly two in the morning when your phone rings, startling you. You're on edge. You reach for it, looking at the caller on the screen. "Agent Hotchner?"
"The team is meeting in an hour on the jet. It's an emergency." As much as you wish it didn't, his deep stern voice soothes your anxiety ever so slightly. It's nice to hear that he's okay. He's safe for now.
"Okay. See you then, Sir," As you say it, you realize that the trains don't run at this hour. You have no way of getting into the office or to the airstrip for that matter, "Hotch?" You say quickly before he can hang up. His name slips from your lips. You don't mean to call him that.
"Yes? Something wrong?"
"I would just call another team member but I assume you haven't left the office yet... I uh," You're embarrassed. Do you really want Hotch to see the shit apartment you live in? Do you really want him to know you don't own a car? "I don't have any way of getting into the office or to the airstrip. Usually, I take the train but... they don't run at this hour."
There's silence on the other line for a second. For a moment you think the service has gone dead. You open your mouth but just as you're about to ask him if he's still there he speaks up, "Send me your address. I'll come and pick you up." This time, you do freeze in place. You half expected him to say he would send Anderson or a car service, but the gesture isn't surprising for Hotch.
At least not surprising for the Hotch you seem to be meeting all over again. Not all the traces of who he was long ago are gone but there are so many new layers to him you find yourself discovering. He's immensely regimented. He follows rules. He respects authority. He's the most giving leader you've ever seen. He manages to balance the right amount of rigidness and emotional detachment from the job while still acknowledging that his team is inherently composed of human people. People who deal with emotions and grapple with a myriad of different flaws and obstacles to their success. He always knows the right thing to say to each person.
You know that despite tearing his head off a few hours ago, Hotch is still the type of leader to drop everything to help you. If that means picking you up at 3 AM so that you don't run into the possible dangers of taking a taxi cab this late, then he's going to pick you up.
It's equally unsurprising when you hear a buzz through the intercom to let him inside the building and up the stairs. Hotch doesn't half-ass anything. If he's going to pick you up, he's going to come directly to your door instead of sitting outside in the car waiting for you.
You buzz him up, looking around at the disarray you have managed to cause. The case files are scattered across the kitchen table. The picture of him from outside the coffee shop still hangs on your wall. You don't have time to hide it all. You know Hotch would never invite himself inside your apartment but there's a small part of you that worries what the consequences would be from the mystery sender if Hotch found out about the note.
His knock at the door is firm, pulling your attention away from the photo and all the case notes. You shove a few of the case files into your bag and rush to the door. "One second!" You call yanking a jacket off a hanger in your closet and hurriedly sliding your boots on. You wince a little, your feet sore from wearing the shoes the entire day at work but you fight through it and open the door just enough for you to squeeze out without letting Hotch glance into your apartment. He gives you a weird look but doesn't attempt to look around you into your apartment. "You didn't have to come to pick me up, you could've sent a car or something."
Hotch shakes his head. "Do you always take the train?" He reaches down, taking your go-bag from your hand, carrying it down the stairs of your apartment for you. You appreciate the gesture yet resent it all at the same time because of who it's coming from.
"I didn't need a car while in New York. Public transit got me everywhere. Now that I've moved here, I've started saving up for a car." As soon as you step out of your building, Hotch instinctively moves to stand behind you, looking both ways around the empty early morning streets. He has your back as if he's keeping a lookout.
Nice to know that the shitty living situation you have is not going unnoticed by him. He puts your go-bag into the back and opens the side door for you. Then something happens. As he opens the door for you, his hand drifts to your lower back, gently guiding you into the car. That's when you feel it. A warmth that spreads throughout your body from where he touched you. You're quick to move away from his touch and the expert profiler that Hotch is, immediately sense that he's put you on edge.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to," He rushes out and averts his eyes from yours, moving around to the other side of the car. You reply with a curt nod as if to tell him that it's okay but not to do it again. Or do you want him to do it again?
The only thing you've felt for the past year is numb. And when you aren't numb, you're angry. Not at Hotch, just at the world, at yourself, at the FBI, at the way your life has turned out. So the warm fluttery feeling stirring around your stomach is comforting. It's comforting to be reminded you can truly feel something, yet this isn't the kind of something you want to feel right now.
There's a moment of silence as Hotch starts to drive the two of you to the office.
"What—"
"I—"
Both you and Hotch start speaking at the same time. You fumble over your words as Hotch speaks up, "You go first."
"What's the emergency case?" You look over the lines in Hotch's face and his side profile as he drives. Hotch presses his lips into a thin line and tilts his head down a little, wringing his hands around the wheel.
"It'll be better to explain to the whole team but if I'm honest... it's not good." He sighs and looks over at you. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it, switching his focus between you and the road.
"You were saying something?" It's so dark in the car that you can barely make out his features. The only time you can clearly see him is when you drive past a street light, which illuminates the whole car. He doesn't immediately answer you. You watch as he seems to run over things in his head like he's preparing his words before he says them.
The car pulls to a stop at a red light right outside the FBI building. Hotch finally looks over at you, "I'm sorry." The bright red light on the side of his face somehow seems to soften his features and the way his voice is soft, hushed almost, keeping the conversation trapped in the car between the two of you, "For being so callous with you earlier and for pushing you to talk and for..." The light changes to green. Like a switch, he focuses on the road again.
"For?" You raise a brow, unable to pull your eyes away from him. He's utterly enchanting. Aging has done something wonderful to his features. The lines next to his eyes tell you that though it doesn't seem like he does now, he did at one point do a lot of smiling.
"For hurting you. I am truly sorry," He breathes out. It's relieving to hear him finally say the words. To finally own up to what he did. You always thought about this moment, when he finally apologizes for everything. You thought it would feel much better. You always pictured you would look him in the face and scoff lightly, acting as if you had gone on to so much bigger and better things than he ever expected from you.
But right now, you don't want to be pompous. You feel no urge to throw the apology back into his face. You almost, almost, feel bad for him. It never slips your mind how beaten down Hotch looks. You're sure you don't look your best right now, running on minimal hours of sleep over the past few days, but from the minute you started this job, he looked exhausted. Exhausted from what? That's what you want to figure out. You have this strong urge to reach over and take Hotch's hand as if you're the one apologizing to him, not the other way around.
You don't touch him but only force another nod, "I shouldn't have lashed out like that. It was unprofessional of me."
Hotch laughs softly, opening the car door and getting both of your go-bags from the back seat, "Nothing about this whole situation is professional." His breathy laugh brings a smile to your face. Did Aaron Hotchner just make a joke?
You both walk in silence into the building, flashing your badges at the night guard, who recognizes the both of you from when you left earlier in the night. The two insomniacs of the BAU. Both too proud to admit to the demons haunting them when they close their eyes, chalking up their late nights to an excessive amount of work.
Any friendly, playful attitude that Hotch had in the car with you dissipates as soon as you step onto the BAU floor. You can feel him tense up, standing a little taller. His face sinks into that unmistakable frown. You smile at the team as you step into the conference room, ignoring the screwed-up confused glance Rossi gives at the fact that you and Hotch enter the room at the same time.
"Hotch, what's the emergency?" Morgan asks, standing to make himself a cup of coffee.
Hotch walks to the front of the round table by the monitor, "Columbus PD just contacted us about two recent murders."
"Okay?" Prentiss glances up at him, "Why does it necessitate immediate BAU assistance?"
"They entered the information into the database and came up with a match, to the case we just closed." He reaches for the remote to turn on the monitor, "Two college-aged girls on Ohio State's campus were stabbed to death," He clicks through the photos.
"The mutilation of their hands," Rossi nods, almost knowingly.
"Did we get the wrong guy? Has he crossed into a different state to avoid connecting him to Indiana? Columbus, Ohio and Bloomington, Indiana can't be that far apart. " Prentiss points out gesturing with the pen in her hands.
"228 miles apart to be precise," Reid interjects.
"But how is that possible? Everett Wilson, we arrested him, he's detained, awaiting trial as we speak." You shake your head. "He confessed to the crimes."
"The rate of false confession is much higher than you might think," Reid leans forward in his chair, sitting up straighter as he does, "27 percent of people accused of homicide give false confessions. That number skyrockets to a hefty 81 percent when you isolate it just to people with intellectual disabilities and/or mental illness accused of homicide."
"So we either have a copycat or we caught the wrong guy," JJ deduces sounding altogether defeated.
"That's what Columbus PD needs us to figure out." Hotch nods, "I think our time will best be spent split between Ohio and Indiana."
"Indiana?" You look up from your tablet.
"Someone has to interview Wilson," Rossi fills in the gaps.
Hotch confirms with another small nod, "We'll fly into Ohio. I think two of us should drive to Indiana to interview Wilson for a few days. Wheels up."
———————
Hotch reaches forward, turning down the brightness on his laptop, attempting not to disturb his coworkers, who are currently attempting to get a little bit of sleep during the short flight to Ohio. There are only two other sources of light on the jet. One comes from Dave's tablet. He's looking over the details of the case again. The other is from the opposite side of the jet. You have the overhead light on, your eyes scanning quickly over the pages of a novel.
Hotch finds himself distracted from the work in front of him by you. You let out a long yawn. The overhead lighting is not doing your under-eye bags any favors. He wonders how long it's been since you've slept. Really slept. A full night of uninterrupted sleep.
He thinks of the neighborhood you live in. He thinks of the apartment complex. He worries about your safety, living alone in a place like that. Do you live alone? The way you slinked out of the door, barely opening it, not allowing him a view inside, makes him think you were shielding someone from him, hiding someone from his eye line.
Or maybe you were just worried about his wandering judgmental eyes. He wouldn't be surprised if you made every attempt to keep your personal details completely secret from him. He knows he has no right to that information, but he can't keep the curiosity at bay. No matter what the reason, your secretive behavior hasn't gone unnoticed by him.
You pull your feet up under you in the chair. He watches as you shiver slightly, reaching up to turn off the air vent above you. He feels an urge to offer you his jacket that sits on the seat across from him. He doesn't, but he wants to. It's a strange compulsion. Is it possible these urges to care for you, keep you safe that were put to rest eight years ago are still ingrained in him?
He needs to control himself, to remain composed and professional. He knows you don't want anything to do with him. That much is clear from the way you moved when his hand landed on your lower back. He didn't even consciously intend to touch you. He just opened the door to be polite. As you got in, he instinctively placed his hand on your back to help guide you into the car. It gave him that feeling again. The small sparks at the contact. The same small sparks from just over a week ago when he welcomed you to the team.
His eyes are lingering on you too long. Dave slides into the seat across from him, cutting off his clear line of sight. Rossi notices that Hotch's focus is not on the laptop in front of him.
"So you're going to Indiana to interview Wilson?" Rossi nods, leans forward on the table, folding his hands.
Hotch lowers the screen of his laptop, darkening the jet and shielding his features from Rossi's profiling gaze, "He's expecting higher-ups from the FBI. He's not going to talk unless we fuel his ego. Make him feel important enough that I want to come and talk to him."
"You know he's not going to give you everything you need just with you there." Rossi's mouth forms a thin line as he shakes his head, "You need to throw him off. You need some behavioral cues as well."
"I know that," Hotch sighs, rubbing his fingers together on top of the table. "Prentiss is an intimidating female presence. I think she can elicit the right responses from him."
Rossi pauses and glances off to the side at Emily who has fallen asleep, leaning her head against the closed jet window, "Emily has a lot of experience. She'll be good." He glances back at Hotch. Hotch knows what he's leading to. It's a fact Hotch is not oblivious to in the slightest. He knows exactly who the best partner for the interrogation will be. He knows exactly which team member will make Wilson the most uncomfortable.
Hotch shakes his head, "She's not an option, Dave. She needs more profiling experience with the team."
"She's the youngest on the team. She's not far behind Prentiss in age but she could easily pass for a student. That's exactly his type," Rossi argues, "I know there's something going on between the two of you, but you can't let that get in the way of this case."
Hotch keeps his voice hushed so you can't hear them, "Dave, I can't do that. What if she breaks down? What if something happens to her?"
"What's going to happen with you there?"
"To get what we need out of him we need to let him say everything he wants to say. We need to see his honest reaction to a challenging female presence. I don't think she'll be able to remain composed," Hotch argues back with Dave, realizing his voice has raised a few decibels. He shoots a look at you, making sure you haven't caught any part of the conversation.
"You think she won't be able to remain composed... or you won't?" Rossi points out. The old man is always capable of seeing right through Hotch. He goes silent and Rossi finally sits back in his chair, a smug smirk on his face, "There's always something about your first." He teases.
"Stop," Hotch practically cuts him off, "There's nothing between us."
That smirk never leaves Rossi's face. The lights flick on in the jet. Hotch feels the jet start to make an attempt to land. He knows what has to happen when you finally land, yet he is dreading it more than anything.
——
The team rouses from sleep as you land. You close your book, not having made much progress on it, your mind focused on the way Hotch's eyes kept darting over to you. The shift between the two of you has rattled you. Maybe getting some of the feelings out there in the open has permitted a change in dynamic.
You were honest with him. He was honest with you. You didn't necessarily want to hear any of his side of the story, but he answered your questions. There's no doubt in your mind that he told the truth. Unit chief Aaron Hotchner is brutally honest, almost too honest. There's a callousness to his honesty. He knows that truth can hurt, but sometimes you just need to hear it.
Sometimes you think it's fate that has brought you back together. Destiny, maybe. But you've never believed in fate nor in destiny. You like to think you have some form of autonomy and you get to dictate how your life runs. The problem with not believing in destiny is that there's no higher power or greater being to blame when your own reckless and stupid decisions end up hurting the people you love.
"Agent Y/L/N and I will drive to Indiana to interview Wilson. I've already made the necessary hotel arrangements. The rest of you will run the investigation from the Columbus PD headquarters. We'll keep you updated and join in on the investigation by tomorrow." Hotch nods and your head shoots up to look at him. He couldn't have told you that earlier?
As soon as you step off the jet, there are three SUVs waiting for you. Hotch leads you to one, once again taking your bag from your grip and putting it in the back.
You find yourselves in the same position as just a few hours earlier, Hotch at the wheel, you in the passenger's seat, except this time, the sun is just rising as you start the three-hour drive to Indiana.
"Have you gotten any sleep tonight?" He looks over your face for the split second that he's able to take his eyes off the road.
You nod, lying, "I got some sleep before you called us all in."
He hesitates, wringing his hands around the steering wheel. He's always been fidgety with his hands. When he's not driving, he still does that little finger rubbing thing at his side. Sometimes he twirls a pencil in his fingers when he's thinking. He'll rub his hands over his face or continually place them on his forehead, rubbing at his skin a little. When he drives, he rubs his hands over the steering wheel. It's even more obvious when he's thinking. He's debating whether or not to call you out on the lie.
He clearly decides against it, "Get some sleep if you need to. I'll wake you up to brief you before we get to the detention center." And that's the last thing he says to you for a while. You would reach for your book, to soothe your anxiety, but Hotch put the go-bags in the trunk.
Most of the drive is spent in silence until you're about 20 minutes out from the prison. You attempted to get some rest but the fact that you're about to practically be bait for a serial killer isn't really the most calming pre-nap thought.
Hotch begins to brief you, "Wilson has an ego. He's a narcissist. This is a game to him. He'll turn every question back to you or me as another question. He's going to try and trip me up. Tell me that I've gotten something wrong about him."
You nod and Hotch continues, "Then he's going to turn all of his attention on you. You're a young, attractive, successful woman." You try to ignore the small warmth in your stomach when he says the word attractive, "You're his exact victim type. He'll hate you, but he's also going to want to impress you."
"That's why you picked me," You reach for your tablet, looking over the details from Wilson's case. You wrote the case report, yet you still want to feel as prepared as possible.
"It's likely he remembers both of us from his arrest. He's going to want to describe to you in graphic detail every violent thing he did to those women. How he planned to kill them, how he followed them, how he felt killing them." Hotch's voice is steady but you see a slight sheen on the steering wheel from his clammy hands. He's nervous. Does he not trust you to do a good job? Does he think you're going to screw up?
"To freak me out?" You glance out at the window as you pull down a long windy road towards the detention center.
"To have control over you. To draw you into his fantasy. Don't let him know it gets to you. Remain charming with him. Don't get antagonistic with him. It'll cause him to shut down." Hotch pulls to the guard tower, flashing them his credentials. You reach for your own and do the same. The gates open, letting Hotch drive through and into the lot.
"He's still awaiting trial but he'll be in handcuffs. I won't let them uncuff him when he's alone with you," Hotch parks the SUV.
"Alone?" You have to admit the thought terrifies you.
"He's going to want to tell you more without me there," Hotch turns off the engine. You see a guard exiting the front doors, walking towards you two. You give another wary nod and reach for the car door.
Hotch reaches for your arm, grabbing it gently. Your first name slips from his lips as he does. His grip isn't harsh, it's just enough to stop you from getting out, "Nothing is going to happen to you. I won't let anything happen to you." You look down at his hand on your arm, the feeling sending tingles all the way through your shoulder and down your back. He tracks your gaze and removes his hand, "And if it ever is too much and you feel overwhelmed, you just leave. It's okay to need to take a breath. This isn't going to be easy."
"I'll be okay," Your shaking voice gives you away. You open the car door and extend a hand to introduce yourself to the detention officer. He leads both you and Hotch inside. You take off your gun holster and Hotch does the same for both of his guns.
A loud buzz signifies that the door is unlocked for you two to enter the center. Two armed guards lead you and Hotch down rows of cells holding prisoners that are all awaiting trial. A few of them call out, hollering and catcalling as you walk by. You resist the urge to wrap your arms around your body to shield yourself from them.
"Just keep your eyes forward," Hotch speaks up from beside you. "He's going to want to see the crime scene photos."
"We can't show him," You argue. "We're not here to give him a gift."
"We need him to cooperate with us." The next door is locked and you both stand there waiting for it to open. You finally catch a glimpse of him. His face is furrowed into that stern interrogation look of his, but his eyes are warm as they look at you, "You don't have to do this."
Another loud buzz. The guards push open the door. "Yes, I do."
You step into the interrogation room. Everett Wilson stands to greet you. "Aaron Hotchner," He smirks and just his smile sends a shiver through your body. That's when his cold, steely eyes turn to you, "And you... I remember you." He grins, speaking your name in a much more dulcet tone than he uttered Hotch's. "I would shake your hand but," He lifts his shackled wrists.
"Sit down," Hotch is solid, unmoving. The way he speaks almost terrifies you. He slams a file down in front of Wilson.
"I assume you're here because of my wonderful admirer," He snickers and reaches for the file.
You place a palm on top of it, dragging it away from him, almost teasingly. You open it up, but keep it shielded from view, "You already have admirers?"
"Did one of those exclusive interviews with a newspaper," Wilson nods his eyes running over you at a slow pace, as if he's attempting to savor every last inch of your appearance, "The letters are already pouring in."
You know he's lying. He's exaggerating the truth already, just like Hotch said he would. He's only been detained for about 10 days. There's no way he's gotten that much attention in such a short period of time. You also remember Hotch told you to play into his ego as much as possible. "I'm not surprised. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit fascinated by you." You raise your voice a few tones, letting a small smile grow on your face.
Immediate disgust at your actions fills you. You're flirting... with a man who brutally stabbed multiple women.
"It's not possible that you know who is committing these crimes," Hotch's voice cuts through the tension between you and Wilson. Wilson doesn't bother to look away from your eyes as Hotch speaks. You want to tear yourself away from his chilling gaze, but it's almost as if you're having a standoff and you don't like to lose or give up.
"It isn't?" He finally breaks eye contact. He's questioning Hotch, just as expected. "And how are you so sure of that, Agent Hotchner?"
"You haven't had any visitors," He argues, "And according to the guards, very little correspondence."
"And you don't believe this imitation could've reached out to me?" He tuts and shakes his head, condescension oozing from every inch of the man, "So frequently incorrect, Aaron," He turns to look at you again, "But how could anyone focus on anything when working alongside such a beautiful, young woman?"
You're not sure how to act. Do you smile? Do you nod? Do you scoff? What you want to do more than anything is reach across the table, grab him by the neck and slam him up against the wall, demanding answers, "Can we see these letters?"
"No."
"No?" You ask incredulously, glancing at Hotch for guidance.
"Not until I see those photos and confirm it's my acquaintance from the letter," He nods at the file you have trapped under your arms.
Hotch reaches an arm across you for the file but you stand up from the chair, picking the file up, "A word?" You mutter, looking down at Hotch. He nods and stands, following you out.
"If you can't handle this just step away," Hotch starts and reaches again for the file once you're outside the room.
You move it out of his grip, "No I can handle it just fine. I just... this feels like a reward for him. I want him to give us more before we give it up."
"What else are you expecting from him?" He crosses his arms across his chest.
"I want to know why. Why those girls? Why the hands? If we can identify the differences between his murders and these, we can figure out where the motivation stems from for these. "
Hotch hesitates, "Okay but if—"
"I'm fine. I'm not going to lose it. I can handle this," You roll your eyes. You appreciate his consideration, but it's starting to feel less like he cares about you and more like he doesn't have faith in you to be able to do this.
You step back into the room, this time, alone. "Uncuff him," You nod at the guards. They look to each other, then to you again and you nod. Wilson stands so they can remove the shackles from his wrists. He lets out a contented sigh once they're removed and rolls his wrists around a little to loosen them up.
"Ready to show me what we're dealing with?" He cracks his knuckles, almost threateningly.
"Not just yet," You emphasize placing your hand flat on the file, holding it close. You talk a lot with your hands, "You see, I don't get you. Or maybe I do. That's the problem. Those women, what drew you to them? Was it their beauty? Or was it their age? You took pride in preying on younger women. You've always had a preference for them haven't you?"
Wilson maintains that smug look on his face, but you notice that his eyes dart6 down to your hands often.
"That's why your first run-in with the law was with your wildly underage girlfriend. Isn't that right? Statutory rape. That will put a real damper on your career goals, won't it?" You tsk softly, "Poor Amanda Reinhardt."
"I loved her. We were in love. It was her parents' fault," He argues. You can tell his anger level is rising.
"I think your defense went something along the lines of this," You open the file, pulling out some of the notes from Wilson's history, "It was her fault. She was always teasing me, ruining me with those looks. With the way her hair smelled and the way her hands felt on my body.' You remember saying that?" His jaw tightens as you recite the words back to him. "You didn't love her. You grew to hate her. Her accusations ruined your career."
"She loved me back. I swear she did." His tone gets sharper.
"So when you killed those women, you really were thinking of killing Amanda, weren't you?" You push him, finally sliding the file across the table to him. You open it, turning to one of the photos of the newest victims.
"It's not right," He growls, "He didn't do it right!" He slams a fist down on top of the file. You jump back a little. Wilson reaches forward flipping to the next photo, "Not right!" He yells and you start to grow fearful of him. His anger level is quickly rising. You have hit a nerve. He shoves the file back across the table, the papers and photos scattering around as he does. "You don't know! You don't! You're ruining everything!" He lunges towards you but before he can reach you the guards grab him by the shoulders. At the same time, two hands reach and grab your shoulders, yanking you out of his reach.
It's Hotch. Hotch is pulling you away from him, placing his body between you and Wilson. "We're done here." He replies firmly.
Just as you turn to leave and follow Hotch out, Wilson yells one last thing at the two of you, "He's just getting started! This is far from over for you, Y/N!" Ice water down your back as you hear it. Could the copy cat be connected to the note and photo you received? But this is all too up close and personal. The man who haunts your past never got up close and personal with his victims. Bombs. That was always it. Distance from the victims. This can't be connected to him.
It takes you a second to realize Hotch is calling your name. He places a hand on your shoulder, which seems to draw your attention back to him, "Are you okay? I told you to step out if you needed to."
"I'm fine." You reply curtly.
"What was he saying in there at the end? Do you know who this copycat is?" You follow him back down the halls of cells, towards the exit, and out into the air. You take a few long deep breaths. Hotch repeats your name firmly.
"I don't know what he was talking about. I think he was just trying to get under my skin," You shake your head. "Something in those photos set him off. It's clearly a copycat, and it's clearly not someone who bothered to get to know Wilson's original motivations."
"But why are they doing it? To get his attention? To get him released?" Hotch walks with you back to the SUV.
You look down at your watch and realize just how long you and Hotch have been at this. What felt like minutes in there with him was really hours. "God I indulged him." You mutter under your breath.
"It's part of the job," Hotch starts the engine, "We should get back to the hotel. You can get some rest. We'll leave for Ohio in the morning."
You sit in silence, running over the whole interaction in your head. You leaned towards him. You smiled back at him. You even laughed at him. You got valuable answers, but what did you lose in the process? Your dignity? Your self-respect? "I don't think the copycat is even doing it for Wilson. I think he's doing it for us. To get our attention. To get the FBI involved."
"You think this unsub has some sort of personal connection to the BAU?" Hotch pulls into the hotel and parks the car.
"It's the best explanation." You meet his gaze.
"I shouldn't have let you go to talk to him." Hotch lets out and you feel frustration rising in you.
"Will you stop treating me like I'm incapable of handling this?" You open the door and step out, reaching for your bag in the back.
Hotch follows close behind you into the hotel. The man at the front has already checked you in and hands Hotch two hotel room cards. "I don't think you're incompetent. I just think you've been through a traumatic experience. It's okay to be fragile after what you've been through."
You push the elevator button with quite a bit of force. "With all due respect, you don't even know half of what I've been through."
The doors open and you step inside, Hotch right on your heels. You're praying that someone else will come running, telling you to hold the doors, so that Hotch doesn't continue this conversation, but the doors close with ease, leaving the two of you alone. "I know I'm the last person you'd confide in, but everybody needs to lose it sometimes." You reach forward pushing the emergency stop button, "What are you—"
"Do you want me to lose it?" You question him, "Because you act like you actually want to see me lose it like you're encouraging it."
"I just care about you. You're a part of my team," Hotch speaks as if his line of logic is the simplest, most normal thing in the world. As if there isn't a whole life you two lived together years ago.
"Because if you want me to lose it, make a scene, blow up on you, I can do that," You chuckle bitterly. "Sometimes it really feels like you're trying to push me to the edge and see how strong I am. How long I hold on before I lose it."
Hotch doesn't reply right away. You reach forward and release the elevator, feeling it lurch as it starts climbing the floors again. The elevator only rises four more floors before Hotch reaches forward and stops the elevator again.
"Would that help you? To lose it? To let it all out and yell and scream at me? Would that make you feel better?" His voice is eerily level. "Because if you need me to be your punching bag, I'll do that."
He's telling you the elevator is like neutral territory for the two of you, again. Whatever you say in here won't leave. You can't look him in the eyes. You don't start the elevator again. "I look at you and I don't see you. I just feel the air disappear from my lungs. I feel pain. In my chest, in my head. I feel sick."
You take a pause. Hotch doesn't react. He's giving you the opportunity to let it all out. To tell him everything you're thinking. "I've tried to imagine how my life would've been without you in it. I could, and I felt so much better. The problem is no matter how good it felt to picture life without you, I still wouldn't choose it over a life with you in it. I hate you, yet I don't want to live a life without you in it."
Another long pause. Neither of you moves from your spot in the elevator. You keep your eyes trained on the closed elevator doors. "The worst part of this whole fucking situation is that after all these years, you still manage to have a hold on every decision I make."
"What are you talking about?" He's giving you an opening. He can tell that something is wrong. Something is off about you. He can tell that this frantic, paranoid energy you're radiating isn't because of your past with him. It's something else. That picture, that note, it's put you on edge. He noticed from the moment he picked you up at your apartment. You can't tell him about the letter. You tell him and you risk his life.
You reach for the elevator button, bringing it to life once more. It rises the last few floors to the floor with your and Hotch's hotel rooms.
"Have a good night, Hotch," You huff out a breath, stepping off the elevator and walking down the halls to find your room. You desperately want to collapse on the bed and sleep until morning. It's only late afternoon at this point, but you're so emotionally drained you just might actually get some sleep.
You open your door, tossing your bag onto the chair in the corner of the room. You draw the curtains, quickly stripping off your clothes, muscles aching for a hot shower. What you want more than anything is a drink, but you know Hotch would have your ass if he found out you were drinking while technically on the job.
You walk to the bathroom, turning the shower all the way to hot. The bathroom fills up with steam and you stand around in it, letting yourself get the slightest bit light-headed in the steam. You step into the shower, hoping to scrub away the disgust you have for yourself after today.
You're not sure how long you're in the shower, but at some point, you sit on the tiled floor. You let tears well up in your eyes. You don't know why you're crying but it just sort of happens. It's just so much. It's all so much. This life, this job. It's so hard.
Your therapist's voice rings through your head. Your interpersonal skills will take a hit. You're going to be more irritable. Easily angered. Easily provoked. Almost like angry outbursts triggered by almost nothing. You think about how quickly you turned on a dime, snapping at Hotch in the elevator. You'll feel like you can't trust anyone. You'll have days where you feel nothing at all, just numb. You might have overwhelming waves of sadness or guilt. Your tears start to merge with the soapy water flowing down your cheeks and all over your body. You might struggle to sleep. Sleep deprivation will aggravate the other symptoms.
The steam is so thick in the bathroom you can't see your hands in front of your face. The glass is completely foggy. You can barely breathe. Your eyelids are drooping closed with exhaustion, so you haul yourself up off the floor and turn off the water. You reach for the towel wrapping it around your body gently.
You walk back into your room but freeze in place when you see a note delicately placed on top of your go-bag. It's a small white envelope. The front of it has the same writing as the one delivered to your apartment.
He was in your room. Just now. He got into your room. You fumble around for your gun, looking around the tiny hotel room, still only wrapped in a towel. You swing open the closet doors, frantically aiming your gun. You see a breeze from the balcony, blowing the curtains back and forth. You creep slowly towards them and yank the curtains open, stepping out onto your balcony, seeing no one out there.
The envelope is still sitting on top of your bag. You turn back into the room and open it, still dripping water everywhere as you do. Another photo. Another note. This time, the photo is of Penelope and Derek. They look like they're leaving a movie theatre. Morgan's arm is wrapped tightly around Garcia's shoulders. You pick up the note:
Ready to follow my rules? Rule 1: Play nice with Aaron Hotchner. He's an expert profiler. He's going to catch on to those mood swings of yours. Enough with the hot and cold with him.
Nausea grows in the pit of your stomach. He's been watching you. He was in this hotel. He might still be in this hotel. He knows about your fights with Hotch. How?
You keep your gun close by your side even when you settle into the bed. You leave all the lights on. You check the locks on the door and the sliding glass doors every hour. All hope for sleep slips through your fingers.
You and Hotch travel the three hours back to Ohio the next morning in complete silence. You don't mention the second note. He can tell you didn't sleep. You don't care. Your mind is hyperfocused on that stupid fucking note. Now it's clear the man taunting you has eyes on Hotch, Garcia, and Morgan. They're all in danger.
The main problem is with the copycat case. The case goes cold. You all stick around Columbus, Ohio for another two days. No new murders. No new leads. Nothing. You have nothing to profile. All the components of the profile seem to be leading to dead ends. Rossi explains that it's one of the most frustrating parts of the job. Sometimes what you need to solve the case is another body, but another one never comes. It's a good thing in retrospect, but it means that the team has failed.
You're not much help to the team the two days you spend grasping at straws because you've retreated so far into yourself you barely speak. You do what Hotch asks of you but he notices your change in behavior. Then you realize you're supposed to be normal. Play nice with Aaron Hotchner.
By day three, the team has decided there's nothing more you can do. You have to return to Quantico. From the energy of the entire team on the jet, you can tell you all feel as if you've failed. It doesn't seem like the team is used to unsolved cases. Everyone is frustrated and tired and angry.
One by one, the team starts to fall asleep, all thoroughly exhausted from the past two days. You eye the seat across from Hotch, the only bright place left on the plane. He has the overhead light on as he works on his laptop. You keep your book clutched tight against your chest and sit across from him.
He only looks up to smile at you before diving back into his work. You've never had a problem existing in silence with Hotch. Until now. There's so much that's happened between you. Yet like always, it's not about the things that you said to him a few days ago. It's about whatever isn't being said. And at this moment, across from him, pretending to read, you can tell there's so much he's not saying. You look up at him to find he's looking right back at you.
"Something wrong?" You ask, not sure if you really want the answer.
"Something you said the other day. It's sticking with me," He tilts his head down a little, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. "You said you hate me."
"Oh," Did you mean it? You don't know. You don't think you've ever hated Hotch. You could never hate him.
"It's sticking with me because," Aaron takes a slow deep breath, closing his laptop like he's preparing himself for what he's about to explain to you. What he's about to discuss is going to hurt more than both of you can comprehend in that moment. "Because," He's loosened his tie, letting it hang crookedly around his neck, "If you're going to hate me, I need you to see all of me before you do."
So he tells you everything. He tells you about Foyet and Haley and the events of the past two years of his life. He starts with the deal Shaughnessy made with The Boston Reaper all those years ago. He goes over the case, in detail, describing the process that led them to Foyet. He describes Foyet's escape from prison. He didn't stop searching for him after that. Every free minute in the day, he dedicated to tracking anything and everything he could to find Foyet. But he had gone underground.
Then he gets to his attack. The details start to fade out from there. "That's when—" Hotch pauses as he speaks. He averts his eyes from yours, taking a second to breathe. He presses his lips into a firm line. It's hard for him to get the words out, "When he attacked me in my home."
He doesn't tell you much, besides the fact that Foyet stabbed him and dropped him off at the ER. As Hotch talks, you just simply sit there and listen. You feel your heart sinking further into your stomach. Your first impressions were correct. The man in front of you is a man who has been through a world of hurt. You could see it in his eyes that first day on the job. He's deeply broken.
You feel bad for him. It doesn't take away from the hurt he caused you in the past, but you find yourself starting to understand this current Aaron Hotchner more and more with each word out of his mouth.
You don't know how you feel about Aaron Hotchner. You don't know what the future of your relationship with him holds, a fact you remind yourself of constantly. But when he starts to talk about the attack, you see him closing off. You can see him suppressing just how traumatic and painful it all was. He glosses over the details, but just the look on his face makes you want to reach for his hand. You want to hold it, show him that you're listening to him. You care about what he's saying.
You resist the urge and resign yourself to attempting to demonstrate just how intently you're listening to him. He explains how Foyet killed Haley while she was on the phone with him. He was too late. He couldn't save her. Jack was unharmed. He's not sure Jack fully understands what happened yet. He's still not really old enough to understand that his mom isn't ever coming back.
It's ill-timed, but you can't help but feel the pain in your chest as he continues to talk about Haley. He was deeply in love with her. She was his person. His one true love. She was able to show him true love. You feel intensely disappointed. You weren't enough for him to change, but Haley was. He explains that he met her in high school and they separated a few years later as he pursued his career. They were reunited not long after he quit his teaching position. Right when he started his job in the FBI.
Now she's gone. His true love, ripped away from him, all because of his job. "I lost her to the job twice."
"I'm sorry," Is all you can manage to get out after he stops talking.
"What are you sorry for? It wasn't your fault," He has to clear his throat a little, his voice getting caught in the back of his throat. You swear his eyes have glossed over with tears.
"For bringing her up the other day. That was cruel of me." Your voice is small. You've never seen him so vulnerable, so weak, so emotional.
"You didn't know." He waves his hand, dismissing your apology.
"Still. I'm sorry," You pause, "Also I'm sorry for wishing a horrible life on you."
"When did you do that?" He scrunches his brows up, confused.
You bite back a smile, "Oh just uh... eight years ago?"
Then something beautiful happens. Aaron Hotchner lets out a full-bodied, amazingly childish laugh. It makes you think that maybe, just maybe, there is hope for the two of you after all.
A/N:
I loved hearing all your thoughts in the comments of the last chapter. It brought such a smile to my face :)
Once again, I apologize for the long delays between chapters. There are just so many moving parts to this story that I want to make sure I get everything right. Also, I know the timeline makes no sense. Eight years is not enough and in "Omnivore" they say Hotch worked on the Reaper case in like 1998 and since this is like Season 6 let's just pretend it makes sense that JJ is still on the team and is a profiler and just ugh pretend everything lines up perfectly. This is a canon divergent story okay.
Take care of yourselves. Get some sleep. I love you all <3