ajoyfulfuture

[ajoyfulfuture]

absence: part ii.

a joyful future fic aaron hotchner x gender neutral reader

a/n: how we feelin about everyhing? happy? sad? ready to punch aaron in the dick? co-written by @ssaic-jareau links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3 | turn on post notifs!

word count: 13k content warning(s): canon typical descriptions of violence, use of sat calls as emotional foreplay, vomit mention/implied

“but nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.” calla quinn, all the time

june 7th - september 16th, 2011

+++ june 7th, 2011

Spencer’s already in the roundtable room when you get in. He’s seated at the far end of the table with his back to the door, one leg tucked under him, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t look up when you enter—just keeps scanning the case file in front of him, lips moving with half-sounded words.

You drop your bag a little harder than necessary into the chair beside him. “You beat me here.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” He flips a page. “Plus, the substation reports came in early. I figured I’d start the geographic profile.”

You hum. Sit. “Nice of you to share with the class.”

“I was going to.” He blinks, just once. “Eventually.”

The early morning light makes the room feel too bright. You squint at the printout he slides toward you. He’s already drawn a grid overlay across the topographical map. “I mapped the victim distribution against known bus routes,” he says. “There’s a two-block cluster that doesn’t make sense. I think it’s emotional geography, not practical.”

You nod, but you’re only half-listening.

He glances at you. “You okay?”

It’s not performative, the way he asks. He’s not concerned for the sake of politeness. Just curious, in that way he always is.

“I’m fine,” you say, then—“Just tired.”

He doesn’t push. Just folds his hands and stares at the map. “I miss her too,” he says softly. “And I think—I think I’m starting to forget what it felt like when she was still around. And that’s worse.”

You don’t answer right away.

“I still expect her to walk in sometimes,” you murmur.

“I used to. Now I expect you.”

You blink.

Spencer keeps his eyes on the map, as if he didn’t just say something devastating. “You’re the one who keeps it together,” he says. “I think we all know that now.”

Your throat tightens. “I'm not trying to, really.”

“It’s what you do anyway.”

And somehow, you know that wasn’t meant to be comforting. Just true.

Outside, the bullpen hums with early morning movement. Rossi’s voice echoes faintly from his office. JJ’s jacket swings over the back of a chair.

You sit with Spencer in the quiet for another minute.

Then you lean forward, tap the page, and say, “Let’s get this on the board.”

+++

You find Derek and Dave in the kitchen nook after hours, half a pot of coffee gone cold between them. Derek’s shirt sleeves are pushed up, and Dave’s settled into his end-of-day lean against the counter like he’s waiting for you to join them.

“You look like you’ve seen the inside of five case files and a war zone,” Derek says as you approach.

You blink. “That’s because I have.”

Dave raises an eyebrow. “That cold case you pulled off Hotch’s desk?”

You nod. “Sent it back to the locals. They’re running with it.”

Derek smirks. “Of course they are.”

“I just found a thread he’d already started,” you say. “I finished the work.”

Dave hums. “That’s what we’re all doing, isn’t it? Finishing the work.”

The silence settles heavier than you expect.

Derek breaks it. “You been eating?”

You squint at him. “Did Penelope put you up to this?”

He laughs. “She didn’t have to. You’ve been running on fumes for weeks.”

“I’m not the only one.”

“No, you’re not,” Dave agrees. “But you’re the one carrying most of the administrative weight right now. That’s new. That’s a load, even if you won’t say it.”

You lean against the fridge, cross your arms. “It’s fine.”

Derek gives you a look. “You keep saying that word. It doesn't mean what you think it means.”

You shrug, letting the reference bypass you.

“I know Hotch left a vacuum,” Dave says. “We all feel it. But what you’re doing—it’s more than making it work. You’re holding the place together.”

You shift under the compliment, uncomfortable with how true it feels. “We’re short-handed,” you say, like that explains anything.

Derek watches you for a beat. “Have you told him yet?”

Your jaw tightens. “Told him what?”

“That you’re using his office. That Jack’s bringing home his spelling tests to put on the fridge. That you’re doing everything you can to make sure there’s something to come back to.”

You glance away.

“He should know,” Dave says.

You exhale, slow. “He has enough to worry about.”

Derek says nothing, but Dave gives you a look that says he’s not the only one.

And for the first time in weeks, you let it hang.

Then, because the moment is too full—you say, “We still on for poker night?”

Derek grins. “Only if you’re ready to lose again.”

“I’ll bring wine,” Dave says, turning for his office. “You bring snacks. And for the love of God, someone warn Garcia that there will be chicken.”

+++ june 11th, 2011

You’re halfway through your second glass of wine when Spencer loses his third hand in a row and groans like it’s a moral offense.

“This game is rigged,” he mutters, scowling at the modest pile of chips in front of him. “I’ve been banned from every casino in Vegas and Reno and Laughlin. There’s no way I’m losing.” 

“You say that every time,” Penelope replies, chin in her hand, cheeky as anything. “And yet you keep losing.”

Derek smirks from the kitchen, balancing a pizza box in one hand and a stack of napkins in the other. “That’s because he keeps trying to apply game theory to a game built on vibes.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer says, affronted, “are you implying that mathematics has no place in poker?”

“We’re implying,” you say, cutting in as you deal the next hand, “that you have a terrible poker face and that I can see your tell from across the room.”

“I don’t have a tell.”

You and Derek say, in perfect unison: “You blink too fast.”

Spencer looks like he’s been personally betrayed. “That’s not statistically significant—”

“Pizza!” Derek announces, cutting him off with a grin as he drops the box in the center of the table. “Let’s take a break before Garcia robs you all blind.”

“I am but a humble conduit for Lady Luck,” she says, already reaching for a slice.

You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms overhead. The apartment is warm and comfortable, humming with music and the low murmur of conversation. JJ’s on the floor with her legs stretched under the coffee table, texting Will. Rossi called in a reprieve earlier—said he needed an evening of solitude and bourbon. You don’t blame him. Not everyone can pretend things are normal.

But you’re trying.

You glance at Derek, who’s settled on the arm of the couch beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You good?” he asks under his breath.

“Good as I can be.” You look around the room. “We needed this.”

“Yeah,” he says. “We really did.”

There’s a beat of silence. You both watch as Penelope distracts Spencer with a ridiculous trivia card from the Supernatural Creatures expansion pack she brought for the post-poker game. It’s barely even a game, really—just a scavenger hunt for the strangest possible questions.

“Still can’t believe you ran point on that sting op last week,” Derek says, quieter now. “You were steady as hell.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “You were the one with the takedown. I just got her talking long enough.”

“Nah. You held it together. The way you handled the unsub?” He gives a small shake of his head. “Hotch would’ve been proud.”

You blink once. “You think?”

“I know.”

The compliment settles in your chest.

Penelope claps her hands. “Alright! Poker is over. It’s time for emotional damage in board game form.” She waves the box of cards like a threat.

“No way,” Spencer says. “That game is evil.”

Derek grins and leans into you. “He’s still recovering from last week’s what do I need to hear right now meltdown.”

You laugh, then glance down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. The last message from Jess said Jack was asleep and the house was quiet. You really must get out of the habit of checking your email, compulsively, hoping for something to make it through from Pakistan.

Still, you wish he were here. Just for a night like this.

You push the thought down and reach for a slice of pizza.

If he were here, he’d sit beside you without hesitation. He’d read every tell you tried to hide. He’d fold with a smile just to let you win. You’d laugh at his expense, and he’d let you.

You’d pretend it didn’t mean anything.

You’d fail.

“You in, or what?” Derek nudges you again, this time harder. “You’re not gonna chicken out just because Penelope might make you cry, are you?”

You shoot him a look. “Bring it on, Morgan.”

“Hell yeah,” Penelope says, dealing the first card. “Emotional exposure, here we come.”

And for a little while, in the warmth of the laughter and the teasing, you let yourself forget the ache behind your ribs.

The lights are low. The wine is half gone. The poker chips are pushed to the far side of the coffee table.

Penelope deals out the cards from her deck like a practiced magician, her voice gleeful. “Level Two: Connection. Buckle up, bitches.”

Spencer groans. “This is entrapment.”

“You’re the one who picked the seat closest to me, Doctor.”

JJ leans back against the couch, glass in hand. “Let’s go. Let’s see who breaks first.”

The first few cards are easy.

“Describe each other’s aesthetic in three words.”

“What’s my go-to coping mechanism?”

 (Spencer says “books,” JJ says “avoidance,” and Derek says “both.”)

Then Penelope draws one and her eyebrows go up. “Oh. Okay.”

She clears her throat, dramatic.

“Finish this sentence: I feel most myself when I’m—”

“Alone,” Spencer says quickly, too quickly.

“With my family,” JJ adds, glancing at him.

“Running,” Derek says. Then, nodding toward you: “Your turn, kid.”

You hesitate.

You can feel all their eyes on you, but it’s not pressure. Not quite. It’s just… attention. Familiar. Soft. Expectant.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swirl your wine. Try again.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, a half-shrug in your voice. “That’s a hard one.”

Penelope blinks. “Is it?”

Derek tilts his head, studying you the way he does suspects he’s already figured out. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “Not everything needs to be said out loud.”

You don’t mean to sound bitter. It just… slips out.

The table goes quiet.

You busy yourself with the bottle, refilling your glass as if that might smooth the moment over. Spencer says something to JJ about the phrasing of the prompt, mercifully shifting the attention. Penelope lets it pass. Derek doesn’t.

You feel his eyes on you. Measuring.

The next card skips you, but the silence hasn’t quite settled back into fun.

Derek leans into your shoulder. Voice low. Just for you. “You don’t have to lie to win this one, you know.”

You swallow. “Didn’t lie.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you didn’t answer, either.”

You don’t reply.

But you’re thinking it.

I feel most myself when I’m in Aaron Hotchner’s kitchen. When Jack is asleep. When the lights are low and he’s looking at me like I’m the only safe thing left in the world.

You don’t say it.

And that’s the tell.

Derek leans back with a knowing nod. “Alright,” he says. “My turn.”

And the game moves on.

But your silence stays on the table, pulsing quietly beneath the laughter.

+++ june 17th, 2011

The call clicks through with the usual delay. Just long enough to feel like a breath held underwater.

Derek answers on the third ring. “Hotch. You alright?”

“I’m fine.” Aaron leans forward in the stiff chair they’ve crammed into a corner of the command tent, shielding the receiver slightly. “How’s the unit?”

Derek exhales, long and familiar. “Still breathing. You know how it is. JJ’s getting her groove back, Garcia’s pulling triple duty again, and our favorite profiler is doing enough work for three agents.”

Aaron’s pulse stutters and he asks if you're okay.

“Depends on your definition,” Derek says. “We're holding it down. But you’d know that if you were here.”

Aaron bites the inside of his cheek. “I appreciate the update.”

There’s a pause.

Derek’s voice softens—just slightly. “Hey, listen… Strauss came sniffing around a few weeks ago.”

Aaron shifts. “Yeah?”

“There’s a gig at the LA office. Some kind of hybrid analyst-operations gig.”

Aaron closes his eyes. He already knew. Of course he did. Strauss sent him a weird, vague email about it, and it wasn’t very gentle. He’d been preparing himself for weeks. But hearing it aloud is different. He wants more detail, but he won’t ask.

"It would be hard to pass up” Aaron says, careful to keep his tone neutral. “It’s a good opportunity.”

There’s silence on the other end. Too long.

Aaron prompts, “You don’t know what the plan is?”

“No,” Derek says, slow. Measured, careful. “But nobody’s acting different.”

Aaron stills.

“Let me put it this way—nobody’s acting like they’re halfway out the door,” Derek continues. “Some people are taking extra shifts, picking up training coordinator duties, even running point on cold cases. You remember that robbery-homicide you couldn’t close out of Cincinnati?”

Aaron’s throat tightens. “The museum break-in?”

“Yeah. It was turned over with fresh leads last week. Local PD’s re-opening the file.”

Aaron exhales slowly. Something in his chest curls tight.

“Just saying,” Derek adds, telling him if you were going to leave, you’re doing a terrible job of it.

Aaron doesn’t respond. He can’t. Not without giving himself away.

Derek lets the silence sit.

Then, casually, like it doesn’t mean anything: “So, what’s the story? You know anything?”

Aaron presses his thumb into his temple. “I haven’t asked.”

“Why not?”

Because I already assumed I lost the stupid game we're playing. Because I didn’t think I deserved to know.

“Didn’t seem like my place,” he says, finally.

Derek doesn’t push. But his voice is a shade quieter when he replies. “Unless you give a reason, none of us are going anywhere.”

Aaron swallows, eyes fixed on the desert horizon. The heat outside hasn’t broken in hours. Inside the tent, it’s still too cold.

“I should go,” he says. “We’ve got a planning brief in ten.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Take care of yourself.”

The call clicks off.

Aaron sets the phone down gently.

And then he just sits there, staring at the tent wall, the soft buzz of static echoing in his ears.

You haven’t left. You haven’t told anyone you’re leaving. You’re still there.

And he has no idea what that means anymore.

+++ june 19th, 2011

You don’t even make it past the front platform before Jack is pulling you down the central spine of the Boeing Aviation Hangar—past dangling warbirds and commercial relics, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

“There it is! There it is!”

The SR-71 Blackbird sits dead center, matte and menacing, flanked by velvet rope that only barely contains Jack’s excitement. He stops short just a foot away from the perimeter, tipping his head back like he’s trying to take in the whole thing.

“It’s bigger than I thought,” he says, voice quiet for once.

“Fastest jet ever built,” you remind him gently, crouching beside him. “Faster than a bullet. Real-life Mach 3—no afterburners required.”

Jack hums, thoughtful. “You think it could beat Superman?”

Jess snorts behind you, but you consider the question seriously. “Depends who’s flying. If it’s Maverick? Maybe.”

Jack tilts his head. “Who’s Maverick?”

“Tragic backstory, poor impulse control, flies like a lunatic,” you say. “Basically Uncle Derek with aviators.”

He seems satisfied with that, and you let him lead again, weaving beneath suspended biplanes and massive commercial prototypes. The Concorde hangs off to your right, pale and lean with its elegant, drooping nose. He doesn’t look twice. His whole focus narrows on the spy plane in the middle of the floor.

“Can we go upstairs?” he asks suddenly, already darting toward the stairwell that leads to the mezzanine. “I wanna see it from above!”

You and Jess exchange a look. You follow.

From the upper level, the Blackbird looks like it’s about to launch. Its nose is sharp, menacing, its engines wide like lungs. Jack presses his hands to the glass, eyes wide.

“I want a picture,” he says, tugging on your sleeve. “So I can show Dad.”

You smile, stepping back to snap one of him—framed by the expanse of the hangar, the SR-71 behind him like a sentinel. Jess suggests you all go back downstairs, for a picture in front of it, together. 

You’ll send the picture of Jack before the next call. 

+++ june 27th, 2011

The call comes through just before midnight.

You’re in his office, barefoot, wrapped in one of your own throw blankets and slouched in Aaron’s desk chair. A paused movie glows faintly from your laptop—background noise that never made it past the opening credits. The NSA courier barely says a word as he hands off the secure line. You sign the form, shut the door, and bring the phone to your ear.

“Hey,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. Then, “Hi.”

His voice is scratchy. Worn. Like it hasn’t been used for anything soft in a while.

“You sound tired,” you say, as gently as you can.

“I am,” he admits. But that’s as far as he goes.

There’s so much he doesn’t say. So much he never says. You’ve stopped waiting for it.

“We’ve had a small break,” you say, tone neutral. “Not the one we wanted, but—it’s something.”

A pause on his end. “What kind of something?”

“Local. Young. Keeping a low profile.” You keep your voice even. If they’re recording this—and of course they are—this will pass as nothing.

Aaron understands immediately. You can hear it in the shift of his breath. “Is he alright?”

“He’s not alone. He’s being looked after.”

“By someone we trust?”

You hesitate just long enough to confirm what he’s asking. “Close enough. Close enough that if someone else starts looking… we’ll know.”

Another pause. “And he’s safe?”

“Safer every day.”

“Good.”

You wait. Give him a beat. But he doesn’t ask anything else. Doesn’t tell you what he’s really thinking. Doesn’t say what this means for him—or for you.

So you do what you always do. You take care of it.

“We’ll hold the line,” you say, quietly. “Just focus on what’s in front of you.”

“I am.” It sounds like a lie.

There’s a long stretch of quiet. You don’t fill it. You used to, but not anymore.

You want him to say it. Just once. That he misses you. That this is hard. That he’s scared, or lonely, or anything close to human.

But all he says is, “Thank you.”

And it’s not enough.

You hang up a few minutes later, after the standard sign-offs. You return the phone to the courier, log the paperwork, and slide back into Aaron’s chair. The room feels emptier than it did before.

He’s still holding back.

And it still hurts.

+++ july 1st, 2011

Strauss calls lightly from the bridge as you pass through the no-mans land between the elevator and the bullpen. “Do you have a moment?”

You pause mid-step. “Of course.”

She gestures you toward the stairs to her office with a nod, already turning. You follow, keeping your posture straight, your expression unreadable. It’s not that you don’t like Strauss—exactly. You just never forget who she works for.

Once inside, she waves you toward the seating area. You sit. She doesn’t.

“I wanted to follow up on our previous conversation,” she says, moving to her sideboard. “The Los Angeles field office is eager to meet you. They’ve invited you out for a site visit—to see the office, meet the team, get a sense of the role firsthand.”

You blink. “You want to fly me out there?”

“They do.” She pours herself a coffee. “We’d cover the trip as exploratory—non-committal, of course. Just a chance to see the operation in person. These kinds of placements work best when the agent has a clear understanding of what they’re stepping into.”

You fold your hands in your lap. “I appreciate that.”

Strauss gives a small, considering nod. “You’ve made a strong impression over the last few weeks. Your personnel file reflects initiative, composure under pressure, and field leadership well beyond your paygrade.” A pause. “Which makes you an ideal candidate for the LA post—but also makes it easy to understand why the BAU has come to rely on you.”

It’s almost generous. Almost.

You let the compliment settle between you. You don’t answer it.

Strauss sips her coffee. “I imagine the timing is difficult.”

Understatement of the year.

Still, your voice is even when you reply. “There’s a lot in motion right now.”

She hums. “Of course.” Another sip. “But it won’t last forever. The Bureau is patient—but not endlessly so. Opportunities like this don’t stay on the table long.”

You know what that means.

She doesn’t say you’re lucky we’re still offering it. She doesn’t say take the out before you’re buried in this team forever. She doesn’t say you don’t want to be associated with Hotchner. But it’s there. In the pause, in the careful way she looks at you now.

And maybe—maybe there’s something else there, too. Something quieter. Recognition, maybe.

You nod. “I’ll think about it.”

Strauss sets her cup down with a soft clink. “That’s all I ask.”

You leave her office a minute later with the same answer as before.

But this time, it feels harder.

+++ july 5th, 2011

The takeout bag crinkles as Derek drops it on the table beside you. You look up from the paperwork spread across your desk, eyes tired, and nod your thanks.

“You get lo mein?” you ask.

“Extra crispy noodles. And yes, I remembered the dumplings this time.”

You smile, faint. “We’re evolving.”

He settles into the chair across from you and pops open a container. “Hey, if we’re gonna do this every week, you’re not allowed to mock my ordering system.”

You raise an eyebrow, pulling your chopsticks from the paper sleeve. “You do remember last week you got the wrong crispy noodles and acted like I’d made them up, right?”

He points a chopstick at you. “I stand by that. Nobody has ever heard of scallion crisp noodles.”

“That’s because you made that up and then promptly gaslit me about it.”

Derek chuckles. The silence that follows is companionable. The office around you is still, dim, the hum of the vending machines just loud enough to remind you it’s not quite home.

You eat quietly for a few minutes, elbows resting on the edge of the desk, paperwork forgotten.

“I miss her,” Derek says.

You don’t ask who. You don’t need to.

“I know,” you say softly.

He nods. Doesn’t look at you, but you see his knuckles go a little white around the chopsticks.

“Thanks for this,” you say after a while.

His voice is quiet. “Yeah. Always.”

+++

You’ve started working your way through the after-action stacks before they hit Derek’s desk.

It wasn’t a formal assignment and no one asked. But the folders were there—left in the outbox like a dare. Reports from the B and C teams, thick with misplaced jargon. The first night you picked one up, you found three timeline inconsistencies and a missed witness statement.

Now, it’s a pattern.

You stay late a few nights a week, grab a stack off the top, and make yourself a coffee. You work through them in silence—pen tapping against redacted lines, your handwriting neat and firm in the margins. Notes. Clarifications. Corrections when necessary. Some of the reports look like you’ve sacrificed a small animal on them by the time you’re done. 

You don’t sign your name. But word’s gotten out. One of the rookies got you a new box of red pens last week. 

You’ve heard a few of the junior agents tell others to drop it at your desk first. “Better to get a slap on the wrist now than one from Morgan later.”

Derek noticed by the second week. You waited for him to say something. He never did. He just started dropping new folders on the corner of your desk with a faint, knowing smile.

The reports are better now. Crisper. Smarter. Tighter.

They’re starting to learn—because they know you’re reading.

+++ july 7th, 2011

You find JJ in the breakroom, stirring a packet of sugar into a mug that’s already too cold. She’s in heels today—taller, sleeker, different. But when she looks up and sees you, she smiles the same way she always has.

“You’re still here?” she asks.

You shrug. “Could say the same.”

She tilts her head. “Touché.”

You grab your own cup from the cabinet, the familiar chipped one that’s survived three desk moves and one interoffice coffee war. You pour half a mug, nothing fancy, and lean against the counter next to her.

“How’s State treating you?” you ask.

JJ exhales through her nose. “It’s fine.”

You raise an eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes, not unkindly. “Okay, it’s… complicated. Less blood, more bureaucracy. Everything’s polished, everyone’s caffeinated, and most of the time I’m in a room full of people who think optics are more important than outcomes.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Depends on how you feel about memos that get circulated with seven signatures and zero action.” She lifts her mug in a mock-toast.

You clink yours lightly against hers.

There’s a lull in the conversation. You break it.

“Do they talk about us?”

JJ blinks. Then nods. “Not constantly. But yeah. You come up. The team does. There’s a sense that something wild lives here.” She laughs lightly.

You huff. “I’m sure that goes over great with the power players.”

“They respect it. From a distance.”

“And Hotch?”

JJ hesitates. Then, “That’s the part that surprised me.”

You glance at her.

She shifts her weight, mug between her hands. “I think I assumed he had a reputation that matched the suit. Buttoned-up. By the book. Pure Bureau.”

You smile a little, crooked. “He does look the part.”

“But apparently,” she goes on, “outside these walls? He’s considered kind of a… rogue.”

You blink. “Hotch?”

She nods. “There’s this undercurrent when his name comes up. Like, he does things his own way, and no one can stop him. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

You lean against the counter. “I mean… they’re not wrong.”

JJ laughs. “No, they’re not. But it’s funny, isn’t it? They think the tie means he’s predictable.”

“And they miss the fact that he’s been in open conflict with Strauss for years.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a moment where you both fall quiet—thinking, maybe, about the number of times he’s pushed back in silence. All the lines he’s walked without stepping too far over. All the things he’s never said out loud but still acted on.

JJ taps her nail against her mug. “He’s the guy they’d want in charge if the world was ending. They just don’t know it yet.”

You nod. “He knows how to pick his moment.”

She glances at you. “You think he’s picking it now?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re not sure you can.

+++ july 8th, 2011

The sat call is scheduled for 0200 Virginia time.

Derek’s the one who picks up.

Aaron clocks it immediately—not your voice. Not even the telltale shuffle of papers or the soft click of your fingers against the desk while you stall for time. Just Derek’s low, measured cadence and a half-stifled yawn.

“Hey,” Aaron says, trying to keep his voice level. “Everything okay?”

“It's me tonight.”

The silence stretches long enough for Derek to keep talking.

“Jack’s got a bug. Pretty bad. Jess needed some help.”

Aaron closes his eyes. “Is he alright?”

“Yeah. Just sick. You know how it is with kids.”

“Even with Jess there, you had to…?”

“Yeah. Got a text around eleven and it said to tell you, and I quote: ‘Stomach bug. Tell Aaron he’s fine. We’re sleeping in the bathtub and Jess and I are switching off in shifts.’”

Aaron exhales, but it doesn’t ease the pressure in his chest. He imagines you curled around Jack on the bathroom floor, shoulders tight with strain. He imagines Jess asleep in the guest room nearby, both of you taking shifts like a triage team.

He should be there.

He should be combing his son’s hair back and whispering soft reassurances while you rub his back and hum whatever song’s been stuck in your head all day. He should be washing out the bucket and changing the towels and lifting Jack into clean pajamas while you find a moment to breathe.

Instead, he’s halfway around the world, his boots dusty and his skin cracking from sun exposure, standing in a steel-lined hallway with a borrowed sat phone clutched to his ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it slips out before he can stop it.

Derek doesn’t answer right away. Just lets the silence hang for a second. Then, softer, “Yeah. I know you are.”

Aaron clears his throat. “You’ll pass along that I said thank you?”

“Already did.”

“Good.”

The conversation doesn’t last much longer. There’s not much more to say. The logistics of the op haven’t changed. There are no new leads. Nothing he can give you, except maybe his voice—and tonight, even that feels like a failure.

By the time the call ends, the guilt in his chest has settled deep in his ribs. He stares at the receiver for a long moment after the line disconnects.

He imagines you exhausted, curled around Jack, trying not to worry.

He wishes he could text you something—thank you, I’m sorry, I miss you—but this isn’t that kind of comms system, and even if it were, the words wouldn’t make a difference. He should’ve said them before he left.

Instead, he just sits there, the line long gone cold in his hand, and wonders how much longer you’ll keep forgiving him for leaving.

+++

You don’t even bother brushing your teeth.

There’s no time, no energy. Jack’s breath is warm against your shoulder, his fever breaking in slow, sticky waves. You’ve already changed his pajamas twice--had half a mind to leave him in his briefs after the second incident. There’s a makeshift nest of towels and blankets on the bathroom floor—Jess’s doing, thank God—and you’re half-sprawled over it now, your back stiff against the cabinet and your knees angled awkwardly to keep Jack from sliding.

He’s dozing. For real, this time.

You watch the soft rise and fall of his chest. You press the back of your hand to his forehead. Still warm, but not as alarming. His lashes flutter once. Then still.

From the hallway, you hear the faint click of a door—Jess, getting water. You don’t call for her. She needs the rest, and you’ve got this round.

Your phone buzzes against the tile. A text from Derek.

2:38am Sat call done. He asked about you and Jack. I passed it on. Said thanks. Said sorry.

You stare at the message a little too long, then thumb out a reply with one hand, the other still curled around Jack’s back.

You delete your reply. Whatever. 

Jack stirs and mumbles something. You don’t respond. You just tuck his little hand closer to your chest and breathe.

The quiet stretches.

You want to cry, but there’s no space for that—not with the weight of Jack against your side and the tang of drying Gatorade still clinging to your sweatshirt. Not with your whole body aching and your head spinning from lack of sleep.

So you stay. You hold steady.

Because someone has to.

And because even when he’s halfway across the world, Aaron left his heart in your care—and right now, that heart is six years old, feverish, and asleep on your chest.

Eventually, you sleep. It’s the best sleep you’ve had in weeks. 

+++ july 14th, 2011

“Strauss offered me that transfer to LA again.”

Derek looks up from his report, brow already furrowed. “You gonna take it?”

You sigh. Before you can answer—

“Yeah.” He sets the pen down, giving you his full attention. “That sounds about right. So what’s stopping you?”

So many things.

Only a few of them can be said out loud. Luckily, those ones are still true—even if they aren’t the full story.

“I love the work,” you say. “I love this team. I don’t know if I want to be a lackey for an almost-politician.”

“And?” His voice is gentler now.

You don’t answer right away.

Because he knows there’s more. Because you don’t have to say it for him to understand. But you try anyway.

“I can’t—” You clear your throat. “I can’t leave this team. Maybe that makes me a coward. Or boring. Or stuck. But I can’t.”

“It doesn’t,” Derek says. “It makes you human.”

You smile, just a little.

“And for the record,” he adds, “I don’t want you to go. And I don’t think Jack or Hotch do either.”

A short breath escapes you—half laugh, half admission. Derek just smiles.

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. No one else knows you like this team does.

+++

The microwave dings just as you drop into the office kitchen chair, a paper plate in one hand, a folder tucked under your arm.

Derek crosses the room to grab his food, then drops into the seat across from you. “Alright, let’s see what the cafeteria’s definition of ‘gumbo’ is today.”

You peek over. “That’s not gumbo.”

“I didn’t say it was. I said they said it was.”

You snort. “This is why we bring our own. From Will.”

You both eat in silence for a minute. The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s lived-in. Grief still lives here, but it doesn’t shout like it used to.

“You know,” Derek says, leaning back with his plastic fork, “this is the most normal thing I’ve done all week.”

“This?” You gesture to the table. “Lukewarm quasi-soup and government chairs with no lumbar support?”

“Exactly.”

You smile. “Glad I could help.”

He shrugs. “Little bit of company. Little bit of normal. Beats the hell out of suffering through this alone.”

You nod, slow. “I’m always around, you know.”

“Same.”

You both go back to eating, the unspoken promise of the next Wednesday—or whenever you both need it—settling in the space between.

+++ july 17th, 2011

“You’re bluffing,” Spencer says, laying down his hand with an annoying amount of confidence. “Again.”

You blink at your cards. “I’m what?”

“You’re bluffing,” he repeats, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You always glance at Derek’s chips when you don’t actually have anything.”

Derek snorts from across the table. “You do.”

You groan and toss your cards face down on the table. “Okay, fine. But how do you know I don’t just like looking at his chips? Maybe I find the pattern soothing.”

“They’re pretzels.”

“Exactly. Soothing.”

Spencer gathers the pot like a villain, stacking his pretzels with absurd precision. “You’re not even trying to win.”

“I’m trying to survive,” you grumble. “I miss playing with Hotch. At least he pretends to fall for it.”

“That’s because Hotch lets you win,” Derek says, throwing in his ante. “He always does.”

Your eyes narrow. “What?”

Spencer doesn’t even look up. “It’s statistically improbable that you beat him that often without some level of intentional loss on his part.”

You gape. “He’s been patronizing me?”

“I think he’d call it indulgent,” Derek offers. “Maybe affectionate.”

“Affectionate, my ass,” you mutter. “That smug, condescending bastard.”

They both laugh, and Spencer deals the next hand.

The plane hums low beneath you, slicing through dark clouds, headed home.

It’s not the same without Aaron. It hasn’t been for months. But here, in the low lamplight of the jet cabin, with Spencer ruthlessly demolishing your dignity and Derek laughing too loud at your misfortune, something in your chest eases.

You’re still here. Still together.

And when Aaron finally gets his ass home, he’s going to have to deal with the fact that Spencer absolutely kicked your teeth in and sold him out.

You smile down at your new cards.

Maybe it’s time to win one for real.

+++ july 19th, 2011

The days have blurred together so much that he doesn’t even realize what day it is until his briefing in the mid-morning. 

July 19th, 2011. Haley’s forty-first birthday. 

The tent is already clearing, boots scraping against concrete, radio chatter bleeding in from the adjacent comms unit. He stays still, fingers resting on the edge of the field table. One breath. Then another.

He waits until the foot traffic fades, then moves to his cot in the corner of the tent. His go bag is stashed underneath. He kneels beside it and unzips the front compartment—the one he never opens unless he needs some psychological (maybe spiritual) assistance.

He reaches for the inner pouch. Inside, between the pack of cigarettes (It's only for emergencies, alright? He's forfieted all the other vices that gripped him at fifteen.) and folded socks, there’s a picture. It’s soft around the edges from wear, the corners bent just slightly, like a photo someone keeps in a wallet. It’s not one of the family photos they used in press kits or framed in the living room. It’s closer than that.

Haley, hair up, smiling wide at someone just out of frame. Holding Jack. The baby’s face is scrunched in sleep, his whole body tucked against her shoulder. Jess took this one in their living room. He’s just out of the shot. 

Aaron stares at it for a long time.

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart.” His thumb brushes over her face, her smile. 

He presses the pouch flat again, then leans forward, elbows to knees, head in his hands. The second birthday without her. 

He doesn’t cry. Not here. Not in this place, not anymore.

But the ache never goes away. Not really.

Not for Haley. Not for you. And certainly not for the fleeting version of himself that had both.

+++

Jess’s hand only trembles a little as she lights the candle.

The three of you gather around the picnic blanket, a single cupcake between you, flickering candle tucked off-center. Jess starts singing first—soft, steady. Jack joins in a beat late, his little voice earnest. You stay behind the camera, capturing it for Aaron.

“Alright, Jack,” Jess says gently, holding the cupcake toward him. “Help me out.”

Jack draws a dramatic breath and blows the flame out with a wide grin, laughing as it gutters. The smoke curls in the summer heat. You pan the camera to Jess, who grins at the lens and says, “We couldn’t let Haley’s forty-first go unrecognized. She’s officially old, and we had to let her know.”

You snort, quiet. Turn the camera toward yourself for a small wave before pressing stop.

“Can I eat the cake now?” Jack asks, already eyeing the frosting.

Jess pulls the candle free and sets it aside. “After some fruit. I’m not letting the ants win this one.”

The Virginia sun is relentless, blanketing the cemetery in warmth that feels cruel and generous all at once. You shift slightly, pressing a hand to Jack’s shoulder as he sits beside you with a slice of apple, pink-cheeked and still scaly and sunburned from last week’s trip to the Washington mall. You rub a little sunscreen into the back of his neck, just in case.

It’s Haley’s birthday.

Her second one gone.

You don’t let yourself think about Aaron—where he might be, what kind of weather he’s sitting under, whether he remembered what day it was before or after it was already over.

You can still hear her voice when you teased her about getting older: Oh, please. When you get to be as old as me, you’ll never hear the end of it.

“Will Mom always have a birthday?” Jack asks suddenly.

Jess glances over. “What do you mean?”

Jack shrugs a little, serious. “Since she’s not here. Do people still get birthdays when they’re gone?”

Jess doesn’t miss a beat. “They do. That’s why we celebrate for them. Just because they’re not here doesn’t mean they stop being special.”

Jack nods slowly, like that makes sense. Like maybe it always did.

You glance down at him—eyes fixed on the cupcake again, hands sticky with apple juice—and you swear you can see Aaron in the line of his jaw. In the quiet way he thinks before he speaks.

You’ll make sure Aaron sees the video.

It won’t make it easier.

But it will help.

+++ july 20th, 2011

From: Garcia, Penelope A CTA <penelope.a.garcia2@fbi.justice.gov> To: Hotchner, Aaron B CIV (JCTF) <aaron.b.hotchner.civ@fitf.doj.gov> Subject: proof of life Attachment(s): IMG_0465.JPG, IMG_0466.JPG, IMG_0469.JPG, IMG_0472.JPG

The email is short but unmistakably Penelope:

O Captain, my Captain— Friday night poker. Training seminar chaos. No one cried. We consider that a win. Thought you might like these. Tell your desert uplink I said hello. PG

The first photo loads slowly, line by grainy line.

You.

You’re holding a hand of cards—five fanned in front of your face—but your attention is elsewhere. Spencer’s speaking, and you’re watching him with that soft, sideways smile Aaron loves. He can tell just from the picture that you have shit cards. 

The soft light in Derek’s home catches the edge of your cheek, glints off the wine glass in your other hand. You’re tucked between Derek and JJ, ankles crossed under the coffee table, expression easy, unguarded.

He stares at it too long.

The next image is of you and Derek at the front of a lecture hall, mid-demonstration, from the side of the room. You’ve got your arms crossed, hip cocked toward the room, mid-sentence, something wry probably. Derek’s grinning. You’re clearly in sync.

Aaron exhales, slow and quiet.

The final photo is the same seminar, but from the back of the classroom—your face out of focus this time, backlit by the projection screen. He knows that stance. That authority. You look like you’ve always belonged there. Derek leans on the podium, watching you. 

He should close the laptop. Should file the update and move on.

Instead, he downloads the first photo. Opens it. Enlarges it.

You’re laughing with your eyes. The cards are a shield you don’t need, and he can’t stop picturing what you must have said right after this—what you were about to say.

Without letting himself think too hard, he clicks PRINT.

The command tent’s old printer coughs and whirs. The ink is uneven. The image blurs slightly at the edges.

Still, it’s you.

He folds the photo once. Then again. Tucks it into the inside pocket of his vest. Same place as the photo he brought of Jack. Same side.

Over his heart.

You’re smiling at Spencer. Laughing at Derek. Teaching the next round of agents how not to die.

He presses a hand against the photo through the vest fabric. Just once. Then lets it go.

There’s work to do.

But now, at least, he gets to take you with him.

+++ july 22nd, 2011

Strauss is already standing outside the conference room when you come around the corner, file in hand, coffee in the other. She’s peering through the glass like she’s looking for something specific.

You know exactly what she’s after.

Derek’s on the other side of the glass, shoulders hunched over the whiteboard with Garcia at his side. She’s trying not to look suspicious, but her nervous energy gives them away. Your stomach dips.

Strauss catches you mid-stride. “Do you know what they’re working on?”

You don’t blink. Don’t even break your pace.

“Officially, they’re pulling historical timeline data for an internal training module,” you say, lying with the shocking ease of someone who’s grown used to it. “Unofficially, Morgan’s drafting an advanced seminar on long-form unsub escalation behavior and Garcia’s pulling communications data so they can build an interactive case sim.”

Strauss arches a brow.

You stop beside her. Look through the glass with a hint of disapproval.

“I told them to take it to Morgan’s office,” you add. “They’ve been hogging the board for half the day.”

Strauss glances at you, then back at them. The doubt in her eyes lingers just long enough to make your stomach twist.

“I’d prefer to be looped in on these training sessions,” she says, voice clipped.

“Of course,” you nod. “I’ll make sure the documentation lands on your desk.”

After a beat, she walks away.

You hold your breath until she disappears down the hall.

Inside the room, Derek finally turns, expression grim. “You’re gonna lose your clearance one of these days.”

You step inside. Shut the door behind you.

“If I lose it,” you say evenly, “it won’t be because I let Strauss catch you red-handed with unapproved recon work on a buried Interpol target.”

Garcia’s eyes are wide. Derek just shakes his head.

“Thanks,” he says. And he means it.

You toss the folder onto the table. “Next time, at least pretend to be teaching a class.”

+++ july 30th, 2011

The marble steps are warm beneath your hands as you help brace Jack on his climb up the last few toward the entrance. Jess carries the snacks, you’ve got the sunscreen, and Jack’s carrying enough enthusiasm to power the entire building.

He’s grown more expressive lately. Not louder, just fuller—more comfortable in the space left behind by Aaron’s absence. He still mentions him, sure, but now it’s more casual. More when Dad gets back than why isn’t he here?

The minute you cross into the atrium, Jack beelines for the elephant.

“It’s huge!”

Jess snaps a photo. “He’s gonna want to write a report about this later.”

“Absolutely,” you say. “Professor Jack Hotchner, PhD in Everything Cool.” You smile, thinking of Spencer. 

You steer toward the Ocean Hall next. Jack sticks close this time, peppering you with questions: How old is that whale? What’s baleen? Do they eat seals?

You answer as many as you can, make up the rest. He doesn’t catch on.

Later, in the gemstone exhibit, Jack grabs your hand and tugs you toward the Hope Diamond.

“Mom loved sparkly things,” he says.

You blink, caught off guard.

“She would’ve liked this one,” he adds matter-of-factly. “But she would’ve said it was too big.”

Your breath catches. Jess glances at you, eyes soft, but doesn’t say anything.

Jack shrugs. “I’m gonna find something for Dad.”

He trots toward the gift shop.

And you follow.

+++ august 8th, 2011

“Yeah?”

You smile at the sound of his voice—it’s been a minute. “Hey, Dr. Reid. How’s Vegas?”

“Hot. But it’s nice to be home.”

“How’s your mom?” You trace aimless patterns on the desk mat in front of you, watching the suede darken and fade beneath your fingertips.

He sighs. “She’s alright. I think she’s about ready to kick me out, though.”

“It’s only been two weeks,” you laugh. “Surely you can make yourself useful.”

“I submitted her latest article to the journal yesterday. So, until I find her a new thesis, I’m basically obsolete.”

You grin, picturing the two of them in some long-running debate over medieval literature or chess theory. “Better get on that, then.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. “Guess so. How are things over there?”

“It’s a little hectic. Just me, JJ, Morgan, and Rossi now. Penelope’s still pulling shifts with us, but counter-terrorism keeps grabbing her for ‘special projects,’ whatever that means.”

You don’t mean for it to come off as a guilt trip. You know he needs this time, that he’ll come back when he’s ready—or when he feels like he has to. But still. Four agents instead of five makes a difference. And you miss him. You miss Aaron. You miss Emily.

“With the number of summer and fall task forces coalescing, that doesn’t surprise me,” he says. Then, after a pause, “I’ll probably stay a few more weeks unless something happens.”

By something, he means any movement on Doyle. You both know that.

“Sounds like a plan. We’ll be glad to have you back—but take your time. You’ve more than earned it.”

“Thanks.”

+++

“How’s Jack?”

“He’s doing alright,” you say. “He misses you.”

I miss you.

Aaron exhales. There isn’t time for everything he wants to say—never is. “I’m probably going to miss his first day.”

“That’s what I figured.” You try to keep your voice level, but the words still sting. “Jess will take pictures, and he’ll be excited to tell you all about it when you get home.”

The bitterness is quiet, but it’s there—threaded under the surface, impossible to untangle. Neither of you thought it would go on this long. “Over the summer” used to sound abstract. Now it’s the end of August, and he’s still gone.

This isn’t his fault. Not really.

But it is his fault for going in the first place.

You try to push it down. Conceptual anger isn’t useful. You know that.

And yet...

“Thank you,” he says, voice low. “For being there for them. I know this isn’t easy.”

There’s nothing to say to that. You hum softly, acknowledgement more than anything else.

The line stays open, silent now, each of you listening to the static, neither ready to let go.

Eventually, you say goodbye.

Good luck.

Then you tip your head back against his office chair, staring at the ceiling.

When the tears come, you don’t fight them.

You’re not sure if you miss him more than you’re mad at him.

Or if you’re just tired of trying to tell the difference.

+++ august 20th, 2011

One of the junior agents from C team approaches, your formal title leaving her mouth in a timid, hesitant kind of way. You beckon her forward, wrapping up your half-eaten lunch and clearing a spot on the desk. You’re actually down in the bullpen today, figuring it wasn’t healthy to isolate and hibernate in Aaron’s office all the time. 

“What’s up?” 

She steps closer, holding out the file. “I—I’m sorry to bother you, I just—Agent Morgan said you might be able to help.”

That gets your attention. “Morgan sent you?”

She nods. “It’s this case we’re working out of Laramie. Two missing women, ten years apart. Same town, similar M.O. But there’s nothing obvious to connect them. I’ve been trying to build the timeline, or, or find something but—”

You take the file from her hands and flip it open. She’s highlighted and notated everything within an inch of its life. Timelines, call logs, victim statements. You scan the overview.

“First victim was a substitute teacher. Second was a part-time EMT,” you murmur. "Irregular work schedules..."

“They didn’t know each other,” she adds quickly. “Different social circles, different ages, no overlap in contacts. But both were last seen outside the same county hospital.”

You keep reading, fingers trailing over the printout, your eyes drawn to a couple of details. “Do they ever mention a hospital volunteer named Anders? He’s listed on both incident reports.”

She blinks. “I—I don’t think so. I didn’t think to—”

“It’s easy to miss,” you say gently, handing the file back. “But his name shows up in the contact logs. He was the one who filed the missing persons report for the second victim.”

Avery stares at you for a beat. Then: “You’re scary good at this.”

You huff a laugh. “I’ve been doing it a while.”

+++ august 24th, 2011

You’re cleaning out your desk phone on a slow Tuesday morning—deleting old interoffice messages, old call logs, old everything—when you find them.

Six saved voicemails.

All from him.

You hesitate for a moment. Then you press play.

The first one is from ages ago. Last summer, maybe. He sounds distracted, mid-travel. “Hey. Just landed in Atlanta. Call me when you’re done with the consult—I want to hear your take on the Florida case before we debrief.”

The second is worse. Softer. “I was thinking about that interview technique you mentioned. The victim-first structure. I think you’re right—we should incorporate it more formally. Call me.”

The third, from January—“You left your coffee on the car. Again. I’m bringing you a replacement, but you owe me a pastry, nothing raspberry please.”

You let that one play twice.

By the time you reach the last one, your stomach is tight and your chest aches. This one was saved for a reason. His voice is lower. Warmer. He pauses at the start like he’s not sure if he should leave it at all.

“Hey. It’s me.” A breath. “Nothing urgent. Just—uh. You said something in the briefing this morning that made me laugh, and I forgot to tell you. I don’t think anyone else caught it, but it was good. Made my day.” Another pause. “That’s all. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You sit there for a long time.

You don’t cry. But you also don’t hit delete.

You just press 9.

Save.

+++  august 30th, 2011

“Alright, buddy! You ready to go?”

Jack adjusts the straps on his little backpack with exaggerated focus, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the kitchen tile. “I’m ready. Just need lunch.”

“It’s right here!” Jess calls, slipping the Captain America lunchbox onto the table before crouching to secure it to his bag. “You’ve got a ham and cheese sandwich, a juice box, some carrots, and a brownie. Sound good?”

Jack nods seriously.

“And if it’s not enough,” Jess adds, brushing some hair off his forehead, “we can grab something after school. Maybe even a special treat.”

That earns her a grin—gap-toothed and full of excitement—and then the three of you are out the door.

+++

The meltdown hits at the threshold of his classroom.

His brown eyes go wide when he realizes you and Jess are about to leave, the tears pooling faster than either of you can intercept. You step forward just as his lip starts to wobble.

“Jack, baby—c’mere.”

You drop to one knee, arms open. He falls into them with a hiccup, burying his face in your shoulder. His backpack jostles awkwardly between you, but you don’t move it. You just hold him, rubbing slow circles into his back as his breathing stutters.

Behind you, Jess is talking to the teacher—soft, steady tones relaying the necessary facts. Dad’s overseas. Mom passed away. Goes by Jack, not Jonathan.

You press your cheek to his hair. “You are so brave,” you whisper. “You are so smart. You are a good friend, and you are safe.”

He nods against your neck.

“I’m so sorry your dad can’t be here, honey. But he’s going to be so excited to hear all about this when he gets home. And I’ll tell him how brave you were on our next secret superhero phone call.”

That earns you a small, shaky laugh. It’s what you’ve taken to calling the satellite check-ins—just enough mystery to make the distance feel a little less lonely.

Jack sniffs and leans back, his little hands clinging to your jacket. You wipe his tears away with your thumbs.

“I love you so much, bud.”

“I love you too.”

You kiss his forehead and smooth his hair. “I might have to get on a plane for work later this week, but I’ll see you after your very first day of school, okay? This is a big deal.”

Finally, he smiles.

And when he walks into the classroom, he doesn’t look back.

+++

You’re lucky—there’s no travel until Friday. You get to see him through the whole first week: his first story about recess, his first friend (Colin), his first grumble about math being “too easy.”

It hits you more than once—how strange and sacred it is that you’re the one standing beside Jess through these milestones. Not Haley. Not Aaron. You.

The toddler who once danced through the living room in his mom’s arms is long gone. In his place: a thoughtful little boy with a smart mouth, a kind smile, and a heart you’d do anything to protect.

You love him.

+++ september 6th, 2011

“Chief Strauss?” You knock lightly on her door.

She beckons you in, finishing a call with a clipped goodbye. She gestures toward the small sitting area in the corner of her office, and you settle onto the nearest couch.

She joins you, smoothing her skirt. “Have you given any more thought to the offer?”

“I have. Thank you for your patience—I know it’s been a while since we first spoke.”

Strauss waves off the apology. “The BAU’s work these past few weeks has been exemplary. I’ve been impressed—especially given the significant personnel and funding constraints.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I hope that doesn’t mean anyone’s starting to think this kind of staffing level is sustainable.”

“It doesn’t,” she says firmly. “I’ve made that very clear.”

There’s a pause.

“I’ve decided not to accept the position in Los Angeles,” you say. “Or the internal promotion here.”

Strauss doesn’t look surprised. She exhales slowly. ��That’s what I expected. But I’ll add something I didn’t share before—though I’m sure you’re aware.”

You sit up a little straighter.

“The push for a transfer wasn’t just about an opportunity for you. It was also a measure to protect your career. The Bureau is watching the BAU closely right now—and not just the Bureau. DHS, ATF, NSA… They’re all watching.”

Your throat tightens. She doesn’t say Doyle. She doesn’t have to. You're sure she doesn’t know the details, but it’s not hard to figure out you’ve all been working on something off the books. 

“If anything you’ve been involved with escalates to a congressional level,” she continues, “you risk permanent termination. Ineligibility for federal service. I hope you understand that.”

“I do, ma’am.” You nod. “High risk, high reward.” You offer a small shrug. “Or at least, that’s what Dr. Reid says.”

A faint smile flickers at the corner of her mouth. “Yes. As long as you’re certain of your choice.”

“I am.”

Strauss gives a tight nod. “Then we move forward.”

+++ september 8th, 2011

The envelope arrives on a Thursday afternoon, hand-delivered by a courier who looks vaguely terrified to be in the BAU. You’re elbows-deep in consults when Garcia totters up to JJ’s desk, holding the cream envelope like it might detonate.

“Special delivery, O Capable One,” she says. “From upstairs-upstairs.”

You frown and take it, your name embossed across the front in formal black ink. You’re expecting a personnel update or inter-agency memo. But when you crack the seal, it’s a letter.

And not just any letter. It’s from the Deputy Director’s office.

The header alone makes your stomach clench. But the body is worse—compliments wrapped in formality, language so crisp it almost feels clinical.

Commendation for exemplary leadership, it says. Field excellence, operations support, instructional development, internal cohesion. It lists specific case numbers. Mentions agency-wide appreciation for continuity and composure under challenging conditions.

You read it twice before looking up.

JJ whistles low. “Wow.”

Derek leans over your shoulder. “That’s the big leagues.”

Dave, reading upside down from across the table, hums in approval. “I think that’s the highest-level recognition one of us has received since Gideon retired.”

You don’t quite know what to say. The letter isn’t about ego. It’s about how much of your life you’ve poured into this place since Aaron left. The work. The extra hours. The forward motion you insisted on, even when it felt like dragging the whole unit uphill alone.

You fold the letter carefully, placing it back in the envelope. “It’s just… something for the file.”

Penelope places a hand on your shoulder, her touch grounding. “It’s more than that. And we all know it.”

You nod once. Say nothing else.

+++ september 13th, 2011

It’s early. Really early. The bullpen is empty. The building hums around you—quiet HVAC, the faint clink of a janitor’s cart somewhere down the hall. You should go home. Take a sick day. 

Instead, you sit behind Aaron’s desk.

You’ve stopped thinking of it as just his. Not because you stopped acknowledging it, but because it’s the only place you can get work done anymore. Your own desk is too loud, too exposed. And here—well, here, the silence feels comfortable. Familiar.

Your coffee mug is on his coaster. Your notes are in his drawers. There’s a photo of Jack in the corner that you printed, a post-it in your handwriting stuck to the side of his busted monitor with the dates of everyone’s next recert. You make a mental note to rewrite it soon, this time in pen. The graphite's starting to fade.

The monitor still flickers every so often—same glitch from the winter. You never bothered to get it fixed. It’s a glorified corkboard now, with pictures and notes and reminders. 

You glance toward the door. No one’s coming. You lean back in the chair, stretching slightly. Your shoulder cracks.

You haven’t seen your best friend in almost five months.

Not really. Not honestly.

You’ve heard his voice a few times. Seen his handwriting on intake forms he left behind. Heard his laughter in Jack. But it’s not the same. And you didn’t realize how much you’d missed him—not until you caught yourself wishing, earlier today, that you could just tell him something. Something stupid. Something small.

Not intel. Not an update. Not whatever clipped, neutral thing the satellite phone will allow.

You wanted to tell him that Derek fell asleep during a seminar again and Penelope took a picture. That Spencer let you win at poker last week and then recited the exact statistical probability of your victory. That you saw a dad at the grocery store the other day carrying his kid the exact way Aaron used to carry Jack, and you had to walk down a different aisle so you wouldn’t cry in front of the cereal.

You tip your head back, stare at the ceiling. Your throat’s tight.

You knew he’d be gone. You knew it would be hard. But you didn’t realize it would feel like this. Like you’re in a shared house with only one toothbrush. Like half your thoughts don’t have anywhere to go.

Like missing him is something you have to schedule around, to accomodate.

You press the heel of your hand to your eyes, breathe slow.

You’ll be fine. You always are. But this morning, just for a moment, you let yourself admit it:

You’re tired of pretending you don’t need him here.

You’re gonna kill him when he gets home. 

+++

The cot creaks as he shifts.

It’s barely wide enough to hold him, the canvas bowing under his weight, frame biting into his shoulder through the mat. The air in the tent is thick—still hot from the day, humming with diesel and dust and the slow whine of the generator just outside.

He doesn’t sleep. Hasn’t, not really, in weeks.

His thumb brushes over the corner of the photo he keeps folded in his undershirt, right over his ribs. The one Penelope sent. You’re not even looking at the camera. You’re looking at someone off to the side, eyes soft and shining.

He likes to pretend it was him. It’s not much. But it’s something.

He closes his eyes and tries not to picture you sitting at his desk right now, your feet tucked under your chair, your coffee mug on his coaster. He knows you’ve been working from his office. Derek told him offhandedly during one of the last sat calls.

But God, he misses you.

He turns onto his side and stares at the canvas wall, listening to the low murmur of voices outside. One of the NSA kids is playing music through their earbuds—too loud. It buzzes, tinny and distant. 

It’s probably almost morning over there.

You’re probably just getting up. Maybe taking Jack to camp. Maybe catching a consult, your mug in your hand, your lanyard half-tucked into your sweater. He imagines you exactly where he left you: his office, not your desk, notepad slightly crooked, screen still flickering. He likes knowing you haven’t replaced the monitor. It’s a stupid detail, but it matters.

He wonders if you’re still wearing his shirts when you sleep. The old navy one with the threadbare collar, if you're working out in the BAU quarter-zip you stole from his gym bag last fall.

He wonders if you miss him.

Of course you do.

But he wonders if you miss him enough.

His guilt claws up his throat. The lies. The silence. The cowardice.

You’re going to kill him when he gets home. You should.

But he lets himself imagine it—just once that he’ll acknowledge. That you don’t. 

That the second you see him, you run. You throw your arms around him so fast you knock the breath out of his lungs. You bury your face in his shoulder, forget you’re angry, forget he ever left.

You kiss him.

God, he wants that more than air.

He lets himself picture it. The warmth of you. The way you laugh, when you cry with joy or relief. The press of your lips against his, fierce and forgiving and entirely without hesitation. The way your hand might find his chest, right over the photo he’s carried, like you knew it was there all along.

In the dark, he smiles.

Then his breath catches.

Because the truth is, you might do all of that. 

You might forgive him.

But you’ll never forget.

And he’s not sure which will kill him first—the possibility that you’ve stopped waiting for him, or the cruel, beautiful hope that you haven’t.

The cot creaks again as he shifts onto his back.

He presses the photo flat against his chest, and closes his eyes.

He still doesn’t sleep.

+++ september 14th, 2011

"Start from the scene and work backward. Don’t jump to a profile. Don’t make assumptions. Walk the scene in your head,” you say, pacing in front of the board with a capped marker in hand. 

Derek flips a case file open and leans into the edge of a desk. "Where were they abducted? What were they doing? What do those transitions look like? What does the crime scene tell us?"

"Victim one," a junior agent pipes up, half-reading, half-remembering. "Abducted from a parking garage near a gym. Late at night."

You nod. "Details?"

"He was a personal trainer. Twenty-seven. No sign of struggle. Surveillance shows him answering a call before he disappears."

Anderson shifts beside you. "That matters. Phone call suggests coercion, not force. It tells you something about the unsub’s planning."

You nod again. "So what does that suggest about the MO?"

A NAT leans forward. "Could be social engineering? A lure using false pretenses?"

"Good theory. Keep it in mind," Derek says, flipping to the next page. "Victim two. Different profile."

"She’s an outlier," you add. “Someone give me details.”

One of the junior agents supplies, "Forty-three. Pediatric nurse. Abducted from the park behind her property while walking her dog."

Anderson clicks to the next slide—a side-by-side of victimology and dump site locations. "So," he says, gesturing toward the glowing screen. "What links them?"

"There’s no clear pattern yet," someone mutters.

You shake your head. "No. There’s no obvious pattern. You haven’t found it yet. It’s not the same thing."

Derek grins. "Welcome to the BAU."

The tension in the room breaks slightly. A few smiles. A quiet laugh.

"Split into two groups," you say. "Derek, take victimology. Anderson, geographic clusters. I’ll work behavioral signatures. Ten minutes. Actually talk to each other. Decide if these cases are even connected. Go."

The NATs scatter, taking notebooks and printed pages with them. Anderson hooks his laptop into the rolling cart and starts with the mapped sequence. Derek leans against a chair and starts throwing fast, direct questions at his group.

You pull two junior agents aside and point them toward the crime scene summaries. "Find the emotional signature. What’s left behind, evidence of rage or remorse. It’s all important."

"We only have three confirmed scenes," one says.

"Exactly," you reply. "You need to squeeze every drop of detail from what we do have into at least a few theories that make sense. You’re looking for exclusions rather than inclusions. It’s how you build the bridge to the unsub."

Across the room, Anderson is nodding along with a NAT tracing movements on a map. He throws a glance toward you as you get closer. "They’re sharper than last month."

"They have to be," you say. "We don’t have time for anyone to stay green."

Derek looks up and meets your eyes for a second. He smiles, something proud and knowing.

+++

The sun’s just starting to dip by the time you step out onto Rossi’s deck.

The last of the light filters through the trees in gold slats, casting long shadows across the wood. There’s a soft clink of glass behind you as the screen door creaks open and clicks shut. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s Dave.

He joins you at the railing, two fingers curled around a glass of scotch. He doesn’t offer you one. Knows better than to assume.

You both stand there for a moment, watching the wind dance through the trees.

“You’ve done good work this summer,” he says finally.

You exhale, slow. “We all have.”

“Sure,” he says, but there’s something pointed in his tone. “But you—you kept this place from cracking wide open. Not many people could’ve done that.”

You shake your head. “I just filled the space that needed filling.”

Dave doesn’t respond right away. Just takes a slow sip, eyes on the horizon.

Then, gently, “You’re still not sleeping.”

It’s not a question.

You shrug. “I get enough.”

He hums. “You’ve taken on every training rotation the Bureau offers. You’re logging consult hours. The cafe people know your coffee order.”

You don’t look at him.

“And I know you’ve been teaching with Derek every week,” he continues. “Running simulations, rewriting evaluation templates, cleaning up old after-actions. Because you can’t sit still.”

You cross your arms over your chest, bracing against the breeze.

Dave turns toward you slightly, tone softening.

“I’m not criticizing. Just asking… is this really helping? Or are you just trying not to think about it?”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

After a beat, Dave sighs. “Does Aaron know?”

That gets your attention. You glance sideways at him. “He knows I’ve been busy.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You look back at the trees.

“No,” you say. “He doesn’t.”

Dave nods like he expected that. He’s quiet for a minute.

Then, “You planning to tell him?”

You breathe in deep. The scent of pine and distant wood smoke curls through the air. The silence stretches.

“I don’t know,” you say finally. “He’s got enough to worry about in Pakistan.” You try not to sound bitter. You probably fail. 

Dave lifts his brows. “That’s not always your job, you know. Shouldering everything so he doesn’t have to.”

You blink. The breeze tugs at your sleeves.

“It’s not some misguided sense of protection,” you say. “It’s a habit, I’m sure. A coping mechanism at worst.”

Dave huffs softly. “A maladaptive one, at that.”

You almost smile.

He doesn’t press. Just sips his drink and lets you stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder, while the sun slips below the trees.

Eventually, you murmur, “Maybe I’ll tell him when he gets home.”

Dave’s voice is quiet. “You should.”

You nod, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Because you know.

You should. 

+++ september 14th, 2011

You’re already in his office when the NSA escort arrives—clipboard in hand, lockbox balanced on one hip.

It’s nearly ten. The bullpen is dark except for the soft hum of your desk lamp, abandoned in favor of Aaron’s office. 

You sign for the call.

“Hey,” you say into the receiver.

There’s a beat, then, “Hey.” His voice is low. A little rough. You close your eyes and let the sound of it settle.

“How’s it going over there?”

“Still the desert. Still hot,” he says. You can almost hear the wind in the background. “We lost an intel thread in Quetta, but the analysts think it was a misdirection. We’re running new intercepts out of Karachi for a couple of border disputes.”

You hum in acknowledgment. “We’ve been tracking movement on the DC side, too. Nothing concrete yet, but we’re getting close.”

He exhales. “That’s good work.”

You tap the edge of his desk with your thumbnail. “Derek thinks we’ll need to move fast if the pattern holds. JJ’s working on a timeline estimate.”

“She still writing her own op plans?”

You smile. “Yeah. She keeps saying they’re ‘temporary,’ but we both know she’s better than half the State Department.”

There’s a pause.

Then, “How are you doing?”

You hesitate. He waits.

“Been a long week,” you say finally. “Two consults in Arizona, one in Richmond. I pulled double duty with JJ on a unit brief and somehow ended up rewriting the rotation protocols for the junior profilers.”

He hums knowingly. “That’s because you’re the only one who still gives clean notes.”

You tilt your head, even though he can’t see it. “Rossi signs everything with a fountain pen. Clean is relative.”

He laughs—real and quiet. You want to wrap it around you and keep it.

There’s silence again. Not awkward. Just full.

“How’s Jack?” he asks.

“He’s good. He’s reading at the third-grade level now, by the way. I suspected as much but they evaluated him at school last week. I caught him trying to explain chapter breaks to Henry.”

It hangs there between you.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, 

“I’m proud of you.”

Your hand tightens around the phone.

“I mean it,” he adds, like he thinks you might deflect. “Strauss has told me you’ve been running point on ops, holding the team together, holding my son together. That’s more than anyone should be asked to do.”

Boy, if you only knew the half of it. 

“I’m fine,” you say quietly.

“You don’t have to be,” he replies.

You don’t know how to answer that.

So instead, you say, “Any updates on your end?”

He hesitates.

“Days?” you ask. 

“Maybe two weeks. Maybe three. Could be longer.”

“Soon.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Soon.”

The call ends not long after. He tells you to take care of yourself. You tell him to be safe.

He doesn’t say what he really wants to. And neither do you.

You sit in his chair long after the line goes dead, the sound of his voice still caught somewhere in your chest.

+++ september 15th, 2011

He doesn’t ask why you’re here.

Just nods once, shuts the case file in front of him, and tips his chair back.

You stay standing, arms crossed, weight shifting. Restless.

“I said no,” you tell him.

Dave lifts an eyebrow.

“To the promotion. The transfer. All of it.” You pause. “I meant it. I just—”

“Now you’re wondering what happens when he comes back.”

You nod.

“He’s not going to hold it against you.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

He studies you. “Then what?”

You let out a breath. “I don’t want to hurt him. I’m still mad. And I miss him. And I don’t know which part is going to win when I see him.”

“That’s fair,” Dave says, without judgment. “It’s been five months. He made choices. So did you.”

“I just don’t want to do the thing where I pretend I’m not upset. I don’t want to… smile through it.”

“You don’t have to,” Dave says simply. “But don’t lead with the anger just because it’s easier. You don’t have to punish him with it—we both know he’s doing enough of that on his own.”

There’s a pause while you chew on that. 

“He loves you,” Dave says. “You know that, right?”

You hesitate. And then the question comes—quiet and sharp, like it’s been waiting under your ribs for weeks. “Then why did he leave?”

Dave’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture tightens. Not in defense—just acknowledgment.

“I don’t know,” he says, after a beat. “I’ve asked myself the same thing.”

You blink hard. Exhale through your nose. “I just wanted to matter enough,” you whisper. “To be worth staying for.”

Dave sits forward, voice gentler now. “You do. And you were. He just couldn’t see past…what he’s dealing with.”

You swallow, throat tight. You don't really have the bandwidth to ask what he stumbled over.

“He will,” Dave adds, certain. “But when he comes back? Make sure he knows you didn’t wait around by accident.”

+++ september 16th, 2011

The briefing room feels colder than usual—sharp with urgency, thick with unsaid things.

Rossi slaps the printed photo of the sedan onto the table. The man driving is familiar. Doyle. “That’s him. We all agree?”

Derek nods. “Same car spotted two blocks down, less than five minutes later. No license plate match. He’s running dark.”

JJ folds her arms tightly across her chest. “And he’s circling the safe house. He’s either suspicious or close to confirmation.”

Spencer murmurs, “Statistically, a repeated pass-by suggests confirmation bias. He thinks he’s there, and now he’s trying to prove it.”

You don’t flinch. “Which means we’re running out of time.”

The room goes still.

“Alright,” Rossi says. “We follow protocol. Elevate security around Declan. Coordinate with Interpol, let the other agencies know, activate the tracker net, get eyes on every route out of the city.” 

“We’re not waiting for Homeland on this one,” you remind him. Rossi nods. 

Derek leans forward. “And Hotch?”

You glance down at your hands—flat against the table, steady even as your mind spirals. “We call him.”

Garcia’s already pulling up the sat channel.

“I’ll get the line up,” she says, her voice quieter now. “He’s not gonna like this.”

You tip your head. “No. He won’t.“

+++

<< previous masterlist next >>

[ajoyfulfuture]

absence: part i.

a joyful future fic aaron hotchner x gender neutral reader

a/n: thus begins our (extended, new and improved) long summer. enjoy <3 cowritten by @ssaic-jareau links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3 | turn on post notifs!

word count: 9.4k content warning(s): canon typical descriptions of violent crime, alcohol consumption, language

“absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it inflames the great” roger de bussy, rabutin

may 2nd - june 6th, 2011

+++ may 2nd, 2011

You let yourself into his apartment, slamming the door behind you.

He’s already there—leaning against the windowsill across from the entryway like he’s been standing in that exact position for hours.

You’ve worked yourself into a rich, heavy fit on the way over, reading the entire brief Penelope sent over to you and absorbing every. Single. Detail. Somehow, it’s worse than you thought.

“How dare you.”

He sighs and presses a hand to his forehead. “You have to understand that I—”

“Bullshit, Aaron. I don’t have to understand a goddamn thing. What the fuck are you thinking? We need you.”

You’ve never sworn at him before. Around him? Sure. At him? Never.

His head tips up, and he looks through you—not at you. That haunted look in his eyes almost makes you falter. It reminds you so acutely of the days after Haley’s death that for a moment, you forget why you’re here. But only for a moment.

You keep going. You don’t stop.

He says nothing. Just stands there, letting you yell until it’s all out of your system, like that’s what he came home for—to absorb the damage. And maybe it is. Maybe he thinks he deserves it. Part of you knows he’s right.

You could never actually hate him, and he knows that.

Which makes some of this easier.

But not all of it.

The tears start without permission and pick up speed as you continue, your voice rising until it’s just short of a shout. “You’ve known for seven weeks that Pakistan was an option. I read the brief. Seven. Fucking. Weeks, Aaron. Since February, and you didn’t tell us. You signed the papers three weeks ago.”

A beat.

“Fucking Pakistan!”

You pause, trying to catch your breath, but the final nail in his coffin slips out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“Emily died, and you’re still leaving?”

He flinches.

That’s why I’m leaving.

You press harder. “You’re leaving me and Jack. You’re leaving our team. I never thought you could do something like that to us. Maybe them, but not me. Never to me. I mean, after everything we’ve—”

You cut yourself off. Raise the back of your hand to your mouth, like that might stop the rest from coming out. It doesn’t.

The sob that rips through your chest feels like it takes something permanent with it.

He leans heavily against the arm of the couch, as if the weight of your grief is enough to knock him down.

It should be. Because none of this is unfair. None of it is untrue.

And you both know it.

“I was coming here, to your apartment, in the middle of the night,” you say, voice wrecked now. “Because you asked. And apparently I’m too stupid to not come when I’m called.”

He cringes.

“I was falling asleep next to you on the couch. I was reading bedtime stories to your son. And you let me believe you were still here. That I was worth it—that we were—”

Another sob wracks through your chest, cutting you short.

He doesn’t try to argue. Doesn’t defend himself. His silence is only guilt.

“You should’ve told me the second you knew,” you whisper.

His breath stutters. His voice, when it comes, is nearly silent. “I didn’t want you to stop looking at me like that.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Like what?”

He swallows. Looks up at you like it’s the last time. “Like I was still…like I was yours.”

And there it is.

The breath leaves your lungs in a shudder.

Because you still look at him like that. Because you were always his, even when you shouldn’t have been. Because if he had told you the truth, you would’ve fought for him. For this. Whatever it is.

But he didn’t.

So you don’t say any of it. You just let your shoulders fall. Let the ache pull your chest in on itself.

“I trusted you.” You wipe your face on your sleeve, the tears still coming.

“I know.”

“You said you’d do what’s best for us.”

He nods, broken and quiet. “I thought I was.”

You take a slow step back toward the door.

“You weren’t. You didn’t.”

Your hand finds the doorknob.

“How dare you, Hotch.”

His name is a blade in your mouth.

And even now—even now—he doesn’t stop you. He can only watch you as you walk back out, leaving the door open behind you.

+++

The elevator ride down is excruciating. Too slow, too quiet. Your reflection in the mirrored panel looks wrecked—eyes rimmed with salt and fire, jaw clenched like it’s the only thing holding your teeth in place. You lean your head back against the cool metal, eyes closed.

Of course he didn’t stop you. Of course he stood there and took it. It’s what he always does when he thinks he deserves it.

You try not to dwell on that, the implication of it.

The doors open. You step out.

By the time your feet hit the sidewalk, your hands are shaking. You press your palms to your face and breathe—deep, shaky, ragged around the edges.

It would’ve been easier if he’d fought back. If he’d said anything to justify it. But he just stood there and let you break open on his living room floor.

That’s not how you want to leave things. Not really.

You don’t forgive him. You’re still so goddamn mad.

But tomorrow, he’s going to a war zone.

And you love him too much to let him go alone.

+++

You drive home on autopilot.

The silence in your car is thick, unyielding. You don’t turn on the radio. You don’t let yourself cry again.

By the time you reach your apartment, the anger has curdled into something heavier, quieter.

He wasn’t going to tell you.

That sticks to your ribs. Still hurts.

But you can feel the weight of it in his posture, in the way he didn’t even try to defend himself. You don’t need to twist the knife.

You could leave it like this. Let the silence sit. Make him wonder if you’ll even show up.

But you know you will.

You also know he hasn’t packed right. That he’s probably still sitting in that apartment exactly as you left him.

So you grab your phone and type, fingers stiff, jaw clenched.

9:34pm I’ll be there tomorrow at 12:30 to take you to base. Be ready when I get there.

You toss the phone onto your bed and start pulling off your shoes. One at a time. Slow.

The knot in your chest hasn't loosened. You brush your teeth. Wash your face. Put on the sweatshirt you stole from his closet three months ago and never gave back.

It still smells like him.

You crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling.

You think about everything you didn’t say.

Then, after a long moment, you reach for the phone again.

10:05pm Goodnight.

You hit send.

Because if something happens over there, you’re not going to live with the last thing you said being how dare you. Any word in anger, really.

Because you love him.

And because you know—he’s already punishing himself more than you ever could.

+++

10:05pm Goodnight.

Fuck.

+++ may 3rd, 2011

The ride to base is mostly silent, and you know something’s wrong. Not just his silence—not just the way his shoulders are set or how his hand keeps tightening on the strap of his bag. It’s deeper than that. Bigger than just his imminent absence. Something fundamental is shifting, and you feel it like a fault line opening beneath your feet.

He’s boarding an AC-130 supply transport with a handful of Marines and various agency task force members bound for an outpost in Pakistan. It will be a long, deeply uncomfortable flight. His go bag looks smaller than usual at his feet.

“How long? Really?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Task force operations are need-to-know.” But because it’s you—and because he’s been an ass—he concedes a little. “Probably a couple of months. They said minimum four, but...”

You nod. “We’ll be okay, Aaron.”

A small laugh escapes him. It pulls a smile from you.

“What?”

“Remember when you chased me down last night to tell me the team couldn’t do this without me?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s still true. But we’ll manage. We always do.”

There’s a pause, and then you add, more softly, “And I don’t want to fight with you.”

It’s true. Your anger cooled overnight—just a little—and you decided you didn’t want to be upset with him when he left.

You already miss him.

“Don’t think I’m not still mad at you.”

He looks out the window, and you can hear the wheels turning. Jack is on his mind. And so are you.

There’s nothing more nauseating than the thought of leaving you when you’re still hurting from Emily’s loss.

“I know,” he says.

Why are you going through with this, Hotchner?

Oh right.

Because you’re a coward.

“I just don’t want our last conversation before you leave to be a fight.” You sniff but keep your eyes on the highway.

I am perhaps the most undeserving man on the planet.

He says, “Thank you. I don’t want that either,” but he hopes you can hear everything else he doesn’t say.

I love you. I’m sorry.

+++

You park just shy of the checkpoint, hazard lights blinking. You unbuckle your seatbelt and step out of the car. The sun is bright, unforgiving. You round the front and meet him on the passenger side.

Aaron pulls the go bag from the car, adjusts the strap. You stand there for a second, just looking at each other.

“You’ve got everything?” You ask.

He nods. “Think so. You gonna be alright?”

You nod and step forward, arms reaching. He leans into your hug, letting you take his shoulders while he wraps around your waist, strong and steady, and you hold onto him longer than you mean to. Your fingers press into his back. He hopes he can take the imprint of them with him.

“You be safe, Aaron Hotchner. If you die out there, I’ll kill you myself.”

He laughs—a soft sound, low in your ear.

And then he pulls back just enough to kiss you. Not quite your cheek. Not quite your mouth. The corner of it—the liminal space between plausible and deniability.

Your breath hitches.

“I’ll check in when I can,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek.

You close your eyes, take a breath, place a hand on his chest, and push gently. “Get outta here.”

He catches your hand as it falls, holding onto your fingers. He turns, separating from you at the last possible moment, your arm extended completely before falling back to your side. He walks toward the ramp.

When he reaches it, he looks back one last time. Offers you a wave.

You return it.

And then he disappears.

+++

You manage to get to the highway before the tears start.

The only person you want to talk to is Emily.

She’d know exactly what to say—would pour you a drink, put something ridiculous on TV, drag you into daylight and distraction until it all felt survivable again. She would’ve made sure your days off were full of fun and good company. She would’ve shown up.

But Emily is gone.

You pull off onto the shoulder, shift into park, and fold in on yourself—your head in your hands, your forehead against the steering wheel as sobs wrack through you. You don’t even try to hold it in. There’s no one to see.

When it finally passes—when you can breathe again without choking on it—you put the car back in gear.

You keep driving. Keep going.

But your chest still aches, a hollow throb behind your ribs that doesn’t fade.

Without her, these months stretch out before you like an endless road.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t know how you’re going to survive it

+++ may 6th, 2011

He’s only been gone for three days.

That’s what you keep telling yourself. Just three days. Not even a week. Not even enough time to miss him properly.

Except you do.

You feel it in the little things—the silence of your apartment at night, the absence of his voice over your shoulder at the roundtable, the way your phone doesn’t buzz at 9:38pm with a text that just says home safe?

It’s a hollow ache. Not sharp. Not yet. But deep.

He didn’t take much with him. His go-bag. Two shirts you used to borrow from the closet. A pen from his desk. Two sets of desert camo BDU pants. The same picture of Jack that lived on the corner of his nightstand.

The space he left behind is larger than any of that.

Derek stepped up immediately. Of course he did. The team didn’t need a speech or an explanation—they needed someone to carry the weight. And Derek didn’t blink. But you can feel it in him, too. The tension. The exhaustion. The quiet question no one will ask out loud.

What if he doesn’t come back?

Because he’s not on assignment. Not really. This isn’t Kansas or Kentucky or even Kabul. This is covert. Unlisted. Goddamn Pakistan.

And it’s not just that he left.

It’s how. No warning. Barely any goodbyes. Just a classified order and a bag half-packed on his couch.

You were still angry when you dropped him off. You’d tried not to be, but it clung to you anyway. It stayed with you through the checkpoint. It stayed with you through the hug. It stayed even after the kiss—too soft, too familiar, too goddamn real for someone already disappearing.

You hadn’t let yourself cry until it was out of your system. Mostly.

Now you don’t have time for it.

The office is running short-staffed. You’re picking up consults and admin, mentoring Seaver, fielding tactical briefings without a full command tier. It’s endless. And that’s good. You don’t want the space to miss him. Not really.

But it’s there anyway, like a phantom limb. Like a silence only he could fill.

+++ may 9th, 2011

The team moves like an animal with a limp.

It’s not broken, not quite, but something in the rhythm is off. Just enough to feel it.

You see it in Spencer’s silence, in the way his hands flutter a little more than usual when he briefs. You see it in Penelope, who brings in coffee for everyone but doesn’t drink any herself. You see it in Dave, who’s taken to staying late with the lamp on and his office door closed.

But mostly, you see it in Derek.

He’s still stepping up—still leading without hesitation—but the weight is showing. You catch him rubbing at the back of his neck more often. You notice the way he hesitates before assigning roles. He keeps looking at the door of Aaron’s office like he expects it to open. Like he’s still waiting for backup that isn’t coming.

No one says the word abandoned.

But it’s in the air, unspoken and unavoidable.

The first few days, you tried to fill the space. Take extra consults. Run interference with Strauss. Handle all the admin Hotch used to split with you. But it catches up fast. By the end of the week, your inbox is overflowing, and your patience is threadbare.

“Hey,” Derek says, dropping a file on your desk. “You doing okay?”

You nod, too quickly. “I’m fine.”

He watches you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “You don’t have to be.”

That unscrews something in you, but you don’t let it show. You just offer a thin smile and keep typing. “What’s the case?”

He doesn’t press. Just steps back. Gives you space.

It’s the first kindness you’ve let in all day.

+++ may 10th, 2011

Strauss starts sending memos about the team’s reduced capacity before the end of the first week.

We’d like to know your long-term plans. Are you remaining in your current position? Should we begin sourcing reinforcements from the Academy?

You stare at the email for a full minute before you forward it to Derek with a single line:

please don’t let me set my laptop on fire

He doesn’t reply with words. Just drops a fun-sized sweet on your desk later that afternoon.

An offering to an angry god.

You eat it in two bites.

+++ may 13th, 2011

The warehouse is already swarming by the time you arrive.

Red and blue lights flash across the brick façade, long shadows cast by floodlights and sharp movement. SWAT is staging at the east entry, and one of the local PD sergeants is yelling into a radio like sheer volume will make up for his lack of command.

You slide out of the SUV, your vest half-strapped and badge clipped at your hip. Derek is already walking the perimeter, talking low with a SWAT lieutenant. Reid’s at your side, eyes scanning the layout, head tilted in that way that means he’s calculating things no one else is seeing yet.

“Two entrances,” he says softly. “East and north. Windows are reinforced. No visible sightlines.”

You nod once, processing. “And the suspect?”

“Inside. With one hostage. Female. Unknown condition.”

You glance toward the building. No gunfire. No demands. Just time slipping through your fingers.

Dave is still at the station, tied up in interagency ego trips. JJ’s not here. Emily’s…

You can’t think about that right now.

Derek approaches. “SWAT’s waiting on us. They want a lead.”

You blink. “Where’s their commander?”

“Out sick. Shift lead is green and asking for direction.”

Of course he is.

Derek’s eyes lock on yours. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

You step forward.

The SWAT lieutenant clocks your approach with a flicker of skepticism, his gaze trailing from your vest to your face to the badge. He’s younger than you, taller—but he doesn’t speak first.

You do.

“Tell me what you’ve got.”

He hesitates. Then rattles off entry points, visual confirmation of the hostage, unknown weapon on the subject, confirmed perimeter lockdown. He’s competent, just shaken. Looking for someone to anchor the room.

That’s going to be you, apparently.

“We have a profile,” you say evenly. “Unsub’s already deviated from expected escalation. He’s holding because he wants to be heard, not because he’s violent by nature. That means he’s likely to talk if we engage correctly.”

SWAT nods, listening now. The skepticism melts.

You shift to the dry erase board someone’s propped on the hood of a cruiser. You mark the breach points, voice calm, measured, deliberate. “North team holds. East team moves on my signal. He wants to be in control—so we give him a choice: surrender to me, or to SWAT. He’ll pick me. He thinks I’ll listen.”

Derek glances at the plan, then back to you. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m sure.”

There’s a beat of silence, the air thick with waiting.

Then SWAT nods again. “What’s the signal?”

You give it, low and clear.

Within minutes, the teams are in place. You move toward the loading dock door, flanked but not led. Derek is behind you. The Kevlar is heavy. Your hand hovers near your belt but doesn’t draw yet.

The suspect cracks the door at your knock.

You don’t flinch.

You say his name. You say hers. You speak low. Calm.

He drops the weapon five minutes later.

The hostage sobs when you pull her out of the building. You talk her through it gently, softly, her fingers clenched in the sleeve of your jacket. You don’t look back until she’s in paramedic hands.

And that’s when you realize—

Everyone’s watching you.

SWAT. Local PD. Reid. Morgan.

You nod once and strip off your vest. “Let’s get the scene cleared.”

No one says a word.

The adrenaline wears off somewhere between the warehouse and the squad car, leaving a dull ache in your shoulders and a buzzing kind of stillness behind your ribs. You’re sitting on the back bumper of the SUV, elbows on your knees, fingers laced, trying to remember if you took a full breath at any point in the last hour.

The flashing lights are fading. Paramedics are packing up. SWAT is halfway through their debrief across the lot. The suspect is in cuffs, cooperative and still crying. You made it through. Everyone made it through.

You feel Derek before you see him.

He drops down beside you on the bumper, exhaling a long, slow breath like he’s been holding it since the start of the op. Neither of you say anything for a minute. You just sit there, the quiet stretching comfortably between you.

Finally, he nudges your boot with his.

“You ran that clean.”

You huff a small, tired breath. “Lucky break.”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t do that.”

You glance at him. His expression is unreadable, but not sharp. Just thoughtful.

“You were good,” he says. “Command presence. Called it right and didn’t blink once.”

You shrug. “Felt like I was blinking a lot.”

Derek chuckles under his breath. “Still didn’t show it.”

You nod slowly. It shouldn’t matter—not with everything else going on. But it does. Because it’s Derek.

The silence returns, easier this time. He leans back against the SUV, tipping his head up to watch the sky.

“You’re stepping up,” he says, not looking at you.

You keep your eyes forward. “So are you. Somebody has to.”

Another beat.

Then, soft, almost too soft, “Yeah. But not everybody could.”

You don’t say anything.

+++ may 17th, 2011

The academy lecture ends to modest applause. A few students linger behind to ask questions—mostly technical, some thoughtful, a couple of them clearly trying to impress. You answer each one with the same calm precision, directing them toward the case studies you annotated as a guest lecturer earlier in the semester.

When the last one leaves, you lean against the podium for a moment, letting the silence settle around you. Your head is pounding. You’ve been up since four.

Derek’s been saying you’re going to burn out. Dave keeps leaving protein bars on your desk. Spencer, less subtle, asked you yesterday if your sleep patterns had “deteriorated or just plateaued.” You told him to mind his own circadian rhythms.

They’re probably right.

But that’s not the point.

The point is: the fieldwork still needs doing. The consults still need managing. And someone still needs to teach tactical profiling to the next generation of agents while the adjunct professors are on leave.

You collect your notes. Re-file the course materials. Email Penelope to remind her to log the course in your DOJ training hours.

Then you drive straight to Alexandria to brief a SWAT team on hostage negotiation pacing, on using an unsubs cues against him.

You don’t even blink when the commander defers to you before the SWAT unit chief.

You just lead. Smoothly. Quietly. Without fanfare.

Because someone has to.

And lately—it’s been you.

+++ may 18th, 2011

You find him on the floor of his room, surrounded by paper.

Crayons are scattered everywhere, marker lids popped off, tips worn down to stubs. Jack is humming to himself, tongue peeking out between his lips as he concentrates. There’s a red swoop on the paper in front of him—then green, then yellow. A triangle becomes a window. A blob becomes a sun.

You crouch beside him. “Whatcha working on?”

He holds the paper up proudly. “It’s the rocket ship one. Like the one we saw at the museum.”

You smile. “Air and Space?”

“Yeah. With the big engines in the back.” He gestures with his arms. “It goes whoosh.”

You nod solemnly. “You really captured the whoosh.”

He beams.

You glance at the pile. There are at least five other drawings underneath. A treehouse. A racecar. One that looks suspiciously like the a blocky interpretation of the two of you playing catch in the yard.

“I’m gonna save this one for Dad,” he says, tapping the rocket. “So he doesn’t forget what they look like.”

Your breath catches.

“Good idea,” you say quietly. “He’ll love that. We can go back to the museum soon, if you want.”

Jack nods again, all business. “Do you think he remembers what I look like?”

You freeze for half a second. Then you reach out, smoothing a hand over his hair.

“Every minute of every day, bug.”

He leans into your side without saying anything else.

+++ may 19th, 2011

You don’t mean to end up in his office.

You were heading in to check on the consults in the hard-copy inbox—just a quick run-through before the weekend—but somehow your feet took you upstairs. And somehow your hand found the doorknob. And somehow, now, you’re sitting in his chair.

The room is exactly as he left it.

You’d turned on the monitor earlier this week, just to see if it still worked. It does—but barely. Still humming, still flickering, the same way it did all winter. You made a mental note to replace it in like, January. Then didn’t.

Now it’s just… part of the landscape. Like everything else he abandoned.

You spin slightly in the chair. The desk creaks under your hand. The paper inbox is laughably empty—everything’s digital now, but Aaron always printed backup copies. You glance at the tray. Nothing’s changed. Not even the broken paperweight you jammed back together after Jack dropped it in February.

You lean back, close your eyes for a second.

The day’s already been long. The academy range work, the stack of paperwork you haven’t started, the certification reports you have to finish writing for Dave—plus Jack’s drawing still tucked in your bag, waiting to be scanned and emailed through five layers of encryption to a satellite uplink.

You don’t realize how tired you are until the quiet sets in.

Then the door opens.

Derek steps inside without knocking. Doesn’t have to. He sees you in Aaron’s chair and doesn’t blink.

“Just looking for a pen,” he says.

You lift one off the desk and offer it to him.

He takes it, then doesn’t leave. Just… stands there for a second, studying you the way he does when he thinks you’re lying. Not to him. To yourself.

“What?” you ask.

He shrugs. “You’ve been doing a lot lately.”

You smile tightly. “We all have.”

“Yeah. But you’ve been doing it well.”

That earns a glance. “Is that a compliment?”

He shrugs again, exaggerated this time. “Don’t get used to it.”

You look back at the desk. “What do you think he’d say?”

Derek’s brow lifts. “About what?”

You gesture vaguely. “All of it. You and me, doing paperwork in his chair. Academy training. Jack’s rocket ship art.”

Derek leans against the doorframe. “I think he’d say you’re the only one who never needed him.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you don’t.

It also happens to be wildly untrue. In fact, you’re certain you need him more than anyone else here.

Derek gives you a final nod and pushes off the frame. “Dinner at Rossi’s Sunday. Don’t bail.”

You nod back, quietly grateful.

When he leaves, you stay seated for a moment longer. Just long enough to breathe.

Then you power down the flickering monitor. Straighten the inbox. Close the drawer.

+++ may 20th, 2011

The air inside the indoor range is dry, metallic. You exhale slowly through your nose, adjusting your grip.

The target downrange is already peppered with tight groupings, most of them center of mass, a few stacked neatly through the head silhouette. You reload without thinking, the rhythm second nature by now. Tap, rack, aim. Fire.

And firing’s easy, now, Aaron’s voice echoing in your head.

Front sight. Trigger press. Follow through.

You’re here for the advanced pistol marksmanship certification—one of the few things you can still do in silence. No profile to build, no student to guide, no grief to manage. Just posture, breath, and control. Just you against you.

When you finish the final round, the instructor beside you mutters, “Christ.”

You glance at him.

He’s shaking his head, faintly impressed. “You ever think about teaching this stuff?”

You shrug. “My teacher still works here.”

You strip the round from the chamber, clear your weapon, and don’t elaborate.

You just gather your paperwork. Sign the log. File the copy in your bag.

+++ may 23rd, 2011

Strauss calls you into her office under the guise of performance review, a check in.

You know better.

There’s a sealed envelope already waiting on the corner of her desk when you walk in—your name printed neatly on the label, your title one line too short.

Your unit is missing.

You sit without being asked.

“This came across my desk earlier this week,” she says, tapping the envelope once. “The SAC in Los Angeles is requesting you by name. A GS-14 slot just opened under Tactical Field Coordination. They need a trained profiler. It’s high-profile, non-supervisory, and permanent.”

You blink. “That’s… specific.”

“He called it a ’strategic acquisition.’ The only others who even come close to qualifying are Agents Morgan, Hotchner, and Rossi, and that’s intentional.”

You reach for the envelope, but don’t open it. “Why me?”

Strauss’s eyes narrow with something that might be approval. “Your personnel file speaks for itself. You’ve run point on four major field operations since March. You’ve earned multiple advanced certifications and taken on a teaching load at the Academy. The deputy director has already signed off.”

You nod slowly, not trusting your voice.

“You don’t need to give me an answer today,” she adds, though you suspect she already knows what it will be. “But this would be a significant career move. There’s more money. Less volatility. And frankly…” Her voice lowers. “It’s a way out.”

You meet her eyes. “Is that a hint?”

“It’s an observation.”

You don’t answer.

When you leave, the envelope is still in your hand—but your mind is already somewhere else.

Aaron is gone. JJ is gone. Seaver is gone.

Emily is gone.

The team is unraveling, inch by inch.

He’s not going to be here when I decide.

+++ may 25th. 2011

It’s late. The office hums with after-hours quiet, the bullpen half-lit by desk lamps and glowing monitors. You’re on your way back from the break room with a mug of stale coffee when you spot it—Penelope’s door cracked just wide enough to catch the flicker of a redacted document on her monitor.

You hesitate.

Then you push the door open. A photo of Doyle somewhere in Eastern Europe is up on the monitor, an Interpol report, heavily redacted, sits on another monitor.

Penelope startles, hands flying to her keyboard. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“Then you shouldn’t have left the door open,” you say quietly, stepping inside. The air is warmer in here, dense with static and secret. You shut the door behind you.

Derek’s behind her, arms crossed, jaw set.

You take a breath. “Is this about Doyle or do you just have his picture up for fun?”

Neither one of them answers.

“Read me in.”

Penelope glances at Derek. He holds her gaze for a moment. Then nods.

She turns the screen toward you. Your stomach flips.

More Interpol logs. Fragmented comms traffic. Surveillance photos��grainy but recent.

“Jesus.”

“We’re following something,” Penelope says. “It’s thin, but it’s there. Most of it’s bouncing through five agencies, but we’ve had a few pings hit our network directly. We think he’s making moves.”

You know you sound a little skeptical, a little like a narc, when you ask: “You’re running this without Aaron’s clearance?”

You don’t even have the wherewithal to care that you’ve called him Aaron more than you’ve called him Hotch in front of people who care about that sort of thing.

“We’re running this because Hotch isn’t here,” Derek says. “And because Emily deserves better than a closed file.”

You nod. The anger flares behind your ribs, sharp and familiar. But it’s not directed at them.

You look at the screen again. One of the photos is timestamped five days ago. Eastern Europe.

“If this blows back on you—”

“We know,” Penelope says gently. “But we also know you’d be doing the exact same thing.”

You shake your head. “Now we’re doing the same thing. Pull everything you have. I’ll take point on the Bureau interface, make sure this stays quiet.”

Derek watches you, unreadable.

“You really wanna do this?” he asks.

You look up. “I need to.”

And that’s all it takes.

They slide you a copy of the folder. You slide into the fire.

+++ may 28th, 2011

Rossi’s deck is strung with soft lights, the kind that cast long shadows and look prettier in pictures than they do in person. The grill is already fired up, Derek is flipping burgers with incongruent intensity and Penelope is giving him running commentary that he pretends to ignore. Even Will and JJ have joined you.

The whole thing looks like a Normal Evening, which is the first red flag.

You’re curled on one of the Adirondack chairs with a glass of wine you haven’t really touched. There’s a plate on your lap—half-picked at. Will’s across from you, telling a story about Henry’s latest daycare escapades. You smile at the right parts. Laugh when you’re supposed to. You know it doesn’t look right. You’re not sure a smile has really met your eyes since March.

You don’t say much.

Derek clocks it first.

Penelope catches it second. She leans toward JJ and murmurs behind her wineglass, “What’s that, you think? Lonely? Sad?”

JJ doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you for a moment. Then glances toward where Spencer is setting up the poker table with Rossi, already sorting chips. “Seems like you’re all holding it together.”

“That’s not the same as being together,” Penelope notes.

“I know.”

Later, you let Spencer rope you into a game. You’re the first to buy in. First to lose.

“Well,” you say dryly, tossing in your last chip, “at least I’m consistent.”

Spencer side-eyes your hand. “That was a terrible bluff.”

“Yeah,” you say, sipping your wine. “I’ve never been much good at faking things.”

Penelope glances toward you again. You don’t notice. You’re looking at your empty hand, fingers resting on the edge of the table like you might still be holding something.

You’re not.

You haven’t been for a while.

A little later, you find Dave in the kitchen, rinsing tongs under warm water. The windows are cracked open, the early summer air humid and soft, thick with cicadas and the hum of distant laughter. Dave’s sleeves are rolled up. There’s a wineglass on the counter that hasn’t moved in an hour.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears you. “You lose already?”

“I folded,” you say. “Spencer caught my tell.”

Dave snorts. “Spencer catches everything.”

You drift closer. Not touching anything. Just standing there in the low light. The porch glow spills in behind you, but you don’t step into it.

“Dinner was nice,” you offer.

Dave hums.

Then, after a moment, he says, “He should’ve told you.”

You look up. The ache in your chest shifts—sharper now, but not unexpected.

“I told him to,” Dave continues. “For what it’s worth.”

You swallow. The knot in your throat is stubborn. “I figured as much.”

“I think—” he sighs, sets the tongs down. “I think he was scared you wouldn’t forgive him.”

You trace the edge of the counter with one finger. “I might not, now. He had a better shot before he left.”

“I know.”

Your voice is quieter now. “But I also think he already decided he doesn’t deserve it.”

Dave leans against the sink, arms crossed. “That’s always been the trouble with Aaron. He always assumes the ending before he even asks the question.”

You laugh—just barely. “You’d think that would make him better at guessing the end of movies.”

Dave chuckles, but it fades quickly. You both go quiet.

When you finally speak again, your voice is steady. “You’re not wrong to have known. You’re his closest friend.”

Dave’s brow lifts slightly. “And you think you’re not?”

That stuns you, just a little.

“You’re allowed to be angry. But don’t mistake his silence for disregard. If anything—he left you out because you’re the one who mattered most.” He pauses. “He didn’t want to hurt you, far from it. He just wound himself out about it until he ran out of time.”

That doesn’t make it better. Not really.

But it makes it make sense.

You nod, slow. “Thanks, Dave.”

He pours you the last of the wine and slides the glass across the counter.

“Next time,” he says, “don’t fold so early.”

You offer him a tired smile. “Next time, don’t let Reid stack the deck.”

+++ may 29th, 2011

Jess offers you a grateful smile as she shrugs into her hoodie, car keys jingling faintly. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” you say. “You deserve a night off.”

She exhales—relieved, bone-deep tired. “He should be down in ten. His book’s on the nightstand. You remember the light he likes?”

“The desk lamp, not the overhead.”

Jess nods. “Right. And he’ll ask for water even though he never drinks it. You know the drill.”

You smile. “I’ve got it.”

She pauses, glancing toward the hallway. “He’s been better this week. Sleeping through the night most of the time. I think having you here helps.”

That settles warm in your chest—but you try not to show it.

After she leaves, the apartment settles. You pad into the kitchen, rinse out Jack’s water bottle, leave it by the bed like always.

Jack appears in the doorway, clutching his stuffed plane. His hair is damp from his bath, curling slightly over his forehead.

“You ready, bud?”

He nods and climbs into bed without fuss. He doesn’t even ask if you’ll stay. He just assumes—and that gets you more than it should.

You read the book (twice), tuck the plane under the pillow, and switch on the desk lamp as you dim the overhead. Jack yawns once. He’s out before you close the door.

You hover in the hallway, then drift to the guest room.

But you don’t stop there.

Instead, your feet carry you to the master.

His room smells like him. That warm, spicy scent that lives in the fibers of the sheets and the closet, something from a bottle, sure, but also just him. The bookshelf in the corner is undisturbed, his stupid blue striped bathrobe still hooked over the back of the bathroom door.

You pause at the edge of the bed, fingers curled in the hem of your shirt before removing it.

Then—almost without thinking—you slip into his closet. Pull down one of his old Quantico t-shirts. You hold it to your chest for a moment before pulling it on.

You crawl into the bed slowly, deliberately, keeping to his side, his pillow. The sheets are cool against your skin. They smell like him. You fold the comforter over your chest and close your eyes.

It hits all at once.

The silence. The ache. The shape of him still etched into the mattress beside you.

You miss him.

And you hate him, just a little, for leaving this behind.

For leaving you behind.

+++ may 31st, 2011

You didn’t turn on the overhead light when you let yourself into his office. Just the warm lamp on the desk, and the glow of your laptop screen from the couch. You’ve been here half the night, half-watching a movie you’ve seen a dozen times, one of your throw blankets draped over your lap, your socked feet tucked beneath you.

The room still smells like paper and pencil shavings, but now it also smells like the Tiger Balm you keep in the top drawer now for Derek, and like you.

You’re already reaching for the sat phone when it rings. NSA got tired of babysitting, you guess.

It’s late here. Nearly midnight. But it’s morning for him.

You press the receiver to your ear. “Hey.”

There’s a pause—half a second, maybe—but you feel it. Like he wasn’t expecting it to be you. Or maybe he was hoping.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is soft. “You stayed late.”

“Figured someone should,” you murmur. “Derek has more than earned a night off.”

He hums faintly. You can hear shifting on the other end—maybe a tent flap, maybe his jacket. The call quality is grainy, but his voice stays close.

“I saw the case log from last week,” he says. “Standoff in Kentucky?”

“Yeah. One hostage, one barricade, SWAT lead froze up. I took point on the negotiation team. Would’ve liked to teach Seaver, but…”

She’s not here anymore. You let the sentence hang.

“You did good,” he says.

“You didn’t even read the after-action.”

“I didn’t have to.”

You breathe slowly through your nose. “Rossi was already spinning it up for Strauss. Called it a show of ‘command confidence in crisis.’”

Aaron chuckles softly. “That’s Rossi-speak for ‘you made them all look like rookies.’”

You shrug into the phone. “He’s been grumpy about you leaving, so he’s taken to bragging about me like I’m his prodigy.”

“You are.”

You shift the blanket up to your chin.

“Jess said Jack got a good report at school this week,” he says.

“He did.” You lean back against the arm of the couch. “Lost a tooth. Wanted you to find out from me, but the camera roll beat him to it. Jess emailed over the picture.”

He’s quiet for a moment. You know what that silence means. You let him have it.

“I’ll stick it on the fridge,” you say gently. “With the others.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m sorry I can’t write back more.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “We know. I explained the uplink thing. She’s fine keeping the line one-way. She just wants to make sure you’re getting them.”

“I am,” he says. “Every one of them.”

You press a hand over your ribs like that might settle the ache.

“How are you?” he asks.

You roll your head against the back of the couch, letting your eyes fall shut. “I’m okay. Busy. Derek’s not doing too bad up here.”

Aaron chuckles softly. “I never doubted that.”

You hum. “Still, I think he’ll breathe easier when you’re back.”

“I’m not the only one they lean on.”

You don’t respond. Not right away. You just say, “We’re managing.”

“Because of you.”

You blink hard at the ceiling. “I don’t need you to say that.”

“I know. But I needed to.”

The line is quiet again.

Your laptop screen has dimmed. The movie ended a while ago. You don’t remember half of it.

“You sleeping okay?” you ask, shifting the blanket over your lap.

“Some nights,” he says. “Had to move compounds again.” He pauses, changing the subject, “Intel contacts out here say Doyle’s getting noisy.”

“Yeah. Garcia flagged something from a joint node. She didn’t tell me, but I saw it in her backlog.” You pause. “We’ve been keeping an eye on the New York lead. It’s thin, but it’s something.”

You hear his breath catch. “That’s good. Stay on it. But be careful.”

“I always am.”

“No, you’re not.”

You huff a laugh. “Fair.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then—“You shouldn’t have to run point and chase ghosts.”

“Don’t start,” you say. “I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t have to be fine.”

“I’m not the one who left.” It slips out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“Sorry,” you say, softer. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.”

You don’t deny it.

“I just—” he exhales. “I—I’m glad it’s you right now.”

Your breath catches.

The sat phone beeps softly. Time’s almost up.

“You’ll call again when you can?”

“I will.”

“Be safe.”

“I’m trying.” You’re proud when your voice doesn’t break.

A pause.

“Goodnight,” you say.

“Goodnight.” And then—just before the line cuts—he adds, “Thanks for staying.”

You don’t say of course. You don’t say always.

You just let the line go dead and sit in his office until the movie restarts on its own, the blanket tucked under your chin, and the space beside you cold.

+++ june 2nd, 2011

The lamp in Aaron’s office hums softly as you settle back into his desk chair, the worn leather familiar beneath your hands. The bullpen is empty. Everyone else has gone home. But the silence here doesn’t bother you—it’s almost comforting now. Like muscle memory.

Your fingers hover over the trackpad as you scroll through the reopened file—one of his cold cases. New York field office. Three bodies across six months. No consistent MO, no clear signature, nothing but timing and geography holding it together.

Aaron flagged it back in November.

The Bureau closed it in February. “Lack of probable linkage.”

You found his notes tucked behind the monitor last week. His handwriting was messier than usual. Less analytical, less angular, more… stream of consciousness.

You read the margins twice. Then you picked up the phone.

Now, three hours later, the detective on the other end of the line is muttering into the receiver, audibly scribbling.

“Okay. Okay, yeah. That actually makes more sense with the Jane Doe we pulled from the canal in January. I didn’t even connect her to the rest.”

You lean forward. “Once you have dental back and have an ID, check her phone records. Look for a burner number that pings near Queens between Christmas and New Year’s. Agent Hotchner thought that was the last clean overlap.”

The detective exhales. “Christ. If he’s right…”

“He usually is.”

There’s a pause.

“Thanks. We’ll run it tonight.”

You hang up. Exhale slowly.

Then you lean back and spin the chair gently once, staring up at the ceiling.

“You were right,” you say softly to the empty room. “Again.”

You let the silence settle for a moment, and then—because no one is watching—you open the drawer and pull out a fresh legal pad. You copy his notes over. Neat. Clear. Yours now.

You’ll keep pulling the thread.

For both of you.

+++ june 3rd, 2011

“I’m glad you’re taking some time to think about it.” Erin leans forward in her chair, elbows on her desk. “With your team cut in half, even I wouldn’t feel comfortable sending you to another unit without some time to train a replacement or two.”

“Or three,” you add.

Los Angeles.

What a concept.

+++

The hallway outside Quantico’s main lecture room is quiet, save for the hum of the vending machine and the soft shuffle of a few academy students still collecting their things. You and Derek linger just outside the doors, the classroom behind you slowly emptying of half-awed, half-exhausted trainees.

Derek stretches, cracking his neck. “I swear, they only show up to these things for the war stories.”

You smirk, tucking a loose handout into your binder. “Well, yours involve kicking down doors and mine involve bureaucracy and paperwork, so I think we both know who the favorite is.”

He grins. “They liked you. You have the whole steady voice of reason thing. Makes ‘em think they’ve got a chance.”

You laugh under your breath, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “Flattery, Morgan. What’s the angle?”

Derek glances over, smile fading just slightly. “Heard Strauss offered you LA.”

You blink, caught a little off guard. “You keeping tabs on my career now?”

He shrugs. “I keep tabs on my people.”

You lean back against the wall, eyes lifting to the ceiling tiles. “It’s a good offer.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

There’s a beat of silence, full of things unspoken. You both know the weight of a good offer. You both know how much coin you need to say no.

You exhale. “I’ve been sitting with it. Trying to be rational and make a clear-eyed decision.”

“And?” he asks, folding his arms.

“And I’m tired,” you admit. “Not of the work—I love the work. But I’m tired of carrying it like this. And part of me thinks LA might be a clean break.”

“But?”

You look at him.

“But I don’t want to leave this team. Even like this.”

Derek watches you for a long moment. “You’d be good there. No question.”

You nod. “I know. You’d be good in New York.”

“But you belong here.”

”So do you.” You look down at your shoes. “I keep thinking—what would I be leaving behind?”

Derek’s voice is quiet. “That depends on whether he comes back.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

“Y’know… Some things get easier if you transfer.”

You meet his eyes. The implication isn’t lost on you. In LA, you wouldn’t be reporting to Aaron.

You’d also be 3000 miles away.

Pushing it aside, you straighten, gathering the last of your things. “Strauss says I’ve got time. So, I’m taking it.”

Derek just nods, a presence beside you, the kind that steadies.

As you walk out into the late afternoon sun, he murmurs, “If you do go, I’ll miss this.”

You smile, warm but tired. “Me too.”

+++ june 4th, 2011

“Ready or not, here I come!”

Your voice carries through the apartment as you pad down the hallway, bare feet silent against the floor. The space feels suspended in time—quiet, familiar, a little too still. Aaron’s been gone a month, and you’ve fallen into a kind of rhythm with Jess and Jack, one that works well enough to keep the silence from echoing too loud.

Still, the ache never really leaves.

You pass the living room and creep toward the bedroom. The door is cracked open just enough to let the scent of him drift through—warm, clean, something faintly woodsy. You pause, just outside the threshold, letting the quiet settle before bursting through with a laugh.

“I see you!”

The bed erupts in motion—Jack squeals as you dive onto the mattress, wrestling the comforter back to reveal a grinning, wriggling mess of limbs and laughter. He shrieks with delight as you catch him, flopping back dramatically with him cradled in your arms.

“I found you, trouble,” you tell him, breathless with amusement.

Jack giggles, sprawling across your chest, his little body warm and weightless. “That was a good hiding spot.”

“The best I’ve seen all week,” you say, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Top-tier stealth operation.”

He hums, clearly pleased. But instead of scrambling to hide again, he stays still, tucking himself more securely into your side. You don’t mind. You shift, turning onto your side, and he nestles closer.

There’s a long moment of quiet.

“When’s Dad coming home?”

The question lands with a soft thud in your chest. You kiss his temple. “Soon, I hope. Maybe a couple more weeks, but it could be around the time school starts.” You level with him. “I’m not sure.”

Jack nods against your collarbone. “Okay.”

His little fingers find the collar of your t-shirt and start twisting it absently, something he does when he’s thinking.

“Hey,” you murmur, “what’s going on in that brilliant head of yours?”

He glances up at you, his chin propped on your arm. “Connor at camp says best friends are like your favorite people. Is Dad your best friend?”

You smile—wistful, a little tight at the corners. “Yeah. I think he is.”

Jack considers that. “Good. ‘Cause I think you’re his favorite person too.”

You close your eyes, just for a second.

“What made you think of that, bud?”

He shrugs. “I just miss him. But it’s easier when you’re here.”

The ache behind your ribs pulls sharper.

“Me too, Jack,” you say softly. “Me too.”

He falls asleep that way, curled against your chest. You hold him as long as you can before you drift off, too.

Jess returns later to find you both in Aaron’s bed, tangled in the covers, sound asleep. She tucks the grocery bags into the fridge, then pads down the hall quietly, pausing in the doorway with a tired smile. Her phone is already in her hand.

She snaps a photo.

Then she leaves you a note on the counter in her looping, rushed handwriting.

You’re on your own tonight and tomorrow. He’s been picky at breakfast—maybe try pancakes.

xo, Jess

+++ june 6th, 2011

“JJ?” You stand to greet her, surprised but already half-smiling.

She lifts her credentials like a shield. “Reinstated as a profiler. Temporary assignment.” Her grin softens into something wry. “Don’t get too excited. It’s a favor for the Bureau. I’m sure the State Department will call to collect.”

You laugh and pull her into a hug anyway. It lingers a beat longer than it should. Relief hits hard—sharper than you expect. Another person who remembers what the team felt like before.

When you pull back, she looks at you properly. “God, you look like you’ve been through it.”

You snort. “Understatement of the year.” Then, motioning to your desk, you clear the stack of consult notes and open files from the surface beside you. “Need something to do?”

JJ raises an eyebrow. “What gave it away?”

You hand her a case folder. “Welcome back to the trenches.”

She opens it. “Garcia said you’ve been taking point a lot.”

You shrug. “We’ve all been stepping up.”

“Yeah, but they said you’ve been stepping up.”

You don’t respond to that. You just move back to your seat and reach for the next report.

She follows you with her eyes. “He’s missing a lot,” she says gently.

You glance up, startled. “Who?”

JJ lifts a shoulder. “Hotch.”

“Yeah.” You look back down at the file.

There’s a silence that stretches too long. JJ doesn’t fill it. She’s good like that—always has been. She gives you the space to come to your own words.

You sigh. “It’s been a long summer already.”

JJ nods. “Then let’s try to make the rest of it suck a little less.”

You smile, grateful. “Deal.”

+++

“You know,” Jess says suddenly, unprompted, as you’re both halfway through folding laundry on the living room floor after Jack’s gone to bed, “Haley told me something once.”

You snort. “I’d imagine she told you a lot of things.”

“She did. But this one was about you.”

Your brain misfires. You keep folding—methodical, mechanical—but your breath catches just slightly. Jess doesn't notice. She’s not a profiler.

“She said she thought something might’ve happened between you and Aaron. After the divorce.”

Your hands still, fingers twisted into the hem of one of Jack’s t-shirts.

“She said it offhand, like it wasn’t a bad thing. Just… something she’d thought about.”

You swallow, throat tight. “That’s not—there’s never been anything. Not really.”

Jess just nods, letting you keep talking.

“He’s one of my best friends. And I care about him.”

“That sounded like you were trying to convince a jury,” she says gently, half a smile on her face.

You let out a hollow breath. “I care about him a lot.”

Jess nods again, quiet. “Haley always had a sense for this stuff. She knew him better than anyone.”

The way she says knew makes your chest twist.

“I’m not saying you have to do anything about it,” Jess adds, stacking Jack’s socks with easy precision. “I just think… you and Aaron have always made sense. Even when you were trying not to.”

You don’t have a good answer. You miss him too much for this conversation. The sharp ache of it feels like a warning.

After a beat, you say, “Maybe.”

Jess bumps her shoulder into yours. “He’ll be home soon. When he is… maybe don’t pretend you haven’t already thought about it.”

“I have—” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Jess just nods again, squeezing your knee. “So has he.”

+++

<< previous masterlist next >>

[ajoyfulfuture]

waldosia: part iii (revised)

a joyful future fic aaron hotchner x female!reader (sparse she/her pronouns, no use of y/n)

a/n: strap in! we in the shit now and aaron is about to ruin everything!! let me know what you think of the new and improved waldosia! absence (split into three due to length) is up august 20th! co-written by @ssaic-jareau links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3 | turn on post notifs!

word count: 16k content warning(s): canon typical discussions of violence, murder, etc., language, food and alcohol consumption

“so it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.” e.a. bucchianeri, brushstrokes of a gadfly

april 18th, 2011 - may 2nd, 2011 6x24 “the big sea” - 6x24 “supply and demand”

april 18th 1703 hours

“Great, thanks…A name for the order?” You look around, your eyes pausing on Aaron. “Uh…Hotchner…Yeah. H-O-T-C…” You finish spelling, thank the friendly, accented voice on the other end of the phone, and hang up.

You slide your phone back into your pocket as you turn toward the staging area. The wind’s kicked up now, gritty with salt. You glance up and catch Aaron watching you from a few feet away, the ocean at his back.

“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” he says, voice low, unreadable.

You shrug as you fall into step beside him. “I know your go-to in almost every food genre,” you reply. “Figured I’d just get that unless you tell me otherwise.” 

Aaron’s mouth pulls at the corner—something faint, restrained, but unmistakably there.

“And if I suddenly decided to change it up?”

You look over at him, one brow lifted. “Then you’d better let me know before I hit the parking lot. Otherwise you’re getting panang, medium heat, no cilantro, extra side of basmati, like always.”

A beat of silence. Then, “You remembered no cilantro?”

You glance at him sideways. “Of course I did. You’ve got the soap gene. Passed that one to your son, too.”

His brow furrows. “How do you know that?”

“Haley tattled on you.” There’s a smile in your voice and in your eyes. “Years ago, now.”

Aaron doesn’t say anything to that. Just tips his head, almost like a nod, and follows you up the trail, calling behind him for Reid.

+++ 1927 hours

“We got a match,” Spencer says, returning from the printer. “Meet our first confirmed victim, Dr. Samantha Cormick.” He hands you a copy of the file. “Since her DNA profile was already developed, we were able to save a couple of days.”

“That’s handy,” you note. “Was this the researcher?”

Spencer nods.

Derek’s eyebrows rise as he looks over your shoudler. “So he dumps here and hunts in Charleston.”

“Tourist spot,” Ashley says. “Larger victim pool.”

“It's a two-hundred-fifty-mile trip back here. It's a lot of exposure,” Spencer says. 

“Torture takes time and privacy,” you note, “and disarticulation is a mess.”

“You know,” Derek adds, “ he could have a mobile torture chamber in his truck or trailer. We've seen that before.”

“Or maybe he doesn't drive at all,” Ashley offers. “He could do it all from his boat.”

You tip your head. “Well, if he gets them on board in Charleston and sails them out here, he would have time for both.”

“And nobody would even notice a fisherman tossing chum into the water.” As Derek finishes his thought, he dials Penelope, who answers promptly. 

“Y-ello!”

“Garcia,” Derek starts, “we've got more information about the unsub's boat. It might help you narrow your list.”

“Okay,” she says. “Bring it.”

“Can you give us boats with cabins large enough to hide a torture chamber?” Derek asks. 

“Torture chamber?” She repeats, incredulity lacing her question. “'Cause that would, yeah, totally be listed in the manufacturer's specs of amenities.” 

Her tone is laden with sarcasm as she types. You can hear the click-clack of her keys in the background as she executes on the intake information you’re all providing her.

“Try cabin dimensions,” Spencer says. “Start at ten by ten feet and cap it at thirty.”

“That is totally gonna take forever 'cause I gotta go record by record.” You can already hear her exasperation. “You are lucky I love you. Bye.”

Penelope hangs up and the circle quiets for a moment as you all think.

“We need to go back to the families and see who else got a postcard,” Aaron says. “This might finally be a link to victimology.”

You turn to him. “Sending goodbye postcards as a ruse is a gamble. Even if written under duress, the victim could sneak their own message into it.”

“I don't think this was written under duress.” Derek looks to the board, taking the note off the wall, asking Spencer, “You said Dr. Cormick wasn't taking medication for Parkinson's, right?” 

Spencer shakes his head. 

“Look at her handwriting. No indication of tremors or shaking.”

“There's a drug called trilamide,” Spencer says. “In minute doses it treats Parkinson's, but its main use is for seasickness.”

“Something a fisherman would have access to,” Ashley notes. 

“And criminals in South America.” His thoughts begin to blur together as he info-dumps. “Intel reports say they figured out a high dose makes the victim totally compliant.”

“I think I read about this,” you tell him. “It was in the latest intel roundup for our section.”

“Yeah,” Spence replies, “they slip it in your drink or blow the powder in your face and nasodermal absorption's almost immediate. You're instantaneously susceptible to any suggestion.”

Spooky. 

He continues. “There have been reports of locals letting thugs into their apartments to rob them, even helping them load the getaway trucks.”

“Yikes. So, that takes charm and harm out of the equation,” you say with a grimace. The room grows quiet.

Hotch nods. “Let’s get some rest, and come back with fresh eyes in the morning.”

You squeeze Derek’s forearm on the way to the elevator.

+++ april 19th, 2011 1325 hours

You hand him his coffee as he reaches for it at the same time, fingers brushing yours—a brief slide of warmth, contact so quick it shouldn’t matter, but it does. It always does. He pauses just a half second longer than he should, then takes the cup from your hand without comment.

“Thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” you reply, feigning nonchalance. “Can’t say I’m not nice to you, now.”

“You’re plenty nice to me,” he says into his cup. “Coffee just makes it easier to cite in front of witnesses.”

You laugh quietly. “See, I knew there was a record somewhere.”

Aaron leans against the counter beside you, his shoulder almost brushing yours. 

You take a sip of your own drink and glance at him sideways. “I was reading about a trilamide case out of South Africa a few months ago—similar drug profile to what was used here. Authorities didn’t realize their suspect had been dosed, got him to implicate himself in a triple homicide he had nothing to do with.”

Aaron nods, intrigued. “The case in Durban? They ran him for seventeen hours before they took a tox.”

You raise your cup in agreement. “That’s the one. The drug increases susceptibility to suggestion under stress. It messes with cognitive boundaries and impulse control.”

“Dangerous in the wrong hands,” he says.

You nudge him lightly. “God forbid you ever get me on that stuff. I shudder to think what you’d get me to do.”

Instant regret. You inwardly kick yourself. It’s true, of course, but a little too honest for you right now. 

There’s a beat of silence, something alive in it. His voice is low when he replies into his cup. “An on-time report would be nice.”

You gasp, hand flying to your chest in mock outrage to cover exactly how relieved you are. “Excuse you. I’ll have you know all of my reports are timely.”

He lifts an eyebrow without looking at you. “To the minute?”

“To the hour,” you say, proud. “Which is still acceptable as per your incessant email reminders.”

“My emails are not incessant,” he rebuts. “And I wouldn’t have to send them if I received on-time reporting from my subordinates.”

You hum, smiling into your cup. 

Aaron turns slightly, and now your shoulders do touch—barely, but unmistakably. The press of his body beside yours is steady, even, purposeful weight. He doesn’t step away.

“Beyond that, I’d never suggest anything I wouldn't say if you were in command of all your faculties,” he says, voice soft enough that it doesn’t feel like it belongs to the time or place.

Your throat tightens. You cover it with another sip of coffee and a dry smile. “That’s because you’re a decent man.” 

He looks over at you just then, expression open and warm, just for a moment. It settles somewhere low in your chest.

You pause. “Alright. And a halfway-decent boss.”

He smiles—a real smile—and the moment’s gone. He checks his watch. “We should get back. Morgan’s briefing the team on the postcards.”

You exhale, steadying. “Right. Back to our regularly scheduled descent into depravity.”

And again—there’s another moment of nearness. His arm at your back, your shoulder still pressing against him as he lets you take the lead out of the room. Proximity so familiar it feels accidental. 

Except it never is. You’re both too aware of each other for that. 

“We’ve got four more,” Derek says as you and Aaron return. “Samantha makes five.”

Aaron looks to the map, already narrowing the field. “Any patterns geographically?”

Spencer is scanning the postmarks and missing persons files. “Each victim was from a different state, no regional overlap.”

“But they all went missing from Charleston?”

Derek shakes his head. “Two did. The other three were mailed from Miami.”

Aaron exhales. “So he’s bouncing between cities.”

“Miami makes a lot of sense,” Spencer says, flipping through the folders. “It’s coastal. High tourist traffic. Easy to blend in. Easier to disappear.”

“And by alternating hunting grounds,” Derek adds, “he ensures neither city connects the dots fast enough. No one’s paying close attention to transient disappearances.”

“Jurisdiction changes too,” you add. “Could be a forensic countermeasure.”

Aaron studies the evidence wall for a beat, then turns back. “But why these five? What connects them?”

Derek gestures to the cards. “Right now, it’s just the postcards. They may be the Rosetta Stone we need.”

Spencer holds one up to the light. “The victims write them, but the unsub dictates the message. He’s projecting something—something specific. We might be able to build a linguistic profile from them.”

Aaron nods once, decisive. “Do it. We need to sit down again with every single postcard recipient.”

Before anyone can respond, Derek’s phone buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket and glances at the screen. “It’s Rossi.” He answers and taps speaker. “You’re on.”

Dave’s voice filters in, edged with wind and water in the background. “We just spoke with one of the local fishermen down at the harbor. He said something interesting—around here, boats don’t change hands. They’re passed down, generation to generation.”

Ashley’s voice comes in next, slightly clearer. “And he said they’d notice if someone started bringing in blackfin from Carolina or kingfish from Miami. Local fishermen don’t fish both.”

Derek frowns. “So our guy isn’t local. Not in the traditional sense.”

“Exactly,” Ashley says. “The men out here work alone. Keep to themselves. But our unsub? He’s social. Confident. He’d have to be.”

Dave picks up the thread. “This guy’s got a boat people want to be on. Something that looks safe. Friendly. Recreational.”

You glance toward Aaron. “What if he’s running a charter outfit?”

Aaron turns toward you with raised, affirming brows. It’s not just that the theory is sound—it’s your delivery. He’s been noticing it more and more lately. The way your deductions don’t come from mimicry or derivatives. They’re yours. Fully.

There’s a second where no one speaks, and he lets himself watch you think.

It might be wildly unprofessional how attractive it is. 

(It is definitely and wildly unprofessional.)

Spencer nods immediately. “There’s no shortage of customers in Charleston or Miami. Tourists coming in and out by the dozen.”

Dave grunts in agreement. “Makes sense. He takes out a group—probably small charters, half-day or sunset sails. But then how does he choose?”

Ashley’s voice is steady. “He starts with passengers who are traveling alone. That tells him they’re unmoored. Vulnerable.”

Derek crosses his arms. “Couple harmless questions—‘where you from,’ ‘who’s waiting for you back home’—he gets the whole picture.”

You lean against the table. “And if they pay with a credit card? He tears up the transaction. No record they were ever on board. He could label it anything he wants for the bank statements.”

There’s a pause on the line, the sound of gulls in the distance.

Dave exhales. “That might tell us how he’s hunting. The question is…” He trails off.

Aaron finishes it for him, voice low. “Who.”

+++ 1521 hours

Derek steps forward to deliver the opening, his voice calm but resolute. “The unsub we’re looking for is a man in his thirties to early forties. He’s likely working as a fisherman, currently chartering his boat to tourists. His victims are medium risk.”

One of the detectives frowns, arms folded. “What’s medium risk?”

“Usually an outlier situation,” you answer before anyone else can. “Let’s say your car breaks down in a bad neighborhood. Nothing about you or your habits have changed, but you’re out of your normal routine—your usual protections. It puts you at greater risk for victimization.”

Ashley picks up the thread. “Exactly. That’s what makes them medium risk.”

Aaron nods once. “All of the victims were in transition. Fresh starts. Out of a relationship, starting a new job, trying to reinvent themselves. To the unsub, that looks like abandonment.”

Spencer gestures toward the postcards arrayed in front of them. “We see it in the messages he forces them to write. ‘It’s too much.’ ‘There’s nothing for me here.’ ‘It’s better if I leave.’ He’s projecting.”

Ashley’s voice is quieter, more focused now. “That kind of anger—deep, corrosive—it usually starts young. We think his first victim was his father.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “Most likely a local fisherman. Definitely an alcoholic. And given the unsub’s level of control and cruelty, we believe the abuse was violent—possibly long-standing. We think it’s possible the unsub inherited his father’s fishing boat.”

Dave steps in, voice firm but level. “This man—his father—was also the first person to abandon him. Walked out on the family, maybe even wrote a postcard like the ones we’ve seen.”

Aaron’s tone doesn’t waver. “So the unsub picked a location that meant something. A spot that held history. A place known to fishermen that he turned into a prison.”

The lead detective leans forward. “But that spot’s gone. So where does he go next?”

Derek doesn’t miss a beat. “He won’t leave Jacksonville. That site was his responsibility. Without it, he’ll cling to what he knows.”

Aaron’s voice drops a half-step. “But he’ll change his M.O.—and that’ll make him unpredictable. He’ll escalate. Become more sadistic. He’ll kill uncontrollably until he finds another stretch of ocean to replace what he lost.”

A pause. The silence in the room shifts—heavier now, settled with clarity.

Aaron nods once. “Thank you for your time.”

As the team breaks, some answering questions and others returning to their tasking, Derek approaches you with his section of the profile, hoping to tag in with you and Spencer this afternoon. 

Something catches his eye and he double takes, looking past your shoulder. 

“Aunt Yvonne,” Derek says, leaving you. 

You turn, finding a middle-aged woman by the door to the conference room. She has a strong resemblance to Derek in the eyes and the set of her mouth, in the grave sort of seriousness you’ve seen on his face in the field. 

Her fingers cling to a boar-bristle hairbrush.

Derek chooses a smaller conference room with big windows, pulling you to join him on the interview. 

“You sure?” you ask. 

“Definitely,” he replies.  

You keep your gaze steady on the page as the silence stretches. Derek’s jaw is tight, but his hands are still. It’s only the set of his shoulders that betrays him. He’s anxious, coiled to spring. 

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Yvonne’s voice is gentle. There’s grief under it, but not softness. “You found her. On the beach.”

Derek shakes his head slowly. “We’re actually trying to rule her out.”

“But I know you,” she says, leaning forward slightly, eyes searching his. “I know that look in your eye. There’s something, isn’t there?”

You glance up in time to see him hesitate. Not because he wants to lie, but because he doesn’t want to confirm what she’s already telling herself.

“Auntie,” he says, his voice low. “I’ve been doing this job a long time. The things I’ve seen—what people are capable of—I don’t want to drag you into that.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but her voice softens. “Honey. I’m already in. You don’t have to protect me. I need to know about my Cindi.”

He nods. It’s a small motion, but it holds the weight of resignation. “One of the victims fits her general description. I’m not saying it’s her. But if it is… something doesn’t add up. I’m hoping you can help. That’s why I’m here.”

You note the way he phrases it: help me help her.

He shifts in his chair. Not restless—restraint. He's controlled. You can feel the history humming under his skin.

“Was Cindi afraid of water?” he asks.

Yvonne frowns slightly. “No. She loved to swim.”

Derek nods once, thoughtful. “It’s just—I remember one Fourth of July, the whole family was out on the lake. All the kids on paddle boats. But Cindi stayed on shore the whole day. Wouldn’t even go near the dock.”

Yvonne exhales. “Boats were a different story. If Cindi so much as sat in a canoe, she’d get violently seasick.”

You make the note without looking up. That detail—unexpected, specific—grabs hold in the pit of your stomach.

Yvonne watches you both for a moment, then speaks again—quietly. “So that means what? She wouldn’t have gone willingly.”

You nod, pen hovering. “It suggests coercion. If it is her, and she was taken by boat, she didn’t board by choice.”

Derek’s jaw tightens again, and this time he doesn’t try to hide it.

Yvonne’s gaze moves between the two of you. “You said you’re still trying to rule her out?”

“We are,” you say gently. “There are still details we need to confirm. But that’s part of why we’re asking questions. Because even one small truth can point us in or out of the right direction.”

She exhales, pressing a hand to her chest. “I just… I needed to see the look on his face.” She glances at Derek. “You can’t lie worth a damn when it’s personal.”

Derek offers her a quiet, almost sheepish smile. “That obvious, huh?”

Yvonne shrugs. “Only to someone who changed your diapers.”

That gets a dry huff from him—half-laugh, half-pain.

She looks to you again. “And you—what’s your name again?”

You give it, and she nods, studying you with something searching. Not suspicion. Just curiosity.

“You know my girl?” she asks.

You choose your words carefully. “I’ve heard so much about her from Derek. If it’s personal to one of us, it’s personal to all of us."

Yvonne’s smile is small, but real. “She was good. Not perfect, but good.”

Derek clears his throat. “Still doesn’t mean she’s one of the victims.”

“No,” Yvonne says, but her voice holds no conviction. “But if she isn’t… you won’t stop, will you?”

He shakes his head once. “Never.”

Yvonne looks at you again, and her voice is gentler now. “You’ll keep him honest?”

“I will.”

You’re not sure you can keep your promise, but you’ll try. 

She holds your gaze a second longer, then leans back in her chair. “All right then. I guess that’s all we can do.”

As you all stand, Derek moves to open the door for her. Yvonne pauses just beside him and rests a hand on his arm.

“Whatever you find,” she says, “tell me the truth.”

Derek meets her eyes and nods. “You’ll know everything.”

She nods once, then walks out into the hallway.

You don’t speak as Derek lingers behind, head bowed slightly. When he finally exhales, it sounds like grief pressed through a sieve.

“I forgot about the boats,” he murmurs. “God, how did I forget that?”

You don’t answer right away. “You were a little kid. It’s okay to not remember.”

+++ 1628 hours

You and Derek find Aaron at the case board, lines of red thread stretching between maps of Charleston and Miami, the postcards pinned like a lattice of afterthought goodbyes.

“Cindi wasn’t afraid of water,” Derek says, arms crossed. “Boats were a different story.”

You nod, flipping open your notebook. “Aunt Yvonne mentioned that if she went anywhere near a canoe, she’d get violently seasick—which means—”

“He’s not finding his victims through his boat,” Aaron finishes, his gaze shifting from the board to you.

Derek shakes his head. “If he tried to talk Cindi into a charter, she wouldn’t even stop walking. That approach doesn’t fit her.”

Aaron exhales. “We don’t know that she’s victim number five.”

“I know,” Derek says. “But I still rushed her DNA to Quantico. They’re working on it for me.”

Aaron nods once, the weight of it all settling heavy across his shoulders. “Until we get confirmation, we can’t assume anything based on her behavior.”

“I’m not saying we throw away the profile,” Derek replies. “I’m just saying let’s expand our thinking. If it’s not the boat, then how’s he finding them?”

You already have your phone out, one step ahead. 

“Magic eightball!” Penelope sings without missing a beat. “Speak, and I shall illuminate the shadows of your ignorance.”

Aaron steps closer, his voice level. “Garcia, we’re looking into other ways the unsub might be locating his victims. What’s their history in Charleston or Miami? Local ties, past residences, anything.”

There’s a pause, then the clatter of her typing. “Of the five we’ve ID’d so far… there isn’t any. None of them had meaningful history in either city.”

Derek’s brow furrows. “Then maybe he meets them in transit. How’d they get there?”

“Right. Okay, good question.” Garcia’s tone sharpens, more focused. “One sec… I’m pulling travel logs now… But there’s nothing there either.”

You blink. “How is that possible? These people are starting their lives over. The whole point is to travel.”

“Even if they paid cash,” Derek adds, “there’d be a name on a ticket somewhere.”

“Yeah, no, I totally agree with you,” Garcia says, “but my binary boxes are never wrong, and however these folks got from point A to point unsub, there’s no trace.”

“This guy’s not abducting them in Miami or Charleston,” Derek says quietly, like the idea just crystallized.

You glance at him, and then back to the board. “He’s grabbing them while they’re en route.”

+++ 1954 hours

“Let’s call it for tonight,” Aaron says, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got enough to work independently. Back in the lobby by seven.”

There’s no argument. Spencer’s already packing up his files.

“I’ll work on the linguistic profile,” he says, stifling a yawn. “I want to see if any phrasing in the postcards ties back to regional dialects.”

“I’ll look at transit routes,” you add, slinging your go-bag over one shoulder. “Bus, rail, rideshares—anywhere people go missing in between.”

“Same,” Derek says. “I’ll dig into off-the-books charters. Craigslist ads, marina boards, shady classifieds—someone’s always trying to make a quick buck.”

Ashley waves vaguely on her way out. “I’m going to pretend I’m going to bed and then just stare at the ceiling for three hours. See you all at in the morning.”

You and Aaron are the last two left.

“That charter theory,” he says after a beat, “was sharp.”

You bump your shoulder lightly against his. “Thanks. Felt like something you would’ve said, so I figured I was either really on the right track… or wildly off.”

“You weren’t.” He lets the door swing shut behind you as you step into the hallway. “You’ve been… focused lately.”

You glance at him sidelong. “Focused?”

He gives you a look. “It’s a compliment.”

“Well then say it like a compliment,” you tease.

The pair of you walk out into the damp night air, the heat still clinging to your skin. The silence is comfortable as you get into the car, taking the passenger side and buckling your seatbelt. 

It’s a short drive back to the hotel. Aaron taps the steering wheel with his thumbs. 

He really should say something. 

“What’s gotcha, Hotch?” you ask. 

Damn. 

You really have gotten too good at this. 

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye before focusing on the road. “I—“ 

—I’m going overseas. 

—I’m being deployed TDY.

—I can’t lie to you anymore because I’m weak and afraid to lose you. 

He sighs and continues. “It’s been a hard spring.”

+++ april 20th, 2011 0634 hours

You’re halfway through your first cup of coffee when he walks into the hotel lobby for your carpool to the precinct. 

The morning light cuts across the tile in long, drowsy stripes. It’s already too warm, humid in that Florida way that makes every breath feel like it’s been chewed first. You’ve pushed up your sleeves, abandoned your blazer. You expect to be the only one who ditched half the Bureau dress code other than those who never follow it at all. 

But Aaron…

No jacket. No tie. Just slacks, a belt, and a navy blue button-down—sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open, top button undone. The heat didn’t spare him either. It’s the second day in a row he’s worn blue. His brow is a little furrowed, his eyes a little squinty in the reflected sunshine. 

You blink.

He looks… normal. Almost like he does at home. Like someone who slept last night. You know better, of course, but it’s still a rare sight.

“Blue is your color, Agent Hotchner.”

You say it lightly as he approaches, but it lands. He looks over, startled for a half-second before something soft flickers behind his critical eyes. His mouth curves just barely—half amusement, half warning.

He doesn’t take the bait. Not really.

“Too hot for the suit,” he says, eyes back on the coffee urn.

Well, that’s nothing new.

You sip your coffee to hide the smile.

“Good call,” you say. “You’d have melted by noon.”

“I might still,” he replies.

That earns him a glance.

He adds a packet of sugar and doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t push. But when he walks past you toward the other table, you see it in the corners of his mouth.

He heard you.

And he liked it.

+++ 0822 hours

“If the unsub’s abducting in transit,” Spencer says, flipping through victim files, “how can he cover it up?”

Dave leans forward, arms crossed. “I felt like we were close with the charter idea. Maybe he’s not taking them off a boat, but the ruse—the setup—it still fits.”

“What kind of transportation doesn’t issue a ticket in advance?” Spencer asks, already running through options.

“Passenger trains,” Dave answers. “A conductor can hand-write a ticket once you’re already on board.”

Ashley nods. “Most of the smaller stations aren’t even manned. You have to buy tickets on the train itself.”

Spencer expands on it, speaking faster now. “You know, the train is a concept that attracts people trying to start over. It’s romanticized—movement, freedom, the illusion of a clean slate. If he’s a conductor, he’s in a target-rich environment.”

Before anyone can respond, a local detective steps into the room. “My men pulled a body out of the water. Agent Morgan’s at the autopsy now.”

+++ 0904 hours 

At the ME’s office, the air is sharp with antiseptic and the hum of overhead lights. Spencer and Derek stand over the body while you hover near the door, observing quietly.

Spencer gestures to the thigh. “These wounds show hesitation marks. An unsub this experienced wouldn’t hesitate like that.”

“I don’t think the unsub did it,” Derek replies. “The angle’s off. Left-handed dominance. File says the vic was left-handed, too.”

“If he’d been given trilamide,” Spencer muses, “the unsub could’ve forced him to cut himself. It fits for someone sadistic with abandonment issues—but why didn’t he finish the job?”

“The victim must’ve gotten a chance to escape,” Derek says.

“But how?” Spencer asks, frowning. “The trilamide kept him compliant enough to hurt himself. It overcame his self-preservation instinct.”

You speak up. “Then something else overrode it.”

Spencer turns toward you. “Like what?”

”A protective instinct,” you say. “This guy was mentally and physically compromised, but he still went after the unsub with everything he had.”

Spencer furrows his brow. “Who would he fight that hard for?”

You already have your phone out, Penelope’s office line ringing.

“Go for Garcia.”

“A child, Pen,” you tell her. “Search nationwide missing persons reports for men traveling with their kids.”

“Am I looking for a son or daughter?”

You glance at Spencer and Derek, who shrug. “We don't know yet,” you answer.

There’s a tense moment while Pen submits information into her magic boxes. “No, no,” she says finally. “I'm sorry, honey. No dice.” 

There’s a pause as you all think.

”Hey,” Penelope says, “what if they're not reported as missing yet?”

Derek chews on that, quickly agreeing, “Yeah, of course not. When the unsub met them, they were starting over.” You hand your phone over. “All right, baby girl, new deal. USPS change of address notices, people moving into Florida and South Carolina.”

It really is kind of magic how Derek has so finely tuned his communication to give Penelope exactly what she needs, in order, almost every time. 

Penelope’s typing ends with a final clack. “Done. Big list.”

You pick it up again. “All right, eliminate women, wives, couples. Narrow it down to men only.”

“So, we're thinking divorced dad here, right?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Derek replies for you, “but not just any divorced dad. This guy wants as much distance between his son and his ex-wife as possible.”

You help her further, quantifying the feature. “So look for custody disputes, injunctions, allegations.”

“The messier the better, Garcia,” Derek adds.

“I get you,” she replies. “I'll call you right back.”

+++ 0956 hours

Penelope’s search reveals a few more parameters, narrowing the field even further until you fall onto a father-son pair that fits your victim profile exactly. In the meantime, Aaron, Dave, and Ashley have been re-interviewing the victims’ families, looking for another link to the train. 

It hasn’t been going well.

“None of the family members could confirm a train line for us,” Aaron says from beside you. 

“So what,” you ask him, “do we just rule it out?”

You’re too tired to hear how sharp your challenge sounds. 

He takes it in stride, and treats it as a compliment, answering with his usual patience. “No. There's one person we haven't asked.”

“Who?” Derek asks.

Aaron’s brows jump as he tips his head toward one of the sofas in a spare office. “Your aunt.” 

When the team breaks again, onto their respective tasking, Aaron pulls you aside. 

“I’d like you to sit in with Morgan again.” 

You cross your arms. “You passing me off to Morgan for a reason?” Your pause is nearly imperceptible. “You sick of me or something?”

Aaron heaves a long-suffering sigh. “It’s too hot for this. Go.” 

With a sly smile you turn around and join Derek once more.

+++ 1013 hours

You leave the interview room rather abruptly–you only get away with it because Derek’s in there, too. 

“Unaccompanied minors,” you tell the room unceremoniously. “Surely there’s a record of them?”

Aaron holds out his phone, putting it on speaker. “Garcia?”

“Did I hear unaccompanied minors?”

“You did,” you tell her. “Check and see if trains have something similar. Start with James, since he and his dad fit the profile.”

“Okay.” She gets started, no doubt looking (probably illegally) into passenger manifests, liability paperwork, and other such documents. 

“Ah ha!” she cries, still typing, “James took the train three summers in a row during his parents' divorce. His aunt from South Carolina bought the tickets and filled out the unaccompanied minor paperwork, which is why it didn't show up in my search.”

“Garcia,” you tell her, “you’re my hero.”

Aaron glances at you out of the corner of his eye. 

Good catch. 

“What's the train line?” Spencer asks.

“Surf Rider,” Penelope replies. “It makes stops in Jacksonville, Charleston, and Miami.”

Aaron comes back to life beside you. “Cross-reference your list of boat owners with railroad employees.”

She does, and comes up with a name. 

“Chuck Wells, local fisherman, son Blake, conductor on the line.” 

Click clack…

”And there it is. He didn't show up for work this week.”

“Is there a current address?” Dave’s voice almost startles you. You almost forgot he was here.

“No,” Penelope replies. She explains further: there’s only a boat in the father’s name, which changed its home port to Norfolk about a decade ago when Blake’s mom was diagnosed with cancer. You can almost hear Penelope’s mouth twist. “She died a few months later.”

Derek throws his hands up. There we go. “Dad walked out and the unsub had to punish him for that.”

Spencer makes a skeptical noise. “James doesn't fit the victimology. It doesn't make sense the unsub would take him.”

You make one of your own. “Well, he picked up on a father-son relationship that reminded him of his own.” You tip your head, softening your rebuttal. “What he didn't count on was Gary fighting for James' life.”

“How do we know the unsub hasn't already killed James?” Ashley asks.

Aaron looks at you. “So far he's only punished people who've abandoned their responsibilities.”

“But that's exactly what James is to him now,” Derek says, “a responsibility. The unsub's gonna get angrier and angrier at that kid, and when he does, he's gonna become more like his father.”

Shit.

+++ 1123 hours

You slide into the passenger seat of Aaron’s car, leaving Derek to take the lead on the cannery, where your unsub’s father sold his catches year after year. You’re headed to the dock with Aaron. 

There’s no fear in your belly as Aaron flies through town, running lights and sirens and cornering the SUV like it’s on rails. It’s easy, as it is with most things, to trust Aaron with your safety. 

You reach the dock and hop out of the car, working just off Aaron’s right shoulder. 

With a SWAT team on your heels, you and Aaron begin to clear the docks. Shouts of “clear” echo through the warehouse and shipyard. 

“Call Morgan” Hotch gestures to you. You’re already on the phone. 

He answers, “Yeah?”

“Derek, he's not here.” You pause. “Hotch thinks you've got him.” 

He takes a moment before answering, “I see the boat.”

“Be safe!” you chirp, hanging up. You look over at Aaron, more than a little chuffed. 

He looks back at you for a moment, realizing with a bittersweet sort of pride that you seem to have outgrown him a bit. You’ve fulfilled your duty on this case without prompting, forming and acting on sound theories and strong instinct without leaning on him at all. 

It’s not the first time it’s happened, but it’s the first time he kind of misses it. 

It’s also easier to stomach leaving, this way. He can very easily make the leap from feeling confident in your abilities to rationalizing his absence: you didn’t really need him for this case. Maybe you won’t need him this summer. 

But when he meets your eyes, that little proud glint winking at him under your lashes, his stomach drops. 

He fears he is a colossal idiot. On several counts. And he’s probably right.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

+++ 1209 hours

As diligently as Aaron attempts to avoid you, you end up in the chief’s office together  with lunch anyway, letting Blake sweat it out in one of the interrogation rooms while Hotch spins a deal. 

“Scott,” Aaron says into the phone. “It’s Hotchner.”

A pause. You can’t hear the reply, but you know the voice on the other end must recognize his name. 

“I’ve got a federal nightmare in Florida. Interstate abductions. Torture in international waters. Bodies dumped in Jacksonville.” His tone doesn’t shift, but you see his jaw move once. “We’re looking at fifty victims, at least, based on recovered remains down here. We’re consolidating through the Middle District, but I want this in front of Calderon before the AG’s office gets blindsided.”

He listens, then nods and writes down a number. “Appreciate it. And tell him it’s me.”

He hangs up and immediately dials again. Different tone, different connection.

“Evan,” he says warmly, a smile in his voice. “It’s Aaron. You still at Main or did you sell out for the bench?”

Another pause. A little laugh, a relic from another time.

“Listen, I’ve got a suspect in custody and a Middle District AUSA waiting on DOJ cover before we move forward with a plea in exchange for information.”

That is absolutely a fib. You know he hasn’t called the Middle District of Florida’s AUSA yet. 

“No death penalty,” he continues, “contingent on full cooperation—method, means of abduction, victim identification, and any dump sites we haven’t found yet.”

You watch him lean against the edge of the desk as he listens. The only sound is the soft tapping of your finger against the side of your drink can.

“If Calderon signs off, can you get it past the penalty review process without a full submission?” A pause. He sighs. “Yes, I’ll owe you. Tell Maggie I still haven’t opened that bottle.”

He ends the call, sets the phone down, and finally looks over at you. You take a long sip from your drink and nod once.

“That was impressive.”

“I didn’t want to wait for the review process,” he says simply. “If he’s willing to talk, I want it on paper before he rethinks it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And that’s just two phone calls?”

He half-smiles. “It helps when you know who to call.”

You glance at the sandwich he’s abandoned. “You going to eat that?”

He gives you a look. “Eventually.”

You nod toward the holding cell hallway. “You want to call the Director? Just to get ahead of it?”

He considers it, then shakes his head. “Not yet. If Calderon signs, I’ll brief Mueller directly.”

You smile. “Of course you will.”

You pick at your chips, pretending not to be distracted by the fact that watching him do this—watch him be quiet, powerful, connected—is doing something to your pulse you’re not proud of.

“You know,” you say lightly, “I’ve never seen you pull rank like that. Or call in favors.”

“I don’t do it often,” he says. “But fifty victims is fifty families. If I can skip the bureaucracy, I will.”

He takes a bite of the sandwich, chews pensively, then sets it down again like he’s not really interested in finishing it.

You wait, giving him the space. He’s working something out—you can see it in the shift of his jaw, the slight repositioning of his shoulders.

Then he looks over at you.

“You know how this actually works?” he asks. “DOJ protocol for capital cases?”

You blink, not expecting the question, but shake your head once. “I know enough to know it’s slow. But not the details.”

He nods, not surprised. “Every case with a death-eligible charge in a death penalty case—this one has several and Florida is very keen on the death penalty—goes through review by the Capital Case Section. Doesn’t matter if the U.S. Attorney wants to pursue it or not—they still have to submit a recommendation. Then it goes to Main Justice. AG’s office signs off either way.”

“And that can take weeks,” you say.

“Months, sometimes,” he confirms. “Even longer if the facts are messy or multiple jurisdictions are involved. Which applies here.”

You glance toward the whiteboard against the far wall—lines drawn between states, ports, dates, bones. Aaron’s blocky script cites US Code violations attached to each jurisdiction and the supervising federal court responsible for each. 

“So you’re bypassing the wait,” you say. 

He shrugs a little. “I’m not cutting corners. Just getting it in front of people who’ll actually read it today instead of three weeks from now. Calderon has the authority to push the memo through without a formal penalty review. And if he endorses the deal, Lisa can move forward without having to wait for the AG’s office to rubber-stamp it.”

You almost smile. “You always this transparent about the back channels?”

“Only with people I respect,” he says simply.

You don’t reply right away.

Instead, you reach for the chips between you and open the bag with a soft crinkle.

He watches you for a beat longer, then adds, “If you ever want to sit in on a DOJ plea negotiation, I can set that up too.”

You smirk. “Are you offering me a tour of your old life?”

He leans back slightly, more relaxed than he was ten minutes ago. “I’m offering context.”

About you or the job?

You’re not sure. 

You meet his gaze and hold it. There’s something deeply generous about the way he shares knowledge—not as leverage, but as inclusion. He never assumes you won’t understand. He just wants to make sure you do.

You nod once. “Thanks.”

+++ 1306 hours

“All right, Blake, here's how it works,” Derek starts, sitting on the other side of the interrogation table. “We verify every word you say against forensics and records. You lie to me, deal's off.”

You stand between Dave and Aaron in observation, the room blissfully chilly and a little dark. 

“What do you want to know?” Blake asks.

Derek’s tone is even. “Let's start with how you abducted these victims.” He flips over a photo of a young woman.

“Carol Reed,” Blake confirms. With a sick little smile, he adds, “Oh, I could smell the fear on her. Oh, she promised me she would do anything if I let her live.”

You’re kind of impressed by the impassivity on Derek’s face. “Your method of abduction?”

“She was easy. She was a meth addict. I just told her I was holding.” 

Derek flips another photo, this time of a middle-aged man. 

“Alton McKee,” Blake says. “I caught him off guard. He was running away from his nagging wife.” He laughs coldly. “He couldn't stop calling her a bitch.”

You really can’t bring yourself to feel too bad for Alton, on second thought.

Derek, however, takes another direction. “You're really enjoying yourself, aren't you?” he asks. “You making up for your loss?”

“What loss is that?”

“Well,” Derek replies, “it must have really gotten under your skin that they stumbled onto your perfect little hiding place.”

“Not really. How do you know I don't have a dozen more just like it? It's a big sea.”

You glance at Dave, whose brow is furrowed. skeptical. 

That’s good, at least. You have a feeling Blake is full of shit, so it’s nice to see it confirmed by someone with a few more credentials than you.  

“No. Blake,” Derek insists, “it's the same place where you dumped your own father. He was the most important one, so you had to come back here and dump the other bodies.”

Derek flips another photo without pomp, his face pinching only a little, imperceptible to the untrained eye. 

Unfortunately, Blake’s eyes are not all that untrained.

Blake hums. “I didn't dump her there, did I?” He pauses, tilting his head. “She means something to you, doesn't she?”

Derek doesn’t rise to the bait. “They're all special to me, Blake. If you can't remember her, we can just move on.”

“I do remember her.” He leans forward. “You want to know, Agent Morgan, who she cried out for right before I made her slice her own throat?”

You let out a sigh. He is full of shit and you know it, but it still doesn’t make the taunting any less personal. Or painful. 

“Go ahead,” Derek says. “Tell me.”

Blake’s voice drops low, dangerous.

“You,” he says.

Saw that one a mile out. Asshole. 

“She cried out for you. Where were you… When she bled out on the floor of my boat?”

Derek, to his credit, only sighs. “You are a sick son of a bitch. But you didn't kill her.”

“I did kill her.”

“No,” Derek replies. “You didn't. And I was very clear about the rules. Deal's off.” He stands from the table and gathers his photo pile, tucking them back into his folder. 

Blake damn near throws a tantrum, handcuffed to the table, rattling his chair against the floor. “I did kill her! You said you wanted to learn from me, and now you won't listen!” 

Derek looks at him with something resembling disgust as he shuts the door behind him. 

“Hey, come back here! Agent Morgan!” He pulls at the handcuffs, clanging against the metal table. “I did kill her!”

Derek arrives in observation as you ask, “What gave him away?”

You know your answer, but being in there, sitting across from him, is a completely different animal. 

“He knows his victims' names.” He pauses, “He didn't know Cindi's.”

“Lying to a profiler,” you scoff. “This guy’s got a pair on him, huh?” You turn to share your laugh with Aaron, but he avoids your eyes.

“I’ll inform the AUSA and Justice that the deal’s off.” Hotch clears his throat, and leaves the observation room. 

You watch him as he leaves, a pinch in your brow. 

Weird.

It’s like he’s been so eager to get away from you all week and simultaneously putting himself in your way. It’s a little unnerving.

Derek looks a bit worse for wear, a little forlorn and drawn in the dark. 

You put a hand on his shoulder, “We’ll find her.”

+++ 1447 hours

You stand with Dave as Derek consoles his aunt, hearing the weary sigh leave him. After a moment, you look over, a question in your eyes. He turns, beckoning you back to the case file boxes you’ll have to put back together before going home.

“We know he didn’t do it,” you say, only a little confused. 

“I get it,” Rossi says. “It’s difficult to watch those we care about hold onto something we know is unlikely.”

You think of the saying Dean brought back with him from his semester abroad in London, decide to voice it aloud. 

“It’s the hope that kills you.”

Dave nods. “Was he right to do that?” He shakes his head. “That’s not for me to decide. But I do understand.”

“Yeah.”

The pair of you pack quietly, stepping around the massive elephant in the room. 

+++ 1939 hours

The plane ride home from Jacksonville is quiet, the kind of tired, shell-shocked silence that settles over the team after an existentially long, emotionally difficult case. The salt still clings to your clothes. 

You sit across from Aaron, legs stretched out, your ankles crossed between his. Derek’s in his own row, decompressing—headphones on, eyes closed. Spencer has a copy of the latest edition of Scientific American in his lap, only a little engaged. Ashley’s writing in her journal. Dave sits beside you, scrolling on his phone. 

As Aaron pulls a deck of cards from his bag, a faint edge of play lines his mouth. There’s something almost boyish behind the slight pull at the corners of his eyes as he shuffles the deck. 

“You in?” he asks. 

You raise an eyebrow, setting your book down. “Poker on the jet? Cliche much?”

He smiles, slow and dry. “Just passing the time.” 

You sigh and toss in. Your pack of fruit snacks serving as your ante. Turns out, you don’t need much more than that. Aaron shows terrible hand after terrible hand, flipping his cards with a rueful twist of his mouth almost every time. 

Eventually, though, he beats you with a rather weak three of a kind—tens. Your hand was shit anyway. 

The game rolls on. You win a few more hands, then he takes one, then you win a few more.

Aaron narrows his eyes just a little, his cards fanned out between strong, deft fingers. He lays down another mediocre hand with the air of someone who expected (and wanted) better. 

You grin as you rake in a pile of pretzels. “That’s three in a row. You losing your touch, Hotchner?” 

Aaron shrugs. “Maybe I’m tired.” 

“Maybe I’m just better than you.”

Dave snorts.

Spencer hides a cough behind a fist, rubbing the back of his neck. Derek cracks an eyelid. You feel oddly scrutinized. 

Nobody says anything. 

Aaron’s lips twitch. “You’re doing very well. Let’s all be glad we’re not playing for money.” 

Dave, beside you, rolls his eyes. You can’t see him. 

You take a sip of your water and Dave stands, abandoning you both for the galley. When he returns, he hovers behind your seat, looking pointedly at the back of your head. 

Aaron stands, laying his cards down. “Do not cheat.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Spencer says drily. Aaron swats in his general direction, but doesn’t make contact, retreating to the bathroom. 

Once closed inside, Aaron braces himself on the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. He is not happy with what he sees.

A liar. 

A failure.

An even worse friend. 

Some leader he is. Doesn’t even trust his second…

That’s quite enough of that.

He washes his hands and splashes cold water on his face, dragging his hands down his cheeks. He takes a deep breath as he dries off with a paper towel. 

When he steps out, he’s met with Dave’s disapproving glare on the other side of the galley. 

Slipping past him, he takes a seat back at the table, this time next to you, his shoulder pressed to yours. 

You look over at him. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” he answers quickly. “All good.” 

You snort. “Liar.” 

“Get some rest,” he says, a laugh in his voice. 

You turn away from the window, and draw your legs up onto the seat, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Aaron stiffens—only for a second. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, not right away, as if he’ll disturb you. He takes in the weight of your head against him, warm and quiet and entirely unexpected in a plane full of your friends and colleagues. 

Then, he relaxes. Not completely. But enough to angle slightly toward you, shift so your head isn’t at such a severe angle. The edge of his jaw brushes your temple as he gets comfortable. 

Dave has returned, sitting on the couch across the aisle. He’s watching.

Aaron clocks it when he glances up. Dave’s gaze lingers just a little too long before he shifts in his seat, muttering something under his breath that might be Italian. 

Aaron ignores him. He just lets you rest, lets himself be still. 

For a moment, it’s almost easy to pretend this isn’t complicated, that this is just two tired colleagues, shoulder to shoulder, on a short flight home. 

But it’s not that simple. It couldn’t be.

+++ april 21st, 2011 1409 hours

“I’m so sorry,” Jess says. “Can I ask you to go grab him? He’s at the community college for the little science camp thing he’s doing this week.”

You tuck your phone under your chin and stuff your keys into your pocket. “All good, Jess. I got it.” You pause, wavering in front of the line of light jackets you keep by the door. “And you said you couldn’t get ahold of Aaron?”

“He’s not answering his phone and pickup is in like twenty minutes, so I had to make a decision.”

You laugh lightly. “Very good tactical planning there, Miss Brooks.”

It’s easy then, to grab your shoes and go. The carseat’s already installed—has been for weeks now. Between JJ and Henry and Jack, it’s just easier to have one on hand. You don’t question it anymore. 

+++ 1446 hours

You unlock the door to the Hotchner apartment and Jack sails in past you. You go straight for the alarm, only to find it’s already off. 

To Aaron’s credit, the panic you see on his face melts immediately upon seeing his son. 

“Hey!” he says, leaving the kitchen and kneeling to his son’s level. “How was camp?”

Jack runs into his father’s arms. You can see the deep breath, the calm that settles over him when he has Jack safely in his arm. 

Aaron laughs lightly as he recovers—a delightful sound—and warns him, belatedly, “I’m sweaty, bud, sorry.”

Jack simply tucks closer, already yammering his Aaron’s ear off about his day. 

Aaron meets your eyes over Jack’s shoulder. 

“Sorry,” he mouths. “I was on a run.” He shows you his bare wrist, his running watch and phone forgotten on the table to your left. He didn’t forget his towel, though, slung over his shoulder. 

You wave him off and head into the kitchen with Jack’s lunchbox. 

What does it say about you, you wonder, that you can read his lips so easily across a room?

You hear Jack scurry off into his room to shed his bag and probably get distracted. You dump his water bottle, rinse it, and set it on the drying rack so he can take it tomorrow. 

“Thanks,” Aaron says, leaving against the wall. 

You look over your shoulder. “For what?”

He shrugs a little. “Picking him up. Covering.”

“Jess couldn’t reach you.” You shrug, playing off the butterflies currently taking up residence in your solar plexus. “I was close and it’s never an issue to help with Jack.” You glance up, a little smile on your face. “He’s pretty cool—for a five year old anyway.”

A dimple appears as he leans in the doorway, towel still around his neck. His hair’s damp at his temples, shirt clinging at the collar, a dark line of sweat down his back. The run wasn’t short.

Clearing his mind?

An insidious, paranoid little voice in your head whispers: Hiding something. 

“I didn’t mean to go that far,” he says after a second, the dimple disappearing. “Left my watch on the table. Phone too.”

He doesn’t know why he says it—why he keeps talking. You haven’t asked for an explanation or wondered why he was off-grid…

Just kidding. He knows. 

He doesn’t want you to think he’s careless. He doesn’t want you thinking he’d leave Jack hanging, or that he’s losing track of the things that matter. He doesn’t want to be another man who lets people down and shrugs about it later. Again. 

He wants you to know him better than that.

He wants you to trust him—and maybe, even more than that, he wants to deserve it.

Too bad he’s about to egregiously violate your trust for reasons he can only explain to himself (sometimes). go down the ‘untrustworthy’ checklist and hit every box on the way down

You glance over, drying your hands. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I know.” He pauses. “Still.”

You cross to him without thinking, stepping into his space. He watches you—still, quiet—as you reach up and take the towel from his shoulders. It’s warm, worn soft from years of laundry and a little damp where it rested against his skin. You fold it once, more for something to do with your hands than anything else.

“It was a pleasant surprise to find you here when we got back,” you tell him simply. 

You swear his eyes flick to your mouth. “That so?”

You roll your eyes and smile a little, thwacking him with the towel. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

When you meet his eyes again, he’s already there, looking at you.

Neither one of you says anything.

+++ april 24th, 2011 1003 hours

“Virginia State police believe they've uncovered a serial killer,” Aaron says without preamble. “They need us at Zacha Road and Route 7 as soon as possible.” He gestures as Derek and Dave join you in the round table room. “Morgan, you and Dave get out there.”

Seaver’s down in the bullpen with Spencer, awaiting further instruction. Strangely, Aaron only called you, Derek, and Dave in for the briefing.

He flicks a finger toward you, then his office. “With me in thirty. Get Reid and Seaver in here to build the board.”

+++ 1037 hours

“What are we looking at?” you ask, leaning over his desk.

“It’s not good.” He shuffles a few files, lips pressed into a line. “Garcia’s running a couple avenues. Locals are close to identifying the latest victims—should help narrow the pool.”

You move around the desk, close enough that your sleeve brushes his. Shoulder to shoulder, you rest one hand lightly on the edge of the desk and scan the top file. “Do we have anything actionable right now?”

“Maybe,” he hedges. “I’m hoping we have some help arriving soon.”

You glance over at him. “Help?”

There’s a knock, and then Penelope steps in—file folder in hand, a couple highlighters tucked between her fingers like claws. She’s all clipped brightness.

“Hello,” she says, voice cheery but a little thin. “This is the information I have on the casualties from today. I’m cross-referencing open cases from last year now.” She hands Aaron the file, and her eyes flick to you with a small, conspiratorial smile. ”Anything else?”

“No, that’s all,” Aaron says. “Thank you.”

She lingers.

“Um, sir,” she says gently. “I’m worried that everything isn’t okay. And if there’s anything you want to talk to—”

“Garcia.” His tone is sharp but not unkind. His hand lifts in reflex. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Oh.” She backtracks a step. “Okay.”

She glances back at you before leaving. You can’t quite read the look—concern, maybe. Or worry she doesn’t know where to place. You shift slightly, grounding yourself again.

You refocus on the folder in Aaron’s hand. “This looks thin.”

He agrees. “Garcia,” he calls after her, “widen the search. Go back ten years.”

There’s a pause. “Really? That’s a lot of data. Any parameters?”

“Not yet,” he says, grim. “Unfortunately, transporting victims across state lines isn’t a problem for this group.”

“Group?” she echoes. “How do you know it’s more than one?”

You answer, level and sure, “Victims are mixed gender, pulled from different parts of the country. This isn’t one person.”

“This is not a traditional unsub,” Aaron adds, gravely.

Another knock.

You and Aaron share a quick look—busy day—and he calls, “Come in.”

A woman enters—tall, sharp-eyed, self-assured. There’s something vaguely familiar about her.

Aaron straightens, his voice shifting into something lighter, warmer. “Hey, Andi.”

Andi Swann. 

You’ve been to one of her seminars—more than one actually.

He steps forward to shake her hand, and you move out of the way, watching the lines of tension soften in his shoulders.

“SSA Andi Swann,” he says. “She heads the Domestic Trafficking Task Force.” He gestures toward Garcia. “Andi, this is—”

“Penelope Garcia,” Penelope finishes, beaming. “I went to your trafficking seminar last fall. You terrify me.”

Andi smiles. “Sorry. I do remember you.”

Penelope lights up. “Really?”

“You asked great questions. I thought you’d nicked my PowerPoint.”

“I didn’t,” she says, faux-innocent. “But I could.”

“So I’ve heard,” Andi returns, glancing at Aaron—who is openly fond now, watching Penelope with a softness he rarely lets show.

“I’ll get you that list,” Garcia says, drawing her focus back. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

She shoots a final smile at Andi. “Very nice to see you again.”

“You, too.”

When the door clicks shut, Andi murmurs, “She’s not easy to forget.”

“No,” Aaron says, smiling faintly. Then his gaze flicks sideways—he’d nearly forgotten you were there.

You’ve shifted your weight slightly, hands tucked in your pockets, calm and unreadable. Still. Waiting.

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—not guilt, exactly. More like a brief moment of being caught, of remembering your presence is something steady and always accounted for. He rights himself.

“Sorry—Andi,” His voice lowers into something softer as he introduces you. He tells her you’ve “...been running point on a few consults from our end. I thought we could use another set of eyes on this.”

You step forward and offer your hand. “Hope you don’t mind if I sit in on this one.”

Your tone is professional but easy, your presence collected without reaching for it.

Andi shakes your hand, assessing and respectful. “Not at all.”

There’s a short beat. Aaron watches you, the way you hold your ground—measured, perceptive, calm under pressure. The ease with which you assert yourself, no posturing, without ego. He feels it again—that subtle thrum of admiration that’s always been there. 

Back to business. 

“How are you?” Aaron asks Andi.

She sighs, turning back to both of you. “I’m tired. Human trafficking’s a growth industry, and I’ve got half the agents I had last year.”

“How can we help?” you ask, already flipping to the next page in the file.

Aaron says nothing. He just watches—lets himself witness you in your element, working with precision and quiet confidence—and knows, once again, that he was, is, right to trust you with this.

The team will be okay without me. 

It’s a weak rationalization.

“I get notifications on body discoveries of 18- to 24-year-olds. Paige Hawley and Jake Wattey. I got a theory on what happened.” She pauses, looking between you. “Can I fill you in?”

“Sure,” Aaron replies. “We got case boards set up in the conference room.”

“Any chance we'll be passing a coffee pot?” Andi asks. 

“Dr. Reid’s heading up coffee today—I suspect there will be a steady flow,” you assure her, letting her pass in front of you to the round table room. 

+++ 1224 hours

Aaron speaks first, steady and grim. “This group needs space and solitude. Especially if they're holding multiple victims.”

Seaver nods. “These two lived thousands of miles apart, but were somehow both targeted.”

“They send scouts,” Aaron continues, pacing slowly in front of the table. “Campuses. Malls. Clubs. Anywhere they can blend in.”

“Yeah,” Andi cuts in, her tone sharp. “They go in with a shopping list. But rarely do they take more than one victim from the same city.”

Spencer leans forward, fingers laced. “The victims are assets. Why would the unsubs kill their profit?”

Aaron doesn’t pause. “Maybe the victims are escaping. Or maybe their clients are adapting.”

You speak then, quiet but firm. “Adapting how?”

He looks at you. “These clients are extremely depraved. When the act of sex isn’t enough anymore, they may start demanding more extreme forms of release.”

You feel the breath catch slightly in your chest. “You’re saying they’re escalating the violence... on purpose.”

It would be bad enough if they were killing their victims in retaliation for escape attempts or bad behavior, but using violence and murder as a sales tactic makes your stomach turn. That’s sadism on a level you haven’t seen in a long time. To this scale, on second thought, probably ever. 

Aaron’s silence confirms it.

Andi straightens, jaw tight. “That was my fear. And these two just proved it.”

Her phone rings. 

“Swann,” she answers. She’s quiet for a moment, then hangs up. 

“What is it?” Aaron asks.

Andi’s expression is grave. “One of my UCs missed her last two check-ins.”

Shit.

+++ 1310 hours

“When exactly did you talk to her?” Andi asks, talking to one of her subordinates on the phone in the car with Aaron. She raises her eyebrows at the reply. “That's thirty-four hours ago and that's unacceptable. This is why we have check-ins!” 

Her voice is razor-sharp. “We're on our way to her place right now. … Don't. Trust me, it's better that you're not in front of me.”

She snaps her phone shut. 

“Andi,” Aaron says, gentle and even, “you don't know for sure that she was taken.”

“My job is to expect the worst right now, and that means she was.” Andi pauses. “And she's in there with no wire, no weapon, and no backup.” Her tone is understandably tense as she enumerates the risk. Aaron can’t blame her. 

Redirect. Humanize. 

“What's her name?” Aaron asks.

“Renee,” she sighs. “Matlin.”

Andi is tense in the passenger seat, her hands wringing in her lap.

“She’s only twenty-five.”

Aaron’s chest wrenches. He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, but his chest pulls tight. Twenty-five.

He remembers you at twenty-five.

He sighs, locking back in. “She probably asked the wrong person the right question. There was no way of knowing she'd do that.”

Andi huffs. “We had no indication from intel that this group was even in the area. She had to be following her own lead.”

“Well,” Aaron replies, the tip of his head dry and reassuring, “her initiative is why you hired her.” He pauses. “Probably reminded you of someone.”

“Reminds you of someone, no doubt.” 

Aaron rolls his eyes. “We’re talking about you.”

“Yeah,” she replies. “Which is why I should have seen the downfalls. Trying to be a hero.” She sighs. “It doesn't always work out.”

Aaron looks over at her, his mouth tight.

+++ 1416 hours

Garica drops a massive stack of files on the table. “Here are the missing coeds since 2009.”

“Wow,” Ashley says, pulling a face. “Okay, uh, we still need to narrow this down.” 

She looks to you, but talks through her process on her own. 

“Lets look at last-known locations Maybe there’s an overlap.” She looks hopefully at Penelope, who shakes her head. 

“They’re from all over the place.” 

Ashley’s lip press into a thin line as she looks back to you. 

“These unsubs are prioritizing target-rich environments,” you offer. “Maybe we start there.”

“Right,” Penelope says. “Clubs, malls, that kind of thing.”

“What are Morgan and Rossi finding?” Spencer asks, walking back in. 

“Uh, a lot of mud on the car,” Garcia answers promptly. She checks her notes. “And big yikes—looks like the female victim just terminated a pregnancy. Weirdly, they seem to be cared for, you know, with the exception of the whole sex trafficking part.” She pauses. “Oh, and mud on the victims as well as the car.”

“Mud?” You ask. “Did it rain here?”

“No,” she replies. “Not here. South. Morgan has a theory that based on the gas mileage, they must have filled up within seventy miles of the accident.”

Spencer nods. “Gotcha. How many gas stations you find?”

“Forty-two,” she chirps. 

“How'd you narrow that down?” he asks. 

“I didn’t,” she says.

“Why not?” Spencer fires back, not unkindly.

“I didn’t have any more parameters.” 

Your head tips to the side. “That’s never stopped you before. You get stuck?”

Ashley, Spencer, and you all look at her, curious and a little concerned. 

She looks like a deer in headlights for a moment before coming back to herself, snatching a folder off the table. “I’ll be right back.” 

Ashley catches the falling folders as they move to slide off the table. She hands a stack to Reid and slides the rest to you. “Let’s go.”

+++ 1502 hours

Your phone buzzes on the table, startling you a bit. You’ve all been so dug into these files, it’s almost jarring to realize you’re still at the office. Cases like these not only inspire tunnel vision, they’re the rare ones that tend to benefit from it.

Looking over the file in your hands, you stick a post-it where you left off. 

When you set the file down on the table, you flip the photo so you can’t see the victim’s face. She’s blonde, with a cute upturned nose and a wide smile. 

She looks like Haley. 

With a deep breath, you pick up your ringing phone, chirping your greeting. 

“It’s Hotch,” comes the reply.

“You just calling to say hi, or…?” you ask after a moment of silence. 

“Sorry. No.” You hear the car door shut. “No signs of a struggle at the apartment, no forced entry, no latent prints that weren’t hers.”

“Okay, so she wasn’t taken at the apartment.” 

“Right. And her running shoes were missing.” 

You sigh. “Could have led with that.” 

There’s silence on the other line. You may have reached the end of his rope today. “Sorry, that was rude. Anything else?”

“She had a few leads,” he says with a sigh, “handwritten notes on fliers for clubs in the area. They look like decent trawling locations for the traffickers.” 

You’re taking notes. “Alright. Send them to me and I’ll get Garcia on the surveillance.” 

“She’s going solo on this one—wherever she is, she doesn’t have any backup and didn’t provide any leads to Andi.” The tension in his voice is clear. He’s worried. “Also take a look at local running groups or upcoming races for a cause—lymphoma, MS, that kind of thing.” 

“Got it.” You underline your last note. “Anything else?”

“Andi tells me she’s bright—use your best judgement on the breadcrumbs she left.” 

“Right.” 

There’s silence for a second. 

“Be back soon,” he says. 

“Okay, I’ll just—” 

He hangs up. You pull your phone away from your ear. 

“Huh.” 

Spencer looks up. “What?”

“Hotch just hung up on me.” 

Spencer looks nonplussed. “He hangs up on me all the time.” 

“Right, but—” You take a breath, shaking your head. “Nevermind.”

+++ 1609 hours

“Renee’s done a lot of homework,” Spencer says, “These people have all been to clubs over the weekend and vanished within three days, including this morning’s victims.”

“So why didn’t she share her theory?” Ashley asks.

“She’s a perfectionist,” Andi replies. 

You glance up at Aaron with an accusatory eyebrow. He glares back at you. Stop looking at me like that. 

A flurry of microexpressions fly across your face. Like what?!

He breaks eye contact, nearly rolling his eyes. I am not a perfectionist.

Come on. You can’t pull that with me. Your eyebrows sit at a dubious, suspicious angle. 

He very pointedly does not look at you. 

You turn back to your folder as Andi continues talking. 

“I’m sure she wanted to gather enough intel to prove it.”

You thumb through the pages. “Club culture makes it easy to spot who’s alone, who’s drinking too much, who’s new. It’s a perfect hunting ground for these groups—high volume, low memory. Everyone is an unreliable narrator.” You shrug. “High speed, low drag, for all intents and purposes.” 

Derek snorts a laugh. You send a vicious elbow into his ribs, hastily blocked. 

Spencer looks over at you. “Using the club as a template, there could be up to sixty-three others who were taken by the same offenders.”

Andi sighs and straightens. “There’s no way to know which ones are still alive.” 

There’s a quiet moment when Spencer, Andi, and Ashley go to refill their coffees in the kitchen.

You nudge Aaron with your shoulder, trying to lighten the mood a little as you remember your last phone call. “You getting in the habit of hanging up on me, now?”

“Hm?” he says, still reading, distracted. Or ignoring you. Neither is off the table at this point. 

You press your lips together tightly. The moment has passed. “Nevermind.”

There’s a hum of activity as Andi, Spencer, and Ashley return with fresh coffee. Derek and Dave enter almost at the same time. 

“Andi Swann,” Dave says fondly. “How you been?” 

“Better. Thanks for helping out.”

“Nice to see you again, Andi.” Derek says as he shakes her hand. 

Aaron stands. “What’d you find?” 

“We tracked a driver to a gas station outside Culpepper–” Dave starts.

“--Yeah, he used a pay phone to call another one in the same town.” Derek finishes.

Andi’s head tips. “So they're close.”

Derek hums, “And careful.” He takes a breath. “What’s their budget on location?” 

Andi shakes her head. “Not much. They pay cash, no questions asked. Security’s top priority, though.”

You interrupt their exchange with a question of your own. “So, what are we saying? This unsub’s found a place to hold what, a dozen victims?”

As Dave walks to the pinned up map. “So, we’re looking for a secluded spot in rural Virginia,” he sighs. “Well, that shouldn’t be hard to find.”

Aaron leans close to your ear, murmuring softly. “Let’s get Garcia in here to narrow down the geographical profile.”

You suppress the shiver that threatens to zing through you, turning your head toward him just the barest amount. “You got it.”

Dave catches the moment—Aaron’s lean in, your quiet reply, the way neither one of you looks directly at the other.

+++ 1727 hours

Dave wonders aloud as Andi comes back from the bathroom, “I thought traffickers concentrated in port cities.”

“International ones do.” She confirms. “Unfortunately, domestic traffickers abduct all over the country.”

Looking over his files, Spencer says. “It doesn’t seem like they stay in one location long after an abduction.”

Andi hums. “They move quickly and efficiently. My guess was in a nondescript car,” she pauses. “And until this morning, that was just a theory.”

“Well, they’ve lost their driver now,” you throw your hands up in the air and cross your arms. 

“So they’re in jeopardy.” Spencer echoes your frustration. “They have to make a mistake somewhere but we have to catch it.”

“Based on Reid’s theory,” Derek suggests, “we need to see if Renee had been to any clubs before she disappeared.”

“She went to the local clubs.” Andi tips her head, “She’d report back if anyone suspicious approached her. We followed the leads. Nothing panned out.”

“When was the last club?” you ask, leaning forward in your seat. 

“Scotty’s,” Andi replies, “in Georgetown.”

All of you exchange a glance. There’s somewhere to look, finally. 

“If they find out she’s an agent, she’s dead.” Andi’s voice is grave.

+++ 1806 hours

You watch Aaron and Andi’s exchange in the kitchen from your spot in the roundtable room. He’s wound up. More than usual. Something’s going on and it’s not just the case... 

When they join the team again, Aaron says. “We need to look at this from the leader’s point of view. A group like this requires a strong leader.”

“Yeah, this guy’s in charge of some unstable personalities.” Andi adds.

Dave asks after a sip of coffee. “Do you have any theories?”

Andi takes a visible breath. “I have always thought he led through fear. This guy can blackmail his whole team.”

Spencer chirps. “Look at the progression of this network. They started abducting victims for sex—”

“—And then adapted to killing—” You finish off his thought. 

Derek hops onto the logic thread. “—Because he saw the growth potential in his assets. Instead of just disposing of them, he made it into a show.”

“And that’s why the victims are so young,” Ashley muses. “Customers will pay top dollar to see them tortured.”

Dave hums. “The average guy doesn’t have that kind of money laying around. So… they’re successful.”

Derek looks at you. “And incredibly deviant. That’s their big secret.”

You look at Aaron. “If it was revealed, they’d be ruined. That’s a lot at stake for the seller to control.”

Spencer glances around the room. “Wouldn’t they have to criminally prove themselves to join the club? If they’re upstanding citizens, how do they do that?”

You reply, “It could be a white-collar crime, like money laundering.”

Andi’s eyes light up. “That’s often done through real estate.”

Aaron takes the lead. “Garcia, who owned the clubs where the victims went missing?”

Penelope types the request into her laptop. “Bruce Harmon owns the club in Arizona. Bob Moore, the one in Ohio.”

“And Scotty’s in Georgetown?” Andi asks.

“Um… Bob Moore is a partner in that.” She replies.

Aaron over your shoulder asks. “Do either of them own property in Virginia?”

Her computer trills. “It looks like bad guys go through hardship, too. Financiers pulled all the money out of a private investment in 2009, so it’s not anything.”

Andi’s brow furrows. “What was it?”

“Hmm.. it was supposed to be a tough-love rehab center, but now…” Garcia pauses. “Now it’s just an abandoned factory in the middle of nowhere.”  

+++ 2007 hours

“I want you coordinating response outside,” Aaron says. The streetlights streak past you out the window. “We’ll need medics on scene as soon as possible and I do want bomb squad and SWAT standing by.” 

“Bomb squad?” you ask. 

“Precautionary,” he replies. “We’ll breach with SWAT but they may need additional hands depending on the number of arrests.”

“And you think I’m most useful outside? With the locals?” Your question isn’t a challenge, but his choice to tap you for this over Derek is interesting. 

His eyes stay on the road. “I do.”

It’s also thinks it’s incredibly selfish, but he’s decided he’s not above a little discretionary decision-making as a supervisor when it comes to his peace of mind. He’s made those decisions for almost every member of the team, to this point, protecting and subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) reorganizing as he saw fit. 

At least that’s what he’s telling himself, of course. And what he says is, “I think you could use some field time coordinating SWAT and bomb squad efforts. You’re ready for it.” 

What he means is: I don’t want you in that warehouse with traffickers so effective and ruthless it makes my hackles rise. If Andi hasn’t been able to catch them on anything after three years…

Best not think about it too much. 

+++ 2134 hours

Coming back to Quantico early does have its perks—turns out there is plenty you can do with nobody there to bother you. On some level, you do understand Aaron’s inclination to stay late.

On another level, you just wish he’d go home at a reasonable hour.

The warehouse was a find and a half. SWAT was needed, of course, to assist with the breach. Mostly, you’re relieved bomb squad wasn’t necessary. They didn’t seem like the booby-trap type, but you never know. 

And, of course, it wouldn’t be a workday if Dave didn’t (almost) get shot while being a stranger’s Italian father-in-law.

Thanks, Derek.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. 

9:35pm 5 mins out. Others headed back in about 30 mins. 9:35pm Can you drop your SWAT tac/PAR in Morgan’s office?

You fire off a quick reply. 

9:36pm Got it :)

+++ 2141 hours

“You don’t have to do that,” Aaron says.

“I know,” you reply, not looking up. “But if I do, you get to go home sooner.”

By the time he steps into his office, you’ve already dropped your tactical planning documents on Derek’s desk and you’re continuing through the case notes section of the reporting on his side of the desk.

He’s quiet as he watches you.

You finally glance at him. “Unless you want to spend the next four hours retyping everyone’s incident logs into something halfway coherent.” You shrug, gesturing to your laptop. “They’re not bad, in fairness, because we’ve been doing them as we go, but…” You trail off.

He exhales through his nose—something close to a smile. “No,” he says. “Good call.”

“Then sit down, Hotchner,” you say mildly. “I’m almost through your portion. Just need your notes on the tactical push at the warehouse and Derek’s lethal force evaluation.”

He comes around the desk slowly, as if the sight of you in his space throws something off balance. It’s not unfamiliar—not anymore—but it still does something to him, seeing you here. 

And the guilt kicks again. Because you shouldn’t have to do this. Because you’re doing it for him—and you don’t even know what he’s about to do to you.

You don’t ask questions. You just work. Efficient, capable, calm. You’re helping him get home faster. Jesus. He really doesn’t deserve you; on any level, in any context.

“Go ahead and leave that for now,” he says, his voice tight. “I’ll handle it tonight and you can work on your section for archives.”

With a nod, you push back and switch with him, taking your normal chair. 

Thank God, he thinks. He needed the space. 

+++ 2217 hours

“What happened to you?” Spencer asks, a laugh in his voice as everyone tumbles into the round table room. You fall in behind Ashley, a smile on your face, and take a couple more photos off the board.

“The guy was huge,” Derek replies, massaging his bicep and shoulder. “Seriously.”

“You should start working out,” Spencer says with a grin.

Derek’s brows hit his hairline (or, more accurately, what used to be his hairline). “Oh, you got jokes now?”

You don’t turn away from the board as you add, “He’s got a point, you know.” 

“Not you too.” 

You look over your shoulder, your eyebrows raised in a mirror of his expression.

“Children, please,” Dave says.

Aaron appears from the back stairs, briefcase already in-hand. 

Odd. 

“Go home; get some sleep. No need to come in until nine.” He pauses, moving to leave, before second guessing himself. “…Thirty. Nine-thirty.” 

He disappears. 

Derek looks at you. “Has he ever left before us?”

You blink once, twice, open your mouth then close it again. “I don’t… know. No?”

The others bustle around you as you stand, seemingly frozen, off to the side of the round table room. 

“You comin’?” Derek asks. 

You flounder for a second. “Sorry. Going where?”

“Thai place Reid found, open all night.”

“Oh.” You look over your shoulder in the direction of your desk. “Um…”

Derek huffs impatiently. “You heard the man. Let’s get out of here.”

You pass Rossi’s closed door on your way down the stairs. Fortunately for those inside, you’re too tired to be nosy. 

In your pocket, your phone buzzes. 

10:24pm Please go home. 

You snort and tap out a reply as you sling you bag over your shoulder 

10:24pm I am!!

You hesitate for a second, thumbs hovering. After thinking better of it, you type and send your next thought. 

10:25pm  Was it your intention to send me home home or should I stop at yours and bring Thai food?

+++ april 25th, 2011 1427 hours

You’re elbow-deep in consult summaries when Strauss walks into the bullpen.

There’s no announcement, no preamble—just the staccato of her heels on thin carpet and the crisp folder tucked against her side.

She makes a slow pass toward Aaron’s office, doesn’t find him there, and redirects with unsettling precision.

“Agent Morgan,” she says.

Derek straightens slightly from where he’s leaned over a case board with Reid, posture tightening by degrees. “Ma’am.”

“I’m following up on the Bureau-wide credentialing audit,” she says, flipping open her folder. “Your team still hasn’t submitted the new compliance forms regarding quarterly psych recertifications. They’re two weeks overdue.”

Derek's voice is calm. Measured. But there’s an unmistakable steel behind it. “We’re aware. We’ll get to it.”

She lifts her brows. “It’s been two weeks.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, hands clasped behind his back now. “Respectfully, we’re down two agents. The active team is handling consults, field ops, and profiling coverage without a full rotation. And we took out a human trafficking ring last night with SSA Swann’s team. We’ll catch up on compliance items when there’s time.”

There’s nothing overt in his tone—no challenge, no disrespect. Just truth. Raw, exhausted, uncompromising truth.

Strauss holds his gaze for a beat longer than is polite. Then she nods, just once, and turns on her heel. The silence she leaves behind is loud.

You don’t say anything as she disappears through the glass doors. Spencer’s head stays down, pretending to focus. You know he heard the whole thing. 

Derek leans back against the table with a low exhale and says, almost to himself, “We’re holding this together with fucking duct tape.”

+++ 1613 hours

He calls you all into the conference room. No case files. No case.

Just a manila folder in front of each chair. You’ve been worried about this, ever since Aaron brought it up during your fitness for duty evaluation, weeks ago now. 

Aaron stands at the head of the table, posture straight, hands folded in front of him. His voice is steady, practiced.

“Given the ongoing structural changes and staffing shortages, the Bureau is beginning to review reassignment placements across specialty units.”

You glance at Derek. He doesn’t move. Aaron continues. “This team hasn’t been exempt from that review. You’ve all been offered the opportunity to remain with the BAU under a modified structure, or to consider other options.”

He taps the folder in front of him—the master copies, judging by the thickness. “Inside are available postings. Lateral and promotional transfers. Field and HQ assignments. You have the next two weeks to submit your preferences. The Bureau is not issuing mandatory reassignments at this time, but they are preparing for a reallocation of resources. They’ve already confirmed a freeze on pay step increases for another fiscal year.”

Spencer leans forward slightly. “Are we being disbanded?”

“No,” Aaron says quickly. Too quickly. “But some reshuffling is inevitable. If you don’t want to be placed arbitrarily, it’s best to give your input now. I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting opportunities I believe are well-suited to each of your skill sets.”

He turns to Derek. “Morgan, there's renewed interest in you from the New York office.”

“Nobody's called me,” Derek says.

Aaron tips his head. “They will.”

Derek’s jaw ticks. Garcia looks like she’s holding her breath.

You open the folder. A printed spreadsheet stares up at you—agency codes, field offices, job titles. It feels surgical. Cold. A couple of them are ticked—one blue pen mark with his particular left-handed angle—denoting them as Aaron’s best-fit choices. 

“Are you staying here?” Derek asks. 

Good question. 

“It's my intention,” Aaron replies. 

That’s not an answer. 

“All I ask is if you are contacted by another division that you let me know.” Aaron’s voice softens slightly. “I know this isn’t ideal. But I want each of you to have a say in what comes next. If changes are made, I want you to land where you choose.”

And maybe that’s true.

Or maybe it’s just the cleanest way to say goodbye without saying it.

+++ 1843 hours

“Got a minute?” you ask.

“Of course.”

You step inside his office, close the door behind you. The quiet wraps around you like fog.

“I just…” You gesture vaguely to the conference room. “Wanted to check in. That felt a little…”

He waits.

“…ominous.”

Aaron exhales softly through his nose. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

You nod. Step closer, lean a hip against the edge of his desk.

“Have you been approached about anything specific?”

His eyes flick to yours. It’s less than a second. But it’s enough.

“I’ve had some conversations,” he says. Careful. Noncommittal. “Nothing concrete.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Aaron.”

He doesn’t flinch, but he does go still.

“You’d tell me, right?” you ask. “If something were actually in motion?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “If it were official, yes.”

That’s not what you asked. But you don’t push. Not yet.

You study him for a moment, then glance down at your hands. “I’m not thrilled about the list.”

He nods. “I didn’t expect you to be.”

You look up again. “But I trust you.”

His breath catches—just barely.

“You’ll do what’s best for us,” you say. “You always do.”

And God, he wishes that were true.

He smiles. It’s small. Almost sad. “Thank you,” he says, voice quieter now.

You leave it at that. Because you believe him. Because you still believe he’s choosing with you, not without you.

Because you don’t know yet that the decision’s already been made.

+++ april 26th, 2011 1504 hours

Ashley knocks twice before stepping into the conference room where you’re cleaning up the remnants of a long debrief—files stacked, coffee gone cold, your pen tapped absently against the edge of your tablet.

“Hey,” she says.

You look up. Her posture is professional and her eyes are a little brighter than usual.

“Got a second?”

“Yeah. Of course.” You gesture to the chair across from you. She doesn’t sit.

Instead, she sets a sealed envelope on the table between you. You glance at it. Then back at her. “Is that what I think it is?”

Ashley smiles. A little bashful. A little proud. “Official reassignment. Andi Swann’s team extended an offer. Tactical field work for trafficking. I’m accepting.”

You blink. “Wow. That’s… huge.”

She nods. “It feels right.”

And it does. You can see it all over her. She’s steadier than she was a few months ago—clearer. Her profiling is still rough around the edges, but there’s something sharp in her now, something carved clean by the job.

You stand and round the table to hug her. She returns it without hesitation.

“I’ll miss it here," she says. "You. Morgan. Reid. Even Garcia.”

You grin. “Even Garcia?”

“I mean, she does hug hard enough to break ribs.”

You both laugh, and for a second, it feels like it used to. Like there’s still room for movement and triumph in all this grief.

Then she adds, “You gonna be okay here?”

You hesitate. Just a beat. “We’re holding.”

She nods like she understands more than she lets on. “I should go tell Hotch.”

“You’re good to go,” you tell her quietly. “If Andi signed it, Hotch has seen it. Only tell him if you want to. He knows.”

Her mouth twists. “Of course he does.”

You watch her go. You don’t cry. But you do sit back down slowly, the room suddenly much too quiet, and wonder how many more people you’re going to have to watch leave before everything finally breaks.

+++ 2043 hours

You’re on his couch, legs tucked under you, a half-full glass of wine in one hand, your other arm resting lightly against his. The room smells like something warm—soft spices from the dinner you both half-cooked, your lotion, the faintest trace of Jack’s bubble bath.

You’re laughing. Just a little. It’s not a big moment. Nothing defining.

You’re recapping something ridiculous Reid said earlier that week—about comparative behavioral data in newly developed online dating sites—and your smile is tilted and tired and real. Aaron’s barely listening to the words.

He’s memorizing the curve of your cheek in the lamplight. The cadence of your voice when you’re relaxed. The way you still sit close to him, even after everything.

And you’re still close. Somehow. Still his, in all the ways that matter. And he’s leaving.

In a couple of days, the rest of the team will know. He’ll be forced to make it real.

He could tell you now. He should.

You sip your wine and glance at him over the rim of the glass. “You’re quiet.”

He forces a smile. “Just tired.”

You nod, unconcerned, but your hand drifts gently toward his knee, fingertips brushing through the fabric of his jeans like you’re grounding him there.

Like you know something is off. But trust him anyway.

Aaron breathes in slow. Tries to speak. And can’t.

Because he doesn’t want to watch the light leave your eyes when you realize he’s already made the choice.

He can’t watch you prepare for him to leave.

So instead, he shifts closer. Slides his hand over yours. Plays with your fingers. 

You let him.

You lean your head on his shoulder. And he holds you. And he says nothing.

+++ april 28th, 2011 1137 hours

The conference room feels too bright for how tired you are.

You’re sitting with Derek at the long table, second coffee of the morning in hand, a neat stack of résumés to your left and three interview folders spread out in front of you. The first round of screening interviews for Emily’s replacement ended twenty minutes ago.

You haven’t said anything since the last candidate left the room. Neither has Derek. Finally, you exhale and say, “Okay. So that’s… three for three on mediocrity.”

Derek snorts. “If we’re being generous.”

He nods toward the folders. “Anyone you want to fight for?”

You flip one shut. Then the next. Then the last. “No.”

Derek sighs and leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “Hotch isn’t gonna love that.”

“No. But he also doesn’t want to waste time on someone we’d end up carrying.” You pause. “Again.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

You glance toward the glass walls, toward the bullpen that feels emptier than it should. “This is bullshit,” you say, low. “It shouldn’t be us doing this.”

Derek doesn’t argue. He just reaches for his pen and scrawls bare minimum competency, decent interview skills next to one of the names in the margin. “We’ll brief him after lunch?”

You nod. “Yeah. Let him pick from the least worst.”

+++ 1406 hours

The three of you are standing in Aaron’s office, lights dimmed a little, folders fanned out across his desk. You and Derek are on one side; Aaron stays behind the desk, jacket off, arms folded.

The dynamic feels slightly off. Or maybe you’re just starting to notice how much that’s become the norm lately.

Derek taps a file. “So. First round’s done. Nobody’s terrible, but nobody’s lighting the room on fire either.”

Aaron’s expression doesn’t change. He just nods. “Highlights?”

“Reynolds has the strongest field record. Five years in Violent Crimes, good write-ups, seems comfortable with pressure. Lacks creativity, though. Very rulebook. Martinez has better instincts, but she’s green. Stumbled hard on a basic geographic profile. Wilkins might be the best communicator, but… forgettable.”

Aaron’s jaw tightens slightly. “None of them sound like a match.”

Derek shrugs. “You asked for a short list. That’s what we’ve got.”

Aaron glances at you. “What do you think?”

You hesitate. Just a second. But it’s enough for him to notice.

“I want your read,” he says. “Give it to me straight.”

Derek shifts his weight. He glances at you—then at Aaron. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

You don’t stop him. Neither does Aaron.

The door closes behind him.

You look back. “You sure you want honest?”

“Always.”

He’s been impaled. 

You exhale. “None of them are her.”

His face doesn’t move. But something behind his eyes flickers.

You continue, steady. “Martinez is green but has potential. Reynolds is capable but rigid. Wilkins blends in, and this team can’t afford invisible right now. If you want someone who can hit the ground running and not break the unit, Martinez is your best long-term investment. But if you want someone who can fake it and follow your lead for four months, pick Reynolds.”

Aaron studies you for a long moment. Not just your words—you. The set of your mouth. The tiredness behind your eyes. The way you haven’t touched any of the files since you sat down. You retained all of it.

You shrug. “That’s my read.”

His voice is quieter when he responds. “Thanks.”

You give him a small nod, start gathering the folders. You don’t say the rest. I hate that we’re doing this. I hate that she’s gone. I hate that we’re pretending we’re okay enough to pick someone new.

And he doesn’t say, You’re the only person I trust to give me the truth.

Wish I could return the favor. 

+++ may 2nd, 2011 1849 hours

You know something’s wrong the second you step into the conference room.

Everyone’s here—Reid, Derek, Garcia, Dave. Seated. Waiting. No case. No briefing slides. Just Aaron standing at the front of the room, back straight, jaw set.

Too formal. Too still. Your stomach drops.

Aaron doesn’t look at you right away. That’s how you really know.

You take the seat closest to the door and don’t even bother to remove your jacket.

You don’t speak. No one does. Finally, he clears his throat.

“I’ve accepted a temporary reassignment,” he says.

It’s so quiet you can hear the HVAC kick on.

He continues. “Effective tomorrow, I’ll be deployed with the Joint Counterterrorism Task Force overseas. Minimum four month term. I’ll be leading a task force for DOJ/CENTCOM operations in Pakistan.”

Reid inhales sharply. Garcia’s hand goes to her mouth.

You don’t move. Because it’s not new. It just confirms everything you felt.

You stare at him, and he finally meets your eyes. Just for a second. That’s all you need.

“You knew,” you say, voice low, barely audible. “You’ve known for weeks.”

Aaron doesn’t deny it. Sometimes he really hates how adept you are at reading him. 

Derek turns to look at you, confused. “Wait—what?”

You don’t answer. You’re still looking at Aaron. And he’s still not saying anything.

You nod. Once. Then you stand. No one stops you.

He doesn’t follow. Just watches you go, your steps resonating on the hollow bridge floor.

+++

<< previous masterlist next>>

[ajoyfulfuture]

waldosia: part ii (revised)

a joyful future fic aaron hotchner x female!reader (sparse she/her pronouns, no use of y/n)

co-written by @ssaic-jareau links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3 | turn on post notifs!

word count: 16k content warning(s): canon typical discussions of assault/violence/murder etc, alcohol consumption, food consumption, use of the word "slutty" in a playful context

march 31st - april 18th 6x21 "the stranger" - 6x23 "the big sea"

march 31st, 2011 1304 hours

Garcia knocks twice and pokes her head into Aaron's office, tablet in hand and concern already written across her face. "O captain my captain? Got a second?"

Aaron glances up, already knowing he won’t like what’s coming. "What’s going on?"

She steps inside, tapping her screen. "I was pulling flagged outbound traffic across Interpol’s emergency alert systems—just trying to stay ahead of any cross-jurisdictional overlap. You know. My normal brand of genius."

"And?"

Garcia flips the tablet around, pointing at a highlighted line of code. "This popped up twice in the last 48 hours. A ping through Lyon via Paris, marked high-security, non-routine. Normally I’d assume it’s nothing—but this exact node matches a security route we’ve only seen once before."

Aaron doesn’t breathe.

"Four weeks ago," she says, voice quieter now. "The day Emily died."

He leans forward slightly, expression unreadable. "It’s probably standard asset transport. Cleanup." His tone is even. Too even.

Garcia studies him. "You sure?"

Aaron meets her eyes. "Yes."

She doesn’t nod. Doesn’t argue. Just slowly lowers the tablet.

"Alright," she says. But her voice is too careful. Too neutral.

Aaron watches her go, the door clicking shut behind her. Only then does he let out a breath.

That was close.

And if he knows Garcia, which he does, his close shaves have only just begun.

+++ april 2nd, 2011 0143 hours

Your phone wakes you from your dozing—it’s about the best you can do these days—and you pick it up right away, recognizing your ringtone for Aaron. You should probably change that. 

“Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.” 

You rub your eyes and switch on the bedside lamp. You’d be lying if you said you were sleeping well, anyway. “Hey, Aaron.”

“I’m sorry to wake you -”

“You didn’t.”

A pause. You can hear him thinking. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I could hazard a guess it’s the same reason as you.” You play with the comforter, the fabric a necessary distraction. “Is Jack still with Jessica?”

“Yeah, for the rest of the week. He’s got a school trip thing, and I didn’t want to leave him if a case came up. They’ll be back from the mountains on Sunday afternoon.” 

Your lower lip disappears between your teeth. “Do you want any company? Sometimes it’s -”

“Please.” He cuts you off, and you snap your mouth shut, already throwing the covers back. 

Just that. Just please—cutting through the line like an exposed wire. It lands right in your chest.

“I’ll be there soon.”

The drive is quiet, Virginia highways empty at nearly two in the morning. The garage light flickers as you pull into your usual spot.

You knock twice before using your key—always good practice when letting yourself into the home of an armed federal agent in the middle of the night. When you open the door the kitchen light is on. He’s waiting, already fixing two cups of tea. He hands you one without a word.

Together, you walk through the dim apartment, turning off lights as you go. The movement is easy, familiar. Second nature, now.

Aaron slides under the covers, then pats the bed beside him. 

“Thanks for the tea,” you murmur, settling in.

Since Berry Hill, this has become routine. His bed is no longer off-limits. When Jack is home, you set up on the couch first—just in case. But mornings bring surprise ambushes from an ecstatic five-year-old anyway, and neither of you have ever been caught off guard. It’s not like you’re in compromising positions, or anything, right?

Jack doesn’t ask questions. And you don’t know what you’d say even if he did. Aaron would, though. He always has the words.

You sit together in silence, sipping out of your mugs and enjoying the quiet darkness. When you’re done, you leave it on the coaster on your bedside—well, on the bedside table. 

“Can’t sleep?” You ask, finally, your voice soft in the dark.

Aaron’s empty mug is already on the nightstand. He’s lying on his side, arm tucked under his cheek, watching you. “Not tonight.”

“Is it Emily?”

He nods. “Yeah. Something like that.”

There’s more, but he’s never been too good at articulating his feelings. He just carries them. You’ve learned it’s best to just keep him company and not push too hard. You slide down, bringing the covers up to your chin. The silence stretches, soft but heavy. You shift, the effort to keep your breathing steady with your heart racing is starving you for air. You could leave it at this. You should leave it at this. 

But you don’t. 

“Come here.” 

Aaron smiles in the dark, soft and fleeting, and then he’s pulling you in. His arms wrap around you, warmth sinking into your skin. His breath steadies, slower now. Your eyes finally close.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Of course. Sleep tight, Aaron.” 

His breath fans across your forehead, warm and even. After a few minutes, it slows. Settles.

You open your eyes just once, just enough to watch him—the crease between his brows gone, his face finally relaxed.

That’s better.

With him asleep, you let go of your own thoughts, tuning them out in favor of the steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

+++ april 4th, 2011 1607 hours

His inbox pings at 4:07 p.m.

He doesn’t look at it right away—buried in after-action review edits and an email from Strauss that’s mostly redline, no substance. The bullpen outside is quiet, the team still at HQ but scattered—consults, paper trails, a few hours of borrowed normalcy.

Another ping. The subject line stops him cold.

Notification of TDY Assignment Selection – Joint Counterterrorism Task Force (JCTF) Deployment (Region: CENTCOM)

Aaron clicks it once. Then again.

The email expands into his screen with the detached efficiency of government language.

HOTCHNER, Aaron Benjamin, Supervisory Special AgentBureau EID: XXX-XXX-0921

PRIMARY: Domestic Response and Services Branch, Investigation and Operations Section, Eastern Region, Behavioral Analysis Unit 6882, Major Case Response Team, QVA Field Office NOTICE: You have been selected for service with the JCTF under OGA coordination as part of an ongoing international operation. This is a temporary duty (TDY) deployment for a maximum term of 200 days. Final determination of placement contingent upon officer concurrence.

There’s a secure link at the bottom. CONCUR | DECLINE

Aaron doesn’t click either. His hand moves slightly, but not toward the mouse. Just… hovering. The screen doesn’t change. He exhales once through his nose. Leans back in the chair. The leather creaks.

They picked him.

He’s not surprised. Not really. The recommendation came from someone high up—probably someone he clerked under. He was told it was a long shot. Just enough deniability. Just enough room to pretend he wouldn’t be asked.

But now it’s here. He stares at the screen, unblinking.

Not official. Not until he hits Concur.

Not real. But it feels real.

His mind is already moving ahead of him—logistics, housing, legal paperwork, impact on Jack, impact on you. The words deployment prep and Hazard Pay Tier III echo against his ribs. Tax-free, too. 

He does quick math. If he’s over there for more than 45 days…

Jesus. Eighty-six thousand, at least. Getting the opportunity to invest that for Jack at the tail end of a recession would be a coup.

His cursor drifts toward the link. He doesn’t click it.

Not yet.

Downstairs, someone laughs—Penelope, probably. A low hum of conversation starts up again in the bullpen. Someone’s talking about takeout, plans after work. Someone else is complaining about the vending machine.

He closes the email, slowly. Carefully. But he doesn’t delete it. Just sits back and lets the silence close in around him.

+++ april 6th, 2011 2238 hours

You needed to get out. You all need it. So, you do.

Reid, of course, picks the slasher/thriller/gore-without-plot that came out last week. It’s exactly what you’d expect. 

Penelope yelps at something gruesome on screen, clutching Derek’s sleeve. Derek jumps. Seaver grimaces. Spencer, completely unbothered, absently eats popcorn like this is a nature documentary.

Your phone buzzes. It’s Aaron.

10:39pm Get home safe?

You smile, secretly, to yourself, covering your phone screen with your jacket, dropping the brightness. 

10:40pm At the movies with Reid et al. Slasher flick. Pen’s flipped. 

10:40pm Are you texting during the movie?

10:41pm ….Maybe.

10:42pm You are the worst kind of person. 

You bite the inside of your lip, fighting a smile. Even under your jacket, the glow of your screen is too bright in the dark theatre. You start typing a response, but he’s followed up–

10:42pm Text when you’re home. 

He really is determined to make a fool out of you tonight, isn’t he? You continue drafting anyway, almost making yourself laugh. 

10:43pm Really??? The worst kind of person?? Watching a girl get sliced to ribbons over here and I’M the worst????

You flip your phone over, but it buzzes again anyway. 

10:44pm Put. Your. Phone. Away.

You smother another smile and move to reply—Apparently, not your smile is not hidden well enough.

Derek bumps your shoulder. His whisper isn’t nearly as quiet as it should be. “I know that look.” He leans, trying to sneak a look over your shoulder. “Who’s texting you?”

You click the screen off and shove your phone into your pocket, rolling your eyes. “Watch the movie.”

+++ 2328 hours

“Unnecessary!” Penelope decries. “There’s too much blood and gore and ‘ew’.”

You can’t help but feel a little left out as you walk back to the car, Spencer and Ashley walking together, rather close (it makes you smile) and Penelope with Derek. The mall is huge, lights opening up the wide paved pathways, taking the five of you between darkened shops with lit glass cases and well-dressed mannequins. 

“Garcia, it’s a slasher film. How do you do a slasher film without violence?” Derek asks. 

“You imply it,” she insists. 

You laugh. “Imply what?”

“Baby, the move is called Slice 6.” Derek’s reminder comes through a laugh. “What were you expecting?”

“A refreshing beverage with a twist of comedy.” She shudders. “I’m going to have nightmares for a week.” 

Ashley sounds a little incredulous on the other side of Spencer. “With everything that we do and see on a daily basis, that got to you?”

“Listen, newb, you may be all Sigourney Weaver ass-kicking tough, which is awesome, but the mystical mavens of innocence like myself jump at things that go bump in the night.”

You laugh. “Don’t bring Alien into this, Penelope.”

“Why are you worried?” Spencer asks. “I'm sure that Morgan will protect you.”

“Yeah,” you add with a scoff. “As long as he's not jumping out of his chair like a prepubescent schoolgirl.”

“The only reason I jumped is ‘cause you guys woke me up,” Derek insists. Spencer’s cackle drifts past you in the cool night air. 

Penelope wraps her hand around Derek’s arm. “How could you sleep during that?”

“Easy,” Derek replies. “You drag me out after a twelve-hour workday, for what? You tellin’ me that girl didn’t know that the unsub was waiting for her upstairs?” He shakes his head. “C’mon now.” 

“Villain,” you chirp. 

“Huh?”

Spencer helps you out. “Villain. In movies, unsubs are called villains.” 

Your mouth twists. “We really need to get out more.”

Derek tips his head in agreement. He can’t argue with you there. 

Spencer goes on to explain why horror movies are so successful. Apparently, “...they prey on our instinctual need to survive. In tribal days, a woman’s scream would signal danger and the men would return from hunting to protect their pack.” He pauses. “That’s why it’s always the women and not the men who fall victim to the bogeyman.” 

“See,” you laugh, ”here I thought it was just Hollywood’s terrible habit of keeping up a revolving door of women in their casting.” 

Spencer huffs another laugh as Ashley adds, “Count on you, Reid, to break a movie down to a science.”

“My favorite thing about horror movies is the suspense factor,” Penelope says. “The implication.”

She and Spencer walk through those key moments, bouncing off of each other. “...A sudden noise draws her attention,” Spencer says, his voice affected and low. “Is someone there, or is it just in her head?”

“Still, it's totally unrealistic,” Penelope says, clinging to Derek’s arm. “No one should be walking through a dark alley by themselves at night.” 

Derek gestures vaguely around you, encompassing the empty mall and the well-lit paths. “Ahem. Hello.”

“Ah,” Penelope corrects. “No one should be walking through a dark alley without a Derek Morgan by their side.”

Ain’t that the truth.

Speaking of walking through dark alleys alone… You pull out your phone, turn the ringer back on. 

11:32pm Walking back to the car :) 

“Who—” Derek pauses, looking at you. You’ve been caught. “--are you texting? You’ve been cheesin’ at your phone all night, kid. Spill.” 

You roll your eyes, putting your phone away. “I have concerned parties wondering if I’m home safe.”

Derek tilts his head. “And do these concerned parties happen to carry a Glock?”

You groan, deflecting. “Jesus. We have one rule about cops.”

Ashley laughs. “Care to share?”

“One: Do not. Two: Absolutely do not.” 

Ashley shakes her head with a little laugh.

“C’mon, kid.” Derek gestures at you, half amused, half serious. “You’ve been smiling at your phone all night. That’s not work texting you.”

Before you can come up with a response, your phone dings. You make a show of hiding your screen. 

11:35pm Let me know when you’re in. Be safe. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek. The casualness of it, the simplicity—it shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does.

Seaver side-eyes you. “You gonna answer that?”

“Nope.” You click your screen off and keep walking.

Derek doesn’t respond right away. Then, finally—low, knowing, utterly self-satisfied, “Mmm-hmm.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

+++ april 7th, 2011 0712 hours

You’re at your desk early, nursing a fresh coffee, alone save for Aaron in his office above, when Strauss walks through the glass doors.

You spot her the moment she enters and grab your phone.

7:13am Incoming. 

You set it aside and glance up in time to see Aaron glance at his phone screen, frown faintly, then shift his gaze out the window. He sees her on his stairs, nods once, and straightens. A moment later, your phone buzzes.

7:13am Thanks.

You smile to yourself and return to your inbox. The quiet doesn’t last long.

Ten minutes in, you’re already halfway through clearing out your deliverables—mostly boring forms and reports that seem to breed in your absence—when Aaron and Strauss reappear at the top of the stairs.

The team has stopped pretending not to watch. Dave. Penelope. Reid. Even Ashley, who has the best excuse for hovering—new girl, good instincts. They’re all frozen in front of the glass doors, trying very poorly to act like seasoned professionals instead of rubbernecking civilians.

You make eye contact with Dave and raise an eyebrow. He gives you nothing.

“I was expecting the grief assessments yesterday,” Strauss says, voice projecting too clearly down the stairs.

Aaron’s reply is calm, even, if not a little tight around the edges. “I left them on your desk last night.”

“Oh. Well. Good.” She says it like she’s pretending to be generous, and you have to physically resist the urge to roll your eyes. It's a masterclass in upper-management bullshit. You should take notes.

“The next step,” she adds, “is observation. Your team will be evaluated in the field.”

Spoken like someone who has no idea what the fuck is going on, ever. Classic. 

Aaron presses. “You’ve decided this without reading the assessments?”

You smile privately to yourself. Aaron has this knack for putting a spotlight on bullshit without coming across as insubordinate. You haven’t managed to master it, even after watching him do it for two and a half years. 

“Is there something I should know?” she asks.

“No,” he says, guiding her toward the exit under the guise of courtesy. “Just that everyone grieves differently. And this team is no exception.”

…And it’s not like he wrote those assessments for his own health, you know. He wrote them so you could…I don’t know. 

Read them?!

You shake your head. What a ridiculous woman. 

“All right, fine,” she sighs. “I’ll look at your findings. But there will be another review.” She thinks she’s being generous. “When do you leave for San Diego?”

“As soon as we present the case.”

“Good.”

She leaves and Aaron looks at you expectantly. 

You blink. The team’s gone. They’ve filed into the round table room, and you somehow missed the shift entirely.

“Sorry,” you call, grabbing your folder, phone, and pen. You meet him at the stairs.

“Lost track of time while you were eavesdropping?” he asks, voice light with amusement.

You fall into step beside him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He hums.

+++ 2319 hours

You’re working at the desk in your hotel room, the glow of your laptop the only light in the space beyond the bedside lamp. The case file’s open, tabs neatly labeled, and you’ve just started compiling notes on the geographic profile when there’s a knock at your door.

You rise automatically, bare feet soundless on the carpet. A glance through the peephole confirms what you suspected.

Aaron.

You undo the latch and open the door. He’s standing there in a soft t-shirt and jeans, hair damp from a shower, expression unreadable but open in the way only you can read. You open the door and step back to let him in without a word. He hesitates for only a second before following. The door clicks shut behind him.

You sit back down at the desk, dragging your notes toward you without glancing up. “What did Strauss want this morning?”

Aaron leans against the dresser, arms folded loosely. “Don’t you know?”

“I only heard the part after she left your office.”

“Right.” He sighs, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “The team’s under scrutiny again.”

You turn to face him. “Anything we need to be worried about?”

He pauses. “Maybe. I’m not sure.” His voice is quiet, even, but there’s something behind it—an undertone of unease. “They’re also still cutting budgets. Or at least talking about it.”

Your stomach tightens. “We have some of the best solve rates in the section.”

“I know,” he says. “But we cost money.”

You shake your head, jaw tight. “Everything costs money.”

“Right.”

You stare at each other for a beat, the silence stretching.

“Do more with less,” you mutter. “Same old shit.”

He lets out a quiet breath of agreement. “They’ll act like it’s temporary.”

“But it never is.”

“No.” You push your chair back slightly and tilt your head toward him. “How bad do you think it is?”

Aaron doesn’t answer right away. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed, and clasps his hands loosely between his knees. “I don’t know,” he says again, but it sounds like a placeholder.

You don’t press. Instead, you close your laptop gently. “We’re not losing anyone.” It’s not a question. Even if it was, it’s not one he could answer truthfully.

His eyes flick to yours, searching. “No,” he says, and you can tell he wants to believe that. He’s quiet for another beat, then asks, softly, “Can I stay a while?”

You nod. “Of course.”

He leans back against the headboard, exhales through his nose. You rise from the desk and cross the room with all your things, sitting beside him.

It’s quiet again. The safe kind.

You fall asleep against his side before you mean to.

Aaron feels it happen—the way your weight softens, your breath slows, the tension slides quietly out of your frame. The laptop tilts on your knee, the file in your hand slipping. He moves slowly, carefully, sliding the folder free and catching the laptop just before it tips. He sets both on the nightstand with a soft clack.

When he turns back, you’re curled toward him, one hand tucked under your jaw, your forehead brushing his ribs. The trust of it stuns him. You sleep against him like it’s easy. Like it’s safe. Because you don’t know what he’s keeping from you.

Aaron stares at the top of your head, watching the way your body relaxes into sleep. You didn’t ask what Strauss really meant this morning. You didn’t press when he changed the subject.

You don’t know what she implied. That the review isn’t just protocol. That they’re cutting weight—and that he’s the one weighing the unit down.

You don’t know that he’s already decided—if it comes to it, he’ll take the hit. Not because you can’t handle it, but because you shouldn’t have to.

You murmur something in your sleep and shift closer, fitting yourself to his side like your body knows it belongs there, your calf hitching over his shin, your hand reaching out, pressing flat under his ribs. His arm comes over automatically, wrapping around you. He doesn’t think. He just holds you.

And that’s when the guilt turns sharp. You trust him with your rest. Your stillness. You fall asleep next to him without fear, without performance, because he’s here.

And he’s leaving. He hasn’t said it out loud yet—not even to himself. But the edges are forming. The sense of it is solidifying. He can feel the part of him that’s already pulling away. Not from you—but from the job, the system, the version of himself that let it come to this.

And you have no idea.nYou’re tucked into his side, warm and steady, while he plans for a goodbye you haven’t seen coming.

Aaron closes his eyes. Leans his head back against the headboard. Breathes deep through the ache in his chest.

He doesn’t deserve this. He’ll hold it as long as he can. He’ll hold you for as long as you’ll let him. Because he’s an asshole.

+++ april 8th, 2011 1008 hours

Aaron hangs up and looks at you. “I want you to come with me.”

You take a breath. “As much as I’d love to make sure you don’t get yourself killed, I think Seaver should go. She’s ready.” You’re feeling awfully generous today, given that this is the second hostage situation he’s going into in as many weeks. At least he’s keeping his vest on this time. 

You sure? His tipped head asks. 

You nod. I’m sure. 

“Seaver,” he calls, still looking at you. “With me.” You take their firearms and set them on the hood of the SUV. 

He and Ashley cross the street as he talks her through what he’ll need from her in there. She looked a little pale and nervous when she walked away, but you wouldn’t have trusted her with Aaron if you doubted her. 

You nod at Spencer and follow Dave around the back of the house. You peek through the windows on Dave’s six and spot two large shutters. 

“Psst.” You jerk your head toward the window and Dave nods. You tap them and they open soundlessly. 

Score.

You and Dave pad through the house, clearing each room off the hallway as you go. You catch Aaron’s eye as you reach the final stretch. You tip your head and raise your Glock. Aaron practically jumps out of your line of fire, the unsub clocking it immediately. He throws his would-be victim toward Ashley and whirls on you. 

You double tap without blinking and he falls to the floor, bleeding from two well-placed shots to the chest. 

“Bring in backup and medical,” Aaron says into his comm. 

You advance on Greg’s body, gun still drawn, as Aaron removes the gun and knife from his limp hands. Aaron checks his pulse and meets your eyes, shaking his head. 

As he stands, you hand him your gun and he takes it, tucking it at his low back.

The four of you wrap up in the house as the coroner comes in and Seaver escorts the victim, Kate, to the ambulance. You join Aaron and Dave outside with your local PD contact as Seaver talks to Kate. 

“That was a good call, tagging out,” Dave says. “Seaver did great.” 

You smile a little. “I knew she would.” 

“Proud of you, kid.” He reaches out and you squeeze his hand once before dropping it. 

“Thanks, Dave.” 

Aaron glances at you. “Nice shot,” he says. 

You tip your head. “Thanks for getting out of my way.” 

“Anytime.”

Ashley joins the four of you, taking her gun back. 

“Good work, Agent,” Aaron says. The use of her title doesn’t escape your notice.

The detective shakes all of your hands in turn, thanking Aaron and wishing the rest of you well. 

When you’re alone, Ashley looks at you. “Thanks. Really. You put a lot of trust in me back there and I really appreciate it.” 

You shake your head. “You’re welcome, but it wasn’t a favor. You’ve learned a lot and you do good work.” You clap her shoulder lightly. “It was the right move.” 

+++ 2242 hours

Friday nights at Aaron’s are supposed to be quiet. In theory. But you’re currently elbow-deep in a losing battle, watching your housing empire crumble as Aaron leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. With all four railroads. 

“You’re playing dirty,” you accuse, narrowing your eyes as you count the last of your cash.

“I’m playing by the rules,” he counters, voice smooth as ever. “You just don’t like them.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” you mutter, flicking your last fifty toward him in defeat. “This is a hostile takeover.”

Aaron lifts a brow, accepting the bill with a smirk. “Business is business. Consider yourself acquired.”

“You’re an absolute hellion,” you inform him, shaking your head as he starts tallying his earnings. “I’ve had it with Hotchner Enterprises, LLC. Tomorrow we’re playing Risk. I’m sick of spending three hours on this game just to hand over all my cash.” 

“You’re just a sore loser.”

You’re mid-eye-roll when your phone vibrates against the tabletop, ringing quietly. Aaron, as he always does, cracks a smile at Derek’s ringtone. 

Bad boys, bad boysWhatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you… 

You glance down at the screen to confirm. It’s late for him to be calling—especially on a Friday.

Aaron clocks your hesitation immediately. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, already swiping to answer. “It’s Derek,” you add, uselessly. You press the phone to your ear. “Hey, you good?”

Aaron is always interested, from a purely academic, profiling perspective, of course, to watch you answer your phone, tailoring your greeting to the caller. 

“Depends,” Derek says. “You busy?”

You glance across the table at Aaron, who has already abandoned his money-counting in favor of watching you, ever observant.

“I’m at Hotch’s,” you say, which technically isn’t an answer to the question he asked. 

Aaron hides a scoff. Hotch. 

“But if you need something, I can make it happen.”

Derek exhales, the sound crackling through the receiver. “Nah, it’s not—nothing urgent. Just didn’t feel like sitting in my apartment tonight.” He pauses. “And I could use some company.”

You soften.“Want me to come to you?” you offer.

There’s a beat of hesitation. Then, a quieter, “You sure?”

Aaron’s voice, soft and understanding, breaks through the silence, even though he can’t hear Derek’s side of the conversation. “Go.”

You glance at him. “You sure?” you mouth.

Aaron just nods, his voice a half-whisper. “Tell him I said to make you play fair if there’s money involved.”

You smirk, then return to Derek. “Where are we headed?”

“Gym or club?”

You groan. “Morgan, c’mon.”

“What? We need to burn off steam one way or another. You pick.”

You rub your eyes and check the clock. “I am not in the mood to get dressed up all slutty just to cling to the back of your shirt and collect numbers I don’t want. My feet hurt just thinking about it.”

It was more fun with Emily. But you don’t say that. 

Aaron, who has resumed sorting his stacks of Monopoly money, freezes for half a second and swallows. His fingers hesitate on a hundred-dollar bill before continuing as if nothing happened. He doesn’t look at you—but he pictures it, the image of you out at some club, wearing something too short and too tight, other men hovering too close, buying you drinks, making you laugh. His jaw ticks.

He imagines the same scenario—except this time, instead of looking at the man flirting with you, you’re looking at him. Over some poor bastard’s shoulder. A small smile sneaks to the corners of his mouth. 

Much better. 

“Oh, c’mon. Not one? You won’t even give it a shot?” 

You just look tired when you reply. “I can tell you right now there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that any man will get my attention.” 

Aaron hides another smirk. He has absolutely no standing, but it’s nice to dream.

Derek chuckles. You’re proud of yourself. “Then put on something you can run and do hand-to-hand combat in.”

You sigh, slumping back in your chair. “Fine. I’ll meet you at the track on base in thirty.”

Aaron exhales sharply through his nose, a barely-contained chuckle. There’s also relief in it. 

“That’s the spirit,” Derek says.

You hang up, shaking your head as you stand to change. You always keep something for the gym in your go bag, thankfully. 

Aaron’s still looking down, focused on straightening the already-straight stacks of bills. “Slutty?”

You grab your hoodie from the couch, tossing him a playful smile. “Slutty.” You hit every consonant.  

You’re teasing him because it can’t be true. That would be way too scary. “You’re a man. You work with beautiful women.” You give him a knowing look, colored with amusement. “You’ve thought about it.”

His lips twitch, but he shakes his head, reaching for his beer instead. “Go easy on him.”

“No promises.”

+++ 2349 hours

The Quantico campus is near-dead when you arrive just before midnight. 

Derek stands beside you on the track, rolling his shoulders like this is just another warm-up. “Alright, champ. A mile and a half. Timed. You ready?”

You roll your eyes, shaking out your arms. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” he teases, stepping onto the treadmill beside you. “I know Hotch runs every morning, but when’s the last time you clocked a PFT?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You did not just imply I can’t keep up with you.”

“I’m just looking out for your pride.”

“You’re the one getting old.” You turn to him, your hands on your hips. 

Derek scoffs, tapping his watch. “Old enough to know how this is gonna go.”

You huff a laugh, settling into position at the start line. “Set the damn timer, Derek.”

+++ 2357 hours

The first lap is easy—measured, controlled, a pace you both can maintain. You push him when he bumps into you, trying to ruin your stride. 

By the second lap, Derek picks it up, and you match him stride for stride. The steady rhythm of sneakers hitting track fills the night air, the cool breeze slicing through the sweat gathering at the back of your neck. 

It feels good to be outside, to run, to push your body until you can’t be sad anymore.

At the one-mile mark, you push harder, and so does he. Your legs burn, lungs protesting, but neither of you lets up.

“Getting tired, Morgan?” You ask, trying to control your breathing. 

He laughs in between heaving breaths. “Not on your life.”

The last lap is a sprint. Your whole body protests as you stretch for that last burst of speed. Your breath comes ragged, your legs screaming, but you don’t slow—don’t dare to.

You beat him by three seconds.

Derek stops just past the finish line, hands braced on his knees as he sucks in air. “Alright, alright—” he pants, holding up a hand in surrender. “I’ll give you that one.”

You grin, breathless. “Told you not to start.”

+++ april 9th, 2011 0026 hours

Derek circles you on the mat, his stance loose, but prepared.

“You’re still leading too much with your shoulders,” he says, dodging your first strike with ease. “That’s why you get thrown off balance.”

You huff, rolling your neck. “You saying I have bad posture?”

“I’m saying you fight like a fed.”

You lunge, aiming for his ribs, but he twists, blocking. The sparring escalates—blow for blow, dodge for dodge. He’s gentle with you, his taps almost a scold in exchange for landed hits, correcting as you go. He’s stronger, but you’re faster. The sweat stings your eyes, your body burning with exertion, but you don’t stop. 

And then—he leaves his guard open. You take the shot. Your elbow connects cleanly with his eyebrow, and Derek stumbles back, blinking as his hand flies to the spot.

You freeze, your hands flying over your mouth. “Oh, shit—”

But then he’s laughing. Full, delighted laughter as he pulls his hand away, revealing a small laceration above his eyebrow, already bruising and bleeding a little. 

“I’m so sorry, Derek!” 

“You got me, kid,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

He touches the bruise again, grinning—but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes. Like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time in weeks.

You snort, shaking your head. “You’re insane.”

+++ 0056 hours

After getting Derek ice and sent back to his car, you cross the parking lot and pull out your phone. 

12:57am Went easy on him. Only took one hit. 

The reply is instant.  

12:57am You or him?

12:58am Come on. You know he was nice to me.12:58am Also he knows you’d kill him if he didn’t mark his hits

12:58am I’ll wait up for you. 

You try not to let the little spark of excitement affect you too much when he presents your return as a given. 

+++ 0128 hours

The apartment is quiet when you arrive. You use your key, letting yourself in as quietly as possible. The light over the sink is still on, illuminating the kitchen.

Aaron is exactly where you left him, stretched out on the couch, one arm resting on his stomach, the TV playing some old crime drama on low volume.

“You get a trophy?” he murmurs without looking up.

You drop your bag by the door. “Depends. Does delivering a black eye and a laceration count as a trophy?” 

His lips twitch. “Very good. Morgan might say so.”

You nod toward the master bedroom. “Mind if I shower?”

His voice is quiet, certain. “Of course not.”

+++ 0134 hours

Steam curls in the air as the hot water pounds against your back. The ache in your muscles is already settling in, but it’s the good kind—the kind that reminds you of movement, of strength.

When you step out of the bathroom in your sweats and an old t-shirt, Aaron’s already turned off the TV and retired to bed. He watches as you cross the room, hanging your towel on one of the hooks behind the door, and without a word, he lifts the blanket beside him.

You don’t hesitate.

Settling into the familiar warmth, you let yourself exhale as he tucks you against his side, letting any wayward water soak into his shirt without complaint. His fingers trace slow circles against your back, his breath steady, grounding.

“You feel better?” he asks.

You hum, already half-asleep. “Much. Good for Derek, too, I think. He’s having a hard time.”

Aaron hums. There’s silence. He should tell you. 

He has to. 

He can’t. 

+++ april 10th, 2011 0813 hours

It’s the kind of morning that makes you wish you’d brought a real jacket instead of throwing on one of Aaron’s flannels over your hoodie. The sleeves are a little too long. You keep them cuffed around your palms as you nurse a to-go coffee. 

It’s way too early. The field is a patchwork of overgrown grass and white paint. A dozen kids in red jerseys are chasing a soccer ball.

Jack is sprinting down the sideline, arms pumping, his shoelaces already untied and flapping wildly with each step. You yell his name without thinking. “Go, Jack, go!”

The camping chair creaks beneath you as you shift to the edge of the seat.

You don’t remember the last time you had a Sunday like this.

Aaron’s on the field in a quarter-zip and jeans, arms crossed like he’s pretending he’s not the most qualified person here to manage tactical movement, even for 6U soccer. 

Aaron catches your eye when Jack scores. He doesn’t smile, exactly—but something softens at the corners of his mouth. His hands move automatically into a clap.

You clap too. Cheer, again. No one even looks twice.

You’re sitting in the chair usually stored in Aaron’s hall closet. His flannel wrapped around you. Your travel mug is the one from his cabinet—the one you always reach for without thinking. You don’t realize how settled you feel until you have to stand for halftime.

+++ 0903 hours

The tunnel forms quickly—parents stepping into place, arms lifted in an arch. He moves instinctively, not thinking, just scanning for his place in the line.

You’re already there. He doesn’t hesitate. Reaches for your hand, fingers closing around yours like muscle memory. The press of your palm is a grounding wire—familiar, warm, unflinching.

You look up. You meet his eyes. You’re grinning.  It’s only a second. It steals his breath.

Jack races through the tunnel, victorious and glowing. Aaron’s hand lands on his shoulder—solid, reassuring, proud. Yours ruffles his hair as he passes. 

Jack grins like he’s the luckiest kid on earth.

The tunnel collapses. The parents start to wander. Aaron releases your hand last.

+++ april 11th, 2011 0712 hours

The cursor on his desktop blinks steadily in the corner of the screen.

He hasn’t opened the email again. He doesn’t need to. He could recite it from memory already. Every line, every clause, every legal out. The time-limited language. The subtle insinuation that volunteer and concur mean the same thing.

His hand stays on the desk. Palm flat. Unmoving. The room is quiet, but his thoughts are not.

No need to know yet.

That’s the first one. The obvious one. The one that feels almost protective, like he’s doing you a favor.

It’s not official until I hit concur.

Which is true. Technically. It buys him time, and if he really needed to back out, maybe he could. He wouldn’t. But he could. That’s enough, right?

The team is already on its knees. One more shift and it all comes apart.

That one’s not even about you—it’s about Derek, and Reid, and Garcia’s now-muted laughter, and the way no one’s touched Emily’s desk. He tells himself that adding uncertainty now would be a breach of leadership. That keeping the weight squarely on his own shoulders is the noble thing to do.

They’re all still grieving. I can’t be responsible for another loss right now.

This one hurts more than the rest. Because it’s the first time he admits it’s not just about the team. It’s about you.

And the lie—the one he hasn’t said out loud yet, the one he’s already half-drowning in—is simple. 

It’s protection. It’s my job.

He stares at the screen a while longer, long after the monitor goes dark. Long enough for the flimsy justification to start to feel like truth.

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Not until he knows how to say it in a way that won’t break you.

+++ 1004 hours

You hop up the stairs in front of Aaron’s office, only a little disappointed to find him already away from his desk and chatting with Dave outside the latter’s door. 

“How was your weekend?” Rossi asks. 

“Good,” Aaron replies. “Jack had two soccer games yesterday.”

Dave tips his head. “They win?”

“Oh, we don't keep score in Jack's age group.” You can hear the rationalization behind the explanation, the desire that Dave not read too much into it. 

He has no such luck. “That bad, huh?”

You reach them, walking by and pulling a face. Yeah. That bad. 

Dave raises his eyebrows and follows up. “You had company this weekend, I see.” 

Aaron ignores him. “And now—” He sighs. “—now they’ve asked me to coach.” 

“You’re kidding.”

Aaron shakes his head and they both fall into step behind you. “No.”

“Why’d they ask you?” Dave asks.

You turn over your shoulder. “He’s the only one paying attention, Dave.”

“Focus,” Aaron says, stepping on your comment. 

Dave addresses you both. “Don’t doubt that.” 

“You can’t get half the parents to look up from their phones during the game.” He shakes his head and you hide your smile. You heard this same rant not twenty-four hours ago during the car ride home. “At least I participate.” 

You roll your eyes, continuing into the round table room.

“It’s not like you’re too busy,” Dave says, a heavy dose of sarcasm in his tone. 

You snort. 

Aaron ignores you both. Again. “Let’s get started.” 

Dave sits next to you and pulls out his tablet, bumping your arm as Penelope starts her briefing.

“What?” 

He shakes his head.

+++ april 12th, 2011 1958 hours

You hear someone join Aaron on the couch across the aisle from you on the flight home. You’re trying to snooze in one of the chairs. It’s not going well.

“I know you're gonna do that coaching thing,” Dave says. “So I thought maybe this might help.”

Something exchanges hands. “Soccer formations?” Aaron asks.

Dave shrugs by way of explanation. “I'm Italian.”

You’re delighted to hear Aaron laugh quietly. “You've been holding out on me.” He pauses. You can hear his finger tapping the tablet, swiping through Dave’s offerings. “I, uh, I could use an assistant.”

“How early do they start their games?” Dave asks. 

You crack an eyelid. “Early.” 

+++ april 13th, 2011 1632 hours

You knew this was coming. It was on the schedule. And you’ve done it before. 

Still, the moment you walk into the room and see the bureau psychologist, Dr. Carver, sitting there, clipboard in hand, you have to fight the instinct to roll your eyes.

“Have a seat,” she says, smiling. It’s meant to be reassuring, but you’ve seen that same placating expression turned on uncooperative witnesses. 

Unfortunately, it might work on you today. You sit.

The chair is stiff, unfamiliar. Not like the ones in the bullpen, molded over time to the curve of your back. You plant your feet firmly on the floor, spine straight, bracing.

Dr. Carver flips a page. “You’ve been here before.” She meets your eyes for a moment. “You’ve done a fitness for duty evaluation for…” She flips the page back, like she has to check, like she doesn’t already know and remember all of you. “The Foyet case. Haley Hotchner’s death and Agent Hotchner’s attack.” She pauses again, her brow furrowing and breath leaving her. “Gracious,” she says under her breath. “That wasn’t all that long ago. Less than eighteen months.” 

You decide not to address her commentary. “I have.”

She nods. “Then you know how this works.”

You say nothing.

Her pen taps lightly against the paper, once, twice. “Tell me about Emily Prentiss.”

A slow inhale. The sharp sting of her name still hasn’t dulled. “She was my friend,” you say finally. “And my teammate. One of the best.”

Carver waits.

You exhale. “She was smart. Dedicated. She put herself in situations she didn’t have to, for people who didn’t deserve it. And she died because of it.”

“Do you believe that?”

Your jaw jumps. “She is dead, isn’t she?”

(Rhetorical.)

Dr. Carver stares patiently at you. “And how do you feel about that?”

(Not rhetorical.)

You glance past her, out the window, where a Virginia oak sways in the breeze—calm, unaffected. It’s one of the only live oaks on base. They’re huge, take up so much ground space. The sound their leaves make in the spring and summer is soothing. You hate it for that.

“I feel like I’m here. And she’s not.”

Carver makes a note. “And how do you feel about that?”

Your fingers tighten over your knee. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

Dr. Carver flips another page, unfazed. “Tell me about your team.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

Tell me about your team.

Tell me about the five people who have spent the last month walking around like they’re missing a limb. Tell me about the vacant seat in the bullpen, the untouched desk. 

Tell me about the way Derek’s been pulling away, the way JJ has her arms around Spencer, quiet and hollow, right now all the way from the State Department, as if she can hold them both together.

Tell me about Penelope, who stands in that goddamn hallway for at least fifteen minutes every day, staring at Emily’s portrait on the Wall of the Fallen. 

Tell me about Dave, who stays until he has to turn his warm desk light on, eats alone in his office. 

Tell me about Aaron, who has carried the weight of too many dead friends and a dead wife, who went to Emily’s apartment alone to pack up her things. Tell me how, at the funeral, when the weight of it was crushing you, his arm was the only thing keeping you standing.

Tell me about the team you don’t recognize anymore.

“They’re…” You exhale, shaking your head. “They’re surviving.”

Dr. Carver waits, lets the silence settle, lets you feel the weight of your own words.

“I know the standard questions,” you say finally, pressing your tongue against the inside of your cheek. “I know what you’re going to ask me. Am I sleeping? Yes. Am I eating? Yes. Do I think about it all the time? Also yes. Do I have nightmares? Less than I used to.” You shift in your seat. “I know what this is. It’s a box to check. So let’s check it.”

Dr. Carver doesn’t react, just flips a page. “I have no other documented concerns from your supervisor, and your after action reports are sound. Do you think you’re fit for duty?”

You hold her gaze. “Yes.”

She nods. Makes another note. “Then you’re cleared.”

Just like that. You let out a slow breath, standing, hands pressed briefly against your thighs before straightening your jacket. “Thank you Dr. Carver. This was…less painful than I expected.” 

Dr. Carver closes the file. “I do what I can. You should be very proud of your unit. Take care of yourself.”

You nod, turning toward the door. But before you can reach for the handle, she speaks again.

“And take care of them, too.”

+++ 1827 hours

The apartment smells like takeout and freshly printed paper.

You brought dinner—green curry, panang, and jasmine rice, his favorite from the Thai place just off base—and spread it across Aaron’s dining table beside the case files. The evidence binders are stacked by topic, your notes in one neat column, his in another. Your outline is meticulous. Color-coded.

Aaron doesn’t comment on that part, but he doesn’t need to. The faintest flicker of a smile gives him away.

This isn’t your first time testifying. You’ve qualified as an expert witness before. But this is different. This is your first court appearance as the named case agent—your name on every line of the 302s, your signature on every piece of evidence turned over in discovery. You’re the one who wrote the profile. The one who interviewed the unsub. The one who debriefed the victim’s family.

Aaron is the lead case agent, and he’s taken it upon himself to coach you the same way he once trained new AUSAs—methodically, thoroughly, and without compromise.

He doesn’t let you sit easy. Not tonight.

“The prosecution will open clean,” he says, flipping a page. “Let’s start there.”

You sit up straighter. “Ready.”

His voice shifts—crisper, clipped at the edges. “Agent, Could you briefly describe your current assignment?”

You answer smoothly. “I am currently assigned to the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit as a Special Agent and profiler.”

“And your responsibilities?”

“Field deployments, consults, and behavioral assessments in support of active federal investigations and local law enforcement agencies in cases where they request additional support. I also contribute to the development of criminal profiles and regularly consult on cases.”

He doesn’t nod, doesn’t affirm. He’s already turning the page. “Let’s talk qualifications. Agent, are you a forensic psychologist?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you hold a doctorate?”

“No, sir.”

“So, would you consider yourself qualified to make psychological assessments?”

You don’t flinch. “In the field, I’m trained to analyze behavior and provide behavioral assessments based on empirical models, case precedent, and pattern recognition. My training is accredited through the FBI and my field experience in the BAU is the basis for my qualification.”

He tilts his head slightly. That one will work.

“You’ve been with the unit three years,” Aaron says. 

“Three years as a credentialed agent,” you clarify. “Almost four total.”

“Why you?” he asks suddenly. No legal framing. No courtroom polish. Just a straight line.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

Aaron lowers the file slightly. “You know the defense is going to ask that. You’re not an SSA yet. They’ll want to know why you were tapped as case agent and the prosecutor will set it up for them so you have a chance to take a softball about it before defense comes at you.”

“Okay.” rcYou meet his gaze. “Because I know the work. Because I’ve done the work. Because my profile led to the accurate identification and location of the suspect and contributed directly to his arrest.”

Aaron’s mouth lifts faintly at the corner. “Good. Say that.”

You write it down, underlining it twice. He waits until your pen stops moving. Then shifts—voice darker now, cooler. Defense mode.

“Agent, you were personally involved in the execution of the arrest warrant. Did you personally apprehend the suspect?”

“No. That was Agents Rossi and Morgan.”

“But you were on-site.”

“I was.”

“Is it possible that your presence influenced the suspect’s behavior during arrest?”

You don’t blink. “No more than any law enforcement presence would. I was acting within the scope of my duties.”

“Is it true that you received a commendation for this arrest?”

“I did.”

“And would you agree that commendations might incentivize agents to pursue convictions over accuracy?”

You tip your head slightly. “I’d argue the opposite. The integrity of the investigation is the foundation of any commendation worth earning.”

He nods slowly. That answer’s solid. The pause stretches for a moment.

“I like that last part,” you add.

He lifts an eyebrow, impressed. “You should.” He flips another page. “Let’s go again. Start from the legitimacy demonstration and how we use the profile.”

You reach for your food as he shifts back into prosecutor cadence. Somehow, this feels almost comfortable. Maybe it’s the food. Maybe it’s the stacks of shared margin notes. Maybe it’s him—this version of Aaron acting as a whetstone to sharpen you.

You glance across the table at him, watching as he reviews a photo spread and lines up a sticky tab on the edge of the folder with methodical precision. 

“You were a good prosecutor,” you say, no question in it. 

He tips his head. “And you know this how?”

“I can tell.” There’s a beat where you look at each other, little smiles on your faces. 

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. “Ready.”

You run through another set of direct and cross questions before he finally lifts his hand, palm facing you.

“That’s enough. You’ve earned a break.”

You exhale, stretching your shoulders. “Tell that to the defense.”

Aaron gathers a few stray pages back into the case file, neatening the stack. “You’ll be fine. You’re sharper than you give yourself credit for.”

You squint at him. “Are you complimenting me or trying to make sure I don’t fold?”

He looks up at you fully this time, eyes warm. “Can’t it be both?”

Your breath hitches, just for a second. But the moment stays easy, balanced.

You smile, a little soft around the edges. “You would have destroyed me if I’d gone the JD route.”

“I disagree. You’d have been dangerous,” he agrees easily, tilting his head. “Still are.”

He says it simply. You swallow and look down at your notes.

Aaron shifts a little in his chair. Not enough to make a show of it, but you clock it immediately. His eyes move to the file in front of him, but he doesn’t turn the page.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, quieter now.

You look up. “Of course.”

“Hypothetically,” he begins, and that gets your attention—he never uses that word unless he’s trying to take the temperature on something. “If an agent… were offered a six-month overseas advisory assignment—classified, diplomatic, high clearance—would it be selfish to take it?”

You freeze just slightly, blinking. That’s not a real hypothetical.

“Would he be leaving in the middle of ongoing caseloads?”

Aaron nods once. “Yes.”

“Would he have people he trusts to cover for him?”

He holds your gaze for a long moment. “I think so.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “Then I’d say it depends.”

“On?”

“How he leaves. His reasons for it.”

He’s quiet.

“And,” you add softly, “if he comes back.”

Aaron exhales. It’s not a sigh, not quite. Just a long release of something he’s been carrying for a while.

You take another sip of water. “That was a very elaborate way of not telling me something.”

He gives a faint smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was worth a try. We all have a few options in front of us right now.”

You sit in the quiet for a beat. Then, “For the record,” you say, changing the subject and gesturing with your chopsticks, “you’re a little too good at being a prosecutor. It’s unsettling.”

“It’s a little unfair, I know.”

“On those grounds, I’d like to file an objection.”

“Overruled.”

You snort. “On what basis? You don’t even know what I’m objecting to.”

Aaron leans back in his chair again, a dimple visible, glancing at the clock. “It’s late. You can go home if you want.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you shift your attention back to your notes, voice light but precise. “You’re not the only one who works late, you know.”

“Insubordinate and stubborn,” he murmurs. “That’s what it’ll say in your commendation letter.”

“Careful,” you say. “I might believe you don’t like that.”

His eyes flicker again—down to your hand, then up to your face. He doesn’t say anything else. But his posture softens.

Another page turned. Another breath held.

+++ 2237 hours

Aaron glances at the clock. “It’s getting late,” He says again. 

You follow his gaze, then look back at him with a smirk. “You kicking me out, Hotchner?”

He almost smiles. “No. Just didn’t want you to feel like you had to stay.”

You fold your arms, considering. “I don’t mind staying.”

He nods, already stepping toward the hall. “I’ll grab some pillows and a blanket.”

After a moment, Aaron returns from the hallway with an armful of linens, setting them neatly on the couch. “Guest sheets are clean and the couch is here…”

You glance between the bundle and him, eyebrows raised to cover the flash of anxiety in your chest. “What, do I steal the covers or something?”

He hesitates. “I didn’t want to presume.”

You shake your head, already stepping a little closer. “Me either. I can take the guest room or—”

“No,” he says, quiet but certain. “It’s fine. I’d like you to stay.”

The with me doesn’t need to be said. It’s already in the space between you.

You nod once, small but sure. “Okay.”

He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t move. But when you brush past him, headed for the hall, his eyes follow. And the couch stays exactly the way he left it, pillow and blanket abandoned.

+++ april 14th, 2011 0543 hours

The soft grey of early morning filters through Aaron’s bedroom window, catching on the crease in the curtain. His arm shifts slightly against your waist, and you realize you’ve drifted in close during the night.

You breathe in, then out.

He’s already half-awake. You can tell by the tension in his posture, the way his breath has evened out into something a little faster than sleep. You don’t move, not quite yet. It’s peaceful here—peaceful in a way mornings rarely are for either of you.

Eventually, he murmurs, “We have a little time.”

Your voice is still rough. “What time is it?”

He lifts his head to check the clock. “Quarter to six.”

You blink slowly. “Feels later.”

“Jet’s wheels-up at eight.” He settles back down against the pillow. “We gain four hours en route. Trial’s not scheduled to start for us until one local time.”

You nod, eyes closed again. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Me too.”

Neither of you move for another few minutes. You try to soak in the weight of his arm over your waist, the slight curl in his fingers where they touch your shirt. At the same time, however, you simply can’t think too hard about it. 

If you did, you’d combust. 

When you finally do rise, it’s with the comfortable rhythm of habit. You pad to the bathroom while he starts the coffee. You work out of your go bag, digging through the business casual options you always keep tucked at the bottom. Slacks, a soft blouse, blazer. Nothing fancy, but you look sharp enough for court.

Aaron’s already dressed by the time you join him at the kitchen counter—navy suit, pale blue shirt, no tie yet. He’s sorting through the case file again with his coffee steaming beside him.

You pour your own cup and bump his hip lightly as you pass him. He nudges back without thinking, eyes still on the page.

It’s quiet, unhurried. Normal.

When you gather your things and head down to the garage, Aaron carries your travel coat along with his own.

“You good?” he asks, as you both slide into his SUV.

You nod once. “Ready for court.”

He glances at you sideways. “Good. Because I’m throwing everything I’ve got at your voir dire prep.”

You huff. “You always do.”

“Gotta make sure you’re sharp.”

“I’m always sharp.”

He doesn’t argue. Just smiles faintly and puts the car in drive.

+++ 0832 hours

The hum of the jet is low and constant, the windows flooding with cloud-muted morning light. You’ve both got your blazers off, sleeves rolled, stacks of files fanned across the table between you. Aaron has the case summary on one side, the voir dire outline on the other, and a pen tapping rhythmically in his hand.

“Let’s run through the prosecutorial line of questioning again,” he says, eyes flicking to you, then back to his notes. “We’ll keep it tight. You know this, but just remember they’re establishing your credentials and setting the jury up to trust you before they hand over the harder asks.”

You nod, flipping open your expert report and underlining a note in the margin.

Aaron adjusts his seat slightly, angling toward you. Then, smooth and direct, “Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

+++ 0907 hours

Aaron’s pen taps the table once. “And in your opinion, would he have continued?”

“Yes,” you answer crisply. “The cycle was escalating. The profile indicated that his need for dominance was increasing due to the frequency and intensity of the murders. If he hadn’t been apprehended, he would have killed again.”

You finish and meet his eyes. Aaron sets the pen down and leans back slightly in his chair, fingers threading together.

“I’d be convinced,” he says quietly.

You arch an eyebrow. “You’re a little biased.”

“Not about your testimony.”

You blink—caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone—and look away just long enough to clear your throat.

There’s a pause, a beat of quiet professionalism threading with something softer. 

You shift the stack of case files toward him and murmur, “Want to switch sides? Hit me with the defense again? Give me some hardballs this time.”

Aaron nods, flipping through his notes for places to poke holes. 

You set down your cup. “Hit me.”

“How long have you been employed by the FBI?”

“Three years.”

“Three years.” He leans back slightly in his seat, voice flat, skeptical. “And you’re testifying as an expert witness?”

“Yes.”

His follow up is quick. “In a capital murder trial.”

“Yes.”

Eventually, one of you answers references the team and you take a headcount—a renowned author, former ASUA, and a multi-PhD-holding boy genius.  

He cocks his head. “You using me as a character witness?”

You grin. “You planning to be hostile?”

There’s the smallest glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, and the rhythm eases a little. He marks the edge of the page, then looks at you—really looks.

“You’re solid,” he says. “They’ll try to undermine you, but it won’t hold.”

You nod once, understanding the weight of that from him.

“Thank you.”

+++ 1017 hours

Aaron has the crossword balanced neatly on one knee, pen in his left hand, brow furrowed like this is another case file and not a regional newspaper puzzle. You’re leaning beside him, one leg curled under the other, elbow propped up as you casually scan the clues from an angle, already more invested than you planned to be.

“Six letters, 'god-given, maybe.' Starts with 'i'," he murmurs.

You hum thoughtfully, shifting a little closer so you can see the puzzle better. Your shoulder brushes his and you don’t move away. “Innate. Like your charm.”

He glances at you, his head turning only slightly, unamused. “Don’t flatter me, it’ll go to my head.”

You grin. “Please. I would never. Plus, I can humble you with a great amount of acquired knowledge, so your ego is safe.”

“Really, now?” He asks. His tone remains disinterested, but you know better. 

You hum. “Should I start with your sock drawer organization system? By type, then color? Really?”

“I do not—”

“You do,” you say, pointing. "And that answer fits. Let me have it.”

For a moment, you’re closer than you meant to be—close enough to see the sheen of the scar across his nose, the quiet focus in his expression, the way he doesn’t shift away either. You feel the warmth of his presence, the steady calm that seems to rest on him like a wool coat.

Aaron writes it in, pen deliberate. You watch the way his hand moves, precise, efficient. His blocky handwriting is uniquely suited to crossword puzzles—clean, mechanical, even under turbulence. He doesn’t hook his wrist, either. Kind of impressive—not a lot of lefties were taught properly when he was learning to write. It was the early seventies, after all. 

“Six down,” he says. “'Daughter of Cronus.' Six letters.”

You tilt your head. “Hestia.”

He raises a brow. “That was fast.”

“Don’t act surprised. We both know I’m full of useless information.”

“Some of it’s useful,” he replies, blithe, still focused, still writing. The tip of his pen taps twice on the paper before gliding to the next clue.

“Was that a compliment?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” His eyebrows jump, his mouth twitching with restraint. “It was an observation.”

“Rude,” you say, grinning.

He smirks faintly, which is the closest you get to a laugh when he's focused like this. The jet hums steadily beneath you, a low and constant undercurrent. When you're with the whole team, long journeys on the plane feel longer. But with him, the space becomes something else entirely. You don't mind the hours. Time with Aaron is never something you’ll try to get out of.

“Eleven across. ‘Sticky situation.’ Seven letters.”

“Oh, that’s definitely this crossword puzzle.”

He exhales through his nose, amusement caught in his chest. “Predicament?”

“That’s an eleven-letter word.” You pause. "Um… dilemma?”

He considers. Writes it lightly, tentative strokes. “We’ll come back to it,” he decides.

You rest your head in your hand, watching him work. There’s something soothing in the way he moves through clues. Focused, deliberate, soft at the edges with you nearby. Comfortable silence stretches between you as he fills in a few more blanks, occasionally asking your opinion.

Eventually, he hits a wall. “Ten down. ‘Small stream.’ Four letters. There's an L in the third spot.”

“Rill,” you say immediately.

“That doesn’t sound like a real word.”

“And yet.”

He writes it in, slowly. “It better be right.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “When am I ever wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth quirks in a way that says more than words.

“That’s what I thought.”

+++ 1304 hours, AKST

You sit forward slightly in the witness box, posture deliberate but not stiff, your voice steady as you answer the prosecutor’s questions. Aaron watches from his seat near the counsel table, a quiet thread of pride anchoring him in place. You’re fielding questions with precision, keeping the language accessible without sacrificing depth. Every answer reveals just enough, guiding the jury while letting the facts do the work. He can tell you’re holding back your own opinions—good. That’s exactly what they need from a case agent testifying in a double capacity.

It’s different from your past testimony. He’s seen you on the stand before, calm and measured, but this is the first time you’re carrying the weight of case ownership alongside subject-matter expertise. And you're doing it effortlessly.

He watches the jury, notes how they lean in when you explain victimology, how a few of them glance toward the defendant when you discuss the game-hunting parallels. Your cadence holds them. Not dramatized, not overconfident, but practiced. He’s glad you spent all those hours drilling your answers the last two days.

When the defense gets up, Aaron stiffens. This is where things could unravel—not because you’re unprepared, but because defense attorneys love to exploit the soft edges. But you don’t give them any. When they ask about your credentials, about your "non-standard" path into the BAU, you keep your tone neutral and your delivery crisp.

“No,” you say plainly. “I am not an SSA. But I was recruited from the FBI Academy at Quantico, where I graduated top of my class. I’ve spent the last three years on field assignment under the guidance of two Unit Chiefs and multiple senior profilers. My supervisor determined I was best qualified to provide subject matter expertise on this case.”

Your eyes flick to him. A dimple appears.

+++ 1426 hours

As soon as you board, you curl up in your normal seat by the window at the table and close your eyes. It’ll be late when you get back. It’s probably a good idea to get a head start on sleep. 

He sits beside you—in his normal seat, despite the empty plane. Your eyelids flutter open for a second. “Hey.”

His chest tightens. “Hey.”

He doesn’t speak again for the rest of the flight. Doesn’t move much either. Just enough that his shoulder rests gently against yours. You don’t pull away. 

As you fall asleep, you shift, your head dropping to his shoulder. 

And God help him—it feels like coming back from the dead.

Not the way he did in the spiritual desert after Haley—broken and directionless—but the way he did that first week back in the office. When you handed him a cup of coffee without comment. When you stood next to him during a briefing like nothing had changed. When you didn’t say I missed you, just looked at him like you knew.

He’s doing the same thing now, reaching for you like you’re air, like you’re safe. And you’re letting him. Because you think he’s staying. 

He wonders—if this is how you looked at him then, too. Hopeful. Gentle. Quietly relieved.

You looked at him today like he might be doing it again.

+++ april 15th, 2011 0849 hours

The email is still in his inbox. It’s been almost two weeks.

He’s read it enough times to know every word by heart. The phrasing has stopped sounding like English and started sounding like responsibility.

He leans back in his office chair and clicks it open one more time.

Final determination of placement contingent upon officer concurrence. CONCUR | DECLINE

It’s not a decision anymore. It hasn’t been for days.

He pretends it doesn’t bother him. 

The last time, he passed you in the hallway and you paused, mouth half-open. You didn’t say a word. And he didn’t stop walking.

That moment has looped in his head ever since. You’re confused. You’re starting to feel it, the shift.

He tried to make the transition easier. Tried to step away so the loss wouldn’t feel so sharp. So you wouldn’t depend on him, expect him, miss him—at least not all at once. He hasn’t been doing well. His efforts to create distance have only served to show him how much he desires—often requires—proximity to you.

But the truth is simpler than that. He’s giving himself fewer opportunities to tell you. Fewer chances to see the look on your face when he says the words.

Because he doesn’t think he could survive your grief again. You’ve already buried Haley, Emily. Lost two friends.

And he’s about to walk away. 

His hand hovers over the mouse. He clicks. 

CONCUR.

The screen loads. Response submitted.

It’s done.

+++ 1411 hours

The email is simple. Logistics. A contact name in Islamabad. A reminder to file his clearance packet within 72 hours of wheels down.

He reads it three times. He clicks forward. Types your name in the address bar.

Doesn’t hit send. His hand hovers. It would be an asshole move, wouldn’t it? To let you find out this way.

You deserve more than that. He deletes the draft.

Closes Outlook.

Opens the report again. Reads the words without absorbing a single one. He’s already chosen the asshole move. Just not the one he wants to admit to yet.

+++ 1606 hours

Dave doesn’t look up when Aaron knocks on his open office door. He just gestures him in with a hand.

Aaron closes the door behind him. “Got a minute?”

Dave leans back, eyes narrowing just enough to mark the change in Aaron’s tone. “Always.”

Aaron stands for a moment. Then sits, back straight, hands folded, every movement deliberate.

“I’m being deployed,” he says.

Dave doesn’t react at first. Just watches him. “Where?”

“Pakistan. Four-month assignment with the JCTF under OGA coordination.”

“Voluntary?”

Aaron hesitates. “Sort of.”

Dave exhales through his nose. “And I’m guessing you’ve already hit the button.”

Aaron nods once. “Concurred this morning.”

Silence stretches between them. “When were you going to tell the rest of us?”

Aaron doesn’t answer.

Dave scoffs. “Jesus, Aaron.”

“They don’t need the disruption.”

“They need the truth.”

Aaron’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t flinch.

Dave leans forward. “You think you’re protecting them by disappearing?”

Aaron doesn’t respond.

Dave’s voice is quieter now. Sharper. “Or are you just trying to avoid the look on her face when she realizes you’re leaving?”

Aaron doesn’t move. But the silence that follows confirms everything.

Dave shakes his head, leaning back. “She’s going to find out. And when she does? She’ll remember that you knew—and you said nothing. She might hate you for it, Aaron.”

Aaron swallows. His throat aches.

“You still have time,” Dave says quietly, ”to do it the right way.”

Aaron looks down at his hands. “I don���t know if I can.”

Dave lifts his eyebrows. “You can. You just don’t want to.”

+++ 2037 hours

You meant to just tidy up.

You were reaching for an old file from the dining room table—something leftover from a consult—but your hand brushed against the stack instead. The cards. The envelopes. The ones that started arriving three days after the funeral and haven’t really stopped.

Condolences from DC Metro, from the New York field office, from L.A., from Quantico’s counterterrorism unit. A dozen different handwritings. A dozen variations of “We’re so sorry for your loss.” Some addressed to the BAU. Some addressed to you directly.

You pick one up at random. It’s from Denver. Agent Prentiss was always kind and helpful to our team. We hope her memory brings you peace.

Your throat closes.

You gather them all into your arms before you can stop yourself. You find the plastic bin in the hall closet—the one labeled Holiday Cards & Other Stuff You Don’t Know What to Do With—and you drop to your knees, spreading the cards out around you like puzzle pieces.

Some are long. Personal. Stories about Emily from units you didn’t even know she worked with. Some on condolences cards, some on heavy stationary, some on photos, some on postcards. One is from a retired agent in Atlanta.

Another just says, She was fierce. You’re lucky to have known her. No signature.

You wipe at your eyes. That’s not why you’re crying, you tell yourself. It’s not the words. It’s just—too many names. Too many hands on her memory. Too many people who knew just enough of her to feel the loss.

You pull a short card from the pile, smaller than a 3x5 index card. Fancy stationery. She talked about you. We thought you should know that.

You don’t even remember who it’s from. It doesn’t matter. Your hands are shaking now. The bin is still empty.

You sit there for a long time, cross-legged on the hallway floor, surrounded by the memory of a woman who isn’t dead. Not really, not to you in your memory.

And yet—this grief is no less real.

Eventually, you start stacking the cards again. Not in the bin, not yet. You put them back in the box they came in. Slide it under the bench in the entryway. Somewhere visible, somewhere you can reach if you need to. You’re not ready to put her away yet.

+++ april 16th, 2011 0703 hours

Jack’s shin guards are sliding down. It’s the second thing you notice as you arrive, only a couple of minutes late, to the pitch. 

He’s sticky with sweat and joy. The ball breaks free from midfield and, to your surprise, Jack is on it, legs pumping, cheeks flushed with effort as he charges down the field.

“Go, Jack!” you shout from the sideline, hands cupped around your mouth. Your voice joins the scattered cheers from other parents.

Aaron is already moving down the line in tandem, not yelling, but close to it. “Keep going! Eyes up!”

Beside him, Dave is less restrained. “Now or never, kid—take the shot!”

And Jack does. A left-footed nudge, a lucky angle, and the ball rolls right past the keeper into the corner of the net. The field explodes with small, chaotic celebration. Jack throws both arms into the air like he’s just won the World Cup.

Aaron’s breath leaves him all at once. He doesn’t move for a second, then glances over at Dave, who’s grinning. Jack sprints straight for them—straight for Aaron—and barrels into his arms. Aaron catches him on reflex, lifting him briefly off the ground.

You jog toward them, smiling, and Jack twists in Aaron’s arms to find you.

“Did you see?” he asks breathlessly.

You nod and offer your hand for a high-five. “I did. That was amazing.”

Aaron meets your eyes over Jack’s shoulder. There’s pride there, sure—but something softer underneath.

+++ 1448 hours

Dave is at the grill, one hand on the tongs, the other wrapped around a drink. He’s halfway through a story—one you’ve definitely heard before, but you don’t bother stopping him.

Jack and Henry are running around the backyard, shrieking with laughter, and you swear Will is barely resisting the urge to join them. It’s unseasonably warm for April—one of those spring days kissed by the best of summer—mercifully dry, balmy, and warm. 

Aaron is beside you, sleeves rolled up, drink in hand, watching Jack with an expression so soft it makes your chest ache.

Derek plops down into the chair next to you, sunglasses perched on his nose. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

You glance at him. “Hear what?”

“The excuse you’re about to come up with for why you refuse to play cornhole with me.”

Aaron exhales through his nose—his version of a laugh. You scoff. “Please. I could wipe the floor with you.”

Derek tilts his head. “Could you?”

“Absolutely.”

He grins. “Alright, bet.”

Aaron hums. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

Derek turns toward him, smirking. “Oh yeah? Think I don’t have it?”

Aaron takes a sip of his drink. “I think you’re both competitive.”

You narrow your eyes, making his point rather neatly for him. “We playing or what?”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re winning. Derek is not happy about it. Aaron watches, arms crossed, amused.

“You sure you’re not cheating?” Derek accuses, shaking his head as you sink another shot.

You feign offense. “Would I ever?”

Aaron raises his eyebrows. “Yes.”

Derek snorts. “At least he’s honest.”

Aaron does his best not to wince.

You ignore them both, tossing another beanbag. Perfect shot.

Derek groans. “This is bullshit.”

“Language!” Penelope reminds him.

Aaron watches you gloat, a small, quiet smile pulling at his lips.

Jack and Henry run past, laughing, Will in tow.

+++ 1738 hours

The back deck glows warm in the late evening light, lanterns flickering above scattered wine glasses and half-finished plates. The cicadas are loud tonight, but not loud enough to drown out your laugh.

Aaron stands just outside the doorway, the screen door cracked behind him, a glass of wine untouched in his hand. He watches you from the threshold.

You’re leaned back in one of Rossi’s big Adirondack chairs, legs curled beneath you, head tipped back in laughter. Jack is in the yard with Henry, chasing fireflies, their delighted squeals drifting through the Virginia heat. You’re talking to Penelope and JJ, retelling something that must be deeply funny—your cheeks are warm, your eyes glinting.

He hasn’t seen you like this in months. He can’t remember the last time he heard that laugh from you. Not directed at him. Not because of him. Not even near him. 

He’s happy to see it, and it breaks him. Not because it’s rare, but because it feels borrowed.

He steps onto the deck, slow, measured, his presence quiet but unmistakable. You glance up at him, eyes warm, and smile. A soft, familiar smile. One that nearly cracks his composure in half.

“Everything okay?” you ask, your voice light, teasing. “You’ve been brooding in the doorway like Batman for ten minutes.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, takes the arm of your chair as his seat. “Sorry. Got distracted.”

You bump his hip gently with your shoulder. “By what?”

He doesn’t answer. You don’t press. It would be so easy. Right now. He could just say it.

I’m being assigned to Pakistan. A task force. I chose this. I can’t look you in the eye and lie to you anymore.  I have to go because I can’t live with myself.  I don’t know when I’ll be home.

But when he turns to look at you—fully, closely—he sees something in your expression that stops him.

You trust him. Still. After everything. After Emily. After the months of loss, the aching silence of your grief, the lies he’s carried every day—you still trust him. 

He can’t bring himself to destroy that. Not tonight.

So, he swallows the truth with a sip of wine and says, instead, “Jack told me you caught a frog with him earlier.”

You blink, surprised. “Oh. Yeah. He was very proud. Named it… something ridiculous. Ribby?” You look across the grass, your voice carrying. “Jack, was it Ribby?”

“Sticky Ribby,” Jack calls, helpfully, from deeper in the yard, triumphant. 

You both laugh. The sound burns behind his ribs. 

The moment passes. The truth slips back under the surface.

+++ 1847 hours

Dave watches him for a long moment, then says, “You can’t run hot and cold, Aaron. It’s not fair.”

Aaron’s head lifts just slightly.

Dave holds his gaze. “Not to her. Not to the rest of us. But especially not to her.”

Aaron says nothing. He doesn’t have to.

“She deserves better than half-measures and vanishing acts. If you’re going to leave, then leave. But stop acting like you might stay. It’s done. Just say something.”

The words hit harder than anything else has. Because Dave’s not angry. He’s just right.

Aaron looks down again. His voice, when it comes, is quiet. “We were holding it together. Until Emily. And now…”

“They’re still holding it together,” Dave interrupts. “But she’s keeping it together for you.”

Aaron exhales slowly, but it doesn’t relieve the pressure in his chest.

“You let her grieve one person without warning.” Dave adds. “Don’t make it two.”

Aaron closes his eyes.

+++ april 18th, 2011 0600 hours

There’s a text message waiting for you when your alarm goes off. 

Messages PG-13 (2)

5:46am Scary scary in Jacksonville. 5:46am Boss man says airstrip at 0830 and bring a fresh bag. Debrief en route.

You sigh. Great. Florida. 

+++ 0812 hours

The sun is already too bright when you arrive at the airstrip. The stairs are down. The door is open.

Time to get started.

You trek across the tarmac and board the jet. Hotch is alone at the table, reading. It takes extra effort to keep your breathing steady—no way you're sounding winded in front of someone who runs five miles a day for fun.

“Good morning,” he says without looking up.

You skip the pleasantries. “So, what kind of Floridian nightmare are we walking into?” You stow your bag and sit across from him.

He glances up and realizes it's you. “Oh. Good morning.”

“You already said that,” you remind him, smiling.

“I didn’t see it was you.”

You raise your eyebrows, teasing and light. “And that makes a difference… how?”

He shakes his head. “Never mind.” He checks the file. “Local barge captain called it in. Crew spotted bones coming out of their dredge pipe.”

“Yikes.”

He sighs. “Garcia pulled Jacksonville’s missing persons. It’s not promising.”

“When’d you get the call?”

Read: How long have you been awake? Did you sleep?

“About five this morning,” he replies. 

You don’t see Dave in the kitchenette behind you. He’s been there the whole time. 

“You sleep okay?” you ask. 

Aaron shrugs. “No worse than usual.” 

Dave arches a brow behind you, looking at you meaningfully. The message is clear. 

Come clean. This is the moment.

Hotch ignores him. You tip your head. “You okay?”

Dave gives him a look that borders on smug. Hotch takes a breath. “Actually—I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Dave looks too pleased. You wait.

“So, um…” He clears his throat. (It’s closing on him.) “I’ve been—”

“What is up with traffic this morning?!” Derek barrels in.

You startle and look behind you, catching him, Spencer…

And Dave.

How long has he been there?

Derek throws himself into the chair beside you while Spencer rattles off some traffic statistics from the latest available report (2009, but they’re collecting the data from last year—it’ll be compiled by June, at the latest—or so they say). 

“Anyone heard from Seaver?” Dave asks when everyone settles.

You and Derek check your phones. “No,” you offer. “Should I call her?”

“It’s not 8:30 yet,” Spencer says.

“I’m here!” Ashley stumbles up the stairs, flushed and slightly out of breath.

Hotch patches Penelope in on his laptop, opening his file. “Let’s get started.”

Dave scowls in your periphery. 

+++ 1032 hours

The local PD has a forensic tent set up—tarps, microscopes, tables. Bones are already sorted. Index cards mark each pile. Penelope says anthropologists are en route from the university.

Hotch answers his ringing phone, stepping away and putting Pen on speaker. “What’d you find?”

“A scary math problem,” she replies. “I just finished doing my Jacksonville missing persons sweep. There are six unresolved cases, three of which are kids, and you have nine adult bodies.”

“That’s bad math,” you n0te. “He’s not hunting here.” 

“Widen your search,” Aaron directs. He returns the phone to his ear, taking her off speaker. 

You glance at him. “Forensic countermeasure? Crossing jurisdictions?”

He holds up a hand to finish the call. “Yeah. Will do.” He hangs up. “Maybe. We’ll keep it in mind.”

“Right.”

He looks over your shoulder. “Go help Reid. He looks too excited.”

You slide your sunglasses back on and head toward Spencer.

“What’ve you got, Dr. Reid?”

“Tool marks,” he replies, prompt and thoughtful. “We have some disarticulation here, but it’s not clean.” 

You crouch beside him to get a better look, donning a pair of gloves. “Do we think the unsub had anatomy knowledge?”

“Not necessarily.” Spencer picks up a femur. “If you look at this one, there is trauma to the joint that suggests some kind of manual separation, but if you look on the other side, where it would connect to the hip—” He points. “You see that?”

Your eyebrows raise. “Serrated knife, looks like.”

“Right.” He spots something moving on the remains and wanders off without further explanation. 

You catalogue all the tool marks you can see. It appears that the dismemberment was achieved with a diverse, but not numerous array of tools. Spencer occasionally returns to pull swabs and samples, setting up slides at one of the microscopes. 

Aaron walks over, looming over your shoulder. You hand him your notebook as you write another label on an index card, the forensic anthropology students throwing out parameters as you go. 

“Anything helpful?” He asks.

“We’re running the gamut here—no consistency in victimology so far.”

Aaron hums shortly and leaves you, tapping you with your notebook before setting it down on the tarp beside you.

Spencer, as if activated by Aaron’s proximity, starts talking as soon as he’s in earshot. “You know, based on the parasites on the most recent kill, the unsub killed as recently as a month ago, which means he's still active.”

“How did you establish a timeline so quickly?” Aaron asks.

“By reverse engineering mother nature,” Spencer answers. “Each year, sand and sediment cover up the remains, creating layers on the ocean floor.”

Aaron’s with him. “That makes sense. The deeper the pump dug, the older the remains.”

“Nine victims in nine years means that he's in control of his urges,” Spencer notes. 

“Agent Hotchner,” Detective Foreman says. “Excuse me. We found three more remains.”

+++ 1239 hours

Derek and Ashley join you at the crime scene. You brief them on your findings, Spencer briefs them on his, Aaron gives them a quick orientation. 

When you’re finished, you call Seaver over. “Ashley. C’mere for a second.” 

She hops over, a spring in her step. “Yeah?”

You point at one of the ulnas on a table, labeled MALE, EARLY 30s. “See those tool marks?” 

She nods. 

“What do they tell you?”

She runs through scenarios, impressively accurate in her findings. 

“Good.” You lead her back to Derek and Aaron. “What do both have in common?” 

“Sadism, probably.” 

“Agreed,” you tell her. “We’ll keep it in mind.” 

You miss the pleased, proud look Aaron sends your way. 

The local—Detective Foreman—is talking about something, you’re not sure what, but you fold Ashley in as you step into the impromptu huddle. 

“...No,” Derek assures him that it's not one of his men. “It's most likely another fisherman.”

Foreman looks confused. “Well, how could you know?”

“Come here, I'll show you.” Derek leads him to one of the bodies. “See, he disarticulates the bodies at the joints. It helps them sink. Now, that's a skill that only an experienced butcher or fisherman would have.”

Seaver follows and reaches over, pointing at one of the tool marks you spotted earlier. “The bone nicks indicate this guy inflicted a lot of pain on his victims, which means he's a sadist.”

You’re left alone with Aaron for a moment. 

“Seaver seems to have a handle on things,” he says. There’s a suggestion behind it, but you don’t need to take credit for anything today. 

You wet your lips, crossing your arms. “Mhm.” 

He moves to join Derek, brushing your arm with his as he passes. 

+++ 1404 hours

National news networks and journalists wait with shocking patience for Aaron to finish, gathered on the beach. You know you’re visible in the camera shot, so your face remains neutral on the other side of your sunglasses. 

“We'll be matching DNA to the remains, and it will be helpful for us to have a personal item from each of the missing persons. An article of clothing, a hairbrush, a blanket, a pillowcase, photographs or medical or dental records if you have them.”

Derek’s phone rings. He steps away. You do your best to pull your eyes away from him as he takes the call. 

Aaron keeps going. You hear Ashley behind you, talking to Dave out of the view of the cameras. “Morgan was telling me how difficult these cases can be.” She pauses. “Who did he lose?”

Dave explains. “Some years back, Morgan's cousin fled a stalker. She made it to South Carolina. She was never seen or heard from again.”

“Was it the stalker?” she asks. 

You can almost hear Dave’s shrug. “He killed himself two weeks later, so we never found out for sure. But Morgan's profile led straight to him. So, whenever unidentified female remains turn up… He gets that call.”

+++ 1455 hours

More and more bones appear on the beach. You and Spencer have your work cut out for you, working with the anthro students to sort and identify them, tracking and logging any pertinent evidence (bugs, sand, etc) before they’re cleaned. 

The heat wears on you, and there’s a heavy sheen of sweat on your forehead. The back of your shirt is damp, sticking to your skin as you work, your sleeves rolled. Spencer, of course, looks upsettingly put together and unfazed by the heat, fueled by his focus and interest alone.

“Okay,” he says. “Look at these ones again.” 

You look up and take a breath, swiping your forearm across your brow, blinking some sweat out of your eyes. 

“Whatcha got, Spence?”

“See?” he asks, showing you a radius with a couple of notches. “What do those look like to you?”

“Are those…” You adjust your gloves and take the bone, holding it closer to your face. “Defensive wounds, maybe? Breaks?” 

“That’s what I see, yeah.”

You look up again, checking over your shoulder. You find Aaron talking to one of the barge workers. 

“Hotch!” you call. 

His head whips over to you and you tip your chin, beckoning him over. He nods and holds up a finger. 

“He always responds so fast when you call him,” Spencer says, giving no weight to his comment but that of simple observation. 

You, however, suddenly feel self-conscious. Maybe you should pay more attention. With another breath, you redirect. “Is that environmental damage, or…?”

Aaron walks up as you finish your question, stepping to your side as Spencer replies. 

“Y’know, with that one, the more I work on it the more I question its condition. The ocean floor preserved the other remains remarkably well.” He pauses, looking at you and Aaron in turn. “I think something else caused this?”

Aaron asks, “Could this be the age of these bones compared to the others?” as you ask, “Could that be due to age?” 

You snap your mouth shut to avoid talking over him. He does the same, but for your benefit. Spencer watches this with a nonplussed, focused sort of look, addressing you both at once. “Well, he’s significantly older.” 

He steps over, picking up another bone. “Arthritis in the joints puts him in his late 50s, but that doesn't account for this degree of breakdown.” His mouth twists. “In fact, nothing in the ocean would.”

“Did he tear him apart?” you ask. “That’s a lot of anger.” 

“It’s possible. And look at this,” he replies, showing Aaron the defensive chips and cracks you noted earlier. “This bone has a defensive wound, like he held it up before the blow came down. I think the bone-smashing occurred while the victim was still alive.”

“Overkill,” Aaron says simply. 

“Looks like he had a lot of aggression to work out on this victim,” you note, taking the offered ulna from Aaron.

Aaron nods. “He didn't do that with the others. That would indicate a personal relationship.”

“Father?” you ask.

“That would be my guess,” Spencer says.”And not a good one, based on the low calcium levels consistent with alcoholism.”

It’s your turn for your mouth to twist. “Classic.” You tip your head. “It would be easy for him to overpower his father in a weakened state, if he was old enough or the unsub big enough.” 

Aaron takes a breath as if to speak, but cuts himself off before he can start his original thought. “It’s a good idea.” He checks his watch. “We’ll regroup at the precinct in about a couple of hours.”

As he leaves, you hesitate for a moment, reading more stress than is usually warranted at a crime scene, shaded with something that feels more personal. 

“Just a second, Spence.”

He’s not listening to you anyway, making notes and taking pictures. 

You find Aaron outside the canopied workspace, standing off to the side and staring out at the water with his back to the rest of you, watching the wind play with the whitecaps in the Florida sunshine. His arms are folded, one hand braced at his elbow, his mouth pressed flat in thought.

“Hey,” you say gently, stepping up beside him. “You alright?”

Aaron doesn’t look at you right away. He exhales once through his nose, slow and deliberate. “It’s a good read on the bones, good deductions for the profile,” he says eventually. 

You remain quiet. 

“Yours and Spencer’s,” he clarifies needlessly.

You wait.

“He wasn’t lashing out,” Aaron adds. “He was following a very detailed plan.”

You pretend he’s still talking about your unsub. “So he’s recreating a fantasy, or that script, maybe, with his victims?”

“It’s possible,” Aaron hedges. “Since the father was likely the first kill, he probably hasn’t felt the same release with the rest of the victims.” 

“And yet he continues,” you say, watching his profile carefully. “Chasing the high, maybe?”

“Doesn’t necessarily clarify the victimology though,” he replies, “given the demographics revealed by the skeletons.”

You hum. “Could be a mix of opportunity and impulse, rather than preference, transference, or surrogacy?”

Aaron looks at you, finally, a proud little look on his face. “You’re getting pretty good at this, you know.” 

You shrug, looking away from him as your face heats up. “You’re fishing.”

“Why do you say that?”

You look back at him, a little sideways smile on your face. “I had a good teacher and you know it.”

+++ 1529 hours

He stays where he is after you go, watching the last ripple of your movement settle. There’s still something of your smile in the air, soft and quiet, like the sound of your voice still brushing against the edge of his thoughts.

You’re getting pretty good at this, you know.

He wasn’t fishing. Not really. He meant it. Meant every word. You’re sharp—cutting, even, when you want to be. Gentle when it counts. Clear-eyed in the ways that matter. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he could teach you that. 

You’ve grown, moving through the world like someone who sees everything. It’s terrifying. It’s extraordinary. It steals his breath sometimes.

You’re a better profiler than you realize. Or maybe you do realize it, and you’re just not interested in making anyone else uncomfortable. Either way, you’re good. Not just at the work. At this—this awful, beautiful thing they do.

You don’t just profile people. You know them. You read them. You track the weight of someone’s breath. You build the whole structure of violence against a person from the shape of their attacker’s hatred, their rage, their quietest choices.

And still—you smile. Still, you reach for him.

He’s never been in love with a profiler before. 

He’s loved them, sure. Plenty of them. Spencer, Emily, Dave. Elle. Gideon. People who’ve shaped him and saved him and broken him apart in different, unique ways.

But this? This is something different. Something terrible and extraordinary and so painfully real.

And maybe—maybe—that’s the worst part. That he can’t lie to himself anymore. He’s tried. God knows he’s tried. Told himself it was admiration. Respect. The bone-deep gratitude of someone who owes a life debt.

But that’s not what this is. It hasn’t been that in a long time.

He loves you. And not the way he’s loved before.

This is quieter. Deeper. Less about sweeping, adolescent declarations and more about the way you tilt your head when you listen. The way you never flinch or shy away, not even when he’s at his worst.

It’s not convenient. It’s not even safe.

But it’s real. And it’s his. And maybe that’s what terrifies him most.

Because for all the things he’s learned how to fight for—Jack, justice, the job—he doesn’t know how to fight for this.

For you.

Not without risking everything. So he sits with it. Lets it settle in his chest.

You.

You’re the thing he wants. And he’s about to leave you anyway. And you know. Of course you know. He’s in love with someone who can see right through him.

You know something’s wrong. You know he’s lying. You know he’s dancing around something he won’t say, and still—you don’t ask. You don’t press.

You let him lie to you. 

Because you trust him. You allow him to be cagey and melancholic. Overlook it, even. Because if he had something on his mind, he’d tell you. He always does. 

And that trust—that goddamn quiet, deliberate trust, treated like a given—it’s the cruelest thing of all. Because if you asked, if you turned to him and tilted your head just so and said his name in that gentle voice you get when you’re about to be brave—

He’d tell you everything.

That’s why he hasn’t. That’s why he can’t.

Because he doesn’t have a good reason to go to Pakistan. Not one that wouldn’t collapse like a flimsy house of cards under a single one of your looks. Not one that wouldn’t make your voice break when you ask why he couldn’t stay, why he couldn’t take something closer, less remote. Why he didn’t—doesn’t—trust you.

But he does. He does. Christ, he does.

But if he stays, if he tells you, if he breaks down and lets you in the way he so badly wants to… It all falls apart. Emily’s life, her mission, hangs in the balance. 

So he’ll go.

He’ll pack his lie and disappear behind it. He’ll shut down the part of him that wants you to stop him. He’ll survive it, because he has to. And when it’s done, he’ll face the fallout.

Just not yet.

He sighs, quiet and hollow. Closes his eyes against the wind.

You’re getting pretty good at this, you know.

+++

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[ajoyfulfuture]

waldosia: part i (revised)

a joyful future fic aaron hotchner x gender neutral!reader (no gendered pronouns, no use of y/n)

a/n: and here we go!! this one, absence, and prove it will have to be split into more parts than aimee and i would have liked, but tumblr limitations are a bitch!! please please please enjoy and let me know what you think of the revisions! co-written by @ssaic-jareau links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3 | turn on post notifs!

word count: 8k content warning(s): canon typical violence/discussion of death, language, alcohol consumption, aaron hotchner being a fucking idiot for 30k words part 1

waldosia (n.) - a condition in which you keep scanning faces in a crowd looking for a specific person who would have no reason to be there, as if your brain is checking to see whether they’re still in your life, subconsciously patting its emotional pockets before it leaves for the day.

march 6th, 2011 - march 29th 6x18 “lauren” - 6x20 "hanley waters"

march 6th, 2011 2246 hours

There’s nothing worse than the silence of the waiting room. The air is thick with grief and fear, pressing in from all sides, wrapping around each of you like a vice. 

Spencer paces, hands twitching, eyes snapping to the hallway with every movement. Across the room, Hotch is just as restless—sitting, standing, disappearing down the hall. When he returns, his jaw is locked tight, his face unreadable. 

Seaver sits motionless, perched on the edge of her chair, her bare toes digging into the rough fabric of the seat. She stares into nothing.

Dave is beside her, his elbows braced on his knees, his hands laced together in something like prayer. His lips never stop moving. It’s strange to see him without Emily. Strange, like a limb missing from a body. She’s always there, always at his side, much like Derek and Penelope are now—together in tragedy, a unit even in heartbreak.

Your eyes keep finding Aaron. Even when you’re not looking for him, your gaze drifts back, drawn by the weight of his own fear and grief, the way his forehead is tight with restrained emotion, his mouth a firm, unyielding line. Your instinct is to reach for him, to soothe, to offer something steady or comforting in return. But there’s too much tangled in your ribs, pressing sharp against your lungs.

He catches your eyes, and you pat the seat beside you. 

With a heavy sigh, he lowers himself next to you.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Your voice is quiet, careful not to disturb the fragile stillness of the room.

He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head. You don’t press. Instead, you reach out, slip your hand into the crook of his arm, and after a moment, he covers it with his own. He exhales, slow, measured, and you lean into him, letting the warmth of his presence anchor you. 

Across the room, Derek holds Penelope in much the same way, his arm wrapped tight around her as she rubs slow, absent circles against his chest. 

Emily’s blood is still there, drying in rust-colored smears on his shirt.

If it had been Aaron…

The thought is unbearable, slicing through you with such force that you flinch. Aaron’s arm flexes around your hand.

“Are you alright?” His whisper barely carries between you.

You nod, swallowing thickly. “Just thinking of Derek.”

He takes a deep breath. You know he understands.

“I was just… if it had been—”

He tenses. His hand tightens.

“Don’t.”

The word breaks, fragile and raw. His fingers slip between yours, grounding, steady. The smallest sob catches in your throat, and before you can stop yourself, you turn into him, burying your face in his wool sleeve.

+++ march 7th, 2011 0234 hours

The waiting room is too bright as you stand, waiting for news. Aaron’s pacing in the alcove behind JJ. 

JJ’s voice shakes as she joins the rest of you. “She never made it off the table.”

The air snaps tight. The hum of the fluorescent lights is too loud, the chair beneath you too stiff. JJ’s lashes are wet, Penelope’s hand clutches at nothing, Spencer’s breathing has stopped.

Everything is too sharp and too wrong.

Aaron moves before you do. Or maybe you move first—you don’t know. But suddenly, you’re grasping for something solid, something real. He reaches you in three strides. And he’s there. Warm. Steady. Close.

You don’t even register the way your fingers curl into his lapels, how you lean into his presence like it’s the only thing keeping you from sinking under. 

His arm lingers at your back, steadying you. Slowly, he guides you to the chair on the other side of Penelope, wrapping his coat around your shoulders. You cling to her. She’s sobbing, and you can’t feel a thing as she tucks into you. When you look up again, JJ has her arms around Spencer, who looks much like you.

Broken. Soggy. Weak.

Tired eyes track Aaron as he rounds the corner to the back hallway. JJ finds him a minute later, and you still can’t hear them. 

You can’t hear anything. 

Emily.

+++ 0242 hours

He should stay, just a little longer. But he can’t.

Aaron forces himself to let go.

He steps out of the waiting room before anyone can call his name, his breath sharp as he rounds the corner. There’s no time to think about what this will do to them, to you. They are grieving someone who isn’t dead. And he has to make it real.

JJ is already waiting for him in the hallway, her eyes glassy with exhaustion. He knows she hasn’t been given much more than the broad strokes until now.

Emily might make it. Emily barely made it. Emily is going to make it. They have to move fast. Doyle will come looking.

He’s in control of the deliverables, the execution, from here on out.

She shifts when she sees him, the tension in her frame taut, barely restrained. Never made it off the table, she had told them moments ago, her voice calm, practiced. It had to be. The truth is too dangerous.

Aaron swallows. The weight of it settles deep, cold in his chest. "Tell me everything."

JJ exhales sharply. "She’s stable. They managed to get her back, but just barely. We had to move fast—as soon as she’s out of post-op observation, they’ll send her back to Bethesda under an alias."

He nods once, forcing down the swell of emotion that rises at the confirmation. Emily is alive. For now.

JJ hesitates, fingers gripping the sleeve of her blazer across her ribs. "Hotch, this has to hold. They can’t know. Doyle is still out there, and if they suspect—"

"I know," he says, too quickly, too sharply. His voice drops. "I know."

His pulse hammers against his ribs. He thinks of the team in the waiting room, huddled together in grief, bracing for the true impact of loss, still yet to hit them. He thinks of Spencer’s vacant stare, the way Derek’s jaw flexed as he held himself rigid, the way you staggered under the weight of it. The way you looked at him, desperate for something—anything—to tell you this wasn’t real.

It has to be. At least for now.

He exhales slowly, steadying himself, but the weight in his chest doesn’t ease. JJ’s eyes find his immediately—sharp, focused.

"They’re expecting a body."

Aaron nods, jaw tight. "We’ll handle it."

JJ hesitates, glancing toward the hallway where the team still stands in various states of shock, reeling. "They don’t know. Not even a little."

"They can’t."

It’s not a discussion. It’s not a decision he enjoys making. But it’s the only one that makes sense.

JJ swallows. "They’re going to be devastated, Hotch."

"I know."

His voice is quieter than he means for it to be, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.

The logistics are already unfolding in his mind—transport, security, forging the paperwork, the documents, the bank accounts… ensuring that Emily is safe before Doyle even has the chance to look over his shoulder. It has to be airtight. It has to be perfect.

And it has to be a secret.

His stomach turns at the thought of what this will do to them. To you.

You, standing there in the waiting room, looking at him with trust written all over your face. Trust that he doesn’t deserve right now. Trust that will be broken the second this comes to light.

But it’s the only way.

Aaron straightens his shoulders. "We stick to the story. We protect her."

JJ nods, expression resigned but steady.

She doesn’t like this any more than he does.

But it doesn’t matter.

JJ is giving him time, just a few minutes, enough to make it believable. His steps feel too slow, too deliberate. He’s spent a lifetime keeping his hands steady. But now they curl and uncurl, the tension bleeding through even as his face stays blank.

He rounds the corner. 

Derek looks up first, eyes red-rimmed. "You alright?"

Aaron gives a slow nod. "Had to sign some paperwork. Medical release."

It’s easy. Too easy. He’s spent a lifetime lying by omission, delivering sanitized versions of reality to protect, to shield, to keep his people safe.

It doesn’t make this feel any less wrong.

Then you lift your head, and he nearly falters.

Your expression is hollow, exhaustion pulling at the corners of your eyes, but there’s something else beneath it. Something searching, grasping. You’re looking at him like you need something from him. Like you’re waiting for him to fix this, to make it make sense, to bring her back.

And he could. But he won’t.

Because the only thing worse than this moment is what happens if Doyle finds out she’s alive. Then it could be real.

Aaron tightens his jaw and sits beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours, steady and warm. He takes a talking breath. Swallows it. Exhales. 

He says nothing. You say nothing.

And the lie settles between you, heavy and unbearable.

+++0301 hours

The hospital fades behind you, swallowed by the stillness of the early morning. The roads are empty, the streetlights casting long shadows as Aaron drives. The rumble of the engine is the only sound between you. 

You haven’t said a word since getting in the car. He hasn’t either. Haven’t made a sound, really. 

The silence isn’t comfortable. But it isn’t unfamiliar. It’s heavy—thick with everything left unsaid, with everything that can’t be said. Aaron grips the wheel, his knuckles white, his body knotted with tension as he keeps his eyes on the road.

You sit beside him, staring out the window, hands curled in your lap. You’re holding yourself together with the kind of practiced effort that he recognizes too well. The way you breathe evenly, the way your posture is locked in place, the way you don’t let yourself move—like if you did, even an inch, everything might unravel.

Aaron knows what that feels like.

He watches you from the corner of his eye as he pulls to a stop at a red light. The glow washes over you, illuminating the exhaustion in your face, the grief pooling under your eyes. You’re not crying. You haven’t cried once.

That worries him more than if you had.

“You should get some rest,” he says quietly.

You blink, as if remembering he’s there. You turn your head slightly but don’t meet his eyes. “I will.”

He doesn’t believe you.

The light turns green. For a moment, he considers what he would say if he could. If he were allowed to be honest. If he could do what he’s always done and tell you the truth. 

That it’s not real.

That Emily is alive. That she fought like hell and made it out and that right now, even as you sit here, drowning in grief, she is breathing. That he’s already sorry. That he knows this will break something in you when the truth comes out. That he knows the trust you have in him—the trust you don’t offer lightly—might not survive this.

But all he says is, “I’ll stay if you need me to.”

You shake your head. “You should go get some rest.”

“I don’t mind.”

Please. 

“Aaron.” Your voice is quiet but firm. Finally, you look at him. He forces himself to hold your gaze. “I just—I just need to be alone.”

His jaw tenses. He doesn’t want to leave you alone, not like this, but he also knows there’s no arguing.

He just wishes he could fix it.

You exhale, turning back to the window. “Thanks for the ride.”

The words sound empty. Mechanical.

Aaron’s grip tightens on the wheel.

A few minutes later, he pulls up in front of the hotel. It’s almost shocking that you’re still in Boston. The engine hums as he shifts into park, but you don’t move right away. 

“Do you want me to walk you in?”

You shake your head.

For the first time, something in your face cracks. It’s small—so small that no one else would notice. But he does.

He shouldn’t touch you. Not now. Not after what he’s already chosen. But he does. Just this once.

His hand closes gently around yours, warm and steady.

You don’t pull away.

You just sit there, staring down at your joined hands, your fingers lax against his. After a long moment, you squeeze back, just once.

Then you let go.

You open the door, stepping out into the cold night air, and without looking back, you close it behind you.

Aaron watches as you walk in. 

Then, slowly, reluctantly, he puts the car in drive and pulls away to park. He’s certain he left something behind with you. Maybe it was a piece of his soul. 

+++ march 13th, 2011 1207 hours

The funeral is wretched.

The hearse arrives, black and gleaming, too polished, too final. When Aaron steps forward, you follow, hands already reaching for his wrist, for the crisp edge of his sleeve. His white pallbearer gloves sit stiff against his palms, the buttons still undone.

You don’t ask. You just take his hands in yours and start fastening them, one after the other, slow and careful. You fix his cufflinks, making sure they sit straight. His breath shudders through him beneath your touch. You can feel it—how tightly he’s holding himself together. When you glance up, his eyes are closed.

One of his hands covers yours, gripping just a little too tight.

It’s too soon.

We can’t do this again.

It’s too soon.  

“There’s never enough time,” he murmurs, almost inaudible. His voice is so quiet, you barely hear it over the rustle of wind through the trees.

You squeeze his fingers. You can’t fix this. You can’t stop it from happening. But you can be here.

You smooth out his coat, his collar, the sparse gray hair at his temples, hiding in the thick, soft brown locks, combed back over his ears. Just for a moment, you let yourself take care of him. Eventually, you step back, letting him go.

+++ 1216 hours

He lets you fuss over him, the guilt gnawing at him. The aching tenderness in your touch as you smooth his collar, his coat, run your palm over the hair at his temples. Your eyes track everything with a slightly detached, but fond glint—meeting his with the soft kindness and the devastating assumption that you’re on the same team, that the information you have is the same information he has. 

Steady hands. Even breaths.

Your touch grounds him, opening a yawning hole in his chest where his integrity used to be. Letting you take care of him, mind the details, while he stands here and lies to you is the cruellest thing he’s ever done. 

This is the only way. This is the only way. This is the only way.

Under your touch, he’s not a unit chief. He’s a man—one that is so goddamn tired of losing people.

He’s lost you, too. You just don’t know it yet. 

+++ 1219 hours

You check in with Derek, reaching out with an open hand. He takes it, squeezing tight. You step up to him and he pulls you forward with a gentle, firm yank, wrapping his arms around you. You relax into him, closing your eyes. Derek drops a kiss to your coat, over your shoulder, tucking his face into your collar. 

When you open your eyes, Aaron is watching you, an unreadable expression on his face. 

+++ 1222 hours

He steps forward, and the weight of what he has to do next settles over him like lead.

Derek and Spencer take the first pair of handles, Dave and Anderson the second. Will and Aaron share a look before taking the final pair. His hands grip tight around the handle. It should be heavier. It should crush him. 

It’s not real. It’s not real. 

It is real. 

He and JJ paid the funeral director handsomely from Interpol’s coffers, enough to not ask why the Department of Justice is paying to bury four cinder blocks in a casket. 

None of you will ever forgive him. Not Spencer, not Dave, not Derek—not you. You grieve a woman who lives, whose casket is empty. 

It’s fine. He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven. It’s not real. 

If this was real, it would be his fault, too.

+++ 1224 hours

JJ takes your arm, her grip firm, fingers tightening just slightly when the casket lifts. You don’t look at her, because if you do, if you see the grief in her face, you’ll break. 

Penelope and Ashley trail behind, arm-in-arm.

The whole affair is far too quiet. Far too solemn. This isn’t how Emily should be remembered.

Hotch returns to your side once she’s laid over her grave. He doesn’t say anything. Just offers you a white rose and an arm. You take both, letting your fingers curl into the wool of his coat. Aaron’s other hand crosses his body, covering yours. 

Neither he nor JJ brought the boys. You know better than to ask why.

Two funerals in as many years.

It’s too much for Jack. It’s too much for Henry. It’s too much for all of you.

Jess has them at JJ’s house, keeping them safe. Keeping them away from this.

You glance around at the people in attendance. Familiar faces.

Every single one of them. 

Different agencies, teams, Metro PD, an escort from Boston.  

The only stranger here is Emily’s mother.

She dabs at her face with a handkerchief, and the sight makes something sharp rise in your throat. Spite. Resentment. Something worse.

She doesn’t deserve to be here.

Emily deserved better. Deserved more.

From her mother. From her life.

You tighten your fingers around Aaron’s sleeve, gripping the fabric of his coat in your fist. Even through the wool, he can feel it. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but his own hand flexes where it rests over yours.

His heart breaks. Say something. 

You don’t let go. 

+++ march 15th, 2011 1927 hours

You knock, even though he already knows you're coming.

Derek answers barefoot and underslept, tugging the door open with one hand while rubbing at his eye with the other. There’s a hoodie hanging loose on his frame and a tension in his jaw that hasn’t let up since Emily died.

“Hey,” he says.

You hold up the takeout bag. “Brought dinner.  Sounded like a ‘no groceries’ situation when you called.”

Derek huffs a soft laugh and steps aside to let you in. “You’re not wrong.”

The apartment smells like dust and fabric softener. The lights are dim. There’s a blanket tangled on the couch and a stack of unopened mail on the coffee table. The air feels heavy, but lived in. Quiet.

You set the food down and start unpacking cartons.

He doesn’t say much until you’re both on the couch, chopsticks tapping gently against the edge of the containers.

It takes a while. He’s not the type to open up without prompting. But you know that already.

You break the silence. “You sleeping at all?”

He shakes his head. “Not really.”

You nod. “Yeah. Me either.”

A beat. Then, carefully, “You doing okay?”

Derek exhales, slow. His eyes stay on the TV, which isn’t on. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You don’t respond. You just wait.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I keep thinking about the sound of her laugh. And how it’s gone now. And then I get angry, because I’m still here, and she’s not.”

You nod once, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “I get that.”

He turns to look at you. “You holding it together?”

You shrug. “Not sure.”

He leans back again, lets his head tip against the couch cushion. “I hate this.”

“Yeah.” You pick at your food. “Me too.”

Silence laps gently around you, thick but comfortable.

After a while, you say, “I was thinking… maybe we do this once a week. Standing thing. I’ll bring food, you pick the movie, or vice versa.”

Derek looks over at you. There’s no sarcasm , no teasing. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, soft.

“I know,” you say. “But I want to.” A beat. “I kind of have some practice with this, you know.” 

He knows you’re talking about Haley. About Hotch. He resists the urge to bristle, knowing he doesn’t need your help like Hotch did. That he’s stronger than that. 

But maybe he wants your company. He does.

Another beat.

He nods. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do that.”

You nudge your foot against his under the table. “I’ll even let you pick the movie first.”

“Damn,” he says, a flicker of a smile breaking through. “It must be serious.”

You smile back, just barely. “Deadly serious.”

And just like that, something eases in the room.

It doesn’t make the grief go away. It doesn’t fix anything.

But it gives you both somewhere to put it, for a little while.

+++ march 18th, 2011  0746 hours

You forget, for a moment, how quiet the bullpen is when it’s early.

Your keycard beeps at the door. You offer a thin smile to security as you pass. The elevator dings. Your shoes tap softly down the hallway. And for a split second, before you step into the space, you pretend it’ll be like it always was.

But when you round the corner—

Emily’s desk is empty.

Not just empty—cleared.

No scarf tossed over the back of the chair. No half-used travel mug. No stack of books with frayed Post-Its and loose paperclips. Just a clean surface and the faint outline of where her monitor used to sit.

You stop. Mid-step.

The sound of the bullpen rushes back in around you—muffled voices from upstairs, the distant whirr of the copier, the low hum of Garcia’s music down the hall. You wonder exactly how long you’ve been standing there. 

But none of it touches you. Her absence hums louder.

Someone cleared her desk. You suspect it may have been Aaron. The thought makes your stomach clench.

You take another step, then another. You’re halfway to your own desk before you realize your hand is still in a fist, your knuckles bloodless.

New files are waiting for you in a neat stack. There’s a sticky note in Spencer’s handwriting—

Welcome back. Let me know if you want to switch off on the consult. I gave you Maine.

You nod once, to no one.

It’s not until you sit down that you notice Aaron’s office light is already on.

He’s standing behind his desk, reviewing something, back to the window. Like always.

You blink. Your eyes drift back to Emily’s desk.

Something in your chest pulls tight, high and sharp like a wire drawn taut.

You don’t cry.

You pull the first file toward you and start to read.

+++ march 22nd, 2011 2106 hours

The door clicks open just after nine.

You don’t knock anymore.

Aaron looks up from the couch, the book in his hands forgotten. The lamp beside him glows soft and low, casting long shadows across the living room. Jack’s at Jessica’s. The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You step in like you’re unsure whether you mean to stay.

There’s a delay between your entrance and your movement—like your body arrived before your mind did. You’re wearing an old sweatshirt, jaw tight like you’ve been clenching it all day.

He watches you hover near the entry table, toe your shoes off, then cross the room in slow steps. You sit across from him, but you don’t quite sit. You collapse—shoulders caving, arms curled around yourself, knees tucked up, making yourself small. Too small.

Aaron sets the book down, spine open on the cushion. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t reach for you.

You speak first.

“I went to the grocery store today.” It comes out flat. “I saw someone who looked like her. Same coat. Same hair, same…” Your voice trails off. “I almost called out. And then I didn’t. And then I did. And it wasn’t her.”

Aaron’s chest tightens.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you whisper, eyes fixed on the middle distance. “I go to work, I come home, I try to sleep. Nothing feels real.”

You swipe at your face with your sleeve.

“I thought I’d be angrier than this,” you murmur. “Or colder. But mostly, I just… I miss her.”

Aaron still doesn’t speak. His voice would break if he tried.

You look over at him then—raw eyes and bitten lip, trying to hold it together for no one but yourself.

“I know it’s not just me. I know you’re going through it too.” You huff out a humorless, broken laugh. “We both are.”

And that’s what shatters him.

Because you mean it. You’re crumbling, barely able to breathe under the weight of it, and you still make space for him. You still carry his pain.

He leans forward, slow and deliberate. Holds out his arms like a question.

You go without hesitation. You fall into him, tucking yourself into him, burying your face in his chest.

The second his arms wrap around you, you break.

It’s not the silent, careful kind of crying you do at work. This is deeper. Older. Your whole body shakes as the sobs tear their way out.

Aaron holds you tighter, pulling you into his lap to cradle you like a child. One hand holds your head to his shoulder, the other curls protectively around your waist, his hand flat against the back of your ribs. He presses his lips to your temple and says nothing.

Because he doesn’t deserve to speak.

Because he doesn’t deserve to hold you, not like this.

But you’re not pulling away. You’re clutching him like he’s the only solid thing in your world. And that ruins him all over again.

You cry until your breath runs ragged, until the tremors slow, until the exhaustion of it drags you under.

Eventually, you fall asleep in his arms.

Aaron just sits there.

He holds you long after your breathing evens out. Long after his arms go numb. Long after the guilt in his chest turns into something colder, something heavier.

He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t move. He just stares at the wall, the weight of you against him.

You have no idea what I’ve done to you.

+++ march 25th, 2011 1832 hours

Derek has a drink in his hand, but he hasn’t taken a sip in at least ten minutes.

You’re tucked into the couch beside him, legs curled under you, a bowl of popcorn half-forgotten in your lap. Jack is nestled against you, heavy with sleep, his little fingers curled in your shirt.

Dave is across from you, nursing a scotch and pretending not to watch. Aaron is on your other side, posture relaxed but watchful.

The movie playing on Dave’s enormous television is one of Jack’s favorites—one you’ve seen so many times you could recite half the dialogue in your sleep. The bright colors and cheerful voices feel incongruous against the weight in the room.

Derek stares at the screen without seeing it. You nudge his knee—nothing. So you reach across and steal his drink.

He huffs. “Really?”

“Really.” You smack your lips, making a face. “Too much whiskey, not enough coke.”

Aaron exhales softly—amused. You don’t even have to look to know he’s shaking his head.

Derek shakes his head too, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “That was a full drink, you know.”

You hand it back. “And now it’s seasoned.” 

A breath of laughter—so quiet you barely hear it. But it’s something.

Aaron shifts beside you, reaching for the remote. “We don’t have to watch this,” he offers. “We can put on the game.”

Derek shrugs. “Nah. Jack likes it.”

Jack is asleep.

You and Aaron exchange a look. Dave exhales through his nose.

Derek catches it. “What?”

“Just,” you say, adjusting Jack against you, “I feel like Emily would give you a lot of shit for pretending you don’t like Disney movies.”

That gets him.

He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face, shaking his head. “She totally would,” he mutters.

You bump his shoulder with yours, murmuring, “She’d be so fucking annoying about it.”

That earns you a real laugh—small and hoarse, but real. 

His first one since… well. 

“She’d never let it go,” Derek agrees.

“She’d start sending you trivia. Facts. Unhinged analysis. Links to conspiracy theories about Walt Disney frozen in the basement.”

“Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head again.

There’s something lighter about it, though. You squeeze his arm, letting the moment breathe.

Jack sighs in his sleep, shifting slightly, and Aaron shifts too—silent, steady, just here.

Dave clears his throat and moves to pour another drink. “So, poker after this?”

Derek hums, stretching his legs out. “Only if you’re ready to lose.”

You smirk. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s gonna happen.”

Aaron huffs, shaking his head.

The air feels just a little less heavy. And for now, that’s enough.

+++ march 28th, 2011 1117 hours

You shout and whistle at all the right times, remembering all too well what it felt like to stand where she is now—hot lights, stiff uniform, nerves humming under your skin like electricity. When the applause breaks out, you add your own with sharp, proud hands.

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where you and Hotch share a look. A smile.

Almost normal.

“Remember that?” you ask, nodding toward Seaver. She’s radiant, practically glowing, her certificate clutched in one hand as she finds her family in the crowd.

He nods, faint amusement in his eyes. “Do you?”

You snort. “Please. How could I forget?” The day lives rent-free in your memory. The chaos, the speeches, the pressure—and Hotch, steady as anything, handing you your award with that quiet, unreadable expression.

You’ll remember it forever.

“Glad I made an impression,” he says, dryly.

You elbow him, careful but deliberate. “Oh, it wasn’t you. It was your son.”

That earns you the eyebrow—the full, sharp arch of surprise and suspicion.

You just grin. “You never stood a chance.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close.

+++ march 29th, 2011 1618 hours

The call came in fast. None of you were ready for a major case, not really. 

It’s one of the first big cases since you’ve been back at work, the yawning absence of JJ and Emily threatening to eat you whole, one more permanent than the other. 

You hate this—obviously, the idea of Aaron going adding himself to a hostage situation with a volatile unsub—but he’s the only person for it. The only one who’s had a child in mortal peril. The only one who can talk to this grieving woman in a language she understands. 

“I’m leaving my mic open,” he says, unbuckling the straps. 

You flash a tight, fleeting smile. “I know.”

“I’ll be careful.” His eyes search yours, steady, certain, as he passes you the kevlar. 

You snort, the sound belying your anxiety. “Says the man who just handed me his vest.”

“I’ll call to collect later.” His eyes hold yours, the moment stretching in the short seconds of your exchange. “Don’t go far. I’ll see you soon.” 

Your mouth presses into a thin line as you gather his vest in your arms, holding it to your chest. You back up a couple of steps, joining Derek, Spencer, and Seaver on the other side of the car. 

“I can put that away for you, kid.” Derek holds out a hand. 

You shake your head. “No, thank you.” Your grip tightens, fingers curling into the fabric.

Your eyes track Aaron as he disappears through the back door, his blue button-down flashing in the restaurant’s window. No vest. No cover. Just his voice, his steadiness, his certainty against the uncertainty of a woman who’s already shot, like, eight people today.

Heroes.

Your mind flashes—Jack, wide-eyed and beaming, dressed as his father for Halloween.

The weight of the vest in your arms feels heavier. Your earpiece comes alive. 

Your unsub is disoriented, so blinded by grief she’s confused by the moving world around her. On some level, you can relate. The losses piling up on your mind have wreaked havoc on your internal landscape. 

“....My name is Aaron Hotchner. I'm with the FBI. And I know it's Damion's birthday, and I just want to tell you how sorry I am for what happened.”

She turns her gun on him and you change your mind, dropping his vest through the open SUV window. You need your hands free. You tuck your thumbs into your vest at your shoulder, restless.

“What... what's going on?” Shelly asks. 

Don says, “It's ok. He's here to help.”

“No... nobody helps.” She pauses, turning on Aaron again. “You... you...You don't know a thing about Damion”

Aaron says, kind and gentle, with that soft, analytical set of his eyebrows. You know that look. He’s used it on you before. “I know he was a happy and confident little boy.”

Shelly hesitates, but becomes agitated. “H-how... how could you know that?”

Be careful, Aaron. 

“I have a picture of him,” Aaron replies, holding the photo out to her, “standing next to you. You're holding his hand and he's smiling. He's not... Hiding behind you like some children do.” 

Your lips turn up. Like Jack used to. 

He continues. “It tells me that you encouraged him and you gave him a lot of confidence.”

“That picture, it doesn't belong to you.”

You have a newfound confidence in your training and experience because you guess his tactic a moment before he demonstrates. 

Offer to give it back. Good faith. Build trust. 

“I know. That's why I want you to have it back.”

“Wait…” Shelly says, “no... how did you…”

Aaron redirects with an enviable deftness, looking past her to the family at the table. “You turning seven today, Sam?” 

He ignores Shelly’s half-questions, addressing her directly. “That's not much older than Damion. I know you don't want to scare Sam, so they're gonna leave now.”

You get ready to receive the hostages, rounding the car with Spencer. The manager, a nervous young man, leads the other family out smoothly and you take over. 

Sam and his parents are only a little frantic and hurried, and you shepherd them to the back of one of the vans, offering some water and a place to sit while the local LEOs take their statement. 

Aaron’s voice is the soundtrack to your work. Isn’t it always?

“Don,” he says. “I found this picture of you and Damion. It's clear who his hero was.”

You rest your hands on your knees so you’re eye level with Sam. “Are you feeling okay, Sam? Are you dizzy or anything?” 

He shakes his head. You offer a tight smile to his parents, who look grateful. You return to the car. 

“I know you blame yourself, and you shouldn't. And, Shelly, all the hurt that you might inflict on people is not gonna bring him back.”

“They forgot,” she says. “Everyone forgot.”

“Believe me,” Aaron replies, “everyone who tried to save him that day isn't gonna forget. It's the day they failed. They'll ask themselves what they could have done.”

Oh Aaron. 

You know he’s not just talking about Damion now. It’s the clearest verbal communication you’ve ever received about Haley, his own failure to save her and how he understands and copes with his failure.

And he’s right. You haven’t forgotten and to this day, you replay it over and over and wonder what you could have done differently. 

Maybe this time I’ll make it. I’ll drive fast enough or figure it out sooner. 

Or, or, or. It’ll drive you mad if you let it.

Taking a breath, you watch. And you wait.

+++ 1728 hours

You find your way to the back bumper of one of the SUVs once the scene is fully quiet. The worst is over. Techs are moving methodically. The rest of the team is scattered within earshot but not focused on you. They all know better.

Aaron leans back against the rear quarter panel, arms loose at his sides like he hasn’t remembered to put them to use yet. He’s still too still. That’s how you know he’s exhausted.

You step into the space in front of him, wrap your arms around his waist, and press in. He lets out a breath the moment you touch him, arms coming up to circle you automatically. Your cheek rests over his chest, just under his shoulder. 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to speak right away.

You stay there, pressed in close, letting the weight of it all bleed off both of you.

After a minute, he says, voice low, “I’m sorry I scared you.”

You don’t lift your head. “You didn’t.”

“Don’t,” he murmurs.

You nod against him. “Okay. You did.”

He presses his cheek to your head—more to ground him than actual affection. “I shouldn’t have—”

“You should have,” you interrupt gently and pick your head up. “Aaron. You did exactly what needed to be done.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Just holds you a little tighter.

You shift slightly so your mouth is near his collarbone, voice quiet. “You did a really good job.”

His fingers curl a little at your back. 

“And for the record, I’m scared of everything right now,” you admit. “But not because of you.”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. Just breathes in, chest lifting under your cheek, his whole frame settling like your words cracked something open in him and let the air back in.

“You ready for the assessment when we get back?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” you answer. 

“We can do it another day—we’ll probably be back after-hours.” 

“I have nowhere else to be.” 

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

Across the way, Dave is directing someone toward the vehicle logs. Spencer is absorbed in cross-referencing witness statements. Derek glances over once, clocks the two of you, then turns away again.

Nobody interrupts.

Nobody asks.

And nobody dares tell either of you to move.

+++ 1954 hours

“The assessment is routine. You’ll have another with the bureau psychologist, but this one is for our direct chain of command,” Aaron says, rote. “I can still have one of the other supervisors do it if you’d prefer.”

You shake your head, swiping at your nose with your tissue. You’ve been in tears or near-tears since you returned to the office, for some reason. “It’s fine.” You swallow, balling the tissue in your hand. “I want you to do it.”

You want him to do it because you need to know where you actually stand, how you’re actually doing. Because if anyone can see through you, it’s Aaron. If he tells you you’re fit for duty, then maybe—just maybe—you’ll believe it.

There’s something soft in his gaze as he watches you sniffle. “How are you?”

That’s a loaded question.

You pause. “That’s a loaded question.”

“I know.”

You take a breath that catches in the middle. “I miss her. It’s not the same.” You chew on the inside of your lip. “I miss her, but I also miss who we were—together as a team—before she died.”

He sits quietly, open and attentive. His eyes mirror the grief in your own.

And maybe that’s why you let yourself answer honestly. Because it’s him.

You wouldn’t let anyone else see you like this. This broken, this raw, this grief-stricken. Not JJ, not Derek, not even Dave. You’ve let them see the edges of it—the frustration, the exhaustion, the occasional lapse in composure—but not this. Not the way it actually feels, the way it pulls at you like an undertow, dragging you deeper with every breath.

But Aaron’s already seen you this way. You shared it with him before, you share it with him now. 

He’s seen you shattered, reeling, struggling to catch your breath in the aftermath of Haley’s death. But the truth is—he wasn’t the one holding you together.

You held him.

You were the one who steadied him when his world caved in. You were the one who kept him moving when grief threatened to consume him whole. You had anchored him in ways neither of you ever spoke about, because there wasn’t time—not for yourself, not for your own grief. Because your grief had to wait.

And now—now, it’s clawing out of you, overwhelming you, all at once.

You hesitate, fingers twisting the tissue in your hands. “It’s just—it’s worse this time.”

Aaron’s brows pull together, concern flickering across his face. “Why? Because it’s Emily?”

You swallow. “Because it’s both of them.” Your voice is quieter now, reluctant. “It’s just—it’s all building on itself. And JJ’s gone, too. I—I didn’t want to say anything, especially to you, because it feels ridiculous.” You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “She was your wife, Aaron. I have no right—”

His expression hardens in understanding, but it’s not at you—it’s at the thought itself. Haley. “That’s not how grief works.” His voice is firm, insistent. “You lost her, too. She loved you. You were—are her friend.”

You nod, looking down at your lap, but the shame lingers. 

It’s selfish, isn’t it? To fold Haley into this when what you lost with her is nothing compared to what he did. But still—Emily’s death ripped the wound wide open, tore through the parts of you that had only just started to heal.

Or maybe—maybe they never really healed at all. Maybe you never let them. Because you were so focused on holding him up that you never realized how fast, how deep, you were sinking, too.

And now it’s too much. Now it’s all hitting you at once. Now, when you don’t know how to make sense of any of it.

Aaron watches you carefully, waiting, the way he always does when you’re trying to untangle something. He watches you carefully, waiting—not pushing, not demanding—just there, the way he always is.

And maybe that’s why you let yourself say it. Because if anyone understands, it’s him. Because even after everything—even after Emily, after Haley, after all of it—he’s still here. Still steady. Still Aaron.

And in some terrible, twisted way, that makes it easier to breathe because it means you don’t have to pretend with him now. At least in this regard.

You trust him with this—with the part of you that’s unraveling under the weight of Emily’s loss, the part that doesn’t know how to move forward when everything feels unsteady.

Aaron is quiet for a long moment, and for once, you don’t rush to fill the silence.

Then, finally—softly—he says, “I leaned on you too much.”

You blink, caught off guard. You let your question, your response, die on your lips. 

Is this part of the assessment?

“I relied on you,” he continues, and there’s something in his voice—something raw, something bordering on regret. “After Haley, after everything—” He stops, shakes his head slightly. “I should have seen that you weren’t okay. I should have known.”

“N—“ your objection gets swallowed in your throat and you fall silent. 

You stare down at your hands, twisting the tissue between your fingers. You don’t know what to say. You’ve never thought of it like that—never considered that he would see his grief as something that took something from you.

But now that he says it—of course it did. Because you didn’t heal. Not really. The team kept going, life moved forward—and you let it. You let it rush over you like a current, let it pull you along because stopping meant drowning.

And now, Emily.

You swallow, voice barely above a whisper. “I never wanted you to see that.”

His jaw tenses. “I should have anyway.”

You take a breath. “It’s not your fault.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just watches you, watches through you, eyes steady and unreadable. And then, finally, he nods, just once. A silent concession. You know he doesn’t believe it. However, his acceptance of it settles something in your chest.

And so you straighten, pressing your hands flat against your thighs. You force yourself to meet his gaze. You are okay. You will be okay. You have to be.

So when you finally speak, your voice is stronger. He softens when you puff up a bit, a fond deepening of his dimple appearing. 

“I can do my job, obviously. I haven’t, and I won’t, have any issues in the field that could impact our functioning, so—” you take a breath, steadying yourself, “as far as my fitness for duty goes, I defer to your judgment. I know that I can keep going.”

Aaron exhales slowly. “All that said, where are you in the processing of it?”

You sniff and offer him a watery, sardonic smile. “Are you asking about which stage of grief I’m in?”

“If that’s the direction you want to take with your answer.” It’s interesting, he thinks, that you and Derek approached it the same way. 

“Very clinical. Very good, counselor.”

“Not that kind of counselor,” he reminds you. His hand twitches—like he wants to reach for you but thinks better of it. “But I’m here.”

Aaron is here.

It’s the one certainty you have left.

“I know,” you reply simply. “I think you’ve had enough exposure to how I am, off the record, for your report, right?”

“I do, but I also need to perform the formal assessment, and it would be better if you had some input.”

“What are your findings?” you ask, resting your chin on your hand.

His lips twitch in an almost-smile. “That’s cheating.”

“It’s not. It’s tactical knowledge acquisition.”

“So, cheating?”

You purse your lips. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Obviously, your sense of humor is still intact,” he says, a real smile breaking through.

“As long as I can make you laugh, I’m doing okay.” The two of you share something in your look—something unspoken, something you’d rather not think too hard about or discuss in any meaningful way. “But really. What do you have?”

He sighs and leans forward. “You’re doing a remarkable job supporting your team’s leadership—”

Read: him.

“—with the challenge of guiding a team in crisis. Your decision-making has been balanced and trustworthy, and you take time when you need it. Your grief has only marginally impacted your day-to-day functioning, and I have no related concerns about your work in the field.”

“Related concerns?” you ask, only half-teasing. “Do you have unrelated concerns?”

His expression softens. “No. You’re doing very good work.”

“Thank you, sir.” Your response is quiet, and you find yourself unable to meet his eyes. You’re genuinely touched by his sincerity. It’s not that he isn’t genuine with praise in the field—not even a little bit—but it’s rare he gets to tell you directly what he thinks of you.

Silence lingers. You can hear the clock ticking on the wall, someone walking past the window on the bridge.

“Do you want to stay with the unit?”

“What?” You look up from your hands, your brows drawn together. You heard him, but you don’t understand.

“There will be changes coming to the unit, and I need to know if you would like to voluntarily move or if I am going to fight on your behalf to keep you here.” His voice is careful, measured. “The Bureau may not let me.”

He stops, his mouth pressing into a thin line. For a moment, something flickers across his face—hesitation, uncertainty, regret. Like there’s more he wants to say. But he doesn’t.

Fight on my behalf. Fight for me.

The thought is painful, and you take a sharp inhale, letting it out slowly. “I’m sorry. This is just…a lot.”

“I understand.” His eyes meet yours, and everything in you wants to fold into him, to go back to Berry Hill, when one of your closest friends wasn’t dead and everything was easy. He looks so desperately sad, unfathomably so. It makes your chest hurt.

You pull it together, folding your hands in your lap and returning his pained gaze with a determined one of your own. “I want to stay. I love my work, and I love this team.”

I love you.

He nods, threading his fingers together as he puts his weight on his elbows, resting on his knees. “If the team were to change—maybe significantly—would you have the same answer?”

“Are you staying with the unit?” you ask. The attempt to make it a casual inquiry fails. You hear the meaning in your own voice—that your decision is entirely reliant on his presence here, as your anchor.

His head drops. So does your stomach.

He takes a moment to answer, and you see it—his thumb worrying his middle finger.

He’s nervous. He’s about to lie.

“I don’t know,” he answers, looking back at you. “I will do everything I can to stay, but I don’t know what the transition is going to look like.”

You study him. He holds steady, mostly, but his jaw twitches. His eyes flicker with something else.

And you choose to believe him. Of course you do. You always do.

Aaron feels the weight of it settle in his chest.

That’s going to make it worse.

“I want to stay as long as you’re unit chief.”

Aaron exhales slowly. He almost tells you, right then. But something traps it in his throat. He can’t.

“Strauss will accept that answer,” he tells you, voice tight. “But politically speaking, it won’t protect you from her or anything above her.”

You decide to be honest. “I don’t really care about the political implications.” You pause. “Is that a good enough answer?”

He holds your gaze. You feel studied, but in an affectionate, soft way.

“It is.”

+++

<< previous chapter masterlist next chapter>>

[ajoyfulfuture]

a joyful future. masterlist.

aaron hotchner x gender neutral!reader aaron hotchner x female!reader

a joyful future is co-written by @ssaic-jareau​ and beta’d by @duchesschameleon

stats

most recent masterlist update: august 5th, 2025 total word count: 613k (including unpublished work)

uses of “y/n”: ZERO. and it will never be higher than that!!!

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current posting schedule

archive of our own

inspo blog + media folder

dm me for nsfw inspo blog @ if and only if you are over 18.

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✸ contains 18+ content ✦ contains suggestive/sensitive content ▶ episode fics on the to-write list ☎ podfic link ✂ director’s commentary link (meta & deleted scenes) ◎ digital media

unpublished fics are finished but not yet posted! coming soon indicates there is a posting schedule for that chapter!

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Keep reading

[ajoyfulfuture]

a joyful future. update schedule.

updated: july 31, 2025 scheduled through: december 23rd, 2025

wednesday, august 6th - waldosia: part i

sunday, august 10th - waldosia: part ii

wednesday, august 13th - waldosia: part iii

tumblr is bumming me out and won't let us post these in the parts/section amounts we wanted. waldosia, absence, and prove it will need to be split into more parts than we originally intended

wednesday, august 20th - absence: part i

sunday, august 24th - absence part ii

wednesday, august 27th - absence: part iii

wednesday, september 3rd - mean it (nsfw)

wednesday, september 10th - prove it: part i (nsfw)

sunday, september 14th - prove it: part ii (nsfw)

wednesday, september 17th - reflecting

wednesday, september 24th - twice

wednesday, october 1st - schoolyard politics: part i

wednesday, october 8th - schoolyard politics: part ii (7x01)

sunday, october 12th - as you like it (7x01)

wednesday, october 15th - reinstated

wednesday, october 22nd - the bubble (nsfw)

wednesday, october 29th - published (nsfw)

sunday, november 2nd - 43rd (nsfw)

wednesday, november 5th - recollection

sunday, november 9th - goodbye stranger

wednesday, november 12th - space: the final frontier

wednesday, november 19th - healed

wednesday, november 26th - command presence

wednesday, december 3rd - bear arms

sunday, december 7th - let me (nsfw)

wednesday, december 10th - observations

wednesday, december 17th - friendly fire (7x09)

saturday, december 20th - just because (nsfw)

tuesday, december 23rd - soft spot (7x10)

[ajoyfulfuture]

🌹 from a chapter you’re very eager to share bc y’know it’ll cause chaos (up to you if that’s good or bad chaos *evil laugh*)

under a cut because we’re rocking with some smutty bits!

send me a 🌹 for a line (or four) from a wip or unreleased chapter! (nsfw up for grabs as well!)

You hum, teasing, sinful. “Y’know,” you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the base and stroking him once, slow, “it probably says something about me—not sure if it’s good or bad—that I’d get on my knees and let my boss fuck my mouth after a 14 hour work day… knowing I don’t want a damn thing out of it but the pleasure of his company.”

Aaron’s chest rises sharply, his jaw flexing. “Jesus,” he breathes.

[ajoyfulfuture]

🌹 send me whatevveeerrr you want

You toss your hands in the air. “Then fine, I’ll go take your bed, since nobody’s sleeping in it.”

“Be my guest.” He pauses. “Is New Boy gonna be cool with you bunking with Hotch?”

“Oh, fuck off, Derek.” With a huff, you put your pajama pants on and grab your bag, stuffing your toiletries into one of the pockets.

—from sightlines (7x09 episode fic), november 2011

send me a 🌹 for a line (or four) from a wip or unreleased chapter!

[ajoyfulfuture]

🌹 mean it era please! hotch who got his girl 🥹

“I used to sit across from you on the plane,” he says, “and make myself look at the case file just to avoid staring at your mouth when you chewed your pen cap.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, a little guilty. “You always did it when you were thinking hard. You’d chew the side of it, then prop it against your lip.”

You’re speechless for a second. And then you laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he says, all mock solemnity. “It was… distracting.”

—from reflecting, october 2011

send me a 🌹 for a line (or four!) of a wip or unreleased chapter!

[ajoyfulfuture]

🌹 please if you have anything with Jack!! the og hotcher baby 🥺

From the hallway, Aaron stands, still and quiet, eavesdropping without shame. He can see the curve of your back, the tilt of your head, the way Jack is completely melted into you, pliant and cradled in your lap. When you look down at his son with that kind of warmth—like he’s the most precious thing in the world—it knocks the wind out of him.

—from gremlins (1984), july 2012

send me a 🌹 for a line (or four!) of a wip or unreleased chapter!

[ajoyfulfuture]

🌹🤍 can we get anything from pre-mean it era? 👀 all that yearning has to go somewhere

His palms cover yours, guiding.

“Start here,” he says, voice low. “Wide end over the narrow.”

You follow, quiet, obedient (for once) in a way that makes his breath catch.

“Now under. Back around.”

— from tied, february 2011

send me a 🌹 for a line (or four!) from a wip or unreleased chapter!

[ajoyfulfuture]

🌹🌹 do you have anything from the mean it era? 👀

You shift slightly in his arms and say, light, casual, “So… do I live up to the hype?”

Aaron doesn’t even blink.

“You’re fishing,” he says immediately, deadpan.

“Are you going to indulge me?”

“I might.”

—from reflecting, october 2011

send me a 🌹 for a line (or four!) of a wip or unreleased chapter!

[ajoyfulfuture]

🌹

And the part that’s been clawing at him for weeks—is that you do. You know something’s wrong. You know he’s lying. You know he’s dancing around something he won’t say, and still—you don’t ask. You don’t press.

You let him lie to you.

You allow it. Overlook it. Because if he had something on his mind, he’d tell you. He always does.

—from waldosia (revised), april 2011

send me a 🌹 for a line (or four!) of a wip/unreleased chapter!

[ajoyfulfuture]

stillness.

a joyful future fic Aaron Hotchner x GN!reader

a/n: happy thursday!! love love love the idea of aaron driving home from the angel maker case, and i know lots of you wanted to see some early years stuff! some of you may have also caught this on ao3!

word count: 2.9k warnings: none!

co-written by @ssaic-jareau, without whom none of this would be possible

summary: “le vrai est trop simple, il faut y arriver toujours par le compliqué." ("the truth is too simple: one must always get there by a complicated route.") — george sand, correspondence. june 30th, 2008

ao3 | taglist | masterlist currently under construction!

+++

The beds are across from each other, not too far. Just enough space to make it feel deliberate, even in this tiny room. You’re tucked into the far one, the lamp clicked off with a satisfying snap, leaving only the dim gold of the bathroom night light spilling through the cracked door.

Aaron's already lying down. One arm folded under his head. His body still.

“Good night,” he says, voice low.

“Good night,” you echo.

The silence is immediate. Whole. Like something settling between you rather than stretching.

You stare at the ceiling. It would be easy to fall asleep like this. Safe. Steady. Tired down to the bones. But neither of you does. Not yet.

A minute passes. Maybe more.

Then, softly, “Thank you.”

You turn your head on the pillow. “You already said that.”

“I meant it both times.”

You smile to yourself in the dark. “You’re welcome. Both times.”

Another pause. Then, quieter, he says, “You startled me a little.”

You glance toward the faint shape of him. “At the house?”

“At the cemetery,” he clarifies. “When it got loud. When I—” He doesn’t finish it.

You do. “Folded.”

A beat. “Yeah.”

You nod against the pillow. “You can still hear. That’s what matters.”

You hear him shift slightly. The creak of sheets. Then nothing.

Eventually, he murmurs, “Thank you. I didn’t expect you to do that.”

You’re still. Not because you’re surprised. But because you know it feels like a huge risk to say it out loud. “I didn’t think,” you assure him. “I just...did it.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why.”

The silence after that is longer. Fuller.

You breathe in once, slow. Out again. And you say the only thing you can. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But you feel the weight of his agreement in the dark.

Not a vow. Not a confession. Just a shared truth, resting between two beds.

And then, finally, his voice again—barely audible. “Sleep well.”

“You too.”

And this time, you both mean it.

+++

It’s a rare thing, waking up warm and rested. The sheets are cheap and over-bleached, the bed isn’t yours, and the window unit hums like it’s been running since 1997. But none of that seems to matter. Your body feels like it slept—all the way through, no jolts, no middle-of-the-night startles.

Across the room, Aaron is still in bed, one arm folded under his head, the blanket askew. He’s already awake. You can tell by the shape of his breathing. Slow, steady. Quietly observant.

You don’t say anything.

You just sit up and stretch, rubbing your eyes. He shifts slightly, and the mattress creaks.

“Morning,” you murmur.

He nods once. “Morning.”

There’s a peaceful silence, and then, from your side of the room, “I slept like the dead.”

That gets a real sound out of him—something between a laugh and a hum. “Me too.”

You look at him. “Seriously?”

He sits up, slow, presses a hand to the back of his neck. “That hasn’t happened in...months.”

You can’t help but watch him in the streaky light from the window, only half-covered by the curtain. His hair is floppy, the t-shirt he wears rounding out an entirely foreign sight.

You shake your head. “Me either.”

It’s a simple thing, but it feels like a win. Something unremarkable and quietly extraordinary.

+++

The motel lobby smells like burnt coffee and powdered eggs, but it’s warm and quiet. A rack of individually wrapped muffins sits beside a plastic bin of apples that all look a little bruised. There’s one waffle maker.

Aaron hands you a styrofoam cup and lifts a brow. Coffee?

You nod. “Absolutely.”

You sit across from each other at a two-top tucked into the corner of the room. His hair is still damp from a quick shower, and he’s wearing a soft long-sleeve shirt and jeans that make him look more like a dad on a road trip than your unit chief.

You poke at your yogurt container. “Do you think it’s suspicious when breakfast is served exclusively in plastic and foil?”

Aaron raises his cup. “Only if you’re expecting it to be good.”

You grin. “Fair.”

He takes a bite of an oatmeal bar and watches you for a beat, quiet. Thoughtful.

“You seem better today,” he says. “Less stressed.”

You nod, surprised by the honesty of your answer. “I feel better today.”

He tilts his head. “Because it’s over?”

“Because you let me keep you company.”

He blinks. Not because he’s startled—but because he’s processing it, letting it settle where it belongs.

“You’re not used to people saying that,” you note.

“I’m not used to people meaning it,” he says.

You shrug. “Well. Get used to it.”

+++

You refill your coffee before heading out. He warms up the car. You stand beside him at the trunk, go bags tossed back in place. The morning, mountain air is crisp, even in the summer sunshine.

When you slide into the passenger seat, he starts the engine. Glances at you.

“You good?”

You fasten your seatbelt. “Better than good.”

He nods. Puts the car in drive. And you pull out of the lot like you didn’t just sleep the sleep of the dead across from the man you trust with your whole life.

Because today’s a driving day.

But it doesn’t feel like a return to the real world.

Not yet.

Not with the road ahead still quiet and open.

+++

The windows are down. The road curves gently, climbing along the ridge, and the air smells like pine and sunlight. His sleeve’s rolled up. Neither of you’s said much since you left the last gas station, and it hasn’t felt strange at all.

Aaron’s left hand rests loosely at the top of the wheel. His sunglasses are on, but you can tell he’s not focused entirely on the road. Not distracted—just thinking.

You glance over. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t look at you, but he does speak. “You ever have one of those days where your body’s tired, but your brain’s finally...quiet?”

You hum. “Yeah. That feels rare.”

He nods once. “That’s what today feels like.”

The next pull-off comes up fast—a gravel arc jutting out from the road, with a narrow view down into the valley and a sky so blue, the clouds so wispy, it almost looks painted.

Aaron signals without thinking and turns off.

You wait until he cuts the engine before speaking. “Didn’t have you pegged for a scenic overlook kind of guy.”

He finally looks at you. “I don’t stop enough.”

You smile. “We’ll work on that.”

+++

The gravel crunches beneath your boots as you step out. It’s warm, but not hot—the kind of mountain summer day that feels earned. Like the reward for surviving a cold winter and a wet spring.

Aaron circles around to the front of the SUV, glancing over the ridge, then back at the hood.

You eye it too. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

He raises an eyebrow. “That you’re going to dent the government vehicle?”

You hop up lightly, settling near the edge of the hood with your legs crossed. “Please. This thing’s seen worse.”

He hesitates for half a second—then joins you, moving slowly, his placement careful and purposeful. But he ends up next to you, his sneakers resting on the front bumper.

The sun’s on your skin. It’s so quiet.

You tilt your face to the sky. “This is what I want more of.”

Aaron glances sideways. “Sunshine?”

You shake your head. “Stillness.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, softly, “Yeah.”

You study his profile. “You said you and Haley used to come out here?”

He nods. “Once or twice. Before Jack. Haley packed this huge picnic. Way too much food. She said, ‘It’s not about what we need, it’s about what we might want.’”

You smile. “That sounds like her.”

He looks down. “She was lighter. Back then.”

You nudge him gently with your shoulder. “I hear you were, too.”

He huffs. “Do you now?”

You nod. “I think so. I see it sometimes. Sneaks in.”

His voice goes quiet. “I’d like to be that way. When I can.”

You both go quiet again. The wind picks up. A bird calls out somewhere in the trees.

After a while, you say, “You’re really different outside the office.”

He turns to you, a dimple appearing. “So are you.”

You shrug. “We wear masks. At least in the beginning.”

“Still?”

You meet his gaze. “Less now. No longer on my best behavior, and all that.”

Aaron looks out over the mountains again, his dimple deeper than before.

+++

You stay like that for a while. Quiet. Sun-warmed. Open in a way neither of you usually are.

And somewhere between minute fifteen and twenty, the distance between colleagues who must trust each other and people who care gets just a little bit smaller.

The heat of the hood bleeds through the fabric of your jeans as you lean back on your palms, soaking in the sun like it’s something you haven’t felt in months. Aaron’s still beside you, sitting straighter, elbows on his knees, hands folded loosely in front of him.

You don’t speak for a long time.

The birds are busy in the trees below. A hawk cuts silently across the sky. The wind smells like pine needles and distant running water—damp soil and ferns.

Eventually, he says, “I don’t think I’ve done this since Jack was a baby.”

You tilt your head, looking over. “What? Sat still?”

He almost smiles. “Stopped somewhere without a plan.”

You hum. “Well. Technically, this is federal land. So we’re still on the clock.”

That gets a low, genuine laugh out of him. It surprises you—not because he doesn’t laugh, but because it’s so real. So easy. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He’s looking at the horizon. But then, slowly, his gaze shifts.

To you.

You’re still angled toward the sun, eyes closed now, lips parted just slightly, like the day has melted your guard a little. There’s a calm on your face he’s never seen at Quantico. Not in a briefing room. Not on a jet. This version of you belongs only to the open road and the heat of the hood and the sky that never seems to end.

Aaron watches you for just a second longer than he should.

There’s something about the curve of your cheek in the sunlight. The way your lashes catch it. The way your foot brushes the bumper like you’re fully settled here, like you’ve belonged in this moment all along and he’s just lucky to have caught it.

He looks away before you open your eyes.

But you catch it. Or maybe just feel it.

You look over at him, smiling, a little squint in your eyes from the glare. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Sorry.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Liar.”

He gives a slow shrug. “Just... thinking.”

You don’t press him. You never do.

But you do keep your eyes on him a little longer than necessary before tilting your face back to the sky.

“I like this version of you,” you say.

He glances sideways.

You add, with a smile, “The one that takes the detour.”

+++

Eventually, the light shifts. The shadows grow long across the gravel. You both know it’s time to keep moving, but neither of you rush it. You didn’t expect to sit out here all afternoon. You’ve practically meditated the whole time.

Aaron’s the first to slide off the hood, his boots crunching softly as he lands. He offers you a hand.

You take it without hesitation, fingers curling into his, your weight in his hand only until your feet hit the ground.

+++

Later, after a pit stop and a granola bar from a gas station, you’re back on the road and Aaron’s telling you about his first argument in federal court.

“He tried to have me removed from the courtroom.”

“Who did? The judge?” you ask, crinkling your granola wrapper.

“Defense counsel. Claimed I hadn’t passed the bar. Thought I was the intern.”

You blink. “What did the judge say?”

“She looked at him, then at me, then said, ‘Mr. Hotchner has made more convincing arguments on paper than you have in person, counselor. Proceed.’”

You’re laughing now. “Oh my God. Can I embroider that on a pillow for you?”

“Not if you plan on giving it to anyone else.”

+++

Later still, with the sun starting to shift golden behind your visors and the trees, he tells you about his first lost case. You ask what happened, expecting a mistake. A misread. Something painful.

“Guy represented himself,” he says instead. “Securities fraud. Called himself a patriot. Said he was liberating the funds. Swore the Founding Fathers would’ve laundered money too. Cited the Constitution and Declaration of Independence several times.”

You blink at him.

“The jury bought it,” he says. “Acquitted him. He hugged the bailiff on his way out.”

You let out an incredulous bark of a laugh. “Ah. I see. You’ve been chasing justice ever since.”

“Chasing sanity,” he corrects. “Justice is a bonus.”

+++

One more story, just before the Sperryville exits.

“This reminds me of the case I tried near here,” he says. “I decided to use a PowerPoint. Thought it would help the jury follow the case law.”

You raise a brow.

He sighs. “The projector broke. Half the jury couldn’t see it. The other half fell asleep.”

You smile. “You PowerPointed them into a coma.”

“I was twenty-seven and very committed to clean design.” He pauses. “It was, however, the nineties and Microsoft Office left something to be desired.”

You lean back in your seat, still laughing. “Hotch, you’re perfect.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Really smiling.

And not for the first time, you realize how rare that is.

+++

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