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reidreaders · 16 days ago

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new fleabag!reader just dropped I AM SAT

Stale Cigarette(s)

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Deep talk instead of deep throat (pre-relationship mutual pining?) Hurt → comfort → hurt → final reminder that old dogs don’t change, they just find warmer corners to lie in Summary: You get dragged to a bar by your coupled-up friends and end up chain-smoking on a bench with your FBI crush. He offers you cigarettes untouched for exactly two years... so- um... what the hell happened two years ago? Warnings: age gap dynamics, smoking stale cigs, they're both a bit tipsy, objectification of the Hotchner body, grief (Haley mentioned), reader is not a reliable narrator! HOTCH SUCKS. HOTCH REALLY SUCKS. Word Count: 4.8k Dado's Corner: To all my readers named Haley: no you don’t. Not for a full 4.8k words, anyway. My deepest apologies. (Feel free to send hate mail. I deserve it.) Edit: if any of this sounded self-indulgent… that’s because it is. An ode to loneliness. Yours, always, Phi :3

masterlist

It’s not always the right historical era to go out with your two very not single friends.

You try. You make an appearance. You sip something overpriced and pretend to be fascinated by the structural integrity of the ice cube.

“My fiancé-” This man used to be called Matt until he got on one knee.

Not that you’re judging.

You’d absolutely pull the same shit if someone proposed to you. You’d probably milk it even more. Refer to them exclusively as “my betrothed” and update your mailing address to include your ring size. But the problem is-

It hasn’t happened.

You. As always.

“…the food was amazing…”

You smile. Take a sip. Your face performs basic social functions, trying to channel what middle-aged FBI speedo guy would do if he were politely enduring small talk at your place.

You are happy for your friend. Truly. (She’s your friend, for fuck’s sake. You should be happy.)

But sometimes happiness is… situational.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, you get blindsided by this sudden, lurching gut-punch of awareness of just how alone you really are.

Every empty seat next to you turns into a flashing neon sign that screams “STILL SINGLE LMAO, ENJOY DYING ALONE”

And then everything goes kind of foggy after that.

“…ever been there?” Not a question meant for you, obviously. (When are they ever?)

You kill time wondering what it might feel like to be someone who’s not just… a guest in this kind of life. To live in it full-time. With central heating.

“No, but Jonah took me to this really cute little-”

Cute little gentrified colonizer gastropub.

Ah, Jonah. The man. The myth. The boyfriend with the brilliant idea to bring his girl (your other friend) to an overpriced bar that looks like it was designed by a tech bro who hasn’t spoken to his mother in six years.

And tonight, instead of the usual dive you could actually afford, they decided this was the perfect friends night out venue.

You’ve never seen this many white men packed into one place outside of a church service. Or a David Fincher retrospective.

To be fair - Jonah does earn some credit.

The eavesdropping is phenomenal.

Behind you, someone is monologuing about astrophysics and the scientific inaccuracy of some Star Wars stuff.

You’re actually kind of into it - until he’s immediately shut down by a dude who goes, “Bro, A New Hope came out before you were even the fastest swimmer in the race. Oh- oh, wait… speaking of someone who’s swimming for real…”

“What about this pool guy?” your friend yanks your attention back, firing a perfectly accurate laser beam straight from the 1.40-carat rock on her finger (it’s cut so clean it reflects light directly into your retinas… ouch. It fucking hurts.) “I’ve heard from a certain someone…”

(Aka the woman sitting directly beside her-)

(Aka your other friend-)

(Aka the only one who actually knows the whole story because she’s the one you drive to swimming lessons every week since Jonah’s dick is allegedly 7.5 inches long but apparently can’t drive stick. Or park. Or show up on time. Or do anything but say “vroom” and hope for the best.)

“…Something you’d like to share about your new boy?”

(Ah. So this is what it takes to be included in the conversation - find a real, non-fictional man to thirst over. Got it. Message received.)

“Oh, definitely not a 'boy',” #PoolFriend adds, laughing.

“But you said-” (Mystery solved. Certain someone = swim friend. Wow. Shocking.) “Wait… is he a she?” (God, you wish.)

“No… it’s just that he’s… older?” you try not to sound defensive. (Defending your mighty little FBI princess is, of course, a sacred duty - but you’d rather not look that pathetic in front of the other feminists.)

“Sooooo old,” she beams. “Like, 60? You can see the forehead lines even when he’s resting his face.”

…Which is meant to be a dig, but actually makes you weirdly feral. You try to be diplomatic. You do. “He’s actually forty–”

“Oh- also, guess what?! He’s a dad too!”

Right. Great. Perfect.

Denied even the dignity of curating the lore drop on your old man, you make the emotionally mature decision to nurse your disappointment with alcohol.

You’re not getting drunk – it might soothe your soul, but one too many and you’ll be working your one day off just to pay the plumber who still hasn’t fixed the leak. So... fuck no.

Still, it’s funny how the tiniest buzz in your limbs, compounded by the fact that dinner was just…a whisper of carbs and a prayer, has evolved into such a deep, primal craving.

You want a cigarette.

One. Just one.

A menthol, preferably.

You’d trade your last serotonin molecule. You’d set fire to your own moral compass for a single drag.

But no. Life (your friends), in its eternal comedy, has placed you (without warning) here: in a… *drumroll* cop bar.

“Jonah said this is where the forces of order” (cops) “usually hang out. What if you find your FBI dilf here?!?”

First of all, that man is definitely not here, slumming it with the masses. He’s at home, swaddled in his sacred cocoon, reading a 700-page book on the macroeconomic collapse of the 1970s and calling it a wild night by page 26.

Second of all, you didn’t catch what she said next because your brain automatically dissociates in spaces that reek of both beer and casual misogyny disguised as patriotism.

Anyway: cop bar.

Which makes the mission of bumming a cig both ten times more illegal… and ten times more boring.

Like - sorry - when did smoking become lame?

When did it stop being for artists, rebels, and hot French women who cry in alleyways, and become the property of fascists puffing cigars the size of traffic cones?

(One comically large cigar to overcompensate for their undersized... moral compass. Among other things.)

Can’t they leave one thing alone? Just one? No. Of course not. They’ve colonized tobacco too.

You don’t even bother looking up from the sad little bench you parked your ass on the second you escaped.

Just sit there sulking, already familiar with the sound: the front door creaking open on hinges that haven’t seen oil since the Clinton administration (fascists don’t believe in lube - it’s too homosexual), and that cheap-ass bell above the frame, probably bulk-ordered from a themed decor warehouse trying to Irish-wash this bar into charm.

(It’s all performative heritage, anyway. Just so a white dude with a colonial guilt complex can feel like his ancestors survived the potato famine, instead of, you know… causing it.)

(Not that he could find Ireland on a globe if it came with a magnifying glass and a voiceover.)

Anyway, the bell rings, it’s time to strike again, “Do you have a cigar-”

“Hello to you too…” Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Hello to you too, Aaron Hotchner. So much for your bedtime tea and lights out by 10. No. Of course he had to be here. Now. Tonight. And of course he’s caught you mid-junkie act.

Stunning. Absolutely divine timing.

“Um- hi- so- I was kidding-”

“Hold on,” he says, already turning on his heel. No urgency. Just casually blessing you with a full high-definition shot of the jeans he clearly chose for tonight’s FBI Besties Night Out.

Jeans that almost, miraculously, give him an ass.

Almost.

(It’s more myth than meat. You know there’s nothing back there except air and possibly unprocessed ambition. [Maybe a little guilt in there too. {Or maybe he just padded}])

(You don’t care. You’re willing to suspend disbelief.)

He makes a beeline for his Serious Government-Issue Black Vehicle™, opens the passenger door, grabs something, shuts it again, and strolls back - front view this time (superior).

That something? Your desired little cancer sticks.

The universe provides.

“Shit, you a smoker?”

“If I were, don’t you think I’d keep them in my own pocket?” he says, topping it off with a little cherry on top (a sigh) that tells you he’s already regretting his detour, as he takes out his lighter.

One that’s clearly been used. A lot. The kind of wear no casual user puts on a Bic.

Unless Aaron’s got a Yankee Candle addiction (doubtful), that thing’s been through it.

“Look…” he starts. (Ah. So he noticed you noticing.) “I used to smoke a lot back when I was…” he fumbles - clearly seconds away from saying your age before veering off, cowardly, at the last second.

Loser.

“I quit when Jack - my son,” he adds, as if you haven’t already bookmarked his LinkedIn, archived Facebook, and the BAU team photo from 2009. Still, you nod, all “ohh” and innocent, so you don’t blow your cover. “-was born. I wouldn’t have been setting a good example. And it was bad for his health.”

“Yours too,” you murmur.

“Sure…” he musters the guts to chuckle. Tipsy? Maybe. Maybe just… soft. “Fuck that shit.”

(Definetely not soft.)

Except he’s full of it. Because if he’s so retired, why does he even have the pack in the first place?

You glance at it. Then down. (Not that down. Okay, a little.) The contradiction is right there in his hands. (And, arguably, in his jeans. But focus.)

Aaron goes all starey and confused, like he’s trying to telepathically summon a reaction from you. Maybe expecting you to scold him for swearing like a big boy. Maybe waiting for you to drop something coy like Wow, I’m sooo impressed, sir. Either way, he’s clearly starving for commentary.

So, in true martyr fashion, he opens the box.

Red Marlboros. Lame-ass classics. Of course. (You mentally pin that detail to your Bullying Vision Board.)

Only one cigarette is missing. Wait - no. Two.

Because he slides one out, tucks it between his lips, and just like that, your primal urge to bully him gets temporarily eclipsed by your even more feral desire to suck that exact cigarette out of his mouth.

“So much for being a quitter… aren’t you training for, like… some sports thing right now? You sure any of this is good for you?”

The cigarette bobs between his lips, his chin tilting just enough to let him peer down at you through half-lidded eyes - drawing a perfect little cardiogram of your heart rate spiking into cardiac arrest as he asks, “And how do you know I’m training for something?

Um...

By his tits.

Specifically: the ones bursting at the seams between the third and fourth button of his denim shirt, testing the tensile limits of ready-to-wear denim.

This is what happens when a man dives headfirst into some unsupervised fitness spiral and forgets to monitor his pec-to-fabric ratio.

Volume expansion was clearly not accounted for - or maybe it was, and this is all part of the plan. (Tactical slutwear.)

Because through that tiny, blasphemous gap in fabric: chest hair. An irresponsible amount of pale pec flesh. And a single freckle positioned so seductively you’d happily trade your liver, your birthright, and three months of overpriced therapy just to tongue it.

“Educated guess.” You’ve been caught - whatever. Still. Bless his midlife crisis. Unironically* the best decision he’s ever made.

…You’re joking, of course.

*Ironically. Yes.

Because all you get as a reply is one boyish little shake of the head instead of some broody retort in his usual Middle English.

He’s showing off.

Lighting up while you’re still empty-handed, selfishly enjoying the moral high ground and the taste of the butt of a cig.

Right hand cupped against the wind like a practiced sinner, flicks the lighter, flame kisses the filter.

He inhales slowly. Cheeks go hollow. Lashes dip low. Lungs greedily taking in what, by all laws of karmic justice, should’ve been your hit.

He leans back the tiniest bit, exhales with a sound that could be a sigh, a groan, a spell - and sends a perfectly petty swirl of smoke drifting up into the night sky…

And directly into your face.

“Are you gonna let me steal one of those or are you just getting off on making me watch?”

He squints. Takes another drag. Blows the smoke directly past your cheek. “Bought these exactly two years ago. I’m just making sure you’re not inhaling mold or… God knows what else.” (Why is God always the third wheel in your conversations?) “…You could try being grateful instead of giving me lip.”

You bite down the urge to say something about lip (or head, being medically accurate). “But I never asked you to do that… I just asked for a fucking cigarette. Let me inhale mold in peace.”

Anyway. Because you’re nothing if not polite - and not in the mood to witness a grown man get misty-eyed outside a bar at whatever-the-fuck o’clock - you sigh, lift your hand toward him, and slap on the biggest, fakest smile in your arsenal. “Please.”

The federal martyr mutters something - probably just for himself - about your relentless display of patheticism, but you’re too busy delightedly accepting a lone cancer stick as it emerges from the raven-haired 40-inch emotional support wig he calls knuckle hair.

“It’s a bit stale. Tastes like shit, honestly - just a heads up,” and drops onto the far end of the bench, manspreading just enough to make it clear that his long-ass legs now own every inch of that square meter.

The lighter gets passed to you wordlessly.

His fingers do not.

They linger - just behind your shoulders, just beyond plausible deniability.

Not touching (God forbid), but drifting into your orbit with the kind of casual inertia that feels anything but. One breath away from contact. From consequence.

Convenient, really - how something can feel so deliberate while technically doing absolutely nothing at all.

Just like how he jolts from his relaxed pose the second he hears you cursing the wind for cockblocking your nicotine hit. No hesitation. His hand curls in around yours, close enough to shield the flame - but closer still for the effect.

And you smell it.

Tonka bean.

Supposed to be subtle. Barely a base note.

But here, up close and concentrated and radiating off his pulse point, it turns narcotic. Sickly sweet and warm and grounded by something woodsy. It spins your head more than the nicotine ever could.

The lighter sparks.

And so do you.

His beautiful eyes.

The fire warms them into the richest hazel - gold spun through molasses - eyes that cast shadows so sharp they immortalise him into myth. Cheekbones all angles and darkness. Jaw tight, like he’s holding back the next thought from spilling out.

You’d kiss him. You would. Kiss his face, kiss his mouth, kiss that stupid expensive smell off his pulse point, kiss the glow from his lashes-

If only your own lips weren’t already wrapped around a filter. (If only you weren’t a monumental fucking coward.)

You hate that his gaze does this to you. That it tastes metallic on your skin, sharp and mineral and weirdly sour-

Just like the cigarette.

Especially when he finally breaks it, glancing down at the concrete like the tension might drain there, too.

“Man, this is barely hitting,” you wheeze - blaming the stale stick, of course, not yourself. Never yourself. Always safer to fault an inanimate object than admit you’re the common denominator of all of your problems.

“Told you,” Aaron gloats, flicking ash off the edge, all giddy because #HeWasRight. “It’s old and fucked. You’ve gotta wait it out. If you’re lucky, the nicotine kicks in and it just sucks slightly less... not as good as a fresh one but - this is all I’ve got.” (…Right. He’s so totally referring to the cigarettes.)

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. This is better than nothing,” you mumble, dragging again. “Anything that helps me forget this waste of a Friday.”

Which is a lie, obviously. Because sitting on a sad bench chain-poisoning yourself with a middle-aged… (oof) cop… is easily the best part of it.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

God forbid he ever clocks the fact that all your chances with him are already in the gutter because of how openly, stupidly rueful you’ve been acting.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s his fault.

Maybe he’s pulling some sick, gravitational field of pitifulness out of you just by existing.

Just by making you feel more at ease than your actual friends do - friends who drag you out to overpriced bars and call it “catching up” but barely ask a single question.

Maybe it’s because he actually listens. Doesn’t rush to fill silence. Doesn’t take and take and take.

And that’s all it takes.

One line of smoke down your throat, and the floodgates swing open. Words start tumbling out like it’s a compulsion. Like he’s the first pair of ears that hasn’t immediately gone looking for someone shinier.

“Let me guess… you’re one of those people who only smoke when they fuck something up? What happened? Divorce?”

Aaron tuts (man?!), “Close… though I’m not sure you’re in any position to judge - seeing as you only seem to smoke when someone else fucks up.”

How ironic.

If you were ever stupid enough to end up together and he managed to fuck things up (which he would) you’d both be right back here, smoke in your lungs, hands shaking, pretending it’s not about each other.

Hopeless. You’d never work. You’d ruin each other on principle.

Maybe it’s the cigarette. Maybe sharing something as self-destructive as this creates a kind of camaraderie. You’re both shaving off a few years of your lives, like the ads promise, so it only feels fair to share the minutes too.

So as ash falls onto the concrete, he learns a few things about you. That this was your friends’ idea. That it was supposed to be “a fun night out.” That you didn’t really want to come. And somehow - God knows how - maybe it’s his Catholic guilt boiling in his bloodstream over dying in sin - but he finally says,

“You didn’t really look like you were part of the conversation.”

You nearly drop the cigarette.

He was kind of right. The nicotine takes a while to hit - but maybe it’s more the hit of being noticed.

By him, no less.

(A man.)

(With a tit out.)

Suddenly, the whole thing feels archaic - like you’ve time-traveled back to the era when women weren’t allowed to vote, but still hoped the town’s handsomest soldier might remember what color dress they wore at the spring fair.

Or when tampons were taxed as luxury items. (Wait a second...)

What a world.

What progress.

Progress also means he admits he recognized you… by the back of your head.

He’d been sitting behind you. Of course you hadn’t seen him. But he’d seen you. Not your face. Just your outline. Your posture. Your absence. And still - he knew it was you.

Which should make you feel triumphant. Gloaty, even.

FBI DILF has your silhouette burned into the folds of his premature memory loss? That’s deranged. That’s power. You should weaponize it.

Feels… bittersweet.

Because it wasn’t the presence of your face that triggered recognition. It was the lack of it. The gap. The space you take up when no one else is looking. And somehow… he looked anyway.

Fucking hell.

You need to stop smoking Aaron’s cigarettes.

They don’t just burn your throat - they peel you open, down to the bone. Turn your lungs to pulp and your brain to mushy existential soup. This is not you.

Or maybe this is you. Maybe this is the real you. The needy one. The one who just wants someone to see her.

And worse - he does. He might. And maybe that’s what makes him dangerous.

Maybe he sees things about you that you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Or maybe he’s just like every other man who ever looked at you and called you a friend. Right after unzipping his pants.

Stale cigarettes, overpriced alcohol, and unsolicited introspection. The worst threesome of all.

“It just fucking sucks, man,” you mutter. You’re not blaming yourself. Plato probably said something similar while chain-smoking scrolls or whatever. “Like, I know love is fake. I know it. But even if it’s childish - rooted in all that patriarchal storybook bullshit - I still feel like I deserve the kind of love they read to me about as a kid.”

“Oh, no,” Aaron softens his voice. “I disagree with that first part.” Of course you do, old man. “I don’t think love is fake, maybe the forever part is what’s unrealistic. The happy ending…” (What’s wrong with him???) “The happily ever after, that’s the myth. But you shouldn’t blame yourself for wanting something that lasts.”

…Something real. Something that doesn’t flake like ash in the wind.

You can smell the incoming boomer sermon from a mile away - and yep, here it comes. “I just don’t understand this fear men seem to have now about settling down. Is it fear of choosing? Dating apps make everyone feel disposable. Like if you commit, you might miss out on someone better. So you never do. Or maybe it’s something worse. Fear of feeling. Of loving.”

Shit.

How exactly are you supposed to explain to Aaron Hotchner that he just accidentally summed up your entire Notes app without sounding like you’re about to snap into a spoken word piece about modern loneliness?

"Easy to say when you’ve only got a few years left and don’t want to die alone." You’re not being mean. You’re just out of emotional vocabulary. That was the cleanest sentence you could manage with the filter still burning between your fingers.

He taps his cigarette against the bench. Smoke curls out of his smirk. “Funny - I was just about to say you don't sound like a horrible person.”

You snort. “See? You’re not that different from all the other dickheads out there.”

"Maybe, but that doesn’t make you unworthy of being loved .” (Pause. Beat. Murder.) “And - frankly - you underestimate how many masochists would find your tendency to call people out when they’re being dickheads… oddly endearing."

“Masochists? Really?!”

“Miss, you called me a dickhead… heavily implied, yes, but still,” he chuckles, “Masochists aside - I’m serious. I hope you know that.”

“Well… thank you then.”

“Anytime.” Said like it doesn’t cost him anything to be generous for three seconds. Must be nice.

You’re not naïve.

This (whatever this is) this rhythm of trading barbs and pretending not to notice how good it feels to be seen? It’ll end with the cigarette. That’s the expiration date.

Once the last drag’s done, so is the spell. Back to real life, back to no obligation to talk. Back to being strangers again.

So maybe that’s why it slips out.

“I think what gets to me the most is... I just want someone to actually listen. Like, really listen. Not out of pity, not out of politeness. Not because it’s their fucking turn to play therapist. Just… because they want to. Because they care enough to. I want to be helped. I want to be seen. And it sucks. It sucks that no one ever really does. It sucks not knowing if that someone… exists. Ever feel that kind of lonely?”

“I understand what you mean. If it helps… loneliness might be the most universal condition there is. It’s paradoxical - everyone feels it, but no one wants to admit it. You grow up being told people are essential. That you need connection to be whole. But the truth is… most of the time, it’s just you. You think your own thoughts. You carry your own weight. The rest… they’re- complimentary. Temporary. Additions. They matter, but they’re not the foundation.” (Man… that’s depressing.) “Or at least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”

“And you’re fine with that?! Not having anyone who can help you make sense of… everything?” You shake your head, baffled. “I don’t even know how you function.”

He breathes in deep, doesn’t look at you when he answers. “I compartmentalize. I separate myself from the problem and keep going. If I let myself really sit with it… I wouldn’t be useful to the people who need me more.”

Hero complex. Exhibit A.

“You’re telling me you never talk to anyone about your feelings?” you ask. “Like… not even one friend? Not even one of your little apocalypse buddies you save the world with?”

“We’re colleagues, not friends.” (So he’s basically admitting he has no friends… isn’t he?) “And for the record, I am opening up to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Dude…” This man. This man is the emotional equivalent of a locked filing cabinet at the bottom of the ocean. And you want him. Disgusting. “Despite some of the stuff you’ve told me being… like… genuinely borderline horrible, and you’re so lucky I didn’t deck you-”

He smirks. “You could’ve. I probably deserved it.”

You glance over. He’s chuckling to himself now, the corners of his mouth tugged upward just slightly, cheeks flushed, probably from the scotch finally catching up with him.

“Aside from calling me a dickhead, of course…” he adds.

You fumble. Damn it. “I was trying to say - despite that - your words did help. A little.” Smug little upturn of his mouth. You want to slap it off him. For real this time. “Not like… made-everything-better kind of help. More like - didn’t make me feel worse. Which is basically the same thing, right?”

He smiles. Pretentious asshole. You need to stay strong - not linger on it, not let it do things to your insides.

So you pivot. Hard.

“Sometimes it helps, you know? Getting a fresh pair of eyes on your mess. You just have to - I don’t know - admit you’re a loser, peel off a couple layers of that bulletproof manhood you’ve wrapped yourself in, and actually say what you’re feeling. To someone. Out loud. With words.”

He looks at you. He’s supposed to take another drag, but he doesn’t. Just watches. Still. Quiet.

“Yeah, I know. Wild concept.” You shake your head, let yourself soften - just a little. Just for him. Maybe he’s worth it. “But if you don’t do that, no one’s ever gonna get it. Not really. People can’t read your mind, Aaron. They’re not gonna understand unless you tell them. And even then, it’s a gamble. But it’s the only shot you’ve got.”

“You always make it sound so easy, Hales.”

“That’s… not my name.”

“What?” *The Bluetooth device is ready to pair.* You can hear the connection click in his skull. “Oh – God - I’m so sorry.” *The Bluetooth device is connected successfully.* “I didn’t- didn’t mean- I’m sorry, you just… you sounded exactly like her.”

You don’t know who he means. Not for sure. You have a guess, of course. Everyone has a guess when a man like him says “her” with that look in his eye.

But you’re too annoyed to admit it. Too annoyed and – maybe - just a little dizzy. From the cigarette. From the him of it all. From the ache in your chest that shouldn’t be there, not really.

Because the one fucking time someone actually seems to listen to you, to hear you, it’s not even really you they’re hearing.

It’s her. It was always her.

You were just close enough in shape and tone and timing to wake the shadow of someone else.

“It’s just that… it’s been two years today.” Oh, mysterious boy. From what?! From what?

You want to yell. You want to pull his stupid loose shirt tighter so it stops falling open every time he leans forward and says emotionally damaging things.

“Actually…” he gives a watery little laugh, and you hate how beautiful it is, how it lands soft and splintering right in your chest.

“It’s been two years since I bought these too,” he says, pulling out the same battered pack of Marlboros. Same lame-ass, fermented cigarettes from his glove compartment. Same pack with only one missing - until tonight. The same ones he offered you.

The same ones he last smoked two years ago.

“…And two years since my wife’s funeral.”

The filter tastes rancid.

You know the situation is deeply, apocalyptically fucked when not only does he casually drop a circumstantial bomb to imply she’s dead - because actually saying the words would clearly cost him something vital - but he also slips. Calls her his wife.

Not ex-wife.

(You may or may not have stalked him so thoroughly that you accidentally uncovered his signed divorce papers on a weird, half-archived subpage of her attorney’s old website. Whoopsies.)

So it’s not just the grief. It’s the grief plus the guilt plus the very subtle, very devastating slip that he maybe never stopped thinking of her as his wife.

Even after.

Even now.

Which would be a perfect cue to walk away. To protect yourself. To not indulge whatever haunted cathedral of unresolved feelings he’s got going on behind those wet lashes.

You should leave.

You should definitely leave.

…But he’s so hot when he cries.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

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reidreaders · 19 days ago

Text

Caught. On. Camera. -S.R part II here

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You should’ve called in sick.

Broken your leg.

Faked your own death.

Anything would’ve been preferable to what you were walking into now. You should’ve known the BAU’s security team didn’t fuck around.

You should’ve known.

Because when you walked into the bullpen that morning, coffee in hand and still slightly flushed from the very good, very illegal orgasm Spencer had given you against a locked conference room wall at 9:07 the night before, the last thing you expected was for evidence of it to be printed and waiting for you.

Fuck. No. No, no, no.

Your stomach dropped like an elevator in freefall. You stepped fully into the bullpen—and then you saw it.

Your desk.

Spencer’s desk.

Each with a stack of paper.

Not files. Not case notes.

Photos.

Black and white grainy photos.

Security footage.

Of you.

Of Spencer.

Photos of you and Spencer doing things that should never be in 1080p resolution.

Of Spencer pressed up behind you in a darkened hallway, one hand under your skirt, the other tangled in your hair as your head tilted back in a way that could only be described as criminally pornographic.

There was another photo—his mouth on your neck, your hand down his pants, the two of you shamelessly caught mid-moan in what looked like Hotch’s own damn federal building.

You barely had time to register the color draining from your face before Spencer walked in right behind you. You saw the exact moment his brain caught up to what his eyes were seeing.

He froze mid-step. Then his gaze snapped to you—panicked, pale, already calculating a dozen potential exits and failing to land on a single one.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The only thing louder than your panic was the sound of your father’s voice behind you.

“My office. Now.” Hotch’s tone left zero room for debate.

You turned—slow, like a horror movie—and there he was.

Standing on the mezzanine, leaning against the railing, was your father, SSA Aaron Hotchner. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Gaze locked directly on you like he was watching a slow-motion train crash. He turned and walked toward his office without looking back.

Which meant you had approximately ten seconds to say goodbye to your job, your sex life, and potentially Spencer Reid’s entire existence.

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed, grabbing the papers and crumpling them in one furious, humiliated fist. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you dared a look at Spencer—who had just walked in behind you and froze mid-step like someone had hit him with a tranq dart.

“Oh,” he said faintly. “That’s… bad.”

“No shit, Reid.”

Morgan didn’t help. “So that’s what ‘after hours paperwork’ means. Got it.”

“Derek,” JJ said quickly, nudging him with an elbow, but the damage was done.

Emily appeared from the break room, coffee in hand, sipping like it was tea. “I told you guys to watch the cameras. But nooo, why listen to the profiler who’s been caught on video twice?”

“Three times,” JJ corrected, grinning.

Emily pointed her cup at her. “That last one didn’t count, we were undercover.”

“You were making out in the conference room.”

“Under. Cover.”

Spencer looked like he was actively negotiating with the universe to collapse into the floor and swallow him whole. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, eyes darting between you, the photos, and the hallway that led to Hotch’s office like he could somehow reverse time through sheer panic.

The walk to Hotch’s office felt like a funeral procession. When you reached the top of the stairs, he didn’t gesture for you to sit. He just shut the door with a click that sounded eerily like the end of your lives.

“I’ll speak first,” he said, voice clipped. “Before either of you attempt to justify whatever the hell this is.”

Spencer opened his mouth anyway.

“Don’t.”

He shut it.

Hotch stepped around his desk, looking between the two of you like he was trying to not imagine the exact images now burned into his retinas.

“I trusted you,” he said, looking at Spencer.

Spencer physically flinched. “I know.”

“I asked you to keep her safe.”

“You did.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

You stepped forward. “Dad—”

He held up a hand.

“I don’t want excuses. I don’t want apologies. I want answers. How long?”

You hesitated.

Spencer caved.

“Eight months.”

You turned and stared at him. “Spencer.”

“What? He’s gonna kill me either way, might as well be honest.”

Hotch looked like he was doing long division in his head. “Eight months… that’s before the Miami case.”

You nodded.

“You lied to me. Both of you.”

“That’s not fair,” you said. “It wasn’t just lying, it was… omission. Careful omission.”

Spencer shot you a look like now is not the time for semantics.

“You were in my house, Reid. With her.”

Spencer swallowed. “I slept on the couch.”

“Bullshit.” Hotch stopped pacing. Faced you both.

“There’s a security breach because you couldn’t keep your hands off each other in the elevator? And now the entire team knows.”

“They don’t know—” you started.

“Oh, they know.” He gestured to the photos. “The FBI knows. Internal Affairs is going to love this. And I am trying—very hard—not to send you off to college halfway around the world.”

Silence.

Then, he turned his glare directly onto Spencer. “You. Are thirteen years older than her. You’re her coworker. Her superior. And you thought it was a good idea to sleep with my daughter?”

There was a very long, very painful pause.

“You are adults. Technically. You make your own decisions. Stupid ones, apparently.”

“Sir—” Spencer started.

“I’m not finished.” His eyes narrowed. “If either of you ever—and I mean ever—do anything like that on federal property again, I will have both your asses in front of Strauss so fast she’ll develop a stroke mid-sentence.”

“Yes, sir,” you both said.

“And Reid?”

Spencer flinched.

Hotch took a step forward. “I swear to god, if I ever see your hands on my daughter again outside the context of saving her from a serial killer—”

“Understood, sir.”

He took a deep breath. “I am going to say this once. Whatever this is—” he gestured sharply at the photos “—it ends. Today.”

Silence.

Spencer looked like he’d been punched.

You just blinked.

“Ends?” you echoed, numb.

Hotch’s jaw clenched. “I can’t have this kind of recklessness on my team. You’re compromising each other in the field, and if it goes public—”

Spencer tried to speak. “Hotch, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” your father cut in sharply. “There is going to be an internal review. A written reprimand. And if either of you ever pull something like this again—”

You couldn’t help yourself. “We’re not children—”

“You’re my child,” Hotch snapped, turning to you. “And he’s my agent. Which makes this entire situation a professional and personal disaster. And if you think I’m going to just let it slide because you’re my daughter, you’re dead wrong.”

You dropped your gaze, tears welling in your eyes. “You know what the worst part is?” he said, angrily. “It’s not that you violated federal property regulations. It’s not even that you breached the most basic professional ethics.”

Your breath caught.

“It’s that you thought I wouldn’t find out.”

Ouch.

You shrank under his stare. Spencer looked like he might vomit.

“Sir,” Spencer started. “I never meant for—”

Hotch held up a hand. “Dr. Reid. If you want any chance of keeping your job, I suggest you don’t finish that sentence.”

Spencer looked like he wanted to fold into the floor. “Sir, I care about her. I didn’t—I don’t—take this lightly. I know how it looks.”

“You don’t,” Hotch said flatly. “You don’t know anything about what it looks like. To a father. To a boss.”

The room fell quiet.

Then Hotch exhaled, long and slow. He looked tired. Disappointed. Which, honestly, was so much worse than shouting.

“I’m going to step away before I say something I regret,” he said. “But let me make this clear.”

He looked between the two of you—scathing, cold, unreadable. “This ends now. Or you both walk.”

You didn't realize you were holding your breath until he walked out of his own office, leaving the door open behind him like a gaping wound. You could still hear your heart pounding, see the grainy black-and-white ghosts of your bad decisions fluttering like confetti across your memory.

Spencer swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to say eight months,” he whispered.

You turned to him slowly. “Really, Spence? That’s the problem here?”

“I panicked.”

“No kidding.” Your voice cracked under the weight of it all. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Spencer sat on the edge of Hotch’s desk, his hands knotted between his knees. “I’ve never seen him like that before.”

You snorted. “You’ve never dated his daughter before.”

He winced. “Technically, I still am.”

You looked at him sharply. “Are you?”

Spencer’s breath caught.

Because that was the part no one had said yet. That was the part hanging over you like a guillotine. This ends now. Or you both walk.

The ultimatum wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t negotiable.

You or the job.

Each other or everything else.

And Spencer Reid didn’t just love the BAU. It was in his bones. It was his purpose, his structure, his sanity.

“Are you?” you asked again, softer this time.

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he crossed the room, dropped to a crouch in front of you, and took your shaking hands in his. “I want to say that it doesn’t matter. That I’d pick you every time.”

You stared at him, already hearing the but coming.

“But I can’t lose this job,” he whispered, pained. “It’s not just work. It’s lives. It’s you, too. And if I stay, I can’t be with you.”

You felt something fracture inside your chest.

“So that’s it?”

He looked up at you, haunted. “If I thought I could walk away and still protect you… if I thought you’d be safe—”

Your laugh was hollow. “I’m not a victim, Spence.”

“I know. I know that. But you’re his daughter. And I was supposed to—God, I was supposed to be better than this.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t want to end it.”

“Neither do I.”

He closed his eyes. “Tell me not to go. Tell me to walk away from all of it, and I will.”

You opened your mouth—and then stopped.

Because you could see it in his eyes.

You couldn’t do that to him.

Not when he was already tearing himself apart just to stand in front of you.

“No,” you whispered. “I won’t be the reason you leave.”

“Then this is the part where I say goodbye.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Spencer reached for your hand one last time. Pressed a kiss to your knuckles like he was memorizing the weight of it. “I meant it,” he said quietly. “Every second. Even the ones on camera.”

A bitter smile cracked through your tears. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then he stood.

And walked out of Hotch’s office.

And you sat there alone, trying to decide which was worse:

That your father had been right.

Or that you'd loved Spencer Reid enough to let him go.

a/n: age ain’t nothing but a NUMBERRR

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

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