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ssa-dado · 10 hours ago

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I rarely find the energy to read. But somehow, at 5 a.m., I ended up reading this masterpiece - and I’m not exaggerating when I say it completely changed me.

I’m not someone who throws compliments around lightly (mostly because I’m painfully hard on myself too), but this??!?!?!!?!?!?!? This was, without a doubt, the best piece of internet literature (and probably top 5 physical literature) I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading.

Please, if you’re seeing this, know I’m begging you to read it too. I’m a different person after those 13k words. I SWEARRRRRR

The 13k flew by like 3k (and I mean that in the best way possible, not to undermine it, but to emphasize how effortless and immersive the writing was). And yet, despite the “short” length, you managed to explore complex dynamics, flesh out characters fully, and give even the side characters a soul (something I’ve only seen in fully fleshed-out book series [often after entire subseries are milked for fan-favorite side character spin-offs.]

I almost feel guilty reading this on my phone for free - because it doesn’t feel fair to the work, the meticulousness, and most of all, the love behind something like this.

The case itself? Brilliantly crafted. Not only is it deeply thought-out (huge props for the behavioral analysis research - writing a case from scratch is no joke), but it doesn’t get bogged down in cold proceduralism. Instead, it’s animated by the narrator’s voice, which God!!!!! I want to kiss for how witty, funny, self-aware, and sharp it is. The narrator is a character, and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible.

I’m a firm believer that people who complain about x-readers “having too much personality” are not only misogynistic but also fundamentally misunderstanding what writing is. If a character is so generic they can be anyone, they end up being no one. So I love that this reader has depth, fears, insecurities, little tics and thoughts… and you gave me all that in just 13k words??? You’re a wizard. (I really loved being inside this narrator’s head.)

Now. The romance.

Perfect.

This is the Hotchest Hotch I’ve ever seen (Hotcher than he OG Hotch). I could hear his voice in every single line of dialogue. I could see him, too, especially with how you described him physically (that grey suit in the first scene??? Bner alert). And yet, the wildest thing is: they barely touch. Their knees brush once. But somehow, it still feels like a full love story.

Because it is. The intimacy is layered into every moment, it’s in the details: the coffee, the pen, the way he lets her talk, the fact that he listens, the academic validation (!!!!!!)

All of that had me s(creaming.) Also: I am so jealous of people like you who know how law works because the dynamic of law!student reader + Hotch? Yummy. Delicious. I was giggling and kicking my feet the whole time AAAAAAAAAAAAA I LOVE THEMM SOSOSOSOOSOSOSOSOSOOS MUCH!!!!!! (And don’t even get me started on the #CannoliTime hallucinations. So relatable. #LADYFINGERS IN MY MOUTH NOWWWWWWWWWWW)

In conclusion: I don’t even have a proper conclusion. Just eternal screaming, devotion, and a medically concerning level of admiration. Thank you for birthing this into the world. I’m obsessed. I love you. I’m going to re-read this daily like it’s scripture. Amen.

QUESTIONS IN A WORLD OF BLUE.

Aaron Hotchner x law student!reader

genre : case fic, borderline embarrassing amount of pinning, unfunny jokes, set in season 3

summary : If you want fun, then listen to this. Georgetown's hottest story is "Law and Flounder". You're back with an all-new hot case that finally answers the question : "What happens when your thesis turns into a murder investigation… and maybe something more?" This story has everything : 1970s crime files, creepy copycats, legal jargon used incorrectly, and a very sexy and stern FBI agent who might actually smile more than frown. And just when you think the fun is over. Knock, knock, what's there ? It's cannoli time. What's cannoli time you ask ? It's that thing of when you're trying to help solve a case and you keep fantasizing about Hotch's indecently thick fingers.

notes : i included a couple of appendices (with like reports and stuff), you don’t have to read them, the story still makes sense without, i just thought it’d be fun. also, this is literally my first time ever posting my writing on the internet so i’m really nervous lol, please be nice to me…!!

word count : 13.0k

'The Profiler's Dilemma : The role and reliability of early behavioral profiling in shaping investigative and legal outcomes'

A thesis presented in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of

JURIS DOCTOR

(draft 3)

The emergence of behavioral profiling in the 1970s opened a new avenue to criminal investigations. Pioneered by the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit (BSU), now Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU), this approach relies on behavioral and psychological science, to identify offender traits and markers from crime scene evidence. Thus, this technique has been widely viewed as a pivotal tool in order to narrow suspect pools, particularly in complex and violent cases. However, points of contention remain in regards to the reliability, investigative value and legal admissibility of behavioral profiles. One early example of such case, is a 1978 unsolved homicide in Lexington, Virginia. BSU profilers provided a psychological profile of the perpetrator, but no arrests were made, and the case remains unsolved to this day. Consequently, this outcome raises critical questions regarding the justification of such interventions.

This thesis aims to examine the legal implications and evidentiary challenges posed by the integration of behavioral profiling in criminal investigations, particularly during its formative years.

The words on your screen are starting to not make sense anymore. At this point, you've seen the word 'behavioral' so many times that it's starting to look wrong. Maybe it's 'behavioural' ? Who even cares about any of this? You do, obviously, and way too much at that. You're just having a bad day because : 1. your thesis advisor has been MIA for the past 5 weeks 2. they were out of strawberry shortcake at the bakery 3. the Freedom of Information Act request you made to the FBI came back with so many 'REDACTED' parts that you're thinking that maybe that's the only word they're allowed to print.

But hey, on the bright side, you managed to get an interview with Agent REDACTED to talk about the profile he made for the case. They take the time to redact his name to protect his privacy, just for him to go and publish several books detailing his entire profiling career. Thanks Agent Rossi!

The trip from Georgetown to Quantico takes about 1 hour and 30 minutes. When embarking on this treacherous and arduous journey through DC public transportation, one must a) come prepared (cash, water bottle, sunscreen, little snack, blue ink pen and paper to take notes, headphones, pepper spray, and any other provisions), b) relinquish any and all hope of comfortable and decent travel conditions and c) adhere scrupulously to the following instructions to avoid any unnecessary detours (totally not speaking from experience.)

Step 1 : get on the DC Circulator from Georgetown (at M street or Wisconsin Avenue) towards Union Station, 20-25 minutes, $1.00 for the fare

Step 2 : from Union Station, transfer to the Virginia Railway Express Fredericksburg Line towards Quantico Station Zone 6, 50-60 minutes, $12.00

Step 3 : board the shuttle from Quantico Station to the FBI Academy, 15-20 minutes, free

During this voyage, do not make eye contact with suspicious looking men in uniform and do not think too hard about how you're going to the literal FBI headquarters.

The Quantico FBI building looks… like a badly-engineered game of Tetris. You're sure architecture aficionados would find something to say about brutalism, and how raw concrete is meant to show power and be imposing. To be honest, it looks plain ugly. But you're so nervous that you might not even be seeing it correctly. Perhaps it looks warped because you're shaking so much that your eyeballs themselves have become unsteady.

You've been waiting for the past 24 minutes for the lady at the desk to give you back your ID and let you in to meet Agent Rossi. You couldn't possibly be on any lists… right ? How do people even get on a list ? It's not like you're googling anything too nefarious, and no, looking for 'hot older man hugs you and tells you you're pretty' videos isn't illegal.

"Alright, everything seems to be in order. Here's your ID and visitor's badge. Please make sure to clip it to your clothing in a visible spot and do not remove it during your visit. The BAU is on the 6th floor, someone will accompany you," desk-lady finally says, like you weren't about to ask for a lawyer (wait, aren't you supposed to be a lawyer ?)

The visitor's badge looks cool. You're an 'AUTHORIZED VISITOR', at least until 5:00 PM today. Weirdly strict that they specify the hour. What if you're still here at 5:01 ? Do they neutralize you on sight ?

You'd ask your chaperone, (Mr. Tojamura, or is it Agent Tojamura ?) who's accompanying you for this highly sensitive elevator ride from the reception desk to the 6th floor, but he doesn't particularly look the chatty type.

Agent Rossi's office looks as boring as the rest of the building. You'd think someone so flamboyant would have an equally flashy office, but no. There's a few framed pictures here and there, one from where he was in the Marines (so that's how he got to 3 ex-wives…) Hidden in one of the drawers, you spot a very expensive bottle of scotch. Agent Rossi definitely knows how to drink, though it does make you wonder if this is how he's using tax payer money… There's a bunch of shiny awards, military medals you know nothing about, and plaques, several plaques : 'FBI Medal of Meritorious Achievement’, 'Director's Award for Excellence', 'FBI Shield of Bravery', damn. The awards do make up for the lack of bling-bling.

"I suppose you're my 3:30 appointment ?"

"I'm, uh, yes. Hello. Agent Rossi. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Most people start with the desk, I see you've went straight to the ego wall," he points out immediately. You're not sure if he's threatening you or joking.

"They're very shiny, so it's hard not to notice them—" No, that sounds rude, hold on, you think, cutting yourself off. "And they're obviously very impressive," you add quickly.

"That's the idea," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I get them polished regularly.”

He takes a seat, leans back into his chair. "Alright, enough ego-stroking for today. Let's get to why you're really here. The ‘78 case, is that right ?" he continues.

Time to get to business.

"Yes that's the one. I was wondering if you could walk me through your thought process while coming up with the profile ?" you ask directly.

He tilts his head slightly. "You know I can't give you specifics, case is still open after all. What I can do —" He gestures vaguely with his hand. "— is talk you through the general method. General behavioral patterns, how crime scene elements correlate to specific types of unsubs… that sort of thing."

Thing is, you're not exactly here to get a private profiling 101 lesson with Agent Rossi. You need to get him to talk as much as possible.

"Of course, I understand. In general, when you're developing a profile, what behavioral indicators are you typically looking for ? And are there any elements of a profile you always try to include, even with limited data ?" you try.

He pauses, brings his hand back up to his face. Seems to be considering how much or how little, he can get away with saying. The ring on his pinky scratches against his beard.

"We look at what the unsub leaves us at the crime scene, whether they meant to or not. Level of organization, the type of victim they chose, a signature… Every element about the scene is a reflection of the unsub's mind." He pauses again, taps his finger against his chair absentmindedly. Tap, tap, tap.

"And for your other question ?" he asks. "What's something I try to include in the profile no matter what ?"

You glance up from your notes, your pen is starting to stain your finger with ink.

"Yes. I mean, if you don't have substantial information to base your conclusions on. What parts of the profile would you still try to figure out?"

"No matter how thin the file, I always look for signs of a potential escalation. Demographic profile, comfort zone, that's the stuff anyone can give, it's statistics. But escalation ? Emotional leakage ? That's what you have to look for, and you have to know where to look."

You finish writing down what he says and look back up at him.

"In the 1978 profile, you mention that the offender might potentially revisit the crime scene. Generally speaking, what would lead you to that conclusion ?" you venture.

He chuckles. In a sort of patronizing way. Like you're a little kid who just made a cheeky joke. Amused but condescending at the same time.

"Revisiting the scene, it's a form of reliving the crime, of quenching some sort of thirst or guilt. Think of it like an addict coming back for another hit. In the crime scene—" He stops and waits for you to finish writing. "— you see that the unsub spent time with the body, moved it, disturbed it in some way. Almost like they can't get themselves to let go. Of course, if the crime itself gave the unsub a specific and intense emotional release, they'd tend to come back to it."

Intense emotional release, to relive the crime. This checks out with the profile you have.

"How would you determine that a crime was sexually motivated if there's no sign of sexual assault?" you risk.

He knows what you're getting at. The profile you got doesn't include the fact that substantial damage was done to the victim's private parts, but that was easy enough to find out.

He narrows his eyes slightly, and straightens his back.

You put down your pen. Maybe you took it too far ?

"You've been doing some digging."

You're not sure if you're supposed to answer. You can't back down now, this is important. But at the same time, you hate that it feels like he's about to scold you.

He drags out the silence for a little longer. Like he's trying to see if you'll crack.

"Sexual motive isn't necessarily about the act itself. It can be about power, control, dominance, humiliation."

You pick your pen again.

"When there's no clear evidence of assault, we look at the body itself. Was it posed ? Was there overkill ? Did the unsub take anything ?"

You can feel him watching you, dissecting every part of you. Not unkind, but sharp.

"Looking back…" You clear your throat. " Is there anything in your original profile that you would maybe change, with the knowledge and experience you have now ?" Somehow, your voice is steady, even if you're shaking in your socks.

"Would I write the same profile today ?" He leans back in his chair. He looks at you, more kindly than before, and then to the side of his desk. Like he's trying to look back in time.

"Probably not. Not because the original profile is wrong… but because I'm— time changes the way you see things."

He hums, and tears his gaze away from his desk. You try to glance at what he was staring at but the picture frame looks backlit from where you're sitting.

"Let me ask you a question. I'm not used to being the only one interrogated." He smirks. "Why focus on profiling ? You're a law student, aren't you ?"

"I, uh—" You're not sure what to say. He does have a point. Because profiles are a walking contradiction, trusted by police but doubted by courts. That's the answer you should give. Sounds smart enough, and doesn't question the value of profiling as a whole. You're spinning your pen in your hand.

"Because they're—"

A quick knock. The door opens before you can finish what you were saying (thank god).

A man steps in, "Dave, can you— I'm sorry I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

A man doesn't even begin to describe whoever it is that just came in. You almost drop your pen (and your [REDACTED]. no? let's try a different word. your [REDACTED]. still not… you almost drop one of your personal clothing items. that works.)

He's beautiful. In an overworked, and underfucked way. His hair is short, maybe a tad too much, some of it is sticking up despite the gel coating the strands. Your hands are itching to brush them back down. He's wearing a suit, gray, with a red tie. Is there such a thing as a 'suit fetish', because you definitely have that. His tie looks almost too tight, like everything about him has to be tightly tied down. Almost reflexively, your eyes look for his hands. No ring. Thick fingers, hairy hands, fancy watch. No ring. You're probably staring at him with your mouth open, like this is the very first time you're seeing a man. And it might as well be. He's beautiful. And he smells nice. You get a very light whiff of his perfume… vanilla ?

Agent Rossi looks mildly amused, like he's stumbled upon something interesting. "Law student," he says with a small nod your way. "Working on one of my old profiles. About how profiling holds up in court." He glances at you then back at the (beautiful, beautiful) man.

"Since you were playing for the other team, maybe you could give them some pointers."

"Aaron Hotchner. Unit Chief," he says and holds out his hand for you to shake. It’s rough, and incredibly warm. The ink on your finger leaves a little blue smudge on his palm. Like every part of you is trying to latch on to him.

You give him your name. You're looking at his eyes. They're brown, and gentle, and beautiful.

"You're studying how behavioral analysis is used in court?" he asks with quiet interest.

"Yes sir." Oh don't think about what other context you could say this in.

"I find it interesting how profiling is interpreted and weighed in court. Not just in terms of legal technicalities but also by the jury. It can influence how suspects are apprehended and how evidence is interpreted, which directly impacts the trial." You take a small breath. "I'm not arguing against profiling per se, I'm just trying to understand how it fits with legal, uh— standards."

This sounds a lot better than the previous bullshit answer you were going to give Agent Rossi.

"That's an interesting angle to take." He starts rubbing the top of his index finger with his thumb. You're basically entranced, like he's a snake charmer and you’re about to start wiggling in your chair.

"Profiling can shape the way a case progresses. Most times it helps point to the right suspect. Sometimes, it can make the wrong one look more guilty," he adds, voice low and steady.

"The law is about concrete, undeniable facts. Profiling is more about patterns and possible ways to interpret them. The two don't always fit neatly together." He pauses, and you swear you can see the hint of a smile on his lips. " You've got your work cut out for you, but it's a great topic."

Meeting Aaron Hotchner must be some sort of reparation for all the pain men have caused you. You're glad you decided to study law, you're glad you picked a thesis subject on profiling, and you're glad you spent 1 hour 42 minutes and $13.00 to get here.

"Thank you sir. That… really helps." You don't think you can manage to say more than that without making a fool out of yourself.

Surprisingly, he gives you a small smile. You're sure that this one is real. Maybe the previous one could have been up to interpretation but this one is definitely real. He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, and takes out a small card.

"Here. If you ever have any questions. I'll try to answer them as best as I can," he says as he hands it to you.

The tips of your fingers brush ever so slightly against his when you take it. There's a vein that's popping out on his hand. You can almost imagine the rhythm of his pulse. Dum, dum, dum. Slow, steady, regular.

When you look back up from his hand to his face, you notice a small scar on the lower part of his chin.

"I— Thank you again sir. That's really kind of you."

He gives you a nod, and looks back at Agent Rossi, who you somehow forgot not only was in the room, but even existed.

Agent Rossi, on cue, clears his throat, "Well, I believe you've gotten even more than what you were gunning for." He looks unbelievably smug, like he can barely contain it.

You blink. You're not sure if he means the toeing-with-the-limits questions, the advice, the business card, or… something else entirely. But for some reason, you're not the one he's looking at.

"Good luck with your thesis. Don't slander profiling too much," he jokes.

"Thank you, really. Both of you."

You quickly slip the card between your notes. You still technically have 15 minutes as an authorized visitor. But you're not going to push your luck, you head towards the elevator. You’re definitely keeping the visitor’s badge.

Holy fuck.

To no one's surprise, most of the officers and detectives that worked the case in 1978 are either dead or retired.

And obviously, the retired ones are just dying to narrate in outlandishly embellished and exaggerated detail their glory days on the force. The stories have ranged from a high tension stakeout of a local drug lord (an old lady who was unknowingly growing cannabis in her backyard. or was she ?) to somewhat useful anecdotes about the case. So bribes (no, let's say offerings rather) of donuts and coffee are starting to seriously make a dent in your wallet (can you even write that off as a business expense ?)

At this point, you're on first name basis with the donut shop owner (Norma, 47, Taurus, 2 kids and a balding husband, likes long walks on the beach and George Michael). But this sort of works out in your favor because according to Virginia law, you're not allowed to even see the police files. (To be legally thorough :

Code of Virginia § 2.2-3706.1(C) : "Criminal investigative files relating to an ongoing criminal investigation or proceeding are excluded from the mandatory disclosure provisions of this chapter, but may be disclosed by the custodian, in his discretion, except as provided in subsection E or where such disclosure is prohibited by law.")

The custodian in this case, Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager for the Lexington Police Department, isn't the biggest fan of donuts, or pie, or cake, or cookies, or you, for that matter.

As of now, your case notes consist of :

a) mostly redacted FBI documents (see Appendix I)

b) a search warrant affidavit from 1979 for a Lecter Perpetrator (now that's an inconspicuous name…)

c) the interview notes for Agent Rossi

d) a bunch of old newspaper clippings

e) notes from talking to the officers and other residents (part gossip, part conspiracy theories and part factual information) (see Appendix II)

To be fair, you can piece together most of the relevant case facts from all of this.

The victim, Teresa Banks, worked at the ‘Double Y Diner’; found naked, with choking marks and stab wounds to the chest and privates, 2 miles from her house, body discovered early morning of July 9th 1978. Her coworker/friend Shelly Johnson, said that she dropped her off the night before near the town's church, as usual, and that Teresa always walked the rest of the way home (which would take her about 8 minutes). No one heard or saw anything, but one of the neighbors said that "it smelt like something was burning."

She was found the next morning by people coming to the church for Sunday service. Most of them agree that it was "gruesome and inhumane" and "why would someone do that to that poor girl?" One guy in particular, Kevin Baskin, was a bit more descriptive : "It was really early. We were going to early mass with my mother. I remember the sky was still deep blue. Everything was blue, it felt like. The marks on her neck, her lips, the tips of her fingers. Just blue, blue, blue. She had dirt on her face, it looked almost black against her skin. Like if death had kissed her cheek." Sounds a bit creepy, but according to your math, the guy was 16 when it happened so let's just say that's how he processed things. Plus, he's been really helpful, he's the one who gave you most of the newspaper articles you have and he's always down to talk about the case with you.

Anyways, according to the profile, the dirt is actually soot and it likely got there from the killer slapping her after burning her clothes. There's not much you could find out about Lecter Perpetrator, the guy from the search warrant. Traveling salesman, never married, no kids, his sister said that "he had a mean streak and could get real violent." Died in 1984 in a car crash. Nothing of note was found at his house, except a few cans of lighter fluid.

All of this to say that you're not getting anywhere with your thesis. Sure, you have most of the facts you need and the interview with Agent Rossi did give you a good look at how he came up with the profile (and an even better look at his unit chief). But somehow, you feel like something is missing. Or you're just stalling. Or, you need Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief, to give you some more legal advice. Obviously you're procrastinating but it still feels nice to imagine the super hot guy you talked to for a grand total of 10 minutes, 3 weeks ago, instead of doing your work. His business card is still tucked in with your notes. 24 point or 0.024 caliper, thick and sturdy card. Feels smooth under your finger, and the lettering on his name is slightly raised. You can trace each letter, A-a-r-o-n-, and it's almost like you're tracing the blue-ish veins that were on his hand when he handed it to you. You think about calling the number on the card.

"This is Agent Hotchner speaking,"

"Agent Hotchner, I need your help with something… You see, I've been thinking about you and—"

"Have you now ? I'm glad you called me,"

"Oh yes, I keep thinking about your hands. How strong they look, how thick they are. I can't even focus on my work anymore,"

"We can't have that, can we ? Tell me what you need,"

"Well I—"

"Your free minute is almost up, to continue this call, a rate of $2.99 per minute will apply. Press 1 to accept charges."

Norma, (donut shop owner, 47, Taurus, 2 kids and a balding now ex-husband, still likes long walks on the beach and George Michael), managed to get you a contact with the old local paper editor. The donut investments are paying off, and she's also trying out a new donut recipe just for you (neat!)

You're now the lucky owner of archival and collector copies in mint condition of the Rockbridge County Paper, ranging from July 1978 to December 1983, and you have a donut named after you : the 'Law-berry and cream'.

The earlier papers don't provide you with anything new about the Teresa Banks case, but there's something interesting in the September 1982 one. Farmville, VA resident and local photographer Ronette Pulaski, 32, was found naked, with bruises on her neck and stab wounds, in High Bridge Trail.

The Farmville custodian is thankfully partial to brownies, so you do get more leeway to see the police records this time (maybe Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, is more of a savory person ?)

The coroner's report states :

"Multiple sharp force injuries consistent with stab wounds, on the anterior torso and bilateral inguinal regions.

Severe disruptive trauma to the external genitalia is noted, making assessment of sexual assault inconclusive. Evidence of manual strangulation observed, bilateral contusions on the neck, consistent with digital impressions.

Cause of death determined as asphyxia due to manual strangulation."

Also, the crime scene photos show a very faint stain on her cheek. Granted, it could be dirt, she was found on a hiking trail. But all of this is starting to sound eerily familiar to you. Farmville and Lexington belong to two different jurisdictions, so that's probably why they never connected the two. And the cases sound way too similar for it to just be a coincidence.

What now? This isn't a Nancy Drew book, you're not going to be solving the case on your own.

The truth will out, and it is your duty to help it, bla-bla-bla legal and ethical obligations. Basically, you have to inform the competent authorities through the proper channels.

And in this case, that would most likely be the BAU since they consulted on the 1978 case.

Great.

As it turns out, a 'report of potentially critical intelligence relevant to an active investigation' takes a lot more time than you thought it would. And you're not even reporting anything that critical, the cases are like 30 years old. Could it be because you keep getting sidetracked by day dreaming about a certain agent getting your report on his desk ? (He'd sit down in an expensive, aerodynamic and ergonomic chair, optimal for lumbar support. Take a sip of coffee (black, no sugar, no fun), from his very plain mug that just says 'FBI', and lick his lips afterwards. Maybe spread his legs just the tiniest bit, to get more comfortable. Let out a deep sigh, one that echoes a bit too loud to just be from fatigue. He'd lightly run his fingers over the paper before — )

No, of course not. Not only is this serious business, but he wouldn't even read the report himself, he's a very busy man. Also, now you're somehow worried that the FBI would be able to tell that you were having inappropriate thoughts about one of their agents while writing the report. Well, it's not like you're putting 'I want to [REDACTED] Agent Hotchner's [REDACTED]' in the report, so it should be fine.

Just make sure to proofread it before sending it. Just in case.

You're never drinking again. Ever. First of all, alcohol is bad for you. Second of all, the pounding in your head is making you rethink every opinion you've ever had about terrorism. And your phone ringtone definitely isn't helping; you've suddenly developed a deep seated hatred for Outrageous by Britney Spears (this is just the alcohol talking, they could never make me hate you Britney <3). So, for the homeland's security and interests, you can never drink again. And out of respect for miss Britney Spears herself.

Your phone screen displays 2 missed calls from Norma (donut shop owner, just turned 48, Taurus, 2 kids, ex-husband still balding, likes long walks on the beach and George Michael) and she left a message, 1 missed call from Log Lady/Witness, one message from Kevin Baskin and most unsettling of all 1 missed call from Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, herself.

Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, as established previously for the court, is not your biggest fan. So she must be calling because the second coming of Christ happened in Lexington, Virginia, and she's trying to get you to the front lines for the Lord's Judgment.

Your messages read :

FROM : NORMA DONUTS

7:43 AM

Call me back. There's been another murder. Identical to old one …

FROM : KEVIN BASKIN LEXGT

9:18 AM

Did you hear??

Oh. This is bad. B-H-A-D BAD.

You call back Mrs. Martell first because she might be able to get you the most information.

There's indeed a new body. Discovered this morning, May 16th at 5:38 AM by Kevin Baskin (poor guy, he's really having a rough year. first, his wife dumps him because she thinks he’s too boring and now this… but isn't it weird that the exact same thing happened to him twice?) Says he had to get up early to get his car to the repair shop before going to work. The body was dumped on Beatty Hollow, a couple of miles from the local car shop. The crime scene is way too similar to the 1978 one. The injuries are also exactly the same, strangulation marks and the stab wounds. To top it all off, Beatty Hollow and Turnpike Road, aka the road where the first victim was found, are one continuous road that branches off.

So there's obviously some freak copying the old murder. Why can't people find regular hobbies ? Like reading, or painting or perhaps even crocheting ? This makes the situation a lot more urgent than it was a few weeks ago, when you sent the information report to the FBI. Which, unsurprisingly, you haven't heard back about. To be fair, at the time, the crimes were respectively 29 and 25 years old with no new developments whatsoever. Plus, it's not like you have some notable credibility with the FBI or anything of the sort. So, unsurprisingly again, that report might not have been at the top of their priority list.

Is this somehow your fault ? By some weird manifestation thing, you saying that the cases weren't that urgent led to this ? How come this sort of immediate karma only works against you, never when you need someone to get what's coming to them.

The truth will out, and it is— we get it. Best next step is to actually talk to someone in charge.

Someone in charge… some … one… in charge…

The Lord really does work in mysterious ways.

The phone only rings three times.

"Hotchner."

This sounds a lot like last time… yes pressing 1, I accept the charges operator!

"Hello, uh, Agent Hotchner ? I'm — I talked to you last time about profil—" You stop yourself. That doesn't matter right now. "Basically I'm working on the murder case in Lexington. From 1978." You need to stop fumbling and get it together.

" I think I found another case that's way too similar for it to be a coincidence. 1982, in Farmville. And I sent an information report but—"

"I'm sorry, what is this about?" he cuts in, not unkindly.

"I— yes of course. There's been another murder in Lexington. I don't know if you're aware. And it's basically a copy of the first one. Same injuries, same everything," you explain.

"Yes, the BAU has been made aware of it." He still sounds calm, but maybe a bit sharper. You can hear the sound of a door closing. "Are you implying that there's another case related to this ?"

"Well… basically yes. I sent an information report about it but I'm not sure if they've gotten to it yet. And obviously, the situation is more urgent now. I'm sorry for just calling you like this, I just felt like it might be useful."

There's a brief silence on the line. Not long enough to make you think he hung up (he's not the type. at least you think so. he looks too proper to hang up on someone). But long enough to make you think that you might have overstepped.

"I appreciate you calling," he says finally. He sounds more attentive, focused.

"If the details are as similar as you're saying, it might warrant a closer look."

You can faintly make out the sound of paper shuffling, a drawer opening and the click of a pen.

"I'd like you to come to Quantico," he continues. "We'll need to go over everything you found."

Your mouth goes a little dry. The skin around your nail starts to itch, almost begging you to pull it.

"Okay. Yeah, of course."

"Send me the reference number for the information report. I'll have someone pull it up," he requests.

There's another beat of silence. You can hear the sound of his pen gliding (not scratching or scribbling) on paper. "You did the right thing calling," he finally says, gentle, quiet but still firm. The line clicks.

You lower the phone slowly, like it might shatter if you move it too fast.

You're almost waiting for the operator to tell you that your total charges are $14.95, and for a sultry voice to pop back up and say "You did the right thing calling, honey. Call me again when you're ready for more…"

The trip from Georgetown to Quantico still takes approximately 1 hour and 30 minutes.

You do manage to correctly follow the travel instructions this time, even while carrying a box full of notes and documents (not that you didn't last time, obviously…). In some way, the file box does make you feel more confident, like you're here on official business. Which you are technically, but now everyone else can see that. Get it while it's hot! DC fashionistas newest must have : super trendy file box, only $17 at Office Depot!

Even the desk-lady (different from last time though, so statistically not a valid comparison point) processes your ID and gives you your visitor's badge quicker, 10 minutes quicker to be exact. It's obviously thanks to the file box (or, it's because you're here on request of the BAU's unit chief, and not because you've been harassing an agent to give you an interview for like 4 weeks. crazy how networking works…)

You do still get your trusty chaperone, Mr./Agent (verdict's still not out on his proper title) Tojamura, to safely get you from the elevator to the 6th floor.

Mr./Agent Tojamura drops you off at what looks to be a conference room, decidedly not Agent Hotchner's office…

The table's round, 6 chairs, black, not too fancy, not too shabby. Bunch of brown folders and papers strewn on it, and a notepad with yellow pages that looks like it's been forgotten. There's a little coffee area, with a fax machine. The pot looks cold. Just above it, a white board with something about a mandatory BAU seminar and how 'It's better to volunteer!!' written in dry-erase blue marker. There's another board on the other side of the room, bigger, but it's flipped around.

You're not sure if or where you're supposed to sit. You pick one of the round table chairs that face the door and put your very chic file box on the table.

You wait.

10 minutes. No sign of Agent Hotchner, or anyone else for that matter. You can see people bustling around in the bullpen, making phone calls, reading through files, writing reports. You can also see some guy pretending to be doing work on his computer but he keeps going back and forth between an empty spreadsheet and what looks like a gossip forum. You can't make out exactly what the skinny is, but there's a very nice picture of Paris Hilton. That's hot.

You glance back up at the clock above the white board. It's been 11 minutes now. Do they have a quota of how long they're supposed to make you wait ? Like the time you thought you gained at the reception, you have to make up for here ?

The door clicks open. 13 minutes. About the same total wait time as last time. Not enough data to make a statistical conclusion, but there's a hypothesis that's starting to brew.

You turn your head as Agent Hotchner walks in. No gray suit this time unfortunately, just plain regular black. His shirt is a pale blue tone that looks nice against his skin. Tie still tightly knotted. You did some purely academic research since last time, and apparently 'suit fetish' is actually a thing. There's even blogs solely dedicated to posting curated pictures. Not that you've signed up for any of their emailing lists of course…

He's holding a manila folder in his hand. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed. There's a crease between them that's deeper than it should be, like his face is preemptively getting ready for when he fully furrows them.

"Thank you for coming," he says.

You're waiting for him to pick the seat across from you, all neat and formal and professional. It's also the closest one to the door.

But he doesn't. He takes the one next to yours.

You're not touching. But you could be. If you sway your chair just the tiniest bit, your knee would knock against his. He's sitting next to you like you're colleagues, or somewhat equals. Like he wants to actually listen to what you're going to say.

He sets the folder on the table.

"You've brought everything ?" he asks while nodding towards you little bravado box. It's looking a little meek all of a sudden.

You nod. "Everything I could find. Some of it isn't— it's kind of a mess. Sorry, I didn't have time to organize all of it. It's mostly just my notes, nothing formal."

"That's fine," he replies. He's already flipping through your folders.

His index slowly drags against the paper. Most logically, because your handwriting is all jumbled and it's hard to follow the flow of what you've written down. But your mind easily makes the shortcut that he's caressing the words you wrote, and by extension, you (delusional). That this is his subtle way of starting an intellectual courtship (delusional).

"Sorry about the chaos," you explain, just to get your mind off of whatever highly inappropriate scenario it was getting to. "I wasn't really planning on anyone having to decipher through them."

"They make sense. Your notes," he answers without looking up, gaze still fixated on your papers.

He's doing that thing with his hand again. Rubbing his finger with his thumb. It's distracting.

"You picked up on details a lot of people would have missed."

There's no flattery in his voice. It's still that same low and measured tone. You don't even think he's capable of flattery. The tip of your ears feel a little warm.

"Thanks. I wasn't sure if I was seeing patterns that were actually there or if I was starting to make things up."

He looks up at you for a second. His gaze feels gentle but subtly inquisitive. As if he's quietly trying to figure you out without startling you.

"Feeling uncertain isn't a weakness." He goes back to reading your notes. "It means you're paying attention.”

There's a pause. You're not sure what to say. You're looking at the white board from before. The second 'e' on 'volunteer' looks a little crooked.

"Is there anything that made you connect the two victims besides how they were found? Both women never crossed paths," he inquires. He puts your notes down, and fully turns his body towards you. His suit jacket rustles a bit.

Your hands sit in front of you. You're lightly scratching the space between your thumb and your index finger.

"In Agent Rossi's original profile. It said that—" You pause and your start looking through the files you brought. You pull out your redacted copy of the profile. "The killer was doing it out of intense hate, that he's sadistic. And that he probably feels inadequate regarding love or sex." You quickly scan the page, looking for a specific phrase. "Also, this: 'Potential triggers include but are not limited to : rejection or humiliation in a romantic/sexual context.'" You take a moment. Tuck your hair back behind your ears. Gather your thoughts.

"This is hearsay, I'm aware. Double hearsay technically. But when I talked to the former local newspaper editor, he said that he'd heard— well not heard exactly but he wouldn't tell me his source— that the other victim, Ronette, wasn't the most patient person with random men. That she was really focused on her work and didn't have time and didn't want to make time for dating.” You risk a look at him. He's softly resting his chin on his knuckles. You can't find the little scar from before on it. He gives you a gentle nod, as if to tell you to go on.

"That's what's similar. To Teresa Banks. She was also described as someone who could be… brash, when needed. Her colleague, told me that Teresa would be the first one to put, uh, pushy, customers, back in their place," you continue.

"I think that's the link between them. That both of them wouldn't shy away from telling a guy to go f— to leave them alone. That's what sets the killer off," you finish. For some reason, you feel calmer than at the beginning. You've spent so much time and put so much of yourself in this case, both cases.

He puts his hand back down. The light catches the little scar on his chin, it's still there. It's a lot fainter now.

"I know this is mostly conjecture. But it still feels like something."

He doesn't say anything at first. He writes something in the margin of the folder he brought in with him. Quickly, efficiently, neatly. His pen looks expensive. Black, sleek with navy accents. Kind of like his suit. Does he match them on purpose?

"It is conjecture," he finally says. "But it's informed conjecture. And that's where we start from."

There's the ghost of a smile on his lips. It's that am I hallucinating/ it's up to interpretation / it could be just his lips twitching, smile again.

"You've put real time into this. It's good work." He closes the folder. His fingers drum on the cover.

His eyebrows furrow. To their full range this time.

He looks conflicted. Like he's weighing down his options. He glances at something outside the conference room, an office. His frown somehow deepens, like it’s testing the aerodynamic limits of his face. You're not sure who the owner of said office is, but it looks fancy. And you know it's not Agent Rossi's. He looks back at your files, and then finally at you.

Another moment of silence. His eyebrows twitch, like they're fighting back against his frowning. After that they relax, just a bit.

"I'd like for you to keep working on this. With us."

Your brain scrambles to catch up. You blink. Once. Twice. A third time. This is what happens when you abuse alcohol. You've clearly fried off the last of your brain cells with cherry brandy of all things.

"With… you?" you ask. You probably sound as confused as you feel.

"With the BAU, yes," he clarifies. "As a consultant. Informally."

You're just about to ask if he's gone senile when he continues.

"You've already put in the work. You know the case, you have rapport with the people. You're not trained the way we are but you see patterns. We could use that," he goes on, gently. Like he's somewhere between pleading and offering rather than demanding.

You want to. Of course you do. You'd say yes to anything he could possibly ask of you.

But your mind is screaming about all the legal implications. Appearance of impropriety, unauthorized practice of law, confidentiality breaches… You'd be crossing professional boundaries you haven't even had the chance to submit to yet.

The chair is sticking to your skin. You're back to picking at the space between your thumb and your index. Unknowingly, your eyebrows furrow. Not unlike how his do.

"You know I'm not exactly the best fit… legally speaking.” He knows what you're hinting at. And you know that he knows. And he knows that you know that he knows.

Even then, his expression doesn't falter.

"I'm aware," he answers. "I've made my assessment and I stand by it."

There's a pause. He's giving you room.

"You've already proven you're capable of threading the line. Carefully," he prompts you.

Your eyes settle on your notes, the mess of words, the coffee stains, the pages where the ink is all over the place because your printer almost blew up, the Office Depot sticker on the side of your file box.

"I'd need to check with my academic advisor." You're saying this more to yourself than to him.

"Of course," he replies.

A beat.

"But I'd like you to accept."

Turns out, the best way to get your academic advisor to respond in a timely manner is to put 'URGENT FBI CONSULT REQUEST PROCEDURE INQUIRY' in the mail subject line.

If only you'd had known about this trick before, you could have saved so much time. Because neither 'Advising appointment request, VERY important' nor 'Please respond I'm this close to naming you in my suicide letter' seemed to catch his attention.

Dr. Albert Rosenfield Ph.D., academic advisor though certainly undeserving of the title, tells you that consulting for the FBI would make a remarkable addition to your résumé and that you're legally savvy enough to know how to navigate the legal landmines that you're bound to encounter.

He's right. This would look banging on your résumé :

Juris Doctor,

Extensive knowledge of FBI investigative procedures through consultant work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit,

Proficient in Microsoft Excel (arguably the most notable achievement out of all of these).

Still, no matter how good this sounds on paper, it doesn't prepare you (in any way whatsoever) for sitting across the table in the Lexington PD improvised conference room, with 3 federal agents flipping through your notes like they're looking for a reason to kick you out.

Agent 1 : Dr Spencer Reid. Arguably the least intimidating of the three. Doesn't shake hands, talks really fast, and drinks so much coffee that he's making you consider quitting caffeine all together. He's also going through your notes so fast that you're wondering if he's part cyborg.

Agent 2 : Jennifer Jareau. JJ. Looks kind. She's the media liaison, so she's more used to talking to the non-initiated. She softly touched your back when you looked very obviously nervous after Agent Morgan told you that he "has no problem with you being here" but that you shouldn't "slow them down."

Agent 3 : Emily Prentiss. Most likely to kick your ass if needed. Sharp, slick, intimidating. She did compliment the Siouxsie and the Banshees pin on your bag though.

You're also going through files. Carefully vetted and redacted ones. About the copycat. To see if you can catch something different.

You haven't talked to Agent Hotchner —Hotch— since this morning, when he introduced you to his team, gave you a disappointingly professional pat on the shoulder (no lingering, no morse code message tapped with his fingers that reads "I kept thinking about you.") and told you to get to work.

Nothing really jumps out at you. There's subtle differences with the original murder. The victim, Sylvia Horne, 33, secretary, was last seen at the Bang Bang Bar. She was trying to put herself out there, be more spontaneous. Which would make her potentially more open to talking to strangers. Difference one.

Difference two. The ME report, although heavily redacted, (you tried to sneak a peek at the full copy while Dr Reid was distracted but Hotch immediately caught you, cleared his throat, and gave you a very pointed look.), says that the stabbing was less frenzied, less violent. Consequently, there was less damage to the groin. Which made it possible to determine, with certainty this time, that were wasn’t sexual assault.

Difference three. There's a mark on her cheek, not unlike the original case. But it's dirt, not soot. And it was smeared on her face, not slapped on.

You keep spinning your pen. Try to think. There's a growing ink dot on the side of your hand. You're not sure what to do with any of this.

You push the file away from you. "Bathroom," you mumble to no one in particular. Agent Jareau, "my friends call me JJ" but you're not sure if you can call her JJ just yet, gives you a small nod.

You step out onto the hallway. You're familiar with the layout of the Lexington police department, you've been here too many times to count. Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, is at her desk, typing what looks to be a very fiery complaint about the ever declining quality of the customer service at some restaurant downtown. Now that you're here on request of the FBI, she's toned down the nasty comments and pivoted to nasty looks.

You're headed towards the back door, on the left side of the building. There's a little staircase there, that's hidden from the rest of the department, where you can sit down and let your face rest from all the sharp glances it's been subjected to the entire day.

You spot Hotch on your way there. He's talking on the phone. His brows are back to their impressively furrowed state. This frown looks to be from annoyance though. Different from the ones you've seen from him before. The phone looks ridiculously small in his hand. You overhear him say a very clipped "Yes, I'm aware ma'am." before you open the back door.

You sit on the second step. Your phone buzzes. It's another message from Kevin Baskin (remember him?). He's been asking you more and more inquisitive questions about the copycat case the moment you got to Lexington. You're not sure what to message back.

You take a deep breath.

The door opens again, slowly.

Hotch steps out. He's holding a small paper coffee cup in his hand. It has a tiny blue sticker that says ‘LPD’.

He hands it to you before sitting down on, on the third step. The cup is warm. From the coffee. From where his hand held it.

You take a sip. Plain black coffee. It tastes absolutely disgusting. You try to contain the grimace that's making its way on to your face.

He lets out a little chuckle. It's so subtle that you thought you were hearing things, but when you look at him, there's a small smile on his lips. He takes out a sugar packet from his pocket and hands it to you.

"Are you alright?" he asks you softly.

From where you're sitting, you're slightly looking down at him. His eyes look really pretty from this angle. From any angle to be fair. But you can see more clearly that the center is brown and the borders have more green. That there's a few faint lines on the corners of them. That there's a single white eyelash nestled in the upper line of his left eye.

You swirl around the sugar into the coffee. It's still bitter, but better than before. You're staring into the cup. As if you're trying to spot any lone grains of sugar that haven't dissolved and are hiding out at the bottom. You're avoiding his gaze. You know that if you meet his eye, you'll just end up admitting something you're not ready to. Or perhaps he already knows, with his profiling superpowers, that you're wondering if there's any point in you being here, if you're actually helping or just getting in the way.

"Yeah. It's just… a lot", you answer so quietly you're not sure he even hears you.

He doesn't respond right away.

"I know," he says. He tilts his head. Like he's trying to catch your gaze through the coffee cup. "You're doing a good job."

You nod, slowly. You don't look at him, you're still swirling the coffee around in your cup. The sugar's almost completely dissolved. There's a few stubborn grains, stuck to the side of the cup.

You lift your eyes to meet his, for a second, before returning to the cup. You shift your knee to the side, barely. Just enough to fleetingly brush against his.

The sugar's all dissolved.

Day 4 of being sequestered in the Lexington PD makeshift conference room. Can anyone hear this ? Hello ? Is this thing on ?

You're now intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of this god forsaken room. You can't tag along to go interview people, because you're not law enforcement. You can't go to the crime scene, because you're not law enforcement. You can't visit the medical examiner, because — say it with me folks — "you're not law enforcement !"

JJ, lets you out of your enclosure for your one hour of fresh air a day around 12:30 (she insists you come have lunch with her and the rest of the team if they're not somewhere else.)

You like eating with them. It's fun listening to Dr Reid ramble about the agricultural technicalities of growing tomatoes in Virginia. Or pretending you don't see Agent Prent—Emily, steal fries off of his plate and having to stifle your laughter when he wonders out loud why he has less food all of a sudden while Agent Morgan tells him that it's because they're doing crop rotation on his plate. Or having Hotch open your water bottle for you because the cap was screwed on too tight, and inconspicuously (at least as inconspicuously as you can manage) staring at how his fingers flex and twist against the plastic.

Funnily enough, the work of an FBI profiler isn't as glamorous as one would think. It's half arguing back and forth with the local officers. Half staring at a white board and pages and pages of reports. And half (why are there three halves?) discussing whether the "unsub" chews with the left side of his mouth or the right one.

Somewhere in between light hearted jokes, at the beginning at Dr Reid's but now at your expense, and debates on the behavioral implications of chewing with the right side of your face, a more concrete profile is starting to emerge.

It starts with a scribble on Agent Rossi's notepad "less rage?" Which turns into a question from Emily : "What if the emotion of the crime itself isn't what he's after?”

Dr Reid frowns, or more like scrunches his nose. "He's mimicking the structure but not the intent. Most copycats exhibit a need for recognition or notoriety. They can also feel admiration for the original killer, perhaps a twisted sense of kinship. There's no evidence of that here. It reads as if he's recreating the crime with no emotional or ideological resonance," he rattles off.

It makes sense. You pick up the first pen you spot on the table and start spinning it in your hand. It feels heavy.

The only people who are even affected by this crime are the Lexington residents. It's the only thing people are talking about. Everyone you talk to has a theory, an opinion or a groundless accusation against someone.

This killer isn't doing it to get emotional release. The stab wounds aren't that violent, there's no sexual assault. On paper, it looks as much like the original crime as possible. But the details are all wrong.

The pen is one of those fancy ones you twist to use. Twist on, twist off, twist on.

The only thing this murder created is gossip. Wait. What if that's the point ?

"What if the point isn't the murder itself but the aftermath ?" you propose.

You can feel everyone's gaze shifting to your face. Although they don't seem as scary as before, it still makes your skin prickle. You tap the pen against your palm.

"I mean, this new murder is the only thing anyone can talk about. Everyone's focused on it. Like in 1978."

You glance at Hotch without meaning to. He's watching you. Carefully. Encouraging in his own quiet way.

You continue before you lose your nerve. "Norma, she owns the donut shop down the street, told me that back then, it was the most exciting thing that ever happened here. A lot of people were trying to solve the case on their own. Like a huge game of Clue."

Dr Reid nods, his left hand is held up, his index pointing to the ceiling. "The copycat isn't just mimicking the murder, he's recreating the conversation about it. That makes sense actually," he resumes.

Agent Morgan leans back in his chair, he's looking at the original crime scene pictures. "So he's attention seeking, but not in the classic way," he adds pensively.

Hotch hasn't said anything yet. You risk a glance at him again. His eyes are still on you. You look back down at your hands. The pen you picked up is black and navy. You twist it off one last time.

Emily lightly taps her finger against the table. "Then we've been looking at this from the wrong angle. This unsub is looking for reactions, some sort of excitement around what he's done. This is theatre to him," she concludes.

"It makes sense," Hotch finally says. "If he was too young in 1978 to fully grasp the impact of the murder but old enough to remember how it felt, this could be about reliving that moment."

Agent Rossi scratches his beard. "Or," he counters, "he's not only trying to recreate the feeling, he's trying to improve it. Make it last longer."

JJ tilts her head. "Draw it out you mean?"

"Exactly," Agent Rossi replies. "Think about it. The '78 case, one murder and it's got the whole town talking, dissecting the facts, playing Sherlock Holmes. Maybe this guy thinks that if he paces himself, strikes more than once, he can stretch the high for longer."

That seems to make things fall into place.

You can feel Hotch shift next to you. He grabs the nearest yellow pad, and holds out his palm towards you, a silent request. You almost put your hand in his before he whispers : "My pen."

Oh.

He writes down something quickly. You try to steal a look at it but he angles it slightly away.

"What is it ?" Emily asks, noticing the movement.

He looks up. "If this guy is staging a play, then we might be able to predict his next act."

He puts the pen down, closer to you than to him.

Agent Morgan's talking on the phone with their tech analyst. Talking might not be the most appropriate word to describe their exchange. You'd say that they're more so sexually harassing each other, but hey, you're not HR.

Penelope — as she cheerfully corrected you when you called her Agent Garcia (apparently, technically speaking, technical analysts and special agents are on different pay grades. which she laments because the 25% availability pay that's added to a special agent's check could be a game changer for her shopping addiction.)

She's currently trying to come up with a suspect list with Derek (known aliases : chocolate thunder, hot stuff, baby boy).

The working profile for this week’s latest flavor of creep is :

White male in his 40s,

Underlying insecurity and low self-esteem,

Obsessive personality, way too invested in the original crime as well as this one,

Has some sort of perverse nostalgia for the ambiance surrounding the 1978 crime,

Acting out of a psychological need for escapism rather than violent compulsion,

Someone unremarkable, doesn't stand out, plain boring job and plain boring life.

You're going through your case notes to see if you might have talked to someone who fits this profile. Except, there's pages upon pages of interview notes, you've practically talked to every single resident in Lexington that's capable of forming a semi coherent thought.

The clock ticks 10:30 PM. Agent Morgan headed out about 20 minutes ago, with a pointed : "Don't stay here too late kid."

The words are starting to blur into one big blue blob. The ceiling fan makes an increasingly worrying creaking sound every 5 minutes, like it's protesting against having to work past business hours.

Your stomach growls. Loudly. It probably echoes throughout the entire station. You ignore it. Sort of.

You flip to another page. You underline a sentence. You've kept Hotch's fancy navy twisty pen. Stare at the page. Forget why you underlined anything in the first place.

The door creaks open. You halfway expect it to be the security guard coming in to turn off the light. But it's Hotch. Still in a dress shirt, no suit jacket, tie just the tiniest bit looser.

"Still at it?" he quietly asks.

You nod.

"Have you eaten ?" he follows up.

The acoustics of the station are better than you thought they were if he could hear your stomach growling from outside the pseudo conference room. Then again, every sound seems to magically amplify at night.

You glance at the clock again, 10:43 PM.

"Not really." You shake your head.

He nods once. Not surprised.

He doesn't say anything, just holds out the door open, waiting for you to follow him out.

The only place that's still open this late is the Double Y Diner. It's one of those classic all American diners. You don't recognize the waitress working tonight. She's wearing a pale blue uniform with white accents. Her name tag says 'Annie'. She tells you that there's not that many pastries left. You get a lemon bar, Hotch an apple fritter (can he be any more predictable ?) and a cup of black coffee. When she brings them to you, they're on a singular indigo plate. They're lightly touching. The yellow zest from the lemon bar's icing blends with green-apple fritter's glaze.

You sit across from each other. His knees sometimes brush against yours. The town outside is quiet, muted. Like it's trying not to listen in.

You don't talk about the case. Instead, you talk about other things. Law school, books you've both half-finished and pretended to like, the difference between being good at your job and actually enjoying it.

You like talking to him. You like that he lets out a few quiet laughs at your jokes. You like the dimples on his cheeks.

At some point, your eyes drift to the old jukebox at the corner of the diner. In all the times you've been here, you've never tried playing it. Jukeboxes tend to be finicky.

He follows your gaze. You can see him let out a little smile.

He fishes out a dime from his wallet and slides it in front of you. The plate between you is full of crumbs. He let you try a little piece of his fritter.

You push the coin into the slot. You press K-10. There's a little proud smile on your face when you make your way back to the booth.

Hotch looks surprised by your pick.

"The Beatles?" he asks.

"What?" You don't fight the full smile that takes over your face.

You feel daring. Maybe it's the fatigue, the fact that it's almost midnight, or maybe it's the soft grin on his face that he seems to not even be aware of.

"This just in. Local FBI man baffled that someone under the age of 60 has heard of the Beatles. The rest of this story will surprise you. More at 6," you joke, putting on your best newscaster voice.

He lets out an amused sigh. You slide back into the booth.

The sun is up, the sky is blue

It's beautiful and so are you

He finishes the last sip of his coffee. You read the time on his watch, 12:03 AM.

Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play ?

It's day 6 on the job.

The typical work day at the Borden Health Center, 170 Kendal Drive (one of the offshoot roads of Enfield Road), Lexington Virginia, typically starts at 6:30AM.

Maddy Ferguson, motivated and dynamic newly-hired nurse, pulls up into the Kendal Drive-Enfield Road intersection at 6:02AM. After parking her car in a way that can only be generously described as wonky, she gathers her things and heads out to work. She's very glad she didn't have time to eat breakfast this morning. The sight that greets her straight out of her car is nauseating to say the least.

The body of 31 year old physical therapist Nadine Hurley is discovered at 6:07 AM May 28th 2007. The crime scene is identical to the previous one. Almost. No dirt on the face this time. ME report still pending.

You're stuck at the police station. Mrs. Catherine Martell, Records Manager, hands you a cup of coffee. You pretend to take a sip of it and thank her politely. She probably means well for once, but there's a non-zero chance that she put something in it.

One by one, the team trickles back into the station.

JJ comes back last. She's holding a file in her hand. The front part of her hair looks messier than usual, like she kept running her hand through it.

"ME report's in. It's still preliminary but take a look."

She sets it down on the table, between you and Dr Reid.

He starts flipping through it immediately.

"Manual strangulation. Stab wounds to the torso and genital parts. No sexual assault."

His index finger is going down the pages quickly. It stops.

"Wait. There's trace amount of saliva on her right cheek. Small deposit. They're extracting DNA from it to try and get a profile," he reads.

Emily leans back in her chair. "That doesn't fit with the profile. This unsub isn't getting gratification from the kill. Why spit on her ?" she mutters.

Small amount of saliva. On her cheek. Not from spitting on her.

"It almost sounds like a kiss," Hotch ponders out loud.

There's a pause. Or at least there's a pause for you. Has your daydreaming gone so far that you're starting to hear things ?

He's saying it in the most gruesome context imaginable, but still, just hearing him utter the word 'kiss' is enough to bring heat to your ears.

K — the back of his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth, lips relaxed and slightly stretched, I —his tongue is high and forward, not touching his teeth just yet, lips unrounded, SS — the tip of his tongue almost touches the ridges behind his teeth, lips slightly parted to let air trough. KISS.

Agent Morgan is the one who cuts through your spiraling. "So first murder, he smears dirt on the cheek. Second one, he kisses the cheek. Sounds like he's trying to recreate the soot mark from the original case. But that mark got there from a slap. That's humiliation, it's symbolic. This ? Almost seems like it's just for show," he concludes.

Dr Reid picks up from there, rummaging through the mess of papers and reports on the table to find the original case file. "The soot mark was an expression of power, the unsub was trying to degrade the victim as much as possible. The copycat doesn't understand that. He's not replicating the emotion behind the crime, he's replicating the image of it. As if he's forging a painting."

Emily nods. "He's copying the scene. Not the crime itself. That tracks."

"But how would he know to copy the soot mark ? It wasn't mentioned anywhere in the newspaper," you point out.

JJ tilts her head, she looks pensive. "You're sure it wasn't mentioned in the papers ? Not even a slight allusion ?" she asks you.

"I —yes. As sure as I can be. I got a bunch of article clippings about it from some guy and full issues from the previous editor. There's nothing. The only reason I even know about it is because I got Agent Rossi's original profile," you reply.

"Couldn't someone have accessed the crime scene photos ?" Agent Morgan raises the question.

"No, I don't think so. The records manager here is basically part bulldog—" you cut yourself off immediately. Why would you say that ? You can hear Emily disguise her laugh as a cough, Agent Morgan isn't hiding it any better. Agent Rossi looks amused and even a bit… proud ? You catch Hotch trying to hide a little grin behind his hand. Dr Reid though, is expectantly looking at you to finish what you were saying.

"I mean, no, uh — she's very, uh, attentive. That's what I'm trying to say. That she's attentive," you fumble.

"Right," Emily continues, still half-smiling. "So if the photos were locked down and the press didn't cover the soot…"

"Then he had to have seen the body himself," Hotch finishes.

You feel your mouth go dry. You get up to pour yourself some water. You pick up a paper cup, one with a blue 'LPD' sticker on the side. You fill it up halfway. Without thinking about why, you fill up another one. When you sit back down, you place the second cup in front of Hotch.

You spot Agent Morgan and Emily sharing a look.

Dr Reid continues : "That narrows it down to the people who saw the body before it was moved."

"More like the people who saw the body and aren't dead yet," Agent Morgan corrects.

You let out a small snort.

One semi-professional phone call with Penelope later, and you end up with a list of people who saw the body, aren't dead yet, and aren't senile either. 11 names.

Sounds like a lot but she was found by a group of people going to church… Amen?

You start going through the list.

"Alright, which one of these is the sick bastard that would pucker up and leave the 'kiss of death' ?" Agent Morgan ponders.

You chuckle lightly. Agent Morgan perks up at the sound.

"You know," he starts, “you laugh at my jokes now. I think it's time you stopped calling me 'Agent Morgan' don't you agree?"

"I'm maintaining professional boundaries," you counter.

He smiles, all knowing. He glances at Emily. She's also smiling like she knows something you don't. "Right. Just making sure you're applying that policy… consistently," he says.

You blink. Just as you're about to ask him what he means, Hotch cuts in with a stern "Morgan," that shuts down any further back and forth.

You go back to the list.

Most of the names on it are people you've already talked to. You start from the top : Lucy Moran, Denise Bryson, Gordon Cole…

Hold on. Something Agent Morgan — maybe it is time you just call him Morgan ? Derek feels too weird. And you can't call him Chocolate Thunder, not even in your head— said sounded familiar.

Sick bastard, pucker up, kiss of death. Kiss of death.

You start looking for you interview notes on the table. Urgently.

"Is everything alright?" Hotch asks, concerned by the sudden agitation in your movements.

You don't even answer him. Your eyes are scanning the pages as quickly as they can. Nowhere near Dr Reid speed but fast enough.

You find what you're searching for. Your finger lightly trembles before setting down on the quote etched in your messy handwriting.

" 'Like if death had kissed her cheek' ," you read.

You look up. The room is silent.

"Who said that?" Agent Rossi asks, his tone heavy.

You say their name.

And then everything starts to move.

You're sitting in front of Norma (48, Taurus, 2 kids, new boyfriend has a full head of hair, likes long walks on the beach and George Michael) at the counter of her shop.

The donut she put down in front of you, your special donut, remains untouched.

You got too antsy to stay by yourself at the police station. Maybe you should make a fake FBI badge next time. Then, at least, instead of freaking out alone in the station you could freak out at the scene. (Just kidding. Don't do that obviously. Forging the badge by itself is a misdemeanor. But actually using it is a federal felony. Up to 3 years in prison and a maximum fine of $250,000.)

You caught a glimpse of Hotch before he left. Wearing an FBI bulletproof vest. To be fair, all of the team was wearing one but you know… Anyways. The vest. Navy. He kept the tie underneath it. It was stretched taut against his chest. Hugging, (well technically protecting) every single part of it. You wonder how it would feel like. To glue yourself so closely to him.

Norma can tell that you're not really listening to her. You keep looking back every few minutes at the window. Still, she keeps talking. As if she's trying to take your mind off of whatever's bothering you. She's going on a date with the new boyfriend tomorrow night. She's debating putting on her tried-and-tested hot date outfit but the last time she wore it was for her first date with her almost completely bald ex-husband.

You turn towards the window again.

You can see flashes of blue.

Blue, red, blue.

The police car comes to a stop. Morgan comes out first. He roughly escorts Kevin Baskin to the station. The handcuffs around his wrists reflect the siren lights. Red, blue, red. He looks… normal. Eerily normal. As normal as he did when you first interviewed him and he let out that he was feeling depressed because his wife left him but that he was glad he got to talk to you about the case. As normal as he did when he gave you the old newspaper clippings and told you that back in high school, him and his friends would play detectives and try to crack the case. As normal as anyone can look.

You make your way outside the donut shop.

Hotch is still outside. He took the vest off (bummer. or maybe not that much ? he's just in a dress shirt. his tie isn't crooked per se but it's not as rigidly proper as usual. this is the first time you see him with one layer instead of two.) You go up to him.

You can spot a small wound on his temple. It doesn't seem to be bleeding. It looks purple in this light.

He's looking at Morgan.

The air feels heavy. You don't know how to feel, what to say.

Could you have known ? Should you have seen something, anything ? Was his life so dreadfully uneventful that he needed to kill two people just to feel less… bored?

You don't say any of those things.

You point to your temple, "Are you okay?"

"It's nothing."

He looks tired, tense. The line between his brows is glaring at you.

"So… do you think I could get a gun next time ? Or how about a badge ?" you joke.

He lets out a quiet laugh. Like some of the tension left his body. Not all of it. But enough to let his face soften a bit.

You feel unreasonably proud.

His hand briefly settles on the crown of your head. Warm. Fingers gently brushing your hair. Incredibly warm. "No," he says.

His hand drops back down. "You weren't at the station ?" he asks.

You can feel your heart in your chest. Like it's trying to escape. Maybe what you actually need is a bulletproof vest to tightly hold it down in place.

"I was with Norma. At her shop." When you turn to point towards it, you can very clearly see Norma standing at the window, snooping. There's no two ways about it. She doesn't even flinch, doesn't falter at getting caught. She just beams at you, gives two enthusiastic thumbs up, and an exaggerated nod.

"That's Norma…". You avert your gaze in embarrassment. He looks down at you and smiles softly. You don't see it.

"She seems nice."

He turns to go back to the station. You follow him. Somehow, even with his ridiculously long legs, his pace matches yours.

You’re going from Georgetown to Quantico. One last time. Around 1 hour and 30 minutes. $13.00.

You type out part of your thesis on the way there.

V. Why the 1978 Case Remained Cold: A Legal-Forensic Analysis (draft 1)

A. Could Profiling Have Helped?

In retrospect, the 1978 behavioral profile raises critical legal and forensic concerns. Particularly when assessed under modern evidentiary standards, which require expert testimony to be based on scientifically valid reasoning and methodology. While the inferred offender traits outlined by the profile may seem plausible in hindsight, their speculative nature raise serious admissibility issues. The validity of the process behind behavioral profiling has been met with increasing scrutiny and skepticism by courts. For instance, United States v. Meeks (2003) …

You’re back at the BAU conference room. You’re here to give a formal report about your ‘consulting but not really but sort of but not really’ work for the case.

Hotch is the one taking it. Is this sort of paperwork even part of his duties ?

He’s sitting next to you, not unlike the first time you ever were in this room.

He asks you to describe exactly in what capacity you contributed to the investigation. He writes down what you’re saying with the navy twisty fancy pen. You feel a lot more at ease than the first time. The whiteboard still says ‘it’s better to volunteer!!’, with the crooked e.

He finishes writing down the last of your words and then taps the pen lightly against the edge of the paper.

“I’ve seen agents do less than this and get more credit,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor.

A smile tugs at your lips. “Is that part of the official statement, Hotch ?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Off the record.”

He turns the page towards you and hands you his pen for you to sign it.

“Just Aaron will do,” he adds.

Aaron. Aaron. Aaron.

You twist the pen, his pen, off one last time. You try thinking of a way to stall. To steal just another minute of his time.

“Well. That’s all of it,” he concludes.

A beat… That’s it ?

“Unless you want to debrief again. Over dinner ?” he offers.

I want to [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] and de-brief (get it?) you and [REDACTED].