#trusted poker agent

[mrs-kmikaelson]

What's in a Name?

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: 5 times you and Agent Hotchner questionably cross paths over the years, just for him to watch you walk away (+1 time you don't). Warnings: long asf, murder, violence, addiction, unhealthy coping mechanisms, corruption in government, allusions to abuse, one made-up case, hotch is a lil ooc (not rlly), and reader has grey morals (lmk if there's more) Eps incl: S1E21 (secrets and lies), S3E20 (lo-fi), S4E1 (mayhem) Words: 24.4K

Masterlist | Bonus (no.6)

a/n: this is the longest fic i have ever written. guys, one section is literally 10k words long— and i didn't notice!! it's too long for one part (there's a 1k block limit on tumblr) so the bonus is linked above and at the bottom. it took me... a while. so i hope u enjoy! might do a part 2. also i'm only on s4 of cm rn (even tho i know too much alr) so pls don't spoil. ly guys!!

1. The myth

Quantico, Virginia, 2004

The interrogation room was cold and your fingers felt frozen against the metal of the table, but you doubted it had anything to do with the fact that it was December. If anything, you'd bet good money that as soon as you stepped out of the room, the heat would return. You'd bet good money that a certain Agent Hotchner sitting across from you had fucked with the AC unit.

Nonetheless, you didn't show your discomfort, keeping a poker face.

Well, as much of a poker face that you could keep.

You had a smile on your face, a twinkle in your eye. While you preferred not to spend time in police stations, this really was turning out to be quite interesting.

Agent Hotchner didn't seem to hold the same opinion as you. The frown on his face was unmoving, his expression stone cold. High-strung, you thought, and then you wondered what crazy things he might've seen to make him that way.

You turn to the man sitting next to him (the boy really), and asked, "Does he ever smile?" You pointed to the man in question to emphasize your point, even though it was clear as day who you were referring to.

Spencer, as you'd learned his name was, looked somewhat flustered at your question, like he wasn't expecting you to speak to him, but he ignored you regardless. You took that as a no. "Ms. Y/L/N, you're known throughout the United States and many other European countries as 'The Angel of Death.'" Your smile widened at your nickname. "They say that, as soon as you contact someone, they're as good as dead."

"Oh? Is that what they say?" Your voice was sly and teasing.

Spencer ignored you yet again. Rude. "You send them a message through various online media, and then they mysteriously turn up deceased."

"Do they?" you drawled.

The stoic and silent Agent Hotchner took this as his cue to speak up. "As of late, your existence has been nothing more than a rumour, an urban legend amongst criminals and internet sleuths. A myth."

You hummed.

"But your recent attempt on Congressman Baylor has failed. You got sloppy," he deadpanned. "You went for a fish bigger than you could handle, and now the myth is likely headed for life without parole unless you tell me who you're working for."

You were silent for a moment as you held his stare, and he thought that finally, he was getting somewhere with you, but then you broke that silence with a giggle so bubbly it was almost hard to believe you were assassin.

"That's cute," you remarked.

He narrowed his eyes. "What's cute?"

You shrugged nonchalantly. "The fact that you think you can convict me."

It was Spencer this time that spoke up, his voice soft in comparison to the jagged edges of his partner's. Perhaps this job hadn't broken him yet, you thought. "Y/N, arrogance isn't gonna get you out of this."

You snorted. "No, trust me, this isn't arrogant. It's self-assured." You didn't give them a chance to get another thing in. "Tell me, what exactly has your technical analyst, Penelope Garcia, been able to dig up on me?" You saw slight alarm flare up in Agent Hotchner's eyes, surprise in Spencer's. "She's FBI, yeah, and you guys sure do like to play by the rules, but she isn't an agent like you, Hotchner. She must get impatient, bend the rules, perform some illegal activity that you don't question because it helps you with your case. That's why I'm a bit surprised that, even though she likely did run an illegal background on me, she didn't find my records. I mean, they're not that sealed. I bet I could unseal those bad boys right now."

He's lucky you didn't put money on that bet, because you would've won.

Aside from his eyes, no emotion other than irritation showed on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you poor sweet things." Another chuckle left you. "Have you ever heard of this little thing called immunity?"

Hotch was quick to dispute. "No. You do not have immunity."

You contested, "Oh, yes, sweetheart, I do. And if you had checked my pockets for anything other than a pistol, then perhaps you'd have noticed this." Since they hadn't cuffed you, you reached into your back pocket easily and pulled out your badge, the words Central Intelligence Agency catching their eyes immediately. 

Hotchner scoffed, the most emotion you'd seen from him since you met. "You're��CIA?"

You cocked your head. "Y'know, for some of America's supposed best minds, I'm a little unimpressed."

Reid leaned forward in his seat. "You're—"

"Yes, I am. So your girl back at HQ seemed to miss a few details about me, and you have missed more than a few details about this case— if a case is even what you could call it." You stood up and rested your hands on the table, getting bored of this game already. "What you have, SSA Hotchner and Dr. Reid, is not a serial killer. I hope your victimology analysis picked this up already, but the quote-unquote victims you have are all bad people, people who have broken the law in irreparable ways. And when I say irreparable, I don't just mean Bill Clintoning it up with minors, despite many of them having done that. I mean selling government secrets, espionage, treason. Things that threaten national security, things that my bosses do not like. I'm sure you catch my drift, don't you?"

Before Agent Hotchner could respond, the door to the interrogation room was opening, and a smirk automatically arose on your face. About damn time. 

A man who you instantly recognized as Jason Gideon stood in the doorway. You briefly met once, but you doubt he remembered you. His face was stern, too, and reluctance shined through his voice. "Hotch, the Secretary of Defense is here, and the DOD is demanding she be released."

You maintained Hotch's stare all the while Gideon spoke. The clench in his jaw was small, but you caught it. Something told you this man didn't like to be challenged—you'd keep that in mind.

Eventually, he nodded.

You grabbed your coat from behind your chair, stowed your badge away and flashed them your million-dollar smile. "Well, it was nice meeting you, boys. Let's do this again sometime, yeah?"

Then you were out the door, and Hotch thought that if he went forever without seeing you, it'd still be too soon.

And when Congressman Baylor was found dead a few hours later, he wasn't surprised.

2. Smile

Langley, Virginia, 2006

"I've got the personnel files all set up for you guys. Video, whatnot—it's all there in the conference room. Now if you have any questions, feel free to talk to my senior officers. This is Gina Sanchez, she's the Associate Director of Field Operations. And that guy up there is Kruger Spence, the Assistant Director of Operations. The lady with him is his second-in-command, Olivia Hopkins. And then there's, of course, my boss."

Gideon's brows went up. "Your boss?" he echoed. The rest of the team's confusion was just as palpable. When he was brought in by Bruno Hawks to assist the CIA in finding their mole, he assumed he was the one running point. As far as he was concerned, Hawks didn't even have a boss that'd be there.

"Yes, she's flown in from an assignment to help with this case." Right on cue, you walked out of an office, heels clicking on the floor and the same smile on your face that Hotch could remember from two years ago. "Meet Director Y/N Y/L/N; she's head of a CIA black ops initiative and envoy from the NSA."

Your voice was smug. "Oh, trust me, Bruno, we've met before." This time, Hotch couldn't conceal his scoff. He felt Elle glance at him in confusion—she's the only one who didn't know who you were. "Agent Gideon, it's a pleasure to meet you formally." He shook your hand, albeit unenthusiastically. "Agent Hotchner, I knew I'd be seeing you again." He rolled his eyes, making your smile widen, but out of his strong urge to be polite above all other things, he shook your hand, too, pulling away as fast as he could. "Dr. Reid." He nodded back to you, almost hesitant. You nodded to the rest of them individually. "You two I haven't met, but you must be Derek Morgan and Elle Greenaway. I wish we had more time for pleasantries, but lives are on the line, so I'd like to get moving ASAP."

With that, you swiftly turned and walked back to the office you'd made your own. You didn't often spend time at headquarters, but a mole in the Agency was enough to pull you away from the case you'd been working previously.

As you left, you heard Reid explain to Elle in a hushed tone, "That was The Angel of Death."

You stifled a chuckle. Let's see if Agent Hotchner's team was as good as they claimed to be.

❧

You and Hotch stood on either side of Bruno on the platform as he spoke to the entire office, Gideon off standing alone, seemingly in thought. "Now, we all know why BAU and Ms. Y/L/N are here. They have their job and we have ours. And we're down to the wire on this. Aaliyah Nadir risked everything, and now she and her children deserve our fullest attention. Let's find her."

They all walked off after Bruno dismissed them, all but Gina Sanchez. You glanced at her from the corner of your eye as she went to talk to Agent Gideon. You didn't hear their conversation, but you saw the hostility painted all over her face. Interesting.

After she left, Gideon made his way over to where you were standing, speaking quietly. "We think the agent who's tipping off Hassan may have had some kind of extreme event in their life."

"Something that distorted or redefined their belief system," Hotch added.

Bruno was quick to get defensive. Why, you weren't sure. "No, every agent undergoes regular psych evals. You know that. They're trained to cope with extreme events"

"Well, whatever turned this agent must not've been something you can train for," you cut in. You didn't miss the way Hotch glanced at you.

Bruno gestured outward with his hands. "Well, you're welcome to everything I have. Every op undertaken by these guys is on file."

You snickered a bit under your breath. Your ops certainly weren't "on file."

"What about the ones that aren't on file, like the wiretaps of the Saudi Embassy?" Hotch questioned.

"Those don't even exist," Bruno said. You didn't confirm nor deny that statement.

"How long has your department been running operations in Riyadh?" Hotch turned to Bruno, back straight and eyes sharp.

"We have a declared presence in Riyadh, monitoring US interests there. You know that. Now if that's all, I have an informant to save." You hummed as Bruno walked off, finding his attitude quite intriguing.

"And you, Agent Y/L/N?" You turned to face Gideon. "What do you think?"

You tilted your head. "Aren't you and Bruno friends? Why not ask him?" Because he had the same feeling you have.

He responded without missing a beat. "You don't have a belief system—this job is all you believe in."

This caused you to chuckle. He wasn't wrong. "Good profiling, Agent Gideon. And yes, I have my suspicions, but until further information is gathered, I'm not at liberty to discuss them. For everyone's safety." You gave one last glance to Agent Hotchner. "I look forward to see what your team has brought together."

❧

Not long after your talk with Hotch and Gideon, you stood with the latter and Agent Greenaway in a supply office where the body of Olivia Hopkins was lying dead.

Gideon turned to you expectantly. "It's your job to clean house. You do this?"

You scoffed. "If I wanted to kill a CIA senior officer, believe me, you wouldn't have thought it was a murder at all." You glanced around the room you were in. "And I certainly wouldn't have done it in a federal building."

He must've believed you because he ended his line of questioning there, turning back to Elle. "Have any other agents seen the body?" When she shook her head, he replied, "Good. We can use this to our advantage. Get the others."

You met up with the rest of the BAU in their designated conference room as Gideon quickly explained the situation. Your suspects filed into the room shortly after, each confused and annoyed. You analyzed their body language closely, standing next to Agent Hotchner.

"You're pulling us away from our assignments?" questioned Kruger. "There's a woman out there whose life depends on us."

Defensive. Self-centred. Rude. But not your guy.

Gina was the first to ask where Olivia was, which was either genuine or she was covering her ass.

Hotch was the one to answer. "Olivia Hopkins was murdered 10 minutes ago. Her neck was snapped."

"Just like John Summers," you drawled.

Kruger let out a scoff, but you kept your eyes on the other two as he spoke. "What are you talking about?" Gina looked spooked, but Bruno's expression was cold, even as he tried to imitate warmth. "You're lying. Where is she?"

"Right now, she's dead," you emphasized, not really caring to be sensitive.

Kruger looked at you like you'd just killed his dog. "Look, people don't just... get murdered inside the CIA."

Gina looked at him with betrayal in her eyes as if he were a traitor. Shifting blame.

Hawks spoke up. "I realize the enormity of this, but Hassan Nadir is still out there looking to kill his wife, and I need every agent on this." You tilted your head. Deflecting. He didn't even acknowledge that his own colleague, his responsibility, was dead.

Gina was the first to leave the room, deeply frazzled. Gideon followed after Hawks, but you didn't go with him. You stayed in the room with Hotch while the rest of his team filed out.

You weren't expecting him to talk to you, let alone ask for your opinion, but he did. "What are you thinking, Y/L/N?"

You hid your surprise, nodding to the door Gina and Kruger walked out of. "My money's not on her; it's not on Kruger, either."

He furrowed his brows, lowering his voice. "You think Bruno Hawks is the mole?"

You shrugged your shoulders. "Bruno's been leading this unit for all of, what, ten years? And he hasn't advanced at all? Someone like him must have higher ambitions, like leading the Agency one day, but that's not in his cards. Gina Sanchez and Kruger Spence have bright futures here; Hawks is already at the end of the line. So what's the next best thing in this city besides power?"

Realization dawned upon him. "Money."

"And by the looks of the old car he drives, that's something he's lacking, but something that he wants," you deduced, pausing. "But I'll let you continue your investigation."

He caught your hand just as you turned away, and you ignored the small spark that was sent through your body. His eyes were earnest and curious, but most of all you realized that they were beautiful. "Y/N, what's going to happen to the mole when we find them?"

You ignore the unfamiliar flutter you felt after he said your name for the first time, and it's then that you remember Hotch was a prosecutor. Before he was unit chief Agent Hotchner, he was just Aaron Hotchner, a man who valued balance and believed in justice. Even now, after climbing the ladder, he still didn't seem to understand that his own government was different.

In matters like these, the United States government didn't value justice.

They valued revenge.

But still, if not just to help him retain his faith in his country, you shrugged and told him, "The scales will be evened, Hotchner." 

Then you pulled your wrist out of his light grip and walked away, and he couldn't tell if he wanted to know what you meant.

❧

Sanchez and Morgan were on their way to rescue Aaliyah and her children, and then you were made aware that Hassan was already there.

Bruno turned to Gideon. "Look, we can't arrest him. This is still a CIA matter. You do know that?" He then turned to you, like he was expecting to you to back him up.

You shook your head as Gideon said what you were thinking. "How are you going to explain this to the Saudi government?"

"Explain what?" he fired back. "This isn't happening."

You crossed your arms. "That's not how this works, Bruno. You don't just kill a Saudi diplomat and get away with it—that is how wars begin."

He scoffed at you. "Look who's talking. The Angel of Death, giving me a lecture on in-house cleaning."

You narrowed your eyes and stepped forward. "I don't know who the hell you think you're talking to right now, but you need to double back because, at the end of the day, what I. say. goes."

Bruno opened his mouth to argue, but Jason mediated, "Let's just get Aaliyah and her children back alive. We'll worry about Hassan's life after."

You gave Bruno one last hard stare before you turned back to the screen showing the Nadirs with Morgan and Gina outside. "Make the arrest, Morgan," Gideon called out. "It's FBI jurisdiction. You're in charge."

You listened to them over the comms. [FBI! Let the lady go and put the gun down. I said, put the gun down!]

The movement of heat on the screen told you that Hassan listened. [Diplomatic immunity, my friend], he said, and you chuckled.

[Uh-uh, you got it wrong, my friend. This container hasn't passed through customs. Officially, we're not on US soil. Summers was a smart man.]

Suddenly, you heard Gina's voice. [That he was.] Pause. [Drop the gun.]

The feed cut in and out as the figures moved out of the container. Confused, you called out, "Morgan, Sanchez, what's going on?"

Hawks turned to you and Gideon, and you wanted to wipe the smug look right off his face. "You two still certain that Gina isn't the mole?"

Gideon ignored him. "Morgan." No answer. "Morgan, what's going on?"

[Gideon, we got a situation here.]

You raised your voice. "Gina, don't do this. Do not do this."

"She doesn't take orders from you," Bruno snided. 

You took another step forward to him. "Listen here, asshole—"

Gina cut in, [Bruno, what do you want me to do?]

"Gina, you put down that gun. That is an order—"

[Bruno?]

This made you turn to Bruno, and if you were in an animation, smoke must've been coming out of your ears. "Hawks, I swear to god, if you don't stand down, you will be endangering the security of this country—"

Bruno only responded to Gina. "You know what to do."

[Say it!]

"This is not your call. It is not your fucking call, Bruno."

He finally turned to you. "This is strictly in-house and you know it."

"I don't give a damn. It is still not. your. call."

"Finish him."

"Gina, don't you dare do this."

[You're going to cut the visual feed, right, Bruno?]

"Of course. Cut it now. Cut it," he ordered, and the feed was off before you could even protest.

And then you heard four gunshots. 

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. White hot anger rushed through your veins in contrast to your normal playful demeanour. Meanwhile, Bruno turned to Gideon, saying, "I want to thank you, Jason, for your help."

You stayed quiet as Gideon responded, too angry to speak. "Why?" He paused, genuine disbelief evident in his tone. "Why'd you turn against everything you believe in?"

"What are you talking about?"

"When someone asks you how you feel about... losing one of your colleagues, the only human answer is 'I feel guilty,' isn't it?"

Bruno nodded and mocked, "But as you so brilliantly deduced, Kruger Spence is the guilty one." Following that statement, you watched as Elle walked up to where you three stood, a tiny paper in hand that she gave to him. Based on the ignorant smile that graced his face upon reading it, you could guess what it said. "Ridiculous," he deflected, tucking the paper into his jacket pocket. "Absurd."

That's when you snapped out of your anger-induced stupor. "No, Bruno." You shook your head. "The only thing that's absurd is how arrogant you are to believe that you're getting away with this."

Bruno pursed his lips, flashing you a sarcastic smile. "Unfortunately, with Hassan now dead, you have no proof."

"Oh, you son of a—"

Dr. Reid cut you off, announcing to everyone, "Actually, Hassan is alive and well. He's en route—that's all the proof we'll need." At this, you let out a chuckle. You certainly didn't need that proof, but it was nice to prove Hawks wrong before he was sent to where he deserved to be.

He clenched his jaw, stepping closer to Gideon instead of you, likely because he knew he couldn't shake you. "You are a fool if you think they're going to put me in prison with all that I know." He glanced at you and your lips quirked upward, because this was true.

"Why'd you have to kill Olivia?" Elle interrogated. She was straight to the point; you liked her. 

"Economics," Gideon replied, staring straight at Bruno. "Olivia was looking into your financial records when you snapped her neck."

Elle scoffed under her breath. "So she knew your dirty little secret."

"Which one?" Bruno asked. "I have so many."

You stepped closer to the trio. "The one that involves you cashing out through Hassan, maybe buying a real Rolex instead of the fake you don so proudly."

You could see Bruno's façade cracking, his frustration leaking through. "Twenty-million from Hassan will go a very long way to help occupy my mind on a beach somewhere."

Gideon wasn't fazed. "The only beach you'll see is on a postcard I send you from my vacation. Let me have your gun."

Knowing there was no way out of this, Bruno did what he said willingly, but he still had to taunt. "You know, I think the consequences of what you're doing to me, my friend, are going to be a lot harder to live with than you think."

Jason stared at him without blinking, and he stared until Bruno walked out, escorted by agents left and right of him. You found it comical, that petty thieves were escorted to the back of police cars in chains, yet a man who nearly started a war could walk out freely.

Well, you supposed Bruno Hawks wouldn't be free for much longer.

And it was your job to see to that.

❧

You were packing up your things in your office when a knock sounded. You turned to see a raven-haired man in a suit standing there, a hand in his pocket. A grin came to your face. "Agent Hotchner," you greeted. "Congrats on solving the case."

He let out a chuckle that surprised you. Aaron Hotchner didn't look like a man who laughed often. "Yeah, well, thank you, but I have a feeling you knew from the beginning."

Your grin widened. "Ah, I just needed proof." You continued to pack your things. "And besides, I wanted to see what your team was capable of."

He hummed, and you thought he'd leave after that, but he stayed, looking around the room with a careful interest. "No pictures," he noted. "No personal artifacts. It's extremely clean in here—untouched, almost. How much time do you spend here?"

You fully turned to him after that, giving him your full attention. With comments like those, that must've been what he was after. You crossed your arms, but the smile never left your face. "Perceptive, Hotchner," you remarked. "Profiling me now?"

He shook his head. "Not profiling, just observing."

Now it was your turn to hum, looking him up and down. You found that you liked what you saw, visually, but the implications to what you saw weren't very fond. "Well, what I observe, is an accomplished man in a nice suit, but you don't wear that suit because you're unit chief, you wear it because you got used to it as a prosecutor and now it makes you feel on top of things... professional. You're stiff and stoic, but that's because you like to separate your work life from your home life. At home, with your wife and kid, you're lively and relaxed, but that's also to compensate for the fact that this job takes a lot out of you; you're not home often, and that puts a strain on your marriage, which is why you haven't called your wife once today." Your voice was soft as you delivered that final blow. Hotch looked both uncomfortable and, surprisingly, impressed. But thus far, nothing about Aaron Hotchner was what you were used to. "Tell me, Agent Hotchner, was I correct?"

Hotch lightly snorted, but he didn't answer. Instead, he took to staring right back at you. You'd been stared at by bad men, murderers, rapists, terrorists and the like, but for some reason, his stare bothered you. You turned back around and packed one last thing into your bag. Then you walked toward the door, stopping just before you made your exit like an invisible barrier was holding you back. 

You patted his shoulder, telling him, "You should smile more, Hotchner. It'd suit you."

And then Aaron watched you leave for the second time in his life, except this time—for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom—he hoped he'd see you again.

3. The games we play

Washington, D.C., 2007

The air in Washington was always crisp. There was something different about it—like you could smell the power in the air, like you feel it. When you were home, in your apartment, it was suffocating. There was enough politics in this city that you could drown in it, politics you didn't care for. You saw enough of it as is.

Nevertheless, you weren't home often, so it wasn't too troublesome. Today, however, you were home, except you weren't here to rest.

You stepped out of your Mercedes as soon as you parked, locking the car and walking straight into the alleyway. Men in blue stood in your path, hands out. "Ma'am, this is a crime scene—"

You wordlessly held up your badge, effectively shutting him up. With red climbing up his neck, he nodded and lifted up the yellow tape for you.

When you made it past them, there was a woman in a red dress there. She'd be beautiful, you thought, if she weren't sprawled out dead on the ground. Her dress was so dark you almost couldn't see the blood stain. 

But the blood pooled around her was a telltale.

Next to her body was a card with typed-out letters and numbers that appeared random. 

But you knew better than that.

There was a woman taking photographs of the scene and a detective analyzing it. He was just as confused as those officers when you showed up. "Excuse me, who are you?"

You gave him a short smile. "Detective Walker, I wish we could've met under better circumstances. I'm Y/N Y/L/N." You held one hand out and simultaneously held up the other with your badge. "I've been instructed to take over this case."

He furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry, Ms. Y/L/N, but I've already alerted—"

"Detective Walker."

At that, you screwed your eyes shut and cursed under your breath. You recognized that voice—hell, you recognized the sound of his footsteps. And he was exactly what you didn't need.

Composing yourself, you spun around with your signature smile. "SSA Hotchner."

Hotch looked momentarily stunned at your being there, but that was quickly wiped away. "Y/N. What are you doing here?"

"Well, if you mean in the city, I live here. And if you mean at this scene, then that's because it's mine." You paused, letting that soak in. "This is my case."

Confusion was visible on his face. For a second, you thought it was cute. "No, this is a BAU case. Series of murders, victimizing high-level escorts—forgive me, but I don't see why this would require a CIA presence."

Of course, you don't, you thought, but for once, you didn't say what you were thinking. Instead, you explained, "I understand that 4 women have died in the past week, but believe me, Agent Hotchner, that is not the case I'm here to solve." When his brows knitted together, you elaborated, "These women are not the targets of these attacks."

"What do you mean?" 

You sighed, pointing over to the woman's body. "See that card over there?"

"Yeah, it's the unsub's signature."

"No, it's more than that. It's not a way for him to get off; it's not something he does compulsively. It is a taunt," you stressed. "Those letters aren't random. They're part of a code."

"A code to what?"

"A code to an NSA file recording every single undercover operation the United States has in foreign countries." Like your words were a vacuum, they sucked anything lighthearted out of the atmosphere—if there was any to begin with—and left tension in their wake. "6 high-level analysts have parts of that code. I'm guessing that 4 of them are already dead." You glanced back at the dead body before looking back at Hotch. "The unsub isn't a serial killer, Agent Hotchner. He's a traitor with a mission to annihilate everything in his wake."

❧

After looking at the scene, you sent Detective Walker away, telling him it wasn't personal but this case was too sensitive to be worked by local police. They didn't have the clearance nor did they have the means to help. You asked him to send you all of his evidence, and he complied easily, but someone wasn't so easily persuaded.

"You're going to need help."

You snorted. "Thank you, but I think I'll do just fine without it." Just as you reached your car, Hotch grabbed your wrist. 

You turned around, but before you could say anything, he spoke. "You could use my team, and you know it."

Your eyes ever so slightly narrowed. "All due respect, Agent Hotchner, but this is above your pay grade."

He held your stare for a few seconds until you saw his jaw tense. He glanced to the side before he exasperatedly muttered, "Please, Y/N." He looked up at you. "I want to help with this case."

Unknowingly, you straightened your back. Aaron Hotchner surprised you more and more each time you saw him. The corners of your lips curved upward, but something about your smile was more sincere. "You're not a man who says please much, are you?"

He rolled his eyes and neglected to answer. "Does that mean you'll accept our help?"

You paused. Was that what you meant? Your mouth didn't correspond with your brain as you replied, "I'm running point on this." Hotch's shoulders imperceptibly relaxed and he nodded. "I'll tell Detective Walker to send his stuff over to the BAU. I'll meet you there to brief your team." You turned away before you could see him nod a second time.

You don't know why you said yes, but you did. On the drive over, you told yourself it was because he was right, you could use some extra hands, and it helped that the BAU were good at what they did.

Yes, that's why I didn't send him away. 

You didn't explore any other option.

❧

Hotch got to the BAU before you but waited for you to arrive before walking into the building. To make sure you got to the right place, you reasoned. 

You went through the typical security procedure: removed your guns, walked through the metal detector, and showed your ID. In the elevator, you cracked a couple jokes that he didn't laugh at, asshole, but you nearly caught him slipping at one.

"This city's so damn power-hungry that even the serial killers would prefer a fucking computer code over sex. What a nerd. Hey, how often does that happen in your line of work, Hotchner?" You turned your head for his response when you saw his lips twitching.

You let out a dramatic gasp. "Agent. Hotchner. Are you..." you lowered your voice, a devious smile crawling to your lips. "smiling?"

His efforts to suppress his little smile failed after that. "Let's focus on the case, Y/L/N."

"Sureeee," you drawled. The elevator dinged and opened. "Better be careful, Agent. I might just start thinking you have a soul."

He shook his head at you and walked out of the elevator ahead of you so that you couldn't see him as a full smile graced his face. However, once you got to the conference, Hotch erased any sign of that smile and walked in full-stride.

You gave the room a cursory glance, duly noting that they must've spent a lot of time in here. You noticed immediately afterward that some faces were missing, and on the other hand, some new ones had appeared.

You followed Hotch to the front of the room in front of their TV. 

"Everyone, this is Director Y/N Y/L/N from the CIA. She'll be leading this case—and as some of you may recall, she's already worked with us on an investigation about a year ago," he announced, subsequently gesturing around the table. "Y/N, this is SSA Emily Prentiss, SSA David Rossi, our communications liaison Jennifer Jareau, and our technical analyst Penelope Garcia."

You nodded, smiling at them. "It's nice to meet you all—"

"You're— you're her."

You turned to the blonde with pink highlights that'd cut you off, Penelope, and furrowed your brows. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh my god, you're her," she whispered, her eyes wide and her face awestruck. "You're The Angel of Death."

You held back a laugh. "That is what people to tend to call me, yes."

She opened and closed her mouth repeatedly before eventually blurting, "I— you're an icon. I've read some of your code before in snippets, and it's beautiful. And, I mean, when you can code like that and then do what you do, it's no wonder that the government would want you all to themselv—"

"Garcia." At Hotch's command, Penelope's mouth snapped shut and snickers were heard around the table. "We are here to work," he told her, trying to be serious, but you could hear the amusement hiding behind his tone.

"Yes— yes, Sir. Work. Working," she said, but her eyes remained trained on you even as she spoke.

Morgan laughed, swivelling his chair toward you. "Sorry, angel. She gets a little..." he twirled his finger next to his head, "Comicon-y whenever things involve computers."

This snapped her out of her trance and made her whip around to point her finger at him. "You better shut it, Morgan, before I show everyone those pictures of you at Comicon with me."

His smile dropped. "Babygirl, you wouldn't."

"Oh, yes, sugar, I would."

Hotch exasperatedly cut their very entertaining banter off. "Work."

"Morgan, you've been to Comicon?" Without even looking at him, you could hear the smirk in the man's words.

"Leave it, Rossi. You heard the bossman: we've got work," he changed the subject, but based on the fiery look being sent his way by Reid and the teasing one by Emily, you'd bet that this conversation wasn't over.

Hotch signalled for you to start, so you stepped forward, got a little more serious for his sake, and began, "The serial killer you've been phoned in on is not a serial killer. The women he's killed are unfortunately collateral damage to a much bigger problem." Behind you, pictures of the paper left next to the bodies appear on screen. "The unsub is going after high-level members of the NSA who have fragments of a specific code. He's been leaving those fragments at the crime scenes. So far, he has 4—there are only 2 more. Once he gets the last two, it'll only be a matter of time before he's able to unlock a classified file, detailing every undercover op we have or have had in other countries."

The room was quiet. Morgan was the first to question, "So, he's a whistleblower?"

"No, not necessarily. Given his M.O. and need to taunt us with these papers, his goal isn't to expose the government—it's only a stepping stone to what he truly wants, which is chaos."

Emily spoke up next. "Well, he's clearly a narcissist, and he's sadistic at that. Otherwise, he wouldn't have killed these women like this."

Dr. Reid nodded, keeping his eyes on the file in front of him. "Craves control, finds a way to manipulate the situation and mold it into what he wants it to be." He looked up, talking with his hands while explaining, "Narcissists are devoted to themselves and will further themselves in whatever way possible. They lack empathy and find enjoyment in causing others pain, stemming from their grandiose sense of self-importance. Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb were drawn in and obsessed with Nietzsche's idea of Übermenschen, supermen who possessed such high intelligence that it put them above the law. They later confessed to the police that they sought to commit 'perfect crime.' This unsub is likely suffering from the same sense of entitlement."

Rossi tipped his pen at him, agreeing, "Yeah, he's arrogant and he believes he can get away with this, hence the taunting. All he wants is to feed his ego, but he hides behind the whistleblower façade to absolve himself of blame."

"And he's impatient," Derek added. "4 bodies in one week. We don't have much time before he strikes again."

"No, we don't," you said. The screen changed to display the pictures of two men. "The last two people with the code are Malik Hussein and Ethan Torrie. I believe he'll go after Ethan first; he's in D.C. for this big gala tonight. That's where the unsub will make his move."

Emily looked between you and Hotch, almost as if she was unsure who she was addressing her question to. "So what's our plan?"

You, too, glanced at Hotch before looking back at her, splaying your hands out in front of yourself. "Well, we only have one course of action: wait for the unsub to approach Ethan."

Unexpectedly, Hotch interrupted you, saying, "Y/N and I will go in undercover." What? You held yourself back from widening your eyes and whipping your head around. "The rest of you will be waiting for our signal. Garcia, can you get us on the guest-list?"

"Already on it, Sir."

He nodded, firing orders away, "Alright, Morgan and Prentiss, I want you both to go back to the crime scenes. Talk to the owners of the establishments, bartenders, doormen—anybody who could've seen the unsub leave the building with the victims. Garcia, consult with CCTV footage. Rossi and Reid, I want you looking at his M.O. and why he didn't leave the men there with the women. JJ, contact The Post and tell them not to run the latest murder; it's imperative we keep this and the unsub's true motives out of the press. Y/N and I will go over tonight's plan."

They all voiced their confirmations and, like clockwork, filed out of the room until it was just you and Hotch left standing. The air suddenly got heavier—with what, you had no idea.

It felt different, old and new all at the same time, like everything and nothing you'd ever felt before. You couldn't pinpoint it, couldn't describe it.

Growing bored of the silence, you raised a brow, repeating, "'Y/N and I will go undercover?'"

Hotch, who was in the middle of collecting his things, paused and raised a brow of his own, turning to face you. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

You looked him up and down, taking your time and not bothering to be subtle about it. After a moment, you responded, "No." A smirk slowly came to your face. "Let's go over that plan."

He maintained his stare for a few seconds, reminding you of when you met. Eventually, he nodded and got to it. All the while, your mind ran rampant—but not with the case.

Agent Hotchner continued to surprise you.

And you'd be sure to return the favour.

❧

After planning for hours, you and Hotch came up with a decent story. He'd be going as himself. You'd pretend you were his girlfriend, his tag-along for the party, with a fake identity. His presence would make sense, but if people found out Y/N Y/L/N was there, they'd start to wonder things that this plan couldn't afford.

Your name wasn't widely known, nor was your face, but at a party like this, you had to be careful.

That's what you explained to Hotch.

"I don't understand. Nobody knows who you are. Not even Garcia could figure out who you really were when we met." He furrowed his brows in confusion.

You sighed, "There's going to be a lot of powerful people there, Hotchner. Everybody knows The Angel of Death, but there are some big fish in Washington that know she's Y/N."

This seemed to confuse him more. You surmised that he didn't like not knowing things. "Why do you say it like that—say your name as if it's not your name?" 

You gave him a look.

His eyes widened. And for the second time that day, you found yourself thinking that Aaron Hotchner was cute. "It's not your name?"

"Why do you think Penelope had such a hard time finding my credentials?" you inquired. You went on before he could answer. "I take it she didn't find my records at The Academy, either. She found that I went to Caltech, but she didn't find yearbook photos or my social media. She found that I grew up in Massachusetts, that my parents are dead, that I was born in '79. But otherwise, I'm a ghost, aren't I?" Your voice was somewhat playful.

Hotch didn't seem to find the humour in what you were saying.

"So everything about you is a lie." It wasn't a question.

Your eyes glinted with amusement. You leaned in to where he sat across from you on the other side of the table. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that Agent Hotchner stiffened. "'Nothing more than a rumour, an urban legend amongst criminals and internet sleuths. A myth,'" you whispered. "Does that sound familiar?"

He didn't respond.

"As you said, Agent Hotchner, I am a myth. I am not meant to exist. So find me another identity and show me that you're up for the task before this entire plan is derailed by a name."

Your memory was cut off by a knock at your door. You swiped your lipstick across your lips and they immediately quirked upward right after.

You took your time getting the door. Whether Agent Hotchner realized it or not—or rather, whether he was willing to admit it or not—this was a game. And you were nothing if not a damn good player.

Without knowing it, he started it when he picked you up off the street that day in '04. He moved another piece on the board when he walked into your office in '06. And then he asked to work on this case.

It didn't matter what he thought about you or what your name really was. All that mattered was the next move.

You opened the door and his eyes immediately widened on their own accord. They travelled down your body, tracing the outline of the red dress you'd picked out, finding the slit on the side. But this was all within a split-second.

In the blink of an eye, his eyes were back on yours. If you hadn't been paying attention, you would've missed it. He was hoping you did.

But you didn't.

You did, however, miss his ears going red when you turned around, leaving the door open as an invitation inside. 

"You're wearing a suit," you noted, smirking. "How out of character for you."

You heard the door shut, and then footsteps behind you. "Funny, Y/N."

You chuckled. "Please, I know you think I'm hilarious."

He lightly shook his head as you stood in front of your mirror, putting on your earrings. He took that moment to look around your apartment, eyes scanning over your living room. No pictures anywhere, no plants or art. You had a couch, but no television. He glanced to the adjoining kitchen. There was an espresso machine, but he was willing to bet that if he checked your fridge, it'd be empty. 

"You can stop trying to profile my apartment," you informed him, still adding the finishing touches to your outfit. "I don't stay here often."

"I can tell."

He watched as you picked up your heels then went to sit on the couch to put them on. He tried not to let his eyes wander, instead trying to look around the room some more, but even without having his eyes on you, he still couldn't get your picture out of his head.

Distractedly, he heard you absentmindedly ask, "Hey, whatever happened to Gideon and Greenaway?"

He looked at you to respond, seeing you get up. "Things with the job. Certain cases take more of a toll on others." He didn't explain that Elle spiralled or that Gideon lost everything he held dear. He preferred not to think about it.

You tilted your head. "Did things happen with you, too?"

He didn't answer, instead opting to suggest, "Let's go over the case one more time."

You nodded and let him get away with it.

Hotch schooled his expression. "You're Deirdre Carter. You're a CPA. We met years ago on a work conference but hit it off recently. We've been dating for five months."

"Dating," you repeat.

His brows furrowed. "Yes." He didn't understand why you were hung up on it until he saw you glance down at his hand. It's then that he realized he was still wearing his ring. "Oh."

Your voice got softer, and you didn't know if that was part of the game or not. "Look, Hotchner, you don't have to do this if you don't want to. I can do this solo."

"No—" he sighed, looking down at the ring he'd worn everyday for years on end. "I'm divorced. I guess I just wear it out of habit," he revealed.

"Oh."

He took it off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. "Let's head out," he said. You nodded, leading him out.

And you didn't mention the ring again.

❧

Once you got to the building, you met Derek, who was in a secuirty uniform, at the front. He momentarily disabled the metal detector for you so that the guns on your thigh and in Hotch's boot weren't caught.

In the hall, the music played ceremoniously, an orchestra of jazz players working tirelessly to entertain D.C.'s wealthiest and most powerful. The President would be making an appearance later. You hoped to get this done and get out of here before that happened.

Your eyes found Torrie within a minute, subtly signalling his location to Hotch. He was by the bar, a redhead on his arm. The two of you went that way.

He ordered you drinks at the bar that he wouldn't drink, but as soon as your martini was in front of you, you were picking it up and taking a sip.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, talking through his teeth. "We don't drink on the job."

You smirked at him. "You don't drink on the job. I'm just keeping up appearances." You then took the olive and bit into it. For some reason, you enjoyed getting under Hotchner's skin.

He rolled his eyes at you, likely about to reprimand you again, but a voice in your ears stopped him. "Do the two of you have eyes on Torrie?"

Hotch turned to you and brought his hand to your face, cupping your cheek. To those surrounding you, he was just a man caressing his girlfriend—hell, the leap in your chest told you that you nearly bought it. But you knew he did this so that the mic hidden in his sleeve would be at your mouth. You held his stare, a sweet smile gracing your face as you replied to Rossi, "Yes. By the bar."

"Good. Prentiss is on the floor with the ambassador if you need her."

You leaned into Hotch, too, running your hands down his suit jacket while he glanced around for Emily. "Got it."

The next voice you heard was Garcia's. "Hello, my lovelies, I am watching you on camera. Hotch, to your left is the door through which you'll take our bad guy. It's being guarded by Reid and JJ as we speak."

You lowly thanked her, to which she stammered out a "you're welcome." Hotch took his hand away from your face and you removed yours from his chest, cursing the part of yourself that missed his touch.

If you weren't on a case, you'd have thought more about how pretty his eyes were.

The music suddenly changed, becoming a slow song. Your eyes darted behind Hotch to see Ethan and his date making their way to the dance floor. You downed the rest of your martini then grabbed onto his hand, wordlessly pulling him to the floor.

You felt him lightly tense when you put your hands around his neck. "Relax," you whispered. "Just go with it."

At that, he eased up, wrapping his hands around your waist. You moved to the beat of the song, taking control of your dance while he kept a close eye on Torrie. No one had approached them yet, you gathered.

The dance came easy to you, too easy, like it'd been rehearsed or like it was something you'd been doing all your life. Your feet moved synchronously like they had a mind of their own. You didn't have to think about it—it just happened.

It was funny, almost. The stiff and stoic Aaron Hotchner could dance. Your mind went back to when he smiled in the elevator earlier. It made you wonder what he was like before. Before he was a profiler or unit chief.

You know you were different before you were in this life, before you became Y/N.

You wondered what would've happened if you met back then, when you were just you and he was just him.

And just as soon as you started wondering, you no longer wanted to think about it. Instead, you asked him, "Did you ever think you and I would be dancing together like this when we met?"

He glanced down at you then looked away. "No." A ghost of a smirk came to his lips. "I thought I'd be putting you behind bars."

You chuckled. "I know. It was quite entertaining."

"To you, maybe." He glanced down at you again. "I don't like being blindsided."

"Oh, I know." When he glanced down at you this time, he saw your eyes twinkling. "That is precisely why it was so entertaining, Agent Hotchner."

He chuckled under his breath, and something in you fluttered. "You're something else, Y/L/N."

You hummed, murmuring, "And don't I know it?"

He was gonna say something else but then something in his expression changed. He was back to stoic, eyes hardening. You straightened your back and stopped dancing. "7 o'clock," he muttered.

You unwound your hands from his neck, turning around to see a man beelining at Torrie from across the room. But if you had your way, which you would, then he wouldn't make it to Ethan at all.

With Hotch hot on your heels, you headed his way, moving through the crowd effortlessly. Just before he was about to reach them, you inconspicuously unholstered your gun from your thigh and pressed it against his back, stopping him in his tracks.

Hotch caught up to you, standing to the side and obstructing the view. "Careful, friend. I wouldn't want to shoot you in front of all these people, but I will." As a warning, you clicked the safety off. 

The man tensed as Hotch grabbed his arm. Your voice was sweet in comparison to your sour words. "Now, you're gonna follow him or I'm gonna pump you full of lead. Capisce?" Neither you nor Hotch waited for a response, leading him towards the side doors that Garcia had notified you of.

Upon getting there, Reid and JJ opened the doors without a word and closed them immediately after you'd gone through them.

As soon as the doors closed, the unsub twisted Hotch's arm, prompting him to yelp. Simultaneously, he knocked the gun out of your hand, sending it thudding across the floor. 

He shoved you against the wall, knocking the wind out of your lungs. Meanwhile, Hotch threw a punch his way. A crack resounded through the hallway followed by the unsub growling. He threw a punch back that Hotch narrowly dodged, but in one quick motion, he pulled Hotch's tie, catching him off guard.

In a flash, he had Hotch in a chokehold, fighting for breath. You acted quickly, reaching for the knife sheathed on your thigh, running up behind the ubsub and holding it to his throat, causing him to go rigid.

"Let him go or I slit your fucking throat," you spat.

He didn't ease his hold, making you bring the knife closer, knicking him. "I said, let. him. go."

Begrudgingly, he let Hotch go, who was gasping for breath. You let him catch his bearings for a moment, but you had to alert him, "Hotchner, the cuffs."

He coughed but nodded, grabbing the cuffs from his pocket. You took them from him, shoving the unsub against the wall just as he did to you and pulling his arms behind him. You wrapped the cuffs around his wrists and tightened them until you heard him grunt.

"In case you didn't get the memo, you're under arrest, asshole."

Knowing this would never reach a courtroom, you didn't read him his rights or tell him what he was being arrested for. He knew.

Where he was going, he'd never forget it.

❧

You and Hotch stood to the side in an alley after you'd shoved the unsub into the back of a black sedan, watching the car drive off. 

"I know that you're just itching to interrogate him," you commented, your voice echoing in the night. "But trust me, that's somebody else's job now." You felt Hotch's eyes on you, but you didn't look at him.

His stare burned into the side of your head. "That wasn't a cop car," he said.

"No," you finally looked back at him. "it wasn't."

"Who was driving that car?"

"A CIA agent."

"And where is he going now?"

"To pay for his crimes," you slowly answered, narrowing your eyes. "Stop worrying about it."

He stepped closer to you. "He should be doing that in a federal prison, with a sentence decided by a judge and a jury. The families of those analysts, those women— they deserve closure."

You shook your head, an incredulous laugh leaving you. "You still don't get it, do you?" Your voice was teasing, but your undertone was hard and serious. "A trial means telling a bunch of people, including civilians, about ops that are not meant to exist. It's just not gonna happen."

Hotch kept staring at you for what felt like forever but was really only a few seconds, giving you the urge to squirm under his gaze. For some reason, you didn't like the way he was looking at you. Finally, he looked away, exhaling, "It's not right, Y/N."

Somewhere, deep inside, you felt a pang. You touched his shoulder, softly telling him, "You should know better than anyone that the law isn't about right and wrong." 

He still didn't look at you.

You sighed. "Thank you for your help, Agent Hotchner." You patted his shoulder one last time and then left the alley, walking through the door you came out of and, in doing so, you felt something change. 

The game was over.

You just couldn't tell who won.

By the time Aaron had noticed this change, he tried to follow you, but when he opened the door only to see an empty hallway, he realized it was too late.

You were gone.

And he didn't know why that disappointed him so much.

4. Unpredictable

New York, New York, 2008

Whenever Aaron was in New York, he liked to pick up good coffee and eat good food. But as he stood over a dead man's corpse, he felt his appetite vanish.

He and his team stood at the crime scene, analyzing it. It was different, but he couldn't shake the feeling that everything about these murders were different. There was something off about them, and he couldn't figure out exactly what it was.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black car pull up next to the yellow tape, the Mercedes logo glinting in the light. He furrowed his brows then shook his head, thinking better of it. Stop thinking about her.

"Uniforms are rounding up witnesses."

Detective Cooper and Brustin's arrival made him look away from the car and toward them instead. "Doesn't sound like anyone got a clean look," Cooper said.

Morgan looked up at the security camera that should've caught everything but in reality caught nothing useful. "It's over in a flash," he remarked. "He's probably gone before anyone even realizes what's happening."

Right beside him, Kate asked, "Is this what it felt during the Son of Sam?"

Just as Brustin was about to answer, a new voice sounded from behind them. "Son of Sam is the least of your worries." His breath hitched. They all turned around, and Hotch instantly realized that he was right: that car was yours—and now you stood right in front of him.

You gave him a glance but then your eyes were back on Kate. "What you should be focused on is another 9/11."

Kate lightly scoffed. "My apologies— who are you?" 

"Y/N Y/L/N, CIA," you introduced yourself, flashing your badge. Recognition briefly flickered through her eyes. "And you must Kate Joyner, head of New York's field office." To be polite, you held out your hand, and she reluctantly shook it. "I'm here as the Agency's delegate, and I'll also be representing Homeland Security for the time being."

"Homeland Security?" You looked to Morgan. "It's nice to see you again, angel, but what does Homeland Security have to do here?"

You went to answer, but Joyner cut you off, "I'll ask the questions, Agent Morgan, thank you." Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, and a quick look at Derek told you that his did, too, but then Kate was looking at you again, waiting for you to answer.

Your mind was brought back to the situation at hand. You glanced at Hotch once more to see he was already looking at you, but then you looked away. "I have reason to believe that this guy is more than a serial killer. In fact, I have reason to believe this is more than one guy."

Kate crossed her arms. "What are you suggesting?"

Every time Hotch had seen you, no matter how serious the situation was, you were lighthearted, amused, knowing you'd come out on top. But this time, your voice was devoid of its usual playfulness as you disclosed to them a fact that changed their entire investigation.

"If I'm right, Agent Joyner, then we're dealing with terrorists."

❧

Once the initial shock from your revelation died down, you told them that you'd explain everything back at the field office. Unexpectedly, Morgan asked to ride back with you and you obliged, figuring his company wasn't too bad.

Hotch stared at you the entire time as you got in the car, and he continued to stare at you until you sped out of sight.

You didn't look back once.

"So, terrorism, huh?"

You glanced at Derek and smirked, finding that playful nature again. "I told you, I'd explain at the Bureau."

He shook his head at you, a similar smirk on his face, then he quizzed, "Hey, did Hotch happen to tell you why Joyner's giving me attitude?"

You furrowed your brows as you came to a stop light, turning toward him. "What makes you think I've talked to him?"

Derek snorted. "Please, every time I've seen the two of you together, you're all flirty—even when he was still with Haley."

"So what? I've flirted with Spencer before—doesn't mean I wanted to get into his pants," you defended.

His smirk widened. "I never said you wanted to get into the boss' pants."

"You insinuated it."

"Why, angel? Do you want to get into his pants?"

You deadpanned, "No, I do not." Despite yourself, you couldn't stop red from crawling to your cheeks.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that." Right after, the light turned green, as if saving you from whatever this was. Then the teasing disappeared from Morgan's voice, replaced with curiosity. "Wait, so you're seriously telling me Hotch didn't call you?"

"Yes, Derek. That is exactly what I am telling you," you insisted, then you glanced back at him. "But to answer your question, Kate doesn't like you for the same reason she doesn't like me: power." He stared at you confusedly, so you elaborated, "Word on the steet is that the FBI wants to reassign her, and you're their star replacement."

"What?" Shock laced through his voice.

"What, are you telling me you actually didn't know?"

"No, I thought the Bureau was so proud of itself for stealing her away from Scotland Yard."

"Well, don't ask me to explain FBI politics to you. I'm in an entirely different organization, my guy."

Derek groaned in exasperation, making you laugh and forget about Hotch, even if it was only for a second.

❧

By the time you and Derek got to the field office, you were all business, unlike any time Hotch had ever seen you.

With the team gathered around you, you stood in front of the evidence board and started, "The unsubs' behaviour is questionable. They're disciplined, they're using countersurveillance. They take a quick shot then leave the scene immediately, not stopping to watch or enjoy the kill at all. There is nothing sexual about it, and that is because these killings are not the work of a serial killer. They're methodical. They look like mob hits at first glance, simulate gang initiations. They seem random, but they're not. The murders, just like the Death card you received, are a smoke screen."

Kate cut you off. "How can you be so sure?"

You suppressed your irritation at being interrupted and kept calm. Cooly, you explained, "Murders like these create panic— not just amongst the general population, but amongst law enforcement, as well; it is terror. It serves their greater goal." You gestured with your hands as you spoke. "The murders simulate a bombing. From there, they station someone to watch, gauge how long it takes police to respond."

Understanding flashed through Morgan's eyes. "At which point they bring in a second bomb."

"Exactly," you affirmed. "The goal is always to take out a first round of civilians, followed by a second wave of emergency responders. It's trial and error—it's how they practice. And if someone catches the shooter, that's fine because we just end up thinking we have a murderer; the cell is never compromised. And in creating such panic, they ensure the most urgent response time short of a bombing. It's by far the smartest way to plan for a terrorist attack."

You crossed your arms, giving them time to absorb your words. You didn't expect anyone to respond so soon, and you certainly didn't expect that person to be Hotch. "It's a theory, Y/N." His voice was soft, and that seemed to only add fuel to the fire.

You resisted the urge to scoff, sharply retorting, "Isn't any profile?"

He didn't answer. Perhaps that was the smartest choice; he didn't want to pick an argument with you, not now.

Hesistantly, Spencer spoke up, "I think— I think she's right." He walked behind you to the board, picking up a red marker and circling spots on the map before turning back around to face you. "I think they're targeting points of entry. All the murders have taken place near a bridge or tunnel."

"Holland Tunnel, Midtown Tunnel, Manhattan Bridge," Emily muttered.

"If bombs went off, emergency response would shut down any ability to get in or out of the city," JJ remarked. "It's— it's like people would be trapped on the island."

It looked like you had everyone convinced, even Hotch—despite his reluctance to believe you—but for some reason, Kate Joyner just couldn't let up. She crossed her arms. "I still fail to see how you came to the conclusion of multiple shooters."

Unbothered, you replied, "Having followers do the shootings would ensure they're willing to kill or be killed for their cause."

She countered, "But is there any evidence that that's the case?" 

You narrowed your eyes, going to respond when someone's ringtone sounded. Derek picked up his phone and put it on speaker. You could almost thank whoever it was for stopping you from saying something you would or wouldn't regret. 

"Talk to me, babygirl."

Penelope's voice came through the phone. "Okay, I have bad news then badder, connected news. What would you like me to start with?"

Derek glanced up at you, then at Hotch. "Gimme the bad news, Garcia."

"Alright, well, I was looking at the surveillance footage from the murders, specifically the most recent compared to the previous, and found something very, very off. I'll share my screen with you." Emily turned on the laptop on the table closest to all of you, and the footage immediately appeared. Silently, you watched the videos one after the other, and you had a feeling that Garcia was just about to vindicate you. "You guys see what I saw?"

"Well, he sprints off in one and walks calmly in the other. It's two entirely different demeanours," Morgan said.

"Exactly, my dove. So check it out, I did a digital perspective analysis rendering on all the shootings we have footage of. Now the first two were inconclusive, but again, in the last two, I found something très weird." Garcia did a freeze-frame, her analysis software appearing. "Your calm, walking type—he's about 6 foot 1." The screen changed to the other scene. "But your sprinter, he's like 5'9", 5'10" tops."

While the air in the office got colder, you stood there holding back the urge to smirk. You saw both Morgan and Hotch glance at you from the corner of your eye, but you only turned to Kate, seeing somewhat of a defeated expression on her face.

"Is this evidence enough for you, Agent Joyner?"

❧

That surveillance footage was enough confirmation for you, no matter what Joyner had to say about it. Following Garcia's revelation, you walked away from the team's makeshift conference room and walked into the bullpen, pulling out your phone and dialling Homeland Security.

You notified them of the situation at hand and that you were expecting something big soon, but not yet, telling them not to act without your say-so. It was of vital importance that you controlled the situation; you couldn't let the unsubs know you were onto them, so you couldn't make any moves just yet, either.

You hung up the phone, sighing. You hated cases like these. Being The Angel of Death was something you got used to; you could control that, but dealing with a cell like this wasn't just more challenging—it was unpredictable, and unpredictable was something you weren't quite fond of.

You turned around and nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw Hotch standing right behind you. Your hand slapped against your chest. "Holy shit, Hotchner, don't they teach you not to a sneak up on a girl in FBI school?"

Something almost like a smile came to his lips, the last thing you were expecting from him, especially at a time like this. "I'd hardly call that sneaking up on you. And according to you, you've been to 'FBI school,' so you should know."

You scoffed. "Regardless." Hotch's eyes remained on you, and the corners of his lips never went down. An uncomfortable silence then settled between you, despite the loud bustling in your surroundings.

You were hoping you could've gone this entire visit without speaking to him alone.

He must've noticed this, because his next words were, "You've been avoiding me."

You tensed ever so slightly. You'd been here all of five minutes, and he thought you were avoiding him. "I have not been avoiding you—"

"Yes, you have."

"We have bigger problems to deal with. Not everything is about you, Hotchner."

"Why are you avoiding me, Y/N?" You hated how his voice sounded, calm and soft. You hated the fact that he was even asking you this right now. You wanted him to be the stoic guy he always was. You didn't like this. And deep down, you knew that that was why you were avoiding him.

You didn't like the unpredictable.

And Aaron Hotchner was just that.

In lieu of responding, you dodged the question, biting back, "Why do you care?"

Hotch stilled as if you'd just hit him with the question of the century. It was then that he realized he didn't know. He couldn't answer you because he didn't have the answer himself.

He didn't know what he was going to say when he opened his mouth, and he supposed he never would, because a second later, a phone rang.

A sigh left his lips as he went to pick the phone up off some agent's desk, and you watched as the stoic man you knew returned. Yet, for some reason, you weren't as relieved as you thought you'd be.

"Hotchner." Kate chose that moment to walk out of her office while Morgan and Rossi came up from behind you. Hotch's voice became grave. "Does it look it could be one of our guys?"

Derek took the words right from your mouth. "What's going on?"

Hotch put down the phone. "We've got eyes on one of them," he answered. "He's on the subway platform at 59th and Lex."

"59th—? We could've been right there." He looked at Kate with an accusatory glare. The fury that lit up in his eyes and the way she refused to look back told you there was a conversation between them that you missed.

Over the phone, you heard Garcia let out a shaky breath, telling you all that the unsub shot the woman.

Kate paced. "Where the hell are the police?" 

Meanwhile, you picked up another telephone from the adjacent desk. "This is Y/N Y/L/N with the CIA. We have a murder suspect on 59th and Lex, subway platform. Hurry."

You slammed the phone down as you heard Penelope fret, "God, he's getting away."

"Garcia, can you get eyes on him above ground?"

A few clicks were audible as she responded, "He's heading west on 59th Street."

Kate spoke up, stating what you already knew. "If he makes it to the park, we've lost him."

"We lost the visual," another woman said.

Derek scoffed while Rossi questioned, "Are the police on the scene?"

"Negative."

And just like that, without another word, it was clear to everyone in the room that you just lost your only suspect. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose, cursing under your breath. Next to you, Derek made his frustrations much more known. "We could've had that guy," he snapped.

Kate finally looked at him. "Even if we were on that platform, odds are he would have moved onto someone isolated."

This didn't console him at all. "Maybe, but it was worth taking a shot—"

"I had every available man on the street."

Morgan stepped forward, seething. "And I suggested to you that you use this team." Realization came over you. Now you understood why he was so angry; Kate let her resentment of him get in the way of the case, and that decision may have just cost you a life.

Just as you thought Hotch couldn't get any more unpredictable, he scolded, "Morgan, second-guessing doesn't do us any good right now."

Your brows raised, but he didn't look at you, nor did he look at Derek. 

"Hotch, we have a possible terrorist attack coming. How am I supposed to look these cops in the eye and tell them that we're actually here to help them?"

Hotch's reply was sharp. "We're here to present a profile. That's what we need to do."

Derek ignored him, pressing, "I said to put as express stops. 14th, 42nd, 59th— and that's exactly where they hit—"

"It's not your place to have this discussion." This time, Hotch did look at him, and his eyes were hard.

Immediately, you cut in, spitting out his name. "Agent Hotchner." Hotch's eyes went right to you. You stepped forward, firing, "We have six bodies. And right now, I have to call Homeland Security and tell them that we not only have another one, but we also just lost a valuable chance to find one of the perpetrators."

"Which is exactly why we need to stay focused."

"Focused?" Derek echoed. Then he took a step closer, standing eye to eye with his boss. "From where I'm standing, all your focus is on her."

Kate's head ducked down, and from there, it didn't take much for you to connect the dots. All of a sudden, it made sense why Derek had asked you about Kate earlier instead of going straight to Hotch.

And to think that, just a few moments ago, he'd been going after you.

With a tick in his jaw, Hotch commanded, "Take a walk. Now."

Derek stared at him for a split-second before walking off without another word. 

"You know, I think I'm gonna take that walk with him," you muttered. And just like that, it was as if Hotch realized you were still there.

He went to say your name, but you were turning your back and walking away before he could even utter the first syllable.

Unpredictability. What a fickle thing.

You hated it.

❧

You found Derek at a nearby bar, the closest bar to the field office. Contrary to what you said to Hotch, you didn't come looking for him; he just so happened to find the same place you did.

Before you even pulled out the barstool, he was sighing. "I know. I was out of line."

You lightly snorted. "I'm not here to chastise you, Derek." He looked up at you, surprise flashing through his eyes. "I'm just here to drink." Right on cue, the bartender came up to you and asked you wanted to drink, to which you ordered brandy, neat.

When said drink arrived in front of you and you downed it in one go, it prompted him to ask, "Aren't you still on the job?"

A slight chuckle left you. "Morgan, I run an entire CIA ops division and then I also get asked to do things like this." You then deadpanned, "Trust me, I can hold my liquor."

He held his hands up in surrender, an amused expression on his face before something serious took it over, wiping the smile from his face. "I'm sorry about Joyner, by the way." When you look at him confused, he explained, "I didn't have to say that. Not in front of you."

You sighed. Not this again. "Derek, I have nothing going on with your boss. So whatever the deal is with him and Kate is absolutely none of my business." For some reason, the words stung coming out of your mouth, and you didn't like it one bit.

He left it alone and didn't press the issue further (thankfully). You glanced at the beer in front of him. You nodded toward it, stating, "You haven't touched that."

He glanced at it. "Guess I don't have the appetite for it right now."

You hummed. "Or you want to go back."

He let out a long, dramatic sigh, nearly making you laugh. "I have to apologize to her, don't I?" This time, when you nodded and he ran a hand over his bald head, you did laugh. "Fucking hell."

You sarcastically patted his shoulder. "Don't sweat it, sweetheart. I'll walk back with you."

"Sweetheart?" you heard him question as you stood up, putting enough money down for both of your drinks. "And now you're paying for me? You're threatening my manhood here, angel."

"Get over it, Morgan."

And as he let out a hearty laugh, you let yourself pretend that you didn't have a different agent on your mind entirely.

❧

Upon getting back to the office, you suddenly wished you'd had another drink as you were informed that there was not only another shooting, but Detective Cooper was shot after he and Prentiss chased after him.

Kate seemed to have taken Derek's suggestion and sent the team out on the streets in the hour and a half you were away. In that time, Prentiss and Cooper nearly got one of the shooters, but he was fast; he could've gotten away. Yet he stopped and shot Cooper, prompting Emily to fire a shot of her own.

Suicide by cop.

You hung up the phone, walking back into the room after telling Homeland that you'd be calling with another update soon. "Three shootings in one day," you said, catching everyone's attention. "They're ramping up to something."

Morgan held his phone up in the air and wiggled it. "Yeah, well, while you were on the phone, Garcia called. They hacked into at least one camera at every scene and have been watching from day one."

You cursed under your breath just as Kate called your name. "Y/N." You looked up at her in half-veiled surprise, seeing her standing with her arms crossed, a somewhat uncomfortable look on her face. "Aaron told me more about your position in the CIA, how you're more well-versed in situations such as these." It looked like she had a hard time getting the words out, despite the sincerity in her tone. "I'd like you to take the lead on this." 

You were sure that the surprise must've shown on your face, courtesy of fatigue, but you quickly masked it and nodded. You took one deep breath, and then you dived in. "We need to hit the ground running." You turned to everyone individually as you gave them instructions. "Rossi, I'd like you to talk to the Commissioner. He'll be familiar with you." He nodded and left the room. "Derek, you brief Homeland Security, tell them I sent you. I want them to know we're expecting them to strike any minute now."

"You got it, angel."

You turned to Emily, who was already ahead of you. "I'll head to the hospital, check on Cooper, and brief Detective Brustin."

"Good. And Spencer—"

He (with a creepy accuracy) anticipated what you were going to say before you even said it. "JJ and I will talk to the Port Authority Police."

You nodded then realized that left only two people, unwelcome dread filling you. Out of a stubborn attempt to prove his earlier claim about avoiding him wrong, you looked to Hotch but still didn't meet his eyes. "Agent Hotchner, you and Kate should speak to the mayor. I have to make some calls to the DOD. We'll all meet back here as soon as possible. We are crunched for time, but the one advantage that we have is that they don't know we know they're watching."

Everyone who hadn't already left nodded and got to their tasks. Hotch looked like he wanted to stick around and say something to you, but as you said, the clock was ticking. 

You called the DOD and briefly explained what Homeland Security had likely already spoken to them about, that you saw a terrorist event on the horizon. They told you that, luckily, the Deputy Secretary of Defense was in town, only ten, maybe twenty minutes away from where you were. 

Quickly, you gathered your things and made your way out of the building. At the exit, however, you found exactly who you didn't want to see.

Hotch and Kate.

They hadn't left yet.

They stood outside the door, facing each other. He had his hand on her elbow, and he was saying something you couldn't make out. Whatever it was, it made her lips upturn.

You couldn't recognize the feeling that crawled through your veins at that moment. The green monster and you hadn't been acquainted in a while, but for some reason, she was showing up, making your body her home, and you hated it.

Shaking off whatever it was you were feeling, you pushed the door open. Hotch noticed you first. "Y/N," he said. He took his hand off her arm. A weight was lifted off your chest.

"Agent Hotchner," you greeted, promptly turning to the blonde and doing the same. "Agent Joyner. I've gotten word that the Deputy Secretary of Defense is in New York; I'm heading to see her."

Kate nodded. "Good. Aaron and I are on our way to the mayor's office now." She turned, starting to walk away, and then you realized she was heading in the same direction as your car.

Fuck. They parked next to you.

You started walking, too, Hotch now at your side. Kate was ahead of you guys. You're sure that Hotch could naturally walk faster than you, but he remained at your side. This is deliberate, you thought.

Your conversation from earlier hung in the air. With Kate gone, the tension between you was now palpable. But he wouldn't say anything, you assured yourself, not with her in earshot.

But perhaps you underestimated him. With every meeting, Aaron Hotchner continued to surprise you. He had become unpredictable to you.

Yet, the two of you would soon bear witness to just how unpredictable life could truly be.

Just as you were nearing your vehicles, Aaron opened his mouth to say something, but a loud boom cut him off.

Before either of you could register it, you were sent flying backward, shockwaves rippling through your body.

And then everything went black.

❧

New York City has never been so quiet, you thought, blinking your eyes open. And you've never been able to see the stars in this city, either, but tonight, you saw them just fine. Part of you wondered if you were dreaming.

No, not a dream. A hallucination.

There's been an accident.

The thought hit you like a ton of bricks as pain erupted in your side. A groan left you unwarranted. You went to touch it then hissed at the throbbing. There was no blood there, though, no wound, so it must've been the bones.

Nowhere else hurt—not that bad, at least. You tested yourself, trying to sit up. It hurt to do so, but you did it. And when you did, you were met with the sight of an SUV, up in flames.

No, not an accident. This was planned.

But it wasn't your car. It would've made sense if it were your car, if you were the direct target, but you weren't. Your mind ran a mile a minute. Why would they blow up a random SUV?

It's then that you remember it wasn't a random SUV. It was Hotch's.

Hotch and Kate.

They were with you.

With that realization, any and all intellectual thought escape your grasp. You shot upward, the pain becoming nonexistent as a surge of adrenaline flowed through your body. "Hotch!" you screamed. No answer. "Hotch! Kate!" No one answered. "Aaron!" You continued to cry his name but no one answered.

Tears you welled up in your eyes. It was lost on you that you hadn't cried in years. It was equally lost on you that this was the first time you'd ever said his name.

You spun around, letting go of a breath you didn't know you were holding when you spotted a man in a suit, standing there, just staring at the fire. You jogged over to him and called out his name, but he didn't move his head. You tried again. "Aaron." No response. "Aaron!"

Finally, he looked at you. A plethora of emotions could be seen on his face. Confusion. Anger. Fear. Then worry. "Y/N," he breathed. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." That was a lie, but you could handle the pain well. You had good experience. "Are you?"

"Yes, I think so." 

You took a quick moment to examine him, the cut by his brow, the blood by his ear; you think back to how he didn't respond to your calls. Concussion, you thought, and a ruptured ear drum.

You take ahold of his arm, gently but firmly, and slowly asked him, "Aaron, where's Kate?" 

He blinked, glancing back at the wreck and then back at you. You watched him swallow. "I—"

"Hey! Are the two of you okay?"

Your eyes and his simultaneously snapped to the voice that'd just appeared, seeing a scrawny kid stand in front of you. Like a switch had been flipped, the abundance of emotions on his face dissipated into one.

Determination.

"What's your name?" he questioned.

The kid looked at him, confused. "What?"

Hotch repeated, "What's your name?"

As if he thought you two were crazy, he glanced between you warily. "Sam," he replied.

Hotch didn't look at him or acknowledge his name as he ordered, "Call 911." 

"Yeah— yeah, I did."

"Call 911— tell that there's been an explosion."

"Sir, are you okay?" His eyes darted to you. "Ma'am, are you hurt?" Momentarily, he glanced down, his eyes catching the gun on your belt. He looked to Hotch, finding the same thing. Stunned, he looked back up. "Are you guys cops?"

Hotch's eyes were still on the fire. "Call 911. Tell them... that a— that a federal agent—" Without warning, he took off running towards the car, yelling, "Kate!"

"Hotch!" You went to follow him but the kid stopped you.

"Okay so you want me to say you're a federal agent?"

You turned around, eyes blazing. "Call 911. Tell them that there's been a car explosion, involving two FBI agents and one CIA officer." You barely finished your sentence before you were running after Hotch.

By the time you got to him, he was taking off his jacket, about to shield himself and run right into the car but you stopped him. "Aaron!" 

His eyes darted to you then travelled behind you. The dread painted on his features mixed with relief, but you couldn't tell which emotion was stronger. You turned, following his line of sight, and saw Kate lying on the ground, a trail of blood leading to her body.

Without missing a beat, you both ran to her, her coughing becoming more audible as you got closer. Aaron got down immediately, and her first words were, "My purse. I can't find my purse."

He shushed her. "Don't move, don't move."

"Aaron, my purse."

Shock. She's in shock.

If only just to placate her, Hotch glanced around for it. "I don't think you had one," he said.

"I must've dropped it," she gasped, moving her head.

"Kate—" you cut in from above, "Kate, you need to stop trying to move."

She looked up at you, her eyes widening at whatever she saw. "Y/N. Y/N, what happened?"

You ran a hand through your hair. "I don't— I don't know. A bomb. An IED, I think." You glanced back at the car, your mind going back to the same race it was racing in before you found Aaron.

"An IED?" she echoed. "I have to get up."

"No. No, no, no. Lie down. Lie still. You need to lie still," he pleaded with her.

Suddenly, she caught your attention back. "Am I moving my legs?"

Hotch shushed her again at first, then he questioned, "What?"

Both of you glanced down at her legs at the same time. You resisted the urge to cup your mouth.

You were gonna be sick.

Weakly, she asked again, "Am I moving my legs?"

You didn't have the heart to answer her. From the looks of it, neither did Aaron, because he changed the subject. "I'm going to have to turn you and see where the blood is coming from," he said.

"Do it."

"Alright? Okay." He turned her while you focused on the sirens wailing in the distance, getting closer. The sound blended in with Kate's crying until it was all one and the same to you.

Police cars and ambulances soon pulled up just ahead of you, maybe a hundred yards away. You stood taller, yelling, "Officer down!" When they didn't come any closer, you flailed your arms. "Officer down! Here! There's an officer down!"

Kate's voice, ever so quiet, cut through the noise like a knife. "They're not coming." You turned to her, seeing her look at both of you defeatedly. "We told them not to. Remember?"

Your own words rang through your head. The goal is always to take out a first round of civilians, followed by a second wave of emergency responders.

The reality of the situation struck you. They weren't coming.

"The first wave of responders are the targets," she got out. "ESU orders are not— to let anyone in until the area is cleared."

"No." You shook your head. "I'm not taking that as an answer."

"Y/N—"

"We are getting you out of here, Kate, come hell or high water." Your previous aversion to her no longer mattered. She was lying on the ground covered in blood, unable to move her legs. All that mattered was getting her out.

Without wasting another second, you ran toward the barricade. ESU officer braced their rifles, but you had your badge ready as you stood a safe distance away from them. You were trying to think calmly, as calmly as you could. Your ribs stung as you held the badge up in the air.

The words were spoken in an erratic panic. "My name is Director Y/N Y/L/N, I'm a senior officer of the CIA. Behind me are SSAs Aaron Hotchner and Kate Joyner. She is injured— badly—"

A man stepped forward and cut you off cooly, "I understand that, ma'am, but I have orders not to let anyone in—"

You lost it. "Screw your orders! She can't fucking move!"

"Ma'am, my orders are what they are."

"Your orders are what they are," you repeated under your breath, a humourless chuckle escaping. "What's your name?"

He squared his shoulders. "It's Captain Warner, ma'am."

"Well, Captain Warner," you spat. "Allow me to re-introduce myself. My name is Director or Agent Y/L/N, not ma'am. Director. And I am quite familiar with your orders, Captain; I gave them. You are here because I made the call that put you here. And, so help me God, if you don't listen to this order, I will make the call that relieves you of your position."

Warner didn't appear to be shaken, but you could see the cloud of doubt floating in his eyes. You'd think that anyone would grapple for their job, but Warner was being difficult. "I apologize, Director, but I can't do that."

Your nostrils flared. You were just about to continue telling him off when an awfully familiar voice sounded, asking for someone in charge. Your eyes widened. "Derek!"

Derek's head snapped your way. "Holy shit. Y/N!" He came running towards you but was stopped by the same officers that kept you from crossing the barricade, holding up their guns.

"This area is restricted," he said.

He held up his badge. "I'm Agent Morgan, FBI. That's my friend—"

"This area is restricted," Warner repeated, barely looking at him. "I will take care of your friend. Now go back to the Federal Building. There are evac marshaling spots. Check in and make sure they know where you are."

Morgan held his ground, stepping in front of Warner and retaliating, "I am not about to do that."

"Get out of my face or I'll have you bodily removed, Agent."

"Derek." You caught his attention. "Hotch and Kate are down there."

He spun around. "That's my boss down there!"

"My orders are what they are." 

You scoffed at the recycled statement while Derek argued, "I don't give a damn what your orders are!"

"I get it, Agent, but we've been told by you" he gave you a glance "'Responders are the targets.' So, until the blast site is cleared, no one goes in."

Morgan looked back at you then back at the Captain with a renewed resolution, trying a different approach. "You're Marine Corps, right?" Warner didn't respond, looking down. "Right?"

"Please. Go back to the marshaling point."

"I'm not doing it." He pointed to the site. "I'm not just going to let my man lie down there like that."

As if on cue, Hotch screamed, "Someone! Damnit, we're here!" You nearly flinched at the sheer pain in his voice, and Derek certainly didn't look unaffected, either.

"'Never leave a man behind.' You do remember that, don't you?"

Hotch kept screaming as Morgan and Warner stared each other down. It seemed that he must've gotten to him, because within just a moment, he said, "Go."

Derek didn't waste another second, immediately running to you and grabbing onto your shoulders. "Y/N, are you alright?"

"I'm fine! I'm fine, it's Kate."

He nodded and then took off following with you trailing closely behind, but not before you gave Captain Warner a pointed glare.

When you got to Hotch, the kid was back, seemingly tending to Kate as Morgan explained, "They're not letting any ambulances down here until they clear the scene." He glanced at the kid like he just noticed he was there. "Kid, you've gotta get behind the barricades. Let's go." The kid didn't move. "Go!"

"Go, Sam." At Hotch's word, the kid got up and ran, but your attention was focused solely on Kate, checking her vitals.

"Talk to me. Can we carry her?" Morgan barely gave him time to respond. "Hotch, can we carry her?"

"No, I tried. Morgan—" he paused, intaking a shaky breath, "she's going to bleed to death if we don't get her out of here. We've got to do something."

Derek's phone ringing cut off whatever he was going to say. He picked it up immediately. "Garcia, I got Hotch and Y/N, but listen to me, you got to get somebody down here right away. You hear me? Right now." You didn't hear what Garcia said next, but it caused his head to snap up. "What? You're absolutely sure?" He glanced at you then to the kid who you realized never left.

The kid held his hands out like he was asking what you were waiting for, causing you to tilt your head, confused.

Morgan hung up the phone and then his next words shocked you. "Hotch. The kid. He's the bomber."

Your eyes went wide before instantly going to Hotch. "Are you okay to stay here?" you asked.

He didn't even think about it. "Go."

With that, you and Morgan took off running. The kid bolted, leaving you to chase after him.

Despite the heels on your feet (that luckily weren't stilettos) and obvious bruise to your side, you couldn't feel pain. All you feel was the pure adrenaline pumping through your veins. You hadn't been so ready to fight in ages. The anger coursing through your body was unparalleled.

This kid wasn't getting away with this, and you'd make sure of it.

You chased the kid down the street, Morgan ahead of you. An ambulance passed you while you ran, and you prayed it'd be heading Hotch's way.

You kept chasing after the kid, turning a corner and he was gone, but Morgan was already heading down the stairs for the subway, so you knew he was down there.

You ran down the stairs, skipping steps as you went, following Morgan's lead and pulling out your gun. Civilians filled the station, evacuating. "Out of the way!" you screamed, pushing past them.

"Move! Where'd he go? Where?" Some pointed straight ahead, so you kept running.

You got down to where the subway was, but by now, it was empty. You came to a stop next to Morgan, holding up your gun.

"Show your face, you son of a bitch!"

No one showed. You nodded to the train and panted, "Morgan, I'll take the back. You take the front."

Heaving, he nodded, going for the front. You entered the train with your gun held high, pointing it on either side of the door. You walked through the cart slowly, checking beheind yourself periodically to ensure the kid wouldn't sneak up on you.

You pushed open the door to the next cart warily. It was just as empty as the previous one. You went for the next cart. Nothing again. You met Morgan in the middle. "Nothing," you said.

"Me neither. But there's a door at the front. I'm thinking he could've hopped through there," he told you.

You nodded and followed him there, accepting his help and jumping down. Carefully, with your gun and flashlight in hand, you walked on the tracks, avoiding the power supply. You shouted, "We know you're in here, kid. Show your fucking face, you coward!"

A noise sounded, making you turn around to check it while Morgan continued forward. "You've got nowhere to run, man. You hear me? There's nothing down here for you."

"Is that all you see?" At the sound of the kid's voice, you spun around, moving your flashlight around. "Huh? Darkness?"

You caught up to Morgan, and then the kid showed himself. Your flashlight revealed his shoes lying on the ground while he slowly walked on the rail, balancing himself like this was a game. You cocked your gun. "You listen to me, you little shit. This is not a fucking game. Get your ass off the tracks and put your hands on top of your fucking head. Do it now."

When he failed to listen to you, Derek yelled, "Do it now!"

The kid did as you said, but not to listen to you. It was to mock you. "You will lose in the end," he said.

Derek moved forward. "Shut up. Shut your mouth."

"You wanna know why?" He continued on like he'd never said a word. "Because you fear what we embrace."

Before you could do anything, he took one foot off the track and put it on the third rail. "Get off the— no! No, no!" Derek and you were forced backward as the light blinded your eyes. Without even lifting your eyes up, you knew undoubtedly that the kid was dead.

He just killed himself right in front you.

"Damnit." You reached to run a hand through your hair but you were stopped by the stabbing pain in your ribs, suddenly reappearing. You hissed, "Ah, shit."

"Y/N?" Within a blink, Derek was in front of you. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fi— fuck." Your knees buckled, but Morgan caught you, holding onto by your waist. When that caused another hiss, he switched his hold to your arms.

"I think you might've broken some ribs. How the hell didn't you notice this before?"

"I— it didn't feel this bad before."

Morgan cursed under his breath. "Your adrenaline is wearing off. We need to get you to a hospital."

"No, I'm o—" a sharp stab cut you off, making you grunt. "Fine. But what about Kate?" 

"We both saw that ambulance drive their way," he reasoned. "They're gonna be okay. Look, if we get back and they're still there, we can stay, alright?"

You thought over his proposal and eventually relented and let him lead you off the tracks, giving in to the pain. You just hoped that he was right, that they were okay.

Please let them be okay.

❧

You arrived at the hospital in record time, passing through the streets like light work. After receiving confirmation that Hotch and Kate were at Saint Barclays, he drove the two of you there, too, insisting that a doctor see you despite your equal insistence that you were fine.

Now, you sat on an ER bed. You had a few cuts here and there but nothing too deep; you were given sutures for one cut across your cheek. The doctor wasn't looking at you right now; she was looking at your chart, giving you time to glance around the triage room.

You weren't a big fan of hospitals, never were. They were never a source of good news, and every hospital you stepped into smelled the same, like bleach and chemicals. When you were younger, you were convinced that this was to cover up the smell of death.

That wasn't too far off.

The doctor pulled you out of your revierie, snapping the chart shut. "So, Ms. Y/L/N, I've ruled out the possibility of a collapsed lung, but you've broken 4 of your left true ribs," she informed you. "From what your partner has told me, you've over-exerted yourself, and thus exacerbated the issue."

"I'm a CIA officer and had to chase a suspect," was the only explanation you offered.

She deadpanned. "I understand that, Ms. Y/L/N, but you've just made your healing process ten time harder."

You gave her a short smile. "I've been through worse."

She looked at you for a few more seconds before she sighed, re-opening the chart book. "I can prescribe you some medication for the pain."

You declined perhaps a bit too quickly. "No, that's alright."

Slowly, she looked up at you, her eyes questioning. "No? Why not? I can imagine you're in a great deal of pain right now."

At her inquiry, you were reminded of someone else's interrogative questions. Hotch's voice filled your head, Why do you say it like that—say your name as if it's not your name?

Your mind travelled back to a time you weren't Y/N. There was a girl with a different name who wore your face, a girl you separated yourself from entirely. She didn't grow up thinking she'd have a future in law enforcement—she didn't even think she'd have a future at all.

She hung around the wrong crowd and picked up bad habits, habits like oxycodone and amphetamines. But you weren't her anymore.

You were 7 years sober.

You'd rather not explain all of this to the attending in front of you—you'd rather not explain it to anyone. Instead, you just said, "I have a high pain tolerance. I can handle it."

She stared at you warily, but otherwise, there wasn't much she could do but accept your decision. "I'd advise against that, but it is your choice."

You pursed your lips into what you hoped was a small smile. "It is."

She kept her persistent stare until she eventually gave up, leaving the makeshift room. You didn't wait long before you left, too, jumping off the table and pushing back the curtain. You walked through the halls in search of the tan-skinned man you came in with, avoiding looking anywhere but ahead of you.

Hospitals were unpredictacle.

You didn't like that.

You turned a corner, and as if you just had good luck, Derek was there, already walking your way. 

He raised a brow at you. "You all good, angel?" 

You fell into step beside him, letting him lead the way to wherever you were going and flashing him a flirtatious smile. "Never been better, muscles." It wasn't a total lie; the pain had mostly subsided, and you'd felt worse in your life.

Morgan didn't bat an eyelash. "Well, that's good because we need to get moving. The team's on the way."

At the mention of the BAU, your thoughts were re-directed. Without stopping, you glanced over at Derek and gave him a quick once-over. He seemed normal: he was flirting with you, no signs of dejection. So Hotch must've been alright. Still, though, you felt compelled to ask, "Hotchner and Joyner. Are they okay?"

If Derek noticed the small blip in your voice, he didn't say anything. You weren't sure if you even noticed it, either. "Hotch is fine, back to barking orders and being a drill sergeant. Kate's in surgery, though."

You couldn't explain the wave of calm that came over you at that moment. You couldn't explain why you even cared.

But you did.

You nodded in response and changed subjects. "Has anything happened since the first blast?"

"No. Nothing."

An exasperated sigh left you. "That doesn't make any sense. Something should've happened by now." You ran a hand through your hair, your gears turning. "I mean, why go through all this trouble just to hit a single SUV with a few agents? Why not wait until we were in our cars?"

"I don't know," he replied. "What I'm still stuck on is why the kid would stay knowing we'd figure him out."

"Yeah, why would he stay—" suddenly, you halted in your tracks, cutting yourself off as memories rushed to the forefront of your brain.

[Thank you for your input, Ms. Y/L/N. The Secretary of Defense is unavailable at the moment, so the Deputy Secretary will be fielding all defense matters for the moment. She happens to be in town, and she'd like to be briefed in person, if that's alright.]

Yes, I can do that. Just send me an address.

Then you heard the voices of Secret Service agents in your head: I'm sorry, but this hospital is on strict bypass.

"What? What is it?" Derek's voice shook you out of your reverie. You looked up to see him standing in front of you, a worried expression on his face. You would've laughed if it weren't so serious. He probably thought you had a concussion—and while you didn't, what you were going to say was worse than that.

"Derek," you started.

Your tone must've scared him because he stepped closer. "What?"

You paused, mulling over the details in your head. Secret Service was here. Someone important was in the building, someone like the Secretary of Defense. And that bomber just so happened to stick around until an ambulance showed up, taking Hotch and Kate straight here. 

Sam didn't wait until you were cars, and that wasn't a careless mistake. It wasn't because he was so excited that he couldn't wait. It was because that blast wasn't meant to kill you, not on impact.

It was meant to take you here.

When you made up your mind, you took a step closer to him and lowered your voice, not wanting to attract panic in spite of the fact that it'd happen, anyway. Your voice was rigid.

"I think there's a bomb in this hospital."

❧

After quickly explaining your theory to Derek, you parted ways; he went to go find the team while you took off to find the head of that Secret Service detail.

Any uneasiness you felt being in this hospital increased a tenfold, no longer because of the fact that it was a hospital but because it could blow any minute now. You knew you weren't scared, though—and maybe you should've been, but this was the job.

You found the SS soon enough, calling out to them, "Hey, men in black!"

Your volume turned heads, including theirs. The bald man stood up from where he was leaned over on a counter and greeted you first, leading you to believe he was in charge. "Ms. Y/L/N." So he knew who you were. That made this a lot easier.

You didn't waste any time. "The Secretary of Defense is in this hospital, isn't he?"

"Ma'am, I know you're high up on the ladder, but—"

You cut him off briskly, "There is a bomb in this building, and it's rigged to assassinate the Secretary." 

The agent whose name you didn't ask for stiffened but adapted quickly, ordering the agents behind him to hit the alarms all without looking away from you. "Where is it?" he then questioned.

"The ambulance my colleague drove in, I believe." The word colleague tasted wrong on your tongue, but you didn't have the time to dwell on it. "Is it already in the basement?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then you need to evac the building. You need to get the Secretary and everybody else out of here right now."

"We can't do that," he answered. "He's undergoing surgery as we speak."

You were sure that the next words to leave your mouth would be curses, but before you could even get them out, a band of rushed footsteps became audible from behind you. It didn't take you long to recognize who they belonged to.

The footsteps stopped where you were. You glanced to see the team surrounding you, Derek on your left and Hotch on your right. So he was alright. You held back a sigh of relief and kept your eyes off him, directing all your focus to the task at hand. 

Silently, Morgan handed you a Kevlar vest. You nodded to him in thanks and put it on while Hotch hurriedly interrogated, "The paramedic I came in with—do you have eyes on him?"

The Secret Service Agent briefly glanced at you, to which you nodded, prompting him to turn over a computer playing a live feed. 

"Is that a cell in his hands?"

Rossi pressed onto a mic on his chest. "Garcia, can you remote access the grid I'm in and jam all the frequencies?" She said something you couldn't hear and then he added, tone clipped, "There's a bomb in the basement of this building."

Garcia worked quickly, disrupting the satellite feeds in your location within seconds. You could tell she did this by paramedic's actions on the screen. "Look. He's coming back," Prentiss said. "He's going to detonate the bomb manually if he has to."

"Where did Morgan go?" At Hotch's abrupt words, you turned to your left but Derek was no longer there. He'd snuck off while you were paying attention to the feed, and you had no doubt as to where. 

His appearance on the computer screen confirmed your suspicions. You sighed, before tiredly voicing, "He went to find the ambulance."

Hotch's voice was incredulous. "Alone?"

Rossi didn't share Hotch's surprise. "Let's head down."

You were off before he even finished the sentence, trusting the Secret Service agents to do their jobs well enough while you all did yours. You removed your gun from your holster, holding it up and jogging through the now empty hallways with tunnel vision.

You barely noticed the others behind you until Hotch somehow got ahead of you. "He's going to the basement," he called out.

You think it was Emily that replied. "Stairs."

You pushed the door to the stairwell open and Hotch entered quickly, scanning the area with his gun as he moved. It was eerily silent, the only sound being the alarms in the distance and your footsteps rapidly hitting the stairs as you took them two at a time. 

None of you said a word.

By the time you reached the basement, the alarm was non-existent. Your loud footsteps became quieted, soundless with the precision only people like you could have. You could hear a pin drop. 

At the end of the hallway, you wordlessly split into two groups: you with Hotch and Rossi, and Prentiss with Reid.

Hotch led the way while you and Rossi covered him. Your bomber was sitting criss-crossed against the netted gate, gun tossed on the ground with a cellphone in one hand and a knife in the other. Fuck.

You could only pray that Morgan got out before that signal came back online.

You had your gun in the air, even though you knew what was gonna happen. You all did.

Rossi's voice cut through the air. "FBI."

The bomber didn't flinch, staring at the ground with a lifeless look in his eyes. He was a dead man. 

He raised the knife to his neck—and if you weren't with FBI agents right now, you would've shot his shaking hand and knocked that knife straight to the ground. You would've forced him to take accountability—perhaps not in a courtroom, but in a place that would still enforce a semblance of justice.

But you were with FBI agents. And Hotch reminded you of this as he spoke up, "Put it down. It's over."

Yes, it was. Because the coward slit his throat thereafter, and the knife clattered to the ground.

Slowly, you lowered your guns. You holstered yours, and then you were walking away. You didn't spare the body another glance. It wasn't a life lost.

Either way, he would've died. It just shouldn't have been on his terms.

Emily was behind you. She flipped her phone open and then you heard a sigh of relief. "Garcia just messaged me," she told you. "Morgan's okay."

Spencer and Rossi let out their own sighs while you muttered a small "Thank God" under your breath. You hadn't known Derek Morgan for long, but he was good, and he felt like a friend.

You didn't have many of those.

You got back to the floor you were on in little time, and everyone parted ways, likely going to rest. The night was over—this was over. You, on the other hand, still had some administrative work to do, starting with checking on the Secretary of Defense.

But before you did anything, you stood there. You stood there and watched the team trickle out of the area, everyone but Hotch. He was still down there.

You went to glance back to see if he was coming up but then thought better of it, choosing to walk away instead.

He's fine, you thought. He was fine.

And so were you.

❧

You got off the phone with the DOD, your last in a long line of phone calls, telling them that the threat had been eliminated as far as you were concerned. You would've been out of that hospital ASAP, but they asked you to stay there until the new Secret Service detail arrived, and you couldn't really say no.

The lack of action suddenly made you more aware of your surroundings. Your senses returned to you; the smell of bleach became more pungent, and the fluorescent lights seemed to just bounce off the white tile.

With nothing else to focus on, the pain in your side returned, too, but you were good at handling pain. It hurt to breathe, but the alternative was relapsing, and you'd come too far for that.

Normally, when you were craving drugs or just stressed, you'd find a drink. It wasn't the best coping mechanism, but it worked. Alcohol wasn't strong enough to hook you; it was just enough to sate you, to take your mind off the pills.

However, you were in a hospital, and none of that was around. So you went looking for the next best thing: coffee.

You found a mini coffee bar in a nearby waiting room, right next to a vending machine. It was one of the automatic ones that took capsules. The selection was pretty shitty, but you weren't exactly expecting premium Italian coffee, so you plopped a pod into the machine, anyway.

You waited for your coffee to brew in silence, listening to the sound of the machine whirring. The PA dinged in the background and footsteps were muffled. You had a habit of listening for those, for footsteps. Most times, like now, if you weren't preoccupied, you could detect them right away.

You sensed Hotch when he was 5 feet away. You could recognize his footsteps so easily, but that was the habit.

You told yourself it was the job.

Without turning around, you quietly greeted, "Agent Hotchner."

He returned your greeting, grabbing a styrofoam cup and going to stand next to you. "Y/N." His voice was as saccharine as the sugar you poured into your coffee.

 You hated that, and you hated what it implied.

The case was over. The threat was defeated. And now you were alone together with a conversation unfinished, a conversation you'd much rather not have.

To think that, when you last saw Hotch in Virginia, you were all for the game, the chase. But now it felt like the roles were reversed. This was different. He shouldn't be talking to me.

But he was.

"Yo—"

You cut him off, "How's Kate?" Low blow, Y/N. The breath of air he sucked in made you look up from the creamer to his face. His eyes were no longer on you; they were on the machine as it poured his coffee, but you understood. You could taste apology on your lips before you even said the words. "I'm sorry."

Hotch nodded, grabbing his coffee from the tray when it was finished brewing. "She wasn't in pain," he said. That's all there was to say, really. She wasn't in pain when she died, nor was she in pain when you found her.

Kate Joyner was dead the second that blast hit.

But you spoke none of this. You went to grab your cup, intending to walk away, but Hotch stopped you, placing his hand on your arm before you could fully turn away. You stopped yourself from intaking a sharp breath.

"You're avoiding me."

He said it so plainly, like you were talking about a case or the weather, like this was normal, like the two of you didn't see each other every other year at most, like you weren't you and he wasn't him. It made you want to screw your eyes shut, but you didn't. As if to prove a point, you turned yourself toward him fully, facing him head on.

"I'm not."

"You are."

Your eyes narrowed. "I'm not an unsub, Hotchner. I'm not gonna fold to this interrogation tactic."

"I met you as an unsub," he retorted.

"But I wasn't." You let out a little scoff, half amused, half annoyed. "How would you know if I was avoiding you? You didn't know me then, and you don't know me now."

"But I want to."

Whatever reply you were expecting, it wasn't that. Your breath got caught in your throat. His voice was still so soft, a harsh contrast to the cuts littered across his face. He took a step closer to you. "I want to know you."

You blinked once in shock, almost like you were checking if you were hallucinating, but when your eyes opened, he was still there. When you blinked a second time, it was in realization.

He's just been told Kate's dead, and now whatever pain meds they gave him are kicking in.

Reality slapped you across the face. You took a step back, slowly shaking your head. "You don't want to know me, Hotchner."

He took another step forward. "I do."

Another step back. "You don't." You shook your head again, emphasizing your point. "You really don't."

"Y/N—"

The shrill sound of your ringtone cut him off, and you'd never been so grateful. You picked it up immediately. "Y/L/N." The lady on the other end got to it quick; all you had to do was agree. "Okay, I'll be there momentarily. Thanks."

You hung up your cell, snapping it shut. You gave Hotch a glance before you were looking away, letting your eyes wander everywhere else. "That was the DOD. Secret Service is here. I have to go check out with them." You didn't let him get a word in. "I'll see you around, Agent Hotchner."

And then, just like every other time Aaron Hotchner had ever been in your proximity, you were leaving. In his grasp one second, in the mist in the next.

He watched you walk away wordlessly, not knowing when he'd see you again, words he was going to say dying on his lips.

And then you were gone.

He let out a long sigh, and then looked to his coffee on the mini table, spotting a similar one right next to it. 

You left your coffee there, he realized.

With all the other things you left, too.

5. The gavel and the gun

Southbridge, Virginia, 2008

You didn't find yourself down in Virginia too often, not unless you were on business, but Derek assured you that tonight was about everything but that.

"I'm breaking you out of your shell, angel," he said, making a turn on Curtis Drive. "You need to get out more."

You snorted. "One, I don't have a shell. Two, I am literally out so much that my apartment collects dust, and three," you held up a third finger, despite his close attention to the road, "that's bullshit. You just want me to score you some hot chicks."

He let out a burly laugh, something you'd gotten used to after hanging out with him. "Baby, I don't need you to pick anyone up for me. I can do that all on my own."

"What, are you afraid that I'll steal all your girls, Morgan?"

His reply was swift. "Couldn't do that if you tried, Y/N/N. You're still hung up on Hotch."

Your jaw nearly fell, but you were used to this banter you had. You quipped back, "Please, the only one hung up on anyone here is you. You want Garcia."

He choked on his own spit, making you throw your head back and laugh. He didn't see that one coming.

You caught onto Derek's feelings for Garcia early on, but they became especially prominent when he was buzzed one night and told you she was the one on call with him when he drove that ambulance into the field.

That was six months ago. And now, you were in Derek Morgan's car, trying to coax him into asking out a woman with whom he violated many HR regulations.

Derek clearly didn't have a response which only made you laugh harder. You patted his back while he recovered. "Caaaaareful, muscles. I don't want to die on my way to a bar. I'm literally in the CIA—that would be so heavily anti-climactic."

The only thing he heard in that sentence was his nickname, snapping out of his stupor. "Okay, this 'muscles' thing is starting to feel less like a compliment and more condescending." 

You huffed out a little chuckle as he put the car in park. "And 'angel' isn't?"

He furrowed his brows, opening his door. "You love that name."

You copied his movements, getting out of the car before pointedly looking at him. "Yeah, when the words 'of death' follow it."

He snorted. "Cryptic." He held his arm out for you, to which you obliged, wrapping yours in his before walking into the estabishment with him.

You would've responded and teased him further had you not been cut off by an oddly familiar voice. "Morgan!" Your head snapped to a table where not only the object of your teasing stood, but all of their crime-fighting friends. From afar, you watched Penelope's eyes widen behind her glasses. Then she squealed, "And Y/N!" 

To her credit, she did look just the slightest bit embarrassed when people turned to stare at her.

She still wasn't used to you. And God, was that comical.

A smirk crawled onto your face as you walked to their table, glancing at Derek and recalling your earlier quip. "Ooh, careful, Morgan. Your girl's a fan. I might just take her."

For a guy that nearly died in the car at the mention of her, he didn't seem all that startled. In fact, a smirk of his own graced his face. "I doubt you'll be focused on Penelope tonight, angel."

Your brows pinched together, but before you could question what he meant, you reached the table. JJ and Emily greeted you with wide smiles, the latter pulling you in for a hug that was surprising but not unwelcome. Garcia followed right behind her, hesitantly wrapping her arms around you. You cleared this hesitancy by embracing her tightly. Goodness, she's precious.

Over her shoulder, you mouthed to Morgan, Don't fuck it up.

When you let her go, Rossi tipped his glass at you while Reid just gave you an awkward wave. For his benefit, you resisted the urge to laugh.

You spun back around to flash a smug smile at Morgan, eager for him to see that you weren't fazed by this little surprise he so clearly wanted to jar you with, but then your eyes locked with a darker pair and you realized, oh. They weren't the surprise.

He was.

"Y/N."

What was this feeling? Winded? Was it— breathless? You couldn't describe it; you'd only felt it a few times in life, and you didn't know why you felt it right now. Eventually, you realized you had to answer. 

"Hotchner."

You were going to fucking strangle Derek Morgan.

❧

If it wasn't considered rude and you weren't surrounded by a horde of profilers, you would've been texting Derek furiously. It didn't help that the only spot left at the table was next to the man you'd be texting about.

Derek was fun to party with—you went out with him all the time—but whenever he invited you out with the rest of the BAU, you politely declined and came up with whatever excuse was available. Clearly, he caught on to the reason.

You've been avoiding me.

And maybe that was true.

A gasp broke you out of your thoughts. You looked over to see Penelope jumping out of her seat. "Oh, my god, I love this song. Derek, get up right now, we're going to dance," she all but demanded.

It's then that you noticed that JJ and Emily had already beat them to the dance floor, and Spencer was being talked up by some girl at the bar. 

No— "Alright, alright, calm down, mama, I'm coming." You glared daggers at him as he flashed you a sly grin, then he wrapped an arm around Penelope and left. He left you alone with Hotch and Rossi.

At least Rossi's still here— "You know, I think I'm going to get another drink." You're kidding.

Apparently, he was not kidding. Rossi got up, and you could've sworn you saw him wink at Hotch before he left for the bar.

And then there were two.

Fuck.

Now that the others were all gone, you felt his proximity much more prominently. If you moved just the slightest bit, your knees would touch. You hated that the thought even crossed your mind.

But you couldn't leave. If you left, then it'd be obvious that you were, in fact, avoiding him, and you didn't want it to be obvious. It shouldn't have been obvious because there was nothing there to avoid; the two of you were nothing, so you had no reason to avoid him.

You were nothing.

Even if, for a second, you might've felt something.

"What's wrong?" His voice cut into the tension like it was butter. But the question didn't sound like concern; if you didn't know any better, you'd say it was almost teasing. 

You finally looked at him, turning your head and realizing he was closer than you thought. Close enough to see the specks of green in his eyes and the locks of hair falling over his face. Close enough that you could push those locks back if you wanted to. And you wanted to. 

But you didn't.

You schooled your expression and raised a brow, causing him to elaborate, "You were much more flirtatious when we didn't know each other."

Of course, I was, is what you wanted to say. Of course, you were; that was before whatever happened in D.C., before you danced with him and before you let him down. Before reality came knocking and showed him that you were polar opposites, that he was a man of the gavel and you were a woman of the gun. Before he confronted you. Before he told you that he wanted to know you.

So, of course. Of course, I was. Because what the hell was I supposed to do with that?

That's what you wanted to say, but you didn't. Instead, you countered, "Why do you assume something's wrong? Maybe I've just lost interest in our game."

Hotch looked at you like he knew that was a load of bull. He looked you up and down like he could see right through you, and you hated that, because if he looked hard enough, he just might. You thought, for a second, he'd drop it, but then he came back harder. "Is that because you're not winning?"

Taken aback, you laughed to hide how astounded you were, looking away as you deflected, "You must've been one hell of a lawyer, Agent Hotchner." 

He let you re-route the conversation, humming. "I was good at my field," he admitted, pausing briefly. "I actually got my nickname while I was working at the DA's office, Hotch."

"Oh?" you uttered, disinterest shining through your voice that you hoped he'd pick up on.

"Yeah. And now it's what everybody calls me." Another pause. "Everybody but you."

You turned back to him. Clearly, that's what he wanted from you with that statement. He was looking at you expectantly, waiting on you for something—you just didn't know what. "You dwell on what I call you?"

He shrugged like he was unbothered. "It's just an observation. You refer to everyone using their first name, even Kate. At one point, I think you even said our names consecutively. Agent Hotchner and then Kate."

Shit, you didn't remember that, but he was probably right. It must've been a blip, you must not have been paying attention. Still, you shrugged right back at him. "I don't put that much thought into it."

He continued like you'd never said anything. "You said my name after the blast." You stiffened. "Repeatedly. And then, once we were in the hospital, you were back to formality."

You forced a smile onto your face in attempts to mask the discomfort. "So?" you said. Like you weren't affected. Like you weren't surprised that he noticed or equally surprised that he was calling you out on it.

"So," he repeated. "What's holding you back from saying my name?"

Damnit, he had you. He had you, and he knew it. You knew he knew it based on the fire in his eyes, fire with intent to burn.

But you had more. 

You had walked through fire; you were forged in fire, so this was a challenge you'd accept.

You leaned in closer, just until your mouth was next to his ear. He inhaled sharply. Good. Slowly, you breathed, "What's in a name... Hotchner?"

When you leaned back, you were met with a thrown-off-Hotch, but you didn't stick around to savour the image. You hopped off your barstool and left the table, opting to go dance with Emily and JJ as opposed to let him have the last word.

If you had it your way, he wouldn't get another word in for the rest of the night.

If only you could always have it your way.

❧

You danced with the girls the rest of the night, Hotch forgotten. The others were elsewhere, off on their own. They were good company, and it was nice to hang out with other women. Eventually, the dancing wore them out and they decided it was time to head out, making sure to exchange numbers with you and add you to their group chat before they bid you farewell.

Something told you they were a little more than friends, but you weren't sure if they even knew that.

Alone, you decided to get off the dance floor, making your way over to the bar to text Derek. It was getting late; the bar would close soon, and you wanted to head home. But when you opened your phone, you already had a message from him—timestamped an hour ago. Furrowing your brows, you clicked on it.

Sorry, angel, but Pen opened a window for me and I had to take it.

If you know what I mean ;)

Please don't kill me. I'll send a car for you when you're ready.

Audibly, you groaned, closing your eyes in exhaustion. Of course, he shot his shot with Garcia on the night he's meant to drive you home. And you couldn't even be that mad about it. 

You sighed, accepting it and going to open your Uber app when a voice queried from behind you, "Are you alright?"

Fuckkkkkk, you were really hoping he left by now. Reluctantly, you turned around, facing Hotch. "Yeah, Derek was my ride home, but he um," you paused, wiping a hand across your face, "he got lucky."

"With Garcia?"

You laughed at how transparent it was and how quick he, their boss, was to get it. "Yeah, so I'm just gonna catch an Uber home."

"Don't be ridiculous; I'll drive you home." You were shocked at how quickly he shot you down, looking up at him to see he was being totally serious.

"No, you are being ridiculous. I live all the way in Washington."

He shrugged his shoulders like it was nothing, like you were friends and his offer was normal. "I live in Arlington—it's not out of the way. Besides, would you rather pay for an hour-long car ride or have me drive you for free?" 

Honestly, you'd rather do many things besides let Hotch drive you home for an hour, so you excused, "I'm good for the money."

He rolled his eyes. "It's 1AM, Y/N; I'm not gonna let you take an Uber home." He nodded to the exit. "Come on, let's go."

Now you rolled your eyes. He'd made up his mind, despite your disapproval. Yet you still glanced down at your phone, debating it. You supposed that he was better than a total stranger, and it was only an hour.

Maybe you were tired and your judgement was impaired, but for some reason, you obliged. "Fine."

You didn't know if it was a trick of light, but for a second there, it looked like Hotch's lips quirked upward.

For a second.

❧

The car ride was silent if not for the music drumming lowly in the background. You didn't crack any jokes or say anything playful or innapropriate; you were a silence filler, you hated silence, but you'd rather sit in silence than talk to Aaron Hotchner any longer than you had to.

His presence was already pushing it.

If Hotch noticed how quiet you were, which he likely did, then he didn't comment on it. You were sure that he was profiling you silently, though, the same way you were silently profiling him.

He wasn't driving his official government vehicle, but it was still a black SUV. Not a Tahoe, though; it was an Escalade. It wasn't too proud or boastful but it wasn't too unassuming, either. Expensive but not too much of a head-turner.

A glance to the back displayed a car seat. You suspected that his son was with his ex-wife, since he was here at one in the morning and not at home. He was a stable father, and you could tell.

You knew what instability looked like.

The CD he had in when you got into the car was the White Album, Beatles. That, you could've guessed easily. It fit.

The car was clean. It smelled like peppermint and his cologne. If you opened the glove box, you'd probably find a gun. He carried two on his person while working, so he probably had one in here and then another at his place.

Prepared.

But what neither of you were prepared for was the sudden downpour of rain.

Hotch turned on his windshield wipers, then you saw a flash of white followed by a loud clap of thunder. He cursed under his breath, and you then cursed yourself for finding it attractive. "It's a storm."

"I can see that."

He ignored your quip. "Well, we're already in Arlington. My apartment is two minutes away—we could stop there until it's clear."

You held back a sigh. Regardless of your feelings, it was unsafe to drive in this weather. That's why you agreed. "Okay."

He wasn't lying about being two minutes away. With in no time, you were in front of his complex. Running inside barely did anything; you were drenched after being outside for maybe ten seconds.

The thunder was loud and continuous; the only place you didn't hear it was in the elevator. Then it returned once you were out, walking through the halls to his apartment.

You were on your phone while he unlocked the door, checking the weather app. This time you couldn't repress the sigh that left you. "Forecast says this storm's going all night."

"Oh." He opened the door, holding it open for you. "Well, you can stay the night." What? "I'll drive you home first thing in the morning."

"Um—"

He gestured to his living room, suggesting, "I'll take the couch. You can have the bed." Well, it wasn't really a suggestion, and you didn't have much of a choice, either.

So you nodded. He said something about going to change and fetch you clothes, and then you were alone in Aaron Hotchner's foyer.

You. In his apartment.

You thought back to when you met him, in an interrogation room as he accused you of being a serial killer. And you were a killer, just not that kind. Yet, now, he willingly had you, a gun for the government, in his apartment. This was the same Aaron Hotchner who prosecuted criminals, who hunted down evil, and believed in justice and court of law. The same Aaron Hotchner who frowned upon your unseriousness and grey morals. And he was also the same Aaron Hotchner that stood next to you in a hospital waiting room and told you he wanted to know you.

God, it was ironic. Him wanting to know you. You didn't know if he understood what that meant, what that entailed. 

He was the gavel, and you were the gun.

And that was that.

He walked back into the room after a good three minutes, changed into attire more informal than you'd ever seen him. He wore a button-down and jeans to the bar, but you didn't imagine you'd ever see him in sweats.

"Bathroom's on the left," he told you, pointing to it. "Feel free to use the shower. I left some clothes on the bed for you, and if you need anything, I'll be out here."

You nodded, saying a quiet "thanks" before you walked past him to his room. You'd skip the shower; you didn't have any underwear for that.

Closing the door, you took a moment to scan his room. Bed in the middle, navy blue sheets. Window facing the door, dark red curtains covering them. There was a closet to the side, likely filled with suits, then a dresser across from the bed for ties and everything else.

There were two nightstands on either side of the bed, a frame on one. When you got closer, you saw it was a picture of a little boy with a grin so wide that it brought a smile to your face. 

On the bed, Hotch left you a pair of grey jogging pants and a worn blue hoodie with George Washington University painted on in chipped white in the middle. You changed out of your wet dress, and all hesitation for wearing Hotch's clothes went out the door the second you put on his hoodie.

The sweatpants were just as comfortable, despite having to pull the drawstrings immensely far. You could fall asleep like this no problem, but then just as you went for the bed, the light cut out, drowning you in darkness.

You're kidding me.

There was a knock on the bedroom door soon after. You weren't sure if you could find it without stumbling or knocking something over, so you just shouted, "Come in."

Hotch's head poked in, illuminating the room with the flashlight on his phone. "It's the whole neighbourhood. Do you want a candle?"

Yes, I do. You had a thing about sleeping in the dark, but like hell if you were gonna tell him that. A CIA agent, afraid of the dark—you weren't telling anybody that. "No, I'm good, but um," why am I stammering? "Could I get some water, please?"

"Yes, of course." Hotch was quick to leave the room for what you requested, and you were quick to follow him. He was the one with the flashlight.

His kitchen was barely visible, but you caught a glimpse of a few drawings on the fridge. When he lit a candle and placed it on the counter, you saw the the drawings were finger paintings, one of a whole child's hand. Again, you couldn't stop the corners of your lips from curving upwards.

Aaron Hotchner. You'd seen the prosecutor, the profiler, the unit chief, and now the father.

"Here." Hotch's voice cut through your thoughts as he handed you a glass of water. You didn't even hear when he turned the tap on.

You wordlessly took the water, thanking him with a nod. He stood there as you took a sip, watching you with a gaze that felt scrutinizing but probably wasn't. He was good at hiding what he was thinking, but you could still tell that he was thinking, nonetheless.

In a split-second decision, you lost the battle with yourself not to engage in conversation. "What? Did you poison this?"

He ignored you, like always, and questioned, "Are you afraid of the dark?"

You just barely stopped yourself from choking, masking your cough with a chuckle. "What?" How the fuck did he guess that?

Vaguely, he added, "You seem like the type."

"Oh, 'I seem like the type?'" you echoed. "Is that your normal-person way of saying 'it fits with my profile?'"

He shrugged. "More or less."

Another chuckle left you, this time unforced. You were wondering if he was drinking before you and Derek showed up. This confidence and nonchalance was new, but amusing. Maybe you had one too many drinks, too, or maybe something about this version of Aaron was drawing you in, but you indulged him. "Okay, Hotchner. Give me my profile."

He paused, looking at you like he was debating if you really meant it but you saw the moment he made up his mind, decision flashing through his eyes. He gave you a once-over, but not because he needed to; you had a feeling this profile had been brewing for a while now.

"You're a control freak," he started. "This doesn't just shine through in your work—it also appears in your day-to-day life, like your overwhelming need to fill silence or dislike for the dark. This comes from a period of your life when you weren't in control, and now you have to control every situation you encounter. You come off as easygoing, but in reality, you're closed off. You hide behind jokes and arrogance because you don't want people to know the real you, but every once in a while, she reveals herself. She cares, but you can't have that be used against you, so you pretend you don't. You don't have many friends because that opens doors, and you are afraid of what is behind them. That is why, even as you stand in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, you still refuse to say my name. It's a defense mechanism, a way for you to create distance because, as much as you deny it, you feel something."

Somewhere in his explanation, he got closer to you. He never broke eye contact, not once. He stared at you like you were a puzzle he was waiting to solve, and he had too many pieces. You suddenly wished you'd never asked.

You intook a deep breath. "Ho—"

He cut you off, voice now just above a whisper. "What are you hiding from, Y/N?"

What am I hiding from?

Your eyes involuntarily darted down to his lips, and he caught it. He took another step closer, and you let him. What am I hiding from?

Your breath was shaky as Hotch leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. One movement and your lips would touch. You wondered what it'd feel like. To kiss him. To stop hiding. 

What are you hiding from, Y/N?

You leaned in, and then just before your lips met his, the lights turned back on.

Just like that, you pulled away, the sound of your racing heart concealed by the sound of the heater kicking back on. "I should— I should get back to bed now." You kept your eyes on the tile.

"Y/N—"

"Um, thank you for the water—"

"Y/N."

Finally, you looked up at him, concern and confusion swimming in his eyes, and you understood it. One second, you were on the verge of kissing, and now you were on the verge of tears. You didn't understand it, either.

But this, whatever it was, it couldn't happen. This was a lapse of your judgement. He was Aaron Hotchner, the prosecutor, the profiler, the unit chief, and the father: the gavel. You were Y/N Y/L/N, the hacker, the director, the addict, and the killer: the gun. 

This wasn't gonna happen.

So you loaded a round into the chamber, put your finger on the trigger, and took the safety off. Then you aimed it at yourself and fired, "You're a good man, Aaron." Too good for me.

You think he was too shocked by his own name, and that's why he let you walk away.

And as you closed his bedroom door, you had a feeling that it wasn't the only door you just closed.

6. A lie is the truth (link)

taglist: @flow33didontsmoke

extra a/n: guys i'm so mad ab this block limit and how this can't be one part but wtv!!

[snaktooth-journalist]

Even if you never return to this story, I'm blown away with what you made and grateful you shared it with us!! With the flavor of humor and tense moments it genuinely feels like it could be a canon continuation of the game. Best of luck in your creative endeavors <3

Thank you so much!!

Idk if I'll ever finish it, but the end plot is like this:

Buddy goes back to meet Filbo and almost tackles him in a hug before either of them have a chance to stumble over their words. His encounter with the Agent made him realize that he has the choice to trust Filbo, and though he was hurt and shaken deeply, he loves him and that love is worth saving. Filbo is beside himself. For someone who has always been a joke, a tag-along, a half wanted tool, to be revealed as a traitor to the only people who have really grown to love him, to stand on the edge of losing all of it and deserving the loss, it means everything that Buddy comes back for him. It's a validation of who Filbo hoped he was on the inside, which is someone who genuinely is trying their best to help and love, who might deserve to be helped and loved too. Wiggle, Gramble, Beffica, and Triff were all having their poker night when Buddy called Beff to see if she'd pick him up. They were on their way when Snorpy calls Beff in a panic- He implanted a tracker on Buddy (because they're bffs <3) and he knows Buddy is in trouble. He's been tracking him and he knows what it looks like on the screen when a grump is running. Buddy and Filbo's reunion is half interrupted by the agent, who almost catches them in the apartment. They're able to get out but get cornered in a lot.

Filbo gets to stand up for himself to the agent (I had this drafted out but it's been so long the details are fuzzy.) The agent makes a move to murder him, but Buddy jumps in and attacks the agent wild-animal style. The agent drops his gun in the scuffle. Buddy bites the guy and is horrified by the familiar sick feeling he gets when the Agent's disgustingly thick, abnormal blood fills his mouth. He pulls back, already gagging, and gets thrown down. The agent grins.

"Snaks can't eat snaks." The agents eyes are wide and his smile stretches across his face.

The Journalist's mind startles over what the Agent just said, his comprehension cut short by the gunshot and spray of thick, white, batter-like fluid that comes bursting out of the agent as he's shot. The agent's skin bubbles. His eyes roll wildly behind himself, body beginning to lose it's form as he turns in abject rage. He reaches a hand for Filbo, whose trembling paws are holding the smoking gun, but the agent only manages a jerking step forward. His body is moving, roiling, as if there are hundreds of rats squirming under his fur, trying to burst free. Wide white googly eyes erupt from his skin like blisters. The agent's howl is distorted, multi-tonal, and as he lunges towards Filbo, his flesh bubbles free and melts off like sugar from hot metal. His raw white bones tumble down into the squirming goo that had made up his body moments ago, and thousands of little black worms with eyes scatter into the dark. The skeleton is left behind. Filbo and Buddy are clinging to each other before they know it, absolutely cowed. A car door slams. Everyone in the car saw Filbo shoot the agent to save Buddy, saw what the agent was, and they can see the way they're holding each other now. There might be questions, might be anger, and there's definitely a lot of fear, but in the end everyone decides to trust and forgive. They saw what that agent was made out of. There might be more. They need each other more than ever.

(Secret Bonus Theory: The Snakolytes have been trying to make bugsnax/grumpus hybrids for two reasons: to be able to plant a new queen to control the island, and to make a new generation of grumps who might be immune to the parasitic nature of the snax. They want to create a new world, and that means feeding the old one to the island. Everyone who ended up on the island, the main cast of the game, were either someone the Snakolytes were trying to make disappear or they were some kind of unwitting hybrid being sent out to see if they'd have any luck becoming a new queen or integrating in with the snax. The Journalist can't eat the snaks because genetically he is too close to being a snak. He can be set on fire and frozen, he can get thrown off cliffs, he can subsist off of sauces... He's a snak. In my crazy headcanon, Clumby volunteered her own DNA and the Journalist was a test tube baby that the Snakolytes nudged along down his career path. Gramble was right too- The snaks are his kin. His family knew there was something wrong with him from the moment his mother carried him out of the hospital, and that was thanks to the Snakolytes. They have people everywhere. Maybe run background checks on your next midwife, Gramble fam.)

[melkyt]

The amount of self control Cora has to stay quiet when his brother is going on and on. Like cant tell me Doflamingo is not a constant yapper, he likes to talk, especially to someone he trusts

Cora sitting there getting his practice in of keeping the double agent poker face while Doffy talks about the latest trend or political scandal with takes that are so wild that they are asking for biting remarks. Cora is going through it being quiet all the time xd.

From his time with Law, we can tell that he speaks his mind and has quite a mouth on him, as a marine thats to be expected. I can imagine the pages and pages of rebuffs he could potentially have in a journal somewhere under lock and key since he cant tell his bigbro to fuck off xd

It would be funny to see just random Elder Sibling vs Younger Sibling interactions between them in a happier world and circumstance xd

[kojoty]

Delta: Agent York, I would be remiss not to correct your statistical errors here. This could pose a tactical disadvantage if I cannot trust you to make the correct statistical calculations in the field. Simply put, I can compute reasonable decisions based on far more data than you can compute. Therefore--

York: are you still mad that I laughed when you were wrong about who would win the superbowl.

Delta: .

York: I'm not going to not listen to you in the field because it was funny you were wrong once, D, are you kidding me? Shit. We gotta go play poker soon to boost your ego again bud

[sparkiekong]

Reflections of Tynas 5/6

Tynas smiled at her, “Ah, good, the dour moody sister is here. This is more convenient for me… two fish with one spear as it were.”

Morrigan folded her arms in a defensive manner, “Moody is right, Agent, why do you scare my people? What is it that you want?”  

He chuckled, “You’re looking lovely, Morrigan. I’m sure one day we’ll see you as a centerfold… but that is not today.”

A look of confusion on her face briefly before she went angry again, “Stop playing games! Your kind never just show up for a vacation. They come for reasons. Why are you here?!”

Tynas glanced to Ozen, “My word, straight to the point.” He looks back at Morrigan, “Ok, so I want you and your fishy friends to keep well clear of the wreck in your oceans. That is a dangerous piece of equipment, and I wouldn’t want any harm to come from a stray young mer swimming where they shouldn’t be. Since your father has regretfully forbidden us to recover it… I am forced to trust your good graces that you will make this happen.

She watches him for a time choosing her words carefully, “I know how dangerous your kind can be and while I assure you that my father has that under control, your concern for the people of Sulani is admirable… I’m not entirely convinced that this is your motive for being here.”

He leans back in the chair, kicking his feet up on the table, cigar, and drink in hand, “Like I said, I’m on a little break… and I suppose I should inform you of a few things…” He lights the cigar and puffs a bit, “If you’re interested in what I know.”

Morrigan sighs, “There is the root cause! What is it that you feel we need to know? These mystery trips and vague words are more annoying than Lord Narquad’s incessant whining.”

Tynas seemed amused at her comparison, “Well, multiple things... Firstly, despite what you may believe or have read, Gargareans and Amazons are not extinct and a small number of them are alive and well. The reason that space station ended up in the sea is because one Gargarean tried to annihilate the District of San Myshuno, and another Gargarean fought him to the death and did the best he could under the situation and crashed it into the sea. So, when I say it’s dangerous I mean it is. That's the first thing. Enticing, no? Wait, that’s not all!”

Morrigan scowls, “Gargareans were annihilated in the last ice age. Do get to the point of your visit, Agent.”

Tynas chuckles, “I'm afraid that your information needs updating… those big motherfuckers are back and they're only going to get more of them, but anyway, yes, moving on. I know you,” he points at Morrigan, “have your eye on an alien in Henford.”

Morrigan hadn’t processed what he said, she was still thinking about the Gargareans and Amazons Tynas had just mentioned, “We had no problems with the Gargareans or Amazons before they were misled.” Just as soon as she finished thinking the rest of his words processed in her mind, she looked shocked, but the expression was gone as soon as it showed itself. Tynas smiled slightly as she growled, “What? I have no idea what or who you’re speaking about!”

Tynas puffs the cigar and chuckles. “Yes you do.”

Morrigan moves back to her natural defensive folded arms position, “Why would I give two flying fish about an alien in Henford and what he’s doing? That’s mainlander issues, not those of the sea.”

Tynas looks a bit impressed, he knows she’s lying, but he had to admire her poker face, it was convincing. “Ah, perhaps I am mistaken... Just as well... there's a different princess who is attracted to him at the moment and she'd no doubt love him to death.” He deliberately emphasized the word. “Maybe you should avoid him, your highness. I wouldn't want to upset another royal lineage now would we?”

Morrigan rolled her eyes, “Alright, what else are you here about? If that's it, I have errands to attend to, Oz will see to your comfort while you visit, Agent. I would suggest trying to dress more comfortably, the humidity and heat can exhaust humans who aren’t acclimated.” She spins around and goes quite quickly.

Tynas smirks at Ozen, “Something I said wasn’t it?”

[chronic-ghost]

title: nose as long as a telephone wire

rating: M (just for language)

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 4412

summary: you get too caught up in a phone call with your favorite DEA agent and accidentally let slip something very personal.

warnings: light angst, language, mentions of the cartel, mentions of drinking, obnoxious intros, comedy? i think i’m funny, part of a series but you can read alone

a/n: song lyrics come from Bad, Bad Leroy Brown by Jim Croce, and the last ones come from Tom Waits’ Yesterday is Here. Hope the anon who requested the series likes this - sequel to Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

🤍Series Masterlist | Previous | Next🤍AO3 Link 🤍Masterlist

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

A girl walks into a poker hall in Florida. 

She joins the game.

She wins. Everyone asks, ‘well, how’d that happen?’

Girl says, ‘I got magic powers that tell me when you’re lying.’

Wide-eyed, they all ask, ‘really?’

She says, ‘yep, and now you owe me fifty grand.’

They all laugh and easily hand over the money.

And then they try to kill her. 

Okay, sorry, that one isn’t all that funny. 

What about this one?

A girl walks into a diner in Texas at two in the morning. 

She’s scared, tired, and hungry. She solves most of these problems by ordering the biggest burger on the menu and pouring five shots of Crown Royal in her milkshake. And because she’s a lie detector and a lightweight, it all goes straight to her head. 

She starts to tell the guy next to her about her little situation in the poker hall. Guy’s nice, sympathetic, asks enough follow up questions to make him appear interested. 

And then he goes and lies to her. 

Girl says, ‘please don’t kill me, sir!’

And the guy says, in a gruff and very serious voice, ‘I’m not gonna kill you, I’m DEA.’

Oh, and, like, this guy is smokin’ hot. Like just come off the grill hot. Like you pick him up and you burn your fingers – ay, caliente! Like danger and sex all wrapped up into one. Oof, Mama Mia and the rest of the cast in Greece, y’know what I’m saying?

So, DEA agent wants to help. 

They flirt, they fight, and just as it seems, this one thing is going well, this only bright light in her life may actually hold a candle, she knows what she has to do.

She TASERS his ass. And all six feet of hotness drops, like a sack of potatoes. 

Girl drives off, knowing he’s better off without her.

. . . oh, you were expecting a punchline? 

Sorry, folks, this ain’t that kinda story. That girl just ain’t that kind of girl. 

Truth is . . . 

Funny little word, truth. It’s implicit that truth and trust come in the same bag. When you tell someone you trust them, you expect them to tell you the truth. Is it possible to have one without the other? If the truth is what we believe it to be, then how fragile is our trust? 

If you taser someone and leave them literally by the side of the road, what have you broken? Their trust or their understanding about the truth of who you are?

But what about –

“Okay, that’s enough philosophizing to my ten-year-old. I gotta get her ready for school then I gotta vacuum this rug before the day rush. Scoot.” Maria knocks your boots off the end of the bright red couch in the lobby of the Motel 6 on route 22 and you grin sheepishly up at her.

“Aw, c’mon, Mare, this is good for the kid. She’s learning so much.” You glance over at Maria’s daughter, Rio, ready to have her defend your proselytizing – when you meet her heated and leveled glare. You’ve never seen such a small child radiate such annoyance.

“Your jokes suck.” 

With a scowl, she stomps to her feet and lets her mother lead her off down the hall to one of the other empty hotel rooms, glaring at you over her shoulder. 

You wave a hand to her as you go, smiling flatly. “Thank you, Mare! I owe you one! And thank you so much, little girl, I’ll be here all week.” You dig into your coat pocket and pull out your half-way empty packet of smokes. “Everyone’s a friggin’ critic.” 

“Hey, you there! You can’t be smoking in here!” 

Birdie, another maid whom you promised to stay out of her way if she kept your “hideout” in one of the second floor empty rooms a secret, snaps at you over the counter. The hotel phone at the front desk rings and she answers it with one hand as she shoos you off. “Go on, take it outside!” 

Groaning, your body aching from the toll of driving forty-eight hours straight, you stand up, the unlit smoke between your lips. “Alright, alright, I’m going. Might die before I get there, but I’m going.”

But the other maid barks at you again, asking your name. 

“Monologue McQueen, that’s you, right?” She has the red handle pressed against her shoulder. “You’ve got a phone call.” 

The toll of outrunning the law and the cartel had taken its turn on Baby as well and the call is no doubt the mechanic calling with an update. You could have kissed Maria all over her face when she let you in at midnight and slipped you a key to a room at the end of the complex. She did owe you one after you proved her brother didn’t kill his boss – but that’s a story for another time. 

“Just send it up to my room, alright, Birdie? I’ll take it there. Thank you.”

You trudge out of the hotel lobby in the bright Colorado sunlight and take a deep breath. Colorado is markedly different from Texas. More mountains. More green. Less roads . . . and even less mouth-watering DEA agents. 

You stretch till you hear something crack and you shake out your head. Things had been going pretty well since Texas too. Made some money here and there – legally this time. You still hadn’t decided what to do with the fifty grand in your trunk (which had since been removed while Baby went to the doctor’s) but having it nearby was nice. A parachute if things got bad – or worse-r than they had been. But, counting no more run-ins with any government men or better yet, a complete lack of presence from the cartel – it seemed like everything that had happened since Florida was finally fading into the background. 

You light the cigarette as you bounce up the concrete steps. Using Maria’s master key, you let yourself into the small dark room that looked heaven-sent after days on the road. Dark wood paneled walls, orange carpet, a lime-green tiled bathroom, a rug that could make you dizzy if you stared at it for too long. Perfect. And you can smoke all you want. You breathe out into the low sunlit room and smoke wavered white then gray as it swam through the shadows. 

Sighing and realizing you should probably eat soon if you were going to pick up Baby, you toss off your jacket onto the bed. There’s a blinking red light over the phone as you pick up the receiver and sit down on the mattress. 

“Yellow.” You slip your cigarette into the ashtray and wait.

“Hey there,” the deep masculine voice drawls, “it’s Baby Cow Eyes. How’ve ya been?”

Either your knees buckled or the mattress dropped you but you hit the ground with a thump. 

“What was that?” 

Eyes level with the window, the glass covered by a gauzy white curtain, you inch down to the floor, one vertebrae at a time, the plastic phone shoved tightly against your ear. You think you can hear him breathing on the other line but that might be your own frantic panting. Shitshitshit. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. If you can get underneath the window, he might pass your room by. “Nothing at all.” 

“Why are you whispering? I’m not literally in the room.” 

The phone cradled by your shoulder, you slither, one arm at a time along that nauseating carpet, as far as the cord will allow. This is perfectly normal behavior for an adult woman. 

“And what room would that be?” You breathe, softly. “Huh, Agent Pena?” You think you see a flutter of movement on the other side of the window and you jerk back against the door, toes clenched, eyes shut, and bottom lip bitten to the point of pain. 

“I don’t know.” 

Your eyes pop open. “What?” 

The bastard actually laughs. 

“If you know what hotel I’m at,” you hiss, jerking the curtain to the side from your protected corner to peer out into the open hallway, “why aren’t you kicking down doors and swinging around that big, thick badge?” 

“Why do you think?” You think you can hear the chunk of a gas pump turning off. 

“Psychological warfare. You’re gonna nuke the motel from space. Who knows?

You had to drop off Baby at the mechanics and one of his crew gave you a ride back to the motel. That was this morning and since then, not another car had pulled into the motel’s parking lot. Crouching on your knees, you spare a glance into the parking lot below. Still empty. 

Over the phone, Javi’s sigh is garbled. “That sounds like a lot of work, sweetheart.” 

Your fingers tightened around the plastic. “But you are coming for me, right?”

He inhales and, in the space, you hear the car door slam shut. “That’s right.” 

You put the receiver against your chest and, as silent as a church mouse, you mouth:

F U C K

“You still there?” The vibrations are muffled in your shirt. 

“Where are you?” you ask, shoving the phone back against your ear. You scan the parking lot one more time just in case of a surprise attack. “At least do the sporting thing and give me a head start.” 

Javi huffs over the rumble of the engine as it overturns. “Oh, hell no. You got your one and only head start two days ago. When you tased me.”

“Okay, see, you sound mad about that. My concern about psychological warfare doesn’t seem so crazy now, does it?” 

“I’m not mad.” You could almost picture the frown, dark eyebrows drawn in, glaring at the phone like it had personally offended him.

You grimace. “How’s your face?”

There’s a pause, as if he wasn’t expecting that question. 

“It’s fine. Had worse,” he grumbles. “Barely even feel it any more.”

“When you growl like that, it makes me feel like you’re still mad.” 

“I’m not –,” He cuts himself off and you grin. If you were keeping a tally, which you definitely weren’t, then you just got a little tick next to Javi’s zero. “What are you doing out in Colorado?” 

“This feels like entrapment.” 

“I’ve got about eight hours ahead of me,” he sighs and you can see his broad fingers tighten over the steering wheel. “This isn’t entrapment, it’s conversation.” 

Eight hours. That gave you enough time to get Baby back and . . .

Unless he is . . .

F U U U U CK

See, there’s one little problem with your gift and the government goon is toeing dangerously close to finding it out. Shitdumb, bad fucking luck. 

“A conversation, huh?” You rub your forehead with your fingers. This is going to end so badly. “Alright. You start. How did you find me?” 

“Mhmm, I was hoping we’d play twenty questions.” 

You pull back and stare at the holes in the receiver. Was he flirting with you?

But he continues, “After I came to and found my phone shattered, another thoughtful parting gift from you, I think it was safe to say you were spooked. Route 22 was the closest highway. Giving your headstart, I had a guess where you might be.” 

“So, what, you started calling all the motels along route 22?”

“You mentioned you liked places with pools. Started with those first.” 

Parts of that night were very clear in your mind – the way he looked at you at the counter, the way he chuckled, his hands on you when he hauled you off the back of Baby’s hood. 

When he said you were smart, funny, resourceful. 

However, there were other things that were decidedly not as clear. 

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did. You talked about pools when you held me hostage for an hour relaying your life’s story.”

You scowl and stand up, uneasily convinced he wasn’t about to burst your door down. You loop the cord through your fingers. “I said I stayed in places with pools because they needed a maid, not because I liked going there.” 

Again, Javi laughs, deep and relaxed, and the world flares brightly for a minute. 

“Sweetheart, you and I both know there isn’t a goddamn thing on this earth that could make you do something you didn’t want to do.” 

For a second you could see it. Clear in your mind. Bright, gold sunlight. Open road, warm desert sand, the roar of Baby’s engine –

– his hand over your knee and he laughs – 

“You know, I don’t think I ever said sorry about your face.” You swallow, sitting back on the bed and taking up your cigarette again. You take three long puffs in the silence, appreciative that there is quiet to steady your nerves. The room smells like clean cotton and ash. “And . . . I’m sorry for tasing you. You were nothing but nice to me and I . . . I shouldn’t have done that.”

Leather squeaks as if he’s adjusting in his seat, the engine humming over the line. 

“I got close to a woman with a history of cutting and running. You wouldn’t be alive right now if you weren’t a little bit . . . shifty.” 

Despite his familiar teasing, you glance at the window, fearing something else scarier than your DEA shadow. From the beginning, he said he wasn’t going to hurt you or kill you and he hadn’t lied about that. 

It had been too long since you felt the barbs of that night in Florida but now you can feel them prickle under your skin. 

“S-s-shifty, huh?” You can’t fight the sting in the back of your throat. You wrap an arm over your waist and clutch the phone tighter. “The way you say it, it sounds like a compliment.”

“It is.” 

“So you’re not mad about your face?”

He sighs and you swear you can hear his teeth grinding.

“I’m not mad about my face, I’m mad you got the drop on me, alright? Shoulda seen that comin’ a mile away.”

You scoff. “Hey, pal, that shit’s original. No one expects the secret taser.”

“How many of those do you have?”

“Why? Planning on making them standard issue?”

“No, sweetheart, we have actual guns for that. I just need to know how many to search for.” 

“And give up my one defense? Now that wouldn’t be very shifty of me.”

He chuckles again, the sound pulling a smile from you. “Smart, babygirl, smart.” 

With the cigarette between your fingers, you kick off your boots and they land with two loud thuds.

“What was that? Sounds like you’re moving.” 

“Darn, you caught me.” You lean back, your spine propped up by the scratchy pillows, your feet stretched out in front of you. With the hum of Javi’s car, as tinny and distant as it might be, you can almost picture yourself in the seat next to him. He’d have the windows down, enjoying the air in the late afternoon. Maybe the radio is on. And he's bad, bad Leroy Brown

The baddest man in the whole damn town. You flex your toes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your arm, your thigh. “I’m sneaking out the back right now. I’m hunkering down and slipping into the night.” 

“Ah, I’ve been thinking of all the ways I can say this to you: bullshit. It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Try again.” 

Your heart squeezes, but in a good way, like you’ve swallowed bubbles and they’re making your lungs all jittery. 

You glance at the empty spot next to you, looking for his jeans, his wide hands. 

“You’ve been thinking about me?” It’s breathless, surprised. You don’t mean to sound so pleased. You realize the cigarette has been burning untouched and is in danger of collapsing. Cursing to yourself, you reach over and tap it out. 

“Just how to be one step ahead of you, sweetheart.” His words slow you down. The half-smoked cigarette, burnt and ashen, tumbles from your fingers as you let it fall into the ashtray. You pull your legs up to your chest. 

“But things are getting serious out in Florida, in Bogota,” he continues, the teasing lilt from his voice gone. “We really need your testimony. Could save a lot of people’s lives.”

You watch his sunglasses slip down over his nose, just enough to catch yours and really stick in the knife. The engine roars as he guns the gas.

“Javi,” you begin slowly. “I’ve made a lot of enemies. Not just in the cartel. I mean, those are probably the baddest, but I can’t show my face in certain places. You can’t protect me every second of every day.”

“What makes you think I can’t?” 

He won’t look at you now and you stare blankly. How many times were you going to hurt this man?

“You couldn’t see me coming, for one.”

“Ouch.”

You grimace, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m sorry, Javi, I–,”

“You’re right.” He visibly swallows, and he switches his grip on the steering wheel. “I broke your trust.”

You try to smile to comfort him, but know he wouldn’t appreciate your pity. You pick at the torn thread on your jeans. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t trust anyone.” 

“Well, I guess for someone who – how did you phrase it? ‘Gives trouble a little wink and blows a kiss as you drive by’ – you’ve got to be a little paranoid.” 

Your mouth falls open and he smirks, his aviators back high on his face. 

“I did not say that.” 

“You definitely did, sweetheart. From your lips to my ears. Gotta make up for the fact that I got accused of not listening last time.” 

His hand is on the gear shift. The light hair on the back of his wrist and forearm glows in the late evening sun. You think about what it would be like to touch it. 

“How’s Steve, by the way?”

Javi snorts and rolls his eyes. “That dumbass? He’s fine. Been duck hunting while on leave. Goddamn Deliverance shit.”

“An activity he shares with Mrs. Steve, I’m assuming?”

“Nah, Connie’s too good for that. Too good for him, as I like to remind him.” 

“What’s he like? What’s Connie like?”

He pauses, thoughtful. “Connie likes cats. Blonde. They both are. He’s a good agent. They’ve got a little girl, actually. Adopted her, in Bogota.”

“That’s nice. They sound like good people.” 

“They are. Steve’s lucky to have her.”

The car slows, the ringing warning of an oncoming train has him stop before a long stretch of railroad tracks. He taps the wheel with his fingers. The wind comes in and ruffles his hair. He’s handsome in a way that is almost overwhelming. Like you wouldn’t know what to do if he actually looks at you with intention. 

The train roars as it passes, the blinking red lights like cosmic stars across his face. You pick at lint on your sock because he can’t be blamed for it, and you should try and make nice. So you open your mouth and ask,

“So is Mrs. Javi still planning on taking me out by the kneecaps? I’ll give her at least two free shots.”

He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He adjusts on the seat and cracks his neck. 

“Oh, yeah, you really got Mrs. Javi all worked up.” 

“Then send her my regards. How should I fill out the card with her flowers?” 

There is silence on the other end. The train whistles and the lights flash. The car rumbles from the force of the train, the weight of gravity. The heavy sun is hovering just above the horizon, going red against the mountains. Like a cracked chicken egg with a smear of blood.

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me.” 

You sit up higher on the bed and cross your arms. 

“What do you mean?” 

Javi glances from the train, to you, the red lights hiding any blush on his cheeks. He frowns. 

“I’m– I’m not married. That . . . was a lie. There’s no one waiting for–,” 

Fuck. Fuck fuck shit. Of all the ways for him to find out. Goddamn it. You lean forward onto your knees, groaning, as you wait for it to sink in. He twists in his seat to you, rabid delight on his face.

“Hang on a fuckin’ second, you’re telling me that little trick of yours doesn’t work over the phone?” 

You shake your head. Why, why did you bring up the wife? That’s, like, rule number one. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” you sigh, admitting defeat, and pick at your socks. “Over the phone just isn’t as good as the real thing.” 

He laughs in disbelief. There might be some red in his cheeks after all. “Uh, yeah. I’d have to agree with that.”

He sits back in his seat, mouth agape, as the last of the train cars rumble through. The ticking of the warning signs slows and the barrier raises. Javi distractedly puts the car into drive and it shudders as it goes over the tracks. 

“So what other limitations do you have?”

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve never put it to the test. As far as I can remember, it only ever makes me money or gets me into trouble.” 

“Really? You’ve never been curious.”

“People like me aren’t afford the luxury of being curious.” You glance out the window, at the darkening farmland rushing by. “We just hope to get by. See one day after the next.”

“I know what that’s like,” he murmurs. “Now knowing if you’ll make till sunrise. It’s a bad way to live.” 

“Yeah,” you agree, eyes shut. “It is.” His spine is straight, gaze forward, but his knuckles around the wheel are white. Sunlight is fading fast. “How’d you live with it?”

“Didn’t. Not well, at least. Dealt with the worst of it by drinking. Met with people I shouldn’t have.”

Your stomach clenches as you try and decipher his meaning. People, being other agents, the cartel itself, or even women –

There’s no one waiting for me, he was going to say.

“It’s lonely,” you say. You see him nod in the silence.

You bite the inside of your inner lip. “You don’t have to agree with me, you know? I really can’t tell if you’re lying or not right now, so you –,”

You don’t have to pretend to care.

“I’m not lying,” he soothes. You wonder if he could be this kind in person. “Someone once told me starting off a conversation with a lie is not a good way to make a friend.”

You smile out of the corner of your mouth. “That’s good advice. You should keep her around, whoever said that.”

“I’m trying.” 

You can feel the shake of the car over the road. Twilight has come, purple and heavy, drawing shadows where there used to be light. Javi takes off his sunglasses and drops them in the clutch of his front shirt, but in the faint light you can’t quite see his eyes.

“I did watch Dr. Pole,” he offers, “had to see what all the fuss was about.”

“You liar.”

He laughs and his fingers bump your knee. “Just making sure.” 

You want to stay here with him, but you know you can’t. You squeeze your eyes shut and open them to the dark, warm hotel room.

“Javi, I – I have to go.”

“I know,” he says, his voice running thin through the phone line. You twist away from the headboard, your feet touching the orange carpet. The street lights outside your window have come on, leeching the color from your room. It feels sterile now, less welcoming. Another moment of peace, gone. Another location burned. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You huff a laugh, in spite of yourself. “That’s not the comfort you think it is.” 

The car hums, swallowing up anything he might have said. 

“But there is something I wanted to say, before you go. Before you tased me, which was a one time thing by the way, I, uh, actually had a nice time with you. I wouldn’t call it a barrel full of monkeys, but . . . you, uh, surprised me.” 

You can almost picture the way he curls around the plastic handle, broad shoulders folding in on themselves as if to make his joy as small as possible. Protect it from prying eyes. 

“Of course, you did. Chocolate waterslide and all that.” 

You can feel his smile, even if you can’t see it. You slide your shoes back on, and gather up your jacket. It wouldn’t take you that long to walk to the mechanics and you remember seeing a diner on the drive back this morning. You wondered if they’d let you sleep for a few hours in a booth.

“Oh, uh, just one more thing,” you say, the cord around your fingers. “You still haven’t told me your real name. At the diner, you said it was Javi, but that’s just a nickname, right? What’s your name?”

“You gonna frame me for murder or something?”

“Or something, sure.” 

“My name’s Javier. Javier Peña.”

“Nice to meet you, Javier.”

“Call me Javi.” 

You don’t really know how to end it, can’t really speak with the knot in your throat, so you click the receiver back into its cradle. You hope he won’t think you’re rude for not saying goodbye. 

The mountain air has turned cool without the sun, night curling around the motel like a lazy black cat. You lock the door behind you and leave the key on the doorframe, with a note inside on the bedside table thanking Maria for her kindness and explaining why you’re leaving. 

There are still no cars in the parking lot, but the light to the lobby is on behind the closed curtains. You wonder if the maids are playing poker in there.

You begin to whistle, the canvas bag with fifty thousand dollars in cash slung over your shoulder, as you walk down the road, gravel crunching beneath your feet, wondering where he’s going to eat tonight, what music he might like, and if anything he said today was true. You whistle and listen for the sound of his engine. 

And the road is out before me

And the moon is shining bright

What I want you to remember

As I disappear tonight

Today is gray skies

Tomorrow is tears

You'll have to wait

Till yesterday is here

[oxymorayuri]

❞𝐍𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬❝

Part ten

A/N: Hello my sweethearts, sorry that I haven't updated this story for a long time, but I had to think about the course of the story and looked for inspiration. Let me know if you want to be on the tag list <3

storys masterlist. ♡♡♡

✦ Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x Reader ✦ Warnings: none ✦ Spoiler: none

wordcount: 2186

tagging: @lazyninjatheorist - @sassyyassi - @cottoncandyloverrrr - @littleleelee

! ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ !

ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓: vasan5555

"I hope it all works as you say y/n." Feeling a little unsure, Ace adjusts his bow tie in front of the mirror in the men's room and freshens up quickly before leaving the restroom again.

On the other side of his headphones, he listens to you sipping your drink in complete peace.

“It'll be fine.” Unconcerned, you lean your head back on the sun lounger and watch on a small screen as Ace enters the casino hall.

“Just make sure I always have a good view of your hand and the poker table...” Ace looks around the glamorous hall. This is simply not his world.

Fancy dressed people bustle around the casino's gaming tables. The players and addicts all hope to have the better hand or that the dice will fall in their favor. Women so beautiful and arousing, cling with sophisticated fake laughter to men whose only attraction is their wealth. Among the crowd of cheerful guests, waiters prance around handing out drinks.

Ace grabs a glass of champagne from a waiter's tray and heads back to the table where Crocodile and his company are seated.

He exhales deeply, drinks the glass in one gulp and places it on the next waiter's tray as he passes by.

“Hey Ace! Come over here, there's a seat for you.” Crocodile calls over to him while the cigar wiggles in his mouth. With casual talk and sly words, Ace was able to quickly get Crocodile's attention without you having to put many words in his mouth.

His charm goes down well with all genders and many find themselves making friends with him. But it's not just his natural aura that has piqued Crocodile's interest. It's also the fact that Crocodile knows very well who Ace is.

Crocodile keeps a sharp eye on every opportunity to expand his empire and the more contacts, the better. He doesn't necessarily see the people around him as allies, more as business partners, but he actually likes Ace's company.

Possibly because he is similar to him. At least that's what he thinks.

Ace does a great job of being a show off, but his demeanor tells that he doesn't just bark, he also bites.

You have to admit that you're turned on by seeing Ace acting like a secret agent infiltrating the mafia. You would love to put on a tight black dress and go down to the casino to play the mysterious lady sitting opposite him. It's not a good idea, but it's a hot one. But that could ruin everything.

The cards are dealt and Ace looks at his hand which you then check on your little screen. He's not sure what he can do with them, but he puts his trust in you.

The rounds go quite well. It's a bit tricky not being at the table to watch the others, but Ace has good cards. People kept leaving the table, acknowledging that luck wasn't on their side or that they didn't have the resources to keep up with the insane sums that Ace and Crocodile were betting.

Money doesn't matter. You already sense victory ahead because Ace's hand is unbeatable, but in the back of your mind you're a little unsure because you can't see Crocodile.

Even if you lose, the goal is something different and Crocodile will surely be thrilled by Ace's ruthless determination.

The dealer asks the last two players to reveal their cards. When all the cards are in view, deep laughter breaks out. Confused, all people look over at his fellow opponent.

Crocodile can't stop his laughter, even though his defeat is obvious. He has lost. He didn't have a bad hand, Ace just had a better one. Crocodile bangs his fist on the table.

Towers of chips clattered and skittered all over the table as the eliminated players clutched their glasses in panic. Crocodile wiped away tears of joy and exhaled with a sigh of satisfaction.

"This is real deja vu!" amused, he looked across the table and over to Ace. “Come on you idiots, bag the chips for the lucky winner!”

Only after his words do you realize that Ace's hand and Crocodiles are the same cards you had in your first game. Funnily enough, Ace won with the same cards as you did.

You burst out laughing yourself. The people around you at the pool give you a few puzzled looks but you ignore them. What a fantastic coincidence.

Would Sir Crocodile still be laughing when he finds out about the connection between you and Ace? You should be terrified at the thought, but strangely enough it amuses you.

Silence returns to the table as Ace and Crocodile clink glasses together.

“Me and the boys are meeting at the Moulin Rouge tomorrow, why don't you come along?” His tall figure rises and he puts on his coat. He takes a new cigar out of his inside pocket and puts it in his mouth. A waiter hastily strides up to him and lights his cigar, then steps out of his way again.

"Show this card at the VIP entrance and they'll let you up." With these words he leaves and disappeared from the casino with his party.

"Here sir, your winnings." The card dealer holds out huge bags of chips to Ace and somewhat bewildered, with a smile that seems frozen on his face, he accepts his winnings.

“Ace that was amazing!” You whisper with excitement that's hard to miss in your voice.

“That was crazy...” he mumbles without people noticing as he sets off. “Yeah yeah, just exchange the chips and I'll meet you in the room.”

Ace swings the bags full of money onto the table and a few coins fall out. Your eyes sparkle as you inspect your winnings.

You happily count the bills. Money may not be everything, but it is something that helps you get ahead. If you didn't have an enormous amount of money yourself, Ace wouldn't even be able to keep up with the sums that Crocodile bets.

Ace looks down at you and shakes his head as you throw the bills up into the air above you. He has to admit that even the side of you is cute, especially the trust you had. After all, he could have lost everything just as easily.

While you both enjoy your evening meal, you discuss the next day.

“You should try talking to him about his relationship with Doflamingo, that you are acting on behalf of father and want to establish a new relationship…” With his mouth full, he listens to you.

You slurp your noodle soup with relish. It's a bit spicy, your lips are feeling tight and your nose is running, but that's exactly how you love your soup.

“Isn't tomorrow your first day of work at the Moulin Rouge?” Ace asks promptly. You greedily slurp your drink to ease your burning tongue and breathe out with relief.

“Yeah.. that's right, but unfortunately I only serve on the first floor. Newbies don't work in the VIP lounge.” You ignore Ace's sigh of relief. He seems glad that you won't be getting any closer to Crocodile.

If only he knew what kind of people you've dealt with. While you're trying to figure out why Ace is treating you so delicately, he stuffs his mouth full with all the food he ordered.

Normally, you don't care when you're underestimated. It's a good surprise effect when your opponent doesn't expect what you've got up your sleeve, but Ace's reaction irritates you. Who does he think you are?! You're damn strong.

Crocodile isn't even a worthy opponent for you, especially now that you can control water thanks to your devil fruit.

The next day dawned with an unusual sense of excitement. You are looking forward to seeing how the day unfolds and are pleased to be working with Ace indirectly. Even though you are working on two different areas, you are working together and secretly looking forward to showing Ace what you are made of.

You assist Ace in putting on his fancy suit, help with the hidden wires on his body, put his earbuds in one ear and adjust his tie. Ace watches your focused manner and admires the way you do everything with pinpoint precision.

Like it's your daily profession. He knows that's the case, but sometimes he has a hard time seeing what you're capable of. Why is that? He doesn't know himself. It's not that you're helpless, he knows what you're capable of and always admired you for it.

“There you go!” You give him a satisfied pat on the shoulder and spin him around towards the mirror. A little caught off guard, he turns his gaze from you to his own reflection, but you don't even pick up on his dazed expression.

“What do you say? Don't you look pretty good?” Pleased with your work, you don't even notice how openly you're complimenting him. Ace, who had been deep in thought until just now, returns to his usual cheeky self.

“Huh, really good, yeah?” You nudge him lightly in the side for his big smile and try to adjust the heat in your face, because Ace came very close to you. Wearing a suit, Ace is a whole new sight for the eyes and from this close, you have to admit that your knees are getting weak.

You clear your throat as you gain some distance and mutter that you have to change now. You disappear into the bathroom and gather yourself behind the closed door.

His charming, stupid face came so close to you, that you could smell his own scent under the expensive perfume. His slightly burnt, sunkissed skin…

You shake your head, you don't have time for that.

The work is easier than expected. On the first floor of the Moulin Rouge, all sorts of low classes hang around, the broad layers of society. Your job was just to quickly give people their drinks and get them to drink more, always with a seductive smile on your lips.

They drank, laughed and wildly flirted with every woman in the room, as if they were just an object of desire. They threw money at the dancers performing on stage, acting like they owned the world, and demanded that they strip naked.

Again and again, you had to go into corners where you couldn't be seen, let out a disgusted retch, and then put on a fake smile again.

Through your headphones, you suddenly hear Ace speaking to you.

“All right, I'm in the VIP lounge.” - “Okay. Enjoy the evening and spend lots of money. Make sure you only talk to me when no one can see you.” you remind him.

While you endure being groped by dirty hands, you hear the laughter through your headphones. They seem to be having a lot of fun up there, you think.

You hear a few men who also work at the Moulin Rouge talking behind the bar. You and your curious ears follow their voices and approach them, ignoring the shouting drunk losers.

“Yeah, it's a shame, but we had to kill the bitch.” - ”I know, but now we're missing a dancer in the VIP lounge.”

Your ears perk up at the words and you straighten up. You pull your shirt down a bit to show more cleavage and strut past them. As your stunning figure walks past them, their eyes follow you, which does not go unnoticed by you.

“Hey, darlings, everything okay with you?” You wink at them as you walk by. The two men looked into each other's eyes and then back at you.

“Come here, girl. “ Said one of them. Grinning broadly, you stopped and turned to them. You already knew what was coming and scoffed inwardly at how easy it was. A woman just has to draw attention to herself…

“You look amazing. By any chance, do you know how to dance?” You act as if you are hesitating a little and look around, towards the stage where tired strippers have to put up with the disgusting behavior of the guys. The two men in front of you sense your hesitation and assure you, that you have the chance to dance in the VIP lounge.

“A hot woman like you shouldn't be dancing at this stage, you're better suited for the upper classes.” You play with your hair and pretend to be flattered by the words.

Just like that, you're able to enter the VIP lounge. You're pleased about this quick promotion and wonder how Ace will react.

What kind of face will he make?

I'm already looking forward to the next chapter. It's going to be great fun ;)

I hope you enjoyed it ♡ If so, please leave a like :3

➽ Next chapter (not available yet)

[randomfoggytiger]

Collector's Edition: Colleagues, and Agents, and A.D.s-- Oh My! (Part II)

For the anon who requested: do you have any fic recs with Mulder and Scully case filing with other law enforcement tasks forces? or general pov outsider?

Loose chronological order below~

@fbismostunwanted1158/ElizabethJaneway1158's The Fall, X-Files Style

“Scully—“

“That was my voice,” my strength returned, “And I did care.”

Warm calloused fingers brushed the top of my hand. Pleading.

No. This. This is my justification.

In a situation mirroring The Falls, Scully is cornered and beaten by a vengeful convict.

@suitablyaggrieved/ScullyLovesQueequeg's Unnamed

“I’ve been looking into different avenues, looking for something that maybe we missed. I haven’t given up on her yet. What about you?”

Post 3 Skinner is the only person keeping Mulder's head above water.

theramblinrose's The Holinshed Ghost

“You’re not seriously considering the possibility that a ghost might have murdered those people?” Scully asked from the backseat. She was sipping her drink since Bernie had insisted that he didn’t mind eating and drinking in his vehicle. The presence of a dropped and forgotten French fry near Mulder’s foot suggested that he was telling the truth.

AU-- Mulder and Scully have become more since her return in One Breath; and are gearing up to parenthood as Season 2 unfolds. That doesn't stop them, however, from investigating ghosts.

TCS1121's "Flash 01 - In a Flash", "Flash 02 - Flashing Lights", "Flash 03 - Reconstruction" , and "Flash 04 - Nightfall"

Scully must have been out of the room when he began dry heaving. He barely heard her enter the bedroom as he sat doubled over on the edge of the bed. Speaking softly yet firmly she said, "Mulder it's me. It's morning and it's okay. Remember what we discussed last night? Trust me, you're okay, we're both okay...Mulder."

AU-- Mulder is blinded and Scully disfigured in respective accidents. Although Skinner is able to keep them around, both must still battle their own severe traumas-- thankfully, together.

@baronessblixen's (Ao3) Rumor Has It

"Fine," Kim says, sighing, "but you have to keep it to yourself. It's juicy. You know Agents Mulder and Scully?"

In her stall, Scully gasps. It's about her. Not just her; her and Mulder. What was it this time, she wonders? What secrets does Kim think she knows about them?

AU-- Pre-Requiem Scully learns about her pregnancy from a rather dubious source: office gossip.

@rationalcashew/RationalCashew's Dark is the Way; Light is the Place (Ao3)

The chowed down in a comfortable silence. Mulder and Mike munching on burgers and fries while Scully ate something stereotypically healthier; although, it didn’t stop her from stealing Mulder’s fries or eyeing his burger.

He wondered if the baby had inherited his eating habits.

“What?” Mike asked. He must’ve noticed the grin on Mulder’s face.

AU-- Requiem Mulder returns, and is overjoyed at Scully's news. However, their happiness is (partially) tainted by a new, out-of-state serial killer case that tries their relationship (and their patience.) 

@wtfmulder/@momdadimpoppunk's (Ao3) skinner and doggett AU where they become unwilling friends, doggett and skinner (the bro collection), Doggett and Skinner bro angst

“This kid,” Skinner shakes his head. The pair of them are standing in the hall, watching nurses quietly chat and people fret in and out of Dana Scully’s hospital room. “This kid is going to be so messed up.”

S8 forges a friendship between two unlikely kindred spirits.

kittenscully's home run

Months before, he’d wondered briefly if Mulder was some kind of a mind reader. There had even been a time that he’d figured he had to be, to get as close as he must’ve to a woman like Dana. She holds everything close to her chest like playing poker, doesn’t show her hand for anything except a bluff. Voices her thoughts as if placing bets, eyes shifty, ready to bolt or shut down quick if her luck turns bad, as it has tonight. 

Clearly, Mulder isn’t a mind reader. Or, he might be, but John likes to give friends of friends the benefit of the doubt. He doesn’t think Dana is the type to stake it all on a man who would leave her out alone in the cold, knowing full well what it’d do to her. 

Post Three Words Doggett realizes there is something amiss between Mulder and Scully.

@naraht/Naraht/Sylvia's (dreamwidth) Four ways William Scully got picked up from daycare

When William cries, his mother always averts her gaze from him, embarrassed, unwilling to meet her son's eyes. She takes an indrawn breath and sets her lips into a line, looking anywhere but there. Once William is taken inside, she relaxes again. William's father puts his arm around his partner's shoulders and leads her away, down the road towards the Metro station, speaking to her as gently and reassuringly as he speaks to his son.

"It's all right, Scully. He'll be fine; you don't need to worry. You don't need to worry."

As if she is the one who was crying.

AU-- S9 daycare workers observe two FBI parents and their revolving door of motley helpers.

@slippinmickeys/SlippinMickeys/Slippin' Mickeys's Three Part Harmony

When Agent Bryson walked in, Mulder pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried to recall if he’d ever seen an episode of Law & Order that took place entirely in an interrogation room. He would have turned it off.

AU-- OntheRun Mulder and Scully stumble across an assassination attempt on their son's life. With no other choice, the reunited family continue on, hoping to be always one step ahead of their pursuers.

@brenayla/@inactiveayla's (Ao3) midnight gold (Ao3)

Scully looks up at Mulder and smiles at something he’s said, and Julie feels cold. The energy of the party dims just for them, with their chameleon eyes and vacillating profiles.

AU-- Two partners in the FBI notice something... otherwordly about the Spookys.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[beeindaclouds]

C! DSMP X Reader (platonic) who is a spy who often hangs at the casino in Las Nevadas to gamble when they're on break. Dream and Quackity know their real identity but they can't figure out who they work for...

Outside of that, Reader just randomly appears in the SMP and just goes "hey sup how's your day?" And the person they're talking to gets startled.

Hallo 🌌 anon, hope you enjoy <3

C!DSMP w/ a Spy!Reader

Includes: Dream & Quackity, the others are just mentioned very vaguely

Click here before requesting, please ^^

Reader: GN - They/Them

You were an individual feared among the SMP

Not because of your strength or power

But because of your intellect

Everyone knew what your work was, you never hid it in the first place actually you made sure everybody knew that you were a spy from the first moment they met you

But you left the detail of who you worked for to their immagination, to keep your mission a mystery to everyone

Along with that you also kept any private information a secret, going by "Agent Anubis" as a name

You wore an Anubis mask to hide your identity and were most of the time seen wearing black formal outfits that could still give you enough movement

The only people who had the luck or respect to see you are Dream and Quackity.

Dream had caught a glance at your face when your mask had accidentally slipped. Still, it didn't give away who you really were or who your worked for, so he forgot about it almost immediately

Quackity was one of the only people in the SMP who you felt comfortable around

You liked to visit Las Nevadas to gamble some of the money you had accumulated over the years

Around the casino you were known as the "unbeatable champion" when it came to poker

Not once had you lost any amount of money. No matter what tactics your opponents used

You actually caught many people cheating while trying to win against you, sometimes even using their own cheating methods against them

Quackity couldn't be more happy to have you in his casino, because your famous title brought in a lot of customers

One day, while on a one on one talk with him, you had slipped off the mask to get some air

The casino owner was obvious surprised, but you trusted him enough to not do or say anything about it

And just like you thought, he never did

The rest of the SMP was mostly startled by your presence

You had learned through the years of ways to move around without making any noises or going noticed

So you made people's heart jump with your presence many many times

Still, they all wondered what your intentions in the SMP were

Well, not all of them

Since a certain blonde knew exactly why you were here, since you worked for his wife in search of the most dangerous object in the SMP

The Revival Book

[found-family-tournament]

Found Family Tournament Round 1 Part 20 Group 100

Propaganda and further pictures under the cut

Reds and Blues: Grif, Simmons, Sarge, Donut, Lopez, Doc, Caboose, Church, Tucker, Agent Washington, Agent Carolina, Locus

Wright Anything Agency (& Company): Phoenix & Trucy Wright, Apollo Justice, Maya Fey, Miles Edgeworth, Pearl Fey, Ema Skye, Kay Faraday & Sebastian Debeste

Submissions are still open!

Reds and Blues:

My babies are all assholes but love each other deep down

Wright Anything Agency (& Company):

THEY MEAN THE WORLDDDDD TO MEEEEEE for some reason a lot of people in the fandom don't play Ace Attorney 5 which is fair since it's kind of messy BUT. BUT. IT INTRODUCES ATHENA AND DOES SOOOO MUCH FOR THE WRIGHT ANYTHING AGENCY. In AA4 we learn that Trucy Wright made the Wright Talent Agency into the Wright Anything Agency in order to bring Apollo in as a lawyer when before it was just her (a magician) and her adopted father Phoenix (a poker player). and AA5 is all about Athena joining and Apollo learning how to trust her, at least it is to ME. they're so gooddddd aaaaaaa like you've got Phoenix and Trucy who are weirdos who love to scheme and you've got Apollo their longsuffering guy who deals with it all, and Phoenix is the mentor... and then Athena comes in and she has a lot of light and determination and trauma (just like the rest of them lol) and she's SO determined and I like her a lot!! And Trucy is my favorite and Phoenix cares about her SO much but he also has his other found family in the Feys!!!!!! Mia dies in the first game but her ghost stays with Phoenix and her sister/cousin Maya and Pearl are SO IMPORTANT TO HIM he loves them so much that's his sisters to me ;-; he would do anything for them and Trucy and he's growing as a mentor to Apollo and Athena too as the game progress... They don't write them all perfectly but they sure do a lot of things I like :) also feel free to split this up into their Wright Anything Agency or Phoenix + the Feys or Phoenix + Trucy if you need to I won't mind I just love AA's found family a lot

Picture this. You are a attorney in your mid 20s and somehow find yourself surrounded by weird little girls with every case you take on. You officially adopt one but really, all of them are either sisters or daughters to you. Especially your loud, burger-loving lesbian sister. Your childhood friend turned rival turned lover, who has a whip-wielding adoptive sister of his own, goes on a series of investigations while messing around with a furry for a couple of weeks and returns with two 17 year old children, a thieving lesbian and a child with a narcissistic murderer for a father who should've kept him back in school a few grades. Your lover has each of them under an arm, and they are appended to your stable of weird little girls but are very much hidden in the back. Then you find out that your daughter, the official one, has a 22yo trans half-brother with a musical diva mother and was half raised as a prince in Khura'in, so you divorce his boss (who is not your official lover, you just had a weird thing for a while when you were in your alcoholic phase, maybe while your actual lover was still messing around with the furry) very publicly while sending him to prison for murdering your daughter's father. Oh, but you have been disbarred, so you make your daughter's son send his own boss to prison, by planting false evidence on him. Of course the young man punches you in the face. Needless to say he works for you for a couple of years and never finds out that he's related to your daughter because that would require a straightforward conversation, now wouldn't it?

only one of them has never been arrested. only two of them arent lawyers. theyre all gay

Theyre very weird and misteruous and kinda fucked up a bit and they were through a lot but phoenix did his best and trucy well she's still just a kid but oh she's trying so fucking hard and always trying to wear a smile and it's breaking my heart the two of them. Also theyre weird i already said that but let me say it again they are WEIRD. and we love them<3 (the ace attorney fandom)

[skylarmoon71]

Patrick Jane (Mentalist) - Chapter 10

“(Y/N), can you go with Jane to the Weller Residence?”

You’re about to agree, but Jane’s objection interrupts you.

“Actually I’ll take Cho. Right Cho?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, he seems to already be heading for the elevator. Cho follows behind and you raise a brow.

You would have just let it slide if it hadn’t felt like Jane was avoiding you for the past week. You hadn’t so much as gone on one trip together. He’d either make an excuse for someone else to join or take off on his own. For a while you think it’s just Jane being well..Jane. But there seems to be more to it.

Instead of dwelling on it, you try to go about as normal. Cases won’t stop coming in because of your personal conflicts.

The week carries on and you try to distract yourself. On the weekend you don’t truly have to try because a friend has strolled into town. One you’re more than happy to see. You’ve been exchanging texts for the past month.

“I’m really happy you called Agent Hotchner.” You take a seat in the cafe and he smiles at your need to remain formal.

“You can just call me Aaron.”

You flush.

“Y-Yes. Sorry, forced habit.”

You both wait patiently to make your order.

“So what’s bothering you?”

You don’t expect the question. You’d like to deny it, but he is a profiler. It would be useless.

“Guess I’m not that great at poker face.”

Your constant fidgeting might have been a dead give away.

“It’s Jane.” You admit.

“He’s been acting strange. He won’t tell me why so I’ve just been giving him space until he feels comfortable confiding in me. But It’s been almost two weeks. It’s starting to get to me.”

“You care about him.”

You nod.

“I do and I’m worried about him.”

“I think the best course of action would be to confront him. He’s used to doing all the probing. Maybe it’s your turn.”

It doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

“I might have to trap him though. He practically sprints when he sees me coming now. “

“It sounds like he might have feelings for you.”

Your brows furrow.

“Jane? You’re kidding, trust me that’s impossible. The guy is too self absorbed.” You continue to laugh at the prospect.

It’s become apparent to Hotch that you might be oblivious to the most obvious reactions and responses.

“So enough about Jane, when did you first realize that you could do that?”

He knows exactly what you’re referring to.

You look overly excited and he holds back a laugh as he begins to share his story.

~

The lunch with Aaron was nice. It has given you a chance to decompress and get back to the task at hand. Technically it’s your day off, you don’t need to go in. But you figured seeing Jane sooner rather than later would be the best. Lisbon had pointed you in the right direction when you couldn’t find him on his usual spot on the couch.

You were grateful that he’s alone. You might have to sneak up to the roof. That’s exactly what you do. The short flight of stairs feels daunting for some reason. When you finally make it to your destination Jane looks lost in thought. You use it to your advantage, closing the door. He turns at the sound and you don’t miss the way he shifts. His entire posture changes.

“I should really be-”

“Why are you avoiding me?”

You interrupt before he can create an excuse and dash off.

You’ve been trying to act like it didn’t affect you, but that would be a lie. Out of everyone here you’re the closest with Jane for obvious reasons. The thought that he feels the need to make up stories just so he won’t see you hurts. You literally had to corner him on the roof just to have a conversation.

“Did I do something?”

He doesn’t like seeing you like this. You look about ready to cry. He moves closer shaking his head. His hand moves to your cheek to console you.

“You didn’t do anything, I promise.”

“If that’s the truth then why do you keep running?”

There has to be a reason. You wait for it. For him to explain his behavior because you haven’t been able to figure it out. You hadn’t realized until now how much you actually miss being around him, this contact. The calmness of his mind whenever you touch is comforting, it’s always been that way.

He still hasn’t explained himself, and you mean to repeat the question, but he takes a step closer. You’re a bit confused, that’s until you truly look at his eyes. They express so much. Your confusion changes to shock. All of his movements are slow. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone and you let out one unsteady breath. 

Jane’s eyes track your lips, and when he leans in you must look comically stunned. His lips press to yours with the tenderness of a flower petal. He smells so good, you can’t believe that you never noticed before. His usual arrogance must have dulled the rest of your senses. The kiss is brief, quick. Maybe ten seconds at most. When he pulls away he licks his lips, almost like he’s trying to memorize your taste. Imprint it in his mind.

“That’s why..”

You swallow, unable to utter a word.

Letting your guard down around Patrick Jane is dangerous.

You understand that now. 

[veryace-ficrecs]

Criminal Minds Fanfic Recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)   

He Was Left on the Steps of the FBI in a Basket by schrijverr - Rated T

Maybe not a basket, but sixteen-year-old Dr. Spencer Reid suddenly shows up at FBI headquarters claiming that his mother has been kidnapped. The BAU isn’t certain first, but the case he sets them on proves to be an interesting one, wherein they get to know the young doctor until he’s practically family. 

Shuffle the Odds by schrijverr - Rated T

Spencer is a Vegas boy, who's game is poker, no matter what others might believe. The team slowly catches onto it.

Following Spencer from when he started at the BAU till season 7 with poker as red thread.

Dr. Spencer Reid's First Case by boredom - Rated T

Derek Morgan wasn't sure he trusted Gideon's judgement. After all, who allows a 23 year old who can't even pass the academy's physical exam to become a field agent? Luckily for him, Reid is about to prove just how competent (and badass) he can be.

Trigger warnings: blood, violence, mentions of school shootings, death, lack of respect towards people suffering from mental illness, and other things you would normally find in a Criminal Minds episode.

Bite Your Tongue (Choke Yourself To Sleep) by drspencerreid - Rated G

reid tipped his head back and leaned it on the shoulder behind him, making it look like he was just putting on a show. he whispered, "i swear to god if you hold what i'm about to do against me, i'm sending garcia the baby pictures your mother gave me."

••

or the one in which spencer has to go undercover in a club and his friends are far too smug

Gotta Live Before We Get Older (Nothing To Lose) by drspencerreid - Rated G

the silence that followed in the next few seconds was eventually broken by prentiss loudly exclaiming, "i'm sorry, what was that?"

•••

or the one in which spencer surprises everyone with his view on tattoos

The Times They Forget by Ena2705 - Rated G

Spencer Reid is a genius, anyone can tell you that. But sometimes people forget that his head wasn’t always buried in books, and there was a time when he did something other than catch serial killers. 

These Are My Friends (I Love Them) by drspencerreid - Rated G

"as much as i have enjoyed learning all these new sides to the kid, i should start going too. i'm very slightly starting to get old, and i really shouldn't have tested it with all those shots."

"very slightly starting to?" spencer repeated. "rossi, i think you surpassed that like sixty years ago."

••

or the one in which spencer gets drunk and honest

Dumb and Ditzy by TimelessTears - Rated T

AU. Years of being bullied for his smarts left him dreading when people figured out he was a genius. What better way to throw them off then by acting stupid? Enter: Dumb Blond Spencer Reid. 

Supernatural:

Monsters in Your Closet by AlbusCorvus - Rated G

Series: 2 Works

When Castiel goes on a hunt alone and is caught by a particular FBI team, the brothers do something they never thought they’d have to. They kidnap SSA Spencer Reid to make an exchange. But being kidnapped by delusional serial killers is nothing like Spencer thought it would be. 

Monsters are Real by WhiskyBoys - Rated T

'Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.' Stephen King.

The kid sitting in the interview room swings on the rear legs of his chair, throws back his head, and at the top of his lungs, sings a painfully off-key version of 'Wanted Dead or Alive'. Hotch looks at Morgan with one eye-brow arched in question. "You think he's your unsub?"

No Difference by The_Bookkeeper - Rated T

Derek has been in a lot of bad situations. This one easily makes the top five. Or would, if Dean and Sam Winchester were actually acting like the sadistic psychopaths he expected them to be. Instead, Dean is referencing Star Trek, Sam is comforting Reid, and Derek has never been more confused.

Batman:

How... Did I Get Here? by PurpleMango - Rated T

Spencer Reid gets transported universes, happens along Batman, and ends up with a job as the resident quirky profiler to the Bat Family

[mariacallous]

When I was 12, I was hooked on James Bond, both Ian Fleming's elegantly pulpy novels and the cartoonish movies they spawned. One day, my friend's older brother, who went to Harvard, tossed a paperback onto my lap and said, "Here's the real thing, kid."

The book was The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, the 1963 thriller by John le Carre. I opened it expecting a racier version of what I found in 007 — you know, Asian thugs with steel-rimmed bowlers, gorgeous women as sweetly pliable as taffy. What I got was a dankly bitter tale of betrayal ending at the Berlin Wall. I hated it. It was just too sophisticated for the adolescent me.

You see, le Carre wasn't merely a better writer than Fleming, but a reaction against him. Where 007 fought amusingly acronymed groups like SPECTRE, le Carre conjured a Cold War hall of mirrors in which spy craft wasn't about knife fights and hot sex, but about gambits and machinations in which it was hard to tell the good guys from the bad.

His masterpiece was 1974's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy — not merely the greatest spy novel ever written, but the source of a 1979 BBC adaptation that's the greatest spy show ever made. In anticipation of a new film version that's coming out in a few weeks — the story, you see, is irresistible — the series has just been re-released on DVD, along with its sequel, Smiley's People. Watching again, I found it every bit as gripping as the first three times I watched it.

The great Alec Guinness stars as George Smiley, an honorable spy chief who's been ousted after a shakeup in British intelligence — known as The Circus. But once it becomes clear that there's a mole, or double agent, high up in The Circus, Smiley is brought back to catch him. He does this in the old school, pre-Google way, by sifting through papers and questioning anyone who might be involved, all in a style that's unsettlingly calm.

Bluntness isn't Smiley's thing. He's like the world's greatest poker player, all quiet observation, laconic dialogue and unreadable reactions. As played by Guinness, a master of the ambiguous smile, Smiley exudes a melancholy kindness that may not be kind, and a knowledge of human frailty that's profound — yet not profound enough to keep his own wife from cheating on him.

When le Carre first became famous, he was celebrated for being so realistic. Yet his fictional world is actually every bit as mythological as Fleming's. It's just subtler. In fact, Tinker, Tailor offers the seductive fantasy of entering a secret world, one imagined with alluring richness. We breathe a conspiratorial mental atmosphere in which Every Single Word might be important. And we encounter an oh-so-proper bureaucracy in which the deadliest snakes aren't the Soviets, but the colleagues slithering around your office. Here, even the most devout patriot will be sacrificed by his own side in the great chess game of Cold War politics.

Like millions of others, I can't get enough of this stuff, but for a while it all but vanished. You see, le Carre's brand of espionage tale was rooted in the Cold War, which offered the neatness of two opposed sides facing off. When communism collapsed, so did the contemporary spy novel. The West lacked a clearly defined enemy.

Happily for spy stories, though not for the world, it has one again in radical Islam. And almost predictably, we've begun seeing le Carre-tinged espionage stories — like Showtime's current series Homeland, in which Claire Danes plays a CIA agent who doesn't quite trust anyone, not even her own bosses, and PBS's Page Eight, starring the wonderful British actor Bill Nighy as a canny old spy who stumbles upon volatile knowledge he'd sooner not know.

I can recommend both. Yet truthfully, neither can rival Tinker, Tailor, an almost perfect fantasy for those of us less thrilled by shootouts or chases on jet-skis than by the exposure of what lies hidden. In fact, what makes le Carre's spy stories so primally gripping is that, at bottom, they're not actually about espionage. They're about secrets and lies and shifting identities — which is to say, they're a metaphor for our own daily lives. Except, of course, that Smiley's story is really, really exciting.

[waywordhearts]

hey! i’m talia (25, pst) and i’m slowly getting myself back into writing following the break that life forced me to take. i’ve mostly roleplayed in groups but in wanting less restrictions and the hope to be able to write more varying stories i’ve decided to jump back into 1x1 and indie rp. i do write on discord but i honestly prefer tumblr. i’m a creature of habit, what can i say? 

here are my favorite fcs to use: 

priscilla quintana, melisa pamuk, nathalie kelley, ana de armas, yara shahidi, julia dalavia, melissa barrera, kylie bunbury, phoebe tonkin, im jinah, rachel mcadams, jessica chastain, ozge yagiz, alicia vikander, and rebecca rittenhouse

casey deidrick, ryan gosling, kendrick sampson, manny montana, can yaman, chris evans, henry golding, jesse williams, jon bernthal, jamie dornan, paul mescal, lewis tan, and theo james

note: there are more fcs to love this is just the short list and tend to be my go-tos!

when it comes to wanted opposites i am fairly open. i much prefer you use an fc that you have the most muse for. that said, i will happily take any of the fcs listed above as opposites!

if you’d like to interact, please like or comment on this post or shoot me a message! continue reading below the cut for more information including my rules!

writing style: i do use legacy editor and prefer it. however, i am all good with using beta editor should you need to as i understand that not everyone has access to legacy editor. my writing range tends to go from a small paragraph to multiple and i do love the utilization of gifs. i would prefer replies not be excessively formatted and if possible please use small/medium gifs — accessibility!

plotting style: i love to set up a plot and release the muses lol. it’s much more fun to just let the muses figure things out and see where the writing takes us and how things develop and progress naturally. that said, i love tossing around headcanons and setting up backstories and all that good stuff. i prefer not to overly plot. i think random starters and tossing whomever you’re musing in is great fun! its great to see what we can come up with!

characters: i do have a roster of muses that are ready to go and love your muses down. but i am also more than happy and willing to create muses specific to plots!

Adria Arjona as Milena Solis, a 30 yr old vertex cinema owner

Alicia Vikander as Beate Hellström, a 34 yr old clinical psychologist

Ana de Armas as Benita Montero, a 34 yr old lounge singer & amateur art dealer

Can Yaman as Taner Dursun, a 33 yr old former bodyguard & security company owner

Casey Deidrick as Cash Henley, a 34 yr old musician

Casey Deidrick as Greyson Hendrix, a 35 yr old construction contractor

Casey Deidrick as Matthew Sullivan, a 34 yr old beer maker & owner of Sully’s Tavern (looking for baby mama & longterm ex-girlfriend plots)

Chris Evans as Samuel Harrison, a 38 yr old novelist

Henry Golding as Sean Lim, a 36yr old art restoration specialist

Im Jinah as Nari Moon, a 30 yr old hacker and hotelier heir

Jamie Dornan as Conway Dowling, a 42 yr old restauranteur

Jesse Williams as Ezra Maverick, a 41 yr old professional poker player

Jessica Alba as Kassandra Solano, a 42 yr old real estate agent

Jessica Chasten as Shay Westwood, a 45 yr old ATF agent

Jon Bernthal as Nathan Ford, a 44 yr old former cop, trust fund baby, and now barista

Julia Dalavia as Noa Santana Teixeira, a 28 yr old podcast host & creator

Kendrick Sampson as Nolan Kingston, a 34 yr old investigative journalist

Kylie Bunbury as Simone Burke, a 34 yr old medical examiner

Lewis Tan as Alexander Hou, a 38 yr old real estate developer

Lucas Bravo as Jonas Ernshaw, a 38 yr old private investigator with a new identity and dark past

Manny Montana as Romo Beltran, a 40 yr old tattoo artist

Melisa Asli Pamuk as Ela Aydin, a 31 yr old author

Melisa Asli Pamuk as Serra Kavas, a 32 yr old actress & artist

Melisa Pamuk as Halide Demirci, a 31 yr old publisher

Melissa Barrera as Mia Franco, a 32 yr old private investigator

Nathalie Kelley as Angelia Paredes, a 35 yr old book cover artist & voice actor

Özge Yağız as Reyhan Saylak, a 28 yr old disgraced ballet dancer

Paul Mescal as Keith Buckley, a 28 yr old coder

Phoebe Tonkin as Cheyenne O’Hara, a 32 yr old theology professor

Phoebe Tonkin as Genevieve Bardot, a 31 yr old professional photographer

Priscilla Quintana as Andrea Romero, a 30 yr old drug manufacturer & bartender

Priscilla Quintana as Antonella Ibarra, a 30 yr old chef

Priscilla Quintana as Lucía Socarras, a 30 yr old heir to a horse racing farm/business & bloodstock agent

Rachel McAdams as Selina Vale, a 43 yr old spy / mercenary

Rebecca Rittenhouse as Shay Howard, a 34 yr old real estate attorney

Ryan Gosling as Joshua Lincoln, a 33 yr old MotoX racer & Flat track racer & bank robber

Theo James as Ethan Elmore, a 40 yr old thief

Yara Shahidi as Nima Sanaz Abbasi, a 25 yr old aspiring filmmaker

themes: town/city, slice of life, crime/gang, espionage, mature

these are my rules for interacting/writing:

please be 21+

all muses must be 25+

please be patient. i work a full-time job and have my family to take care of so i will be slow to do replies during the week. most of my activity will be on the weekends. 

extension of #3 — i tend to do replies in the order i receive them unless i have insane muse for a particular thread and i need to get it done and out of the way because it’s all i can think about. please please please do not assume this means disinterest if i do not do your thread first or if i do replies out of order. muse is weird and these actions do not mean i do not enjoy or love our threads.

communicate! i cannot read your mind and you cannot read mine so i appreciate communication if something is off or wrong or if you have questions or would like to chat and plot about threads. i love talking headcanons too btw so feel free to hit me up any time! 

if ever you’re not feeling a thread, muse, connection you have all the right to drop the thread/connection. again, i would appreciate communication or a heads up but i also understand. 

i do not chase down replies. if your reply doesn’t show up in my activity or if i’ve missed it on my dash then it will not end up in my drafts. please don’t take this personally. i do not have the time to go hunting for things usually. if you feel a reply was missed i’d appreciate a nudge or a link. that said, i will do my best to stay on top of things!

i have adhd. concentrating and focus is a challenge for me. i can also be forgetful. just a heads up is all. 

basically, i love long replies and writing novels back and forth but at the same time they can also overwhelm me fairly easily. i do tend to write long replies but never ever feel the need to match me. write what works for you and your muse. 

discord is available upon request!

[cathienated]

The Odds Will Betray You  ♥️

— Secret Agent AU / Mutual Pining / Forbidden Relationship — IwaOi | Rated M | Multichapter — Read here: ao3.org/works/43108419

When a private banker funding international terrorists sets up a high-stakes poker game in Macau, the Japanese Secret Service sends its top two agents, Iwaizumi and Oikawa, to face him, despite an unspoken policy that the two were never to be sent on a mission together.

Trust is a precarious thing in their line of work, but Iwaizumi thought he could always trust two things: the agency and Oikawa. But when things start to go awry in Macau, everything Iwaizumi knows starts to be called into question.

Iwaizumi may know the odds of winning his next hand, but knowing the odds of survival and the odds of love are different games altogether.

[ao3feed-iwaoi]

The Odds Will Betray You

Read this masterpiece on AO3 at https://ift.tt/MGHsPFW

by cathieee

When a private banker funding international terrorism sets up a high-stakes poker game in Macau, the Japanese Secret Service sends its top two agents, Iwaizumi and Oikawa, to face him, despite an unspoken policy that the two were never to be sent on a mission together.

Trust is a precarious thing in their line of work, but Iwaizumi thought he could always trust two things: the agency and Oikawa. But when things start to go awry in Macau, everything Iwaizumi knows starts to be called into question.

Iwaizumi may know the odds of winning his next hand, but knowing the odds of survival and the odds of love are different games altogether.

Words: 6470, Chapters: 1/12, Language: English

Fandoms: Haikyuu!!

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: M/M

Characters: Iwaizumi Hajime, Oikawa Tooru, Kuroo Tetsurou, Matsukawa Issei, Hanamaki Takahiro, Daishou Suguru, Terushima Yuuji, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Kunimi Akira, Kindaichi Yuutarou, Kyoutani Kentarou, Yamaka Mika

Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Inspired by Casino Royale (James Bond), Mutual Pining, Forbidden Love, Poker, Blood and Violence, Gun Violence, Torture, Minor Character Death, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Alcohol, Sexual Tension, Implied Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Trauma

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/MGHsPFW