Chapter Text
“I just need one more signature, ma’am.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead taking the stylus the delivery man is holding out to you and signing the tablet. You stare down at the four boxes, then back over at the elevator.
“Are you sure you can’t drop them off to my door with your cart?” You plead one last time.
“Sorry, ma’am. Company policy. Have a good day.”
You wait until he turns around to finally express your frustration. You asked your mother to send you specific books in a box, and instead of looking through and finding them, she sent you all the books you had there. Your mother has always been the type to throw money at a problem rather than lift a finger, but even this is a bit much for her.
You eye the elevator again and accept the harsh reality that you’ll have to carry them yourself. Just what you need, another four boxes to unpack and sift through, then take the long trek to the cardboard recycling dock when it’s all done.
You know you shouldn’t complain. The building your aunt lives in is wonderful. The building you now live in — though you still can’t believe your aunt just picked up and moved halfway across the world and let you live here in the meantime.
You carry the boxes one by one to the lobby area to the elevator. When it opens, you push the boxes in and hit your floor. It’s not so bad. At least you didn’t have to move any furniture.
The hallway on your floor isn’t narrow, necessarily, but the boxes are big enough to block the path to the elevator. You push them to the side and try to pick up two at a time, failing and quickly realizing you really will just have to carry them one by one all the way to your aunt’s door. Your door, now. The mental shift is taking a minute. You still can’t believe it all worked out so well.
The sweat is making your clothes cling to your skin by the time you get to the last box. You take a deep breath, pick it up, and turn to head down the hall. The elevator dinging behind you doesn’t even register; you’re mentally lost already in the cold shower you’ll be taking immediately after this.
But you don’t make it to the door. You barely make it a few steps, before a young boy comes running out of the elevator and straight into you. The box tumbles out of your hands and manages to hit the ground at the perfect angle to cause the seam to split. Of all things, your mother skimped out on box quality.
The paperback novels scatter around the hallway, as the little boy stares at the mess, then you. All your anger disappears when you see the look of horror on his face.
A blonde woman comes up behind him. “I am so sorry. Jack, please tell… sorry, what’s your name?”
“Y/N,” you respond, still a little startled.
“Jack, please tell Y/N you’re sorry and help her pick up her books.”
“No, no, that’s okay,” you begin to protest, already picking up the books. It’s a box of all your childhood chapter books. You forgot you even owned them; they’ve been sitting in your mother’s home for over a decade.
Jack begins to collect the books, and hands them to you. “I’m really sorry,” he says, staring up at you with scared eyes, as if you might yell at him.
A smile breaks out on your face. He’s so cute; you can’t help it. “That’s alright, I forgive you, Jack. It was an accident,” you reassure him. Watching the relief wash over him warms your heart.
The blonde woman introduces herself as Jessica. “Are you moving in today,” she asks you as she hands you some more books.
The stack you’ve created over your broken box isn’t the most stable, but it’ll get the job done. “No, I moved in a few days ago,” you respond. “These were mailed to me.” You gesture to the boxes sitting outside your door as you walk.
“Oh, you’re just across the hall,” Jessica remarks, following behind you.
Jack’s eyes widen and he gazes up at you again like you’re a superhero. “Are those all full of… books?”
The way he says books reminds you of the way you used to talk about books as a kid, and you feel your heart swell again. “They sure are, kiddo. Do you like to read?”
Jack nods vigorously, which gets a chuckle out of you. You have a soft spot for children. You dig through the box and pull out one of the ones you remember loving as a kid, and hand it to him.
“Ma-gic Tree-house,” he reads slowly. “Duh— Dino-saurs before dark.”
“Take it. If that’s okay, of course?” You look to Jessica for permission and realize you should have asked her first, but she’s smiling and nodding her approval. “It’s the first book in the series and it’s about time travelling kids.”
He thanks you excitedly and nearly knocks you over again when he hugs your legs. Jessica laughs and thanks you as well.
In no time, Jack is already standing in front of his door, quietly reading the back out loud. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Jessica says. “I’ll make sure he returns it when he’s done.”
“Don’t worry about it.” You wave your hand as if it’s no big deal, and it isn’t. You probably would have ended up donating the whole box anyway. “If he likes it, he can take more. You know where to find me.”
She thanks you again and welcomes you to the building awkwardly before telling you to have a nice day. All of the energy that filled you from interacting with Jack drains out of your system as your body remembers how tired you are. You push the boxes in just enough that you can get the door closed and go straight to the shower, then right to bed.
The banging on your door rips you from your much-needed nap. You grumpily wonder who the hell has the audacity to knock on someone’s door so hard the frame shakes, as you slip a cardigan over the tank and shorts you slept in.
The man behind the door looks exactly like someone who would have the audacity. He’s probably got about 10-15 years on you, putting him in his mid-to-late thirties. His jawline is sharp; his eyes are narrowed and stormy. A Rolex hangs on his wrist and he’s dressed in a full suit. It’s a little loose on him, like he’s lost weight recently, but it’s perfectly pressed and creased. You can’t help but think he would be attractive if he did anything other than scowl. You’re so distracted by his face that you don’t notice Jack standing behind his leg until he shuffles around.
“Why were you talking to my son and why did you give him a book?” The man sneers, getting straight to the point.
This is not a man that wastes time with pleasantries, and you feel your resolve shake. “I’m sorry,” you stutter, “I asked his mother firs—”
“Don’t lie to me. He wasn’t with his mother,” he snaps, cutting you off.
Jack tugs at the suit. “Daddy, she means Aunt Jessica.”
The man softens just a little — not that it helps much. He went from looking like he would murder you in cold blood to looking like he might only break a few bones. There’s absolutely no reason for it to turn you on, but between your daddy issues and the authority kink, it’s a nonstarter.
“He didn’t tell me Jessica was there. You met her?” He asks, voice a little calmer now.
“Yes, sorry,” you explain. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just moved, and Jack bumped into me, and said he likes books, and I gave him one. I swear I’m not a creep who just has children’s books and gives them out. My mother just sent me every book I’ve ever bought, and…” You mentally kick yourself. You’re not one to ramble. But you are, and the way he’s looking at you makes it clear that this man doesn’t actually care about anything you’re saying.
“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “You can see how I may have misunderstood what my son meant when he said a ‘nice lady’ gave him a book and told him to come back for more.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack pipes up, looking at you for the first time. “I couldn’t remember your name.”
“Y/N,” you tell him, before refocusing your gaze on the man. “And it’s alright, Mr...”
“Hotchner.” He doesn’t give you a first name. It’s clear he doesn’t think there’s a point. If it were up to him, he would never interact with you again. “Like I said, sorry for jumping to the wrong conclusion. Have a good night.”
Mr. Hotchner walks away and you shut the door behind him. You get the nagging sense that he still doesn’t fully believe your story, that he still finds you suspicious.
Mr. Hotchner, you think. Calling him that in your head makes something in the pit of your stomach flutter. You shake your head, trying to shake the visions of him bending you over a desk. It’s useless, and you head to bed still thinking about the strange, intense man who lives across the hall.
You go weeks without seeing him again. You run into Jessica once, and wave to Jack when you see him, but that’s it. With school starting up again, you have more important things to worry about than the neighbour who may or may not hate you.
You settle into a routine, driving down to Georgetown for your graduate classes two days a week, while you spend the rest of the time freelancing and writing your thesis proposal. The new place is much farther from the school than your old place, but the rent saved by moving let you quit your campus job. Plus, no roommates here — the commute is more than worth it.
You come and go at odd hours, due to erratically timed coffee shop study sessions and an awful sleep schedule. The next time Jack comes to your door, you realize you can’t remember the last time you saw him.
His father is wearing a suit again. You wonder if he owns anything else.
“Jack?” He says gruffly, urging his son to speak.
“I finished the book. It was very good, thank you Y/N.” Jack melts your heart, as he always does.
“No problem at all, would you like the next one?” You smile, keeping your focus on Jack for as long as you can, feeling his father’s eyes boring into you.
He looks up to his father, who nods slightly. Jack breaks out into a smile and nods as well, much more eagerly. You go get the second book in the series, and hand it to him. He takes it from you happily, thanks you, and gets permission from his father to run home and start reading it immediately.
Mr. Hotchner tells his son he’ll be there momentarily, then turns his attention to you. “I’m sorry, really. For the other day. I…” He looks like he’s about to explain, but apparently decides against it. “He loved the book. I’ve been hearing nothing but dinosaur facts for a week. I read to him before bed when I can, but I haven’t been able to get him to read alone until now, so thank you.”
You’re taken aback at how polite he’s capable of being when he’s not assuming the worst of you, but you recover quickly. “My pleasure, Mr. Hotchner.”
“It’s Aaron Hotchner. Aaron or Hotch is fine.” He corrects you before nodding curtly and walking away. You watch him, and reluctantly accept that he’ll be living rent-free in your head for the foreseeable future. You can’t help but wonder about what he does, what made him the dark, brooding man that he is. How does a man like Aaron Hotchner have such a happy-go-lucky kid like Jack?
Jack comes back with Jessica twice, before you speak to Hotch again. It’s just polite small talk at your door. Jack is tearing through your books now, finishing them in just days and coming back for more. It would be best to give him several books at a time, at this rate, but you selfishly want opportunities to speak to Hotch more.
He’s at your door for book seven when Jack surprises both you and Hotch by asking you to come over for dinner. You can tell Hotch isn’t the biggest fan of the idea, but have learned over time that he’ll do anything to make his son happy.
That’s how you find yourself at Hotch’s dinner table, eating spaghetti, and having your first conversation with him that lasts more than three minutes. You talk about the books, Jack’s school, and animated movies, and you can tell he’s disinterested in you, just making polite conversation for his son’s benefit.
“So what do you do?” You finally ask him a personal question when Jack goes to the bathroom.
“I work for the Justice Department,” Hotch responds. Details evidently aren’t something he offers up easily. “What about you?”
“I’m doing my Masters at Georgetown. In communications, technology, and culture. In my final year now.” You beam at him. You love an excuse to talk about your research.
“What’s your thesis on?” He asks.
You break out into a grin. “I’m still finalizing my proposal, but I’m really interested in the way discourses around serial killers are constructed. Especially how much we romanticize them. I want to look at news media, like reporting and true crime, and also fictional media, like the Zac Efron Ted Bundy movie. How all of this contributes to common-but-false beliefs about serial killers and crime.”
You actually get a smile out of him. “How did that interest develop?” he asks you, getting up, sounding genuinely interested in what you have to say for the first time that night. “And would you like a glass of wine?”
“Yes, please,” you nod, without hesitation. “To be completely honest, when I was younger, I stumbled upon a virtual community of girls who idolized serial killers. Think, young girls obsessed with boy bands, almost, except instead of Harry Styles it’s Jeffrey Dahmer. I’ve been fascinated by the psychology of it all since, especially the influence of linguistic construction and digital technology.”
That gets you another, bigger smile. You swell with pride. This isn’t a man who doles out smiles easily, and you know you earned them. You notice his dimples for the first time and feel butterflies in your stomach.
“That’s genuinely really interesting. I’d love to hear more about that,” he says, as he hands you a glass. You sneak a peek at the bottle: Pinot Grigio, your favourite. You think it’s a coincidence until you notice that he’s pouring himself something red. How did he know?
Before you can respond, his phone rings. “Excuse me,” he says, walking to his bedroom to take the call.
Being the slowest eater there, you take the time to finish your food. Hotch is still on his call, so you help Jack clear the table when he’s done, then settle on the couch and talk to him about the last book he read.
You get so caught up in how excited Jack is about the ice age, you don’t even notice when Hotch returns. Once you see him standing there, though, you feel stressed just looking at him. The man is exuding tension.
“Is everything okay?” You ask.
“Yes,” he mumbles, looking over at you and Jack — but really, Jack — and putting his phone away. “Bit of a crisis at work.”
“Do you need to go? I can watch Jack.”
It feels like Hotch refuses before you even finish offering. “No, that’s okay. They’ll survive without me. Thank you though.”
“Really, it’s no big deal,” you insist.
His phone buzzes again. The wrinkles in his face burrow deeper, becoming even more prominent. You can tell he’s fighting with himself. Because even now, he doesn’t fully trust you.
His phone continues to buzz. You’re certain he doesn’t exactly have another choice, and you wait for him to reach the same conclusion.
“I worked as a swim instructor and lifeguard for over five years, still have current first aid qualifications. As for my track record, I’ve definitely saved more lives than I’ve ended.” He doesn’t laugh at your joke. If anything, it upsets him more.
“Two hours. I’ll be back in two hours. I’d prefer it if you stayed here. Are you sure that’s okay?” He hesitates, still unsure.
“Of course, let me just grab some things so I can get some work done.” Jack catches onto what’s happening and gets very excited you’re staying, already listing movies you can watch together.
You run and get your things. Hotch gets ready in the meantime. When you return, Hotch gives you a full rundown of Jack’s bedtime and things he is and is not allowed to do. He points out where the spare keys are and rattles off his number for you to feed into your phone. You promise him you’ll call if anything, and agree to text updates every half hour. He finally leaves.
You and Jack settle into the living room, and Jack puts on a Pixar film. As promised, you briefly text an update every thirty minutes. It seems like overkill, but Hotch seems like a man who has no patience for people who can’t follow simple instructions. Besides, you want to impress him.
Jack’s barely keeping himself awake by the end of the movie. When you help him change and get ready for bed after, it’s no surprise at all that he knocks out as soon as his head hits the pillow.
Jack’s asleep now. All good here. You text. He’s only replied once to tell you he appreciates the messages and is seeing them.
It’s been over two hours at this point, but you’re not going to abandon Jack before his dad gets home. You pull up an assignment due soon and edit it. You get into the flow, losing track of time until your phone ringing interrupts you.
It’s Hotch. You notice it’s been 35 minutes since you texted last. You roll your eyes as you pick up.
“Is he still sleeping?” No hello, no how are you.
“Yes, Hotch. He’s still sleeping,” you reassure. “Nothing has changed since the last update. I’ll let you know if he wakes up.”
“Keep updating me every half hour anyway.” He hangs up.
You stare at your phone, unable to believe how particular he’s being about this. If it were anyone else, you’d think they were being ridiculous, but something about Hotch makes you believe this behaviour is justified.
You only have to send one more text before he gets home. He thanks you, and tries to hand you cash for your time, but you refuse and wish him a good night.
Despite swearing it would be a one time thing, he asks you to watch Jack again. You happily oblige. At first it’s just emergencies, but then you find yourself babysitting him more and more often. Sometimes you even take Jack to your apartment because you feel more comfortable cooking in your own kitchen. Every time, though, you still refuse to accept Hotch’s money.
Somehow, despite seeing him and speaking to him regularly, you don’t learn much more about Hotch. You can tell he’s a meticulous man, and you’ve gotten to know his cold demeanour well, but personal details are still a black box.
You hear through Jack first that Jessica got a promotion at work. You’re fully prepared for a conversation about making things more permanent when he asks you to hang back one night.
“I’m going to need more help around here. I could hire someone, but Jack really likes you and this works well. Ideally, you would watch him after school until I get home. Jessica will still watch him when I travel. I would obviously like to pay you for this, but you seem stubborn, so if you agree, I’ll be giving you a credit card. It’ll have a $2000 limit, for gas, food, really any money you spend on Jack. I would also insist on you using it for your own food and groceries and really whatever else. It’s the least I can do.”
You’re overwhelmed, but you can also tell he’s desperate, and you are very okay with that financial arrangement. You don’t have to use the money, and caring for Jack doesn’t even feel like work. “Alright,” you agree.
Jack becomes part of your daily life. It’s surprisingly easy to manage your time. Your classes are all from 9-3, and you can do nearly all your work from home. You barely use the credit card at first, but you miss coffee shops, so you give in and start buying yourself a fancy latte on your way home. Then for food and groceries, and gas. You limit it to that.
The longer you care for his son, the harder it is to deny your attraction to him. He’s stern and serious. He’s not nice by any means, but he’s capable of being kind. He turns off the intensity when he’s around Jack. He never talks about work at home.
And Hotch gets more comfortable with you too. He’s just as reserved emotionally. But sometimes he’ll place his hand on your lower back walking past you, or find other excuses to touch you. It sends shivers down your spine every time. You’re not sure, but you swear he does it because he knows that, and it amuses him to have that effect on you.
When he comes home around 7pm one Friday night, groaning that he needs a drink, you say yes without hesitation when he asks you if you want one too. He pulls out the expensive whiskey your father used to keep around the house. You talk about Jack, mostly, telling him stories and funny things Jack says. Hotch asks you about your favourite books, and shares his own. You’ve read them all. He’s intelligent, and he seems genuinely impressed that you can keep up. You keep drinking even after you know you should stop.
“You know,” you say, more than a little tipsy, after talking about your thesis for what felt like forever. “You’re the first person to not ask me how studying serial killers doesn’t fuck me up.” You immediately blush as you realize that it’s the first time you’ve sworn in front of him.
The laughter that follows is deep and throaty and sends blood straight to your groin. His dimples are the most prominent they’ve ever been. “Because I’m not stupid enough to think it doesn’t fuck you up. Of course it does. You hide it well, though.”
“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended,” you respond, blushing.
He holds your gaze, a half smile twitching at the corner of his lip. You flush at the intensity of the eye contact, and his smirk deepens. “It’s 1am,” he tells you, still maintaining eye contact.
“Right, I should probably go…” You can’t take it anymore. You look away.
“I didn’t say that.”
You freeze. Your heart pounds at the thought that he might be flirting with you. He can’t be.
“I meant, it’s 1am. But you don’t want your research to affect the way you live your life, so you tell yourself that not everyone is a psychopath. You trust so easily because you refuse to let it make you less trusting,” he smirks, eyes searching yours for confirmation. “You’re in a man’s apartment, alone. You don’t know what I do for work, you don’t technically even know if I work at all. I could have spiked your drink and hurt you. Sounds pretty fucked up to me.” He’s teasing you and thoroughly enjoying it.
“You have a kid!” You exclaim, finally able to string words together.
“Joseph Kallinger was a father. He killed three people and tortured four families with his 12-year-old son.”
You roll your eyes, but are secretly impressed by how quickly he pulled that fact up. “Point taken. Alright Hotch, I’m going to go.” He follows you as you get up. You realize he’s blocked the front door with his body. “Very funny,” you remark. He doesn’t budge.
Instead, he walks towards you. Slowly. Intentionally. You stumble back and hit the wall behind you. He pins you there, one hand above each shoulder, and looks down at you.
“How are you so sure you don’t need to be afraid of me,” he whispers, looking at your lips, which are just inches from his now. “Do you really believe I wouldn’t hurt you?”
Your chest is heaving up and down. Your heart is racing. “Do you want to,” you manage to get out.
“Do you want me to,” he fires back. You squeeze your thighs together. You don’t answer, but he smirks again, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, what this is doing to you. It’s probably written all over your face.
“You know what I think?” He says softly, making you nearly whimper. “I think you might actually be naive enough to believe that you could take me.”
You bite your lip at the double meaning of his words. He knows exactly what he’s doing. You start to arch your back and lift your chin, leaning in slightly to kiss him. You’ve barely moved when pulls back abruptly, startling you.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, as he opens the door for you. You make the short walk to your door, entirely unsure of whether you’re upset or grateful that it didn’t go any further.