Against Protocol (Aaron Hotchner X Reader)

chapter fifteen: dead man's deal

"What?" you croak out, voice fracturing as it hits the air. The worry travels through the conduits of your veins, rushing through until it hits the words that slip off your tongue.

You hear a scratchy sigh from the other end of the line, almost ungodly and infernal in tone. "I'm not going to repeat myself, so listen closely. You can leave Aaron for good, and I leave you out of his mess, or I'm going to kill you. I'm giving you a chance out, Y/N, before this gets worse for you. Think of it as my charity act for the century."

"Kill me?" you question hesitantly.

Hotch grabs the phone from your loose fingers, bringing it up to his ear forcefully. "You are not in any position to negotiate an FBI agent's life," he seethes, curling up his fingers against the phone rashly.

"The six people I've killed in less than two weeks beg to differ, boss," the voice drawls enthusiastically. "I'm being quite generous here, Aaron. People are going to die regardless of whether or not you and Y/N stop fucking each other, but I'm giving Y/N a way out. After all, Aaron, it's you I'm after, and she's just getting in the way of my plans. Let's not have another Haley situation on our hands."

The line cuts. The erratic hum of static abruptly breaking off.

Hotch leans over the table, knuckles pressed against the cool glass as his head drops in steady contemplation and frustration. He doesn't let go of the phone, folding it inside his palm brashly. "We tell the team everything tomorrow. I'm putting an end to this."

"Of course," you reply, frozen in your chair as Hotch paces back and forth across the kitchen. "But I—"

"And starting now, any relationship we've had beyond our professions will cease to exist. That's final," he sternly advises, stopping in his tracks to gage your response.

"Hotch," you mutter out, failing to come up with an argument. You feel like cotton had been shoved down your throat, like every sound came out strained and muffled. "Do I not have a say in the matter?"

"For tonight, you can sleep in the guest bedroom. After tonight, I will not see you outside of work. Understand?" He holds his composure firmly, calm and collected even after the wrenching phone call. He said everything so resolutely, like none of this mattered, like every night spent together was purely physical. And maybe it was. Maybe you were just being naive.

"I understand," you meekly answer, pushing your plate away as you stand up, ready to go to bed. But the truth was, you didn't understand. How could everything fall apart so quickly?

"It's getting late," he answers monotonously, guiding you to the guest room and leaving you with a change of clothes and a spare toothbrush. He shuts the door behind him, and suddenly you're surrounded by the silence of the foreign room. The darkness wraps up around you, sinking you further into an air of discomfort.

You don't sleep that night, pestering your sleep cycle with thoughts of the phone call and the unsub. People would still die because of this unsub's irrational fantasy, but you had been given the chance to live, and for what? By how easily Hotch adamantly severed every emotional connection with you in a matter of seconds made it clear his feelings had never gone beyond just the physicalities, but the unsub didn't seem to think so.

Slowly, you had drifted in and out of sleeping, barely getting enough rest for the hectic day ahead of you. You wake up before your alarm rings, hoping to grab some breakfast before Hotch woke up.

You enter the kitchen, groggy and half awake, only to see Hotch under the dim, golden lighting of the dining table. He's still in last night's shirt, with his hand messily sifting through his hair as he studies the unsub's note.