Against Protocol (Aaron Hotchner X Reader)

chapter four: wine stained dresses

The cold flow of the air conditioning blew against your face as you entered the jet alone, feeling the stark contrast from Phoenix's burning heat outside. It felt relieving, the cool brush of air in the solitude of the jet — away from the case. Away from Hotch.

On the downside, you knew the team would question your choice in pants and long sleeves in the sweltering sun. Working with profilers had proved to be both a blessing and a curse.

After last night, your knees were bruised and friction burned while your neck was littered with colored marks planted by Hotch. Every glance in the mirror became a constant reminder of what transpired last night — something you knew you would never have again.

You were the first one on the jet, checking out of the hotel as early as you could to avoid bumping into Hotch at breakfast.

Silently, you pulled out your over-annotated, wilting copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from high school. It was a bit of a childish read after having literary spars with Reid, but you held a soft spot for Atticus Finch. You relished in the absolute silence of the jet which quickly dissipated as you heard heavy, deliberate footsteps nearing toward you.

Male, you inferred from the stride and depth of the footsteps. You closed the book swiftly with your hands trivially shadowing over your gun as you wondered who was on the jet with you this early.

Hotch.

It seemed like he had the same idea as you: skip the crowd and avoid confrontation. He ogled back at you, unable to mask the visible surprise dawning over him.

"Good morning," Hotch muttered, clearing his throat as he took a seat opposite you. You didn't look up, skimming the disorienting words on the page. "I didn't expect to see anyone here this early."

Your eyes retreated to the back of your head as you absently flipped to the next page. "Yeah, well maybe you're not the best profiler then," you spit out, the venom in your voice becoming awfully vocal.

Hotch adjusted himself in his seat, never straying from studying you. "What we are doing, I'm sure you understand, violates the Bureau guidelines. Am I being inconsiderate to think of how both of our jobs will be affected if anyone finds out?" Hotch tenderly demanded, trying to rationalize himself as your anger became palpable. "You know the Bureau will only allow this relationship to exist between partners, and I believe that is not a responsibility either of us are willing to take on."

"When did you become the judge of what I want?" you expressed harshly. "Hotch, you've thrown me out twice now, completely lacking aftercare both times now."

Hotch contemplated for a few seconds, for once at a loss of words.

"Look, Y/N, I - I didn't realize, and I'm sorry for the way I treated you, but this is over anyways. Whatever the past few days were, they're done," he finalized, lowering his gaze as he uneasily croaked out the last part. "Last night was the last time our relationship goes any further than coworkers. Need I remind you, I'm your supervisor."

"Good," you muttered under your breath, ending the conversation bluntly. You skimmed the lines on the book, but the words had become a conglomeration of phrases and punctuation marks pieced up together to make nonsense. At every idle moment, your mind ran back to the image of your reflection in the mirror last night.

The rest of the team filed in, oblivious to the mounting tensions across the table between you and Hotch.

Rossi stood up, growing an enthusiastic grin as he raised his voice. "This was a rough case. How about a pasta night at my mansion tomorrow night?"

Everyone except you and Hotch grinned at the invitation.

"Pasta night at Rossi's? Yes, please. That is the perfect start to the weekend," JJ began, raving about how good the fresh pasta was. "I just need to get a babysitter for the night."