Against Protocol (Aaron Hotchner X Reader)

chapter five: electric touch

On your way back down the corridor, Hotch leans close enough for you to smell his oaky, dark cologne. "By the way," he whispers airily, noticing how your shoulders freeze up with his gravelly tone. "The dress looks amazing on you. It's a shame I'm going to be ripping it off after this."

He distances himself once again, making acquaintance with the walls to avoid arousing suspicion among the team. You both knew how every movement of yours was unintentionally caught by your coworkers. It was the job after all.

The heat grows in your cheeks, burning through like sunlight hitting a windowpane. Your mouth feels dry, cotton stuffed down your throat, unable to come up with a response before the warm kitchen lighting invites you in.

You go down to sit between Garcia and Prentiss who had already saved you a seat, a gesture you reminisce fondly of as the newest member of the team. Garcia, with widening eyes and dropped jaw, inspected you. "Red is your color, Y/N. OMG," Garcia continued to gush as Prentiss nodded enthusiastically in agreement. "It complements your eyes so well."

Rossi, putting the final touches and colorful seasoning on his pasta, caught your entrance. "I might just have to call my ex-wife again," he ribbed, suggestively raising his eyebrows over to the rest of the team.

Vera's eye only glossed over you now, redirecting her undivided attention to Hotch as she eagerly patted the empty chair she reserved for Hotch. Politely, Hotch obliged, slipping into the chair just a few inches away from her.

"This smells so good," JJ appreciated, taking notice of the invigorating fumes of rosemary and oregano that dissipated throughout the dining room.

Everyone dug into their plates, passing around bowls and sharing laughs. You were glad you didn't pass up on the offer just because of your car troubles. It was refreshing to see the team without being reminded of all the sociopaths and evil in the world.

You take a gander to the opposite end of the table, reading Hotch's body language. There was an unspoken rule among the team to avoid profiling each other, and you had firmly stuck to the rule. But, when you looked over at Hotch, you couldn't help but notice all his little idiosyncrasies.

You could tell from the way Hotch ate with his elbows off the table, sitting up like there was a ruler lodged in his back, and how he made pleasant, light-hearted conversation like it was second nature that his boarding school days were not lost on him.

Hotch had never made much of a show of his past, only rarely bringing up his family when he found it absolutely necessary — which to your memory had been slim. In fact, any mention of his childhood had quickly turned to a change in the conversation or a quick, blunt answer to appease the team's prying eyes.

Throughout the dinner, as you all gorged down on the creamy pasta and downed glasses of wine under the chandelier with Rossi at the head of the table, you seemed to forget the relentless pressures of your job: the mugshots and crime scene photos, the interrogations, and the rancid smell of meeting with the mortician.

"How's the pasta, kid? Less spicy enough this time?" Rossi wisecracks, nodding off to Reid who carefully maneuvered his fork to neatly fold the pasta around.

"Actually, did you know that in the 12th century, pasta was notably sweet not savory. According to Al Idrisi, Sicilians made a sweet pasta called ithriyah flavored with sweet sauces like honey and cinnamon, but, yes to answer your question, this tastes amazing," Reid replied, taking a sip of his water.

"That mind of yours is killing me," Rossi deadpanned.

Garcia turned to Vera, who had been sitting silently at the end of the table unable to follow the team's inside jokes and conversation. "Vera, how has Quantico been so far? You should go check out this new Cat Cafe I saw on Main Street."