Against Protocol (Aaron Hotchner X Reader)

chapter nine: checkmate

"You're late." Hotch's low-pitched, resonant voice bounces off every crevice of the room, suffocating you in his steady, disapproving tone as you stumble into the briefing room.

He doesn't waste his time picking up his head from the case file he's studying, and the rest of the team frantically searches for places to avert their eyes to in hopes of sparing you the embarrassment.

Your mascara is slightly smudged like the blotted ink of a newspaper across your lower lash line, and the collared shirt you threw on is buttoned up askew. Every step is an uncaffeinated mess resulting from miscommunication between you and your alarm clock, and you were already severely paying for it.

You take a seat, tripping up on the chair's legs while trying to recover from the uproar you caused at 5:30 in the morning right before a case.

"Yes, sorry, sir. My alarm, it didn't go off," you mutter, stumbling over the words as your pounding heartbeat rings in your ears.

"See me in my office after this," he bluntly retorts, closing his folder as a signal for JJ to continue the briefing you had halfway interrupted.

You stare back at his stoic face and wonder if this is the same Aaron Hotchner you were with in Charleston that night.

JJ continues, slightly offbeat in her presentation after noticing your scurried entrance. Her voice trails off into the distance about the murders, but you're too entirely focused on the way Hotch's hand cusps around his hip, pulling back the end of his suit.

Before you even realize the briefing is over, the team is halfway out the door prepping for the departure. It was a gruesome case up in New York: a family annihilator in a small town upstate, and JJ seemed to be taking it the hardest.

But before you have the chance to go prep your go-bag and get your papers in order, you're forced to trudge behind Hotch rather reluctantly to his office. His stride is pressured, you notice, and it was too early in the morning to be reprimanded.

Every glance at each other had been a confusing concoction of tension and attraction, like heart and head at undefying odds.

He closes the door behind you, dropping the folders on his desk which carried a slight breeze across the office. He sits at the ledge of his desk, positioning himself to remind you he was in charge.

"You caused quite a scene this morning," he utters, tapping his fingers sturdily against the grain of the wood. He's not too keen on looking you in the eye, carefully studying the misplaced button of your blouse.

"I know. I know," you hurriedly apologize, the words trickling off your tongue. "I didn't mean to. It's just, I've had a rough week with my car being in the shop, so I've been taking the metro. And my stupid alarm," you breathe out.

He doesn't answer, prompting you to continue running your mouth. "I'm sorry. I know. I messed up."

"How sorry are you?" he asks, his voice falling down deeper. Every consonant is sturdy, disciplined. He gets up, circling you in the chair, and his shadow from his desk lamps fractures over your bare knees. "Enough to make it up to me?"

"And how would I do that?" you innocently tease, noticing how the dark part of his eyes is consumed by hunger.

"You've always been creative, Y/N. It's one of the many things I admire about you," Hotch begins, tilting his head to get a better angle of his admiration. "I'm sure you can figure out a way to make it up to me."

He goes to the door, locking it as he waits for your response. Even without his hands travelling across your body, he still manages to control every expression and motion inches away.