𝘉𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘋𝘚𝘐𝘋𝘌𝘋 | 𝘈.𝘏. ✔️

• Twenty One

Chapter Twenty One: I Want All The Tears Back That I Cried

Opening the house door, it is pitch black but you know someone is in your presence. You gently close the door behind you, shifting your attention to the dark silhouette sitting in a kitchen chair, a glass in front of them. There was impeccable authority that came with how Hotch carried himself and you couldn't help but stand by the door in fear of moving. You allowed your head the rest against the mahogany wood with a thud.

Something is placed on the kitchen island, presumably a bottle of fine scotch or whisky. You bite the inside of your cheek— something that occurs way to often as you run your tongue over the imprints made in your mouth. 

"I didn't expect you to be home," you whispered. You knew he would be home, but you didn't know what else to say.

"I could say the same for you," he says gruffly while he swirls the bitter liquid in his mouth. "I told you that you shouldn't be doing this anymore."

You take in his tone, the demand and disappointment laced inside of his words. Still too scared to move, you slid your back down the door until you hit the bottom.

"I learned what Axel did to her you know? It took some time but I did it," you explain. "You were wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"You were wrong about the fact it wouldn't bring me closure but it did in a way. Knowing what he did to her made me feel lucky."

"Tate was moved into foster care," Hotch murmured, "Just for now, until we can find her a permanent home and deem Axel unfit."

You sucked in a breath, already feeling unsteady. "She went into a corrupt system, I don't know which is worse— them or Axel."

You looked over at the man, taking in the open dress shirt untucked from his slacks. The air was thick and suffocating but you pushed through it, opting to run your hands against your pants to ease the feeling. Slowly, you pushed off the floor, sliding off your shoes along the way, and walk over to him. You stood on the other side of the island, hands braced on the marble countertop while your head hung low.

"You can't compare the two," he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah," you scoffed in disbelief, going to grip the bottle of liquor in front of him. There was another glass near, you picked that up as well. "It just isn't fair."

Hotch watches you quietly, attempting to make out your actions. You didn't drink unless under extreme stress because you knew what it did to your father. Drinking on occasion was the equivalent to a habit— that's the only way you could see it, though you knew it wasn't true.

"It won't ever be, you know that Y/N. I tried to talk Strauss and the board out of foster care but I couldn't, the law still withstands." Hotch explains darkly.

You chuckle dryly, pouring the amber liquid into the glass. Deep down your heart was beating so quickly you thought it would fall out of your chest. Shakily, you grip the glass— bringing it to your lips and taking a sip. Tonight reminded you of your first night here, nervous and on edge— aware, yet blindsided.

"I don't understand, Aaron," you gulp, "You don't want me on this case but you tell me about Tate?"

"I tell you what I want you to know," he admits. The clock ticks in the background as a distraction for your brain.

"And that's where you're wrong," you say, "You don't get to pick what you protect me from."

"I don't follow," he says, leaning back on the chair.