Crying Lighting (Hotch x Reader)// ✔

11. A Burning Hill

Summary:

On an another undercover mission with Agent Hotchner, your mind is somewhere else - your husband, Nathan.
And yet, the man beside you has a gravitational pull you cannot seem to fight.

Notes:

hey all!
TW: spice? idk mature content basically and yes since nobody asked for it here it is - 😇

writing ~spice makes me go through an existential crisis lmao as im painfully aware of my limitations with English
 I leave you with some mild spice!

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"We should match our stories" you say – not bearing the silence in the car anymore. Not only because he'd been adamant in keeping you out of the loop for the rest of the day – updating his team, giving them directions, even future plans after he'd dropped you off at your house just to head back to the police department – but also because you can't stand drowning in your own thoughts, and nightmares.

Facing Roger after such a long time had pierced unhealed wounds, drawing blood – leaving you unbearably vulnerable for the first time since your father had been imprisoned. You're thrown into the deep end of the well – unwillingly recalling the painful beginnings with Nathan.

--

"I'm Nathan. What did you say your name was?" he cocks an eyebrow, looking you up and down again with a brazen smile.

"I didn't" you huff out. Great – another one of these cocky young men, ready to shake his tail and flaunt his feathers.

"I never introduced myself. And you're here for another thing entirely, so why don't you just pay attention to the gala."

Unlike the others, he doesn't scour away from your rude reaction. He nods, leaning with his back against the wall. He does as you suggest – keeping quiet and watching the dance performance unfolding before you both. It's a mixture of something contemporary with a mockery or criticism of the classical – that's what Carol had said earlier this evening when she'd handed you the pamphlet and urged you to join. And you'd strained your neck, looking up and around to where she might be. When you couldn't find her , you'd given up, standing in one spot in the big room – before a performance started to happen, trapping you into this very corner until it finishes.

"That dancer is seriously looking at his partner's cleavage"

The comment draws a chuckle out of you – one that you have to stifle with a hand over your mouth. And it is true – it's what you've been fixating on for the past 20 minutes – the male dancer, wearing black tights and a loose shirt, keeps looking down the outfit of the other dancer, whenever he twirls around.

"I mean, I would too" you let out, and this time he chuckles, not even bothering to hide it. The sound of his laugh makes a few people glare your way and others hush you both.

You pay attention to him at last – standing tall in aquamarine jacket and grey slacks, looking expensive and like he'd been curated instead of dressed – he has a messy head of black hair, and a smile that takes up his whole face.

You punch lightly his elbow, forcing him to compose himself – it's what you say in a whisper as well.

--

You feel nausea rising up your throat, and you hug your stomach tight, silently making a pact with the contents of your stomach to stay put. Pressing on the button over the door, you open the car window a sliver, enough so that air can enter the tight space of the car.