Stubborn Games (Aaron Hotchner x Reader)

one: pawn and the player

Contrary to popular belief, the idea of change, of moving particles and metamorphosis, was not a particularly divine one, nor was it the profound presumption that it was daunting.

In fact, in politics, change was a necessity — a necessity you had quickly gotten used to working on Capitol Hill. It was only natural that the particulars of life would run their course and would need to find a new set of tracks before rushing headfirst into the humdrum abyss of boringness.

At least, this is what you had to keep reminding yourself once your campaign for Congress came faltering down after a personal incident of yours became sorely public. You had to keep reminding yourself that change was inevitable, that all of this was just the natural course life took.

However, despite the reassurance, you knew your public image was faulty at best. It had been four weeks, two days, and four hours (not that you were counting) since the media had plastered your name on every major media outlet as a headline, bringing your campaign to an abrupt crash and burn.

But you knew exactly how to win it back.

"Good morning Agent Hotchner, my name is —."

"I know who you are," Hotch cuts you off, eyes never straying from the paperwork scattered over his desk except to give you a quick once-over. The nib of his pen palpably digs deeper into the paper as you step closer.

"Then you're aware that I'm here to work with the BAU for the rest of the year. I'm here to reform the BAU's political image, help the Bureau oversee its assets."

"No." His tone is resolute. Sturdy and unwilling. He's made up of his mind, and while you can tell he's a man of few words, every word he does utter is deliberate, refined. "That's not happening."

"Good thing I'm not asking," you counter, closing the door behind you as you take a seat in front of him, shifting your shoulders in contempt.

"I've heard about you." He stands up, knuckles pressed firmly against his desk. His eyes, adorned with the weariness of late nights, bore into you, and like an intangible cord strung between the two of you, you don't break it. "The BAU is not going to be a pawn in your political game. Just because you need to pander for votes doesn't mean you need to interfere with the workings of my team. I am perfectly capable of managing this team. The last thing I need is a naive, selfish politician messing up the way I run things."

His words sting, searing into the air like strikes to a match. Naive. Selfish. But the lack of discernible reaction on your face indicates otherwise. You wouldn't fuel his pride.

"If this is in regards to my recent campaign blunder, I can assure you my personal life will not interfere with my work with the BAU."

"Frankly," he begins coldly, frosting over the conversation bitterly. "I could care less about what you do outside of my office. But this is my team, and I'm not letting you join."

"Frankly," you say, mocking him and reflecting his aloof demeanor. "I could care less about what you think of my career. The Bureau signed off on my presence on your team until the end of the next campaign year. Get used to seeing me."

His eyebrows shift in contemplation, fingers rubbing meticulously against each other. There's something in the way his face drops, his stoic visage faltering for a split second as he profiles you, that he knows you're just as stubborn as him. A fact he does not take lightly.

"What exactly are your intentions here, Y/N?" he questions. "What does the BAU have to do with your campaign?"

"Aren't you the profiler, Agent Hotchner? Enlighten me as to why you think I'm here. I'd love to hear what one of the best profilers can deduce about what, as you described, 'a naive, selfish politician messing up the way you run things' is doing at the BAU."