rosalind taylor. 31. former psychiatrist. newly employed fbi profiler with the quantico, virginia behavioral analysis unit. also not human.
aaron hotchner. 44. widower and father. unit chief of the quantico, virginia behavorial analysis unit. is a...
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iii. "ripped a hole in my favorite shirt though."
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6 months later
rosalindstared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. her blonde hair was pulled back into an intricate updo at the nape of her neck. red lipstick adorned her fair face and complimented the black blouse she was wearing. people could say whatever they wanted about rosalind but one thing they couldn't say was that she was never put together, professional, clean, and perfectly dressed every single day.
she took a deep breath in and gripped the sides of the counter. the past few days she had been fighting off migraine after migraine from a newfound wave of sounds from angel radio. they had been chattering in loud enochian but rosalind didn't care enough to pay attention to what they were saying. she knew she was hidden and she was hidden well.
she pushed herself off of the counter and out of the bathroom, stepping back out into the loud police station they were currently working at.
"taylor!" aaron called from the table they were working at.
"coming!" she called back. she did one of those awkward run-walk things and came up to the table. she stood next to aaron and looked over his shoulder at what he was pointing at.
"garcia tracked two men named ryan nelson in the area. one of them lives only two blocks from the dumping site but the other lives closer to the four victims. we're going to split up and check out both homes. taylor, reid, the sheriff, and i will check the first house. morgan, prentiss, jj, and dave check the second. got it?"
the team responded in a chorus of "got it" and got together in their teams. rosalind slid the heavy bulletproof vest over her head and snapped it together over her shirt.
her eyes wandered over to aaron who was doing the same as her. he had been wearing one of his rare short-sleeved shirts and throughout the day, rosalind would find herself watching his muscles flex and veins pop.
she brought herself back to reality and placed her gun in the holster on the side of her pants. now it was aaron's turn to stare at rosalind. it was the damn pants she was wearing. she would bend over and no matter how hard he tried, he would find himself sneaking glances.
the two had been dancing around each other for at least a month now. they would share looks that would tell what the other was thinking immediately. aaron would place big responsibilities on her that he wouldn't anyone else on the team because he trusted her and knew she wouldn't fail. there were light touches all the time: knees brushing against the other when they sat next to each other in cars, rosalind letting her head fall onto his shoulder when she was tired on the way home, backs pressed against each other when entering a dangerous situation. both were incredibly worried and a little scared about the weird romantic tension building between the two of them. it was an unspoken rule in the fbi that agents shouldn't date or hook up.
