Headspace ▪︎ a•hotchner|oc

Two.

   You hoped the bruises, fat lip, and tiny laceration right below said fat lip would be a lot more healed by today than it is. The bruise on your cheek is a lot less noticeable than when you woke up with it following your rendezvous with Agent Hotchner and it can be covered with concealer. Your lip, however, sticks out like a sore thumb, and the texture of the cut makes hiding it almost impossible. Despite all these imperfections, and what he is surely to think of you, you finish applying your makeup, comb your fingers through your hair as you step into your red-bottom heels, and take one final look in the mirror. You touch the wound below your swollen lip, blinking and flashing back to the last, hardest slap, the one that probably caused the lac, and you smile. You can almost feel the pain, the sting, the fury. Your favorite black dress hugs your curves in all the right places, accentuating your favorite assets. Taking a deep breath, you collect your purse and car keys and head out the door.

"I'm a stock broker," he says, brandishing a set of artificially whitened teeth. Why did you agree to this? When has a blind date ever gone well for anyone?

"Really?" If impressing you is his intention, he's failing miserably. "That must be interesting."

"Yeah, it really is," he nods, still grinning.

You'd rather be in a dentist's chair. But as you're taking in his styled blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, expensive suit, you begin to wonder if your distinct hatred for him has less to do with his profession and more to do with the man you insist on opening the door for. Could it be what he's doing to you now, what you're allowing him to do - what you goddamn love for him to do - is shattering your opinion and feelings toward other men? The broker laughs at some joke he's just made, and you try to imagine him pushing every single one of your buttons, driving you to the very edge of sanity before tossing you aside until next time. Would you hang on every word of this man's voice? Do you see yourself begging him to fuck you and meaning it?

"What do you do?" He interrupts your thoughts.

You return your attention to the man you now have absolutely no intention of contacting ever again. "I'm an investigator," you reply.

"Okay ..." he nods, unimpressed. "What do you investigate?" He sips at his drink, glancing at the legs of a passing waitress.

You narrow your eyes at this sorry excuse for a man, letting out a deep breath as you do so. The tips of your fingers touch the bottom of your wine glass, moving it just a bit this way and that.

"Crashes," you reply, your own eyes wandering throughout the bar, searching for someone more interesting, though you know perfectly well you won't find anyone. You won't find anyone, and you'll simply go home and hope for a knock at the door in the middle of the night, because you are nothing if not predictable.

But ... wait ...

Your brows knit together, heart thumping just a little harder, a little quicker. Surely you're not hallucinating now - that would be terribly inconvenient. But you swear you saw him, him, tucked away at a table on the opposite side of the bar, glaring at you, at your date. Your mouth dries, you take a gulp of your wine, which turns out not to be enough, and so you down the rest of it, thumbing a stray dribble at the corner of your mouth.

"What kind of crashes?" the stock broker asks. He sounds miles away. "Are you alright?"

It is him. Your eyes have surrendered to his from across the room, never broken by the crowd between you, and your breath is gone, and your stomach is on the floor. Why is he here? How did he know you would be here?

The stock broker says your name, and the way he says it makes your blood boil. It's not like when Aaron says it. It's not like when Agent Hotchner says it. But why does that matter? Whatever it is you have going on with Aaron surely won't last forever, so why do you keep coming back to him? Why do you continue to compare every single man in your life - or ones who want to come into your life - to a man who has no interest in being in your life, only between your legs? Is it the insanity you suspect is scrambling your brains? Insanity that started not too long ago with an invitation to a Halloween party followed by an entire night filled with screams, moans, and whispered names. When it was finished, you were both covered in sweat, hair soaked, and you looked at one another like neither of you could believe what you'd just done. Eventually, you spoke, saying ...