CHAPTER THIRTEEN: WOMAN WANTS TO BE IN LOVE BUT ALSO YIKES

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"ASSAILANT AT EDENHURST! Requesting immediate backup!"

Crouched behind the protective barrier, the staccato rhythm of gunfire echoed around Beatrice. Two bullets found their mark, grazing the corner of her refuge. Clutching her weapon tightly, she returned fire with precision. In the brief respite, she seized a speed loader from her pocket, seamlessly reloading her revolver. Strands of hair clung to her lips, and she blew them away, pressing her head against the reassuring solidity of the wall. Her heart raced as the chaos unfolded around her.

Her team leader's voice crackled through her earpiece. "Sterling! Where's Morgan and O'Mara? Are they with you?"

"Morgan's unconscious and O'Mara's. . . missing."

"Wait for backup. Do not confront him alone."

"I'm trying my best, but this guy's out for blood here."

"Ster. . . ling. . ."

A sudden hush enveloped the scene, the crackling static replacing the once urgent voices on their comms. Beatrice stood frozen, every nerve on edge. Gradually easing from behind cover, she pivoted, scanning for any sign of the attacker. A cautious retreat led her to the kitchen, where blood streaked across the floor, a morbid trail suggesting a recent struggle. A chilling sight then met her eyes—The Eye of Providence drawn in blood at the backdoor, the Reaper's signature.

Maintaining her guard, she stepped outside, only to be met with the sight of O'Mara's body sprawled on the ground. Kneeling beside him, she pressed two fingers to his neck, desperately seeking a pulse. A heavy heart sank further as she found nothing.

No wonder O'Mara wasn't around when Morgan was attacked—he was already dead.

Suddenly, a visceral awareness gripped Beatrice as a looming presence materialized behind her. Reacting on instinct, she instinctively moved to her left, narrowly avoiding the deadly arc of the unsub's knife where her neck had just been.

Seizing the moment, she grasped the assailant's arm, leveraging their shared momentum to spin around on her right foot with his back against hers and flip the assailant over her shoulder. Without hesitation, she transitioned into a headlock, her arm cinching around her attacker's neck.

Yet, the Reaper was no novice; he twisted within her grasp and in a sudden burst of strength, he managed to break free, fleeing through the front door. Without hesitation, she pursued the serial killer through the dimly lit alleyways. The chase led them to a bus stop, where the unsub managed to slip inside a waiting bus. Beatrice, arriving just moments too late, watched helplessly as the doors closed behind him, the vehicle pulling away into the darkness.

City lights flickered, casting shadows on her frustrated expression. Cursing under her breath, the agent felt the aftermath of the struggle etched into her muscles. As she retraced her steps, a sharp sting on her upper arm caught her attention. Wincing, she discovered a blot of blood staining her sweater, a tear in both fabric and skin—yet only a flesh wound, minor. Adrenaline had masked the pain until now. Closing her eyes, Beatrice pressed her hand over the open flesh, halting the bleeding. Despite the pain, she continued her journey back to the house.

The analyst reassured herself; it seemed nothing serious, just another mark to join the fading scars on her back from previous knife encounters.

Her communication device crackled to life, and Hotchner's voice, thick with frustration, echoed through her earpiece. "Sterling, where in the world are you?"

"Eight blocks north," exhaled the blonde, her breath carrying the weight of the night. "I'm heading back—ah, damn."

"What happened?"

She winced, raising her arm to inspect the wound once more, blood seeping through and staining her fingertips, a vivid contrast against her pants. "Got slashed earlier. Nothing major. I can walk my way—"

"You stay right where you are, Beatrice. We'll get you."

As the comms went silent, a soft sigh escaped her lips. Beatrice, ever resolute, dismissed the idea of seeking help, deeming it unnecessary when her own two feet could still carry her. Defying the advice given, she continued her gradual journey back to the house. The look in his eyes differed from any she had encountered before—it terrified her that she felt a wave of regret instantly swept over her.

"What part of "stay where you are" did you not understand?" Hotch's voice rang out in frustration, his approaching footsteps emphasizing his displeasure. Beatrice nonchalantly shrugged, her eyes briefly flickering towards the paramedic advancing, guiding her toward the back of the ambulance. "You didn't need to come, Hotch. And with paramedics. It's just a flesh wound."

"You disobeyed a direct order."

The female medic, clad in gloves, inquired, "Ma'am, on a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your pain?" as she retrieved supplies from her first aid kit.

"Zero stars. Would not recommend," deadpanned Beatrice.

"This isn't the time for jokes," Hotch chided, arms crossed in evident concern.

Feeling the weight of his worry, the woman rolled her eyes and retorted, "What do you want me to do then? Cry?"

"Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to stay calm for me, okay? I'm going to clean the wound now. This might hurt."

A sweet smile adorned Beatrice's face as she assured, "I am calm." However, her facade quickly crumbled when the disinfectant made contact with her skin. "Okay, ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Okay, that actually hurt," she hissed, the sharp sting provoking a genuine reaction. It had been four years since the last time she endured the searing pain of a knife wound, and the unwelcome sensation stirred a familiar discomfort she had hoped to leave behind.

"I am going to assess your back for any other injuries, ma'am," the paramedic informed, concluding the wrapping of her wound with a careful touch of gauze.

Beatrice hesitated for a moment, a twinge of discomfort surfacing. Her back bore the scars of her harrowing experiences in Iraq and whenever her gaze fell upon them, insecurity clouded her thoughts. Most women could confidently bare their skin on beaches, but she chose shirts and rash guards to mask her back scars. "Oh, no, there is no need for that. I'm good. Thanks," she refused, nodding before the paramedic turned to Hotchner, who gave a confirming nod as well. The paramedic excused herself, providing a discreet moment for the two agents to converse.

"Now, explain to me why the hell did you pursue him alone?" confronted her leader. "Are you insane?"

Bea met his gaze squarely. "You would've done the same thing, sir," she retorted. "I saw an opportunity to apprehend the unsub. I took it. It was a calculated risk."

"No, it's stupidity," he stated, glaring at her. "I explicitly instructed you to wait for backup. Instead, you recklessly endangered yourself."

"Let me ask you this question then: would you have waited for backup? Would you have just stood there when he murdered a police officer and aimed a gun at one of your colleagues?" Beatrice rose to her feet, albeit weakly. She despised the way he undermined her decisions, even though she knew she had made the right call. She had acted in the best interest of her team, and she was determined to defend that choice. In her mind, the connection she and Reid drew between the Reaper and a wolf held merit. Wolves, inherently afraid of humans due to centuries of persecution, reflected the essence of their adversary.

"You're officially off the case."

"Hotch!"

"My decision is final," he declared, a verdict leaving her with no room for further contention. "I want you out."

She parted her lips, eager to plead her case, but he preemptively silenced her. "I don't trust you enough to work with us in this case, Agent Sterling. Right now, you're a liability. A reckless liability."

A lump lodged in Beatrice's throat, resisting her attempts to swallow it down. Hotch's words cut through her like a sharp blade, leaving her feeling exposed and wounded. What happened to the sentiment that he couldn't imagine doing his job without her?

The card Strauss had given her, a tempting trump card, remained hidden up her sleeve. Yet, she refused to stoop to such levels. If Hotch didn't want to collaborate on the case, she wouldn't force it. Attempting to quell her anger, she delivered a punch to his shoulder with her good arm. He staggered back, caught off guard, and she began to distance herself until he spoke again.

"Gun." He extended his hand.

Reluctantly, she withdrew her gun from its holster, handing it over with simmering resentment. Without a backward glance, she walked away, "You're an ass, Aaron."

IT RAINED CATS and dogs.

And Beatrice forgot to bring an umbrella.

Her trusty car (she ought to buy herself a new one) was currently under repair yet again. Juggling two bags of groceries, she trudged through the relentless rain, a block away from the warmth of her apartment.

Her pink sweater clung to her shivering form and no hoodie shielded her from the relentless rain, and the clock just marked half-past nine.

"Oh, this is just great," grumbled the woman as raindrops adorned her face and soaked her to the bone. An itch of annoyance surfaced, mirrored in the relentless drumming of the rain on the city streets.

While Beatrice usually found solace in the rain, at this very moment, her affection waned. The downpour had soaked her completely, and the paper bags clung desperately to their structural integrity, on the brink of surrendering their contents to the deluge. Her once neatly styled hair, now damp and dripping, resembled yellow seaweeds framing her face in disarray. The only thing she was grateful about was that she had opted for contact lenses instead of her glasses, avoiding the hassle of dealing with steam on the lenses. Though it didn't help that she felt like a forsaken protagonist in a melancholic scene, abandoned by a lover amidst the relentless rain.

Strolling past a quaint coffee shop, Beatrice's attention snagged on a familiar black vehicle decelerating at the periphery of her vision. Whipping her head around, she frowned upon recognizing the figure behind the wheel.

"Sterling? Is that you?"

Perhaps, the universe loved playing jokes with her because again, she found herself once again crossing paths with the ever-insufferable unit chief from the BAU.

What is it with him always finding her at her most inconvenient moments?

Still nursing the irritation from their last exchange, the mere sight of his face reignited the surge of displeasure within her. Lingering hurt from the words he had casually spilled lingered, though she claimed to be over it. Holding grudges weren't her style, yet the persistent annoyance with him lingered like an unwelcome companion.

"Leave me alone," she muttered under her breath. "No! I'm not Beatrice Sterling!"

Actually, upon returning to the office, Beatrice wasted no time in penning a resignation letter, a proclamation of her departure submitted personally to the HR department, her unit chief, and her section chief. Determined to avoid any persuasions to stay, she shrouded the submission, leaving her farewell to be announced only after the resignation was processed. Her sights were set on a plan — track down Adam, bring him to justice, and subsequently apply to the CIA. It was a good plan.

"I never mentioned your first name," observed the man in a suit within the cocooned comfort of his car. "I know it's you, Sterling. Get in; I'll take you home."

The analyst closed her eyes, berating herself mentally for a moment of carelessness. "No, thank you. I just live over the—" Her words were abruptly silenced by the tear of her paper bag and cans cascaded to the unforgiving concrete, some rolling away, others finding a new home at her feet. Defeat settled within her as she sighed, "Oh, this is really just great, yeah."

Beatrice gracefully descended to ground level, retrieving each scattered canned goods one by one, stacking them precariously on one side of arm. The carton of milk decided to drop to the ground, prompting a groan from her as she reached out, only to find another hand retrieving it for her.

"You need help?"

The rhythmic tap of raindrops ceased on her head, replaced by the shelter of a black umbrella. A begrudging glance upward revealed Hotch, his question hanging in the damp air. Her glare met Hotch's gaze, and she responded with a firm, "Nope."

Fingers tightening around the carton, Beatrice snatched it from his hand, determined to handle the situation on her own. Her grip on the last remnant of her groceries— a pack of chocolates and candies intensified as she slowly rose from her position. Within three small steps, however, her triumph became short-lived. The pack of chopped vegetables surrendered to gravity, then another canned good followed suit. A growl of vexation escaped her lips.

"Can't you just say you need help?"

"Nope."

A relentless cascade ensued, groceries tumbling one after another, until Hotchner, unfazed by her reluctance, knelt to the ground, retrieving the fallen items. A tight-lipped acknowledgment escaped her as he offered them to her, choosing to avoid eye contact. "You can put that on top of it here. Thank you."

Huffing out a sigh, the analyst forged ahead, her steps echoing against the rain-soaked pavement. A perplexed furrow etched her brow as she noticed Hotchner shadowing her, his umbrella providing them refuge from the downpour. "What are you doing?"

"I'm coming with you so you don't recklessly endanger others with your decision to carry all that alone."

Beatrice scowled. "You know what, if you're not going to say anything nice, just leave me alone. Don't you have anyone else to annoy today?"

"Nope."

Her glare intensified, but he remained unfazed, eyes fixed straight ahead.

The blonde sighed, rolling her eyes. "How on earth did you even spot me here?"

"I live just down the street. I caught you passing by when I hit the stoplight back there."

A note of dismay colored the blonde's voice. "We live near each other? That's just great. I should prepare for more chance encounters with you then, I guess." she commented, adjusting her grip on her groceries. Her curiosity piqued, she then inquired about the whereabouts of his car. "Hey, what happened to your car?"

"Parked it in front of the coffee shop. I'll swing by to pick it up after I've escorted you home."

Beatrice asserted, "You don't have to walk me home, Hotch. We're no longer colleagues. I submitted my resignation yesterday morning."

"It got rejected."

"That's illegal."

"Did you honestly think your uncle would let you go just like that?"

Indignant, she argued, "But I gave it to you, to Strauss, and the HR department. He shouldn't have control over that."

"As of today, you're officially on leave."

She released a frustrated breath, coming to a halt in front of her apartment building. "I adore my uncle, but sometimes he becomes this overbearing force, practically a borderline helicopter parent."

A subtle smile graced Hotchner's lips.

She gestured toward her residence. "So, here we are." Puckering her lips, she hesitated, eyes dropping to the ground as she pondered a decision. "How about coming in for coffee? I'll brew you a cup."

He started to decline her invitation, but she cut in, her tone insistent. "I insist. . . please."

The unit chief hesitated briefly before reluctantly agreeing to join her. As they approached her apartment, Beatrice mulled over whether to ask her boss for help with the groceries. Just as she was about to make the request, her gaze instinctively flicked upward to the small piece of clear plastic tape at the top of the door and its frame. It hung loosely, torn, a telltale sign that someone had entered her home in her absence. Turning to her former boss, she whispered, "Hotch. . . someone opened my door." She raised her eyes, ensuring he saw the ripped tape above.

He shot a quick glance at her and the door, swiftly positioning himself in front of her, hand on his holstered glock. "Stay here."

She observed attentively as he gently opened the door, cautiously inspecting her apartment. Leaning against the door frame, her mind raced with unsettling thoughts. Did Adam find her already? Before her thoughts could spiral further, Hotch emerged from her apartment, "It's clear. No one's inside."

She trailed behind Hotch as he inspected her home, noting the tight purse of his lips and the calculating gears turning in his mind. His right hand rested on his hip, silently conducting his investigation into the break-in. Beatrice set her groceries on the table and proceeded to her room, meticulously checking each of her cabinets. Her safe was secure, jewelry untouched, clothes and lingerie in place—nothing was missing.

Beatrice then counted her shoes and her head tilted to the side as she noticed her running shoes were missing. She began to rummage through her shoe rack, a sense of unease settling in as she questioned whether she had simply misplaced them.

Marching back to her living room, she heard her former boss' voice. "What's wrong, Sterling?"

The sound pulled her attention, and she hesitated as she noticed her office room ajar. A lump formed in her throat as she swallowed, her gaze fixed on the blue curtain that supposedly concealed the collage of names, photos, newspaper clippings, and sticky notes that adorned the wall like a scattered mosaic. The curtain was pulled aside, revealing Hotchner standing before the exposed evidence, seemingly scrutinizing each detail.

Bea's emotions swirled as she confronted the intrusion into her office. Hotchner examining her evidence wall right there left her feeling exposed, as if her secrets were laid bare for scrutiny.

Pictures of her BAU unit were included on the evidence wall, accompanied by two notes pinned haphazardly: Will I be really safe? and I must protect them.

Entering the room, she stammered, "Sir, I can explain. . ."

"Did you lose anything?"

"What?"

Hotch glanced at her, seemingly unfazed by the photos on her wall. Wasn't he going to question her about them?

"Uh, my shoes." Setting aside her thoughts, she returned to her bedroom, checking once again under her bed and chair. "One of my shoes is missing."

"Are you sure?"

The blonde sprinted to inspect beneath her couches, finding nothing. There was no trace of her shoes. She hadn't gone jogging today, so where could they be and why were they missing? Frustration and nervousness crept over her. "Yeah, this is bad." She brushed her hair back, the uncertainty gnawing at her. "My safe's untouched, but my shoes are gone. I didn't wear them today. I didn't go jogging."

Hotch joined the search in the living room. "What do they look like?"

"White and blue. They're running shoes. I—"

"Were they the ones you wore in Boston?"

A knot tightened in Beatrice's throat, and she swallowed nervously as she paused in her search to face him. "Yes. . ." It was the same pair she had on when she encountered the Reaper two days ago. "Yes, I did."

His jaw clenched.

"Do you think it's him? This is Foyet?" The blonde tugged at the damp ends of her sleeves.

Right, George Foyet was the Reaper. An hour after his escape and her expulsion from the case, the BAU team uncovered Foyet's deception. Garcia's investigation into Foyet's aliases, all registered as computer science substitute teachers, revealed that Amanda Bertram, the eighth victim, had associated with Foyet for only four weeks. George Foyet, the man they were trying to protect, posed as a victim, placing himself at the heart of the investigation, even staging his own attempted murder to divert authorities.

No wonder she couldn't find the prescription because the victim they sought to protect was, in fact, the serial killer himself. The analyst had been in the station with Foyet when the team made the arrest, rescuing Roy Colson from becoming the Reaper's next victim.

However, news of Foyet's escape hit them shortly after returning to Quantico. Beatrice pinched her nose, grappling with the harsh reality that, once again, she had attracted the attention of a dangerous serial killer.

The question lingered in her mind: why had Foyet taken an item from her? The Reaper had already showcased his power, leaving a bullet for Derek. Was this the Reaper's doing, or has the Sin Killer entered the scene?

"Foyet took Morgan's credentials. It's not impossible he broke into your apartment and took your shoes. Are you sure they're not around?"

She nodded.

He pressed further, "Is there an item here that you've noticed is not yours?"

"No," she replied, her worry evident. "Hotch, are we even sure this is the Reaper? It's barely been seventy-two hours since his escape. How did he even know I live here?"

". . . I don't know. I can't answer your question."

The man retrieved his phone from his back pocket, his expression mirroring the concern and fear she had seen the night before when he noticed her injury. This time, however, there was an added layer she couldn't quite decipher. "What time did you leave your house?"

"I left at three in the afternoon. Drove my car to the repair shop, grabbed snacks from a convenience store, and then headed to the grocery."

Hotchner, with a grave expression, declared, "I'm calling this in. You mind if I stay here?"

"Yeah, sure. Make yourself comfortable," she uttered. As he got to work, she absentmindedly ruffled her hair back, releasing a tired sigh. Still drenched, she contemplated the need for a bath to stave off potential illness. "I'm going to take a shower."

He nodded, placing his phone to his ear. "Officer Reeds, Aaron Hotchner. I'd like to. . ."

"STAY WITH ME for a few days."

Beatrice, still damp from the shower, emerged from her bedroom, wrapping a towel around her hair. "No, Hotch. It's okay. I can find a hotel,"

"With the Reaper at large, we can't predict when he'll strike again." Hotchner explained, his arms crossed with concern etched on his face. "You'll be safer with me,"

"No-"

Before she could protest further, Hotch uncrossed his arms, a plea in his eyes. "Stay with me until we figure this out. Please. It's already late in the evening."

Her gaze dropped to the floor as she contemplated the situation. Staying with Hotch did seem safer than a hotel. Besides, it was already eleven in the evening, and the thought of taking a taxi to her uncle's house seemed impractical. Emily lived in Washington, and JJ was with her family. She didn't want to disturb them. Shifting her feet, she reluctantly agreed, "Okay, let me just grab a bag."

As she packed her belongings into the duffel bag, a disquieting realization crept into Beatrice's thoughts. The idea of relying on others, even someone as capable as Hotch, felt suffocating. While she acknowledged that Hotch had no intention of making her feel helpless - evident in his protective stance that night in Las Vegas when a drunken man encroached upon her space — the fear of hollowness resurfaced with Adam's return. It echoed the same emptiness she felt witnessing her father's demise.

Shoving her shoes into a second bag, she reached a decision. She would stay in a hotel. She could protect herself; she didn't need assistance.

With her bags in hand, she confidently declared, "I've changed my mind. I'll stay at a hotel. I don't know what came over me, and I said-"

"At least, let me drive you to the hotel." He nodded, his gaze fixed upon her with an intensity that felt like he was silently profiling her again.

Beatrice pursed her lips as she settled back into his car. Following the police's visit to her apartment for statements and reports, their search for vacant hotel rooms had been futile, consuming almost two hours of her dwindling energy. Fatigue settled in, and all she craved was to uncork the bottle of red wine stowed in her bag and succumb to sleep. Chewing her bottom lip, she kept her focus on the world beyond the windshield before conceding, "One night. Then, I leave. Tomorrow."

"Okay."

Upon entering Hotch's apartment, Beatrice's gaze immediately gravitated towards the table nestled between the kitchen and living room. Neatly stacked papers and folders adorned it, prompting a small smile to curl on her lips. Even in the comfort of his own home, he clung to his work, mirroring her own tendency. The burden of workaholics, forever tethered to their professional responsibilities, even when the refuge of home beckoned.

She set her bags on his couch, taking in the surroundings. Hotch's home resembled a transient hotel room, as if he rarely lingered here. It exuded simplicity and minimalism, in stark contrast to her own space adorned with souvenirs from every joyous chapter of her life. His walls were painted in muted brown hues, a departure from the vibrant yellows that adorned her own.

"Water or coffee?"

She retrieved a bottle, a sly smirk playing on her lips. "Red wine."

"You're really going to drink? At this time?"

"The occasion calls for it."

"I'll join you."

He handed her a glass, and before she knew it, three glasses had already passed through her lips, gradually ushering in a gentle inebriation. Though she remained coherent, the alcohol worked its way into her tense muscles, coaxing them into a state of relaxation. She sought the refuge of wine to temporarily escape the reality of being hunted by two serial killers, yearning for a respite in sleep. Yet, her thoughts persisted like determined ants, refusing to let her slip into the embrace of rest.

"I'm sorry."

Seated on the couch in companionable silence, they sipped their drinks without exchanging words. The tranquility was broken only when Hotch spoke, prompting her to cease pouring another glass.

"I'm sorry."

His companion blinked, genuinely surprised. "For what?"

"For what I made you feel earlier," he confessed. "I don't know exactly what I made you feel, but I know it wasn't good."

"It's okay." she enunciated, her fingertip tapping the side of the glass. "I-I know your intentions are good. I mean, I trust you and our teammates a lot. It's just that. . . things aren't going well for me lately and I'm starting to feel again these things I have wanted to forget ever since," She began, her voice hesitant. "There's this man and I think you know who he is. I mean, the BAU caught him before and—"

"Adam Reagan," concluded the man beside her, rising from the couch. Her eyes followed him, fixed on his hands as they picked up a folder from his table.

"Since that incident in the parking lot, you've become distant, on edge, like you're always expecting something," observed Hotch, a tinge of sadness in his eyes as he described her recent behavior. "So, I looked into it and found out that Adam Reagan had escaped from prison," he confessed, sliding a manila folder across the table. "There's been a string of deaths lately, resembling his work. Virginia State Police suspect a copycat, but I believe otherwise."

The analyst sifted through the contents of the manila folder, encountering a trove of police reports, autopsies, witness statements, crime scene photos, and the BAU's intricate profile of the Sin Killer. Stumbling upon a letter from the state police requesting the BAU's assistance, her breath hitched in her throat.

"This is what you wanted to tell me before, right?" asked the man. "That they've asked us to join the investigation."

Her fingers grazed the fabric of her pants, squeezing her thigh. "I know he's the reason why you doubted Foyet was the one who intruded your home earlier because both of them took items from their victims. So, we can't be sure whether it's either of them or someone else entirely."

"How. . ." the former agent sifted through the papers, realization dawning. "Did you work on this alone?"

"I meant to tell you before Boston,"

"Then, you know. . ."

"That you were reassigned to the BAU because of Reagan, yes,"

"Why?" was the only question she managed to utter. She needed to understand why he had chosen to help her discreetly. Did her uncle order him to do so? She was convinced that apart from Emily and Rossi, the other BAU members were unaware of the danger looming over her life. She just wanted to grasp his motive. "Why are you involved in this? Did my uncle instruct you? Did—"

"Because I couldn't bear to watch that light in your eyes fade away."

She lifted her head.

"I don't want you to face this alone," he whispered, gently cradling her hands. "I want you to trust me, to let me help you. I won't let you feel helpless. Just allow me to be there for you, like you were for me when I needed someone."

Beatrice locked eyes with him, feeling the warmth of his palms against hers. As their fingers intertwined, she couldn't help but notice the size of his hands, how they enveloped hers completely.

"I don't know, Sterling. You make me feel so much," he confessed, a mix of emotions in his gaze. "You annoy me, infuriate me, amaze me, but, above all, you make me happy and I can't stop thinking about you. When I wake up, when I'm about to fall asleep. . . in everything I do, you're there. It's hard for me to put into words what I feel, but it's like there's something missing when you're not by my side. So, let me be there for you, and—"

Whether it was the wine swirling in her head or a surge of boldness, the blonde rose on her toes, softly pressing her pursed lips against his. The kiss lingered for just a heartbeat, but she felt a sudden tension, a stiffness in him the moment their lips met. As if realizing the audacity of her move, she recoiled, creating a distance as if her touch had burned him. His wide-eyed surprise mirrored her own confusion.

Sobering up with a sudden clarity, she exclaimed, "Oh, god! I-I'm so sorry!" Her fingers nervously scratched her neck. "I shouldn't have done that. That was—I am—"

Before she could finish her apology, his arm enveloped her waist, suddenly pulling her close until their chests collided. Every inch of her pressed against him, and a rush of warmth and shivers coursed through her. The living room seemed to heat up, and she couldn't fathom how her body could be both warm and trembling.

"Don't. . . start something you can't finish, Beatrice," he huskily cautioned, his lips tantalizingly close.

"Aaron. . ." She felt the warmth of his breath before he crushed his lips against hers.

Beatrice melted into him. His lips were sure, firmer than before, almost desperate. The heat of his body pressed against hers, the solidity beneath his expensive suit grounding her. Falling fast, she yearned for his scent, losing herself in the closeness where she couldn't distinguish where she ended and he began. Her hands traced down the length of his arm, consumed by the need to explore every inch of him, and she lost herself in the passion of his kiss.

Time slipped away, and she had no idea how long they kissed. When Aaron finally pulled back, their breaths mingling, he rested his forehead against hers. Beatrice savored the rush of air into her lungs, meeting his gaze, the warmth in his eyes beckoned for more. She didn't resist.

His fingers wove through her hair, and as their lips met again, her body seemed to liquefy against his touch. Pulling her closer by her neck, he spun her around, her heart pounding as her knees threatened to collapse from the intensity of his kisses.

The tip of his tongue brushed over her lips, seeking entry. She willingly invited him in.

And the rest was history.

EYES FLUTTERING OPEN, Beatrice was disoriented by the muted morning light that replaced her usual flood of sunshine. Confusion set in as she took in the brown-painted surroundings, bewildered by the absence of her familiar yellow wall. Beneath her, she felt a solid surface gently rising and falling. Moving her head, she was met with the unexpected sight of her former boss peacefully sleeping.

A jolt of shock ran through her as her mouth fell open, and she instinctively checked herself beneath the covers, clad only in a lace camisole and jeans. Scratching her head, she struggled to recall the events of the previous night; she remembered seeking refuge in her ex-boss's house after a break-in at her own home, a glass of red wine, and then. . . nothing. What the hell happened last night?

A memory gap hung over her like a heavy curtain. Beatrice's mouth fell open as she tried to make sense of the situation, her hand instinctively reaching for her slightly bruised-feeling lips. The air hung heavy with unanswered questions, and she couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that something significant had transpired during that gap in her memory.

With her head still nestled on her former boss's chest, Beatrice lifted herself up cautiously, making a silent escape from the bed to avoid disturbing his peaceful slumber. Her gaze lingered on his unexpectedly gentle sleeping face. The contrast struck her - the gentleness of his sleeping face versus the stern demeanor she often witnessed during working hours.

Stealthily making her way to the living room, Beatrice sighed in relief. It was the early hours of the morning, giving her the opportunity to gather her clothes, take a quick bath, and depart before Hotch woke up-assuming he didn't stir earlier. Gathering her scattered clothes, she planned a swift exit, intending to take a calming shower and leave by six to sidestep any potential morning awkwardness.

Dressing in a fresh set of clothes after her shower, Beatrice cast one last glance at Hotch, a subtle smile gracing her red-painted lips at the sight of his continued slumber. Leaving a note by the fridge, she informed him of her departure and the plan to meet at headquarters.

In reality, her agenda involved picking up some paperwork to gradually work on during her leave, all while tirelessly tracking down either Adam or Foyet. Beatrice, accustomed to multitasking, couldn't fathom working on just one task-it felt counterproductive and left her with a sense of purposelessness.

Entering the headquarters, Beatrice couldn't help but miss the familiar click-clack of her heels against the tiled floor. Today, she opted for flats, the silence a departure from the familiar rhythm of her heels. Yet, the change seemed to enhance her aura, transforming her into a blend of grace and sunshine.

The gunmetal glare from the windows cast a radiant glow on her skin as she moved through the office, her gentle face framed by loose strands of hair escaping her bun. Dressed in an olive green sweater, she became a subtle beacon of warmth in the otherwise serious atmosphere. However, it was her smile that stole the spotlight, dazzling across the entire office. Familiar agents greeted her with genuine enthusiasm, some even halting the elevator just to make way for her.

Yet, beneath the surface, her thoughts continued to circle back to the BAU's unit two leader. There was an unspoken tension lingering from the previous night, an elusive thread weaving through her mind. Uncertainty clouded her thoughts, raising questions about what had transpired and whether she was prepared to confront the truth.

"Hold it, please."

Beatrice's hand hovered over the elevator button, freezing at the sound of that familiar voice —the one she'd been trying to avoid all morning.

Aaron Hotchner, in the morning light, appeared almost divine, a presence that held both allure and an intoxicating scent that wrapped around her senses. He drew her attention despite her efforts to keep a distance.

Internally wincing, Bea acknowledged that encountering him was inevitable today. She had secretly hoped to avoid being alone with him, feeling the weight of embarrassment from waking up in the arms of her former boss with a hazy memory of how it happened.

Despite the unease, curiosity prevailed within her. She knew that her inquisitive nature would eventually overcome the awkwardness of this situation.

It always does.

Her foot tapped rapidly on the floor, a clear manifestation of the internal turmoil between curiosity and embarrassment waging war within her mind. Eventually, curiosity emerged victorious. Leaning her head forward, she cautiously approached Hotchner's shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper, "Look, I just want to make sure. Nothing. . . happened, right?"

The elevator momentarily rattled, throwing her off balance. In the unsteady moment, she stumbled, teetering dangerously close to crashing into the wall. In the nick of time, a firm hand seized her arm, preventing an imminent collision with the wall. The abrupt shift in weight sent her sideways, and she found herself crashing into the arms of the man she sought answers from. In that instant, the events of the previous night flooded back, a rush of memory crashing over her like a wave.

So, she did kiss him and boy, was it the best she got in her life.

Yet, the origin of their proximity last night wasn't just the consequence of chance; it stemmed from a night of a bottle of wine, and her reluctance to release him after the first kiss. Like a vine seeking support, she had clung to him throughout the night, burying her head in the crook of his neck, arms wrapped securely around his waist.

Shock reverberated through her as she hastily withdrew from him. "I kissed you, didn't I?"

Shutting her eyes, the analyst vowed silently never to indulge in drinks with him again. God only knows what she might do next to him.

"Do you regret it?"

His probing question caught her off guard, and as she toyed with the ends of her long sleeve, she stammered, "What? I. . . don't know."

As the elevator doors parted, he licked his lips, a subtle yet deliberate motion, and without so much as a glance in her direction, he uttered, "I don't."

With those words, he left her standing there, grappling with the weight of his answer and the uncharted emotions that lingered in the aftermath.

Emerging from the elevator, Bea absentmindedly ruffled her hair, her fingers tangling with the curls that seemed to mirror the tangled mess of her thoughts. Last night's unexpected turn of events was never part of the plan. They were meant to be good friends, nothing more, nothing less. Now, facing him felt like navigating a minefield of awkwardness and unspoken desires. How could she look him in the eye without remembering that kiss?

She berated herself for allowing it all to unfold, her own perceived stupidity becoming a self-inflicted wound. The realization struck hard —Adam Reagan now possessed another vulnerability to exploit: Aaron Hotchner.

Navigating her way into the bullpen, the blonde's thoughts were interrupted by a familiar man with chocolate brown skin, holding two cups of coffee. "Hey, hey, goldilocks. Where are you going?"

Swiftly turning to face the rest of the unit, Beatrice declared, "I'm taking my stuff because I'm on leave for the next two weeks, or at least that's the plan."

Spencer raised an eyebrow, questioning, "On leave? Since when?"

JJ, passing by, quickly skimmed through the documents before closing the file. "Since yesterday. You guys haven't heard?"

"Does that mean we have to pick up the slack?" Emily inquired, concerned.

"No worries. I'll handle my workload remotely," assured the analyst, smirking.

The raven haired woman breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness for that."

Derek chimed in, "Great, 'cause kid's mind has been all over the place since meeting that CD agent two days ago." He handed JJ a cup, nonchalantly shrugging.

"Wait, how did you even. . ."

"I spotted you guys in that coffee shop, getting all flirty. She was totally into you, man. I say, go for it."

"Really?"

"Oh, my god! Reid?" Garcia's voice squeaked from behind them, emerging from Rossi's office and rushing down the stairs. "You need to spill the beans right now. What's her name? Do we know her? How did you guys meet? We need all the juicy details!"

All eyes turned to Spencer, who suddenly looked like a deer caught in headlights, a spotlight shining directly on him. Everyone, herself included, was eager to uncover the identity of his workplace crush.

Spencer, towering over the others, casually slipped his hands into his pockets, his gaze shifting to the floor. A faint blush painted his ears and cheeks and it was such an endearing sight. Clearing his throat, he admitted, "I highly doubt any of you know her," and offered them a small, elusive smile. "And no, I'm not revealing her name."

A chorus of groans and disappointed grunts echoed through the room. "That's unfair," someone protested, followed by a playful accusation, "You suck."

"You're terrible." Beatrice couldn't help but join in the protest, her curiosity piqued but masked by a teasing smile. She then clapped her hands together, a mischievous glint replacing the twinkle of curiosity in her eyes. "So, tomorrow marks the start of the weekend," she declared, a sly grin forming as she rolled her shoulders. Leaning against Derek's desk, she casually addressed the team. In truth, she was just avoiding any encounter with Hotchner in his house tomorrow. She already had a plan on how to evade him tonight.

"Any exciting plans tonight, folks? There's this new casino I have in mind. My treat, of course." She turned to her friend, Emily, with a conspiratorial look. "Emily, my good friend, fancy being my wingwoman? They serve amazing martinis, and I could use some good company."

"Oh, don't tempt me with a good time. I might just ditch the paperwork and join you," Emily responded with a smirk, her interest piqued.

"Your loss, babe. JJ? Pen?"

"Unfortunately, I'm taking a rain check. Will's taking me out to dinner tomorrow."

Derek, ever the joker, teased, "Baby number two on the way?"

"Please, not yet." JJ shot back with a playful retort.

"I'd love to join you, Bee, but Kevin and I have a movie night planned at home. Sorry."

"Spencer?"

"I'm busy tomorrow," he replied, and Morgan couldn't contain his excitement, giving Spencer a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. "My man!"

"No, it's not like that," Spencer clarified.

Beatrice casually shrugged. "Well, this sucks. Looks like I'll be staying home then. Alone."

Two lies at once.

"Hey, what about me? You aren't inviting me?"

Turning her attention to Derek's cluttered desk, she clicked her tongue and decisively slapped her hand down on the top document of the stack. "I'll consider it when you finish your homework, Derek."

"Come on!"

Her laughter filled the air. "Alright, alright. Since I won't be seeing you guys for a while, how about I leave you with a memorable gesture? Drinks on me. What do you think? Cool?"

"Cool," they all chimed in unison.

Spencer's unexpected question drew a playful atmosphere into the room. "But, I have a question," he declared. "Have you ever considered growing your hair, Morgan?"

"I'm about to take that as an offense, pretty boy."

Bea, seizing the opportunity to join the banter, stepped back and formed her hands like a frame, imagining Derek with a head full of hair. "But he's right; I think you'd look good with hair."

Derek frowned, gesturing to his signature shaved head. "Blondie, this. . . is part of the charm. You don't see it?"

Emily, Beatrice, and Spencer exchanged amused glances before turning back to him, all simultaneously answering, "I don't."

Their colleague tossed a paper ball playfully in each of their directions. "Get outta here."

The team erupted into laughter, and Beatrice, taking the playful banter as her cue, smiled and left the room.

"I see it."

"Of course you do, baby girl."

Balancing the cold beverages she'd bought for the team, Beatrice swiftly made her way back to the bullpen. Her hands full, she made her way back to the bullpen, anticipating the camaraderie she had come to cherish. However, as she entered, confusion clouded her expression-she found their workspace deserted.

Her gaze flickered towards the briefing room, and a hypothesis formed; perhaps they had received a new case and were currently engrossed in discussing it. Carrying the refreshments, she approached the room, ready to announce her entry. Yet, just as she neared, her senses were ambushed by the loud voices within, and her eyes widened as she saw her own face displayed on the television, adorned with a large, ominous red watermark.

Morgan and Rossi stood at the forefront, locked in a heated argument.

"Rossi, we deserve to know who she is. We have the right to know who exactly we are working with," asserted Morgan, his frustration evident.

"I know who she is, Morgan. She's a good person."

"That's the problem. You know her, we don't."

The sudden shift in atmosphere felt like a whiplash for the blonde. Just moments ago, they were tossing playful banter, and now, they were embroiled in a serious dispute about her identity.

"God, Morgan, has it ever occurred to you that some people don't appreciate prying into their private matters?" Prentiss countered, her tone edged with frustration.

"Prentiss, I'm just trying to know what she's hiding because it could potentially endanger our whole team. I just want to help her, that's all,"

"If Beatrice kept this from us, there must be a good reason," reasoned JJ, offering a defense.

Beatrice felt a lump form in her throat as the team debated her secrecy. Spencer's eyes locked onto hers, and he called her by name. "Beatrice. . ."

All eyes, including Hotchner's, fixated on Beatrice as she placed the drinks on the round table, a sense of unease settling within her. "What's going on?"

Morgan exchanged significant glances with Rossi before sliding printed documents across the table, bearing the stark title: OPERATION BLACKBIRD.

As she flipped through the pages, her heart quickened as her own dossier from the Defense Intelligence Agency came into view. Her code name, Yellowjacket, was boldly printed beside her real name. The subsequent photos from the operation hung in the air, a silent testament to her clandestine past. She inhaled sharply, recognizing that half of the secrets of her life were now exposed. The cat was out of the bag, and she knew immediately who had orchestrated this revelation.

"Yes, Agent Morgan," she admitted, closing the document with a heavy finality. "I was a former field agent of the DIA. I was a spy and I. . . killed people."

Well played, Adam. Well played.

—————

they kissed. that's it. that's the tweet. THEY FINALLY KISSED.

also, hi, welcome adam into the game/ring. yay.