CHAPTER NINE: MAN NOW TOO EXHAUSTED TO REPRESS BOTH ANGER AND SADNESS

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THE KITCHEN SMELT heavenly.

Beatrice had been looking forward to this small get-together at her uncle's house for weeks. The stressful days at the Behavioral Analysis Unit had taken their toll on her, and she longed for a break.

Glancing at the recipe on her cookbook, she stirred the simmering pot of homemade tomato sauce with a wooden spoon. The tangy scent of garlic and basil mingled in the air, filling the room with an irresistible fragrance that hinted at the delightful flavors to come. Her lips curled into a satisfied smile as she tasted a spoonful, adjusting the seasoning with a thoughtful expression.

With everything coming together like a well-choreographed dance, the blonde cook set the table with care, arranging elegant place settings. As her uncle and his wife entered the kitchen, she greeted them with a warm smile.

As Marjorie gracefully settled Chiara into her arms, her gentle smile warmed Bea's heart. The flickering candlelight cast a soft glow on her aunt-in-law's brown hair, making her seem almost ethereal. She couldn't help but admire the genuine love and care her uncle's wife radiated, not just towards Chiara, but towards both her and her older sister as well.

In their enduring marriage of two decades, Marjorie Astor and Sebastian Sterling had never been blessed with their own child. However, when Olivia and Beatrice became their entrusted responsibility, the couple embraced them wholeheartedly, as if they were their very own. Regardless of the familial ties as nieces, the couple showered the two girls with unwavering love and care, creating a bond that mirrored that of a parent and child.

As they all gathered around the dinner table, the fragrant aroma of the meal filled the air. Marjorie's question about her new position in her work brought Beatrice back to the world beyond the delicious food before her.

"Oh, you know," the analyst replied with a casual shrug, trying to downplay the mounting stress that had been building up inside her. She settled into her chair, her eyes wandering to her plate for a moment before lifting to meet her aunt's kind gaze. "It's been quite a change. The workload is heavy, and I find myself missing my desk and computer at times, auntie."

Sebastian took a contemplative sip of water, the glass cool against his lips before he artfully sliced into his chicken. "It's actually a good thing you're taking a break from your computer, Beatrice," he remarked, his tone carrying a touch of wry humor. "Lord only knows what kind of 'solutions' you come up with when you're under pressure."

The blue eyed's gaze sharpened as she directed a reproachful glare at her uncle. "You guys just can't let that go, can you?"

Her uncle's response was measured, his glasses pushed up slightly as he leaned forward. "I had to pull some strings to cover for you, Beatrice," he reasoned, his tone tinged with a hint of weariness. "The NSA wasn't exactly thrilled that you didn't follow protocol and call the ground station."

A flicker of frustration crossed the woman's expression as her fork hovered in mid-air, her thoughts momentarily consumed by the memory of that incident. "I did call the ground station," she retorted, her voice carrying a note of insistence.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

"Well, afterwards." Beatrice's frown deepened, her hand unconsciously rising to the edge of the table as she watched Chiara hop down from her chair to retrieve a fallen toy. The scene provided a momentary distraction, a brief respite from the escalating tension.

"We have a protocol—"

"Which I follow until I can't."

Sensing the growing discord, the other woman in the room interjected, her hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. "Come on, you two, can we please steer away from work talk for now?" Her voice carried a gentle plea, a desire to restore the harmony that had momentarily been disrupted.

Uncle and niece turned their gazes toward Marjorie, both of them displaying matching expressions of surprise, their brows arched and lips slightly parted. The abrupt change in topic left them baffled, momentarily unsure of how to respond.

"But you were the one who—" Beatrice began, her words overlapping with Sebastian's.

"But you specifically asked me—" the male's voice joined in, the two of them finishing each other's sentences almost in perfect unison. ". . . About work."

The brunette's eye roll was accompanied by a wry grin. "Alright, my bad," she conceded, helping herself to a serving of the meal. Her next question hung in the air, "So, any special someone in your life, Beatrice?"

The question hit Bea like a sudden gust of wind, and she couldn't help but snort in response. "No," she replied, her voice tinged with a touch of resignation. "Honestly, I barely have time for myself, let alone a relationship."

Her aunt's eyes twinkled with a playful glint. "Well, too bad because I actually have someone in mind I want you to meet."

"And let me guess, he's a politician?"

A note of excitement crept into Marjorie's voice as she leaned in slightly. "Not just any politician, dear. He's planning to run for presidency in 2012. Can you imagine? You could become the First Lady of the United States!"

The analyst firm response left no room for doubt, her head shaking gently as she asserted herself. "No," she stated definitively, her tone unwavering. "I've had my fill of politicians. They come with too much baggage and stress. I value my peace of mind too much to subject myself to that."

The allure of a prestigious position held little appeal when weighed against the tranquility she cherished, and she was resolute in her decision to prioritize her own well-being over any political aspirations.

The man's serious tone cut through the air, his eyes locking onto the blonde's as he addressed a topic that seemed to hold weight in his mind. "Well, then I hope you're not romantically involved with anyone in your new department."

A sigh escaped her lips before she responded, a faint shake of her head accompanying her words. "No, Uncle. I'm not."

The sound of her uncle's swallow punctuated the silence that followed. Beatrice watched him, her curiosity piqued as she waited for him to continue. His next words held a sense of urgency, and his hand gesture added emphasis to his point. "Alright, let's get straight to the point. Whatever romantic connection you have with Aaron Hotchner, I want you to cut it," he asserted, sliding his hand across his throat in a visual representation of his demand. "I know he's divorced now, but. . ."

"Uncle," the blonde woman interjected, her voice carrying a mix of frustration and disbelief. Memories of her interactions with Aaron flickered through her mind, and she couldn't help but wonder at the baseless assumption being presented.

"I know how much he loved Haley," the Director continued, his voice carrying a tinge of nostalgia. "He used to call her multiple times a day when he was still my student."

"Uncle—"

"Chances are, they are going to try and make their marriage work again. I don't want you getting hurt." Bea's fingers began to tap rhythmically against the table, her irritation growing.

"Uncle, for the love of— There is absolutely nothing between me and Aaron Hotchner!" She exclaimed, tossing her hair aside in exasperation. "I don't have any romantic feelings for my boss, and I certainly won't be crossing any lines with him."

The Director's stern gaze held hers, his warning clear in his eyes. "You better make sure it stays that way."

"You don't need to worry, Uncle. That's a line I won't ever cross."

Her uncle's protective nature had been a constant presence throughout Beatrice's life, an unwavering shield that he had willingly taken up, especially after the tragic loss of her father. In the absence of their deceased father, Sebastian had stepped into the role, stepping into his brother's shoes with a sense of duty and love. He made certain to be a consistent presence, even in the midst of his demanding schedule, celebrating their achievements and offering support whenever needed. Just like her uncle, he enveloped his younger brother's in his care, treating them as though they were his own daughters.

Amidst the dinner conversation, a jarring ringtone pierced the air, causing Beatrice to shift her attention to her phone. The unfamiliar number that blinked on her screen raised her curiosity, prompting a skeptical raise of her eyebrow. She swiped the call away, intending to ignore it, but the insistent chime sounded once more, fracturing the tranquility of the meal.

Her uncle's encouraging voice gently interrupted the moment. "Maybe you should answer it, Beatrice,"

With a sigh, she picked up the call, bringing the phone to her ear. "Hello, who's this?"

"Why are you ignoring me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Why. . . are you ignoring me, Beatrice?"

Recognition dawned upon the woman, her heart skipping a beat as her mind frantically connected the dots. The pieces fell into place, and her breath caught in her throat. It was him. The man who had been haunting her dreams, the same voice that had whispered her name in the darkness.

Adam Reagan.

The man who had taken her father's life.

The weight of realization settled over her, a rush of emotions flooding her senses. Her grip on the phone tightened, her fingers trembling slightly as she struggled to find her words. "You—" Her words faltered, her mouth hanging open as her face drained of color.

"Yes, me," he purred, his tone dripping with a twisted affection that sent shivers down her spine. "I've missed you, my darling."

Fear and anger surged within her, a torrent of emotions overwhelming her. Ignoring the concerned gazes of her family, she bolted from the dining room and dashed up the stairs to her room. Her hurried footsteps echoed loudly against the floor, the urgency of the moment propelling her forward. She stumbled against the door frame as she entered her own office space, her fingers frantically dancing across the keyboard as she attempted to trace the source of the call.

"Go to hell, Adam,"

"No. If I go, you will come with me," he taunted, his words sinking like a dagger into her consciousness. A red warning flashed on her screen, the words LOCATION CANNOT BE TRACKED mocking her efforts. Frustration welled up within the young blonde, her hand colliding with the table in her fury. The realization that Adam was using a disposable cell phone to conceal his location only fueled her determination.

"Did you seriously try to track my location?" Adam's voice held a mixture of annoyance and derangement. "I knew you were weaker, but I didn't think you were this stupid," he sneered. "This is exactly why I always liked playing with your father and sister more. They had guts. They were stronger. You. . . you're nothing compared to them. It's a shame your sister's six feet under before I had the chance to play with her again. I'm stuck with you, the runt of the litter."

Beatrice's fury burned like a raging inferno, her body trembling with a mixture of rage and helplessness.

"Oh, speaking of Olivia, her death anniversary is coming up. Shall we go visit her grave? Bring her little spawn to know more about her?"

The mention of Olivia's upcoming death anniversary hit Beatrice like a blow to the chest, and a mix of emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Her grip on the phone tightened. "If you even try to touch my niece, I will fucking hunt you down and skin you alive, you bastard"

The killer's mocking laughter cut through the line. "There it is!" He sighed. "I always knew you were hiding something behind that facade."

The blonde clenched her jaw.

"I'm so excited," he taunted, his tone dripping with contempt. "I remember you couldn't even pick up a gun to save your dad! You were that pathetic! I stabbed once, twice, then seven times! And you just stood there. . . crying,"

Bea's knuckles turned white as she clenched her fist, her nails digging into her palm. The memories of that fateful day resurfaced, the pain still raw after all these years.

"The only thing you're good at is running away! Isn't that what you're doing right now? Transferring to the BAU-"

"Because you're afraid of them,"

"Tsk, tsk," Adam interrupted, his tone dripping with condescension. "There are many ways to get close to you without even catching their attention. All it takes for them is to. . . look away."

"What do you want, Adam? Why come back now?"

"Why, I just want to play," Before she could respond, his voice took on a more sinister edge. "For the meantime, why don't you be a darling and tell your uncle I called? That pink top of yours looks ridiculous on you."

The sudden mention of her attire caught Bea off guard, her eyes instinctively glancing down at her outfit. Confusion knitted her brow as she processed his words, her mind racing to understand the implications. Glancing out of the window, her heart raced as she scanned her surroundings, her eyes searching for any sign of his presence. The feeling of being watched intensified, a sense of vulnerability creeping over her as her anxiety heightened.

"I see you, Beatrice," Adam's voice taunted, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. It was a haunting reminder that he was never truly far away. "Know that I'm always watching you."

"I will find you, Adam. I will find you, and I will kill you myself."

". . . I look forward to seeing you do it."

Those last words he spoke to her, the venom dripping from his lips, had been seared into her mind. They resurfaced now, a haunting reminder of the nightmare that had unfolded in her family home. Her heart ached as the vivid images replayed before her eyes: Adam, his eyes ablaze with malice, his face streaked with blood, and her father's lifeless form being carried away on a stretcher, concealed beneath a white shroud. The raw pain of that moment cut through her, and a guttural scream tore from her throat as she slammed her hand against the table twice, the echo of her own anguish reverberating in the room.

Tears blurred her vision as she clutched her hair, her emotions spiraling into a chaotic whirlwind of fear and confusion. The relentless question echoed in her mind: Why now? Why had he returned, dredging up the darkest memories she had fought so hard to bury?

In the midst of her turmoil, her family materialized before her, their concerned faces a lifeline in the storm. "What happened? Are you okay?" Sebastian's voice was laced with worry as he gently steadied her, his hands resting on her shoulders.

The analyst's breath came in ragged gasps as she tried to compose herself, "He called," she managed to utter, the weight of her words heavy in the air.

"Adam. . ." Marjorie's voice held a mixture of dread and anger, her grip on Beatrice's arm tightening.

"He's never going to stop until I'm dead. . . he's never going to stop."

WHEN OLIVIA PASSED away, a piece of Beatrice's soul died as well.

It was a day when the world seemed to cocoon itself in tranquil quietude, a gentle breeze whispering secrets as it rustled the leaves. Gift boxes, adorned with an array of toys destined to bring joy to Chiara, created a whimsical scattering across the living room. Only two days had slipped by since her daughter's birthday, a celebration that had painted smiles upon their faces.

In the midst of this domestic tableau, Beatrice stood, her hair tamed into a bun with delicate tendrils escaping to frame her face. Light danced upon her features, casting a soft glow as her hands worked deftly to repair a coffee maker that had chosen an inopportune moment to malfunction. Her brow furrowed with concentration, her focus unwavering as she engaged in a delicate dance of wires, a screwdriver poised between her lips.

The harmony of this idyllic scene was disrupted by a sound she couldn't ignore—a solemn chime that resonated through the air. The doorbell's call beckoned her, and with a sense of trepidation, Beatrice answered its summons. Her heart clenched as her gaze met the sympathetic eyes of the notification team, their solemn expressions a harbinger of heartache. In their hands, the American flag stood as a symbol of honor, yet its presence also carried a weight of sorrow that tugged at her very soul.

"I regret to inform you. . ."

A disorienting buzz hummed insistently in her ear, reverberating through the very core of her being. The world around her blurred, its edges softened by a haze of shock and disbelief. In the midst of the tumult, a guttural scream pierced the air, its origin a revelation that took a moment to fully comprehend—it was her own voice, an eruption of raw grief that seemed to tear through the fabric of her soul. With the weight of grief settling over her, a piece of her own essence felt as if it too had been consumed by the shadows that now infiltrated her world.

How could this be? How could the world continue to spin when her anchor had been violently wrenched away? A pair of warm, compassionate hands enfolded her trembling shoulders, the touch a lifeline in a sea of chaos.

Time hung suspended, and Beatrice's heart fractured as the truth bore down upon her—Olivia died in the line of duty.

How could she die?

How could she die when they already had plans woven into their future like delicate threads of hope. Her mind replayed the promises. They were to reunite next week, a reunion punctuated by the celebration of Chiara's birthday. They were to bask in the simple joys, to share laughter by the beach as they watched the sun dip below the horizon.

Olivia had been more than a sister; she had been the beacon guiding her through the darkest of storms. She had lifted her from the depths of despair after her return from Iraq, a lifeline thrown to a soul drowning in the echoes of war. Olivia had been the one who understood the weight behind her smiles, who had stood unwaveringly by her side when others pointed accusing fingers.

Today marked the two year anniversary of her sister's passing.

But, Beatrice wasn't at her grave.

She was in a plane bound for Orange County.

For her safety.

And so here she was, in the confined space of the plane, surrounded by the focused energy of her teammates, staring at the picture of Judy Hannity, a woman whose face resembled her sister.

Beatrice's attention drifted as the team conversation flowed around her. Dr. Reid's voice, analytical and precise, pulled her back into focus. "Actually, data shows that someone is fatally shot or injured in a road rage incident on average every sixteen hours in the United States. . ." he shared, his words sending a sobering wave of reality through the room. "I think it's partly the reason why I won't—"

Before he could elaborate further, the team leader's stern gaze interrupted him and the young profiler immediately cleared his throat, a hint of discomfort in his demeanor. "You won't what?" she echoed, her own intrigue mirrored in the quirk of her brow.

Reid hesitated, his words trailing off as he seemingly decided to withhold whatever he had been about to say. "Uh, nothing."

"I actually wanted to know what you were about to say," the analyst's pointed remark drew attention, and she shot Hotchner a sharp glance. "Tell me about it later, Reid."

Beatrice couldn't help but notice the reactions of the team whenever Spencer launched into one of his seemingly endless streams of trivia. There was an unspoken consensus among them that his moments of intellectual musings needed to be reined in, restricted to only when absolutely necessary. While she understood the need for focus and efficiency, a part of her felt that there could have been a kinder approach to handling the situation.

She had grown to understand Spencer's mind, his unique way of thinking as she spent more time with him, and had started to develop her own methods to gently divert the young profiler's attention back to the task at hand without making him feel alienated or dismissed. She knew that his insights, no matter how seemingly random, often held value in their line of work and shutting him down with silence or disapproving glances will only stifle his contributions.

"So, uh, how do we get this guy?"

"We build a solid profile. We release it to the public with an appeal for help."

"Somebody knows this guy, and it's my job to make them realize."

Beatrice's hand closed around her go bag in a practiced motion, a routine gesture that had become second nature during their departures from the plane. As she turned, a faint pull on her arm drew her attention, and her gaze met the concerned faces of Hotchner and Rossi. A small sigh escaped her lips as she realized that she had lingered longer than intended, lost in her thoughts. It seemed that her momentary lapse had not gone unnoticed.

"You seem agitated today, Bea." Rossi's perceptive observation struck a chord within her, his words touching on the underlying restlessness that had been gnawing at her. "Are you okay?"

She offered a faint smile. "Yeah, just, uh, I'm kind of not feeling well. . ."

Hotchner's voice followed, a note of genuine worry underlining his words. "Are you sick? Do you need anything?"

Beatrice's fingers grazed her temple as she hesitated, her mind racing to find the right words to explain her unease. "Uh, actually, no. I just, uh. . ." She struggled to articulate her feelings, her fingers curling into a tight fist before relaxing. "Today's my, uh, today's my sister's death anniversary."

The weight of the words hung in the air, a tangible reminder of the pain that still resided within her. She met their concerned gazes, a mixture of gratitude and apprehension tugging at her heart. Opening up about her emotions was never easy, but the understanding in their eyes offered a small measure of solace.

"Oh, cara mia. Why didn't you file for a leave?"

Beatrice's gaze shifted from Rossi to Hotchner, her team leader's expression mirroring the worry etched in his features. His brows furrowed even further, and his lips formed a thoughtful line. "Do you want to sit this one out?"

"No, I can do this. Thanks for the concern, guys."

With a slight nod and an unspoken connection, the woman hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and disembarked from the plane. Her footsteps carried her towards the waiting SUV, her mind already focused on the tasks ahead. As she approached the vehicle, her gaze fell upon the young doctor standing there, his hands buried in his pockets. "What's on your mind, Dr. Reid?"

"You don't have to be like that all the time, you know,"

Confusion flickered in her eyes as she tossed her bag into the backseat before turning her attention back to him, arms crossed in a manner that felt more like talking to a younger brother. "Like what?"

He stumbled over his words, his demeanor resembling that of a puppy seeking approval from its master. "I mean, y-you don't have to pretend to be interested in my facts. I-I know most people find them, um, annoying."

A trace of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, her genuine intent apparently misinterpreted. "Spencer, you've got it all wrong. I genuinely enjoy listening to your trivia. It's not an act; I believe they'll come in handy one day."

His eyes shimmered with a mix of surprise and relief, as if he had stumbled upon an unexpected treasure. He looked at her, eyes searching. "You're not just tolerating me?"

The analyst offered a soft, reassuring smile, her hand gently patting his shoulder. "No need to worry. You can share your facts with me anytime. I'm all ears."

"Thank you,"

Her smile widened, a playful note entering her tone as she playfully teased him. "Just remember, you owe me one now, Dr. Reid." She slid into the driver's seat, her fingers finding solace in the cool touch of the steering wheel. "You hurt my feelings, you know."

"I didn't mean to—"

"A Caramel Latte should do, as an apology!" she declared, interjecting playfulness into the air.

As the engine roared to life, the vibrations beneath her fingertips were a grounding reminder of the mission ahead. The practicality of the moment beckoned her, demanding her attention, yet an undercurrent of curiosity about Spencer's emotions lingered. What's going on in his mind? Why was he so concerned about this? Her own emotions took a back seat, giving way to her commitment to the case.

Beatrice's fingers instinctively pinched the bridge of her nose as she climbed out of her car, the weight of exhaustion settling heavily upon her shoulders. The progression of the investigation had been relentless, a blur of interviews, profiling, and site visits that left her head spinning. They had meticulously pieced together details from the first victim, adding layers to the unfolding profile. Their efforts had taken them to the crime scenes, where they had taken in every minute detail. Conversations with the crews working on the alternate merges had provided valuable insights.

Shielding her eyes from the harsh sun, she squinted against the glare. A new development had pushed them to a fresh crime scene and her heart tightened upon catching the sight of the blood-stained windshield of the vehicle. The vivid contrast of crimson against the metallic surface sent a shiver down her spine, a stark reminder of the brutality that they were grappling with.

Two bodies, shrouded in white blankets, were carefully lifted onto stretchers and carried towards the waiting ambulance. The unmistakable smell of death lingered in the air and a wince tugged at her features,

"Multiple male victims, surface street, daytime attack, and he drove his own vehicle." observed Rossi. "Something triggered him and pissed him off. What time did this happen?"

"Approximately two twenty."

Beatrice's hands found solace on her hips as she mulled over the details. "Any witness?"

"Single witness says the shooter was driving a small blue SUV. Didn't get a plate." informed the detective in charge. "Middle-aged white guy, wearing a tie. Suit jacket hanging in the back."

"Press conference?"

"Two twenty. Jordan went on the air at two o'clock. He was watching the news."

"You said the unsub was going to be watching the coverage."

"Twenty minutes from wherever he was watching the press conference to this intersection."

Hotch's analytical voice cut through the tension, drawing Beatrice's attention. "He drives the speed limit, taking into account red lights and mid-day traffic. No more than ten miles," he concluded.

Thea Salinas's question followed, seeking to narrow down the unsub's potential residence. "I don't think so," the analyst interjected, her voice carrying a note of conviction.

The woman's confusion mirrored her own as he pressed for clarification. Beatrice's fingers mimicked the gesture of a tie against her front. "He was wearing a tie," she explained, her hand slicing down the air. "Suit jacket hanging in the back. And considering the time of day. . ." She glanced at her watch. "He works in the area."

Her thoughts were already racing ahead, planning the next steps. "I can pull up a map of the site once we return to the station. Try to check private companies around,"

Her boss's response, however, caught her off guard. "No, we can have Garcia for that. You focus on the tipline."

His directive to focus on the tipline, relegating her to what she considered menial tasks, knotted her brows in frustration. She wanted to dive deep into the case, to immerse herself in the details and distract herself from the memories that clawed at her thoughts. A torrent of protest surged within Beatrice, her lips poised to unleash a fierce objection, when an unexpected and almost savage force yanked at her arm, jarring her to the core. Stumbling, she fought against the pull, her very core ablaze with indignation.

"Did you know?" Jordan's voice was sharp, cutting through the air, setting off a surge of anger in Beatrice. Their eyes locked, and the blonde's own feelings boiled under the surface. The question hung heavily between them, filled with blame. "Answer me, Beatrice. Did you know?"

Beatrice's fingers clenched instinctively, and she forcefully wrenched her associate's hand off her arm, a gesture that mirrored her mounting frustration.

Actually, their working relationship had taken a nosedive after an intense disagreement during the previous case. The confrontation had revolved around Jordan's decision to fabricate details about her family background to salvage rapport with the victim's mother, an approach that Hotchner and Beatrice vehemently disliked. Beatrice's frustration grew as she recalled the other woman's justification for her actions. The woman cited Beatrice's own past deception during a case in Colorado as precedent, asserting that sometimes bending the truth was necessary to establish rapport.

Her voice, a measured undertone of caution, cut through the charged atmosphere. "This is not the time or the place," she asserted, her gaze unwavering. "We are—"

"Answer my question, Beatrice!"

The analyst's patience wore thin, her fingers digging into Jordan's shoulders as a surge of frustration welled up within her. She could feel her heartbeat quicken, each pulse resonating with the irritation that mingled with genuine concern. She stepped closer, her breath catching as she shielded the new team member from the prying eyes of the press. The last thing they needed was a public spectacle of one of their own falling apart. "Jordan Todd, for god's sake, pull yourself together! You really want to do this in front of the press?"

Jordan's gaze met hers, a perplexed furrow marring her forehead. "He killed those people because of something I said!"

"Yes, what happened was tragic, but we can't undo what's already happened. What we can do is focus on our job and prevent more lives from being lost."

"This isn't just about—"

Beatrice's control snapped, her voice a sharp crack that reverberated in the tense air around them. "—Professionalism, Jordan! This is about professionalism! This is about staying focused on our job even when we're drowning in guilt! Do you think your breakdown will help us right now? No! You're only jeopardizing this entire investigation!"

"H-how can you just be so calm about all this? Their deaths are on us."

Hotchner's presence loomed over them, his expression a mask of stern authority. "No. When we talk to the public, these things are always a possibility. It's part of the job, Agent Todd." he asserted and glaring at her and scowling. "Now, tell me if you can do it or not."

Jordan's eyes met his. "Damn right. I can do this job."

His nod was almost imperceptible. "Good," he affirmed, his gaze shifting between them one last time before he turned and walked away.

Beatrice's strides quickened as she closed in on her leader. "Agent Hotchner!" Her voice sliced through the air like a blade, cutting through any semblance of calm. "I didn't need your help back there."

Hotchner's gaze met hers, his expression inscrutable, and she felt a surge of frustration at his apparent lack of acknowledgment. Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she fought to rein in her simmering anger. She had always been fiercely independent, unafraid to tackle challenges head-on, and she resented any implication that she couldn't manage the situation herself.

"Sterling, if you had managed the situation more competently, I wouldn't have needed to step in."

Beatrice's eyes flared with incensed anger. She reached him just as he was about to settle into the driver's seat of his car, her hand landing on the door with a resounding thud. "Competently? Is that your way of saying I am incapable?"

The man's patience snapped, his tone a slashing blade. "You're twisting my intentions, Sterling. I'm not questioning your ability." His jaw tightened. "Don't mistake assertiveness for disregard, Beatrice. Your pride shouldn't cloud your judgement."

"And your arrogance shouldn't overshadow the value of trust and respect between colleagues," expressed the blonde, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and hurt. "I felt belittled back there, Hotch. You swooped in without giving me a chance to handle Jordan my way."

Her boss's tone shifted, his frustration giving way to a heavy sigh of regret. "You're right. I should've communicated better," he admitted. "It wasn't my intention to undermine you. I'm sorry."

"Did. . . Did you just apologize?" Beatrice's surprise painted her words with a touch of incredulity, the thought forming in her mind finding voice before she even realized it. "I mean, I thought you'd probably argue with me more. Wow, this feels so weird." Her shoulders relaxed, her initial tension gradually giving way to a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. "Anyway, uh, I just wish you'd actually trust me to handle things when I can, sir."

"I do trust you, Sterling. I just let my concern for the situation cloud my judgement."

The blonde shut her eyes, a brief pause as she battled the surge of emotions welling up inside her. Closing her hand into a fist, she took a steadying breath before extending her arm slightly and tracing a small circle over her heart with her fist, a gesture of apology in American Sign Language. It was a thing she picked up during her time in Iraq. Whenever she and her colleagues would argue, one of them would do the sign and they would calm down and settle for something that would meet both of their interests. It always got them through the toughest days at work.

"I'm sorry too."

Hotch's gaze met hers, a silent understanding passing between them. "Let's focus on getting through today, Sterling, and we can have that conversation later," he suggested, a nod accompanying his words as he moved to slide into the car. "There's something I'd like to ask you."

And what could that be?

"BEATRICE!" THE URGENCY in Morgan's voice pierced through the air, propelling Beatrice down the stairs as she swiftly descended, her heart pounding in response. She accepted the walkie talkie from him, her senses on high alert as his words sunk in. She and Emily were still in the midst of interviewing a tip line caller at a corporate office near the site of the shooting, but now their focus was shifting.

"We've got a high-speed chase, one seventeen and pacific, sounds like our guy," Morgan's words hurriedly informed her.

"Let's move," the woman replied decisively, her feet carrying her toward her SUV. With practiced efficiency, she settled her phone and communication device in her lap, her fingers quickly dialing their technical analyst, and activating the loudspeaker. Her adrenaline surged as she merged onto the highway. "Pen, I need you to track my signal and guide me to one seventeen and pacific immediately!"

"Okay, okay! I got you, Bee! Uh, turn right now!" Penelope's voice crackled through the speaker.

The screech of tires against asphalt echoed in Beatrice's ears as she swiftly maneuvered her car to the right. Her heart raced in tandem with the pulse of adrenaline surging through her veins. She pushed her eyeglasses back into place as they threatened to slide askew, her focus unwavering even in the midst of the high-speed chase. With a glance at her rearview mirror, she could see the flashing lights of her teammates' vehicles trailing behind.

Garcia's voice crackled through her communication device, guiding her through the chaotic dance of the streets. Left, now right, the instructions flowed, each command propelling her forward with a mixture of precision and speed.

"All units, pursuit now headed over Memorial Bridge! I repeat, pursuit now headed over Memorial Bridge!" The crackling urgency of the walkie talkie broke through the tension.

"Garcia, how much longer until we reach Memorial Bridge?"

"With your current speed, about two minutes!"

Two minutes. The thought echoed in Beatrice's mind, each second carrying a weight that heightened her senses. As her SUV hurtled forward, the rhythm of her breathing matched the rhythm of the chase and the sight of the bridge approaching on the horizon intensified her focus.

The unsub's car swerved suddenly in front of her, cutting across her path with reckless abandon. In that split-second, her hands moved with precision. With a swift shift of the gear and a firm grip on the handbrake, she spun the wheel, sliding her car with a controlled grace around in a curve.

The tires squealed in protest, and the asphalt beneath her became a blur of motion. The thrill of the chase was now mirrored in the adrenaline coursing through her veins, her heart racing as she locked onto the unsub's car.

". . . This is the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. We caught up to the chase and are now monitoring." Reid's voice tore through the communication device. "We ask if you're able to stop the vehicle, you allow us to contact the driver. We believe him to be a severely deranged suspect."

"Copy."

A volley of gunshots shattered the air, jolting Beatrice's focus and sending a surge of alarm through her veins. The chaos of the chase took on a new dimension as danger escalated. Amidst the chaos, she swerved left to avoid colliding with a police car, her expert steering skills saving them from disaster. The team's resolve held strong, maintaining their speed and trailing the suspect despite the escalation.

Her attention sharpened as a menacing silhouette caught her eye. The sight of the sawed-off shotgun hovering by the car window was a stark reminder of the threat they faced. The woman followed the end of his aim and her heart leapt into her throat when she saw a car full of passengers. A decision formed within her then and there, another calculated risk borne out of necessity. As her car continued the pursuit, her determination to protect the civilians overrode any fear of reprimand.

"Penelope, connect my call to Hotch now,"

"What?"

"Just do it,"

A few seconds passed, each one seemingly stretched by the gravity of the situation. Then, Hotch's voice entered the call, his tone laced with concern. "Sterling? What is it?"

"Good afternoon, sir," Her attempt at lightness felt strained, her eyes fixed on the gun aimed at a vehicle filled with passengers. Her voice was steady, but underneath it lay a current of tension. "I'm calling to let you know that I'm about to do something. . . drastic. Please be prepared."

"What are you talk—"

The analyst didn't give him a chance to finish. With a surge of determination, she slammed her foot on the accelerator, her car hurtling toward the rear end of the unsub's vehicle. Time seemed to slow as impact became inevitable. The jolt of collision sent shockwaves through her body, her forehead connecting with the steering wheel. Pain radiated from the point of impact, her senses momentarily disoriented as her car skidded and veered to the right.

The world outside became a blur as her SUV lifted slightly against the road. Resolve held her, her fingers gripping the steering wheel as she fought to regain control. The impact subsided, her car settling back onto the road, and her vision swam with spots as she lifted her head.

A dull ache throbbed in her forehead, and a cloud of black smoke seeped from the hood of her SUV. The ringing in her ears was deafening, the aftermath of the collision reverberating in her senses. Amidst the haze, a shout pierced the air, and she caught sight of Reid's concerned face through the car door window.

"Beatrice! Beatrice!"

Beatrice's fingers fumbled with the seatbelt, her movements a mix of disorientation and determination. The impact had left her senses reeling, and she wasted no time in unlocking her door. The younger profiler, Reid, was there in an instant, his support a lifeline as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and guided her out of the car. Her head spun, her forehead throbbed, but his presence was steadying.

As they stood on unsteady ground, the scene around them unfolded in a blur. Morgan's voice cut through the chaos, his words carrying the weight of explanation. The realization hit her like a gut punch—Norman Hill, the unsub they'd been chasing, was alone. His family was gone, and the emotions he unleashed were raw, a gut-wrenching lament that echoed in the air.

Beatrice's attention was fixed on the unfolding drama, her emotions tangled as she watched Hill forced to his knees, his cries a stark contrast to the dangerous figure he had been. Handcuffed and subdued, he wailed, his anguish laid bare for all to see.

Amidst the whirlwind of emotions, Emily's voice reached her ears. "Are you okay?"

The woman's response was a strained smile. "I think we need to get her to a hospital," Reid's concern was palpable, but she pushed back.

"No, no, Reid, I'm good," she insisted and met Emily's gaze. "Let's just bring the unsub to the station."

Back at the police station, Beatrice's grip on the ice bag was gentle, a testament to the throbbing pain that emanated from her forehead. She winced as the icy contact sent a searing shock through her. A hiss escaped her lips, her fist clenching as she fought to contain the pain that threatened to consume her. Rossi and Hotchner's entrance brought her attention to their concerned expressions, their worry evident.

Rossi's concerned voice resonated through the air, "Is she okay? What happened?"

Derek's arms crossed, a nonchalant shrug accompanying his words, "Queen Bee here suddenly thought she was Dominic Toretto. Pulled a Fast and Furious earlier, crashed her car into Norman's. " He explained, causing the blonde to shoot him a sharp glare for his choice of words. "But don't worry, she'll live. She only sustained a bruise. Nothing else."

"Why would you risk your life like that?"

"He was about to shoot a car with civilians inside. I wasn't going to let the unsub potentially kill more innocent people. I had to act."

"Sterling, may I talk to you in private?" Hotchner's words sliced through the air, his tone edged with frustration.

She nodded, her steps falling in line as she followed him into one of the vacant offices. The air was tense, the weight of their conversation hanging between them like a storm on the horizon.

"Are you out of your mind? You were almost killed by your stupidity, Sterling."

His accusation hit her like a punch to the gut, igniting a surge of anger that burned alongside the throbbing ache in her forehead. "You have about five seconds to rephrase that, Agent Hotchner, or I will not hesitate to taser you." She groaned, meeting his gaze. "And don't even think I won't do it. I'm a bit unstable right now."

A tense silence hung between them.

She sighed. "I took a calculated risk—"

Hotchner's response was sharp, his concern driving his words. "That. That is the matter with you, Sterling. You always take these risks. What if your choice of action led us to consequences we can't undo? What if your recklessness costs us more than we gain? You can't just always throw caution to the wind."

"Caution wouldn't have saved those civilians from getting shot, Hotch," her voice rose, her own authority matching his. "I did what I thought was right at that moment. I stand by my choice. You would've done the same thing if you were there. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need some air—it's too hot in here."

The door swung open, a breath of fresh air beckoning her. "Oh, and by the way, you suck at showing concern. Work on it, will you?"

Amidst the tense exchange, Beatrice sensed an undercurrent beneath Hotch's frustration. As he questioned her choices, she glimpsed a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes. It was a subtle shift, a hidden worry that lay beneath the surface of his stern demeanor. She heard it too in the way his voice tightened with each word, as if grappling with the struggle of conveying his emotions. The concern wasn't just about her actions; it was about her well-being. She hoped one day he would be more vocal about his emotions, and that he would trust her as well.

Stepping out of the station for a brief break, her attention was drawn to the sight of Jordan sitting alone on one of the chairs. A cloud of distress seemed to hang over her, evident in the sorrow that shadowed her eyes and the exhaustion etched in the dark, puffy bags beneath them. Approaching her colleague, Beatrice's hand landed softly on Jordan's shoulder. "Jordan. . . hey, are you okay?"

The other female's gaze held a weight of sorrow, her words heavy with a mix of confusion and pain. "How could you do it?"

"Do what?"

The question hung in the air, Jordan's emotions simmering beneath her gaze. "How could you do this job, Beatrice? How could you look at a man who killed his family and not be affected?" Her eyes shifted, a distant look in them. "That man murdered his whole family. They were already dead before we even got this case."

"It's not that I'm not affected, Jordan. I feel the weight of it all too. I feel helpless, hurt, angry. . . and it's okay that you feel all this. These emotions make you human. But we have to find a way to process it without letting it consume us."

"I just can't wrap my head around how someone could do something so heinous."

The weight of the moment was palpable, Todd's emotions tangled and raw. "What do you do when it feels like it's all too much, Bea?"

The blonde's gaze turned distant, her words a mixture of wisdom and experience. "I look at it, deal with it, and do everything I can to not let it interfere with the job," Her expression turned thoughtful. "Find a way to compartmentalize. I lean on my team for support, and remember that your work makes a difference. But you also allow yourself to feel, because that's what keeps us human."

"I'm not sure I can do this job."

"And that's okay, Jordan. There's nothing wrong with that."

BALANCING PAPER BAGS in her hands, the blonde's smile radiated genuine joy as she spotted the familiar and warm face of Jennifer Jareau. Without hesitation, she enveloped her colleague in a tight embrace. "Oh, my god, JJ! I missed you!"

JJ's laughter was a melody as they pulled back. "Me too! What are these bags you're carrying?"

"Gifts! I brought you gifts! When Penelope told me earlier you were visiting, I couldn't resist getting something for you and Henry!" Her excitement was palpable as she revealed the contents. "I got you a pillow and some bibs for the little one!"

"You are so sweet!" Penelope joined in, her words playful. "How come no one has come to sweep you off your feet, madame?"

Beatrice laughed. "I guess nobody has the guts to yet, Pen." She turned her attention to Henry, her voice turning gentle. "Aw, he is so adorable!"

As she took her leave from the group, Beatrice's gaze landed on Hotchner, who was busy making coffee in the kitchen. Joining him, she found a comfortable spot beside him. The events of the day seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the warmth of the team's connection and the shared moments that anchored them together.

"So," she cleared her throat. "I believe you were going to ask me something?"

A hint of amusement danced in his eyes, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. He paused in his coffee stirring, seeming to consider her words. "It can wait."

"Well, whatever it is, you better ask it soon. You never know, I may no longer be available."

He raised an eyebrow.

"And I meant that as when you need me for some assistance because I'm assuming you need my help in something." Her chuckle eased the tension, though her expression turned more serious. "But that's the reason why, right? You were asking for my help, not asking me out on a date? Because, like, that would be so funny! And like—"

She found herself lifting her head, realizing he was walking away, his destination, his office.

"—Sir? Sir! Wait for me! Sir!"

It was going to take him a while to ask whatever it was.

—————

wow 8k words and i feel like i haven't written enough lmao. beatrice is so confusing here, mama why u picking fights tho istg— also, hotchner, what were you going to ask beatrice? thoughts, everyone?

note: if it's not derek or emily causing trouble, it's beatrice.