CHAPTER ELEVEN: HOW TO CATCH FEELINGS AND THROW THEM INTO THE FIRE WHERE THEY BELONG

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

IF BEATRICE HAD a genie right now, she would definitely wish for a burger, a beer, and a fake boyfriend to get her out of this mess.

This particular week had been exceptionally demanding for Beatrice. The recent discussions with Hotchner about addressing the Italian Consulate regarding the revocation of Father Silvano's immunity had taken a significant toll. The Consulate finally relented under the weight of Senator Sterling's influence, allowing the agents to move forward with the arrest. The subsequent avalanche of paperwork from the State Department further compounded her stress, demanding a comprehensive report on the case. As if this isn't enough, an unexpected encounter jolted her already taxed nerves. Just a few minutes ago, the self-absorbed lawyer with whom she'd been on a date just before the New York terrorist attack, Benjamin Richards, crossed paths with her in the coffee shop she frequented.

The lunch conversation with him felt like an impending disaster. His attempts at flirting were not just awkward but also a touch aggressive. He leaned in a bit too close, invading her personal space. Beatrice's discomfort was palpable, her attempt to subtly lean back a silent plea for some breathing room.

"So, Beatrice, what do you say we put the past behind us and give this another shot?" Benjamin's tone was more presumptive than suggestive, assuming a willingness on her part she simply didn't share.

The pressure of the situation weighed heavily on Beatrice. She felt a mix of frustration and discomfort, wishing for this encounter to end. Her attempts at polite deflection were met with persistent advances, making her increasingly anxious and eager for an escape from the unwelcome and aggressive attention. Undeterred, he persisted, "Come on, don't be so uptight. You know we had a great time that night. Let's have some fun again."

Ew, no.

Beatrice, feeling like she was in the middle of a bad rom-com, attempted to deflect Benjamin's advances with a forced smile. While the option to straightforwardly turn him down lingered in her mind, the knowledge of his persistent personality made her hesitate. She needed more than a simple rejection; she needed a reason that would make him back off without pressing further and so she sent a quick prayer to the heavens for a way out.

And lo and behold, God, with a stellar sense of humor, decided to drop a punchline into her day.

Enter Aaron Hotchner, strolling by as if he had just received a memo from God with a cup of coffee on hand.

She seized the opportunity, obviously not hesitating to snatch her team leader's arm. "Ah, sweetheart, there you are! What took you so long?" Beatrice exclaimed, her tone a tad too loud, her eyes betraying a mix of panic and amusement. Hotchner, raising an eyebrow, looked at her with a bemusement that silently asked, what on earth are you doing?

The woman, still in the grip of her impromptu theatrics, attempted to salvage the situation with a sheepish grin.

Please, go with the flow. Please.

Hotchner, with his characteristic calm demeanor, studied her with careful eyes. Beatrice could feel the weight of his scrutiny, wondering if he'd pick up on the offbeat rhythm she had introduced to their lunch. In that tense moment, she held her breath, desperately hoping her spontaneous act wouldn't backfire.

When Hotch finally spoke, relief washed over her like a cool breeze. "I'm sorry I was late. I had an errand." he explained, his tone carrying a hint of amusement, or was it confusion? It was hard to tell.

Nevertheless, she breathed a small sigh of relief.

"Oh, yeah! There's someone I'd like you to meet, sweetheart! This is Benjamin Richards, he is a lawyer and an. . . acquaintance. Ben, this is my boyfriend." Her tone wavered between genuine and exaggerated, emphasizing the certainty of the label she'd just bestowed upon her boss. In the process, she nearly knocked over a salt shaker with an exaggerated hand gesture.

The look of surprise on Benjamin's face was precisely the reaction she had hoped for—caught off guard, unsure how to navigate the bizarre social turn. Meanwhile, Hotchner, playing along with the blonde's antics, turned his head to scrutinize the lawyer from head to toe before introducing himself casually and wrapping his arm around her waist, "Aaron Hotchner."

Beatrice's cheeks tinted pink as her mind threatened to go blank, caught off guard by the unexpected revelation about Hotchner's past. She instinctively drew herself closer to him, a subconscious attempt to shield herself from the sudden scrutiny. Despite initiating this odd charade with Benjamin, she found herself in a moment of vulnerability she hadn't anticipated.

"Hotchner? Weren't you the prosecutor in the Anderville murder case? Or. . . the Anderville massacre of 1990, multiple homicide of members of the—"

"I was."

Hotchner's acknowledgment of Benjamin's admiration maintained his stoic demeanor, and the realization that the woman had unwittingly opened a door to her boss's prosecutorial history registered in her widened eyes.

"Man, I studied that case a lot! It's an honor to meet you. Benjamin Richards." Then came the unexpected compliment, Benjamin expressing admiration for Hotchner's role in a notorious case. Beatrice, still processing the newfound information, blinked in genuine surprise. The mix of astonishment and newfound respect flickered in her gaze.

Her response, spoken before she could filter her words, added another layer of unexpectedness to the encounter. "You're so cool," she blurted out, her own surprise mirrored in her tone. Beatrice blinked again, realizing the unscripted nature of her words. If only she could rewind this moment, she might choose her words more carefully.

Hotchner, ever composed, glanced at her, and she swore she saw a subtle smirk playing on his lips. Her unfiltered admission left Beatrice feeling exposed, like an accidental performer in a spotlight she never intended to step into.

Her boss, maintaining his deadpan demeanor, returned his gaze to Benjamin as if the man were the most insignificant person in the world. "Likewise, Mr. Richards," he deadpanned, the words delivered with a precision that underscored his usual stoicism. He then redirected his attention to her, giving her a subtle cue about their impending departure. "Roundtable starts at ten thirty, Beatrice. We have to go now. We can't be late."

Humming in agreement, Bea managed a quick apologetic nod toward Benjamin, silently acknowledging the abrupt departure. She fell into step with Hotchner at her side, grateful for the escape from the awkward lunch scenario. The relief, however, was short-lived as shock replaced it. Hotchner, unexpectedly, grasped her hand, entwining their fingers. The warmth of his touch enveloped her hand, and for a moment, her brain seemed to freeze, caught off guard by the unexpected gesture. She almost stumbled over her own feet, the surprise threatening to derail her composure. It was a curveball she hadn't anticipated—Hotchner playing his role more thoroughly than she could have imagined.

"Uh, you don't have to—" she started to protest, but Hotchner interrupted with a simple reminder, "Don't let go. He's looking at us.

"You can see that?"

As she entered the car, her companion's unexpected gestures of care sent a flush of warmth to her cheeks. She hadn't anticipated such considerate actions from him. His protective arm hovered above her head, shielding her from any potential bumps as she settled into the passenger seat. The touch of his hand on her waist, guiding her inside, caught her off guard, intensifying the red hue on her cheeks.

She swallowed, "Thank. . ."

As she swallowed and attempted to express her gratitude, Hotch leaned forward, catching her completely off guard. Her body tensed, and her heart raced, the proximity between them sparking an unspoken tension. His head was inches away from hers, and her breath caught in her throat.

". . . you, Hotch."

The slow withdrawal only added to the intensity, leaving her momentarily breathless. When he secured the seatbelt, his breath brushed over her cheeks, and their eyes locked, deepening the unspoken connection. It felt forbidden yet undeniably tempting, the magnetic pull between them palpable. Her mind briefly entertained the idea of running her fingers through his hair, a fleeting thought disrupted by the reality of the situation. Was this still part of their act? She didn't know, and she didn't care anymore.

Goddammit, Hotchner. You will be the death of me one day.

The car began moving, heading back to headquarters. Beatrice tapped her fingers nervously, sensing the subtle shift in dynamics between them. The aftermath of using him as her escape weighed on her, and a growing awkwardness settled in. Clearing her throat, she decided to break the building tension. "Thank you for earlier. Didn't think you would go along with it. You also have mad acting skills,"

"You're welcome. I joined a theater group back in high school."

Beatrice's surprise lingered as Hotch casually revealed his high school theater experience. She whipped her head around, eyebrows almost knitting into one as she furrowed them. Suppressing a laugh, she coughed loudly before finally letting out a chuckle.

"Is that funny?"

She swayed her head to the left, fingers grazing her pink-colored lips. "No, no, it's just. . . I can't imagine a guy like you," she pointed at him, "doing theater."

The driver seemed intrigued. "A guy like me?"

"Yes, a guy like you. A stoic guy like you. Drill Sergeant, as Derek described you to me before we officially met." She shot him a glance, a playful smirk forming at the corner of her lips.

"Is that really how you think of me?"

She clicked her tongue. "Yes. To me, you're Mr. Robot. You're a freaking robot, Hotch. I don't even need to be a profiler to know you are like one. I can almost see your brain malfunction when something doesn't go your way."

His gaze narrowed, a subtle amusement in his eyes. "You think you have me all figured out? Well, I assure you, I'm full of surprises. A man like me is different than he looks when you get to know me as a partner."

Beatrice blinked, stupefied by his unexpected response, but she rallied with a cough. "So, tell me, what role did they give you? A tree?"

"I auditioned for the lead role, but I was cast as a supporting character."

"So, what was it?"

". . . I'm not telling you."

"Please?"

"You're going to make fun of me," he hesitated, his eyes briefly assessing her.

"I won't. I promise. I swear."

After a quick glance, as if gauging her sincerity again, he relented, "A pirate."

"Please, don't tell me you were Captain Hook."

"I was."

Beatrice's hands curled into fists, sliding up and down her thighs as she fought to contain her laughter. She released a breath, attempting to stifle the amusement threatening to burst forth. Hotch's unexpected revelation, coupled with the mental image of him as Captain Hook, proved too much. She released a breath to stifle the impending mirth until he urged, "You can laugh."

As if a dam had burst, she slapped the front of the car and erupted into laughter. "Oh my god! That's hilarious! Like I seriously imagine you, wearing a pirate's hat and saying," She mimicked him, coughing before delivering her best impression, "Argh! I'll get you for this, Peter Pan. If it's the last thing I do." Her face remained deadpan, emphasizing the absurdity of the mental image. "Shit, my stomach hurts! Jesus!"

"You got a good laugh?"

"Yeah, I did. So much. Thanks."

"I only joined that theater group to get close to Haley."

"Oh, that's even cuter. Never pegged you as a hopeless romantic type," teased the woman, a playful note in her voice. The revelation added another layer of complexity to the image she had of him. "Oh, yeah, before I forget, I want to know, you were a prosecutor?"

"Yes, before I joined the BAU."

"What made you join?"

Hotch fell into a contemplative silence, his gaze fixed on the road. Adjusting himself on his seat, he finally responded, "I had prosecuted dozens of murder cases, and I had always felt like it was too late by the time they had reached my desk. I wanted a chance to save them."

"That's good,"

"What about you? Why are you in the BAU?"

"You already know I was requested to transfer by my uncle, Hotch."

"You were doing well in Counterintelligence. The Bureau regarded you as their most prized trophy, stolen from the NSA."

The blonde chortled, attempting to appear nonchalant. "You knew I previously worked in the NSA? That's impressive. Didn't even include that in my resumé." She shifted her gaze to her fingernails, her attempt at casualness belying the knots forming in her stomach. Tapping her fingers against her thigh, she felt a subtle discomfort as the weight of her words settled in.

Because right now, she was lying.

"I do my research. Background investigations are a crucial part of my job. Everything we need to know about someone can be found if you know where to look." stated her boss, his tone matter-of-fact. The woman tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling a twinge of unease. Gratefully, they arrived at the parking lot of their headquarters before delving deeper into the conversation, giving Beatrice a chance to steer it in a different direction. Exiting the vehicle, she turned to face Hotch, walking backward with a smile as they passed other cars.

"So, Pirate Hotchner. . ." she beamed, the wind gently tousling her hair.

"I'd appreciate it if you do not call me that in the office-accidental or not."

"Aye! But on one condition."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I wanna see it!" she said with a grin, realizing the ambiguity in her words. "And by it, I mean the pirate hat and your acting, in case you were thinking I meant something else-"

"Sterling, I know exactly what you mea-"

A black-hooded figure stealthily passed behind their SUV, catching Beatrice's attention. Only when they revealed their position did she find herself frozen, feet seemingly glued to the ground, the world around her vanishing. A constricting sensation gripped her chest, as if the air had been vacuumed from her lungs. Those eyes, that blood-streaked face from that haunting night, now focused on her—predatory, deranged, hungry for murder. She recognized the truth in an instant-she was his next target.

The figure's lips curled into a sinister smirk, eyes shifting to her companion. A grin spread across his face, and he shook his head disapprovingly, akin to a father disappointed in his daughter.

And then he ran.

Quickly pushing Hotchner aside, the analyst pursued the escaped inmate, running with all the speed her feet could muster. She could hear Adam's laughter taunting her as they raced across the parking lot. The familiar, chilling laughter echoed from that same monster she had encountered in her childhood. The vehicles blurred around her as her eyes remained fixed on her target.

The chase led them into a forest, where leaves and branches crunched beneath their rapid footsteps. Her legs, fueled by anger and a thirst for vengeance, seemed tireless. Skills she never thought she'd use again surfaced automatically. Just as she was about to grasp his jacket, they burst out of the woods onto an open road. The blare of a car horn filled Beatrice's ears, and she leaped aside to avoid being hit by the oncoming vehicle. Arms colliding with the rough ground, she quickly scanned the surroundings, realizing she had lost Adam.

"Fuck!"

She was certain, more than certain it was him.

The one person she never thought she'd ever see was standing so near to her.

Adam Reagan.

Her father's killer.

Rising to her feet, the woman sensed the gentle breeze turning harsher with each passing second. Anger simmered beneath the surface, transforming her into someone unrecognizable. The mere proximity of her father's murderer intensified the storm of emotions within her, and the atmosphere hung heavy with the weight of unresolved pain.

"Sterling! Are you alright?"

Aaron Hotchner's voice broke through the turmoil in her mind, a sudden anchor in the chaos. The rage that had consumed her moments ago seemed to quell as if doused with cold water. Though the frown on her lips persisted, the lines on her face etched deeper as she spun around, deliberately ignoring his towering presence.

"Yeah,"

"What was that?"

"Nothing. It was. . . nothing."

She continued walking, her pace unwavering, crossing the road with the intention of returning to headquarters, as if the alarming encounter meant nothing. He matched her stride, his eyes fixed on her face.

"Nothing? You ran without a word, nearly got slammed by a car, and you're telling me it's nothing?"

"Yeah, I made a mistake."

His gaze honed in on her scraped arm, but she swiftly hid the wound from his sight. "I'm okay. It's just a scrape."

"Sterling," he barked, a stern edge cutting through his voice, and she halted. His authoritative tone demanded answers. "Tell me what the hell is going on."

Finally, she spun around, her once lively eyes now ablaze with seething rage. She anticipated that he would pry further, but she needed to keep him at arm's length for his safety. Everyone around her seemed to meet a tragic end, and she couldn't let that happen to him. Like a switch, her expression turned neutral. Emotion drained from her face as she shut her eyes, as if attempting to extinguish her turbulent feelings for him within.

Let it die. Kill it if you have to.

Her fists tightened, nails digging into her palms, and then released, punctuating her words as she jabbed his chest. "Agent Hotchner, with all due respect. . . fuck off."

And with that, she left.

Whatever this was between them, it had to end now; her temporary stay in the BAU left no room for entanglements. The fear that she would unwittingly expose Hotchner and Jack to peril gnawed at her. Adam's ruthless pursuit fueled a paralyzing dread, knowing that their connection could make them targets. The resolve to avoid further entanglement warred with the growing complexity of her feelings, creating a tumultuous inner storm that echoed the urgency to confront and neutralize the threat before it consumed everything.

Her phone pierced through the woods with an unwelcome intrusion, tearing through her thoughts. Answering without glancing at the screen, she heard the twisted voice on the other end. "How's my girl?"

Beatrice didn't flinch, continuing her walk through the woods. "Fuck you, Adam."

Maniacal laughter echoed through the phone. "There it is! That's the spirit! I always like it when you're angry," Adam declared. "I underestimated you that night, though I felt you had it in you. I just couldn't bring myself to believe myself because of how weak you were, but I had confirmed it when I watched that footage." He paused. "You didn't hesitate to put a knife in that man, not only once, but thrice."

A cold shiver ran down her spine. The mention of that haunting night resurfaced memories she had desperately tried to bury. How had he obtained footage from years ago? Panic flickered in her eyes as she realized the agency's supposed erasure of her files had failed. The past she sought to escape had come back to life through Adam, leaving her vulnerable.

Adam's voice slithered through the phone, recounting her composure in that blood-soaked moment. "Anyone would've been scared, Beatrice, trembling even, yet you didn't even flinch. It made me even more curious and amazed after it finished. How long had she been hiding behind that mask of hers? How long was she going to keep up that act? Those were the questions that went through my head."

"Your point?"

"I was planning to spare you. . . but, I see you are no saint, Beatrice. Your hands are stained red and just like your father, the devil chose you to oppose God's plans for me. For that, you deserve to die."

She scoffed, "You talk like you're God's favorite, and yet you are no different from me. Your hands are stained with innocent blo—"

"They are not innocent. They were sinners—"

"You're nothing but a cold-blooded murderer, Adam! Fourteen innocent lives butchered by your hands. . ."

"Because that is what God commanded. He chose me! I am his divine judg-"

"No, that's just a pathetic excuse from a delusional piece of shit who can't accept that his mother abandoned him for another man! You are no divine judge, Adam. You're just a murderer, nothing more, and you know what?" She removed her glasses, a deliberate gesture charged with unyielding determination, aiming to goad him into the final confrontation. "It's true what they say. The only solution when faced with rabid dogs like you is to put them down."

That must've triggered him as his tone lowered, brimming with heightened anger. "Everyone around you will die, Beatrice. Are you sure you can handle that much loss?" He retaliated, venom seeping into his words. "And I will start with that little boy toy of yours? He hummed. "What was his name again? Ah, Special Agent Hotchner,"

The blonde arched an eyebrow. "You won't lay a finger on him. You're terrified of the BAU."

"We'll see."

Beatrice clenched her jaw. "You may still think I am my father's daughter, Adam, but I'm not. The next time I see you, a bullet will go through your damn head."

"Now, now, calm down, young blood. We'll see each other soon."

THE WOMAN SLAMMED her hands against her uncle's desk, the resounding echo amplifying her anger. She was certain the sound had reached beyond the room. "I saw him. With my own two eyes."

"Who?"

"Adam Reagan."

"Where?"

"Parking lot."

Her uncle rose from his chair, his hands finding her shoulders. His eyes darted around, a quick scan to ensure she suffered no injuries. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. I lost him after I chased him," muttered Beatrice, distancing herself from her uncle. The weight of the situation pressed upon her, evident in the weariness etched on her face. "Uncle. . . I think it's time for me to return to the C3S now."

"No, you're safer in the BAU. He's terrified of the department that brought him down."

She let out a sigh, her frustration simmering beneath the surface. "Well then, I only see one solution. You let the police invite my team for the case. We've given enough time for the Fugitive Task Force and the US Marshals to look for him."

"You're right, but I'll assign unit one for the case—"

"No, my team will be able to find him faster than. . ."

Sebastian's voice escalated, his frustration palpable. "I transferred you to the BAU to be safe, and you want to run into danger yourself? Are you insane?" His eyes flared with a mix of fury and disappointment. Beatrice sensed the deeper roots of his concern-losses that had scarred him profoundly. Her uncle had already lost his brother to Adam, and her sister fell in action in Afghanistan.

She saw the flash of realization in Sebastian's eyes as he pulled back, understanding her intentions. "You're not finding him to arrest him. You want to find him so you can kill him."

"Isn't that what he deserves?"

"Beatrice—"

"Won't be my first time anyway," Beatrice declared with a casual tone, attempting to downplay the gravity of her words. As Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose in stress, she pressed on, "Uncle, he knows my previous work. He knows what I did."

Her admission lingered in the air, her eyes reflecting a haunting acknowledgment.

"That's impossible," interjected Sebastian, lifting his head in disbelief. "Your involvement in that operation was erased. I made sure of that."

"Looks like they lied to you, uncle," she said, a hint of bitterness in her tone. "I'll hand over the case file tomorrow to my unit. Who knows what Adam will do with the information he has about me?"

Her uncle snatched his suit jacket from the chair, wearing it with a swift efficiency that betrayed his frustration. "I'll talk to the agency," he declared, fixing the collar with a determined gesture. "They should've honored the agreement. They should pay the price for their incompetence."

As the evening unfolded, Beatrice meticulously gathered all available files about the Sin Killer, including the profile her father's unit had painstakingly built. Seated, she took a moment to glance at her cellphone, and Aaron Hotchner's name topped the list in her recent messages. Last week's text, checking on her whereabouts before takeoff, confronted her. A deep sigh escaped her, as if the very air in her body carried an oppressive weight.

In the quietude of the room, memories of moments with Aaron surfaced. A warmth enveloped her when she was with him, a lightness that defied the heavy burden she bore. When she was with Aaron, the haunting memories seemed to fade, replaced by a warmth she hadn't known before. Yet, with Adam lurking, that bliss became a luxury she couldn't afford.

Her fingers traced the edge of her cellphone, contemplating a text. To protect Aaron, she needed to push him away, even after persuading him to take on the case. The conflict within her manifested as a deep sigh, an audible exhale of the burden that rested on her shoulders. She didn't care if he hated her; his safety came first. She was determined to protect. . .

Their friendship. It had been a sanctuary, a rare haven of comfort she hadn't experienced in a long time. While she had her previous team in the C3S, they remained on the periphery, unaware of the depths of her struggles. It was different with Aaron. He was one of the few who managed to unravel the layers she carefully concealed.

In the moments of shared camaraderie, Aaron brought forth a genuine smile that rarely surfaced. Behind the perpetual facade she wore, there existed a vulnerability that only he seemed to understand. When the weight of solitude pressed in during late nights, and she buried herself in work to fend off the looming emptiness, he seemed to sense it instinctively. An invitation to share his office became a silent acknowledgment of the battles she fought in silence.

The way he detected the shadows behind her smile, the unspoken understanding - it was a lifeline she clung to fiercely and so she was determined to safeguard this newfound source of happiness.

"I'm sorry, Aaron."

I hope you understand.

"STERLING."

"Sterling."

"Bea."

Startled, the woman leaped from her seat, feeling Reid's cold touch on her arm. "Oh, sorry! Sorry! I-I spaced out. I'm sorry!" Blinking rapidly, she adjusted her glasses and stretched her fingers, which had been glued to the keyboard, now resting on her lap. "What-what were you, uh, guys, saying?"

In the whirlwind of events, they now found themselves in Boston, a reality she struggled to grasp. Just an hour ago, on the brink of submitting her case, Hotch had abruptly announced their departure to Boston. Even without an invitation from the local police, he provided an initial briefing on the plane. The sudden turn of events left her disoriented, and as far as she could recall, she was currently engrossed in running a voice and speech analysis of all the Reaper's calls from a decade ago. The speed of their actions mirrored the urgency of the situation, and the tension in the air hinted at the gravity of the case they were about to face.

"If you're going to be this occupied, Sterling, I suggest you step out from this case," Hotch's words cut through the air with an unexpected iciness.

"Woah, Hotch,"

"I'm sorry?" she responded, her gaze locking onto his. Seated near each other, with only Reid between them acting as a tangible and symbolic divide, she processed his words slowly. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and a chill settled in the space around them. She had anticipated Hotch acting distant, but the extent of his coldness took her by surprise. The sting of his words lingered, and she struggled to conceal the emotions brewing beneath her stoic exterior.

"It won't be long before the Reaper kills again. The least you can do, Agent Sterling, is listen and be alert—"

A beep sliced through the tension, and with a wide smirk, Beatrice abruptly turned her laptop towards Agent Hotchner, the loud tap resonating in the room. "Allow me to blow your mind. . . sir." She smiled so hard her cheeks started to hurt.

"I was conducting a voice and speech analysis on the Reaper's 911 calls earlier, Agent Hotchner. Typically, serial killers don't report their crimes to 911, unless to brag, so that got my attention. By the way, I've got this software I built for forensics. It automatically transcribes and analyzes calls, picking out crime-related keywords. No manual slog needed. Now, onto the interesting part-the Reaper's 911 calls prior to victims eight and nine revealed a distinctive breathing pattern: regular, deep, and slow—a state known as eupnoea. The system indicated he was calm, confident, and collected during these instances. These aren't just my words; they're the software's insights."

"Now, listen to this," the woman clicked on another button, revealing a spectrogram and a breathing pattern chart. "in a subsequent call, there was a shift to irregular, fast, shallow breaths, followed by slow, heavier breathing and a moment of complete silence." She pointed out the pattern.

"Cheyne-Stokes respiration. . ." Reid breathed out, leaning closer, his eyes wide with awe. "That is incredible!"

All eyes shifted towards Reid, and a subtle gulp betrayed his awareness that an explanation was owed. Beatrice watched him intently, a mix of curiosity and expectation etched on her face. "Uh, often referred to as 'agonal breathing,'" Reid began, his voice carrying a hint of hesitation. "Children and aging people normally may show this pattern in their sleep. Cheyne-Stokes respirations may be a sign of a serious lung, brain, or circulatory problem like a pulmonary edema, stroke, or heart failure."

"And?"

"They are a clinical sign seen in people who are in the process of dying."

"Bingo, Sherlock!" exclaimed Beatrice, her grin widening as she patted his back. She pivoted to face the group, her eyes reflecting a mix of determination and underlying concern. "The Reaper was wounded. . . badly," she began, her voice carrying the weight of her deduction. As she pointed to the spectrogram, the gravity of her findings sank in. "Yes, he managed to make himself sound calm and collected based on this spectrogram, but it was as if he was thinking. So, my best guess is something happened prior to this call. Maybe he was wounded by Bertrand or by Foyet."

Derek's skepticism pierced the air. "But, the Reaper was using a voice changer. How can you be sure this is all accurate?"

"You can't lie when it comes to breathing, Morgan. You may control your tone, change your voice, but when you're under stress, your breathing pattern changes and most of the time, you can't control it."

Their leader leaned back, his expression expectant. "How can this help us catch him?"

"There's no way he neglected addressing his wound. Given the observed breathing pattern, his survival window was narrow. I'll be checking local hospital and clinic records, then hitting up the drug stores for any signs of unusual prescriptions or medications. A trace, no matter how faint, is bound to manifest. There is no such thing as a perfect crime after all."

"That will take you a lot of time. It's been ten years."

The analyst glared at him, her gaze penetrating, as if daggers could manifest from her intensity and pierce through his skepticism.

"It's better to do something than nothing, don't you think, sir?" she then retorted sharply, her eyes locking onto Hotch's as if daring him to challenge her.

"I'll have Garcia help you—"

"I can finish this task alone, sir. Let Penelope focus on finding Foyet. I'm capable of handling myself."

The intensity in her glare bordered on hostility, each gaze exchanged feeling like a silent clash of wills.

"Hotch, there's a reporter outside insisting on speaking with you. Roy Colson. He says he knows you," JJ conveyed, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

Beatrice noticed a subtle tension in Hotch's nod. "There's a reason he left Foyet's glasses at the last crime scene. Foyet could be in danger."

"We'll find him," Emily declared, and the collective response prompted them all to stand up, signaling the end of the briefing.

"I would like to have a word with you in private later, Sterling," declared Hotch, his tone suggesting an impending conversation of consequence.

"Sure, sir,"

"Mind your behavior from now on, agent."

He was going to reprimand her, for sure. And that was just a preview.

As her colleagues departed, Beatrice immersed herself in her task. Her fingertips danced across the keyboard with a fluid precision, a rhythmic cadence echoing the urgency in the room. Lines of code scrolled across the screen, a digital tapestry she wove with expertise. Beatrice's eyes flickered with a calculated intensity as she dissected data upon data.

Prentiss approached the blonde, leaning against the table with arms crossed. "Are you okay?"

Beatrice responded with a nonchalant hum, a light chuckle escaping her. "Yeah, I'm good. Don't I look like it?"

Her teammate shook her head.

She shifted, leaning against her chair, fingers absently toying with the sleeves of her sweater. "Well, shit," she sighed.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The woman brushed her hair back, a brief pause before she responded, "Well, I am just about to talk to you guys about it so. . ." She rolled her shoulders back. "It's the Sin Killer."

"The Sin Killer," the other woman repeated, her eyebrow raising. "Adam Reagan? Isn't he in prison?"

"He escaped just months ago."

"Oh my god."

"He's the reason why my uncle transferred me to this department," the blonde analyst disclosed. "Adam Reagan is scared of the BAU. He believes the BAU is the devil's way of stopping God's plans for him. He actually believed my father was chosen to be his nemesis. That's why Adam killed him."

"Now, he thinks you're the next one who'll stop him."

Bea nodded, a subtle tremor in her voice. The air in the room seemed to thicken as she recounted the chilling encounter, her emotions held in check but the tension in her voice betraying the turmoil within. "Yeah. He showed up outside our building yesterday. Stood just meters away from me and Hotch, Ems. I tried to chase him, but he slipped away. Then, he called me and threatened to hurt Hotch and his son."

"Why would he bring Hotch into this?"

"Adam thinks we are romantically involved."

"Are you?"

She hesitated before responding, a cascade of thoughts inundating her mind. How could she have been so careless? The potential consequences played out in her mind with stark clarity. Emily and the others might view her differently if they discovered the dynamic between her and Aaron Hotchner. Despite their temporary shared position, he was her supervisor, it was a brewing HR disaster. The mere idea of field agents catching wind of their connection sent a shiver down her spine, as whispers and judgments would spread like wildfire. She faced the prospect of being labeled as someone who attained her position through personal connections rather than professional merit.

But, why was she so worried about this? There was nothing romantic between her and Hotch. They were close colleagues, friends even. There was nothing more to them.

Temporary.

The word echoed in Beatrice's mind like a mantra. She concluded that this was merely a fleeting situation, a deviation from her usual path. Once they apprehended Adam, she would return to the Counterterrorism division. With this realization, she sought solace in the notion that there was nothing to worry about— nothing to overthink. It was all just temporary.

So, when Emily's question lingered in the air, Beatrice responded with a resolute, "No."

"Did you tell Hotch about this?"

"I was about to. . . earlier this morning, but we had to go here in Boston for this case."

As her colleague enveloped her in a hug, Beatrice felt a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability. "Hey, I'm here for you, Bea," she whispered, her words a gentle balm. "I'm so sorry you're going through such a difficult time. I want you to know that the team is here to listen and help you. You're not alone. You're not going to go through this alone."

"Thanks," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of both appreciation and hesitancy.

"I'll be here if you want to talk about it more-or you just want to do something lighthearted," the dark haired woman offered, her tone understanding. "It's completely okay not to be okay."

Beatrice nodded.

"So, what's your plan now?"

"I'm planning to tell him just after we catch the Reaper. Virginia State Police already invited us in to assist in catching Adam. We just have to wrap up this case to head over there."

"You have to, Bea. If you want to protect them, tell him. Everything."

Everything. The word 'everything' reverberated in Beatrice's mind. Emily's advice carried weight, urging her to be open. Uncertain of the full extent, Beatrice chose silence, pondering what 'everything' truly meant. Should she confess to Hotchner that his presence brought her comfort? Peace?

"I will, Ems. Just after this case,"

Temporary, she repeated to herself like a mantra, a whispered prayer in the quiet corners of her mind.  If ever there was a hint of something more for Aaron Hotchner, she desperately hoped it was just a passing storm—no, it had to be temporary. She clung to that assurance, willing it to be true. It would be gone soon.

But that was wishful thinking.

Because people yearn even more for what they cannot have.

——————

i hope y'all savored all their moments of happiness bc shit is about to go down with foyet and adam now coming in, i kid you not. there's a reason why they have so many soft scenes together.

also, so sorry for the slow pacing of this story, but i wanted to try something new. i've always been a writer of fast burns and femme fatale ocs, and it took all of my might not to go down that path again. it makes me sad that i only see a few people excited to see more of what's coming, but it's okay! this story has my heart and i will to see to it that it will be finished.

ps. by january 2 next year, i will be replacing my faceclaim for beatrice sterling with elizabeth lail for reasons i see more as my fc. no worries, the fic won't be unpublished. i'll just revamp it a bit. i mean look at them! they are so perfect!