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Of course it has to be like this. Of course it has to be Aaron fucking Hotchner who’s your new boss. Why, with a last name of Foyet, would the world give you anything good for a while? It’s like a form of generational karma, you’re paying for the things your father did.
Aaron didn’t want to hire you and who can blame him? You’re the child of the man who killed his wife and almost killed his son. And Aaron killed your dad. However, Strauss warned Hotch that if he didn’t hire you, or at least give you a chance, he’d be seen as ‘unfair’ and 'a poor representation of the BAU’.
You grip one of the straps of your backpack as the lift doors open, the BAU bullpen ahead. You sigh and step through, gaining the attention of those there. The first to introduce themselves is a young woman.
“I’m Emily Prentiss. Welcome to the team,” she greets, holding out a hand. You take it, shaking it lightly.
“Y/N…Foyet.” You cringe at the last name, and the room falls into silence. No one moves, or dares to say a word. Foyet. As in, George Foyet? “I just want to clear this up now, I not my dad. In fact I chose law enforcement to catch people like him.”
There seems to be a visible relaxation ripple through the room though it’s short-lived as their unit chief leaves his office.
“Agent Foyet.” Only a deaf man could miss the bitterness in his voice. “Can you come to my office? We need to finalise your paperwork.”
You nod, suppressing a gulp as you walk up the stairs and into Hotch’s office. As you walk to the desk, you hold your hand out to shake. Hotch ignores it, instead taking his seat and opening a file.
“It’s a pleasure to work with you sir, and can I apologise for my father’s actions? I can assure you I’m nothing like him.”
Hotch looks at you, staring you down with a harsh glare, his eyes scanning your face. “We’ll see.”
—•—
“Is Hotch ever gonna give the kid a break?”
Derek and Rossi stand in the break room, drinking a cup of coffee and making idle conversation. It’s a slow day and neither want to go back to filling out paperwork.
“Y/N?” Rossi asks. He nods. “I don’t know. Their dad killed his wife.”
“And Hotch killed their dad but Y/N hasn’t held a grudge!” He argues. Derek’s grown fond of you, and feels protective of you. This hasn’t gone unnoticed by you, but you’re grateful nonetheless.
Rossi sighs. “I’ll have a word with him. I know I’m not the chief but I’ve known Aaron for a long time.”
Derek nods, satisfied with Dave’s answer and leaves, heading back to his desk. He doesn’t miss the number of papers on your desk, piling high. Without saying anything, he takes a few, prepared to fill them out himself. You give him a grateful smile.
Rossi knocks on Hotch’s door before stepping in, making the man look up.
“Dave. What’s wrong?” He asks.
“Hotch we seem to talk about Y/N,” he states. That gets his attention.
“What have they done? I can call them in now.” He goes to go to his door.
“They’ve done nothing wrong. This is about you, Aaron.” He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been nothing but hard on the kid from the day they got here. You swamp them with paperwork, pick up every last flaw, and pull them up on the smallest things.”
“Sometimes they go against procedure and needs to be told,” Aaron tries to justify. Dave shakes his head.
“So do all of us, but you only reprimand them. It’s unprofessional, Hotch. We can all tell they’re the polar opposite of their dad, why can’t you?”
—•—
You’re are in a tough situation. The unsub you were chasing happens to be a member of a gang, something none of you had anticipated, and now you’re trapped in a warehouse. Guns are aimed at your heads and you’re forced to kneel, surrendering your own weapons.
“Eenie, Meenie, Minie, Mo.” The unsub stops on Spencer, cocking his gun and aiming the barrel at his head. Your heart pounds in your chest—you can’t let this happen. You can’t. Spencer’s your best friend.
“Wait, wait!” You call out, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. “T-Take me instead.”
The unsub raises a brow, stalking over. “And why would I do that?”
“Well, if you take me and let the others go, you can do whatever you want with me.” Someone lets out a light gasp. “But only on the condition you let the others go.”
The unsub seems to think about this for a moment. He taps the gun to his temple in a thinking position. Finally, he nods. “Okay.” He gestures to his members, who lead the others out of the building. You watch them close the door, catching a glimpse of Hotch’s face before it’s blocked out. Did he look…distressed? No. No, he hates you.
“Let’s go.”
You sigh and comply with everything that happens, as you’re moved to a van and transported, into a different warehouse presumably across town, forced into a chair, and tied up. A tripod is positioned in front of you and you look dead into the lens. A livestream, you think, at least they’ll be able to track it.
Outside, Hotch gets a call.
"Garcia?” He asks.
“Sir, you need to see this.”
She ends the call and Aaron checks his texts, opening the link. It’s a livestream.
“Guys!” He calls, and they all gather around his phone, watching as you’re tied up, staring at the camera. You don’t even flinch as you’re punched in the back of the head, your neck snapping forward before returning to its original place. Spencer struggles to watch, messing with his hands.
Garcia tries to track the source, but the team can’t seem to take their eyes off the screen. Hotch’s mind wonders. Why did you give yourself up? You’re Foyet’s kid, right? You’re all about yourself and doesn’t care for a team. You make procedural errors and sometimes reflect badly on the unit.
But you’re caring. You’re kind. You make sure Spencer’s not interrupted, you go to Dave’s for dinner, you help Derek flip houses on the weekends, you babysit (or catsit) for JJ and Emily, you make sure to indulge Garcia in whatever her interest is that week. And Hotch? You always listen to him, addressing him with upmost respect and taking on everything he says.
Hotch was wrong. You’re nothing like your father—you’re the opposite.
The team don’t miss the crack and the scream that comes from the speaker. They just broke your fingers, one by one.
“Garcia, have you found it yet?” Derek asks.
“Yes my loves. Go save them.”
They pull up the coordinates and drive as fast as they can, speeding through.
“Hotch, you might want to slow down a little. We don’t want to crash,” Rossi warns. Aaron says nothing, just gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. It takes ten minutes and Hotch doesn’t even wait to suit up before he’s coming up with a plan.
“Prentiss, Morgan, I want you with me going in the front. Rossi, Reid, and JJ, I want you guys covering all exits. Make sure none of them get away. Let’s get our agent.”
The team are a little, no, a lot, shocked that Hotch is barking orders as quickly as he is, but get into positions. On his count, they kick the door in, shouting orders to get down as the local PD follow suit, cuffing the other members and leaving the BAU with the unsub. Hotch can’t stop himself, he tackles him to the ground, knocking the knife out of his hand and holding him down. He’s trying so hard to refrain from bashing his head against the concrete floor, stopped as Derek cuffs him and forces him out, reading his rights.
That’s when Hotch turns to you.
His eyes widen at the sight. Blood’s pooling under the chair, your right hand looks mangled, and you’re deathly pale. Aaron runs, untying you and helping you steady yourself.
“Hey, stay with me, yeah? The medics are going to be here any minute,” he reassures you.
“How,” you cough, “how bad is it? D-Don’t, don’t sugarcoat it.”
Hotch’s brow furrows and it looks as though he’s hiding back tears. “Erm, broken fingers,” he clears his throat, “and a broken ankle. Your…your stomach’s been slashed and you’ve lost a lot of blood. You-”
“Sir, step aside please,” a medic asks. Hotch does has he’s told, letting them assess the damage and get you onto a stretcher. They carry you out, Hotch running alongside. He stays with you all through the ride to the hospital, even holding your hand when you look terrified. He offers a weak smile as you’re wheeled into the operating room, and then he’s forced to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Until it’s been six hours and his name’s being called by a doctor. By this time, the whole team’s arrived, offering support to each other and praying for you.
“How are they?” Hotch asks. The doctor nods.
“They’ll be okay. Their injures are extensive, and they’ll need physical therapy for at least three months before they can even think about returning to the field, but physically, they should recover just fine. Mentally, however, we can’t assess the damage until later. You can see them, if you like,” she explains. Hotch nods and turns back to his team.
“Head back to DC. I’ll keep you updated,” he says. The others give a nod, frowning a little, and turn to leave, “and Dave’s in charge.”
The older man looks at him with a small smile. “Can’t leave the kids without a parent now, can we?” He jokes and the two share a light laugh before they part ways.
—•—
Hotch stays true to his word, and updates the team every day on your condition, though nothing’s changed. You’re still asleep.
He sits in his hospital room, staring off.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. You’re still asleep, but Aaron needs to get this off his chest. “I was so hard on you. I almost drowned you in paperwork, I called you up for errors I expected you to make, and I made you seem like a fool. I was a bully, and I’m sorry.”
“Hotch,” a whispered voice calls, “we both know,” you cough, and Hotch quickly looks down, a smile of relief plastering his face as he sees you with open eyes, a faint smile on your face. He helps you sit up with a lot of caution and hands you some water, helping you drink.
“What were you saying?” He asks, gesturing for you to continue.
“We both know that someone’s first impressions are clouded with previous judgement. Mine just so happened to be my dad. I don’t blame you for that,” you reassure. Hotch gives a small smile and nods, looking down.
“Forgive me for feeling guilty.”
“Don’t.” Your voice cuts through the air like a knife. “I’m sorry for what my dad did. I can’t begin to imagine the grief you went through.”
Hotch scoffs with a small smile. “I mean, I did kill your dad.”
You give a light laugh before wincing a little, your stitches hurting. “I guess we’re even, then.”
“Yeah. I guess we are.”