Chapter Text
You can’t mess this up.
You take a quick shower, barely noticing the cool water as you scrub the sleep off. Everything’s moving so fast now—like time is catching up to you, urging you forward. You stand in front of the mirror, adjusting the white button-down shirt. It’s crisp, professional. Perfect. The black slacks fit just right—not too tight, not too loose. You slip on just the right amount of gold jewelry—simple but enough to add a little personality to your outfit.
The makeup is quick, your usual routine—except for the bolder red lipstick. It’s darker than usual, but you like it. You think it suits you. There’s something confident about the shade, and maybe—just maybe—it’ll make Hotch notice you in a way you hadn’t planned on. You remember seeing a photo of him once, dressed in a suit so perfectly tailored it could’ve been straight out of a magazine. His jaw sharp, the way his dark eyes had a certain intensity to them, and you couldn’t help but think he’s the kind of man who’d appreciate a deeper lipstick, someone who’d notice the effort in the little things. Maybe you’re reading too much into it. But the thought sticks.
You give yourself one last look, making sure everything is perfect.
Grabbing your folder—case studies, résumé, notes—you try to steady your hands, but they betray you anyway, a slight tremor betraying the nervous excitement bubbling inside. You can’t let this slip. You’ve worked too hard for this.
The car ride feels longer than it should. The weight of the seatbelt is grounding, though your thoughts are all over the place. Before you leave, you decide on a playlist. There’s your usual mix, some classical and jazz, and then—your gym playlist. If it can get you to top your PR, it can definitely boost your ego enough for this interview. The beat hits hard, the bass heavy and deep, and you let yourself lose a little in the rhythm. You smile, a small flash of confidence. You know the power this playlist has.
You finally pull off, heading toward the BAU, heart racing.
Eventually, you arrive to the dimly lit, slightly sketchy parking lot. You take off your seatbelt and rifle through your items one more time- to make sure everything is there- and once you your satisfied you have you everything, you take a deep breath and get out of the car.
Your heels click on the hard cement as you enter the building. When your eyes lift from the security desk to the glass-paneled mezzanine above, your breath hitches. The air inside the building is cool, overly filtered, and smells faintly sterile—clean carpet, printer toner, and coffee that's been sitting too long. There’s a buzz in the air, low and constant, like the building itself never sleeps.
You check in at the front, sliding your ID across the smooth counter, and the guard barely glances up before handing you a visitor badge. “Elevator to the left. Up to the sixth floor,” he says.
You thank him with a nod and turn, your folder tucked tight against your chest, fingertips gripping it like a lifeline. The corridors are wide and oddly quiet for how many people seem to be walking through them. Agents in suits pass by with purpose, radios clipped to their belts, coffee cups in hand, conversations murmured just low enough to keep classified.
The elevator is silver and reflective, all brushed metal and harsh lighting. You press the button and watch the numbers descend, a flicker of anxiety dancing in your stomach. When the doors open, you step inside, surrounded by your own distorted reflection in the walls. It's quiet. You’re alone.
Sixth floor.
The doors part with a soft chime, and the shift is immediate. This floor looks different—quieter, but heavier somehow. The carpets are industrial gray, the kind that mute footsteps. Glass offices line the corridor to your right, partitioned off from the bullpen, which opens ahead like the center of a hive. There’s a quiet energy here, taut and focused. The hum of low voices, the occasional ring of a desk phone, the shuffling of case files. It’s not sterile the way the lobby was—there’s life here. Lived-in chaos.
The BAU’s bullpen is a blend of structure and clutter. Rows of desks curve toward the center like an open command station, stacked with case files, mugs, photos, and yellow legal pads scribbled with notes. There’s a case board against one wall, peppered with photos and red string like something out of a crime drama—but real. It’s all real. You breathe it in, nerves and all.
You begin to step out of the elevator when—
Fuck.
Your heel catches on the gap between the elevator and the floor, and you stumble forward, the sharp click of your shoe replaced by the humiliating flutter of paper as the contents of your manila folder scatter like a deck of cards across the ground—your résumé, credentials, forms, references. Everything you'd so carefully organized just moments earlier.
Your face flushes with heat as you crouch down, hands fumbling for the closest sheet.
“Can I help you?”
The voice is soft, even, and oddly gentle. More rhetorical than anything, because he’s already kneeling beside you, fingers scooping up loose pages before you can even get your bearings.
And then you look up.
He’s... handsome. Not in an intimidating, sharp-jawed way like the man you’re here to interview with—but in that unexpected, offbeat way that sneaks up on you. Wire-framed glasses perched slightly crooked, messy brown hair that looks like he ran his hands through it too many times, and the kind of large, intelligent eyes that feel like they see more than they should. He’s wearing a khaki crossbody satchel—slightly too nerdy to be cool, but endearing enough to work.
The two of you finish gathering the last of the papers at the same time. You stand, heels clicking awkwardly as you adjust the folder in your arms, trying to save face. He straightens as well, and it’s then you realize he’s tall. Like, really tall. Towering, but not in a threatening way. At 5'2, you're used to most people having a height advantage, but still—there’s something kind of flattering about the difference.
He shifts his weight and sticks out a hand, awkward but earnest.
“Um—hi. My name is, uh—Dr. Spencer Reid,” he says, like it’s something he still isn’t used to saying aloud. “Are you here to interview with Hotch?”
You take his hand, fingers brushing his palm a little longer than necessary. His hand is warm. Surprisingly so.
“Oh—yeah, I am. And thank you so much, Dr. Reid, for helping me. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
His ears go just a shade pinker. “Of course,” he says. “His office is just up those stairs to the right.”
Then, a pause. Slight hesitation.
“Oh—and—I never caught your name?”
You smile, adjusting the folder again.
“Right. Dr. (YN, YLN)”
He nods, repeating it under his breath once—like he’s filing it away. And then someone brushes past, a bulletproof vest brushing your shoulder as the agent murmurs something into a headset.
You straighten your spine. You’re almost there. You’re in it. This place is buzzing with intellect and darkness and pressure, and you're about to sit across from one of the most formidable agents in the country.
Your heels press into the floor with each step as you approach the office. One last breath before you knock.
-----------------------------------------------------
That night, you realized two things— One: Hotch wasn’t your type. At all. He was exceptionally handsome, sure—but he was stone cold and seemed emotionally unavailable.
Two: you were definitely into that Dr. Reid guy.
You were still thinking about him—his awkward smile, the way he repeated your name under his breath, the way his glasses had slid down his nose—when you curled into bed in your pajamas, half-asleep and utterly exhausted. That kind of exhaustion that comes with adrenaline wearing off all at once.
Your phone buzzed. It was Agent Hotchner.
You sat up quickly.
A moment of panic—had something gone wrong?
You cleared your throat and answered, trying to sound professional despite the sleepy rasp in your voice.
"Hello—this is Dr. (Y/L/N).”
"Hi,” came the reply, flat and unmistakably monotone. “I’m calling to let you know that you got the job. Can you start on Monday?”
Your smile bloomed before you could stop it. “Yes! Monday—Monday sounds great. Perfect. Yeah—thank you, SSA Hotchner!”
"Hotch is fine."
“Thank you, Hotch. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Goodnight, Dr. (Y/L/N).”
The call ended with a soft click.
You stared at your phone for a second before giggling into your blanket, kicking your feet . You were way too tired to celebrate properly tonight, but tomorrow? Tomorrow you'd celebrate like someone who just landed their dream job.
(Editors note)
Sorry I've been gone for so long. The AO3 curse is real someone tried to kill me and I was in the hospital. Yay.