Archive of Our Own

It's not raining this time when he pulls up to the curb in front of the tiny shop with the neon sign in the window, but the sun has long set once again. He doesn't get out of the car right away, just sits in the darkness for a moment, one hand still on the wheel, and wonders what it says about him that he chose to drive down here at this hour.

He could say that it's simply because he was busy, that there was a case to close, urgent paperwork he had to finish before wrapping up work for the night, and it wouldn't be a lie. But he is too good a profiler not to realize, deep down, that it's also an indication of his conflicting emotions. It would be so much easier if he walked up to the door now to find the store abandoned and locked up for the night, if he could turn around and walk back to the car and ask Nancy Rubenstein at the front desk to ship the package for him tomorrow, costume cleaned and neatly folded into the box with a few apologetic lines scribbled onto a notepad attached.

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head at himself. He's only here to return a Halloween costume, nothing more, he tells himself as he reaches for the package on the passenger seat. He resists the fleeting urge to check his reflection in the rear mirror before pushing the car door open. He knows what he looks like after a long day at work, his shirt still clean but sweaty and faintly creased, his face greyish and lined from too much stress and too little sleep.

At least he is not soaked to the bones this time, he thinks as a he rings the door bell and waits. Nothing happens for several long minutes, and Hotch forces himself not to shift from one foot to the other. A car drives by, briefly lighting up the sidewalk Hotch is standing on, and as the lights wander past, he starts to count. He’ll leave when he gets to 100, he tells himself. By the time he gets to 42, he’s trying hard not to think about whether he feels relieved or disappointed. 46, 47, 48, and a dim light flicks on in the showroom behind the window. Two seconds later, the door swings open, and he takes a step back.

Madame Bouvier leans against the doorframe as she looks him up and down from underneath raised, neatly plucked brows.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," she says, and despite the gentle mockery in her voice, she sounds pleased to see him. She isn’t wearing make-up, just a hint of leftover eyeliner smudged around her eyes, and her face looks softer than he remembers this way, her cheekbones a little less prominent, her chin the tiniest bit wider.

"I'm sorry I'm showing up so late again. Work was crazy today," he says, and forces himself not to wince. The excuse sounds lame even to his own ears.

She waves him off with a tiny shrug and steps aside to invite him in.

"Don't you worry about it," she says airily. "You can come bother me anytime you want."

He actually feels himself blushing, grateful when she turns away to lead him into the store. She's wearing a silky robe again, this one dark purple hemmed with faux fur, and a scarf in the same color wrapped in a turban around her head. In her neck, a line of close-cropped dark curls is peeking out from underneath the cloth, and for some inexplicable reason, he has a hard time tearing his eyes away from the sight.

"I brought your costume back," he says and raises the package a bit awkwardly.

"Are you going to let me read your palm tonight, Agent Hotchner?" she responds, turning around to face him with a flourish.

"I don’t think so," he says, with an apologetic smile and a shake of his head.

Her smile doesn't falter, but he thinks he can see something like disappointment in her eyes. "You don't trust me with your fate?" she asks lightly, only a hint of tension audible in her tone.

"It's not that," he says dryly. "It's just that if there is any more death in my near future, I'd rather not know about it yet."

She looks a bit taken aback, but she doesn't ask, and Hotch wonders briefly what Penelope has told her about him. Then he feels silly for imagining that Garcia would bother to gossip about him at all.

"Fair enough," the psychic says simply, and takes the package from his hands. She carefully sets it down on the counter, but doesn’t even open the box to check, and suddenly he feels guilty for turning down her offer.

He clears his throat. "I would take that cup of tea now, though," he says awkwardly. "If the offer still stands."

She turns back towards him with a look of pleased surprise on her face, but her features grow serious as she studies him more closely.

"You do look exhausted," she states, and for once, there is nothing flirtatious about her voice. She looks at him silently for a moment longer, then she seems to come to a decision.

"Why don't we go into the back," she says and doesn't wait for his response before she lifts the beaded curtain separating the showroom from the back of the store. He can't think of doing anything but follow her, so he steps into the next room with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation and finds himself standing in a small, but tastefully decorated living room, with a tiny kitchenette along the left wall.

"You live here?" he asks, and doesn't know what exactly she hears in his voice, because she snorts, a surprisingly indelicate sound.

"Why do you think I'm always here and ready to entertain when you show up in the middle of the night?" she says with a shrug. "Madame Bouvier may be the most sought-after psychic on this side of town, but the spirits haven't pointed me the way to any hidden treasures just yet."

He shakes his head hastily, worried that he might have offended her. "It's nice," he says honestly. She rolls her eyes at him as if she thinks he's just trying to be polite, but doesn't mind him lying for her sake.

"Make yourself comfortable then, Agent Hotchner," she says and sweeps an arm towards the sitting area before starting to busy herself with the water heater. "It won't take but a minute."

"Thank you," he says and takes off his suit jacket before he carefully lowers himself into the dark-red loveseat underneath the painting of a somberly-looking skeleton in a top hat. The couch is soft and surprisingly comfortable, and he fights to keep control over his tired body that immediately wants to sink into the cushions and relax.

"And please, it's Hotch," he says, straightening in his seat and setting his hands on his thighs to keep them still.

She throws him a look over her shoulder that is distinctly amused. "Hotch? Agent Hotchner, I know you are working for the FBI, and I sure can appreciate a handsome man in a suit, but I draw the line at pretending to be in a 1960s cop show on TV."

He chuckles, surprised and a little self-conscious. "It's not that bad, is it?" he asks. "People have been calling me that for decades." She raises her brows at him, demonstratively unimpressed, and he huffs a laughter.

"Call me Aaron, then," he says, and then wants to bite his tongue to take it back. Christ, it sounds like he’s flirting, and he knows from experience how bad he is at that.

But the psychic just nods thoughtfully as she fetches two brightly-colored mugs from the kitchen cabinet. "Aaron is a good name," she says and pours the tea. "It suits you." She carries the mugs to the sitting area and offers him the dark blue one with a picture of the Virgin Mary on the side. He wonders if it's supposed to be a message, but he can't figure out what it might be.

"I'm Charlene," she says once he's got a firm hold on the mug and she’s let go. He looks up at her, and she smiles and makes a small theatrical gesture of 'ta-taa,' as if she is mimicking her entrance on an imaginary stage. Then she abruptly aborts the gesture, as if suddenly self-conscious, and shrugs, her smile turning wry.

"Or you can call me Chad, if that's easier for you," she says, her voice deeper and a bit weary all of a sudden. "It what my auntie calls me." She retreats to the plush leopard print armchair on the other side of the coffee table and curls up in it with her own mug. "And he is me, sometimes. But auntie doesn't care about the difference. She means well, I think," she says and takes a sip from her tea, pinkie finger extended as if she was holding a bone china tea cup and not a chipped heavy mug with yellow flowers. "But she's found God somewhere on the way from Roanoke to Jacksonville. You know, the strict boring one that all those Evangelicals believe in, with all his silly arbitrary rules. Now the one my folks down there in Louisiana pray to, he gets along with the other spirits just fine. And he speaks French. Tell me, which one would you rather put your money on?"

Hotch blinks, uncertain of how to respond. He wonders why she is sharing so much with him, someone she doesn't know at all, and is slightly dismayed to find that he can't figure her out. Maybe she is nervous too, he thinks hesitantly, and then doesn't know what to do with that thought.

"I like Charlene," he finally says, the only thing he can think of, but it must have been the right response, because her answering smile is bright and warm, a bit teasing and not just a little grateful.

He looks down, feeling unsettled, and busies himself with his tea mug. The smell of mint and something citrus-y hits his nose when he lifts it to his mouth, and he pauses halfway, trying to figure out what the scent reminds him of. Trying to remember when he's last had an herbal tea without the excuse of being sick. To be fair, he can't remember when he last allowed himself to be sick either.

"Lemon verbena, lemongrass, and spearmint," the psychic says, as if she knows what he's thinking about. He has to smile a little at the irony of that.

"Energizes, clears your mind, soothes your nerves. You look like you need it."

He shrugs and finally takes a sip of his tea. It's cooled off enough to be just pleasantly hot, and tastes fresh and clean, with a hint of spice. He takes a deep breath and feels some of the tension of the last days seep out of him.

"It was a long weekend," he finally says, and Charlene raises her brows.

"Now tell me, Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, what happened to you over the weekend to get you into such a funk? And don't tell me it was the trick-or-treating with your little boy, because I know that can be exhausting, but surely it's not that bad."

He huffs ruefully and shakes his head, already opening his mouth to respond when it hits him, all of a sudden, that he's been played. Oh sure, she might very well be nervous, but now he realizes that she's also told him about herself to get him to open up. Give the unsub something of yourself, some embarrassing truth, some tiny secret, and they'll always give you something in return. It's the oldest trick in the book. It's one of the first things a profiler learns. And here he is, and he never even saw it coming.

He notices that he's staring at Charlene, and she must realize that he's caught on, because she smirks, unapologetically. But her eyes are warm, and he shakes his head inwardly. This is not an interrogation, he tells himself, they are not trying to find each other's weak spots to know where to push to make it hurt the most. It's just a conversation, a cup of tea between friends, just someone who cares enough to ask him how he feels.

"We had a case over the weekend," he says eventually, and is surprised to find that the words come easily. "A bad one."

"Aren't they all bad?" Charlene asks lightly, as if they are just talking about the weather. "Penelope never tells me much, but I know that you are not investigating petty theft."

He takes another drink of his tea. "Some are always easier, some are worse," he says. "It's different for each profiler. Everyone's got their triggers, you know. Something to set them on edge. This one had children," he continues. "It's always bad when there's children."

"Did you save them?" Charlene asks, and Hotch actually has to think for a moment about what she means.

"Yes," he finally says slowly. "Yes, we – well. Not the ones that were already dead. But yes, we saved some." You can't save all of them, he thinks, the eternal mantra of every profiler, as he looks down into his tea. You can never save them all.

"My dad beat me half to death with a two-by-four once," Charlene says, after they've been quiet for a while, and he looks up at her in shock at the apparent non-sequitur. She's looking at the painting on the wall behind his head, seemingly deep in thought.

"My brother wanted to stop him, but my mother held him back. My sister was still a baby, and I remember she kept screaming in her stroller the whole time. Mom later said that dad just lost control, but I know he wanted to kill me. Would've, too, if the diner waitress and her daughter hadn't come by," she adds. "Tiny women, both of them, all bones and no meat, but they kept him at bay until the police and the ambulance showed up. Payed for my hospital bill, too, that family, even though they didn't have much themselves. When I got released, the owner of the diner gave me money for a bus ticket and told me he'd keep an eye on my siblings, and I went to stay with my grandma the next day. My father never laid a finger on me again."

She finally looks back at Hotch and laughs quietly when she sees in his face. "I'm sorry, honey," she says. "I didn't mean to scare you, and I'm not looking for pity." She raises her mug in his direction as if she's toasting him with a glass of champagne. "The point of this story is: I know you feel guilty for every person you don't manage to save. And it's true, you won’t ever be able to save everyone. But for every kid you do save, you being there on time is sure gonna make one hell of a difference."

He stares. "You really are psychic, aren't you," he says, his voice sticky with emotion, and he isn't entirely sure if he's joking. She simply laughs as if he is and rolls her eyes at him again.

"I hate to tell you, Aaron Hotchner," she says. "But you are really not that hard to figure out."

He chokes out a laughter. "I'm fairly certain you are the only person in the DC area who believes that," he says.

She holds a hand up against the back of her head in an exaggerated gesture of preening. "Maybe I'm just that good," she says and winks.

He looks at the person sitting in front of him, strong and calm and beautiful, and tries to imagine the child she must have been, terrified and beaten. He wants to say that he's glad she survived, but what comes out instead is something else entirely.

"My father beat us too," he says, and then has to use all his discipline and self-control to not jump up and run away. This is not something he talks about, ever – certainly not with someone he just met.

But Charlene only nods calmly and doesn't look surprised. "Yeah," she says, "I figured that was the case." When he gapes at her, she shrugs as if it's no big deal.

"You've got that look in your eyes."

He has to look away, then, before he does something embarrassing. He’s gotten so used to keeping his cards close to his chest, still hates it when his team tries to profile him, even if he knows they are coming from the right place. He’s not sure what to do with someone who can see through him this easily.

His gaze lands on his watch and he jumps slightly in surprise. He can’t believe he's been here for an hour.

"It's getting late," he says, clearing his throat, and he wonders if he sounds as reluctant as he feels. "I should go."

Charlene nods and gets to her feet, the robe billowing around her softly.

"Back to your family," she says lightly, with a tiny smile.

"It's just me and my son," he corrects without thinking, and then really wants to slap a palm over his face.

She laughs at him, quiet and amused. "Yes, I know," she says, and okay, this answers the question as to whether Penelope has been talking about him. "That's still a family, though, isn't it?"

"Yes," he concedes. "I guess it is."

She leads him back through the curtain into the showroom, and when she turns to look at him, he thinks she looks slightly awkward for the very first time. She covers it up quickly though, with a flirtatious smile and a wave of her hand.

"Well, it's been a pleasure," she says. "Thank you for returning the costume. And know you are welcome anytime, Agent Aaron Hotchner, in case you change your mind about that reading."

She extends a hand, and when he reaches out to shake it, her fingers are strong and firm against his own.

"The pleasure was all mine," he says, and on a whim raises their hands to his mouth to brush a kiss over the back of her hand.

It's an old-fashioned, outdated gesture, and his lips barely brush her skin, but when he lets go of her hand and looks up, she stares at him with something like awe. He smiles, pleased with himself at the thought that he has managed to catch her by surprise.

"Good night, Charlene," he says, and steps into the chilly air of the November night. He unlocks the car and pauses briefly, one hand on the open driver's door. When he throws a last look at the psychic's shop, he thinks he sees one of the curtains shift, just a little. He raises his hand in greeting, then climbs into the car.

He doesn’t notice that he’s left his jacket on the armrest of the loveseat until he gets home and Jessica looks up from her fashion magazine to ask if he’s really been out in the cold like this. She gives him an odd look when he simply stares at her for a moment, confused and off his game, but she doesn’t say anything else before she leaves, and he’s glad that he doesn’t have to come up with answers he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have himself.

And it shouldn’t matter, it’s not even an actual issue, he’s got plenty of suit jackets to wear, but Tuesday morning passes and he’s still thinking about it, his professional pride horrified about his forgetfulness, the profiler in him faintly intrigued with his own tells.

It's done, he thinks, he should let it go. He returned the costume, he was offered a cup of tea, a gesture of polite hospitality, and that was it. There is no reason for them to see each other again, jacket or not – maybe he will send a car over later today, maybe Garcia will bring it in one of these days. And yet, he can’t seem to shake that hint of restlessness, a vague sense of unfinished business. Part of him wonders if he should have said something else, even as he doesn’t know what that would have been. Even as he knows he would have lacked the courage.

At work, he faces the ugliest grimace of mankind, the darkest corners of the human heart every day, and the concern that he might grow numb and indifferent to them has been scaring him more than the horrors themselves for a while.

In his private life, though, he's always been a bit of a coward, has always taken the safe route. Beth was safe and reasonable and comfortable, two responsible, mature adults. Even Kate was safe, in a way, as long as he only loved her from afar. Haley was the safest of all, the high school sweetheart he married and stayed faithful to until she left. He's played it safe all his life, and here he is, single dad and divorced widower in his early fifties with too many scars to count, inside and out.

It's too late now anyway, he tells himself and sets down his pen. He checks his watch – it’s almost noon, and a slow day for once. Fifteen more minutes, and he might be able to afford a half-hour lunch break.

He’s just trying to steer his attention back to the form in front of him when he hears Garcia’s voice down in the bullpen, excited and surprised.

”Oh my god, sweetheart, what are you doing here? Gosh, you look gorgeous. Oh no, I didn’t forget about a lunch date or something, did I? I’m sure I would have put that into my phone.”

The answer is calm, and too quiet for him to understand any of the words, but the voice still sounds familiar, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s already gotten up from his chair. He steps out into the hallway, looking down into the bullpen, and yes. There is Madame Bouvier, the one and only, talking quietly with Garcia in the middle of the FBI office in the middle of the day. She’s wearing a turquoise plush coat with matching hat, and acts like she doesn’t notice the curious looks some of the agents in the office are throwing her way.

Speaking of courage. He’s met some of Garcia’s friends before, and none of them put a lot of trust into law enforcement, but Hotch can only imagine what it must have taken her to come up here by herself. His team alone – they are good people, and they have seen far too much to be really prejudiced, but they’ve all got their hang-ups, too. JJ tends to be judgmental at odd times, Morgan can get weird about gender stuff, and he still remembers David freaking out the last time they ran into a professional psychic on the job – Christ. He should probably go out there before David starts ranting at her about quacks and charlatans.

Of course, by the time he makes it down into the bullpen, it’s Reid who’s latched onto her – and God bless Reid, Hotch thinks, Reid who charms prostitutes and falls in love with people over the phone and who’s wearing a waistcoat in the same shade of purple as Charlene’s silky house robe from last night, sticking out as much as she does among the army of grey pencil skirts and black suits. She’s got one hand propped up against her hip, and is looking up at him with a slightly amused smile on her face as he talks animatedly, gesturing widely. Garcia is watching the whole thing with an expression of fond exasperation, looking like she can’t decide whether to go fetch popcorn or stick around not to miss anything.

”It’s fascinating,” Hotch hears Reid say as he steps closer. “Even Aristotle wrote about palmistry. Presumably he found a treaty on palm-reading on an altar to Hermes and passed the knowledge onto Alexander the Great, who had an invested interest in finding ways to predict the future and – oh, hey, Hotch, did you know that Madame Bouvier works as a psychic?”

“Yes, I’m aware,” he says dryly, and gives Charlene a small conspiratorial smile when she turns to look at him.

“Madame Bouvier,” he says, and reaches out for a handshake. She drops the dark blue gloves she’s been holding onto Reid’s desk and takes his hand.

“Agent Hotchner,” she replies, her answering smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, lips painted in a shade of dark plum. The smile is warm, but slightly muted, and Hotch realizes that she somehow seems quieter, less bright in this environment than she did on her own turf. It’s nothing obvious, but Hotch earns his money studying other people’s micro-expressions, and he can see how she keeps her body in check, her movements smaller, more controlled.

“Was there something wrong with the costume?” he asks, suddenly irrationally worried even though he knows Jack and Jessica double-checked everything for tears and stains before folding the suit.

“Oh please,” she says. “If I didn’t know that a little kid had actually worn it, I wouldn’t have believed it. Your son must be the best-behaved child on the planet. No, no, petit Darth Vader was in perfect shape. I’m only here to drop off your suit jacket.” She hands him the large paper bag with the logo of a bookstore that’s been sitting on the floor by her feet. He can see the collar of his jacket sticking out over the edge, and carefully deposits the bag on the next free desk.

“I assumed you might miss it.”

“Thank you,” he says. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here, but I do appreciate it.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, waving him off, “I was –“

She pauses abruptly, dropping her hand, and Hotch could swear that she had been about to say “in the neighborhood.” Except they are at the FBI in Quantico, and there really is no neighborhood.

And she must realize that he’s come to that conclusion as well, because her smile falters, turns careful, as if she isn’t sure anymore she did the right thing. As if she isn’t sure she is wanted here.

“It was nothing, really,” she says, and picks up her gloves. “But I’m afraid I must dash. Doctor Reid, a pleasure to meet you. Penelope,” she leans in for air kisses and comes up with a smudge of Garcia’s bright lipstick on her cheek. “Let’s have a cup of tea soon, it’s been too long.”

“Absolutely, gorgeous,” Garcia nods, and dives in for last quick hug, which Charlene accepts with grace. “I’ve been meaning to come back for a reading anyway.”

“Agent Hotchner,” Charlene says finally, still with that careful look in her eyes, and Hotch notices that Garcia and Reid are looking back and forth between them curiously, already trying to figure them out.

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” he says quickly, and she raises her eyebrows a little, but doesn’t protest. Turning away, he sees Garcia and Reid sticking their heads together, and firmly suppresses the feeling of mortification that’s making a valid attempt at unfolding in his guts.

“I hope Reid didn’t overwhelm you,” he says as he holds the glass doors to the hallway open for her. “I know he can be a bit much when you aren’t used to him.”

She shakes her head. “He’s a sweet boy,” she says. “And I know a lot of women who’d kill for cheekbones like that.” She smiles, but it shifts into something more serious after a moment. “There’s a lot of darkness in him.”

Hotch falters in his step, taken aback. “This is the FBI,” he says. “Everyone here has seen bad things.”

She stops as well, neatly stepping aside to let a few people pass by. “It’s not that,” she says, and actually shudders quietly. “It must be hard on him.”

Hotch gives her a doubtful look. He has no objections to how Madame Bouvier earns her money – it’s people’s prerogative to seek advice from whoever they want, and if he’s learnt anything last night, it’s that Charlene is excellent at reading people, if nothing else. But that doesn’t mean that he actually believes in fortune-telling and spirit-seeing, even if he doesn’t share Dave’s aversion to all things supernatural that don’t fit into the spiritual framework of the Catholic Church.

Except he suddenly remembers that priest down in Miami, some years ago, the way he’d reacted to Reid, the protective charm he’d given him, and it makes him wonder.

“You think I’m crazy,” Charlene states, not even a question, and she doesn’t sound angry, just a little bit resigned.

“No,” he shakes his head firmly. “No, I don’t think that. It’s just – I’m used to trusting in the facts.” He raises his shoulders, almost a little embarrassed. “I’m not always good at thinking outside the box.”

She lifts her brows. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Aaron,” she says, and some of the familiar flirtatiousness creeps back into her voice. “I know there’s a reason Penelope likes you so much, and it’s not just because you look so good in a suit.”

He shakes his head, flustered. “I don’t even know what to say to that,” he admits, and she laughs, a bright and happy sound. Two agents walking by turn their heads.

“All that and modest, too,” she says lightly, and then gestures at the elevators, five feet away.

“Well, this is where we split.”

“I was just about to go for lunch,” he blurts out, and then feels as shocked about it as she looks. But it’s too late now to take it back. “Would you like to join me?”

She tilts her head and looks at him, her face a study in skepticism. “You want to have lunch with me in the FBI cafeteria?” she asks doubtfully.

He thinks about it for a moment, and suddenly can’t imagine it. He is not embarrassed to be seen with her, not at all, even if that’s what she may think. But the cafeteria on the second floor is a cold and practical space, all fluorescent lights and plastic tables and prepackaged food. It’s got no appeal, no atmosphere, and suddenly it feels wrong to take her down there with him.

“Maybe dinner instead,” he says.

If she looked surprised before, she looks incredulous now. “Dinner,” she repeats as if she wants to make sure she hasn’t misunderstood.

He forces himself not to fidget. “Dinner,” he confirms. “I mean. If you want. Obviously we don’t have to –“

She laughs quietly and puts a steady hand on his forearm, mercifully cutting off his rambling. “I’d love to have dinner, Aaron,” she says. “But you can’t blame a girl for being a bit surprised. Somehow I don’t think I’m your usual type.”

”No,” he admits, because he won’t do her the disservice and lie to her. He takes a deep breath. “But I’m starting to recognize the limitations of having a type.”

She gives him a long, hard look, then nods, apparently satisfied. “Well, I won’t argue with you,” she says. “In that case, how does Saturday sound?”

”Perfect,” he exhales, and feels a weight drop off his shoulders. “I can pick you up at seven.” He pauses, wonders if he should say something. “If –“

”I know, I know,” she says, waving him off. “As long as a case doesn’t get in the way and you find someone to watch your kid. Don’t worry, I won’t cast a spell on you if you have to cancel.”

He laughs ruefully. “I appreciate that,” he says, trying to convey that he means more than just her being understanding about his job.

She smiles softly. “Anytime,” she says. Then her smile shifts into an amused smirk. “I think your work is calling for you,” she says, tilting her head in the direction of the bullpen.

He follows the movement with his eyes, and finds the entire team lined up behind the glass doors, staring attentively as if they are watching a football game.

”Christ,” he sighs. “They are like little children sometimes.”

Charlene laughs quietly. “They just care about you.” She winks, conspiratorially, then leans in to press a kiss onto his cheek before he can blink. It’s quick and light, nothing incriminating, and clearly for the sake of his team, but he still feels his skin tingle where her lips graze his cheekbone.

"I'll see you Saturday, Agent Hotchner," she says and steps back, and he watches her until the doors of the elevator ping shut behind her.

Then he straightens, and turns around to face the wolves. He has a feeling it's going to be a very long week.