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It started with a mess. He had been careless, rushing through a kill that should’ve been clean. The victim was still alive, gurgling weakly as blood spilled from her neck wound that hadn’t been deep enough. Foyet had just been about to fix his mistake when the door burst open.
Hotch.
Foyet tensed slightly, ready for the cuffs, the possibility gunfire as Hotch’s gun was focused on him. But instead, Hotch just looked at him, his expression unreadable. His gun was in his hand, but he didn’t point it at Foyet anymore. He didn’t yell or call for backup
Hotch looked at the woman on the floor, still bleeding as she tried reaching her hand toward Hotch. Silently begging him for help.
Hotch knelt by the bleeding woman and pressed a hand against the wound. For a brief moment, Foyet thought he was going to save her. But Hotch leaned in and whispered something Foyet couldn’t hear before raising his gun.
The shot was quick, clean. Mercy.
Foyet stood frozen as Hotch stood up and straightened himself, his eyes locking onto his. There was no anger, no disgust, no judgment.
“You’re getting sloppy.” Hotch said, his tone as casual as if they were discussing paperwork.
Foyet blinked, his mind racing to process what had just happened. “I—what?”
Hotch gestured to the body with his gun. “You didn’t finish the job. That’s not like you.”
It took Foyet a moment to find his voice. “You’re not arresting me.”
Hotch holstered his weapon, his expression cold, but something resembling a smile appeared. “Not tonight i'm not.”
That was when it clicked. Foyet had always thought Hotch was the picture justice, but in that moment, he saw the cracks in his mask. There was something unexplainable in Hotch, something cold and sharp that mirrored Foyet’s own soul.
And Foyet had never been more in love.
He stepped closer, not speechless anymore. He tilted his head, studying Hotch. The agent’s calm, almost clinical demeanor intrigued him. "You decided to help me out? Color me impressed.
Hotch met his gaze, unflinching. "I’m not helping you. I’m keeping this from becoming a bigger problem."
“By shooting a woman?”
He was amused at this point, stepping slightly closer to Hotch.
"You could’ve arrested me," Foyet stared circling him like a predator assessing prey.
"Could’ve brought me in. But you didn’t. Why is that, Agent Hotchner?"
Hotch didn’t answer, his eyes tracking Foyet’s movements with an unnerving steadiness.
"You’ve got a little monster in you too, don’t you?" Foyet whispered, stepping closer, invading Hotch’s space. "You can’t hide it from me. I see it."
"Watch yourself," Hotch said, his voice low and even.
But Foyet didn’t step back. He smiled, slow and sly. "I think I like this side of you."
Hotch’s silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. Then, as if testing the boundaries of this new dynamic, Foyet leaned in just a fraction closer.
"Say the word, and I’ll back off," Foyet murmured, his voice a mix of challenge and excitement.
Hotch didn’t say a word. And that silence was all Foyet needed.
Foyet was the one to close the distance, but Hotch didn’t pull away. He didn’t resist. His hands fisted in Foyet’s bloodstained shirt, dragging him closer as their mouths collided in a clash of teeth and tongues.
It was messy, desperate, and wrong on every conceivable level, but neither of them cared.
When they finally pulled apart, their breaths were ragged, and their gazes locked. Foyet’s grin was wild, exhilarated. He looked utterly feral.
"You’re full of surprises tonight."
Suddenly Hotch’s back stiffened as the faint sound of footsteps reached his ears. Steady, deliberate, and all too familiar. Rossi. He immediately pulled away in an instant.
Foyet opened his mouth to say something, but before he could utter a word, Hotch lunged at him with calculated force.
Foyet was caught off guard, slammed against the cold wall, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.
Hotch’s hand gripped his collar, and for a fleeting second, Foyet saw something in Hotch’s eyes, not anger, but something darker. Something thrilling.
"What are you-" Foyet started, but Hotch leaned in close, his voice a low whisper.
"Not a word." Hotch ordered, his tone calm but commanding.
Foyet blinked, a flicker of confusion passing over his face before understanding dawned. His lips twitched into the barest hint of a smirk as he let his body lean back, playing along.
By the time Rossi entered through the door, Hotch had Foyet pinned, his gun pressed against Foyet’s ribs as if he’d caught him mid-struggle.
"Hotch!" Rossi called, his voice laced with relief and urgency as he took in the scene.
"I’ve got him," Hotch replied, his tone clipped and professional.
Rossi slowed to a stop, pulling his own weapon as he approached. "You okay?"
Hotch gave a sharp nod. "Fine. He didn’t get far." Ever the actor, Foyet feigned a grimace, his head lolling to the side as if exhausted.
Rossi lowered his weapon slightly, relief washing over his face. "Good work," he said, pulling out his radio to inform the team.
As Rossi turned slightly to speak into the device, Hotch leaned in closer to Foyet, their faces mere inches apart. His grip on Foyet’s shirt tightened as he whispered, his voice low enough that only Foyet could hear.
"I never said I would arrest you."
The words sent a jolt through Foyet, and for the first time, he was speechless. His eyes searched Hotch’s face, but all he found was that cold, calculating calmness.
Hotch stepped back abruptly, letting go of Foyet and gesturing for Rossi to take over. "He’s yours," Hotch said simply.
Rossi moved in, securing Foyet’s hands behind his back with practiced efficiency. "About time we got this bastard," Rossi muttered, his tone filled with satisfaction.
Foyet didn’t resist. He didn’t fight or argue. Instead, he allowed himself to be led away, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk curling at the edges of his lips.
Foyet escaped about three days later, everyone expected it but no one wanted it to come true. The team had been called out to a new case in Virginia. Three women dead, all found in the woods. The only leads they have being one ex boyfriend and the owner of the property where the women were found. The murders left everyone on edge. The team was exhausted, running on caffeine and frayed nerves as they checked into the hotel late that night
Hotch’s room was at the end of the hall, isolated enough to grant him the quiet he preferred. As he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the weight of the day settled over him. He dropped his bag by the bed, already running through the details of the case in his mind.
For a moment, he just stood there, letting the quiet of the room envelop him. He glanced toward the small desk where his laptop and case files would soon take up residence and debated whether he had the energy to go over the details one more time.
With a sigh, he decided against it and headed for the bathroom instead. He turned on the light, the fluorescent bulbs humming softly as they illuminated the mirror and tiled floor. Hotch stared at his reflection for a moment, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the weariness etched into his features.
He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face and rubbing his hands over his skin as if the gesture could wash away the weight of the day. As the water dripped from his chin, he reached for a towel and dried off, taking a deep breath to steady himself.
It was only when he turned to leave the bathroom that he felt it, a subtle shift in the air, a prickle at the back of his neck that set his instincts on edge. Hotch froze, his hand hovering near the light switch, his ears straining for any sound. The room was silent, but something felt... off.
He stepped out cautiously, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. At first glance, nothing seemed out of place. His bag was where he’d left it, the bed untouched, the door still locked. But the faintest hint of unease lingered in the pit of his stomach. His thoughts were interrupted as his phone buzzed, a text from Morgan, saying that they were ordering food and asked what he wanted.
Before hotch could reply, a voice broke the silence, low and familiar.
"Miss me?"
Foyet’s voice playful, hushed, startling Hotch enough that his hand instinctively went to his holster before recognition hit.
"What are you doing here?" Hotch hissed, his tone sharp but quiet, wary of the thin walls and the possibility of anyone overhearing.
Foyet stepped into the dim light, his smirk as smug as ever. "Relax. I let myself in. You should learn to lock your windows."
Hotch’s jaw tightened, and he moved toward Foyet, grabbing his arm and pulling him further into the room. "Are you insane? The team is here," he whispered harshly, he reached behind Foyet to lock the door.
"Relax," Foyet repeated, his grin only widening. "They’re all probably asleep, or at least too distracted by this case to notice little old me."
Hotch didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes.
"You looked stressed tonight," Foyet continued, his tone almost mocking as he traced a finger along Hotch’s jaw. "All that responsibility weighing you down. I figured you could use... a distraction."
Hotch wasn’t ashamed of how much he craved it, craved him.
"You have a death wish," he said, his voice a harsh whisper.
Foyet tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. "Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see you."
Hotch stared at him, his mind racing with a thousand reasons why this was logically a terrible idea. But none of them mattered, not when Foyet was standing so close, his presence as magnetic as it was infuriating.
For a moment, Hotch considered pushing him away, considered doing what he should have done the moment he realized Foyet was there. But instead, he closed the remaining distance between them, his hand gripping the back of Foyet’s neck as he pulled him into a kiss that was as much about frustration as it was about desire.
Hotch slowly leaned his head back. He should’ve stopped, should’ve pushed him away and reply to Morgan’s text. But he didn’t, instead, he did something far worse.
He kissed Foyet again. This time, it wasn’t rushed or desperate, but deliberate. It was controlled, like everything Hotch did, a calculated move to stake a claim, to test boundaries, to see how far he could take this before it swallowed them both whole. Foyet’s hands slid up to Hotch’s shoulders, pulling him closer
Foyet responded immediately, his hands sliding up Hotch’s side as he pressed himself closer. Just as foyet hands made it to Hotch’s belt they were interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Hotch?" Morgan’s voice carried through the door. "You in there?"
Hotch turned to Foyet, his expression hardening instantly. "Bathroom. Now," he ordered under his breath.
Foyet raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the sudden shift in tone. "What, no kiss goodbye?"
"Foyet," Hotch hissed, his patience wearing thin.
"Fine, fine," Foyet said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He slipped into the bathroom with deliberate ease, winking at Hotch before closing the door silently behind him.
Hotch straightened his tie and schooled his expression before unlocking and opening the door. Morgan stood there, a takeout menu in hand and an easy grin on his face.
"There you are," Morgan said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "We’re ordering dinner. Thought I’d see if you had any preferences before Garcia makes us all get Thai again."
Hotch closed the door behind him and turned to Morgan, not having to try to appear calm and controlled. "I’m fine with whatever," he said, his voice steady.
Morgan gave him a skeptical look. "You sure? Because you’ve been surviving on coffee and stress for the past two days. You should actually eat something."
Hotch sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Just... order me whatever you’re having."
Morgan nodded, setting the menu on the desk. "Alright. But don’t come complaining to me if you don’t like it."
There was a brief pause before Morgan’s tone softened. "You okay, man? I know this case is... rough."
Hotch sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "I’m fine," he said, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
Morgan sat down in the chair across from him, his expression serious now. "Hotch, you don’t have to pretend with me. I know this case is difficult for all of us."
Hotch nodded, his jaw tightening. The image of the victim flashed through his mind, yet he couldn’t find himself to care that much and he quickly forced himself to push it aside that thought.
"It’s not easy," he admitted after a moment. "But we have a job to do. We can’t let it get personal."
Morgan studied him for a moment, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You know, it’s okay if it does get personal sometimes. We’re human, Hotch. You don’t always have to be the stuck up leader."
Hotch glanced toward the closed bathroom door, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the man hiding inside.
"I’ll be fine," he said again, more firmly this time. "We’ll close this case, and the next one, and the one after that. That’s what we do."
Morgan gave him a small, understanding nod, though the concern in his eyes didn’t fade. "Alright," he said, standing up. "But if you need to talk, you know where to find me."
Hotch nodded, watching as Morgan headed for the door. "Thanks, Morgan," he said quietly.
Morgan turned back and gave him a faint smile. "Anytime, man."
As soon as the door clicked shut, Hotch let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
The silence in the hotel room stretched out as Morgan’s footsteps disappeared down the hall. Hotch didn’t move for a moment, standing by the closed door, his head tilted slightly as though listening to ensure no one was lingering outside.
Behind him, the bathroom door creaked open, and Foyet stepped out with his usual ease, though his eyes gleamed with something sharper. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching Hotch like a predator that had just cornered its prey
"Heartwarming. Really, you two almost had me tearing up in here." he said.
"Do you ever shut up?" Hotch muttered, though there was no real heat in his voice.
Foyet grinned, ignoring the comment as he stepped closer. "So, what’s for dinner?"
Hotch shot him a glare but said nothing as he walked past him to sit on the edge of the bed.
"You can drop the act, Aaron," Foyet continued, sauntering over. "He’s gone. It’s just us now."
Hotch shook his head, unable to stop the faint smirk tugging at his lips. Despite himself, he felt the tension easing now that they were alone again. He hated how easily Foyet managed to disarm him, but he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward him, a pull that had only grown stronger with each passing second they’d spent together.
"You know," Foyet began, his voice smooth and low, "it never ceases to amaze me how quickly you can lie to them. Not a flicker of hesitation, not a crack in the mask. It’s... remarkable."
Hotch turned slowly, his expression as calm and impassive as ever. "It’s called compartmentalization," he replied flatly.
Foyet smirked, sitting on the bed next to Hotch. "Oh, don’t sell yourself short, Aaron. It’s so much more than that. You’re not just hiding parts of yourself; you’re building walls so high and so thick no one can even tell there’s something behind them."
Hotch crossed his arms, his gaze steady and cold. "What’s your point?"
"My point," Foyet said, circling his thigh gently, slowly like a cat playing with its food. "You walked into that room, saw a woman bleeding out, and instead of trying to save her, you ended her suffering. Efficient. Practical. Cold." Foyet’s voice dropped to a near whisper as his hand stopped in Hotch’s inner thigh, his eyes searching his face. "Tell me, Aaron, did it even bother you?"
Hotch met his gaze without flinching. "She was already dead. Drawing it out would have been pointless."
Foyet chuckled softly, shaking his head in awe. "God, you’re perfect," he muttered, almost to himself. "I don’t know why I ever doubted it. You’re everything I ever wanted. Cold, detached, brilliant... and yet somehow, you’re still capable of this—"
He leaned impossibly closer, his hand moving over to Hotch’s chest before curling around the back of his neck. The gesture was intimate, reverent even.
"You’re capable of loving me," Foyet finished, his voice filled with something raw and unguarded.
And, God help him, Hotch Loved it.
Hotch didn’t pull away. Instead, he allowed Foyet to draw him in, their faces inches apart. "I never said I loved you," he pointed out, his tone as even as ever.
Foyet smirked, his thumb grazing the nape of Hotch’s neck. "You don’t have to. I can see it in the way you look at me, the way you let me get this close." His smile widened, and there was a hint of madness in his eyes. "You could have stopped me at any point, turned me in, shot me... but you didn’t. And you won’t."
Hotch’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. "Don’t mistake restraint for weakness."
Foyet laughed softly, the sound low and almost tender. "Oh, I’d never make that mistake with you."
There was a moment of silence, charged and heavy, before Hotch finally leaned in, his lips brushing against Foyet’s in a kiss that was slow and deliberate. It wasn’t passionate or frantic; it was a quiet acknowledgment.
When they broke apart again, they were both breathing hard, the air between them crackling with tension. Foyet’s grin returned, this time smaller, but somehow more wicked. “I think that settles it,” he said, his voice rough but amused.
“Settles what?” Hotch asked, his voice low and steady, though his eyes were darker now, his gaze lingering on Foyet’s lips.
“That you’re just as messed up as I am,” Foyet said, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost over Hotch’s jaw. “And I love it.”
Hotch let out a quiet breath, almost a scoff, but there was no mistaking the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think I do,” Foyet countered smoothly, his hand sliding down Hotch’s arm in a slow, deliberate caress. “You’re just better at hiding it. But I see it, Aaron. I see you.”
Hotch finally leaned back, but not far enough to sever the connection entirely. His eyes stayed locked on Foyet, his expression unreadable but no less intense. “You should leave,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Foyet smirked, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Should I?”
Hotch didn’t answer, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a retort. Instead, he leaned back, watching him carefully.
Foyet watched him like a man starving, his grin widening. “You’re not going to stop me from coming back,” he said confidently.
Hotch paused, glancing at him over his shoulder. “You’re right,” he said simply, his voice a low rumble. “I’m not.”
Foyet tilted his head, his smirk softening slightly. "I’ll go. For now." He walked towards a window, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "But we both know I’ll be back. You can’t resist me, and, frankly, I don’t want you to."
Hotch didn’t respond, keeping his back to him. He heard the soft sound of Foyet’s footsteps, followed by the faint creak of the window as Foyet slipped out into the night.
Hotch's phone buzzed on the desk, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. He glanced down to see Morgan’s text.
Food’s here. Everyone’s at Rossi’s room. Come join us.
Hotch took one last glance at the door, ensuring it was securely locked behind him. The cool air of the hotel hallway greeted him, and he took a moment to adjust his tie, fixing his usual composed mask firmly in place. Whatever chaos had just unfolded in his room, whatever line he had crossed yet again with Foyet, had to be shoved into a dark corner of his mind. The team couldn’t know. They wouldn’t know.