Chapter Text
One of these days, Aaron would stop being surprised when Tor came up with some hair-brained scheme that was almost impossible to explain to anyone who was not used to her antics. His jaw would not drop when she casually said some idea so unexpected that not even a seasoned team of profilers could predict it. His mind would not race through the possible explanations for why she thought such an idea would work. His head would not ache as he attempted to keep up with her methodology, which was half behavioral science theory and half counterintuitive instincts. One of these days, he would understand what the hell she was talking about.
But today was not that day.
"You want to use scents to get the suspect to confess?" he repeated, fighting to keep the incredulity out of his voice. Tor looked up at him with an endearingly deep frown and nodded.
He sighed heavily and pinched his brow, hoping to stave off his migraine long enough to understand what she was trying to accomplish. They had been in the field for twenty-four hours and gotten sleep during none of them. A serial killer had been prowling the beachside vacation town of Cape May for months, killing locals in the winter and spring before taking out tourists during the summer. The threat to the town's most profitable industry had been enough to get the mayor to approve thousands of hours of overtime to catch the bastard. And it had partially paid off. The police had a suspect with a mountain of circumstantial evidence against him, but it didn't take a former prosecutor to know that it was not enough to convict.
The BAU had been called in to run the interrogation, with no success. They had half their time left before the suspect had to be released. And while the bastard was dozing in his chair despite being handcuffed to the table, they were spinning their wheels trying to think of some way to get him to confess. Which was where Tor's special brand of insanity came in.
"We've profiled that the killer is motivated by some sort of trauma that he suffered during the vacation season," she reminded him, her accent thickening as her passion took over. "And Joseph Cratchet was in a terrible boating accident when he was seventeen that was caused by some drunk spring breakers. He hates all things tourist, so he targeted the bed and breakfast owner, the travel agent, the motorboat rental salesman, the advertisement firm manager-" she listed, pointing to the wall covered in pictures of victims. "All of these poor folks were somehow connected to the tourist industry before he moved on to the people he truly hated: the tourists themselves."
"We know all this," a local cop interjected, his impatience as clear as his dislike of the Feds coming in to take the glory of the conviction.
Tor did not so much as glance at him as she continued, "If we want to make him show his true colors, we need to trigger his hatred. Studies have found that scents can be a powerful reminder of our past. So if we can remind him of that boating accident, maybe we can get him to say something he doesn't mean to let slip."
The cop loudly scoffed. Tor's lip twitched in a stifled snarl, but she held it back with admirable self-control. Aaron had much less restraint and clenched his fists at his side. He could see the rest of the BAU shifting their weight in his periphery, though whether it was in reaction to the cop's rudeness or Aaron's rapidly shortening fuse, he was not sure. Either way, he knew he needed to get this conversation to end quickly.
"How do you suggest we do that?" he asked Tor, keeping his voice level. Her eyes darted to his fist before going back to his face. She exhaled sharply and straightened her shoulders.
"There's an HVAC vent in the interrogation room," she explained. "If we put the items with the scent in the vents connected to the room, the air will blow it right at him."
"So you want to make our entire station smell like a boating accident?" another cop exclaimed.
"Would you rather let a serial killer go free because you can't breathe through your mouth for an hour?" Emily demanded loudly. Aaron stifled a wince at her sharp tone. As much as he wanted to chew out the cops for their blatant disrespect, he knew it would only make matters worse. They were stuck in this town until they got enough evidence to convict. Getting bogged down in a fight with the locals would only add time to their stay. And while he wanted to berate the officers, he wanted to get Tor out of the station even more.
"I'm not suggesting we flood the vents with blood," Tor assured the officer before tensions rose. "Simply getting a rag with some gasoline on it, some seaweed, and an open can of beer will jolt his memories of his accident faster than any picture will."
"I'd like to see your citation for that," a sergeant griped. Aaron's head snapped to the offender, his fists tightening and his hackles raising. The man raised his chin defiantly as if taunting Aaron into doing something he would have to pretend to regret.
"Oh, are you interested in learning more about behavioral science?" Tor asked, her accent as thick and sweet as the coating on a flytrap. She flashed the cop a bright smile, though it looked more like the barring of fangs than professional friendliness.
"Just trying to understand what the hell you're talking about," he barked. Aaron's fists itched to be swung. Tor's ideas might have been unusual, but she was a highly decorated agent serving in an elite unit. She deserved respect for her work. And this bastard deserved a punch to the face for the way he spoke to her.
"I'll be sure to send you the research articles," Tor replied sweetly without so much as sparing a glance at the offending officer. Her eyes darted to Aaron's clenched fists, and he watched her breath hitch in her throat. He forced his hand to relax. She had enough going on without having to manage his emotions.
"It's a good plan," Aaron announced, daring the officers to contradict him. He looked around the room, his burning glare enough to wilt the spines of most of the cops. A few remained resolutely upright despite his scowl, but he didn't worry about them. It took more than a few proud podunk police officers to make him insecure in his leadership. "Reid, look at the blueprints for the building and tell us the best place to position the items to get the scent into the interrogation room."
"I'll go to the gas station and get some fuel and a can of beer," JJ offered, already reaching for the keys. Aaron glanced at the time, then nodded in approval. It was Henry's bedtime. He knew JJ would want to call him while she drove.
"I'll go get the seaweed," Morgan said, grinning at Tor with enough charm to soften the hard lines of her shoulders. "And I'll be sure to find the extra smelly kind."
"And in the meantime, you can send me those 'research articles,'" the sergeant said, his tone mocking and his smile condescending.
"You really are interested in behavioral science!" Tor said with an acrid laugh. She gave the sergeant a bright smile, and for a moment, Aaron thought she would change into the role of a negotiator to disengage from the conversation. Instead, she said with noxious sweetness, "Well, bless your heart."
Decades of experience had taught Aaron how to recognize someone in grave danger. He could read body language, pick up on verbal cues, and detect subtle shifts in emotions non-profilers would miss. He was grateful that it had kept him alive this long. However, at that moment, it wasn't the years in the FBI that told him Tor was five seconds from swinging at the sergeant. It was the years he had spent in Manassas, Virginia.
"You can read her write-up after the interrogation is finished," Aaron interjected, leveling the sergeant with his strongest glare. The man scowled back at him, oblivious to the painful dressing-down Aaron was sparing him by cutting him off before Tor could deal with him. He shifted his eyes to Tor, who was still smiling as if nothing was wrong. But he knew the glint in her eyes was not from happiness. And judging by her curled fist at her side, the self-control keeping her smile from warping into a snarl was hanging on by a thread.
"Everyone, get to work," he ordered, turning sharply on his heel and gesturing for Tor to follow him. He left the room, keeping his stride short enough for her to match. The second they were in the hallway, her smile dropped into a grimace.
"Motherfucker," she hissed, barely loud enough for him to hear it.
I'm sorry, he signed, guilt turning his frown into a sympathetic wince.
"You have nothing to apologize for," she assured him, though her tone was still too hard for him to find comfort in it. They rounded a corner, and he stopped to face her after determining the back hallway was empty. "That guy was an asshole, but I've dealt with worse."
"You shouldn't have to deal with worse," he gripped, fighting the urge to take her hand or, even worse, hug her close to him until she forgot how it felt to be so belittled. "I'm sorry, ANGEL." He fingerspelled out the term of endearment, just to be safe. He was already taking a risk using it at all, but he could not stand the idea of her thinking she should have to deal with men like that.
"Aaron," she said, her voice low and firm, "you don't need to be sorry. You chewing out that officer would have made our jobs ten times harder. Ending the conversation so we could leave was the right choice."
He shook his head, unable to release the guilt curdling in his stomach.
"It was the right call for me to make as unit leader," he conceded. "But it was the wrong choice for me to make as your partner." He knew the weight he put on that final word was stretching it to its limits, but so long as they were in the middle of a police station in New Jersey, it was the only one he could use.
"When we're in the field, you have to put the needs of the team first," she reminded him, giving him a brave smile that made his stomach lurch. "I know that. And I will never resent you for that. Besides," she chuckled and shrugged, "I can handle myself."
"I know you can," he quickly assured her. "But that doesn't mean you have to."
"Why, bless your heart," she said, her tone taking on a slight teasing quality. He raised his eyebrows, and she had to stifle her giggle with her hand.
"You are very lucky that we are so far in the North," he reminded her as she continued to muffle her laughter. "If any of those officers had understood what you were saying-"
"Well, thank the good Lord none of 'em did," she replied with the thickest Southern drawl he had ever heard pour from her lips. He scoffed and shook his head, but he knew he could not hide his twitch of a smile from her. He had never felt so like himself in the field before. SAC Hotchner had been the one to call a tactical retreat in the briefing room. But Aaron was the one standing in the side hallway, watching his partner fight the giggles and feeling his heart swell with love for her.
"Come on," she said, her accent back to its usual levels and her mirth still glimmering in her eyes. "We've got a police station to stink up."
"I'm just glad you didn't have to convince us to use essential oils to get the smell you want," Aaron replied as he followed her into the main hallway. "I think you would have had a harder time pitching that than seaweed and gasoline."
"Something tells me I still would have gotten your approval," she smirked. He didn't bother to contradict her.
The instant they rounded the corner to the briefing room, they were met with the ruddy face of the sergeant.
"You!" he hissed, jabbing a finger in Tor's face. "You thought you could get away with that?"
"Back off," Aaron ordered, forcing himself into the narrow space between the enraged officer and Tor.
"You had no right speakin' to me the way you did!" the officer continued to rage. "You think I didn't understand what you said?" His anger colored his words, and without Northern politeness to mask it, Aaron could hear the sergeant's Southern accent.
Ah, shit.
"I know you're used to bein' all high n' mighty, comin' into town and making cops fall to their knees in praise, but that won't fly 'round here," he continued, his face somehow turning redder.
"I said, back off," Aaron repeated, stepping forward. The sergeant stumbled back, blinking as if only just then realizing that a very angry SAC was separating him from the target of his ire.
"Do you know what she said to me?" he demanded. "That uppity little-"
"Enough," Aaron snapped, taking another step forward. "I don't know what you think you heard," he continued, his voice dangerously low, "but everyone else in that room heard Agent Beauregard tolerate your incessant disrespect and treat you with nothing but Southern charm."
The sergeant's eyes widened as the emphasis of Aaron's words struck him. Aaron had lost his accent years ago when he attended Saint Bernard's in the banal dialectic landscape of rural Ohio. But there were remnants of it buried in his words that he could dredge up when he needed them. Like when he ordered biscuits and gravy in a small-town diner. Or needed to put a Southern sergeant in his place.
"And now, all anyone hears is you berating a woman who was nothing but polite to you based on some paranoid delusion that there was a secret message hidden in her words," he said, rage boiling his blood and curling his fist. "So I suggest you back the hell off before I do something that you cannot misunderstand."
The sergeant looked around him to Tor, whom Aaron sincerely hoped had formed her expression into one of total innocence.
"You're going to regret this," he warned her, though he did not dare to step closer to her.
"Threaten Agent Beauregard again, and I will have your badge," Aaron warned, subjecting the sergeant to the full strength of his glare.
The sergeant took another step back, his face still beet red. His beady eyes darted between the livid SAC and the demure SSA.
He opened his mouth.
Aaron cocked his head.
He closed it.
Tor stepped closer to Aaron as the sergeant turned and stormed away, leaving shocked officers in his wake. He glanced down to see her looking up at him, her eyes wide and her hand on her pearl necklace.
"Hotch, I'm so sor-"
He cut her off with an emphatic shake of his head.
"You have nothing to apologize for," he said firmly.
Her brows furrowed doubtfully, and he had to fight the urge to chase after that sergeant and tear into him with more ferocity than a unit leader should show for a disrespected agent. The only thing keeping him from destroying that officer's career was the knowledge that the longer they stayed at the station, the less sleep Tor would get that night. He allowed himself to hope that he would get to speak with her privately when they finally made it to the hotel. After all, they were due to have rooms next door to each other. He never allowed himself the luxury of kissing her goodnight when they were in the field. But after the day they'd endured, he was more than willing to make an exception.
"Let's get this confession," he said with far more calmness than he felt. She looked up as if waiting for him to say more. He forced himself to settle for giving her a glimmer of a smile he knew she would be the only one to recognize. Her shoulders dropped, and her brows unfurrowed. She nodded and walked away, heading for the whiteboard where the rest of the BAU had congregated. Aaron knew they would ensure Tor was alright with all the tender affection he could not publicly give her. They would do everything possible to solve this case so they could leave this police station as soon as possible. After that, Aaron would just need to wait until he was finally alone with Tor once more.