Another Criminal Minds oneshot, you guys, in less than a week. Like what even!? I've loved mentally building this OCs background and how she fits into the team's dynamic. Maybe I'll have to try out some more team-oriented fics? Anyway, please enjoy Hotchner as much as I clearly do! Leave a review :) I always love hearing from you!

-Oracle

-O-

Hotch knew better than to take her out into the field, but Elle had seemed so excited when Reid mentioned the suspect was a literature professor specializing in Old English language and myths. She rambled on during the duration of the car ride to the university campus, and he had been happy to listen.

Hotchner saw the old, rune-engraved long sword hanging against the wall. The tarnished silver propelled Elle into starting the conversation with the professor. Ten years older than Hotchner, Professor Trevor Moore was keen on the attention Elle offered, grinning. However, the more Elle spoke with him the more hesitant and withdrawn she became. Genuine excitement faded to a polite extension. The two of them sat in front of the professor's desk. Hotch followed the way Elle's darted around the room. Her sharp green eyes finally landed on the bookshelf behind them on the wall nearest to the windows.

The phone on the desk rang. He politely excused himself, taking the call.

Elle leaned over in her chair. Hotchner met her halfway. She sounded horrified. He noticed the lack of color in her face.

"Hotch," she whispered. "The pictures…"

He looked behind him to the pictures resting on the bookshelf. Five black frames holding the photographs of their five victims stared back.

A chill rolled down Elle's back. She stood to her feet, stepping over to the window.

Hotch knew he shouldn't have brought her out here. He was reaching for the handcuffs on his belt when Moore lunged out of his seat.

Hotch jumped out of his own seat, reaching for his weapon. Moore yanked the longsword from the wall, wrapping his arm around Elle's neck with the blade pressing dangerously against the porcelain skin of her throat.

He leveled the gun, aiming for Moore's head. His jaw clenched. "Let her go. Now,"

Elle felt Moore shake his head. "Not until you drop the gun,"

Elle's eyes dropped to the blade against her neck. Dried blood spackled the edges. Blood, she realized. She recalled the medical examiner's findings.

"Yeah, the wounds inflicted on the bodies were very strange. Bones were shattered, sliced through, chipped. You name it,"

Elle swallowed. Hotchner wouldn't meet her eyes.

The professor had killed God knew how many female students with this sword. With the look in Hotch's eyes, she knew if she was added to that list that Moore would be dead before she hit the floor. Moore seemed to know this too; his fingers wrenched around her shoulders, pressing her throat further against the blade.

She cried out when the sword sliced against her skin. She felt the warm ooze trickle, and her stomach rolled. The interaction between Moore and Hotchner fared no better after that.

"Unless you want your partner to end up like the rest-"

"Hotch," Elle whispered viciously. "Just shoot him,"

Moore chuckled, challenging Hotch, daring him. "Yeah, Agent Hotchner, shoot me. I'm sure they'll find her head across the room,"

Elle's breath quickened. Hotch locked eyes with her finally. She saw what Moore didn't. Fear. It had been too soon since Foyet. He recalled everything about that day. Today would not be like that.

Hotch yielded his aim. He lowered his weapon, keeping his other hand raised away from his sides. He dropped the gun.

"Alright, let her go,"

Moore twitched. "Kick it over here," he commanded.

Elle felt like she was going to throw up. Moore was getting off on this. Her eyes widened.

Hotch moved his foot after signaling Elle about something. He really needed to get her a handbook for this because she had no idea what that signal meant. He pivoted his foot last minute, kicking the gun toward the window away from Moore. Elle understood then.

Her head rested underneath Moore's chin. When Moore's attention was diverted, Elle jumped up, cracking her head against his mouth. The man yelled, stumbling back, grabbing his bloodied nose and mouth.

Hotch surged forward, his hand wrapping around her wrist. No time to recover his weapon, he yanked her away roughly, pushing her in front of him and propelling her out of the office. He kept his hand in his, forcing her into a run.

This part of the university was under construction and nearly abandoned. Scaffolding, drywall, paint buckets, and ladders littered the hallway. She jumped over a few power tools, struggling to keep up with Hotch. She needed to start going to the gym again.

They rounded a corner, her low Oxford heels clacking against the cheap tile. Elle's heart pounded in her ears. She heard Moore racing after them. She knew he had a homefront advantage.

Hotch halted at a juncture before reaching the stairwell. He knew the stairs were under repair as well. If he had been alone, he might have risked it. He glanced at Elle, her face flushed from exertion. His eyes drew immediately to the three-inch cut on her neck. Deep crimson stained the creme color of her shirt.

No. New plan.

He pulled her in the opposite direction.

"This way," he said. She followed his quick pace with less grace.

A door hidden by sheets and scaffolding was the most appealing as the only other option was to jump from the seven-story window across the hall. They stepped over random construction paraphernalia. She opened the door, pushing against tools and paintbrushes while Hotch watched their backs.

He had hoped the door would lead to another classroom, but when had he ever been that lucky when working a case. Elle and Hotch found themselves in a small supply closet with most of the space already occupied by janitorial supplies.

A little more than a meter wide and long, the room grew smaller still when Hotch shut the door. Their breath mingled together as they tried to recover from their sprint.

Elle reached for the light switch. He caught her hand. He pointed to his ear. She turned her head more fully to the door. She stiffened when she heard steps echoing against the concrete walls, growing ever closer by the slow-passing seconds. The steps were heavy but unsure. He didn't know where they were. She heard Moore swear, and he must have been right outside the door by how intently she heard every sound. When Moore tripped outside the door, she jumped. Well, lurched would be the more accurate term. She bumped into Hotch's chest. He tried to control his breathing.

Another stirring outside the door. She froze where she stood without even an apology to Hotch. A resounding crash outside the door made her heart seize.

She felt the gash on her neck throb as more blood pooled against her shoulder and her clothes.

She heard steps pound again as Moore ran in a different direction. A door slammed, and silence reigned. The two of them stood quietly for a long instant. Certain he was gone, Hotch cleared his throat. She craned her head to look at him. He shifted uncomfortably. Oh. She was still standing flush against him.

She mumbled an apology, leaping back with her spine smacking against the metal shelves. She hissed a soft 'ouch.'

He reached across her shoulder for the light switch. He flipped the light on; the fluorescent light buzzed. He was able to get a look at the wound on her neck. The intensity of his dark stare seared her skin before the light flickered out. The bulbs blew in a shower of intense flashes. Even in the darkened room, she saw his jaw roll in irritation. He reached over her shoulder again, slighting pressing his side into her back, flipping the light switch on and off with no success. The dark remained.

He tried to move back to alleviate how uncomfortable he knew he must be making her feel. However, the only thing he accomplished was making her feel like she had some contagious disease.

The vent above them stopped blowing cool air, and it was suddenly unbearably hot. An age stretched, but the soft ticking of Elle's watch, only three seconds had passed.

She spoke in a whisper. "Do you think he's gone?"

He made a slight hum. He gestured toward the door. He needed to get by, she realized.

"Oh, sorry," she said, leaning back. She tried not to take it personally when he careened away from her, flinching away. They danced around one another until she stood at the back of the closet, and he took her place at the front.

She heard how harshly he grabbed the doorknob as it rattled. He pushed against the door. She gave a furtive glance around him, staring at the door. Hotch beat against it, but the door still refused to give.

No, no, no. She thought. Please, no.

It was bad enough that she had to be stuck with him on a daily basis, silently pining, and-

"Can you step back a little?" his request was low, but it sent a flush of offense across her chest.

Frowning at his back, she wanted to retort, "Just fine, sir. Would you like me to just teleport us out of here while I'm at it? Maybe stop for a freakin' mimosa on the way,"

A vague acknowledgment came out instead. She tried to move back more. She really did, but all she succeeded in doing was knocking over a mass of brooms and mops. He cast a displeased stare over his shoulder.

He returned his attention to the door. He turned his shoulder inward, steeling his back. Hotch slammed his shoulder into the door, grunting on impact. The door didn't cave. She knew that had to hurt. He mumbled something to himself. His voice sounded irritated. He whipped his cell phone out. He turned to face her. His winter coat and pants brushed against the fabric of her woolen skirt.

Her hand was still pressed against her neck. Her breath caught, but he thankfully seemed too intent on the screen to notice. He set his phone near his ear; she saw the name 'Dave Rossi' in the sudden flash of blue light before the dial tone sounded.

Elle blinked; when she opened her eyes again, Hotchner was standing closer than before. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. His eyes were trained on her again; his line of sight slipped down to her neck. Contriteness lined his face. With his other hand, he reached up and unbuttoned his collar before slipping his tie from around his neck.

Her eyes widened. She knew he saw. He never missed anything. A slyness rested behind his smirk. Elle knew she must have looked terrible. She wanted him to turn back around and brood about their situation. The longer he looked at her the faster her heart beat. Even she knew that wasn't good when trying to prevent excessive bleeding.

He held his phone between his ear and his shoulders as his other hand lifted to roll his tie into a small mass. She felt him move her hands away from her neck, replacing them with his own. Before she could stop him, he pressed his red silk tie into the cut. She hissed softly.

His face drew in a sympathetic apology. "Sorry,"

Either close proximity or blood loss made her more brazen. "I liked that tie on you. You shouldn't have-"

She stopped when she heard Rossi on the other end of the line. He held the cloth close to her skin. The cut was starting to ache.

"Rossi, we need additional units here now. Moore is our unsub," he said. He caught her eyes again. "Call in an ambulance. O'Connor is injured,"

The next details became fuzzy until she heard Hotch bring up the fact that they were trapped in a closet on the seventh floor. Rossi managed to keep the smile from his voice for all of five seconds.

"On route," she heard Rossi said. "And when you say closet, Aaron-"

Hotchner hung up, but not before he saw Elle's smile.

"Don't move," he chastised. "You'll make it worse,"

-O-

Rossi found them in the closet with Hotch still holding his impromptu bandage still close against her skin. The door had been blocked by scaffolding that had fallen over. Rossi's brow furrowed when he saw Elle so pale, leaning against Hotch.

Rossi offered his hand to her. Only then did Hotch hand over the tie to her hands again. "A sword, really?" Rossi questioned. "A little dramatic don't you think?"

"Shut up, Rossi," she said, letting the older man take the brunt of her weight.

Rossi graciously ignored the way Hotchner draped his winter coat over his arm, hiding his front.

Hotchner let out a breath. It was nearly freezing outside, and all he wanted was a cold shower.

-O-

Hotchner entered his office the next day. He didn't bother closing the door. No one would be here on a Saturday. Hopefully, he wouldn't be here for very long either.

He placed his briefcase on the coffee table before he noticed a small black box on his desk. He tilted his head curiously. He looked out the window to the bullpen. Empty, just as it had been when he arrived.

He untied a dainty piece of blue ribbon, opening the box, hoping it wasn't poisoned. That would put the icing on an obviously stellar week.

He stilled when he saw what was inside. A silk red tie lay inside the box, laying on top of white tissue paper. He pulled the tie from the box. It still had the department store tags attached. A note floated to his desk when he unraveled the gift.

In elaborate cursive lettering, the paper read,

'I meant it when I said I liked that color. Thanks for not letting me bleed out, I guess. See you Monday. -E.'

Hotchner smiled.