Chapter Two

Quantico, late evening.

The bullpen had emptied out hours ago. The hum of the fluorescent lights and the steady ticking of the clock on the wall were the only sounds in the room. Case files, stacked high like paper monuments, sat on every desk—reminders of what had been solved and what was still left hanging in the air.

Luke Alvez leaned back in his chair at his new desk, flipping through some old notes—files that had been handed off to him. The official initiation into BAU life. He stretched his arms overhead, a quiet groan escaping as his back cracked. The stillness of the place was getting to him, the silence stretching out too long. Too clean. Too perfect.

His eyes wandered to the man sitting a few desks away.

Derek Hotchner. The enigma. If one wanted to believe that. Married to Aaron Hotchner - four years. A powerhouse couple. The perfect powerhouse couple. Everyone on the team respected him, sure, but they also gave him space. They kept their distance. Luke hadn't had a real conversation with him yet—not a proper one, anyway. He tried earlier, but Derek had given him a polite smile and buried himself in a file, like it was a life raft. He decided to go introduce himself to him - he didn't want to end the first day without introducing himself to the man; even though the team had advised him to keep his distance, like Derek could break at a moment's notice, though that wasn't how Luke had profiled him.

Later, Luke would learn it wasn't Derek Luke would need to keep his distance from. Later, Luke wasn't sure he'd care.

But now, Derek wasn't doing anything. Just sitting there. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie loose and hanging like it had given up on the day. A half-drunk coffee sat forgotten in his hand. He didn't look tired, exactly. More like a man waiting—for something, for someone—but not in a hurry. Just...waiting.

Luke didn't want to overthink it. So, he leaned back in his chair and spoke up.

"You always hang out here this late?" he asked, keeping it casual.

Derek's mouth curved into a small, half-hearted smile. "Sometimes. Place is quiet. Peaceful. Beats the traffic."

Luke grinned, spinning slowly in his chair. "You ever get used to the silence around here? It messes with me. Spent too many nights tailing skips in dark places. This kind of quiet... makes me think something's about to go down."

Derek's eyes flicked over to him, a quiet amusement in his gaze. "Maybe it does," he said, the words hanging in the air for just a beat too long.

Luke chuckled, spinning slightly in his chair. "You ever get used to the silence here? Always creeps me out a little. Spent too many nights tailing skips in dark places. This kinda quiet always makes me think something's about to go down."

Derek's brow quirked, interest piqued. "Bounty hunter instincts?"

"Yeah, something like that," Luke said, shrugging one shoulder. "When I was doing that full time, I got into a rhythm. The quiet wasn't safe—it meant they were close. Or gone. Or watching you from someplace you couldn't see."

"That's bleak," Derek said, but his voice was amused, not judging.

"Maybe. But it kept me alive," Luke replied, then hesitated. He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees. "Sorry, I should've said—Luke Alvez. I mean, officially. We didn't really get to talk earlier. First day nerves and all."

Derek's gaze warmed slightly, and he shifted in his chair. "Derek. Well—Hotchner, now. Used to be Morgan. You know the story."

Luke offered a half-smile. "I figured, with the name. I didn't wanna assume." He knew what Derek wasn't saying. He was married to Aaron Hotchner, and he knew Derek wasn't saying that was because he was tired of everyone assuming that he got special treatment because of it.

Derek's smile flickered. "Smart move."


Luke kept it light, easy. He didn't want to push. "Anyway, I wasn't trying to eavesdrop earlier or anything, just…you know. New guy instinct. You get a feel for who's who, how the place breathes. I figure it's better to listen more than talk, at least at the start."

Derek studied him for a moment, then nodded, approving. "That's good instinct. Not everyone walks in with that."

"Yeah, well," Luke said, settling back, "being shot at for a living makes you develop a decent read on people. Doesn't make you right, though."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "And what's your read on me?"

Luke paused, then grinned faintly. "I think you're the kind of guy who carries too much and says too little."

Derek laughed, a low and surprised sound. "That's generous."

"Like I said. Doesn't mean I'm right."

They lapsed into a companionable silence, and Luke leaned back again, arms folded across his chest.

"So," he said after a beat, "any cases still haunt you? You know, the kind that just set up camp in your head and refuse to leave?"

"Oh, man," Derek said, resting his elbow on the desk and running a hand over his jaw. "Where do I even start? The Hollow Creek case, maybe. That one was rough. Two kids went missing in the same town, ten years apart. Everyone thought it was some kind of ghost story until we dug deeper. Turns out, the guy had been living right under their noses the whole time—volunteered at the school's theater program. Watched the kids grow up."

Luke gave a low whistle. "Damn."

"Yeah." Derek exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. "Found his scrapbook. Polaroids. Drawings. He'd planned the whole thing like it was art."

Luke was quiet for a second, then said, "You ever get tired of pretending you're not angry at these people?"

Derek blinked. It wasn't a question he'd been expecting. His lips parted, then closed again. He looked off, far beyond the bullpen.

"Sometimes," he said finally. "But if I let it show, they win. The job gets harder. Someone's gotta stay calm."


Before Luke could reply, the bullpen doors swung open.

Footsteps on tile. The unmistakable sound of authority.

Aaron Hotchner entered the room with brisk, practiced purpose, his tailored coat slung over one arm, expression as sharp and neutral as ever.

Luke looked up, instinctively straightening a bit in his seat.

Derek didn't move.

But something shifted in him. Not visibly—at least not enough for someone unfamiliar to notice. But Luke caught it. A subtle stilling of breath. A faint hitch in his shoulders. The kind of thing a trained eye couldn't miss.

Aaron barely glanced at them. "Don't stay too late," he said, not unkindly, but not warmly either. Then he turned and headed for his office, the door closing behind him with a dull click.

Silence returned. Not peaceful. Heavier, somehow.

Derek let out a quiet breath. Not quite a sigh, but something near it.

Luke glanced at him again. "You good?"

Derek turned, forcing a small, dry smile. "Yeah. Just...still thinking about that case."

Luke held his gaze a moment longer. He didn't say what was on his mind. Didn't say what he noticed. It wasn't his place. Not yet.

So instead, he leaned back, easygoing again. "Well, if you ever want to trade war stories properly, grab a beer after shift sometime, I'm game."

Derek chuckled, the tension melting from his frame like snow in sunlight. "Yeah. I'd like that."

They went back to chatting—about old jobs, weird busts, strange hunches that paid off. The night stretched on, a little quieter, a little more comfortable.

But in Luke's mind, the moment played back over and over: the subtle freeze. The shallow breath. The look in Derek's eyes—not fear, exactly.

Relief.

And Luke didn't want to judge.

But he also couldn't ignore it.


Ten minutes later, Luke returned to the bullpen with a soda tucked under one arm and a king-sized chocolate bar in hand.

"You strike me as a 'chocolate instead of dinner' kind of guy," he said lightly as he approached Derek's desk.

Derek looked up, momentarily surprised. "You're not wrong."

Luke tossed him the bar with a flick of his wrist and cracked open the soda for himself. "Figured the vending machine was a safer bet than the leftovers someone left in the breakroom fridge. Pretty sure one of them moved."

Derek smirked, unwrapping the chocolate with practiced ease. "Appreciate the assist."

"Hey, gotta keep the team alive somehow."

As if summoned by the idea of snacks and semi-human interaction, Penelope Garcia swept into the bullpen with her usual flurry of energy and color. She wore a lemon-yellow cardigan that looked like it had been hand-knit by a cheerful wizard and clutched a tablet like it contained the secrets of the universe.

"Ohhh, boys and chocolate, be still my heart," she cooed, settling herself on the edge of Luke's desk without waiting for permission. "You're making this graveyard shift look almost tolerable."

Derek raised his chocolate bar in mock salute. "We aim to please."

Garcia grinned. "Speaking of pleasing, I come bearing gifts of a different kind—data on our mystery meat carver."

Luke raised an eyebrow. "You found something?"

"Mm-hmm." She flipped the tablet around and tapped to bring up an image. "Three bodies across two states, all male, late twenties, and—get this—every one of them had old surgical scars. Appendectomy, knee surgeries, even a cochlear implant on the last one. And they were removed. Postmortem."

Luke winced. "That's... not medical curiosity."

"Nope," Garcia agreed brightly. "It's surgical fixation. He's not collecting organs—he's collecting scars."


Derek leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing in that profiler way that made you feel like you were being x-rayed. "So he's targeting people with past trauma. Physical marks. Maybe ones that mirror his own."

Luke rubbed the back of his neck. "Revenge fantasy? Projection?"

"Could be," Derek murmured. "We'll need victim histories. Hospital records. School injuries, maybe."

Garcia nodded, already swiping through her files. "I've got requests out, but bureaucratic red tape is thicker than my moisturizer. I should have more by morning."

Luke glanced at Derek. "You got a report ready for Hotch yet? He asked me for one earlier and said you were working on yours."

Derek sighed, long and low, running a hand down his face. "Halfway there. I keep rewriting the profile."

Luke gave a small nod, casual. "You think it's the field work you miss, or just the chase?"

Derek paused, just for a second. Then his smile returned, practiced and mild. "Probably just the adrenaline."

Garcia chimed in without missing a beat. "You? Miss the field? Never. You definitely don't miss getting tackled into bushes in Kansas or chased by a guy with a hatchet in Florida."

"That hatchet guy was your lead," Derek said with a smirk. "I was just backup."

"And look where that got you," she teased.

As the conversation drifted into old war stories and half-jokes about near-misses and tactical missteps, Luke leaned back in his chair, sipping his soda and listening more than talking. He watched the way Derek sat with them—present, contributing, laughing even—but never fully relaxed. Like a man pressing on an old bruise to make sure it still hurt.

Luke didn't let it show.

He just sat there, part of the scene now, and quietly wondered if Derek Hotchner ever looked at old case photos the way some people looked at vacation albums.

And whether, deep down, Derek missed the blood and dust of the field more than he let on.

End Chapter Two