CHAPTER FIVE
( even the iron still fears the rot )

☆ content warning ☆
details of past child abuse,
violence, victim blaming

CAN NARCISSISTS FEEL LOVE?

Natalie remembered asking an unassuming Spencer the question not long ago. She remembered the way he thought about it for a second, the little wrinkle between his brows making itself known.

Yes, he'd replied, although there was hesitation in his tone. But it's typically superficial.

Natalie remembered her confusion, next. If love can exist in such small and meaningless quantities, can it even be called love at all?

Spencer had smiled, ever so slightly, but he didn't answer the question, and she assumed it was because he didn't know the answer.

A distinct lack of empathy renders narcissists unable to develop meaningful relationships, he'd continued, but, if by chance they view the subject of their love as an extension of themselves, it's possible for it to be real.

Natalie hoped he was right.

James Blair had always talked about seeing himself in his daughter. Even as he placed a purple ring around her eye, he reminded her of their likeness.

She was an extension of him.

They'd been born with the same black hair, the same high cheekbones, the same deep-set eyes.

Natalie grew to hate the resemblance the longer she stared at it in the mirror. But even after putting gallons of bleach in her hair, the dark, creature-like shadow of her father continued to show itself in her reflection.

For the briefest moment after she opened the door, she could have sworn she saw herself standing in the center of her apartment.

"You're home late."

As if he'd pulled a trigger, she felt the familiar blood return to her upper lip. Quickly wiping it away with the back of her hand, Natalie sniffled.

"I didn't know you were... visiting."

(Was that was it was? Visiting? Or was it ambushing, or breaking and entering into a federal agent's home?)

James smiled, again.

"I wanted it to be a surprise."

(Surprise. Got it.)

"Oh," she nodded, and wiped her nose with her hand again, and then wiped her hand on her thigh.

Her father didn't seem to care about the blood, because his daughter's face painted crimson wasn't an unusual sight.

Natalie's eyes fitted back towards the vase holding the flowers Spencer left her—well, the vase where they would have been, if they were still there.

James noticed her stare, and let out a chuckle. Almost innocent sounding, if she didn't know better, which she did. "You know how my allergies get, princess."

She knew that he didn't have any, but again, she nodded, mumbling out a quiet, "Okay."

He laughed again, turned around, and began heading for Natalie's four-seater dining table at the far end of the apartment. Silently, she watched him leave, fully conscious of the way his eyes skimmed over her Bible collection as he did.

It was then, that she smelled it.

Glancing carefully into the kitchen, the sight of unseasoned mashed potatoes, gravy, and steak clouded her vision.

Bile built up in her throat, and if she hadn't immediately swallowed it down, she would have vomited right there on the hardwood floor.

But her father was waiting for her, and so she ignored the pit in her stomach and joined him at the dinner table.

He'd already made her a plate.

A slab of dead animal sat grotesquely in the center of a pool of gravy. Even through the toughness of the skin, she could see the reddening veins which signified how it had been alive, once.

An urge to remind him of her vegetarianism briefly flickered through her mind, but it had never stopped him from forcing her to eat it before, so she discarded the thought as soon as it came.

(At the very least, she prayed that the cow had lived a happy life. A better one than she had.)

"Do you want to say grace, or shall I?"

James' voice interrupted her thoughts, and Natalie met his gaze with a resignation that was reserved only for him.

"I will."

The question was a test, which she knew, and so she expected the twitch of his pale lips that followed as she passed it.

"Be my guest."

It was funny, how her home was now his.

Natalie bowed her head, and tried not to flinch when he took her hand. The same hand which held Spencer's only hours before; the hand which was ice cold now that it wasn't.

"Glory be to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit," she recited the prayer as if it were second nature, "Lord, have mercy. God, give the blessing. Through the prayers of our Holy Fathers, we ask you, God, to bless this food and drink for Your servants, for You are holy, always, now and forever."

"Amen," James finished, squeezing his daughter's hand once before letting go. Natalie couldn't help but to flinch that time.

"Amen."

He picked up a knife, and she watched carefully to be sure what he was planning to do with it. It sunk harshly into the flesh, and she let out a sharp breath, moving her gaze to stare blankly at her plate.

"So," James started casually, as if he hadn't broken into her apartment and made this dinner and touched her hand and threw away Spencer's flowers, "How's work?"

Natalie wasn't sure what she thought he was planning to ask, but that was isn't it. "Um, work is... good. I mean, not good, but... good."

"Hm. No active cases? You haven't touched your food. But really, no killers on the loose, that you know about?"

Blinking, she looked up.

It took a moment to process everything, because she could hardly breathe before he started asking her about the FBI.

(Can narcissists feel love? Maybe. But can they feign interest in something that provides them no personal benefit? Rarely. Very, very rarely.)

"No, um, we... we wrapped a case in Miami last week, but... but nothing since."

James only hummed, reaching out to pour himself a glass of wine. Natalie hadn't even noticed the glasses on the table until he did.

He hadn't asked her details about the FBI since she'd left Maine four years before. In the back of her mind, there was a question of why now, but she pushed it away as soon as it came to the surface.

Polite as ever, she lifted her own empty glass, a silent request for him to fill it. His lips quirked, and he did.

"Who was that, dropping you off?"

Natalie's arm jerked, and the wine spilt across the white tablecloth like a bloodstain.

Her gaze snapped back to his own, hazel colliding with ice blue, and all of a sudden, James wasn't smiling anymore.

Eyes shifting towards her living room window, Natalie felt her heart banging against her rib cage, the blood rushing through her ears and subsequently out of her nose again. She didn't bother grabbing a tissue, allowing it to run freely over her upper lip, still focused on the window that faced the open street.

The window James saw them through.

He watched Spencer lean in, and he watched his daughter do the same, and he saw their lips touch, and he saw Spencer's car, and his license plate number, and his face.

The iron dripping into her mouth wasn't her biggest issue, but after a few moments, she allowed herself to wipe it away. Even if the blood deserved to be there; even if she deserved to taste it.

"I... work with him."

James stared at her for a few moments, only breaking it to take a sip of his wine. Natalie wiped her nose a final time, feeling the flow of the crimson fluid come to a stop, and she did the same.

"Well, I hope you don't whore yourself out to all of your coworkers."

(It was sad, how that was the exact reaction she'd expected. It was even sadder, that she knew it was only the beginning.)

Refusing the idea would only make the punishment worse, so instead she replied evenly, "It was our first date."

The monotone timbre of her voice contrasted violently against the fear in her eyes, and she took another sip of wine to ease the nerves.

Natalie wondered if her father would throw his glass at her as she drank. James kept a hold of it, carefully moving his hand so the red liquid would swirl, creating a scaled-down whirlpool in the palm his hand.

A bit of wine tipped over the side and joined the mess of her previous spill, and each of them watched closely as it did.

At some point, James had stopped eating entirely, and Natalie could see the pinkness of the meat peak out behind his mashed potatoes. The rawness of the flesh made her wince.

"Well, I sincerely hope you're not expecting him to love you. We both know how that worked out the last time, don't we?"

(Again, she wished she were surprised.)

James had brought that up so often over the past ten years, that the sentiment had begun to lose it's effect.

"It was just a date, Dad."

"You should keep it that way," he hummed, a rough sound that screamed of distrust as he finally emptied his glass. "No one in this family was born to be loved. Especially you."

(Oh. That was a new one.)

James picked up his knife and fork, as if nothing was wrong in the slightest, and began eating his steak again. Natalie couldn't do anything but stare.

Because therein lies the issue, doesn't it?

She wasn't made for it.

Natalie wasn't made for any of it; not for the flowers based on her favorite play, or the hand holding, or the walks through fancy art galleries, or the cheap diners, or the laughs, or being kissed in the car. She wasn't made for Spencer, and she sure as hell wasn't made for love.

Guilt creeped up her spine at the thought. She'd manipulated Spencer into believing she was somebody else without even realizing it.

Her own wine glass emptied itself down her throat, and she swallowed, allowing herself to grieve for what could've been.

Natalie would deal with that tomorrow.

Hurting Spencer could wait. The man still sitting across from her, the man with a clear secret agenda, couldn't.

"Why are you here?"

As if he'd been entirely oblivious to the spiral he'd caused, James swallowed the flesh, a pleasant smile now sitting against his high cheekbones. "Think of it as a pre-birthday gift."

At the mention of her birthday, Natalie bristled. "What do you mean? Like... visiting is the gift?"

James hadn't given his daughter a birthday gift once in nearly twenty years. Partly because Elaine was always the one to buy them, and partly as a punishment. He never said why, but Natalie knew.

He grinned, now.

"Among other things, yes."

The confidence in his words set an alarm off in the back of her head, a muffled yet ear piercing siren.

The world around her seemed to blur, ever so slightly, as a memory came to mind. It was distant, but she remembered; oh, she remembered.

(As hard as she tried to forget, to push it away and never think of it again, she wasn't able to.)

Elaine had been dead for only a few weeks, her killer still sat locked in a cell and awaiting a trial, and James... well, something was wrong with James.

Something... more, than the usual.

It didn't take long to figure out what.

The woman's body was heavier than it looked—dead weight—which was supposedly the reason why James had enlisted the help of his adolescent daughter to toss it into the lake.

Natalie had seen him do it before, a faraway view from the upstairs window, hiding behind her star-printed curtains so he wouldn't spot her.

But when he finally caught her staring, he simply beckoned her outside, refusing her childish offer to get him a glass of water. Instead, James told her to help him, because she needed to learn.

He only needed help the one time.

A young Natalie suspected that he would ask again, but he never did. She never saw him with another body again, either.

That was nearly twenty years ago, too.

Natalie's gaze was once again drawn to the sharpened knife in his hand, and with an air of caution, her eyes met his own.

"Things are different now."

Something behind James' pupils twinkled, and despite her profiling skills, she wasn't able to catch what it was. He put on a confused face quickly after, refilling his wine glass as he did.

"Care to elaborate?"

"I was a kid, then," she continued, using the courage that working in the FBI had given her since the last time she saw him. "But I'm a federal agent, now. You can't hurt anyone, I won't let you."

Something else crossed over his face, but the only thing Natalie could truly nail down was more confusion. Concern, as well, not that she believed it.

"Wait," James tilted his head, the genuine sense of bewilderment on his features making her pause, "What in the world are you talking about?"

With an open mouth, she frowned.

"Dad, you... you know what I'm talking about."

Because he did. Unless he had early onset dementia, he did. Murder wasn't the same as forgetting your car keys on the kitchen table.

The look on James' face didn't change. Not a single micro-expression, not a single twitch.

"No, I don't," he denied, and Natalie felt a pit in her stomach, because as far as she could tell, he was being honest. "What's going on?"

"You..."

They'd never talked about it. She never brought it up. Not when he was breaking her ribs for getting a C minus on a test, or when he slapped her spine with his belt buckle for having an attitude.

They'd never talked about it, but it happened.

(It did happen. It did.)

"I... what?"

Natalie was a profiler. She was supposed to know when someone was lying—she always did know when someone was lying—but for some reason, right now, she didn't have a clue.

Swallowing harshly and lowering her voice as if some outside force would hear, she leaned forward, whispering out a quiet, "You... you killed that girl, you... you had me help you."

James only looked at her in silence.

Natalie could feel her eyebrows caving in, and she realized she must look incredulous; a full plate and an empty glass before her, openly confessing as an accessory to murder.

But she didn't care.

Because she'd previously been classified by Emily as a 'human lie detector', and somehow, her father was the only one she couldn't get a clear read on.

After several long seconds, James sighed, once again setting down his glass. Natalie watched him, unconsciously pressing her back into her chair, as if that would help her get away.

"Princess, have you been dreaming again?"

The pit in her stomach grew deeper.

"What?"

James let out a defeated sigh, as if he expected this, whatever this was. He seemed to know a hell of a lot more than Natalie did, and so with bated breath, she listened closely as he explained.

"They said this would happen. Something about traumatic events—" he said the words with an air of sarcasm, "—causing discrepancies in our memories. It was a nightmare, Natalie. You had the same one when you were little."

Suddenly, her mind went hazy again, a faraway evocation coming the forefront of her thoughts.

Natalie did used to have nightmares.

She vaguely recalled her father offering a sip of his whiskey each night, just enough to lull her into a dreamless sleep. It didn't take much, because she was so small, but it subdued her subconscious long enough for her to get a couple hours of rest.

On the nights he didn't, she could remember waking up with a scream tearing at her throat.

Maybe, it was a dream. 

But it felt like a memory.

Really, it did; Natalie could feel the soft, balmy skin against her little palms, and the strain in her biceps as she attempted to lift the woman up. She could hear the wind vibrating around her ears, and she could feel the rock-filled dirt beneath the soles of her worn out sneakers.

The rest of the nightmares slowly went away, but as she grew older and more time passed, that one didn't.

"No, I—I was there. It was real."

Her voice betrayed her uncertainty.

James sighed again, the same pitying frown on his lips when he responded, "She looked just like your mother, right?"

"I—"

"You told me about it," he cut her off, his tone just the slightest bit more aggravated than it was before, "When you were eight. Now, let me ask you this. How often have you been going to church?"

The way he could so artfully change the subject, the way he never failed to force remorse to eat away at her chest; it should have worried her more than it did.

Their dinner long forgotten, he raised a single eyebrow, a silent reminder that he knew when she lied.

"Not as often as I'd... as I'd like to."

James scoffed at that. Natalie flinched again.

"Worship is only a choice for those who sin."

"I know, but I—"

"Has it ever occurred to you that your dreams are coming back, all because you've willfully abandoned your creator?" James suggested, although it sounded more like a statement of fact. "The Lord can't protect those who turn their backs on Him."

"I—I know—"

"Do you even pray, Natalie?"

Out of the blue, she felt the familiar sense of urgency in her lungs. Natalie swallowed as much air as possible, doing everything in her power to remind herself of the whereabouts of her inhaler.

(It always got worse when she panicked.)

"Yes," she said simply, as the word was all she was able to get out through her gentle wheezing.

James' eyes narrowed, and he leaned back in his seat, entirely ignorant that she was having any trouble at all. Or perhaps, he just didn't care.

"You're lying to me, princess."

"I'm not—" Natalie started, but was interrupted by the desperate urge to breathe again. Hastily, she got up from her seat, the chair legs screeching against the wooden floor. "Sorry, I—I need my—"

Her sentence went unfinished as her feet carried her towards her purse, which she'd discarded at some point after walking inside. Natalie found it on the floor, and thankfully spotted the steel handle of her inhaler sticking out from the top.

Just as she went to grab it, she felt the rough, calloused hand wrap itself around the base of her throat.

Even if he hadn't announced himself, she would've known it belonged to her father. His fingers seemed to fit perfectly against her carotid artery, slipping dutifully into the place they so often were.

Natalie didn't even have time to gasp for air before her back hit the wall.

"Don't you ever walk away from me when I am speaking to you," James snapped, his grip tightening, only making it that much harder for her to inhale. "You know it's not polite."

Frantically scratching at his hands with her shortened nails, Natalie lifted herself onto her tip-toes, for no reason but to get as far away from him as possible. James' face was close—too close—and she could smell the remnants of the wine on his breath.

Fighting didn't work—it never did, it only ever made it worse—and she quickly gave up.

"I'm—I'm sorry—"

"Hm? What was that?"

Her voice was only a whisper, it was all she could manage, but she knew what he wanted. It was far from the first time he'd done such a thing.

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, Dad, I'm—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Natalie hardly knew what she was saying.

It was like the response had been programmed into her brain; you mess up, then Dad hurts you, then you say sorry.

It came more naturally to her than breathing, which had always been a difficult task. Her asthma had been diagnosed when she was a baby, but being choked always made it worse, so she did her best not to get in trouble.

Natalie should have known better, now.

It was rude to walk away from a conversation. All she needed to do was say excuse me, but she couldn't manage to do that, and now, her breathing was even worse, all because of what she did.

"I need—" A hoarse cough broke through the last word, and James rolled his eyes at her dramatics, "Need my inhaler."

"It's disrespectful, princess," he grit out between sharpened teeth, "You understand that, right? You understand that it's rude not to excuse yourself?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

He tightened his fingers again, this time slamming her head back into the wall with just enough force to give her a headache.

(Natalie didn't cry, because she never cried, because that would only make it worse. James hated tears, almost as much as he hated her.)

"You understand that it's impolite to let your dinner get cold? The dinner I made you, in your own home? Here I thought I'd be nice and surprise you, but you don't deserve a single fucking nice thing, do you?"

No, she didn't.

But she didn't need the reminder, either.

Eyeing the inhaler which still sat in the same place in her bag on the floor, she managed to gasp out a final, "Sorry, Dad, won't—won't do it—again."

All at once, James released his grip.

"No, you won't."

Natalie was able to keep her footing, as opposed to falling to the ground like most people would. She had the practice, she supposed.

But after a few long seconds of heavy breathing, she couldn't help but to slide haphazardly down the wall, her feet slipping out from beneath her as she failed to regain control of her diaphragm.

Her father's body still blocked her purse from her reach, and so she apologized again.

"I'm sorry, I'll go back to church, I'll—"

She couldn't help but to wheeze, but she didn't dare touch her neck, despite throbbing pain that rapidly began to form beneath her skin.

James let out a heavy sigh, smiled at her, and ever so slowly, he crouched down to her level.

His hand—the same hand he'd had wrapped around her throat seconds before—gently rose to brush away a stray blonde hair from his daughter's face.

"Stop pouting, Natalie. I barely touched you."

A single blink, and he'd walked out the door, leaving one mess on the dining room table, and another leaning pitifully against the wall.

Belatedly, Natalie realized that James' boot had stepped unceremoniously onto her purse, her inhaler being crushed into pieces on his way out.

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

Spencer slept like a baby that night.

So much so, that he'd woken up hours before his alarm rang the next morning, caught the earlier bus, walked to the best coffee shop in D.C., and picked up eight caffeinated beverages for the team.

They all varied in size, sugars, and cream, took nearly five minutes to order all together, and he was pretty sure the teenaged barista saw her life flash before her eyes when he ordered twenty Splendas in his own.

But still, he couldn't have been happier.

Spencer wasn't entirely sure how the whole girlfriend-boyfriend business worked, considering the fact that he'd never technically had one, but he liked to think he and Natalie were on the right track.

Natalie.

Even the thought of her name got him to smile.

"Woah, what's wrong with you?"

Emily's voice drew his attention as she entered the bullpen, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to wipe the dopey grin off his face.

"Nothing's wrong with me."

"Yeah, okay, smiley," she half-joked, her eyebrows furrowing as she attempted to sus him out. Still, she took the coffee when he offered it to her, albeit with an air of uncertainty. "Alright, let me guess... some five hour Russian film is playing downtown? No, wait, I've got it... Friedrich Nietzsche came back from the dead and wants to hang out?"

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Funny."

(He didn't bother to mention that there actually was a Russian film playing at his favorite theater, because he knew she was joking.)

"Hey, come on, I'm serious," Emily continued, unable to keep herself from laughing through her words at her own quip. Much to his dismay, she followed him around towards his desk, leaning against the cubicle divider when he sat down. "I haven't seen you in such a good mood since Garcia took you to Comic Con."

Spencer only shook his head, feeling the edges of his lips twitch upwards against his will. If he could've stopped it, he would've.

"What, now I can't be in a good mood?"

"Not this good of a mood, no."

He scoffed lightly at that, trying his best not to he offended. It wasn't like he was always despondent; in fact, he'd even go as far as to say he was usually the opposite.

Then, it occured to him that Emily was right, because the longer the thought about it, he hadn't been as happy as he was now, not in a long time.

He blushed again when a memory of the previous night clouded his thoughts, and cursed himself when Emily let out a gasp.

All of a sudden, like a saving grace, Derek walked in. He caught on immediately, from what Spencer could tell, and he was more than grateful that his friend would likely change the subject, presuming Derek knew exactly why his cheeks were dusted pink.

But when he approached the two, letting out a casual question of, "You told her already?", Spencer realized that he wasn't a saving grace at all.

Emily laughed again, pointing an accusing finger at him when she choked out, "So there is something to tell!"

"No," Spencer denied with haste, which was ultimately pointless and only made it worse, because JJ and Penelope came to pick up their coffees just as he did.

"What's going on?" JJ wondered, frowning at the obvious look of contempt on the younger man's face. "Why's he blushing?"

Penelope quite literally squealed, and Spencer absentmindedly wished for his legs to be shorter so he could sink below his desk and die there.

"Spencer's blushing? He's—oh, you are!"

"Yeah," Emily sighed with a sense of faux-wistfulness, "But only Morgan knows why."

JJ snorted. "Of course he does."

"Derek Morgan, my beautiful sexy angel, you need to tell me the gossip right now—you know I need to know! Tell me—"

When Derek started grinning like he was getting paid to do it, Spencer put his head in his hands, letting out a groan that was muffled by his colleague's overlapping chatter regarding his personal life.

"Uh, guys, why are we harrassing Spence?"

The conversation went quiet, and he didn't need to look up to recognize the trepidation in Natalie's voice.

Natalie.

He felt the warmth in his face grow hotter.

"We think he has a lover," Penelope whispered at a volume that was louder than her usual speaking voice. "Also, my darling, why didn't you tell me you were gonna get even more gorgeous overnight?!"

At that, Spencer couldn't stop himself from glancing up. Natalie was gorgeous every day, of course, but he was allowed to be curious. That was definitely all it was; curiosity. Definitely not an itching desire to see her again despite dropping her off at home not twelve hours before.

His eyes met hers, and he didn't care about the blush anymore, because Penelope was right.

Natalie cut her hair.

Not much, really, only enough for people she sees every day to notice, but Spencer did immediately. It still sat below her shoulders, but it was a bit more textured, covering up more of her neck. It looked nice.

Self consciously, he ran a hand through his own hair, recalling a faint memory of his mother telling him it was much too long for such a pretty boy.

But then he remembered that Natalie had told him she liked it long—back when he faintly resembled an FBI agent variant of Jesus—and he disregarded the thought.

"Spencer."

He blinked, and belatedly registered that they'd all been staring at him for what he assumed to be several seconds now.

But it was her who said his name.

"What?" Spencer replied dubiously, purposefully ignoring Derek's borderline painful laughter. "Hm?"

A strange expression passed over Natalie's face, but she sent him a faint smile nonetheless. "I, uh, I need your help over by the coffee machine."

"Oh, I actually got you a triple latte—"

"Spence," she emphasized once more, this time with visible humor twinkling in her eyes, "I'm trying to rescue you, if that's something you'd be interested in."

Realization dawned on him, suddenly, and he was on his feet before she could even finish her sentence.

The gossip only got louder as they rushed away, whispers of who and when—and even a subtle why from JJ—but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Natalie had taken his hand when she moved to guide him away from the others, and she still hadn't let go.

(The fact that none of the professionally trained profilers noticed that fact was a godsend.)

But she let go all too soon when they arrived in the break area, choosing to stand casually near the coffee maker despite that everyone already knew it was a fib. Commiting to the bit, he supposed.

Spencer put his hands in his trouser pockets, then, like he wasn't quite sure what to do with them if they weren't touching her.

"Thanks for..." he started, a little bit too aware that they'd been kissing the last time he saw her, "... uh, saving me, back there. I owe you one."

Natalie shrugged, the hem of her turtleneck long-sleeved shirt brushing gently against the bottom of her chin.

"You can pay me back later."

Only half a second after she spoke, she quickly looked away, and he watched her bite the inside of her cheek. It wasn't a nervous tick he'd ever seen before, and the smallest part of him felt special, because it was reserved for him.

Spencer cleared his throat. "So, um, last n—"

"Last night was—"

The two talked over each other, and subsequently stopped talking altogether. He wouldn't have interrupted her if he knew she wasn't done, and so with only a massive amount of embarrassment, he waved for her to continue.

"Sorry, uh, go—go on."

Natalie opened her mouth to speak, but the longer she stared at him, no words came out. He briefly wondered if he had something on his face.

"Um, I was just... we should probably talk about... you know... um, this whole... situation."

Situation wasn't the word he would've used, and her usage of it incited a miniscule amount of panic into his chest. God, maybe it wasn't as amazing as he originally assumed—maybe he was a bad kisser, or talked too much, or didn't talk enough, or—

"Situation."

The word left Spencer's mouth before he could even begin to catch up to the tornado of doubt whirring around in his brain.

He watched her hesitate with a frown.

"Yeah, um, listen, I—"

Natalie cut herself off, and half a second later, footsteps sounded behind Spencer. Slightly irritated, he turned to greet Hotch with a casual wave, which earned him a look, because it wasn't typical of him to casually wave at his boss for no reason.

"Excuse me," Hotch said politely to the blonde in front of him, who stepped out of the way so he could use the coffee maker.

Spencer's downward turned lips didn't budge. "You know, I—I got coffee for the whole team."

(Please get the hell out of the vicinity so I can talk to my maybe-girlfriend, was what he wanted to say.)

Hotch poured the hour-old cheap coffee into his usual mug, clearly feigning carelessness. "They got mixed up. Speaking of which, I'll need to raise the cap for dental insurance if that's what you people drink on a daily basis."

Natalie seemed genuinely offended at the jab. "Don't lump me in with them."

The older man didn't look up from his mug when he responded dryly, "Wouldn't dream of it."

Spencer was about to say something regarding the typical American's cost of dental insurance per year versus the amount of the average amount allowed to be covered by companies and employers, but a sharp yelp from across the bullpen drew his attention.

"Agh!" Penelope cringed, practically tossing the coffee—black, presumably, since it was intended to belong to Hotch—into the trash can. "Spencer, why? What did I ever do to you?"

While Emily, JJ, and Derek each put equal effort into caring for the blonde woman after the incident, he heard a familar giggle coming from his side.

Natalie stood in the same place, only this time, her neck was craned to see the disaster of a mix-up unfold. Her laugh was quiet, but usually it was impossible to hear at all, so Spencer was more than happy to take what he could get.

She really did have a beautiful laugh.

It was cut short, however, when Hotch's demeanor abruptly switched from friendly boss to SSA Aaron Hotchner.

Spencer didn't have a single clue as to what prompted the change; Penelope making a scene was a typical Tuesday afternoon. But one minute, he was sipping his coffee before starting the pile of paperwork on his desk, and the next, he was staring Natalie down like a hawk.

"Blair. My office, now."

He didn't stop to explain his reasoning, instead choosing to silently step past Spencer and make a b-line for the stairs. His fist clenching at his side was the only other indication that he was upset.

Natalie's laughter came to a halt almost as quickly as it started, and Spencer just barely caught her eyelid twitch before she controlled her tells.

"What did you do?" Spencer questioned, not bothering to hide the air of worry in his tone. She didn't reply, and so he asked again, "Nat? Everything alright?"

Natalie blinked once, and turned to face him.

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine."

He wasn't sure that she believed it.

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

She should've worn a scarf.

The pain was bearable, but it wasn't a pretty sight. A series of small, finger-shaped purple bruises littered the sides of her neck, as well as a midnight blue one in the center of her throat.

Every precaution had been taken; a haphazard haircut that frayed in at her collarbones, a turtleneck top, a thick layer of concealer over the worst points. It would've worked, if not for her own carelessness.

It was just a fleeting moment.

A quick laugh, a single hair moving out of place and allowing the man next to her to see the marks.

Natalie wasn't made for happiness. Not even the smallest amount. Each time she felt it, something awful followed not long after.

In this case, fear.

The only thing that frightened Natalie more than her father, was the prospect of losing Aaron Hotchner's trust.

When she entered his office—he'd walked fast, she'd done the exact opposite—he was sitting behind his desk.

His arms were crossed, and he looked angry, which only scared her more. It was irrational, she knew, because Hotch couldn't risk hurting her. He'd be fired if she told anyone; not that she would, but if by chance she found the courage, he'd be removed from the Bureau. He couldn't hurt her, at least not here.

(The possibility that he didn't want to hurt her hadn't even crossed her mind.)

"How've you been?"

The question caught her off guard.

"What?"

"We haven't talked in a while."

Natalie shuffled her feet, not sure what game he was playing. Hotch was historically hard to profile, but it was practically impossible when she herself was on edge.

"I saw you, like, two days ago—"

"Natalie."

Oh, she hated that. The softness in his voice, the way his stoicism melted away the second she opened her mouth. He didn't seem angry anymore, which was almost worse than if he was.

A punch, she could take.

Kindness, she couldn't.

Her walls didn't crumble like he wanted them to. The opposite, in fact; they hardened, became bulletproof.

"Can't you just ask me whatever corporate line you're required to ask, and we can get this over with?"

Hotch bristled at that, and got to his feet. A part of Natalie wished he would just knock her out cold and get it over with as opposed to the torture of talking.

He rounded the desk, leaning back against the edge of it, so he stood in front of her, but below her eyeline. It was a cheap shot—a trick that he taught her—at letting her feel like she was in control of the conversation.

When he went to speak, she caught a faint glimpse of something behind his eyes. A shine, of some sort.

"If somebody is hurting you—"

"Nobody's hurting me."

He was profiling her, and she let him, because she wasn't lying. Any pain that came from her father's hands was hers to bear; any hurt she felt was hers to own.

"You have bruises on your neck—"

"A girl can't be kinky anymore—?"

"Natalie."

That was the second time he said her name, but the first time it was laced with genuine disappointment. It made her chest hurt, but she rolled her eyes rather than letting him know that.

"I bruise easily, Aaron," she brushed off his concern, while deliberately choosing to keep his eye contact with a hardened stare. "Just leave it."

Hotch crossed his arms again, and there was a split second when the gleam in his eyes returned.

It was quiet for a few seconds, and absentmindedly, Natalie wondered if he was ever going to just say it. Say that he knew exactly who caused the bruises, say that he knew what she did to deserve them. Instead, he stood up straight, and whatever semblance of control she had was gone once he did.

"Your dad's in town?"

Natalie knew that he knew she wouldn't crack. Not unless his fist collided with her cheekbone. Not unless he made her bleed.

Fixing her own posture, she shrugged, consciously placing a much-too-casual smile on her lips.

"Not that I'm aware."

Natalie left his office without being excused.

author's note ━━━━━━━━━━━
hahaha. yeah i'm sorry about this one

i feel like i should add that under absolutely
zero circumstances is abuse ever the victim's
fault—that being said, it's common for them
to blame themselves, as unfair as it is.

& the next chapter... let's just say, it could
potentially be referred to as the beginning of
the end. hahaha. until next time xx