Chapter Text
Chapter One: Sanctuary
The church wasn’t part of her routine.
In fact, JJ couldn’t remember the last time she’d even been inside one—maybe a wedding, maybe Henry’s baptism, years ago, all polite smiles and stiff heels. But tonight, she hadn’t been looking for ceremony. She hadn’t been looking for anything, really. Only… silence. Stillness. A place to sit where the walls didn’t echo with screaming.
She hadn’t realized she was crying until she stepped into the chapel.
It was tucked between a gas station and a boarded-up storefront, the kind of old stone structure that might’ve gone unnoticed if the streetlight hadn’t flickered just right when she drove by. There were no other cars in the lot. She parked anyway, climbed the stairs, and pulled the heavy wooden door open on a quiet creak. The air inside was cooler than she expected. Old wood and candlewax. Dust, but not neglect. It smelled like peace.
The kind of peace she hadn’t felt since the case started.
Three days of profiling a man who’d strung up women like ornaments in a basement—mothers, daughters, sisters. JJ had seen the photos. She’d stood in the rooms. Had to tell two families today that their loved ones would not be coming home.
She sat halfway down the pews, her fingers tangled in each other like a knot she couldn’t undo. She didn’t pray. Didn’t even bow her head. She just… sat. And breathed.
The quiet stretched until it didn’t feel oppressive. Until the tight grip around her ribs started to loosen just a little.
Then she heard a voice.
“Evening.”
She turned.
The man stood near the side aisle, not in full robes, just in simple black clerical wear—collar neat at his throat, sleeves rolled back just enough to reveal lean forearms, veins like tension lines carved into stone. His face was handsome in a way that startled her. Not because of the symmetry or sharp jawline, but because of the stillness in his eyes. A kind of gravity. Not dead. Not blank. Just… full. Like he had space to hold your pain without flinching.
JJ cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she said, voice rough. “I know it’s late. I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re not intruding,” he said gently, and stepped closer, keeping a respectful distance. “This place is always open.”
She gave a soft, half-hearted laugh. “Even to lapsed Protestants who don’t know what they’re doing?”
His mouth curved—barely. But it counted. “Especially to them.”
JJ wiped her hand under her nose. “I’m not really religious,” she admitted. “I just… had a rough few days. I was driving home and saw the light on. Thought maybe… I don’t know. That it might help to sit somewhere quiet.”
“It does help,” he said. “Sometimes quiet is the only thing that does.”
She looked at him. “You’re the priest here?”
“I am.” He nodded. “Father Aaron Hotchner.”
She gave a small smile. “Jennifer Jareau. JJ. I’m with the FBI.”
His brows raised just slightly. “That’s a difficult job.”
“Most days,” she said. “But some are worse.”
“Would you like to talk?”
She hesitated. “Isn’t there… some kind of protocol? A ritual? I don’t really know how it works.”
“There’s a structure,” he said, voice low and warm, “but it’s only there to help, not to limit. You don’t need to know the words. You don’t even need to call it confession, if that feels too heavy.”
JJ looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were white. “And if I just want someone to listen?”
“I can do that,” he said. “We can sit here. Or, if you’d prefer more privacy, the confessional is open.”
She glanced toward the wooden booth near the side of the chapel. Something about it felt safe. Not because it was holy—she wasn’t sure she believed in that—but because it would let her speak in the dark. Hidden. Honest.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I think I’d like that.”
Hotch nodded once, then walked ahead of her. Opened the door to the booth. Held it for her. When she stepped inside, the wood creaked under her weight, the tiny space dark and warm, cloistered like a memory.
She sat.
A moment later, he settled in on the other side.
She could just make out the edge of his silhouette through the latticed screen between them.
Neither of them spoke.
JJ let her eyes close.
“I don’t even know where to start,” she whispered.
“Then don’t start at the beginning,” he said gently. “Start with what hurts.”
She exhaled. Then did.