fic: Criminal Minds
Title: like chewing on pearls
Series: hands tied, follows check this hand, but it should work as a standalone. Or start at the beginning, with 'til I'm on track.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Reid/Morgan, Reid/Hotch, Morgan/Hotch, Reid/Morgan/Hotch
Spoilers: through 5x09, and warnings for everything that implies.
Summary: Reid can make the hard calls.
Word count: ~4100
A/N: Possibly darker than first three? More porn, though.
Also, it occurs to me that I could maybe use a beta? Let me know if there are heaps of errors, please. Title still taken from Lady Gaga lyrics.
Reid's gone from crutches to cane before they catch up with the Reaper, and then they're all on down time for the inquiry.
There's no room for mistakes in their line of work, Reid could have told Strauss. Anything less than perfection means another death, another victim. They are always struggling to be faster, smarter, better than they already are, and they're the best at what they do. The team's record can't be argued. He could cite the statistics, but that won't change what happened.
Reid will always remember the sound of Haley dying.
Hotch has to know the team heard everything, but when he doesn't say anything, neither does anyone else. Reid watches him vanish into his office, finally back from leave, and then eyes the rest of the team speculatively. They're all avoiding eye contact. They all feel like they've failed Hotch, failed Haley.
JJ goes home early, where Will is waiting for her with Henry and Jack. "We starting a daycare, now?" Will had drawled, but he'd smiled, scooping Jack into his arms and letting him "help" with Henry. It was JJ's idea, and with Haley's sister an absolute wreck, Hotch had been grateful for the assistance.
Prentiss and Rossi are next, slipping into the elevator side by side, and Reid thinks about the conversation he overhead, months ago, when Hotch was still in the hospital and Haley and Jack had just gone into hiding. "He said he didn't remember," Prentiss had told Rossi, and Reid, hovering outside the office door, had heard Rossi's disbelieving grunt.
Hotch wouldn't have spoken to Prentiss or JJ, and definitely not Garcia, about what had happened with Foyet, and Reid doesn't think he'd have gone to Rossi with this, either. Not with what he knows now -- Foyet's mocking insinuation, "Be gentle, like I was with you?"
Reid's extrapolated far more from far less.
Morgan would be the logical choice, Reid thinks. They're all adept at keeping secrets, but Morgan's had the most practice, two decades of silence on a similar theme. He barely needs the cane anymore, but he's still a bit unsteady without it, and Morgan's office is tucked down a hallway far away from the rest of the team.
The door is open wide, and Morgan gives him a weary smile when he enters. "Hey, Reid. This a social call?"
It's a euphemism, and Reid flashes Morgan a quick grin before shaking his head. "Not exactly." He sits carefully, propping the cane against Morgan's desk, and leans forward. "Has Hotch talked to you?"
Morgan scowls, leaning back in his own chair, and it's all the answer Reid needs. "Hotch won't even look at me," Morgan says, and Reid hadn't noticed that. He blinks, wonders what else he's missed.
"He hasn't talked to anyone else," Reid says, and Morgan snorts.
"What, did you take a poll or something?"
Reid arches an eyebrow at Morgan, who holds his gaze for a few seconds before looking away. "You made the right call," Reid says, after a moment. "You made all the right calls. Hotch knows that." He pauses, then continues in a rush, "He's still in his office; you should go talk to him."
Morgan's gaze darts back up to Reid's face, and Reid stares back at him. "This isn't just about Haley," Morgan says, and Reid nods.
"Do you think you screwed up by not telling us about Carl Buford for so long?" Reid asks, and Morgan flinches.
"I talked about that with you, afterward," Morgan says, finally, and he sighs heavily. "All right, Spencer. You win." He stands, and Reid tilts his head back, watching Morgan come around the desk. Morgan stoops to brush a kiss over Reid's upturned lips. "You sure know how to roll the hard six, baby boy," he says, and heads for the door.
"I'm from Vegas," Reid murmurs, and waits until he can no longer hear Morgan's footsteps in the hallway before he gets up and follows.
He leaves the cane, this time, and braces himself on the wall. It's quieter, as long as he's slow and careful, and he wants to give Morgan and Hotch the illusion of privacy, if not the reality. He stops just short of the door to Hotch's office, still open the merest crack, and listens.
"Do you want to hit me?" Morgan is asking, and Reid suppresses a groan. It's the absolute worst approach Morgan could have chosen -- if Hotch starts hitting, he won't stop.
"What would you do if I said yes?" Hotch asks, and Reid closes his eyes, remembers Hotch in an interview room with him and a convicted felon, stripping off his suit jacket and spoiling for a fight.
"I get it, if you want to blame me," Morgan says, earnest and sincere, and Reid wonders if he can risk peeking through the window, if they'd see him spying.
There's a long silence, and then, "I don't blame you," Hotch says, "any more than I blame myself."
There's another silence, and then Morgan totally screws Reid over by saying, "Reid thinks you need to talk to someone about what happened."
"Maybe Reid should stop listening at the door, if he has all these opinions he wants to share," Hotch says, and Reid cringes. Of course Hotch knows he's there -- Hotch knows him better than anyone, better even than Morgan. I knew you'd understand, he'd told Hotch, years ago, and maybe he should have gone to Hotch himself, but he'd honestly thought Morgan would be the best choice.
He limps through the doorway and settles gratefully into the chair Morgan pushes in his direction, even though Morgan is glaring darkly at him. He fusses with his cardigan for a minute, unbuttoning and rebuttoning the bottom, then looks up at Hotch defiantly.
Hotch is leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. "Is this an intervention?" he asks, deceptively mild. "Because as I recall, we never inflicted any such courtesy on you, after Hankel."
Reid's fingers jerk at the lowest button, but he doesn't look away. "Maybe you should have," he says, but it's not a criticism.
They all do the best they can. Reid's best had him in college before he'd hit puberty and his mother in an asylum before he could buy his own drinks.
The best call isn't always the right one, but Reid's always hated thinking in binaries.
Morgan's propped himself against a corner, out of Reid's line of sight, so he keeps his eyes on Hotch when Morgan speaks. "Do you regret putting me in charge?" he asks, and Reid tries not to look impatient. Morgan is still asking all the wrong questions.
"You were the best person for the job," Hotch says, and, okay, maybe Morgan's not doing so badly. Hotch is looking over Reid's shoulder, now, and Reid doesn't have to turn to know that he's looking at Morgan, looking at him directly for the first time in weeks.
"We can't save everyone," Hotch says, and it's a brutal truth.
"Yeah, but Hotch," Morgan says, and falters.
Reid's fingers go still on the button as the epiphany hits him. "You didn't screw up," he tells Morgan, and Hotch makes a noise that might be assent and might be choked-off grief.
Reid's here because both these men trust him, even when they can't trust themselves.
"It's not your fault," he tells Hotch, but Hotch won't look at him, now, just stares at the floor and shakes his head.
"I could have taken the deal," he whispers, and Reid almost laughs, it's so completely unbelievable. They all do their best, after all, and Hotch's best could never include making that deal.
"No, you couldn't have," Morgan says, like he's just figuring it out, and maybe he is. "Hotch, even if you'd called off the search, we would have kept hunting him. The deal was never an option, and Foyet had to have known that. It was just one more way of messing with your head."
"You couldn't have stopped him from killing her," Reid says, and, "You couldn't have stopped any of it." Hotch shudders, braced against his desk, unfolding his arms to clutch at the wooden surface with white-knuckled hands. "Sometimes your only choice is to survive," Reid says, and Hotch finally looks at him, the echo of remembered trauma in his eyes.
"Does everyone know?" Hotch asks, and Reid can hear Morgan shift and then go still behind him.
"Prentiss saw your chart, when you were in the hospital," Reid says. "I'm pretty sure she told Rossi. I didn't figure it out until the phone call."
"Know what?" Morgan asks.
"He would have had to be gentle, so you wouldn't bleed out," Reid says, blunt and matter-of-fact, and Morgan sucks in a quick, shocked breath.
Hotch stares at Reid, lost, and Reid's fingers twitch, the button fumbling in his grip. He forces his hands to let go, to lie flat on his lap. "I didn't think you'd mind Morgan knowing, too," he says.
"Presumptuous," Hotch says, but there's no censure in it.
"You know about us," Reid shrugs, like it's the same thing. "And the whole team knows about Morgan's past." He pauses, struggles to find the best words. "We don't have room for secrets," he says. "They make the job harder. They make us exploitable."
He closes his eyes, eidetic memory readily supplying the image of Hotch, standing in that cell and looking to wipe away the pain of his failed marriage with a convict's fist in his face.
"Take off your jacket," Reid says quietly. "If you want to hit Morgan, go ahead. But Morgan will hit back."
"Reid," Morgan murmurs from behind him, closer now, no longer leaning into the corner.
"Or," Reid continues as though Morgan hasn't spoken, "we could try something else."
When he opens his eyes, Hotch is watching him, suit jacket already off and folded neatly across his desk. "I'm listening," Hotch says.
"Do you trust me?" Reid asks, and Hotch nods. He doesn't look at Morgan, because he already knows that Morgan will follow his lead.
"Do you trust Morgan?" he asks, and Hotch hesitates. For a brief, terrifying instant, Reid is afraid he's misjudged this, that his profile is wrong.
"More than I trust myself," Hotch says, and it's not a yes, but it's enough.
Reid pushes himself out of the chair and limps across the small space to stand in front of Hotch. Hotch doesn't move, just watches him, openly curious and puzzled. When there's no more than a few inches between them, Reid reaches out to slide one hand up the front of Hotch's shirt, white cotton perfectly crisp under his palm. He lets his thumb brush against the side of Hotch's neck, lets his fingers curl at Hotch's nape.
Hotch's skin is absurdly warm, Reid thinks, something he remembers without the clarity of most of his memories. He's kissed Hotch before, once, but with the Dilaudid still clinging to his veins. He leans in slowly, bracing himself against the desk with his free hand, thumb just touching the edge of Hotch's hip. He gives Hotch time to say no, to push him away. He gives himself time, eyes open so he can see the hunger that transforms Hotch's face. Hotch has never been able to stop himself from wanting this, and it's taken Reid too long to see it.
When Hotch doesn't move, Reid closes the space between them, angling his mouth onto Hotch's and kissing him hard and open, too much teeth and anything but gentle. Hotch moans, and it's the hottest thing Reid's heard in ages, desire and surrender and fierce, aching need. Reid loses himself in the sound, forgets to brace against the desk, and staggers, clutching at Hotch's hip as he falls forward.
Hotch catches him. His arms wrap tight around Reid's waist, one hand dipping to cradle Reid's ass. He kisses like he is trying to crawl inside of Reid's skin. It's so good, so familiar -- Reid knows all about letting things in that don't belong, but the solid heat of Hotch's body against his own is like a long-lost puzzle piece finally slotting into place.
He's too absorbed in kissing Hotch to hear Morgan come up behind him, and he startles when Morgan lays a hand against his back. Hotch's hands tighten on him, just shy of painful, and Reid is already hard, just from that and the way Hotch is sucking on his lower lip, tugging at Reid's mouth like he can't get enough.
"Hotch," Morgan murmurs, and Reid can feel the effort it takes Hotch to stop kissing him, to pull their lips apart and tuck his face into Reid's shoulder. The gasping, shuddering breath Hotch lets out heats his skin through the cardigan.
"You don't have to be so careful with him," Morgan says, and the hand on Reid's back slides around his ribcage to slip between him and Hotch and pinch at Reid's nipple. Reid can't stop the way his hips jerk forward, pressing his erection against Hotch's thigh.
Morgan steps in close, the fingers on Reid's nipple easing up, then pinching again, harder. Hotch's hands twitch against Reid's back, and Reid knows Morgan can feel the inverse movement, Hotch's knuckles pressed against his hip and stomach.
"You put Morgan in charge for a reason," Reid says, soft, a murmur into Hotch's hair.
Morgan's free hand trails gently up Reid's arm and shoulder to slide up his neck and into his hair. Reid shudders, caught between the two other men, and Morgan's hand fists in his curls, pulling his head back to expose the sharp arch of his throat.
"You're always watching," Reid says, and Hotch's six o'clock shadow presses against the vibrations as he speaks. Morgan's grip tightens, jerking Reid's head back sharply, just a bit, and he whimpers, the sharp tug traveling straight to his cock.
Hotch pulls back at the sound, alarmed. Reid can see the concern on his face, and he smiles, lets his fingers trace the edge of Hotch's jaw, his thumb rubbing over Hotch's lips. Hotch opens, sucks the tip of Reid's thumb into his mouth, and Morgan gasps softly behind him, his hips rocking forward against Reid's ass.
"It's my turn to watch," Reid says, and steps back, taking his hand with him. Morgan moves with him and then away, giving him room, and Hotch takes a half-step forward, following them. Reid shakes his head, then tilts it at the chair. "I'm going to sit over there," he says, and limps the few steps back to the chair before continuing. "You're going to take off your shirt, get on your knees, and let Morgan tell you exactly how he likes his cock sucked. If that's all right with you."
Hotch doesn't say anything, but there's no hesitation as he unbuttons his shirt and strips the crisp, white cotton off his shoulers. Reid glances at Morgan and is pleased to see that Morgan is also watching Hotch with lust-darkened eyes.
When he's naked from the waist up, Hotch sinks gracefully to his knees in front of Morgan. They're perfectly positioned for Reid to watch, and he admires the obvious tent in Hotch's pants, the faint tension in Morgan's shoulders even as he projects the illusion of casual disinterest, hands tucked into his pockets.
"You might want to unzip your pants," Reid tells Morgan helpfully, and that's enough -- Morgan casts him an exasperated glance, but the tension eases from his shoulders as he eases down the zipper, and Morgan lets the air of authority from being the only person standing settle over him.
"If you're good," Morgan says, voice low, and Reid has to strain to hear, "you can fuck Reid afterward. Maybe across your desk."
Hotch's tongue swipes across his lips, and he leans forward, stopping with maybe an inch between them. "Tell me what to do," he says. And then adds, deliberately, "Sir."
Morgan presses his palm against himself, rubbing gently, and Reid spreads his legs, settling back in a loose-limbed sprawl. He echoes Morgan's movements, imagines it's Morgan's hand creating the easy pressure. When Morgan slides his boxer-briefs down to the top of his thighs, freeing himself from the constraining fabric, Reid opens his own pants and slips his hand inside, curling his fingers around his own cock.
Hotch is waiting at Morgan's feet, and Morgan reaches out to card through Hotch's hair, mussing the dark strands and bringing a flush to Hotch's cheeks. "Start with the tip," Morgan says, and Hotch opens his mouth and leads with his tongue, swiping it flat across the head of Morgan's cock before closing his lips around the tip.
Morgan's fingers are tense in Hotch's hair, and Reid can see him straining with the effort to hold back. "You don't have to be so careful with him," Reid softly echoes Morgan's words from earlier, and Morgan glances at him, a quick check for reassurance, before thrusting into Hotch's mouth, his hand tightening in Hotch's hair, holding him in place.
Hotch moans in response, his cock twitching visibly in his pants. Reid's mouth falls open at the sight, and he pumps himself lazily, one stroke for every two of Morgan's thrusts. He's in no hurry.
Hotch has one hand braced on Morgan's thigh -- not setting the pace, just helping Hotch keep his balance as Morgan fucks his mouth -- and the other hand drifts into his own lap, hovering over the zipper. Reid lets him undo the button of his pants before interceding, "Hands behind your back, Aaron."
It's an even better sight than he expects. Hotch's shoulders are pale in the dim lighting, his spine arched as he clutches at his own forearms behind his back.
Morgan comes sooner than Reid would have liked, spilling down Hotch's throat with a muffled shout. Hotch swallows everything, leaning forward even when Morgan's grip on his hair eases.
"Thank you, sir," he says, as soon as his mouth is free.
Morgan's grin is satiated and dirty, and when he looks at Reid, there's no sign of the tentativeness he had earlier. Hotch, too, has lost most of the tension he's been carrying for months, surrendering it to the two of them. He levels Reid with a smoldering gaze, but waits for Morgan's instructions.
"Was he good enough?" Reid asks Morgan, darting a quick glance at the desk.
"Oh, yeah," Morgan says, and he slides his hand down Hotch's hair in something like a caress.
Reid stops stroking himself and stands, unbuttoning the cardigan and letting it fall on the chair. He pulls off his t-shirt and toes off his shoes and mismatched socks, lets his boxers fall to the ground along with his pants. Naked, he limps over to the desk.
"There's lube in your pocket," he tells Morgan, who raises an eyebrow at him in return.
"Magic?" Morgan asks drily, since he hadn't had lube in his pocket when he left his office. Reid shrugs.
Morgan pulls Hotch to his feet, palming off the lube in the same gesture, then saunters around the desk to sit in Hotch's chair. He's still mostly-dressed, and he stretches his arms, clasps his hands behind his head. "He likes being held down," he advises Hotch, and settles back to watch.
Hotch steps in close to Reid, catches his gaze and holds it. Reid can hear the slow slide of Hotch's zipper, and the wood of Hotch's desk is cold against the back of his thighs. "Is that true, Spencer?" Hotch asks, and he leans in, pressing Reid back until Reid is bent backwards on the desk, braced on his elbows.
"Do you want me to hold you down?" Hotch asks, quiet and serene, but his eyes are smoldering, and his hands burn on Reid's bare skin, pulling his legs up and apart. Reid locks his ankles behind Hotch's waist and tugs him forward, sending Hotch lurching down on top of him, his scarred belly rubbing taut against Reid's cock.
Hotch presses a soft kiss to to Reid's shoulder, and his hands circle Reid's wrists. His grip is loose, and Reid twists his arms free, grabbing the tiny packet of lube and tearing it open before catching Hotch's hands with his own. He pulls one of Hotch's hands to his erection, wraps their tangled fingers around himself and sets a slow, steady pace, while his other hand smears lube onto Hotch's fingers and leads them down, opening him up.
"Give me your hands, pretty boy," Morgan says, somewhere above him, and Reid lets go, lets Hotch take over, and stretches his arms above his head. Morgan's hands circle his wrists, a tighter grasp than Hotch's, and press his arms flat against the desk. Reid's wristbones pinch his skin against the wood, and he gasps, arching up into Hotch's firm grip.
Hotch leans forward, capturing the sound with his mouth, and Reid tastes Morgan on his tongue. He whimpers when Hotch flexes his fingers, sliding them knuckle-deep into Reid's ass, nudging at his prostate.
"Harder," Reid demands, tearing his mouth free and wriggling, trying to get Hotch to move, but with his arms caught beneath Morgan's hands and Hotch trapping his hips, he is helpless between them.
"Please," he begs, and his eyes widen as Morgan leans forward to capture Hotch's mouth above him. Morgan bites at Hotch's lip, and Hotch hisses, his fingers twisting in Reid's ass and then pulling free.
"He's ready," Morgan whispers, and Reid whimpers, tugging desperately, mindlessly, against Morgan's grip. His wrists will bear bruises tomorrow.
Reid whines when Hotch's hand leaves his cock, but Hotch's hands on his ass are almost as good, slipping between his bare skin and the unyielding surface of the desk. There's more lube than Reid is used to, and Hotch's cock stretches him open slow and sweet and tender.
It's good, it's so good, the slick press of Hotch's cock inside him, the sharp pain in his wrists where they're pressed to the desk, trapped between Morgan's hands and inexorable pleasure of Hotch brushing his prostate with each gentle thrust. "Do you think you can come like this, baby boy?" Morgan asks, squeezing Reid's wrists even tighter until Reid gasps.
"M-Maybe," Reid stutters, and his eyes flutter closed, so he feels more than he sees Morgan bending over him, leaning down to catch one of Reid's nipples between his teeth.
His spine arches against the wood, forcing Hotch into him rougher, quicker, just the once, and Reid shatters, orgasm tearing through him. He clenches down hard on Hotch's cock, and Hotch swears, a bitten-out "fuck" between his teeth. Hotch's hips slam into him, and he feels Hotch pulse inside him, warm and slick and perfect.
The desk is somewhat less perfect, in terms of post-coital comfort, and Reid shifts a moment later, scowling at the ache in his back. "Do you, um, have a tissue?" he asks, and Morgan chuckles, but grabs a handful of tissues from a drawer to mop up the mess on Reid's stomach. Reid smiles thanks, and when he looks up from Morgan's affectionate gaze, Hotch is standing a few inches away, pants pulled back up to his waist but still open.
"What now?" Hotch asks, and Reid pushes himself off the desk and limps over to him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. Hotch returns the kiss easily, but looks slightly bewildered when Reid pulls away.
"Now we look for my socks," Reid says, and looks down to find Morgan already sorting through his abandoned clothes, laying them neatly on the chair in the order Reid will want them.
"You probably want to go pick up Jack soon," Morgan suggests, and Reid nods absently, reaching for his boxers.
"Morgan's good with kids," he volunteers, plopping down onto the chair to pull on his socks. "I'm, uh, not so much. You know, if you wanted us to come over sometime."
"Or you could come home with us," Morgan adds, and Reid smiles at him.
Hotch is staring at them, but Reid thinks that the corners of his lips are starting to curl, and that maybe he will be smiling, too, if Reid can just play the right hand.
It's bridge, not poker -- Reid's from Vegas, and he knows the difference between a game where you keep your cards close and a game where you trust your partner to match your tricks without a word.
He has no more words, but there's a packet of lube in Hotch's pants pocket that wasn't there a moment ago, and Hotch will know where to find them.
Series: hands tied, follows check this hand, but it should work as a standalone. Or start at the beginning, with 'til I'm on track.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Reid/Morgan, Reid/Hotch, Morgan/Hotch, Reid/Morgan/Hotch
Spoilers: through 5x09, and warnings for everything that implies.
Summary: Reid can make the hard calls.
Word count: ~4100
A/N: Possibly darker than first three? More porn, though.
Also, it occurs to me that I could maybe use a beta? Let me know if there are heaps of errors, please. Title still taken from Lady Gaga lyrics.
Reid's gone from crutches to cane before they catch up with the Reaper, and then they're all on down time for the inquiry.
There's no room for mistakes in their line of work, Reid could have told Strauss. Anything less than perfection means another death, another victim. They are always struggling to be faster, smarter, better than they already are, and they're the best at what they do. The team's record can't be argued. He could cite the statistics, but that won't change what happened.
Reid will always remember the sound of Haley dying.
Hotch has to know the team heard everything, but when he doesn't say anything, neither does anyone else. Reid watches him vanish into his office, finally back from leave, and then eyes the rest of the team speculatively. They're all avoiding eye contact. They all feel like they've failed Hotch, failed Haley.
JJ goes home early, where Will is waiting for her with Henry and Jack. "We starting a daycare, now?" Will had drawled, but he'd smiled, scooping Jack into his arms and letting him "help" with Henry. It was JJ's idea, and with Haley's sister an absolute wreck, Hotch had been grateful for the assistance.
Prentiss and Rossi are next, slipping into the elevator side by side, and Reid thinks about the conversation he overhead, months ago, when Hotch was still in the hospital and Haley and Jack had just gone into hiding. "He said he didn't remember," Prentiss had told Rossi, and Reid, hovering outside the office door, had heard Rossi's disbelieving grunt.
Hotch wouldn't have spoken to Prentiss or JJ, and definitely not Garcia, about what had happened with Foyet, and Reid doesn't think he'd have gone to Rossi with this, either. Not with what he knows now -- Foyet's mocking insinuation, "Be gentle, like I was with you?"
Reid's extrapolated far more from far less.
Morgan would be the logical choice, Reid thinks. They're all adept at keeping secrets, but Morgan's had the most practice, two decades of silence on a similar theme. He barely needs the cane anymore, but he's still a bit unsteady without it, and Morgan's office is tucked down a hallway far away from the rest of the team.
The door is open wide, and Morgan gives him a weary smile when he enters. "Hey, Reid. This a social call?"
It's a euphemism, and Reid flashes Morgan a quick grin before shaking his head. "Not exactly." He sits carefully, propping the cane against Morgan's desk, and leans forward. "Has Hotch talked to you?"
Morgan scowls, leaning back in his own chair, and it's all the answer Reid needs. "Hotch won't even look at me," Morgan says, and Reid hadn't noticed that. He blinks, wonders what else he's missed.
"He hasn't talked to anyone else," Reid says, and Morgan snorts.
"What, did you take a poll or something?"
Reid arches an eyebrow at Morgan, who holds his gaze for a few seconds before looking away. "You made the right call," Reid says, after a moment. "You made all the right calls. Hotch knows that." He pauses, then continues in a rush, "He's still in his office; you should go talk to him."
Morgan's gaze darts back up to Reid's face, and Reid stares back at him. "This isn't just about Haley," Morgan says, and Reid nods.
"Do you think you screwed up by not telling us about Carl Buford for so long?" Reid asks, and Morgan flinches.
"I talked about that with you, afterward," Morgan says, finally, and he sighs heavily. "All right, Spencer. You win." He stands, and Reid tilts his head back, watching Morgan come around the desk. Morgan stoops to brush a kiss over Reid's upturned lips. "You sure know how to roll the hard six, baby boy," he says, and heads for the door.
"I'm from Vegas," Reid murmurs, and waits until he can no longer hear Morgan's footsteps in the hallway before he gets up and follows.
He leaves the cane, this time, and braces himself on the wall. It's quieter, as long as he's slow and careful, and he wants to give Morgan and Hotch the illusion of privacy, if not the reality. He stops just short of the door to Hotch's office, still open the merest crack, and listens.
"Do you want to hit me?" Morgan is asking, and Reid suppresses a groan. It's the absolute worst approach Morgan could have chosen -- if Hotch starts hitting, he won't stop.
"What would you do if I said yes?" Hotch asks, and Reid closes his eyes, remembers Hotch in an interview room with him and a convicted felon, stripping off his suit jacket and spoiling for a fight.
"I get it, if you want to blame me," Morgan says, earnest and sincere, and Reid wonders if he can risk peeking through the window, if they'd see him spying.
There's a long silence, and then, "I don't blame you," Hotch says, "any more than I blame myself."
There's another silence, and then Morgan totally screws Reid over by saying, "Reid thinks you need to talk to someone about what happened."
"Maybe Reid should stop listening at the door, if he has all these opinions he wants to share," Hotch says, and Reid cringes. Of course Hotch knows he's there -- Hotch knows him better than anyone, better even than Morgan. I knew you'd understand, he'd told Hotch, years ago, and maybe he should have gone to Hotch himself, but he'd honestly thought Morgan would be the best choice.
He limps through the doorway and settles gratefully into the chair Morgan pushes in his direction, even though Morgan is glaring darkly at him. He fusses with his cardigan for a minute, unbuttoning and rebuttoning the bottom, then looks up at Hotch defiantly.
Hotch is leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. "Is this an intervention?" he asks, deceptively mild. "Because as I recall, we never inflicted any such courtesy on you, after Hankel."
Reid's fingers jerk at the lowest button, but he doesn't look away. "Maybe you should have," he says, but it's not a criticism.
They all do the best they can. Reid's best had him in college before he'd hit puberty and his mother in an asylum before he could buy his own drinks.
The best call isn't always the right one, but Reid's always hated thinking in binaries.
Morgan's propped himself against a corner, out of Reid's line of sight, so he keeps his eyes on Hotch when Morgan speaks. "Do you regret putting me in charge?" he asks, and Reid tries not to look impatient. Morgan is still asking all the wrong questions.
"You were the best person for the job," Hotch says, and, okay, maybe Morgan's not doing so badly. Hotch is looking over Reid's shoulder, now, and Reid doesn't have to turn to know that he's looking at Morgan, looking at him directly for the first time in weeks.
"We can't save everyone," Hotch says, and it's a brutal truth.
"Yeah, but Hotch," Morgan says, and falters.
Reid's fingers go still on the button as the epiphany hits him. "You didn't screw up," he tells Morgan, and Hotch makes a noise that might be assent and might be choked-off grief.
Reid's here because both these men trust him, even when they can't trust themselves.
"It's not your fault," he tells Hotch, but Hotch won't look at him, now, just stares at the floor and shakes his head.
"I could have taken the deal," he whispers, and Reid almost laughs, it's so completely unbelievable. They all do their best, after all, and Hotch's best could never include making that deal.
"No, you couldn't have," Morgan says, like he's just figuring it out, and maybe he is. "Hotch, even if you'd called off the search, we would have kept hunting him. The deal was never an option, and Foyet had to have known that. It was just one more way of messing with your head."
"You couldn't have stopped him from killing her," Reid says, and, "You couldn't have stopped any of it." Hotch shudders, braced against his desk, unfolding his arms to clutch at the wooden surface with white-knuckled hands. "Sometimes your only choice is to survive," Reid says, and Hotch finally looks at him, the echo of remembered trauma in his eyes.
"Does everyone know?" Hotch asks, and Reid can hear Morgan shift and then go still behind him.
"Prentiss saw your chart, when you were in the hospital," Reid says. "I'm pretty sure she told Rossi. I didn't figure it out until the phone call."
"Know what?" Morgan asks.
"He would have had to be gentle, so you wouldn't bleed out," Reid says, blunt and matter-of-fact, and Morgan sucks in a quick, shocked breath.
Hotch stares at Reid, lost, and Reid's fingers twitch, the button fumbling in his grip. He forces his hands to let go, to lie flat on his lap. "I didn't think you'd mind Morgan knowing, too," he says.
"Presumptuous," Hotch says, but there's no censure in it.
"You know about us," Reid shrugs, like it's the same thing. "And the whole team knows about Morgan's past." He pauses, struggles to find the best words. "We don't have room for secrets," he says. "They make the job harder. They make us exploitable."
He closes his eyes, eidetic memory readily supplying the image of Hotch, standing in that cell and looking to wipe away the pain of his failed marriage with a convict's fist in his face.
"Take off your jacket," Reid says quietly. "If you want to hit Morgan, go ahead. But Morgan will hit back."
"Reid," Morgan murmurs from behind him, closer now, no longer leaning into the corner.
"Or," Reid continues as though Morgan hasn't spoken, "we could try something else."
When he opens his eyes, Hotch is watching him, suit jacket already off and folded neatly across his desk. "I'm listening," Hotch says.
"Do you trust me?" Reid asks, and Hotch nods. He doesn't look at Morgan, because he already knows that Morgan will follow his lead.
"Do you trust Morgan?" he asks, and Hotch hesitates. For a brief, terrifying instant, Reid is afraid he's misjudged this, that his profile is wrong.
"More than I trust myself," Hotch says, and it's not a yes, but it's enough.
Reid pushes himself out of the chair and limps across the small space to stand in front of Hotch. Hotch doesn't move, just watches him, openly curious and puzzled. When there's no more than a few inches between them, Reid reaches out to slide one hand up the front of Hotch's shirt, white cotton perfectly crisp under his palm. He lets his thumb brush against the side of Hotch's neck, lets his fingers curl at Hotch's nape.
Hotch's skin is absurdly warm, Reid thinks, something he remembers without the clarity of most of his memories. He's kissed Hotch before, once, but with the Dilaudid still clinging to his veins. He leans in slowly, bracing himself against the desk with his free hand, thumb just touching the edge of Hotch's hip. He gives Hotch time to say no, to push him away. He gives himself time, eyes open so he can see the hunger that transforms Hotch's face. Hotch has never been able to stop himself from wanting this, and it's taken Reid too long to see it.
When Hotch doesn't move, Reid closes the space between them, angling his mouth onto Hotch's and kissing him hard and open, too much teeth and anything but gentle. Hotch moans, and it's the hottest thing Reid's heard in ages, desire and surrender and fierce, aching need. Reid loses himself in the sound, forgets to brace against the desk, and staggers, clutching at Hotch's hip as he falls forward.
Hotch catches him. His arms wrap tight around Reid's waist, one hand dipping to cradle Reid's ass. He kisses like he is trying to crawl inside of Reid's skin. It's so good, so familiar -- Reid knows all about letting things in that don't belong, but the solid heat of Hotch's body against his own is like a long-lost puzzle piece finally slotting into place.
He's too absorbed in kissing Hotch to hear Morgan come up behind him, and he startles when Morgan lays a hand against his back. Hotch's hands tighten on him, just shy of painful, and Reid is already hard, just from that and the way Hotch is sucking on his lower lip, tugging at Reid's mouth like he can't get enough.
"Hotch," Morgan murmurs, and Reid can feel the effort it takes Hotch to stop kissing him, to pull their lips apart and tuck his face into Reid's shoulder. The gasping, shuddering breath Hotch lets out heats his skin through the cardigan.
"You don't have to be so careful with him," Morgan says, and the hand on Reid's back slides around his ribcage to slip between him and Hotch and pinch at Reid's nipple. Reid can't stop the way his hips jerk forward, pressing his erection against Hotch's thigh.
Morgan steps in close, the fingers on Reid's nipple easing up, then pinching again, harder. Hotch's hands twitch against Reid's back, and Reid knows Morgan can feel the inverse movement, Hotch's knuckles pressed against his hip and stomach.
"You put Morgan in charge for a reason," Reid says, soft, a murmur into Hotch's hair.
Morgan's free hand trails gently up Reid's arm and shoulder to slide up his neck and into his hair. Reid shudders, caught between the two other men, and Morgan's hand fists in his curls, pulling his head back to expose the sharp arch of his throat.
"You're always watching," Reid says, and Hotch's six o'clock shadow presses against the vibrations as he speaks. Morgan's grip tightens, jerking Reid's head back sharply, just a bit, and he whimpers, the sharp tug traveling straight to his cock.
Hotch pulls back at the sound, alarmed. Reid can see the concern on his face, and he smiles, lets his fingers trace the edge of Hotch's jaw, his thumb rubbing over Hotch's lips. Hotch opens, sucks the tip of Reid's thumb into his mouth, and Morgan gasps softly behind him, his hips rocking forward against Reid's ass.
"It's my turn to watch," Reid says, and steps back, taking his hand with him. Morgan moves with him and then away, giving him room, and Hotch takes a half-step forward, following them. Reid shakes his head, then tilts it at the chair. "I'm going to sit over there," he says, and limps the few steps back to the chair before continuing. "You're going to take off your shirt, get on your knees, and let Morgan tell you exactly how he likes his cock sucked. If that's all right with you."
Hotch doesn't say anything, but there's no hesitation as he unbuttons his shirt and strips the crisp, white cotton off his shoulers. Reid glances at Morgan and is pleased to see that Morgan is also watching Hotch with lust-darkened eyes.
When he's naked from the waist up, Hotch sinks gracefully to his knees in front of Morgan. They're perfectly positioned for Reid to watch, and he admires the obvious tent in Hotch's pants, the faint tension in Morgan's shoulders even as he projects the illusion of casual disinterest, hands tucked into his pockets.
"You might want to unzip your pants," Reid tells Morgan helpfully, and that's enough -- Morgan casts him an exasperated glance, but the tension eases from his shoulders as he eases down the zipper, and Morgan lets the air of authority from being the only person standing settle over him.
"If you're good," Morgan says, voice low, and Reid has to strain to hear, "you can fuck Reid afterward. Maybe across your desk."
Hotch's tongue swipes across his lips, and he leans forward, stopping with maybe an inch between them. "Tell me what to do," he says. And then adds, deliberately, "Sir."
Morgan presses his palm against himself, rubbing gently, and Reid spreads his legs, settling back in a loose-limbed sprawl. He echoes Morgan's movements, imagines it's Morgan's hand creating the easy pressure. When Morgan slides his boxer-briefs down to the top of his thighs, freeing himself from the constraining fabric, Reid opens his own pants and slips his hand inside, curling his fingers around his own cock.
Hotch is waiting at Morgan's feet, and Morgan reaches out to card through Hotch's hair, mussing the dark strands and bringing a flush to Hotch's cheeks. "Start with the tip," Morgan says, and Hotch opens his mouth and leads with his tongue, swiping it flat across the head of Morgan's cock before closing his lips around the tip.
Morgan's fingers are tense in Hotch's hair, and Reid can see him straining with the effort to hold back. "You don't have to be so careful with him," Reid softly echoes Morgan's words from earlier, and Morgan glances at him, a quick check for reassurance, before thrusting into Hotch's mouth, his hand tightening in Hotch's hair, holding him in place.
Hotch moans in response, his cock twitching visibly in his pants. Reid's mouth falls open at the sight, and he pumps himself lazily, one stroke for every two of Morgan's thrusts. He's in no hurry.
Hotch has one hand braced on Morgan's thigh -- not setting the pace, just helping Hotch keep his balance as Morgan fucks his mouth -- and the other hand drifts into his own lap, hovering over the zipper. Reid lets him undo the button of his pants before interceding, "Hands behind your back, Aaron."
It's an even better sight than he expects. Hotch's shoulders are pale in the dim lighting, his spine arched as he clutches at his own forearms behind his back.
Morgan comes sooner than Reid would have liked, spilling down Hotch's throat with a muffled shout. Hotch swallows everything, leaning forward even when Morgan's grip on his hair eases.
"Thank you, sir," he says, as soon as his mouth is free.
Morgan's grin is satiated and dirty, and when he looks at Reid, there's no sign of the tentativeness he had earlier. Hotch, too, has lost most of the tension he's been carrying for months, surrendering it to the two of them. He levels Reid with a smoldering gaze, but waits for Morgan's instructions.
"Was he good enough?" Reid asks Morgan, darting a quick glance at the desk.
"Oh, yeah," Morgan says, and he slides his hand down Hotch's hair in something like a caress.
Reid stops stroking himself and stands, unbuttoning the cardigan and letting it fall on the chair. He pulls off his t-shirt and toes off his shoes and mismatched socks, lets his boxers fall to the ground along with his pants. Naked, he limps over to the desk.
"There's lube in your pocket," he tells Morgan, who raises an eyebrow at him in return.
"Magic?" Morgan asks drily, since he hadn't had lube in his pocket when he left his office. Reid shrugs.
Morgan pulls Hotch to his feet, palming off the lube in the same gesture, then saunters around the desk to sit in Hotch's chair. He's still mostly-dressed, and he stretches his arms, clasps his hands behind his head. "He likes being held down," he advises Hotch, and settles back to watch.
Hotch steps in close to Reid, catches his gaze and holds it. Reid can hear the slow slide of Hotch's zipper, and the wood of Hotch's desk is cold against the back of his thighs. "Is that true, Spencer?" Hotch asks, and he leans in, pressing Reid back until Reid is bent backwards on the desk, braced on his elbows.
"Do you want me to hold you down?" Hotch asks, quiet and serene, but his eyes are smoldering, and his hands burn on Reid's bare skin, pulling his legs up and apart. Reid locks his ankles behind Hotch's waist and tugs him forward, sending Hotch lurching down on top of him, his scarred belly rubbing taut against Reid's cock.
Hotch presses a soft kiss to to Reid's shoulder, and his hands circle Reid's wrists. His grip is loose, and Reid twists his arms free, grabbing the tiny packet of lube and tearing it open before catching Hotch's hands with his own. He pulls one of Hotch's hands to his erection, wraps their tangled fingers around himself and sets a slow, steady pace, while his other hand smears lube onto Hotch's fingers and leads them down, opening him up.
"Give me your hands, pretty boy," Morgan says, somewhere above him, and Reid lets go, lets Hotch take over, and stretches his arms above his head. Morgan's hands circle his wrists, a tighter grasp than Hotch's, and press his arms flat against the desk. Reid's wristbones pinch his skin against the wood, and he gasps, arching up into Hotch's firm grip.
Hotch leans forward, capturing the sound with his mouth, and Reid tastes Morgan on his tongue. He whimpers when Hotch flexes his fingers, sliding them knuckle-deep into Reid's ass, nudging at his prostate.
"Harder," Reid demands, tearing his mouth free and wriggling, trying to get Hotch to move, but with his arms caught beneath Morgan's hands and Hotch trapping his hips, he is helpless between them.
"Please," he begs, and his eyes widen as Morgan leans forward to capture Hotch's mouth above him. Morgan bites at Hotch's lip, and Hotch hisses, his fingers twisting in Reid's ass and then pulling free.
"He's ready," Morgan whispers, and Reid whimpers, tugging desperately, mindlessly, against Morgan's grip. His wrists will bear bruises tomorrow.
Reid whines when Hotch's hand leaves his cock, but Hotch's hands on his ass are almost as good, slipping between his bare skin and the unyielding surface of the desk. There's more lube than Reid is used to, and Hotch's cock stretches him open slow and sweet and tender.
It's good, it's so good, the slick press of Hotch's cock inside him, the sharp pain in his wrists where they're pressed to the desk, trapped between Morgan's hands and inexorable pleasure of Hotch brushing his prostate with each gentle thrust. "Do you think you can come like this, baby boy?" Morgan asks, squeezing Reid's wrists even tighter until Reid gasps.
"M-Maybe," Reid stutters, and his eyes flutter closed, so he feels more than he sees Morgan bending over him, leaning down to catch one of Reid's nipples between his teeth.
His spine arches against the wood, forcing Hotch into him rougher, quicker, just the once, and Reid shatters, orgasm tearing through him. He clenches down hard on Hotch's cock, and Hotch swears, a bitten-out "fuck" between his teeth. Hotch's hips slam into him, and he feels Hotch pulse inside him, warm and slick and perfect.
The desk is somewhat less perfect, in terms of post-coital comfort, and Reid shifts a moment later, scowling at the ache in his back. "Do you, um, have a tissue?" he asks, and Morgan chuckles, but grabs a handful of tissues from a drawer to mop up the mess on Reid's stomach. Reid smiles thanks, and when he looks up from Morgan's affectionate gaze, Hotch is standing a few inches away, pants pulled back up to his waist but still open.
"What now?" Hotch asks, and Reid pushes himself off the desk and limps over to him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. Hotch returns the kiss easily, but looks slightly bewildered when Reid pulls away.
"Now we look for my socks," Reid says, and looks down to find Morgan already sorting through his abandoned clothes, laying them neatly on the chair in the order Reid will want them.
"You probably want to go pick up Jack soon," Morgan suggests, and Reid nods absently, reaching for his boxers.
"Morgan's good with kids," he volunteers, plopping down onto the chair to pull on his socks. "I'm, uh, not so much. You know, if you wanted us to come over sometime."
"Or you could come home with us," Morgan adds, and Reid smiles at him.
Hotch is staring at them, but Reid thinks that the corners of his lips are starting to curl, and that maybe he will be smiling, too, if Reid can just play the right hand.
It's bridge, not poker -- Reid's from Vegas, and he knows the difference between a game where you keep your cards close and a game where you trust your partner to match your tricks without a word.
He has no more words, but there's a packet of lube in Hotch's pants pocket that wasn't there a moment ago, and Hotch will know where to find them.