CM Fic: The Frogs that lead to the Prince (4/5)
Title: The Frogs that lead to the Prince (4/5)
Pairings/Characters: Reid/Hotch, the team
Rating: T
Warnings: slash
Disclaimer: I don’t, nor have I ever, owned Criminal Minds, which really sucks for me! :)
A/N: This chapter drove me nuts.
Summary: The team is tired of watching Reid and Hotch pine for each other, so they come up with a plan: set Reid up on some awful dates that are sure to drive them into each other’s arms once and for all.
Previous Chapters:
The Plan
Morgan and the Lothario
JJ and the Mama's Boy
Garcia and the uber-Trekkie
NEW CHAPTER:
Prentiss and the Stuck-Up Sugar Daddy
“Reid?”
An involuntary shudder ran through Reid’s body when he heard Prentiss’ solicitous voice. He knew he shouldn’t have risked leaving Hotch’s office, but he needed coffee! “No,” he said quickly.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask!” protested Prentiss, sounding hurt. “You’d refuse to help me out on a consult?”
The young man instantly felt guilty. Prentiss was his friend and coworker and she hadn’t done anything to deserve his suspicion - yet. “I’m sorry, Emily,” he said, looking up to see her standing by the stairs to the mezzanine, wearing a wide-eyed, wounded expression. “I’m just a little on edge lately. Do you need help with a consult?”
“Nope,” replied Prentiss cheerfully, her apparently fake wounded expression melting away into a bright grin. “I need a favor. You see, there’s an art showing tonight at the -”
“No!” Reid cut her off, incredulous. Why had he lowered his defenses in what was obviously going to be hostile territory for the time being? “No more fix-ups, no more blind dates - I can’t take it anymore!”
Prentiss held up her hands as if warding off his protests. “Please hear me out,” she pleaded. “My friend Grant didn’t know he was going to be in town for it until two days ago. I know this is short notice, but he needs someone to go as his date and I thought...”
“No! Why don’t you be his date?”
“Because I’m not exactly his type,” shot back Prentiss with a meaningful raise of her eyebrows. “Come on, Reid -it’s just for a few hours, tops, and I promise this is a favor, not a fix-up.
Reid wasn’t stupid or naïve enough to buy that for a second. He stared at her for a long moment, weighing his options. He really, really didn’t want to go, but the chances of her actually accepting that and letting it go were practically nil - especially if she was, as he suspected, in cahoots with Morgan, JJ, and Garcia. And at least she’d done him the courtesy of asking him before she set up the date, which was more than he could say for her cohorts. And saying yes now would undoubtedly save him from an ambush later…
He knew he was going to regret this. In fact, he already did. “Will you be there too?” he asked. Prentiss nodded and he caved. “All right, I’ll go - but under one condition: you tell Grant I’m just doing this as a favor and it’s not a real date. I mean it, Emily; I’m not interested in getting involved with anyone right now.” Well, anyone not named Aaron Hotchner, but he didn’t need to add that part.
“Don’t worry, Reid; I’ll make sure Grant knows exactly what this date’s about.”
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Reid was good and miserable as he and Prentiss entered the gallery. Everything about the evening was already throwing him off-guard: he was wearing a suit (something he almost never wore), in a room teeming with members of Washington D.C.’s elite (people whom he’d never felt comfortable around), attending to an art show (something he’d never been able to fully appreciate, as art never really moved him). And to top it all off, he was there to go on a blind date - why, why, why had he decided this was his best option for dealing with Prentiss’ turn to play matchmaker?!
“This is going to be a disaster,” he bemoaned as he stared forlornly around the gallery for anyone who looked like he might be his date - perhaps someone with a hockey mask and a chain saw, if recent experience was anything to go by.
“Don’t think like that,” Prentiss advised him, tightening her hold on his arm lest he try to make a break for it. “Things will work out great in the end - you’ll see.”
‘Yeah, right,’ thought Reid.
Judging by the way Prentiss raised her eyebrow at him she knew exactly what he was thinking. She pursed her lips; but before she could continue her pointless pep talk, a deep voice spoke up behind them: “Hello, Emily.”
Prentiss whipped around, pulling Reid with her. “Grant! It’s so nice to see you again.”
Reid watched silently as Prentiss and Grant exchanged kisses on the cheek, studying the man who was apparently his date that night. The best description he could come up with was ‘Bizarro Hotch’ - everything about his appearance reminded Reid of the man he loved, yet at the same time he was nothing like him. Both men had dark hair, but Hotch’s was neat and no-nonsense while Grant’s was gelled and styled. Both had a penchant for nice suits, but Hotch’s were only tailored where need be while Grant’s fit him like a team of seamstresses actually made it around his body. They were about the same age, but Grant’s face lacked many of the lines that Hotch’s had; whether that was due to different lifestyle or Botox injections Reid couldn’t say - and he really didn’t care.
The young man shuddered. The whole ‘Bizarro Hotch’ effect was…unsettling, and it just made him wish he was with the real deal right then, somewhere far, far away from the gallery.
“And you must be Spencer Reid,” said Grant, turning to face him with a knowing smile. His tone was a bit too friendly; but more like a phony politician than a creepy unsub, so Reid could suppress his urge to run screaming into the night - for now. “Thank you for agreeing to be my date tonight.”
Reid gave him a tight nod and looked down. “Spencer was happy to help out,” Prentiss spoke up when it became clear that was all the response Grant was going to get. She elbowed Reid. “Weren’t you?”
“Uh, yes,” sputtered Reid. “Quite.”
“Well, aren’t you a pretty boy,” Grant commented, giving him an appraising eye. “So tell me, Spencer Reid, what do I have to do to get you to run away with me at the end of the evening?”
“I - uh - well,” stammered Reid uncomfortably. “I won’t be doing that. I have to go to work tomorrow.”
“Ah, but plans change,” replied Grant with a slow smirk. With one smooth, practiced move he took Reid’s right hand and guided it under his bicep to rest on the inside of his elbow. He nodded politely at Prentiss. “If you will excuse us, Emily.”
Prentiss beamed. “Go right ahead,” she practically sang, looking like she was about to do a jig of glee.
Reid internally cringed. He didn’t want to be so close to this stranger and he certainly didn’t want to be alone with him. But he knew it would be pointless to beg Prentiss to intervene, so he resigned himself to be led away. “Is there anything you’d like to see first?” he asked, eager to get this over with already so he could go home.
“I think I’m already looking at the most beautiful thing in the room,” smiled Grant. “So, Spencer, tell me about yourself: are you one of the Westchester Reids?”
“Uh, no,” Reid coughed to disguise his chuckle at the idea. “I was born and raised in Las Vegas.”
“Oh.” Now it was Grant’s turn to cough. He was silent for a second, but then shook his head and patted Reid’s hand with a condescending tut of his tongue. “Well, who would have thought such a lovely creature could arise from the cheap neon lights and tawdry strip clubs?”
“What?” Reid bristled, his discomfort rapidly giving way to irritation. “I’m not -”
“Hush,” urged Grant, like he was humoring a silly child. “You don’t need to thank me, darling. Just give me a pretty smile.”
Give him a pretty smile? The only thing Reid felt like giving him was a swift knee to the groin. What was wrong with this guy? “Maybe you should hear what I’m going to say before you decide I don’t need to say it,” he advised in a dark, clipped tone.
“That’s what they all think,” laughed Grant with a patronizing, indulgent smile. He ignored the incredulous look on Reid’s face as he pulled the younger man’s free hand up toward his face like he was going to kiss it.
Jeez, no wonder this guy couldn’t get a date. Reid briefly weighed the pros and cons of knocking Grant on his ass so he wouldn’t have to feel the jerk’s lips on his skin. Thankfully, though, the older man stopped before he had to make that choice, apparently deciding that something about Reid’s hands demanded closer scrutiny. “You have a little grease under your fingernails,” he noted in a slightly disdainful tone.
“Oh, that’s probably from cleaning my gun,” said Reid, dangerously sweet. “It needs to be in working order - I never know what I might need to shoot someone.”
“Yes, I can tell you work with your hands,” noted Grant, running his fingertips over Reid’s calloused palm. The younger man jerked his hand away at the unwanted caress and Grant gave him a pitying look. “My poor hidden gem; I have a feeling that after tonight you’ll never have to work again.”
If Grant kept this up Reid was going to vomit, preferably all over the jerk’s perfectly fitted suit. “I really think we should look at some paintings now,” he suggested through gritted teeth.
“I’d much rather look at you and imagine how lovely you’re going to look in all the new clothes I’m about to buy you,” cooed Grant. “Now, darling, when it comes to your wardrobe, who is your favorite designer?”
“I shop at Goodwill.”
Grant paused for the second time that night, but recovered quickly. “Milan,” he decided in that condescendingly patient voice that might get him a black eye soon - like in five seconds. “I’ll take you there this weekend. We’ll go to the best fashion shows and you can pick out anything your pretty heart desires.”
“Excuse me?” demanded Reid huffily, wrenching his arm free from the other man’s hold. “I never said I was going to Italy with you!”
“Shhh,” Grant hissed disapprovingly, his eyes darting around to see who may have heard the younger man’s outburst. Once he was satisfied no one had noticed, he steered Reid toward a quiet corner of the gallery. “No need to make a fuss, my dear. We can go to Paris, if that’s what you want. The important thing is that you’re going to have several closets full of designer clothes - and perhaps some swimwear for when we visit my Mediterranean villa! Tell me, Spencer: do you own a speedo?”
“What is a speedo?” Reid couldn’t help asking, over-enunciating the unfamiliar word.
“What’s a speedo?” echoed Grant with an incredulous laugh. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, tapped the screen a few times until he got to his pictures folder, and held it up for Reid to see.
Reid’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “That barely covers your privates!” he squawked, scandalized.
“$200 and worth every penny,” mused Grant. His lips curled into a licentious smile as he ran his eyes over Reid’s body. “You’d look positively delectable in a fire-engine red one.”
Reid didn’t know what was more obscene: the cost of that little strip of fabric or the bulge in the picture that proved it left nothing to the imagination. “I’m not wearing anything like that!” he cried, horrified, as he shoved the offending image away.
If anything, Grant looked even more thrilled. “Well, my villa does have a private beach,” he practically purred. “I don’t mind at all if you want to sunbathe in the nude.”
“In the -” Reid choked, absolutely mortified. His whole body clenched as he did his very best to get a hold of himself before he did something possibly illegal but extremely satisfying, like shake the pompous creep until all the arrogance that was apparently blocking his hearing came flying out of his ears. When he sort of trusted himself not to snap he spoke again: “I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding, Grant. I thought Emily told you this isn’t a real date.”
“Oh, she did,” replied Grant with a dismissive flick of his hand. “But you see, Spencer, I’m a man who knows what he wants, and I want you. It pains me that a beautiful boy like you has been forced to spend his life traipsing through slums looking for lowlifes just because you grew up in the back rooms of casinos and strip clubs -”
“I’m from the suburbs!”
“But that’s all over now,” continued Grant, unfazed. “I have all the money in the world to take care of you! Now all you’ll have to do is lie on the beach, thinking about nothing at all. My dear, someone like you couldn’t ask for better.”
“Someone like me?” echoed Reid in a threateningly even growl. Never in his life had anyone treated him like a brainless boy toy before, and he didn’t like it one bit. “I have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, three PhDs, and three undergraduate degrees, and I can read 20,000 words a minute. If money was my main priority I could have made enough on my own to buy and sell you by the time I was 23. I chose to be an FBI agent because each day there’s an opportunity for me to make a difference: save someone’s life, put a monster behind bars, provide closure to a grieving family. I would never give that up - certainly not to go lie on some beach and get sand in my rear end!”
He raised his chin and looked away indignantly, missing how the mask of smarmy condescension dropped off Grant’s face, replaced by a look of genuine respect and admiration. Prentiss caught it, however; she shot him a warning look from across the room and the man, with much regret, slipped back into character. “Well, you certainly have a lot of spirit, my dear,” remarked Grant. He took Reid’s hands in one of his own and patted them with the other. “But you shouldn’t let your pride keep you for accepting my generosity. You’re a lot like your hands, I think: massive potential, but rough and scarred. With my help they - and you - could be flawless.”
Reid went cold with anger. He no longer felt like hitting, kicking, or shaking Grant - he just wanted to get away from him. “We’re done here,” he said, yanking his hands away icily. “I’m leaving.”
Grant sighed, sounding like a parent trying to placate a child throwing a temper tantrum. “Don’t be so dramatic,” he said. He placed a hand on Reid’s arm, applying just enough pressure to convey the message that he expected his companion to cease with the silliness this instant. “I didn’t say I want you to leave.”
“I wasn’t asking your permission,” he said darkly. He was past his limit, and the man’s pathetic attempts to bully him were seriously pissing him off. “Now unless you want to spend the next three months with your jaw wired shut, you’ll move that hand.”
With a mixture of disbelief and offense, Grant slowly let go, but didn’t move from his position between Reid and the exit. Reid made a disgusted noise and brushed past him, pausing just long enough to give Prentiss a terse “I’m out of here” before bolting out the door to catch a cab back to the sanctuary of his apartment.
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“You seem a little distracted today,” observed Hotch as he glanced up from the file lying open on his desk to Reid, who was sitting on his couch. The younger man hadn’t said a word since he’d entered Hotch’s office that morning. At the time Hotch hadn’t pushed it, deciding to let him enjoy the tranquility that hiding in the office offered him. Now, however, it was clear Reid was anything but tranquil. “Is everything all right?”
Reid absentmindedly flipped the file he wasn’t really reading in his hands before putting it aside with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Hotch,” he apologized. “I guess my mind is somewhere else.”
“Does it have anything to do with your date with Prentiss’ friend last night?”
“Yes. No,” Reid shook his head. “Sort of, I guess. He was a complete jerk….”
Hotch could feel his blood start to boil. “This has gotten out of hand,” he declared. He’d hesitated before out of fear that his own jealousies were clouding his judgment, but enough was enough. “I’m putting a stop to it.”
“Hotch, I don’t need you to save me from the team,” protested Reid tiredly.
“I wouldn’t be saving you; I’d be,” Hotch fumbled for the right words, “making sure you’re able to concentrate on your job without these unpleasant and avoidable…interactions. What did this…Grant do that’s got you so preoccupied?”
The younger agent absentmindedly rubbed his hands. “It’s stupid,” he groused. “I shouldn’t care about anything he said, but…” He hesitated, biting his lower lip. “Do you - do you think my hands are ugly?”
“What?” Hotch couldn’t have been more flabbergasted if Reid had asked if he found the sound of his son’s laughter repulsive.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have -” Reid looked down as he silently berated himself. It was bad enough he was letting some creep’s rude insinuations get to him; he didn’t need to bother Hotch with it as well. “It’s nothing, Hotch - forget I said anything.”
“I won’t,” said Hotch, closing the file in front of him to give Reid his undivided attention. “Why would you ask something like that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” insisted Reid. He hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt. “I’m - I’m not, anymore.”
Hotch was on his feet and heading over to the couch before Reid could finish his protest. Settling down next to his agent, the older man gave him an encouraging smile. “Reid?” he urged gently. “Please?”
Reid let out a huge breath. “I’m over-thinking this,” he said in a small voice. “He didn’t even call them ugly; he just…he said they needed his help because they were rough and scarred…like me.”
Hotch bit his inner cheek, struggling to keep his anger in check. “May I?” he asked, holding his hand out. Reid looked confused and a little alarmed, so Hotch reached over and very carefully placed the ends of his fingertips against the back of his right hand. Reid got the message and slowly allowed Hotch to take the hand in his own.
It was all Hotch could do not to let out a shuddering breath. He’d always loved Reid’s hands, and not just because they were elegant and graceful; he loved them because they flailed when the young man was excited, curled when he was introspective, were twitchy but controlled when he thought he was doing something clever. They…they shared the essence of Reid with the world. How dare anyone even suggest those hands - and the man attached to them - were anything less than magnificent? “Each callus here tells a story,” he noted, using the fingers of the hand not holding Reid’s to boldly trace over the calluses on the palm. “These tell of a brave young man who learned to use a gun and go into the field when he could have used his vast intelligence as an excuse to earn millions and stay far away from danger.”
Reid’s breath hitched as the fingers slipped up to gently rub the hard bump on his middle finger. “And this one,” continued Hotch gently, “is about a good son who takes pen to paper every day to write his mother a letter, giving her a constant link to his life and to the outside world.” He paused. “I think those are pretty admirable stories, don’t you? Never let anyone make you feel like you should be ashamed of that roughness - it’s the mark of an honorable life.”
“Maybe,” said Reid ruefully, “but the scar; it’s….”
Hotch swallowed, trying to clear the lump in his throat, as he released Reid’s right hand to grasp his left one, holding it palm-down as his thumb brushed over the mark left when anthrax transformed a simple cut into a lesion. “’There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature’,” he recited quietly. “‘A scar means the hurt is over, the wounds are closed and healed, done with’.”
Reid didn’t miss how Hotch’s voice caught at the second part of the quote; he knew the other man could feel the scars Foyet left throbbing just as keenly as he could the ones left in his arm by a needle and addiction. “Harry Crews,” he identified.
Hotch gave him a subdued nod of acknowledgement and glanced away to hide the pain in his eyes. “I guess that’s not always true,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of grief and shame.
He moved as if to pull his hands away; but Reid suddenly curled his fingers, catching one and holding it in place. However else he was feeling, he couldn’t bear the idea of saying nothing while Hotch suffered like that, especially not after he’d just gone out of his way to comfort him. “’Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue’,” the young man whispered, and realized he was speaking to himself just as much as he was speaking to Hotch. He licked his upper lip and continued: “’Realize the strength, move on’.”
“Henry Rollins,” said Hotch dutifully. Reid smiled at him, a smile that never failed to light the darkest recesses of Hotch’s mind and made him feel like he could breathe again. They were sitting close, holding each other’s hand; it would be so easy for Hotch to just lean in, to brush his lips against Reid’s and find out if they felt as soft and wonderful as they looked…. “We…we should get back to work.”
Hotch gave Reid’s hand a comforting, if shaky, squeeze and forced his suddenly weakened legs to stand and walk him back to his desk. He sat down and opened the file once again, though it was a long time before he could get his heartbeat to slow down enough for him to actually be able to read it. Across the office, Reid tried to hide the way his hands were trembling, still tingling from Hotch’s touch.
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“No!” cried Garcia from her position in the bullpen by Prentiss’ desk. All around her, the mouths of the other conspirators dropped in disbelief. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no!”
Rossi stuck his head out of the break-room area to see what all the commotion was and decided not to take his coffee back to his office. He didn’t want to risk getting something thrown at him for walking in front of Hotch’s office and ruining this morning’s entertainment.
“I can’t believe this,” said Prentiss, stunned.
“They were about to kiss,” insisted Garcia frantically. “They were sitting together on the couch looking at each other like that, freaking holding hands. Why didn’t they kiss? Anyone else would have kissed! What do we have to do, go in there and push their lips together?”
“Yeah, if we don’t want our jobs anymore,” said Morgan as he stared goggle-eyed at the office. “How can they both have missed all the signals - they were practically begging each other to make the first move!”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” suggested JJ. “Maybe neither one of them wants to make the first move because they’re afraid they’re misreading the situation.”
Prentiss ran a hand over her face. “This can’t be happening.”
“How can two of the best profilers on the planet be misreading the situation?” Morgan demanded. “A blind and deaf man in a coma could see they want each other!”
“This has to happen,” said Prentiss, almost to herself. “Reid and Hotch have to get together.”
Garcia patted her on the back. “Well, we might be at -”
“No, you don’t get it!” Prentiss burst out, clearly distressed. “Grant really liked Reid - he almost dropped the whole act so they could have a real first date! The only reason he kept it up was because of I told him Reid and Hotch were meant for each other and his work would be instrumental in getting them together. I can’t go back and tell him he blew his chance for nothing!”
“Emily, it’s going to be all right!” spoke up Garcia in a take-charge voice that instantly got not only Prentiss’ attention but Morgan and JJ’s as well. “All right, troops, listen up: we might be at a crossroads, but this is definitely not a stalemate. We just need another to figure out our next move.
“It’s got to be something that hits below the bet,” nodded Morgan vigorously. “Something that not even those two can ignore.”
They all jumped at the sound of someone clearing his throat behind them. “You might be interested to know…” Rossi’s voice trailed off as his eyes darted from Hotch’s office to the conspirators who were now looking at him cautiously, his lips curling into a sneaky grin. “That move you need? It’s already in play…”
Next (and Final!) Chapter: Rossi and the Arch-Nemesis