(no subject)
Title: to the measure of our own desires
Author: eudaimon
Rating: FRAO
Wordcount: 3311.
Pairing: Reid/Hotch (with some Reid/Hotch/Prentiss if you squint).
Summary: epistolary; they don't always talk.
A/N: Don't ask me where this came from. I don't know. Two facts for you: (i) this has vague allusions to my first Criminal Minds fic & thanks to this artifice we manage to endure (FRAO) and (ii) Reid's email address is, of course, an obscure Star Trek reference. I couldn't resist.
Letters are above all useful as a means of expressing the ideal self; and no other method of communication is quite so good for this purpose. In letters we can reform without practice, beg without humiliation, snip and shape embarrassing experiences to the measure of our own desires... - American literary critic, Elizabeth Hardwick.
His handwriting is, and has always been, awful. Whenever it's him doing the glassboard, he takes care to keep it legible...he draws meticulous check boxes...he usually tries to write ALL IN CAPITALS.
He never has to struggle to make sense to himself, except for when he sits back and watches Hotch walk across the bullpen and notices the slight pull of his jacket across his shoulders when he leans over Prentiss' desk and the slight pull of the smile at the corner of his mouth when she says something meant for only him. Genius or not (and, no, he still doesn't believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified), Reid has ye to work out exactly what's going on here, between the three of them or, like last night, between just him and Hotch. He has yet to decode the language of looks and touches, to in down the exact vocabulary of the way that Hotch leaned in across his desk and kissed him.
What he does know is this: the couch in Hotch's office is surprisingly comfortable and that, apparently, nobody will even notice if he wears the same shirt two days running.
Hotch keeps a spare shirt and tie in his office.
When Reid was a little boy, his Mom told him the story of Abelard and Heloise and how they'd write each other letters filled with passion and, oh, longing. Such longing. She'd never actually read him the letters themselves, but she used to read to him about them and those were some of his favourite times, those quiet times when the world wasn't quite so obvious to either of them. The point is that Reid academically understands love letters but he's never written one himself and, anyway, he's got terrible handwriting.
He opens his email instead.
Dear Hotch, he types and then deletes it. He tries again.
Hotch.
FROM: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
TO: ahotchner62@gmail.com
Aaron,
I'm not good at this...I Don't know how to do this. I'm pretty sure you'll forgive me. I hope you will. I'm sitting here at my desk and I can't stop thinking about touching you...It feels like I never stop wanting you, like you turned on a switch in my head or something.
I've never felt like this about anyone before...I've never wanted like this before.
Spencer.
He finds his hands trembling, just finely, when he hits 'send', a tremor reminiscent of last night when he leaned in and framed Hotch's face with both hands and kissed him sweetly. Or lately, when he slid his hand between them and curled his fingers around Hotch's cock. He'd felt like he was about to tremble out of his skin and he'd loved it.
Reid watches as Hotch picks up his P.D.A. There's a moment and Hotch looks up and their eyes meet and Hotch doesn't smile, he categorically does not, but Reid can tell that he's not mad and there's this heat coming from somewhere and, for a moment, Reid's pretty sure that he's going to come in his pants, right there, just from the anticipation.
He doesn't.
He occupies himself reading about Abelard and Heloise. As an adult, twenty-eight years old, he's allowed to read the actual letters. Do not believe I want for nothing and delay helping me in the hour of my need. Do not think me strong, lest I fall before you can sustain me....
The notification tone in his earbud sounds atonal against the Mountain Goats song (unfortunately named) that he's listening to. Automatically, he glances up at Hotch's open door before he clicks back to the window.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
So tell me what you want.
A
Reid leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. What does he want? Everything. All of it. He takes a deep breath and scrubs his hands back through his hair, ignoring the fluttering feeling like wings under his ribs. Morgan looks up, one eyebrow raised and Reid gives him a smile that feels nervous and faked even to him.
"Blog," he says, which heknows means that Morgan won't ask anymore questions. Sometimes, Reid only seems self aware.
He drags in another deep breath.
FROM: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
TO: ahotchner62@gmail.com
A,
I don't know what you mean.
S.
He makes the pretence of doing some work. He switches from music to interview recordings and dos some of his own transcribing for a change. He might as well not bother with recordings; he remembers the conversations as well as he remembers anything else, but there's something about the tapes. He enjoys listening to them back. It's a way of pretending that he wasn't there in the first place.
He's expecting the alert this time, so he changes windows barely without breaking rhythm.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
I'm asking you to tell me what you're thinking about while you're sending me emails that are clearly not an effective use of your time in the office. Are you thinking about last night? Do you need me to remind you what happened last night?
You definitely weren't shy then.
A.
For a moment, Reid allows himself to be flustered. He covers his face with both hands and drags in a deep breath. This isn't fair. None of this is fair, just like last night wasn't fair because how was he supposed to resist when Hotch had his shirtsleeves rolled up and that look on his face?
He drags a deep breath in through his nose and, this time, it's almost a reproachful look that he shoots towards Hotch's office.
FROM: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
TO: ahotcher62@gmail.com
A,
Two words for you, Sir: Eidetic. Memory.
Maybe I just want you to be the one who says it?
S.
There's a moment's pause in the office, a moment when everything seems to be still and Reid almost goes back to his transcribing but then Hotch is standing in the doorway of his office, P.D.A in hand. He doesn't say anything but, then again, he doesn't have to. He just stands there, one hand in his pocket and watches and, eventually, Reid has to get up and go to the bathroom before his face actually burns up or something. He leans over the basin and splashes water on his face, rubs water under his collar.
It ought to be hard to believe that Hotch can do this to him without even touching him but, somehow, it isn't.
There's a (1) in the corner of his screen when he comes back and he hesitates before he clicks on it, settling himself in his chair, adjusting his tie against his chest. He pushes one back through his hair. It might be time for another haircut. Usually it's JJ who reminds him.
He huffs out a breath and blows it out of his eyes.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
To the best of my recollection:
First, you let me kiss you, which I've been thinking about doing again since the other night at Emily's. Then, I'm pretty sure (and you can stop me if I'm wrong) that you asked if you could go down on me, and what was I supposed to say to that, Reid? I'm absolutely certain that you let me come in your mouth and then you let me fuck you with my...
"Are you seriously still using Hotmail?"
Reid nearly has a heart-attack right there. It's sheer flight-or-flight response that means he manages to close his email before he turns around in his chair and gives Prentiss a slightly startled look. It's what she refers to as his Bambi expression.
"I...yes, I guess. I have that address since I was a kid. You know about that address, Emily. I've emailed you from that address. It's what I use for all my personal stuff. I..."
Emily holds up one hand. Reid knows enough to shut his mouth.
"I know all that," she says. "I just never cease to be amazed. It always makes me feel like, somewhere, Garcia's got a stress-headache and she doesn't know that it's because you refuse to join the rest of the known world and get Gmail."
Even Hotch has Gmail. Hotch has gmail because Hayley set it up for him.
Reid takes a little comfort from that.
"Do you want to go out for coffee?" she asks him, and it's one of those quiet, bored days and it doesn't take long for Reid to slide out of his desk chair. He makes sure he's got his P.D.A in his pocket.
He imagines that Hotch stands in the door of his office and watches while they leave.
*
They always sit at the same table, and Prentiss reads the paper and, usually, Reid reads blogs or something while they drink whatever horrible flavoured coffee is on the blackboard for today and, sometimes, they share a cookie. Today, hands brush across the table, recalling the other night in Emily's apartment, skin on skin, and he blushes thinking about it but he also stretches out one leg and smiles when she traces one foot against his calf.
He glances at her over his glasses and then opens his email.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
To the best of my recollection:
First, you let me kiss you, which I've been thinking about doing again since the other night at Emily's. Then, I'm pretty sure (and you can stop me if I'm wrong) that you asked if you could go down on me, and what was I supposed to say to that, Reid? I'm absolutely certain that you let me come in your mouth and then you let me fuck you with my fingers until I was hard enough to fuck you on the couch. And you were definitely saying my name while you were coming.
That's what happened, isn't it? I didn't miss anything out?
I'll repeat the question: what do you want?
A
When he looks up from his P.D.A, Emily's watching him. She tilts her head on one side, coffee halfway to her lips. She's looking at him in such a way that, for a minute, Reid just flusters, pushing his glasses up his nose.
"What?"
"Nothing," says Prentiss going back to his paper. "Email him back before you explode."
For a moment, Reid's mouth just hangs open and his mind goes blank.
"What?"
Slowly, Prentiss turns a page.
"Do you think I've completely forgotten the way you looked at him the other night?"
Genius or not, sometimes Reid's aware of being remarkably stupid. He knows this. He's learned, over time, to quit when he's winning. This would be one of those times that, at least, marginally, he's winning.
He shuts up and emails Hotch back.
FROM: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
TO: ahotchner62@gmail.com
I want you to fuck me. More than that, I wan to see your face when I ask you to do it. I want you to fuck me so hard that I feel like yours, completely. I want you to fuck me so hard I actually forget something. I'm pretty sure I want to fuck you, if you let me. I want to keep fucking you and Emily until one of you or both of you tells me to stop. I've spent all day fantasising about oral sex. about your cock in my mouth. About you coming in my mouth again.
You, Hotch. I want you.
When he finishes writing it, he's flushed and edgy, and he sips his coffee and then he actually does read some blogs and at one point he reaches out one hand and Prentiss brushes her fingers against his. He smiles at her and bites his lip. When his phone vibrates, Prentiss looks at it, but Reid's sucking foam off his fingers and, thought he glances at it, he doesn't reach for it.
"You aren't going to read it?" she asks, and he shrugs.
Maybe he's saving it.
Emily goes to the bathroom before they leave, leaves Reid standing near to the counter with her coat draped over one arm, her scarf around his neck, and that's when he pulls his phone out of his pocket and reads it.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
Don't go home tonight. Come and stay with me.
A.
*
Before he knocks, he leans his forehead against the door and he tries to catch his breath. It's cold outside and his cheeks are flushed and stinging. He smoothes one hand over his hair but it's sort of a lost cause. It's not like Hotch hasn't seen him at his worst, anyway.
Maybe that's part of the appeal.
In the end, he knocks once, and he waits. Emily jokes that nobody knocks like Reid does and he's never really thought about it, never really analysed if that could possibly be true or not, but Hotch looks like he's expecting him when he opens the door. It doesn't have to be the knock, though. Who else would he be expecting?
There's this moment where they're standing there on either side of the threshold and then Hotch leans in and kisses him, just a graze of mouth against mouth and people have all but taken bullets for Spencer Reid and, yet, Aaron Hotchner kissing him in the hallway is perhaps the most reckless thing that anybody's ever done for him.
"I came," he says, which might be redundant at this point, but there's a part of him that feels like it bears mentioning. Hotch's hand comes to rest warmly on the back of his neck. Reid feels like every inch of his body is trembling. He feels like the time that he's been waiting for this could be measured in years, not hours.
"Say it," says Hotch and, maybe, if there was a different note in Hotch's voice, that would be kind of skeezy, but his tone is soft and there's a smile just starting to show in his eyes.
And Reid's been waiting to say this; he's been playing this moment over and over in his head like a formula, working out all possible permutations. He licks his lip and looks down for a moment and then he glances back into Hotch's eyes.
"I want you to fuck me, Hotch," he says.
This time, Hotch pulls him inside the apartment, kissing him deeply and then shoving him back against the closed door. Reid's very aware of still being in his coat and scarf but he can't worry about that when Hotch is pressed against him in t-shirt and jeans. His hands come up, long finger splayed against Hotch's face. He presses forward with hands and hips and chest, and one of Hotch's thighs presses forward between his legs and Reid's already hard; it's like someone flipped a switch and he wants and he wants.
No more words. With Emily between them, there'd been words but, for the two of them, no need. They fumble each other undressed. Reid's coat and scarf are discarded in the hallway. Hotch unravels his tie while Reid half wishes that he'd take hold of it and lead him by it but then he lets himself get distracted by shoving Hotch's t-shirt up over his head and kissing down over the hair on his chest. He finds himself dizzy and wanton and dying to be touched. When Reid's hands shove up under his sweater and under his shirt, he nearly swoons, light-headed. He pushes ten fingers into Hotch's hair and holds on.
By the time his pants are off , he feels like a thing made entirely out of glass and wire. That delicate, fragile somehow but not something that could be pulled apart with bare hands. Hotch pushes him back on the bed and Reid lies back and watches him and he lets his knees fall apart. Hotch unbuttons his own pants and pushes them down around his thighs. Reid tips his head back and closes his eyes, swims in the warm, heady feeling of it and then he feels Hotch's weight on the bed and he spreads his legs wider and Hotch crawls up between them.
In the office, before, everything had been hurried and desperate; it had hurt, but only in a good way. This time, it's slower, more careful, somehow, but everything runs deeper. Hotch works three slick fingers inside him and Reid trembles and breathes his name against his skin.
When Hotch pushes inside him, it's the closest that he's ever been to forgetting something. His mind goes utterly blank and his back arches. He curls one arm around Hotch's neck and cradles him close. It seems to him like the entire world must have gone dark and there they are, tugged close, barrelling through this, throwing off light like some kind of dying star.
Sometimes, he thinks too much.
Hotch dips his head and kisses him and Reid sucks on his lips and he's been thinking about this all day, playing it through in his head, but he never imagined it was going to feel as good as this. It never ever occurs to him that anything could be as good as this.
By the time he comes between their bodies, his head's light and spinning and he's holding onto Hotch's shoulders with both hands. Hotch thrusts again, once more and Reid feels him come inside him. He leans up and presses a kiss to the underside of his chin.
"I love you," he says, and he means it, and it's the first time he's saying it which doesn't mean that Hotch didn't already know.
They disengage slowly, and Hotch kisses him, mouth lingering and then he slips out of bed and Reid dozes through the sound of the shower and the light from the door that Hotch leaves standing ajar. By the time Hotch comes back to bed, skin damp and warm from the shower, he's well on his way to being asleep and he makes soft, sleepy sounds when Hotch wraps his arm around him and pulls him close.
And Hotch doesn't tell him he loves him, which doesn't mean that he doesn't already know.
Author: eudaimon
Rating: FRAO
Wordcount: 3311.
Pairing: Reid/Hotch (with some Reid/Hotch/Prentiss if you squint).
Summary: epistolary; they don't always talk.
A/N: Don't ask me where this came from. I don't know. Two facts for you: (i) this has vague allusions to my first Criminal Minds fic & thanks to this artifice we manage to endure (FRAO) and (ii) Reid's email address is, of course, an obscure Star Trek reference. I couldn't resist.
Letters are above all useful as a means of expressing the ideal self; and no other method of communication is quite so good for this purpose. In letters we can reform without practice, beg without humiliation, snip and shape embarrassing experiences to the measure of our own desires... - American literary critic, Elizabeth Hardwick.
His handwriting is, and has always been, awful. Whenever it's him doing the glassboard, he takes care to keep it legible...he draws meticulous check boxes...he usually tries to write ALL IN CAPITALS.
He never has to struggle to make sense to himself, except for when he sits back and watches Hotch walk across the bullpen and notices the slight pull of his jacket across his shoulders when he leans over Prentiss' desk and the slight pull of the smile at the corner of his mouth when she says something meant for only him. Genius or not (and, no, he still doesn't believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified), Reid has ye to work out exactly what's going on here, between the three of them or, like last night, between just him and Hotch. He has yet to decode the language of looks and touches, to in down the exact vocabulary of the way that Hotch leaned in across his desk and kissed him.
What he does know is this: the couch in Hotch's office is surprisingly comfortable and that, apparently, nobody will even notice if he wears the same shirt two days running.
Hotch keeps a spare shirt and tie in his office.
When Reid was a little boy, his Mom told him the story of Abelard and Heloise and how they'd write each other letters filled with passion and, oh, longing. Such longing. She'd never actually read him the letters themselves, but she used to read to him about them and those were some of his favourite times, those quiet times when the world wasn't quite so obvious to either of them. The point is that Reid academically understands love letters but he's never written one himself and, anyway, he's got terrible handwriting.
He opens his email instead.
Dear Hotch, he types and then deletes it. He tries again.
Hotch.
FROM: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
TO: ahotchner62@gmail.com
Aaron,
I'm not good at this...I Don't know how to do this. I'm pretty sure you'll forgive me. I hope you will. I'm sitting here at my desk and I can't stop thinking about touching you...It feels like I never stop wanting you, like you turned on a switch in my head or something.
I've never felt like this about anyone before...I've never wanted like this before.
Spencer.
He finds his hands trembling, just finely, when he hits 'send', a tremor reminiscent of last night when he leaned in and framed Hotch's face with both hands and kissed him sweetly. Or lately, when he slid his hand between them and curled his fingers around Hotch's cock. He'd felt like he was about to tremble out of his skin and he'd loved it.
Reid watches as Hotch picks up his P.D.A. There's a moment and Hotch looks up and their eyes meet and Hotch doesn't smile, he categorically does not, but Reid can tell that he's not mad and there's this heat coming from somewhere and, for a moment, Reid's pretty sure that he's going to come in his pants, right there, just from the anticipation.
He doesn't.
He occupies himself reading about Abelard and Heloise. As an adult, twenty-eight years old, he's allowed to read the actual letters. Do not believe I want for nothing and delay helping me in the hour of my need. Do not think me strong, lest I fall before you can sustain me....
The notification tone in his earbud sounds atonal against the Mountain Goats song (unfortunately named) that he's listening to. Automatically, he glances up at Hotch's open door before he clicks back to the window.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
So tell me what you want.
A
Reid leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. What does he want? Everything. All of it. He takes a deep breath and scrubs his hands back through his hair, ignoring the fluttering feeling like wings under his ribs. Morgan looks up, one eyebrow raised and Reid gives him a smile that feels nervous and faked even to him.
"Blog," he says, which heknows means that Morgan won't ask anymore questions. Sometimes, Reid only seems self aware.
He drags in another deep breath.
FROM: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
TO: ahotchner62@gmail.com
A,
I don't know what you mean.
S.
He makes the pretence of doing some work. He switches from music to interview recordings and dos some of his own transcribing for a change. He might as well not bother with recordings; he remembers the conversations as well as he remembers anything else, but there's something about the tapes. He enjoys listening to them back. It's a way of pretending that he wasn't there in the first place.
He's expecting the alert this time, so he changes windows barely without breaking rhythm.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
I'm asking you to tell me what you're thinking about while you're sending me emails that are clearly not an effective use of your time in the office. Are you thinking about last night? Do you need me to remind you what happened last night?
You definitely weren't shy then.
A.
For a moment, Reid allows himself to be flustered. He covers his face with both hands and drags in a deep breath. This isn't fair. None of this is fair, just like last night wasn't fair because how was he supposed to resist when Hotch had his shirtsleeves rolled up and that look on his face?
He drags a deep breath in through his nose and, this time, it's almost a reproachful look that he shoots towards Hotch's office.
FROM: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
TO: ahotcher62@gmail.com
A,
Two words for you, Sir: Eidetic. Memory.
Maybe I just want you to be the one who says it?
S.
There's a moment's pause in the office, a moment when everything seems to be still and Reid almost goes back to his transcribing but then Hotch is standing in the doorway of his office, P.D.A in hand. He doesn't say anything but, then again, he doesn't have to. He just stands there, one hand in his pocket and watches and, eventually, Reid has to get up and go to the bathroom before his face actually burns up or something. He leans over the basin and splashes water on his face, rubs water under his collar.
It ought to be hard to believe that Hotch can do this to him without even touching him but, somehow, it isn't.
There's a (1) in the corner of his screen when he comes back and he hesitates before he clicks on it, settling himself in his chair, adjusting his tie against his chest. He pushes one back through his hair. It might be time for another haircut. Usually it's JJ who reminds him.
He huffs out a breath and blows it out of his eyes.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
To the best of my recollection:
First, you let me kiss you, which I've been thinking about doing again since the other night at Emily's. Then, I'm pretty sure (and you can stop me if I'm wrong) that you asked if you could go down on me, and what was I supposed to say to that, Reid? I'm absolutely certain that you let me come in your mouth and then you let me fuck you with my...
"Are you seriously still using Hotmail?"
Reid nearly has a heart-attack right there. It's sheer flight-or-flight response that means he manages to close his email before he turns around in his chair and gives Prentiss a slightly startled look. It's what she refers to as his Bambi expression.
"I...yes, I guess. I have that address since I was a kid. You know about that address, Emily. I've emailed you from that address. It's what I use for all my personal stuff. I..."
Emily holds up one hand. Reid knows enough to shut his mouth.
"I know all that," she says. "I just never cease to be amazed. It always makes me feel like, somewhere, Garcia's got a stress-headache and she doesn't know that it's because you refuse to join the rest of the known world and get Gmail."
Even Hotch has Gmail. Hotch has gmail because Hayley set it up for him.
Reid takes a little comfort from that.
"Do you want to go out for coffee?" she asks him, and it's one of those quiet, bored days and it doesn't take long for Reid to slide out of his desk chair. He makes sure he's got his P.D.A in his pocket.
He imagines that Hotch stands in the door of his office and watches while they leave.
*
They always sit at the same table, and Prentiss reads the paper and, usually, Reid reads blogs or something while they drink whatever horrible flavoured coffee is on the blackboard for today and, sometimes, they share a cookie. Today, hands brush across the table, recalling the other night in Emily's apartment, skin on skin, and he blushes thinking about it but he also stretches out one leg and smiles when she traces one foot against his calf.
He glances at her over his glasses and then opens his email.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
To the best of my recollection:
First, you let me kiss you, which I've been thinking about doing again since the other night at Emily's. Then, I'm pretty sure (and you can stop me if I'm wrong) that you asked if you could go down on me, and what was I supposed to say to that, Reid? I'm absolutely certain that you let me come in your mouth and then you let me fuck you with my fingers until I was hard enough to fuck you on the couch. And you were definitely saying my name while you were coming.
That's what happened, isn't it? I didn't miss anything out?
I'll repeat the question: what do you want?
A
When he looks up from his P.D.A, Emily's watching him. She tilts her head on one side, coffee halfway to her lips. She's looking at him in such a way that, for a minute, Reid just flusters, pushing his glasses up his nose.
"What?"
"Nothing," says Prentiss going back to his paper. "Email him back before you explode."
For a moment, Reid's mouth just hangs open and his mind goes blank.
"What?"
Slowly, Prentiss turns a page.
"Do you think I've completely forgotten the way you looked at him the other night?"
Genius or not, sometimes Reid's aware of being remarkably stupid. He knows this. He's learned, over time, to quit when he's winning. This would be one of those times that, at least, marginally, he's winning.
He shuts up and emails Hotch back.
FROM: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
TO: ahotchner62@gmail.com
I want you to fuck me. More than that, I wan to see your face when I ask you to do it. I want you to fuck me so hard that I feel like yours, completely. I want you to fuck me so hard I actually forget something. I'm pretty sure I want to fuck you, if you let me. I want to keep fucking you and Emily until one of you or both of you tells me to stop. I've spent all day fantasising about oral sex. about your cock in my mouth. About you coming in my mouth again.
You, Hotch. I want you.
When he finishes writing it, he's flushed and edgy, and he sips his coffee and then he actually does read some blogs and at one point he reaches out one hand and Prentiss brushes her fingers against his. He smiles at her and bites his lip. When his phone vibrates, Prentiss looks at it, but Reid's sucking foam off his fingers and, thought he glances at it, he doesn't reach for it.
"You aren't going to read it?" she asks, and he shrugs.
Maybe he's saving it.
Emily goes to the bathroom before they leave, leaves Reid standing near to the counter with her coat draped over one arm, her scarf around his neck, and that's when he pulls his phone out of his pocket and reads it.
FROM: ahotchner62@gmail.com
TO: kahs-wan@hotmail.com
S,
Don't go home tonight. Come and stay with me.
A.
*
Before he knocks, he leans his forehead against the door and he tries to catch his breath. It's cold outside and his cheeks are flushed and stinging. He smoothes one hand over his hair but it's sort of a lost cause. It's not like Hotch hasn't seen him at his worst, anyway.
Maybe that's part of the appeal.
In the end, he knocks once, and he waits. Emily jokes that nobody knocks like Reid does and he's never really thought about it, never really analysed if that could possibly be true or not, but Hotch looks like he's expecting him when he opens the door. It doesn't have to be the knock, though. Who else would he be expecting?
There's this moment where they're standing there on either side of the threshold and then Hotch leans in and kisses him, just a graze of mouth against mouth and people have all but taken bullets for Spencer Reid and, yet, Aaron Hotchner kissing him in the hallway is perhaps the most reckless thing that anybody's ever done for him.
"I came," he says, which might be redundant at this point, but there's a part of him that feels like it bears mentioning. Hotch's hand comes to rest warmly on the back of his neck. Reid feels like every inch of his body is trembling. He feels like the time that he's been waiting for this could be measured in years, not hours.
"Say it," says Hotch and, maybe, if there was a different note in Hotch's voice, that would be kind of skeezy, but his tone is soft and there's a smile just starting to show in his eyes.
And Reid's been waiting to say this; he's been playing this moment over and over in his head like a formula, working out all possible permutations. He licks his lip and looks down for a moment and then he glances back into Hotch's eyes.
"I want you to fuck me, Hotch," he says.
This time, Hotch pulls him inside the apartment, kissing him deeply and then shoving him back against the closed door. Reid's very aware of still being in his coat and scarf but he can't worry about that when Hotch is pressed against him in t-shirt and jeans. His hands come up, long finger splayed against Hotch's face. He presses forward with hands and hips and chest, and one of Hotch's thighs presses forward between his legs and Reid's already hard; it's like someone flipped a switch and he wants and he wants.
No more words. With Emily between them, there'd been words but, for the two of them, no need. They fumble each other undressed. Reid's coat and scarf are discarded in the hallway. Hotch unravels his tie while Reid half wishes that he'd take hold of it and lead him by it but then he lets himself get distracted by shoving Hotch's t-shirt up over his head and kissing down over the hair on his chest. He finds himself dizzy and wanton and dying to be touched. When Reid's hands shove up under his sweater and under his shirt, he nearly swoons, light-headed. He pushes ten fingers into Hotch's hair and holds on.
By the time his pants are off , he feels like a thing made entirely out of glass and wire. That delicate, fragile somehow but not something that could be pulled apart with bare hands. Hotch pushes him back on the bed and Reid lies back and watches him and he lets his knees fall apart. Hotch unbuttons his own pants and pushes them down around his thighs. Reid tips his head back and closes his eyes, swims in the warm, heady feeling of it and then he feels Hotch's weight on the bed and he spreads his legs wider and Hotch crawls up between them.
In the office, before, everything had been hurried and desperate; it had hurt, but only in a good way. This time, it's slower, more careful, somehow, but everything runs deeper. Hotch works three slick fingers inside him and Reid trembles and breathes his name against his skin.
When Hotch pushes inside him, it's the closest that he's ever been to forgetting something. His mind goes utterly blank and his back arches. He curls one arm around Hotch's neck and cradles him close. It seems to him like the entire world must have gone dark and there they are, tugged close, barrelling through this, throwing off light like some kind of dying star.
Sometimes, he thinks too much.
Hotch dips his head and kisses him and Reid sucks on his lips and he's been thinking about this all day, playing it through in his head, but he never imagined it was going to feel as good as this. It never ever occurs to him that anything could be as good as this.
By the time he comes between their bodies, his head's light and spinning and he's holding onto Hotch's shoulders with both hands. Hotch thrusts again, once more and Reid feels him come inside him. He leans up and presses a kiss to the underside of his chin.
"I love you," he says, and he means it, and it's the first time he's saying it which doesn't mean that Hotch didn't already know.
They disengage slowly, and Hotch kisses him, mouth lingering and then he slips out of bed and Reid dozes through the sound of the shower and the light from the door that Hotch leaves standing ajar. By the time Hotch comes back to bed, skin damp and warm from the shower, he's well on his way to being asleep and he makes soft, sleepy sounds when Hotch wraps his arm around him and pulls him close.
And Hotch doesn't tell him he loves him, which doesn't mean that he doesn't already know.