The Unnavigable Sea
Title: The Unnavigable Sea
Pairing/Characters: Elle/Reid, Hotch
Prompt: apology from my crimeland prompt table - this completes 10,000 words, woo!
Rating: NC17
Words: ~4500
Summary: Hotch gets a letter that demands an explanation.
Warnings: Spoilers for Aftermath, (excessive) sexuality, language
Notes: This is sort of a follow-up to The Cure that got a little bit away from me (definitely helpful to read that first -- it's like 200 words). Elle's character captivates me, in that she is equal parts ferocity and frailty, and I had the most fun writing her that I've had with any character... and it turns out I couldn't stop. Ha. Also, I just have to say this: there is not nearly enough sitting-on-Reid's-face in this fandom, so... uh... I had to fix that. Because let's face it -- dude's got a sittable face. The end.
"Reid? My office please."
Once inside, Hotch leaves Reid to shut the door behind them and leans against his desk. He's all business -- Hotch is always all business -- but though his voice and his posture are unrelenting, there is something behind his eyes that Reid recognizes as human, and it puts him almost at ease.
Reid furrows his brow in question, but Hotch speaks before he can ask it. "I received a letter from Agent Greenaway this morning."
The furrows grow deeper. "Sir?"
"She mentioned you."
"What did she say?"
Hotch takes the letter off of his desk and hands it to Reid, regarding him carefully as he scans it.
"She wants you to tell me not to blame myself," Reid says, folding the paper along its neat lines and handing it back.
"What is she talking about?"
Reid wets his lips. "I told Morgan that I'd seen Elle before she shot Lee. I went to her hotel room. To see if she was all right. She was drinking."
"And?"
"And... we talked. I felt like I should have noticed. Or that I should have said something."
Hotch's gaze never wavers, but Reid can feel his own soften, slide sideways, become uncomfortable. "Aside from her drinking -- which was not good judgment during a case but certainly not a reportable offense, as she was off duty -- was there anything unusual about Agent Greenaway's behavior?"
Reid pauses, which gives an answer different from the one he utters. "No."
"Do not lie to me."
"There was nothing that was pertinent to the case."
"I'll decide what is and is not pertinent, Agent Reid. What did you observe about Agent Greenaway's behavior?"
"She was... impulsive." Reid can feel his palms start to sweat, and he presses them into the sides of his thighs, trying to match Hotch's stare. His mouth goes dry. Swallowing does not help.
"In what manner?"
Hotch knows. Reid has the feeling that maybe he has known all along. He swallows again and coughs. "Se... sexually. Sir."
"Agent Reid, what is the nature of your relationship with Agent Greenaway?"
Reid blinks furiously, his eyes shuttering like an old film reel, and every time they close, the images are there, clear and sharp as only his memory can be.
_______________
"I remember his fingers," Elle says, setting her empty glass down on the table too hard. "He didn't even hesitate, just stuck them right in." Her eyes are narrow, deep-set shards of cloudy crystal, and Spencer can see things inside of them that frighten him, that fascinate him, that make him feel like he's falling. He starts to speak, but she's talking over him, leaning across the table and looking intently into his face. "You wouldn't have let that happen. You would have stayed with me."
"I..." He doesn't want to criticize the Bureau, doesn't want to lay blame, doesn't want to go down this road, but he won't lie to her. "Yes. I would have. But..."
"But nothing." She pushes her chair back from the table and is standing beside him before he can stop her, and she takes his chin in her hand. "Because you actually give a fuck, don't you? That's why you came in here tonight. You want to know how I am. Do you want me to tell you?"
Then she kisses him.
Her mouth is that ambiguous space between anger and desire, lit up red and sparking against his, and he tries to pull away. He tucks his chin down and pushes his palms into her hips, but she just presses her own hands down on top of his until his fingertips dig into her flesh.
"I'll tell you how I am," she mutters, biting at his lower lip. Spencer feels her words brush against the inside of his cheek, and his head is shrieking at him in a language he can't translate quickly enough, and Elle is still talking, making everything else impossible to hear. "I'm pissed off. And I'm scared. And I'm frustrated. And I'm drunk. And I can't remember the last time I fucked someone who gave a shit about me, and you do, and I want to forget everything else but that right now. Are you going to let me fuck you? Do you want me to fuck you nice and hard, Doctor?"
Her last word comes out sounding both clipped and sensual, in that strange way that belongs only to Elle, and Spencer's body is answering for him even as he's trying to shake his head no. The gesture serves only to slide her tongue around in his mouth, which has opened for her without his consent, and suddenly she's in his lap with her hands all over him, loosening his tie with her clever fingers and snapping it taut before she drops it to the floor.
And just like that, the fight sinks down into his belly and disappears, and he's touching her, too. She feels small and delicate and fierce, and she reminds him, absurdly, of a hummingbird, her heart hammering against his body and her hips jerking and fluttering into his. The harder she pushes, the harder he pushes back, and when she whips off her t-shirt and tosses it next to his tie, he takes the red strap of her bra between his teeth and mutters her name, Elle Elle Elle, over and over and over, into her skin as he drags it down her arm.
"Yes," she murmurs, "yes, baby, yes, that's me. Do you want me? Are you gonna take good care of me?"
"Yes," he whispers back, fumbling with her clasp until it springs apart and her breasts come free, and he wants to. She is both demanding and desperate, predatory and vulnerable, and he doesn't know how to protect her, either from herself or from the rest of the world, but he wants to. Badly. That's why he's here; that's why he came to her in the middle of the night; that's why he sat across from her at the hotel table and drank with her and asked her for her truth.
"Then do it," she says, lifting herself off of him and tugging him to his feet. She walks him backwards towards the bed, working the buttons of his shirt methodically, carefully. It's a strange contrast to her mouth, which is urgent and hot on his neck. They stumble when the backs of Spencer's knees hit the mattress, and Elle takes advantage and shoves him down.
She crawls back into his lap, thrusting her hands into his hair and her breasts against his face. Her skin is soft against his cheek and covered in goosebumps. "Elle, I..." he starts, trying to reason -- with her, and maybe with himself, as well -- but she arches her back, and her taut nipple scrapes his teeth, and he closes his mouth around it instead and sucks.
One hand comes up to cup Elle's other breast, and the other works in tandem with hers, trying to pull his shirt off of his shoulders. It's a struggle, and it's uncoordinated, and he cannot organize all of the sensations in his body. Somewhere in the chaos, he bites down on her by accident. She gasps, sharp and surprised, and he immediately apologizes, pulling away like he's been burned.
She works his shirt free and says, "No, it's good. Do it again." He closes his teeth around her other nipple, tentative, and her fists clench in his hair. "Harder," she says, pulling him against her body and grinding her hips down. His glasses are in the way, so she slides them off his face -- again, with unexpected gentleness -- and reaches behind her to set them on the chair.
He can feel her heat through her jeans as he traces the lines of her body with his hands. She's strong, but it feels like an illusion, this lean muscle layered over her slender bones; her hair-trigger nerves. Not easy to kill, but shockingly simple to wound. That's Elle. The thought makes him close his arms around her waist, gather her closer, nose against the bite-mark on her skin like a puppy.
"Don't go soft on me, Dr. Reid," she says, sinking her fingertips into his bicep hard enough to bruise.
He isn't soft. He's hard, painfully hard, and her thumbs ticking down his ribs and her knees squeezing his hips are making him throb, sending his pulse crashing through his body.
"You're so skinny," she whispers, running a hand up the knots of his spine. "I'm not gonna break you, am I? You're just a baby." Something in her tone borders on grief, and Spencer shakes his head, his hair brushing her collarbone, trying to soothe it.
"No. I won't break."
"Good." Elle curves her belly in and reaches between them for his belt, pulling it loose in short little jerks as it catches in the loops. She fondles it for a moment once it's free, twisting it around her own wrists before letting it fall to the floor. His button comes next, popping open easily for her. The zipper fights a little, its teeth catching and pulling, but she tugs it away from his body and gives it a decisive yank, and it finally obeys.
Spencer holds his breath as she reaches through the front of his boxers. His heart sounds loud and terrified thumping in his ears, and when her hand wraps around him, it is small and tight and confident. She holds him with an odd sort of reverence, not the casual and slightly disinterested way he handles himself, and she makes a pleased little sound against his temple. "Look at you," she whispers, stroking him from base to tip and swirling her thumb around the head, making him draw a breath through his teeth. "I knew you'd be huge. I dunno what I want to do with it." She's got a rhythm now, slow but purposeful, and every time he thinks he can't get any harder, she proves him wrong. "I dunno where I want to put it."
Spencer is biting down on his own mouth, trying to hold back the whimpering sounds he can hear bouncing off of his teeth. She's rolling her body right along with her hands, and the head of his cock brushes her stomach every time she does, and he knows that if he doesn't stop her in the next thirty seconds, he's going to make a mess out of them both.
"S.. st... stop," he manages finally, gritting the words out from between his clenched-tight jaw, and she does, popping her fist open mid-stroke and grabbing him by the neck. His hips buck up to follow her before he can think about it, and he can feel her smiling more than he can see it as she brings their lips together and pushes her tongue into his.
Around the margins of his mind, he can feel his own protests, can feel a part of himself saying that there is still time to stop this before it gets out of control, but he knows, realistically, that it is much, much too late. It is already so far out of control that there is no way to turn back. They are both all Id now, need and biology; the currents of their subconscious coming together in a dangerous undertow. There is nowhere to go but out to sea.
Elle's button and zipper yield easily, even with his half-manic fingers, and he lies back so that she can lean over him as she peels her jeans off. She crumples them and tosses them to the floor, then tugs Spencer's down past his knees so that he can kick them off along with his boxers. Her panties are red, too; strappy things completely inappropriate for work, and they're damp enough that he can see it. He can feel it, too, when she settles down across him. She is wet and hot, and her skin is flushed, and her pupils are blown wide open as she stares down at him.
"You look beautiful." He feels stupid the second he says it, but he's at that point where his mouth is operating without the benefit of his brain.
Elle's expression wavers, slips back into the tender sort of agony from before, just for a moment, and she looks at him as though she is literally aching for him. "Thank you," she says, her voice fragile, then she draws one finger down the center of his chest, bringing a shiver with it. "Now what am I going to do with you?"
"Come here," Spencer says, reaching for her thighs and pulling them up.
She catches on right away, and the fire rushes back into her, making her tilt her head back and close her eyes. "Oh, God," she says, throaty and low, and he helps her shimmy up his body until she's kneeling wide across his shoulders. She moves to strip off her underwear, but he just shakes his head at her and reaches up to push them aside. He hooks one thumb through the elastic and spans the rest of his fingers across her thigh and just looks.
"You're filthy," she mutters, watching him watch her. "You gorgeous fucking dirty thing."
"Sit down."
She does, and as soon as his mouth is on her, she's making the most fantastic, frantic, undone noises he's ever heard. He can taste liquor and lightning, her kiss and her cunt, as he traces the curves of her with his tongue, pushing it up inside of her in shallow thrusts and flattening it against her clit as she moans and writhes and clutches at his hands for balance. There are words lost in her sounds, and she's telling him how perfect he is, how her cunt belongs to him, how fucking good she feels, and that's all he wants from her. From this.
He wants her to feel good, to feel safe, to feel the shattering impact of an orgasm instead of a bullet. He wants her to have this moment of nothingness and trust and letting go. He wants her to come like this, beautiful and powerful above him like some divinity.
But she doesn't. Her muscles start to tremble, and she pulls tight around the fingers he's worked inside of her, and then she rises up and sits back on his chest, just out of reach. With one hand, she wipes his mouth, and when she speaks, her voice is frail and full of breath. The smile across her face is shaky and gentle. "Not like that," she says. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to feel it. It's gonna be so good."
He believes her. She's tight, and she's so wet that even his wrist is slippery, and the thought of being inside of her makes his balls ache and his head spin. But he can't. "I don't have a condom," he says, and the absolute bereft disappointment in his voice would almost make him laugh out loud in any other circumstance.
As it is, it makes Elle smile, her expression layering affection and amusement over hunger and possessiveness. "Don't worry," she says. "I got you." She crawls off the bed and starts pawing through her bag, tossing things aside and fishing out a condom, which she tears open with her teeth.
"You keep condoms in your go-bag?" Spencer asks, stroking himself absently as he watches her pad naked towards him, peeling off her panties as she goes.
"A condom," she corrects. "And a sewing kit. And water purification tablets, thank you very much." She arches an eyebrow at him, and Spencer smiles.
"Point taken," he says, moving his hand to let her slide the condom over him. She takes her time with it, staring baldly into his face as she does, watching him react to her touch.
Something flashes across her expression too quickly for him to decipher, and then she's talking to him again, low-voiced and lovely. "Now I'm going to get on my hands and knees for you, and you're going to get so deep that I can feel you in my throat. What do you think?"
She doesn't wait for an answer, just drops down onto her hands, spreads her legs, and arches her back in invitation. For a moment, he can't move; he's pinned to the mattress by something close to awe, disbelief at what is being offered to him, at the fact that he's actually going to take it. There is a part of him that gnaws, still, at his ribs, telling him no (she's drunk; she's sad; she's a colleague), but there are too many yeses to ignore: Elle's impatient glance over her graceful shoulder; the vulnerable position of her body, needing him to cover her, to protect her; his own insistent arousal pounding at him relentlessly; and, finally, how much of herself she lays bare before him when she says please.
The word pulls him with the urgency of gravity, some invisible force impossible to escape on this planet, and he whispers, "Okay," as he rises onto his knees. Elle shimmies back towards him, and he puts one hand on her hip to steady her. He can feel her suck in a breath and hold it as he brings their bodies together, and it comes out in a long, low, ecstatic sound as he pushes inside. She holds still and lets him go slow, dropping her head down and squeezing around him until he's as far as he can go and they are flush against one another in the silence.
He's afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe, afraid he's going to come right there and ruin everything. She doesn't do anything, just lets the moment stand, lets herself be full and open wide and present.
After what feels like much longer than it is, Spencer feels back in control of his body and starts to move, tentative at first, pulling back and coming forward just a little, testing the angle. Elle makes noises for him, sighs and mews and a big, round moan when he gets it right, and that's where he stays.
"Harder," she says, pushing back against him now. "Like that. Oh, Christ, you're... oh, shit."
He traces the curve of her spine with his hand, draws a circle around the leaf-shaped birthmark on her shoulder blade, finds the racing pulse at the inside of her thigh and presses down until it feels like it's inside of him, too.
"I'm what?" he asks suddenly, gripping her around her slender waist and driving down hard, chasing the sensation of her response, the blood pounding in his ears and heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. "What am I, Elle?"
She lifts one hand and reaches behind herself, fumbling for him, her balance wavering. He shoves his hand into hers and lets her guide it between her legs. He brushes against her clit, hard and slippery, and he can feel himself fucking her, sliding in and out of her, bumping against his wrist as he does, and her voice is a breathless growl when she answers. "See? That's what you do to me. That's what you are."
"Elle," he says, his own voice trembling as he glides his thumb against her clit and feels her tense. He does it again and she pulls tighter and jerks her hips. "Elle..." and this time it sounds almost like a warning, and he moves his thumb in circles, pushing as deep inside of her as he can with his cock, and she starts to shake violently beneath him.
"That's my name, Doctor. Say it."
"Oh, God, Elle..."
She gasps, then her breath leaves her in an exquisite, wounded ohhhhhh, and her muscles contract and release and hold him tight, and he cups a hand over her and presses hard, like he's holding her together. Her orgasm comes and comes and comes, long and loud and hard, and he leans forward to mouth her neck and her ears and her back, riding the edge of his own until she says, "Come on, I know you want to. Take what you want."
Her voice is utterly wrecked, husky and strung out and spent, and the sound of it alone would have been enough. But she gives him one last squeeze, raising her hips and sliding down his cock before seating herself all the way back, and he comes so hard it nearly knocks him over. He holds onto her as his muscles pull taut and snap like elastic, and then he slumps forward, licking the sweat off her back and panting like a dog, pressing his forehead into her skin. When he thinks it's over, another jolt takes him by surprise, and he yelps and bites her neck.
"Oh, honey," she says, "oh, sweetheart, yes, I know," then lowers herself onto her belly, slow and languorous. Spencer's cock slips out of her, and he reaches down to take the condom off, then drops it into the trash next to the bed. He collapses down across Elle's back, his face in her hair.
They lie still for awhile, sticking together with sweat, breathing into the strange energy pulsing around them. The room smells like booze and sex and bodies, and the contents of Elle's go-bag and their clothes are strewn everywhere, and the headboard has pulled away from the wall, and the sheets are in chaos, and they are lying in the middle of it, two people stranded together in an unnavigable sea.
When Elle finally stirs beneath him, ten minutes have gone by. Spencer edges sideways off of her, and she rolls onto her back and stares up into his face. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, and her chest is flushed, and her mascara has smudged. "Hi," she whispers.
"Hi," he whispers back.
"I'm not sorry," she says softly. "I might never be sorry again."
"That's okay," he says. "Don't apologize for your own survival."
"I won't." After a moment, she adds, "You either."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't make the same promise that she does, but she doesn't seem to mind. She takes one of his hands between hers and kisses it everywhere, slow and lazy, as he looks down at her, biting back the self-reproving guilt that has already started to rise.
"No one's sleeping," Elle says finally. "Be quiet when you leave. And shower right away. You smell like pus..."
"I know," Spencer cuts her off. "So do you."
She smiles at him -- an affectionate and troubled smile -- and kisses him on the cheek. Elle wraps the covers around herself and watches Spencer dress. He is meticulous, adjusting his watch and smoothing out the wrinkles in his pants. He even reknots his tie. He washes his face before he leaves, and when he comes out of the bathroom, he looks at her.
"I meant it," she says as he reaches for the doorknob.
"Meant what?"
"Everything. That you're the only one who gives a fuck. That you're just perfect. That you're a baby."
"I'm not..."
"You are. Go easy on yourself, Dr. Reid. All right?"
Again, he doesn't answer. Instead, he tells her that he meant it, too.
"Meant what?" she asks.
"That you're beautiful."
Elle smiles. "You take good care of me."
"I try."
"You succeed. Goodnight, you."
"Goodnight."
_______________
Hotch is still waiting for an answer, his eyes unwavering.
Spencer meets them dead-on. "I'm sorry. Can you repeat the question?"
"I asked you about the nature of your relationship with Agent Greenaway."
"Colleagues. And friends."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more."
"You just told me that she was sexually impulsive while we were in Dayton."
Hotch's expression has changed almost imperceptibly, shifting to wary confusion, though anyone but Reid would have likely missed it. "She was. I was... also," Reid answers, clearing his throat and trying his best to hold his ground.
"You are aware that Bureau policy explicitly forbids fraternization."
"Yes."
"And that engaging in that behavior could result in termination."
"Yes."
Hotch sighs and rubs his forehead. Reid bites his lips. Finally, Hotch sits himself down on the edge of his desk and crosses his arms. It is the closest to defeated that Spencer has ever seen him look. "Reid, did Elle give you any reason to believe that she was a danger to herself or to others?"
"No. If she had, I would have reported it immediately."
Hotch pauses. "How..."
"I went to check on her in her room. She was drinking. She offered me one, and I took it. We spoke. We had sex. I left."
"And you didn't find that unusual?"
"Of course I found it unusual. I find it unusual that any woman wants to have sex with me, Hotch."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know." Reid takes a deep breath and looks Hotch squarely in the face. "Elle was shot in her own home. Randall Garner reached his fingers into her body while she was still conscious and wrote on her living room wall in her blood. Those women in Ohio... they were attacked in their homes, as well, and when it was over, the police and the paramedics and even us -- we stuck our fingers into their wounds to write their stories, and they felt everything. I know it's the job, and I know that we had to, but Elle looked at all of them and saw herself. And it isn't an excuse, but it is a reason, and anybody who thought she was okay was obviously not looking very closely. And before you say anything else, no. I had no reason to believe that she was going to go out and shoot someone, and I don't know what really happened with Lee. Only she knows that. But Elle... she... she's a survivor, Hotch. She knows what she needs, and she knows what she has to do to get it, and there is no doubt in my mind that if she shot him, it was what she had to do to save herself."
Hotch stares at Reid appraisingly for a few moments before nodding shortly. "All right. But Reid?"
Reid raises an eyebrow in response.
"It isn't your job to protect her."
Reid nods towards Elle's letter lying folded on Hotch's desk. "I don't think she needs me to anymore."
"No. She doesn't. And Reid?"
"Yes?"
"I am going to pretend that we didn't have this conversation. But if anything like this happens again, I will not hesitate to take disciplinary action."
"I understand. And it won't."
Hotch watches Spencer's face for a moment before nodding his dismissal.
Spencer shuts Hotch's door behind him softly, then turns to face it. He thinks of Elle, curled up into herself on a beach somewhere, finally anchored in the midst of her storm, and he wonders why she wrote to Hotch instead of him. He thinks for a moment before he decides that the answer will come to him the same way that she did: out of necessity, out of camaraderie, out of friendship, out of saying yes when he could have said no.
"It won't happen again," he says quietly to the closed door. "But I'm not sorry."
Pairing/Characters: Elle/Reid, Hotch
Prompt: apology from my crimeland prompt table - this completes 10,000 words, woo!
Rating: NC17
Words: ~4500
Summary: Hotch gets a letter that demands an explanation.
Warnings: Spoilers for Aftermath, (excessive) sexuality, language
Notes: This is sort of a follow-up to The Cure that got a little bit away from me (definitely helpful to read that first -- it's like 200 words). Elle's character captivates me, in that she is equal parts ferocity and frailty, and I had the most fun writing her that I've had with any character... and it turns out I couldn't stop. Ha. Also, I just have to say this: there is not nearly enough sitting-on-Reid's-face in this fandom, so... uh... I had to fix that. Because let's face it -- dude's got a sittable face. The end.
"Reid? My office please."
Once inside, Hotch leaves Reid to shut the door behind them and leans against his desk. He's all business -- Hotch is always all business -- but though his voice and his posture are unrelenting, there is something behind his eyes that Reid recognizes as human, and it puts him almost at ease.
Reid furrows his brow in question, but Hotch speaks before he can ask it. "I received a letter from Agent Greenaway this morning."
The furrows grow deeper. "Sir?"
"She mentioned you."
"What did she say?"
Hotch takes the letter off of his desk and hands it to Reid, regarding him carefully as he scans it.
"She wants you to tell me not to blame myself," Reid says, folding the paper along its neat lines and handing it back.
"What is she talking about?"
Reid wets his lips. "I told Morgan that I'd seen Elle before she shot Lee. I went to her hotel room. To see if she was all right. She was drinking."
"And?"
"And... we talked. I felt like I should have noticed. Or that I should have said something."
Hotch's gaze never wavers, but Reid can feel his own soften, slide sideways, become uncomfortable. "Aside from her drinking -- which was not good judgment during a case but certainly not a reportable offense, as she was off duty -- was there anything unusual about Agent Greenaway's behavior?"
Reid pauses, which gives an answer different from the one he utters. "No."
"Do not lie to me."
"There was nothing that was pertinent to the case."
"I'll decide what is and is not pertinent, Agent Reid. What did you observe about Agent Greenaway's behavior?"
"She was... impulsive." Reid can feel his palms start to sweat, and he presses them into the sides of his thighs, trying to match Hotch's stare. His mouth goes dry. Swallowing does not help.
"In what manner?"
Hotch knows. Reid has the feeling that maybe he has known all along. He swallows again and coughs. "Se... sexually. Sir."
"Agent Reid, what is the nature of your relationship with Agent Greenaway?"
Reid blinks furiously, his eyes shuttering like an old film reel, and every time they close, the images are there, clear and sharp as only his memory can be.
_______________
"I remember his fingers," Elle says, setting her empty glass down on the table too hard. "He didn't even hesitate, just stuck them right in." Her eyes are narrow, deep-set shards of cloudy crystal, and Spencer can see things inside of them that frighten him, that fascinate him, that make him feel like he's falling. He starts to speak, but she's talking over him, leaning across the table and looking intently into his face. "You wouldn't have let that happen. You would have stayed with me."
"I..." He doesn't want to criticize the Bureau, doesn't want to lay blame, doesn't want to go down this road, but he won't lie to her. "Yes. I would have. But..."
"But nothing." She pushes her chair back from the table and is standing beside him before he can stop her, and she takes his chin in her hand. "Because you actually give a fuck, don't you? That's why you came in here tonight. You want to know how I am. Do you want me to tell you?"
Then she kisses him.
Her mouth is that ambiguous space between anger and desire, lit up red and sparking against his, and he tries to pull away. He tucks his chin down and pushes his palms into her hips, but she just presses her own hands down on top of his until his fingertips dig into her flesh.
"I'll tell you how I am," she mutters, biting at his lower lip. Spencer feels her words brush against the inside of his cheek, and his head is shrieking at him in a language he can't translate quickly enough, and Elle is still talking, making everything else impossible to hear. "I'm pissed off. And I'm scared. And I'm frustrated. And I'm drunk. And I can't remember the last time I fucked someone who gave a shit about me, and you do, and I want to forget everything else but that right now. Are you going to let me fuck you? Do you want me to fuck you nice and hard, Doctor?"
Her last word comes out sounding both clipped and sensual, in that strange way that belongs only to Elle, and Spencer's body is answering for him even as he's trying to shake his head no. The gesture serves only to slide her tongue around in his mouth, which has opened for her without his consent, and suddenly she's in his lap with her hands all over him, loosening his tie with her clever fingers and snapping it taut before she drops it to the floor.
And just like that, the fight sinks down into his belly and disappears, and he's touching her, too. She feels small and delicate and fierce, and she reminds him, absurdly, of a hummingbird, her heart hammering against his body and her hips jerking and fluttering into his. The harder she pushes, the harder he pushes back, and when she whips off her t-shirt and tosses it next to his tie, he takes the red strap of her bra between his teeth and mutters her name, Elle Elle Elle, over and over and over, into her skin as he drags it down her arm.
"Yes," she murmurs, "yes, baby, yes, that's me. Do you want me? Are you gonna take good care of me?"
"Yes," he whispers back, fumbling with her clasp until it springs apart and her breasts come free, and he wants to. She is both demanding and desperate, predatory and vulnerable, and he doesn't know how to protect her, either from herself or from the rest of the world, but he wants to. Badly. That's why he's here; that's why he came to her in the middle of the night; that's why he sat across from her at the hotel table and drank with her and asked her for her truth.
"Then do it," she says, lifting herself off of him and tugging him to his feet. She walks him backwards towards the bed, working the buttons of his shirt methodically, carefully. It's a strange contrast to her mouth, which is urgent and hot on his neck. They stumble when the backs of Spencer's knees hit the mattress, and Elle takes advantage and shoves him down.
She crawls back into his lap, thrusting her hands into his hair and her breasts against his face. Her skin is soft against his cheek and covered in goosebumps. "Elle, I..." he starts, trying to reason -- with her, and maybe with himself, as well -- but she arches her back, and her taut nipple scrapes his teeth, and he closes his mouth around it instead and sucks.
One hand comes up to cup Elle's other breast, and the other works in tandem with hers, trying to pull his shirt off of his shoulders. It's a struggle, and it's uncoordinated, and he cannot organize all of the sensations in his body. Somewhere in the chaos, he bites down on her by accident. She gasps, sharp and surprised, and he immediately apologizes, pulling away like he's been burned.
She works his shirt free and says, "No, it's good. Do it again." He closes his teeth around her other nipple, tentative, and her fists clench in his hair. "Harder," she says, pulling him against her body and grinding her hips down. His glasses are in the way, so she slides them off his face -- again, with unexpected gentleness -- and reaches behind her to set them on the chair.
He can feel her heat through her jeans as he traces the lines of her body with his hands. She's strong, but it feels like an illusion, this lean muscle layered over her slender bones; her hair-trigger nerves. Not easy to kill, but shockingly simple to wound. That's Elle. The thought makes him close his arms around her waist, gather her closer, nose against the bite-mark on her skin like a puppy.
"Don't go soft on me, Dr. Reid," she says, sinking her fingertips into his bicep hard enough to bruise.
He isn't soft. He's hard, painfully hard, and her thumbs ticking down his ribs and her knees squeezing his hips are making him throb, sending his pulse crashing through his body.
"You're so skinny," she whispers, running a hand up the knots of his spine. "I'm not gonna break you, am I? You're just a baby." Something in her tone borders on grief, and Spencer shakes his head, his hair brushing her collarbone, trying to soothe it.
"No. I won't break."
"Good." Elle curves her belly in and reaches between them for his belt, pulling it loose in short little jerks as it catches in the loops. She fondles it for a moment once it's free, twisting it around her own wrists before letting it fall to the floor. His button comes next, popping open easily for her. The zipper fights a little, its teeth catching and pulling, but she tugs it away from his body and gives it a decisive yank, and it finally obeys.
Spencer holds his breath as she reaches through the front of his boxers. His heart sounds loud and terrified thumping in his ears, and when her hand wraps around him, it is small and tight and confident. She holds him with an odd sort of reverence, not the casual and slightly disinterested way he handles himself, and she makes a pleased little sound against his temple. "Look at you," she whispers, stroking him from base to tip and swirling her thumb around the head, making him draw a breath through his teeth. "I knew you'd be huge. I dunno what I want to do with it." She's got a rhythm now, slow but purposeful, and every time he thinks he can't get any harder, she proves him wrong. "I dunno where I want to put it."
Spencer is biting down on his own mouth, trying to hold back the whimpering sounds he can hear bouncing off of his teeth. She's rolling her body right along with her hands, and the head of his cock brushes her stomach every time she does, and he knows that if he doesn't stop her in the next thirty seconds, he's going to make a mess out of them both.
"S.. st... stop," he manages finally, gritting the words out from between his clenched-tight jaw, and she does, popping her fist open mid-stroke and grabbing him by the neck. His hips buck up to follow her before he can think about it, and he can feel her smiling more than he can see it as she brings their lips together and pushes her tongue into his.
Around the margins of his mind, he can feel his own protests, can feel a part of himself saying that there is still time to stop this before it gets out of control, but he knows, realistically, that it is much, much too late. It is already so far out of control that there is no way to turn back. They are both all Id now, need and biology; the currents of their subconscious coming together in a dangerous undertow. There is nowhere to go but out to sea.
Elle's button and zipper yield easily, even with his half-manic fingers, and he lies back so that she can lean over him as she peels her jeans off. She crumples them and tosses them to the floor, then tugs Spencer's down past his knees so that he can kick them off along with his boxers. Her panties are red, too; strappy things completely inappropriate for work, and they're damp enough that he can see it. He can feel it, too, when she settles down across him. She is wet and hot, and her skin is flushed, and her pupils are blown wide open as she stares down at him.
"You look beautiful." He feels stupid the second he says it, but he's at that point where his mouth is operating without the benefit of his brain.
Elle's expression wavers, slips back into the tender sort of agony from before, just for a moment, and she looks at him as though she is literally aching for him. "Thank you," she says, her voice fragile, then she draws one finger down the center of his chest, bringing a shiver with it. "Now what am I going to do with you?"
"Come here," Spencer says, reaching for her thighs and pulling them up.
She catches on right away, and the fire rushes back into her, making her tilt her head back and close her eyes. "Oh, God," she says, throaty and low, and he helps her shimmy up his body until she's kneeling wide across his shoulders. She moves to strip off her underwear, but he just shakes his head at her and reaches up to push them aside. He hooks one thumb through the elastic and spans the rest of his fingers across her thigh and just looks.
"You're filthy," she mutters, watching him watch her. "You gorgeous fucking dirty thing."
"Sit down."
She does, and as soon as his mouth is on her, she's making the most fantastic, frantic, undone noises he's ever heard. He can taste liquor and lightning, her kiss and her cunt, as he traces the curves of her with his tongue, pushing it up inside of her in shallow thrusts and flattening it against her clit as she moans and writhes and clutches at his hands for balance. There are words lost in her sounds, and she's telling him how perfect he is, how her cunt belongs to him, how fucking good she feels, and that's all he wants from her. From this.
He wants her to feel good, to feel safe, to feel the shattering impact of an orgasm instead of a bullet. He wants her to have this moment of nothingness and trust and letting go. He wants her to come like this, beautiful and powerful above him like some divinity.
But she doesn't. Her muscles start to tremble, and she pulls tight around the fingers he's worked inside of her, and then she rises up and sits back on his chest, just out of reach. With one hand, she wipes his mouth, and when she speaks, her voice is frail and full of breath. The smile across her face is shaky and gentle. "Not like that," she says. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to feel it. It's gonna be so good."
He believes her. She's tight, and she's so wet that even his wrist is slippery, and the thought of being inside of her makes his balls ache and his head spin. But he can't. "I don't have a condom," he says, and the absolute bereft disappointment in his voice would almost make him laugh out loud in any other circumstance.
As it is, it makes Elle smile, her expression layering affection and amusement over hunger and possessiveness. "Don't worry," she says. "I got you." She crawls off the bed and starts pawing through her bag, tossing things aside and fishing out a condom, which she tears open with her teeth.
"You keep condoms in your go-bag?" Spencer asks, stroking himself absently as he watches her pad naked towards him, peeling off her panties as she goes.
"A condom," she corrects. "And a sewing kit. And water purification tablets, thank you very much." She arches an eyebrow at him, and Spencer smiles.
"Point taken," he says, moving his hand to let her slide the condom over him. She takes her time with it, staring baldly into his face as she does, watching him react to her touch.
Something flashes across her expression too quickly for him to decipher, and then she's talking to him again, low-voiced and lovely. "Now I'm going to get on my hands and knees for you, and you're going to get so deep that I can feel you in my throat. What do you think?"
She doesn't wait for an answer, just drops down onto her hands, spreads her legs, and arches her back in invitation. For a moment, he can't move; he's pinned to the mattress by something close to awe, disbelief at what is being offered to him, at the fact that he's actually going to take it. There is a part of him that gnaws, still, at his ribs, telling him no (she's drunk; she's sad; she's a colleague), but there are too many yeses to ignore: Elle's impatient glance over her graceful shoulder; the vulnerable position of her body, needing him to cover her, to protect her; his own insistent arousal pounding at him relentlessly; and, finally, how much of herself she lays bare before him when she says please.
The word pulls him with the urgency of gravity, some invisible force impossible to escape on this planet, and he whispers, "Okay," as he rises onto his knees. Elle shimmies back towards him, and he puts one hand on her hip to steady her. He can feel her suck in a breath and hold it as he brings their bodies together, and it comes out in a long, low, ecstatic sound as he pushes inside. She holds still and lets him go slow, dropping her head down and squeezing around him until he's as far as he can go and they are flush against one another in the silence.
He's afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe, afraid he's going to come right there and ruin everything. She doesn't do anything, just lets the moment stand, lets herself be full and open wide and present.
After what feels like much longer than it is, Spencer feels back in control of his body and starts to move, tentative at first, pulling back and coming forward just a little, testing the angle. Elle makes noises for him, sighs and mews and a big, round moan when he gets it right, and that's where he stays.
"Harder," she says, pushing back against him now. "Like that. Oh, Christ, you're... oh, shit."
He traces the curve of her spine with his hand, draws a circle around the leaf-shaped birthmark on her shoulder blade, finds the racing pulse at the inside of her thigh and presses down until it feels like it's inside of him, too.
"I'm what?" he asks suddenly, gripping her around her slender waist and driving down hard, chasing the sensation of her response, the blood pounding in his ears and heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. "What am I, Elle?"
She lifts one hand and reaches behind herself, fumbling for him, her balance wavering. He shoves his hand into hers and lets her guide it between her legs. He brushes against her clit, hard and slippery, and he can feel himself fucking her, sliding in and out of her, bumping against his wrist as he does, and her voice is a breathless growl when she answers. "See? That's what you do to me. That's what you are."
"Elle," he says, his own voice trembling as he glides his thumb against her clit and feels her tense. He does it again and she pulls tighter and jerks her hips. "Elle..." and this time it sounds almost like a warning, and he moves his thumb in circles, pushing as deep inside of her as he can with his cock, and she starts to shake violently beneath him.
"That's my name, Doctor. Say it."
"Oh, God, Elle..."
She gasps, then her breath leaves her in an exquisite, wounded ohhhhhh, and her muscles contract and release and hold him tight, and he cups a hand over her and presses hard, like he's holding her together. Her orgasm comes and comes and comes, long and loud and hard, and he leans forward to mouth her neck and her ears and her back, riding the edge of his own until she says, "Come on, I know you want to. Take what you want."
Her voice is utterly wrecked, husky and strung out and spent, and the sound of it alone would have been enough. But she gives him one last squeeze, raising her hips and sliding down his cock before seating herself all the way back, and he comes so hard it nearly knocks him over. He holds onto her as his muscles pull taut and snap like elastic, and then he slumps forward, licking the sweat off her back and panting like a dog, pressing his forehead into her skin. When he thinks it's over, another jolt takes him by surprise, and he yelps and bites her neck.
"Oh, honey," she says, "oh, sweetheart, yes, I know," then lowers herself onto her belly, slow and languorous. Spencer's cock slips out of her, and he reaches down to take the condom off, then drops it into the trash next to the bed. He collapses down across Elle's back, his face in her hair.
They lie still for awhile, sticking together with sweat, breathing into the strange energy pulsing around them. The room smells like booze and sex and bodies, and the contents of Elle's go-bag and their clothes are strewn everywhere, and the headboard has pulled away from the wall, and the sheets are in chaos, and they are lying in the middle of it, two people stranded together in an unnavigable sea.
When Elle finally stirs beneath him, ten minutes have gone by. Spencer edges sideways off of her, and she rolls onto her back and stares up into his face. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, and her chest is flushed, and her mascara has smudged. "Hi," she whispers.
"Hi," he whispers back.
"I'm not sorry," she says softly. "I might never be sorry again."
"That's okay," he says. "Don't apologize for your own survival."
"I won't." After a moment, she adds, "You either."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't make the same promise that she does, but she doesn't seem to mind. She takes one of his hands between hers and kisses it everywhere, slow and lazy, as he looks down at her, biting back the self-reproving guilt that has already started to rise.
"No one's sleeping," Elle says finally. "Be quiet when you leave. And shower right away. You smell like pus..."
"I know," Spencer cuts her off. "So do you."
She smiles at him -- an affectionate and troubled smile -- and kisses him on the cheek. Elle wraps the covers around herself and watches Spencer dress. He is meticulous, adjusting his watch and smoothing out the wrinkles in his pants. He even reknots his tie. He washes his face before he leaves, and when he comes out of the bathroom, he looks at her.
"I meant it," she says as he reaches for the doorknob.
"Meant what?"
"Everything. That you're the only one who gives a fuck. That you're just perfect. That you're a baby."
"I'm not..."
"You are. Go easy on yourself, Dr. Reid. All right?"
Again, he doesn't answer. Instead, he tells her that he meant it, too.
"Meant what?" she asks.
"That you're beautiful."
Elle smiles. "You take good care of me."
"I try."
"You succeed. Goodnight, you."
"Goodnight."
_______________
Hotch is still waiting for an answer, his eyes unwavering.
Spencer meets them dead-on. "I'm sorry. Can you repeat the question?"
"I asked you about the nature of your relationship with Agent Greenaway."
"Colleagues. And friends."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more."
"You just told me that she was sexually impulsive while we were in Dayton."
Hotch's expression has changed almost imperceptibly, shifting to wary confusion, though anyone but Reid would have likely missed it. "She was. I was... also," Reid answers, clearing his throat and trying his best to hold his ground.
"You are aware that Bureau policy explicitly forbids fraternization."
"Yes."
"And that engaging in that behavior could result in termination."
"Yes."
Hotch sighs and rubs his forehead. Reid bites his lips. Finally, Hotch sits himself down on the edge of his desk and crosses his arms. It is the closest to defeated that Spencer has ever seen him look. "Reid, did Elle give you any reason to believe that she was a danger to herself or to others?"
"No. If she had, I would have reported it immediately."
Hotch pauses. "How..."
"I went to check on her in her room. She was drinking. She offered me one, and I took it. We spoke. We had sex. I left."
"And you didn't find that unusual?"
"Of course I found it unusual. I find it unusual that any woman wants to have sex with me, Hotch."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know." Reid takes a deep breath and looks Hotch squarely in the face. "Elle was shot in her own home. Randall Garner reached his fingers into her body while she was still conscious and wrote on her living room wall in her blood. Those women in Ohio... they were attacked in their homes, as well, and when it was over, the police and the paramedics and even us -- we stuck our fingers into their wounds to write their stories, and they felt everything. I know it's the job, and I know that we had to, but Elle looked at all of them and saw herself. And it isn't an excuse, but it is a reason, and anybody who thought she was okay was obviously not looking very closely. And before you say anything else, no. I had no reason to believe that she was going to go out and shoot someone, and I don't know what really happened with Lee. Only she knows that. But Elle... she... she's a survivor, Hotch. She knows what she needs, and she knows what she has to do to get it, and there is no doubt in my mind that if she shot him, it was what she had to do to save herself."
Hotch stares at Reid appraisingly for a few moments before nodding shortly. "All right. But Reid?"
Reid raises an eyebrow in response.
"It isn't your job to protect her."
Reid nods towards Elle's letter lying folded on Hotch's desk. "I don't think she needs me to anymore."
"No. She doesn't. And Reid?"
"Yes?"
"I am going to pretend that we didn't have this conversation. But if anything like this happens again, I will not hesitate to take disciplinary action."
"I understand. And it won't."
Hotch watches Spencer's face for a moment before nodding his dismissal.
Spencer shuts Hotch's door behind him softly, then turns to face it. He thinks of Elle, curled up into herself on a beach somewhere, finally anchored in the midst of her storm, and he wonders why she wrote to Hotch instead of him. He thinks for a moment before he decides that the answer will come to him the same way that she did: out of necessity, out of camaraderie, out of friendship, out of saying yes when he could have said no.
"It won't happen again," he says quietly to the closed door. "But I'm not sorry."