Criminal Minds Fic: All In A Night's Work
Title: All In A Night's Work
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Reid/OMC, Reid/Hotch
Rating: Fandom Rated for Mature Persons
Summary: Going undercover has never been so revealing.
Notes: I'm sure this isn't in the FBI handbook. *g* Also, this was written a little belatedly for the Pink Shell Motel Challenge, which is still open, by the way.
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All In A Night's Work
by Lenore
The table is tucked away in a quiet corner, between a pillar and a potted palm, no one paying the least bit of attention. Still, Spencer can't decide what to with his hands. On the table, he knows, is rude, but folding them in his lap makes him feel like a girl. Not to be sexist, of course. He likes girls. It seems important to remind himself of this as he waits for his Internet date, "a successful 40-something male seeking male 25-40 for something more than just a good time."
Local newspapers have taken to calling their unsub the Gay Ripper, a serial killer preying on young homosexual men in the D.C. area, a string of seven gruesome murders in less than three months. The press continues to treat the attacks as random, but at the BAU, they know it's all very carefully planned, the men specifically targeted, each one found in clothes he'd wear to go out, stomach contents suggesting dinner at an expensive restaurant only hours before death, all the victims frequent visitors to the personals on Carl's List.
We haven't been able to find a computer trail, so we need to lure the unsub to us, Hotch had told Spencer. We've developed a personal ad based on the ones placed by our victims, but we need someone to play the part. Are you up for it?
Spencer's ad was deluged by responses, even with his picture attached to it, a surprise to him. He always expects the Internet to be like high school. They've been working their way through the emails, a team effort, Morgan and Elle and Garcia all pretending to be him, or a version of him called Reid Tyler. They crossed off anyone who didn't suggest dinner at an upscale restaurant, their unsub's apparent M.O. Sam Matson, the man he's meeting tonight, is the first to fit the profile. He's twenty minutes late, and Spencer is beginning to wonder if he'll show at all.
At last, a tall man, dark hair shot through with gray, comes through the door. He confers with J.J., who has taken the place of the restaurant's usual hostess. She points out the table, and there's a spark of recognition when the man sees Spencer. He smiles as he approaches.
Spencer gets to his feet, bumping the table, making the silverware clink. "Um. Hello."
"Reid." A faint Southern accent softens the edges of the word, and the man holds out his hand. "Sam Matson. Good to meet you. Sorry I'm late. My client insisted on lingering." The corners of his eyes crinkle, and the warmth looks disarmingly genuine.
The waiter brings menus. Sam studies the wine list, and Spencer studies him. He's surprised that Sam looks so much like the photo he emailed. J.J. had prepared him, "People do all kinds of desperate things. Send pictures that are twenty years old, or that they found using Google image search."
"They have a nice Pinot Noir," Sam says.
Spencer shrugs. He's no connoisseur. "Sounds good."
Sam speaks with the sommelier, and the wine comes, and they go through the ritual of tasting, approving, a crease between Sam's eyebrows, as if it's a matter of real importance.
"To new horizons." Sam raises his glass, clink of crystal, and the wine makes Spencer's mouth pucker the way wine always does. Give him beer any day. Sam smiles. "So you're a graduate student in clinical psychology. Fascinating. I'd love to hear all about it."
The more truth in a lie the more believable it is, and Spencer starts to talk about his actual work from his doctoral program. Sam leans in, listening. He seems made of confidence, wearing his expensive British tailoring as naturally as skin. Spencer is suddenly conscious of his own tie, crooked because he keeps fighting with it, his shirt messily untucking itself from the waistband. He has that kind of body. Clothes wear him, not the other way around. Not that any of these are the observations he's supposed to be making. He should be analyzing Sam. Sam's easy air of mastery. If it's genuine, he's not their unsub. If it's a mask…
They order, and Spencer follows Sam's lead. His own taste in cuisine tends more to the frozen and the microwavable.
By now, he's hit full stride about his work, "I hope to conduct further research, following up on my dissertation. There was a correlation clearly discernible, and with further testing of the hypothesis--" He takes a breath, reminds himself that he's supposed to be gathering information here, that outside in a van in the parking lot his colleagues are listening, thanks to the subdermal microphone he's wearing. "So, you deal in antiquities? You must have had some interesting experiences in that line of work."
"I'm afraid Indiana Jones has set up some unrealistic expectations about my profession." He smiles with humor. "But to come into contact every day with things that are old and beautiful, small pieces of the story of the world…well, for me there's nothing better." He takes a sip of his wine, looks thoughtful. "For instance, the business that kept me this evening. I was meeting with a representative of the Museo Nazionale di Antichità in Parma. They've acquired an ornamental gold breastplate they believe to have belonged to Nero, that may have been on display in the Domus Aurea, and if I can help them authenticate it--"
"That will be a major discovery," Spencer says with genuine excitement. "The damnatio memoriae, or ritual destruction of Nero's image and other items associated with him after his death in 68AD, means there are few existing artifacts left from his reign." He ducks his head. "But, of course, you know that. I shouldn't--"
Sam smiles. "No, no, don't stop. You have no idea what a treat it is to find an attractive man who knows his Roman history."
The way Sam is looking at him, eyes warm with interest, gives Spencer an unwarranted flutter in his stomach. Hotch's voice unspools in his head like an admonishment, The evidence suggests that the victims went willingly with the perpetrator to wherever they were killed. The witnesses at the restaurants can't agree on a physical description of the unsub, but none of them remembers any sort of disturbance. It's likely that the person we're looking for is charismatic, able to charm his victims into doing what he wants.
They eat dinner and make small talk, have dessert and coffee, and Spencer's stomach starts to lurch, food and butterflies battling it out as they get closer to the moment of truth, whatever will happen after dinner. Sam insists on paying, and they walk out together.
"I'm parked over--" Spencer points.
Sam wraps a hand around his wrist and pulls him around the corner into a service driveway where deliveries are made, shadowy and out of view. Spencer has the code word forming on his mouth that will bring a dozen agents charging to his rescue when Sam kisses it away, licking at his bottom lip, stroking his thumb over his cheek. Spencer shivers and brings his hands up to Sam's shoulders and leans in to the touch. You'll need to get close, make it realistic, or he won't show you his true colors.
"Come back to my house?" Sam's voice rumbles against Spencer's skin as he kisses his neck.
"I know a place," Spencer manages to squeak out. Sam pulls back, confused and like he might insist, and Spencer quickly adds, "I'm just not ready for--"
Sam gives him a lopsided smile and kisses the corner of his mouth. "I get it. We'll keep it casual to start."
Under no circumstances get in the car with him. That's absolutely imperative. Make any excuse to avoid it. "You want to follow me there?" Spencer clenches his hands at his sides, his palms sticky.
Sam agrees without any need for convincing. Spencer drives to the Pink Shell Motel in the nearby Virginia suburbs, operated that evening by the FBI. The parking lot is quiet, but he knows there are agents positioned everywhere. Sam takes his hand as they walk to the office.
Gideon is standing behind the desk. "Help you?"
Spencer shakes off embarrassment, reminding himself that he's not actually having a tryst in front of his boss. "We need a room."
"That'll be thirty-five dollars."
Sam hands over the cash, and Gideon slides the key across the counter.
Room #11 is wired for sound, and that knowledge makes Spencer all the more nervous once they're inside. He fidgets with the cuff of his jacket and looks helplessly at Sam.
Sam's smile is pure bemusement. "So you come here a lot, Reid?"
Spencer knows he must be blushing. He can feel the heat all the way to his hairline. "I've just heard about it."
"You don't say." Sam grins and slides a hand around Spencer's waist and pulls him into a kiss. His voice drops lower, breath against Spencer's ear, making him shiver, "You don't have to be nervous. Nothing's going to happen that you don't want."
Their bodies tangle together, and they stand there kissing, wet and slow, for so long that Spencer's lips start to tingle. Plunging haplessly into intimacy with a stranger shouldn't be this easy, he keeps thinking, but his body doesn't seem to agree. Sam eases the jacket off his shoulders, lets it drop, frees him of his tie. "That's better, isn't it?" His lips quirk, but not unkindly. Apparently Spencer's epic battle with the offending tie had not gone unnoticed.
"Come on." Sam guides him over to the bed, lays him out on it. He stands there a moment, just looking, and then he shrugs out of his own jacket, ditches his tie, undoes the top few buttons of his shirt.
He stretches out next to Spencer, propped up on one elbow, leans over to kiss, sliding a hand slowly down Spencer's body. Spencer is already hard, and Sam rests his palm over Spencer's cock. He watches for a reaction and smiles when Spencer bites his lip.
"You like that." His voice is deep and rich and amused, all sex, and Spencer swallows hard. He's really starting to think this is just a date.
"Do you want to tie me up or anything?" he asks to test the theory. All the victims had ligature marks.
Sam laughs softly. "A tempting offer, but I'd rather have you free to touch me."
He presses the heel of his hand against Spencer's cock, as if to demonstrate how good touching can be, and then he lightens the pressure so there's barely any contact at all. He does this over and over, until Spencer is flailing, hips bucking, the breath in his lungs like fire.
"That's it, Reid. That's it," Sam murmurs encouragingly.
Spencer can feel Sam's erection against his thigh, and his hands should be the ultimate instruments of his control, but they develop a sudden will of their own. His fingers uncurl, shake as he reaches out to touch the fine cotton of Sam's shirt. He finds Sam's nipple and rubs it through the fabric, and Sam arches into his touch. There's an unexpected rush in being able to make Sam respond, and he teases the other nipple, this time earning a breathy grunt of pleasure. He grows bolder, stroking down, down, past sternum and ribs and belly.
"God yes." Sam rests his hand on top of Spencer's to keep him there, attending to his cock. "Just like that." He brushes the hair out of Spencer's eyes and kisses him. "Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"
Spencer makes a rueful face. "Not that I remember."
Sam smiles against his lips. "People are damned fools."
He unbuttons Spencer's shirt and rains kisses down in random places, in the dip of Spencer's collarbone, around his belly button, wetly against a nipple. Spencer twists in his hands, the delicious anticipation of not knowing where Sam's mouth will land next. Just when his skin is hot and buzzing and he doesn't think he can take much more, Sam starts to kiss a more deliberate path, licking at the trail of hair, toying with Spencer's belt. Spencer's cock surges at the touch, so hard, so fast it makes his eyes water.
Sam fondles him through his pants. "I'm going to suck you off, and then I'm going to fuck you, okay?"
It's possible our unsub is impotent or otherwise sexually dysfunctional. Stabbing is his proxy for penetration. That's how he derives gratification. A man genuinely seeking sex is not a viable suspect.
Textbook clarity, but Spencer can't make himself say the code word, and Sam must feel him tense, because his hand stills. "What's wrong? Too fast?"
Spencer shakes his head and leans up for a kiss. "It's just--"
The way the light from the lamp slants across Sam's face casts the planes and hollows in stark relief, and Spencer stares. He can't believe he's just now realizing how much Sam reminds him of Hotch. It makes a scary sort of sense now why he was never really afraid.
He closes his eyes and presses a last kiss to Sam's mouth. "Panama Canal." He slips out from under Sam, stands, buttons his shirt. He doesn't meet Sam's eyes, just offers a quiet, "Sorry."
The door crashes in, and agents storm the room, weapons drawn.
"Get on your feet, on your feet now," Morgan orders Sam.
"Okay, okay!" Sam complies, hands held up, eyes wide and confused. "What is this?" He looks to Spencer. "What's going on?"
"Sir, I need you to stand over here and answer some questions." Morgan corrals Sam to the other side of the room.
Hotch puts a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "Come on."
The rush of cool night air is as startling as a slap, a shock to his overheated body, and he shivers. His jacket is still crumpled on the floor next to the bed where Sam tossed it. That thought brings a fresh rush of heat, and Spencer shivers harder.
Hotch pulls off his coat, matter-of-factly drapes it over Spencer's shoulders. "I'll put on the heat in the car."
"He's not our unsub," Spencer's voice shakes, despite his best efforts.
"Most likely not." Hotch's expression is unreadable. "But we'll get his alibi for the dates and times of the attacks just to be certain."
Spencer stops in his tracks. "I should--"
"No," Hotch says firmly. "I'm taking you home. You've had enough for one night."
The blast of warmth from the car's heater takes off the worst of the chill, but Spencer is jittery, an itchy feeling under his skin, like he's going to be awake for the rest of his life. Flashes of sense memory take him off guard, Sam's hands on him, Sam's mouth and body, and suddenly he's too hot. It doesn't help that Hotch's coat smells like him, like wool and cologne and manly assurance. That's how Sam smelled too, and it's all getting tangled up in his head. He's pretty sure there's not going to be any easy antidote for this.
"Are you all right?" Hotch's voice shatters the quiet, making Spencer flinch.
"Fine," he says, clipped and precise, making it clear he doesn't want to talk about it.
Hotch darts glances at him out of the side of his eye, but at least there are no more questions. When they pull up outside Spencer's building, he says, "I can come in with you."
Spencer shakes his head. The idea of Hotch in his space is just-- too much right now. "I'm fine. Really. And you should get back to the office. Clear--" He can't say Sam's name, not to Hotch. "Get this cleared up."
Hotch gives him a long, appraising look, and Spencer doesn't wait for the verdict. "See you tomorrow." He clambers out of the car and trudges up the front walk. He doesn't look back, and after a few moments, he hears the car pull away.
Inside, it's quiet and still, and that makes him feel even more off balance. He wanders into the kitchen for a drink of water, but then he suddenly has the way Sam tasted in his mouth, of coffee and chocolate and wine. He turns around sharply, heads for his bedroom, thinking maybe he'll have a shower instead. There's nothing he wants to wash away, but he could use some warmth about now and a convenient excuse. He sheds his clothes in a messy path to the bathroom, turns the water up as hot as it will go and steps into the stall.
He splashes his face and soaps up his hands. His cock still aches, and he wastes no time. I'm going to suck you, and then I'm going to fuck you. He grips his dick hard and imagines, but it's only half the equation. He slides his other hand around to his ass. This isn't something he does, and it feels awkward, but then he circles his finger there, pressing just a little, and raw sensation sizzles through him. He rocks into his fist and gingerly back onto his finger, a closed circuit of pleasure. Pictures fly furiously behind his eyes. Sometimes it's Sam, sometimes Hotch, and when he comes, he's never been so disturbed by an orgasm.
He bundles up afterwards, sweatpants, wool socks, sweater, every bit of skin carefully covered, as if this will somehow efface desire. He settles into his chair, switches on the reading lamp, picks up the case file. Inside are photos, crime scene reports, witness statements, an infinite pool of data. He frowns as he slowly leafs through the contents, trying to see what he hasn't before, doing what he does best, searching for connections.
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Also for my friends interested in Criminals Minds, I want to recommend a new-ish CM fic community cm_slash started by the lovely gblvr that's all slash all the time. Check it out!