Chapter Text
The bar is loud when they enter.
Ridiculously so, though Spencer can admit that it’s partially his fault for forgetting the effects a Friday night the week before Halloween would have on the team’s usual bar for post case celebrations.
Only partially though, because unlike past years, the bar seems to be making a concerted effort to appeal to the students at the academy instead of catering to the more experienced agents as they always have. Spencer supposes that it’s a sound business strategy; the younger crowd in general spends a lot more money on hard liquor and expensive cocktails, piling their tabs with whatever will get them drunk the most efficiently on one of the few nights they won’t have to be at work or school in the morning. A lot more lucrative than the older agents and business clientele who order beers or a glass of whiskey to sip on.
The bartenders are noticeably younger than the staff they’re used to, dressed in their regular black uniforms although most have some kind of fun Halloween themed accessory. There are decorations throughout the bar that weren’t there last week, though nothing too gaudy; orange and yellow fake leaf garlands hanging from the edge of the bar, a few kitschy signs scattered around.
The most outlandish that it gets is the large skeleton ornament hanging from the ceiling behind the bartenders, wearing a cook's apron and a name tag declaring him Skully. Spencer has to resist the urge to pick apart every inaccuracy in the cheaply made plastic figure, but even so, he can appreciate the gag.
The tables that would normally take up the center of the bar have been moved out in favor of a makeshift dance floor, and Spencer cringes at the knowledge that he’s definitely going to have to fend off Penelope and JJ from dragging him out there at some point.
Spencer moves through the crowd mostly against his will, Derek’s hand planted firmly on the nape of his neck steering him to their usual booths toward the back.
“Eh, don’t you guys think we’d be better off somewhere else?” Spencer hesitates with a grimace, struggling to dig his heels in as Derek effortlessly pushes him along, “It’s kinda crowded in here-”
“Can’t hear you pretty boy, keep it movin’,” Derek shouts to be heard over the noise, the scheming arch in his brows and the grin splitting his cheeks an indication that he absolutely did hear Spencer.
He ignores the giggles from JJ and Emily behind him as Derek keeps him moving, those traitors.
“C’mon 187, it’ll be fun!” Penelope chirps from where she hangs off Derek’s other arm, “You love Halloween!”
“This isn’t really my idea of a fun Halloween,” Spencer grumbles under his breath, resigned to his fate as he’s led to a slightly quieter area of the bar.
The team shuffles around as they each take their respective seats in the round red leather booth tucked into the corner, one of the only ones in the entire establishment big enough to fit all seven of them.
It’s a tight fit, and Spencer thinks as he somehow ends up squished in between JJ and Hotch that maybe the entire team is out to get him. It certainly feels that way when he’s pressed up against his superior from hip to shoulder. And Penelope isn’t even at the table yet, having taken it upon herself to get their first round of drinks.
That alone tells Spencer everything he needs to know about how the rest of the night is going to go; no one has ever said that Penelope Garcia knows how to pace herself.
The group descends into their own idle chatter as they await Penelope’s return, Hotch and Rossi trading banter too quiet for Spencer to hear and Derek and JJ weaseling Emily for details about the apparently horrendous date she’s been cryptically complaining about for the better part of the last week.
Spencer is content with his position floating on the outskirts of the conversations, at least for now. He needs time to adjust to the atmosphere and the mood change, having only trudged off the plane barely two hours beforehand. But this is a case that deserves celebrating- they’d even convinced Hotch to put off his paperwork for the night, which is a win they don’t often get to boast.
As tired as he is, Spencer thinks he can put it to the side for a few hours to celebrate with his family.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t expect it to be this crowded when I agreed to come along,” he’s pulled from his thoughts by a low timbre rumbling next to his ear, turning his attention to where Hotch is leaning closer to be heard over the thumping of the music without having to raise his voice too much.
Spencer clears his throat and hopes the flush flooding his cheeks at their proximity isn’t visible in the low vermillion lighting, focusing his gaze on the crowd in front of them because Hotch is so much closer than he’d thought.
“You and me both,” ever one for dramatics Spencer heaves a long suffering sigh, thumb nail picking at the beaten wood of the table as he turns to flash a smile that’s only a little sarcastic, “but we’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”
His theatrics are rewarded with an easy smile too warm for how close they are, and Spencer fiddles with his tie to give his hands something to do.
“I have a feeling that once Garcia comes back with the drinks, we won’t have much of a choice,” Hotch teases, and Spencer is much too tired to deconstruct the feeling that stirs in his stomach at the way Hotch’s dark eyes glint playfully.
He’ll never get used to seeing Hotch like this, on the rare occasions he’s afforded the chance. He’s known the man for a little over a decade at this point and it still feels like something sacred to see him after hours, not quite relaxed- he doesn’t know if that's something Hotch is entirely capable of anymore- but at ease, softened.
He looks younger like this, his smile rounding out his face to give him an almost boyish quality even with the crow’s feet and smile lines that now map his features. Spencer likes them though, the signs of age that are a blessing in their line of work, the ghosts of years of hard won smiles and the crease between his brows made permanent by his resting scowl. His eyelashes are long and dark and full, and the way they edge his bottom lash line gives even his most severe stares a sultry, smokey feel.
Spencer thinks that if they were any closer he could count each individual one.
It’s only when Hotch gives him a strange look that he realizes he hasn’t responded yet. He can’t help but to shrink slightly at the way Hotch’s eyes squint and his eyebrow raises so minimally that it would be almost imperceptible if they weren’t so close, if Spencer weren’t hanging on his every last microexpression and undertone.
He opens his mouth to say something- he’s not sure what exactly, but anything is probably better than staring while he zones out thinking about how terribly handsome Hotch is- but he’s saved by a burst of laughter from his other side.
“What about you boy genius?” Derek needles with a smile as wide as it is mischievous, “You got your eyes on anybody?”
Spencer scrunches his nose and ignores the way his heartbeat picks up at the question.
“Where would I find the time?” He answers flippantly and wonders distantly where Penelope is with those drinks. The girls snicker and Derek rolls his eyes, and Spencer is entirely too aware that Hotch is watching this interaction beside him.
“Oh come on Spence,” Emily scoffs from Derek’s other side, “you know that’s not an excuse if you really like her!”
Spencer flushes and decides he’s not going to look back at Hotch for the remainder of this conversation.
“You’re assuming that there’s already someone I like,” he argues for argument's sake, because if they’re going to bother him about this he’s not going to make it easy for them.
“Seriously Reid, you gotta have someone in mind,” Derek goads, and something about his teasing tone makes Spencer’s skin crawl, bristling at the paranoid part of his mind whispering he knows.
He can’t know, because no one does, and Spencer would like to keep it that way. His feelings for Hotch are unfortunate at best and the catalyst for a very uncomfortable department transfer at worst; he made his mind up a long time ago that he’ll keep it to himself until it either goes away or dies with him. So far, it's been stubbornly persistent.
But it’s fine, really, it is. It’s an ache he’s grown used to like a bruised rib, tender and sore but not fatal, maybe a little inconvenient but he’ll live. He much prefers the blunt pain of bearing it than the razor sharp stab of rejection.
Either way, he’s pretty sure the team doesn't even know that he’s attracted to men. It’s not that he’s purposely keeping it from them or he’s particularly worried about them knowing, it’s just never come up. They’ve only ever seen him openly pursue women, though he’s sure they don’t realize a large reason for that is that it’s easier to avoid comparing his date to Hotch when they’re separate sexes. If they suspect he’s got a crush on anyone on the team at all it’s probably JJ, which is fair enough; it was definitely true at the beginning.
There’s no way they know. He’s been too careful for them to know.
But Hotch is warm pressed against his side radiating nothing but heat and allure, and Spencer’s fairly certain that the older man is watching whether he’s being obvious about it or not. As much as Hotch plays the mature authority figure he loves to gossip just as much as any of them, in his own quiet, passive sort of way. He and Garcia practically bond over it whenever he sends her names to dig up dirt on.
It makes sense at least; they’ve made a career out of reading people and picking apart their lives and their secrets. It’s in their job description to be nosy.
Spencer just wishes that same nosiness wasn’t directed at him right now.
“Ooh he’s blushing,” JJ sings as she elbows Spencer in the ribs, delighted at his squirming, “you totally like someone!”
Reid glares daggers at her as he shifts away from her the only direction he can go, which is right against Hotch.
“I’m blushing because you’re embarrassing me,” Reid hisses and regrets it immediately, because that reaction only gives them more ammo.
“I knew it!” Emily shouts triumphantly, “Is she an agent? Do we know her?”
Spencer allows himself a short breath at the mention of a she.
“Oh my god, is it the girl in records you’re always talking to?” JJ gasps like she knows she’s right, and Spencer takes mild comfort in just how off base she is.
“The pretty little brunette? Oh I see it, she’s definitely your type,” Derek reaches past JJ to clap him on the shoulder proudly and the fire burning in Spencer’s cheeks roars, because at very least Derek’s got that part right.
Ally in records is intelligent and laughs at Spencer’s obscure philosophy jokes, she’s kind and beautiful and she definitely has a thing for him if the way she plays with her hair and leans towards him when he talks is anything to go by.
He wishes that he did like her, because it would be a hell of a lot simpler.
“Her name is Ally and we talk because she has an interest in Jung,” Spencer huffs petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back to give an air of indifference. He’s not as bothered by their jeering as he’s acting- he’d rather they think he has feelings for Ally than Hotch- but he’ll play the part if it keeps them from figuring him out.
“Oh she’s got an interest in somethin’,” Derek ribs and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, barking a laugh when JJ slaps him on the arm. Spencer just rolls his eyes and tries not to let them see the smile tugging at his lips.
He hears Rossi grumbling something about seeing about those drinks before the senior agent escapes the booth and the conversation, and Spencer desperately longs to follow him just to get away from the trio to his right.
“Sometimes I wonder how I managed to hire an entire team with the maturity of second graders,” Hotch sighs as he draws Spencer’s attention back, though his fond smile betrays his feigned exasperation.
“You only have yourself to blame Hotch, Spence was basically in second grade when you hired him,” JJ’s heckling is bolstered by Emily and Derek’s too-loud laughter beside her, but Spencer’s only paying attention to the huff of a laugh Hotch breathes, shaking his head at their antics.
Two can play at that game.
“JJ, by the time you graduated high school I already had my first doctorate,” Reid corrects with a sly smile, “you were closer to a second grader than I was.”
Spencer abhors bragging about his intellectual abilities in normal circumstances, especially because most of the time it comes up it tends to alienate him rather than elevate him in any meaningful sense. He tries to avoid bringing up the specifications of his abilities as often as he can- his IQ, his degrees, his perfect recall- it only serves to make people insecure, intimidated, to make him more of a social pariah than he already is while simultaneously painting him as some sort of egomaniac.
But here, with his friends who know his capabilities as well as they know him, the people that see it in practical use every day, he’s more than comfortable hamming it up. Riling up his friends is one of his favorite things to do.
It makes it more fun when he can feel the laughter Hotch is holding back, the way his shoulders shake and his chest spasms against where Spencer is nearly leaning back against him.
They haven't had a drop to drink yet and Spencer feels hazy already.
“At least I could drive,” JJ scoffs as she bumps their shoulders together.
“I could drive,” Spencer reminds them not for the first time, “the only thing stopping me was the State of Nevada Department of Motor Vehicles.”
That earns him a hearty laugh from Hotch behind him, a light sort of chime that bursts out of his chest like it surprised even him, makes Spencer feel dizzy and intoxicated before the drinks have even gotten to the table.
“You mean the law?” Emily laughs incredulously as the others join in, and Spencer waves her off dismissively as he grins with the satisfaction that he’s successfully distracted them from the initial conversation.
It’s then that Penelope and Rossi make their return, each carrying a tray in hand- Rossi’s filled with various shot glasses of different colors and opacities, and Penelope’s stacked with vibrant cocktails in all different glasses, some more threatening than others.
“Alright my babies” she sings as they set down the trays, “everybody gets a drink and a shot, pick one and stick with it!”
They all reach forward simultaneously, grabbing at whatever drink and shot pairing pulls their attention the fastest. Spencer grabs the shot that looks like it’ll be the sweetest- he’s never been able to take shots well, always shuddering uncontrollably when the burning liquor hits the back of his throat- and what looks to be a rum and coke in a tall glass with a little too much ice. Hotch grabs for the simplest shot, clear with little fanfare, and one of two glasses of whiskey that Rossi undoubtedly talked Penelope into ordering specifically for him and Hotch.
Penelope and Rossi squish their way back into the booth, and Spencer thinks if they crowd any closer that he’ll end up sitting in Hotch’s lap.
He puts a hard stop on that thought before it can go much further.
“To damn good case work and even better company,” Rossi toasts when they’re all settled, holding his shot up to guide the others to do the same.
“And to getting Spencer drunk enough to tell us about his lil’ girlfriend,” Derek beams as the girls whoop and holler excitedly at the idea.
“Challenge accepted,” Emily smirks as she tips her glass against Derek’s, and Spencer can’t believe he’s ever trusted her with his life.
“Less talking, more drinking!” Garcia demands, and the rest of them raise their glasses knowing better than to keep her waiting.
“Salute,” Rossi calls as they all clink their glasses together, parroting their own salutes before throwing the shots back at once.
Spencer realizes very quickly that he’s made a massive error in his choice of shot, expecting something sweet and citrusy and choking on what is instead bitter and acidic as it singes its way down his throat. He coughs and splutters as he reaches for his rum and coke to wash it down with something a little less abrasive, shaking his head against the warmth in his cheeks when he feels a large palm gently patting his upper back.
He takes a long gulp of what he soon discovers is decidedly not a rum and coke but rather a heavy handed long island iced tea. It goes down far easier than the shot had, but Spencer is highly aware that if this is his first drink of the night, he’s definitely going to wake up with a hangover.
He must make a face at the flood of liquor on his tongue because he can hear Hotch chuckling next to him, the hand on his back sliding up to squeeze at his shoulder.
“You alright?” Hotch’s voice is mirthful but the question is genuine, a check in of sorts. Spencer blames the heat behind his sternum on the alcohol and gives a weak smile.
“Lot stronger than I thought,” he motions to his shot glass or his drink, whichever. Both, realistically.
Hotch flashes a sympathetic smile as he leans closer like he’s making absolutely sure Spencer will hear him over the music.
“But you took it so well,” he praises, a sincere encouragement as his grip on Spencer’s shoulder twitches tighter, and Jesus Christ what a sentence that is.
Spencer takes a long sip of his drink, partly to hide his stammering and partly because he wants to live up to the expectation he’s set for taking it well. Only because of the peer pressure from everyone at the table, of course. It certainly has nothing to do with the way Hotch’s hand is still burning a hole through his shoulder.
Garcia in her ever scheming nature must have ordered a second round of shots to the table before she returned with the first, because it's only moments after their toast that a bartender appears with a tray full of similar shots; only this time they’re all doubles, because Penelope Garcia is evil at her core.
Spencer groans as everyone at the table goes through the gamut of emotions at Penelope’s evil plan. Emily JJ and Derek cheer and start passing out shots, and beside him Hotch tips his head back with an exasperated sigh.
“Aren’t we getting a little old for this?” Hotch mumbles to Rossi on his other side with an amused huff just loud enough for Spencer to hear.
“You’re too old for this, leave me out of it,” Rossi grins mischievously as he pokes a finger to the center of Hotch’s chest, “now pass me a shot, grandpa.”
Hotch gives only an exasperated chuckle and does as instructed.
“Another one,” Penelope claps giddily, “no buzzkills allowed tonight!”
Spencer sinks into his seat miserably.
“Do I have to?” He whines as Hotch’s hand finally slips from his shoulder when the older agent leans forward to grab a shot for the both of them, his hand brushing down Spencer’s arm for just long enough to shock through the doctor’s entire nervous system.
The first shot settles uncomfortably in his gut but he can’t deny the warmth already spreading through his solar plexus, bleeding into his fingertips and his cheeks. He doesn’t drink often- it's never been his vice of choice, but it’s still something he has to be careful of- but when he does it always starts like this.
The mild discomfort in his stomach melts into something heavier after the first drink or two, weighing down his limbs and settling over him like a security blanket. He just has to push past the initial malaise and he’ll be free to enjoy the night with his friends the way he knows they deserve.
Which means that he does have to take the shot, if only to expedite the release of the knot in his stomach. And because he thinks Penelope might pour it down his throat for him if he doesn't do it soon.
“Of course not,” Hotch answers lightly as he slides the glass over to Spencer with a smirk, “but you will.”
Spencer grimaces at the glass in front of him while Hotch’s teasing seeps into his veins right alongside the alcohol, shooting a tingling spark to his nerve endings that leaves him feeling wired; restless but not anxious, relaxed but itching for something else, something more, though he’s not entirely sure what.
He startles when that same solid palm from before settles on his thigh just above his knee, patting comfortingly where Spencer thinks is probably just a bit too far up to be considered strictly professional.
The liquor must be getting to his head already.
He looks over right as Hotch leans in to speak to him in a quiet, controlled tone, the kind he reserves for nervous informants or worried families of victims. Soothing, calm.
“If you can manage this one I think she’ll be satisfied,” he mutters conspiratorially as he pitches his gaze to Penelope, his lips pulling in a private little smile, “as long as you keep working on that drink, at least.”
Spencer casts a wary glance to the drink he’d forgotten about in his pouting, and Hotch chuckles at his deflation.
“One more,” Hotch promises as he nudges the shot glass. Spencer sighs as he reaches for it, knowing it will most certainly not be his last because it’s never that simple where his friends are involved, but unable to resist anything when Hotch says it like that.
“You too then,” Spencer gestures to the other shot Hotch had reached for, “no buzzkills allowed, Hotch.”
Hotch looks him in the eyes then, and Spencer summons every sober cell in his body to suppress the heady shiver that zips up his spine.
“When has anybody ever called me a buzzkill?” Hotch questions dryly, his smirk growing to a dimpled grin when Spencer snorts a laugh, “Cheers, Dr. Reid.”
Spencer returns the smile with a mischievous twist.
“Cheers, Agent Hotchner,” Spencer answers in kind as they tip their glasses together, thrilled at the hand still heavy on his thigh, the twinkle of Hotch’s dark eyes as they toss the shots back, the sweet fruity taste of the shot that goes down so much easier than it had the first time even double the size.
It simmers low in his belly when Hotch looks at him almost proudly when he doesn’t shiver the way he had last time. Emily and Derek give him a wicked look as the hand on his thigh slips away, and Spencer knows for many reasons that it’s going to be a long night.
One more quickly turns into two more when Morgan and Prentiss get involved, and then another after that, and soon enough time has slowed to a crawl, minutes indistinguishable from hours in the thick syrupy flow of the night.
Aaron tapped out of shots after the last one between him and Reid- he’s too old to handle drinking that fast anymore, and the acid reflux he’ll be struck with in the morning will certainly punish him for it- but he’s on his second glass of whiskey, generously overpoured by the saints working the bar.
He’s certainly not wasted but he’s definitely drunk, more so than he can recall being at any recent point. He loves a two finger glass to wind down just as much as anyone, but it’s not often he finds himself properly inebriated. Dave would say it's because of his incessant need for control, and Aaron would say that it’s not incessant, it’s his job.
Dave would say he’s full of shit and he’d be correct, but it’s a hypothetical argument formed from his drunken thoughts, so Aaron considers himself the winner of the internal back and forth anyways.
At some point he ends up sitting with his right arm stretched out over the top of the booth back, his left hand resting idly around his whiskey glass. Dave has taken on the valiant task of fetching waters for the table despite the never ending line at the bar, and Garcia and JJ are long gone by now, having disappeared into the crowd on the dance floor almost immediately after they’d downed their shots.
Reid is slouched next to him with his head resting back exposing the long line of his throat, and Aaron thinks that if he just reaches out that he could run his hand through the caramel brown hair that curls at the base of Reid’s neck, darker in the dim lighting. Aaron is angled toward him, sipping on his drink and watching with quiet amusement at the spectacle unfolding in front of him.
True to their word Morgan and Prentiss have spent a considerable amount of time goading Reid into more shots, which then quickly devolves into hounding him for answers on his little crush once he’s sufficiently incapacitated .
What they apparently hadn’t factored into their master plan is that Reid has two different modes he tends to fall into on the rare occasions that they’ve seen him truly drunk; there’s the lively, hyper, extroverted side that comes out on high energy nights, chattering freely about whatever comes to mind at the moment and beaming brighter than the sun when he’s allowed to do so uninterrupted. He gestures wildly with his hands as he talks, loosened by the liquor and the company, clumsier than normal- even for Reid- but endearing enough to excuse it when he inevitably knocks over a drink or bumps into a stranger on his way to the restroom.
But although the case they’re coming off was certainly a win, as much as any cases in their line of work can be considered a win, it had been draining on Reid in particular. The unsub had taunted the team with dozens of ciphered letters, cryptic clues leading them on wild goose chase to show off his intellect, something Reid always takes a little too personally.
He’d obsessed over the letters for two days before he’d finally cracked all of it, not just the ciphers but the linguistic tells, the unsubs kill list, dump sites, everything. He’d practically solved the entire case for them, but he’d pulled an all-nighter to do it and had barely slept more than three hours at a time in the two days since.
Which leads to the situation they’re in now, where Reid has fallen into the kind of drunk wholly counterintuitive to Morgan and Prentiss’ interrogating; the kind that leaves him boneless and quiet, present and trying his best to pay attention but looking like he could fall asleep any second. They ask him questions and he simply smiles lazily in return, giving short monosyllabic answers that gleen absolutely no information about his presumed love interest.
Aaron supposes Reid is rather content with that anyhow, given the impish glint in his eyes and satisfied grin when Morgan and Prentiss finally grow bored of him and leave to go find Garcia and JJ on the dance floor. It’s probably for the best; Aaron has a feeling that the duo were miles off track anyways, and it would have taken them ages to get anything meaningful out of Reid.
Their youngest member definitely has his eye on someone- his earlier protest and the nervous crack in his voice had given him away immediately- but in Aaron’s humble opinion Morgan and Prentiss are too tunnel visioned on the agent in records.
He knows exactly who they’re talking about. Agent Muler, a younger agent who’d gotten assigned to that post within the last year or so. He’d seen her and Reid interact, once. When he’d sent the doctor down to records to find an old case file and then grown impatient and gone after him twenty minutes later, only to find him elbow deep in a filing cabinet thoroughly debunking Freud as Muler leaned on the cabinet next to him.
She’s certainly attracted to the young doctor, with the way she’d looked up at him through her eyelashes and searched for eye contact when Reid was too focused on his search to look at her. He hadn’t seemed particularly interested though, distracted by his mission even as he spouted off sources and quotes.
Aaron can’t blame her for trying, the newbies almost always do. Reid is kind and knowledgeable, charming in his own way with the bone structure of a high fashion model. He’s also a well known name at the academy and the Bureau at large, the youngest person to ever join and a certified genius, a member of the most high profile team in the violent crimes division.
A lot of people try to catch Reid’s attention, agents and civilians alike. It’s just that most don’t get very far, and Agent Muler appears to be part of that majority.
So whoever it is that Spencer has apparently fallen for, Aaron guesses it’s probably not Ally in records.
Not that he’s all that invested in the answer, of course. He’s just curious the way the investigator in him will always be, because before tonight he’d never considered that Spencer might be interested in someone again. The loss of Maeve changed him- Aaron knows the feeling- and though he’s done his fair share of grieving, Spencer never mentioned moving on with anyone new.
Aaron almost feels- offended? Blindsided? Something along those lines, his mind can’t supply much in the sludge of alcohol handicapping him- that he hadn’t noticed Spencer taking a special interest in anyone in the office.
His body language hasn’t made any noticeable shifts, he doesn’t have the telltale pep in his step, there’s no one that he seems more nervous around than his regular base level anxiety; other than maybe Aaron himself, but that's nothing new. Spencer’s always been a little jumpy around him.
They’re comfortable with each other, they work well together in the field and they always have. They understand each other on a level Aaron values greatly, able to effectively communicate with each other even when they can’t use their words.
They make a good team.
But Spencer’s always been a little tense around him outside of high adrenaline moments in the field, on edge in a way he isn’t around JJ or Morgan or Prentiss. Aaron’s always chalked it up to the fact that he’s Spencer’s boss, there’s a different dynamic between them than with the others.
He has no reason to believe it to be anything else, really. At the moment he can’t even think of what else it could be, the thoughts trudging through his mind only growing murkier the longer he sips on the last dredges of his whiskey.
Spencer doesn’t seem tense around him right now, though. He sips on what’s left of his drink as he watches their friends on the dance floor, his lips turned up in a resting smile that softens the sharp angles and hard lines of his profile. The red ambient lighting in the bar suits him, casting highlights on the stark bridge of his nose, the pillowy shape of his lips wrapped around his straw, his curls wild and untamed atop his head.
He looks good like this, really good. Relaxed, satiated. Pretty.
Aaron always loves to see his team members happy and having fun; God knows they need it. Spencer seems lost in thought but for once he doesn’t look troubled at all, and something about it is incredibly enticing.
Aaron can’t resist the urge to pick his brain, finishing off the last of his whiskey and leaning closer to the genius.
“What are you thinking about?” He mutters when he’s close, simpering apologetically when Spencer startles. His head whips toward Aaron as he looks up from where he’s slouched with wide doe eyes, visibly softening when he sees Aaron beside him and oh, that’s new. New but welcome, of course, the gesture settling warmly in Aaron’s chest right behind his ribcage. Huh.
It takes Spencer a few seconds to regain his composure and sort his thoughts, staring back at Aaron with hazel eyes glowing under scarlet light.
“Mm, nothing in particular,” he hums when he processes the moment, turning back to the crowd he’d been staring at before and gesturing with his chin, “people watching.”
He follows the path of Spencer’s gaze to the crowd of undulating bodies packed on the makeshift dance floor like sardines, their team members dancing in a small group together around the edge.
“And what do you see?”
Spencer scans the crowd for a long minute, his eyes dragging from one social group to another looking for anything- or any one- that sticks out.
And then he straightens where he’s sitting, his eyes lighting up like something’s caught his attention. Aaron watches as Spencer cranes his neck to get a better view of whatever he’s looking at, leaning over on the bench until he’s practically tucked up into Aaron’s side. He finds he doesn’t mind the position; Spencer is warm and solid and grounding in the noise and bustle of the bar, like one of the weighted stuffed animals Jessica bought Jack to help him sleep at night.
Heavy, reliable. Comforting.
Spencer doesn’t seem bothered by it either, shifting until he’s comfortably resting with his back to the side of Aaron’s torso and one leg propped up on the bench, the back of his head pillowed against Aaron’s shoulder where his right arm is still stretched along the top of the booth. The knots of his spine fill in the gaps between Aaron’s ribs so beautifully he thinks it must be by design.
It’s strange, seeing Spencer this tactile. He’s not necessarily adverse to physical affection with his close friends but it’s not something he seeks out often, and certainly not with Aaron. If he were Garcia or JJ he thinks that this might make more sense, but as it stands he can’t find it in him to question it for fear that Spencer might move away.
Aaron doesn’t want that either, doesn’t want the feeling blooming in his chest to disappear quite yet.
That thought is coupled with a strange sort of pain nestled right at the base of his throat, squeezing the air from his wind pipes. A heated shame that burns deep in his chest and fights to overtake the lightness before it like holy flames depleting oxygen, the kind of guilt that used to have him down on his knees begging for forgiveness in confessional.
He breathes in slowly, unsteadily and shuts his eyes against the dizziness that passes through him, trying to focus on the feeling of Spencer innocently nestled in his side.
He breathes out.
He decides that this will be a problem for later, when he’s less intoxicated and more capable of unpacking it.
It’s probably just the liquor, anyhow. Maybe he should slow down. Maybe he needs another to balance himself out.
“Those two over there,” Spencer nods to two girls who look to be on the younger end of their twenties standing close to the bar, talking to a man around the same age who leans toward them with a drink unsteady in his hand, “I think they’re sisters. And they definitely know the guy they’re talking to, but the blonde one- I think she’s the older sister- she hates him.”
Aaron can see exactly what he means rather quickly. The brunette- presumably the younger sister- stands closer to the man, leaning towards him against the bar in a way that juts her hip out and pitches her chest forward. The older sister stands tall beside her with her arms crossed over her chest, carefully watching over the interaction as if she’s just waiting for a sign to step in.
The sense of familiarity Spencer’s picking up on is almost certainly due to the relaxed nature of the interaction between the younger sister and the man; she doesn’t seem nervous like she’s talking to a strange man hitting on her in a dark bar, and she’s actively engaged in their conversation as she waves her hands around excitedly. To the young man’s credit he’s an attentive audience, giving his input whenever she pauses her storytelling and watching her with a wide, if not gratuitously flirtatious, smile.
Hotch hums in acknowledgement of Spencer’s findings, nodding his agreement to the assessment.
“Younger sister seems excited though,” he adds. Spencer tilts his head in thought, and the movement causes those sandy curls to brush against Aaron’s cheek as softly as a kiss.
He vaguely registers JJ sidling back from the dance floor with Dave in tow carrying a tray of waters. She’s breathing heavily from the exertion and her face gleams with sweat even as her smile stretches her cheeks, and she clears a path in the crowd as she and Dave navigate their way back to the table.
Aaron only catches the strange look in her eyes at the sight of he and Spencer for a moment before it’s gone again, and the squeezing sensation in his throat is back with a vengeance. She collapses in the booth with an exhausted huff as Dave sets the tray down and shuffles in next to her, making some snarky comment Aaron can’t hear from here.
Dave slides a glass of water toward her and she takes it thankfully, gulping down half the glass before slumping in her seat with a sigh. The senior agent laughs and launches into a story about drinking with his marine buddies, and JJ pretends to listen.
Aaron almost wants to move back a little, just enough to rid of the burning sensation that flares through him every time Reid shifts against his shoulder. But Spencer looks too content, too serene in his position. Aaron doesn't want to ruin that.
He chokes around the lump in his throat and looks back to Spencer just as he speaks again.
“You think the older sister is jealous?”
Aaron shakes his head and hopes that Spencer can feel the motion.
“More like disapproving,” he corrects, leaning closer until his cheek brushes against the side of Spencer’s head and using his free hand from the arm resting along the bench behind Spencer’s shoulders to point out what he’s seeing, trying not to focus on the way the motion hooks his arm around the young genius’ neck, “look at the way she’s trying to get in between them, like she’s trying to physically separate them. She’s being protective.”
Spencer nods slowly at the enlightenment.
“I must admit, I’m not necessarily an expert on sibling dynamics,” he confesses, and Aaron stifles a laugh that feels far too affectionate for the setting.
“But I thought you were an expert on everything?” He challenges sarcastically, grinning dimples and all when Spencer tips his head back with a rueful smile just to make sure Aaron can see him roll his eyes.
It works, sort of. Aaron’s a little bit distracted by how close their faces are like this, only inches separating them with the way they’re leaning into each other. If he focuses enough he can almost feel the soft puffs of Spencer’s breath fanning across his face, his lips. With the way he’s got his arm dangling off Spencer’s shoulders and the darkness of the atmosphere blurring their forms, he’s almost sure that someone could possibly mistake them for a couple.
It stirs that same penitent shame tight in his belly, and he finally pulls away just slightly to lessen the sickly ache bubbling in his gut, the dryness of his throat.
Maybe he should drink one of those waters Dave brought.
“I was like that with Sean, when we were younger,” he adds, clearing his throat and turning back to the crowd to give himself some space, some room to breathe, “we weren’t nearly as close as those two seem, but it’s instinctual. He’s my little brother, I’ll always feel that way.”
Spencer presses further back into his side like he’s chasing the warmth, and Aaron doesn’t have the mental capacity right now to dissect the part of him that wants to pull him closer just as much as he wants to get up and run away.
“I understand, I think,” Spencer mumbles, rhythmically tapping his fingernails against the glass he still cradles in his hands, “I feel similarly about my Mom. But I guess it makes sense, I’ve been a caretaker to her almost twice as long as she ever was to me,” he pauses, and Aaron doesn't have to see his face to know he’s frowning thoughtfully, “in a practical sense, at least.”
Aaron hums thoughtfully, struggling to find a response when he’s still feeling a little winded.
“You were parentified from a young age,” he says, and it’s not really what he wanted to say but it's what comes out. Not really the kind of conversation he wants to have tonight, a little too blunt and analytical for the relaxed environment, a little too armchair psychiatrist for his taste.
Spencer doesn’t need to have the mistakes of his upbringing pointed out to him, he already knows, but Aaron sort of feels like the room is spinning and it's all he can do to keep the conversation going.
He feels the way Spencer tenses against his side, his shoulders raising defensively as he looks back and fixes Aaron with a hard stare.
“I love my Mom,” he says, leaving no room for doubt.
“I know,” Aaron placates, feeling like he’s quickly losing whatever handle he may have had on the conversation, maybe never had at all, “she loves you too.”
Spencer stares at him for what is probably seconds but feels like hours, his eyes cold and steely in a way that doesn’t suit him. Like he’s searching for a challenge in Aaron’s eyes, daring him to ruin the moment more than he already has.
He feels vulnerable in a way he can’t explain, feels the weight of Spencer's eyes digging into him, feels Dave and JJ’s conspicuous glances creeping up his spine and scorching the hairs at the nape of his neck. Feels like he’s doing something that he shouldn’t, tempting some unspoken sin, playing with fire even when he’s been burned before.
He feels like everyone in the bar is watching him with bated breath, on the edge of their seats waiting for him to break, to glance at Spencer’s lips for too long, to say the wrong thing.
He feels a little breathless, a little desperate for the serene, carefree Spencer he’s been fixated on the entire night. Like a gravitational pull tugging at the center of his chest, beckoning him closer even as the lump in his throat grows bigger.
And then Spencer relents, breaks the eye contact and turns away, setting his now empty glass on the table and crossing his arms over his chest as he melts back into Aaron’s side.
“I know,” he says. He pauses, then, “And if nobody’s ever told you, you have very pretty eyes.”
Aaron doesn’t know how to respond to that. They go back to watching the crowd in silence.
The rest of the night is a blur. At some point Penelope circles back to drag Spencer onto the dance floor and he doesn’t fight it, mostly because his bones feel like jelly and he’d be powerless to stop her if he tried. She tries her best to convince Hotch to join them, but he rebuffs with some excuse about getting another drink and keeping an eye on Dave and somehow, it works.
Luckily he’s not forced into dancing for too long before JJ taps out for the night, pleading that she doesn’t want to be too hungover to make breakfast for Henry in the morning. Once the first domino falls the rest of them crumble quickly, and before Spencer can blink he’s being steered out of the bar the same way he was led in earlier in the night.
They spill onto the streets in a pile of laughter and limbs, Emily squealing happily when she realizes that it’s raining. Penelope is leaning heavily on Emily and JJ as she stumbles on her clunky heels, pouting about how she knew her feet would hurt by the end of the night but they’re the only ones that go with this dress! Derek’s got his arm around Spencer’s shoulders, holding him still as he attempts to ruffle his already untamable hair while Spencer yelps and squirms and fruitlessly calls for help.
Hotch and Rossi flank the group protectively, and even from his place trapped underneath Derek’s arm Spencer can hear Rossi teasing their unit chief for drinking more than he normally would.
“Penelope can be very convincing,” Hotch reasons, and his walk is remarkably composed for the way his words lisp and blend together messily, the faintest hint of the Virginia accent he tries so hard to contain slipping through. Spencer thinks distantly that he’s never heard it this strongly before.
“Can’t blame it all on her, that last drink was all you,” Rossi drawls, and Spencer tunes the rest of the conversation out as he focuses on his battle with Derek.
Eventually they’re hailing cabs and saying their goodnights, exchanging hugs and well wishes before they split into taxis. Derek of course makes it his personal mission to get Penelope home in one piece, and Rossi, Emily, and JJ manage to cram into one car because they live in the same general direction. Spencer sees them off from his place on the curb, leaning to look up and down the street for another cab to flag.
It’s because of this that he doesn’t hear Hotch walking up behind him.
“Would you mind sharing a cab? We’re headed in the same direction.”
Spencer jumps and whips around, stumbling a little and nearly falling off the curb when he realizes how close Hotch is. He starts to tip backwards before Hotch jets out and grabs him by the biceps, steadying him and pulling him close before he can trip into the street. He gasps to regain his breath, panting as Hotch smiles sheepishly.
“You know,” Spencer starts when he finally gets control of his racing heart, “considering how many times you’ve snuck up on me tonight, it’s probably a good thing I don’t have my gun.”
Hotch, still holding him tightly by his arms, raises an eyebrow.
“Why, do you have problems with shooting prematurely?”
Spencer narrows his eyes in an attempt to fight back the smile insistently tugging at the corners of his lips. His heart can’t seem to catch a break, stuttering and quickening at the almost devilish humor sparkling in Hotch’s inky black irises.
He’s reminded of their shooting sessions together whenever Spencer is due for recertification, how Hotch always goes out of his way to offer tutelage even when Spencer’s passed every qualification easily for the past several years in a row. Pressed in close behind him as he directs Spencer’s shots, voice muffled through the protective headphones but still strong enough to send shivers down his spine.
“If anyone would know, I’d think it would be you,” he breathes, acutely aware of Hotch still holding him close, the tips of their shoes bumping together at their proximity, the sounds of cars splashing through puddles behind him.
“Mm, your problem’s always been your aim, not your timing,” Hotch murmurs in that same low tone, his eyes running over Spencer’s features so close he can almost feel it, a gentle caress against his cheek, his throat, “gettin’ better though.”
And there’s that accent again, softening his Ts and condensing his Rs to non-rhotics, a slow viscous drawl that tastes like honey and sounds even sweeter.
Spencer swallows, and Hotch’s eyes track the motion of his Adam's apple.
“I have a good teacher,” Spencer says quietly in the space between them, feeling the drizzle of raindrops sliding over the bridge of his nose, his temple, his lips, sizzling against the alcoholic flush of his skin. Hotch seems to notice it, too.
“Yeah?” Hotch asks with an affectionate smile, his cheeks full and round as Spencer nods in response, “Well, he oughta teach you to check your six more often. Someone could sneak up on you, y’know.”
Spencer rolls his eyes and pushes Hotch away with his hands firm on his chest, freeing himself from those big hands melting through his sleeves and turning away to hide his amused smile.
As much as he loves having Hotch like this, playful and happy, he’s also freezing his tail off and his earlier fatigue is catching up to him again; the safehaven of his bed calls to him like a siren song.
He spots a cab approaching them towards the end of the block, waving his arm until the driver pulls to a stop in front of them. Hotch opens the door for him, always a gentleman, and Spencer slips into the cab as he gives the directions to the driver.
It's only after he’s finished giving his address that he realizes Hotch is still hovering by the open door, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.
“Are you coming?” Spencer asks with a furrowed brow. Hotch scratches at the back of his neck, lingering.
“I could always catch another one…” he trails off uncertainly, and it clicks for Spencer right then that he never answered Hotch’s earlier question.
He’s still waiting for permission.
“Hotch, it's cold and it’s raining and I can hear my duvet crying for me. Get in the cab.”
Hotch doesn’t try to argue with the finality in Spencer’s demand, climbing in next to him and closing the door with a heavy thunk.
The ride is quiet at first. Spencer leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of the raindrops hitting the roof, the wheels hissing as they pass through water pooled on the street below, the wind whipping around the car. It’s peaceful, just enough noise to not be overwhelming but to fill the silence as Spencer adjusts to being away from the overly loud music in the bar.
His limbs feel heavy, his bone marrow interlaced with lead and steel and his legs anchored to the floor like he couldn’t move them if he tried. He can feel the exhaustion of the last case creeping up on him, slowly enveloping him and draining him of his last vestiges of energy.
To avoid falling asleep in the car he opens his eyes and rolls his head to the side, taking in Hotch’s stiff form.
He’s been a little strange all night, rapidly oscillating between relaxed and anxious. He goes from cracking jokes in that dry humor of his- almost flirtatious at times, but Spencer doesn’t allow himself to entertain the thought- to sitting pin straight like he’s got a titanium rod in his spine for seemingly no reason at all.
Spencer thinks that maybe this is just what alcohol does to him; he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Hotch drink quite as much as he had tonight, at least not since he and Haley were together and she’d come along with them on their nights out.
And it’s not like he’s belligerent by any stretch of imagination- he handles his liquor leagues better than Spencer himself- but Spencer’s rarely even seen him tipsy, let alone genuinely drunk. Then again, it’s nigh impossible to resist the all powerful Penelope Garcia when she really sets her mind to something.
Maybe it throws him off kilter, makes him nervous to have less command over his words and his movements. It would certainly make sense. Hotch’s entire life requires him to be alert at all times, always one step ahead, always the leader, always in control. It follows that having that stripped from him, even of his own will, would make him a little jittery.
Spencer can relate, in a way. But he’s always found a little more peace in letting go, smothering his ever racing thoughts til they disappear completely, allowing his overstuffed skull to empty for once.
That yearning for tranquility is why he has to be so careful with his intake, why it's so rare that he affords himself the refuge. That sort of numbing could lead down a dark, winding path faster than he could even realize he’s lost.
It’s happened before.
A part of him that he doesn't want to acknowledge wonders if Hotch feels that same solicitous temptation, if that’s what’s fueling his unease.
Whatever it is, Spencer doesn’t like seeing him like this. The tension lining his shoulders, the way he’s clenching his jaw as he looks straight forward at the partition, his hands tightly folded in his lap and his brow low, severe. Like a cadet standing at attention.
The passing streetlamps cast animated highlights across his face like a movie projector, the yellow lamplight that kisses his profile cutting the cool blue dark of the cab. Soft against the harsh angles of his features, his furrowed brow, his pursed lips. Illuminating his eyes for just a second, just long enough to catch the worried glint hidden by those thick eyelashes. A portrait of deeply held anxiety against the serenity of raindrops hitting the window beside him.
In a spur of confidence more fueled by liquor than logic Spencer reaches out to the other side of the backseat, his movements slow and intentional like he’s walking up on an injured stray. He lays his hand gently over Hotch’s, holding steady when he flinches under the touch.
Spencer can feel Hotch’s eyes on him now but he doesn’t look up from his task, slowly wiggling his fingers between Hotch’s joined hands until the older man catches on and reluctantly releases his hold.
Spencer takes Hotch’s hand in his own and brings it across the space between them to rest over his knees, cradled in both of his hands like something precious. Because the touch, the silent buzz in the air between them, the manufactured intimacy of their own little world behind the partition is precious to Spencer, and right now he wants Hotch to feel that, even if he knows it’s probably a bad idea.
Hotch doesn’t object, silently watching Spencer’s movements with a wary tilt of his head.
“You have an accent,” Spencer murmurs as he stretches Hotch’s fingers out one by one, rubbing his thumbs up each digit methodically with a consistent pressure.
Hotch’s hands are big and wide, long thick fingers and hair tracing down the backs of them. His fingers aren’t much longer than Spencer’s but they make his hands look petite in comparison, his cold, thin and boney where Hotch’s are warm and strong and sturdy.
The gun calluses on his fingertips and palm are rough, formed by years of training and necessity, no matter how much Hotch used to insist that profilers aren’t technically required to carry; Spencer knows he’d only reminded him of that so often to make him feel better about his less than spectacular shooting skills when he first joined the team.
“So do you,” Hotch’s voice comes out so soft it’s almost inaudible over the mechanics of the car.
Spencer smiles softly at the deflection, Hotch’s natural instinct to turn the attention away from himself at all times, uncomfortable with the scrutiny, the idea of being known.
“You have a southern accent,” Spencer specifies, because for once he wants to dig deeper, to push Hotch out of his comfort zone, his safety bubble of isolation.
He massages Hotch’s hand now, firmly pressing his thumbs deep into the meat of his palm. Hotch twitches and his hand tenses for just a moment, and Spencer tenderly brushes his thumb across the expanse of Hotch’s palm as an apology before he continues working at the knots under the surface.
“Virginia born and raised,” Hotch offers an attempt at lighthearted banter but it falls flat, his low baritone laced with apprehension, strained.
“Grow out of it?” Spencer prods, turning Hotch’s hand in his lap to trace over his knuckles, the outline of intricate veins beneath thin skin, the bones below them.
He can see Hotch shake his head out of the corner of his eye, can hear the fabric of his shirt and jacket rustling at the movement, but he doesn’t respond right away.
“No, I uhm…” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat uncomfortably, “I had it trained out of me, in law school. Learned pretty quickly that no one takes a prosecutor with a southern twang seriously,” he emphasizes the words with a thick accent that sounds perfectly natural to him, and Spencer wonders just how much training it took to tamp it down.
Spencer nods as he explores the planes of Hotch’s hand, thinking about a twenty something Hotch doing his best to fit in, to prove himself. Thinking about Hotch now, almost thirty years later, carrying those lessons with him.
“Do you always change parts of yourself to manage other’s perceptions?” The question trips past his lips before he can think better of it.
Hotch tenses, his hand clenching and unclenching in Spencer’s hold like he wants to pull away from the conversation, from Spencer.
His hand stays in place.
“Doesn’t everyone?” He asks quietly, and something about his tone makes Spencer look up for the first time since he started this bizarre interrogation.
Hotch is looking at him like he truly wants an answer, like he wants reassurance that he’s not the only one with something to hide, an audience to perform for. Like he’s pleading to know if he’s the only one putting on a show.
Spencer almost doesn’t want to break it to him.
“No,” he says, looking back to the hand in his lap and lacing their fingers together for a selfish moment, a breath, “not everyone.”
A rigid silence follows, charged with something combative, a bristling sort of energy that Spencer can feel jolting between their joined hands, static shocks biting his fingertips like little strikes of lightning. Hotch stiffens like he wants to argue, and Spencer waits patiently for the debate.
It never comes.
Spencer looks to his side only to see that odd look in Hotch’s eyes again, like he’s searching Spencer for something he’s not even sure of himself.
And then he nods, subtly at first and then firmer, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Spencer. He turns away to look out the window, raindrops casting long shadows down his cheeks and below his eyes as they race to the bottom of the glass, and Spencer feels it in his chest when the moment breaks.
Hotch never pulls his hand away. Spencer draws shapes across his knuckles.
It takes a while, spurred on by oppressive quiet and both men’s reluctance- inability, maybe- to dispel the lingering electricity in the air, but eventually they settle into a silence more relaxed than where they started.
Spencer considers that a victory.
It’s not much longer before the taxi is pulling to a stop in front of Spencer’s apartment complex. It feels like an abrupt end to a strange but enjoyable night, like there should be something more beyond the ghost of conversion echoing in the backseat, the whispers of touches too familiar to be abandoned in the shelter of the cab.
Spencer pauses just before he moves to open the door, looking to his side at Hotch tucked into the opposite corner. He clutches tightly at the hand still resting in his own, bringing it up to hold it closely to his chest just over his beating heart.
“Would you want- I mean, ehm,” he clears his throat, hyper aware of the cabbie impatiently waiting for him to pay his fare and get out, “would you wanna come up for a- a nightcap? I think I have a bottle of wine somewhere. Or coffee, if you’re done drinking for the night. Tea. Drinks.”
He’s rambling and he knows it but he doesn’t really know how to do this. Or what he's even trying to do, why he’s doing it at all.
It feels a little too far, a little dangerous to have Hotch in his apartment surrounded by all the things Spencer holds closest. His books, his letters to and from his mom, his secrets, his life. But he can’t get over how much he wants it, wants Hotch to see it, see him. Wants Hotch to analyze and profile his home the way he knows he’s opening himself up to, wants Hotch in his space slowly picking him apart at the seams.
He wants Hotch to know him, just as much as he wants to know Hotch in return.
Hotch just looks at him for a moment like he can’t quite compute the question, like it’s so unexpected that it knocks him off balance. Spencer supposes that’s fair; Hotch has never been in his house, has never really needed to be. Spencer doesn’t invite people over often, preferring to keep his private space to himself.
The question is certainly out of character, to say the very least.
But Hotch surprises him, graces him with a smile almost too small to see in the dark. He squeezes Spencer’s hand where they’re still interlocked.
“I’d like that,” he says.
“Great,” Spencer breathes, and it is.
The walk up to his apartment feels a little like a death march with Hotch looming behind him, and it occurs to Spencer again just how much he’s really revealing about himself by letting Hotch into his apartment like this.
This is probably a really bad idea, but they’re too far to go back now. And besides, the buried center of his heart that purrs at Hotch’s attention, the part he tries his hardest to suppress in his regular day to day, is curious to see how this plays out.
He knows his apartment is clean, for once- save for his desk in the corner of the living room, piled with stationary for the letters to his mom, cold case files he wanted to take a closer look at, books for a research paper he’s been working on. But that kind of clutter feels acceptable at least, unlike the disaster of unshelved books and half finished projects his apartment had been just the week before, the scarves and jackets and shoes strewn about the living room that he justifies to himself because it’s not like anyone comes around anyways.
He silently thanks himself for cleaning up before they left for their last case.
They come to a stop outside his door as Spencer fumbles for his keys, sorting through an overfull keyring because he has a habit of hoarding them; copies of keys to every house and apartment he’s ever lived in, every car he’s ever owned, every lock box he’s collected over the years. Most of them he’ll never use again and has no intention to do so, but the idea of throwing them out makes his stomach curl up something awful, so he puts it to the back of his mind and carries on with the task.
He doesn't need to see him to know that Hotch is doing that nervous tick of his, tapping his fingers against his palm by his side in a gesture that Spencer’s not sure Hotch himself is conscious of. He can almost feel the movement with how close Hotch is pressed in behind him, not quite touching him but emulating heat that trips up Spencer’s spine, sending a paradoxical shiver wracking his frame.
He finally gets the door unlocked and pushes it open, stepping to the side and gesturing to Hotch with a nervous attempt at a smile. He hesitates for a split second, rubbing his thumb and pointer together in circles, before he nods at Spencer thankfully and steps inside.
Hotch lingers in the entryway as Spencer closes the front door behind them, keeping his hands pressed to the wood just to stop their shaking. He takes a deep breath and shrugs his coat off, pivoting to hang it on the rack behind the door.
He listens to the steady rhythm Hotch is tapping out on his palm, feels it behind his ribs where his heart beats the same tempo.
He’s about to turn to take Hotch’s coat when-
“Spencer-”
Before he can even react to the use of his first name there's a hand catching his, and then another pushing at his shoulder and suddenly his back is to the wall and Hotch is in his space and oh-
Kissing Hotch is nothing like what he’d thought it would be but it’s good, frantic hands cradling his jaw and sliding into the long auburn locks of his hair even as they tremble with the movement, their chests pressed together as Spencer claws at Hotch’s jacket and pulls him impossibly closer. It’s more teeth than lips at first, consuming one another as their incisors click together before they settle into a mutual flow, a give and take that makes Spencer’s head spin a little.
Hotch bites down on Spencer’s bottom lip at the same time he tugs on his hair to angle his head and Spencer whines, can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed by the high pitched noise when Hotch is eating him alive like this and God it’s so good.
Hotch breaks the kiss but he doesn’t go far, lips trailing down Spencer’s jaw and throat until he’s latched onto his beating pulse, pointed teeth piercing into the sensitive skin covering Spencer’s carotid until he swears his legs will give out and he wants it. Doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more in his life, actually.
He whimpers against canines on his throat and he can feel the muscles of Hotch’s shoulders tightening, can feel the way the other man’s entire torso clenches up but he can’t form a thought long enough to figure out why, almost doesn’t care as long as Hotch keeps licking and biting at his skin like this.
“Hotch,” he moans it like a plea when the hands in his hair fall to his waist, pushing his hips back into the drywall and as soon as the name leaves his lips he can hear Hotch suck in a sharp gasp against his throat, his hands tightening their grip on Spencer’s hip bones and his lips stilling and-
And then Hotch rears back, brown eyes wide and wild as he backs up until he stumbles into the end table against the other wall and he looks- he looks terrified.
“Reid I- I’m so sorry,” he whispers slowly, shakily, his left hand covering his mouth like he’s muzzling himself, like he’s horrified at the things his lips have done, and Spencer has never seen him this petrified, “I didn’t mean- I-I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-“
“Aaron?” Spencer tries tentatively because his mind is still reeling trying to process just the kiss, let alone this.
He has no idea what this is but it’s like Aaron doesn’t even hear him in his panic, one hand over his mouth and the other digging his nails into his own palm as he talks over Spencer, half hysteric.
“I’ll leave, I-I’ll go, I just- I’m so sorry,” and then Aaron is turning on his heel and rushing out of Spencer’s house like he’s being chased out before Spencer can even get a word in, muttering one last I’m so sorry before he closes the door behind him a little too hard, a loud thwack that echoes a little too long.
The whole thing is over in a flash, the kiss and the aftermath and then Aaron is gone and Spencer is left alone, dizzy with the whiplash. He can still taste the whiskey on Aaron’s tongue, burning the back of his throat like he’d drunk it himself.
He presses his fingertips to his lips as they tingle with the memory of greedy teeth devouring him whole.
They never even made it past the entryway.
Spencer just stares after him, leaning against the wall with his heart hammering in his chest and shivering from the loss of heat, breathless and speechless and more confused than he’s ever been.
What the hell was that?