Chapter Text
Two FBI agents walk into a gay bar… Hotch’s mind provides the opening line to the joke the moment he and Reid walk into the club. He blinks his eyes to adjust from the blinding glare outside and shrugs off the brain hiccup as he realizes that they stick out like the outsiders they are. He suddenly wishes that he were following this lead down with Morgan; he’s much more the physical type to blend in with the crowd that’s heaving and gyrating and generally getting primitive in this dark hole in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. But then he catches a few envious stares, a few double takes and once overs, and looks to Reid beside him. Yeah, this could work too, but only if Reid’s faith in him is as strong as he thinks it is.
“This is a sex club,” Reid mumbles redundantly, eyes wide at the scene unfolding before him.
“Yes, I spotted that too,” Hotch deadpans. There’s no time for either of them to get weird about this. There’s a good chance that their suspect is here, possibly trawling for his next victim… People are starting to stare at them, like they don’t belong.
Hotch grabs Reid and pushes him until his back meets the bar rail. It’s dark there, away from the swirling lights of the dance floor beyond and there are already several couples taking advantage of the obscurity. Reid objects, his muscles going tense under Hotch’s grip as he huffs out a breath of surprise. Hotch grabs Reid’s jaw and pulls him in close, praying that Reid can hear him over the pounding bass that’s making everything vibrate in unison.
“Follow me,” he whispers a moment before his lips steals Reid’s automatic protest. And to his unending relief, Reid does.
There’s a moment of continued tension in Reid where he does his best impersonation of hardwood, and then he miraculously slides into what they’re doing. He grips Hotch back, one hand roughly pulling Hotch’s jaw closer as his other slips under Hotch’s jacket and yanks their hips together. It mimics the feral desperation of those surrounding them and Hotch finds himself amazed. His mouth opens - it could be shock or it could be something else - and then Reid slips in, rough and urgent, fingers digging into Hotch’s cheek. And then what started out as a tactic and then morphed into shock turns into something warm and immediate. Hotch’s body responds on its own, his arm moves around Reid’s waist, his head tilts into Reid’s hand because there’s something elemental about being wanted this way - it just activates you. Everyone wants to be touched, to be kissed, to feel the jolt of connection that shocks you and leaves you breathless for a second. He tells himself it doesn’t have a lot to do with who you’re with at the time…
He breaks away from Reid’s lips and trails his along the jawline until he reaches Reid’s ear.
“Do you see Hough anywhere?”
Reid is breathing heavily against him but when he whispers back, his voice is controlled. “No, but I can’t see the whole dance floor. Turn me to your left.”
Hotch shifts him roughly against the bar rail and then feels bad about it. He’s getting a little carried away with this role playing. Reid just matches his intensity wrenching Hotch hard against him until they’re practically glued to each other from hips to shoulders. Hotch buries his face into Reid’s neck, giving him a good view over his shoulder, and grazes Reid’s skin with his teeth.
“Anything?”
Reid’s hands tighten on Hotch and he shakes for a second before answering. “Yeah. Blonde male, eleven o’clock. He’s the right height and body type - too dark to be sure though. He’s all over some red-haired guy.”
Reid pushes hard against Hotch’s hip and pivots with a grunt, turning them so that Hotch is now pressed into the bar and has a view of the dance floor. He starts sucking at Hotch’s neck and Hotch puts a lot of thought into not reacting to a trigger Reid has accidentally stumbled upon.
“What do you think?” Reid breathes against his throat.
“Yes.” The affirmation comes out strangled as Hotch tries to get his head 100% back in the game.
“What do you want to do?”
The club’s music is pounding through him and it feels like it has control of his pulse as it throbs in time with it. He’s trying to think, to strategize, but he’s got someone pressed up against him breathing his air and holding him like a steel trap, and all he wants is to let the music guide his hips, his hands, his mouth…
But the suspect starts to move towards the fire exit, dragging his partner with a look that promises what everyone in this club comes here for. And suddenly Hotch’s brain jumpstarts with a roar.
“He’s leaving. Out the back.”
Hotch’s frame tenses and Reid drops the ruse like it’s nothing.
“I’ll go out front,” he says. “Circle around to cut off his exit.”
They push away from each other at the same time, Reid heading for the door and Hotch trailing the suspect through the club’s crowd. A thrill shivers his stomach muscles at how perfect it feels. He’s predatory and controlled again, but there’s also this assurance that Reid is exactly in step with him, like they’re sharing the same will, the same impulse without explanation. He’s never felt that sense of confidence in Reid before. He shakes his head and picks up the pace as he follows Hough through the exit door and out into the blinding sunshine of the alley way.
The suspect is fifty paces ahead of him trying to pull the redhead to a van parked at the mouth of the alley. But the redhead has other plans and pushes Hough against the club’s brickwork as if they’re gonna get down to business next to the dumpsters. Hotch hopes that the redhead is as distracting as Reid was; he trains his weapon on Hough and identifies himself. Hough doesn’t miss a beat, twisting to place the redhead between him and Hotch while pulling a gun of his own and training it against his victim’s temple. Hough starts backing up towards his van, dragging the redhead off his feet and only then does the guy get a clue about what is happening to him. He starts thrashing and it ruins Hotch’s line of sight.
“Don’t do it, Hough,” Hotch barks. “We both know how this ends. Don’t make it worse than it has to be.”
“This ends how I want it to,” Hough smiles as he uses his victim to cover his escape.
Hotch runs after him, gun still trained looking for a split second opportunity to even the odds, but he’s calm. He’s not re-strategizing or playing out high speed chases in his head. He feels the circle closing and the thrill it gives him is almost libidinous. He sucks in that thought, swallows it down into the excited tangle of his guts and steadfastly refuses to think about how dirty it should make him feel.
They’re almost at the head of the alley and Hotch still hasn’t had a clean shot. His confidence trembles for a moment and then he sees the hand with the .38 appear to Hough’s left, aimed at his head. Reid identifies himself quietly, like he’s interrupting a conversation, and the look Hough gives him is one of pure hate. Reid smiles a little and stands firm as Hotch rushes forward to disarm and cuff Hough. When the redhead gets free he turns on Hough, bleeding off his fear with an unschooled display of his fists. Reid grabs him and pulls him away as Hotch shoves Hough to the ground and calls in the arrest. Reid is trying to soothe the victim but he looks over his shoulder and catches Hotch’s eye. He’s smiling one of those toothy grins and there’s a flush to him that reminds Hotch of a runner’s high - a sort of manic, instinctual sense of victory. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that look on the genius’s face before, but it becomes him.
Hotch smiles back as he talks to Morgan on the phone. He can’t help it: he feels high too. He can’t remember the last time he felt this great about a win, and he loves that it makes him feel ten years younger.