echoes in my head

Summary: Hotch doesn't want to fly back to Quantico with the team. He says it's because of his ears, but maybe it's a little more than that. And maybe what he learns is a lesson in what it means to be home. (Coda to 4x02 - The Angel Maker)

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 5.1k

Warnings: mention of sex, injuries from canon, grief (this is an angst fest with a soft ending)

AO3: echoes in my head

Notes: THIS IS MY 300TH CM fic! Well, okay, let's be real...I've deleted a lot of them over the years (shhhhhh) and there are tons floating around Tumblr that never saw AO3 because I'm notoriously bad at organization but...for the sake of excitement...this is my 300th CM (Hotch) fic on AO3. 180th Hotch/Morgan fic. I've surpassed 500k words for 2023 with this fic, too. So for all of those reasons, I thought it would be fitting to have it be an Angel Maker fic, a Mayhem fic, because that's my bread and butter. This is a slightly different take - a quieter one, no dramatics, just reflection, sleep and a soft place to land. This is the first of many one-shots that will fit into the Restless Heart universe. Thanks, as always, for indulging me!

I listened to a lot of Dwight Yoakam while I wrote this. That should set the tone.

I've got bruises on my memory I've got tear stains on my hands And in the mirror there's a vision Of what used to be a man

I'm a thousand miles from nowhere Time don't matter to me (A Thousand Miles From Nowhere | Dwight Yoakam)

Restless Heart Masterlist

There isn’t much to do between Ohio and Virginia, not for one broken down man and a government SUV. There were plenty of places he might stop if he had Jack with him, quirky little tourist traps and amusement parks that stretched up into the skyline and hummed electrical tunes in the distance. But one man, all alone, with a pounding headache didn’t hear the siren song of the amusement park and didn’t hear the call of the tourist traps. In fact, this man didn’t hear much of anything. There was the slow, rhythmic beating of his heart and the shattered, shaky breaths, and the fog. The way his right shoulder clicked in its socket when he extended his arm to the side, the way his heart stopped when he unlocked the SUV, the way his internal monologue sounded a lot like static.

The night before, he’d broken his cardinal rule. He showed up one Derek’s hotel doorstep with every intention of staying. Of sleeping in his bed. They never did that – it wasn’t like they’d discussed it, made a list of rules, it just made sense. Work and home didn’t mix, they couldn’t mix. But the case was over, and they’d opted to stay another night because the town didn’t have a bustling airport. They weren’t going to insist the one tiny little airstrip be manned for their departure during off hours just so they could get back to their metropolis, back to their desks and their paperwork and the next case. They could wait until sunup when the staff arrived and take a much-needed breather. He’d tried to sleep, to lay on his bed and stare at the ceiling counting flecks of foamy popcorn texture, counting and categorizing stains by size shape and color, counting the drips from the leaky faucet in the bathroom. The world was muffled through his painfully ruined ears, and lying in the strange stillness of his room had sounded like heaven but quickly became hell when his thoughts took over. The physical assault had almost been preferable.

nothing to lose

Summary: Coda to 4x02 - Angel Maker (and, really, 4x01 - Mayhem). Hotch drives back to Quantico from Ohio in an insomniac daze. He's in pain, he's overwhelmed by grief, and he's making some bad choices. Meanwhile, Derek is in New York interviewing for Kate's now vacant job and making some equally bad choices. Can they fix things before it's too late?

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Warnings: Grief/death, sex, alcohol, drugs

Words: 6.2k **

Hotch woke in a cold sweat. Half past two in the morning, yet again. The buzzing and humming and ringing in his ear, like an overactive beehive planted in the thick of his skull, droned on and on. It had become part of him, goading on his pulse, thumping and creating a strange inner symphony that sometimes nearly drowned out the actual pain in his head.

Nearly.

The headache he'd had for a week now was not improving. No matter how many pills he tossed back with water, with coffee, with beer. Tonight he'd even tried his luck with a couple of the good strong ones swished around with a finger of scotch. That was an epic failure. Not only did it not touch the pain, it didn't help him sleep longer either. It did make him feel sick, it made the room spin like a carnival ride. No matter how much ice on the back of his neck, how many hot showers, the pain and sleeplessness gnawed at him. Took bites out of his skull and played screeching death music with the sinews in his neck. He was falling apart minute by minute.

“You might try stretching it out a few days...” Dave had said in that too-knowing and too-syrupy tone he took sometimes. The one that made Hotch wonder if he said it because he thought it might really help, or if he wanted a break from cases and thought with Hotch on the road they might get a day or two off. Well, he was taking that advice regardless, and so far it wasn't any better. In some ways, it was worse. The grief over Kate had landed hard in his chest and he found it difficult to breathe around. The knowledge that Derek was up in New York right now interviewing for her job only made it worse. Being wooed with big high-rise apartments and a hot nightlife, and office overlooking something more than a sprawling campus with boring old architecture.

“I don't want it,” Derek had said when they last discussed it. “You know I don't.” But Hotch pushed him, because he didn't know what else to do. Derek had been so hurt and so jealous over Kate, over something he didn't understand, and Hotch had been so offended and out of sorts over it...they needed this little break. So, he more or less made him go. It wasn't exactly an order, but Derek took it that way and packed his overnight bag.

“It's a promotion. It's a big deal. The least you can do is hear them out.” Derek had stared at him with such a look...such a damn look that Hotch felt like he was falling helplessly over the edge of a rocky cliff. He was overwhelmed by a feeling of hopelessness.There was no bottom, no end in sight. Just endless falling.

“You want me to go?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Yeah? Well you didn't not say it either.” He heard Derek mutter the word asshole just under his breath as he stalked away, and Hotch was shocked to find he felt nothing. He was at capacity. There was nowhere else to put that pain.

Read the rest on AO3!

chill out

Summary: Derek and a friend make some pot brownies to help chill Hotch out. (Post Route-66)

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 3.6k

Warnings: a lot of talk about marijuana, grief, pain, doctors

Notes: Is this a crack-fic? I dunno. Maybe. The idea started with the @yearoftheotpevent February prompts "established relationship" and "different"...and kind of spiraled from there with a lot of help from Harry Styles. If you haven't read prior stories involving my delightful (slightly evil) OC Coleen, here is a bit of history: the high price of shame

The house, modest from the outside, was nothing like Derek expected as he approached. Its bones screamed mid-century rancher, single level, low ceilings. But from the moment he was in the entryway, he realized how wrong he was. The hallway, beset with a hanging lamp in shades of deep brown and gold, opened up into a sunken great room with a vaulted ceiling and a wall of windows overlooking the city, at least once you got past the sizable estate that stretched out emerald green for ages. David Rossi might even be impressed with this.

"You live in a house..." he mused, stepping down into the main area and peering around at all of the impeccable mid-century details that would have made Carol Brady's knees buckle from sheer joy. He grew up fantasizing about houses like this as he wandered through his modest inner-city Chicago home with neighbors close enough to hear your dinner prayers unless you whispered. This was the stuff of sitcom families, well-to-do but parading as somehow being middle class. His socked feet sunk deep in the burnt orange shag carpet that didn't look a day past being straight from the showroom and yet he couldn't think of a single place you'd get something like this nowadays. And he'd looked, too, for one of his properties that had bones like this. No, this was original. "Where do you want these?" He gestured to the grocery bags in his arms full of all sorts of baking supplies and a bottle of wine for good measure. With a sneer she gestured toward the kitchen.

The kitchen. He'd always loved to picture his mom in a kitchen like this, a kitchen like she deserved. Throwing together a pot of chili or a peach cobbler with counters stretching as far as the eye could see. More cupboards than you could ever fill. Hell, he would have settled for a dishwasher or a sink that didn't back up once a week though. Probably Coleen wasn't as well-acquainted with a plunger as Fran Morgan had been.

"Not what I pictured..." he said, finally, setting the bags down and emptying them on the counters. Coleen snorted at his candor.

"What did you expect?”

down for a while

Summary: Derek asked Hotch if he wanted to talk about it...well, maybe now, at 2am, he does. (Coda to 5x02 - Haunted)

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 3.4k

Notes: Every time I watch this episode, I am tempted to write a slightly different take on aftermath to get it out of my system. This one I tried to keep kind of lighthearted. All things considered.

It was the snuffling, first. It broke the dream briefly, but he dipped back in happily.

Clooney's incessant snorting and whimpering, that was what finally actually woke Derek. The dog was too well-behaved to bark in the middle of the night unless he sensed danger, but that didn't stop him from trying to find other more unique ways to wake Derek and alert him that there was business to attend to.

When that tactic didn't work, he put his front paws on the edge of the bed and pressed his warm, wet nose into Derek's neck. A bold move, one that usually came with a swat and a groan, perhaps a string of words that would make a sailor blush. Sometimes it blended seamlessly with the dream and Derek woke uncomfortable and feeling sick, but tonight it was at odds with the violence. He was dreaming about Darrin Call's pharmacy massacre. He'd just slipped in the blood, and Clooney's nose wet against his earlobe did not help.

“Whaddayouwant?” Derek grumbled, peering with one blurry eye at the clock across the room. 2:12am. He couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips, and if you told him it was actually a whine (or maybe even a whimper), he might be inclined to argue but it would be weak at best. “Gotta pee? Right now?”

Clooney's tail swished wildly back and forth against the floor and he let out the smallest, least offensive yip in response. That usually meant it was urgent, and it lit a fire under Derek's sleepy ass. The last thing he wanted was a lake of dog piss on his floor after the day he'd had.

Or worse.

rest

Summary: A virus sweeps through the Morgan-Hotchner household.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: illness, snot, fevers, meds...but soft and fluffy.

Notes: This is fluff. Just some sickfic fluff set in the Chicago semi-retirement years. How each member of the household deals with it when they get the cold that's going around. All because I wanted to write about Hotch and Clooney, old men napping together. Clooney is the goodest boy and ageless, really. I've had this in my WIP folder forever and it's one of those not getting any better or any more of a plot scenario so...I cleaned it up and now I give it to you. Making room for some new WIPs!

** The Chicago Times Masterlist **

The first sneeze of the season was always a benchmark.

In Spring, it let them know the pollen was on the move and that the trees were calling to the bees to do their thing. Derek would pull out the Claritin first, choosing not to even mess with the itchy eyes one moment. Hotch, on the other hand, would wait. His system was already inundated by pills of varying shapes and sizes, medications that ranged from benign to downright sinister, so a stuffy nose and some dry itchy eyes were not the end of the world.

Virginia hadn't ever treated him too badly, but he was convinced that Chicago meant him harm. Still, he persisted with a handkerchief stuffed into his pocket and saline drops for his dry eyes. He could wear his glasses now without fear of ridicule...it was almost expected of a man in his position. They may have clashed with his suit and tie, but they were the perfect accessory for his sweaters and khakis.

So, the first sneeze of Spring didn't worry him much.

The first sneeze of Autumn, however, set off the alarm bells. It was almost always Jack first with Derek hot on his heels. Hotch and Hank were sitting ducks, waiting for whatever germs the two of them brought home to fully culture inside their walls.

“Already?” Hotch asked, watching Derek rummage through the medicine cabinet for that damn box of DayQuil he knew was in there. “It's awfully early in the school year for this.”

“Tell that to my students. Jackson was puking in the trash can at football practice last night, Burkhardt was spitting loogies all over the damn field and where the fuck is my DayQuil?”

I Can’t Get No Sleep

Just a little something that took up too much space in my brain. No warnings, gen. audiences, implied hotchgan, insomnia.

If sleep was for the weak, he probably should have changed careers years ago and become a strongman for some travelling sideshow. Two or three hours, four if he was lucky, that was all his mind and body were willing to give him. The nightmares were part of the problem, but nothing he couldn’t handle. The far bigger problem was his body. After years of abuse, getting shot, beaten, stabbed, garroted, blown up, thrown down stairs, and basically dying, every day presented a new - or sometimes very familiar - problem. Some nights he lay awake shivering despite the two duvets and heating blanket. Other nights he got so hot, he had to kick each and every blanket off the bed. Only to put them back 10 minutes later when his body decided that a 85 degree Floridian night was too cold to survive without at least three layers on top of him.

Sure, his doctor had prescribed some very good sleeping aides, but they were so effective that the one time he took them on a case, he woke up to three of his agents almost breaking down the door to his hotel room because he didn’t show up for breakfast, wasn’t already at the local precinct and didn’t answer his phone. All of them remembered what had happened the last time no one could reach him.

Another problem were those hotel and motel mattresses. Some of them so soft he felt as if he was drowning, others so firm that the carpeted floor felt more comfortable than the bed. At least in this regard, he wasn’t alone with his complaints. More often than not, Reid, Rossi or JJ blamed this specific part of their accommodations when they downed the 4th cup of coffee at breakfast.

At home, things were better. He kept the bedroom at a constant temperature, his mattress was almost perfect, the nightly noises were familiar, and yet often enough sleep eluded him. When all the tricks and remedies he knew didn’t help - taking a walk, a bath, warm milk, tea, counting sheep, and everything else imaginable - and he knew that he needed the sleep, there was one thing that always worked like a charm.

So, once again, he stood in front of the by now very familiar door, a sleeping Jack cradled against his shoulder, hoping for the two inhabitants to welcome him and his son in. When the door opened and the warm air and familiar smells engulfed him in a hug of familiarity, he immediately felt more relaxed.

“That kind of night, huh?”

He nodded.

“Ok, you know the drill.”

A tired smile was answer enough for Derek. He took Jack out of Aaron’s arms and carried the still sleeping boy into his makeshift bedroom. When he returned to the master bedroom, Hotch was already in the bed with Clooney acting simultaneously as protector, weighted blanket and heating pack. A combination that never ceased to work its magic powers. In the time it took Derek to turn off the light and get comfortable, Hotch was already asleep.

“Good job, Clooney.”

The dog’s wagging tail was the last thing that registered in his mind before he too drifted off.

simple things [Hotchgan]

2.7k words, fluff, Hotch/Morgan. Also features Clooney the dog. For @masterwords :)

slow motion

Summary: Hotch can't sleep after Foyet's attack no matter what he tries. Derek (and Clooney) have the solution.

Notes: I wrote this as a pinch-hit for a multi-fandom exchange on AO3 back in October and have very (im)patiently waited to share it. Some of you have seen it floating around on anon since mid-November, but tada...it was mine. (Cue both shock and horror...I'm sure NO ONE would have guessed). Anyway. Please indulge me my adoration for Clooney as Hotch's therapy dog, and yes I did give the dog his own backstory.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Warnings: angst/depression, some residual pain from the stabbings and bandage changes

Words: 4.6k

His apartment was dark. Even in daylight, he kept it dark. Diffused pale rays crept beneath the drawn shades and pooled on the floor where they landed. They cast no light further than that. He did his best to avoid the way they tried to draw him near, enticing him with their promise of vitamin D.

Instead, he curled up on the couch with a heated blanket and stared with stinging red eyes at the hole in the wall. It wasn't there anymore, not really, but the ghost of it would always be there. Like a glitch in the matrix, he could see it even if it had been fixed.

Fixed. That word implied an awful lot but it backed up very little. His apartment wasn't fixed. The carpet had been patched up, the bloody spot cut and a new piece put in. Hell, maybe the wood beneath had even been scrubbed clean. Good as new. Fixed. The drywall had been sliced open, mudded, masked, painted to match the rest of the wall. Fixed. He had been cleaned out, checked, stitched up, medicated. Fixed.

His phone ringing on its charger barely caught his attention. It was a thick, horrible vibrating sound muffled by the carpet it had fallen into after so many unanswered calls. It could only vibrate so far on a small end table before it toppled over the edge. And there it sat for days, unanswered but fully charged. He sort of hoped that all those old stories about phones on the charger too long exploding might come true but so far no luck. An exploding phone might break up some of the monotony of his sleepless days.

He imagined Cheif Strauss on the other end of the line, asking him questions. Telling him he needed to come in and meet with her before he came back to work. “Under no circumstances are you to just show up,” she would say. He could hear it without having to actually listen. Maybe it would be JJ or Emily or Dave calling to check up on him in their own unique ways. JJ would have a work question to ask him, to draw him out of his shell, something she wouldn't actually need help with at all. Emily would just say something simple. “Glad you're still alive,” maybe. It would be a little sour sounding, but laced with concern because she could never just let herself be seen. And Dave...Dave would wander around a story about something that happened, someone he knew, wax poetic about healing and taking time and friendship, offer up his shoulder to cry on or a bottle of expensive liquor.

Hotch didn't want any of those things.

a life spills into the flowers

Summary: After the events of "Mr. Scratch", Hotch can't find his keys. It's got him a little messed up.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan (established, and it's only relevant at the very end because I live in a world where they're just together and that's that.)

Warnings: mind-controlling substances, panic, vomit, swearing, canon-typical stuff...if you've seen the Mr. Scratch episode you won't be surprised

Words: 2.5k

Notes: I don't know...I was going to save this for Whumptober or something but it's rambly and I sort of just wanted to post it now. I started thinking about how Peter Lewis took Hotch's weapons and he took his vest off, and Hotch was in that house for a long time semi-conscious...so of course his car keys would be missing and that might make him panic a bit. Anyway, I wrote this all in about an hour, it's just a rambly thing because I can't seem to write anything decent lately but I needed to do something with this idea.

Read on AO3: a life spills into the flowers

On knees that wobble like jello he wanders through the house. Wind is whipping through the trees, whistling strange hymns through well-maintained gutters and over the silken petals of bright pink roses. He is acutely aware of each breath of wind as it gusts over his sweaty brow, each fleck of red and blue light that flickers and screams silent fury into the night sky.

“I need to find my keys,” he mumbles to JJ who is following, hasn't stopped following him since he stepped out of the ambulance with a headache that pounds like a jackhammer with each throb of his pulse. She's right on his heels.

“We can have it towed, Hotch, figure it out in the morning. You need to get home.”

He won't listen, though. Everything is so out of control, the entire scene his fault, and the only thing he can grasp with any firmness is this: his SUV keys are missing. On the front seat, all of his papers have been rifled through, his wallet is right there with his ID front and center, and he's in no frame of mind to take inventory though he's fairly certain nothing is missing. Peter Lewis wouldn't take anything, he would simply record it. Write it down, take a photo, doesn't matter. If he took it, they would know and have a lead, have an idea. This way...there is no way to track what isn't gone.

Except his damn keys. “Maybe Peter Lewis had them,” she says, speeding up to keep pace with his wobbly off-kilter stumbling through the yard and up to the front door. “Hotch, I'll call Derek and see if they find your keys on Lewis when they book him.”

as the crow flies (part four)

Summary: After a journalist does the BAU dirty, Derek is forced to take the job at the New York Field Office. Hotch is forced to deal. (AU where Hotch and Haley have a daughter instead of a son. Based on this story.)

Warnings: explosion injury aftermath, intermittent hearing loss, ear infection, food

Words: 4k

Notes: Want some cute sick Hotch? Something a little lighter after that last one? Hotch & Clooney & lots of comfort live here.

** CHAPTER LIST **

“I'll stay with Clooney.”

Hotch's voice was soft, weary, feverish. Derek couldn't help but laugh, but Hotch...sick as he was...he was also serious. Even from inside of the mess of blankets, only the tips of his hair visible,he was trying to bargain with chips he didn't have to play. Derek's blankets were warm, new, silky soft and very expensive feeling...and he was sweating all over them. And still somehow shivering inside of them.

“Let me. Please.”

Derek contemplated the offer while he made breakfast and got ready to hit the gym. He thought about it while he ran on the treadmill and lifted weights with the friends he'd already made in the building. A lot of other extended stay executive types who were bored out of their minds, just like him. Except most of them were single and loved to hit all the best night clubs, something Derek hadn't done in a very long time. He was enjoying himself, and it wasn't nearly as hard to go home alone every night as he'd originally thought. Every morning it was the same, meet up in the gym, spot each other on the weights, go out for coffee.

This morning, though, Derek skipped the coffee. “I've got someone visiting from out of town,” he said and one of them winked and nudged him with his elbow.

“That someone in your bed waiting for you to come back all hot and sweaty?”

the silence drowns (part fourteen)

Summary: Morgan interrupted Foyet in Hotch’s apartment and saw everything. Now Hotch is staying with Jessica, Morgan is trying to figure out how to save the day and Foyet is on the road.

Warnings: Here we go guys, the bloodbath I promised. Lots of violence. Blood, gore, it's brutal. Seriously mind the warning...

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 3.4k

Notes: If you like to end on a bleak note, this could be it. I'll be doing one more, a sort of epilogue because I love myself some aftermath...but that's up to you. I planned this to be a one shot and it spiraled, we shouldn't be surprised at how far we've come.

Chapter List

Read on AO3: The Silence Drowns

The bathroom still smelled like lavender and vanilla bubble bath when Foyet used his shiny new key, snipped the chain latch and crept into the darkened apartment. There was a sheet of drywall with chunks cut out of it leaning against the washing machine and he stared at it longingly, thinking about hiding between it and the wall for hours waiting for Hotch to get home. How he'd anticipated that arrival! Planned it out endlessly, thought about every possibility. What if Hotch saw him right away? Would he be trapped, cornered? The thought, he had to admit, had thrilled him in a way. If those hawk eyes had trained on him and let him attack...but no. No, he was out of sorts, Foyet could tell it right away. He watched as Hotch tossed his things into his mess (he hadn't thought Hotch would be so messy, he'd been wrong about that but then...maybe it wasn't so much messy as it was simply depressing. The man clearly had some issues to work through.) 

That all felt so far away now, so much had happened. He'd gotten to know Hotch so much better. In his mind he held so many fascinating things, maybe he'd never use them, but he was sure Hotch and Derek at least knew now exactly how easily he could deep dive into their lives. Did Derek worry about him being so close to his sister? Did Hotch wonder why he hadn't put a bullet into Sean's head? He hoped they'd been thinking about it.

Now he stood in the middle of the room and he soaked it up, surveyed the new landscape. Derek hadn't moved much but he'd changed enough that Foyet had to reacquaint himself with it. The couch was the same, but the liquor cart was now shoved against a wall, out of the way so Derek could mend that hole. His hole. How it had taken everything in him not to shoot Hotch. That split second decision between a bullet between the eyes and just a scare. Moving the gun, giving his ear drums a surprise party. In his dreams Hotch hadn't flinched, had been a worthy adversary...but he had been a little disappointed in reality. Not enough to throw the plan away though. He scuffed the carpet with his shoe as he crept and smiled almost dreamily. 

And then the damn dog started growling from the kitchen. 

the silence drowns (part thirteen)

Summary: Morgan interrupted Foyet in Hotch’s apartment and saw everything. Now Hotch is staying with Jessica, Morgan is trying to figure out how to save the day and Foyet is on the road.

Warnings: Another pretty tame chapter! Just some kissing. Everyone needs a reprieve before the bloodbath. :)

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 2.8k

Notes: Nothing to say about this one. Enjoy some Clooney and Hotch, don't get used to it.

Chapter List

Read on AO3: The Silence Drowns

The sky was the kind of wide-open blue that called to you from wherever you were, scolding you for not being out and falling into it. Even Clooney was pacing beneath the window, sniffing the sunny warm air as it wafted through the screen. After a long cold snap, it was a welcome shift.

“In a minute, dude,” Derek muttered, sanding away the last of the texutre on his shoddy mud job. It would need another coat, there was still tape visible at the seams and if there was still tape then it wasn't stable enough. He almost thought he was dragging his feet on purpose, like if he finished the job then it would be even more obvious that his life had fallen apart and had no meaning. Strauss still kept him at arm's length, he could sit at his desk and work through consults and paperwork, but he wouldn't be leaving town if they got any active cases. Not yet. The investigation was still ongoing, or so she said...he really just didn't care anymore. The wall, the carpet, that was focus enough to stop him from drifting too far into the panic of the web Foyet was weaving.

He sneezed. A lot of dust in the air, a lot of sanded down mud and drywall. The place was a disaster, really. He needed to do a lot of cleaning...that made him want to take Clooney out. The blue sky sounded better than pulling out Hotch's vacuum.

“Alright, alright, “he said to Clooney but really just to himself. He was going a little stir crazy. He lived on his own, it wasn't like he wasn't used to it, but something about it being Hotch's place and when he was in Hotch's place...well...Hotch should be there. It was unsettling.

Summary: Coda to "Natural Born Killer", Hotch seeks Morgan (and Clooney) for a little comfort.

Warnings: none

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 1k

Notes: Prompt 22 - A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party from 50 Types of Kisses. Just out here listening to The Bodyguard soundtrack and feeling some soft Hotch vibes from "Run to You". For the sake of this story, I think it goes without saying, but Hotch isn't married. Short and sweet.

Read on AO3: soon

“I know...that when you look at me...there's so much that you just don't see...” Morgan's voice is low, honey slicked and warm, his bare feet carrying him in small swaying circles through his kitchen. Clooney balances on his hind legs, paws bouncing against the tiled floor. A constant dance partner, he's learned through the years how to keep up and he nips at Morgan's tie as it sways. Every few steps Clooney's nails dig into the tops of his feet, clumsy paws losing their hold and he laughs, doing his best to regain his composure and raising his voice a few octaves until it hurts both of their ears. He's no Whitney.

He doesn't hear the door open, but he feels the rush of air swirl through the warmth of the house and releases Clooney to run for his best friend.

“In the kitchen,” he calls, as if Hotch wouldn't have figured it out. Time moves slowly between beats and he finishes their late-night meal by slapping a few extra tomatoes onto Hotch's sandwich for good measure. It's plain and simple, a few slabs of dark wheat bread with some lunch meat and tomato, his fridge is pretty barren and he's not in the mood to have to call Penelope to clean it out again when he's whisked off in the jet to somewhere he doesn't want to be. He'd come home too many times to fruit flies, overripe bananas on the counter and mushy, wet cucumbers wilting away in the crisper. No, he picks up what he's in the mood for and won't buy anything else until he's used it up. This week it happened to be tomatoes, a whole bag of deep red jewels that he'd been slicing and salting, eating like apples, and finally the last of them would be nestled on their late-night sandwiches. Plates clink softly against the small kitchen table, and he twirls in place, singing along with the music, hips swiveling. “Hotch?”

He finds Hotch down on his knees, pressing his face into the thick fur of Clooney's neck. Tail wagging, swishing back and forth like a pendulum against the floor, Clooney absorbs the intensity of Hotch's emotions willingly. His ears are perked, his eyes twinkle, and Hotch holds him tight.

“Hey, you little thief...” Morgan mutters, scratching the dog behind the ear. “I think you got somethin' I was waiting on.”

It's only moments later that Hotch stands, hands against his thighs as he presses himself upward and Morgan takes in full sight of the events of the night and the wreckage they've left behind. He reaches out, almost hesitantly, and thumbs the bruise spreading from his lip down to his jaw, the dried blood at the corner of his mouth. The swelling gives him an almost childish full cheeked look and if he hadn't been so damn scared in that junkyard, he might think it was halfway cute. His fingers tug at the starched collar of Hotch's shirt, revealing only glimpses of deep mottled bruising, the colors of iris petals and wine and he works at the tie to open it up, give it some air.

“You shoulda let me put a bullet between his eyes,” Morgan murmurs, tossing the tie to the corner so he can get a better look at the damage done. Hotch won't meet his eyes, just offers an apologetic nod and falls into Morgan's embrace the moment it's offered. He can't keep up the facade a moment longer, he needs a minute to let what happened sink in; the junkyard, the garrote, the smell of Perotta's breath on his cheek as he sucked at what could easily have been his last breath. Choking on it, he wondered if the fungal stink of Perotta's breath would be the last smell he'd ever experience, thick and heady, it made his head swim. His throat is on fire, sandpaper and crushed glass each time he swallows, each time he speaks. “I would have killed that fucker.”

“I know.” And he does know, but it doesn't change things. “We needed him alive.” Morgan can see the bruises, he can see the shadows in his eyes, but he doesn't know the extent of what the night had taken from Hotch. What Perotta knew. Hotch would spend countless sleepless nights considering what a mind like Perotta's was knitting together, what mythologies he was weaving and tales he would tell. “I know I said I was hungry, but I think I'd like to lie down.” His voice is gravelly and faraway, and Morgan knows he's about to lose this moment to the evil that had already stolen their entire day. He's not willing, not yet.

Morgan's arms wind tight around Hotch, and with the last moment he has before Hotch makes good on his statement, he pushes in close. He feels Hotch stiffen under the kiss at first, a hiss at the sudden sting in his broken lip, his jaw creaking under the pressure and then his muscles melt and he's gladly accepting the gesture. Accepting turns to returning, and soon that becomes hoping and instigating. Lips part expectantly, swirling mind suddenly void of anything other than a burning need to think about something else, or maybe nothing at all. He wants to use his hands to remind himself that he is more than whatever Vincent Perotta thinks he knows.

Their similarities end in childhood, Hotch tells himself with some little confidence and he encourages Morgan to move them toward his bedroom, ready to forget it all. There is a fire in his belly, smoldering, desperate and he knows it is mirrored in his partner.

Whitney Houston is still singing, and Clooney joins her, barking at them from the kitchen door. Reminding them that they've got a snack waiting, that they had committed to a midnight dance party with him, and he isn't about to be denied. They try to ignore him, he'll quiet down if they keep moving but he doesn't, he dashes beneath their feet instead. He's not small, he thumps his huge body against Morgan's shins and takes his feet out from under him. Hotch catches Morgan against the wall and they both laugh, forehead to forehead, suddenly breathless and light.

“Well,” Morgan mutters, glaring at Clooney's expectant face. They're not getting out of this one quite yet. “Figures.”

Long Day

(953w of soft, soft Hotchgan // Long Day on AO3)

There was a stack of beer cans just out of sight. Most of them were full, right behind the porch railing, hidden and within arm's reach. He pulled them one by one from the rings and created mini pyramids, flowers, designs to keep his hands busy. He was two deep already, the third was open and once finished he'd probably stop for the night. It was getting late, but it was a long day and Clooney was nosing around in the grass happily. No rush. No reason to hurry inside and to bed.

Overhead, the clouds obscured most of the stars, he could barely pick out the moon, but he knew it was there. Didn't need to see it to know it. He doesn't have faith in much, but the man in the moon had never let him down.

The day had been so long; the week really. Consults stacked on top of consults, no viable cases to pull them out of the doldrums. Hotch had been particularly ruthless in his own endeavors, taking heat from somewhere above, stories he wouldn't share. He was just like that, especially since coming back to work. There was no way to know what was happening, he would lock it up tight, burn it for fuel and never pass the heat on. Not this heat. They'd canceled two date nights, two evenings that should have been spent simply enjoying one-another's company lost to whatever fresh hell Strauss and her superiors had cooked up.

All Morgan had to show for it was a stack of beer cans and the prospect of a full day off come sunrise. Clooney nudged a clump of damp grass with his nose and stopped, froze in place and Morgan narrowed his eyes trying to peer into the darkened street. Maybe a raccoon, he'd seen a family living down the road beneath the porch of a broken-down church and he'd had to start putting bricks on top of his trash cans once they acquainted themselves with the neighborhood. Cleaning up piles of trash at 6am on his way out the door wasn't an ideal way to begin any day. He could hear footsteps on the sidewalk, still far off, soft and light, and soon Clooney's tail was wagging.

Morgan smiled. He didn't need to see the visitor to know who it was coming down his quiet street at this time of night. “Go get 'im,” he muttered, giving Clooney all the permission he needed to take off at a bound down the sidewalk. Nails against pavement, Morgan listened to the sound echoing in the still night air. He didn't move, just sipped at his icy beer and stared up at the sky as the clouds shifted and the moon threw her silvery light down on his small slice of heaven. Clooney marched triumphantly back to the yard with Hotch in tow, happily jumping at his feet, begging for more attention than he was getting. Hotch stood on the grass a moment, patting his friend on the head, bone tired and wilted and still unable to pass up a moment like this.

“Hey,” Morgan said, waggling a fresh can of beer at Hotch who shook his head as he approached. One step, two steps, three and he dropped heavily down between Morgan's legs, resting his cheek on Morgan's thigh. The beer was set back down, and Morgan's cold fingers found their way to Hotch's head, drifting through his hair. “Bad day?”

Hotch sighed and nodded, unable to summon any words that might encapsulate the day, the week that bled into all the weeks prior and culminated on the tip of a knife. He'd taken a cab, too tired to drive, too angry to sleep on the couch in his office again. He'd spent the entire day on the verge of frustrated tears, pushed to his limits by things he could normally shrug off as part of the job. Unjust outcomes, angry reprimands, one thing piled on after another leaving him out of breath. Since returning from medical leave he'd been under constant scrutiny, meeting after meeting to account for decisions he made that normally wouldn't land on anyone's radar. Rationally, he knew it was an overreaction, that he just needed a break, that he wasn't seeing the big picture and it was time to leave the office before he no longer had access to that kind of clarity. On the way to his own apartment, that desolate museum of his obsession and failure, he'd startled the cab driver by asking him to pull over. Demanding it, really. He handed him the full fare even though he'd only gone halfway and spent the last half hour walking the rest of the way to Morgan's house in the crisp night air. His feet were blistered, dress shoes not intended for miles of walking.

“Wanna talk about it?” Morgan asked, already knowing the answer. It never stopped him from offering.

“Tomorrow...” Hotch whispered, lips moving slowly against Morgan's thigh. Morgan slipped his arms around Hotch, lifting him briefly into a hug. He pushed his hands inside of the other man's jacket, against the warmth of his shirt, and kissed his temple.

“Tomorrow it is.”

Clooney wasn't ready to head inside, Morgan still had half a beer, but Hotch closed his eyes and listened to the rustle of the leaves above him and the dog snuffling in the grass feet away. The raccoons would come soon and disturb their carefully balanced peace, expectation hung on the air.

“Thank you,” Hotch whispered as he drifted off and Morgan smiled. He knew it didn't really mean thank you. It meant I love you, and it settled over him like a blanket.