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