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masterwords · 3 years

Text

Blaze Like Meteors

Warnings: Alcohol and some sexual harassment. This chapter is pretty tame but it's about to get pretty unpleasant.

Notes: Ask and ye shall receive. I was far more inspired to get this going than I was to continue The Louder the Better today, so you get this. Yeah, we'll get two WIPs going and you won't know which one you're getting a chapter of each day. This is going to be at least two parts, maybe three. Inspired by the anon ask for Hotch & Morgan fake dating for a case and ending in a confession. I'M ABOUT IT. (Title comes from Dylan Thomas' poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night") 2340 words.

“Chocolate Thunder? Do you read me Chocolate Thunder?”

“Yes, Garcia, loud and clear. You know you're only patched in to my ear piece, no one else can hear you...” Morgan fiddled with the bud in his ear, adjusting it slightly so it didn't bother him so much. No matter how many times he wore one, it always hurt. Why the FBI couldn't improve their technology along with all other ear bud manufacturers was beyond him and he pressed it harder, twisted it until it was wedged in tight and easily missed by anyone looking at him.

“Okay but you need to use my code name, we talked about this. If I'm going to let you go out and do this...this thing...”

“My job...”

“THIS THING...then code names. You promised.”

“Garcia, I can't talk to you when I'm out there, you know that. It's going to be fine. Hotch and I can take care of ourselves, and we've got plenty of backup if anything goes wrong.”

He heard her sigh and grunt loudly, heard the clicking of her fingers on the keyboard, and he could feel the heat of her frustration from the next room. He stood up and sauntered toward her door, not bothering to knock before entering her lair.

“Penelope...” he said softly, standing just inside the doorway, arms folded over his chest, cutting an imposing figure in the shadows of her machines. “You giving me the silent treatment isn't really how it works either. Do I need to get JJ to do this instead?” That was all it took before she spun around in her chair and narrowed her eyes at Morgan. If she hadn't been wearing a fuzzy chartreuse sweater and rainbow glasses, he might be intimidated, but he just wanted to wrap her in a hug and assure her it was going to be okay, that he and Hotch would both walk away from this assignment with a fun story to tell and nothing more.

In Hotch's office, Rossi was trying to talk him out of it. “This is rural North Carolina, Aaron, not New York City.”

“I'm aware of where we're headed,” was Hotch's soft reply as he double checked his go bag for the clothing he would need. “Are you ready to go?”

“There has to be another way. There is dangerous and then there is just plain stupid. You're on target to hit both in record time.”

“I'll see you on the jet, Dave.”

The highway stretched out before them, their old rust bucket barreling down the abandoned stretch of highway. A mile or so behind them a nondescript work van followed, hardly trying to keep up with Morgan and his lead foot, just trying to keep them in view. Hotch rested in the passenger seat, flipping through the case file on his lap, brow furrowed. He knew he would be the main target and he wanted as much information about the unsubs and the methods they used committed to memory as he could before they arrived at the bar. The car smelled like cigarette butts and incense, and the leather bucket seat had holes from dropped cigarettes peppering the space between he and Morgan. The State Troopers had pulled the car out of the impound lot for the occasion, empty beer cans and parking tickets in the dash and all. It was set to go to auction though Hotch thought it was better suited to the scrap yard but who was he to judge.

“Wish my mind worked like Reid's,” Hotch muttered, and Morgan laughed, shaking his head. He closed the case file and let his head fall back against the seat. He was already exhausted and they hadn't even gotten started yet.

“No,” Morgan said softly, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “You don't.”

Miles stretched out, and soon the nothing gave way to farmhouses dotting the hillside and a looming water tower at the edge of the horizon. “We're getting close,” Hotch announced, peering at the GPS on his phone. The bar was just beyond the hill they were preparing to crest. Twilight sun pooled on the burnt straw and the asphalt radiated heat in waves ahead of them like a black sea. Hotch felt his insides twist along with the road, winding the serpentine path up and then down, and the bar came into view. A speck of neon lights and pick up trucks in the vast sea of nothing. Morgan pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the van to come up behind them, agents spilling out into the arid summer heat. Hotch kicked at a dead crow on the side of the road, nudging it into the dried grass and watching as the feasting insects did their best to follow their food. That could be him by tomorrow morning, he thought with a grim sort of satisfaction. Lying on the side of some forgotten highway, belly full of maggots. He couldn't tell you why his mind detoured like that so often, but he kept it to himself and approached the agents milling around, waiting for him to speak.

“You guys sure about this?” Rossi asked, giving them one more opportunity to back out. Hotch shot him a scowl that just said not again (look at me, Rossi, I'm already dressed for the part just shut up) and looked at Reid and Garcia expectantly.

“Are you two ready?”

“Are you?” Prentiss asked, butting in, narrowing her eyes at Hotch. She'd been too quiet since they'd hatched their plan with the North Carolina State Troopers, but she'd been throwing looks, rolling her eyes, clearly displeased with their idea. Morgan rolled his eyes and stepped in front of Hotch.

“Cut it out, guys. We're doing this. Now that bar up there is getting hit tonight, we know it, they've hit every Wednesday night for the last three weeks and if Reid's calculations are right, this is it, this is our chance. If we don't go in there, someone else will get hurt and we know it. Does everyone understand their role? We don't get outta there safely I'm coming for you clowns.”

“Morgan,” Hotch said softly, taking the conversation back. “Let's go. The sun is setting, if we don't get there soon they'll already have selected their targets.”

To anyone in the bar, they just looked like locals. Morgan sauntered in with his t-shirt ripped and covered in axle grease, carpenter pants holding all sorts of tools and weapons and a trucker's cap that had seen better days, advertising a beer that hadn't been popular since the 1970s. His boots were covered in splotches of paint and grease and the tread was filled with mud and grass. Hotch stood beside him, Morgan's hand slipped effortlessly beneath the flannel shirt around his waist and into the back pocket of his worn, ripped up jeans slung just a little too low on his waist. His t-shirt bore the mark of a faded Misfits logo and his converse sneakers had seen better days. They made their way to the bar and asked for two of whatever beer was on special, it wasn't often you could drink for a dollar anymore but on this abandoned stretch of highway they found themselves pleasantly surprised. It might have been piss beer, but it got you drunk just the same. Sometimes better, it went down a lot faster when you didn't care to taste it. They both downed their first glasses right there and asked for another round before making their way into the crowd, to sway along with everyone else to the sounds of the southern rock cover band up on the stage. From further away, they appeared to look just like any other band you'd expect at some summertime outdoor festival, but up close their years betrayed them. They croaked out song after song, throwing out slow jams more often than anything heavy, and it was all just familiar enough that Morgan and Hotch could sway along together, all hands and beer breath and smiles. This wasn't their first go at this charade, they fell into it easier and easier each time they were asked to do it. Hotch finished his beer first and drug Morgan back to the bar with him, hands twisted together between them, and he walked with an easy swagger that didn't come naturally to him, he'd had to work on it over the years. Two more beers, and they could feel eyes on them now from somewhere. No one close by, everyone in the crowd was wholly immersed in their own little game of groping, some to the point of being what Hotch would consider indecent, but then, this was not his stomping ground.

“To your right,” came Reid's voice in Hotch's ear, and he glanced slowly until he saw the smaller man just a few feet away from him, stepping anxiously from foot to foot, fidgeting. Every so often his eyes darted to where Hotch stood and then away, almost shamefully. Hotch bumped Morgan a little, inclined his head, and Morgan nodded. “He's been watching you for a while,” Reid said and Hotch squeezed Morgan's hand just a little tighter, his attention ahead again on the stage. He watched the singer light up a joint, take a long drag, and pass it around the stage. He blew the smoke out of his nostrils like a big hairy dragon before leaping into the next song, and the fidgety little man stepped closer to Hotch, slipping between people until he was close enough to give Hotch goosebumps.

“You're not from here,” the man stammered and Hotch flashed his biggest smile, twinkling eyes downcast momentarily and shrugged.

“Just passing through,” he offered, and the man nodded nervously, accepting the answer without further questions. Instead, he changed the subject.

“You guys game for a round of pool? My buddies and I are always lookin' for new blood.” Interesting choice of words, Hotch thought bitterly.

“I could smack some balls around,” Morgan declared and Hotch felt his neck flush, he'd forgotten exactly how embarrassing Morgan could be when he put in even minimal effort. “Your friends just wanna wipe the table with some outta towners?”

The smaller man smiled and shrugged, shifting his weight from foot to foot again. “Yeah. Somethin' like that. Beers on us, my buddy's dad owns the place.”

“Can't turn down hospitality like that. I'm Derek, this is Aaron...what's your name?”

“James,” he replied, leading them away from the crowded floor still swaying in unison to another song that sounded just like the thirty before it. Maybe it was all the same song, neither of them could tell for sure.

“Whiskey?” James asked, handing a shot to Hotch, while Morgan readied their pool cues. They clinked their glasses together and shot the amber liquid quickly back. There was a moment that Hotch wondered if something had been done to his drink, they hadn't found anything in the victims' systems but all of those drugs were metabolized so quickly and these unsubs held their victims long enough that it wouldn't ever show. Still, he felt safe with Morgan, knew that they wouldn't target him in the same way so at least one of them would have a clear head. If he got sick, he got sick, he had a job to do and that came with a certain level of risk. Maybe his tolerance for risk taking was a little higher than the bureau would prefer, but here he was. Hotch smacked his lips together, swallowing the musky burn of the smoky liquid and set the glass down. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, turning his eyes up at Morgan now standing beside him, arm looping around his shoulders protectively.

“Let's cool it, baby, we got a long ride ahead of us tonight...” he cooed, pressing his face against Hotch's head, breathing in the soapy scent. He'd always loved the way Hotch smelled, the way he never bothered with cologne, he just smelled simple and clean like soap and a hint of dryer sheets.

“We gonna do this thing or what?” The question came from one of the other men, the bigger men who looked almost like mirror images of each other to Hotch's fuzzy eyes. They were the size of mountains, with shoulders that joined directly to their ears and Hotch imagined himself in one of their shirts, a tiny smirk playing across his features when he realized the shirts would easily come down to his knees. Morgan handed him a pool cue and they set to, each of them taking a turn, shit talking, laughing, and the piss beer flowed like water through them. Hotch bent over, angling for his shot, and felt one of the bigger men come up behind him, thick meaty hands grabbing at his sides, pressing into his sharp hip bones and he leaned in close.

“You gonna sink it?” he asked, his beer breath hot on the back of Hotch's neck. Suppressing a shiver, Hotch did his best to ignore the imposition and rammed his pool cue back just enough that it hit the man square in the belly, gentle enough not to be confrontational though he'd wanted to put it clean through.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Can I get a little space?”

“Sure thing, darlin',” the man replied, giving Hotch's hips a quick squeeze before he backed up, just enough not to get hit again but not nearly enough for Hotch's comfort. Morgan watched the scene play out, anger gnawing at his insides, using every ounce of strength inside of him to keep his feet firmly planted where they were when all he wanted to do was leap across the table and take the man's head off right between his second and third chin.

Next Chapter ->

#criminal minds #fanfiction #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #spencer reid #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #david rossi #mortch

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