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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 2 years

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The Construct of Time, Chapter 08

Pairing: HotchReid

Written For: The HotchReid Valentine’s Day Trope Challenge, Trope Assignments = Historical AU, Time Travel

Summary: The year is 1924, half a decade after the first World War, and a few years before the Great Depression would devastate the nation. It is a time of contradiction: the modernist uprising of science and innovation, met with a traditionalist, fearful desire to cling to the past in a fast-evolving, urbanist society. And on this morning in Washington D.C. an unmarked package is left outside the office of Aaron ‘Hotch’ Hotchner, P.I., with a note simply telling him to find the rest, and a substantial price tag attached. What he finds in this package is something he has never seen before, hundreds of years old, and he barely knows where to start trying to find more like it. Ultimately he is pointed towards someone that may just have a clue what to do with his charge: a Classics Historian working in the basements of the Smithsonian, Dr. Spencer Reid. Together, what they discover sends them on a break-neck chase across the city, searching for a mysterious collection of powerful artifacts, and the people that are trying to sell them. Forever changing everything they know about the world, the people in it, truth, lies, love, and the fragile construct of time.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (to be determined)

Chapter CW/notes: lots of mentions of blood and wounds and some wump/first-aide type stuff. And so much sexual/romantic tension. I also finally got to use my "here's looking at you, kid" Humphrey Bogart reference. So when Hotch calls Spencer 'kid' in this chapter think Bogart and not the age difference. 🙈 Shorter chapter because otherwise it would have been like 6k and this story has shorter chapters so... enjoy and look forward to the next chapter later this week/weekend. C: it’s already written lmao.

Word Count: 2317

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

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Chapter 08: A Quiet Place

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It's not the first time that Hotch has had to break into his own office building after hours, but it is the first time he's had to do so while dripping blood all along the hallway carpets. The wound really isn't as bad as it seems, he just bled like a stuck pig when the blade had been pulled out of his side – so now he looks like he works in a slaughterhouse. Spencer, in particular, is very worried about it, and in turn Hotch is worried about him. Blood splattered across his face, his shirt and soaked into his sweater. It can't all be Hotch's. The blood was on him before he'd been stabbed.

They make it into his office, Hotch turns on a desk light that barely illuminates the darkness at such a late hour while Spencer scrambles for the first aid kit. They have to move fast, not knowing how much time they have before someone comes knocking.

It's clear Spencer is panicking, but so is Hotch, and when they come together the first thing he does is tug off Spencer's jacket and pull the shirt-tails loose from his trousers. He needs to see how bad the wound is, preying the younger man hadn't been grazed or pierced with a stray bullet.

"What are you doing?! Stop moving so much, you're injured!" Spencer protests, but even shaky from the post-adrenaline of the fight Hotch is stronger than him. He pulls the soaked sweater up to try and pry it off where the blood has begun to dry and grow tacky, making the layers stick together. God, it's everywhere.

"I'm fine! You're the one that's hurt," Hotch insists.

"Aaron, he stabbed you!"

"And you're drenched in blood!" He gets the sweater over Spencer's head, and the moment it's off the young doctor gets his bearings and grabs Hotch by the hands. Surprisingly strong, trembling in his haste.

"It's not mine!"

Hotch freezes at the tone, the words, and looks at him – really looks at him. Tears blurring his eyes, red speckled on his face in a distinct splatter pattern, what looks like a thumb print on the swell of his cheek. Tenderly placed.

The locket had been in his hand when he appeared. He'd used it. He'd gone back in time.

Slowly everything aligns and begins to make sense. The possibilities tick off as the seconds tick by, and Hotch feels his heart thumping loud and hard in his chest.

"Is it mine?" he asks.

Spencer swallows thick, a flicker of emotion so strong that it almost breaks their eye contact as it crosses his face. There and gone in the blink of an eye. Devastating as a hurricane. "I don't know." It's the truth, and yet it's not – Hotch tries to read behind the guarded veil of the man's eyes, his stare unblinking and pleading and everything Hotch wants to drown in. He reaches up and touches the side of Spencer's face, brushing back wild curls, hovering just above the smudged print. It's the same size and shape as his own thumb.

"And this?" he doesn't have to voice it, but it makes something shatter in Spencer's expression. He looks like he's about to cry. Hotch almost regrets bringing it up.

"Can I patch you up now?" Spencer asks, quiet and shaky.

"It's not bad," Hotch tells him, almost reassuring in the face of what he's just learned. "The bleeding stopped before we got out of the taxi–"

"Aaron," Spencer pleads.

And how could he ever say no?

Hotch strips out of his jacket and leather holsters wrapped around his shoulders, wincing at the pull of his muscles against his injuries, and then peels off his dress shirt bit by bit. The dried blood sticks to his skin, and it's as he lifts his undershirt that he realizes the change in the air. The charge of it. So distracting he forgets the old wounds now exposed among the new.

Spencer goes from maudlin to flustered within seconds, the most gorgeous shade of pink warming his skin, and he makes himself busy with the bandages and stitching thread from the first aid kit. But his gaze keeps darting up, skittering along every inch of the older man's torso. Hotch sports more than his fair share of scars from the war, the stab wound would just be one more, and there are spots blooming from bruises all along his sides and chest beneath the dark chest hair. Even roughed up as he is, Hotch can't help but wonder if his thumping heart is visible through his endorphin-damp skin.

"I know they aren't pretty, but you don't have to avert your eyes for my modesty," he tries to tease, to get the man to look at him once more – with only half honest intentions. Hotch still is not entirely certain Spencer isn't hiding an injury.

"It's not that," he mumbles, and Hotch leans against his desk with Spencer standing close to reach his wound in his side in the dim angled light. Knees knocking, Hotch's body curved like a question mark towards the man, as if he can't stay away for the life of him. "I just thought it was the shoulders of your suit jackets that made you look so… broad." His eyes flick up and then back down to where he's still trying to peel bandages apart with trembling fingers.

Hotch grants him mercy by not playing too much into that. Allowing Spencer to breathe, calm himself enough to stitch his side closed and clean it, his touch gentle on his bare skin, his scent enticing the closer they stand. Gravitating towards each other, inch by inch. The younger man thrums with contained adrenaline, energy, both spent and excess. What he must have seen that made him dare to use the artifacts, to go back mere minutes and keep it from happening.

There's no question in his mind, now, what happened.

"You saved my life," Hotch rumbles into the quiet buzz of the office. Dark and intimate. Spencer's honey hazel eyes catch the faintest traces of light, making them golden when he looks up to catch and snag with Hotch's own. God, but he is beautiful.

"You saved mine first."

"But not to your liking." It wasn't barbed, the way Hotch points this out, but it's enough to make the other man's strong will falter within his gaze. "You used the necklace. When you swore you wouldn't, again."

Spencer licks his lips slow, looking aside in the smallest show of shame. Guilt – for breaking his promise. But not sorry he did, not in the slightest. "The cost was too great to bear." Hotch frowns, then.

"You think my life is worth more than yours?" he accuses, more harshly.

"I don't think anyone's life is worth that."

Hotch huffs in disbelief, lightened by amazement and something much heavier making his heart still beat thickly against his bruised ribs. "Tell that to the guy you whacked with a silver tray. You're a hell of an ace in a firefight." He couldn't help but be impressed, at least on that front. It's Spencer's turn to let out a dubious sigh of laughter.

"You'd be the first to say that," he says, incredulousness weighing down his voice.

"Hey." Hotch tilts Spencer's chin up, daring to break that contact before he can think better of it. Skin on skin beneath both their hands, with Spencer's on his waist and Aaron's on the delicate dip of his chin beneath those parted lips. "I mean it. You had my back, I had yours; that's what partners do."

"Partners?" Spencer asks, breathless.

"Yes," Hotch sighs, smiles the smallest and easiest smile. He feels light as air. "Me and you, kid – we're in this together."

The last of the bandages are applied, and Spencer's touch is slow and hot along Hotch's bare skin. Burns right through him, to his core and further.

"See? Good as new," Hotch tells him. His voice heavy and dark. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

"Promise?" Spencer still sounds spooked, and the barriers between them have officially broken down to rubble. Nothing to hold them back. They're standing so close, barely any space between them. Spencer leans in, rests his forehead against Hotch's. It makes his heart thump loud and devastating against his ribs.

"Cross my heart."

He's not sure when he'd dropped his hand before, but Hotch's fingertips tingle with the loss of Spencer's flushed cheeks beneath his touch. So he reaches up again, cups his jaw, feels the younger man's pulse thrum and race in his throat, and Hotch tilts his face up once more. Their lips hover, Spencer's breath is soft and sweet as he exhales shakily, and Hotch wants to kiss him so badly it aches worse than the bruises. No, more than a kiss –

Hotch wants to inhale him like smoke, drink from those lips – taste him – and his last inhibition falls away as he succumbs to how much he wants and…

The phone rings. So loud and jarring Spencer flinches back, nearly jumping out of his skin. Hotch exhales in frustration – almost doesn't answer the shrill call. His fingers linger on Spencer's face, dragging along the younger man's jaw longingly. Spencer all but leans into the touch. As drunk on the moment as Hotch is. God, they'd been so close.

He reaches for the phone. Begrudgingly answers without looking away from Spencer's flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "Hotchner."

"Hotch, it's JJ," comes the reply, tinny and far away. "I've been trying to reach you all day. Glad I tried your office again."

"Yeah, impeccable timing," he murmurs, sulking. It draws a small smile to Spencer's lips, which lessens the blow not being able to taste them seconds ago. "What have you got for me?"

"I found your auction." That gets his attention right away, and Spencer's, too. He's still standing close enough to be able to hear JJ through the receiver. It takes more self-control than Hotch is willing to admit to not pull the other man into his side. See how well they fit together with less clothing between them. "Just one problem, it's already happened."

" – Wait, what?"

"Last Tuesday," JJ informs him. "On the upper side, private showroom and not a lot of above-board dealings. The numbers I heard were thrown around could buy a city block."

"Jesus Christ," Hotch runs a hand through his hair, thoughts whirling as it tries to get back on a business-minded track. "A week ago–"

"Sorry, Hotch. Everything you're looking for is long gone," JJ says, and does indeed sound sorry for it. "Probably halfway across the world, by now."

"Yeah," he agrees, scratching through his dark locks at the back of his head, and resigning himself to the fact he and Spencer had been chasing their tails for days. The artifacts had left the country before Hotch ever received that puzzle box outside his office door. "Thanks for the legwork, JJ. I owe you."

Hanging up throws the office back into silence, nothing but the buzz of electrical lights and a fan spinning by the window. The mood from before dissipated along with their goals for this case.

"What now?" Spencer asks, quiet and soft. Hotch looks at him, they're still less than a foot apart. He can feel the heat of him, still dressed in a blood splattered dress shirt and his hair ruffled from Hotch undressing him so quickly. Bags under his eyes – he hasn't been able to sleep with all their running around – and Hotch knows he probably isn't much better off. Roughed up and bruised, and still on the run from whoever hit the cigar lounge.

But that didn't make any sense. Why would someone be after them just for asking a few questions, if the artifacts were already out of the country? Just for the necklace and the box?

"We need to regroup," Hotch decides. "There's still too many puzzle pieces, and no place to lay them all out." Spencer nods in agreement, looking around the space as if assessing what was there to be used for such an endeavor. Hotch can already picture it; his secretary's bulletin board rolled out and pieces of paper strung up bit by bit as they worked the case out with their hands. And wouldn't that be wonderful, if they could. "No, we can't stay here."

"Why not?"

"My home and office will be there first place whoever's hit squad has our numbers will be looking for us." Hotch doesn't miss how Spencer's eyes trail over the cuts and bruises on his chest, the ones on his sides blooming to the exact size of the man's brass knuckles who got the better of him once or twice in Dave's office. They were really in rough shape, and Hotch was sure the Smithsonian and Spencer's place would be out of the question, as well. He sighs, unsure. "Any bright ideas?"

Spencer chews on his lip, that distant look in his eyes that Hotch was beginning to recognize. The wheels spinning in that brilliant, gorgeous mind. "One," he murmurs, surprising Hotch once more. "My mentor – the eccentric one? We can go to him."

"You'd risk that?" Hotch asks. Thinking of Spencer's friends, how lovely and helpful they'd been. He knows both Srgt. Morgan and Ms. Garcia would give them shelter and aid in an instant, but neither he nor Spencer would want to put them in that kind of danger.

"We'll be safe there," Spencer assures him. "He is discreet, when he wants to be, and holds a lot of academic and political pull over a lot of people. More favors than he'd ever admit to." That sounded slightly ominous. "And his home is a fortress."

Well, God bless for small favors.

"Sounds perfect."

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tbc…

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Next Chapter➡

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Tagged list so far: @physics-magic @thaddeusly @sideblogforcrimpy @anxious-enby @t4tpoisondamage

(To be added to the taglist just send me a message via comment, reblog, ask, or DM!)

#short chapter very sorry #it was getting too long winded #and yes I know I'm known for that but this story has pretty short concise chapters and I wanted to keep that going #but good news lol chapter 09 is already written so that'll be up very soon #HotchReid #Heid #The construct of time #cw wounds #tw blood #whump and first aide stuff #katyswriting

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starzzyeyed · 4 months

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Spencer/hotchreid and 32 :)

-love from dear little rattie xxxxxx

I know you chose the angstiest prompt you could see, so here, have some angst! <3

32 - Hugging a pillow because you wish it were someone else.

Small tw for mentions of episode-related non consensual drug use.

He’s taken to the East Georgia Regional Medical Center.

He knows, logically, that he couldn’t not be really; not after what he’s been through.

But that doesn’t stop him from feeling overwhelmed and anxious at the mere thought of the tests that will have to be run, the doctors and nurses who will be prodding him with hands and questions, the narcotics that will show up in his urine test that he will no doubt have to provide on arrival.

The positive result shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone; he’s sure the team have seen the track marks on his arms by now. Not to mention the fact that he knows a good portion of the time he was high was live streamed to them.

Getting to the hospital and being triaged seems to pass in a blur, and Spencer half wonders if he’s still high, if the effects of the drugs haven’t worn off as quickly as they had done after the previous doses that Tobias gave him. Even so, he’s managing fairly well right up until the moment the nurse comes in to kick Hotch and JJ out.

“He needs rest, and we’ll need to fit a catheter, which as I’m sure you can imagine is a private procedure,” the nurse tells Hotch, not fazed at all by the way he’s glaring at her, arms folded across his chest.

Her tone of voice clearly indicates that she’s used to friends and family digging their heels in and refusing to leave, and while Spencer is sure for most people, the thought of having their boss witness the procedure of getting fitted with a catheter is the stuff of nightmares, right now the opposite seems infinitely worse.

“No, no it’s- it’s okay, Hotch can stay,” he stammers, but as soon as the nurse directs her gaze towards him he knows speaking was pointless. She’s not going to let anyone in the room who isn’t a medical professional, no matter what he or Hotch do or say.

“This is ridiculous. He should be allowed to request that someone stays with him during the procedure if that’s what he wants. Do you have any idea what he’s just been through?” Hotch is saying, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Spencer’s already resigned himself to the fate of having to endure this process alone.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s protocol. I’ll have to ask you to step outside now,” the nurse says, extending an arm to guide Hotch out of the room, away from the place he’s needed most of all, and Spencer can’t bear to watch.

He knows he should feel as though the worst is behind him, and it is, really, but the fact that he’s now going to have to face the next few moments entirely alone apart from the doctor and nurse performing the procedure feels too much to cope with.

The only thing that has kept him going the last few days, while he was held at the mercy of Hankel’s multiple personalities, was the thought of his mom, his team and Hotch.

The feeling of Hotch’s hands on his as he’d helped him stand from the side of Tobias’s body, the feeling of Hotch’s arms wrapped tightly around his body when he’d practically flung himself into the older man’s grasp… he wants nothing more than to feel those arms around him again right now.

But instead, Hotch has been banished to the waiting room, and Spencer’s left with nothing but the doctor and nurse. They’re nice enough, and they take their time explaining what’s going to happen to him, which he appreciates, but they’re still strangers and the only person he wants right now is Hotch.

Despite all the explanations, the feeling of unfamiliar hands touching him after being at the hands of Hankel, especially when they’re touching places where even he doesn’t touch himself often has panic rising in his chest, and in a desperate attempt not to give into the anxiety, Spencer grabs hold of one of the pillows from under his head, clutching it against his chest.

“We’re nearly done, Dr. Reid. Just keep taking deep breaths,” the nurse says kindly, and although Spencer’s grateful that they’re being so kind, all he can focus on is the pressure of the pillow against his chest. If he closes his eyes tightly enough he can almost imagine it’s Hotch’s body; that same strong body that had held him so tightly in the graveyard, the arms that had encircled his back and held him close. It’s not as good as the real thing, no where near in fact, but it works, and by the time the doctor has finished, Spencer no longer feels on the verge of a panic attack. He’s not sure he’s ever been more grateful to see Hotch’s face in the doorway when he’s allowed back into the room, though.

#starzzy writes hotchreid #hotchreid #hotchreid fic #hotchreid fics #hotch x reid #hotchreid fanfic #hug prompts asks #hug fills

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electricsockhead · 3 years

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moreid and mortch but like,,,, no hotchreid >:(

#please someone tell me they agree with me #pls pls pls #criminal minds #moreid #mortch #tw: hotchreid #tw hotchreid #hotchreid tw

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fightingdragonswithwho · 2 years

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AARON HOTCHNER + SPENCER REID

↳ FAVOURITE MOMENTS

Requested by: @galaxyspencer. I hope you like this!! <3

#aaron hotchner #spencer reid #hotchreid #criminal minds #criminalminds #criminalmindsedit #cmedit #cm 1x06 #cm 2x12 #cm 2x14 #cm 10x11 #cm 3x16 #cm 5x22 #aaron hotchner edit.#spencer reid edit.#.gif.#tw:. flashing #cw.: flashing #ana.gif.

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truegenius · 3 years

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Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid | L.D.S.K

taglist: @morcias @wheelsup @ssa-sarahsunshine @reidgifs @hqtchner @tobias-hankel @ellesgreenaway @willowrose99 @garcias-bitch @scandinavian-punk @spencers-renaissance @enbyfaerie @altsvu @makaylajadewrites @taralewiz @ellyhotchner @reidtheprettyboy @moreidsdaughter @hotchsbabygirl @flwrslou @hag4fagmegstiel @reidology @goobzoop @morceid @gubeskneescrew

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tobias-hankel · 1 year

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Heeeeeyy Daddy~ Love of my life. Sweetie pie. Cutie patootie with a knife— wait put that down. Maze!

Ahem, anyways— I want some Alpha Hotch protecting his Omega pls UwU idk how or what or if it’s spicy or just him being overly protective (maybe another Alpha is making eyes at HIS mate? 👀). Just gimmie the feels pls!

And not the knife!

I'm taking Hotchreid drabble requests in honor of the Hotchreid Zine release.

For more information about our Hotchreid Zine, make sure to check out Tumblr - all proceeds go to SharedHope, a charity to combat sex trafficking.

Cw Omegaverse, unwanted scenting, unwanted sexual advances

Spencer being an omega wasn’t a secret, but it also wasn’t something the team talked about. With a mix of suppressants and being scented by his mate, Hotch, people often thought he was a beta or a low-ranking alpha, but every now and then an officer or fellow agent would find out Spencer was an omega – the only omega in the FBI at that – and decide to harass him because of it.

Spencer insisted he could handle himself though. He didn’t want to be coddled, even if sometimes he needed it.

Like now.

The team was currently on a case. Everything was going well until one of the officers looked Spencer up and found a news article about Spencer being an omega in the FBI. Now he wouldn’t leave Spencer alone.

Spencer did his best to ignore his snide remarks and sexual advances but when the rest of the team had to leave to different assignments for the case, he found himself wishing he had his alpha to protect him.

“Hey little omega, all alone?” The officer said as he walked into the conference room Spencer was in, shutting the door behind him. Spencer didn’t answer the man and just kept staring at the board he was looking at. “Why don’t you come with me, huh?” The man got closer, placing a hand on Spencer’s hip.

Spencer backed away sharply. “I’m working, please leave me alone.”

“It can wait, baby,” the officer said as he took a step closer while smirking. It only took a second for Spencer to register what the officer was doing as his senses started to cloud with the scent of alpha. It was illegal to purposely scent someone else without their consent. While it did sometimes happen on accident, it was clear by the look on the alpha’s face that he was trying to overpower Spencer.

“I—I already have an alpha. You n-need to leave,” Spencer said, taking slow breaths and trying to think around the overwhelming scent. No matter how strong an omega was, there was only so much they could do when it came to an alpha scenting them. The scent spoke to their most basic needs of an omega – to find an alpha and breed.

“Shhh,” the officer placed his hand back on Spencer’s hip. “Come on, omega. So sweet for me,” the officer grabbed Spencer’s chin and leaned only inches away from Spencer’s face so that his scent would be even stronger. “Just let go and come with me.”

Spencer could feel his eyes water as his mind started to blur. All he could think of was alpha, alpha, alpha – but not this alpha. He didn’t want this man; he wanted his alpha. “…Aaron… Alpha…” Spencer started to mumble. He had no idea that Hotch was walking through the doors of the police station at that same moment. Once Hotch got inside, he felt something wrong with his omega and raced towards him.

Spencer didn’t even hear the door slam open as Hotch ran in, smelled what the alpha was doing, saw his crying omega, and punched the officer in the face without a single word. The punch made the officer pull his scent back and Spencer gasped as he could finally breathe again.

“Alpha!” Spencer cried, reaching out for Hotch. Spencer never called Hotch alpha in public, so he knew he was shaken up. He quickly wrapped him in his arms and scented him gently – not enough that he couldn’t think, just enough to calm the omega down.

Emily and Morgan came into the room next, quickly figuring out what happened and feeling a flame light under them with the knowledge of someone messing with Spencer.

“Arrest him for omega abuse,” Hotch said to Emily and Morgan before he guided Spencer to the sofa that was in the corner of the room.

Once they sat down, Spencer said, “I was so scared I wouldn’t be able to stop him… I only want you, Alpha…”

“I know, sweetheart. You are safe now,” Hotch said before pressing a kiss onto Spencer’s head.

#ask #Sarah #when did you change your tumblr name #maze's drabbles #maze 5 sentence prompt #hotchreid #heid #hotchreid prompt #tw omegaverse #omegaverse #omega spencer reid #alpha aaron hotchner #criminal minds #thank youuu

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sams-fluffadise · 2 years

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HotchReid, a lil comfort blurb, TW mention of school shooting, suicide and bullying (case related)

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"Hey, are you alright?", Hotch sat down on the seat next to Reid's, who had been staring out of the window with a book opened in his lap for the better part of an hour.

They were on the jet, flying back from a rough case. A school shooting.

Spencer had been the only one able to build rapport with the young Unsub over shared school experiences. He was in the room when the kid shot himself.

Reid looked over at Hotch, fixing him with a calculating expression, before asking: "Do you remember when you told me relating to the unsub made me good at my job?"

Hotch nodded, unsure where the other agent was going with this.

"I don't know if you were right. I-", he let his eyes wander away from Aaron’s face, uncertain how much he should tell him, "I think I could have saved Simon if I could have been able to see clearer. I want to be able to say I looked at the situation detached from my own emotions, my own feelings. I want to be able to say I got over what happened to me. But I am not."

Aaron looks around the plane before he puts his hand on Reid’s knee, quietly saying: “Look Spencer, in our job we need to be able to work with any situation we are given and do our best no matter what. But we are still human. And if JJ gives a little more on cases that involve children or if Morgan has a worse temper on cases involving abusers, then that is not weakness. It’s humanity."

He paused and smiled after a moment, adding: “Though god only forbid anyone above my pay grade finds out we are capable of it.”

Reid let out a startled laugh. Even after years of working together he still wasn’t used to his bosses dry sense of humour that would appear at the most random of times.

That made Hotch smile even more, when the young man looked back at him, thanking him. Then he put his own hand on the one on his knee and squeezed slightly. It was the most intimate they would allow themselves to be at work.

#criminal minds #comfort blurb #tw school shooting #tw bullying #hotchreid #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #tw mention of suicide

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sasarahsunshine · 2 years

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Alpha Hotch courting Omega Reid by bringing an extra go-bag filled with packed dinners, a thermos of good coffee, and an Omega-brand spare blanket. He purposefully leaves it alongside Reid’s bag so Reid grabs it when they all go to their motel rooms (whether he’s roomed with Reid or not).

Reid, late on their first night of the new case, accidentally opens the extra bag instead of his own, and is confused as to who it must belong to.

He’s so tired, he doesn’t put much more thought into it once he pulls out the blanket and smells Hotch on it, an unconscious purr escaping him as he bundles up with it on the bed, falling asleep in seconds surrounded by the safe scent of comfort and warmth.

In the morning, he’s a little mortified, thinking he must have accidentally taken Hotch’s bag and slept with Hotch’s spare blanket—but then he sees the letter in Hotch’s handwriting:

“I know I’m not the best cook, but I hope this is better than what you find in the vending machine. Sleep well. -Aaron”

Then he registers the food and the coffee, warming it all up in the motel rooms microwave (once he snaps himself out of his daze).

It’s delicious. He’s purring again, wrapped up in the blanket and eating food an Alpha made for him. Not just any Alpha, Hotch. Aaron. Aaron is taking care of him. Providing for him. Courting him.

He notices how Aaron glances at him when they meet up at the station, a small smile on the Alpha’s face when he notes that Spencer looks well rested and fed—and that he’s still carrying the thermos with whatever coffee is left.

They don’t say anything to each other about it yet, they’re at work, but Spencer knows that it’s only a matter of time before Aaron approaches him and asks properly to begin courting.

He’s sure he’ll say yes.

(Tagging under the cut)

Tagging: @tobias-hankel @finitegrayfics @merpancake @bau-gremlin @kuolonsyoja @physics-magic @brillianthijinx @sparklinspence @kittykatspence @thesilverqueenlady @mintphoenix @heart-strong @marvel-ous-m @aaron-hotchner187 @hothotchner @zoeschnauzi1 @opheliaaurora @astoriaandromeda @sweettoothlolol @perseus-jackass @m-mhotchner @castielryan

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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 2 years

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The Construct of Time, Chapter 07

Pairing: HotchReid

Written For: The HotchReid Valentine’s Day Trope Challenge, Trope Assignments = Historical AU, Time Travel

Rating: Mature/Explicit (to be determined)

Chapter CW/notes: FIGHT SCENES; blood, knives, stabbing, guns, shooting people, typical brawling fight scene. Injuries that look very grave (but aren’t, breathe easy my friends) as well as alcohol and smoking, as per the era. We’re closing in on the end here, folks, so we will see if I actually manage to finish this story this month. That’s the goal. Next month I have... a different fic starting. 👀 Hopefully. Written in a rush, apologies all around, hope you enjoy.

Word Count: 3121

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

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Chapter 07: Allies and Oppositions

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By the time they reach the secluded back alley streets of the lower District, the sun is already making the sky bruise and bleed arrays of colors. It’s hard to imagine that just that morning they’d left the Smithsonian when the same sun was just beginning to rise. How Spencer is still on his feet is merely another miracle Hotch can’t even begin to fathom.

Inside the cigar lounge, the late afternoon crowd littered along bar stools and poker tables is the same as the day before. Even Emily hasn’t moved from her seat at the end of the bar, a new dress and lipstick color, dark eyes catching Hotch’s and then sliding easily back to Spencer’s presence just behind him. An artfully raised eyebrow and knowing smirk hidden behind her martini glass. She could make all the assumptions she wanted, Hotch ignores her and ushers the good historian through the establishment. Spencer looks very much out of place – but he doesn’t make himself smaller, or shy away from the suspicious looks thrown their direction. He stands tall, following Hotch dutifully, with an air that he has every right to be there. Same as anyone else. From his completely unbothered expression and the best poker face Hotch has seen in a long while, he is very convincing. Nothing to see here. Mind your business.

That is, until Rossi announces their presence.

“Aaron! Twice in one week? People will talk,” he exclaims, teasing, yet hurrying to greet them at the door before the usual litany of patrons could offer their own. He only stalls his movements when he spots Spencer. “And you brought company. You spoil me. Come, come, into my office.”

The door shutting behind them is as much a statement as anything ever could be.

“Dave, this is Dr. Spencer Reid of the Smithsonian. He’s the expert I mentioned to you. Dr. Reid,” he emphasizes, turning to Spencer and catching the young man’s amused gaze. Knowing full well why Hotch had put so much effort into calling him by his moniker. “This is David Rossi. He’s an… entrepreneur.” Dave does not have the decency to hold back his bark of laughter. “We met when I was still a prosecutor for the District Attorney’s office.”

Spencer nods, clutching the strap on his satchel, murmuring a greeting of the Old Country that Hotch couldn’t have pronounced if he’d tried. Dave smiles wide, at that, and orders them all a round of scotch. Spencer’s quick look to Hotch has a knowing glint, the words ‘Crime Boss’ coming back to him in flashing neon letters.

“It’s a pleasure, Doctor Reid, but we’re all friends here. No need for formalities. Come in, sit down, take a load off. You look like you’re about to topple over.” Spencer nods again, opens his mouth to say something when Dave waves him off. “No need, I’ve pulled all-nighters before. I think you might need a pick-me-up instead of a libation.” And in true David Rossi fashion, picks up his phone and calls his bartender on the other side of the establishment. They could see him answer the call through the office windows. “Anderson, a Caffè con Panna for our guest. Grazie.”

“You could have literally opened the door and said it to him,” Hotch chastises, even toned.

“Privacy is half appearances, Aaron,” Dave chides back. “If the door opens and closes so fiverously then anyone could walk in. Now, help me out over here,” he nods to the bar stand behind his desk, and Spencer sits where he was instructed. Indeed looking like if he hadn't sat down he would have simply fallen, the couch about to swallow him whole.

Hotch hovers over Dave’s shoulder as the man gets a polished silver tray set up with their scotch and ice. “Do you need me to hold your hand while you overpour our drinks?” he drawls. This was a little ridiculous, even for Dave.

But the older man merely smiles that wry smirk, as if he knows more than most. “Don’t think it’s my hand you want to be holding.” Hotch goes stock still, and David doesn’t even acknowledge the strong set of the Inspector’s jaw. “So – how did you meet him?”

“You remember Sam Cooper?”

“Of course,” Dave chuckles lightly. “Gentlest hand-cuffing of my life. Such a charmer, that Cooper. Proper officer of the law.” Hotch glares at him. “Oh relax. You were too, once upon a time.”

“I still am.”

“Fairly certain you weren’t allowed to run amuck all over the city just to impress some young thing with a Ph.D. and pretty eyes.” Dave’s knowing look gets obnoxiously more pointed as Hotch’s blood pressure spikes in anxious panic. “You two crazy kids have been having a time of it, haven’t you?” He presses a scotch into Hotch’s hands, and picks up the tray to ferry the rest. “Better get to brass tacks, then, so you can carry on wooing. God, I should have known. No wonder you never married.”

He leaves Hotch standing there in shock, places the tray down and allows Anderson in to give Spencer the freshly prepared Italian espresso and cream. It smells divine, but even that isn’t enough to shake Hotch from his stupor. Just how obvious were he and Spencer being? Everyone they talk to seemed to know what was going on, or what was about to being going on –

Professionalism. Come on, Hotchner, you’re a skilled and seasoned professional, an expert in your field. Act like it.

“So I spoke with my eccentric friend,” Dave says, swirling his scotch in his glass and leaning back in his high back chair. Looking for all the world like he hadn’t said anything seconds before. Hotch sits very slow and careful next to Spencer, keeping a modest amount of space between them. If Spencer notices, he doesn’t say a word.

“You worked that quick,” Hotch points out, keeping his attorney-honed, Harvard taught impassivity firmly in place.

“What can I say? It’s a slow week,” he shrugs.

“Ironic, since ours has been busy since the get-go.”

“Some folks are just born lucky,” Dave smirks. “So, like I said – the auction you’re looking for? Found out it was set up by an old friend of mine.”

“Now, when you say friend,” Hotch pries, and David Rossi gives him an oil slick smile that falls away just as fast as it appears.

“I do mean friend. We haven’t done business together in so long I don’t know how I would even go about it, now,” he admits. “His mindset has shifted quite a bit since I first met him. Decades ago. No jokes, young man,” he points at Hotch, who just gives him a look.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you were thinkin’ it,” Dave mumbles at him. “I found the where-abouts of the building and what’s on the auction block, sounds right up your alley, but not a date or time. Yet.” There’s a heavy promise behind it. “I didn’t plan on you reappearing in my office only a day later. You two move fast.”

The double meaning was not lost on any of them. Spencer coughs and looks down to hide how his face burns red. Hotch just glares at Dave, unimpressed.

“Oh, come on. It’s funny.”

“Hilarious,” Hotch drawls.

“How often do I get to poke fun at you and your life choices,” Dave questions glibly.

“About every single meeting since I’ve met you.”

“Then you’d think you would be used to it by now, wouldn’t you?”

Hotch catches Spencer smiling with his head still ducked down, snagging his gaze when he looks at him accusingly too long. Spencer exhales in a laugh he can’t contain. “Traitor,” Hotch murmurs. Spencer bites his lip to keep from smiling any wider.

“So when do you talk to your friend again?” Hotch asks, knowing full well that whatever information Dave had exchanged by phone was probably tapped and had to be kept brief. Only meetings in person got any real meat when it came to hitting up a source.

“We’re scheduled to have lunch at the Plaza tomorrow. So if you can hold your horses until then, I’ll have more for you.”

“Fair enough,” Hotch requiesces. “But that’s not the reason we came calling today.” Dave makes a ‘go-on’ gesture with his scotch glass. “We just got a phone transcript that talked about a charter flight taking these museum artifacts to the Middle East. And they’re leaving from your airfield.”

“Putting me to work today, aren’t you,” Dave rumbles, draining his glass and sitting up behind his desk. Pulling out a large leather-bound book and flipping through to a couple half-filled pages. “All my planes are out of state or out of country, so I’m not sure who in their right mind thinks they can use my airfield for smuggling.”

“It’s a small cargo charter called Quantico, headed to Qatar–” Hotch trails off as Dave looks up at them careful, slow, a distant look in his eyes that masks his shock well. Hotch had seen it enough, both in and out of a courtroom, to recognize it well. “What?”

“...I know about that flight,” he tells them. Even and calculated. “That’s my plane.”

“Yours?” Hotch is now just as shocked.

“Who else do you know names their planes after cities nearby? It throws air traffic control for a loop every time, and makes the wire-tap transcripts look downright squirrely.”

Hotch gives him an unimpressed look.

“The plane, Dave?”

“I approved that charter a week ago. It’s long gone,” Dave tells them, shutting the leather tome.

“But, the conversation was only a few days ago –” Spencer says, confused but only so much. He looks like he’s trying to connect dots in his head, eyes moving and reading things that aren’t there. What Hotch wouldn’t give to see how his thought process works.

“They must have been trying to cheat the paperwork, throw off the feds,” Rossi suggests. That’s what he would have done, obviously. “Or you, if they knew you’re looking for their loot.”

“Yeah, maybe–” Hotch rubs a hand along his jaw, not convinced in the slightest. It just wasn’t adding up, not in the way he was used to. The timelines were all messed up, and usually the timelines are what held the key to the case.

Little did he know, this time would be no different.

—

No one expected the Cigar Lounge to be ambushed.

Who would be stupid enough to butt up against the David Rossi and his associates? What could possibly be that important? Hotch could only think of one thing, and it frightens him to the point of blinded action.

Shouting proceeds the gunfire, cutting off their conversation abruptly, but ricochets just as terribly. Sends the patrons up and moving, half none the wiser until they see the sheen of the lamplight off of gunmetal. A man in the most nondescript suit Hotch has ever seen bursts into the lounge first, three more identical goons right behind him, flashing military-grade weapons as long as a man’s arm. All dressed in the same suit. Brooks Brothers must be having a sale. The first man doesn’t fire a gun, just cuts across the lounge to Rossi’s office like no force of God could stop him.

He bursts through the door, determination a dead look in his dark eyes, and Hotch is on his feet before the goon even draws his pistol. Throwing off his sport coat, black gun holsters stark against his shirt, strapped around his arms and back, but there’s no time for him to draw his own firearms. He’s across the office in an instant, years of boxing at Harvard (one of the school’s favorite pastimes) taking over as he throws a jab and hook combination that certainly makes him feel more competent in the moment than he should be.

Hotch disarms the man, pistol-whips him with his own gun, but the guy is built like a brick wall. Barely blinks at the blood dripping down his face. It’s enough of a shock that Hotch doesn’t see the glint of steel wrapped around the man's knuckles. Heavy ringed and sharp edged. Hotch barley softens the blows, a slice across his cheek for his mistake, a few bruised ribs for good measure. His military training takes over, and he puts the man in the ground. But he barely gets a second to breathe, looking up to find that the lounge is now flooded with more goons than he can count. How they are making it past the lifetime criminals in the lobby and Emily at the bar, Hotch can’t be sure. He also catches glints of light and smoke from behind the bartop as Anderson fires off a hunting rifle, pecking off men in trench coats one by one like he’s shooting clay pigeons. Dave needs to give that man a raise.

The fight is chaos, a blind rush of movement and fists and spiked adrenaline, and it’s only a matter of time before the gunfire enters Dave’s office – they are already trickling in one by one – and there’s one person that Hotch promised Ms. Penelope Garcia he would keep out of a gunfight. Despite the pandemonium, Hotch knows for certain of two things:

He remembers pushing Spencer behind him, towards the back corner of Dave’s office that conceals a private exit. For instances such as this.

He remembers telling Spencer to run, leaving no room for argument. Turns back to fight off the force closing in on them. They were really breaking through into the office, now. The particularly vicious looking man with the bloody face is back on his feet, right in front of him, sudden and moving fast into his space now armed with a steel blade seemingly from nowhere–

Which would mean Spencer should have been at Hotch’s back, safe from harm. The man would have to go through Hotch to reach him. And Hotch was ready to fight with all his might to give the young doctor a head start.

But that isn't what happens.

Spencer is at his back, Hotch knows this, feels him disappear down the exit stairs – therefore, Hotch should not now see Spencer on the other side of the room. In the middle of the chaos. The alchemy locket’s fine golden chain wrapped around his wrist, armed with the silver tray they’d served scotch on moments before. He hits the man over the head with the tray as hard as he can, the sheen of it matching the knife inches from Hotch’s throat. The blow stuns the man, Hotch knocks the knife aside in the blink of an eye, and before they can recover the office is finally flooded with people. Rossi’s guards, patrons, more of the bland grey suits and angry faces trying to get to Hotch and Spencer. More than one set of beady black eyes zeroing in on the young scholar’s satchel.

Whoever these men-for-hire were, they had their orders. That much is clear. They are after the remaining artifacts.

Knives, pistols, fists and boots fly in all directions. Hotch pulls Spencer behind him, again, gets double teamed and a few more nasty cuts for his efforts. But with Spencer trapped behind him in a different corner, now unable to reach the exit door, he has nothing but his body to block the younger man.

“I thought we said we weren’t going to use the locket again!” he snaps, glancing back. But there’s a haunted look in Spencer’s wide eyes, and bright crimson blood speckled in a spray across one side of his face. Hotch freezes at the sight. “You’re hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer barely manages, and Hotch feels his blood pressure spike.

“No, you’re not! You’re covered in–”

Spencer grabs him by the gun hostlers across his shoulders, and yanks with every ounce of strength he has, tugging him right out of the line of fire from an opponent Hotch hadn’t had a chance to see. Too focused on the blood, on Spencer’s fear – on his patient yet terrified determination. A switchblade pierces Hotch’s side instead of the center of his chest, and the rush of adrenaline propels him forward. Lashing out and knocking the goon unconscious.

Too little, too late.

“Damnit!” He’s bleeding through his shirt, and Spencer is white as a sheet, disbelief and alarm taking over every inch of his expression. There’s blood on his jacket and shirt but no wounds Hotch can see. He needs to get a look at him. If Spencer was grazed by a bullet sometimes people couldn’t even feel it hit them. Not with everything else going on.

“You alright?!” Rossi yells over the commotion, most of the goons dead on the floor, or wishing they were. The remaining few are being dragged out by the calvary, Dave’s own men-for-hire that are much bigger with more sense to them hauling men to their feet and dragging them kicking and shouting in various languages all the way. “Looks like a nasty papercut.”

“I’ll live.”

“Good. Get them out of here,” he says over his shoulder, and suddenly Emily is there beside Spencer and Hotch. Her twin thigh pistols no bigger than the palm of her hand, hot to the touch and smoking from gunfire. She and Spencer help Hotch to his feet, despite the older man’s protests (Spencer has blood on him, “For Christ’s sake, Emily!” “And you’re about to bleed out, yourself, Aaron. Shut it.”), and she ushers them both out the back door. Dave slinging Hotch’s long coat about his shoulders, it barely hides the injury as they stumble into the street. Spencer under his shoulder, the closest they’ve ever been pressed together – and it’s sticky blood seeping through their dress shirts that keeps them that way.

The sun is setting on Washington D.C., and Hotch hails a taxi for the first time in years. Anything to get them across the District as fast as possible. He knows where they need to go – can even possibly hope to go – next, but they won’t be able to stay there for long. Whoever sent a small infantry after them at David Rossi’s place would no doubt be hot on their heels.

He'd had no idea someone was actually willing to kill them for the puzzle box, or even knew they had it. Now, they'd be the most wanted men in the city.

They are running out of safe places, safe faces, and despite the fact they are so close to solving this case – and Hotch now knows he would do anything to keep the man beside him alive. Job be damned.

—

tbc…

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