Usual disclaimers. Not mine, all hail the whole gang at CM and CBS
This is the second of four followups to "From Me to You," in the Home Demo world. Because of the nature of this exchange, this is rated T. However, the rest of the series is emphatically M.
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The Nature of Gravity
It wasn't a fancy meal. It was a kind of ad hoc BAU guys' night out at Aaron's, a spaghetti dinner with the sauce out of a jar and just tarted up a little with some spices and 'shrooms, the garlic bread courtesy of some supermarket freezer section, but the wine was outstanding and flowed freely.
They laughed, they bitched, they played a little poker, then the party broke up.
Reid stayed behind to help with clean-up because – well, because he was Reid.
But after Morgan, Rossi, Kevin Lynch and Anderson and the guys from the second unit were gone, Spencer cleared his throat. "hey, Hotch?"
He raised an eyebrow. He knew that tone.
"Can we have kind of a fluffernutter moment here?"
It was like Reid to phrase it that way, almost timidly, because in most circumstances, that was the way he presented. The fact that he was requesting that he, Reid, assume the role of Dominant and that Aaron submit to him, just made the timidity that much more surreal.
"Of course," he whispered, his whole world-view shifting into a familiar and comfortable alternative pattern.
Spencer was in charge now, Spencer, who had taught him how to let go of his need to be in control, Spencer who had shown him what real ecstasy could mean, who had shown him shadows and angles of his own personality that he had not even known existed.
Spencer was his master for as long as they were in fluffernutter.
He waited for Spencer to command him, but the young agent continued to stand there with his hip resting against the table, his thin arms across his narrow chest.
Given no directions, Hotchner turned around again and leaned over the sink with the water running. He felt Reid moving closer to him, and he stood still, waiting for an order. He could feel the young man's heat radiating off him, or maybe it was his power, or maybe it was just the way he could take all of Aaron's ragged edges, knit them together, and focus them into white heat.
"Prentiss asked me a question the other night," he said at last, his voice careful, logical. "One that got me thinking."
Aaron began to turn, but Spencer said, "No, just keep on with what you're doing. I don't want to interrupt you."
Hotch slid the plates and cutlery into the water, frankly a little nervous about what subject Reid might hesitate to raise, when he was in charge, after all.
"I want your ass," Reid said at last, quietly. "I think it's time."
Aaron felt dazed, disoriented. He wondered whether he was going to faint. He kept his eyes on the water running over the dishes in the sink.
No wonder Reid had wanted him facing away. He knew Hotch would want to hide his fear, his doubts. As a master, Reid had always demonstrated the greatest wisdom. He knew Hotch as nobody else ever had. Or ever could. Aaron had no reservations about trusting Reid with his body, his mind, and his spirit. A few months ago he would have considered this attitude unnatural and creepy. Now, it was just common sense.
"You've always known it had to happen sooner or later."
"Yes." His voice was barely audible. He had known. Eventually, all possible barriers would have to fall, at least once, symbolically. He had agreed to that at the outset.
Accept the inevitable. Then move on to what might be negotiated. "Who?" he managed to whisper.
Reid was directly behind him. "I was hoping to do it myself," he said. He settled his hands gently on Aaron's hips, taking no liberties. Just a presence – a weight reminding him who commanded him. "Would that present a problem?"
Yes. No. I don't know. Can I have a week to think about it?
He moved the faucet back and forth over the plates, watching the last of the pasta sauce swirl down the drain.
How can I think when you're so close to me? When you're touching me? Owning me?
Leaving the dishes, moving like an automaton, he shut off the water. He dried his hands on the towel that hung from a decorative cabinet pull. Clinging to the edge of the counter, he struggled to concentrate. He tried to breathe slowly, evenly.
Better Spencer than Morgan, or even Julian. He just might die of shame if one of Reid's other bottoms were to break him in, cross that last boundary.
Still – I'm not ready.
Reid had the good grace to back off. Aaron heard the scrape of a chair along the kitchen floor, heard the creak as Spencer settled his narrow rump on the corduroy cushion.
He turned. Spencer sat at the far end of the table with his right ankle resting on his left knee, gazing into space. His facial expression was bland, neutral.
Hotchner resumed his own chair. Elbows on his knees, he rested his chin on his linked hands. Rubbed his face. Laced his hands again and pressed his brow to his knuckles.
He couldn't sit still. He rose again, picked up the grated cheese and the other condiments and started returning them to their cabinet and refrigerator shelves. Reid was like stone, unmoving, unmoved. Aaron discovered a stray spoon on the stove and carried it to the sink. He set it on top of the plates and started the water again.
I can't keep doing this.
He dried his hands again although they were not wet. Replaced the towel on the cabinet pull.
Saw a slight movement, almost a pill-rolling movement, in Reid's right hand. Impatience?
No, no, please don't give up on me!
Shivering, swallowing all his hope, his pride, and his physical integrity, he dropped to his knees before the slim younger agent. He clasped his hands together on his thighs, bowed his head low, and in a hushed whisper said, "Whatever pleases you, sir."
One slender finger traced along his left eyebrow and he swayed, half-drunk with delight that his master of choice – and it truly was his choice to worship this young man – still approved of him.
"But I'm afraid," he breathed miserably.
And suddenly Reid was on his own knees, face to face with him. "I will be so gentle, my dear Aaron," he said, stroking Hotchner's hair obsessively. "I will be so tender."
He lifted Hotch's chin and kissed him on his mouth – something he had never done before.
"I promise you."
He was stunned, because gestures and words of romance, affection, or even of sexual connection, had never been part of their peculiar off-hours relationship. They were master and submissive, and while there was occasionally an orgasm of mind-blowing intensity, Hotchner did not consider either Reid or himself gay, or anything, really. Their genotypes and their orientations were irrelevant to their shared experience. Their relationship was all about power and control.
But now as he stared into those eyes exactly the color of graham crackers, he heard himself whisper, "Please do that again."
Reid tugged on his arm until he was kneeling upright, not sitting back on his heels, and wrapped one arm around his waist. "You'll allow this? You're shaking."
Am I? Yes, I suppose I am.
He tried to say yes and failed to make a sound, so he nodded his head as firmly as he could manage.
"Keep your hands to yourself," Spencer ordered, and he let his hands drop to his sides. Again Reid raised his chin; again he pressed his lips against Hotchner's, slowly, gently. Aaron sighed and closed his eyes, surrendering to the sensation.
"Do you trust me, precious Aaron?" Reid whispered against his mouth.
"With my life," he moaned, drowning in gratitude for his master's sweetness and affection. "With every breath in my body."
Spencer gathered him tight in his arms and kissed him deeply, his tongue exploring the unit chief's unresisting mouth. Aaron sighed and whimpered in delight and dimly realized that, like the heroines in cheesy romance novels, he was swooning in Reid's arms.
Like a drunkard.
Like a suicide, toppling ecstatically from a bridge. Spinning in space in perfect surrender to gravity.
He also noticed, as the fronts of their bodies pressed tightly together, that neither of them was sporting any wood. Whatever this was, it wasn't about sex. What it was was beautiful and pure and rare. It was not something that would happen every day, or even every year.
His master, his center, his gravity, valued him.
"When?" he rasped.
Reid's fingers explored his face hungrily. "Soon," he breathed, "Not just yet, but soon."
"I'll be ready," he promised.
Reid held him and rocked him slowly for a minute or so, then whispered, "Are you ready to be released?"
Spencer never did that, either, never asked whether he was ready. He always was. But not tonight, and somehow his master – consistently wise – had known. Aaron drank in one last deep draught of Reid's warmth and approval, the tenderness and control that steadied him, that kept him from coming unstrung from the competing pressures of job and self and family.
"Yes," he replied.
Spencer grasped his shoulder and said in an everyday voice, "You're released."
Hotch thumped him on the shoulder. "Thanks," he said, also in his everyday Aaron-in-charge voice. He wobbled as he rose to his feet.
He hadn't been that shaky since – well, since the first time.
It was his turn to change the rules.
Although they were out of "relationship" mode, he fixed his gaze firmly on Spencer Reid's.
"I will be ready," he repeated.
Spencer's smile was like a well-banked fireplace. "I know," he whispered.