Summary: When a serial rapist attacks a naval petty officer, the BAU suddenly finds themselves sharing their case with a team from the NCIS. Two shot. Almost PWP. Slash. All the good stuff. :) Gibbs/Hotch
A/N - My first crossover AND my first NCIS fic. How's that for a pair of firsts?
Chapter 1 - Sharing
"Harold Garza, Angelique Mantee, Richard Johnson, Juanita Delgado and Katherine Roberts have all been assaulted over the course of the past six months. Other than having ties to D.C. and being more or less the same age, there doesn't seem to be any connection between them. Harold Garza is a lawyer, Angelique a gardener, Richard a plumber, Juanita a flight attendant, and—."
"And Katherine Roberts a naval petty officer," Gibbs said, interrupting the steady stream of words being issued from the mouth of the dark haired FBI man.
"I take it you must be Special Agent Gibbs?" Hotch asked, looking at the meeting's late arrival.
"Yep, that's me," Gibbs answered with an easy grin. "And you are?"
"SSA Hotchner," Hotch answered with a stiff nod.
"Heard stories about you," Gibbs said as he went to find a seat beside the rest of his team in the BAU's conference room.
For a moment, Hotch paused and the corner of his mouth lifted a hair. "The same could be said for you as well," he said with another nod.
Then things were back to business as the subordinates from both teams surreptitiously eyed each of their respective bosses.
. . .
Hotchner was with Gibbs at his desk in NCIS going over Lieutenant Robert's paperwork when suddenly Gibbs leaned back in his chair and looked up at him thoughtfully.
"You always wear a tie?"
Hotch paused in his perusal of the file before him and turned his head towards the other man. "Most of the time," he answered with a touch of amusement in his tone.
After a pause, they went back to work.
. . .
Some hours later, Hotch felt someone shaking his arm. He fought his way back to consciousness and sat up in his chair with a barely suppressed groan. Looking around, he realized he was still at NCIS, and beside him was a tired looking Gibbs.
"You planning on sleepin' here?"
He yawned and cracked his neck to the right. "Not really. Jack—my son—he's at his grandparents this week. And my wife . . ." he trailed off. It shouldn't be this hard to talk about her, three years after her death.
Gibbs just looked at him, waiting for him to speak. He wasn't pushing for Hotch to give more than he give, and he appreciated that.
"She was murdered by an unsub three years ago," he finally managed in a soft voice.
He waited for the usual commiserating drivel he'd heard more times than he could count, but it didn't come.
"Come over to my place for a drink then," Gibbs answered instead, giving Hotch a surprisingly strong hand up.
And in a fit of spontaneity, Hotch agreed.
. . .
He looked at the boat in Gibbs' cellar with awe, his empty mug of bourbon forgotten on the table behind him as he trailed his fingers over her keel.
"This is nice work," Hotch breathed appreciatively.
He didn't see the smile Gibbs answered with, but he could feel the warmth in the man's tone as he thanked him softly.
When he finally made it back to his mug, he found it freshly filled and he looked at Gibbs with a raised eyebrow.
"You know, you could use this stuff for motor oil if you got desperate."
Gibbs grinned wide and walked over to him. "How do you know I haven't?"
"I haven't drunk like this since before—," but his throat wouldn't work and after a moment he glanced away in embarrassment.
"Since before she died," Gibbs finished for him after another swallow of his own drink. He nodded. "Yeah, I get that," he said softly.
. . .
The room swayed around them as Gibbs made him loop his arm over his shoulders and he half walked, half carried him back up the stairs.
"I don't think I'll be driving home," Hotch said with a grin.
"Nope," Gibbs answered, maneuvering him into a bedroom and dumping him not so gracefully on the bed.
"Is this your bed?" Hotch blinked at the twisting room and cocked his head, leaning to the side.
"Yup," Gibbs answered, quickly divesting him of his tie before going to work on his shirt buttons.
"Wait, but where're you going to sleep?" Hotch slurred, looking delightfully bewildered.
"Here, unless you have a problem?" Gibbs said, pulling Hotch's white dress shirt off and reaching for his t-shirt. It was summertime after all.
"Wait," Hotch shook his head, pulling back from the other man. "Not my shirt." Something shifted in his eyes, allowing Gibbs to see a flash of fear, and then the moment was gone.
"Okay, not your shirt," he agreed simply enough, kneeling down in front of the other man and pulling his shoes off, before undoing his slacks with a quick snap and opening the zipper. Hotch helpfully chose that moment to fall backwards onto the bed, and Gibbs grabbed either side of his slacks and pulled them off quickly and efficiently. He tossed them and the shirt over a chair, and then as an afterthought leant over and pulled off the other man's socks.
Now Hotch was dressed only in a simple white undershirt and a pair of dark blue boxers. Seeing that his dark haired companion was nearly unconscious, Gibbs allowed himself a private moment to look over the figure spread out before him. Hotchner was covered in dark hair from his toes to head, and Gibbs suddenly felt an almost undeniable urge to reach out and pet it. Shaking his head in amusement at himself, he pulled off his own shirt and dropped his trousers to the floor where he stood.
After taking off his own socks, he was left only in a pair of black boxer briefs. He climbed into his bed, carefully maneuvering himself over the nearly asleep form laid out in the middle.
"You still awake there, Hotchner?" He asked, shaking the man's arm again.
"Hotch," his companion grunted, turning his head to look blearily up at Gibbs.
"Here, you're all turned around," Gibbs answered, helping him to slide under the covers beside him.
Stretching across Hotch's prone form, he twisted the switch on the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Leaning back in the bed, he turned on his side towards Hotch and briefly touched his hand to the other man's shoulder.
"You need anything, wake me up," he informed him in a gruff voice.
"Sure mom," Hotch said wryly in a deep voice, and then he turned on his side too and pushed his back into Gibbs' chest.
Jethro's eyebrows raised and he hesitantly draped his arm over Hotch's chest in response.