No Soul is Desolate, Hotch/Morgan, NC-17 (PWP) - Part 1

[innerslytherin]

Title: No Soul is Desolate
Authors: innerslytherin and severity_softly
Pairing: Hotch/Morgan
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Morgan decides to take a detour on the drive back to Quantico. (Set immediately post-Mayhem)
Word count: ~19,000
Warnings: SPOILERS for Mayhem! (Kinks: a little dirty talk *g*)
Notes: RP format. Feel free to point out any glaring mistakes. :)


"Skepticism is the beginning of Faith." - Oscar Wilde


The SUV had been silent since they left New York City. Derek was pissed as hell at Hotch, for a lot of reasons, and he had no idea what Hotch was thinking. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, now that Hotch had shared his opinion concerning Derek's trust issues. Not to mention, Hotch hadn't even asked Derek if he wanted the New York job; he'd just made assumptions.

He expected Hotch to say something when he headed out towards Allentown instead of down I-95, but it wasn't until Morgan exited in Reading and pulled into a hotel parking lot that Hotch broke the silence.

Aaron was uncomfortable, in more ways than one. Not only was he still sore from the explosion that had killed Kate and wrecked his own ears for the time being, he was sitting in a car for a three hour drive--no, longer; Morgan had taken the wrong route--with a man he'd just called out for not putting enough faith in his team. When Morgan pulled into a hotel, Hotch frowned and looked over at Morgan. "Why--" he cleared his throat, which had gone hoarse between the silence and the dry air conditioning. "Why are we stopping?"

"I cleared some time," Derek said, turning to face Hotch so he could see Derek's lips. "You and me are not leaving this hotel until we get some things worked out." And God, he hoped it worked, because it was going to be damn awkward having kidnapped his superior if Hotch didn't go along with it.

Hotch held a sigh, and then turned to face forward again, closing his eyes and dropping his head against the head rest. "What's to work out?"

"Plenty," Derek said, raising his voice a little. "And it's not like you're gonna be working a new case anytime soon, so don't try to argue with me about this." He got out of the SUV and pocketed his keys, then grabbed both their bags before going around to open Hotch's door for him.

Hotch didn't move, but when his door opened, he opened his eyes and looked at Morgan. "Look, I'm tired. I want to go home. Whatever you think we need to talk about, we can talk about in Quantico."

"You're tired and you're going to rest in the hotel. And eventually you are gonna shout at me, I'm pretty sure, but this is how it's gonna be, Hotch." Derek wasn't going to back down, and he hoped to hell that Hotch would recognize that sooner rather than later. He felt guilty for taking advantage of Hotch's exhaustion to win the argument, but it might be the only way to do this. "Dave knows we won't be back tonight."

Hotch had been prepared to argue more, but stopped when Morgan said that. "What did you tell him?"

No way am I telling you what I told him, Morgan thought. He just hitched their bags up a little higher over his shoulder and looked back at Hotch. "That you and I had some things to work out, and I was taking some personal time."

"This is technically kidnapping," Hotch said without a trace of amusement, and slid out of the car. "And I'm not going to yell at you, no matter what you might think."

"Yeah, well, call the FBI," Derek said. "And if you were betting on that last, I'd be taking your money." He waited until Hotch was moving--slowly, and with a limp--toward the hotel before he shut and locked the SUV.

"I said what I had to say, and that was it," Hotch said when Morgan caught up to him. "You're apparently the one who has more to say, which is far from surprising, considering you haven't spoken to me the entire drive."

Derek looked over at him, wishing he could express how much Hotch's words had hurt. "I have a feeling you'll find out you've got more to say, just like I do. And I wasn't going to endanger either of our lives by having a high-stress conversation while driving."

"Right," Hotch said. "If you'd taken I-95, we could have had whatever conversation we apparently need to have in my office."

"Why do you think I didn't take I-95?" Derek said. He held the door of the hotel, waiting for Hotch to go in ahead of him.

"Torture?" Hotch asked, and then realized that wasn't entirely fair, but it had slipped out before he could stop it. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment, giving Morgan a sincere look. "I need to sleep."

Derek just watched him. "Don't apologize for saying it if you mean it, Aaron," he said, his voice quiet. This had been a bad case for a lot of reasons, but for Morgan it was a toss-up whether the worst part was the guilt that Joyner had died disliking him, or the fact that he and Hotch had been at odds for nearly the whole case.

Hotch's eyebrows went up, but he didn't otherwise acknowledge that Morgan had just called him by his first name. "I don't apologize for the things I mean," he said, as they walked up to the front desk.

Derek checked them into one room with two queen beds. He wasn't going to give Hotch anywhere to hide, if he could help it, and he had a feeling Hotch wouldn't want to cause a scene, even in front of a front desk clerk he would most likely never see again in his life

Hotch just set his jaw as Morgan got them a room, not wanting to argue. He really didn't want to be stuck in a small space with Morgan any more, and he doubted he was going to sleep peacefully tonight on top of that. He didn't say anything though, and followed Morgan to the elevator.

"What do you want for supper?" Morgan asked as they waited. "I think room service is just down the hall." He gestured at a pair of vending machines in an attempt at humor, which fell flat. "Or I can go out and get something."

Hotch shook his head. "I don't really care. I'd like that bottle of red that's on my kitchen counter, but that isn't going to happen, apparently."

"Are you supposed to mix alcohol and painkillers?" Derek asked, and stepped into the elevator. He made a mental note to ask the desk clerk about a liquor store nearby when he went down for food.

Hotch sighed and leaned against the elevator wall, shifting a little when the railing pushed on a bruise. "No," he said, not really inclined to talk.

Morgan sighed and looked away, wishing he thought there was any other way to do this. But if they went home, Hotch would build a wall of paperwork and appointments, and they would never get an opportunity to hash out some things that obviously needed hashing. When the elevator stopped, he held the "open door" button until Hotch was out, then headed for their room.

When they got to the room, Hotch settled on the farthest bed and Morgan put his ready bag by the foot of it. After a moment, Hotch just dropped his head into his hands and scrubbed them over his face for a moment, not bothering to be careful of the scratches there. "How long am I being held hostage?"

"Tonight. Maybe tomorrow night. Dave said if we're not back in town by then, he'll send the Feds after us." Derek set his own bag on the other bed and turned to look at Hotch. "Why don't you get some rest? I'll go out and get us something to eat."

Hotch nodded. He wasn't going to win, but that felt like par for the course this case. "All right." He sucked in a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, and then started pulling back the covers on the bed.

"And don't bother calling my baby girl to rescue you, because Dave told the team we'd be arriving later." Derek turned to go, though he was still looking back at Hotch. After a moment he stopped and headed back. "Here," he said gruffly, and knelt down to untie Hotch's shoes. It hadn't escaped his notice that Hotch was having trouble bending down.

Hotch sighed and looked away. "I'm not an invalid. If you'd stayed with the team in the hospital, you would have seen that."

Derek frowned up at him. "It's gonna catch up with you, Hotch." After a moment he lightened his expression. "I played football for years, man, I know how injuries go. Tomorrow you'll be hurting worse than today, especially if you push yourself."

"I can untie my own shoes," Hotch said, but his just sounded tired again. He knew he shouldn't be upset over it, but the case had left him feeling useless. He hadn't been able to save Kate, Morgan had driven the bomb off without consulting anyone, not even him--in the end, it was just a whole lot of damage and not enough accomplished. He hadn't been able to do enough. "Go. Get food."

Derek just stayed where he was for a moment longer, looking up at Hotch. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes and the cuts on his face vivid reminders that their SAC was only human. "Rest until I get back," he said quietly, and then stood and went to the door.

Hotch nodded without looking at Morgan, then waited for the door to click shut. He pulled off his tie and jacket, then toed off his shoes, which slipped off easily after Morgan had pulled them open. After a moment of staring blankly at the edge of Morgan's bed, he just got under the covers in his suit pants and shirt, and fell quickly to sleep.

It took Derek longer than he'd expected to find a restaurant, order carryout, and then pick up a chilled bottle of red. He thought about the possible outcomes of tonight and decided to get a bottle of whiskey, too.

When he got back to the hotel room, Hotch was asleep, and Derek was tempted to let him stay that way. He opened the wine and set the food out on the table as quietly as he could.

It was quiet for a while, quiet and dark and peaceful. Hotch was calm, almost happy. And then the world exploded--fire, shrapnel, pain, blood... lots of blood. Hotch gasped and jerked awake, bolting upright in bed. "Kate!"

A second later his ears were ringing, buzzing, and he was staring at some terrible excuse for art hanging on the wall of the hotel room he was in. He sat there, panting hard for a moment, and then he tried to swallow and collapsed back in bed, pressing his hand over his eyes.

Shit. Derek had somehow managed to forget about the trauma Hotch had been through. He turned from the table to look at Hotch, then went over to lean against Hotch's bed. "Hey, man, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I was just setting the food out."

Hotch frowned under his hand, still fighting to breathe normally, his ears still ringing, the sound of his own voice echoing in them. "What?" he asked, and finally frowned up at Morgan.

Derek frowned, too, and put his hands on Hotch's shoulders, trying to ground him. "Are you okay, Hotch? You must've been dreaming. I've got dinner." It was painful to see Hotch vulnerable like this, but Derek couldn't help wishing they weren't at odds with each other. Hotch wasn't going to want any comfort from Derek right now.

"Mmm," Hotch hummed, and as unhappy as he was with Morgan, he was glad for the touch. "I'm fine." He was willing to let how he'd woken slip if Morgan was. It took him a moment to sit up again, as if sleep had made him stiff, but then he ran his hand through his hair and looked up at Morgan. "What did you get?"

"Pasta and bread, chocolate cake, which is in the fridge, and..." Morgan shrugged. "Bottle of red." It looked silly, poured into plastic hotel glasses, but he'd done what he could. He'd never bothered learning much about wine, but he knew red went with Italian, and he'd checked the wine menu at the restaurant for recommendations of what to drink with the dishes he ordered.

Hotch glanced over at the table, and he just couldn't help the way his lips curled in spite of himself. "Cake and wine. If you'd wanted a date, you could have just asked," he said, and pushed himself off the bed, trying to ignore the way his body wanted to protest.

God, if you only knew, Derek thought, but he just glanced over his shoulder at the table and shrugged. "Never let it be said I mistreat people when I kidnap them," he said lightly. He would offer to pull the table over to Hotch's bed, but he had a feeling he'd just get snapped at if he did.

"You win for best UNSUB ever," Hotch murmured, going to the table and collapsing in the chair against the wall. "Thank you," he said.

Derek smiled faintly and sat across from him with a sigh. "I hope the wine is okay," he said. "The food's probably still warm. I hope. Should have requested a microwave in the room, I guess." He knew three-thirty in the afternoon was early for them to be eating dinner, let alone drinking, but he was serious about clearing the air between them.

"Everything's fine," Hotch replied, and started to serve himself on the Styrofoam plates Morgan must have stolen from the hotel's breakfast area. He wasn't really sure what to say now that the brief moment of amusement was over, so he ate silently.

Morgan nodded. They ate in silence for a while, but finally it grew oppressive. He took a deep breath, then hesitated and had a gulp of wine before speaking. "I do trust you."

Hotch stopped chewing mid-bite, but recovered after a moment. He was silent for a bit, and took a sip of his wine. "Let's not do this, Morgan," he said quietly.

"Hotch, I need to say this." Morgan clenched his fist briefly, then relaxed again. "I do trust you. But you shook that trust this week."

Hotch looked up and stared at Morgan for a moment. "You were out of line."

"And you had to call me out in front of everyone like that?" Morgan had been over that time and time again, and he still thought he'd been right to disagree, even if the way he'd done it had been inappropriate. "You couldn't once have backed me up? Hotch, you knew I was right. She just didn't want to listen to me because of who I am."

"It wasn't your call, and I very calmly told you to drop it at least twice before I, as you put it, 'called you out in front of everyone'. You made the scene, Morgan, not me." Hotch took another sip of his wine and put his glass down. "And whether or not I agreed with you is beside the point; when I said second guessing what was already done wouldn't help, I meant it. All that did was shake the entire team and undermine the chain of command."

"Yeah, and when Rossi was outta line, you took him aside. We all knew he was being reckless and running roughshod over our case, but you gave him enough respect to not dress him down in front of God and everybody." It had hurt, plain and simple. Morgan had been humiliated at the way Hotch had spoken to him, being calmly dismissive and then throwing him out of the field office like that. And something in him just couldn't admit that he'd been wrong.

A little surge of anger flared in Hotch, and it was difficult to suppress it in his state. "Dave was out of line too; I'm not denying that. But he didn't argue with me in front of everyone. He did what he did, and I took him aside. You didn't give me that chance."

"You know, I like Dave," Morgan said, pushing his chair back from the table a little. "I do. But where exactly do I stand now, Hotch? I used to know where I was with you, and suddenly here's Dave, back from fame and fortune, taking things over." He realized as soon as he said it that maybe that was saying too much, maybe he sounded like a jealous girlfriend or a spoiled child. Damn it.

Hotch blinked at Morgan, honestly surprised. "Now we're clouding the issue, aren't we? You have no reason to feel threatened by Dave, or think that I think any less of you than I did before he came back. The fact that Dave and I have a history doesn't change the facts, doesn't change the fact that I do trust you with my life and always have, and doesn't change what happened in New York. Not to mention it doesn't have anything to do with the topic at hand. You know you were wrong, and you're grasping at straws now to make your case."

A flash of anger went through Morgan. "Maybe I'm not grasping at straws, Hotch!" he said. "Maybe what I'm doing is introducing another issue. I said we had a lot to work out." He took a long breath and looked away for a moment. Finally he looked back at Hotch, trying to push the anger out of his gaze. "I lost my temper in the field office, and that was wrong. But it didn't exactly feel good that Dave was the one who came to find me, Hotch, and there you were right by Joyner's side."

"What did you want me to do, Morgan?" Hotch asked, his voice rising. "Just like Dave, the fact that I have a history with Kate doesn't affect our relationship." Hotch paused. "Didn't," he amended, his voice losing its edge immediately. "I'm the SAC. I couldn't run after any agent in the middle of the case, and I wouldn't have done any good if I had, considering I was angry with you."

Morgan sighed. "I don't know," he admitted, feeling defeated. "I don't know what I wanted from you. I'm not sorry that I spoke my mind, but I know I was out of line the way I did it. I was blaming Joyner for that shooting, and it wasn't right." He rubbed a hand across his face. "And it doesn't feel good that she died with that between us, either."

Hotch shook his head and looked down at the table. "She may not have seen eye to eye with you, and she might have even felt threatened, but she didn't hold that against you."

"Yeah, well. I'm sorry, Hotch. I know you thought a lot of her." And maybe that had been part of the problem. Scratch that, definitely that had been part of the problem. Morgan had been jealous of her. That hadn't been the whole of it, because she had given him a hell of a lot of attitude, but it hadn't helped. Morgan sipped at his wine.

Hotch shook his head again and was silent for a long time. He wasn't ready to deal with how he felt about Kate. He didn't want to deal with how helpless he'd felt watching her die. He didn't really want to talk about it, most especially to Morgan right now.

He took another sip of his wine, but he wasn't feeling hungry anymore, and when he spoke again his voice was almost too soft. "I can't change that you felt like I shook your trust, no matter how I might feel about that. But what happened to your trust in Dave or Prentiss?" He paused for a moment. It was easy to see that underneath their odd friendship, something between Morgan and Reid ran deeper, and Hotch knew he was pushing buttons here, but he felt they had to be pushed. He looked back up at Morgan. "What happened to your faith in Reid?"

Morgan sighed. "I...sometimes feel like I don't know Reid any more," he admitted, his voice low. "I don't know everything that's going on with him. In Texas..." He shook his head. "I'm afraid he's falling apart, Hotch. Self-destructing. Something. And nothing I do makes any difference to him." He ignored the others for the moment, because Dave was still earning his trust, and Prentiss... He wanted to trust Prentiss. He did trust her, more than a lot of people. But she wasn't Hotch or Reid. These were the two people he trusted more than anyone except Garcia, and his faith in both of them had been shaken badly of late.

"If he is self-destructing, the last thing he needs right now is to be doubted, most especially by you." And me, Hotch thought, but didn't say out loud.

"Yeah, I guess so," Morgan said. He sighed. "I...I guess it's just been a rough year. I think a lot of you, Hotch. I always have, even when you're a pain in my ass. I hope you know that." He looked up, wishing he didn't suddenly feel vulnerable almost to the point of feeling sick to his stomach, talking frankly like this. "I trust you more than anyone."

Hotch sighed and looked at his plate, wishing he knew the right thing to say. There really wasn't a right thing to say. None of what he was thinking felt good enough. "I wish you made it easier to believe that," he said finally, and got up to limp stiffly back to his bed.

"What should I have done differently?" Morgan asked, trying to keep his voice even and not defensive-sounding. He didn't like Hotch moving away from him, so he refilled his wine and went to sit on the opposite edge of the bed. "I have bomb squad experience and there's no way I could have defused that bomb. Garcia had it blocked for three minutes, Hotch. That was all the time we had, any of us, to do something about it. Do you really think you could have got the bomber to turn it off? Because that kid, Sam, just stepped onto the third rail like he wasn't even afraid to die."

Hotch shook his head and laid back on the bed, covering his eyes. His head was suddenly aching again behind his eyes. "You didn't so much as tell me you were going to the basement. You didn't tell anyone. You just left."

Morgan felt guilty suddenly, seeing Hotch like this. Hotch wasn't supposed to be weak. It was confusing, and it made Morgan want to hug him, which was just weird. He sighed. "I told Garcia," he said faintly, but he supposed it wasn't enough. He rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Hotch."

"Garcia isn't--" Hotch stopped and shook his head. "It's done, Morgan."

"Yeah, it's done, but." Morgan shrugged. "I meant what I said. Your opinion matters to me. And I disappointed you." He ran his hand over his head. He hated talking like this. But it had to be done. He had to get it out, or it was going to build a wall between them, and that was the last thing he wanted. "I hate this feeling. I hate having you pissed off at me."

Hotch sighed. He hated this too. For all that Morgan felt threatened by Dave, Hotch had never stopped looking at Morgan the same way he always had. He dropped his hand and looked at Morgan, hating how weak he felt. "I do too."

Morgan met Hotch's gaze and held it for a long moment, wishing there weren't things he was still keeping from Hotch, wishing he had the guts to say everything he wanted to. They were silent for a while, then Morgan looked away. "I don't want the New York field office. I'm not leaving you."

Hotch just watched Morgan for a moment. Something in the way Morgan said that caused an odd feeling to wash over him, but he pushed it aside. "You don't owe me anything," he said finally, his voice soft enough that he had trouble hearing it.

"First of all, I'm happy where I am," Morgan said, looking back at him. "This team is family to me. Secondly, I do owe you a hell of a lot. You're the person I've looked up to for seven years, man. You're the man I wish I could be. There's no way in hell I'm walking away from you." A moment later he realized how that sounded, and amended, "From anyone on this team."

Hotch shook his head and closed his eyes. "I'm not anyone to aspire to be."

"Are you kidding?" Morgan stared at him. "Look, I know you're not perfect, but... This team wouldn't work without you. Reid idolizes you. Dave obviously respects you, and that says a lot right there, since he doesn't seem to respect anybody. Penelope adores you. JJ and Prentiss look up to you. Don't you get that?"

"I'm a workaholic with a failed marriage to prove it. I'll probably have a stroke before I'm fifty." Hotch looked back at Morgan, almost daring him to argue.

"You're not a workaholic, you're just driven to save people. And excuse me for sayin' it, but Haley was crazy to walk away from you." Morgan shook his head. "Quit arguing with me, man. Look at how threatened Strauss was by you. She tried to push you out of the Bureau just to keep you from taking her job. Everyone knows you're the best."

"Then why wasn't I able to do a damn thing in New York?" Hotch snapped before he even knew what he was saying, and then drew a steadying breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his composure.

Morgan blinked, taken aback, then leaned forward, resting a hand on Hotch's shoulder. "Hotch, man, you got blown up. I think that earns you a little leeway. And before that, you did as much as the rest of us. So don't be getting hard on yourself here."

Hotch sucked in a breath when Morgan touched him, and as upset as he still was, there was a small part of him that recognized how good that comfort felt. "I watched Kate bleed to death," he murmured. "And I lost control of my team." He looked at Morgan, and suddenly felt too vulnerable lying here, so he sat up and leaned against the headboard of the bed.

"You did not watch Kate bleed to death," Morgan said, scowling at him. "Aaron, you kept her alive! You got her to the hospital. You did everything you could! It sucks that she died, but she did not die because of you." He realized he was leaning forward, still reaching toward Hotch, and sat back suddenly. "And you didn't lose control of your team. You had a thick-headed jock get pissed and throw a fit. That wasn't your fault, either." He sighed, suddenly feeling worse than he had before. "God, Hotch, I'm sorry, man."

"A thick-headed jock who's part of my team, and one of the best agents I know, in spite of being a thick-headed jock," Hotch said, and then shook his head and looked away. He was quiet for a moment, and he sort of wished Morgan would say something, but he didn't. Hotch just stared at the wall. "The ambulance wasn't coming. It wasn't supposed to come, and I knew that. And I asked the paramedic if the area was clear, and he didn't answer me, and it crossed my mind for a second that something was off, but all I wanted to do was get her to the--" He stopped and swallowed. "I should have known." He rubbed his forehead. "I need Tylenol," he said finally.

"Hotch, you had just been blown up. You couldn't fucking hear, let alone think." Morgan tried to gentle his voice, and touched Hotch's shoulder again. "Hang on, I'll get you something. I'm pretty sure they have some at the front desk."

"I was fine," Hotch said, and he knew it wasn't exactly true. It was adrenaline that had got him through seeing Kate to the hospital, and the fact that he had collapsed once she was in surgery was enough evidence of that. Still, it didn't erase the way he was feeling. He shook his head. "Go," he said softly and covered Morgan's hand with his for a brief moment before dropping his to the bed.

Morgan sucked in a breath as Hotch's hand touched his and sent a wave of heat up his arm, but he just nodded and stood. It only took a couple of minutes to flirt the front desk girl into giving him a couple of packets of Tylenol, but he took the time to stroll past the exercise room and the indoor pool before he took the stairs back up. He needed a minute to pull himself back together, and he suspected Hotch needed it even more. He was beginning to feel guilty for this whole thing, and if he hadn't got Rossi's approval, he might have checked them out of the hotel and driven the rest of the way home, just because Hotch seemed so defeated.

But Dave had seemed to think this would be a good thing for both of them, and he'd actually told Morgan to take as long as they needed. Hotch would be suffering from PTSD and trying to compartmentalize it and Morgan...well, Dave pretty much knew how Morgan felt and all the issues he was dealing with. But Hotch was the main concern, anyway. He needed some decompression time.

When Morgan got back to the room, he knocked first to let Hotch know he was coming, then opened the door. "Just me."

Hotch looked over at Morgan, and then back down at his hands where they were laced in his lap. "You don't have to warn me," he said softly. He was tempted to ask what took so long, but he knew that sounded needy.

Morgan shrugged and gave Hotch a smile. He wondered if they'd got all the shouting done that was needed. He suspected not, even though he wasn't feeling any anger toward Hotch any more. The hurt was probably still there, for both of them. He carried the wine bottle over to Hotch and refilled his glass, then sat on the edge of the bed and held out the little packets of Tylenol. "It's probably a bad idea to take these with wine, but hell, maybe this day has been full of bad ideas," he said.

"Alcohol and acetaminophen, when taken together in excess, can damage your liver, but I think I'm beyond caring right now," Hotch said, and washed the pills down with the wine.

"If you overdose, I'm having them save your ass just so I can take it outta your hide," Morgan warned, but his tone was light. He refilled his own glass and took a sip. "Hotch..."

Hotch smiled softly. He somehow felt slightly better, he realized, after having said what he did. And he didn't think Morgan's apology hurt either. Everything--physical, or otherwise--still ached, but at least he'd managed a small smile.

He looked up at Morgan, but Morgan didn't seem to really have anything to say, so Hotch just sighed and shook his head. "Dave is such a bastard."

Morgan was surprised into a laugh. After a moment he shifted so he could lean against the headboard, trying to maintain a comfortable distance from Hotch. "Well, he's known you longer than the rest of us. He promised me you wouldn't shoot me."

"That depends entirely on how long you keep me here," Hotch said, and took a sip of his wine.

"Well, at some point the Bureau's gonna want its SUV back," Morgan said. "And my neighbor will get tired of feeding my dog. So I guess it won't be too long."

Hotch nodded and turned to look at Morgan, but then didn't know what to say and just turned back to stare at the wall across from the bed.

Morgan nodded too. He saw Hotch look at him, but didn't turn. After a minute he sighed. "How's your leg?" It was a safe topic of conversation.

"It hurts," Hotch said. "Nothing I can't manage." Really, the shrapnel wounds on his leg didn't seem any worse than the way his whole body hurt, aside from the limp he couldn't manage to control.

Morgan nodded. "You need to take it easy for a few days," he said.

"I could have taken it easy at home," Hotch said, but his tone was friendlier than he'd managed in a while.

"Yeah, but you wouldn't have," Morgan said, glancing over at him.

"What else could I have done? With my hearing as is, I'm technically a liability in the field now. I wouldn't have had any choice."

"You'd have spent hours in the office doing paperwork," Morgan said, his mouth quirking as he fought a smile.

"That's hardly what I would consider strenuous," Hotch replied, frowning at the expression of Morgan's face.

"It's still work," Morgan said. He glanced at Hotch and his smile almost won, but he quickly took a sip of wine to hide it.

Hotch pursed his lips and frowned a bit more, but he wasn't really upset that Morgan seemed a little too amused. After a moment, he sighed and looked away. "I can't just sit still."

"You need to learn to relax. Kick back, watch a movie, read a book, something." Morgan let his smile out. "I shoulda taken you to the beach."

Hotch laughed softly, mildly surprised by the mere suggestion. "I'm not really a beach person."

Morgan's smile widened. "There, see, even more reason why I should have gone the other way." He shook his head sadly. "Seriously, man. Relaxing."

"I don't even know if I still own a pair of swim trunks," Hotch said, shaking his head and taking another sip of wine.

Morgan laughed. "Okay, I might have to draw the line at skinny dipping," he teased. "Somehow I can't imagine you quite that relaxed."

"Good. I don't ever want to be that relaxed."

Morgan glanced over at Hotch, still smiling. "So you've never taken Jack to the beach?" he asked, hoping Hotch's son was a safe topic of conversation.

Hotch looked at Morgan, the slight smile on his face fading. "I was supposed to. I got called in on a case, so Haley took him without me."

Morgan nodded. "Well, you've got plenty of time right now. You ought to do that. If you think you can behave yourself properly at the beach. You know, swim trunks, sunglasses, sexy stripe of sunblock on your nose." He glanced over at Hotch. "The beach is a good place to meet people, too." Not that Morgan particularly wanted Hotch 'meeting' someone, but he might as well throw it out there.

"I'm not interested in meeting anyone," Hotch said. "I wouldn't have time for them." He hadn't had time for his wife and child; it wasn't fair to let someone else fall into a relationship that would always come second to Hotch's job. After a moment, he nodded. "Swim trunks and a t-shirt, maybe. Jack doesn't need to see how bruised Daddy is."

"Okay, do you even own t-shirts?" Morgan teased. He was relieved, though not particularly surprised, that Hotch wasn't looking for a new relationship.

"I might even own a Hawaiian shirt somewhere. Buried in a box," Hotch said.

"Oh, now, I would pay money to see that," Morgan said. He shifted, stretching his legs out a little and relaxing against the headboard.

"Might not even fit me anymore. I hit a growth spurt just after I got it," Hotch said, glancing over and looking at the way Morgan was just making himself at home on his bed.

Morgan snorted. "Right, so you were fourteen, huh? Shoulda known you wouldn't wear anything like that as an adult."

"I didn't wear anything like that then," Hotch said. "I was part of possibly the worst high school rendition of South Pacific ever. I think they thought high school kids didn't know the difference between Hawaii and Polynesia." God, how did they wind up talking about this?

"Get out, you were in theater? Somehow I...can't quite see that." Morgan turned to study Hotch. "And most high school kids probably don't know the difference."

Hotch looked over and met Morgan's eyes for a moment, then looked down at his glass, his lip curling. "I didn't say I was any good. And sadly, when I hit that growth spurt, my voice changed, and I lost any ability I ever had to carry a tune." It was almost funny surprising Morgan like this, and Hotch felt himself relaxing a little more.

"Aaron Hotchner, singing," Morgan said, shaking his head. It was too much for his imagination. He started laughing, picturing Hotch in a Hawaiian shirt, singing and doing choreographed dances. Of course, in his head, it was forty-something Hotch, not fourteen-year-old Hotch, which made it an even better picture. "Wow," he said finally, and drained his glass.

"Stop picturing it," Hotch murmured.

"If you weren't injured, I'd try to get you to do a few dance steps for me," Morgan said, and started laughing again.

"Don't make me angry again. This was just starting to go well," Hotch said, shaking his head.

Morgan's laughter trailed off and he coughed, glancing sideways at Hotch. He cleared his throat. "Sorry." He looked away again quickly before Hotch could see the amusement still in his eyes, and occupied himself pouring more wine in his cup.

Hotch sighed and shifted down in the bed a little, then winced as a stab of pain shot through his back. He shifted again. "Right."

"Need some more wine?" Morgan asked, glancing over. He could see the traces of pain lingering on Hotch's face, but he wasn't sure whether he should say anything or not.

Hotch shook his head. "No. I should probably just sleep."

Morgan studied him more carefully, hoping he wasn't offended. He didn't seem to be, though. "Yeah, you can probably use the rest," he agreed quietly, and sat up. He was reluctant for the evening to end, but Hotch had to be tired.

Hotch looked down at his ready bag, then sat up with a stifled groan to go brush his teeth. While he was in the bathroom, he inspected the cuts on his face and the circles under his eyes for a moment, then debated whether he should strip down to go to bed; he didn't actually wear pajamas, but it usually wasn't an issue, considering they didn't normally share rooms on a case. After a moment, he decided it was just Morgan (who had seen him in a hospital gown just days before), and pulled off his button up shirt and pants, then walked back out to drape his clothes over the nearest chair and slip into bed.

Morgan had spent that time cleaning up the remains of their meal, putting what he could in the fridge to keep for tomorrow, and putting the rest in a trash bag, which he tied closed. He'd pulled on the pajama bottoms he slept in and sprawled on his bed with his iPod and a book. He wasn't exactly expecting Hotch to come out in boxers and an undershirt, but he thought he hid his surprise all right. "Will it bother you if I read for a while?" he asked. "I don't want to keep you awake."

"I don't think you could keep me awake if you tried," Hotch said, which wasn't the truth, no matter how exhausted he felt. Still, the light being on wouldn't cause him any problem. Hotch rolled away to face the wall and pulled the sheet up under his arm, then let sleep take him quickly.






Part Two

Comments

[aoibhe.livejournal.com]

This is technically kidnapping

"Yeah, well, call the FBI,"
::snicker::



God, if you only knew, Derek thought, but he just glanced over his shoulder at the table and shrugged.
I love my boys in a little angsty pain angst. WOO.

"I don't want the New York field office. I'm not leaving you."
A TELL! A TELL!

Hotch just watched Morgan for a moment. Something in the way Morgan said that caused an odd feeling to wash over him
AND HOTCH CAUGHT IT, JUST FOR A SECOND. HEE.


Hotch just watched Morgan for a moment. Something in the way Morgan said that caused an odd feeling to wash over him, but he pushed it aside. "You don't owe me anything," he said finally, his voice soft enough that he had trouble hearing it.
"First of all, I'm happy where I am," Morgan said, looking back at him. "This team is family to me. Secondly, I do owe you a hell of a lot. You're the person I've looked up to for seven years, man. You're the man I wish I could be. There's no way in hell I'm walking away from you." A moment later he realized how that sounded, and amended, "From anyone on this team."

This paragraph confused me a little until I pasted it here, ‘cuz there’s no paragraph break between the two. ALTHOUGH Morgan seemed to have caught his tell that time, HEEE. Silly boys. OH, and same issue with the paragraph starting with “"Then why wasn't I able to do a damn thing in New York?"” (POOR HOTCH, btw. ::pets him fondly::)

"Stop picturing it," Hotch murmured.

"If you weren't injured, I'd try to get you to do a few dance steps for me," Morgan said, and started laughing again.
::gigglefit::

[innerslytherin]

Aha, stupid Gdocs formatting. Thanks for pointing those out. :D

And I'm glad you enjoyed it! :D :D