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“Hullo.” Anderson blindly reached for the cell phone vibrating on his nightstand. He slid the arrow across the screen to answer it and tried not to sound like his face was in the pillow, which it was. The whole exercise was a bit of a failure.
“I can't believe that you didn’t call me!” she exclaimed. “You should’ve called me as soon as you got in. Why are you not the seeing the epicness of this? I'm concerned about your mental health.”
“What?” he rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. She spoke so fast that he hardly understood her. Elle talked fast all the time but waking up to that…she may as well been speaking Klingon. “What time is it? What's going on?”
“It’s like midnight, or something. I just got back in from my date with Jason Gideon. It was a good time. Hotch drove you home tonight? What was it like?”
“How do you know that?”
“Penelope told me.”
“How does she know that?” Anderson asked. “She left school about 45 minutes before we did.”
“Penelope Garcia is like a fairy; she knows everything. Don’t try to get out of telling me what happened.”
“Nothing happened, Elle. It was just a ride home.”
“Just a ride home? That’s it?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I told you that there were no euphemisms for hot sex.”
“Personally I just think you weren’t listening hard enough. Give me all the details and I’ll decide if it’s awesome or not.”
“I’ll tell you everything in first period tomorrow.”
“Oh my God, that’s like seven hours from now!” Elle exclaimed.
“You're winning my argument. I'm exhausted and the alarm will be going off before you know it. We’ll talk tomorrow. Cross my heart, and all the other stuff.”
“OK, I guess. Sweet dreams, pretty boy.”
“Goodnight.”
Anderson hung up the phone and laid on his side. Late fall was just starting to grip the nation’s capital and the truth was he would rather walk home from Lyndon Baines Johnson International Day School than get into Hotch’s car. Something in his belly told him that there was nothing to do but embarrass himself. This wasn’t a teen rom-com; this was his life.
“I don’t know what we’d do without Penelope.” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his gray coat. “She’s a master on the computer.”
“She also says the strangest things.” Hotch said. “I mean, a lot of times she's funny but…”
They walked across the mostly empty school parking lot. It was about 6:30 but the sky was dark. There were storm clouds above them and thunder rumbled in the distance. Hotch hoped to get them both home before the rain started.
“You don’t know a lot of quirky people, do you?”
“I don’t think so.” Hotch shook his head. “I can admit to being a little sheltered. “I'm trying to break out of it.”
“How’s that going for you?” Anderson asked.
“Two weeks ago I didn’t do my Latin assignment or the required reading for AP Political Science. I just said fuck it and watched TV.”
“Oh snap, watch out world because Aaron Hotchner is going badass! I’ll alert the media.”
Hotch laughed. His laugh was hearty and melodic. It actually stopped Anderson in his tracks. That was OK since Hotch stopped walking to laugh. Then he covered his mouth. It didn’t stop the laughter.
“I'm sorry.” He said.
“You're sorry for laughing?” Anderson raised an eyebrow.
“No, no, it’s just that…I think I might be a little boring.”
“I don’t think you're boring.” Anderson shook his head.
“Boring is safe.” Hotch unlocked his car with a key fob and opened the driver’s door. Anderson got in on the other side. “I was a little wild in middle school and during freshman year. My parents threatened military school if I didn’t get my act together.”
“Oh wow, that’s heavy.”
When he started the Ford Mustang, the sports car purred to life. Then Why Can't I Be You blasted out of the speakers. Anderson covered his ears. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate The Cure; they were one of his favorite bands. They were just the last thing he expected to hear in Aaron Hotchner’s car. He surely didn’t think it’d be so loud.
“I can turn it off if it’s not your thing.” Hotch reached to turn it down. “The Cure is an acquired taste.”
“I love The Cure. Modern rock is one of my things.”
Hotch nodded and drove toward the parking lot exit. It would be the easiest traffic he faced tonight. Anderson just sat with his hands in his lap. He didn’t know what to say and didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.
“How did you get into The Cure?” Hotch asked, breaking the silence.
“I don’t really know. I think there's a loner kid manifesto and they're part of it. You have to love The Cure, The Smiths, R.E.M., multiple dark metal bands, and only respect French surrealist movie directors.”
“You forgot the part about having spot on wit and timing.” Hotch said.
“I think that might just be me.” Anderson said. “I'm more than just a pretty face, Hotch.”
“I'm starting to see that.”
Anderson glanced at him and Hotch was looking back. He quickly turned to look out the window. The Cure turned into The Steve Miller Band. Anderson couldn’t help singing.
“Some people call me the space cowboy. Some call me the gangster of love.” He was shocked when Hotch joined in. “Some people call me Maurice, cuz I speak of the pompatus of love. People talk about me baby; say I'm doing you wrong, doing you wrong.”
“Well don’t you worry baby, don’t worry.” Hotch sang. “Cuz I'm right here, right here, right here, right here at home. Steve Miller rocks.”
“Yeah.” Anderson nodded. “This is actually the first song I knew all the words too. My dad and I used to sing it together on car rides. It drove my mom nuts.”
“Are your parents still together?” Hotch asked.
“My dad died when I was 13; fucking cancer. Mom remarried a few years back. My stepdad is cool but he's not my dad, you know. He’s great with my twin sisters though.”
“I was sixteen when my dad died. It was cancer too. We seem to have a lot in common.”
“Is your favorite movie Head?” Anderson wanted to slap himself for even asking.
“What did you say about head?”
“No, I, I didn’t mean…oh my God…” Anderson closed his eyes and wished he would disappear. “I mean The Monkees. You know, as in hey, hey, we’re the Monkees? They made a movie in 1968 called Head. It’s in a similar vein to A Hard Day’s Night except its much more existentialist and about breaking the fourth wall.
“It’s my favorite film. Jack Nicholson wrote it while high on mushrooms hanging out in a swimming pool. I personally believe it ushered in the 1970s genre of gritty and often remarkable independent works. It’s not Easy Rider as most people believe, no offense to the mastery of Peter Fonda. Head came out a year before.”
“Head is your favorite film?” Hotch asked. He spoke slowly as if he was trying to understand.
“Yeah.” Anderson nodded. “I'm figuring we don’t have that in common since you just assumed I was propositioning you for sex.”
“I'm sure you have better pickup lines than Monkees movies.”
“Not really.” The teen mumbled.
“Well, just be careful who you say head around.” Hotch smiled again. “It might get you a boyfriend you weren’t even looking for.”
“You should turn right here.” Anderson pointed, clearing his throat. “My house is two blocks down in the middle of the block.”
Hotch nodded and stopped at the red light. He thought he might have embarrassed Anderson. Sometimes he seemed so uncomfortable in his presence and Hotch didn’t know what to do about it. There was the one time last week that he squeezed his shoulder and Anderson almost jumped out of his skin.
He laughed it off a few minutes later but Hotch didn’t think he’d ever seen someone so nerved out in his life. It wasn’t as if the boys knew each other well. Maybe he didn’t like to be touched. Asking would be too weird so Hotch chose to ignore it.
“To Kill a Mockingbird is my favorite movie.” He said, making the turn. “Sometimes people think that’s lame so I’ll say Forrest Gump or Zeffirelli’s Hamlet instead because people have actually heard of them. I mean they’ve heard of To Kill a Mockingbird but it’s a little nerdy to say.”
“Zeffirelli’s Hamlet isn’t nerdy? People have heard of it?”
“If I say the one with Mel Gibson they have.” Hotch replied.
“He fell really hard, didn’t he?” Anderson asked. “I mean he used to be like the hottest guy on earth. Now he's totally a public service announcement. It’s sad.”
“He's not really my type.” Hotch pulled up in front of a blue house in the middle of the block and put on his blinkers.
“Oh I totally wasn’t insinuating that you liked guys or anything. I was just saying…”
“It’s cool, Anderson. I just never thought Mel Gibson was that hot.” He shrugged. “I guess he's just not my type. Is this your house?”
“Yeah.” Anderson looked out the window at the unassuming house in the middle of the Woodley Park neighborhood. Rain started to fall and it made him sigh. “Thanks for the ride. I owe you one.”
“Be careful, I call in my markers.”
“I’ll remember that. Goodnight, Hotch.”
“You can call me Aaron.” He said. “I don’t dislike my name or anything; the nickname just kinda stuck a long time ago. You can't go back, you know.”
“OK.” Anderson managed a smile. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
Anderson got out of the car. Even though it had begun to rain, he didn’t seem to be in a rush. Hotch watched him walk up the long set of steps and onto the porch. He looked back at the Mustang, seemed unsure of himself so Hotch waved. Finally he got his key out of his backpack and opened the front door. Hotch saw the door close as he drove off.
Anderson felt like such a pervert when he slipped his hand into his pajama pants. He couldn’t help himself, lying there unable to fall asleep and thinking about Hotch’s dimpled grin. There had been half a million times when Anderson lulled himself to sleep by jerking off thinking about Aaron Hotchner. But he knew him now. He knew how to make him laugh, maybe.
He knew his favorite movie and not just the one he told people so he wouldn’t sound lame. He knew it was OK to call him by his first name. Hotch wasn’t just a fantasy anymore. Tomorrow Anderson would be sure to remind his cock of that. It was a little too late tonight.
***