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“It’s a disco theme, which is the lamest thing I've ever heard. I don’t want to dress like a pimp. OK, I kinda wanna dress like a pimp…but I won't. I think I won't. I'm totally thinking about dressing like a pimp. What do you think?”
“I'm just wearing a tux.” Hotch said. “Though I totally encourage you to let your Anderson flag fly.”
“For real?” Anderson looked at him.
“Absolutely, yes I do.”
Anderson smiled, leaning in for a quick kiss before Hotch pushed the big glass door open. They were leaving More Than Just Ice Cream, a quaint eatery in Foggy Bottom near George Washington University. A gust of cold wind hit them as they stepped out into the February night air. Anderson shivered and even though both were wearing gloves, Hotch held his hand.
“Did you know that boyfriends hold hands?” he asked.
“I'm sorry but that ship sailed a while ago. We tried to keep it anchored but no such luck.”
“Say it.”
“Say what?” Hotch asked.
“Say we’re boyfriends.”
“Why? Are the skies going to open up; will cherubs play harps?” Hotch smiled and his dimples were on full display.
“You're a real smartass…I adore that about you.”
“You better, since you're my boyfriend.”
“I adore everything about you, I promise.” Anderson said it and he meant it.
“Don’t let my head get too big.”
“This is the best Valentine’s Day ever. Seriously, I know the whole thing is a commercial and societal construct designed to make single people feel inferior to couples and to make greeting card companies billions but this is still the best one ever.”
“I think it’s pretty nice too. And you forgot about the chocolate companies…they make money hand over fist this time of year. They’ll get even more tomorrow when all the single people buy up what's left at a discount. Take that, Hallmark.”
Hotch squeezed Anderson's hand as he laughed. They had another three blocks to walk before reaching the parking lot where he left his Pontiac. This neighborhood was always busy, the University took up most of it. Out of the corner of his eye, Anderson saw the guys. Red flags went off immediately. He couldn’t quite explain the feeling but knew not to ignore it. He whispered to Hotch.
“Let’s cross the street.”
“There isn’t a crosswalk here.”
“C'mon,” Anderson pulled him over to the curb. Jaywalking in DC was usually a really bad idea. “There's no traffic right now…just trust me.”
Hotch didn’t know what was happened but he did what Anderson told him. He knew most of his tones and this one sounded serious. There weren’t too many ways to sound frantic and in control at the same time. Somehow Anderson did it. Something was wrong.
“Shit.” Anderson mumbled.
“What's the matter?” Hotch asked.
“Do not turn around, but those dudes are following us. I wasn’t completely sure but now I am. We crossed the street and they did too. Dammit!”
“It’s OK.”
“It’s totally not OK if they want to beat the hell out of us.”
“Is there a problem guys?”
Hotch stopped walking and turned around. He defied everything he promised his mother. And it was clear that Anderson was both fearful and mortified. Hotch wasn’t going to let anyone intimidate him. He'd faced bullies more than a few times in his life. This was a public street in a free country. He could walk down it holding hands with his boyfriend if he wanted to.
“Keep walking, homo, or you're gonna wish you did.” The guy in the bomber jacket said. He was tall, about 6’3”, and looked like a bruiser. He had on a green winter hat with no hair coming out of it. Anderson memorized his face to a tee.
“We were walking and you're following us. I want you to stop.”
“Aaron, please don’t do this.” Anderson said. “We should just go.”
“Yeah Aaron,” the guy in the Nats jacket said as he smirked. “Listen to your girlfriend. You wouldn’t want to get hurt. It’s a rough world for your kind.”
“Stay away from us.” Aaron stood his ground.
“Fuckin fags.” Bomber jacket spit on the ground. “They think every guy walking down the street wants to do faggy things to them. Someone needs to teach them how real men tussle.”
This was Anderson's worst nightmare. He'd seen his share of assholes over his 18 years. He'd been the target of verbal abuse and much worse. Three years ago he and Amanda got roughed up in The Palisades. Walking to the train from Pizza Pete’s, some douche drove by and tried to accost Amanda.
She told him to fuck off, which made him angry enough. Then the guy realized Amanda was transgendered. He actually pulled his car over, got out, and started chasing them. Anderson's track skills kept him out of the brute’s clutches.
But he caught up with Amanda and smacked her around. Her best friend jumped on the dude, only thinking for a moment that he was at least 70 pounds bigger than him. They both got knocked around but lived to tell the tale. Anderson didn’t want to fight tonight.
“Let’s just go.” He pulled Hotch away. “It’s cold and I want to go home.”
“Your girlfriend is making more and more sense.” Nats jacket said. “Walk on bro, before you get hurt.”
Anderson was so grateful when Hotch turned and walked away. They both put a pep in their step. Staying on the well-lit street was essential; no one wanted to be cornered by guys like that. Bomber and Nats jacket still trailed them, a few feet behind, step for step. They weren’t hollering but mumbled their slurs and threats.
Anderson did his best not to shake. He didn’t want Hotch to know that he was scared or upset. Sometimes the only way out of those situations was to fight. This was supposed to be their special night. Why did these douchebags have to ruin it?
“Son of a bitch.” Hotch muttered through clenched teeth. He stopped walking, turning so fast he nearly spun Anderson around. It surprised his boyfriend, Bomber, and Nats. “Get the hell away from us. I will give you until the count of three and then I'm putting 2,000 volts in your ass. The choice is yours. Give me a reason.”
There was now a standoff. Nats looked like he wanted to make a move. Bomber never took his eyes off Hotch. After what felt like an eternity, the guys turned and walked away. Nats gave the finger as he moved in the other direction down the street.
Bomber said something along the line of ‘later sissies’. Hotch stood there holding the stun gun he’d pulled from his pocket like a Starfleet Taser. Bomber and Nats didn’t even look back. Exhaling, Hotch held back his tears.
He wanted to chase both those jerks down and electrocute them. He wanted to punch and kick them. Guys like that never got the message unless they were physically overwhelmed. They assumed Hotch and Anderson couldn’t do that because they were homosexual.
“Don’t tase me, bro.” Anderson tried to break the tension. He didn’t know if that were possible. He knew Hotch was tough, he wasn’t a wuss himself, but he'd never seen this side of him.
“You're not funny.” Hotch looked at him.
“I'm really funny.”
“I'm sorry.” Hotch put the Taser back in his peacoat before pulling Anderson into a hug. There were so many people out on the street but no one stopped to check on them. What a world they lived in. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Those dudes scared me more than you ever could.” Anderson held him tight. “Are you alright?”
“Not entirely.” Hotch shook his head.
“We need to go home. I know just how to make you feel better.”
“Is everything about sex?” Hotch asked. They were walking down the street again, arm and arm. This was the longest walk in the history of his life. He wasn’t going to stop again until they got to the car. Hotch was still shivering and it had nothing to do with the cold.
“92.6% of things are about sex, that’s a scientific fact. OK, it’s just a scientific theory. This time I was talking about red velvet cake and cuddling.”
“You were?”
“Yes. I skipped dessert at one of the best dessert places in the city because I wanted to have cake with you. To clarify though, we’re totally having sex later…and it’s going to be hot!”
“Totally.” Hotch nodded quickly, managing a smile despite the bile in his stomach. He hoped to soon replace it with butterflies.
***