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Hotch has been keeping a steadfast amount of distance between himself and the team all day.
It’s barely noticeable, no one else has picked up on it, but Spencer is always much more aware of where Hotch is at all times. At Quantico, on cases, on the jet, he knows exactly where the other is and what he’s doing and how much space is between them. As if he can’t help it. It’s been that way as long as he’s known him, and to say Spencer has gone through a staggering amount of emotions and theories as to why that is – is an understatement.
He thought it was fear, at first, when he’d joined the BAU and learned the team leader was a very old and very powerful Vampire. An apex predator in and of himself. It would be perfectly natural for his unconscious mind to be afraid of standing too close, painfully aware at all times just where he lands on the food chain. That sublevel instinct, which many mortal humans have, would have explained his hyperawareness and tension every time he and Hotch were in the same room. Except, as they worked together – case by case – and he was forced to remain within the man’s orbit, he realized quickly that it wasn’t fear at all.
It was fascination. Anticipation. Always on alert and observing, but not because he was wary of what could happen and what Hotch was capable of – but because he so very, very much wanted to witness it first hand. Wanted to know everything about him. Wanted to get closer and knew better than to do so.
The fascination bordered on obsession, flirted with infatuation, and Spencer knew to tread that line carefully. But one by one the barriers fell away as time passed, and not only did he learn to work with the immortal man without revealing how in tune he was with his every move – but found him as companionable and reliable as everyone else in their unit. They were a mix-matched set of skills and backgrounds and expertise, but they got the job done and had the highest clearance rate in the BAU. The team worked like a well oiled machine and most days no one made any mention (sometimes even completely forgot) that SSA Aaron Hotchner lived off of human blood, and had been alive for centuries because of it.
But Spencer never forgot. Not even for a second.
And today, he was even more aware of it. Hotch was keeping a good twelve feet between himself and Spencer at all times, even as they began their usual weekly gun-range practice. Hotch had made it a mandatory thing, until Spencer is at the level of skill and precision that is acceptable of an FBI field agent. Spencer had passed his gun qualification because of these sessions, barely , but not by Hotch’s standards. He was quietly proud of him, though, and Spencer picked up on that as well. Very pointedly didn’t focus on how it made his heart skip into staccato palpitations in his chest, how his skin felt too tight and his clothes too hot. Clouded his mind. But they have made gun range practice a weekly occurrence, to hone his technique and desensitize him to the kick and noise of firing a gun.
Usually, Hotch would position him when he was standing incorrectly. Kept an acceptable amount of personal space between them as he stood behind Spencer a couple feet and observed him firing round after round, clip after clip. Would chat with him, help settle his nerves, talk him through everything and remind him of pointers from his SWAT and academy training. Today was different. Hotch was standing so far back he was pressed against the wall behind the row of booths. He’d barely made a word of comment. Hums and grunts to indicate approval or disapproval while Spencer shifted himself into the correct stance. As if doing his very best not to breathe – Vampires don’t actually need to breathe. The motion of it is more to aid in the movement of sound as they speak, and social expressions like sighing or laughing. But Hotch was not breathing. Not today.
It didn’t take Spencer longer than a minute to realize Hotch didn’t want to smell anything. Even inhaling to speak would bring in tell tale traces of whatever he was avoiding. The distance, also, could put a slight damper on his other senses. His hearing, his sight, all heightened anyway, but it at least gave the illusion of comfort. He’d stayed on the other side of the bull pen from the team the entire day, covered his nose when he walked by someone in subtle (and non offending) ways, wouldn’t look directly at anyone when they spoke to him. And the one time he had, when he’d slipped as Spencer asked if they were still going to go to the gun range over lunch, Spencer had seen why. Hotch’s eyes trailed to his throat as he spoke, Spencer’s heart beat a little faster in reaction to how the air shifted, and then Hotch excused himself – looked like he was going to cancel their training altogether, for a moment.
Spencer wonders, now, why he didn’t. Because all of his observations indicated one thing – Hotch is hungry.
Hotch is a very old Vampire. Has been one for centuries longer than Spencer has been alive. His palate and taste is refined to the point his body only accepts certain kinds of blood, human (from what Spencer has observed), and he can go for days without feeding and showing any signs of it. On cases he usually doesn’t bring anything with him at all. Traveling with blood and keeping it from spoiling is harder than most realize, and Hotch is experienced enough to know his limits. This is the first time since Spencer has joined the BAU that he’s seen Hotch’s true instincts start to slip through the cracks of his demeanor. The one that is solid as stone and professional to a tee.
It’s also very distracting, and Spencer is missing the target every single time he shoots – his mind too preoccupied with how Hotch is quite literally holding his breath behind him.
“Your grip is too loose,” Hotch says, his voice a stark sound in the quiet of the gun range, even with echoes of gunfire still filling the air around them. They are the only ones down there, and it’s still the first time Hotch has spoken up in nearly twenty minutes. “You know better. Adjust.”
“I’m trying,” Spencer grumbles, setting the gun down and wiping his hands on his thighs. He’s sweating, his hands are shaking he’s so nervous, his heart is a rabbit-fast beat and he can feel it in his throat and chest and wrists. As soon as he realized that Hotch needed to feed, that it would be so easy for him to take what he wants, his body started to spike in adrenaline even though his mind knew as good as gospel that Hotch would never do that. Would never allow himself to do that.
Would never ask.
He almost picks up the gun again, turns to look back at Hotch, and can see now that… it really is getting to him. They should quit, call it a day, he should tell Hotch that they can just try again next week. Because Hotch would never admit his resolve is slipping, that he needs to feed. He needs it.
But there’s also a chance Hotch will just go right back to work if Spencer releases him from his self-driven obligation.
“Can you help correct my stance? I can’t get my posture right.” He doesn’t know why he asks this, because ultimately Spencer doesn’t plan on picking up that gun again this session. He just needs to test his theory, find out if Hotch is really hanging by a thread just like he thinks he is.
Hotch has his jaw clenched, his eyes so dark they look black as night, and the thin line of his mouth is sealed firmly shut – as if his gums ache already, fangs pressing against his closed lips and God the pain that must be causing him. He doesn’t tell Spencer no, doesn’t refuse to aid him or not do his job, but he walks ever so slowly across the space until he’s right there. Eye level. There’s a war there behind those eyes, a strain and a determination to keep himself at bay. Doing everything he can to be there and help Spencer, despite how hard it is for him, and Spencer knows then and there what he’s going to do.
Before he can blink Hotch has spun him around, with an ease and power that should strike fear in his heart, but it just adds an extra beat – thumping harder in his ears and he knows Hotch can hear it. Is so in tune with it. Is doing everything he can to ignore it. He knocks one of Spencer’s feet with his own, spreading his stance wider, adjusts the angle of his hips with strong hands on either side of his waist. One of those hands suddenly presses to his chest, where his heart is tripling in time, the other glides quick and prominent up his spine, keeping him from hunching and curling in on himself. Shoulders back, head up, neck longer and more exposed because of it – and if Hotch had been in any shape to resist it, to not be struck dumb by the sound of his blood thrumming in his veins, he would have moved faster than Spencer could blink back to his sentry against the wall.
He hesitates just long enough for Spencer to put his own hand over the one still pressing at the center of his chest, the slightest touch and easily broken but still enough to anchor Hotch there. Keeps him from moving away. Long enough he realizes that Spencer has something to say, the high frequency at which his whole form hums to stay perfectly still and not jerk away is almost palpable. But he doesn’t move.
“You’ve been struggling all day,” Spencer says quietly, turning to look at Hotch over his shoulder, shy and careful with what he’s about to say. “How long has it been?”
Hotch nearly doesn’t answer him.
“A week.”
Vampires aren’t supposed to go longer than three or four days, Spencer has seen Hotch handle himself at most at five. A week is too long. Hotch should know better. But Spencer doesn’t know the reason – isn’t there to judge him for whatever has happened in the past few days that has kept him from feeding like he should. He just wants to… help.
Keeping Hotch’s hand trapped there against his chest, Spencer reaches up and undoes his tie, the top couple buttons of his dress shirt, folds the collar down on one side – can feel the way his face heats and goes numb as every capillary there fills with blood and flushes the skin pink.
Hotch doesn’t say a word and doesn’t move one muscle, as if afraid to do so. Like a snake poised in the grass, all instinct prepared to take over and not trusting himself to it as Spencer exposes the long, pale lines of his neck and turns his head to the opposite side. Pulling the skin taut, his pulse racing there visibly even to the human eye.
“It’s alright,” Spencer tells him, his whole body strung tight, awaiting impact. Doesn’t know what to expect, how soon it will begin, how fast it will be over – tells himself it doesn’t matter, as long as Hotch gets what he needs, but he knows his curiosity is also driving this offer forward. Among other things. There’s a million unspoken questions hanging there that they both know the answers to. They’ve all seen the movies, the cliché plotlines in tv series and soap operas. You don’t know what you’re asking. It’s okay, I trust you. You shouldn’t. I could kill you. I know you won’t. Romanticized versions of something that is such a private, intimate, dangerous exchange – that up until a century ago was considered taboo. That shouldn’t be taken lightly. They both know this isn’t a light thing, and that Spencer wouldn’t offer if he didn’t know what he was doing.
The hand splayed on Spencer’s chest guides him back, Hotch gathering him close in his arms, solid and strong and brackets him almost completely, grasping the young man’s arm so his own blocks him in as he’s pressed into Hotch’s chest. Locking him in place, so he can’t get away if his survival instincts send him flailing. His free hand cups Spencer’s chin, turns it up and further away, turning his neck into a long curve of exposed skin and Hotch – inhales. For the first real time that day. Nose barely grazing the the side of his throat, and the exhale he lets out is predatory and savoring and Spencer feels his body and shoulders begin to shake. Hotch’s breath hot against his neck, Spencer’s mouth gone dry and his own hands holding onto Hotch’s arm across his chest.
But what he feels that makes every limb and finger quiver is the furthest thing from fear. He has to swallow hard and instead focus on bracing for those needle sharp fangs – like twin scalpels ready to pierce through his skin.
Hotch freezes when Spencer starts to shake, his own breath ragged from habit more than a need for air, and his fangs now protrude enough Spencer can see them out of his peripheral. Hotch is watching him so, so carefully – and this close Spencer can’t hide a damn thing. Trapped within his embrace.
“You’re sure about this –”
“I’m sure,” Spencer tells him. The flush of his face deepening as his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. Embarrassment now pairing with the… other sentiments rushing through his veins. He turns his head only the slightest amount and admits, low and quiet, “I’m not shaking because I’m scared, Hotch.”
It stuns the Vampire, he can see that. The expression blooming from his eyes to the lines of his face slowly, but he’s too hungry to make sense of it. To make a decision about it. Instead he leans in – so close Spencer has one single, bright, terrifying moment where he thinks he’s about to kiss him – and leans against the side of Spencer’s face. Nudges his nose there into his cheek, an almost animalistic kind of tender gesture, then he guides Spencer’s face back away from him with that same solid, gentle grip under his chin and jaw. Breath ghosting down his neck as lips barely graze the skin, until he finds that pulse point still beating so fast it makes his veins throb.
Spencer is bracing for the pain. Knows through his readings that as soon as Hotch bites him endorphins will flood and mix with a natural numbing agent from his fangs, meant to sedate a Vampire’s prey, and then he won’t feel any pain at all. But the initial bite will still hurt.
“Steady breaths,” Hotch tells him, trying to get him to calm enough that his body won’t panic. “If you start to see spots, you tell me.” Spencer nods in agreement at the instruction, closing his eyes tight as if preparing for a shot injection.
But all his preparation becomes obsolete the moment Hotch leans in that final inch and presses a kiss to his pulse. Soft and sure, and it steals Spencer’s very breath away. A quiet gasp escapes him, his heart skips a beat, stunning him into stillness – and that’s when Hotch bites down. Sharp fangs sinking precisely into the artery there, Spencer’s elevated heart rate immediately flooding his mouth with crimson red blood, warm and pumping directly from his heart to his throat. Hotch groans before he can stop himself. Fresh, live blood from a virginal donor – never before fed from – is the sweetest delicacy. Unheard of. Blood is regulated for Vampires; blood banks and professional donors that feed live for a living, expensive and restricted within an inch of its life. But this – this was pure unadulterated feeding. No barriers, no rules, nothing tainting it or changing the taste save for the emotions running rampant through Spencer’s body. He can taste the moment the pain gives way to the endorphins his brain releases, sweetening the blood all the more and turning the feeding to a slow, languid process where he seals his lips around the wound and sucks at it at his leisure.
He can taste the moment that the sucking sensation starts to spark arousal in Spencer’s body. When his labored breath panted between parted lips starts to give way to soft, high-pitched sounds of pleasure, his body going pliant in Hotch’s arms as the sedation process really starts to take hold of him. Hotch hauls him impossibly close, holds him up and drinks deeply, savoring every sweet drop that stains his lips and tongue and teeth. Forcing himself to stop before he takes too much, before he loses himself to the irresistible taste of it, to his instinct that wants to drain but his mind reminds him that if he does – he’ll never have this again.
And fuck, does he want it again. Never wants to let the young man in his arms go. The Vampires of old that would kidnap maidens and keep them for themselves used to seem overly dramatic to Hotch, but now he thinks he finally gets it.
He wants to keep Spencer Reid, and never share him with another soul – living or dead.
Stopping with a sharp gasp, he licks the trail of blood running in rivets down his neck, seals the wound clean until the punctures clot and he can try to get Spencer back on his feet. But Spencer is… lost somewhere, high above himself in another atmosphere. His head spins and his body buzzes and he’s still panting and boneless and pliant against Hotch’s chest. Hotch turns his head back towards him, checks his pupils – blown black and hazy with bliss – his awareness. Cups his cheek again and Spencer leans into his palm, unable to help any of his instincts searching for touch.
“Thank you,” Hotch breathes out, low and rumbling and dark as thunder in his chest. Spencer can feel it’s reverberations where he’s resting against him. There’s still blood staining the textured lines of Hotch’s lips, the corner of his mouth, but there’s more life in his face and complexion and the way his dark eyes look all the brighter for it. Spencer thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life, and knows that he would offer up the blood in his veins again in a second for the immortal man.
He doesn’t know how it happens, or when, or who might have witnessed the transition, but Spencer finds himself looking into that warm, dark abyss of Hotch’s eyes one moment – and waking up on the small couch in the Vampire’s office the next. Hours later. His neck aching sweetly and his body sated as if post-coital, and he blushes further as he sits up and his hand tenderly goes to touch the double puncture wounds there on his throat. Knowing that every time he looks in the mirror, it’ll be the one thing he can’t look away from – for as long as they remain there.
Never in his life did Spencer think he would fall into the age-old cliché of being seduced by a Vampire – but he thinks it is safe to say that his fascination has officially evolved to infatuation.
And that this wouldn’t be the last time he would wake up with those signature bite marks on his neck.