Work Text:
#1
“Hey come here boy.”
Morgan looks up from the computer screen in a police station in Omaha Nebraska. He feels his skin prickle: the usual anger, the usual shame. The room is suddenly quiet, devoid enough to hear a pen drop, the phones go unanswered. He feels the eyes on him, the local PD and the eyes of his team. They’re waiting for something but what, no one knows.
Morgan isn’t looking at them though or the lieutenant looking at him across the bullpen, grinning broadly. He’s glancing at Hotch, the unit chief’s face twisted and tight with anger, his fists balled at his sides. Hotch is glowering from his position, half bent over the same terminal. He’s tense where he stands, his body taut like an animal prepared for fight.
Time seems to have stopped but Morgan knows it hasn’t been a full minute. Hotch shifts, raises to his full height.
“That’s Agent Morgan,” Derek says, quickly, all casual smile and placation. He laughs, the sound believable but painful as it comes.
“Right, of course,” The other man calls back, jeering and jovial. “Either way, come over here Your genius thinks he’s found something.”
The precinct snaps back to its usual movement and noise. He rises to see what Reid has discovered only to feel a hand on his shoulder, tight. He can feel the anger radiating from the small touch. It’s enough to stop him cold.
He turns to Hotch. The unit chief’s eyes are clouded with disbelief, confusion, his deeply engrained need to protect those closest to him. Yet he keeps his tone light, aware of the public space. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t alright,” Morgan says. He can’t explain in this precinct nor does he want to explain how he is used to this, the outright discrimination and harassment, the covert stares, the backhanded compliments, the goddamn prejudice of it all. He does not want Hotch to know him that way, what he endures daily.
“Just don’t, alright?” He heads over to Reid and the lieutenant without looking back.
#2
He should’ve known. It was Texas for god sakes. The second he stepped off the plane into the dry heat of Salado, gazed at the visible heat waves over the rim of him shades and encountered the undefinable but no less negative gaze of the case detective, he knew it would be an upward battle.
“Detective Stone?” Hotch asks over whir of the jet’s turbines.
Stone nods, grins wolfishly. “Hotchner I assume,” and shakes his hands, roving over the team before coming to land on Morgan again. “Hope you all came hydrated.”
They all sweat in the dead heat of the precinct. The A/C working overtime, the fans spinning crazily overhead in the decidedly outdated building. He knows it’s hot when Hotch removes his suit jacket and casts it across the back of his chair.
“Okay what do we know,” Hotch demands, gazing at the members of his team then at the white boards littered with photographs of crime scenes, dead bodies laid out carelessly on gravel.
“So far very little,” Reid says, looking at the photos pensively, “the Unsub kills across racial, class, and gender lines.”
“He’s also organized,” Rossi says, “he scouted these people long enough to know they didn’t have close ties to the community. A college kid new to town, a local petty criminal, an elderly woman living alone. He watches them.”
“That means he’d have to be normal enough to blend in around town or have a job that allows him to blend into any neighborhood,” Prentiss adds.
Morgan sighs. He feels tired and antsy. “Garcia is already running the names of every local business employee and cross-referencing with those who have a criminal record.” He gets up, glances at the photos and shakes his head. “We need to find this son of a bitch.”
“Let him go,” Hotch says as Morgan exits quickly, headed to the breakroom. “We’ve been working on this for 12 hours straight. We could all use a break.”
Morgan is in the break room, pouring his third cup that day.
“How’s it coming?” Stone asks, leaning against the refrigerator. Morgan hadn’t even noticed him.
“Uh,” he falters, shakes his head, “It’s coming,” and turns away to add sugar to his mug. “We’ll have a working profile soon.”
“That’s good.” He feels the heat on his back, the voice close enough to be directly behind him. He tenses and turns, bracing for a fight.
Stone is suddenly close. This close he can see the look in his eye is disgust but not at Morgan. It is a self-disgust. The same disgust Morgan’s seen from the down-low brothers in his neighborhood, the same look he’s seen in his own eyes in the mirror years ago. He hates Morgan for his attractiveness and hates himself even more for being attracted in the first place. Morgan tries to feel sympathy to override the fear. But he’s still close, close enough for Morgan to deck him if need be.
“Step back detective.” Hotch. His steady voice. He’s standing in the doorway of the breakroom, arms crossed.
Stone raises his hands in sarcastic surrender. “Easy. We were just –“
“You were just stepping back,” Hotch cuts him off, stepping further into the room. “Unless we have a problem. Do we have a problem?”
“Hotch,” Morgan says, pushing past Stone with an embarrassed fury, “it’s fine man. Can we just go?”
Morgan backs him out the room without another word. They don’t speak about it for the rest of the case. They don’t speak about it ever.
#3
“Teacher’s pet,” Emily teases Morgan as Hotch leads away Louisville, Kentucky’s police chief after one unsavory comment too many.
JJ and Reid laugh. Rossi shakes his head with a smile.
Morgan chuckles along with them. He’s puzzled but lets it slide.
#4
It happens so quick. The Unsub has him against the wall of the interrogation room, his hands gripped tight around Morgan’s neck. It’s fear. It’s adrenaline. Morgan stares at the Unsubs’ eyes, black and ruthless, his own nails digging into the hands cutting off the precious oxygen. He thinks of his mother, his sister, his team. Fragmented pieces of his life burst forth. Multi-colored dots cloud his vision. He feels nauseous.
Hotch and Rossi burst into the room along with two other agents. Hotch practically tackles him, prying the larger man off his agent with a cold fury. Rossi handcuffs the bastard and assists the younger agents as they haul him away. It happens with such dizzying speed. The room once birthed into chaos now quiet once more.
Hotch stays behind as Morgan gathers his breath. He sinks to the floor, leans against the cool brick wall. His breath comes in small uneven gasps.
“Morgan,” Hotch says, crouching to his level, his eyes widened in alarm. “Are you alright?
“Yes,” his agent croaks out. His throat feels raw. He’s shaking. Hotch sits next to him, close enough that their shoulders are touching. “Hotch?”
“Yes?” the unit chief responds quietly. Morgan thinks he sounds far away, trapped in thoughts of his own.
“Why do you always do that? Get this…this weird protective thing when it comes to me?”
Hotch stiffens. “I’m not sure –“
“Come on man,” Morgan says, frustrated, vulnerable. “I could’ve died just now.” Silence as they both realize the gravity of it. “The least you could do is be straight with me. You do this weird protective thing, with suspects to local PD. Me, only me. You look like you’re gonna deck anyone that even looks at me wrong.”
“I just….” Hotch stops, he looks at his hands. He looks dazed. “I just can’t bear the thought of anyone hurting you.”
Morgan’s breathing notably slows. They don’t look at each other. Slowly, Hotch places a hand on Morgan’s knee, the action slow and feather light.
“Hotch,” Derek says whisper-quiet. It’s a warning, not one carrying the threat of violence. He is not afraid of Hotch or his touch, rather the feelings that rise in them both. He looks at Hotch’s profile and the other man turns to look at him. They are so close.
“Hey you okay?” Reid pops his head into the doorway.
They look up quickly, nearly caught. “I’m alright pretty boy,” Morgan says, slipping into casualness with ease. He follows the genius out the door, glancing back at Hotch who stays on the floor long after the two agents retreat.
#5
“I’m not some charity case.” He says it quietly, his mouth set in a snarl. He’s not looking at his boss, rather his own hands as he sits in the chair across from him. He appears to be wrestling with something, has been for a while. It has been weeks since the interrogation room.
Hotch regards him coolly. “I never said you were.”
“Then why?” He looks him in the eye, his own ablaze with shimmering emotion. “Why do you always feel like you gotta protect me?”
“Morgan I told you –“
“You told me just enough to drive me crazy.”
Morgan is standing now, pacing. He runs a hand over his head, looking torn. Hotch stands as well, approaches him calmly. He doesn’t stop the other man’s pacing, only observes as he closes the blinds.
“I’m sorry,” Hotch says. This stills Morgan. He waits, breathing hard gazing at his boss.
“For what?” Derek demands, stalking up to him, “for not kissing me in that interrogation room or for making it obvious that you wanted to?”
Hotch closes the gap and kisses him. Morgan startles then settles into the kiss, his arms around Hotch’s neck, fingers slipping through his hair. Hotch’s hands go to the strong waist, caught up in the heat, the slickness of the tongue sliding against his.
“Hotch,” Derek murmurs when they part. His eyes are still closed. Hotch smiles, cupping his cheek and running his thumb gently over his face.
“If we’re gonna do this, you better start calling me Aaron.”
Derek’s eyes open. He blinks, once, twice, then his face breaks into a look of pure disbelieving joy.
“Okay, Aaron,” he says, testing the new name on his tongue. “Will you go out with me?”
“Of course.”
“Try not to punch anyone out in the process.”
Hotch smiles and kisses him again. “No promises.”
#6
He decks him, once, twice, and the man drops. Morgan tries really hard to not find it sexy as hell. He only half-succeeds.
It’s February, cold. Hotch’s hot breath is visible in the night air. They’re in a parking lot in Forsyth, Georgia. A cop, exhausted and hateful had harassed them as they approached Hotch’s car, saw their relationship for exactly what it is and decided he didn’t like it.
In Hotch’s defense, the cop swung first. It was a poor attempt, relying on hate and rage but Hotch was ready. He’s always ready.
“You alright?” Hotch asks him as if he’s the one who just knocked a man out cold with two swings.
Morgan laughs at the ridiculousness. “I’m fine man. Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Hotch says shortly, a touch of a grin on his face. The cops comes to, wobbles on his feet. He seems smart enough to not approach them again, instead shuffling shakily away, perhaps toward his own vehicle. They hear the car start and pull away. “So dinner?”
Morgan’s response is to push him against his own car and kiss him, then his rapidly bruising knuckles.
“I’m thinking takeout. Seems safer.”