Title: How Your Body Still Remembers Things You Told It To Forget
By: theimpressionis
Pairing: Hotch/Reid
Rating: NC-17
Series: 1) Hay mas tiempo que vida, 2) The Shortest Distance Between Two Points is Completely Irrational
Summary: The third, and last of the "green tie" series.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but a bunch of textbooks and a neurotic cat.
Warning: kink

***

Spencer Reid has a constant barrage of information flooding his brain. Which is part of the reason he treasures facts and figures so much. They create order in his mind and allow him to relate to the world that surrounds him. The other reason is that once they enter his head, they are stuck there; Abraham Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs is as relentlessly inescapable as the latest pop tune. Reid is on his way to see his supervisor, Aaron Hotchner. He could be thinking about statistics about interpersonal relationships between superiors and their assistants, or recently published statistics on office workers who fantasize about sex at work (The United States came in at 32%, behind Canada at 46%. The study did not publish how many office workers actually carried out their fantasies.)

Spencer is actually thinking about Rootbeer. A childhood favourite, and he absently runs through various rootbeer related facts; "Sarsaparilla is used in the making of Rootbeer, it is a woodland herb, and was historically used to treat V.D."

Reid has arrived at his destination, far more excited and nervous than those interpersonal relationship statistics could ever reveal. He swallows hard and reaches up and knocks politely.

Aaron Hotchner is seated at his desk when he hears the knock. He has no doubt in his mind who it will be.Spencer Reid. He hasn't seen the man since the team returned from Mexico. But he's been thinking alot. Hotch has no desire for this-whatever it is- to end. His marriage is safety and stability, home. Except not because he's hardly ever there. And when he is, everything is tainted by the fact he has to leave soon. A marriage built on mutual interests; the desire for children, never having to sleep alone.

Everyone has a wife.

But this is something else entirely. Hotch swears he can still taste Reid in his mouth, feel the ghost of the younger man's touch. How you describe these things to yourself. How five years of plodding, legally bound friendship can't compete with a night of pure experience. How effortlessly he is moved by the thought of Spencer Reid, the curve of his spine, his mouth. How Hotch carefully failed to examine why he found himself slipping Reid's gift into his glovebox, yet found himself tying it neatly, obediently around his neck before entering the building. Elicit, explicit.

Hotch clears his throat, "Come."

Come, words for a lover. The connotation makes Reid shudder, and he slips in, convinced the rest of the office is watching, though the hall had been empty when he strolled, deliberately, carelessly, up to Hotch's door. Reid pauses at the doorjamb, bites his lip. Locks the door behind him.

They stare.

Reid's mind stutters, facts jumbling and falling away, he thinks;

"How your body still remembers things you told it to forget"

Reid has no idea what Hotch is thinking. He has a fairly good guess; Hotch is barely thinking at all. And Reid is moving, leaning over the desk and kissing Hotch. Hard and hungry, getting as close as the desk will allow. Not nearly close enough, grabs the tie and pulls the dark-haired man to him. It's good, it's incredible because Hotch is kissing him back, just as hard, just as desperate. Hotch's hands scrabble at his chest, a hand curls around his neck. The other is pulling his shirt from his trousers, sliding up his spine. He moans a little at the touch. Good so good. His own hands are busy, unbuttoning Hotch's shirt, pulling the tie above his collar so Hotch can slip out of his shirt. Reid finds himself clamouring over the desk, shockingly effortless when your not thinking, practically climbing into the older man's lap. Frantic kissing and hands, oh, hands at his waist, slipping down and he hisses when Hotch palms him through his pants. He turns his head and nips the bottom lobe of the older man's ear, licks up the shell of it. Reid has to touch, has to carefully slide Hotch's zipper down and hold him, hot and heavy in his palm. Hotch gasps, shudders. Shocking how soft this part of a man's body can be.

Smooth as the tie Reid holds in his other hand, the slim fabric he uses to guide Hotch's mouth back to his. Reid can't think at all, all he feels is need. Shudders himself when he feels a hand slip inside his own pants, the delicious curl of fingers around his cock. He's lost his ability to speak, can only pant into Hotch's mouth. Symbols, maps and legends, none of these things have a place here. He doesn't care what rootbeer is. All he knows is the feel of Hotch's tongue, sliding againts his in messy sloppy kisses, the feel of Hotch's slick cock slipping in and out of his loose fist, the feel of Hotch stroking him, matching his rhythm. Reid breaks away, panting, rest his forehead againts Hotch's. Oh god, ohh god oh-

He's close, he's so goddam close. If Reid just keeps touching him like this, keeps grunting out "oh god"- someones going to hear, someones going to-Oh! doesn't give a damn because he's coming all over Reid's hand, gasping into his mouth. Barely remembers to hold his hand in a loose fist, to match it with Reid's rapid thrusts.

"Oh god- Oh.Uhhh!" and Reid is shuddering, burying his face in Hotch's neck. Hotch holds him through it and has to cling to the thin back, touching the base of his spine, the back of his neck: the cartography of a lover. This is going to get messy soon, but he just wants to sit for a moment, wants to feel Reid's shoulders- like the bones of a bird- through his sweaty shirt. He's jittering with his own aftershocks, stroking Reid's hair back from his face.

Then Reid is cleaning them up, one of his ugly grey cardigans,and Hotch can't help the laugh. Reid smiles. Hotch can't resist, has to run his thumb over those beautiful swollen lips. Stills at the feel of Reid's tongue slicking his thumb, sucking it into his beautiful mouth. He actually feels his spent cock twitch.

"That sounds really good but - a sharp rap at the door makes them jump. They exchange frantic looks- that door *was* locked wasn't it?

Reid finds himself throwing his body into a perch on the side of the desk, the used cardigan finds itself in the green garbage-can behind Hotch's desk. The least casual semblance of casual, flipping through the case. Glances up to see Hotch tucking in his shirt, straightening his tie.

That shouldn't be so hot.

"It's open," Hotch's voice sounds startlingly normal to his own ears. Whoever it was tried the knob-

"No, it's not," Gideon, amused.

Hotch moves to let him in- Jesus he's going to smell us- and Reid says idly, casually, "Sorry, I must have accidentally locked it when I came in."

Gideon nods, but he doesn't look entirely convinced.

"Garcia said you were looking for me?"

"Actually," carefully not looking at Reid, "Dr. Reid had a similar scenario in mind, and we came to the same conclusion. Thanks though."

Gideon nodded again, looking pleased. Teamwork made everything run smoothly "The briefing is just about to begin- five minutes, alright?"

Both men nod like puppets, jerking to a halt under Gideon's watchful gaze. Gideon couldn't leave the office fast enough for either men's taste.

They looked at each other- Did he suspect? Had he known since Mexico? The drawback with working with profilers is that you were working with profilers. Reid had a feeling he would be working with Gideon on this new case. Still, he found himself sharing a grin with Hotch as they walked down the hall, humming a little, and found he didn't have to think of anything at all.

The End

The title and the snippet of lyrics are from the Weakerthans song "Watermark" .

***