Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gonna break and loose, 

Gonna keep a movin’ wild

Gonna keep a swingin’ baby, 

I’m a real wild child.

--Iggy Pop, ‘Wild Child’

Spring in Los Angeles that year felt hotter than sin. 

Every day was long. Every day dawned hotter than the next. Night was the hottest, even when those Santa Anna winds whipped down from the valley to grace downtown LA with air. 

It didn’t change the current temperature of 101 degrees fahrenheit outside, 85 inside with the pathetic A/C unit whirring along in the window. 

This fact was very apparent when Spencer Reid woke up at 3:34 PM on a Friday, stuck to his fake satin sheets. The pool of sweat between himself and the sheets almost had him gagging the moment he opened his droopy eyes to greet the afternoon. 

“Shit…”

He dragged his long leg up and over the silky sheets to fall back in on himself. He cracked his back and groaned in a big arching stretch. Then he fell against his sad little Lion King cased pillow with an anxious sigh. 

He wished he could just stay here all afternoon. 

He wanted to watch stupid RomComs and snack on cold fruit. He wanted to stay home and read all the books he could be reading if he’d just stuck it out at CalTech without succumbing to those other temptations but… 

Today was not the day for that. 

He didn’t have the time for that kind of leisure, not after all the poor choices he made to land himself here. 

All he had time to do was get up and try to survive until tomorrow.

The rent was overdue. So were the bills. His stockings were torn from last night, already in the trash. His ass was a bit sore, nothing new there but the sensation was still aggravating. 

His hollow stomach was rumbling uncomfortably. 

Their tiny hole-in-the-wall studio apartment had a two-shelf cupboard, a busted microwave, one sink that barely worked and not much else to provide sustenance. He could only hope he had a few bucks left in his boot pocket to pick up a bag of peanuts or an eggroll to serve as breakfast and lunch. And probably dinner too.  

He could handle all of that but what he couldn’t handle was taking it all on alone.

One quick look around the tiny three-room apartment told him he was completely alone at the moment. 

As if that was something new. 

His best friend in this world, his completely unreliable business partner, the man he loved and couldn’t trust--well, he wasn’t exactly known for being a homebody. 

If Morgan is out at the goddamned club again… I might strangle him. 

I might. I have had it. 

I have! What’s he even doing at this point, he’s definitely not making money to ‘get us out of here’… more likely he’s spending what little we made last night on blow and martinis…. 

Spencer huffed into his lacy red pillow, biting it in frustration, hitting the Lion King pillow he had gripped in his fists bunched up against his chest. All he wanted to do was stay there and pretend he didn’t have anywhere else to be.

There were approximately one hundred and twenty-nine seconds left until his next alarm blared at him… 

He decided to lie back down for now, getting lost in the loveliness of nothingness, happy to experience the joy of simply lying around… until he couldn’t.

Reid listened to the second alarm of the afternoon, the bread truck delivering buns to the all-night burger joint downstairs. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

“Get out of the way, asshole!”

“I’m walking, Jesus Christ--fuck you!”

“Fuck you too, we got a schedule to keep…”

So much for West Coast camaraderie.

Spencer groaned into his pillow when he heard the constant beeps of the truck lowering its platform against the loading dock. The people yelling reminded him that he would have to deal with them soon, whether he liked it or not. 

The grating sound of that truck lowering its gangplank always told him it was time to get up and get in the shower line while he still could. 

There never was hot water but if he waited too long he’d be up against the day shifters for his five minutes of bathroom time. It was now or not at all. 

The lanky young man stretched with a moan, his flowy tank top the only bit of clothing he wore to bed aside from his tiny banana hammock thong. Padding across the dusty old floorboards, he grabbed a kimono from the overflowing shared closet and headed toward the door. 

One careful glance up and down the dim hall told him the coast was clear--no Super in sight to corner him and insist he pay up their overdue rent. 

That didn’t mean he was alone in the bathroom line.

“Well, look at you, Sugar, been a while since I been off the rig--you lookin’ fine,” leered the man from room 376 with a grody towel thrown over his hairy shoulder. 

Reid rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, looking away from him as he leaned against the wall to wait. 

“Ah come on now, why the cold shoulder? I got a few grand burnin’ a hole in my pocket from this gig… might be nice to have a little fuck before I head to the tracks for the night…” The oil rigger leaned in close enough for Reid to smell his breath. 

He was not in the mood to be solicited while he stood waiting for a tepid shower but… easy money was easy money. 

When room 376 reached around and tried to pinch his ass, Reid carefully removed his hand, chewed his tongue for a moment, eying him appraisingly. 

“$200. Up front. In the shower, I don’t have much time.”

His neighbor had to go back to his apartment before meeting him in the bathroom to complete the transaction.

Spencer stashed the bills in his mostly empty shampoo bottle before he got to work with the water running. 

Someone had to pay the goddamned rent. 

… 

After that unpleasantness was over in under three minutes, Spencer shoved the old man out of the shower without another word so he could scrub himself down and shave. 

Shaving was a nice ritual. It felt cleansing. Like he was starting over. Fresh. 

He focused on each area of his body that grew hair.

Armpits, legs, crotch, fresh razor, face. 

His long curly head hair could wait another day to wash. 

He always wore his wig on the street anyway. He kept it bunched up close beneath a hairnet while he brushed and flossed his teeth at breakneck speed, still in the shower even though the water was freezing by now. 

The shower was the only place he ever felt clean these days. He didn’t mind the temperature if it meant he could feel clean. Ice-cold water was better than no water. 

He brushed a sore spot on his back molar and hoped it didn’t mean his perfect teeth were finally succumbing to his poor diet. The longer he scrubbed, the more nervous he felt. 

He spit a foamy wad out into the shower drain and looked up at his reflection in the mirror from the shower. Every tooth looked white enough. One day when he could get back to a dentist, he would know he did it all right on his own. 

Right now… he had an unexpected $200 in his pocket from some dude who didn’t last more than two minutes. If only most of his clients were that stupid and desperate. 

That was a promising start at least; rent’s half-paid so maybe… if I make up the rest and Derek actually gets out there and doesn’t blow it on blow, we can spring for a La Quinta Inn suite, it’s only $85 a night. Hot water would be so damn nice….

Reid snuck back to his apartment to get ready for work. 

The L.A. sun was still high enough in the sky that it was a bit too early to get out there. 

He never worked days if he could help it. 

The clientele were cheap, the cops were everywhere to babysit the tourists and he did not enjoy the dirty looks he got from the day crowd when he was in full uniform. 

Twenty minutes later he felt satisfied with tonight’s look. 

His last pair of dollar tree fishnets stretched up across his mile-long legs to meet the red and white bodysuit he was borrowing indefinitely from Sheila down the hall. He liked it because the skirt was built in and never rode up over his ass when he bent over, unless he pulled it up intentionally to show off his thong. He would not be giving it back.  

A slouchy oversized red cardigan with veins of glitter running through it would be his cover-up tonight. Derek told him it made him look like a simpy schoolgirl but he liked it and apparently, so did his clients. 

The black stiletto boots zipped up to his thighs were full of hidden pockets so he never had to carry a bag. 

One of his many personal rules in this profession was to keep his shoes on at all times. There was a reason why every pair of fishnets he owned he cut the feet out of and hooked into his boots with special buttons sewn into his boots. He didn’t own one pair of untorn ‘stockings’.

The fun happened when he met a man who wanted to tear them apart. He loved pulling them up already destroyed, watching their pupils dilate in wonder, their cock get harder, their brains fried for the night… It was his own version of power play and none of them knew it. 

He had quite a few repeat customers because of his prowess in subbing.  

Spencer was a sub but he knew what being a sub could and should be in practice. 

He would never walk the streets without his backup solution to the mugging problem, though. Experienced sub or not, he was a target, at all times. 

It was yet another quirk he had that his best friend made fun of him for but, Reid was proud to say he’d never been stolen from in all his 22 months working the streets of downtown Los Angeles. 

His no-shoes-off rule also meant he could wear his lucky socks and keep one little part of himself sacred and unseeable in a profession that didn’t exactly allow for any other kind of modesty. 

The two kinks he always said no to weren’t even really kinks: footplay and kissing were as vanilla as they could be, but to the young man who had never foreseen this future for himself, they were off limits. 

Spencer focused in on his smudged mirror to fix his blonde bob vixen wig just right, making sure his real hair was tucked up neatly and there weren’t any lumps. 

The wig washed him out a bit but he liked the effect it had to sharpen his cheekbones and draw attention to his eyes. He had long realized he was a pretty man but it was only in the last few years that he learned other men were easily bewitched by his eyes if he could hold contact long enough. 

Looking up at a man while he sucked them off resulted in an average 25% decrease in time he spent working until they reached completion. 

It was worth the intimacy to save his jaw the effort. Tongue fatigue was so far reduced that he had resolved to make eye contact during fellatio from here on out. 

Spencer was a pragmatist when it came to fucking for money. 

He knew how to do it, he knew he was hot while he did it, and he knew he could make men come while their wallets bled for more. Some assholes would never be worth his effort but, he was pretty good at telling the assholes out from the okay crowd. 

Right now, it was time to make sure he looked ready to play the part. 

He never wore much make-up; just a touch of eyeliner, a bit of lipstick and, upon Derek’s insistence, a highlight of glittery bronzer along his cheekbones. 

“You’re not a hooker if you don’t glitter, Pretty Boy.”

“Well that’s fine then, because I am not a hooker, I am a sex worker, Chocolate Thunder.”

“Touche… but… just a little glitter, for me…”

“I think you wear enough for the both of us, man.”

“Never.”

Reid stashed his cash, ID, condoms in every color, a knife, and a whistle in his boot pockets just as the night outside started to fall with the Hollywood Hills sunset way out of sight. The buildings here meant he never got to see the sunset anymore. 

He could imagine it though. 

Once upon a time, he loved to watch the sun go down from his backyard in Vegas over the desert, dreaming about where he might end up watching it next. 

One day soon, he’d find a way out of this dim world, back to where he could see the Sun without smog or high-rises. One day he’d be able to pay with a credit card instead of his body just to get something to eat. 

That day was not today.

Chapter Text

Spencer checked the hall before leaving for the night, ready to sneak out like he usually did. 

It was a good thing he was always cautious when leaving… he saw his Supervisor prowling from door to door, hunting for rent money, clearly on a warpath. 

He quietly closed and locked the door from the inside, cursing the floorboards when they creaked under his feet on his way to the window. 

It was almost too routine for him to climb the rusted old fire escape from the third floor to the alley beside his building but, at least it meant he could hold on to his cash a little longer. 

He could hear the horrible old lady screeching through his door. 

“YOU LITTLE HUSSIES OWE ME BIG, THAT’S TWO MONTHS NOW YOU’RE LATE ON, I OUGHTA THROW YOU WHORES OUT TO THE STREET WHERE YOU BELONG--”

“We’re only a few days late… what a bitch,” Spencer mumbled to himself. He winced as he kicked the final ladder to send it careening down to the ground. 

He never liked climbing but here he was… climbing. 

His stilettos hit the pavement with a clumsy click. 

He straightened up his wig carefully before striding down the alley, carefully avoiding the trash as he made his way toward the Boulevard where he worked. 

The evening was just getting underway, the blue-orange sky still light above the horizon of concrete and glass surrounding him. He nodded to a few girls on the corner he knew, getting into the mood required of his work as he played out his evening routine. 

First came food, a splurge on two eggrolls and a soda at a food cart. 

Then came checking in with Carla at the newsstand for the latest gossip. 

Only tonight it wasn’t gossip that had the retired sex worker so excited and flighty as she gave him the scoop. 

There had been two murders in the neighborhood last night, both girls on the job, no one he knew but… he hated to hear it. 

There had been so many more recently, too many for the cops to brush off as pimps getting angry or johns losing control…. 

Reid pressed her for details but all Carla knew was that they were both stabbed and both found in dumpsters, like so many before them it must not seem like anything special. 

It was special to Reid though. Even one death was special, no matter who it was or how it happened. He knew the cops didn’t care; his distrust for law enforcement had only grown more intense ever since he left CalTech. 

We have to be more careful. Morgan and I should run a tag team special or something, no one should be working alone right now, it might be a serial killer… 

The thrill that went through him at that thought made him feel guilty but Reid had always been fascinated by serial killers and true crime, the psychology behind it, the intrigue… just not so much when he was part of the victim pool. 

Thinking about Morgan sent him off in the direction of the Cat o’ Nine Nightclub on Delphine Street. 

If his friend was anywhere at 5:30 on a Friday evening, it was there. 

Or Jordy’s place, or at the fucking beach with a John or Jane who paid to ‘oil him up and let him play cabana boy’....

He better be here though, he knows we need the rent paid. He would tell me if he got a good buy out.

The bouncers let him in ahead of the line already queuing up at the door. 

Spencer was a regular and he brought in men…. 

“Heyo, Pretty Boy!”

Spencer catwalked his way through the dim club over to the bar where Derek slouched with a big, coke-happy grin on his face. 

“ Hey yourself, Der. What are you doing here? I thought you promised to lay off the blow for a bit until we can get some money in the bank?” Spencer frowned as his friend extricated himself from the man he was getting cozy with at the bar. 

“I know, I know, trust me, I’ve been good, just gearin’ up to work all night, thought I’d get out and see what’s happening, you know?” Derek replied guiltily, snagging a cherry from the bartop before Fred the bartender noticed. 

“No, I don’t know. I had to sneak out again when Edwina came screaming for the rent,” Spencer dead-panned, clicking his fingernails on the wood. Morgan grimaced. 

“Shit, I forgot about that… well, after I pay Fernando back, everything I make tonight goes straight to her, I promise.”

Spencer scowled and shook his head incredulously. “Pay Fernando back for what ?” 

“Just a little advance I got, I’m going to sell it to my regulars, they’ve been asking and I can make double if I’m holding with those guys, you know it’s true, Reid--” Morgan started but Reid just grabbed his arm and pulled him away from snacking at the bar while Fernando glared at them both. 

“Nope, it’s not true and you know how I feel about that stuff, Derek, why do you think I’m here instead of finishing my doctorate in Chemistry, huh? I got busted and should be in prison but the man who was about to give me a damn job bailed me out--drugs are not worth it , at least not when you have other things to sell.”

Morgan had the grace to look abashed while Reid herded him out the door and back on the street. 

“Shit, I know, Reid, I do but… I dunno, I thought the coke might be easier to sell these days. You heard about those girls, right?” 

Spencer shot him a look and chewed his lip. 

“Yeah, I did… Anna and Cherry. Did you know them? I think I saw Cherry once at the Belv but I never met Anna. Carla said she was only 19.” 

Morgan shook his head, running a bejeweled hand over the smooth jaw that drove his regulars wild, men, women and everyone in between. 

“I knew them both. Sweet girls, Cherry was trying to get out, she told me she was finally clean when I talked to her last.”

The night felt hot and stagnant when they met it out in the open. 

Spencer paused to look back at his friend. 

Morgan stared off down the street. 

“It’s weird though…They were both killed on the same night but miles apart. Fernando told me he didn’t think it was any of the pimps, he swore it wasn’t, he actually looked freaked about the whole thing. Apparently a couple of his boys were brought in for questioning and released…”

Morgan shrugged. Reid stared at him. 

“It must be a psychopath John or something. At least it seems like the men are safe, aren’t enough of us out here I guess,” Morgan sighed as they turned onto their stretch of the Boulevard, fixing his leather jacket over his bare chest so everyone could see his exquisite musculature. 

Reid was quiet for a minute, twirling his blonde wig hair between two long fingers while they slowed their walk to a crawl. 

Every sleazy storefront had their doors propped open, letting the music drift out and meld with the sounds of traffic and the crowds of shoppers hurrying through the ‘rough’ part of downtown toward their discount hotels. 

Both beautiful men were subdued despite looking like they owned the block the moment the streetlights flickered on and the night began. 

Morgan tapped Reid’s red-sweatered shoulder and nodded to the corner where their territory began and didn’t end for two more blocks of the Boulevard. 

Two women and a scrawny boy stood loitering right on their star, brazen as day, probably leftover from the afternoon shift. Reid stiffened but let Morgan take charge in this confrontation; he’d been around a lot longer and held a lot more clout when it came to these disputes. 

“Ay! And just what do you think you’re doin’ here tonight, Karissa?” 

Reid smirked while Morgan strode forward, his bald head cocked back, chin jutting out, his black leather motorcycle boots clicking dangerously against the concrete. 

Karissa balked, her badly permed blonde hair barely stirring when she tried to shrug him off. 

“You don’t own this corner, Morgan. We have just as much of a right to--”

Morgan shook his head and held up a finger, chuckling to no one. 

“You can stop right there. I have owned this corner for three solid years, longer than you’ve been outta high school, baby girl. Get your stiff-back asses back down the Boulevard and we won’t have a problem. Unless,” he added quietly, his voice silver smooth with promise, “You wanted a problem?”

Karissa and her cohorts stood their ground for three more seconds but something about Derek Morgan threatened them just enough to back down with heads bowed and glittery tails tucked. 

“Fine… you don’t have to be such a possessive drama king, Derek…” the woman mumbled angrily. 

Spencer stood back to let them pass but he couldn’t help himself--he always felt bad when his friend went all Alpha male over street territory. 

“Stay safe, there were two more murders last night,” he mentioned to the youngest of the youthful trio--the boy who barely looked old enough to drive. 

Spencer felt a pang when the boy looked at him nervously, his long black hair shading his emo-eyelined eyes. He smiled but the boy just shook his head and hurried after the women who had clearly taken him in like a lost lamb among lions. 

Derek wasn’t paying them any attention by now; he was too busy unzipping his jacket and oiling up his eight pack abs with the baby oil he kept on him at all times. Full of glitter, of course. The guy was a one-man glitter factory, right down to the skin tight leather pants he wore that sparkled under the streetlamps. 

Spencer joined him, shrugging his big sweater down along his shapely biceps to expose his shoulders just enough as the traffic whizzed by. 

“Wasn’t that a little harsh? I mean, they could just walk a little ways down, you didn’t have to send them back to the ‘hood,” he suggested, sticking his fishnetted leg out just enough to catch the attention of a passing SUV. 

The honk was nice but he was here to make money, not noise. 

Morgan huffed a laugh, leaning against the light pole on their corner with his arms above his head. 

“Reid, if we let them skive off halfway down the street, those honks are all we’ll get. Too many bodies on one corner ain’t good for any business unless you’re on Rodeo. Oh look who it is…”

A dark black Dodge Challenger rolled up slowly to the corner at the red light, window down, a plume of heavy cigar smoke billowing out to engulf Derek as he walked languidly up to lean in and smile. 

“Hey baby, been a while… don’t tell me the Missus found out….”

Spencer observed, feeling more nervous than usual and wishing he had made the suggestion to work in pairs tonight, even if it meant less cash. 

The man in the Challenger was one of Morgan’s old regulars, some rich movie executive who had his hands full between a family in Malibu, a side-piece for show at all times and a predilection for getting fucked in the ass by Derek Morgan when he found the time. 

Before long Morgan was backing off, disappointment showing clearly as the car sped off at the green light. 

Spencer frowned, walking up to grip his shoulder comfortingly. 

“What happened? He always picks you up.”

Morgan whistled and shook his head, smiling even though he was clearly annoyed. 

“Not tonight, I guess. He’s going to a birthday party but he wanted to get “a good view” first. I should make them pay for each word I give their cheap asses at this point.”

Spencer sighed and tried to make light of it. 

“Well, maybe that’s for the best. I was thinking we shouldn’t go out alone tonight anyway, not with the murders happening…. Would you be down to put it out that we’re doing threesomes and gangbangs on special? There’s safety in numbers, statistically, whoever is killing sex workers is likely working alone--”

Morgan stared at him for a long moment, the headlights approaching lighting up the glittery gold of his cheeks. Then he busted out laughing, shaking his head at the earnest young twink hooker suggesting that a gangbang blue light special would be safer than riding solo. 

Reid just stared at him in confusion. 

“What? I’m serious, Derek, it might be safer than going it alone, at least until this guy gets caught?”

“Reid. I will tell you from experience, offering discount gangbangs is not any safer than choosing your clients wisely--

“Like this guy, fuck, look at that ride, he’s pulling over--get it, Pretty boy, I’ve never seen a goddamned Lotus this far out from Rodeo Drive or the Hills, he’s a newbie, bet he has loads of cash…”

“What if he stole it, Morgan, ever think of that… that guy can barely drive….”

Spencer squinted against the harsh yellow headlighs beaming at him from the silver sports car obviously driven by someone who knew nothing about driving stick. 

The car itself thrilled him, its stark silver lines glistening after a good wax, the way it purred in between rookie maneuvers that had the powerful engine screaming…. He could make that V-8 sing opera if he ever got a chance to play with it. 

Morgan pushed him forward and he woke up to his current reality rather than the one that had him roaring through Los Angeles in a Lotus laughing like a maniac. 

Slouching his shoulders back so his sweater now hung bunched at his elbow, he slinked forward with his eyes as wide as he could get them, chin tucked submissively, head cocked to the side. 

Where Derek could flow from sub to dom between encounters depending on the customer, Spencer Reid knew his very specific role and worked it well. It rarely failed to get him his very particular set of clients. One quick profile of this car and its inexperienced driver told him he was working with someone rich enough or stupid enough to look for a good fuck in this part of town. 

Now was the test… did this man want dick?  

The Lotus stuttered to a stop at their corner. Spencer smiled when the tinted window rolled down after a few seconds. 

He bent over slowly, peering out from his blonde bangs, hands on the cool metal of the car whose engine was stuck in third while parked…

God, just shift it, what are you doing to this thing--

“Hi there. Looking for some company?” he said instead. 

The man in the driver’s seat surprised him. 

Dark hair, neatly cut and parted but messy, like he’d been running his hand through it too much. 

Black tie and suit, expensive, tailored, Rolex on his wrist--Reid honed in on that, checking for a fake-- not a fake, holy shit-- no rings on his fingers where they gripped the race-car wheel tight. 

Reid was just about to like this guy. Then he started talking. 

“Ah… no, thank you, I seem to be lost, though. I’m trying to get to the Langham Hotel, can you give me directions?” 

The light turned green at the intersection. 

Reid sighed and rolled his eyes, leaning into the car fully without trying to look sexy anymore. 

Morgan’s right, I should charge for how often we give directions or verbal affirmation… Hmm.. Why not?

The worst he can do is say no and speed off. 

“Sure, you’re only a few miles off, traffic can be an issue though, unless you know the back ways… I can take you there for $20 if you want?” 

The man’s jaw tightened. Reid smiled politely. He waited. 

“Fine. Get in. Just directions, though, I am not soliciting you.”

Reid opened the heavy door, glancing over at Morgan whose eyebrows were an expressive wiggle worm of interest and approval. 

He settled in against the deep leather seats in a car lower than cars should legally be; he would have given directions for free just to ride in a goddamned Lotus but… this man didn’t need to know that. 

$20 just to give directions for five minutes was a lot better than $20 for sucking dick at the end of a bad night. 

The man jerked the parking brake down and suddenly they were going thirty miles an hour. 

“Fuck--stupid thing--” the man snarled as he struggled to downshift with the engine roaring its displeasure. 

Reid held his tongue on that topic. He had been hired to give directions to a place, not to give a rich asshole lessons in how to drive a powerful sports car with a touchy gearbox. 

“Technically you have solicited a service from me, Sir. Giving directions is a service people pay good money for and will until technology does it for free. Until then… turn right at the light… and try not to blow this engine? This thing is mint, where’d you steal it, Beverly Hills?” 

Spencer ran his hand along the dashboard all the way to the radio complete with a CD player. 

He flicked on the volume without permission, turning up the music so he didn’t have to hear the engine scream so pathetically. 

The man he had decided to call ‘Sir’ huffed and tried to shift into third again. 

“I did not steal this car… I borrowed it from a friend. I don’t usually drive myself anywhere.”

Spencer cocked his head at that. 

So he's that kind of rich. Oh. Well… 

I don’t know how to deal with that kind of Rich. 

Maybe he won’t know how to deal with my kind of Poor. 

“Well. I don’t drive myself anywhere either but that’s because I take the bus when I can afford it. Or I get rides from people like you. Turn left and then it’s a straight shot, you’ll come out right at the Valet. Maybe they can drive your ‘borrowed Lotus Espirit’ better than you can.”

The man struggled to get the Lotus to downshift from where it wanted to be in fifth. They barely made the turn in time, tires screeching, engine roaring, every bit of it unpleasant. Spencer sucked in a breath and laughed at the end of it when they didn’t flip over. 

“You are really bad at this, Sir.”

“Are you saying you might be better at it than I am?” the man retorted in a low voice as he tried to recover. 

Spencer just shrugged, his sweater slipping down his shoulder when he glanced over innocently. 

“Yes. I know for a fact that I would be better at driving this car than you are.”

“Show me, then.”

Chapter Text

Six hours earlier…

The party happening downstairs barely registered to the well-dressed man standing on a balcony, scowling out at nothing with a phone clutched to his ear. 

His scowl deepened and he let out a frustrated sigh when someone popped a champagne bottle down the hall. 

“No, I don’t think I’m asking anything ridiculous of you, Beth. This deal could make or break my entire career, all those plans you had for the arts foundation are out the goddamned window if it falls through. If you can make it for even half of the week that would be--”

“No, Aaron. I’m sorry. I cannot be some call girl ready to fly across the country when you ‘need me’. You’ve been fine for two weeks on your own, what’s so different now?”

Aaron Hotchner chewed his lip and looked down at the richest snobs in Los Angeles rubbing elbows below him. 

He was never good at this part of the business. 

It was the main reason he got into relationships with the types of women he did. They helped propagate the image he needed to embody if he was going to hold onto his position on top of the world. His girlfriend was right though… he had been using her when he needed her. Not because he wanted to be with her. 

The same exact thing happened with his ex-wife. 

That old feeling of shame and self-hatred welled up before his lawyer soul crushed it. 

“Beth. You knew what you were signing up for when we started dating. You know how busy I am, how crucial these aspects of sealing the deal are, you know--”

“I know what your secretary and that god awful lawyer you employ tell me better than I know what you actually want, Aaron. Hell, I know them better than I know YOU as a person. I think… I think it’s time for us to call it. I can’t keep doing this. What do you think?” 

Hotch fought off the urge to scream over the phone. Or start crying. Maybe both. 

There goes another one. 

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Beth. You sound as if you’ve already made up your mind,” he replied, his tone clipped. 

“I have. I’ll be out of the apartment before you get back.”

“Good thing you only just moved in, then, you’re still packed,” Hotch sneered. He regretted it immediately but there was no turning back from that. 

The call ended with a sudden click and that was that. 

Bachelor Aaron Hotchner rises again. 

He set the house phone down in its cradle and straightened his sedate gray tie with a sniff. 

Beth had been great. Better than great, she was an incredible woman. She was attractive, accomplished, funny and athletic, well-connected in all the right ways, flexible in more ways than one… 

She checked all the boxes, on paper. 

Aaron wondered why he didn’t feel even the slightest bit sad as he made his way downstairs through the posh party atmosphere, a tight smile tossed here and there at people who called his name. 

She never was the one. 

What the fuck is the ‘one’? Is there any ‘one’ out there for me? Do I even care? I should stop trying to find them. It never works out and I make a fool of myself every damn time while hurting these women who don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve them. 

I deserved to get dumped over the phone. That’s one thing I can be certain of. 

Hotch ignored the party goers and decided it was time to leave. Any chance at schmoozing was gone now that he couldn’t accept a dinner invitation for himself and his girlfriend without spreading the word that he was, once again, freshly single. 

Every eligible person there would try to get into his pants if that got out right now. Sometimes, he despised his wealth and his drive to accrue more of it. 

He tried to keep his profile low as he made his escape outside to the crowded driveway. 

His lawyer was the host of this lavish party celebrating nothing. 

Aaron was not in the mood to talk shop or relationships with George at the moment. He ducked his head past a little knot of money-horny people surrounding a boisterous personality he knew far too well. If he could just get outside, maybe Anderson could extract the limo from the gridlock and he could get the hell out of Beverly Hills.

“Aaron! Excuse me, be right back--take the shots, pour the damn Dom, I promise to be right back--”

Too fucking late. How does he always fucking find me…

Aaron ignored George Foyet’s cloying hand when it curled around his shoulder and tried to keep him from leaving the house. 

“Where ya going, Aaron? I’ve got Olivia Spelling over there eating out of my hand over the Gideon deal, she’s talking about highrises and Rodeo drive 2.0 along the wharf--come on, I know she’d love to hear how you’re gonna crush that tight-fisted old asshole, she’s a bloodthirsty one--” George started in on him, whispering in his ear before Aaron shook him off. 

“Great, sounds great, George. You can handle it better than me, I’m sure, you’re bloodthirsty enough to make it sound good, that’s why I pay you. I’m leaving, nice party, I had a great time. This your car?” 

Aaron slapped the hood of the sleek Lotus he’d seen too many times to count when George couldn’t help but show it off every day since he went into debt to buy it. 

George crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. George’s pout face was a dangerous ruse on the best of days--Hotch saw right through it but he also saw how hard his valet was working to get his limo out of this tetris-like parking disaster. If George got mad--he could pay him off eventually. 

George finally found his words.

“You know it is. Why are you touching it? And why are you leaving? You look like you’re about to fucking cry, did the little lady whine about flying out to play wingwoman again--wait, Aaron, what are you doing--”

Aaron had the door to the ridiculous sports car open before his overpaid lawyer could sputter any more words. 

“I need to go. Beth and I are done. I don’t want questions from these motherfuckers and I don’t want yours either. I just need to think. And your valets parked Anderson in,” he shrugged over to his driver desperately arguing with the bored men hired to pack every car in the long driveway regardless of how they were to get back out. 

George shook his head incredulously. 

“So you’re just going to take my baby , Hotch, come on, man, come back inside, have a few shots, loosen up, get a bathroom handy from one of the Olsen twins or something, you can do better than Bertha or whatever her name was--” 

Aaron was busy adjusting the seat and mirrors, checking his teeth before he held his hand out for the keys and stared at his business partner relentlessly. 

George stomped his foot and cursed. Then he rolled his eyes and handed over the keys. 

“You’re an asshole. Every time you have a goddamned crisis, I get shit on.”

Aaron had the keys in the ignition and one hand on the stick, rolling down the window as he slammed the door shut and experimented with the weird pedals. 

“George, every time I have a ‘crisis’ and you feel slighted, I end it by making us millions of dollars. You can buy ten more of these deathtraps after we close this deal. Shut the fuck up and go back to your party, I’m going back to the Langham.”

“You’re still an asshole, Hotch.”

Hotch waved at him disinterestedly. 

“Thanks for reminding me. I’ll call you tomorrow about the Gideon deal. Thanks for the car.”

George could only stand there and bite his lip angrily, his hands on his head with each screeching, grinding gear change Aaron made when he attempted to peel out from the driveway and brake down the hill. 

He felt that familiar call to violence he always felt when Hotch underestimated him, whenever he snubbed him or humiliated him or… really, whenever he interacted with the man anymore. 

George Foyet felt recklessly murderous. 

He might be leaving his own party earlier than anticipated as well. 

There were things he felt compelled to do. A little ahead of schedule. 

…

“Show me then.”

Spencer Reid didn’t believe it until it was happening: he was being asked to drive a goddamned Lotus. Not asked. 

Hired. 

For twenty bucks. It’s only a few miles away. Deal. 

The man offering this dream come true pulled over into the first spot available, still half in the driving lane with his emergency blinkers on. 

Every car behind them honked their displeasure but he didn’t seem to care. 

Spencer tensed up and wondered if he should get up and run when the man got out and strode around to his door. 

Too late now? Oh God, I should never have done this--what if this was the ruse the murderer was using, just giving directions in a car, luring victims into complacency, forcing me at gunpoint to drive out into the desert--

The passenger door opened and a strong hand was offered to help him out. 

Spencer stared up at the man distrustfully. The man stared back, reading him like someone reads a vaguely interesting magazine article in a doctor’s office. 

The silence stretched the longer Spencer refused the offered hand. The man finally sighed and stood up straight, cutting to the chase. 

“I want you to drive me the rest of the way. I’ll pay you another $20. I wouldn’t be here if my car and personal driver weren't tied up and I would appreciate your assistance. So long as you actually know what you’re doing and aren’t all talk.” 

The well-dressed man in his Armani suit squared his shoulders and kept staring down at him. 

$40 is better than $20…. And I get to drive this beautiful car. If he tries to kill me he’ll kill us both, I have no qualms about driving into a building with a gunshot wound, at least my dad might read about it later and feel bad… 

Better say yes. See where it goes. Drive the damn Lotus. 

“Okay…” Spencer got out, shrugging his sweater back up over his shoulders. He noticed the man’s eyes linger on his bare skin before he covered it up. 

He did not accept the help from the man paying him. He got up on his own and brushed past him, fingers stroking along his suit jacket for just a second to see if it got a response; the way the man shivered and cleared his throat was evidence enough. 

Reid smirked to himself. The man took his place in the passenger seat but didn’t close the door. 

“I’ve always wanted to drive one of these,” Spencer called loud enough to be heard. 

He strode around the hood of the car, dragging his fingers along the waxed metal while that four-cylinder engine rumbled. 

The second he was in the drivers’ seat he felt like the whole world was at his feet. 

He hadn’t felt this free in a very long time. 

The pedal well was so deep he could stretch his long fishnetted legs out all the way when he moved the seat back just enough. The man who’d solicited him for directions settled into the passenger seat and sat back, staring at him intently. Spencer flicked his eyes at him, tucking a bit of fake blonde hair behind his ear. 

“Better close that door and buckle up, I don’t drive slow and this car doesn’t either. Unless you’re driving, Sir.”

Spencer released the parking brake and shifted smoothly from first to second to third with his stiletto boot pressed to the gas pedal. The man slammed the passenger door shut and sputtered, trying to pull his seatbelt on.

“Shit--slow down--” 

“Slow down?! You asked me to drive, Sir, I’m driving!”

Spencer laughed ecstatically, dodging around the cars ahead without slowing down. He wanted to put this car through its paces and he did, as much as he could until he had to come to a screeching halt at the next red light. 

He was so happy he could barely contain his smile when he looked over at the man in the passenger seat. 

The man glared at him but there was a certain glint in his eye that told Spencer his excitement was appreciated. 

“This car is a work of art, Sir, your ‘friend’ sure knows his European sports cars--I bet if you got it out in the desert we could hit 60 MPH in 4.5 seconds, the torque on this engine--watch!” 

“Just don’t kill us, please, I have a meeting in the morning,” the man grumbled, holding on to the oh-shit handle but grinning all the same when Spencer gunned the souped up engine at the green light. 

“I think you were more likely to be the one to kill us, sir,” Spencer quipped as he took a back way to the Langham hotel with far less traffic. He mellowed out his acceleration a bit so he could smile at his ‘client’. 

His client smiled back. 

“What’s your name?” the man asked. 

Spencer bit his lip and gripped the steering wheel. 

“My name is whatever you want my name to be, Sir.”

The man tsked with dissatisfaction.

“I want to hear your name. Your real name,” he pressed. 

Spencer sighed and thought it over… it wasn’t like he expected to get much more from this interaction than the money for driving and directions. He never told his clients his full name and hardly ever his first, aside from his regulars. This guy didn’t strike him as a cop. He sounded genuinely curious to know. 

“My name is Spencer,” he finally answered, glancing quickly to the side to see the man’s mild surprise. 

“Spencer. Huh.”

“And I am every bit as much of a nerd as my name suggests, my work outfit and ability to drive this Lotus notwithstanding.”

“Right.”

The drive was quiet for the next minute while Spencer played with the wheel around the twists and turns of his secret shortcut. 

“This is a blast. I usually don’t have this much fun at work.” 

“It must be a hard line of work with the crackdowns from the police lately. And those murders… I hope it’s worth the risk. Exactly how much are… people in your industry pulling in these days?” he asked carefully while Spencer maneuvered them onto Rodeo Drive from a back alley. 

Spencer smirked, thinking fast, ignoring that little mention about the murders and risk.

$200 for that sloppy shower fuck with my dumbass neighbor… I should high ball this guy. He’s fishing for a price. 

“$200 for a half hour, that includes everything ,” he said with his chiseled, smooth shaven chin held high. The man whistled. 

“Damn. $200 for half an hour? I thought my lawyer was overpriced,” the man scoffed, sucking in a breath when Spencer goosed the engine enough to shoot them through traffic haphazardly. 

“Overpriced? Have you ever sucked dick for a living?” Spencer huffed, offended even though he knew he shouldn’t be. 

He normally charged $100 an hour but that was with men who drove Kia hatchbacks and smelled like cheetos trolling his corner. Not men who casually borrowed a friend’s Lotus and wore real Armani suits complete with a Rolex. 

The man cleared his throat. If Spencer hadn’t been such an attentive driver as they pulled up beneath the ornate Langham Hotel portico, he would have caught him blushing. 

“Ah--no, I haven’t. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I guess I’ve never price indexed the prostitution industry. The holes in your sweater didn’t exactly scream ‘high-income-earner’ to me.”

Spencer choked on a laugh and put the gorgeously ridiculous car in park. 

“Now you really are being rude. But maybe you’ll learn something about my “industry” in addition to how terrible you are driving stick,” he replied cattily, unbuckling his seat belt and blowing a kiss into the rear view mirror as the valet rushed forward. 

“I do just fine and I will have you know I chose this profession when other doors closed. I have no regrets. Now…” Spencer turned to face his passenger and shrugged expectantly. 

“I believe you owe me $40 for the ‘ride’ and directions?” 

The man looked down at his outstretched hand.  

“That I do.” 

He took his time withdrawing his wallet. Spencer had a moment in the golden light spilling from the lush hotel to notice how handsome he really was. Dark, well-maintained hair. High cheekbones. Clean-shaven cheeks, striking features, fresh cologne applied just enough to perceive. His Armani suit was impeccably well-fitted, though his tie was dull and the white shirt was everything he had come to expect about East Coast businessmen on a work trip. Boring.

Something about him was different but the young sex-worker couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

The crisp 20 dollar bills were in his hand before he had much more time to contemplate. He looked up at the man again to meet his eye and tip his head as he had done with so many clients in the past. 

“I appreciate your patronage,” he said with a wide smile. 

When he got out of the car, the valet jumped back with his mouth open in shock. 

“Hi! Beautiful evening, right?” he said brightly. He straightened up his wig and drew his sweater around his middle to hide himself a bit more--this area was not one to get caught in by a cop. 

Any one of these hotel workers would probably call the pigs if he was seen ‘loitering’. Loitering for him meant simply existing so… his first priority was to disappear. 

He drew his hand along the side of the Lotus one more time as he came around the back where the man still waited. 

“Keys. I’d suggest you stick to the limo service, Sir. If you need driving lessons, you know where to find me.” Spencer dropped the sports car key in the man’s hand, saluted him sarcastically and turned on his six inch heel to leave without waiting for a response. 

He still needed to get back to work and make up for lost time if he wanted to make enough to cover rent and Morgan’s stupid drug money.  

Fuck. Now I have to ride the bus. That’ll take at least an hour from here…. What was I thinking? 

At least I got to drive a Lotus. I suppose that’s worth working a redeye shift tomorrow…. 

He was already rummaging around in his bag for his bus card when he heard the man call his name from the hotel front doors. 

“Spencer--wait a moment, please.”

When he turned around the man was just feet away staring at him intently. It made him nervous and wary once again but he stood up straight and smiled. 

“If you’re still lost, I think the doorman is holding the door open for you. I would walk you inside but that would be another $10,” he said cheekily enough, even though he was remembering his initial suspicions that this man might be the killer haunting his streets. 

The man smiled and shook his head, looking down at the ground as if he were thinking hard and trying to make a decision. 

“$200 for half an hour… is there a discount for a full hour?” 

Spencer blinked and his mouth fell half open before he recovered from the shock of the unexpected proposition. He drew himself up to his considerable height with the help of his boots, flicked a bit of blonde hair aside and turned himself into the professional he knew he was. 

“$350 and I’ll throw in a backrub, Sir,” he answered, cocking his head to the side and locking eyes with the man’s glare. 

The man didn’t hesitate. 

“Deal. Now come inside before they call the cops. And you better wear my coat.” 

Spencer accepted the long coat with a roll of his eyes. He shrugged it over his lanky form and took the man’s offered elbow, bowing sarcastically at the silently judgemental doorman. 

He knew he was playing a dangerous game walking into the fancy hotel at all but he couldn’t pass up $350. He couldn’t pass up an easy hour making triple his usual rate, even if it meant a dangerous commute home later… And then…

There was something intriguing about the silent business man leading him inside the most exclusive hotel in L.A. as if he were just another normal date. 

Spencer looked around at the bustling gold and marble lobby feeling more and more out of his element. The crystal chandeliers nearly blinded him in their opulence of warm golden light contrasting so sharply with the cheap white light and neon he was accustomed to. 

He tried to control his amazed expression and make it appear that he did this everyday. It was harder with every step, every person he passed... The last time he’d seen people dressed this well, expressing this much wealth , he was a day away from being expelled and arrested for synthesizing designer drugs at Caltech just so he could pay his room and board. He probably sold his signature LSD to the children of the people who could afford to stay here. 

“Fuck…” Spencer murmured when the Concierge Clerk honed in on him immediately. He could read that stare well enough. Definitely not welcome here. We should have gone to the LaQuinta Inn. It’s nice, it’s clean, it serves the purpose and they don’t ask questions--they serve fucking free breakfast--maybe I can still convince him? Why are they all LOOKING at me?!

Spencer knew why but he didn’t like it any better. 

The man’s coat only reached to his midthigh. The uneven click of his shitty black boots rang out so loud against the soft tinkling of fountains and Mozart, every single person in the grand central lobby turned their heads to watch him walk.

Spencer had honed some skills of walking with “finesse”, as Morgan put it, but… this was a different ballpark entirely. He felt like curling in on himself out of nowhere, old anxieties arising from the past, every bit of himself on the stage to be judged.  

“Sir… they are all staring, are you sure this is okay here--”

“Shh. I am a, ah, valuable customer. They won’t say anything to you,” the man assured him quietly. Spencer wanted to beeline to the elevator or maybe just turn around and run back out to the streets to catch the bus. 

He was beginning to think the money wasn’t worth it when an impeccably dressed woman sneered at him in open disgust as she walked by. Apparently the man he was about to service for an hour at a premium didn’t give a shit. 

Spencer let himself get pulled straight over to the concierge desk. He dragged the man’s coat tighter around himself awkwardly with each clack of his hooker heels. 

The Concierge was an older Italian man with shrewd features and a purse to his lips that meant he did not put up with nonsense. Spencer had met plenty of his type before but usually, they were senior officers in the LAPD or members of his old School Ethics Board. 

He kept himself small and stayed behind when his client strode to the desk confidently. 

“Good evening, Mr. Hotchner,” the concierge said with a nod of his head and a suspicious stink eye cast at Spencer skulking behind. Spencer wanted to react childishly and stick out his tongue but he resisted. 

For now. 

He was too focused on the admission of a name for this man to do anything more than stand there stupidly and wait. 

Mr. Hotchner. 

I can work with that. 

“Evening, Rossi. I’d like a bottle of Dom and a bowl of berries sent up to my suite, whatever is in season. Also you can cancel my 6 am masseuse appointment. Thank you.”

Mr. Hotchner turned away and beckoned Spencer along with him without another word to this Rossi man. 

“Of course, Sir. Right away. Enjoy your evening,” called Rossi after them. 

Spencer walked quickly to the elevator feeling even more self-conscious than before. 

What if that guy calls the cops to be waiting for me when I come back down? 

Shit. Shit Shit, SHIT, this is why Morgan always says, ‘don’t go to the NICEST hotels’, they’re too hardcore about this kind of thing. I’m not a private call boy, I’m not a gigolo, I am a street sex worker and I dress the part for that, not, not this level of work--

“Spencer? Are you getting in?” 

Spencer realized he was just standing there holding his arms against his chest and staring at the expensive art on the wall instead of getting into the waiting elevator with Mr. Hotchner. He nodded mutely and tried to keep his cool when the couple standing there next to him elected to wait for the next ride up. 

That made him a little mad. Mad enough to combat his anxiety and get back into his role, at least. 

He harnessed the anger for a second and flashed the old people with a twirl, exposing his pretty red and white skin-tight attire with a smirk he didn’t fully mean. 

“Get a good look, buddy!” he whispered to the old man whose mouth was hanging open. He blew a kiss just in time to watch the old man splutter when his wife wacked him in the gut with a tut.

The elevator doors closed on the scene with Spencer blowing a kiss to the poor guy and his wife. 

He settled down when he realized there was an attendant trying not to laugh as he manned the buttons. 

Mr. Hotchner cleared his throat but didn’t say anything as the elevator lifted them up swiftly. 

Spencer stared at the 27 PENTHOUSE label next to the FLOOR 27 button the attendant had pressed without even asking. He had to use a key to get the elevator to move. 

Oh. That’s why he wanted to stay here. Oh. 

“Penthouse, huh?” he asked, trying to sound cool and collected. “Very nice. Next thing you tell me, I’ll realize I drove a millionaire home for $30.”

Hotchner didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything at all. Spencer felt his stomach flip over but he tried hard to cover it up by flirting with the elevator attendant. 

“You must have such an interesting life. People go in, people go out, the buttons flash and in the intervening moments you see snippets of human lives no one else will ever see. My job is kind of like that without the light-up buttons. Do they pay you well? Tell me--”

Hotchner gripped his arm and led him out mid-question when they reached floor 27, pressing a crisp $20 into the attendant’s waiting palm. 

“Thank you Cory. This stays between us.” 

Cory tipped his cap and grinned, his cheeks red. “Of course, Mr. Hotchner.”

Spencer waved at Cory and Cory waved back before Hotchner pushed him gently on down the hall toward the single door at the end. 

The man paused when they reached the penthouse door, his hand hovering in the air, clutched around a card. 

“I take it you heard my name then,” he said quietly, staring at the thick strip of carpet between Spencer’s thigh-high boots. Spencer started tapping his foot reflexively. 

“I did. Mr. Hotchner. Sir.” 

“Observant. You live up to your ‘nerdy’ name, Spencer.” 

Why he actually had a boner, Spencer couldn’t say. He never got aroused naturally during a job. Tonight was… an anomaly. So was this man. 

FOCUS!

$350. One Hour. I’ll take the freight elevator out the back to leave. $350. 

Hotchner met his eyes with an even stare, smiling almost wistfully at Spencer’s fake blonde hair. 

He stepped forward and Spencer allowed it, his hands falling to brush along Hotchner’s belt and settle on his hips when the man reached up to trace along his jawline. Spencer felt a tickle of arousal that wasn’t normal in his day to day business life; he brushed it off again and focused on the man in front of him. 

This is work. Don’t forget that.

His client’s hour started now. 

Somehow, the man knew that when he drew Spencer in closer. 

“You can call me Aaron. My friends call me that… or they call me Hotch. For just this one hour, I’d like you to be my friend. Can you please do that for me?” 

Spencer reached up to grip Aaron Hotchner’s hand where he held that keycard, guiding it toward the slot in the door while he leaned in close and nodded, maintaining eye contact the entire time. 

“I can do whatever you want me to do, Hotch.”

Chapter Text

“Damn, Derek…” the man panting against the brick wall of the alley gasped as he tried to pull his pants back up with shaky hands. “You really know how to give it.”

Derek Morgan grinned as he buckled his glittery tight black pants up after tossing the used rubber in the dumpster next to him. He helped his client turn around and stand up straight. 

“That’s why you keep coming back, Mike. You good to walk? Got a little rough there at the end, I know you like it like that,” he quipped when Mike seemed a little unsteady. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. Gloria will just think I overdid on the stairmaster again… Here you go, get something to eat with that, you’re making me look fat.” Morgan accepted the crisp Benjamin and patted Mike’s shoulder. 

“Will do, man. You take care now.”

Morgan leaned against the wall and watched as Mike hobbled back out to the boulevard to find his BMW. 

The portly businessman with a wife and kids and three mortgages only ever sought out his services when the stress of life got to be a little too much for him; tonight he was almost falling over from exhaustion when he flagged Morgan down on his way back to his apartment. The sun was almost coming up and Morgan was ready to call it quits after a few shots and a hit with Fernando but… Mike was a sweet guy. 

He stayed out an extra half-hour and made another $100 as a courtesy. 

Now it was time to call it a day. He hadn’t made enough to cover the rent and his debts but at least it would keep Fernando off his ass and Reid from having a heart attack whenever he got back from his job with the Lotus guy. 

I should check in with him. If he’s not back at the apartment by now… shit. I gotta stop doing blow, this night just disappeared. 

Morgan stalked down the alleyway with his hands in his leather jacket pockets, head fuzzy and buzzing as he came down from being high all night. 

As he passed through a litter-strewn intersection he stopped short, suddenly on alert. 

What sounded like a woman struggling to scream came from the left, followed up by the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting flesh. 

Morgan backed up into the shadows against the wall of a warehouse, waiting to make sure it wasn’t just his drug-fueled hyper awareness causing auditory hallucinations. He often felt paranoid after an all-night bender being out on the streets. 

Then he heard it again, this time accompanied by a pained gasp and the sound of something heavy knocking into a trash can. 

He took off without thinking it through, sprinting down the dark alley to his left toward a collection of cans and detritus. A dark figure darted away toward the main road, flinging something over their shoulder that clattered to the ground.  

“Hey! HEY, STOP MOTHERFUCKER, what’re you DOING--”

Morgan almost tripped over something in his haste to chase the guy down before he disappeared. He caught himself just barely and looked down to see a pair of stiletto boots sticking out into the street. 

“Shit--” 

He wanted to keep chasing whoever did this but the body on the ground might still be alive--

Morgan made a choice to stay and try to help when the boot twitched. He dropped to the filthy ground and rolled the body over to discover a woman bleeding from what must be dozens of stab wounds all over her torso and throat. Her eyes were wide open, mouth gasping as blood trickled down across her lower lip. She was still barely breathing. 

Morgan had no idea where to put his hands. There were too many wounds. He chose one right above her barely there corset top and pressed, totally heedless of the blood oozing out all over his bare hand. 

“Hey--Hey, I’m gonna get you help, just hang in there for me--HELP! WE NEED HELP, CALL THE COPS, HELP!” 

The alley was silent aside from his ragged breath. When he looked back down at the woman he knew she was gone. Her eyes had gone glassy, her mouth open, chest no longer rising or falling at all. The blood still pulsed out from her many wounds but he knew death when he saw it. Then he realized he recognized her. He’d know that bad perm anywhere. 

“Fuck… Karissa, fuck, girl…” 

He took a moment to gather himself, sliding his hand away from the stab wound in her chest. 

Cops. I have to call the cops. I saw the motherfucker, it’s the murderer… I should have chased him. FUCK. 

Standing up slowly he wiped Karissa’s blood off on his pants and then stared at his hands. 

I shouldn’t have touched her. I disturbed a crime scene. Shit. They’ll think I did it… if they drug test me, I’m gone. I should go. I can’t call the damn cops, they’ll arrest me and throw away the damn key, another black man off the streets, another hooker booked… 

Morgan backed away from the grisly murder scene and started running as fast as he could. 

His heart was hammering, his head was still fuzzy but alive from adrenaline and fear, paranoia carrying him all the way back to his shitty apartment. 

Reid will know what to do. He knows about this shit, he’s obsessed with true crime. 

He knew better than to take the main entrance with rent being overdue. Morgan climbed the fire escape in record time, bursting through the unlocked window on the 3rd floor unceremoniously. 

“Reid? Reid, I got into some shit, man--” 

He stopped short and realized the apartment was dark and silent. Normally when his roommate got home he had at least one lamp turned on and the radio buzzing quietly in the background. The skinny guy never could stand the dark silence of being alone. 

“Reid?” 

It didn’t take long for him to check their tiny shithole apartment and realize that Spencer Reid had not yet come home. 

…

Spencer took in the opulence of the penthouse when Aaron “Hotch” Hotchner finally keyed open the door and beckoned him inside. 

“Wow. I knew it would be nice but, damn, look at that view!” 

He tapped his way across the sitting room to the open door on the veranda. 

“You can see the Hollywood sign from here, that’s wild! Did you know the original “Hollywoodland” sign was a temporary marketing scheme dreamed up in the 1920s by a developer who wanted to lure people into building on Mount Lee? The letters were hauled up by mule carts and only supposed to stay for a few months but it became such a symbol for the film business that the Ad executives of the time insisted it stay.”

Spencer leaned out over the railing and took the sights in with a deep breath as the wind ruffled his fake blonde wig hair. 

I could see the sunset from here.

“You have a million-dollar view up here, Hotch. No wonder you can afford my hourly rate.”

Hotch stood back and nodded. 

“I’m not a fan of heights, personally. But you look nice out there.”

Spencer turned around and shrugged the heavy coat off his shoulders along with his sweater. He laid them both on a chair and shivered in the cool breeze born from being so high up. 

“Thank you, the windswept look does tend to do me favors. The breeze out here is heavenly… why don’t you join me?” 

Spencer cocked his head and leaned back against the railing with his long leg stuck out just right. It was time to get this ‘party’ started. The man was already seven minutes in to his single hour. 

Hotchner stared at him before shaking his head and turning away. 

“Like I said, I don’t do heights. Come back inside, Spencer.”

Spencer did as he was told, sliding down from the bannister with a curious cock to his head.

“Why do you stay up here then, if you suffer from acrophobia to such a debilitating extent?” he asked as he walked through the penthouse sitting room to the cluttered desk where Hotch sat. 

“I stay here because this is the best room in the hotel and I like to get the best. Why do you fuck for work if you know words like ‘acrophobia’?” Hotch countered. 

Spencer settled down on the desk with a sigh and shrugged. 

“Money. Simple as that. I suppose your explanation is the same. You like renting the penthouse as an expression of your wealth. Totally understandable. I utilize my body to pay the bills. Simple.”

Hotch stared up at the young man he hired for an hour to do what men of his type did best. 

“Do you like it though?” 

Spencer blinked down at him and bit his lip. 

“I’m paid to like it, Sir.”

Hotch ran his hand up along Spencer’s fishnetted thigh to finger the thin material of his little red and white skirt. 

“That’s not what I asked you, Spencer. Do you like fucking for a living?”

Spencer huffed beneath his breath, trying to hide how turned on he actually was. 

“I like living. Let me show you how much…”

When Spencer leaned forward and palmed Hotch’s crotch he sat back and pushed him away

“Not… not yet.”

Spencer shook his head as he folded his hands into himself, clearing his throat subconsciously. That was the first time he’d ever been turned away by a paying client. 

I better get him to pay me now, he might flake and then I’ll be out more than just a few hours of time on the street… he might call the cops on me. What did I get myself into…

He reoriented and smiled, staying as sharp as he could. He hated how attracted he was to this man. His normal guardrails were down and that was not safe. Sitting back up straight he perched on the edge of the man’s rented desk and shrugged down at him as if this wasn’t an anomaly. 

“Alright. But you can pay me for the hour up front, which began the moment you led me into your ‘penthouse suite’. Whether you get it up or not is on you, I can’t work miracles.”

“Of course. You really have an issue with time, don’t you?” Hotch asked half-jokingly. The sexy half-dressed man perched on the edge of his desk took it seriously. 

“When you work by the hour doing what I do, you’ll understand my issue with time.” 

Hotch glared at him while he counted out the bills. Spencer accepted the money without a word, tucking the bills into his boot pocket deftly. When he looked up again Hotch seemed to be buried in his work memos, looking anywhere but at him. 

“Well. If you don’t want to fuck right now, what do you want to do, friend?” he asked from his perch on the man’s desk. 

Hotch took a deep breath and shrugged, setting the contracts aside. He had gotten himself into this mess. Now he had to ride it out. 

“You tell me. I have very little experience paying for pleasure. Zero, actually.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rode up incredulously. He was even more turned on than he had been earlier. This man wanted interaction. This man was lonely. This man was very attractive and very wealthy… he was smart, too. All of these qualities combined to make Aaron Hotchner someone he might actually enjoy fucking for once. If he ever got to fuck him at this rate. 

The man did not seem to subscribe to his timeline of one hour. 

Spencer knew he would have to draw him out his hard shell. His best clients were always like this. He knew how to get him to open up. 

“I suppose I can start by asking you some questions about yourself. Are you married?” 

Spencer settled in on the desk with his chin against his palm, elbow against a fishnetted knee drawn up beneath him while his little red and white skirt rode up just enough. Hothcner stiffened at the question. 

“Technically, yes. The divorce is still contested.”

Spencer nodded understandingly. 

“Did you want it to work out? Your marriage?”

Hotch shook his head and leaned back into his chair. 

“Yes, of course I did. But it doesn’t matter what I want. I’m the one with the money and too little time to give.”

Spencer scoffed. “It’s the money she’s after, no doubt. If it were time she’d still be trying to work it out. Did you love her?”

Hotch nodded, even though at this point, he wasn’t sure. Did I ever love Haley?

“Yeah. Of course I did. Do. I guess”

“Mhmm. You know, now I know for sure you were never a lawyer.”

Hotch felt offended for a split second. He had been through the LSATs. He was once a board certified attorney. 

“Why do you assume that?” he demanded of the smirking hooker sitting on his desk. 

Spencer laughed and wiggled down against the papers he was smothering with his ass. 

“Lawyers are better liars.”

Hotch had nothing to say to that. He watched the young man dressed like a whore slide off his desk to kneel on the carpet right at his knee. A thrill of arousal coursed through him to see that pretty fake-blonde wig hovering over his crotch. Then Spencer looked up at him. 

Their eyes locked and Hotch barely held back a moan. 

“See? You can’t lie. Your eyes tell too much truth. You can’t be a lawyer. They have dead eyes. Yours are so alive it hurts to make contact with you. Hi!”

Hotch blinked rapidly, one hand rubbing his right eye beneath the glasses he dawned earlier. 

“Hey…” he mumbled. 

He watched Spencer drag his hands down to his hips, along to his belt, one delicate finger tracing lower along his rapidly hardening cock beneath his dress pants--

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Spencer stood up so fast Hotch almost felt dizzy. 

“What’s that?!” Spencer demanded in a whisper. Hotch watched him get into a defensive stance, one hand one his boot and the other bracing himself against the desk. The young man looked ferally aggressive in that moment, ready to fight, ready to run, ready to jump off the balcony if the twitch of his eyes toward the veranda was any indication. 

Hotch was even more intrigued by the young sex worker than he had been before when he drove that Lotus like a damn professional. 

He cleared his head just enough to remember what the knock meant. 

“It's just room service.”

Spencer relaxed into an awkward shuffle, hands at his chest, lip bitten, eyebrows furrowed beneath that silly blonde wig. Hotch found the natural reaction to a surprise intrusion hotter than his catwalk attempts.  

“Oh.”

Hotch's cock got harder with that innocent little 'Oh'. 

Spencer drew himself up to his considerable height and smiled at his client as he calmed down. If he couldn't suck his dick just yet... answering the door for him was another simple service he could render while he was on the clock.

“Well, I guess I should make myself useful?” 

Opening a door had never felt quite so monumental as it did then to the 22-year-old ex-prodigy turned sex worker. 

...

Lights flashed and sirens wailed like they always did in this part of Hollywoodland at 6 am on a Saturday. The land of the dreamers and the schemers, the land of the druggies and the burnouts and the hookers, once again rendered the scene of death.

Sergeant Luke Alvez of the LAPD stood back from examining yet another corpse. 

The CSI guys were there already processing every bit of evidence. 

Another girl stabbed over fifty times. Another girl left like trash on his beat. 

Another day without a lead. 

The one thing he knew that might make the difference in this case was the fact that this murder had been interrupted. 

Someone had seen it. Someone tried to save this girl. 

Luke knew enough to know they'd never find that witness without the witness coming forward themselves. Even if they got a print, every person in the vicinity could still be on the hook for it. This girl was covered in prints. 

"Alvez!"

He turned around to find his Captain right behind him.

"Sir--it's a serial, we have to call in the feds, man, look at this--"

Captain Dawes shook his head and grimaced when the woman's body nearly flopped out of its bag on the way onto the stretcher. 

"It's just another prostitute, Alvez. Occupational hazards get the best of them. We don't know that it's a serial killer. We call the Feds in and this thing blows up, only to expose how little control we have on the streets? No. It's a one-off, bad john got a little crazy, the girl was on drugs, things get violent--end of story."

Alvez started to argue but his Captain shut him up with a single look. 

"End of Story, Luke. Wrap this shit up and get her to the morgue. Best we can do is tell her family how she died, if she has one at least."

Luke turned away feeling angrier than ever when the coroner strode up and announced the cause of death to the hovering crowd of onlookers: 

"Repeat stabbing and asphyxiation of a 20-year-old female, blonde--"

"Get the fuck outta here, now, all of you, this isn't a goddamned film set!" he yelled when the little crowd just grew denser. 

Someone tapped his shoulder. He was ready to throat punch them but then heard a quick whisper that kept him stationary.

"Hey. Sergeant Luke Ignazio Alvez. I might know something if you can keep it quiet."

He turned around just in time to be hit in the head with a paper airplane sent from the corner just beyond the crime scene tape. 

The woman disappearing into the crowd was dressed all in black with a parasol over her white-blond head. 

Alvez unfolded the piece of pink paper to read a very short message. 

"I called the cops. I saw the guy who tried to save her. You should talk to him. He saw the killer."

Luke Alvez took off as the rare rain gathered against the sun rising over Los Angeles. 

Chapter Text

The pop of the champagne bottle drew a huge smile from Spencer Reid as he watched his client pour him a full flute next to the bar. 

Aaron Hotchner held it out to him after the fizzies dissipated. Spencer accepted, brought it to his lips and took a long drag of the bubbly ice cold liquid. 

It didn’t taste anything like the ‘Champagne’ he’d had before. It was as if he were imbibing carbonated gold, at least to his overactive imagination. Normally alcohol was not his favorite way to get wrecked, too messy, too slow, not enough punch to make the inevitable hangover worth it but… he could get used to Dom Perignon. 

Hotch watched him knock back his flute with a slightly scandalized expression.

Reid didn’t notice. He was too busy smacking his full lips in appreciation of the expensive booze. He sat perched on the back of the long leather couch of the penthouse sitting room, one leg crossed over the other, one stiletto heel tapping in excitement. 

Chugging champagne nearly caused him to burp but Spencer was pretty well practiced at throat control; he swallowed the impulse and cleared his throat, his cheeks already pink from the rush of booze hitting his empty belly. 

“Ahem... Sorry, I don’t really drink much anymore but this is delicious--I can tell from the label it’s the real deal, straight from Champagne itself. I’ve never tasted real Champagne, I didn’t think there could be that much of a difference between this and ‘sparkling wine’ but clearly the chemistry is the dividing line between real and fake, the grapes, water, topography, sunlight, methods, all of it contribute to creating this kind of unique flavor.”

Spencer surveyed his nearly empty glass before glancing at Hotch who leaned against the wall, empty-handed, just watching him. 

“Don’t you want a glass?” he asked, cocking his head curiously when Hotch shrugged. 

“I don’t drink at all anymore. I had a feeling you’d enjoy it, though.”

Spencer laughed uncertainly, eyebrows furrowed as he finished off his glass. 

He eyed the bowl of chilled black cherries and strawberries on the bar, the bottle of Dom in the silver wine cooler, the way his client stood there so casually with that look in his eye… 

“You know, it’s nice to be seduced like this but I think you need to remember that you have already paid for my services… I don’t require seduction, I am a guaranteed notch in your bedpost at this point. But you only have,” Spencer checked the clock on the wall behind Hotch’s head while the older man flushed, “32 more minutes to utilize your purchase. Getting me drunk will take longer than that.”

Hotch peered at him appraisingly, yet again xraying him with his shrewd eyes in a way that made Reid feel a bit uncomfortable in a very arousing way. 

“Can I offer you a different proposition? Just to keep you from looking at the clock every thirty seconds?” he asked, walking forward with purpose, the bottle of Dom in his hand. He gestured for Spencer to raise his empty glass and Spencer obliged. 

While Hotch filled it back to the brim, Spencer tried to read his face. 

“You can offer me anything you like. I hope you know that I am my own boss--I say when, I say who and I say how much. If I don’t accept your “proposition”, you still have half an hour left. But… you can ask me what you want to ask me,” he finished with a small sip of Champagne. 

Hotch set the bottle down on the side table next to the couch. He leaned into Spencer’s space, both hands on either side of the skinny young man dressed like a hooker perching on the back of his hotel couch. 

“How much would I need to pay you to stay the night? All night. Through breakfast.”

Spencer’s mouth fell open, eyes wide, one hand clutched about his champagne flute while the other flew to his chest as it rose and fell rapidly. 

All night. Stay with a client… all night. Like a goddamned call boy. 

They charge thousands, full service, they SLEEP with their clients, snuggle, kiss, share a meal, a shower… 

Hmm. 

“Um, hah…” Spencer gathered himself together and sat up straight, his boots hitting the floor with a hard click. He smiled and took another sip of his champagne, pretending that this was a question he’d been asked before many times. 

“You would need to pay me quite a bit, Sir. I normally see five clients on an average night. Some pay extra for kinks… $200 an hour… so… I can’t take less than a thousand for an entire night at your beck and call,” he posited with an innocent shrug as he met Hotch’s eye with a sly smile. 

Hotch stared him down evenly, not a trace of shock on his face. 

“That will be $650 in addition to what I’ve already paid you for this first hour, I assume.”

Spencer bit his lip, thought it over and decided he was already pushing his luck charging that kind of price for what would most likely amount to him sucking a soft cock for hours on end. Hotchner was just another lonely rich guy, richer than most he’d encountered but probably lonelier as a result. Spencer at least felt comfortable around him, his innate attraction to the handsome older man notwithstanding. 

“I’ll be nice and prorate the time I’ve given already. You have yourself a deal. $1000 for the entire night, starting from when you let me in to your penthouse suite and ending tomorrow morning after breakfast.”

Spencer raised his glass to clink against Hotch’s cheek. Then he leaned in to give him a peck just beside his mouth. 

“I haven’t forgotten about your massage, Sir. Now that we have more time, I can really show off my knowledge of the human male anatomy.”

Hotch settled his hands on Spencer’s waist, thumbs pressing in for just a moment against the silky fabric of his skimpy outfit. 

“I have no doubts, Spencer…” 

Hotch pulled away just when Spencer was sure he had him ready to fuck. 

“I have some work to catch up on. Make yourself at home. Try the berries with your Champagne, they bring out the notes of the vintage,” he said with a wave as he walked back over to the desk full of papers. 

Spencer was left feeling horny and impatient--confused as well, if he was honest. He was also hungry and those berries looked delicious. 

He wants me to stay all night… and he’s going to pay me for the trouble. I guess I can enjoy myself until he finally feels ready to fuck. 

Or try to at least… Maybe he just can't get hard. Wouldn't be the first time, I suppose. I guess I should just lean into this... He already paid me more than enough for one hour... judging by this place he's staying, he can afford to blow $1000 on me.

Spencer could hear Morgan now, screaming at him to live it up while he could. 

This doesn't happen every night. Live it up. Carefully. 

Starting with that fruit. 

Spencer set to work devouring the bowl of fruit, plucking one succulent berry after another from the bowl as he wandered about the opulent penthouse suite. 

There was a shelf full of books that looked interesting right next to the television equipped with cable and even a satellite box--he looked forward to staying up all night watching TCM after his client passed out, if he ever did. The view from the veranda was as spectacular as ever, the Los Angeles skyline glowing in one direction with the Hollywood sign all lit up against the hills in the other. He couldn’t wait to see the sunrise tomorrow. 

Eventually, he felt the inevitable call of nature after imbibing half a bottle of Champagne. This was as good a time as any to prep himself again for fucking, if ever his services were fully utilized. He wasn't sure they would be at this point but, it never hurt to be prepared in his experience. It hurt more when he wasn't. 

“Bathroom?” he asked the studious older man bent over his papers as if his life depended on scrutinizing them at 11 PM. 

Hotch looked up in surprise, as if he’d forgotten he had hired a male hooker to hang out with him all night. 

“Oh--uh, through the bedroom to the left.”

Spencer smiled and strode off, his boots still on, blonde wig bouncing. He never carried a bag but he was grateful for his special boot pockets which held everything he might need for an unexpected evening such as this.

“Thanks! I’ll be right back.”

Hotch watched him go with a frown. Suspicion and fear suddenly clouded his mind. He got up to follow and make sure he hadn’t just made a huge fucking mistake hiring a stranger to playact this role for him. Everything he knew about sex workers and everything he knew about people who wanted his money rose up and morphed together, telling him he was an idiot to think he could find pleasure or companionship this way... He's probably on something. Of course. Why else would be so arresting... so good at this... so awkward and fresh and yet still so fucking hot.... 

Hotch leaned against the closed bathroom door and waited. 

Spencer stared into the mirror of the lush hotel bathroom, baring his teeth at himself for a moment. Tiny little black dots lined his incisors on both sides. He could feel the film of sugary Champagne across his white teeth. 

Fucking strawberry seeds. Bits of cherry skin too. What a messy meal. Snack. Aperitif! Whatever that was. 

He turned away to pee before he set to work cleaning his teeth or prepping his ass, the essential precursors to a drawn-out night of sex work in his mind at least.

Morgan always made fun of his need to prep himself and also his weird obsession with flossing but, Morgan didn’t bottom nearly as much and his money didn’t depend on his perfect teeth staying cavity-free. 

People would always seek Morgan out no matter what to fuck them into oblivion--they might get over Spencer if he didn’t keep himself looking and acting tip-top. 

The Champagne had made him a bit dizzy. He stood there holding his dick above the fancy toilet, giggling to himself about the last time he drank. He had been at the club with Derek. They had a few tequila shots at 4 am after a particularly weird night on the streets. 

Tonight was very different from that night but he felt just as silly. He wondered what Morgan would say tomorrow when he called him to let him know he'd been hired for an all-nighter. It would take him two hours to get home on the morning bus... he would have to call home before then... at least if Morgan was his friend and cohort at all, he would be worried when he didn't turn up at 5 am. 

The wooziness settled in and Spencer realized he was half-drunk. He washed his mouth out with some water from the golden spigot, swishing it around before swallowing and taking a few deep breaths braced against the sink. He blew a kiss at himself in the mirror when the nausea passed, fixing his wig, dragging a finger along his lip to make sure his lipstick didn't look smeared. 

Hold it together. Don’t drink anymore. What does this guy actually want from me? If it was just sex, we’d be fucking right now… If it was companionship, he’d have talked more to me. He’s just sitting at his desk working like I’m his househusband. 

Either way, I’ll get paid. More than enough for rent, for the bills… maybe I can get a bike or something and apply to a real job… if I get a real job I can apply to a state school and finish my doctorate… It won’t have the same clout as Caltech but it’ll be better than nothing. Yeah, just… use this guy, get paid, lose him in the morning and move on. 

Spencer washed his hands and unzipped his boot just enough to find his little box of toothfloss. He bared his teeth in the mirror again and was just about to set to work when the door to the bathroom swung open. 

He jumped and hid his floss behind his back when Hotchner appeared there in the doorway looking suspicious. 

“Are you alright? You were taking so long in here that I thought I should check.”

Spencer bristled. “I’m fine, jeez, even sex workers need to have a piss and reorient, Sir. ” 

Aaron didn’t relent from his interrogation. His eyes narrowed when he noticed where Spencer’s hand was tucked up behind his back. 

“What are you hiding?” he demanded, coming into the bathroom fully. Spencer stood up straighter. 

“Nothing. It’s nothing, I--”

Hotch reached out and wrenched Spencer’s hand away from hiding his toothfloss. 

“I won’t tolerate drugs here, Spencer. I can put up with a lot but not fucking drugs--what is that?”

Spencer pulled his arm back forcefully to cradle his little toothfloss box against his chest. 

“Dental floss. I was about to floss my teeth, you asshole. I don’t do drugs anymore, I’ll have you know. I haven’t touched narcotics since I was 19. I barely drink and yet you think it’s okay to shove expensive alcohol at me as some sort of power play move? Why do you think I was dancing around the room, can anyone’s bladder stand drinking half a bottle of Dom without bursting? Now, can you let me do my thing or do you need to watch me?” he asked venomously, not caring that Hotch looked abashed and embarrassed. 

“No, I’m sorry, truly, I.. I just assumed when you went back here and didn’t come out… I’m sorry. Floss your teeth, pee… whatever you need to do,” Hotch answered weakly when he made sure it was indeed just dental floss the beautiful, angry man held in his hand. He backed away but still hovered in the doorway, watching Spencer turn huffily and stare at himself in the mirror. 

Spencer sighed with exasperation. 

“You can watch me prep but it will cost you extra.”

Hotch thought about it for a split second. 

He would love to watch Spencer ‘prep’, whatever that meant, but… he needed to instill some trust in this unique situation. He had a bad track record of doing that so far with anyone. The least he could do was try when he was paying someone to fill the role he couldn’t fill by his virtue alone. 

“I’ll leave. Take your time, Spencer.”

Spencer took his damn time. 

He made sure there were no seeds in between his teeth, flossing relentlessly until his pink gums squeaked in his imagination. He brushed his tongue to get rid of the sour sweet flavor of the Champagne. Alcohol was never a flavor he liked to let linger. 

He sat on the toilet and made sure his ass was ready to get fucked, cleaning himself out with a little kit he kept for the days he needed to be absolutely sure the landing bay was clear, so to speak… 

Some clients were worth the extra work and this was one of those clients. 

Even if he just insulted me… 

He finished up his ‘prep’ work and felt a bit better than he had earlier, when the thought of spending the entire night with one man was still overwhelming. 

Make the money… I know he’s good for it. I trust him, I guess… so far, at least, he’s not a bad guy. And he’s hot. Even if he never gets it up to fuck, I can get behind spending time with someone who is too lonely and busy to find a real companion. 

If it were really that simple, I’d play the role of companion before fucking for money. 

It never was that simple and Reid knew it. 

When he made it back to the lounge, Hotch was busy at his desk yet again, oblivious to everything. Reid paced around trying to be sexy until he got bored and decided it was in his client's court to make the next move. 

He found himself on the floor of Mr. Aaron Hotchner’s plush penthouse suite lounge, his boots still on as his legs waved about behind him. He laughed at the television, reveling in the stupid old reruns he hadn’t watched since his very brief childhood. 

“HAH--you have to watch this part, Lucy is convinced that Ethel is a Soviet spy so she accidentally becomes a spy herself--it’s a classic bait and switch, the spy is really Lucy’s gossiping neighbor egging her on, the Cold War was such an interesting time in our history, don’t you think? Hotch?” 

Spencer chuckled through another bit of the scene before rolling over to find Hotch buried in his papers again, his phone to his ear as he nodded and grunted. 

“No, tell them we need to hold until the Japanese markets open Sunday night--I don’t care, we take the loss so we can eat the rewards later, just do as I say--”

Spencer stood up quietly. 

He took a deep breath as he watched his client battle it out on the phone at 3 AM, clearly trying to make a few more million dollars burning the midnight oil on a weekend. 

He has a hired sex worker here ready to pleasure him into oblivion and yet he’s still on the clock… just like me. Does the clock ever run out? For either of us?

He took his time walking, his feet aching in his boots now. His hard and fast rule about never taking them off seemed kind of silly at the moment. 

If this man tried to steal from him, he would have to escape down twenty-seven floors while being afraid of heights. 

Aaron Hotchner had no reason to covet the trifles Spencer held dear. He knew that. He trusted that this man was too rich to steal from him. Why would a millionaire want to steal from him? More than that... why would a man like this even think to steal? 

He took a deep breath to steady himself as he did something he never did. 

It was time to take off his boots. 

He unzipped them carefully, one at a time. He leaned up against the back of the couch again as he worked them off his feet with a grateful sigh. 

Hotchner stopped talking into his phone abruptly. He hung up on whoever it was, tossing the huge phone down against the desk as he leaned back into his chair and watched Spencer take off his shoes after hours of being there. He had never quite seen a strip show that turned him on to this extent.  

One long foot and then another touched the floor. Hotch's skin erupted in gooseflesh when he noticed the way Spencer's fishnet tights were torn at mid-thigh. Both of his long legs were clad in knee-high printed socks, mismatched to a crazy degree. Hotch felt both amused and aroused to see the young man’s choice in footwear when he finally made himself comfortable in the penthouse for the night. 

One sock featured black and white cows against a stark purple background; the other was an artful rendition of the moon’s cycles played out a dozen times, the golden moon moving across a black sky over and over. 

Spencer looked up to catch him staring. 

“I don’t usually take my shoes off on the job. If we’re going to sleep together, though, I guess I need to amend my rule. Just know, if you touch my boots, I will hurt you.”

Hotch cleared his throat and nodded. 

“Of course. I will not touch them, Spencer, I respect you….”

Spencer padded over to the desk where Hotch sat.  He could tell from across the room that the man had the beginning of a boner hiding beneath those tight black dress pants. He knelt down carefully, looking up from beneath the blonde bangs of his wig, his hands on Hotch’s knees, squeezing gently. 

“I know. I didn’t fully know until right now but… I know that you respect me. Thank you. Now… will you let me do my job?” he whispered plaintively. Hotch sucked in a breath and bit his lip. 

“Yes. Show me what your job really looks like, Spencer.”

Spencer grinned and tucked his fake hair behind his ears. He gripped Hotch’s thighs and pushed them apart as he settled in between them. 

“Yes, Sir. I do have a question... What do you like?”

Hotch sighed as he settled into his desk chair, ignoring another phone call from his overworked second secretary manning the Eastern markets all night long. 

“What do you do?” 

Spencer shrugged and stared up at him innocently. 

“I do everything. I do have a few rules. We use a condom for any kind of anal intercourse. Certain kinks cost extra and come with added parameters. For example, if you want to tie me up, I’ll instruct you in the knots so I know I can get out of it alone. The only thing I won’t allow, hard stop, is kissing on the lips… and,” he laughed as he looked down over his shoulder at his socked feet, “normally I don’t take off my boots, but as you know I’ve made an exception tonight, trusting that you aren’t desperate enough to steal from me. So with all that in the open… Where would you like me to start?” 

Spencer knew where the man wanted him to start but he liked to ask anyway. He liked to hear the request out loud. 

Hotch traced a finger up along Spencer’s slender side, sliding it across his chest where he felt the hidden bra, up farther until it met the apple of his throat. He focused on the pretty man’s parted lips, the tongue flicking out to wet them enticingly…

“Start with your mouth.” 

Spencer nodded with a soft smile that lit up his face. “Yes, Sir, Mr. Hotchner.”

Hotch’s pants were unbuckled, unzipped and open in seconds beneath deft fingers. He watched the young sex worker grip his length and draw it out, his heart thumping wildly even though he knew this would happen ever since he paid that first twenty bucks for directions. 

Spencer looked genuinely surprised to find him as hard as he was. Or maybe his size was off-putting… Hotch had a history of shocking his few sexual partners with that. Spencer got over his shock with an excited wiggle as he settled in between Hotch’s legs with a long, steady stroke that only made Hotch get harder. 

He leaned back and closed his eyes when he felt the first touch of wet lips against his cock. 

The last time someone sucked my dick was the first time I met Beth… last year? She only did it because she knew I was in the middle of a divorce and vulnerable… and I only let her because I wanted another person there to be miserable with me… this is different… this time, he knows I’m literally using him… HOLY fuck--

Hotch moaned in ecstasy when Spencer’s mouth engulfed him in one deep, messy gulp. 

He looked down with a gasp, his hand tangling in the man’s blonde wig, pulling it off-kilter… it was his eyes that made Hotch thrust into him with every hot wet swallow… those gorgeous, wide hazel eyes locked onto him from below, staring into him so innocently, with such depth, alive despite his soul-sucking profession… Hotch stared back just as intently as he guided Spencer’s head up and down, slowing him down just a bit so he could enjoy it as long as possible, so he could watch Spencer’s mouth wrapped around his cock, licking him, sucking him off with abandon, the tears leaking down his cheeks when he deepthroated him a little too far but kept going…. 

He was ready to come. And yet he wasn’t. 

Isn’t that the point of a hooker? He’s supposed to make me come… not beg for more… FUCK, I need more… hold off, wait--  

“Wait…” he whispered when he was close to blowing his load in the talented whore’s mouth. He pushed against Spencer’s trembling shoulders to get him to stop when his words didn’t seem to register. 

Spencer pulled off with a needy gasp, his fist still wrapped around Hotch’s wet cock as he looked up from his knees between the man’s shaking thighs. 

“Too much?”

Hotch nodded breathlessly. “Almost. Would you… like to move to the bedroom?”

Spencer smiled, dabbing his spit-soaked lips with his knuckles. 

“I would like that.”

Spencer stood up quickly and turned to stride off toward the bedroom, peeling his skin-tight dress off as he walked. It fluttered to the floor just outside the doorway, Spencer's lithe body exposed almost entirely when he snapped the buttons of his bra to let it fall against the edge of the bed. 

Hotch followed after getting his head back on straight. Edging was not his strong suit; normally he came as soon as possible after initiating sex. He was too busy to draw it out for ages. Tonight… for some reason, he wanted to experience it all. He didn’t want to orgasm and feel that weird blank nothingness he always felt after the act. 

He wanted to feel this heart-fluttering high for a little while longer. 

He stumbled after the hooker who had already stripped down to nothing but a lacy thong and his thigh-high mismatched socks, sprawled out across the king-sized hotel bed with his long arms arched above his fake-blonde head. 

Hotch paused in the doorway of the bedroom working his tie loose from around his neck. 

Spencer made to get up and help him but Hotch shook his head. 

“No. Stay there. Just like that.”

His eyes lingered on the prominent bulge against the thin black lace stretched over Spencer’s crotch. The obvious erection wasn’t something he had ever thought might arouse him but… he wanted to feel that skinny twink’s cock in his own fist before the night was out. He wanted to make him scream from pleasure. He wanted to watch him come. 

He had never really felt that drive with his other partners. 

Spencer listened well. He stretched his long body out across the expanse of the plush bed, smiling languidly with his fingers brushing his lower belly when he noticed Hotch’s eyes lingering on his hard cock. 

“Have you ever fucked a man, Mr. Hotchner?” 

Hotch finished unbuttoning his crisp shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders with a horny scowl. 

“No.”

Spencer nodded understandingly. “I can tell.”

Hotch shoved his pants and underwear to the floor around his ankles with an incredulous shake of his head. He felt wild and impulsive… he hadn’t had a single sip of Champagne and somehow he felt drunk standing there, drinking in the sight before him of this stranger on his bed, a hooker, a sex worker he paid to look at him like that….

“I don’t know why I want to now. You are… just… different, Spencer.” 

Spencer blushed for real, trying not to let it show how much harder it made him to hear that from a man like Hotchner. He drew a leg up and reached down between his thighs to fiddle with the fabric of his panties, brushing the thin string aside to expose his neatly prepped hole. 

“Not that different. I’m simply here for you, entirely, no strings…” he plucked the thin string of his thong, thwapping it against his asscheek, “attached.”

Hotch was fully naked now, aside from his plain black dress socks. 

He shut the door to the bedroom behind him despite the fact that no one would be interrupting them in the penthouse, at least until the breakfast service arrived. His phone was left outside on the desk. All the work he meant to do was left undone. 

When his lips met Spencer’s throat, he couldn’t care less about the markets or the takeover he was planning. All he needed to do was make love to this person in bed with him. 

“Pick a color, sir,” Spencer whispered urgently after several minutes of dry humping, throat sucking and simple get-to-know-you intimate touching. 

Hotch picked his head up from sucking at Spencer’s pretty pink nipple, his fist wrapped around Spencer's cock. 

“What?”

“Red, orange, blue--green?” Spencer reiterated as he sat up and rolled down his left sock to expose a string of condoms.

Hotch rolled to the side blinking in confusion. 

“Ah… red, I guess. But what--”

Spencer pushed the man to his back and had his cock sheathed in a red condom without another word. He leaned down to kiss his throat and whisper in his ear.

“I’m all about safety, Hotch. Get ready for the ride of your life.”

Hotch didn’t have time to do more than gasp in surprise before the young man sank down on top of him with a deft roll of his hips. 

Spencer was right, as he usually was; Hotch was in for the ride of his life. 

…

Derek Morgan sat on the fire escape chain smoking cigarette after cigarette. It was 6:35 AM and Spencer was still not back from his job with the Lotus guy. 

It was raining in L.A. for once. A quiet cool rain, something he hadn’t experienced since he left Chicago in the Spring of ‘99. 

He was pretty sure Spencer had never experienced this kind of rain. The kid had never been anywhere but the damn desert. Los Angeles was an oasis in his limited experience. It was ironic because, if he had to guess where Spencer Reid grew up, he’d have gone with somewhere like Boston or Pittsburgh or Washington, D.C. 

Not goddamned Vegas. 

Morgan took another drag of his cig, reveling in the cooling rain. He was pretty much naked after spending all night in his sweat-soaked leathers. Now he wore a beater and a pair of Reid’s barely there banana hammock underwear. The rain felt so good on his bare skin. 

Where are you, man? 

Morgan still had blood under his fingernails. He couldn't get the sound of Karissa's last breaths out of his head. The wheezing. The struggle. The pain... His own desperation in that moment felt less and less important.

What if Reid met that same motherfucker last night... what if Reid was just an appetizer... where the FUCK is he?! He never does this, I'm the one who does this to him--FUCK! Where the fuck are you, brother?

Morgan watched as the sun rose up high enough to dust the metropolitan horizon with light along the edges. 

His eyes glanced down to the alley below every few seconds, waiting to catch sight of his friend stumbling home. 

I have to tell him what happened. I don’t know what to do… What's safe to do... I should go to the cops, I know I should, I saw the guy… maybe if I go to them sober in the morning, if I dress okay, they won’t assume the worst…

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Morgan dropped his spent cig in surprise at the sound of the urgent rapping at his apartment door. 

He didn’t get up right away. 

Then the knock sounded again. 

“LAPD, I’m looking for Derek Morgan. Open up or I’ll come back with a warrant.”

Derek was halfway down the fire escape when suddenly, all he could hear was Reid’s voice in his head. 

You did nothing wrong. You could stop this from happening again. Talk to the cops. 

He hated the genius for not being there in person and yet, somehow, still having this effect on him. 

Morgan went back up the rusty old ladder, climbed through the window and opened the door with a sigh. 

The man waiting for him was alone. Decked out in cop clothes, a gun at his side, his exhausted expression betraying him for the beat cop he was. 

“Derek Morgan?” the man asked him, eying his attire before quickly refocusing on Morgan’s stony face with a blush. 

“That’s me. What do you want to know?”

Chapter Text

Hotch stood beneath a steaming spray of hot water, scrubbing his face hard with his hands. 

He leaned back and blew out an exhilarated breath. His heart was still beating a little faster than normal. His head was heavy, limbs exhausted, a deep ache in his core that usually meant he’d overdone it at the gym but tonight… this morning, really… he’d simply had extremely satisfying sex with a stranger. 

He shook his head and smiled at the fresh memories still replaying over and over in his mind… 

Spencer bouncing on top of him, his naked body glistening from some kind of glittery body oil and the sweat he’d worked up riding him. The feeling of his tight ass sliding up down, so tight around his cock, he couldn’t even feel the condom, all he could feel was amazed pleasure as he let himself get fucked by this man who gazed down at him with that heat lighting up his arresting hazel eyes.

Then… 

“Sir…fuck, sir, fuck me harder, Hotch, I want you on top…”

“I’ll tell you when it’s time for me to get on top, Spencer.” 

“Yes sir… hope it’s soon…ah!”

Wrestling naked with another man in a delirious state of almost violent arousal… pinning the lithe young sex worker down beneath him when he turned the tables and Spencer went willingly, yelping just right, sucking in a sharp breath when he buried himself to the hilt in his slick, well-prepped ass…. 

Hotch would never forget the sound Spencer made when he came in his fist against the hotel bed comforter. The way his entire body tightened up and arched, how his head rested against his shoulder, the blonde wig wet with sweat. 

He also would never forget orgasming so hard he nearly passed out. 

That had been nearly half an hour ago. 

They lay there in the bed together, tangled up in a disastrous heap of sweaty limbs and cum-sprayed sheets, until Spencer rolled away to use the restroom. 

“Be right back, Sir… you made a mess of me.”

Hotch followed him, stumbling along unsteadily. 

“Do you need the shower? If not, I think I’ll have one…”

“No, just… don’t be grossed out but getting reamed in the ass like that means I might need to um, use your… facilities before I lie back down.”

“I think I can handle that. I had the pleasure of doing the reaming, I should be able to take the aftermath.”

“I like you very much, Mr. Hotchner.” 

“I like you very much, Spencer.”

Hotch blinked at the memory and realized he’d just gotten in the shower while his hired ‘help’ cleaned himself up on the toilet after he fucked him for the better half of an hour. 

He shut the water off and slid the foggy shower glass aside to see if he was still there. 

The only sign that they shared the bathroom at all in their post-coital haze was the little box of dental floss sitting on the marble counter next to a capped toothbrush and small bottle of drugstore cologne. 

Hotch toweled off with a small smile playing at his lips. He picked up the cologne and gave it a whiff. It was harsh and unrefined, a crude attempt at merging bergamot with thyme and lemon… 

I’d like to buy him some nice cologne… I’d like to buy him a lot of things, after tonight. 

His boots are held together with duct tape and safety pins. That wig smelled like plastic. 

I might have just paid him more for one night than he actually makes in a month, judging from appearances alone. 

What happened to him? 

He wrapped his towel around his hips and opened the bathroom door to find his hired companion sprawled out across the bed, a sheet draped over his ass and those long bare, clean-shaven legs. 

Hotch felt a shock when he saw the thick mass of golden brown curls tossed across the pillow Spencer held while he snoozed on his belly. 

The cheap blonde wig lay discarded on the floor. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed and brushed his hand across Spencer’s temple, fingering the perfect curls the man had hidden as if it wasn’t beautiful enough. 

Spencer inhaled in his sleep, snuggling into the pillow with a smiling sigh. 

Hotch shook his head and allowed a ridiculous idea to foment in his mind as the sun rose over Los Angeles through the windows behind him. 

He drew the curtains against the bright yellow light of yet another blistering hot day, threw on his clothes and left the bedroom quietly. 

It was time to order breakfast. And it was time to figure out how to get a Hollywood Boulevard hooker to be his “beck and call boy” for the rest of the week. 

…

“You want coffee? I might have enough for a full pot. I don’t have any donuts, sorry.”

Derek Morgan chuckled ironically, waving the cop inside. 

“Get in quick, though, I can’t have a damn Pig hovering at my front door right now…”

Luke Alvez stepped inside at the unexpected invitation, looking around at the overwhelming ‘decor’ as he shut the door behind him. 

He kept his hand on his baton at his side just in case. His instincts told him he didn’t need to fear the man he’d been led to by his parasol-weilding tip but he had to keep himself safe… this “Derek Morgan” guy hadn’t exactly been an altar boy according to his record. 

Seventeen counts of solicitation, twelve counts of drug possession with intent to distribute, five counts of misdemeanor assault, one assault with a deadly weapon, none of which went to trial, for one reason or another. The guy had escaped prison time and again. He was dangerous for that alone, circumstances be damned. 

He forgot all that momentarily. 

The extremely fit man wearing nothing but a tank top and a thong was offering him coffee. 

“You like dark roast?”

Alvez cleared his throat professionally and stared at the dusty old wood floor. 

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m here to ask you some questions, though, I don’t have time for coffee and chitchat--”

“Even cops have time for coffee at sunrise. Ask away, I’ll have it brewed before you’re done interrogating me.”

Morgan stood in his tiny kitchenette working diligently to prep the ancient old percolator Reid unearthed from an estate sale down the block. He wondered if he’d overstepped when the cop went silent.

Now he was just sitting there… watching. 

Time to play out this role, I guess

He never made the coffee usually. 

He tried to remember how many precise scoops Reid added to his jet fuel concoction before he just winged it and dumped the cheap grounds in until the basket was full. Dark roast was the only option. Morgan tried not to laugh at his internal joke when he glanced at the man hovering behind him in the doorway. 

Puerto Rican. No. Chilean. NO. I don’t know… mixed? Like me? His accent sounds like he grew up in the Bronx, not L.A., he sounds fuckin’ East Coast Catholic…. Maybe he is like me. Who knows.

He’s a cop at least. That much I fuckin’ know. I gotta be careful.

Morgan started brewing the coffee, still shaking out a few little twitches from his hands left over from the high the night before. He heard Reid in his head again, telling him what to do. 

Sit the percolator on the stove. Turn the stove on--that required lighting a match, twisting the dial to low-medium, blowing just right against the invisible gas and sticking the match in, hoping for the best. 

Floosh. 

Morgan grinned at his handiwork. 

The last time he lit the stove, the entire kitchen went up in momentary flames before Spencer was there to put them out with an outdated fire extinguisher. 

He had not realized that having a pot of oil waiting over the gas burner while he lit it after five minutes of letting the gas ooze out would result in such a fireball. 

He grew up with an electric stove. Every other place he lived had food-crusted electric coils. Until this place… this place was old school. Cheaper and dirtier and stuck in another time altogether. 

Reid told him once, “The wealthy “elite” actually prefer gas-powered flame stoves… they think it produces better quality food, which, it might. I just can’t wait to see them all burn their mansions down like you would have just now.”

His heart nearly left the building that night when fire could have killed him early. Now… his heart was pounding for a very different reason. 

This LAPD cop standing just behind him had his heart beating hard with anxiety the entire time he stood there ‘making coffee’. His dad might have been a cop before he died but ever since that monumental day, he couldn’t trust a uniform to perform. Not because his father failed… but the entire system did. They never did catch his father’s murderer. 

The police couldn’t even do that much to avenge one of their own… 

That was why he was here to begin with. 

Morgan fled Chicago when Chicago was ready to eat him alive. The dream of Hollywood lured him here when he was 17 and desperate to escape… his escape never amounted to much. Now he had learned how to ‘escape’ far enough never to remember what he went through before. This cop was here to remind him he still had a long way to go before he was free. 

Alvez surveyed the tiny trap house apartment with a keen, exhausted eye. 

Posters of sports cars and Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition papered the walls between framed photos and a few random expressionist prints. Hooks and nails peppered the free spaces, hung with everything from old coats and ponchos to what looked like the strings leftover from some sort of weird Halloween mummy costume. 

There was a sagging futon in the center of the ‘living room’, an ancient tube television with foil wrapped bunny ears and a whole lot of takeout containers littering every single spare surface. 

“You live here alone?” he asked when he spied a lacy purple thong draped over the back of the futon. 

Morgan took the singing percolator off the old stove. 

He shrugged with a closed-off look tossed over his shoulder at the cop on his goddamned couch. He knew better than to lie right now. Honesty was the only thing that might keep him out of jail. And Spencer too, if Spencer was still alive at least. 

“No. My roommate’s out. You uh, just missed him. Why are you here again, Officer--uh”

“Sergeant Luke Alvez, LAPD Homicide. And I’m here because I think you can tell me what happened to Karissa Jenkins tonight.”

Morgan finished pouring two chipped mugs of oily black coffee. He had made the coffee. Now he needed to get this pig out of his apartment. Or… he could seduce him into leaving this leaf unturned. 

He stood up proudly and turned around to face the cop who was honestly a lot hotter than he usually assumed LAPD had any right to be. He glanced at the photo Alvez flashed at him, walking over to sit right next to the guy. 

The image of Karissa’s panic-stricken face was already seared to the forefront of his mind. He did not need the reminder. 

He sat down and looked away with a sip of coffee.

“I found her after the fuckwad who murdered her ran off. I held her while she died. Couldn’t do anything, I t-tried. I wanted to help. I panicked and ran instead. Milk and sugar?” he asked sweetly, offering the cop his coffee in a mug with the phrase “CUMSLUT 4 COFFEE” emblazoned in the glaze. 

“Ah, hah, no, I take it black with a bit of real cream, ideally, but... Just black is fine.”

Morgan had a hard time not making a very dirty joke but he, for once, restrained himself. 

Cop. He’s a fucking COP. 

Alvez accepted the boiling hot mug of over-brewed coffee carefully. He stared into it and waited a moment. It was getting harder to focus the longer he sat in this patchouli and tobacco laced traphouse apartment. He could also smell Meth wafting up through the airvents, alongside that telltale scent of mold that normally inhabited these old buildings slated for eventual demolition. 

He spared a glance at the man he’d come to interview. The one he couldn’t look at without feeling hot around the stiff blue collar he wore. 

Fucking focus, he’s a witness. I’m already pushing the boundaries, working off the clock… taking leads from weird girls who probably work the streets, too… I should have arrested her, how does she know so much about the investigation?

Sergeant Luke Alvez abandoned wondering when the man he knew to be called Derek Morgan stared at him expectantly.

“You’re here to ask me questions, Sarj. Ask away.”

Alvez took a breath and stared Morgan straight in the eye. He was pretty sure this guy would clam up any second, insist he needed to call ‘his lawyer’ and then disappear forever. He asked his question anyway. 

“So. You saw the person who killed Karissa?”

To his surprise, Morgan sat down on the half-broken chair across from him, his bare legs pressed together, muscular body leaned forward, every bit of him deadly serious aside from how glittery he was and the make-up still lining his naturally arresting eyes. 

“I saw him. I heard him first. He--Wait. I need something from you before I tell you this.”

Alvez leaned back, once again fingering his baton, a little tap at the gun holstered at his hip just behind it. 

“What?” 

Morgan narrowed his glitter-eyelined eyes. 

“What I tell you stays between us. And your ‘commanding officer’ or however it works here… no, just listen to me, man, you will not catch this guy if you go in guns blazing. I guarantee you, he’ll just move shop--he’s doing it to get off and cause fear. He’s not ready to get caught yet. The day he gets caught it’ll be because he planned it that way. Trust me; I know these kinds of men.”

Alvez stared him down hard before shaking his head, fingers raking through his greasy hair. He hadn’t been home in three days. 

“What do you think we should do then? What do you fuckin’ know? I could have you arrested right now, multiple counts, it wouldn’t take much to get you booked--Why should I listen to you?”

Morgan stayed still. 

“Because I know the lay of the land. I know this life better than you ever could as a cop. Want me to lay it out for you?” he stood up slow, clocking the way the off-duty cop couldn’t keep his eyes off his naked thighs. 

“Everyone out here on these streets are surviving minute to minute, every day, for months and years on end. They can smell a cop a mile away. Pigs, right?” he strode over to the window, leaning against it before glancing back at the offended man sitting on his futon. 

“Thing is, that means, the second we need a cop here to help us, everyone scatters. Murders go unanswered, unsolved. All these girls getting stabbed… I thought it was a few bad Pimps but, I think it’s something else now. We need the pigs to sniff him out. No one else feels that way but…”

Morgan turned around, crossing his arms over his chest as he surveyed this Sergeant Alvez from his gelled hair to his unscuffed leather boots. 

“If you went undercover for a day or two, I think you might see more than enough to get your guy.”

Alvez stared at him incredulously. 

“Me? Go undercover? I’ve been the lead on this investigation for weeks, that’s ridiculous--”

Morgan strode forward and sat down again, one hand up to keep him from speaking, the other on the cop’s blue khaki’d knee. 

“It is, yeah, but not if you’re playing the right part. I saw that motherfucker run but I didn’t see his face, I have no idea who he is. I know the victims, though. I know these women, I know they were smart enough to keep themselves safe and this guy still killed them. I can only see what I can see from my vantage point. I am a hooker, just like they were. If you go in as a newbie detective, letting off steam, flying low under the radar… You could be the eyes we need on the inside.”

Morgan waited to see if his wild idea had any affect on the cop. He might be arrested in seconds. He might have crossed a line that would lead him to genpop finally… he kept his hand on Alvez’s knee anyway, squeezing slightly when he felt no resistance. 

Alvez stared at the floor, his jaw so tight, eyes guarded, his muscles drawn taut beneath the tired uniform he loved too much. 

“That is… fucking crazy, honestly. How do I pull it off?” 

Their eyes met, Morgan’s smeared with eyeliner, dusted with glitter, Alvez so exhausted the bags beneath them could rival Reid’s. 

“First thing’s first, Sergeant… take a few days off. And come to work with me.”

…

Spencer loved waking up with pillows in his arms. 

Normally he woke up with his Lion King pillow next to his head. 

This morning though… he blinked open his eyes and stared at a wall of curtains. Thick, expensive curtains. The window was fifteen feet away from the bed. An air conditioning unit rumbled away nonstop, keeping him in this comfortable state of cozy cool. He almost felt cold. 

He was cold. He realized it with a shiver, dragging the sheet up over his body in confusion. 

The sheet felt like silk. His body felt like it’d had quite the workout. He was sore. And…

He was naked. 

He was naked and cold and sore in some stranger’s bed. 

He had no idea what time it was, he had no idea where he was, who he was with, why he was still there, why he felt so comfortable--

Spencer sat up fast, his eyes searching the room for his boots first, clothes later, panic setting in until he started to recall the events of the previous night. 

I am in Aaron Hotchner’s penthouse. He hired me for the night. I didn’t mean to fall asleep after I cleaned up. I just laid down. I remember that now. I laid down and… I fell asleep. And he let me sleep. 

What time is it?! 

He let himself breathe in and out as he recalled the evening. 

He had been a professional about it all. He cleaned himself up while Hotchner showered. He had been determined for a round two, he remembered that. When he laid himself out on the king bed he meant to look sexy… not ready to pass out, like he apparently had. 

I promised him a massage… shit. 

Spencer stood up and looked for his clothes. Nothing presented itself right to his brain. The dim light seeping through the curtains wasn’t right. The one lamp in the corner did noting to illuminate his real situation. 

He found a fluffy white robe in the closet, shrugged it on over his naked body, ignored how hungry he was and how his ass ached….

He opened the door to the living room and found Aaron Hotchner at the head of a dining table laden with plates. 

“Good morning. I hope you’re hungry.”

Spencer looked over the vast spread with an amazed sigh. 

“Always.”

Chapter Text

Spencer shuffled over to the dining table blinking at the brilliant sunlight pouring in through the windows of the penthouse. 

His host for the night sat fully dressed in a fresh suit at the head of the table, gazing at him over the morning Wall Street Journal. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep like that, Sir. You should have woken me up for round two,” Spencer chastised lightly as he sat on the edge of the table to survey the buffet.

“You looked like you needed it. I had too much work to do to prep for my meeting this morning to fit in a ‘round two’, anyway,” Hotch replied, folding his paper up neatly. He gestured to the plates Spencer was staring at ravenously. 

“I didn’t know what you might like for breakfast so I ordered some of everything on offer. Coffee?” he offered as he went to refill his own delicate china cup from the steaming carafe. 

Spencer inhaled deeply and let his eyes close, reveling in the delicious aromas wafting up around him while he still could.  

He was never awake this early normally. This was about when he’d be stumbling into his skinny little bed, his body still covered in the smells of sweat, cum and cheap booze. 

It smelled like fresh coffee, croissants and orange juice in his client’s pristine hotel suite. 

He nodded mutely at the offer for coffee, watching Hotchner pour him a cup and hand it over, saucer and all. 

“There’s cream and sugar on the table there, if you like.”

Spencer busied himself with doctoring up the rich black brew, dumping a generous portion of sugar and a good dollop of thick white cream into his coffee until it resembled the beige hue of the fancy hotel curtains. 

“Thank you. Goodness, are those real croissants?” he asked in awe after his first sip of coffee, lifting the lid of one of the many silver plates. 

Hotch shrugged and nodded, trying to get over exactly how much sugar the younger man had just poured into his coffee. 

“Yes, they’re real, though they’re probably not as good as what you’d get in France.”

Spencer tore into the buttery pastry with a happy sigh, powdered sugar puffing out against his lips as he chewed and talked at the same time. 

“Never been to France. Probably won’t ever have the pleasure so… this is close enough.”

Hotch shook his head at the man in the bathrobe perched on the edge of the table, chowing down on a croissant as if it were the most luxurious thing he’d ever experienced. 

Maybe it was. Up until this point, at least. 

“There are chairs available to sit in, Spencer. Though I’ve noticed you seem to prefer sitting on tables and desks.”

Spencer cleared his throat, blushing around a hard swallow after he’d bitten off a huge hunk of croissant. 

He slid off the table and into the chair next to his client. 

“Right, yeah, chairs… sorry, I tend to perch…” 

After a few more sips of coffee he felt ready to broach the topic of getting paid for the night. He was slightly nervous; he hadn’t exactly fulfilled his end of the deal when he fell asleep the way he had. The clock on the wall read 7:38 AM… he had slept in way later than he’d planned on even being there. 

Hotchner had picked up another paper by now, the New York Times, Sunday edition. He didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry. Spencer eyed him for a few moments while he nibbled at a slice of orange meant to be a garnish. 

Out of the hundreds of men he’d fucked as a part of this job, he’d never orgasmed the way he had with Aaron Hotchner last night. He could do it if that’s what his clients wanted, he had no problem with going off into his mind to achieve the goal but… he came early last night without planning to. It almost felt… natural. 

He had never, ever fallen asleep in a client’s bed before, either. He could only attribute it to the strange circumstances of being hired to stay the entire night but, even then, he hadn’t planned to let himself be this vulnerable. 

That weird tingle of arousal started up in his gut again the longer he gazed at the millionaire businessman he’d be saying goodbye to in just a few minutes. 

Spencer finished eating even though he still felt hungry. 

It was time to go. 

He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with a napkin, remembering that his floss and toothbrush were still in the bathroom. 

“Well… would you like me to give you a massage before I leave? I did promise it. Also there’s the matter of my remaining payment.”

Spencer stood up, reached down to pull the terry-cloth robe rope apart and smiled when he felt his naked body exposed to his client’s widening eyes. 

“I could also use my mouth again, Sir, before it’s time for me to go.”

Hotch blinked in shock, staring at Spencer exposing himself in the sunlight like that without a care in the world. 

He couldn’t help but notice the young man’s cock was half-hard and growing harder. 

“Ah…” Hotch folded the New York Times up carefully, his eyes roving up and down Spencer’s body to memorize every inch of it before he laid his cards on the table with his latest proposition. 

“That is tempting, Spencer, truly… I just have a phone call I need to make first. Do you mind staying for a little while longer?” 

Spencer shrugged, letting a bit of the robe slip down one shoulder for good measure. He thought about staying longer and realized he also needed to make a phone call. He also very much wanted to rinse off with warm water if he could manage it. He should charge extra for staying late but… 

He liked Hotch, too. Another half hour spent in the man’s penthouse wouldn’t be the worst way to spend such an early morning. 

“Sure. Can I use your bathroom?” he asked as he took a step forward, one hand on his cock softly stroking it, the open leaves of the bathrobe flapping against his sides. Hotchner stifled a groan. 

“You know you can, Spencer. I’ll be in shortly.” 

He turned away pointedly and Spencer backed off, gathering his robe back together after his attempt at seduction. 

“Oh, is there any way I can make a call as well? My roommate will be wondering where I am,” Spencer added as he made his way back toward the bedroom. 

Hotch looked up with his desk phone at his ear, intrigued to hear news of his hired help having a roommate. For some reason it made him want to ask all manner of questions about his homelife but he refrained. He had his own calls to make. 

“Ah, yes… on the bedside table, dial *9 to call out.”

Spencer smiled and waved before disappearing into the bedroom, the robe flapping open just enough to tease Hotch even more. 

He’s going to kill me before this is over, look at that goddamned ass….

Hotch made his call, waiting through two rings before George picked up. 

“There you are, Aaron! Where the FUCK is my car?!”

Hotch leaned back and rolled his eyes, his erection effectively destroyed the moment he heard his business partner’s voice. 

“It’s fine. In the garage at the Langham, I hired someone to drive it home. The thing’s a menace, I don’t know why you like it so much.”

George spluttered irately for a few moments while Hotch found the documents he wanted to discuss with the man. 

“Menace--my BABY, a meance?! SOMEONE--who the hell did you let drive my baby, Hotch, if they’re anything like you--”

“Don’t worry, he’s not. What did Olivia say about the Gideon deal? Also, I think I have a date secured for dinner with the old man and his son tonight. I’ll confirm later but I need to be prepared for anything so I thought I’d tell you now.”

“He? Who? Date? Shit, you’re fast with the damn ladies, I bet the car helped, huh? You fuckin’ dog, you tell me I’m bad and then bam, turn around and one-up me everytime--that’s why I love you, Hotchner--but fuck, yeah, Olivia’s all over this deal if we can make it happen. You have dinner with Gideon and that shark son of his tonight and it’s game over if you play the right cards--”

“I know, George. Just get me every last bit of intel you can on those properties. I’ll take care of the schmoozing tonight. Gideon’s a hardass but he has a soft spot for certain types… I think I can win him over with my date.”

Hotch absently flicked through his checkbook while George giggled at him over the line. 

“Can’t wait to meet her--”

“Him.”

There was a very pregnant pause during which Hotch appreciated the fact that being bisexual was no longer an issue these days…. It was a fad. 

“You really went all out on this one! Isn’t Gideon’s son a faggo--”

“Don’t say that word, George. I have a date and that’s all that matters. Fax me everything current you have on the shipyards. I’ll have Anderson deliver your car back to your house later. See you at the office.”

“Wait, Hotch--”

Hotch hung up on his lawyer with a deep feeling of satisfaction before he stood up and stretched, one eye on the clock. He had an hour before he had to leave for his meeting over brunch. 

It was time to go check in on Spencer. 

It was also time to make a very important deal. 

…

Spencer dragged the heavy hotel phone from the bedside table all the way into the bathroom after he discovered the cord was long enough to reach. 

They must make these phones like that for this very purpose. 

He started up the faucets, adjusting the temp until it felt just hot enough to make him gasp but not enough to scald his sensitive skin. Then he found the bottle full of bubbles. 

It was almost too much fun setting himself up for a luxurious bubble bath. 

He nearly forgot to make his very important phone call after sinking in beneath the suds with an opulent sigh of pleasure. 

“Shit…”

He had to call Morgan. 

He had kept his hands above the rising waterline for good reason. Six seconds and nine carefully tapped out numbers later, the line dialed through. 

“Hello?”

Morgan sounded tired and angry. 

“Derek! Hey, it’s Spencer Reid.”

“Spencer! FUCK, you’re fuckin’ alive?! The fuck are you, it’s 8 am, been calling the damn morgues with your description since I got home--”

Guilt washed through his body but Spencer was too relaxed in the hot water of his bath to feel too bad for long. 

“I’m fine! I uh, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. An all-nighter with the Lotus guy. In his penthouse. I only had to fuck him once! I’m in his bathtub right now… he fed me croissants.”

Spencer felt tingly and excited to remember the one-time fuck followed by breakfast but his friend had other things on his mind when he interrupted the daydream. 

“Good for you, I guess it’s no big deal that I’ve spent the last two hours bein’ interrogated by the LAPD after I found Karissa--Karissa…” Morgan’s breath hitched. Reid stopped smiling and sat up straight amongst the gathering bubbles. 

“Karissa? As in, our neighbor, Karissa? The girl you kicked off our corner last night? Where did you find her, why are the cops there, are you safe, what happened--”

“The fucking killer got her, Reid. The one who killed Cherry and Anna and probably more girls than that. I saw him for a second but I stayed with her instead of chasin’ him…. She died in my arms, man, blood everywhere, I couldn’t stop it--”

Spencer was ready to get out of the bath and run home. 

“Stay there, I’m coming back, just stay calm, Derek, okay? Tell me everything that happened, the cops were there?” He tried to stand up and nearly lost his balance in the slippery tub. 

“Yeah, well, one cop actually and he wasn’t even on duty, I think someone tipped him off that I was there and… I dunno, I invited him in, we talked for a bit, he got me to make a statement and… I might have convinced him to go undercover as a john for the next few nights, on the down low. I didn’t think he’d go for it but he’s coming back here tonight apparently, I’m supposed to be his cover--”

Spencer did lose his balance then. One foot out of the luxurious soaker tub and one foot still in, straddled over the edge of the marble lip, he slipped and dropped the phone receiver, nearly knocking himself out against the faucet when his drug-dealing hooker roommate with a mile-long rap sheet told him he’d invited a fucking COP back to their unsanctioned apartment to play undercover detective in a serial killer investigation. 

Hotchner chose that moment to open the door with a single red rose, ready to ask his newest employee to extend his contract by a week. 

“Spencer!”

Hotch rushed across the bathroom to pull the long limbed man up out of the bubble mound he appeared to be drowning in.

Spencer emerged sputtering and gasping, gripping his balls where he’d landed quite unfortunately against the side of the tub in his hasty attempt to get out. He saw white for a minute, trying to catch his breath and not start crying while his client smacked his back and asked him if he needed an ambulance. 

Morgan was yelling from the phone receiver through it all. 

“Reid?! Shit man, are you still there with that guy?! Is he the murderer, where’d you go, answer me, man, I’m gonna call this cop if you don’t fuckin’ answer me--”

Once Hotch was sure Spencer wasn’t about to pass out he grabbed up the phone, one hand still on the skinny guy’s shoulder to keep him upright in the tub. 

“Hello? Who is this?” he asked, a bit breathless but still stern. 

“This is Morgan. Who is this? Where’s Spencer? What did you do to him?” came the surprisingly aggressive reply. 

Spencer coughed and shook his head, his hand still cradling his poor testicles. “Lemme talk to ‘em, my roommate, he’s just an idiot--”

Hotch scowled down at him but kept his hold on both the phone and his shoulder. 

“This is Aaron Hotchner. I’ve employed Spencer for the night and was just about to discuss further employment. He’s rather indisposed at the moment but I will make sure he calls you back as soon as possible. Are you in any immediate danger?” 

“What? No. Wait… what? You put him on the phone with me now, asshole, he might be a trusting little twink but I’ve been around long enough not to trust big promises for more money later, put him on the damn phone or I will hunt down that stupid piece of shit Eurotrash sports car you lured him with--”

Hotch pressed the phone to Spencer’s ear with his eyebrows raised in appreciation of whatever dynamic these two had going on. 

Spencer sighed with relief, trying to smile at his client even though his brain was firing on all cylinders trying to process everything and his balls still felt like someone had sucker punched him. 

“Der, I’m f-fine, ah,” he cleared his throat so his voice wasn’t quite so high-pitched. “I just slipped and caught the tub ledge with my dick when you told me you let a goddamned cop into the apartment.”

A beat of silence before Morgan snickered. Spencer knew he was fine then, if a bit rattled and not thinking entirely clearly. He probably hadn’t slept at all yet, between working all night with a coke buzz, apparently witnessing a murder and then hanging out with an off-duty pig. 

“Shit… sorry I’m still buzzed, to be honest… tonight was a disaster. You sure you’re good? Aaron Hotchner, huh, your first all-nighter--did you really only have to fuck him once, does he have some weird kink--”

Spencer coughed again to shut Morgan up. Hotch watched him like a hawk with his arms crossed, leaned up against the bathroom vanity. 

“I am fine. And yes, only once, no weird shit yet, at least, who knows. I’ll be home soon. Don’t talk to any more cops before you talk to me, though, got it? Actually,” Spencer breathed heavily against the receiver, cradling it close, bubbles licking his chin while his mind whirred in fear. “Don’t talk to anyone. Stay in the apartment, get some sleep and wait for me, okay?” 

Derek sighed tiredly, the fear clear as day in his voice when he spoke again. “Kay. Yeah. This has been too fuckin’ much, Spence… you mighta been right about working in pairs last night.”

Spencer glanced over at Hotch again with a pang, wishing he could be right and wrong all at once. 

“Maybe. I’ll see you in a few hours, it’ll take ages for me to get home on the bus. Stay inside , Derek.”

“Ten-four. If he fucks you again you make sure you get an extra hundo.”

“Bye, love you,” Spencer whispered in response. 

“Love you Pretty Bo--”

Spencer dropped the phone on the ground and took a deep breath before he stood up very carefully this time, dripping from the hot water and bubbles he did not get to enjoy. He stared his client square in the face and took a deep breath. 

“I need to collect the rest of my pay. It’s time for me to go. I believe you owe me $650. I don’t take checks.”

For some reason he felt nervous standing there completely naked and wet while Hotchner simply stared him down with a knowing glint in his eye. 

They both waited it out like they were adversaries in an interrogation room. The long moments drifted onward into a full minute before Hotch made the first move. 

He pulled out his wallet and started counting bills, laying six crisp Benjamins down one after the other right there on the soapy wet tub ledge inches from Spencer’s naked knees. 

The fifty he pressed down at the end of his wealthy showmanship was old and crinkled. Like he’d been saving it. 

“I appreciate the time you’ve spent with me so far, Spencer. I understand if you need to go home, back to… whatever it is you’re dealing with there. I’d like to offer an alternative--” Hotch started. Spencer interrupted him first. 

“Does it have to do with continuing to be under your employment, Sir?” 

Hotch smiled, caught in the act. He knew Spencer was observant. The young man he’d hired to fuck was smarter than he looked. 

“Yes. It does. I want you to stay, as my employee . For the rest of this week. Six days, total. Day and night.”

Spencer nearly lost his footing in the tub again. 

“How much would that kind of service run me?”

The genius had no problem tallying up the numbers in his head. Six days times 24 hours in a day. 144 hours, give or take sleep but, he should charge for that… If he charged his usual base rate of $100 an hour… $14,440… no way. I CANNOT charge that much for one week of work, full-time, overtime, I wouldn’t even get paid that if I were doing what I was groomed to do my entire life, the labs only ever paid out $7000 a week… 

What if I could get half that? And… I’m only available for sex at night. Companion by day, whore by night. I can deal with that for $7000.

I can deal with anything for $7000. 

“$8500, considering the ‘full-time’ aspect of the job,” he said without thinking about it. 

Hotchner stared at him, his eyes narrowed, clearly reading him like he always did with that goddamned x-ray eagle-eyed glare. 

“$7000. Final offer.”

Reid blinked and tried to stay standing in the tub as the water cooled against his skin and goosebumps erupted all over his wet naked body. He had to glance down at the cash laid out before him to pay for last night before he could believe it. 

The cash was real. And Hotchner wasn’t making any moves to reclaim it. He could walk out right now, he knew that. He could take his money and run. 

Or he could stay and make more than enough to get him and Morgan out of this hellhole. 

“Deal. $7000 for six days. As your… employee?” he questioned before he accepted Hotch’s outstretched hand waiting for the customary shake to seal the deal. 

Hotch bit his lip, surveying Spencer with keen appreciation.

“Yes. As my employee. You’ll be employed to accompany me to several dinners, a party or two, every social gathering I need to save face at in order to save a business deal I’m working through until it’s done, Saturday. And…”

The man cleared his throat and adjusted his tie with his left hand, the right still outstretched to shake Spencer’s. 

“I’d like to sleep with you again, as well. I’d like to sleep with you several times before I say goodbye to you.”

Spencer didn’t have to think long about it. He already had, if he was honest with himself. 

How did he know I’d cave at $7000.

Does he know I’m actually attracted to him?

Fuck. 

Everything he’d just learned about himself as a call boy and everything he’d just learned about what his best friend was going through suddenly paled in comparison to the possibilities offered when he took that hand and shook it. 

He took Hotchner’s hand and shook it, swiping the cash laid out before him with nowhere to stash it. 

It felt like a security deposit to the young hooker. 

“Um… deal. Deal, Sir. I’d like the rules laid out soon but… for now I just feel like I need to suck your dick or… say thank you, however you want me to do that.”

Spencer shook Hotchner’s hand with a wide smile as he sank back into the bathtub, the bubbles seriously depleted and the hot water now tepid. It still felt amazing to the young twink who’d never really known this kind of luxury in his entire life. 

Hotch gripped Spencer’s hand tight. 

“Deal. I’ll lay out the rules later. You can suck my dick later, too .For now… Relax. Eat.” Hotch turned around, letting his hand drop like his body right back into the bath. 

Spencer gasped. The water was cold. 

Hotch noticed. 

“Run it again. This time, no phone calls. Call your friend later, it sounds like he won’t be cognizant for at least four hours. Until then, go find something nice to wear.”

Hotch threw a few hundred bills down on top of the money he already owed his companion.

“We have a very important dinner to go to, partner. And you have some shopping to do. No hooker ensembles, you need to look elegant.”

Spencer stared at the bills getting wet on the edge of the tub, like some promise he still couldn’t believe. He had a hard time not sinking down below the bubbles as the tub drained and filled back up with gloriously hot water. One thing he knew for sure…

He could not pass up this opportunity. 

“Yes, Sir. I’ll make sure to look nice for you.”

Hotch rubbed Spencer’s cheek, brushing off a bit of the bubbles with his knuckle. 

“I know you will, Spencer Reid .”

“There’s $500 on the sideboard for you to spend on clothes and accessories. I’ll pick you up in the bar tonight at 7 pm. I expect you to be presentable.”

“Yes… yes, s’sir,” he stammered. Hotch kissed his hand before he left the penthouse without another word. 

Spencer was left in the tub watching Aaron Hotchner leave the room while the hot taps kept on running to sink him in deeper.

Only one thing caught in his head aside from the elation of nabbing this once in a lifetime opportunity and the fact that his best friend had witnessed a murder last night. 

He knows my last name. 

Shit. 

Spencer Reid sank beneath the bubbles with a watery scream that could have killed him. 

He knows my last name. He knows my roommate’s name. He just agreed to pay me $7000 to be his callboy. He already paid me $1000. I have just theoretically made more than I’ve made in six months. 

He made me orgasm last night. With his COCK and his hands and just his… his body? The fact that he works so damn hard… on what? I still don’t know. 

I like him too much. And Derek needs me home right now, of all times… 

I want to stay. I said yes. Too late now to overthink it. 

Shit!

What have I gotten myself into?

Spencer emerged from the tub giggling, splashing, screaming and crying all at once. 

He calmed down and quickly resumed the mask he’d grown into, ready to face the outside world and go find some decent clothes with the extra money he’d just been gifted. 

This wasn’t at all the way he imagined “getting out” of this life he’d been dealt but… he was ready to take the wild ride and see what might happen.

Chapter Text

There wasn’t anything stopping him from calling up the elevator. 

Spencer Reid stood staring at the buttons in the empty 27th-floor hallway, considering his options for escape. 

He had already determined that there was no other option up here.

There were the stairs, sure, if he felt like running down 27 flights of stairs only to emerge in the lobby through a fire door, sweaty and out of breath and even more conspicuous. He knew if he tried to escape through the emergency doors, the alarm would go off and the entire posh hotel would be alerted to the fact that an LA street whore was attempting to get away without being noticed. 

Spencer had no fucking chance of not being noticed. 

He had also been given a directive from his paying client that he couldn’t ignore. 

He took a deep breath and smoothed the baggy white button down over his torso. The pants he’d essentially stolen from Aaron Hotchner were far too wide for him but he cinched them up around his waist with his kerchief and hoped to God they didn’t fall down while he walked. 

He knew he looked like an idiot in ill-fitting clothes but he couldn’t walk out into that hotel lobby wearing what he did to catch desperate johns on the sidewalk of south Hollywood Boulevard. The little red and white bodysuit that made him look like a woman would simply NOT do right now. 

The numbers on the elevator still vexed him. 

He took a few deep breaths. In out. Out. In. In. 

Fuck I’m going to hyperventilate, just--do it!

He did it. He punched the big black L button and stood back waiting, fingering the cash in his left pocket. 

The elevator arrived and the doors opened too fast. 

Cory was still there. 

The attendant waved at him with a smile that was a little more tired than it had been last night. 

Spencer joined him in the ornate elevator, smiling back with a wave. 

“I guess you probably see this a lot. The morning after crowd.”

Cory coughed and shook his head, staring resolutely at the elevator doors. Spencer couldn’t help but press him. It made it easier to ignore how nervous he was to play off the nerves of others. 

“Mistresses and misters sneaking off from hotel rooms… Clandestine meetings… Hell, I bet you’ve borne witness to most of the Elite’s mistakes, right? Not that I consider myself Hotchner’s mistake but… you can’t tell me I’m the first one you’ve seen. You see too much and you’re quiet, you’re paid to be discreet, you’re clearly good at the job. You, my friend, are a professional and I commend you for that! But just tell me… I’m not the first, right?”

Cory cleared his throat and fumbled at the silver button that wouldn’t stay closed on his uniform. 

“Mr. Hotchner has never invited one of his… quiet mistakes… to his penthouse before.”

“Oh.”

Spencer sat down on the little couch in the elevator for the remaining twelve seconds it took for them to reach the lobby. 

The doors slid open. 

Cory turned and offered him a hand up. 

Spencer took it, shaking his head against the idea that he was apparently the first instead of a link in the chain attached to Aaron Hotchner. 

He thanked Cory profusely and then remembered how tipping worked. The cash in his pocket was hot and burning against him, begging to be spent right. 

Spencer pressed two twenties against the younger man’s palm. 

“You definitely deserve it.”

“Wait, Mr.--um, wait!” Cory called after him, unable to accept that kind of tip without knowing where the money came from and if it was okay. 

Spencer was already striding across the lobby in his oversized white button-down and pants that did not fit his skinny frame at all. 

Cory watched him go with a miserable smile on his lips, waving until he heard his superior’s bone-chilling reprimand set in on him from behind. 

“So… tell me about Mr. Hotchner’s special guest, Cory.”

…

Penelope Garcia was the kind of woman who knew everything about her neighborhood, at every given time. 

It had been a long time since she escaped the claws of the FBI. Well. If a long time was nine months, then it had been a long time since she wiggled her way out of being arrested for illegal hacking. 

That didn’t mean she was oblivious to the goings on of her little community, even if she had an ankle bracelet monitoring her at all times, making sure that she never set foot outside of the designated ‘living area’ they gave her. 

She no longer had access to a computer, either. So her window was how she gleaned most of her information. 

Which is how she happened to see the notorious Derek Morgan fleeing the scene after the murder last night. She didn’t see the killer but she knew that leather jacket and that ungodly Adonis physique. She spent far too much time happily surveying him from above while the gorgeous man strutted his stuff up and down Hollywood Boulevard. 

She was above buying a man for his body so she had never taken advantage of his services but… a girl could dream. 

Regardless of all that, Penelope Garcia now sat in her apartment alone, trying to figure out how she was going to offer to help after she set a few things in motion. 

Dragging Sergeant Alvez into the mix was a given; the worn-down beat cop chomping at the bit to get out of this part of LA was so close to unraveling this latest string of murders, if only he’d be allowed to do his job instead of covering everything up. She knew if she gave him Morgan and Morgan played his part well, they might finally unearth the son of a bitch responsible for murdering so many girls in so little time. 

Garcia wasn’t into the true crime thing per say but she was into protecting innocent people from the violence that took too many lives too soon. 

She used to try to do that by hacking the rudimentary systems gaining momentum every day. Now that she couldn’t do that… this was something to fill her time and her quota for good deeds. 

She just hoped that Morgan could handle it. 

So… she decided to drop by and introduce herself. It was probably past time. 

Months of her watching him and him never even acknowledging her presence had worn her down a bit thin. 

There she stood ready to knock on his door. His building was even worse than hers somehow. She was pretty sure a rat scurried along in the wall while she stood waiting after knocking three times. 

She could hear a stumble, a brief curse, something falling over and then the door opened just enough for the beautiful man to stick his face out and glare at her, clearly still half-asleep. 

“What?” 

Penelope waved and smiled, cocking her blonde head to the side. 

“Hi. I’m Penelope Garcia, I live across the way. I thought I’d come and introduce myself after I watched you run away from Karissa Jenkins’ corpse last night.”

Morgan blinked at her slowly, the door falling open to reveal him in a tank top and thong. Garcia’s eyes widened and she pursed her lips in appreciation. 

“Excuse me?” the man asked hoarsely. 

“Who do you think clued the Alvez in? Can I…” Garcia stepped forward, nudging the door open even more with her toe. “Come in?”

Morgan took a few seconds to consider the proposition before the strange blonde woman charged in anyway. He barely had time to take in her all-black lace and leather attire. Her six-inch stiletto heels clicked and he backed off to offer her entry. 

“Hm. This is about what I would expect from someone living with Spencer Reid after his fall from grace. He was always messy back at Caltech, no one could live with him. He lucked out finding you, kind of, I guess.” 

Morgan slammed the door shut and locked it, still sleepy and disoriented after his doze on the futon following the cop’s departure. One glance at the clock told him it had only been a few hours since Alvez left with plans to return that evening in plain clothes, set to be his john for the night. 

He could not keep up with anything about this situation. 

The woman named Penelope Garcia was currently inspecting their clothing rack hung with the delicates they hand-washed in the communal shower. 

“Dollar store lingerie, huh? Don’t you guys charge $100 an hour? Where’s it all go?” 

Morgan waved his hands through the air and huffed indignantly, striding over to keep the prying woman from playing with one of his jock straps. 

“Back up a minute, lady--who are you again? Why the fuck are you in my apartment and what’s it to you where my money goes?” 

Garcia turned around, dropping the bright red jock strap back on the drying rack with an innocent shrug. 

“I’m the woman who saw you run from a murder scene and told one of LAPD’s finest about it. I also happen to know you want these murders to end and you are a better person than your outward persona lets on… so,” she took a deep breath and settled in on the futon with Morgan’s full attention on her. “I want you to know that I want to help. And I have some friends who might want to help, too.”

Morgan fixed her with a misgiving glare. He didn’t know this woman. He hardly trusted the women he knew well these days. He felt a very familiar itch start up demanding that he go get a fix and soon but for some reason this blonde-haired intrusion into his life demanded that he stay right here and hear her out; he never wanted to be a witness at another murder scene again. He didn’t want to see any of these girls die if there was something he could do to prevent it from happening. 

Alvez might be coming back to go undercover but… if he could have more eyes in the field, if they, the streetwalkers, the people being attacked, could have some agency over this investigation that went deeper than just one cop sticking up for them… maybe they could actually effect some kind of positive change. 

Maybe they’d prevent another girl from being murdered. 

Morgan had never really felt compelled to do anything more than survive ever since his father died in the line of duty and his death was never avenged. 

“I can see the wheels a’spinning in your head, Sir,” the woman said with a minx-like smile. Her eyes were sad though. 

As if she understood that this wasn’t just a murder-mystery theater playing out around him for fun. 

“Let me help you?”

Morgan sat down on the coffee table across from his new ‘friend’ and leaned over his bare naked knees, still sparkling with glitter from the night before. 

“Alright. Tell me how you can help, Baby Girl.”

The house phone rang before Penelope got over the deep blush accosting her cheeks. 

…

Pick up, Pick up… Please Morgan, pick UP!

Spencer Reid was about to have a breakdown. 

He had never, ever felt so embarrassed and humiliated in his entire life. 

And that included the day he was expelled from Caltech and summarily arrested in front of his classmates, professors and the students he’d been teaching at the time. 

Shopping on Rodeo Drive proved to him that he was just trash. It didn’t matter if he wore clothing that covered his body. It didn’t matter if he had money to spend; every single shop he entered turned him away within seconds. Several threatened to call the police with one look. 

The last one though… that was the one that broke his spirit. It had been a long time since anything came near enough to his soul to wound it. 

“Sir--I’m sorry, we don’t give handouts to the homeless here. You need to leave.”

“Oh! I’m not homeless, I just would really like to purchase some clothing that fits, I do have money--”

“Gladys?! Gladys, call the police and get Fred up here, get this filth out of here before he scares off anyone else.”

“Oh God, HOW do the authorities allow this to keep happening? Ugh, look at him--Get out--shoo--Fred! FRED!”

“No, please, I do have money, please just let me buy a pair of pants that fit!”

“As if. That money is not yours and we know it. Get out before Fred gets here or you will be going to jail tonight you trash heap whore.”

The laughter was what drove him away. 

Those women weren’t scared of him, he knew that. He could barely hold his pants up and wave at the same time. He looked ridiculous and he knew that but… to hear them laugh at him while his eyes filled with relentless tears and he struggled to walk back outside before the large man approaching from the back could hit him… 

It well and truly broke him down into what he was right now. 

Small. Scared. Alone. With a wad of cash in his pocket begging to be spent. 

Demanding to be spent. Hotchner told me to purchase clothes with this money. I guess I could just leave the extra in his suite and go home. I could just walk away from the godsend it would be to work for him for a week and be free of this life after. 

He made it back to the Langham hotel, through the doors held open by doormen and straight to the fancy phonebooth near the elevators. Just when he heard the call go through and Morgan’s voice answering, someone gripped his shoulder. 

He dropped the phone on the receiver and closed his eyes, trying to breathe. 

It was really hard to breathe. 

“I think we need to have a conversation, Sir.”

Spencer shook his head and wished he was wearing his wig. He didn’t want another mugshot of himself circulating where he actually looked like himself. 

He let the hand guide him firmly out of the phonebooth and down the marble hall, trying to ignore the shocked gasps of the well-to-do patrons of the hotel at the sight of him. 

I’m not even dressed like a hooker and yet everyone fucking knows what I am… who was I ever kidding? I will NEVER be acceptable to them again. 

Aaron Hotchner might be rich and he might want to pay Spencer to be his arm candy for a week but… there was no way anyone would see him as anything but a bought and paid for call boy. 

The fact that he was being led down the stairs to a hidden away office by the concierge was evidence enough.

Spencer held his breath until the man called Rossi closed a door behind him and came around to stand behind a very meticulous desk. 

“Well. It appears as if I need to lay out some rules about how we navigate these delicate situations here at the Langham Hotel.”

Spencer bit back a biting retort just barely. He shrugged instead, the overlarge white shirt sliding down his shoulder. He still had to hold up his borrowed pants with one hand. 

The concierge stared at him impassively for a moment before sucking his teeth and shaking his head. 

“I need to know your name. Your full, legal name. I need to know how much cash you’ve taken from Aaron Hotchner and how much you’ve spent. The police will be here in ten minutes so the more honest you are the better it will be for you.”

Spencer finally made eye contact with the dark-haired man dialing a phone. He was desperate to be taken seriously. If it made him look unhinged--so be it. His eyes were wide and he stood up angrily, slapping the man’s desk with his open palm to get his attention away from dialing 911. 

“I did NOT steal from Aaron Hotchner. I have done nothing wrong! He paid me--” Spencer stopped himself quickly and took a deep breath, “He gifted me this money. He wants me to stay here with him because I’m his--I’m his son-in-law!” 

The lie slipped out so easily. Spencer held on to that ease, to the narrative he’d just created, however fucked up. 

The man he knew was called Rossi stared at him with the phone to his ear, eyes narrowing. Reid let himself blush. 

“I’m a fuck-up but Aaron has always been there for me, okay? He said he’d put me up for a few days while I got away from a bad situation. He gave me this, this money--” Spencer didn’t have to feign tears when he dumped the wadded up cash on the desk. He pushed it away from himself even though it hurt. That only added to how upset he could act. Even though I AM upset.

“Money to b-buy clothes that might be respectable for once. And I couldn’t even do that, noone even let me in, they took one--one look at me and kicked me out, threatened to arrest me, threatened to be-beat me up… I just want to do better and Aaron was helping me do that, okay? Call him! Ask him, ask him about his step-son Spencer Reid and he’ll tell you!”

Rossi set the phone back down in its cradle slowly. 

He watched the young man break down externally. He really did look pathetic. The clothes he’d obviously stolen from Mr. Hotchner’s closet were hanging off of him in an incredibly unflattering way. The shirt billowed around his narrow chest, too crisp not to cling to the frame it had been custom made for. Those pants… Rossi had a hard time not sneering and looking away. They were so baggy around the crotch and ass, drawn up tight around the skinny kid’s narrow waist, bunching in weird places… 

I know Hotchner doesn’t have an adult step-son. 

But… 

And this was where Rossi’s job got dicey. 

He had to make the call of whether to trust his client’s whore, or not. 

This whore was unlike most he dealt with at this level. Normally, the escorts employed by his most esteemed hotel guests were well-versed in things like how to dress . Normally they weren’t clever enough to cry and claim a role they had no right to, either. 

It appeared that his eccentric guest in the penthouse did not know how this worked… and by proxy, neither did this poor kid. 

Rossi recognized the signs that this young man had been through the ringer one too many times before. He also saw him clenching his fist and beating his chest, biting his lip, tapping his feet against the floor one, two, three--

Well that’s interesting. I’ve never met an autistic hooker before. Much less one with a penis. 

He decided then that he would give both Spencer Reid and Aaron Hotchner the benefit of the doubt. 

He still needed to make sure Reid knew that he was playing a dangerous game. 

“I will call Mr. Hotchner to confirm, yes. You sit tight. If you need a water,” Rossi gestured over to the water cooler in the corner. Spencer hesitated before he took him up on the offer. 

Rossi watched the young man hold onto his pants and pour himself a water, sniffing it suspiciously before he took a long sip and visibly relaxed. 

The call he was making went through in seconds. 

“Baufour Enterprises, this is Chelsea.”

“Hello Chelsea, this is David Rossi, Concierge at the Langham Hotel. Is Mr. Hotchner available?”

“No, he’s in a meeting, can I take a message?” 

Rossi glanced over at the kid to gauge his response. 

Spencer stood there taking deep breaths and drinking water. He didn’t seem at all perturbed that his lie would be exposed. 

So he is a call boy. And a clever one. But not a dishonest one. He just gave me all that cash. He could have taken it and run before coming back here. Okay. That’s all I needed to know. 

“Tell him his son-in-law had a few questions about the hotel room. He’ll be charging some items to Mr. Hotchner’s account.”

“Oh… okay, I will let him know. S-Son-in-law?”

“Spencer Reid, yes. Thank you for your time,” Rossi ended without letting the secretary follow up. 

Rossi hung up the phone and held up his hand when Spencer looked like he was about to start talking again. 

“I have all the proof I need. Just one more phone call and we’ll be on our way,” he assured the young man who looked panicked now. Rossi held eye contact the entire time he made the next call. 

It went through in less than a second. 

“Langham Couture, Erin speaking.”

“Erin, it’s been too long, my sweet. How are things on the retail floor?”

“Oh--David--um, well, they’re going well, sales are up after our newest releases--why are you calling?”

She never took long to hone in when David Rossi was on a mission. 

“I have a special case to send your way. What do you have in a men’s 30’ 30’ that doesn’t scream ‘suit’?”

“What don’t I have in that dimension… Is he tall? Even better if he is, all we have for men right now are what they’re fitting on the models these days… send him down and we’ll get him situated. And Dave?”

“Yes?” 

“Next time you call, it better be for fun.”

“This is for fun, trust me.”

Spencer looked over at him uncertainly when Rossi hung up the phone again. 

“Well, Kid, you convinced me. I don’t know what a man like Aaron Hotchner wants with a ‘step-son’ who has no real clothes but… let’s go make you look the part, shall we?”

Spencer could do nothing but splutter and nod when he was led back out and up into the world he didn’t feel ready to be part of. 

…

Aaron was seething. 

His lawyer had yet again infuriated him in a meeting. It was like the man was out for blood no matter what. 

George followed him all the way to the elevators after presenting his scheme to screw Gideon out of his family’s namesake without a second thought. 

Normally, these kinds of underhanded deals didn’t bother him so long as they meant a good payout in the end but… today… tonight… He found a bitter taste overwhelming him at the idea that he would soon be responsible for replacing industry with leisure in an area that relied on industry and would die on the stake of a leisure economy. 

“Come on, Aaron, it’s just a little bit of the bay--you never felt weird about it before, why are you being like this now?” George asked him, following relentlessly until Hotch made it to his waiting limo. 

He turned around and couldn’t tell the man why he felt the guilt suddenly. He honestly didn’t know. He just knew he was late and his secretary had only now told him that Rossi called about his supposed ‘step-son’. 

Spencer was waiting. 

I’m already late. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, George. I’m going to have dinner with Gideon and his son and we’ll regroup tomorrow morning about the deal once I get a sense of where they want to go with it. End of discussion,” he said warningly when George looked like he was about to argue.

His lawyer finally just threw his hands up and clenched his fists against his face. Hotch suddenly felt defensive and disturbed when the skinny man stared at him as if his eyes were daggers. There was rage there. And something else he’d seen glimpses of… something like deranged fury.

The moment passed quickly and George was his usual mousy, annoying self again, all traces of that fury gone. 

Hotch felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising when he turned to open the door to his limousine and ignore how uncomfortable he felt. George kept talking when the tense moment faded just enough. 

“Sure… yeah, go rub shoulders with the enemy. Take the boy out to dinner. How old is he, anyway? You like ‘em young? I need to know, I’m your lawyer, if you wanna bang a kiddie I should know at least--”

Hotch was out of the car with his hand on George’s throat before he knew what his body had done.  

“If you insinuate that I am fucking an underage person ever again, I will have Anderson shoot you in the balls.”

George tried to gasp but couldn’t manage it. He twitched instead and Aaron let him go in disgust. George barely righted himself against the garage wall before retorting. 

“Okay, okay… Sorry… it’s just… your little boytoy turned out to be a mess. Did you even look him up? He has a record. I looked him up.”

Hotch hesitated. Listened. 

George did what he did best. He slid in behind his wealthy employer and planted the negativity in his ear. 

“He’s a certified genius. Like. Smarter than Einstein, genius. Graduated high school at 12 years old, genius. Went to Caltech, got a few degrees, apparently he has a schizo mommy he couldn’t take care of so he chucked her in the bin when he turned 18… and it all goes downhill from there. Kid got caught synthesizing A-Grade LSD straight outta the college labs just a few years ago. Looks like it lost him a job at the FBI but he somehow got off from the charges… so… you wanna rethink who you’re taking to this meeting? Gideon might not like to see a former protege brought so low…” 

Hotch felt his blood run cold. He didn’t want to believe any of it. 

He’s lying about it all. Spencer is simple. Spencer is easy. He’s not all that, there is no possible way he did any of that… George just wants me to throw this meeting. 

He knows Gideon worked for the FBI back in the day. 

Hotch straightened up and turned to face George one more time tonight. 

“That’s interesting intel. I’ll have to ask Spencer when I see him tonight. Go home, George.”

He slammed the car door in his lawyer’s face without another moment wasted on the man. 

“The Langham, Anderson. Step on it.”

…

Spencer had never felt quite so dressed up and dressed down at the same time. 

In his experience, attracting men meant any number of things. Either he could be himself and someone would come along ready to fuck him in a barn or library or right there on the street… or he dressed up for the streets and he got fucked accordingly. 

Tonight he wore a designer suit tailored to his exact proportions within an hour of the woman named Erin meeting him. 

She took his measurements and clapped her hands--boom. 

The suit was there. 

Spencer put it on with reverence back in the penthouse after Rossi confirmed that he was Aaron Hotchner’s ‘step-son’. 

That’s going to be a weird kink going forward isn’t it… 

He didn’t really care about weird kinks at the moment. He felt too pretty. 

He knew he looked too pretty after his walk from the elevator to the hotel bar. 

Cory wasn’t there tonight. Spencer was glad he got a night off. 

He hoped he hadn’t been fired because of him. 

The martini against his lips didn’t do much to quell his nerves while he sat there at the bar in his brand new black suit fit so well to his long body. 

Hotchner was almost a half hour late. 

He kept glimpsing over his shoulder, trying not to appear desperate even though he felt desperate. 

Maybe I should just go call Morgan. He can come get me. I’ll leave the suit upstairs. I’ll take the money for last night and just leave. This has been far too stressful already--

“Spencer?”

All thoughts of leaving left his mind when he turned around to see Aaron Hotchner standing there in a brand-new black suit that matched his own. 

“Sir.”

Chapter Text

Hotch had to scan the busy Langham Hotel Lounge for several minutes trying to find his ‘hired companion’. 

He was looking for the tall young man to be dressed in something garish and outlandish, maybe  a purple velour suit and another wig, heeled boots not unlike the ones held up by safety pins and full of hidden pockets… 

For a moment he felt a twinge of angry panic and something that resembled sad humiliation when it struck him that the hooker might have simply taken the cash and vanished. 

He wanted to turn around and leave. He started to go, ready to storm back to the office in downtown L.A., ready to find some new business he could destroy and suck dry of resources out of spite. A voice beside the host stand called his name and stopped him in his tracks when he couldn’t find the whore he’d hired and trusted to show up for him for once. 

“Mr. Hotchner, over here, if you will!” 

Hotch took a steadying breath. He turned to find the Concierge beckoning him over with that imperious wave of his. It took a lot to force himself to walk over and greet the man without the embarrassed anger he felt lacing his tone. 

“Evening, Rossi.” 

Rossi dipped his head. The stately older man had a look in his eye that told Hotch he knew exactly how difficult it was for him to be polite at the moment. 

“I take it you’re looking for your, ah, ‘stepson’?” he inquired all-knowingly. Hotch flushed and chewed his lip. 

“As a matter of fact I am, yes. We were supposed to meet at the bar but I’m late. Have you seen him? He would be difficult to miss.” 

Rossi chuckled at that, eyebrows raised. “Oh, yes, he would have been before his wardrobe upgrade. But I’m afraid you must have missed him, Sir. He’s at the bar by the piano, wearing a quite spectacular Ralph Lauren ensemble that might have been tailored specifically for him if I didn’t watch my apparel specialist pull it off the rack this afternoon.”

Hotch stared back over at the bar. He couldn’t have missed Spencer sitting there, he’d been searching for him for several minutes. 

The man at the bar next to the piano was indeed wearing a spectacularly elegant black Ralph Lauren suit, its delicate silk threads shimmering in the low golden light. The man turned slightly to take a sip of his drink. 

Plump lips puckered at the edge of a martini glass. Cut jaw. No trace of stubble. Tiny frown.

I know that face.

Hotch finally recognized that striking profile framed by a wash of tousled golden-brown curls brushed until they shined. He had a vision of a blonde wig but then he recalled the image of the man sleeping so soundly in his hotel bed with those same natural curls tossed all across his face, tangled in his memory, even more beautiful than they were tamed and dressed up… 

There he is. 

“Oh.”

For once, the man who normally always had the last word was rendered speechless. 

Rossi nudged his arm discreetly and Hotch cleared his throat. 

“I… I didn’t recognize him.”

“You didn’t recognize your ‘stepson’?” Rossi pressed with a smirk. Hotch shot him a glare, returning the smirk when it was clear that Rossi was not going to play narc in this delicate situation. It was in the hotel’s best interest to maintain their discreet business relationship, after all. 

“I don’t actually have a stepson, David.”

Rossi’s eyes twinkled. “No, Sir. But you do now, for all intents and purposes.” 

Hotch remained silent. It was always best to remain silent when the alternative was perjuring yourself further. Rossi didn’t turn on him though. He did the exact opposite. 

The man shrugged and nodded back toward Spencer sitting at the bar. 

“Now, I hope I’m not overstepping but I believe you and your stepson have a reservation at La Salope in half an hour. Would you like me to call your driver?” 

Hotch watched Spencer look nervously over his shoulder once more, those hazel eyes searching the faces of the wealthy patrons surrounding him at the bar. He noticed several women and more than a few men eying the lonely twink up hungrily from various points in the lounge. The overt attention made his blood boil possessively. 

That felt strange. 

It felt good, too.

“Yes. Tell Anderson to take us the long way. I’d like to be late,” he said distractedly, already walking away from the hidden alcove. He paused to glance at Rossi with a grateful half-smile. “It’s a power move and I need that tonight. Thanks, Rossi.”

Rossi just winked and watched the affair unfold from afar. 

He had a feeling this unlikely fairy tale would only get more interesting from here. 

…

Spencer wished he was wearing his own boots. 

He had worn them all day underneath the borrowed pair of pants stolen from Hotchner’s closet full of designer suits. Sadly, seven inch heeled vinyl thigh-highs were not exactly going to match his brand-new ‘elegant’ silk ensemble. 

At least not in the posh public setting he’d be dining in tonight. 

It felt awkward to walk in normal men’s dress shoes. Rossi insisted he pick out the pair of Christian Louboutin loafers with a modest little heel even though Spencer balked at the obscene price. The concierge had to remind him that he wasn’t spending his own money. That made him feel better but still guilty when the cashier charged the purchase to Mr. Hotchner’s account. At least he hadn’t been dragged off and arrested like he assumed he would be. 

Rossi turned out to be quite kind in the end. 

Spencer had never experienced that from a man of his caliber, at least not since he’d been kicked out of school after his brief bout as a child prodigy turned designer drug dealer. 

It was… nice. It was refreshing to have someone look after him again without asking for sex in return. Rossi turned out to be much like another man he once looked up to, before he fell so spectacularly from grace. He wanted to return the favor the only way he knew how at this point. 

Spencer was more than ready to give the handsome Italian man a blowjob in his office after his little in-house shopping spree at the hotel clothing store. He made the offer discreetly once they were back in Hotch’s penthouse but Rossi declined politely and told him to stick to ‘making his step-dad proud’. 

For reasons he still wasn’t sure how to process, the idea of making his pretend step-dad proud elicited a significant physical reaction he had to work out himself when he was alone in Hotchner’s penthouse later. 

He decided to call it ‘prepping’ when he jerked off in the massive fluffy bed. He shouldn’t be thinking of Hotchner when he did that, but he was.

He decided not to analyze it at all when his actual prepwork made him orgasm again on the toilet. He would not think about Aaron Hotchner… he wouldn’t. Not again.

All he could think about was Hotchner.

All I should be thinking about is the money and where we go next… me and Morgan. That’s all.  

I’ve agreed to spend the next six days with this man. How am I supposed to ignore him? 

Just… don’t think about him. Yep. When he wants to fuck, fuck him. Otherwise, ignore him. 

He made that resolution while showering and stuck to it pretty well, seeing as he hadn’t seen Hotch since the bathtub. 

His belated phone call to Morgan was perplexing enough to distract him for an hour, at least. 

He only got to speak with him for forty-five seconds but in that forty-five seconds he learned several concerning facts. 

Morgan was sober at 4 pm--an absolutely unheard of situation. 

He was with a woman in their apartment but he was not having sex with her--also new. 

He was planning on meeting a cop later to investigate the murders undercover-- I told him NOT TO DO THAT . 

AND, apparently the fact that Spencer was still not home wasn’t intriguing enough to keep him on the phone because Morgan hung up on him abruptly without letting him relay the weird fairy-tale in all its detail. 

All Derek said was “I’m glad you’re alive.” And then click. 

Fucking asshole. 

If he only knew, he would be flipping his shit right now, even more than he is over this murder mystery theater he’s playing out…. He better not get wrapped up in anything crazy. It’s entirely on him if he does. 

The phone call was a nice distraction but once it was over, Spencer was there staring at himself naked in a gold-leafed bathroom, wondering how the hell he got there once again. 

He had not been able to think about much beyond how nervous he felt getting ready for this night of work. He shouldn’t feel nervous at all; he was used to getting ready for a night on the streets of Hollywood selling himself to anyone with enough cash in hand. Getting dressed in a suit that cost more than he made in a month, well, that was just different. That was nerve-wracking in an entirely new way.  

It didn’t help that he thought he might actually like this guy. 

And then there he was. 

“Spencer.”

“Sir.” 

“You did well shopping.” 

“Thank you. I had a lot of help.”

“It shows.” 

“Thanks?”

“No--I mean, ah, it just… I didn’t quite recognize you.”

“Not surprising. I shine up okay, though, right? Like a new penny?”

“Like a rare penny.”

“You know, with compliments like that I am astounded you had to resort to paying for a lay. Guess that’s why you didn’t recognize me.” 

“No. I just expected you in bright colors. Black looks good on you.”

“Black looks good on everyone.” 

“True. Ready to go?”

“Always, Sir.”

“Spencer… are you alright?”

A gentle hand gripped his knee and Spencer stopped his endless daydreams. For the last ten minutes, from the moment he said “Sir” and accepted Hotch’s hand, he had been lost in his head. 

It startled him to realize he was in the back of a bona fide limousine, sitting next to Aaron Hotchner while they rode slowly down Rodeo Drive through the early evening traffic. 

He looked out through the window at the multi-colored lights cast in through the tinted windows of the long Cadillac. It took a lot to make himself turn his head and smile at his client. He had to remember who he was right now. 

This was not a fairy-tale.

This was work. 

“Yeah, God, I’m sorry. I’m fine. This is just really posh, I mean, is that more Champagne in a bucket over there? In the limo-bar?” 

Hotch inclined his head toward the bar and shrugged. “Traffic sucks in L.A. Most of the time I’m carting around executives in this thing so I try to have booze on hand to keep them happy. I’m more used to walking but this city is not a walking city.”

Spencer was already helping himself to the uncorked bottle of Champagne. 

“Where is home that you can live and walk while being this wealthy? Manhattan?”

Hotch watched him pour a glass and then a second glass.

“Yes. I prefer New York to L.A. any day. But Spencer, you know I don’t drink--”

“This isn’t for you. It’s just so I don’t feel lonely drinking by myself. Let your driver have it, half the people on the I-10 are drunk at this time of night already.”

Hotch called up to Anderson while Spencer knocked back another flute of bubbly. 

“Grant--are most people really drunk on the roads here or is Spencer blowing smoke?”

Anderson answered readily as always. 

“No, he’s right Sir. They’re all drunk by 2:30 on a good day. It’s a melee out here.”

Hotch blushed and fought off the wave of embarrassment yet again. Spencer was there to settle in next to him with both glasses in hand, one at his lips and the other settling in to a drink holder next to him. 

Spencer grinned at him and shrugged. “Never underestimate how astute us working class peasants can be. We know things.”

“Oh do you? Tell me… Newton’s law.” 

Hotch waited for the immediate explanation. If the kid was a genius, he could tell him. 

Spencer scrunched up his face for a moment, glugging the fine champagne down too fast yet again. 

Hotch was ready to stick it to his stupid lawyer for thinking he was some kind of genius. Then Spencer started talking. 

“Newton’s Law simply explains the relationship between an object and the things around it. One single object hurtling along through the Universe can interact with another object for a split second, and everything is changed. It’s the law of Chaos theory, really, but don’t tell my physics professors that or they’ll accuse me of exposing the dark timeline truth too soon.”

“Dark timeline?” Hotch asked, noticing that Spencer was sliding closer to him along the backseat of the limo. He was intrigued and impressed by the man’s explanation of a question he honestly didn't have the full answer to. 

“Yes. There are always multiple timelines according to some versions of chaos theory. One seemingly innocuous decision can change the course of history. It happens every day, every second, really. If I were to jump out of this limo and die on the street from my injuries, it wouldn’t matter. The thing that would matter is my being here at all and then choosing to kill myself. The fall out would fall on you, though and whoever randomly ran over my body.”

Hotch failed to see how this was supposed to be arousing. 

“You want to kill yourself?” 

Spencer shook his head and laughed, leaning against him, one hand wandering up along his leg between his thighs. Hotch sucked in a breath. 

Now it was arousing. 

“No. No, I really don’t. I’m just answering your question about the scientific expansions built upon Newton’s Law. There’s a, uh, a very different kind of law we can expand upon though… right here, in the back of your Limo, Sir,” Spencer whispered seductively, his hand now resting casually right on Hotch’s crotch. 

His dick answered for him when it came to attention, pressing hard against his zipper. 

Hotch glared at the young man smiling so innocently as he gently massaged the growing erection beneath his palm. 

“And what Law would that be, Spencer?” 

Spencer shrugged as he slid down to the carpeted floor of the limousine. He took his hands away from their masterful massage for just a moment to tuck his long, curly hair behind his ears. Hotch watched him wet his lips and then those pretty hazel eyes flicked up to lock him in. 

His fingers were already working their physics magic against his zipper. Hotch’s dick was there, exposed in the young man’s expert hand before he could take a second breath. 

“The law of Sex, Mr. Hotchner.” 

Lips touched him and Hotch leaned back with a sigh, wholly satisfied with his purchase. His last thought before he succumbed to the mouth around him was simple. He reached over and found the remote for the glass partition between them and the cab, issuing a hoarse order with his hand tangled in curls. 

“Take another lap before parking, Anderson.” The dark glass slid closed and he fully relaxed while Spencer serviced him.

Aaron Hotchner had gotten a few lackluster blowjobs in the back of his limo before but this one defied the odds… 

Maybe we’re in that alternate universe he started rambling about… maybe this is just another facet of Newton’s Law of Physics… 

When he came inside the man’s mouth one minute later, he was pretty sure his assumption had been correct the moment he really looked at the man and saw him for who he was. 

I would have paid more. I should have. I shouldn’t have. But… here he is. Swallowing my cum. Licking his lips. He actually looks like he’s enjoying it. I should hire him on as a press rep for the company after this. I’ll never look bad again. 

The proof was in the pudding, or so Hotch’s mother used to say. The proof that he had chosen his companion well was clear when Spencer was very careful to keep the semen dribbling down his chin from getting on his brand new suit. 

Spencer sat up carefully, one hand still rubbing Hotch’s dick down from orgasm so gently while the other was busy gathering up the escaped cum before it made a stain. Hotch watched him lick his sticky hand and fingers clean. He could feel Spencer’s eyes on him. 

He couldn’t look away from that mouth licking his own fingers… licking my cum. 

Somehow he felt his cock get hard again. It was only then he realized that Spencer had tucked him away clean and dry in his pants already. He felt the limo slowing down. Spencer paused with both of his hands working to tighten his buckle just right. He knelt between Hotch’s knees in that perfect suit, staring down at their bodies pressed so close together they could hear each other breathing fast. 

“God Sir, you have no idea how hard I am right now… ”

“I know, Spencer. We’re here, though. Time for dinner.”

It took everything in Hotch not to order Anderson to turn them around and go straight back to the hotel. It took everything in Spencer not to strip his fancy suit off and demand to be ravished.

There is always a moment when two people realize they might be falling, but they wake up halfway through the nightmare, seconds before they land. No one ever really knows if that cushion they keep dreaming about might be love. Not until landing, at least. 

And neither man was anywhere close to allowing themselves to land before waking up. 

Time for dinner.

Spencer nodded and pushed away from Hotch with a pat at his perfectly done belt, another hand snaking up to straighten his tie. 

“We are here, Sir.” Spencer licked his cherry red lips and not so subtly adjusted the erection pressing against his expensive new suit pants. He took his time opening the door before the door was opened for him. Anderson stood there, pretending not to blush. 

Spencer recovered from the moment and shrugged yet again. That mask and that wig… both were on him now even though he was the picture perfect Twink boyfriend who might as well be modeling for Tommy Hilfiger… Hotch knew he had been lucky the night he picked up this diamond in the rough street-whore. 

He’s not a whore. 

He’s a businessman. Just like me. 

Why does that make me get harder than ever. 

Spencer shrugged at him, again. He looked irate. And he looked nervous. He was still wiping his mouth when he made his quick, frightened query. 

“Let’s go, Sir?”

Hotch reached up and stopped him from wiping at his chin. Reid froze and stared, still licking his lips. 

“Let’s go. Spencer.”

Chapter Text

It was a hot, sultry night in West Hollywood. Like it always was. 

Welcome to Hollywood, where dreams are made! 

Detective Luke Alvez could not believe he was actually doing this. 

It had been a long fucking time since he put on his old leather jacket, a pair of dirty ripped jeans and his favorite Prince band tee. It had been even longer since he put gel in his curly black hair and slicked it back. 

The endless days of being no better than a beat cop in the worst L.A. neighborhood possible didn’t leave him much time or energy to ‘let loose’ and get dolled up for a night out. He had to remember he was still kind of on the clock tonight though. 

He set off from his shitty apartment feeling ridiculous when he remembered he was off to meet up with a hooker named Derek Morgan. 

I’m going undercover. Sort of. Damn. The one time I take a few personal days and I’m out here posing as a sleazeball John to investigate a serial killer. 

I should be getting goddamn hazard pay. Instead I’m doing this shit for free?

Good thing I live for the job. 

The streets were alive for a Sunday night. Luke had to keep himself from going full cop when he saw six different illicit drug transactions go down on the bus ride to Hollywood Boulevard. His target location wasn’t his normal cup of tea on a rare day off but here he was anyway. Hands stuffed in his pockets, sucking down his fourth cigarette in twenty minutes, ready to pull the gun he had strapped to his ankle if someone so much as gave him a weird look. 

It was still too early to be too busy when he approached the corner, the neon lights just beginning to flicker into life with a sad blue-white spark. 

The Cat o’ Nine Club. 

How many times have I booked junkies and prostitutes after a bender gone south at that place? Hopefully they were all too high to recognize me now. 

Seeing as Luke Alvez barely recognized himself when he left his apartment, he had a pretty good feeling no one was going to call him out for the Narc he was. 

He barely glanced at the bouncer, flicking his spent cig off to the curb like he didn’t care about littering. The bouncer grunted at him with a shrug. Luke felt oddly giddy to be admitted so quickly; ever since he joined the force, if he so much as walked past a bouncer dressed in his normal civvies they would invariably go agro toward him. God forbid he be in uniform. 

Success number 1: infiltration without detection. 

The darkness of the club blinded him for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the heavy smoke and strobing lights, immediately inundated by the pulsing beats of bad club music. 

The bar was fairly empty as he approached, still acting cool as he scanned the thin crowd for the man he was here to meet. 

Derek Morgan shouldn’t be too hard to spot. From the little he knew of the flamboyant hooker, he had a feeling anywhere he went he was the center of attention. 

Luke didn’t have to search for long. 

“Well, well… look who can blend in when he tries.”

Luke stiffened at the bar, smirking nervously when he felt a firm hand stroke his hip from behind. 

“Derek.” 

“Detective…”

Luke shifted to face the man with a scowl as he nervously scanned the crowd to see if anyone overheard him. 

“I’m just Luke here, man. Don’t mess around calling me that,” he hissed as Derek settled in beside him laughing. Luke couldn’t help but flush at the get-up the guy was wearing, stepping back a little bit when Derek got fully into his space. 

“Fine, fine, I guess we’ll role-play that later if we get a chance to be alone… want a drink? I’m buyin’,” the nonchalant hooker said, fluttering his eyelashes at Luke with a shrug as he waved down Fred the bartender. 

Luke cleared his throat and peeled Derek’s flirty hand off his arm. 

“No, I shouldn’t. Water’s fine.” 

Derek gave him a deadpan stare, then rolled his eyes dramatically, setting off the glitter he must have applied liberally before heading out for the night. Fred grunted at them, wiping down a glass. 

“What’ll it be tonight, Morgan? You better be glad I’m even servin’ you at all after that tab you racked up.”

Derek huffed. “I paid it in full, Freddy, come on now, you know I always pay my debts eventually.” Fred grunted again. 

“Start a new tab, though, I think my friend and I are going to be here a while tonight. I’ll take a buttery nipple to get started. He’ll have a beer and a shot of Jameson.”

Luke shook his head but Derek just blew him a kiss while Fred got started on the drinks. 

“Actually, make that two shots of Jameson.” 

“Derek…” Luke whispered warningly. He eyed the huge shot glasses being filled with trepidation. He hadn’t had a real drink in far too long; two shots of whiskey and a beer would undoubtedly put him down for the night. 

“Don’t worry, one of those is for me,” Derek reassured him with a pat. Then he leaned in close, nuzzling Luke’s neck like he was teasing him before he whispered, “You don’t have to drink them but you can’t stand around in a club drinking goddamn water. Just follow my lead and try not to blow it; I’m pretty sure we can post up in an alcove and keep an eye on the door.” 

Luke tried to make himself relax once Derek leaned back and handed him his shot. He was definitely feeling the nerves of being undercover now that more people were flooding into the cramped, smoky bar. 

Maybe a shot will help with that. Then I can nurse that beer for the rest of the night. 

“Cheers, sweetheart,” Derek said with a winning smile as he raised his shot to clink against Luke’s. 

“Yeah… cheers,” Luke replied with a grimace. 

Both men knocked back their shots and slammed the glasses to the notched old bartop as they swallowed the hot liquor down. Luke was still trying not to gag when he felt Derek’s hand grip and his wrist and squeeze. 

“Come on, baby, we can find somewhere a little more private I think,” Derek said loud enough for the people around them to hear. Luke blushed but he fixed a rakish grin to his face, grabbed his beer and followed the leather-clad man holding his hand through the growing crowd. No one paid them any extra attention, aside from Fred who called after them, “Clean up after you’re done!”

Derek led him up a short spiral staircase to what Luke could only classify as a bona fide alcove with an excellent bird’s-eye view of the door, dance floor and bar. 

“Told you,” Derek said with a sigh as he settled into a loveseat tucked away from the pool tables. “Perfect spot to keep watch for a few hours. Pop a squat, I won’t bite.” Again with the fluttering eyelashes, those wiggling eyebrows suggesting that he might bite later . 

Luke sat down next to him despite the tight quarters, trying to keep his body from touching Derek’s. 

“Ah, come on, man… you have to remember your role. You’re gonna have to get a little cozier with me than that, everyone here knows what I do. If you keep lookin’ like you’re about to pass out from fear they’ll figure something’s up,” Derek said as he slid his arm around Luke’s waist and pulled the stiff beat cop closer. Luke relaxed just a little bit, his heart racing at the proximity. 

He knew the guy was right. He would probably have to make out with him at some point just to keep up the facade while they staged this underground stakeout. 

Luke took another swig of his beer and finally slid his free hand out to grip Derek’s leather-covered thigh. 

“That’s it, brother. You’ll get the hang of it. Aight, now, I can tell the regulars apart from the Johns so I’ll give you a quick rundown….” 

…

Spencer Reid had never seen so many pieces of silverware in his entire life. 

At least he could stare at the little bits of cutlery instead of the men he was sitting across from at this overblown restaurant touting three Michelin stars on a plaque outside the door. Because if he had to make eye contact with Jason Gideon or his son Stephen, he might actually throw up. 

For the last four minutes of his life, he could not believe the stars had become so misaligned as to connect his former life with his present circumstances in such a cruel twist of almost Grecian-level tragic fate. 

He never thought he would see them again. 

Thankfully, neither Jason nor Stephen Gideon had let on to Aaron Hotchner that anything was amiss. They made eye contact with him briefly, exchanged a quiet word at their approach to the table and then it was as if they had never seen him before at all. 

Spencer was able to stand there silently while Hotchner introduced him politely to the older man and his son as his ‘business associate’. 

The only indication that Jason Gideon recognized him was a slight purse of his lips when Hotch didn’t mention his last name, referring to him as “Spencer” only. Stephen was less suave but he always took point from his father, in how to act out difficult social situations, even now, apparently. 

He bit his tongue visibly while Spencer pretended to make quite an ordeal of sitting down with them at the table. 

Now he was stuck there, staring at his plate. He let Hotch order for him, barely speaking or looking up at all while he tried to figure out how he could be a sex worker doing his job well and also face two people from his far more innocent past. The panic of that conundrum was just setting in when he was confronted by the fact that he was expected to eat. 

The white-coated waiter had just set down a platter of some gelatinous mush spread on toast tips and dusted with mysterious greens. 

Spencer felt his already roiling stomach curl up and flee the scene. 

What the FUCK is that?! I can’t. I can’t. I am going to vomit. Jason and Stephen are here. This isn’t a nightmare, this is real--how fucking small is this world?!  

He stood abruptly, covering his plate with his napkin and his mouth with his hand. Hotch stood up too, looking startled. 

Gideon just narrowed his eyes at him while Stephen scowled darkly. Spencer barely caught their expressions before he tried to focus on his client’s oblivious concern. At least Hotchner hadn’t picked up on the fact that his dinner guests and his hired hooker were already well-acquainted. 

“Ah, sorry… could you just… excuse me?” 

Hotch touched his shoulder, peering at him intently.  

“Are you alright, Spencer?” 

Spencer smiled and nodded against his hand, barely stifling the urge to vomit from both nerves and disgust. And shock--he still couldn’t believe he was sitting at the table with his old benefactor and the first person he ever fell in love with when he still believed in falling in love. 

“Fine, um, I;m fine-- I just, need to use the toilet--restroom--Men’s room--um, where--”

“Up the stairs and to the left,” Jason Gideon supplied evenly, tucking into his calves liver puree and caviar without lowering his gaze from Spencer’s awkward scene. 

Spencer’s face lost what little color it still held but he nodded and smiled at the man he once thought of as a father figure. 

“Thank you.”

He made it up the stairs without tripping. Seeing as he was wearing heels designed for his male feet for once, it was at once easy and unnatural. 

A waiter opened the door for him. He still had a hand pressed to his mouth but he nodded his thanks and charged inside the men’s restroom, straight to the only stall with a door. He passed yet another attendant on his one-way journey to purge, waving away the offer of help the man was clearly offering him when he slammed the stall door closed. 

All he wanted to be was alone for a few moments to process things. And that meant he wanted to get everything out right now, ahead of this hours long meal he’d have to sit through and pretend he was fine with if he wanted to keep up his facade. 

I’m doing a job. I’m here for Hotchner; I like him; he’s going to pay me enough to get the hell out of this situation. 

Gideon might have bailed me out from going to jail but he never even checked in with me after it was all over… he said he understood but did he? 

Would I be here at all if he hadn’t given up on me? 

Probably. I guess it’s still all my fault.

Stephen looked like he wanted to wipe the floor with my face the second I saw him. I guess I did kind of ghost him before everything went to hell… 

FUCK… Of COURSE Hotchner is doing business with them. They own half the San Diego port frontage! Not to mention their US Government connections… Why did I have to find the ONE man in all of LA who could connect me to them again….

The attendant he ignored was now knocking at the door of the stall while Spencer quietly threw up over and over, carefully aiming it all straight down the toilet with each courtesy flush. 

“Sir? Are you alright? Do you need me to call an ambulance?” 

Spencer felt a weird impulse to start laughing between his frantic yet measured heaves. 

“N-No. God-- retch-- Do NOT call an ambulance.”

He managed to stand up straight and grab some toilet paper, dabbing at the flecks of bile he could feel on his lips, trying to clear the stars from his eyes. 

He took several deep breaths in and out. Now was not the time to lose it. He had just given Aaron Hotchner head in the back of his limousine; he was guaranteed a huge payout at the end of all of this, if he could just make it through this hurdle. 

Jason and Stephen abandoned me. They assumed I was a good for nothing drug dealer, cheating my way through college… and I guess they may have been right at the time? I only did that because I felt trapped by it all. They were part of that, with their absurd expectations, the timeline they wanted me to abide by… Stephen with his ‘perfect boyfriend’ standards, Jason with his ‘Boy Genius’ milestones already set in stone… 

But maybe I can prove them wrong by being strong. 

They don’t have to know I’m a prostitute. 

I doubt Aaron will tell them that. 

Spencer almost wished he could come out and tell them to their faces what their overblown pressure had driven him to become. 

Instead of succumbing to that particularly vindictive impulse, he pushed the door open to the bathroom stall, surprising the worried attendant. 

“Do you have any breath mints?” he asked with a sniff, already at the sink to wash his hands and splash water on his red face. “And… um, foundation or… something like that? I’m a little bl-blotchy.”

The attendant took a breath and offered him a tin full of altoids along with a moist toilette and a tube of beige concealer. 

“Of course, Sir.” 

Spencer chewed the sharp mint, wiped the tears from his face and dabbed a bit of the concealer to the heavy purple bags beneath his eyes. He was grateful he hadn’t put on his customary mascara to do this job. It would be all over his face by now. Morgan kept telling him to get the waterproof stuff but he couldn’t see the point… he never cried from blowjobs…. 

I’ve never had to face my past like this while on the job. 

The man behind him stood looking away politely. Spencer turned around, forcing himself to smile when he touched his arm lightly, pressing the tube of concealer back into his hand. 

“Thank you.” 

…

“--there is no compromise here, Hotchner. You want to take what I’ve built and tear it up into little tiny pieces for profit. Admit it--you’re a vulture.”

Jason Gideon could not keep his disgust from his tone. 

Ever since he realized the man was taking advantage of Spencer Reid-- his Spencer Reid, turning up after years of being lost--he couldn’t see any good in what the hotshot ‘business mogul’ might have to offer. 

Hotchner bristled at the insult. 

“I’m merely stating the obvious, Jason. Your company is as good as defunct. You’ve been grasping for straws that aren’t there for years. My plan is the only way forward. Without funding, you’re dead in the water. You can be a part of that now or you can wait until you’ve mortgaged every last thing you own, be my guest--there is no other way out.”

Spencer had been part of the table for the last thirty minutes. His reentry after the bathroom incident was quiet and no one mentioned how long he’d been gone, but he certainly sensed the tension when he rejoined the group. 

Now that tension had built up to this point of business turned toxic.

Gideon was seething. Stephen was clearly so furious he could no longer pay any mind to the crab legs on his plate. 

“Dad--I think we’re done here. This man assumes he can buy his way to anywhere he wants--clearly he’s bought his way into Spencer’s life. Good luck with that, by the way,” he sneered, throwing his napkin to the table as he stood up. 

Spencer looked after him desperately, silently begging him to stick around and talk this through while he mumbled weakly, “What? Um--wait, uh--what do you mean?” Stephen was gone before he got two words out, already stalking through the busy restaurant to the exit. 

Jason stood up as well, carefully folding his napkin while Hotchner sat back in his chair stoically. 

“We are done here, Hotchner. My son is a pretty good judge of character--even when I’m ready to give second chances. Feel free to be the cannibal you are; we’re going to fight back.”

Gideon left quietly with the sound of Frank Sinatra playing him out. 

Spencer sat frozen at the table staring after them. He was ready to get up and hitch his way back home to Hollywood Boulevard just in time to make the midnight rush with Morgan. 

This was a massive failure. 

He was supposed to be Hotchner’s hired help. The thing that got him through these social endeavors so intricately linked to the multi-billion-dollar business he ran. 

He wasn’t supposed to know the men his employer was trying to swindle and take down. 

He stayed very still and waited to be fired. 

Hotchner stayed just as still, staring down the hall at the place Gideon disappeared from sight, his chin resting against his hand, his eyes far away. 

Spencer finally just got tired of the waiting. He blew out a breath and set his napkin on the table like everyone seemed to do when they were ‘done’ in formal settings. It hurt his heart for some reason but he felt like it was probably better to leave now than to wait and be dismissed later.

“I guess I should just go.”

Hotch finally stirred from his intense contemplation, looking up at Spencer in vague surprise as if he had forgotten he was sitting there next to him at the table. 

“What? Why? Where do you have to go?”

Spencer huffed and shrugged at the oblivious-looking man. 

“I… well, I just assumed you wouldn’t want me to stay. After that.”

Hotchner cleared his throat and leaned forward, smiling like he was tickled by some sort of inside joke. 

“Are you put off by them leaving? That’s just how business works, Spencer. It’s nothing to get upset over.” 

Spencer’s mouth fell open just enough to make him look incredulous. Hotch laughed again, standing up with a nonchalant stretch. He reached down to take Spencer’s hand and pull him up. 

“Come on. Anderson’s waiting to take us back to the hotel. We can talk more about this there.”

…

Spencer spent the entire limo ride back to the Langley Hotel unable to look away from the constant pulsing lights of LA. He’d seen them so many times before but tonight, they felt like phantoms in a dream. 

The ride up the elevator looked so different from his first time ascending upward. The attendant was new. Cory must finally have the night off.  

He couldn’t joke about his slutty outfit because he was wearing a tasteful, perfectly tailored suit that cost more than four months rent. 

It almost made him feel uncomfortable to be so in place for once. No one could look at him and know he was being paid for his time. His body wasn’t simply an object, tonight, even though it objectively was. 

He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the money on offer, the money that made him fit in.

Right? God… how is this any different than college? Gideon only ever bankrolled me when he thought he could control me…. And I wasn’t even sucking his dick. It doesn’t count that I was sucking Stephen’s when they caught me. 

His brain was on overdrive and yet, he could hardly think about anything. Everything that had happened back at Caltech still felt like a bad nightmare he hadn’t quite woken up from. Seeing them again just reminded him that he had not dreamed it all up, no matter how much he wished he had. 

Aaron Hotchner didn’t make it easy to compartmentalize. 

He didn’t force himself on him on the ride, even when Spencer expected to give another blowjob. 

He didn’t even speak to him. 

He barely touched him, just barely grazing his thigh with his hand while they both stared out through their respective windows, watching the buildings and people pass by. 

Spencer was so confused by it all he didn’t have any kind of game plan when they arrived back at the penthouse, hand-in-hand after a solid half hour of silence ever since leaving the restaurant. 

He knew he should probably tell his employer about the conflict between himself and the men whose Company Hotchner was trying to absorb and rip apart. 

He knew he should probably tell him everything about his sordid past but… it was just so nice to continue this facade of mostly complete oblivion. 

Spencer wanted to be the princess in a story of dreams that come true, for once. And he felt like that might be happening with this man, whether or not he was just the ‘hired help’. 

The penthouse was silent when the door fell shut behind them with a soft click.

Hotchner dropped his hand and wandered off to the desk full of files and papers. 

“You should go on to bed, I’ll be there shortly.”

Spencer didn’t need to be told twice. There was no mention of ‘talking’ about the dinner but he didn’t feel up for that anyway. 

They were not in a relationship that extended beyond a spoken transactional arrangement. A gentleman’s agreement, that was all they had together.  

Talking might happen at some point but… not tonight. Spencer was more than okay with that. 

He ducked off toward the bedroom, thankful for the reprieve, still wondering what had come over him when he should have just left the second he saw Jason Gideon’s face at the table. This recklessness wasn’t like him at all, at least not when he was sober. He had no intentions of breaking his sobriety any time soon, so… here he was. Sticking it out. 

He made quick work of stripping out of his fancy suit, hanging it up carefully in the bathroom, starting the shower, his mind whirring two hundreds miles an hour all the while. 

He knew he should probably be home with Derek, not here trying to play out a fantasy for this rich millionaire with ties to the people he never wanted to see again. 

He bathed quickly anyway, paying extra attention to his nethers before he stood in front of the foggy mirror brushing his teeth and flossing twice. 

Unsurprisingly, he made it to bed before his sleep-oblivious ‘Boss’ did. 

He could hear the man talking on the phone from the living room of the penthouse suite when he climbed into the king sized bed and stretched out, naked and ready. 

Spencer lay there tingling with nerves for a few minutes, honed in on the various tones of Hotchner’s incomprehensible words as they lilted up and down, growing louder and then softer, firm and then angry…. Back to stern. Then, silence. 

It was like some sort of strange lullaby. 

He was feeling quite sleepy when he remembered he should probably call Derek to check in. Seeing as his ‘Boss’ was in no mood to rush the nightly proceedings of their arrangement, he checked the clock. 

3:39 AM. Wow. Where does the time go? I must have showered for an hour… I guess it’s better than the five minutes I usually get…. God, it’s so good. I could deal with this turmoil forever if it meant one-hour showers….

Rolling over with a luxurious sigh, Spencer grabbed at the bedside phone and dialed the number for his apartment. 

He expected to get the voicemail. Derek was never home this early. 

Instead of their silly recorded answering machine message, he was greeted with a very irate, “What the fuck do you want?”

Spencer blinked at how pissed Morgan sounded. 

“Well, a hello would be a nice start.”

“Shit--Reid--fuck, man, um, can you call back?”

Spencer shook his head into his feather pillow. 

“Nuh-uh. What’s going on? Did you and the Cop go undercover? I mean, I’m honestly shocked to hear you pick up the phone, I figured you’d be in lockdown calling me for a bailout by now.”

He heard Morgan grunt and then someone else’s voice sounded from the background, worried and high-pitched and completely unfamiliar. 

Spencer woke up a little when he caught that. 

“Derek… who’s there with you?” 

Silence. 

“Oh my GOD. No, Der, what the--”

  “Shut up, Spence--it’s--we--I mean damn, what was I supposed to do? We got some good intel, we stayed as long as we could without it looking suspicious… he’s here, yeah, so what?”

Spencer didn’t know whether to feel happy or terrified for his best friend. On the one hand, he was branching out and maybe he had found someone who could be good for him. 

On the other hand, he was apparently fucking a cop whose literal job it was to lock guys like them up for illegal solicitation. 

And to top it all off, they were smack in the middle of what was most likely a serial killer’s hunting grounds trying to sniff the motherfucker out. 

Spencer did not know what kind of advice to instill but he didn’t have a chance. Morgan was already whispering to him threateningly. 

“You just keep this shit to yourself, Reid. Everything about it, kay? You stay safe with your ‘perfect gentleman’ and I’ll work the scene with Lu--, ah, Alvez, to figure out who might be killin’ our girls out here. Got it?”

“Mhmm. Got it, Der-Morgan,” he quipped after he heard this Lu-Alvez guy frantically whispering in the background. He hated to joke when there was a serial killer on the loose but… he couldn’t help it. 

“Remember to use a condom, cops tend to lie.”

He hung up abruptly, just in time to see Hotchner closing the bedroom door. Spencer heard Derek’s irate curses just as the line went dead and he set the phone in the cradle on the table. 

Hotch loosened his tie and pulled it off, his shirt buttons falling open one by one as he surveyed the naked young man sprawled out across the silk sheets of his penthouse suite king bed. 

“Who were you talking to?” 

Spencer spread his long legs wide, slowly bucking his hips up in an inviting come-hither movement. 

“No one important.”