Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hotch was nursing a drink in The Sketchbook as Rossi sat across from him. The man already had two whiskeys in hand, and slid one to Hotch in spite of the one already in his hand, letting the ice clink on the edge of the glass. Hotch sipped his whiskey again, and Rossi raised an eyebrow.

“We waiting for the others?” Rossi asked.

“Yes. Morgan's bringing someone, Spencer? Maybe. He's a poet.” Hotch replied, a look denoting his opinion on the kind of person Morgan brought to these things. Vapid and uninteresting, corporate machines, people geared to market commercially more than represent something. Spencer would be no different, probably Instagram poetry shit.

Elle was the next to arrive, rolling her eyes as she saw Hotch. She had a strawberry cocktail of some kind in her hand, and she sat next to Rossi to sip at it. “You're still coming to these?” She asked, ostensibly polite, as Elle Greenaway always was.

“Yes.” Hotch said. Rossi sighed loudly, and perked up as he saw JJ and Emily holding shots of what was undoubtedly vodka. “You're here!” He said, shuffling up to make space. JJ held up one of the shots in a toast, put one in front of each of them and said, “Let's get pissed!”

They drank obediently, and JJ sat next to Hotch and played footsie with Emily. The two had somehow come to every one of these for the last year together and not realised they were in love. Unfortunately for them, everyone else knew and had placed bets on when they would get together (and so far, everyone was losing because they were still dancing around each other obliviously). 

Garcia sat down, shot of strawberry vodka and some vile cocktail in hand. She downed her shot before speaking, and said, “Hi! Is Morgan bringing someone?”

“Spencer. Reid, I think, a poet.” Emily said.

“Bet Rossi is thrilled.” someone murmured.

“I got nothing against poetry! It's just-”

“An inferior medium?” JJ guessed.

“Money that would be better spent on asking a carnival psychic for lottery numbers?” Emily filled in.

“Not real art?” Elle guessed.

“Too short to show any dedication to the Muses who gave us passion?”

“Don't say any of that in front of Reid, would you?” Rossi sighed. “Just because I said that once or twice-”

“Every day we mention poetry.” Garcia chimed. 

“Once or twice, doesn't mean Reid needs to give a damn!” Rossi said. Clearing his throat, Hotch said, “I'm going up to the bar, anyone want anything?” And, with a list of drink orders written on crinkled paper, he went up and passed it to a bartender.

“Art snob night?” The barman asked with a smile as he set to work. Hotch grinned, and said, “Yeah, but Morgan's bringing a poet, so Rossi's got to dial down the snob.” He said, googling SPENCER REID. The poet's name came up with a photo of a blond with wind-ruffled hair. Hotch clicked on photos, and began to read.

Something is missing in these lines

stolen from your view. You know it's

something in your life, now it's out of tune.

Might you think - it isn't here, question to yourself;

where is this thing you know best?

Is this one poor joke, you think, is it ever coming home

In between these words is nothing of something

is it quite eccentric, or something inexpensive?

Something you prize is gone, it is

never to return.

Hotch raised an eyebrow. Rossi was going to have a field day. They weren't going to be able to hold the man back from eviscerating Spencer Reid. He picked up his whiskey and the tray, thanked the barman, and rested a hand on Rossi's shoulder. “Spencer's young, go easy on him.” He murmured, showing the sculptor the poetry. Hotch wasn't mean, and he had had some bad plays (Space Trains when he was 9 remained unpublished, sadly for people with autism everywhere). However, he hadn't published anything subpar. Rossi glanced at Hotch's phone, skimmed the poem and pressed his lips together. “Hotch, I will really try. I will try my best.” He swore. “What does that even mean?”

“Oh?” Elle asked. “What's stumped the great David Rossi?” 

“Something is missing, by one Spencer Reid.” Hotch said, and watched as Elle picked up her phone to google it. “Oh.” She said softly, combing through results. “Oh, don't, I wouldn't make fun of-”

“It doesn't mean anything.” Rossi said dismissively. Elle opened her mouth to reply, only to be cut off with a, “Greenaway! Spencer, this is Elle Greenaway, performance artist. The mind behind why did they walk home, performance art so good that David Rossi almost didn't sniff at it!” Morgan rattled off. “And one Emily Prentiss, abstract artist and a masterpiece herself! Jennifer Prent- Jareau, of course, most mediocre-selling children's author, Aaron Hotchner, the playwright behind Mattress Mediations, but more importantly, the beloved Space Trains! You've got David Rossi, a sculptor and art snob, and finally, may I bring you, my baby girl, the greatest photographer of our generation, Penelope Garcia!” He introduced. 

“Space Trains?” Rossi asked, raising an eyebrow. Hotch rolled his eyes. “Hi, Spencer. Morgan, you brought me anything?” 

“Hi.” Spencer said, raising a hand in what may have been intended as some form of a wave. “Yes, I brought you your whiskey, alcoholic.” Morgan said, putting a glass bottle in front of him. 

“I just appreciate-” Hotch rose to the bait (for comedic purposes, mostly), tearing his eyes off of the new kid.

“Woah. Yikes.” Elle said. “You're gonna get him and Rossi talking about alcohol, and none of us are rich enough to afford to participate in Rossi talking about wine.”

“Woah, is…”

“His parents owned a diamond mine.” Emily said, without cracking a smile. “He became a sculptor because clay killed his parents, and he knew the only way to waste clay at as much mass as possible was attempting sculpture.”

“There was a shocking amount of truth in that last part.” Rossi said, raising his glass of red to drink it. “Emily really likes story tellers- story telling, that is.”

“And who is Spencer Reid?” Elle asked, raising an eyebrow. “If it's not interesting, you can make something up.” She smiled.

“I'm a poet.” Reid said. 

“Yeah?” JJ said. “Anything we would know?”

“Oh, it's all, like, kind of sad.”

“That's art, baby!” Morgan said, raising his glass of Coke. They clinked and cheers-ed appropriately as Morgan slid next to Hotch and Reid across from him (and next to Rossi). 

“Got anything new in the works?” Morgan asked Hotch. The latter smiled, hiding it behind his whiskey as he sipped. “Nope. I don't have any inspiration. What do you get inspired by?”

“No more stories told through the eyes of lovers? Or aliens?” Morgan asked, smiling. He did, of course, reference Mattress Mediations, the first play Hotch managed to get on a stage and a story of crises averted as a result of women, staged simply with one double mattress. The other reference was to Space Trains, because Morgan was insufferable. “I get inspired by the news, man, current affairs.” 

“And you, Reid?” Hotch asked mildly, taking the time to look at Reid's face.

“Most of my work is at least semi-autobiographical.” Reid said, looking a little surprised at being acknowledged. Hotch nodded. “Fair enough. Well, I usually get inspired by people. Writing plays- ow, JJ.” 

“You're getting snobby!” JJ sing-songed. “I write books about little creatures. You all take art too seriously.”

“The barman agrees, but your target demographic is 5 years old.” Hotch said, an unvoiced laugh upon his lips. “Less discerning, really.”

“Yeah, your 70 year olds were delighted-”

“Scandalised.” Emily smiled, words entirely for Reid's benefit.

“By your play about sex.”

“It was about love, and their anger is art, too.” Hotch said. If his tone had been the same on a woman, someone would have described it as positively dreamy. Reid laughed with the rest of the artists, even as Hotch schooled his face into a pout. Morgan cooed, rubbing his shoulder mockingly and pressing a kiss to the side of his forehead. Reid raised a perfect eyebrow and Hotch shrugged. “Morgan can be clingy.”

“Yeah. It's artistic. The French kiss.” Morgan asserted.

“He stopped doing it to women other than Penelope, though. Still not dating, but…”

“That's my baby girl.” Morgan shrugged unapologetically. “I think I'll be a bachelor for life.” He said melodramatically.

“Drink your tequila.” Hotch said soothingly. Morgan pouted, but took a long swig. “Because alcohol is cheaper than lung cancer, and pipes aren't in vogue.” The street artist said, in a toast. The table repeated it, getting lost towards the end and clearly all murmuring, before laughing. “So, Reid, what poems have you written?”

“What's the one about something being missing about?” Rossi interjected, with a little less tact. Morgan shot a little, you googled him? glance, knowing Rossi didn't pick up poetry written in this century as a rule. Reid looked down, seeming to become smaller, tugging on the edge of his honest-to-god sweater vest. “It's a poem written entirely without the word dad. I was gonna do father, but no A, E, T or R wasn't… I'm sure its possible, but I didn't think it would be good.” Reid said. 

“Oh.” Rossi said. “Yeah, E is a.. yeah, common letter.” He said, and Hotch glanced at Morgan. Elle shot a look that was clearly an I told you so, despite being seemingly engrossed in conversation with Emily, JJ and Garcia. Hotch gave Morgan a wide eyed look, and said, “So how did you meet?”

Like with everyone Morgan had brought. he opened his mouth and said, “It's a bit of a weird one-”

“Grindr.” Reid said.

“That's not true!” Morgan spluttered. “You don't make jokes!”

“It's not a joke! What we have is special, Derek!” Reid said, laughing. Emily gazed over appreciatingly. If she wasn't too sapphic for it, Hotch thought she might fall in love with Reid. As it was, she barked a laugh, and told JJ about it who tipped her head back to laugh. Emily's eyes trailed down to her neck, and Hotch glanced at Morgan to hide his eye roll. Morgan laughed, and the conversation moved on. 

“Reid, cover your ears, I might be nice about you.” Morgan said, turning to Rossi. “His stuff's good, though. It's all very… honest.”

“Thomas Stearns Eliot always said the best poetry is impersonal.” Rossi said, swirling his wine. Morgan raised an eyebrow. “TS Eliot was also a misogynist and racist, but I don't hear you agreeing with those views.”

“Shocked you know who that is.”

“Reid likes poetry.” Morgan shrugged nonchalantly, and Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Does he now? You read TS Eliot for him?”

“Yeah.” Morgan said. “He has an Eliot tattoo - I mean, not quite the size of mine,” Morgan grinned, referencing the dragon winding up his shin and the sleeve of tattoos on his arm, “but it's there.”

“Do I dare disturb the universe?” Rossi guessed. Reid shook his head, pulling the shoulder of his shirt down to reveal a sliver of chest and his bicep, where ink scrawled ‘and indeed there will be time’ in neat black. “Handwriting was my mom's.” He said, truth quiet in the bustle of conversation. Hotch glanced at him, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt to reveal his collarbone. Along it, ‘comfort the disturbed’ was scrawled. The other side would read ‘disturb the comfortable’, but that seemed like too much flesh for art snob night. Rossi flashed his sole tattoo, the head of David on his bicep, and Morgan showed off his sleeve. They all looked politely, as if they hadn't seen it a hundred times. Garcia did not have a tattoo, nor did JJ, but Prentiss showed Keith Haring's Unfinished Painting, mocked up on her arm as the ink appeared to drip. Elle had what, like it's hard? inked on her lower back and butterflies along her collarbone. “Those are cool.” Hotch said drunkly. He would never be caught sober complimenting Elle Greenaway, and vice versa. “Thanks!” She chirped, clearly far too many shots in, and Morgan laughed. “You guys act like you hate each other, and then you're-”

“Finish that sentence and I'll- uh, Reid, tell him I'll, uh, y'know." Elle said.

“That you'll, y'know him?”

“Mmhmmm.” Elle hummed, tangling her hands in his hair. “Have you got a girlfriend?” She asked, and Reid winced, patting her shoulder. “No, but I am gay, so that's not a hardship.” He said. Hotch ignored the part of him that wanted to feel Reid's hair because he was a functioning alcoholic. Reid got brought out of his shell gradually, with Emily ending the night lying across him and JJ as Morgan made sure everyone had a ride home that wasn't quite that pissed.

Someone added Reid to the group chat. Hotch ended the night vomiting in front of a toilet with Morgan slipping aspirin into his shirt pocket. Morgan drove him home, and put the bottle of whiskey in its place and Hotch on the couch.

Hotch got up the next morning, took the aspirin he knew was there (not because he remembered it being placed, but because when he went out with Morgan, it always was) and sat in front of an empty paper titled SCRIPT IDEAS.

The paper remained blank. 

He googled SPENCER REID POETRY, and began to read as the art snobs group chat started texting in earnest.

she only calls me this

privately, and i wonder if

even after "us is over"

neatly with a bow, will she still

call me Spence, as the world

erupts?

Hotch glanced over the words, redefined by Spencer's homosexuality. He wondered who it was about. He googled the words, found the corresponding Genius webpage. There were no annotations. 

ART SNOBS GC!!!

ROSSI: everyone home safe

MORGAN: hotch was

MORGAN: as were reid and i

GREENAWAY: yes for me and em and jj were together

GARCIA: naturally

HOTCH: My head is killing me

HOTCH: I think I'm getting old

GARCIA: [dinosaur GIF]

HOTCH: :(

JJ: home safe

JJ: as is emily, but shes asleep

HOTCH: How do you know?

JJ: [a photo of prentiss sleeping in JJ's bed]

ROSSI: yes thank god finally

MORGAN: so who asked who out? and when?

JJ: wdym

MORGAN: yk, who asked… who out

JJ: ohhh no.

ROSSI: what do you mean no

JJ: ??? she was more drunk so i let her sleep in the bed

JJ: didnt have to pay for 2 ubers then

JJ: …what did you mean finally

MORGAN: gtg

JJ: …guys?

PRENTISS: whats going on

PRENTISS: oh. ew. do they think every wlw will scissor 

JJ: emily! 

Hotch laughed at the screen, turned his attention to his empty paper and slammed his head on the desk. He groaned as his head pounded, and texted Morgan.

HOTCH: How have they not realised they're in love?

HOTCH: Ty for aspirin life saver and dropping me home.

HOTCH: How do I still not have a script

HOTCH: I'm meant to be a playwright why can't I write plays

MORGAN: there there.

MORGAN: welcome. and its okay. you just need a muse.

MORGAN: I'll find you one.

MORGAN: i mean spence only writes about his life it must be interesting

HOTCH: [man crying, placing a gun to his head GIF]

MORGAN: boomer

Hotch groaned, resting his head on the desk again before walking to the kitchen. He picked up the milk, gave it a cursory sniff and poured it into a glass and texted Morgan.

HOTCH: I'm never drinking again

HOTCH: Want to go out for Mexican tonight?

MORGAN: poor thing

MORGAN: the place with great cocktails?

MORGAN: im sure u wont drink again

HOTCH: :*(

MORGAN: but ill be there

MORGAN: dyou want me to bring reid? kids got no artist friends other than me

MORGAN: hes just a bebe artist

HOTCH: How old is he? 5?

MORGAN: 26

HOTCH: A tiny infant. Bring your child to Mexican night, then 

MORGAN: better than prehistoric playwrights who never published Space Trains

HOTCH: I was 9.

HOTCH: Why is space trains the only thing you capitalise?

MORGAN: the only thing worthy of caps

Hotch sighed, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation. Admittedly, he was glad Reid had Morgan. The art world could be exploitative when you did know what was going on, and far more when you didn't. That didn't mean he wasn't a little put out, of course.

ART SNOB GC!!!

GREENAWAY: @jj why didnt you say you had a new book out 💔

JJ: oh, that. 

JJ: lower age than normal, only really appropriate for morgan 🩷 

MORGAN: wow. woOow.

HOTCH: It is admirable you're writing books for prenatal babies. A worthy cause.

MORGAN: it be ur own damn friends

MORGAN: for legal reasons this wasnt my work

MORGAN: [a photo of spray painted soldiers aiming guns at a hospital]

GREENAWAY: that's fantastically done, to whatever artist did it

GREENAWAY: while we're all sharing i have an exhibit coming up, this ones abt forest fires xoxo

GREENAWAY: all invited except hotch 

HOTCH: My calendar was already full of scriptwriting. 

MORGAN: this man is doing 0 writing.

REID: Statistically, scriptwriters get 12 weeks for a first draft. 

HOTCH: Statistically, I'm behind schedule.

JJ: real

ROSSI: why is there real world in my procrastination gc

ROSSI: david so far

ROSSI: [a photo of a half sculpted imitation of Michaelangelo's David]

MORGAN: if you weren't this talented youd be an irredeemable dickhead.

HOTCH: Has anyone else NOT done anything in the past 2 months

PRENTISS: nope

PRENTISS: [a photo of an abstract painting, red with streaks of yellow throughout]

ROSSI: guess the muse (easiest edition ever)

HOTCH: That’s not fair I could've guessed before she sent the picture

MISSION EMILY JAREAU GC

GREENAWAY: this little whore

GREENAWAY: [a photo of a dedications section on JJ’s new book that reads “to Emily, who inspires me every day”]

GREENAWAY: And no none of us got a shoutout

Staring at an empty page, Hotch put down his pen and gave up. He picked up a shirt from his wardrobe, along with some pants and put them on, determined to look good. Then, he set off to the Mexican they were regulars at and slid into their usual seats. 

“Can I have a Woo Woo, but if Morgan asks, tell him it's a mocktail?” Hotch asked, sliding a ten towards the bartender, Cassie. Smiling, she said, “I can try, darlin’, but I would tell that man my social security number if he asked.”

“Worth a try.” Hotch said. Cassie laughed, assembling his cocktail and pouring it beautifully into a glass. “There y'are, doll. You and Morgan tonight?”

“Yeah, well, I think Spence might be joining us today.”

“Spence?” Cassie asked, raking her hair all the way to one side.

“New friend, Morgan found him on the side of a road somewhere. A poet.”

“God, don't tell me he's hot, too.”

“Sorry, Cass.” Hotch said. “Not in the same way as Morgan, he's more…”

“Don't tell me he's a nerd. If that man asks about your cocktail, doll, I'm still tellin’ him my credit card numbers.”

“Yeah.” Hotch agreed. At that moment, Morgan came into the Mexican, Reid under one arm, and Cassie said, “Fuck. Don't tell my boss I swore, alright?”

“Don't tell my Morgan how much rum you put in this.” 

“Deal.” Cassie agreed, turning to Morgan and Reid. “Y'alright, doll? This must be Spence.” 

“Yeah, Spencer Reid, at your service.” Morgan said teasingly. Spencer raised his hand in a wave. “Well aren't you a peach? Cmon, darlin’, we'll get you a drink. Derek, you drivin’ tonight?”

“Well unless I'm staying at yours, baby.” Morgan grinned. “Just a Coke for me, Cass. Thank you so much.”

“Can I have a blue lagoon?” Reid asked, knitting his eyebrows together at the sight of the menu. “Sure, sugar. You like ‘em strong?” She asked. Reid's eyes flickered to the side, where Hotch and Morgan were positioned. “Yeah.” He said, and Cassie grinned. “Coming right up.” 

She slid Morgan's Coke to him, and Spencer's cocktail, and said, “You want food tonight?”

“Cassie, you know I'd die for your chicken fajitas.” Morgan said flirtatiously.

“I know, doll. And the beef burrito for Aaron Hotchner?”

“Please.” Hotch said.

“And the nachos to share?”

“Yes ma'am!” Morgan grinned.

“And, let's have a look at Spencer… a quesadilla?”

“... Yes please?” Reid guessed.

“It's okay, darl, you're gonna love it. Sent that to kitchen, should be ready soon.” Cassie grinned, and went to another patron. Morgan turned to Hotch and said, “So, any luck with the play?”

Hotch began chugging his cocktail. Morgan rolled his eyes. “That's a no. Any poems in the works, Reid?”

“Always something in the works. Usually in the middle of the night, where creativity is proven-”

“Your nachos.” Cassie said, holding the promised good. “Enjoy, sweetheart.”

“Why can she call everyone pet names but when I do it, it's rapey?” Morgan whined.

“She's got loveable southern charms. You have muscles and a catcall-y energy.” Hotch said boredly.

“Loveable? Honey, you flatter me.”

“Only where it's deserved, darling.” Hotch said. Were one to be looking at Reid, his eyes would have widened and his lips pressed together. One was not, of course, looking at Reid, so one did not notice this. Morgan, used to Hotch's light flirting with Cassie and personally having done much worse, didn't flinch.

They shared the nachos, with Morgan continuing to tease Hotch about his writer's block when Space Trains was right there and Reid about his general Reid-iness. With their food came Reid nervously thanking Cassie, and talking about his new poetry book.

“I don't know, I feel like I'm monetizing horrific things that happened to me “

“That's… isn't that what good art is?” Hotch asked. “Good art makes you feel something, and that comes from something deep inside you. Morgan monetizes both criminal acts, and whatever tragedy is in the news. That doesn't make him fraudulent or a bad person, it makes him a good artist.”

“Except JJ, but her art isn't meant to make you anything other than entertained.” Morgan said. “Emily monetizes every bad thing that's ever happened to her in every piece, coz it made her who she is.”

“In love with JJ.” Hotch nodded.

“Stop it, they need to hurry up.”

“Yeah, not because they're both lesbian, for the record, but because they're in love.” Hotch said for Reid's benefit.

“Yes. They seem to gravitate towards each other.” Reid nodded, having a bite of quesadilla. Hotch took a chunk of his burrito as Morgan piled another fajita sky high. “So stupid. So oblivious.” Morgan said. “H, am I driving you home tonight?”

“No, it's fine, I got the bus.”

“Morgan doesn't like buses.” Reid scowled, apparently having tried the same trick that morning. “He thinks pretty things are going to get kidnapped.”

“That's a long way of saying you would both love a lift and will be receiving one.” Morgan rolled his eyes, and Hotch opened his mouth to protest before Morgan reached over and physically closed it. “No arguing.”

“You-”

“Shhhh.” Morgan said, turning to Reid. “You love your quesadilla? Cassie knows what everyone wants. That woman scares me.”

“And you love it.” Cassie reprimanded across the bar. Morgan nodded obediently, “Yes ma'am!” Hotch and Reid teased him until Cassie turned her eager gaze on them. 

They finished their food, paid their bill (exactly a dollar below what it should be) and spilled into the night, Morgan tucking Reid under his shoulder as he fished out his keys. They piled in, Reid sitting in the back (Morgan said it was because Hotch couldn't handle his drink, which was untrue, he was a functioning alcoholic). 

Hotch got home. He sat in front of a blank page and began to write.

Hotch woke up, half his face covered in now-dry ink. He groaned, looking down at the desk he had fallen asleep at, and blinked. 

DISTURBED COMFORT: THE MUSICAL

crime in small town? murder prolly. letters are left at scenes. whodunit? :0 i dont know dont rush me

okay love you night

He groaned at the idea, then reread it. Then, he thought, fuck it, and got his laptop out.

Drunk him was sappy, and the idea was so incredibly generic… but JJ said she wrote art about tiny creatures. And maybe he had been taking it too seriously. He wrote shows that would be performed and the actors would do an infinitely better job than him in making a show feel realistic, so he wrote an outline of the show anyway. He wrote a scene, as well, and figured it could be shit. He wasn't going to finish it, or stage it, but he could get back into writing this way.

He got drunk again, this time on the whiskey Morgan had brought him, and found himself once more at his page. 

Dear Poet, 

two person monologue (i forgot) - two writers desks and just letters exchanged. the gap between them (desks) gets smaller and smaller until theyre touching and then they kiss. all poets lines rhyme, all novelists lines have a flourish (idk ur job) and they take each others over time

Hotch had managed to stagger back to bed that day, apparently, and looked down at the paper on the desk as he stumbled towards it.

“And then they kiss.” He groaned. “Am I in trouble?”

He ripped the page, tossing it in the bin. And then he typed ACT 1. 

Maybe it was time for a proper romance, after all.

MORGAN: got ur idea yet?

HOTCH: Yes. I'm writing a romance.

MORGAN: I'm sure you are, boss man.

MORGAN: is it tall blond and nerdy

HOTCH: I don't appreciate speculation. 

MORGAN: awww ur so cute together

HOTCH: go torture jj and em.

HOTCH: I saw a spray paint mural outside my place. Whoever did it was very talented. 

MORGAN: I'm sure they were.

HOTCH: Does tall blond and nerdy have a boyfriend?

MORGAN: no. not yet. 

MORGAN: tall dark and alcoholic should make a move tho

MORGAN: beyond writing sappy plays, btw

Hotch wrote Act 1 in a single day. It tracked the story of a novelist sending letters every day to a poet, and vice versa.

It started with a scathing letter from the novelist to the poet about what constitutes art, and the poet replied that art was a destination, and the journey and pit stops are where an artist finds their work worth doing. The novelist began to relax and, as the play progressed, they did in fact fall in love. The final part of Act 3 was the poet and novelist discussing how they could hear the curtain call but couldn't bear to be parted. The bows occur around the desks that have remained unmoved, and the novelist and poet keep their hands linked as they bow and take their seats, appearing to engage in engrossing conversation even as the curtain fell.

He sent a draft to Morgan. Morgan said, “Not quite Space Trains,” because Morgan was and always will be a total dick. Morgan also said, “Bit on the nose, innit?” because Morgan is also a good friend.

HOTCH: Thought I'd try something semi-autobiographical.

HOTCH: How do I ask spence out

MORGAN: i dunno man 

MORGAN: i just flex and the gals come running

HOTCH: You're an asshole

Hotch tousled his hair, and began to draft a text to Spencer.

HOTCH: Hi, Spencer. I was wondering if you wanted to come to the theater next week? My friend's play is on, and we're mostly filling seats, but I would like you to come.

HOTCH: No worries if not.

SPENCER: What day is it? I think the experience would be enjoyable.

HOTCH: Thursday.

SPENCER: I'm free that day, it sounds nice.

MORGAN: why did spence just cancel on me?

MORGAN: better be you, cassanova.

Hotch grinned victoriously, and, ignoring that he was already planning a suit, began to write again.

AN EXCERPT OF DEAR POET - ACT 3

POET: And though this started as a critique,

When I was new to art, and meek,

I cannot help but protest as all

the bows are to come, and the curtains must fall

for I do not want this show to end.

I do not want us to end.

NOVELIST: To my poet,

My darling, I feel much the same

but the audience will only remain this tame

for as long as it takes for our show to end.

But all stories continue beyond their conclusion

and we have so little concluded.

Let the curtain fall. Let the stage call.

Let the lights dim, and let the crowds thin.

They cannot keep me from you.

With the entire soul of, your novelist.

[bows, as the POET and NOVELIST remain sat, only standing to bow before engaging in fake conversation as the curtain falls]

Thursday took a decade to roll around, in which Morgan forced him out for drinks twice. Hotch got less drunk these times, but Morgan still insisted on driving him home. Elles's performance art exhibit happened, another of her why did they walk home? and it was another fantastic subversion of the society blaming women for being assaulted. Instead, Elle's piece focused on men who got off of rape charges. This time, the man was well-cast in orange bodypaint. Women in red hats cheered, and Hotch felt a little sick. “Is media literacy dead?” He asked Rossi, who simply nodded. 

Emily found out about JJ's dedication, and said, “That's sweet. She's such a good friend.” Elle testified that she had received a text from Emily going oh my god shes so sweet but ugh i wish we were more. Emily, of course, did nothing further. 

On Thursday, Hotch picked his best suit, and went to pick Spencer up. Spencer slid into Hotch's car (cloudy with a side of expensive), and said, “I see why you don't drive anywhere. This car is pleasing visually.”

“Yeah? Passengers are, too.” He said.

They didn't make it out of the car park.

Reid leaned in to kiss Hotch sweetly, and Hotch let himself feel Reid's curls, and Reid had said, “We have to go,” when it became clear that Hotch enjoyed indulgence. Hotch had laughed and driven them to the theatre, where Reid had stayed pressed against his chest.

HOTCH: mission success.

MORGAN: go write your play cassanova

MORGAN: and credit me 

MORGAN: i found you your muse.

HOTCH:... so about that.

MORGAN: what about that?

HOTCH: Are you free tomorrow?

MORGAN:... aaron hotchner. 

HOTCH: That's not an answer, is it?

HOTCH: You pretending you didn't see the way Reid looks at you?

HOTCH: Come on, darling. Before they make an operation Derek Hotchner-Reid.

MORGAN: alas, i am a weak man.

MORGAN: yes im free tomorrow.

MORGAN: u better bring your a game, cassanova, you havent written a play about me yet.

HOTCH: Ah fuck i havent told spencer about that.

HOTCH: but as if I would give you anything less than my best

HOTCH: I'll pick you up at 7. Chinese okay?

MORGAN: more than.

MORGAN: work me your magic, baby

FOUR YEARS LATER

AN EXCERPT FROM SPACE TRAINS

in dedication to Derek Morgan, who reminds me every day that no dream is unattainable and nothing too awful to hide, in the hopes that ugliness in the world is, too, loveable in the hands of those we call ours.

and in dedication to Spencer Reid, who said, “This is unlikely to perform well.” for always supporting me.

and in dedication to those in the group chat “Operation Emily Jareau”, who remind me every day that you really only have so much time before your friends start scheming behind your back, so to seize the day while you can

and an acknowledgement of enmity to elle greenaway, whose work is inspiring and crucial, but who remains one of my favourite antagonists. Continue fighting the good fight, but also I hope your pillow is warm and your hands.always a shade too dry

and a wish for the most happy marriage to Mrs and Mrs Prentiss-Jareau, who inspire me every day to do things scared, and to whom this work is published as a wedding gift because it was “really all we want”. And an apology for Operation Emily Jareau, because it wasn't very helpful.