(no subject)
Title: Unspoken
Author: Becky_H
Characters/Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/John Blackwolf.
Rating: NC-17 (FRAO)
Word Count: 2,000
Spoilers: Nameless, Faceless and 100.
Beta: Miss_Zedem
Summary: Whatever Hotch needs, it isn't to talk about it.
____________________________________________________
It is a great thing to know the season for speech and the season for silence. --Seneca.
____________________________________________________
When Blackwolf calls and tells Hotch that he’s going to be giving a lecture at George Washington University, the timing is lousy. Hotch is barely back at work and in charge. Trying to balance being a single parent and Unit Chief isn’t coming easily, if it’s coming at all.
He politely declines the invitation and wishes Blackwolf luck.
He has no intention of going. When he’s not at work Jack needs him to be home, not catching up with old friends who happen to be in town.
It’s only after he hangs up that Hotch realizes Blackwolf hadn’t mentioned Haley’s death. At a time when every conversation he has seems to start with someone saying ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, it’s a notable omission. Thinking back Hotch realizes that though he heard from Blackwolf regularly in the period that Haley and Jack were in witness protection, he never mentioned Foyet’s attack.
Maybe he just doesn’t keep up with national news.
Unlikely as that is, it makes Hotch’s already expressed regret at not being able to go more than good manners. He’s still not going, but now he wishes that he could.
He’s really tired of hearing ‘I’m sorry’ from people who don’t know him, never knew Haley, and are exactly as sorry as they think they have to be.
____________________________________________________
“You should go.”
It’s late, Jack’s already in bed. Hotch is sitting at the bar with a cup of coffee and Jess is leaning back against the counter with her’s. They’ve been chatting for a few minutes, just unwinding in the period between his return home and her departure.
His mention of the lecture was about why he didn’t need her to watch Jack rather than a request for her to. He wasn’t looking for permission - at least consciously.
He takes a drink of coffee, cautious of the heat. “I should stay home with Jack.”
“All you’ve done since... the funeral is go to work and stay home with Jack. You’re allowed to have a life.” Her voice softens and goes a bit unsteady around ‘the funeral’, but she’s sticking to her guns.
“I promised I’d spend the rest of my life making it up to her. Taking care of Jack is the only way I can do that.” Somewhere way back in the darkest depths mind, Hotch wonders if maybe this is more about his ego than Haley.
Jess puts her cup on the counter and pins Hotch with a look so reminiscent of Haley it’s heartbreaking. “Then make it up to her by doing what she’d want, instead of using your son to punish yourself. It’s one day.”
Hotch knows, or thinks he knows, what Haley would have wanted, just like he knows, or thinks he knows, what he’s doing. It’s not using Jack to punish himself, but even the perception is enough to shake him; he loves his son. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think about it.” She empties her coffee down the sink and rinses the cup. “Just do it. I’ll take Jack to my place. He can stay over and play with the dogs. Give you some breathing room.”
He stands when she pulls on her jacket and walks her to the door. “I don’t need breathing room.”
Jess snags her purse from the back of the sofa, and puts it over her shoulder. “Yeah, you do, Aaron. I’ll bring him back after breakfast.”
____________________________________________________
Blackwolf doesn’t answer when Hotch calls, so he leaves a voicemail letting the other man know he’ll be there. It’s short and to the point -professional.
At the college he finds the right room and a group of students waiting. He walks in with them, then peels away to sit in the back. Once Blackwolf’s behind the podium he spots Hotch and acknowledges his presence with a nod.
The lecture itself is decent. The subject matter’s interesting enough to hold his attention, and Blackwolf’s a heck of an engaging speaker. Hotch only feels a little guilty for letting himself be talked into coming.
He stays in his seat while Blackwolf talks to lingering students. As the last trails out of the lecture hall, Hotch stands up. They meet between the stage and the door, and shake hands.
The hand-shake is firm without trying to prove anything, and lasts a couple of seconds longer than it needs to. Just long enough for Blackwolf to say, “I’m glad you changed your mind.”
“I wasn’t sure you got my message.”
As soon as the handshake breaks, they head for the door. Blackwolf gets to there just a second before Hotch and holds it open for him. “I get many of your messages. Some I don’t think you realize you’re sending.”
Hotch ducks past the other man and holds the door from the outside. “You still sound like a fortune cookie.”
“And you’re still packing heat. Let’s take a walk.”
____________________________________________________
It’s a nice day -sunny, blue skies with puffy white clouds being pushed by a light breeze that’s pleasant instead of annoying.
The campus is big enough that no one looks twice at two men walking, shoulder to shoulder, in silence. It’s quiet enough, in the middle of the day and most students and professors in classes, to be relatively private. D.C. is right outside the gates -traffic, crime, crowds and all- but the college grounds have enough green space to make it easy to forget, or at least ignore, the city.
It’s a compromise, Hotch realizes, a sort of oasis between his world and Blackwolf’s, and he’s being met more than half-way. With that thought comes the absolute certainty that Blackwolf reads the national news.
He stops walking under a tree, beside an engraved marker that proudly proclaims this was the location George Washington first took command of the American army. “Why haven’t you asked about Foyet?”
Blackwolf stops when he does. “Are you ready to talk?”
Hotch squints slightly against the sunlight to be able to see Blackwolf’s face. “No.” There’s no other answer he can give; it’s the truth.
“Then don’t.”
The ease and simplicity of Blackwolf’s answer loosens something in Hotch’s chest that has been tight so long that he only realizes it was there when, for the first time in what feels like forever, just breathing doesn’t hurt.
He realizes that Blackwolf’s already walking again, and a few steps ahead. He walks away from the marker and catches up.
They keep walking.
____________________________________________________
Blackwolf seems as disinclined as Hotch to fill the empty spaces between words.
Whatever reason lies behind Blackwolf's willingness to allow silence to reign, Hotch is grateful for it. The room to appreciate a beautiful day, and the unspoken and unshakable offer of support and friendship, quiets the background noise in his head. He stops trying to predict the future and atone for the past.
He just takes a walk. Lets the breeze ruffle his hair, the sun warm his shoulders, and Blackwolf’s steady presence keep him grounded in the here and now. For anyone else it would be simple. For Hotch it’s a miracle. As he stops choking on guilt and grief his heart slows, his shoulders drop, and his mind clears.
There’s no single moment of realization, just a gradually dawning sense of inevitability as puzzle pieces slowly come together to form a picture that’s clear in shape and color, if not in detail.
When Blackwolf asks if he’s ready to go, Hotch doesn’t ask where.
He knows exactly where this is going -a mid-range hotel room, somewhere within a 4 or 5 block radius of the college campus, with a client base composed largely of college athletes, parents, and guest lecturers.
All he needs is the name of the hotel.
____________________________________________________
The first hard thrust makes Hotch curse and his nails dig into Blackwolf’s back. His entire body tries to curl upward in reaction and his forehead ends up pressed against Blackwolf’s shoulder. There’s no rhythm yet, and that thrust isn’t the start of one. Just isolated, staccato motion that doesn’t follow through, but doesn’t leave room to breathe, either.
“I thought you said you weren’t ready.” Blackwolf stays exactly where he is, buried so deep that Hotch is convinced the reason he can’t breathe is because Blackwolf’s cock is taking up the space his lungs would need to expand.
There’s a lag before he loosens up enough to accept the weight on top of him, the intimacy of someone inside him, and his body and mind to stop rebelling enough to let him reply. “Who’s talking?”
“You are. You should learn to listen to yourself.”
Hotch wants to ask what the hell he’s supposedly saying, but he doesn’t get a chance.
Blackwolf answers the question before it’s more than a quizzical look. “Right now? Fuck me.”
There is something in the juxtaposition of Blackwolf’s exceedingly civil tone and the vulgarity of what he’s saying that goes straight to Hotch’s cock and makes him groan. It also makes him aware that he... wants to be fucked. “So what are you waiting on?”
“That.” Blackwolf doesn’t give Hotch the opportunity to question what ‘that’ is, finally stops being enigmatic, and moves.
It’s driving, demanding, more depth than speed, but as soon as there’s any sort of rhythm Hotch grabs hold of it and lets go of control.
He hasn’t been in bed with a man in twenty years, or fucked in twenty five. He’s going to be sore for a week Blackwolf’s hair is everywhere, including Hotch’s eyes and mouth. There’s nothing gentle or sweet happening here. They aren’t making love. They’re fucking, and it’s brutal.
That doesn’t mean it’s not healing.
Every thrust, bite, bruise, scratch wakes him up, focuses him and makes him fight harder. He’s not just struggling to come, he’s clawing his way out of Haley’s grave and back to life. He’s aware of every heartbeat, every breath, every point of contact between them. It hurts, in a profoundly physical way that terrifies him.
He scratches at Blackwolf’s back until his hands are caught and pushed back to the bed and held there, his fingers woven through Blackwolf’s, palm against palm. Somehow, it’s more intimate than anything else they’re doing here. He closes his eyes, instinctively trying to hold something -anything- back.
It doesn’t work. Instead of hiding, he gives himself away. The angle changes so Blackwolf’s cock is hitting his prostate with every thrust, and depth gives way to speed.
It’s inescapable, unavoidable and completely inevitable. Deciding at the last second that orgasm is a complete loss of control, and he’s not sure he’s ready for that, is irrelevant. He’s there before the thought’s finished forming.
He snaps his head to the side, bites Blackwolf’s arm with enough desperation to break skin and taste blood, and comes.
____________________________________________________
They clean up and get dressed in the silence that’s dominated the day.
It isn’t until Hotch is strapping his ankle holster back into place that Blackwolf asks the question Hotch has been waiting for. “How are you feeling?”
Guilty. Sore. Relieved. Grateful. Vulnerable. Alive. The possibilities are endless. Hotch doesn’t know how to answer, but he’s not going to lie about it. Lying now would just be worse than insulting. It would be cowardly, and cheap.
So, he says nothing for the moment. He stands up and twitches his pants into place so the gun’s hidden, and steps across to retrieve his tie from where he left it, coiled neatly on top of the dresser. He has the tie back on, knotted in place, before he realizes how simple the fundamental truth really is. “Better.”
Blackwolf smiles in a way that makes Hotch wonder if his mind’s being read again, and says, “Good.”
Hotch shrugs into his jacket, and finds his keys without another word from either of them. It’s not uncomfortable or awkward, it’s just quiet. He’s on his way out the door when Blackwolf stops him. “Hotchner.”
He turns back, too exhausted for coherence, but curious. “Hm?”
“Next time someone tells you to ‘talk about it’. Tell them you’re speaking loud and clear. They just need to learn how to listen.” It’s more words than he’s strung together all day.
“All right, Confucius.” Hotch smiles, very faintly opens the door and steps out. Just before he pulls the door closed behind himself, he adds a very soft, “Thank you.”
He doubts it’s loud enough to carry back inside the room. He knows it doesn’t matter. Blackwolf heard him.
Author: Becky_H
Characters/Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/John Blackwolf.
Rating: NC-17 (FRAO)
Word Count: 2,000
Spoilers: Nameless, Faceless and 100.
Beta: Miss_Zedem
Summary: Whatever Hotch needs, it isn't to talk about it.
____________________________________________________
It is a great thing to know the season for speech and the season for silence. --Seneca.
____________________________________________________
When Blackwolf calls and tells Hotch that he’s going to be giving a lecture at George Washington University, the timing is lousy. Hotch is barely back at work and in charge. Trying to balance being a single parent and Unit Chief isn’t coming easily, if it’s coming at all.
He politely declines the invitation and wishes Blackwolf luck.
He has no intention of going. When he’s not at work Jack needs him to be home, not catching up with old friends who happen to be in town.
It’s only after he hangs up that Hotch realizes Blackwolf hadn’t mentioned Haley’s death. At a time when every conversation he has seems to start with someone saying ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, it’s a notable omission. Thinking back Hotch realizes that though he heard from Blackwolf regularly in the period that Haley and Jack were in witness protection, he never mentioned Foyet’s attack.
Maybe he just doesn’t keep up with national news.
Unlikely as that is, it makes Hotch’s already expressed regret at not being able to go more than good manners. He’s still not going, but now he wishes that he could.
He’s really tired of hearing ‘I’m sorry’ from people who don’t know him, never knew Haley, and are exactly as sorry as they think they have to be.
____________________________________________________
“You should go.”
It’s late, Jack’s already in bed. Hotch is sitting at the bar with a cup of coffee and Jess is leaning back against the counter with her’s. They’ve been chatting for a few minutes, just unwinding in the period between his return home and her departure.
His mention of the lecture was about why he didn’t need her to watch Jack rather than a request for her to. He wasn’t looking for permission - at least consciously.
He takes a drink of coffee, cautious of the heat. “I should stay home with Jack.”
“All you’ve done since... the funeral is go to work and stay home with Jack. You’re allowed to have a life.” Her voice softens and goes a bit unsteady around ‘the funeral’, but she’s sticking to her guns.
“I promised I’d spend the rest of my life making it up to her. Taking care of Jack is the only way I can do that.” Somewhere way back in the darkest depths mind, Hotch wonders if maybe this is more about his ego than Haley.
Jess puts her cup on the counter and pins Hotch with a look so reminiscent of Haley it’s heartbreaking. “Then make it up to her by doing what she’d want, instead of using your son to punish yourself. It’s one day.”
Hotch knows, or thinks he knows, what Haley would have wanted, just like he knows, or thinks he knows, what he’s doing. It’s not using Jack to punish himself, but even the perception is enough to shake him; he loves his son. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think about it.” She empties her coffee down the sink and rinses the cup. “Just do it. I’ll take Jack to my place. He can stay over and play with the dogs. Give you some breathing room.”
He stands when she pulls on her jacket and walks her to the door. “I don’t need breathing room.”
Jess snags her purse from the back of the sofa, and puts it over her shoulder. “Yeah, you do, Aaron. I’ll bring him back after breakfast.”
____________________________________________________
Blackwolf doesn’t answer when Hotch calls, so he leaves a voicemail letting the other man know he’ll be there. It’s short and to the point -professional.
At the college he finds the right room and a group of students waiting. He walks in with them, then peels away to sit in the back. Once Blackwolf’s behind the podium he spots Hotch and acknowledges his presence with a nod.
The lecture itself is decent. The subject matter’s interesting enough to hold his attention, and Blackwolf’s a heck of an engaging speaker. Hotch only feels a little guilty for letting himself be talked into coming.
He stays in his seat while Blackwolf talks to lingering students. As the last trails out of the lecture hall, Hotch stands up. They meet between the stage and the door, and shake hands.
The hand-shake is firm without trying to prove anything, and lasts a couple of seconds longer than it needs to. Just long enough for Blackwolf to say, “I’m glad you changed your mind.”
“I wasn’t sure you got my message.”
As soon as the handshake breaks, they head for the door. Blackwolf gets to there just a second before Hotch and holds it open for him. “I get many of your messages. Some I don’t think you realize you’re sending.”
Hotch ducks past the other man and holds the door from the outside. “You still sound like a fortune cookie.”
“And you’re still packing heat. Let’s take a walk.”
____________________________________________________
It’s a nice day -sunny, blue skies with puffy white clouds being pushed by a light breeze that’s pleasant instead of annoying.
The campus is big enough that no one looks twice at two men walking, shoulder to shoulder, in silence. It’s quiet enough, in the middle of the day and most students and professors in classes, to be relatively private. D.C. is right outside the gates -traffic, crime, crowds and all- but the college grounds have enough green space to make it easy to forget, or at least ignore, the city.
It’s a compromise, Hotch realizes, a sort of oasis between his world and Blackwolf’s, and he’s being met more than half-way. With that thought comes the absolute certainty that Blackwolf reads the national news.
He stops walking under a tree, beside an engraved marker that proudly proclaims this was the location George Washington first took command of the American army. “Why haven’t you asked about Foyet?”
Blackwolf stops when he does. “Are you ready to talk?”
Hotch squints slightly against the sunlight to be able to see Blackwolf’s face. “No.” There’s no other answer he can give; it’s the truth.
“Then don’t.”
The ease and simplicity of Blackwolf’s answer loosens something in Hotch’s chest that has been tight so long that he only realizes it was there when, for the first time in what feels like forever, just breathing doesn’t hurt.
He realizes that Blackwolf’s already walking again, and a few steps ahead. He walks away from the marker and catches up.
They keep walking.
____________________________________________________
Blackwolf seems as disinclined as Hotch to fill the empty spaces between words.
Whatever reason lies behind Blackwolf's willingness to allow silence to reign, Hotch is grateful for it. The room to appreciate a beautiful day, and the unspoken and unshakable offer of support and friendship, quiets the background noise in his head. He stops trying to predict the future and atone for the past.
He just takes a walk. Lets the breeze ruffle his hair, the sun warm his shoulders, and Blackwolf’s steady presence keep him grounded in the here and now. For anyone else it would be simple. For Hotch it’s a miracle. As he stops choking on guilt and grief his heart slows, his shoulders drop, and his mind clears.
There’s no single moment of realization, just a gradually dawning sense of inevitability as puzzle pieces slowly come together to form a picture that’s clear in shape and color, if not in detail.
When Blackwolf asks if he’s ready to go, Hotch doesn’t ask where.
He knows exactly where this is going -a mid-range hotel room, somewhere within a 4 or 5 block radius of the college campus, with a client base composed largely of college athletes, parents, and guest lecturers.
All he needs is the name of the hotel.
____________________________________________________
The first hard thrust makes Hotch curse and his nails dig into Blackwolf’s back. His entire body tries to curl upward in reaction and his forehead ends up pressed against Blackwolf’s shoulder. There’s no rhythm yet, and that thrust isn’t the start of one. Just isolated, staccato motion that doesn’t follow through, but doesn’t leave room to breathe, either.
“I thought you said you weren’t ready.” Blackwolf stays exactly where he is, buried so deep that Hotch is convinced the reason he can’t breathe is because Blackwolf’s cock is taking up the space his lungs would need to expand.
There’s a lag before he loosens up enough to accept the weight on top of him, the intimacy of someone inside him, and his body and mind to stop rebelling enough to let him reply. “Who’s talking?”
“You are. You should learn to listen to yourself.”
Hotch wants to ask what the hell he’s supposedly saying, but he doesn’t get a chance.
Blackwolf answers the question before it’s more than a quizzical look. “Right now? Fuck me.”
There is something in the juxtaposition of Blackwolf’s exceedingly civil tone and the vulgarity of what he’s saying that goes straight to Hotch’s cock and makes him groan. It also makes him aware that he... wants to be fucked. “So what are you waiting on?”
“That.” Blackwolf doesn’t give Hotch the opportunity to question what ‘that’ is, finally stops being enigmatic, and moves.
It’s driving, demanding, more depth than speed, but as soon as there’s any sort of rhythm Hotch grabs hold of it and lets go of control.
He hasn’t been in bed with a man in twenty years, or fucked in twenty five. He’s going to be sore for a week Blackwolf’s hair is everywhere, including Hotch’s eyes and mouth. There’s nothing gentle or sweet happening here. They aren’t making love. They’re fucking, and it’s brutal.
That doesn’t mean it’s not healing.
Every thrust, bite, bruise, scratch wakes him up, focuses him and makes him fight harder. He’s not just struggling to come, he’s clawing his way out of Haley’s grave and back to life. He’s aware of every heartbeat, every breath, every point of contact between them. It hurts, in a profoundly physical way that terrifies him.
He scratches at Blackwolf’s back until his hands are caught and pushed back to the bed and held there, his fingers woven through Blackwolf’s, palm against palm. Somehow, it’s more intimate than anything else they’re doing here. He closes his eyes, instinctively trying to hold something -anything- back.
It doesn’t work. Instead of hiding, he gives himself away. The angle changes so Blackwolf’s cock is hitting his prostate with every thrust, and depth gives way to speed.
It’s inescapable, unavoidable and completely inevitable. Deciding at the last second that orgasm is a complete loss of control, and he’s not sure he’s ready for that, is irrelevant. He’s there before the thought’s finished forming.
He snaps his head to the side, bites Blackwolf’s arm with enough desperation to break skin and taste blood, and comes.
____________________________________________________
They clean up and get dressed in the silence that’s dominated the day.
It isn’t until Hotch is strapping his ankle holster back into place that Blackwolf asks the question Hotch has been waiting for. “How are you feeling?”
Guilty. Sore. Relieved. Grateful. Vulnerable. Alive. The possibilities are endless. Hotch doesn’t know how to answer, but he’s not going to lie about it. Lying now would just be worse than insulting. It would be cowardly, and cheap.
So, he says nothing for the moment. He stands up and twitches his pants into place so the gun’s hidden, and steps across to retrieve his tie from where he left it, coiled neatly on top of the dresser. He has the tie back on, knotted in place, before he realizes how simple the fundamental truth really is. “Better.”
Blackwolf smiles in a way that makes Hotch wonder if his mind’s being read again, and says, “Good.”
Hotch shrugs into his jacket, and finds his keys without another word from either of them. It’s not uncomfortable or awkward, it’s just quiet. He’s on his way out the door when Blackwolf stops him. “Hotchner.”
He turns back, too exhausted for coherence, but curious. “Hm?”
“Next time someone tells you to ‘talk about it’. Tell them you’re speaking loud and clear. They just need to learn how to listen.” It’s more words than he’s strung together all day.
“All right, Confucius.” Hotch smiles, very faintly opens the door and steps out. Just before he pulls the door closed behind himself, he adds a very soft, “Thank you.”
He doubts it’s loud enough to carry back inside the room. He knows it doesn’t matter. Blackwolf heard him.