#derek morgan kicking down doors to lovers is my favorite trope for real tho

[masterwords]

Rattle of Bones

Summary: Morgan likes to kick in doors, we all know this. Hotch, not very secretly, really likes when he does it. There is no actual plot here, just a lot of them being really fucking pretty and a lot of splintered wood.

Warnings: some (not graphic but definitely emotionally charged ) sexy time, doors kicked in, alcohol, minor injuries, canon-typical violence (minor), mention of Foyet & scars

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 2.8k

Notes: This story is for @there-must-be-a-lock's Fics Against Humanity writing challenge. My chosen cards were: (white) Derek Morgan kicking down a door // (black) _________ to lovers is my favorite trope. Honestly not much of a stretch for me, but very very fun to write and totally chaotic, just like them.

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Total: $257.43

“What is this?”

“It's a bill from the Shoreline Motel in Seaside, Oregon where you apparently kicked a door in. After they gave you a room key.” Hotch smirked, folding his arms over his chest and reclining with one hip firmly planted against his favorite spot on Morgan's desk. It was somehow smoothest right there, maybe from years of flagrant leaning like it was his job. Seeing Morgan squirm was almost delightful, the indignity of being billed for kicking a door off of its hinges to save lives too much for his skin to bear.

“The Bureau won't pay for it, apparently they've decided you've crossed a line this time. Something about unnecessary destruction of private property.” Gideon watched from the catwalk, leaning on the railing and feeling very pleased with the way the scenario played out. He'd intended to give it to Morgan himself, but Hotch needed the experience, the promotion talk was getting louder with each passing day, harder to ignore the noise from above, the sideways glances and the drooling over something they couldn't have. Yet. Not quite ready, he had to learn how to have the hard conversations with people he liked, not just people who had committed heinous crimes. People he thought fell into his narrow view of justice were easy to stare down, easy to interrogate but people he liked, situations he deemed unfair, those were tricky for him. Troubled waters when things went from black and white to muddy gray. So, Gideon watched them bicker over whether or not it was right, a point that he found to be a source of endless amusement because he knew very well that they were, essentially, both on the same side – Hotch's job may have been to hand over the bill and make sure it was taken care of, tow the Bureau's line as Lead Profiler and future Unit Chief, but that didn't mean he agreed with it. That was, sometimes, the job.

“This is bullshit,” Morgan muttered incredulously, tossing the bill to his desk. “I caught that guy.”

“Guess the motel thought you should have used the key they gave you...”

Beers after work at their favorite little dive smoothed things over between them. Hotch got the first round, frustrated silence settling on the table between them beside a bowl of stale popcorn and sticky beer rings from previous patrons missed by the waitress' quick swipe with a dingy rag. By the third round they were laughing like nothing had ever happened and in the morning Hotch smiled when he found a note from Accounts Payable in his interoffice mail envelope confirming payment of the bill right away. Whether he believed it was right or not, Morgan didn't hesitate to settle his debt and for the next month Hotch made sure he sprung for coffee and lunch as often as he could to try and make up for it. Morgan knew what he was doing, saw right through him, wasn't about to put a stop to it though. Rarely had he ever passed on a free drink or meal, even more unlikely was the idea that he would pass on being showered with attention from someone he was maybe a little in love with.

Some days, that love was a flame that engulfed him every time Hotch smiled, his dark eyes twinkling over some brief joy in the storm of his day. Some days it was seething hate over the curt tone he used, the clipped speech of a man wound too tight, his self-importance on full display. He really never knew what each morning would bring, and in many ways the anticipation of the pendulum swing was the most exciting part of it all.

Nothing was easy with Hotch but damn it was fun.

It was easier, the next time, to just intercept the bill and pay it himself than deal with trying to settle a long term debt – Morgan might have been impulsive but he wasn't destroying people's property for no reason and he didn't deserve to be saddled with it again. Sure, he kicked in the door but they could hear the unsub trying to get out the back door, that split second meant they caught their guy. In any case, he was pretty sure he'd paid for the door thrice over by the time he'd decided his last self-imposed debt to Morgan was settled so this really was just better for him in the long run. Besides, the BAU was his now, these were his shots to call. Gideon would have told him he was being too soft, setting a bad precedent, but Gideon had long since made his exit and Hotch didn't have to answer to that particular voice chiding him any longer.

It was only setting a precedent if he ever told Morgan he was paying out of his own pocket, anyway, and he wasn't that stupid.

A short staircase rose between the pool and the second floor of the motel. The pool was dry, likely hadn't been filled in years with anything but debris. Dirt crusted and littered with dead vermin fallen in and unable to get back out, an unsettling sight as they waited for the LEOs to prepare themselves for the takedown, ensure warrants were in place and the motel was aware of what was going on. Hotch shuddered at a rustling below, a snake slithering its smooth body through the corpses he would eventually devour, wondered how long it had been down there and if it ever could starve to death in such a place. He moved at a quick pace up the stairs when given the thumbs up, Morgan on his heels, and stopped before the door at the top. Right there, easy in, easy out. Rapid flash of their eyes meeting, an almost imperceptible nod of their heads, and then Morgan was lifting his leg and slamming the flat of his foot against the door beside the handle, right in the sweet spot. On bated breath, Hotch waited, expecting the door to fly apart at the seams, slam against the wall and allow them to rush in, a flood of guns and kevlar vests and voices shouting FBI in unison. Except the door didn't open like usual and Morgan let out an exasperated grunt, letting his leg drop and slamming his shoulder into the door with a little more force than necessary, angry at the pain and shoving the rest of the door wide open. A rickety old chair, barely hanging on by a thread but jammed up against the back of the door as a half-ass security measure, crashed against the TV stand. Glass and wires showered the crusty brown carpet, opulent in the grime. Hotch and Reid shoved past him and managed to catch the unsub in the bathroom as he tried to squirm his too large body through the tiny shower window. Each grabbed hold of an ankle and tugged him back inside, dropping him rather unceremoniously into the bath tub. Morgan was limping by the time Hotch dragged the man out and tossed him to the local police to deal with.

“You okay?” he asked, in that brisk and careless voice he affected to hide feelings he was ashamed of. A tone he used when he already knew the answer. The question was customary, a formality at best. Morgan was hurt, resting his haunches against the small table and rubbing at his sore knee. Try as he might, Hotch couldn't push past his frustration, trying to find something to do with himself while he seethed – yes, he'd sanctioned the kick, he was as much frustrated with himself as he was with Morgan, maybe more. He slapped a room key against Morgan's chest, his key, and muttered for him to go back to the hotel, he'd finish up at the station with Emily and JJ. “Put some ice on it,” he called behind him, breezing out of the room before his real feelings burst like a supernova, showering the entire crime scene in his blaze.

“I know you're pissed,” Morgan said from the bed where he'd settled himself almost an hour prior to Hotch even making it back, adjusting the ice against the growing lump of swelling on the side of his knee. It was nothing, he just tweaked it, twisted it funny when the door wouldn't budge. It'd hurt like a bitch for a few days and he'd be fine, more or less. Not a real injury, not his first rodeo, hoping Hotch wouldn't press for L&I and light duty. He was considering Hotch's anger a thinly veiled threat, tiptoeing dangerously close to a reprimand and the throbbing pain in his leg was barely more than an afterthought in comparison. Watching the way Hotch moved swiftly between files, hawk eyes darting over tiny print, he wondered if maybe kicking in doors shouldn't take a backseat to other options for a while. Like room keys.

“Can I get you anything?” Hotch asked, ignoring Morgan's prior statement entirely. He never looked up from his work, never turned his eyes to the man on the bed. Morgan grumbled something about Hotch being passive aggressive, clicking the buttons on the remote a little louder than necessary and it nearly sent him through the roof. Biting his lip to stop the dam from bursting, he continued the last of his work, reminding himself that everything Morgan did was designed to get a reaction out of him.

“You,” Morgan answered, finally. “Just bring your sorry ass over here already. For fuck sake.” With a huff, Hotch stopped what he was doing and sat down on the bed beside Morgan, hands folded in his lap.

“You're mad at me,” Morgan reiterated, not because he needed an answer, he was simply throwing the truth out there between them. Hotch could have gone all night doing a terrible job at pretending not to be, but Morgan opened it up and like a gaping wound it hung open there, raw and red.

“I'm not mat at you,” he countered, shaking his head. “I'm disappointed that this case ended in you getting hurt, that's never the outcome we want.”

“Oh please. Don't hand me that Unit Chief bullshit. You're mad at me.”

“Morgan...”

“You're fucking pissed at me, just admit it.”

Silence. Strained and furious silence. "Aaron!"

“Fine, yes, I'm mad at you for getting hurt,” Hotch snapped, rolling his eyes and Morgan's grin spread like wildfire, took on a wolfish quality.

“There you go...that's better...now get over here and let me have a taste of that anger...” Morgan pulled at Hotch's shoulder, tugged until he toppled over backward, head knocking against his sore knee. He didn't flinch, didn't budge, just curled forward until he could take Hotch's mouth with his own if he was so inclined. He hesitated, hovered there dangerously close, still smiling, listening to Hotch's quickened breath. “Bet it tastes a lot like vending machine cinnamon gum and police station coffee...”

Hotch was a bundle of helpless fury in his arms, skin electric, muscles coiled and angry beneath silk and cotton, Morgan's fingers working quickly at his tie. He couldn't get it out of their way fast enough, the last vestige of Hotch tossed to the floor in a rumpled heap. A quiet popping and ripping and the shirt, once buttoned, hung wide open baring all of his flesh, all of his scars, the expansion of ribs and flat expanse of glorious breastbone. Morgan's fingers played in the soft spaces, trailed along shimmering tracks and ridges where Foyet's knife had opened him up and he could feel it so close to the surface, his thundering heart and coursing rivers of blood just out of reach. He'd lay claim to them, they belonged to him now, every inch devoured by him time and time again. Now it was Aaron and it was Derek and it was heat and waves of temper pulsing through rough kisses and hands holding a little too hard, fingernails pressing crescents into soft flesh to release the tension.

Even if Morgan felt justified, even if Hotch agreed he'd made the right move, it was a long while before he mustered the courage to kick another door in. Every time it crossed his mind, his knee sent a shock of pain up his thigh, a tiny reminder that he'd better be sure it was worth the risk. So far, nothing was.

Until Hotch was bleeding, hands swollen and chained to a rusted old pipe beneath a long row of filthy sinks in an old high school gym bathroom. A gash at his wrist opened wide beneath too tight metal cuffs, dripped in deep red rivulets down his forearm, pooling in the bend of his elbow and seeping through the crisp blue of his shirt. The pipe wouldn't budge no matter how he tried, rocked back on his haunches and pulled with all his might to free himself. Head spinning, a low ache at the base of his neck reminding him of just how he'd been jumped, knocked out and dragged through the winding corridors, pinned behind a locked bathroom door. Outside he could hear gunshots, shouting, sirens blaring and he hollered, tried to raise his voice over the chaos. By the time his throat was fire, voice hardly able to rise through his chest another time, he rested his cheek against his bicep and hung there, exhausted and waiting.

With a deafening crash, the door splintered open, wood shattered and he ducked his head and crouched beneath the sink to protect himself. Coiling himself up as the door slammed against the wall on what was left of its hinges, he held his breath, knew instinctively who it was even through eyes squeezed shut. Dust settled and Morgan stepped through the wreckage like a gladiator, gun aimed ahead, peering through the storm he'd created. Triumphant. In no time at all he was crouched beside Hotch, releasing him from the cuffs and pulling him to his feet and secured him there, anchored against his chest. He couldn't help it, they were at a crime scene and it was wildly inappropriate behavior, he knew at any moment someone could come busting in and see them in a private moment better left for the hotel later. It didn't matter much to him right then, he just wrapped his arms tight around Hotch's shoulders, one hand splayed over the back of his neck and pressed their foreheads together.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer and gentler than Hotch's ever was beneath the weight of that question and Hotch nodded. So damn stubborn. Morgan pulled Hotch's hands to his mouth, pressed kisses against the bruised knuckles and whispered quiet admonitions, one for each scrape and bruise, every drop of spilled blood. “You should have waited.”

“I'll keep that in mind next time,” Hotch replied, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before remembering where they were, what was happening. It was so easy to forget when Morgan cast his spell.

“You gonna bill me for that door, boss?” Morgan asked at the dive bar later that night. The team hovered around them, playing pool and dancing and celebrating a successful end to a case. They pretended not to watch, always did, but the two of them could always feel eyes on them.

“I'll take care of it this time,” Hotch smirked, indicating for the bar tender to slide them two more beers. “But I can think of a few ways you can pay me back tonight.” Hotch's hand rested against Morgan's thigh, thick gauze wrapped around the pressure cut circling his wrist like a sadistic smile, Morgan's fingers grazing the fraying edges of the bandage mindlessly. This was the best part, the after. Where Hotch and Morgan were put away to rest and Aaron and Derek could play.

On the way out the door, ready for it to just be the two of them again, Morgan's arm snaked protectively around Hotch's waist, thumb hooked through a belt loop. Casual in appearance but there was nothing casual about how possessive and protective he was, how Hotch felt in his arms. He leaned in and pressed a kiss against Hotch's pulse, soft throb getting stronger against teasing lips. With the toe of his boot he knocked his foot against the door, more a nudge than a kick but eliciting the eye roll he'd been hoping for nonetheless.

“You're an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one...”