Title: Of Drugs and Dance Floors
Chapter: 1/3
Author: Scarlet
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: JJ/Reid, strategically implied Hotch/Prentiss
Rating: FRM (FRAO by third chapter)
Warnings: Slightly angsty/dark, hurt/comfort, het, mature content, mentions of substance abuse.
Summary: See title.
Word Count: 1,784
A/N: I've been missing Criminal Minds and my fellow JJ/Reid shippers, and this is the result. Set somewhere post-Gideon, pre-writers strike. Also, I'm testing my new 'shorter-paragraphs theory', so let me know if you find it easier to read with shorter paragraphs, and of course any and all reviews will result in my undying devotion and gratitude.
Disclaimer: Seriously, nothing contained herein would ever happen--ever-- it's just for fun, I own nothing.
The music ebbed and flowed as the deafening sounds of the crowded nightclub overtook it, leaving only the steady pound of the bass to string together the long-forgotten lyrics.
For the past hour or so he had been sitting here, repeatedly subjected to a variety of dance songs that he wouldn't have been able to recognize and name even if he cared. The things he did for his career... Spencer shook his head and sighed to himself, briefly stirring the drink he had ordered to blend in, before pushing it a few centimetres away.
If it had been any other night he might have considered indulging, but it wasn't alcohol he craved tonight.
Besides, they were technically still on the job and any amount of inebriation, however tempting, would be a bad idea.
Morgan shifted in the seat across from him, his eyes locked on the mirror over the bar while Spencer's remained focused on the dance floor.
Hotch and Rossi were both strategically positioned near each exit, looking only mildly conspicuous in the ever-growing crowd of patrons.
The girls, however, had found themselves in the rather unfortunate position of bait as they swayed to the pulsating rhythm on the dance floor.
Neither one of them was happy about it, but with the weight of five dead girls on their minds, and only a small window of opportunity, they could hardly refuse.
Spencer noted with some amusement that the dance floor seemed to have polarized the moment the two women walked in.
Apparently the other female patrons knew when they had been hopelessly out-classed.
The dancers now consisted mainly of men and the bar was lined with some less-than-impressed looking women.
In all actuality, this made their job that much easier--fewer prospective victims to worry about.
The unfortunate side-effect of JJ and Emily's increasing fan club however, was the sheer mass of potential Unsubs they would have to sort through.
It was surprisingly difficult to discern one leering-sadistic-serial-killer from a crowd of leering-potentially-sadistic-customers.
"Blue-shirt guy to Emily's left?" Morgan suggested.
Reid squinted, trying to pinpoint Morgan's latest suspect, "Nah, not physically imposing enough."
"Okay, the guy with the really bad 80s moves?"
"And the grey t-shirt, behind JJ?"
"No, next to him."
"Married," Reid noted, eyeing the man's wedding band and wondering offhandedly if his wife had any idea what he was up to tonight.
The waitress came by to replace a bowl of peanuts and gave them an odd look.
"Damn. Missed that. Someone should really clean those mirrors," Morgan sighed pointedly as she walked away, clearly stifling the urge to turn around for a better view of the dance floor. He hadn't been especially confident in Rossi's plan to weed the Unsub out. Mostly because it was indeed Rossi's plan, but Morgan's innate need to keep his team out of harm's way had factored in too.
Spencer fidgeted in his seat.
He glanced occasionally at Morgan to see if his barely contained edginess was noticed.
He didn't appear to be paying close attention, but nonetheless he made a conscious attempt to keep his body still.
He could recall a time when these undercover stake-outs had been an intoxicatingly novel experience. Something akin to fun in this line of work.
But staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, watching as your life unceremoniously flashed before your eyes and having your veins pumped full of liquid fire did tend to dampen one's thirst for adventure.
Spencer tried his best to concentrate on the task at hand.
As it was, his brain was caught between focusing on the case, trying not to gawk openly at JJ and suppressing the intense craving for a little chemical solace to get him through the night.
Just a little fix. Nothing serious.
Just enough to medicate, not enough to hallucinate.
And that would be it. Nothing at all to worry about.
Spencer Reid was no junkie after all, he assured himself, and could control the cravings. He'd been doing so well, what would one little slip-up matter?
Despite his current discomfort however, he could think of few better uses of his time than catching bad guys while watching JJ move sensuously on the dance floor-- aside from their card games on the plane of course.
Her every movement was graceful and fluid and so blessedly distracting.
It was sometimes hard for him to believe that the human body could move in such ways, when he regularly got bruises on his shins from walking into furniture.
But that was just JJ; Grace, beauty and charm.
The little gold and black dress she wore was attractive enough to make his heart beat faster every time he glanced in her direction, which was often, yet simple enough to complement her natural beauty and maintain some semblance of modesty in the sea of otherwise brash attire.
It was practically work appropriate even, though he imagined that would lead to some severely distracted FBI agents wandering aimlessly around the bureau and past her office all day.
As it was, strange men were staring lecherously at her as though they had any right to even be in her presence, and Spencer could only imagine the lewd and debasing thoughts in their heads.
Every so often she would glance up and catch his gaze, and he could almost imagine she was dancing for him.
But he knew better of course, and would immediately feel ashamed at having been caught staring when he was supposed to be looking for the Unsub, so he would quickly look away.
Never for long though.
Sometimes he wondered which he longed for more, her or the Dilaudid.
Spencer nearly jumped out of his skin when Morgan's phone vibrated tiny circles across the table.
Holding it to his ear, Morgan turned in his chair. "Yeah Hotch, I see him," were the only words spoken before the phone was slammed closed and he shot out of his seat. Motioning for Spencer to join him, he added, "Think we got him, but Hotch says it looks like he's onto us so we better move."
"Our cover's blown?" Spencer asked incredulously as they rushed through the crowd. "Bet it's because Hotch wouldn't lose the tie," he muttered.
Time to get this over with, case closed, the end, and get home where he could brood freely away from the watchful eyes of his teammates.
As soon as they rounded the corner and made eye contact with the tall, broad-shouldered man leaning against the bar, he bolted.
Clearly he knew law enforcement when he saw it.
In a matter of seconds, three federal guns were drawn and Morgan had the guy face-down with a knee in his back, twisting his arm into what looked to be an unbearably painful position.
"I swear I wasn't going to sell it!" the man on the floor insisted desperately. "It-it isn't even mine, this guy he just--"
"Don't play dumb, we know what you did to those girls and you're going to rot in jail for the rest of your pathetic life," Morgan disgustedly informed him.
"Wh-what girls? What's he talking about? This isn't about the coke?"
Hotch and Rossi exchanged glances, and Morgan patted the suspect down, quickly locating three small bags of white powder from his pocket.
The man was clearly on the verge of tears, a far cry from the confidence and apathy determined by the profile, despite the physical similarities.
Though an idiot and a criminal, this was obviously not their Unsub.
The chaos of the nightclub had halted as though a spell had been cast over the masses, yet evidently no one thought to stop the music.
The beat drove on mockingly.
All eyes were on them and no one moved.
The whole scene would have been incredibly amusing, had it not reminded him so vividly of high school induced nightmares involving stages, crowds, and wearing nothing but underwear.
Their cover was beyond blown and not even getting rid of the tie would help them now. Hotch, in a remarkable show of composure, started pulling out his credentials in a vain attempt to control the situation, but the second his badge flipped open and the title "F.B.I" left his mouth, the spell was broken.
"Aw shit, man, F.B.I?" whined the petty dealer from his uncomfortable position on the floor.
The turmoil that followed was no less than a testament to the darker, self-serving aspect of the human spirit.
The crowd cleared as suddenly as if a bomb had been dropped and the previously care-free partiers made a mad dash for the exits.
Everyone, or so it seemed, had something to hide.
In this type of sleazy venue, Spencer calculated, a good third of the customers were moderately-to-heavily intoxicated.
Another third likely chemically numbed to the world around them, and of this fact Spencer tried not to be envious.
The remaining third fell neatly into the 'unknown' category, which he figured involved acts and conditions equally worthy of concealment; especially since this was, after all, where the search for a brutal killer had led them.
As Rossi cuffed their unintended-perp and Morgan grunted in frustration, Prentiss tried to make her way toward them.
Pushing against the crowd, she stumbled and Hotch ended up catching her before she fell.
"Sorry!" she all but shouted over the noise as the last of the mob made their way out the doors.
"Not a problem," he held on to her just a moment longer than necessary.
She seemed to trip into Hotch a lot lately, and Spencer was momentarily concerned by her lack of equilibrium.
Perhaps it was an inner-ear problem.
"Did JJ get lost in the crowd?" she asked distractedly.
A quick scan of the nightclub turned up nothing other than some confused looking waitresses and a very angry manager headed towards them.
In all the commotion, no one had been witness to JJ's startled gasp at the unexpected feel of a cold .35mm handgun pressed into her back.
No one noticed her body still on the dance floor as the rhythm of the music suddenly escaped her concentration.
Whispered threats and commands met only her ears, and no attention was paid when the dance floor lost two more of its occupants.
Looking back, he would wonder if maybe he should feel guilt over this fact.
He had felt more remorse over less, certainly.
But some things you simply could not regret.
Some things were just so undeniable in their ultimate perfection, their providence, that to lament their occurrence would seem like blasphemy against the gods of fate and their divine intervention.
The ring of a gunshot overpowered the music.