Title: Make It One For My Baby...
Author: hopskotch_hotch
Rating: FRT (language and some innuendo..ish)
Pairing: General fic with hints of Hotch/Prentiss
Summary: The team makes a beeline for a seedy bar to have a relaxed drinky before their flight home - little do the profilers know that they are being watched as they frolic...
Word count: 2,929

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The crummy bar is clearly not an upscale watering hole. It reeks of stale cigarette smoke and ancient alcohol. A thick film of dust coats most everything in sight, apart from the bar itself which is wiped down every other day.
The tables are rickety, a characteristic which is temporarily halted with tattered beer mats wedged beneath the offending table legs, and the chairs, once newly covered with smooth leather, are now ripped and stained in a worn, sad sort of way.

The place is cool, dark and empty, save for a handful of chattering people crowded into a corner booth.

It could be a weight watchers meeting (AA wouldn't cut it in a bar; or maybe it was perverted, sadistic AA shindig), or a very strange family reunion.

Whatever the case, nobody at the table looks like they hang out together socially on a regular basis. 

Mismatched souls, one might say.

The bartender scans the group.

He enjoys observing people and when business is slow it's sometimes the only thing that makes his humdrum existence mildly interesting. Picking up a glass, he idly wipes it with a dishcloth as he watches them.

The middle-aged bearded man in the middle is obviously the natural leader of the pack, going purely by age as an indicator of seniority. He blends in well but still keeps an air of detached coolness, like he is humoring the rest with his mere presence.

Been there, done that.

The jeans and suit jacket combo scream 80s hip ... "I've still got it, I'm down with it, but I'm serious too! I'm Gordon Gekko from Wall Street, without the suspenders!"

Barkeep never trusts bearded men.

 He had heard his mother say that once. What do they have to hide?
 
Schmuck.
 
He hadn't even tipped for the first round, and he'd asked for a receipt.

He is drinking an import beer. La-di-dah! Giving an impression of being cultured, eh?

He is also sitting a little too close to the cute blond one too. Definite midlife crisis looming. Even if she is looking for a sugar daddy, she should steer well clear of this one. The guy obviously has a cargo crate full of baggage. 

The blonde one is leaning away from him anyhow.

She's chattering happily with the raven-haired beauty wedged into the very corner. It's clear they feel a sense of solidarity; two girls trying to keep afloat in a big boy's club.
She seems calm and outwardly self-assured in the way she diplomatically talks to everyone she can; but barkeep notices her habit of shyly tucking her pretty fair hair behind her ears ... a sure sign she's feeling somewhat overwhelmed.

Maybe it's the social thing.

They probably work together, and she's used to that sense professionalism. He's guessing smart small-town gal, moved on to bigger things. You can take the girl out of the town...'an all that. He bets she's super polite but gritty tough when it counts. Could mend a fence and cook homemade pies like an angel, but get on her bad side and you'll feel her wrath like a ton of bricks.

Vodka and a splash of orange; she's fun and down to earth. Would probably drink cocktails on a night out, but doesn't want to appear like a brazen dame here. 

Her friend ... the one who's squashed to the side ... looks pleased and terrified at the same time; it's all new to her. Kind of like the Blond's feelings, but in a different sort of way he can't quite put his finger on. 
She's tough too, and not all that shy, but probably pretty self-deprecating in private. It's the way she twines her fingers together.
 
She's serious.

Her look is unusual, a little classic 50s, with the slightly curled black hair and luscious red lipstick. He hasn't seen a lady this classy in a long time. Red wine. It's too obvious...

Harvard boy is glancing over at her constantly. He's trying to be subtle and nobody else notices but shrewd barkeep.

Harvard boy is good at hiding his emotions.

The dark suit he's wearing is a uniform to engender respect and ooze authority. Short back and sides, perfectly shaven. He's probably a neat freak who likes order and control in his life just like he has in his sock drawer at home.
He also probably thinks that the burgundy tie he's wearing adds a tiny glimmer of his true personality into the mix; just not so much it's completely obvious.

He looks out of place there, in a bar, but he seems quietly pleased to see everyone in one small space sharing something light-hearted. 

But darn, he's clearly nuts about that girl. She must be so clueless it's criminal, or else she's choosing to clean ignore it for some reason or other. Whatever.

A bottle of bud suggests that he doesn't do bars much, and he's happy to drink anything. He has barely touched the bottle's contents, but he has peeled the label off and is playing absentmindedly with it. Too focused on something else.

He talks to Beardy and things seem serious. Shop talk no doubt. 

Then there's Mr Player: life and soul of the par-tay. He's suave, thinks he some kind of James Bond. He has no problem attracting women and he knows he's seen as vain.

He is in his element sandwiched together with all the ladies of the group as he downs a dirty martini.
Barkeep guesses he'd prefer a scotch on the rocks or some cognac.

Asking for a dirty martini was just too much fun to pass up, and he knows Beardy would probably think it was a drink for wimps. 

He laughs loudly and fully, and the girls pretend to be annoyed with him and swipe at him playfully. It must be tiring living up to the image he's created for himself. He was a lonely child, possibly got up to no good in his formative years. 

He seems content in his own skin though.

Only thing that thoroughly amuses barkeep is the way he manages to keep the ladies entertained while simultaneously annoying the Skinny Nerd.
 
Classic nerd, even.

Nerd looks like a youthful version of the stereotypical mad scientist, with his knitted cardigan, horn-rimmed glasses, flyaway hair and a leather shoulder bags he clings on to, keeping it obsessively close at all times. 

Nerd chimes in to talk with Beardy and Harvard boy, obviously seeing himself as another big leaguer in the cranium club. He views the frivolous fooling around of the others as time wasting and tries to ignore it.

He manfully sidesteps Mr Player's frequent attempts to aggravate him and simply keeps talking and gesturing wildly at times to get his point across. 

Mr Player seems fond of Nerd, but the jostling goes back to time-honoured Jock vs. Point Dexter clashing. This is third grade stuff. 

Funny how adults never cease being infantile. 

Skinny Nerd sips tentatively on the most exotic drink barkeep has served in an age: a Papa Doble. But barkeep is knowledgeable in the world of cocktails, liquors, and general beverage consumption. 

He's taking a wild shot and guessing that this drink was chosen because Ernest Hemingway originally concocted it. Skinny Nerd has managed to wrangle a literary reference into a Friday noon casual gathering. He smirks inwardly thinking that nobody will get it; it's his private thing. They just think he's eccentric drinking a big rum bonanza with a little yellow umbrella and a crude wedge of lime.
That's how he rolls.

Barkeep suddenly respects Skinny Nerd ... the first nerd he's ever felt a pang of kudos towards. And he doesn't even know him.

Blond excuses herself and discreetly makes a beeline for the girl's powder room. It's a toilet for chrissakes. But barkeep just knows she calls it that. 

He sighs and checks the spirit and liquor bottles. Skinny Nerd cleaned out the last of his rum. He'd have to get some more in the basement.

He notes Beardy tilting his head slightly to appreciate Blond's pleasing figure as she departs. 

Creepy. 

Raven-hair seems startled, like a deer in headlights, with her gal pal gone. But she quickly smiles at everyone in a pacifying way and is relieved to be a target of Mr Player's immediate flirtations. 

Harvard boy stands up unevenly and runs a hand through his neatly combed hair, mussing it a bit. 

This looks interesting. 

Is he hacked off with Mr Player? 

No, he turns around smiling in a relaxed way. He jangles some loose change in his pockets and ambles over to the ancient jukebox.

Sweet lord, no!

Barkeep winces visibly, anticipating a stunning alto performance from the St Trinian's Cambridgeshire boy's choir.

Wait, no such stuff on there!

Relief!

Do your worst Harvard.

Barkeep grits his teeth.

Harvard selects AC/DC, Back in Black. The addictive guitar intro pounds through the speakers. 

Harvard closes his eyes and nods (barely) to the beat. When the vocals kick in he's away miming and strumming on a mini air guitar. 

Beardy, visibly perturbed by this obviously unusual display, picks up Harvard's beer bottle and inspects it to see if it's been drained. 

Still full.

Hmm.

Ponder ponder Beardy, you thought you knew him! Now you'll have to reframe your perceptions of him.

Barkeep chuckles inside. 

Mr Player shakes his head in embarrassment and Skinny Nerd is plain confused. 

Raven-hair is ecstatic but almost bursting trying to retain her composure.

Her eyes dance in amusement and glee as she beholds Harvard boy doing his thing without shame. 

She doesn't know yet though, whether it's cute or just downright lame.

Her mouth is twitching a hint. 

Blond is back from powdering her nose and laughs awkwardly at Harvard boy as she skips by him. 

He mimics further air instrumentation at her.

She pulls a grimacing face at Raven-hair who dismisses her with a wave. How dare she imply her man is uncool! 

When the two are reunited, they descend into fits of giggles.

Typical gals.

Barkeep is jolted from his almost mystical reverie by a wave from Mr Player, who gestures for another round using a series of impatient hand movements.

Barkeep nods back somewhat irritably and Player gives him a thumbs up sign.

Ass. 

But he probably tips better than Beardy.

Barkeep smoothly begins pouring and mixing. Nothing requires all that much effort apart from the party-in-a-cocktail-glass that Skinny Nerd is slurping.

With that pipecleaner build another gulp will have him on the floor.

That should be funny.

Out of rum though!

Never mind ... make him something else with the same garnish and he won't even notice. A bit of cointreau or hooch to spice things up. 

The tune is fading and Harvard suddenly looks tired. His brow is furrowed and he's glaring disapprovingly at Mr Player's attempts to annoy Nerd.

“Derek” he warns, thunder in his steady tone.

Beardy smirks under his mustache at the admonishment. Barkeep concludes that he is the silent but deadly shit-stirrer of the pack, in spite of his aging status. 

Barkeep would bet good money that Harvard is normally the strait-laced killjoy of the group. The Back in Black routine must have been scarily out of character. But maybe he was trying to poke fun at himself.
He almost certainly had a wardrobe full of tailored, funereal suits. 

Player looks sore at being taken down a peg. 

His voice rises: “Hotch, c'mon, he's drinking something my sister might drunkenly order at seedy beach resort!'”

Hotch? What kind of name is that? Harvard boy doesn't look like a 'Hotch', which, frankly, sounds more like a name for a spaniel or a pool shark.

But Harvard turns slightly at Player's plea. He doesn't say anything, just takes a slug of beer.

Nerd looks relieved but distressed at being the center of minor run off between the two.

The jukebox cranks up again and barkeep knows that a quarter gets two song plays. Good value these days. 

Unexpectedly, 'My Girl' by the Temptations whirrs on.

The room is filled with a corny, sentimental richness.

They are all whipped straight into an infomercial for the Fifty Greatest Love Songs of All Time on the Shopping Channel, hosted by decaying crooners with tangerine complexions and big white floor tile teeth...'this timeless tune gets me every time Bob!'

The record is slightly fuzzy: it's had its fair share of plays. Tourists and boozed up lovers mainly. 

But there's a frisson of excitement rippling through the group.

Jeez, these people don't get out much! 

Player takes an opportunity for redemption and hits the floor, dragging Nerd with him.

Nerd is defenceless in his struggle with the muscled Player, who dances, wildly and theatrically, with him. 

“See boss, we've kissed and made up!!” he yells over at Harvard.

Harvard tries hard not to, but laughs heartily at the ridiculous sight.

Everyone seems to breathe a sigh of relief. 

Beardy is soon up and dancing too, trying to get a mortified Blond to join him.

He dances in an embarrassing dad kind of way, and it probably reminds her of her own father.

He persists and she relents, out of pity, barkeep strongly suspects. 

Harvard and Raven-hair are left looking awkwardly at each other. 

Harvard realizes the song will be over soon, panics at the thought of a missed opportunity, and offers her his hand in a gentlemanly fashion.

She smiles broadly and takes it. He spins her dramatically into his arms and she emits a noise of surprise. 

Barkeep is impressed ... this guy knows how to dance. His mom probably taught him at the country club bashes.

He's old-fashioned in his manners, but this is clearly impressing Raven who is like putty in his hands, gazing up into his face as he guides her around lightly on the peeling floorboards. 

He bets they are both fantasizing that they're dancing at the Ritz right now. 

It might as well be.

They are all making idiots of themselves it seems, so nobody will notice these two lovebirds falling for the first time all over again.

Barkeep has seen it one too many times; hearts risen, hearts broken, hopes dashed. Maybe one in every ten will work out and something will blossom. 

Even though this pack has been grating on his nerves all afternoon, a little part of Barkeep hopes these two make it. 

There seems to be something almost innocent about it, classic. Like Bogie and Bacall. 

He feels somewhat humbled. There might be a kid in a couple of years, who knows?

But hey, no point getting all sentimental about the thing: once she gets the ring on his finger he's a goner.

Barkeep should know, he's had four failed marriages behind him, and alimony and child support slapped on top. It's a killer.

Hold on a minute! He sees a glint in the dim light as Harvard and Raven-hair dance slowly. 

Harvard already has a ring on his finger.

Very interesting. While the cat's away and so forth.

Bound to end in tears then, this little office fling, romance, whatever they want to call it.

Complex, especially since Harvard doesn't look like the cheating kind (and Raven-Hair certainly doesn't look like the 'little mistress' kind).

Barkeep draws a blank on that one. 

The entire scene: Beardy shuffling with Blond, who is trying to keep as much space between them as possible; Nerd still struggling to get away from Player who is swaying goofily; Harvard and Raven-Hair who are in the throes of something decidedly slushy ... it's just like a tacky wedding after party with a dysfunctional family meeting up following years of being apart.

There are the preppy, boisterous brothers, the weedier ones, the creepy ones, the gruff uncles and snobbish, loud aunts, the successful cousins and the trailer trash, all mixed into one smoldering heap of trouble.

Add alcohol to the mixture and that makes for some potent trouble.

There's a feeling of anti-climax thick in the air when they decide to scatter from the corner booth, scanning wristwatches and checking PDAs. 

The afternoon's frolics have been forgotten in the blink of an eye. 

Barkeep is not sorry to see them go, as they leave a mess of glasses with sloppy dregs, scribbled-upon napkins, torn beer mats, peanuts and pistachio shells curled like empty little coffin husks in pools of alcohol on the scratched table top. 

While the rest don coats and jackets and rummage in bags, Player slopes over to the bar and stuffs a handful of dollar bills into the tip glass, giving barkeep a friendly nod. 

“Thanks buddy” he says before he turns back to the rest. 

“Thanks yourself” barkeep mutters, fiddling with a loose screw on one of the beer taps.

They file out, as subdued as when they came in.

Player slaps Nerd on the back of the head. 

Harvard guides Raven-Hair out in front of him with a palm pressed lightly on her lower back.


Barkeep purses his lips and walks from behind the counter with a broom. He hates this job.

 

Through the grubby glass of the front window he sees the pack that have just left, hailing, or rather, yelling and falling over each other to flag down a passing cab.


The oncoming cabbie slows, glares suspiciously at the motley crowd, then speeds off again.

The fare and tip won't be worth the trouble.


What a bunch of fruit loops.

***