All the God There Is

JJ doesn't leave, and she doesn't sleep, and she only eats when Garcia comes by and insists. She washes in the bathroom connected to his room -- Spencer hears the water running and running and running, and she comes out with stringy, wet hair and pink skin -- and fields the rest of the team's concerned questions expertly, the way she handles reporters who won't toe the line. Spencer can tell from their expressions that they aren't buying her insistence that she's fine, but they leave her to her vigil and mutter quietly amongst themselves in the hallway.

She sits quietly beside him, watching the rhythms of his body on a screen. She doesn't watch television or read or do crossword puzzles. She doesn't say much, except to ask if he's comfortable, if there's anything he needs or wants. She is just there, her brow furrowing every time he moves.

He is too exhausted to ask her why she stays, and he is too grateful and -- he winces outwardly when he thinks it, and JJ's head snaps to attention -- too frightened to ask her to leave.

_______________

The hospital doesn't keep him long. They run every test known to man on him -- many at JJ's prodding -- and most come back just fine. He is mostly just bruised, bleeding everywhere beneath his skin, and dehydrated.

He startles easy and has nightmares every time he dozes off, but they don't count that.

JJ does, though. She catalogues every twitch of his muscles, every whimper that escapes him in his sleep; she etches them into her memory and relives them over and over and over. She knows what he's dreaming about. She watched it all.

_______________

Morgan wants to take Spencer home, but JJ won't let him. She won't even let him in her car. I can handle it, she says, I've got him.

Spencer stands quietly in the parking lot, his hands in the pockets of the pants Hotch picked up for him, and resists the urge to lean against something, anything, and collapse in on himself like a building imploding.

When they are in JJ's car, Spencer feels like he is alone with her for the first time, though they have spent hours solely in one another's company over the last three days. She keeps the radio off and one hand on his knee, and he doesn't argue. He feels the inertia of the road, the warm pressure of her stripped-bare love, and allows himself to close his eyes.

_______________

She won't leave him alone, not even when they get to his apartment. She walks him inside, and he's almost embarrassed by the empty fridge and cluttered shelves, but it takes too much energy, so he just sits on the sofa and looks around.

Home. Everything is soft. JJ is here.

She sits beside him, puts her head on his shoulder, and matches her own breathing to his. He leans back into her and finds her surprisingly solid. "Thank you," he whispers.

"Always," she answers, and her voice has tremors and fault-lines.

_______________

"Bath," she says after a few moments.

Spencer nods. "Good idea." He thinks it's a hint that she wants to go and starts to thank her, but she strokes his hair and heads for the bathroom. He follows, confused and protesting, embarrassed now in earnest. "I can do it myself, it's all right, you don't have to..."

She doesn't listen, just turns on the faucet and holds her hand underneath until she is satisfied by the temperature. Spencer watches her from the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"All right," JJ says, putting the stopper in the drain. She looks up at him from the floor, her face drawn and tired in the dim light from the bulb over the mirror but still lovely, and Spencer swallows hard. "Get in."

Spencer's brow contracts. "Thank you, I... think I can handle it from here."

JJ shakes her head. "I'm not leaving."

"JJ..."

"I'm not leaving. I want to see what he did to you."

Spencer feels his body withdraw, contract backwards, start to shiver. All he can do is shake his head for a moment, and when he is finally able to gather his voice, he whispers, "You already saw everything. He... broadcasted it."

JJ's eyes pull tight, agonized and determined. "I want to see you. Show me what that bastard did to you. Show me what I let him do."

"No! JJ, you didn't..."

"Show me. I'm not leaving until you do."

Spencer gazes at her for a moment trying to read her expression, trying to find the bolt that's come loose, but she is perfectly composed. Pained, guilty, desperately protective -- but so sure in the midst of it all that it makes him want to obey her. He brings his hands to the hem of his t-shirt and pauses again, just for a moment, before pulling it over his head. "Okay," he says, dropping it to the floor. "There."

JJ stares. There are bruises along his rib cage, but the worst ones are in the center of his chest, where Hankel beat the life back into him on the floor of that filthy shed. His shoulders are lacerated and discolored. "Turn around," she says.

They meet each other's eyes, the steam starting to fill the room, and Spencer raises his eyebrows, helpless. He doesn't want to do this to her; doesn't want to make her look, but there is something inside of her that needs to. He shakes his head in resignation and turns so she can see his back.

JJ stands and is behind him in three short steps. The bathroom is small and close. She takes one finger and begins tracing patterns across the span of his back, connecting one vicious-looking mark to the next. She says nothing. Her fingers are light and gentle, different from Hankel's; even when he was Tobias, even when he was merciful. She replaces her finger with her mouth, and Spencer whispers, "JJ..." as a warning, but she doesn't heed him. Her lips are soft, and over the running tap, he can just barely discern the fact that she is speaking.

She is saying Mine, now. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Spencer closes his eyes, and a wave of something shoots up his spine like a current. The word is both terrifying and anchoring, filling him with a mixture of comfort and dread. He thinks, briefly, that the sensation is not unlike the thrust of Dilauded in his veins, and his stomach twists and his breath catches and her whispers flutter across him, and finally, he rocks back on his heels, moving closer. JJ presses her cheek against him, still calling him hers, licking his wounds, twining her arms around his bare waist and reaching for his button.

Spencer makes a noise, something involuntary and mewling, as she takes it apart. "It's all right," she says, "all right. Come on." She slides his pants off carefully and supports him while he steps out of them. He closes his eyes and bites his lip. The only thing that separates them is the thin fabric of his boxers, and he feels exposed and small, feels like he's bound to a chair somewhere just waiting for the bullet.

But he's not. He is not. He is home. There is steam against his flesh and tile under his feet and the world is quiet, but it is not the buzzing, anxious silence that comes before death, but the gentle silence of skin-on-skin. He breathes. He is safe.

JJ's hand slips under the elastic and every aching muscle in his body grinds to a halt. "JJ... this isn't..."

"Take them off," she says. There is authority in her voice. There is a command in it.

He follows.

He realizes, suddenly and with a mute sort of horror, that he's hard. It's her skin; it's her hands on his body; it's her power. He can't look her in the eye, but he lets her lead him to the tub. He steps in. The water is hot, but it's not too hot, and he settles himself down, his movements stiff and stilted and off-balance. JJ holds his arm, and he can feel her eyes all over him.

"You like that," she says, her voice the same texture as the steam, all soft surprise. "Do you? Like it when I tell you what to do?" She's sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, her fingers on the back of his neck. He reaches for the soap, but his arm no longer stretches quite correctly, so she retrieves it for him and runs it gently down his wrist before setting it in his empty palm.

Spencer can't look at her. His breathing is strange, suddenly, and he is acutely aware of her proximity and the things she is implying and his erection, which he is trying to hide under the water. There are too many things in his head, and he wants to answer her, but he isn't sure why.

"Do you?" she asks again. Then, "Look at me."

"I can't," he says softly.

"Look at me." Her hand comes over to cup his chin, but she doesn't force it. He can still refuse. He does, for a moment at least, closing his eyes tightly and lathering himself in the water. JJ's other hand dips down into the water, and she pours it over the gathering soap to rinse him, gentle and undemanding, and that's when he finally turns.

"You're safe," she says. "Nobody's going to hurt you. Let me do this for you."

Spencer shuts his eyes. The water washes over him, her hand guiding it, and he pretends that it is taking the ugliness with it. JJ's touch is straddling the line between maternal and erotic, trailing over his shoulder blades, his ears, his neck. He can hear her breathing, and something in it has changed.

"Your hair," she says, and rises. He reaches for the shampoo, but she gets to it before he does and says, "I'll do it." He lets his hand fall back into the water and resists closing it around himself, just to relieve some of the pressure.

JJ sets the bottle onto the back of the toilet and unbuttons her jeans. He cannot help but watch her as she peels them off, slow in the sticky heat, and drops them to the floor. He isn't sure what she's doing until she steps into the tub and tells him to scoot up. He obeys, and she settles herself on the edge, her bare legs brushing his skin. They're stubbled from the days she spent by his side in the hospital, and as he realizes that, a lump rises in his throat. JJ leans in and angles herself so that her thigh is sloped behind him. She takes his head and guides it down across her lap.

The washing is slow and thorough. Her fingers in his hair are strong and capable and sensual, and he finds himself arching back into them as she rubs circles into his scalp, the base of his neck, behind his ears. She rinses her hands and strokes his face. She feels the soft fringe of his eyelashes, traces the curve of his mouth, smooths out the lines in his forehead. They don't speak at all until she is done rinsing, and the water around him bubbles with lather.

"All right," she says. Then, before he understands what's happening, she is guiding his hand to her hip, to the elastic band of her panties. "They're wet," she says, her voice heavy with meaning. "Take them off for me."

Spencer plays with the material with his damp fingers, his heart skidding around in his chest, and maneuvers his thumb underneath. Her skin is soft there. He can feel himself shaking. JJ lifts her bottom off the side of the tub and helps, and Spencer pulls them through the water when they finally come free of her ankles. He lifts them, sopping wet, and holds them tight in his fist.

"Beautiful," JJ murmurs. "Give them to me." Spencer hands them over, and JJ drops them to the floor behind her. "You're so good," she whispers. "You're perfect. You like when I take care of you? When I make it better? When I tell you you're a good boy? Does it make you hard?"

His response is barely a whisper, it's more like a shaking nod riding on breath, and JJ leans in close to hear it, to whisper back right against his ear. "I know it does. Come on now." She stands and swings her legs over the side of the tub, holding Spencer's hand as he rises to his feet. She puts a towel down on the edge. "Sit."

He can't hide anything now, naked and perched on the ancient tub, too big for the room its in, his cock up against his belly and his shoulders turning in on themselves. JJ looks at him tenderly and draws her fingers down his cheek. There's a bruise at the top of the bone there, and she leans in and kisses it, her fingers traveling down to the pulse at the base of his throat. She presses down until she can feel it inside of her own body, and his lips are parted and trembling, and then she kisses him.

It's slow and wet, and he yields to her prettily, making sounds that fill her chest and make her want to weep. She whispers against his lips, mine again, until he is whispering back to her, yours, yours, yours, his voice pulling taut and then finally breaking when he reaches for her with his wet hands and says please.

She kisses him hard, fighting her own desire to fall into it and get lost forever, before she pulls away and says, "I want your mouth."

Spencer isn't sure for a moment what she means, but then she puts a foot up on the lid of the toilet and takes his head in her hands, and then he realizes. He shuts his eyes and says, "Oh, G..." but catches himself, his stomach rolling over itself at how close he is to calling upon Hankel's God. JJ feels it too, and she tells him to open his eyes.

"I'm all the God there is right now," she says quietly, "say my name if you have to."

"JJ," he whispers.

"Good," she says back, her expression flashing between pain and desire too quickly for the two to be separated. "Now give me your mouth." She tilts her hips towards him and presses her palm against the back of his neck, and he gets close enough that she can feel his breath on her before he stops.

He closes his eyes then and rests against her thigh, one hand behind each of her legs. She lets him hold her for awhile, her hands tangling in his wet hair, before she traces the shell-curve of his ear with a fingernail and says, "Make me come."

The angle is awkward, but it works, somehow. He bends in, and she rises onto her toes, and his tongue is slow and maddeningly gentle. He just tastes her for awhile, running it everywhere, listening for her cues. She strokes his hair and keeps it away from his face. She tells him he's beautiful. She arches against him and says fuck me with your tongue and moans in appreciation, loud and lovely, when he does. She can feel him every time he breathes, every time his jaw pops, every time he sighs against her. He finds her clit, and she lets him play with it for awhile, testing what happens when he draws circles around it, sucks, licks a long, flat stripe. Everything he does is right. Everything he does is exactly what she wants, and she tells him so. You're good you're so good you're everything, she says, and she can feel his body start to shake.

"Fingers," she says. "Open me up."

He obeys. His fingers are long and slender, and he can fit three of them inside of her without any trouble. She remembers that his knuckles are bruised and scabbed, and she tells him how good his hands are, how she wants to suck on his fingers when he's done to show him how much she loves them, how they were made for her cunt. He makes noises against her as she pulls tight around him and presses his face hard into her body, and when she comes it sounds like ecstatic sobbing, like the throes of religious rapture, and her knees shake so hard she has to grab Spencer for balance.

He catches them both on the other side of the tub and helps JJ down to the ground between his open legs, and she looks up at him. "Give me your fingers," she whispers, and he sets the pads of them against her lower lip. She breathes hard, panting around them, and sucks them into her mouth. He closes his eyes, and so does she, and she licks them until they're clean.

From the floor, she leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of both of his knees. She looks up at him, flushed and tousled and beautiful, and his face is awestruck. The furrows in his brow that have been there for days have settled. His lips are wet-looking and swollen. JJ decides immediately what she is going to do with him.

"Fuck my mouth," she says, yanking her shirt and bra over her head in one quick motion.

Spencer's eyes go wide, and his hand pauses, halfway to a strand of her hair. He is so hard that it hurts, a deep, throbbing hurt, and when she licks her lips, there is nothing that he wants to do more. But he looks down at her and sees her scared, sees her guilty, sees her doing this as some sort of apology, and he shakes his head. "No, JJ, I.. you don't have to..."

"Shut up," she says, her voice clipped suddenly, full of fuel, but not unkind. "I don't have to do anything. But you do. Right now. Grab my hair and fuck my mouth and give me what I want."

His breath stops. His heart stops. Everything goes still for a moment. JJ can see him turning everything over inside of his head. "Do you trust me?" she asks.

He stares down at her, and he remembers everything. He sees her telling him not to go, asking him if he's sure, trying to keep him safe. He sees her face, tear-streaked and relieved and utterly agonized; he sees her reaching for him in the dark and the cold, surrounded by the dead. He sees her sitting beside him for three straight days, washing her hair with hospital soap and keeping track of the beats of his heart. He sees her reaching into his soul and opening all of its windows, trying to let the light in. He sees her with her foot up on his toilet seat, spread open for him, knowing exactly what he needs.

"Yes," he chokes out. Then he rises to his feet and does it.

Her mouth is warm and small and powerful, the way he knew it would be. She opens as wide as she can and flattens her tongue, and when he doesn't move fast enough, she grabs him and pulls him towards her. He watches, one thumb smoothing her eyebrow, the other hand cradling the back of her head, and he thinks he is going to die just from the look in her eyes. It slows him down, distracts him, but she is so intent upon him now that she doesn't care. Everything becomes surreal and languid, the rhythm becoming a gentle rocking, a full slide in and out, all the way, and she holds onto him with one hand and strokes his hip with the other, tracing the line of a bruise there.

It goes on and on and on, and she kisses him and swallows around him and takes him all the way into her throat, and the sensations build and build and build until he chokes on them, on his own noise, and comes, clutching desperately at JJ's hair. She closes her lips around him and swallows, and she licks everything that's left. He eases himself back down onto the side of the tub and she leans forward, laying her head in his lap.

"JJ," he whispers, curling his broken body down towards her, over her, around her.

She presses sloppy kisses into his thighs and says, "Shhhh. It's all right. You're safe. You're mine again."

He slides onto the floor beside her and cups her breast in his palm and tells her yes.