Started: December 12, 2013
And Spencer thought that Hotch wore a suit well.
But this . . . This man was born to wear a suit.
The suit by itself would have been a thing of beauty. The fabric was rich and smooth looking, the color black as pitch. The lines were neatly tailored; clean and lovingly measured to make sure that every seam lined up and would lay neatly against the person who slipped into it. It was expertly pressed, with a sharp crease down the leg and not a piece out of place.
And the man wearing it made it even better.
The jacket fit perfectly over broad shoulders and hugged every muscle. The shoes were jet black and shiny, the slacks falling neatly over them. A simple black tie sat atop a crisp white shirt, the knot nestled against an almost elegant looking neck. Just a peek of cuff of the immaculately pressed shirt was exposed from underneath the hem of the jacket's sleeves, little circular blue and red cufflinks a splash of color against the otherwise monochromatic beauty.
It was perfection. Absolute and utter perfection.
“Agent Hotchner?” he asked as the team approached him, hands folded in front of him. The New York sun was hot and bright, but the man didn’t seem bothered, his face nearly serene behind his dark sunglasses. Spencer swallowed heavily when he heard the man’s voice; even in tone and wonderfully smooth, with an almost amused lilt to it.
“Yes, I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner and this is my team,” Hotch said, reaching forward to shake the man’s hand. The others stood behind him, watching as the two greeted each other.
“Thank you for being here. My name is Phil Coulson. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.”
Completed: December 17, 2013