Friday night, November fourth. Federal Bureau of Investigations Headquarters, Quantico, Virginia.
The Behavioral Analysis Unit had returned from a three-day investigation in Toledo, Ohio at 5:04 p.m. Bags were shuffled, files gathered. Jennifer Jareau bid a general good night, gave a small smile and headed straight toward home, husband and son. Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan tried unsuccessfully to lure Spencer Reid out for pizza and beer, but he begged off, plans to catch a physics lecture having been made weeks ago. Dave Rossi hadn't even come back to the office, veering straight to the parking garage with a wave.
Aaron Hotchner gave a nod to all, wished them a good weekend and climbed the stairs to his office, briefcase and go-bag in hand. There were reports piled on his desk, waiting to be reviewed, corrected and approved, and Hotchner was never one to let things slide.
Despite the chaotic nature of his professional life, or perhaps because of it, he had always led a very ordered life. His internal day planner was precisely adjusted and tuned to the minute. Seconds and minutes were something to measure carefully, to watch closely and to monitor constantly. Even his choice of office clock bucked against the sleek digital agency model that was standard issue. Hotchner instead opted for a vintage black-framed Seth Thomas wall clock that perched authoritatively on the wall opposite his desk, so he only had to glance up to see the no-nonsense timepiece. The thick electrical cord snaked down the wall into an outlet behind series of half-height file cabinets, anchoring time firmly in the room. He felt comforted by the fat loud tick of seconds, a throwback emotion to his Catholic schooldays when you knew exactly what happened when and where you should be at any given moment. No room for error.
At quarter til nine p.m., the lamp still glowed on Hotchner's desk. He had loosened his tie at six-thirty, taken off his jacket and stretched at seven fifteen. He looked at the charcoal wool jacket draped across the back of the armchair in front of his desk. Why do I still dress like a lawyer? He closed his eyes, envisioning his closet at home. His work wardrobe was an OCD dream, organized light-to-dark suits on the left, dress shirts (also arranged by color and pattern) in the middle, polo shirts followed, slacks on the right. Ties and belts went on the rack inside the door. Shoes were carefully polished and paired and parallel-parked on the floor beneath the clothing rod. No jeans or t-shirts were allowed in the closet when Aaron was a child, and he still kept them folded with military precision in the tall dresser by the bedroom window. When he was still married, Hayley would put away his laundry and he would always thank her politely, then rearrange everything when she went downstairs.
Rubbing his bleary eyes, he leaned back in his chair. The tall stack of file folders on the left of the desk had barely shifted to his "done" pile on the right, and he was pretty sure that there had not been a single distinguishable letter in his signature on the last four reports he had signed.
Damn it, normal people are at home watching a movie with their family, or out on a date, or spending time with their friends. He sighed deeply. The sainted Jessica had taken Jack to visit cousins in Atlanta for a long weekend, so there was no family to make a movie-night.
Dates were out of the question. He couldn't discuss active cases, closed cases were not particularly dinner conversation-worthy, and apart from regaling some attractive woman with tales of what Jack had done in school that week, he had no time for any real interests or hobbies. And Aaron Hotchner was most certainly not a one-night stand kind of guy; despite appearances to the contrary, he was pretty insecure and shy and downright uptight about sex.
Do I even have any friends? He ran a hand through his hair, then back again, then reached up with both hands and ruffled it around until it was standing on end. Drama target. Trouble magnet. All-around risk. Yep, I am a laugh riot. Hang out with me and get shot at, or kidnapped, or blown to bits. God, no wonder he had no friends. The little time he spent with adults when he wasn't working was spent with his team. How did the others manage to have actual lives away from the BAU? They seemed to socialize with each other, and Aaron had often been invited, but he rarely accepted, feeling almost out of place among the people to whom he was closest.
Am I maybe too... boring? Oh god... I am. I'm boring. Boring and predictable. Hotchner washed his car every second Saturday and got his hair cut at the same barber shop on the fourteenth of every month. Should work intervene (which was frequently), he would tersely reschedule, his left-handed nervous tic of rubbing thumb against forefinger would intensify, and the next day he would deny himself lunch or an after-work drink or an extra coffee as punishment for not adhering to his ordered life. Had he stepped back and profiled his own behaviour, Special Supervisory Agent Aaron Hotchner would have discovered a very repressed and troubled man. But he didn't step back, because it was not on the schedule.
He sighed again and scooted the chair a bit closer, reaching for another file folder. But there, at the very edge of the desk, just behind polished "Aaron Hotchner" nameplate, was the pumpkin-shaped glass jar that Garcia had left for him on Halloween morning, "just in case you want a little pick-me-up, sir". Tiny chocolate bars of a dozen varieties, strawberry twists and gummy everythings piled high above the container's rim, untouched for the past four days. Every single item was unhealthy and overloaded with sugar, plain and simple junk.
Don't even think about it. His stomach rumbled at the sight; sandwiches had been ordered for the flight back from Toledo, but his had remained untouched in the takeout bag in the jet's tiny kitchenette, his attention focused on a conference call with the Toledo PD chief and the Bureau director.
"God bless you, Garcia", Hotch said aloud, reaching into the jar and pulling out a mini Snickers bar. Just this one chocolate, and then I will finish these reports, he promised himself.
Nine chocolates later, Hotch felt a little queasy. He stood up and grabbed the waste bin underneath his desk, then swept the crinkly wrappers inside. Dusting his hands together, he decided to wash the cloying taste of chocolatey peanuts and nougat out of his mouth with an icy cold bottle of water. He opened the cabinet under the window, the doors camouflaging a mini-fridge, glasses and a few bottles of liquor.
It was a habit acquired in his attorney days, keeping a booze stash in the office; more than a few litigious decisions had been lubricated with a shared shot of something Irish and mellow. Something about the elegance and tradition behind clinking the cubes of ice into the tumbler and anointing it with rich amber liquid, then rolling it round gently to watch the almost-viscous liquid cling briefly to the inside of the glass before slipping down again and rejoining the swirling eddy of bourbon... damn, that sounds good.
Hotch glanced at the file folders once again, then back at the cabinet. Just one small drink, and then I'll get back to those reports.
Four drinks later, Hotch stood at the window, watching the sleet and rain silhouetted against the lights in the parking lot. It was almost hypnotic... especially when the alternative was buckling down on the last eighteen reports waiting to be reviewed and signed.
Maybe I just need to get out and see people who aren't in body bags or handcuffs. He stirred his whiskey with a cherry Blow Pop. Maybe I just need to... lighten the hell up.
To say that he lacked spontaneity would be a laughable understatement. But with his son Jack, a Bambi-eyed child who learned very early on that his father's stern countenance was purely for show at home, Aaron Hotchner was a push-over. When Jack did his chores, Aaron praised his efforts with great enthusiasm, and then furtively re-did most of them while Jack sprawled on the living room floor in a sea of Legos. He honestly wanted Jack to learn responsibility, but not at the expense of being a child. Things still got done, but maybe they were a bit looser and freer than Aaron was truly comfortable with. Jack was the free-spirited Hayley incarnate. Aaron, as always, watched and enjoyed, but secretly envied the carefree happy-go-lucky attitude.
One more drink, and I'll for sure get those reports finished. Candy wrappers crunched underneath his feet as Hotch made his way a bit unsteadily toward the drink cabinet. He sloshed whiskey into his glass, and then pulled out a now-empty ice tray.
Well, damn it... I need a... ice thing... and made his way back to his desk, kicking his shoes off on the way. Whoa, that's better... Digging through the rapidly diminishing candy bowl, he procured a couple of neon green squares.
Jolly Ranchers! Sweet! Glassy green cubes plinked into the liquor, splashing over the front of Hotch's now-rumpled and partly-untucked dress shirt. He plopped down unceremoniously on the leather sofa, carefully placing his drink on the table in front.
A tap at the door as it opened and Spencer Reid strode in, mid-sentence as usual, a bag of take-out food in one hand and a tray of coffee in the other.
"... cancelled because of the weather, so I figured since you were working late, I'd grab some sandwiches and coffee because I am absolutely starvi..." and then stopped when he caught sight of his disheveled and slightly tipsy boss sprawled on the office sofa.
"Oh.. I.. am... just finishing... up those... review... things..." Hotch stammered, looking guilty and kicking some of the candy wrappers under the table.
Reid nodded toward the glass on the table.
"Whaddaya having?" he asked, placing the coffees and bag on the slightly sticky table beside Hotch's drink.
"Ahh... Jamesons... and uh... Jolly Ranchers." It had sounded so much more sensible inside his head.
"Ah, that's cool," agreed Reid, nodding enthusiastically. "But hey, how about coffee and I got some sandwiches at the deli on Eighth, you know, those ones that are like Reubens but they have roast beef instead of pastrami but still all the Reuben stuff?" Hotchner nodded, relieved that Reid hadn't seemed judgmental about the whole candy drink thing.
Reid continued on, arranging the sandwiches and chips on the table.
"So you know, I was thinking, we never do stuff. I mean, you and I. Like not work stuff because clearly we do that all the time, but stuff like just going to a movie and not talking about work or anything. I was wondering since Jack isn't home this weekend,and I figured we won't be on rota, but that can always change, I mean..."
Hotch unwrapped his sandwich, gratefully sinking his teeth into something that was not chocolate. He chewed, swallowed, hoped the fatty roast beef and Swiss wouldn't conflict with the ridiculous amount of sugar and alcohol in his stomach. He paused, deemed it successful, then took another bite. And another.
"... but I figured you probably weren't too into the Fellini retrospective or the physics lecture if it gets rescheduled. And sometimes I think I'm too weird for people to really you know, want to hang out with, but I figured you're pretty weird too, so you probably steer clear of boring people because they can't keep up, right? So, do you want to do something tomorrow?"
Hotch shook his head slightly, trying to follow the babbling brook that was Spencer Reid's stream of consciousness.
"I'm sorry... what? I'm... weird?" he asked, rather incredulously.
"Well, not weird weird," Reid backpedaled, stuttering slightly. "Just, you know, a lot smarter than pretty much everybody else. But you're this cool weird... you know, sort of Twin Peaks, Dale Cooper weird." Reid interrupted himself, snapping his fingers. "Oh man, we should totally binge the first season of Twin Peaks tomorrow!"
Hotchner was still stuck on the weird pronouncement.
"Wait... don't you think I'm boring and predictable? I assumed everyone thinks I'm boring and predictable." His brow furrowed, ready for the damning confession.
"Absolutely not," Reid mumbled around a huge mouthful of sandwich. He chewed an alarming few times then swallowed. "Pretty much every woman in the building has this huge crush on you. And a some of the guys too, honestly. Did you know that there's a guy in IT who..."
"No, no... I don't think I want to know." Hotch took a sip of the very strong, very black coffee. Then he paused and grinned. "Damned fine coffee, Reid."
Reid laughed, stuffing potato chips into the other half of his sandwich. "Hey, Hotch, how did you get the idea that anybody thinks you're boring?" He waved around the room, sandwich in hand. "I mean, look at your life, man. Seriously." Incredulous, he shoved another huge bite of roast beef into his mouth.
Yeah, look at my life.
"Hey... thanks, Reid. I mean that."
This Saturday, dry cleaning and car washing could wait. Aaron Hotchner had plans with a friend.