A/N: one-shot, silly, in response to the April Fools' Prompt on Fanfic Challenge Round 10 proposed by tonnie2001969.
The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year. - Mark Twain
"Look," Prentiss said, drawing her eyebrows slightly together as she explained, "you know how he feels about Hallowe'en."
"Hallowe'en?" Reid enquired as he entered the bullpen, walking briskly to his desk and depositing his scuffed messenger bag on top of it. "Why are you two discussing Hallowe'en? It's only April. In fact," he began, "although 'April Fools' Day' has a history of pranking similar to that of Hallowe'en, certainly in American culture, but also in other cultures as well, such as the Scottish, its historical underpinnings are quite unclear. There is a common theory that the original April Fools' Day resulted from a change in the celebration in the New Year, with the adoption of the Gregorian calendar in the late 1500s in France – 1582 to be exact –"
When he paused briefly, to breathe, Prentiss quickly stemmed the tide of explanation with an upraised hand. Anyone within earshot could see where this was going.
"OK, OK. So I guess we don't have to fear anything from Reid," she said wearily. "But I'm sure something is up."
"Up?" Reid responded, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. "Oh, you mean, you think someone has played an April Fool's joke on you? What is it?"
Prentiss made an exasperated noise. "Reid, if I knew that, I wouldn't be worried anymore." She shot Morgan a meaningful glare. "I'd just be mad. And motivated by revenge."
Morgan lifted his hands in mock surrender and pushed his chair slightly back from his desk. "Hey, hey," he protested. "Don't go blaming me for something that hasn't even happened. Look, Prentiss, I think you should be concerned that your paranoia will make you so anxious you embarrass yourself in front of your co-workers. Because that's the only amusing thing I can see from where I'm sitting." He thought for a moment. His gaze sharpened on Reid. "Well, that and Reid's hair."
Reid's face registered a look of instant alarm as his hands flew up to pat furiously at his head. Prentiss' glare melted into laughter and snorts as he pulled a large yellow square out of the brown tangles. She had been so focused on what he might be pulling, she hadn't noticed the yellow triangle peeping out from behind his left ear until Morgan said something.
"What? How did I, who – how did this even get on my head?" he sputtered.
"I don't know," cackled Prentiss, "but I would dearly love to thank whoever is responsible! Ooh, there's writing on it! How about you share that with the class, Reid?"
The young agent unfolded the note and read it, his alarm turning to embarrassment as a blush ran across his face. "It says, FEED ME," he admitted. "I'm not sure whether that is supposed to be directed at me or my hair." This last sentence ended on a questioning note, and he looked around the bullpen, certain that whichever of his colleagues had achieved this prank would now come forward to confess and set him up for additional teasing. Morgan laughed, and turned back to his desk. Reid wasn't defensive about his body type or appearance, not really. And he knew that teasing was an important form of social bonding for groups, even including the person being teased, as long as it didn't cross over into bullying or ostracism.
No one came forward.
In fact, no one besides Prentiss and Morgan was even paying attention. Hotch's door was closed, Rossi's was closed with the lights off, and Garcia was at least out of sight, presumably nestled among her computers.
Prentiss continued to emit the occasional snort as she began opening a casefile and making notes.
Reid frowned, crumpling the little yellow note into a ball and chucking it into his wastebasket. He didn't mind a little teasing, but it was less pleasant when the person responsible stayed hidden – an unwillingness to meet his eye gave a different context to the gesture, making it appear meaner. What was going on? He sighed, and went to retrieve a cup of coffee.
Returning to his desk, Reid sat down and shook his head to clear his thoughts. He, too, opened some files, and began scanning rapidly through them. The post-it-note was rapidly forgotten. The three agents proceeded to work mostly in silence, interrupted by the occasional question or exchange of ideas, all earlier joking put aside. Morgan and Prentiss conferred, briefly, on their respective plans for the weekend, which seemed to intersect. Reid said nothing - his plans this weekend didn't include any other people. Sometimes, he felt the social differences between himself and his colleagues keenly. Sometimes, they didn't seem to matter. He wasn't sure which one of those times this was.
He bent his head back over his files. Soon the little yellow ball in Reid's wastebasket was covered by pencil shavings, a candy wrapper, shreds of "confidential" seals, and eraser rice.
After three hours, he rose from his desk, stretched his arms above his head, and walked to the kitchen for his second cup of coffee of the day. Movement caught his eye as he bent over the pouring carafe.
"Come on, that's enough," he said frustratedly, as he picked up another yellow square. It had fallen to the floor when he bent over the coffee mug. This one had a strand of wavy brown hair stuck to the adhesive on the back of the message. It said, "I'M STILL HUNGRY."
Reid studied the writing. It was all in capitals, and appeared to be written with the left hand by someone who normally wrote with his or her right, to avoid identification. He supposed that ruled out Garcia. He wasn't sure what was going on, here. Clearly, one of his colleagues had seized on the April Fool's Day tradition to amuse him or herself at his expense – but to what end? Was he just going to have to spend all day pulling post-it notes out of his hair? How had the person managed to get away with that, twice, anyway?
Reid didn't always see the humour in things that his coworkers found funny, but he was quite capable of being amused by things, even by himself, when he could understand why his behavior would seem funny. He had long been subject to commentary about his thin build and his unruly hair, and for the most part, took this affectionate teasing by Morgan, Garcia, Prentiss – and once, memorably, Hotch – in its stride.
He found the continued harping on the theme by the mystery note writer, however, somewhat annoying. If it had been amusing at first, that was quickly fading.
He sighed. He glanced briefly around the breakroom. Not unaware that the notes may have been exacerbating his hunger, Reid walked back to his desk, fumbling in his jacket for a snack. He stopped short when he was several feet from his chair. A yellow note sat on his seat.
"Okay, Morgan, Prentiss, enough. Really, this is just irritating now, and I need you to stop."
Morgan looked up with his usual smirk, ready to make a witty comeback. Was he really responsible for this? Reid felt slightly hurt; he had believed that he and Morgan trusted and knew one another enough that Morgan would knew when he'd crossed the line into harassment. Prentiss beat him to it.
"Stop what, Reid?" she asked, her eyes opening as she lifted her eyebrows with the question. Morgan chuckled, stood, and walked to Reid's chair. "It looks like prettyboy over here has got himself a secret admirer. What's this, Reid? "COME AND GET ME – NO ENERGY BARS"? Maybe whoever it is wants to take you out for dinner."
"Really, guys, that's enough. This is the third of these notes. It was funny at first, but not anymore. I need you to stop putting this notes on me – on my stuff," he corrected quickly. He wasn't sure he wanted to admit the second one had been stuck to him as well.
"Reid, seriously, man, this wasn't me," Morgan said, looking him in the eye. Prentiss looked back and forth between the two men.
"What wasn't you, hot stuff?" Garcia bustled in. "I've got those photographs from Nebraska you wanted. You may all bow in reverence."
"Somebody's been leaving Reid love letters," Morgan began – and then, at Reid's angry glare, "post-it notes with messages on them. He's not amused."
"Love letters? Really?" enthused Garcia. "Let me see!" She stuck her hand out at Morgan, completely oblivious to the daggers of Reid's gaze. "Hmm, that doesn't sound very lovey-dovey to me. Are you sure these are love notes, Reid? Who're they from?"
Reid exhaled, and ran a hand through his hair. He felt a surge of relief when all his fingers encountered was, well, hair.
"No, Garcia, I'm not. I mean, they're not love letters. Someone has been putting these messages about "FEED ME" and "NO ENERGY BARS" on my desk and things all morning, and I've kind of had enough of it. Morgan swears he's not involved."
Garcia's eyes widened and she took a step back. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize. . . it wasn't me, you know. Actual paper really isn't my style."
"No, I know, Garcia. I'm not blaming you. Besides, you're left-handed. You know what, let's – let's just forget about this and get back to work, okay? I hope the joke is over." He glared around the room.
Mumbling apologies or sympathy, the other three agents scattered to their respective desks and duties.
It took all of Reid's self-control not to utter a sound when he finished one case file and opened the next after two minutes, only to find, "NOT YOU, GENIUS, FEED ME." He exhaled sharply, stood up, and charged out the door, without pausing to say a word to any of his colleagues.