Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname: A Criminal Minds AU
Part 10: Return of the Deposed
Author: Kuria Dalmatia
Characters/Pairing: Hotch/Reid, Season 1's BAU
Ratings/Warnings:FRT/PG (profanity)
Summary: Hotch gets blindsided by Gideon's return. An apology in the kitchen of the BAU wasn't going to earn forgiveness for being humiliated in front of the rest of the team. Then again, Hotch would be even more unnerved (and pissed as hell) if Gideon did a public apology. Yet as unnerving as that confrontation was, nothing prepared Hotch for dealing with an enraged Spencer Reid.
TIMELINE: Two weeks after Part 9: Aftermath of Strange Arrangements
COMMENTS: See Intro for additional comments, archiving info & disclaimers.
Thanks to ice_ziggee and Pluma Desatada for the push to revise this chapter to what it should have been in the first place…
ADDITIONAL AUTHOR'S NOTES AT THE END
######
After the "sweatpants confrontation" (as Hotch's mind decided to label it), there were no more light-hearted, teasing conversations between him and Reid. For the past two weeks, the chief had been putting in stupidly late hours and horrifyingly early mornings.
Hotch knew that budgets were finished during their first week back from Tennessee. Performance evaluations were completed seven weeks before that. While there were always cases to be worked, there wasn't the crushing press of immediacy and travel that they sometimes faced. So it was two full weeks of nothing but paperwork.
Reid was distant and distracted; the few times Hotch tried to engage him in casual conversation, Reid obliged but was curt and cool. Gone was the banter and slightly teasing tones that Hotch came to associate with their exchanges. It was almost as if the night at Hotch's apartment—I had sex with my boss on my couch!—and the subsequent sweatpants conversation never happened.
Still, Reid always paused when the conversation drew to an awkward close, met Hotch's gaze, and offer a small apologetic smile. Sometimes, he would settle his hand on Hotch's shoulder, just like he had done that night in Hotch's apartment, and give a gentle squeeze.
"Paperwork," he would day by way of explanation and probably hoping to take the sting out of the rejection. Maybe he was trying to say, I have no regrets about what happened at your apartment, or What's happening has nothing to do with you, as well.
Hotch would dutifully repeat, "Paperwork," and forced himself not to be hurt about it.
The additional paperwork was more than likely due to Gideon's absence. He felt guilty for enjoying the time because for the first time in his tenure at the BAU, Hotch wasn't being constantly criticized by the senior agent, but it also had their Team one person down.
Someone had to take up the slack from Gideon being out, and Reid was the type of man who would take on the task so it wouldn't burden the others.
But Hotch was curious as to why there was suddenly so much more "paperwork" for Reid to do. Gideon didn't strike him as the type to actually have any; such mundane things were beneath him. All Gideon seemed interested in was the hunt and being able to say, "I saved this person." Hotch had seen the photos in Gideon's office. He knew that Gideon explained it so casually with, "You could call them my family."
The dozens of picture frames on the credenza facing Gideon's desk made Hotch think "trophy." Trophies could be good things and they could be bad things, but putting those photos in the context of how the BAU interpreted trophies? Not a good thing.
Hotch wanted to get the Team's opinion on Reid's suddenly increased workload, but he was leery to do so. So far, Elle, Morgan and JJ had not brought up what happened in Harringtonville directly. The only reference to the brutal confrontation were packages of peanut butter crackers, peanut butter Combos, and Slim Jims that just showed up on day in his top desk drawer and tucked in his briefcase. And when Hotch tried to thank them individually in private, all three promptly claimed that they had no idea what he was talking about.
We move on, was one of Reid's credos.
Clearly, Elle, Morgan and JJ had. Garcia didn't act any differently, so it was quite possible she had no idea what happened in Tennessee either. It wasn't as if Hotch was going to stop by her lair and ask; he wasn't that foolish because if she didn't know, she would fuss over him even more than she usually did.
Asking outside the immediate team?
Not a chance.
The only solution was to ask Reid himself. While he was tempted just to show up at Reid's home like Reid had done for him, the man's office hours made it nearly impossible to guess when he would actually be there. So Hotch opted for an early morning—seven fifteen since most of the BAU arrived around quarter after eight—and made sure that the beat up Ziploc bag that he carried sugar and sweetener packets was in his jacket pocket.
Carrying in a gallon of brewed tea could trigger a rash of rumors about Hotch trying to get in good with the chief. Coffee, on the other hand, wouldn't be seen as too far off; Reid was notorious for taking an entire carafe into his office and forgetting he had it at the end of the day. It was why the BAU had eight pots for their coffee maker because three of them usually ended up in Reid's office. The notes that housekeeping left taped to Reid's door were sometimes the highlight of the morning.
Confident with his plan—he'd make a fresh pot and bring that along with other necessary items from the kitchen to Reid's office—Hotch breezed through the glass doors of the BAU at seven. He would have enough time to get settled at his desk while the coffee brewed and then hopefully have a conversation with Reid.
Yet, Reid's office was dark. The blinds were open and the door was closed. If the chief was sleeping in there—which most of the BAU had money riding on—the blinds would be closed. Reid was very careful about his BAU image. Here, he was chief. He didn't get caught in potentially embarrassing situations like drooling in his sleep on his office couch.
Hotch heard cabinets closing in the kitchenette and then smiled a little. Maybe this was a "late morning" for their chief. He quickly made his way over, hoping that his expression didn't convey too much eagerness as he walked in …
And found himself staring at Jason Gideon.
Shit.
Hotch felt his face momentarily freeze; his brain did the same thing. It didn't stop him from recognizing the flash in Gideon's eyes—He's profiling you—or jerking to a stop.
Gideon. Here. No prior warning. Not even a hint that the senior agent was on the comeback trail.
Not one word from Reid.
Not one message from Spencer.
Friend. Confidant. Lover. Whatever you need.
Not one goddamn hint.
"Hotch," Gideon said pleasantly. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was there all the same. It was the expression Gideon used when talking to victims.
I'm not a victim you can talk down to, Hotch thought viciously, but his experience from years of confrontations like this kicked in. He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and extended his right. Manners. Pleasantries. Oh, he knew the drill. "Sir."
The handshake was crisp, efficient. There was no attempt from Gideon to crush his hand or establish dominance in his grip. It was cordial. Gideon continued to look at him as if he were studying some piece of evidence. His tone was on the edge of curious. "You're in early this morning."
"So are you," Hotch countered, keeping his tone light. Polite. Yet, his heart hammered in his chest and his mind struggled to come up with a strategy. He needed one fast.
Gideon's smile sharpening a little as he shrugged. "My first day back."
Son of a bitch wants to play chess, Hotch realized. Fuck.
Because in almost a year of dealing with the famed Jason Gideon, Hotch knew that the man had planned this confrontation in some form. Gideon had a game plan. This setting? The perfect environment. Early morning. No witnesses for at least another twenty minutes. Bullpen video cameras showing two men having a conversation in the kitchen, but without audio, all an observer had to go on was body language.
And both Gideon and Hotch excelled at neutral stances and bland expressions.
Suddenly, Hotch recalled Reid's words that night in his apartment. The praise he received in how he handled Gideon. Hotch had not retaliated. He couldn't. But maybe those moments of inaction caused by the shock of being profiled so ruthlessly and publicly were the key to dealing with Gideon.
Hotch could launch into a cruel profile of his own. As Reid had said, Gideon was not that hard to decipher, and Hazleton was dead because of Gideon's mistake. Hotch was confident in his abilities to argue the case. Details and phrasings began lining up in his mind with the rapid-fire precision that was essential to Hotch's courtroom success.
We move on, echoed in his mind. Hotch recalled the debate he had with Reid six months ago about Cadmean and Phyrric victories. Both meant the same: victory at a devastating cost.
Would winning this argument with Gideon mean the end of Hotch's career at the BAU?
Team stability.
That was what Reid strove for.
And Gideon here and now meant that the senior agent had cleared all the evaluations. Reid would have had to have authorized Gideon's reinstatement. So, it became the newly re-blessed elder statesman versus the power hungry Hot Shot.
Hotch was aware of the rumors about his aspirations within the BAU.
Hotch wasn't a coward. He didn't back down from a challenge. But … He wasn't stupid. He was strategic. He heard the coffeemaker sputter like it always did when it finished brewing. Hotch modulated his tone into his most pleasant, 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' voice in his arsenal. "Coffee?"
Gideon's eyebrows shot up in momentary surprise but his expression went quickly back to neutral. The senior agent then held up a bottle of water and made an apologetic noise. "Doctor says I should cut back."
Hotch nodded with a noncommittal "hmpf" but refused to say any more.
Another few tense seconds went by as he watched Gideon sort through the options for the conversation. Finally, Gideon let out a light laugh, shook his shoulders as if to loosen them, and cocked his head to the side. "We started off badly, didn't we?" When Hotch didn't respond, Gideon offered, "Let's start over then," sounding as reasonable and genuine as he did with any number of victims. He extended his hand. "Clean slate."
Hotch supposed it was as close to an apology as he was ever going to get. As if Jason Gideon would ever apologize for what he did in Tennessee. He probably still sees it as a victory versus the UnSub. Still, an apology in the kitchen of the BAU wasn't going to earn forgiveness for being humiliated in front of the rest of the team. Then again, Hotch would be even more unnerved (and pissed as hell) if Gideon did a public apology.
"Clean slate," Hotch repeated and shook Gideon's hand, forcing himself to keep it neutral.
But he wasn't going to forget what happened.
He wasn't going to trust this man that easily.
And he was damn sure that he would never allow Gideon to have his back.
Ever.
######
The parade in and out of Gideon's office was nauseating. It was mostly political; despite what happened in Boston, Gideon was still considered a career-maker although the vibe that Hotch got from his fellow agents was that Gideon simply wasn't well liked. Still, Gideon's name carried weight in other departments and cadets trailed after him like ducklings in order to say they had face time with the legend of the BAU. So as other agents trickled in to the office and saw Gideon's light on and door open, they made their way up to welcome him back.
Garcia, of course, was the most enthusiastic because that was … well… her. Hotch couldn't fault her—it wouldn't be fair—and he wasn't about to explain why, perhaps, she shouldn't treat Gideon's return like the profiler was some sort of king.
Garcia's voice carried as she admonished Gideon for not telling her that today was his first back from his 'vacation,' followed by an apology for not having a batch of Hamantaschen waiting for him. Jesus, the woman profiled them via baked goods.
Gideon's equally loud, "Oh, don't fuss over me," made Hotch twitch. He hoped to God that Elle and Morgan, who made no bones about keeping an eye on him this morning, wouldn't call him on it.
Hotch focused on his work, but couldn't stop glancing at the corner of his laptop to check what time it was. As the minutes wore on, his anger began to build, all focused on the single question: Why didn't Reid tell me Gideon was coming back?
Hell, a text wasn't that out of the question. Neither was a phone call. Or … or something.
Because how the hell else was Hotch supposed to interpret, Friend. Confidant. Lover. Whatever you need.
The betrayal burned. Hard. Hotch mentally slapped himself.
You showed Reid your 'vulnerability'… of course he's going to use it against you. He's a chief. You're a Hot Shot. It's the way of things.
By the time Reid finally showed up in the office at quarter after ten, Hotch had worked himself into a decent, righteous snit. Yet when he actually looked at Reid, his anger drained away.
Reid's suit was the one he only wore for VIP Bureau meetings or high-powered court cases. He was also wearing his glasses. Hotch didn't miss Reid's double-take as when the chief saw that Gideon was back. Reid's posture changed from slightly slumped to almost regal. His hands went to his sides. He walked with sure steps through the bullpen and directly to Gideon's office, barely acknowledging the greetings. It was the same stride he used when in court, the one he used to establish his authority.
He didn't know, Hotch's mind whispered. That's why he didn't tell you. He didn't know Gideon was coming back.
It made Hotch think of the advice Elle gave him the night of his 'welcome to the BAU' party after they returned from Palm Springs: never blindside the chief. She refused to elaborate, just gave Hotch a look that conveyed that the 'no blindside' rule was nonnegotiable. She then made him drink two shots of tequila.
Hotch observed the chief knocking on Gideon's door, offering that half-little wave that Hotch was still trying to figure out what meant, stepping inside, and promptly shutting the door. When Hotch turned back to his monitor, he noticed that Elle was still staring at Gideon's door. He wondered if she made the same conclusion as he did, that Reid didn't know Gideon was returning.
Someone other than Reid reinstated Gideon but didn't inform the chief.
Morgan's muffled "Damn" confirmed that Morgan realized what was going on as well.
Elle shook her head a little, arched an eyebrow at Hotch, and went back to work.
Gideon broke the 'no blindside' rule.
Then again, Gideon probably believed that rules didn't apply to him.
After ten minutes, Reid strode out of Gideon's office, leaving the door open, and went into his own. Reid closed the door. Hotch watched as the chief circled to his desk and dropped down into his chair.
A minute later, the bullpen filled with chimes and alerts from the agents' phones and computers. "Shit," Morgan said as he grabbed his mouse. "Forgot it was Randomized-Meeting-Time Wednesday."
While Reid did weekly roundtable meetings with all the teams, he met with each agent individually. Usually on Wednesdays and Reid had worked with Garcia to develop a program that enabled him to randomize the meeting times based on an agent's Outlook calendar as well as send out the meeting invitations to all agents simultaneously.
A bit of Vegas in DC.
"Oh, Lady Luck is my girl today! The coveted 'eleven is heaven,'" Morgan announced. "What time did you get?"
"One twenty-six," Elle answered with a groan.
"Ouch," Morgan said sympathetically. "The Grumpy Lunch one. You're gonna have to walk in there armed with a fresh pot of coffee."
Hotch looked at his. "Four oh six." He wondered if Reid tweaked the program so that Hotch would have a later meeting time.
Elle and Morgan said nothing, and Hotch was unsure if that was a good thing or not.
He put it out his mind. He reached for another folder, one that Reid must have placed on his desk last night. Cold case. Chicago, Illinois. Two boys, barely teenagers, all African American, strangled. The first fifteen years ago. The second four years ago. Both John Does. Dumped in a section of Chicago rife with gangbangers. Little forensic evidence. No one looking for them.
The kind of case that no one paid attention to.
Well, he was going to pay attention.
Hotch began reading.
########
Thankfully, the Chicago case kept Hotch occupied for most of the day. He could ignore Gideon holding court and tune out the clicks of Reid's door open and closing as other agents went in for their meeting with the chief. He couldn't ignore that, as the day got later, the agents leaving Reid's office seemed more and more distraught.
"Fucking hell, you need asbestos in there," Anderson grumbled after his. He even rubbed his ass for effect. "Coffee's not gonna cut it," he warned Elle. "Man, I don't know what's gonna."
Which mean Reid was in a foul mood. Their chief, as 'eccentric' as people liked to label him, was also as emotionally even-keeled as any person Hotch had ever met. So when Reid ceased being friendly to his own agents …
Good God. No wonder the 'no blindside' rule was in effect. The people after Anderson lined up outside of Reid's office like they were facing their own execution, that Reid's office was the death chamber. When Elle came out, she fidgeted at her desk for a good three minutes before heading towards the ladies' room.
There was only one thing for Hotch to do: his job. He would provide the most accurate and complete profile he could for these two unknown boys. For the boys that no one was looking for, except for one desperate Chicago detective and an ex-lawyer from Virginia.
When Hotch's time rolled around, he picked up the Chicago file. He was tempted to go into the kitchen and snag a carafe of coffee, paper cups and stirrers so he could carry out his plan from this morning, Operation: Make Spencer Smile.
But it was late in the afternoon, Hotch was sure that there was at least one meeting scheduled after his own, and everyone always paid attention to an agent when he or she entered and exited the office. They weren't supposed to profile each other, but they did.
Reid kept the blinds drawn during those meetings, so no one could observe the conversation. As Hotch went up the ramp to Reid's office, Wendy came out of it looking like she'd just endured the worst of the worst humanity had to offer. Given what the BAU dealt with … yeah… She looked at him, mouthed "Good luck" and went back to her desk.
Hotch took a deep breath before knocking, waiting for Reid's absent "Come in," entering and closing the door. He walked up to Reid's desk and was surprised that the chief didn't even look up from what he was working on.
Reid could easily multi-task; Hotch had seen it enough times when they were out in the field. Yet it was the first time during this type of meeting that the chief did not give his undivided attention.
So that's what Wendy meant by 'Good luck,' Hotch thought. He looked at the chair positioned in front of Reid's desk, but there were no drag marks around the legs. Wendy hadn't sat to give her report. It didn't look like anyone else had either.
"Stop profiling the chair," Reid snarled.
"Yes, sir." Hotch's gaze snapped back to the chief, whose desk was littered with several very thick folders. Reid was writing, his fingers gripping the pen tightly in anger. Or frustration. More than likely, both. Hotch knew it wasn't because of him; he wasn't that self-centered. He also knew he was two seconds from the next order—Stop profiling me—so Hotch began, "I have the case file for the two teenager boys strangled in Chicago. They are still unknowns. First killing was fifteen years ago. The second, four. Detective …"
"You have that file?" Reid demanded, voice cold and fury radiating from him.
Stunned by the man's tone, he stuttered, "It was on my desk this morning, sir."
The chief's grip on his pen turned his fingers white. Although Reid's head was down, Hotch knew the man's jaw was working. He'd only seen Reid thoroughly pissed off once—verbally taking the head off of a principal who dismissed bullying as a reason for a kid turning homicidal—and Hotch had absolutely no desire to see it again.
Hotch counted to five and continued, "Detective Gor…"
"Have you completed the profile?" Reid cut him off, still not looking up, but goddamn he was pressing down hard enough that Aaron swore he could hear the ball of the pen scratching against the paper.
"A preliminary one, sir."
Reid held out the hand that he wasn't writing with, gesturing for the file but not looking up. Aaron handed it over and wondered if Reid could hear the embarrassing gulping sound he made. Because there was Angry Spencer Reid, Pissed off Spencer Reid, Infuriated Spencer Reid and … now this … this Overloaded Nuclear Reactor Ready to Explode Spencer Reid.
The chief slammed the file down on the pile to his right.
Jesus Christ. It took every ounce of willpower not to flee from the man's office.
Aaron felt like an impala who stumbled upon a rangy, starving cheetah and his escape routes were completely cut off.
So he had no idea why the hell he was reaching inside his coat pocket and pulling out the battered baggie.
Maybe he had a death wish.
Maybe? Who the hell was he kidding? He had a death wish.
Aaron held out the bag. "I thought maybe for the next round that we could try coffee?"
And Oh God his voice didn't just break on that last word like some teenager.
Reid went still.
Aaron willed himself still and hoped his breathing didn't sound as high pitched as it did to his own ears.
Reid looked up.
Aaron saw the clenched jaw and the furious sneer. He watched as Reid refocused on the tattered baggie. For several moments, there was absolute silence. Then, Reid asked icily, "Four fourteen in the afternoon, and you want to do an experiment with coffee?"
"We don't have an iced tea maker in the kitchen?" and Aaron definitely squeaked out those words. He wondered where the hell his bad ass, former-prosecutor, SWAT leader persona went to.
Oh yeah. He walked into the den occupied by a rangy, starving cheetah that he didn't know existed until just now.
His bad ass, former-prosecutor, SWAT leader persona had a sense of self-preservation.
Reid glared. His nostrils flared. Aaron swallowed hard. Then slowly, the anger seemed to drain away from the chief. His features softened, becoming unreadable. The grip on his pen loosened. His shoulders when from hunched over and tight to open and relaxed. He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking softly. He tilted his head sideways and folded his hands over his stomach.
Aaron still held out the bag, but at least he wasn't shaking. He wet his lips. He jutted his chin towards the credenza where Reid had a Nespresso machine that he never used. There were coffee cups neatly stacked to the sides. "Five cups?"
Reid closed his eyes briefly. When opened them, he said quietly, "Maybe some other time."
"Of course, sir." Aaron let out a breath and carefully put the baggie back inside his jacket.
Reid leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. He looked like he was in his sixties instead of his forties. He breathed loudly, as if taking cleansing breaths. Finally, he met Aaron's gaze with a wholly apologetic one of his own. "If I had known Gideon was returning today, I would have told you."
"I … I know that, sir."
"I apologize for …"
"You said you didn't know," Aaron dared to interrupt. "You can't apologize … you shouldn't apologize for something you have no control over. You told me that."
Reid nodded. "I suppose I did."
"Gideon and I spoke this morning," Aaron continued, wondering if the other agent mentioned it. "Clean slate."
"Clean slate," Reid repeated neutrally, but there was a protective glint in his eyes that translated as, I won't allow what happened to happen again.
"Yes, sir." And Aaron was never so desperate to hear the correction of 'Spen-sir' as he was now.
It didn't come.
Aaron waited, because he knew he still had at least five minutes before Reid would allow him to go back out into the bullpen.
There was no such thing as 'being let out class early' when it came to a meeting with SAC SSA Unit Chief Spencer Reid.
"I hear you're going down to Jamaica with Morgan and Elle," Reid offered conversationally.
It was a lifeline. Aaron latched on to it and held tight. "Yes. For our AL. I've never been so I thought why not?"
Reid didn't answer.
For whatever reason, Aaron's mind decided to vomit. "Why don't you join us? No beaches. I mean, you can do the beaches if you want but that's, ah, not for me really. I hate just … lying there. And beach volleyball? I always get the drunk sorority girl on my team so all I think about is liability. So … I golf. I mean, I want to golf while I'm down there. Improve my stroke. My stroke is shittastic." And like when one was puking his brains out, Aaron couldn't seem to stop. "I mean, I've set up some tee times but they don't allow singles so I'll be paired up with someone but if you were to go and join me on the golf course, then we could have the same tee times and be a twosome that can hook up with another single for a threesome or maybe another twosome so we'll be a foursome or just stick to being a twosome…"
Aaron paused to take a deep breath and then found himself staring at the stunned expression of his chief.
Good Christ.
But that shocked expression turned into Reid's full impish grin. "Are you inviting me to an orgy?"
"Orgy?" Aaron repeated, horrified. Not only because of the misunderstanding but because a) Aaron said the word aloud in a personal conversation and b) he said it to his boss. He knew his face was on fire from blushing. He stammered, "No. No! Twosome is a golf term for two players … threesome…"
Reid held his hand up.
Aaron clamped his mouth shut.
Reid said, "I get it." His lips curved into that smile that Aaron supposed he adored. Reid admitted, "I don't play golf."
"You could caddy."
"Caddy?" Reid arched an eyebrow.
"Well … yes… I mean … Not as in carry my golf clubs! No! PGA regs require the golfer to carry his own clubs, and if I'm going to play I might as well follow the pro rules and I always walk the course. That's half the point. I would never … no … never ask you to carry my clubs. Caddies … they also profile the course, how the fairway and greens are cut. Wind direction and speed. Like a survey of the conditions. Then we talk about the shot and what would be the best club and approach to use based on those factors. I mean, behind every Tiger Woods is a Steve Williams who helps him to win. You've got PhDs in mathematics and physics! If you were my caddy …"
"You could show Tiger a thing or two about golfing?"
"No! Good Lord, never on that level! My handicap is terrifying but with your understanding of physics and mathematics … how the putts roll on the greens is all about physics … you could … help make me, ah, better?" Aaron sputtered. He winced and tried his best not to bounce on his feet. God only knows where all this behavior was coming from, because Aaron couldn't remember the last time he just rambled like a fucking idiot.
First the Sugar Shtick. Now, he spewed on about golf. Christ.
Apparently, this was what happened when an impala tried to talk the rangy, starving cheetah out of devouring him.
Reid's expression was one of amusement. He bit his lips and it looked like he was trying not to laugh. He swallowed a few times before saying, "I'm honored that you think my knowledge of physics and calculus could help improve your game." He cleared his throat a little and it was clear he was fighting back a huge smile. "But I will have to take a pass on Jamaica. I'll be in Vegas for my AL."
"Of course," Aaron said quickly. "It was just …"
"You know," Reid interrupted, and now he was grinning, "of all the people who have tried to get me involved in sports, you are the first to approach it from a scientific perspective."
"I'm probably the only person who made a complete ass out of himself for asking."
"Actually, I would say you're trying to charm the pants off me."
"Sir?"
Reid held up his hands. "I'll stop now." He then laughed, the good kind that wasn't nervous or forced. He stood and extended his hand. Aaron automatically reached forward and they shook. Reid's turned serious. "I hope the clean slate is successful."
"So do I."
"My door is always open."
"I know." Aaron took a deep breath before saying, "Mine is too."
That earned a wide, warm smile. Reid's thumb caressed the side of Aaron's hand before he let go. There was a knock at the door. Aaron took a step back. "Your next meeting?"
"JJ's my last for the day. Send her in." Reid said as he sat back down. "Have a good evening, Aaron."
"You do the same, sir."
"Spen-sir," came the soft correction.
Aaron knew he blushed as he repeated, "Spencer."
He turned and took a few steps towards the door, schooling his features back to neutral (As if that could fool JJ). He breathed a few times, setting his shoulders. When he opened the door to Spencer's office, JJ stood there with a fresh pot of coffee and the tin of cookies that usually lived in Garcia's lair.
JJ eyed him briefly but he opened the door and stepped aside to allow her to enter. He left, closing the door behind him and calmly walking back to his desk. First Elle then Morgan made the silent offers of 'If you want to talk we can step away' but Aaron declined.
He had brought Reid back from the edge.
He would allow JJ to take the credit for Reid's improved mood—coffee and cookies usually did that—but he wasn't about to share.
He savored the victory
He made Reid smile.
Even if he made a complete ass of himself in the process.
He made Reid smile.
##### End of Book 1 #####
A/N: Thanks to everyone who has commented on this story so far. I am stunned by the response and enthusiasm for this story.
What started out as a whim on my part in response to a prompt from a kink meme—could I actually write a viable AU where Reid was the chief and Hotch had a crush on him?—evolved into this. I was very hesitant to publish it; would people buy into a 'verse where Hotch wasn't as "Hotch" and Reid wasn't exactly "Reid"?
I wasn't even going to tell anyone I wrote this yet something made me confess to the lovely, wonderful CMAli, complete with the 'it will probably never see the light of day.' Her simple "Why not?" made me rethink things.
Taking episodes and recasting them in the "Reid's the Chief" light has been challenging and fun. I treasure the questions and critiques that I've received because they made me stop and think. Those comments made me review what I'd written and realize that, well, I needed to make some changes.
I concluded this installment with the words "End of Book 1" because I felt that this was a good stopping point for the initial arc. I'm currently working on Book 2, which will feature an AU take on "The Fisher King" as well as other S2 episodes. I realize that the relationship between Hotch and Reid hasn't progressed as quickly as some readers would like, but I felt I had to establish the foundation of their professional and personal relationships first.
For those wanting Reid's take on the whole Hot Shot/Hotch relationship, that will be tackled in Book 2 as well. He faces the same conflicts as our canon Hotch does; he's the chief, he's concerned about fraternization issues and how it will affect the Team he's built, and he may be just as bad at taking what is offered as Hotch is.
Book 1 was written over four months and I just began working on Book 2, so it may be a few months before this is updated.
As always, crits, questions and feedback are always welcome.
