II. Winner Chooses Dinner
Spencer Reid is nothing short of mind-blowingly brilliant. If the average mind were to attempt to quantify the brilliancy of Reid's intellect, said set of mediocre brains would most certainly implode. And, legend has it, such a tragedy has happened already. Once. No-one dared go on such a crusade again. Ever since the incident, everyone abides by the silent rule that places Reid atop the intellectual pyramid.
Not that the young doctor cares. Nope. He is just content to share mental space with some very witty and geeky thoughts every day. Sometimes he even makes himself laugh, a detail he chooses to keep to himself for embarrassing reasons.
"I finished the geographical profile at precisely seven thirteen p.m., Morgan, don't even start."
Morgan laughs his cheeky laugh, and sits back on the chair, looking around smugly. "Reid, Reid… You should've known I would eventually win. Don't you know by now that I always aim to improve?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" What did I miss?
Prentiss and JJ share an amused smirk with Rossi, and even Hotch shows the faintest hint of a smile. Now that's upsetting. He frowns.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we got him. We finally got him." Morgan stands up and does a little victory dance. Reid huffs rather childishly, and resists the urge to stomp his foot. No-one beats him at his own game.
"You didn't get me, Morgan. None of you did. I have an eidetic memory and I distinctly remember circling the last area at precisely seven thirteen p.m. Now, I must confess I wasn't counting the seconds, but seven thirteen is marginally different from seven thirty. So, no. You didn't win. I did. And I choose Italian." While everyone groans at Reid's dinner choice, Morgan maintains his I'm-unbelievably-pleased-with-myself look. And it is, quite frankly, unnerving. "What? What am I missing?"
"Everything, dear Spence. Everything." Morgan laughs, and one thing Reid can definitely tell from his friend's behaviour is that he is damn sure. And while Morgan is an all-around confident guy, he typically only displays that degree of sureness if he has undeniable proof of his victory. "What time, say you, did you finish your task?"
Reid rolls his eyes, torn between curious and irritated. "At seven thirteen, Morgan, as I-"
"Seven thirteen which were ascertained through which device, dear genius?"
"My wrist-watch, as you all know." Reid eyes the team expectantly, hoping to hear squeaks and gasps of surprise and acknowledgement of their miscalculations.
"Which, I'm sorry-not-sorry to say, got tampered with."
Well, that explains it. Reid stares incredulously at his friends, and starts reliving the afternoon in his mind. Hotch tasks him with the geo, as per usual. Prentiss lightly suggests they revive Reid's old game of betting on when the geo map is finished. Winner chooses dinner. Reid decides to go all-in, because he is craving Italian and knows Rossi will simply not abide by it – Italian take-out in the suburbs of Texas is a disgrace in every sense of the word. As he proudly announces he will be done at seven thirty, max, the remaining team members place the rest of their bets. But how…?
JJ.
Reid squints in JJ's direction, and her mischievous giggle is proof enough. "You sneaky little…"
"Sorry, Spence." Her expression, however, is everything but apologetic. She is outright grinning, clearly proud of her achievement. With one hand on her stomach, she is leaning against Hotch's chair. "I must admit it wasn't easy."
"You fixed my sleeve. And fixed my watch as a bonus. It must be, what, eight p.m. already?" He is now grinning right back at her. It gives him great pleasure to acknowledge a good trick, and JJ deserves the praise. "I'm impressed. I admit defeat. So… if not me, whose turn is it?"
Everyone looks around, and Hotch clears his throat. "Mine."
Well, there goes the Italian, the Turkish, the Thai, the Chinese… Reid sighs. Maybe someone will offer to go buy those five-minute pasta bowls, and be done with it. Hotch may be an impressive human being on many levels, but food-making or meal-choosing are domains that he simply does not excel at. There's no shame in that. There should, however, be a law forbidding him from deciding everyone's daily, and very necessary, intake of calories. He almost never chooses right.
But well, rules are rules.
"So, what's it gonna be?" Rossi asks, a rather funny – teasing? – look in his eyes as he leans back against the table. "I just ask that it not be Italian. I have not tasted, nor will I ever taste, Texan Italian." And the firmness in his voice is final, as if referring to a life or death situation. Prentiss snorts, and earns herself a playful slap in the back of her head.
Hotch just stares at everyone, as if deep in thought, but something in his unfocused gaze triggers Reid's investigative neurons. Subconsciously tilting his head to the side, he gasps as internally as he can muster: Hotch and JJ's pinky fingers are touching. Actually touching. And both their bodies are subconsciously – he hopes – angling towards one another. Hotch purses his lips and speaks lightly but firmly.
"Tacos."
And everyone is just as surprised as the young doctor and his investigative neurons. Or rather, his investigative neurons fail to provide him with a credible reaction other than an honest look of surprise, as they are still gathering and linking all the clues.
"C'mon, Hotch. I thought we agreed!" Morgan called out to Hotch's disappearing profile, as the older agent stepped out to order the tacos.
"Yeah… I nearly drooled on our way over here daydreaming of pork ribs… dipped in barbecue sauce… and a cold, cold beer." Prentiss sighed.
"Well, younglings, fair game is fair game." Rossi chuckles.
"But we had all agreed upon ribs. Ribs, Rossi. Not tacos."
"Stop whining, children." JJ stands up and playfully pinches Morgan's cheek. "If you behave, I promise I'll let you have chocolate for desert."
"Promise, Ma?" He flashes her a smile and she rolls his eyes, all but waddling to the bathroom.
"Hmm…"
"Something on your mind, kid?" Rossi is staring straight at Reid. Oops. Did his thinking finally get a voice of its own? Just smile and go full-geek, and hope Rossi-the-portable-lie-detector chooses to ignore the obvious signs.
"There's always something on my mind. In fact, even those who answer negatively to such a question like yours are guilty of an infinite paradox. Because while they do believe their minds are void of content at that precise moment, the mere fact that they are able to voice such an idea is indicative of something being on their minds." Clearing his throat uncomfortably at Rossi's raised eyebrow, he stood up to go get some air. "And that's it."
CM*CM*CM*CM
And how, pray tell, did an attempt at getting away to think in peace turn into an unfortunate situation of eavesdropping? Why, oh why can't they just look down the stairs and see him playing with his Rubik cube?
"Did you order already?" JJ's voice carries in the slight breeze, and Reid can almost feel the awkwardness – or something else entirely? – in her tone.
"Yes." Simple. Direct. And yet… there definitely is something different in Hotch's monosyllabic speech pattern… a little something that Reid can't quite figure out yet.
"Oh. I was hoping to catch you before you did. I know we all usually get the day's special, but I wanted…"
"Tomato, no onion, cucumber, lettuce, chips and pineapple."
Now Reid can undoubtedly hear JJ's stunned silence. "How…?"
Hotch chuckles. "I'm a profiler, JJ. I profile."
"You profiled that I, a girl who used to gag at the mere sight of pineapple, would want it in my taco?" She questions, torn between disbelief and amazement.
Hotch shrugs and Reid smiles to himself. Picturing gestures through words and tones of voices is kind of interesting. Maybe he should start watching the news with his back to the tv in order to further develop this new cool skill of his.
"It wasn't difficult. A few weeks back I noticed you started bringing sliced pineapple to go with your salad. And the following day you ate it while you drank hot chocolate. When I saw you eating it all by itself, though, was when I knew it. You crave pineapple. So…" He shrugs again and smiles sheepishly. "It wasn't difficult."
"No, I guess it wasn't." JJ smiles softly. "And the tacos…?"
"Back on the plane, you said you felt like having one. I was just, you know… trying to be considerate." Hotch clears his throat, and Reid is quite sure – sure enough to bet – that his eyes are focused on everything but JJ's.
"But I could have eaten ribs too. I know you don't particularly like tacos. Thank you." Through the corner of his eye, Reid sees JJ standing at the tip of her toes and kissing Hotch on the cheek.
For a taco. JJ kissed Hotch's cheek – a gesture usually reserved for a greeting, a job well done, or a display of affection – for a taco. Oh, and pineapple. JJ kissed their boss's cheek and smiles a very sweet smile because he profiled her, something that she always groaned at when any of the others attempted.
Now, Reid is unquestionably smart, and his intellect parallels no other as far as mortals are concerned. But the lengths a pregnant woman will go for tacos and pineapple slices is perplexing even for him.
Maybe he should call Garcia.
A/N: And there go two. Next one will be Morgan's point of view ;) read and review, let me know what you think. Also, I am Portuguese, so any mistakes you find, feel free to point them out, I really want to improve my English and I know some stuff are really difficult to get right unless you "live the language" on a daily basis.