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Chapter Text

David Rossi was concerned.

And that was putting it mildly.

It was 6:30 a.m. sharp, and the BAU’s private jet was prepped and ready to depart—but one person was conspicuously absent.

Aaron Hotchner.

That in itself wouldn’t usually cause this much tension. But Hotch wasn’t just late. He was never late. The man ran like clockwork, and the only other time he’d failed to show up without warning… he’d been stabbed half to death by Foyet.

Nobody had said it aloud, but the memory hung in the air like smoke. Rossi could see it in the subtle but telling ways his team tried not to panic. Penelope Garcia sat at her workstation, fingers flying over her keyboard at an uncharacteristically sharp, frantic rhythm. Derek Morgan kept checking his watch every few seconds, jaw clenched. Emily Prentiss was parked in front of the jet’s entrance, eyes glued to the stairs outside like she could will Hotch into view. JJ sat with the case file open in her lap, her eyes skimming the same paragraph over and over without really seeing it.

Rossi sipped his coffee. Bitter. Lukewarm. He muttered a quiet curse under his breath.

Then—

The plane’s door hissed open.

Every head snapped toward the entrance.

Aaron Hotchner stepped into the jet, suit immaculate as always, briefcase in one hand… and a small child perched confidently on his opposite hip.

The tension that had been building snapped like a taut wire.

The boy couldn’t have been more than three or four. His chestnut hair was slightly mussed, his hazel eyes wide and intelligent as they scanned the jet’s interior. In his arms, he clutched a large hardcover book—large enough that it dwarfed his tiny frame. Rossi couldn’t quite catch the title, but something about the cover told him it wasn’t exactly “Hop on Pop.”

Morgan opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Hotch calmly walked down the aisle, posture steady, and addressed the team without ceremony. “Everyone,” he said, voice level as ever, “this is my son. His name is Spencer.”

There was a full second of stunned silence before chaos erupted.

“You have a son?!” Prentiss blurted.

“Oh my God, he’s adorable!” Garcia squealed.

“You’ve just been hiding a whole child?” Morgan gaped.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” JJ asked, clearly torn between shock and awe.

Hotch held up a hand and, like magic, the noise ceased.

“We have a case to focus on,” he said simply. “I’ll answer questions when it’s over.”

With that, he moved to his seat, settling Spencer beside him. The boy clambered eagerly into his own chair, his book thumping onto the tabletop. Hotch placed his briefcase in the adjacent seat and slid a small, worn messenger bag from his shoulder, tucking it neatly beneath his feet.

“Remember what I told you?” Hotch asked, quiet enough that only Spencer could hear.

The boy nodded seriously, his legs swinging under the table. Rossi couldn’t help but smile—Spencer’s head barely peeked above the tabletop, his eyes bright with curiosity as he looked around the cabin.

“Hey, little guy,” Morgan said in a hushed tone, as if not to provoke Hotch’s disapproval. “Mind if I ask how old you are?”

Spencer didn’t hesitate. “Three and a half,” he replied just as quietly, but with a practiced precision. “Also, even while you’re whispering, my dad can still hear you. It’s not very effective. For a federal agent, you’re not very inconspicuous.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up, and then he let out a laugh, ruffling Spencer’s hair. “Well damn. You got me there, kiddo.”

“You should be paying attention to the briefing,” Spencer replied, the reprimand almost a perfect imitation of his father’s tone.

Morgan gave a mock salute. “Touché.”

Hotch didn’t even look up. “Garcia.”

The screen in front of them flickered to life as Penelope straightened up. “Yes, sir. Okay, Bridgewater, Florida. Local Girl, Abbey Kelton, 19.” She paused and glanced meaningfully at Spencer. “I’m not showing those pictures with a child on board, sir.”

Rossi watched out of the corner of his eye as Spencer leaned subtly toward Hotch’s open file. He didn’t get far—Hotch calmly flipped the folder closed with a glance.

Spencer sighed, resigned.

JJ picked up the thread. “She left her parents’ home to go to the local junior college and she never came home. Three days later, joggers found her- part of her- in a nearby park.”

Prentiss stared at the pictures. “What did that to her?”

“Bridgewater’s off of I-75, which is often referred to as Alligator Alley for reasons that are now apparent. Everything below the waist-” JJ glanced at Spencer, hesitating, before continuing, “-had been eaten.”

“Alligators didn’t slice off her fingers, slit her throat, or carve this into her chest.” Hotch reopened the file just enough to slide a photo across the table—again, careful to angle it away from Spencer.

“An inverted pentagram,” Morgan noted.

JJ chimed in. “Locals think it’s a satanic cult.’”

“Killer satanic cults don’t exist,” Prentiss countered. “They were debunked as a suburban myth.”

“Agent Rossi was the one who debunked them,” Spencer added without looking up from his book.

Every head turned.

Even Rossi blinked. “...Right,” Prentiss finally said, a bit sheepish. “Thanks, kid.”

Rossi glanced at Hotch, who gave the barest nod, a signal to let it slide.

“Cult or not, the killing was ritualized. This will turn serial if it hasn’t already,” Rossi said.

“So killer satanic cults don’t exist,” JJ added, “but satanic serial killers do?”

Rossi grinned. “Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.”

JJ squinted. “Oh, thanks for clearing that up.”

“Dante’s Inferno,” the toddler said brightly. “It means, ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.’”

“So that’s a yes.”

“A big yes.”

Rossi chuckled under his breath.

“But we never found any evidence of a killer satanic cult.” he said, shifting gears, “In reality, there are only 2 types of violent satanic criminals.”

But before he could continue, a small voice jumped in.

“Uh, type one-- teen Satanists assume the satanic identity to rebel. Minor crimes, theft and vandalism to churches, schools, symbols of authority. When combined with drugs and alcohol, they may turn violent.”

Rossi stared.

“Yes, in extreme cases, deadly. That was out of my book, word for word. ”

Spencer nodded solemnly. “I’ve read all of them.”

A long pause.

“Killings are accidental, usually resulting from their hobby getting out of control.” Spencer continued, “Killings won't turn serial-”

Hotch gently placed a hand over his son’s. “That’s enough for now.”

Spencer glanced up. “Sorry, Agent Rossi.”

“No, no, that was impressive,” Rossi said, genuinely stunned. “Didn’t know I had such a dedicated fan.”

The boy beamed.

Rossi leaned back in his seat, watching the pair with an unreadable expression. Hotch has a son. A genius of a son. And no one knew.

But then again… this was Aaron Hotchner.

Of course no one knew.

Rossi knocked twice on Hotch’s office door before easing it open.

The team had wrapped the case quicker than expected. As smooth as serial killer takedowns could go, anyway. It was rare for them to be back at Quantico by the following afternoon, but here they were—finishing up paperwork and closing out the final reports.

Hotch, predictably, had stayed behind to complete the last of the documentation himself.

Rossi stepped in, raising an eyebrow when he saw Spencer curled up on the leather couch, fast asleep. His head rested on a stack of books, an FBI jacket pulled over him like a blanket.

Rossi glanced from the boy to Hotch, and then back again.

“So… a son, huh?”

Hotch didn’t look up right away. He signed the last line of a report, capped his pen with a soft click, and finally met Rossi’s gaze.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Rossi leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Are you going to explain how Spencer became your son—and why you’ve kept him hidden from the team all this time—or do I need to drag it out of you like a confession?”

Hotch exhaled through his nose and stood, walking around his desk to the couch. He crouched down beside the boy, gently sliding an arm under Spencer to pull him into his lap. Spencer stirred but didn’t wake, instinctively nuzzling into the warmth, small fingers clutching the front of Hotch’s shirt.

“It was a couple of years ago,” Hotch began quietly. “I’d just gotten home after a particularly long case. I was exhausted, barely keeping it together. And then I found him. Just... there. Sitting on my front step. No note. No explanation. Just a newborn baby in a basket, with a thin blanket wrapped around him.”

Rossi's expression softened, eyes flicking briefly back to Spencer.

“He wasn’t mine—not biologically, anyway. I’d just been promoted to Unit Chief around the time he would’ve been conceived. My schedule was chaos, back-to-back cases. I didn’t have the time for a personal life.”

Hotch glanced down at the boy in his arms, brushing a loose curl from his forehead with unexpected tenderness. “But none of that mattered. I couldn’t send him into the system. I’ve seen what happens to kids who fall through the cracks. What kind of monsters they get handed over to. I couldn't take that risk—not with him.”

“So you adopted him,” Rossi said quietly.

“I did.” Hotch nodded. “Spencer Reid Hotchner.”

Rossi tilted his head. “And you kept him a secret from all of us for years?”

“I didn’t want to bring him into our world,” Hotch said, voice low. “I wanted to give him something normal—something safe. We see the worst of humanity, Dave. The depravity, the cruelty… I couldn’t stomach the thought of that touching him. And if anyone ever found out he was mine? I was afraid I’d be painting a target on his back. So I kept him out of sight, with my cousin Jessica.”

“Who knew about this?”

“Just her,” Hotch admitted. “She took care of him while I worked. She became his world, really. But yesterday she got an incredible offer—promotion, new role, out of state. I couldn't ask her to give that up. And I can’t trust just anyone to watch Spencer. Not with what we do. What we’ve seen. So… he’s staying. With us. For now.”

Rossi chuckled. “That explains why you two were late this morning.”

Hotch smiled faintly. “He was so excited he could barely eat. Kept asking a hundred questions a minute. Wanted to know if he’d get his own FBI badge, if he had to wear a suit, if he’d get to interrogate suspects.”

“God help us all,” Rossi muttered, smirking. “He already knows how to profile, doesn’t he?”

Hotch let out a short laugh. “Too well. I made the mistake of leaving one of your books out, actually. He devoured it in one hour and was asking me about forensic psychology over cereal the next morning. I didn’t even know he knew what that meant.”

“Of course he would,” Rossi said. “He’s you—just smaller and with better hair.”

Hotch gave him a flat look. “He broke into my home office to read case files, Dave. Jessica caught him flipping through autopsy reports like it was a picture book. I nearly had a heart attack. Took him to a psychiatrist. He insisted he wasn’t traumatized, said he could handle it. Quoted research papers to back himself up.”

“So what, you just gave in?”

“I compromised. He’s allowed to read the case files—no photos, no autopsies, nothing too graphic. And he has to talk to me if something bothers him.”

Rossi stepped closer, watching as Spencer snuggled deeper into Hotch’s arms and recalling some of Spencer’s ramblings from the previous day. “He’s different, Aaron. You can see it. Is he—?”

“A genius?” Hotch asked, arching a brow. “If he were awake, he’d tell you intelligence can’t be quantified by a single number. But yes—IQ of 187, eidetic memory, reads twenty thousand words a minute.”

“Figures. He clearly didn’t get it from you.”

Hotch snorted. “No, but he’s still mine.”

He looked down at Spencer again, something raw and unguarded softening his features.

“My little genius.”

Chapter Text

Emily Prentiss was impressed.

And not in the casual, “aw, that’s sweet” kind of way. She was genuinely stunned, the kind of impressed that made her pause mid-coffee sip and reassess everything she thought she knew about what a three-year-old was capable of. Because Spencer Reid Hotchner — tiny, cardigan-wearing, sippy-cup-holding Spencer — was standing on the tarmac at Quantico translating between Morgan and a very irritable French Interpol liaison as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The sun was just starting to rise, casting an amber glow across the airfield. The team had returned from a case at three a.m., but of course, paperwork still had to be filed, international coordination still had to happen, and now here was Interpol, frustrated about an allegedly missing report.

The French agent was pacing, speaking in clipped, rapid-fire French, voice raised just enough to make Morgan start to bristle.

“He says you sent the wrong file.” Spencer announced calmly from where he stood beside Morgan, fingers curled tightly around his purple sippy cup.

Emily had been standing just inside the loading ramp, rubbing her temple, when she looked up, surprised that Spencer knew French.

Morgan shot the kid a sideways look. “The wrong file? I sent that thing three times.”

Spencer gave a little shrug and turned back to the liaison. “Il dit qu’il l’a envoyé trois fois. Êtes-vous sûr que ce n’était pas un problème du serveur de votre côté?”

The child’s voice, so steady, so sure — and in perfect French — froze her in place.

The man’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Peut-être. Je vais vérifier. Merci, petit. Vous êtes bien plus compétent que la moitié de cette équipe.”

Spencer smiled, a little proud, a little sheepish. Then, helpfully, turned to Morgan and relayed, “He said he’ll check his server. And that I’m more competent than half your team.”

Morgan choked on his own laughter and patted Spencer’s head. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

Emily leaned against the wall of the plane, crossing her arms, smiling to herself. She’d known the kid was smart. But this? This wasn’t just precocious. This was genius.

The second time Emily was graced to hear Spencer speak another language, it was Italian.

She found herself surprised yet again — which, given her high bar for amazement, was saying something.

It was pasta night at Rossi’s place, a tradition Emily adored mostly for the wine, the homemade marinara, and the way it allowed the team to just be together without the shadow of a case hanging over them. Spencer had claimed a seat right beside the kitchen island, feet swinging high above the floor, a cloth napkin tied around his neck like a miniature cape. He was carefully, almost reverently, twirling spaghetti around a spoon. Rossi had just passed him a second helping, and the kid’s face lit up.

“Grazie,” he chirped brightly, then paused, chewing slowly. He cocked his head thoughtfully and turned to Rossi. “Hai usato origano fresco questa volta, vero? Lo posso sentire. È diverso dalla settimana scorsa.”

Rossi blinked. “L’hai notato? Bravo, ragazzo. Sì, l’ho preso stamattina al mercato.”

Emily’s jaw slackened, knowing enough of Spanish to understand what had just been spoken. “Did he just… identify fresh oregano?”

Rossi beamed. “Yes. And correctly. I knew I tasted a difference but I thought I was imagining it.”

“È molto meglio,” Spencer added, nodding sagely. “Less bitter.”

“Okay, but how?” Emily asked, finally sliding into a seat beside Hotch. “How does he know oregano flavor profiles in Italian?”

Hotch simply sipped his wine. “He’s been reading my old cookbooks. And memorizing them.”

Emily looked back at Spencer, who was now humming softly in Italian and wiping his mouth like a tiny food critic.

“I genuinely don’t know if I want to cry or hire him.”

The third time it was Russian.

Spencer appeared in the bullpen clutching a thick book titled Русские фильмы и философия науки — Russian Films and the Philosophy of Science. Prentiss raised an eyebrow as he set it on her desk.

“Solaris,” he said dramatically. “They’re showing it tonight.”

She blinked. “Spencer?”

“Agent Prentiss, you are not going to believe this.” His eyes sparkled. “They’re screening the original Solaris in theaters.”

Prentiss narrowed her eyes, remembering how Morgan was bothering her earlier in the day, thinking that she was being weird. “Did Morgan put you up to this?”

“What? No! Agent Morgan wouldn’t even know what Solaris is.”

“So… you just wanted to invite me to watch a movie out of the blue?”

He shrugged. “It’s in Russian. You and I are the only ones who’ll really appreciate it.”

“Isn’t Solaris like four hours long?”

“Five,” he corrected. “It’s the greatest sci-fi meditation film ever made. They never show it. You wanna go with me?”

“Yea, why not… and thank you.” Because despite never being willing to admit it to Morgan or the rest of the team, she had been having a bad day.

“For what?”

“For being you.”

Spencer tilted his head. “I don’t really know how to be anyone else.”

“That’s what I love about you.”

That night, Hotch dropped them off in front of the theater. Prentiss held Spencer’s hand while he clutched his sippy cup.

“They start with the long pan of the space station,” he whispered excitedly. “It lasts seventeen minutes. No dialogue.”

She smiled. “My kind of movie.”

And that was how she found herself, popcorn in hand, seated next to Spencer at an arthouse theater later that night as black-and-white Russian dialogue filled the dark. He explained symbolism to her in a whisper and fell asleep on her shoulder halfway through the last act, snoring quietly into her sleeve.

And honestly? She didn’t mind one bit.

The fourth time Emily heard Spencer speak another language it was German.

It was supposed to be a simple consultation. A string of arsons, a few victim interviews, and some coordination with the local PD in Pittsburgh. Nothing fancy. Definitely not something that should have involved three-year-old Spencer Reid Hotchner navigating a German-speaking janitor and solving a facilities failure — but here they were.

The fire suppression panel in the precinct’s operations room had started blaring randomly. Officers were scrambling, two agents were on the phone with building engineers, and a flustered maintenance worker with a thick Bavarian accent was trying to explain the issue to a tech who barely understood English, let alone German.

Emily watched as the janitor grew more frustrated, gesturing at the wiring diagram with one hand and clutching a set of tools in the other.

“Does anyone here speak German?” the tech muttered helplessly.

And before Emily could even think to intervene, a tiny voice piped up behind her.

“I do.”

She turned.

Spencer stood in the doorway of the ops room, holding his sippy cup in one hand, his dad's FBI jacket comically large on his shoulders. He walked forward, confident and small, like it wasn’t weird at all for a toddler to offer his services in federal translation.

The janitor spotted him and blinked. “Du sprichst Deutsch?”

“Ja,” Spencer said, nodding. “Was ist los?”

The man launched into a rapid explanation, pointing to the circuit board.

Spencer nodded along, then turned back to the tech. “He says the emergency shutoff was tripped when they installed the new radio tower upstairs. It overloaded the panel. He can fix it, but someone has to cut the power to the sub-relay or it might fry the backup system.”

The tech gawked. “How—?”

Spencer shrugged. “He told me.”

Emily couldn’t help it. She stepped beside Hotch, who’d appeared silently next to her with the long-suffering but proud dad look she’d grown to love. “You brought him here just to show off, didn’t you?”

Hotch sipped his coffee. “No. But it keeps happening anyway.”

The tech followed Spencer’s translation, cut the power, and within seconds, the panel lights stopped blinking red.

The janitor grinned and gave Spencer a thumbs-up. “Sehr gut gemacht, junger Mann.”

Spencer smiled and responded, “Danke. Ich liebe Schaltkreise.”

The janitor walked off, shaking his head in amazement, and Spencer turned back to the group, sipping his juice like nothing had happened.

“I’m gonna go sit with Agent JJ now,” he said, already headed down the hall.

Emily just watched him go. “I swear to God, if that child teaches himself Morse code next week…”

“He already did,” Hotch said.

And Emily could only nod, because of course he had.

Spanish was the fifth time Emily heard him speak another language.

They were in Los Angeles, working a case involving arson attacks on small businesses. One of their only witnesses — a young woman named Marisol — had been too terrified to talk. The officers had tried, JJ had tried, even the translator from the local field office had tried — but the woman had curled into herself and refused to say more than a few panicked words in Spanish.

Until Spencer showed up.

Emily had been standing just outside the conference room when she saw him wander in, holding a juice pouch in one hand and his “I’m With the FBI (Kind Of)” badge on a lanyard around his neck (courtesy of Garcia).

Hotch had trailed behind him, sighing but not stopping him.

“Hola,” Spencer said softly, approaching Marisol like she was a scared animal. “¿Tienes miedo? Está bien. A veces yo también tengo miedo.”

Marisol blinked, startled by the child’s presence. “¿Quién eres tú?”

“Soy Spencer. Tengo cuatro años. Ayudo a mi papá con los malos.” He paused, then added earnestly, “No soy un policía. Solo quiero escuchar.”

And somehow, impossibly, it worked.

Marisol’s tense shoulders dropped. Her eyes welled with tears, and she nodded.

What followed was maybe five minutes of the gentlest, most disarmingly competent child-to-adult conversation Emily had ever witnessed. Spencer’s voice remained soft, and every now and then he’d glance back at his dad for reassurance — but he kept going.

When it was over, Spencer walked out of the room like nothing had happened, sipping the rest of his juice.

“She saw a man with a tattoo on his neck and a black pickup truck outside the bodega,” he told them. “She didn’t want to talk to the other people because they looked like cops and it made her feel like she’d done something wrong.”

Emily stared at him. “How many languages do you speak now?”

Spencer shrugged. “A lot.”

She looked at Hotch. “You’re raising a genius.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “I’m just trying to keep him out of interrogation rooms.”

Spencer beamed, handing his empty juice pouch to Emily like he was doing her a favor. “I like talking to people. Sometimes they just need someone small and non-threatening to listen.”

She took the pouch, smiling down at him. “Well, you listened perfectly.”

And as he trotted off to find JJ, Emily just shook her head.

Three years old. He’d cracked a witness, comforted a stranger, and translated a case-critical lead — all before lunchtime.

Because of course he did.

Chapter Text

Penelope Garcia was ecstatic.

Not the regular kind of excited. Not even “new-limited-edition-Funko-arrival” kind of excited. She was full-tilt, heart-sparkling, all-caps ECSTATIC. Because that week, a miracle had occurred in the form of Spencer Reid Hotchner—who had toddled into the BAU conference room, tiny hands full of homemade construction paper invitations, and quietly, shyly, asked each of them if they would come to his birthday party.

No one could breathe for a second.

He walked up first to JJ—because in Spencer logic, she was safest, softest, the most mom-adjacent—and tugged gently on her sleeve. “I’m going to be four,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Will you come?”

JJ had clutched her heart like she’d been shot. “Of course I’ll come, sweetheart.”

Then he’d wandered to Morgan, holding out the slightly wrinkled red card with a sticker that said ‘You're Invited!’ on the front. “You don’t have to bring a present,” he added very seriously. “But you can if you want.”

Morgan had crouched down right then and there and hugged the kid. “You bet I’m coming, little man.”

By the time Spencer made it to Penelope—holding a glittery purple envelope with a tiny sparkly owl sticker on the flap—she was already misty-eyed. “I saved yours for last,” he said quietly. “It has sparkles.”

She squeaked, accepted it like it was made of gold, and promised she’d be there early.

Hotch had stood at the door the whole time, arms folded, trying—and failing—to hide the smile curling at the edge of his mouth. When Spencer ran up to him afterward, proud and relieved that he’d done it, Hotch leaned down and said, “You were very brave.”

Spencer nodded like he’d just completed an elite mission. And, in a way, he had.

So now, here they were. On a bright Saturday afternoon in Hotch’s backyard, surrounded by black and gold balloons, picnic tables filled with apple juice boxes, and a banner that screamed in bold FBI-approved font: HAPPY 4TH BIRTHDAY, SPENCER!

And there in the middle of it all stood Spencer. Four years old and dressed like the world’s tiniest profiler. He wore a little black suit jacket over a t-shirt, Converse sneakers on his feet, and—oh sweet starlight—an actual FBI badge with Spencer’s adorable smiling face in the top left hand corner. His curls were fluffed from too much excitement, and his cheeks were flushed from running around trying to make sure everyone had a juice box.

Penelope’s heart did something ridiculous and possibly illegal.

“You look so official, sweetpea!” she cooed, kneeling down with the sparkliest gift bag this side of Quantico.

Spencer lit up like a sunbeam. “I match my dad,” he said with quiet pride, presenting his badge that was clipped to his front pocket. “And this is my real badge.”

Hotch, who was standing nearby doing his best to pretend he wasn’t secretly the proudest father in the world, raised an eyebrow. “It gives him access to exactly two break rooms in Quantico.”

“And the vending machine hallway,” Spencer corrected solemnly.

Penelope laughed, absolutely charmed out of her skull. “Don’t undersell yourself, baby genius. That’s prime clearance.”

She made a mental note to hack into the FBI card access database and give her little boy wonder access to everything. (If there were no rules against it, then it probably wasn’t illegal. And if she never read the FBI Handbook, then there were no rules against it.)

The gifts piled up quickly—science kits from Prentiss (with real safety goggles because safety first), an illustrated Little Prince from JJ that nearly made Hotch teary-eyed, and approximately eight books from Rossi. “Starter set,” he claimed, as if any child needed a starter set on criminology and ancient civilizations. Penelope herself handed over a custom sippy cup that shimmered with gold foil letters reading: CUTEST PROFILER. Spencer examined it like it was the Ark of the Covenant and then asked, very politely, if it was dishwasher safe.

Then came Morgan’s gift. He sauntered in with a swagger and a huge box and announced, “Time to make it official.”

Inside was a perfectly tailored mini FBI field jacket. The real kind. The kind agents wore on raids. Except toddler-sized. Penelope actually gasped, hands to heart. Spencer’s eyes went round with awe.

Morgan knelt to help him into it, straightening the sleeves like he was bestowing a knighthood. “You’re one of us now, lil man.”

Spencer looked like he might vibrate out of his shoes.

Penelope nearly passed out.

The party moved on to games, where it became quickly apparent that Spencer was the reigning champion. He trounced everyone at trivia, beat JJ at “Guess the Suspect,” and even recited parts of Rossi’s books word-for-word, causing Rossi to nearly spit out his lemonade. Hotch just shook his head and sipped his coffee like this was normal.

Then came the sports. Because Morgan insisted that no “junior agent” left the party without learning something about throwing a ball.

He handed Spencer a foam football. “Okay, genius. No thinking. Just vibes. You feel it and you throw it.”

Spencer frowned deeply. “But wind resistance—”

“Nope.”

“Should I calculate the angle—”

“Nope.”

Spencer sighed and lobbed the ball gently. It hit Hotch square in the back.

There was a beat of stunned silence—and then Penelope burst out laughing so hard she had to sit down.

Spencer scrunched up his face. “I feel like sports are poorly optimized for people who enjoy physics.”

“You’re doin’ great,” Morgan said, trying not to laugh. “Just give it another shot. You have to feel it!”

“I’m feeling pretty stupid!”

Spencer tried again, and again, and ended up saying something that made Morgan chase Spencer around in circles across the lawn. Five wide loops. Arms out. Football in hand. Until his tiny legs gave out and he plopped directly into his dad’s lap.

Hotch caught him without blinking, settling him gently against his chest. Spencer’s eyes fluttered, his arms wrapped around his dad’s tie, and before long, he was fast asleep—jacket bunched, badge poking out of his pocket, face soft with the glow of birthday joy and apple juice.

JJ snapped a photo.

Penelope leaned against the fence, watching the moment unfold like the final scene of a perfect movie.

Rossi handed her a drink. “Frame it?”

“I’m going to blow it up poster-sized.”

The team stayed for a while longer—helping clean up, stealing one more slice of cake, whispering in low voices while Spencer dozed in Hotch’s arms. It wasn’t just a birthday. It was something else. Something softer. A reminder that even in the midst of darkness and violence and endless files on terrible people, there were still days like this. Days of sparkle cups and foam footballs. Days where their family—this strange, stitched-together, trauma-bonded team—got to breathe.

Spencer’s birthday party was more than cupcakes and gifts. It was the proof that the boy Hotch loved so fiercely was loved just as fiercely by all of them.

And Penelope Garcia was happy.

Because even in the mess and madness of the world, this little boy—this baby profiler—had made all of them remember what it felt like to come home.

And that?

That was everything.

Chapter Text

JJ was nervous.

Not the work kind of nervous. Not the “interviewing a grieving family member” or “stepping in front of a national news camera” kind of nervous. Not the kind of nervous that came with kicking down doors or giving press conferences. No, this was a deeper, more personal kind of nerves—the “what if I’m not ready to be a mom?” kind of nervous.

This was babysitting.

To be fair, it wasn’t just any toddler she and Will were watching—it was Spencer Reid Hotchner, four and a half years old, complete with sweater vest, messenger bag, and a level of vocabulary that could outpace the average congressional hearing.

It had been Hotch’s idea.

“I know you’ve been kind of nervous about the whole being a parent thing so I think it would be good practice,” he’d said over coffee one morning at Quantico. “Spencer could use a change of pace, and with the baby coming soon…”

JJ remembered smiling, maybe a little too brightly. “Of course! Great idea. Totally. Practice.”

Now, two weeks from her due date, JJ stood in the living room watching the child prodigy reorganize her bookshelf by the Dewey Decimal system. He had brought his own notecards. Color-coded.

Will emerged from the kitchen with two PB&J sandwiches—one cut diagonally for Spencer—and paused mid-step. “I feel like we’re not even babysitting. More like hosting a very small visiting professor.”

JJ nodded slowly. “I think he actually corrected me when I said ‘reading nook.’ He said, and I quote, ‘It’s an independent analysis space, Agent JJ.’”

Spencer looked up from the shelf and nodded seriously. “Terminology shapes perception.”

They tried playing with blocks.

Spencer used them to build a miniature replica of the BAU offices. Including Hotch’s desk. And Prentiss’s chair. And Garcia’s “technological command center,” labeled with a sticky note.

Will leaned over and muttered, “Did he just build a tiny coffee pot?”

JJ squinted. “I think that’s Rossi’s espresso machine.”

They tried finger painting. Spencer created a visual model of the solar system using Crayola finger paints and labeled each planet with its corresponding rotational period.

At snack time, he declined cookies because of “glycemic impact” and requested apple slices arranged by firmness and sugar content. He thanked them both politely, then asked if he could pair it with exactly 3.2 ounces of peanut butter for optimal protein.

At one point, Spencer wandered into the nursery and stood silently, taking in the crib, the mobile, the stack of baby books by the glider.

“You’re going to be really good at this,” he said, turning to JJ, sincere and direct in that way only little kids and seasoned profilers knew how to be. “You’ll be a good mom.”

JJ blinked quickly. “Thanks, Spence.”

“I memorized the delivery manuals,” he added, completely serious. “Just in case you go into labor in the field. I know how to check for complications and I have gloves in my satchel.”

Will choked on a sip of water.

“You… memorized what?” JJ asked gently.

Spencer nodded, already walking back toward the living room. “All of them. And a neonatal resuscitation chart. Just to be prepared. Statistically, unplanned deliveries occur in 12.9% of first pregnancies.”

Later, as they sat down for dinner—Spencer having selected steamed broccoli, sweet potato wedges, and “not-too-hot” chamomile tea—JJ leaned toward Will, fork in hand.

“This probably isn’t helping us prepare at all.”

Will snorted. “Why? Because he asks more politely than most grown men I know and uses ‘photosynthesis’ in casual conversation?”

JJ raised her eyebrows. “Will. He reorganized our spice cabinet alphabetically and by flavor profile while I was in the bathroom.”

“Well, you were the one who wanted practice.”

“I wanted to learn about naps and spit-up, not how to spell ‘cardamom.’”

But secretly, she was smiling.

After dinner, they all settled on the couch for a movie. JJ pulled out Finding Nemo, thinking it would be a safe, sweet, low-key choice. Spencer sat quietly for all of ten minutes before saying, “You know, clownfish change sex in response to their environment. This film’s depiction of family dynamics is biologically inaccurate.”

Will put a pillow over his face and groaned. “We’re going to have to raise Henry like a normal kid, aren’t we?”

JJ laughed, curling up next to him as Spencer went back to drawing orbital diagrams on his napkin.

Eventually, bath time rolled around again. Spencer gave a detailed, uninterrupted explanation of water displacement and the surface tension of soap bubbles while brushing his own hair.

When it was time for bed, JJ tucked him into the guest bed, pulling the blanket (with tiny FBI badges, courtesy of Garcia) up to his chin.

“Agent JJ?” he asked as she adjusted the pillow.

“Yeah?”

“If I ever have a little brother or sister, will I get to teach them things?”

JJ leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Of course you will. You’re going to be the best big brother someone could ask for.”

Spencer smiled, his eyes fluttering closed. “Then I’m going to write my own manual. A really good one. For babies and stuff. With diagrams.”

JJ watched him drift off, breathing even and soft. His badge was on the nightstand, next to a sippy cup labeled “Cutest Profiler.” He looked impossibly small and impossibly wise, wrapped up in a blanket of contradictions and brilliant facts and heart.

Later that night, curled up on the couch in the quiet after bedtime, JJ rested her head on Will’s shoulder and sighed.

“Well, that wasn’t the test run I expected,” she said with a soft laugh.

“No,” Will agreed, “but I feel like we’re walking away smarter.”

“We might not know what to do with a crying baby yet.”

“But we do know the periodic table. And why the moon doesn’t have an atmosphere.”

JJ smiled. “And that we’re gonna be okay.”

They sat in silence for a while, until a tiny voice from down the hall called out:

“JJ, your magnesium supplements are on the counter. And you’re due for a hydration break.”

JJ shook her head and laughed.

Of course.

Chapter Text

Derek Morgan was done.

He had survived serial killers. He had walked through burning buildings, tackled armed suspects, and gone days without sleep. He’d once been tied to a chair by a psychopath who used piano wire as an interrogation method and walked out of it with nothing but a bruised jaw and a cracked rib.

But none of that—not one moment—prepared him for the mental warfare of being locked in a prank war with a four-year-old genius.

It had started with rubber ducks.

That should’ve been the warning sign. Morgan had opened his locker one morning to grab his gear and instead got an avalanche of tiny rubber ducks. Hundreds of them. Some were themed—one wore a lab coat, another a tiny FBI hat, and there were even a few vampire ducks. They tumbled out in a bright yellow flood, bouncing across the floor, and to add insult to injury, a speaker fell from the top shelf and played the “Jaws” theme.

It was subtle.

Too subtle.

He should’ve known right then it was Spencer Reid Hotchner.

But he hadn’t. He’d assumed Garcia or even Prentiss was responsible. It wasn’t until he found Spencer in the bullpen later that day, calmly sipping from a “World’s Smallest Profiler” mug and meticulously aligning a new army of rubber ducks along his father’s office windowsill, that he realized the truth.

“You started this,” Morgan muttered under his breath, ducking into Hotch’s office.

Spencer didn’t even look up. “I simply initiated a series of events with an anticipated retaliatory pattern. Statistically speaking, you were going to escalate.”

Morgan leaned down, eyes narrowed. “You better sleep with one eye open, kid.”

Spencer looked up slowly, blinked innocently, and said, “That seems uncomfortable and inefficient. But I appreciate your concern.”

And just like that, it was war.

It escalated quickly.

Morgan replaced all of Spencer’s crayons with slightly different shades of the same color. “Enjoy drawing your statistical graphs in eighty-seven variants of beige,” he whispered.

Spencer, in retaliation, rewired Morgan’s iPad so it autocorrected “case notes” to “unicorn diary” and turned all contact names into SpongeBob characters.

“Why is Garcia’s name ‘Squidward’ now?” Morgan asked out loud.

“She’s grumpy when people use the wrong tech platforms,” Spencer explained mildly. “Seemed appropriate.”

Hotch offered no help. When Morgan looked to him for some kind of discipline or parental authority, the man simply sipped his coffee and said, “You knew what you were getting into.”

“He’s four,” Morgan snapped.

“He’s four with two security badges and Garcia on speed dial.”

Fair point.

At one point, the entire team was caught in the crossfire. Spencer hacked the conference room screen and replaced the PowerPoint for the latest case debriefing with a meme slideshow titled “Profilers: Before Coffee vs. After Caffeine Dependency.”

The after included only pictures of Morgan looking rather unfortunate.

Prentiss laughed so hard she snorted coffee through her nose. JJ choked on her granola bar. Rossi just walked out of the room muttering something about moving to Tuscany permanently.

One day, Morgan found his office chair slowly sinking mid-interview with a junior agent. The hydraulics had been tampered with. The agent had to crouch awkwardly just to maintain eye contact.

Spencer, watching from the doorway with a juice box in hand, waved cheerfully.

Morgan chased him around the building for an hour after that. And still didn’t catch him. He didn’t have access to some of the rooms.

It was getting out of control. The child had turned Quantico into his personal prank battlefield, and no one—not even the unit chief—was immune.

Hotch returned from a briefing one day to find his entire desk wrapped in tin foil. Chair, pens, stapler, even his laptop.

Spencer sat beside it, looking entirely too pleased. “It’s a conceptual study in reflective surfaces and cognitive distortion.”

Hotch paused. “Where did you even get this much foil?”

“I requisitioned it.”

“You’re four.”

“Garcia said she couldn’t not help me. I asked politely.”

That night, Morgan made a plan. A real one. A professional one. Complete with maps, schedules, and a decoy stuffed duck.

It was time to strike back.

He bided his time. Waited until Spencer was at his most vulnerable—naptime. Spencer had claimed one of the side offices and turned it into a fortress of solitude, complete with a throw blanket, three pillows, and a “do not disturb unless you have snacks” sign on the door.
Morgan tiptoed in with his weapon of choice: a whipped cream canister and a feather boa.

He was ten seconds away from mustache glory when Spencer, eyes still closed, whispered, “Hi, Agent. Morgan.”

Morgan froze mid-whipped-cream-squirt. “How— You are supposed to be taking a nap. That’s not normal.”

“I'm actually wide awake, but for future reference, polyphasic sleep is completely natural, quite common in the animal world, and highly beneficial.”

Morgan scowled. “I meant you, pretending to be asleep. That’s cheating.”

“No, that’s preparation.” Spencer rolled over. “And I wouldn’t use the boa. Too cliché.”

Morgan slunk out in defeat.

He tried to vent to Garcia, but she was no longer neutral. She had switched alliances completely.

“He calls me his accomplice,” she said proudly, clicking away at her keyboard. “He’s written a list of twenty-seven other pranks he’s planning. I’m helping him run simulations on efficiency and success probability.”

“I thought you were my baby girl.”

“I am,” she said. “But he’s the baby boy. I contain multitudes.”

That very afternoon, Morgan walked into the gym, trying to de-stress. He put on his headphones, queued up his favorite workout playlist, and zoned out.

Then the voice hit.

“We interrupt your regularly scheduled musical selection with an important announcement,” came Spencer’s voice, smooth and smug. “Never wage a practical joke war against a certified genius with root-level access to your audio devices. Now sit back, relax, and enjoy the dulcet sounds of me screaming in your ear.”

A long, high-pitched “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” followed.

Morgan nearly dropped the dumbbell.

The next morning, he got into his car, turned the key, and instead of the engine starting, the speakers crackled.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

His phone rang in the office, from a supposed Penelope Garcia. “Hey, baby gir—AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The “scream attacks” became regular.

In his locker. His voicemail. Even piped through the intercom at the Quantico café.

Morgan stomped into the bullpen, fuming, as the team looked up from their work.

“This child is diabolical,” he announced.

“Welcome to the resistance,” Rossi said, lifting his espresso. “He put juice in my cologne. I smelled like blueberries for a week.”

“He rerouted all my outgoing calls through a text-to-speech filter,” Prentiss muttered. “My mother thought I was being held hostage by a malfunctioning GPS.”

“I’m scared to leave my desk,” JJ whispered.

Morgan sighed, turned, and found Spencer curled up on the couch, sound asleep with his juice box held loosely in one hand, wearing his “Future FBI Director” hoodie.

And then—like a horror movie jump scare—his phone buzzed.

Another message.

From: Baby Genius
Subject: Payback

Morgan opened it, considering running it through a virus checker.

It was a video.

Spencer’s recorded voice began: “Just in case you needed a reminder of who you’re dealing with...”

Cut to a clip of Morgan, from earlier that week, singing into a Sharpie like a microphone in the break room.

There was choreography.

And backup dancers. (Garcia and JJ.)

Morgan closed the video and put his head in his hands.

Spencer snored gently on the couch.

David Rossi, watching from across the room, raised a white napkin in silent surrender.

Morgan took a deep breath, stood up, and crossed the bullpen. He leaned over the couch and poked Spencer gently on the shoulder.

The boy stirred, eyes fluttering open.

“Mmm?”

Morgan said calmly, “Uh-uh. All right, Spencer. It’s on. Just know that paybacks are a bitch.”

Spencer blinked sleepily. “Mmmkay.”

Then rolled over and snored again.

Morgan turned around.

And started plotting.

War was hell.

Especially when your enemy was four years old and already smarter than you.

Chapter Text

Aaron Hotchner was terrified.

No—terrified didn’t even begin to cover it. There were thousands of better words, more precise definitions for what he was feeling, but none of them were available to him now. His mind, usually sharp and surgical, was flooded—drowned—by one singular thought.

His son was in danger.

His baby boy was inside the police station—with a killer.

Not just any killer. Owen Savage had been profiled as a school shooter, the spree-type, the kind who went in expecting to die, and determined to take as many people with him as possible. He wanted revenge, to avenge perceived wrongs. The only reason he hadn’t killed everyone and himself yet was because of his girlfriend.

Spencer—his sweet, brilliant, four-year-old son—was alone in that building with him.

Hotch’s hands were shaking. He tightened them on the steering wheel, as if sheer willpower could force the fear back down.

If Spencer were here—if he were safely beside him—he’d probably be rattling off statistics about survival rates, about human behavior under stress, about how empathy could de-escalate even the most dangerous confrontations. But right now, there was nothing logical in Hotch’s mind. Nothing rational. Just fear. Pure and unfiltered.

Because Spencer—his everything—was going to die.

They had arrived too late at the ranch. Owen was already gone. They thought he’d gone to his mother’s grave, but that had been a dead end.

Then the call came.

Prentiss’s voice had been low and grim over the comms: “He’s coming to the station.”

Hotch’s stomach dropped.

Apparently, Spencer—Spencer—had spoken to Jordan about the necklace Owen had stolen. And somehow, through his quiet, uncanny insight, Spencer had figured out what the rest of them missed:

Owen wasn’t running.

He was returning.

To bring Jordan the necklace.

To say goodbye.

And now he was walking into a building full of armed officers and federal agents while carrying an assault rifle.

“Everyone stay back,” Hotch barked through the earpiece, slamming his foot harder on the gas pedal, though the SUV couldn’t go any faster. Any wrong move—any sudden shift—could send Owen into a panic. A single shot could turn into dozens. One wrong word, one twitch of a finger, and Spencer could be—

No. Don’t think it. Don’t.

Then Hotch heard it.

Over the line, clear as day.

“Owen, I don't have a gun. My name is Spencer. I'm not with the FBI or the police. I'm here to help you.”

Hotch’s heart stopped.

His vision tunneled. He could feel Morgan and Rossi’s eyes on him from the backseat, but he couldn’t speak.

“Stay back!” Owen’s voice, shaky, angry. Teetering.

Spencer, please…

“I know the only reason you joined the team was for your father,” Spencer said, voice calm and impossibly gentle. “I know he blamed you for what happened.”

“Stay back! Right where you are!”

“I also know the only reason you killed Rod Norris and Kyle Borden was to protect Jordan. I know the harder you tried, the worse it got. And it felt like everyone just stood there… watching you suffer. No one even tried to help.”

“They didn’t,” Owen whispered. “They didn’t.”

Hotch squeezed his eyes shut. His little boy was standing inches away from a gunman—and he wasn’t backing down.

“What is he doing?” Morgan murmured from beside him.

“He’s trying to save him,” Hotch said hoarsely. He’s trying to save them both.

“I know you want to escape. To forget. Believe me—I know exactly how that feels,” Spencer continued. “But you don’t have to die, Owen.”

“No,” Owen choked out. “No, I’m already dead.”

“No, you’re not. If you die, you’re going to leave Jordan just like your mom left you. I know you don’t want that. Do you?”

Another pause. Then Owen’s voice again, quieter.

“Okay. Okay. Bring her to me, all right? Bring her to me.”

“I can’t bring her to you, Owen. But if you put the gun down, I swear—I swear to God—I’ll take you to her. I promise. No one will hurt you. You’ll say goodbye to her. You’ll give her the necklace. Okay? So what do you say…? Let’s put the gun down.”

And then—

Silence.

A crushing, unbearable silence.

Hotch didn’t even remember turning off the engine when they reached the station. He barely managed to put the car in park before he was out of the SUV and running.

He stormed through the front doors of the station, panic clawing at his throat.

Then he saw him.

Spencer.

Sitting exactly where Hotch had left him.

Whole. Unharmed.

So small, with that ever-serious expression on his face, cardigan slightly askew, book still tucked by his side.

And in that moment, Hotch’s knees nearly gave out.

He crossed the room in seconds, dropped to his knees, and pulled Spencer into a tight, desperate hug.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again. Do you hear me?” he whispered harshly, voice thick with emotion.

Spencer froze for a second, then leaned into him.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” he mumbled, voice muffled in Hotch’s shoulder. “He wasn’t going to hurt me. He only wanted revenge. I’m not the FBI. I’m not the police. I’m just a kid. He wasn’t going to hurt me.”

“But you don’t know that, okay?” Hotch pulled back enough to hold his son’s face in his hands. He reached back down to gently smooth out Spencer’s damp cardigan. Only then did Hotch realize he was crying. “You didn’t know what he would do. You could’ve been—” He stopped himself. “Next time, you leave it to the adults. Understand?”

Spencer hesitated. Then, in a barely audible voice, said, “They would’ve just shot him. And then we all would’ve died.”

Hotch shut his eyes.

He’s not wrong.

But that didn’t make it easier.

“You did good today,” Hotch whispered finally, voice raw. “You did something no one else could. You were brave. You were brilliant. I’m proud of you.”

Then, fiercely: “But never again, okay? Never like this. Promise me.”

Spencer nodded, fingers fisting in his father’s suit jacket. “I promise.”

And Hotch just held him.

Tightly.

Desperately.

Like he would never let him go again.

The jet hummed softly beneath them, the low rumble of its engines blending with the rustle of papers, the occasional clack of a keyboard, and the deep, collective exhaustion that had settled over the team.

It was dark outside. The world beyond the windows was nothing but endless black, broken only by a few distant stars.

Inside, the lights were dimmed low. Most of the team sat in silence—Prentiss thumbing through a report she wasn’t really reading, Morgan leaned back with his eyes closed and arms crossed, Rossi nursing a bourbon with a contemplative frown.

Hotch sat near the back, still in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. One arm was around Spencer, who was curled against his side under a blanket, head on his chest. The boy had finally fallen asleep, his breathing deep and steady, his small hand loosely holding onto his dad’s shirt.

He looked peaceful.

But Hotch hadn’t relaxed since they boarded the jet.

Every few minutes, his eyes flicked down to Spencer as if to make sure he was still there. Still safe. Still breathing.

He hadn't said much since they left the station. Not because he didn’t have words—but because he didn’t trust his voice to get them out.

Rossi sank into the seat across from him. “He okay?”

Hotch didn’t look up. “He’s fine. Just tired.”

“Yeah,” Rossi said gently. “So are you.”

Hotch exhaled through his nose. “He shouldn’t have been there.”

“No,” Rossi agreed. “But he was. And he saved that boy’s life. Probably saved a lot of lives.”

Hotch’s jaw tensed. “He’s four, Dave.”

Rossi’s gaze softened. “Four… with a memory like a recording device, a brain like a supercomputer, and a moral compass stronger than most grown men I’ve met. The kid’s not normal, Aaron. You know that.”

“I do,” Hotch whispered. He looked down again, brushing a strand of hair off Spencer’s forehead. “I just don’t want him to think this is expected of him.”

“It’s not,” Rossi said. “But you can’t un-teach compassion. He didn’t do it because he thought it was his job. He did it because no one else could reach Owen, and he knew it.”

Hotch swallowed hard.

“I keep replaying it in my head,” he said quietly. “His voice over the comms. ‘I’m not with the FBI or the police.’ Like he knew exactly what to say. Like he—like he wasn’t afraid.”

His voice faltered at the end.

He hadn’t admitted it out loud—not to Rossi, not even to himself until now—but for a few unbearable seconds, he’d been convinced he was going to lose Spencer.

And not in some distant, statistical way.

In the real way.

The immediate, irreversible, earth-shattering way.

He tightened his arm around his son, almost unconsciously.

“I’ve taken him into war zones,” Hotch murmured, more to himself now. “Into interrogation rooms, police stations with unstable suspects, crowded scenes where I can’t control every variable. And he trusts me to keep him safe. But today...”

He exhaled slowly. “Today, I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t there.”

Rossi didn’t interrupt. He just watched, the ghost of sympathy soft in his eyes.

“For a second…” Hotch paused. “I wondered if I’m doing the right thing. If this job—if this life—is compatible with being a father.”

He stared out into the dark, the glass reflecting a tired man who suddenly felt very small.

“Maybe I’ve been trying to convince myself that I can be both. That I can protect people out there and protect him. But today, I almost lost everything. And I wasn’t even in the building.”

He went quiet after that.

A beat passed.

Then a sleepy voice broke the silence.

“You don’t have to be everywhere, Daddy.”

Hotch looked down.

Spencer had stirred beneath the blanket, his eyes blinking open, still glassy with sleep. But he was awake. And listening.

“You were still there,” Spencer mumbled. “You always are.”

Hotch stared at him. “Spence—”

“I heard your voice,” he continued, soft and sure. “In my head. You said, ‘Be careful. Be calm. Help people, but don’t be reckless.’ You always say that.”

Hotch blinked back the sudden sting behind his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you were safe. You shouldn’t have been in that room. You’re not supposed to carry that kind of weight.”

“I know.” Spencer paused, thoughtful. “But I wasn’t scared. Not really. Because I knew you’d come.”

Hotch let out a breath, shaky and full of emotion. “I should’ve kept you farther away. I should’ve done more.”

“You do everything,” Spencer said, leaning against him again. “You catch the bad guys. You help the team. You make sure I eat. You tuck me in and let me sit on your lap during briefings.”

He looked up, bleary-eyed and earnest. “You’re already doing both.”

Hotch looked down at him, stunned into silence. For all his brilliance, Spencer was still so young—his cheeks still round, his hands still small. But he understood. More than any child should.

And somehow… that made it harder and easier at the same time.

“Thank you,” Hotch said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of his son’s head.

Spencer just yawned and curled closer, whispering sleepily, “I love you.”

“I love you too, buddy,” Hotch replied, voice low and full of something deep and unspoken. “More than anything.”

The hum of the jet returned to fill the silence, and for the first time in hours, Hotch let his eyes close. He wasn’t completely at peace. But with Spencer safe and warm in his arms, and the quiet reassurance of that small voice echoing in his chest, he knew he wasn’t alone in carrying the weight.

They would be okay.

Together, they always were.

Chapter Text

Spencer Reid Hotchner was tired.

And not just “yawning while doing quantum physics” tired—he was “woke up two hours before sunrise to beat his dad to the kitchen” tired. But it was Father's Day. And Spencer had planned this meticulously. Because his dad deserved the best. And because Spencer was determined—absolutely determined—to make Aaron Hotchner breakfast in bed.

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist and checked his watch. 4:22 a.m. Good. His dad usually went on his run by 5:00 a.m., and Spencer needed at least twenty-five minutes for prep, seven for cook time, and five for plating. He’d factored in a two-minute margin of error just in case he dropped something or burned the toast. Which he wouldn’t. Because he’d memorized the heating curve of bread. Obviously.

He crept into the kitchen in his oversized NASA t-shirt and fuzzy socks with little rubber ducks on them, hair still fluffed from sleep, and pushed a stool over to the counter. He washed his hands like his dad taught him, humming softly, then got to work.

Eggs, perfectly scrambled. Toast, golden brown. Bacon, crispy to a mathematical ideal. A glass of orange juice (freshly squeezed), a strawberry placed at the rim for garnish. And a single flower from the garden in a tiny vase—because presentation mattered.

By the time the sun started peeking into the windows, Spencer was plating everything on a tray, beaming despite the bags under his eyes. He even remembered to warm the syrup. Because cold syrup on pancakes was basically a crime.

His feet padded quietly down the hall toward his dad’s room, tray wobbling slightly in his hands.

“Dad?” he whispered, nudging the door open.

Aaron Hotchner stirred in bed, groggy and confused. “Spencer?”

“Happy Father's Day!” Spencer said, his voice a stage whisper of excitement.

Hotch blinked against the light streaming in behind his son and slowly sat up, blinking at the breakfast tray now being carefully placed in his lap. Spencer looked up at him expectantly.

“Did you… make all this?”

“Yep! I timed it down to the minute so I’d beat your run. And everything’s cooked according to the Maillard reaction, and the toast is exactly seventy-five percent browned, and the eggs are fluffy because I whisked them with a little milk, just like you do. It’s your favorites.”

Hotch stared for a moment, then set the tray aside long enough to pull his son into a hug. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” Spencer said, his voice muffled against his dad’s chest. “You do everything for me. You make me feel safe, and smart, and important. You always come to get me when I'm scared, and you read with me, and you teach me how to make spaghetti, and you always answer my questions even when you’re tired.”

Spencer rubbed his eyes again with the back of his wrist and leaned his entire body into his dad like a tiny, warm blanket of love and exhaustion.

“I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

Hotch closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard against the emotion building in his chest. “Spencer… you’re already so much more than I ever imagined. But if you want to be like me, that’s the greatest honor I’ve ever had.”

Spencer yawned then, a long, sleepy, satisfied yawn, and nestled in closer. “Okay. But I still want a briefcase. And a telescope. And the whole Smithsonian. But not today. I'm too tired today.”

Hotch chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his son's head. “You’ve earned a nap. Thank you for the best breakfast—and the best gift—I could ever ask for.”

Spencer was already snoring lightly.

Hotch let him stay, curled against his chest, the tray of perfect breakfast untouched for now. Because nothing—not pancakes, not toast, not even perfectly crispy bacon—could top this moment.

Not on Father’s Day.

Not ever.

Chapter Text

Erin Strauss was pissed.

Not the garden-variety kind of annoyance either—not the bureaucratic headaches over funding allocations, not the irritated sighs she gave when one of the field offices misfiled a critical report. No, this was a deep, marrow-scorching kind of fury. Because someone—some idiot—had apparently allowed a child to run wild inside the halls of the FBI Academy at Quantico for months. Months.

And not just anywhere. The kid had reportedly been inside classified briefing rooms, sat in on active case debriefings, borrowed from the psychological library using his own access credentials, and had apparently logged into secure case files with clearance levels he should not have. One report claimed he’d even been seen giving a “guest lecture” to new recruits.

Strauss’ jaw ached from clenching her teeth.

According to the security audit that had landed on her desk that morning, the culprit was one “Spencer Hotchner, age 4”—yes, four—son of Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner of the BAU. A second-generation Bureau brat, apparently, with an IQ off the charts, a photographic memory, and, judging by the access log, either a complete lack of supervision or a terrifying surplus of competence.

And now the Section Chief had to go down to personally deal with this circus act of a situation. She grabbed her jacket, stormed out of her office, and headed toward the BAU’s floor like a hurricane about to make landfall.

She had made it exactly seven steps down the hallway when Quantico’s main alarms erupted into life.

Red lights strobed. Sirens howled. Agents ran in every direction like an anthill on fire. A voice came over the loudspeaker:

“All field teams report. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.”

Strauss froze in place.

The bomb had gone off in D.C.

Not Quantico, thankfully, but it had hit the Capitol Mall during the morning rush, a spot where tourists and staff gathered in droves. Four dead. Two dozen injured. The BAU was immediately called in.

Strauss had barely had time to switch from anger to urgency when she caught sight of Aaron Hotchner moving through the chaos like a machine in motion. His team snapped into gear behind him, each with a job, a purpose, a calm efficiency that never failed to impress.
Trailing behind them, clutching a battered leather satchel, was the child.

“Is that—” Strauss sputtered.

“Yes,” Rossi said as he brushed past, “and trust me, you’ll want to shut up and let this play out.”

Too stunned to argue, Straus found herself swept up in the convoy of SUVs speeding toward the Capitol. Once they arrived at the hastily built mobile command post, Garcia was already on video screens pulling surveillance from citywide cameras, and JJ was coordinating with Homeland Security.

The bomb had left behind a scrawled Latin phrase in red chalk on a stone bench near the blast:

“Exegi monumentum aere perennius.”

Spencer climbed into a chair at the center of the room, crossing one leg over the other like a pint-sized professor. Strauss’ eyebrow twitched.

“That’s from Horace,” the boy said, almost absently, like he was bored. “It means, ‘I have erected a monument more lasting than bronze.’ He was talking about legacy, about immortality through works of art.”

“What the hell is happening right now?” Strauss whispered.

Spencer tilted his head toward the evidence board. “The unsub sees this as art, not destruction. He’s probably a failed academic or architect. If we follow the metaphor Horace uses, the next monument he references is the pyramids. That line’s about height—elevation. He’ll go higher next. Maybe a skyscraper, a monument, a tower—something taller and more symbolic.”

The room was silent for a moment.

Then Garcia’s voice cut in: “Scanning for sites of architectural or historical significance near D.C. with elevated structures and planned civilian events today. Bingo. There’s a school group heading to the Washington Monument at 1:00 p.m. Reduced security due to exterior renovations.”

Hotch turned sharply. “JJ, alert the Park Police. Rossi, take SWAT. Morgan, you’re with me.”

“I’ll go too,” Spencer said, standing on the chair.

“No,” Hotch said immediately, kneeling down beside him. “You’ve already helped more than anyone else today. Stay with Garcia and Section Chief Strauss.”

Strauss opened her mouth to argue again, but Spencer—his oversized eyes too calm for a child—just nodded solemnly and took a seat at the monitoring station.

Twenty minutes later, they had the bomber in custody. The suspect was apprehended on the lawn of the Washington Monument. The bomb had already been planted—but not armed. Hotch’s team got to it in time. No casualties. Hundreds of lives were saved.

And all because a four-year-old remembered a specific line of Horace.

When the operation concluded, the news agencies were already buzzing. It had been over in less than an hour.

Back at Quantico, Strauss finally cornered Hotchner in his office.

“This isn’t sustainable,” she growled. “You’re bringing your child into active investigations. He accessed the cyber division’s server last week.”

“He was checking the statistical distribution of hate crimes against migrant communities for a school project,” Hotch replied evenly. “He wrote an entire analysis paper on it. Garcia has it framed.”

“He doesn’t go to school.”

“Personal project then. To further his intelligence and education.”

“He’s four, Hotchner. Four.”

“He’s also the reason a bomb didn’t detonate in a crowded national monument this morning,” Hotch said. “If you’d prefer a child not save lives in your agency, I can make other arrangements. But if you ask me, Quantico is the safest it’s been in years with Spencer walking the halls. Spencer could probably give you the statistics for a higher percentage of cases solved since he’s been here too.”

Straus rubbed a hand down her face. The weight of every responsibility she’d ever held in the Bureau seemed to land all at once. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

There was a quiet knock on the door. Spencer poked his head in, holding a cookie. “Section Chief Strauss? I used your card to get into the vending machine room. I hope that’s okay. I left a quarter on the machine. Also, I found a typo in your field guidelines handbook. Paragraph twelve is missing an Oxford comma.”

Hotch didn’t even blink.

Spencer climbed onto the office couch, curled up with his book on subcultural typologies of domestic terror cells, and munched on the cookie like he wasn’t the reason a national tragedy had been prevented earlier that day.

Strauss stared at him.

The badge—his own badge—was clipped crookedly to Spencer’s sweater vest.

“…Okay,” Strauss muttered. “Maybe I’m impressed.”

Chapter Text

Agent Jordan Todd was skeptical.

She hadn’t expected to spend her second week with the BAU watching a literal toddler lecture a room full of college students about graduate-level philosophy. She also hadn’t expected the lecture hall to fall into complete, reverent silence when he did it.

“Most of us have done extensive post-graduate work in, uh, areas such as abnormal psychology and sociology,” the little boy said, standing behind the podium with a shock of messy brown hair, a plaid shirt that barely fit under his vest, and his fingers curled tightly around a box of crayons. “As well as intensive study of relative casework and existing literature.”

He sounded like he was reciting it from memory—which he probably was.

David Rossi, standing beside him, leaned on the podium and added, “But that’s after selection to the unit. First, you have to be an agent. Work in the field. And that’s what we’re here to talk about.”

A student raised his hand. “What did you study?”

“Criminal justice,” Rossi replied dryly. “But sports appreciation was all full up at my community college.”

Spencer piped up, tugging at the mic to pull it lower. “I’m not actually allowed to hold any degrees yet,” he said with earnest, blink-fast confidence. “But I’ve taken advanced coursework in chemistry, mathematics, and engineering. Also psychology and sociology. And for fun I’m taking philosophy, even though epistemological theory is just the worst because—well, that’s a long answer.”

The students gawked.

“How old are you?” asked a girl in the front.

Spencer gave her a polite, if confused, look. “Four and three-quarters. I’ll be five in October. That’s not very relevant, though, is it?”

Someone laughed.

“I have a joke,” he offered suddenly. “How many existentialists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

Rossi’s eyes closed. “Don’t.”

“Two! One to change the bulb and one to observe how it symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a universe of cosmic nothingness—”

“Okay,” Rossi interrupted loudly, “before he gets to the quantum physics knock-knock joke, do we have any other questions about opportunities in the FBI?”

Spencer didn’t look offended. If anything, he looked pleased.

By the time the talk ended, students were swarming Spencer more than the agents.

“Thank you. Yeah. Bye,” he chirped politely to each one as they moved past.

“You do know we want them to actually join the Bureau?” Rossi muttered, coming to stand beside her and Spencer.

Spencer tilted his head up, innocently. Childlike. “What? Yeah.”

“We want these kids to think it’s a cool place to work.”

“I understand that.”

“Existentialism?”

“That was a funny joke,” he said seriously. “What do you mean?”

“Yeah,” Rossi muttered. “To Sigmund Freud.”

Spencer sighed rather dramatically for a four year old toddler. “I tell them I shouldn’t be sent, but they keep sending me here.”

“Because you’re young.”

“Young or Jung?”

Jordan’s lips twitched despite herself. She still couldn’t believe what she was witnessing. A child genius, sure. But this? This was something else.

That’s when the strange man in the tan coat stepped forward from the back of the hall. Spencer blinked up at him.

“Mr. Hotchner,” the man said slowly. “Wouldn’t they sit in the dark and hope that the bulb decided to light again?”

“Excuse me?” Spencer frowned.

“An existentialist would never change the bulb,” the man clarified. “He would allow the darkness to exist.”

Spencer gave a surprised little laugh. “That’s… actually pretty good.”

“I’m Professor Rothschild. It was a brilliant presentation. You are a remarkably effective recruitment tool. The FBI is very lucky to have you.”

Spencer puffed up just a little. “Thank you for saying that.”

“May I show you something?”

“Yeah. Of—of course.”

He handed Spencer a folder, and Jordan felt her stomach tighten with suspicion.

“I don’t understand. What are these?” Spencer asked, flipping through the pictures with practiced ease before the folder was snatched out of his hands and snapped shut by Rossi.

“Seven homicide victims.”

“Homicide?” Rossi echoed.

“Seven women. Bodies have never been found. Not a fingernail. Not a hair fiber. Acid is a very tidy way of disposing of something.” The man’s face was blank, but he held an air of smugness around him.

“Are you saying you killed these women?” Spencer asked quietly.

“There’s still time to save the others, though,” Rothschild said.

“Others?” Rossi prompted.

“Five more.”

“What do you mean?”

“In a bit less than nine hours, five other people are going to be dead. Unless you can find a way to save them.”

Things escalated quickly from there with campus police apprehending Rothschild easily, and escorting him to the SUV, following Rossi and Spencer, the former on the phone with Hotch back at Quantico.

“Seven women, so far,” Rossi explained urgently. “There are five more live victims somewhere that we can save in nine hours.”

“Is this guy for real, Dave?” Hotch asked, voice distant on the other end of the phone. Jordan could barely hear him over the commotion of college students that surrounded them, curious about the police and the man in handcuffs.

“I don’t think so. I get a hit off him. Something hinky.” Rossi hung up after that and Jordan continued to trail after him, when Rossi pulled Spencer aside.

Spencer looked worried, glancing at Rothschild with a certain kind of disgust, “What is this?”

Rossi only responded with a shake of his head before saying, “Do not forget a word he says the rest of the time we have him.

Spencer nodded seriously, and Rossi picked him up to place him on his hip. Spencer sat there perched on Rossi’s hip, his feet swinging cautiously.

While Jordan wasn’t particularly fond of the seating arrangement, she understood that seating Spencer in the back with someone who was very likely a serial killer was not in Rossi’s best interest and was worth the risk of having Spencer sitting in the front seat. Jordan should’ve called a cab or taken the metro because sitting next to Rothschild was an experience she didn’t want a repeat of.

“You said you’re a professor at Strayer?” Spencer asked, turning in the car to look Rothschild in the eye. Jordan bit back a comment to tell him to turn back around for his own safety.

“No.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

From the rearview mirror, Jordan saw Spencer get increasingly more confused while Rossi continued to give suspicious glances at Rothschild. “You did introduce yourself as Professor Rothschild, right?”

Rothschild smiled thinly. “Your area of studies surprises me, Spencer. Philosophy doesn’t fit with mathematics and engineering.”

“I like it because there’s no wrong or right answers.”

“Without right or wrong, how would we recognize perfection?”

“Is this fun for you?” Rossi interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you having fun?”

“It’s quite a bit more complicated than that.” Jordan felt disgust course through her veins.

“What do you mean?”

Rothschild shook his head, still smug. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“I’ve read your books, David. You’re not of the intellectual capacity to grasp what’s going on here.”

Rossi kept his eyes forward, staring at the road, while Spencer glanced back from time to time. “If you’re trying to piss me off, it’s not gonna work. But if you killed seven women without leaving a trace of evidence, why turn yourself in?”

“Imagine what the world would’ve missed if Da Vinci never showed his work.”

The car fell silent after that.

Getting back to Quantico was a relief in many ways. Jordan was not built to sit next to a serial killer for an extended period of time. It was not in her job description. She was only supposed to be here to work as a liaison.

When they entered the BAU bullpen with Rothschild, the news was playing a report about a missing woman with children.

“Earlier this morning the police were contacted and informed that Kaylee Robinson, who ran a daycare center out of her home, had been abducted along with four children. When a parent arrived at nine-thirty this morning to drop off her child, she discovered the door-”

“What’s going on?” Spencer asked, already rushing to his dad’s side.

“He said there were five more victims we could save?” Hotch asked.

“A woman was abducted this morning in Loretto,” Jordan answered, already assuming her role as communications liaison, because slacking off wouldn’t do her any good. “She runs a home daycare center. She had four children with her.”

“They’re all missing,” Prentiss added.

“All five,” Morgan confirmed grimly.

Rossi turned to Rothschild, “Are those the five more?”

“Are you pissed off yet, David?”

Rossi only responded by shoving the man into the interrogation room. Jordan, along with Spencer, watched from the other side of the glass as Rothschild waived his rights and continuously taunted Rossi.

Before they could leave, Rothschild shifted. “Bring Spencer back with you.”

“This guy loves the attention.” Morgan stated, entering the room.

“He has a God complex. Sooner or later he’ll give up something important about Kaylee and the kids. They always do.” Rossi shook his head, continuing to stare at Rothschild with disgust.

They made their way back to the conference room where Spencer stood on a chair beside Garcia, a glass of orange juice forgotten on the desk beside him. He was holding one of the photos Rothschild had provided—well, what looked like a photo, but was actually a distorted, carefully manipulated image. His lips were pursed in thought, crayon in one hand, fingertips tapping the paper rhythmically in a five-count.

“I went through ViCAP,” Garcia announced grimly. “There are literally thousands of open missing women cases across the country.”

Spencer didn’t look up from the photo. “It’s not the entire country, though,” he said, voice soft but insistent. “Kaylee was abducted at 9:30 this morning. He had time to take them somewhere, hide them, and still make it to Fredericksburg two hours later.”

Prentiss looked over at him. “He’d need a place with a lot of privacy to hide five victims.”

“A house,” Hotch said firmly.

“He’s local,” Rossi added, flipping to a page in the case folder.

Spencer nodded slowly, tracing the edge of the photograph. “He was late for the presentation,” he reminded them. “More like two and a half hours after the abduction. He got there around noon.” He finally looked up, locking eyes with his father. “That puts him somewhere in that radius.”

Hotch nodded sharply. “Garcia, work up a map. I need the farthest point he could’ve taken Kaylee from Loretto and still gotten back to Fredericksburg by noon.”

Garcia gave a two-fingered salute without looking away from her keyboard. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Todd watched all of it, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that this tiny human—barely taller than the table—was outpacing half the room with deductions and precision.

Rossi pulled out the timeline. “All right, what do we know so far?” he asked aloud. “He’s obsessively neat and clean. He did research on me and the kid at least. He abducted five people and still managed to get to a scheduled recruitment session right on time. That’s extensive pre-planning.”

Spencer stepped carefully down from his chair and crossed to the digital whiteboard where some of the photos were displayed. “Garcia, did you find anything in those pictures?” he asked, peering up at the images.

Garcia sighed, clearly frustrated. “I can’t even positively say they’re dead,” she said, voice quiet.

Jordan, assigned to contact Loretto P.D, began working on getting more information while the rest of the team began working on their delegated tasks. Spencer was helping wherever he could, and wherever his dad allowed him.

She watched as he looked at the picture that Morgan had sent them and back to the board, staring at it for a long time before drawing a large circle around the victim's names, with a line slashed through the middle, mumbling under his breath.

And then, just when she thought Spencer couldn’t surprise her more—

“I know where to find them. Agent Garcia,” he said urgently, “can you put the map of Virginia up on the screen?”

“It’s an irrational number known as Phi,” he said. “Based on the ratio of line segments to each other and to the whole. It- It's called the golden ratio. It's a ratio found all through life. In fact, many people that we c- find conventionally attractive are proportioned based on that ratio. Here h- he- he, uh, made a reference to Leonardo da Vinci. Remember this? Da Vinci used it in a lot of his paintings. As a matter of fact, the last supper is a perfect example if you-”

“Spencer.” Hotch gently interrupted. “Spencer, how do we find them?”

“Right. The whole concept is represented by this pendant,” He held up the chain that had been around Rothschild neck, “including the logarithmic spiral created by using a Fibonacci sequence. Follow me on this. W-We can manipulate this image, right?”

“Tell me what you need.”

“Pull up all the towns where the missings are from. Wonderful. We had one in Richmond, one in Dinwiddie, then two in Gloucester point, then three in Saluda, and finally five in Loretto this morning. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 is a Fibonacci sequence. Each number added to the number before it. It- It's what his ticks mean. He's subconsciously counting off the Fibonacci sequence in his head. Over and over again. Now geometrically, it can be expressed as a spiral. It's called a logarithmic spiral. Can you put the spiral up on the map?” It popped up on the screen. “Thanks. Ok, now flip it 180 degrees. Now make it bigger. Bigger. Just a little bit bigger. Stop. Stop, stop. The pendant is like a key. Chester, Virginia.”

“You’re sure?” Rossi asked.

Spencer didn’t hesitate. “The ratio permeates his whole life. If we use a map of Chester, the location where they’re being held will fall into the same pattern.”

Hotch nodded. “Morgan and Prentiss are closer. Call them and get them there now.”

The team rushed out there quickly, leaving only Spencer and Garcia behind. When they arrived in Chester, the location of the house found using the ratio, the team searched the perimeter of the house, finding the tanks, the traps—just as Spencer predicted. They got Kaylee and the children out of there.

“That was Spencer who figured out the numbers,” Rossi replied, explaining when Jordan questioned why they thought to look for traps. “He wasn’t about to kill ten people today. That’s not in the pattern.”

Spencer’s voice came through on the earpiece. “Rothschild confessed. Me and Agent Garcia told him about how you guys found the house and he started going on and on about humanity and how much he hated it. And then he started talking about how this was supposed to be vengeance because William Grace was his brother.”

Jordan saw a spark of recognition on Rossi’s face.

“He confessed to killing twelve people. Well technically only seven but… Can I tell him? He’s been very arrogant and narcissistic about how he killed all of you and I really want to see his face when he realizes that you guys are alive and we got his confession on tape.”

“Spencer.” Hotch’s voice came through, “Don’t you dare enter the interrogation room.”

Jordan could feel Spencer roll his eyes, “Just through the mic, Dad. Like I’ve been doing this whole time.”

“Wait, till I get there, kid.” Rossi told him. “He’s been taunting me this whole time. Imagine his surprise when I come back alive.”

When they got back, Jordan thanked him.

Because despite his age, he still managed to save her life.

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Evans was pissed.

Another officer had just been shot—one of his—and instead of trusting the men on the ground to handle it, Commander Marks had brought in the FBI. Outsiders. Suited desk jockeys who swooped in with their “profiles” and jargon after bodies hit the ground.

And then, to really twist the knife, the Feds showed up with a kid.

Evans had just finished talking to Officer Kayse’s wife, who was holding out hope that the FBI would solve this. She looked at the agents like they were some kind of cavalry.

Evans scoffed at that.

If they were taking this seriously, they wouldn’t have brought a toddler to a murder scene.

Sprawled in a chair too big for him, the child—maybe three or four—was idly kicking his legs and clutching a book thicker than his head. Evans didn’t catch the title, but he could already guess it wasn’t anything close to Goodnight Moon.

Evans had better things to do than babysit.

Especially now. Another cop down. Enough was enough.

It was obvious who the shooter was. Playboy—the gangbanger who’d been a thorn in their side for years. He’d been terrorizing the neighborhood, running guns and pushing drugs, and now he was escalating.

So Evans did what no one else had the balls to do.

He brought Playboy in himself.

Dragging the man through the precinct, Evans shoved him into an interrogation room. “You’re gonna rot,” he muttered, slamming the door behind him.

But just as he turned to deal with the rest of the chaos, the toddler looked up from his chair and said—clearly, calmly—

“You got the wrong guy.”

Evans blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” the kid said, swiveling slightly in his chair. “You arrested the wrong person.”

Evans clenched his jaw. “Just because you FBI types think you’re smarter than street cops—”

“I’m not FBI,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “But the profile isn’t wrong. The unsub you’re looking for isn’t doing this for territory or reputation. He’s motivated by psychological need—ritual, power, personal revenge. Arresting Playboy won’t stop the shootings.”

Evans folded his arms, brow raised. “You got all that from a profile?”

“I also read your body language. You’re frustrated. You want it to be over.” The boy tilted his head, “Bringing in another suspect draws attention away from the real unsub. If he starts to feel inadequate, he may strike sooner just to prove himself.”

Evans blinked. “And who exactly do you think you are? You think your dad’s badge makes you some kind of prodigy?”

“I think I’m probably smarter than you,” The kid said bluntly. “And Sherlock Holmes once said, ‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’ You’re twisting facts to fit your theory. We’re supposed to do it the other way around.”

Before Evans could reply, a sharp voice cut in from behind.

“Lieutenant.”

Agent Hotchner approached like a storm barely held in check. His posture was controlled, but his eyes were cold steel.

“I understand you’re under pressure,” Hotch said, “but interfering with an ongoing investigation could jeopardize our ability to stop the actual shooter.”

Then he turned, eyes softening just slightly.

“Spencer, what are you supposed to be doing?”

“Reading,” Spencer admitted. “But—look, Dad.” He pointed at the surveillance screen. “Go back. Pause there. Now zoom in and press play. See?”

Hotch leaned in.

“He’s lingering,” Spencer explained. “Taking the badges would’ve taken seconds. But he stands there. Like he’s waiting.”

“For what?” Commander Marks asked, frowning.

“That’s what I want to figure out,” Hotch murmured, staring at the screen.

“Spencer, keep watching the footage. See if you can figure out what he may be doing. Lieutenant,” Hotch added without looking back, “release Playboy. He’s not our unsub.”

Evans scowled. “I brought him in for a reason.”

Agent Morgan arrived then, clapping a hand on Evans’ shoulder. “Relax, Lieutenant. Actually, I think your guy might still be useful. I’ll talk to him.”

Hotch nodded. “See what you can get.”

Evans followed Morgan into the room, still itching for a confession. While Morgan worked the charm angle, Evans played bad cop, trying to provoke Playboy into slipping up.

But nothing came of it.

Until a knock sounded on the door, and a set of tiny fingers waved at them through the window.

Morgan stepped out first. “Hey, buddy. What’s up?”

Spencer looked up at him with wide eyes. “Another officer was shot. Shooter’s cornered.”

Morgan’s face hardened. “Thanks, Spencer.”

Evans sighed. “So I guess I’ll release Playboy.”

“Not yet,” Morgan said. “This may not be our guy. Playboy may still have information that can help us.”

Evans frowned. “You caught someone red-handed. How is this not our guy?”

“Actually,” Spencer piped up, “I don’t think he’s the unsub. He didn’t call the cops first like he usually does. This wasn’t random. My dad said that the guy’s name was Diablo, so I asked Ms. Garcia to pull up information on him and Beck, the officer who was shot, arrested Diablo twice on drug charges, last time sending him away for 10 years. Diablo was just released on parole last week.”

Morgan nodded thoughtfully, “He’s got motive. Ballistics will tell us if it was the same gun.”

Evans ran a hand over his face. “So you’re saying Diablo used the chaos to take a shot at Beck, and we almost pinned it on someone else.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Which means your real unsub is still out there.”

Spencer piped up again. “If the profile’s right—and it is—he’s watching. And he’s angry. He wants to be seen.”

Morgan turned to him, “Can you pull the files on Bobby Q?”

Evans frowned, “Okay, look. Diablo got caught shooting a cop. He’s our guy. Just because your profile was wrong doesn’t mean it’s not our guy. We literally caught him in the act. It’s okay to be wrong sometimes.”

“Look, I was a cop once. My dad was a cop who got shot doing his job. I know what you’re feeling and I want to catch the guy as much as you do. This last shooting, it’s not his M.O.” Agent Morgan gave him a look, “If he’s our guy, that’s great. But wouldn’t you want to say you did everything you could to prevent another one of your men from dying.”

Evans exhaled. “Fine. I’ll pull the files on Bobby Q.”

When he got back, he glanced down at the boy—who was once again curled up in the too-large chair, nose buried in a book titled The Magical Mathematics of Quantum Physics.

Evans blinked.

“Please let that be a joke,” he muttered.

Back in the office, the TV was playing. The headline read: “FBI TAKES LEAD ON COP KILLER CASE”

Agent Hotchner stood at the podium, giving a carefully worded statement.

Evans turned to Spencer. “Is this true?”

“By pretending to take over the investigation, the FBI put themselves above the local police thus suggesting that they are tougher to take out, and issuing the unsub a challenge that he won't be able to ignore.” Spencer responded morosely, not looking up from the book.

Evans’s stomach twisted. “You mean…”

Spencer finally looked up, eyes solemn. “They’re painting a target on my dad’s back.”

Evans swallowed hard.

“Kid…” He hesitated, then added awkwardly, “Your dad’s good. I see that now. And you—you’re something else. You probably got those smarts from him.”

Spencer frowned. “I just don’t understand how he can tell me to stay safe and not take risks—then turn around and taunt a killer.”

He looked down. “The other cops probably thought they’d be fine, too. They still died.”

Then, suddenly, he looked up, face stricken. “I didn’t mean—!”

“You’re fine, kid,” Evans said, raising a hand. “You’re just worried.”

He nodded at the file in his hand. “Where’s the team now?”

Spencer sat up straighter. “Ballistics didn’t match. That’s what led to the press conference. They’re chasing a new lead with a guy, a bouncer who got shot in a similar fashion to Bobby Q. and the rest of the officers. Ms. Todd is manning the phones to see if there are any good tips.”

It didn’t take long before the team arrived back and Agent Todd got a tip with a viable address.

Evans watched as Spencer walked up to his father and was lifted easily into Hotch’s arms. The boy whispered something, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and was gently set back down, his hair tousled by a fond hand.

They left for the address, but it was a dead end.

They caught the real unsub when they got back to the precinct. Hotch had returned alone, and the unsub had tried to take the bait.

Evans pulled Agent Morgan aside in the aftermath.

“You knew he wouldn’t be at that first location,” he said.

Morgan nodded. “Spencer ran the probabilities. Thought the guy would wait here. Thought he’d want to kill Hotch.”

Evans exhaled, looking toward the boy—now dozing again in the corner, cradled in a blanket someone had finally thought to give him.

“Smart kid.”

Morgan smiled. “Genius, actually. But yeah—good kid.”

Evans nodded, finally meaning it.

“Yeah. Real good.”

Chapter Text

Detective Brustin was on edge.

He had worked some dark cases in his time, but this one felt like a ticking bomb—figuratively and, as he’d later learn, far too literally.

The moment the FBI stepped into the New York field office, Brustin had braced for bureaucracy, but he hadn’t braced for a child. That was new.

He narrowed his eyes at the tiny, sharply dressed boy walking confidently in between a cluster of adult agents. The kid was holding a messenger bag bigger than his torso and was already chattering to Agent Rossi about spatial distributions and psychological comfort zones as though he were giving a lecture at Quantico. Brustin crossed his arms as Hotchner made introductions.

“This is the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Hotch said. “SSA Rossi, SSA Prentiss, SSA Morgan, SSA Jareau, our technical analyst Penelope Garcia... and this is Spencer Reid Hotchner.”

“I'd like to get a map of the borough. I want to do a comprehensive geographical profile of the area in order to ascertain the unsub's mental map before it's clouded by our own linkage blindness.” The kid said seriously, colorful markers clutched tightly in his small hands.

Brustin stared. “I see you brought your own computer.”

Spencer—because what else could he call him? “Agent Hotchner Jr.”? Was he even an agent?—lifted his chin with all the dignity of someone decades older. “Technically, it’s a portable profiling terminal optimized for spatial analytics and forensic patterning, but yes.”

Brustin blinked.

Hotch was already moving into briefing mode, but Brustin tugged Detective Cooper aside. “Okay, do not tell me we’re seriously letting a toddler with a briefcase consult on a serial shooting. I mean first she’s taking meetings with the mayor, calling these guys in and now there’s just a kid going to be wandering around the precinct?”

Cooper sighed. “I tried asking. The kid quoted a Supreme Court precedent and then predicted my coffee order.”

“He’s like a toddler,” Brustin hissed.

“Yeah,” Cooper said, watching as Spencer set up his laptop with practiced efficiency. “And apparently smarter than both of us combined.”

Brustin wasn’t convinced.

That was before Spencer started talking. By the time the kid finished rattling off a theory on anti-geographical profiling and suggested requesting city-wide gun violence records excluding known target zones, Brustin’s skepticism had tilted into something bordering on unnerved admiration.

“Uh, I don't get it,” Cooper said when the kid made the recommendation.

“He won't strike near where he lives,” Spencer replied without looking up, his fingers flying over his keys.

“What makes you so sure?”

“It's anti-geographical profiling.” The kid muttered distractedly, now flipping through case files. He was, like, maybe four. Could he even physically read those files, much less have the clearance to?

“Now it's anti-geographical profiling?” Brustin asked, a little annoyed at how he felt like he was the one missing the mark.

Prentiss offered a half-smile. “Spencer’s right. The unsub’s operating outside his own zone to avoid detection.”

Brustin rubbed his face. “And you wonder why we’re skeptical.”

But the truth was, skepticism was starting to feel a little stupid.

Spencer asked for a borough map and set to work creating a meticulous profile on paper that seemed far too small for all the scrawled arrows and notes he packed into it. “This unsub's organized. He strikes at the same time of day. He knows where the cameras are placed. That means he's doing his own pre-surveillance. A need-motivated killer operates within his own comfort zone. An organized killer with some other motivation will make sure to strike outside that zone,” he explained seriously.

Brustin glanced at Cooper. “He’s a toddler and he’s talking about serial killers.”

“Yeah. I heard him. I’m standing right here.”

And that should’ve been enough weird for the day. But the weird wasn’t over.

They were still reeling from the discovery of the Tarot card—death—left at one of the shooting scenes when it all began to spiral. Spencer and Rossi were theorizing the escalation didn’t match traditional patterns. That the card wasn’t about taunting the public, but something private. A message just for them.

Then his partner was shot.

Then the bomb went off.

Brustin had been mid-call with another precinct when the news broke over the radio—black SUV explosion, near the Federal Plaza.

And Spencer—he’d heard it too. Brustin watched as the little boy’s face went pale. He dropped the pen he’d been using to annotate Rossi’s copy of the unsub profile and ran down the hallway.

Rossi caught up to him before he made it to the elevators.

“Uncle Rossi!” Spencer gasped, tugging on the older man’s sleeve. “I heard on the radio. I tried the others, but—”

“The cell phone system is crashing,” Rossi said, voice calm but low with tension.

Spencer’s voice cracked. “A car bomb. Did they say where?”

“No,” Rossi replied. “Can you recall every site where the shootings occurred?”

“H-Hell’s Kitchen, Murray Hill, Lower East Side, Chinatown,” Spencer rattled off.

Brustin had never seen someone so small look so devastated. The kid was trembling.

Rossi crouched to Spencer’s level and gripped his shoulder. “Listen to me. If our profile is correct and all eight murders were tests to gauge response times, then we're looking at eight suicide bombers. I need you to call Homeland Security. Tell them to flood all those sites with SWAT, bomb techs, HRT, hazmat, the works. You need to breathe and you need to focus. You know what you’re capable of and your dad knows what you’re capable of. That’s why he wanted you to help. Now we need to catch this guy.”

Spencer nodded, eyes glossy. “Actually... if we’re correct, there’ll be sixteen suicide bombers.”

Rossi blinked. “Sixteen?”

“They’ll target the second wave of emergency responders too.”

Brustin stood frozen in place, a growing sense of dread crawling down his spine.

He followed the two back into the command center where Garcia was pulling up traffic camera footage from the explosion. She had to be talked down from hyperventilating when Rossi told her Spencer was with him but no one else had checked in.

Garcia rewound and rewound until they spotted the bomber—hooded, calm, placing the device under the SUV and walking off to watch.

They got the location. It was Kate Joyner’s vehicle.

Spencer stared in horror at the image frozen on the screen. His dad was standing next to Kate. Too close to the blast radius.

And then Brustin saw the worst part—Spencer believed he was dead.

Rossi moved quickly, pulling Spencer into a hug, murmuring reassurances, but the boy was visibly unraveling.

“I didn’t tell him goodbye,” Spencer whispered, clutching Rossi’s jacket. “I didn’t even tell him I liked his tie this morning. What if he’s—what if he’s—”

“He’s not,” Rossi said, firm and sure, even though Brustin could tell he didn’t know that yet. “Your dad is one of the most capable people I know. If there’s a way out of this, he’ll find it.”

Spencer nodded shakily. But it wasn’t until word came through the comms—Hotch alive, with Kate, injured but conscious—that Spencer finally let out the breath he’d been holding. Not completely out of the ballpark, and Brustin supposed that was one of the downsides of knowing so much at such a young age. Not being able to accept knowing that your dad was still alive because you know that anything from the bomb could still be killing him.

Later, after the secondary bombing attempt at the hospital was foiled, after Morgan’s miraculous escape, after the body count stopped rising, Hotch returned to the field office, limping and bruised but upright.

Brustin watched as Spencer blinked—once, twice. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

Then the kid launched himself across the room.

“Dad!” he wailed, voice cracking into a sob that felt too raw, too broken, for someone who had just calmly corrected a field agent on forensic topology an hour earlier. For someone who was still so young.

Hotch barely managed to catch him. He sank to one knee with a quiet grunt, bracing against the pain. Spencer wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and broke into hiccuping, messy tears.

Brustin swallowed hard.

The team didn’t move. Not Rossi, not Prentiss, not JJ, not Morgan.

“I thought you were gone!” Spencer cried. “I tried to call, and no one answered and the SUV exploded and I—I did the math, but it still didn’t tell me you’d be okay!”

Hotch smoothed a hand over his back. “Hey, hey. I’m right here. I’m okay, buddy.”

“No, you’re not,” Spencer argued between hiccups. “You’ve got a ruptured tympanic membrane, your shirt is burned through, I can see the bruising over your ribs and your gait is uneven—you need a CT scan. And maybe an EKG. I’m not saying you’re not competent but you’re probably concussed, and that should at least be ruled out before you try giving interviews to the press.”

Brustin blinked. “Holy hell,” he muttered.

Spencer’s fists clenched into his father’s lapel, his voice breaking again.

“You can’t ever do that again,” he whispered. “You’re my dad. I don’t care if you’re in charge or the best profiler or whatever. You don’t get to be the decoy. That’s not the deal. That was never the deal.”

Hotch looked like he was trying not to cry himself. He pressed his face into his son’s curls, breathing in the solid, alive weight of him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Spencer. You’re right. That wasn’t the deal.”

Spencer didn’t answer. He just leaned into his father’s chest, the tension finally, finally bleeding from his little frame as the tears slowed.

Brustin looked away.

There was nothing to say to that.

In the quiet after the storm, he looked again at the boy who had mapped boroughs in crayon and calculated counter-terrorist response times without blinking. Who'd seen a bomb tear through his world and still stood tall.

Brustin might never understand how that kid belonged to anyone—let alone to Hotch—but he understood this: Spencer Reid Hotchner was more than just a profiler.

He was the kind of person who didn’t need to be twice anyone’s age to be twice as brave.

Chapter Text

Agent Grant Anderson was melting.

Some part of him suspected this was intentional—maybe the picnic committee had a sick sense of humor scheduling a mandatory interdepartmental barbecue on the sun’s surface. At least half the Bureau had crowded onto the grassy expanse outside the Quantico annex. Everywhere he looked, there were agents in rolled-up sleeves juggling hot dogs, paper plates, and wary social energy.

And then, he saw them.

The BAU had arrived fashionably late, probably because they were wrapping up a case that involved twelve bodies, six states, and some twisted behavioral algorithm that would give Anderson nightmares. Their entrance was understated—no fanfare, no announcement—but people noticed. You always noticed the BAU.

But what really caught his eye was the small person standing beside Hotch.

Short, curly-haired, clad in slacks, a cardigan, and a little lanyard (Anderson couldn’t tell if it was real or a joke, which somehow made it better). The boy had a juice box in one hand and was actively explaining something to Prentiss and Jareau with complete academic authority.

Anderson made his way closer, pretending to refill his cup as the group shifted toward the buffet. He caught the tail end of a question from one of the intel guys—Fisher, maybe.

“So, uh… you in preschool or something?”

Spencer blinked up at him. “No, I’m taking collegiate coursework at MIT and Caltech remotely, but mostly for fun. I'm not old enough to technically qualify for degree completion under current institutional policy, although I’ve already completed most of the core requirements. If I were allowed to graduate, I’d probably qualify for degrees in mathematics, chemistry, engineering, psychology, and sociology.”

Anderson almost spit out his soda.

Fisher just stood there, blinking like he’d been hit with a dictionary.

“Right,” he said slowly. “Well. That’s… something.”

Spencer nodded, clearly not bothered in the least. “It’s not uncommon for asynchronous learners to achieve significant benchmarks ahead of their age cohort. Especially when they're self-directed.”

“…Right.”

Anderson glanced at Hotch. The man had one hand in his pocket, the other lazily cradling a coffee, and the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. Not smug. Just proud.

At this point the kid had caught the attention of most of the adults, talking animatedly and gesticulating as far as his short arms allowed him to.

Anderson tilted his head and listened.

“I’m just saying,” the kid said, “company picnics have a deeply rooted place in federal agency morale history. The FBI began hosting social recreation events as early as the 1920s, largely in response to internal burnout and social isolation during Prohibition enforcement. And while that particular function was temporarily suspended during World War II, Truman reinstated them during the early Cold War as part of psychological support initiatives for field agents in high-stress divisions. So technically,” he concluded with a sip of his juice box, “this event is historically sanctioned.”

Jareau grinned. “So we’re honoring history by eating hamburgers in 100-degree weather?”

“I mean, yes,” Spencer said. “If you ignore the fact that the burgers are overcooked and the lemonade is, unfortunately, lukewarm.”

Prentiss laughed. “Don’t tell Garcia. She helped plan it.”

“I’m going to tell her,” Spencer replied, completely serious, “A historical event such as this one needs to be honored as such.”

That earned a round of laughter, even from Hotch, who stood nearby nursing a cup of coffee and trying (and failing) to look unamused.

Anderson’s curiosity got the better of him. He wandered even closer, hovering within polite range while pretending to look for napkins. He was an FBI agent after all.

That was when it happened.

“Hey, shouldn’t you be with the other kids?” someone asked.

The voice came from a few feet behind Spencer. A new agent—Falkner, Anderson thought. Transferred from field operations last month. Good in theory, not great with people. He was watching Spencer like he couldn’t decide if the kid was part of the entertainment or a very small alien.

Spencer turned. “Why?”

Falkner shrugged. “I mean, no offense, but this is the grown-up side of the event. Aren’t there juice boxes and games over by the bounce house?”

Spencer blinked once. “There are also mosquitoes and a loosely supervised tug-of-war that violates three basic safety protocols.”

Falkner laughed, not kindly. “Just saying. Might be more your speed than giving lectures on Bureau history.”

There was a pause.

Not a long one. Just the kind that sucked the air out of a five-foot radius.

Hotch didn’t move, but his grip on the coffee cup stiffened. Prentiss stopped chewing her chip. Jareau raised her brows like someone preparing to legally destroy a man.

But it was Morgan who arrived first.

He strode in from the volleyball setup like he’d been summoned by instinct, gaze flicking from Spencer to Falkner in half a second.

“Everything okay over here?” he asked casually, stepping just close enough to Falkner to make the man lean back.

“Just talking,” Falkner said, glancing at the circle of sharp-eyed profilers now quietly closing ranks around the child.

Morgan gave him a hard, practiced smile. “That so?”

Spencer, however, had already handled it.

“It’s alright,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his sweater. “Some people conflate physical maturity with intellectual contribution. It’s a common logical fallacy in developmental psychology—ad verecundiam. Appeal to authority, but in reverse.”

Falkner blinked. “What?”

“Basically,” Prentiss said, draping an arm casually around Spencer’s shoulders, “he’s saying your opinion’s invalid.”

“Because I’m four and three-quarters,” Spencer added helpfully. “Not that it should matter.”

Falkner opened his mouth, closed it, and took a very slow step back.

“I’m gonna go… check on the burgers,” he muttered.

“Good plan,” Morgan called. “Try not to burn ’em again.”

Spencer took another sip of his juice box, entirely unbothered.

Anderson couldn’t help but smile.

The rest of the afternoon rolled on. Spencer rotated effortlessly between conversations—discussing neurochemistry with a forensic psychologist one minute, then explaining the flaws in the playground’s mulch-to-concrete ratio the next. Anderson even caught him solving someone’s complicated Sudoku puzzle while eating a popsicle, in less than a minute.

“Have you met Hotch’s kid yet?” someone asked Anderson later, as they both waited in line for more lemonade. “The kid genius?”

“I think I just did,” Anderson said, nodding toward the cluster of lawn chairs where Spencer was currently deep in conversation with Rossi about The Canterbury Tales.

The agent whistled low. “You think he’s really the genius everyone says he is?”

Anderson glanced at Hotch—who was watching his son with quiet, composed pride, the way a lighthouse watches the ocean.

“Oh yeah,” Anderson said. “He’s a real genius. And you better be real careful what you say around him.”

Because the BAU wasn’t just a team.

It was a fortress.

And Spencer?

He was the heart of it.

Chapter Text

Detective Linden was not prepared.

He thought he’d seen everything a serial murder investigation had to offer. He thought he'd worked with every flavor of federal agent—stiff, sharp, arrogant, broken—but nothing, not in all his years behind a badge, had prepared him for the tiny boy in the FBI jacket, swinging his legs from a rolling chair in the Sarasota PD bullpen.

"That’s Spencer Reid Hotchner," Agent Morgan had said. With zero irony. Like Linden was the one being strange for blinking.

The kid couldn’t have been older than five, unless he was incredibly small for his age. He looked like a walking cartoon character from a private Montessori school—a mop of wild curls, sweater vest over a collared shirt, and tiny sneakers that blinked blue whenever he kicked them into the legs of the desk. His father, SSA Aaron Hotchner, was across the room with his team, speaking quietly with Rossi and Prentiss. But the boy—Spencer—was all business.

"Did you find anything?" Spencer asked, his voice as light and clipped as a match strike.

“Give me a minute and I will find the grime,” Garcia answered, tapping away furiously at the keyboard.

“All right,” Spencer said. “You ready to start searching his computer?”

“Mmhmm. Born ready.”

"You seem to be in control."

“I’m always in control, sweet cheeks.”

Spencer didn’t even blink. “So far, William Harris appears to be quite intelligent. He’s covering his tracks pretty well.”

“Yeah, just because you delete your history doesn’t mean all your dirty cyber laundry isn’t hanging out there for me to find on your hard drive,” Garcia said, narrowing her eyes with glee. “Rookie mistake.”

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and watched as the toddler began printing out papers, presumably from the webpage that was found, pinning them to the bulletin board, and utilizing blue and red markers to make precise annotations on each of the pages.

“We found an encrypted link to a webpage,” Spencer explained to Morgan, who leaned over him protectively but not condescendingly.

“Where’d it take you?” Morgan asked.

“An unsearchable, untraceable blog. Tons of journal entries. It’s like some sort of diary.”

“You find anything incriminating?” Rossi asked, walking up beside them.

“I was able to differentiate between two distinct voices,” Spencer replied. “Two authors. I found various idiosyncratic words, phrases, punctuation, and orthography within the entries consistent with each separate person. Words like soda and pop. One guy uses dashes, the other ellipses.”

Linden blinked. “Where’d you find this kid?”

Rossi stared directly at Linded, voice lowered like it was a secret. “He was left in a basket on the steps of the FBI.”

It wasn’t long before Spencer disclosed more of his findings out loud.

“One side of the discourse made reference to the devil’s strip,” Spencer said, marking something on one of the many pages on the wall. All the words were starting to blur and the crossing of colors was making Linden’s head hurt. How could the kid handle this?

“What the hell’s that?”

“It’s a small patch of grass that separates the sidewalk from the street. That term is only used in central Ohio. William lived in Atlanta for twenty years, but he grew up in Columbus. The other guy uses words like turnpike and filling the gas tank—both specific regionalisms for Florida.”

“Kid, you’re sure about this?” Morgan asked.

Spencer gave Morgan a knowing look.

“Right,” Morgan shrugged.

Linden stood at the edge of the bullpen and listened as the little boy began quoting the journal, his voice unnervingly detached:

"’I love the challenge. The only spark. Thanks for tonight. It was tough, but I figured it out. Nothing was gonna keep me away. I watch them chase their little spawns. That was truly—those first few hours are the best. Faith should never be broken.’”

The adults around him exchanged grim looks.

Detective Linden was trying to keep up.

“Tell me you found his partner, Spencer,” Morgan said.

“It’s all so cryptic.”

Morgan gestured toward the pages. “‘The end of the day came too soon.’ They clearly enjoyed being together.”

“They wrote a cluster of entries right after the first victim, Kim Groves, was killed,” Spencer continued. “William confessed he was feeling incomplete. ‘It all seemed so hopeless, but I finally learned to rise above it.’”

Morgan leaned on the desk. “He didn’t start killing until he met his soulmate.”

Spencer nodded solemnly. “‘Faith should never be broken.’ The longer they got away with it, the stronger their relationship became.”

Morgan grimaced. “They’re not just obsessed with rape and murder. They’re addicted to each other.”

An hour later, it still felt like they were no closer to finding the partner, but at least Spencer seemed optimistic.

“Connie Mayers described an anger-excitation rapist just like William,” Emily said.

“So we’re looking at two dominant personalities,” Morgan added.

“It makes sense,” Spencer replied. “They have a similar discourse. They’re equally well-written.”

“That’s a big deal?” Linden asked.

“It’s rare in criminal partnerships,” Spencer answered, not looking up.

“His partner wrote, ‘Faith should never be broken.’ A betrayal could devastate him,” Spencer noted.

Morgan straightened. “All we have to say is that William’s cooperating. Then hope he takes the bait.”

“What have we got so far?” Morgan asked again later.

Spencer squinted at the screen. “Uh… ‘We’re surprised that you injected yourself into the investigation. You risked a lot to help William.’”

Morgan continued the thread: “‘And killing Missy tells us how close you really are. It must be devastating to learn that William is here with us.’”

“He’s not gonna like that,” Spencer said, fingers flying across the keyboard. “It sounds like William’s cooperating.”

Morgan nodded. “That’s exactly what we want him to believe.”

The next hour consisted of the team continuing to try to find the partner, looking through the journal entries, past victims, and it all felt so close, yet so far.

“Most entries followed the first murder,” Morgan said.

“Yeah, William wrote most of them,” Spencer answered. “‘I wasn’t expecting that type of gift. I wish time didn’t take away all the pleasures of the day.’”

“You got something?” Rossi asked, walking over.

“One day, the partner wrote, ‘I feel like such an outsider. No one understands me. I watch them chase their little spawns. The same old conversations. Nothing stimulates me.’”

“Sounds like a party with kids,” Morgan muttered.

“Yeah,” Prentiss said. “And someone was not happy to be there.”

“I looked over, and everything changed. The only spark in my day,” Hotch read aloud.

Spencer nodded. “This is it. It’s buried in a later entry, but he’s talking about the first time they met.”

“Spencer, we need to figure out where that party was,” Morgan said.

Spencer sat up a little straighter. “Let’s review one more time. I’m a serial killer writing to my partner. Why do I keep a secret blog?”

“It’s a safe way to relive your crimes,” Hotch answered.

“No one ever sees you together,” Prentiss added, “and no one ever overhears you talking.”

“I’d buy all that,” Rossi said.

Spencer read again. “‘I love the challenges. The timing is always perfect. Thanks for tonight. It was tough, but I figured it out. Nothing was gonna keep me away.’”

“They never write about a time,” Spencer added, eyes narrowing. “So how’d they know when to meet?”

Detective Linden watched as the pieces locked into place.

“We know based on the language and the knowledge of the area that the partner was most likely born and raised in Florida,” Prentiss said.

“Let’s work with the theory that he lives in Sarasota,” Rossi added.

“They don’t call. They don’t write,” Spencer said. “The signal could be something visual… or it could be audible.”

“If it’s visual, that could be hanging a flag on their house,” Prentiss said.

“If it’s audible,” Hotch said, “they’d have to live close enough to hear it.”

Spencer’s head jerked up. “What if they’re not writing poetry to each other? What if they’re writing lyrics to a song? ‘This feels so good, so free, so right.’”

“Give me something else,” Garcia called.

“‘It looks so right, it’s all I need tonight,’” Prentiss offered.

“I found it,” Garcia said, the song filtering through the speakers.

Hotch’s eyes widened. “That was playing when we pulled into the cul-de-sac.”

“It was coming out of a car,” Prentiss added.

“That’s the signal,” Hotch confirmed.

Spencer clapped his hands together. “The partner lives nearby. That’s where they met. It was a neighborhood party.”

“Garcia,” Rossi said, “we need to know which neighbor it is.”

“Give me the parameters again.”

Spencer started listing things immediately. “We’re looking for a white male.”

“Married, with children,” Hotch added.

“He’s either got a good, steady job, or he owns his own business,” Prentiss said.

“He’s lived in Florida his entire life,” Rossi finished.

They found the guy.

In all his years, he’d never seen anyone—let alone someone so small—rip through the layers of a killer’s mind with such grace, such speed, such eerie calm. He wasn’t just watching a case get solved. He was watching something uncanny. Something else.

The partner—Stephen Baleman—was arrested before nightfall. Andrea Harris was found. Her father was not the man she thought he was.

But Detective Linden would remember the boy most.

Chapter Text

Detective Barton was tired.

Not just the bone-deep kind that came after too many late nights, but the kind that dulled even hope. Ten years of girls going missing. Ten years of coming up short. When the last victim vanished—Rebecca Daniels—it had felt different. Not because she was more special than the others, but because Barton had run out of walls to bang his head against. The suicide had handed them a break, but too late to save the man. Maybe not the girl.

He was still collecting himself when the black SUVs pulled into the lot. Heat rolled off the pavement in waves, smearing the world with sweat and fatigue.

“This heat is brutal,” Agent Morgan muttered as he stepped out of the lead vehicle.

“You know, it isn’t so much the heat as it is the humidity,” said a soft, clear voice.

Barton did a double take. A child had climbed out of the backseat, small hands adjusting an oversized cardigan and a bowtie as if he were arriving for a book club instead of an FBI case consult.

Morgan gave the kid a long look and huffed. “Kid, at some point, it doesn’t matter how you look at it. It all sucks.”

“FBI?” Barton asked, extending his hand cautiously as the group approached. He was still eyeing the kid like one might a trick of the light.

“Yes, sir,” their leader said, stepping forward.

“John Barton, Tallahassee PD. I’m the primary on the Daniels case. Got my files in the car if you want ’em.”

“I’m Agent Hotchner,” the man replied. “This is Agent Rossi, Agent Prentiss, Agent Morgan, Agent Jareau—and my son, Spencer.”

The kid gave Barton a little nod like he was seventy years old instead of maybe five.

“Yeah, we spoke on the phone,” JJ added, offering a polite smile.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Barton said, regaining his balance. “I really appreciate it.”

They moved inside to the station’s conference room, converted into an ad-hoc war room. The photos were laid out, the board already full, tables were piled high with journals. Barton braced himself for the looks—judgment, pity, frustration. Instead, Spencer was already perched on a chair, legs swinging slightly, scanning the evidence board that was covered in pictures of the guy and his tattoos with the kind of laser focus usually reserved for chess masters and neurosurgeons.

Barton studied the boy’s face: too calm, too precise. Like he’d done this before. Like he belonged here.

“You see this a lot?” Barton asked, nodding toward the image of the tattooed body on the board. “These guys killing themselves?”

Spencer shrugged, still looking at the board. “Most serial killers who commit suicide do it in prison after they’re caught.”

Hotchner gave the room a once-over, glancing from the timeline the killer had left them, the stacks of journals, and the pictures of the killer’s body, before clearing his throat. “JJ, gather as much information about the prior victims as you can. Morgan and Prentiss, take the journals. Dave, you and Spencer—check the tattoos. See if he left any clues about where Miss Daniels might be.”

Barton watched the kid as he continued to stare at the board in deep thought, wondering how a child ended up in a field like this one, staring at pictures of a dead serial killer rather than playing on a playground.

“Look at that,” Spencer murmured, gesturing to one of the tattoo photos. “At the turn of the 16th century, rose tattoos were put on men who were sentenced to death. If they escaped, it served to identify them. But now roses pretty much symbolize pure love.”

“Pure love,” Rossi echoed grimly. “Right before he kills them.”

Spencer nodded. “Have you read The Illustrated Man?”

“Nope.”

“It’s amazing. A collection of short stories by Ray Bradbury. The tattoos come to life at night and tell stories. It’s pretty awesome.”

Barton blinked. The kid looked thrilled just talking about it.

A couple minutes later, Spencer and Rossi stood with a trooper studying the full tattoo schematic.

“A space in the tree,” Rossi murmured.

“And there’s no date on that one,” the trooper added.

“Why would he leave that space blank?” Spencer asked.

“Maybe this guy’s just a psycho.”

“If it were that simple, we’d all be out of a job,” Rossi said.

A loud groan diverted Barton’s attention from the kid to Agent Morgan who was sprawled in a chair, a single journal close to slipping out of his hand. A second later, he shot up out of his seat with a bright smile on his face.

Morgan quickly walked over to Spencer’s side. “Hey, kiddo.”

“What’s up?” the boy said, still studying the pictures.

“Our man was a prolific journaler.”

“With teeny tiny handwriting,” Prentiss added, lifting a journal for emphasis.

Spencer tilted his head. “He probably had counseling at some point where journaling was part of his therapy.”

“That’s what we were thinking.”

“And?”

“Well…” Morgan rubbed his neck. “You know, for the two of us, it would take like three days to read all this stuff.”

Spencer didn’t respond. He just gave them a flat look and waited.

“You guys owe me. I accept books and juice as payment,” he finally muttered, climbing into a chair and grabbing the first book.

And then he dove back into the pages.

It was like watching a wind-up machine come to life. He flipped through the first journal in under a couple minutes, humming slightly to himself as he read, occasionally jotting a note in looping, over-large print.

Barton leaned against the wall and watched the kid work. Heat pressed in from every direction, oppressive and suffocating, and the kid hadn’t even taken off his cardigan, still zooming through the books, faster than Barton thought possible.

Knowing he was virtually useless here, despite having been on this case for ten years now, he left to start a pot of coffee. Barton returned to find the kid still scribbling notes with a pencil twice the length of his hand. His mouth moved soundlessly as he read.

Then Spencer straightened.

“That’s it—everything. Everything.”

Hotch, who’d just returned with a fresh cup of coffee, turned on a dime. “Spencer?”

“He moved it all into one room,” Spencer said, walking a tight arc as he spoke. “The body, the tattoos, the clippings, the printouts, the journals—he’s screaming, ‘Look at me!’ It’s a giant, flashy confession.”

“We all got that,” Rossi said gently.

“No, but think about it,” Spencer said, more urgently. “It’s just a confession. A way to give us everything—but not everything. He made a mistake in his third book. I almost missed it, but I caught it.”

He snapped open the journal and read: “‘I thought it would take longer, but today was the lucky day. She almost walked right by. Almost missed her completely. But at the last moment, we found our latest guest.’”

JJ stiffened. “We.”

“He has a partner,” Spencer said.

Later that day, while reviewing new photos from the M.E., Spencer frowned again.

“No, no, that’s not right.”

Hotch looked over. “What do you mean?”

“The spot on his chest where we’d assume Rebecca’s portrait would go…”

“Yeah?” Barton asked, leaning in.

“In the journal, he talks about filling in the last space. How once he does that, the artwork will be complete. But it isn’t the only blank space. In the middle of the tree on his back, there’s a giant open spot. Why would he talk about completing the artwork when he hasn’t? I need to see the body.”

Hotch stiffened visibly. “Spencer.”

“But I’ve already seen the body in high-resolution photographs,” Spencer said, clutching his cardigan sleeve as he spoke. “At this point, visual exposure isn’t the issue—it’s about tactile confirmation. And statistically, children exposed to clinical death in a controlled environment, especially when properly prepared, don’t experience adverse long-term psychological effects. Especially if the body’s already been cleaned and preserved by the M.E.—which it has.”

Hotch’s jaw tensed. “Spencer...”

“Please,” he said quietly. “You told me once—every piece of evidence matters.”

Hotch looked at him, jaw working, then gave a slow nod. “JJ goes with you. You stay behind the glass unless she says otherwise.”

The boy practically sprinted to the car.

“I’ll accompany you to the M.E.’s office as well.” Barton offered, as a show of good faith, but in reality, he had just wanted to see the extent of the kid’s genius.

Inside the M.E.’s office, Spencer was closely examining the body and, despite his father’s clear instructions, was in front of the glass.

“If these tattoos are a fetish, what enjoyment does he get out of the ones on his back? He can't even see them.”

The question was quickly ignored when Spencer made a discovery. “You know what? There's something here. I can feel the- the raised ink.” He turned, addressing the medical examiner. “Do you have a, uh, black light scanner?”

Upon receiving the black light scanner, he switched it on quickly and explained aloud, “I've read about this. Uh, tattoos put on with invisible ink so that no one can see them. Oh, man.” Spencer addressed the M.E. again. “C- Can you, uh, turn the lights down? Thanks.”

As the room went dark, glowing lines appeared across the body’s back—subtle and winding.

“There’s one over here, too,” Spencer murmured. “They’re all connected to the faces.”

“They lead to the blank spot,” JJ said.

The U.V. light revealed an embryo in the blank spot, glowing under the light. It was something invisible to the human eye, something the medical examiner hadn’t even discover, yet the boy had been able to find it in less than five minutes of being near the body.

“It’s an embryo in a womb,” Spencer noted. “The partner’s a woman. And they’re having a baby.”

Later, at the precinct, Hotch asked, “Do we know if she’s had the baby yet?”

“The tattoos have dates,” JJ replied. “The embryo doesn’t.”

“Dating is prominent in the tattoos and the journals,” Spencer added, continuing to flip through the journals. “And their abduction pattern is calendrical. The birth date would be meaningful to them. It’s not listed. She’s likely still pregnant.”

That was all Garcia needed. Juliet Monroe. A house in northern Florida. The rescue was messy, but it worked.

Rebecca was alive. The baby was alive. Juliet was dead.

Barton stood in the doorway of the conference room, watching Spencer curled up on a stack of case files like they were pillows. Hotch draped his coat over him without a word.

“You’ve got a remarkable kid,” Barton said softly.

Hotch looked at him. There was pride in his eyes, yes—but also a deep, unyielding protectiveness.

Barton smiled to himself.

A little genius. A cardigan. A bowtie.

And maybe, just maybe, a future that looked a little brighter.

Chapter Text

The morning started like any other.

The team gathered in the BAU bullpen, coffee in hand, already half-reading the file Garcia had uploaded to the tablets. JJ was sitting at the conference table flipping through crime scene photos, Prentiss was hunched over her coffee like it had insulted her, and Morgan was mid-rant about how he still hadn’t gotten the decent chair he’d been promised three months ago.

“Look, all I’m saying is if Rossi gets the one with the lumbar support, then I—"

He stopped abruptly as the elevator dinged.

They all turned instinctively, expecting maybe a local liaison or Garcia showing up in some glittery blaze of commentary, but instead—

It was Spencer.

Older now. Taller. Twenty years old and dressed in a nice button up with a purple tie, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, hair neatly combed and curls a little tamed—but it was him. Same wide hazel eyes, same boyish face that never quite lost that childlike earnestness. And he was holding a badge.

Morgan blinked.

Prentiss sat up straight.

JJ’s mouth actually dropped open.

Spencer gave a small, shy smile as he stepped in. “Hi.”

“Okay, wait a minute.” Morgan stood. “Someone wanna tell me why Doogie Howser just walked in here with a Bureau badge? And not one with his toddler face on it?”

Hotch, ever the picture of calm, strolled in behind him. “Because he’s joining the team. Officially.”

“What?!” JJ gasped, standing.

“No way,” Prentiss said at the same time. “Are you serious?”

Spencer handed his credentials to Morgan, who stared down at the ID in disbelief.

“Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid Hotchner. Well, hell.”

Morgan looked up at him with a slow, wide grin. “You little sneak. When did this happen?”

“I graduated from the academy two weeks ago,” Spencer explained. “I’ve already been working with the Behavioral Analysis Unit in an unofficial capacity, and Director Strauss said I was cleared for field work after my final review. So, um, I’m in.”

JJ was still blinking. “How did you keep this a secret?”

Hotch smirked ever so slightly. “He had help.”

“Unbelievable,” Prentiss muttered. “You’re twenty.”

Spencer nodded. “Technically, I could have joined at eighteen, but my dad wanted me to finish my second doctorate before applying.”

“Of course he did,” Rossi said, walking in just in time to catch the tail end of the announcement. He arched a brow at the group now gathered around Spencer. “We giving out promotions while I’m getting coffee?”

Spencer turned toward him. “Hi, Agent Rossi. I’m your new teammate.”

Rossi blinked, then looked at Hotch. “You’re not serious.”

Hotch nodded. “He’s been studying profiling since he was three. This was always the plan.”

Rossi looked Spencer over, impressed. “Well, I hope you’re ready for more than reading case files and quoting statistics, kid. This job isn’t easy.”

“I know,” Spencer said seriously. “But I’m ready.”

Morgan grinned. “So, tell us. How was the academy, Agent Hotchner?”

Spencer hesitated. “I was… remediated. At first.”

Prentiss raised a brow. “Really? For what?”

Spencer shifted awkwardly, clearly quoting from memory. “Uh, what was my issue? Uh, marksmanship, physical training, obstacle course, Hogan's Alley. You know, pretty much everything that wasn't technically book-related. They ultimately had to make exceptions to allow me into the field.”

Morgan howled.

“Oh man. You’re tellin’ me you’re out there flunking the obstacle course?”

“I didn't flunk it,” Spencer defended weakly. “I… walked it. Very carefully.”

“You walked it.” Morgan clapped him on the back. “So the FBI finally gave in and said, ‘Let the genius in, he can trip over a fence if he has to, we need those statistics.’”

“I’m good at the tactical simulations!” Spencer said quickly. “And I passed my firearms test. Barely. I… might’ve had to retake it three times.”

JJ chuckled and pulled him into a hug. “Welcome to the team, Spence. We missed you being around.”

“You were literally just here two days ago,” Prentiss said, smiling despite herself.

“Not officially,” Spencer said, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Now I have a badge and everything. My access level just went up.”

“That’s not a thing you brag about, kid,” Morgan teased. “Unless your idea of rebellion is breaking into Strauss’ calendar.”

“I already had clearance to do that,” Spencer replied innocently.

Hotch cleared his throat, stepping forward with a small box. “There’s one more thing.”

He handed it to Spencer, who opened it and smiled softly.

Inside was a fresh, standard-issue FBI ID badge and gun.

Official. Real. Permanent.

“You earned it,” Hotch said quietly, father to son.

Spencer looked up at him, proud and emotional in equal measure. “Thanks, Dad.”

Penelope’s voice piped in over the speaker just then, cutting through the emotion like only she could. “Hey! Why did no one tell me Baby Genius just got promoted to Full-Fledged Genius? I have streamers!”

“Get up here, Garcia,” Hotch said dryly. “We’re welcoming a new agent.”

“ON MY WAY,” she shrieked, the sound of footsteps already echoing from down the hall.

Morgan threw an arm around Spencer’s shoulders, already grinning like a big brother at graduation. “Just wait till I put you through your first fitness assessment.”

“Can I use math to pass it?” Spencer asked, hopeful.

Morgan laughed. “Nope.”

Spencer sighed. “Then I’m doomed.”

But he smiled. Because he wasn’t just Aaron Hotchner’s son anymore. He wasn’t just the kid with the badge and the books and the brilliance.

He was Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid Hotchner.

And he was finally home.