Work Text:
Serendipity
There was a certain silence Aaron Hotchner had come to associate with the ends of difficult cases. It wasn't unusual for the plane to be quiet on the flight home—none of them got much sleep when they were in the field, the unfamiliar springs of hotel mattresses and the haunting urgency of an unsolved case drawing them back to the local station again and again with dark circles under their eyes and triple-shot Styrofoam cups filled to the brim. After three or four days, even a few hours crunched up in the bucket seats on the plane began to seem like a restful night. But no one slept after cases like this.
Hotch looked up from the memos he wasn't reading to study the figure seated across from him. Jason Gideon had been the first one up the stairs from the tarmac, and Hotch had followed him to the back of the plane without a word while the rest of the team fanned out at his back, instinctively keeping their distance. Hotch hadn't been sure, sliding into the seat across from his old friend, if he was keeping them from Gideon or keeping Gideon from them. He just knew, right now, his place was in between them. One look at Gideon was enough to confirm he was still brooding, his clouded blue eyes turned inward as he bruised his lips with the knuckle of his index finger, still battling the monster in the diner in the shadows of his mind.
Hotch exhaled into a shallow sigh. A glance over his shoulder showed the rest of the team in much the same state—Prentiss and JJ on the far couch, sitting close enough to talk but not willing to try; Morgan slumped in a chair across the aisle, one finger winding slow curls in his headphones cord; and Reid, seated at the table closest to him with his suit jacket crumpled in the next chair, back turned and head bent over a spread of worn playing cards. Hotch recognized the configuration—Canfield solitaire, a game Reid had shown him hunched over his coffee table on a rainy Sunday when he'd come by the empty house with damp hair and an armful of pajamas and button-downs because the apartment's washing machine was broken; a game that was more luck than strategy and could only be won 3% of the time, even if the player did everything right. The game Reid always turned to for long, silent flights home. Hotch wondered what it was about cases like this that made Reid want to lose over and over. It seemed like they'd all be tired of losing by now.
Reid flipped up three cards with the flat of his thumb and leaned forward to study them, absently brushing his hair out of his face; his bangs were getting long, Hotch realized, long enough to bother his soft brown eyes. He had noticed the same thing standing on Jane's porch, looking for the breeze in the flyaway wisps of Reid's dark hair instead of the rattle of suspended bones. Hotch wondered if Reid would cut it again, or if he'd let it grow out this time, long enough to stay when he tucked it behind his ear without sliding right back into his face when he ducked his head to hide a smile. The memory of Reid waxing lyrical on the porch in his bright green gloves brought a little sliver of a smile to Hotch's face, and he twisted the chair around until he could look at Reid without craning his neck, studying the wrinkle of concentration on the younger agent's forehead for a moment before he cleared his throat.
"Reid."
Reid set his cards down too fast, tipping his head until he could catch Hotch's eyes over the back of his seat. He wasn't the only one; Hotch could feel he had the attention of the whole plane with that one syllable, JJ and Prentiss tipped forward to see around each other and one of Morgan's hands resting on the round of his headphones, lifting it just enough to hear over the cacophony in his head. Hotch felt Gideon's gaze shift to the back of his neck, the quiet intensity of that disarming stare that so often seemed to look past or through—but his attention was on Reid, the edge of white teeth digging into his bottom lip as he waited for whatever Hotch had to say, eyes wide with the uncertainty that always seemed to come first when he was singled out. Hotch raised an eyebrow so Reid would know he was teasing.
"Peas?" he asked.
Instantly the mood on the plane was lighter—or perhaps it just felt that way to him, watching a smile come over Reid's face as Morgan shot Prentiss a quizzical look and the other agent leaned back in her seat with an amiable shake of her head. Reid turned to face him the rest of the way, arms crossed over the seatback and one knee braced in the furrows of the cushion, and all at once it was as if they were back in Hotch's living room, Reid resting his chin against the crown of the couch as he watched Hotch fold sweatpants and frayed t-shirts to make room in the dryer, the house full, for the first time in a while, with the sound of the rain and Reid's bright voice, talking about iridescence in seashells. It was something Hotch was coming to find he enjoyed very much—listening to Reid talk about things he would never truly understand.
"Peas and chocolate," Reid confirmed, pushing the same stray bangs from his eyes as he struggled to sit up. "The relevant neurochemical is phenylethylamine, or its raw ingredient phenylalanine—it releases noradrenaline and other stress hormones associated with attraction. There's actually a higher concentration of phenylalanine in cheese and sausages than in chocolate, though we don't associate them with romance for some reason."
This time the look that passed between Morgan and Prentiss was incredulous. "Yeah, go figure, huh?" Prentiss murmured, closing her book and offering JJ a little smile as Morgan pulled his headphones off and let them fall around his neck, apparently unable to make sense of Reid and music at the same time. Reid hardly acknowledged his growing audience, barely glancing at Prentiss before his eyes came back to Hotch.
"It's really not that remarkable. Eating almost any good meal releases dopamine, a pleasure hormone that's also associated with love."
Hotch braced his elbow across the back of his chair, tipping his head as he caught Reid's gaze. "So you're saying when we feel love, what we feel might be the equivalent of a food allergy?" he asked, keeping his tone light so Reid would know it wasn't the answer that mattered—he just wanted to give the younger agent something else to say. Reid's smile pulled out at the corners of his mouth, banishing the last of the tension from his face—but he was already shaking his head, the starched seams of his button-down softening around his shoulders as he gave a little shrug.
"Not really. The amount of PEA in food gets metabolized too rapidly for significant concentrations to reach the brain, so the chemicals we associate with feelings of love…we make those ourselves."
A burst of laughter at his back made Reid turn around, and Hotch turned with him to find Morgan heaving himself up out of his chair, stretching across the short aisle to lay a hand against the back of Reid's chair. "Hey, pretty boy. Tell me you don't try to pick up women with that love-is-just-chemicals thing. I promise you, that does not fly."
"You know this from experience?" JJ quipped, a flash of a smile touching her lips as she and Hotch exchanged looks. Reid hastened to go on, his voice somehow higher and faster still as both hands pushed his bangs back from his face.
"No no no, that's not what I'm saying at all. I mean, yes, love is chemicals, but aside from a few consistent sociological factors we still don't really know what makes those chemicals react for one person and not another. The algorithm for attraction can't be defined. Isn't that even more amazing than—than serendipity?" As he said the last, he turned back to Hotch, and Hotch was surprised by the flicker he felt beneath his rib cage as their eyes locked, something heady and unexpected burning like static along his fingertips. Reid bit his lip and Hotch curled his hand in, casually testing the sensitive throb in all five fingers. Reid was always so passionate when he spoke; it was almost impossible not to get carried away with him.
At the other end of the plane, Prentiss chuckled, leaning forward to brace her chin on her hand as she shared a smile with Morgan. "I can't believe it. Doctor Reid, you are a full-blown neurochemical romantic." Her words made the others laugh, too, and Reid blinked at them, whipping his head around from the grin on Morgan's face to the tiny smile even Hotch couldn't keep off of his lips.
"Wait, I don't understand. Why's that funny?" Reid asked. Morgan clapped him on the shoulder and swept the scattered cards easily into his other hand, obliterating the game Reid had lost before he began.
"Come on, Reid. Let's play a real game. JJ? Prentiss, get over here—we need a fourth."
Morgan turned away and headed back to his table, his warm hand leaving creases on Reid's gray shirt as he lifted it to shuffle the cards—but Reid froze halfway out of his seat, his eyes coming back to Hotch once more, the instinct to follow warring with an impulse to stay. It wasn't a first, Hotch thought, but it was new. Hotch gave him a short nod. "It's all right. You can tell me more about it later." Reid's smile was the only answer he needed. He studied the younger man for another moment, already certain, watching Reid's balance wobble as he eased his long legs out from under the table, that they were getting in far too late tonight for Reid to take the train home. His back could probably take one more night on the other agent's book-weary couch.
Somehow, he had forgotten Gideon. Hotch turned his chair around again and was surprised to find that glassy stare fixed on his face, Gideon's eyes bloodshot but no less sharp for that as they considered him over steepled fingers. Hotch settled carefully back against his seat, his smile smoothing out as he studied Gideon's unreadable expression.
"It came up during the course of the investigation," he said, almost before he realized he was speaking.
Gideon took a heavy inhale, his eyebrows lifting just slightly above his worn face. "Something always seems to, with Reid," he said, soft enough that Hotch almost lost the words in the whirr of the engine beyond the windows.
Hotch shifted in his chair, listening with half an ear to the easy laughter and the shuffle of cards at his back, what of it he could hear over the drone of energy and machine under their feet. "I hate shutting him down, but it's not always the best time…" He paused, shaking his head once. "I try to give him an opportunity to talk it out later."
Gideon's hands fell apart and fluttered into his lap. "I've noticed," he said.
Hotch felt he should know better than to be surprised by Gideon's insights, after all this time—but there was something about the quiet sureness of his voice, the slump in his posture that always caught him off guard when he realized Gideon had been looking right through him again, seeing cogs and synapses he didn't even know were turning yet. Hotch leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, wondering against his will what his change in posture was telling Gideon, whether he looked honest or defensive rubbing a hand across his chin.
"Reid is…so far above the best minds I've ever seen. Even yours," he added, and watched Gideon smile, the lazy quirk at the corner of his lips that always seemed more like an indulgence than an agreement, an expression that belied how carefully he was listening, analyzing, evaluating. Hotch rubbed his callused thumb across the knuckles of his right hand. "I know he has trouble finding anyone to talk to who can understand how fast his mind is working. I'd like to think even if we don't understand, we can give him an outlet for that."
Gideon nodded slowly, watching his hands. "I'm sure he appreciates that."
Hotch recognized it for what it was, the first and simplest tool in any interrogation—the more they talk, the more they reveal. He wasn't sure why Gideon was using it against him. All the same he couldn't stop himself from going on, leaning back again (an excess of shifting, dishonesty or just discomfort?) as he said, "I'm not treating him differently than the others."
Gideon lifted one hand—a passing gesture, his palm out, as if surrendering the point in the half-second before it fell back into his lap, listless once again. "I didn't say you were, Aaron."
"But you think I am?" Hotch pressed, before he could catch himself, knowing in the second the words left his lips that the question affirmed more than it asked.
For a moment there was silence between them, the heavy hum of the plane and the passing laughter of the card players filling the void of their soft voices. Gideon's thumbs brushed together in his lap as he looked steadily back at Hotch, measuring something only he could see, that look that always gave Hotch the feeling Gideon knew something he didn't, something he wasn't ready to know yet. At last his friend shrugged and folded his hands, a gentle smile bowing his lips.
"You've been watching over him," he said softly, looking beyond Hotch's shoulder to where Hotch knew Reid was sitting, could picture without looking back the way he bent over the table with his cards tucked up in both hands, flicking the worn plastic corners with eager, unsteady thumbs. Hotch took a breath and forced himself to relax into the curve of the chair, staring back into Gideon's impassive blue eyes.
"He could use some watching over," Hotch murmured into a breath.
Gideon smiled. "Couldn't we all." Then he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, the gnarled worry slipping from his face as he sank back into his seat, offering himself to sleep.
Hotch watched his silent features for a long moment before he turned his head, just far enough to catch a glimpse of Reid laughing, the white of his teeth as he smiled and shielded his cards against his chest. He turned away again, staring through his reflection in the darkened window.
Gideon was right. They could all use watching over. But there was no denying that Reid needed it more than any of them, more than anyone he had ever known, and Hotch would give him what he could.