Chapter Text
The first time Spencer went to dinner with Hotch, he very quickly learned that Aaron Hotchner did not like olives—in fact, he utterly despised them.
Spencer had just been hired at the BAU, all wide eyed and happy that his superior would even think for a second of asking him to join the team for supper, especially on the Friday of his first week. A first week where he had stuttered through almost every interaction, tripped over his feet numerous times, and spilt coffee all over an entire stack of printer paper.
But Hotch did, just as Morgan was getting his coat on to go to some restaurant with the team, Hotch half-way smiled at Spencer, and asked if he would like to attend the evening meal with the team in a low tone that Spencer later realized was simply Hotch’s speaking voice.
Spencer shouldn’t have blushed at it, should’ve recognized the way that Hotch’s wedding ring gleamed in the fluorescent over-head lighting as a clear sign that Hotch was not flirting with him, but Spencer was always terribly wrong at social cues, the only thing he ever got wrong, and he flushed bright red.
Hotch noticed. Definitely. He noticed in the way that he chuckled and patted Reid on the shoulder and tilted his head towards the door, instructing him to ‘C’mon.’
Hotch and Reid arrived at the restaurant 10 minutes later than the rest of the team, they had ordered Hotch a diet coke, a lime stuck onto the side of the glass cup. Garcia apologized profusely about not ordering Spencer a soda as well, waving her hands frantically as she explained that she didn’t know what he had liked.
Spencer had ordered a greek salad, not caring to indulge much in the fancy, flatbread that Morgan and Garcia were sharing, nor the pasta with creamy alfredo sauce (although, Spencer did admit, it smelt and looked delicious) that Hotch was having, along with Gideon and Elle. Jennifer, who had been directing Spencer to simply call her JJ, also ordered a salad, but hers was of the Mediterranean variety, topped with chickpeas, feta, and the same grilled chicken that was adoring Hotch’s pasta bowl.
When the waitress, Andy, as her name tag identified her, set Spencer's salad down in front of him, Hotch chuckled, which earned him an odd look.
“What?” Spencer had almost demanded, picking up his fork and beginning to pick at his salad, taking an olive out and popping it in his mouth.
Hotch smirked at him. “You actually like olives?” He raised his eyebrows as he spoke. Spencer squirmed under Hotch’s gaze, trying to make himself a little smaller, trying to back away from the heat of Aaron Hotchner’s attention solely on him.
He tried to swallow the hot embarrassment crawling up his throat as he nodded “I love olives,” He muttered, pushing his salad around in his bowl “My mother used to make a lot of dishes with them.”
Hotch shrugged. “You’re stronger than me. I can’t stand the things.” His gaze was focused on Spencer for a total of 12.4 seconds before Morgan said something more interesting, and it was pried away from the younger man.
Spencer shuddered, popped another olive into his mouth, this time accompanied by a diced cucumber, and silently wondered what this guy’s beef with olives was.
Spencer could understand not liking bananas, due to the texture being one that Spencer wanted to frantically wipe off his tongue, but olives? They were simply the superior fruit, placed on the Spencer Reid ranking right next to apples.
Spencer let the thought roll down his back as he smiled, looking down at his dish.
When Hotch left the restaurant he had patted Spencer on the back, smiling at the newest edition to his team, and Spencer’s brain short circuited.
He went home that night, and fell face first into his pillow, hard rebooting his brain. Spencer proceed to lay face down on his bed with guilt settling deep into his chest, for 12 minutes until his cat, Rocket, began to meow noisily at Spencer’s bedroom door, and Spencer was forced to let the kitten into his bedroom.
The guilt clawed at Spencer’s organs. Hotch was a married man. Hotch was a straight man. It was completely inappropriate for Spencer to be blushing like a high school girl from a few simple touches from his (very attractive) boss.
Spencer sighed, petting the cat who had curled up on top of his thigh. Surely, this wasn’t a crush. It was admiration, at most. Right?
Rocket just meowed at him.
News flash: In the entire two years that Spencer worked for the BAU, the crush had only gotten worse. Spencer flushed when Hotch invited him out for drinks with the team, or offered him a You did good, Reid, when he noticed that Reid was struggling after a particularly hard case. Hotch rarely patted him on the back, like he did the first time that Reid was invited out for dinner after a miraculous week of no cases and Spencer awkwardly trying to find his footing and where he fit on a close-knit team.
But then again, Hotch was rarely affectionate, which wasn't a big deal considering that Spencer didn't like touch. He was always riddled with fear of someone feeling the details of his body, recognizing the too-feminine curves and the too narrow shoulders. Garcia knew, but that was because she had gone through and found out everything about him before he even stepped foot into the FBI building, digging up his name and legal gender change, along with the old Child Protective Services records from when Spencer was temporarily placed in a foster home after showing up to school with a bruise on his cheek shaped like motherly love.
Spencer shuddered at the memory of when Garcia called him into her office and turned around, ready to express her undying support, explaining that she would never tell anyone, except Hotch, who had to know for safety reasons and due to protocol, but that she was always open if he needed anything.
Spencer had smiled, let himself be hugged for 3.4 seconds before pulling away, and the next day, he brought her a pastry from the bakery down the street from his apartment.
Hotch called Spencer into his office later that day to discuss finer points of the matter, including potential harassment from coworkers, in or out of the workplace, rooming on cases, and Spencer's upcoming top surgery date. Spencer had walked out of the office feeling as if he was floating on air.
And now, over two years later, the absolute admiration for Hotch had only grown. Spencer was infatuated with Aaron Hotchner. I mean, in his defense, there was only so many times your boss could give you a Testosterone shot in your thigh on a case because you're too scared to do it yourself before some feelings began to grow.
Tonight was one of those nights. 2 weeks had rolled by since his last dosage, and now he sat on the desk in the Holiday Inn hotel room, one leg of his boxers rolled up, fiddling with the syringe and making sure there was no air bubbles while Hotch began to clean the area on his right thigh.
"Tell me about the book you're reading." Hotch directed, gently taking the syringe out of Spencer's hands when it was offered to him. Hotch did this. In order to avoid holding Spencer's hand, like he had to the first few times the shot was administered, he gave Spencer's overwhelmed brain an out, a distraction to keep him from hyperventilating as the needle went into his thigh.
Spencer touched the cover of the novel, gently running his hands over the fine details in the paper back. "It's called Suicide Notes," Spencer began "It's about this boy who tried to kill himself, and why he tried. The book startssss-" The needle went into his thigh and Hotch looked up at him, urging him to continue. "starts with him waking up in a psych ward, and you don't know why he tried to kill himself. This is actuallyyyy-" The needle came out and Hotch was disposing of the needle in the small sharps box that Spencer carried in his go-bag. He stood, listening intently "My second read. I enjoy the novel." Spencer smiled.
"Why'd he try to kill himself?" Hotch asked, as Spencer jumped off the desk.
"Because he feels bad about being queer. He kissed his best friend's boyfriend."
"I see." Hotch nodded, handing Spencer the clothes that sat on the foot of Spencer's bed, smiling easily at him.
"Thanks for giving me my shot." Spencer smiled, falling into the established routine of thanking Hotch and going to go change.
"Of course, Reid." Hotch spoke gently, pulling his phone out and running a hand through his hair. His white tee-shirt slid up and revealed the slightest sliver of skin that should not have made Spencer's breath hitch. "Sorry, I gotta step out for a minute, It's Haley." He groans.
When the team returned to Quantico after 4 days, 6 bodies, and a total of maybe ten hours of sleep, Spencer practically crawled into his desk chair, getting started on paperwork. Morgan, having been in the bullpen already, smirked at Spencer knowingly when he smiled tiredly at Hotch and Hotch gave him a simple praise of "You did good."
Spencer frowned. "What?" He said, his brows furrowing as Morgan chuckled, shaking his head.
"You slept next to Hotch on the plane."
"So what?"
"I'll let you put the dots together, Pretty Boy."
Spencer flushed, and promptly knocked the coffee off his desk, choking on his own spit. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Spencer coughed as JJ began to collect napkins and handed them to Spencer.
"Just saying, you already room together, he showers you in compliments, doesn't it seem, I don't know-romantic?" Derek whispered
Spencer coughed again, this time loud enough to get Hotch to turn around from unlocking his office door "WHAT?" Spencer squeaked.
"Quit making Reid spill coffee, and make that squeaky noise, Morgan." Hotch scolded. "What are you teasing him about this time?"
"His olive obsession." Morgan lied, grinning.
"I see. Carry on. His olive obsession needs to be studied."
"Spencer himself needs to be studied."
"Oh, go fu-"
"Language, Doctor Reid."
Holy shit. Reid's brain suddenly went very quiet under Hotch's scolding. And if he had to go home and take a cold shower to keep himself from getting very, very hot and bother at the harsh tone in Hotch's voice-well, that was his own problem.