Chapter Text
Gideon stormed into the bullpen, his expression one of triumph, like he had just unearthed the lost city of Atlantis. Across from him stood Hotch, utterly unimpressed and looking increasingly uncomfortable as he held Spencer Reid under the arms. Like a cat. A very disgruntled, wide-eyed, floppy-limbed cat.
“Hotch,” Gideon announced, spreading his arms like he was declaring a prophecy, “I have found the man who will carry on my legacy.”
Hotch blinked slowly. Then, without shifting his deadpan gaze, he gave Spencer a light shake for emphasis. “Jason. This is a child.”
Spencer’s scarf flopped in the air like a poorly-tied ribbon. “Technically, I’m twenty-two,” he muttered, though his voice carried all the confidence of a toddler trying to argue their bedtime.
“And yet,” Hotch continued, “he weighs less than a housecat and looks like he just got off a ride at Disneyland.”
“I—I’ve never even been to Disneyland,” Spencer protested, his legs dangling uselessly. “It’s just not statistically optimal for—”
Gideon cut him off, his tone grave. “You’re missing the bigger picture, Aaron.” He stepped forward dramatically, gesturing at Spencer as if he were the answer to all the world’s problems. “Do you know who you’re holding in your arms right now?”
Hotch glanced down at Spencer, whose arms were awkwardly sticking straight out, like he couldn’t decide if he was supposed to fight, surrender, or simply accept his fate. “Yeah,” Hotch said dryly. “A very confused graduate student who probably doesn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet.”
Spencer wrinkled his nose. “Those are impossible for anyone. It’s a fundamental geometry issue—”
“See?” Gideon interrupted, beaming. “Brilliant. His mind is constantly working!”
“His mouth is also constantly working,” Hotch muttered under his breath, adjusting his grip as Spencer started to slip.
“Can you put me down now?” Spencer asked weakly. “This is starting to feel… demeaning.”
“Not until we finish this conversation,” Hotch said firmly.
Gideon ignored both of them, continuing his pitch. “Aaron, this boy—this *young man*—has an IQ of 187. He has an eidetic memory. He’s read more books than you’ve ever heard of!”
Hotch raised an eyebrow. “He just apologized to the coffee machine for existing.”
Spencer’s ears turned bright red. “It beeped at me!”
“*He thinks coffee machines have feelings,*” Hotch said, deadpan.
“They beep in certain tones that could be interpreted as aggressive,” Spencer added defensively, his voice muffled against the edge of Hotch’s suit.
“Jason,” Hotch said flatly, gesturing at Spencer’s very cat-like form, “this is not an heir. This is a boy who just tried to fight a vending machine because it didn’t give him his candy bar.”
“That vending machine was broken!” Spencer blurted. “And it stole my quarters.”
Morgan, who had been quietly watching from his desk, snorted loudly. “Kid, you got beat by a vending machine?”
“It wasn’t a *fair* fight,” Spencer said indignantly, still hanging limp in Hotch’s arms.
Hotch adjusted his grip again, like he was debating if he should just set Spencer down on the desk like a particularly inconvenient sack of potatoes. “Jason, he is not your legacy. He is a child who got a C in gym class.”
Spencer gasped, affronted. “That was *one time!*”
“And,” Hotch continued, ignoring him, “he gets carded at R-rated movies.”
“That’s only because I have delicate features,” Spencer said, sounding genuinely wounded.
“And he can’t run a mile without tripping over his own feet.”
Spencer frowned. “In my defense, the track was wet, and I was wearing the wrong shoes—”
“Jason,” Hotch said again, louder this time, “why *him*?”
Gideon crossed his arms, looking deeply insulted. “Because he has the mind of a genius.”
“He also has the hand-eye coordination of a baby giraffe,” Hotch pointed out.
“I’m *right here,* you know,” Spencer mumbled, though he made no effort to struggle free from Hotch’s grasp.
Gideon threw his hands up. “Aaron, you’re thinking too small. He doesn’t need to be perfect—he just needs to be *brilliant.*”
Hotch shook Spencer again for emphasis, like someone rattling a snow globe to see if it would do something interesting. “Brilliant doesn’t count when he still calls me at 2 a.m. because he’s locked out of his apartment.”
“I lost my keys once!” Spencer said indignantly.
“Twice,” Hotch corrected.
“That second time was a fluke,” Spencer muttered.
Gideon wasn’t deterred. “Aaron, one day, you’ll see what I see.”
“And what’s that?” Hotch asked, setting Spencer down on the ground with a thud.
Spencer immediately began fussing with his scarf, looking like a ruffled cat who’d just been unceremoniously dropped off the couch.
“I see potential,” Gideon said firmly.
Hotch folded his arms. “And I see someone who almost got stuck in a revolving door yesterday.”
Spencer straightened up indignantly. “Those doors are poorly designed! They don’t account for people with satchels!”
Morgan burst out laughing. “Kid, they don’t account for people trying to sprint through them, either.”
“I wasn’t sprinting!” Spencer snapped. “I was walking briskly.”
Hotch sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jason, this is not the person to carry on your legacy.”
“Not yet,” Gideon conceded, then pointed at Spencer dramatically. “But one day, he’ll prove you wrong.”
Spencer blinked. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Gideon said with a shrug. “You’re the genius. Figure it out.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and marched out, leaving Spencer standing there, his scarf crooked, his pride bruised, and his genius utterly unproven.
Morgan walked over, clapping a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “You okay, Genius?”
Spencer sighed. “I think I’m going to avoid revolving doors for a while.”
Hotch just groaned. “This is my legacy.”