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Hotch hasn’t been doing great.
It isn’t one single thing, not really. It’s the accumulation. The way stress settles into the bones and refuses to leave. The surgery after the complications, the slow, frustrating recovery that forced him to acknowledge how close he’d come to not making it home at all. The year before that, too, stacked with loss after loss, cases that lingered, decisions that never stopped echoing once the paperwork was done.
He functions. That’s the problem. Aaron Hotchner has always been very good at functioning.
He wakes up early, drinks his coffee black, runs until his lungs burn, and shows up to work with his tie straight and his voice level. He leads the unit. He profiles monsters. He holds everyone else together. There are days when he barely notices the tension in his shoulders until Jack wraps his arms around his waist and Hotch realises he hasn’t relaxed in hours.
He sees it in Reid, too.
The kid tries to hide it behind statistics and rapid speech, but Hotch knows what grief looks like when it doesn’t have anywhere to go. Reid lost Maeve before he ever got to really live in the possibility of her. Lost her in a way that left too many questions and not enough closure. Hotch understands that particular ache intimately. Losing someone before the relationship has time to exist properly leaves a hollow space that never quite fills in.
They work side by side, both of them carrying ghosts, both of them refusing to let those ghosts slow the job.
After the case wraps, Rossi corners him near the meeting room. It’s casual at first, the way Rossi does things; a hand on Hotch’s shoulder, an offhand comment about the unsub’s escalation pattern. Then the look sharpens, the conversation turns.
“You alright, Aaron?” Rossi asks, voice gentle but persistent.
The answer comes out automatically. “I’m doing alright.”
It lands too smoothly. Too rehearsed.
Rossi studies him, one dark eyebrow lifting just enough to say he doesn’t buy it. He opens his mouth, probably to push a little harder, to ask the question beneath the question.
Hotch’s phone rings.
Jess.
The sound cuts through the moment like a reprieve. Hotch pulls the phone from his pocket and answers, already stepping a little away.
“Hey.”
Jack’s voice bursts through the line, bright and insistent, overlapping Jess’s laughter in the background. Jack is talking about dinner. About how they’ve decided he needs to leave work at a reasonable hour. About how aunty Jess has picked a place and Jack has veto power over dessert.
Hotch leans against the railing overlooking the office, the tension in his chest loosening without his permission.
“Alright,” he agrees, warmth creeping into his voice. “I’ll be home soon. Let me change first.”
Jack hums his approval, clearly satisfied. Jess takes the phone just long enough to remind Hotch not to argue and not to be late, her tone fond and unyielding in equal measure.
When the call ends, Hotch turns back toward Rossi.
“I’ve gotta go,” he says. “Family dinner.”
Rossi smiles, slow and knowing, like he’s just been handed proof of something he already suspected. “Yeah. You do that.”
Hotch nods, already moving away, already slipping back into the familiar rhythm of responsibility. He doesn’t see the way Rossi watches him go, expression soft and thoughtful, the smile lingering longer than necessary.
Rossi knows that Hotch won’t admit he’s struggling until he’s forced to. He also knows that sometimes the best intervention doesn’t come from pushing.
Sometimes it comes from letting a kid and his aunt drag a man out to dinner.
Reid is cornered on the far side of the bullpen, hemmed in by a semicircle of determination.
JJ is leaning against a desk, arms folded, expression patient but unyielding. Morgan has taken the more aggressive angle, blocking Reid’s usual escape route with a grin that promises he will not be moving. Garcia is half-perched on her chair, already halfway into planning mode, and Emily stands just behind her, calm, observant, ready to step in if Reid tries to bolt.
“You'll love it,” Morgan insists. “You’ve loved it before.”
“I have never used that word,” Reid counters, clutching his messenger bag like a shield. “I said it was statistically interesting and socially tolerable, which is not the same thing.”
“It had trivia,” Garcia adds, waving a hand. “And food. And people who weren’t serial killers.”
“And you haven’t been out since—” JJ stops herself, then softens. “Spence, you don’t need to be alone tonight.”
Reid’s mouth opens, closes. He glances toward Hotch’s empty office, then away again. His shoulders hunch in, the way they do when too many thoughts stack up at once.
“I appreciate the offer,” he manages, voice gentle, careful, “but I actually already have plans. I’m late, technically.”
Morgan squints. “Plans?”
“Yes.”
“With… people?”
“Potentially.”
Garcia gasps, delighted. “Ooooh.”
Reid winces. “Not like that. Please don’t speculate.”
Emily tilts her head. “You sure you’re okay?”
Reid nods, earnest. “I am. Really. And I should go, because punctuality is a sign of respect and I’m already pushing the acceptable threshold.”
He slips sideways through the narrow gap that Morgan finally allows, offers a quick, awkward wave, and disappears toward the elevators before anyone can press him further.
JJ watches him go, concern flickering across her face. “We should keep an eye on him.”
“We always do,” Emily replies.
An hour later, Aaron Hotchner sits in the passenger seat of Jess’s car, hands folded loosely in his lap.
Jess is driving, one hand on the wheel, the other flicking on the indicator with unnecessary flourish. She refuses to tell him where they’re going, has refused every time he’s asked since they pulled out of the parking garage. Jack is in the back seat, seatbelt fastened, bouncing with barely contained excitement.
“You’re smiling,” Aaron notes, glancing at Jess.
“That’s not a clue,” she replies lightly.
Jack leans forward between the seats. “Dad, guess.”
“I’m not guessing,” Aaron says. “You’re terrible at poker. You’ll give it away in ten seconds.”
Jack clamps his mouth shut, eyes wide, doing his absolute best impression of secrecy. It lasts maybe five seconds before he giggles and collapses back into his seat.
Aaron allows himself a small smile.
The city slides past outside the window, lights blurring into streaks of colour. His scar tugs faintly beneath his shirt, a reminder of the surgery, of how old injuries never quite stay in the past. The complications had been unexpected, scar tissue tightening where it shouldn’t, pain flaring in ways that felt far too familiar. He’d brushed it off longer than he should have, until the doctors had stopped asking and started telling.
He doesn’t think about that now.
Instead, he listens to Jack talk about school, about a science project involving baking soda and vinegar, about how aunty Jess promised dessert regardless of behaviour. He listens to Jess fill in the gaps, tease gently, remind Jack to breathe between sentences.
Aaron doesn’t profile the situation, even though part of his mind wants to. He recognises the impulse and lets it pass. For once, he doesn’t need to know where they’re going or why. He doesn’t need control.
He just needs this.
The warmth of the car, the familiar voices, the sense that for this stretch of road, he’s not a unit chief or a survivor of too many close calls. He’s a father in the passenger seat, letting himself be taken somewhere without needing to lead the way.
Across town, the hallway outside Spencer Reid’s apartment is quiet in that particular way that means someone is home and very much hoping not to be disturbed.
JJ raises her hand and gives the door a gentle knock. Not loud. Not urgent. Just enough to announce presence without confrontation.
They wait.
Nothing.
Emily shifts her weight, listening. “He’s here.”
JJ tilts her head. She can hear it too, faint through the door; careful breathing, measured, controlled. The sound of someone standing still, hoping silence will make people go away.
JJ knocks again. “Spence? It’s us.”
A pause. Then, muffled through the door, Reid’s voice. “I know. And I’m fine.”
Emily exhales through her nose. “You’ve been ‘fine’ for weeks.”
“I’m okay,” he insists. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m really not up for going out.”
JJ exchanges a look with Emily. This is where the gentle approach ends.
JJ straightens, voice turning warm and dangerously casual. “Henry?”
From beside her, a small figure steps forward. Henry presses both palms to the door, forehead nearly resting against it.
“Uncle Spencer?” His voice is hopeful, earnest in a way that lands like a direct hit. “Are you gonna come out with us? Mum said we were all gonna have dinner together.”
Silence stretches, heavier this time.
Emily watches the doorknob. She sees the hesitation travel through the apartment, imagines Reid standing there with his back against the wall, already defeated.
Behind the door, Spencer closes his eyes.
JJ always did know where to aim.
He opens the door a few inches. Henry’s face lights up instantly.
“I—” Reid starts, then falters as Henry looks up at him, eyes wide and trusting. “I wasn’t planning to—”
Henry frowns, just a little. “But I missed you.”
That’s it. That’s the final blow.
Reid exhales, shoulders slumping. “That’s… not a fair argument.”
JJ smiles like a shark. Emily doesn’t bother hiding her satisfaction.
Ten minutes later, Spencer Reid stands in his doorway wearing clean clothes, hair still damp from a rushed shower, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He locks the door, pauses, then double-checks it, as if stalling might still save him.
Henry takes his hand immediately.
JJ beams. Emily claps once, softly. “Excellent. Let’s go before he changes his mind.”
Reid shoots her a look. “This was coercion.”
JJ guides him toward the elevator. “This was love.”
Down in the car, Will is already buckled in, glancing up with a knowing smile. “Evenin’, Spencer.”
Reid sighs as he slides into the seat. “I was manipulated.”
Will chuckles. “Welcome to the family.”
As they pull away from the curb, Reid stares out the window, resignation slowly giving way to something quieter. The knot in his chest loosens, just a fraction. He still feels heavy, still tired, still carrying too much, and he doesn't know if he'd prefer being alone, or not moving from this car.
Where the sound of a gunshot ringing in his head, isn't as loud as Henry's chattering.
And it takes Spencer Reid exactly ten minutes and forty-seven seconds of that mindless chatter and Henry’s hiccupy giggles to realise where they’re going.
Not because he’s actively tracking turns or counting blocks, but because familiarity has a shape. A rhythm. A certain widening of the road, a stretch of quiet that doesn’t belong to apartment complexes or city grids. He looks up from the window, brow creasing, and watches the iron gates come into view.
“Oh,” he breathes. “We’re going to Rossi’s.”
JJ grins like she’s been waiting for this moment. Emily doesn’t even try to look innocent.
Will chuckles from the driver’s seat. “Took you long enough.”
Reid slumps back against the seat, resigned. “You all conspired.”
“Yes,” Emily answers immediately. “With love.”
Henry squeezes Reid’s hand, oblivious to the deception that got them here. That alone keeps Reid from protesting further.
By the time they pull into the long, familiar driveway, the house is already glowing. Lights spill warmly from the windows, laughter carrying faintly through the open air. There are cars parked everywhere, evidence of the ambush well before it was sprung.
Reid steps out of the car and immediately spots them.
Morgan on the patio, drink in hand, mid-story and mid-gesture. Garcia perched on a chair like a queen holding court, bright and radiant, laughing with her whole body. Jess near the doorway, relaxed, watching Jack and Henry beeline for each other, hug, then chase each other across the lawn in looping, breathless circles.
And Hotch.
Aaron stands slightly apart from the chaos, glass of something amber in his hand, jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he’s been argued into comfort. He turns at the sound of footsteps, eyes landing on Reid.
The look they share is immediate. Mutual understanding.
Hotch lifts his glass a fraction. “They get you too?”
Reid exhales. “JJ never told me she was good at blackmail.”
That earns a soft laugh from Hotch, surprised and real, the kind that slips out before he can stop it. For a moment, neither of them speaks. They just watch Jack and Henry race past, Jack shouting something unintelligible, Henry laughing so hard he nearly trips.
It’s a good sound. A grounding one.
Rossi appears then, clapping his hands once, decisively. “Alright, gentlemen. If you’re under the age of twelve, you’re with me.”
Jack skids to a stop. “Are we cooking?”
Rossi’s eyes sparkle. “Naturally.”
Henry looks at Reid for permission. Reid nods, smiling despite himself. The boys disappear inside with Rossi, already arguing about who gets to stir.
Almost immediately, Morgan materialises beside Hotch and takes the glass from his hand without asking. “Sit.”
Hotch blinks. “I’m standing.”
“Not anymore.” Morgan steers him firmly toward a chair. Garcia appears on the other side, pressing Hotch down with gentle insistence.
“You’ve been stabbed, sliced, stitched, and stressed,” she informs him. “You sit. That’s non-negotiable.”
Hotch opens his mouth to object, then closes it again when Jess nudges Jack to glare at his father.
Only then is Aaron allowing himself to be maneuvered. He exhales once he’s seated, the tension easing from his shoulders despite his instincts.
Reid doesn’t get off much easier.
Rossi pokes his head out from the kitchen. “Spencer. You’re on coin-trick duty.”
“I don’t—”
Rossi arches a brow. “They’ve already asked if you can make money appear.”
Reid sighs, already moving. “Statistically speaking, this is exploitation.”
Inside, the kitchen is chaos in the best possible way. Jack and Henry are on stools, flour on their noses, arguing about measurements. Reid hovers at first, uncertain, until Henry tugs on his sleeve.
“Uncle Spencer, can you do the thing?”
Reid pauses. Then he smiles.
He pulls a coin from behind Henry’s ear, then Jack’s, then pretends to find one in the air between them. The boys explode with laughter, delighted and astonished. Jack nearly tips his stool in excitement.
Reid laughs too, surprised by the sound of it, warm and unguarded. For a moment, the weight he’s been carrying loosens. The ache of loss doesn’t vanish, but it softens, edged by something gentler.
From the other room, Hotch watches his family.
He sees Reid animated, alive in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. He sees his son laughing, safe and happy. He feels the press of the team around him, the quiet insistence that he rest, that he stay, that he let himself be held up for once.
Rossi’s house hums with life, with noise and warmth and food and chosen family.
For tonight, neither Aaron Hotchner nor Spencer Reid is allowed to disappear into their own grief.
Tonight isn't to grieve loves lost. It's to hold a glass to the loves who's candles are still burning bright as the stars shining on the team tonight.
The hour that follows feels easy in a way none of them quite realised they’d been missing.
It isn’t loud, not raucous or forced. It’s conversation that drifts and overlaps, plates passed hand to hand, fingers stealing olives and bits of bread before anyone can pretend to scold them for it. It’s Morgan leaning back with his chair balanced on two legs while Garcia gestures wildly through a story that absolutely does not need that much arm movement. JJ and Emily talk quietly at one end of the table, heads close, eyes flicking now and then toward the kitchen with small, satisfied smiles.
Hotch is laughing, not the polite exhale he offers in meetings, not the controlled curve of his mouth he uses to reassure others, but real laughter. The kind that creases the corners of his eyes and pulls his shoulders loose. He’s listening to Reid explain something to Jack and Henry with full seriousness, both boys hanging on every word as if Spencer is explaining the secrets of the universe rather than why pasta water needs salt.
Reid, for his part, looks lighter than he has in months. He’s animated, hands moving as he talks, voice warm, darting between answering Jack’s rapid-fire questions and Henry’s quieter observations. He lets Jack interrupt him. He lets Henry correct him. He lets both of them win arguments that don’t matter.
Rossi watches it all with the satisfaction of a man who knows exactly what he’s done.
In the kitchen, things turn briefly chaotic.
Reid reaches for a utensil, distracted mid-sentence, angling it toward a pan where oil shimmers dangerously.
Rossi’s voice cuts through the room in Italian, sharp and theatrical.
“Madonna santa, Spencer! Sei fuori di testa? You want scars now? I have enough scars in this family.”
Reid freezes, utensil suspended. “I was calculating the heat distribution and—”
Rossi swats his wrist away with a towel. “You calculate nothing near boiling oil. You think genius makes you fireproof?”
Jack giggles. Henry gasps, delighted by the Italian scolding even if he doesn’t understand a word.
Reid, cheeks pink, switches languages without thinking. “Va bene, va bene. I was just trying to help.”
“You help by stepping back,” Rossi fires back, still in Italian, though his mouth twitches with a smile. “And by not burning my kitchen down.”
Hotch watches this exchange with something close to reverence. He’s seen Rossi mentor, lecture, command rooms. Seeing him fuss like an old Italian grandfather while Reid takes it with good-natured embarrassment feels grounding. Human.
When the food is finally ready, it arrives in generous dishes, steam rising, colours rich and comforting. The table fills quickly, plates passed, serving spoons clinking. The boys are seated proudly between adults, their fancy cups of apple juice placed with as much ceremony as the wine glasses.
Rossi lifts his glass first.
Conversation fades. Not because anyone is told to stop, but because they want to listen.
“To family,” Rossi says. His voice is softer now, still carrying that unmistakable weight. “The one you’re born into, and the one you fight for. May we never forget how lucky we are.”
Glasses rise around the table. Jack and Henry lift their cups with exaggerated care, eyes wide and serious.
“Salute,” Rossi adds.
“Salute,” the team echoes.
The boys chime in half a beat late, voices bright.
They drink. Wine, juice, shared warmth.
The dinner settles into that perfect, unstructured chaos that only happens when everyone feels safe enough to stop being careful.
It starts small.
Morgan discovers—far too late—that Rossi’s “little kick” of chilli is not, in fact, little.
He takes one confident bite, chews twice, then freezes.
Garcia watches him with narrowed eyes. “Oh no. That face. That’s the ‘I’ve made a mistake but my pride won’t let me admit it’ face.”
Morgan swallows. Hard. “This is fine.”
Emily raises a brow. “Derek, you’re turning red.”
“I’m warm,” he insists.
Rossi doesn’t even look up from his plate. “You said you like spice.”
“I do like spice,” Morgan croaks. “I just wasn’t expecting to see God.”
Garcia is already halfway out of her chair, pressing her water glass into his hand. “Drink. Before you combust and we have to file paperwork.”
Jack, delighted, leans toward Henry and whispers far too loudly, “Uncle Morgan’s ears are the same colour as spaghetti sauce.”
Henry nods solemnly. “That means it’s serious.”
Laughter ripples around the table, easy and unrestrained.
At the other end, Reid is explaining something—no one is entirely sure what—to JJ, hands moving quickly, when Henry interrupts.
“Uncle Spencer?”
“Yes?”
“Are you smarter than Google?”
Reid pauses, clearly trying to calculate a socially acceptable answer.
JJ cuts in immediately. “He’s smarter, honey.”
Reid winces. “Statistically speaking, Google has access to more data, but—”
Jack leans across the table. “Dad says you’re the smartest person he knows.”
Hotch, mid-sip, coughs into his glass.
Reid’s ears go red. “Well, that’s very kind, but intelligence is contextual and—”
Rossi waves his fork dismissively. “Kid, just say thank you before I throw bread at you.”
Reid smiles, small but genuine. “Thank you.”
Later, after plates are cleared and dessert appears—because Rossi insists dinner without dessert is a crime—Garcia produces a deck of cards seemingly from nowhere.
“We’re playing,” she announces. “No arguing.”
Emily smirks. “That’s ironic, coming from you.”
They settle into a loose circle, kids perched between chairs, Jack determined to shuffle despite having very little concept of how shuffling works. Cards go everywhere.
“Jack,” Hotch says gently, “maybe let Will—”
“No,” Jack insists. “I’m the dealer.”
Henry nods. “He’s the dealer.”
Reid watches this with fascination. “Statistically, this will result in absolute anarchy.”
Morgan grins. “Welcome to family game night, Pretty Boy.”
Ten minutes later, Morgan accuses Garcia of cheating.
“I do not cheat,” she says, offended. “I strategically interpret rules.”
“You just changed the rules!”
“I evolved them.”
Emily laughs into her wine. “I’m pretty sure that’s still cheating.”
Rossi leans back, hands folded. “In my house, if you get caught cheating, you cook next week.”
Garcia gasps. “Cruel and unusual punishment.”
Meanwhile, Reid is attempting to teach Jack a card trick.
“No, no,” Reid murmurs, carefully guiding small fingers. “You palm it like this.”
Jack tries. The card immediately falls to the floor.
Jack looks up, solemn. “I think the card betrayed me.”
Henry pats his arm. “It happens.”
Hotch watches the two boys with something warm and quiet in his chest, the tension he carries so often loosened by the sound of their laughter echoing through Rossi’s house.
At one point, Rossi pulls out an old photo album.
“This,” he announces, flipping it open, “is why none of you are allowed to make fun of my cooking.”
The photos are spectacularly terrible.
Morgan squints. “Is that a moustache or a crime?”
Rossi points at a younger version of himself. “That moustache has won awards.”
Garcia snaps a photo of the photo. “This is going to live forever.”
Hotch shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You know, I think this violates some kind of dignity clause.”
Rossi grins. “You gave that up when you joined this team.”
By the time the night winds down, Jack and Henry are curled up on the couch, half-asleep, heads bumping together. Reid has a card stuck behind his ear that no one remembers him putting there. Morgan is still nursing his wounded pride—and his water glass. Garcia is humming contentedly. JJ leans into Will’s shoulder.
By the time the boys are ushered into coats and shoes, the night has softened into something slow and drowsy.
Jack is half-asleep on the couch, cheek pressed into a cushion, while Henry insists he is not tired even as he yawns so wide it looks like it might unhinge his jaw. Will scoops him up with practised ease, murmuring promises of pancakes in the morning. Jess helps Jack into his jacket, smoothing his hair back and pressing a kiss to his temple.
Hotch lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching Jack blink himself awake just long enough to mumble, “Night, Dad.”
“Goodnight, buddy,” Aaron replies quietly, something in his voice gentler than it’s been in weeks.
The door closes behind Will and Jess, and the house settles.
No schedules. No flights. No briefings at dawn.
Just a rare, precious thing.
A day off.
Rossi turns, already loosening his tie. “Alright. Tomorrow none of us are federal agents. We are normal, well-adjusted adults.”
Morgan snorts. “You lost me at ‘normal.’”
Garcia stretches dramatically across the couch. “I demand drinks. Preferably something with sugar, colour, and questionable life choices.”
Rossi gestures toward the kitchen. “Help yourselves. Wine, whiskey, beer. There’s also limoncello.”
Emily’s eyes light up. “Oh, this is already a mistake.”
They migrate back toward the table, glasses appearing, jackets discarded. Laughter comes easier now, the day’s sharp edges worn down by food and wine and the simple fact that no one is on call.
JJ leans back in her chair. “So. Games.”
Reid blinks. “Games?”
Morgan grins, dangerous. “Games.”
Garcia is already rummaging through a cabinet. “I vote cards.”
Emily: “Board games.”
Rossi, ominously: “I have options.”
That’s when Garcia’s hand emerges holding a large, square box.
White. Red. Blue.
Silence falls.
Reid squints. “Statistically, that’s a terrible idea.”
Morgan laughs. “Monopoly.”
Hotch, from his chair, deadpan. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh come on,” JJ says. “We’re adults.”
Emily crosses her arms. “Last time we played Monopoly, Morgan flipped the board.”
Morgan scoffs. “I did not flip the board.”
“You absolutely flipped the board.”
“I strategically redistributed the board.”
Garcia hugs the box to her chest. “I haven’t destroyed friendships in weeks. Let me have this.”
Rossi considers them all, lips twitching. “You know what? Do it. If we survive this, we can survive anything.”
Hotch exhales slowly, already regretting his life choices. “I’m only playing if we set ground rules.”
Morgan grins. “Look at you, Hotch. Already negotiating.”
They set up on the dining table, pieces clinking, fake money stacked neatly. Reid volunteers to be the banker, because of course he does.
“I will be fair and impartial,” he promises.
Emily eyes him. “You say that like you’ve already memorised the entire rulebook.”
Reid hesitates. “I have.”
Of course he has.
Ten minutes in, tensions rise.
Garcia refuses to buy Baltic Avenue on principle. “It’s ugly. I don’t invest in ugly properties.”
Morgan buys it immediately out of spite.
JJ lands on Go To Jail and claps her hands. “Honestly? This tracks.”
Emily rolls doubles three times in a row and cackles like a supervillain.
Rossi somehow owns half the board without anyone remembering when it happened.
Hotch sits quietly, sipping his drink, until he lands on Morgan’s property.
Morgan leans forward. “That’ll be rent.”
Hotch slides the money over without comment.
Morgan squints. “That’s it? No argument?”
Hotch looks up, perfectly calm. “I’ll bankrupt you later."
Reid chokes on his drink.
An hour in, voices are raised.
Garcia accuses Reid of hoarding money.
“I’m the banker,” Reid protests. “That’s literally my job.”
“You like it too much.”
Emily threatens to form an alliance.
Morgan declares alliances illegal.
JJ starts passing out snacks like peace offerings.
Rossi watches it all with wine in hand, smiling like a man watching a controlled burn.
Eventually, someone knocks over a stack of houses. Someone else claims it’s sabotage. Someone else laughs so hard they nearly fall out of their chair.
Hotch is the one who finally calls it.
He leans back, glass in hand, and says, with dry certainty, “We should have stopped at cards.”
Garcia raises her glass. “To Monopoly. Destroyer of peace.”
They clink glasses anyway.
Because they’re off duty tomorrow. Because tonight, mistakes are allowed. Because for once, no one needs to be the responsible one.
The next morning, Rossi’s house is… quieter than usual.
That is a lie. It isn’t quiet; it is a slow, dragging, sticky kind of noise, the sound of people moving far too slowly, groaning at the betrayal of their own bodies, and the occasional crash as someone discovers that legs didn’t always obey instructions after a night of “celebratory relaxation.”
Most—no, all—of the team is hungover.
It starts with Morgan, who is currently sprawled across the living room floor, arm draped over the couch as though it might somehow absorb the pain of his pounding head. He blinks rapidly at the ceiling like it had personally insulted him, then makes a sound that can only be described as a cross between a growl and a moan.
“If I hear one person yell,” he wheezes, voice thick. “Or breathe too loud, then I'm knocking myself out.”
Garcia, perched on the arm of a chair with a water bottle clutched to her chest, is no better. Hair in every direction, a face that emulating the idea of “tragically glamorous,” and eyes that flicker with a manic sort of energy, the kind only someone who has partaken in multiple glasses of limoncello can sustain.
“I feel like a unicorn ran over my liver,” she cries, dramatically tipping the bottle back and groaning in slow, deliberate agony.
JJ emerges from the kitchen, coffee in hand, hair slightly mussed, and eyes narrow. “I’m okay,” she says firmly, though the subtle twitch of her eyebrow betrays otherwise. “I just… need caffeine. That’s all. Pure caffeine. Nothing else.”
Emily appears behind her, equally dishevelled but somehow managing to retain a sense of dignified composure. She holds a bottle of water, long-suffering, and glances around the room like she’s been awake for days—though she hasn’t. “I need food,” she mutters. “Preferably something that won’t scream at my stomach. Or my head. Or my soul.”
Hotch, sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of water balancing carefully in his hands, looks the most normal of them all—but only in comparison. His tie is long gone, his hair slept-on, and his face has the pale, waxy tone of someone who would have rather died than drink last night but still somehow had. He sighs, the sound low and rueful.
“Never again,” he mumbles, but no one believes him. Not even himself.
Across the room, Rossi shuffles in from the hallway, moving as though gravity has doubled overnight. He squints at the half-empty bottles, the strewn cards, and the evidence of a game night that had clearly escalated past the point of human reason.
“You all look like a crime scene,” he observes, voice calm but dry, the kind of voice that could make anyone feel simultaneously judged and comforted. “Did someone die?”
Morgan groans. “I was this close to being murdered by chili. And my liver.”
Garcia clutches her head. “I have to… I have to Instagram this. The aftermath. The suffering. It’s… beautiful.”
JJ shoots her a look. “Not everything needs documentation.”
“Everything needs documentation,” Garcia counters, still dramatically clutching her water bottle.
Meanwhile, Reid sits cross-legged on the floor, pale and trembling slightly. He has a mug in hand, the contents unclear, and he is staring at the ceiling with what must be existential despair.
“I calculated,” he sighs, voice straining, “that the alcohol consumed last night exceeds the recommended safe limits by… well, by quite a lot. Statistically, this should not have ended well for anyone.”
“Welcome to our world, Pretty Boy,” Morgan rasps. “You survived. That’s all that matters.”
The team starts to wonder if Jack and Henry being absent is truly a mercy, their absence is the only reason this morning hasn’t descended into chaos of a completely catastrophic sort. But it is also the reason any of the so-called adults touched more than one glass of alcohol.
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters, “I swear I don’t feel like a father. I feel like a victim of a mass casualty event.”
Rossi chuckles, raising an eyebrow. “And yet… here you all are. Miraculously alive.”
“Oh, we’re alive,” Garcia moans, tapping her forehead like she’d just proven a point. “Barely. But alive.”
Emily groans and flops onto the couch, one leg tucking under her and one on top of Garcia’s. “I think… I think I need to lie down again. Or possibly be buried a second time.”
JJ rolls her eyes—and immediately regrets it when pain at her skull—though there is a small, amused smirk tugging at her lips. “You know what this is?” she says. “Retribution. That’s what this is. Karma.”
Morgan raises one hand weakly from the floor. “If karma involves more limoncello, I officially hate it.”
Rossi finally settles into his chair with a slow sigh, surveying the room. “You know, we do this every time. Every single time. And yet… it’s always worth it. In a masochistic, slightly tragic way.”
Garcia waves her hand, already halfway into making plans for “recovery smoothies” that would likely consist of ice cream and vitamin gummies. “We should document our pain,” she chirps. “For science. For the team. For me.”
Hotch glances around at the assembled chaos: Reid muttering about percentages, Morgan groaning theatrically on the floor, Garcia already planning her next snack attack, JJ and Emily exchanging knowing looks, Rossi quietly amused in the corner.
He allows himself a small smile, despite the pounding behind his eyes. Because this—the chaos, the absurdity, the collective suffering—they are together. And even hungover, even wrung-out, even limping from the previous night’s mistakes… they are still the team.
“Alright,” Rossi claps—and snorts at the collective wince—breaking the shared, hazy silence. “I think the first step in recovery is breakfast. Whoever survives the kitchen gets to cook. The rest of you… try not to vomit on me.”
Everyone groans again.
Then winces at the volume and groans once more, because that went so well before.