Chapter Text
Aaron Hotchner would never have considered himself good at sharing. For much of his life, he had been alone, worked hard to put himself ahead of his peers, to lead. Even more from that, his demeanour wasn’t often what you would call friendly. He was cold. Calculating. Singular. He was a man better suited to lunch alone at his desk than out with friends.
Yet, if you looked beyond his ice-man exterior, you’d find he was one of the sharing-est men to ever exist. In fact, all the things he loved most about his life he shared with another: David Rossi.
David Rossi was also not a man you’d expect to be good at sharing. An accomplished author, a failed husband, his lifestyle was singular. His big empty house had once been a shrine to his loneliness, a space void of anything money couldn’t buy. He appeared, for all intents and purposes, a selfish man. Yet it wasn’t so.
Aaron and David shared a great many things in life. So many, in fact, that it would be hard to find an aspect of their lives the other hadn’t imprinted on. Like the weft threads in one another’s tapestries, they underwrote each other’s stories.
Aaron Hotchner and David Rossi lived a life intertwined. While both could remember with clarity a time before the other, neither wanted to return to it. All that they had, they shared.
They shared a passion in life for hunting and apprehending monsters and killers. They were at the top of their field, the leaders of criminal profiling. Through this, they shared a lifetime of experience, of knowledge that they could not gain elsewhere. They were the only two people alive who might be able to say they knew how the other thought. Aaron had written up the paperwork on the horrors David had seen. David had cuffed the killers Aaron had caught. They had shared files and theories on shared plane rides to shared cases, at the end of which they shared the glory of solve. They’d been to the same cities at the same times; shared makeshift offices in police stations across the country. They shared the same landmarks to remind them of the same places in the same dead-end counties in the same far off states. They had shared hotel rooms, hotel shampoos and sometimes hotel beds - but no one else needed to know that one. They shared the same need to retire, to be away from the trauma. They also shared the same need to remain, for one more case, one more day, one more year. If they were at work, they were sharing it.
The same went for their team. The BAU. The finest asset of the FBI, their shared venture. It was their pride and joy. They shared the same office spaces; the conference rooms, the bullpen, the break room (and the terrible break room coffee that was slick to the throat as if it was mixed with lard). They shared their team, the best profilers and people either of them had had the pleasure to meet. They shared in the highs and lows of their high-pressure jobs. They shared the responsibility to take care of the needs of their employees. They shared in the late-night runs for more coffee or more food or a marker for Spencer, or an obscure book, or whatever he needed that he couldn’t risk being dragged away from his work to find. They shared the most gut-clinchingly hard but rewarding job either could imagine.
They shared their relationship, whatever it was. They shared the unspoken feeling that moved between them and around them; the invisible thing that kept them together. Aaron was hesitant to name it; David was hesitant to feel it. Yet they shared in it, the feeling itself, and the accompanying thought that it was sacred and perfect and untouchable. That whatever it was, it shouldn’t be disturbed. That it was beyond them to say whether it should be allowed, that it should simply exist for them to cherish. From it grew other things they shared - the stolen affection at the top of that list. David’s sneaky morning forehead kisses when they had the luxury to wake up slowly and in the same room. The way Aaron rubbed David’s back if they sat too close for too long. The intimacy of Aaron, stretched out on the sofa, with no shoes on, an open surrender to whatever happened around him - the safety and comfort of being near David. The way they had each held one another and cried bitterly, over the worse things they shared.
They shared a secondary classification. Both men were caregivers. Both parents. They shared the same hormones, the same cocktail of urges to protect and love. They shared secondary biological traits, like muscle growth and eyes in the back of their heads. They shared the instincts, like knowing how long was too long for a child to be quiet and when it was safe to move a dozing child from the couch to their bed. From this, the greatest of the things they shared flowed.
They shared a beautiful family that they had built themselves. Four kids, biological littles, that they shared in the responsibility of caring for and protecting. They shared in the hardships that came with being imperfect parents, and in the knowledge that they were good enough for their wonderful clutch of kiddos.
They shared JJ. She was their eldest, a bright bubbly young lady. Their fun-loving teenager, with the oldest headspace of their young ones. They had shared in her journey to accepting that she was worthy of care even though she was old enough to care for herself. They shared in her empathy, her infectious laughter; She was their joy, spreading positivity around her. She and Aaron shared rom-com movie nights. She and David shared time in the kitchen as he taught her to bake. They shared in her continuing struggles to put herself before her siblings when she needed to, and in the knowledge that sometimes they contributed to that.
They shared Emily. She was their tomboy, a wild little thing whose headspace was about nine years old. They shared in her quirks, her fiery nature and her can-do, independent attitude. They shared in the joy at her growing contentment at having father figures. They shared her quick, bone-shifting hugs that she would bestow on them as she ran off to hide or seek during games of hiding and seeking with her siblings. They shared in the daily struggle to do her hair. She brought meaning to their lives, along with her siblings. They shared in her quiet days, where her pain made it hard to reach her.
They shared Derek. Their only son, about seven years old. They shared in his love of dinosaurs and the great outdoors. They shared the trial of balancing his energy with the needs of their other kids. He kept them feeling young and capable. Rough and tumble, they had tagged each other into several wrestling matches just so they could keep up. They shared in the knowledge that he loved them both, needed them both to stay level. They shared the pleasure of writing over some scars left by others who had treated him wrong. They shared in the ache of knowing that those things would be there, no matter their efforts.
They shared Penny. Their youngest, of about five years old. They shared in her excitement, her chaotic enjoyment of life and all that it brings, a constant across her headspaces. They shared in her love of horses. They shared many games involving horses and unicorns and pegasi, her silly adventures that you followed with your heart rather than your mind. They shared in her easy love and affection. They shared the pain of watching her cry after her nightmares.
They also shared their family home, the place they lived with all their kids. Formally David’s mansion, the monster of a structure had grown to be their sanctuary. Its walls protected them from all they saw on the job, a place they could hide and focus only on being parents, on being a family. They shared its floors, its ceilings, all the nooks and crannies within where their love clung and stayed. They shared in the comfort it provided. They shared its pool in the summer and the fireplaces in the winter. They shared an ensuite, a secret passageway that connected their rooms, where their toothbrushes hung side by side. (They didn’t share the kitchen, though - that undeniably belonged to David. The scorch mark on the splashback by the window belonged to Aaron, the very reason that the kitchen was a David space. It was better that they didn’t share that.)
They shared dark things. The pain. They shared the bone-deep crushing ache of only being two men against a world of evil creatures. The images of horror, gore, depravity, the thrum of darkness in every place they stepped. They had shared heady chases that ended in bodies and broken lives. They shared in the sorrow of the loss, the knowledge of just how low a low could be, just how mediocre a victory could feel. They had shared the same cup of tea, one styrofoam cup between two, in the waiting room of an unknown hospital, sharing that tense wait for good news to bolster them. They had braced each other through every dark moment that had passed. They continued to share the ones still coming, like the very worst things they shared.
They shared an unfillable hole, an ache, to complete their family. They loved their children - endlessly, complexly, and at the expense of anything else - loved them more than life itself. Every aspect of each child, even the ones that frustrated them. Loved them in their headspaces, out of it, in between. In every moment, they loved their kids. But this ache went deep and deeper, in the hearts and minds of every member of their family. They shared this with their children along with each other. This sharp thread edging all the good they had. There was a gap, an empty room down the hall. A name missing from the string when they listed their children in small talk with strangers. A familiar face absent from the family photo albums. There wasn’t a day that passed that they didn’t feel it, didn’t notice it. They had share hours sitting in the dark of their living room wishing for it. Shared hours of conversation where they spoke about, wished about it, wondered about it. Alongside all they shared, Aaron and David shared in the longing for Spencer Reid. The missing piece. An unattainable, unreachable little boy.
They hoped one day he’d be theirs. That he’d come home and make their family whole once and for all. It hurt all the more for how close he was. So close, yet so far.
———
Spencer Reid is a brilliant man by all accounts. He’s a skilled profiler, a beloved son, a genius, a doctor three times over. Not even old enough for a mid-life crisis, he was as successful as can be. More successful even. Successful-er than anyone who knew. (He was even smart enough to know that successful-er wasn’t a word and brilliant enough to not really care.)
He had everything he needed in life: a degree, a passion and a family.
Except that it wasn’t that simple.
He had three doctorates, more education than many people could hope for. He was an expert in three fields, three more than most people. Even more, he was an expert on human behaviour and linguists and geographic profiling - none of which were related to his studies. He was more learned than most, more practically skilled than he could accurately quantify. He had poured all of his life into being the smartest and the best, and he had the papers to prove it. He had his education. No one could take that away. And while it wasn’t the typical American dream college experience most hoped for, he’d had it. Been there. Done that. Might go back and do that again sometime.
He had a family, technically. He had a relative - his mother. He loved her. She was his family. Granted, he rarely saw her these days unless a serial killer landed him in Vegas. And sure, she wasn’t the family he might have hoped to have at this time in his life, but she was his and she was staying and it was good. He was content, if not happy, with his family situation. Sure, he wanted a caregiver, maybe two, but his job and his personality and his general Spencer-ness excluded him from that opportunity. So he was good, he was fine, he could live without a family of his own. He had his mom. Sometimes a family is just you and your estranged and mentally ill mother that you obsessively write to.
And he had a passion. His passion was hunting serial killers and rapists and kidnappers and arsonist. His passion took him across the country at breakneck speed. He had a good job, one that let him travel. People wanted that. He had that. It didn’t bother him that he could go weeks without sleeping in his own bed, not anymore at least.
He loved his job.
Well…
He liked his job.
Sometimes.
He was good at his job. Everyone thought so. Park him with a map and a profile and he could find their UnSub in two to four business days. He could fire off gross and disturbing statistics as easily as breathing. He was at the top of his field, an FBI agent, the coolest person from his graduating class. He was successful.
If he disregarded how he felt, he could say he was successful. He had a job he never expected to have, a family he never saw and a degree he never used. If he cut the nevers out, he was the perfect American man.
Beyond that, he was happy and healthy. Except he wasn’t happy - not exactly. He wasn’t unhappy; most of the time he was angry, or disappointed, or stressed. But not unhappy. He didn’t have time to be unhappy. And he was healthy - kind of. Aside from all the side effects of his medication and his general mental state, he was healthy for his age. Except for the caffeine dependency. And the whole underweight-and-low-blood-pressure thing. And the fact that his mother that he never saw worried about him constantly.
He was a little. He was happy being a little. Well, he was a little by classification, but by practice. You could argue he wasn’t happy being little, seeing as he lived on hormone blockers to stop him from presenting as a little, stopped him from falling into that little headspace. He would argue back that he isn’t mad that he’s a little, he’s just really bad at it and no caregiver will put up with him, so it’s easier to be on hormone blockers. And he’s okay with being on them. Aside from the side effects, they’re fine. He’s fine with it.
He’s lying.
If Spencer Reid had been honest with him, he would recognise that he was the most successful train wreck he’d ever met. Unhappy, lonely, unhealthy, just left of successful. He’d recognise that there was a hole in his life.
A family-shaped hole.
He tried hard not to think about it. About how his whole team had merged over time into one big happy family, with him safely excluded. He wanted more than anything to pile into Hotch’s SUV at the end of a hard case with the rest of his friends and head home with them for the weekend, to have siblings and two parents (such a luxury, a big family). Except he couldn’t. Because of his thing.
The thing is the blockers. Since he presented, Spencer had lived contentedly on pills that stopped him from being little. He’d tried being little for about four months back when he was young, a fresh-faced twenty-year-old. It hadn’t worked out. All it proved with that his life would be better if he didn’t concern himself with being little, instead focussing on his work. He wasn’t what caregivers wanted. He wasn’t a quiet little baby, or an energetic kid, or a chill preteen. He was a chatty, chill, baby-ish kid with tendencies that placed him all over the developmental spectrum. He loved things for really little kids, but he acted like an older kid. Even he was confused. It had frustrated his last caregiver so much that she left. He couldn’t imagine it going any differently if he tried it again. No matter what he wanted, it just wouldn’t work out right. No use fantasising about it.
There was definitely no use fantasising about being a part of the Hotchner-Rossi family, either. If they wanted him, they would’ve said something by now. Family units like theirs were uncommon but not unheard of. It was a treat for most caregivers to have more than one kid, a treat for most littles to have siblings. His friends were lucky, blessed. He couldn’t imagine how great it must be to have two dads. Two dads and brothers and sisters. That was just a daydream he used to pass the time on the subway. A pipe dream. Hotch and Rossi would have their hands full with four kids, and Spencer was high-maintenance. They wouldn’t have time for him even if they wanted him. Still, it might be nice to get tucked in or read a bedtime story. And Rossi baked birthday cakes for each kid, and that would be nice. And JJ gave great hugs, he was sure she’d be a fantastic sister. He and Penelope got along like a house on fire already, he couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to get caught up in her childlike whimsy. It would be cool to have a brother, too, and Derek liked dinosaurs. Spencer knew a lot about dinosaurs. Maybe they’d play together. And Emily, too, maybe they could be friends. Not to mention how Hotch was basically his dad already, even helping him tie his shoe once in the middle of a Los Angeles police station. It wasn’t wrong to think about it, just so long as he remembered that he couldn’t have it.
So he was good. He took his blockers, every twelve hours, exactly as he was supposed to. He ignored how they meant he could never keep on weight. How they made his blood pressure low, how he got dizzy standing up to fast, or for too long, or at all. How his body hair was thinning and balding in weird ways, and how embarrassing it would be if that happened on his head. How easily he bruised. How irritable he got if he missed a dose (which happened so infrequently, but often enough that he worried about it). How the pills made his mother cringe. How Hotch always went to say something if he had to take them in front of the team, and how Rossi always stopped him. He knew he would be better off without them, but there wasn’t a caregiver alive who would want him, so he dealt with it. He stayed on his pills, the same ones he’d been on since he was seventeen, and lived on. He’d find the right combo, the pills that had the most side effects he could live with and allowed him to drink coffee (Rossi had ranted at him once when the team had gone out - all adults, mind you - to have a drink. Told him how bad caffeine was for his body as a little, how worried it got Rossi, because Spence, that shit will kill you. You gotta quit the coffee, kid. Me and Dad- Hotch are worried.)
He was fine.
Truly, he was great and perfect and good.
Until he wasn’t.