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He joins the BAU in the dead of winter. His first day has him standing too long in his front garden before the drive, staring at the camellias that have already given up the fight, flowers meant to withstand the cold but no match for a Virginia frost. The so-called winter roses droop beneath ice, and even they look defeated.
He fiddles with his keys, eyes passing over wilted beds and branches rimmed in white. He’s not nervous. Just…apprehensive. It’s been a long time since he’s set foot in a government building. Longer still since he’s seen Aaron, and never in a position of authority. Little rookie Aaron Hotchner, his boss.
A stubborn leaf from his weeping willow shivers loose, landing at his shoes. He tells himself again that it isn’t nerves, only that he doesn’t like change, that’s all.
He pulls in a breath, lets it out, watches the mist curl and fade into the air. Then he finally turns toward the car.
He steps into the bullpen ready to meet his new team and—
Okay, okay.
Okay this is new.
There’s a kid in his early twenties, Halloween costume chains looped round his neck, a zombie mask perched on top of his head like a crown. The older man next to him elbows him sharply in the ribs until the kid scrambles, yanking the chains off and shoving the mask down onto the desk.
Aaron stifles a laugh beside him and gestures to the group.
“This is SSA Emily Prentiss.”
“Sir!” The dark-haired woman nearly knocks her desk over in her rush to shake his hand.
“Agent Derek Morgan.”
“It’s an honour Agent Rossi,” Derek grins.
“Please, just Dave.”
“…and Dr Spencer Reid.”
He goes to shake the young man’s hand, and is instantly met with a, quite impressive, monologue about his own work.
It’s silent for a while after the ramble is over. The team exchange looks whilst Rossi stares at the young agent.
“Sorry.” The kid blurts.
Rossi opens his mouth to respond, feeling confusion and intrigue colour his eyes. This is one of the BAU’s brightest minds? The older agent, Derek, inches closer to Spencer putting himself into Rossi’s line of sight. Agent Morgan raises his brows, eyes locked onto his own.
Interesting.
“Oh, no problem…” He starts, it wasn’t the words he would’ve originally chosen but well, no need to make enemies on his first day.
Derek’s gaze seems to darken, he slowly crosses his arms over his chest.
“Doctor.” Rossi finishes.
The atmosphere gets lighter instantly. Then he learns there’s a jet at the BAU now.
As Aaron leads him up upstairs to the media liaison. Rossi glances back down into the bullpen. Derek is ruffling Spencer’s hair, then smoothing it flat again with exasperated fondness.
Wow. Media liaisons. Private jets. And if his eyes aren’t deceiving him, a gay couple in the FBI.
Things have really changed.
“We didn’t have that in my day.”
“What?” Aaron asks, eyeing him curiously.
“A media liaison. A jet. A gay couple in the bullpen.” Rossi laughs under his breath, looking down at the desks below.
Derek’s sitting on the edge of Spencer’s, the two of them bent over an unholy crossword made of three newspapers taped together, whilst Emily holds a stopwatch in her hand. Derek’s wearing the zombie mask now, perched on top of his head like a hat.
Aaron blinks. “I’m sorry, Dave… what?”
He turns back to his friend, now boss, who’s looking at him like he has venus fly traps for eyes.
“A gay couple,” Rossi repeats, gesturing lazily at the bullpen. “The two young men down there currently sharing a desk.”
He glances again, they’re close, heads nearly touching, the two of them laughing at something.
“Reid and Morgan?” Aaron’s voice goes up half an octave. Rossi isn’t sure he’s ever heard him sound so scandalized.
“Yeah, I mean look at—”
And then Aaron laughs. A real, full laugh, shoulders shaking.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Dave. But it’s a good team. You’re going to like it here.”
Got it all wrong? Got it ALL wrong? He’s the best profiler here and they think HE’S the one in the wrong? Dannazione! Some elite unit this is.
Instead of saying all that, he nods with a tight smile and says, “I think so too.”
His first few days at the BAU pass by quickly. That very night, at what he learns is a mandatory round of team drinks at a local dive, he discovers something surprising, apparently the two agents are not a couple.
He sees Derek cozying up to a woman at the bar, easy smile, hand on her elbow. But what he doesn’t miss is the way Spencer’s face falls across the table, eyes down, lips tight.
Old Agent Rossi’s still got it.
Derek only tears himself away when he spots the kid sulking, striding over to haul him up by the elbow. “C’mon, Reid. If I bought you that drink, you can at least win me a little something-something with that brain of yours.”
“A slot machine is just luck, Morgan.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way, Pretty boy.” Derek grins, steering him toward the flashing machine.
Pretty boy?!
And just like that, Spencer’s face lifts again, shy smile curling, eyes sliding from the floor up to Derek’s. “Actually, statistics do indicate that…” His voice fades into the hum of the crowd, but Rossi’s heard enough.
He turns to Aaron.
“Don’t even say it, Dave.”
“Okay, okay.”
It’s a few weeks later, a spring breeze chasing him on the walk in, and when Rossi steps into the bullpen the two lovebirds are already at it, facing each other, knees pressed close, leaning in like this wasn’t a federal building.
“You don’t have a resting bitch face, Reid.” Derek is saying. “Now look at the master at work. Emily Prentiss, master of the bitch face.”
They both turn to their coworker for a second before going back to eachother.
Emily keeps working on her files, blissfully unaware of the strangest display of flirting Rossi’s ever seen.
“I do,” Spencer insists, “I do have a resting b—“ He cuts himself off, lips pressing together in a thin line.
“You can’t even say it!”
“Resting bitch face!” The words spill out in a breathless rush.
“Okay, try it.”
From Rossi’s angle he can see the kid’s face twist into what is absolutely not a neutral expression, but a full-blown pout.
“Now you just look pathetic.” Derek laughs.
“No, watch!” Spencer leans in, an inch from Derek’s nose, and smooths his face back into ‘neutral.’ But even Rossi can see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he stares straight into Derek’s eyes.
“Now you’re smiling!” Derek starts, and then he leans that inch closer without meaning to, their noses brushing for the briefest moment before both chairs screech back like they’ve been caught in the act.
JJ walks in, pauses at what Rossi now privately calls the Desk of Yearning and Despair. “Spence! Why do you look so frazzled?”
“Ignore him!” Derek blurts, too fast, way too fast. “He’s just practicing his resting bitch face.”
JJ blinks, confused, then shrugs and continues upstairs.
Rossi sighs. They really do need to get together. At this point it’s becoming a workplace hazard. Maybe HR should write up a memo, though knowing this place it would probably only encourage them.
Not that anyone else seems to notice what he notices.
They get called on a case that same day. Florida. Figures.
The precinct is as stuffy inside as it is outside, four walls of humid air pressing down on them. They’re crammed into a conference room, still trying to work out why someone thought fingers belonged in stomachs, and Rossi thinks it says a lot about his life that he can still feel hungry during a case like this.
“I picked this up for you guys,” Emily announces as she and JJ drop bags of food on the table, the greasy logo of a roadside burger joint stamped across the paper.
Rossi sends up a silent thank you to the FBI gods. It’s not gourmet, nothing in this job ever is, but it’s hot, fast, and edible. He reaches in for a burger that’s wet and already falling apart, and tells himself it’s Florida, what did he expect.
Everyone else digs in too, except Spencer, who pushes the bag away like it might bite him.
“You might as well eat off a tabletop in Chernobyl,” he splutters.
“You’re ridiculous, man.” Derek shakes his head.
“Not this again,” JJ groans. “It’s from a perfectly good roadside—”
“Roadside!” Spencer repeats, horrified.
Rossi chuckles. “You got a problem with local eats, Reid?” He unwraps his burger. It sags in his hands, but it’ll do.
Derek cuts him a glare sharp enough to stop him mid-bite. Okay, so Derek’s allowed to make fun of the kid’s quirks. Rossi isn’t. Consider that memo received.
“Hey, hey, pretty boy. Cool your head.” Derek digs into his own bag and produces a tupperware container of plain tomato pasta. Homemade. He slides it across like it’s nothing.
Spencer exhales in relief, humming as he carries it to the microwave.
Rossi turns to Aaron, eyebrows climbing, chin tilted toward the pair. Aaron waves him off without even looking up, and even has the audacity to glare, faintly annoyed.
Some profilers.
It’s day two of the increasingly disturbing case, the air is getting hotter and the evidence mounts.
Rossi watches Derek make a coffee at the police station kitchenette with meticulous measurements. A splash of oat milk, a heavy pour of sugar, and enough caffeine to probably stun a large horse.
One mug fills to the brim. Then, without hesitation, Morgan splits it in two, pouring half into the second travel cup.
Rossi whistles low, claps a hand on his shoulder. “Didn’t take you for a sugar man, Morgan.”
“I’m not. It’s for Spencer.”
Rossi eyes the two cups. “Both of them?”
Morgan hums, screws the lids on. It takes Rossi a beat to catch up, and when it does he almost laughs. Mio dio…These two are ridiculous.
“Morgan…you stagger him?”
“Yup. If I don’t, his heart gets all fast and he thinks he’s having some kind of medical emergency.” Morgan says it like it’s obvious, like this is just what you do when you live your life orbiting a fussy hothouse flower.
“Right,” Rossi mutters, watching him disappear with both mugs into the SUV.
The case plays out as cases do. Spencer finishes his drink at the witnesses’ house, sighing happily to himself when the second drink appears an hour later.
Rossi nudges Prentiss with his elbow.
“Ow,” she snaps, rubbing her arm. “What is it?”
He tips his head toward Spencer, blissful with his second drink while Morgan rinses out the first cup and tucks it neatly back into his bag.
Emily groans, dramatic, throwing her head back. “You’re serious? That’s what you’ve been staring at?”
“Emily. First the pasta, now this? He staggers his caffeine. Said the kid thinks he’s having a heart attack if he doesn’t—”
“Spencer’s got quirks,” she cuts him off. “Food, drinks, all of it. And yeah, the medical thing? I know. His pulse races and he drags Morgan into googling medical facts for him even though he already knows every statistic by heart.”
“Why doesn’t he ask any of you then?”
“Morgan calms him down. I don’t know why, he just does.”
Rossi stares at her. “You don’t think that’s… domestic?”
“Domestic?” Emily bursts out laughing. “C’mon, old man. Let’s get back to Quantico and watch some romcoms in your office.”
“I can’t stress enough how much I don’t want that.”
“Sounds like you need your fix,” she teases, reaching for her phone. “I’m calling Penelope.”
It ends up being one of those cases that weighs heavier on Derek than anyone else. Cannibalism aside, and God knows that would unsettle anyone, he’s had words with the local priest, and whatever was said dug under his skin in a way Rossi hasn’t seen before.
Rossi doesn’t know why it seemed to hit Derek so viciously, but it did. He disappears into himself. Not the way he normally did, with his headphones on and tired looks out the window. Tonight’s different, he just sits there, staring into the grain of the jet’s table, shoulders locked. The team keep trading uneasy glances, Hotch looking up from his paperwork every five seconds.
The great Derek Morgan, lost in his own head. The tension hums with the engines, no one speaks. Spencer’s been staring at him the whole time, he looks worried…but more than that, he looks sad. His hand twitching across the table towards Derek as if he could put his hands inside of the other agent and rip out the rotten roots.
Twenty minutes in, the kid breaks it.
“If Clooney was made out of chocolate, how long do you think he’d live for?”
Rossi curls his tongue against his teeth to stop the crass what the fuck that wants to escape.
No one spoke for a few shocked seconds, but Spencer doesn’t look awkward like he expects. His eyes are fixed on Derek.
Derek blinks, sputters. “You think I’m that much of a fat ass?”
“No! It’s a serious question.”
“A serious question?” Derek repeats, staring at him.
“Yup.” Spencer pops the P and leans back into his chair.
"I think he'd live just as long as he's going to live now." Derek narrows his eyes.
"You don't think you'd have a nibble here and there. Even at first? Because you don't know if it's going to grow back."
"Will it grow back?"
"Well, no—"
"Then hell no!"
“But you wouldn’t know!” Spencer shoots back, triumphant.
“Honestly,” Emily cuts in, tilting her head, “Clooney’s so huge I’m sure a tiny nibble wouldn’t hurt.”
“Emily!” Derek yelps, betrayed.
The jet dissolves into laughter, voices overlapping as the ridiculous debate blooms across the cabin. Derek keeps pretending to be outraged about the chocolate cannibalism of his beloved companion, but Rossi watches the tension lift from his shoulders, sees the storm drain out of his face.
Rossi catches the youngest agent's eye, and the kid winks at him.
Wildflowers, Rossi thinks. Blooming in the cracks where no one expects them, bright enough to turn a man’s whole mood.
Later, he finds JJ in the bullpen, scribbling notes on a scrap of paper with the last case file splayed open across Emily’s desk.
“Kid’s got a way with the complexities of Derek Morgan, doesn’t he?” Rossi says, leaning against the desk.
“Yeah, they’re close,” JJ answers absently, not looking up.
“Close,” Rossi scoffs.
That gets her attention. She closes the file slowly, eyes narrowing. “What are you getting at?”
He stares at her, sighs. “JJ… I know you’re a media liaison, not a profiler, but—”
Her head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“No, no, listen, that came out wrong. I just mean—”
“What?”
“Fine! The kid’s in love with Morgan. That’s all I’m saying.”
Her mouth falls open. She looks around as if checking the empty dark room, then turns back to him, fury lighting her face.
“Are you making fun of him?”
“Am I—what?”
“Are you, the big mighty David Rossi, making fun of my friend?”
“Where did you even get that idea?”
“Just because he idolises you doesn’t mean you get to mock him. To his face, or behind his back.”
She spits the words with such force it actually startles him. He’s never heard such venom from her mouth, or such intense emotion behind her words.
“Jennifer, I was—”
But she shuts her eyes, inhales, and walks away before he can finish.
“I was being serious,” he mutters lamely to the empty space, staring after her.
Rossi sits outside, the chapel still burning in the distance, smoke curling up into the night. He doesn’t know where Cyrus or his people are, but for the first time all night he has eyes on his team.
Finally.
Emily’s in an ambulance, bloodied but alive. He got to see her before they closed the doors, got to grip her arms and kiss both her cheeks in relief.
He hugged Spencer too, long enough that the kid squirmed, but after a second he gave in and melted against him.
But God, he gets why the team acts the way they do around him. He’s endeared to the young agent as well. When the chapel blew up…He hasn’t felt fear like that in all his life, and he’s seen some things. He’d actually yelled when it happened, some strangled cry that almost resembled the word “Spencer!” Aaron had to hold him back from running in, even though they were so far from the incident it probably wouldn’t have made a difference.
Now he watches Derek and Spencer on the tailboard of another ambulance. Derek has Spencer’s jaw in his hand, turning his face this way and that, inspecting every inch of skin as though bruises might still be hiding. Spencer, usually so stiff with touch, is pliant in his hands, soft as jelly, letting himself be held and cared for.
Of course he is, it’s sort of…sweet.
His phone rings in his pocket, pulling him reluctantly away from the scene. He answers without checking the name, eyes still fixed on the odd pair across the field.
“How are my muffins?”
Penelope Garcia.
“I heard Emily’s okay, but nothing from Spencer and Derek—”
“Penelope, relax. It’s all good. Derek went into the chapel for the kid, it blew up—” He hears her gasp down the line. “—but they’re both safe. Smoke inhalation, that’s it. I can see them right now.”
“You’re sure?” she squeaks.
Rossi watches them across the field.
Spencer and Derek are still sitting in the back of an ambulance. Spencer’s leaning into Derek now, his head lolling back onto his chest. Derek’s holding his breathing mask loosely round his mouth, his other hand comes round Spencer’s back and up into his hair, playing with the strands with his eyes closed.
“They’re fine,” he says softly.
“Oh, thank God.”
“Derek was… pretty shaken, though.”
“Well, yeah. Weren’t you?”
“I was. I just mean—he punched a wall when we didn’t know if Spencer made it out. And when they said an agent was down, before we had names… he cried.”
“He cried?”
“Yeah. Which got me thinking…” If Morgan’s told anyone about the feelings Rossi can practically see from here, it’s Garcia.
“He’s in love with Spencer, isn’t he?”
“In-In love with?”
“Yeah! You wouldn’t expect it from Derek Morgan, ladies’ man that he is.” Rossi chuckles.
Penelope’s voice goes flat, unusual for her. “What’s that supposed to mean? And what on earth are you talking about?”
He sighs into the phone, watching Spencer sink further into Derek’s hold, his face coming up so his nose nuzzles into his coworkers clavicle.
“You know what… doesn’t matter. You’ll all see soon enough.”
“Okayyy… I’m gonna hang up now. Tell my furry friends I love them.”
The line clicks dead, leaving Rossi smiling wryly at nothing.
It’s winter again.
He throws a Christmas Party for the team, a joint celebration of the season and his first full year back at the BAU. The house smells of rosemary and pine, fire burning low, fairy lights strung through the rafters.
Four eggnogs in, Emily blurts it out.
“You know Rossi thinks you two are in love with each other?”
Rossi holds his tongue. He’s not in the mood to be ridiculed tonight, but come on! The agents in question are literally sharing a loveseat, pressed together like two overstuffed cannoli.
“What! That’s crazy!” Spencer laughs, voice pitched high, nervous. The rest of the team laughs with him, like they don’t see what Rossi sees.
Some profilers.
“Two men can’t be friends? Are you that old-fashioned, Nonno?” Derek teases, punching Rossi’s arm lightly.
Rossi throws his hands up. “Oh yeah? Prove it.”
Penelope gasps. “Oh my gosh, yes. Kiss!”
“Kiss? Us? Each other?” Spencer stares at Derek, wide-eyed.
“Yeah! Kiss, kiss…” JJ picks up the chant, pumping her fist.
“Kiss, kiss, kiss!” The team joins in, voices tumbling over one another, until even Hotch mutters along under Penelope’s relentless prodding.
Rossi leans back, eyebrow raised, drink in hand. Time to put theory into practice. “Bacio.”
Spencer sputters, “No, guys! This is crazy — we’re co-workers!”
“It’s just for fun!” Emily scoffs.
And then they’re leaning closer, noses brushing, the whole room leaning with them, even Rossi finds himself on the edge of his seat.
Spencer jerks back at the last second. “I can’t kiss a co-worker in front of my boss!”
Derek’s frozen in place, throat clearing. “Yeah, that’s… insanity.”
All eyes swing to Hotch.
“It’s Christmas,” he says flatly. Then, into his glass, “And I’m sick of hearing about all this from Dave.”
“Are you serious? C’mon, man!” Derek rolls his eyes, grabs Spencer by the shoulders, angles him close. “Let’s shut them up once and for all.”
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The team starts up again.
Spencer nods, dazed, gaze fixed on Derek’s mouth. His brows just ever so slightly upturned in what Dave’s profiling skills would deduce as want.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
The chant continue, rising and falling, the seconds stretching long with every near-flinch and hesitation until finally —
Lips meet.
The team roars, then falters when the kiss doesn’t end. It deepens instead, Spencer half in Derek’s lap.
“Kiss…Kiss…” The chants get quieter as the team descends into absolute shock.
Derek’s tongue flicks across Spencer’s lip, the air gone still except for the sound of it.
“…Kiss…” Penelope is the only one still whispering, voice trailing off as Spencer moans into Rossi’s living room.
JJ’s glass slips from her fingers. The imported crystal shatters across the floor, the crack echoing in the stunned silence.
The pair break apart at last, gasping, scrambling to make space on the armchair that doesn’t have any. Their breaths and Derek’s throat-clearing are the only sounds in the room.
The team stares wide eyed at them, then each of them, one by one, turns to Rossi with the same shocked expression.
He raises his drink and smiles in that smug way he knows Aaron hates.
“I told you so.”
Aaron Hotchner’s face is frozen in an expression he’s never seen on him before. Complete shock.
It’s the second best ‘told you so’ of his entire life.
It’s been six years since his first day back at the Bureau. Now his garden is alive again. Hydrangeas bloom around the chair legs, lilies burst from the tables, fairy lights drip gold from branch to branch. For the second time in his life the place feels full.
After a string of official BAU contracts, kisses stolen in government-issue jet bathrooms that none of them were quite as discreet about as they thought, near-death brushes and even a few new national laws… Rossi’s willow tree glitters with light, its draping branches framing rows of chairs dressed in white tulle. His manicured grass is pressed flat beneath polished shoes.
He’s standing with Spencer behind the willow, fussing with his young friend’s cufflinks whilst Derek stands just out of sight at the other end of the aisle.
He’s the one who’s going to walk Spencer down the aisle. After all of his huffing and puffing about the new BAU team, it seems he’s grown quite fond of them.
“I’m proud of you.” Rossi says. Spencer’s head shoots up, mouth opening in a little o.
“For what?”
The fairy lights twinkle gold in Spencer’s eyes. He looks nervous, yes, but lit with life.
“You’re happy,” Rossi manages, his throat tight.
Spencer glances back, as though the willow leaves might part and give him a glimpse of Derek waiting. His smile tilts, half shy, wholly certain.
“Yeah, I am.”
Love drips from his every word, Rossi can almost see them pour out of his mouth and into his gardenias.
When he turns back to face Rossi, Spencer’s wearing that smile. It’s small and soft, the one that always makes Rossi’s heart feel like it grew six sizes in six seconds.
“I love you, topolino.” Rossi cups his cheeks, kisses pressed into words. “Now, let’s do this.”
Spencer nods against his hands. Together they step out from the willow’s cover, down the aisle strewn with petals.
The ceremony is a memory Rossi will hold dear to his heart for all his life.
Derek’s hand shakes only once as he slides the ring onto Spencer’s finger. Spencer looks like sunlight itself, beaming at his now husband.
They come together for a passionate kiss. Derek’s hands grip Spencer’s waist, Spencer’s own hands tighten on the back of Derek’s suit jacket. Tears gather in Rossi’s eyes as he watches them, memories pouring through his mind. Jello in hospital rooms, bomb threats, Vegas hotel rooms, Chicago back streets, all of it leading here.
Wiping away his tears, he turns to his left to see Aaron Hotchner, in a similar state of emotional disarray.
“Told you so.” Rossi whispers.
Some gardens you plant on purpose, seeds in neat furrows. Others sprout wild on their own, between cracks in the stone, no matter how you try to stop them. Either way, they bloom.
And watching them kiss under his roses, Rossi thinks this might be the finest garden yet.