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It’s well past nine when the bullpen settles into a rare, lazy quiet.
Prentiss, Garcia, and JJ have long since disappeared for their long-awaited girls’ night, leaving the remaining men to their own devices. Morgan, never one to waste an opportunity, had vanished to his car and returned with a six-pack of beer and a mischievous glint in his eye.
Now the four of them are sprawled across the bullpen — ties loosened, sleeves rolled up, takeout containers pushed aside.
Morgan takes a long pull from his bottle and zeroes in on Reid like a heat-seeking missile.
“Alright, Pretty Boy,” he declares, pointing the neck of his beer at Spencer. “This has gone on long enough. You need a woman in your life. Or a man. Or… whatever. Point is, you need somebody.”
Reid, mid-sip of his own beer, nearly chokes. “I— excuse me?”
Rossi leans back in his chair, grinning like a shark that has just smelled blood in the water. “Oh, I’m here for this. The boy’s got the emotional range of a teaspoon. We need to fix that.”
Hotch, who had been reviewing a file with mild disinterest, slowly closes it and raises his beer to his lips. “Why exactly am I here for this conversation?”
Morgan and Rossi exchange a knowing look.
“Because,” Morgan says, smirking, “you’re Pretty Boy’s pseudo-dad.”
Hotch abruptly pulls the bottle away mid-sip. “I’m sorry?”
Rossi gestures with his beer. “You raised him. We all saw it. The lectures, the hovering, the proud little head tilts when he does something brilliant. You’re the father figure here, Aaron.”
“And more importantly—” Morgan adds, pointing with his bottle, “—you’ve got the bi advice.”
Hotch stares at him, deadpan. “Morgan. Seriously?”
“What?” Morgan laughs. “You’re the only one here who’s been with both. Share the wealth.”
Reid’s face turns a deep shade of pink. “I did not ask for this intervention.”
“Exactly,” Rossi says, waving a hand. “That’s why it’s an intervention. You’re hopeless, kid. When was the last time you went on a date that didn’t involve a 400-page dissertation on the history of courtship rituals?”
Reid opens his mouth, then closes it again.
Morgan leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, all we’re saying is you deserve somebody. You’re smart, you’re cute in a nerdy way, you’ve got that whole ‘tall awkward genius’ thing going on. But you gotta loosen up. Stop leading with facts about death rates in medieval Europe.”
“I don’t do that,” Reid protests.
“You did that,” Hotch says dryly, without looking up from his file. “Twice. Last month.”
Reid turns betrayed eyes on him. “Et tu, Hotch?”
Hotch finally sets the file down with a sigh. “I’m only here because if I left, these two would probably try to set you up with someone completely inappropriate.”
Rossi chuckles. “I was thinking the barista at the place on 7th. She’s got a PhD in astrophysics. They could talk about black holes and make it weird.”
Morgan snorts. “Or that redhead in Records. She’s got legs for days and the patience of a saint.”
Reid rubs his face with both hands. “I am begging you to stop.”
Hotch looks at the younger man with something almost fond. “They’re not entirely wrong, you know. You do tend to overthink it.”
“See?” Morgan gestures triumphantly. “Even Dad agrees.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am not your father, Morgan.”
“Pseudo-dad,” Rossi corrects cheerfully. “Very different. Much more emotionally constipated.”
Reid, despite himself, starts laughing — tired, slightly hysterical, but genuine. The sound makes the other three smile.
Morgan raises his beer. “To Reid finally getting laid.”
“To Reid not dying alone with twenty cats,” Rossi adds.
“To all of you minding your own business,” Reid mutters, but he’s still smiling as he clinks his bottle against theirs.
Hotch just shakes his head, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to regret this entire conversation tomorrow.”
Morgan takes another swig of beer and leans forward, fully in his element.
“First rule, Pretty Boy: stop leading with facts. No woman — or man — wants to hear about the statistical probability of divorce on a first date.”
Rossi nods sagely. “Exactly. Women like mystery. Intrigue. A little danger. You walk in quoting quantum physics and they’ll think you’re interviewing them for a research paper.”
Reid looks genuinely distressed. “But interesting facts are conversation starters—”
“Interesting to you,” Morgan cuts in, grinning. “Not to the average person who just wants to know if you can make them laugh and buy them a decent drink.”
Hotch, still pretending to read his file, mutters without looking up, “He’s not wrong.”
Rossi swirls the last of his beer. “Second rule: confidence. Even if you have to fake it. Stand up straight, make eye contact, and for the love of God, stop adjusting your tie every thirty seconds like it’s personally offending you.”
Morgan snaps his fingers. “And flirtation! You gotta flirt, man. Compliment them. Tell them they look good. Something smooth.”
“Like what?” Reid asks, already looking overwhelmed.
Morgan opens his mouth, then closes it. He turns slowly toward Hotch with a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Actually… why don’t we ask the expert?”
Rossi immediately catches on and turns as well, both men staring at Hotch with matching expectant grins.
Hotch feels their eyes on him and slowly lowers his file. “No.”
“Come on, Hotch,” Morgan says, barely holding back laughter. “You’re the only one here with real bisexual experience. Drop some wisdom on the kid.”
Rossi leans back, looking far too pleased. “Yes, Aaron. Enlighten us. What’s the secret to successfully dating both men and women?”
Hotch stares at them, utterly deadpan. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” Morgan replies. “Bi advice. Lay it on us.”
Reid, now bright red, tries to sink further into his chair. “You don’t have to—”
“Oh, he absolutely does,” Rossi interrupts. “This is a teachable moment. Our fearless leader has lived the bisexual dream. Share with the class.”
Hotch rubs a hand over his face. “I am not giving dating advice.”
Morgan leans in. “Do men prefer confidence or vulnerability first? Do women like the whole brooding thing or should he smile more? Come on, Hotch. Help the kid out.”
Rossi raises an eyebrow. “And let’s not forget — you somehow convinced Haley to marry you. That alone qualifies you as an expert in at least one gender.”
Hotch gives them both a withering look. “You two are enjoying this way too much.”
Morgan grins. “We really are.”
Reid finally lets out a helpless laugh, covering his face. “This is mortifying.”
Hotch sighs deeply, then mutters, almost against his will, “Be honest. Don’t play games, Reid. Just be yourself. The right person won’t need you to be anyone else.”
A beat of silence.
Morgan and Rossi exchange a look, then both burst out laughing.
Morgan clutches his chest. “That was surprisingly wholesome. I was expecting something way more emotionally repressed.”
Rossi wipes a fake tear. “Our stoic leader has a heart after all. I’m moved.”
Hotch picks his file back up, clearly done with the conversation. “You’re both ridiculous.”
Reid, still pink but smiling, clinks his beer bottle against Hotch’s. “Thank you. That was… actually helpful.”
Morgan raises his own bottle with a dramatic flourish. “To Hotch — reluctant bisexual mentor and pseudo-dad of the year.”
Hotch doesn’t even look up. “I’m demoting all of you tomorrow.”
Morgan leans forward with a wicked grin, clearly not done tormenting their unit chief.
“Come on, Hotch. Don’t hold out on us. At least tell us how much experience we’re talking? Three? Five? Were any of them serious or were they all ‘emotionally constipated one-night stands’ like the rest of your love life?”
Rossi chuckles, swirling the last of his beer. “Yes, Aaron, enlighten us. We all know you’ve got that tall, dark, and brooding thing working for you, but how many men actually got past the fortress walls?”
Hotch narrows his eyes. “I am not discussing my dating history with either of you.”
Morgan throws his hands up. “See? This is what I’m talking about! Emotionally constipated dumpster fire with a secret softie centre. You’ll give us a whole speech about healthy boundaries but forbid us from asking how many dudes you’ve taken home.”
Rossi nods sagely. “It’s the duality of man. Stoic on the outside, secretly writing poetry about strong jawlines on the inside.”
Reid, who has been quietly dying of embarrassment, finally speaks up.
“Come on, guys, don’t be mean,” he says, gesturing with his beer bottle. “I haven’t told you about all the guys I’ve been with either, and you don’t harass me about it.”
The bullpen goes dead silent for half a second.
Then all three heads whip toward him so fast it’s cartoonish.
Morgan nearly drops his beer. “I’m sorry — the guys you’ve been with?”
Rossi’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been with guys?”
Hotch actually lowers his file completely, staring at Reid with open surprise.
Reid blinks at them, confused. “Yeah…? I thought I told you all this.”
“You did not,” Morgan says, voice cracking with disbelief.
“You absolutely did not,” Rossi echoes, leaning forward.
Hotch just shakes his head slowly, a rare, genuine laugh escaping him. “Bi solidarity, Reid. Tell them nothing and let them suffer.”
Reid grins, clearly enjoying the chaos he accidentally unleashed. He leans back in his chair, kicks his shoes up onto his desk, and takes a smug sip of his beer. Hotch mirrors him a second later — shoes up, bottle raised, the picture of relaxed satisfaction.
Morgan looks between them, betrayed. “Y’all are really gonna gatekeep this information?”
Rossi points an accusatory finger. “This is a conspiracy. The emotionally unavailable bisexuals are uniting against us.”
Hotch clinks his bottle against Reid’s without looking. “Correct.”
Reid just smirks, looking far too pleased with himself.
Morgan doesn’t even hesitate. He pulls out his phone, taps Garcia’s name, and puts her on speaker.
The line connects after two rings, and Garcia’s voice comes through bright and slightly tipsy.
“Chocolate Thunder! You miss me already?”
Morgan grins like a shark. “Baby Girl, you’re on speaker with the whole bullpen. And we’ve got breaking news.”
Rossi leans in closer. “Reid and Hotch are both bisexual, and they’ve been gatekeeping it like it’s classified information.”
A beat of silence.
Then the phone explodes.
“WE CALLED IT!” Garcia shrieks, loud enough that Reid flinches. In the background, Prentiss and JJ burst into loud, triumphant laughter. Garcia promptly switches the call to FaceTime, the camera showing a nice bar booth with the three women, their eyes alight with pure, unfiltered delight, sipping their cocktails.
“I knew it!” Prentiss yells. “I told you guys! The way Reid looks at certain detectives sometimes? Classic bisexual panic!”
JJ is laughing so hard she sounds breathless. “We had a whole group chat about this! Operation: ‘Does Reid Like Boys?’ has been active for two years!”
Morgan points an accusatory finger at Reid and Hotch, who are both still lounging with their feet up on the desk, looking far too smug. “Y’all are sitting there like a smug father-son crime duo who just got away with murder. This is unfair!”
Rossi nods solemnly. “Exactly. We pour our hearts out giving dating advice, and these two have been hoarding the bisexual experience like dragons with gold.”
On the phone, Garcia lets out a dramatic gasp. “Spencer Reid! My sweet, beautiful genius! You didn’t tell us? We’re your girls! We had theories! We had spreadsheets!”
Reid’s cheeks flush pink again, but he’s still grinning. “I thought I mentioned it. Once. Maybe.”
“You did not!” all three women shout in unison.
Hotch takes a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, the picture of serene satisfaction. “Bi solidarity,” he says calmly. “We tell you nothing.”
Morgan throws his hands up. “This is betrayal! Pure, unfiltered betrayal!”
Prentiss cackles. “Hotch is enjoying this way too much. Look at him. He’s practically glowing. The emotionally constipated king has a secret wild side, and he’s never letting us live it down.”
JJ’s voice comes through, warm with laughter. “Spencer, we love you, but we are offended. We told you about our terrible exes. You owe us details.”
Reid laughs, soft and embarrassed. “I really didn’t think it was that big of a deal…”
Garcia gasps again. “Not a big deal?! Sir, this is groundbreaking. We need wine and a full debrief immediately.”
Morgan shakes his head at Reid and Hotch, who are now both leaning back with matching smug little smiles.
“Unbelievable,” Morgan mutters. “We got two bisexuals in the BAU and they’re teaming up against us. The betrayal runs deep tonight.”
Hotch clinks his bottle against Reid’s again.
“Welcome to the club, kid.”
Morgan holds his phone higher so the FaceTime call captures the full scene of smug betrayal happening in the bullpen.
On the screen, Garcia, Prentiss, and JJ are crowded together in a cozy booth, colourful cocktails in hand, eyes wide with anticipation.
“Okay, spill,” Prentiss demands, leaning closer to the camera. “Just one thing. One tiny crumb.”
Reid and Hotch exchange a quick, mischievous look — the kind that makes Morgan deeply regret starting this conversation.
Reid goes first, tilting his head with that innocent-but-dangerous expression.
“Well… I will say that men tend to be more direct about what they want,” he offers casually, as if commenting on the weather. “It removes a lot of the guessing games.”
The girls erupt.
“Direct how?!” Garcia squeals.
Reid just smiles serenely and takes a sip of his beer, saying nothing more.
Hotch leans back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself.
“And I’ve found that women usually appreciate when you actually listen,” he adds dryly. “Not just wait for your turn to speak.”
JJ throws her hands up. “That’s it?! That’s your contribution?!”
Prentiss points an accusatory finger at the screen. “You two are worse than unsubs. You drop one pathetic little breadcrumb and then hoard the rest like dragons sitting on piles of gold.”
Morgan groans. “This is cruel and unusual punishment. Pretty Boy and Dad are bonding over their secret bisexual adventures and we’re not invited.”
Rossi chuckles. “They’re worse than Smaug. Sitting on their little hoard of experience, breathing fire at anyone who gets too close.”
On the screen, Garcia clutches her cocktail like it’s a lifeline. “Spencer Reid, I have seen you cry over a broken stapler. You owe us details!”
Reid shrugs, utterly unbothered. “I really don’t.”
Hotch raises his bottle in a mock toast toward the phone. “Bi solidarity.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes. “I hate both of you right now.”
JJ shakes her head, laughing. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
Morgan looks between Reid and Hotch, who are both still holding matching smug expressions, feet still kicked up on the desk, as if they have no other responsibilities in life but to be gatekeeping kings.
“I’ve never been more disappointed in my life,” he declares dramatically.
Reid and Hotch simply clink their bottles together again, looking far too satisfied with themselves.
The girls continue their loud, indignant protests from the bar, but neither Reid nor Hotch gives them another single crumb. The bullpen echoes with laughter and playful outrage long into the night.