Chapter Text
The bullpen was quiet for once — the kind of quiet that only settled over the BAU late in the evening when the paperwork had slowed, the phones had stopped ringing, and the team was finally winding down. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the background, a subtle white noise that was oddly soothing after days of chaos.
Aaron Hotchner stood near his office door, a few lingering case files spread across his desk. Emily was in the conference room, still sorting through debrief notes, her dark hair pulled up into a messy bun and her focus sharp as ever. The rest of the team was scattered — JJ was typing quietly at her desk, Derek was perched on the edge of Reid’s, teasing him about something, and Rossi, as usual, was pretending to be retired while sipping coffee that smelled suspiciously like it had been spiked with something better than creamer.
The calm was broken by the ding of the elevator, and when the doors opened, in walked Brooke Hotchner — twenty-five, bright, confident, but right now wearing the look of someone holding the world up by sheer willpower. Her hair was tied back, her café uniform slightly rumpled from the long shift, and there was a faint shadow under her eyes that only her parents or her grandfather would recognize as exhaustion she was trying to hide.
“Hey, look who it is,” Morgan grinned, pushing away from Reid’s desk. “The most responsible Hotchner in the family.”
Brooke managed a small smile. “Hey, Uncle Derek.”
Emily looked up from her notes, her expression softening instantly. “Hey, sweetheart. You just finish work?”
“Yeah,” Brooke said, tugging at the strap of her shoulder bag. “Long day.”
Aaron’s brow furrowed slightly, that subtle shift that meant his father radar was pinging. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she lied quickly, forcing a small shrug. “Just came to grab the spare keys. I left mine in the café office.”
Rossi smirked from his seat. “You sure you didn’t come here for the free coffee?”
Brooke laughed lightly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I get better coffee at work, Nonno.”
“Blasphemy,” Rossi replied smoothly. “These people don’t know how to make a proper espresso.”
“Maybe you should open a café next to mine then,” she said, slipping past them toward the break room. Her voice stayed even, casual, but there was a tightness in her shoulders that didn’t go unnoticed.
Aaron watched her go, his frown deepening. Emily reached for his hand across the table, squeezing lightly. “Let her breathe,” she murmured softly, reading him perfectly as she always did. “If she wants to talk, she will.”
He nodded, though his eyes followed Brooke until she disappeared through the doorway.
The break room was empty — quiet and dimly lit, the smell of old coffee lingering in the air. Brooke set her bag down on the counter and leaned against it, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her hands trembled slightly, whether from anger or fatigue, she wasn’t sure anymore.
The day had been rough — one of those never-ending shifts where customers seemed to forget basic human decency the moment they stepped inside. She’d handled a spill, a register crash, and an unexpected delivery all before noon. But what stuck in her mind — what had been gnawing at her chest all day — was the man around three in the afternoon.
He’d been loud, confident, the kind of customer who thought his money bought him the right to say whatever he wanted. He’d made a comment about how “cute” she looked managing a café, followed it up with something about how she probably got the job because of her smile, not her brains. And when she’d politely but firmly shut him down, he’d smirked and said, “Feisty. Bet your boyfriend loves that.”
Brooke had smiled, professional and composed — the same calm she’d learned from years of watching her father handle interrogations and her mother navigate confrontations with unflinching grace. But the second she’d gone back into the storage room, she’d had to clench her fists to stop them from shaking.
Now, standing alone in the BAU break room, all that frustration came rushing back.
She reached for one of the ceramic mugs in the cupboard — one with the FBI insignia printed on it — and just stared at it for a long moment. Her pulse was loud in her ears, her chest tight. And before she could think twice, the mug slipped from her fingers, crashing against the tile floor with a sharp smash.
The sound was satisfying. Too satisfying.
Something in her chest cracked open — and the anger that had been bottled up all day spilled out in waves. She grabbed another mug, then another, and let them fall, the sound of breaking ceramic echoing like thunder in the quiet room. Shards scattered across the floor, bouncing off the cabinet, some rolling under the counter. She stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, hands trembling.
It wasn’t about the mugs. It wasn’t even about the customer. It was everything — the expectations, the pressure to stay composed, the constant need to prove herself. The fact that no matter how grown she was, there were still moments she felt like that little girl standing in her father’s shadow, trying to be perfect.
And then she heard footsteps.
“Brooke?”
It was Spencer Reid’s voice — gentle, uncertain, and followed by the soft scuff of his shoes as he turned the corner. He froze in the doorway, his wide eyes landing on the broken mess that littered the floor and then on her. She was standing amid it, her hands shaking, her chest still rising and falling too fast.
Brooke looked up at him, her voice steady but tired as she said, “I hope you didn’t want any coffee, because I broke all the mugs.”
For a moment, there was silence. Spencer blinked, taking in the scene — the smashed ceramics, the glint of anger still lingering in her eyes, and the exhaustion behind it. He didn’t say anything right away, which was exactly what she needed.
Finally, he nodded. “That’s okay,” he said softly. “I… prefer tea anyway.”
The corner of her mouth twitched, almost — almost — a smile. “There’s no teapot either,” she murmured.
“I’ll survive.” He stepped carefully over the shards, crouching down beside the counter. “Want some help cleaning this up?”
Brooke hesitated. She wanted to say no, to tell him to go back to the bullpen, to leave her alone in her mess — but the kindness in his voice broke through her defenses. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Thanks.”
They worked in silence for a few minutes, sweeping the pieces into a dustpan. Spencer didn’t pry. He didn’t ask what happened. He just stayed — steady, calm, the way only Reid could be. When they finally dumped the broken bits into the trash, Brooke leaned back against the counter and sighed.
“You ever just… have one of those days where you want to break everything?” she asked quietly.
Spencer gave a small, knowing smile. “More often than you’d think. Though I usually take it out on chess pieces or math problems.”
That earned a real laugh from her, soft and genuine.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the moment. Aaron’s voice came first. “Brooke?”
Brooke stiffened slightly. Emily followed right behind him, her expression immediately concerned when she saw the broom and the faint remnants of ceramic dust on the floor.
Aaron’s eyes flicked between her and the trash bin. “What happened?”
Spencer started to answer, but Brooke beat him to it. “I dropped a few mugs. Sorry.”
Aaron tilted his head slightly — that Hotchner look that saw through everything. “A few?”
Emily laid a hand on his arm before he could push further. “It’s okay,” she said softly. She turned to Brooke. “You okay, honey?”
Brooke nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just clumsy today.”
Rossi appeared in the doorway next, holding his coffee cup and looking mildly offended by the lack of replacements. “I leave for five minutes, and you destroy the caffeine supply?”
That did it — Brooke laughed, shaking her head. “Sorry, Nonno.”
Aaron’s expression softened at the sound. He didn’t fully buy her excuse — not with that tension still lingering behind her smile — but he let it go for now. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you something to eat before you drive home.”
Emily slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze. “We’ll get takeout. My treat.”
Brooke hesitated, then leaned into her mother’s side, letting out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thanks, Mom.”
Spencer stayed behind for a moment as they left, glancing at the trash bin before shaking his head with a small, understanding smile. He’d seen breakdowns before — the BAU had taught him to recognize when someone was holding themselves together by threads. But he also knew better than to tell Aaron just yet. Brooke would talk when she was ready.
As they walked out of the bullpen together, Aaron’s arm brushed gently against hers. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked softly, just for her.
Brooke nodded. “Yeah,” she said again. But this time, she added, “Just needed to break something.”
Aaron gave her a small, knowing look — the same one he used when he saw past her composure. “We all do sometimes.”
Emily smiled faintly from the other side of her daughter. “Next time, though, maybe start with paper cups.”
Brooke laughed, her voice lighter now. “Deal.”
The bullpen lights dimmed behind them as they left, the sound of their laughter fading down the hallway. The broken mugs were gone, but the release they’d given her — the space to breathe, to break, to rebuild — lingered in the air.
Because that was what family was: not just the ones who caught you when you fell, but the ones who stood beside you quietly while you swept up the pieces.