Chapter Text
Spencer Reid realises he is wildly, catastrophically unprepared approximately three minutes after Aaron Hotchner closes the front door to JJ’s home.
Not metaphorically unprepared. Not emotionally unprepared.
Logistically doomed.
He stands in the living room with a backpack on one shoulder, a tote bag on the other, and a folded piece of paper in his hand that JJ pressed into his palm on her way out with the words, “It’s colour-coded. You’ll be fine.”
Colour-coded is doing a lot of heavy lifting here.
Behind him, three children exist at three very different energy levels.
Jack Hotchner is perched on the arm of the couch like a gargoyle, calm, observant, quietly delighted by the novelty of having Uncle Spencer entirely to himself for a whole night. He’s clutching a paperback Spencer gave him last Christmas, already halfway through it again, because Jack rereads books the way Spencer rereads research papers: methodically, reverently, with the kind of focus that makes adults forget he’s still a kid.
Henry LaMontagne is upside-down on the rug, legs kicked over the couch, narrating something about dinosaurs and laser cannons that Spencer is fairly sure violates at least three known laws of physics.
Michael LaMontagne, younger, louder, and made entirely of momentum, is attempting to climb Spencer’s leg like a tree.
“Okay,” Spencer says, automatically steadying Michael with one hand while not dropping either bag. “Okay. Hi. Hello. Everyone’s alive. That’s… that’s a good start.”
Jack grins at him.
Henry pops upright. “Dad says you’re in charge because you’re a genius.”
Spencer winces. “That is not a transferable skill set.”
Michael beams. “You’re my goddad!”
“Yes,” Spencer agrees faintly. “I am.”
Spencer feels like he needs to have a book. A ‘break out in case of children’ manual.
The confidence with which JJ, Will, and Hotch have handed over their children should, Spencer thinks, be studied. Possibly by the CDC.
They had not hesitated.
JJ had checked her watch, kissed Henry’s hair, crouched to Michael’s height, and smiled at Spencer like she was handing him a perfectly reasonable task. Will had clapped Spencer on the shoulder, thanked him, and reminded him where the extra pyjamas were. Hotch had simply met Spencer’s eyes and said, “You’ve got this,” with the same tone he uses before walking into active shooter situations.
Which feels excessive.
“Right,” Spencer says, rubbing his palms on his trousers. “Rules. Let’s establish some rules.”
Jack raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
Henry sits cross-legged. Michael claps.
Spencer clears his throat. “Rule one: no running indoors.”
Michael immediately runs in a tight circle.
“Yes,” Spencer says, nodding. “Good demonstration. Thank you.”
Dinner is… an experience.
Spencer has planned. He has notes. He has watched three separate videos titled things like Easy Meals Kids Will Love and Quick Dinners for Busy Parents, which all seem to assume a baseline competence Spencer does not possess.
Pasta is safe, he reasons. Pasta is simple. Pasta is universally beloved.
He underestimates the emotional complexity of sauce distribution.
Henry wants extra cheese but not that cheese. Michael wants his pasta separated by colour, which Spencer is fairly sure is not possible. Jack eats quietly, politely, and watches Spencer with the kind of patient fondness usually reserved for well-meaning but overwhelmed adults.
Spencer burns the first batch.
The second batch sticks together in a way that suggests sentience.
The third batch is acceptable.
By the time they sit down, Spencer feels like he’s already run a marathon and the evening has barely begun.
“Uncle Spencer,” Jack says mid-meal, casual as anything. “Can you do the card trick?”
Spencer’s shoulders drop an inch in relief. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.”
After dinner, they end up on the living room floor. Spencer produces a deck of cards like a magician revealing a dove, and Jack’s eyes light up. Henry scoots closer. Michael abandons his toy car entirely.
Spencer performs slowly, narrating, letting Jack pick the card, letting Henry shuffle badly, letting Michael dramatically gasp at the reveal even though he clearly has no idea what’s happening.
When the card reappears on top of the deck, Jack laughs. A real laugh, bright and unguarded.
Spencer feels something in his chest ease.
Bath time is chaos.
Pyjamas are negotiated like international treaties.
There is a minor incident involving toothpaste.
Spencer fields a phone call from JJ halfway through, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear while helping Michael into dinosaur pyjamas.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
Spencer looks around at the scene. Jack tucked up on the couch with a book. Henry brushing his teeth enthusiastically and getting more on the mirror than in his mouth. Michael proudly wearing his pyjamas backwards.
“We’re alive,” Spencer says. “Which feels significant.”
JJ laughs, warm and unconcerned. “See? Told you.”
Later, after stories and lights out and a long discussion about whether one night counts as tomorrow or still today, Spencer sits on the floor outside the bedrooms with his back against the wall.
He listens.
Three different breathing patterns. Three different rhythms of sleep.
He thinks about how easily they trusted him. How naturally the children accepted him. How Jack had leaned into his side during the card trick, how Henry had asked him questions about black holes like it was the most normal thing in the world, how Michael had fallen asleep holding Spencer’s finger.
Spencer realises, belatedly, that confidence doesn’t always look like preparedness.
Sometimes it looks like knowing someone will show up, even when they’re scared.
When Hotch texts later, All good?, Spencer types back without overthinking it.
All asleep. No injuries. Minimal toothpaste casualties.
There’s a pause.
Then: Knew you’d handle it.
Spencer wakes at 2:34 a.m. exactly.
Not because of a sound. Not because of a nightmare.
Because his brain decides, with the calm certainty of a computer pinging an alert, it is time to check on the children.
He lies still for three seconds, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Nothing.
No crying. No thuds. No whispered conspiracy plotting from Henry’s room. No unmistakable something is wrong hum in the air.
Still he gets up.
He pads down the hallway like the floorboards might be wired, socks whispering against hardwood, and opens Jack’s door first.
Jack is sprawled diagonally across the bed, one arm flung out, book face-down on his chest. His spaceman glasses are crooked; one temple hooked in his hair. His breathing is slow and even, soft in a way that makes Spencer’s chest ache.
Spencer nudges the book away before it slides and startles him awake. He tucks the blanket higher, adjusts the glasses onto the bedside table, pauses.
Jack doesn’t stir.
Spencer stands there longer than necessary.
Then Henry’s room.
Henry has kicked his covers entirely to the floor and migrated sideways in his sleep, face mashed into the pillow, hair going in every direction. One sock is missing. Spencer has no idea where the other one went.
Spencer retrieves the blanket, drapes it over Henry’s back, gently repositions him before gravity finishes the job.
Henry sighs. Mumbles something about sharks and Spencer freezes.
Henry continues sleeping. Spencer exhales like he just found out he didn’t have a terminal illness.
Michael is last, and he is curled up tight, clutching the stuffed animal JJ swore he never slept without and had apparently forgotten to mention. His lashes fan against his cheeks. His thumb is tucked into the hem of his sleeve.
Spencer crouches beside the bed and just watches for a moment, counting breaths. Notes the rise and fall of his chest and waits. For something—anything—to feel off.
Nothing does.
They’re fine.
They’re safe.
They’re sleeping.
Spencer stays anyway, Just a few minutes. He tells himself. Just to be sure.
Morning arrives like a small, cheerful explosion.
Someone—Michael, probably—wakes up singing. Henry immediately argues with the concept of mornings. Jack wakes already dressed halfway, because of course he does.
Breakfast is loud. Toast burns again, but this time Spencer catches it before it’s tragic. There’s milk spilled, a brief debate over which socks are “the right socks,” and an impromptu lecture from Spencer about time management that absolutely no one asked for.
Somehow, impossibly, they get out the door on time.
Spencer buckles three kids into the car with the intense focus usually reserved for bomb defusal. He triple-checks seatbelts. Quadruple-checks backpacks. And there is a moment of genuine panic when he thinks he’s lost Jack’s lunch before realising it’s in Jack’s hands.
Jack pats his arm. “You’re doing great, Uncle Spencer.”
Spencer nearly cries in traffic.
Drop-offs blur together.
Jack hops out with a wave and a smile. Henry insists on one last hug and an unnecessary reminder that dinosaurs are still cooler than space. Michael clings for an extra second, then toddles off without looking back.
Spencer sits in the driver’s seat afterward, hands on the wheel, heart still racing.
Then he goes to work.
The bullpen greets him like a firing squad of smirks.
Morgan is leaning against a desk, coffee in hand, already grinning. Garcia swivels in JJ’s empty chair the moment she sees him, eyes sparkling. Prentiss raises an eyebrow in open amusement. Rossi watches from the railing outside his office with the knowing calm of a man who has lived this before.
“Well,” Morgan says. “Look who survived.”
Spencer drops into his chair, hair rumpled, tie slightly crooked, exhaustion etched into every line of him.
“I don’t understand how parents function,” he says honestly. “There are so many moving parts.”
Garcia beams. “Oh my god, look at you. You’ve got dad posture.”
“I do not,” Spencer protests weakly.
“You absolutely do,” Prentiss says. “You’re sitting like you’re waiting for someone to spill juice on classified documents.”
Rossi sips his coffee. “How were they?”
Spencer pauses.
His mouth softens before he can stop it. “They were… good. Loud. Exhausting. Perfectly fine.”
Morgan claps him on the shoulder. “Told you.”
They come back late.
Conference-late. Hotel-coffee-late. The kind of late where everyone’s shoes come off at the door without discussion and nobody has the emotional reserves to be surprised by anything.
JJ unlocks the front door quietly, already smiling to herself. Will follows with the overnight bag. Aaron brings up the rear, jacket over his arm, tie loosened, brain still halfway in conference mode.
The house is dark.
Too dark.
JJ frowns. “Did Spencer text you?”
“Nope,” Will says. “But he promised everyone would be asleep.”
Hotch pauses.
He listens.
There’s a low murmur drifting down the hallway.
Rhythmic. Sing-song, almost?
His spine straightens. “Do you hear that?”
JJ squints. “Is that… chanting?”
Will laughs softly. “Probably a cartoon.”
They take three more steps and the chanting gets clearer.
Hotch freezes before uttering a resigned, “Oh no…”
JJ looks at him. “What?”
They round the corner and stop dead.
The living room is lit entirely by LED candles. Not a few. Not mood lighting.
A circle.
A carefully placed, aggressively symmetrical circle of flickering fake flames surrounds Spencer Reid, who is sitting on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest, cardigan hanging off one shoulder, hair wild, and he has the unmistakable expression of a man who has reached the point of spiritual resignation.
While the kids, Jack, Henry, and Michael, all chant something Aaron is sure—but doesn't want to believe—is Latin.
Jack sits cross-legged directly in front of Spencer, solemn and focused, holding what is very clearly a wooden cutting board with paper letters taped to it in a rough semicircle.
Henry kneels to the left, chanting with enthusiasm and absolutely no understanding of what he’s saying.
Michael sits on the right, clapping on every third syllable like he’s at a very cursed pep rally. And sliding slowly across the cutting board—
“Oh my god,” JJ whispers.
“That’s a Ouija board,” Will breathes.
A homemade Ouija board. A budget Ouija board if you will.
The planchette—if one can call it that—is a folded triangle of paper with a smiley face drawn on it in marker.
Jack looks up first. “Oh,” he says brightly. “You’re back.”
Spencer follows his gaze and makes a strangled noise somewhere between a sob, a gasp, and the sound a kettle makes when it’s about to scream.
“I can explain,” he says immediately, voice cracking. “Or—I can’t. I genuinely don’t know how we got here.”
JJ presses her hand over her mouth. Will is shaking with silent laughter. Aaron just stares, desperately trying not to grin.
“Jack,” he says carefully. “Why are you chanting in Latin?”
Jack shrugs. “Uncle Spencer taught me.”
Spencer flinches. “Contextually—contextually—”
Henry beams. “It’s a protection spell!”
Michael nods. “So the ghosts don’t eat him.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose.
JJ crouches down, trying to keep her voice steady. “Spence. Honey. Why are you in the middle of a fake summoning circle?”
Spencer looks at her like she’s asking why the sky is blue.
“Because,” he grumbles, “I lost control of the evening at approximately eight forty-seven p.m.”
Jack lifts the cutting board proudly. “We asked questions.”
JJ squints. “Did it answer?”
Spencer squeezes his eyes shut. “Statistically, no. Emotionally? Yes.”
Will finally loses it. He laughs, full-bodied, helpless, leaning against the wall for support.
“My god,” Will chortles. “You look like you’ve made peace with whatever’s coming.”
“I have,” Spencer deadpans. “I have accepted that if I die, it will be by craft supplies.”
Aaron clears his throat and steps forward, surveying the scene with the calm intensity he usually reserves for crime scenes and hostage situations.
“Is anyone hurt?” he asks.
“No,” Jack chirps immediately.
“Did anyone summon anything?” Hotch continues.
Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it. “Define summon.”
Hotch exhales.
Then—
to JJ and Will’s absolute shock—
he snorts.
“Okay,” Hotch says. “Circle down. Candles off. No more Latin.”
The kids groan in unison like he’s just told them no ice cream for dinner.
Spencer slumps forward, forehead nearly hitting his knees. “Thank you.”
JJ reaches down and helps him up, brushing imaginary dust off his cardigan. “You survived.”
Barely upright, Spencer nods. “I did not know I was capable of this level of stress without an unsub.”
Will ruffles Henry’s hair. “Y’all give Uncle Spencer a hard time?”
Henry grins. “He screams quietly.”
Michael nods. “Like a mouse.”
Spencer makes a noise of protest that no one acknowledges.
Jack tilts his head, thoughtful. “We didn’t finish spelling the word.”
Hotch raises an eyebrow. “What word?”
Jack gives a manic grin.
“‘Bedtime.’”
There’s a beat.
Then JJ laughs so hard she has to sit down.
By the time they’re wrangling everyone into coats and shoes, the house has that post-event quiet to it. The kind that settles after something memorable, mildly traumatic, and definitely destined to be brought up at future family gatherings.
Jack is vibrating with exhaustion. The good kind. The kind that comes from a full day and a better night. Aaron lifts him easily, settling him on his hip while Will herds Henry and Michael inside again like an experienced sheepdog.
Spencer lingers near the door, polite to a fault, already half-apologising for existing in their space.
“Reid,” Hotch says, grabbing his keys. “You’re coming with us.”
Spencer blinks. “I—what?”
“We’re dropping you home,” Aaron replies, smiling in that way that brooks no argument. “And you’re getting a proper dinner.”
“I ate,” Spencer starts automatically.
JJ raises an eyebrow.
Spencer stops. “…I ate adjacent to food.”
Hotch nods. “Get in the car.”
Spencer quietly obeys, letting Jack’s grabby hands—which is unfairly cute—attempt to pull him into the backseat opposite him, before Hotch pulls Spencer into the front passenger seat instead.
Jack is buckled with solemn care, and the moment the door shuts, he starts talking. Not speaking. Babbling. A rapid-fire recounting of events, impressions, and highlights that tumble over one another with the enthusiasm of a kid who had the best time and is determined no one forgets it.
“Uncle Spence sounds funny,” Jack announces.
Spencer, in the front passenger seat, freezes. “I—what?”
“He does,” Jack continues cheerfully. “When he panics.”
Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it. “I don’t panic.”
JJ snorts from where she stands on the porch.
Hotch glances in the rearview mirror. “Jack.”
“He makes squeaky noises,” Jack says helpfully. “Like—” Jack demonstrates. It is, unfortunately, accurate.
Spencer turns a shade pink that suggests blood pressure concerns.
“That was,” Spencer says carefully, “an involuntary stress response.”
Jack nods. “Yeah. When we sacrificed you.”
There is a very small, very loaded silence in the car.
Hotch tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “You what?” A grin threatens to appear on his lips, but he thins them instead. JJ takes the chance to lean on the sill of the down backdoor window, looking at Jack with her brow raised in amusement.
Spencer exhales. Long-suffering. “It wasn’t a real sacrifice.”
“That’s not comforting,” Hotch laughs.
Jack keeps going, blissfully unaware of Spencer’s in-progress embarrassment. “Henry said sacrifices need fire, and Michael got the matches, and Uncle Spence made the noise—”
Spencer winces. “In my defence—”
“And then Uncle Spence said absolutely not in a very loud voice,” Jack continues, delighted. “And he took the matches away and said something about mortality statistics.”
“I said,” Spencer interjects weakly, “that unsupervised fire dramatically increases mortality risk.”
“And then,” Jack says, eyes drooping but voice still animated, “we went to the shop! At night! And Uncle Spence bought candles that weren’t fire.”
“LED candles,” Spencer says, nodding emphatically. “Very safe. Very festive. Zero chance of immolation.”
JJ presses her lips together, shoulders shaking.
Hotch exhales slowly. “You took three children out at night… to buy fake candles.”
“Yes,” Spencer says. “Because I did not want to ruin their fun, but I also did not trust them not to set me or the house on fire.”
“That’s fair,” JJ grins.
Jack yawns. “Uncle Spence said he’d rather be haunted than flammable.”
“I stand by that,” Spencer murmurs.
They finally pull out of JJ’s driveway with a chorus of goodnights, and the car goes quiet after that. The kid is fading fast, head lolling, the day finally catching up with them. Jack slumps sideways in his seat, still smiling faintly, thumb hooked in his sleeve.
Hotch watches him in the mirror, then glances at Spencer.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he says quietly.
Spencer shrugs, a little embarrassed. “They were having fun. I just… adjusted the risk parameters.”
Hotch hums. “You did good.”
Spencer’s mouth curves into a tired, surprised smile.
They pull up outside Spencer’s place not long after. Aaron cuts the engine but doesn’t move right away.
“Dinner,” he says. “Tomorrow. Proper one.”
Spencer nods. “Thanks, Hotch.”
Jack stirs as Spencer opens his door. “Uncle Spence?”
“Yes, Jack?”
“You screamed funny,” Jack mumbles sleepily. “But it was okay.”
Spencer laughs softly. “Goodnight, Jack.”
As Spencer walks toward his apartment building, Hotch watches him go, a genuine smile on his lips.
Maybe he should follows JJ's idea.
Spencer's got two godkids already, what's one more?