Vincent Cordera survived by being soft in the strangest ways. People always underestimate him.
People know him as Angel â a nickname that sounds sweet until you realize he runs with the Codys and walks into their house like he has always belonged there. Nobody is completely sure how he ended up around them. One day he just⌠did.
Heâs twenty-seven, wiry, sun-bleached curls always messy like he just came from the ocean. Freckles dust his cheeks and shoulders, and black ink spreads across his collarbones and chest in wild, almost tribal patterns. His eyes look half-lidded most of the time â calm, distant â like heâs watching everything but letting people believe he isnât.
He moves through Oceanside with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder â the same bag every day. One look at his belongings and you wouldnât even connect him to the Codyâs.
I mean, the only thing in there that actually came from Cody Money was the little teddy bear that Pope had given him!
Angel is the kind of person who can sit on the kitchen counter at Smurfâs house, quietly drawing in a notebook while everyone else argues about a job. Doing his art assignments while Craig and Deran argue whoâs getting the bigger cut or whoâs doing the shitty part of the job,
He doesnât raise his voice.
He doesnât ask too many questions.
He just smiles.
He remembers which brother prefers what beer.
He knows how to calm the brothers.
He knows how to keep his cool.
Most people call him Angel because he looks harmless.
But thereâs something strange about him. Something watchful. Like he understands darkness more than he lets on.
And somehow, out of everyone in the Cody orbit, the most dangerous one trusts him the most.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
!ÂĄ BACKSTORY ÂĄ!
Angelâs parents werenât good people.
They were the kind of desperate criminals that orbited around Smurfâs operations â low-level runners who thought they were smarter than they were.
One night they got greedy.
They tried skimming money from something that belonged to Smurf.
That kind of mistake doesnât last long.
By the time Smurf and her crew caught up with them, things had already spiraled. The confrontation got ugly. Guns came out. Someone panicked.
Angelâs parents didnât survive the night.
And in the back of their beat-up car was a three-year-old kid asleep in the back seat.
Curly hair.
Freckled face.
Clutching a stuffed animal.
Smurf opened the car door, expecting to see more shit that got skimmed from her, and the kid woke up.
He didnât scream.
He just looked at her.
Most people in that situation would call someone.
Police.
Child services.
Smurf didnât.
She crouched down in front of him and asked his name.
âVincent.â
He had no one left.
And Smurf knew something important about children:
Kids raised around chaos adapt.
So she took him home.
Not out of kindness.
Out of instinct.
When Smurf walked into the house with a toddler on her hip, the boys were confused.
Andrew was nine at the time.
He noticed the kid immediately.
Angel wasnât crying like most kids would.
He was just looking around the house like he was memorizing it.
Smurf told the boys:
âHis nameâs Vincent. Heâs staying here for a while.â
Deran was too little to care.
Craig mostly ignored him.
But Pope watched him carefully.
At first it was temporary.
But Angel turned out to be an unusually easy child.
⢠He didnât throw tantrums.
⢠He didnât demand attention.
⢠He stayed quiet and observed everything.
And Smurf liked children she could shape.
She raised him alongside the boys, though he was always a little different.
Not quite a Cody.
Not quite an outsider.
Just⌠a soft, little Angel.
Pope was the first person Angel attached to.
Maybe because Pope was the only one who treated him gently. Truly gently.
Maybe because Pope understood what it felt like to grow up inside Smurfâs world.
Angel started following him everywhere.
If Pope left a room, the toddler waddled after him like a duckling.
If Pope sat down, Angel climbed next to him.
Eventually Pope started calling him âAngie.â
And Smurf noticed something interesting:
Angel had a calming effect on Pope.
Which made the boy useful in ways Smurf didnât expect.
So she kept him.
Raised him.
Folded him into the house the same way she did everything else in her life.
Like he had always belonged there.
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Content Warnings: Age regression (100% SFW), regression, soft caregiver/little dynamic with and without main caregiver, slow emotional processing, parental comfort, vulnerable Reid, comfort-heavy, cranky and bratty Little behavior, Regressing in public.
Universe Explanation: This AU is set a few months after Spencer Reidâs kidnapping by Tobias Hankel. In this universe, Spencer is an age regressor who uses his regression to cope with trauma and past addiction. At this point in time, everyone but Garcia knows about this ( THIS WILL CHANGE IN THIS ONE). Aaron Hotchner is not only Spencerâs caregiver during his Little time but also his adoptive father. In this timeline, Haley and Jack do not exist, and David Rossi has been part of the BAU from the beginning. Hotch and Rossi are not yet in a relationship, but Reid relentlessly teases his dad about his obvious crush.
Authorâs Note: Today was destined to be a chaotic day..First, Aaron slept through his alarm, making him and Spencer wake up late.Â
Second, Spencer woke up in that little, fine line of in-between headspaces. He had gone to bed while big, he was fine! It was rare that he instantly woke up little or in-between. But, to make matters worse, Aaron was so focused on getting himself and his son to work that he didnât even notice it!
Now Spencer had to be the best actor he could be and pretend he was fully big! At work, of all places! He can do that..! Right..?
Glitters and Sparkles and Garciaâs Lair
Spencer trailed after Hotch like a baby duck that had taken a wrong turn on its way to the pond. His badge bounced lightly against his sweater vest, and he swore it sounded louder today. Too loud. Loud enough for everyone in the bullpen to hear the thump-thump-tattle-tale of not big enough today, not really.
He kept his eyes glued to the carpet, hoping that if he didnât make eye contact with the world, the world wouldnât notice he was two wrong blinks away from curling into someoneâs lap.
Hotch strode ahead with the energy of a man speedrunning parenthood and federal leadership at the same time. He was raking fingers through his hair, muttering something about budget meetings and case files that were definitely, absolutely, irreversibly not where he left them.
Spencer tried to walk like a grown-up. Big steps. Regular arms. No swaying.
He failed.
By the time they reached Garciaâs office( Hotch said something about some files or something aboutâŚNet something security orâŚMeh, Spencerâs brain was way too marshmallow soft to remember), the rainbow glow spilling from her doorway tugged at him like a warm hand. The sparkles, the screens, the soft hum. It was like standing on the threshold of Candy Land with a warrant.
Garcia spotted them instantly, swinging around in her chair with a grin that carried its own glitter trail.
âWell, hello, my favorite dynamic duo! Come forth, come forth, bring me your administrative chaos so I may work my magic.â
Hotch sighed the sigh of a man clinging to sanity by a coffee-scented thread. âWe need the network logs from last week. I didnât getâŚâ He paused, finally looking at Spencer. âReid, you okay?â
He said it all in one breath. On one foot. Because he had, without thinking, begun rocking.
Garciaâs eyes softened. She picked up her neon pink mug and leaned forward, studying him with forensic-level affection.
âSweetie,â she said gently, voice dipped in honey and stardust, âwhy do you look like youâre three seconds away from teleporting directly under my desk for a nap?â
Spencerâs face flushed a shade of rose best described as embarrassed flop-sweat pink. He stared at the floor. The carpet was safe. Nonjudgmental. Carpet didnât know anything.
Hotch finally, belatedly, put the puzzle pieces together. He knelt a little, tilting his head with that soft-dad concern he usually reserved for nights when Spencerâs hands trembled too hard to hold a mug.
âSpence,â he murmured, voice low and steady, âHey, pumpkin, youâre feeling tiny right now?â
Spencer shook his head. Then nodded. Then shrugged in a tiny unhappy swirl, the kind that meant his words were stuck somewhere behind his ribs.
Garcia blinked. Twice. Then her jaw dropped.
âOh my god⌠heâs little right now?!â she whispered, like she had been given access to the worldâs rarest, most fragile secret. âWait. Is heâŚ? Is this a thing? A regular thing??â
Hotch hesitated. A heartbeat. Two. His expression flickered through guilt, protectiveness, worry, and the quiet resignation of a man who had absolutely, positively messed up this morning.
âGarcia,â he said, steady but soft, âcan we talk? Privately.â
But Spencer tugged gently on his sleeve with a tiny, lost sound he probably didnât realize escaped his throat.
He whispered, voice small and gravelly:
âDada⌠no close door.â
Garciaâs eyebrows flew into the stratosphere.
Hotch froze.
And Spencerâs ears turned so red he could have powered the entire Quantico grid on shame alone.
Garciaâs eyes darted from Spencerâs flushed face to Hotchâs frozen panic-parent stance. She raised both hands like someone approaching a startled forest creature.
âHey, angel cakes,â she said softly, trimming her voice down to a feather. âNo doors closed. No spooky vibes, okay? We donât have to close the doors, I promise!â
Spencer peeked up at her from behind a curtain of hair, lower lip trembling in a traitorous little wobble.
Hotchâs stern profile melted into guilt soup.
âSpence, oh my baby,â he murmured, kneeling beside him. âIâm so sorry. I shouldâve checked in with you before we left home. You didnât have to push yourself like this.â
âI tried,â Spencer whispered, toes curling in his shoes. ââM big. I was. Then⌠now Iâm⌠not. And weâre at work. Weâre at work, Dada.â His voice went tight and watery. âAnd everyoneâs big here.â
Garciaâs heart practically performed a parkour routine in her chest.
âOh, sugary doctor,â she breathed, stepping closer. âYou donât have to pretend with me, okay? If you need to be tiny and we are still in the office, then thatâs exactly who you get to be in my lair. I can handle more than firewalls and federal drama.â
She walked towards Spencer, heels clicking softly like punctuation marks.
âDo you want to sit on my couch? Itâs basically a stuffed animal pretending to be furniture.â
Spencer hesitated, head tipping in that floaty-not-quite-here way, then gave the tiniest nod. Hotch guided him gently over to the cushioned loveseat draped in lavender plush throws. Spencer sank into it like heâd been swallowed by a friendly cloud.
As soon as he was down, he curled up, tucking his knees to his chest. His shoulders started to tremble in the way that meant he wasnât crying yet, but emotion was lining up like an orchestra tuning backstage.
Hotch sat beside him, hand steady on his back.
âItâs okay,â he murmured. âYouâre safe. And youâre not in trouble, okay? You never will be, not for something like this.â
Spencer sniffed, a tiny squeaky hiccup. âDidnât wanna be a problem.â
Garcia made a sound like absolutely not incarnate.
âListen to me, starlight,â she said, placing a small sparkly stress ball into his hand, âyou could not be a problem if you tried. Youâd have to fill out a request form in triplicate. Youâd need two references, a villain monologue, and a cape. You have none of those things.â
That got the tiniest, wobbliest giggle.
Hotch exhaled in relief.
Then, naturally, this was the precise moment Rossi walked by.
âHey, Garcia,â he called, leaning in the doorway without looking up, âhave you seen myââ
He looked up.
He saw Hotch sitting beside a curled-up Spencer on a lavender couch, Garcia crouched in front of them holding a glitter-stress-ball like a sacred artifact.
There was a very long, very loaded silence.
Rossi blinked. Twice. His expression flickered through confusion, recognition, dawning concern, and something suspiciously tender.
ââŚShould I get coffee,â he asked slowly, âor is this a âgo away, Daveâ situation?â
Spencer squeaked and shoved his face into Hotchâs shoulder like a startled fawn.
Garcia slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle an oh no heâs adorable sound.
Hotch groaned very quietly into his palm. âDave⌠not now.â
Rossi lifted both hands in surrender. âCopy that. Iâll be in the bullpen pretending I didnât see anything except, maybe, the cutest thing Iâve ever witnessed.â
Hotch glared.
Garcia sparkled.
Spencer peeked out with one eye, a giggle leaving his lips.
âGo,â Hotch deadpanned.
Rossi winked at Spencer on the way out. âHang in there, kiddo.â
As the door swung shut again, Garcia settled on the floor in front of them, crisscross applesauce, eyes warm.
âAlright, my loves,â she said gently. âWhat do you need? Juice? Snacks? Blankets? A Pacific Rim Jaeger to guard the door?â
Spencer sniffed. ââŚBlock⌠the door? No close it!â
Hotch smiled softly. âI can do that.â
He stood, positioning himself by the entrance like a tall, suit-wearing force field.
Garcia grinned at Spencer. âSee? Maximum safety settings activated.â
Spencerâs breathing slowed. His shoulders eased. His grip on the glitter-ball softened into comfort instead of panic.
âThank you,â he whispered.
âSo⌠Want to tell us why we didnât exactly have to explain to you this whole situation?â Hotch asked, still guarding the door, but his posture was more relaxed now as he watched his son play with the glittery ball in his hands.
Garcia smiled, giggling, âSir, what exactly do you think I do when I have nothing to find for you guys? The internet is a vast place! You can learn a lot from it!â
Hotch just giggled and rolled his eyes. He may have found a good babysitter for when they are at work.
âM feeling myself regressing slowly, and that means Iâll be reduced to babbles and Portuguese/Brazilian cartoonsâŚmaybe some candy, even tho its almost bed time đ¤¤
Sunday there will be a new one-shot! And on Sunday, Iâill start to move my one-shots to AO3 as well! Theyâll be posted here first and a wee later Iâill put them on AO3!
Please, I love to hear your ideas and headcannons! Drop them and I might pick one for Sunday! If not, then Sunday will probably be Garcia finding out!
Anyways, I love yall, thanks for all the support! đ
Content Warnings: Age regression (100% SFW), soft caregiver/little dynamic, slow emotional processing, parental comfort, vulnerable and tired Reid, Angst-heavy, comfort-heavy, Hurt/Comfort, cranky and sleepy Little behavior, a little bit of a tantrum, non-sexual spanking as punishment.
Universe Explanation: This AU is set a few months after Spencer Reidâs kidnapping by Tobias Hankel. In this universe, Spencer is an age regressor who uses his regression to cope with trauma and past addiction. At this point in time, everyone but Garcia knows about this. Aaron Hotchner is not only Spencerâs caregiver during his Little time but also his adoptive father. In this timeline, Haley and Jack do not exist, and David Rossi has been part of the BAU from the beginning. Hotch and Rossi are not yet in a relationship, but Reid relentlessly teases his dad about his obvious crush.
Authorâs Note: This takes place after the jet lands. The team separates and each go their way to their own home to rest. When Spencer woke up, it was like they teleported from the Jet to his own bed. Which meant⌠He would need to deal with the consequences of his own actions. Good thing that Aaron was sĂł soft hearted that, right after punishments, he would spoil the baby rotten with cuddles, a warm bath, bed time stories, etc ect⌠( Continue of "A Very Long Jet Trip Back". Continuation was not requested, but main idea was requested by @robyn-on-hellsite )
The Aftermath of Bad ActionsÂ
Spencer woke up to the slow unfurl of evening light slipping through his bedroom curtains â warm gold spilling across the blankets like someone had poured sunshine directly onto him. His pacifier bobbed lazily in his mouth as he blinked, small and confused, the edges of the world soft and blurry.
One second he had been on the jet, curled into Hotchâs chest, paci between his lips and blanket tucked under his chin.
Now he was home.
And he slept a whole day away.
He was safe.
Warm.
Safe.
And tucked into his own bed like a sleepy kitten.
He blinked harder, trying to gather thoughts that didnât want to connect. Everything felt cottony and slow. His limbs were heavy and soft. His brain was even softer. One-year-old soft.
A sleepy whimper puffed past the pacifier as he stretched â and immediately, instantly, knew something was off.
Hotch wasnât in bed with him.
He wasnât in the doorway.
He wasnât within armâs reach.
Spencer lifted his hands, tiny and trembling, fingers opening and closing in a little grabby motion.
âDâŚda?â he squeaked.
The sound was small, a tiny broken chirp. And he startled himself with it. His lip wobbled. Panic bubbled fast. Too fast.
And as if on cue, the door opened.
Hotch stepped in.
And Spencer melted â spine softening, shoulders dropping, breath leaving him in a relieved flutter.
âGood morning, sweetheart,â Hotch said gently. His voice came warm and steady, carrying a soft strength that seemed to fold the whole room in half.
Spencer reached for him with both arms, hands making urgent little grabbing motions.
âUp,â he whined around the pacifier, legs kicking under the blanket.
Hotch walked to the bed, brushing Spencerâs hair back from his forehead. âIâll pick you up,â he promised, âbut we need to talk first.â
The words hit like a gust of cold wind.
Spencer froze.
His breath caught.
And memories trickled back â fuzzy, distorted, but enough:
The tantrum.
The foot stomping.
The yelling.
The swearing.
Hotchâs voice: We will be addressing that at home.
Spencer let out a soft, frightened squeak, paci falling from his lips onto his blanket.
âDaâŚâ His head shook in tiny jerks, tears forming instantly. âNo⌠no wanâ⌠no talkâŚâ He pawed weakly at the blanket as if he could hide under it.
Hotch sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly. His voice dropped lower. Calm. Grounded.
âSpencer. Look at me.â
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head stubbornly. âNoooâŚâ His voice came out thin and wobbly. âGood⌠âm good baby⌠no bad⌠no wanâ punishmentâŚâ
Hotch placed a hand on his back. Warm. Wide. Immovable.
âYouâre not a bad baby,â Hotch said softly. âYou had a very, very hard day. But you still behaved in ways you know arenât okay. And we talked about this, sweetheart. Actions have consequences.â
Spencerâs face crumpled.
He turned and buried it in Hotchâs thigh, gripping the fabric of his pajama bottoms with desperate fists. Little, soft, frantic fists.
âPâease⌠noâŚâ he hiccuped.
âSweetheart,â Hotch murmured, running a slow hand down his spine, âYou need to understand what you did was wrong...â
He lifted Spencer gently, settling him across his lap â belly-down, cradled more than restrained. Not pinned. Not held harshly. Just positioned.
Grounded.
Spencer whimpered as the realization sank in.
âDadaaaâŚâ he cried softly, kicking once, weakly. âNo no noâŚâ
Hotchâs hand rested on the back of his diapered bottom, rubbing slow circles.
âWeâre going to get this over quickly,â he said. âFive swats, and that will be enough, because even when youâre little, yelling and cursing at your teammates is rude and bad behaviour. And you know it. But it is also not the end of the world.â
Spencer let out a broken cry, burying his face deeper into Hotchâs knee, tiny fingers fisting into the fabric.
Hotch rubbed his back again. âYouâre not in trouble anymore after this.Dada promises.â
Then â
A soft swat.
Barely a tap.
But Spencer jolted, letting out a tiny âEepâ!â
The second swat followed quickly, still gentle, still warm rather than sharp.
Spencer yelped, little legs kicking. âDaâDaâ!â
âThree,â Hotch counted, tone calm, utterly controlled.
Spencer clung harder to his fatherâs pant leg, tears dripping freely. His cries werenât loud â they were small, babyish, confused, overwhelmed little sounds, but they didnât carry any real pain in them.
The fourth swat came. Spencer gasped, hips twitching.
And the fifth landed softly, the final punctuation of a lesson rather than a punishment.
All tension drained from Hotchâs shoulders.
âAll done,â he murmured immediately, sliding his hands under Spencerâs chest, lifting him up into his arms in one practiced swoop.
Spencer collapsed against him, sobbing into his neck â the tiniest, saddest cries, snotty and wet and exhausted.
Hotch rubbed his back in long, slow strokes. âShh⌠itâs okay. Youâre all finished. Youâre safe. Dadaâs right here.â
Spencerâs hands curled into the collar of Hotchâs shirt, trembling. âDaâŚda⌠âm sowwyâŚâ he hiccuped, voice cracked and tiny.
âI know,â Hotch whispered into his hair. âI know, sweetheart. And youâre forgiven.â
Spencer nuzzled into his fatherâs throat with pure instinct, pressing his tear-sticky cheek to Hotchâs skin. Hotch shifted him onto his hip, rocking him gently as he carried him toward the bathroom.
âBath time,â Hotch murmured. âWarm water, with bubbles, and then cuddles. Dada needs some cuddle bug time with his pumpkin.â
Spencer sniffled, pacifier wobbling as Hotch slipped it back into his mouth.
His head dropped heavily onto Hotchâs shoulder.
And Hotch smiled â soft, proud, achingly tender.
âItâs okay, honey,â he whispered into Spencerâs hairline. âDadaâs here, my sweet boy.â
Hotch carried Spencer from the bathroom with that steady, protective rhythm that told Spencerâs tired little brain: youâre done now, you did it, youâre safe.Â
Warm bath steam clung to Spencerâs curls, and every few seconds he gave a faint bunny-like sniffle, more out of habit than distress. Hotch kissed the crown of his head each time, just a quiet little Iâm here, as if sealing the promise into the damp strands.
The bedroom felt dim and cozy, lit only by the softer glow of the lamp that Hotch always used for Little evenings. It painted everything honey-gold, like the room had been dipped in calm.
âLetâs get you comfy,â Hotch murmured, voice low, velvet-thick with affection.
Spencer didnât even lift his head. He just melted further into Hotchâs neck, becoming a warm, floppy armful. Hotch smiled with his cheek pressed to Spencerâs curls, then guided them both to the rocking chair.
The chair creaked softly under their combined weight â the good kind of creak, the one that always made Spencerâs body sag with instinctive comfort. Hotch settled in, adjusting Spencer so he was curled across his chest, one arm tucked between their bodies, the other loosely hooked around Hotchâs neck.
âYou did such a good job today,â Hotch whispered, rocking them into a slow sway. âYou apologized, and you let Dada take care of you. Now all you need to do is apologize to the others, okay?â
Spencer blinked sleepily, lashes still clumped from tears. His pacifier bobbed. His fingers curled into the collar of Hotchâs t-shirt, holding on with the softness of someone too tired to form a full thought, but unwilling to let go.
Hotch reached for the warm bottle resting on the side table. Not too hot, not too sweet â just milk warmed to that perfect sleepy-time temperature. He tapped the bottle gently against Spencerâs arm.
âHungry? You want your baba, sweetie?â
Spencer released the pacifier with a tiny pop, letting it fall onto Hotchâs shirt. His eyes were half-moons as he turned his face up, trusting, wordless. Hotch guided the bottle to his lips, holding Spencer close with his free arm.
The first sip made Spencerâs shoulders drop, a soft hum spilling from him as he relaxed. His breathing fell into a tiny, steady rhythm. The rocking chair kept time, each sway smoothing him out like a crease.
Spencerâs eyes fluttered open once, just enough to meet Hotchâs gaze â huge, glassy, and adoring. Hotch brushed a thumb across his cheek.
âI love you,â Hotch whispered.
Spencer made a tired little âmnâŚâ sound around the nipple, which Hotch translated by instinct: love you too, Dada.
After a few minutes, the bottle grew lighter, and Spencerâs body heavier. Hotch rested the bottle aside and repositioned Spencer, cradling him close. Spencer burrowed immediately into the crook of Hotchâs neck, breath puffing little warm ghosts against his skin.
Rock. Rock. Rock.
The room felt like a lullaby.
âYouâre safe,â Hotch murmured, voice drifting into a whisper meant only for the boy in his arms. âNothingâs going to hurt you here. Youâre all done. You can rest now, sweetheart. Dada will keep you safe.â
A soft, tiny hand patted at Hotchâs chest once â Spencerâs sleepy version of okay. Then it went limp.
Hotch continued rocking long after Spencerâs breathing evened, long after his small weight settled fully into sleep. He kissed Spencerâs temple.
âGoodnight, my darling boy.â
The rocking chair kept its gentle rhythm, the house hushed around them, father and son wrapped in the warm quiet of peace finally earned.
Omgggg I love your little spencer writings!!!! I hope it's not too much to ask but can you do one where Rossi spoils spencer? (sorry for my misspelling :<)
Its obviously not too much! Its actually perfect! As soon as I saw âRossi Spoils Spencerâ I had an idea, hehehe ( donât worry about misspelling anything, Iâm dyslexic, I use grammar checker programs all the time đ ).
It will be posted today! Alongside the part two of the Jet Trip!
Content Warnings: Age regression (100% SFW), regression, soft caregiver/little dynamic with non-main caregiver, slow emotional processing, parental comfort, vulnerable Reid, comfort-heavy, comedy-heavy, cranky Little behavior.
Universe Explanation: This AU is set a few months after Spencer Reidâs kidnapping by Tobias Hankel. In this universe, Spencer is an age regressor who uses his regression to cope with trauma and past addiction. At this point in time, everyone but Garcia knows about this. Aaron Hotchner is not only Spencerâs caregiver during his Little time but also his adoptive father. In this timeline, Haley and Jack do not exist, and David Rossi has been part of the BAU from the beginning. Hotch and Rossi are not yet in a relationship, but Reid relentlessly teases his dad about his obvious crush.
Authorâs Note: in this instance of âLittle Tales of the Doctorâ, Aaron wanted to take advantage of their unusual day off to go shopping for groceries and baby supplies for his baby boy, however, the weather is so bad and scary that he refuses to drive around with Spencer in the car⌠But obviously, Spencer has been regressed since the time he woke up⌠He needed a babysitter, and Aaron knew exactly who to call. ( Request by @gaylittlegoblinsblog )
A day with Uncle Dave
(Now featuring the spoiling power of a thousand benevolent sugar daddies, one of whom answers to David Rossi.)
The storm arrived before dawn, rolling across Quantico with all the subtlety of a marching band in steel-toed boots. Rain hammered the windows, wind shoved at the building, and thunder cracked through the sky like it was mid-argument with someone bigger.
Inside the apartment, Spencer woke up already small. Not slipping into regression, not easing toward it. Full Toddler-mode right from the moment his eyes blinked open.
He burrowed into Hotchâs side, whimpering at a rumble overhead, curls tickling his dadâs jaw.
âDada,â he whispered. âSkyâs mad.â
Hotch smoothed a hand down his arm. âItâs just a storm.â
Another thunderclap.
Spencer vibrated like a startled kitten.
âOkay,â Hotch conceded. âItâs a loud storm.â
Aaron rubbed circles on his back. âItâs just noise, Pumpkin. Skyâs being dramatic.â He said, trying to calm his baby at least a little bit.
âNânoâŚâ Spencer whimpered. âMean.â
âHey,â Hotch teased gently, smiling softly at his son, âdo you want me to tell it to knock it off? I can be very persuasive.â
Spencer nodded fiercely.
The older man marched to the window and glared outside like he was about to subpoena the weather.
âHEY!â he bellowed. âCool it! Youâre scaring my kid!â
Another rumble sounded.
Spencer gasped. âDada! You made it ANGRIER!â
âWell,â Hotch muttered, returning to Spencer, âcanât win them all.â
They tried breakfast, but Spencer mostly clung to Hotchâs hoodie. They tried cartoons, but Spencer couldnât take his eyes off the windows. By eight in the morning, Hotch was holding him like an anxious koala while staring at the fridge with a deep, parental dread.
They were out of groceries. They were out of wipes. They were out of the special crackers Spencer liked. Without those crackers, Hotch knew the world could tilt off-axis.
But there was no way he was putting Spencer in a car during weather that sounded like Thor was performing slam poetry.
He kissed Spencerâs forehead. âBaby, I need to run to the store for a little bit. Iâll be fast.â
Spencerâs lower lip wobbled. âNoâŚâ
Hotchâs heart clenched. But he had a plan.
And that plan had a name. And it also smelled like expensive Dior Cologne.
Little or big, your mind is the best library I have ever seen.
âYou can write down anything you want in thereâŚEven draw! It's yours to do as you want! Just tell me if you need more ink for the pen, Iâill get it refilled.â
Spencerâs mouth trembled.
Without warning, he flung himself into Rossiâs chest.
âI love it,â he whispered fiercely. âIs da best.â
Rossi hugged him close. âYou deserve the best.â
Hotch shook his head helplessly but kissed Spencerâs forehead, eyes warm with affection, placing the bags of groceries down on the floor and picking his son up in his arms.
âWeâre going to need a bigger apartment,â he muttered.
Rossi smirked. âAlready found a listing.â
âDave.â
âYes?â
âStop.â
âNope.â
Spencer giggled sleepily into Hotchâs shoulder.
Rossi looked at how Spencer melted right into Aaronâs arms, and how Aaron swayed side to side, slowly lulling his baby to sleep. The old, rich Italian guy couldnât help but smile.
He could get used to this. And Iâm not talking about Spencer here.
Omgggg I love your little spencer writings!!!! I hope it's not too much to ask but can you do one where Rossi spoils spencer? (sorry for my misspelling :<)
Its obviously not too much! Its actually perfect! As soon as I saw âRossi Spoils Spencerâ I had an idea, hehehe.
Content Warnings: Age regression (100% SFW), regression, soft caregiver/little dynamic, slow emotional processing, parental comfort, vulnerable and tired Reid, comfort-heavy, cranky and sleepy Little behavior, a little bit of a tantrum.
Universe Explanation: This AU is set a few months after Spencer Reidâs kidnapping by Tobias Hankel. In this universe, Spencer is an age regressor who uses his regression to cope with trauma and past addiction. No one on the team knows about this except for Aaron Hotchner, who is not only Spencerâs caregiver during his Little time but also his adoptive father. In this timeline, Haley and Jack do not exist, and David Rossi has been part of the BAU from the beginning. Hotch and Rossi are not yet in a relationship, but Reid relentlessly teases his dad about his obvious crush.
Authorâs Note: This one-shot is about how a particularly extressing, super annoying, graphic case managed to wear down our small genius so much that he justâŚNeeded his Dadaâs comfort, his paci, his blankie, and knowing how soft of a heart Hotch had when it came to him, he was not going to get denied his comfort. HoweverâŚThe rest of the team ( JJ, Morgan, Rossi and Prentiss ) are now watching, and they have questions. ( Request by @robyn-on-hellsite )
A Very Long Jet Trip Back
The case ended, but the echoes of it clung like smoke.
Spencer stood justa few feet away from the jet, swaying slightly as cold night air slid over his overheated skin. The warehouse where the victims were kept was a labyrinth of cages and speakers, wires running across concrete like veins. Theyâd found the victims alive but fully broken. Minds splintered. Voices hoarse from pleading with a man who never once stood in the same room as them.
The unsub had weaponized grief, forcing each victim to listen to a recording of someone they loved reading them a goodbye. Obituaries crafted with intimate, razor-precise detail. The unsub wanted them to understand they were already spiritually dead.
And when the unsub managed to kidnap Spencer, he was forced to read one of those obituaries.
Heâd read it to a sobbing nineteen-year-old boy with no siblings, orphaned, tied to a chair.
A boy begging him to stop.
Begging him not to speak his death into the air.
The words had turned to ash in Spencerâs mouth.
He was shaking so badly now that he looked like he was flickering in and out of the moment.
Hotch approached carefully. âSpencer, wheelsâ up in 15. How are you doing?â
âI canât get theâ the sound of him out of my head,â Spencer whispered, voice cracking on the last word. âItâs stillâ itâs still in there.â He thumped his own temple with the heel of his palm.
âSpenceâŚâ JJâs voice softened with the kind of sorrow that held its breath.
Prentiss hovered nearby, arms wrapped around herself like she was bracing. Morgan stood stiffly, hands on hips, trying to look steady for Spencerâs sake but unable to hide the deep crease in his forehead.
Rossi stepped forward last, slow and grounded as bedrock. He didnât touch Spencer, but he did stand in his eyeline with quiet strength.
âWeâre done here,â he said. âLetâs go home, kid.â
The words landed wrong.
Home.
Safety.
Warmth.
And Spencer felt none of it, so his mind scrabbled for it like a child clawing for a nightlight.
His breath shortened. Too fast. Too shallow.
Hotch recognized the shift instantly. âSpencer. Deep breaths. Focus on me.â
But Spencerâs voice had already climbed into that fragile, high register that warned Hotch of an oncoming slip.
Spencer jerked away. âStop it! Stop it, Aaron!â His voice pitched upward, cracking again. âDonâtâ donât do the calm-dad voice. I canâtâ I canât think when youâ when youââ
He didnât have a word for it. The team stared at him, confused, worried.
Hotch lifted a hand, slow, steady. âWalk with me. Weâll talk privately.â
âNo!â Spencerâs voice hit a near-whine, brittle as thin ice. âYouâre just gonna tell me to breathe and focus and act normal and Iâ I canât fucking do that right now!â His foot stomped, small and sharp on the pavement.
Morgan blinked. âWhoa, kidââ
âDonât call me kid!â Spencer yelled, stomping his foot hard enough that the crack of it made a louder âthumpâ against the pavement. âIâm tired! Iâm angry! And I hated this fucking case! I hateâ I hateâ I hate everything right now!â
Hotchâs expression didnât soften. It settled â firm, controlled, steady. âSpencer. That language is not acceptable.â
Rossi folded his arms, watching with the unmistakable look of someone who understands a dynamic that is not his to interrupt⌠yet.
Spencer hiccuped on his own fury. âI donât care! I donâtâ I donâtââ
His voice spiraled up, thinning, collapsing.
Hotch stepped directly in front of him.
âThatâs enough.â
The authority in the tone hit like a pressure wave.
Spencer frozeâeyes huge, wet, trembling.
The team felt the air shift but didnât understand the meaning.
Spencer did.
He knew that tone.
He knew what it meant.
The promise wrapped inside it: We will be discussing this behavior later.
Spencerâs chin wobbled. His fingers grasped Hotchâs sleeve. âD-donât⌠be madâŚâ
âIâm not angry,â Hotch said firmly. âBut you and I will be talking when weâre home. Not here. Not in front of everyone.â
The team all exchanged looks. JJ mouthed talking? to Prentiss, who shrugged helplessly.
Rossi, however, nodded once, slow and knowing.
Spencer whimpered softly at the implied consequence. âI didnâtâ I didnât mean toââ
âI know.â Hotchâs tone gentled at the edges. âBut this isnât the place for this level of behavior. Come on. Jet. Now.â
Still trembling, Spencer let himself be steered away, clinging to Hotchâs coat like it was the only thing tethering him to adulthood.
Rossi followed right behind them, his hand brushing Spencerâs back for one brief grounding moment â subtle, soothing.
The jet hummed steadily around them, a soft, white-noise lullaby that only seemed to deepen Spencerâs regression. By the time the team settled into their seats, Spencer had gone fully limp in Hotchâs arms, his head heavy on Hotchâs collarbone, his mouth half-open around a soft, instinctive suckle on his own thumb. In responde, Aaron instinctively grabbed a blue pacifier he kept on his go bag and swap Spencerâs thumb for the pacifier.
His eyes were glazed, unfocused in that distinctly toddlerish way, blinking slowly and unevenly, like his brain hadnât quite figured out how eyelids were supposed to work.
His other hand kept clenching and unclenching the corner of Hotchâs shirt, tiny fingers tug-tug-tugging rhythmically for comfort.
Hotch shifted Spencer higher against his chest, supporting his head with a practiced palm cradling the back of his skull. Spencer made a tiny squeaky noise at the movementâhigh, breathy, automatic. A baby sound. The kind that bypassed logic and stabbed straight into everyoneâs heart.
Rossi exhaled slowly, almost fondly. âHeâs all the way down, isnât he?â
Hotch nodded. âAround twelve to eighteen months, if I had to guess.â
The team stared.
And Hotch knew it was time.
He adjusted Spencerâs blanket, tucking it under the curve of his chin. Spencer leaned into the contact, nuzzling Hotchâs sternum with the soft, seeking instinct of a baby bird.
Then Hotch finally looked up, âSpencer is an age regressor.â
âHeâs not always like this,â he continued, voice low but steady. âIn fact, most of the time he doesnât regress this far. Usually he stays older. Preschool-aged. Chatty. Curious. Able to tell me what he needs.â
Spencer let out a tiny hum, pressing his cheek harder against Hotchâs chest. Hotch ran a thumb along his forehead, down his nose and then up again to his forehead, soothing.
âBut when heâs deeply overwhelmed,â Hotch continued, âwhen a case drags him through something close to his past trauma, he can fall back further. Much further. The younger the regression, the more heâs hurting.â
Prentissâ expression softened. âAnd today⌠was close to Hankel.â
âToo close,â Hotch confirmed. âHe read a goodbye letter to a victim who begged him to stop. His brain followed the old trauma pathways.â
Rossi added quietly, âAnd Spencerâs trauma pathways run deep.â
Morgan lowered his head. âDamn.â
Spencer made a soft fussing sound and kicked one leg under the blanket. Hotch bounced him absently, easily, like breathing.
JJ finally asked, barely above a whisper, âWhen did you know he was a regressor?â
Hotch drew a long, steadying breath.
âIt started right after Hankel,â he said. âI found him in the supply closet at Quantico two weeks after he came home. Curled up in a ball, holding a clipboard like it was a stuffed animal. Nonverbal. Terrified. He didnât even know I was there until I touched his shoulder and he latched onto me like a child.â
Silence fell over the jet.
âHe apologized for it,â Hotch continued. âOver and over. He thought it made him weak. He thought it made him broken. He thought I would send him home. Or to a psych unit.â
Rossiâs jaw set tightly, anger simmering. âWho the hell told him that regression meant he was broken?â
âNo one,â Hotch said. âHe assumed it.â
Spencer fussed again, squirming. Hotch shifted him, guided him back to resting against his shoulder.
JJ pressed a hand over her heart. âSo you became his caregiver.â
Hotch nodded softly. âInstantly. There wasnât even a question. He needed someone he trusted to ground him. Someone who wouldnât be afraid of the responsibility. Someone who could handle the emotional swings and still make him feel safe.â
Morgan cleared his throat. âAnd you didnât tell us becauseâŚ?â
âBecause Spencer wanted to wait,â Hotch answered. âHe wanted to explain it himself. In a calm setting. On his terms. He wanted to educate you, answer questions, make you comfortable⌠before he ever let you see him like this.â
Spencer whimpered, and Hotch hushed him gently.
âShh, baby. Iâve got you,â he murmured, kissing the top of his head.
The team stared. Because Hotch didnât talk like that. Not ever. Not with anyone.
âHuh?-â Morgan said, furrowing his brows at Emily.
Hotchâs hand slowed at Spencerâs back, thumb brushing soft circles.
âYes, but Diane is still his mother, we are just sharing guardianship. It did take a few months,â he said quietly. âI offered to take legal guardianship after his relapse scare. He was terrified of losing his medication access. Terrified of making his mother upset or even disappointing her.â
JJâs voice trembled. â But he agreed? â
âYes he did, he also made me and Diane have a long conversation,â Hotch said. âHe thought he was too old to be adopted. But he was also scared of being alone. Scared of slipping into a regression with no one there to help him.â
âAnd I am guessing that one night,â Rossi murmured, smiling faintly, âhe asked if he could call you âDad.â? â
Hotchâs eyes softened.
âYes,â he said. âAnd I told him he could call me whatever made him feel safe.â
Spencer made a tiny babbling soundâhalf fuss, half comfort-seeking.
Hotch rubbed his back. âIt wasnât long before âDadâ became âDada.â And from there⌠it was only a matter of time before I filed the adoption paperwork.â
Morgan blinked fast, trying and failing to hide how emotional he looked. âWhy didnât you tell us? Why keep that from your family?â
Hotch met his eyes without flinching.
âBecause it wasnât mine to reveal,â he said. âIt was Spencerâs.â
Spencer suddenly made a sharp whine, then a tiny distressed flap of his hands. Hotch immediately adjusted him, guiding the pacifier gently to his mouth.
Spencer latched with a relieved little sigh.
Morgan watched with stunned awe. âAnd you⌠youâre really good at that.â
Hotch gave the faintest smile. âIâve had a lot of practice.â
Then Morgan addedâtoo casuallyâ
âSo what happens now? We all pretend the tantrum earlier didnât happen?â
Spencer froze.
Then whimpered around the pacifier.
Hotchâs voice dropped an octave. Calm. Cool. Inevitable.
âNo. Spencer and I will be addressing that at home.â
JJâs eyes widened. âConsequences?â
âI meanâŚHe did swear,â Emily added, smiling softly.
âYes, consequences. Appropriate ones,â Hotch confirmed. âFor his age. For his behavior.â
Spencer kicked one foot weakly, face going hot with embarrassment.
Rossi leaned over and whispered warmly, âYouâll be fine, bambino. Heâs firm, not harsh.â
Hotch nodded to him appreciatively.
Then he pulled Spencer closer, settling him fully against his chest.
âSleep, sweetheart,â he whispered. âDadaâs right here.â
And Spencer, exhausted and secure and completely undone, finally drifted off.
â...SooooâŚWhoâs going to tell Garcia?-â Morgan asks, a smirk already forming at the thoughts of his baby girl and little spencer.
Aaron grunted, but smiled. Their sweet, blonde tech queen would get to know the news later.Â
Content Warnings: Age regression (100% SFW), regression, soft caregiver/little dynamic, slow emotional processing, parental comfort, vulnerable and sick Reid, comfort-heavy, cranky and sick Little behavior, soft and subtle crush feelings (Hotch â Rossi)
Universe Explanation: This AU is set a few months after Spencer Reidâs kidnapping by Tobias Hankel. In this universe, Spencer is an age regressor who uses his regression to cope with trauma and past addiction. No one on the team knows about this except for Aaron Hotchner, who is not only Spencerâs caregiver during his Little time but also his adoptive father. In this timeline, Haley and Jack do not exist, and David Rossi has been part of the BAU from the beginning. Hotch and Rossi are not yet in a relationship, but Reid relentlessly teases his dad about his obvious crush.
Authorâs Note: This one-shot is a softer, more domestic look into the âLittle Tales of the Doctorâ AU (yesâthatâs what Iâm calling it for now until something better comes along!). It focuses on a sick, cranky Little Spencer and the poor Dada just trying to hold things together when someone unexpectedly shows up at their door. Itâs slow, fluffy, and full of quiet tensionâespecially since no one knows about Spencerâs regression but Hotch. Hope you enjoy it, and please remember to be kindâthoughtful feedback is always welcome! (This one is a little short, sorry T^T ).
Little Owls Still Get Sick Sometimes
The living room looked like a toddler had claimed it by force. Which, in a way, one had.
A tangle of blankets was cocooned on the couch, a plush owl poking out from one end and a mop of brown, sweat-damp curls from the other. The faint sound of an old Clifford the Big Red Dog rerun floated from the TV while a humidifier puffed mist nearby like a lazy dragon.
In the kitchen, Aaron Hotchner stirred a pot of bland chicken broth and rubbed his temples. His phone buzzed on the counterâagain. Another agent update. Another voicemail. Another everything heâd been ignoring. He'd been ignoring everything and everyone.
Even David Fucking Rossi.
The BAU could function without him for a day or two. Spencer couldnât.
âDadaaaa.â
The whine was raspy and pathetic, coated in congestion and indignation.
Hotch sighed, turned off the stove, and returned to the couch. âWhat is it, sweetheart?â
Spencerâregressed, feverish, and thoroughly over itâpoked his head out of the blanket burrito. His cheeks were flushed. His nose was red. His eyes, glassy and teary, narrowed in righteous fury.
âMy show froze again,â he croaked. âItâs stupid, and I hate it, and nothing works, and I feel like shit!â
Hotch blinked. Slowly.
Spencer blinked back, equally slow. Then he paled more (if that was even humanly possible), as if he realized too late what heâd just said.
Aaron crossed his arms, trying to stay calm. âLanguage.â
âBut Iâm siiiiiick!â Spencer moaned, throwing his head back dramatically. âAnd the stupid owlâs cold, and I canât breathe, and everything sucks!â
âSpencer.â Hotch crouched beside him. âYou know that wordâs for Big boys only. Even when youâre sick.â
Spencer groaned, dragging the owl plush over his face like a curtain. âYou hate me,â he mumbled.
âIâm the one making you soup, bubba,â Aaron said softly. âNice try.â
He reached out to ruffle Spencerâs hair, gently coaxing the plush aside. Spencer leaned into the touch instinctively. Cranky or not, sick or notâhe always melted when Hotch gave him quiet, solid comfort.
Just as Hotch leaned in to check his temperature again, the doorbell rang.
Spencer flinched. âNooo,â he whined. âDonât want people. Just you.â
He slipped toward the door, fingers brushing through his hair to look slightly more composed.
When he opened it, he froze.
Rossi stood on the porch, looking deeply concerned. And mildly frantic.
âGarcia said Reidâs really sick. And you canceled everything. Two days in a row. And, on top of all of that, you won't return my calls. Whatâs going on? Is he in the hospital? Is it something serious?â
Hotch swallowed hard. âHeâs⌠Itâs not that kind of sick.â
Rossi narrowed his eyes. âAaron. Youâre never this cagey unless somethingâs really wrong.â
Before Hotch could respond, a stuffy voice from the living room echoed: âDadaaaa! You cominâ? Close the dooor... 'M cold!â
Rossi blinked.
Hotch winced.
Silence.
Rossi stared.
Then, slowly, with furrowed brows, he stepped past Hotch into the house.
Spencer was sitting up on the couch now, bleary-eyed and frowning toward the doorway. When he saw Rossi, he froze.
His eyes widened. â...Uncle Dave?â
Oh shit, Hotch thought.
'Uncle Dave' was a Little Spencer nickname for Rossi. One that had never, ever been said out loud outside their house.
Rossi looked from Spencer to the owl plush to the apple juice sippy on the coffee table and back to Hotch.
Hotch shut the door and took a steadying breath.
âOkay,â he said, voice low. âThereâs something you donât know. About Spencer. And Iâm asking you, as a friend and a colleague, to not react the way most people would.â
Rossiâs face softened with confusion. âWhat am I looking at here?â
âHeâs⌠regressed,â Hotch said simply. âItâs a way to cope with trauma. A healthy way, Dave. It's mostly private, or at least we like to keep it private. I take care of him on another extra level when he regresses. Most of the time, he's not regressed. But he got sick, and sometimes... Most of the time, when heâs sick, he slips.â
Spencer was watching them both now with wide, worried eyes, clutching his owl like a shield.
âDid I mess up?â he whispered. âWas I âposed to pretend?â
Hotch immediately crossed the room and sat beside him. âNo, sweetheart. You didnât do anything wrong.â
Rossi was quiet. Very quiet.
Hotch looked up, heart in his throat, waiting for a reaction.
But when Rossi finally spoke, it was soft.
â...Youâve been doing this alone?â
Aaron nodded once. âItâs not a burden. I adopted him; he's my kid. I am more than happy to be the one he turns to.â
Rossi looked at Spencer again. Really looked. At the flushed cheeks, the vulnerable posture, the thumb absently near his mouth.
'That has to be bad for his teeth,' Rossi thought, already making a mental list of how he could spoil the sweet baby he saw in front of him.
âI... I had no idea,â he said quietly, not knowing how to respond without scaring Spencer.
âNo one does,â Hotch replied. âWe wanted it that way.â
Another silence.
Then Rossi, very gently, asked, âCan I sit?â
Spencer looked to Hotch, uncertain. Hotch gave him a nod.
The older man sat carefully on the edge of the couch. After a moment, Spencer scooted closer to Hotch and whispered, âMâtired.â
Hotch held out his arms. âCome here, lovebug.â
Spencer collapsed against him instantly, owl and all, face tucked into his neck.
As the cartoon resumed in the background, Rossi glanced at them, something unspoken in his expression.
âYouâre good at this,â he said.
Hotch gave a half-smile, giggling as he cradled Spencer more into his lap. âTrust me, he gets sick more often than you think. Not my first rodeo.â
âHeâs lucky.â
Aaron didnât look at him. âNah, I'm the lucky one.â
Rossi stood a while later to leave, pausing at the door.
âI wonât say anything,â he said. âYou have my word.â
Hotch nodded, too tired to find words.
But as Rossi stepped out, he added quietly, âYouâre not alone, Aaron. You shouldnât have to be... I... I can babysit sometimes if you would like me to." He offered, smiling softly towards the father in front of him.
Aaron just smiled, nodding softly as Rossi left, closing the door softly so as not to wake up Spencer.
Then, Hotchâstanding there, holding a feverish genius who still smelled faintly of applesauce and menthol rubâfelt something shift inside him. Quietly. Deeply.
Something like hope.
Maybe even reciprocated love.
That, or Spencer's flu was passing onto him, and he was getting delusional.
Content Warnings: Age regression ( 100% SFW), implied past drug use (Dilaudid), PTSD-related trauma, regression due to triggers, offscreen kidnapping reference (Hankel case), soft caregiver/little dynamic, slow emotional processing, parental comfort, vulnerable Reid, comfort-heavy
Universe Explanation: This AU is set a few months after Spencer Reidâs kidnapping by Tobias Hankel. In this universe, Spencer is an age regressor who uses his regression to cope with trauma and past addiction. No one on the team knows about this except for Aaron Hotchner, who is not only Spencerâs caregiver during his Little time, but also his adoptive father. In this timeline, Haley and Jack do not exist, and David Rossi has been part of the BAU from the beginning. Hotch and Rossi are not yet in a relationship, but Reid relentlessly teases his dad about his obvious crush.
Authorâs Note: This is a slow, emotional one-shot focused on post-case comfort. It leans into SFW agere themes between Hotch and Spencer in a deeply nurturing, familial way. I took extra care to make this as gently immersive and detailed as possible. Enjoy the soft angst and gentle comfort, and please keep your rude comments to yourself. (Opinions are valid and welcomed!). I do plan on using the AU again, so, maybe you guys can help me come up with a name for this AU? Anyways, enjoy!
Little Owls Still Get Hurt Sometimes
The lights in the kitchen cast a warm, golden hue across the hardwood floor, spilling in soft, amber patches up the cabinets and over the wide dining table. The air smelled like garlic and herbs, thanks to Hotchâs insistence on making something homemade tonightâpenne with a thick, savory tomato sauce and fresh basil on top. The kind of meal you made with two hands, not from a packet.
Reid sat curled in one of the wooden chairs, legs tucked beneath him, socked feet peeking out from the too-long cuffs of the gray sweatpants Hotch had bought him a week ago. He was in a halfway headspace tonightânot all the way little, but not exactly Big either. Heâd stirred the sauce with Hotch earlier but got bored halfway through and wandered into the living room to quietly watch cartoons with the sound off.
He wasnât very talkative tonight.
Not sad. Not exactly. JustâŚsoft.
âYou want cheese on top, baby owl?â Hotch asked, scooping pasta onto plates with quiet ease. His voice was gentle, but not in the overly sweet tone he used when Spencer was deep in Little space. Right now, Spencer was maybe ten, maybe twelve, somewhere in that liminal space where he could still huff at dad jokes and hide his face under his hoodie when Hotch teased him.
Spencer shrugged and mumbled, âYeah⌠but only the good kind. The shreddy one.â
Hotch smiled as he moved to the fridge. âAs opposed to⌠the âbadâ kind of cheese?â
âThe square kind is for sandwiches,â Spencer declared with great disdain, his voice muffled as he buried his chin in the collar of his shirt. âItâs not fancy.â
Hotch chuckled, handing him the plate. âWell, good thing I live with a cheese connoisseur.â
They ate slowly at the table, the kind of quiet that didnât need filling. Spencer kicked his foot rhythmically against the chair leg while picking at the edges of his garlic bread, and Hotch made sure to give him his space while still watching, still quietly anchoring him.
âRossi said the new edition of that book you wanted is out,â Hotch said after a minute. âHe said heâll bring it tomorrow.â
Spencer blinked, then perked up slightly. âThe revised history of the Zodiac Killer timelines?â
âThatâs the one.â
â...Cool.â He took a bite of garlic bread. âYou should invite him to dinner sometime.â
âOh yeah?â Hotch raised a brow.
Spencer gave him a mischievous glance over his fork. âYeah. But Iâm not gonna be nice. Iâm gonna ask him if he likes you back. And if he wants to marry you.â
Hotch exhaled through his nose and gave him a Look. âSpencerâŚâ
âDaaaaad,â Spencer whined with a smirk. âYou already adopted me, and youâve already got a crush on him. That means youâre, like, halfway to being a rom-com. Iâm just making sure we get the happy ending.â
Hotch was about to respond when his phone buzzed sharply against the kitchen counter. He stood, picked it up, and his expression immediately changed. All business.
He mouthed âCase,â and Spencer nodded, already wiping his mouth with a napkin. That was one of the rules. Even if he was Little-ish, if the team needed him, he had to shift into his Big headspace. It was hard sometimesâhe didnât always want toâbut Hotch never pushed him if he couldnât handle it.
But tonight, he could. He was tired, but he could.
âGear up,â Hotch said gently after hanging up. âLocal PD found three victims posed in a park in Albany, New York. Jetâs already being prepped. We leave in twenty.â
Spencer stood and tucked his hoodie tighter around himself. âOkay,â he said quietly.
And just like that, dinner was over. The softness set aside. For now.
Theyâd taken off just after nightfall, the cabin lit with dim, overhead lights that reflected soft shadows against the leather seats. Spencer sat near the window, long legs folded close, a soft blanket heâd taken from the house still tucked across his lap. Even in Big space, he needed something soft sometimes. Hotch didnât say anything. He just made sure the blanket was washed and packed whenever they traveled.
The rest of the team was quiet but alertâRossi already flipping through the preliminary files, Morgan reviewing crime scene photos, and Elle reading the local PDâs notes. JJ caught Spencerâs eye and gave him a warm, tired smile.
They were a team. They were his team. And even when he felt like he was drifting on the edge of himself, thisâthis closeness, this mutual understandingâhelped him hold on.
Spencer did well during the briefing, rattling off stats and timelines with calm precision. Heâd compartmentalized it, shoved the soft part of himself way down. There was no room for his Baby Owl self here. Not with a killer loose. Not when people were counting on him.
The case stretched three days. Three victims posed in different parks, all within a thirty-mile radius. Strangled, then left with their eyes closed and hands folded. Ritualistic, but not religious. Clean scenes. No DNA. But a timeline was forming, and it was Reid who pointed it out.
âEvery victim had a past history with a specific drug clinic. Same one. Different years, different doctors, but thatâs the link.â
That broke the case open. They found the clinicâs patient records. One name stood out. A man whoâd lost his sister to an overdose. A man whoâd been treated twice at the clinic, then disappeared from the system. They ran his name. A record popped up. Last known address pinged. They moved that night.
The takedown was meant to be clean.
It wasnât.
The house was a crumbling two-story buried in an overgrown yard on the edge of a wooded patch. Local PD hung back while the team moved in.
Hotch led the front with Morgan and Rossi. Spencer slipped around to the back, circling the structure for any signs of movement. A faint light glowed from a basement window.
He crept down the steps.
The door creaked open.
What he saw made him freeze.
There was a womanâbarely consciousâslumped against a metal cot, her arm tied off with a belt. A man hunched over her, holding a syringe filled with a clear, yellowish liquid. He was muttering to himself.
Spencerâs breath hitched.
He knew that smell.
Dilaudid.
For a moment, everything else dropped away. The fluorescent hum of the basement lights became a roar in his ears. The walls warped. His chest tightened. His lungs forgot how to expand.
âF..FBI!â He heard himself shoutâbut it was reflexive, robotic.
The man looked up, startledâand bolted. He shoved the cot hard, sending it crashing into Spencer. Spencer stumbled, hit the wall, saw a flash of movementâand then heard Rossiâs voice from behind.
âSpence! Move!â
Then the tackle. Hotch, out of nowhere, pinning the unsub with a thud. Cuffs. Screams. Silence.
The woman was safe.
The team moved quickly, wrapping the scene and calling EMTs. Spencer didnât say a word the entire time. He just stood near the basement stairs, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket, swaying slightly like a blade of grass in too much wind.
JJ offered Spencer a granola bar. He took it, turned it over in his hands, and then forgot it on the table.
When they landed, the others dispersed with murmured goodnights.
Spencer rode home with Hotch in silence, curled in the front seat with his hoodie up, socked feet tucked beneath him, and fists bunched into the fabric near his knees.
He didnât speak the whole ride.
Hotch unlocked the door and held it open. Spencer padded in.
And the moment it closed behind themâ
It hit.
All at once.
He dropped fast.
It was like watching a switch flip. One moment, Spencer was standing in the hallway, shoulders stiff, eyes glassy.
The next, he whimpered.
It was small. Barely a sound. But Hotch heard it.
âSweetheart?â he said softly, stepping forward. âReid? Baby, is everythinââ
Spencerâs face crumpled. His hands flew to his chest, fingers twisting the fabric of his hoodie as he made a distressed, broken little noise.
âDadâ,â he hiccupped, voice pitching high, already on the edge of tears. âDada, IâI donâtâcânâtââ His knees buckled.
Hotch caught him.
Held him tight, one hand splayed across his back, the other cradling the back of his head as Spencer pressed his face to his fatherâs chest and sobbedâsilent, stuttered sobs that barely made sound but shook his whole body.
âIâve got you,â Hotch whispered. âIâve got you, my little owl. Dadaâs here. Youâre safe now. ShhâŚâ
Spencer clung to him like a drowning boy.
They stood like that for several minutes. Just holding. Just breathing. Just being.
Then Hotch kissed his hair and said gently, âLetâs get you into the tub, sweetheart. Youâll feel better.â
Spencer didnât let go of Hotch the entire walk to the bathroom.
His hands stayed curled in his fatherâs shirt, his face pressed into the space between Hotchâs collarbone and shoulder. No words. Just soft sniffles and little shudders, like his body was catching up to everything his mind had forced away during the case.
Hotch didnât speak, didnât push. He just carried himâslow, steady, patient.
Once they reached the bathroom, Hotch gently sat Spencer down on the closed toilet lid and crouched to start the bath.
The room filled with the soft sound of running water.
Spencer sat hunched over, sleeves pulled down over his hands, his knees drawn up like he wanted to disappear.
âYou doing okay, sweetheart?â Hotch asked softly, glancing over his shoulder.
Spencer blinked slowly. Then gave a tiny, exhausted nod.
Hotch adjusted the temperatureâlukewarm, with a little warmth at the endâthen added a splash of the vanilla and honey-scented bubble bath Spencer liked. The scent drifted up almost immediately, sweet and calming.
He turned off the water and turned to his boy. âArms up, baby.â
Spencer obeyed without a word. Hotch lifted his hoodie gently, careful not to startle him, then peeled off the t-shirt underneath. He took his time, like alwaysâslow, deliberate touches, no sudden movements.
When the clothes were off, Spencer stood on his own, letting Hotch help him into the tub.
The warmth seemed to melt some of the tension from his body.
But he didnât talk.
He didnât even play with the bubblesâjust sat quietly, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, eyes watching the foam float around his legs.
Hotch sat on the side of the tub, rolling up his sleeves. âNo duckies tonight?â he asked, a hopeful smile in his voice.
Spencer gave the smallest shake of his head. âDonât feel like it.â
âThatâs okay,â Hotch said. âJust sit back and let me take care of you, baby. You donât have to do anything else.â
He washed him gently, running the soft cloth down his arms, behind his ears, along his neck. When he rinsed Spencerâs hair, the younger man closed his eyes and leaned into the touch like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.
Afterward, Hotch wrapped him up in a thick, warm towel and held him for a few minutes right there on the bathroom bench, rocking slowly.
No rush.
No pressure.
Just love.
Back in the bedroom, the lights were low and the sound machine was already onâa quiet, steady hum that filled the silence with something soft and familiar.
Spencer wore his favorite pajamas: a well-worn cotton set with little moons and stars. He clutched his plush owl tightly to his chest, his thumb brushing over its worn wing.
Hotch turned down the covers and helped him into bed. Spencer crawled under the blanket without complaint but curled on his side facing the wall, thumb hovering near his mouth.
Hotch sat on the edge of the mattress, resting one hand on his boyâs back.
âIâm right here,â he said softly. âI'm not going anywhere. Not even my own room.â
There was a pause.
Then Spencer turned just slightly and whispered, âDada?â
âStill here, my love.â
His voice trembled. âHe had it. The same kind. The yellow top.â
Hotch nodded slowly, listening to his baby's words, everything coming together as he connected the points. Now he finally understood why Spencer âhis Spencerâ was acting that way. âI know.â
âI smelled it and IâI wanted it,â he said, tears filling his eyes. âJust for a second. My brain said it would help and I knew it wouldnât, but I stillââ His breath hitched. âI still wanted it.â
Hotch didnât say anything at first. He just moved closer and gently wrapped an arm around his son, guiding Spencer to tuck into his side.
âYou didnât take it,â he said quietly. âYou got away. Thatâs what matters.â
âBut I still wanted it,â Spencer whispered. âDoesnât that make me bad?â
âNo,â Hotch said without hesitation. âIt makes you human, baby. It means your brain remembers pain and thinks about what used to numb it. But you didnât listen to that part. You were scared. And you were strong. You did exactly what you were supposed to do.â
Spencer hesitated.
Then curled tighter into Hotchâs chest.
âLove me anyway?â he mumbled.
âMore than anything in the whole world,â Hotch replied.
There was a long pause. Then, sleepily, Spencer mumbled, âEven more than you love Uncle Rossi?â
Hotch snorted, caught off guard. âThatâs not a fair question.â
Spencer cracked a tiny smile. âThought so.â
Hotch kissed the top of his curls. âYes, baby. Even more than Rossi.â
âEven though you wanna kiss his face?â
âI can love you both,â Hotch said with a smile. âOne of youâs my son. The otherâs... complicated.â
Spencer giggled softly, thumb slipping into his mouth. âYouâre blushing.â
Hotch covered his face for a moment, then reached down and tugged the blanket over both of them.
âYou little gremlin.â
âIâm your gremlin,â Spencer mumbled, words slurring with sleep.
Hotch brushed his hair back. âYes, sweetheart. Always.â
Spencer sighed, curling close, finallyâfinallyâsafe enough to rest.
Hotch held him close, listening to his breathing even out, and let his eyes close, too.
There was still pain. There were still bad memories.
Content Warnings: Age regression (100% SFW), regression, soft caregiver/little dynamic, slow emotional processing, parental comfort, vulnerable and sick Reid, comfort-heavy, cranky and sick Little behavior, soft and subtle crush feelings (Hotch â Rossi)
Universe Explanation: This AU is set a few months after Spencer Reidâs kidnapping by Tobias Hankel. In this universe, Spencer is an age regressor who uses his regression to cope with trauma and past addiction. No one on the team knows about this except for Aaron Hotchner, who is not only Spencerâs caregiver during his Little time but also his adoptive father. In this timeline, Haley and Jack do not exist, and David Rossi has been part of the BAU from the beginning. Hotch and Rossi are not yet in a relationship, but Reid relentlessly teases his dad about his obvious crush.
Authorâs Note: This one-shot is a softer, more domestic look into the âLittle Tales of the Doctorâ AU (yesâthatâs what Iâm calling it for now until something better comes along!). It focuses on a sick, cranky Little Spencer and the poor Dada just trying to hold things together when someone unexpectedly shows up at their door. Itâs slow, fluffy, and full of quiet tensionâespecially since no one knows about Spencerâs regression but Hotch. Hope you enjoy it, and please remember to be kindâthoughtful feedback is always welcome! (This one is a little short, sorry T^T ).
Little Owls Still Get Sick Sometimes
The living room looked like a toddler had claimed it by force. Which, in a way, one had.
A tangle of blankets was cocooned on the couch, a plush owl poking out from one end and a mop of brown, sweat-damp curls from the other. The faint sound of an old Clifford the Big Red Dog rerun floated from the TV while a humidifier puffed mist nearby like a lazy dragon.
In the kitchen, Aaron Hotchner stirred a pot of bland chicken broth and rubbed his temples. His phone buzzed on the counterâagain. Another agent update. Another voicemail. Another everything heâd been ignoring. He'd been ignoring everything and everyone.
Even David Fucking Rossi.
The BAU could function without him for a day or two. Spencer couldnât.
âDadaaaa.â
The whine was raspy and pathetic, coated in congestion and indignation.
Hotch sighed, turned off the stove, and returned to the couch. âWhat is it, sweetheart?â
Spencerâregressed, feverish, and thoroughly over itâpoked his head out of the blanket burrito. His cheeks were flushed. His nose was red. His eyes, glassy and teary, narrowed in righteous fury.
âMy show froze again,â he croaked. âItâs stupid, and I hate it, and nothing works, and I feel like shit!â
Hotch blinked. Slowly.
Spencer blinked back, equally slow. Then he paled more (if that was even humanly possible), as if he realized too late what heâd just said.
Aaron crossed his arms, trying to stay calm. âLanguage.â
âBut Iâm siiiiiick!â Spencer moaned, throwing his head back dramatically. âAnd the stupid owlâs cold, and I canât breathe, and everything sucks!â
âSpencer.â Hotch crouched beside him. âYou know that wordâs for Big boys only. Even when youâre sick.â
Spencer groaned, dragging the owl plush over his face like a curtain. âYou hate me,â he mumbled.
âIâm the one making you soup, bubba,â Aaron said softly. âNice try.â
He reached out to ruffle Spencerâs hair, gently coaxing the plush aside. Spencer leaned into the touch instinctively. Cranky or not, sick or notâhe always melted when Hotch gave him quiet, solid comfort.
Just as Hotch leaned in to check his temperature again, the doorbell rang.
Spencer flinched. âNooo,â he whined. âDonât want people. Just you.â
He slipped toward the door, fingers brushing through his hair to look slightly more composed.
When he opened it, he froze.
Rossi stood on the porch, looking deeply concerned. And mildly frantic.
âGarcia said Reidâs really sick. And you canceled everything. Two days in a row. And, on top of all of that, you won't return my calls. Whatâs going on? Is he in the hospital? Is it something serious?â
Hotch swallowed hard. âHeâs⌠Itâs not that kind of sick.â
Rossi narrowed his eyes. âAaron. Youâre never this cagey unless somethingâs really wrong.â
Before Hotch could respond, a stuffy voice from the living room echoed: âDadaaaa! You cominâ? Close the dooor... 'M cold!â
Rossi blinked.
Hotch winced.
Silence.
Rossi stared.
Then, slowly, with furrowed brows, he stepped past Hotch into the house.
Spencer was sitting up on the couch now, bleary-eyed and frowning toward the doorway. When he saw Rossi, he froze.
His eyes widened. â...Uncle Dave?â
Oh shit, Hotch thought.
'Uncle Dave' was a Little Spencer nickname for Rossi. One that had never, ever been said out loud outside their house.
Rossi looked from Spencer to the owl plush to the apple juice sippy on the coffee table and back to Hotch.
Hotch shut the door and took a steadying breath.
âOkay,â he said, voice low. âThereâs something you donât know. About Spencer. And Iâm asking you, as a friend and a colleague, to not react the way most people would.â
Rossiâs face softened with confusion. âWhat am I looking at here?â
âHeâs⌠regressed,â Hotch said simply. âItâs a way to cope with trauma. A healthy way, Dave. It's mostly private, or at least we like to keep it private. I take care of him on another extra level when he regresses. Most of the time, he's not regressed. But he got sick, and sometimes... Most of the time, when heâs sick, he slips.â
Spencer was watching them both now with wide, worried eyes, clutching his owl like a shield.
âDid I mess up?â he whispered. âWas I âposed to pretend?â
Hotch immediately crossed the room and sat beside him. âNo, sweetheart. You didnât do anything wrong.â
Rossi was quiet. Very quiet.
Hotch looked up, heart in his throat, waiting for a reaction.
But when Rossi finally spoke, it was soft.
â...Youâve been doing this alone?â
Aaron nodded once. âItâs not a burden. I adopted him; he's my kid. I am more than happy to be the one he turns to.â
Rossi looked at Spencer again. Really looked. At the flushed cheeks, the vulnerable posture, the thumb absently near his mouth.
'That has to be bad for his teeth,' Rossi thought, already making a mental list of how he could spoil the sweet baby he saw in front of him.
âI... I had no idea,â he said quietly, not knowing how to respond without scaring Spencer.
âNo one does,â Hotch replied. âWe wanted it that way.â
Another silence.
Then Rossi, very gently, asked, âCan I sit?â
Spencer looked to Hotch, uncertain. Hotch gave him a nod.
The older man sat carefully on the edge of the couch. After a moment, Spencer scooted closer to Hotch and whispered, âMâtired.â
Hotch held out his arms. âCome here, lovebug.â
Spencer collapsed against him instantly, owl and all, face tucked into his neck.
As the cartoon resumed in the background, Rossi glanced at them, something unspoken in his expression.
âYouâre good at this,â he said.
Hotch gave a half-smile, giggling as he cradled Spencer more into his lap. âTrust me, he gets sick more often than you think. Not my first rodeo.â
âHeâs lucky.â
Aaron didnât look at him. âNah, I'm the lucky one.â
Rossi stood a while later to leave, pausing at the door.
âI wonât say anything,â he said. âYou have my word.â
Hotch nodded, too tired to find words.
But as Rossi stepped out, he added quietly, âYouâre not alone, Aaron. You shouldnât have to be... I... I can babysit sometimes if you would like me to." He offered, smiling softly towards the father in front of him.
Aaron just smiled, nodding softly as Rossi left, closing the door softly so as not to wake up Spencer.
Then, Hotchâstanding there, holding a feverish genius who still smelled faintly of applesauce and menthol rubâfelt something shift inside him. Quietly. Deeply.
Something like hope.
Maybe even reciprocated love.
That, or Spencer's flu was passing onto him, and he was getting delusional.
Content Warnings: Age regression ( 100% SFW), implied past drug use (Dilaudid), PTSD-related trauma, regression due to triggers, offscreen kidnapping reference (Hankel case), soft caregiver/little dynamic, slow emotional processing, parental comfort, vulnerable Reid, comfort-heavy
Universe Explanation: This AU is set a few months after Spencer Reidâs kidnapping by Tobias Hankel. In this universe, Spencer is an age regressor who uses his regression to cope with trauma and past addiction. No one on the team knows about this except for Aaron Hotchner, who is not only Spencerâs caregiver during his Little time, but also his adoptive father. In this timeline, Haley and Jack do not exist, and David Rossi has been part of the BAU from the beginning. Hotch and Rossi are not yet in a relationship, but Reid relentlessly teases his dad about his obvious crush.
Authorâs Note: This is a slow, emotional one-shot focused on post-case comfort. It leans into SFW agere themes between Hotch and Spencer in a deeply nurturing, familial way. I took extra care to make this as gently immersive and detailed as possible. Enjoy the soft angst and gentle comfort, and please keep your rude comments to yourself. (Opinions are valid and welcomed!). I do plan on using the AU again, so, maybe you guys can help me come up with a name for this AU? Anyways, enjoy!
Little Owls Still Get Hurt Sometimes
The lights in the kitchen cast a warm, golden hue across the hardwood floor, spilling in soft, amber patches up the cabinets and over the wide dining table. The air smelled like garlic and herbs, thanks to Hotchâs insistence on making something homemade tonightâpenne with a thick, savory tomato sauce and fresh basil on top. The kind of meal you made with two hands, not from a packet.
Reid sat curled in one of the wooden chairs, legs tucked beneath him, socked feet peeking out from the too-long cuffs of the gray sweatpants Hotch had bought him a week ago. He was in a halfway headspace tonightânot all the way little, but not exactly Big either. Heâd stirred the sauce with Hotch earlier but got bored halfway through and wandered into the living room to quietly watch cartoons with the sound off.
He wasnât very talkative tonight.
Not sad. Not exactly. JustâŚsoft.
âYou want cheese on top, baby owl?â Hotch asked, scooping pasta onto plates with quiet ease. His voice was gentle, but not in the overly sweet tone he used when Spencer was deep in Little space. Right now, Spencer was maybe ten, maybe twelve, somewhere in that liminal space where he could still huff at dad jokes and hide his face under his hoodie when Hotch teased him.
Spencer shrugged and mumbled, âYeah⌠but only the good kind. The shreddy one.â
Hotch smiled as he moved to the fridge. âAs opposed to⌠the âbadâ kind of cheese?â
âThe square kind is for sandwiches,â Spencer declared with great disdain, his voice muffled as he buried his chin in the collar of his shirt. âItâs not fancy.â
Hotch chuckled, handing him the plate. âWell, good thing I live with a cheese connoisseur.â
They ate slowly at the table, the kind of quiet that didnât need filling. Spencer kicked his foot rhythmically against the chair leg while picking at the edges of his garlic bread, and Hotch made sure to give him his space while still watching, still quietly anchoring him.
âRossi said the new edition of that book you wanted is out,â Hotch said after a minute. âHe said heâll bring it tomorrow.â
Spencer blinked, then perked up slightly. âThe revised history of the Zodiac Killer timelines?â
âThatâs the one.â
â...Cool.â He took a bite of garlic bread. âYou should invite him to dinner sometime.â
âOh yeah?â Hotch raised a brow.
Spencer gave him a mischievous glance over his fork. âYeah. But Iâm not gonna be nice. Iâm gonna ask him if he likes you back. And if he wants to marry you.â
Hotch exhaled through his nose and gave him a Look. âSpencerâŚâ
âDaaaaad,â Spencer whined with a smirk. âYou already adopted me, and youâve already got a crush on him. That means youâre, like, halfway to being a rom-com. Iâm just making sure we get the happy ending.â
Hotch was about to respond when his phone buzzed sharply against the kitchen counter. He stood, picked it up, and his expression immediately changed. All business.
He mouthed âCase,â and Spencer nodded, already wiping his mouth with a napkin. That was one of the rules. Even if he was Little-ish, if the team needed him, he had to shift into his Big headspace. It was hard sometimesâhe didnât always want toâbut Hotch never pushed him if he couldnât handle it.
But tonight, he could. He was tired, but he could.
âGear up,â Hotch said gently after hanging up. âLocal PD found three victims posed in a park in Albany, New York. Jetâs already being prepped. We leave in twenty.â
Spencer stood and tucked his hoodie tighter around himself. âOkay,â he said quietly.
And just like that, dinner was over. The softness set aside. For now.
Theyâd taken off just after nightfall, the cabin lit with dim, overhead lights that reflected soft shadows against the leather seats. Spencer sat near the window, long legs folded close, a soft blanket heâd taken from the house still tucked across his lap. Even in Big space, he needed something soft sometimes. Hotch didnât say anything. He just made sure the blanket was washed and packed whenever they traveled.
The rest of the team was quiet but alertâRossi already flipping through the preliminary files, Morgan reviewing crime scene photos, and Elle reading the local PDâs notes. JJ caught Spencerâs eye and gave him a warm, tired smile.
They were a team. They were his team. And even when he felt like he was drifting on the edge of himself, thisâthis closeness, this mutual understandingâhelped him hold on.
Spencer did well during the briefing, rattling off stats and timelines with calm precision. Heâd compartmentalized it, shoved the soft part of himself way down. There was no room for his Baby Owl self here. Not with a killer loose. Not when people were counting on him.
The case stretched three days. Three victims posed in different parks, all within a thirty-mile radius. Strangled, then left with their eyes closed and hands folded. Ritualistic, but not religious. Clean scenes. No DNA. But a timeline was forming, and it was Reid who pointed it out.
âEvery victim had a past history with a specific drug clinic. Same one. Different years, different doctors, but thatâs the link.â
That broke the case open. They found the clinicâs patient records. One name stood out. A man whoâd lost his sister to an overdose. A man whoâd been treated twice at the clinic, then disappeared from the system. They ran his name. A record popped up. Last known address pinged. They moved that night.
The takedown was meant to be clean.
It wasnât.
The house was a crumbling two-story buried in an overgrown yard on the edge of a wooded patch. Local PD hung back while the team moved in.
Hotch led the front with Morgan and Rossi. Spencer slipped around to the back, circling the structure for any signs of movement. A faint light glowed from a basement window.
He crept down the steps.
The door creaked open.
What he saw made him freeze.
There was a womanâbarely consciousâslumped against a metal cot, her arm tied off with a belt. A man hunched over her, holding a syringe filled with a clear, yellowish liquid. He was muttering to himself.
Spencerâs breath hitched.
He knew that smell.
Dilaudid.
For a moment, everything else dropped away. The fluorescent hum of the basement lights became a roar in his ears. The walls warped. His chest tightened. His lungs forgot how to expand.
âF..FBI!â He heard himself shoutâbut it was reflexive, robotic.
The man looked up, startledâand bolted. He shoved the cot hard, sending it crashing into Spencer. Spencer stumbled, hit the wall, saw a flash of movementâand then heard Rossiâs voice from behind.
âSpence! Move!â
Then the tackle. Hotch, out of nowhere, pinning the unsub with a thud. Cuffs. Screams. Silence.
The woman was safe.
The team moved quickly, wrapping the scene and calling EMTs. Spencer didnât say a word the entire time. He just stood near the basement stairs, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket, swaying slightly like a blade of grass in too much wind.
JJ offered Spencer a granola bar. He took it, turned it over in his hands, and then forgot it on the table.
When they landed, the others dispersed with murmured goodnights.
Spencer rode home with Hotch in silence, curled in the front seat with his hoodie up, socked feet tucked beneath him, and fists bunched into the fabric near his knees.
He didnât speak the whole ride.
Hotch unlocked the door and held it open. Spencer padded in.
And the moment it closed behind themâ
It hit.
All at once.
He dropped fast.
It was like watching a switch flip. One moment, Spencer was standing in the hallway, shoulders stiff, eyes glassy.
The next, he whimpered.
It was small. Barely a sound. But Hotch heard it.
âSweetheart?â he said softly, stepping forward. âReid? Baby, is everythinââ
Spencerâs face crumpled. His hands flew to his chest, fingers twisting the fabric of his hoodie as he made a distressed, broken little noise.
âDadâ,â he hiccupped, voice pitching high, already on the edge of tears. âDada, IâI donâtâcânâtââ His knees buckled.
Hotch caught him.
Held him tight, one hand splayed across his back, the other cradling the back of his head as Spencer pressed his face to his fatherâs chest and sobbedâsilent, stuttered sobs that barely made sound but shook his whole body.
âIâve got you,â Hotch whispered. âIâve got you, my little owl. Dadaâs here. Youâre safe now. ShhâŚâ
Spencer clung to him like a drowning boy.
They stood like that for several minutes. Just holding. Just breathing. Just being.
Then Hotch kissed his hair and said gently, âLetâs get you into the tub, sweetheart. Youâll feel better.â
Spencer didnât let go of Hotch the entire walk to the bathroom.
His hands stayed curled in his fatherâs shirt, his face pressed into the space between Hotchâs collarbone and shoulder. No words. Just soft sniffles and little shudders, like his body was catching up to everything his mind had forced away during the case.
Hotch didnât speak, didnât push. He just carried himâslow, steady, patient.
Once they reached the bathroom, Hotch gently sat Spencer down on the closed toilet lid and crouched to start the bath.
The room filled with the soft sound of running water.
Spencer sat hunched over, sleeves pulled down over his hands, his knees drawn up like he wanted to disappear.
âYou doing okay, sweetheart?â Hotch asked softly, glancing over his shoulder.
Spencer blinked slowly. Then gave a tiny, exhausted nod.
Hotch adjusted the temperatureâlukewarm, with a little warmth at the endâthen added a splash of the vanilla and honey-scented bubble bath Spencer liked. The scent drifted up almost immediately, sweet and calming.
He turned off the water and turned to his boy. âArms up, baby.â
Spencer obeyed without a word. Hotch lifted his hoodie gently, careful not to startle him, then peeled off the t-shirt underneath. He took his time, like alwaysâslow, deliberate touches, no sudden movements.
When the clothes were off, Spencer stood on his own, letting Hotch help him into the tub.
The warmth seemed to melt some of the tension from his body.
But he didnât talk.
He didnât even play with the bubblesâjust sat quietly, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, eyes watching the foam float around his legs.
Hotch sat on the side of the tub, rolling up his sleeves. âNo duckies tonight?â he asked, a hopeful smile in his voice.
Spencer gave the smallest shake of his head. âDonât feel like it.â
âThatâs okay,â Hotch said. âJust sit back and let me take care of you, baby. You donât have to do anything else.â
He washed him gently, running the soft cloth down his arms, behind his ears, along his neck. When he rinsed Spencerâs hair, the younger man closed his eyes and leaned into the touch like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.
Afterward, Hotch wrapped him up in a thick, warm towel and held him for a few minutes right there on the bathroom bench, rocking slowly.
No rush.
No pressure.
Just love.
Back in the bedroom, the lights were low and the sound machine was already onâa quiet, steady hum that filled the silence with something soft and familiar.
Spencer wore his favorite pajamas: a well-worn cotton set with little moons and stars. He clutched his plush owl tightly to his chest, his thumb brushing over its worn wing.
Hotch turned down the covers and helped him into bed. Spencer crawled under the blanket without complaint but curled on his side facing the wall, thumb hovering near his mouth.
Hotch sat on the edge of the mattress, resting one hand on his boyâs back.
âIâm right here,â he said softly. âI'm not going anywhere. Not even my own room.â
There was a pause.
Then Spencer turned just slightly and whispered, âDada?â
âStill here, my love.â
His voice trembled. âHe had it. The same kind. The yellow top.â
Hotch nodded slowly, listening to his baby's words, everything coming together as he connected the points. Now he finally understood why Spencer âhis Spencerâ was acting that way. âI know.â
âI smelled it and IâI wanted it,â he said, tears filling his eyes. âJust for a second. My brain said it would help and I knew it wouldnât, but I stillââ His breath hitched. âI still wanted it.â
Hotch didnât say anything at first. He just moved closer and gently wrapped an arm around his son, guiding Spencer to tuck into his side.
âYou didnât take it,â he said quietly. âYou got away. Thatâs what matters.â
âBut I still wanted it,â Spencer whispered. âDoesnât that make me bad?â
âNo,â Hotch said without hesitation. âIt makes you human, baby. It means your brain remembers pain and thinks about what used to numb it. But you didnât listen to that part. You were scared. And you were strong. You did exactly what you were supposed to do.â
Spencer hesitated.
Then curled tighter into Hotchâs chest.
âLove me anyway?â he mumbled.
âMore than anything in the whole world,â Hotch replied.
There was a long pause. Then, sleepily, Spencer mumbled, âEven more than you love Uncle Rossi?â
Hotch snorted, caught off guard. âThatâs not a fair question.â
Spencer cracked a tiny smile. âThought so.â
Hotch kissed the top of his curls. âYes, baby. Even more than Rossi.â
âEven though you wanna kiss his face?â
âI can love you both,â Hotch said with a smile. âOne of youâs my son. The otherâs... complicated.â
Spencer giggled softly, thumb slipping into his mouth. âYouâre blushing.â
Hotch covered his face for a moment, then reached down and tugged the blanket over both of them.
âYou little gremlin.â
âIâm your gremlin,â Spencer mumbled, words slurring with sleep.
Hotch brushed his hair back. âYes, sweetheart. Always.â
Spencer sighed, curling close, finallyâfinallyâsafe enough to rest.
Hotch held him close, listening to his breathing even out, and let his eyes close, too.
There was still pain. There were still bad memories.
