Chapter Text
It’s been eight months since Haley’s death, and the Hotchner household has found a fragile but steady rhythm.
Jack is partway through kindergarten now — bright-eyed and energetic, still asking about his mother in quiet moments but smiling more easily each day. Spencer Reid has become a near-constant presence in their lives. Over the past months, he has quietly taken on more and more of the bureaucratic weight at the BAU — filling out forms, handling paperwork, chasing down signatures, and covering briefings so Hotch can leave the office at a reasonable hour. He does it without fanfare, never drawing attention to it, but the difference is obvious. Hotch is home more. He has time to grieve. Time to be with his son.
Tonight is no different.
Spencer has just finished tucking Jack in, reading the boy two chapters of his current favourite dinosaur book and promising to build an even taller tower tomorrow. Jack is already half-asleep, clutching his favourite stuffed Velociraptor, when the front door clicks open.
Hotch steps inside, loosening his tie, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, but softened by the sight of Reid standing in the hallway.
“You’re right on time,” Spencer says quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “He made it to the part where Rexy defeats the evil Spinosaurus before his eyes started closing.”
Hotch nods, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “Thank you. Again.”
Reid shrugs, grabbing his satchel from the hook by the door. He pauses at the threshold, one hand on the doorknob, and asks the question he’s asked before — six months ago, and now again tonight.
“How are you doing, Hotch?”
The words are gentle. Careful. There’s an exit built into the question, a clear way out if Aaron isn’t ready. He always gives one.
Hotch stands still for a long moment in the dimly lit hallway. Then he exhales slowly and meets Reid’s eyes.
“I’m… surviving,” he says honestly. “Some days are heavier than others. The quiet ones are the hardest. But I’m not drowning anymore.”
Spencer doesn’t move, doesn’t push, just listens.
Hotch continues, voice low. “You’ve been here a lot these past months. Refusing to let me disappear into the work. Making sure I get home to Jack. Taking on every form, every report, every piece of bureaucratic nonsense you can get your hands on.” A faint, tired smile crosses his face. “I know what you’re doing. And why.”
Reid shifts his weight. “I watched my mother drown in grief after my father left. I won’t let that happen to you. Not if I can help it.”
The silence stretches, comfortable and heavy at the same time.
Hotch nods once, something tight in his chest easing. “Thank you, Spencer. For all of it.”
Reid offers a small, crooked smile. “Anytime. You know where to find me.”
He turns to leave, but Hotch’s voice stops him.
“The team checks in too,” Hotch adds quietly. “Morgan, Prentiss, JJ… they ask how I’m holding up. I’m more honest with them than I expected to be. But you…” He pauses. “You’re the only one I’ve really let get closer than arm’s length.”
Reid turns back, hazel eyes soft with understanding. “I’m honoured.”
Hotch smiles. “Get some rest. And Reid?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you doing my expense reports again. Stop.”
Reid grins, already stepping out the door. “No promises.”
The call comes in just after three-thirty.
Spencer Reid is finishing a report at his desk when his phone vibrates. He glances at the screen — Hotch — and answers immediately.
“Hotch?”
Aaron’s voice is tight, controlled, but edged with the kind of stress only a parent can carry. “Jessica had a work emergency. She can’t pick Jack up. I can’t leave — we have two school shootings in three weeks, same unsub. I’m needed here.”
Reid is already standing, grabbing his go-bag. “I’ll get him.”
“Thank you, Reid. I owe you.”
“You don’t,” Spencer says simply. “I’m on my way.”
He makes it to the elementary school just before the final bell. The office staff recognise him — he’s picked Jack up enough times in the last few months that they no longer ask for more than his ID. He signs Jack out, and within minutes the five-year-old comes running down the hallway, dinosaur backpack bouncing on his back.
“Uncle Spencer!” Jack launches himself at Reid’s legs, grinning. “Daddy said you were coming!”
Reid crouches down, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Hey, superstar. Ready to go home?”
They’re halfway across the small courtyard between buildings when the alarm starts.
A piercing, mechanical wail cuts through the afternoon air — not a fire drill. This is the active shooter alarm.
Jack freezes, eyes wide with terror. “Uncle Spencer…?”
Reid’s heart slams against his ribs. No nearby classrooms. The courtyard is open, exposed. Voices are already rising in panic from inside the buildings.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Jack, come here,” he says, voice calm but urgent. He scoops the boy up and moves fast toward the nearest bathroom block. The door is unlocked. He locks it behind them the second they’re inside.
Jack is trembling. “What’s happening?”
“Someone bad is here,” Reid says gently, kneeling so they’re eye-level. “But we’re going to play the best game of hide-and-seek ever, okay? Your dad is coming. Emily, JJ, Uncle David, Derek — they’re all coming. But until then, we have to be really smart and really quiet.”
He spots the air vent near the ceiling of the larger stall. It’s low enough.
Reid stands on the toilet, works the three bolts loose with trembling but precise fingers, and pulls the metal grate free. “Jack, I need you to crawl in there. Stay very still and very quiet. Don’t come out unless it’s me, your dad, or one of the team, okay?”
Jack’s eyes fill with tears, but he nods bravely. Reid lifts him carefully, helping the small boy squeeze into the vent. He keeps one bolt in place, loosely screwed so the grate can be rotated open from the inside but still looks secure from the outside.
Reid pulls out his phone and dials 911, putting it on speaker.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“This is Dr Spencer Reid, FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit. Badge number 7824. I’m at Ridgewood Elementary. There is an active shooter on site. I have Jack Hotchner, five years old, son of Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner. He’s safe — I’ve hidden him in an air vent in the boys’ bathroom near the east courtyard. I’m staying with him, but I can’t hide in the vent with him. I’m muting my side so the shooter won’t hear the phone if they come in. Please dispatch immediately and notify Aaron Hotchner at the BAU. Tell him his son is safe and hidden.”
The operator’s voice is steady. “Understood. Stay on the line.”
Reid hands the phone up to Jack. “Hold this for me, buddy. Stay very quiet. Your dad is coming to find you. I’m going to be right outside this stall, okay? I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Jack clutches the phone, small voice shaking. “Don’t go, Uncle Spencer.”
“I’m not going far,” Reid promises, voice soft. “I’m just going to hide in the bathroom so if the bad guy comes, he finds me first. You stay hidden like the best hide-and-seek player in the world. Your dad is coming. He always comes for you.”
He presses a quick kiss to Jack’s forehead, then slides the vent grate back into place, leaving it just loose enough to be opened from inside. He steps out of the stall, heart hammering, and positions himself near the sinks where he can see the door.
The alarm continues to wail.
Reid breathes slowly, forcing his mind to stay sharp despite the adrenaline flooding his system. He’s unarmed. He has nothing but his brain and his body between Jack and whatever is coming.
Outside, distant screams echo. Footsteps thunder down hallways.
Reid glances toward the vent, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re doing so well, Jack. Your dad is on his way. Just keep breathing. I’ve got you.”
From inside the vent, Jack’s tiny voice answers, shaky but determined. “I’ve got you too, Uncle Spencer.”
Spencer Reid presses himself flat against the cold tile wall behind the bathroom door, heart hammering against his ribs. The active shooter alarm continues to wail through the school like a mechanical scream, but inside this small bathroom block, everything feels terrifyingly intimate.
He regrets not bringing his gun.
It had seemed like such a simple errand — just picking up Jack. Neither he nor Hotch had wanted the boy getting used to seeing firearms every day, so Spencer had left his weapon locked in his desk at the BAU. Now that decision feels like a fatal mistake.
Slow, deliberate footsteps approach down the corridor.
Spencer holds his breath. His mind races through every possible scenario, calculating angles, timing, and the grim reality that he has no weapon. The footsteps pause just outside the bathroom door.
The handle turns.
The door swings open.
The unsub steps inside — young, no older than twenty-two, with wild eyes and a trembling grip on his handgun. His face is flushed, sweat beading on his forehead. He looks like a kid who stumbled into something far bigger than he can handle.
Spencer doesn’t hesitate.
He launches himself from behind the door with every ounce of strength he has. His shoulder slams into the unsub’s back, driving him forward. The gun clatters across the tile floor as Spencer uses his height and momentum to take the younger man down hard. They crash into the sinks, the unsub grunting in pain as Reid tries to pin him.
For a few desperate seconds, Spencer has the upper hand. He twists the man’s arm behind his back, knee pressing into his spine.
Then the unsub bucks violently, adrenaline and rage giving him surprising strength. He throws an elbow back, catching Reid in the ribs. White-hot pain explodes through Spencer’s chest. He gasps, grip loosening just enough for the unsub to wrench free.
The younger man scrambles up, breathing hard, and grabs Spencer by the collar. With a furious roar, he slams him into the tiled wall. Reid’s head cracks against the hard surface, stars bursting behind his eyes. Pain radiates through his skull and down his spine.
The unsub steps back, chest heaving, and stares at him.
“You’re not a kid,” he snarls, eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Spencer forces his breathing to steady, mind racing for a believable lie. “I… I was here to ask about a job. Teachers’ aide. I heard the alarm, and this was the closest place to hide.”
The unsub’s lip curls in disbelief. He keeps the gun trained on Reid’s chest as he steps closer, patting him down roughly. His hand freezes when it finds the leather badge wallet in Reid’s jacket.
He yanks it out and flips it open.
“Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid,” he reads aloud, voice dripping with venom. “FBI.”
Reid’s stomach drops.
The unsub’s face twists with rage. He grabs a fistful of Reid’s hair and yanks his head back viciously, jamming the barrel of the gun hard under his chin.
“You lied to me,” he hisses, breath hot against Reid’s face. “You fucking lied.”
Spencer winces as the metal digs into the soft skin beneath his jaw. “Listen — whatever this is, you don’t have to do this. We can talk. Just put the gun down.”
The unsub laughs, a sharp, broken sound. “Talk? You people never just talk.”
He drags Reid out of the bathroom stall by his hair, gun never leaving the underside of his chin. Spencer stumbles, pain flaring through his ribs and head with every step. The unsub kicks the bathroom door open and pulls him into the hallway, using him as a human shield.
They move toward the exit.
Reid’s mind races. Jack is still hidden in the vent. Safe, for now. That’s all that matters. He just has to keep this man’s attention on him.
As they push through the side doors and into the open air, the unsub’s grip tightens in his hair.
“You’re coming with me,” he growls. “Let’s see how much the FBI likes negotiating when I’ve got one of their own.”
Reid doesn’t fight back physically — he knows he’s in no condition for it — but his mind is already working, searching for the next opening, the next way to keep Jack safe and buy time until the team arrives.
Because they will come.
They always do.
The unsub drags him across the courtyard, gun pressed tight under his jaw, as distant sirens begin to wail.
Ten minutes later, the convoy of black SUVs tears down the highway, sirens screaming and lights flashing as they weave aggressively through traffic. The moment the active shooter alarm at Jack’s school came through, every agent still at the BAU had moved like lightning. Hotch is in the lead vehicle with Rossi riding shotgun, jaw locked so tightly it aches, hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
His phone rings, and Penelope Garcia’s name flashes on the screen. Hotch answers on speaker instantly.
“Garcia, talk to me.”
Garcia’s voice comes through breathless and tight, the usual playful lilt gone. “Hotch, I just got patched through from dispatch. Spencer called 911. He reported an active shooter at the school and said Jack wasn’t in class when the alarm went off. He gave them the exact bathroom location — east courtyard, boys’ bathroom near the vent. He told them Jack is safe and hidden, and to call you immediately so you know your son is okay and waiting for you to find him in ‘the world’s best game of hide-and-seek.’”
Hotch exhales sharply, a rush of pure relief flooding his chest. “Jack’s with Reid?”
“Yes. Spencer hid him in the air vent to keep him safe. He gave Jack the phone so dispatch could stay on the line with him. The dispatcher heard… a struggle. Then Spencer gave some excuse about being there to apply for a teacher’s aide position and hiding in the bathroom because it was closest when the alarm went off.”
Rossi’s grip tightens on the door handle. “And then?”
Garcia’s voice wavers. “The call caught a click — like a gun being cocked. Then two sets of footsteps moved away. Spencer’s and… someone else’s.”
The SUV falls deathly quiet for half a second.
Morgan’s voice crackles over the comms from the vehicle behind them, tight with fury. “He’s got Reid. That son of a bitch has Reid.”
Prentiss cuts in, voice sharp. “He used himself as bait. Of course he did.”
Hotch’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel. The relief for Jack is still there — sharp and bright — but it’s now drowning under a cold wave of terror for Spencer. He forces his voice steady.
“Garcia, keep the line open with dispatch and Jack. Tell them we’re five minutes out. Tell Jack his dad is coming.”
“Already doing it, sir,” Garcia says, voice cracking slightly. “He’s being so brave. He keeps whispering that Uncle Spencer told him to play the best hide-and-seek ever.”
Hotch swallows hard. “Good. Keep him calm. We’re almost there.”
Rossi glances over, jaw tight. “Kid’s got more balls than sense. Hiding the boy and drawing fire to himself. Typical Reid.”
From the back seat comms, Morgan growls. “If that bastard hurts one hair on Pretty Boy’s head, I’m going to make him regret every life choice that led him to this moment.”
Prentiss’s voice is grim. “He has a gun. If he—”
“He won’t,” Hotch cuts in, voice low and dangerous. “Because we’re ending this today.”
The SUVs scream around the final corner, tyres screeching as they fly toward the school. Emergency lights flash across the building. Parents and staff are being herded behind police barricades. The sight of the school — Jack’s school — under active threat makes Hotch’s stomach twist violently.
Penelope Garcia’s voice cuts through the comms, tight with urgency.
“Hotch, I’m patching dispatch through to your cell right now. Jack’s still on the line.”
Hotch doesn’t hesitate. He yanks his phone from the console as the SUVs scream toward the school. The line connects, and a small, terrified voice fills the vehicle.
“Daddy?”
Aaron’s heart clenches so hard it hurts. “Jack. Buddy, I’m here. I’m coming right now.”
Jack’s voice wavers, thick with tears. “Daddy, the bad man came. Uncle Spencer told me to hide in the vent and play the best hide-and-seek ever. He said you’d find me. But then… then the bad man took Uncle Spencer. I heard him. He was yelling. Is Uncle Spencer okay?”
Hotch swallows hard, forcing his voice to stay steady for his son. “Jack, listen to me. You did exactly what Uncle Spencer told you. You were so brave. Stay hidden, okay? Don’t come out until I get there. Daddy’s almost there. I’m coming to find you.”
Jack sniffles. “Okay, Daddy. I’m being really quiet. Like a ninja dinosaur.”
“That’s my boy,” Hotch says, voice rough with pride and fear. “I love you. Stay right there.”
The line stays open as the SUVs skid into the school parking lot. The team spills out, weapons drawn, moving with lethal coordination. Local police have already secured the perimeter. The shooter, it seems, is gone — vanished into the chaos before anyone could pin him down. No casualties reported. Yet.
Hotch doesn’t wait for clearance. He bolts toward the east courtyard, the rest of the team right behind him. Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ fan out to clear rooms while Rossi stays close on Hotch’s six. They reach the boys’ bathroom, and Hotch shoves the door open, heart pounding.
There, in the larger stall, is the vent cover — one bolt still loosely holding it in place, exactly as Reid had described.
Hotch drops to his knees and carefully rotates the grate open.
“Jack?”
A small, tear-streaked face peers out. “Daddy!”
Aaron reaches in and gently pulls his son out, crushing the boy against his chest in a fierce hug. Jack clings to him, small arms wrapped tight around his neck, sobbing with relief.
“I’ve got you,” Hotch whispers, voice breaking. “I’ve got you, buddy. You’re safe.”
The rest of the team crowds in, expressions softening at the sight. Morgan lets out a shaky breath. “Kid’s okay. Thank God.”
Jack pulls back just enough to look at his father, eyes wide and scared. “Uncle Spencer saved me. He put me in the vent and told the bad man stories so he wouldn’t find me. But then the bad man took him. Is Uncle Spencer going to be okay?”
Hotch brushes hair out of Jack’s eyes, forcing a calm he doesn’t entirely feel. “We’re going to find him. I promise. Uncle Spencer is very smart and very brave. He’s going to be okay.”
Jessica arrives minutes later, her boss having immediately approved her leaving after hearing “my nephew was in an active shooter situation.” She takes Jack, hugging him tightly, promising ice cream and dinosaur movies while the team works.
The group heads back to the field office in heavy silence. The moment they arrive, Penelope is waiting, face pale but determined.
“I pulled the hallway surveillance,” she says, pulling up the footage on the main screen.
Everyone gathers around.
The video is grainy but clear enough: a young man, no older than twenty-two, dragging Spencer Reid out of the bathroom by his hair. Reid’s face is tight with pain, a gun jammed hard under his chin. He’s limping slightly, one arm curled protectively around his ribs.
Morgan’s jaw clenches. “He’s injured.”
Prentiss crosses her arms, voice tight. “He bought Jack time.”
Hotch stares at the screen, something fierce and protective burning in his chest. “He protected him.”
Rossi nods grimly. “And now we’re going to bring him home.”
The BAU moves through the school parking lot like shadows, eyes scanning every inch of asphalt and curb for anything Spencer might have left behind. The afternoon sun beats down, but the air feels colder than it should. No one speaks much. The worry hangs thick between them, heavy and unspoken.
Morgan crouches near a row of cars, gloved fingers brushing over faint dark spots on the ground. “Blood,” he says quietly. “Multiple drops. Fresh.”
Prentiss kneels beside him, jaw tight. “Could be the unsub’s. Means Reid fought back. He didn’t just go quietly.”
Hotch stands a few feet away, arms crossed, staring at the blood like it personally offends him. “Good,” he mutters. “At least he made it hurt.”
Rossi walks over, hands in his pockets. “Kid’s got more fight in him than most people give him credit for. Still doesn’t make this any easier to swallow.”
Morgan stands, wiping his hands on his pants. “He’s been through enough already. If that punk so much as bruises him again—”
“We’ll find him,” Prentiss cuts in, voice firm. “Reid’s smart. He’ll leave us something. He always does.”
They keep searching, tension crackling between sharp comments and grim silence. Every minute without a lead feels like another nail in the coffin.