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Five Times Spencer Reid Kept His Hair, and One Time He Didn’t
(1)
Spencer Reid wasn’t looking forward to it anymore than he wasn’t looking forward to the Bureau’s drug test, but at least he didn’t dread it as much as he had the first few times. Awkwardness aside, a family dinner reminded him significantly less of his own weaknesses.
His mom had always been an opinionated person, and as much as he wanted to say that he was no momma’s boy, listening to her talk still had soothing effects on him. His father, on the other hand, had always been a listener, but hearing, listening, and actually sticking it out were three different things. For that it would take a lot more than a handful of get-togethers for Spencer to share anything with the man other than his thoughts on current events or weather.
So when his father made a comment on how unusually hot it was this time of year in the great state of Nevada, Spencer recited the statistics on Earth’s climate cycles, refuting typical (but understandable) misconceptions about global warming when argued. Soon enough Spencer realized his father wasn’t interested in winning the argument at all (something Spencer found almost alien given the nature of his conversations with his mom). His father, as it turned out, was only (in so many words) suggesting that in this kind of weather, it would be more logical for Spencer to keep his hair a few (or ten) inches shorter. Spencer doubted the weather had much to do with it. At least not as much as the fact that Spencer was his son, and no son of William Reid should look like a hippie.
Talking about hypocrites.
“He looks just fine,” his mom spoke in her exaggerated defense, reaching for Spencer’s shoulder to make him face her. “It’s a bit longer than usual,” she said, examining, tucking the stray locks behind his ear. “It just needs a little combing.”
“Mom!” Spencer warded off his mom’s hand, something he’d had a good deal of practice in junior high, when his father had still dropped him off and his mom could still tell time.
His mom wouldn’t budge. Spencer turned (instinctively) for help, but like twenty years before, his father just watched, showed no attempts to come to his son’s rescue.
“And when it gets too hot, he can put it up in a ponytail.”
At twenty-nine, Spencer knew better (and was now fast enough) to duck his mom’s other hand that was moving dangerously close to the other side of his head.
“Mom!”
That was when he heard a laugh. His father was laughing. He wondered if he inherited his father’s laugh the way he wondered if he inherited his mom’s brain.
“Diana, you’re humiliating the boy.”
His mom looked amused but backed away. Spencer kept the distance just in case. One couldn’t be too careful, especially with moms.
“And I’m not a boy anymore, Dad.”
It still sounded foreign even though he’d said it enough times in the past year. Spencer hadn’t made a big deal out of it. After all it was merely a word, a term assigned to give something meaning. Still, it left a brief silence behind, a moment of reflection, and he knew his father felt it too.
“Anyway, I like it,” his mom said with a bright wide smile. “It’s you.”
Her hands found his neck and cheek again, and as much as Spencer wanted, he couldn’t bring himself to back away from the touch. He didn’t want to.
“Why mess with perfection.”
That and her trademark wink, as always, broke him. He felt a smile blooming on his face, betraying him, but he didn’t mind much. He felt warm and loved. It was times like these that being his mom’s precious little boy was worth all the humiliations in the world.
Even so, Spencer was grateful when his father launched into the usual ‘You’re always babying him’ lecture that no doubt got his mom’s full attention.
He took this opportunity to turn and pick up a pink box.
“Time for dessert,” he said, presenting his mom her favorite pie.
(2)
This would be the last time, Spencer noted to himself, that he let Morgan drag him from the comfort of his apartment (and PJ’s) right before his bedtime (well, Star Trek reruns time, but whatever) to a club way too loud to even have a decent conversation. Not that they were having one.
Nursing his root beer by the bar, Spencer glared at his friend/co-worker/partner in crime who was now accompanied by three women on the dance floor. He was tempted to sneak out and maybe rent the new Star Trek movie on the way home. Garcia and Emily (and JJ, to his surprise) had been talking about it non-stop.
“Excellent taste.”
Spencer turned and found by his side a thirty-something white man with an attractive face and sharp eyes. He was about Spencer’s height, nursing real beer, and oozing confidence in a too-tight shirt only a man with Morgan’s body (and ego) would wear.
Speaking of whom. Excellent taste?
The man’s head tilted in Morgan’s direction.
Oh.
OH.
“He’s a friend.” Spencer couldn’t get the words out fast enough.
The man looked unconvinced, leaned in. “Really?”
Spencer’s back tightened up. “Why would I lie to you?”
After a moment, the man leaned back. “So you’re a G-man.”
“You know Morgan?”
The man smiled. “Somebody like him; it’s hard to miss, you know.”
Spencer didn’t really know but some random guy in a bar didn’t need to know that, so he nodded and turned to sip his drink.
“You don’t look like a G-man,” the man observed.
Spencer turned. “What do I look like?” A teacher’s pet? A momma’s boy? A drug addict?
“I don’t know.” The stranger gave him the once-over. “A model?”
Spencer didn’t understand. “I don’t understand.”
The man stared at him. “You don’t go out much, do you?”
Spencer had heard the question enough times to know it was rhetorical.
“It was a compliment,” the man said with a smile, a genuine smile. It caught Spencer off guard.
Aside from Morgan’s occasional ‘Pretty Boy,’ which Spencer took more as a fraternal banter than a term of endearment, no one had ever praised him for his looks alone.
“Umm, thanks,” Spencer managed, brushing away the hair, averting his eyes to the dance floor, sending Morgan a telepathic SOS.
That was when he heard a chuckle. “You’re adorable.”
The phrase had always made Spencer uncomfortable, mostly because even with an IQ of 187, he still had no clue how to respond with his dignity intact.
“I think it’s the hair,” the man said.
“My hair?” Spencer tensed, touching said hair.
“Yeah.” The man nodded. “I mean, isn’t there, like, dress code or something?”
Spencer was about to recite the entire passage on hair regulations from the BAU handbook (as he had done many times before) when his cellphone started vibrating against his thigh, giving him a jump. After some fumbling, he retrieved the phone.
An emergency recall message. Thank God.
“Man, I cannot catch a break!” The groan made Spencer look up. Morgan was still staring at a cellphone in his palm as he made his way toward the bar.
“You seriously can’t.” Spencer heard the stranger’s remark.
“Mick!” Morgan’s face lightened up a bit. “What’s up?”
“Just keeping your friend here company.”
Glancing at Spencer, Morgan snorted. “And how’s that coming?”
“Could use some help.”
“Wish I could,” Morgan said, waving his cellphone, and finally turning to Spencer. “I’m gonna take a leak. Meet me out front in five.”
Morgan was gone before Spencer could protest. He was so going to get Morgan for this.
“Um, I should go,” Spencer said, placing his half-finished root beer on the counter. “Thanks for…um…keeping me company.”
Mick smiled, said nothing. Spencer took this as an out and turned to leave.
“Wait.” Mick’s hand found his shoulder. Spencer leaned away automatically. Mick frowned but continued to say, “Let me leave you my number.”
The old him would have had responded with a frowning ‘For what?’ but the new and improved Spencer Reid replied, “Um. Sure,” and waited.
Morgan found him by the car.
“I don’t understand,” Spencer said, eyes fixed on a business card in his hand.
“What’s that?” Morgan unlocked the door but made no move to get in.
“I thought your friend’s name was Mick.”
“It is,” Morgan confirmed, making his way to the other side of the car.
Spencer looked up. “He gave me this. He wrote another number on the back which I assume is his private number, but he wrote to ask for someone named Matt.”
“Mick gave you his business card?” Morgan’s eye widened, almost ripping said card from Spencer’s fingers.
“Hey!”
Morgan ignored his protest, eyes swept through the content on the card. “You know what this means?”
“What?” Spencer grabbed back the card.
Morgan stared, literally gaping at him. “He’s a scout, Reid.”
His frown deepened.
“A modeling scout.”
“A modeling…” Spencer repeated, rewinding the earlier scene in the bar.
I don’t know. A model?
Spencer reviewed the card content, not that he needed to. He just needed to see the actual written words.
“You know, as in someone who works for a modeling agency.” He heard Morgan say.
He assessed the information but his mind wouldn’t let him come to the conclusion his brain had.
“Don’t tell me you need me to spell it out for you,” Morgan said.
Spencer shook his head. “It’s nothing. He probably ran out of his…”
“His casual business card? And the bar probably ran out of beer coasters?”
Now that sounded ridiculous, Spencer admitted.
“He’s given you one too, right, but you said no? I mean he must have.”
“No.” Morgan’s answer was abrupt, and for a brief moment Spencer thought his friend sounded a tad bit offensive.
“But I guess it makes sense.” Morgan shrugged, eyeing him up and down, a smirk slowly breaking. “He’s obviously into the more…” That was when Morgan’s hand reached toward his face, beyond his face. “…androgynous look.”
Thanks to his cat-like reflex (and all the practice with his mom of course), Spencer dodged just before Morgan could get a handful of his hair.
“What does that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice an octave higher.
Morgan was laughing openly now. “Doesn’t mean you’re a girl,” he replied, started walking back to the driver’s side. “Just that you’re one very, very pretty boy.”
By the time they reached Quantico, Spencer had promised to take one third of the paperwork and all out-of-state consults off of Morgan’s workload for the next two months while Morgan had promised to never breathe the words of that night’s ‘incident’ to anyone (i.e. Garcia). They shook it before stepping into an elevator. Spencer felt a sharp corner of the card nudging his skin through the fabric of his pants all the way up to the BAU floor.
(3)
It would be one year next week and Spencer was certain that Adam remembered. At least Amanda did, as she kept reminding him each visit. And honestly, Spencer wouldn’t expect anything less from Amanda. She had ways to get under his skin.
“So tell me, Dr. Reid,” she began, “Who are you in mourning for?”
That was Amanda all right.
“What makes you think I’m in mourning?”
She smiled. “You’re the profiler. Why don’t you tell me?”
The puffs of cigarette engulfed her, making her face glow under the lamp, almost like a halo. Spencer shook off the image. He wasn’t going to let her get to him today.
“How’s the leg?” she asked, eyeing the cane by his side.
“It’s healing,” he replied, studying her expressionless face.
“How’s your mom?”
Spencer leaned back. He didn’t reveal his personal life, not here, not at the BAU, not anywhere, but somehow through this discretion Amanda managed to learn more about Spencer Reid than those closer to him.
“I’m not here to play games, Amanda.”
She smirked. “I know why you are here, Doctor.”
“Do you?”
Another puff of smoke. “And I keep telling you, you’re wasting your time.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Her posture stiffened, by now an expectant response. “It’s not about what you believe, now is it?”
Being able to get under Amanda’s skin was always a good thing so Spencer prodded.
“You took something that wasn’t yours, Amanda,” he said, searching her face. Adam was never yours.
Amanda looked back, said nothing, her cheekbone pronounced as she sucked in another puff of smoke. Slowly she leaned back, her guard back up. Damn.
“I’m disappointed, Dr. Reid,” she started. “You claim to study human behavior, yet you know nothing about us.”
“You say ‘us’ but you don’t treat Adam as an equal. You won’t let him talk to me.”
“You’re not ready to talk to him.”
They were back to their old routine that Spencer knew would lead nowhere. He decided to play along, telling himself there was nothing to lose. “And how would you know that?”
Amanda studied him for a moment. He didn’t like the resigned look on her face.
“When was the last time you cut your hair, Dr. Reid?”
He frowned. “I don’t see how that’s…”
“Of course not,” she agreed. “The same way you don’t see how we’re not broken and how you’re not put on this earth to fix us.”
That wasn’t on the list of things he had expected to hear from her today, or ever.
“Whoever you’re mourning, they weren’t broken,” she said. “Whatever you did or did not do wasn’t going to fix them.”
“Are you saying it was meant to be?”
That he had been meant to have a father who had left him unable to trust anyone ever again?
That he had been meant to have a mother who made him forever afraid of his own mind?
That he had been meant to kill Philip Dowd, lock away Nathan Harris, fail Tobias Hankel, get addicted to Dilaudid and handcuff Owen Savage?
That he had been meant to let Gideon go and leave Hotch alone?
That he had been meant to lose Adam forever?
“You don’t believe in fate, Dr. Reid. You believe in choices,” she reminded him. “But what are the choices for someone waiting for something that’ll never come?”
She gave him a longing look. “Aren’t they just a bunch of goons waiting for Godot?”
Once again, Spencer left the session with more questions than answers.
(4)
It took two decades of nightmares about dead boys in a basement for Spencer to look for a man who had never really been his father. It would take Spencer more than a dozen of unsigned postcards to look for a man whom he had considered so many times, in too many ways, his father.
Your hair is getting long.
The card joined the rest in the drawer where he did NOT keep a certain tabloid magazine. He would not look for the card’s sender the same way he had not looked up his leading lady.
(5)
It was natural for people (well, sane people) to dislike funerals, but Spencer doubted that most people felt the way he was feeling right now. Helpless. Stupid. Hypocritical.
For he knew that he could have had talked to Hotch and maybe, just maybe, had eased some of Hotch’s pain.
Because of all people, Hotch knew Reid would have understood—understood what it was like to lose and want to keep fighting, to feel weak and want to forget, to feel powerless and want to give up, to feel angry day and night, to feel utterly, utterly alone.
Now it was too late.
He watched his Unit Chief, his mentor, his friend put on SSA Aaron Hotchner’s face, shake hands with people who probably hadn’t even met Haley. Spencer didn’t believe there were words that could express how sorry he was, for the loss of life, of love, for the what-ifs and let’s-nots, for all the things he could have had done but had not the balls to follow through.
Follow through.
It had been a while since he had felt this self-deprecating.
Jack Hotchner was sitting by himself, looking at nothing and everything. Haley’s sister and JJ were probably off looking after something or someone of little-to-no importance, like catering or the assistant mayor. Spencer met his eyes and remembered like it was yesterday what it felt like to be the only kid in a room. Like a man possessed, he pushed himself up with the help of his cane and started walking.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
Jack looked up, turned to look at the empty seats by his side, looked up again and shook his head.
They sat in silence for a while.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” Jack asked.
Spencer turned to the boy who was examining his cane. Observant. Like father, like son.
“Oh, I got shot during a case.”
“You got shot?!” Jack’s eyes widened.
Spencer bit down a smile. “I’m okay. I’m gonna be walking on my own in a few weeks.”
Jack gave him an empathic nod. “My mom got shot too.” But she won’t be walking in a few weeks like you.
Spencer felt a sting in his eyes, the words caught in his throat.
“Daddy said Mom’s gone to heaven.”
There was sorrow in Jack’s eyes yet so much hope in his voice that Spencer, a professed nonbeliever, could only nod. “I’m sure she has.”
At this point Jack was openly staring at him. Spencer had to look away.
Hotch’s eyes were on them, on him. Confused, searching eyes. They still gave Spencer a start, even from across the room.
“You look like Jesus.”
Spencer’s head snapped back. “Excuse me?”
Jack’s big round eyes were searching his face. “Jesus had long hair like you.”
He didn’t have a response for that.
“He had long hair just like you,’ Jack repeated. “Only he didn’t wear a suit.”
The laugh burst out before Spencer could do prevent it. People were shooting him disapproving looks. Hotch, however, seemed less offended and more curious.
“You think Mom’ll meet him up there?” Jack asked.
With a smile, Spencer placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sure she already did.”
(6)
Spencer Reid disliked very few people, mostly because he didn’t know that many people to begin with. With Erin Strauss though, he despised her—for her attempts to sabotage the team, his team, his family; but most of all for her personal vendetta against Hotch who had done everything for the Bureau, for the department, for her department, for everyone but himself.
So naturally when the woman approached anyone on the team, Spencer’s sensory system went haywire; like how dogs became frustrated when they smelled something was wrong. It made him lose control and objectivity. It made him do things against his better judgment.
Like it did now.
“Excuse me,” he said after clearing the throat. They were in the hallway in front of Rossi’s office. Rossi looked away from the Section Chief. Spencer held up a manila folder and gave it a few taps. Rossi gave him a nod before turning back to the woman.
“Afraid I have to take a rain check on that, Erin.”
Strauss stiffened at the sound of her given name. Rossi knew what he was doing and Spencer wouldn’t deny he enjoyed it quite a bit.
Eventually, after a good deal of glaring, she nodded at Rossi and turned to leave, only to pause in front of Spencer and gave him a look.
Spencer knew the look.
“Agent Reid,” she began.
“Ma’am.”
“I see you still haven’t found that spare time.”
Spencer nodded. “No, ma’am.”
For a moment it seemed the Section Chief had something to say. Spencer waited, but to his surprise she remained silent. After another long look and a nod, she took off.
“What was that about?” Rossi walked up to him.
Spencer shrugged. “She’s mentioned the length of my hair more than one occasion.”
Rossi gave him an exaggerated look. “A reprimand?”
“Not officially.”
“Yet.”
Spencer agreed but said nothing.
“So what’s a case?” Rossi looked at the folder in his hand, something Spencer had just remembered holding.
“Oh, there’s no case,” he said. “It just looked like you needed an exit.”
Rossi gave him another look.
“Am I wrong?” Spencer asked.
Rossi chuckled. “Are you ever.” Spencer felt a pat on his shoulder. “I owe you one.”
“Actually you owe me two,” Spencer pointed out as the other man turned to step back into his office.
Rossi paused and turned around. “What?”
“The ditch,” Spencer said. “How are the good boots, by the way?”
“Fine and shiny, thanks to you,” Rossi smirked, which Spencer returned.
Finally Rossi nodded. “All right, next time there’s a ditch, give me a holler.”
Spencer knew he wouldn’t hold the other man to it. He didn’t come here for that. There were more pressing issues here.
“What did she want anyway?”
Rossi studied him for a moment. “She was looking for Hotch. I smelled blood in the wind. Sent him home half an hour ago.”
The image of Hotch stuck in never-ending meetings with that woman instead of enjoying dinner with Jack gave Spencer an urge to throw something.
“She’s still after him about the budget cuts?”
“Among other things.”
Spencer frowned. What other things?
“I know the guy’s an uptight SOB, but he’s only wound up like a thousand day clock around this time of year.”
The annual review.
“Is she serious? After everything?” After Foyet?
Rossi shrugged. “Considering he’s got his job back and…”
“His job,” Spencer sneered.
“And you get away with that hair,” Rossi continued. “I’d say she cut him serious slack.”
The image of Hotch in the meetings from Hell returned. So did Spencer’s urge to throw things.
God, how he despised that woman.
When Hotch greeted him with a puzzling frown and a ‘Did you join a boy band?’ remark, Spencer tried to feign offense, but it wasn’t easy.
Spencer could count the times his boss had openly teased anyone on one hand. He hadn’t expected to have missed it so much. He felt proud. Stupidly proud. Had he known it only took a simple haircut for Hotch to…
Rossi was staring at him, a realization dawning. Spencer was ready to panic when he recalled that Rossi still technically owed him those two favors.
Finis