Chapter Text
One year made a difference. Spencer Reid, who once dreaded December with a quiet ache he never acknowledged, now found himself doing something he wouldn’t have believed possible a year ago:
Smiling at Christmas decorations.
The BAU bullpen shimmered with lights, garlands, and ornaments—none of which made his chest hurt anymore. Garcia had gone overboard again; Morgan had pretended to complain; Emily had gleefully assisted in hanging everything crooked on purpose; JJ had subtly fixed every crooked strand when Emily wasn’t looking.
January Reid—last year—would never have dreamed of taking part.
December Reid—this year—brought in hot chocolate for the team.
With peppermint. Voluntarily.
Their gift exchange had developed into a tradition almost by accident. After last year’s intervention—“holiday rehabilitation,” as Emily called it—the team had silently, without speaking a word, decided they were doing it again. And every year after that. Reid arrived first that morning, scarf wrapped around his neck. The scarf Garcia had knitted him last year—deep navy with tiny embroidered constellations. He swore to wear it every winter now. He was stacking files on his desk when Morgan appeared behind him and flicked the end of the scarf lightly.
“You still wearing that thing, Pretty Boy?”
“It’s warm,” Reid said, defensive but smiling.
“It’s sentimental,” Morgan corrected. “And looks good on you.” Reid flushed. “It’s just a scarf.”
“Mmhmm.” Morgan winked. “Keep telling yourself that.” Emily walked in, arms full of gift bags. “Okay! Everyone, desks cleared! Christmas chaos begins at oh-nine-hundred!” Garcia swept in moments later wearing a dress that could only be described as Christmas threw up glitter on a snowflake. “Let the festivities COMMENCE!” Hotch walked out of his office with a takeaway coffee and the expression of a man who had accepted—gracefully—that his workplace would not resemble a federal agency today. Rossi, last as always, breezed in with a tray of pastries. “Breakfast, so the gifts don’t distract you all into low blood sugar.”
“See?” Emily told the room. “Dad.”
“I’m not the father of this group,” Rossi said. Hotch sighed. “Please don’t argue about this again.” Garcia clapped her hands. “Okay babies, the order is: Emily first, then Morgan, then me, then JJ, then Rossi, then Hotch, then our genius boy. Ready?” Spencer tried to protest—“Why am I last?”—but the team unanimously ignored him.
Emily handed out little velvet bags. Inside each was a small metal token engraved with a different city name. “For everyone,” she said with a grin, “a place I loved that I want you to have a piece of.” Reid pulled out a token etched with Rome. “Because you picked the Roman ornament last year,” Emily said quietly. “I figured it meant something to you.” Reid held it delicately. “It did. Thank you.”
“Also,” she whispered, “it was either Rome or Prague and I cannot trust you with Prague yet. That city is chaos.” Reid blinked. “Why not Prague?”
“That’s a story for another time.”
Morgan handed Spencer a heavy, rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper. Reid opened it carefully—and froze. Inside was a custom-made wooden puzzle box, carved with intricate patterns. “For keeping your secrets safe,” Morgan said. “And your weird… chess pieces… and probably that magic trick stuff I know you think we don’t notice you practicing.” Reid swallowed hard. “You made this?”
“I commissioned it,” Morgan said. “But I chose the design.” Reid ran his fingers along the carved details. “It’s perfect.” Morgan smiled, proud. “Glad you like it.”
Garcia handed out boxes wrapped in rainbow paper. No one was surprised. Reid opened his—and gasped softly. Inside was a hand-bound leather journal embossed with constellations—Orion, Cassiopeia, Andromeda—shimmering in gold ink. Garcia pressed a hand over her heart. “You like?”
“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “It’s for whatever you want,” she said gently. “Thoughts, stories, equations, feelings—which you do have even if you pretend otherwise.” Reid hugged her tightly. “Thank you.” Garcia sniffed dramatically. “Ugh, emotions. Someone get tissues.”
JJ gave Spencer a small, flat package wrapped in silver paper. When he opened it—
He stilled completely. It was a framed photo of him holding Henry last Christmas, the baby reaching for his hair while Reid laughed helplessly. JJ touched his arm. “It was a good moment. I thought you should have it.” Reid stared at the picture. At himself. At Henry reaching out with absolute trust. “It was… a good moment,” Reid said softly. “You’re family,” JJ murmured. “You belong in Henry’s life.” His eyes stung. He blinked fast. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Rossi presented Reid with a larger box. Heavy. Mysterious. Inside was—
A vintage, first-edition copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Reid’s breath caught. “David… this is—this is extremely valuable.”
“I know,” Rossi said.
“I can’t accept something like—”
“You can,” Rossi countered. “Because I know what books mean to you. And because one day, you’ll give it to someone who needs it as much as you did.” Reid pressed the book to his chest, overwhelmed. “Thank you,” he said, voice cracking.
Hotch stepped forward, holding an envelope. Plain. Almost suspiciously plain. Reid opened it carefully. Inside was a certificate. “Spencer Reid — Approved for paid leave for family visitation up to six times per year, no prior supervisory approval required.” His eyes widened. “Hotch…”
“You visit your mother whenever you need,” Hotch said quietly. “No paperwork battles. No delays.” Reid’s face crumpled. Emotion—real, raw—surged up. Hotch stepped closer, placed a hand on his back. “You’ve carried more than most people ever will. Let us lighten it where we can.” Spencer nodded, unable to speak. He felt held. Supported. Safe.
Reid cleared his throat. His hands trembled slightly. “I, um… I tried really hard this year.” He held up a stack of small wrapped gifts. “I wanted them to be meaningful.” Morgan grinned. “Pretty Boy getting sentimental? I love it already.”
Reid turned bright red. “I’m going in alphabetical order. By first name.” Garcia gasped. “Of course you are.”
Reid handed Emily a thin package. She tore it open—and gasped. Inside was a rare, out-of-print guidebook of European ghost stories and urban legends. “I found references in your old case files,” Reid explained. “You mentioned loving these as a teenager. This edition hasn’t been in print since 1987.” Emily clutched it to her chest. “Spencer… this is perfect.”
He handed Garcia a box tied with neon ribbon next. Inside was a custom-built miniature terrarium with tiny LED lights shaped like stars. “It’s a stargazer terrarium,” Reid explained shyly. “Since you brighten every room. And because you knit the constellation scarf last year.” Garcia burst into tears instantly. “Oh honey, I love it—I LOVE YOU—I’m stealing you forever—Hotch, he’s mine now!”
Reid’s gift to Hotch was small, simple. Hotch opened the envelope—and stared. Inside was a photograph of Jack, age two, sitting on Hotch’s knee at some long-ago spring picnic, both laughing. The photo was restored, digitally enhanced, and framed. “I found it in an archive box,” Reid murmured. “It was water-damaged. But I fixed it. I thought you’d want a copy.” Hotch swallowed. Hard. “…Thank you, Spencer,” he said quietly. “This means more than you know.”
Reid handed JJ a soft, wrapped bundle. Inside was a baby blanket. Hand-knitted. In soft pastel blues and golds. With Henry’s initials embroidered in the corner. JJ’s breath trembled. “Spence… did you make this?” He flushed. “Crochet is just a series of mathematically repetitive patterns, so once you understand the sequence—” JJ hugged him before he could finish. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
Morgan opened his gift and laughed aloud—a beautifully carved wooden stand for his collection of training medals. “You kept putting them in drawers,” Reid said. “It felt wrong. You should display your achievements.” Morgan stared at him for a long moment. Then pulled him into a crushing hug. “Damn right,” he murmured. “Damn right, kid.”
Reid handed him a small, heavy wrapped item. Rossi opened it—and stopped. It was an old, rare fountain pen—refurbished, polished, gleaming. “The model you used in ’88,” Reid said softly. “For your first book.” Rossi’s throat worked visibly. “You remembered that?” Reid nodded, “You told me once,” Reid said. “In the car. Years ago.” Rossi placed a hand on the back of Reid’s neck. “Thank you, kid.”
Because of course the genius over-prepared. This second gift was a scrapbook page. A collage. Hundreds of photos. Every candid picture she’d ever taken of him and the team—organized, cataloged, dated. Garcia shrieked. “I HAVE BEEN SEEN. AND LOVED.” Reid grinned sheepishly.
Hotch cleared his throat. “We have one last gift.” Reid frowned. “But everyone already—”
Morgan cut in. “This one’s from all of us.” Emily handed him a box. Larger than the others. Wrapped in navy paper. Reid hesitated. “You guys didn’t have to—”
“We wanted to,” JJ said. Reid opened it slowly. Inside was—
A quilt.
Handmade. Stitched from scraps of old BAU shirts, cardigan colours, Garcia’s funky fabrics, Morgan’s gym T-shirt material, JJ’s favorite blue, a square of Rossi’s old writing-room curtain, and a piece of Hotch’s worn-out tie. In the corner, embroidered in silver thread:
“Family is a Choice.
— BAU”
Reid stared at it. His vision blurred instantly. His breath hitched. Hotch stepped forward first. “Reid?” Spencer clutched the quilt to his chest, eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping down freely. “I—” His voice broke. “I don’t— I don’t know what to say.” Morgan rubbed his back gently. “Say you love it.”
“I do,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I do. So much.” Garcia wrapped him in her arms, quilt and all. “You’re ours, genius. Always.” Spencer buried his face in the quilt and let himself feel everything—the love, the warmth, the home he’d never had growing up but had found here.
With them. With family.
By the end of the day, the bullpen felt more like a living room than a federal office. Coffee cups steamed on desks. Wrapping paper littered the floor. Garcia had glitter on her cheeks. Morgan wore his puzzle-box key on a necklace. Emily read her ghost stories. Rossi wrote with his new pen. Hotch kept glancing at the restored photo of Jack. And Spencer Reid sat in his swivel chair, wrapped in his quilt, surrounded by people who loved him.
Last year had been his first real Christmas. This year was the first time he truly understood what that meant. He looked around, heart full.
“I think,” he said softly, “I like Christmas.”
The team burst into laughter. Garcia wiped her eyes. “We’ve won!”
Morgan fist-pumped. “Victory!” Rossi raised a pastry like a toast. “About time.”
JJ smirked. “Knew you would.” Emily winked. “Told you we’d convert you.” Hotch smiled—small, soft, genuine. “Merry Christmas, Spencer.”
Reid smiled back.
Warm. Certain. Home.
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
And this time, it felt easy.