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A caffeine shortage would prove deadly at the BAU. The religious devotion to coffee—even cheap, cop coffee—was practically a job requirement. Having “coffee fiend” on your resume was the equivalent of Reid’s several doctorates, maybe even more important. Chugging a red bull laced with five-hour energy is not an experience exclusive to college finals, but at least the fine agents at the BAU had the sense to be discreet about it.
As such, morning coffee was more than an essential. The problem, however, was that not everyone was able to handle temperamental coffee machines available in the various precincts/hotel rooms the team found themselves in. Spencer and Hotch seemed to be the only ones capable of coaxing anything remotely drinkable out of whatever sub-par materials they had to work with. The rest lamented over the slow trickle of laughably watery liquid that filled their mugs. Most had to push away tears as they threw the drink away (other than Emil, who would rip open packets of Splenda and down the drink, pretending not to shudder as she stubbornly refused to admit defeat). It was truly a mockery of a morning ritual.
Many just gave up. JJ could usually bat her eyelashes to get some low-ranked officer to go fetch her a drink. Morgan made a point of waking up early to make a stop at the nearest place offering coffee—whether it’s a coffee shop, gas station, or fast food joint—before rejoining the rest of the team. Rossi followed suit, but was much more comfortable strolling into work half an hour late with a to-go cup from some ridiculously overpriced café, unphased by Hotch’s pointed glares at his tardiness. The lengths they would go to would be laughable, if pitying their desperation wasn’t a guaranteed way of getting shot.
If she called early enough in the morning, Penelope could expect uncharacteristically biting responses to her bubbly greetings. She knew better than to take it personally: they didn’t bother hiding their envy, knowing that she always brought a thermos of ambrosia to savor.
(After hearing JJ complain about breakroom coffee for the umpteenth time, Penelope brought an additional thermos the next morning. Like sharks sensing blood in the water, the rest of the team quickly descended and begged for their own with strained politeness. She woke up early the following day to prepare a gallon to satiate her enthralled coworkers but made sure to tell them it was a one-time thing. She loves them, but there are limits to the effort she’ll go to prove it at seven in the morning.)
Hotch categorically refused to shell out federal funds for a group Starbucks run, which would normally make him a target for violence if he wasn’t the only one capable of making something palatable with the shittiest ingredients available. Spencer was good for a spare mug on occasion (which was usually reserved for Derek), but the young genius typically needed a pot to himself to maintain coherence. The others had no choice but to rely on Hotch’s benevolence.
Because he was really good at making coffee. Rossi credited that to years of training, meaning accompanying senior agents in the early BAU days and forced to make their coffee or risk getting ditched to find his own way back to Virginia—or worse, have to sit in a car for six hours with an ill-tempered Max Ryan. (At least, that was Rossi’s excuse for why he barely knew how to use a coffee-maker in the first place.) Truthfully none of that really mattered to the rest, as long as they stayed on Hotch’s good side long enough (or at least early enough in the morning) to be graced with a drinkable cup of coffee.
If Hotch knew how the others felt, he didn’t let on. His routine just happened to work out so the others benefited from his rituals. He was usually the first one at the office, and even if he was nowhere to be found in the bullpen (why bureaucrats were so adamant about scheduling meetings first thing in the morning was beyond him), there was usually a pot waiting as the others trickled in.
It wasn’t just “the fantastical seven” (or whatever nickname Penelope had bestowed on the group that week) who recognized the unit chief’s skills. It was an unspoken understanding between the agents working in the bullpen that the drinking habits of the floor should be tailored around Hotchner’s schedule: the pot should be empty when he usually took his breaks. If there was an anomaly and he started heading towards the kitchenette area at a different time, someone dutifully distracted him with some inane question about paperwork until the others could drain the remaining coffee before his arrival.
(Whether he knew the reason or not, the most unproductive days at the BAU were undoubtedly his days off. He seemed to know it subconsciously—maybe that was the reason he was so loathe to take a vacation, no matter how well-deserved. They either took too long outsourcing caffeinated beverages or they spent the day agitated and grumpy.)
When they were out on a case, he usually got to the precinct early enough each day to brew the first pot. But the true luxury only happened in smaller towns (or crowded hotels) where they had to double up and share rooms. Of course there were drawbacks to bunking with Hotch: he really was a painfully early riser, and while he remained as respectfully quiet as possible in the mornings, there was an inevitable twinge of embarrassment when the temporary roommate woke to a completely empty room and a bed so neat that it might not have even been slept in.
The team would still silently bicker amongst themselves, however, to decide who would be the lucky one to wake up to the freshly brewed pot waiting for them.