Chapter Text
Dr. Spencer Reid was 21 years old, and he was slated to become the youngest member in the history of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.
Aaron could feel a headache forming behind his eyes.
He had to admit the kid was more than impressive. Three PhDs and two BAs were nothing to scoff at, and those were just what the kid had papers for; Reid’s enthusiastic rambling on any given subject showed he was an autodidact of the highest possible caliber. Add in an eidetic memory, an IQ of 187, and speed-reading capabilities that made Aaron dizzy just to watch, and the young doctor's mind would doubtlessly be a great asset to the team.
But Reid was just that: young. Almost painfully so. He was just barely old enough to legally drink, and looked only old enough to be getting his driver's license. Hell, Aaron was getting his driver's license when Reid was born.
When Sean was born, his conscience tormented him.
Aaron didn't know what age was old enough to deal with the type of cases the BAU handled, but he was sure Dr. Spencer Reid was not there yet. Might never be, for how young he felt.
But Gideon had all but adopted the kid and was dead set on having the doctor join the team as soon as possible. The Unit Chief was throwing his weight around to get exemptions for the athletic exams the kid had failed.
Because of course the kid had failed the athletic exams. As astounding as Dr. Reid’s mind was, his physical abilities were sorely lacking, as though he'd had to choose between the two in utero. He was of a height with Aaron but moved like he was new to having limbs, and it only got worse when he was lost in his head. He was also concerningly skinny, his only muscle surely from carrying textbooks and his ever-present satchel. Which was why Aaron was a bit baffled they were bothering with what was going to be a farce of a gun qualification exam.
Non-instructor FBI agents were required to be able to shoot with 80% accuracy from concealed carry, tested by shooting 60 rounds in 15 strings split across various distances, hands, and time-frames. Aaron had seen Reid trip over air.
Aaron was hoping there would only be metaphorical bloodshed. He didn't know how high to set his hopes.
The first three strings were to be fired from three yards. Draw from concealed carry, fire three rounds with dominant hand in three seconds. Repeat. Then eight seconds to draw, fire three rounds with dominant hand, switch weapon to off-hand, fire three more rounds.
Reid got all 12 rounds in the bottle.
That…was better than Aaron had been expecting. Much better. Those weren’t impressive shots to make, but then, Aaron had been half-waiting for Reid to shoot himself in the foot. Maybe they’d get through this day yet.
From five yards, the next four strings were shot with both hands. Draw and fire three rounds in three seconds. Repeat three times for a total of 12 rounds.
Three in the bottle. Three in the bottle. Two in the bottle, one out. Three in the bottle. 11 out of 12.
Aaron let himself get a little invested at this point. Could Reid actually pass his handgun qualification? Was Reid more competent with a gun than his own two feet?
Another three strings from seven yards. Draw and fire four rounds in four seconds. Repeat. Then draw and fire four rounds, reload, and fire four more rounds, to be completed in eight seconds. Total of 16 rounds.
Four in the bottle. Four in the bottle. Four in the bottle. Two out, two in the bottle. 14 out of 16.
Holy shit, Reid is actually more competent with a gun than his own feet. That made 37 out of 60 so far. Reid needed 11 more shots to qualify.
Three strings from 15 yards. Draw and fire three rounds in six seconds. Repeat. Fire four rounds in eight seconds. 10 rounds total.
One out, two in the bottle. Three in the bottle. Four in the bottle. Nine out of 10.
Aaron was torn between rooting for or against Reid. He was sure he didn’t want the kid in any situation where a gun may be needed, even if he was competent with it. It would be easier if he would fail. It would be a good excuse to lock the kid in the FBI offices, away from any possible danger.
Two strings from 25 yards. In 15 seconds, move to cover, fire twice from standing, kneel, fire three rounds. Repeat. 10 rounds total.
Two out, two out, one in the bottle. One out, one in the bottle, three out. Two out of 10.
He actually did it. Aaron fought down the instinct to mourn.
Finished with the exam, Reid approached Aaron.
Aaron said, “Congratulations, Dr. Reid.”
Reid pressed his lips together. “Thanks.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.
“You don’t seem pleased,” Aaron noted neutrally.
“I, uh. I didn’t do as well as I’d hoped.”
Aaron furrowed his brow. “You passed,” he pointed out.
“Barely,” Reid pouted.
It occurred to Aaron that, other than the athletics exams, this was probably the worst Reid had ever done on a test. Suddenly, Aaron had to fight back a laugh. He did allow himself to smile and say, “You did well, Reid.”
In the face of the praise, Reid floundered a bit. “Uh, thanks.” He returned the smile with a shyer one.
“If you want,” Aaron heard his mouth offering without consulting his brain, “I could help you train for your next exam.”
“Would you really? I mean, I don’t want to bother you or take up your time, but-”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it,” Aaron said because apparently he was a liar now. Better than letting on that he hadn’t meant to say it, in any case.
Reid’s smile grew. “Thanks,” he said again.
“Anytime.”