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It's the hottest day of the year. Even the headquarters’ AC can’t keep up and a balmy, sticky, 87 degrees permeate the building. It’s even worse outside, and you shudder just thinking about it.
Thankfully, crime seems to be slowed down by the weather too, which means you have time to finally sort through the backlog of paperwork on your desk. The rest of the team seem to have the same idea. Not that any of you are getting much work done anyway, it’s simply too hot. You’re all but melted into your chairs in the bullpen. JJ is standing in front of the only working communal fan, blonde hair blowing in the breeze. The ceiling fans are no help at all, spinning helplessly, deliriously trying to relocate the hot air.
“What’s the matter with you people?” Gideon remarks as he exits Hotchner’s office. Unfazed.
“We’re dying..” Garcia answers helplessly. Her batcave has turned into a literal death trap, so she’s resigned to joining the rest of you, where the air is at least semi-breathable. “The AC repair guy says he can’t help us before Monday. Can you believe it?! The entire state is burning and he’s taking an extended holiday!” She sounds like she might actually cry. “I mean, we’re federal agents for God’s sake!” The rest of the team groan solemnly in agreement.
“Tragic, the brightest of the BAU succumbed to a mere 80.”
“87.” Reid corrects.
“.. And with that, I bid you all farewell.” Gideon says airily, collecting his bag. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me.”
“Enjoy your vacation.” Hotch joins you in the pit.
“Escape while you still can!” Morgan says, wet towel on his face.
Once Gideon has left, Hotch turns to the rest of you.
“Alright people, I know the conditions are unfavorable..” He makes a note of the sizes of the stacks on each of your desks. “Let’s get this last case filed quickly so we can all get out of here and enjoy the weekend. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
You turn back to the piece of paper in front of you. Filling out what’s left and putting it in the ‘finished’ pile.
To your right, Reid shifts uncomfortably in his sweater vest. His hair, sticky with sweat, seems to be bothering him as it clings to his forehead and neck. It’s gotten longer, going past his jaw and almost touching his shoulders in the back. You peel your eyes away and rummage around the top drawer of your desk.
“Hey, Spencer-“ you reach out, handing him a hair tie and two barrettes “-take these.”
He looks confused at first. You motion towards his hair.
“Thanks.” He smiles. Putting his hair in a ponytail and clipping away his bangs.
You can’t help watching him while he does it, the way his nape becomes suddenly exposed transfixes you. It suits him. He catches you looking at him, so you give him a hasty thumbs up, words escaping you. Feeling grateful to the heat for already flushing your skin enough to hide the blush creeping up your neck. You turn back to your respective stacks of paperwork. The heat must be making you crazy.
He’s still wearing them at the end of the day.
You’re all standing outside, hiding from the evening heat in the long blue shadows cast by the Bureaus outer walls. It feels weirdly like the last day of school, you’re not quite sure why. Sweltering waves lift off of the tarmac in the parking lot while distant insects buzz. The air is stagnant, it feels thick enough to pull. Like taffy. While still painful, the heat has become duller than earlier. Like you’re on the cusp of the drop.
Everyone is lingering. Chitchatting. Morgan brought ice cold sodas from a cooler; he’s complaining about not being able to drink beer on Government property. Not even Hotchner is still wearing a tie. Top button undone, how scandalous. He’s not alone, though, most of you are in in various states of unbuttoned or fully in your undershirts. Sleeves rolled up.
Most, except of course, Dr. Spencer Reid, who is diligently still donning his tie, shirt buttoned all the way up. Thankfully, for his own sake, he has freed himself from the sweater vest.
You’re watching him. He’s taking refuge in the shade of the opposite wall, across from where you and Emily are leaning against the railing. She’s laughing at Morgan, but you’re not quite listening anymore. Distracted by the barrettes in his hair. The shape of his mouth when he smiles, the way his eyes crease when he laughs, evidently also amused by whatever Morgan is saying. They’re silver, the barrettes. When his head dips out of the shade, they blink in the sunshine. Like fishing lures. It’s not the first time you’ve appreciated these things about him. Everything about him, really. But it feels more potent today. Suffocating.
The cold coke in your hand is the only thing tethering you right now. You touch it to your forehead, hoping for cooling clarity. It feels nice. The heat must be making you crazy.
“Are you OK?” Your eyes snap up.
Reid is looking down at you, worried. He’s left his shady spot, braved the part of pavement exposed to the scorching sun, and is now standing in front of you, worried.
“I’m okay.” You answer, dumbfounded. The buzzing becomes louder. The barrettes blink.
“Do you mind if I-?” He motions towards your hand.
“Wha-“
He grabs it himself before you can fully process his request, circling your wrist with his slender fingers. The heat of his palm is almost unbearable. Your face blooms. Reid places his thumb firmly on your pulse. It quickens.
“Just let me..” He trails off.
Finally, you realize.
He is checking you for symptoms of heat stroke. And he looks so focused doing it, eyes trained on where his thumb cradles your wrist. Probably counting. Because he noticed that you were acting off. Spaced out. Hotch looks like he is about to spring into action, Emily and Morgan have gone quiet too. Even JJ and Garcia have stopped fanning themselves with empty folders to see what’s going on. The air is smotheringly still.
Your face cracks and you tip your head back, laughing heartily. Reid looks bewildered.
“Hey- wh- heat stroke is no joke!” He lets go of you.
“No- no, it isn’t.” You say, between breaths, fanning your face with your hands. You can’t possibly explain to him the symptoms he thinks are caused by heat stroke, are actually caused by him. He noticed. You take a deep breath and smile up at him, feeling suddenly reawakened.
He still looks worried. You lean off of the railing, reach up, and hug him. It’s not exactly pleasant, both of your shirts are sticky, and the hug only makes the fabric plaster to your skin more. You can’t find it in yourself to care. After a brief moment, you let go. Heart singing like the cicadas.
“Thank you, Docter Reid, I feel much better.” You beam.
“Morgan, go get her a bottle of water.” Hotch orders.
“On it.” Morgan answers.