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Spencer wakes up on Monday and the first thing that he notices is that his shoulders are already tense and feel like maybe they never really relaxed all night. He rolls onto his back without opening his eyes, stretches out against the mattress and wonders why he smells coffee. The automatic timer on his machine broke last year due to an early morning hangover when he couldn’t figure out the buttons and smashed them all with his fist, and he hasn’t bothered to get a new one. He sits up, scratching his chest through his t shirt and blinking the sleep out of his eyes and it takes it a minute before he realizes that this is not his bedroom.
Okay, he thinks, so this is wrong. He went to bed in his own apartment, and this is definitely not his apartment, and therefore something is, you know, wrong. He moves to the edge of the bed, looking around for his clothes or something that will act as a suitable weapon in the event that he has been abducted by very inept kidnappers. He’s reaching for the drawer when he notices the hair on his arms; it’s black and he has a lot more of it than he used to and there’s something really off about that. He ignores it for the moment, pulling the drawer open and stilling when he sees the sig and badge sitting there. They’re Hotch’s, and when he takes a moment to look at the top of the dresser he sees a picture of Jack.
So he’s at Hotch’s, then, and that’s a little comforting because he feels a little bit more safe, but he still has no idea how he got here, how he ended up in Hotch’s *bed,* so he picks up the gun as he stands. He moves along the wall, uses his shoulder to open the door to the bathroom and finds it empty, stops in his tracks when he sees Hotch’s reflection staring back at him from the mirror. He looks over his shoulder, expecting to see Hotch standing there behind him, but he’s the only one in the bathroom. When he looks back in the mirror it’s still just Hotch there, and the reflection mirrors his actions as he lowers the gun.
What. The. Fuck. He steps closer to the counter, watches as Mirror-Hotch does the same, and he lets his mouth fall open in a very un-Hotch-like manner. Spencer blinks a few times and thinks he must be dreaming, or must be heavily drugged or something, and he’s staring at his reflection so intently that he jumps when he the alarm clock goes off.
He moves back into the bedroom and drops the gun on the bed as he leans over to shut the alarm off. It’s probably weird, he thinks, to dream about being your boss, being in your boss’ body, but then he’s always looked up to Hotch and he’s spent enough time watching Hotch out of the corner of his eye for it not to be odd that he knows the way Hotch looks and moves. Spencer pads out of the bedroom without changing from his pajamas, looking around the apartment as he heads toward the kitchen.
It’s tastefully decorated, just like Spencer would expect it to be, and that makes sense because this is Spencer’s dream-version of Hotch’s apartment and shouldn’t it be exactly how Spencer imagined it? He shakes his head at himself, following the scent of coffee into the kitchen and pouring himself a cup, searching through Hotch’s cabinets for the sugar. The knock at the door startles him, makes him jump from his crouched position, and he slams his head into the open door of the cabinet above him and fuck, that hurts, which is kind of strange because he never feels pain this real in his dreams.
He runs his hand through his hair (or Hotch’s hair, whatever), glad when he pulls his hand back and there’s no blood on it. There’s another knock on the door, and he rolls his eyes as he heads over to it, doesn’t bother to check through the peep-hole before he unlocks it and pulls it open.
He finds himself standing face to face with, well, himself, only not really because he’s Hotch and this is seriously fucked up. He stares at his body, standing there without him, you know, in it, and he’s a little surprised when he hears his voice (his normal voice, from his normal body) saying, “Holy shit.”
Spencer laughs, and it’s an almost unfamiliar sound because Hotch never laughs, and says, “Yeah.”
He’s genuinely surprised, though, when the Spencer standing in front of him raises his eyebrows and asks, “Spencer?”
Spencer furrows his eyebrows and kind-of smirks, and says, “Yeah,” again.
“Fuck,” the Spencer in front of him says, and then takes a deep breath and says, “it’s Hotch.”
And then the world slows way down because this just got even weirder, which he wasn’t even sure was possible, but apparently is. “This is the weirdest dream ever,” he mutters.
“It’s not a dream,” Hotch-in-Spencer’s-Body says, and Spencer breathes in sharply at the way his voice sounds so deep and even and so *not Spencer.*
“Shit,” Spencer says.
…
After an intense freak-out session wherein Spencer talks about things like physics and alternate dimensions and Norse mythology, they sit down in Hotch’s kitchen and try to figure out what to do. They discuss their options over coffee, and Hotch keeps banging his elbows against things when he moves, his motions stuttering and ungainly. Every time Hotch hits something Spencer winces, imagining the bruises that are going to cover his arms.
They decide (or rather, Hotch decides, because he’s uptight and obsessed with his job) that they should go to work and attempt some semblance of normalcy, at least for a while. Spencer tries to tell him this will be impossible. Hotch does not listen.
…
After making a trip back to Spencer’s apartment they’re dressed and supposedly ready to go, though Spencer feels awkward and stifled in Hotch’s suit and Hotch keeps trying to smooth the fabric of Spencer’s khakis out. Spencer already had to convince him not to iron them, and it was a battle to get him into the sweater vest, but now Hotch looks almost like Spencer on a normal day. They’re about to head out the door when Spencer remembers his messenger bag is sitting on a chair by the dining room table.
When Spencer tells Hotch to grab it, Hotch stares down at the chair incredulously, and Spencer is mildly annoyed.
“I can’t carry that,” Hotch says, gesturing vaguely at the bag.
Spencer fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Why not?” He asks.
“It’s a purse, Reid,” Hotch says.
“You think I walk around with a purse?” Spencer asks, and he’s actually a little offended.
“No,” Hotch says, and Spencer presses his lips into a tight line. Hotch looks like he’s trying to think of a way to backtrack out of this.
Spencer lets him flounder for a few seconds before he says, “First, it’s a messenger bag, and second, I always carry it. If I were you I’d be a little more concerned with keeping up appearances.”
“If anyone asks I’ll just say that I forgot it.”
“Just carry the damn bag, Hotch.”
Hotch sighs but picks it up, lifting the strap over his head and settling the bag against his side. They leave the apartment in silence, and Spencer imagines that he’s making a pissy sort of face that Hotch would never use, but he doesn’t care because it is *not* a purse.
…
Hotch gets caught in the lobby by one of Spencer’s friends, and Spencer leaves him with a pointed look which is supposed to convey the sentiment that Hotch should not say or do anything stupid. When Hotch walks into the bullpen a few minutes later he has his hands in his pockets and his shoulders pulled forward so far that he looks like a hunchback. Spencer glares at him, and when Hotch looks over with a questioning glance, Spencer raises eyebrows and straightens his shoulders purposefully.
Spencer watches the way Hotch’s face moves with idle interest, seeing how expressive his features can be. Right now he’s too busy trying to communicate with Hotch using only his eyes and hoping that no one will notice his strange behavior to think about that, and when Hotch doesn’t straighten his posture out Spencer sighs, irritated.
“Are you okay, Reid?” He asks purposefully.
Hotch looks at him with his eyebrows raised, confused. “Uh, yeah,” Hotch says, “why?”
“You didn’t hurt your back or something?” He says, and he thinks the way that he’s glaring should be a tip off that there’s, like, meaning behind his words.
“No,” Hotch says slowly, eyebrows lowering.
“Oh, with the way you’re hunched over like that I thought maybe you pulled a muscle or something.”
Hotch straightens slightly, some combination of recognition and questioning in his eyes as he asks, “Oh, was I more hunched over than usual?”
Spencer rolls his eyes and glares at him, and Hotch walks slowly over to stand by his side. “You look like a hunchback,” Spencer hisses, turning his head slightly so the others can’t see.
Hotch glowers at him. “Well, you have terrible posture, Reid.”
“Now is not the time to fix my posture,” Spencer says, and Hotch straightens up a bit more.
“Is this better?” Hotch whispers.
Spencer looks him over and then nods slightly, and Hotch rolls his eyes before he walks away. When Spencer glances around he sees Morgan and Prentiss openly watching the exchange.
‘Crap,’ he thinks, and then he manfully retreats into Hotch’s office.
…
Later that day they’re standing in the bullpen, listening to Morgan give them a rundown of some new information they’ve received on a cold case, and Spencer notices Hotch sidling closer to him just before he hears Hotch hiss, “Stand up straight,” in his ear.
Spencer straightens his shoulders awkwardly, and it isn’t uncomfortable, but he isn’t used to the feeling. He lifts his chin a little before glancing over at Hotch, silently seeking his approval. Hotch sighs but nods slightly. “You really do have terrible posture,” Hotch mutters. Spencer rolls his eyes.
When he turns his attention back to Morgan he sees the way Morgan is watching them closely, like he’s trying to figure something out.
…
The rest of the day goes relatively smoothly. They’re not working on an active case, and it’s not that uncommon for Hotch to have Spencer in his office while they work on cold cases. Hotch fills out the requisite supervisory paperwork while Spencer flies through old case files, occasionally stealing Hotch’s pen to write something down or diagram something out.
At six o’clock Spencer tells Hotch that Hotch has to leave, because Spencer doesn’t stay until midnight like Hotch does.
“I don’t see why I can’t just stay late tonight,” Hotch says, “it’s not like you have an active social calendar to maintain.”
Spencer crosses his arms and glares at Hotch. “For all you know, I might,” he says.
Hotch raises one eyebrow. “Do you?”
Spencer breathes out huffily before he cocks his head to the side and says, “I hate you.”
Hotch looks up at him, and Spencer sees the way the hair falls in front of his eyes and the apology and frustration and exhaustion written across Hotch’s features.
“I’m sorry,” Hotch says, “You’re right. Lets… lets go get dinner and try and figure out how to… undo this.”
Spencer thinks it’s a very reasonable suggestion, all things considered, and benevolently decides to forgive him. Hotch closes the file in front of him and they walk out of the office together, quietly discussing how totally fucked up the situation is as they go. The bullpen is empty except for Morgan, and when Spencer glances at him he sees the way Morgan ducks his head down and away.
…
“In reference to the Kubler-Ross cycle, we’re actually doing quite well,” Spencer says, a piece of pizza halfway to his mouth. They’re in Spencer’s apartment, pizza box open on the table between them.
Hotch looks at Spencer like he’s an idiot.
“You know, how the response to such a drastic turn of events occurs in seven stages?” Spencer asks. Hotch continues to stare at him blankly. “There’s shock and then there’s denial and then anger and then bargaining and then depression and then testing and finally acceptance.”
Hotch is silent for a moment before he furrows his brows together and says, “What?”
“Yeah, we’ve pretty much even skipped anger and bargaining and depression completely,” Spencer says brightly, as if this is good news.
“Aren’t those the seven stages of coping with death?” Hotch asks.
“Among other things,” Spencer says, nodding earnestly.
“I wouldn’t rule anger out yet,” Hotch says after a moment. “I think I’m coming back around to it.”
…
Spencer picks out an outfit for Hotch to wear the next day before he sends him home for the night, and Hotch puts up surprisingly little resistance at the mismatched button-down and sweater vest and polka dot tie combination.
Hotch, in turn, brings up a perfectly pressed suit that he ‘just happens’ to have in his car. When Spencer expresses his incredulity at that fact, Hotch tells Spencer that he keeps it there ‘for emergencies.’
“Right,” Spencer says, blinking at him. “Of course you do.”
…
Hotch comes rushing into the office the next morning fifteen minutes late, and when he finally stumbles off the elevator Spencer stops in his tracks. Hotch is wearing his hair, is wearing *Spencer’s* hair, in a ponytail, and that is just. Not. Right.
“Uh, Reid?” He says, trying his best to sound impassive and authoritative and not at all like he is about to freak out on his coworker. Hotch looks up at him, wide eyed and every bit as awkward as Spencer usually looks when he’s caught off guard.
“Sorry, sorry, I got a late start,” Hotch says, and then he trails off at the look on Spencer’s face.
Spencer clears his throat. “Can I see you in my office for a moment?” He asks, and he squares his shoulders as he follows Hotch into the room.
Spencer pushes the door shut behind them and then turns on Hotch. “What the hell did you do to my hair?”
“I put it into a ponytail,” Hotch says, and he doesn’t seem to grasp the complete and utter wrongness of that statement whatsoever.
“Well, take it out,” Spencer says, and he tries to reach over Hotch’s shoulder and grab the rubber band himself.
Hotch bats his hands away. “Your hair is always in my face,” he says, “I don’t know how you can see with it always getting in the way.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Spencer says, glaring. “Take. The ponytail. Out.”
“It’s practical,” Hotch argues.
“You’re making me look ridiculous!”
“No one will even notice.”
“I’ll notice. Take it out.” Spencer says again. Hotch sighs but reaches up and pulls the offending rubber band out. Spencer reaches forward, trying to untangle his hair, and Hotch bats his hands away again.
“Stop it,” Hotch says, and Spencer rolls his eyes but drops his hands.
“It looks all weird, you need to smooth it out,” he says. Hotch runs his fingers through it once, fluffing it awkwardly. Spencer makes a pained noise and Hotch stills, then rolls his eyes before he assents.
“Alright,” Hotch says, “go ahead, fix it.”
Spencer reaches up and starts smoothing the hair down, trying to get rid of the ridiculous bump the elastic band has left. He’s mostly finished when he hears someone clearing their throat, and when he glances over JJ is poking her head through the crack in the doorway. Spencer pulls his hands away quickly, about to stammer an excuse, but the way Hotch glares at him makes him stop.
“Sorry, I was wondering when we were going to start the briefing,” she says, and it takes Spencer a moment to realize she’s waiting on him for an answer.
“Fifteen minutes,” he says, and JJ nods and leaves.
Spencer turns to Hotch and, eloquent as always, says, “Um. That was probably bad.”
Hotch raises his eyebrows and says, “Probably? God only knows what this looked like. She probably thinks I was making a sexual advance on you.”
For a moment Spencer forgets the circumstances and says, “But I was the one touching you.”
“In my body.”
“Oh,” Spencer says, “right.”
When they finally get Hotch’s hair fixed to Spencer’s liking and head into the bullpen everyone is openly staring at them. Spencer stands silent for a moment, a blush forming on his cheeks, until Hotch elbows him hard in the ribs.
“Ow,” he mutters, and then he realizes what Hotch wants. “Don’t you people have work to do?” Spencer says, raising one eyebrow and crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Morgan and Prentiss each duck their heads down, at least pretending to go back to work, but JJ takes a moment to stare at Spencer before she heads back into her office.
When he looks over, Hotch is smirking at him and Spencer rolls his eyes. “I could fire you, you know.” He mutters.
Hotch grins.
…
They settle down in the briefing room to go over the new information Morgan has gathered on a serial arsonist case that had gone cold a few years back.
When JJ passes out the folders of information to them, Spencer immediately opens his and begins reading his at his normal pace, and is about to flip to the second page before he realizes that Hotch can’t read that fast. He returns his gaze to the top of the page and begins re-reading the material, going over each line five times before he moves to the next.
There’s the normal period of almost silence as everyone scans the first few pages, the sound of papers rustling as they flip through the files. Spencer is so caught up in re-reading each line that it takes him a minute to realize when the room has gone completely silent. He lifts his head to see everyone staring at him, apparently all having finished and waiting on him.
He’s still at the bottom of the first page. Whoops.
He risks a glance toward Hotch and just barely manages not to flinch, suddenly immensely grateful that they’re on opposite sides of the table from one another.
JJ tilts her head and looks at him speculatively before she asks, “Everything okay, Hotch?”
“Uh,” Spencer says, and then he clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m just a little distracted.” His gaze automatically flicks toward Hotch for a moment before he turns his full attention back to JJ. “Go ahead,” he says.
Out of the corner of his eye he can see Morgan watching him again.
…
They take a break for lunch, and when Spencer heads toward Hotch’s office, Hotch follows him. Before Spencer can even turn around Hotch is waving one hand in the air and asking “What the hell was that?” in a quiet(ish) but heated tone.
Spencer winces. “Well, I obviously couldn’t read at my normal pace,” he says.
“So you decided to read at the pace of a kindergardener?” Hotch asks, stepping closer. “What, were you sounding out the letters as you went along?”
“I was just trying to read more slowly,” Spencer says. He feels momentarily betrayed by his voice, which seems to have, against his volition, said these words in the same tone that a child uses when he’s offering up an excuse.
“You’re making me look like an idiot!” Hotch says, but some of the tension has released from his shoulders. Spencer never knew his body language was so expressive before. He thinks maybe it has something to do with his long limbs and wonders if any studies have been done to test for a correlation, but refocuses his attention on Hotch when he sees the way Hotch is raising one eyebrow at him.
“Sorry,” Spencer says. Hotch remains silent. “It won’t happen again?” Spencer offers tentatively.
“It better not,” Hotch says, and then he drops down to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk. Spencer sits in the chair beside him and leans back slightly to glance out at the bullpen through the open door.
Their voices weren’t loud enough for the words to carry, he knows, but the tone of the conversation definitely was. Sure enough Morgan and JJ are standing next to one another by Morgan’s desk, staring at Hotch’s office and murmuring to one another. When they see Spencer looking at them they abruptly turn away and break apart, JJ walking back to her office and Morgan sitting in his chair.
Spencer leans back forward and watches Hotch for a moment before he says, “Um. We might have a problem.”
Hotch snorts and tips his head back. “Might?”
Spencer resists the urge to kick at Hotch’s leg. “Not that,” he says. Hotch looks over at him, expression wary. Spencer doesn’t blame him. “JJ and Morgan,” Spencer says, tilting his head in a gesture toward the bullpen.
“Yeah,” Hotch says. “They know somethings off.”
Spencer fully blames Hotch for this, as Spencer had tried to persuade Hotch not to come to work in the first place. For lack of a better response he just says, “Yeah.”
…
They order in sandwiches from the deli down the block, opting to stay sequestered in Hotch’s office as much as possible.
“We could ask Garcia for help,” Spencer says at one point.
Hotch stares at him like he’s an idiot.
“Or not,” Spencer says.
Hotch continues to stare.
“Because that’s a bad idea,” Spencer finishes weakly.
Hotch rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his sandwich.
…
They’re back in the conference room, pictures spread across the table in front of them, trying to figure out how the arsonist jumped so dramatically from small fires in abandoned buildings to targeted fires in poverty stricken communities and then disappeared altogether.
“I know this fits some sort of pattern,” Morgan says, tapping one of the photos. “We should know this.”
Prentiss tucks her hair behind her ear and looks up at Hotch. “Shouldn’t you know some sort of statistics on this, Reid?” She asks.
Hotch glances at Spencer, wide-eyed, before he turns back to her. “Uh,” Hotch says, “Over fifty percent of all arsonists are under the age of eighteen.”
Prentiss laughs. “Something we don’t already know,” she says.
“Uh… thirteen percent of arson cases are drug related,” Hotch says. His voice raises at the end of the sentence, turning it into an almost-question. Spencer is horrified.
Morgan looks considering for a moment before he starts musing out loud about an adolescent predisposed to arson joining a gang and becoming immersed in a drug and violence saturated culture.
Spencer ignores him in favor of gaping at Hotch. Hotch just shrugs at him and tries to avoid his gaze, so Spencer grabs a scrap of paper and scrawls ‘did you just make that up?’ on it before sliding it across the table when everyone else is looking up at JJ.
Hotch reads the note and nods at him before crumpling the paper up and shoving it in his pocket.
Spencer stares at him like he’s grown another head. It doesn’t matter that the fake statistic ends up leading them to their UnSub, because Hotch is apparently just going around and ruining Spencer’s credibility with his ridiculous lies.
…
“You were right about the Kubler-Ross cycle,” Spencer says, pulling Hotch aside in the hallway. “We’re going back to anger.”
“Sorry,” Hotch says quietly. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Spencer says, and then he stalks away.
…
By the time six o’clock rolls around Spencer no longer wants to throttle Hotch, which he feels is a definite improvement. When Hotch walks into the office, Spencer barely even glares.
“Want to go grab dinner?” Hotch asks. When Spencer doesn’t respond Hotch adds, “On me.”
Spencer agrees.
…
“So,” Hotch says conversationally over spring rolls, “Morgan thinks we’re secretly dating.”
Spencer chokes slightly, coughing around the piece of shredded carrot he’s just inhaled. “What?” He asks when he can breathe again. Hotch smirks at him.
“Morgan cornered me earlier and asked me what’s going on between you and me,” Hotch says, taking a sip of water.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Spencer says, “we have been acting oddly.”
“I tried to play dumb,” Hotch says. “He pointed out the, quote, ‘obvious tension’ between the two of us.”
Spencer isn’t sure he wants to hear the rest of this, but Hotch continues, anyway, speaking in the same tone one might use when commenting on the weather. “When I told him that we’re just working some things out, he told me that he thinks that we’re good together, but that if anything goes down he’s got my back. Well, got *your* back.”
Spencer is vaguely aware that he’s sitting, open-mouthed with half a spring roll dangling from his hand, but he’s too stunned to move, or speak, or, you know, think.
Hotch takes another sip of water and smirks at him. “Oh, and he wanted to make sure that you’re up for the challenge of dating me; apparently I’m quite a handful.”
Spencer blinks rapidly and sets the forgotten spring roll on the plate in front of him. “Wait,” he says dumbly, “what?”
Hotch laughs. “I’m considering sending him to the ‘sensitivity training’ seminar this month based on an anonymous tip from a harassed coworker,” he says, and when Spencer doesn’t respond for a moment he tilts his head and asks, “too much?”
“Oh. My. God.” Spencer says, “we need to find a way to switch back.” Hotch is still smirking. “We need to find a way to switch back *right now.*”
…
While their brainstorming session doesn’t provide any viable solutions to (or explanations of) their predicament, it does involve a large amount of alcohol.
Around midnight Spencer finds himself sprawled in the armchair in Hotch’s living room, watching as Hotch lays on the couch and balances a half empty beer bottle on his stomach.
“Does Morgan always act that way toward you?” Hotch asks, out of nowhere. His head lolls to the side so he can look at Spencer.
“What do you mean?” Spencer asks.
“I don’t know. He was all… big brotherly, or something.”
“Oh,” Spencer says, taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah, he does that.”
“He was kind of condescending. It was annoying.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says.
“No, I mean… I mean, he patted me on the head at the end of the conversation, like I was his dog,” Hotch says, blinking blearily at Spencer. “He called me kid.”
“I know,” Spencer says, “but at least he didn’t pat you on the cheek.”
“He pats you on the cheek?” Hotch asks.
“Everybody does. Garcia pinches my cheeks at least once a week,” Spencer says, nodding.
There’s a silence before Hotch asks, “I’ve never patted your cheek, have I?”
“No,” Spencer says, smiling.
There’s another, even longer silence before Hotch looks at Spencer and asks, very seriously, “Did Gideon ever touch your cheek?”
Spencer laughs and shakes his head. “No, Hotch. Gideon did not touch my cheek.”
Hotch nods at this, apparently satisfied. “Good,” he says.
“This is the strangest conversation I have ever had with a coworker,” Spencer says.
“What about that one we had when I showed up at your apartment and you were in my body and I was in yours?”
Hotch asks.
“Well,” Spencer acquiesces, “there was that.”
Hotch huffs out a laugh and the bottle that’s been balancing precariously on his abdomen falls over, spilling beer down his side and the cushions of the sofa.
“And probably all the conversations since that,” Hotch says, looking at Spencer. He makes no move to retrieve the bottle.
…
“So,” Spencer says sometime after they’ve switched from drinking beer to drinking whiskey. “What do we do if we don’t switch back?”
Hotch groans and rubs his hand across his face. “I don’t know,” he says. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Fuck.”
“Just, ‘cause it would be kind of hard to pretend to be you all the time,” Spencer continues. “And you can’t go around pretending you have an eidetic memory and making up statistics forever.”
“I could pretend to be hit by a car and diagnosed with some kind of brain trauma that made me stupid,” Hotch offers after a minute.
“No,” Spencer says. “I would really appreciate it if you did not do that.”
They fall back into silence.
…
“You didn’t wish upon a star for this to happen or something, did you?” Hotch asks an hour later.
“What the fuck?” Spencer says, completely thrown by the question. “No.”
Hotch shrugs. “Isn’t that how it happens in movies?”
Spencer stares at him like he’s insane. “This isn’t, like, Freaky Friday here, Hotch.”
“Well,” Hotch says. Spencer waits for him to finish the sentence, but this is apparently the entire thought, because Hotch goes quiet and closes his eyes.
…
“If this *were* a movie,” Spencer says a few minutes later, and he might be kind-of slurring his words. “If this were a movie this would be the point where we’d realize a lot of groundbreaking things about one another.”
Hotch stares at the ceiling with a considering look. There’s a silence before he says, “I don’t like beets.”
Spencer blinks at him. “I don’t think that counts as groundbreaking,” he says.
“Oh,” Hotch replies. “I played trombone in the high school band.”
Spencer snorts a laugh. “I think you’re kind of missing the point, here,” he says.
Hotch turns his head to look at Spencer. “Reid, I’m in your fucking body,” he says, “I think there are bigger things to worry about.”
There’s a long silence while Spencer refills his glass, splashing whiskey over the side and onto the coffee table.
“I don’t like beets, either,” is what Spencer eventually says.
…
By three a.m. they’re both very drunk and have more or less given up on trying to figure out what the hell has happened or how they might fix it.
“We are so fucked,” Spencer says. Hotch nods and Spencer continues, “We’re going to be stuck like this forever and I don’t know how to act around your kid and we’re going to have to move to Alaska and it’s going to be awful.”
“I don’t know why we’re moving to Alaska,” Hotch says, “but yes.”
…
Spencer thinks this may be the drunkest he’s ever been in his life. He’s actually reached a point where he’s still drinking but he’s already starting to feel the impending hangover.
“Hotch,” he says earnestly, “I mean you’re awesome and everything, but I really don’t want to be you anymore.”
Hotch is kind of tilting sideways where he sits, squinting at Spencer. “Reid,” he slurs, “if Morgan pinches your cheeks you should punch him. Maybe.”
…
Spencer doesn’t know when he passed out, exactly, but he wakes up to the faint beep of Hotch’s alarm clock coming from his bedroom down the hall. Hotch is still asleep, spread across the couch in what looks like an uncomfortable position, with his head hanging over the edge of one cushion and what is probably drool on the corner of his mouth.
Spencer grimaces at the sight of his body pressed into the couch that awkwardly and pushes himself up out of the chair to stumble down the hallway to Hotch’s bedroom. Once he stands he realizes that he’s actually still drunk, and when he can’t figure the buttons of the alarm clock out he just rips the plug out of the wall and falls face first onto the bed.
The pillows and mattress feel amazing, and he falls back asleep immediately.
…
He wakes up to Hotch shaking him by the shoulder, eyes red rimmed and hair messed up and still wearing the sweater vest he had on yesterday.
“Reid,” Hotch says. “Reid, it’s eleven a.m.”
Spencer blinks at him groggily and makes a noise like ‘hmmnrgh.’
“We’re three hours late,” Hotch says.
Spencer’s head is pounding, and Hotch looks like he’s about to fall over. Spencer suspects that they both might actually still be drunk.
“Hotch,” he says, and his voice is deep and rough and unlike he’s ever heard Hotch’s voice before, “go away.”
“We can’t just miss work, Reid,” Hotch says.
Spencer glares up at him for a moment before he says, “Give me your phone.”
“Why?” Hotch asks, sounding both concerned and suspicious.
“Give me your fucking phone or I’m going to fire you,” Spencer growls.
Hotch winces at the volume of Spencer’s voice. “Ow,” he says, and then he leaves the room to get his phone. When he comes back he says, “You know if you fire me, you’re really firing yourself.”
Spencer snatches the phone from Hotch’s hand and flips it open to dial Morgan.
“Morgan,” Spencer says when Morgan answers, and then when Morgan asks where the hell he is Spencer says, “listen, I have the flu and I can’t come in because I’m contagious or whatever.” When Morgan tries to say something Spencer cuts him off. “Oh,” he says, “and Reid has uh, pneumonia or something, so he can’t come in either. Bye,” and flips the phone shut.
Hotch is gaping at him and Spencer shoves the phone back in his general direction. “Go away,” he says, “my head hurts.”
“He’s going to think I’ve gone crazy,” Hotch says, “that sounded nothing like me.” His shoulders are slumped, though, and he looks like he’s unsteady on his feet.
“It’s your voice,” Spencer says, “who cares?” He pulls a pillow over his head.
…
At two p.m. Spencer wakes to the sound of Hotch moving about in the kitchen, and he stumbles into the room blearily and pours a cup of coffee. Hotch has apparently been awake for a while, has showered and dressed and is now leaning against the counter opposite him.
“I don’t think we’re doing a very good job of keeping up appearances,” Hotch says, hands wrapped around his coffee mug. Spencer glares at him. “And you calling in sick for the both of us probably just further convinced Morgan that we’re dating.”
Spencer has a massive headache, and he closes his eyes for a moment while he takes a few deep breaths. Trying to concentrate on what Hotch is saying makes his head feel worse, so he ignores it for the time being. After long silence he asks, “Do you have any asprin?”
Hotch smirks and pads out of the room towards the bathroom; when he comes back he shakes the bottle loudly and laughs at Spencer’s wince before handing it over.
“Ow,” Spencer says. “How the hell are you not hungover?”
Hotch grins. “Chalk it up to your youthful ability to rebound from excessive alcohol intake.”
“Bastard,” Spencer mutters, and then he pops two asprin into his mouth and swallows them down with a large sip of coffee.
…
By four p.m. Spencer convinces Hotch that he should go home and that they should spend the rest of the day alone in quiet reflection.
“I’m really fucking annoyed and I need a break from all of this or I might punch you,” are his exact words. Then he adds, “Plus, I think I might vomit.”
When he gets home he lays on his couch for an hour and stares at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he’s going to pull off being Aaron Hotchner for the rest of his life. It’s just wrong, he thinks, because he’s really just figured out how to be Spencer Reid. Kind of.
Eventually he forces himself to get up and make a microwave dinner, and he sits in the overstuffed armchair in the corner of the room, reading through a text on DNA sequencing and ignoring the fact that it’s Hotch’s hands that he sees turning the pages.
…
It takes him a long time to fall asleep that night, even though the headache and queasiness have subsided. He keeps thinking about the next day, about having to go to work and do Hotch’s job and try to quell any ideas Morgan has about an illicit affair between himself and Hotch and figure out what the hell they’re going to do come Friday afternoon when Haley drops off Jack.
They are so incredibly fucked. By the time he finally drifts off it’s past midnight.
…
Spencer wakes up to the obnoxious beeping of an alarm clock, and he rolls over and hits the snooze button, irritated that he only got a few hours of sleep. He’s settled back down and closed his eyes again before he realizes that that was Hotch’s alarm clock, which is in Hotch’s bedroom, which is not where he went to sleep last night.
He sits up and looks at his hands (which are his own familiar hands again), and runs his fingers through his hair (which is long and tangled like it always is in the morning), and scrambles out of bed and into the bathroom.
Spencer has never been so glad to see his own reflection before.
…
He calls Hotch as he begins dressing, pulling on the clothes he’d left for Hotch to wear for the next few days.
There’s a moment of confusion, Hotch still groggy and coming around and then he hears, “Oh my god.”
“Yeah,” Reid says.
“I’m in my own body,” Hotch says.
“I know.”
“I’ll meet you at the office in twenty.”
Spencer makes a vague noise of agreement before hanging up. He stands in the bathroom for a minute longer, finger-combing his hair and smiling at himself in the mirror.
…
Morgan tries to get Spencer alone several times that morning, but Spencer manages to dodge him, not ready to have whatever conversation it is Morgan wants to have. It’s going to be about his and Hotch’s supposed relationship, and Spencer knows he’s going to blush and stutter at whatever insinuations Morgan makes.
At one point, as Morgan is trying to corner him, he looks over and catches Hotch’s eye. Hotch looks unbelievably amused by Spencer’s predicament, smirking at him without making any effort to help. Spencer glares at him, and when Hotch just laughs and walks away Spencer huffs out a sigh and rolls his eyes.
When he turns his attention back to Morgan he sees that Morgan is giving him a look that could maybe be construed as *concerned,* but which is definitely a little patronizing, and Spencer can’t help but remember Hotch drunkenly suggesting that Spencer should (maybe) punch him.
…
They’re gathered around in the conference room just after lunch, and as Spencer leans over the table his hair falls in front of his eyes. He makes a little noise of annoyance as he tucks it back behind his ear.
“Maybe you should get a haircut, Reid,” Hotch says, blinking at him innocently.
“My hair is just fine the way it is,” Spencer says, shooting Hotch an annoyed look.
“Or you could put it in a pony tail again— I thought it looked good the other day.”
Spencer purses his lips and tilts his head to the side. “That was a serious error in judgment on my part,” he says, "and it will never happen again."
“It was just a suggestion,” Hotch says.
Out of the corner of his eye Spencer notices Morgan and JJ exchanging a look.
…
“Hotch and I are not dating,” he says when Morgan finally corners him.
Morgan looks confused but sympathetic. “Did something happen?”
“No,” Spencer says. “We were never dating.”
“Oh,” Morgan says. He looks considering for a moment. “Then what’s been going on between the two of you?”
Spencer sighs. “It’s really, really hard to explain.”
Morgan tilts his head and looks at Spencer carefully. After a long silence he says, “I’ve got your back.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says. “Thanks.” He shoulders his way past Morgan and heads back to the bullpen.
…
At the end of the day he makes his way to Hotch’s office and plops down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“It wasn’t so bad being you,” Hotch says after a moment.
Spencer smiles at him. “You want to grab dinner?”
Hotch smiles back. “Yeah,” he says, “just let me finish this up.”
Spencer nods and slumps down in the chair, closing his eyes and letting his head tip back to rest against the back. “It’s been a weird week,” he says without opening his eyes.
“Very weird,” Hotch says.
…
When Spencer gets home that night he starts looking into the history and physics of bodyswapping. By all accounts it should be completely impossible, but he decides he’s going to find a way to prove that it isn’t.
...
Spencer can't help but speculate about what the point of the whole incident was. And even though he doesn't buy into the Freaky Friday theory, sometimes Spencer catches himself wondering if there was some moral lesson, some great personal truth that he was supposed to acquire, and he just missed the significance. He thinks about it once in a while, when he's falling asleep--tries to figure out what he learned.
All he can come up with is that Hotch doesn't like beets.
The desire to explain it fades as time goes on, and eventually Spencer writes it off as just some stuff that happened--a couple of days of random strangeness in a life full of oddity.
...
He and Hotch still have dinner or drinks together at least once a week, and Spencer never feels awkward around him anymore. They banter playfully, easily, and there's a completely different feel to their relationship. Spencer isn't sure how to classify it, exactly, but he knows that he likes the camaraderie that's developed between them.
...
From time to time he catches Hotch's eye at an off moment in the office or on the plane and he remembers how completely ridiculous the two of them acted and he can't help but laugh.
Hotch always smiles back before ducking his head down and looking away.
...
A few years go by, and though he never forgets it (never *could* forget it), he puts it out of his mind as much as he can. He finds himself at the bar one night, celebrating his birthday by having a drink with JJ and Will and Prentiss, and, out of nowhere, JJ says, "Reid--remember that time Morgan had us all convinced that you and Hotch were dating?" She pushes her bangs out of her eyes and chuckles.
"Oh, yeah," Prentiss chimes in, grinning. "I forgot about that. The weird part was, for a few days, we really believed it."
Spencer thinks of that moment when he looked into Hotch's bathroom mirror and his whole world was turned upside down, and he can't help but laugh. "Yeah," he says, "that's not the weird part."