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Hotch was a good baker.
Not a lot of people would’ve guessed that about him, but if you thought about it a little bit, it’s really not that much of a surprise.
It’s meticulous. Precise. Everything is about following every rule to the letter. It requires patience.
It’s right up Hotch’s alley.
Penelope was the one known for bringing tasty treats to the BAU. She enjoyed cooking for others; she would recipe test weekly, and whatever passed inspection would get mass produced and left on the break table or communal fridge. It was an irregular, but common, tradition.
Common enough that no one questioned it when a platter piled with cookies showed up one day in the kitchenette. Or the next week when a dozen pounds of fudge appeared on the counter. Or the following week when there were stacks of tupperware filled with cupcakes.
Penelope was a little confused when a passing agent would compliment her on her latest creation, but quickly brushed it aside. It wasn’t until the third week of undue praise that she asked Derek if he knew what they were talking about.
She didn’t leave the batcave often—especially when the others were out on a case—and even when she did she was either in the round table room or hovering around her friends’ desks. She rarely had reason to be in the break area, other than the times she dropped off food.
So it came as a bit of a shock to them all when she admitted she hadn’t brought anything recently. Curious, with nothing better to do and a laughable social life, they decided to attempt to ferret out the resident baker.
It took a few days of arriving hours early and staking out the breakroom (they had duos on a daily rotation: Penelope and Derek were today’s) until they finally saw Hotch walk in with a tin of brownies.
They thought they were delirious at first. The others definitely did when they broke the news. They sat on their desks in a circle, uncharacteristically silent, lost in thought as they imagined Aaron Hotchner baking. It was painfully domestic; certainly not unreasonable—they knew he had a family, after all—but such a stark contrast to their mental image of their powerful leader. It took nearly an hour for each of them to shake off their stupor and they resumed the huddle to determine their next move.
The confrontation was as boisterous as expected: not by Hotch, mind you, but by the gaggle of excitable agents tripping over each other to get into his office like crabs trying to get out of a bucket. The small room was suddenly very crowded.
“…Can I help you?” Hotch asked warily, raising an eyebrow as the commotion settled.
For once they were quiet, eyeing each other waiting for someone else to say something first. JJ was ultimately the one to muster the courage and blurt out, “Do you bake?”
It was more of an accusation than a question, and Hotch’s face remained impassive, though he felt a hint of a tug on his lips. So that’s what this was about. “Yes.”
They all knew better than to expect him to elaborate on his own. Emily shouldered her way through Reid and Morgan to stand in front. “And you’ve been bringing stuff here? To the BAU?”
Another question that wasn’t a question. Hotch simply nodded.
Penelope huffed, growing a little impatient and admittedly a little peeved that someone else—their unit chief, no less—had been providing food for the rest of the team. Good food. She’d always been better at cooking than baking, and it was a little embarrassing to be outdone by someone she forgot even ate food. “Any particular reason?” Morgan asked, smartly phrasing it in a way that would garner an actual response.
Hotch shrugged noncommittally, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. If they squinted hard enough, it almost seemed like he was smug. The nerve. “Jack’s been wanting to bake more often. He’s trying to figure out what to bring for the class party. It’s too much for just the two of us.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” He could hear Emily smile more than he could see it, which should’ve been enough of an answer in itself. He knew he would be teased no matter what he said, and he wasn’t interested in encouraging them. He remained silent.
Reid, practically married to the coffee machine therefore in the break room constantly, ran through his recollections of food available in recent months. “Did you bring the sugar cookies last June?”
Hotch nodded curtly, growing tired of questions they knew the answers to. If it was possible for five people to collectively wince, they would have. They knew they would wear down his patience eventually. They probably had about a handful of questions left before he sent them away.
“How long have you been baking?”
He stared at the ceiling for a moment, silently counting. “About 25 years.”
“Oh shit,” Emily hissed quietly, earning an elbow in the gut from JJ. Though none of them could really fault her for voicing their surprise.
The interrogation continued. “Have you brought food before?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been bringing food?”
Hotch jutted his chin towards Rossi’s office. “More in the early days. Didn’t have much time when I was adjusting to the unit chief workload. But I still do every once and a while.”
Reid was making a mental note of all the times there had been baked goods waiting in the breakroom. He locked eyes with Penelope and they silently agreed to go over the list later to check what she had/hadn’t brought and figure out what exactly their esteemed leader fed them.
“What else can you make?”
Another shrug, but this one was laced with barely perceivable exasperation. Their time was running out.
An energy sizzled in the air as they all feverishly whittled down their curiosities, trying to decide what to prioritize. It was only a handful of seconds, but with their minds were working overdrive, it might as well have been hours.
Morgan ultimately made the final request. “Will you make something for us?”
A pause. The other silently approved the question, but they feared all they’d receive in return would be a blank glare. But it was worth a shot. It opened the door for future discussions, which they knew wouldn’t go unnoticed by the senior profiler.
The next few seconds were excruciating before he finally replied. “What would you like?”
If the room was buzzing before, it was positively electric now. They turned to each other and whispered in a hushed deliberation. They hadn’t really considered the possibility that they would have options. Seemingly endless options if his vague responses were anything to go by—a known indicator of Hotch’s humility. He was likely more skilled than they previously thought. It was impossible to decide.
“Can we ask later?” They were all wide eyed, brimming with hope and practically pouting. It wasn’t dissimilar to Jack’s kindergarten class.
Hotch hummed and waved them off with one hand as he returned to the paperwork on his desk, taking care not to smile until the door closed behind them.