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Aaron isn’t sure what he’s expecting when Grayson sends out a last minute invitation to one of the picnic pavilions in the national forest nearby, but it certainly isn’t his typically buttoned up agent wearing worn jeans, ratty tennis shoes, and a Black Canary concert shirt that has a few bleach stains and a hole in the armpit. Haley pants happily at his feet, excited by the chaos but enthralled by her new owner.
JJ, Will, and Henry are already there and Jack bolts ahead to play with his friend. Aaron follows at a more sedate pace, a smile warming his face.
Duke is nearing success in goading Damian into a game of tag with the two kids. Cassandra is deep in conversation with Reid, hands flying and faces expressive.
Beth squeezes Aaron’s hand as they reach the pavilion. Their relationship is still new, but Grayson had specifically mentioned her in the invitation. Aaron gets to introducing her. She’s met the team a few times now, but never Grayson’s siblings. Granted, Aaron hasn’t met most of them either. By virtue of how often Grayson speaks of them, he feels as though he knows them each personally.
Snacking their way through a store bought charcuterie board, Garcia and Tim are laughing about the most nonsensical code commands they’ve encountered.
Stephanie holds court at the furthest picnic table, Prentiss and Morgan on either side as she reads dramatically through her private Twitter feed of the most unhinged things her siblings say.
The only person Aaron can’t identify is a burly man with scarred hands, standing over the crackling grill. He’s intently discussing with Dave when to flip each brat, burger, and chicken breast. The newcomer introduces himself as Jay, giving Aaron a once over before grunting in acceptance.
Beth takes it all in stride. It’s no surprise. She was quick to welcome his eclectic team as his extended family and Grayson’s siblings are just as, if not more, unique.
“And you know Dick,” Aaron concludes, coming to stand beside his probationary agent who contently watches the activity.
“How are you?” Beth asks, sipping the lemonade that Cassandra poured her.
He tilts his head, wind catching his hair.
When he opens his eyes, he nods. “I’m doing well. It’s been a while since I’ve had all the kids in one place.”
Aaron takes a moment to observe his agent. It’s been a rough few months, certainly. Family looks good on Grayson.
They chat a bit longer. Beth seems particularly adept at pulling stories out of Dick about himself, or maybe he keeps on topic because every time he mentions a sibling, whoever’s nearest throws chips and popcorn at him.
The first round of brats go out, conversation flowing. Not a bad use of their weekend off.
“Dick!” Jay shouts. “Get your a- butt over here, we’re planning Ultimate Frisbee.”
Panic flashes across Grayson’s face. “Alfred banned Ultimate Frisbee!” he shouts back. It seems that Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss have been roped into whatever the game entails. Given the slightly feral look on Damian’s face as he joins the fray against Grayson’s protests, Aaron suspects this isn’t the no contact sport he played in college.
“Alfred’s not here!” Stephanie and Duke argue back, voices overlapping.
Grayson casts his gaze to Dave, who studiously returns to searing zucchini and squash. Cassandra and Reid both sign something sarcastic by their expressions.
Occupied now with the two single digit children, Will and Garcia are oblivious to Grayson’s plight.
Grayson sighs. “I am not taking the fall if someone breaks a bone,” he asserts. He glances at Aaron. “Want to play?”
“Woah,” her son breathes, letting go of JJ’s hand to rush to a wiry cage containing a mound of child-sized inflatables. Henry wraps his fingers around the barrier watching in awe as a winched up little girl wraps her skinny legs around a crocodile while her nimble hands reach for a pair of bananas.
Games jingle and cheer, migraine-inducing lights flashing from every direction of the arcade. JJ takes a sip of her electric blue drink, wishing desperately that it had the gin suggested.
Across the cube loudly labeled the human claw machine, a man with rusty red hair chokes on his non-alcoholic beer when he sees the girl bite into one of the green aliens to add to her bounty. “No, Lee, what did I just say?”
She grins at him, feral in a way all children are two sodas deep.
“Lian Nguyen-Harper, get that out of your mouth.”
“He’s gonna have to vaccinate you again, Lee. That’s nasty,” the man’s companion teases.
JJ blinks at her friend. “Dick?” she calls.
“Hey, Jayje!” he greets, cheers-ing her with an extra cheesy flatbread.
Still in the harness, Lian spits out the plastic inflatable. “I’m compacting them,” she insists.
“Please reel her in,” the dad calls to the employee working the rig. She obliges with obvious relief. “And grab the one you bit, I’m swabbing it for diseases.”
Henry tugs on her shirt. “I wanna turn,” he insists.
“Let’s check the rules,” she answers, praying that there’s a height requirement.
Dick and his friend are at the operator station with Lian proudly dismounting from the hanging sheath. Inflatables fall to her feet. “I got eight this time,” she announces.
“And we’ll keep the one you chomped on, you goat,” her dad agrees.
She narrows her eyes at him, all elementary school ire. “I got eight this time,” she repeats tersely.
“Alas, the rules say you can only keep one, Lee.” Dick gestures theatrically to the sign.
She lasts only a few more moments, before huffing and hopping down from the platform, arms wrapped around the alien.
Rules located, JJ starts skimming the poster in the dancing lights. Henry vibrates with excitement beside her. “I like your green friend,” he compliments.
Lian beams. “You can have her,” she suggests, holding out the toy.
JJ opens her mouth to thank the girl and deny the gesture at the same time her dad opens his mouth to encourage her to get rid of the massive inflatable. They lock eyes. Stalemate.
“Roy, this is my teammate JJ,” Dick greets. Tension eased. The kids are going on about the ‘spy adventure’ Lian went on to recover the ‘target’ from the ‘strongest fortress’ maintained by the ‘League.’ “JJ, this is my friend Roy, Lian’s dad.”
They shake hands. “Do you live in DC?” JJ asks, content to make small talk while Henry’s distracted. With luck, he’ll forget about the game entirely. Their home absolutely does not need a giant banana.
The young father—and he would have been younger, when he had Lian—shakes his head. “Just visiting this a-hole. He finally freed up a weekend for his oldest friend.”
Dick snorts, genuinely amused. “Oldest friend, huh?”
“If you’re going to suggest West-”
“I was gonna say Donna.”
Roy concedes.
Spilling over with the excitement of a new friend, Lian tugs Henry to the row of Skee-Ball machines. The adults follow at a more sedate place, relieved to be away from the human claw machine and letting the kids tire themselves out between Pac-Man and Whack-A-Mole and Guitar Hero.
Adorned with a rainbow slinky and a stuffed monkey—plus pockets brimming with candy—the five of them victoriously make their way into the parking lot.
“Thanks for letting Lian run Henry ragged,” Roy comments.
“I was going to say the same,” JJ laughs. Henry insists on walking, even though his shoes drag over the concrete.
They drop the Harpers at Roy’s beat up truck, but after an emotionally charged bro hug, Dick keeps with JJ, having driven separately.
“That was nice of you to help with Lian today,” she tells him as Henry gives up the fight now that his cool big kid friend is out of sight. She swoops her son into her arms. She ponders her ability to do so in the future, with a second little one to hold and protect.
Dick shrugs. “It was nice of Roy to let me see her. I’ve missed that spitfire.” At her curious look, he smiles ruefully. “We had a falling out a few years back. I saw him after the Grundy attack in DC last summer and…” They arrive at her car. “We’ve been working out our differences. I’m glad to have him back in my life. He actually- He flew out here with Lian just to visit.”
“You’ve got some really good friends, Dick.” JJ starts clipping Henry into his car seat.
“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “I really do.”
“Do you have restaurant recommendations in the city?” Grayson asks when Dave answers the call.
The senior agent slows, pauses, then returns to his well-loved arm chair. “Who do you think you’re talking to, kid?” he chides, just shy of offended. “Of course I have restaurant recommendations. What’s the occasion?”
There’s the scrape of hangers along a metal rod, clothing thudding softly against each other as Grayson sifts desperately through his closet.
“My… I guess grandpa? Is visiting me and I promised he wouldn’t have to cook but then I remembered that he’s never allowed to see me in the kitchen.”
“You guess?”
Dick sighs. His closet door clicks shut in the background. “He’s technically the family butler. Alfred. I’ve mentioned Alfred, you know Alfred, right?”
Dave chuckles good naturedly. “You’ve mentioned Alfred,” he assures. “He’s a bit of a food snob, I take it?”
“No!” Dick squawks. “Never say that, do not tell him that! He just- He has standards, you know?”
“Sure, kid.” Dave waits a beat. “What’s his ideal evening? Household and familial duties aside, what’s his equivalent of an old vinyl and an older whiskey.”
“He, hm.” The frown is audible. “I… don’t know.” He contemplates. There’s the sound of water running and ceramic being set into the plastic dishwasher. “He hums the Beatles when he thinks no one can hear. And I know he reads just about anything recommended to him. He likes to garden, but he’s mostly directed part time workers these last few years.”
Thankfully, these are the exact details Dave needs. A restaurant isn’t just a meal. It’s an experience. It’s the lighting and the seating. The music, the staff, the menu. All of it coalesces into the ambiance of the food plated before you.
“I’ll get you a reservation at Fiola. You’ll order the Verdi menu with the non-alcoholic option. He’ll want the oro nero aperitivo, the misticanza appetizer, the tagliolini al tartufo nero pasta, and the sedano rapa, macedonia di salicornie, mandorla entrée.
“You’ll get the piadina aperitivo, the misticanza appetizer, the gnocchi burro e formaggio pasta, and the funghi di primavera entrée. You’ll both order the tartufo calabrese dolce vita—dessert.”
Grayson makes a noise of concern. “You want me to eat fungus?” The words are slightly nasal, his nose scrunched up. No protest about the different menus, Dave notes. He’s noticed Grayson being slightly more adventurous with his orders lately, meaning he’s not seconding whichever meal sounds the best that another teammate requested.
Dave tuts. “You ask for my help, you order my menu selections, capisci?”
“Capiche.” A beat of silence. “Thanks, Rossi.”
“Ma certo!” He sips his whiskey. Dave smiles warmly. They end the call amicably and he gets to work. Same night reservations to Michelin Star restaurants don’t make themselves.
Jogging his usual route through Fuller Heights, Derek slows when he sees a familiar pup being pet by a not so familiar redhead.
His pacing’s already screwed from avoiding some geese earlier in the run, so he finds no shame in slowing down and whistling for Haley.
The stranger stands leisurely. He looks surprised to see Derek there, grin slipping as if he expected someone else.
Haley’s still small enough to pick up, although she’s almost twice the size she was when Derek first met her.
“Hey, man, can I help you?” His voice is familiar, but Derek can’t place it.
“You her owner?” he asks, knowing the answer.
The stranger shrugs. He’s wearing worn sneakers and a thin jacket despite the chilly weather. “Nah. He ran to the bathroom. Why?”
Derek strains his mind, trying desperately to place where he knows this person. “Park rules state all dogs must be on their leash,” he states calmly. The chances of this man being a dognapper are miserably low, but until he sees Grayson, he’s not leaving.
“Oh, shit.” He pats down his pockets until he produces Haley’s red and green leash. There are little decals of a stylized yellow R along it, already rubbed off where Grayson normally holds the leash.
Hopefully his friend will continue to have a good day after this is sorted out.
The redhead reaches out to clip leash on, about which Derek and Haley are both wary.
“Something wrong, Walls?” Grayson slows his jog next to the stranger. “Derek, hey!”
And it clicks into place. Derek’s only ever heard West’s voice over the phone before. After some smoother introductions and tension laughed away, Derek admits, “I’m surprised you came all this way for a weekend trip.”
West chuckles good naturedly. His eyes twinkle with mischief. “I make it out more often than you’d think.”
Grayson bumps their shoulders together, a soft, affectionate smile breaking through. For a moment, it looks like their fingers will entangle, but Dick pulls away at the last second. The mirth in West’s eyes diminishes but doesn’t disappear.
The three of them start walking down the same path Derek jogs in town on Mondays and Wednesdays. Haley keeps at Grayson’s side, but she seems very familiar with West. She hunkers down to do her business, and Derek pulls West away under the guise of finding a poop bag.
“You live in Missouri, yeah?”
“Sure do,” West agrees. His hands are loose at his sides, a bounce in his step. He glances back at Grayson with a beatific smile gracing his lips.
Derek crosses his arms, flexing the muscle there with just a hint of intention. “You capable of making the long distance thing work?”
The other man sputters. “I- What-? You-” He wipes his hand over his mouth to reset. “More profilers, what a joy,” he mutters under his breath. He sucks in a lungful of steeling air and catches Derek’s eye. “If Dick ever wants to open that line of dialogue, he knows I’m here.”
Derek studies him, flows every sliver of attention into this man in this moment. West’s expression is open, his body sincere. The words are respectful and careful. He’s said them before.
“Good,” Derek decides. “If you hurt him-”
“I know, dangled off a building, fed to sharks, drop kicked into space, online presence erased, vanished into the night, impaled with your favorite sword,” he sighs, rubbing his brow.
Derek feels oddly impressed with the level of threats Grayson’s other loved ones have managed to impress upon the man who thinks sunshine is a nickname for friends.
When they return with the plastic bag, West bending down to pick up Haley’s shit, Grayson stares Derek down for a long moment before sighing. The annoyance disappears when West pops back up with an exaggerated complaint about the smell.
The speeches drag on for hours. Emily watches several Congress members narrowly avoid face planting into their gazpacho because their aids nudge them just before they doze off completely.
The Bureau director says something that draws applause from the ladder-climbing front row of tables. Beside Emily, Grayson gives a charitable golf clap.
His eyes are wide, intent, interested. He hasn’t eaten anything on his plate, nor drank anything poured into his glass. Visibly, he hangs on every word that she’s certain hasn’t processed beyond whether it’s enunciated as an applause line.
Paranoia aside, she doesn’t blame him. Her steak was undercooked, her roasted carrot crunchy, and her wine too sweet. Whatever inspired the FBIAA to host a gala for Bureau families, it did not inspire them to taste test the caterers.
People are standing and cheering now. Cameras flash. Emily plays her part, putting on an endearing, respectful, pleased face.
There’s a reason that she and Grayson were selected to represent the BAU at this event. Garcia may have enjoyed the free food, Hotch and Rossi may have old buddies around, JJ may have a kid in the home, and Morgan may live closest to venue, but none of them have the gala-specific schmoozing skills that Emily and Grayson honed in their childhoods.
Maybe next year someone from Nguyen’s team will go in their stead. Maybe one of them will get a kick out of the rapidly approaching cocktail hour.
“Shall we?”
Grayson sighs audibly, but it doesn’t reflect in his features. “We shall.”
They mill around, greeting the few agents they know and congratulating award recipients. As early as possible, they get into the unofficial line to speak with the Director. Grayson flows through small talk with a trio of agents from the National Security Branch when they’re approached from behind.
“Mr. Grayson,” comes a dangerously gregarious voice.
Grayson’s smile tightens like he took an impact drill to it. “It’s Special Agent,” he corrects pointedly. There’s a sour edge to his voice. “I didn’t know you were a member of the FBI, Mr. Luthor.” He shoves his fists in his pockets, ignoring Luthor’s offered hand.
It’s only the years biting her tongue in a frilly dress that allow Emily to smoothly sip her sparkling apple juice.
“Ah, the event is open to supporters of FBI families,” he leisurely replies. “As it happens, LexCorp has taken a philanthropic interest in the FBI Agents Association’s scholarships.”
“Funny, I didn’t see your logo on the program.”
Luthor rolls his shoulders, flagging down a waiter circling with mini cheesecakes. “We decided to remain an anonymous donor due to some of the unfounded controversies surrounding our workplace accessibility. Wouldn’t want that negative press rubbing off on such a worthy cause.”
“Unfounded, sure.” Grayson’s eyes flick to the woman, a personal assistant by the posture, at Luthor’s shoulder. He seems to regard her as the bigger threat. “Not certain your anonymity will be retained once the Post finishes up here.”
The CEO shrugs, unconcerned as he selects a chocolate raspberry cake. He offers the tray to them. Grayson conceals a flinch back by checking on the Director. “Yes, I suppose there was only one party I was concerned about forewarning of our involvement with the organization.”
The words are meaningless to Emily, but Grayson pales considerably at them.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting, Mr. Luthor,” Emily interjects smoothly, using her confusion to her advantage. She holds out her hand. “Special Agent Emily Prentiss, Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
Luthor shakes her hand firmly, an impassive businessman. “I heard Mr. Grayson here switched agencies,” he comments. His predator gaze remains on her stiff, but formidable companion. “Isn’t catching serial killers beneath you, Agent?”
“Isn’t interacting with a Wayne bad luck, Cue Ball?” he snarks back. Emily’s so surprised at Dick invoking his ex-guardian’s name, she can’t prevent herself from snorting at the epithet. “I heard Tim tanked your stock last time you let him in your offices. In fact-” He pulls his fists from his pockets, jazz hands and all. “-you might want to check Twitter. Something tells me you’ll be needing to update your SLAPP suit before this next PR disaster gets off the ground.”
Luthor sneers, teeth gritted. The PA next to him pulls out her phone and nods to Luthor. “Always a pleasure seeing you, Richard.”
Grayson bares his teeth, all pretense of civility dropped. “Wish I could say the same, Lex. Give your attorneys my regards.”
Emily waits until Luthor is out of earshot before turning to Grayson. “Impressive restraint,” she teases. “Maybe Hotch will think twice before-”
“We need to leave,” Grayson states.
Emily frowns. Strauss had impressed upon them the importance of staying through nine and getting as much face time with the Director as possible. If they leave now, there will be a very angry email waiting in her inbox on Monday.
On the other hand, Grayson has shallowed his breathing and his natural fidgeting has frozen. His eyes are tracking Luthor’s exit, rather than pinging carefully around the room.
She grabs his wrist before he bolts without her. “I’ll call a cab.” She’s horrified to learn he’s capable of staving off a panic attack until after he’s thrown their hotel room for bugs.