it turns out writing is hard

A pantry. A pantry! Who the hell gets stuck in a pantry? Especially with Hotch around, who on his best days is basically a tank dressed up in a crisp tailored suit. But then again, even a well-dressed Virginian tank apparently has no luck against an unsub with a sawed-off shotgun, Spencer reasons.

At least he just forced them to drop their guns and phones and then locked them in the pantry, rather than shoot off their faces right then and there. They did profile him to be the submissive of the pair, and that he would balk at killing someone outright. There’s a can of something digging into the small of his back. Probably tomato sauce. Or corn. Or maybe beans. So at least the team is going to realize something’s off when they don’t show back up at the police station.

“You’re not calm,” Hotch grits. Maybe he’s got a can of something nonperishable digging into his back, too.

“Sorry,” Spencer says. “We’re just— it’s really tight in here. And I’m claustrophobic. Did I mention that?”

“You did.”

“Oh. I did?”

“Several times.”

“Oh,” Spencer repeats, and tries to wiggle away from the can again. “It’s just that the traditional definition of claustrophobia refers to it as an irrational fear of confined spaces, when in reality I find it entirely reasonable to not want to be squashed into a tight space where you can barely breathe, not to mention the lack of air circulation, and adding another person into that—”

“Reid,” Hotch says again, maybe for the fourth or fifth time. “I understand that you’re anxious, but right now we need to focus our attention on getting out of the pantry.”

“He padlocked it,” Spencer replies immediately, wishing he could move his arms. They’re pressed up against Hotch’s chest, and with barely an inch difference between their respective heights, he’s basically right in Hotch’s face, too. Hotch, for his part, has his arms awkwardly positioned at his sides. Spencer’s more of a beanpole, having to duck his head to avoid smacking it into the lightbulb above them, but Hotch has bulk. He’s probably even more uncomfortable. “And you don’t have enough space to kick it down.”

“I’m aware of that,” Hotch says, and the tension in his tone has ramped up. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Uh,” Spencer says, blinking. Hotch is a little cross-eyed. “No.”

“Try to think of something, then.”

“Oh,” Spencer says again. “No, I’ve been thinking this entire time. I actually can’t stop thinking. The good news is at least that we have about twenty-one hours roughly before we run out of air, even with the CO2 buildup, because the gap under the door is about three-quarters of an inch which means we can still get some oxygen, though it would be much better if this pantry had a door with slats rather than the typical—”

“Spencer.”

The use of his given name does actually stop Spencer in his tracks, but more than that it’s the way that Hotch says it. His eyes are squeezed tight, his teeth are gritted together, and there’s a bead of sweat that’s running down the side of his temple. Classic signs of… anxiety? Stress?

“Hotch,” Spencer says in stunned disbelief, “are you claustrophobic?”

He doesn’t get a response in the form of a word, but rather in the way Hotch opens his eyes again and glares at him. It’s not a real glare, necessarily, more of a you’re not supposed to figure that out glare, which just serves to shock Spencer even more. He blinks at him.

“You are,” Spencer says.

“I’m just… not comfortable in tight spaces,” Hotch corrects, which is the textbook definition of claustrophobia. But Spencer is absolutely willing to let it slide, because there’s something… oddly comforting about being in the exact same situation as someone as stalwart and fearless as Hotch. “It isn’t usually such a problem.”

“Oh,” Spencer repeats, and hums. “True. This isn’t a typical situation one would find themselves in. I guess normally it wouldn’t even come up. And I guess that means neither one of us are entirely equipped to keep the other one calm, since both of us are starting to show the signs of increased anxiety that come from prolonged close contact while in a confined space, and increased respiration from continued anxiety could also reduce our survival rate from—”

“God.” Hotch starts wiggling, which definitely makes a bag of chips fall somewhere and manages to extract one arm, which he holds, palm towards himself, up to eye level. Spencer stares at it, and Hotch shakes his hand a bit. “Here. Just hold my hand.”

Spencer gapes at him, speechless. If only the team could see him now.

“Hold your… hand?”

“Yes, hold my hand.” Hotch stares at something just to Spencer’s left ear before his gaze slides over to make eye contact again. He pauses, and then nods slightly. “Jack asks me to hold his hand when he’s scared. I figured it couldn’t hurt, given our… limited options.”

Spencer considers that for a moment, and then manages to squeeze his arm over so that he can take Hotch’s hand. Their limited options pretty much boil down to waiting and hoping for the best, so Hotch really isn’t that far off.

“You know, Jack’s pretty smart,” Spencer finally says after a moment. “Hand-holding reduces the level of the stress hormone cortisol, which means that we’re able to think more clearly. Plus the increased pressure from our hands can slow our heart rates, decrease our blood pressure, and put us in a much more relaxed state.”

Instead of answering verbally, Hotch just squeezes his hand tighter.

Spencer thinks about it again, and then smiles a bit awkwardly.

“You know, I never would’ve guessed that about you,” he admits. “You’re pretty much the most valorous person I’ve ever met. It’s actually kind of comforting to share the same fear as you.”

Despite everything, Hotch’s lips quirk up and he squeezes Spencer’s hand once more.