BitterBee @bitterbees4u - Tumblr Blog

Crush

Summary: Spencer Reid has a crush. A big, fat, all consumming, might be more than puppy love crush. On you. The latest member to join the team. Dangerous and secretive, it takes guts to try and cross you, or your family, and speaking of guts, Spencer wants to be all up in yours.

Warnings: Sick author writing (guys I have a staph infection in my eyes), stoned writing, unedited, horny yearner Spencer Reid, SMUT, soft Dom! Spencer, it is explicitly stated that reader is ASEAN and Native but not strictly just those, typical BAU stuff, some light angst, not too bad though. Did I mention Spencer Reid is so down bad for the reader??? Rich reader (god I love fabulously wealthy reader)

Pairings: Spencer Reid x Addams!Reader (yeah as in Addams family, but it's got a minor twist to it)

A/N: There will be continuations of Addams!Reader, but this was getting long and I needed to end it somehow. I hope y'all enjoy, and am I totally happy with how this came out? Not particularly, but I'm going to post it anyways, I'll probably revamp it later but not this week.

WC: 31.4K

It’s starting to get colder in Virginia. Fall comes with her array of reds, yellows, and browns, seeping into the leaves of every tree, crunching beneath the soles of strangers. Arms are covered, scarves wrapped around necks, there’s boots out on the town more often than not these days. Spencer loves the Fall, he truly does. Vegas isn’t made for the pretty leaves and the crisp morning air, not like it is in Quantico. Fall is also the best time for him to wear cardigans without too much teasing because more than half the population is also wearing a cardigan.

He thinks of his cardigan, too big and beige but comfortable with nice wooden buttons, when he sees you enter the door looking like that. Like you just stepped off a set from a Tim Burton movie in real life. Dark hair, whether it’s dyed or natural, he doesn’t know because it could be either or, twisted up in a complicated looking bun. Face done up with sharp winged eyeliner, and your brows. Your brows. You’ve drawn them on, sharp and angled upright, somehow perfectly symmetrical. Lips painted red and lined with brown, glossy, kissable, he thinks.

Then there’s the matter of your clothes, all in a shade of black with gold accents, you’re wearing an underbust waistcoat, and he’s ninety percent certain that you’ve got a pocket watch in there. Flowy sleeves with an Edwardian neckline, black heels, a black trench coat, and of course, straight legged black dress pants with purple pinstripes in them. You’re like something from a movie, or a story, not something that belongs in the bullpen of the BAU. Almost immediately the whispers break out, but Spencer can’t listen to them, not when you take a seat at the desk right in front of him.

You’re either very good at ignoring the gawking or you’re taking it in stride, but you don’t acknowledge any of it. Spencer knows better than to say his co-workers are being discreet, they aren’t, and then he’s aware that he’s just staring at you. He clears his throat, desperately trying to tramp down the heat that creeps up his neck to his ears as your eyes catch onto his, “Hi, I ah, I’m uh, I’m Doctor Spencer Reid, I-I guess I’m your deskmate?”

He doesn’t reach his hand out to shake yours, and neither do you to his relief. Instead you raise one of those perfect brows at him and tilt your head a smidgen, “I see, pleasure to meet you Doctor.”

Your voice. Silky smooth and beautiful, there’s a hint of an accent there but you’ve disguised it well enough to prevent him from figuring out where exactly you had come from before sitting at a desk in the BAU. You’re confident, like you know exactly what to say and what effect it might have on the people you’re speaking to. Yet you give your name to him anyway, and still you don’t reach out to shake his hand, he’s grateful.

Derek’s voice comes next, right behind Spencer with a flirtatious grin as he eyes you carefully, “And I’m Derek Morgan, I’ll say it’s most certainly a pleasure to meet you.”

The rest of the team creeps in just like that, slipping around Spencers’ desk with ease as they ask you questions. What did you study? How old are you? How did you get your eyeliner so perfect? They learn you’re twenty-three, that you’re a small-time genius with three degrees, a PhD in Cultural studies, a masters in Anthropology, and finally you’ve got a bachelors in sociology. Well rounded, you’re certainly not a secretary, not that Spencer would think you were from the moment you stepped inside.

You’re beautiful and dolled up but you don’t seek the attention that secretaries usually do. They’re fun, flirtatious, they often help balance out the somber atmosphere of the BAU and how it usually exists. You aren’t any of that though, and it’s clear you’re likely going to be joining the team. Like blood in the water they are sharks attracted to the scent of it, hellbent on finding out everything before getting to the source first. You give perfect answers, borderline clinical if not for the note of warmth in your tone.

The answers are expected, you’re not here to give an autobiography, you’re here to work. Work you will do, especially once Rossi and Hotch arrive, making their way over to the small crowd that is your desk with Spencer’ as collateral. You stand once they arrive, and this time you do shake hands, they speak your name and you confirm it, which makes things official. You and them, you and the BAU, you and your place amongst the FBI hallways despite the larger than life lashes that brush against your cheeks when you look down.

Between the hours of nine and twelve you spend them by becoming acquainted with the team, with the paperwork and the flow of the bullpen. You’re new so you don’t know how it fully works yet, but you’re smart, you can figure out the culture of the workplace faster than most do. You take stock of the mugs, how each person has one and it’s held close, not shared, because it’s the one thing of possession they have. Possession. It seems, in your opinion, that the BAU is possessive of its members, and inside the members are possessive over the few personal things that help tie their identity in.

That is what those first few hours have taught you, and you are no fool to think you will be exempt from that unspoken rule. There is also a clear divide between the co-workers, the team that goes out versus the team that stays inside. The ones able to make the cut, efficient and valuable enough to be sent out to the midst of the chaos and gore. Then there’s those that aren’t eligible, smart enough to be there amongst them, but not good enough to stand with them. It almost reminds you of high-school cliques.

The popular kids, the average kids, and the ones that are tucked quietly away in a corner so nobody will see them. You’re now the unknown variable to the carefully constructed equation that the BAU follows in order to function, the kind where if one variable is removed the equation becomes unsolvable. Either it falls apart completely, or it remains but it becomes an unsteady, gaping, mystery.

That is how the BAU functions, and you’ve just become a part of it.

_____________

For a month they see your outfits and makeup, they make small talk with you by the coffee machine, they make space for your mug and when asked how you make your coffee you say you prefer tea. The next day there’s an electric kettle beside the coffee pot, and there’s also an assortment of teas. You’re pleasantly surprised by that, and you take full advantage of it.

The next Monday however, there’s a case. It’s your first time at the round table, the door closed behind you and JJ up at the board. She clicks her remote so you all can be immediately greeted by the grotesque picture of a womans’ remains. She’s badly decomposed, but her clothes are intact despite how bloody and torn they are. There’s even pearl earrings in her ears, dirty from being buried.

“She was identified as Miranda Cook, she was found alongside seven other women in a mass grave located in Greenwood County, Kansas. It is noted that none of the county residents were amongst the women in the grave, and in fact, they are scattered from all parts of the United States. There’s one town, Eureka, if you take the population of the town and the rest of the county you’re looking at 4,837 residents in total.”

Spencer leaned forward, just a bit, “How were the bodies discovered?”

“A farmer, Mark Whinston, just bought a new piece of land and was tilling it when he came across the bodies. The oldest is predicted to have been there for at least a year, the most recent is six weeks.”

Hotch set his jaw, nodded, then stood up, “Wheels up in forty.”

You all scattered after that, reaching for go-bags, refills on coffee and tea, files, books, all sorts of things. Spencer finds you making tea just as he’s going to make coffee. Some part of him is still nervous to be around you, but being your deskmate has certainly eased him as well. You work hard, you wrinkle your nose at every new stack of paperwork, you use your finger to guide you while you read. Most notably, perhaps, is how you listen to every word he has to offer, every tangent and rant you hang onto, never bored, never telling him to quit.

On the plane you watch them settle into their respective, unspoken seats. Culture, you take into account of where everyone sits, what it says about them, and the dynamics put on display. It’s intimate on the plane, not in the sexy way but it’s a showcase to the depth of connection between the team. They’re all comfortable, settling into their spots on the plane like they settle into their living room. You find a seat in the back, one of the single occupancy seats and it is there that you set up shop in researching the county and town. Absorbing every piece of it that you can get your hands on, you let yourself fall into the pull of research.

Spencer watches from his spot on the couch, half researching, half staring. Your finger retraces lines every now and then, your brow furrowing when you do. Simultaneously you look out of place in that seat and yet you belong there too. You fit right in with the papers and books around you. After the first hour Morgan finally breaks the silence, turning around in his seat to look at you, “So what do you have so far?”

He hasn’t settled on a nickname for you yet, although Spencer knows there’s a collection of them brewing in the other man's head already. Afterall it hadn’t taken long for Morgan to settle on “pretty boy” when it came to him. You look up, as if you’re a little surprised to see that he’s talking to you, “Oh, well, from what I’ve gathered Eureka is small, republican, and white. It’s listed as a sundown town in some areas and according to various sources. According to at least three sources there were sundown signs on either side of town that got removed in the 60s.”

Morgan sighed, “Looks like we’re in for a treat then.”

You grinned despite the way your eyes rolled, “Oh I know we’re about to be treated like royalty when we get in there.”

He laughed, “At least there’s someone to share it with now.”

“Amen.”

“Anything else besides barren and racist though?”

You nodded, “Mhm, long history of agriculture, there used to be a Native tribe on the land, the Kaw, or known as Kansas hence where the state gets the name. They were forced out and moved to Oklahoma in 1873, they spoke Siouan, but they weren’t the only tribe in the area either. By the time Kansas was made a territory the Shawnee, Delaware, and Osage tribe had also been moved into Eastern Kansas. The Osage were the ones who occupied most of where Greenwood County is now, and there are no reservations, meaning they were forced to walk.”

“Are there any native people left in the county?”

“Barely, they make up less than a percentage of the population, 94.2 percent of which is white, 3.2 is Hispanic, the rest is either Native, Black, Asian, two or more races, or other.”

“What’s the racial demographics of our victims?”

“Two or more races, white fathers, ethnic mothers with no trend towards a certain race. We could be looking at a white supremacist with the ideology that they are “tainted” by their mothers race. You know the whole shtick these White people have when it comes to mixed kids.”

“Oh don’t I know.”

“You’re mixed too?”

“White mom, Black dad. You?”

“Brown mother, white father.”

Hotch cleared his throat, “Revisit the white supremacist, what makes you think that?”

You tap at your book, “If we’re assuming the unsub is local, which they very well could be due to knowledge of the area, and we take into account of the victims racial identity combined with the town history. Well, it’s easy to draw that sort of conclusion, mixed girls with one white parent. It’s common rhetoric for white supremacists to preach about the importance of keeping a bloodline pure. For them mixing white blood with anything else makes the blood dirty, polluting their society, so therefore they view mixed kids as nothing more than vermin with a need to be culled. However, based on the demographics it’s going to be hard to pinpoint a singular white supremacist when more than half the population is one.”

“But why girls? Why discriminate against that?”

Spencer spoke up this time, “It could be because the unsub is attracted to these girls and feels intensely guilty over it. Did any of the corpses show signs of sexual abuse?”

JJ nods, “Yes, all of them were indicated to have been raped.”

“So the unsub is raised to be a white supremacist but has a fetish for mixed girls. We need to find out if he had sex with them before or after they were killed.”

All of this just from a plane ride and a perspective.

______________

Eureka, Kansas, is boring. That’s the only way to put it, plain, boring, there’s row upon row of freshly planted vegetables and soil turned up. Every other mile there’s a home, white with a nice porch, isolated amongst the expansive flatness of the state. You think you’d go mad if this is the life you lived. Just you and the nothingness that is Kansas.

The town itself is small, just a handful of buildings neatly laid out in a few streets looking like they stepped out of the 1920s at the earliest. They drive through all of it without fanfare, already you and Morgan are on edge, the energy in the air isn’t welcoming, not to you two. Spencer will never know what it feels like to be in your skin or Morgan’s, but at the very least he’s glad the other man has someone who can relate on the team.

He’d watched your exchange with Morgan, the easy grin when you and him had discussed white people with that tone as if you were talking about rowdy kids. Eureka does not welcome you two easily, that’s made apparent even by the police department upon arrival. There’s a few wary glances from a few people, some scoff, a few turn away completely. You and Morgan don’t give into the scorn though, instead you two keep walking with the same amount of confidence you two had walking in. Although it is a relief when you all get to the room given to the team to work in. There’s boxes already set up on the table, pictures and a map put up already. There in red ink is the site of the mass grave.

The Sheriff, Jake Brown, sighs when they enter the room, “Old Mark made the call three days ago, said he’d felt an odd bump when he was out tilling his new land and went to investigate. Found the girl, and immediately stopped what he was doing to come get us. We dug around and found the other six, shallow grave no deeper than a foot. They were lined up all neat and perfect. I knew it was beyond us, so we called in for help.”

Hotch nods, “It was the right call to do. Have any more graves been discovered?”

“You think there might be more?”

“Potentially. If this is the sole grave that would be best but it’s likely that there might be more. Have your men search the land, if the graves were all shallow then it shouldn’t be too much digging, or take the tiller again. We also need to look at any other non-purchased or unused farm land.”

“Right, I’ll gather the people and see what we can find.”

Emily clears her throat, “I’d actually refrain from telling the community that you’re searching for other mass graves. If the unsub is from your town he might go and try to move the other bodies.”

“Someone from here? You think one of us did it?”

Her face softens, just a little bit, “I understand that it is a difficult concept to wrap your head around. These are your people, and in a small town like this I’m sure everyone knows everybody. But it is also crucial that you don’t exclude possibilities because of belief.”

“I-I see, I’ll let my men know.”

“Thank you.”

He takes his leave, which is relieving in a way. In the privacy of their makeshift office they have no scrutinizing eyes that don’t fully grasp what they might be doing in here. You all begin to set up shop, Spencer with his map, you with your town records and everyone else with their files to go over. They mull over your words from earlier, a white supremacist, a man with a fetish he feels immensely guilty for.

After a few hours of researching Spencer finally glances at you, “Hey, what are the religious demographics here?”

You look up at him, mind already starting to piece together his implications with religion, “There’s only churches here, ten of them. Highly christian, a lot of people hold their faith close to their hearts over here. It’s prominent in speeches, addresses, even facebook bios, there’s plenty of bible quotes, and it is notable that a good majority of these churches are historically conservative. If there’s any that’s not explicitly conservative they’re borderline there.”

“So our unsub probably goes to church, and if he’s feeling guilty he might go to one to repent.”

“So an avid church goer, and if he’s guilty enough to kill he’s likely attended the most conservative of the churches in the area.”

“What would that be?”

“If I had to guess it would be between Sacred Heart Catholic Church and Jefferson Street Baptist Church, a strong contender though would be Christ Lutheran Church.”

Your nose wrinkles just a tad, “If we’re sending people to investigate the churches I politely decline.”

Morgan hums in agreement with you, not even bothering to look up. So you and Morgan are ruled out for the church hunt, which leaves the rest of them to try and investigate. Although it’s probably for the best that you and him don’t go to the churches, if they’re as conservative as you think they are it’s likely that you and him won’t get anything out of them.

With the lead though Morgan does send them out to talk to the preachers, to try and see who might be overzealous in church participation if that’s a thing for a population like this. Someone who comes often at odd hours, someone with easy access to the church. You and Morgan stay behind to keep looking through the files white they’re gone, and it’s when they’re gone that your words which served as a hidden warning come true.

You’re staring at the pictures of the corpses, the cause of death was a slit throat, all of the causes were, but there’s other wounds too. Not just the rape or the slit neck, but there’s bruises, broken bones, some were determined to be older than others, “Morgan I think whoever our unsub is he kidnaps the girls and keeps them for a little while.”

He looks up, then he joins you at the board, “Yeah?”

“The coroner's report said that the girls had multiple broken bones, but some had enough time to heal. There’s also various wounds on them, bruises, cuts, I think they were likely raped multiple times before the final.”

“Why hold them and beat them down like that though only to kill them in the end?”

“Boredom, maybe the girls got too broken for him to enjoy anymore. Or, maybe, he doesn’t have a fetish with the girls. Maybe he just enjoys seeing them suffer, a sadist.”

“And he’s confident enough to not get caught that he’s dug a shallow grave for multiple girls.”

“Narcissist.”

“So a narcissistic sexual sadist with a penchant for mixed girls that he feels are dirty. Maybe in his mind he’s purifying them somehow.”

“He slits their throats like animals in a slaughter. Lambs are important to christianity, maybe he views them as lambs.”

The knock at the door breaks you both out of discussion, and in pops a new officer's head. He’s a redhead, a little greasy on the skin, a soft belly and soft arms too. He frowns when he sees it’s you two in the room, no other in sight, “Where’s your bossman?”

Morgan tilts his head a little, “He went out with the rest of the team to talk to a few people.”

“Who?”

“Preachers. You need something?”

The man retreats, just a little, “Nothing for you two.”

Morgan frowns, “Does it have something to do with the case? If so then officer you need to inform us, what Hotch knows we know and vice versa.”

“No, no, you two go back to what you’re doing, I’ll wait for him.”

You give him a look, one that tells him he’s going to land himself in hot water if he doesn’t start talking soon, “Officer, does the information you’re currently withholding from two federal agents working the case have to do with the case? If so then we will have to conduct a review on you, withholding information like that could implicate you and involve you in the case in a way that sees you in a rather unfortunate predicament. So tell us, what information on the case do you have?”

The man doesn’t bother to hide his disgust anymore as he steps out of the room, “Are you threatening me?”

Morgan glares, straightening himself up, “We aren’t threatening anything. We’re just giving it to you straight. Now do you want us to call Hotch, tell him that you won’t give us information on the case that we need to know for reasons you haven’t yet given. Why do you need to tell him? Why can’t you tell us? If it was top secret information it would’ve come from the Sheriff, not you. Go on, tell us why.”

His lip curls, hand reaching for the door, “Because we don’t deal with the likes of you two. Neither of you should be in this room, leave the job for people actually capable of working it.”

You fold your arms over your chest, “Now why wouldn’t we be qualified to work this job? We have the credentials, we’ve proven ourselves able to succeed where many others have failed.”

There’s a scene being caused, others coming up to the door, some curious, some in agreement. Sundown town. That’s what you had called Eureka, Kansas. Morgan glances at the clock, it’s 4:49 PM, the sun is setting faster. Their team is out conducting interviews, they won’t be back before sunset. That makes you more nervous that you care to admit. You trade a look with Morgan, who nods once, just a subtle thing but it tells you that you need to trust your gut. Be on guard.

“Officer, do you really want to take it up with the government why you’re withholding information from two federal agents fully qualified to work this case? I’m sure you’ll do well to explain why you weren’t conspiring on the case.”

His face reddens, “I’m doing no such thing!”

You raise a brow, “Then what evidence are you keeping from us? We’ll relay the message to Hotch. Or we can call him and tell him what’s going on, I’m sure he would be thrilled to be told that two of his agents are being denied case information on no given basis for why.”

At least the man can recognize defeat when it looks him in the face. He shuffles, embarrassed, face turning a similar shade to his hair when he spits out that they found two more bodies buried half a mile away from the original grave, there might be more. Neither of you bother to thank him for the information.

The interviews take a long time though, well into the night. By the time they do come back the sun has long set, the officers mostly gone except for the suspicious few who make sure you two only step out for the bathroom and nothing more. The day has been long and exhausting and the rest can be discussed later. Except it’s far too late to go to a restaurant so the only option for dinner is to cook something, which means trying to decide on one meal, and getting groceries. This proves to be an ordeal.

Morgan argues something like ribs, Spencer says that’ll take too long, and Emily suggests pizza, which devolves into an argument. It is only until Hotch clears his throat does the squabbling stop, and on the plus side gets their attention. Rossi turns back with a grin, “Well I think it’s only fair if the newbie cooks for us, what do you guys think?”

You blink once, twice, and then the words register. Your cheeks warm, “Oh, uh, I would but I don’t think any of you would like what I usually cook.”

JJ raises a brow at you, “Are you like Spencer where you make water catch aflame?”

He jolts, cheeks reddening as he pouts, “That was once! And even I don’t know how that happened, it was an accident.”

“Still, it happened, there’s video footage of it.”

“I thought I told Garcia to delete that.”

“Anyways. Can you or can’t you cook?”

You gnaw a little bit at your lip before you sigh, “Fine, are there any allergies to anything?”

Spencer tilts his head at you, “JJ’s allergic to bees, but it’s minor, and I’m mildly allergic to grapes.”

“Well there’s no grapes for this, we should be fine.”

They stop by the grocery store where you drag Rossi in with you because you most certainly aren’t going in by yourself. He’s grinning when he comes out, and then it’s off to the house. Which is a good thirty minutes away, and not even five minutes into the drive you and Spencer are passed out in the back. Of course there are photos taken, because why wouldn’t there be?

Upon getting to the house Hotch and Rossi find their bedrooms first, leaving the rest of you to your own devices. Morgan and Spencer get thrown into a room together while Emily and JJ pair up, leaving you to the small bedroom in the corner of the house. It’s agreed that there are showers to be had before dinner, and part of you didn’t expect this but it’s fine, you didn’t need to wash your hair which you’re thankful for.

The shower has water pressure like pellets, it’s not nearly hot enough for your tastes either but it’s not lukewarm or colder so you can’t ask for much else. Your wardrobe for the night doesn’t get any less theatrical either. Lace topped socks and a nightgown that brushes the floor, a large ruffle starting at your knee. The top is long sleeved, covering your entire neck with small buttons going all the way down to where the fabric meets. Edwardian style again, your favorite. But your hair gets let down for once, usually pinned up with various sticks now brushed and loose.

Your hair goes well past your hips. It’s a tradition you inherited from your mother, whose hair exceeds your own, but she had taught you to only cut what was necessary, and to never make it short. You’re aware you can cut it as you have your free will, but you don’t because it connects you to her. It’s not just you who sticks to the tradition either, but your sisters as well. You had grown up oiling each other's hair, braiding, twisting into elaborate styles.

You grab a hair tie as you make your way down, sectioning your hair into three parts as you walk into the kitchen. For you it’s a fast process to braid your hair, for most people it would not be, but your hands have learned to card through the thick sections and work through the strands that could tangle easily. Morgan stares at you for a second, they all do, “No fucking way you actually wear that to bed.”

That makes you shoot a glare at him, “I’ll spit in your food, I swear to god I will.”

“You look like a vampire.”

“I look like me.”

“What century did you step out of? Be honest, who are you? Dracula?”

“I am not Dracula, now do you want to eat or not?”

“Whatever you say Dracula.”

There it is, there’s the nickname. Dracula. You just sigh and roll your eyes before getting to work (of course you wash your hands first). There’s vegetables and cans, a large pot and a package of clear noodles. How you found coconut milk in Eureka, Kansas is beyond them, but somehow you have and you’re using it. Before long they can smell the spices, the coconut, all of it. The one thing that separates your otherworldly look being the ipod clipped to your sleeve and the earbuds that connect to it. You don’t speak during the entire process.

In the end they’re given a reddish curry noodle dish, the oil red and rising to the surface, green leaves from cilantro to balance the color out, and of course, there are fried crunchy noodles to top it all off. Although you’ve got an extra bowl of them, and you’ve hidden the rest away. It’s clear you won’t be sharing those any more than you have to.

As soon as you’re done cooking and plating everything you’re taking your hair down, shaking it free of its constraints earlier and perhaps they didn’t truly grasp the length of your hair but when you walk out from the kitchen to the table they do. You murmur your small prayer before you begin to eat, the food comforting as it is aromatic. You squeeze lime into your soup and they follow suit, bodies warmed by the broth and stomachs filled by the solids you’ve added to it.

“So, how many siblings do you have?”

Emily knows a sister when she sees one, just like how she knows Morgan has no brothers besides Spencer. You meet Morgan’s banter easily, you even threatened to spit in his food for making fun of the way you dressed. She knows from the short time she’s been by you, observing you, that you would make good on your word too. It’s also clear that you learned these recipes from someone teaching you because she can taste the differences in food learned by a recipe book and recipes learned through a guiding hand. You cook like you’ve grown up cooking with adults who were taught by other adults during their childhood.

You glance at her, “Six, how’s your younger sister?”

She snorts, “You got me there.”

Still, you flash an easy smile at her, but Morgan isn’t one to let a subject go, and not if he gets a chance to poke fun at your clothes, “So do they also dress like they’re about to haunt the halls of a castle?”

“They do.”

That’s also true, your family is full of goths. Your mother’s brightest color is red, your father wears a pinstripe suit every single day, a cigar hanging out of his mouth. Your brothers wear similar clothes, although they mix it with casual wear too. Your sisters aren’t as Edwardian as you, but they certainly cover themselves in lace and tighten their waists with corsets. You wear one too, but you wear it under your clothes.

The house you grew up in is painted black on the exterior and interior, there’s a corpse flower in the center of the conservatory. Your mother genetically engineered a giant breed of venus fly traps and if nobody is careful they’re capable of eating small dogs (an unfortunate incident where your annoyingly cheerful aunt’s annoying crusty white dog wandered in before feeding time). Your mother puts dead flowers up and holds seances in the family room every Wednesday night so the departed members of your family can join for a night of dance, food, and music.

There’s an amputated arm of a dead ancestor above the fireplace holding his wife’s taxidermied heart. It was how they wanted to go, and it’s going to remain that way. You grew up with arsenic in your morning teas, booby traps as alarms for school, an encouraging hand to sense out danger. Your parents showed you how to draw blood from your veins safely for when you wanted to perform blood rituals, they gave you a ceremonial knife when you turned sixteen as they did for each member. They showed you their ways, and you wouldn’t ever part with it.

____________

You’re grateful for the porch outside because it’s 2:48 in the morning and you can’t sleep. Kansas is flat, one of the flattest places you’ve ever seen and you know there are areas where it isn’t. Here though, this old farmhouse with the flickering yellow porch light, it is. You’re clutching a cup of tea between your hands as if that’ll stave off the cold creeping into your bones. It’s silent out there, too silent for your tastes. You miss the hustle and bustle of the city you now reside in, the cars and the people, laughter echoing down from a place you can’t pinpoint.

The creek of the screen door is what breaks the silence, prompting you to look up and find none other than Spencer Reid in all of his soft cardigan glory standing there, “Aren’t you cold?”

His voice isn’t at it’s normal volume, instead he’s dropped it down to just a notch above a whisper, as if the silence cannot be fully interrupted. You shrug, bringing the mug to your lips as you take a tentative first sip, “Are you?”

Spencer lets the door close as he fully steps out onto the porch, gesturing to the couch you’re currently perched on, “May I?”

“Of course.”

He sits beside you easily, pulling his cardigan around him tighter. For a minute or two you both sit there to watch the fields. You imagine things in the night emerging into the light, their frothy mouths and sharp teeth, glowing eyes and a thirst for blood drying their throats. You hold your mug of tea out for him, a silent offer of some warmth. He hesitates, but then his hands come up to take the mug, the heat something he savors when he brings the edge you didn’t use to his lips. Your tea is sweet, creamy, but strong despite it all too, “Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

“Why are you out here so late?”

Your mouth sharpens into a small smile, “Couldn’t stop thinking, but what about you?”

He glances at you, the way your hair shines in this particular lighting, the white of your dress and the way you look like history come to life. You aren’t wearing any of your usual makeup, and as he’s found out your eyebrows are just like that. Sure you fill them in, darken them, but the shape is yours. Your skin is glowy, soft in a way that reminds him of silk, giving you a look he can only describe as ethereal to anybody who would listen.

You don’t like it here, that’s obvious to him, but you haven’t complained, you’ve only warned. Yet when you sit on a porch like this, looking like that, nothing but the wind to create a noise in the field, you look like you belong. As if there’s something about you that demands an eerie uncanniness, like those endless fields with who knows what in them are your domain despite the way you’ve barely touched it. You are, in every sense of the word: Beautiful.

Spencer looks back at the field, “I couldn’t stop thinking either.”

“Do you ever stop thinking?”

“No. Do you?”

“I don’t.”

In this hour, the witching hour, there is no need for long sentences or explanations because it is spoken between the lines of what is said out loud. He is comfortable in the silence you have cocooned yourself in, something he has not felt in a long time. For a time he didn’t speak because he was too angry to speak, and then when he found his voice he couldn’t stop it from pouring out because then it felt like if he didn’t say everything then nobody would hear him.

Sitting here with you there’s no need to fill the silence with facts or knowledge, random tidbits of things you might not be interested in. It is comforting in a way to be so still for a pocket in time, he feels like a thief for having this moment with you. As if the universe is not watching him just this once, like you’ve warded away his restlessness. He doesn’t know you well, not yet, but he thinks that knowing you might not be such a bad thing, not if being around you is like being in the eye of a hurricane. Still, unmoving, a slice of calm that whiplashes his emotions so hard he’s forced to process them.

The mug gets passed back to him wordlessly, warming his slightly shaky hands. It’s getting cold in Kansas now, and as a Vegas native the cold isn’t exactly his forte. Sure it gets cold in the desert, but this is different. So very different. He thinks about asking if you and Morgan found out anything in the case, he knows more bodies were found. Now isn’t the time to ask about bodies though, not when some of them looked like you.

“How are you holding up? The first case is usually rougher than most.”

You look at him, his sharp and soft features, the way he holds himself. He joined the BAU at twenty-two, a resident and certified genius with multiple degrees and PhDs under his belt. You don’t doubt that he’d seen some shit.

“The officers are annoying.”

He snorts, “Oh yeah, you’ll get used to it. They don’t like FBI agents much, they always act like we’ve encroached on their territory even after they called us in for the case. Usually the only ones that are welcoming are the ones that made the call.”

You hum, running a hand through your hair as you turn towards him, just enough to let him know you’re comfortable, “The officer who told us they found two bodies refused to tell Morgan and I what was going on at first.”

Spencer turns his head sharply, eyes already narrowed, “What reason did he give for doing that? And why didn’t either of you tell Hotch?”

“Because he’s not a part of the case, not like that, but he’s not sin-free from racism. He didn’t want to tell Morgan and I because we’re brown, that’s why he withheld the information. He insisted on telling it to Hotch directly, so we had to pull the FBI card on him.”

You had told the team that the place was riddled with racism and homophobia, conservative through and through. He remembers the preachers, the way they turned their noses up at the mention of mixed girls being killed. None of them said a blessing for the girls, and it became apparent then that if anybody knew anything they weren’t going to give it up. It had horrified him for a moment to come to the conclusion that these people would rather defend a murderer simply for his victim of choice rather than save an innocent life. To think they’re preachers too.

“I’m sorry that happened.”

“It’ll happen again, and besides, Morgan and I grew up with this kind of treatment, we’ve learned to almost expect it.”

“Nobody should have that though.”

“An unfortunate thing then that it does. It’ll keep happening too, it’ll happen to me, to him, to our kids, to our grandchildren, it’ll hopefully get better as time goes on. But when things like racism emerge they shape the culture forever, there will always be traces of it even if people finally open their eyes up to how harmful it is. In a town like this? The people are borderline bred for it.”

“We talked to the preachers today, they didn’t care about the girls. They cared about the unsub, it…startled me.”

You fall silent for a second, brows furrowing, “What did you tell them about the unsub?”

“That he’s likely a white male in his thirties to forties, that he comes to the church at odd or unusual hours of the night, that he might be almost too involved with church activities for the average member.”

“Did you tell them he’s a narcissistic sexual sadist too?”

“He is?”

“Morgan and I came to that conclusion earlier. He’s keeping the girls for long periods of time, long enough to break bones and for them to heal.”

“So he tortures them in every aspect.”

“And in a place like this, he can be holding them anywhere.”

Spencer straightens up, “The bodies are being dumped in cornfields, they’re mass graves. Who's to say the girls aren’t being kept in the cornfields?”

You look at him, eyes shining, “Underground bunkers, because Kansas has tornadoes, lots of tornadoes.”

“Which means the unsub lives in a remote place with a tornado shelter, or he’s using a tornado shelter from a house that’s been demolished since.”

“I can get a read on the geographical profile first thing in the morning, two dumpsites, demolished homesteads, we need a list of households that lost their homes to tornadoes.”

“We’ll get this guy by tomorrow night.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re really smart, did you know that?”

He smiles, really smiles, you’re hiding your own grin behind the tea mug, a small giggle in the back of your throat. It’s three something in the morning, you’re in the middle of absolute nowhere, and there’s a high chance the case will be finished up by tomorrow evening. You know he’s a genius, his IQ has been mentioned once or twice already, but it’s fun to tease him anyway. To act like he’s not for a change.

“I might’ve gotten a hint.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You snort as you pass the mug back to him, it’s more than halfway done now, and growing cold, but you share it still, and Spencer accepts every time you do.

______________

The unsub is James Pardon, 36 years old who was taken into police custody after he drunkenly killed a girl in an accident. She wasn’t one of the towns own so they petitioned for him to be let out, and he was. He’s a father of three, his wife’s name is Mary, and she was the one to report him to the FBI. Not because she felt sorry for the girls, but because she was disgusted that her husband found them attractive. JJ had to bite her tongue throughout the womans’ confession.

They had found the bunker though, it was in James' parents’ home that had been destroyed by a tornado, his father had died in the tornado and his mother passed away a mere seven months after. There was a girl in there, her throat not slit but her injuries too severe for her to survive. She was identified as Maria Apple, the seventeen year old daughter of a couple from New Mexico who were desperate to find her. They’d get her back but not in the way they wanted her most.

You think of her on the plane ride back, you’d held her hand while she stuttered out her name and a thank you, and then you’d held her ever so gently when she finally stopped breathing. She looked like your little sister, and had even sounded like her a little bit too. You hummed your prayers above her body, using your freehand to shut her eyes. That’s how they had come in five minutes later, her corpse against your body as you hummed and held her hand.

For a moment they had been frozen by the sight, how odd and yet perfect it looked. The bunker had been turned into a torture chamber, filled with various tools for torture, blood all over the floor, a book filled with details of the victims and locations to their bodies. No confession needed, he was never going to get out from behind the bars again. You let the girl go easily though, and then you stood, brushed your pants off, and moved on. You think of her now though, the life she could’ve had.

Hotch is the one to slip into the seat across from you, his face still pinched into a sternness that you’ve grown accustomed to. He doesn’t say a word for a minute, and neither do you, instead you wait while he lets you settle into his unannounced presence, “She was alive when you found her, wasn’t she?”

You tilt your head, shifting for a second, “She was coherent enough to give me her name, and then she said thank you.”

“Then you held her while she passed away.”

“She’s someone’s little sister, I just filled the shoes when I needed to.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, instead he just looks at you while you look out the window. It’s sunset above the clouds and the lighting looks absolutely brilliant in a way you can’t describe. Just because you prefer the macabre doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy things like a sunset, “She looked like mine.”

You draw your knees up to your chest, hugging them in an effort to self soothe yourself, “How many times have you seen your brother die in this field?”

“Enough to appreciate that he’s still breathing and hold him as close as he’ll let me.”

“Mm.”

“You did good work, not many people new to the team could figure it out that quickly.”

His words of praise loosen you a little bit, just enough for your cheeks to pinken a little, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Hotch leaves after that, allowing Spencer to slide into the seat instead, a complicated looking crossword puzzle in one hand and two pens in the other. He tosses you one as you raise a brow, “Confident are we?”

He clicks his tongue at you in response, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You take the ones across.”

You sigh but you pick up a pen anyway, black, whereas his is purple, and yet when your ink hits the paper it comes out sparkly pink.

______________

Garcia’s halloween party is your first social outing with the team. You aren’t sure what it all entails, but you just know it’s a big deal. Especially to Spencer, whose favorite holiday happens to be Halloween. Everyone’s costumes are kept secret, only Garcia knows who’s going as what, mainly to make sure nobody goes as the same thing. You had spent the evening getting ready, ensuring you had everything together before you headed out.

You lived in the heart of DC up on top of a tall building with a view that cost a pretty penny, but for you was seen as an investment. Besides, it wasn’t hurting your bank account too badly to buy this particular 8.7 million dollar unfurnished penthouse. Your father had encouraged you to buy it, your mother had told you to start designing the interior and going to auctions to outfit your home with the pieces you wanted to put inside. Or talk to the museums about them loaning you some pieces, even selling.

That’s something you’ve been meaning to do as well, but you hadn’t found it in yourself to go shopping quite yet. Meaning everything was bare boned for the moment, not even a couch to sit upon. You have a bed, but you don’t have a collection of sheets, there’s pillows but no pillowcases. Next weekend you’ll go shopping, you just know that you need to get it over with even though you really, really don’t want to. You like shopping, you do, but you also know that you treat shopping like a sport and it will take time.

You think of this when you apply fake blood to your chin, letting it dribble down, dripping off your chin to your chest where it runs down. Sexy, you think, especially with the outfit you’re wearing. Verona from Dracula by Van Helsing a few years back, you fell in love with the aesthetics of the film and what better time to pull out a sexy but semi-decent coverage outfit for a party? Besides, it’s a night to make your tits look absolutely fantastic, and you don’t always get that opportunity.

After a few spritzes of some of your favorite perfume you deem yourself ready enough and head out. Tattoos strategically concealed, hair perfected and your makeup not a hair out of place, you have all the confidence in the world when you step from your apartment and into the rolls-royce that will take you to Garcia’s and back. Your chauffeur, Mr. Grady, smiles when he sees you, “Lovely as always Miss.”

You give him a small smile back, “Thank you Mr. Grady, you have the address?”

“Indeed, and should you need a quick escape I shall be right around the corner.”

“Thank you.”

After that you send Garcia a text telling her that you’ll be there shortly, she replies that just about everyone is here already so just come in. Fifteen minutes later you do, finding her place decked out in decoration after decoration, the scent of something warm and something alcoholic in the air. She’s got music playing, and for a moment you’re frozen by the amount of people in the apartment. For some reason you’d thought it would be a small gathering, but then you remember: It’s Garcia.

She knows everything and everyone. You wade into the crowd anyway, determined not to disappoint your team with a reluctance to be there. If Hotch can survive Garcia’s Halloween party then you can too. Somehow you make it to the kitchen where JJ’s pouring some sort of drink for herself. She’s dressed as a butterfly, which you think might’ve been a last minute decision, nonetheless she looks great. She nearly spits when she sees you though, and then she lights up.

“You made it!”

You grin at her, “I did.”

“Here, here, you take this, try not to gag from how alcoholic it is, you’ll get used to it, I’ll take you to everyone else.”

“Thanks.”

The drink is more alcohol than it is punch but you drink it anyway because Halloween isn’t about sobriety, it’s about getting drunk and looking hot. You’ve certainly got one aspect of it down. She leads you to a corner where you find Hotch and Rossi in a corner sipping something that you doubt is punch, one’s a zombie and the other the guy who shot John F. Kennedy, you aren’t saying who’s who. Penelope’s a nightshade flower in the process of rotting, which looks phenomenal, and Morgan is a sexy gardener. Spencer, lastly, has chosen to be Mothman (but fancy), with Emily rounding the group out as a pirate.

Spencer, when he sees you emerge on JJ’s arm with your outfit, the combination of silk and lace, the jewels you’ve glued to your skin, the way your hair falls around you. Pointed ears and teeth, he knows exactly who you are, to think he could’ve gone as a vampire and declared himself Dracula. But you’re Dracula, at least according to Morgan you are. Morgan who whistles when he sees you, grinning ear to ear as Penelope gasps sharply.

For good reason too, you look absolutely unreal. Out of all the supernatural beings tonight, you look the most otherworldly. You smile, showing off the bloody teeth and vampire fangs that suit you so well, “Nice party Garcia.”

She beams, immediately sweeping you into a hug before she takes the fabric of your sleeve, eyes wide, “My god this feels luxurious, where did you get this? The original set? It’s perfect.”

You shrug, “I had a few connections, I have a friend in the fashion industry, he made me a copycat version in my size.”

“And this friend just so casually manages to make this?”

You flutter your lashes at her, lips curling like you’re divulging a secret, “I’ll tell you what Garcia, you never know who you might run into when you’re six or nine shots deep, give or take. On top of that it’s three am in the House of Yes when you’re sixteen and left to your own devices while your parents bribe the president.”

Garcia pauses, they all do, but you said all of it so sweetly, had batted your lashes and smiled like sugar, “Are you….serious?”

That makes you laugh softly as you swish the drink in your hand, “If I am you’ll never know.”

“You do realize that I can look you up more extensively than anybody else can, right?”

You hum, tilting your head, “And the only things you’ll find are the things I want you to find, I’m sure you’ll do with that information what you will.”

A challenge, a warning, all rolled into red wine smoothness from your tongue, it’s enough to excite Garcia, and to assert your stance that just because you’re younger, that you wear heavy makeup and wear heels to bed you aren’t to be trifled with. They had learned that particular lesson with Spencer when outpacing him proved to be a futile effort, forget trying to talk science with him. They hadn’t thought of him as scary though, not until that intellect of his dissected a case so well he could’ve been the unsub confessing.

You though? There’s an undercurrent of danger to you, present in the way you walk, setting every instinct in the animal part of them to be alert. As if there is a predator amongst them, and that predator being you. There’s no way of telling if it’s a conscious effort on your end either because you seem to be just like that. Like you’ve been this way since you were in the womb, something dangerous, something wrapped up in a neat ribbon that was begging to be unwrapped.

It set Spencer on edge just as much as it set his belly ablaze. You and he were used to being the smartest person in the room, and due to the difference in strengths you and he could be evenly matched to some extent. You, sharp and cutting, perfectly placed smiles that were just as sharp as your nails. Him with his unshakable knowledge, his mind, his very foundation, the way he was starting to come into his confidence. You demanded the confidence from him, like being in your orbit forced him to stand up straighter, to speak a little clearer. He couldn’t even pinpoint where it was coming from.

If anything he thought he’d revert to how he was before, stumbling and flushing (which he still did plenty of). Yet he didn’t, he found your questions well placed, forcing him to think for a second before he started again. You intrigue him more than he wants to admit, and you’ve essentially just dangled a pastry before his nose and snatched it away. You have secrets, plenty of them, secrets guarded so well that the FBI’s best hacker wouldn’t be able to get into them. They’d be liars if they said they were doubtful, and that they’d like to see that come true.

But for now, for now they drink.

_______________

Spencer doesn’t know how he got this drunk, and you’re in the exact same boat as him. It’s later now, closer to two than one, and that’s when you stumble out of Garcia’s apartment. He comes after you, giggling madly as you tug him along the steps. You’ve got your phone open, Mr. Grady on dial and he picks up on the first ring, “Hello Miss, have you decided that you’ve had enough for tonight?”

You giggle, “Mr. G! Spence and I, we-we are in need of some Korean food, could youuuu pretty please take us?”

He sighs, but the sound is fond, “Of course Miss, are you and Mr. Reid walking to me?”

“Mmmmm.”

“Come safely.”

Spencer keeps you close to him so you don’t wander into the street, helping you with your dress as you lean into his side, eyes tilted up at the stars. Then you pause, just for a moment as you peer up to the sky, the moons come out and it’s the brightest thing in the sky. But by god, you in your vampire attire under the moonlight is a sight to see. He fumbles with his camera, thankful you’re too drunk to see what he’s doing before he takes a picture of you.

It captures you, the white dress with light green accents, the gold against your skin, the way your dark hair falls, the column of your neck, the blood dripping down your chest. Then when you’re done, when you turn back to him, hand reaching for his outstretched arm, the both of you fail to see JJ taking a picture of you two. Caught in the moment of his arm outstretched towards you while you reach for him.

She had clocked it from Spencer the moment you walked through the door, but this is the moment where she realizes that the feeling is reciprocal. When you grin at him with your dress flowing as you step towards him, the pointed ears, the sharp teeth, his wings and antennas, the fur collar he wears. She’ll keep the photo to herself for a moment, just to let it sink in that you and Spencer are falling in love.

Not that you two know it yet, not even when you and him clamber in the back seat and you two all but collapse against each other, too drunk not to. Mr. Grady grins to himself when he sees the two of you, the way you’re both all but curled up on each other. The Korean restaurant you favour is far away enough that you can order for you and Spencer, although you certainly aren’t the one making the call, that’s left to Grady. Who is also the one to come and get it before ushering you and Spencer to your apartment.

Your spectacularly empty apartment. Couchless, tableless, chairless, lifeless. It’s your apartment, you just, you haven’t decorated it yet. Spencer nearly chokes himself from laughing when you let him in, your face flushing under the scrutinization, “Don’t-Don’t laugh!”

But he is, and that’s making you giggle too. It is a little absurd, and maybe not a little, maybe it’s very absurd, you aren’t sure anymore. Being drunk makes it hilarious, it’s all this blank space, so barren it looks like a control room except even control rooms are more cozy than this. They at last have something. You on the other hand do not, “You don’t even have a chair, where do you even eat?”

“I, well, I either stand, or I sit on the island.”

He laughs again, following you to your barren bedroom, the few personal things, but then the sheetless bed, the pillows with no cases. There’s no blanket, no nothing, and he stops because all of a sudden it becomes increasingly obvious that there’s something off about you. Because why are you living like this? You breeze past it though, sighing in frustration when you see your bedroom for how bare it is.

“Do you know how frustrating shopping is?”

That pulls Spencer out of his attempts to categorize what mental illness you’ve got going on, “What?”

You pout, gesturing to your room, “I know I need to shop and get my designs finalized but god it’s so hard sometimes. Like does this shade of purple go with this green? At the very least I got the walls in the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room finished, after that then I’ll be able to decide on furniture. Which is going to be absurd but not as crazy as the artwork.”

Ah. The perfectionism in how your home looks. That’s the illness here. Then something else clicks, “You aren’t renting this apartment?”

That makes you raise a brow, “It’s an investment on my part.”

He looks around the place, the tall and wide windows, the stairs, the fact that it’s a penthouse with a pool on the outside. He figured you were rich from the moment he stepped into your apartment, but now he’s trying to construe what he thought initially, “So you can buy a penthouse, but you can’t shop?”

You’ve got your go-bag slung over your shoulders now, rejoining his side as you usher him out of the apartment, “You don’t get it though, shopping isn’t just looking at something and saying you like it, shopping is an extension of oneself. From material to shape to size, all of it says something about someone. Take you for example. It’s clear you grew up and revolved yourself around academia because you took note of how the figures of authority dressed around you hence why you look like you should be teaching literature in Oxford. Not slinging a gun around in a bulletproof vest.”

Spencer grins, leaning to your side as you lock the door on your home, “You know there’s a rule for profilers? It’s not to profile other profilers.”

Your lips curl as you look at him, eyes a little lidded, a little hazy still, “You think I was using my profiling skills to learn that about you? Oh hun, anybody passing you on the street could make that deduction.”

“So you don’t like the way I dress?”

That pulls a dramatic sigh from you as you reach up to adjust the antennas on his head that have gone a little crooked, “Now I didn’t say all that now did I? I like the dark brown corduroy pants you wear, the ones with the gold buttons and the embroidery on the seams.”

“You noticed the embroidery?”

“I notice a lot of things.”

“About me?”

You hum, in the heels you’re wearing you’re closer to Spencer’s height but not truly there yet. Still, it doesn’t make you crane your head to look at him, truly look at him. Your hallway lighting is warm, the window outside brilliant in the way it shows the city in a different view. He’s got smudged eyeliner all around his eyes, tightlined eyeliner done by another hand that isn’t yours and certainly isn’t his. His hair is messier than usual, but not bad, not bad at all. He had red contacts earlier but he took them out hours ago because they were bothering him too badly.

“Who else?”

Spencer’s breath hitches at your words, there’s something there on the tip of his tongue waiting, quiet but building in intensity. You feel it too, that lazy string suddenly pulled taut between the two of you, shortening ever so rapidly and you look at him. Those hazel eyes boring into your own set, quiet, knowing, because Spencer Reid is no fool, and neither are you. His lips part, as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t get to when the elevator dings and the doors part for you both. It breaks this strange spell you two have found yourselves in, sobered for a moment by the intensity of it.

“Let’s not keep Mr. Grady waiting.”

“Of course.”

He follows you into the elevator with a thick swallow, he still feels the tension, that lingering draw that demands him to be close to you. For once in his life he gets the urge to touch someone, to take their hand and to hold it tight even with all the germs that might be there. It’s a moment of drunken clarity to him, when he realizes that he wants to hold your hand. The drunkenness also allows excuses, and confidence, his fingers find yours.

The coolness of your skin, your long fingernails and the weight of your rings against his skin, digging in ever so slightly but not enough to cause discomfort. Your fingers slot into his easily, the tips of your nails pressing into his skin, hard enough for him to feel that warning pressure but not enough to leave marks. He kind of wants you to leave a mark. Instead he squeezes your hand and you squeeze back because while you might be adverse to touching on a good day you accept him with ease. It baffles you just as much as it excites you.

You’re both still hand in hand when you pile into the car, the drunken giddiness from earlier having dissipated into something softer, something not so wild and untameable. Maybe this is also just as wild and untameable, maybe even more so, but you feel like you’re more in control over yourself now than you have been any other time when you were this drunk before. His weight and warmth is a comforting thing to have pressed against you, the fabric of his costume brushing the bare pieces of skin on you, his hair ticking the top of your head.

It takes ten minutes to get from your penthouse to his apartment, and it is there that you bid your driver a goodnight before following Spencer up to the unit he lives in. His place is smaller than yours but not cheap by any means, it suits him too. Well organized with warm colors in shades of brown and red, his books spilling from their shelves and onto every surface you can spot. There’s no television set in the room, nothing but a record player in the corner. His place is the kind where you fall in love with it instantly from how cozy and lived in it.

“Sorry it’s kind of a mess.”

You shake your head, leaving his side to skim your finger across broken in spines and drinking in the titles of the ones he clearly favors, “No, no, I love it.”

“Yeah?”

You turn back to him, you aren’t grinning or smirking, just dead serious as you stare back at him, “Yeah.”

The sight of you in his apartment wearing an outfit like that, taking everything in as if it is a sacred shrine to be worshipped, well, he’s into it. Really into it. You look perfect standing there amongst his books, in his living room, being with him. Only a month he’s known you, and yet he wants you for the rest of the months he’ll be allowed to enjoy. He’ll enjoy them if you’re there too.

“Let’s go get these costumes off, then we can sit on the couch for a while.”

“And get drunk again?”

“We’re still drunk.”

“No we aren’t, we’re coherent.”

He lets you take the first shower which kills him a little bit to know that you’re naked with just one wall between you and him. The sound of water running is enough to make him vacate the room before anything unfortunate happens. You take twenty minutes to shower, go through your skincare routine, put on pajamas, and rejoin him. Once again you look ethereal, and now you look even more in place than you did earlier. No, he tells himself, you look domestic, and he didn’t even know just how badly he wanted a version of you to associate with home.

Spencer takes a shorter amount of time than you, but he takes his cold because if he takes his hot then he won’t come out for a much longer time. When he rejoins you he finds you on the couch with a book in hand, it’s one of the Jane Austen’s he keeps on hand -Emma-, and you look fond while your finger traces the letters for you, “You look comfy.”

That prompts you to look up at him, Spencer and his oversized Star Wars shirt and the pair of black sweats he’s chosen to wear for the moment. You’ve got the food reheating on the stove and the oven because you refuse to microwave anything. Truth be told he’s not proficient enough in the kitchen to decide if he wants to use the microwave or not. He joins you on the couch, glancing at the page you’re on. You haven’t had much time to read but you’re further along than he expected.

You pass the book to him easily, “Read it for me? I’m gonna set up the food.”

“Of course. They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell Road. He was on foot….”

Spencer read to you as you moved around his kitchen, his voice soft even when he drunkenly tripped over a few words, the quiet presence of your moving around having influenced his cadence. He didn’t bother looking up to see what you were doing, trusting you to not break anything as you plated things together. You had picked the food, your driver had ordered it, and ten minutes after Spencer had begun to read you set two plates down on the coffee table, followed by water, four shots of alcohol, and a little tray of side dishes for you both.

Emma was set down to the side, the bookmark moved to where he had finished the sentence. He slipped down to sit across from you, warily eyeing the white dress you wore, “Are you not worried about getting stains in your dress?”

You shrug, “I’ll get them out if there are any.”

“If you insist.”

He takes a shot in hand, you following suit, chopsticks ready in the other as you and him prepare to get drunk again. The time between leaving Penelope’s apartment to now had sobered you both up to a functional extent, but neither of you wanted to be thinking too hard at the moment. Like why were you in his apartment with the intention to stay the night? You honestly didn’t even know how that came about, and if you didn’t know then neither did he. Yet you two let it happen anyway because in truth neither of you wanted to be apart from each other, not yet at least.

The shot goes down, so does the second one. It’s enough for you both to grimace and immediately attempt to wash it down, but it’s good in the way that you both feel it instantly. You giggle again once it starts to fully set in, fingers a little clumsier than normal as you wrangle a piece of tteokbokki in your mouth. He snorts at the display, reaching for a sweet potato side while you swallow. It’s easy to be here with Spencer like this, to eat dinner with him at three something in the morning, drunk with a copy of Emma sitting on the couch. There’ll be dishes later but it’s not a job for tonight, for the moment is simply about being together.

He tells you about his books when you ask, the oldest ones he has and the one’s he’d absolutely die to get his hands on one day. You tell him of the records you have in your room back home, the people you’d buy tickets to see one day. Then when it’s closer to sunrise you both shuffle into his bathroom to brush teeth, both of you sharing a sink and it’s crowded but it makes you both laugh like madmen. He grabs Emma off the couch while you make yourself comfortable in his bed because there’s this odd, unspoken agreement that it’s acceptable to share a bed.

Spencer comes back to you settled into your side of the bed, or at least sitting in it, you’re braiding half of your hair, the rest split down the middle and waiting to be done. He settles into his side, flipping the page open to where he left off, voice filling the air as you braid. There’s an urge to run his fingers through your hair, to feel each individual lock between his fingers, he doesn’t, but he cards through each psge carefully, fingers tracing down the pages as if it might be your arm.

You aren’t in any rush this night/morning when you braid, there’s no rush to get it done as fast as you can, you savor it instead. There’s something nice about sitting in Spencer’s bed with his blankets pooled around your waist, his steady presence a dip in the mattress beside you, his person so close it nearly overlaps with yours. For the moment it is just you and he, the bed and the book, his voice worming its’ way through every fold of your brain, soothing all the sore spots you have there. He turns the pages when he knows he’s finished the end of one but he recites from memory, too fixated on your figure to properly read the pages.

The twin braids are each finished off with a black hair-tie and a ruby red ribbon, long and beautiful, by some sorcery they’ll stay in your hair all night. You settle into the bed once you’re finished, truly settle. The pillow indents under your head as you shift to be more comfortable. There’s still space between you two, space that neither of you dare cross yet, not in this moment, not during the sobering moments of consciousness.

He reads until your eyes slip shut, and it’s only after your breathing fully relaxes does he put a bookmark in, setting the book aside so he can turn off the light. The room isn’t fully enconsed in darkness though, not with the city outside seeping through the curtains faintly. His eyes adjust quick enough to see you, that subtle city light giving a sharper view of your sleeping features. You’re much softer in your sleep, mouth parted slightly with your brows relaxed, not furrowed down in a light pinch that usually marks your resting face.

Spencer still doesn’t reach out, because right now you two are just friends. Friends who happen to gravitate towards each other with meteor level speeds, and with the risk of just as much damage should they collide. Yet it excites him more than any scientific breakthrough ever has. You’re weird, you’re dangerous, you wear your secrets on your sleeves but your arms are never shown. He finds solace in your oddity, how well it meshes with his own brand of uniqueness in a way he wouldn’t have assumed. Rivals, maybe, but not like this.

Not with you in his bed, your presence already carving itself a place in his life that he thought would remain empty for the rest of time. He had never truly entertained the idea of falling for somebody hard, at least enough to want with a sort of reverence he thinks could be religious despite his scientific standpoint. It’s been only a month of knowing you, of falling for you and as you lay in his bed, supposedly platonic, he knows that what he feels isn’t a fleeting bout of lust mistaken for love. He knows that this is different, this is something real, something so tangible he can almost taste it on his tongue, sharp like success and sweet as pie.

______________

Spencer thinks it might be a one time thing. The kind that comes from a spectacular night of drunken bravery but would never be done sober. Except it isn’t, because half of his weekends are spent with you in his home, the pots and pans pulled out after you’ve dragged him to the farmers market for ingredients. You claim a spot in his living room and you read his books, adding trinkets of your own for bookmarks whenever you finish with one thing.

You bring records over, making him listen to album after album and it is there that you have a softspot for acoustic guitar despite all the metal and soft gothic sounds. He asks if you play, and the next time you bring your guitar over, and it is the cold Sunday afternoons of Winter in Washington D.C. he hears the way your fingers move. You have song after song stored up in your brain, their melodies on a constant move, stitching itself to your train of thought like helixes in DNA. Music, you think, might just be part of yours.

It is in those afternoons whe you play, you don’t sing and he reads, with the tea he’s made sitting between you both. He’ll sometimes read aloud to you and you’ll speak the dialogue to him when you know it’s a two person conversation. Sometimes he’ll play the girl, sometimes you’ll play the guy, and sometimes you’ll both do accents. Then, if he’s really trying to flirt with you, he’ll read in a different language hoping that you understand. Each time, you respond to him right back in the language he’s reading. You make him laugh when you do things like that.

He takes you ice skating the weekend before Christmas. It’s quieter, more kids than couples because it’s the morning. It’s the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden one, where the weather is felt and the lights are gawked at. He forces you into one of his scarves and you let him do it. Then there’s the actual ice skating aspect of it. He’s done it twice, he has the feel for it, and you’re a quick learner, so after a few trials and errors where you each got more bruised than you’ll care to admit you both get the hang of it.

This time it’s easier to take your hand despite the way the gloves make it a little difficult to fit around because they’re so thick. Yet he feels your hand, that steady grip that returns his with no hesitation because for Spencer you do not hesitate, for him you are with him, always. Even though your feet hurt from the skates you keep going at it with Spencer, lap after endless lap of unspoken words and the pretty lights. There’s so many people on the rink but you and Spencer are in your own private world, it’s impenetrable from the outside, only you and he reside in it.

Time feels suspended like this, like tomorrow will never come, that the ice stretches for an eternity. You and he keep skating despite the way it hurts. It’s maddening and perfect at the same time, what you and Spencer have. There’s no way to explain how you wind up in his bed every weekend, how you two never touch, never quite cross that line, but it grows blurrier by the weekend. No easy way to say that you and him prefer to “hang out” with just the two of you, but hanging out means encroaching on each others space. Space that is so deeply valued you both reject skin on skin, or even cloth as a barrier, is ignored in favor of keeping close. As if after all those years of fending people off you’ve both somehow managed to find the one person who won’t be warded off. You and him, him and you.

Eventually neither of you can take it anymore though. It’s time to step off the ice, but it isn’t over yet, not for you and Spencer. Your hands don’t leave each other, never for long when you and him walk down the stree together. You both walk pressed together, tired from the morning activities but momentarily warmed by being of the ice as he asks you where you want to eat because you’ll be paying anyways. He never minds that you pay for everything, he’s seen your penthouse after all. Your stupidly beautiful penthouse that’s apparently coming along but he hasn’t stepped foot back in since you retrieved your go-bag that one time.

There’s three places Spencer guesses that you’ll want to go to, because if you’re tired like this from movement and in want of something comforting due to the weather you’ll be picking very specific spots. The Hitchings Post Spot, Cheesecake Factory, or your favorite dim sum spot. His best is on dim sum for lunch and Cheesecake Factory for dessert that you’ll take home. He’s right, and he tells you of course when you shyly tack the last bit of it on. Your hand squeezes his in delight, and if it made you grin at him like that then of course he’d say yes.

The dim sum restaurant is in Chinatown, which is right around the corner, and located in one of the places where you walk down the stairs on the street instead of walking up or into a building. You eat here often, the chefs know you by name, the people working incline their head towards you when you come in. Spencer doesn’t know why, he doesn’t ask, he doesn’t pry, he just knows your name holds weight in ways you don’t let anybody understand. Inside is much warmer than the outside, although the layers on you both linger for a minute longer as your bodies adjust to the new temperature.

It’s barely noon and you two are drooping, too tired to make decent conversation, but content with the way the morning went. The laughter between you both as you talked about anything and everything, the aching soles of your feet and the way you both looked at each other under the lights. The line is growing dangerously thin, yet you and him stand at its’ edge anyway, unable to take a step back from one another. Not you and him.

You’re brought jasmine tea and sugar, right along with a bowl of edamame and gyoza. Spencer prepares the tea while you start to create the dumpling dipping sauce mix. There’s shredded gringer, chili oil, a dash of fish and sesame oil, vinegar, and finall soy sauce with mirin. He eats it how you eat it so you make enough for you and him. By the time you’re done he is too, and so the feasting begins.

Spencer has learned over the past few months with you that you don’t play when it comes to food. You have a penchant for flavor and you use that to your advantage, but not only that. It means you’re willing to drop cash for a good meal, especially one made to your liking. He’s just the lucky straggler who gets to wine and dine with you when you decide you want fine handmade pasta with ingredients imported from Italy that very day. Fresh as possible, that’s how you preferred your meals. But it didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy a frozen something or fast food either.

After lunch you and him perk up, agreeing on spending the rest of the day in his apartment. How you want to bake for the afternoon, something about Christmas cookie boxes for the team, Spencer just knows he’ll be roped into it somehow. There’s a stop at the grocery store for your baking, where he dutifully pushes the cart and watches you put things inside, wondering what the hell is going to go down in his apartment when, “Oh, Spence, can we go to my place?”

His head nearly spins at the question, “You have furniture?”

“I swear I’ll disinvite you.”

“No, no! Please don’t, please, I want to see it. Show me?”

“I’ll let you look around.”

“Do you know how long I have been dying to see your apartment? Or, excuse me, the penthouse. I forgot you live top floor of a building three-hundred and twenty-seven feet in the air.”

You huff, kicking his shoe a little, “I was thinking of doing a housewarming party, do people do those or is that an old person thing?”

“No, no, I think that would be a great idea, I know the team would love to do that.”

“Really?”

He softens, just a bit, “Of course they would, I know for a fact that if you ever mentioned the word housewarming around the bullpen you’d find yourself hosting a get-together.”

You grab a thing of flour, the most expensive one off the shelf, then you hesitate and grab a second bag too, “I’ve never had a housewarming party before, have you?”

“Sorta.”

“How do you kind of have a housewarming party?”

“Well I didn’t exactly know there’d be a party, they just showed up with food and presents and I just let them in.”

“Oh goody.”

“When do you want to have the party?”

“I was thinking next weekend, maybe Saturday night?”

“I can help you prepare things, whatever you need.”

“You would?”

“I will.”

That makes you blink, his declaration almost enough to startle you, but you don’t comment on it, instead you say thanks, and then you grab a jar of vanilla paste. You both keep moving, the car waiting outside for you two and the promise of something warm baked up good for the next afternoon. Then he’s on his way to your apartment, newly decorated and undoubtedly beautiful because as you said before, homes are extensions of oneself just like clothes are.

Upon stepping through your frame his jaw does drop, something he didn’t expect, but your place has been transformed to something so entirely you that it boggles his mind a little bit. He has no idea how much money you’ve spent for the windows to be replaced by cathedral windows, stained glass at the tops between the intricate woodwork, green wallpaper over the walls with a variety of ferns and golden accents spread across it.

Your furniture isn’t grand like everything else, but the luxury is seen in the stitch marks of the leather on the couch. There are plants absolutely everywhere, but most importantly to you is two of the giant venus fly traps your mother had made, it was a gift to you from her in congratulations for coming into your own in DC. There’s tiffany lamp lighting in the room, dangling from the ceiling in a series of different sized balls, some the size of a basketball and others a yoga ball. Row after row of bookshelf, not everything filled yet but there’s still plenty and he’s just itching to get his fingers on them.

“What do you think?”

He remembers to breathe then, “It’s stunning.”

Your lips begin to curve, “I’d hope so, I spent months getting everything in order.”

“When you said shopping I didn’t think you meant you were installing cathedral windows the length of your living room walls.”

Not to mention that your living room is two stories tall, the rest of the apartment done up like an insanely fancy loft, “How much money do you have exactly? Because I don’t even think Rossi can afford all of this.”

He peers at the art you’ve put up, the brush strokes, the quality of the work, and then he looks at the bottom, Rembrandt. It’s the Old Man With A Gold Chain. Except this isn’t a print because he can see the brush strokes in the paint when he stares at it closer than he’s stared at many other paintings, “Is this original?”

Your cheeks warm, “The museum let me have it on loan, and to answer your question, I’ll let you guess.”

“This apartment has to be at least eight million, the installations at least another one million, to keep it running you probably pay around twenty-thousand a month. Which means you pay 240,000 dollars a year to keep it running, which is feasible for you. I’d say you have upwards of 800 million dollars in your bank account. Am I close?”

“Not yet.”

“More or less.”

“More.”

He pauses, coming over to you and the island where you’re setting up shop, you won’t look at him, the wealth you have almost a shameful thing in comparison to everything. Sometimes it makes you feel like a fool because you’ve grown up in a bubble, you know you have, you know that you’ll never have experiences that other people had because in reality, you aren’t one of them. Not in the sense that you are better or above, but because you have been fortunate enough to live your life with comforts and ease that too few could afford to have.

“A billion.”

“More.”

Spencer stares at you, just for a second, the way you’re already measuring flour out for cookies that you’re baking for your co-workers. It’s clear you’ve grown up easier, in a life where you had money as bubble wrap for your aches and growing pains. Yet you don’t rub it in their faces, at least not obnoxiously. It shows in your tailored outfits and quality materials, the way you never object to paying or how you offer to pay each and every time. You don’t hide the wealth and better yet it pleases you to share it.

“Four billion.”

You shake your head, “Take a guess Spencer.”

“Fifteen billion.”

“Seventeen.”

Seventeen billion dollars to your name. Rossi doesn’t even have a billion, but you do, you have seventeen of them. You aren’t even an only child, “How much wealth does your family have in a total sum?”

You sigh as you crack an egg into a separate bowl just in case it is faulty, “In total my family has a cumulative net worth of around 150 billion dollars. You won’t find us on a Forbes list, or any list really, because we value our privacy too much to put ourselves into a spotlight like that, although one day we might. Does this change your opinion of me?”

Is your wealth turning him off or away? You have grandeur written in your bones, quiet and unassuming but thrumming with life in ways he won’t ever truly understand, “I mean, it’s measly in comparison to you but I did win around eighty million when I turned twenty-one and hit the casinos. It’s why I’m banned from most of them in Vegas.”

For a moment you both stare at each other in silence, and then a rather undignified snort leaves you, but it doesn’t stop there. The giggle building in your mouth forces its way out and if you start laughing then he can’t help but start to laugh too. Soon you’re both wheezing because how absurd do the two of you need to be? A genius banned from his hometown casinos because he beat the ever living fuck out of the players. You, a rich girl who wouldn’t need to lift a finger if she didn’t want to working in the BAU as a profiler of all things.

He comes around the corner, over to you where you’re still giggling, your handwritten recipe book out in the open, tea stained as it may be it is still yours and he recognizes the handwriting. This is messier, older, than the current way you write, which is more refined and careful. Your cookbook has clearly been in the making for some time, “What is….plum cookies?”

You grin at him, finger on the page already, “Two cookies, you scoop the middle of them out and put cherry jam in the middle, then you seal the cookies together and dip them in red wine before rolling them in sugar.”

“Who came up with that?”

“I found a blog called Cèilidh, long time ago and all of her stuff looked amazing, but I prefer cherries over blueberries so I changed the jam filling.”

“I see, let me help you?”

“If you insist.”

The afternoon is spent baking, you’re efficient, you’re fast, you put music on while you show him how to roll cookie dough and how to measure flour, you even get him in an apron and manage to snag a photo of it too. Closer to dinner time, after the dishes have been cleaned and you’re in the process of baking the cookies off or decorating them he changes the record to something softer, a little slower, certainly moodier than before.

Somehow it’s easy for you and him to gravitate towards each other then. When you reach for him and he reaches back, hand settling on your waist, in your hand, you’re barefoot so you aren’t as tall as you usually are but that doesn’t matter, not to him. Not when it’s you and him and the music and the easy dancing in the kitchen. The sun is starting to set outside, casting the apartment in an array of colors from the stained glass windows, bathing you both in purples and oranges that make everything feel like a dream.

Absent-mindedly he reaches for your hair, for the braids you’ve put in and it’s easy to unravel them, to finally let your hair down. Your hair curls with the shape of the braid, falling in soft waves down your body as he twirls you around. Then he tugs you back to him, reveling in the way you allow him to do so. It exhilarates him when he tugs and you give, when you let him nudge you towards something or when you let him hold doors open for you. He likes it when he gets to take care of you, at least a little bit, he likes it even more when you're pressed close to him when he sways in time with the music.

“Did you know that the first evidence of dancing was discovered in India? Around 9,000 years ago now.”

You look up at him, lips twitching, “Oh really?”

“Mhm, it’s a set of cave paintings, and ballet originated in Italy, not Russia, a common mistake people make.”

“Have you ever gone to see the ballet?”

“Once, just to see what it might be like.”

“What did you see?”

“The Nutcracker, have you seen any ballets?”

“I was part of them, when I was seventeen and in high school I played the black swan.”

“How fitting, do you still dance?”

“I do.”

“Would you show me sometime?”

“Only for you Spence, only for you.”

Because you’re for him and him alone.

_____________

Spencer arrives with Morgan and Garcia to your apartment building, Rossi, Hotch, JJ, and Emily will be coming together too at any given moment. He knows you’re upstairs fretting about every little thing that could possibly go wrong even though he’s assured you over and over again that it’ll be perfect. It’s an excuse to get fancy for a night, to have something to celebrate and revel in. Spencer, mostly, can’t wait to watch their jaws drop at the sheer beauty of your home.

They come around the corner a few minutes later, they have bags of their own and bottles of wine, chattering excitedly as Penelope greets them. Then it’s go-time and thankfully Spencer’s face is recognized, although you would’ve come down to get them regardless. The elevator opens, he types the code in, and up they all go to your apartment. No, your penthouse. The elevator dings quietly for every floor, the button lighting up one by one, creeping up higher and higher, “Where the hell does she live? Top floor?”

Then finally, after two minutes of being in the elevator, the doors open to your receiving area. Spencer steps out first, the rest following his lead as they gape at the view surrounding them, twinkling city lights and a crescent moon peeking through the clouds. He raps his knuckles against the door twice, pauses three seconds, and repeats it. The door swings open, and there you are. Hair pulled back, half up and half down, two beautifully decorated wooden hair sticks keeping the bun upright. You’re wearing a long black dress, corseted at the top, big bell sleeves and a small train in the back of it. Gorgeous, because of course you are, then you step aside to let them in, welcoming them with a strained hello.

“Feel free to look around! I’m just finishing up on my cooking.”

You return to the kitchen, Spencer lingering close to you while everyone takes in your home with a lovestruck sort of awe. He comes close, fingertips grazing your waist as he reaches for a glass while his voice drops low enough to where only you can hear him, “It’ll be fine, I promise.”

Unbidden his fingers squeeze your hip, just once before releasing, before anybody can notice the proximity, “They aren’t going to judge you for anything.”

“They judged me for wearing heels to work.”

“Honey you work in the BAU, of course they’re going to judge you for wearing heels. You wore them into a shootout.”

“I think I might’ve tripped if I wasn’t wearing them.”

“Because your body is more used to and comfortable wearing heels than sneakers or flat bed shoes. It’s like driving a different car, you have to get used to it but there’s disconnect because it’s unfamiliar to you.”

“Having people in my home is certainly a disconnect too.”

He chuckles, low, just for your ears as he works on uncorking a wine bottle for the party, “Hotch wants to steal your record player I think.”

“I mean, it is a thing of beauty, not to mention it has The Beatles signatures carved into the sides, how much did that cost by the way?”

“Considering it’s one of a kind and in great condition, vintage, got four famous somebodies on it, it was about 650k. I got it at an auction.”

“Really, you found something like this at an auction?”

Your grin sharpens, almost imperceptible but not to him, “I can find a great deal of things at an auction.”

He laughs, a quiet thing as he pours you and him a glass of wine. You take it easily, murmuring a thanks before you tilt your chin towards the food and a plea for him to take some stuff to the dining room table which you’ve set up so beautifully. Garcia bounds over to you, to where you sip your wine as you carefully spoon vegetables into a pretty dish, her smile sugary sweet as she leans into your space.

“Sooo my gorgeous gothic princess of darkness, when were you going to mention that you’re actually a princess?”

You chortle a little at her, “Oh Garcia, I’m flattered you think so. Maybe one of my children will be if they marry the right person.”

“Oh god you weren’t actually supposed to state a possibility of becoming connected to actual royalty. Have you met any royals?”

“I went clubbing with Prince William when I was twenty-one, he wound up introducing me to his brother, Henry.”

“Please tell me there are pictures, please.”

“Third bookshelf, second shelf, right side, it’s titled My Cambridge Year.”

“Oh my lord.”

She wanders off as Rossi becomes your third visitor, finding you just in time for the oven to open and a burst of the most delicious smells emerge. He hums appreciatively as he sniffs the wine you’ve chosen for yourself, wine Spencer had helped you pick out, “So I think it’s safe to say you’ll be paying from now on, hmm?”

You glance at him, “Only if you’ll let me.”

He laughs and you chortle along with him, pulling your thing of rolls out from the oven, they’re golden with butter and herbs baked into the top, then you brush one more layer of your butter mixture, just for good measure. Rossi doesn’t hesitate when he starts to bring things over to the table, which is long and beautiful, made from wenge colored oak, the sides carved to tell a story. You have long candles burning bright, the flowers spilling between dishes and table settings pieced to magazine quality perfection.

It’s clear you take hosting quite seriously, adult-like in the refinement of the craft despite being the youngest on the team. Twenty-three and hosting like you’d been born to do so. When you all sit, questions on their tongues for a billion different things, you don’t acknowledge it yet, instead you begin to reach for dishes, and that starts the passage of items going around the table. It’s when their plates are filled and chatter directs its attention to you that you straighten up fully.

You look almost imposing, sitting in your chair at the head of your table, the high backed seat shadowing your back as your fingers, elegant and adorned with various rings, cuts into your food. For a second it doesn’t look like you’re in a penthouse of Washington D.C. For a second, just one or two, you look like something out of a fairytale. Not in the sense of a woman whose beauty is so pure that one must stop in their tracks. But a presence so sharp and dangerous that one cannot turn away, drawn in by cold charm and a silent promise of something that could pay off if the cards were played correctly.

There is a cruel sort of tension that tugs at everyone, goading them into taking a risk, asking things that border on the edge of something they need to find out but cannot bear to. Where are you from? What is your history? Why are you here with them? Garcia thinks of how she couldn’t dig up a single juicy thing on you, not even where you went to school. You had told her she’d find only the things you wanted her to find, and it had been small things. An award for winning a writing competition, piano lessons, a card history for things like the movies.

Rossi is the first one to speak, rich person to rich person and all that, “So I couldn’t help but notice the first folio Shakespeare that you have sitting oh so casually in your library.”

You raise your brow, “I thought someone might.”

Spencer stares at you, just for a second because he hadn’t exactly gotten the chance to see your full collection, and he hadn’t seen that particular one just yet. He did, however, see the original Jane Austen you had tucked away in there. It makes him wonder just what other borderline priceless things you have laying around your home. It didn’t even occur to him to ask what small treasures you held in the space, he’d been too focused on you and the feel of your waist pressed against his hand.

“What’s the oldest book you have in here?”

His curiosity is too large to ever fully satiate, sure it can be curbed, but never fully rested. With you his curiosity knows no bounds, for every question answered there’s two more springing up, almost bursting to be spoken aloud, “Probably the Shakespeare, most of my older literature here is 19th century.”

“Who do you have?”

“Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, Emily Dickenson, those types of people. In my uhm, in my office, there’s framed poems from her.”

Spencer hadn’t gotten to see your office, he didn’t even know you had one, and now he desperately wants to see it. To see you in there. He thinks about it, of you sitting in a big black chair as if it’s a throne with priceless artifacts around you. For one fleeting, completely out of left field moment, he thinks of being at your feet, between your thighs, his head-

He banishes the thought as quick as he can, you’re friends, sorta, not even he’s sure of that anymore. You and him keep creeping towards a goal but you’re both doing it blind and the path is certainly not a straight one. There’s twists and turns, no map to guide either of you towards a destination he’s desperate to arrive at. Even if he’s not sure what that destination is. At least he knows that he wants you. However, dinner with the co-workers is not the place to come to the realization that he wants you in every which way, whatever that way may be. Maybe it was hearing about your literature collection that truly did him in.

Over dinner you talk about where you got some of your furniture, the paintings you’ve put up on your walls, the display of wealth so opulent yet quiet that it boggles their minds. Rossi knows what you are though, that your money goes hand in hand with your lineage, that the wealth right beneath your fingertips is wealth accumulated from generation after generation. Your furniture, your choices of decoration, he knows it’s close to a billion dollars worth of things in the space and yet you likely haven’t paid more than half a billion for the decorations.

After dinner comes wine and dessert in your living room, discussing cases or things that you all want to do to your homes because it is a housewarming party after all. Slowly the team starts to be picked off until it’s you and Spencer again. You and him bask in the comfortable stretch of silence from a party well executed and then complete, just enough to muster up the strength to do dishes. Spencer insists on doing most of it so you settle for packing away leftovers while he washes things off or puts them in the dishwasher.

He sends you off to the shower when you finish and he still has a few things left to do, insisting for you to unwind, he’ll join you later. You, half-dead on your feet from the hours of preparation, nod in agreement, you take your leave too, but not before pressing a kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, natural, he doesn’t blink twice when you do it because it felt like something you two had always done. Except that isn’t true, because you had never kissed his cheek, he would remember if you did. That doesn’t hit him until you’re going up the stairs, your dress draped over the stairs as you head up. He turns, intent on saying something, calling you back so he can kiss you properly, but the words die in his throat just as quickly.

Cheeks burning he whirls around to return to his dishes, to the soapy water and the scent of citrus soap. He begs his mind to rest the idea of putting his mouth on you, whether it be your lips or the space between your thighs, he just knows he wants his lips on your skin, his teeth in your flesh. The dishes get finished. He creeps up the stairs then, stepping into your room. He stayed here last weekend, had slept in your nice bed with the black blankets and the blood red curtains around him, and put his things on the nightstand on his designated side of the bed.

You step out of the bathroom in the next moment, draped in your vintage hollywood style robe with your hair all pinned up in your version of a messy bun. No makeup, nothing but the most natural, raw state of you, it’s something he craves in the middle of a workday, when he’s picking out groceries for the week, consuming each and every thought he might have when he doesn’t focus on anything in particular. You move around the room, completely oblivious (he hopes) to his train of thought as you step into your dressing room.

It’s his turn in the bathroom, to where he has sets of his own things because at some point you’d put a set of your own products in his bathroom. The thought is nearly dizzying and part of him considers taking a cold shower to stave off the way his pants are beginning to tighten. Shame curls low in his belly when it occurs to him how stupidly horny he is for you. The crisp lines of your makeup, the way your hair falls around your face, your hand coiled around a thick cooking utensil from earlier. He needs to be quick, he needs to be fast, because realistically if he doesn’t get it out of his system he’s going to sport a boner throughout the night.

He undresses quickly, water turning on in the same breath as he spits into his hand and wraps it around his rapidly filling cock. Sensitive already, mostly because he doesn’t do this. Spencer doesn’t touch himself at any given day mostly because he doesn’t have the urge or want to do so. Yet three months into knowing you, into falling for you, he’s jacking off in your shower. The hot water makes things worse and better, his lip caught between his teeth as his hand works himself to the edge as fast as it can go,

Thoughts of you invade the process, of your shape underneath your clothes, your voice which sounds like red wine to him calling out his name. He has to clamp his hand over his mouth in order to keep the sounds fully contained, wrist twisting as his hand moves over the head, thumb swiping there fast and hard, forcing a sharp gasp out of him. He imagines it’s your hand, maybe you’d touch him with your rings on, the bite of the cold metal on the most heated part of him, Then he thinks of your mouth on him, those red painted lips stretched over him and your nose pressed to his naval.

What gets him though is the fantasy of fucking you. Of feeling your body tremble underneath his hands, his dick sheathed inside of your soft walls that would grip onto him for dear life. He imagines how you’ll take it, if that carefully blank face you wear a good nine out of ten interactions will change as you can do nothing but take him. His thumb will find your clit, circling and pressing and someday he’ll kiss it like the way you’ll kiss his dick. He cums when his fantasy version of you cums too, walls pulsing and back arching as a low noise spills out of you. He doesn’t imagine you to be too loud, he doubts your personality would allow it. That is what gets him to cum in under five minutes in your shower.

He would be embarrassed by how quickly he’s finished, but it’s him and his hand and your shower, so it’s alright. The goal was to finish as quickly as he could and he managed to within his allotted time frame. He goes through with his routine after that, the incessant urge to fuck something having eased to a managable level now that he’s officially tainted his perception of you. Part of him is ashamed, guilty that he’s defiled your space in such a way and the other part wants to do it again. He just doesn’t know which part is winning.

You join him for skincare, having changed out of your robe but your hair still up, there’s nothing but comfortable silence between you both when you wash your face and he pats it dry. He puts the toothpaste on your toothbrush, both of you going in time with one another. You’ve already got water set up on the nightstands, a standard for you both. It’s too domestic and yet it’s everything you both want. This unlabeled thing between you two glaringly obvious, the line etched deeper than ever and yet it has never been so thin.

Spencer slips into bed with you and you slip into bed with him. The stillness lets you both know that things are changing, that this unspoken thing cannot go much longer in its silence. It demands to be acknowledged and yet neither of you do. Instead you turn your light out and face him in your spot while he does the same. Neither of you sleep yet, but neither of you speak. It’s just you and him facing each other in your bed, less than a foot apart from each other yet you two are closer than that, not physically at least.

It scares him how easily you’ve fit yourself into his life. You know his preferred books and how he takes his tea, what dinner is on his weekly dinner rotation and the places he favors for food because Spencer can make a grand total of three things: Instant ramen, oatmeal (occasionally) and box mac n cheese. There is also never a guarantee that these dishes will turn out good either. One morning he tried and that was the morning you made him promise to let you do the cooking, or to just go out with your card. He wasn’t offended, mostly because his oatmeal (that he did add water to) turned into a round brick instead of something edible.

Now though? Now it’s different, it’s the silent understanding that you two are changing, evolving, no not even that. You two are hurtling towards a collision that neither of you have the power to stop. Like a black hole that takes and consumes, latching on and never letting go. Except neither of you want to even remotely try to resist. Not this, not each other.

______________

Death row, it’s something that fascinates you to an extent, the people who deserve it? Not so much. Yet when Hotch assigns you and Spencer to interview a man on death row for possible involvement in a string of murders previously unconnected to him in Georgia, you get to see it up close. You’ve read his profile, the misogynistic views, the penchant for hispanic/latina women. How he treated them like maids due to the lens of racism he looked through.

You know why Hotch sent you, knew it would provoke the guy -Mike Stevens- to possibly reveal a few things. Spencer for the way he could connect dots faster than a heartbeat, not because he looked like a past target. Mike comes from Ellijay, a small mountain town with a barely there population, plenty of space to run and hide if he wanted to. Apple capital of Georgia, this guy’s certainly no peach.

“Are you alright?”

Spencer had insisted on driving again, he always does. You don’t drive much as it is, the wheel something that you’ve felt no interest in controlling for a long while. Maybe it’s your upbringing, the way your parents would rather kiss each other in the backseat then look at a road. You like driving with Spencer though, he lets you pick the CDs and the passenger seat is set exactly how you prefer it. There’s car freshener dangling from the middle mirror that you picked out, and he predicts he has maybe three more months before a picture of you makes its way to his instrument panel.

The drive is two hours long and the case is expected to take a while so you’ll both be staying the night with each other in a hotel in Jacksonville. Penelope had been almost giddy when she texted you that the hotel was booked out and there was only a room with one bed available. You didn’t mind in the slightest. Not when the weekends had you and Spencer in each other’s beds despite the way you both fell asleep with space between you two. Neither of you spoke about the mornings where you and he woke up tangled together in a mess of limbs and clinging fingers.

“What are you thinking about?”

He asks it casually because he can expect an honest answer back, but he knows when you’re thinking. It’s true your natural expression is resting bitch face which is your default face, but when you think it gets just a smidgen more severe. Sometimes you get called Mini Hotch when neither of you are there to hear it simply because if you and him stand by side during a case it looks the same. Frankly, it’s terrifying because when you’re both in concentration and someone dares interrupt you both tend to look at the same time, scowls firmly in place.

“Mike. I’ll have to bite my tongue with him.”

Spencer’s jaw flexes, just for a second, “Because of his bias towards women like you. He’ll take the challenge as flirting.”

“He’s going to look at me and assume it’s a challenge for him to conquer.”

“We’ll end it as soon as he says something to you.”

You shake your head, brow dipping further down, “No, we have to keep going, he’ll take it as reluctant curiosity on my part, then he’ll use it as a reason about why I’m in the BAU. Girl like me needs her fix of violence, but because of who I am I’m not fit for the job, but I want it anyway. He’s going to assume I’m the BAU whore, better yet, your whore.”

Spencer swallows thickly at your words, there’s venom there that he hasn’t heard from you in a long while. It’s April now, late April, the beginning of Spring. Seven months since you’ve stepped foot into the bullpen and rocked his world. With it starting to warm you’re forced out of your heavy coats and turtlenecks much to your dismay, but also reluctant joy. He thinks of snakes in the Spring. How the crop from last year are big now, they’re maturing well and they know how to use the venom in their mouth. He remembers the glimpse of a snake tattoo on your arm from the other day because your sleeve rode up a bit.

Georgia is warmer than DC in this time of year too, even Spencer’s forgone his jacket and rolled his sleeves up a little bit over here. You though? You continue to wear your high collars and long sleeves, ankle length pants and skirts, never truly showing skin outside of your face. He wonders what you’ll wear in the Summer, or if you’ll continue to dress as if showing ankle could be sin. Not that he dislikes your style, oh no he adores it, truly he does, but you must certainly be hot in all those layers and cuts.

Needless to say, the heat doesn’t help Spencer when he flushes from your crude words. But if he’s flustered by you saying it, the unsub will fluster him too. He’ll expect it now, and get it out of his system after a few moments, “I might deck him if he says that.”

That’s true too. It’s not just the implication that has him reddening, he likes the idea of you being his, but not his whore. Because you most certainly are not. He respects you too much to ever think of you that way, the thought of treating you so lowly doesn’t sit right with him. It reminds him of the prostitutes from Vegas, some starting out far, far too young, girls he had gone to elementary school with at some point. He had seen how they were treated, what was expected of them. To put you in that position, real or not, makes him sour in ways he hasn’t in a long while.

“I mean it, he has no right to say any of that.”

Your lips twitch, brows unfurrowing the littlest bit as you reach over to take his hands, your fingers squeezing his for a second while he breathes over the sound of his blood rushing, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, if I could have a choice I’d let you punch the ever loving daylights out of him, as it is we’re just federal agents trying to get a confession out of him.”

“It’s just, this guy disgusts me. His M.O, his stereotyping, the racism, the sexism, it’s astonishing really.”

“He’s a man who was slighted, to some there can be no greater insult than a woman rejecting their affection.”

“Those men deserve to be castrated.”

“I could get this guy castrated.”

Spencer pauses, glancing at you for a second, “You can?”

You glance back at him, your relaxed face back as your thumb strokes his hand, “Of course I can, I’m rich.”

“How do you-were you planning this guy's castration? When did you have time to think of how to make that possible?”

“I started planning as soon as I found out what he had done to all those other girls, and it’s not the first time I’ve gotten someone castrated before.”

“So you’re telling me you have a hit-castrator who can get into jail for death row jail.”

Sometimes he’s not sure whether to be concerned about what you get up to in your freetime, like why you know the things you do or the people you have connections to. You seem perfectly ordinary sometimes, in the sense that you aren’t borderline mythical, as if you were just the girl he’s fallen in love with a rich ass background. Forgetting that the rich part definitely came with some insane side quests or consequences, he wasn’t sure which one it happened to be. Then there was just the bit that made you you.

Macabre quips and unsettling stares, a face permanently locked in a scowl or at least disgust if you were feeling particularly animated. You hosted a wealth of secrets and when you chose to reveal them it always made them pause, as if to ensure that you in fact were not lying, and telling the truth indeed. So you smiled and chortled, as for Spencer he got to see you wheeze from laughter or giggle at something stupid. You refused to touch a light color unless it was Halloween or time to sleep, and you never, ever, wore silver, or left without ten-thousand in your purse.

“Well when you put it like that it sounds terrible.”

“You have a hit-castrator with a prison specialty, how many people do you know who casually have one of those?”

That earns him a look as you huff, “Alright fine perhaps not everyone has someone who can do such a feat. In my defense the castration is just a bonus.”

If Spencer didn’t want to keep holding your hand as badly as he does he would let go and run his hand down his face. Alas the urge to feel your hand in his is too much, even if they are covered in lace.

“A bonus, “He echoes, incredulous, “A bonus she says.”

“Do you want the guy castrated or not?”

That makes Spencer pause for a second. No doubt that it’ll be painful, that it’ll be all over the news, but there’s no way to link it back to him or you. Then he thinks about it, the guy killed, raped, and abused these women. Young ones that looked like you, whose bodies were ravaged and their memory kept alive in a scrapbook they were forced to make. He’d kill them once the scrapbook was complete.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He supposes that if he’s going to be in a relationship with you then he needs to match you in certain regards, or at least get used to them. The line is still there, still uncrossed, but it crumbles even further the longer this conversation goes on. You and him inch closer, nearly touching the line that’s been there from the beginning, “You were going to castrate him whether or not I said yes weren’t you?”

“Of course I was, don’t be foolish, I’d never let a man like that keep his dick.”

_____________

They’re both fortunate and unfortunate to land a case in the Florida Keys, fortunate because it’s the Keys, unfortunate because it’s late-July and the weather is borderline miserable. At least it’s predicted to be like that. You seem to perk up though, as does Spencer. It’s no secret he can handle hot weather, having grown up in Vegas he’d become accustomed to long days baking in heat so dry it made turkey on Thanksgiving look juicy. You on the other hand, well, they have no clue where you were even born.

Hotch resigns himself to a long unknown number of days in heat so humid he knows that even he will have to shed the suit jacket. He’ll also have to make sure everyone gets sunscreen because god knows that someone’s going to be badly burnt in the sun. His bet is on Emily or Rossi, he knows Spencer is too meticulous to do something like not believe in sunscreen. A few minutes before landing he distributes the sunscreen, although you and Morgan are trading a brown bottle that he’s pretty sure says has sunscreen but is mostly tanning oil.

Once outside Emily groans because she knows this heat is going to make her hair a frizzy mess, JJ just sighs because she’ll burn way too easily under the sun like this. Even Spencer, Vegas native that he is, cringes a little under the intensity of the sun. He’s lived in DC for a while now, he isn’t as acclimated as he once was. You seem to soak it in though, although nobody knows how you’re still covered up because Hotch himself is fairly sure if tank tops can be allowed in a situation this is one of them. There’s no time to dwell on it though, not when they need to get to the police station in Key West.

By the time they get there jackets have been shed, hair pinned up, collars unbuttoned. Hotch thinks of all the miserable places that they have been sent to, the places that make him question humanity and their antics. This place is one of them, sure it’s beautiful and the water is nice but the heat is overwhelming. Sitting pretty at ninety-three degrees, it feels closer to a hundred-ten in his opinion, and most people’s as well. For Spencer the heat is fine, but it’s the humidity that eats at him. The sticky dampness that Vegas lacks is certainly present here.

There’s been a string of bodies hung up on giant hooks used to hold large fish, decidedly skewered post-mortem, five bodies have turned up in the past seven weeks. The first day slips by easily, they think the guy isn’t a local, but frequents the island, which makes things harder. Dinner is spent on a pier, it’s delicious, of course it is. Then it’s time to go back to the house you’ve rented because for you it’s absolutely nothing.

It also just feels nice to be able to treat the team to something nice. You find a beach house, one right in front of it, there’s a pool, the hot tub on the porch, and enough bedrooms for everyone. Except you know that while Spencer might shower in his bedroom he’ll be coming over to yours every night as soon as everyone’s asleep. It’s why he claimed the one that has a connecting door to your room. That makes you feel giddy, knowing you have him with you every day, every night, for at least two or three days.

It’s a little past seven when you slip out from your room with your bag, a little dress, a bathing suit, and a plan. Except you weren’t the only one with that plan, Morgan blinks at you from down the hall, and then a grin spreads over his face. You know in that exact moment that you will not be escaping this house without him.

“Well, well, looks like I’m not the only one sneaking out.”

You sigh, “I’m renting this house, I can leave if I want.”

“Then why were you being so suspicious?”

“I was not being suspicious.”

“You were literally looking to see if the coast was clear and I watched you tip toe towards the door. Which means you’re sneaking out, and yeah you rent this place but it’s not going to save you from the fathers.”

“And you are going to wake the fathers up if you keep talking so loudly, let’s go already.”

He chuckles but does as told, following you out the door and to the porch. There’s still daylight out, although the sun will set within the next few hours. But you need the warmth, you do. The beach is private which means you two can be anywhere and it won’t matter because nobody is coming over. A little piece of paradise, you set your towel out, then your skin products, and then your coverup is coming off. It leaves you in your most plain bathing suit, simple cut black with a Brazilian bikini style top, although your bottoms have more coverage than that.

“When were you gonna tell us you’re tatted the fuck up?”

You glance at him, then yourself. In nothing but a few pieces of medium sized cloth and your hair all pinned up there’s no denying the ink on your skin. It crawls up your neck, over your shoulders and down your arms, all the way to your palms. Creeping down your chest, over your sternum, around your waist, vanishing into the fabric of your top, and then sparcing out over your hips. Leaving your legs mostly tattooed free except for a few areas.

“I didn’t feel the need to announce it, besides, we work in the FBI, I can’t go around flaunting all these tattoos.”

“They look cultural though, at least to an extent.”

“They are cultural. It’s a combination of my mother, she’s from the islands in Southeast Asia, and my father, he’s Native.”

“Then you shouldn’t have to cover them up, is that why you’re always so concealed?”

“Mhm, don’t want an HR violation or get told to cover up. Even better get told I’m unprofessional.”

You’ve settled onto your back, your front facing forward with your eyes shut as you let your body sit in the sand, a timer on your phone, a little cooler beside you, an ipod quietly playing your music in your ear.

“Listen, I think you should show them publicly. Fuck HR or whatever, it’s your culture, they don’t get to make you hide something like that.”

“The tattoos are a distraction, I know they’re a distraction. They’re-”

“Beautiful. That’s what they fucking are. Who cares if you have tattoos? You’re a profiler for the FBI, they look sick as hell, and it’s something sacred to you. If they give you hell then I’ll speak up, I promise you.”

He reminds you of your older brother -Oliver-, the way he grinned and slung an arm around you. Protective in ways you struggled to keep up with and nonchalant or vindictive in others that made you want to tear your hair out. You always did love your tattoos, ranging from the tiger in the center of your shoulder blades to the bands of intricate work, perfectly symmetrical for each arm. Still, the idea of showing tattoos on the job scares you a little bit, but it is getting too hot to wear all your layers, even you know that.

“I’m serious, don’t cover them up.”

“I’ll think about it.”

For the next hour you alternate between being on your stomach or your back, letting the sun soak into your skin and let the melanin return. Winter in DC has left you paler than you ever liked to be, washed out and almost gaunt, the sun brings life back to your face and body. The sunset is beautiful too, the glow of red and orange mixing into blurred lines until it’s turned pink. Once it starts turning purple you and Morgan head back, him just as bare as he had been before, but you don’t take your chances and you slip your cover-up back on. You’re both greeted by Emily who raises a brow at the both of you, “Do I even want to know?”

Morgan shakes his head, nudging her a little bit, “Get those thoughts out of your mind, you know I’ve only got eyes for one girl in my life.”

“I’ll be sure to let Garcia know her lover is a faithful one.”

“She deserves only the best, we all know that.”

JJ steps out and as does Spencer, who looks between you and Morgan, trying to figure out what’s going on, “Where did you two disappear to?”

You roll your eyes at the question, “I was going to go to the beach to catch what remained of the sun and Morgan here decided to join me.”

Morgan grins, “Dracula evidently does like the sun, I at least got in the water, she insisted on staying on land the entire time. Popped her headphones in, and then bam, not a single word more was spoken.”

Spencer relaxes, just a bit, but you think it’s cute that he even thought there’d be something going on between the both of you. You all migrate towards the living room where Morgan finds the ingredients for a pina colada, and Emily finds a board game. An hour and a half later Hotch and Rossi come down to find you all playing a very competitive round of Monopoly, with Garcia on Skype and having teamed up with Morgan. There is also a half empty bottle of rum, a quarter of tequila having gone down the hatch too. You’re all warm cheeked, you and Morgan a few significant shades tanner than you were three hours earlier. There are words of discouragement, cursing, and money being slammed down on the table with gusto.

“What in the world is happening here?”

All of you freeze instantly under the weight of Rossi’s voice. Then you all take in how it looks. The drinks, the games, the wildness that you all had reached for. Hotch and Rossi had heard the laughter and came to investigate, not realizing that there was a little party going on just the floor below. Emily bats her eyes at them, hoping that it’ll get you all out of a scolding, “Team bonding? Want to join?”

Rossi and Hotch glance at each other, a silent conversation being held right before all of your eyes, “One round, and no more drinks, you all have had your fair share for the night. You can have more when we finish this case.”

Hotch settles beside you, observing the rest of the round silently while you all discuss who can be paired with who so the older men can join the next round. There’s six pieces, Morgan and Garcia have already paired up, leaving five pieces. Emily and JJ pair up too, leaving four, which means that Rossi and Hotch each get their own piece, as do you and Spencer. It speaks for a round of such intensity that monopoly might have to be banned in the future. Of course Spencer is the banker.

Ten minutes into the new round that becomes apparent because Hotch is trying to buy properties like it’s nobody's business while you and Spencer go toe to toe for railroads. There’s no logic to it, no rhyme or reason but it just so happens that for profilers when given a board game they must take it to a new personal level that would have most people sobbing. Because when it’s game time all hands are off for the rules of not-profiling team members, it’s used as ammo instead. Insults traded back and forth off things observed over months and months of knowing each other and getting fed tidbits of information.

This is where Spencer slips up, just a tiny bit, giving an indication that maybe he’s been spending more time with you than either of you care to let on. You, tragically, don’t miss a beat when he scoffs and says ‘you stole that railroad from me just like how you stole those books from your family library because if you asked they would’ve said no’. Then you hit him with ‘not everyone had their mom read Canterbury Tales to them for bedtime Spence’.

Something odd settles into JJ’s stomach at the exchange. It’s casual, like these are well known facts about one another, as if you two have taken the time to learn one another’s secrets. When did Spencer get access to your secrets? Better yet, when did you get access to his? She doesn’t understand the odd feeling in her, Spencer isn’t hers, she isn’t his, but they’re close. Close in the way that she knows his brain and she can afford to say things without him getting too offended by her words. When did you get close to him too?

The game ends in Hotch’s victory, which everyone can tell he’s extremely pleased by. Rossi is the one to shepard you all off to bed after that, citing that it can be cleaned at a later date, but now it’s time for them to rest their heads and settle into bed. You all go easily, the exhaustion of the day catching up quickly as the rooms shut and the locks quietly click shut. For you though? Your door between your room and Spencer’s opens as soon as the doors shut to the main hallway.

He comes in quietly, face still a little flushed from the alcohol, but he’s already showered and changed into his sleep clothes. You on the other hand still have sand clinging to your skin, the bikini you’re in digging into your skin after wearing it dry for too long. You think of what Morgan said, the tattoos you’re so careful to hide away and how he said they’re beautiful. That you shouldn’t have to hide your culture away like that.

“Want to go down to the beach with me tomorrow?”

Spencer glances up at you, the invitation, the idea, he thinks of the sand and how much he hates it under his skin. But you want him at the beach with you, even if it’s just for a few minutes of his time. He can always wear socks, “After we get back?”

“Mhm, I want to sunbathe again, it’s so rare nowadays that I get to be on the beach.”

“You grew up beside it, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

He thinks of your family, gothic and dark, wrapped in lace and leather, luxury down to your nails. He thinks of a small vampiric army labeled as a family suntanning on the beach. It’s a hard thing to picture, but strangely, it suits you. He didn’t expect the beach to suit you.

“Where?”

You hum, head tilting a bit as you begin to pull a set of clothes out for you to wear in the night. It’s different tonight, there’s a slip dress and a lace robe to go over the dress, but it’s more fifties than twenties, “I spent half my time in Malibu, in my mothers’ favorite house. As a wedding gift my father spent sixty-million dollars to buy private land, a portion of the beach hidden in an alcove, and for her house to be designed exactly how she wanted it to be.”

“Must be a nice home.”

“She’d live there full time if she could, but she’s too in love with my Father to ever do that.”

You leave him there to shower, emerging twenty minutes later with your skin-care done and the day's activities wearing you down a little bit. But he sees your tattoos, he sees the way they crawl up your neck, marking every spare inch of skin exposed to him. Never before has he wanted to lick somebody, but you have a way of bringing out the most animal desires that evolution had watered down over the span of thousands of generations in him.

His fingers twitch to reach out for you, to feel the ink etched into your flesh, tracing the designs that represent who you are. God you’re beautiful. The curve of your hip and the tilt of your head, the way your fingers twitch when something excites you. He doesn’t do that though, he restrains himself even though he aches to do something like that, just for the chance of having you. Spencer, as he’s come to know like he knows his literature, wants you more than he’s ever wanted anything else in his entire life.

“Your parents still love each other?”

That makes you sigh as you settle into your side of the bed, “They do, they’re soulmates of the highest calibre. One cannot walk this land without the other. Sometimes they get so caught up in one another that they forget there’s an entire world outside of the one they lock themselves up in.”

Rich, in love, but with a taste of neglect, “How many other siblings do you have?’

Your lips twitch, “There’s seven of us. I’m smack dab in the middle.”

Forgotten child. You’re the middle marker for old and young, the one nobody really focuses on because you’re fourth oldest, fourth youngest, you’re always just there on the back burner. No wonder you’re in the BAU. Spencer doesn’t know how anybody could forget you though, not with your beauty or your mind, the dry wit and the way you speak. It’s all too impossible for him to ignore, for anybody to ignore. Apparently in a family full of people like you it can be easy to be overlooked.

You look smaller in this bed, with your tattoos exposed like they haven’t been before, your hair braided back and voice softer than it ever has been. For you secrets like this are meant to be hunted out of you, not given freely, but for Spencer you find your voice and mouth moving before your brain can decide to hesitate. You don’t hesitate for Spencer, never for him.

“What’s your family like?”

He shuffles closer, just an inch, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by you, yet you don’t move away, you remain right there in your spot, as if you’re daring him to come closer. He doesn’t move again in the next breath, he simply waits for your reluctant confession.

“Tight-knit, but distant. I’m…not what they expected for me to be. They thought I’d go on to be a socialite, a woman who fades into the background but throws money at the causes she believes in. Trust me I still do that, but joining the BAU wasn’t something they had ever envisioned me doing.”

“They wanted you to stay home, didn’t they?”

“They did, and I wanted out.”

“Your siblings wanted you to stay too?”

That makes you snort, you aren’t amused by any means, it sounds bitter, “My siblings get along with each other but they tend to avoid me. I’m not sure why they do that, but they do. However, I do get along well with my grandmother, her name’s Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?”

“Oh yes, Wednesday Addams, she refused to change her maiden name for her husband, who wound up taking her name instead. She certainly wasn’t going to take the last name Glicker over Addams.”

“Would you change your name? Or would you make your husband change his to match yours?”

“I think I'd either hyphenate our names or take his. It’s not that I dislike my last name, I just think I’d like to separate myself from them a little bit. Would you change your name for your wife?”

“If she wished it I would.”

“Good husband you’ll be then.”

“What makes you say that?”

You sigh, eyes slipping shut for a moment, “Anybody would be lucky to be loved by you Spencer. They’d be a fool to take it for granted.”

He’s stuck speechless for a second too long, just enough for you to slip into the realm of sleep as he thinks over your words. Your casual words that turn everything upside down all over again, he had heard the resignation in your tone, as if you believed it couldn’t be you on the receiving end of his love. Not truly, but considering the environment you were raised in he supposes that it’s a normal reaction or conclusion to this particular equation for you.

The next morning is spent hurriedly cleaning, which between multiple people went faster than even three. Then it’s go-go-go as you all head to the police station, reviewing evidence, visiting the sites where the bodies were found. There’s no new body, thankfully, but also no new evidence which isn’t ideal. A non-local murderer in the keys, if the unsub knows that you all are there then he could just very well not come back to the site.

“I think we need to start blending in, we look severely out of place here.”

You all look at Rossi, the way he seems to have sullenly accepted his fate of Hawaiian print shirts and khaki pants. Emily stares at him for a second before being the group voice, “Excuse me what?”

Rossi sighs, gesturing to all of you, “Look at this, we have HR on the runway, a professor, two bodyguards, tan Lucy Liu, and me, the mafia. We’re getting weird looks from the locals, of course the unsub is going to notice us too. So we’re going to do a little shopping, and we’re going to wear colors.”

Your nose on instinct scrunches up, “You have the option of red or purple for me but do not force me into heavens forbid yellow.”

Emily and JJ look at you, the high collars and the long sleeves, the way you absolutely detest anything bright unless it’s Halloween. There’s no chance for you though, not when they each grab one of your arms to drag you off to Duval Street where most of the shopping stores are. The others follow you three, but they vanish to pick up their own things while Emily and JJ drag you into various stores to try on certain things.

The first store is an immediate assault on your senses, bright colors and loud prints, there’s a pop song playing in the overhead speakers and you want to leave. Shopping like this is something you absolutely detest, and if there’s one thing where you’ll gladly flaunt wealth it’s in clothes. You pride yourself on your appearance, the quality of your clothes, how well everything meshes together. This is decidedly everything you dislike in a set of clothes.

That doesn’t deter them though, sandwiched in between the two older women you have no choice but to be subjected to their stylistic choices. Since you’re too unwilling of a participant to pick for yourself apparently. Of course they pick things out for themselves too, knowing damn well that you’ll pay for it, and if not then Rossi will handle it. There’s an unspoken time allotment of an hour and a half to get the affairs in order, and on the dot you all emerge from the shops to meet at the original point. Spencer’s been forced into a pair of oversized jorts and a t-shirt much too big for him, but certainly on trend.

You on the other hand, well there’s no chance of not showing the tattoos, a crocheted top and a wrap skirt that sits right above your navel with thick platform sandals. The skirt is printed with hibiscus flowers and the top is shaped like a flower, the top petal resting over your sternum with a string to wrap around your neck. But your back is almost completely exposed, so all those tattoos and the detail is on full display. Rossi blinks when you appear, peering at the ink all over your skin, “Now when did you have time to get those?”

Spencer’s trying very hard not to pop a boner in public but lord that is a test of his strength because you look stunning. You always do, but this is something new and he likes this look too. He sees the curve of your hip and the dip of your waist, the strength in your arms and the length of your neck. You haven’t forgone the jewelry, which still compliments the outfit they’ve put you in.

“Well, considering that my family started tattooing me at sixteen, I’d say I had a few years to get used to it.”

“It’s done with the hand tapping method, right?”

“Indeed. Now pray tell, how are we going to continue blending in? Are we playing tourist, what’s going on?”

“We do touristy things, ask around for certain things like we’re just trying to figure out local secrets. They’re always more willing to give them to tourists than the FBI.”

Hotch nods, arms crossed over his chest and despite the fact that his shirt is an almost ungodly orange shade he still manages to look intimidating, “Morgan, Rossi, and me will go to the marinas and ask the local fishermen about the best spots to fish or if there’s anybody who’s willing to guide for lower prices. JJ and Emily, you two head off to salons or nail spots to see if the women know anything there. As for you two, I want you both to pretend to be a couple looking for a wedding venue. Quiet, private, someplace that’s hidden from most of the public.”

Rossi hands Emily his card, “Get something nice, I’ll text you the pin.”

“Thanks.”

Morgan dips his head towards you and Spencer, “Better get cozy together, madly in love and all that.”

You purse your lips, “Anybody got a diamond ring on them? If we’re engaged then I better be wearing a damn ring.”

Spencer, of all people, perks up, “Oh, I do actually.”

He reaches up over his neck, unclipping the thin necklace that he wears. His mothers’ engagement ring is there, it’s a beautiful thing, large, expensive, and most importantly, there’s a gold band on there too. Cut in a marquise shape set on a plate of gold that frames the diamond, which…isn’t small by any means. It’s minimum 2.5 carats, and while you’d seen it on his neck before you hadn’t gotten the chance to see it up close. The ring is beautiful, the gold plate is studded with small peridots, framing the diamond beautifully as it is.

You pull the rings off of the finger needed before Spencer slips his mothers ring onto your own finger. It fits, perfectly, too perfectly almost. Rossi stares at it, brows raised as he glances at Hotch, “Well would you look at that, a perfect fit.”

Spencer’s red, but it isn’t from the heat, you try not to blush too badly either as you look at him, “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hotch clears his throat, “We’ll meet back at the house for dinner at six.”

You all split after that, the men heading off as JJ and Emily walk off, leaving you and Spencer alone together again. His mother’s ring is a comfortable fit on your finger, the gem sparkling bright in the sun as you both try not to stare. It makes you wonder how a man could commission a ring filled with such love and intent only for him to turn his back on it all years later. Of course things change, circumstances rise, but it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around.

It makes you think of your parents, how deeply infatuated they were, oblivious to the things happening around them more often than not. According to your grandmother her parents were quite similar to yours. Morticia and Gomez had passed away when you were young, but you remember their soft hands and gentle croons, lullabies sung in Spanish, the scent of sage burning in the air. You had told her when you were six you never wanted to fall in love because you had seen how it captivated your parents, rendering them blind to the issues running amok within their very own home.

Wednesday, who never was a fan of physical touch, had reached for you then, drawing you close to her side as she whispered that one day you could fall in love, that if you let yourself it would be okay. She told you that she had been the same as you, determined to never let anybody closer than arm's length in, that she’d never even entertain the idea of marriage. Then she had met your grandfather, Joel Glicker, and at first she had rejected him (since he proposed at twelve years old) but later he actually proposed, and she said yes.

You miss him, the easy way he laughed and went around with Wednesday, often speaking for the both of them because otherwise Wednesday would simply glower. He died last year, four months before you joined the BAU, and some of his last words to you had been him encouraging you to take the job. Then he died, and you applied, and you got in. You told your parents you were leaving a month before you did, had said it casually, half-expecting them to go ‘that’s great darling’ and move on. Except they hadn’t, they had snapped up as if you told them that Wednesday had died too. Then they had argued and fought you on it, threatened to freeze your accounts and pull some strings to ensure you never stepped foot in Quantico. Wednesday had put her foot down hard when she heard what was happening.

You’d spoken to your parents once since then, and it had been awkward, strained in ways you didn’t know to ease. Your siblings, whom you knew everything about and didn’t know at all simultaneously, carried on as usual when it came to ignoring you or simply glancing past your presence. It made you wonder if they missed you at all. What would they say if you called them randomly, told them you were getting married, that they weren’t invited to the wedding. You could. Maybe.

Part of you wants to send a picture to your family, the ring on your finger and the man who put it on your finger in the background. You decide against it though, you’d tell Wednesday, mostly because your grandmother knows how to keep a secret or two.

“So wedding venues, what kind of couple are we?”

His question makes you look at him, what kind of couple are you and Spencer? The lovestruck kind where all you two want to do is act like each others’ teenage dreams? The kind where people toss a coin on whether it’s a good or bad day for you two? Or maybe it’s the kind where you and him know each other like the bones in your bodies, where everything fits together and encased in a thick layer of protection, but soft enough to bend to each other.

“I think we’re the kind that just wants to love each other without regret, the kind that elopes because they’re too impatient and because nobody else would show up to the ceremony.”

Spencer falls silent for a second before he holds his arm out for you, “Then let’s not regret a thing today.”

You take his arm, pressing yourself to his side as you scan the surrounding area, “I think I can agree with that.”

He takes off, you in tow, and for just a second you allow yourself to think that you and Spencer really are a couple looking for wedding venue spots. You and him stop for drinks at some point, slipping into boutiques where you ask the girls behind the counter if they know any private spots around the islands. You are, afterall, searching for a place to host a ceremony for two. The girls giggle, oohing and aahing at the ring, examining it with a sparkle in their eyes that makes your chest warm.

They’re too young to be married but the hope is there, making them wait for a whirlwind romance that winds up in something like true love. Around two you and Spencer find a little restaurant by the beach, taking a small break from the questions with a little list of favorite local spots to explore later. It’s a restaurant recommended by the local people, a small hidden gem that tourists are lucky to stumble upon. You’re both seated at the edge of the restaurant, and it’s there that Spencer takes your digital camera from your bag to snap a few shots of you.

Sometimes he forgets that you like to take pictures, small and quick, you aren’t flashy with it by any means, but you do take the camera with you more often than not. He takes his photo when you look out to the water, the ring on display as you watch the waves lap at the shore. You want to be there on the beach, lounging in the sun and watching, waiting, but more importantly you’re soaking up the sun. He wants to see you on the beach enjoying yourself so thoroughly too, just a chance to see you well and truly relax.

“How are you holding up?”

You look at him, eyes brightening for a moment, “On which aspect? Us pretending to be engaged or the fact that there are five dead bodies and in order to catch the culprit I’m wearing pink.”

“It looks good on you.”

“You think so?”

“I do. Your skin is tanned, which makes brighter colors pop against your complexion, but this particular shade of pink, not pastel, but not too dark, suits you even though you feel discomfort in it. But I think the white top is my favorite, it makes you look, well, like a fiancé.”

“Like a fiancé, or your fiancé?”

He swallows, thick with want and danger. This is territory that’s been at your fingertips but never dared to traverse. Maybe it’s because his mothers’ ring is on your finger, or the fact that today is a day of no regrets, but you’re feeling bold. Ten months you and him have danced around each other, ten months you and him have skirted and danced around the thing laying between your feet. It’s spoken in the way he has permanent items on your nightstand, at least ten of his books have migrated to your bookshelf.

Since April you’ve found yourself in his apartment or he’s found himself in yours. The nights spent apart fewer and far between, your cookbook has notes written in the margin like ‘Spencer really likes this one’ or ‘a little too spicy for Spence to handle’. He has a set of bookmarks specifically for your books, for whenever he reads aloud to you and whenever he finds something he knows you’ll like. He buys you trinkets and you stock his favorite coffee in your cabinet.

With the ring on your finger you’re both forced to see it for what it is, what you two have been doing. He thought he was hurtling towards a collision but you and him have already met in the middle. There’s no denying it anymore, not when your ring is on his finger, not when your question is answered by his silence. He wants it there tonight, tomorrow, next week. The realization that the ring was no longer his from the moment he slid it onto your finger hits him like a hammer in that moment. It’s your ring, yours. Because he’s allowed himself to want you, but now he knows he wants you as his wife too.

“Like you’re mine.”

You take a sip of your drink, mouth going dry at the simple confession. Your heart races far too fast in your ribs and you are definitely giving Wednesday a call sometime soon. Maybe tomorrow, certainly not tonight. Tonight you don’t know what will happen, if things will change or nothing at all, either way things cannot go back to how they were even this morning. Not when there’s audible evidence that you and him are stepping over that damn line, dipping your toes in each other's side of the sand.

Somehow you and him manage to make it through lunch, through more questions with more spots to explore. You and him return to the house around five, intent on searching for these spots before dinner. You remain in the top but you do change the bottoms out for a long black skirt made mostly of lace and linen. If the team senses that there’s something up with you and Spencer they don’t comment.

You all discuss the findings, you and Spencer with a list of spots to check out and see if there’s any possible sign of disturbance around the area, or if it’s a perfect spot to take someone and murder them without anybody hearing. Absentmindedly you think that the spot also has to be quiet enough where if a pair were having sex nobody would hear, secluded to where nobody would randomly stumble upon it. It’d have to be intentional. You glance at Spencer, who seems to have come to the same conclusion as you judging by the pink in his cheeks. Or maybe it’s the sun.

JJ herself is looking a little burned on her part, no amount of sunscreen being able to save her poor skin from reddening. Hotch, unfortunately, is much the same unlike Rossi who preens about his Italian lineage saving him from turning into a lobster. You and Morgan simply high five each other in front of the team because as the only melanated people around this is something you both are entitled to flex on. Spencer isn’t too bad, a little pink around the edges but not red, not burnt.

As soon as dinner is over you’re off to your room, changing into a different bathing suit before heading out. Spencer knows where to find you. You’re proven right ten minutes later when you hear the sounds of shuffling feet, prompting you to look up. There’s Spencer in nothing but a pair of swimming shorts and socks of all things, a floppy hat, and a white sun-shirt. He’s also got sunscreen still on his face and knuckles. You on the other hand have everything out, not an umbrella in sight and your skin turning browner by the second. You love it, truly.

“Do you even get in the water?”

You hum, sitting up as you do, “Sometimes, but I mostly prefer being on the sand.”

“You looked, uhm, comfortable.”

“I like being underneath the sun, it makes me feel like my bones aren’t nailed together.”

He lays a towel out beside yours, “The rest of them went off to see the different locations we listed, JJ suggested that they go check out the different spots, see what it looks like at night. Ask around the local people to see if there’s anybody odd who comes around at night.”

“Good call, they’re not making us go out?”

“No, Hotch said we’ll probably go out tomorrow too, and you seemed tired, are you?”

“Not too bad, just, you know, I can’t stop thinking about everything.”

About us. Those are the unspoken words, they don’t get acknowledged yet but it’s a close thing, it’s the closest you two have come to discussing whatever this thing is all day. You want him to kiss you, press you into the sand, hold you close, cross the distance. You want all of it, you really, really do.

“Me too.”

You look at him but he’s already looking at you. Time is, once again, suspended. It’s you and him and the beach, it’s burning hot but it warms you so nicely and your stomach is full from food, drawing you into a lazy lull. He looks so pretty like this, the tropical background and the sun beginning to dip lower, casting everything in a golden glow, including him. You’re here to find an unsub, not bask on the beach and think about kissing your co-worker, but here you are anyway.

“How long have we been doing this?”

He thinks, just for a second, “Nine months, two days, thirteen hours, 27 minutes. I won’t give you the seconds though.”

“But what if I want all of it?”

“Then you should know it’s nine months, two days, thirteen hours, twenty-nine minutes, and seventeen seconds.”

“That’s a lot of time to be doing everything and nothing at the same time.”

“Maybe it’s time to change that.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“You.”

He makes you pause, because with Spencer you never hesitate and yet he gives you pause. The broadness of his answer consumes you completely. It can be a number of things, but you can only give him one answer.

“Don’t you know you already have me?”

In the next breath he’s kissing you. Lip on lip, his body stretched and hands yanking you closer. You let him tug you, let his hand come up behind your head to tangle a little in your hair as his other hand settles on your waist. When you part it isn’t for long, mostly to reposition you both so it’s more comfortable when you tug him down again, raking your own fingers through his hair and over his back, feeling the veiled muscle flex under your touch.

He groans, feeling your mouth open for him and then it turns into a mess of limbs and spit until you’re both forced to part from each other. You look at him, pupils wide despite the sun as your hand comes to his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone delicately, “Spencer.”

The utterance of his name makes him groan a little bit, mouth coming to kiss the edge of yours, “Finally. I’ve been waiting to kiss you for forever it feels like.”

“When did you realize?”

“That night in Kansas, your first case with us.”

“When we were sitting on the porch.”

“Exactly.”

He kisses you again because he can, he knows you’ll let him and he wants to keep kissing you for forever and ever if he can. You think of your parents, the way they always touched, kissed, lost to their own world and you didn’t understand as a child but when you kiss Spencer you understand them now. You get why they couldn’t bear to stay apart from each other, you get, all of a sudden, why there are seven of you.

“How long until they come back?”

“At least two hours, they’ll be back after dark.”

“Good.”

“Why? Wait-”

It’s easy to flip you both over so you can straddle him, you aren’t gentle, you aren’t soft, you just go right back to kissing him, seating yourself directly over his lap. Spencer, poor Spencer Reid who has desperately jerked off the thought of you multiple times, doesn’t stand a chance when you wiggle your hips to get more comfortable. Not when there’s two (thin) layers of fabric between you two and he can see the outline of your nipple poking through your top.

The kisses are faster, messier, his hands dip lower, firm against your bare flesh until you take his wrist and drag it up to your chest, letting him squeeze your tit before rubbing your nipple over the cloth. You shudder into his touch, hips grinding down on instinct. He whines into your mouth, the hand on your hip gripping you a little more frantically than before. You part from him, chest heaving while he pushes the fabric aside, letting your flesh get fully exposed to him. He doesn’t wait, he just leans forward to take your nipple in his mouth.

All so that your hips keep moving against his own, which they do, grounding down in tight little circles like you’re squirming. His free hand comes up to your other tit, freeing that one as well while you cry out. You’re sensitive, so stupidly sensitive and reactive to his touch that it’s embarrassing you to an extent. You haven’t been touched in so long, not so lovingly, not like you’re something sacred. He hardens underneath you, mouth finally leaving your breast so he can nip at your neck, although he’s thoughtful enough not to leave a mark.

“Spe-Spence.”

“Hi honey.”

You shudder again, despite not having touched the ocean, even a dip of your toe, you’re absolutely soaked. The pet-name absolutely does not help in the slightest, in fact it makes it worse. He grins at you like he knows exactly what he’s done, which is absolutely unfair in your opinion, the only consolation you have being that he cannot hide his raging hard on that presses up against you.

“What do you need?”

“Touch me, please.”

“Touch you where? I think I’m touching you an awful lot.”

His finger, the one on your hip slips down, to your thigh, “Do you want me to touch you here? Or here?”

The hand slides up further, his thumb inching closer to where you need him to be. His other hand stays with your tit, squeezing and circling, you stare at the hand on your thigh, so close to where you want those fingers. Because you love his fingers, you really do. They’re long and thin, not thin, sturdy, the veins visible through the skin and the nails are always manicured. You aren’t sure why you’re so attracted to his fingers, but you are. You are.

“Further.”

“Further? Alright.”

The hand slides up another inch, leaving less than one between his thumb and that piece of you that’s all covered up, “C’mere, I’ve got you.”

He drags you into another kiss just as his fingers slip underneath your bottoms, his long pointer finger dragging your slick up and to your clit which he starts to stroke softly. You moan, cunt clenching around nothing as your thighs automatically begin to quiver a little. Spencer speeds his movements up, delighting in the pretty pink that shows up however faintly against your skin. He drinks up the way you moan and whine, so much more vocal than he ever expected you to be.

You brace your hands on his knees, trying not to lose your mind when his fingers find the perfect angle against your clit. There’s nothing you can do but take it because you’ve asked for him, for his fingers on your clit and he gave it. Except you’re close and it’s been six minutes of his fingers on you, faster than your usual time, but for Spencer it’s no wonder that you’re cumming so quickly. There’s no time to warn him either, it hits you from out of nowhere as all that heat snaps in your stomach with no warning. You whimper his name out, hole spasming around nothing as your cunt gets slicker from the orgasm. His finger slows but doesn’t fully stop until you manage to pull yourself away so you can catch your breath.

Another kiss to distract you from the way he unties your bikini bottoms, tossing them to the side while you reach for his aching cock, finally drawing him out of his shorts. He grins stupidly up at you, pleased with himself for pulling such a reaction out of you. He presses a kiss to the space between your chest, eyes never breaking contact with you, “Look at you, so pretty for me. Lay down okay?”

You do as told, legs easily parting while he takes himself in hand, the sun is dipping lower and lower but you don’t care, not when Spencer’s using your slick to coat his dick before aligning the tip with your waiting hole, “Breathe.”

He pushes in when you exhale, all the way until he’s pressed hip to hip with you. For a solid five seconds your vision whites out as the stretch overtakes your mind, you can feel nothing but the weight of him inside of you. He reaches places nobody else ever has, the girth of him pressing into all those pleasure spots inside of you that nobody ever managed to properly find before. You open your mouth except the only sound made sounds like a choked off moan as your back arches. For a second you think you might cum again just because you’ve been stuffed full of him. Your body withers, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto.

His thumb strokes your hip, the other keeping your leg back as he leans over you, kissing your jaw and then your cheek before lifting his head to capture you in a proper kiss. Your eyes screw shut as you force yourself to breathe despite the way your stomach flutters and your breathing stutters. It’s too much and yet it’s perfect all at the same time, you nod frantically against him to answer his silent question, letting his hips drag out of you slowly before coming right back in.

You can feel the drag of him, every inch with every vein that so much as rises above the smooth skin. It’s in that exact moment that you know you’ve been ruined for anybody else, not that you could ever want anybody else, but it’s the thought that counts. With every thrust that begins to build in speed and strength as his confidence builds your noises start to grow more unrestrained. What a sight you must be underneath him, tits bouncing and your hair a mess, your face slack from being fucked out already.

Spencer straights up, hooking his arms under your legs before holding them open as his hips snap into yours. The angle change has you seeing stars, a sharp cry forcing its way out of you, letting a little smirk cross over Spencer’s face. A sweet spot from the sound of it, and a good one too, “There?”

“Oh fuck, Spencer, it-you-I-”

You can’t think, you can’t speak. All you can do is swallow and nod, your fingers tracing down his chest and stomach as he keeps going. He bends his body down to kiss your knee, soft and loving because at the end of the day, even when he’s fucking you so good that your brains are getting scrambled, he’s still Spencer. Who decidedly does not have a big and useless dick. Because it most certainly is being put to good use.

“I know, I know, you’re okay, I promise you are.”

A whine this time when his thumb finds your clit again, circling and stroking and making you shake apart because it’s still sensitive. You’re too out of it to notice him grabbing your camera, you definitely don’t hear the sound of the camera going off over the sound of skin slapping against skin. There’s also the fact that you two are out in the open, literally fucking on the beach. Your co-workers could come back early, they could be listening to you two at this very moment, but you don’t care, and Spencer doesn’t either.

Well, that’s a lie, but neither of you care in the heat of it all. Too caught up in chasing that burst of pleasure, he can no longer contain his own set of noises anymore. He murmures to you about how good you’re doing for him, how good you feel, how he’s waited so long to fuck your pretty cunt like this. With sweet words and a nasty rhythm that has you keening and leaving thin red lines down his torso and back. He sets your legs down in favor of leaning over you so your fingernails, so sharp and long, dig into his flesh almost hard enough to draw blood.

Your orgasm does give you warning this time, a steady buildup of pleasure and heat that has you fluttering around his length, sucking him in deeper and harder. He groans, hoping he can last just a second longer than you as his thumb strokes your clit faster, “Oh god, oh god, honey I-”

“Spencer!”

The tension snaps in you, soft whimpers and moans spilling from you as you drag Spencer right over the edge with you. His body stills, a high-pitched noise punched out of him as he begins to spill inside of you. The warmth only makes things more pleasurable to you, especially when you feel him twitching. Slowly your body eases, allowing him to pull out slowly while one pearly white bead dribbles from your used hole. A pearl that he pushes right back in with his thumb.

You sit up slowly, a fleeting thought of where did my bottoms go flashing away just as quickly. He helps you up, tucking his dick away in the next moment before leaning forward to give you a kiss, “Thank you.”

He means it too. You let him in, literally, and he’s not going to take it for granted. He finds your bottoms quickly, he didn’t toss them too far. You get to your knees to put them back on, Spencer tying one side while you do the other. The sky is pink now, pink and gold with streaks of purple. He peels his socks away, which somehow stayed on and when did he take his shirt off? You don’t know, but you certainly appreciate the view. He leads you to the water then, the warm salt water lapping at your ankles, then your knees, and then by instinct you’re going under. The water is a balm to you in ways you cannot describe. It has been far too long since you have been in the water, felt her gentle hands on your skin guiding you to where you need to go.

It doesn’t matter that your hair is getting wet, it needs to be washed anyway. You emerge to Spencer a few meters away, he’s a little above hip level in the water, his eyes never leaving you. You come over easily, emerging less than a foot away from him but your hands and arms instinctively circle around to him, drawing him close because you just can’t stop kissing him. It’s like you’re possessed, but if you’re possessed he must be too because he responds just as eagerly. This time it isn’t frantic with want or driven by hormones, it’s just a greeting, an affirmation.

“You love me.”

“With every fiber of my being.”

“Good.”

“You love me too.”

“For as long as my soul exists it shall never forget.”

You definitely need to call Wednesday.

_____________

“Wednesday Addams speaking.”

Her voice might be a little wavery with age but her bluntness has always remained, the cool cadence of it something soothing to you, “Granddaughter, do you know how long it has been since you last reached out for me?”

“Apologies, work has kept me busy.”

She tuts on the other end but you know you’re forgiven, you are, afterall, her favorite grandchild, “Something has changed, but what I cannot determine.”

Of course she would sense it from hundreds upon hundreds of miles away, that your heart has changed for the better, “I’ve fallen in love.”

“Have you now?”

“Mm.”

“What is the name?”

“Doctor Spencer Walter Reid, he works in the BAU with me. He’s the smartest man I know and he wears funny ties.”

“He loves you too?”

“He treats me as if I’m moon water.”

“Mm.”

She’s silent for a moment, knowing her she’s determining what the next course of action will be as the family matriarch. The general rule of thumb is that if Wednesday Addams says something will happen, then by god it will happen. If she says bring him for the Day of Mourning then yes, Spencer will be there for the Day of Mourning. That also means seeing your family, facing them again after almost a year since you’ve left.

Not to mention you never really took the ring off, “I’m getting married too.”

“Oh by the raven you leave and you don’t call and when you do it’s to tell me you’re engaged to a man we’ve never met.”

“Grandmother this all happened in the span of a week.”

“That is worse, decidedly.”

“Grandmother. If you are truly so worried with this match you should know he has an extensive fascination in figuring out how people died and why they died.”

She pauses, just for a second, “What else about him?”

“He has five degrees, three of which are PhDs, he has an IQ of 187, he graduated high school at twelve years old, he cares not for social intricacies or what people can say about him. He knows the language of the tattoos, he drives for me too, and lets me pick the CDs. He remembers everything he’s ever read, he remembers everything he’s seen, mostly. If you ask him a question 9.8 times out of ten he has an answer for you.”

“Smart, he cares for you well.”

“He’s taken care of me from the beginning.”

“Then I can excuse this absurd timeline you’ve made, however, I want you both up for the weekend in two weeks time. It is the anniversary of your great-grandparents death and it is only right that we dance with them to welcome him into the fold.”

“We can make that work.”

“If you cannot then remember I will.”

Threats are a love language in your family, where it came from you don’t know but it’s true. Prevalent in your grandmother most of all, your grandfather had lavished her with death threats as a way of flirting. It certainly worked. Spencer flirts with you by leaving the most morbid of poems and excerpts of death on your desk in hopes you’ll come talk to him about them. He brings you trinkets like a crow, loving on you like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

In the week since you and him have fallen into place together as one you’ve found out that sex can actually feel incredible. You are going to marry Spencer someday in the not so far off future. He’s not going to renew his lease because he already half-way lives in your apartment and you have room on your bookshelves for him. There is a future to look forward to with him.

“I get it now, why your parents were so besotted with each other, why our family let ourselves fall so deeply.”

“I’m pleased that you can experience it for yourself. This ring, what is it like?”

“It belonged to his mother, hence why I have no objection. Gold, peridots on a gold plate, marquise cut diamond that you can see from a good distance.”

“Family heirlooms are important, as long as there is taste then I have no objection to it.”

“I can’t say you’ll love the ring, I do though.”

“Then that is what matters.”

She pauses, and for a second you wonder if she’s telling you what she wanted to be told herself when she was still young and in shoes like yours, “If you are content then I wish for nothing more. My son made a mistake trying to keep you close when my parents passed when he knew fully well that they are just beyond the veil.”

“Why did they put up such a fight for me leaving? There is nothing from me that they have shown interest in, they have never given me a reason to stay.”

Wednesday sighs on the other end, which is a new thing considering the woman rarely gave away what she was actually feeling, “Because sometimes parents are stupid. They didn’t know how to let their raven fly just yet, not when my parents had just taken off. They do miss you, although they refuse to say it.”

Age has mellowed her, not by much, but enough to where she knows the right words at any given time. She’s your favorite woman in the world, her stern expression and intolerance for nonsense unless there was purpose in it. She taught you how to set traps and how to hold your arsenic. The best ways to wash blood out of your floor or dress, how to butcher something and how to degut that thing too. It was her version of gardening you supposed.

“I guess I’ll be seeing them in two weeks.”

“I’ll let them know I’ve asked you to come, but you’re going to tell them about Spencer yourself.”

“I’ll introduce him to my great-grandparents first.”

“Mm, that’ll entertain my father, although mother I’m sure would laugh too. They were always front row to whatever family drama was occurring.”

“I’m glad they’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Oh don’t be humble you will too, as will Joel. He would like this Spencer of yours.”

“I hope he does.”

“Your grandfather’s criteria is that you be treated the best you can be, that he makes you happy and holds the car door for you. The kind of guy who will break bones for you if you wished him too. All your grandfather wanted was to ensure his grandchildren picked the right person to suffer through life with.”

“He said that?”

“Your grandfather, some of his last living words to me was to make sure you all married good and well, that you found someone who’d force a smile out of you all. Especially you.”

“Why me?”

“Because out of all your siblings you deserve to be loved the way my father loved my mother. I hope for both of your sakes that he can compete.”

“He hates to lose.”

“Good, maybe he has a chance of being with you then.”

“Grandmother.”

Wednesday doesn’t laugh but the fond exhale of breath tells you she’s amused. You look up through when you hear the door open, Spencer stands in the doorway, an easy smile on his face as he motions for you to keep talking to Wednesday, “Have I ever been incorrect?’

You sigh, shutting your eyes for a second, “No?”

“Correct, now go, I sense his presence nearby. We will see you shortly.”

“Of course Grandmother, we’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Mm, go collect some dust grandchild of mine.”

You hang up, Spencer already having made his way over to you, “We’re going up to the wolves?”

“Grandmother has decreed that we will be there so therefore we will absolutely be there. She will pull rank with the US government to see our asses sat in her twenty-thousand dollar chairs.”

“In what world do you need twenty-thousand dollar chairs of all things?”

“Grandmother’s.”

You pat his cheek, that little smirk of yours tugging at your lips already, “And one day it’ll be your world too, just wait until the first gala.”

“Gala? We have to go to galas?”

“We’re rich Spencer, of course we’re going to a gala.”

“Can one oh, I don’t know, unpropose?”

“You never proposed, so I don’t know.”

“You still wear my mothers ring though.”

That makes you groan, slipping it off your finger as you put it in his hand, eyebrows raised at him, “There’s the ring, now you can actually propose.”

“I am not proposing in your office.”

“Then where, the kitchen?”

“Remind me why I’m going to propose to you sometime this week?”

Your smirk bleeds into a grin as you tug him a little closer, “Because you love me, and this apartment, and this pussy, and because you want to walk to the edges of the universe with me whenever we pass on.”

He groans, but he’s smiling still as his hands find your waist, “Unfortunately I think you might be correct.”

“Am I ever wrong?”

“Mm, that remains to be seen.”

The kiss is soft, sweet, a promise that a proper proposal is coming your way and that despite it all he does love you more than anything in the world. You do too, the reciprocity felt in the way your hand cradles the back of his head, eyes shutting when he touches you. The proposal might not come tonight, or tomorrow, but it will come and it is something to look forward to. Dinner with the Addams family in two weeks, you dread it and simultaneously you can’t wait. Spencer will openly be yours there, unlike in the BAU where you’ve both chosen to keep quiet about it for the moment. Because in the moment it is you and Spencer and nobody else, because somehow in the midst of all that resentment towards your parents for encasing themselves in their love, you’ve found your own bubble to live in.

And you couldn’t be happier to be a girl in a bubble for once.

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