Professional Entertainer Of The ‘What Ifs’

You are full of love and grief, and both have nowhere to go.

That is, to say, love infects you like a virus that can’t kill – won’t kill – but can’t die itself. You walk around diseased. You think you are the only person who is possessed by such sickness. It scares you – sometimes it scares others – and you wonder if it’s started to affect your appearance; if it’s in your reddened eyes, your tightened jaw, how you seem to think so loudly but at a frequency nobody else can hear. You are screaming behind glass.

At least you got her back.

That’s what Strauss said.

And yes, you’re sure that, when months have passed and life has resettled, you will feel the same. You’ll feel blessed.

But right now, you do not feel blessed. You feel very confused. All jumbled inside.

Because a month or so ago, you had laid under the illusion of the Northern Lights, bloody and dying, and found comfort in believing Emily would be there for you if you woke up someplace you couldn’t possibly recognise.

You hadn’t been so unlucky. You woke up in hospital. You were going to be fine.

And sure, your ribs were fucked, but they were getting better, and your concussion – your memory, your headaches – were improving.

And Spencer had been far too eager to address the tiniest bit of discomfort, both physical and emotional.

He’d visited you at your apartment every day after work with stories and an update on how their current case had gone, and always had tea or chocolates tucked into his brown satchel. Dark chocolate contains high flavanol levels, which can stimulate endorphin release in the brain that can help with mental function.

When you came back to work, there were yellow flowers on your desk. Your return, four weeks on, was under the condition that you weren’t allowed in the field just yet, Derek was to support you regaining your full mobility, and your medication plan was fully discussed with Hotch – luckily you were primarily on over-the-counter painkillers and anti-inflammatories, alongside an antiemetic because your concussion sometimes gave you nausea.

Things had been different when you got back.

There was just… something in the air.

JJ seemed to sense it, though – like you – had no label for it just yet. You thought about mentioning it to Spencer but feared he would label it as part of your concussion and worry far too much.

Derek and Penelope were often talking in quiet, and whenever you stopped by to see Penelope, she always flicked her screens over from whatever she was looking at and seemed eager to get you to leave. This… hurt. Penelope had talked you through your near-death experience through your earpiece.

Fortunately, this was comforted by JJ seeking companionship a little stronger from you in the absence of it from Derek and Penelope – trying to reintegrate into the team following her absence – and your relationship with Spencer had blossomed into something pure and sweet.

Even after you were back to work, you and Spencer busied free moments with movie talk, takeout, bookstore trips, quiet hours at the shooting range, and choosing to do paperwork that imprisoned you at your desks next to each other just to be nearby.

One time, he put his hand on yours and gave it a gentle squeeze as you restrained a yawn for the third time, and you swear your heart exploded.

What you thought might’ve been some quiet grudge turned out to be a secret (unauthorised) mission. Derek and Penelope had been working quietly to locate Declan Doyle, Ian Doyle’s son, and hadn’t included you or anybody else.

You can’t blame them – it’s not like you didn’t have enough on your plate, but… you felt a little shut out. You’d like to have helped.

You suppose it doesn’t matter now.

Either way, you attended Declan’s school with Spencer and Rossi only to find Declan had already gone. You’re not allowed in the field, but you figured a boarding school wasn’t exactly a thriving spot for guns and violence.

That did, however, change once Spencer and Rossi headed to Declan’s home.

“I wanna come with you!” you’d said in the middle of the backseats, eyes flicking between Reid and Rossi as they pulled on to Declan’s street, “Please!”

“A school is one thing,” Rossi said, “but this could get ugly fast, and you’re not authorised to be out in the field, kid.”

“So, I have to sit in the car like a dog? Ever heard of a sitting duck?”

Rossi shook his head. You’re impossible.

“Actually, the term ‘sitting duck’ comes from hunting terminology and evolved into language for military and tactical use, referring to soldiers in open areas without cover, so… you’d be more of a sitting duck in there than you would be in the car."

Spencer glanced back at you.

“Please do not make me drive you back to the station.”

Your lips parted to speak, but he’d already picked up his phone to call JJ, so you slumped back dejectedly as Rossi chuckled. Spencer secretly took the win – the score was now you, a thousand, Spencer, one.

As Spencer and Rossi hopped out of the car, you thought about Emily – about how her presence had lingered in the investigation like a ghost. You’re not sure if you believe in things like that. In spirits. Everybody heard stories of distant voices and quiet footsteps and bumps in the middle of the night, and though you might deny the supernatural, it is always in the absence of light that the question of ghosts arises; if they haunt you just as much as you haunt them.

But they don’t.

It’s you.

It’s the living.

The only thing that haunts anywhere is the people wanting there to be something.

Either way, haunted or not, you watched as Reid and Rossi pulled out their guns and their entire manner shifted, and you suddenly felt very much like a sitting duck.

Minutes passed like the hand of the clock was a blade rotating in your flesh.

The next thing you knew, Ian Doyle, the man who killed your friend, was sat in the interrogation room. It brought up feelings for you that you hadn’t expected.

Because nobody had exactly gotten over Emily’s death.

But… you – we – get distracted. Life distracts you.

Until it reminds you.

Arriving back to the BAU, you found Hotch all bearded and rugged in the roundtable room, gazing at a board of collated evidence regarding Declan and Ian Doyle.

“Not exactly professional attire.” You jested.

Hotch looked back at you and resisted a smirk.

“Not exactly following orders.” He countered, noting your time in the ‘field-not-field’.

“Ouch. Ceasefire.” You replied.

“Have you been okay since you’ve been back?” he asked, a look of genuine concern in his typically stoic eyes, though he remained majorly focussed on the board in front of him.

“Yeah,” you grinned, a slight shrug in your shoulders, “I’ve got Derek giving me hell and Spencer suffocating me with flowers, I’m doing great.”

He smirked a little.

“Some things don’t change.” He said.

“Except your facial hair.”

He stroked a hand over it.

“Jack doesn’t like it either.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it…”

Gradually, you went back to your business, slouched at your desk and squeezing two painkillers from their packet, when a glass of water and a green apple arrived at your desk, and Spencer pulled a chair up beside you in his indigo shirt and grey cardigan.

“It’s been five hours and twenty-three minutes since you last ate, and taking medication on an empty stomach can lead to gastrointestinal irritation, which can cause nausea, meaning you’ll want to take your nausea medication, and… probably make things worse, so…” he gave you that flat smile, then cleared his throat, “I’m… I’m sorry that I was – uh – a little… patronising in the car earlier. I was…” his head shook, “being cautious, but I can see that it would come across as not trusting you.”

“It’s fine.” You said, face warming at his concern, “It was cute – you’re sweet when you go all authoritative on me.”

“I-I don’t- I’m not authoritative-,”

“Please do not make me drive you back to the station.” You mimicked, all firm and deep-voiced, slouching back in your seat, the night heavy and the room swirling with late-hour delirium.

Spencer smiled and looked away. You had him pegged.

“Maybe, I sounded a little bossy.”

“No, you’re right… I would’ve only been another thing for you to look out for.”

Spencer nodded.

“I- in truth – uh…” he scratched the nape of his neck, then slouched forward so his elbows rested on his knees, “I knew I had to have my focus in there… and… I knew if you were in there – not authorised to be back in the field because of your injuries – I… I would be too focussed on you, so…” he shrugged.

You beamed at him, and he blushed at your expression.

“God, how do you get anything done with me around?” you scoffed, and his eyes rolled, and he sat back.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

He shuffled closer to you then – probably a little too close considering the environment, but you hoped exhaustion would render everybody placid to your obvious display of affection – and stroked his hand over your head, eyeing up the mark on your forehead from your concussion four weeks or so ago. Though it had seemed terribly gory in its first week, by now it had faded with the new skin forming. His thumb stroked over the delicate area, then descended to caress your cheek.

“I am.” You confirmed, “Are you feeling okay?” you asked then, a little more serious – this, in itself, surprised the young man before you. You’re never serious.

But he knew what you were referring to – Ian fucking Doyle.

Spencer gulped and his hand dropped to your knee, and your hand found his and gave it an encouraging squeeze as the world stilled and the office grew thick with feeling.

“I know… I know it’s been really hard for you,” you said, “ever since… since Emily died, you…” you gave a short shrug, not wanting to delve too much into Spencer’s rollercoaster of thoughts and feelings since that fatal day in March.

Spencer nodded.

“I’m okay.” he trialled, but a look from you told him that you were not the least bit convinced nor even slightly willing to accept his forced response, so Spencer sighed and tried to find the words to explain how he felt, “I am… hoping this will do something for all of us; hoping that… even though closure can’t really be distinguished in any… definitive way… that… we’ll all understand a little more what it should feel like.”

You nodded understandingly.

“Emily and I… had a very rocky relationship sometimes,” he swallowed, “we were very different people, we saw the world in different ways, we interpreted it differently, we… had moments of not understanding each other at all,” he licked between his lips as his eyes flicked along the walls, like he can find answers in the paint, “but… then there were these moments when she understood me completely, and I… I can’t help but feel like… maybe I never really got to do the same in return.” He said, “To understand her completely.”

“Emily was a closed book, even though she seemed very open.” You reminded him, stroking your thumb along his knuckles, “But… I know she knew… that you loved her very much.”

Spencer nodded, though you wondered if he believed you.

“What about you?” he deflected, “How are you coping with all this?”

Silence fell.

You weren't sure what it meant to ‘cope’.

Either way, your opportunity to deconstruct the definition of the word was thwarted when Hotch called the both of you over, and Spencer gave your knuckles a quick – somewhat secretive – kiss before straightening up.

You took your painkillers and chased it with a sip of water and unflatteringly fast bites of your apple before following Spencer and the others into the roundtable room.

Penelope was already there. Hotch abandoned the room for a moment, citing he had something he had to do quickly, though his absence was comforted fast enough by the arrival of Derek, Rossi, and JJ. You were instructed to take a seat, and Spencer absently pulled out your chair before settling in his own. You wondered if you should tell him that your rib was almost all better, but instead opted to savour the gentlemanliness of his action and let yourself feel a little more… je ne sais quoi.

“Seven months ago,” Hotch began, all stern with his arms crossed, “I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. But the doctors were able to stabilise her.”

Stabilise.

“And she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration. Her identity was strictly need-to-know.”

The oxygen in the room disappeared and you were left in statis, like bacteria starved from a wound.

“She’s alive?” Penelope asked.

The silence – the looks – were deafening.

“But we buried her.” Spencer added weakly.

Your attention span faded into nothingness as you lose yourself in your head. You thought about your injuries – your rib, your head, your near-death experience – and, in essence, returned to where it all took place – on the floor of an unsub’s house, staring up at a ceiling fan, thinking about Emily waiting for you wherever you ended up, and realised, fuck… you were completely alone.

Just moments ago, you and Spencer had thought about the meaning of closure and what it meant to ‘have closure’ on something as important and chaotic as love and loss.

Grief doesn’t have a rewind button.

You stayed very, very quiet.

Until everybody turned, as if to look at you, until you realised they were not, and you spun in your seat to find the ghost of a person very much alive hovering in the doorway.

Emily.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. You didn’t know if you felt nothing or felt too much of anything to navigate it from nothingness, like a blown dog whistle – knowing it’s making a sound and understanding it’s far too out of your limit for you to hear it. The weight of your emotions clouded your head, but this did not mean you felt them. Either way, you were understood by Derek, who seemed to be having the same problem.

You didn’t hug her. You’re not a hugger. But she knew this, and she knew your way of expressing your love and relief was the shortness of your distance, and her way of loving you back was respecting it.

For both of you, Derek scraped words from the barrel of his brain to cover your shared shutdown. If anything, you found relief in each other’s silence – in that feeling like everybody’s sudden click into Emily’s-Alive-Mode was completely fucking insane.

In the end, your response came in the toilet bowl as you threw up. You didn’t tell Spencer this in case he rushed you to the ER, screaming for a CT scan.

You felt better after you vomited. Not any clearer, but… better.

Spencer didn’t come over to your apartment that night. He was probably right not to – you both needed to rewire your brains and figure out where that grief was supposed to go now. He’d been over a lot in the last month or so, and you likely needed a break from each other anyway – for a healthy relationship, he’d likely say. You shouldn’t spoil the early days as you might jeopardise the later years.

That night, you stared at your almost healed rib and thought back to that night, dying all alone, and thought about how there was nobody on the other side of this life waiting to tell you that you died well. Deep down, you knew you were meant to be happy about Emily being alive – she was too good for death – but… your fear of death, briefly subsided in thinking about her gentleness and her intense affection, crawled up your back like a spider in the dark and settled on your shoulder.

You ignored it.

You gazed forward during the Court case as your future at the BAU rested in the hands of the Senate Committee. You gazed forward at the roundtable at the mention of cooking at Rossi’s, and the discussion of a case where women were sexually tortured and blinded with sulfuric acid. You gazed forward on the jet to Oklahoma where you hoped to find answers for everything.

Every time Emily’s voice met your ears, you grieved, then remembered not to grieve, and felt the spider on your shoulder.

And though you were still stuck in Emily’s-Dead-Mode, like a game needing an update, you noticed that Spencer, who seemed to adjust at first, had glitched backward, and registered your discomfort as much as you did his. The difference was that your confusion was aimed at yourself, whereas Spencer’s seemed pointed at JJ and Emily.

You decided against bringing it up in case it opened the can of worms on your own feelings, which he, so far, had respected and not mentioned.

After your tasks were split up on the jet, you still had hours to kill before your arrival in Durant, and Spencer seized the time to slouch next to you as you gazed out the window.

He said something.

Then, he said your name, and stroked his fingers over your hand.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you were okay.” he smiled, oh-so-warmly, eyes burning into yours and flicking about your expression, reading you.

“Yeah, I’m good.” You replied, “Yeah, I just… didn’t sleep well last night, but I’m okay. Why, do I look not okay?”

His head shook.

“No, you look perfect.” You melted at his smile, “You’re just quiet.”

He tugged your hand into his lap to hold, hoping the small act of affection would go unnoticed by the people around you.

“I’m un-caffeinated.” You replied.

“Maybe you should take care of that.”

You hit him with your file.

“That’s just your way of getting me to make you coffee!”

“Please?”

“You’re such a little shit.”

Spencer’s relieved to see you somewhat come back to yourself – at least it’s not him causing your changed behaviour, it’s the obvious.

“Maybe we can get one on the way to the abduction sites with JJ.” you suggested, proving you had been paying some attention.

Spencer’s gaze drifted from you, and he stroked his thumb over your knuckles, saying nothing.

“Did you guys…” you tried.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” he said quickly – softly, quietly, a firm slice in the ribbon of your questioning.

“Well… when you want to… you know ‘m here, okay?” you smiled, “I care about what’s rattling in your noggin, Doctor Reid.” Your other hand stroked through his hair, and he leant into your touch, a soft smile on his face.

“My noggin?”

“I’m working towards my PhD of all things Reid – I’m gonna write some big paper about you someday, detailing all your – like – intricacies and oddities.”

“The term noggin actually comes from sixteenth-century England referring to a cup or mug that was used for alcoholic drinks, later developing into slang for the human head due to similarities in shape.” He said, very seriously, and you smirked – head shaking, heart bursting.

“I’m so getting my PhD. I can’t wait to act like I’m the smartest person in the room, too. And confuse everybody when I introduce myself as ‘doctor’. I can’t operate.” You chuckled, “I don’t even know where my heart is.” You glanced down at your body, snatching your hand from his hair to trail down your chest, pressing firmly, “I can never find my pulse, either… when I was a kid, I was convinced I didn’t have one.”

Spencer chuckled, hand squeezing yours.

“Weirdo.” He mumbled.

Landing in Oklahoma, things quickly grew to a head.

For you, this meant the spider of your uncertainty scratching harder at your flesh and demanding acknowledgement. For Spencer, this meant every little comment towards JJ being some passive-aggressive jab that you didn’t really understand.

You remained silent for most of the wandering around the abduction sites listening to stab after stab, even more surprised when JJ started making digs of her own.

Evidently, Spencer was frustrated about Emily’s fake-death being kept a secret, and JJ – who, typically, would’ve gone for the warm hand, kind heart approach – couldn’t resist quipping back at Spencer’s snark.

Every time your lips parted to speak, you found yourself interrupted by a taunt disguised as an observation.

Which leads you to now.

The spider clings to you still, worsened only by how hard you gaze forward.

You still ignore it. It sits there on your shoulder. You mark each of its eight legs by their individual points digging into your skin, its weight, its heat.

You gaze forward.

Arriving back to the precinct, it’s Hotch who pulls you to the side as Spencer and JJ head away.

Maybe it’s for the best; you’re certainly not feeling at ease around the two of them right now, and the emotional warfare happening in the BAU hasn’t exactly been a secret.

“Are you alright?” He asks you.

“Yeah, ‘m fine.” You reply on instinct, then gulp, and glance to Spencer and JJ, and wonder if it’s immature or wise to mention the tension to your boss – you opt to tell him, if only to lessen the burden of carrying it alone, “Actually, uh… things are weird between JJ and Reid, they’ve been – uh – at each other’s throats all day. It’s kinda making things difficult.”

He nods understandingly, glancing their way.

“Thanks for telling me. I’m sorry it’s been a stress for you, but I’ll see what I can do. For now, let’s meet with the others,” he sighs briefly, looking to JJ and Reid, “it looks like they might be handling it on their own.”

You and Hotch step forward to Derek, Emily, and Rossi.

You hope for conversation about the case.

You’re met with gossip.

“She looks upset.” Derek says, then turns to you, “Has she been crying?”

“Huh? Oh, I- uh – I don’t know, she was fine-,” you mumble, heart clenching – you hope this is for the best, that the only way through is through.

“She’s not fine now.” Emily adds, helpfully, and you grieve, and you remember not to grieve, and you swallow your vomit, and gaze forward to ignore the spider, and Hotch looks at you, and-

“You couldn’t? Or you wouldn’t?” you haven’t heard Spencer yell much before, least of all at one of you guys.

“No, I couldn’t!” JJ yells back.

Your throat grows thick with words unsaid.

The case – the girls, the profile – disappear for a brief moment.

“Should we-,” Emily says.

“No.” Hotch mumbles.

“Passata la tempesta, torna il sereno.” Rossi sighs, then turns to you, “After the storm, comes the calm.”

You hope he’s right.

“What if I started taking Dilaudid again? Would you have let me?”

Spencer’s words are like a bomb shattering on an innocent village.

The air between the five of you observing grows sorrowful – you find some respite in that you hadn’t known Spencer during this period; it’s a plea that you and Rossi both get to make, though it doesn’t change the guilt.

JJ goes quiet for a moment, her mind whirring in thought.

“You didn’t.” though it’s a statement, there is the air of it being a question – an accusation, a fear, as though the past has come back once again.

A ghost.

You grieve. You remember not to grieve.

“Yeah, but I thought about it.” Spencer replies.

Your heart strings pinch and your lungs tighten and your ribs burn – the doctor said breathing might still be painful, though it’s only now that you realise just how painful it could be, not that you speak of this at all.

Even when your cheeks sting, and your heart races, and you feel the urge to gasp.

Spencer turns to head away then, jaw tight.

“Spence.” JJ calls, “I’m sorry.”

Spencer shrugs.

“It’s too late, all right?” he walks away quickly, ignoring the five of you.

“Reid?” Emily calls.

You swallow air into your robotic lungs – suffocating you without permission – and find your voice, if only to find a moment of quiet too wherever he’s going – you might both help each other feel better.

“Spence, are you-,” you take a step and reach out for him, and he shrugs away from your touch, turning back to you with a little more anger than you’d expected.

“No, don’t-don’t follow me, don’t comfort me, don’t do anything! Just… leave me alone for five minutes!” he rubs his eyes, an expression you never thought you’d see aimed at you coating his face, and your feet stick to the floor as he turns away and continues on his journey to someplace you’re not privy to know.

You go back to feeling very quiet.

Derek’s hand pats your shoulder and tugs you back to the group, and you know what he’s trying to say – it’s not you.

Spider aside, you know this.

You turn back to the board as a means of escape.

You can’t fix this, but you can help somebody else.

Things remain like that throughout the day.

Just… quiet. You can’t look at anyone. You can’t look at him.

You spend the night in your hotel room, shared with Emily. She doesn’t ask if you’re okay, because she knows you’re not, and her way of comforting you is acknowledging how talking is not comforting for you.

Instead, she lets you shower first, and she doesn’t complain when her water runs cold because she knows how much you needed the warmth. When there’s only one spare pillow, she puts it on your bed and says nothing because she knows you like to sleep with two – that, and… maybe you just want something to hold tonight, because it certainly won’t be your boyfriend.

She’d hoped to pry – like girls gossiping at a sleepover – but puts two and two together about tonight not being the night.

Luckily enough, the case wraps up the next day.

Soon, you find yourself on board the jet again, catching some sleep – you hadn’t gotten much the night before, at least… not any sleep of quality.

Don’t follow me, don’t comfort me, don’t do anything! Just leave me alone for five minutes!

You and Reid aren’t exactly the fighting type – those couples where there’s always an argument or a disagreement or some underlying tension – and you’ve not fought yet as a couple – you’ve not exactly been dating long – so… you’re not sure what to do.

You try to remember how you handled pissing each other off back when you were just friends. You can’t recall any other times that got much further than ‘all right, I’m sorry, I’m being an ass’.

You find relief from this worrying in sleep. Thank God.

So, whilst you get some shut eye on the jet, Emily finally sits down with Spencer in hopes to smooth everything over.

As Spencer’s guarded exterior gently softens with every thought and word exchanged, as Emily watches his resolve crumble, she trials pulling him into the team’s plan of ‘boosting morale’.

“That explains why I’m going to Rossi’s tomorrow night,” she says, “I wanna see if he really can cook.”

Spencer smiles softly, toying with the page of his book.

“You coming?” she grins.

“I don’t know, I’m not so sure I can make it.” Spencer does his best to make it sound strong – certain, true.

Emily knows better. Emily always knows better.

So, she opts for a different approach – brutal honesty, the kind that cuts your throat.

Emily leans forward, dark hair framing her porcelain face – like a painting that would be centre stage in the finest gallery in the world – and speaks from the heart.

“Look, Reid. I know you’re mad at us because we didn’t tell you what really happened, and I understand that. But I promise you, we had no choice. You mourned the loss of a friend. I mourned the loss of six.” Somehow, despite the heaviness of her words – despite how she, too, has felt like a ghost haunting her old life – she scoffs, maybe because, underneath it all, there’s some kind of irony, “This whole thing gave me an ulcer. Please don’t give me another one.”

Spencer runs her words over and over again through his mind, trying to make sense of them – to reconnect dots and rerun equations based on new information – but meets the wall of hurt every time.

“Are you gonna go to Rossi’s tomorrow?” Emily asks.

Spencer is quiet.

“We’ll see.” he finally says.

Emily, resolved to Spencer’s need to process, glances to you.

You curl up on the beige couch, body twisted to keep your frame convenient, Hotch at your side. She wonders how comfortable you must feel in Hotch’s presence – and how aware Hotch must be of your feelings right now – to allow yourself to slip into slumber right next to him.

She sighs softly, then turns back to Spencer.

“So…” she says, her voice a little amused, “it took me fake dying for you two to figure it out?” she asks.

Spencer almost smirks, then glances back to see you asleep next to Hotch as he texts on his phone. A dim light behind you captures the slope of your forehead, your fluttering lashes as you remain deep in sleep, and – more than anything – the darkness under your eyes, having lost your previous night to bad thoughts and self-doubt.

“How long?” Emily asks then.

“Uh…” Spencer blinks, turning back to her, “thirty-nine days.”

“Oh,” she nods, “so… new, then.”

“Yeah…” he smiles.

Though nothing about the two of you feels new.

In your heads, you’d been dating far before things had been ‘official’. The only thing different is the intimacy, and how far you go – the height of your affection is no longer a friendly hug or a reassuring hand on the shoulder, but is his arm coiled around your stomach as you fall asleep in his bed, or him kissing your forehead and mumbling I love how your mind works after you say something completely ridiculous.

Spencer knows he messed up by snapping at you.

His short-temper and passive-aggression is one of his least favourite aspects of himself, not that he favours much. Spencer understands how, psychologically, attack is the best form of defence, and in defending himself from having to dissect his brain like a pig heart, he’d stuck knives in your side and twisted them.

Emily knows this too. She gulps, not expecting part of her return to Quantico to be giving Spencer relationship advice.

“There’s a lot of guilt in the team.” Emily says, “Not just me, but… Hotch and JJ and…” her head softly shakes, and she shifts her hair to behind her ear, lashes dark around her sophisticated gaze, “and I think it’s easy to… point fingers and snap, and I understand your feelings towards me and JJ right now, I do, but…”

A gentleness settles in the cabin. Emily watches Spencer’s gaze flick about his book, feigning composure, even in the face of another heavy topic.

“All that girl has ever done… is love you well.” Emily says.

“I know.” Spencer replies softly – guilt for this, too.

“Talk to her.” Emily says, “Don’t let her get off this jet thinking she’s done something wrong.”

Spencer’s jaw tightens. Emily doesn’t take his silence as confirmation and looks at him expectantly.

“Okay.” he finally replies, “I’ll speak to her when she wakes up.”

“Good.” Emily nods.

But you sleep the whole flight.

You sleep until you land, and Hotch ponders if he’s supposed to wake you up. He’s relieved when he sees Spencer looking your way as everybody stands, and decides to leave that job to him – Hotch is somewhat certain he would’ve said ‘wake up, buddy’ like you were Jack, and is too tired to think of anything else.

“Anybody got a Sharpie?” Derek asks.

Hotch smirks his way, and it’s Rossi who leads him off the jet to avoid you waking up with a moustache or something worse on your forehead.

Spencer waits until everybody’s gotten off the jet before turning to you, crouching down to your height and shifting the light away from your face – how you’d slept with it so close to your eyes is a mystery, but he supposes you must’ve been really exhausted. He strokes his hand over your head and admires how peaceful you look asleep – he realises that you’ve not looked so content in a while, that you never look like this awake anymore.

You’ve been swallowing stones to keep the beach of the BAU sandy and easy to tread. It’s choked you in return.

Spencer sighs.

“Angel girl,” he calls delicately – it’s not a name he’s called you before, but that is how you look right now, and he figures it’s fitting, “hey… we’ve landed.” He strokes a hand over your hip.

The second you wake, the spider returns.

Your breaths grow a little louder as you stir, blinking, swallowing residual dryness and glancing down to his touch on your side. Figuring you might be mad at him for snapping at you, he tugs his grasp away and rests it in his lap instead.

The night outside is thick, the light of the jet still gold and dim, and he misses the warmth of your body immediately.

“Sorry.” You mumble, then rush to sit up and stand, hand coming to your rib as you wince against the sudden pain.

“Hey, wait a sec.” he says, hand coming to your knee, keeping you seated against the couch.

“I’m fine, I just… slept stupidly, that’s all.”

You're not looking at him still. You're a hospital on lockdown.

“I – well, you were pretty curled up, your poor posture probably strained your intercostal muscles,” his fingers stroke along your side, right over where you’d been shot, before he snaps back and realises he’s not helping, “b-but that’s not – uh – that’s not why I-,” he clears his throat, “I – erm – I…” he swallows, “I owe you an apology.”

A moment of quiet flickers.

“What for?” you ask.

You know what for. You’re being nice.

In truth, you decided maybe you did smother him a little as his girlfriend, and your reflex to help him when he seemed distressed likely came across as being patronising or trying to micromanage his emotions just like how he felt JJ had.

Regardless, Spencer had felt bad about what he’d said, whereas you stewed in it – like a frog in a boiling pot. You’re dead in it, and you don’t even know.

“What I said yesterday to you, I… it was wrong of me. You were trying to help, and I lashed out. I-I,” he feels panic bubble inside of him then and he licks between his dry lips as he tries to formulate a sentence, “I don’t want you to think – because we haven’t been together that long – I don’t want you to think that I-I would just… that I’m the kind of person that snaps and lashes out when I’m hurt, I-,” he pauses, knowing that he does this, “I find it hard sometimes, when – er – when I feel like my… emotional privacy, I guess, is being intruded on – I know I’m not making any sense, and you’re probably very confused seeing as you just woke up.”

Spencer is right.

You’re sat there sweaty, delirious, unsure of what time or day it is, and trying to pull all your brain power into understanding this conversation.

“I’m keeping up fine.” You say.

You’re not sure you’re fully conscious.

“Either way,” he continues, “I… don’t want you to think for a second that you did anything wrong. I was frustrated and…” he runs a hand through his hair, then his grasp returns to you, “and I’m sorry.”

He’s relieved when your fingers stroke over his hand and clasp it in return, sleepy eyes brimming with affection.

“It’s okay, baby.” You say quietly, “Cut yourself some slack – you were struggling.”

“I’m not really a ‘slack-cutting’ guy, least not for me.” Spencer comments, and you smile.

You wonder if you should brave the storm of digging deeper, or if you’d gotten lucky in receiving an apology tonight and should cut your losses.

You are, by nature, a storm chaser.

There’s something so damn appealing about potential destruction.

“You’re so hard on yourself, Spence.” You say.

“I am, especially with you,” he scoffs, “I’m not exactly rushing to mess this up, I spent far too long… thinking about you-,” being desperately in love with you whilst calling himself your friend, “-to mess this up so quickly, and… I’ll apologise a thousand times for a hundred things, and I will always settle for being wrong in any argument-,”

“Even factual inaccuracies?” you ask.

“I – okay, I will settle for being wrong in arguments not involving facts, because I…” he gulps, “I love you, and loving you – being loved by you – is not a privilege I take lightly.”

You breathe deeply, sighing as you settle the stones in your stomach and decide you’ve swallowed enough to be considered temperate.

“I love you, too.” You say softly, “I’m sorry if-,” you shake your head, and try again, “I’m sorry that I tried to control how you felt, I should’ve let you walk away and calm down, and not tried to make you feel better when you had every right to be confused and frustrated and-,”

“But… all you wanted was for me to be happy – your intentions, as always, were… completely pure.” Spencer admires how your eyes flick about his expression, surprised by his soothing response, “I just-,” he swallows, “I think – er – when I get frustrated, the… the best thing for me is to cool off, and that’s not to say you’re to blame-,”

“I should’ve-,”

“You just tried to help.” Spencer interrupts firmly, and you fall into a surprised quiet, “But, since this is an… open, honest conversation… just so you know, I… I do need space to cool down and process sometimes after an argument or something.”

You admire his willingness to acknowledge his shortcomings and put his weaknesses on blast just so you can forgive yourself.

“I’ll remember that.” your hand clasps his a little tighter and your fingers lace together.

The gentle rumble of the jet whirring down comforts your silence as you both ponder what to say next.

“Emily coming back has been… really strange.” You say, storm-chasing once again.

Spencer nods in agreement.

“I didn’t… know… that you’d thought about – uh – Dilaudid again.” you quietly say, as though the softer you speak, the more likely you are to garner softness in return.

Spencer’s heart sinks in his chest as he recalls the depth and vastness of his admission. For you to hear it meant everybody had. It had remained – for years – this silent, invisible cloud that hovered over his head. Everybody knew, he knows, and despite how he understands your attempt at comfort in how you tug his hand further into your grasp so your other hand can cradle him closer, he can’t help but feel like he should be comforting you.

“I’m sorry, I know that must’ve been really scary for you to hear.” He says.

“I’m not asking you to be sorry, Spencer.” You reply, “I just… didn’t know, and… I want you to know that I didn’t know it was that bad for you – I knew you were struggling, I just… didn’t… think that was – like – where you were at.”

Spencer’s head shakes.

“It wasn’t like… like a constant, daily battle, angel, it was…” angel, another one – maybe it’s in how the lamp at your side twists its light to the cabin wall and casts a glow behind your head that he finds all these sacred, devotional terms of endearment coming to him so naturally, “it… was… the very start – er – not the first couple days after Emily's death, but… when it - the pain, the... feeling - wasn’t fading, that’s when I started thinking about it. But it wasn’t for very long, and it was never serious – I want you to know that – it was never at the point of- I never had any on me, I never bought any, I never got a hold of it… okay?”

Your hand tightens around his. Your eyes glaze and you feel guilty that you’re the one getting emotional.

“Okay.” you rasp.

“And it’s not here – that thought – right now, I don’t feel like that. I haven’t felt like that in such a long time, and I’m not… I’m not ever going to relapse.” he insists, and you believe him, “So, I know how scary that must’ve been for you to hear, and how unsure you must feel right now, but… I’m never going to do any of that again. And I’m sorry again, for that part, because it wasn’t fair for me to scare you – scare everyone – by saying something like that.”

“Spencer… stop apologising, you’re completely forgiven,” you mumble, brows pinched, stealing one hand to wipe a stray tear away, “you’re always forgiven… for everything.”

Spencer’s boulder is at the top of the hill, finally. He breathes. Perhaps even atheists have saints. You are heaven-sent. A gift from infinity. Despite every single odd, he somehow got lucky enough to live and breathe at the same – in the same place – as you. It’s almost enough to make him contemplate God, but who needs God when he has you?

“You’re far too forgiving.” He notes.

You shrug, smirking a little.

“Remember that next time I cheat at Scrabble.” You say.

“I let you cheat at Scrabble.”

Your eyes widen and you gasp.

“Stop letting me cheat!”

“I- you just asked me to-,”

“I want you to be – like – I saw you steal that letter from the bag so I can say remember that time I blessed you with my eternal grace, and you’re forced to cave!” you grin, looking a lot more like yourself.

Spencer’s head shakes.

“I take back all my nice pet names, you are a weirdo, through and through, I don’t know what you want from me.” he shrugs.

“Just be yourself. Don’t cut me slack, I’m not the slack-taking kind.” You sniff as your tears subside in favour of newfound amusement.

Spencer’s stomach drops as he knows he must put you right back into your previous state of upset in the name of truth and understanding. He apologises to the stars for this – he understands if they take you back from him, because he knows he should never be the reason for a tear in your eye.

He remains crouched in front of you as you cross your legs, returning your hand to his.

“Okay, well… if your request is for no-slack-cutting then, I’m done talking about my stuff, u-unless there was anything else you wanted to ask or talk about-,” you shake your head, “so… I’ve gotta ask about you.” He says, “Are you okay?”

You’ve yet to admit you’re afraid of spiders. You gaze forward into his eyes and hope you can ignore it into ceasing.

“Yeah, no, I’m good.” Your head shakes again – you always do that, say one thing whilst your body completely betrays you.

Spencer thinks you should never play poker.

He says your name gently – seriously – and gives you that look, lips pressing together.

“What?”

“I know you’re not fine, so… do me the honour of telling me what’s been bothering you… please?”

You consider killing your feelings – and, in turn, being haunted by them just the same, instead of revealing them, but… figure there might be some kind of… emotional exorcism that takes place when you lay your fear and sadness out brick by bloody brick.

After all, he’d been so honest with you – he knows it’s hard and did it anyway.

You try to be the angel he thinks you are, and – in turn – confess to your god.

You take a big breath and steady your nerves.

“Just… having trouble adjusting, is all. I mean, I feel like… from second one of her being back, I… have been stuck at the gates of the future. I can’t accept that she’s back, I can’t stop grieving even though she’s right here, a-and I feel like the only one who’s still trapped there. Everybody’s moving forward, a-and it’s not to say I’m not relieved she’s alive, obviously I would rather her be alive, it’s just…” you take a moment, and try to let your deepest, darkest heart lead the way, “my heart and my head aren’t connected to my eyes and my ears… and I feel like the only person who can’t… adjust… who can’t keep up… who knows but doesn’t know.” your voice splinters around thoughts you never wanted to let out.

Spencer just listens. Always listens. Let’s you navigate the city of your thoughts with your hand in his. Anchor.

When you descend into silent tears, he speaks.

“I think… I think you might find some comfort in understanding how and why you’re struggling, so that you don’t feel too weird,” he smirks – not giving you the satisfaction or betrayal of letting you believe you could ever not be weird – and you nod, “so… grief is processed by the anterior cingulate cortex and the amygdala, and they… they cause that feeling of heartbreak that you get, they process the emotions associated with death and loss."

He shifts a little on his weak knees, coming to kneel rather than crouch.

"By the point of Emily coming back, we – you – had reached the point of acceptance, as demonstrated in the Kubler-Ross model of the grief process, even though it didn’t feel like it. So…” he takes a breath, and marks your expression – interest, understanding – and continues, “regardless of logic or reason, you now have to process the deceit of her having been alive the whole time – of the pain, of the grief process, being… pointless, for lack of a better word. Now, deceit in our brains is mapped by the amygdala, which does the emotional processing-,”

“The same one as the grief process.” You say weakly, just to prove you’re listening.

His fingers caress your thigh.

“Yeah,” he confirms, smiling a little wider than he should for the topic, before delving back into his explanation, “and the hippocampus supports memory formation… which, all in all, affects the way relationships are formed. That being said, it does not change that you have already formed those significant emotional memories regarding Emily’s death. You grieved. So… your brain… because death is final, that’s sort of the – er – the rule, your brain can’t really… make the logical jumps between such heavy emotional memories and, in turn, you have a cognitive dissonance. You’re left feeling distrustful and confused… and… stuck.”

His hand leaves yours so he can stroke over your thigh more freely. You listen quietly, tears drying on your cheeks.

“Your prefrontal cortex does its best to rationalise everything happening, to adjust your emotions and memories, but… it’s really hard to change the ripples of everything that’s happened. It’s okay to feel confused, to feel… what was it you said… stuck at the gates of the new truth.”

“I…” you ponder if you should tell him this part, but if not him, then who, “when I was… when I was hurt, when I was shot ‘nd…” you shake your head, aware he knows all the gory, horrible details, “I… I found comfort in whatever I could, no matter how ridiculous or nonsensical, and… I couldn’t help but… but think that if there is – like – heaven or whatever, that… Emily would be there, and… and it didn’t scare me – dying didn’t scare me, but… that wasn’t true, you know? And I feel so selfish for finding death to be scarier because Emily isn’t dead-,”

Your voice is wavering and tiny, like a moth knowing it’s drawn to its death, and is hopeless in resisting.

Spencer nods.

“You went through something very traumatic, angel, and… and you were strong, and you were brave… but you were not just strong and brave because you believed Emily was waiting for you-,”

“But I was.” You cry, “God, I was.”

“You weren’t. You have always been so brave.” He says, “But I can understand how unsettling this experience must’ve been for you – not only is your brain trying to rewrite all those memories and connections about Emily’s passing, but… you look back on your experience with a lot more…” he searches for the right word, “loneliness.”

You nod in agreement. He isn’t sure how to comfort you.

Spencer decided facts and statistics are not the right course this time. The after-death experience is not riddled with certainties and percentages.

He turns to philosophy.

“You know, there is this theory in some religions – actually, just spirituality in general – it’s the theory of – uh – non-dualism, do you know what that is?” he trials, testing your willingness to listen and figuring out if you just need a good cry.

“Non-dualism, so… not two?” you answer, keen to be distracted.

He smiles. Like a reward.

“Exactly, so… non-dualism is the idea of oneness. Separation, the idea that you and I are separated and exist... without the other… is an illusion – called Maya – and ‘true reality’ is Advaita, meaning ‘not-two’, so… non-dualism. In short, it’s this idea that everything is completely connected – it’s all one thing, it’s oneness."

His eyes flick about your face, always monitoring you.

"The reason why I talk about this is that… I can’t tell you what to believe, but… I hope you might find some comfort in thinking that… there is no without.”

Your lips press together as you resist crying again.

“Nobody is separated from anybody. Nothing is different from anything. And I will never exist without you.”

He smiles at you earnestly.

“Emily has never been gone. You will never be gone. In non-dualism, nothing has ever been gone, because… everything is one thing. We are all each other, we are all everything - at the same time. Everything exists. Everything is."

You ponder the meaning of the universe.

You gaze at him and decide he’s it.

If the whole point of everything is this moment where he comforts you with theories of the afterlife - which he definitely doesn’t believe in but just wants to see you stop crying – then you make complete and utter peace with it.

There is no next room.

Emily was not just in the next room waiting for you, not literally, not figuratively.

She was always here.

Everything, everywhere, was always here. With you.

Your spider disappears. You finally breathe, and look back with more relief than you do terror and sickness.

“You’re so kind.” You rasp, and even though you sound so sad, he knows you’re feeling somewhat better.

“Well, you like a story…” Spencer smiles, “and I’d do anything to see you less sad.”

“I’m not sad, I’m just… emotionally whiplashed, the past year has been a car crash that I’m still behind the wheel of.” You scoff, wiping your tears that appear gold in the light of the lamp, “But I… I know things are going to get better, I just have to trust that… that time does heal wounds, even strange brain ones.”

Spencer beams at you.

“It does. I promise.”

You believe him. You always believe him.

“Can I stay at your place tonight?” you ask.

He grins.

“Absolutely, I’m not in the mood to let you out of my sight any time soon.” He stretches to a stand, groaning as he rubs his knees, “God, I’m unfit.” He notes.

“Don’t say that.” you sniff, wiping your eyes on your sleeves and wobbling to a stand.

“Why not?”

“Because now I wanna kick you behind your knees so you fall over.”

“I just comforted you!”

“And I forgave you for being mean; I was going to use my everlasting grace on Scrabble, but I might cash it in the second you hit the ground.”

Your foot edges to the back of his knee and Spencer hobbles forward faster, heavy feet dragging along the floor as he sighs.

Your spirit is back.

He hopes, this time, it stays, and that it’s not a cover for something else.

And it is.

You’re not sure if you believe in non-dualism, but you weren’t sure you believed in any kind of afterlife either. Just the theory of it is enough to give you hope that there’s not nothingness.

There is no without.

Everything just is.

“You are the worst person ever!” Spencer retorts, stopping in the doorway of the jet, hand on the wall.

“Yeah, well, you love me anyway.” You grin.

Spencer beams, both of you lingering in the privacy of the cabin and the stars just a moment longer.

“I do.” he mumbles, “I’m always gonna love you.” He adds for good measure.

As his hand finds your cheek, you brave the distance between you and lean in, and his smile softens as he meets you the rest of the way and kisses you softly.

Its only purpose is to express his adoration and love, and he knows those are your intentions too. God, you’re so full of love, you don’t know what to do with it.

When he pulls away, his eyes flick between yours, then linger on your lips for a moment longer.

Like you, he isn’t sure where he stands on the ‘after death’ experience. With every day with you, however, his heart leans towards something much more sentimental, despite the argument from his brain. Lately, his mind has been losing the war against your love.

All that knowledge… rendered useless in the face of hope, and the fear of separation.

Because he cannot stand the thought that death means he will never see you again.

He kisses your forehead. Gently. Just in case, one day, he can't. Your eyes flutter closed and you beam at such a delicate gesture of his affection.

“Come on,” he sighs, hand finding yours, “don’t kick me down the stairs – I’m so serious, I will not laugh.”

“I will.”

“You’ll be laughing all the way to the emergency room and Strauss’s office.”

“Ugh, fine, consider me tamed.” Your eyes roll.

Spencer wonders if he loves you better because he doesn't believe in afterlife.

You think you'd spend your everything-ness with just him.

You walk down the stairs of the jet then and wander the land of the airfield toward the airport, and Spencer pulls you close to him against the wind of the Virginia night, a messy kiss to your temple as you both laugh.

"I told you I wasn't going to push you down the stairs."

"I saw you try."

You smell the stench of jet fuel and smoke and watch another plane land on the glowing runway, tiny lights guiding the way. Stars twinkling above like bulbs blinking on and off in a town far away, Spencer believes, in this very moment, that Felipe de Neve and the Spanish settlers in the eighteenth century got it all wrong.

Los Angeles is not the City of Angels.

Not even slightly.

purely because last time i said series y'all neglected the fuck out of me, this is written with aurora reader in mind (sort of a sequel but can be read as a stand alone)

hope you guys liked this one! thank you for voting in my poll!!

MASTERLIST HERE

for more sad dilaudid talk, you might enjoy junkie and if you enjoy spencer's big theory talk, then you'll like intimacy with plato's theory of love as well as the OG one shot dysphoria with post-coital dysphoria

REQUESTS AND FEEDBACK WELCOME - INBOX IS OPEN, INTERACT WITH ME IM A TUMBLWHORE

“You think so?” 

“You’re beautiful.” He gives you one of his not so shy, almost cheesy smiles, like he wants to laugh. “Do you want your gift now or later?” 

“Is it rude to say I want it now?” 

“No, it’s not rude. I’ll feel better once I know you like it.” 

He presents you with a box wrapped in dark blue crepe paper and rounded silver star stickers. There’s twine wrapped around it and bowed, too beautiful to want to open. You look between him and the present in awe. “This is real pretty,” you say softly. 

“It’s nicer inside,” he says. 

You unravel the twin carefully, and you take off the paper to reveal a large, flat box. You put the paper in your jacket pocket, folded primly to keep. Spencer waits patiently. 

You press your thumbnail into the box’s seam and push. 

It’s four pieces of jewellery. What catches your eye first is the sapphires, blue crystal with deep dark hearts pressed into the pendant of a necklace, the heart of a bracelet, and the main bodies of their matching earrings. All simple, elegant pieces, and compiled, their impressiveness is amplified. Your breath catches. You don’t need to be an expert in jewellery to immediately assign a ballpark price tag, and it’s a lot. It’s sort of startling. 

But the price doesn’t matter half as much as the sentiment. 

“Do you remember them?” he asks softly. 

Fourth date. Hand in hand, you and Spencer walked through a shopping centre with iced drinks and churros, and you’d paused for a few seconds to ogle the jewellery display. You’d pointed straight at the sapphire bracelet and said, “That’s gorgeous. I think if I save, I can get it for Christmas.” 

“I know it’s not Christmas,” Spencer says, “I’m sorry, I cheated. But I hope you like them.” 

“Spencer, I love them, I love them,” —you reach your hand across the table— “I love you. Thank you.” 

He smiles at you. “Yeah, I love you, too.” 

You can’t stop yourself from getting up to hug him. He bends under your weight and holds your arms, doesn’t wince when you press the entirety of your face to his hair and breathe. “Thank you,” you whisper, kissing his forehead twice, “thank you, I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” He takes your face into his hand before you can leave. “You like them?” he asks. 

“I love them.” 

His smile is everything. “I really did cheat, I wrote it down when we got home and you know I can’t forget the things I read,” he murmurs, pulling you in for a kiss. 

Six months later and your heart still skips a beat. Doesn’t matter that he has an eidetic memory, what’s important is that he wrote it down. 

You take another hug, to his delight, and return to your seat. Your presents wait in a bag under the table. Two books, one jewellery box. He goes for the smaller box first. 

“It’s a ring,” you say, too nervous to let him discover it by himself. “I know you don’t often wear them, but I thought maybe it’s because it’s not something you’d get for yourself, and I think it would look good on you.” 

He opens the box with a smile. So pretty, and exuberantly bright. “Oh, wow.” 

“I don’t know if brands mean anything to you, but it’s Vivienne–”

“It’s beautiful,” he interrupts, “I love it. What finger do I wear it on?” 

“Most wear it on their marriage finger, I think, but you obviously don’t have to do that.” 

He slips it onto his ring finger, turns his hand one way and another, and there’s this joy that echoes all the way across the table from his very core. “Thank you. I love it, and now every time I look down I'll remember why you gave it to me.” 

You spend a lot of time apart, what with both of you working. “I thought that, too.” 

He takes the books next. His laugh is soft. “I’m not surprised.” 

“They’re… they’re my personal copies.” 

He startles at that. “They are?” 

“Yeah. Uh,” —you point at the first— “that’s my favourite, and I think it could be your favourite too.” 

“And this one?” he asks gently, slipping the first underneath the second. 

“Aaron gave that one to me. I know what you’re thinking, okay, that I’m giving something to you I should really keep. Maybe it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t know, but I love you.” You lick your lips. “It’s nice to fall in love. And you’ve made it so easy.” 

He stares at you, lips parted. 

You panic. “It was hard, growing up, and I know everyone struggles but it was hard. If it weren’t for my brother… I feel like it sticks to me and you’ve never made me feel that way. You love me for me. I was convinced nobody would ever do that.” 

“I know it was hard,” he says. 

“Really hard, sometimes, but you aren’t. I’m never scared of you.” 

He reaches across the table to touch your hand. “You aren’t supposed to be scared of anyone, angel.”

Warmth blossoms under his touch. You shake off the fog. “It’s not just about all of that, I swear, I really do think you’ll like them. But if I got it all wrong just lie to me, okay?” 

“You didn’t get anything wrong, shut up,” he says. Spencer stands, his turn to hug you, but he goes about it differently. He tips your head back and he kisses you, and his nose is a pressed line in your cheek as he squeezes you to him. “I’d be surprised if anybody who’s ever met you didn’t love you. Okay? Thank you for trusting me with it.” 

It, and not them, not the books. 

He peels away. You beam at one another. 

“Should we eat?” you ask, feeling pleased and shy at once. 

“Excuse me.” 

You have too many books in your arms to even see who is talking to you, but you apologise nonetheless; it’s the least you can do for your first customer. “I’ll be with you in a moment, apologies for the mess, we literally just opened.” In your defence, you had been so busy unpacking all the new orders and organising things into shelves that you absolutely forgot to put the plaque with your opening hours by the door. You can hear his shoes clicking and clacking around the place, and a wave of anxiety washes through you. If he leaves with a book– luckily two– you will have made your first sell and that just might remind you that of the reason why you decided to do this in the first place.

Carefully putting the pile of Maggie Nelson’s on the counter, you finally turn to face him, tired smile from ear to ear when you see him holding two books already. “You found something you like?” You gently ask, voice calm and fingers fidgeting while you wait for an answer. “Many things, actually. I’m quite glad to see a wide variety of books here, it’s been hard finding something new to read lately.” 

His voice is pointed and it echoes in the empty store. The clock on the walls says it’s 7:58AM and you suck in a breath; it’s definitely too early for someone to be looking for books, but maybe he wants entertainment for his commute, maybe he needs a distraction for the way, or maybe he is odd like that. 

It must be cold outside. The man is wearing a purple scarf  inside what looks like a wool coat, and somehow, he fits in there, in your store. He looks like the kind of person who would be buying books as early as 8 in the morning and you’re not sure if that is adorable or unhinged. 

“Just these, thank you,” The loud thump of the pile of books he deposits by the cashier makes you gasp. “You have a great selection here, I was lucky you open early!” The twinkle in his eyes is what keeps you from telling him that that, in fact, was a big mistake. In the middle of rushing to get the keys from the landlord in time, get the deliveries, get everything sorted and organised, you had completely forgotten to put out the hours for the shop. 

“I am glad you found us here! Do you live nearby?” At this point, you’re just trying to make conversation as you bagged his items, smiling at the titles and happy to see your favourite book in the midst. “I live just across the street, actually,” He said, giving you his card. “You’ll see me a lot, I’m afraid.”

“And what should I call my most loyal customer, then?” One look down at his card and you would know, but you wanted him to tell you himself. 

“Spencer Reid.”

There is not really a sound reason as to why you walk so freely into his apartment. The first time he asked you to do this, he was going on a case and needed someone to water his plants. As it turn out, your store is quite literally across the street from his building and you don’t really mind the mindless task, so you tell him to not worry, you’ll take care of it. It had been a few months since you two met, five or so, and despite taking you some time to truly understand, you got used to the fact that Spencer created a routine for both of you, knocking on your shop’s door every Monday at precisely 8 in the morning. With time, you stopped questioning him even when you had many, many questions– was he even reading all these books? If yes, how?! Every visit, he left with three books or more, and unless he pulled all nighters every night, those were simply sitting on his desk. 

Instead, you start putting a few titles aside whenever you spot them. You start it with ‘A Gentleman From Peru’ by André Aciman, short and sweet. Next week it was ‘A Little Paris Bookshop’ by Nina George. Then ‘Cultish’ by Amanda Montell. And just like this, you two form your own little book club, his visits extending beyond their usual thirty minutes into the better part of the hour to talk about the plot, the characters, the arcs. You know there is quite a lot you don’t know about Spencer, of course there is, but you learn more and more with every little debate you two have. You learn about his morals through the character he likes, and his dreams through the plots he enjoy. You learn about his photographic memory that allows him to quote his favourite sections to you, and you learn that he is a very logical man through his hatred for the inaccuracy of investigative books. You learn and you learn and you learn and you find out that you like learning about Spencer. More than you like learning about anyone else, that is, and now, every time he walks in, you can’t help but get excited, smiling as you only imagine what you would learn that day. 

Sometimes, you did notice the absence of your favourite customer. He would disappear for weeks on end and then act like nothing happened, and you get it; he doesn’t owe you anything, you’re just the lady that sells him books, but you feel like there is something that is starting to bloom when, every time he comes back, he brings you a book. “I thought you’d like it,” Is all he says before leaving with his bag of new reads. For a moment, it’s like an exchange, but Spencer never demands anything of you; never asks for anything more than new books and recommendations. 

It’s quite rewarding finding the books you sold him scattered through the apartment. There are a couple in the kitchen, open split on the counter and you smile fondly at the clumsy way he marks his books. There is no folded page, no book marker, no random picture; just his book, cover facing up, open and splitting the spine in half enough to crease. You shake your head, smiling like he’s done this just to rile you up.

“Oh my god, don’t!”

You don’t mean to shout but it’s too late. His eyes widen in shock and he immediately freezes, mouth stuck in a little ‘o’ shape that makes you blush. “What did I do?” 

The wince in your expression is as visible as the light of day when you speak. Your hands hover in the air, unsure of what to do now, but still trying to do something. “The book, Spencer,” The words come out like a whine, and if you start stomping your feet you might as well look like a child. “The spine. The book. The– oh my god, the noise!”

The way he laughs at you is contagious, and you start laughing with him, face hidden behind your hands in embarrassment. Owning a bookshop doesn’t come for free. Your particularities when it comes to your literary treasures are enough to scare any sane person away. “You know, there are worse sounds than a book’s spine breaking,” He mused, closing the book before walking to your counter. His nimble fingers drum a soft rhythm as he waits for you to go around and charge him for the book. It’s a symphony, almost; so loud in your quiet store that, for a second, your heart is tuning in, thumping as his fingers do, beating to the song he creates. 

“You don’t have to buy it,” It’s a little ridiculous how airy your voice sounds then. Aren’t you a little too old to have a crush? “It’s okay if–“ But he doesn’t even let you finish, rattling off some facts about the writer. Most of the time, actually, he is rattling off some fact about something, and some you know, some you don’t, but you never interrupt him. You like hearing him talk. 

You miss hearing him talk. Whenever Spencer leaves, you miss him. You miss the knock on your shop’s door at 8AM. You miss the shy little chuckles. You miss the purple– the constant, always there purple. A wave of sadness hits you then, looking around the apartment with a longing expression. 

The first time he calls you over, it’s not really an invitation. A week before it happens, he doesn’t show up for your Tuesday unboxing and you have to carry all the new orders inside by yourself. It takes double the time and despite the effort it takes you, it’s the absence of his coy chuckles and snarky commentary that leaves you breathless. When you open the boxes, checking inventory to make sure there had been no issues with your order, you find the book Spencer asked you to get him. It’s one of those special books, so old and unique that you could only get your hands on it because you had contacts in the space. “Huh,” You frown at that– it isn’t like Spencer to forget something. Hell, it isn’t like Spencer to forget anything. Before you can cower away from doing it, you send him a text. You have his number saved in the system, and this feels wrong, it really does. Using his personal information that he gave to you as a client felt wrong. But for a second, it makes you stop biting your nails in anxiety. 

Your book is here. 

It’s Y/N, by the way. 

He doesn’t answer right away and you wallow in your regret for as long as you can. Your shoulders hunch forward as you line up the new arrivals in the shelves. Your frown sits on your forehead all day while you help other passing customers. Your hands brush against the book, all ready and wrapped up and sitting on top of the counter. You hate waiting; you hate waiting for someone or for something to happen as if you’re praying for a miracle. Literature has taught you many lessons in life. It has shown you countless of love stories that could’ve been resolved with a simple conversation. It has told you about people that waited and waited and waited until time passed them away. It has taught you that waiting is simply delaying the inevitable. 

But what literature has not taught you is that, sometimes, waiting truly is all you can do. 

That day, you don’t get a message back. 

You get a call instead. 

“Y/N?” The familiar voice on the other side speaks before you can and your shoulders tense up. Something is wrong. He sounds hoarser than usual, airier, too. 

“Spencer,” You say back, clearing your throat of any remnants or indicators of how nervous you are. “Spencer, are you okay? You sound rough.”

Even his laugh sounds weak and a zap of worry rushes through you. “I’m fine,” He mumbles, and you know he’s saying it out of politeness. “I just got sick. I think I have a cold, it’s nothing much, really.”

The relief that washed over you in crashing waves is almost embarrassing. Even though he is not there to witness it, your face still flushes in a dramatic red. “Oh. I see. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you–“

“It’s not a bother,” The way his voice interrupts you, so strong and concise, makes you chuckle. “You’re not a bother. I uh, I’m glad to hear my book arrived.”

For a moment, you both stay quiet. You, on your end of the line, are nodding like he can see you. Except he can’t. Except he is waiting, probably, for you to say something. Do something. “I can bring it to you. If you want.”

This time, there is no pause. “Yes. I mean, yes, please. I– I don’t have anything new to read and–” Spencer pauses to cough and you start moving immediately. There is no one in the store and you quickly change the sign to ‘closed’, grabbing his book and your bag before locking the door behind you. There is a pharmacy at the end of the block and you keep your cellphone balanced between your shoulder and ear while your hands make sure you have your wallet with you. “Sorry.”

“No problem at all,” You cross the street in such a hurry that you don’t notice the traffic, getting a symphony of horns calling you out as you run to the other side of the street. “Shit…”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” You tease, laughing a little and entering the pharmacy with purpose. “So just a cold, right?”

“Y/N, where are you?”

“Out,” There is no need to be vague, but you don’t want to give him a chance to protest. “I should be at yours in fifteen minutes with the book.”

“Just the book?” He asks in such a suspicious tone that you can’t hold back a laugher. 

“What else?” Thank god for automatic cashiers speeding up this entire process. You are in an out in less than five minutes and before he can even answer, you are almost at his door. Admittedly, you are speed walking, almost running, in a futile attempt to get there sooner. “Which apartment do I buzz?”

“Apartment 23.” And that is the end of the call. 

By the time you make it to his floor, panting just as you hike the last step upwards, he is already waiting for you, and you can’t say you’re terribly bothered to have a man like Spencer Reid waiting for you by the door. “Spencer,” You still admonish, a small smile playing on your lips. “You shouldn’t be out and about like this.” 

“Then who would let you in?” The mischief in his expression, much like that of a child making an innocent joke, makes you giggle, nodding in agreement. “Do you want to come inside? I promise everything is clean, I’m not a slob or anything.”

“Yeah, let me come in so I can give you your stuff.” 

“I knew it wasn’t just the book,” The coughing fit that followed has you rushing your hands, pulling things out of your bag in a desperate attempt to get him the medicine you bought. This had always been your curse, the flustering anxiety of wanting to help but being unable to take your time. Shaky hands push the book towards him, with the medication and some old receipts stuck to it. 

“Oh shit, sorry!” You squeak, grabbing the receipts and shoving it back in your bag. One of these days, you’d have to close the store early to clean this thing. “But uh, yeah, I got you some cold medicine and your book. I’m sure you know this with your big brain and all, but you need to take this before bed, cause it makes you drowsy, and this other one in the morning since it has caffeine! And you should be good in no time… hopefully!”

In life, a pause is not always a bad thing. It’s a time to think. A time to appreciate, to enjoy. It’s a time to be. A pause, however, from the man whose brain worked a thousand miles an hour, doesn’t feel like something to be thankful for. “Is… Do you not like that brand? I didn’t want to get the generic thing, I don’t know why, I–“

“Thank you.”

At first, you barely hear it. For someone whose voice is so rough and hoarse, you’re surprised he can still sound so smooth and airy. Your reaction is obvious; he can see the blush in your cheeks and the way you bite back a smile. “Y/N, thank you, I really appreciate it,” He says it again and now you think he just wants to get a rise of you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” You shrug, faking humbleness while you keen at his praise. “I wanted to.”

“I know.” 

There is a dance that happens after that, one that you find yourself enjoying quite a bit. Spencer is more present than ever, and you’re getting used to having him around. It’s like you two broke the glass wall the kept you at a safe distance, and now is when you two discover each other a bit better. Like how you find out that, when Spencer’s hand lays on the cashier counter, just an inch or less away from yours, you feel the heath that it emanates. Like how your fingers curl and your palms itch at the sight of his shaggy curls falling on top of his beautiful eyes. Like how his laughter is deep when it’s true and dry when it’s forced. Like how he can read 20,000 words per minute, but he chooses to read 183 instead just so he can read you passages out loud.

You are not sure what he has learned about you, or if he even cares to learn something about you, but the thought still makes you smile. “What’s gotten you so smiley so early in the morning?” 

Ah, yes; another thing you’ve learned about Spencer Reid– he is as quiet as mouse when he wants, and as loud as an elephant when he doesn’t. “My god!” You jump, hand immediately going to your heart to try and keep it from beating our of your chest from the shock. “Spence! You scared me!”

“I’m so sorry,” He laughs, raising his hands in the air, shaking the two cups of coffee he is holding. “I come in peace.”

“And with bribery, I like your style.” 

His style doesn’t change, still haven’t. For ages, you think he buys you coffee at the nearby cafe. You don’t really know the name of the place, some cliche Cafe something something, but the one time you’ve been in there the coffee was terrible and the music too loud. It’s hard picturing your shy, smiley book-lover in there, trying to order something without raising his voice. It’s only when you see the go-to paper cups on his counter, on the fourth or fifth time you come around, that you realise Spencer has never gone to that cafe to begin with. 

The cups are still there. You make a point in spotting them every time you come over– next to the microwave, close to the paper towels. The reminder that this man has, in fact, been making you coffee most mornings validates the fluttery feeling you have whenever you think of it. It makes it somewhat logical. “I must be spending too much time with him,” You mumble to yourself, pushing your sleeves up and getting to work. You are there for a reason, and if those wilting plants die on you, you fear that you might just never be invited back. “Why does he even have plants?” 

You don’t know much about Spencer’s job. He hasn’t told you anything about it except that he travels a lot for it, but you can imagine it is something of importance– a man like Spencer was someone of importance, after all. In your mind, you can imagine him walking into an office down by the Financial District, working with big corporations as an advisor. Yes, you can absolutely see him as some sort of advisor or consultant, but something about him working in finances doesn’t sit right with you– he is yet to talk to you about crypto investments and how to better implement a payment system into the store. Shaking your head, you switch it up. Financial services, aren’t quite right, but maybe an editor, working in a publishing house. With the way he devours books and how well-rounded his personal library was, you could see him as a Publishing Director instead, reading manuscript after manuscript. 

The thought of him reading brings a smile to your face. In his living room, there is an armchair that sits next to the large window on the west wall of his apartment– he says he likes how the sunset hits and makes the pages look warm and golden, turning words into a burning fire of knowledge– and you can practically see him there, blanket over his legs, books and books pilled next to it. It’s your own little secret, how every time you come over, you grab a book, any book, and you sit there for thirty minutes, forty, fifty, an hour; until the sun has completely set and you have to get up to turn the lights on. 

Today, when you sit down, when you bring your knees up, when you drape the blanket over you, something feels incredibly right and incredibly wrong. On the pile of books next to you, right at the top, lays a copy of Gulliver’s Travels. If you remember correctly, which you usually do, last time you sat down at that spot you managed to read up to chapter five before the sun was gone. When you grab the book and you see the bookmark you gave Spencer the second time he visited the store, and you frown– usually, he’d pick up from where you left off. “How long has it been since you last came home, Spencer?” You muttered out loud, grabbing the book regardless. Because even when it breaks your heart to know something has been keeping him away from his precious nook, it fuels your heart to know he leaves your book where you can easily pick it up. To know he doesn’t mind you sitting on his armchair, to know he doesn’t mind you reading his books, to know he doesn’t mind you settling, somehow, in his house. 

A knock on his door, however, breaks you away from your precious moment of rest and relaxation. For a moment, you can’t move, frozen in place light a kid that has been caught doing something wrong. It’s only when they knock again that you move, shuffling to the door to look through the peephole. “Who is it?” You ask, voice weak and shaky. 

“I have a delivery for Spencer Reid.”

How silly you feel in that moment, hand over your heart as you take a deep breath in relief. Unlocking the door, you smile to the USPS guy. “Sorry, he isn’t home right now. I can take it for him.” All you have to do is sign it and close the door, but once you put the package on the counter and your eyes catch sight of a note scribbled on top of the box, all those butterflies inside of you slow down. And find perch. And for a second, make you miss them just like you miss him. 

The first time you think Spencer might have a girlfriend is when he comes into the store with a certain look in his face. He is practically glowing and his eyes don’t leave his phone for a second. “What has you smiling like that?” You two are close enough to ask these kind of things now, making jokes about each other as if you have been friends for ages. “Or uh, who?” Even though you started the conversation, you want to end it now. There is a sour aftertaste in your mouth when you suggest another person to be cause of his happiness, and you know, right there and then, that that is just your jealousy speaking. At this point, you’ve been harbouring a crush on Spencer for the almost two months and there’s only so much a girl can take before exploding. 

“Oh, it’s just a friend.” Somehow, this answer doesn’t settle you as much as you hoped it would. 

The second time is when he brings a woman around. She is blonde, and loud, and colourful, and you eye her carefully. They are matching costumes, and for a second, without even saying, you already feel left out. It’s stupid, being this green over someone so pink. If Spencer was purple, and if you are green, than that woman was pink– she is happy and light and exciting. Next to her, you… well, you are as muted as his green walls. “Y/N!” He calls for you with such a big smile and you just don’t have it in you to pretend to be busy anymore. 

“Hey Spencer,” It comes out quiet and a bit distant, but he doesn’t seem to notice, not with the way he is going back and forth on the ball of his heels. “And hello, ma’am. Welcome, I’m Y/N Y/L/N, the owner. Please let me know if you need any help.”

That day, you two barely talk, but that’s okay, because Penelope, as she introduced herself to you after you help her find a specific book on coding, speaks for both of you. She says that it’s lovely to finally meet you, and mentions how much she has heard about you, and you think this is a very cruel thing to do to your poor, squeezing heart. But you push through. You pretend you’re tired, you apologise for the distance, and you lie about a cough. It’s better if they stay away, you say, but Spencer doesn’t buy it. Instead, he buys Penelope her book and leaves with promises of coming back the next day with your usual coffee. 

After that, you don’t see Spencer for two weeks.

It’s a bittersweet feeling when you get the text that he is back. After almost a week and a half without seeing him, you miss Spencer. He created a space for himself in your life and in your store, and when he is gone, it’s just not the same. But just like how he did, you created a space for yourself in his apartment. Suddenly, the muted green walls aren’t claustrophobic or smothering, but comforting. They are safe. Familiar. They are Spencer. And just like you said, you miss Spencer.

“Y/N!” 

You should be happier to hear his voice, but it’s not the same. The fluttering in your stomach is still there, like a slow buzz trying to come alive, but it’s not the same. Not when the note on the box, flashing like neon signs behind your close lids, has been tormenting you and your poor heart ever since you made the mistake of opening the door. “Y/N? Are you here? The door says open…” At one point or another, you have to come out of hiding and face him. Delaying the moment, though, is the best defence plan you’re able to come up with– if you look into Spencer’s eyes, if you see that pretty smile he has every time he comes back from a work trip… you’re fucked. 

“Y/N, I need you to tell me if you’re here!” It’s not the same. 

His voice. It’s not the same.

Usually mellow and undulating, Spencer sounds stiff, like he’s holding something back. Something new. Something… heavy. There is an edge to him right now, so sharp and cutting that it has you stepping out from behind the Science shelf in pure curiosity. And just like people say, curiosity killed the cat. In this case, however, it almost kills you. 

When you turn the corner to find him by the door, the first thing you see is a man. He is tall and handsome and oddly serious. The way his brows are pulled together make you falter, steps slowing down and mouth opening to ask if he needs help.

That’s when you see it. 

More like you catch a quick glimpse of it, the shinning spark of metal to your side, and you do a double take. You have to do a double take. It’s like your brain doesn’t believe what you’re seeing, and you move your head so fast you feel your neck tensing up in that way that makes your eyes water. “WHAT THE FU– OH MY GOD!” There is no way to throw yourself against a wall graciously, arms over your head and fear written all over face. You land in an awkward angle and your shoulder takes the brunt of the shock, making you gasp in pain while your legs give our under you. 

Of all the ways you’ve imagined Spencer, him holding a gun up to your head was never one of them. “Y/N!”

“Oh my god!” You think you might pass out– you’re breathing too fast and your chest is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing to the point of physical pain. There is a ringing in your ears, muffling the entire conversation between Spencer and the other man and even though you try, you can’t look up; you’re frozen in a state of distress. For the first time since you met him, you’re scared of Spencer Reid. “I– I– Oh my god, I c-can’t– I can’t b-breathe, I can’t–“

“Y/N, look at me! Look at me, you’re okay, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” The moment his hand touches your shoulder, you’re shrinking away. 

“Who are you?!” You manage to gasp enough air into your lungs to scream at him. One shake hand moves to the back of your neck, pressing down on the sore nape as you finally move to look at him, crying and all. “Spencer, who are you? Who is he? What is happening? Why do you have a gun in my bookshop, why–“

“Ma’am, I need you to take deep breaths,” The other man quickly holsters his gun and you actually think you might be going insane when flashes you a badge. “I’m SSA Derek Morgan, I work with Spencer. We are with the FBI.”

Federal Bureau of Investigation. Spencer is a fed. And he never told you. 

“The FBI…?” You whisper, eyes going wide and breath hiccuped in your throat. “S-Spencer, you work for the FBI?” Nothing about this makes sense to you. The gun, forgotten in his left hand and now pointing down and away from you, is all you can look at. The gun that looked heavy and cold. The gun that those hands hold– the same hands you’ve wished and, admittedly, dreamed of holding yours instead. The gun, the gun, the gun.

The gun. You’ve never seen a gun before, not this close. In museums, of course, and in movies and shows, but never in real life. You don’t have interest in it either, having voted, without fail, for anti-gun laws and representatives. Anything and everything about this, about seeing him with that deadly weapon, feels wrong, and you really think you might be sick soon.

“Kid, put it away, you’re freaking her out.” 

Then is when you catch sight of the Spencer you know. It’s the clumsy actions, looking almost freaked out himself– his hands fumble with the holster and it takes him a couple of tries to fit the gun properly. That’s when you know for sure– you are going to be sick. “Trash,” You mumble, trying to get up but falling again and again. “Trash, pass me the–“ But there is no time and you throw up right there and then, between the cashier and the nonfiction section. 

“What just happened?” 

“Morgan, get her some water– there, over the counter,” The rapid successions of words make you feel a bit better, a cadence of tone and rhythm that has your hands finally stabilising. “Y/N, you’re in shock. Adrenaline kicked in and left, and you pressured crashed, which is what made you nauseous. You need water, and to come sit by the counter.”

It’s funny, how in any other circumstance, you’d be ashamed and embarrassed to have gotten ill in front of him. As far as you know, Spencer is a germaphobe and this surely counts as germs. But as he grabs your hands, gentler than you’ve ever seen him grab any book in your store, and brings you to your chair behind the counter, you wonder if he forgot or simply doesn’t care. Both options don’t make sense. “Spence, what is going on?” Your voice comes out winey and rough, and there is no way to hold back the pained wince when you feel the sting spreading through your throat. Sip by sip, you try your best to drink the water and soothe yourself, but nothing seems to help. 

Nothing until you hear him next to you, small and quiet and, dare you say, meek. “I’m sorry.”

As much as you’d like to tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, he does. “I see…”

“It was just… it was new, having someone not know I’m FBI,” His thumbs play with each other and you’ve known him long enough to recognise that Spencer is nervous. “And we started getting closer and I just didn’t find an opportunity to tell you.”

“There were plenty,” You clarify, feeling a bit of a bitch for the bite in your voice making him gulp. “But it’s okay. I’m not… I’m not anything of yours, I guess, so it’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Don’t say that. You’re my friend.” That hurt.

“Do you point a gun at all your friends or am I just special, Spence?” It is supposed to be a joke, but the memory makes your bottom lip start wobbling again and you feel stupid. You feel so, so incredibly stupid right now that you can’t even begin to explain why. “Sorry, I’m just– I’m not okay.”

“I know, and we’re sorry,” There is such raw honesty in his words and he manages to make you smile a little. Your hand is still shaking, but you stretch it out towards him regardless. It’s a conscious decision to hold onto his wrist, covered by his jacket, than to reach out for his palm, and from the way he looks at you, you know he recognises the effort. “But you need to come with us.”

“Why?” You cry out, a single tear coming out of the corner of your eye. At this point, the shock is going away and you’re more overwhelmed than anything else. You’re scared and confused and overwhelmed and it’s his pulse, beating again and again, that brings you back to Earth. “Why do I need to go with you? What is going on?”

“Y/N, when you were housesitting for me, you received a package, right?”

In the midst of everything, the memory of that day, that box, that note, all fade. Frowning, you shrugged. “The delivery man knocked and said he had a package for you… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I–“

“No, no, no, you didn’t, you didn’t. Please.”

“Ma’am, when you signed for the package, did you use your name?” The man, Morgan, ask, and all you do is nod. Of course you signed with your name. “Kid, we need to take her to the office now.”

“I am not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!”

Finally, some energy in you. Some strength. Your voice echoes in the empty shop, and the chair tips back when you stand up on stiff legs. Looking at Spencer is hard, when you feel the burning of your rage inside, but you still do; you still meet those pretty brown eyes, you still stare him down until you practically force the answers off of him. “The package… did you see who it was from?” 

“Spencer, are you insinuating you’ve pointed a gun at me because I read a message your girlfriend wrote on the package she sent you?! Because I didn’t mean to– I didn’t! It just… It was there, right at the top and I–“

“She is not my girlfriend,” He immediately cut you off, hands waving in front of him in a visual demonstration of desperate denial. “Not at all! I don’t have a girlfriend! I was–“

“We can deal with this later,” Morgan is quick to interrupt, sighing as he looked at you. “Y/N, we re really sorry to disrupt you like this, but this is for your own protection. Please lock the store and let’s go.”

It takes time for you to gather everything you need. You are not a disorganised person by any means, but suddenly, you can’t remember where you put what. Your bag is thrown under the cashier, and your keys are, for some reason, in the Fiction shelf. Your glasses are in your head the entire time, and Morgan has to point that out to you. The more you look, the more flustered you get, yet somehow, you make it to the car. Morgan is driving and Spencer is on the passenger seat, and the way they keep talking to each other using words that make no sense to you make you want to scream. “Spencer.”

The heaviness of his name, said with such emotion,, lingered in the air. His eyes meet yours through the rearview mirror, and he nods. “Yeah?"

“Spencer,” You whisper again, eyes wide in shock as reality starts to dawn. “Spencer, if she’s not your girlfriend, then who the fuck is Cat Adams?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AAAAAhhhhh I'm trying something new >.< I've been a massive criminal minds fan for a long, long time and Dr. Spencer Reid has my heart <3

"I'm outside of your building but I'm too afraid to come in. I'm not sure they'll let me. I need a badge, right?" 

"You're outside." 

You pick at the hem of your sweater, a loose thread marring your otherwise pretty outfit. You'll admit to dressing up unnecessarily to see him. Nice clothes, your most subtle perfume. 

"I found something confidential this morning, a piece of paper. I didn't read it, I promise."

"You really shouldn't be here," he says. 

Your smile abruptly drops. You press the phone closer to your face and wait, hoping he's not talking to you. When it's clear that he is you cringe, the silence pervasive and the most awkward it's ever been with him. 

"Sorry." Your apology is quick, quiet. "I thought it would be easier for you. I didn't mean to… overstep." 

"It's not that. It's busy. Would you hang on to it for me? Maybe I can come and get it tonight, bring dinner." 

You love how he says it. It's not a question, not an assumption. And it's a relief. If he wants to see you on a night where you hadn't planned to get together, he can't be mad at you for being here. 

"Yeah, please. If you want to." 

"I want to. Okay?"

Not for confirmation, it's shorthand. You okay? 

"Yeah. Okay. Have a good rest of your day, handsome." 

"Bye." 

You like to think you can hear the sound of his phone clicking shut, imagining him at his desk in one of his neat suits with a case file open in front of him. You're not sure on the specifics of his job but you know he looks good doing it, and you also know he's very, very busy. You don't take his clipped goodbye as anything but efficiency. 

Maybe you should. 

—

The next time Aaron inadvertently hurts your feelings is in person. 

Compared to him, you wouldn't say you're an incredibly exciting character. Your day job is tame, your hobbies are invaried. You like to watch TV, see movies, you enjoy people-watching. When you hold that stuff up to his job, his profiling, and his hobbies (seriously, who likes triathlon?) you feel rather immature. 

You know deep down that hobbies are hobbies and that your job doesn't define how special you are, but when you're with someone like Aaron who lives and breathes his profession it can play with your head. 

"Is there something interesting about my shirt?" he asks, a murmur under the sound of the TV. 

You look up from the hem of his nice button down and smile, a half-smile. You want it to be more genuine than it is. "Don't you already know?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"You can tell I'm…" You frown, dropping the starched material of his shirt from between your fingers. "I've given myself up, haven't I?" 

"A little," he concedes sympathetically. 

You huff your defeat and let your cheek fall into his chest. Nice to seek comfort from him, nicer for him to give it to you, his arm rising from behind your shoulders to hook around your neck. 

"I'm not profiling you," he says, voice close to the top of your head, "I'm wondering what you're thinking."

You relax under his touch, his big hand settling in the curve of your neck. A semi-hug. It doesn't take long for you to melt into his front completely, your unhappy thoughts dissolving with any tension and leaving only a want to kiss his stupidly nice neck.

"It doesn't matter," you say. 

"You sure?" 

You lift your head from his chest. He has to lean back to meet your eyes and he does it unflinchingly, a bemused smile playing on his lips. 

"I'm good. Better, if you would…" 

"Yeah?" he asks quietly, leaning down, down. 

You can't withstand his charms. He knows exactly how to get you, his smile and his eyes, his lashes kissing in the corners as they close. 

He's imposing in the best way, a heavy presence that overwhelms you. All you can think about is the way he nudges his nose with yours to encourage your head back and the heat of his lips as they touch your own. His arm tightens behind your head.

You try to rise onto your knees, hands vying for his neck and his pitch dark hair. You're doubly pleased when you feel his mouth turning up into a smile, a mirror of your own. 

"Slow down," he chides gently. 

You're about to say something unlike yourself, something loud and brash. Speed up, Hotchner. You're hopped up on the giddiness that comes with being close to him. You're just about to say it when his phone rings. 

He gives you a short, hard kiss. 

"Hotchner." 

You sit back in his lap, his hand sliding to the small of your back to keep you close as his face clouds with confusion. You attempt to climb off of him because you're not a sack of sugar — you're probably giving him numb thighs — but he won't let you.

"Garcia," he says eventually, "is this an emergency?" His tone makes it clear to you that whatever it is Garcia is saying, it's far from an emergency. 

His hand climbs up, over your shoulder. You shudder as he tugs your earlobe, a mild and thoughtless gesture. You're so busy shivering you almost miss his playful eye roll. 

"I haven't changed my mind. Yeah. Thanks for the invitation, but I'm perfectly happy where I am tonight." 

Whatever Garcia says makes him laugh. If you weren't sitting as close to him as you are you wouldn't have heard it. 

"Have fun. Bye," he says succinctly. He snaps his phone closed in one hand, the other dropping from your ear to your shoulder. It's heavy with a remorse you can't allow. "Sorry."

"Doesn't matter," you assure, tilting your head toward his hand and pretending to size him up. You don't know how to profile, but you're a good guess. 

"You're not telling me something." 

"No?" He blinks in surprise.

"No. You've been invited somewhere with your work friends, and you usually go. Why not tonight?" 

"I think that's obvious." 

"You don't have to flake on your friends for me, Aaron." 

He smiles as you say his name. "Like I told Garcia, I am perfectly happy where I am." 

You hide your face in his neck lest he see your doped up smile. "You have nice friends," you murmur, working your hands under the hem of his shirt. 

"I think you'd love Garcia after the infinitial terror." 

"I think I would too. She's good to you, after all. Makes me like her… Maybe one day we can all go out for drinks." 

You don't have to be a profiler to feel the way he tenses. 

"Yeah," he says. It sounds very much like Probably not. 

That's a strumming hurt. Aaron is so nice, so so nice, and he treats you like you're gold dust. He does all the movie boyfriend stuff like flowers, silver earrings on your birthday (with tiny diamonds!), dinner reservations at dauntingly fancy restaurants. And he does stuff you didn't know men did, like calling you near every night to make sure you had a good day, and praising even your smallest achievements, and leaving notes in places he knows you'll find them on hard days. You don't know how he knows when days are hard, he just does. 

You'd figured all of this stuff meant he must really like you, might even love you though he's yet to say it, and that's why his lack of enthusiasm stings. 

Why doesn't he want you to meet his friends? He's obviously very proud of what they do at the BAU. They're not the issue. 

It's you. 

You cuddle him as a pit forms in your chest. 

"You're tired?" he asks.

Funny how it's his comfort you crave when he's the one who's hurt your feelings. You're a little lopsided being upset with him, and you know if you tell him how you feel he'll try to make it up to you, but you're too afraid of the other alternative — a fight. Right now his arms are a sanctity you wouldn't trade for anything. You hope he feels the same. 

You're not sure anymore. 

"Yeah," you say roughly. 

Your eyes burn as he pats your back. "Let's go to bed, honey." 

You'll just… have to prove you're someone worth showing off. 

—

Your plan, loosely titled 'Get Aaron Hotchner to Show Me Off,' is going about as well as you'd thought it would. 

If Aaron doesn't want me to meet his friends there must be a reason. You've been thinking about it and it can't be a coincidence that he hadn't wanted you to return his paperwork a few weeks ago. That must've been something significant. 

But what? 

You start with your hair. Aaron has expressed a lovely and heaping handful of times that he thinks you have pretty hair. He plays with it often, usually when he's limp and tired from a long day. You've always taken care of it. Now you're going to the extreme — hair masks, hair appointments you can't afford, anything to make it look perfect. 

It doesn't work toward the plan, though your boyfriend certainly notices. 

"Your hair," is the very first thing he says when he sees you, stopping only in his smiling assessment to kiss your cheek in greeting. 

"Is it okay?" you ask, turning your face to one side. 

"More than okay. Do you want to go in?" 

So it's kind of a bust. But that's okay, you weren't expecting to get a haircut and magically be invited to team dinners. You persevere, and eventually you forget the plan for the night when Aaron promises to show you how much he likes your new look with a hand at the small of your back. 

Phase two, your clothes. 

You dress as nicely as you can but you're no fashion guru and you can't afford an entirely new wardrobe. You get a bunch of magazines and look for fall staples. What's in this year, and how do you style it? You buy a couple of pieces that fit your budget and try to work around them. 

Aaron's favourite are the new corduroy pants. They aren't a great fit. 

"They're too tight," you lament, pulling the fabric from your thighs where they hug snugly. They're a desaturated sort of burgundy, not bright by any means but a good 'pop of colour'. 

"I know," he says. 

You gawp at him, and when he gets his fingers on the buttons afterward, you break. 

"You like them?" you ask worriedly. 

"What makes you think I don't?" 

"Besides how eager you are to get them off of me?" 

He hooks two fingers in your belt loops and holds your gaze as he tugs them down. "I like them." 

A good time, but still no dice. You suppose a new look, besides looking smarter, doesn't actually prove your merit as a girlfriend. Maybe he wants something a little more concrete before he introduces you to people. Maybe things aren't as good for him as they are for you, and he doesn't see the point. 

That particular thought sparks a wave of panicked tears. 

The next time you see him, it's like he can tell. You wonder if he has x-ray vision, some sixth sense for tear stains that he has yet to tell you about. He's been gone for a few days in St. Louis, and when he'd come back he'd spent the weekend with Jack, so it's a whole seven days since the last time you saw him and your worries have festered. Not even his doting phone calls had kept the thought at bay. 

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend. 

You open your door and there he is in a quarter zip with an overnight bag, matte suit cover draped over one arm. 

"Hi," you say, unsure. 

"Did I get uglier while I was away?" he asks seriously. 

You startle. "No, of course not." 

He smiles and meets you in the doorway, your head dipping back to accommodate. "I think I've had it too good," he says lightly, bringing a tentative hand to your cheek. "Are you okay?" 

You're trying to work out what he means, and when you do your heart skips. "Handsome!" you say urgently. "Hi, handsome. No, you didn't get uglier, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, and-" 

He kisses you. It's malaligned because of your parted lips, but it's good. You'd really missed him. 

"You're definitely still handsome," you murmur. 

"Doesn't count. I begged for it-" 

"No!" you deny, lifting on tiptoes to give him another kiss and stop his slander. "It does count because you're always handsome, I promise. I think I slept too much and miswired my brain when I woke up." 

"I don't mind that you didn't call me handsome," he says firmly, "now let me in. We have dinner to make." 

"Right, sorry."

Aaron frowns at you, then. It's weird. He frowns at his phone, at the TV, at nothing, but he doesn't frown at you. 

"Is something wrong?" he asks as you traverse down the hall. You hold your hands out for his suit and bag to take to your room and hang up, ignoring his question. He doesn't give them to you. "Is there?" 

"No." You smile as you say it. 

You're an awful liar, especially with him. He makes you more nervous than anyone because he's your boyfriend and because he's a literal human lie detector. 

"You didn't even try." 

You cover your face with both hands and groan dramatically, spinning around and away from him. You don't want him to see how flustered you are. 

"Don't make fun," you beg. 

"You're embarrassed." 

"Teach you that at the Bureau, do they?"  

You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, distracted by your own racing thoughts when suddenly there are two long arms needling around your waist and pulling you backward. You gasp a laugh and squirm uselessly to escape. 

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. 

You tip your head back, hands falling from your face in surprise. "What for, handsome?" 

His laugh fans out over your face but when he speaks again there's no humour there, only sincerity, "For being gone so long." 

"Well don't be. You can't exactly help it, Agent Hotchner," you hum. 

"Oh, don't." 

"Going out and saving the world takes time. I knew that when I met you, 'n I know it now. You don't have to say sorry." 

"I'm not apologising for my work. I'm apologising that we've," — his nose presses into the highest point of your cheek — "been apart." 

"I did miss you," you relent. 

He presses his lips to your cheek. "I missed you too." 

It's a nice distraction. You'd missed one another, and now you're together. You forget for a while what you'd worried, and only when he leaves again do you remember. 

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend. 

You're not stupid enough to think Hotch is using you for anything, or that he's insincere. You're level-headed, though. His affection for you isn't necessarily permanent no matter how genuine. 

You don't want to be overbearing. The offers start slow. 

I can wash that for you. Of course I'm sure, I'm great with whites. 

Maybe I could make you lunch tomorrow. You can take it in, spare yourself the federal cafeteria. 

Yeah, I got them shined for you. They were looking a little dull at the toes. 

"Do you want me to press these?" you ask. 

Aaron looks up from where he's sitting in bed. You'd been out on a foray to the bathroom and have come to a stop by his bedroom door where a pair of black slacks hang in wait for the morning. 

He pushes a darling pair of reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. "No." 

"Are you sure? It won't take five minutes." 

"I'll do it in the morning." 

"I can do it for you, then. Just wake me up," you say, pushing back the sheets on the empty side of his bed. Your socked foot bumps his thigh as you pull up your legs. "What are you reading?" 

He puts his book on the nightstand, takes off his glasses. It's too bad. He really suits them.

"I want to talk to you about something." 

You laugh and slide down onto the flat of your back. 

"What?" he asks, confused, the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes. 

"It's unlike you to start that way. You always cut around the fat." You bring his bed sheets up to your nose and squint at him. "'M I in trouble?" 

"Depends." 

"On what?" 

"You know I care about you." 

Your heart somersaults. That feels very much like a break-up opener, and he must see your anxiety on your face. He wrangles your hand from under the sheets and leans over you, his face in your eyeline, his fingers massaging yours until they ache in the good way. 

"Do you know how much?" he asks. 

"Is that a trick?" 

"No." 

You wait in case there's something he's going to add. When there's nothing, you pull the sheets to your chin and tamp down your perplexed pouting. 

"Yeah, I know how much." 

"I'd like to tell you how much." He pulls your joined hands toward his jaw. "I know I'm not always here, but I'm always thinking of you. In roundabout ways." 

"What ways?" you ask. Self-indulgence.

Aaron Hotchner indulges you. 

"I see," — he kisses your hand — "trees. I've seen a thousand trees, but when I see the bigger ones I wish you could see them too." 

It's a dropping sensation, near uncomfortable, that's how gutted his confession makes you feel. "You do?" 

"Sometimes women walk past me and I swear that it's you because they smell like your perfume. Flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk. Lights through the jet window." It's the kind of stuff you like to point out to him when you're together. 

He stares at you, a long, reassuring look. 

He deserves a better reply, but all you can say is, "I think of you all the time, too." 

"I love that you want to take care of me, but you don't need to wear yourself out." 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. So that's what this is about. Aaron has profiled you, and now he's being the gentleman that he is and assuaging your fears. 

"I'm not," you say quickly. 

He understands that you're saying I'm not wearing myself out rather than I'm not taking care of you. You are taking care of him, the best that you can, the best that he'll allow. 

"I can press my own pants," he says, leaning down for a kiss. "I can shine my own shoes." He kisses you again. You screw your eyes closed as the warmth of his breath heats your cupid's bow. "I can do my own laundry." He pulls back, dropping your hand in favour of your neck. His thumb pushes against your windpipe gently, palm hot over your skin. "I'll accept the lunches, if you're sure you don't mind making them." 

You feel as excited as you did the very first time he touched you, chest full of a dizzying pleasure, heart bump-bump-bumping a racing rhythm. His thumb strokes a lazy quarter circle into your neck. He can probably feel your pulse, see the way your eyes have blown. 

"I love making them," you say, breathless in earnest.

"The team think I'm spoiled." 

"You aren't spoiled." You're adored, you want to say. You cup his cheek instead. "You'd be spoiled if I brought them by everyday." 

Aaron doesn't stay with you and you don't stay with him enough to make him lunch everyday. He might get one or two a week, and that's when he's home. 

"Wouldn't that be nice," he mutters, his fingers pushing between your neck and the pillow underneath. 

You hike up on to your elbows slowly to avoid headbutting him. "Well, I could." 

His easy, loving smile flattens. "No." 

"I wouldn't mind. My lunch break is super long and it only takes me ten minutes to get there. We could have lunch together." 

"That's not going to work." 

"Okay." You wish you could take it as calmly as he says it. You sound choked up. You are choked up. 

"Sweetheart, the office is a war zone. Half the time I'm not there." 

"I get it," you say, dropping flat onto your back again. 

"Sweetheart." 

"Handsome," you mirror, putting on your best unaffected smile. 

You can't hold it very long, his concerned brows too much to deal with. You turn your head to the left and turn off the lamp on the nightstand, throwing at least half of your expression into darkness. 

Aaron doesn't give up. Does he ever? He cups your cheek and pulls you back to face him. 

"I can't promise any lunch dates. But I was thinking we'd go out for dinner next week, Friday," he begins hopefully, "somewhere nice." 

It feels like an apology and you're desperate to take it. 

"I don't need somewhere nice, s'long as you're there 'n not in Kansas, or Colorado, or Idaho, or New Jersey-" 

He hums and drops his head until his nose lies against your own. "Gonna go through all fifty?" 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Hotchner?" 

"I love your voice," he says agreeably. 

Disarmed, you let him charm you, and you let him push it all out of your mind. Plan foiled, your fears fall on the backburner for a third time. 

—

His fourth rejection is the first that feels entirely intentional, though you won't know until later. 

Mostly because Aaron pushes you. 

Far from cruel, the two of you are actually out walking in the city when he forces you into an alleyway, your fancy drink sloshing down the front of your sweater. 

You laugh in surprise and almost roll your ankle, hands clinging to his coat to stop an unfortunate fall. 

"Holy shit, Hotchner, learn to be a gentleman," you say as he presses up against you. "What are you doing? I'm soaked, you're gonna ruin your sleeves." 

He kisses you hard. It's a surprise, your head jumping back against the wall to find his hand already there to protect it. 

It's worth noting that Aaron is a sweetheart in practically every aspect of life. He once apologised after having walked in on you changing, which is ridiculous because most of the nights where you're together he insists on getting you some sort of undressed (even if it's just to help you into your pyjamas).

Needless to say, he's never kissed you like this. Your emotions spike so suddenly you laugh into his mouth, a girlish peel of giggles that you'll regret afterward but can't stop for the life of you. 

He shushes you. "Sorry," he whispers, as ill-composed as you've ever heard him. "Sorry, just-" He cuts you both off with another bruising kiss. 

Your laughter fades into sighs and little gasps for air. Somewhere near the alleyway opening a group of people pass by, a jovial series of cheers and friendly laughter trailing behind them. Aaron presses you further into the wall behind, and slowly, slowly winds down. Weirdly, you think his last couple of pecks feel sorry, softer and sweeter. 

Your lips buzz. 

"Why'd you buy me that fancy drink if you were gonna tip it all over me?" you ask good-naturedly when he finally pulls back. 

"You looked too nice today." His deadpan voice wars with the smile on his face. "I'm sorry. We'll go find you something to change into." 

"Was it really that important that you kiss me right then?" you ask, feigning disdain. 

He looks out toward the main street again. "Yes. Where do you want to go? There's a Nordstrom." 

You take a sip of your drink, unsurprised when he takes your hand and starts to lead you toward the department stores. "Have you ever been inside of a Nordstrom?" 

"I'm sure I'll figure it out."

— 

The fifth time is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Or the brick. It feels heavier than a strand of straw. It's technically already come to pass, so it's an invisible brick. 

You're out for coffee by yourself which really means you're out for something sweet, bundled up in a coat and scarf to fight the night-time chill. 

"Thank you," you tell the barista, accepting your drink and receipt with a smile. 

You turn around and almost walk straight into a pretty dark-haired woman with really nice hair. You make a note to tell Aaron about it when you see him next, not because he'll care but because he likes to hear what you've been thinking about. And right now, all you can think about is her feathered bangs. 

I want nice bangs, you think offhandedly. 

"I'm sorry," you say, trying to move around her. 

She steps into your path. 

"Sorry," you say again. 

She's squinting at you, thin eyebrows peeking out from behind her hair. "Sorry, have we met?" she asks. 

You try not to be too hasty, but you're not sure you've ever seen her. You stare at her as she stares at you, and you get a tiny inkling of familiarity, but it's gone as quick as it comes. 

"I'm really sorry, I don't think so," you murmur, tilting your head to one side. 

She bites her lip, let's it go. "Oh!" she says excitedly, voice bright with triumph. "Oh oh oh! I know who you are, you're Hotch's mysterious girlfriend!" 

Your smile turns quizzical. You know nearly everybody calls Aaron 'Hotch'. Whenever you try it he either gives you the silent treatment or covers your mouth with his hand. 

"I'm Emily Prentiss, I work in the BAU," she explains rapidly, shoving her purse under her hand to offer it for a handshake. 

You do the same and shake her hand. Introducing yourself feels awkward. She knows you. You don't have a clue who she is. Only- 

"Oh, I know who you are now, I'm sorry I didn't recognise you before!" you say contritely. "I've seen photos of you and the team together. It's really nice to meet you." 

She nods. "It's nice to meet you too. I have to say, we've been dying to meet you. We even have a betting pool on what you're like, because Hotch barely says a thing about you." 

You try not to look as devastated as you feel, re-wrapping your fingers around your cup. "No?" 

"We didn't even know what you looked like until we saw you the other day. We came looking to say hi and you'd disappeared." 

You lick your dry lips. "The other day?" 

"Yeah, last Friday. We were out for impromptu drinks, celebrating a case. You know, you should come with sometime. It would be fun." 

Emily talks each word with an undertone of good humour. She's stunning, bubbly, and her hair flows around her face with every movement. 

"He really doesn't talk about me?" 

Emily drops into girl code niceties, backtracking. "I mean, not too often. We catch him smiling at his phone and hear your voice sometimes when you call. He seems happy. Well, happy as Hotch can seem." She swallows. "He's a private creature."

He doesn't talk about me. 

You pretend to check your watch. 

"It was really good to meet you," you say, voice airy with a feigned nonchalance. 

"Yeah, of course. Super nice," Emily says. 

You smile at her. It's more like a grimace. By the time you're outside of the coffee shop you're too upset to care, a humiliated shock of tears brewing behind your achy eyes. 

You hold your cup to your chest and unzip your purse to tuck the receipt inside, trying to maintain some control. There's a folded note inside, thick cardstock quartered. 

You take it out. Your fingers tremble with offended adrenaline. 

You're beautiful. 

Short, sweet, extremely Aaron Hotchner. Too bad you can't believe it. 

Emily Prentiss being out and about means the BAU are done for the night, though whether your workaholic boyfriend got the memo is anyone's best guess. You're not sure if it's better or worse if he's in work when you call. You're so upset that you can't help yourself. 

"Hi, honey." 

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" you ask, staving off tears with all your willpower. 

"I wouldn't write it if I didn't mean it. That one took you a while to find, I was-" 

"Are you sure?" 

"...Are you okay?" 

You glare up at the dark sky rather than answer, blinking hard to force down your tears. You really don't wanna cry, but it's been a bad day and meeting Emily has made it worse. No matter how hard you try to think otherwise, all signs point to Aaron being ashamed of you. Embarrassed to be with you. He's hiding your relationship from everybody. 

"Am I- Is it my clothes? My job?" 

"What's wrong with your clothes?" 

"You tell me, detective." 

You're getting angry. He's- he's lying, or he's messing with you. He's making fun of you. At least that's how it feels. 

"Where are you right now?" he asks. You can picture him shrugging on his suit jacket, putting his files in order to come and meet you. 

You don't want to see him. "I'm at the coffee shop by your apartment. I actually ran into somebody, and I'm feeling very well-informed." A first tear bumps down your cheek. You ignore it. 

"I don't understand." 

"I don't understand! What am I doing wrong?" You bite your tongue in last ditch efforts to remain intact, but the tears won't hold off any longer. You swallow a sob. "What's wrong with me?" 

"Nothing. Nothing, honey, nothing is wrong with you." 

You wipe your wet face with mean hands. 

"Stay where you are. I'll come and meet you." 

"No. I don't wanna see you." 

"Honey-" 

"Leave me alone, Aaron." 

You hang up. You walk for a while, feeling as though steam is rising off of your flushed skin with every clumsy step. It had been a short phone call and already you can't remember what you said, all you can feel is angry, and then that runs out and all you can do is cry. 

You've never felt incredibly attractive. Aaron makes you feel better than that — he has the uncanny ability to inspire self-confidence with a loaded look alone. He can smile at you and your skin feels like it's glowing. 

So why doesn't that translate? If he thinks you're so pretty, why does he insist on hiding you away?

Because that day, he'd seen his friends. He could've introduced you but he took you down the alley and kissed you so you wouldn't be seen. That's not too busy: That's secretive. 

That kiss. You fooled yourself into thinking you must've looked irresistible. Fuck. You went home that night thinking you were the best thing since sliced bread. 

"I'm so stupid," you mutter, sniffling. 

Your self deprecation is muffled by the sound of a slowing car. You don't look up. There are two possibilities for who it is, and you don't want to deal with either. 

The car parks and then you do look up. Despite how mad you are you're not suicidal, and Aaron's given you extensive coaching on sex trafficking. 

It's him. Shocker. 

You're half-expecting him to reprimand you. You didn't look up until I parked. You know it takes five seconds to snatch and incapacitate someone? 

He looks haphazardly put together. Suit jacket on but tie loosened, he rounds the hood of his car and joins you on the sidewalk. You don't want to play games with him. He really doesn't need it, he didn't sign up for it, and drama isn't your style, but you're sick of this. 

"You want to tell me what you're thinking?" he asks, standing an amicable two feet away, hands at his hips.

"I'm really mad." 

"What else?" 

"I'm thinking," you say, looking down at your cold hands, "that you… That you're…" You rub your cheek into your shoulder to hide a fresh tear. "I don't know, Aaron. I'm thinking lots of things." 

"Do you want to think about them in the car?" he asks. 

Do you want to talk about it?

You don't want to talk about it. You don't like crying in front of him on a good day. 

You're pretty sure he'll combust on the spot if he knows you're walking home alone in the dark and distracted. 

You get in the car. He has the good sense not to touch your shoulders like he normally would. 

You buckle as soon as you've closed the passenger side door. "I'm sorry," you mumble, looking down at your knees. 

"Let's forget that, for now." He turns the key but doesn't pull out. "Tell me what's upset you and I'll explain." 

"I met Emily Prentiss." 

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

"She told me that you don't talk about me. Ever. That they didn't even know what I looked like." 

You know he's listening but he keeps his eyes on the road, and you chance a look at the side of his face. He doesn't seem mad. 

"I don't talk about you often," he says. "But that doesn't mean never… It's true that they didn't know what you look like." 

"Until last week, when they saw us together and you pulled me into an alley so they couldn't see me." 

"Yes." 

Your lower lip trembles. "Do you see why that would upset me?" You're asking genuinely. 

"Yeah, honey." 

Your head jolts up. He's diverting his gaze from the road to you intermittently, offering up a regretful grimace. The oncoming headlights splash over his work worn face. 

"Then why are you doing this? What's so wrong with me that you won't even admit we're together?" 

"Nothing is wrong with you. I'm not ashamed of you," he says firmly, volume rising. 

"Then why?" 

His eyebrows pull together. "You're the best person I've ever met that isn't my son, and I selfishly don't want to share you yet. I also don't want to scare you off." 

You pull your sleeves over your hands and turn in your seat, wiping your damp cheeks as he continues. 

"My job is hard, and it's dangerous. It has jeopardised the safety and wellbeing of people I love before. So no, I'm not eager to introduce you to my world. The more intertwined with my life that you become, the more danger I put you in, and…" The car slows down again. He turns to look at you. "And I like that I'm the only one who knows you like this.

"I have been hiding you. I have. But it was a," — his tone turns wry — "misguided attempt at keeping you all to myself. Safe, and to myself." 

You're finding it difficult to be mad with him. 

He's finding it difficult to maintain his poker face. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you're not sure what it's made of, fatigue or relief or plain hurt, whatever it is he doesn't like it. He pulls over. 

You hold still as he pinches the tear off of your chin. 

"How long have you felt like this?" 

"Like what?" you ask wetly. 

"Like this." He opens his hand against your cheek. It encompasses your face; you lean in, hungry for reassurance. 

"I don't know." 

"This is why you changed your hair. Your clothes. And started making my lunch." 

You cover his hand with your own. "I actually really like making your lunches." 

You stare at each other until suddenly you're laughing, sniffly, short of breath. Aaron joins in soon after. He always sounds so surprised to be laughing.

"I'm glad," he says when your laughter has abated, pinky and ring finger caressing down the slope of your cheek. "I really like having them. Rossi can't hide how jealous he is." 

"They know about the lunches?" 

His mindless petting pauses. "They know about the lunches. You're not a secret. I'm… selfish with the details. I'm selfish." Aaron takes back his hand. "I'm sorry." 

You take as deep a breath as you can. "Okay." 

"Yeah?" 

"Mm. Can we go home?" 

His eyebrows jump and swiftly smooth again. "Yeah, we can go home." He chucks your chin and gets the car moving again. 

You watch him drive. 

When you get home, he doesn't mind reassuring you some more. Actually, it's like he needs to do it. You'd love to say that it's overkill and that his low murmurings of praise are unnecessary, but you can't. 

"You're lovely," he says seriously across two plates of pasta. Again through the mirror when you're brushing your teeth, and again when you've curled into his chest for the night. You're lovely. Nothing that needs hiding. 

You hear him on the phone early in the morning, half asleep. 

"Hey, Dave. Yeah. Okay. Uh… No, that's fine." He laughs under his breath. "Yeah, if she was awake I'd ask her to make you one. I think she would… Okay. See you in forty." 

You bury your tired face into his pillows and beam. 

—

+1 

Aaron's office is terrifyingly hectic. You can see already that the bullpen is full to bursting with agents, including but not limited to his special team of profilers. There's the distinct smell of coffee, sharp and burning, and then the underlay of printer ink, new paper. 

You can't believe you're here. 

You're not brave enough to introduce yourself to his team, and half aren't at their desks anyways. You hover in the doorway until somebody needs to get past you, taking a reluctant step inside.

You shouldn't wait for Aaron. You should be brave. You're a grown up, and you're bringing your grown up partner his very grown up lunch. You'd wanted desperately to do this. The least that you can do is do it by yourself. 

You've scrapped most of the fall staples but kept the burgundy pants Aaron likes so much at his request. They feel insanely tight on your thighs, as does your collar. In fact, the room has definitely shrunk since you got here. 

Like an idiot, Aaron says your name loud and clear, standing with a hand on the railings at the top of the instep. You hadn't even noticed him emerging from his office.

His voice demands — commands — attention. People turn in their seats, first toward him, and then toward you. 

All eyes on me. 

You don't run but you don't walk either, weaving through desk chairs and people looking a mix of busy and curious.

"You're being cruel," you say as you approach him, a brown paper bag held close to your abdomen. 

"Hi, honey," he says. He wears a knowing smile, all dark and tall and handsome as he starts down the stairs to meet you. 

"Don't punish me." 

"Is that what you'd call this?" he asks, hand quick to clasp your shoulder, glueing you in place so he can kiss your forehead.

And yes, this is what you'd wanted. The doting boyfriend not just at home but at work, too.

That doesn't mean it isn't really, really embarrassing. 

"Is everyone looking at me?" you murmur. 

He slips his arm behind your shoulders to walk you up the stairs. "Yes." His voice drops lower. "At one place specifically, I imagine." 

"What part is that, Agent?" 

He laughs and opens his office door to beckon you inside. "Don't start." 

༺༻

You should be tucked away under the comforter of your own bed, in your own room, at your own place.

Instead, your fingers are navigating over the black and ivory keys trying, yet again, to make it through a tricky passage on a song that you’ve spent the better part of the last three months trying to perfect.

He was coming home soon and you couldn’t wait to hold him, to love him, to surprise him.

Each time he leaves, it gets a little easier to miss him. You wear your longing like a locket rather than an albatross around your neck, always there but easier to bear.

Rooster had a way of filling a space in a way you’ve never experienced before. His larger than life charisma was one of the first things that had caught your attention, followed by that damn smile of his.

He was always humming in the kitchen.

Or whistling in the car.

Or playing the piano to decompress after a long day.

Or listening to something on his mom’s refurbished record player.

His presence always so tangible and warm, like a blanket pulled fresh from the dryer. With Bradley around, you could wrap yourself up in the sheer comfort of him.

And when he was gone, it was the quiet that you struggled with the most. A constant reminder of just how far away he was. No texts or calls or voice memos throughout the day. No little everyday sweet somethings that let you know he was thinking of you.

The sound of silence followed you everywhere. Its heavy companionship making itself known regardless of how loudly you sang along to his favorite songs on the playlist he had made you or how many times you played through the song you were learning just for him.

You had grown up in the silence, you knew it well.

Parents who stayed together because it was easier than splitting the house and sharing the kid. And on the rare occasions it wasn’t quiet, it was loud. The kind that was inescapable regardless of how much you buried under the covers or how far you tucked yourself away in the corner of the backyard.

Until one day the glossy, satin walnut upright piano appeared along the wall in your barely used dining room. And then it soon became your favorite way to cover the quiet and to mask the loud.

Looking back on it now, maybe your parents had wanted something to fill the silence too.

The hours and hours of lessons you and Bradley had both been forced to sit through as children was something that the two of you had bonded over pretty early on. And while he had kept up with playing, it was something that had fallen to the wayside in your life. First with school, then with a career, and now with purposeful avoidance.

There was once a time when reading sheet music had come as easily to you as reading a book. And then one day, they were just a bunch of random dots scattered in between and across five lines on a piece of paper.

There was once a time when you didn’t even need to look down to know where your fingertips were flying to. And then one day, all your fingers could do was stumble and trip over the keys as you winced at the dissonance it created.

And when Rooster had learned about your mutual musical upbringing, he had made it his personal mission to try and get you to play something for him. He was so sweet, so sincere in the way he’d ask you, all big brown eyes and hopeful smiles.

It had always made your chest tight to brush him off. It was something he clearly wanted to share with you, but that part of you ached like a phantom limb. You didn’t know what would be worse embarrassing yourself or disappointing him with your lack of skill when it was something that you used to be so proud about.

It was easy to dodge him at first during nights out at the Hard Deck with your understandable Not with all these people here’s to your practical Mozart would just bring the vibes down’s to your evasive Maybe next time’s. 

And when his polite requests were met with empty answers, he took it a step further.

One night in his bed, the curtains fluttering as the sea breeze mingled with his sandalwood scent, he’d whispered into your heated skin, “I’ll get you to play something for me one of these days. Maybe I just need to find the right form of bribery.”

His teasing innuendo juxtaposed deliciously with the deliberate touch of his fingers and tongue as he’d played your body to a perfect crescendo.

It reached a point where you couldn’t stomach to see the dejection in his eyes, the hurt he tried so hard to hide when you’d deny him yet again, that you had to own up to your closely guarded secret.

The confession had whooshed out of you in one breath, leaving you feeling deflated and defeated afterwards.

When you eventually mustered the courage to look at him, he’d been wearing the softest look of understanding on his face, as if he could sense the toll it took to admit the loss of that part of yourself. Then he gathered you in his lap and held you, all while the tears of frustration simmered behind your tightly squeezed eyes.

And when he offered to help remind how to read that language without words, to help you remember the letters of the keys beneath your fingers, it had made your heart hurt a little less.

You weren’t ready then, not like you are now.

But nothing gave you as much pleasure as it did to watch Rooster seated in front of the well-worn and well-played upright piano of Penny’s at the Hard Deck. There was nothing more exhilarating than seeing him in his element so at home on the bench, scuffed and scratched from performers of the past, as he shared that part of himself with everyone in the bar.

He made it look so easy. So damn effortless. His thick fingers flying purposefully over the keys as he played from memory. His joyous enthusiasm electrifying and substantial enough to get the whole bar singing along with him.

It always drew him a lot of attention.

How could it not? He was magnetic on a bad day and captivating the rest of the time. And entirely too handsome for his own good.

Interested eyes, curious eyes, hungry eyes followed him around more often than not after an impromptu performance.

However, those brown eyes of his were always set on you.

Never wavering, never straying from you as he’d weave his way poco a poco, little by little, back through the packed bar. Handing out high-fives to people on autopilot as he passed by to return back to your side. Glistening with the sweat he worked up and grinning widely as he’d greet you with a How’d I do, sweetheart?. Those big, capable hands sliding around your waist, in the back pocket of your jeans, under your top to rest on your low back.

The two of you never stuck around for long after he wrapped up. You didn’t mind helping him find ways to put that excess adrenaline to good use. Usually in the backseat of the Bronco.

You’ll never forget the first time Bradley serenaded you. The song meant for you and you alone.

If someone were to cut into that soft, pink part of your brain, you’re pretty sure they would find that memory pressed there like flowers between the pages of a book. Forever apart of you.

It was the song that always took you right back to that little vinyl shop along the pier. And back to that date that had almost derailed it all.

When Rooster had picked you up to take you to dinner all those months ago, he had seemed a bit antsy and absentminded.

Sure, he had gotten out of the Bronco to come fetch you like a gentleman, instead of sending some half-assed Here text like your ex had been fond of doing. You thought for sure he’d be hustling you back inside after he caught a glimpse of what you were wearing once you opened your front door to greet him.

So you were surprised when he’d simply pressed a dry kiss to your cheek and escorted you to his car with a hand placed respectfully between your shoulder blades instead of cheekily in that space between your low back and ass.

That spot that toed the line between decent and indecent. That spot that made him smirk when you’d give him a pointed lift of the eyebrow, because the two of you knew exactly what he was doing. And better yet, liked it.

However, that night it was almost like he was going through the motions, like he was already somewhere else.

The car ride to the restaurant was silent except for the white noise of the highway as he drove. The circular knob for the radio set to the left.

Off.

Which in hindsight should have been your first warning, since Bradley was never not listening to the Oldies station. A vintage vibe for your vintage boy. 

When you were finally seated across from him at that new trendy Thai place you had been dying to go to, his fingers wouldn’t stop tapping out some unheard tune. On the tops his thighs. On the top of the table.

His eyes were landing everywhere else other than on you. On the large leaves of the potted palms, on the ornate pattern on the gold silk that was swathed across the ceiling, on the intricate hand-painted tiles on the floor.

You’d been trying to carry on a conversation for the past fifteen minutes and were feeling completely on edge when you had to repeat yet another question for him.

The anxious feeling growing in the pit of your stomach had been getting more and more difficult to ignore. You could tell he wasn’t really there, what you were trying to figure out was whether or not he just didn’t want to be there with you.

And god, the drinks hadn’t even come out yet. There wasn’t anything for you to distract yourself with other than your water glass, and even that was already empty except for a few melting ice cubes.

His half answers and noncommittal noises were rapidly clearing things up for you.

He’s breaking up with me.

It was at that crushing realization that the waitress had returned with your drink orders. The bright orange concoction that she set in front of you had been topped with a lovely purple orchid and glittery swizzle stick.

A happy looking cocktail for the girl who thought she was going to have another great date with the guy who was saved in her phone as “Golden Boy”.

“Have you two decided on what you want to eat? Or would you like to hear the chef’s specials again?” the waitress had asked, her gaze bouncing back and forth between you and Bradley.

You could tell that she was sensing the brewing tension between the two of you.

“I don’t think we’ll here much longer, maybe just the check--”

“Sorry, if we could have a few more minutes to decide--”

You’d both started speaking at the same time only to turn to the other wearing matching faces of absolute confusion. He’d gone ramrod straight in his chair, his fingers finally still on the tabletop. The shock in his eyes was apparent, and you could only assume it was there because you beat him to the punch.

The waitress had looked at you sympathetically before saying she’d come back in check in a few minutes and then quickly spun on her heel to take her hasty leave.

It was the look that she’d given you that had really sealed the deal for you, and wasn’t that just great? You wouldn’t have been surprised if the rest of the waitstaff was already hearing about the couple fighting at Table 12 and taking bets about whether or not they’d break up.

Lucky them, dinner and a show.

You’d reached the fruity drink in front of you, the condensation from the glass leaving a ring on the table and took a large sip for moral support. Feeling the weight his stare on you the whole time as you savored the tart taste of passionfruit as it burst across your tongue.

He’d just have to wait. It was your turn to ignore him.

As you’d swallowed it down, it had left you feeling more than a little angry that it tasted so good when you were feeling so shitty. He knew how much you liked an over the top cocktail, why couldn’t he have picked some dingy hole-in-the-wall to do this at rather than ruin this place for you? The hot prickling sensation of righteous indignation filled your chest.

You really didn’t want it to drag out any longer, setting your liquid courage back down you’d met his stare and got right down to it, “If you’re going to break up with me, Rooster, can you just do it now? I’d like to still be able to order Pad See Ew in the future without thinking about you and this moment.”

You removed the napkin from your lap, folding it up primly before placing it back upon the table as you waited for the final nail in the coffin to be pounded in on the remains of the happiest-and-easiest-and-clearly-too-good-to-be-true relationship you’ve ever had.

“Wait, what? I don’t want to break up.” His eyes were wide and searching, the hurt in his voice had been evident. And it was the first time all evening that he seemed to be present with you, like your Golden Boy had finally showed up to the date. “I thought things were going well. More than well, actually.”

“Yeah. I mean, I did too. Until tonight,” you’d agreed, defeatedly. “I’m really confused here. You’ve been completely distant tonight. Not to be vain, but look at me,” you gestured to the sexy lowcut dress you’d worn for the evening. It was something you’d been saving in your closet for the right occasion. And you’d thought it was going to drive him wild, but he hadn’t even given it a second glance.

You’d leaned in a bit, lowering your voice, “It’s a boob and leg dress, Bradley. I look really fucking hot, and frankly, I didn’t even think we were going to make it here once you saw this. It wouldn’t have been the first time we’ve missed a dinner reservation. And you haven’t said a single thing about it.”

It felt like a silly thing to be upset about in the grand scheme of things, but his inattentiveness that evening had stung more than you’d wanted to admit to.

“Trust me, sweetheart, I noticed,” he’d retorted hotly. His eyes had been heated as he’d matched your movement and leaned in further across the table. “Half the men in here noticed it too the second you walked in.”

You didn’t bother trying to hold back your scoff of frustration, the man was infuriating.

“Then I don’t understand why you’re making me feel like being here- with me- is the last place you want to be right now?” You’d given up on trying to sound unaffected, this was not the evening you had envisioned. It felt like being blindfolded on a rollercoaster, unable to see what exactly you were hurtling towards.

“I got my new orders today,” he’d blurted out, his eyes trying to read yours for the reaction. “I’m being send as aerial escort for a diplomatic mission. I ship out next Monday for six weeks.”

He’d told you later that he was grateful it wasn’t a longer one, he knew he was lucky because he could have just as easily been sent away for a deployment longer than you’d actually been together.

“Oh.”

You’d known that that moment would have happened eventually with his job, so you shouldn’t have been surprised. However, it was one thing thinking about it theoretically rather than looking at a ticking clock with a deadline.

“Cards on the table, sweetheart?” He’d waited for you to nod before continuing on, “I am really fucking into you. I’m trying not to put pressure on this, because I’m pretty sure you’re my dream girl. I wanted to take you out for a nice meal, get you a couple of those complicated fun drinks you like. I even looked at the menu in advance, they have one here that they light on fire and it seems like something you would love.”

He was right, it was something that you’d love. You had even eyed it when you first got the menu, but you hadn’t wanted to get anything that would draw you more attention when you already felt like you had too many pairs of eyes on you.

“Then I wanted to take you home with me and tell you after we had a great time out. I wanted to ask you to save that Sunday before I leave for me, so that we could spend the whole day together.” His fingers had started playing that unheard tune on the table again. “I wanted to show my girl the best time, to keep her wanting to come back and to stick around. So that someone else doesn’t catch her eye, so that I don’t lose her to someone better than me while I’m away.”

His confession had your heart taking up residence in your throat. Having him lay it out for you so clearly and knowing that he’d felt as serious about you as you did about him was everything you had wanted to hear. However, one thing nagged at you.

“Bradley, you make me happy. Like really, really happy. I’ve only got eyes for you. If I’m being honest, this stopped being casual to me around our third date. And I trust you enough to know you’d tell me if this”, you’d gestured between the two of you, “wasn’t what you wanted anymore before starting up with someone else. I hope I have that same trust in return, because if you’re worried about me stepping out on you while you’re away, I don’t know how this is going to work. And I really want it to work.”

“Shit, I’m really striking out here. Batting 0 for two,” he’d sighed out more to himself than to you, leaning back in his chair and running his hands through his hair. “Our third? Really? I thought for sure after that disaster that you were going to block my number.” He huffs a laugh, cheeks turning the same shade of pink that they had that chaotic evening on the beach.

“Bradley, it was comically bad.” You couldn’t help but crack a smile at the memory of it. “You were trying so hard and you were so flustered. It was so endearing.”

“Who would have guessed getting attacked by seagulls and coming home covered in sand flea bites could have been so appealing?” He joked self-deprecatingly.

“Me, I could have. Since I was with you,” you said sincerely, “No one I’ve dated has ever put half as much effort into trying to make me happy as you have.”

The two of you exchanged a soft, tentative smiles.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you had a wandering eye or anything, I promise.” His eyes pleaded with you as he reached for your hands and threaded his fingers through yours, his palms slightly sweaty. “This deployment is different for me. I’ve never had to ask someone to wait for me before, never had anyone who wanted to. And I’ve been really in my head because I was trying to find the right way to tell you, to ask you.”

You were still getting to know all of the expressions of his face, but the look of open insecurity he was wearing was new to you. And you’d felt something deep in your chest release and unlock.

For how easily he owned a room, for how confident he could be, getting to see these tender parts of him because he trusted you with them had made you ache in the most bittersweet of ways for the man who was in front of you.

You held his gaze, taking in his anxious expression. How anyone couldn’t want this man or didn’t think he was worth the wait was incomprehensible to you.

“So Sunday the seventeenth, huh?” you’d said with a grin.

His relief was palpable as he’d squeezed your hand a bit tighter, “Yeah, baby, you up for it?”

“A perfect day with my dream guy?” you mused, squeezing his hand back, “Yeah, I think I’d be up for that. I’m up for all of it.”

Not just the date. Not just the deployment. You already knew. With him, you wanted it all.

When the waitress returned a few moments later, Bradley ordered a green curry for himself and the Pad See Ew for you. Along with one of those complicated, fun drinks that arrived with fanfare and flames, all while he played with your fingers.

And after you were finished, she’d dropped off a fluffy looking coconut covered dessert that she’d stated was on the house as walked away with a wink.

You’d totally called it, dinner and a show.

As you’d left the restaurant, he tucked you in close under his arm pressing kiss after kiss to your temple as you made your way back to the Bronco.

And later, when he had taken you back to his place for the night, your boob-and-leg dress forgotten somewhere on his stairs, he’d apologized again. This time with his mouth on your body.

Twice.

It had been a fluke, really, finding that record tucked away in that small, but well-kept shop on that Sunday before his deployment.

You’d surprised him with a certificate for a haircut and hot towel shave at an upscale barber for a little pre-deployment pampering. He’d gotten his hair trimmed the day before and he was somehow looking even more sunkissed than usual. His patterned shirt was mostly buttoned up and he had on your favorite pair of jeans- the ones that might have been a bit too snug, but did devastating things for his ass.

It was the outfit he’d been wearing when you had first met.

You and Bradley had spent a lazy, perfect morning at the beach reading and lounging and trading sea salt kisses before changing and to grab a bite to eat. He’d held up a towel up around you to slip into your sun warmed dress, behaving himself for the most part. But you’d still caught him sneaking a peek from over the top of the terry cloth.

After eating a late lunch at his favorite little café that served the best cioppino, you’d popped in and out of the various shops that dotted the boardwalk near the pier. It might have been the bottle of wine you shared, but he made sure to stop at every photobooth you passed along the way, collecting strip after strip of snapshots and tucking them into his shirt pocket.

His hand staying in yours the whole time.

When he’d spotted the tiny record store, he’d cheerily pulled you along with him wanting to look for new additions for his ever-growing collection. It was his newest hobby after getting his mom’s old record player restored. You had even helped him build the sideboard he had specially ordered for it to display his prized collection in the living room of his home.

You could hear him talking excitedly to an associate about some Jerry Lee Lewis albums, who offered to take a look in the backroom for him. You never had good luck when you tried to search for specific things, so you were happy to meander around a bit aimlessly and see what spoke to you.

Casually flipping through the stacks, you’d gasped when you landed on what appeared to be the holy grail of all vinyl records ever made.

“Bradley, look!” You’d held out the record for him like a prize. And he abandoned his own search to come join you on the other side of the store.

“Soldiers’ Sweethearts, huh?” He grinned at your find, his eyes crinkling around the edges. The navy colored jacket highlighted a trio of glamourous looking women, each of the three records featured a different performer and their covers of songs popularized during WWII.

“Mm-hmm,” you’d preened, feeling entirely too pleased with yourself. “You’re a soldier, I’m a sweetheart. I’ve never seen anything more perfect in my life. I have to get it.”

“Well I’m not a soldier, technically,” he’d chuckled, as you’d rolled your eyes at him. The joke had you scrunching your nose, and his mustache grazed you as he leaned in close to press a quick kiss to it. “But you’re definitely a sweetheart, sweetheart.”

You were still trying to learn the ins and outs of that part of his life. But you’d liked how he never made you feel stupid when you had questions. More often than not he seemed excited to answer them for you, that you were interested in what he did.

Rooster gently took your newest most prized possession into his big hands, “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” Flipping the album over, he’d scanned the tracks listed on the back for the three records. “Some classics, but a lot I don’t think I know. Definitely some intriguing titles, like ‘Daddy’,” he read aloud with a raised eyebrow and a grin that could only be described as lewd.

The man was a menace and had no problem finding new ways to make you blush. You were grateful that the shop was empty except for the two of you, as you felt the heat rise in your cheeks.

“What about ‘Who’s Taking You Home Tonight’? Have you heard that one before, sweetheart?” His large body moving in and crowding yours, the smell of his cologne making your thoughts go a bit fuzzy around the edges. Your heartbeat kicked up in tempo as he brushed a piece of hair off your forehead.

That find was definitely a jackpot.

Him and those records.

“Mm, or how about ‘Make Love To Me’?” He’d murmured into your ear, his free arm slid slowly against your waist, making a home for itself low on your back. The warmth from his hand seeping through your dress and into your skin.

It was heady being the target of all his heated words and teasing tone. The pull in your low stomach getting more intense with every moment you’d stayed pressed against his hard body. You could see how his pulse was pounding arditamente con forza, boldly with force, from how close your face was to that thick throat of his. And you had wanted to--

“I knew we had it somewhere!”

The associate’s cheery announcement as he returned from the backroom startled you back into yourself. Feeling flustered you’d tried to pull away, but Bradley just kept his arm locked around you as he’d made his way to the counter.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. We’ll take this one too,” he stated as he’d smoothly placed your Soldiers’ Sweethearts album on the top of the pile he had accumulated. Only letting go of you to pay.

Naturally, you’d wanted to play the record the second you made it back to Bradley’s place.

He set it up for you before giving you a lingering, deep kiss leaving you to your own devices as he worked on the final few things left on his to-do list before his deployment early the next morning.

You were happy to make yourself comfortable on his wide seat couch with an Old Fashioned listening to Jo Stafford’s soothing voice with your eyes closed, wanting to luxuriate in the moment.

One where Bradley was less than twenty feet away puttering around in his kitchen and humming and murmuring to himself.

One where you could call out to him and he would be in front of you in a few long strides.

You wanted to avoid thinking about the next day and the beginning of your new normal.

One where you couldn’t expect text messages from him throughout the day.

One where concern and uncertainty would follow you around like a dark cloud until he came back home to you.

But he was here for now. And you wanted to savor it all, to soak up all of its sweet, syrupy goodness like the expensive cherry in your glass.

He must have sensed the turn in your thoughts because his sandalwood scent gave his closeness away before his voice did, “What do you say, Miss Soldiers’ Sweetheart? Can you spare a dance for me?”

You opened your eyes to see him standing before you with his hand outreached for you. The smile so gentle and open on his face, made it impossible for you to do anything other than wordlessly nod your head in agreement as you’d let him pull you up from your comfy perch.

“Apologies in advance for any injuries caused by my two left feet,” you joked a bit bashfully as he wrapped his arm around you.

“Lucky for us, I was gifted with two right feet. Don’t worry, we’ll even out each other,” he murmured.

He pulled you into his gravity, pressing your joined hands against his chest where you could feel the steady beat of his heart. The hand on your lower back urging closer, closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between your bodies. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head where you had tucked it into that safe space where his neck meets his shoulder.

take me in your arms, and never let me go whisper to me softly while the moon is low

True to his word, he’d guided you in a smooth, easy rhythm. The confidence in his steps as you were held within his sturdy arms was enough to make you feel secure in your own movement. With him you were completely taken care of.

hold me close and tell me what I wanna know say it to me gently, let the sweet talk flow

Your other hand slid up slowly from where it was resting on his shoulder to wrap around his neck, fingers threading through the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as your thumb traced the thick column of his throat.

Come a little closer, make love to me

He held you tighter, held you closer, as the song came to an end. The easy rhythm turning into a gentle sway that continued as the next song began. And the one after that.

That night in his bed he moved against you with such purpose, such tenderness. The sex with Bradley was always stunningly good, he was never content to let himself come until he’d rendered you thoroughly boneless and breathless. He was easily the best you’ve ever had, but that night it was different between you two.

The mood weighty and intense, both of you exposed in a way you hadn’t been before. But there was no mistaking the deliberate way he touched you, the unwavering way he rolled his hips against yours, the unguarded way he held your gaze as if he was committing that moment to memory as he made love to you.

He’d held you close to his warm body, his fingertips leaving trails of goosebumps, as you shivered through your orgasm. His mouth pressed against your ear as he whispered soothing sweet somethings until he followed you over the edge.

For Bradley, you were up for it. For him, you’d be up for all of it.

yesyesyes

Things were a bit too quiet for you.

You heart clenched in a different way when you looked at Penny’s piano on those evenings you spent with the Dagger Squad without him. The ache was still there, but so was a new kind of longing. Part for him, but also for yourself.

But you’d made it through that deployment with the help of your three favorite sweethearts: Jo, Vera and Anne. Although you always queued up one song in particular anytime you found yourself missing him a bit more than normal.

And when Bradley returned back home to you six weeks later, it was easy to fall right back into him. That quiet period was almost too easily forgotten when he was around to fill a space.

That night at the Hard Deck when he serenaded you for the first time, it was normal for him to strut over to the old jukebox to unplug it. His timing impeccable as always, silencing whatever country song Jake had queued up.  

What wasn’t normal was the way he took you by the hand leading you directly to the old upright and pulled you right onto the bench next to him.

There was already some sheet music spread across the shelf, you’d noted as he’d wiped his hands on the outside of his jeans before settling his hands on the keys. It only took you a couple bars of the intro to realize what song he was playing, already completely enamored before he’d even opened his mouth to sing.

It was your song.

Nothing in the world could ever compete with Bradley Bradshaw’s deep, raspy voice singing just for you. The significance of the song meant for you and him alone.

You heart had swelled in your chest until you thought it might burst from happiness. Never in your life had you been so thoroughly swept off your feet. It was a gesture came from his heart that made a home in yours.

Ever the showman Rooster put on a full performance, his aviator sunglasses sliding down his nose as he really leaned into it.

Your wide grin had turned to laughter when a few members of the Dagger Squad jumped in as back-up vocals, singing into their beer bottles in a way that obviously had been rehearsed. You didn’t know how he managed to keep it a secret. While Rooster was a vault in his professional life, when it came to his personal life Bradley couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.

The whole bar was having fun with the jaunty tune, some couples dancing along in smooth circles on the sticky wood floor as he crooned. He’d leaned over to place a kiss on your cheek every now and then in between verses, and you’d felt yourself fall for him even harder.

He’d pulled you into his lap once he was done playing, as the din of the resumed chatter softly cocooned you. You’d seen all you needed to know reflected in his eyes as you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him down for a kiss.

“Will you play it again?” you’d asked against his lips.

“Yes, ma’am.” And you rested your head on his shoulder watching his fingers get into position on the keys once more as he played the few opening notes.

Somewhere you heard a groan followed by a grumbled, “Not again.”

“Shut it, Bagman,” you bossed at him, not even bothering to look in his direction. You only had eyes for Bradley.

“You heard the lady,” he chuckled. “Shut it, Bagman.”

And then he played it again.

take me in your arms, and never let me go

You should be asleep in your own bed and not at his place with only the soft light of the lamp above his piano and a now cold cup of tea to keep you company.

Tired of tossing and turning, you’d given up on the idea of getting any sleep at your own place after the second hour of trying. Throwing on your slippers, you’d grabbed your keys and then drove over to his place, still in the oversized t-shirt you’d put on before bed, in hopes that scent of his sheets would help lull you to sleep.

But all it did was make you miss him more.

It was too quiet without his soft breathing next to you as he held you close and tucked against his chest.

Too quiet without his records.

Too quiet without his happy humming.

Too quiet without him.

The sound of the tea kettle on his gas range had helped fill the silence, but it was his piano that had called you as you had waited for the water to boil. The sheet music you had left there from the last time you were over beckoning like a siren’s song.

It was your secret.

Only for a few more days, only until he came home.

You wanted to surprise him, to sweep him off his feet the way that he always did with you when he played for you.

During that first deployment, for the first time in years, your fingers yearned for the feel of cool, smooth keys beneath your fingers.

You hadn’t even told Bradley, the one person who would understand it the most, that you’d been thinking about it. Let alone that you were actually taking classes again. Making up excuses about manicures or errands or spin classes for why you were busy for an hour every Tuesday at five PM.

The thing that had once hurt your heart the most, was now the only thing that helped soothe the ache of missing him. The only thing that made you feel close to him when you were thousands of miles apart.

You wanted that familiar comfort of making music. You wanted it because you missed him, but you also wanted it for yourself.

A co-worker had given you the name and number for her kids’ instructor, Mrs. McMullen, an elderly woman who started teaching after her husband passed away. It took you couple weeks to work up the courage to make the call, the sticky note burning a hole in the pocket of your purse you had tucked it into.

You had been an anxious mess the day of your first lesson, hands shaking like you’d had one too many shots of espresso. It felt strange, a little surreal sitting there in the body you’d grown into on the padded bench in her cozy living room. One of the walls filled with shelves and shelves of sheet music, her own personal library.

And for a brief moment, you were transported to a different year on a different bench in a different room. Now and Then. Older and Younger. Both versions of you there to learn. All too familiar, yet entirely new.

You started with the basics. A reintroduction to those lines on the page and the notes that spoke their own language for those who knew how to read it.

Your fingers wanting to move quicker than your sluggish mind, like an echo of a memory of how it used to be. You winced and apologized after every wrong note, until she put her hand on yours, her skin looked as delicate as her fingers did, and said gently, “We learn by doing, mistakes only mean that you are trying. Once more, once again.”

After that first lesson, you’d gone back to your car and promptly burst into tears. Overwhelmed tears, happy tears. That tender part of you still soft, however no longer aching.

You’d left feeling lighter as you pulled away from her house to go meet up with everyone at the Hard Deck, but also with a packet of sheet music to practice for your next lesson.

When Rooster had told you about getting his new orders, when he had asked you again if you were still up for it. You’d told him the same thing you had at that date, you were up for it all.

You would take the sadness with the sweet any day of the week for as long as he was yours.

You’d known how you would fill the space he left behind. And exactly how you wanted to welcome him home. You’d been excited to put that certain song just for him in your cart, and then tacking on one more song to your order, a song that would be just for you.

Both you and Mrs. McMullen had be surprised at how you’d been able to pick things back up over the months, you still weren’t anywhere as good as you were when you were younger, but it wasn’t nearly as daunting as it used to be. And when you showed up to your next lesson after your songs had been delivered, she was more than happy to help you figure out ways to simplify the songs a bit so that you’d be ready when he returned.

And now you’re bent over Bradley’s piano with a pencil tucked behind your ear as you played through the hardest bit of the song, you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve gone over it tonight. This morning? You were in that liminal space between yesterday and today. Where the time on the clock was just a suggestion because it felt neither here nor there.

You had practiced and practiced the song you had wanted to play for him once got home. You’re pretty sure Mav wasn’t supposed to tell you the significance of that particular song, but it had made your heart flutter wildly in your chest when he’d told you. And every time you’ve heard it since then.

It was polished, it was perfect, it was ready. All you needed was him.

The one you’re playing now con amore, with love, is the piece you pull out when you long for him the most.

The cover of the song had made you think of him from the moment you’d heard it. It was more lyrical and delicate than the original, and captured just how you felt about him. Just how much he meant to you. Sometimes you sing along with it, sometimes you just let the keys and pedals express the things you otherwise could not.  

It was the song of your heart.

Your fingers trip over one of the notes yet again, probably from the lack of sleep, but you weren’t ready to crawl back into Bradley’s comfy bed. Not just yet.

Sighing, you pull the pencil from behind your ear, muttering to yourself out loud as you note the spot on the page. It was already filled with little pencil marks, some older and some newer. All made because you were trying.

Once more, once again.

Breathing out slowly, you settle your hand back on the keys-

“Can you play it from the beginning this time, sweetheart?"

He's a sneaky one, friends! I have Part 2 in the works, not to worry! We have to see how it all plays out! (put intended)

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you would like to be added to my taglist for the grand finale!

Here's a link to the Soldiers' Sweethearts Album, if you're curious!

But this is their song, the one Bradley serenaded her with! Jo Stafford's version of 'Make Love to Me'

You can check out my other stories here!

And a big thank you to Jordan (@gretagerwigsmuse) for letting me spam you about this one!

Taglist: