Yet somehow, you had only made the connection with your incoming periods when the distinctive pain had found your lower abdomen. Maybe it had been denial, maybe you'd foolishly hoped that, for some inexplicable reason, your menstrual cycle would just… Vanish. Stop. Disappear as if it had never existed in the first place. Just as you had wished every month since your twelfth year on this earth. And yet, there they were.

You were on the jet toward California when you first felt it. Excusing yourself, you'd grabbed your go bag and squeezed yourself into the small cabin of the plane's toilets. You'd downed your usual dose of pain killers, one pill of the medicine the OBGYN had prescribed to you when you were a kid, and two of the additional antispasmodic, paired with a quick prayer to whatever force ruled this world that the pain wouldn't be too bad this time.

Of course, there was a reason why you'd never believed in such a higher force. A reason you were rudely reminded of as you practically sprinted out of the profile meeting to get to the nearest bathroom.

Kneeling over the ceramic bowl, you pull your hair back. It was ritualistic. You rarely ever threw up, but the nausea was unrelenting, preventing you from ever guessing if it would amount to anything. A Russian roulette of sorts, where the bullet was wretched out of your throat in the most disgusting way possible.

"Are you alright ?" the young doctor inquires, his worn converses peaking out from under the door.

Just as you concluded that it had been a false alarm, pulling some toilet paper to your mouth in a pathetic attempt at comfort, the door to the restroom creaked open.

Careful footsteps made their way to the door you were crouched behind, before knuckles pressed politely against it.

"I'm fine Reid," you quickly reply, your voice raspier than you'd anticipated, "probably ate something that didn't agree with me."

Flushing the toilet, you make your way out of the stall and walk past your friend to reach the sinks.

"You sure ? Because you've been–" the genius considers his words carefully as his eyes meet yours in the mirror, "you seemed really on edge last week, and I've seen you wince and cradle your stomach a few times today."

Sighing, you dry your hands before bumping your elbow into his arm gently, "I'm okay Spencer. Promise."

Reid looks back at you with an unconvinced expression, "Would you tell me if you weren't ?"

"Would you want me to tell you ?"

"Yes," he replies, and the way he nods without a hint of hesitation makes your heart soar.

"Alright," you concede with a slight tug of your lips, "then I'd tell you."

"I'm gonna go get a coffee from the shop down the street before it closes," you announce to the focused doctor, smiling as your voice startles him, "want anything ?"

The afternoon goes by quietly. The profile you'd given the police was still in progress, but with Spencer working on the geographical profile, Emily and Morgan talking to the families of the victims, and JJ and Hotch going over media coverage, it seemed more manageable.

After wrapping up an interrogation that you had concluded wasn't leading anywhere, you join Spencer in the conference room the precinct had appointed the team. The sun had set, a deceiving sign considering the early hour of evening.

"Oh– uh, yeah– black coffee with–"

"With the usual ungodly amount of sugar, got it." you chuckle, making his cheeks grow a lovely shade of pink.

"Yeah, that." he confirms sheepishly.

Your friends had tried to untangle the guilt you felt toward your use of it, telling you you needed it, that they'd witnessed your legs giving out often enough to vouch for the necessity of it. Your best friend had comforted you once, on one of your worst days ever, as you'd lain on the floor writhing in pain. Still, some part of yourself remained convinced, despite every past experience, that you were somehow being dramatic.

The cafe was dim, a few people still occupying the small tables inside. Along with your hot cocoa and Spencer's coffee, you'd decided to comfort yourself with a donut, buying an additional one – a pink one with sprinkles, his favorite – for your friend. Walking back, you tried to ignore the nagging pain in your back, the weakness in your thighs, but each step seemed to stroke the fire, burning into your stomach, licking up your spine until your legs threaten to give out underneath you. You manage to put down the drinks and the paper bag on a bench before sinking to your knees, cursing under your breath.

On your worst days, you carried a cane, but you'd managed without it since getting into the team, and the idea of having to explain that you had a cane for your periods felt ridiculous.

It was that same part of your brain that had made the idea of asking for help, especially from the team, from a friend that didn't know about your condition, an impossibly grueling task. The idea that the image you'd carefully crafted since joining the team could be shattered by this weakness, this flaw in your design that you had no control over made you want to sink into the ground and disappear. You'd taken so much time debating whether your pain warranted assistance and attention that Spencer had ended up being the one to call you instead.

"Hello ? Are you alright ?" you hear the worried edge in his voice as soon as you press the phone to your ear.

"I uh– I might need– could you just–" you stammer, helplessly trying to explain the situation without saying too much, "it's– I'm okay, I just– I'm about halfway between the café and the precinct, and–"

But the mix of pain, doubt and embarrassment does nothing to help you put together a coherent string of words, so he cuts you off. You hear the rustling of his clothes as he stands from his chair.

"I'm on my way."

"Did you run ?" you inquire incredulously.

The line cuts and you pull your knees to your chest in a vain attempt to soothe the pain. You try to ignore the strange looks from people walking by, instead focusing on keeping your breathing even.

A minute later, you spot your colleague in all of his lanky and flushed glory, hair sticking out as he tries to catch his breath.

"Maybe. But last time I did, Morgan said it hardly qualified as running, so I guess I just– walked really fast." he jokes as he reaches you. In a second, he's crouched at your side, eyes scanning your frame in concern.

"I'm alright," you try to reassure him, though the attempt seems futile considering the wince that follows your words.

"What's going on ? Did you fall ?" his hands hover over you like he fears his touch would burn you.

"No– not exactly, I'm–" you clutch your abdomen, "I bought the– the coffee and there's a donut– for you–"

His frown deepens, "Alright, well, thank you– but what does that have to do with anything ?"

Your eyes squeeze shut as you try to make sense of your own words. With a pained whimper, you shake your head, "I don't– I don't know– I'm explaining–"

"Okay, it's alright, breathe," he murmurs softly, "can you tell me what's going on ?"

"It's– it's stupid–" tears burn as they catch in your lashes, the pain rendering you senseless.

You can almost hear the way his brows pinch, "If it's got you in that state, I doubt it is," his hand finally finds your back, rubbing circles over your jacket.

"Just– cramps–" you mutter through sobs as he leans in to hear you.

After a moment, his mind seems to catch up with the situation.

"Period cramps ?"

"Okay– can you stand ? Or maybe I should– I should bring the car around–" he thinks aloud, before jumping to his feet.

You nod against your knees, a wave of guilt and shame flooding your senses.

But instead of re-calibrating your pain through the lens of this new information, and deeming your reaction dramatic as most did during your teenage years, Spencer simply nods, his free hand rummaging for his phone. You lacked the energy to ask him what he was doing, and he answered your silent question soon enough. After explaining to Hotch that he was getting you back to the hotel, he turns his attention back to you.

"Will you be okay ? I'll just bring the car closer," he explains, and you gave him a weak thumbs up, earning you a half-hearted snort in response.

After getting the car closer, he helps you get into the passenger seat before carefully settling the cups and paper bag in your lap. Once he was seated behind the wheel, in true Spencer fashion, words start escaping him frantically.

"The terms “menstrual pain” and “dysmenorrhea” are commonly considered synonymous in clinical practice and literature. They indicate a cramp-like, dull, throbbing pain that usually emanates from the lower abdomen, and that occurs just before and, or during menstruation. Some authors suggest that a type of menstrual pain lighter than dysmenorrhea might exist and constitute what could be considered "normal" period pain." he explains, "My– well, my mother for example, she never felt any pain higher than discomfort during her cycles."

Glancing back at you, he pauses, trying to gauge how helpful he's being, "The uh– the term, "dysmenorrhea" comes from latin– from dys-, meaning difficult, painful, abnormal, and menorrhea, or meno- meaning menstruation, and -rrhoea meaning flow. The term's first known use dates back to 1810, which– well, means that your situation is both normal and utterly abnormal. Normal in the sense that, according to studies done in the UK, up to 97% of people who menstruate experience painful periods, and that 42% of those experience severe pain during their cycle. And utterly abnormal because overtly painful periods are found to be often caused by some sort of dysregulation, either hormonal, or due to some internal wound or cyst. Also because very little studies actually come to fruition on the matter, and most if not all of the studies out today came out in the past decade–"

When a hand wraps around his forearm, Spencer abruptly stops talking, glancing back at you apologetically, "Sorry–" he starts, promptly cut off by the shake of your head.

"S'okay–" you whisper, "Thank you."

Nodding, he turns back to the road, your hand still pressed to his arm.

He parks in front of the small hotel, rounding the car to get to the passenger side. Pulling your arm around his shoulders as his own wraps around your waist, he guides you out of the vehicle.

"I've got you," he whispers, supporting your weight as you made your way toward the room, "I've got you."

Once he was sure you were sat comfortably on the bed, nestled between the throw pillows he'd frantically gathered around you, he went back for the drinks and donuts you kept rambling about. Maybe it was your brain distracting you from the cramps by focusing on something else, but Spencer treated it as a priority even so.

"I'm sorry– 's probably cold," you mutter through clenched teeth.

"I can ask if they can reheat it at the counter, would you like that ?" your small nod was enough for him to grab both drinks and head to the lobby.

You felt like you were dozing in and out of consciousness, the sharp pain a constant, nagging feeling, numbing in its intensity. When the young doctor got back, you'd managed to get out of bed, and he worried for a second you'd vanished before hearing the toilet flush. Gently, he pushed the door closed with his foot, before setting the drinks on the small table by the wall. He made his way to the bathroom door and knocked softly.

"The drinks are warm, and I got you a heating pad from the front desk," he explains, "are you okay in there ?"

The groan you let out doesn't give him much information on your state.

"Should I come in ?"

"Is there any medication you should take ?"

After a pained whine of affirmation reaches his ears, he carefully pushes the door open. Inside, you're lying down on the floor, hair splayed across the tiles as you curl into yourself, arms pressed into your stomach.

Kneeling beside you, Reid gathers your hair out of your face where it had stuck to your damp cheeks, setting the heating pad close enough for you to reach.

"Took it–" you manage to utter as you press the heating pad to your abdomen.

"Can I do anything to help ?"

Instead of answering, you let out a loud cry, curling into yourself even further before throwing your legs away, desperately searching for any way to ease the pain.

Wincing, Spencer scans the bathroom for something to make you more comfortable before grabbing a folded towel. Gently lifting your head, he slips it underneath. Without a word, he jumps to his feet and you hear his footsteps get farther away as you pant. Before you can even wonder where he went, the young doctor walks back over to you and swiftly covers you with a comforter from the hotel room bed. You glance up at him, eyes heavy from wear, and lift a hand to reach for his in quiet thankfulness. He takes it and sits cross-legged next to you, a book that he grabbed with the comforter balanced on his knee.

He keeps your hand in his, lets your fingers clutch at his as the ache fluctuates. He doesn't speak, doesn't try to tell you to calm down, doesn't try to tell you to breathe or to talk to him. Instead, he stays, a silent constant, a stable pillar as you writhe and sob, a steady hand around your shaking one. After what seems like an eternity, your heels propped up on the wall, bent at the knees, your torso angled over to the side and your cheek pressed against the sole of your friend's shoe, the pain seems to ease a little. The stabbing and burning and tearing sensation slowly dissolves, a humming, throbbing one settling in its place.

"Is it better and now you're afraid to move ?" he asks quietly.

When Spencer notices the way your breathing slows and your body gradually goes still, he turns to look at you. Your eyelids are fluttering slowly, not quite falling asleep, but clearly signaling your exhaustion. Despite the situation, you couldn't think of another instance in which you'd ever felt so safe.

Letting go of your hand, careful fingers brush strands of hair from your forehead, lingering along the line of your cheekbone.

"Mhm," you reply, and he hums in understanding.

A few moments go by during which your eyes close, cheek still pressed to the cool plastic of his converses as soothing fingers comb through your hair. He breaks the silence the way someone would remedy darkness by turning on fairy lights.

"Do you want me to carry you to the bed ?"

Your brain can't seem to make much sense of your thoughts, but you manage to mumble something along the lines of "You'll break your back", making him chuckle in response.

"It's a few feet. I think I can handle it."

You simply hum, eyes still closed. Ever the gentleman, Spencer doesn't assume your lack of response to be an affirmation.

"Is it okay if I carry you over ? I doubt the floor is the most comfortable alternative."

After a second, you nod, along with a quiet "m'yeah", and he shifts.

"With your legs," you murmur as he takes the blanket off of you.

"What ?"

"Don't pick me up with your back," you explain quietly, "with your legs. Better for your back."

Amused by your sleepy concern, he grins, "Okay Morgan. This isn't my physical qualifications exam."

You huff, but your mind is taken off of the comment as Spencer gently pulls you off of the ground. Your arms wrap around his neck, and in a few moments, he's lowering you down onto the mattress. You settle there like a cat over a sweater as he brings the blanket back to the bed, tucking you in.

Opening your eyes, you catch sight of the two cups on the table, "You reheated them for nothing," you whine.

His lips curl further, gaze soft, "I'll ask them to reheat them again, it's okay. And if they won't, I'll just go buy another hot chocolate."

You hum in contentment, "Don't forget your donut," you remind quietly.

"I won't. We'll eat those after you rest a little, ok ?"

His thumb caresses your knuckles, a lifeline even in sleep, and for the first time in what seems like forever, you feel believed.

Your affirmation is lost in your pillow as Morpheus claims your consciousness, and Reid rounds the bed to settle next to you, kicking his shoes off and grabbing his book again.

In your slumber, your fingers brush his thigh, and he takes your hand in his, rewarded by a sleepy squeeze and the sight of you nuzzling against the pillow.

Safe.