farewell, a.

"Like, it makes sense to get it out of the way, you know."

"Yes. Figure out what works for us, note it down so we'll remember." he replies, nodding along.

"Right. Establish boundaries. Well, make adjustments to the current ones and stuff." you glance down at the journal lying innocently beside you, opened to a new page with the word "Addendum re: Kissing" written on top.

Spencer's sat facing you, cross-legged and casual like this is no big deal, him on your bed. And maybe it's not. This isn't the first time he's sat across you after all, a spill of spindly limbs and shining amber eyes. Some traitorous part of you thinks, hopes, it won't be the last.

That might be acceptable, but the context is new.

"Okay, so how do we… you know," your hands flail uselessly.

"Kiss?" Spencer says. He tilts his head with a small, teasing smile, bares the line of his jaw and neck and oh maybe you shouldn't have suggested this in the first place. Maybe you should relocate somewhere less… personal. "Two people normally just get close enough to press their lips together."

"Don't make fun of me." You grumble.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound it. You watch him scoot closer, his knee touching your thigh. "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Because you can, you know, back out." he gets serious quickly. His fidgeting stops and he rests a warm hand over your knee, "We don't actually have to do this, if you're not comfortable."

"I am!" you squeak, flushing at the pathetic sound. "I-I mean, I'm comfortable and I want to get it over with." you wince at how crass you make it sound, and curse the version of yourself from yesterday who came up with this idea. The one that panicked over an offhand comment from your best friend after you told her that yes I will be bringing a plus one, I'm actually dating someone right now.

Melissa had gushed on and on about how hot and steamy the honeymoon phase of a new relationship is.

You wouldn't know. This whole thing with Spencer is a farce, there's no phases to speak of. Just friendship—and lightly begrudging, on your part.

But of course, your brain had latched on to the words, spiraled at the idea that people expect a newly dating couple to act a certain way. And not that you want to bend to these arbitrary norms, but still. You don't want to be caught off guard.

So you'd suggested this. Practice, a trial, preparation.

On kissing.

And where else would be the most logical spot to practice than in your apartment? At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It's close, he's been here before, and it's private.

Now, you're starting to lose your nerve.

Spencer is still, like he's waiting for you to make the first move.

"You don't think I'm just trying to make out with you for the hell of it, do you?" you ask Spencer, teeth worrying your lower lip.

He laughs, soft and painfully endeared. "No. Although, I wouldn't be mad about that either."

You smack his hand off your knee. "Shut up."

"Okay." he's grinning. Hasn't stopped since you've started this conversation, actually. You're here, feeling raw and tender like skin on the verge of breaking, barely able to breathe, and he's grinning. Has the gall to tease you. "I get it though. It's less of a practice and more… doing it on our own terms. In a controlled environment."

You nod, deflating with relief. "Yes. And no one to witness us flounder around awkwardly."

"You really think I'm that bad at kissing?"

"I didn't say that!" You huff, then add, "Should I take my glasses off?"

"Are you planning to wear contacts to the wedding?"

"No."

"Then keep them on. You know, for realism."

You can't stop the soft giggle from escaping. "Right, yeah. Realism."

"Are you done stalling?" Spencer asks.

"I'm not stalling!" To prove your point, you shuffle even closer, the bed dipping beneath your combined weight. Immediately, it's dizzying. His scent is even more potent up close. Nutmeg and cedar and who knows what else, all you know is it's borderline intoxicating. Spencer's eyes are fixed upon you. On your lips, the pen in his hand carelessly tossed aside.

Your eyes follow the pen as it drops to the bed, but his hand curls warm and firm over your cheek and tilts your head up. He's much closer now, lashes shading his pretty brown eyes. Pupils blown wide as he holds you there and lets the moment linger.

Your nerves feel serrated, the brief spark of courage stretched torturously thin. You take the plunge before it snaps, close your eyes and bridge the gap.

It's awkward. Skin smushed against skin, clumsy and juvenile.

His lips are chapped. Even with your stiff, tight lipped peck, you can feel that, small bits of skin that tug and shift as he moves and kisses you back. Nothing more than a brush at first, a slow, warm thing that you can't help but melt into. Can't help but return, just as tender, your lips finally moving like shaping out a question. Testing waters and boundaries.

It's been years, embarrassingly, since you've kissed anyone, but muscle memory kicks in like a dying ember catching kindling. Your mouth parts and welcomes his tongue. Deepens it. Pushes into him where he's treading lightly.

A faint taste of mint clings to his lips, cool unbidden sharpness.

You hear him groan, feel slim fingers tangling into your hair as he matches your passion, and he's kissing you now, properly, deeply, the type of toe curling, movie-esque kiss you'd convinced yourself you don't want, don't need.

All those years of repressed emotions claws back to the surface, curling hot and raw low in your belly and between your legs. Some deep instinctual part of you knows he's done irreparable damage, cracked open something you thought you had ensconced under layers of ambition and self preservation.

Each slide of his lips weakens whatever fortress you'd previously thought impenetrable.

He kisses you again, and again, and again.

It's slow. Careful, like he's mapping your mouth, testing out the perfect angle of his palm to cradle the curve of your jaw. Different from any kiss you've had before. Deeper, more sure, despite the strange ambiguity of this relationship.

Faint sounds form and ascend from the back of your throat, sounds that he swallows before they take shape beyond your lips. Your own hands reach up, clutch a handful of his sweater. Beneath fabric and skin and bone, his heart pulses like it's determined to rupture straight out his ribs.

You find yourself wanting to feel more of that. Chest to chest, just to figure out if your hearts are as in sync as your mouths are.

You've moved without realizing. Closer, and closer still, until he's toppling back from your insistence, the physical weight of you burdened tenfold by the frightening gravity of your desire.

His hands leave your face in favor of steadying your hips. Fingers dig in, clinging too tight, too honest, not enough.

You feel teeth catch on your bottom lip, and you're not sure if it's a mistake or something deliberate, something heavy with meaning. You wonder if he means to repeat it.

It isn't meant to get this far.

The break is abrupt, strident, punctuated with a heady, wet sound, and the bitter disappointment of things parting too soon. Spencer's fully supine, blinking up at you on top of him.

You're nestled snug between his legs, staring down at the blurred edges of him. Your glasses have fogged, and yet there's so much of him everywhere. Lips saturated with each other, the firm, unmistakable press of his arousal against your stomach.

Fuck.

Neither of you speak. The silence curdles into something heavy and uncomfortable.

"Sorry," you blurt out, scrambling back for space, desperate to replace the silence with anything. "Sorry, that—um, sorry."

His hands fall from your body. Prop him back up to sitting, slow and methodological. He clears his throat. You notice, for the first time, how pink he's gotten.

He shifts his hips. Adjusts his pants. You keep your gaze on the now crumpled page of your journal, and pretend not to see.

Addendum re: Kissing.

What the actual fuck are you even supposed to write there now?

"So, that probably wouldn't be appropriate to do in public." Spencer says.

Your laugh comes out shrill. When you glance at him, he's smiling back, bashful, a little tense. But smiling.

"Absolutely not," you take your glasses off, wipe the foggy residue away and welcome a sharper world, "I'm sorry, seriously. I feel like I attacked you."

"I've been attacked many times, but attack by kiss is very new to me, so thank you."

"Spencer."

The pink creeps up his ears, down his neck.He clears his throat again. "It's all right. I'm sorry too, for, you know… enjoying it too much."

"It's fine, at least I know I haven't gotten bad at it," you say, reaching for the pen which had miraculously survived the impromptu make out session and hadn't rolled off the bed, but find that you're still blanking on what to write. You look at him again, "I'm very much out of practice."

"I couldn't tell," he pats a hand over his sweater, smoothing down where you've clung as if that would somehow erase the fact that you had just been on top of him, tongue deep in his mouth. But he tries to redirect focus, perhaps for your sake, by taking the journal. "So what have we learned?"

"That we're really good at it?" That you want to do it again. That you've missed it. That your body isn't as immune to this as you had thought.

You expect a laugh, but Spencer gives you a look that suggests perhaps his thoughts aren't so far from your own.

You squirm, burning under his gaze. You roll the pen over to him, willing your heart to stop racing and your lips to stop tingling. You want to crawl under the covers and hide. You want to lean over and kiss him again.

He scribbles something on the page, and it takes you a moment to decipher as it's upside down from your perspective.

No making out in public or private.

"We already had that in the original." You point out.

"And then promptly broke it." He underlines the sentence twice. Under it, he adds, No kissing with tongue, and your gut twists sharply in disappointment. You want to throw up.

Lastly, he writes keep kisses brief.

"There," he turns the journal, "I don't think there's anything else, but tell me if you have any suggestions."

You pore over it like you haven't already decided the entire page is an insult. Your glasses slip down your nose and Spencer pushes it up like it's reflex, and it's all very distressing. The kiss, this strange robotic focus you've both decided to hide behind, and now these rules.

You shrug. "Um, maybe we should make it… nice? Enjoyable? There's no reason we should be like, weird and stiff about it."

Spencer nods and add that. His voice is low, hoarse when he says, "But not too enjoyable. Wouldn't want a repeat of earlier."

"Exactly. Of course not." You lie.

Morgan let out a deep laugh and turned the music volume up, still listening to Penelope's rambling about how exciting this dinner was going to be.

When they arrived, they were welcomed by the face of a pretty nervous Spencer, who gave a quick hug to both of them and disappeared into the kitchen. The whole team was already there: Gideon, Hotch, and Haley were standing by the window talking, glasses of wine in hand. Emily and JJ were in the kitchen, where they were talking with Cécile, trying not to distract her too much while she was cooking.

The kitchen table was set: Spencer had laid his newest light-blue tablecloth, and Cécile had taken care of the rest, setting all the plates and cutlery and even making little placeholders for every guest. While doing so, she had asked “Is this too much?” exactly 7 times - Spencer had counted - and he had always responded “Not at all, don't worry.”

The whole house, actually, was decorated with Cécile’s creative touch: candles on the bookshelf, fairy lights on the balcony, and flowers on the coffee table. A record was playing in the background: jazz, Cécile’s choice - of course - from Spencer's limited collection.

After leaving their light jackets on the hanger at the entrance, Morgan and Garcia joined the team. Penelope didn't waste any time before assaulting Cécile, while Morgan commented on the view from the living room with Gideon, Hotch, and Haley. Seeing the two blonde girls talking, both with their colorful tops and contagious laughter, was like seeing the same person in a slightly different version.

“Hi! I am so happy to meet you! Spencer has talked so much about you, I started thinking that I lived with you, too.” Garcia said, joining the girls in the kitchen. “I'm Penelope.”

“I heard a lot about you all too, actually! I was really looking forward to this dinner. I’m Cécile.” Cécile held out her hand to shake, but Garcia went immediately in for a hug. The girl was surprised fir just a second, but then welcomed the hug, smiling at this blonde girl she felt like she already knew.

The four girls talked quickly and continuously about Cécile, her studies, her time in the city, and what it was like to live with Doctor Spencer Reid, only stopping to laugh and sometimes give a stir to whatever was in the pot on the stove.

Cécile was the last one to sit at the table, right after Spencer.

She was going up and down the kitchen, picking up food and beverages that everyone thought were going to break the table in half with their weight. When she finally sat, she looked proud and exhausted, but she looked at Spencer with happy eyes and said, “Bon appétit” in her perfect accent.

“Oh, God, this is awesome.”

“How did you do that?”

“Honey, this pie is amazing; I need the recipe.”

The dinner seemed to be a great success. Cécile was laughing at all those compliments while covering her red ears with her long blonde hair, trying to hide her embarrassment from a room full of profilers. Spencer looked at her in amusement, his nervousness finally gone, happy to see the people he loved most at the same table with a person he cared for a little bit more every day that went by.

And he was too in the moment, for once, to notice it, but his team was really proud of him, too: Emily kept eyeing Hotch, smiling, when Spencer made a funny remark with Cécile, or when he got into one of his rambles and the blonde girl next to him responded with ease. They were all so happy to see him finally be himself.

“So, Cécile, Reid said we're celebrating something.” Hotch said, interrupting a moment of silence, his hand intertwined with Haley's on the tablecloth.

“He’s surely celebrating: I got a job, which means I can actually start to pay rent every month.” Cécile responded

Everyone let out a soft chuckle, and Morgan nudged Spencer, laughing.

“Well, that's exciting, where-” Penelope was interrupted by a mobile ringing on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, that's mine, sorry, sorry.”

Cécile quickly got up, leaving her napkin on the chair. Spencer’s eyes followed her, like always when he sensed something was wrong: he had like a tingle for problems.

The screen on her dark blue BlackBerry read “Do Not Respond!!”. And Cécile knew you should always listen to your past self, especially when you're at dinner and your ex calls and you suddenly feel like you're going to throw up. She immediately turned the phone off, cursing under her breath, and returned slowly to her seat, trying not to show that her legs weren't holding her up.

“Is everything alright?” Spencer asked, his body totally turned to Cécile

“Yeah, yes, just my mom; I can call her later,” she answered breathlessly. “What were you saying, Penelope?” she then said, a smile on her face and her hand filling her glass with wine.

One glass became two, and then three.

The call was a distant memory, as distant as the kitchen counter that looked miles away from the table. And she could feel the sadness and anxiety growing more and more distant as Spencer picked up the dessert from the fridge and as Penelope went on with her story: Cécile wasn't following well, but all she knew was that it was funny and it was about Spencer.

“Poor Spencer was so afraid of the dark that when I called him, I could hear him trembling. He's so cute!” Garcia said, giving him a kiss on the cheek as he lowered the cake Haley and Hotch had brought onto the table.

“FBI super-extra-agent-doctor Reid is afraid of the dark?” Cécile asked her, choking on her own words because of her laughter.

“There's no need for you to laugh like that: 3 out of 10 people - around 29 percent - in the whole world are scared of the dark. It’s clinically known as nyctophobia or achluophobia.”

“Yeah, yeah, I bet that's the reason why I had to find you this cutie, to make sure that there are no monsters under your bed.” Garcia said, winking and pointing at Cécile with her thumb.

“What?”

“Spencer didn't tell you? He is a genius and all, but give him a computer and he goes crazy! I was the one to manage the advertisement on the forum and to respond to your message for the house.”

“That's why it looked like you totally forgot how to text! You were so sweet on the forum, and then it looked like I was receiving a telegram!” Cécile accused Spencer, “A night of revelations, this one.” she then added, smiling to her new friend.

Towards the end of the night, the house was almost empty again: Hotch and Haley had gone home - the babysitter was waiting for them -, Gideon had gone too, saying he wanted to get up early the next day; JJ and Emily stayed a bit later, but, a little after eleven, they had said goodbye, yawning and dragging their heels on Spencer's floor.

At midnight, Cécile and Penelope, already best friends, decided they wanted some more dessert, and they were very concentrated, to say the least, on the delicious cake and gossiping.

On the balcony, Derek and Spencer enjoyed the chilly spring air and talked quietly.

“So, you two are really becoming friends, I see.”

“Yeah, she's- she's great, yes.”

“Yes, she is. I like her, y’know.” Morgan affirmed, looking through the window to look at the two women sitting on the sofa and talking like they had known each other for ages.

“I like her, too”

“I know you do”

“Morgan, I don't really see where you're going.” Spencer said, following Derek's eyes towards the girl.

“Oh, yes, yes, you do, Genius. Don't worry, you just have a little drool here.”

“That's not true, stop it!”

“Whatever you say, Pretty Boy.”

But Spencer knew that maybe, maybe in a small part of him, there was that feeling Morgan was talking about. He knew, as he watched Cécile drunkenly laughing and rambling with Garcia, he knew as he watched her hugging her and Morgan when they said goodbye, he knew as he watched her dragging her feet, tired, all around the kitchen while clearing the table.

In those moments it came to him that Morgan was a great profiler.

Around 1AM, finally in the car, Derek let out a sigh and looked at Garcia, who was still waiting for his opinion on the night, but, most importantly, on Cécile.

“Well, she's cool. I like her.”

“Spencer definitely does.” Penelope responded, a smirk on her face.

“It’s like sharing a brain, you and me. I always knew you were made for me, baby girl.” Derek answered, looking in her eyes, before they both burst out laughing thinking about poor Spencer’s crush on his roommate.

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@hiddentattooodyssey @the-anarchist-public @cynbx @grassisalwaysgreener

“Okay, let's see: Cécile Jones, former student at Chicago University, really good grades but her attendance records have some faults: she stopped going to university, like at all, three months ago.”

The blue light from the computer monitors emphasised the hard and concentrated look on Spencer’s face.

“Yeah, she told me she had problems. Look, she filed a report against another student, open it.” Garcia nodded and clicked on the page. 

Everything about this was making Spencer feel more and more uneasy: Penelope was speaking like she did when researching criminal records of potential suspects and he was totally playing that game too. 

“James Peterson, she accused him of harassment but it doesn't seem like they did anything. Let's see who this Peterson is…” Garcia said, as she typed his name into Facebook “Of course, they don't do anything…if it's your boyfriend.” 

Penelope scrolled through James’ Facebook profile: photos and photos of him and Cécile kissing or hugging on campus, at holiday, at the park. Under every photo hundreds of comments from their friends and family telling them how cute they looked together. 

“I need you to look for more, Garcia, look for forums, chatrooms. She was happy: I'm not saying this isn't serious, but she wouldn't have changed universities just because of this. I’m telling you something else must've happened.” Spencer said, frustrated. 

The blonde woman typed quickly on her computer, making it impossible for her friend to follow what she was doing on the monitor. It was only obvious when she opened (illegally) a chatroom and messages from two months ago talking about Cécile appeared. James seemed to be the protagonist of the conversation. 

Having taken control of Garcia’s black mouse (causing an annoyed reaction from her friend) and scrolling quickly in the chat, Spencer understood they were talking about the day that he and Cécile had broken up: James was really mad, Cécile had broken up with him and he accused her of cheating on him. His friends were just trying to comfort him, in their weird and full of toxic masculinity ways: telling him she was a slut and that he was better off without her, since she was pulling him down. 

Spencer felt uneasy reading those things about his roommate, things that probably she didn't even know were said in a private chat. He suddenly felt nauseous looking at the screen and thinking about Cécile going about her day, probably at university, while he was reading her ex boyfriend’s messages: that guilt feeling again.

His heart definitely dropped when, scrolling with the mouse, he got to a photo he definitely shouldn't have seen. He looked away as quickly as he could, while Penelope took control of her mouse again and scrolled down to remove the image from the screen. Now he would never get rid of that feeling, ever, he was sure. After slowly raising his head, he read the message that James sent after the photo. 

Jamex82: this is what that slut sent me last week. I bet she still liked me back then 

“Oh, that poor, poor girl.” Penelope said in a sad voice, closing the tab and looking at Spencer “This is the football team group chat, there are like… 100 men.” 

Spencer looked defeated and was shaking his head in his thoughts. He couldn't even imagine what Cécile had to go through and now he understood why she didn't want to tell him anything: like Morgan said, she wanted to forget it, to leave it all behind. Now he knew that what he felt was guilt: he wasn't supposed to know those things, he wasn't supposed to even look for them and he certainly wasn't supposed to see that picture, not even for half a second. He now felt like he was one of those men in the group chat. 

He regretted everything about his decision. 

“Reid? Are you okay?”

“Yea- Yes, No! I mean, now I know what it was, but Morgan was right, I shouldn't have done it.” Spencer talked so fast that Penelope couldn't keep up with him “I have to go now. Thank you, Garcia.” 

And he left the office grabbing all of his things, not giving his friend a chance to say a thing. 

The light was almost gone when Spencer took the metro home from work. His head was still spinning and his chest full of that now familiar self-directed anger, sadness for the victim, anxiety, and fear. He took a deep breath when he opened the door and greeted the empty living room shyly. 

“Hey! I'm in the kitchen!” Cécile yelled from the other room. 

Leaving his things on the floor, he joined her in their kitchen, where he found her sitting at the table, revising her lecture notes. He watched her with sad eyes, remembering what he had seen: good, he thought, now he also saw her as nothing but a victim. 

“Is everything alright?” she asked, breaking his silence. 

“Yes, yes! Sorry, just a long day at work. I think I'm going straight to bed.” 

“Oh, but I've made dinner for the both of us. That's okay though, we can put it in the fridge.” Here it went again, guilt, like a punch in Spencer's stomach. While he was there going through her business, she was here making dinner? He was never going to survive this. 

Without looking her in the eyes, he sat at the table with her, telling her he had changed his mind, and thanked her for cooking. They ate in silence, given the exception of brief comments on the delicious pasta and how their day went. 

Cécile thought it was weird: in the few days she had known Spencer he had been shy, but always very talkative with his fun facts about whatever they were eating, or doing, or seeing. But Cécile also thought that she would be weird too, if she had to look at serial killers and corpses all day, so she let it go: they were only getting to know each other and she felt like she didn't have the right to ask that much about his private life. She had noticed that behind Spencer 's shyness, there was sweetness and kindness and also humour - Cécile wondered what it must be like to be his friend: if he was always so sweet and caring with everyone, but closed in himself at the same time. 

After dinner, Spencer got up and washed the dishes while Cécile cleaned up the table from her books. 

“It's like my first night here: I cook, you wash the dishes.” Cécile said, a smile on her face. 

“Yeah, you cook really well, I definitely don't mind if we make a habit out of it.” Spencer responded, trying to be conversational. 

“I don't mind either. Goodnight then." She smiled, hands full of books, and disappeared into her room. 

Spencer was left alone in his kitchen, like he used to do when he came home to an empty house after a case: sitting at the table, head in his hands, his mind spinning before deciding it's time to go to bed. He sat there for a long time, reflecting on guilt, trust, fear, and all the emotion that he read about so many times and that he spoke about so many times in his career but now understood fully. 

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

The soft morning sun entered through the windows as Spencer sat in one of the chairs in the kitchen, a Rubik's cube in his hands. Matter of fact, seeing him sitting in the same chair where Cécile had left him the previous night and looking at the dark circles around his eyes, one would think he hadn't slept at all. 

Well, he did, for two or three hours. He had spent the rest of the night in a self-loathing wake, thinking and thinking about that picture and about everything he had done wrong. After he saw the sun rising from his bedroom window he decided to get up and make some coffee, careful not to wake up his roommate. 

When, around seven o’clock, he heard Cécile’s alarm go off, he unconsciously started holding his breath. He knew he could live with the secret, he just didn't know if he could live with the guilt. Even if he and Cécile were basically two strangers, Spencer felt like he had betrayed her. 

"Good Morning! Why are you up so early?” said the object of his reflection, stopping in her journey towards the bathroom to get ready. 

“I guess it's a habit. Do you have to study a lot?” asked Spencer 

“You don't even understand.” the blonde girl said dramatically and closed herself in the bathroom. 

Spencer wasn't used to sharing his weekends, but he got used to it pretty quickly: he stayed on the couch, his arms hugged around his long folded legs, and resolved the cube around 50 times; then he started reading Tolstoy. Cècile definitely wasn't in the way: basically lying over her computer, she never said a word and studied the whole morning, letting out a sigh every now and then. 

After lunch, Cécile had gone out to buy some coffee - she couldn't survive the exam season without her stash, she had said, closing the door. When she returned, Spencer seemed to have a surprise for her. 

“Hey, look what just came in the mail” 

“Oh! My! God!” Cécile screamed, throwing the grocery bag on the floor, “my baby!!!”

Spencer couldn't hold his laughter, looking at his roommate hugging her guitar case like a long distance family member. In the time of an “I missed you so much” and an “I am so happy”, Cécile had already forgotten about her exams and coffee and Spencer had temporarily forgotten about his overthinking and watched her, smiling. 

“Well, you have to play something now” He said 

“You’re such a flirt! What do you want to hear?” She answered with her typical charm.

“You decide, your favourite song.” 

Cécile smiled and played a bit with the tuning pegs, trying to tune the guitar. After some time - during which Spencer decided to explain how a guitar could untune itself if it remains untouched - Cécile started playing some notes (some tuned notes) and hummed, which shushed Spencer. 

“This is the first ever song I learned. Joan Baez.” She said. 

Then she started playing and after some minutes she started singing shyly, red in the face, too aware of Spencer’s eyes watching her. 

Her voice was beautiful, deep but high at the same time. Spencer didn't know what kind of voices he liked - he really only listened to classical music - but her voice seemed perfect. It was perfect because of those sporadic imperfections that made it real. 

When the last notes of “There but for Fortune” played, she lifted her eyes and smiled, letting out a soft breath. Without even noticing, Spencer was clapping. 

“It has been a while. I didn't do it justice.” She said, embarrassed, as she put it the case again. 

“No, no, you're really good. I like this song "

"Well, Joan Baez is the greatest musician of all time.” 

And just like that, Cécile started a two hour conversation on history of music. 

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

The weekend passed, and then a week, and without even noticing Spencer started to think he could live with his secret. Talking with Cécile was easy and fun, he felt like himself in a way he never did. 

One night, they stayed up until three AM because Cécile had an exam and Spencer had offered to help her revise but ended up giving her a whole lesson on macroeconomics, since she kept yelling at him she didn't understand. In the end, Spencer arrived late at work, but, thanks to the boy’s tutoring, Cécile got 97/100 on that exam. 

When, sometimes, she played the guitar softly, in her thoughts and with that concentrated expression she always did (with her tongue kind of sticking out), Spencer found himself wishing she started to sing. He had even asked Garcia to download the song on his MP3 for him - he refused to do it himself like the good technophobe he was - so that he could listen to it sometimes, and think about that day. 

Then there was the day Cécile finally got a response back from the diner she had sent her curriculum to. She was so happy to finally have a job: she jumped and screamed from excitement and hugged Spencer, who was left startled by this reaction. 

Her dream was finally coming together: a house, university, a job, some friends even (apart from Spencer) that she met at uni. 

But. There was always a but, and - Cécile knew - Spencer had noticed. The texts didn't stop that night. James continued with his usual mood-swinging behaviour, texting her that he missed her, then that she deserved what had happened. 

Cécile wondered what she could have done to deserve all of that, to deserve her past following her around wherever she went. 

He didn't text often, just enough to give her the time to think he had stopped, and then he will start again. At every buzz of her BlackBerry, her heart stopped for a moment, and her roommate seemed to have the power to catch every one of these reactions. 

“So, I was thinking we have to celebrate your employment” he had said the day after their first hug, entering the house. 

Cécile looked uneasy: she was sitting on the sofa, looking at her mobile again, like she did most of the time those days, and her hand was resting on her heart, like if she had to catch her breath. 

“Is everything okay?” 

“Oh! Yes! Hi! Sorry, I didn't even hear you. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that we should celebrate the fact that you got the job at that diner and I thought that, since we have the complete weekend off at work, I could invite my colleagues over to dinner so you'll meet them. They always say I never invite them and I already talked to them about it and they were more than happy to come.” Spencer said, deciding not to mention the fact that her hand was still trembling around the phone. 

“Yeah, I like the idea! Let's celebrate the fact that you'll finally start to get rent from me!” 

Spencer laughed and texted Morgan that the dinner was set for that Friday. With a smile on his face, he got in the kitchen and started cooking something for the two of them, for once. 

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

@hiddentattooodyssey @the-anarchist-public @cynbx

“Okay, let's see: Cécile Jones, former student at Chicago University, really good grades but her attendance records have some faults: she stopped going to university, like at all, three months ago.”

The blue light from the computer monitors emphasised the hard and concentrated look on Spencer’s face.

“Yeah, she told me she had problems. Look, she filed a report against another student, open it.” Garcia nodded and clicked on the page. 

Everything about this was making Spencer feel more and more uneasy: Penelope was speaking like she did when researching criminal records of potential suspects and he was totally playing that game too. 

“James Peterson, she accused him of harassment but it doesn't seem like they did anything. Let's see who this Peterson is…” Garcia said, as she typed his name into Facebook “Of course, they don't do anything…if it's your boyfriend.” 

Penelope scrolled through James’ Facebook profile: photos and photos of him and Cécile kissing or hugging on campus, at holiday, at the park. Under every photo hundreds of comments from their friends and family telling them how cute they looked together. 

“I need you to look for more, Garcia, look for forums, chatrooms. She was happy: I'm not saying this isn't serious, but she wouldn't have changed universities just because of this. I’m telling you something else must've happened.” Spencer said, frustrated. 

The blonde woman typed quickly on her computer, making it impossible for her friend to follow what she was doing on the monitor. It was only obvious when she opened (illegally) a chatroom and messages from two months ago talking about Cécile appeared. James seemed to be the protagonist of the conversation. 

Having taken control of Garcia’s black mouse (causing an annoyed reaction from her friend) and scrolling quickly in the chat, Spencer understood they were talking about the day that he and Cécile had broken up: James was really mad, Cécile had broken up with him and he accused her of cheating on him. His friends were just trying to comfort him, in their weird and full of toxic masculinity ways: telling him she was a slut and that he was better off without her, since she was pulling him down. 

Spencer felt uneasy reading those things about his roommate, things that probably she didn't even know were said in a private chat. He suddenly felt nauseous looking at the screen and thinking about Cécile going about her day, probably at university, while he was reading her ex boyfriend’s messages: that guilt feeling again.

His heart definitely dropped when, scrolling with the mouse, he got to a photo he definitely shouldn't have seen. He looked away as quickly as he could, while Penelope took control of her mouse again and scrolled down to remove the image from the screen. Now he would never get rid of that feeling, ever, he was sure. After slowly raising his head, he read the message that James sent after the photo. 

Jamex82: this is what that slut sent me last week. I bet she still liked me back then 

“Oh, that poor, poor girl.” Penelope said in a sad voice, closing the tab and looking at Spencer “This is the football team group chat, there are like… 100 men.” 

Spencer looked defeated and was shaking his head in his thoughts. He couldn't even imagine what Cécile had to go through and now he understood why she didn't want to tell him anything: like Morgan said, she wanted to forget it, to leave it all behind. Now he knew that what he felt was guilt: he wasn't supposed to know those things, he wasn't supposed to even look for them and he certainly wasn't supposed to see that picture, not even for half a second. He now felt like he was one of those men in the group chat. 

He regretted everything about his decision. 

“Reid? Are you okay?”

“Yea- Yes, No! I mean, now I know what it was, but Morgan was right, I shouldn't have done it.” Spencer talked so fast that Penelope couldn't keep up with him “I have to go now. Thank you, Garcia.” 

And he left the office grabbing all of his things, not giving his friend a chance to say a thing. 

The light was almost gone when Spencer took the metro home from work. His head was still spinning and his chest full of that now familiar self-directed anger, sadness for the victim, anxiety, and fear. He took a deep breath when he opened the door and greeted the empty living room shyly. 

“Hey! I'm in the kitchen!” Cécile yelled from the other room. 

Leaving his things on the floor, he joined her in their kitchen, where he found her sitting at the table, revising her lecture notes. He watched her with sad eyes, remembering what he had seen: good, he thought, now he also saw her as nothing but a victim. 

“Is everything alright?” she asked, breaking his silence. 

“Yes, yes! Sorry, just a long day at work. I think I'm going straight to bed.” 

“Oh, but I've made dinner for the both of us. That's okay though, we can put it in the fridge.” Here it went again, guilt, like a punch in Spencer's stomach. While he was there going through her business, she was here making dinner? He was never going to survive this. 

Without looking her in the eyes, he sat at the table with her, telling her he had changed his mind, and thanked her for cooking. They ate in silence, given the exception of brief comments on the delicious pasta and how their day went. 

Cécile thought it was weird: in the few days she had known Spencer he had been shy, but always very talkative with his fun facts about whatever they were eating, or doing, or seeing. But Cécile also thought that she would be weird too, if she had to look at serial killers and corpses all day, so she let it go: they were only getting to know each other and she felt like she didn't have the right to ask that much about his private life. She had noticed that behind Spencer 's shyness, there was sweetness and kindness and also humour - Cécile wondered what it must be like to be his friend: if he was always so sweet and caring with everyone, but closed in himself at the same time. 

After dinner, Spencer got up and washed the dishes while Cécile cleaned up the table from her books. 

“It's like my first night here: I cook, you wash the dishes.” Cécile said, a smile on her face. 

“Yeah, you cook really well, I definitely don't mind if we make a habit out of it.” Spencer responded, trying to be conversational. 

“I don't mind either. Goodnight then." She smiled, hands full of books, and disappeared into her room. 

Spencer was left alone in his kitchen, like he used to do when he came home to an empty house after a case: sitting at the table, head in his hands, his mind spinning before deciding it's time to go to bed. He sat there for a long time, reflecting on guilt, trust, fear, and all the emotion that he read about so many times and that he spoke about so many times in his career but now understood fully. 

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The soft morning sun entered through the windows as Spencer sat in one of the chairs in the kitchen, a Rubik's cube in his hands. Matter of fact, seeing him sitting in the same chair where Cécile had left him the previous night and looking at the dark circles around his eyes, one would think he hadn't slept at all. 

Well, he did, for two or three hours. He had spent the rest of the night in a self-loathing wake, thinking and thinking about that picture and about everything he had done wrong. After he saw the sun rising from his bedroom window he decided to get up and make some coffee, careful not to wake up his roommate. 

When, around seven o’clock, he heard Cécile’s alarm go off, he unconsciously started holding his breath. He knew he could live with the secret, he just didn't know if he could live with the guilt. Even if he and Cécile were basically two strangers, Spencer felt like he had betrayed her. 

"Good Morning! Why are you up so early?” said the object of his reflection, stopping in her journey towards the bathroom to get ready. 

“I guess it's a habit. Do you have to study a lot?” asked Spencer 

“You don't even understand.” the blonde girl said dramatically and closed herself in the bathroom. 

Spencer wasn't used to sharing his weekends, but he got used to it pretty quickly: he stayed on the couch, his arms hugged around his long folded legs, and resolved the cube around 50 times; then he started reading Tolstoy. Cècile definitely wasn't in the way: basically lying over her computer, she never said a word and studied the whole morning, letting out a sigh every now and then. 

After lunch, Cécile had gone out to buy some coffee - she couldn't survive the exam season without her stash, she had said, closing the door. When she returned, Spencer seemed to have a surprise for her. 

“Hey, look what just came in the mail” 

“Oh! My! God!” Cécile screamed, throwing the grocery bag on the floor, “my baby!!!”

Spencer couldn't hold his laughter, looking at his roommate hugging her guitar case like a long distance family member. In the time of an “I missed you so much” and an “I am so happy”, Cécile had already forgotten about her exams and coffee and Spencer had temporarily forgotten about his overthinking and watched her, smiling. 

“Well, you have to play something now” He said 

“You’re such a flirt! What do you want to hear?” She answered with her typical charm.

“You decide, your favourite song.” 

Cécile smiled and played a bit with the tuning pegs, trying to tune the guitar. After some time - during which Spencer decided to explain how a guitar could untune itself if it remains untouched - Cécile started playing some notes (some tuned notes) and hummed, which shushed Spencer. 

“This is the first ever song I learned. Joan Baez.” She said. 

Then she started playing and after some minutes she started singing shyly, red in the face, too aware of Spencer’s eyes watching her. 

Her voice was beautiful, deep but high at the same time. Spencer didn't know what kind of voices he liked - he really only listened to classical music - but her voice seemed perfect. It was perfect because of those sporadic imperfections that made it real. 

When the last notes of “There but for Fortune” played, she lifted her eyes and smiled, letting out a soft breath. Without even noticing, Spencer was clapping. 

“It has been a while. I didn't do it justice.” She said, embarrassed, as she put it the case again. 

“No, no, you're really good. I like this song "

"Well, Joan Baez is the greatest musician of all time.” 

And just like that, Cécile started a two hour conversation on history of music. 

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The weekend passed, and then a week, and without even noticing Spencer started to think he could live with his secret. Talking with Cécile was easy and fun, he felt like himself in a way he never did. 

One night, they stayed up until three AM because Cécile had an exam and Spencer had offered to help her revise but ended up giving her a whole lesson on macroeconomics, since she kept yelling at him she didn't understand. In the end, Spencer arrived late at work, but, thanks to the boy’s tutoring, Cécile got 97/100 on that exam. 

When, sometimes, she played the guitar softly, in her thoughts and with that concentrated expression she always did (with her tongue kind of sticking out), Spencer found himself wishing she started to sing. He had even asked Garcia to download the song on his MP3 for him - he refused to do it himself like the good technophobe he was - so that he could listen to it sometimes, and think about that day. 

Then there was the day Cécile finally got a response back from the diner she had sent her curriculum to. She was so happy to finally have a job: she jumped and screamed from excitement and hugged Spencer, who was left startled by this reaction. 

Her dream was finally coming together: a house, university, a job, some friends even (apart from Spencer) that she met at uni. 

But. There was always a but, and - Cécile knew - Spencer had noticed. The texts didn't stop that night. James continued with his usual mood-swinging behaviour, texting her that he missed her, then that she deserved what had happened. 

Cécile wondered what she could have done to deserve all of that, to deserve her past following her around wherever she went. 

He didn't text often, just enough to give her the time to think he had stopped, and then he will start again. At every buzz of her BlackBerry, her heart stopped for a moment, and her roommate seemed to have the power to catch every one of these reactions. 

“So, I was thinking we have to celebrate your employment” he had said the day after their first hug, entering the house. 

Cécile looked uneasy: she was sitting on the sofa, looking at her mobile again, like she did most of the time those days, and her hand was resting on her heart, like if she had to catch her breath. 

“Is everything okay?” 

“Oh! Yes! Hi! Sorry, I didn't even hear you. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that we should celebrate the fact that you got the job at that diner and I thought that, since we have the complete weekend off at work, I could invite my colleagues over to dinner so you'll meet them. They always say I never invite them and I already talked to them about it and they were more than happy to come.” Spencer said, deciding not to mention the fact that her hand was still trembling around the phone. 

“Yeah, I like the idea! Let's celebrate the fact that you'll finally start to get rent from me!” 

Spencer laughed and texted Morgan that the dinner was set for that Friday. With a smile on his face, he got in the kitchen and started cooking something for the two of them, for once. 

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

@hiddentattooodyssey @the-anarchist-public @cynbx