farewell, a.

But as she moved frantically, she heard it again: it wasn't exactly a scream, more a cry for help, juvenile and scared.

She was sure she wasn't dreaming this time, but where did it come from?

She got up from her bed and looked down from her window, searching for the cause of the scream.

Nothing.

She tried to listen closely: rubbing her tired eyes and temples, she tried concentrating.

It was Spencer’s voice.

How could she not recognise it? Of course, she was tired, and, when they talked, Spencer’s voice was always so grounded, even if fast and sometimes anxious; but now that she was thinking about it, it was actually so obvious that it was his voice.

Worried, she stormed in the hallway, dragging her lime green slippers to Spencer’s closed door.

“Spencer? Is everything okay?” she knocked, shyly.

There was no answer, but the screaming seemed to stop this time definitely. After some minutes, in which Cécile discussed with herself if she should go back to sleep or check on Spencer first, a faint whisper came from behind the door, deep and sleepy.

“Everything’s okay, Cécile. Go to sleep.”

“Are you sure? You were screaming,” she stated, realising that, if she wasn't a hundred percent sure that her roommate was okay, her brain would definitely not fall asleep anymore.

With her ear on the door, she heard Spencer lift his sheets, get up from the bed, and open the door.

“I’m okay, see?” He said. “It was just a nightmare.”

Cécile smiled, tilting her head to the side.

She was still worried: the boy had been on four cases, at least, only that month, and he always seemed more shocked when he came home. The blonde girl had tried cheering him up, leaving him freshly baked cookies on the counter for when he came back or playing the guitar more often, which she knew he loved. But that didn't help with that hurt and scared look Spencer had on his face. Cécile could not describe it any other way: Spencer looked scared, traumatised, hurt, his eyes empty and his mouth in a constant frown, sometimes folded in a faint smile when Cécile’s jokes were particularly funny.

“Okay. I'm making myself a chamomile tea if you want some.”

He just shook his head and forcefully smiled, then closed the wooden door behind him.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

Cécile had always looked forward to bedtime, especially during hard periods of her life; nighttime was the moment that finally symbolised the end of an exhausting day.

After a horrible shift at the diner - she learned that she definitely didn't like the feeling of being completely covered in beer - usually, all that she could think about was her bed, the end of that day, and the feeling of her sleep mask on her tired eyes.

However, that night, trying to remove the sticky and sugary residues of beer from her hair in the shower, she wasn't looking forward to bedtime at all.

What if Spencer had nightmares again? And that was if she chose to believe it was a nightmare: what if he was in pain and didn't want her to know? If she got in bed, it meant that Spencer went to bed too, and that could only mean that the screaming could start again.

As she tiredly exited her bathroom, she looked left and right in the hallway, scanning the house, trying to find Spencer walking towards the bedroom. Instead, she found him scrunched up on the couch, book in hand and glasses slightly tilted by the pressure of the hand on his temple.

“Aren’t you tired?” She asked, softly, looking across his shoulder to figure out what he was reading.

“Yeah, I was waiting for you; I wanted to say goodnight.” He simply said, closing the book.

“Oh, you didn't need to.”

“I definitely did. You've been looking at me like I am destined to die in my sleep tonight, so I wanted to reassure you. Don't worry and goodnight.”

Cécile was left surprised, brows furrowed at the boy’s remark.

Not that he was wrong - Spencer was always right, unfortunately - but he was being witty? That was normal if they talked about movies, or literature, maybe even music, but not worries and reassurances: Spencer had always been really sweet and careful about things like that. Maybe she was overthinking it, maybe it was just a joke, and - like Morgan says - they don't always land.

Still debating whether his comment was a defense mechanism or just a joke, the girl slipped under her light blue covers.

Closing her eyes extra tight, Cécile felt like a child scared of monsters under her bed, only she wasn't the one having nightmares. She found herself on alert, subconsciously waiting for that now-familiar (she had played it in her head so many times) groan and juvenile cry.

She managed to sleep for an hour maybe, but her apprehension grew by the minute and left her sleepless. Spencer's mind could apparently feel her waiting in his sleep, and he started screaming, like the night before.

As if she had never laid down, she jumped up, put on her slippers, and ran to Spencer’s door.

“Spencer, please, open up.”

Silence. Flat, aseptic silence came from behind the door. Like nobody was actually there, like she imagined it all.

After a few minutes, the door magically opened, but only a crack, and Spencer was still hiding behind it, like a guilty child.

“Can I come in?” Cécile then asked, scared that every word might make the door close again with a witty comment.

In response, he just left the door hanging open while he slowly and tiredly walked to his bed, sitting on the edge.

“I fear you're not really okay...” she said, whispering in an almost comical way, like she was telling a made-up secret to a kid. Spencer stayed quiet; his usual banter vanished, and his eyes lost.

“Are you having nightmares?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It's been three weeks.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?” Cécile said, sitting on the bed next to Spencer, her legs crossed in a comfortable position.

“I just- I don't know. I keep on reliving these last cases, but instead of anonymous victims, I see my co-workers, my friends, you. All dead.”

Cécile couldn't help but notice how she wasn't implied in the friends category, maybe meaning she was something different, something more. Was it weird? She tried to make that thought vanish and put her hand on Spencer’s leg, trying to make him understand that she was listening.

“I'm so tired, but, at the same time, I’m so scared of sleeping because I know I will see those scenes again.”

“Spencer,"

“Yes?” As he responded, his eyes stared in her direction, shiny and semi-closed, full of tiredness and fear.

“You need to distract yourself." Cécile stated. "And I have the perfect solution: I have just rented - drum roll… - 10 Things I Hate About You, and it's the kind of film that I love and you'll hate! Perfect to fall asleep to and dream about Heath Ledger. We should watch it together; what do you think?”

Spencer looked amused for a second, then went back to his frown.

“No, Cécile. You have lessons tomorrow. You have to sleep.”

“Okay, then I'll sleep here.”

Cécile didn't even realise what came out of her mouth. They weren't that close, not enough to sleep in the same bed. How could that even cross her mind? Her mind raced as she waited for a response and thought about a justification for that embarrassing proposal.

“You’d do that?”

Of all things, the blonde girl didn't expect that response.

“Yeah, of course!” she answered, sounding a little too enthusiastic.

Scared of making a fool of herself, she quickly got up and lifted the covers on the right side of the bed and made herself comfortable.

“Come on, let's sleep.”

Spencer lowered himself on the bed, where the tangled sheets left a proof of his sleepless night. He was a little bit ashamed, but definitely grateful for her wanting to help.

Cécile felt enormous in Spencer's king-size bed, so she squeezed herself in, making herself smaller, trying to take up as little space as possible. With her face towards the wall, she squinted and frowned, truly hoping to disappear into that tangle of sheets.

Beside her, Spencer stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open, frozen in place as a constant stream of thoughts flooded his mind. He didn't know what to say, do, or think. He turned slowly, finding a way to keep the mattress from creaking, and began to study the back of her neck, her blonde hair scattered across the white pillowcase.

Cécile, feeling his studying eyes on her, slowly opened her eyes one at a time. She let out a breath, then pressed her eyelids shut in a frown of desperate embarrassment.

Slowly but unexpectedly they fell asleep, their bodies as distant as possible and their minds intertwined in the same thoughts.

They both couldn't say when the embarrassment was replaced by trust and affection, but they were woken up the next morning by Spencer's alarm and found themselves tangled in each other.

No screaming, no nightmares.

Cécile had rapidly distanced herself, just enough to make that position less embarrassing, but kept her body close to Spencer’s.

As much as she didn't want to admit it, that night helped her as much as it helped Spencer.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

And the next night, all that Spencer Reid had to do was stand in front of the couch as Cécile was finishing washing the dishes. His tall, thin figure emanated tiredness, but trust at the same time. His brain seemed to crave a nightmare-free sleep and connected that feeling to Cécile's presence in his bed.

His roommate dried her hands on a towel and looked at him with a loving smile. They didn't need to say anything; their eyes were already speaking: Spencer’s eyes seemed to say, “I need you,” and Cécile’s responded, “I know.”

And in the following nights they repeated the first one, trusting each other in a familiar dance, and the embarrassment slowly faded away.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

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

back at the police department, when the team gathered around the makeshift conference room with no AC, he swore he could feel his braincells decompose. there was no way he was making it to the end of the day in that lifesize oven.

this is why he practially jumped up when hotch sent him on the hunt for a particular book. some obscure science fiction novel he must've mumbled about in a heat caused haze.

at least he got to be outside.

the first bookstore he saw was the one that caught his eye.

a few blocks near the park, between a coffee shop and a vintage store, was a ridiculously old building that looked straight out of an animated movie. the bricks were cream colored, hidden behind leaves of ivy and numerous flower pots that were somehow surviving the heatwave.

he was glad to have a reason to go in.

usually, he drove past bookstores and libraries he dreamed to visit in the black sedan, and could only promise himself he'd go once the case was over, which almost never happened.

the little bell above the wooden door made a clear noise when he pushed it open, stepping into the cozy atmoshpere. the first thing that hit him was the freshness of the air - slightly smelling of the distinct scent of books he loves so much, and a hint of something sweeter.

lavender, maybe. he thought, looking around.

it wasn't too vast of a space, but the aisles weren't narrow either. rather welcoming, inviting, books on the shelves stacked just right in a way that scratched his neurodivergent brain.

naturally, he felt compelled to profile the person who owned the place.

his eyes roamed over the titles of the books as he took a couple of steps further. the titles were highlighted by the giant windows, that bathed the store in sunlight. yet, the temperature was more than delightful.

"looking for anything in particular ?"

someone said right behing him.

it took him a moment to realize the saccharine words were destined to him. he was the only one to be book shopping of all things, on this blazing day.

"i'm just looking around, thank y-" he turned to face her and gesture the shelf in front of him - the book he was searching for on full display - but froze.

she was beautiful, the girl standing before him.

suddenly, the outside heat felt like nothing compred to the one spreading on his cheeks, shades of pink matching those of her flowy sundress. it almost reached the floor, cascading down your hips where the fabric hugged her skin.

staring, he was staring. get a grip, reid.

"yes, actually." the lie came out smoother than intended. good, a semblance of dignity in front of such an ethereal presence was all he hoped for. "is that... the fiction aisle ?"

"yes, all the way to that shelf over there" she pointed to the opposite side, her smile rather amused than anything.

real smart, genius.

for someone who was searching for a book, he didn't make it sound like he even knew how to read. the sign just above his head listed the different sections of the bookstore, how pathetic.

she added kindly, her hand smoothing the fabric of the dress - the dress of the undoing. "but we also have a vast selection of non-fiction books over there, and a little cafe area"

"o-okay."

"if you need something fresh to cool down, or..." she shrugged, and it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. kindness radiated out of her so easily, he wanted to say yes desperately.

or at least to say something, anything.

but on top of forgetting how to read, he'd also seemed to have lost his speaking abilities.

so he did what perhaps was the most insensitive thing to do and grabbed the book from the shelf, muttering something along the lines of a poorly enunciated thank you before heading to the checkout.

sliding behind the counter, their fingers brushed when she took it from him gently, giving him the change in return.

"you'll like it," she spoke, carefully placing it in a brown paper bag. "it's not my favorite genre, but the plot unfolds pretty nicely."

he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and manages to say.

"not mine either, really. it's for scientific purposes, but i usually stick to classics or true crime novels"

"me too !!" she says enthusiastically.

as he took the bag from her, it appeared to him that small talk might be the closest thing he'd ever get from her, and suddenly regreted the way he dismissed her out of nervousness.

"this place is nice,"

she looks up, smiling at the compliment. not bad, he thinks, does he sound too eager ?

"thanks you, i’ve been working here for a while... not alone, usually, but it’s hard to attract people with that heat”

“not for you,” he answers, instantly biting his lip.

“what ?”

attract as in interest, in books. shoot, the haze in his mind was completely unlike anything he’d ever experienced and made him stupid.

“i mean, uh… you’re great. a great salesperson, basically. you’ve got the social cues down”

she let out a genuine chuckle, closing the cash register as the coins clinked.

“don’t you ?”

“no, not really…" he hints at in a bashful tone, slightly shifting positions to lean against the counter in an attempt to appear nonchalant.

the rays of the sun are filtering through the glass, hues of gold spreading around her, reminding him of an angel's halo. bright is the smile she gives him, the magnetic field around her promting him to get closer, closer.

"there's nothing wrong with choosing books over people, trust me" she says as she hands him the bag.

"less disappointing"

he nods, brain too focused on how they almost touched for the second time today. outside, the hot weather is almost nagging him, knowing he'll have to rush back to the police station. spend his day locked in yet another enclosed office, bathing in the discomfort of his own sweat and loneliness.

but he should be getting going.

so, reluctantly, he disappears with an ironic sound of the silver bell as the door closes.

every step he takes is unsure and reluctant, as if his body contemplated betraying him by turning back around. the urge was too strong, similar to the desire he felt to be near you, the scent of sugar and roses you emanated.

except the bell rings not too long later.

you had barely found the time to catch your breath - that had been taken away by the handsome boy on aisle three earlier this morning, the only person in the whole town who’d actually thought it would be smart to come here today of all days - that the sharp sound was heard again, pulling you out of your daydreams.

rays of sunlight hit your eyes, his figure appearing like a mirage in the light.

“you’re back,” you exhaled breathlessly.

quickly, you got up from the shelf you were rearranging. kids picture books, sorted by themes instead of colours.

“i’m back,” he said at the same time.

your brows met halfway, nerves wracking. surely, you couldn’t have spent so much time reading under your breath, nostalgic about your favourite childhood book.

a gasp escaped from your lips.

“you didn’t like the book ? no. it was the wrong one ? what’s wrong ? i forgot the change ?”

shy stranger chuckled again, a sound you couldn’t get enough of. “no, it was the right book and you got everything right.”

“then what ?”

frankly, you could’ve forgotten a dollar or two. it happened often when your preference for literature over maths showed. or when a handsome client with eyes of gold showed up.

“actually… i finished it.”

somehow, he looked bashful.

like it was a truth he hated to admit, disguising the unique parts of him under a joking tone he didn’t quite master. crossing the store to approach you tentatively as if you were in the middle of something, his eyes never left yours.

“the book ?”

“yes, the book.”

stupid question. and incredibly intelligent man, or so it seemed.

his mouth opened once before he spoke, gathering the whirlwind of thoughts as they rushed through his mind.

“twenty thousand words per minute. that’s my usual reading speed,” he explains, like it’s the most natural thing ever.”

“if you minimise factors such as the environment or time of the day. usually, my brain is more active in the early morning.”

you nod along.

“so,” in an attempt to understand, you put your hands on your hips. the little dimple on your right cheek is probably showing, you think. it always does when you’re intrigued.

he almost stares, you notice before he says again.

“so, i was wondering if you had any recommendations. you said classics, right ?”

classics.

jane austen, dostoevsky, maybe some hugo or brontë. the energy he brought felt like a calm breeze, a yearning soul perhaps. looking at his hazel eyes and tall frame felt like discovering a puzzle part you didn't know was missing.

oh, you had plenty of suggestions for him. questions too popped up in your mind as he leaned against the shelf, tilting his head in silent obsrvation.

caramel curls were sticking to his temples, rebelling from the way they'd carefully been pushed back earlier.

he took the silence as an opportunity to ask, round eyes pleaing. "you said something about fresh drinks ?"

the world seemed to stop when you giggled, his inner thermostat skyrocketing.

that's what it was.

it was the expression on your face he wanted to decipher.

your thoughts that he truly wanted to read.

"sure, i'll get you some iced tea" flowing dress creating a delicate movement at every step, you made your way to the coffee station.

"right, i'll just... wait here"

books, fresh air, you. eveerything here seemed perfect, he never wanted to leave, followed you after a couple of seconds as if a magnetic force had pushed him to.

the rest would just have to wait.

౨ৎ if you liked this, try reading you're in my way now

“I have nightmares each week about that Friday in May 

One phone call from you and my entire world was changed”

He had already listened to her sing, and it had always been beautiful, but it had never been so serious, so deep, so… sad. There was a kind of crack in every high note, like she was crying.

“Trust that you betrayed, confusion that still lingers 

Took everything I loved and crushed it in between your fingers”

Trying to make as little sound as possible, Spencer opened the door and left his bag at the entrance, as always. He took off his shoes silently and walked barefoot closer to Cécile’s open door. 

“And I doubt you ever think about the damage that you did

But I hold onto every detail like my life depends on it”

Spencer looked at her fingers dancing on the keyboard she had laid on her bed. He remembered her face when, some days before, she came home with that massive box and a massive smile on her face; she had just stated, “I felt inspired, and then my first paycheck arrived.” He couldn't help but chuckle at that. 

“My undying love, now I hold it like a grudge

And I hear your voice every time that I think I'm not enough

And I try to be tough, but I wanna scream

How could anybody do the things you did so easily?”

Oh, Spencer knew what this was about. He knew and wasn't supposed to know. James Peterson. 

“And I say I don't care, I say that I'm fine

But you know I can't let it go

I've tried, I've tried, I've tried for so long

It takes strength to forgive, but I don't feel strong”

Cécile fell silent and took a deep breath, while Spencer held his, still magnetically attracted to her singing. He didn't want her to notice him standing there before the end of the song. 

“The arguments that I have won against you in my head

In the shower, in the car and in the mirror before bed

Yeah, I'm so tough when I'm alone and I make you feel so guilty

And I fantasize about a time you're a little fuckin' sorry

And I try to understand why you would do this all to me

You must be insecure, you must be so unhappy

And I know in my heart hurt people hurt people

And we both drew blood, but, man, those cuts were never equal

And I try to be tough, but I wanna scream

How could anybody do the things you did so easily?

And I say I don't care, I say that I'm fine

But you know I can't let it go

I've tried, I've tried, I've tried for so long

It takes strength to forgive, but I don't feel strong”

A sob seemed to be on the verge of escaping from her lips, but they just trembled, and her eyes became glossy before she started singing again, this time in a higher pitch and a sadder tone. 

“Ooh, do you think I deserved it all?

Ooh, your flowers filled with vitriol

You built me up to watch me fall

You have everything and you still want more

I try to be tough, I try to be mean

But even after all this, you're still everything to me

And I know you don't care, I guess that that's fine

But you know I can't let it go

I've tried, I've tried, I've tried for so long

It takes strength to forgive, but I'm not quite sure I'm there yet

It takes strength to forgive, but…”

The last note lingered in the room for moments that felt like hours, then the girl straightened her back and looked up from the keys, only to see Spencer's usual flat smile and head tilted a little to the right. He looked like a puppy that had just destroyed a designer shoe: conscious of his action, but too aware of his immunity to actually care. 

“Spencer, you scared me!” 

“It's a great song, y’know? Did you write it?” he asked, ignoring her remark. 

She softly nodded and hid her ears under her hair, like she always did when she was embarrassed. Spencer had noticed it the first day, after his long ramble about her “profile”, and asked himself if she knew that it was totally pointless since the redness also radiated to her cheeks and chin. 

There was a moment of silence. Cécile looked at Spencer with her head tilted, uncertain in front of this sudden loss of words. 

“C’mon. Ask me.” 

“What?” 

“You know what. You want to ask me what the song is about.”

“Is it about that ex-boyfriend that you mentioned?” 

The girl laughed and rolled her eyes, “Yeah, right, I forgot about your genius, I-remember-everything-you-have-ever-said thing.” 

But he was not distracted by her witty remark, he still wanted to hear her answer, even if he knew perfectly what it was.

“You haven't exactly said a lot.” he said, biting his bottom lip, uncertain. 

“Touché”

“I'm sorry, I - I just… It was just a joke, Morgan always says they don't land.” 

“No, no, you're right. Really, it's just that -” her voice broke when she looked at him, at his brown eyes, like the ones of a doe, looking right back at her. She had to look down to her crossed legs on her bed to stop the tears. 

When she felt her eyes less watery, Cécile looked up and found Spencer still looking at her with his oh-so-gracious expression, with his brows in a worried frown, but with the look of a man that could wait forever. 

“It's just that, you know, I really, really thought that coming here I could pretend that nothing happened. I thought that Washington was far enough. But he's back! He's back and not just in my mind and I don't know what to do. Now I feel like I should pack and leave again!”

“Who is back, Cécile?” What a liar, he accused himself. Of course he knew, but he needed her to say that name so that he could feel that weight off his chest. 

“Him! My ex-boyfriend, his name is James, James Peterson.” 

There it was. Cécile didn't notice, her vision blurred by the tears, but Spencer let out a sad but relieved sigh. 

“What do you mean when you say he's back?” he asked, pretending once again. 

“I know that you've noticed, Spencer.” the girl said, recomposing herself and tucking her hair behind her ears, overwhelmed, “He texts me and calls me at least once a week and I go to the bathroom to cry. Doesn't take a profiler to notice.” 

Spencer felt guilty all of a sudden. He had always thought that it would be better to mind his own business and not ask, but now that Cécile was talking about it, he started to wonder if maybe he should’ve stepped up and asked. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” the boy asked, after a long, reflective silence. 

Cécile hesitated: she wanted to, really. But wouldn't Spencer start to see her differently, like the rest of the people that knew about this? Wasn't the aim of her move to have nobody know about what happened to her? The logical thinking she had put against every emotion to try and deal (unsuccessfully) with all her past was telling her that, no, she should respond with a dry “No” and send Spencer away, but… she was already crying and he was the only person that she trusted in the whole city right now. Her heart, pounding in her chest, started to tell her that Spencer was her friend and she deserved to let out some emotion sometimes. 

Now sitting on the couch, the two roommates seemed like patient and therapist: Spencer was sitting straight and composed, listening to every word, like he was taking mental notes in his mind (he was), and Cécile, finally vulnerable, was scrunched up against the armrest, a pile of tissues in her lap, talking non-stop, crying but finally happy to let those secrets out. 

“We were together for a little more than a year before I broke up with him.” she said, running out of breath. “He was perfect, you know? He was all that I ever dreamed of, when he wasn't angry, or jealous, or just completely absent because of his stupid football games. But I kept telling myself that those were just moments and I had my moments too, and that apart from our moments we loved each other so much: I was completely in love, like desperately.” 

Spencer nodded, those images from James’ Facebook appearing so vividly in his mind: his roommate, now sitting in front of him on the couch, kissing that black-haired boy in the campus park, in a slightly blurry selfie; their photos at Christmas; them hugging on the football field after a match, James tired and Cécile proud. They definitely looked like they were in love. 

“With time it became obvious: those moments weren't moments, they were James being James. The moments started to be all of our relationship, with some little sparks of romance, that made me cling to him like a child.” Her voice broke and Spencer scrunched his mouth in a sad and empathetic expression. “The funny thing is that I studied those things, I studied the psychology behind misogyny and toxic masculinity and manipulation and all those things, but still: when I had his behaviour in front of me all I could do was find excuses.” 

“One day, we were fighting - like our third fight that week - and it just became too much for me. I didn't even plan it and I regretted it the moment I said it but I just screamed <<Maybe we should just break up! You don't even love me!>>, and he got so mad I was scared he could hurt me that time: he started accusing me of cheating on him and that I was the one who didn't love him. But unfortunately I did, and I think I still do. - Oh God, this is so embarrassing!” 

The blonde girl let out a sarcastic laugh and said “Anyway, he really thought that I didn't love him and that I cheated on him since he decided to get his revenge.” 

Cécile started to talk more slowly, getting to the part she was ashamed of. Spencer tried to swallow the pit in his throat, before saying “What revenge?” and feeling like a big, fat liar. 

“The next day, a photo of mine - y’know what kind of photo: the kind that you send to people that you trust, the only people who should see it and who you know would never send it to anyone -” She was red in the face and she tried to cover it with her hair once again. Spencer tilted his head to the side in a slight frown, trying to look surprised. “anyway, that intimate photo was on every single student’s computer and cell phone. It started to go around so much that even professors started seeing it: the people who should have done something! The people who should have punished him! I could feel their eyes on me constantly, their judgment during lectures, in the hallways, in the library, during exams, even when I was alone, when nobody could see me, it was like I was being watched constantly.” 

All of a sudden the tears started flowing again; but this time, they were tears of rage and fear. 

And as much as he didn't want to think about it, the rage in those eyes resembled so much the one in Elle Greenaway’s eyes the last night he had seen her. 

Spencer didn't know what to do: he looked at her clumsy fingers drying her tears like the ones of a child that doesn't know how to express what they're feeling; in Cécile’s microexpressions there were so many emotions that even a great profiler like Spencer was having trouble. With a slow movement, he dried his slightly sweaty hand on his pants and placed it shyly on her leg, in sign of silent comfort. 

Cécile smiled forcefully and continued. “It got too much too quickly. I couldn't go to lectures, I couldn't take my exams, I couldn't leave the house: everywhere I went I felt naked, watched, examined. My friends turned their back on me when I stopped talking to them, but I am not going to blame them for that, I was impossible to deal with. I don't know how to explain not feeling safe even in the one place where you should always be safe, your own home. So, after two months of never leaving the house, panic attacks every day and losing all my friends, I decided it was time to leave. My family tried to stop me, but I could stay one more day in Chicago, or I think I would’ve ended up killing myself. I thought about it one time.” 

Spencer breathed heavily from his nostrils, sadness creeping in. 

“I am so sorry, Cécile. You're safe now.” He said, controlled, dry, like he did a million times to the victims that he encountered on his cases, but this time he didn't say it out of protocol, he did because he didn't know what to do. He said that because the only thing that crossed his mind was to start to cry and hug her and confess that he had searched her past because he couldn't mind his business. 

But protocol didn't seem to work either. 

“No! I'm not, Spencer!” She responded, yelling. “I thought I could be, but he decided to text me and call me and I'm so fucking scared that I don't even have the courage to block him!”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not! I'm scared and I hate myself because I keep finding excuses!” she continued screaming. 

Maybe protocol wouldn't work this time. So he tried the second option. With slow, almost unnoticeable movements, he got closer on the couch and hugged Cécile shyly, hands trembling and scanning for a reaction. 

For once, Spencer didn't think about the chemical reactions occurring or germs passed during embraces; he only cared about her sobs and screaming stopping. Breathing heavily into Spencer's sweater, Cécile slowly stopped trembling and noticed that her tears had stopped: for the first time in months she felt grounded, understood, finally safe. 

Spencer didn't know what to say, so he bit his bottom lip, holding back his tongue, scared to say the wrong thing again. Then, he just repeated, “I'm sorry.” 

Cécile lifted her head from Spencer's shoulder - disappointed to abandon that comforting smell of wool and coffee - to look him in the eyes. They weren't those grounding and sure eyes anymore that had looked at her before, when she was in her bedroom; these eyes were worried and sorry, really sorry. She stared at him so long she started to notice her own reflection in his glasses lenses. 

This time she was the one that could find the words.

“Thank you, Spencer.” 

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

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ see next chapter ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ (link will be added) 

"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.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

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