i had all the answers

The second you walk through the front door you know something is wrong. You can’t explain it; nothing looks or sounds different. Yet somehow everything feels different.

You close the door behind you and sit your bag on the kitchen island. Then you notice it.

The light upstairs. Specifically your bedroom light. Your stomach drops. Because your bedroom door is open. And you know for a fact you shut it this morning. And David Rossi does not go into your room. Ever. Not when you’re home, and especially not when you’re gone.

For a second you just stare. Then you slowly head upstairs. The hallway feels longer than normal. The paintings on the wall seem to stretch far more than they actually do.

Your room is empty when you reach it. Nothing appears disturbed, nothing is missing, but something feels wrong.

You hear movement down the hall. Your uncle’s bedroom door opens and suddenly there he is. Standing in the doorway. Watching you.

“We need to talk,” he says. Your stomach sinks. The words are calm. Too calm. And that's far worse than angry.

He follows you into your room. You lower yourself onto the edge of your bed. He remains standing. 

Your bedroom door stays open, but he’s standing right in front of it. Blocking the hallway, the escape route. Not intentionally, probably. It feels impossible to look anywhere except at him.

He sighs. He sounds exhausted. And disappointed. And angry. All at once. For a moment he just looks at you. You suddenly understand how three different women divorced David Rossi.

“You lied to me,” he says.

Your heart stops.

Spencer.

It had to be about Spencer. Except, how?

You force your expression into confusion.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, trying your best to seem clueless.

Your uncle clenches his jaw. He slowly reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a yellow sticky note.

Your blood turns to ice. You don’t even need to read it. You already know exactly what it says.

‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’ 

Followed by eight numbers. Spencer’s phone number.

Your uncle looks down at it in his hand. Then back at you.

“You lied to me,” he says again, this time quieter. Much quieter.

The disappointment hurts more than the anger. Much worse.

“I can explain…” you say.

“Can you?” His voice raises for the first time. “You told me there was nothing going on.”

“There isn’t!”

“Then why are you sneaking around and hiding it from me?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because honestly, you don’t have an answer. At least not one he’ll accept.

He laughs. Humorlessly. It’s terrifying.

“You lied about the phone number…”

“Uncle Dave…”

“You lied about Garcia’s car.”

You stand up. “Because you would’ve overreacted!”

“I’M overreacting?” His voice echoes through the house.You immediately regret saying that.

“You’re eighteen.”

You laugh a fed up laugh. “That’s what this is about?”

“It’s relevant.”

“It’s not.”

“How is it not?”

“We’re friends!”

“You are not spending three hours on the phone every night with a friend.”

Your stomach drops. How much does he know?

“A week,” he says, his voice shaking now. Not from anger, but from hurt. “A week of phone calls.” 

You just stare at him. That tells him everything. 

“A week,” he repeats.

You haven’t tried denying it. You hadn’t realized he knew. Your uncle looks away and runs a hand across his face. For a second he looks tired, almost older. 

“He is twenty-six years old, Y/N.”

You flinch, because somehow hearing it from him makes it feel different. Hearing it from him makes it sound…wrong.

“I know.” you say, embarrassed.

Rossi just stares at you. And somehow the silence is worse than the yelling.

“You know?” he finally says, his voice low.

You can’t speak, but you nod in response.

His eyes widen, he looks more angry now. “YOU KNOW?” he shouts.

“Yes!”

“And you’re still doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Hanging around a twenty-six year old federal agent.”

Ouch.

“He’s my friend!”

“He’s twenty-six!”

“And?”

Rossi lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“And?” he repeats. “That’s your response?”

“Yes!”

“You are eighteen years old.”

“So?”

“You graduated high school five months ago.”

“I’m in college!”

“That doesn’t just make it okay for you to hang out with people in their mid twenties.”

You stand up from the bed. “You’re acting like he’s some creepy guy!”

“I never said he was.”

“You sure make it sound like that.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Then stop acting like Spencer did something wrong.”

Rossi rubs his temple.

“This isn’t about Spencer,” he says.

“Then why is he the only thing you’ve been yelling about for ten minutes?

“Because he’s the thing you’ve been lying to me about!”

“I’ve been lying to you because if I were to mention Spencer you’d lose your mind!”

Your uncle’s jaw clinches. He knows you’re right, but he knows his point must stand.

“You are eighteen,” he says, for what feels like the hundredth time.

“I’m an adult.”

“Barely.”

His response hits harder than it probably should. You stare at him as he keeps going.

“He’s older than your brother.”

“Not even by a year.”

"That's not the point."

"It kind of is."

"No, it isn't." You cross your arms. "They would've been in the same grade."

"Exactly."

You pause. That wasn't the response you expected. "What?"

"They would've been in the same grade."

"So?"

"So would you ever think about being friends, or whatever,with somebody in your brother's graduating class?"

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.

"That's different."

"How?"

Because it is. It absolutely is. Except you can't explain why.

"It's just different."

"No, it isn't."

"It is."

"Y/N." Rossi's voice drops lower. Dangerously lower. "The fact that you're struggling to answer that should tell you something."

You look away.Because you hate that he's right. You'd never looked at it that way before. Spencer wasn't "twenty-six" in your head. He was Spencer. The guy who sat on your bedroom floor for almost four hours talking about science fiction. The guy who got excited about planners. The guy who remembered random things you said weeks ago. The guy who called you just to talk. You'd never mentally put him in the same category as your brother and his friends. 

Because somehow that felt ridiculous.

And yet technically he was.

Rossi sees the hesitation. "Exactly."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, because you're making it weird."

"I'm not making it weird."

"You're comparing Spencer to Sean and Darrell and all of Logan’s stupid friends.”

“And?"

You groan loudly. "My point is that Spencer isn't like them."

"I KNOW HE ISN'T LIKE THEM."

The sudden volume makes you jump. Rossi drags a hand down his face. Because that's the thing. This isn't about Spencer being a bad person. And that's what makes this so much harder.

"I know exactly who Spencer is," he says. "I've worked with him for over a year." His voice softens slightly. "That's part of the problem."

You stare at him. "What does that mean?"

"It means I know how old he is." His eyes meet yours. "I know what he’s seen and what he’s been through.” The softness in his voice vanishes. “Which means I know that he’s been in the FBI since you were in middle school.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate it because you’ve thought about it too. The age, the experience, the gap between where you and him are in your lives. You;d thought about it when Penelope mentioned his age at his birthday dinner, and while lying awake in your bed. You’d thought about it every single time your feelings were getting harder to ignore. Which was a lot.

“You don;t understand,” you say, pleading with your eyes at him for something you’re not certain of.

“Then explain it to me.”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Because how are you supposed to explain that being with Spencer never made you feel young, or immature, or inexperienced? And that he makes you feel like your opinions matter, and that he talks to you like you’re smart. And worthy, And that he actually cares about what you have to say. How do you explain that talking to Spencer feels easier than talking to anyone else>

You can’t.

“He’s not what you’re making him sound like,” you say instead.

Rossi’s expression softens, which makes the whole conversation hurt more.

“I know he’s not,” he says. “I know exactly who Spencer is.” The softness disappears. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re eighteen.”

“I know,” you say. You hate that he keeps saying things that are true. And you hate even more that none of them change how you feel.

“Nothing is happening!” you finally yell.

He just stares at you in silence.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing!”

Then why are you crying?”

You hadn’t even realized you were. You wipe your eyes. Your uncle sighs, and sort of looks less angry, which makes him just look sad. And that hurts worse.

“I trusted you,” he says, after staring at you for a long moment.

Ouch.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

You’re both quiet for a long time.

“I don’t want you seeing him anymore.”

“What?”

“No phone calls, no dinner, no seeing him.”

“What?”

“If I find out that you’re talking to him again…”

“Uncle Dave!”

“As long as I’m paying for you to keep living in this house and for you to go to college and giving you anything you want you will follow my rules.”

You stare at him. He stares right back. Neither of you move. Finally, he turns to leave.

“Uncle Dave,” you call out to him.

He stops, but doesn’t look back.

“I expected better from you,” he says, and slams the door hard enough to rattle the room.

A book falls off your shelf. The same book Spencer had spent fifteen minutes carefully examining the night you met. It hits the floor with a thud.

And suddenly the room feels emptier than it ever had.

You stare at the closed door and the book on the floor. And think about the sticky note still in your uncle’s hand on the other side of the door.

Then the tears finally come.

And there’s nothing you can do to stop them.

_____

SPENCER’S POV Friday 8:00 AM

I called Y/N three times last night. She didn’t answer a single time. She’s never missed a single one of my calls, let alone three. Maybe she was busy, she could’ve been studying. She does have a proctored test today.

I want to ask Rossi if she’s okay when he comes into work today, but he rushes past my desk without so much as looking at me. Which is weird. Without a doubt he always says hi to me. Every single morning.

And maybe she wouldn’t like me asking Dave if she’s okay. And if she was just busy last night, I don’t want her to be upset at me for overstepping for no reason.

My phone buzzes. I look down immediately. Nothing. No messages, no missed calls, nothing. 

I called her three times last night. 

8:07.

9:34.

10:52.

Not consecutively. People miss phone calls, phones die, people study, people fall asleep. All perfectly reasonable explanations for somebody to miss a phone call.

The problem is that after the third unanswered call your brain begins generating increasingly unreasonable explanations.

I don’t particularly enjoy that process.

I put my phone away and start working on paperwork. 

I’m about half way through my first file when Fabid Rossi appears in front of my desk.

“Reid,” he says to get my attention.

I look up.

“We need to talk.”

That usually isn’t a sentence people enjoy hearing.

I get up and he leads me to his office. Any conversation that had been happening in the bullpen had ceased. I feel awkward as we walk. I can feel everybody’s eyes on me.

Rossi steps inside his office, I enter after him. He closes the door. That’s not concerning in the slightest.

He motions for me to sit in one of the chairs across from his desk. I do. He remains standing. That’s more concerning.

For several seconds he doesn’t say anything. He just studies me. I feel like I’m being interrogated. I don’t like it.

“My niece,” he finally says, after what felt like hours. 

I blink. Oh. Immediately several possibilities occur to me. Maybe she’s upset. Maybe something happened. Maybe she failed her exam. 

“Is everything okay?” I ask, genuinely concerned about her.

I see his jaw tighten. “You could probably ask yourself that question.”

Did I do something wrong?

“How often have you been talking to her?” He asks.

That wasn’t one of the possibilities I thought of. “What?”

“How often?”

I think about it. “Almost every night.”

His expression worsens, which is confusing.

“Phone calls,” I add, maybe he wanted context.

“I know,” he says.

Okay, so he already knows that. That eliminates several potential misunderstandings.

Unfortunately it doesn’t eliminate the actual misunderstanding.

“She’s great,” I say, smiling.

The second the sentence leaves my mouth I know something is wrong. I don’t know what's going on, or if I said or did something I shouldn’t have, but I’ve seen David Rossi interview serial killers with friendlier expressions than how he’s glaring at me now.

“Great?” he repeats.

“Yeah.” I keep smiling, despite the fact that something looks wrong. Because she is great. She’s funny, and smart, and she asks interesting questions. She actually lets me talk about stuff, which is rare for me. “I like talking to her.”

That appears to be the incorrect response.

“Seriously?” His voice is clearly sarcastic. I’m confused.

I stare at him.

“What?” I ask.

“Reid…” something in his voice makes my stomach drop. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

I have no idea how to answer that question, or what he wants me to say.

“Talking to her?’

His eyes close briefly. “She’s eighteen.”

Oh. The realization of what he’s thinking hits me all at once. I completely understand what he’s implying. Rossi and I are having two completely different conversations.

“No. That’s not what– No.” I stutter a lot.

“Then what is it?”

I run a hand through my hair because somehow this conversation has become deeply confusing.

“She’s my friend.”

Rossi stares at me. I stare back, I’m so confused.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t believe me, which is frustrating. “I’ve never–”

I stop. Because I don’t know how to finish that sentence. 

I’ve never what? I’ve never asked her out. I’ve never flirted with her. I’ve never intended…

My thoughts stop abruptly. Because suddenly I realize I don’t actually know what qualifies as flirting.

“She’s my friend,” I say again.

The silence that follows is awful. It’s painful, and awkward, and filled with gazes and glances that I don’t like being the receiver of.

Then Rossi explodes. For once I don’t remember every word. Mostly because he’s talking very loudly. And I’m scared.

He mentions something about phone calls, and boundaries, and responsibility. Something about age. Most of it blends together. Not because I’m not listening, but because I’m trying to understand how we got here. He starts talking about power imbalances, and life experiences, and maturity. And I genuinely do not think the conversation could get any more awkward.

And then it does.

“Do you have any idea what you’d do if she gets pregnant?”

I blink. Pregnant? For a second I wonder if I missed part of the conversation.

“Pregnant?” I interrupt.

Rossi doesn’t stop. He keeps talking. I completely lose track of the conversation. Because what?

“I’m not trying to have sex with your niece, man!”

The sentence leaves my mouth before I can stop it. I immediately realize two things.

That was significantly louder than I intended it to be.

The bullpen definitely heard that, which is pretty mortifying.

Rossi stares at me. I stare back. Neither of us say anything for a long time.

“That’s not the point,” he says.

“Then what is the point?”

“Reid.”

I lean forward, because now I’m frustrated too.

“No, seriously. You’re talking to me like I’m trying to date her.”

“You’re spending hours every night talking to her.”

“Because she’s my friend.”

“Friends don’t hide things.”

“I wasn’t hiding anything. I never asked her to hide anything. Honestly, I thought you knew.”

Rossi lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Really? You thought I knew?”

“I was under the impression everyone knew.”

That apparently is also the wrong answer. Rossi lowers himself into his chair for the first time since I entered his office. Which should make me feel better. It doesn’t. Now he just looks tired. And angry. And worried.

I realize this conversation was never really about me. It’s about her. He’s scared. That doesn’t make it right, but it explains a lot. Unfortunately, it doesn’t solve anything. Every explanation I give somehow makes the situation worse. There’s not much more either of us can say.

Finally he sighs. A long exhausted sigh that makes him sound like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Just stay away from her.”

Part of me wants to argue. It’s unfair to have to take orders from someone who is just making assumptions about my intentions. But I just sit there looking at him. He looks confused, I’m sure I look the same. Because I am deeply confused. 

A week ago I was talking and laughing with his niece, now I’m apparently being treated like a criminal.

Eventually I stand, the conversation is over.

I open his office door. The bullpen immediately becomes more fascinated with paperwork than they have in their entire lives. Nobody looks at me, which means everyone was looking at me.

I walk back to my desk and sit. Just sit. I don’t open a file or turn on my computer. I just sit. Trying to process what just happened. The problem is, I still don’t understand exactly what I did wrong.

Garcia appears at my desk. She looks at me.

“Yes?” I ask quietly.

Her face falls when she sees my face.

“Oh, Honey,” she says.

I sigh.

“That bad?” she asks.

“That bad.”

Before I can stop her she’s marching toward Rossi’s office determined and very guilty looking. She closes the door behind her. She comes out a little while later, and judging by her expression, she was unsuccessful in whatever she was trying to accomplish.

Morgan rolls his chair over beside me shortly after he gets back from lunch. I didn’t eat. I couldn’t.

“Question,” he says.

I look at him, everyone heard my conversation with Rossi so there’s no point in running.

“Are you dating Rossi’s niece?”

“No.” I say immediately.

“That was a fast answer.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Okay,” Morgan nods. “Do you want to?”

I stare at him. Then I blink. “No.”

Morgan studies my face for several seconds. He’s profiling me. “You look confused.”

“I am confused.”

He leaves, which is remarkably unhelpful.

The rest of the day passes slowly. I keep feeling like I’m being watched. And it’s awkward.

By the time I get home I’m exhausted. Mentally. I sit my satchel beside the couch. I check my phone. Nothing still.

I tell myself I’m worried because Rossi is angry. Which is true. I tell myself I’m worried because she’s never ignored my calls. Also true. I tell myself there are perfectly rational explanations for both things. That’s true too.

Then I check my phone again. Which is not rational. 

Knowing a behavior is irrational doesn’t automatically stop you from doing it. People assume it does. They’re wrong.

I start to really consider what Rossi said today. About Y/N. About why he was so angry. And I wonder why it bothers me as much as it does.

The only thing I know is that I miss talking to her.

And that’s the thought that keeps me awake the longest.

_____

Read Part 7 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: i’ve literally been working on this since 1:00 pm today (its 10:30 now) i have a serious problem i think

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