#* chapter update.

     “Uh, hey.” The words stumble out of Buck and he coughs, trying to recover what remains of his dignity. “You know, sneaking up on people isn’t good for your health. What if I’d panicked and thrown a punch or something?”

     You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You did panic, Buck. Seems like it’s worse for your health than mine. Key, please?”

     “Eddie’s just up in the loft, I can grab him if you want.”

     It’s your turn to look a little sheepish. “Please don’t. It’s a surprise. Or it will be a surprise, if you let me borrow your key. I’ll return it tomorrow, I promise, and I’m not going to let a bunch of raccoons loose in there or anything━”

     Buck blinks. The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, just enough to let you know that he’s teasing. Mostly. “I wasn’t worried, but now I am.”

     “I’m saving the raccoons for your apartment, actually,” you tell him, and now you’re not even really asking anymore, know that Buck will inevitably break because you’re Eddie’s girlfriend, and he actually likes you, and most importantly, his insatiable curiosity will not allow him to deny you. Hand outstretched, you wiggle your fingers expectantly. “Key, please.”

     He huffs at you as if you’ve asked him to scale Mount Everest in nothing but swim trunks, rather than the perfectly reasonable request you’ve actually made, and makes a show of tugging the key to Eddie’s house off the keyring before passing it along to you.

     “I have only one condition,” says Buck, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he presses the key into your palm.

     You watch him warily. You’ve been dating Eddie, and subsequently been acquainted with Buck, long enough to recognise that look. “What?”

     “Whatever you’re doing, make sure you film his reaction. I’ve got a funny feeling he’s gonna freak out.”

     A nervous laugh bubbles in your throat, and you can’t help rolling your lips together as you pocket the key. It doesn’t take a genius to know that Eddie Diaz isn’t overly fond of surprises, but… fuck, you hope this one goes down well.

      “I’ll keep you posted, Buck.” You offer him a two-fingered salute and turn on your heel, hurrying out of the firehouse before Eddie catches you sneaking around.

      What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?

     Here’s the thing.

     The first time Eddie invited you back to his place, you hadn’t really seen it. A euphoric haze had clouded all rational thought in your brain, because this brilliant guy you’d fallen head over heels for was so obviously guarded, and you’d been so happy the day he’d kissed you and invited you back to his place for coffee.

     You’d been dating for three months by that point, and you’d wandered in and out of his house without really seeing anything except for him.

     Meeting Christopher had gone much the same way. On the drive over you’d been rattling with nerves so much that you’d had to pull over on the freeway and shake out the cramp in your hand after white-knuckling the steering wheel. Your heart had thudded so hard in your chest that you worried Eddie would be able to hear it from the other side of the room.

     There had been nothing to worry about, in the end, and almost a year on, you’re certain that neither of these boys can be pried out of the space they’ve created in your heart. Somehow, without really noticing, the pair of them have made a home there, built on a foundation of blood and muscle and all the love in your body.

     You’re not sure your heart would know how to beat without them now.

      And you love them, you love them, you love them both with everything you have…

     … but this damn house is driving you insane.

     There’s nothing wrong with it, in particular. It’s small and functional, perfect for the little family it shelters. Beige walls, basic furniture, sparse decorations that Eddie definitely had nothing to do with, and that’s sort of… it.

     Now, you’re not an interior decorator, and you’d managed to miss it the first few times you visited, but now it’s like the blank walls are mocking you. Now you’ve seen it, you know, and the stark bleakness of this house has become a glaringly obvious problem that you’ve finally decided to tackle.

     Unlocking the door with Buck’s key, you manage to nudge it open with your hip, hands and wrists weighed down with Target shopping bags that you dump on the floor the moment the door is closed. Tucking Buck’s key back into your pocket ━ Eddie gave you a key almost six months ago, but you’ve managed to lose four of them since, so it’s widely agreed that it’s best you borrow Eddie’s or Buck’s or Carla’s whenever you need to ━ you turn to the sparse open space of the kitchen/diner.

     Hands settling on your hips, a slow breath escapes through your teeth as you survey the house. Christopher’s room is the only one with any personality, and you wouldn’t dare intrude on his privacy in that way anyway. Eddie’s room, similarly, feels off-limits.

     But the rest of the house? Fair game.

     When Eddie stumbles through the front door at the end of his shift, he doesn’t notice it right away. Not your bag hanging on a hook by the door, or your shoes tucked neatly against the wall. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton after a twelve-hour shift, and he’s simply grateful that Carla offered to drop Christopher off later, rather than have Eddie come pick him up after his shift.

     He doesn’t notice you lingering in the kitchen with a bottle of beer in your hand until you clear your throat, and then he looks over, and a tired smile spreads over his face.

     “That for me?” he asks, as hold out the beer bottle towards him, drops of condensation soaking your fingers.

     “It’s definitely not for me.” You wrinkle your nose playfully as he accepts the drink, and you lean over the counter to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. You hand over Buck’s key, and with it, all the anxiety you’ve felt since it first landed in your possession that morning. “Give this back to Buck for me? If I lose another one, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

     Eddie chuckles and tucks the key into his pocket. “Buck didn’t mention you came by the firehouse.”

     “I asked him not to.” Your voice wavers, just a little. The way you’re picking at a loose bit of skin near your thumb lets him know you’re nervous, and he reaches out with his free hand, curling rough fingers around your own. Unable to help yourself, a deluge of words start to babble out of you. “I did a thing. And I’m aware that you may not like the thing, and it almost certainly wasn’t my place which I’m realising now, but it seemed like a pretty harmless idea at the time?”

     “Baby━”

     “And if you hate it, I can take it all away! We can pretend I never did it, it’s just that your walls were driving me freaking insane, like which decorator decided that beige was a good base colour because I would like to have a word━”

     “Hey!” A gentle squeeze of your hand grabs your attention, and when you look back at Eddie, the sight of him knocks the breath of you. You never knew eyes could be so big and brown and full of love, and even though there’s a little humour glinting in there at your expense, you still find it a little difficult to breathe.

     Fuck, you love this man.

     “What am I supposed to hate, exactly?” There’s a lilt of laughter in his voice, a gentle quirk to the corner of his mouth.

     You want to kiss him until it blossoms into a full-blown grin. You hope you’re lucky enough to make this man laugh forever.

     The look on his face helps to ease the tension in your shoulders. Slowly, you reach out and take the beer bottle from his grip, setting it on the counter. Instead, you replace it with your own hand, threading your fingers through his, a little chilly where the bottle pressed against his skin.

     “Let me show you.”

     Guiding him by the hand, you lead him through to the living room, and at first, he’s not sure what’s changed. There’s still the couch, and the TV, and the coffee table he knows you’ve always hated because it’s glass, and who has a glass coffee table, Eddie, you're a firefighter and this feels like a recipe for disaster!

     (You’ve seen way too many movies where characters end up crashing through a glass coffee table but you still think it’s a valid point.)

     And then he sees them.

     He spots the first one next to the television; a picture of Chris from a few months ago, the first time all three of you went to the beach together. He’s grinning at the camera and there’s a dab of ice-cream on his nose from where you swiped him just a moment before. Eddie remembers taking this and sending it to you.

     It wasn’t the first moment he realised he loved you, not by a long shot, but he hadn’t said it yet, and that day on the beach had cemented your place in his heart even further.

     The picture is small, sitting in a quirky silver frame that you’ve glued a few seashells to.

     The next two are over on the mantel. A photograph of the 118 in Bobby and Athena’s backyard last summer; Bobby’s frowning in the foreground, having been bullied into wearing a Kiss The Cook apron by Buck and Hen, while the rest of them are howling with laughter behind him. The other is a picture of Christopher and Shannon cuddled together beneath the Christmas tree.

     Tucked between them, bizarrely, is a little wooden figurine of a runner duck wearing galoshes. This one, he knows, came from your personal collection.

     Eddie’s heart stutters in his chest as he turns, finally, to the big thing. The wall behind the couch has always been depressingly bare, a dull expanse of beige paint that he’s always sworn he’d do something with, eventually.

     Hell, the whole house is bare. And depressing. This, he’s ready to admit, even if the reason for it used to sting a little bit.

     Before now, the only personal touches in his home belonged to Christopher. Report cards and drawings stuck to the fridge with kitschy magnets from tourist spots. An ever-changing pile of video games stacked on the floor next to the TV. A dinosaur-print throw that was dragged from Christopher’s bedroom on a lazy Sunday that hasn’t quite managed to migrate back there yet.

     It was never that way on purpose. At first, he thinks, it was a reluctance to put down roots. Life was hectic enough, with his work schedule and Christopher switching schools. Before Carla, Eddie hardly had a moment to breathe, let alone think about decorating their home beyond the bare minimum required to get by.

     And then, he thinks, it might have been guilt.

     He doesn’t dare to dwell on that for too long. He feels your hand in his own, steady as a rock, and stares, glassy-eyed, at the wall you’ve managed to transform into something… something that feels like home.

     A collage of wooden picture frames are scattered over the surface of the wall, in varying hues of warmth that contrast nicely with the beige that peeks through the cracks. A beige that, formerly, kind of made him want to scratch his eyes out. He hadn’t quite realised that until now.

     Dozens of smiling faces peer down at him. A handful of memories he holds most dear, and each of them sends a flush of warmth through his chest.

     There’s the day Chris was born, and he’s staring at this tiny baby in his arms as if he’s holding the sun and stars themselves. There’s Buck and Chris at the zoo, posing near the penguin exhibit. There’s Eddie, on the day he was certified as a full-fledged member of the LAFD, shaking Bobby’s hand. There’s even a picture where he’s fallen asleep on the couch, and his sisters are brandishing Sharpies like the little demons they are, drawing a moustache and beard that took days to properly fade away.

     It’s such a little thing, really. They’re just pictures. But his throat feels tight and his eyes are wet and it doesn’t feel little to him. Not at all.

     “You thought I’d hate this?” He’ll never admit that the words come out a little choked up.

     You shrug. “You’re not a fan of surprises.”

     “I might be now.”

     And you both know it’s not true, that Eddie will never be that guy, but this is fine. This is perfect, and he’s damn sure it might be the nicest thing any girlfriend’s ever done for him.

     He turns to you, a thousand more questions on the tip of his tongue, when he notices you’re holding your phone up with your free hand. A confused furrow appears between his brows.

     “Buck,” you tell him, and it really doesn’t require further explanation, but still you add, “He thought you’d freak out. Asked for evidence.”

     “Ah.” Eddie nods. You put your phone away as he winds his arms around your waist, pulling you close enough to kiss the tip of your nose. “I’m not freaking out.”

     “I noticed.”

     “Thank you,” he says, and kisses you again. This time his mouth slides against yours and lingers there for a few seconds, slow and gentle. “I can’t help but notice you’re not in any of the pictures.”

     Your cheeks turn a rosy pink. “That would have been a little presumptuous of me, Mr. Diaz. And I was already hijacking your home for my own selfish agenda, so…”

     “Wanna hijack it some more?”

     The question slips out without any warning, and you blink up at your boyfriend in bewilderment. “Uh?”

     Eddie smiles, wide and wonderful, and even though it’s not possible to fall more in love with him, you think you do.

     “I talked to Chris about it a while ago,” he tells you, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your hip. “I was just waiting for the right time to ask you. And then you went all House Flipper anyway━”

     “I did not go all House Flipper!”

     “━ so it feels like the right time to ask.”

     You watch him for a moment, all soft at the edges. “You want me to move in with you?”

     “I think you’ve got a tartan throw that would look great in here,” he says teasingly, “and that little duck is part of a collection. He might get lonely.”

     “He might,” you concede with a hum.

     There is enough space on that mantel for the whole family.

     You feel like there’s a tiny sun in your chest, like you might honest-to-God be glowing from the inside out right now, and when you pull Eddie down so you can kiss him again, you know without a doubt that the answer is yes.

     There are a hundred things to figure out. You have a lease to get out of, and an apartment filled with enough clutter to furnish ten houses, and you’ve really got to figure out a solution for the key situation, because it’s getting ridiculous.

     But in this moment, none of that matters. It’s you, and Eddie, and Chris, and a bare apartment suddenly filled with a lifetime of potential, and you just know everything is going to be fine.

     Still, you feel sluggish when you drag yourself out of bed ten full minutes after your alarm has gone off. The shower is a no-go this morning  ━  if you’re honest with yourself, the shower is a no-go most mornings, when your skin feels soft and sensitive and your brain can't cope with the idea of a barrage of hot water raining down on you  ━  so you slap on some deodorant and spray some dry shampoo in your hair, tugging it up into a rough ponytail.

     You take your time with your makeup, though; strawberry lipgloss and lots of concealer, a heaping of eyeliner and your favourite gold hoop earrings are exactly what you need to feel better. When you step out into the hallway wearing your comfiest black jeans and a jumper that's probably smart enough to pass the dress code, hearing your daughter giggling in the kitchen, the grey day lightens a little.

     It gets even better when your sister-in-law presses a travel mug of iced coffee into your hands.

     "Jackie, I fucking adore you," you say around a mouthful of delicious, soul-quenching caffeinated goodness. You’d half-expected Jackie to have something planned. Four years of living together means that Jackie tends to know about your off days before you do.

     The other woman suppresses a smile, coupled with a sharp look. "There's a three-year-old right there!"

     You snort, waving your hand nonchalantly. As if you don't have this conversation every single day. "Nellie knows not to repeat what I say." You turn to your daughter, your heart swelling three sizes as the little girl at the kitchen table looks up from her drawing. "Nell, baby, what am I always telling you?"

     "Don't go home with strangers."

     "Well, yeah, but I meant the other thing."

     The little girl brightens, revealing a missing front tooth. "If Aunt Jackie won't say it, then I shouldn't say it."

      You giggle, scurrying over to drop a kiss on your daughter's forehead. "Exactly right, my little love."

     When you turn back toward the kitchen counter, your sister-in-law's face is painted with an affronted look, her mouth half-open. "I can say bad words!"

      You wrinkle your nose. "I'll believe that when I see it."

     By the time you leave the house, sliding into your car with a second cup of iced coffee in hand, the day has lightened to a pale blue. You hope it will stay that way.

     "YOU LOOK SO TIRED, DUDE."

     Well, alright, he'll admit it wasn't the first thing he was expecting to hear when he entered the coroner's office. It's been a while since he ventured down to the morgue, sure, but Dr. Peterson has never talked to him like that before, and he's fairly certain not that much has changed in the three-or-so weeks it's been.

     And Spencer's observant. He prides himself on being able to notice things, tiny details other people seem to miss, things that are so obvious to him that he can't comprehend how normal people can't see them.

     So if anyone asks, he'll never admit that it took a full twelve seconds before he realised that the girl in the white lab coat, elbow-deep in an open chest cavity, is definitely not Dr. Peterson.

     "Uh..."

     It's the most intelligent response he can muster in the moment.

     "It's okay," you add, hardly bothering to look up from the corpse. "I'm tired too. And you're not the worst-looking guy in the room." You jerk your head at the dead guy on the table. "Although I'd say that's a pretty low bar, all things considered."

     "Where's Dr. Peterson?"

     "He retired. Or got a promotion, I think? Not totally sure." You shrug, raising an eyebrow at him. "I thought I'd met most of the department already, but I don't recognise you.” You tell him your name, squinting at him through your plastic glasses.”I’m the new... coroner, medical examiner, pathologist, dancing monkey? They didn't totally specify the position when they offered it, which I think says more about me than anything else."

     Spencer blinks. He's not totally sure he's ever met anyone who could talk nearly as fast as him before. "Dr. Spencer Reid, Behavioral Analysis Unit. Nice to meet you."

     "Oh, cool!" The liver in your hands gives a wet squelch as you drop it into a metal dish. "I'm under the BAU! I answer to your Section Chief, um, Agent Strauss? She's a little harsh, huh? I'd, uh, shake your hand, but..." You hold both hands up, mimicking a surrender, showing off the blue medical gloves slick with blood.

     An inkling of a smile creeps onto Spencer's face. "I don't shake hands."

     "That's fair," you say with a shrug. "Can I help you, Dr. Reid, or did you get lost looking for the cafeteria?"

     “No, actually.” He remembers the files he was supposed to show you and reaches into his satchel. The intensity of your gaze is like lasers on his skin and he can’t help but fumble, almost sending a stack of documents scattering across the floor.

     When he looks back up at you, cheeks flushed rosy, your stare hasn’t wavered even slightly. Amusement lingers in your eyes.

     He clears his throat and holds out the files as if they are a peace offering. He doesn’t quite understand whether a battle has been fought, but he definitely feels like he lost one. “Hotch— uh, Agent Hotchner sent the Howard County ME’s report on the Richardson case. He wanted you to look it over and sign off before they file it for the District Attorney.”

     You nod at him. The corner of your mouth quirks a little at his stuttering. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so immediately endeared to somebody before, but there he is, blinking at you like a deer caught in headlights. It’s so adorable.

     “Sure, I can do that,” you say. “Just pop it on the desk over there and I’ll get on with it when I’m done here. Can’t get any bodily fluids on the paperwork, y’know? That’d be a nightmare.”

     The volume of your laugh startles him, and he jerks slightly. The sound of it is loud and warm and it should really freak him out, considering you’re wrist-deep in a cadaver and cackling like a maniac, but it doesn’t. It’s actually kind of sweet.

     “If that’s all, Dr, Reid, I’d like to finish rooting through this guy’s insides so I can sew him back up.” Your words are an obvious dismissal, but he doesn’t feel offended, not with the kind smile still adorning your features.

     He nods and backs away. His feet feel a little numb. “Sure thing. I’ll, uh, catch you later. Have fun!”

     “I’m sure I will.”

     You sound like you’re about to laugh again. Have fun, really? He knows he’s fairly inept when it comes to women, but have fun? He scurries out of the morgue and back into the land of the living, and as Spencer boards the elevator all he can think is that he’s so glad Derek wasn’t there to witness that.

     He’s certain he’d never live it down.

     Meanwhile you resume your autopsy with an odd, fuzzy feeling in your chest. You start to hum beneath your breath, a song that must have played on the radio while you were driving to work.

     Spencer heads for the kitchen after a moment, ears ringing in the silence, and makes a pot of coffee before meandering back to his desk. A glance at the clock tells him that it’s still early, and as a mouthful of too-sweet coffee sits on his tongue, he reaches into his bag and draws out today’s paper, flipping through to the crossword.

     Silence is golden, after all. If he’s lucky, he’ll beat his personal best.

     He’s halfway through, about to move on to 6, down, when the phone rings. The shrill sound of it pierces the air, and Spencer can’t help flinching a little as it startles him. Eyes dart all over the bullpen, trying to locate the source of the noise, before they land on Emily's desk. The offending phone trills on and on. One of the lights blinks red. External call.

     He discards the newspaper on his desk, tucking a spare pen inside so the page isn’t lost, and strides across the office to Emily’s desk to answer the phone. It won’t be the first time he’s taken a message for one of his coworkers, and he suspects Emily would rather this than letting the call ring out.

     “Agent Prentiss’ phone.” His voice feels too loud in the sudden silence of the office, now that the ringing has ceased. “Dr. Reid speaking. Can I help you?”

     “Dr. Reid?” The voice crackling down the line lilts with confusion, and his chest floods with warmth at the familiarity of it.

     He can almost picture you, in his mind’s eye. The exact expression on your face as you hear him speak instead of Emily, the little scrunch of your nose, your head tilting to the side. It’s the same look you have when you find something strange inside a cadaver.

     The same bewildered wrinkle appears between your brows when you’re on the plane after a case and Spencer’s trying to teach you how to play chess, and you start to laugh and tell him you’re hopeless, but his persistence is endearing, so you let him explain the rules all over again.

     (You’ve only been part of the team for a few months, only accompanied them on cases a handful of times, but the sound of your voice is as familiar to him as the moon on a winter’s night. He can’t quite put his finger on when or how he became so attuned to you, drawn in the same way the moon pulls the tide, but he’s certainly not complaining.)

     “I keep telling you to call me Spencer.” An amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

     You scoff. “That’s not professional.”

     “Our technical analyst tucks fluffy pens into her hair, and on our last case together I walked in on you dancing to Abba in the middle of an autopsy. I think professionalism is a thing of the past.”

     “Bite me, Dr. Reid,” you say, but your words are flooded with affection. “Where’s Prentiss? Why are you answering her phone?”

     Spencer shrugs. “She’s not in yet. Anything I can help with?”

     Silence. If not for the sound of your breathing, Spencer might think the call dropped.

     Another moment passes before you swallow thickly, a quiet gulp that sends an odd zing skittering through Spencer’s nervous system.

     “I need a favour and I don’t want to worry Jackie.”

     From what he’s heard about your sister-in-law, Spencer thinks that’s fair. “Sure, what is it?”

     “Can you pick me up from the hospital?”

     Recent surveys conducted by NORC at the University of Chicago suggest that almost half of the American population dislike hospitals, so Spencer knows he’s not alone in his discomfort, but none of his facts and figures are helpful the moment he steps into the Emergency Room at St. Sebastian’s.

     The clinical scent of disinfectant sends a thousand tiny spiders crawling up his spine. He tries not to gag but he swears he can taste it at the back of his throat. Spencer forces himself to pause near the door and shuts his eyes, just for a moment, to focus on the solid ground beneath his feet rather than the lurching of his stomach.

     In his line of work, he’s no stranger to hospitals. To meandering through long, dim corridors in search of something to occupy his thoughts, of all the beige and stark white walls so bright it hurts his eyes, of lumpy hospital beds and IVs itching beneath his skin and that smell.

     He was here, not that long ago. He’d wept when they told him Emily had died in surgery, and she’s fine now, but he can still taste iron on his tongue and sometimes it’s still hard to believe she’s alive until she walks through the door unharmed.

     When he opens his eyes again, the ER is still the same, but the unpleasant churning in his stomach has started to subside. At the desk, he reels off your name, stuttering as he goes, before the nurse directs him over to Bay 3.

     I was in a car accident. That’s what you’d said on the phone, and his whole body had gone suddenly cold even though you’d seemed oddly cheery, and he’d had to remind himself to breathe. You were calling, not a nurse or a doctor, so it surely couldn’t be that bad.

     But he doesn’t believe it, not really. Not until he sets eyes on you himself. Not until he can see the truth right in front of him.

     You’re sitting cross-legged on one of the narrow ER beds. The curtain is pushed out of the way, and he can see your shoes have been tucked neatly beside the bed and your socks have little mushrooms on them. You’re not in a hospital gown but jeans, and a laugh bubbles up in his throat because your shirt says ‘meaner than I look’, which is patently untrue in his experience — but he also files this away in the rolodex of reasons you should call him Spencer, because you were going to show up to work dressed like this, and he never wants to hear the word professional out of your mouth again.

     He also wants to take a picture, kind of, because there’s something so endearing about the image. He’s often grateful to have an eidetic memory, but never more than in this moment. He wants to remember this forever.

     Spencer clears his throat as he approaches. The smile you send him as you look up and notice him is bright and wide and it makes him feel all warm and happy, like a cat curled up in a patch of sunlight.

     “What happened?” His gaze is wary as it trails over you from head to toe, quickly cataloguing all your injuries. You hadn’t explained much over the phone, and he hadn’t thought to ask in his haste to reach the hospital, but now his eyes snag on the bruise blossoming over your cheek and it’s all he can think about.

     You don’t look too bad, all things considered.

     The bruise looks worse than it feels. The collar of your shirt is speckled with blood, but the cut above your temple is shallow and sealed with two steri-strips.

     All-in-all, it could’ve been worse.

     “My tire blew while I was driving into work this morning,” you tell him as you tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “The car spun out. All of this—” You gesture vaguely at your face, “was caused by the airbag. But I’m fine.”

     It’s not that Spencer thinks you’re lying. It’s not.

     But you can’t quite look him in the eye, and you’re wearing the same guilty expression you have when you pilfer the last of the coffee, so he’s not about to take your word for it.

     A quick glance at your chart offers all the answers.

     “You have a concussion!”

     “A mild concussion! Mild! I don’t even have a headache!”

     It’s a good thing you called him— or, well, Emily, rather than your sister-in-law. According to you, Jackie has been known to freak out over a paper cut. This might have given her a coronary.

     Spencer frowns. “You needed a CT scan.”

     “Precautionary measure.” A nonchalant wave of your hand follows your words. “I’m a doctor too, remember? I’m fine. Really.”

     “They say doctors make the worst patients.”

     You grin at him. “I already had a meltdown in the bathroom earlier. Scared a nurse. I think he wanted to sedate me but then he saw my lanyard and he took me to a quiet room to decompress. I’m good, I promise.”

     The lanyard in question is covered in little sunflowers and tucked inside one of your shoes for safekeeping. Displayed on one side of the little plastic window is your Quantico identification; on the other, a little slip of paper Spencer suspects you made yourself, judging by the pink floral background and slanting script that I’m autistic and trying my fucking best.

     The sight of it is familiar to him now, the same way your smile is seared onto his brain for eternity, but he recalls seeing it for the first time and chuckling. You’d offered to get one for him, too, gleefully declaring that you’re just like a sunflower, Dr. Reid, and there’d been so many butterflies in his stomach that he could have taken flight, then and there.

     Now he merely hums, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. Stepping back, he watches as you slip your shoes back on and shoulder your bag, having signed a release form not long before he arrived.

     “Hey, Spencer?” Your voice is small, and the way you’re looking at him, all wide-eyed and wonderful, brings those butterflies back tenfold. He hopes the flush of his cheeks isn’t too obvious.

     “Yeah?”

     “Thank you for coming to get me. I’m really okay, I promise. I’ve had worse.”

     His heart pinches.

     He doesn’t like that you’ve had worse.

     “Well,” he says, after a moment too long of staring at you, “mild or not, I’m not leaving you alone for the rest of the day. We’re going to follow the concussion protocol. 65% of people reported developing hearing and memory problems as a result of missed symptoms of head-related trauma last year.”

     Glancing over her shoulder, she finds you standing in the doorway, regarding the pair of them with a ruthless glare so sharp it might leave a mark.

     Rey is suddenly pretty sure that Poe didn’t talk to you like he said he would.

     “I go for a nap because I haven’t slept properly in two days after you—” The finger you jab in Poe’s direction might as well be a knife, the way he flinches, “— get us stranded in First Order territory after leading us on a wild goose chase, knock out the comms and the navigation with your, frankly batshit, behaviour which I have spent hours trying to fix, and then I left you with one simple instruction.”

     Which… Alright, not all of that is strictly fair, Rey thinks, because at least half of the chaos of the past few days can be attributed to sheer bad luck, and another third can be blamed on decisions made under pressure whose outcomes boiled down to bad or worse.

     It’s not really Poe’s fault. Not anymore than the rest of them, at least.

     But Rey knows how you feel about this ship. The Falcon is your inheritance, the only real home you have left in the world. It’s all that is left of your father.

     You were protective of it even before he died, and since—

     Rey clears her throat. “I’m just gonna… go check on Finn.”

     Poe’s expression reeks of betrayal as Rey scoots past you to go and find Finn, who’s loitering in the main hold with Chewbacca, but she’s not about to hang around and get caught in the crossfire between the two of you.

     She doesn’t have a death wish.

     Finn looks just suspicious enough, when she locates him, that she doesn’t even bother scolding him for eavesdropping. She’s about to do the same, after all.

     “He told me he checked it was alright before we started reconfiguring the navicomputer.” Rey folds her arms across her chest, frowning in the direction of the cockpit. Your voice is still rattling down the corridor towards them.

     Finn clicks his tongue. “Evidently not.”

     In the cockpit, Poe pushes himself to stand, resting a hand on the back of the captain’s chair. Your voice is hard as duracrete as you take a step towards him, crowding the small space with so much of your frustration that it feels difficult to breathe.

     Poe wonders if the sensors are on the blink, and someone popped an airlock somewhere, because the air feels a little thin. You jab in the chest with your finger, and all he does is blink, suddenly lightheaded.

     “I gave you one instruction. I said, the nav systems are rebooting, I’m going grab some shuteye, don’t touch anything. And what do you do?”

     “The console was beeping!”

     “I don’t care if a damn mynock got in here and started eating it, I said don’t touch it.”

     “But it’s alright for Rey to touch it?” He’s being petty, he knows that, but an angry flush has started creeping up your neck, and he wants to know what you look like with your cheeks coloured that delightful shade of pink.

     “Rey didn’t break it!” A ragged breath tears from your throat, and you rake a hand roughly through your hair. “She knows what she’s doing. I trust her.”

     “And you don’t trust me, is that it?” Something like sadness swirls low in his gut as he waits for your response. It hurts him to ask, even though he’s wearing his bravado like a mask, even though he likes pushing all your buttons because when your eyes flash like that, it’s like standing in the eye of a hurricane or falling in zero gravity.

     You’re not friends, he knows that. Not since the day you met, and you pressed a blaster up against his neck in the cargo hold of your old ship and he’d grinned down at you as if getting his life threatened was his favourite pastime.

     He’d been trying to steal it. You’re still not sure what happened, exactly, except that there were Stormtroopers firing at your ship — which, honestly, was held together by little more than string and sheer stubbornness at that point — and your mother’s favourite flyboy watching you with a bizarre hope in his eyes, and you’d just… hated him, in that moment.

     Hated him for crashing into your life and dragging you, kicking and screaming, back to the life you’d fled. Hated your mother for her good heart and your father for running away. Hated the whole damn galaxy for not killing you when it had the chance.

     Poe had wanted you to take him to D’Qar, but you’d spent too long leaving things behind to go back now, so you’d dropped him at the nearest safe outpost and prayed you’d never see him again.

     Clearly, the universe had other plans.

     It’s been years since that first encounter, but neither of you have warmed to one another since then. There’s very little point, you think. He’s unbearable, always needling at you, picking at all of your defences as if he has a right to know you.

     It doesn’t matter. In the end, everyone leaves, one way or another.

     You just wish he’d hurry up and do it, already.

     You’re not friends, but you’re something more and something less, and the way your lower lip twitches at his question feels like a punch to the gut.

     “Why should I?” You blink at him, and a moment later you realise how close you’ve grown, almost chest-to-chest with this man who drives you mad. With a rough swallow, you force yourself to take a step back.

     He doesn’t move. Hardly dares to breathe, with his mouth curled into that little half-smirk he knows you hate, because it hurts that you don’t trust him, but it would hurt more if you knew it.

     “Why shouldn’t you?”

     A scoff. “Well, for starters, I don’t think you’ve ever had a plan that didn’t blow up in your face.”

     The familiar howl of Finn’s laughter rolls down the corridor, quickly cut off by a quiet thump and a low, pained groan.

     Poe blinks at you. “Excuse me?”

     “And you don’t take proper care of the Falcon!” The controls and all their exposed wires serve to prove your point.

     Turning on your heel, you march out into the corridor, abandoning him in the cockpit. He stares at your retreating form, unable to kick his brain back into gear for a few seconds, but a moment later he’s striding after you.

     “I take care of the Falcon!”

     A huff of laughter bubbles out of you, entirely lacking in humour. “Lightspeed skipping.”

     “That was one time!” His voice squeaks out of him much higher than he’d like, and as they emerge into the main hold, he clears his throat. “And the Falcon was fine.”

     You come to a stop so suddenly that he can almost hear your shoes screeching on the floor. “It was twice, and just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should. That seems like a lesson you should’ve learned by now, but no, you keep pushing it!”

     Reckless and stubborn, headstrong and utterly selfless. Not for the first time, you regret being dragged back into this mess. Your life hadn’t exactly been peaceful before — you are your father’s child, after all — but it wasn’t this.

     How many more heroes will you watch die before all of this is over?

     How much of it can you take?

     You watch one of those heroes stare at you, now, and it feels like you’ve swallowed a handful of broken glass.

     Behind you, sitting at the dejarik table and making absolutely no attempt to disguise his eavesdropping, Finn leans close to Rey. “You’d never guess they were married, huh?”

     He’s whispering, but it’s not exactly quiet.

     As if you’re suddenly possessed by the same entity, you and Poe whirl around, mouths agape. “We are not married.”

     An uncomfortable heat curls around your spine at the thought of it. Married to Poe Dameron? You cannot imagine anything worse.

     Chewie, seated opposite Finn and Rey, makes an exasperated sound. Rey can’t help but snort.

     You narrow your eyes at your father’s oldest friend, resting your hands on your hips. “‘Could’ve fooled me?’ Chewie, what are you talking about?”

     As your wrath settles upon a new victim, Poe takes the opportunity to slip out of sight, with every intention of hiding in the Engineering Bay on the opposite end of the ship until the danger has passed.

     Marching quickly down the corridor, Poe drags a hand over his unbearably warm face and feels like something beneath his ribcage is itching to crawl out. He thinks it might be his heart.

     It came over you like a wave the moment you woke up. Your room had already been almost unbearably warm, light spilling through the crack in the curtains, and a distant, suspicious buzzing that you suspected must be a bug that had come in through the open window in the night, but you'd had no time to dwell on it.

     The feeling had crashed into you, dark and sickly. It had stayed, even through a chilly shower and a round of French toast for breakfast, settling over you like a blanket made of stone. It was heavy, and you hated it.

     You hadn't felt this way in years.

     Aunt Ros had noted it the moment you got into work, sneaking through the back door with a face like thunder. If there is anything anyone knows about you, it is this ━ you have a concerningly happy disposition. In spite of everything you endured in your youth, or perhaps because of it, you’ve been known to flutter about the pub as if you’re living on a cloud, able to draw a smile out of even the grumpiest patron.

     Your past is a bleak stain on your life, and it is something you know you’ll never be able to scrub clean. Nor would you want to. No matter the sins of the people you once loved, or the graves where you’ve laid the remains of your heart, you cannot erase them. It would be such an injustice.

     The world is a shitty enough place, anyway, but that doesn’t mean you have to be.

     Today, though, it seems the world has got its grubby hands all over you, because it feels utterly impossible to shift this mood. Aunt Ros had frowned at you the moment you stepped into the back room. She’d tutted before you’d even had the chance to hang your bag on the hook, squinting over the thick frame of her glasses.

     “Did a gnome manage to get into your greenhouse again, or is somebody dead?”

     You’d huffed at her. “Neither.” You hadn’t had a stray gnome in your greenhouse for two years, and the perimeter spell you’d put on it would fry the little bastards if they dared to try. And as far as you’re aware, nobody is dead. Nobody new, anyway.

     Your heart had twinged a little, the way it always does when you think of your old friends.

     “Haven’t read the paper this morning, yet, then?” Aunt Ros had looked away from you, her voice taking on a peculiarly high pitch. She’d begun to fuss with a stack of unwashed glasses from the night before, drawing out her wand to cast a spell to start the washing-up.

    You’d paused. Alarm bells began to ring in your mind. “What’s happened, Aunt Ros?”

     “Better see for yourself, love.”

     You’d skirted around her and headed into the office. A copy of today’s Daily Prophet had laid open on her desk. The usual mess of paperwork had been shoved aside, and the headline had glared up at you in stark black and white.

     SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN!

     The floor had suddenly felt horribly unsteady beneath your feet. Your hand darted out to grip the edge of the desk, and you’d found yourself thanking every deity you could name that you’d come into the pub through the back door today.

     You’re certain every single one of the patrons huddled in the next room wouldn’t hesitate to stare at you. Or worse, want to talk about it.

     As if you have anything left to say that hasn’t already been said a hundred times over.

     Your ex-fiance’s mugshot graces the front page. It’s a recent one, clearly, and you’d swallow back the bile that rises in your throat at the sight of him.

     “You should go home, love.” Aunt Ros had followed you into the office. “Take the day off.”

     There’d been little point in arguing. Madam Rosmerta’s stubbornness is unrivalled, she’d been the landlady of the Three Broomsticks for at least a decade now, and besides, there’s very little to say. Her gaze had been dark and filled with pity, but an edge of vitriol had crept in when she glanced at Sirius Black’s picture.

     Her feelings about your ex are clear. Exceedingly so. You’re the only one who ever believed his innocence, and everyone knows that.

     So you’d folded up the newspaper and tucked it beneath your arm, retrieved your bag from the hook and retreated through the back door without argument. Now you keep your head down as you weave through Hogsmeade’s narrow streets on the way back to your little cottage. The sun beats down against the back of your neck. You swear you can hear people whispering as you pass by.

     The sight of your garden, with its neat little rows of marigolds and pink roses and tufts of lavender waving in the warm breeze, offers more relief than you thought was possible.

     Flowers have always had that effect on you. Even during the darkest days of the war, even when the aftermath of it had seemed so impossibly bleak, sinking your hands into cool pots of soil had eased your aching soul.

     There’s just something about the life of it all. How, even in the depths of winter, you know that spring will come again. You know the buds will bloom anew. You know that, every year, dead things come back to life.

     Upon reaching the garden gate, with its ever-creaking hinge and rusting iron handle, you cannot help but pause. The front door catches your eye, but for once it isn’t the pretty blue paint you notice, or the bright hanging baskets of geraniums on either side of the door.

     The door is hanging slightly ajar. The paint is chipped around the broken lock, which was certainly not broken when you left for work an hour ago.

     Not again.

     You thought you’d experienced the last of the break-ins years ago. They used to be a regular thing, back when the war first ended. So-called friends of the Potters wielding their righteousness like a blade, even though you’d barely spoken two words to these people at school. Even though not a single one of them could name Lily’s favourite colour, or recalled the name of James’ owl.

     Hypocrites, all of them. Drunk on power and freedom, the freedom that your friends had sacrificed themselves to gain.

     They would break in and curse you, hating you for defending Sirius so staunchly, but how could you not? How could you ever live with yourself if you hadn’t?

     You’d known him. Known Sirius as well as your own mind. Trusted him with your life, your heart, and how could anyone claim he’d done it? How could anyone believe it?

     The aurors had been no help at all. You were an irritation to them, with your constant campaigning for more evidence, for a fair trial, for anything. You were lucky to get them even to file a report about the break-ins, let alone investigate. That’s part of why you had to move, at least in the beginning.

     Living in the shadow of the school hadn’t done you any good, either. All those memories.

     All those ghosts.

     You draw your wand and push the door open, stepping cautiously over the threshold. You’d been a lot softer back then, sweeter than honey and freshly-bruised by the world.

     That sweetness is still inside you. In every smile and chiming laugh, in the way you carry yourself, in the petals pressed against your fingers and the love you hold for the people you’ve lost. It’s still there, undeniably.

     But these days, you’ve got a little more sting, too.

     “If you’re not supposed to be here, I’m going to give you five seconds to leave through the back door!” Your warning carries through the corridors of your seemingly empty house, and as the seconds pass, the tension in your shoulders starts to ease, but then━

     A scuffling noise at the back of the house. Near the kitchen, you think. A clattering sound, as if somebody dropped something.

     You don’t hesitate for a moment longer.

     Wand held tight in your grip, you charge through to the kitchen, a jinx settled on the tip of your tongue as you round the corner, but the sight you find causes your feet to come screeching to a halt in the doorway.

     There’s a man in the middle of your kitchen.

     Now this alone wouldn’t be so alarming, if you had a brother or a boyfriend or if, perhaps, Remus had bothered to reply to any of your letters in the last decade-or-so. but none of those things are true.

     And this man, this man you recognise.

     The years have changed him. He’s more than a decade older than last you saw him, though aged immeasurably by his time in captivity, with dark hair hanging in limp, bedraggled strands just above his shoulders. Ragged prison garb sits loosely on his frame, torn at the edges and smeared with dirt in places.

     There’s a manic look in his eye. Bright and stormy and mad, which is so familiar that your heart stumbles inside your chest the way it did when you were young. He looks just like he did at seventeen and McGonagall would catch them in the kitchens after curfew.

     That boyish innocence paired with the haunted look in his eyes is like a punch to the gut.

     A dish lies in shattered pieces on your kitchen floor, and it takes longer than you’d like for your brain to kick back into gear, but when it does, all you can manage is a peculiar, choked sound.

     There is an escaped convict in your kitchen, after all. Even if he happens to be your ex.