#first work

The man looks so happy and overjoyed that you're awake, you don't have the heart to slip your hand away, even if you're panicking. "Where are my parents?" You ask the doctor carefully. You avoid looking at the man who jumped back as if you struck him, and the doctor looks confused before understanding. You sigh as you hope he's on your side, but he turns to the man...

"It appears our scans were correct. Y/N has temporary amnesia and likely doesn't remember anything from the past few years." Try all the years, you can't remember a thing. The man looks heartbroken, but you shake your head. "No, I still remember things!" You insist. The doctor looks doubtful. "I'll prove it!"

You sit up, making the man coo worriedly, helping you up, and pretending you didn't flinch when he got close. You turn your arm towards the two. A harsh scar is on your right arm; you remember your brother slashing his beer bottle at you three years ago, before he left you and your mother alone. "This is from my brother, about three years ago. He threw a bottle at me, and it scarred. Check the records!" You beg, but the man sighs sadly and takes your hand again; he's too strong to pull out of this time.

"Honey, you got that from a bully at the park three years ago, we went and got ice cream afterwards... Do you really not remember?" The doctor looks at you two with sympathy.

"Some cases, especially of younger kids-" You were NOT a kid. "-Have hallucinations."

"They were not hallucinations!" You shout. Your brother could never just be a 'hallucination' what he did was real. So real. Too real. You pull out of the man's hand -he lets you, surprisingly- to rub the scar. It... It can't be from just a bully.

-----------

The doctor gives your 'dad' -He refuses to tell you his real name- some medications and little speeches about your 'hallucinations' and how to handle them. They don't tell you anything other than 'an accident happened' and that you shouldn't worry about it. They also completely ignore your argument and defense about your parents.

Your real parents.

But you don't have a choice anymore.

-------

The car ride 'home' is a little awkward. But once the house comes into view, it's no longer quiet. "This is your house?!" You ask, exasperated. It was more of a manshion.

He laughs and gently pulls you down from sticking your head out the window. "Our home," He corrects. "But yes, we're just a little bit wealthy."

A little bit is an understatement.

A freaking butler comes outside to greet you two, the ma- your dad has a quick word with him, explaining your amnesia, and he looks sad. "I'm very sorry to hear that." He comments dryly. You decide you like him. He seems to like you too.

When you enter, two giant double staircases greet you. You gasp and look at every detail while your dad chases after you, sometimes laughing and showing you how the fridge can play music, and sometimes running as you almost get bitten by the llama in his backyard.

Even though your still very confused and terrifyed and just miss your mom, you're too distracted by your new home and new life to really question it. To question how he slyly asks things a father should know in a weird way. -"You always liked llamas, right?" "This is your favorite color, remember?" - And everytime you corrected him -"My favorite color is f/c"- He'd let out a sad sigh as if you were wrong and promise to 'fix it'.

He also kept hugging you a lot. Usually, when you make positive comments. He'd hug you so tight you thought your bones would snap in half and he'd lift you off the ground. You didn't like it as first, always jumping and yelling but now you kind of like it, it makes you feel safer. You haven't felt that in a long time.

And everything you 'owned' was childish. You had bright pink walls, children's books, a thousand plushies, cute outfits, and a music box. You liked all of it, but you were older now. A teenager. You never had this at hom-

"Is everything okay, baby?" Your dad interrupts as you stare at one of the plushies. "Yeah," You tell him without looking. You set the plushie down, still staring. "Just trying to adjust." You really wanted to yell and scream. You wanted to run out to find your real family. Yet... You thought about it all. Did you really want to fight for that reality? It makes more sense that you got amnesia, you try to remember that one whispered conversation before everything was gone... You think it was your dad. You remember his voice slightly.

Maybe you really were his kid.

You smile at your dad and he smiles right back, ruffling your hair and pulling you into another bear hug.

---------

After you showed any dislike in anything at home, your dad forced you on a shopping trip, not like you resisted much.

He ruffled your hair as you excitedly bounced in your seat. Sure, you were acting a bit young, but you were too happy to really care. And it did seem to make your dad happy.

The drive there, you kept talking and talking and your dad smiled the whole time, nodding along to everything you said. Somehow, along the way of fighting him every two minutes, you two became less awkward around each other.

When you got there, anything you showed any interest in, he bought. He made you try on everything, gushing over you everytime you stepped out. At first, you were a little annoyed, but then it became endearing.

Then, when you finished your clothing shopping, your dad suddenly took a turn down the toy aisle. "Dad?" He whipped around to face you. You didn't notice at the time, but it was the first time you called him 'dad' since the accident. He immediately smiled warmly, pretending he wasn't about to cry. "Yes, baby?"

"Why are we going down the toy aisle? I don't need toys." He does that one sigh when he thinks you're being ridiculous. "Pick your favorite ones, any of them." You're about to yell at him when you see a familar toy.

Back at ho- In your dream-like coma, you had this toy. It was weird how real your 'dream' was, but as your dad picks you for the hundredth time, you push the thought away. "Can I get this?" You ask, holding up the small toy. He smiles and hugs you tighter -somehow-. "Of course, sweetheart. Anything."

He puts it in the cart... And you. A teenager. You're riding the cart, a mountian of soft clothing surrounds you as you're surprised you even managed to fit in here, and that the cart is somehow still moving.

When he look up at your dad, he just smiles at you and pushes the cart faster, making you sway and laugh. He laughs along with you. Even though he's been laughing all day, you get the feeling he doesn't laugh that much. Maybe it's the wrinkles in his eyes.

When you get to check-out, the lady looks too tired to even do anything, maybe a short "hello" and "card or cash" but doesn't even look at you. You look around, a little bored, when you see a Missing Person's poster, your about to get a better look at the person's face, but your dad swiftly turns the cart before you can.

You look back at him, but for the first time today, he's not looking at you. His jaw is tense and he looks... Mad? Yet, when he looks down at you, you staring wide-eyed at him, he softens and kisses your head. Your weirded out.

During the car ride, you get sleepy. Your dad notices and sighs lovingly as you get yourself out of the car sluggishly. "Do you wanna go take a nap, sweetie?" He dotes in a fatherly tone.

"No, I'm okay." You try to argue but he just coos softly and picks you up. You squirm and kick, not used to be hauled around like when you were 5, but he just ignores it.

You get to your room and he lays you down, tucking you in and kissing your forehead.

You want to fight and stay up... But you just can't. Sleep would help, right?

The last thing you hear is your dad's bittersweet tone. "Sweet dreams. I won't let you hurt anymore, Y/N."

----------------

A loud bang from your dad's old office alerts you from where you sit by yourself in your living room, TV playing some random show you don't like. You hear your mom upstairs giggling and a door shut, she's probably with that guy she found at the bar. Gross.

You realize it's up you to figure out what the weird noise was. You know it wasn't something you could ignore. You tip-toe in quietly, and a man with a mask is in your house. Broken glass surrounds him, his bag in one hand, and...

And a gun in the other. He has a gun.

--------

The second you wake up, your whole body jerks like it actually happened. That there was a man in your home. With a gun. And you were by yourself. Could that have been the 'accident' that your dad mentioned?

He enters your room with a tray full of breakfast food of every kind. You, trying to forget your odd dream, decide that those waffles might cure it.

While your eating, your dad smiles warmly at you, but when you finish, the dream lingers. Was it apart of your 'hallucanations' or a real memory? You look at your dad, which prompts him to worry because of the worried look.

"Is everything okay, dear? Was the food cold? too hot? Tell me what's wrong, baby." He tuts, but you blurt out your question. "Did a man ever break into our house?"

He freezes, he looks at you and something dark crosses his face before disappearing completely. "No, never. I would never let someone break into this house to hurt you." It seems like he's promising himself more than you. But then he wipes your cheek from the mess of syrup you have all over your face. You feel embarrassed but he just coos happily. "Did you have a bad dream?"

"I think...?" You respond, avoiding eye contact. "It felt really real."

"Dreams are like that." He responds gently.

You look at him this time, and his face is... Determined? It makes you drop the subject. Mainly out of fear.

-------------

After a few weeks of getting a normal schedule and a normal relationship with your dad, he insists on taking you out to eat, fussing over how small you are. You were pretty skinny, mainly because your mom forgot to buy food but you didn't remember why.

During the drive, your content just looking outside as your dad is the one who talks the whole drive, but you hear something moving around the backseat. You wait until you turn and hear it again to look.

A spiral-ringed notebook with your name and handwriting on the front moved around the back-seat. It looks like an old diary, did you use to have one?

Your dad quickly notices you and tries to play it off. "Oh, don't worry about that, sweetheart." He tells you, but you don't look away. His voice hardens. "It's just an old notebook that you barely used."

He was lying, the poor book look used and messy, the cover was clearly used a little. And he held everything that you made with care, all your old coloring pages that reminded you of when your brother didn't hit people were framed. He was tense and nervous, trying to play it off.

You're about to reach for it, when you feel suddenly unsafe with this stranger that claims to be your dad. You remember his odd questions about what you liked and didn't like, could you really have changed that much?

You push the thoughts away, this had to be your dad. Would the doctor just hand you away? Would the butler not question the random kid? He... He had to be.

Doesn't matter he didn't know your favorite color. Or that he doesn't look like you. Or that he doesn't have any baby photos of you.

----------

You were now certain, that this man wasn't your dad.

While eating, you decided to test him.

"I'll have the shrimp." You tell the waitress. She smiles, you smile, your 'dad' smiles. Everything looks fine.

You hold your breath as she turns to him to get his order. He orders it freely, not a flinch, not a word, not a worry in the world.

Your deathly allegetic to shell-fish. But he didn't even stop you.

You try to push away the thoughts of 'how did this happen?' and focus on 'how do I escape?' You try to hide how your shaking hands as you ask to go to the bathroom.

"Yeah, sure." Your dad says, but he looks a little worried. Or is he scared? You somehow walk steadily enough to catch your waitress out of sight from your 'dad'

'Help me' you mouth to her, she looks scared but quickly nods. You go to the bathroom and try to think of a plan.

He's clearly crazy, but you don't know anything about him. You've warned the waitress, all you have to do is wait for the polic-

"Honey, we have to go." Your dad knocks on the bathroom door. You freeze. "B-But we never ate." You inwardly curse your scared voice. He hesitates before continuing.

"I know baby, I'm so sorry. But I have a very important meeting I have to go to."

Liar.

"Okay... Give me a minute..." You can't take long. As you finish, you realize he never gave you a phone, you can't call anyone. You'll have to sneak out.

As you leave, you finally manage to get his name on the bill at your table, he must've hurriedly paid for the drinks you two got, the signature says 'Mr Conner' in messy handwriting.

-----------

The car ride home is deathly silent. Conner grips the steering wheel tightly and his face is dark.

The notebook is gone.

----------------

When you get home, you basically lock yourself in your room as he disappears into his own office. The butler seems confused but ignores it, not his place. You and your dad pretend that nothing happened. Does he know that you know? You have to hope not...

After a few hours, you get hungry. You try to push it away, but he really spoiled you these last few weeks. You were starving. You creak open the door, and there's a disturbing silence.

You move around quietly, maybe you could escape now? Down the stairs, you hear the familar voice of Conner, but it's commanding and frustrated. You listen in without meaning to.

"You have to be more careful, Conner." The butler warns, his usual professional tone is gone. He sounds serious. You hold your breath.

"I know, I know!" Conner shouts, running a hand through his hair. "The waitress was about to the call police, she must've recogized her." Your heart starts beating faster.

"And the Missing Persons sign? And the notebook? You're slipping." The butler commented, ice cold. You slowly go down the stairs, Conner's back is to you and the butler is focused on him. You watch through the rails, terrified. You just need to sneak on by

"We need new locks to every door and window on this house. Quickly and discretly." Conner tells him. You're about to try to sneak past them when the butler locks eyes with you. Your blood runs cold. He whispers something and Conner whips around to see you.

You bolt upstairs, ignoring Conner shout after you, and lock yourself in your room, already starting to cry, when you hear his voice, muffled through the door.

"Baby... Please open the door, you know I won't hurt you." You freeze, beside the quiet sniffling.

"Open the door." Conner demands, using his commanding voice. You don't move, eyes locked on the floor.

You hear footsteps and assume -hope- he left. You take a breather, trying to stop crying, and move towards your door.

Sure you were on the 2nd floor and you had no way of getting down.

Better than staying here.

You get the hatch to the window open, you don't hear the door open at the same time. You get your leg out when someone grabs you from behind.

You scream and kick and do everything you can, fighting with everything, but it's useless. "Shh... Shh... Calm down... Deep breath..." A rag is pushed agaisnt your face and you slowly slip away, Conner hugs you agaisnt his chest.

-----------

The man stares at you, both of you wear a horrified expression. However, shock hits you and you have a blank face while he looks you up and down. "Why are you by yourself, kid?"

Kid? You weren't a kid. But you also stopped listening, instead more interested on the gun in his hand, which he seemed to forget about. "My mom is upstairs, probably didn't hear you."

"That seems impossible, I was really loud." He points, sighing in frustration. For some reason, both of you are calm. He seems to realize what he was doing and points the gun at you.

"Where do you keep all your money, kid?" He waves the gun around. You shrug. "Don't know, maybe we don't have any. Do you think you could shoot me?"

The man looks very confused, which is reasonable. "What?"

"You heard me," You repeat, stepping closer, your mind yelling but you're just so tired... "shoot me."

He lowers his gun instead. "Uh... Is this... Is this an attempt at reverse psychology?"

You shake your head. "I'll follow you outside, if you don't want my mom to hear the gun shot. I don't have much else to really give in return."

"Is this a cry for help?"

You sigh, realizing this man won't shoot you. Your mom always hated guns, and you were too young to buy your own. You really wanted to just end it all, but you couldn't. And now here was the perfect chance.

"Please." You beg, holding out your arms to give him a clear shot to the chest or head. Instead, he looks at you. Really looks at you. Mainly at your scars and face. Then he approaches you. You don't move.

The gun connects with the back of your head, making you drop into unconsciousness and into the man's arms. He shushes you gently and quietly whispers to you. "I'm sorry that happened to you, kiddo." He kisses your head before you fully go out. "I promise that it'll never happen again."

---------

In her internet-cave Penelope Garcia seemed to have other plans for him. Smiling and chuckling at her computer screen, she browsed quickly on a house-renting forum. A chat request had piqued her interest: Cécile Jones. French?

“Hi! I'm interested, is this still available?” the coloured message in the private chat read.

Penelope smashed up the keys on the keyboard faster than she could. “Of course!”, she sent.

As she was copy-pasting the information about the apartment, the girl was writing again.

“The photos of the room are cool! But I’m new to the area, could you give me some info about the neighbourhood?”

A grin appeared on Penelope's face. She knew that when Spencer went to her, asking for help to find someone to rent his guestroom to, he definitely didn't mean cute and female, but that wouldn't hurt, right? Plus, if he was so desperate and lonely to need a roommate, a girlfriend was going to solve all his problems.

She took one more look at Cécile’s photo in the forum, smiled and then wrote: “Why don't we meet for coffee and I can show you around, so you can also take an extra look at the room?”.

“Sounds good! Where can we meet?”

The fast and loud sound of Garcia's heels on the floor echoed all around the lobby.

“I have good news for you, my Good Doctor!” Penelope practically screamed, approaching Spencer's desk, bringing all attention to said Doctor’s puzzled face.

"Mmm? What?” he said, lifting his eyes from the million sheets of paper under him.

“There's this girl who wants your guestroom, so you have to be at that café near your house in an hour: you have to tell her more about the area, since she said she's new, and then show her the apartment. He has your permission, right Hotch?” Garcia talked even more quickly than usual, and then continued, without even waiting for Hotch’s answer. “Right, right. C’mon! Get up! Didn't you hear you have to meet that poor girl in an hour? You have a long car ride ahead of you and you don't want her to wait! Up, up, up!”

“A girl? You already said girl twice.” Spencer said, his mind racing, while his friend was trying to make him wear his jacket. Not that he didn't want to live with a woman, his mind was just telling him that a woman wouldn't probably want to live with him.

“Yes, girl, her name is Cécile… mhmm... Jones! And you have to take her in: she’s so kind and she seems just a little desperate. I feel like we are going to become great friends!”

Morgan and Prentiss laughed softly from their desks, looking at poor Reid's defeated face and at Garcia's mischievous look in her eyes.

Spencer got into the elevator, anxiously looking at his watch. As soon as the door closed, a loud laugh came from Derek, who rose from his seat to go and hug Penelope.

“Are you trying to set our Pretty Boy up?” he asked.

“I am actually helping him get a roommate. If I accidentally also find him a girlfriend, it just means I'm a very good friend and matchmaker.” Garcia answered, nodding comically, still having that mischievous look on her face.

“You are crazy, woman. That's why I love you”.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

When Spencer saw Cécile waiting outside the café, she looked really nervous.

Statistically thinking, Spencer realised, accepting to meet with a totally unknown man, found on a forum, and having to go live in his house, must be really scary for a young woman.

Looking at her, he couldn't help but notice that she was beautiful: maybe it was the way the sunrays fell on her hair making it shimmer or the fact that he was seeing a woman for the first time in a while - even if this encounter wasn't romantic at all - but Spencer was starting to think she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

He shaked his head to push away that embarrassing thought and approached the woman with the most friendly smile he could put on his face, holding his hand up to try to get her attention, while she was too distracted mindlessly biting into the cuticles on her lips.

“Hey! Are you Cécile Jones? I'm Spencer Reid, for the room.”

“Oh! Yes, yes, it's me! Hi, sorry, this is all so sudden, but your apartment seems really cool and I also really need a house.” She talked quickly and smiled at him, while tucking a little strand of hair behind her ear and offering him the other hand to shake.

Knowing he had to make a good impression, Spencer held his tongue in place, kept his statistics about all the germs that are passed by shaking hands in his mind and took her hand into his.

They were probably going to share a house, after all.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

The café was crowded and noisy. The table where they sat was sticky and that, added to the feeling of his potential roommate’s eyes on him, made Spencer’s mind go crazy. Cécile was definitely fun, charming and kind and he was nothing but awkward.

“So you work for the FBI… sorry, I just can't believe it!” Cécile said, smiling at the young man in front of her.

“I will show you my badge!” Spencer answered, almost frantically searching in his pockets to show her the plastic ID. When he got it out, he handed it to the girl, smiling awkwardly, while she was examining the photo on it.

“Well, I'm glad,” she said, returning it, “I was really scared you were gonna turn out a maniac, or something.”

“Technically, I'm the one hunting them down.”

“Oh, so you'll protect me. Good.” Cécile responded (sarcastically?) flirting and winking at him, then she drank the last sip of her coffee. A little hint of red appeared on Spencer’s ears, while he tried to fake a laugh and seem totally used to receiving this kind of comment from women.

“So…” he said, though his voice cracked in embarrassment and he had to clear his throat, “do you want to see the apartment? I can show you ‘round.”

They walked out of the café after Spencer had paid for both of them, in his mind Garcia’s advice telling him he had to make a good impression. He walked her a few blocks to his apartment - which he didn't even get time to tidy - and he showed her all the services in the area, never stopping his fingers from fidgeting. He excused himself for the mess while opening the door, but Cécile didn't seem to mind at all.

“Oh my god, you have like a million books!”

Spencer chuckled and told her they might need a new bookshelf, if she needed space for hers, since some of his new books laid on the floor, on the coffee table and on the TV stand.

“Come see your room, this way” he gently opened the door to his guestroom, which had a second bathroom near it. “You have a bed, obviously, a desk, a wardrobe - I know it's small, but… - and you have space for some cabinets and shelves for your things. You can do whatever you want, I don't really mind. And you have a bathroom with a shower next to the room, so we just have to share the kitchen and the living room.”

Cécile seemed really excited looking at the room, like she was already fantasising about all the things she could do to renovate it and make it her own. She stayed silent and looked around while Spencer continued talking.

“Anyway, I'm not at home most of the time, for work, so it will kind of feel like living alone, I guess. So… what do you think? You seem to like it.”

Cécile turned to Spencer and looked at him in awe. “It's really pretty, it's… perfect. And from what you've shown me the neighbourhood seems safe so no complaints here. I'm near my university, so… it's a deal for me, if it's okay with you.”

The boy seemed surprised, even if he actually had no reason to. Was it so easy to find someone that would agree to live with him?

“Yes, yes, totally! Emh, I guess it's time for your lecture and I gotta go back to work, but if you give me your number we can arrange everything. You can stay here from… tonight, I guess, if you need to.”

Everything was set and Spencer Reid officially had a roommate.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

When he got back to the BAU, the whole team seemed to be waiting for him.

Even JJ and Hotch, usually closed in their offices, were lingering around their colleagues’ desks waiting for their youngest co-worker to come back from what they had already started referring to as a date.

“So, so?! How did it go? Did she like you?” Garcia asked, jumping from the seat she had taken near Emily.

“She liked the room. She'll move in tonight.” Spencer said, slowly taking off his jacket and falling, with a tired look, onto his office chair. “I need to get off a little early so I can help her bring her things home, is it okay?”, he turned to Hotch, who quickly said yes, trying to hold back his soft smile, hearing Morgan's laughter.

Garcia started to ask him so many questions - about her accent, her hair, her studies, her style, her voice - that Spencer thought his mind could actually explode, but he answered each and every one of them, grateful to his friend for her precious help.

Their other colleagues listened carefully, trying to catch in every one of Spencer's microexpressions a glimpse of his attraction to this mysterious Cécile girl whom Penelope thought was so perfect for him.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

That same night, Spencer was sitting on his well-worn couch, studying the face and body of his new roommate, while she was concentrating on making dinner for the two of them. She insisted on cooking to thank him for letting her move in so quickly and Spencer thought that Penelope was a great profiler after all: Cécile was actually really sweet and just a little desperate.

“Dinner's ready! Can you help me set the table?” Cécile asked, breaking the silence that lingered in the house.

“I'm really tired, I was kinda thinking of eating here,” Spencer responded, blinking tiredly, “is it okay with you?”

“Oh, I already love living here!” the young woman exclaimed, bringing two plates and setting them on the coffee table in front of the couch. Spencer laughed softly and took the plate, thanking her for the dinner.

While they were eating, Cécile kept her eyes fixated on whatever talk show was on TV, but could feel the studying eyes of the man beside her looking at every one of her movements and expressions. She could feel that Spencer was looking at her hand holding the fork, at her mouth folding in a smile when something funny was happening in the show, at her eyelids fluttering after looking at the TV for too long.

“What are you staring at?” Cécile built up the courage to ask, after she had filled a cup of water from the sink.

His eyes, half-hidden behind his glasses lenses, were still following her.

“You didn't tell me a lot about you...” Spencer responded, caught a little off guard, since he thought he was being so low-key about his profiling attempt.

“So you're psychoanalysing me?”

The man’s eyes changed in a ‘sorry’ expression, already thinking that his new roommate would want to move out next thing in the morning, having understood that she took the guestroom of a total psychopath.

“What have you got so far?” Cécile asked again, surprising Spencer for the hundredth time that day.

The young man cleared his throat and adjusted himself on the couch, preparing himself like he did when he had to deliver a profile while he was on a case. “Well, you have a French first name, but you do not have an accent or habits that suggest having lived outside America, so you probably have French origins, but you never lived there. You keep your nails short and, seeing the small calluses you have on the tips of your fingers, you probably play guitar, but for some reason you don't have it here. You know how to cook, really well actually, and you’re not uncomfortable in a new house, which means you've probably already lived alone, or with a roommate, and moved houses quite a lot. You've recently moved to DC and switched universities from Chicago - I saw that on your suitcases when I brought them in - and you did it in the middle of the semester, which means that something in your life must have come up, also taking into consideration the fact that you made it very clear that you needed a place to stay pretty quickly. But I cannot understand what could possibly have happened to make you switch universities and look for a roommate so far from Chicago.”

Cécile stayed silent, blinking and taking in all the - true - information Spencer had just blown out in her face.

“Wow. Is that all?”

“For now, yes. We've only known each other for twelve hours.” Spencer said, deciding to keep for himself the notes he made about her anxiety and need to always be liked and perceived as helpful. He definitely already crossed the line, he didn't want to also sound rude.

Cécile smiled at his remark and passed a hand in her hair, aware that it was time to tell her new roommate a little about her life, especially because if she didn't, he was probably going to find out on his own.

“Okay, Sherlock, you're right: my mom is French, but we never lived in France, even though I can speak the language pretty well. I play the guitar, but I also play the piano and sing: my guitar is coming in the mail in a few days. I was waiting to have a stable address to ask my parents to send it to me. And about uni, well, Washington was the only university that had a place for a new student in my master's course, and considering it is the middle of the semester - like you said - they didn't even have a place for me at Campus, so I needed a roommate.” She paused, looking at Spencer connecting all the dots in his head. “I didn't really like uni back in Chicago, I had some problems, then I broke up with my boyfriend and I just felt the need to change, to start from scratch, so I just decided to move.”

Cécile knew that Spencer, an FBI Special Agent and profiler, had probably noticed she was omitting something, but she realised, looking at how he nodded and smiled, that he had also noticed the fact that she was uncomfortable.

So Spencer didn't ask and Cécile didn't continue: in a strangely already-comfortable-with-each-other kind of dance, they brought their dishes to the kitchen. Spencer washed them, Cécile leaning softly on the kitchen counter, while the two of them talked about their routines and habits, making sure that nothing would uncomfortably surprise the other.

In her empty room, Cécile began to think that she really could live there forever and fell asleep hopeful for her new life, but still feeling that pit in her stomach, making her feel too exposed.

If you want ‘to start from scratch’, maybe going to live in a profiler and genius’ house isn't the best idea.

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

see next chapter!

"Darling?" You could hear his gruff voice call out from the living room. The sound that normally made your heart pitter in excitement only made you begin to panic, hands scrabbling to try to hide the fact that you were trying to assemble an entire crib on your own. Hiding a half-built crib from him? Honestly, what were you thinking? Obviously, the evidence of your crimes was laid about the room when he walked in, with your swollen, pregnant form standing in the middle of it all like a deer caught in headlights. "Hello..." You squeak out awkwardly, a small smile adorning your face as you tuck the screwdriver behind your back. "You're home early." The trepidation in your voice is clear, but that placating smile is wiped right off your face when you hear the deep, exhausted sigh that rumbles from his throat. "Y/N..." His voice is calm...level. It only serves to make you more nervous as you shift on your feet hesitantly. He takes measured steps forward, fixing you with a disapproving look that would be hot if it wasn't aimed at you. You couldn't help but feel like a little girl being scolded, and your head bows down slightly in shame as you stutter out a lame excuse. "I-I just...wanted to take something off of your plate-" "I told you I'd handle it." He cuts off firmly, stopping in front of you as he rests his hands on your upper arms, letting out another exasperated sigh as he takes in your appearance. His eyes linger on your swollen stomach peeking out from underneath your big t-shirt before he brings his gaze back up to meet yours. His eyes soften only slightly when he sees the guilty look plastered on your face, but you could tell that he was holding back a lot more than the light reprimand he's giving you. But he couldn't bear to yell at his pretty wife, and certainly not when she was nearly eight months pregnant with his baby. But guilting you wasn't necessarily off the table, especially if it got you to sit your ass down and relax like he's been begging you for months now. "Sweet girl...c'mon. You don't trust your man to get the job done?" You deflate at that, soft lips jutting out into a pout as you look up at him, shaking your head quickly. "I do!" You protest gently, resting your hands against his chest with the screwdriver still in hand, which he promptly takes and places on the dresser with a look of barely restrained disappointment. "I do, John. I promise." You stand up on your tippy-toes, placing a soft kiss to his lips in apology as you continue to pout up at him. "I just wanted to help you...you've been so tired lately from working so hard..." "Working hard so that you don't have to, love." He reminds you as he pinches your chin between his fingers gently, reaching his thumb up to swipe over your plump bottom lip. "I don't want to come home to find my pregnant wife putting together a bloody crib. Or anything else for that matter." His other hand trails down to rest on your stomach, rubbing tender circles into the soft fabric of your shirt as he continues to gently scold you. "You think I want you doing this, sweet girl? Putting yourself and the baby at risk just to cross something off my to-do list?" "No..." You mumble quietly, shaking your head gently as your remorseful gaze meets his. "I made sure to be careful, though...I made sure not to do the heavy parts...." Another sigh escapes him as he tuts softly at you, but he can't hide the loving look in his eyes as he looks down at you. "I understand that, love. And I'm proud of you for being so careful. But I need you to relax, sweetheart, alright? Don't go giving me a heart attack right when I come home, baby. I'm getting too old for it." He gives you that small quokka smile that you've come to love so much, and you melt into him as you admire the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Ok, honey...I'm sorry." You murmur as you wrap your arms around him, pressing yourself as close as you can despite the roundness of your belly. "I'll just lie around and do nothing all day long...just waiting for you to come home."