#flapper!reader

One look, eyes meeting across smoky jazz clubs, and suddenly you’re plucked from the multitude, from obscurity, made somehow special again. A person, alight and full of potential and energy, rather than a pawn of the city.

You've learned to tell if the glance is merely curious, simple pinpricks on the back of your neck, as fleeting as the seasons, or if there's something more.

Certain looks carry weight. Sticky and sweet like honey, but laced with just a hint of danger. Those are the ones you love, the ones that make you kick your legs a little harder when dancing. You throw your head back and bare the line of your throat, hoping to allure them with the vulnerability so that perhaps, their interest lasts for the whole night. Give you enough of a rush to tide you until the next day, head buzzing with images of the smoky clubs as you return to your work.

This familiarity is what alerts you.

Because you know someone is looking at you. You feel the similar pinpricks, hairs raising on end. It lingers, but without the heady, almost intrusive nature of those lustful looks you've grown used to receiving.

It first happened a few weeks ago, walking from theater to the parking space where you’ve left your car. It stays the whole time you're walking, gone the moment you whirled around to look.

You’d shrugged and went about your night, eager to get home.

It happens again, not even a week later. Leaving from a speakeasy, hanging from a man's arm. He hails a cab for you, and you let him, too drunk on bootleg spirits to even consider driving. You're just about to slide into the cab when you feel it again, piercing in the night. You think it's coming from the figure across the street, but then, maybe it's just a hallucinatory side effect of the liquor.

But no. It follows you the next day.

This time, you think you catch the culprit, slinking in the alley by the theater where you work. You're sober now, frowning, squinting into the dark. A tall man, slender and elegant in his bearing, looking like he belongs in wall street than ominously lurking in the shadows. Two glinting beads from the shadows catch your attention, and you know you’ve met his gaze.

He shifts.

Stephanie Humphrey, the star of the play and your friend, pushes past you to get through the door, already smelling of gin. The two of you stumble, and the moment with the stranger breaks. Stephanie holds out a cigarette. You fumble through your coat for your lighter.

“You coming with us, sugar?”

“To where?” A small fire flares, and cigarette smoke unfurls in the chilly night.

“The 300.”

You wince. Rumors of a raid had been circulating all week. “I thought Miss Guinan was in hot waters?”

“She’s always in hot waters.” Stephanie laughs, and blows out a stream of smoke right into your face.

You angle your head away to avoid a direct hit, glancing back into the streets in the process. The man is gone.

“Come on, doll, I know you like havin’ a good time!” She bumps you with her hip, before stepping clumsily down the steps. She holds out her cigarette as invitation, her red mouth slashing across the bottom half of her face enticingly.

You grin. Instantly, the strange man is forgotten in favor of the promise of fun. You accept the cigarette and follow Stephanie into the night.

Stephanie is upset over her performance today, complaining about how emotionally taxing it is to perform for both the matinee and the evening shows, so you accompany her to the 300 club for the second night in a row.

If it were up to you, you would have gone for the club a few streets away, but Stephanie feels a sense of loyalty to this establishment. The 300 is where she got discovered almost a year ago, her long nights of dancing up on the stage and flirting with customers finally reaping something tangible.

Once she did, she’d been sweet enough to drag you with her to the theater, and you were more than happy to leave the clothing factory you used to work at, in favor of something slightly more glamorous.

Truthfully, the wages aren't any better, but the working conditions are far superior. And the stage manager looks away whenever you slip a half empty case of sequins into your pockets for your own homemade dresses.

So you indulge your friend. Find a gentleman to flirt with. Giggle, sip at the gin and tonic and pretend it still burns—men love the coquettish flair, even though your throat has gotten used to the sting of alcohol ages ago. When he asks you to dance, you bat your lashes and drag him to the middle of the floor with glee.

To your surprise, you feel it again. The familiar prickle of being watched.

Not wanting to seem too conspicuous, you maneuver your partner through a series of dance steps, forcing the two of you to twirl and exchange positions. He seems too drunk to care, grinning happily as you end up on what used to be his side of the dance floor. You gain view of the other side of the room, sobering instantly as you scan the crowd.

Nothing particularly stands out. Fellow women, laughing men, the clinking of glass, a scene all warped by the smoke curling from the ends of pipes and cigarettes. There's movement everywhere, and perhaps that's how your eyes find him. In stillness.

Right there. A gentleman. He fits the figure you saw in the shadows from the night before, slender and elegant. Seated in the middle of the bar, alone when most people are in pairs or groups, motionless where everybody is frenetic.

One look from across a smoky room, eyes meeting for the briefest second, and you've got your confirmation.

His eyes are rapt on you, but not with the familiar weight of being desired.

Your partner spins you, fast enough to make it seem like the moment had been accidental. Once the song ends, however, the man is still there, casually swirling a glass of amber liquid, head down like he knows he's been caught.

Despite his height, you can tell he's used to moving unnoticed. Takes advantage of the city's natural ability to conceal individuals within its smoky, crowded atmosphere. He recognizes the power in invisibility and has cultivated it.

Too bad for him, he's tailing the wrong person.

You excuse yourself from the rest of your table, shaking your head lightly at Stephanie's pouty protests, and drift toward the bar. You stop exactly three feet away from him, but with your head tilted slightly to his direction. Open, inviting.

He doesn't take the bait, despite the obvious tension in his shoulders at your proximity.

You glance up and take in his profile up close. Handsome, yes, with a classic sharp jaw and harsh cheekbones, but also youthful, even though he's clearly older than you.

Large, owlish eyes intently staring forward, plush lips with such a natural rosiness most girls would be jealous. His hair is slicked back in typical male fashion, but they're curling at the tips, like he hadn't allowed the pomade to set properly.

He holds himself with a stiffness that suggests he isn't here for regular business—getting drunk or gambling. That, paired with the stalking tells you he might be danger. Or you might have gotten in some trouble. Immediately, your mind runs over the last few men you've given the pleasure of your company. It's possible you might have tangled with someone shady.

Excitement blooms in your chest. You tamp it down, grin up at the stranger.

“You’re terrible at this,” you say.

“At what?” he replies, keeping his gaze on the rest of the room.

“Following me.”

He still doesn't turn, or even dignify you with a response, but his brows knit ever so slightly.

"You've been doin' it all week, sugar, people are gonna start gossiping."

"Something tells me it wouldn't be the first time people gossiped about you." he finally glances at you. His eyes are the same color of his drink, possibly just as sharp.

"Oh, don't flatter me, Detective."

He blinks. "How did you know—"

You laugh, delighted. Caught him. "I didn't. But now I do, thanks for that. Huh, can't tell if a detective's better than a member from those organized gangs. That was my other guess."

"How did you know?" he repeats, seemingly forgetting about his original reason for coming here in favor of understanding how you came to the conclusion.

You lean your elbows on the counter. A grin pulls at your lips, teeth sharp and flashing beneath the red mouth. "I'll tell ya if you tell me why you're sniffin' at my heels."

He studies you for a moment. Normally, a man singling you out makes you warm with anticipation, giggles tumbling past your lips like chimes to encourage the attention, to cling to it, make it last longer. But Spencer's eyes are inquisitive.

You realize finally that his gaze lingers to observe. He is studying you. Has been, all this time, every instance you'd felt like you were being followed.

What have you gotten yourself into?

"Don't got all night, detective." you pull his drink from his fingers, brazen and sure, and take a sip.

He sighs. Drags a hand over his jaw and relents. "I believe you're in possession of something important, and it may not entirely belong to you."

All the humor leaves your expression. His eyes narrow at that, no doubt seeking for guilt within the planes of your pretty face.

"You saying I'm a thief?"

He raises a brow. "No. Why is that your first instinct?"

You wince, realizing you whipped out the defensiveness too fast. True, you are one, but not the important kind! Really.

At most, you take home a few replicated jewels from backstage. A few yards of ribbons. Old silk slips forgotten by actresses, if you're feeling particularly luxurious, but still. Always the surplus, nothing of note. Nothing to be investigated for.

You muster every inch of careless confidence in your body and smile. "Don't have to tell you nothing. Ladies are allowed their secrets, after all."

He frowns, but accepts it. "Right. Well, I've told you why I'm following you, now you have to tell me how you deduced I'm a detective."

"No fair, you didn't give me any details!"

"It's highly confidential. I'm only entertaining this con–"

"Finish your drinks! Everyone!" one of the servers yells out, loud and slightly panicked.

Your eyes widen, knowing exactly what that's code for. You grab his glass and down the rest of his whiskey, wincing as the sheer volume of liquor scrapes your throat raw.

In a moment, the atmosphere grows tense with focus. Gentlemen polishing off their drinks, while servers come out to refill the glasses with water or tea. The worst of the drunks are led to the back by their friends, while Texas Guinan herself rises from her table and saunters to the front like she's just going to welcome another group of patrons.

"Everybody calm down, I'll handle this." she calls out, unruffled and armed with her glitzy beauty and charm.

You scan the crowd for Stephanie, but she's disappeared, leaving behind your previous companions, both looking quite annoyed at your table. It's not unusual for your nights to end separately, but it feels especially risky if the police are here. You suppose it's better that she's alone, though. She knows how to take care of herself. Bringing the man would only drag her down.

Meanwhile, you glare at the detective beside you. "You got anything to do with this?

"With what?" he surveys the room with a frown.

"Right," you scoff, slipping from the stool. "You could be an actor, trying to convince me you're innocent in all this."

"In what?" he repeats. He meets your gaze, seeming genuinely lost.

"The raid, detective!" you hiss, "That why you've been following me? So you could tell your friends which speakeasies are operatin'?"

Your voice had grown higher by the end of the sentence, catching a few men's attention. Their eyes are drunken and suspicious, glancing between you and the detective. To your surprise, the man looks just as panicked, and you watch as his eyes widen with realization.

"A raid, you mean the police?"

"Don't know anyone else enforcing this stupid prohibition law."

"I have to go," he slides off the stool as well, stumbling towards the exit.

"Wait," you catch his arm, "Where are you going?"

"Out! I have to go." he shrugs you off, his long legs taking him halfway across the room in a few strides. Judging by how clumsily he's moving, and the way his shoulders have tensed, he's telling the truth. He has nothing to do with this raid. In fact, he might have nothing to do with the police either.

How peculiar then. Could it be he's one of those fancy private investigators? Still, why is he evading the police?

But there's no time to ask; he's trying to get to the exit and you need to catch him.

"Wait!" you run after him, slamming into bodies—servers trying to rid any evidence of alcohol from the club, fellow flappers trying to get out before the police crosses the threshold. You reach, manage to grab his elbow, and tug him back. "Don't be stupid, they've got people posted right outside that door. If you're trying to avoid the police, then you'd just walk right into their arms." you snap, stopping him before he could try the regular exit.

He blinks, looking at you as his panic subsides. You can see suspicion warring in those eyes, before they harden and are cleared by a steely focus.

"Right. Right, but I need to–"

"Come," you tug him along, weaving through the tables until you reach the kitchen. Nobody bothers you—in times like these, the staff knows to let people leave through the emergency exit should they wish to. The ones who stay are to be given food, to replicate the facade of an unassuming restaurant.

Polished shoes keep nicking at your heels, telling you that the detective is following closely. You find the window in the back, already wide open, a stool already poised just beneath it.

"Here's our exit." you say, waving your arms with flourish.

His lips curl with amusement, but he doesn't question you further. You step aside, letting him go first since he seems to be in a hurry to evade the police. He's tall enough to hoist himself through the window without using the stool, but he pauses, straddling the sill, to reach a hand out for you.

"Oh." you blink. You've gone through quite a number of emergency exits before, and it's usually a mad dash. Frantic pushing, people trying to save their skin first. You've been left behind one too many times, had to figure out your own way home.

"Come on," he is firm and hurried, palm up, waiting.

You step on the stool and grab his hand, allowing him to tug you up until you're balanced on the sill beside him. He swings his other leg, hops down the other side, then turns back to you. You stare back at him, still frozen in place, blinking in stunned confusion.

"Here," he takes your hands and guides them to his shoulders. "Easy now."

You've done this many, many times. Had broken one too many heels from different attempts at escape, rolled your ankles, sometimes lost precious handbags, precisely because no one's ever bothered to handle you with such care.

And here's this strange man, previously stalking you, had accused you of—what had he accused you of? You don't even remember—yet still having the decency to gently lift you off the makeshift exit. A pair of large hands on your waist steadies you as your feet hit the ground, letting go quickly when he sees you've gotten your balance.

For the first time in a long while, you feel warmth flushing over your cheeks. Like the naive girl you were when you arrived, shy and unsure.

You hate it. Give the adrenaline back, the rush and the confidence, not… this.

"Where to now?" his soft voice breaks your reverie, and you clear your throat.

"Follow me."

You know these back alleys like a second home. Know which dumpsters overflow because the apartment building that uses it is overcrowded, which turn leads to a dead end, and which will lead you into glitzy, busy streets of Broadway.

The detective follows behind. Despite the questions you may have for each other, there's a tentative trust forming. It's just for tonight, you think. Just until you're both away from where the raid is happening, and then…

It hits you then. He's been following you, perhaps conducting some sort of investigation. You're not naive enough to think it will stop after tonight.

"So," you say, taking a quick left, intending to get him to speak while you maneuver this dark maze, "Why're you hiding from the police, detective?"

"It's none of your business."

"I just helped you out," you look over your shoulder with a pout, "Think I deserve an answer."

"I did answer earlier, I told you it's complicated. Besides, you didn't even fulfill your part of the deal earlier."

"Which is?"

"Tell me how you knew I was a detective."

A laugh rumbles from deep in your belly, full and decidedly unladylike, the kind that shakes your whole body and, as the adrenaline fades and all the alcohol settles, makes you stumble.

The detective catches your elbow, straightens you before you could fall.

"Forgot about that." you giggle, looking at him with a grin. "Right. You couldn't have been more obvious, detective. You weren't smoking, weren't entertaining women, or doing business with the rest of the men. Plus you were only pretending to drink your whiskey."

He moves to let go, but you sway on your feet now that the alcohol's taking hold of your system, and he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow instead.

"But why detective, of all things?"

"You were clearly there investigating something, so it was between that or you're from one of those gangs." you lean into his side to steer him into the right turn. He follows, careful and slowing his steps to match you.

"Was I really that obvious?"

"No," you admit, "But I've known you were following me, remember?"

"I thought I was being more discreet."

"Well, women in this city are smarter than we seem, detective. Never know who's gonna jump us." you say. You can hear your words slurring. How annoying. He's being such a lovely fellow, and you want to keep talking to him. "Besides, I could feel you, like, studying me."

"You could feel me?"

"The way you look at me." your arm gesture vaguely in the air and you can hear him sigh. If you were every just a touch more sober, you would have been able to tell if he's annoyed, or charmed. You'd like to think he's charmed. Most men are. "It's… weird. Different. Like you didn't want me."

"Mhm, and I'm sure you're quite used to men… wanting you?"

"Yes," when the world looks like a slurry, it is very easy to ignore the slight hint of judgment in his voice. It is also very easy to keep speaking, divulging thoughts you've never said out loud to anyone else before. "They look at me like I'm a… a thing they want. It's always so heavy. Like a pressure to perform a certain way. Yours is unsettling, because it wasn't like that… and now I know it's because you're doing some sort of investigation."

He's quiet after that. Contemplative, like he's not simply talking to a flapper half stumbling beside him. Like you aren't spouting complete nonsense.

The streets eventually become illuminated, growing brighter as you exit the back alleys and step into one of the main streets. You feel his breath ruffling your hair when he exhales.

"Thank you for helping me out of that." he says quietly, like he's hoping the city eats up the sound and the words never reach your ears. "You don't even know who I am."

"Tell me then."

He hesitates, regarding you with an imperceptible expression. "My name?"

"Yes."

"And this is in exchange for yours?"

"If you ask nicely."

He shakes his head, lips pulling taut, and for a moment, you expect him to leave you. Huff in annoyance and just go. Instead, he transfers you to the inside of the sidewalk, shields you from the potential sprays of mud, or a wayward driver, and continues to walk.

"It's Spencer Reid."

You hope the name sticks. There's no rhyme or reason to what your drunk mind retains and rejects, but let his name be one of the things you remember from tonight.

Mostly because you still want to know why on earth he's been following you. His warmth is simply a bonus.

"Now you owe me, Spencer Reid. I just saved your ass."

He laughs. "Now tell me your name."

"Stacy." it slips from your teeth like silk, a lie that's been told to countless men.

"Stacy." he repeats. Nods. Hails a cab, ushers your increasingly limp body inside and gets in beside you.

You look at him, a slight panic rising in your chest for the first time tonight, the genuine, spine tingling panic of realization. Alone in a car with a man you just met. Not just buzzed, drunk, the kind that makes your bones feel like mush and ruins your balance.

However, it is eased just as quickly when Spencer tells the driver your address.

He's taking you home. You relax for a split second, slumping into the seat before you're ramrod straight again, looking at him with wide, betrayed eyes.

"You know where I live?!"

He smirks, clearly smug to reveal this ace up his sleeve after a night full of blunders. Dork.

"I run a very thorough operation," and then he says it—your name. Your real name, not the fake one you'd given to him moments ago.

You gulp, feeling a sense of betrayal that doesn't feel earned. It's silly and burns in the back of your throat, and you'd rather not deal with the implications of it tonight.

His voice is low when he speaks again, but oddly reassuring. "I won't harm you. In fact, it's this case isn't even about you, it's simply pertinent to my client."

You fight back the frown, refuse to let the confusion of this mystery make you sad, so your lips curl into a practiced smile instead, eyes flashing mischievously in the darkness of that cab. "You sure you can't tell me more about it? You already have me captive, figuratively, I might be able to help you."

He glances away. You watch his throat bob as he considers. He is a marvel to behold, even in this poorly lit backseat, even as a muscle in his jaw twitches from tension. Beautifully angular features, offset by just the right amount of softness.

You look away before your drunken mind compels you to do something stupid, like lean forward and kiss the man investigating you.

You've had your fair share of risky lovers, of drunken mistakes, and still, this one would take the cake.

"I'm… looking for jewelry. And you wore one of them the other day." he says finally, softly. "A choker, thick black velvet band with a pendant of pearls."

You blink. Partly from shock—he truly must have been watching you closely if he catalogues what you'd worn, down to the accessories.

The other part. The other part fills with an unease, looming thick and heavy like an ominous shroud. You manage to bite your lip before the truth spills out, those aren't even really mine, I got them from Stephanie, but you aren't about to implicate your friend like that.

But, oh Steph, what has she done?

You meet the detective's eyes, and manage to turn that worried lip bite into something sensual. Flirty. "Can't I just return it, and your client can call it a day?"

Spencer shakes his head, eyes narrowing. "I'll still need to investigate."

"Investigate what? I got it from a pawn shop." you say, batting your lashes innocently.

He huffs and regards your antics with an expression you've never received before—exasperation.

"You literally just lied about your name not ten minutes ago."

Right. You wince.

"I'll visit you again sometime this week." he says, voice gentling again, like he's trying to soothe you. "I'd appreciate it if you have the choker ready."

You nod, feeling numb. "All right, detective."

"You're not in trouble." he tells you, "Not yet."

"And if I am," you peek from beneath your lashes and manage another flirtatious smile, "Can you bail me out? You do still owe me."

He scoffs, but you can swear his lips are lifting at the corners, the makings of a smile. Outside, the city gleams and pulses, heady with potential. Strangely, in here, you feel the beginnings of something similar.