SPENCER REID: PARKER FINDS OUT SPENCER IS HIDING AN INJURY FROM HIM.

studying to become what he is now, parker knew that there would be plenty of close calls in his future as an fbi agent. he was prepared to be hurt, or even killed, if it came down to it - parker had come to terms with any fate that may befall him while trying to track down the man that killed his parents. what he hadn't been ready for was caring about someone enough to worry about what might happen to them, in the same circumstances. with a fire building in the room behind them, parker and spencer nearly had to carry each other out of the abandoned house they had chased their unsub into, almost trapping themselves inside. smoke caused agent nash to cough and wheeze, but he didn't allow either of them to stop until they stumbled into the fresh air outside. the killer was long gone, hoping that the agents would die in the fire he set. parker thought he was one unlucky son of a bitch, because not only had they survived, now parker was angry - and anger made him an even better hunter.

until then, parker helped spencer sit on the hood of his car, glancing back at the house that was just beginning to collapse with its engulfing flames. instinctively, phone is pulled from his pocket, calling the team for backup, demanding the fire department be sent along with them. eyes glance over spencer, then do a double take at the way the other man was holding a hand against his side. brow furrows as he hangs up his cell phone, approaching the man he'd known for years now, gently yanking his hand away to see blood spreading across the fabric his button up shirt. 'what the fuck, reid?' it's a gruff response to the assumed wound, parker pressing spencer's hand back to where it had been previously, reluctant to let go until another moment passes. 'how bad is it? are we waiting for the paramedics, or am i taking you to a damn hospital?' @spencsreid.

archive moodboard: for @spencsreid

𝖍𝖊'𝖉  𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗  𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓  𝖔𝖓𝖊  for  showing  off  or  pretending  to  be  something  he  wasn't.  his  music,  his  writing  —  both  were  outlets,  raw  and  honest.  the  music  he  created  was  an  exploration  of  personal  suffering,  introspection,  and  philosophical  despair,  not  some  act  to  make  people  think  he  was  impressive.  but  then,  he  realized,  many  others,  perhaps  unknowingly,  wore  their  accomplishments  like  a  mask.

he  thought  about  the  countless  interviews  where  he’d  watched  people,  particularly  in  academia  or  art,  parade  their  intellect  like  it  was  a  weapon.  he’d  seen  it  in  the  music  industry  too.  musicians  would  slip  into  their  roles,  perfecting  a  persona  to  make  themselves  larger  than  life,  more  enigmatic.  the  desire  to  be  viewed  as  special,  as  something  beyond  the  ordinary,  was  universal.  ❝  i  think  it's  more  about  the  need  to  be  seen.  to  be  understood  in  a  way  that  makes  sense  to  others.  but  the  irony  is,  the  more  you  try  to  make  them  see  you,  the  less  they  really  do.  ❞

  ━━━━━━━━━━━             ࣪𖤐⋆˖⁺‧₊          these  violent  delights    ;    dag  landvik

❝   we'll  stay  at  home  [  . . .  ]  listen  to  a  record  and  watch  a  candle  burn   ❞