Chapter Text
Stranger things have happened, she thinks. She isn’t quite sure whether she wants to chalk up this accidental meeting as an eerie coincidence. Or believe that something supernatural is at work. Or simply unadulterated dumb luck. Misfortune is another interpretation.
Spencer Reid is standing in line to watch a Star Trek movie. Of course, he is.
She can’t dislodge a hint of disappointment blooming in her chest. To see the lack of brightly colour-coded uniform on him.
Tweed blazer, a loosened starship-patterned necktie, a standard dress shirt, tight low-slung chinos, and a pair of converse sneakers, with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
Standard Spencer Reid attire. For work. So, he’d came here alone.
It’s still not too late for Ashley to make a U-turn. Some café nearby could still be open, and she could grab scalding hot double-shot expresso and stale waffles, and maybe enjoy the solitude that comes with near closing time on a week night. The movie will still be in the theatre for another two weeks. She’s about a hundred percent sure that he hasn’t spot her yet—
“Hey, stranger,” Reid calls out. Broadly smiling.
Too late to U-turn now. Right. Though her entire face moves on autopilot, she smiles—not too wide, not too thin, a touch of sincerity while strained, she hopes—and returns with a tiny waving gesture. Might as well. This night can’t be anymore awkward than it already aspires to be.
He’s practically skipping to her spot.
“Hey, you,” she says, spotting his seat number on the ticket tucked in his blazer’s front pocket. Can’t understand why she went ahead and purchased the empty seat next to his.
He patiently waits until she has her ticket and salted-caramelised popcorn in her arm. There’s another thirty minutes before the hall is prepared to receive movie-goers, and literally no way to avoid not talking to him. Small talk speedily, abruptly becomes daunting.
Five years without a substantial connection. Five years. It’s like they went from friends to strangers so seamlessly that she forgets how to be normal with him. Friendly normal.
She clears her throat twice. “So, Derek and Penelope couldn’t come?”
“Penelope is more of a Doctor Who fan. Derek’s got a date.”
Reid is built differently, she discovers. Not quite an epic revelation. Still, a surprise in that odd way you first tasted a dish you hate, only to realise you like it enough a couple years down the line to make it your personality.
“I just don’t like what he did with ‘Into the Darkness’. John Harrison is lazy writing—”
His enthusiasm for sci-fi seems so endearing. That alone erodes the chasm between them.
There’s a lot of things Ashley learns about Star Trek, trivia, plot holes and inconsistences in ten minutes than she could by watching the franchise’s catalogue. He’s highly opinionated too.
“Yet here you are, about to watch the sequel to the Star Trek movies produced by him.”
He has utter disdain for J.J. Abrams. Believes the newer movies are trying too hard to pay homage to the classics, which sets up their failure to live up to the preceding standards. The visuals bear no resemblance to TOS, only succeeding looking like an Apple store. The only redeeming quality is the cast.
“Being a completionist compels me to watch it anyway, since it’s directed by another person. That itself mean the cinematography isn’t under Abrams’ full control.”
She does her best to keep up with him with her limited knowledge.
“You know a lot about Star Trek,” he eventually says, half-squinting, lips pursed in thought. His expression perks up like lights on a Christmas pine tree.
It’s not an accusation, but sounds like one.
There’s a fraction of a second that her heart suddenly skips, woefully blunders its beats, and falls flat on her ribcage. She stammers, “Before you get the wrong idea, I’m just your regular casual fan. My college roommate, Zoe, is the Trekkie. Dragged me to a convention once, only for us to spend two hours to get her Spock poster signed by Nimoy.”
He is teasing her.
Because there’s a roguish upturned twist to his mouth. Slowly forming. Coy. Thrilled. That he stumbled into something noteworthy. Something big. Her secret. Part of her that she kept under a deadbolt. More so than being a serial killer’s offspring.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Casual fans can’t even differentiate between the Constitution-Class and the Farragut-Class. And you knew there was a Constitution II-Class, the refit,” he retorts, triumphant.
He’s always been the better profiler than she was.
“Alright, you got me, Reid.” She chokes out a laugh. Blithe. Unrestrained. Then readily divulges, “I just really, really, really like the Enterprise.”
“So, you say, Trekkie.”
He can’t seem to stay still. Or silent. Because he’s already on his next inquiry. “So, who’s your favourite character? Nyota Uhura? Christine Chapel? Janice Rand? Oh wait, let me guess. Deanna Troi? Beverly Crusher? Tasha Yar? Ro Laren?”
She shakes her head.
“Kira Nerys? Jadzia Dax? Ezri Dax?”
Her smile grows wider. Cheery. “Maybe.”
“Don’t give me the answer yet. Katheryn Janeway? Kes? B’Ehlanna Torres? Seven of Nine.” Reid lists out the candidates on his free hand, starting with his thumb, then index finger and the name list goes, until he runs out of fingers and repeats it on the same hand. “Given your extreme predisposition to Enterprise, and we’ve eliminated the original series, and that leaves us with the prequel sequel show, Enterprise, and by the process of past indicator patterns, it’s not T’Pol or Hoshi Sato?”
“Now, you’re just going to keep listing all the main female cast, aren’t you?”
“Not because they are women, but these are strong characters, and vital to Star Trek. Still incorrect? Oh, must be Katherine Pulaski? On the contrary to popular belief, she’s pretty solid as a character, and her dynamics with Data tried to replicate McCoy’s and Spock’s relationship, felt poor executed by fans, which I think is really neat, and actually packed a lot character development in her solo season.”
He takes a moment to narrow his eyes. “From one Trekkie to another, it’s—”
“You’re not going to drop it, are you?” She sighs. Though there’s a ghostly smirk splaying across her face. “You’re having way too much fun with this knowledge.”
In all honesty, and she will not admit this: Should he ask for something fun, a little more than just a platonic hangout, she will not say ‘no’, because why not, because she does not hold his heart in her hands. Nor does he.
“Resistance is futile,” says Reid, grinning. Smug.
But before he could prattle on, the hall opens and they’re staring at each other, waiting, calculating. Spencer Reid, the gentleman, light-heartedly curtsies and says, “After you.”
She can only snort.
The next time Spencer meets her at the movies, she’s alone. That knowledge pleases him somehow, curves the corners of his lips into a broad smile. He is not a stalker, he swears. Not even educated guess went into this happenstance. He hasn’t been to the movies with Penelope or Derek in months.
This is accidental. Statistically an improbable.
Ashley Seaver should be nondescript. She’s tall. She’s blonde. She’s blue-eyed. Classic midwestern beauty. There’s plenty of those in Washington. From an angle, she looks like JJ—he made that embarrassing mistake twice back then.
But she isn’t unremarkable.
There’s something about her that makes Spencer’s stomach recoils in, in what—he cannot name it. They’re friends once. Posed for the FBI’s recruitment posters even. Then, time has turned them into acquaintances. Later, some strangers with a past.
Still, he takes the plunge to start the small talk.
That trifling exchange snowballs into a civil debate on the demerits of J.J. Abrams’ contribution to the Star Trek franchise. Somewhere, there is a heated argument about the miscast of Tom Hardy as a younger Patrick Stewart.
Seaver knows her lore. Deflecting his criticisms with well-thought essays and ease.
It dawns on him, a lightning striking a tree twice, and gosh, he’s so fucking blind. Some kind of profiler he is. The team won’t hear the end of this. She wasn’t hiding it at all.
She’s a genuine Trekkie.
“You know a lot about Star Trek,” he bleats.
She shrugs. Shoulders arching upwards fleetingly, swiftly. Her denial is certainly comical, because she runs her tongue over her teeth more than once. That’s a tell. Bites her inner cheeks. That’s another tell.
Their thrilling conversation is put on the backburner when the hall opens.
They sit in the dim cinema, where their hands accidentally brushed as he scratching his thigh and she’s blindly patting the armchair for her popcorn. His heartbeat gains thunderous hooves in his ears for a flickering second, and his neck is raw and red. He sneaks a quick peek at her, and she’s cursorily swiping a stray tear at the memoriam credits.
The movie ends, but the night is still young.
And… Spencer has no inclination to be alone tonight. Seaver doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave too. They’ve been walking, actually wandering along the tree-lined sidewalk. For minutes. For hours, perhaps. The moon is glowing silvery-gold, among the darkened and star-speckled clouds, above them.
“Gaila,” she finally says.
“Gaila, Quark’s cousin?”
“No.” She faux-gasps, gaping at him, at his stupidity maybe, at his something surely. “Uhura’s roommate from the first Kelvinverse movie. You know, the first Orion Starfleet officer for the Star Trek franchise.”
Redhead. Green-skinned. Spent most of her screentime in a galaxy-themed lingerie. Oh.
“Isn’t she a minor character?” He furrows his brow, incredulous at her choice.
“Yes, she was,” she reiterates.
“Her relationship with Kirk was the reason why Kirk was able to defeat Spock’s Kobayashi Maru test. That lead to his academic suspension and kicked off the contrived reason he ended up in the Enterprise—”
“What is your point, Reid?” she demands, tone clipped. Nostrils flaring.
Perhaps, he’s underestimated her attachment to the newer trilogy. Really, he should know better than to say the next sentences without a sense of humility. “Would you agree that she is a plot device, not a character?”
“Duh. Plot device or not, she made history, though it’s almost a footnote really,” she concedes, clenching her jaw. She rubs her eyelids, then gaze at him, tiredly, resignedly. “Plus, is there a rule that says I can’t like a minor character?”
“No, you’re right,” he agrees. “It doesn’t matter at all, whether they’re minor or not.”
He expects Ashley to announce that she has work tomorrow, and it’s getting really, really late, making a dramatic point to energetically tap on her wristwatch, and smile a bit when she—
It doesn’t happen at all.
The diner promises eternal service, open throughout day and night, and all days except Christmas and New Years. It is small. Mostly empty. At the counter, there’s a couple, with their heads touching, and the skinnier male sways his tapered, bejewelled hand to the sultry croon of Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable. Quietly, they slide into a cyan vinyl booth, with ropes of silver tinsel and miniature hamburgers adorned the gigantic grime-dotted window glass pane. The streetlight shrouds her partially in delicate incandescence, and Spencer takes a moment to appreciate how her blonde hair falls over onto the table, as she leans down to read the plastic-coated menu, then smiles at him—
Their order is simple. Uncomplicated. Two blister-burnt black coffees.
There are no voices to dictate his words. He is sound of mind. His intelligence unimpaired by external sources. Some sliver of bravado seizes him, is what he thinks had happened when he dissects this event in years to come.
“One night,” he says. Poised.
“One night of what, Reid?”
She looks absolutely surprised.
“One night where we can be two consenting adults with no strings attached,” he presses.
If she is stunned at his candid admission, she’s mastered her reaction, and it does not show on her face. Her expression is unreadable. Blank. Morphs into something secretive.
“Are you propositioning me for one night of meaningless sex, Agent Reid?”
“Now, we’re two people who met or reconnected at a Star Trek movie event. It would not be out of the realm to indulge in a little impulsive thought.” He doesn’t like how the jukebox chooses this moment to die, and the silence is palpable as blood rushing into his ears, and his tongue is half-tied, half-coherent. “We can always attribute this night to alcohol-induced thinking and untreated daddy issues. Convenient scapegoat, but not unfounded as it’s rooted in scientific facts.”
“We don’t have alcohol, only coffee.”
For no reason, he is anticipative. There’s plenty of reasons, Spencer knows, but he isn’t in the mood to examine himself with the scrutiny of a criminal investigator. Not tonight.
She purses her lips, stirring a transparent plastic stick in her coffee absentmindedly.
“And if I decline?”
Coffee sloshes uneasily in the pit of his belly. Dread and mortification slowly creeping around his chest, trapping some ache in between his fishboned-ribcage. “Then there’s nothing else to say, we will leave it as two people who met at Star Trek movie event. Sex or not, I had a great time watching movies with you, especially Star Trek and horror films.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Reid,” she trails off, and then, and then, she does that thing with her lips, and the ends of her pink mouth curves into a coy smirk. “But like the Borg always say, resistance is futile,” she throws back at his face.
“Trekkie, and I stand corrected,” he whispers to the wind or anyone listening.
“So, your place or mine?”
Spencer is fucking tongue-tied.
Her mark in the BAU bullpen is an USS Enterprise mug resting on his table.
For eagle-eyed busybodies, they would see a Tardis phone booth paper weight on her desk.