Chapter Text
You love your job. When your aunt had called you five years ago, begging you to take over the pet store she had run for years prior because she wanted to retire with your uncle and live in the mountains of Colorado, you had obliged.
Now, you run one of the most favored pet stores in the Quantico, Virginia area. It had been hard work, but damn are you proud of yourself. You and your three employees had brought up the standards that were already high from when your aunt was running the show.
You have a good variety of different pets and knowledgable about all of them so that you can answer any and all questions that might be brought up. Every morning, you woke up looking forward to feeding the cats and dogs and checking in on the reptiles and fish. Every one of them has a name and is cared for. You even screen the people adopting the pets to make sure that they’re going to proper, caring homes.
It’s easy to say that you take your job seriously. You work hard and make sure that everyone is taken care of. This quality has ingrained a sixth sense for knowing when someone or something needs help or some more care.
On Monday morning, just after opening, you were petting one of the kittens that had wandered away from his siblings in the display pen. You hear the front door open, making the small silver bell tinkle.
You look up from the kitten, a bright smile already on your face as you turn to the new customer.
He is tall, has brown eyes, and short brown hair. He’s a bit on the thin side, but you don’t mind. Your first thought is that he’s attractive. Your second thought is that he might be more of a dog person.
“Hi,” you say, cuddling the small kitten to your chest. “How may I help you?”
It’s barely eight in the morning, but the man looks more tired than he should for this early hour. There are dark circles under his eyes and your internal radar screams that he needs comfort of some sort.
You don’t think as you offer the kitten to him. “Do you want to pet him? His name is Felony.”
“Felony?” The man cracks a smile at the unusual—no, we’ll call it what it is: bizarre—name. He reaches out and takes the small tabby in his arms, securing the kitten against his chest. You can tell that his touch is gentile but the hold on the small animal is firm enough that he won’t go anywhere.
“Long story, but basically the big mom, the cat who had this litter, is named Arson because she was born into a litter that had to have names that start with A,” you explain, chuckling. “This litter is her first, and the owner wanted to keep up with the theme, but didn’t stick with the rule of lettering the litter.
“Arson was already a strange name, so Bill—the owner—said, ‘Fuck it, I’m going all in,’ and named the litter after different crimes. We have Felony, Battery, Larceny, Vandalism, Obstruction of Justice, and, my personal favorite: Tax Evasion. We mostly call him Big T, though.”
The whole time that you ramble, the man strokes Felony while listening in shocked silence. His jaw drops a little, and you blush.
“Sorry, that’s a lot of useless information at eight in the morning,” you murmur, looking anywhere except his brilliant eyes.
“I…I actually think that’s hilarious,” the man says. He shifts his weight before saying, “I actually work for the FBI, so that’s…strangely on-brand for me.”
You can’t hold back the laugh that escapes you as he reveals his profession. “You’re joking.”
Cradling Felony in one hand, he pulls out a badge with very official information printed on it.
“You’re not joking.”
He shakes his head and goes back to petting Felony with his other hand after putting away the badge.
You blink. “I want you to know that Bill has never committed any crimes; he just has a weird sense of humor.”
He laughs. “No worries, I was just thrown off the erratic names. I’ve heard some weird ones, but that was…new.”
“I’m (Name),” you say, introducing yourself to the FBI agent.
“Dr. Spencer Reid,” the agent replies, smiling slightly.
“Well, Dr. Reid, what brings you to the best pet shop in Quantico at eight am on a Monday?” You ask, wanting to help him.
Spencer doesn’t answer for a moment, he just scratches behind Felony’s ears absentmindedly. You can hear the tabby purring from where you stood.
You look him up and down quickly. There’s no pet hair around the ankles of his pants, so he doesn’t have cats or dogs. He might have a reptile, or he might be a new owner. But new owners don’t usually come in at this time—no, no one really comes in at this time. You come mostly for the benefit of the animals and the few customers who are early risers.
But he looks too tired to be an early riser, unless he had risen at two am that morning.
He’s still silent, and you don’t pry an answer from him. You’ve had days where the only thing you wanted to do was pet some fluffy animal and distract yourself from whatever was bothering you. Could that be what he was doing?
“Spencer,” you say quietly, so as not to disturb him if he is deep in thought, “would you like to sit and pet Felony for a while? I have some maintenance to do, but I’m sure he would love it if he could have some company.”
For a moment, you don’t think he had heard you. And then, “Thank you, (Name). I will do that.”
You procure a chair from the back and let him sit down, watching how he carefully cradles the kitten. You can tell that he will be gentile and mindful with him, so you go about your daily chores of mornings at the pet shop.
You sweep, switch out the newspapers in the birdcages, feed the dogs and pet each one, whispering positive things in their ears, clean the cat display pens, and check in on the reptiles. You hum to yourself as you work, mostly because you don’t like playing music over the speaker system of the store. Some of the animals don’t like it as much.
Every so often, you look over at the FBI agent out of the corner of your eye. He doesn’t move much, except to accommodate Felony as he wriggles about on his lap. The expression on the man’s face is soft, like he’s focusing all of his energy on the cat and it’s the most pure thing in the world.
After you’re finished with everything you needed to complete, you go to the display pen for kittens and scoop up Tax Evasion.
He’s on the smaller side, but you adore him all the same. You move to stand near the chair Spencer is occupying, and the two cats look at each other in interest. After a moment, each cat goes back to enjoying the people petting them.
“Thank you,” Spencer says softly. “I…I know that it’s weird to do this, but I appreciate you letting me hold Felony. Thank you for understanding.”
“Of course, Dr. Reid—”
“Please, call me Spencer.”
You smile and correct yourself. “Of course, Spencer. I’ve had off days and know how they feel. I won’t ask you about it unless you want to talk about it, but if you ever don’t want to talk, you’re welcome to come and pet Felony and I won’t listen.”
He gives a half smile. “I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.”
You glance at the clock. Almost an hour has passed since you put Felony in his care and the cat looks pleased to be scratched and petted for that time. Spencer follows your line of sight and sees the time.
“Oh, I have to get to work,” he mutters quickly, standing but cradling Felony tightly. He walks to the front of the store and deposits the tabby in the display pen.
Before he leaves, he turns and faces you. “I meant what I said, (Name). I really appreciate this and I’ll be back to not talk and have you not listen.”
You grin. “You’re welcome back anytime.”
He leaves, and you are left holding Tax Evasion and watching him go. Dr. Spencer Reid is intriguing to you. He barely spoke, but you’re interested in his character. He looked young, but he spoke with an air of knowing what he was doing. And he’s an FBI agent with a badge and everything.
You wonder what he must have been going through to hold a kitten for almost an hour before coming back down to Earth. You hope he comes back soon, but not because he’s sad and wants to pet cats or dogs.
You simply want to see him again.