Chapter Text
Today feels a little different than usual, I think as I walk up the stairs into Hotch's office. It's almost like something is going to happen today, something impactful. I tend to listen to myself, so every second of the day I'm on the lookout for what's keeping me up at night.
And today, I think it's the perfect time to keep my eye out. I'm asking Hotch for the rest of the day off so I can "attend an NA meeting."
Speaking of NA meetings, I've been taking days off to attend them, which truly works because Hotch can't really say no to such a thing. The issue is, though, I haven't been going. I stopped attending those meetings a couple of weeks ago because my urges have gone down and because I don't think I need to attend them anymore.
But- there's always a but- my nightmares are still haunting and as much as I know about the brain and nightmares that haunt me, I don't know how to get rid of them. I've tried talking to the team about it, but they aren't necessarily sure how to help. It feels somewhat good to tell them, though.
I finally reach Hotch's office, so I knock, hovering my knuckles over the tall heavy door, waiting patiently for the two words to allow me to enter. Then, after a short second, I hear them. I place my hand on the cold doorknob and turn it to the side, pushing the door open.
The office is cold, I can feel the drop in temperature in his normally seventy-five degree office. The average temperature in Quantico during August is eighty-five point six degrees Fahrenheit, so the need for rooms being lower than seventy degrees is unnecessary. I don't think rooms should be that cold, at least, but Hotch is Hotch and he can be quite intimidating and frightening at times.
I quit thinking about the coldness of the room and head to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. His desk is cluttered, full of paperwork and scattered pens. Pretty messy for Hotch. I press my lips into a thin line, swallowing down the excruciating nervousness I receive every time I ask this question.
Hotch looks weirdly at me, like he knows the question I'm going to ask in two seconds. But he keeps his silence, because he wants me to ask myself. So he does, or else the conversation will go nowhere. "Hotch, can I... can I take the rest of the day off for an NA meeting?"
Hotch just stares, all widely like he's making fun of me for being so dumb. I don't know why I'm so surprised at Hotch catching the lie I've been attempting to hide for just over three weeks, he's one hell of a profiler.
"Go ahead, Reid," he says, a faint smirk laying on his lips.
I nod with a copy of his smile, and get up from the sinking leather seat. I grab onto the strap of my satchel and begin towards the door, grabbing the doorknob, almost turning it before Hotch says something else.
"Hey, Reid," he says. I turn, my jaw stilling. "If you need a break, you can always ask. You need one."
"Thanks, Hotch," I reply softly. He flashes another warm, sympathetic smile. Hotch rarely smiles, so I take in as much as I can. After a second, I swivel back around and pull open the door, the smell of coffee and paper filling my nose, the combination so warming and home-like.
I head through the hall and down the stairs, making my way through the bullpen where everyone is minding their own business. Surprising. Odd, too. Morgan is usually up and messing with Emily, or they're both at my desk, throwing jokes at me. They don't hurt though, because I've been told worse things than "awe, pretty boy doesn't have much of a love life, huh?"
I try to pass by without being caught, but it all fails when I feel large, heavy hands fall on my shoulders. I let out a sigh, already tired of the jokes to come. Morgan can be repetitive with the things he says, so I already know what he's going to say and ask.
"Well hello pretty boy," he says, almost excited to see me. "You thought you could leave without saying goodbye?"
One hundred and seventy- four times. Well, one hundred and seventy- five now. Morgan has said the same combination of words one hundred and seventy- five times over the past year and eight months. You would think he would switch up his sentences and maybe choose a different set of words, but no. He says the same exact thing every Tuesday and Thursday.
"Hey Morgan," I say, ready to leave the office.
"Off to find a pretty girl?" Morgan asks, so destined to receive the answer I've spent forever trying to find. It isn't that easy finding someone in Quantico, shockingly.
I usually say "No," with my eyebrows drawn and a shake of my head, but I feel good about today, so I do the opposite. "Yes, I am," with a smile on my lips and eyebrows raised.
I can hear his laugh, see the grin that takes over his entire face. "Woah!" He hits my shoulder with the utmost strength. "That's my boy." He turns me around so I'm now facing him, and like most times girls are brought up, his toothy smile shines. Morgan can be motivating and supporting underneath all the tease, and I'm grateful for that.
I give a nervous laugh, slightly wincing at the aggression used on my shoulder. I look at the man I consider a big brother, searching his face for some kind of lie that I'm sure is to come, but I come to a dead end. I'm not sure why I doubted his level of excitement, because Morgan has always pushed me to put myself out there. Morgan loves the fact that I am going out and "trying" to meet someone.
After a moment of staring at each other, Morgan breaks the silence. He pats my shoulder once more and begins to step back to his desk. "Alright Reid, go get yourself a girlfriend."
"Hopefully," I whisper to myself, being as optimistic as I can. The park I'll be taking the metro to is in a neighborhood full of older adults, but every now and then there will be a woman my age. I never take the leap to talk to them though, because I get overly too nervous and begin to overthink.
Awkward person, I am.
I turn around and head towards the glass doors, pushing past them to get to the elevator. I press on the elevator button, waiting outside, moving on the balls of my feet with my hands stuffed in my pockets.
When the doors open, I step inside and click on the main floor, allowing the doors to close. Although no one is in the small compartment, I stand towards the back, huddled in the corner. The elevator begins to move and I can't help but grab onto the railing, the movement too much for me. I hate elevators, if it hasn't been made clear.
I draw in a deep breath and count to five before breathing out, keeping my cool as the numbers above me lower and lower until they reach the main floor. I shut my eyes momentarily, as if I'm thanking the elevator for not shutting down.
The doors open and I walk out, flashing the people passing by a crooked welcoming smile. I keep to myself, and although it doesn't make sense for me to be a semi anti-social FBI agent, he makes it work.
Sure, the lack of social interaction does cause problems in mental health, but I interact with dozens of people on a day to day basis- if I'm on a case- so I find no issue with keeping to myself outside of work.
I exit the building and tread along through the parking lot, stepping onto the lonely sidewalk. It's sunny out and there's a cool breeze brushing through the trees, causing a low buzz in the air. I smile to myself, growing happy as I hear the birds chirping and the leaves rolling past me on the ground.
Ninety days until Halloween, I remind myself, only increasing my excitement. No words can describe how much I love Halloween, and the fall season itself. It's something about the smell in the air and how different the world feels.
I cross the street and jog over to the platform, almost missing the train I'm supposed to take. I hurriedly dig into my pocket, searching blindly for my metro card. After what feels like eternity, I find the card and take it out, swiping it across the small screen next to the driver.
I look up to see the driver's eyes, an irked expression taking over the elder woman's face. She's clearly annoyed at me for delaying the take off time, and I feel bad for doing so. I walk up the steps, guilt and shame coursing through my body as I find an empty seat and sit down.
The passengers' eyes are all glued to me, all showing different expressions. One woman seems apologetic while the man behind her has his eyebrows drawn, indignantly staring at me like I'm some past enemy.
I swallow the throb of combined emotions and avert my focus onto the road, which is beginning to disappear behind me. I look at the different buildings that pass by, closely looking at the old and new and the torn down and recently built structures.
I like paying attention to such a thing, it's like a guessing game; What year was this building or store built and how long did it take to build. The average amount of time it takes to build a small building is usually seven to nine months, therefore small corner stores take a shorter amount of time to build while larger stores like Target take longer. And while it sounds simpler to say, to many average minded people it takes them forever to figure it out, while it takes me seconds to make a spot-on guess.
After fifteen minutes, the bus comes to a halt and I jolt forward, almost sliding out of my seat. I look around to check if anyone sees me, but everyone is getting up and making their way through the vehicle. I fix myself up- guiding my disheveled hair behind my ear and fixing my tie and vest- and get up from my seat, following behind the old lady who seemed motherly.
Since I felt as though I plagued the driver, I offered her a short apology, to which she accepted. I prod down the steps and jump onto the sidewalk, quickly brushing past the sprawled out crowd. I hold onto the strap of my bag, so tight my hands begin to sweat.
I release my grip from the strap momentarily and brush the sweat onto my black slacks. I look around the large neighborhood, hit with shock at how large and fancy corner stores look and how sophisticated every passerby appears. I'm in the middle of a rich neighborhood, and I hope I fit in because I cannot stand another frightening stare.
I come to a stop, turning my head to both sides before crossing the street onto the warm, green grass. I look around the oddly empty park, turning my eye at every spot I can find. Most spots are unowned, but they're all sunny, and while I enjoy the bright day it is, I want to sit under a nice big tree and read. Able to see every fine letter on the rough paper.
I'm not usually picky with much of anything, but when it comes to a reading spot, something in me changes and I begin to list every pro and con about each location I lay my eyes on. I'll stand in one spot for five minutes simply taking in the park, with my arms crossed, looking all dad-like.
Then, I find the perfect spot. Underneath this great green tree by the small pond in the center of the park, where only one other person is sitting. I squint my eyes to adjust to the person sitting feet away from the tree, all alone, seeming to have a picnic.
I begin walking towards the tree, avoiding the woman who lays crisscross on the red, black and white plaid blanket. She has her chin tucked into her chest, her lips pressed together so thin that the color drains from them. And she has her hands entwined together on her lap. Pure disappointment.
She must have been stood up, due to her body language and by the way no food is eaten from the trays and containers on her blanket,I think as I take my seat on the bench. I feel the automatic pain anyone would receive after seeing someone all alone, sort of embarrassment brewing in my stomach as well.
Not because she's sitting all alone, eating nothing and avoiding her phone, but because I would feel the same way. She probably feels humiliated. I understand.
I don't want to say anything, because when I come around strangers- especially women- my legs turn to jelly and my mouth sews shut, disabling me of any and all words that beg to leave my mouth. I've worked on it, in ways some would believe to be ludicrous.
Some ways meaning practicing how I would greet someone in the mirror or holding a conversation with someone imaginary, to "gain confidence," of course. I rarely use the skills I've attained with those methods in real life, so I'm not entirely sure they'll work. Because envisioning someone in front of you and talking to them like they're there isn't so realistic.
I'm not planning on speaking to her, so I continue with my plans. I open my satchel and take out "In Cold Blood" by Truman Capote. I've read it before, but it was so interesting that I had to read it again. I turn to the first page, taking in a long breath before scanning my eyes through the pages.
I read in peace, only the sounds of leaves falling on the ground and the brushing of trees echoing in my ears. I skim through the book, finishing faster than the first time- a minute and thirty-three seconds to be exact. I should've brought another book, I scolded myself. I read twenty thousand words per minute, I could read dozens of books in an hour.
I place the book back into my satchel, buckling the flap afterwards. Since I have nothing else to do, I look down at the pond in front of me, watching the sun shine down on the brown toned water. Ducks walk out of the water, small ducklings following behind the mother.
It's peaceful, the air sweet and fresh like fruit in early spring and summer. Peaceful. Then, the quiet is interrupted by the sound of someone arguing over the phone. That someone being the girl a few feet away. My first instinct is to shut her out and not be nosy, but I can't stop himself.
"Clara, what the hell?!" She exclaims, eager for some kind of answer. "You told me you would be here by three and it's four thirty. Are you fucking kidding me? I have been waiting for so long."
She grows angrier as she pauses, waiting for the "Clara" to answer on the other line. She doesn't sound like a rude person, she's overly straining her voice. It's evident in the cracks that break the seriousness in her voice.
"Look, Clara I'm sorry but I can't do this with you anymore," she continues. "If you changed, you wouldn't be standing me up for some stupid smoke session... Okay, Clara, if you've been stressed for whatever reason, then I understand. Just let me know, 'kay? Bye."
She's nice, she's giving whoever Clara is another chance. But I shouldn't be listening in on her conversation, any conversation at that. I feel creepy just listening in on such a tough conversation, it's wrong.
So, I shut out the noise behind me and avert my focus onto the pond once more, looking down at the dogs and owners sitting around, watching the ducks as well. I lose myself staring, so long I almost forget I've been sitting there for thirty minutes.
I snap out of my haze and jolt from the forest green bench, stretching my slender arms above my head. I let out a groan as I stretch some more, the cracking of my spine and neck echoing in my ears.
I pull the strap of my satchel up onto my shoulder and turn around, the same girl who was there before sitting in the same spot. Food is missing from the platters, but besides that, everything is in the same place.
I look at her for a second, contemplating whether I should go up to her or not. She seems lonely, and after the call, she must be highly upset. After a moment of biting on my lip, running the same idea in my head over and over again, I build up the courage to talk to her. I move towards the plaid blanket, stumbling over the small hill we're on.
I meet the edge of the carpet and look down at her, with all the anxiousness and nervousness in the world. She doesn't look up at me, so I begin to think that I should leave, but I clear my throat. Too late.
She looks up at me, her mouth putting on a smile as she meets my eyes. I open my mouth to speak, but my words are delayed from the sight in front of me. She's beautiful. The type of beautiful you see once at the grocery store, then go home and create scenarios in your head about. It sounds foolish, I know, but it's true.
She's breathtaking.
"Hi, can I help you?" she asks in a soft tone.
I shake my head, my mouth sewing shut against my will. I stop the final stitch that's ready to shut my mouth, and ask the continuing question. "No, sorry. I just... I saw you here when I sat down and-"
Her eyes widen and she begins getting up, gathering some of the items on the blanket. "I'm sorry, were you planning on sitting here?"
I wave my hands, stopping her from moving any further. "No, no of course not. I've just seen you sitting all alone for the past forty five minutes and I wanted to make sure you were okay," I say. "I accidentally overheard your conversation and you seemed upset. I know it sounds creepy but I felt bad."
Surprisingly, she doesn't seem offended nor weirded out by what I admitted. She just sits back down and places the reoccurring smile back on her face. "Oh," she laughs. "Yeah, my friend stood me up again. She just got back from Las Vegas and wanted to hang out but," she shrugs her shoulders, sagging them in pure exhaustion.
"She didn't show up," I reply.
She presses her lips into a thin line, clicking her tongue like she was somewhat ashamed. "Yup... I'm sorry. I've told you too much about my life. You probably think I'm some weird girl who dumps all of their issues onto someone they just met."
I shake my head, so hard I might go into shock. "Oh, no don't worry it's okay. I just wanted to check and see if you were okay."
"Well thank you," she says, an appreciated smile taking over her warm skin. She looks up at me, parting her lips as though she wants to speak, but hasn't planned out entirely what she wants to say. Then, she moves aside and motions to the space next to her. "Would you like to sit?"
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"Of course, come on."
She fixes the spot next to her and arranges the food, so I can grab anything if I choose to. I sit down criss cross on the spot meant for me and take my bag off of my shoulder.
When I'm situated, she reaches her hand out to me. "I'm Y/N Y/L/N." A lump grows in my throat, due to my uneasiness for shaking hands with someone I've just met. She catches on after a moment, and pulls her hand away. "Germaphobe? Got it."
"Yeah, sorry. The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering, so I choose to just wave," I sigh, almost in a chuckle.
Y/N's smile stays glued to her face, unable to remove it. "That's okay, I respect that."
I ease up. Already, she makes me feel accepted, liked in the simplest of terms. She's respectful and allows my boundaries to stand. She isn't forcing me to shake her hand. And it may be because we've barely met, but I can tell it isn't a phase she'll get over. She's sweet at all times.
"So, what's your name?" she continues.
"Spencer Reid," I reply, softly.
Y/N hands me a small cup of cubed cheese, the variation of colors catching my eye. I shouldn't take it. Not because we're total strangers, but because I'm lactose intolerant. She lays it in front of me, just in case I want to try them later on.
"Well, Spencer Reid, tell me about yourself. What are you doing over here, you kind of stand out," Y/N asks in a curious tone. She scoots in closer to me , making sure to cover her legs with her long skirt.
I look at her, worried that I'm truly standing out. "Really?"
She huffs a laugh, cracking a smile large and shiny enough to blind me. "No, I'm just messing with you. But, I can tell you don't usually come over here."
"How?"
"Well for starters, you stood over there," she points at the spot I stood at for roughly five minutes. "And looked at the park for forever before finding a place to sit. Also, you have your FBI badge on and surprisingly, not that many FBI agents live around this area."
I raise my eyebrows, astonished at how well she's figured me out. She must live around here if she catches on to newcomers so well. "And Y/N, you fit in just right. If that's what you're going for."
Her eyes widen, almost bulging out of her head. She isn't offended at my comment, she's just trying to be a tease. "Well that hurt!" she laughs, raising her hand up to her chest as though she was stabbed in the heart. "But in all honesty, sometimes I do try to blend in. If I stood out too much, all the old people would scream and die over a simple tear in my stockings or jeans."
"I think you would look great with a little tear. Not that you don't look amazing already, but-"
"Spencer, I think that's a great idea. I think I would look a little hot too," Y/N replies, confidence laced over the low self-esteem she hides. "Anyways, tell me more about yourself. I like to listen to you."
I swallow the brick in my throat, enabling me to speak without stuttering. She's making me overly nervous, drowning me in sweat from the lack of words I'm thinking of. "Well... I'm twenty- six and I have three PhD's, one in mathematics, the second in chemistry, and the third in engineering. And I also have two bachelor's in psychology and sociology."
Y/N looks overwhelmed at the information she's just received, shaking it off with a laugh of amazement. "So am I looking at a genius right now?"
I scrunch my nose, nodding my head with a grin from the conclusion she' s ended on. "Yes, yeah I am a genius." We look at one another, looking at each other's features, grasping every wisp of hair and every freckle as though one of us might disappear.
The longer I look at Y/N, the more beautiful she becomes. Her hair appears soft and silky- she must take good care of it- and her eyes are soft as well, glass-like. And her skin, how could I forget her skin, it reminds me of porcelain. Soft and delicate, despite a couple of bumps that rise on her face.
I hope she sees me as beautiful as I see her, because I would be utterly thankful if she did. I receive compliments from women- and men- every now and then, but I don't feel anything for them, so I completely forget about it.
And we stay that way, for longer than intended. People pass and the noises of kids playing and dogs barking all coo in my ear, and I forget about what's surrounding me, because I'm lost in her eyes (and vice versa).
Though I hope to stay that way until it rains or something catastrophic occurs, Y/N suddenly speaks, after a long silence. "Sorry, I got um... I got distracted," she apologizes. "Well, I'm twenty- two, I have an Associates in arts and a Bachelors in filmmaking. Oh! and I turn twenty-three on December twenty-eighth."
"Capricorn. Loving, independent, honest, but you do have a fear of rejection," I say, with great elation in the knowledge I speak of. I like to talk about others' zodiac signs, and sometimes even guess theirs as well.
Y/N giggles, almost embarrassed at how correct I am. "And I'm assuming you're a Scorpio. Passionate, determined to succeed and you tend to work yourself a little too hard to fulfill all of your aspirations. Am I right?"
I nod, biting down on my lip to stop the laugh threatening to leave my throat. She's overly correct, and I like it. She's a smart girl. "How did you know?"
"By your gait, how you speak. And why not bring up the fact that you have three PhD's and two BA's?" She replies, throwing the proof in my face. I look down at her hands, which are playing with one another, out of anxiousness, I suppose. She probably doesn't speak to many guys, by how overly confident she's been.
Then, my phone buzzes, vibrating in the depths of my pockets. I lift up slightly and reach into my pocket, turning the small phone over and checking the message I've received.
Penelope: Hey boy genius, we have a case! Be here in twenty.
I groan at the message, my happiness draining through the imaginary drain in my body. I place my phone into my pocket and flick my eyes up to Y/N, frowning back at her pretty face.
"You gotta go?" She asks, in the same tone I'll respond in.
I click my tongue, letting out a nettled breath. I don't want to go, because it's the happiest I've felt in a long time, which sounds absurd, but it's all true. I've rarely reached out and talked to people that aren't a part of the team, or are my mom, so it feels nice doing so.
"Yeah, I have a case to attend to," I reply.
She grabs her bag and zips it open, digging through in search for what I think is a piece of paper. She finds nothing, so she takes her phone which is laying next to her and opens it. "I'm hoping this isn't some one time thing, so could you give me your number?"
I move in closer to Y/N, so close I can hear her breaths next to my ear. I look down at the phone, catching her phone number on her contact list. "I got it, don't worry." I get up and dust myself off, in case there's any dirt on my pants.
Y/N doesn't ask any questions, clearly beginning to catch on to the surprises that are yet to come. She gets up and dusts herself off as well, then looks up at me. She gazes into my eyes, leaving dancing hearts in my vision. Her eyes are like honey, sweet and addicting.
"Text me when you can," Y/N notes, offering the smile I can't get enough of. "It was nice meeting you, Spencer."
I step backwards, stumbling over a few times before catching my balance. Y/N laughs- not the malice kind of laugh, but the friendly kind. "It was nice meeting you too, Y/N."
I turn around, filled with joy from the events that just took place. I hope this isn't just a one time thing either, so I'll try all in my power to maintain whatever is blossoming.