Chapter Text
“Hey, are you sure you want to come?” Lizzy turned to face Spencer. She was a vision, in a little black dress and sparkly heels that had just been taken out of the box. She was tall and only made taller by the heels. Her honey-blonde hair was curled at the ends; it was glossy and caught the light emitting from the chandelier fixture that hung from the ceiling.
Hell, she was an angel. Spencer didn’t believe in God, or Christianity, any sort of religion, frankly, but if she grew a pair of wings at that very moment he wouldn’t have been surprised. He stood up from the bed, took three steps and wrapped his arms around her. “Sure.”
“Spence, it’s really okay.” Lizzy leaned into his hold; her doe brown eyes fluttered shut. She pursed her cherry-red lips together. “I know this isn’t your scene, that John Steinbeck would make for better company than a bunch of drunk girls and some loud mouth execs n’ agents.”
“I can handle it for one night, Lizzy.” He kissed her neck. She giggled and pushed away. “What, did you pre-game earlier?”
“A shot or two.” He didn’t tell her what type of shot. “What time do we have to be there by? Where is it, even?”
She smiled at him, and it was the kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. “The strip, Mariposas , at eight.”
He checked his watch. It was seven-thirty.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl, move at hyperspeeds, stretch and tear, as they headed into the strips. Blinking lights, the sounds of live music, laughter and screaming. Crowds of people parted when the two of them walked into Mariposas, after getting the backs of their hands stamped with little butterfly decals by the bouncer.
Every surface was glossy, white, clean, like you could eat a full three-course-meal off it and there wouldn’t be a bit of residue left to show for it. Tall, beautiful women mingled with each other, with a rainbow of colorful drinks in their slender, manicured hands. Men hung off them like monkeys from trees, if monkeys wore Brooks Brothers suits and had Motorola Razrs practically glued to their ears. Lizzy took Spencer’s hand and threaded her fingers in his. She squeezed. “I underestimated how drunk and high everyone would be. I shouldn’t have, though. We’re in Vegas.”
Spencer’s eye wandered over to a guy doing blow off of a waitresses’ empty drink tray. “Yup. This is why I left when I got into college.”
That was far from the truth, but she didn’t have to know it yet.
“Hey, Lizzy! Baby girl!” A short, curly haired guy in a silk shirt and big, rectangular sunglasses walked up to the two of them. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, showing off a patch of chest hair. “Don’t you look gorgeous? Look at those legs .” He took off his sunglasses, showing off his eyes, which were an odd shade of green; his pupils were like slices of onyx. Spencer’s stomach twisted. He seemed almost reptilian. He half expected a forked tongue to come rolling out of his mouth. Lizzy just turned up the charm. “Tony, hey.”
“Sweetheart, that thing was made for you.” He reached out and touched her skirt, and ran his hands down the velvet fabric. “Fits like a glove.”
She gently brushed his hand aside and brought it back up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”
Tony’s bad spray tan seemed to glisten in the harsh fluorescent lighting. He smiled wide. Veneers, his teeth looked too perfect. “And who’s this?” He looked Spencer up and down, reached out to shake his hand. “A wannabe?”
Lizzy shook her head. “This is my boyfriend, Spencer.”
“Boyfriend?” Tony’s lips split into a wide grin, showing off his pearly-white teeth. “Oh, baby. This is good, this is good. The press will eat him up. And maybe we can get you a guest spot on the show, huh?” He punched Spencer lightly in the shoulder. He just smiled.
“I’m not much of an actor,” He chuckled weakly.
“Well, then what do you do?”
“I’m a professor,” The words came out quicker than he intended for them. Lizzy wrapped an arm around him. “At the, uh, local community college. But now I head to other colleges to give guest lectures and those take up a lot of my time.”
“Ah.” Tony didn’t seem sure what else to say to that. “Well, I’ll let you two enjoy yourselves. Call me in the morning, Liz?”
Lizzy nodded, and watched as Tony fell into the crowd, zigzagging back and forth as he did so. After a few drinks, Spencer found himself dancing in the corner with Lizzy; her arms were draped over his shoulders, his hands were on her hips. He couldn’t name the song, even though he knew it, he knew he did. He just let the bass guitar wash over him. Lizzy rested her head on his shoulder.
“I’m tired.”
“You wanna go?” Spencer asked her.
She let out a little murmur. He led her through the packs of Amazon women and their lackeys, ignoring the looks they gave the two of them.
He drove them back to her place, slowly, helped her inside, and up the stairs to her apartment. She fumbled in her clutch for her keys, Spencer tried to help, but she waved him off.
“I got it.”
“Okay, babe.”
“Did you just call me ‘babe’?” She turned her key in the lock; it tumbled and she pushed open the door.
“Yeah,” He considered it. “Yeah, I did.” He followed Lizzy inside. She stumbled into the kitchen and caught herself on the kitchen island. “Spencer Reid, I never thought you would use that word to describe me,” She peered at him through her lashes.
“I think,” He took a step closer. “You need to drink some water and go to sleep.”
She wobbled back over to him, arms outstretched. “Okay,” She stretched out the word between kisses she peppered on his face. The two didn’t even undress before getting into bed, or get under the covers. Spencer woke up at 6AM to the sound of Lizzy’s alarm - Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated”. She was scrambling to pull on a sweatshirt and leggings, while also trying to pull her hair up into a bun. Spencer sat up, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“What are you-”
“I have to get to set.” She huffed. On went one Ked, then the other. “You want to come?”
Spencer glanced at his phone, his watch, then her. This was the only week off he was going to get this month. He might as well spend it with the person he loved.
The set of Lizzy’s show, The Butterfly Files , was constantly buzzing with what Spencer could only describe as frenetic energy. People with radio sets and cellphones whizzed past him, holding thick scripts, just off the press. Lizzy was in costume, a stiff, white shirt, gray slacks, and kitten heels - Spencer didn’t know what made them kitten heels, necessarily but he didn’t question it. Her hair was soft and bouncy, like it had been the night before. Her makeup was soft, understated, but she still looked gorgeous. Then a makeup artist, a girl with spiky, purple hair, took a washcloth, and smudged all of her hard work. Another artist, a guy with ear gauges the size of donuts, had a hand dipped in a bucket of fake blood. One last person had a fake pregnancy belly in their arms. Spencer watched as Lizzy turned from herself, Lizzy Scarsdale, into Special Agent Artemis Papadopoulos, pregnant, bloodied and bruised from having narrowly escaped a random attack, as he was informed by some temp that was buzzing about.
“What do you think?” Lizzy stood up, and set her hands on her fake belly. She pressed down on it. “Woah. It’s all squishy.” She grinned, and looked up at Spencer. “Touch it.”
“Liz, no.” Spencer put his hands up in surrender. “That’s weird, come on.”
“Come on,” She grabbed his hand and pressed it to the fake skin. It was cold and sticky, and yes, squishy. “I said I didn’t wanna touch it.” He pulled back.
Lizzy giggled. “It’s so weird, right?”
“I’ll say.”
He watched as Lizzy pranced around set, talking to friends, showing off her fake stomach, telling inside jokes. Spencer realized he had never watched her show, despite seeing commercials everywhere for it. He just didn’t have the time. He just stared down into the coffee he was handed by some nice lady, loaded up with cream and sugar.
“You must be the guy she talks about.”
He turned around to face a stout, thick-set guy with olive skin and green eyes. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back. He gave Spencer a little grin.
“Me?” Spencer asked
“Yeah,” The guy wore a Yankees shirt, jeans and had what Spencer hoped was a fake gun strapped to his hip. “Elizabeth talks about you whenever she gets the chance. Spencer, am I right?”
“Yeah.”
The man stuck out his hand. “Steve Buonanotte. I play, uh, Agent Buckle.” That name didn’t mean much to Spencer.
“Spencer Reid,” He shook it. Wait, he knew that name? “Are you-”
“G.I. Snake Balboa.” Steve’s eyes started twinkling with what Spencer could only call remembered youth.
“Yeah, I watched you all the time when I was a kid.”
“So did you and all the other boys across America between the ages of eight and twelve.” Steve laughed. “Things aren’t like they used to be. I thought I was gonna be bigger than all a’ this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad for the opportunity, but..” Steve trailed off, he waved his hand about, as if he could pluck the words from the air. “It probably isn’t gonna last long.”
“Do you keep track of ratings?” Spencer asked, keeping his voice low. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lizzy sitting at her set-desk, going over her lines. Steve’s thin lips turned down into a frown. “Your girlfriend is the only thing keeping us on the air. Never mind that she’s gorgeous, but she’s dedicated. Talented. Don’t be surprised if she explodes in th’ public eye. Get ready for that rollercoaster.”
“..Yeah, thanks.” An itch blossomed at the back of Spencer’s neck, then his lower back, then the underside of his left forearm, then his right. There had to be a bathroom around this place that he could shoot up, right. Shoot up – shit, he even sounded like a junkie, now. “Is there a bathroom around?” He asked Steve, whose brows shot up a little. “Too much coffee?”
“Yeah.”
His eyes flicked back over to Lizzy. Her attention had been taken from her script, and towards a little pink package in her lap. She pulled off the strips of packing tape holding the top flaps together and opened it.
She shrieked and stood up. Her swivel chair toppled over; she just stood there, screaming, and screaming, and screaming. Every head turned, all ninety of them; Spencer was the first person to reach her. Lizzy crumpled into his arms, still screaming. He ran his hands through her hair. “Shh, shh, Liz, shh, shh, come on.” She had her EpiPen in her purse, so Spencer knew he could grab it if she had trouble breathing, or broke out into hives. That would surely happen if she didn’t calm down. “What’s in the box, Lizzy?” He whispered.
Lizzy sputtered out something, then it came out in a whine. “Hands.” She sunk to the floor.
Spencer peeked in the box; inside, there was a pair of severed, rotting hands, both with manicured fingernails; stamped on the back of each was a butterfly.