Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spencer remembers most of his university days fondly. For the most part, the environment, the accomplishments, the freedom, it was all new to him; he went from being a 12-year-old freak to a 13-year-old prodigy, from too curious to a stellar student.

The joy those days bring him, however, is what makes cases like these so much more to bear. University, college, whatever it may be, should be a time of studying hard, having fun, and growing up. These students shouldn't be fearing for their lives.

They shouldn't end up dead on the sides of roads.

"Anything academically that links the two girls?" He and Derek follow the Dean as she opens the door to one of the lecture buildings. Evans Arts Hall, a sign above the door proudly reads, Where You Belong. An ironic statement now, considering the students who had disappeared from it. It didn't help, either, that the university was already financially struggling, based on the headlines Garcia had provided them. Losing money was one thing; losing students? Any more, and Spencer reckons this place might get shut down.

So far, it had been two bodies, two weeks apart. At this pace, another body would be found in roughly three days' time. That fact was not lost on Spencer as he methodically shifted through the stack of papers given to him, summing up two humans into mere paragraphs. The girls had been strangled, yet their bodies relatively untouched - whoever the killer was did not deal in excess, really, did not enjoy the kill. They were simple deaths, bodies placed not quite with remorse, but with the care of someone sending a message, rather than dumping a body. These girls were meant to be found.

So where was the unsub? "The history professor." The Dean answers as she escorts him and Derek toward one of the large auditoriums. The two class schedules in hand reveal a Dr. Carson, the only connection currently. If the professor were killing students, then this confrontation might get out of hand quickly, but at this point, Spencer was prepared to expect anything. Fellow students, academic rivals, coincidences. In this line of work, nothing was ever to be expected; that's what made confrontations like these just that much more stressful. Spencer follows closely behind Derek, trying to connect the foggy pieces in his brain. One's a brunette, one's dyed their hair bright red. Found on two different roads, but still found. One ran cross country, one did ballet. Both took history, but only one was a history major. He'd considered a history degree, once upon a time. He'd always been fascinated by the past, ancient traditions and tragedies, and like all classes, he'd excelled in history, but he'd never pursued it properly.

But, once upon a time, he took a normal, first-year history course, and he tried not to think of it too much. "You'll be looking for Doctor Carson. They've been quite shaken up by the whole ordeal," The Dean gestures to one of the doors as the last of the students trickle out, glancing their way but truly paying no attention. "Not every day two of your students turn up dead."  It was a choice to still keep classes going, especially ones where students had already gone missing. But, people craved normalcy, and Spencer didn't blame them. "Carson? You have a moment?"

"Yes?" It should have been the voice of a killer, Spencer thinks. The killer, here, in this room, wouldn't have made this kind of tension, wouldn't have struck panic to his core at the sound of it. The unsub should've been some greasy, lust-driven man out to get young, vulnerable girls, it would've made the silence that followed just a single word so much more bearable.

But it isn't a killer, Spencer knows.

Doesn't even have to question it. He would know that voice, had known that voice since his first days in a university hall like this, since it haunted his dreams amidst the myriad of other nightmares he'd had since starting with the BAU.

It had been at least seven years since he'd seen you last, and raising his head, he finds himself both rocked and comforted by your appearance. You might've grown, might've lost the university student wardrobe for a more professional look, but it was still you, standing at the front of a lecture hall, the papers you were sorting all but abandoned as you stare at him, an expression he once knew better than his own foreign to him. Was it blame?

Was it acceptance?

"Spencer?"

✦

"Spencer!" There were some things Spencer was never good at. Eye contact, sports, attracting girls, all things it seems that university runs on. Back in Vegas, it hadn't really been an issue. He was a child on campus; sure, he got the odd stare, but people were kind, and he didn't have to worry about sports teams, looking people much taller than him in the eye, or attracting women almost ten years older than him.

However, as an 18-year-old now, on a new campus, he feels like a spectacle lost amongst the crowd of students. He's a genius, they whisper, with a PhD already. IQ of 187. Yet, with all the gossip and the stares, not a single friendship had come of it. He didn't even have the comforts of home to help him adjust - putting his mother into a care facility over the summer had changed just how much he missed social interactions, despite his own preached introverted tendencies. But, knowing she was safe, despite the pain it brought him, meant he could actually go to Caltech.

And for the past month, he was entirely alone. All things considered, really, Spencer supposes he shouldn't complain. At least here he isn't bullied or made fun of. Here, his genius was happily accepted, and he'd started to make a name for himself. His professor had offered him a research position, and as he stepped into the elevator to get to the lab, he found himself excited for the first time in a long time. He was already flying through the workload, so finding something to do with his free time was a blessing, especially if it meant advancing him further.

"Spencer! Hey, hold the door!" The words register at the last moment, Spencer quickly sticking his hand out in front of the closing door to let someone through. It was foreign, here, that someone had actually known his name, recognized him, and called out to him. It was foreign anyone, beyond the academics, was seeking him out at all.

And then, in the dim yellow light of the elevator, he laid eyes on you. He had seen you before, sure. You were sat in the third row and fourth seat of his history class, and he'd seen you every class for the past two months. But, it's the first time he'd ever seen you as more than a fellow student in the back of his class, looking up at him the same way everyone does: excitement, wonder, and soon, when you don't meet whatever standard you've set for him, disappointment.

"You're Spencer, right? The really smart guy." Really smart guy.

He'll take it. "And you," He addresses as the elevator begins to rise, "Are sat in the third row of our history class." He realizes how strange that must sound as you look up in slight shock and nod, shuffling the books in your arms. Notably, you don't press the button on the elevator. You must be going to a lab, too, though he hasn't seen you in any of his chemistry classes.

"Uh, yeah. I was wondering if I could have your help with some homework?" This song and dance Spencer had played before: I'll pay you to do my homework, write my quizzes, make me pass. He'd been here a week when someone propositioned him - it was only a matter of time until someone else did. At least you look somewhat ashamed in asking. People who ask him to cheat for them don't usually feel shame. "I'm absolutely going to fail a math quiz coming up, and was wondering if you did tutoring?"

Tutoring. That wasn't new, he was asked to tutor occasionally, but usually by his professors. Not by other students. "I don't, uh, typically tutor."

"Oh." There's the disappointment he's used to, and a feeling bubbles up in his chest that forces him to try and correct it. "I just-"

"But," He quickly says, cutting you off. "But, if you need help, I'm sure I could arrange-" The entire elevator lurches, and you both stumble, you catching yourself on the railing and him bracing himself on the wall. "-something."

You both wait in silence for a moment, hoping for the elevator to start again or the doors to open, but instead, nothing happens. Realistically, there's nothing to fear. Elevators rarely fall, and it's even rarer to be hurt by one. That doesn't stop the claustrophobia and the fear from still rearing their heads, however. "Is it stuck?" You ask shakily, and Spencer examines the elevator. It's an outdated thing, but nothing looked wrong. Sooner or later, it would definitely need updating, but he hadn't planned on being in it when it needed fixing.

"This department is pretty old." Established in 1926, but he doubts telling you the date will help with the whole trapped-in-the-elevator thing. He reaches out and presses the open door button, and nothing happens. With a deep breath, he tries again, straining for the sound of static or ringing, but nothing occurs, and Spencer tries his hardest to stay calm. The last thing either of you needs is to freak out, and considering the pale shade you turn as you slowly sink to sit on the floor, he's going to need to keep his cool for this one. "Huh. That's, um, not good."

"Isn't there a call button?" He scans down the buttons and presses the telephone symbol, and nothing happens but a faint buzz.

"There's nothing to be worried about." He tries to say as calmly as possible as he frantically begins to press again and again, and finally, some static comes over the speaker. "Hello?"

Static crackles away for a moment before finally someone answers. "Is everything alright?"

"The elevators stuck." You manage to croak out, tucking your binder close to your chest. "Chem building."

"Between floors three and four," He fills in. "By Dr. Rosario's office."

"Don't worry, we have someone on the way. Just hold tight." The static stops and Spencer lets out a low breath.

"Just hold tight?" You echo somewhat angrily, though you seem to be in slightly better spirits as you set down your binders and begin to go through them. "It's not like we really have anywhere to go." With a huff, you rip a page from your binder, and shove it into your bag.

As carefully as he can, Spencer lowers himself to sit on the floor across from you, and as he does, a long, slow groan emits from what he assumes to be one of the cables holding the elevator up, and the look on your face is more terrifying than the prospect of falling.

Dealing with a broken elevator is one thing. In his mind, the worst he'll have to do is potentially rewire it, maybe pop out the ceiling and scale up the shaft to reach the next exit.

Dealing with you crying? Spencer has no idea what he'll do.

Hug you, maybe? Do strangers hug? "You're smart," You offer slowly, as if your voice will cause the elevator to crash, "How likely is it that we die in here?"

"Statistically? Only 6 people die in the United States from elevator malfunctions a year." You blink at him, wide-eyed, and he wonders why others don't find percentages as comfortable as he does. "So, very unlikely. We'll be just fine, we just need to not shake the elevator or make any major movements."

"I can do that." You repeat the phrase to yourself a few times as you continue to shift through your papers before plucking something free, and as you peer up at him, you note his confusion with another frown. He's really not doing well for himself, is he? "What?"

"What're you doing?" He supposes a broken-down elevator would be an okay time to revise. After all, there were no distractions, besides the potential death and him. Hopefully, he's a better prospect than potential death.

"Might as well figure out a day you're free to tutor me." There's a beat of silence before you awkwardly add, "If we get out of here," as you extend the calendar to him. "I need it before next Friday. What times are you free?"

He pulls one of his pens from his bag and scans over your schedule. Your classes are a complete mix, a bit of everything and anything, none of which fits any degree requirements he's aware of. A general year, then, likely sorting out whatever you want to do later in life. Understandable. Asking 18-year-olds to pick a degree for a single profession for the rest of their life was not the best choice in America's educational system. "How about this Friday? Say, 4-6?"

"Might need more time than that." You answer sheepishly. "4-8?"

"Works for me." He scribbles in the time and place and knows he won't need to check his calendar. All he has in his spare time are TV show reruns, the rare extracurricular, and maybe this research position, should this elevator arrive on time. Then, as if knowing he's thinking about it, the elevator creaks once more, and you both glance up at the ceiling cautiously.

"How do you want me to pay you?  Do you have like, an hourly rate or something?" Pay? Spencer blinks a few times as he tries to come out with an answer better than 'You don't have to pay me because I need the social interaction.' Maybe he should have you pay him, splurge on some extra groceries, but with his scholarships, there really wasn't much he needed in the way of finances.

Then, he decides, friends wouldn't pay friends for help, and settles on taking his own paper out of his bag and folding it to appear nonchalant. Appearing calm was an act he prided himself on; while he might not feel it inside, it's better than the world knowing you're afraid. "How about you buy us dinner?"

"It's a date. Have any preference?" It's a date. Something warm settles in his chest and he shakes his head, before realizing you're waiting for an answer.

"No, anything is good." He says, and he can't help the blush that spreads across his cheeks.

It's a date.

His first date, and he didn't even do anything. He knows it's just a saying, but it still wakes something in him. "What're you doing?" You echo, neither quite used to having someone stuck in such close proximity.

"Origami. Thought I'd pass the time and do something." Cranes, or stars, anything really. Something to keep his mind from thinking about the fact he's currently trapped in an elevator. "You know, origami or other activities that are focused on keeping the hands occupied are associated with cognitive and emotional benefits, including reductions in anxiety."

"What're you making?" You question as you clean up your binder and put it back in your bag before moving back against the wall, hands fidgeting as you watch him intensely. You'd probably like learning origami, considering the stress response. If you'd given him the chance, he'd teach you someday.

"It's a surprise." He says as he smiles to himself, and you huff out a scoff, though when Spencer glances up to sense your annoyance, he finds a small smile on your face. His fingers move easily, recreating folds he's made a million times before.

When it seems you finally begin to guess what he's making, you shift your focus from his hands to his face, scrutinizing in a way that's new for him. He's used to the stares, the questioning looks, the appraisal. You look at him as if trying to break apart the different pieces of him and reorder it in a way that makes sense to you. "What's it like?"

"What?"  What's it like?  The origami, the elevator, the math, everything sorts itself into a knot in his brain, so he tries to play it off as humorously as he can. "Origami?"

"No," You admonish, "What's it like being like...that." You gesture to him as you talk, and Spencer's not sure, honestly. "You know, having a computer for a brain."

Really, the whole problem is that he has no frame of reference. He has no idea what it's like to be 'normal', as much as he's tried all of his life to fit in, to go ignored, to be one with society. How could he possibly explain a difference that he's never experienced?

"It's more like having a library for a brain." He settles on. "It's all up there, even if it takes a second to find it. I have an eidetic memory," He taps a finger to his forehead, and normally by now, people have tuned out his rambling, but you nod along, allowing him to break eye contact without mentioning anything, and he wonders if this is what it's like to be listened to. "Which means I remember almost everything. And one way or another, the memories, like books, end up on the shelves."

"Everything? Like, every little detail?" You ask, likely gearing up for everyone's favourite game of 'What Can Spencer Remember?'

"You have Physics every Tuesday, but you've scribbled out the time on the last one in your calendar, and you haven't written a new time, meaning you've dropped the course. And you have a roommate who is neater than you because you have 'dusting' written down with a frown beside it." You don't say anything, and he glances up from his paper cautiously, only to find you staring at him with a strange smile on your face.

"You are something else." Spencer takes it as a compliment, and nervously smiles down at the half-folded paper in his lap. "You remember all that?"

"Every little detail." He answers quietly. It's almost a blessing, despite what others might think. Just as much as he can remember, he can never block out the little things that bother or haunt him. After a beat of silence, he finds himself asking, "What's it like?"

"What?" You ask, tucking your knees against your chest, and strangely, he's missed this. After public school, friends weren't something he had many of. Being twelve in a Las Vegas high school was like having 'Bully Me' stapled permanently to his forehead. Once he left, he didn't really try to reach out and make friends either, more content in his own little world. But maybe, just maybe, you can be his first. Considering this is also likely your first semester, based on estimated age and coursework, maybe he'll be your first friend here, too. If it works out like that, you won't have someone better to compare him to.

"Being normal?" He asks with a smirk, and you roll your eyes.

"Normal's pretty boring. I can't read off some impressive fact or anything, but trust me, it's very bland." Bland. Looking you over, he doubts you are. You're dressed like every other tired student here, but the way you smile at him leaves that all behind.

"Bland isn't bad." God, what he would've given to be normal as a kid. "It makes the good stuff just that more incredible."

He finishes his origami, a lotus flower his mom had taught him long ago and holds it out to you. You very gently take it from him, holding it in both hands as if it may shatter. "It's beautiful." You say softly, staring at the paper in awe, and he smiles to himself.

"It's a lotus," Spencer answers resolutely. He doesn't know how to accept compliments, or make real small talk, not from girls, and pretty ones at that, stuck in an elevator with him. "If I had more colours, it would look more like the actual thing."

"Is there anything you can't do?" You ask with a laugh, leaning your head back against the elevator wall.

"Make this elevator move." Then, as if some god out there was listening, the elevator lurches to life, and you burst into laughter, so pure he thinks he'd never heard a real laugh before. "I guess I take that back."

"You really are something else, Spencer." You stand, still holding the flower in both hands, and the elevator finally dings to his floor.

✦

You seem more shocked to see him than he is to see you, and he doesn't doubt that. It's not every day you get accepted into the FBI, and it's not every day you practically drop off the face of the earth.

"Doctor-" He begins with a smile, before your last name hits him hard, igniting a crush that he ought to be long dead. "Doctor Carson."

You'd married. Or had your last name changed for some reason, but it still hurts. His eyes quickly shoot down to your hand, and you don't have a ring, and he hates how his first thought is that he still has a chance.  "You know each other?" Derek asks with a smile, and you wave your hand around.

"He was my tutor in university." Tutor. Not friend, not...not whatever you really were, just tutor. Spencer can't forget everything you did together, the bonds you made, the trust he broke by leaving. But he hadn't expected seven years of absence to break him down in your eyes to just a tutor. Derek looks over at him with a grin, and Spencer has to shrug to keep himself from doing anything else. "He's the only reason I passed any of my math classes. What're you doing here?"

"We're with the Behavioural Analysis Unit," Spencer answers as professionally as he can, and you nod, reality settling over you as your shoulders dip slightly. He'd disappointed you, somehow. Like you'd expected him to show up on his own, not on business. "We're here about the missing girls found nearby. Katie Langford and Abby Owens both attended your class. Do you recognize either of them?" You take the photos in hand and study them, a mix of confusion and pain on your face.

"They're wonderful students. Abby sat in the front row, right up here. I've known her since she was a kid." You gesture to one of the seats with glossy eyes, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to see you cry. "Her aunt's one of the chairs of the department. I couldn't tell you about Katie."

"If she was sat higher up, would you not be able to see her as well?" Derek asks as he begins to walk up the steps and stand at the back, and Spencer can barely make out his features.

The fact you could remember Abby's face at all was a miracle. "Most of the kid's faces at the back become blurs."

"Is there anyone who attends both classes?" He asks, turning to you, and you stare at him with so much emotion it hurts. Confusion, betrayal, pride. He knows that last one well, the same look you gave when he first told you about the offer. The fact that it even still exists says more about you than Spencer could ever sum up. He all but abandoned you, and you're still proud of him.

"They're two different levels, so no. Abby's only a first-year, Katie's in her second."  Your hand moves as if to twist a ring on your left ring finger, and you stop when you realize it's no longer there. It must've been a new divorce, he thinks solemnly, if you think the ring's still there.

You still fidget with your hands, an action Spencer would think of as guilt, though for you, he knows it helps you focus, and it hits him all at once how much he wishes you met under different circumstances.

He wishes he met you in the pouring rain, stood as if in a movie, only to run into each other's arms and hug at last. Or maybe in a coffee shop, where you stand and stare before awkwardly saying hi. Or maybe, just maybe, he'd be giving a guest lecture and his eyes would scan over a crowd and settle on you, and you'd smile at him, and he'd fall in love all over.

It shouldn't be here.

Not like this.

"Any possible way someone could've been in both classes? Maybe a sibling, shared last names-" You shake your head, moving to your desk to sort through papers he assumes are class lists, but even those will likely be little use.

He rakes a hand through his hair, realizing the mop of a state it's in. Frantically, he tries to smooth it down without bringing too much notice to himself, but Derek catches his gaze and holds it, an all-knowing, all shit-eating grin slowly growing over his features.

"Davis." You say suddenly, looking up from the paper with shock. "Ian Davis, my old teaching assistant. Besides me, he'd be the only one to be in both, but that was a few months ago, at the start of the term."

"Old teaching assistant?" Derek asks, and he watches the expression on your face shatter.

"A few months ago he just up and left, stating family troubles. Not a word since. You don't think..." You gently press a hand to your mouth, and something deeply ingrained in Spencer needs him to comfort you, placing a hand on your shoulder, a touch seven years in the making and terrifying all the same. Once, he would've held you like it was second nature. Now, an arm's distance is all he can muster.

His brain with a mess of all the things he should say, none of them the right words. "There's no way you could've known."

"Thank you, Doctor. We'll look into Ian, though I'm sure police may have more questions for you." Derek pulls out his phone, before looking up between you and Spencer. "I'll, uh, give you two a moment." He says with a wink, and leaves with the Dean.

You laugh softly and wipe at your eyes, no tears spilt but still threateningly close, and Spencer is taken back to all those sleepless nights, all those stupid men you put up with, all the tears he dealt with. "I didn't imagine seeing you again like this." You whisper, leaning back against the chalkboard, despite the fact he's sure you'll get chalk dust on you. You probably didn't expect to see him again at all.

"Not exactly the nicest reunion, is it?" You nod, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. What is there to say? He had let you go to start a new life, and here you were, a history professor, married, maybe. Maybe. "Carson?"

"Got married during my PhD." You raise your ringless hand, and the sadness etched into your features doesn't leave. He hadn't met the man, hadn't been invited to the wedding. He's not sure he would've shown if he was invited, anyway. In an alternate universe, he wonders if he stuck around, if it could've been him. "Got divorced not too long afterward."

"Oh, I'm sorry." What else is there to say? You seem to understand his position as you laugh sadly, offering a small shrug. After another moment of silence, he motions to the classroom. "A history professor, huh?"

You gently tap your knuckles against the photos of the girls on your desk as you look up, and he wasn't there. Not for your graduation, not to see you grow with him. You were older, now, but maturity looked good on you. All the same, he hadn't seen you age, and now looking at you, he's terrified of what you see in him. "Unlike you," You begin quietly, "There are not many paths for a person like me. NASA never came knocking." The last part, a small inside joke, eons old, breaks his heart further.

"I'm sure you're an incredible professor." It's the only thing he can think to say, and you nod solemnly.

Spencer's phone buzzes, and he stares down at Hotch's number, and it dawns on him he can't stay here. There are more girls out there, probably. If it is Ian, as you offered, he has two whole classes to pick from. "Well, you should get going, Special Agent Reid."

"Not as glamorous as the movies make it out to be, believe it or not." He taps his phone in his palm, and you finally crack a smile.

"Really? No hot spies hitting you up lately?" You tease, and he lets Hotch's call go to voicemail. You both stare at each other for a moment more and letting your head drop, and for a panicked moment, he thinks you're going to cry, going to confront him for all that he did, but instead, you rip the corner off of a sheet of paper and scribble something down quickly. "Call me this time." You say as you hold it out, and Spencer's been on this end with you once before.

And he let that paper burn. He takes this one in his hand, though, and holds it as if at any moment it might shatter. "You became a Doctor."

"Maybe I was looking up to my favourite genius." Spencer's phone rings, again, and he finds himself entirely unprepared to say goodbye again.

✦

"Aren't you going to answer that?" Spencer was not one to have crushes, hell, he barely had friends at this point. Yet, somehow, he was finding both in you, sat beside him in the cramped little study room, sipping on what felt like your millionth cup of coffee. He knew it was cold by now, but it seemed you just enjoyed having something to sip on, rather than its warm, waking properties.

"It's probably just a scam call." Spencer lies as he silences his phone. His mother had found out he was tutoring you and had called five times within the past hour to try and see how it was going, if he was making friends, if he was getting married. He knew it was just the result of an episode, but it made focusing on you that much more difficult.

It wasn't even that it was a real crush. He'd had those before, though never reciprocal, never real. This, though, was edging close to a territory Spencer had never traversed before, and that was that, if he was attracted to you, you could be attracted to him. It was your first tutoring session, sure, but what if he made a fool of himself? What if you liked him? You had brought him coloured origami paper to mess with while you worked, the table littered with little animals. What if no one ever saw him like that again?

"This late? What time is it?" You ask with a yawn, and he twists his watch to look at it.

"9:15." Past the time you'd set up, but like you said, you needed it. It wasn't that you didn't understand the math, in fact, you grasped it quite well. Rather, you just second-guessed and confused yourself to the point breaking down one equation was practically torture.

"Oh god, Spencer, I'm sorry!" You move to clean up your papers, and he plants his hand down on them, keeping you from taking them.

"Do one more question?" You look at him with a pout, and he offers a smile in return. "You know what you're doing, you just need to clear your brain from whatever's distracting you."

You roll your eyes and pick up your pencil, and Spencer pulls your chair away from the table so it faces him. "What are you doing?"

"When I struggle with an equation, it helps if I speak out loud, like I'm explaining it to someone, even if I don't know the answer. So, I want you to tell me what you're doing, alright?" He flips the textbook to you, and points at one question. "The equation 24 x 2 + 25x − 47 / ax − 2 = −8x − 3 − 53 / ax−2 is true for all values of x is not equal to 2/a, where a is a constant. What is the value of a?" He reads, and you just gawk at him. "Write this down, and then explain it to me."

You scribble down the equation on your paper, and he nudges your chair so you look at him again. "You, uh, you start by multiplying each side."

"By what?" You hesitate, looking down at the paper, and he can already see the gears turning too fast in your head. "Hey. Look at me. By what?"

"Ax-2." You answer, and he smiles. For him, studying and regurgitating information was second nature, tests and quizzes done in the blink of an eye. It was fascinating to see it from the point of view of someone who was truly learning.

"And from there?" You rake your hand through your hair as you begin to scribble, ignoring him to rather focus on the equation before you, and Spencer discovers that people doing equations are attractive.

Or maybe that's just you. "−8ax² − 3ax + 16x + 6?" You'd skipped explaining a step, but seeing as you still got to the correct answer, Spencer didn't call attention to it. You hectically scribble out numbers and check your calculator, glancing up to check if you actually got it correct.

"No, don't ask, tell me. What does that get you?"

"−8ax² − 3ax + 16x + 6." You repeat, and he picks up his own, cold cup of coffee with a smile.

"See? You've got this, just keep talking it out to me." You go back to work, and he wonders what it's like to be so...new. To not know, to doubt, to struggle with textbook work. He's had it fairly easy with an eidetic memory, knowing everything in split seconds when it can take others days or weeks.

It must make it more rewarding, or more...worthwhile. Pretty soon, he's going to exhaust himself with degrees, and then he's going to have to find fulfillment elsewhere.

"You reduce on the right side of the equation," You say as you continue to write on your paper, grabbing the calculator to check. "And then you just move the 47 to the other side, which makes it 0. And then minus the 16 from the 25, giving you 9."

He leans back and watches you work, and for the first time tonight, you seem confident in your answer, rambling to him every step you're doing. You finally stop and look up, and he watches the doubt instantly kick in. Something tells him you aren't used to being seen as smart, or at least haven't been praised for your achievements. When you were talking about anything else, you were excited, confident. When it came to equations, it all seemed to disappear. "So, what's the answer?"

"But, I haven't double-chec-" You look back at your work and your brows knit together, confusion setting in, and he nudges your chair with his foot again.

"Look at me." You look back over at him, hesitant, and he offers a smile. "You just walked me through that whole equation, you know what you're doing. What's the answer."

"Negative three." You say, more confident in your answer than you had been all night, and Reid sets his cup down. "Well?"

"Looks like you don't need me." You break out into the biggest grin he's ever seen, and something warm settles in his chest knowing you're smiling at him like that. "You did that all on your own."

You laugh, setting your calculator and papers down on the table. "Well, I did have a good teacher." You tease softly, and Spencer can't stop the blush that spreads across his cheeks at the compliment.

"The padawan has become the master." He states awkwardly as you yawn, and he checks his watch again. 9:30. "It's getting late. I don't think they'll let us stay in here any longer."

"Oh, right." You hurriedly pack your things, and he gathers up the garbage from dinner and your empty coffee cups and sorts them between the recycling bin and garbage can. When he turns back, he finds you carefully tucking away his origami figures, and it's more endearing than he'd care to admit. "I really am sorry for going so long. Can I pay you?"

"Dinner was enough, trust me." You'd even asked his pizza preferences! It's the little things, he thinks, that make the biggest impacts. He holds open the door for you and you step into the library, and the silence is almost deafening. "I'm surprised they didn't lock us in."

"Please don't speak it into existence, an elevator was enough." You plead, and Spencer strides forward to hold open the front door for you, and you just look up at him with soft confusion. "You don't have to do that, you know."

If there's anything his mom has taught him, it's manners. Especially if you're out with a girl, you hold open the door, pull out her chair, even if it isn't a date. His mom was finally gaining some faith in him making new friends, and a small bit of guilt settled in his chest at the thought. "I'm just being polite."

"A genius and he's polite?" You mutter as you step out into the cool fall air with a smile. "Someone raised you well."

"My mom," He answers quietly, and you offer a knowing smile. Saying that, before, used to earn him the title of 'mama's boy', and probably a couple of bruises. Being with people who didn't actively want to hurt him for his brain was a nice change. "Where's your dorm?" He asks, before realizing the likely strange connotations you can take it, but luckily, disgust hasn't graced your features yet.

"On the east side, you?" You jab your thumb over the horizon, and it's not too far, but still a good walking distance. His brain fills with dark facts about college campuses at night, and he doesn't like thinking about you walking home all alone.

"Me too." Is it a lie? No. His dorm is technically towards the east, depending on which way you stand, or depending on which way you view the earth. "May I walk you home?" He asks hesitantly, and he expects to be shut down. He expects the anger, the sarcasm, anything, really. After all, it's the second time you've ever even met, but it's the polite thing to ask.

After a moment of silence, he glances over at you and finds you smiling up at him. "You really are a gentleman, aren't you?"

"I'm just wanting to make sure you get home. And not in a creepy way, either, it's just that-" You wave a hand with a laugh, nodding towards the east buildings.

"I get it. It's late and creepy guys will be waiting for people walking home alone." You nudge his arm as you walk. "Besides, I'm pretty sure I could beat you in a fight."

"You're not wrong there." He's all limbs, and without a weapon, you just needed to land a few hits and he'd be down. He'd been in enough fights that the best tactic he had would be to run, but he decided to keep that to himself. "So, how did you find my tutoring?"

You shrug, lost in your own little world for a moment before looking back at him. "Good? I've never really had a tutor before."

"And I've never tutored before." He's offered, or given quick help, but never thought to sit down and help tutor people. Most people didn't have the patience for him.

"Well, I learnt something, and you taught something, so we've got to be doing something right." You say with a smile, and you fall into a comfortable silence. The streets are strangely quiet, this close to Halloween and honestly, it's a blessing. No rowdy drunks, no blaring music, just you and him and the wind. "So, you have a PhD, right?"

"Yes, I do. Math." He isn't sure, really, what he wants to do with it. If he could, he'd do a little bit of everything, learn everything he possibly could. From the looks of your schedule, you're the same.

"Should've known." You joke, "Let me guess, working on your second?"

"Chemistry." It was a tough call between that and engineering, but if he was going to study chemical engineering, he might as well take chemistry first.

"Then what on earth are you taking history for?" You ask, jumping over a puddle, and he side-steps onto the grass.

"It seemed interesting." He already had a Bachelor of Psychology under his belt, though most people only saw him in the sciences. He was multifaceted, he wanted to say, but there was no way for it to not sound pretentious.

You nod along, a strange look on your face, and he's used to it. Why take all these courses when you could settle down and work for some high-paying, Wall Street job and make a million dollars? "You're crazy, what do you need it all for?"

"The more you learn, the more you can do." He remembers childhood dream jobs, of astronauts and mad scientists and maybe, just maybe, a cowboy out somewhere corralling cattle and tipping his hat to a cute barmaid.

"At least you have some idea of what you want, then." There's something more to be said there, probably about not knowing what you want to do with your life, but you don't share. "You know, with a PhD, does that mean I have to refer to you as Doctor?" Technically, yes, but he's never bothered with titles. People didn't really use them when you were this young.

"Only if you want. And it's alright, not knowing. You'll find something eventually." You fall into a calm silence, and he glances up at the night sky. It's cloudy tonight, but he can still just make out the moon, illuminating the way for the both of you. "Why're you taking history?"

"Seemed interesting, ancient stuff, like Indiana Jones." Indiana Jones. He can't help but smile to himself, heart fluttering with just two little words. How stupid is he?

"You know, Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark would have ended the exact same if Indiana Jones wasn't in it. Think about it: they would have all melted anyway." You hum along, nodding your head slowly, a typical reaction he gets with his facts.

"I always preferred Last Crusade anyway." Then, without acknowledging it, you return to your previous thought. "If I could be anything and everything, I would be. I doubt I'll become an actual historian."

"I doubt I will either."

"Well, yeah. You could have any job you wanted like that," You snap your fingers for emphasis, "So why don't you become a professor or something? You could totally get hired anywhere. NASA never came knocking?"

"There's got to be something better than being a professor, you know? Just haven't found it yet." He could teach, sure. He could be a doctor. He could be anything, but with so many options, it actually made his choices that much more limited. When someone could be anything, nothing was certain. "And NASA did, actually."

"Couldn't afford you, huh?" You laugh to yourself, and he wonders if you'd ever want to be an astronaut. He's sure he could picture you, floating around in space. He could picture you anywhere. "If I had a brain like yours, I'd become like, a lawyer or millionaire. You'd be great at poker."

"I am great at poker. Never lost a hand." You raise an eyebrow at him, and he can tell you're scheming about something.

He's not sure if he should be happy it's about him, or concerned. "Remind me to take you to Vegas sometime."

"I grew up in Nevada. Where'd you think I learned it?" Stumbling from a residence as music blares, a small crowd appears dressed in a variety of costumes, most of which are incredibly revealing. Spencer turns to look away, but you stare and laugh, and he finds himself struck with all sorts of ideas of what you're going to be wearing for Halloween.

"I forgot about that." You say in passing, and Spencer takes a slow look from you back to the crowd, where a scantily clad bee falls into a bush.

"About what?" Part of him is surprised you'd have any thoughts about party life at all, but then again, they'd never been his speed, or style, or...well, there's nothing really about a party that Spencer could relate to in the least.

"It's the weekend before Halloween, of course people are going out to parties." You offer him an apprasingly look, before adding, "I have a feeling you don't go to those often."

"Excess drinking, vomiting, and breaking rules. I will pass on that." The list doesn't end there, either. There's the uncleanliness, the disorder of it all, the far-too-loud music and the increased likelihood of arrest.

You shake your head solemnly, and for a moment, Spencer's concerned that's all the things you do enjoy. After all, one tutoring session can't reveal all about a person - perhaps you're a secret party animal. "You just need to find one that's your speed. What's the last party you went to?" He doesn't answer, studying the cracks in the sidewalk, and you stop walking completely, staring at him with a strange look. "Have you never been to a party?"

"I graduated high school at the age of 12. The only parties I ever went to were pranks or my own, and even then, no one showed up." Spencer's used to the pity that follows, and he brushes it off. "I did go to a basketball afterparty, but I was too young to drink or do anything, so I left after thirty minutes."

"You played basketball?" You ask, incredulously, and Spencer shakes his head.

"Coached it." Basketball, really, was an awful lot like chess. There were strategies, moves to make, special players on the board. Only, this time his chess pieces could tell him if he did a bad job, or conversely, praise him after they won.

You blink at him twice, as if trying to erase his visage before you. "At 12?"

"All of the strategies and moves can be broken down, it's actually very logical."

"Is there anything you can't do?" You echo, a callback to the elevator, and Spencer's never been more grateful for a piece of technology failing in his life.

Well, if it hadn't, you still would have asked him to tutor, but in his mind, the origami lotus is what sealed the deal. "Attend parties, apparently." He finally answers, and that scheming look returns to your face.

"Well, how about I change that? Some friends of mine are hosting a Halloween party. Nothing crazy, just typical Halloween stuff." Spencer could combust. He didn't have to make the move - you invited him to a party.

Then, of course, he gets excited about all the options he has for costumes. He could go as a Jedi, finding robes can't be too hard. Maybe a vampire, if he wants something classic. "Do I have to dress up?"

"Yes." You answer adamantly, and Spencer grins.

"Then I'm in." You bark out a laugh as you shove him off the sidewalk and onto the grass, and he quickly catches up with you again.  "What? Dressing up is one of the best parts of Halloween. You know, Halloween itself-"

"Why don't we talk about the history of Halloween in class?" You offer gently, hand placed on his arm with a smile, and Spencer finds any words he was going to say anyway die on his tongue. "You're more fun than people make you out to be." Both a compliment and an insult, but Spencer tries not to focus on the latter.

Well. Tries. "Do people say I'm not fun?"

"No, but the way they describe you gives that impression." You stop in front of a building, smiling up at the old brickwork. "Well, this is it. Thanks, Doctor Reid."

As warm as it makes him feel, being called by his official title, he misses the sound of you saying his actual name. "I'm just Spencer."

"Just?" You echo as you punch in the code and open the door, leaning out of it one last second to smile down at him. "You are a whole lot more than 'just' Spencer, Doctor Genius."

✦

The last time Spencer was in this situation, he knew what he had to do to move on and let you go. He knew that as much as he'd try, it wouldn't work, and in the end, one of you would get hurt, but he still managed to delay it seven years. Seven years of hurt has built up between you, but it doesn't stop the old emotions from taking center stage in his heart. He was going to be an FBI agent, he reminds himself, and you were going off on your own path.

So he let that paper go, let that number burn away despite the fact he'd never forget it.

It still hadn't changed. The last time you'd handed him this paper, you'd scrawled 'Call Me, Special Agent Doctor Genius' on it. This time, there is only a number, and it makes it that much more terrifying. Gone was the familiarity, the knowledge that you would eventually call him. Now the effort was to give him a number and see if he'd use it at all.

He climbs onto his hotel bed and dials his phone, and his finger hovers over the call button. You'd gotten married and divorced in seven years, and he'd never met anyone who could compare to you. As much as Spencer felt, emotions heightened and unknowable, he preferred logic, much more normal and solid. Today, however, his emotions have been fried, and his logic fails him, and he hates that he knows why.

Because logically, he didn't need to say goodbye to you all those years ago.

Logically, you could've been friends.

Logically, he should've asked you out.

Logically, he should press call.

So he does, and immediately regrets it. It's late, his brain gives as an excuse. Getting into contact now won't change why he didn't want to in the first place. Walking away from you a second time would be just as hard, so why - "Hello?"

"Hey." Within a second, you'd picked up. For some random number you didn't know. Maybe, he thinks, you just answer all your phone calls, especially considering you are now part of an active murder investigation. But a small part of him holds out hope that you picked up so quickly expecting him to call, even if the likelihoods are slim.

"I was waiting for you to call." You say quietly, and Spencer falls back onto the bed and squeezes his eyes shut. You had been expecting him. At least this time, he thinks, you won't be disappointed with the fact that he never did. He doesn't have to wonder what it must have been like, all those years ago, for you to wait by the phone and expect his call and never get it.

For a while, he answered every call he got, even if he knew it wasn't your number, just for the bare hope it was you finding your way through to him. "Long day, I didn't really have the chance to." You both sit in silence for far too long, and he sighs. What does he possibly say? His eyes settle over the clock on his side table, neon red lights blinking 11:42, and it seems you've become a night owl in his absence. "I didn't expect you to be awake."

You shuffle on the other end, and from the sounds of it, you're still at work. "You're not the only one who had a long day. Had a lot to, uh, think about."

"We found the next girl." They hadn't found Davis yet, but they'd found where he was keeping the girls. Really, he shouldn't be saying anything. He shouldn't release any information, but he knows in his heart you'd never tell a soul, whatever he shared with you. Some of his deepest secrets rest in the corners of your brain, never to see the light of day, a souvenir of a long-lost friendship. "Lucy Evans, we got to her in time."

"Oh god." You say with a gasp, and he hears the shuffling of papers. "I...I was just grading her."

"And she'll live to pass your class." He says, keeping out all the brutal details. To omit what really happened to Lucy is to do her an injustice, but at least for a moment, he can ignore it, to sum up the facts. She'll live to pass your class, but it's a new, harsher reality everyone involved has to live with.

Quietly, he hears you open what sounds to be some kind of food container, and he's happy you're eating. He forgets that, sometimes. It was hard to adjust when you went from eating practically every meal with someone to no one else being there. "Would it be wrong if I gave her an automatic pass?" You ask around whatever food you're eating, and Spencer smiles at the ceiling.

"No, but I'm sure the university would have something to say about that."

"Oh, screw them. She's passing, I don't care what I have to do." You say proudly, and he laughs, raking a hand through his hair. You were always like that, too caring, too kind. It was hard to make it out to be a bad thing, but all Spencer can think about is how you're still this kind to him, after everything he put you through.

"You really haven't changed." Despite the years that have passed, you've still got the same spirit, even if the friendship has faded.

Even if he let the friendship fade.

"You have." You say, and it knocks the air from his lungs as he thinks of all the ways he's changed, potentially for the worse. "I never thought I'd see you with long hair."

So that's what you notice? He plays with the ends of it, not the longest he's ever had it, and he wonders what jokes you would've made back when it touched his shoulders. "I don't think it's that bad."

"I never said it was." You laugh, and he's missed the sound. "You're also taller, believe it or not. That's unfair."

"Dress shoes, they give you a bit of a lift." He jokes, and you hum in agreement.

"You're also more confident. Maybe it's that gun on your hip, but you've grown into that power you have." He's grown a lot since he's last seen you. Learned to fire a gun, learned to block out the bad memories, learned how to have friends again.

But learned to be confident? Grown into the power he has? Spencer was never powerful. "Really?"

"The Spencer I knew-" Knew. Knew . "-would've quaked in his boots. Back then, you had the brains, but you didn't have the confidence. That's what I was trying to build with those parties."

"I'm pretty sure those were just an excuse to get me drunk." God, how many times did you drag him out and he went along, just to be by your side? How many drunken nights did you spend eating junk food and making fun of bad TV? How many times did Spencer almost, almost work up the courage, just to have it all blow up in his face? Perhaps it made him more confident, in some ways. But mostly it reinforced his introverted tendencies, though spent with you.

"Win-win in my book." You say, and he can practically hear the smile in your voice. "I'm so proud."

"And I'm so sorry." He finally whispers out. "I thought-"

"You don't have to." You interject, and he sits up to stare across at the gaudy mirror on the wall and finds the boy he used to be staring back.

"I thought it would make it easier. To move on and leave everything behind." He says, forcing himself to stare into his own eyes to keep his lies and the real truth from slipping out. The man, or better yet the child he used to be, looks so much sadder than he thought he'd be. "You'd be much safer if I let you go."

You sigh, and he wishes he could see you, and your reaction, rather than his own disappointed features. "It was a chance of a lifetime. I...it hurt, but by the end, I didn't blame you. You were meant for greatness. Having me around would've hindered that." Having you around would've helped his sanity ten times over. Having you was a dream of his from the first moments he knew you. You never could've hindered him, even if you tried. The only thing you ever brought to his life was joy.

And in return, he hurt you. "You are sorely mistaken if you think I'd force you out of my life for any other reason than your own safety. There is nothing you ever could've done to make me want to leave." You don't immediately respond, and Spencer has to take his phone away from his ear to look at it and make sure it's still on, and that you didn't hang up, and you're still on the other end. He quickly places his phone back, and waits for anything, but it seems he's stolen the words from you. "I'm still...afraid, you know. Of you getting hurt. But I miss you." Miss is an understatement, but he has to remind himself that in his line of work, those he deals with, he doesn't just get to keep people around. Not without a nagging in the back of his mind that they would eternally be a target, that he already is, that loving you puts you in so much more danger that he'd rather live with those potentially unrequited feelings for the rest of his life than see you hurt.

But, at the end of the day, Spencer is only a man. He has loved, and he has lost, and he managed to find you again. Keeping you close will endanger you, but he finds a rationale in himself that if he's around, he can be the one to protect you. If he wasn't here, what's to say the next victim would've been you? It's a selfish, selfish thing, to weigh someone's safety against one's own happiness. To bring someone close just to bring them into the range of fire.

But Spencer is only a man, and he's tired of laying in empty hotel beds, staring at ghosts of himself, when he could be sitting by you again, and not guilting himself out of being with the only person who ever made him feel normal in a world that was so persistent to show him the worst of it and him. "So, if I'm allowed, would you-"

"Yes." You say before he's even finished, and you laugh in unison

"I never even-"

"It's been seven years since I've been able to talk to you, Spencer. I'm not waiting again." There are words, Spencer thinks, neither of you could ever say to each other like this, but if he were a more confident, more powerful man, he would. "I don't think you know how nice it is to hear your voice. I almost forgot what it sounded like."

"I never forgot your voice." Between the dreams and the nightmares, it was hard to.

"You also have an eidetic memory."

"Even if I didn't, I couldn't forget you." It comes off far too sincere, far too close to what he wants to say, and a heavy silence falls between you. He sighs and turns to look at the clock, 12:02 AM blinking in his face. "I should probably go to bed."

"So should I." Yet neither of you move to say goodbye, make excuses about ending the call, and he remembers the days he could've talked to you about anything for hours on end, and did. All the stupid debates, all the terrible stories. "Do you remember that night I made you go out to Laurie's party? And we got wasted off of cheap wine?"

"Correction: You got wasted off of cheap wine. I had to chaperone you." Spencer mutters, rubbing at his eyes. Really, he was the reason you were alive, and your liver wasn't failing you.

You were the reason he had a social life, so he supposes it's a fair trade. "Remember the stars?" He remembers everything, he wants to say, but he lets you continue talking. "We went outside and laid on the grass, and the sky was so clear. You told me about all the stars."

"The constellations, you mean." You say nothing at his correction, but he hears you open something, likely a window. He didn't realize you'd actually liked his stories so much. You'd been just a bit too drunk for him to believe you'd retain them.

"It looks like that outside tonight." You say softly, and he wearily stands and moves to his balcony, pushing open the door and staring up at the sky, sure enough, it's a crystal clear night. "Will you tell me about the stars again?" You ask timidly, and Spencer nestles himself on the plastic balcony chair with a smile.

"Cassiopeia, Andromeda’s mother, boasted that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, even more beautiful than the gods."

✦

"Spencer, Spencer, look!" Spencer never understood parties. So many people, drunk, crammed together dancing or doing stupid drinking games? He'd rather be at home, reading, or at this hour, sleeping. Since that fateful Halloween party, you'd managed to drag him out to six more, despite his protests.

And here you were again, tugging on his sleeve and dragging him towards the back patio. You were the only reason he went out to these things, partially because he wanted to make sure you were safe, partially because he enjoyed spending time with you, even if he didn't seem that enthusiastic. You tug on his sleeve again, and he finally relents. "What?"

"The stars!" You practically shout, and sure enough, it's a clear night. Being this far out of the city meant better views, but even this was impressive. He opens the back door for you and you go barreling out, and he can't help but smile as you practically fall down onto the grass to stare up at the stars. "There's so many! How many?"

"Too many to count." He says as he sits down beside you, and he's never seen you like this before. You're absolutely enthralled by the sky above you, the stars reflect perfectly in your eyes, and for the first time, he realizes he's in love. "In the Milky Way alone, there's some 100 billion."

That might be putting it strongly, but he realizes it's not just a crush he has on you. At first, it was small, helping tutor you, thinking you were pretty. You were the first person to be his friend here - it was hard not to like you. But the longer he got to know you, and the more you dragged him out and made sure to spend time with him, the more his heart felt like it was going to explode. "I've never seen them like this before."

"Usually light pollution makes it harder to see in the city." You just nod along, likely not listening to a word he's saying, and you point up at Orion's belt.

"Look, it's the hunter. Onion?" You ask, and he laughs and shakes his head.

"Orion." He corrects, and you nod enthusiastically, still not taking your eyes off the stars.

He wishes he could take a picture, or hold this moment with him forever. He knows he won't forget it, but memories aren't the same after enough recollection. "Him. Why's it called that?"

"In ancient Greek mythology, there was once a great hunter Orion, who provided meat for the gods. One day, Artemis was talking about how good of a hunter Orion was, so he decided to impress her by hunting any animal he could find. But Artemis, protector of animals, disliked how he killed them all for no reason and got so angry a scorpion came out of the ground and stung him, killing him." As a kid, he used to stay up and read about the constellations and look out his window to study them. He could still map them all out with ease, from Orion to Aquarius and all the rest. "There are a couple of different versions of how he died, but the scorpion is the most common."

"No! That's so mean." You gasp, looking genuinely upset, and only you could care so deeply about the stories in the stars. He'd once seen you get sad about a rock abandoned on the sidewalk - he might be the genius, but your empathy was something that outranked every skill he had.

"Well, Artemis felt bad, so she created a constellation after him." He tries to correct as you lay down on the grass, and Spencer lays beside you, despite the fact he knows there are bound to be bugs out.

"Still, it's mean. He was just trying to impress her." Your finger traces over the stars before settling on the big dipper. "What about the big dipper?"

"Zeus had many mortal girlfriends, but his favourite was the beautiful nymph Callisto. His secret visits to Earth to meet with her made Hera jealous. One day, as Zeus was walking through the forest with Callisto, he saw his wife Hera coming. Unable to hide Callisto in time, he turned her into a large brown bear." You laugh and smack his arm as if he's kidding, and Spencer just turns to look at you with a lopsided grin. "I'm not joking."

You pause, turning to look at him with confusion. "He turned her into a bear? Why didn't he just turn her invisible?"

"That's a good question." To be fair, Zeus did a lot of questionable things in his time. "When Hera arrived, she saw Zeus walking by himself through the forest. She looked around, searching for someone with Zeus, but saw only an old brown bear. She still did not trust Zeus and insisted that he return to Mount Olympus. Zeus didn't want to go because he wanted to change Callisto back into her human form before leaving, but Hera insisted. So Zeus went with Hera, leaving Callisto as a large brown bear."

"Aw, poor Callisto." You mutter with a yawn, moving yourself closer to him. He stills as you nestle yourself against his side, head rested back on his shoulder, and he tells himself you're just drunk and cold, not seeking his company.

"Unknown to Zeus, Arcas, Callisto’s son who was a great hunter, was out in the woods hunting that day. As chance would have it, he saw this great big brown bear. He put an arrow to his bow, took careful aim, and shot that great bear through the heart. Right before his eyes, Arcas watched the bear change back into the form of his mother Callisto with an arrow through her heart."

"These stories suck." You turn to look up at him, and without thinking, he gently brushes some hair from your face.

Someday, he'll tell you how he feels. He'll have this great, beautiful moment where he admits his feelings towards you, and you'll rush into his arms and tell him you like him back, and you'll live happily ever after.

But that day isn't today, so he leans back and stares at the stars. "Well, Ancient Greece was full of tragedies. To make it up to Arcas, Zeus turned Callisto into a constellation, and then put Arcas in the sky as the little dipper."

"Are there any happy ones?" You ask grumpily, and he chuckles softly. Across all the cultures with stories about the stars, they often tended toward tragedy, but he supposes he'll go for the ones that don't end in tragic death, or maybe just rework one or two to make you happy.

Love, Spencer thinks, was strong enough to put these stories in the stars, and strong enough to rewrite them.

"There's the story of Andromeda?" You'd always liked a good romance, considering your poor movie choices and cheap novels. "Cassiopeia, Andromeda’s mother, boasted that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, even more beautiful than the gods. Poseidon took great offence at this statement, for he had created the most beautiful beings ever in the form of his sea nymphs." It might be the sip or two Spencer had of the punch, but he'd take his bets that you were more beautiful than most gods, though he supposes he better not say that, in case Aphrodite is real and tries to kill you.

"Like Callisto?" You infer, and Spencer's impressed you listened enough to remember Callisto was a nymph.

"Exactly like Callisto. In his anger, he created a great sea monster, Cetus, to ravage the seas and coast. Since Cassiopeia would not take back her claim of beauty, it was decreed that she must sacrifice her only daughter, the beautiful Andromeda, to this sea monster."

You sit up abruptly, looming over him and blocking out the stars, and your chests are practically pressed together, the closest Spencer thinks he's ever gotten with you.  "You told me no one died!"

"Just listen," He tries to soothe, and you still loom over him, and he wonders if you can feel how fast his heart is pounding. "So Andromeda was chained to a large rock by the sea and was left there to await the arrival of the great sea monster Cetus. As Cetus approached, however, Perseus arrived. When Perseus saw the beautiful maiden in distress, like a true champion he went to her aid. He had just killed the gorgon Medusa and carried her severed head, which he used to turn the sea monster into stone. Perseus then freed the beautiful Andromeda and, claiming her as his bride, took her home with him as his queen to rule."

"Did Andromeda get a choice?" You ask quietly, as if saving your reaction, and when Spencer nods, you break out into a grin. "See, that one's nicer." Then, with little grace, you drop your forehead to his chest, and Spencer gently places his hand on the back of your head, carefully pulling the grass blades from your hair. "Would you save me from an evil sea monster?"

"In a heartbeat." He answers, and you look up, skeptical, so he holds out his pinky to you, and with a smile, you link your pinky with his.

"Promise?"

Maybe one day, your story will be written in the stars.

"Promise."

✦

"You could always take some vacation time." JJ offers with a knowing smile as she sips the last of her coffee. They were pulling the graveyard shift at the police department, having found Davis's truck abandoned, and leading a wild goose chase as the others searched the far corners of your college town.

But, despite the work that needed to be done, all Spencer could think about was how soon he was leaving.

Again.

He'd made things right, he wanted to argue. He'd apologized, and you'd reconnected, but realistically, if he were to go back to work, and you to yours, you wouldn't see each other in person for a long, long while. And he'd promised you...something, something he wants to call a date but knows better than to, and he can't imagine the disappointment when he leaves again, once again breaking promises.

But this was the whole reason he'd cut contact in the first place. He can't just give up work, vacation time, when there could be others out there suffering, for anyone.

For you. For you, Spencer would give up a lot of things. He gave up precious hours of sleep, patience, his sanity. For you, he gave up sweaters and meals and secrets. And really, he'd give up anything to keep you in his life, and the thought terrifies him, because if push comes to shove, he will.

And that's not what a good agent does. A phone buzzes on the table and Spencer reacts quicker than he should, only for it to be JJ's. She offers him a knowing look, and he tries not to feel disappointed that it wasn't you. "We need to think about this strategically," Derek states as JJ puts the phone on speaker mode. "Driving around is getting us nowhere. Where would Davis go?"

"Either he's going to flee, or he's going to double down on his plan." Spencer picks up a dry-erase marker and stands before the board, desperately trying to connect these girls together to make some kind of pattern. His phone buzzes idly on the table, and he ignores it for a moment as he stares at Lucy's last name.

Evans.

"We were in the Evans building when we went to Dr. Carson's class." Spencer offers aloud, turning to look at JJ. "Abby's aunt is the department chair for History."

"What if it's not about the girls?" JJ responds instantly, "What if it's about the university?"

"Davis said he left due to family problems, right?" Derek answers over the phone. "When?"

Spencer grabs the printout of the email you sent the team, at the beginning of September. He'd barely been there a week before he left, and there, just below it, one of the newspapers Garcia had printed for him. Budget cuts, dining hall changes, and there, just below in the list of programs that were impacted, the master's grants. Had Spencer not been distracted by the fact it was you, he would've fit those puzzle pieces together much quicker. Just another reason, he tries to remind himself, that he can't stay. "They cut funding to some of the Master's programs just before the semester started. Davis might not have been able to pay."

"And if he couldn't," Spencer's phone buzzes one final time on the table, and he stares at it in horror. "Then why not make those who cut the funding pay?"

Spencer lunges for his phone, finding just a singular text message from you, a single image burned into his brain for eternity.

A sea monster. "Ian's going after Doctor Carson."

"What?" If Davis wanted the university to pay, all signs pointed to killing you, the last professor he had contact with, and it reminds Spencer why he burned that phone number, all those years ago. He cannot fathom losing you, or being the reason you die.

Spencer dials your number from memory, a pattern so foreign yet so rehearsed from so many nights, and unlike so many nights before, he actually presses the call button.

The phone rings once, twice.

It goes straight to voicemail.

✦

"Hey, I can't come to the phone right now, but I'll get back as soon as I can. Leave a message after the beep!" Spencer has called you twice now.

He's starting to worry you're never going to pick up at all. It wasn't really his place to worry, when you were out late, when you went on dates, but he couldn't help himself. He had an eidetic memory, an overactive imagination, a truly heartbreaking crush on you, and radio silence for the last five hours.

Five!

Someone opens the door behind him, offering an awkward apology as they step around him, and Spencer squints up at your dorm building. Maybe you were just sleeping. Ended the night early. Forgot to call.

Maybe you were dead somewhere.

Maybe, that FBI recruiter's phone number burning a hole in his pocket had given him the wrong ideas. Then, when he hovers over the call button once again, a taxi rolls up outside, and you huff your way out of it, slamming the door as you storm towards him. You haven't seen him yet, too busy wiping the running makeup from under your eyes, and Spencer's heart mends and breaks at the same time.

The date went terrible. You were upset, and Spencer hurt for you, but that gave him the slightest chance of having you still.

FBI agents shouldn't have people that they depend upon. People who can be used against them. The worst of the worst, they'd said. Criminals, serial killers, disgusting individuals who needed tracking down. It was like being a superhero, but only real, and with a lot more commitment.

Something in the back of Spencer's mind told him to do it. To run, and never look back, and let life begin. Another part forced him to stand and extend his arms, which you happily fell into with a sob. "Rough night?"

"Give me your worst movie," Your voice is muffled by his shoulder, but still cracks. "A gallon of ice cream, and at least...four margaritas."

"How about my worst movie, whatever you have in your mini-fridge, and some nice water?" You glance up for a moment, wiping your eyes again, and Spencer sees his life play out before him.

Charting across the country, saving lives, stopping bad guys. He won't be able to stay in one place for long. He wouldn't be able to settle down and have a family.

You wanted that, though. You chased love as if you never had it, but Spencer knows that's all he's ever given you.

And that's all he gives you still. You watch your stupid movie, curled up beside him, sharing the last of leftover nachos. The next day, he helps you prepare for your last math test, before the end of the semester. You've still got one to go before you graduate.

You don't know this will be his last. He avoids making plans over the winter break because he doesn't know where he'll go first, what the FBI academy will be like, how to say goodbye.

He showers you with all the love he knows how to give until the last day, when you sit on a bench watching the first, barest snowfall, a true rarity in California, and you stare at him so poignantly that he's sure you already know. "So, who's the special lady?"

"What?"

"You've been secretive. Hiding stuff, phone calls, making plans. You've finally found the Mrs. Genius for you, haven't you?" He wishes, honestly. You were his Mrs. Genius, he wanted to say, but it was all futile now. If he'd said something sooner, this wouldn't be the end.

But all the brainpower in the world couldn't change the past. "I, uh, got a job."

"What?" You shout, shooting up to look at him with a grin. In the time he'd known you, he'd turned down at least four jobs, each of which you found fascinating, each of which he couldn't fathom doing.

This time, however. This time was different. "The FBI wants to hire me, for a special behavioural unit. I'd be handling different national cases, focused on analyzing people's behaviours to track them down."

"Oh my god, Spencer! That's like something out of a movie!" You look at him with such admiration, such pride, that he finally lets him rejoice in that he did it. He found something that seemed worthwhile, something good in the world. You throw yourself at him in an awkward-bench-hug, before quickly pulling away. "So this is your last semester then? Is that why you've been so secretive about it?"

"I wanted to enjoy it like it was a normal one. Not stressed about the FBI academy." He'd graduate in the spring ceremony, anyway, but he wouldn't mind missing it if it meant doing something bigger, better with his life. You return to hugging him, and Spencer wraps his arms around you and tries to burn the feeling into his body, because it very well may be the last time you ever touch.

"Oh, they are going to whip you into shape! I want to see you with abs, dude." You giggle into his shoulder, and Spencer shakes his head with a sigh. He's not getting abs, he's probably going to get the shit beat out of him. Repeatedly. "Are you going to get a buzzcut? Or like, tortured-trained?"

"No to the buzzcut, that's the military." Tortured trained? Probably, to some degree. Maybe pepper sprayed. "And I don't know what it's going to be like."

"You have an eidetic memory, you know what it's going to be like." You pull away to stare up at the falling snow, and Spencer lets himself reach out to adjust your beanie. "That's...a lot though, isn't it? Being a special agent? Hunting down...people?"

He doesn't really have an answer for that. His whole life has been a lot. Being with the BAU would be a welcome change, but its hurdles, at this point, felt less daunting than they should. He could be on the other end of a gun that kills someone. He could get killed. He could see some horrific, horrible things, but it's for the greater good. He was destined for some kind of greatness, and maybe, just maybe, this was it. "I don't know. It's just...it's the first time I've heard about something, and really thought about taking it. It just fit."

"You always were a superhero. You were meant to save lives." Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, but they don't fall. You think he's a superhero. "You've saved mine enough times now."

"I should use you as a reference." He tries to joke, but the reality of the situation has settled over both of you. He was leaving.

You were staying. And, for your own good, he couldn't contact you again. He's not sure if it would be worse, or better, to tell you that now. "I'm going to miss you." You offer quietly, leaning into his side, and he wraps an arm around your shoulder and holds you there. "What happens when I need to study?"

"I've taught you enough by now, one semester won't kill you." You smack his arm with a huff, and he just holds you tighter. "I'm going to miss you too."

"Wait, I almost forgot!" You scramble to pull a piece of paper from your pocket, extending it out to him. "It's my new cell phone number." He holds the paper in hand, and wonders if he should even look at the numbers. Once he knows them, they're ingrained in his brain for good. So, he folds it, tucks it into his pocket, and focuses back on you. "I'm so proud, you know that? My genius, all grown up. When will I see you next?"

My genius.

Never, he wants to say, but that feels like two long of a time. Someday, in the future, you'll meet again. He just can't...now. Maybe he was making a big deal out of nothing, but if he was dealing with terrible people, he wanted you nowhere near them. He didn't want you associated with him whatsoever.

And he can't keep that distance if you're friends. "I suppose...whenever I'm in town."

"This is a shitty goodbye, Spence. I wasn't expecting it. I would've gotten you a going away present." You would've probably gotten him some crazy socks, like you had for his past few birthdays, or gotten sentimental and framed a photo of the two of you. He already had one that you'd decorated the frame off with silly stickers, that he currently has tucked away in his suitcase.

They'll probably make him throw it out, but at least until then, he can still look at you. "You've done enough for me as is." He reaches up to wipe at his eyes, and you gently place your hands on his cheeks, and for a moment, he thinks you're going to kiss him, until you begin to wipe away his tears.

"Stay so safe, okay?" He closes his eyes, and tries to find another excuse as to why he can't have you. "And don't forget to call."

✦

There's a half-folded origami lotus on your kitchen island when Spencer gets into your house. Things have been tossed about, broken, a struggle obviously occurred, but that perfect little flower, the start of which he knows he taught you, remains untouched.

He should've called.

They'd commandeered a police cruiser to get here, and Spencer's never been more grateful for his own, heartbroken ways. He'd researched your address, or more precisely had Garcia research your address, and knew the way to your house already, arriving on time with the rest of the police. But, as he made his way upstairs, side-stepping all the destruction and praying to every deity he could think of, it might as well have been him and him alone as he stepped into your office and found you, pressed back against Ian with a knife pressed to your neck. You show no emotion, a strange comparison to the panic and terror he'd expected from someone with their life on the line, but you just look on with a sad calmness that Spencer does not want to draw conclusions about.

"Hey, Perseus." Your voice does not waver as you speak, and Spencer thinks he might as well be the one at the end of a blade by the sound of your voice. Here you were, so close to death at the hands of a monster, and he with no Medusa's head to turn it into stone, no magical remedies to stop this confrontation.

"Shut up!" Ian's voice wavers, a reminder that he did not particularly enjoy killing. This was entirely about revenge, which gave Spencer just the smallest bit of hope. If Ian didn't want to kill, then there was a greater chance you make it out of here alive, and Spencer would make it out with what remains of his sanity.

"Ian, you don't want to do this, man." Derek states calmly, trying to de-escalate the situation. The knife remains under your throat, overriding much of what Spencer learned in dealing with hostage situations. It was always with you it seemed that his intelligence and memory slipped away in favour of fondness, picking up the little origami figures decorating your shelves.

You'd waited for him. "This wasn't how it was supposed to end," Spencer finally says, then, taking a daring step forward. He was trying his best to be Spencer Reid, of the BAU, and so far felt like he was failing miserably. "Doctor Carson has nothing to do with this."

"I had a life!" Ian all but screeches. "I-I was going places! And what do they do? Cut the one grant I needed to keep going." The tip of the blade shifts and pricks your throat, nowhere near enough to do damage but enough for a singular bead of blood to drip down. "So I took something valuable from them."

Something almost caring passes over your face, and Spencer finds that only you, in this situation, could find an ounce of sympathy to offer. "You could have told us. We could have found more-"

"And admit defeat? And let them know I lost?" Ian forces you back, and a soft noise escapes your throat, and Spencer thinks he truly might die here, in this room with you, if you go. "You're loved by students. By the other professors. You'll make them regret cutting me off."

"Let them go," Spencer straightens out, letting his gun lower slightly as he extends a hand. "I need you to understand, Ian, that your rejections, your anger, they have nothing to do with Doctor Carson. You need to let her go. Killing her won't get your funding back."

"I'm going to make you pay, too." Ian spits at Spencer. "For getting involved. You just had to call your husband on me, huh?" That last part is directed towards you, and you look at him pleadingly.

"She didn't need to," Spencer answers, far too easily falling into the role of your husband. "You wanted to make the people at the university pay, right? They're already going under. You saw how funding got cut. Now imagine what they're going to do when they realize how dangerous campus is. No one's going to want to enroll here, ever again. You got your revenge, Ian." There's a beat of silence as Spencer lets the gun lower further, arms loose to his sides as a subtle show of surrender. "This isn't going to change anything else."

The room settles in silence, save for the sirens outside, a soft ambience to the hell that occurs within Spencer's mind. Ian's eyes flicker from officer to officer, equating his chance of escape, and Reid's palm goes sweaty against his gun, terrified of the thought of raising it and firing, terrified at the thought of losing you.

For a moment, Ian hesitates, and all Spencer can think is seven years.

"You're all going to pay." Ian whispers, raising his knife. "I want them to pay."

Seven years, Spencer never got to say a word to you, never got to see you grow, graduate, marry, divorce, live and breathe and laugh. And you never got to know what happened to him. Spencer's grip on his gun is steady, waiting for the coming blow, but to his surprise, it's you who makes the first move, managing to wriggle out of Ian's grip as he plunges down, and Derek manages one square shot in Ian's shoulder that sends him toppling backwards.

Spencer is quick to holster his gun to grab you instead, a bear hug seven years in the making as he hauls you out of the office. He's sure, with the bulletproof vest that it is not the most comfortable or comforting of embraces, but you cling to him as you begin to shake, and all Spencer can do is hold you in the hallway, rubbing your back as gently as he can.

"You're okay," He finds himself saying, both reassuring you and himself. You're okay. You'll need a paramedic, and therapy, and a sabbatical, probably. Definitely time off.

But you're okay. Spencer enters a strange sort of tunnel vision when he finally lets you go to bring you outside, not a word exchanged as you exit the house and stride across your front lawn painted red and blue by all the lights of the police cars, soon to be the talk of the street, having all these police show up at such an hour. He helps you sit on the edge of the ambulance, and it seems you kept your composure for the confrontation, but safe, now, you cry softly as the paramedics check you over, bandaging your neck and the scrapes on your arms from the fight.

It's hard for them to do their work as you keep wiping at your eyes, but no one says anything, because what is there to say? Nothing, Spencer knows. Nothing he could say could make the fear of tonight any better, so he lets his actions speak for him as he reaches up to wipe away the last of your slowing tears to let the paramedics finish their work.

The white bandage across your neck haunts him, covering up a small prick that could be so much worse, and your hand drifts up to grab his, squeezing as you pull him towards you. "You kept your promise." You offer quietly, and Spencer, for once, can't remember what you're referring to.

"What?"

"You saved me from the evil sea monster." One of the paramedics stills at that, looking down at you in concern and likely considering a head injury, and you wave your free hand at them apologetically. "Greek mythology reference."

"You know I'd always come for you." He lets himself smile then, carefully squeezing your hand back. "Andromeda."

"You said I'd be safer without you." You finally address, a shock blanket being tucked around your shoulders. It makes you look that much younger, curled up on your small dorm bed amid the giant blankets you always insisted on keeping. "But what if you weren't here?"

Tonight is not the night to explain that this was an easy case. That two deaths, a confrontation, paled in comparison to some of the horrors he's witnessed. But seven years of separation, just for you to have potentially died tonight like Ian was planning makes Spencer think that maybe, just maybe, he ought to stick around. "In the long run-"

"That was quite a stunt you pulled back there," Derek calls as he appears, pointedly ignoring Mark being dragged out of your house behind him. "Mr. and Mrs. Carson. You sure he's just your math tutor?"

Oh.

Spencer had made himself your husband, hadn't he? "I might have told him that my husband was on his way here. I thought it might deter him, but..." With a small, sad little laugh, you shake your head. "I never thought I'd miss having someone with me at night."

Derek sends Spencer a look, one that says 'I know another man who would happily stay with you at night', and Spencer is quite thankful he doesn't say it aloud. Seven years. It's hard to think, really, that you spent that much time away, yet you could still make him feel like this. Like not a day had passed, all those bundled-up emotions still just as prominent.

He's going to have to tell you, at some point, but as you look at him and squeeze his hand, he wonders if he'll need to. "I know." You answer quietly, as if reading his mind. "I know, Spence."

"I'll let you two lovebirds be," Derek says slowly as he moves toward where Hotch and JJ stand, likely going to fill them in on all the little things he'd picked up witnessing you two together. He pauses, however, to glance back over his shoulder with a smile. "Have a good night, Mr. and Mrs. Carson. Or, Doctor and Doctor Reid."

Doctor and Doctor Reid. "We sound like a supervillain team. The Doctor's Reid." You say softly, and Spencer finds himself stuck on the fact that you don't shut down the title, don't hide away from it.

Doctor and Doctor Reid.

One day, maybe.

"You know?" He finally echoes once Derek is out of earshot, and you shrug, the shock blanket slipping from one of your shoulders.

"I know that you're going to say in the long run, it's going to be better and safer that we never knew each other." You look up at the sky, and Spencer follows, watching as the clouds part to reveal the stars. "I swear the stars are never this nice unless you're around."

"Look at me?" Spencer whispers, voice rough with emotion, and with all the stars in your eyes, Spencer lets himself embrace a love he'd been running from for seven years. "I was going to say, in the long run, I think I'd rather protect you than worry about someone else doing it." If this were one of those cheesy romance novels, he'd have swept you off bridal style already, and kissed you and told you he loved you, but this is just him, and you, and the stars, an outcome not even Hollywood could have predicted, so he finds himself stuck in a limbo, unsure of what lines have already been crossed and what ones he might be able to fix. "If you'd, uh, let me."

"Special Agent Doctor Genius," You whisper softly, making those four words more endearing than he ever thought they could be. "I thought you'd never ask."

His hand comes up to gently rest on your cheek, wiping away the last of the stray tears, and he finds himself crushed, still, by the weight of everything he'd done to you. Of everything that might happen next. Every case that turned personal, every life he knew he could never live. You pull his hand away and instead reach up to wipe at his cheek, offering him an all-knowing look. "Do you forgive me?" He asks, as if praying for repentance, and you answer in the only way Spencer thinks you could.

Your hand moves from his cheek to rest atop his bulletproof vest, pulling down hard and forcing him to your level, and before Spencer can think about the ramifications of kissing you after a traumatic experience, his brain is flooded with the overwhelming, all-consuming thought that he's kissing you.

It's the only acceptance he'll ever need. Every worry, every thought ceases as he finds himself slotted between your legs, one arm coming up to rest on the door of the ambulance above you as your hands slide up into his hair to play with, and he feels you smile against his lips.

 Perseus then freed the beautiful Andromeda and, claiming her as his bride, took her home with him as his queen to rule.

Pulling away, he gently rests his forehead on yours, and lets himself deal with the ramifications of love another day. "I don't think it's the best choice, to stay here tonight." They'll want to gather evidence, clean up your office, his mind offers as an excuse. You shouldn't be alone is another.

But a third, a deep, selfish third, is all that seems to echo through his mind, and you offer a lopsided smile. "I can call around, probably." There's a beat of silence as you look up at him, as if debating to say something. "Or, we could put on a bad movie and have a couple of drinks back at whatever fancy hotel I'm sure they put you up in?"

You slot of your hands into his as you rise from the back of the ambulance, and grinning up at him like that, Spencer thanks whatever deity listened to him and made the stars align today. "How about a bad movie, whatever fast food is open at this hour, and some nice water?"

"That sounds perfect."