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specialagentsergio · 4 years

Text

now i’m getting colder || part two

summary: Emily’s been dating you for nearly a year and she’s never been happier—until her past comes to call. Then she’s gone, and Spencer’s left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart.

pairing: spencer reid x f!reader (unrequited), emily prentiss x f!reader

category: angst

content warnings: (faked) major character death, mentions of / implied sex, swearing, grieving, mentions of drug abuse & addiction, unhealthy coping mechanisms

word count: 5.1k

series masterlist || masterlist

The morning after Emily dies, Spencer wakes up to the smell of cooking bacon. He feels groggy and disoriented as he sits up in an unfamiliar bed. It’s not really a new feeling—it happens often enough with the amount of hotels he’s stayed at through work. This bed, though, feels way too nice to be a hotel bed.

He feels around for his glasses, eventually locating them buried under one of the spare pillows. I’ve got to stop falling asleep with these on. Once he can see clearly, he realizes where he is: one of the guest room’s at Rossi’s house.

It had been nearly four in the morning when the jet got back to Quantico. JJ and Hotch had gone home to their families, and Rossi had insisted that everyone else stay with him. “None of us should be alone right now,” he’d said in a voice thick with emotion.

Spencer tries to ignore the migraine he can feel building behind his eyes as he pulls himself out of bed. He doesn’t know how long he was asleep, only that it wasn’t long enough. He follows the smell of cooking food out of his room and downstairs to the kitchen. Morgan and Seaver are already awake, chatting quietly at the island while Rossi cooks.

“Pretty boy,” Morgan says, noticing his arrival. He pulls out the chair next to him.

“What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” Seaver answers.

Morgan puts a hand on his shoulder when he sits down. “How are you feeling, kid?”

Spencer shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Where’s Garcia and (Y/N)?”

“Garcia was dead asleep when I got up,” he replies. “I’d guess (Y/N)’s sleeping, too.”

“Food’s going to be ready shortly,” Rossi announces.

Seaver looks to Morgan. “Should we wake them up?”

“I think we should at least check on them.” Morgan stands and pats Spencer’s arm. “Come on, kid.”

He trudges back up the stairs after Derek. He nods towards the door to the room you’re staying in before going into the one he’d shared with Garcia.

Spencer opens the door quietly. You’re barely visible from the doorway, huddled under the covers, but from what he can see, he thinks you’re still asleep. He really doesn’t want to wake you—he wishes he was still asleep himself—so he just closes the door again and waits in the hall for Morgan.

Garcia is with him he returns, her sparkly sleep mask pushed up onto her forehead. She hugs him immediately. “Where’s (Y/N)? Is she okay?” she asks when she pulls back.

“Still asleep,” Spencer says. “I didn’t want to wake her because I don’t think she’s been asleep for very long. The pillowcase was still damp.”

“Oh, poor girl,” she whispers. “I can’t imagine how awful this must be for her.”

Morgan puts his arm around her shoulders. “Me either, baby girl. Let’s just let her sleep for now.”

They make their way back downstairs, where Seaver is helping Rossi dish the finished food onto plates. When Spencer tells him you’re still sleeping, Rossi loads one up with everything and puts it to the side for you to eat later.

It’s quiet as everyone eats. The food tastes fantastic, and under different circumstances, Spencer would be delighted to be eating it. But as it is, he can’t even finish his plate.

“Somebody please say something,” Garcia says suddenly. “I can’t take this silence anymore.”

Awkward glances are exchanged across the table until Seaver offers up, “Um, I’m almost done with the academy training. The written test is just a few weeks from now.”

“Yes, good,” Garcia says. “Your test. Tell me all about the test.”

Spencer rubs one of his eyes, knocking his glasses askew. He’s hit the point where he can’t ignore the pain anymore. “I’m gonna go lie down,” he mutters to no one in particular.

Morgan looks up at him when he stands. “You alright, Reid?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired,” he lies. “Uh, thanks for the food, Rossi.”

Rossi nods in acknowledgement before focusing back on Seaver and Garcia’s conversation, and Spencer shuffles off towards the stairs.

Squinting against the light coming through all the windows, he nearly runs into you in the upstairs hallway. “Oh! You’re awake.”

You look smaller than normal, standing with your arms wrapped around yourself. It’s like you’re trying hide from the world. “Unfortunately,” you murmur.

“Are... are you okay?” he asks hesitantly.

Your laugh is humorless. “Of course I’m not.”

“Yeah, me... me either,” Spencer admits quietly. You don’t reply, so he keeps talking. “Rossi made breakfast. Well, I guess it’s more like brunch now. He saved a plate for you.”

“Alright.” You start to move past him, but he puts his hand on your arm. “What?”

“Could I hug you?”

You think over it for a bit, then nod.

Spencer doesn’t know if he’s hugging you for your comfort or his own, just that it feels nice. But then he puts a hand on the back of your neck and you draw in a sharp breath, pulling away abruptly.

“Don’t,” you mutter. “Em always did that. Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Sorry, I—I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I won’t do it again.”

You take in a deep breath and brush away the tears that have slipped down your face. “I’m gonna go eat.”

Spencer watches you until you’re out of sight, then returns to his room. He can’t stop himself from rubbing his eyes again. The curtains are already closed, but the room still feels too bright. He deliberately puts his glasses on the bedside table before crawling back under the covers. He pulls one of the pillows over his head to try and block out as much light as possible.

The insides of his elbows itch, and he wonders how he’s supposed to get through this.

---

The funeral is hard.

It’s a nice service, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Each member of the team places a rose on the coffin. You kiss your fingertips before putting yours down, pressing them to the polished wood and barely holding back a sob.

JJ drives you home, and Spencer tags along, not wanting to leave you alone in an empty apartment right after burying your girlfriend. But it turns out to be something he doesn’t have to worry about, because when you open your front door, you’re greeted with a meow.

“Sergio!” you gasp. You immediately drop your bag on the floor and pick him up. “How did you get here, buddy?”

“You know how Penelope and I have been feeding him? We both thought he’d be happier here,” JJ says. “I brought him by this morning, but you had already left. I hope this is okay; I just didn’t want you to have to go to Emily’s apartment if you weren’t ready.”

“It’s more than okay. It’s...” There are tears in your eyes. “Thank you, JJ.”

She smiles softly. “His things are by the kitchen table. I wasn’t sure where you would want them.”

“That’s fine. I’m sure we can find good spots for everything, huh, Sergio?” you coo, turning and heading in that direction.

Spencer exchanges a glance with JJ as they both follow. You’ve barely said anything for the past few days, so hearing you chatter away to a cat in a baby voice is a little disconcerting.

“Um, do you need any help?” he asks. “With Sergio, or with, um, anything?”

“Hm? No, I’m okay.”

Sergio has settled himself over your shoulder and is now staring at him and JJ. He shifts on his feet, feeling oddly unnerved by it. “Why’s he staring at us?” he whispers to her.

“I don’t know, Spence. He’s a cat,” she replies. “That’s just what they do.”

You press the side of your face against Sergio’s body and close your eyes. It’s the most content Spencer’s seen you since he noticed you worrying over Emily a month ago.

“You can go,” you say. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” JJ asks. “I don’t mind staying.”

“I’m sure.” But neither of them move, so you open your eyes to look at them. “Guys, I really appreciate all the support. It means a lot. But I also need space. I’ll be fine with Sergio here, I promise.”

“Just as long as you’re sure.” JJ gives you a tight hug. “We’re only a phone call away.”

You nod. “I know. Thank you.”

Spencer hesitates, though. He understands that you need space and privacy to grieve, but he doesn’t know that he should be alone right now.

Your expression softens when you look at him. You gently slide Sergio off your shoulder and onto the table so you can hug him properly. He all but clings to you, turning his head into your neck. It seems to clue JJ into his dilemma, because when you pull away from him, she says, “Why don’t you come visit Henry, Spence? He’d love to see you.”

He sniffles, trying to stop himself from crying. “Yeah, okay.”

He lets JJ lead him out into the hallway. You give him a small smile and a wave before closing the door.

---

Spencer’s never been one to frequent bars. They’re loud and often overcrowded. He doesn’t like the concept of drinking out of a glass that some stranger used the day before. And more often than not, the surfaces—be it a table or the bar itself—feel sticky. It’s just not his scene. But that’s where he’s found himself tonight, two weeks after the funeral. He’s staring down at amber liquid in a glass while his brain is fixated on an entirely different one.

He hasn’t had cravings this bad since Gideon left, and he ended up relapsing that time. He doesn’t want that to happen again. He swirls the glass, watching the ice clink against the sides as he silently debates with himself. Technically, drinking would be considered relapsing, but it’s better than using, right? If it’s between the two....

It’s the guilt that’s driven him here tonight. Guilt over Emily being dead because they didn’t get to her in time. Guilt over not seeing the obvious question, why families, right in front of him, the answer to which would have gotten them to her sooner. But most of all, guilt that he can’t stop craving companionship with his dead friend’s partner. Every time those thoughts come into his head, he feels like he’s betraying Emily.

Spencer feels himself slipping dangerously close to the ledge. So when a stranger sits down next to him, strikes up a conversation, and eventually asks if he’d like to get out of here, Spencer says yes.

It’s not the best decision he’s ever made, but it’s better than the alternative.

An hour later, he’s lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling in the awkward silence that follows a hook-up. The stranger’s name is Ryan, he learned as he slid into the car’s passenger seat. And it was nice—god knows he’s touch-starved—but it was a risky choice. He knows all too well what getting into a stranger’s car can lead to. But he just hadn’t cared. Emily’s dead. They’re supposed to be the best, but they weren’t able to save her. So what’s the point of anything?

When his phone goes off, Spencer quickly scrambles out from under the thin sheet and sorts through the clothes on the floor to find his pants. The display identifies the caller as you. “Hello?”

“Spencer.” Your voice is so quiet, he can barely hear it; he has to turn up the volume on his phone.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He starts to gather the rest of his clothing from the bedroom floor.

“I...” Your breath catches, and it’s a while before you speak again. “I can’t sleep. Could you come over?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he answers immediately. “It’ll just—it’ll just take me a little longer than usual to get there. I’m, uh... I’m not at home.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Just use your key when you get here.”

He ends the call and looks through the clothes in his arms, making sure he’s got everything.

“Was that them?” Ryan asks from behind him, and Spencer jumps. He’d nearly forgotten about him.

“Um, I’m not sure what you mean,” Spencer says, turning. He has a strange urge to cover himself, and nearly does before reminding himself that he wouldn’t be covering anything the man hasn’t seen already.

“When we were having sex, you were thinking of someone else,” Ryan says. “Was that them on the phone?”

Spencer opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure what to say. Eventually, he mutters, “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ryan says easily. “I only noticed because I was thinking of someone else, too.”

“Oh.”

“Mine’s straight,” he says. “How about yours?”

“Um, she loves someone else.” Spencer’s not sure why he’s telling a stranger this, but it feels good to get it out. So good that if you weren’t waiting on him, he could see himself oversharing and telling Ryan everything. But you are, so he says, “I, uh, have to go. Would you happen to know where the closest Metro station is?”

“Yeah, it’s a few blocks north of here. Just turn left when you leave the building and keep going straight.”

“Thanks.”

Spencer gets dressed quickly, double checks that he has everything he came here with, then leaves with an awkward little wave goodbye. He finds the metro easily; it’s right where Ryan said it was. He stops by his apartment to take a quick shower, then decides to drive his car to your place to get there faster.

At your door, he flips through his keyring to find the right one. As he unlocks and opens it, he knocks lightly on the doorframe in the pattern you’d set ages ago, a signal to let you know that it’s him coming in. The alarm beeps and he silences it by punching in the code, another thing he’s known for years.

After shutting and locking the door behind him, he calls your name softly. There’s no response, so he ventures in, eventually finding you on one of the couches, curled up on your side with Sergio in your arms. You’re staring blankly across the room, but you must be vaguely aware of his presence, because when he touches your leg, it doesn’t startle you. There’s a small trash can full of crumpled up tissues on the floor in front of you, and your eyes are red and puffy.

There’s a bit of space on the end of the couch near your feet, and Spencer takes it. He waits a while, but you don’t say anything, so he speaks first. “Why can’t you sleep?”

The breath you take in wavers with unshed tears. “The bed’s too empty,” you whisper.

Sighing, Spencer runs a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Do you?” you ask. “You weren’t at home when I called you, and instead of coming straight here, you stopped at your apartment to shower. You were with someone.”

He doesn’t have a response for that. He didn’t think you would notice, but of course you did. Whether it’s because you’re a profiler, or because you know him too well, he isn’t sure. Either way, it makes him anxious, and he starts worrying the edges of his cardigan between his fingers. “I... I don’t know what to tell you,” he admits.

You finally look at him properly. “Look, I don’t care about you sleeping with someone,” you say. “Just... just don’t say you know what I mean when you actually don’t. It won’t make me feel any better.”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You squeeze Sergio closer to your chest; surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s not the same as wishing you had someone. Emily is the love of my life. You don’t know what it’s like to have that, and then have it snatched away.”

Spencer bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything else. He wants to explain, to tell you that even while someone had their lips on his tonight, he’d felt incredibly lonely, and that it had only gotten worse afterward. And he absolutely should not tell you that he thinks he does know what you mean. He thinks he’s felt something similar to what you’ve just described, watching you with Emily the past few months. But you buried her. To compare that to him loving someone who doesn’t reciprocate is insensitive, to say the very least.

So he does what he always did before you came along and helped him open up: he bottles it up and shoves it down inside.

You look away from him, and after a few more silent moments, he hears your breath catch in your throat. “Was,” you say, voice cracking.

“What?”

“Emily... Emily was the love of my life,” you correct quietly.

“Don’t do that,” he says sharply, without thinking.

Your eyes fly back to him and hurt crosses your face. “Spence.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just meant, you don’t have to do that. Not with me, at least.”

You don’t respond, just look back at the wall again, and god damn it, he can’t stand to watch you stare blankly at it anymore. “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe we could watch a movie,” he suggests.

“I don’t care.”

Spencer grimaces. Loss of interest or pleasure in most or all normal activities. A sign of depression. Of course, you’re grieving the loss of your partner. This type of depression is to be expected; it isn’t clinical. But he still feels uneasy seeing you like this.

“Well, I’m going to put something on,” he says, if only to keep the apartment from being silent.

“Knock yourself out,” you mutter. Then you tilt your head down, pressing your forehead into Sergio’s fur.

He takes the remote off the coffee table and flips through the channels until he lands on Discovery. Right now it looks like they’re showing Mythbusters reruns. He’d probably like it more if he knew less about physics and chemistry, but it’s interesting enough to keep him occupied.

You surprise him when the next episode starts by quietly asking what he thinks the outcome of the planned experiments are going to be. Eager to have something to do, he launches into an explanation. You murmur an occasional, “uh-huh”, but he doesn’t think you’re actually listening. You’ve still got that blank look on your face, but at least it’s focused on the TV instead of the wall. He suspects you just want to hear someone talk, to break the silence that’s been permeating your apartment since the funeral.

The affirmations stop after a while, and he looks over to see that you’ve finally fallen asleep. He stands up and Sergio lifts his head, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Stay there,” Spencer whispers as firmly as he can, afraid that the cat leaving will wake you.

He looks around until he finds a blanket to put over you, then settles down on the other couch with a second one. Neither the couch or the blanket are anywhere near long enough for him to sleep comfortably, but he doesn’t want you to wake up alone.

---

They had to practically drag you out to the movie tonight.

Things have been up and down since you came back to work, a week after everyone else did. You have good days and bad days. Today has been a bad day. You’d tried to just go home, but seeing that you were in a dark place, Spencer had insisted you come out with them.

“It’s unnecessary,” Garcia says as the five of you trail out of the theater. “There was too much blood and gore and ew.”

“Garcia, it’s a slasher film,” Spencer says, amused. “How do you do a slasher film without violence?”

“You imply it.”

“Baby, the movie is called Slice 6,” Morgan says. “What were you expecting?”

“A refreshing beverage with a twist of comedy. I’m gonna have nightmares for a week,” she complains.

“With everything that we do and see on a daily basis, that got to you?” Seaver asks.

“Listen, newb, you may be all Sigourney Weaver ass-kicking tough, which is awesome, but the mystical mavens of innocence like myself jump at things that go bump in the night.”

“Why are you worried? I’m sure that Morgan will protect you. As long as he’s not jumping out of his chair like a prepubescent schoolgirl,” Spencer says, making no effort to hide his laugh.

Morgan rolls his eyes. “The only reason I jumped is ‘cause you guys woke me up.”

Garcia puts her arm through his. “How could you sleep during that?”

“Easy. You drag me out after a twelve hour workday, for what? You’re telling me that girl didn’t know that the unsub was waiting for her upstairs? Come on, now.”

“Villain,” Spencer corrects.

“What?”

“In movies, unsubs are called villains.”

Morgan barely holds back a snort. “My bad.”

Spencer looks to his other side. You haven’t said anything at all; you’re just staring at the ground as you walk. In an effort to bring you into the conversation, he asks, “D’you wanna know why horror movies are so successful?”

You glance at him, but Morgan’s the one who answers. “Why’s that, genius?”

“They prey on our instinctual need to survive. In tribal days, a woman’s scream would signal danger, and the men would return from hunting to protect their pack. That’s why it’s always the women and not the men who fall victim to the bogeyman,” he explains.

“Well, that’s not the only reason,” you say quietly. “It’s no secret the film industry is sexist.”

“That, too,” he agrees, just happy you’ve said something.

Garcia smiles affectionately. “Count on you, Reid, to break a movie down to science.”

“My favorite thing about horror movies is the suspense factor,” Seaver says, playfully shifting her voice to sound intense.

“Ah, the ticking clock,” Spencer replies.

“The helpless victim walks through the dark, shadows reaching out to get her,” she continues.

He’s got a smile on his face now as he plays along. “A sudden noise draws her attention. Is someone there, or is it just in her head?”

“Still, it’s totally unrealistic,” Garcia interrupts. “No one should be walking through a dark alley by themselves at night.”

Derek clears his throat, feigning offense. “Hello?”

“Ah. No one should be walking through a dark alley without a Derek Morgan by their side,” she corrects. Morgan chuckles in approval.

“But the best part of a horror movie?” Spencer asks, not done with the conversation. “You never know when the end is gonna come.”

Everyone splits up when they reach the parking lot, heading to their own cars. Morgan is driving Garcia, and you offer to drive Spencer home. But before you start the car, you ask, “Will you stay over tonight?”

It’s not really unexpected. He knows you’ve been struggling to sleep alone since the first night he stayed on your couch. He’s done it a few more times since then, and you’ve slept on his couch every now and then as well, when you reach the point where you’re absolutely exhausted and can’t take it anymore. You’re understandably lonely, but he suspects you’re also scared of Doyle returning, if the way you double check your front door, windows and alarm before bed is anything to go by.

“Of course,” he answers quietly.

You stop by his place on the way so he can pick up some clothes and a toothbrush. When he walks into your apartment, he starts to put his things down on the couch, but you take his wrist in your hand and pull him towards the bedroom.

His heart skips a beat. “Wh—what are you doing?”

“You’ve woken up with back and knee pain every time you’ve stayed on the couch. It’s too small for you. This bed is easily big enough for both of us. We’re adults; we can share it.”

“Uh, alright. Th—thanks,” he stutters.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you say. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

The bathroom door clicks shut softly behind you, leaving Spencer alone to take in his surroundings. He’s been in your bedroom before, of course, but it feels different this time. He can tell what side of the bed you sleep on by the personal effects on one of the bedside tables; he sets down his things on the opposite one. Once the shower has started and he’s sure you won’t be coming back in, he gets changed into his pajamas.

As he pulls back the bedcovers, he tries not to think about how Emily was the one doing this just a few months ago. And he especially tries not the think about what the two of you undoubtedly got up to in this bed, and what your face must look like when you—

Stop that right now, he scolds himself. And there’s that guilt and betrayal again, making his chest feel hollow. He leaves the room to brush his teeth at the kitchen sink (he doesn’t want to bother you or rush your shower), and splashes some cold water on his face after to try and pull himself together.

He’s settled down with a book by the time you come out of the bathroom, your hair wet and the scent of your bath products clinging to your skin. “Uh, how was your shower?” he asks awkwardly, feeling out of place in your bed.

“It was fine.” You plug in your phone to charge and get into bed. You turn off your bedside lamp and lay down on your side facing him, apparently ready to sleep right away. Spencer doesn’t want to keep you up, so he marks his place in the book and turns off the lamp on his side. As soon as he’s adjusted to a comfortable position, you speak.

“Would it be okay if I slept close to you?” you ask in a whisper. Your voice wavers when you continue, “I miss being close to someone.”

Spencer couldn’t say no even if he wanted to. He nods before realizing you can’t see him in the dark. “Yeah, sure.”

You scoot towards him and curl up next to his body, your forehead touching his shoulder and legs pressed against his side. He tries not to tense up so you won’t think he’s uncomfortable with it, because it’s very much the opposite. He’s always liked your touch, and right now your skin is still warm from the shower and you smell so nice.

You fall asleep quickly, your breathing becoming slow and even. It’s the fastest you’ve fallen asleep in weeks. He’s just about drifted off himself when you shift, startling him back awake by moving closer in your sleep. One of your hands settles on his chest and your legs straighten out, one of them slipping between his.

Slowly, hesitantly, he moves the arm closest to you, putting it around your shoulders and resting his hand on your back. You don’t stir, so he closes his eyes again. And if he lets go of the guilt for just a little while and allows himself to pretend that you’ve moved in your sleep to hold onto him because you love him back? Well. You don’t need to know that.

---

It takes ten weeks, but the team finally has Doyle in custody. Morgan’s in the interrogation room with him, but is interrupted when everyone is told to gather at the roundtable. Spencer’s one of the first ones in, followed by Garcia and you. The rest of the team isn’t far behind.

“You get anywhere with Doyle?” he asks Morgan.

“Doyle doesn’t think Gerace has the guts to take him on.”

“But that’s definitely Gerace on the tape,” Garcia says.

Hotch enters the room, looking much different than the last time they saw him, sporting a beard and loose, casual clothing.

“Welcome back,” Morgan says, a bit of surprise coloring his tone.

“Thanks. Everybody have a seat,” Hotch instructs.

Morgan stays standing. “Why? What’s going on? Everything all right?”

Hotch crosses his arms and looks at the table as he begins to speak. “Several months ago, I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. But the doctors were able to stabilize her. And she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration. Her identity was strictly need-to-know. And she stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to for her security.”

“She’s alive?” you choke out.

Spencer can’t process this; it doesn’t make any sense. “But we buried her.”

“As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision,” Hotch says. “If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.”

“Any issues?” Morgan asks, voice shaking with emotion. “Yeah, I got issues.”

“I’ll say,” you agree. But before either of you can continue, you’re interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind you.

---

Ten weeks. Seventy days. One thousand, six hundred and eighty hours. None of it went by without Emily thinking of you.

Ten weeks, seventy days, one thousand, six hundred and eighty hours had passed by painfully slowly as she waited for the call.

Every time her phone had rung in Paris, she answered it with bated breath, hoping this was the one, the call that meant she could come back to her home, her team. Her family. You.

Unfortunately, it also comes with the news that Declan is in danger.

The glass doors to the BAU don’t feel the same as she walks through them. None of the building does. She had expected to it to feel the way it always had. Warm, full of life, where she belonged. But tonight, it just feels cold.

Through the blinds, she can see Hotch talking to the team, presumably revealing the truth about her death. As she gets closer, she can hear voices.

“... anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.” Hotch.

“Any issues? Yeah, I got issues.” Morgan.

“I’ll say.” You.

She stops in the doorway, and everyone turns to face her.

“Oh, my god,” Garcia whispers.

Everyone’s looking at her, but Emily only has eyes for you.

You’re staring back at her, mouth hanging open slightly, tears slipping out of your eyes and down your cheeks. There’s silence until you suddenly push back your chair and stand. Emily drops her bag to the floor just before you slam into her, nearly knocking her over. You cling to her, and she clings back.

Then she feels it. She feels the warmth and life, the sense of belonging.

Here, with you in her arms, she’s finally home.

---------------

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#spencer reid x reader #emily prentiss x reader #spencer reid fanfic #emily prentiss fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds self insert #angst #spencer reid #emily prentiss #my fic #giving sergio the appreciation and affection he deserves

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starshua · 6 years

Text

fixation

k.sy x l.jh

word count; 2.4k

synopsis; Soonyoung spends a lot of time staring at Jihoon. Jihoon spends even more time pretending like he isn't doing the same thing.

✎ i started writing this on a whim without any clue as to its contents, characters, or conclusion. i hope you enjoy the mess that i came up with. big thanks to emmy @shuvee and kura @caratvocals for going over this before posting. you can also find this on ao3.

Soonyoung often wonders if meeting Jihoon was more destiny than chance.

Jihoon is everything Soonyoung has ever dreamed of. He may be less than five and a half feet of thinly veiled irritation, but he is more incredible than anyone can possibly understand. He’s kind, though he would never admit it, and cares so strongly it almost stuns Soonyoung. He’s passionate, overwhelmingly so, and pushes himself to do better than his best. He has so little regard for himself it would be almost damning if not for Soonyoung's watchful eye.

If you ask him, Soonyoung will deny the amount of time he spends staring at Jihoon. No, he claims, he hasn't noticed the disappearance of Jihoon's formerly bleached hair, nor has he ever paid any attention to the way Jihoon's laugh has grown less and less restrained as the years have progressed. He’ll feign ignorance even if one mentions the time Soonyoung sprinted down a flight of stairs just to catch the jacket that was about to fall from Jihoon’s grasp, or the time Soonyoung drove to Jihoon’s house at two in the morning to make sure the boy was actually asleep instead of pulling his fourth all-nighter in a row (and he was, which made Soonyoung just about lose what little sanity he still had left). No, he always says, I don’t pay particular attention to him. I do this for all of my friends.

To an extent, that’s true. Soonyoung is incredibly devoted to all the people he holds dear. Seokmin can’t even count on one hand the times that Soonyoung has caught Seokmin to hand him his forgotten backpack after class; Chan couldn’t even imagine a dance session without Soonyoung’s helpful advice; Wonwoo isn’t sure he would even have so many friends if it weren’t for Soonyoung’s friendly openness to the awkward, bookish new kid that couldn’t figure out how to say hello to anyone.

For most people, Soonyoung is a tremendously positive force. He recognizes this to an extent, but whenever anyone mentions that maybe, just maybe, he’s good for Jihoon, too, he rejects the idea before it’s even fully formed.

Maybe it's because Soonyoung doesn't know that Jihoon is fixated on him, too.

All of Jihoon's friends know—it'd be hard not to, really. Jihoon spends just about every day gazing off toward Soonyoung, trying (and failing) to be subtle about the direction his thoughts are drifting.

The boy they know now is hardly anything like the one that they met all those months ago. That change in him, they think, is because of Soonyoung.

In the beginning, Jihoon was decidedly antisocial. At first, they thought that he was just sort of an asshole, but after about a week of Soonyoung’s observation, he was labeled as “painfully awkward,” and the group made an effort to be more welcoming. Still, his introversion persisted, and the group had nearly given up on the boy. Soonyoung, though, had already decided that there was something in him worth pursuing.

His methods were not imitable. The others were gentler with Jihoon, but Soonyoung had apparently decided that going easy on the boy was not going to do much good. So, in typical Soonyoung fashion, he walked right up to Jihoon, stared the shorter male in the eye, and announced in a booming voice, “You’re an asshole.”

Jihoon had stared at Soonyoung incredulously before sputtering out, “I-I am not??”

Soonyoung had grinned at Jihoon and shrugged. “Prove it,” he had told the smaller, who appeared ready to punch Soonyoung right in the nose.

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” he had asked, irritation written all over his face.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Soonyoung had drawled. “Maybe be my friend?”

Jihoon had blinked once. Twice. Thrice. Soonyoung had held his hand out to Jihoon, who still couldn’t quite believe that this was really happening.

“…Why would I do that?” Jihoon had asked. It was a valid question, really, considering Soonyoung’s rudeness. Still, Soonyoung had smiled unabashedly and gestured to his friends, who were watching the scene with varying degrees of embarrassment written across their faces.

“Because I think all of my friends would also like to befriend a certain grumpy new classmate, but they lack the shamelessness that I possess, so progress has been slow and I’ve grown sick of waiting,” he had begun.

Jihoon had looked around at the sheepish faces of Soonyoung’s friends and remembered all of their attempts to talk to him over the past week or so.

“Oh,” he had said stupidly, because what else was he supposed to say? He had thought that they were just pitying the new kid.

Jihoon, as Soonyoung would discover, lacked a considerable amount of self-worth. He couldn’t fathom why, but he also couldn’t understand a word of what came out of their math teacher’s mouth, so the incomprehensibility didn’t surprise him. Still, he swore to do everything in his power to get Jihoon to see himself how Soonyoung did.

Soonyoung, Jihoon would discover, was relentlessly persistent. Their friendship, despite its odd foundations, quickly blossomed. They were an unlikely pair, really—Soonyoung was so outgoing, so reckless, and seemed altogether too chaotic. Jihoon was quite the opposite—he was quiet, thoughtful, and managed to put all of his feelings into the music he produced rather than in his actions. Now the music—that was something they were equally passionate about. They were creators, albeit with different mediums, and they were able to understand each other in ways they likely never would have without music.

Jihoon likes to watch Soonyoung dance. It’s mesmerizing, really; the way that boy moves should be considered an art form all on its own. Soonyoung is an art form, Jihoon thinks, though he’d deny it if anyone asked. No one will ask though. Despite his warming up, he’s still a force to be reckoned with, and he will undoubtedly kick anyone in the shin if they cross him. No one needs to ask anyway. The way Jihoon feels—it’s so evident it’s almost painful. The way Jihoon stares at Soonyoung when he’s really lost in the music—if love had a definite look, well, that’d be it.

Love is not something either boy is familiar with. This, too, is painfully obvious to just about anyone and everyone. Soonyoung is much better at expressing his affection through his actions, but when it comes to words…well, Chan would (and has) called the sight pathetic. Jihoon, as good as he is with words, can’t ever seem to get them past his throat. It’s gotten bad enough that, upon seeing the two together, Jeonghan will occasionally just sort of…scream. It’s incoherent and, honestly, a little concerning, but Seungcheol always tells them to pay it no mind as he gingerly pats his anguished friend’s back.

For all of Soonyoung’s rowdiness and energy, he thinks he could sit and watch Jihoon make music forever. At first, their friends tried to stop him from tagging along with Jihoon when he went to record something. How could Soonyoung, who can’t even sit still for more than five minutes, possibly be anything but a distraction?

They were surprised when Jihoon stopped them. They didn’t know, of course, that it wasn’t the first time Soonyoung had accompanied Jihoon to his studio. The first time had been an accident, really. Soonyoung had been tasked with bringing something or other to Jihoon after the latter had forgotten it at school and Mrs. Lee, who had been preoccupied, requested that Soonyoung bring it down to Jihoon himself.

What he saw there was something he’ll likely never forget. The sight was ordinary, sure, but with Soonyoung’s rose-colored vision, it was anything but. Jihoon, scribbling strings of artful phrases and mouthing countless more, bent over and so focused that, for a moment, Soonyoung could do nothing but stare. The younger had been so absorbed by his work that he hadn’t even been aware of Soonyoung’s presence, and Soonyoung, not willing to snap Jihoon out of his trance, closed the door and waited. He must have sat there for thirty minutes before Jihoon even bothered to look up. (It was worth it, he thinks, because Jihoon screeched in surprise and it was adorable hilarious.)

Since that time, Soonyoung has often found himself in Jihoon’s studio. He watches his friend silently pour out his heart and soul onto crinkled pages, unable to focus on anything but the way the younger looks as he worries his lip between his teeth and hums a tune all his own. It’s there that he starts to wonder if this is what love feels like. He hopes not because, gosh, is his heart supposed to sting? Is he supposed to feel so lonely as he sits just a few paces away? No, he decides, this isn’t what love should feel like.

Love, he imagines, feels like Jihoon’s lips on his, hands intertwined, and hearts beating as one.

He wonders if Jihoon feels the same. All of their friends think so (yes, all of them, even Chan, who deems the concept of Soonyoung being in love to be gross), but that’s not enough to ease Soonyoung’s nervous heart. He tries to figure it out on his own, but Jihoon is unreadable. Soonyoung can feel the discomfort his outrageous displays of affection bring, so he stops. He can’t tell if Jihoon is thankful or not.

Jihoon doesn’t know what to do, what to think, what to feel. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to fall in love with someone, though he supposes that doesn’t really matter since he’s already fallen. But can he express it? He doesn’t think so. Neither does Joshua, who has tried his utmost to help Jihoon express affection without a grimace. Seokmin is more optimistic, but he also still believes that fairies are real, so Jihoon takes his friend’s hopefulness with a grain of salt.

Soonyoung’s feelings are another thing that Jihoon just can’t quite believe in. Wonwoo has told Jihoon about a million times that Soonyoung is painfully infatuated with him, but Jihoon can’t trust it. Why would anyone like him, much less love him? He can’t even begin to fathom why, but when he glances up and catches Soonyoung staring for the sixth time that afternoon, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, the fondness in his gaze is real.

It’s going to take a lot for Soonyoung to confess to Jihoon. Minghao, for one, is exasperated and would love nothing more than for the two to get together so he can stop being greeted with lovesick eyes every time he asks his friend for a pen. He devises a plan (though Junhui begs him not to) and suddenly Soonyoung and Jihoon are locked in a closet during a stupid party and, thankfully, it’s too dark for either boy to see the other’s cheeks flushing increasingly red.

Soonyoung is the first to speak. He’s nervous and stuttering and, god, have his hands ever been this clammy before? He rambles for a long time about how lame the party is and how dumb their friends are for not noticing that they’re stuck in this cramped closet. The chatter is starting to annoy Jihoon, who can’t for the life of him focus on anything else besides how soft Soonyoung’s lips look and how he wants nothing more than to just reach over and—

No, he tells himself, he is not going to kiss Soonyoung—not until that stupid idiot shuts the hell up so Jihoon can actually focus on what he wants to say when he confesses. But Soonyoung doesn’t shut up—of course he doesn’t, Jihoon grumbles—and with each meaningless, stuttered addition Jihoon loses a bit more of his cool.

“You know what?” he interrupts. Soonyoung, mouth still open mid-complaint, shakes his head. “Fuck this.”

Against his better judgment, Jihoon kisses Soonyoung. He throws all caution out the window and grabs the older by the collar of his stupid shirt and presses their mouths together and Soonyoung groans in surprise (oh christ, Jihoon thinks, that’s hot, why is he so attractive) before responding eagerly.

The kiss is a mess, Jihoon thinks, and a closet in Minghao’s house during a trashy high school party is just about the farthest place from where he wanted his first kiss with Soonyoung to be, but it’s already happening and the sounds Soonyoung is making are enough to make everything feel better than okay.

Soonyoung pours his heart out—how he feels about Jihoon, what he wants them to become, how beautiful and irreplaceable Jihoon is to him, how fast his heart is beating right now (and it’s true; Jihoon can feel it)—as he holds Jihoon’s face between his hands in that dingy closet, the taste of Jihoon’s lips still on his tongue.

When their friends finally open that closet door, they’re almost reluctant to leave. They do, though, because Seungkwan convinced everybody to chip in for a pizza, and because Minghao has been waggling his eyebrows at Soonyoung for an uncomfortable amount of time.

They leave early (though not before each boy is whisked away by their respective closest friends and begged for details), hand in hand, and spend the night on Soonyoung’s roof, hearts bared open and chests heaving. They talk about everything and nothing under the cover of night; it feels like eternity and infinity and destiny all wrapped into one. It’s overwhelming, Soonyoung thinks, but it feels fantastic.

Eventually, the night turns chilly and neither boy thinks that freezing to death under the beautiful sky is worth more than the other’s embrace, they climb into Soonyoung’s room and try to calm their rapidly beating hearts.

They explore each other that night. Jihoon discovers Soonyoung tastes like hope and green tea; Soonyoung discovers that Jihoon tends to whine and grasp weakly at Soonyoung’s wrists when the younger is about to reach his limit. Jihoon learns that Soonyoung likes to bury his face in Jihoon’s neck because he relishes in the sound of the smaller’s moans in his ear; Soonyoung figures out that his (and Jihoon’s) favorite place to leave hickeys is Jihoon’s inner thigh because, god, is he sensitive there.

They fall asleep with limbs tangled and skin flush against skin. The feeling is new, but neither is willing to shy away from it—not when it feels so good.

Waking up with Jihoon in his arms is something Soonyoung didn’t know he’d love so much. Nothing has ever felt more right to Soonyoung than the way Jihoon fits in his embrace. He tries not to get sappy all by himself, but with the boy he loves more than anything curled up against him, how could he be anything other than emotional?

Soonyoung doesn’t have to wonder anymore. As Jihoon’s gentle breaths fan against his bare chest, Soonyoung decides that meeting Jihoon was much more than just chance. Their initial encounter, the undeniable mutual fixation, their falling in love—that, Soonyoung believes, was destiny.

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