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theimmaterialplace · 3 years

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holding on | emily prentiss x reader & spencer reid x reader | ch. 3: just the way you are

Chapter Summary: Spencer’s day after.

Contains: mentions of death.

Word Count: 2k

Comments: haha, uni is kicking my ass! sorry for the three weeks it took to post this, this chapter would just not write itself :( also i literally have future chapters finished but i need to get the in between chapters done before that so sorry! a lot may not have happened but spencer is seeing something here. he hasn't been able to come to a conclusion quite yet but he will soon... but will it be before the reader spills? also yeah, this story is filled with headcanons because i can't help myself! :D

i love jj but she gives off overbearing vibes and rn spencer needs some space from everyone that reminds him of emily/will only want to talk about his feelings. little does he know for that first part...

the next chapter is the funeral and after party!!! hope you enjoyed the chapter! lemme know what you think!

masterlist | read on ao3

I would not leave you in times of trouble

We never could have come this far, mmm

I took the good times, I'll take the bad times

I'll take you just the way you are

- Billy Joel, Just The Way You Are

When Spencer enters the room, it reveals relieved coworkers. JJ is the first one to approach him, eyes red and worry evident on her face. She pulls him into a hug as soon as she reaches him.

“Spencer, we were so worried when you left last night,” her whisper might as well be a scolding in his ears but he’ll take it because he never meant to worry his team, not like this. She pulls away and cradles his face gently in her hands.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t realize how bad it would seem to everyone. I… I didn’t want to make anyone worry after everything else.” He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the emotions that will only bring him to his knees.

Derek speaks up then and it’s like he knows. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, kid.” Looking at him, Spencer can tell he hasn’t slept and has cried the whole night through. If he had stayed with them, he likely would look the same. As it is, he barely got a few hours asleep, as haunted as his dreams were.

“Me too.”

His team is in shambles. It’s not just that Emily has gone away and left them, left him, like Gideon or Elle. No, she’s never coming back because she is dead, just like every other cadaver they’ve encountered in their line of work. Statistically speaking, death in their line of work was highly likely and it’s a miracle he’s managed to avoid it for so long.

Perhaps it’s because Emily has always been impressive but he’d never thought she’d be the one to die. If anything, he’d bet himself before anyone else on his team.

His team is talking to one another and Spencer can’t hear anything they’re saying. All their words are blurring into unintelligible words and the only thing he can see are their faces.

Rossi is a slab of stone being chipped at little by little into something unrecognizable. Hotch’s eyes are red and his face is pale and an ever looming cloud of guilt surrounds him. He wonders why; it wasn’t his fault she died. Morgan is much the same but there is an anger in him that he hasn’t seen before.

Morgan’s anger simmers underneath his skin; he’s frustrated that he wasn’t fast enough to save her or to catch Doyle. His sadness has become eclipsed for now but he knows it’s there, buried under the guilt and rage he feels. Perhaps it’s because Garcia takes on the brunt of it, the grief is written all over her face. She’s always worn her emotions on her sleeve and this hasn’t changed. He chooses not to look at her because if he does, he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep it together. Someone so vulnerable makes him want to do the same and he feels vulnerable enough as it is.

JJ is like Hotch, guilt and grief clouds her. She keeps sweeping her hair back and chewing on her cheek, a habit when she doesn’t want to focus on what’s plaguing her.

Their tells are obvious to him and he’s memorized all of them, every little action they’ve done is cataloged in his brain and this is no different. He had already known what they’d be like and what they’d do when he saw them.

He hears Ambassador Prentiss’ voice stutter when she asks why Hotch has called and he wonders if she already knows and wants to hear it before she comes down so she can grieve on her own time. He stays quiet and that’s as good as confirmation for her because her breath hitches and she says she’ll be down in an hour.

Emily never spoke much of her mother but she takes- took after her greatly. They share the same face and hair color. It’s like her mother had asexually produced because he sees no difference between the two; there was no bit of her father in Emily. The only difference between the two are the crow’s feet and smile lines on her mother’s face and he realizes that Emily will grow to her mother’s age because she died too young.

Hotch delivers the news, as expected of his status of Unit Chief, and Ambassador Prentiss is stoic and nods at the news of her only child’s death. She asks for details and Hotch is only able to give her the bare minimum and she only nods and thanks him and the rest of them. She goes up to Morgan and takes his hands into her own and whispers something only for his ears. He stiffens but nods and she goes away with the request that they inform her of their decision of when the funeral is and that she’ll pay for everything.

It’s a bit cold the way she all but announces how she doesn’t want to be included in the planning of her daughter’s funeral but Emily always had described her as cold and distant, loving only in private and when convenient.

The planning process takes up the rest of the afternoon and it passes him by quickly and he knows it’s mostly because he disassociated through most of it. JJ and Hotch shot him with worried glances all day and he just wants to go back to your apartment. He doesn’t want to go to his apartment just yet, not when he'll have to come face to face with the reminders of her in his own apartment.

The funeral is booked three days away and he shoots you a text and you respond a minute later with a simple thumbs up.

He tells the team he’ll be heading out and unsurprisingly JJ speaks up over this.

“Are you sure you want to go back home? I can give you a ride or you can come over. I don’t want you to be alone, Spencer.” Her voice is meant to be soothing in that maternal way she’s learned but it grates at his nerves. He doesn’t need to be babied. He knows she’s just worried about him but Emily’s death has left him exposed in a way that throws him off his rhythm.

“Thanks JJ, but a friend is picking me up. I’ll be staying with her tonight.” The team exchanges looks in a way that is meant to be subtle but Spencer has always had an eye for details so he doesn’t miss it but he doesn’t call it out.

“Oh well, okay, if you’re sure…?” He nods and she acquiesces but says she’ll walk him out. She waits with him outside while he waits for you. You pull up in your car with his favorite Billy Joel song on and he can’t help the tiny grin that spreads on his face.

You look tired but happy to see him and he knows that JJ probably wants to examine you but he really just wants to get out of here and cuts her off before she can say anything and says goodbye to her while getting into your car.

He can smell the aroma of Italian in the backseat and he knows you went to the little restaurant he frequents after a bad case because the food reminds him of when his mother used to order takeout because much like himself, she was a disaster in the kitchen. It made him happy that you remembered.

Billy Joel’s velvet voice is enough to fill the silence. He watches you as you drive, noticing how you tap your fingertips to the beat of the song on the steering wheel and how it’s obvious now that you’re distracting yourself from something. He hadn’t been able to see it before because he was too lost in his own grief but there was something off about your demeanor.

When you finally arrive back at your apartment, he finds it to be cleaner than it was in the morning and set for maximum comfort. Your couch is covered with soft, thick blankets with animals on them, cobijas, you had called them. He’s fairly certain that just means blanket in Spanish. The table that is usually in the middle of your living room is pushed closer to the couch and it’s where you set the food at so he assumes it’s where the two of you will be eating.

Your record player is playing jazz music. A compromise, you had told him one evening, appealing to his classical music needs with it’s long instrumentals and your love of their crooning and smooth voices.

“Hey, Spence, what do we feel like drinking tonight?” Your voice jolts him out of his observations and he looks towards you where you’re peering at the available drinks in your fridge, two ice-filled glasses set on the counter beside you.

“Arnold Palmer?” You hum and grab two pitchers from your fridge and set it out on the counter and he watches as you mix the two together so it’s not separated. You set the two pitchers back into the fridge and bring the two drinks to where he’s sitting, handing him one and placing the other on your coaster.

He watches as you take out the food from the bags and put his own container in front of him along with two pieces of garlic bread and his own fork and napkin.

Once you’re all done, you take a drink from your glass and open your container and take a bite of your usual order. He follows quickly after, knowing from experience how rapidly the food can get cold.

Time passes by and eventually the food gets finished and you’re both left alone with Billie Holiday’s voice filling the silence.

You’re nibbling on the last piece of garlic bread, your eyes focused idly on your bookshelf but more specifically on a collection of Emily Dickinson poems. He files away the fact that he’s seen this specific book somewhere and decides to ask at another time.

Once you finish, you lean your head against his shoulder and wrap your arms around his midsection. He shifts so that you’re in a more comfortable position that lets you rest against him while he’s able to hold onto you as well.

Spencer can’t help but think that you always know what he needs without him needing to say anything. It’s something he hasn’t had since Elle or more accurately, Emily. It’s not even been a month and already, he craves her affection. He misses the impromptu Russian talks and the book sharing and her calming presence. You remind him so much of her. It’s like you've taken on some of her mannerisms. Perhaps it’s projection but he’s noticed for months now how you’ve changed bit by bit into someone similar to Emily.

You must have seen his tell because you look up at him, hand finding his own and squeezing it gently before bringing it to your wrist.

It’s the little things you do that bring him back to reality, no matter how painful it is. He’s not sure where he’d be right now. Most likely with JJ and her family, all the while feeling like a burden. With you, he feels vulnerable in a way he doesn’t mind. He’s known you for years and not once, have you ever made him feel small. It’s always been easy with you and he hopes the same can be said for you about him.

“Stop thinking right now, Spencer. We can do that later, like tomorrow. You need a break right now. I know it’s hard for your big brain to shut down so just focus on my pulse and match your breathing to mine.” Your voice is slightly muffled by his sweater and he can only nod and follow your instructions.

“Thank you.” He says after a while.

“ Always, Spencer.” And like always, you understand.

The words are never said but he’s sure you know it and he knows you feel the same.

#spencer reid x reader #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentiss x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #emily prentiss fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #my writing #holding on

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 3 years

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What Fresh Hell?: Part Two

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: ~1.7k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill, fluff and angst, talk of child pornography, talk of sexual abuse with children

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there is any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated.

Feedback is gold, and it’s the only currency I take

Billie’s father is seen parking in the driveway, and even from where you’re at, you can feel how angry he is. He turns this whole blue energy of the house into a light purple. Both red and blue mix to create a whole mess of emotions. He’s not right in the head either, but that’s clearly not going to stop him from marching in here. As soon as he does, him and Billie’s mother just go at it.

“I have been calling you all night!” she yells.

“I'm sorry, Marilyn. I turned my phone off.”

“How could you turn your phone off? What if Billie got sick or—we needed you!”

“I said I was sorry!” he groans.

She slaps his arm and gives an angry scoff. She turns away and leaves the room. Thankfully, William stays put to give her time to cool off.

“What's being done to find my daughter?”

“We're assessing that right now,” you answer.

“She's been missing since yesterday! What the hell have you people been doing since then?!”

“Where have you been, Mr. Copeland?” Gideon wonders.

“Me?”

“Where were you all day and all night?”

“I have a cabin in Brandywine Valley,” he says, but that doesn’t tell you where he’s been this entire time.

“The police tried you there.”

“Well, maybe I was out at the time.”

“Billie tried your cell phone yesterday afternoon. You didn’t answer then,” you comment.

“Well, I shut it off sometimes. I like the solitude.”

“You didn't fight your wife for custody of your daughter, but you like being in her life,” Gideon rattles off the facts.

He wants to make him nervous. It’s working.

“I want her to grow up in her home with her friends around. This is the only place she's ever lived.”

“So, you love her very much.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you waste any precious time we have left?” Gideon sighs and cuts to the chase for this is taking too long. “You weren't at your cabin. You weren't at work or with friends. Police didn't call us until a little while ago because they thought your daughter might have been with you—that you might have taken your daughter. Until you can give us a satisfactory accounting of your whereabouts from the time your daughter went missing until—would you help me understand why a devoted father who talks to his daughter every night suddenly turns his phone off and disappears for almost twenty-four hours?”

“I was… busy,” he hesitates.

“It was 1:30 in the afternoon. You called your wife at 11:30 that morning and found out Billie was missing.”

“So?”

“Well, Brandywine Valley is fifteen minutes away. Where were you, Mr. Copeland?”

William knows he’s been caught, so he chooses the right option to tell the truth. He sighs heavily and sits down with a long and tired look on his face.

“I—I was at Sloane Kettering hospital in New York City. Dr. Baylan Mahal is the head of Oncology. You can call him if you want.”

“I will. Did you have a relapse?”

“It's in my lymph nodes now. There's nothing more they can—” he cuts himself off. “Please find my daughter. Find my daughter.”

“Call Sloane Kettering,” Gideon instructs of you.

“Yes sir,” you say, already taking out your phone.

The bad news is that Sloane Kettering vouched for William, confirming he was with them the entire day with proof through cameras as well as the sign in sheet. If he didn’t take his own daughter, then that means it really is a stranger abduction—most likely. The good news is that Derek, Elle, and Hotch did have something when they returned from the park. You didn’t want to upset the parents even more, so you had a small meeting on their lawn as soon as they arrived.

“What do we know?” Gideon asks as he jogs up to the rest of the group.

“We talked to a kid who had contact with the unsub. He came back to the same street more than once,” Hotch informs.

“Well that tells us he's at ease in the neighborhood—comfortable talking to kids in plain view,” you fit the pieces together.

“He lured Billie with a story about a lost dog.”

“She recently lost one of her own.”

“That indicates previous knowledge of the victim,” Spencer says.

“But it doesn't necessarily mean that she knew him personally. This only means he's aware,” you counteract.

“Actually, it's not uncommon for predators like these to know the kids that live around his area. He’s from this neighborhood.”

“Then we go door to door and ask for voluntary searchers,” Detective Russet speaks up.

“The neighborhood is already crawling with uniforms. They're everywhere. Having more searchers is only going to make the man who did this go into hiding,” you point out.

“So far, you followed the child abduction response plan to the letter,” Gideon trails off.

“For the past few hours, yes,” the detective nods.

“So now we need to move past the guidelines and change tactics. If we don't, Billie isn't gonna make it past the next twenty-four hours. I want you to corral these clowns,” Gideon points to all of the news cameras. “We're gonna need 'em—all of 'em.”

Before you can deal with the press, it’s about time to give the profile. Usually, you’d have more time to put one together, but Billie is very high risk. If you don’t put one out now, she could die sooner rather than later. Every single cop that’s around this area is in one room, listening to your team give the profile. Each and every one of them are listening intently, taking down notes as you go along.

“Billie Copeland has been missing for twenty-two hours. It is vital that we locate her in the first twenty-four,” Gideon starts off.

“The unknown subject, or unsub, in this case is most likely a resident of one of the subdivisions around the park. We have cancelled the amber alert. We need to coordinate with all your officers to pull everyone off the street immediately,” Hotch explains.

“That’s fucking crazy,” a random officer scoffs.

“Just hear us out—”

“But it goes against court procedure. You guys wrote the damn thing.”

“Actually, Carp is just a guideline for immediate response to child abduction. Believe it or not, we're already late in the game, and we do know enough about this unsub to know that if he feels like we're closing in on him at all, he will kill Billie to avoid detection. If anything, we need to lessen the pressure on him,” Spencer spits out.

“This man fits in because nobody knows what he is. Can we really know our neighbors? He walks his dog and does yard work. Solitary activities appeal to him. However, if you watch closely, you'll see he pays a little too much attention to the neighborhood kids. Largely goes unnoticed because he isn't perceived as a threat. He’s a white male in his late twenties to thirties. He has a menial or temporary job and is socially marginalized and frustrated. He relates better to kids than he does to adults. It’s not his first offense to children, but it is his first abduction,” you explain.

“How do you know that?” Detective Russet asks.

“First-timers hunt closer to home. Experienced predators don't.”

“He's had a recent stressor—a job loss or other setback. Unable to maintain a normal relationship, he'll have extensive pornographic materials in his home and on his computer. And while they won't all involve children, some of them definitely will,” Hotch takes over.

“Since he used the missing dog ruse, and we believe him to be a regular fixture of the neighborhood, it's quite possible that he truly does own—or did at one point—own a dog named Candy. We recommend cross-checking veterinary records with residents in the neighborhood,” Spencer says.

“He will not inject himself into this investigation.”

“Don't these guys like to know what the cops know?” the detective says.

“No, not this type of unsub. He's hiding. He doesn't know what anyone saw. He doesn't know if there's any information about him out there. He's unlikely to walk in and ask us, ‘can I help you?’. But I can guarantee you he will be watching the news. So, how we handle them is very important,” Gideon stresses.

“Check your canvass records. One of you may have had contact with him in the early stages.”

“What about registered sex offenders?”

“We've got somebody working on that right now.”

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, everyone clear on that? Good luck. Thank you,” Gideon closes this meeting out.

Derek immediately leaves off to the side to call Penelope to have her work her magic touch on the already growing pile of suspects. You’re scheduled to go back to Mrs. Copeland’s house with Elle just to make sure she and her ex-husband are doing alright. Before you do that, however, you walk over to Spencer who is kind of all by his lonesome.

“Hey, how are you holding up?” you ask.

“Could be better. What about you?”

“Same. This is just going to be another nightmare to add to my list,” you sigh sadly.

“Do you dream of children often?”

“It’s a lot less than what you’d think it’d be. I swear this job never gets easier. When I agreed to take this job when Gideon offered it, I was ecstatic. I thought I’d really make a difference.”

“But you are—”

“No, I’m not,” you cut him off. “All I get are some victims that are saved, and a shit ton of nightmares to follow it. The payoff is actually worse if I think about it. Just as I’m about to collapse from extreme depression, I think of this team. I think of you and Penelope and JJ and Derek. I think of kids like Billie. I think of everything good that comes out of these cases. While there isn’t much, I try to hold onto the good as tightly as I can in hopes some of it will rub off on me, you know?”

“Try going through life with an eidetic memory.”

“Bless your heart, Dr. Spencer Reid. Seriously. You’re doing a great job if it means anything.”

“It does. Thank you,” he smiles shyly but brightly.

“Y/N, come on!” Elle calls for you.

“Duty calls. Save that smile for me when I get back, yeah?” you flirt.

You’re already gone before Spencer can come up with anything clever to say. All he’s getting are flushed cheeks and a fuzzy brain. You actually make him forget what he’s about to do… and that’s saying something.

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#what fresh hell #series rewrite #criminal minds series rewrite #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #cm #cm fanfiction #season 1 episode 12 #s1e12

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psychedellic-phase · 4 years

Text

Fifteen (pt 13)

(gif by me! I use the iphone app momento)

tw: language, angst, mentions of drug use (relapse), mentions of miscarriage

word count: 7.3k (im sorry)

masterlist

series masterlist

Spencer got up from the cold tile floor, fuzzy unicorn in hand, and faced the window above the kitchen sink. He stared out of it, admiring the snow that was still falling lightly, wondering if it was raining in Seattle. His memory flashed to the last time he stood in the rain with you, but he tried to shake the images away. Instead he watched the snowflakes hit his windowpanes and melt. He hoped that maybe you were somewhere staring out of a window, admiring the dreary weather, and thinking of him too.

He found his place against the dishwasher again, sliding down as his mismatched socks gave way so he could stretch his long legs out fully. He pulled the nearly empty box onto his lap and appreciated the light weight of it, as he continued with his twelfth letter and thirteenth item. Thirteen, a number whose history of unluckiness stems all the way back to the thirteen attendees of the Last Supper, and tracks through the number of steps leading up to the gallows, all the way to the number of letters in the names of some of the most infamous criminals.

Thirteen was a haunted number, which rightly accompanied a haunting letter.

“This one’s long. It’s a month of tarnished memories packed into a few pieces of paper. So far I’ve gone through half of a college-ruled one subject notebook and I’ve had to change pens twice. It’s nearing 2:30, and the wine is finally hitting my empty stomach. Sorry in advance for the way my handwriting will be. I’ll try to make this make as much sense as I can.

If you look at your thirteenth item it is the notepad I stole from that resort in Florida. There isn’t much around to signify this letter. You don’t keep mementos from one of the saddest days of your life, but for some reason I took this useless paper and shoved it in my purse on my way out. Good thing I did, or you’d have no item to attach to these memories. Though I suppose that might be better.

The resort was where we were going to be at for our ‘babymoon,’ whatever that is. What a dumb idea, I’m still mad at myself for letting Garcia talk us into one. She just made it sound so appealing.

Once everyone knew I was pregnant, Hotch pretty much sat me in Quantico with Penelope. There were a few local cases where I was lucky enough to go visit the ME’s office, but usually I kicked my feet up in her lair while you were out in the field.

“A what?” I said one day as she ran DNA through CODIS. The two of us were drinking herbal tea, and I was barely 16 weeks. I just looked like I had a big lunch in my stomach, not a baby the size of an avocado.

“A babymoon. It’s like a honeymoon, but you go when you’re pregnant. It’s one last trip for mommy and daddy to go on and spend quality time together. How many trips have you and Dad-Wonder even been on?”

I shrugged. We didn’t travel much for pleasure. We traveled for work, so on our rare days off we liked to be at home.

“I mean we’ve gone to Vegas and Connecticut a few times.”

She rolled her eyes, “Visiting family, my dear, is not a vacation! I was thinking you two would go to the beach. You guys relax and wade in the ocean and Spencer can build sandcastles that defy every law of physics!”

I laughed at that. You and the beach? It just didn’t feel natural to me. Probably because you aren’t capable of actually relaxing.

“That does sound fun,” I said and I spoke to my barely there stomach, “And it would make daddy take a few days off.”

Penelope squealed and started clicking at her computer, “I’ll find a resort online right now! Okay so how about Marco Island? It’s gorgeous and in Florida, so it’ll be like eighty and sunny, even in the beginning of December.”

“I’ll have to talk to Spence about it. I mean I know it would be fun and all but we really should be saving money for a crib, and car seat, and bassinet, and high chair, and a rocking chair, and a baby swing, and a—“

Garcia stopped me from spiraling out of control, “That is why you throw a huge baby shower! People buy those things for you.”

I rubbed my tummy again, “Oh no, Daddy is very particular about what things are bought.”

“That’s why you have a registry, Momma Bear. Now, no more excuses.”

Before I could even call you, she had put in both of our requests for days off and we had a week long reservation at this fancy resort that you see listed at the top of this notepad, the “Crystal Cove”.

I was only slightly mortified that she did all this without me asking you. Mostly, I was happy. I was afraid you wouldn’t say yes, but if PG already booked it, you kind of had to agree. And to my surprise, you did.

When you got back from that case we were at home, you eating something I had poorly made from a random cookbook on a shelf. I had decided to start cooking more, so I could make homemade meals. I wanted to be that mom who cuts sandwiches into flower shapes and always has fresh baked bread and cookies laying around. I wanted us to be those parents; the ones who are so sickeningly in love that their kids roll their eyes every time they kiss. We were those parents, kind of, if we could even be considered ‘parents.’ At that point, I don’t think we were. But we were definitely in tooth-rotting, sickeningly sweet love.

“So, I have a surprise for you,” I said, coming up behind you and rustling your hair.

“Hm?” You said, stuffing your face like you hadn’t eaten in days. You probably hadn’t. You’re the king of forgetting to eat. Maybe that’s how you stay so skinny.

“I booked a trip, well I guess technically Garcia did.”

“A trip?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, a trip, to the beach. Penelope called it a ‘babymoon.’”

You laughed, “A babymoon? I’m not familiar."

I smiled and sat across from you, “It’s like a honeymoon, except it's just me and you relaxing and spending quality time together before this lil dude makes his appearance.”

You smiled, “I’m telling you, it’s a girl.”

I rolled my eyes, “It’s definitely a boy, but stop ignoring my offer.”

“Well, it’s not really an offer so much as it is you telling me that we’re doing this.”

“Okay, yes Garcia helped me book it already, and yes she put in our requests for days off, but you can say no.”

You did your little nose twitch scrunch thing, “I’d never say no to quality time with you, Love.”

You leaned over and kissed me, and I squealed, “I’m so excited! I have to buy maternity bathing suits now! Oh and a sunhat!””

Spencer smiled fondly, recounting that day. He was thrilled to go, minus the part where he’d have to wear shorts, and flip flops. Something about the piece that goes between your toes makes him squeamish. He was looking for the right opportunity to use something special he had bought for you, and you had just given him it. A week on a beautiful beach with the love of his life? That would be the perfect time to ask you what he had been waiting to ask you since JJ’s wedding. He was going to take Hotch’s advice; stop waiting, start doing, and get down on one knee with a blue velvet box.

He never got the chance to. The trip was supposed to be in the beginning of December, around your week twenty-four. You never got that far.

He got up from the ground, immediately digging around in a drawer full of pencils and compasses and rulers, finding the blue box in a corner. It was covered in pencil shavings and dust. He hadn’t looked at it in months. He held it delicately in his hands before opening it.

It was plain, but he remembered you said that was what you wanted.

“Oval, of course and silver,” You had explained to Penelope and JJ at a night out years ago. Derek and Spencer sat on the opposite side of the table, but his ears perked up at the mention of rings.

“I like just the band,” JJ said, admiring her own ring, “And I have Henry’s birthstone, the citrine, so I didn’t need another one.”

“What kind of stone Y/N? I’d love a pink diamond! Or a ruby! Imagine!” Penelope gushed.

You shook your head, “I’d take cubic zirconia, if it was coming from the right guy.”

Both Penelope and JJ stuck their tongues out, “Nuh-uh!” Garcia said, grabbing her phone to scroll through more pinterest photos.

“Spence will be getting you a diamond.”

You rolled your eyes and whispered, “Don’t jinx it JJ! And I don’t want a diamond.”

Her mouth dropped, “No diamond? Really.”

“Diamonds aren’t ethically sourced.”

“Lab grown! Get lab grown!” PG piped it, showing you a picture of a ring, just an oval in a plain silver setting.

“That! That’s the one!” You said and Garcia giggled, going on a rant about her dream wedding.

Spencer had gotten that exact ring. Lab grown, oval, classic, beautiful. It was what you wanted, and you deserved everything you ever wanted.

Spencer looked at the notepad. He could tell you had a hard time picking an item for this letter. He knows this letter is the end, the other two are the epilogue of a story he wishes you kept writing. Crystal Cove is the place where he had planned on asking you to marry him, but it ended up being the place where your love story ended. He tossed the notebook to the side and decided that the souvenir for this letter was now going to be this ring. This ring that sparkled and shined, even in the dull incandescent lights of his kitchen. This ring that belonged on your finger, and not in the back of a drawer. This ring that you didn’t even know existed, but if you had, maybe you’d still be together.

“I did buy three maternity bathing suits, and you bought shorts. Spencer Reid in shorts. It was going to be the best trip ever. We were going to snorkel and look at sea turtles and sunbathe and drink virgin piña coladas by the ocean. We were going to get couples massages and spend every moment loving and appreciating each other.

The actual trip? Much different than the one we had planned on paper, but let’s first discuss that time between the hospital and the trip.

It was four weeks. Four weeks of me sitting at home while you were off at work. Four weeks of the door opening and Derek walking through, not you. And on the odd chance that it was you opening the door, you’d be appearing at odd hours of the night to grab a new suit or a file or a snack and then getting back in your shitty car and going to your apartment. Each time I heard that comforting sound of your satchel hitting the floor, I’d crawl out of the cave of blankets I was in to find you, and you’d act like I wasn’t even there.

For the first few days, you asked me how I was and if I was feeling better, then you’d check your phone and wave goodbye. After that, I was lucky if you’d say hello, then I was lucky if I even got a glimpse of you. You never held me. You never kissed me. You never told me you loved me.

I got all my information about you from Derek. Every day I texted you, “Have a good day at work! Talk soon?” And everyday you didn’t answer, so I’d ask Derek if you were okay. He’d always tell me what you were doing. Usually you would take a stack of files of cases to a dark room and make preliminary profiles to send back to the departments, alone. I’d tell him thank you, and the next day would be the same nonsense.

Those four weeks dragged. It was like every minute was an hour and everyday was a year. I was healing, even without you, everyday I felt better and better. But that’s relative to the day before. I haven’t felt ‘good’ yet. I haven’t felt ‘happiness’ yet. But I will. And I’m counting on that.

My mandatory leave was four weeks, and at the end of that Hotch called me in for a ‘mandatory psychological evaluation.’ I didn’t tell you about it because you weren’t speaking to me, and even when you did you were angry and snappy and rude.

I didn’t pass the evaluation. Even though the BAU wrote those damn questions, I still didn’t pass. When my four weeks were up, you were expecting me at work, and I never showed. You didn’t notice how not okay I was because you were too busy handling your own feelings, which I understand. You have to take care of yourself first, deal with your own trauma before touching anyone else’s. So, your trauma was none of my business, a concept you should've applied to my healing process.

I was supposed to come back on a Monday and when I didn’t show you came to the house. You opened the door and yelled my name. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in weeks, and it felt good. I thought you had finally come home. I thought you were finally ready to heal with me, but you weren’t. You were there to judge me.

I think I ran to where you were, a smile on my face that I didn’t think I was capable of making, “Hey!”

You looked so put together in a neatly pressed suit, but your eyes exposed you. They were bloodshot and the bags were so large they almost reached the end of your nose. I had on one of your shirts; it was comforting at the time. Not so much anymore.

You looked me up and down, a small scowl forming on your face, “Where were you today?”

I took a deep breath, and I lied, because lying to you felt easier than telling you the truth. The truth that I was not deemed stable enough to come back, even though I wanted to. I needed to be distracted. I was ashamed, scared, confused.

“I-I didn’t go.”

“Didn’t go? You’ll get fired Y/N.”

I sighed, “No, my leave got extended.”

I could feel the way your eyes bore into my skull as I dodged eye contact.

“Extended?! It’s been four weeks.”

“I’m not ready!” I desperately wanted you to see through it. I thought I was ready, but the papers disagreed.

“Hotch let you do that?” Your voice was increasing and I found myself inching away from you.

“He encouraged it!” Another lie. He didn’t ‘encourage’ it. He forced me.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and opening the door again.

“You’re leaving? Spencer c’mon I-”

You cut me off by slamming that door in my face.

That’s when I started closing myself off. I started dreading the sound of your feet against the floor at three am. I started to put my own walls up, but they would dull in comparison to the Great Wall of Spencer you built around yourself to keep me out.”

Spencer was always good at putting walls up. In fact, you were the only person to ever get him to take (almost) all of them down. There’s a side of him he doesn’t show anyone, a side of him that he reserves for himself, and when something happens, that’s where he goes. He goes to the corner of his brain where he feels safe, and the walls come up to protect him.

And in those last four weeks, he did just that. He put the walls up, shut you out, and decided that was better. Except it wasn’t better, it just was easier. It was easier for him to bypass you and find a new outfit for work tomorrow. It was easier for him to disappear in the office until the odd hours of the morning. It was easier for him to hide away from you, because when he’s exposed he always gets hurt. It was easier to act like everything was fine, even though everything was the opposite of fine.

He never needed to go to the house, part of him was drawn there like a moth to a lantern. He was drawn to you. As much as he didn’t want to see those four walls, he still needed to check on you. He just did it in his own damaged way. He’d get a glimpse of you in old sweats and a shirt with a hole in it, hair a mess and mascara from two weeks ago adding to your eye bags and he’d be reminded that he couldn’t be there for you. He would never be enough, and he’d retreat into the comfort of solitude.

He was so preoccupied with being hurt, that he didn’t realize just how much he hurt you too.

“I had forgotten about the stupid trip, and so had you. You were too preoccupied with work and not speaking to me and I was preoccupied with crying and trying to speak to you. I only remembered the trip when I got an email from the airline about the flight, they had to move our seats or something stupid. I decided that was a reason for you to actually need to speak to me like I was a person, so I took advantage of it.

I intercepted you at home one day. I had been sitting in the kitchen waiting for you. You came home at two am.

“Hey,” I said, immediately as you walked through the door. You looked surprised that I was up.

“Hi, I’m just gonna—“

“Spencer, stop. We have to talk.”

You crossed your arms, not leaving the threshold of the door, “No. I told you a million times Y/N, I don’t want to talk.”

“Not about...” I couldn’t find the words and you started up the stairs.

“Are we going on this damn trip or not?” I said, my voice cracking from lack of use.

You stopped, looking over the banister at me, “You didn’t cancel it?”

“I didn’t think of it until now. We’re supposed to leave in two days.”

You groaned, “Why didn’t you cancel it?”

I threw my hands up. As if all of this was my responsibility?

“I was preoccupied! Did you cancel your days off?”

You shook your head, rubbing your face, “No, God. Can we still get a refund?”

I was hurt that you didn’t want to go, but not surprised. As I stared at the front door from my spot at the kitchen table I decided that I was going to go no matter what. It was going to be refreshing to look at the ocean instead of an empty nursery. That would be my distraction.

“I-I’m going. I’ll pay for your half, but I’m going. I’m losing my mind here, Spence.”

You looked at me again, still contemplating your options.

“I get it, okay? You can’t be in this house, but neither can I. Maybe we can talk and stuff on neutral ground. I-I just want you there with me, the way it was supposed to be.”

Then you took me by surprise, you nodded, “Yeah, yeah we’ll go.”

I’m sure I lit up like Rockefeller Center at Christmas, “Really?”

You rubbed your eyes, “Yeah, we can go Y/N.”

I was feeling lucky, so I pushed it, too hard, “Are you staying tonight?”

Your voice went from sleepy to sour, “No.”

And you vanished up the stairs, taking all my hope in us with you.

I knew deep down it wouldn’t end well. I knew it was going to be fighting and yelling and arguing, but any time with you was good time with you at that point. And I favored the little bit of serotonin and dopamine you flood my brain with as opposed to staring at the gray walls of the kitchen alone.”

Spencer only agreed to go because he thought he was getting there. Everyday he felt a little better when he’d walk through the door, but he still wasn’t ready. He thought a week of no work and no one to talk to except you would bring the walls down. This would finally be the catalyst in a reaction that was taking far too long to complete. He also couldn’t stand the thought of you flying and spending a week alone. He felt better about you being alone here because you weren’t really alone. You had Derek visiting, Garcia dropping off baskets, phone calls from Emily, the odd visit from Rossi, and apparently phone calls to Hotch, but on that island you’d really be alone, and he was worried about how you’d handle it.

“So two days later we got on a three hour flight to Miami, and I drove our rental car to this resort. We didn’t talk much the whole time, besides some small talk about the flight and other odd comments. It was painfully awkward, and I regretted even coming.

We didn’t speak until I used the keycard to open the door, and we stared at the one king sized bed in the room.

“Oh,” was all you said when you realized you’d have to share with me.

“What?”

“There’s only one bed.”

I rolled my eyes, “Spencer, we’ve shared a bed for three years.”

You just stood at the door with your hands fidgeting on the handle of the suitcase, “I’ll call down and ask for a cot to be brought up.”

“A cot? Are you serious?” I couldn’t believe you, “Why come if you wouldn’t even share a bed with me? I said I’d be fine alone.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but changed your mind.

“Great communication skills Spence. Really, I’m impressed.” You rolled your eyes and finally started to unpack your bag, “I came because I was worried about what you’d do here all alone.”

Part of me was happy you were worried, but a bigger part was annoyed, “I’ve been handling being alone fine, thanks.”

You scoffed, “Yeah. That’s why you need Derek to bring you food everyday, because you’re doing so well.”

I bit my tongue and tried to speak calmly, “Well at least someone checks on me everyday.”

That shut you right up.

The three days you were there went as follows: we slept as far apart from each other as we could, despite how badly I wanted to cuddle into your arms. We’d get up in silence, eat breakfast in silence, walk to the beach and read in silence, eat lunch and dinner in silence, and each night we’d yell at each other until we fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed.

Remember what I said to trigger the fight on December third, your last day there? How could you forget? It’s the fight that broke us up.

“So, I was thinking of going to a counselor,” I said, staring at the waves lap the sand from the balcony of our room. The air felt cold for eighty degrees. But maybe that was just because the air between me and you had been cold for weeks.

You were sitting next to me, but I could tell you were worlds away.

“Spence,” I nudged, trying to snap you out of your daydream.

“Hm? What?”

“I said I’m going to go to a counselor.”

You twisted your face, “A counselor? What for?”

I shrugged, “I-I think it’d be good for me. It’s a grief counselor.”

You turned to look at me, your brow covered in sweat and your eyes watery. You were incessantly bouncing your left leg, rubbing at your nose, and you seemed disinterested in every single thing I was saying or doing. In fact, you’d been acting that way since the first day you disappeared to your apartment.

“Counselor? Yeah,” You were fidgeting, barely making eye contact.

A feeling I can only describe as pure dread formed in my stomach. I thought I might puke, but I swallowed the feeling and kept talking, “I got a recommendation from Hotch. He said he went to Dr. Stevens after Haley died. He said it really helped.”

You were still not listening.

“I think it’d be good if we went together.”

That finally got your undivided attention. “Together?” You snapped, “No.”

“Why not?” I said it with an air of exhaustion and despair. I was tired of this. So fucking tired of it.

“I’m not going to a damn therapist, Y/N,” You seethed, your metal deck chair scraping against the concrete as you stood in front of me.

The sky looked stormy, palm trees whipping in the wind as you came before me. The bags under your eyes looked like bruises, and you had on sleeves. It was eighty and you had on sleeves.

“Okay, I’ll go alone then. I think he could really help us though.”

I was giving up on fighting. I didn’t understand how when I was at my absolute low you could just keep kicking me while I was down. All I wanted was for you to go to someone and talk about it. That’s it. You were acting like I’d asked you to move a mountain for me, which, might I add, at one point you would have done.

“He? You really think a male therapist is going to help? You lost a baby, Y/N—“

“WE,” I clarified, for what felt like the fiftieth time, “We lost a baby.”

You rolled your eyes and ignored me, “You lost a baby. How does a male therapist help you through that?”

I was angry now. It was bubbling up to the top and I thought I might explode.

“He’s a grief counselor! He’ll help me through my GRIEF! And I think you should go because clearly you have a lot going on. You always have! You should’ve been seeing someone for years.”

“Oh, I have a lot going on?” You sneered, “Of course I have a lot going on! I go to work everyday to bring you home a paycheck so you can sit around all day and do nothing.”

I stood up, got close to your face, “I’m on leave.”

“Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that.”

You bypassed me and went inside, and my hot anger turned into wet anger and fat tears were rolling down my cheeks.

“Do you know how traumatic this was on my body? Do you? Everything hurts and you were supposed to be there! You were supposed to take four weeks off too! You were supposed to be there for me!”

“Yeah and who’s there for me!” You yelled, louder than I think you ever had; at me at least. You had thrown your suitcase on the bed, haphazardly grabbing your clothes from the drawers and shoving them in.

“I would’ve been,” I said softly, coming up behind you to grab your arm lightly, “If you had let me.”

You pulled back, “Don’t touch me!”

I reached up to wipe my eyes and crossed my arms in front of myself defensively, “I want to be there for you, Spencer. I do. Why won’t you let me?”

You didn’t answer, because even you didn’t know why. You just stood over the suitcase, one arm on either side of it, hair matted to your sweaty face, panting and panting.

The facts I had chosen to ignore were staring me in the face again. Or maybe I was just that oblivious.

“I’ve never seen you like this. This isn’t you, Love,” I tried to say in my most soothing voice. The dread had clawed its way back up to the back of my throat.

“Or maybe this is me,” you said softly, and I swear you were crying. Or maybe I hoped you were, that way we were both sobbing. That’s as close to togetherness as we could get.

“Maybe this is who I am now, or who I’ve been all along.”

I reached out for you again, but stopped myself, “No, Spencer. The real you isn’t this angry, and bitter, and mean.”

You slammed your hands against the bed, “Yes it is!”

“Is that what you’ve been doing all this time?” I said sadly, shaky breaths between words, “Is that what you’ve been going to your apartment and doing?”

You turned around, skin sweaty and eyes red, “What? What are you talking about now? God, do you ever stop talking?”

I snapped, ignoring your last jab there, “Are you using?”

Your face contorted into a sour expression, “Am I using?”

“Yeah, Spencer! Are you? Because I can’t see any other reason for why you’re so irritable and sweaty and out of it! So I’ll ask you again, are you going through withdrawal?”

You looked like I had literally punched you in the gut, and I kind of had. It was a low blow, I’ll admit it, but I was seriously worried about you. If an event would trigger you, this would’ve been it.

“What? No!”

I wasn’t sure whether or not I should believe you, but I knew I had to support you either way. I love you, even when you’re angry at me, I still love you. Even when you throw clothes and seethe at me through gritted teeth, I still love you. That’s my fatal flaw. No matter how many reasons you give me to stop loving you, I never will.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, lower lip pinched between his teeth. Was he really that terrible? He didn’t remember being so spiteful. Reading it back, he understood why you thought he was high, and he had thought about it more than he cared to admit. But he hadn’t touched the stuff in seven years, and he wasn’t about to start again now.

‘No matter how many reasons you give me to stop loving you, I never will.’

That line made him want to cry, hands clenching the ring box as if it were a stress ball. That line simultaneously felt like a stab in the gut and a breath of fresh air. He had given you so many reasons to walk away, and the one reason to stay was there in his palm, unused.

““It’s okay if you are. I understand this is a... hard time. I’ll support you through this,” I put my hands out to touch your chest.

“I’m not high and haven’t been in years!” You swatted my hands down.

“Then what the hell is going on!?”

“I’m angry and I’m sad and I’m heartbroken!” You yelled, going back out onto the balcony to stand in the rain that had started pouring down in sheets.

“Spencer! Stop!” I followed you out, tears mixing with rain to the point that I didn’t know which was which.

“I’m just confused! It’s hard to see the point in all this anymore. Maybe it’s just not worth it,” You said, yelling at the ocean not at me. Rain soaked our clothes instantly. Part of me was hoping this scene would end like the ‘notebook’ we’d kiss and you’d spin me around. I guess this is kind of like the notebook, it’s a story to help you remember us. Except you don’t have Alzheimer’s and I wrote 15 letters, not 365.

“Maybe what’s not worth it?” I was yelling too, just so you could hear me over the sound of the wind and the rain.

“This!” You gestured between us. I felt like you knocked the air out of me, my whole body stinging.

“But I love you!”

“All of this has made me realize that love isn’t everything! I love you too but we need more than that!”

That was the first time I’d heard you say ‘I love you’ in a month, but it was a double edged sword. I bit my lip so hard I think I started bleeding, “Love isn’t enough? Are you kidding me, Spencer?”

You swallowed thickly, “No! I’m not kidding. I’ve never been more serious!”

“So what? That’s it?” I said it quietly, but I wanted to scream at you. I wanted to scream that you were being an idiot. You were being ridiculous. You were being unnecessarily cruel. But I didn’t. I was tired and water logged. I had finally given up.

You ran your hands through your hair, “No–it’s–we we aren’t over Y/N. I’m just saying that it’s gonna take more than love to fix us.”

“Well maybe if you were ever home, we could actually try. But you aren’t. You’re always gone! So explain to me how we’re going to fix this. What’s it gonna take Spencer? What do you want from me?”

You took a deep breath, uttering words I was so sick of hearing, “We need space and time.”

“Space? Time? It’s been a month Spencer! I let you go to work. I let you spend every day at your damn apartment. I stopped calling. I stopped checking in. How much more space and time do you want?”

“Thirty-four days,” you mumbled, just so I could barely hear. The thunder rolled, mostly drowning it out.

“What was that?”

“It’s been THIRTY-FOUR days, Y/N. Thirty-four. I don’t know how you expect me to be okay after only thirty-four days.”

“I don’t expect you to be fine! I expect you to speak to me! To look at me! I want to go to bed crying and have you there next to me. I want to be there for you when you’re crying. The only way we get better is if we do this TOGETHER!”

The anger looked like it melted off of you, and I took that as my opportunity to approach. I threw my arms around your soaked body as you shook with sobs into my shoulder. I held you like my life depended on it, because in a way it did. You wrapped your arms around me too, and everything felt okay. We were standing in the pouring rain, holding each other as we cried, and somehow I felt more okay than I had in the thirty-four days prior. It felt like maybe you were coming back to me.

You weren’t.

We stood like that for what felt like hours, and eventually I pulled you inside. I wish I didn’t. I wish we stayed there, holding each other in the rain until the sun came up and dried us off. I foolishly thought the rain washed our sins away.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said, my head on your shoulder as we wrapped ourselves in towels, “I promise.”

You shrugged me off of you, going back to packing your bag.

“Spencer, stop packing, please,” I begged, grabbing the items you were putting in and taking them back out.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you said plainly, taking a shirt and putting it back in.

“I-I thought—“

“Thought what, Y/N? That because I cried to you and told you I loved you that we were magically okay?”

I stammered, “No. No! But I thought it meant we were in this together now.”

“You just accused me of relapsing an hour ago.”

“And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, but that’s not a reason you should go,” I pleaded, reaching for you again. I thought if you walked away I’d never see you again.

“You don’t trust me,” your voice cracked.

“No, Love, I—“

“Don’t call me that.”

The pain in my chest bloomed, sending a wave of heartache through my entire body. A heartache I still haven’t been able to shake. It’s still there. Some days it's a thunder crack and sometimes it's a low grumble, but it’s always there. The rain hasn't stopped.

I hadn’t even realized that you were completely packed until you zipped the suitcase shut.

“You’re really leaving?”

You stopped at the door, hand on the handle, to turn and face me. I didn’t need to use my profiling skills to see how much pain you were in, and my pain doubled at the sight. I’ve always been an empath when it comes to you, feeling what you feel like it’s my own.

“I am.”

I crossed the room and threw my arms around you, sobbing into your chest. To my surprise, you wrapped your arms around me lightly.

“I understand,” I said, looking into your eyes, “We can’t be there for each other the way we need to.”

You nodded into my shoulder, “Stay. When you get home from this we’ll talk. I just need a few more days.”

I shook my head, finally coming to the realization that we didn’t work anymore. We weren’t healthy anymore.

“Don’t bother. The writing’s on the wall, Spence,” my voice wavered, and I regretted every word as they left my mouth, “I’ve been waiting for that person from the hospital to come home to me. I’ve been waiting for the Spencer who lends me his shirts and fact dumps and eats IHOP and ice cream with me to come home.”

I felt your breath stop under my arms, “But that Spencer, the Spencer I love, isn’t here anymore. We need to be alone.”

I felt you shake with tears under me, and that triggered mine, “We have to break up.”

I wish I never said it. I wish I gave you those few days, but we both know those few days would’ve turned into weeks and months and we would’ve ended up here anyway. I wish you didn’t let me say them. I wish you kissed me to shut me up and told me I was being stupid. I wish I didn’t watch you go down that elevator, tears on your cheeks. I wish I didn’t spend the other four days in an empty king sized bed, crying for you.

I realize now that you changed. I did too. Instead of wishing for the old you, I should’ve learned to love the new you. I think I would’ve, if I had given it a chance. Actually, I know I would’ve. I think I’d fall in love with every version of you that could ever exist or has ever existed. You and I, we’re meant to be together.

I know you probably don’t believe in it, but I like to think that we’re twin flames; we’re two halves of one soul that somehow ended up in two bodies and constantly pull to find each other again. I’ve read a lot about them recently. Twin flames don’t necessarily end up together. They can even just be two people with an intense friendship. They’re people who help each other grow, even if that means they’re only in your life for a short time. I like to think that we are that case, and that in some parallel universe I’m with you and we have our daughter and we’re happy. I just wish that I was in that universe now.

I know it’s for the best that we went to the damn Crystal Cove and broke up. I’m sure someday in the future I’ll be pleased with that decision, but for now, I still regret it.”

Spencer stared at the notepad, eyes flicking between that in his left hand and the ring box in his right. He took the ring out and admired it in the light. It glinted and glimmered, delicately refracting light onto the cabinets. He slid it halfway down his ring finger because that’s as far as it would go. He imagined it was on your slender, perfectly manicured hand instead of his, but an ache formed where his heart was when he realized it’d never end up here.

Spencer grabbed the notebook. It was unlined and the paper felt flimsy and thin. He got up from the floor to find a pencil in the drawer the ring had been hidden in, and took it out to scrawl his own letter to go with his own memento. A sixteenth letter for a sixteenth item you had no idea even existed.

“Y/N,

I’d like to consider this letter sixteen, to go with the engagement ring that’s in my palm. I bought this ring the day after we ate dinner at Rossi’s and showed everyone tiny FBI onesies. I have your perfect ring here in my hand, a plain silver band with a lab-grown diamond in a four-prong setting in the center, just like you told Garcia you wanted. I should’ve given it to you the day I bought it, but I waited until the perfect opportunity presented itself.

What you didn’t know about the trip to the Crystal Cove was that I was going to propose to you there. I was going to get down on one knee in the sand at sunset after dinner. I even had a whole speech planned. I was going to tell you that I never thought I could love anyone as much as I love you, or that anyone would ever love me the way that you do. I was going to say that it amazes me how everyday, I wake up and love you more than I did the night before. And everyday I think it’s be impossible to love you and our daughter more than I do right now. I wanted to tell you that I want to wake up every morning and feel that for the rest of my life. I want the good, the bad, the ugly, I want it all. I want Korean film festivals and IHOP breakfasts and to talk to the moon. I want tubs of ice cream and overly sentimental flowers hanging from the wall. Most of all I wanted to say that I want to spend every day of my life making you happy.

That speech still applies today. I still love you enough to ask you, but I don’t think you love me enough to say yes.

It’s okay. It really is. I haven’t decided what to do yet, but if you do read this, just know that it’s okay. I promise you, it’s okay. I’m not the bitter, angry man I was at the Crystal Cove anymore. I changed again, and I hope you’re right. I hope we are twin flames and your soul will come looking for mine, and I hope it happens in this universe, not the infinite parallels that may or may not exist. I miss you and I want nothing more than for you to come back. Come home, Love, please come home.

-SR”

He stared at the notebook page, before tearing it off and folding it in half, placing it in his pocket for safekeeping. He went on his computer and bought the cheapest one-way ticket to Seattle that he could find. He needed to see you. He needed you to see this letter, see this ring. He needed to make this right.

The flight was a red eye, leaving at midnight, so he’d get to the Seattle field office by eight. He looked at the leather watch and saw that it was nearly nine. He decided had to finish, and he had to finish now, as he grabbed letter #14.

PART 14

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Taglist!

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opheliacassiopea · 3 years

Text

CHAPTER 10.

TW: Mentions of a weapon.

Landing back in Quantico that evening was a welcome feeling, the few hours of sleep you managed to get on the plane making little difference in rejuvenating your body and you were practically on auto-pilot for the short twenty-five minute drive back to your apartment. Typing in your alarm code, you quickly tidy your things away, securing your weapon and your credentials. It might seem odd to start tidying your apartment when your body is aching all over, and you’re practically dead on your feet, but it calms you, tethers you to some form of normalcy. So you cleaned the small amount of mess you’d left in your rush to get to work once you’d gotten the call to come in, you weren’t really a messy person anyway so it didn’t take long. Apartment cleaned, you set about fixing yourself dinner and hopping into the shower, turning the water to the highest temperature, the hot water bringing you comfort, easing your sore shoulder and side as you wash away the stress of the last few days.

Despite how tired you are, you fear that sleep won’t come to you easily, you had a lot to think about, your mind still focused on the case that technically still wasn’t over as the paperwork hadn’t been completed, and of course you couldn’t help but think of Hotch, what had happened between the two of you. Realistically you knew nothing would come of it, but that didn’t mean you could suddenly stop thinking about it altogether, it was incredibly good sex after all, and the sweet moments afterwards were something you couldn’t forget any time soon. Clambering into bed and getting comfortable under the covers, you find that sleep washes over you quickly, leading you into a dreamworld. Many hours later you awaken from a peaceful sleep the next morning, feeling well rested and slightly less sore than the day before and decide to make the most of your morning off, choosing to change the bedsheets and open all the windows to let in some fresh air. Along with the rest of the team, you were having to head into the office later that afternoon to fill out the paperwork for the recent case in Bend.

Much like your appearance, you look pride in your apartment looking the very best it could be, and much like your appearance, your apartment truly resembled you too. It was a fairly decent sized apartment, the reasonably sized living room decked out with fashionable, yet vintage looking sofas and chairs that were situated around the antique coffee table that faced toward the TV. Arguably the best part of the living room was that in the cupboards of the small coffee table, was a small projector that allowed you to play some of your favourite films, or productions of your favourite books and it was something you often did on your days off. Stacks of books, plants and knickknacks lined the shelves that covered many of the walls, all arranged to look neat and tidy, rather than cluttered. The back corner of the room was home to your record player and cart of vinyl's, next to your beautiful wooden piano, plants and candles covering the top. There were many smaller lamps dotted around on the side tables throughout the room, small trails of fairy lights used to accentuate certain accessories.

The back wall of your bedroom was painted in your favourite colour, a deep forest green, your bed placed directly in front of it whilst the rest of the walls were exposed brick, which was the main reason you’d fallen in love with this particular apartment. There was a decent sized wardrobe along with a full length mirror, chest of draws and a small vanity, all home to strategically placed plants, accessories and yet more fairy lights to make the room warm and inviting. You used the smaller box room at the end of the hallway as an office so had decided to keep the colour scheme fairly neutral since it also doubled as a spare room, but was still filled with yet more books and little knickknacks that you absolutely adored and truly made your apartment feel like home and the walls were adorned with your various achievements. Your bathroom could be described as a jungle, multiple plants lived on the window and hung down from the ceiling in macramé pots, loving that it made the room feel more open. The kitchen was relatively simple, a decent sized dining table with benches and chairs always sporting fresh flowers in the middle and the windowsill lined with various cookbooks you’d yet to even open. In short, you loved your apartment, it was your sanctuary, where you felt safest and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride when it came to your home.

Filling the rest of your morning with errands and odd jobs like laundry and food shopping, your morning off scurries by in a hurry and you’re soon headed back to Quantico, ready to speed through the necessary paperwork and potentially catch up on any other administrative tasks you needed to complete. The bullpen is relatively quiet upon your arrival and as you walk through the glass doors, you can already see Reid halfway done with whatever he’s working on, smiling to yourself you stop by the breakroom to grab yourself a tea.

“I’m surprised that you’re here on time, you looked dead on your feet yesterday” Prentiss greets you as you enter, handing you your mug from the cupboard.

“How charming of you” you rebuke, swatting her on the shoulder as you take the mug. “I feel way better after a decent night's sleep” you tell her as you finish making your drink.

Sensing she wants to say something you turn to face her as she begins to speak up. “That case, I know it was your first of its kind and it was pretty intense, I just want to check in with you”. Concern was apparent in all of her features and as always you appreciated how the team looked out for you, for each other.

“Seriously, I’m fine, all good I promise. Not looking forward to sorting out this paperwork, the reports are gonna be much more complicated, and with that being said, we better get a move on” you say as you exit the breakroom and head over to your desk, freshly made tea in hand.

After a couple of hours of completing various forms and case reports, you begin to bring the report you were working on to a close and as you came to the end of the sentence you were writing, you lean back and flick your gaze to Hotch’s office to find that he was already looking at you. Sending him a small smile, which he returns immediately, you dip your head down and continue working the day away, offering to help JJ with some of her extra case consults.

Finally the weekend rolls around and you’re buzzing with excitement, once a month the team meets for breakfast in a local diner and if you’re being honest, it’s one of your favourite pastimes with the team. It’s laidback, it’s easy and you relish in the simplicity of it. It’s not even been ten minutes since you’ve all sat down at one of the large round booths at the back of the diner, conversation flowing; Spencer telling Emily and JJ about traditions for new homeowners, Derek and Penelope swapping office gossip, whilst you’re engaged in a conversation with Dave and Hotch about the upcoming FBI triathlon in a few months when you’re interrupted by your phone ringing.

“SSA Paisley Selwyn” you speak into the phone, wondering why nobody else was taking a phone call, let alone a phone call from a bureau phone number; normally the entire team would receive a phone call if you were all out of the office to inform you of a new case or potential emergency.

“This is Heather Price, Chief of the Crime Translation Unit. We’re in need of a translator for a case we’re working and as a language and linguistics expert, you’d be the perfect fit to help”

she tells you over the phone and you’re slightly unsure, you’d heard of the unit a few times in passing, but never been involved. This might strike an outsider as odd considering as the woman rightly stated, you did specialise in linguistics, but the BAU appealed to you much more.

“I’m flattered, but is there nobody else that can fill in for the case?” you query, you loved your work, but sometimes you needed a break and you weren’t overly keen on leaving breakfast with the team. With such bizarre schedules and hectic jobs, sometimes dealing with unspeakable things, you welcomed any normality that you can find. For that morning the eight of you aren’t FBI agents, you’re just eight friends out for breakfast and today that’s exactly what you needed.

“Unfortunately not no. We’re keen to make use of your profiling abilities too. I’ll see you here in no less than forty minutes” she informs you, hanging up shortly after. Letting out a small sigh, you twist with the two pendants hanging around your neck, you’d been looking forward to this morning since the moment last month's breakfast ended and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by the team.

Seeing your slightly crestfallen facial expression as you place your phone on the table, Derek is the first to question you. “What’s going on, Lee? Who was that?” concern evident on his face.

“Heather Price, she’s requested my help on a translation case” you tell him, looking down at the table as you do and when you look back up, you have the entire eyes of the team focused on you, a range of facial expressions on show; JJ and Emily look slightly surprised, Spence and Dave looked proud, whereas Hotch’s expression never falters, staying stoic as ever.

Spencer’s eyebrows suddenly shoot up. “The translation unit? Isn’t that where Oliver WIlliams works?” he questions and you know he already knows the answer, his voice raising slightly being the dead giveaway and despite your slight annoyance at having to leave you can’t help but laugh at him.

“Don’t act like you don’t already know that, you’re not that smooth, Spence. I’ll tell him you said hi” you tell him, through Derek's confused expression only makes you laugh all the more, clearly he hadn’t been clued in on Spencer’s slight crush. Collecting yourself, you turn your attention to the brightly dressed woman to your left.

Penelope however, looked outraged that you had to leave. “What?! Now?! But it’s your day off, you can’t miss our breakfast, you’ve been looking forward to this for ages! Is there really nobody else they can call?”. Penelope exclaims, waving her hands as she expresses her annoyance at the interruption. Arguably, Penelope valued these outings with the team more than the rest of you might have done, working back in her office to perform her technical magic whilst the rest of you were out in the field, or even another state, left her somewhat isolated and therefore occasionally missing out of the odd inside joke so times like these were perfect for filling her in on any missed gossip and it broke your heart to see her upset at the change in plans.

“I know, I know, sorry PG, we’ll just have to do something another time” you tell her, kissing her cheek as you begin to gather your things in order to leave. Standing up, you bid the rest of the team a hurried goodbye, hearing the end of their conversation as you go.

“How many languages does she even speak? I lose track of her sometimes” JJ questions, though you can tell she’s joking and it’s Reid who answers.

“Three; French, Spanish and Italian. Though if you count sign language, it would be four, which is marginally impressive because statistically speaking..”.

Quickly swinging by your apartment to pick up your weapon and credentials, you decided against changing out of your very casual outfit, this was meant to be your day off after all.

It was an odd feeling riding the elevator to a different floor, nerves building in your stomach for whatever it was you were about to work on. Stepping out of the elevator and taking a deep breath, you’re greeted by who you assume to be the woman you spoke with on the phone. “Unit Chief Heather Price, nice to meet you, please, come this way” she introduces herself to you with a welcoming smile, gesturing for you to follow her to her office.

“As I mentioned on the phone, we’re in need of an translator, specifically for Italian translations. I realise that your primary work for the bureau isn’t in fact translating, but you’ve come highly recommended to us and we think your knowledge of language and linguistics, along with your profiling abilities would prove to be an incredibly useful asset for this case” she informs you, handing you a brown folder that clearly contains the case information that you flip open and start to read over, leaning back on one of the office chairs when there’s a knock at the door.

“You wanted to see me?” the voice questions. Head snapping up from the file in your hand, you see that the voice belongs to a male detective and you immediately placed him to be Oliver Williams thanks to Spencer’s descriptions. He’d confided in you about his small crush during

one of the late night sessions in the library; the two had met around a month ago when the team was working a local case and in order to solidify a theory you and he were working on, Reid had gone to the translation office to collect a transcription manual and bumped into the man and since then the two had been buying each other coffee

“Ah, yes I did” Price tells him, ushering him into the room. “This is Dr Paisley Selwyn, I requested her help on this case as you know”. Pushing yourself up from the arm of the chair, you lean forward to shake his hand and the two of you exchange pleasantries and you can tell that the both of you will get on well as Price starts going over the case plan, explaining that

essentially the two of you would be left to your own devices, taking the lead on the case and she would only be stepping in when it came to the interrogation of the suspect.

Following Williams back out to the larger desk spaces, the two of you begin working the case, starting over from the very beginning, and coming up with entirely new strategies regarding everything from the translations of smaller articles of evidence, to various interview methods and spoken translations. Eventually you found yourself working in a rhythm with Williams, discovering that the two of you had similar methods in translating which sped the process along and soon you found yourself enjoying the work you were doing; applying theories, methods and techniques you hadn’t used since doing your masters degree and it came as an easy reminder as to why you loved working with language. When it came time for the interrogation of the suspect, it wasn’t hard to tell that both Price and Williams were impressed with your translation skills, picking up on the smallest changes and inconsistencies that eventually brought the case to a close at around eleven o’clock in the evening.

Now you were sat with Williams filling out the huge stack of files for the case, because you weren’t officially part of the unit, there was more paperwork than usual and by the time you were both done and finally out the door, it was pushing midnight. Walking to your cars, the two of you conversed like you’d known each other for a lot longer than a day and you called across the car park to him “Oi, Williams, Spence told me to tell you hi” which caused him to smile from ear to ear and blush a deep pink and you smiled to yourself as you made your way home, singing along to the radio as you drove.

A/N: I can’t believe I’ve written 10 chapters of this fic already! Tried making this a slightly shorter chapter as the past few have been quite long. Don’t forget you can follow along and read the story over on my Wattpad: @opheliacassiopea

As always, let me know what you think; any feedback is welcome!🖤

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