#online English Conversational classes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

awordsmith · 5 months ago

Text

paint a picture 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you and Spencer go separate ways after university until a deadly case forces you to find your way back to each other.

katvalentine

who? spencer reid x known!reader when? s8 genre: angst (thriller) content warnings: mentions of attempted murder and the loss of a friend, second chance romance, read with scary care!! word count: 9k a/n: not how i planned to write this out–but i couldn't be happier–also i know i'm super late with the valentines themes–studying for midterms has taken toll–but i think i'm going to ace every exam with soaring colors, so plus(?)–okay let me stop rambling... enjoy!!

Your Converse hit the pavement as you ignored the bustling of the other students that sounded around you. In contrast to everyone else, you were running toward the rain rather than hiding from it. You didn’t have a choice–it was either that or failing your psychology class.

It wasn’t as if you were completely behind, you’d attended every class–and you’d taken notes…mostly. Okay, barely–but with all your other courses, trying to maintain your part-time job on weekends, and constantly visiting the UNEP for Aspiring Young Center, Psychology had been the least of your worries. You had barely had any time to sleep–let alone to yourself.

The class was only once a week and though it was online–it’d been the class you’d seemed to forget most about. You’d gotten your hands on some of the notes from other students, but they all seemed useless when the midterm exam was next week. You had no time to study–that was what had you so freaked.

It had slipped your mind–somehow–that it was going to be half your grade. In the sight of other courses: sociology, criminology, comm, English, and history, you’d completely forgotten about one of the most important classes you were taking this semester. Gosh, why couldn’t it just be summer already? More than that, why did you have to take on so many classes? Sure you wanted to graduate early, but you were in your sophomore year, you should have been enjoying it.

Instead, you were getting soaked in rainwater in an attempt to leave a good impression on your new tutor. You were running late, as per usual. It had been a bad habit you’d picked up your freshman year when you realized parking wasn’t as easy as you’d thought it would be. You were normally late to classes, always running down one hall or the next. The university’s library was like a second home to you. You could generally be found in one of the desks near the elevator most nights. You preferred the tables behind the elevators the best. Preferably one closest to the corner.

Each table had two desks connected and two seats for each desk. You kept your backpack in the seat next to you and did well for warding off creeps mindlessly sitting down. The tables in the corners also proved well for when your headphones died. They were just far enough away that you couldn’t hear the elevator's constant dinging. The limited space also kept a multitude of people walking back and forth between the tables; yeah, sure you probably just got annoyed quickly, but you couldn’t help how you were. You were how you were and you liked it.

“Excuse me,” you squeaked, nearly colliding with a girl coming through the double doors with an umbrella. You huffed and removed the hood of your jacket, trying to smooth down your hair. It was pulled back into a ponytail, but hairs were now sticking up–you could feel it. You removed the hair tie and slipped it onto your hand, running your hands through your semi-wet locks.

You wanted to use the bathroom first, but you didn’t want to leave the poor guy hanging, it was Valentines' Day, after all, he probably took on this job in pity and had some hot girlfriend angry at him because of it. You felt bad–genuinely, it had your heart aching. Though you had no interest in dating yourself, you could wager the benefits it brought many others.

You ignored the elevator and headed up the stairs, when you reached the top you were out of breath. You hated staircases in high school and you hated them now. Picking back up some of your dignity, you glanced around the area, trying to scope out the tutor you were meeting.

He had great reviews, and apparently, he already had 1 PhD and was working on his second. He was young, around your age, and you wondered if he was a genius, that was the only likely explanation. Or maybe he really was just that good Well, you’d see for yourself in a few minutes. You caught sight of wild brown curls and a large brown and orange sweater vest.

He was sitting at the very end of the row, you recognized the large window panes that sat to the side of each table. You smiled slightly, it was just how you preferred it a quiet study night. You hadn’t mentioned anything about liking the ends, it was entirely possible he liked it that way too, where most of the noise disappeared, and the world along with it.

As you approached the kid, you thought this surely couldn’t be him. He looked…well…smaller. The photo online was just his face, but as you rounded the table, your nose scrunched up.

Sure, people took off their glasses for a multitude of reasons, including taking a photo, but you never thought it could make such a difference to a person's appearance. “...Dr. Ried?” You stuttered out, setting your tote bag in the seat next to you.

When Spencer looked up, he had to fix his glasses. He wasn’t good at keeping eye contact, so he focussed on the necklace around your neck, “uh, yeah, —?”

You smiled and nodded, sighing out as you sat in the seat across from him, “It is you–sorry I’m late, I was–” you were in the middle of your living room in your underwear having a mini concert with the tv and your hairbrush, but you said, “working on a few theories, you know how you can get lost in your head sometimes.”

Spencer brightened slightly, his mind racing with the different things he wanted to say, theories were one of his favorite topics, he could go on and on, talking about his favorite and his least favorite, ones that had a high chance of being debunked in the future and ones that have already been debunked, but he forced his mouth closed before he said any of that. “Yeah, theories are fun,” it hurt him–physically–not to say more. But, Spencer was trying out his professionalism, and a professional would not geek out over the mention of theories.

You nodded and started pulling your notebook out of your bag, Spencer had a psycho-analysis textbook out in front of him as he had said he would in his text. “Let’s start with chapter 45, that’s the first one that’s going to pop up on the test.” Spencer stated, watching your hands flip through page after page, “That’s a lot of notes.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, trying to subtly fan yourself, dim lighting from lamps under every table gave the small area a glow, “sorry,” you began pulling out a few writing utensils, “I know this is so last minute and you probably had plans tonight, but I really appreciate you doing this for me.” You tried meeting his eyes, but he seemed to want to keep his distance from you, which struck you as odd seeing as how there wasn’t much of an age gap.

“No, don’t worry–” he waved his hands in front of him, his eyes having an almost paranoid feeling to them, “I,” he looked away, “I didn’t have any plans tonight. You’re fine, so don’t worry,” he let his hands fall into his lap.

Your eyes widened slightly and a subtle realization came over you that this guy wasn’t small–he was slumping in his seat, which is why he looked to be small at first glance. His posture was all wrong and it ticked you a little. One of your eyes twitched, but you hummed to calm yourself down. It didn’t really bother you, but the way he was acting–you just couldn’t help it.

“Alright,” you smoothed out the page and flipped it around to show Dr. Reid.

Spencer ran his eyes along the page, there sure were a lot of dashes and marks, he admired your penmanship for a moment before turning and meeting your gaze for the first time, “a lot of notes, yes, but most of them are useless.” He winced. He didn’t mean to say it like that, he probably should have used another word–useless just felt so…gray. “I mean, that’s not what I mean, I just meant that–” he huffed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair taking his glasses off momentarily to rub his eyes.

His features weren’t lost on you. His jaw was sharp, his neck thick, he could be a male model if he wanted to, he had the build for it. He was skinny and he was awkward in his skin, but with the right training, his self-confidence could be raised immensely. Spencer blinked, noting your stare and suddenly he felt nervous again. It wasn’t that you intimidated him–though with the way he was acting, it probably didn’t seem that way.

You were more than pretty, you stood out. Maybe not to everyone, but Spencer had learned long ago that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and to Spencer, you were. You looked like you belonged in a Renaissance painting or behind the glass at a thrift store, something not for sale; something priceless. Something you see once in a museum and go home thinking about, never to see it again, but can’t help remembering years later.

Spencer cleared his throat, understanding, he too was now staring. “Right, so–chapter forty-five, what, what do you remember most about it?”

You glanced at your notes, running a finger along a highlighted part, “Proximity, the mere exposure effect, basically anything to do with how we feel about another person.”

Spencer nodded and ran his eyes over your notes. It wasn’t highlighted, but he thought it should be. “See here,” he flipped the notebook back around, “this isn’t highlighted, but this is,” he pointed to another point, “can you tell me why?”

You looked over the two bullet points, an embarrassed smile washing over you. You everted your eyes toward the floor and scratched one of your cheeks with a finger, “I liked how it read.”

Spencer felt his heart flutter and his cheeks flush red at the admission, it was cute. It was more than cute it was adorable. But that was completely unprofessional, even if this was just a side job he’d taken on because he needed some quick cash. “Well, I suggest making another set of notes, I can do it for you if you’d like.”

You nodded and Spencer felt the need to ask another–rather important–question, “Do you normally read over your notes once you write them?”

You made a face, your lips pressed together to suppress a smile. The truth was you did but with psychology…. “I normally do during study sessions, it helps because I’m really bad at remembering things,” you played with a tiny lock of wet hair, murmuring, “and I’m always late.”

Spencer snorted but tried covering it up with a cough. Your lips quirked upward and your eyes narrowed slightly. He, in turn, did his best to avoid your gaze. “Wow,” you nodded, “so that’s how it is.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, “I didn’t,” he didn’t mean to be rude, this wasn’t how he normally acted, especially around girls. If anything, he’d always had a mutual understanding with the opposite sex, he would not reach for something he could not see, but you–you seemed… vivid…

“I’m just messing with you, Spencer–” you gasped internally and paused externally. You didn’t mean to address him by that name. Not only was it probably rude, but now he probably thought you did it on purpose or something–ughhh, this blows! And I was starting to like him, if he goes all Mr. Superior on me I should get permission to smack some sense into him. After all, he isn’t that much older–is he?

Spencer was confused as to why you were giving him the death glare. He had thought you and himself were getting along just fine–up until you used his first name at least. He wasn’t one of your professors and even if he were, some professors were alright with first name basis–Spencer had never taught a class before, sure he’d sat in on a few, but he was never a guest speaker, of course, that was definitely something he sought to change that after publishing a few more of his essays and articles, he was ambitious, as one with his skill was.

In any case, Spencer didn’t find it weird, but perhaps you did, and because he had laughed at something you’d said earlier, you were expecting him to laugh at you now. Spencer could explain the typical functions of why the corners of his mouth quirked upward. He could give a basic rundown of how muscles worked, it was settled in the back of his mind, ready to be spouted–but what he couldn’t tell you was why he couldn’t control it.

For normal people, he would bring in the psychology of the matter, chapter forty-five–ironically. Something one person said made the other person laugh, but that idea wouldn’t work in this situation. No, because you hadn’t said anything particularly funny. Then why else did people smile? In simpler terms, because they were happy, but why was Spencer happy? He didn’t know, he just didn’t know. He was staring at you and your childish glare and he could not figure out for the life of him why in the hell he was so damn happy.

“I see that,” your eyes holding a mischievous glint, leaning forward and jabbing a finger in his face. He looked shocked like he had no idea what was going on, “fine,” you deflated back into your chair, “if you want to laugh, get it over with,” a few seconds later, a few coughs came from Spencer, you stuck your tongue out at him, it was quick and unexpected, but it made you smile. What would you consider this then? You thought, reward theory of attraction? But I haven’t been rewarded with anything…

Spencer scoffed at the idiotic notion, that he shouldn’t be sitting here analyzing you simply because you made him smile–simply because he made you smile. He was your tutor and that was it. That should’ve been it, but as the night went on, the further your personalities complimented each other. You both knew it–it was the psychology of it all; ironic how it was the exact chapter you’d gone over first.

And as the evening faded into midnight, you both found your souls intertwining with the other. Unable to control it; unwilling to want to.

Cold wind blew through the loose fragments of your hair as you leaned on your arms against the open window on the trolley, the sun hitting your face just right. It made you sleepy, you wanted to sleep, but you couldn’t. In a few moments, you’d be pulling the line and getting off. You yawned are rubbed your eyes, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. It was midday, you were meeting your friend for lunch, and your tote bag sat in the seat next to you.

“It’s so cute, thank you!” You gushed.

“Yeah, I–I saw you eyeing it that day we went to the mall,” Spencer ran a nervous hand through his hair.

Your face didn’t have enough room for the grin spreading across your face, “thank you, Spencer, this really is the best birthday ever.”

He shrugged all nonchalantly, but you could see it in his eyes, it warmed your heart to know how special you were to him, “it was nothing.”

“To you,” you reached for his hand across the table, “but it’s everything to me,” you paused, unable to decide which eye to focus on, you kept flitting back and forth between both of them and eventually the silence grew. You snatched your hands back, feeling nervousness flutter throughout your body. You averted your eyes and smiled at the ground, “Thank you…I love it.”

A smile now overtook your face, you wondered where he was now. You hoped he was doing alright, you’d seen him on television before, on the news. He was living the dream he’d told you about when you were still in university. He’d become exactly what he’d wanted, he’d done it. You were proud of him. You always had been.

The trolley slowed down, you recognized this turn. With a sigh, you sat upward and pulled your bag over your shoulder, waiting for the drop-off to appear. When it came into view, you tugged at the tight string above you, getting ready to stand. The trolley wasn’t packed, which was normal for after lunch hours. The next rush would be around five, so as long as you left before or after–you wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.

A few others stood with you when the trolley came to a complete stop. The group filed off the cart in a line and when your sneakers met concrete, you took off down the sidewalk, heading for the café you typically met your friend at. You pulled your phone out and checked the time when a new message came through. You smiled as you came to the same crosswalk you always did. Behind you, couple turned on the right corner with their dog and a mother and daughter stood at the other end of the crosswalk. The February breeze blew calmly around you, and the daylight seemed to dim slightly as you waited near the pole.

Eventually, the lights switched and the sign across from you brightened. You held onto your bag as you moved, you weren’t wearing a sweater–before leaving the house, you’d decided your white long sleeve would do just fine–you were severely regretting that decision as the wind picked up. You don’t know why it was so cold, Spring was nearly here–at least it should have been.

The little girl skipped past you, her pigtails swaying to and fro. You admired the scene, wishing you could photograph it. Your job typically had you photographing crime scenes, it would have been a nice addition to the mini gallery you’d started in your home. It was one just for you, warmer than your day to day work. You’d majored in film and photography and minored in criminology, of course, your passion for both came from starkly different backgrounds, but they complimented eachother when it came to your job–your real job.

You didn’t talk much about your work, but you took to writing a few papers, only two had been published so far, and you’d received a letter last week, asking you to speak in a criminology-based class because of them–you weren’t doing too bad in the money department, but–you came up to the café–you still could not drive.

It was a minor thing, but it held you back instrumentally. You narrowed your eyes at the thoughts plaguing your mind, how idiotic–your friend would tease you in her own way, you shook your head and smiled, whatever, you thought. You held out a hand to push one of the doors open, but paused. You swear someone had called your name–you’e head swivled and–was that–a crash sounded throughout your head and some external force sent you flying backward.

As soon as Spencer walked through the doors of the BAU, he was snatched away by Hotch, everyone was on the jet already. Of course, it had to be the one time he’d thought he could let himself be a little late.

“Do we know what it is?’ Spencer asked, taking the file Emily held out into his palms.

“We don’t want to jump the gun and say a terrorist attack–”

“But that’s what it looks like,” Dereck nodded as Spencer’s eyes roved over the report, “what’s this?” He questioned, taking a closer look at the singular photo in the back.

“It’s a photo from the CCTV camera of the café that was hit–”

“The woman in the photo looks to be around early to mid 20’s” Emily stated, “we don’t know how badly she was injured or much of anything else.”

Spencer ran a finger along the woman's frame. “The first responding officers will tell us everything they remember when we land; JJ, Rossi head to the hospital and check on our possibly only survivor, see if you can get her statement, Morgan, Reid, you go to the crime scene, see what you can figure out, Prentis, you’re with me at the station–and Penelope?”

“Yes, Sir?” Garcia’s meek voice rang through the speakers of the large flatscreen plante on the wall in front of them, her face could be seen: she was huddled up in a blanket, but her makeup was as fresh as always.

“See if you can access the CCTV inside the café before the blast and others around the shop.”

She nodded, “I will call you as soon as I come up with something.” She clicked a button and the line went dead. Spencer’s heart was racing. Terrorist attacks were not common–if they occurred they would typicically mean something–terrroriste were likely to attack bigger buildings with a lot of power, the white house, for instance, and the Twin Towers were a good example of this, not just because of the towers. bin Laden weaponized Flight 11 because it was an American Airlines plane–it was a message, a symbol.

But this…this was a small family-owned café in a small shopping center, there was a bank just a few buildings over, why not target that? It just didn’t make any sense in Spencer’s mind. The woman in the photo–he hoped she was doing better than he thought she was–he couldn’t place it, but something about her felt…familiar.

He sighed and set the photo down, shutting the yellow folder.

You sat forward, pain slicing through your head like a blade. You groaned and raised a hand to your temple, only to find IVs connected to your skin. “What the hell happened?” They were freaky and they sent a shiver up your spine. You pulled each IV out steadily, there were three.

You watched them, waiting for one to begin bleeding, but none of them did, and a sigh of relief escaped your throat. You glanced around the room after rubbing your eyes, trying to figure out where you were.

“The hell…” You murmured, pushing yourself off the bed, okay, you were in a hospital? What else? There was a silver tray beside your bed, and a glass of water next to it. It looked like it had been sitting there for a while, though and you made a face.

You hated hospital food, it made you gag. You steadied yourself with the bed railing, You balanced your weight and walked to the door, taking one last look around the room before pulling the it open and stumbling forward.

Nurses noticed you immediately and rushed to your side. As they attempted to coax you back into the room, you couldn’t help but look up, the awkward fluorescent lights had you heaving, you felt sick in all the wrong ways. A nurse held up a medical-grade puke bag just in time.

“Ugh,” you wiped your mouth, reaching for the wall, that’s disgusting. Suddenly, your lips felt too big for you face–you tasted metal–you didn’t dare touch it. You turned to walk back into the room–that’s when you noticed the two guys in all black standing at each end of the hall. They looked like guards. You were weary, but you’d notice that earpiece anywhere. They were CIA officers. What were was your job doing here?

More importantly, what the hell happened? The last thing you remembered– “AH–” another sharp pain shot through your head and you sat back down, “someone,” you breathed, allowing the nurses to help you back into bed, “someone tell me–”

“–you need to rest now,” one of the nurses–the one with the most authority, you assumed–voiced.

“No, someone needs to tell me what the fuck is going on–” you sat back up and pushed her away, feeling blood rush to your head, “why is the CIA here–”

“Case Officer — —?” You glanced up, a blonde woman stepped through the door, her hair pulled into a neat, slick-back ponytail.

“Who are you?” You narrowed your eyes.

“My name is Jennifer Jareau, I’m with the Federal Beuro of Investigation–this is my partner SSA David Rossi–”

“FBI?” You raised a brow, “God,” you held your head, grimacing, “what happened?” You tried processing what you could remember, but you couldn’t. It was in your brain somewhere, you felt it–it just wasn’t popping up in any of the search engines you typically used. You huffed, giving up for the time being.

“Can you tell me…what you remember–”

“Nothing,” you shook your head, almost angry, “I can’t remember anything,” you scoffed and held your head in your both hands, covering your eyes. You wanted to sob, but were too embarrassed to do so.

“Alright, that’s alright,” Jennifer nodded.

But it wasn’t alright and you wanted to tell her so, but her partner, Rossi or whatever, cut in, “—... do you remember anything from before the blast?”

“Before the?” Your eyebrows scrunched together, but you paused. “That’s right,” you nodded, feeling a faint memory ghost over you, “there was a–there was a dog–” you said, though you weren’t sure why. “It was a little girl. A dog with a little girl–you were so sure of it, but something still felt off, you bit your cheek and shook your head, letting out an exasperated groan, “No–I don’t know.”

“It’s alright, I understand this can be frustrating. You were in a bad accident, there was a bomb, and you were caught in it. You hit your head pretty bad–”

“Pretty bad?” You scoffed, “You call this ‘pretty bad’? I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast or what song I listened to in the shower this morning–and this is ‘pretty bad’?” Jennifer turned her head, a frown taking up residence on her face. This was crazy–you needed to call your friend. She’d make you feel ten times better, “I need a phone, I need to call —.”

You tried standing, but Jennifer stopped you, “Here, use mine.” She slipped it out of her pocket and toward you.

You watched it for a second before taking it, still asking, “Where’s my phone?”

As you dialed —’s number, Jennifer said, “It should be with your things, I’ll check with the nursing staff.”

You held the phone up to your ear as she left the room, catching her partner's eye. You frowned when the line went to voicemail and called again, maybe her phone was dead? Maybe she had it on ‘do not disturb’? “No answer?”

You shook your head, and sighed, “voicemail.”

“What’s —’s last name, I’ll try to find her for you.”

“—,” you shook your head, calling back again, “it just doesn’t make any sense why she wouldn’t be answering, she was–” you paused, you don’t know why you said that.

Rossi raised a brow, “She was what?’

You frowned, “I don’t know,” a scowl replaced your frown, “what’s new?”

“Hey, don’t get discouraged.” Is what he said, but Rossi had a bad feeling about this whole thing. He typically kept his hard opinions to himself, especially ones that began with, “This is going to suck, but…”, and yet that’s what he was feeling now. That this was going to really suck.

“So we’ve ruled out a terrorist attack, there’ve been no phone calls, no letters, no demands. What else could this be?”

“A one-off?”

Spencer glanced around the room as Hotch and Morgan listed off ideas. JJ and Rossi had come back from seeing the survivor, they’d said it was strange, that almost the entirety of her memory concerning the blast was gone. As if it’d never happened in the first place, but that was to be expected considering the blow she’d taken to the head.

She was just lucky people saw her in the street before she was run over. The bomb had been so strong, that she’d ended up in the middle of the street, Spencer couldn’t watch the video after the first time, it had just looked so painful, and that was the eery part. She was missing parts of her memory, but she had no broken bones, the most damage she’d taken was psychological.

Her blood was fine, she had a few scratches on her arms and forehead, and her lip was pretty busted, but other than that, she was–again–perfectly fine. Which kept tugging at something in Spencer. “Was she able to remember anything? Anything at all?” Spencer heard himself asking, his arms uncrossing.

JJ shook her head, “No, nothing. She said she couldn’t even remember what she’d eaten for breakfast this morning.”

“No, but…” Rossi paused, folding his arms, Hotch and the rest of the team glanced in his direction, “She did…she did ask about a friend.”

“Yeah, she didn’t pick up any of the calls, though,” JJ waved her phone in the air and set it on the table in front of her.

“Yeah, but she also said something about her that seemed,” he shook head and waved an arm sound, “recent…”

“I don’t remember that.” JJ frowned.

“You were gone, talking to the nurses.”

“What did she say?” Hotch raised a brow, his voice growing colder by the hour.

“She said, ‘It doesn’t make any sense why she wouldn’t answer the phone, she was…’” The team waited for him to finish, but he huffed instead, “That’s it, she couldn’t remember the rest.” Spencer blew our air, rolling his neck back and forth as he thought of what the woman, — might have wanted to say.

“—...” Spencer mumbled. He recalled a time when he knew someone with that same name, he wondered where she was now. Probably married to some handsome bodybuilder who could crush Spencer with two fingers.

He puffed out his cheeks, he didn’t know why he always seemed to think about her in times like this; he looked out the window, allowing the moon to mesmerize his mind. He wanted to run far, far away. Always on midnights like this.

Spencer leaned back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, trying to picture himself in her point of view. He was walking toward the shop–she wasn’t on her phone and she didn't have a map, nor was she looking around, so she probably knew the area well. Okay, so he knew he was going to this café, he was…he was…meeting someone.

Spencer peddled back to when JJ had mentioned the little girl and the dog. He tried to place them together somewhere in the picture he’d created for himself. Was she distracted by it? She did turn her head as if someone had called out for her.

“What do you go for us Garcia?”

Spencer’s eyes popped open and he glanced at the laptop in front of Hotch, “oh, not much,” she shook her head, “but I was able to get footage of the surrounding area, and check this out,” she clicked some button and CCTV footage came up on the screen. The quality wasn’t great–it probably hand’t been replaced in a quite a while.

The team gathered around Hotch, watching and analyzing the film. There. Spencer recognized her immediately, but not as a victim on this case. His stomach dropped and he thought he might throw up.

“There’s our victim, but look, look at the relaxed way she’s acting.” Hotch analyzed.

“So…what?”

“It’s normal to her, she’s not worried, she’s not being pressured, I think she meeting someone at that café,” Spencer stated, rubbing the nape of his neck, “other than the footage, Rossi’s quote– “it doesn’t make any sense because she was–” end quote, could she have been about to say, ‘waiting for me?’ or ‘inside?’.

Rossi closed his eyes as Hotch gave the order to speed up the process of figuring out the identities of all the casualties caught in the blast and cross-check them with your friend's name. “Wait Sir, there’s one more thing I think you should know.”

“What is it, Garcia?”

“Okay, you know how we debunked the theory that this was a terrorist attack?”

He nodded, “Yes.”

Spencer held his breath, wondering what idea Garcia was about to plant into their heads. “Well, if we go back to the original footage we recovered in the beginning, we can say for sure —’s attention was pulled away from opening those doors. It was the millisecond that saved her life. Why did she look away, what caught her attention? Sir, I’m not an agent and I haven’t taken the classes you all have, but if that was me, I would say someone called her name.”

“Someone purposefully kept her from walking in?” Hotch rubbed his temple, eyes narrowing.

“This wasn’t an attack on the government,” Hotch shook his head, glancing at his team.

And it clicked for Spencer, “someone targeted —, but not because she works for the CIA–it was personal.”

“We need to figure out who it was — saw in that video.”

Spencer grimaced, he didn’t want to go to the hospital. Not yet. He had a job to do and he knew going to that hospital would just complicate things for him. He kept the fact that he knew the victim to himself. But she wasn’t just a victim–he detested thinking of her that manner–but if he wanted to catch the son of a bitch who did this to her, he’d have to stay away for just a bit longer.

“Thank you,” you smiled at the flowers, “it was really sweet of you to come all the way down here.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” —’s lisp sounded throughout the room, but you ignored it. He was sweet–you’d only met him a few times when working cases together, but he was the nicest person you’d ever met. Everyone loved him and no one made fun of his speech impediment. You were glad because you’d probably bite their heads off for it.

“Have you heard anything?” — frowned and shook his head, “No, I haven’t. I’m really sorry. I mean, this is just crazy.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, folding your hands in your lap, “tell me about it.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have…” he shook his head.

“No, no, you’re fine.” You smiled again, “I just…I just hope she’s alright. There must be some news?” You looked over — as if that blonde woman, Jennifer, might pop up. She didn’t.

“I promise, as soon as I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.” He smiled, fixing his glasses that didn’t quite sit right on his face.

Your heart swelled, you were so grateful. You weren’t on speaking terms with your parents, you hadn’t seen your cousins since your grandmother’s funeral, and — was the only friend you had unless you counted your team, but you weren’t really close with them either. You preferred to keep to yourself. It was hard for you to get close to anyone after him because in the back of your mind was always that question, that what if?

“Do you want some coffee? Some water? I can go ask the nurse…”

“Yes, please,” you nodded, “that, that would be nice.”

— left the room and you were once again left in the comfort of your silence. Your mind drifted to Spencer. It hadn’t clicked when Jennifer had first introduced herself. She’d been back only once more to see if you’d remembered anything, you hadn’t, of course. No more than the little girl and the dog. — had just arrived this morning, so Jennifer missed him, but he wouldn’t have been able to provide much information anyway, he maybe could’ve helped with figuring out the bomb equipment and things like that, he worked in the EOD, but all of that slipped your mind as you called up almost every memory you had with Spencer.

When you were alone earlier today after Jennifer had left and before — had arrived, you’d pulled out your phone and went through the screenshots you’d taken of some of the cases Spencer had been on, and sure enough–there he was standing next to Ms. Jennifer Jareau. They worked together, which meant Spencer was likely also working on this case–your case.

You shivered–hating the thought that you now had a case, that you were now considered a victim in some people’s eyes. You were the one photographing other victims–how could you have become one yourself? You closed your eyes and leaned back into the hospital bed, for what it was worth–they had comfortable beds–they could upgrade their blankets though. You smiled, thinking about the time Spencer had hurt his leg ans had to stay in this dreaded place for a few nights. The two of you shared your weariness of hospitals, he’d probably complain about the food and the lack of warmthness the blankets provided.

Though he was no doubt working , you hadn’t seen him, and Jennifer hadn’t said anything about it. You wondered if she even knew–if he’d told any of his team members about you. It stung you knowing the likelihood of it was low.

There was no way he didn’t recognize you. At least, that’s what you hoped, but he had to, right? After all, you’d been through, granted that all happened years ago–but still–he was everything. You had to mean something….right? You couldn’t just have been an experience, you had to be more than a memory. You just had to.

But he hadn’t been to visit you. And that hurt you the most. It floated around in you mind even as — walked back into the room and flashed you a tooth-gapped smile.

“You okay?” He asked, standing near your bed–near this morning’s silver tray that still hadn’t been touched.

“Yeah,” you reached for the cup of water, “just fine, thanks.”

“Reid,” Spencer bounced his right leg up and down and tapped the fingers of his left hand on the table in front of him, “Reid,” he wondered how you were doing, he’d just sifted through your text messages. He felt dirty. He didn’t have any right to read your private thoughts or those of the people you shared them with. He scolded himself, it wasn’t like he’d read your diary or anything. “Dammit, Reid!” Hotch huffed. Spencer glanced upward, stopping his tapping and leg shaking, “I need you to focus, what–what’s on your mind. Do you need to talk, it is your mom?”

Spencer tried acting unbothered and shook his head, sighing, “No, I’m fine.” He covered his mouth with a hand, feeling his throat run dry. You didn’t like hospitals, you never had, he remembered it starkly, and yet you still visited him every day when he’d injured his leg. That was years ago, but man–he chuckled–it felt like yesterday. Anytime he thought about you he felt young again. He didn’t know what it was–perhaps that was just what you represented, Spencer’s youth.

No, he shook his head, it was more than that. He sighed and ran another hand along the documents, and I threw it all away. An eyebrow shot up and Spencer’s eyes darted over a text message in particular. He picked it up and stood. “What?” Hotch met him at the board as he tacked it on and stood back, “what do you see?”

Spencer held back a scoff, “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before,” probably because he wasn’t in the right headspace, “look at this, she says, ‘it was nice meeting you today, thank you again for your help.’ He sends an entire paragraph. This was only a few months ago.”

“So,” Hotch shrugged and shook his head, waiting for an explanation, though a few ideas popped into his own head. Spencer waved his hand and walked back over to the pile of text messages blown up on printer paper, “Look at these, ‘it was nice working with you again, you’re really close with —,’ she says, ‘yeah, it was, and yeah! she’s my best friend,’ he tacked it on the board, this one says, ‘Sorry for your loss, I heard about your grandmother.’

“Get to the point Reid,” Hotch frowned, grouchy as always, Spencer thought.

“These are all by the same person, and I’m pretty sure there are multiple like these–but the thing is, all of his messages are long, like paragraph-length, and all of hers are single-sentence responses.” He shook his head, “after her initial message, she only responds, and they’re always short. And the way they sound–it’s so…I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t notice it because that’s just how she is,” Spencer bit his lip–ignoring the painful squeeze in his heart– “It’s not her fault, but I think he’s reading into everything. I mean, Hotch–just look at some of the things he’s saying in these messages–” Spencer went back to the table and pulled out more from the same contact.

He looked back at Hotch, waiting for his nod of approval, and finally, Hotch gave it to him, along with a, “Have Garcia run a background check on this person. Whoever he is, he’s worth questioning. I’ll call Morgan when we have an ID.” Spencer nodded and got to dialing Garcia’s number right as he grabbed his jacket. It was time. He needed to see you.

It was getting later, afternoon turned into evening in the blink of an eye. But you supposed that was to be expected, February had become March, and you were only here for a few days, yes–but it felt like an eternity. Some of the memories were coming back to you, you recalled being in front of the crosswalk, the little girl was with her mother on the other side, not with a puppy. The dog you’d mentioned to Agent Jereau had been behind you, a couple were the ones walking it.

There was still no news, about —, the waiting had slowly begun to agitate you. Jennifer hadn’t come back, but — was still here, you frowned as you glanced at him from the corner of your eye, “You know, you don’t have to stay here all night, you must have work tomorrow. They're not gonna let you off easy if you’re late, you know.”

— shook his head, throwing you a smile, “I’ll be fine, have any of your memories from The Incident come back?” — called it “The Incident” rather than the bombing or the blast, which you found odd at first, excused it as him being considerate. “That…” he lowered his gaze, “I’m sorry,” he shook his head.

You snorted a bit, “why, it’s not your fault.”

He frowned, looking dead serious for a second. It unnerved you, but then he looked away and an innocent smile took over his features again, “I know, I just feel bad.”

“Well, don’t,” you shook your head, thinking to reach out and touch his arm, but shivers flew up your spine and suddenly you were wondering if there were nurses near your room, and if so, how many? It had been silent for a while, no more bustling back and forth. You frowned at your thoughts, this was crazy. — wasn’t hurting you, if anything, he was trying to be nice. He was the only one to come to the hospital when there was still so much work to be done. — must’ve been busy because you hadn’t worked with him in a while, yet he was still taking time out of his busy schedule to see if you were alright. That was more than you could say for someone. Spencer hadn’t even come to see if you were alright, you knew a few years had passed since the last time you had spoken, but still–couldn’t he just check up on you once? Wasn’t he at all worried or curious as to how you were doing?

The rest of his team had been to see you at some point within the week, though none of them mentioned him. You hadn’t wanted to ask because you’d thought it would be awkward and it was his private life, what right did you have? So, you had left it alone. Now, though you blew out air and asked, “Hey, —?”

“Yeah?” He looked at you expectantly, it scared you. You couldn’t place the reason as to why–but his eyes, there was something…less about them. You wanted to jump out of your own skin and run away–your mouth dropped. You remembered. You remembered why you didn’t walk into the café. But it couldn’t be. You must have your thoughts confused and–no you didn’t You knew exactly what you heard and saw.

You avoided his eyes and faked a cough, “could you… could you get the nurse, I think I need some more water.”

— didn’t move for a second and in that moment, you thought, he knows. You were so sure he knew that you knew that you had remembered. “Sure,” his tone wasn’t cold, but it didn’t have any of the warmness it had mere moments ago. He breezed out of the room, leaving the door cracked.

You breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone, feeling like you were going to die of stress, you stood and stretched. You weren’t in the worst shape, but you had been sitting around for the past three days, you picked up your phone and scrolled threw your messages with —, your best friend. You thought to call her if only to keep your hopes up. They died when you heard the ring of a cell phone nearby.

There was no way, you thought, believing it must be a coincidence, but then what did Spencer say that one time? That there were never any happy accidents or coincidences? That everything always had a reason, whether it was likely or not.

You turned toward the area where — had been sitting, his brown jacket was tossed over the back of the chair. Hesitantly, you pulled it open and rummaged through the pockets, eventually pulling out what you were terrified of finding: —’s phone.

“I couldn’t find any of the nurses,” your blood ran cold as you heard the sound of a door clicking shut, his tone deafening as you felt his presence grow closer, “but you seem all better now.”

Spencer didn’t know whether he should stop by the hospital cafeteria or at a fast food place. Of course, since Garcia seemed to have developed a 6th sense, she could tell something was up–that or Hotch had let something slide, it would be just like him to do something like that.

So, he finally admitted to knowing you and consulted Garcia on his dilemma. She–without hesitation–of course, scolded him for being so narrowminded. If she hated hospitals, she probably hated the food as well, and so, Spencer made a pitstop–but then he thought about it being your first reunion in years and he couldn’t very well just bring you anything.

So, perhaps he had been overthinking everything on the way to the hospital and made more than one stop to gather up the things he remembered you liking back in university. Only when he was stepping out of the car–trying not to trip over mere air as he grabbed the plastic bags–did he realize that maybe he didn’t know everything about you anymore…

He glanced over the items in his hands, sure you may have liked this once upon a time–back when you were together, back when you were something more. But then again–you’d never labeled your relationship. You just were. You were more…to him.

More than soulmates. He shook his head, standing here hesitating would get him nowhere. The car door shut with a thud and Spencer winced slightly before coming to his senses and grabbing at any sort of courage he could reach.

He ignored the staff, he knew he looked silly. With his black puffer jacket on, his satchel crossed over his body, his hair messy, and his arms full, one holding a bear with a get well soon-card–something he’d found at one of the shops near the place he bought your favorite fast food–he hoped it was still your favorite. He’d even bought a blanket, now that they knew the bombing was a personal attack on you–Spencer planned on spending every second keeping you safe–plus the blankets the hospital provided never kept anyone warm.

Though, he did have to admit he was pretty freaked out. When he hung up the phone with Garcia, she had said she would get back to him after she called Hotch and he was right–who knew? He internally patted himself on the back. That guy on your phone looked pretty good for it. More than good–he’d been fired from his job, where all of your interactions had occurred, which, he and Hotch discussed over the phone, must have been the trigger.

Spencer only knew two things about this guy, his name and that he was obsessed with you. Spencer felt his blood boil at the thought that someone you had been so nice to–was the one who had done these horrible things to you in his sick, fucked up ‘name of love’. Sure, Spencer hadn’t spoken to you–hadn’t seen you in ages–but that didn’t mean he didn’t care. Spencer would always care, and right now, he was feeling the brunt of his conviction. He’d make sure that guy didn’t get past the first-floor elevator, he would never let him see you again.

Spencer realized his grip on the bags had tightened, he took a breath and slightly released them. He both wanted to be with you during this time and out hunting down that guy. You were on the second floor and each second that ticked by was killing him. He didn’t know if you’d be happy to see him. JJ had said you remembered most things about yourself, and you remembered your friends, so there was no way you didn’t remember Spencer.

He knew you two didn’t leave things off on a good note, but he hoped that this was fate. He hated thinking someone close to you had to die for you to meet again, but here you were just five feet away. He paused in front of your hospital door, running through the first words he would say–it was quiet, though–extremely quiet, and there were no nurses around–he tilted his head as he spun around, just now noticing the missing presence.

Spencer shivered, feeling the yellow-dimmed fluorescent lights heighten his paranoia. He didn’t too much like hospitals either. He startled and his head swiveled back to your room when he heard a scream, followed by a crash. He froze, but then his adrenaline kicked in and he dropped everything, to throw open the door.

He had you on the floor, hands around your throat, and you were struggling to breathe. It felt like the room was closing in on you, you saw a flash of white and then you closed your eyes, coming to only seconds later as relief pulled you upward. Someone had tackled him–as you sat forward, hunched over, struggling to find your breath again. The room was spinning, it was both dark blue and gray–you could make out the door that was now ajar.

It felt like hours had gone by, you blinked, but could only hold one eye open at a time. A giant red button took over your view and all you could think was that you needed to get to that damned button. You began crawling toward it while the others were distracted.

You didn’t know who that person was, you hadn’t gotten a good look, but to be fair, you could barely see anything in that moment. You reached out an arm, still on your hands and knees. It took everything in you not to collapse right there. When the pads of your fingertips glazed over the button you felt a sigh of relief escape your lungs. You pressed it–an alarm sounded right after. Mission accomplished, but you couldn’t rest just yet. You had to get out of here, the room was too stuffy, where was your breath going? Why couldn’t you feel it anymore?

Hot tears streamed down your cheeks as you felt your movements slowing. Your chest shuddered with the weight of everything and you slumped against something hard.

You were breathing as best as you could, but every breath felt like a sword to your lungs. Someone said something or …something–you didn’t know and you didn’t care to.

Your vision was blurry, there were tears in your eyes, and someone moved toward you. You couldn’t tell who it was–you tried speaking, but only wheezing came. You felt something soft and cold press against your lips and all at once, you felt your spirit lifting. Your eyes shot open and you weren’t sure if you were dreaming or recalling a memory from a past life.

No, you had to be dreaming, because you knew this person. Years ago you knew everything about him and he knew everything about you, but you’d never been with him like this–though you had imagined it on some nights when he'd fall asleep across from you and you couldn’t help the urge to study his facial features. Tracing up every curve, trying to encode it into your brain as if you’d be tested on how long his neck was or what shape his mouth formed when he wasn’t speaking.

His shyness brought something out of you, a side to yourself you would have never known existed if you hadn’t met him. If you’d never met Spencer…that’s what it felt like now, because the Spencer you once knew never looked so heartbroken. You smiled as best you could, his face was so close to yours, his breath breathing air into your mouth.

You reached out and wiped one of the tears that escaped his eyes. Thank you, your gaze seemed to try conveying. You hoped he understood how thankful you were to see his face one last time, right before everything went black.

She had found him.

And he had given her up.

Once more, she found him.

And he would never let her go again.

a/n: again sorry for the super late valentines day post!!

@darkmatilda @theylovemelody @kennedy-brooke

422 notes · View notes