#AN *EXTREMELY* GRISLY BIT OF DIALOGUE I NEVER GOT | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

reidscanehand · 3 years

Text

Rather Ardently

Spencer Reid x BAUfem! Reader

Category: Angsty Fluff

TW: Cursing, marital problems, mentions of cheating (it’s not really, actually happening, Reader just thinks it is), mentions of schizophrenia and Alzheimer’s

Based on a request from @whale-of-a-time : Hey there! I love your writing, you are so talented! I have a request for a Spencer x fem!bau!reader where she and Spencer are married and then he starts having his headaches so he seeks out help from Maeve. She doesn't die or anything but they become friends and reader starts to feel insecure about herself because of how much Maeve and Spencer has in common and then Spencer realises but her reassures that he loves her? Is that okay? Hope you're safe and healthy during everything.

This was taken from a request and then mixed with a very loose concept I’d had rolling around in my brain for a while. I’m a big reader (duh, aren’t we all?) and a massive Jane Austen fan. If you haven’t seen the film Austenland and are an Austen fan, I highly recommend, but this is based a bit on that as well, except set in the United States, and not in the UK. This might seem super silly as a framing device, but the second I got this request I knew I could combine the ideas and I got so very excited. This is also the first time I get to be super specific about which season Spencer Reid this is, which I’ve never done before, but this is Season 7-Season 8 Spencer. Reader and Spencer met/started dating around Season 2 and got engaged in Season 5. This is set near the beginning of Season 8, and they finally got married ten months prior during Season 7, making this set during their first year of marriage (you’ll see, hopefully that makes sense - this timeline was partially written for my own benefit). Also, if you are a Maeve fan (as I am), this is kind of anti-Maeve (I speak of her in an extremely passive way, but the Reader is not a fan; I also might somewhat imply that she likes Spencer more than he likes her). Thank you so much for the request @whale-of-a-time - I hope you enjoy it! Also, shout out to @homoose for helping me with some of the dialogue in this!

And to all of you: I love you whoever you are. While I was working on this, I passed 500 followers and, somehow, now have over 650, which is insane for my little mind. Thank you so very much for your support. Again, I love you all and hope you’re having an excellent season! xx

~ “I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.” - Jane Austen ~

Was it bad to wish that you kind of...weren’t as good at your job as you are? Because if you were less good at your job, the two of you wouldn’t be sitting, - rotting, really - in this abominable tension. The thought crosses Spencer’s mind for the second time in the hour as the two of you are driven to The Winchell House. They say the first year of marriage is the hardest, but, Spencer didn’t know who “they” were and he’s sure not even the omnipotent “they” could’ve imagined such an unusual predicament for him and his new wife.

The Winchell House is a mock-Georgian mansion that sits in the middle of Maine, the rainy climate adding to the attempt at a British atmosphere as much as the summer long Jane Austen retreat the mansion has hosted every year for the past fifteen years. However, this summer, among the Austenites, there had been a series of two rather grisly murders over the course of two weeks. Both victims had been found, arms and legs strapped to a plinth, a small concrete slab, that sat in the middle of the pond at the back of the property. The cause of death was asphyxiation, caused by a wire strapping their necks to the plinth, the particular knot used causing the rope to tighten as the victim struggled. The murders were grisly, but completed quickly and meticulously, even when extra security had been added to the property. The retreat, which ran from the end of June to August, was the brainchild of a British-American immigrant named Evelyn McCleary, who’d contacted the FBI, desperate for help. And that is how you and Spencer came into the mix.

Almost immediately Mrs. McCleary was redirected to Hotch, who agreed to take on the case. It was decided that the best course of action would be to send in two BAU agents undercover as latecomers on the Jane Austen retreat. And, to no one’s surprise, you and Spencer were chosen for the task. Actually, honestly, you were chosen for the task, Hotch just insisted Spencer accompany you. And if Hotch hadn’t insisted, Spencer would’ve, despite the recent issues the two of you have had. It had been awkward recently, sure, but Spencer wouldn’t let his wife go on an undercover operation alone.

You were chosen primarily because of your bizarre skills with dialects. Honestly, Spencer had never seen its equal outside of, like, actors. It’s, frankly, bizarre how well you can do accents. The only one you can’t manage is a stereotypical New Yorker, but the others are absolutely incredible. The first time your “little talent” (your words, not Spencer’s) came to light was on your first case as part of the BAU. The team was on a case in Georgia and some diner owner wasn’t willing to cooperate as a witness. Hotch talked to him, so did Emily, even Rossi, but he wouldn’t agree to say anything. With a boldness that no one expected from you, you politely asked Hotch if you could try speaking to him. Hotch, desperate at this point, gave his consent, as long as Spencer went with you, watching from one of the booths. The two of you entered separately and, by the time Spencer had sat down, you’d struck up a conversation with the witness in a perfect, old-fashioned southern accent. You were so damn charming that the man immediately agreed to come to the station with you and, from the sound of it, would’ve likely signed over his worldly possessions if you’d so much as hinted at it.

“You wanna tell me what that was?” Spencer had asked incredulously as the two of you watched Hotch interrogate the man from outside the interview room.

“What do you mean?” you asked. You still won’t admit it, but your tone was definitely coquettish because you were definitely flirting with Spencer at that point.

“That...that voice you did? How did you...what did you-” he attempted to ask, barely able to stammer out the question. Because, by that point, even though he wouldn’t admit it either, he was already most definitely falling head over heels for you.

“Oh,” you’d laughed, like you didn’t know. “My ‘little talent’...um, yeah.” You’d shrugged.

“Little?” he’d almost screamed incredulously. Little talent, my ass.

“I have an ear for accents,” you’d shrugged again. You didn’t tell anyone about it, and neither did Spencer, but after the third case where your ‘little talent’ proved helpful in forcing an uncooperative witness to talk, Hotch nearly forced you to tell him. And, ever since then, nearly six years ago now, you’d been the go-to girl for undercover operations, hostage negotiations, and even interrogations where your ‘little talent’ (which Spencer, just to tease you, called your ‘great big whopping talent’) came in handy. Aside from your ‘little talent’, you are also an absolute top notch profiler, the talent a mere party trick compared to your other abilities in the field. You’d been recruited to join the BAU shortly after your graduation from the FBI Academy, making you the youngest agent after Spencer. Early on, the two of you were paired up because of your closeness in age, and later you were paired up because you’d started dating and, as Hotch discovered, Spencer was borderline useless if he was worried about you on cases. The two of you dated for a long time. You saw Spencer through a lot of sorrows: Gideon leaving, Spencer’s abduction and subsequent addiction to dilaudid, his painful reintroduction to his father, and getting shot in the knee. The day he was shot in the knee was the day he’d proposed, actually. You’d rushed to the hospital, very concerned about the fact that your boyfriend of three years had somehow managed to get shot in the knee, and arrived to find Spencer sitting up in his hospital bed and eating Jell-o with a smile on his face, his left leg in a brace.

“How the hell did you manage to do this?” you’d asked, looking at the x-rays in his file.

“I managed nothing,” Spencer had joked, watching you carefully. “I was shot by the unsub.”

“And why did that happen?”

“Because I jumped in front of the victim-”

“Exactly, so somehow you did manage to get shot in the knee and dislocate it in almost seven different places,” you’d said, only a little snarky.

“But, the victim was okay, and the unsub made it out alive, so that’s all good, right?” He was still watching you, knowing there was something else on your mind. “So, what’s the problem, love?”

“There’s no problem,” you’d huffed, putting down Spencer’s file and getting to your feet. “It’s just...just...never mind. I’ll go get us some more coffee-”

“No, honey,” Spencer said, grabbing your hand. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.” You turned to face him, but kept your eyes on your hands, which he held in his.

“I just really wish...I wish you’d stop devaluing your own life, Spence,” you’d whispered, tears welling in your eyes. “Because so many people care about you, and I wish you’d care as much. Your life isn’t any less valuable...and I know, I know, you’re willing to do whatever it takes to get the unsub, but...why does it always have to be you?”

“Y/N, I-”

“No, Spencer, seriously,” you’d insisted, tears falling steadily now, “if anything ever happened to you...I couldn’t...I wouldn’t ever get over that.” As awkward as it was in a hospital bed, Spencer pulled you close, hugging you as tightly as he could and pressing a kiss into your hair.

“You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily, sweetheart,” he'd whispered into your ear, rubbing circles on your back.

“I know I sound silly-”

“I don’t think you sound silly,” Spencer had hummed, pressing a kiss to your nose as he’d cupped your face in his hands. “I think you’re the sweetest woman in the entire world and I adore you.”

“I don’t want to get rid of you...ever, Spencer, that’s the point I’m trying to make,” you’d stated, letting out a breathy chuckle.

“Ditto, my darling girl,” he’d chuckled, pulling you in closer. That’s when he’d decided. “In fact...um, can you hand me my satchel over there?” He’d pointed to his leather bag, sitting on a chair in the corner. You’d grabbed it and brought it back, setting it gingerly next to him. “Could you, like...cover your eyes for a minute?”

“What’s...what are you doing, Spencer?”

“Please, Y/N, just close your eyes?” You’d smiled at him, adorably rolling your eyes, and turned around, your hands covering them. He had looked through his bag, finding the ring box, his hands shaking only a little. “Okay. Okay, Y/N, turn around.” You’d gasped sweetly, tears forming in your eyes for an entirely different reason as he’d presented the ring. “Now, this...this is not at all how I intended to do this. I’d definitely planned on being in nicer clothes than a hospital gown, and being able to get down on one knee, and I really didn’t want it to be involved with work at all, but, um, the thing is...when you look at the grand scheme of the universe...our lifetimes are such a tiny percentage of time that I don’t want to waste another second of it without you. Ever since I met you, you make every day things feel extraordinary. And you’re the first person to ever make me feel extraordinary...and if you’ll let me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make every day as extraordinary as I can because you deserve nothing less. Will you marry me?” You’d nodded and cried, allowing him to slip the ring onto your finger.

Ten months ago the two of you were married. Rossi became a certified minister in order to perform the wedding, marrying the two of you at a historic site, Dumbarton House in D.C., surrounded by your teammates and family. It was, without question, the happiest day of Spencer’s entire life. He’d held onto you the whole time, not caring if he’d seemed clingy or over emotional. You were his and he was yours, finally and forever. You’d smiled up at him the whole day, even as the team was called away on a case - hiking your dress up to get on the jet, changing in the jet’s bathroom, spending what should’ve been your honeymoon in a motel in Kansas while solving a heinous crime - you’d smiled, the happiness rolling off the two of you in sheets despite the case and bad timing. Remarkable, really, your optimism and unerring sweetness.

It was always like this with you. Easy, even when things were hard. Simple, even when things seemed complicated. You had a way of turning Spencer’s life around and allowing him to see the sun and smell the roses no matter what.

But, as with most things in his life, happiness seemed to be followed by tragedy. And the sudden aggressive, blinding headaches were absolutely a tragedy. They’d started small, an occasional headache during a case. Hard to separate from the general exhaustion of work, easily written off with Excedrin and more coffee. Then the vomiting started. The violent reaction matching the growing intensity of the headaches. He’d awaken in the middle of the night, determined for you to sleep through it, only for you to find him, and rub circles into his back over the toilet or sink. You’d then sit with him, losing valuable sleep just to keep him company when the migraines were too ferocious to return to bed. It was wearing and debilitating for the both of you. And just as it pained him to have the headaches at all, it pained him even more to see you, just as fatigued, desperately trying to take care of him. Even more frustrating as a plethora of doctors and a myriad of tests proved unhelpful.

Strangely enough - now, anyway- it was you who suggested talking to a geneticist. Something some otherwise feckless doctor had mentioned got you thinking and you’d found Dr. Maeve Donovan, a geneticist working from home on sabbatical. You’d sent his MRIs to a local research university, only to then receive a phone call from Maeve, setting up an appointment for Spencer.

Maeve’s situation was interesting, to say the least. The two of you were the only people who knew about it, and, despite wanting to utilize your FBI connections, Maeve refused help. She was being stalked, she believed by her ex-boyfriend, and hadn’t left her home in months, leaving her appointments with Spencer relegated to weekly phone conversations. Weekly phone conversations that, as Spencer had only recently discovered, you were not a fan of. You’d not said anything about it, but your attitude surrounding Maeve spoke volumes. Spencer wasn’t sure why, really, he was just relieved to have someone to talk to about his fears of schizophrenia and Alzheimer’s. You knew about these possibilities, of course. You’d met his mother, but...it wasn’t something he was just thrilled to discuss with you. It was a dark and scary possibility that one day Spencer’s mind, as vast and endless as it seemed to be...would be gone forever. To Alzheimer’s or schizophrenia or dementia...something could happen. He was thrilled to be able to finally stop worrying you with his health issues and just rant about them to Dr. Donovan.Trying to keep you from the pain of it potentially not working, or, more hopefully, being able to share in the joy if it did work. Thus far, the headaches were almost entirely gone. An occasional one here or there, much less violent than they had been, and usually only brought on by lack of sleep. He was tentatively optimistic...but it was only then that he’d noticed the sudden space in between you two. Your slight frown and worried eyes when Maeve would call on Sundays for their weekly appointment. He hadn’t even connected it to Maeve until she’d made him laugh last week and you’d suddenly decided to spend the night at Penelope’s. You’d made up something about Penelope needing help with her hair, too upset to control your microexpressions. Spencer knew it was a problem, but between work, and the efforts he was making towards fixing his headaches, there weren’t enough hours in the day.

He looks to the front passenger seat where you’re sitting. Derek, thankfully, definitely recognized that there was tension in the air, but hadn’t said anything. You were staring out the car window, your fingers absentmindedly twisting your engagement and wedding bands. For a moment, as he watches the light hit you in spurts through the car window, the sun shining through your hair and eyes. You catch his eye in the rearview mirror, allowing your lips to curl in an ever so slight smile. God, but he loves you. He loves you so much...more than he ever thought he’d be able to love anyone. And you love him, just the same way. You two could get through this...right?

Spencer sits up straighter in his seat, a new resolve settling in his system. He wasn’t due to speak to Maeve for another week, the two of you were at a Jane Austen retreat in the middle of Maine for at least a week or two. Surely, surely, he could get things back on track with you. Surely.

~~~

No matter how long the two of you have been together, Spencer is still rather awestruck by how truly beautiful you are. One would think that, after dating each other for over three years and being engaged for two years after that before being married for nearly a year, Spencer would acclimate himself to it, but that is simply not the case. The moment the two of you are dropped off at the very impressive Winchell House, you’re ushered to Mrs. McCleary’s private wing and changed into Regency costumes. Most of the people here were cosplayers and had made their own or made them for novelty stores and events, but you and Spencer were lucky enough to have Mrs. McCleary set you up with enough costume ware to get you through the estimated maximum of two weeks undercover that you two would do.

The clothes were another story altogether for Spencer. The pants were ridiculously tight. Like, truly, whoever thought this was a good idea? Probably those horny bastards in Elizabethan England, Spencer thinks to himself as he attempts, for the fourth time since putting them on, to adjust himself comfortably in his pants. He’s read the works of Jane Austen, obviously, they are classics for a reason. Pride and Prejudice is by far one of her best, but he has a soft spot in his heart for Emma, since she was a far more complex heroine than any of Austen’s others. He’s even seen some of the film adaptations, so he knew what he was getting into fashion-wise, at least from an aesthetic perspective, but no one had clued him in on exactly how uncomfortable these clothes would be. The collar is stiff, as is, shockingly, the cravat within it. The shirt is comfortable, only but it’s supposed to be (somehow) tucked into his tight pants, maintained with harsh suspender-like clasps, covered with a slightly stiff vest, and then forced into absurdly small jackets with tight shoulders in order to compel the wearer to better posture. There are knee high socks, which he doesn’t mind, then the shoes. The ones for indoor wear, anyway, are rather absurd. He doesn’t mind the slight heel so much as the incredible narrowness of the overall shoe. The boots are fine, but only really meant for outdoor wear, meaning he’ll have to, at some point - God forbid - dance in the indoor shoes.

As he finishes putting on the clothes, he looks himself over in the mirror. He doesn’t look as bad as he thought he might. A little silly, maybe, but not awful. And, at the very least, he doesn’t have to do this alone. However, as things always seem to go in your relationship, he’s incredibly unprepared to see you. And, as you bustle out of the changing room in a pale blue, empire waisted gown, with little flowers laced through your modest, slightly curly updo, Spencer thinks his heart might explode. As you lightly fret over your appearance in the mirror, you catch his eye, turning to stare at him.

“What?” you ask, nervously. “Did I...do I...um, what’s wrong?”

“Why would something be wrong?” he mumbles, feeling a little dumb.

“You’re just staring at me with your mouth open,” you reply, looking a little bewildered. “Is something wrong?”

“No, oh n-no, God,” he stammers out, feeling less like a nearly thirty year old man and more like an absolute child. “Um, it’s just, uh, y-you look r-really pretty. Like, really beautiful.”

A light blush covers your cheeks and you turn back to the mirror, you lip caught between your teeth, “Oh, um...thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.” He comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing a kiss on the top of your head before placing his head on your shoulder.

“I know that we have to find the unsub,” Spencer whispers into your hair, the resolve from earlier taking over. “But, it’s been a while since the two of us got to just be together, especially on the job, you know? And this is a rather...romantic location...” He nuzzles into your neck, pressing a trio of small kisses into the warm skin there.

“You seem more delighted by this than I thought you’d be,” you breathe, your neck tilting to expose more of your flesh to his mouth. He nips at it before continuing.

“I’m always delighted by you,” Spencer mumbles in between kisses. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Do you mean that?” you whisper, your eyes almost glassy. He turns you around to face him, his arms still on your waist. He allows himself, briefly, to profile you, his eyes scanning your face. Why the fuck wouldn’t he mean that?

“Of course I do,” he insists, still searching your face. “You’re my wife, I love you.” Your eyes look so sad, he thinks you might cry.

“I love you too,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around him in a hug, “so very much.” The last part is said so softly, he’s not sure he’s meant to hear it.

“Y/N, are you-”

“Mr. and Mrs. Percival?” Mrs. McCleary’s bright, jolly voice breaks the tension. You move to step away from Spencer, but he pulls you to his side with a firm hand on your waist. Neither of you answer and Mrs. McCleary looks at you brightly. “Those are your aliases, yes?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. McCleary,” you respond. She nods politely, assessing the two of you.

“Right,” she chuckles, softly, “you look lovely, the both of you, really. What a picturesque duo you are! Now, I must tell you, you will be our only married couple-”

“Is it unusual for married couples to do this?” you ask, suddenly. “Because we could pretend to not be married.”

Spencer’s heart lurches at your offer. Um...no, “I am not comfortable with that-”

“No need for that, dear,” Mrs. McCleary interrupts. “The first married couple this summer left after the first dead body was found and the only other couple was Anna Helburn and her husband.”

“Oh, the first victim,” you nod, understanding. You look to Spencer, but he determinedly looks away from you, still mildly offended that you just offered to pretend not to be married. You look back to Mrs. McCleary, “Was Mr. Helburn questioned before he left?”

“Oh, he hasn’t left,” Mrs. McCleary replies, looking befuddled.

“He didn’t leave when his wife was killed?” Spencer questions, completely in shock. “That’s....highly suspicious. Which is Mr. Helburn?” With his free hand he gestures to the file in Mrs. McCleary’s hands.

“Oh, yes,” she says, handing him the file. He releases your waist as he opens it, finding a photo of Grant Helburn easily.

“He fits the preliminary profile,” Spencer muses, showing you the photo. “White male, late thirties to early forties, agile, athletic, tall...he no longer has a service job, but he grew up working on a farm, which could explain the knowledge of ropes and knots...”

“He’s been,” Mrs. McCleary starts, uneasily, “a tad on edge since his wife was killed, but...we assumed it was because of that. We also assumed he wouldn’t stay, though, so...”

“Did he give a reason for staying?” you query, looking away from your study of the file.

“He said that his wife had always wanted to do this and they’d finally saved up enough for it and he wanted to finish it for her. It’s odd, though, I mean...we had plenty of people leave after the murders. There’s just you two, Mr. Helburn, and three others left. We had twelve when the retreat started.”

“Who’s left?” Spencer asks, not looking up from the file, memorizing as much as he possibly can about everyone, especially Grant Helburn.

“Ashley Morrow, she’s a regular, comes every year or so. She’s in her late thirties-”

“Not the unsub’s type, then,” Spencer interrupts. “Please, continue.”

“Yes, then there’s Alex Foster, he’s our only minor. He’s seventeen, but starting college in the fall. He’s double majoring in British Literature and History and this is his graduation present,” Evelyn continues. “Then there’s Josefina Delgado. She’s been once before, maybe four years ago. Big Austen fan- are you, by the way?” she asks abruptly.

“What?” Spencer replies, his head snapping up from the file.

“Are you two Austen fans?” she asks again.

“Oh, yes,” you answer. “Lifelong fan. And Spence, here, has read them all at least twice and can probably recite a good portion of Emma and Pride and Prejudice.”

“And Sense and Sensibility,” he adds, only sort of joking. He nods his chin to you, “That’s her favorite.” You smile at that, the first mildly genuine smile he’s seen from you in ages. He allows himself to watch you again as you continue to look over the file. Your hand has migrated to the small of his back, mostly out of convenience in order to share the file, but there was something comforting about the ease and casualness with which you did this action that calmed Spencer. The two of you will be okay...right?

“Good to know,” Mrs. McCleary claps her hands. “Now, I do believe I’m due to teach the two of you some dances.”

Spencer sends a concerned look your way and you giggle a little, pulling him to the makeshift dance floor Mrs. McCleary leads you to. He sighs, resigning himself to this ridiculous task in his absurd shoes. At least he gets to watch your pretty figure dance around for a little while.

~~~

No one on the Jane Austen retreat is meant to have their cell phones. This had, obviously, been a rule that the both of you were allowed to overlook, as you are federal agents and need your phones to get in contact with your team. Yours, actually, conveniently fit in the small space between your chemise and corset. Spencer’s had to go in the inside pocket of his ridiculously structured jacket. You’re at the dinner table when it happens, his phone buzzing against his chest. It actually hits right beneath his armpit, causing him to embarrassingly giggle rather intensely.

“I do apologize,” he says, standing, still chuckling as the very subtle vibration tickled the tender flesh. “I’m a tad overcome. If you will excuse me for a moment.” He stands, giving an awkward bow (he’s not quite gotten hold of the bows, yet) and exiting the room, finding a far more private side hallway before taking out his phone. He was, frankly, rather relieved to leave the table. The British accent required for the retreat was...a struggle to say the least. Not for Mrs. McCleary, who was actually British, or you, who could easily fool anyone with your ‘little talent’. Alex Foster, the young man on the retreat, had a pretty decent accent at times, only struggling here and there with a few words. Spencer’s attempt at the accent is abismal. He assumed accents would be like learning a language, his mouth easily memorizing the space and tongue positioning required for the different sounds, but no such luck. Josefina Delgado is from Puerto Rico, struggling valiantly to work around her own accent in order to speak English, which she actually did beautifully, but the attempt at a British accent left a bit to be desired. Ashley Morrow didn’t even attempt one, nor did Grant Helburn, but Mrs. McCleary didn’t seem to enforce this rule with them. To be fair, she had much more to worry about.

“Dr. Reid,” Spencer whispers, picking up his phone.

“Reid,” Hotch says on the other end, “any leads yet?”

“Not much to go on as of yet,” he answers, “though I think we should do a full background check into Grant Helburn, he seems most likely to be the unsub of the guests, anyway. Y/N and I are looking into staff starting tomorrow.”

“Anna Helburn’s husband?” Hotch asks, confused.

“Yes,” Spencer replies, taking off his jacket, maneuvering the phone as he does so. “He said he stayed on to honor her legacy, but I doubt it.”

“We’ll have Garcia look him up and send it to you,” Hotch agrees. “Anything else we should know?”

“Yeah,” Spencer breathes, allowing his anxiety to take hold. “Um, the only person here who fits his previous victimology is Y/N.”

“Uh-huh,” Hotch concurs.

“So, either the unsub is going to escalate, or we’re sending Y/N to the wolves,” Spencer continues.

“What are you saying, Reid?” Hotch challenges.

“Well, sir, it’s just that, frankly, I’m not very comfortable with either-”

“Reid. I know, I know this is difficult. But, you are there with your wife. That is the safest we can possibly keep her. We need you two for this. Are you okay to do this, agent?”

Spencer sucks in a breath, knowing Hotch is right, knowing he’s being difficult, but also knowing that he’s still not thrilled with this situation. “Yes, of course. Sorry, Hotch. I’ll call you if there are any updates.”

“Good; thank you, Reid. Oh, and Reid?” Hotch adds. “You’re aware you and Y/N are meant to do three tours of the estate as part of a night watch, correct?”

Spencer agrees and says goodbye as you enter, clearly looking for him. “Alright, I’ll talk to you soon. Yeah, goodbye.” He holds his hand out to you, signalling you to cross to him, but you remain near the door, arms crossed over your chest as he says goodbye. He returns his arm to his side, “That was Hotch.”

“Oh,” you sigh, a relieved sounding breath leaving your body. “What did he say?” You’ve dropped the British accent for the time being and Spencer is relieved for the continued break.

“Nothing much,” he says, curiosity peaked by your sigh of relief. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” you deflect, crossing to the halfway point between you two. “Just, um, dinner’s almost done. We’re due in the parlor with the others.”

“Okay,” Spencer mutters, distractedly, closing the distance between you two with a couple of easy strides. “Are you okay?” He cups your face in his hands and you stare up at him, eyes slightly glassy. “Hey...hey, honey, seriously, what’s going-”

“It’s nothing, Spence,” you urge, placing your hands atop his over your cheeks. “Just, um...just...nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Sweetheart,” Spencer contests, moving one hand to your chin, easing it upward slightly to keep you from looking away. “If it’s making you this upset-”

“I’m not upset,” you insist, wrenching out of his grasp and turning to the door. “We’re expected in the parlor-”

He catches your hand, pulling you back to his chest. “Y/N, why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I could ask you the same question, Spencer,” you remark, quietly, not looking at him.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, inwardly cringing at how overly defensive he sounds.

“Nothing,” you sigh. “Nothing at all. I’m just...I thought...ugh! It’s not Sunday yet and I thought you might-”

“You thought I left the table to talk to Maeve?” Spencer questions pointedly.

“Maybe,” you mumble, crossing your arms as he lets go of you.

“It isn’t Sunday, why would I-”

“I don’t know, Spence,” you retaliate, a sharper energy imposing itself upon your typically cool and collected tone, “I thought...maybe you were...bored and needed to talk to your new genius friend.”

“Y/N,” he says, taken aback, “I don’t really call Maeve recreationally.”

“That’s not really what it sounds like,” you counter, quietly.

“Well,” Spencer starts, “I can assure you that-”

“Spencer, please,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I know she’s your friend, I just wish that it didn’t feel like-” You allow a few tears to fall, cutting yourself off.

“Please, don’t cry, honey,” Spencer urges. “Just tell me what’s on your mind-”

Evelyn McCleary’s head pops through the open doorway, her eyes wide. “Have you seen Josefina?”

“What?” you cry, whipping around to face Evelyn.

“Everyone adjourned from the dinner table after you left, Mrs. Percival, but Alex was the only one that showed up to the parlor. I was able to find Grant and Ashley, and now I’ve found the two of you, but I can’t find Josefina,” Evelyn nearly screams, terrified. The two of you look at eachother, you discreetly and quickly wipe away any remaining tears. Time to work; life would have to wait.

The two of you follow Evelyn, keeping the rest of the guests in the parlor with a security guard (the charade is maintained by the security guard telling the other guests that you two had already retired to your room, now being watched by another security guard), as the three of you search the premises. When you get outside and walk toward the grand pond, you can already see her lifeless body, strapped to the plinth as the three of you cross the wooded area to the pond. The team is called, as is the crime scene unit and Josefina is officially the third victim of this serial killer. Evelyn, shaken terribly by the most recent murder, is sent to her office with Emily and a local police officer. The rest of you debrief with Hotch in the gazebo.

“He’s escalating,” Spencer states, plainly. “Josefina was a Puerto Rican immigrant in her late thirties, up til now he’s only killed young American women in their mid-twenties.”

“That’s true,” Hotch eyes you carefully before continuing. “But, I think Y/N might be his next target.”

“What?” you cry. “Why?” Spencer wraps his arm around you protectively and, despite the argument of the hour or so before, you don’t pull away.

“This unsub is insanely meticulous,” Derek replies. “Like, everything in these murders has been down to the letter. He only had about twenty minutes to do this before Evelyn noticed Josefina was gone. She was able to find everyone else-”

“We can’t rule anyone out yet,” JJ asserts. “This unsub works fast. I think this Grant Helburn still seems like the most likely unsub.”

“Exactly,” Derek agrees. “I bet he only killed Josefina because he couldn’t find Y/N.”

You swallow harshly, but Spencer is the only one that could possibly notice. He’s impossibly proud of you as you clear your throat and add to the profile, “You’re right. He’s a meticulously obsessive sexual sadist, so killing is the only thing to get him off. Once he’d made up his mind to kill today, he would’ve had to follow through with it...even if he couldn’t find his actual target.” Spencer attempts to tighten his hold on you, but you scoot out of it slightly.

“Okay,” you breathe intensely, determinedly avoiding looking at Spencer. He sighs as quietly as possible, trying to focus on anything but the conversation he’s worried might be waiting for the two of you during night watch. “If you will get the completed profile out to the local officers, Spencer and I will get back into the house. We have our first night watch in 45 minutes.” The team breaks, Derek and Hotch deciding to stakeout on the grounds in case the two of you need back up. You and Spencer head back to the house, pulling your guns and flashlights out of their hiding places as you start your rounds.

Spencer’s exhausted, so are you. This neverending day, another victim...all of it take over your senses. It isn’t until you finish the assigned three tours of the property and the two of you are heading to your room that Spencer realizes neither of you have spoken in almost four hours.

“Y/N?” he asks tentatively as he helps you out of your corset.

“Mmm?” you hum, half asleep as you stand in front of him. You sound so very tired that he decides not to press the issue.

“Never mind,” he whispers. He finishes undoing your corset and briefly pulls you to him, kissing the back of your neck. Much to his delight, you lean into him, whether from exhaustion or an actual lessening of tension from earlier, he doesn’t care, he thrilled to get to hold you for a moment. “You ready for bed, darling?”

“Never more ready,” you breathe. You’re swaying as the two of you brush your teeth, nearly collapsing by the time you get to your bed. “Goodnight, Spencer.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Spencer mumbles, propping up onto his arm as he watches you fall asleep. “You know I love you, right?” You don’t answer, already asleep. He sighs, the argument from earlier still replaying in his mind. His eyes begin to droop and he’s almost asleep when he feels your head nuzzling into his side. He wraps his arms around you, sighing as he falls asleep, trying to allow the hope your closeness gives him to dissipate his fears.

~~~

He really shouldn’t have left the table at all. Sunday roast dinners were sacred in this household and as part of the retreat. Technically, it was a pretty conspicuous move as well, to excuse himself from the table, but it was time for his weekly appointment with Dr. Donovan, so, at 5:30 on the dot, Spencer stood, excused himself, and exited the table citing the need to “pen a letter��, which was the only excuse he could think of for leaving a Regency dinner table. He didn’t make eye contact with you as he left the table, but he could feel you staring daggers into his back. Things had been more than tense in the week following the murder of Josefina Delgado. If anything, it’d been a week of nothing, both of you were more sure now than ever that the killer was Grant Helburn, but you couldn’t find any solid evidence to back it up. As Spencer started his weekly call with Maeve, he wondered if this would the breaking point. And sure enough, twenty minutes later, he hears the footsteps behind him, and he can feel the fight boiling.

“Hey, Maeve, I’ll have to call you back later, okay?” Spencer says looking at you standing at the other end of the small hallway. Maeve is saying goodbye and tacking on something about a book, but he can’t be bothered to listen as he stares at you. You had your arms crossed and you weren’t looking at him...and he knew he was in trouble. “Yeah, okay. Bye.” There’s an extremely unpleasant silence. Spencer can almost feel your brain moving. You say that about him all the time, actually, and he always thought you were joking, but he can almost feel the cogs turning, feel the words forming in your mind.

“So,” he clears his throat, awkwardly, cringing inwardly at the idea of being uncomfortable with his wife. “How was the fish course?”

“Fine,” you bite out, still not looking at him. “How...how is Dr. Donovan?”

“She’s fine,” he replies quietly. He stares at you, mentally begging you to meet his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“It’s not very...um...it’s kind of noticeable for you to leave the table like that,” you whisper, clearly holding back.

“You left too,” he snaps back.

“Only to come and find you,” you grit out. “We’re supposed to be...” you look around you, shutting the door behind you and crossing the few feet in between you two. He tries, he really does, to focus on the fact that the two of you are fighting. After your rounds of night watch, the two of you typically collapse into bed in sweats and pajamas. He’s not really had the opportunity, since the dance lesson, at least, to properly observe you in your Jane Austen attire. And you look as stunning as ever. He takes a deep breath to focus as you continue.

“We’re supposed to be blending in,” you whisper, looking up at him, nostrils slightly flaring. Spencer looks down at his ridiculously uncomfortable attire, his Adam’s apple bobbing over the harsh edge of his tie. He looks back up at you, a slight chuckle huffing out over his lips.

“How are we not ‘blending in’?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you rasp sarcastically, “maybe because my husband keeps leaving the room to answer his cell phone-”

“It’s for a medical appointment-”

“It’s so you can talk to Maeve! You wouldn’t do this for anyone else!” you nearly scream. Your eyes go wide and you look back at the door. You take a deep breath and look back at him, your voice softening. “Are the headaches back?”

“What? No, you’d know if they-”

“Oh, would I? Would I get to know? How very novel!” you whisper harshly and caustically into his face, nearly on your tiptoes with anger.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Spencer is so very confused. You’re angry, but now he knows it isn’t just because he’s being mildly conspicuous. He’s trying to read you, trying desperately to profile you, despite his promises not to. He still doesn’t understand. “Tell me what’s wrong-”

“Why should I tell you what’s wrong with me when you’ve refused to tell me anything for nearly a month!” You’re being loud now, but Spencer doubts you care. You step away from him, pacing, shaking, worrying your hands in front of you. “Do you realize that you haven’t told me anything about this in ages? You only talk to Maeve about this-”

“Now, Y/N, that’s not fair. She’s my doctor. I only tell her that stuff because-”

“Because what?” you scream, exasperated. “Because she’s a genius and I’m not?”

Spencer is silent, completely dumbfounded. And then you start to cry, huge sobs racking your entire body. He steps toward you, reaching out to comfort you, but you back away.

“Y/N,” he starts, quietly. “Y/N that’s not-”

“Look,” you rasp, your voice quiet, thick with emotion and exhausted. “It’s no secret that we’re not exactly intellectual equals.”

“Y/N, that has nothing to do with-”

“Please,” you say, finally looking at him, raising a hand in between you to silence him. “Just let me...just let me say this. I’ll only be able to get it out the one time.”

He nods at you, swallowing as lump forms in his throat. His panicking won’t help anything. He’s trying to stay calm, trying not to cry, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. His rolling through conversations with you and Maeve, trying to think around the headaches and the worry. He watches you carefully. It’s taking every bone in his body to give you the space you’ve asked for. He wants to hug you, to correct you, but you clearly want and need to say this to him. You’re taking deep breaths, trying not to cry. You look away from him, your eyes on the floor in front of you.

“I’m no genius and I know that. I have no hang ups regarding my intelligence, really, I don’t...I thought you didn’t either but...” you turn away, wiping your eyes and taking a deep breath again. “I know...I know it must get...boring for you...to live with somebody who isn’t as smart as you are. Tedious, I guess. But, we love each other, right? And...And I really thought...I really thought it didn’t matter?” You look back at him wistfully. “I should say, I really hoped it didn’t matter....because....because you’re it for me, Spencer. And I thought I was...for you, too. But...I’m sure it’s a relief to...have finally found someone who can match you as perfectly as she does.” You let out a huge sigh, a tight smile on your lips, as though determined to remain pleasant. “When we get home...I’ll just...I’ll just stay with Penelope for a while? Or something.”

“Y/N, please, listen to me...that’s not-” Spencer tries to interrupt, but you step back again, sobs still shaking your body. “Y/N, please.”

“No,” you beg, your voice breaking, “no, Spencer, I need to-I need to go talk to someone who isn’t you right now...I just...I need to be alone.” You sniffle and wipe your eyes almost violently, running away, turning the corner before stalking down the next hallway, your footsteps disappearing in the night.

Spencer stands there completely in shock. Tears are pouring down his face and he doesn’t know when they began to fall. His mind is racing: Who could ever be bored of you? How did I fuck this up so very badly? He suddenly realizes he’s standing in the hallway, not chasing after you like he should be. He braces himself and begins to run, jogging down the hall, hoping his long legs will finally do him some good and that he’ll catch up to you. He rounds the corner, the large Georgian windows casting moonlight into the hallway. He’s halfway down the hall before he realizes...you’re not there. It’s a long hallway, very long, in fact, taking up most of this side of the house, a door at the end leading to the back garden with trails to the gazebo, pond, and greenhouse.

“Y/N?” he calls, his voice trembling. “Y/N, I’m sorry - I know that...” his voice trails off, an eerie feeling growing in his gut. He steps forward, pulling out his gun and turning on the flashlight, his steps cautious. He follows the hall, his mind desperately trying not to panic. Where is she? The blueprint of the house is clear as day in his mind until his foot steps into something, even through his shoe he can sense the change in texture. He looks down, his heart dropping as the moon allows the viscous liquid to shine red. Blood.

And he’s taking off, running down the hall. The door at the end is ajar. He should never have left the dinner table. Should never have answered his phone. Shouldn’t even have had his phone with him. The unsub knew he was gone from the table and had found you vulnerable and alone. His phone is out and at his ear, his mind only recognizing that he’s called Derek when his voice is asking him what’s wrong.

“What’s up, Pretty Boy?” Derek asks. Spencer’s panting so hard he can’t answer. “Reid? Reid? Reid, what’s wrong?”

“He got her,” Spencer manages to choke out, tears he wasn’t aware of still flowing out of him. “Y/N...she’s...something’s wrong. There’s blood and the door’s open and...and-”

“Okay, okay, Reid, we’re here okay. We’ll be there in-”

“I’m going to find her, she’ll be at the plinth,” he rattles off, knowing, hating how right he is. If the unsub is following the pattern, which - God knows - the meticulous bastard will be, Spencer’s going to find his wife being murdered on a plinth in the middle of the grand pond.

“Reid, don’t go alone, we are literally-”

“I’m not going to let this bastard kill my wife, Morgan!” He hangs up, running out the door, taking the middle trail towards the pond.

He’s running out of time. This guy works fast. Meaning you don’t have much time. Meaning Spencer doesn’t have much time to get to you. He hears something, a muffled cracking sound, far in the distance. He prays, for the first time in his life, he prays it’s a bird, a bear, anything, anything but you. His heart is plummeting, gone for good, he’s sure of it. He’s running, the pond never seeming so far away, the dappled moonlight through the trees making him feel exposed and awkward instead of comforted by the light. There’s drips of blood on the paved road, a dragged bit running toward the grass towards the pond.

Spencer darts through the trees in the little wooded area, not caring or thinking much of subtlety, all his FBI training borderline being thrown out the window. Then he hears it: footsteps. A staggered, panting breathing that isn’t his own. A cold, calculated feeling drips through his veins. Spencer pauses, darting behind a tree, as Grant Helburn’s shadowed figure comes into view.

“FBI!” Spencer shouts, pointing his gun and flashlight at the man. Spencer is suddenly thankful for his FBI training - Grant is covered in blood. And he doesn’t look scared, or caught. He’s smiling. The bastard is smiling. And you’re nowhere to be seen.

“How’s the missus?” Grant asks, hands up, the smug grin curling cruelly on his lips.

“Better than you’ll ever be,” Spencer practically spits at him. He’s trying, desperately, to maintain some sense of professionalism. It’s barely working. He can feel the anger growing inside him, but it isn’t boiling, as all the books said it would be. It’s cold and dark. For the first time in his life, Spencer would be thrilled to kill this man. Thrilled to see him writhe on the ground in pain as he breathed his last and bled out into nothing.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Grant replies, quietly, but loud enough for Spencer to hear it. “She’s got quite a mouth on her, I’ll give you that. Didn’t think you’d be one to go for the feisty type. Big waste of air, if you ask me. She’ll run out soon if she isn’t careful.”

Something’s bothering Spencer. It’s eating away at the back of his mind, gnawing at his control. Why would Grant leave the scene? As a sadist...he watches torture to get off...he wouldn’t leave...unless...unless you were already dead. Spencer’s finger ghosts over the trigger, almost getting the nerve. There’s no reason to shoot him. Grant has no weapon, he isn’t approaching Spencer, or even threatening him-

As if on cue, Derek Morgan practically jumps out from behind Grant, knocking him to the ground and straddling his back, pulling him into handcuffs in almost one move.

“Go get your girl, Reid!” Derek yells over Grant’s muffled grunts. And Spencer’s off again, running faster than he knew he could. Everything is motion. Everything is movement and speed. He’s running and panting, running to the plinth and...

You’re dead. For sure, you’re dead.

“No...no....no, no, no, no,” Spencer rasps, ripping painfully tight wires from your wrists and one from your neck with his bare hands. His fingers are bloody, but he doesn’t care. You’re not moving, not breathing from what he can tell. You’re almost blue. He presses his fingers to your pulse. It’s faint. So faint it could go away at any moment, but there is one. You’re so cold it’s scary. “Baby, baby...please...” You don’t move. There’s blood running down the side of your face and bruises all over your wrists and neck. Your knuckles are red from where you’d fought back. He calls into his intercom, “Medic, get a medic now! She has a pulse get me a damn medic.” He’s crying, so much so he can barely see. He presses a kiss into your forehead and it’s so very cold that another sob wrenches from his throat. “Help, somebody! PLEASE!”

~~~

The hospital is cold. Absolutely freezing, really. It has to be for Spencer to be as entirely numb as he feels. He’s been staring at the carpet square in front of him for exactly forty seven minutes and thirty two seconds. He’s counted the triangles in the pattern eighty four times. There are forty nine of them. He’s questioned why there’s an uneven number, running concepts of it through his brain, coming up with at least sixteen reasons the carpet designer would’ve made such a strange choice. He’s only thought once about moving to a different carpet square, but the second he tried that, his mind switched to thoughts of you. So, no, he has to stay on this one in front of him. So that he doesn’t think of you. Doesn’t focus on how you looked, head still bleeding, arms covered in scratches, wrists nearly bloody from where you’d been tied down, neck bruised from the rope that had restrained you. He has to focus on this so that he doesn’t remember how cold you felt, how blue your skin looked. How hard it was for you to breathe. How...how very near death you looked.

He hadn’t been allowed to ride in the ambulance with you. Hotch had borderline insisted, actually, that he not go with you, and the paramedics insisted there wasn’t room. Hotch drove him, not speaking, but speeding as quickly and as safely as he could to the hospital. Once they got there, you were already hooked up to oh so many machines. The moment he’d walked in the door of your room, Spencer had nearly collapsed, overwhelmed by the sheer bleakness of it all. You were still out. Still asleep. The doctors said you were fine, you’d make a full recovery, but you were still asleep. Hotch greeted the rest of the team when they arrived, most of them were in the cafeteria, while JJ and Emily had gone back to the station to wrap things up.

“Here.” A coffee cup is being held in front of his face, the fingers holding the cup featuring the bright pink nail polish of Penelope Garcia.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, taking the cup. He doesn’t drink it. He’s worried he might vomit if he does.

“She’s okay, you know? She’s strong, Y/N...” Penelope says, clearly trying not to cry herself.

“Yeah...yeah she is,” Spencer rasps, his voice gravelly from lack of use since screaming and crying over your injured body only a few hours before. “She...um...we’re...” His voice trails off as his eyes fill with tears again.

“It’s okay, kid,” Derek’s voice interrupts. He finally looks up. Garcia is sitting across from him in another one of the plastic waiting room chairs. Derek goes and sits next to her. Both of them are staring at him, eyes filled with worry and concern. His phone buzzes in his pocket. A continuous buzz meaning it’s a phone call. Numbly, he pulls his phone out, not even looking at the name on the caller ID.

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he answers, his voice barely registering with his body.

“Spencer?” Maeve’s voice says through the line. “Are you okay?”

“H-Hi, Maeve,” Spencer breathes. “Um...I’m...I’m at the hospital.”

“Oh my God, are you alright?” Maeve panicks on the other end.

“Yeah, I’m-I’m fine...I mean...no. Um, Y/N....she, uh....” He looks up, only to see Penelope practically stabbing him with her eyes and Derek looking at him, mildly confused and digusted. His conversation with you is replaying in his mind so loudly that he can’t focus. The panic in Maeve’s voice for him...she...she knows they’re just friends...right? Suddenly, he feels dirty. He feels sick. “I can’t talk right now, Maeve, I’ll...um...I think we shouldn’t...uh, I have to go. Bye.” He hangs up without getting a response from Maeve. There’s an awkward pause following the click of his phone, the sound almost ringing in the air.

“So,” Penelope’s voice cuts through the air, “that’s Maeve.” She says her name like it’s an illness.

“What do you know about Maeve?” Spencer asks, trying not to sound offended.

“I know that Y/N came into my office two weeks ago crying about the fact that her husband is cheating on her,” Penelope whisper yells.

“What the fuck, Pretty Boy?” Derek chokes on his coffee. “Do we need to take this outside?”

“No! No, oh my God! I would never...is that what Y/N thinks is happening?” Spencer’s eyes are wide and his heart is racing now. You think he’s cheating on you. You could’ve died and you think he’s cheating on you. He’s desperately trying to keep his anxiety at bay, trying not to spiral.

“Maybe not cheating physically,” Penelope relents, still staring daggers at him. “But, maybe...emotionally? I don’t know, all I know is that Y/N said she feels like you’re not communicating with her anymore; that you’re pouring your heart out to this Maeve woman over the phone every Sunday-”

“I tell Y/N everything,” Spencer rasps, his mind combing through the conversations he’s had with Maeve, trying to pick apart the social intricacies he knows he doesn’t quite fully understand, the things he could’ve missed.

“Then why didn’t she know about the...the um, shoot,” Penelope briefly falters. “It’s a ‘sporadic shot’ of um-”

“Oh, I take a sporadic shot of B2 in addition to the other supplements Maeve prescribed,” Spencer finishes. “Did I not tell Y/N about that?”

“Apparently not,” Penelope snaps.

“I mean,” Spencer tries to reason, both with Penelope and himself, “I mean it’s just an extra supplement-”

“But you didn’t tell your wife?” Derek asks, rejoining the conversation for the first time. “Who is this Maeve woman anyway?”

“She’s...she’s a geneticist,” Spencer replies, quietly. “She’s like...my doctor? I guess. She had to help me with...something.” He’s reluctant to talk about his medical struggles, even with Derek and Penelope. But, he’s a bit mortified. How did he not realize that you were so upset about this? How had he not realized that he was telling Maeve about this and cutting you out of it?

“Something Y/N knows about?” Derek asks, eyebrow still raised.

“Well, yeah,” Spencer defends, “but...I don’t know, I guess once I started talking to Maeve about it-”

“You cut Y/N off entirely?” Penelope snarks.

“I didn’t mean to-”

“Well, you did, genius,” Penelope huffs, “and now she’s terrified that you’re going to leave her.”

“I would never, ever leave my wife,” Spencer begins, trying not to cry, “I wouldn’t be leaving my wife for my geneticist if that’s what you’re implying,” he answers, the spite in his voice burning the lump in his throat.

“But?” Penelope pushes.

“But what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, 187,” Penelope replies with more malice than Spencer thought she could manage. “If you’re going to hurt Y/N, you’d better have a damn good reason and it better not be another woman because I swear on every unicorn in my batcave that will kill you myself.”

Spencer swallows, taken aback at the seriousness of her tone. He shifts in his seat awkwardly, picking at a loose string on the FBI jacket he’s pulled on over his regency garb. Jacket and cravat long disposed of, the tight pants, boots, and large, open collared white shirt don’t exactly scream FBI, but he couldn’t be bothered less. “Maeve has almost nothing to do with this.”

“She’s got something to do with it,” Penelope jabs, folding her arms and looking away in a huff.

“She’s my doctor, Garcia,” Spencer attempts to reason, cringing when his voice sounds as pathetic as his argument.

“It’s not entirely ridiculous for your wife to be concerned about weekly phone calls with another woman, Reid,” Morgan jumps in. “What do you guys talk about anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer sighs, combing a hand through his hair. “Treatments, support, status, improvements, declines...that kind of stuff.”

“There’s gotta be more than that, kid,” Derek pushes.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, knowing what the answer is.

“It’s enough for Y/N to tell me that she might have to come and stay with me,” Garcia answers, not looking at him, clearly still peeved.

“What? When did she tell you that?” Spencer asks, his eyes widening.

“About a week ago,” Garcia challenges, “so let’s just stop pretending that you and Maeve are just swapping medical facts, okay? Something’s got to be going on for Y/N to give up on you.”

“I wouldn’t blame her if she did,” Spencer blurts before he can stop himself. There’s a painful silence.

“What do you mean, Reid?” Derek finally asks, cutting the tension.

“I started talking to Maeve because...I was having these headaches. Migraines, really. They’ve stopped for the most part now. They were painful and insane, I could barely open my eyes some days. I went to loads of doctors, got scans done, the lot of it, and no one could tell me anything. I actually snapped at a doctor because he suggested...he suggested it was because of the schizophrenia running in the family and...yeah. Anyway, it was actually...it was actually Y/N who suggested talking to a geneticist. She found Maeve and sent her my scans and...then Maeve called to talk about them. That’s it, that’s all, I swear!” He looks up to both Derek and Penelope staring at him, an unreadeable expression on Derek’s face and a still-angry one on Penelope’s.

“That doesn’t explain why Y/N would be upset,” Penelope insists, staring him down. “So, stop lying and tell us what you really talk about with Maeve.”

“I mean...I mean...we’re friendly,” Spencer argues. “We greet each other and talk about books we’re reading. She read one of my papers, actually, and asked some questions and-”

“I see,” Derek says, quietly. “So, she flattered you?”

“I mean,” Spencer thinks about it, “I guess so. But, nothing...I don’t have feelings for Maeve. At all. Like, she’s barely a friend, I don’t know her. I’ve never even seen her. We only talk on the phone.”

“Then why would you ever break up with Y/N?” asks an absolutely exasperated Penelope.

“I don’t want to break up with Y/N,” Spencer sighs, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I don’t want to. I love her...more than anything, but what if...what if...” he wipes off his cheek and looks up at the two of them. “What if I get Alzheimer’s? What if I have schizophrenia? What if I can’t take care of myself? What if, one day, I wake up and I can’t...I can’t remember...anything?”

“Y/N wouldn’t...that girl would love you even if you forgot her name-”

“I might,” Spencer bites out. “I might forget her, Derek, I might forget everybody. And you-you don’t...none of you have any idea how that feels-”

“It doesn’t fucking matter, you absolute idiot!” Garcia screams, standing and staring him down. He recoils a bit, alarmed at how angry she looks. “Do you not think Y/N is aware of that? She knows exactly what she signed up for.”

“Knowing my mom has schizophrenia and dealing with the fact that I might have it are very different things-”

“Oh my God, Reid! For a genius you can really be the dumbest person sometimes! Y/N loves you. Like, really loves you. So, yeah, she knows all about the schizophrenia. She knows about the Alzheimer’s. She also knows about the former drug addiction, and the rambling, and the insomnia, and the askew ties, and the slight germophobia and you know what? She still loves you! What part of ‘in sickness and in health’ isn’t clicking in that big brain of yours? It wouldn’t matter if you turned into a human vegetable, that girl would still love you. She loves you like...it’s...do you even...” She looks away, clearly trying not to cry. “The kind of love that you two have? It’s like...the kind of love people dream about. And, look, I know...I know that your mom...the conditions that run in your family, hell, the kind of mind you possess isn’t exactly something we can all relate to, but, son of a bitch, Spencer.” She looks at him again, tears running her mascara. “Don’t ruin the best thing that ever happened to you over something so trivial as an ‘if’. I’ll most certainly never forgive you, but you won’t be able to forgive yourself, either.”

And with that bombshell, Garcia turns on her spiky pink heel and exits towards the cafeteria. The silence following her heels is deafeaning. Spencer can feel the lump in his throat and, as much as he attempts to swallow around it, he can feel the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“She’s right, you know-”

“Yes, thank you, Derek. I know,” Spencer mumbles. Finally standing, he looks towards Derek, not able to make eye contact, “I’m gonna...I’m gonna go sit with Y/N. I don’t know when she’ll wake up, but I...I wanna be there.” Derek nods and Spencer crosses to your hospital room, still unable to look directly at Derek. He sighs as he enters, looking at your sleeping form. You look almost peaceful, a little bit of life coming back into your face. He sits in the chair next to your bed, taking one of your hands in his own.

“Hey...” Spencer whispers, cringing a little bit at his awkward greeting. “That was a stupid way to start this conversation, wasn’t it? At least that’s what you’d say...probably.” He stares at you, wishing you were awake, wishing you could say something, or laugh at him or tease him or anything. “Please wake up, baby, please. There are so many things I want to tell you. There are so many things we haven’t done yet. And the first thing I have to do is...say I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I promise, I swear Maeve means nothing to me. I’ve just...” He looks up at the ceiling the florescent lights burning. He lets it burn just a second longer than he usually would. Spencer closes his eyes, dropping his head and squeezing your hand between both of his. He keeps his eyes on your hands, pecking a kiss to your knuckles before continuing. “I love you...I love you so very much. And it...it’s...when the headaches started I-I got...I was just so scared. I’ve never...when schizophrenia hits, you’re supposed to have breakdowns in your mid-20s and...I thought I’d made it through that. I avoided that. But, when the headaches started...it was like...it found me. Like I couldn’t hide from it anymore. And just the idea of...my mind...my stupid brain getting in the way. I just...the idea that...that I could lose you...not because of our jobs, not because of a fight or something stupid I’d done, but because...because of my own mind, I...” He can barely see anymore as the tears start to fall. “I don’t want to live a life without you. Ever. And if I...if I forgot you...I didn’t want to talk to you about it again until it was fixed...until it was over b-because, I didn’t want you to know that I could lose you forever without ever leaving your side. I didn’t want to face the fact that I could lose you."

He’s fully sobbing now, laying his head on the edge of your hospital bed, allowing the tears to overwhelm him. Suddenly, his mind is clinging to everything he knows about you, as though desperate. Your scent, your smile, your voice. The rush is so intense that he almost doesn’t hear you.

“Your hands are cold,” you breathe, shifting ever so slightly, but keeping your eyes closed. “I know that’s what they say in the Pride and Prejudice movie, but your hands are actually cold.”

“Sweetheart,” Spencer gasps, “hey...hey.” He stands awkwardly, running a hand down the side of your face as though you’re the most fragile thing on the face of the earth. Like you could break at any moment, which he’s afraid to admit, but he’s worried you might. He tenderly presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll call the nurse.” He aims for the button to call and you lift your hand shakily, tenderly placing it on his arm. Spencer stops and looks down at you. Your eyes are open, though the light is clearly hurting them and you’re staring up at him in awe.

“I didn’t think,” you whisper, your voice raw, “I’d make it this time. Can I just look at you...for a second?” His heart sinks in his chest because, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was worried you wouldn’t make it either.

“I would never let that happen, ever,” he insists, pressing another kiss to your forehead. He sits back down on the edge of his seat, trying to calm down for you, his hands finding yours again. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut before opening them again, blinking into the light and looking at Spencer. He’s quite sure he’s never been happier to see a pair of eyes. “How are you?”

“Fine?” he chuckles breathily, “are you sure?”

“Well,” you groan, attempting to move, only for Spencer to halt your movements gently and adjust your bed slightly until you look more comfortable, so that you’re sitting up more. “As fine as I can be after being knocked out by a middle aged man twice and being strapped down to a piece of concrete in the middle of a pond.” You finally look at him again, taking a deep breath. “Also, I don’t know if you know this, but I got into a really stupid fight with my husband before all that happened.”

Spencer stares back at you, pursing his lips while a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I did know that.” He uses one of his hands to wipe away some of the remnants of the tears on his face. “How much did you hear of what I said?”

“Enough,” you whisper, your eyes glassy. “But, Spence- there’s no...there’s no denying that...” You cut off looking down at your hands.

“What is it, honey?” Spencer asks. “Talk to me.”

“I should say the same to you, Spencer,” you mutter pointedly, a mournful smile toying at the corners of your mouth.

“I’m really, really sorry,” he begins. “I should’ve-I should’ve talked to you...I should’ve...”

“I think it’s fairly obvious we both should’ve talked to each other,” you bite out, groaning a little bit. It takes him a millisecond to realize it’s from the pain not the discussion. He jumps into action, standing up next to you.

“Sweetheart, please, don’t over exert yourself.” He goes to hit the button for the nurse, but you keep hold of his hand.

“No, Spencer, I’m fine,” you insist. “Seriously.” He sits back down, choosing to, gingerly, sit next to you on the bed. “It’s hard to watch your husband drifting away from you, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. I trust you, I trust you implicitly, really, and I doubt you’re cheating on me or anything like that, but it’s hard...it’s hard to watch your husband grow closer to someone who seems made for him. There’s no denying that...I’m not as smart as you-”

“Y/N,” Spencer says, releasing your hands to take a hold of your face. You stare up at him, your eyes so very sad that he can hardly continue. He leans his forehead against yours, oh so gently. “Aside from the fact that I believe you’re absolutely brilliant all on your own, it wouldn’t matter if you weren’t. I love you. I love you for who you are. I love you because...because you make the world feel peaceful when it’s chaotic and easy when it’s complicated. And no one else makes me feel that way.”

“Then why did you stop talking to me about the headaches?” you push, staring up at him, your eyes searching his.

“You know how you were worried you’re not smart enough for me?” he breathes. “I’m terrified that, at any moment, I could lose you too. And I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case treatments with Maeve didn’t work...and I was more relieved than I should’ve been to have an outlet for my fears. And I am so, so sorry.” With that finally off of his chest, he feels lighter than he has in months. He looks down at you again, a small smile playing on your mouth as you reach up a shaky hand and caress the side of his neck gently.

“Honey,” you begin in a hushed whisper, more intimacy than pain now, “I know. I know what could happen and I worry about it too, but...no one can know what will happen. And, what’s that thing you said when you proposed? Our lifetime is such a tiny percentage of time that-”

“We shouldn’t waste it,” Spencer finishes, looking down at you in awe. You smile back at him, eyes glassy.

“Please, please don’t push me away again,” you plead softly. “I don’t want to live a life without you either. And I mean all of it. Every single bit. Even if it’s bad or scary. We have to do this together.”

Spencer runs his thumb along your jaw, his forehead still pressed against yours, “I love you. I love you more than I ever thought was possible.”

“I love you too,” you whisper, a tear falling down your cheek. “And I’m sorry, too.” Another tear falls and Spencer pulls away from your forehead, keeping his hands on your face.

“Hey,” Spencer chuckles lightly, wiping your cheek. “Hey. No more tears in this household. I’m placing a moratorium on crying until at least next week.”

“You’re one to talk,” you giggle airily, reaching up to wipe off a tear he didn’t even know was there.

“You see?” he teases, again sitting on the side of your bed in the crook of your hip. “I think we were made for each other.”

You smile at him, the first real smile you’ve smiled in months. There’s a strange romance to this moment. The two of you sitting in the fluorescent quiet of the hospital, finally understanding each other fully and truly. Spencer sighs happily, taking your hands in his and kissing your knuckles before saying, “I do love you rather ardently, you know?”

You giggle and lean forward, kissing him deeply. Spencer pulls back a moment later, only a tad confused with himself.

“It’s ‘most ardently’, isn’t it? That’s the line,” he corrects himself.

“I kind of prefer your way of saying it,” you amend, pulling Spencer back in for another kiss.

~ “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” - Jane Austen ~

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfiction #jane austen #jane austen fanfiction

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marginalgloss · 3 years

Text

I turn 35 tomorrow. How better to celebrate that than with some notes on the handful of video games I have managed to finish over the last ten months. In no particular order:

Judgment (PS4)

Something I think about often is that there aren’t many games which are set in the real world. By this I man the world in which we live today. You can travel through ancient Egypt or take a trip through the stars in the far future, but it’s relatively rare to be shown a glimpse of something familiar. Hence the unexpected popularity of the new release of Microsoft Flight Simulator, which lets you fly over a virtual representation of your front porch, as well as the Grand Canyon, and so on.

I found something like the same appeal in Judgment, a game which took me longer than anything else listed here to finish — seven or eight months, on and off. Like the Yakuza games to which it is a cousin, it’s set in Kamurocho, a fictional district of a real-world Tokyo; unlike other open-world games, it renders a space of perhaps half a square mile in intense detail. I spent a long time in this game wandering around slowly in first-person view, looking at menus and in the windows of shops and restaurants. The attention to detail is unlike everything I have ever seen, from the style of an air conditioning unit to the range of Japanese whiskies on sale in a cosy backstreet bar. And this was a thing of value at a time when the thought of going anywhere else at all, let alone abroad, seemed like it was going to be very difficult for a very long time.

It’s a game of at least three discrete parts. One of them is a fairly cold-blooded police procedural/buddy cop story: you play an ex-lawyer turned private eye investigating a series of grisly murders that, inevitably, link back to your own murky past. In another part you run around the town getting into hilarious martial arts escapades, battering lowlifes with bicycles and street furniture. In another, you can while away your hours playing meticulous mini-games that include darts, baseball, poker, Mahjong and Shogi — and that’s before we even get to the video game arcades.

All these parts are really quite fun, and if you want to focus on one to the exclusion of the others, the game is totally fine with that. The sudden tonal shifts brought about by these crazy and abrupt shifts in format are, I think, essentially unique to video games. But the scope of Judgment is a thing all its own. As a crafted spectacle of escapist fiction it’s comprehensive, and in its own way utterly definitive.

Mafia: Definitive Edition (PS4)

I was amazed when I found out they were doing a complete remake of Mafia, a game I must have finished at least three or four times in the years after its release back in 2002. Games from this era don’t often receive the same treatment as something like Resident Evil, where players might be distracted by the controls and low-poly graphics of the original.

A quality remake makes it easier for all kinds of reasons to appreciate what was going on there. (Not least because they have a lot of new games in the same series to sell.) But in the early 00s PC games like this one had started to get really big and ambitious, and had (mostly) fixed issues with controls; so there’s a hell of a lot more stuff going on in Mafia than in most games of that era. It was also a very hard game, with all kinds of eccentricities that most big titles don’t attempt today. Really I have no idea how this remake got made at all.

But I was so fond of the original I had to play it. The obvious: it looks fantastic, and the orchestral soundtrack is warm and evocative. The story is basic, but for the era it seemed epic, and it’s still an entertaining spectacle. The original game got the balance of cinematic cutscenes, driving and action right the first time, even while Rockstar were still struggling to break out of the pastiche-led GTA III and Vice City.

They have made it easier. You’re still reliant on a handful of medical boxes in each level for healing, but you get a small amount of regenerating health as well. You no longer have to struggle to keep your AI companions alive. Most of the cars are still heavy and sluggish, but I feel like they’re not quite as slow as they once were. They’ve changed some missions, and made some systems a little more comfortable — with sneaking and combat indicators and so on — but there aren’t any really significant additions.

The end result of all this is that it plays less like an awkward 3D game from 2002, and more like a standard third-person shooter from the PS3/360 era. Next to virtually any other game in a similar genre from today, it feels a bit lacking. There’s no skill tree, no XP, no levelling-up, no crafting, no side-missions, no unusual weapons or equipment, no alternative routes through the game. And often all of that stuff is tedious to the extreme in new titles, but here, you really feel the absence of anything noteworthy in the way of systems.

My options might have been more limited in 2002 but back then the shooting and driving felt unique and fun enough that I could spend endless hours just romping around in Free Ride mode. Here, it felt flat by comparison; it felt not much different to Mafia III, which I couldn’t finish because of how baggy it felt and how poorly it played, in spite of it having one of the most interesting settings of any game in recent years. But games have come a long way in twenty years.

Hypnospace Outlaw (Nintendo Switch)

If this game is basically a single joke worked until it almost snaps then it is worked extremely well.

It seems to set itself up for an obvious riff on the way in which elements of the web which used to be considered obnoxious malware (intrusive popups and so on) have since become commonplace, and sometimes indispensable, parts of the online browsing experience. But it doesn’t really do that, and I think that’s because it’s a game which ends up becoming a little too fascinated by its own lore.

The extra science fiction patina over everything is that technically this isn’t the internet but a sort of psychic metaverse delivered over via a mid-90s technology involving a direct-to-brain headset link. I don’t know that this adds very much to the game, since the early days of the internet were strange enough without actually threatening to melt the brains of its users.

(This goes back to what I said about Judgment - I sometimes wonder if it feels easier to make a game within a complete fiction like this, rather than simply placing it in the context of the nascent internet as it really was. Because this way you don’t have to worry too much about authenticity or realism; this way the game can be as outlandish as it needs to be.)

But, you know. It’s a fun conceit. A clever little world to romp around in for a while.

Horace (Nintendo Switch)

I don’t know quite where to begin with describing this. One of the oddest, most idiosyncratic games I’ve played in recent years.

As I understand it this platformer is basically the creation of two people, and took about six years to make. You start out thinking this is going to be a relatively straightforward retro run-and-jump game — and for a while, it is — but then the cutscenes start coming. And they keep coming. You do a lot of watching relative to playing in this game, but it’s forgivable because they are deeply, endearingly odd.

It’s probably one of the most British games I’ve ever played in terms of the density and quality of its cultural references. And that goes for playing as well as watching; there’s a dream sequence which plays out like Space Harrier and driving sequences that play out like Outrun. There are references to everything from 2001 to the My Dinner with Abed episode of Community. And it never leans into any of it with a ‘remember that?’ knowing nod — it’s all just happening in the background, littered like so much cultural detritus.

A lot of it feels like something that’s laser-targeted to appeal to a certain kind of gamer in their mid-40s. And, not being quite there myself, a lot of it passed me by. Horace is not especially interested in a mass appeal — it’s not interested in explaining itself, and it doesn’t care if you don’t like the sudden shifts in tone between heartfelt sincerity and straight-faced silliness. But as a work of singular creativity and ambition it’s simply a joyous riot.

Horizon: Zero Dawn (PS4)

I stopped playing this after perhaps twelve or fifteen hours. There is a lot to like about it; it still looks stunning on the PS4 Pro; Aloy is endearing; the world is beautiful to plod around. But other parts of it seem downright quaint. It isn’t really sure whether it should be a RPG or an action game. And I’m surprised I’ve never heard anyone else mention the game’s peculiar dedication to maintaining a shot/reverse shot style throughout dialogue sequences, which is never more than tedious and stagey.

The combat isn’t particularly fun. Once discovered most enemies simply become enraged and blunder towards you, in some way or another; your job is to evade them, ensnare them or otherwise trip them up, then either pummel them into submission or chip away at their armour till they become weak enough to fall. I know enemy AI hasn’t come on in leaps and bounds in recent years but it’s not enough to dress up your enemies as robot dinosaurs and then expect a player to feel impressed when they feel like the simplest kind of enrageable automata. Oh, and then you have to fight human enemies too, which feels like either an admission of failure or an insistence that a game of this scale couldn’t happen without including some level of human murder.

I don’t have a great deal more to say about it. It’s interesting to me that Death Stranding, which was built on the same Decima engine, kept the frantic and haphazard combat style from Horizon, but went to great lengths to actively discourage players from getting into fights at all. (It also fixed the other big flaw in Horizon — the flat, inflexible traversal system — and turned that into the centrepiece of the game.)

Disco Elysium (PS4)

In 2019 I played a lot of Dungeons and Dragons. I’m talking about the actual tabletop roleplaying game, not any kind of video game equivalent. For week after week a group of us from work got together and sort of figured it out, and eventually developed not one but two sprawling campaigns of the never-ending sort. We continued for a while throughout the 2020 lockdown, holding our sessions online via Roll20, but it was never quite the same. After a while, as our life circumstances changed further, it sort of just petered out.

I mention all this because Disco Elysium is quite clearly based around the concept of a computerised tabletop roleplaying game (aka CRPG). My experience of that genre is limited to the likes of Baldurs Gate, the first Pillars of Eternity and the old Fallout games, so I was expecting to have to contend with combat and inventory management. What I wasn’t expecting was to be confronted with the best novel I’ve read this year.

To clarify: I have not read many other novels this year, by my standards. But, declarations of relative quality aside, what I really mean is that this game is, clearly and self-consciously, a literary artefact above all. It is written in the style of one of those monolithic nineteenth century novels that cuts a tranche through a society, a whole world — you could show it to any novelist from at least the past hundred years and they would understand pretty well what is going on. It is also wordy in every sense of that term: there’s a lot of reading to do, and the text is prolix in the extreme.

You could argue it’s less a game than a very large and fairly sophisticated piece of interactive fiction. The most game-like aspects of it are not especially interesting. It has some of the stats and the dice-rolling from table-top roleplaying games, but this doesn’t sit comfortably with the overtly literary style elsewhere. Health and morale points mostly become meaningless when you can instantly heal at any time and easily stockpile the equivalent of health potions. And late on in the game, when you find yourself frantically changing clothes in order to increase your chances of passing some tricky dice roll, the systems behind the game start to feel somewhat disposable.

Disco Elysium is, I think, a game that is basically indifferent to its own status as a game. Nothing about it exists to complement its technological limitations, and nor is it especially interested in the type of unique possibilities that are only available in games. You couldn’t experience Quake or Civilisation or the latest FIFA in any other format; but a version of Disco Elysium could have existed on more or less any home computer in about the last thirty years. And, if we were to lose the elegant art and beautiful score, and add an incredibly capable human DM, it could certainly be played out as an old-fashioned tabletop game not a million miles from Dungeons and Dragons.

All of the above is one of the overriding thoughts I have about this game. But it doesn’t come close to explaining what it is that makes Disco Elysium great.

#gaming #judgment #horace #disco elysium #horizon zero dawn #hypnospace outlaw

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