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ghostdrinkssoup · 2 years

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okay so I watched ouef (s1 ep4) last night and I only vaguely remembered it as the episode with the lost boys and the creepy family dinner, but now that I’ve rewatched it I’m losing my mind over how much it actually sets up/foreshadows mizumono, especially thematically. considering this, it’s surprising how little this episode is talked about so I’ve decided I’m gonna unpack it myself because I honestly see it as mizumono’s necessary counterpart. it’s first half, if you will

so let’s talk about oeuf

I think part of the reason why a lot of early s1 isn’t discussed as widely as the rest of the show (especially late s2 and s3 in general) is because of the prescriptive use of genre conventions that underpin the “monster of the week” format that, upon first glance, makes s1a seem a little less interesting. it strongly follows the rules and expectations of the standard crime procedural that we’ve come to expect from a show like this: first there’s a murder, then our cast of characters go to investigate, slowly unravelling the mystery while learning some lesson along the way, until finally they catch the bad guys and the episode ends with justice prevailing, resolving the initial injustice of the crime. overall we’re left feeling satisfied, but it’s nothing to write home about

nonetheless, it is very important that nbc hannibal follows this formula in s1 because it allows it to meet audience expectations while also setting up the building blocks for its later acts, which, as we know, (mostly) abandons this scaffolding entirely. you can’t break the rules unless you know the rules, and s1 proves this by luring us in through its promise of convention. you could argue that, in its own way, s1 is the show’s own person suit

that’s not to say the “monster of the week” formula completely hides the show’s gothic side. beyond the show’s visual aesthetics (dark colours, artistic murders, etc) and the almost supernatural quality of will’s empathy, each episode/murder so far has had an underlying “fairytale-like” quality to it that’s achieved through the use of specific allusions/familiar images. first it’s will describing abigail as willy wonka’s golden ticket, then it’s the mushroom garden, then sleeping beauty wakes from her coma, and now we have peter pan and the lost boys. considering how the rest of the show plays out, especially s3 where hannibal literally describes the italy trip and his perception of life as a fairytale, this seems intentional to me. I mean, he and will literally adhere to the beauty and the beast archetype, with both fitting either role depending on what aspect of their relationship you’re looking at

that’s all to say, it’s notable that mizumono acts as the literal gateway between the familiar world of s1 and 2 and the phantasmagoric beauty of s3, stripping both its main characters and the show itself of their person suits, which isn’t as jarring as it should be due to the particular way s1 is structured

which takes us back to what I really want to talk about: ouef

the episode opens in baltimore, where will tells hannibal this:

as will speaks, we see his house, lit up and observed at a distance in the middle of nowhere, caught in the vast, misty darkness he describes. linking the house with the boat is important, since this dual image develops throughout the rest of the episode. thematically, ouef is about family, as is represented through the monster of the week: the woman kidnapping the lost boys and manipulating them into killing their families. but as we said before, this scaffolding is designed to set up character specific concepts and themes that’ll be relevant later. for now, will’s home is only a safe space for him at an observable distance — only “safe” because it looks like a boat at sea, which is a positive association for him

houses traditionally represent the self. it’s an image commonly linked to identity, both on a literary level and oftentimes when interpreting dreams. and of course, when talking about the house we naturally think of family. will can only appreciate the intimacy of both himself and his personal connections from an observable distance. he does not feel safe doing otherwise. it’s why his house is located so far away from the rest of society: he’s in hiding

from here, hannibal is quick to change the subject, stating that will “stood in the breathing silence of garret jacob hobbs’ home”, or, metaphorically speaking, hobbs’ identity. in episode one, will saw the truth of hobbs more so than he’s ever seen (or embraced) the truth of himself. he was not at a distance. he was not safe

then hannibal asks, “did they speak to you?”

and will responds, “with noise and clarity”

he then follows this by saying he “tried so hard to know garret jacob hobbs. to see him” beyond the police tape and dead girls and photographs, all of which he considers superficial details. this particular phrasing is significant, since it directly parallels what hannibal later tells will in mizumono after he learns of his betrayal: “I let you know me. see me.” this scene lays out the dominoes for this chain reaction, all of which results in s2’s climactic moment, by showing hannibal’s desire to be seen, even if he doesn’t fully realise it yet, and will’s desire to connect with others like himself, if they even exist. as I’ve said before, will does not think monstrosity and humanity are separate concepts

so, by wanting to see beyond hobbs’ person suit, which in of itself is a metaphor for conformity, expectations, and the false self, will set aside his own denial and discovered something very ugly about himself. he murdered hobbs in his own home and, for the briefest moment, caught a glimpse of the truth of himself. “see?” haunts will for this reason. it’s something he carries for the rest of his arc

it’s important that this all happened in the kitchen, but I’ll get to that later

but returning to the scene. hannibal asks will how he felt seeing marissa, the girl hannibal killed last episode. there’s an unspoken question here: did you try hard to get to know me too? did you know me? see me? would I ever allow you to do so? under the copycat guise, and the person suit, is knowing me even possible? as we learn in mizumono, the answer is yes

will says he feels guilty and I don’t think he’s lying here the same way he lied when he told abigail murder is the ugliest thing in the world last episode. there’s a difference between feeling guilt and feeling remorse. he thinks he caused marissa’s death, and he feels guilty because he knows he isn’t feeling (or reacting) the way he should be. killing hobbs felt good, remember? he saw hobbs, and in turn himself, with “noise and clarity” and had a moment of chilling self awareness he can’t shake. this is what he feels guilty about. it’s not about “not saving her” it’s about the threat of his self-destructive nature burning everything around him, which is what he fears. he feels monstrous inside, due to his own sense of vindication and inclination towards righteous violence

for the rest of this scene, I’m going to pick apart the dialogue in a kind of skeleton structure so we can take what information we need from what they say. their conversation goes as follows:

“sometimes I felt like we were doing the same things at different times of day. like I was eating or showering or sleeping at the same time he was.”

→ will feels like he’s doing the same things hobbs was (showering/sleeping/eating) even after he was dead because he’s now sensing hannibal, the copycat. or rather, his own copycat/foil. they’re already connected and they already feel the same (he feels like he killed marissa even though hannibal killed marissa)

“even after he was dead?” / “even after he was dead.”

→ so it’s hannibal he’s connecting to now, even subconsciously

“like you were becoming him?”

→ the introduction of the “becoming” motif which, as we all know, is a central theme and another reference to their foil dynamic (hannibal has already said he and will are the same). note hannibal’s tone when he says this: he’s speaking quicker, unable to stop questioning. there’s another conversation happening just below the surface of this one. he’s curious about will and his ability to connect, which was established earlier in episode 2

“I know who I am. I’m not garret jacob hobbs”

→ links back to the first episode where will, out of his own free will, chooses to shoot hobbs. remember that in the opening scene of that same episode he himself tells his students that, according to his own worldview, by understanding the murder, we understand the man. this isn’t a matter of confusing his identity with that of a killer: will knows exactly who he is, and that’s what scares him. he’d rather stay in denial

it’s also noteworthy that will’s refusal to be seen as hobbs, or a copycat of him, mirrors hannibal’s refusal to be associated with him too, as we saw in episode three when he tells abigail “I am nothing like your dad.” it implies that reading either of these characters as a mirror of someone else (other than each other, of course) would be a misstep. for both will and hannibal, hobbs is just another layer of the person suit. something that’s brutally stripped in mizumono, as I said before

we learn all this in one scene alone. like I said, this episode is complex and packed. the rest of the episode simply expands on the concepts introduced in this one conversation. I won’t go into every scene because this post would turn into an academic paper, but I do want to spend time dissecting a few key scenes which I feel directly link back to mizumono specifically and highlight why this episode is so important: the family dinner scene, hannibal breaking into will’s house, will’s therapy sessions with hannibal, and hannibal and abigail making breakfast together

how will analyses the family dinner, as well as what we learn from this scene, adds to our understanding of how these characters interpret family as a whole. after all, this episode is about “the lost boys” which, to me at least, will and hannibal both are. it’s their lack of real connection that causes them to treat abigail in the idealised way they do, similar to how the woman tries to make her own found family with the kidnapped boys (although this parallel better fits hannibal than will)

within his reconstruction of the crime scene, will sits at the head of the table, saying he’s “brought his family to this home invasion.” of course he’s impersonating the killer here, but this use of the home again (and family) is enough to pay attention to

power and control is also brought up in this scene. will says he controls the turners with “threats of violence. threats that turn to action” which is how hannibal operates (although more psychologically considering his demeanour, he doesn’t seem threatening at first and rarely loses his cool) but he can’t control people that way, least of all will. in the end threats of violence don’t even work, because the more worked up you get the less in control you actually are

will then shoots mrs turner, who, as we later learn, forgives the act since she loves her son. forgiveness (and acceptance) being synonymous with love literally underpins the conflict of s3, which is triggered by hannibal asking will if he’ll forgive him for murdering abigail in mizumono, but it’s first shown here, of all episodes, in the story’s set up. because of this, hannibal killing abigail and stabbing will recalls this episode, perhaps more as an echo than a direct link, but is strengthened nonetheless by this subtle build. added to this, it’s notable that the threat of violence here is also due to a type of betrayal (“family dinner, I wasn’t invited”) but the lost boy sits at the head of the table anyway, where he belongs, much like hannibal does, both at the end of this episode and as the “paternal” father figure throughout most of the show

as will says, this whole sequence portrays family values. twisted ones, but values nonetheless. it’s why I’m more inclined to connect this episode to the s2 finale than I am the s1 finale (although it’s still relevant) because this episode is so strictly about family. mizumono is the same but in reversal: the ideal family hannibal dreams and tries to take control of, since he had no control of his own as a boy, is shattered before his eyes

the other largely significant moment in this episode is when hannibal breaks into will’s house and pierces his thumb on the hook, tying the fishing/boat imagery back to the house again and foreshadowing will as the “lure” (his s2 persona)

what’s important about this scene is that hannibal enters will’s world (his isolated identity) to plant the evidence that’ll later frame him for all the s1 murders, leaving traces of himself on will so that, for a moment, will too becomes the copycat. again, not the exact truth of him or his nature, but a fragmented replica. inauthentic. fake. another layer of the person suit, except this time it’s hannibal’s forced on will

but what’s interesting is that hannibal also gets caught in will’s web. there’s a lot of focus on the hook specifically, and the camera lingers on the feathers, which hannibal takes the time to touch and look at, until finally, he pricks his thumb and draws blood

the irony is that in this moment, before the game even really begins, hannibal loses. he’s already hooked himself. we saw hints of this in the first scene of this episode, how his fascination with will is unlike any other attachment, or lack of attachment, he has, and it encapsulates the whole reason for his downfall: his attachment and obsession. it’s beyond his control (“you cannot control with respect to whom you fall in love”) and humanises him in darkly twisted way. he cannot control his feelings, and he doesn’t know what to do with this

his fate is sealed in this episode, but he doesn’t realise it until mizumono

again, the boat imagery is another interesting thing to note. fishing/boats/anchors are all introduced in this episode as mild, safe things (seeing the house as a boat makes will feels safe, wanting to teach abigail how to fish, hannibal saying will needs an anchor, will and his dad at the boatyard, etc) but fishing has an insidious side, too. one hannibal isn’t aware of. it has a meek mask, and in its own way, acts as another type of security. does will feel safe within his own sense of control, too? that’s the whole point of the person suit, isn’t it? it’s an important question, because the fallout is explored in mizumono. like I’ve said all throughout this analysis: everything here is being set up for a single climactic moment

will also sails to florence later in a boat he builds. he returns to hannibal’s home in s3, sitting in the kitchen with abigail’s ghost, but it isn’t home if hannibal isn’t there, so he sails to find him. I hate to say it, but will’s insane little sailing trip to italy is actually symbolic too if you interpret hannibal as will’s home, and by going to find him will, in turn, is also going home

the scene ends with hannibal sucking the blood from his thumb, before we transition to the blood streaked family portrait, opening the next scene. having the frame of hannibal bleeding being immediately followed by the bloody family portrait seems deliberate to me, since, as we know, he kills abigail later and destroys their “family” because will “makes him bleed”. again, tying the events of mizumono back to the family values introduced in this episode

also, in the script the sound hannibal makes when he sucks the blood from his thumb is described as “not unlike a quick kiss” which is an odd way to phrase it within the literal context of this scene, but makes a lot of sense when you consider what it means symbolically. it’s a small detail, but it recontextualises will “luring” him in as a romantic act, as well as a romantic betrayal

continuing on, what family means to hannibal and his desire to both connect with will and manipulate abigail are both interweaved as the episode progresses. hannibal says that “children transport us to our childhoods”, reframes the idea that will’s family, who will jokingly refers to as a pack of strays, also includes abigail (and without saying it, himself) and that the woman who’s kidnapping the lost boys is engaging in a “perversion” of motherhood. all these things evidently reflect hannibal himself, and the specific trauma he experienced losing his parents and, more to the point, his younger sister. we don’t learn the specifics of this backstory until much later on in the story, but his behaviours (and the trajectory of his character arc) are influenced by it regardless

in contrast, will doesn’t seem all that interested in the concept. he sees family as an “ill fitting suit” (yet another reference to the person suit) and it’s an entirely foreign concept to him (it’s foreign to hannibal too, since they’re the same, but I digress). still, he tries to connect to abigail anyway, but this isn’t motivated by a want for authentic family or someone who understands him, but rather an ideal. will doesn’t want to see the truth of himself, it scares him. he doesn’t want to see the truth of abigail, either. he doesn’t want to see her as her father’s lure (again, fishing imagery) but as something innocent and divorced from what he knows of himself. he ironically buys her fishing gear in this episode (although he never gives it to her) in an attempt to associate her with the same meek mask we discussed earlier. but as we know, this “safety” too has layers

buying abigail a gift also mirrors what hannibal says to will in mizumono: “I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it.” the rare gift is family, which is given value when will says “I can’t give them back what they just gave away” in relation to the lost boys and their dead mothers. it’s again another part of the family values introduced in this episode: family is a rare gift, but it’s not something you can force, which both hannibal and will try to do with abigail (like the mother tries to do with the lost boys)

the “I can’t give them back what they gave away” is particularly important, since it implies permanency and an inability to reverse the action. the gift of family and connection is only rare because once it’s taken from you you can’t have it back; you can’t reverse time; you can’t take back control

this is the crux of hannibal’s entire arc. the belief that he is in control of his life, since, in his mind, he’s godlike and exists beyond human folly and attachment, underpins every single one of his actions leading up to mizumono. for this reason, it’s significant that the teacups are introduced in this episode as a means (and symbolic prop) to control abigail. they are later related back to time but this is meant to be a symbol of hannibal’s power. he directly says that he wants to give abigail her ‘power back’ earlier in the episode, but he’s really just empowering himself. he projects his attachment to mischa onto her, something he pretends doesn’t affect him and he is above of (his approach to dealing with trauma is clear through his interactions with abigail — he thinks she shouldn’t be immersed in the tragedy of the past and should just ‘move on’)

in truth, hannibal wants to recreate the moment of tragedy (both his tragedy and abigail’s tragedy) in order to reverse time and have the perfect family, despite being incapable of this. he’s trying to escape how his trauma makes him feel powerless by attempting to take power back, no matter how futile it is

he attempts to do this here, in his home, by making them breakfast, since in his mind by feeding abigail the same (and last) meal she had with her family, he is in turn engineering a kind of ‘rebirth’ for her. he reassures that although this was the last meal she had with her family, it’ll be the first with him, and tries to take away her bad memories by replacing them with positive associations. the reversal of time is even clear in how he makes breakfast for dinner, flipping literal time on its head for his amusement

for the audience, in this scene we learn he’s a more skilled manipulator than the woman who took the lost boys, since he’s forcing this “blur” between abigail’s father and himself through the use of psychedelics and fostering dependency. he wants to replace hobbs without necessarily becoming him. again, he’s his copycat, not his replica

the fact that this all takes place in the kitchen is also important. it’s the same place hannibal will later kill her, proving he can’t reverse time and he isn’t in control, and that she was never reborn, and he was never her father. and returning to the beginning of this analysis (I said I’d come back to this) will also killed hobbs in his own kitchen, where he finally sees the truth of himself. in mizumono, a reversal occurs: hannibal is now confronted with the truth of himself and, like will, accidentally finds something very ugly by exposing himself

the episode ends with will separated from the ‘family’ and resting with his dogs, similar to how mizumono ends with will lying in his own blood, alone. in summary, oeuf quietly introduces and foreshadows key plot, character, and thematic elements through the conventions of the crime genre, and it’s fascinating to me how many links can be made between this episode and the bloodbath in mizumono

even down to the episode title: the newly formed egg and all the consequences that are to follow its hatching

#I’m feeling so insane guys #can anyone hear me #each meta is longer than the last LMAO #I wrote a whole damn essay but it was worth it #this episode is such a gem like *screams into the abyss*#this was basically the serious analysis side of the notes I took #alongside the meme ones I’ve been sharing recently <3 #the duality of man #anyway I’ll keep unpacking episodes as I go along if I get brainrot this intense again 👍#and if anyone is interested in more long analysis stuff like this #hannibal #nbc hannibal #will graham #abigail hobbs #hannigram #hannibal meta #long post #ghost speaks

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nervous-tic · 3 years

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touch to talk

After narrowly escaping the explosion at Liberty Ranch, Spencer seeks out physical therapy. He develops a crush on his physiotherapist, but what does it mean for them as he nears recovery?

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader/ofc

category: fluff, a little hurt/comfort

content warning: descriptions of physiotherapy/acupuncture, power imbalance relationship, brief implications of past drug use, making out, smidge of possessive!spencer at the end (lmk if i missed anything!)

word count: 8.6k

a/n: everyday i am fighting for my life to not just sit and write about spencer. can’t believe a 15 season crime procedural made me do this. but uh i’ve never posted fanfiction on tumblr before??? not exactly proofread, nor do i really write anymore so, sorry for the rusty prose!

masterlist

. . .

The catastrophe that was the explosion at Liberty Ranch left both Emily and Spencer battered and bruised. Their bodies bore the injuries home like unwelcome souvenirs; she, a black eye and a fractured rib, while scrapes and burns decorated his body. Eventually, scars formed, and bruises faded yellow. But Spencer’s most annoying injury was his wrist, a seemingly innocuous ache having taken the brunt of his fall. But still—

“It could’ve been worse,” she told him.

Unable to watch the way she cradled his swollen wrist, Spencer opted to stare out the window overlooking a barren parking lot. It was 6am. Clinics were typically booked weeks in advance, but Derek had told him about his own physiotherapist — one who was flexible with scheduling, reliable, and most importantly, sympathetic to the necessary risks of a job.

Though, in the moment, Spencer questioned Derek’s definition of reliable. He hissed when she gently turned his hand. The pain prompted an unusually candid reaction from him: “But it’s my dominant hand. And I have paperwork.”

Something about his comment amused her. The mortification crept in slow as he registered the inflection of his words. Spencer had whined. It was nasally and childish — and now undoubtedly part of her first impression of him.

He tucked his bottom lip between teeth to suppress a pout.

She snickered. “Are you unfamiliar with a keyboard, Doctor?”

Spencer spotted the first pair of headlights pulling into the vacant lot. “Prefer a pen and paper, s’all,” he grumbled.

She dubiously hummed, “uh huh,” before pushing his sleeve further up his arm. Spencer tensed from the unexpected contact, but the mild discomfort was trumped by a spark of pain in his wrist. With the way the tendons in his hands jumped under his skin, she noticed and offered a mumbled apology.

From her experience, Spencer resembled touch-averse patients. He had, in fact, initially rejected her attempt at a handshake. But what bothered her about Spencer was his determination to silently suffer through the necessary contact. Maybe it was pride or hyperrationality that drove him to cross his own boundaries around social etiquette. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t doing him any good. She needed a way to sow a little trust in him, an approach to reassure him that nothing had to be at expense of his physical comfort.

Despite having never met Spencer before this morning, a detailed and likely biased image of him had been painted for her during Derek’s multiple visits over the years. She just wished Derek would’ve maybe painted a physical description of his colleague because, considering how much she knew about the social shortcomings and extraordinary intelligence, he really buried the lede.

So how does one put a socially awkward yet unassumingly handsome individual at ease?

“I’m sure the FBI could get you a pretty young intern to, y’know,” her eyes flicked to his face, “help with paperwork.”

For the first time since Spencer had hopped onto the examination table, he held her gaze. It was unintentional, spurred by surprise more than anything. He saw her playfulness and reacted with a curt glance away, hoping his skin didn’t feel as warm as he perceived it to be.

Yeah, he could see why Derek liked her so much.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

She turned her attention back to his hand, but still asked, “Hm? What am I implying?” Rhetorical or not, Spencer was prepared to deliver a berating when she interrupted him. “Does this hurt?”

Spencer didn’t find himself grimacing in anticipation. In fact, there was a second where he saw her hand, so small, unable to wrap the circumference of his forearm, and he was captured by a sense of wonderment. Then, she dug her small and delicate thumb into a tendon and he yelped.

It took a lot to not yank his hand away.

“Ow! Yeah, that hurts!” Spencer jerked his arm to the side. Not enough to break from her hold, but more so to disrupt her examination in a fit of childish retaliation.

Despite causing Spencer pain, her shoulders shook with a chuckle, and it paused him. Her laugh was untethered. Charming. It wasn’t burdened by the need to appear impartial or stoic. Even her eyes wrinkled with it.

The only certainty Spencer could untangle from the knot in his stomach was that he wasn’t being laughed at.

She gently gripped his fingers, and again, he was moved to draw a comparison between them; how his four fingers alone, from index to pinky, spanned larger than her palm. It stirred something much less innocent than a mere blush, soon exacerbated when she began to smooth her other hand over his forearm, massaging the spot where she had weeded out the pain. Spencer held his breath.

Being physically soothed was an unfamiliar experience for him.

And as much as Spencer tried to remind himself that this was just her job, he latched onto the idea that touch could come this easy. With a little practice, maybe.

The apology from her was more genuine this time, though a smile still teased at the corner of her lips. “M’sorry. Again.”

The examination table was just tall enough for Spencer’s legs to dangle, allowing him the rare opportunity to lazily kick his feet without touching the ground. It was a juvenile delight, likely borne from afternoons alone on park swings. It was also the closest thing he had to fidgeting at the moment.

She gave his hand and forearm one final squeeze, a sensation that was barely there, before she released him and went to search her desk. Spencer hurriedly unrolled his wrinkled sleeve and returned his hand to the safety of his lap, though she was too preoccupied with scribbling onto a pad of paper to see his flustered movement.

The scratching of a pen nib continued as she asked Spencer, “Would you like to see me again?” At his silence, her head perked up to look at him. “For...an appointment,” she clarified. “Because I can refer you to another physiotherapist if you’d like.”

Spencer squinted at her from across the room. His legs were still swinging. “Why would I see someone else?”

“I don’t know. Say, if there’s a more convenient location for you, or...,” she trailed, smirking, “...or if you don’t like me very much. Things like that.”

His eyes fell to his lap, his cheeks warm, and his legs kicking with more force. “Your clinic is on the way to work. And you’re fine.”

“Oh, I’m just fine?”

She had already returned to writing when he his head snapped up.

“I just meant th-that you’re perfectly acceptable as a physical therapist,” he huffed, though stunned by the fact that someone beyond his team was comfortable enough to press his buttons. “And Derek speaks highly of you, so...”

A sheet was torn from the pad before she returned to Spencer.

“Ah, right, Derek,” she sighed a little dreamily. Folding the slip of paper thrice, she lamented in jest, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. Tell him to get hurt, will ya?”

Spencer accepted the paper without comment, shoving it into his front pocket.

There was an old irritation festering in him, one that developed over years of watching swathes of people swoon over Derek. But Spencer figured out the root of his annoyance long ago. It wasn’t about the amount of attention directed toward Derek, but rather, how blatantly people signaled their interest in him. There was no shame to openly wanting Derek.

If his cold reaction was obvious, she didn’t say anything. Instead, her eyes lit up. “Oh, which reminds me! Since you work with Derek, I’m assuming you have the same crazy schedule as him. So – and please know that I do this for everyone – I’m open to house calls. Y’know, if the commute’s ever an issue, or if it’s a weird time of day – any reason, really.”

Which was shocking, to say the least. And suspicious. Neither of which was remedied when she included, “Weather permitting, and if I’m free, of course. My number’s on the paper.”

As if that cleared anything up.

“I’ll be fine, thank you. But you haven’t told me what’s wrong with my wrist yet.”

Her mouth fell open, just a little, staring back at him owlishly. She finally slapped a hand over her face and began to giggle. Spencer was at a loss for words, unsure of the social protocol for dealing with a) likely the most unprofessional health practitioner he’d ever encountered, and b) someone very, very cute.

When her hand fell away, Spencer noticed how the friction had rubbed her cheeks red. She gave him a lopsided grin, saying, “God, sorry. Again, for like the third time. It’s just a little early for me.”

And Spencer really couldn’t fault her for that.

. . .

Turns out, it wasn’t just his wrist. The injury somehow extended from his knuckles to the tendons in his forearm, and after idly flexing his hand around while on his way to work, Spencer decided that yeah, everything did in fact hurt.

“If it isn’t my twelfth favourite doctor!” Penelope chirped from Derek’s chair. The rightful owner of that chair was propped against his desk, also beaming.

Heading for his desk, Spencer returned the smile, albeit a bit confused. “Twelfth? There’s only ten incarnations, Garcia.”

“Duh, but I’m not only talking about–”

Derek raised a hand, desperately pleading, “It is eight in the morning, you absolute lunatics. Do not start.”

A coy look was traded between the two, but they respected their friend’s request and put a pin in the exchange.

Taking a sip from his mug, Derek casually asked, “So? How was therapy this morning?”

But it was almost too casual. It was just the right amount of half-hearted interest. Anyone else might’ve missed it had the question not been directed to Spencer.

Dropping his bag onto his desk, Spencer groaned, “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

Penelope and Derek shared a look before the latter shrugged with an air of nonchalance. “What’re you talking about, Reid?”

Spencer rolled his eyes, expecting the conversation to be like pulling teeth. And perhaps, if it was only Derek, that might’ve been true, but Penelope was positively vibrating in her seat.

Spencer grimly started, “Derek, she’s we–”

“Pretty!”

Penelope bit down on a finger to stop herself, though the outburst was irreversible, and she didn’t appear all that embarrassed about it.

Spencer expected to feel triumphant about the revelation — about unearthing Derek’s plan so early, but instead, he was just tired. Penelope and Derek were the worst about finding Spencer a significant other. Not that either of them ever overstepped, but they were just persistent. And mischievous.

“Yes, Penelope,” Spencer muttered, collapsing into his seat, “she is pretty. But she’s also weird.” He glared at the smirking matchmaker.

“To be clear, she is who I see for physio,” Derek explained. “But yeah, she’s a little weird and a lot pretty — which I thought might shake up your morning, pretty boy, but I’m not trying to set you up here.” He held up three fingers and sternly said, “Scout’s honor.”

Spencer folded his arms. As far as he could tell, Derek was telling the truth.

“Okay, but house calls, Derek? What’s that about?”

Scandalized, Penelope gasped, turning to jab at Derek’s side. He swatted her away while she parroted, “House calls?!”

“Wh– yes, yes! House calls!” Derek admitted easily. “She does it for everyone who works unusual hours!”

“Oh, so you mean you?” Spencer scoffed.

Derek retorted, now exasperated, “Yeah Reid, and also nurses, truckers, flight attendants – pretty much anyone who doesn’t do nine-to-five! Including you.”

Spencer deflated, knowing there was no winning this. The options were to appear either foolish or ungrateful – neither of which were a good look. But before a reluctant apology could be offered, Penelope sprung out of Derek’s chair. Relief washed over Spencer as he recognized the modicum of professionalism she reserved only for their boss.

“Good morning, sir!”

Today was one of the rare occasions where their unit chief wasn’t the first one in the office. He gruffly and hastily greeted the bullpen before disappearing into his office. The sight of Hotch reminded Spencer about the paper scratching through his pocket and the vague explanation from this morning: “Oh, remember to give Agent Hotchner that doctor’s note. Might help to lighten all that burdensome paperwork.”

Watching as JJ swept Derek and Penelope into a hushed conversation to speculate about their boss’ tardiness, Spencer dug the paper out, spinning around to flatten the note against his desk. In the milliseconds it took Spencer to read it, he thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t blindly delivered the paper to Hotch.

He went to ball up the note and chuck it into the recycling, but a phone number was scribbled at the top of the page, one that didn’t appear to be the clinic’s official number and was accompanied by strokes that spelt out: For HCs – text first please!

Making loose deductions about strangers always felt invasive and reckless to Spencer, but it was different with graphology. Handwriting was tactile, so wholly honest about an individual’s personality and state of mind. And at a glance, he noted the contrast of her wide, sharp letters printed with featherlight pressure – in green ink, no less. It was an intriguing sample, purely in a graphological sense.

This was what Spencer told himself as he slipped the so-called prescription into a drawer of miscellaneous items. This was what he told himself because otherwise, it’d be silly to keep it.

Because it was nonsense and ridiculous and it made him smile for the remainder of the morning.

Right arm: sprained wrist + injury of major knuckles + unusual tension/pain of tendons extending from forearm to hand.

Use of arm should be avoided, including writing, use of firearms, driving, etc. For work, please see that Spencer receives accommodations such as assistive technology (ie speech-to-text), or an assistant/intern – preferably blonde, pretty & efficient.

(& good w/ her hands)

. . .

Derek wasn’t kidding when he mentioned her flexibility with a patient’s hectic work life. No, no house calls were made over the course of the month, but Spencer found himself in the clinic at absurd hours of the morning or late in the evenings.

“Did you know that you’re my favourite patient?” she cooed as he passed her a paper cup. Few people would’ve been so gracious to receive caffeine at 10pm on a Wednesday night, but she seemed to be powered by the stuff. It’s why after the second appointment, Spencer began to order an extra coffee while on his way to physio, carrying the two cups to the clinic in a tray. He discovered she was punctual, but always at the cost of the minutes required to dash around the corner for something that wasn’t instant mix.

Amused, Spencer pressed his lips into thin line before quipping, “Not that it earns me any favours.”

She took a long, deep sip from her cup. Spencer tried to ignore the length of her throat when she gulped.

“Well, you haven’t tried to cash in any favours yet, have you?”

He pursed his lips, feigning annoyance, while in reality, his more honest reaction was the heat beneath his collar. The word yet lingered.

Before Spencer could reply, she placed her coffee down and slid closer to him on a rolling stool. With her hands folded in her lap, she inquired, “Have you been doing the exercises?”

Spencer’s wrist was the first to heal. It was, unexpectedly, his forearm that continued to bother him with its dull ache and propensity for fatigue. On more than one occasion, his grip had fallen limp, leaving a number of items to drop from his hand. Hotch eventually forbode him from writing on whiteboards — which sucked more than Spencer would’ve liked to admit.

“Yes, regularly and exactly as instructed,” Spencer nodded.

“Good boy,” she praised with grin. He rolled his eyes, but peevishly and so conspicuously, he hid a blush.

It was merciful of her to spare him the teasing, choosing instead to officially begin their appointment by asking, “Do you remember what I suggested for today?”

Nervously, Spencer eyed the box sat beside him on the examination table. Anyone might’ve guessed that a rabid animal was inside the box with the way it made him squirm. “Uh, y-yeah.”

She drew his attention back to her with a soft hum of his name. When he glanced up from beneath his lashes, she smiled with enough reassurance for two. “I know some people think it’s hokey, but I’ve done it for years. You’ll be okay with me. And if you hate it— no, if you’re even lukewarm about it, we won’t ever do it again.”

Spencer froze. He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘okay’ because what would he even be saying it to? There was a larger sentiment buried in her nesting of promises. All he knew was that any ‘okay’ he returned would have to be confident. Monumental, even.

So, Spencer did what he always did when he lacked his own words. He rambled.

“Many people still look down on Eastern medical practices today, but it would be remiss of Western medicine to not attempt an understanding of treatments and theories developed before the common era, especially through the recontextualization of what they consider to be pseudoscientific language and concepts. Personally, I think it’s just a matter of translation th-that’s an...,” he paused when he saw the gentle tilt of her head, revealing an attentiveness that was as warm as it was patient.

Spencer’s self-consciousness manifested as a choked laugh. He gave up the string of facts that he’d begun to unravel, and instead, meekly asked, “And if it does?” He cleared his throat before specifying, “Uh, hurts. If it hurts, I mean.”

She fleetingly felt astonished by his ability to leave a thought unfinished, particularly when it seemed to burst from him like a dam breached.

Cracking open the box to reveal its contents, she kindly teased, “Then I’ll let ya poke me back.”

Spencer peered into the box and cringed. He wasn’t afraid of needles, per se. Quite the opposite, in fact. But acupuncture? All the research and encouragement in the world couldn’t prepare him for the idea of multiple needles prodding into his flesh, and then being left there.

He jumped when she stood up to move the box to a cart. She laughed before instructing, “Lay down for me, please?”

Spencer almost leapt again when she accidentally bumped his knee with the side of her hip. Groaning, he managed an incredulous, “why?”

“What, would you rather watch me jab you twelve times?”

“Twelve?!” he squeaked, though he succumbed to her direction and the daydream of a faster recovery. Still, when he twisted his torso to kick his feet up and lie down, it was reminiscent of a beetle on its back, left to writhe and wriggle, completely vulnerable. His eyes focused on the speckled ceiling.

She pushed his sleeve further up, and he prayed she wouldn’t comment on anything she saw. Which she didn’t. Instead, there was the cold sensation of disinfectant on his arm.

Her voice was melodic when she sought his attention, softly crooning, “Hey, Spencer?” He turned his head follow her voice, to which he was rewarded with soft eyes. “What were you saying earlier, about it being a matter of translation?”

Something crumpled in Spencer’s chest. He pushed aside the irrational image of his ribcage collapsing like a cave-in. He watched her return to work, dazed and unable to pinpoint which part of him was giddier and more dumbstruck by her prompt – his brain or his heart. The two organs sped off anyway; his brain, churning out facts by rote, and his heart, desperately trying to leap out of his chest.

Too eager to share (“See, when you compare the Eastern belief of ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ air in the body, its descriptions are almost identical to how our bodies react to acidity! And with meridian lines...”), Spencer was unaware of the first needle breaking skin.

. . .

Twice a week became weekly. Weekly became biweekly. Biweekly became whenever Spencer took a spill while on the job or when he held his mug a little funny. Bodies are fickle little things, after all.

Almost half a year had passed since the case at Liberty Ranch. Spencer’s wrist was on the trajectory of recovery, and for times of inflammation, he knew exactly how to care for himself. He knew what to avoid doing and which exercises were appropriate for each type of pain. He thought less and less about the injury and that in itself was a success. By all accounts, Spencer was ready to bid physical therapy farewell and move on.

And to his dismay, even she thought so.

Spencer was escorting her across the parking lot to her car when she cheerily stated, “Our next appointment should be our last, just for a final round of acupuncture. Unless of course, you’re caught in another explosion.”

Spencer stopped as they reached the driver side door, awkwardly shuffling his feet against the gravel. Had she not been clawing through her bag in search of her keys, she might’ve caught the disappointment crammed into Spencer’s two syllables of, “Really?”

She retrieved the jingling keyring and looked back up at Spencer, giving him an enthusiastic nod. “Of course! You’re almost in tiptop shape.”

And she sounded so proud. Proud enough to have Spencer grinning back and joking, “No thanks to you.”

She splayed a hand over her chest, gawking at him with mock offense. The sternness was weak in her voice as she reprimanded, “Spencer, that’s rude,” but her laughter spilled over. He eventually joined in, the sound of their delight echoing across an empty parking lot at the crest of dawn.

Anyway. That was over a month ago.

A lot could be blamed on serial killers, but no matter how many times Spencer convinced himself serial killers were to blame for this, it simply wasn’t true. This being the constant rescheduling of his final appointment with her. Guilt slowly ate away at him each time he texted her to postpone the inevitable end, largely because her responses were always kind and curious.

It was no surprise that Spencer finally caved after their latest exchange.

This time, his own message spun a loose lie about the team needing to leave ASAP (lie) for Boulder, Colorado (true) to profile a serial arsonist (true), and he suspected they’d be back in a week (lie).

After hitting send, Spencer couldn’t help but scroll through her half of the conversation, reading the text messages like childhood Valentine’s cards from a shoebox under the bed. Messages like:

Where to this time?

Enjoy the weather!

Don’t get into any fist fights :-)

Blegh, tell me less. Wait wait wait! Explain what peacocking is first.

Oooh, let me find the address for this amaaaazing taco place.

None of them were tonally romantic, but they weren’t entirely innocuous either. He wondered if they were toeing the line to something more friendly, perhaps even more permanent. And boy, did she muddle that line further with her latest response.

The team wasn’t actually taking off until the morning, so when his phone pinged with a new message, Spencer hesitated to read it from the warmth of his bed.

The self-restraint lasted all but a minute.

Gosh, it’s like you DON’T enjoy holding my hand while I repeatedly stab you.

It took a second to click. Spencer smothered his face into his pillow, a frustrated groan escaping his mouth. What was he supposed to say to that? He could read twenty-thousand words per minute, but unfortunately, this gift did not extend to writing. It was one of many reasons for why he hated texting.

The sentence went through an inordinate number of rewrites until Spencer hit send, responding, I admittedly do not hate it as much as I initially did.

Her reply was near instant. Holding my hand or being stabbed?

It bothered him, knowing she was probably lounging around her home while conversing with him – all while believing him to be boarding a plane. But adoration was a good cure-all for overthinking, and Spencer became fixated on the idea that this was almost certainly what it felt like to be passing notes with your crush during class.

Spencer typed back, Being stabbed, obviously.

Her response was less hasty this time. The message was composed of the single word and emoticon – Weirdo :-). Granted, it wasn’t a lot to work with, so Spencer began to systematically consider appropriate responses, approaching it as a game of textual and possibly flirtatious chess. It ultimately didn’t matter however, because his phone buzzed again.

Well don’t get into too much trouble and please make it home safe! Lest you deprive me of one final session to stab my favourite patient.

The words came easier to Spencer this time.

Thank you. I’ll see you as soon as I’m back on Virginian soil.

Only, it didn’t occur to Spencer that he hadn’t meant it in the context of rescheduling a medical appointment. He just really wanted to see her.

. . .

And when the jet smoothly touched down after three days away, Spencer wanted to stay true to his word.

Emily offered to drive him on account of his dominant hand being restricted by medical tape. Well, his fingers at least, but it still made carrying his go-bag a challenge.

“So,” Emily drawled, navigating his apartment with ease to drop his duffle onto his desk, “are you gonna contact her?”

Spencer busied himself by cautiously shucking his coat, which his teammate more than happily stood by to observe.

He had to actively unclench his jaw before innocently asking, “Who?”

“Uh, the only person you regularly see who isn’t us,” Emily smugly droned. She walked back over to Spencer, where he was now hanging up his scarf with his back to her. He was forced to look at her when she leaned up against his front door, goading, “The person who’s been taking care of you for six months.”

He did everything in his power to maintain their eye contact despite his cheeks warming.

Emily was prone to teasing Spencer like the rest of the team, but rarely did she revel in his discomfort. Spencer happened to be at his most transparent while happy, and that was when she liked to toy with him. It was genuinely pleasing to see moments where he became bashful about good things, things that he deserved.

Weakly, Spencer retorted with a blink, “Because she’s paid to care for me.” He figured lying was his best bet at this point – because he had in fact already texted her upon his arrival. Still, he relented with a dishonest grumbling. “I don’t know. I’ll reach out in the morning, I guess.”

Emily brushed by him to pat down his coat from where it hung. He watched curiously as she reached into a pocket while scolding, “Spence, I just saw you neck half a pot of coffee on the plane. It might as well be morning for you.”

Perhaps with a little too much force, she slapped his phone against his chest. He fumbled his grip on it with his unhindered hand, barely managing to catch it.

“House call,” was all Emily said.

Spencer groaned. “How do you also know?!”

She chuckled, prepared to explain when three rapid knocks had them both flinching.

At the sight of Spencer’s horrified expression, it dawned on Emily before she even pried open the door.

A familiar voice greeted them with surprise. “Agent Prentiss!”

Emily welcomed her in with a sweeping gesture, subtly eyeing Spencer with something akin to pride. He glared back, but Emily’s attention shifted when the other woman reached for a handshake, one which Emily happily gave.

“Nice to see you again! Everything still going alright?”

Emily shrugged, unconsciously pressing the heel of her palm into her thigh. “Oh, you know. The cold weather doesn’t help, but I still follow the regimen we decided on.”

Ah. So, it was possible that Spencer owed Derek an apology. Maybe Derek did recommend his physiotherapist to anyone who needed it. There was a relief to that, but also an aftertaste of disappointment. Meeting her hadn’t been special after all. In fact, almost his entire team seemed to be acquainted with her already.

Spencer didn’t even know about Emily sustaining a leg injury.

With intrigue, he watched the conversation unfold, squinting at the easy body language and humour shared between the two. It was...cordial, but still professional. The interaction even concluded in a timely manner, Emily being sent off with, “Well, you’ve got my number if it ever acts up.”

“I might take you up on that,” Emily grimaced. She stepped into the hall with a lazy wave. “I won’t take up anymore of Dr. Reid’s precious time with you,” she spoke, though Spencer caught the inkling of mischief in her tone. Any credit Spencer was willing to grant Emily for subtlety was chucked out the window when she had the gall to wink at the two of them before descending the stairs.

He shut the door a little too loudly, his body now thrumming with frenetic energy. It was an odd concoction of respite from Emily’s teasing mixed with nerves from finally seeing her again after a month. He tried to stoke the courage he found on the plane, the one that amounted to him asking for a house call, but to no avail.

She set down a large rectangular bag, oblivious to Spencer’s internal meltdown. Oblivious to how much worse she made it when she spotted his taped hand and reached out to cradle it for examination, letting slip a soft, “oh no...”

Spencer shouldn’t have been surprised when she asked him, “Are you okay?” because it’s not like the question fell beyond the realm of her medical responsibility, but it was difficult to not mistake it for something more personal when she peered at him with wide, concerned eyes.

“I-I’m fine. Just fired my weapon a few times, and uh, it hurt my fingers? That’s never happened before, but...,” Spencer swallowed when she took to unravelling the tape, “...Derek helped me buddy tape them.”

She lightheartedly tutted, “For someone who played college football, he’s surprisingly bad at it,” while balling up the strips of adhesive. Spencer held his breath as she delicately folded and stroked his fingers, occasionally asking him if something hurt.

Finally, she concluded, “Just a little swollen. The soreness should go away in a few days. Nothing serious.”

It wasn’t a proud moment when Spencer almost pouted as she released his hand.

Taking in Spencer’s apartment for the first time, she asked, “Where can we sit?”

“Right, um. Do you want me sitting or l-lying down?”

“Lying down, if possible. But sitting’s also fine.”

Spencer quickly realized how unaccommodating his apartment was to another person. Sure, his home was cozy, but it wasn’t inviting or ideal for company. The only areas where he could really lie down were his bed, his bathtub, and his couch.

Spencer pictured himself horizontal on his bed with her hovering at his side, stroking his arm and holding his hand. That was a slippery slope.

Then he imagined the bathtub and almost combusted.

“The couch,” he croaked. “I’ll uh, drag over a chair.”

“No need,” she chirped. “Mind if I hang my coat up?”

Spencer gave her a small nod, taking advantage of her brief distraction to move the bag of supplies over to the couch.

“Um, a-are you sure you don’t want a chair? Because–”

At the sight of him lugging her things, she rushed over just as he placed it on the coffee table, chastising, “Sit! Rest!”

Spencer was overwhelmingly taken by the way she pried his fingers from the handle of the bag despite it being his uninjured hand; she uncurled his fingers, delicately and one by one.

It was too honest when he bashfully mumbled, “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

It took her head tilting up for Spencer to grasp how close they were standing. His heart picked up as she clasped his one hand between her two. Their proximity didn’t seem to phase her because she scoffed at him in disbelief, giving him a squeeze before sarcastically remarking, “Yeah, because catching criminals for a living isn’t helpful enough.”

In a blink, she released him and spun around to unpack her bag. Spencer was frozen, his hand still poised midair. His lack of movement was apparent however, because she loosely gestured behind her, sternly directing him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

And it was the strangest thing. Their appointment progressed as if they were back at the clinic; Spencer pointed her to the kitchen where she could wash her hands before he hunkered down on his couch. She planted herself on the carpet beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world, beginning to clean his arm as she posed a familiar question: “What will I be learning about today, Dr. Reid?”

He hummed, staring at his ceiling. “Nothing today.”

“Oh?” she responded with a quirked brow. There was the sound of a needle being unpackaged. “Really? Nothing?”

“Mhm, really,” Spencer echoed, though his next thought was stalled by the sensation of the first prick. He would usually be a lungful into an ad hoc lecture by now. Wriggling his nose at the lack of distraction, he stated, “I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation before.”

Another prick. “You don’t think? You mean you don’t remember?” she teased.

“Okay fine,” he yielded with a stiff chuckle. “We have definitively never had a conversation during a session. It’s always just been me, going off on a– sss...,” he sharply inhaled when a muscle reflexively twitched at a jab. He finished lamely, “...a tangent. It’s always me on a tangent.”

She ran a delicate finger over his skin, seeking out the next spot. “And you don’t think that’s by design?”

“Um, no.” Spencer probed, “But is it?”

“Sorta.” She shrugged, explaining, “Just don’t think I have anything interesting to talk about. Especially when it’s a conversation with a certified genius who already knows everything.”

The last word was punctuated by another prick. Spencer hardly felt it, caught up by the implications of what she had just shared.

He scoffed. “So, what – you think the sole reason to have a conversation is to learn something?”

“Well, broadly speaking, it’s to exchange information, so yeah. But it sounds stupid when you put it like that...”

There was a pang of guilt. Spencer hadn’t intended on making her feel like that. His uninjured hand, resting flat on his chest, began to arrhythmically tap. It was the most movement he was willing to risk.

“Fine. Then tell me about yourself.”

Maybe it was the rasp in his voice that made him seem disingenuous, an embarrassing result of his nerves drying his mouth, because her hands continued to move. Unphased, she let out a dubious, “mhm, okay then.”

“I’m serious,” he frowned. “I think your coffee order’s told me more about you than anything you’ve actually said.”

She returned a snicker at the exaggeration and little else, swiftly tapping the final needle into his skin.

During any other appointment, Spencer might’ve left it alone, but tonight, she was in his home with finite time. So, he pushed a little harder, softly asking, “Please? You know how antsy I get if I’m not distracted.”

And it wasn’t necessarily a lie.

A moment of contemplation passed before he heard a jokingly exasperated huff. Spencer craned his neck to the side, watching as she scooted herself directly in front of him. With Spencer lying on the couch and her seated on the ground, they were at eye level.

She smiled sweetly, offering him a plain, “Hello.”

Spencer returned the greeting with a bashful, goofy grin.

“Y’know...,” she trailed, “you make it sound like I’m the one withholding information about myself, but it’s not like I know that much more about you.”

“You raise a very fair point,” Spencer chuckled. It was – and he knew the hypocrisy of it – entirely purposeful on his part, though their reasons differed; because while she believed herself unable to contribute to a meaningful conversation with a walking encyclopedia, Spencer feared revealing something that would give her reason to dislike him.

“Indeed, I do raise a fair point,” she firmly nodded. “So, why don’t I ask you a question, and then you can ask me a question?”

Spencer gaped, sputtering a laugh. “You can’t just turn this around on me!”

“I absolutely can! And I just did,” she triumphantly smirked.

Spencer reined in his glee, doing his best impression of concern. “Is this a cry for help? Because no one in their right mind would listen to me for thirty-two weeks – and then encourage me to speak more.”

Of course, it was a joke, but there was an edge to Spencer’s tone that resonated oddly with her. When her eyes darted away, he grew worried, an apology without reason already at the tip of his tongue. The only thing that stopped him was the soft blush that coloured her cheeks, and then the hurried way she brushed her hair behind her ears. Spencer had never seen her so...demure before. His lip almost trembled at the sight, unable to remember his next words.

She was on the brink of a nervous giggle when she confessed, “You make everything interesting, Spencer.”

The sentence was simple, but one that was thoughtfully pieced together. It was as heavy for her to say as it was for him to hear.

“I know you wanted to ask the first question, but, uh. May I?”

The non sequitur surprised her, jolting out a shaky, “S-Sure, of course.”

“Could you please take the needles out?”

Her timid expression smoothed into the professional demeanor that Spencer was more accustomed to. When she moved back down to his arm, he released a shaky breath and chanced a look at her.

She bit her lip, entirely focused on his arm as she began to deftly pluck out the intrusions to his skin. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “did they start to bother you? Did something hurt?”

The needles dully clattered in the biohazard bin she’d also brought. Awe passed over his features as he watched her perform all this with steady hands and in under thirty seconds flat. She looked back at him from where she kneeled and mistook his distant and glazed look for discomfort.

Placing a tentative hand on his bicep, she grounded his attention with her fretting. “Are you okay, Spencer? Can I get you some water? Soda? Do you want to sit up?”

Spencer prayed this wasn’t merely professional concern because he shifted onto his side and moved the hand from his chest to her cheek, his heart thrumming at how still she’d become. He stroked the angle of her cheekbone with his thumb and watched her eyes grow round. The grip on his bicep tightened.

Then she removed her hand and dropped her eyes.

He drew back his arm.

As Spencer scanned her downturned face and expression, he thought about how emotions influenced behaviour and how it greatly varied from person to person. But through his work, he learned that displays of guilt were the most consistent across the spectrum of people. He saw it in criminals, victims, witnesses, himself – and now her.

Spencer pushed himself up on the couch, ignoring the careless pressure he applied to his slightly swollen fingers. She started to protest, and whether it was in reaction to his departure or the mistreatment of his injury, he wasn’t sure.

“That was–,” he interrupted her, “um, I overstepped. I’m sorry.” The other end of his couch, the side furthest from her, welcomed his weight. “Let’s just forget it. I’m going to, er– no, I just mean that you’ve been great. I’ve appreciated your help over the past few months.”

If he wasn’t so caught up in his own panic, he would’ve seen her internal conflict bubble over in the form of a palm pressed into the warm leather where he’d just been.

Spencer’s smile was thin and forced. “So yeah, thanks. It’s been a– um, been a pleasure.”

Her lips mimicked his overexerted smile, and she returned his tense glance. Only, the façade felt impossible to maintain for her. Spencer was anxiously backed into the corner of his couch in his own home, and she had done that.

Scrambling onto the couch herself (knees sunk into where it was still warm from him), she managed, “Spencer...,” before he cut her off again.

“Y-You don’t have to say whatever you’re...about to say.”

“Spencer,” she tried again, lifting her hand for him to shake, “I just wanted to say it was also a pleasure.”

It was strikingly reminiscent of their first meeting; how Spencer had rebuffed her handshake, and how she mercilessly teased him for a minute because his presence at the clinic was solely to seek physical therapy for his hand. In jest, she made a show of washing her hands, but he had never expressed his gratitude for how she still asked to touch him before the first examination. And how she continued to ask and check in with him every appointment without fail, up until the point when their days together crept toward the double digits and Spencer had assured her that such diligence was no longer necessary.

Staring at her hand now, Spencer thought it to be bittersweet because a handshake would be the most appropriate way to conclude their stint of a relationship. But he always had a knack for jumping the gun while nervous.

Out of habit, Spencer reached forward with his uninjured hand. Her fingers twitched at the sight of his left hand mirroring her right, clearly incompatible.

Spencer grew flustered by the fact that he’d somehow managed to screw up a simple handshake, but she seized the opportunity. She slipped her fingers into his palm and turned his hand over, her thumb running over the hills and valleys of his knuckles. For the briefest of moments, he thought she might kiss the back of his hand, and his cheeks burned brighter.

“Sorry,” he hurriedly reasoned, “that was...incredibly odd. I’ve just grown used to using my left hand by default.”

“It’s okay,” she giggled. The accumulated awkwardness from the past few minutes was unable to taint her laugh. Spencer was thinking about how he’d miss the joyous sound just as she reassured him, “It’s nice. And warm.”

Her sincerity was devastating. He’d have to miss that as well. What else about her had he grown attached to?

Spencer spent so long with his hand in hers, trying his best to memorize every quality of her personhood, that he forgot to conceal any of his desire. It gave him away so quickly. Arguably more quickly than when he’d cradled her face in his palm minutes ago – an action that was imbued with ambiguity and indecisiveness because of how she felt him tremble. But this stare? She saw it for the simple and unadulterated want that it was – and it undid her hours of careful consideration.

Gingerly, she dropped their hands onto the leather between them, though their fingers remained in contact.

With a level voice, she asserted, “I believe I’m still owed a question.”

It snapped Spencer out of his impossible endeavor to somehow archive her in his mind. She squirmed as he took a considerable amount of time to think on her demand, squinting suspiciously at her. And yet, the corner of his lips twitched at the idea that she wasn’t leaving right away.

“Okay,” he nodded, “shoot.”

Her question was spring loaded, tumbling out immediately.

“Can I kiss you?”

Spencer stared at her, ears warm and mouth ajar. Her stomach knotted.

The accompanying warmth of his hand disappeared from her grasp, but only so he could motion her closer with a curl of his fingers. Softly, he mumbled, “C’mere.”

To which she obeyed with speed and fervor.

Spencer looped his arm around her waist as she clambered toward him, pulling her into his lap. They might as well have been touching for the first time. Months of sly handholding and calming strokes along his arm couldn’t have prepared either of them for how they melted into each other with such immediacy.

Ever the good patient, Spencer left his hurt arm slung along the back of the couch, but he made sure to compensate with his single arm as it wrapped even tighter around her. She gasped not because of how they slotted together, but because he’d snuck his fingertips under her shirt, stroking patterns into her skin.

She took it upon herself to elicit a similar response from Spencer, which she accomplished easily with a hand at the nape of his neck and the other pressed flat against his chest, two fingers slipping into a gap between the buttons. She heard a sharp exhale, followed by a shudder. At her fingertips was skin and bone and muscle, everything alive and pulsing.

Glancing up, she realized Spencer was also watching her fingers disappear into his shirt.

His eyes slowly trailed up, lips parting when he saw the fierce blush creeping up her neck. She chased the wet flicker of his tongue.

Spencer was reluctant to open up at first. He had, after all, taken a brief nap on the jet before consuming an inhuman amount of coffee. But she was convincing – if convincing meant capitalizing on the moment she tugged on his hair to eke out a moan. The paranoia about how he tasted vanished as he felt her lick into his mouth, discovering they were one and the same, both afflicted by the lingering taste of bad coffee.

Despite the months of building tension, the kiss was languid and lazy on account of it being late in the evening, eventually tapering off into wet pecks and playful licks. The impulse to push their activities further crossed their minds, but they were also happy – satiated even, by their embrace alone.

Spencer comfortably slumped further into the couch, nuzzling into the crook of her neck as she remained straddling his lap. When she heard his voice muffled against her skin, she giggled. “What was that?”

“I said,” he enunciated with a kiss to her jaw before leaning back, “as much as I’m enjoying this, I can’t help but also feel like I’m receiving mixed signals.”

While there was no judgement in Spencer’s voice, she still winced at the fresh memory of Spencer dropping his hand from her cheek. There was no roundabout way to lie about her terribly lame and responsible reasoning.

“Have you ever crossed a line with a– oh, I don’t know. A witness before? Or victim, or something? While uh, on the job?”

Perplexed, Spencer squeaked out a guilty, “what?” before getting a handle on his pitch. Overly cool, he asked, “Are we still asking each other questions?”

That was a line of questioning to revisit later, she decided. But his glaringly obvious answer did wonders for her own nerves.

She smiled, embarrassed, but also the tiniest bit smug as she droned, “Okay, well I have never crossed that line before – unlike some people.” Spencer disrupted her with a roll of his eyes and a hard squeeze to her thigh that had them both laughing. “And...,” she chided, wrenching his hand away with a disapproving glare, but he took no offense as she guided his palm back to her waist. “...I wasn’t going to either.”

Spencer quirked a brow.

She sighed, trying to draw out her foolish little plan for him.

“I was going to come over and do my job, before maybe – and I seriously mean maybe – putting out some feelers for whether you...liked me or not.” Spencer broke into another grin, one that was so shamelessly self-gratifying that it moved her to blanket his mouth with her hand. In protest, he sharply exhaled through his nose, but it was all for show. If anything, Spencer appeared downright content to just exist in her hands – and it was an idea that made her shiver.

Her voice was scratchy as she pressed on.

“Then, I was going to be a responsible little worker. Y’know – trot on home, email the invoice to your insurance, and then mope in bed about a certain federal agent.” Spencer chuckled into her palm. “After, and only after an appropriate amount of time when you could no longer be considered a patient of mine, I might’ve called you. For dinner, or something.”

At the conclusion, she removed her hand to discover a small, endearing smile.

“I get it now,” Spencer said, peering up at her. For a moment, he reconsidered his next words because her eyes were so thoughtful, so curious. But seldom did anyone find him charming or funny, and he was excited to map out this newfound confidence with her.

And so, Spencer chose to smirk. “I get why you never spoke during our appointments, because my god, you don’t–” She gasped his name, barely holding her faux outrage together as she loosely grappled his collar. “– you don’t stop! I knew you were mouthy, but you almost overthink as much as I do!”

She shook him by the shirt, threatening, “Take it back!” as he continued to cackle.

Maybe it was the fact that she wasn’t actually angry, or maybe it was his arm that hugged her closer, but the two eventually folded together in a fit of a laughter.

As they caught their breaths, she snuggled into his chest, and Spencer held her tight, her head tucked under his chin. Turning to press his cheek into her hair, he indulged in the scent of sweet florals in her hair, slightly baffled by how instinctive physical affection could be. Had he always been capable of this?

“I’m glad you didn’t follow through with your plan,” he sighed. “Because if you didn’t call...I don’t know if I could’ve.”

She chuckled into his chest. “Well, there was also a Plan B.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” she playfully hummed, “especially since I do physio for, hm, basically your whole team.”

She turned her head upward just as Spencer scrunched his neck back to peer down at her.

“Could you quantify ‘basically your whole team’ for me?” he prodded.

A tempting smile slowly unfurled as she popped the ‘p’ in her curt, “Nope!” There was a glint in her eye. “Why? Is it not enough to know I’ve done house calls for Derek?” she teased. And while Spencer was decidedly not bothered, the way she bit her lip as her eyes wandered to his own mouth ignited him.

Spencer was hypnotized by her, nearly missing the quiet taunt. “Or would you say showing up at Agent Hotchner’s door is worse?” The mention of his boss easily captured his attention – with his jaw going limp at her salacious tone.

From the childish wiggle of her brows, Spencer knew it wasn’t to be taken seriously. Still, he relished in the flare of jealousy she had sparked. Considering his lack of dating life, this jealousy was new, and the prospect of this seemed to equally thrill her.

Which is why he softly pinched her chin between the fingers of the hand that had been out of commission for the better part of six months. She noticed, and with a knitted brow, began to warn him, but he didn’t give her the chance. She was docile at his utterance of, “Shut up,” feeling the words evaporate in her mouth.

Her chin was tugged forward, and between each whisper of, “mouthy, so mouthy,” Spencer nipped her lips plump and kissed them both quiet.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x original female character #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid comfort #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds one shot #criminal minds fluff #nervous-tic.txt

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canonfanon · 3 years

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One of the more frustrating parts of consuming superhero content is putting up with “copganda” bs. It can be similar to watching police procedurals sometimes - often it will have a lot of the same flawed logic. Like the idea that sending someone to prison is the same as solving a problem. Or the idea that you should never support a civilian breaking the law, even if that law is unjust, and never mind the fact that the police (and vigilantes in comics) also break the law.

But the main thing that I’ve been thinking about lately is superhero media’s tendency to make all criminals like...crazy maniacs? murderers? or even just sadistic in general.

Like, for example, the vast majority of car thieves are not going to be ok with murdering someone. Most thieves in general are not going to want to kill anyone. Aside from the fact that murdering someone will land you in much more trouble than theft, the idea that all criminals are willing to hurt/kill people is copganda brain rot

And yet a lot of superhero media will have thieves just like...open fire into a crowd or some shit. Or even worse, they’ll have a random criminal be totally down for child murder for no reason?? Like, in a lot of Batman content, they’ll have thieves and drug dealers respond to Robin with immediate murderous intent, which is just....not how it would go down in reality. Obviously it’s possible for people to react violently when startled, and some people are going to be sadistic bastards, but if you are creating a world where the vast majority of criminals are down for child murder, then you might want to examine where you got the idea that all criminals are inherently monstrous.

For a real life example of what I’m talking about - when a car thief accidentally steals a car with a child in it, the vast, vast majority of the time, they will take the kid somewhere safe and then ditch the car. Because most car thieves, like most people in general, don’t want to hurt or kill an innocent kid.

Idk, it’s just frustrating how prevalent copganda attitudes are in comics and superhero stuff in general. Some stories handle it pretty well - that one episode of Justice League Unlimited that showed the Flash treating his “villains” with compassion and getting them into mental health treatment is one of my favorite moments of that show. And some Batman stories do tackle the idea that poverty is at the root of most crime, and have Bruce Wayne trying to fix that. But at the end of the day, most superhero stuff is going to have the heroes hauling all the “evil” bad guys into prison, and they don’t really get into the ethics of all of that.

I feel like part of this problem is just caused by writers needing to have high stakes for their stories - having criminals trying to kill the hero all the time is a lazy easy way to create tension. But a bigger part of the problem is our societal tendency to swallow the narrative that all criminals are inherently bad people that just want to hurt others

#bc this is tumblr and i know someone might bring this up - obviously i am not condoning car theft #i am just pointing out that making all criminals into monsters encourages people to drop their empathy and compassion #which makes it easier to abuse anyone deemed a 'criminal'#anyway i'm thinking about those damn arkham games again #which are so fun to play but have some of the worst views on criminality that you can find anywhere #i also started rewatching superman the animated series and noticed a lot of the same kind of bs show up #and a lot of fanfic unfortunately follows this logic too #it would be really cool if we had more superhero media that challenges this narrative and portrayed criminality more accurately #and compassionately #batman #dc comics #dc

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skylarmoon71 · 3 years

Text

Loki Laufeyson Fanfiction (Marvel)- Chapter 3

A casual day at Star Towers is always welcomed. You're lounging in Tony's living room, enjoying an episode of your favorite drama series. Loki strolls through the door.

"Enjoying a peaceful afternoon are we?"

"Yeah, then you showed up." Loki smiles at the joke, and you pat the seat next to you.

"Loki, thank you for keeping your promise."

True to his word, he was less of a problematic asgardian, and more of a dependable partner. The last three missions you didn't even have to use any power. A part of you wonders if maybe your little near death experience sort of made him more conscious. He took the initiative in most of your assignments. It was refreshing to see this side of him.

"Wouldn't be much of a god if I failed to uphold something so simple."

You return your focus on the television, picking at the grapes.

"What are you watching?"

"Criminal minds." You speak nonchalantly.

"Never took you for the type to be interested in such absurd procedural shows. It's a mockery on the reality of true crime. Very rarely is the bad guy captured. "

"Aren't you an optimist?"

"I wouldn't have gotten so far in my endeavors if I went blindly on optimism."

"Maybe if you had a bit more you wouldn't get captured all the time." He chuckles.

"Touche"

Leaning into the seat, you return your focus to the screen. You and Loki share a few words in between. He'd tell you about some of the pranks he pulled on Asgard. You'd give him a bit of the little misadventures you had as a kid. That's how the topic of adoption popped up, which led to his next question.

"Were you abandoned as well?"

"They didn't abandon me." Your response comes out a bit harsher than you intend.

"My mom, she..she had me when she was in college. She couldn't take care of me so she gave me up. I only found out about her because of the accident. Zara lost both her parents that night in a car crash. She had no one."

"You're half sisters?" you nod.

"I still have no idea who my birth father was, probably not that great since he left my mom the minute she got pregnant. "

"Why did you take her in, weren't you angry. If not for the accident she could have gotten the life you wanted. If anything I would think you'd resent her. "

"And what exactly would me hating her gain?"

"I don't know, a piece of mind at least. "

"Loki, it's not just about how I feel. Even if Zara was adopted by them, she's still family. No matter what, you should never give up on your family. "

Loki recalls Thor saying something similar. No matter how many times he betrayed him, double crossed him he always seemed to come back. They weren't truly brothers. Not at all. He supposed now he understood that a little more.

"You'd do anything to protect her." He asks.

"I'd die for her."

Death. Was there someone he would give his life for. The only person he'd ever cared so much about was his late mother. Now though, his view on a lot of things were changing. Thor, the team. You. The last realization causes him to look at you. You pop a grape in your mouth, switching the channel. Loki had become strangely quiet, so you turn. His eyes have settled on you, and you swallow the grape, clearing your throat awkwardly.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" He whispers.

He inches a bit closer. "W-What are you doing?" you demand.

"I don't know what you mean." He knows exactly what you mean because his tone is teasing.

"Loki!" His hand brushes over your knuckles and you glare at him.

"Whatever game you're playing I'm not interested. " You pull back your hand, standing to leave. Loki grabs your hand, and you stop.

"I'm not playing any games, not with you."

"I don't believe you." You can't take a chance to look back, because if he stares at you again you won't be able to pretend you aren't affected by him.

"Are you saying you don't feel anything for me?" Now you turn.

"W-What the hell are you talking about?" Since when did he care about feelings, much less yours.

"I've been going over a lot of what you said. Having someone to care for, and having that care returned. I used to think those were unnecessary concepts, but your love for your sister, it gives you strength. You blasted a room full of hydra agents to get out, even though there was a chance you could have died. You did it all to ensure you returned to your sister. A girl who's only half of your true family. That courage, that drive, I've never wanted it, needed it. But working here with these foolishly good set of mortals, it's changing the way that I think. The way I feel. " You take a step back when he rises.

"Is it selfish of me to long for more of that strength from you?"

What do you say to that?

"I-I just..I we're not.." you're falling over your words.

He's towering you slightly, and you aren't sure what excuse to make up that would sound at least a little bit believable.

He licks his lips, eyes marking you.

"Is it?" He presses.

"No.." your reply is a bit shaky, and Loki leans in. The doors behind you open and you can hear the laughs of Tony and a few others. That all stops when they spot the both of you.

"And what do we have here?" Tony teases. You move back. "N-Nothing! I have to go." you rush to make an escape, and Loki just stands there a bit irritated at the uninvited guests.

"Perfect timing." Loki grumbles.

He's gone with a spark of green.

#loki x reader #marvel #reader insert #humor #new feelings #avengers #natasha romanoff #Steve Rogers #tony stark #starktower #missions #partners #friendship #powers #sisters #loki laufeyson #magic #cuteloki

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percywinchester27 · 3 years

Text

A lot like ‘Us’: Separation

Word count: 1.6K

Pairing: Sam X Reader AU

Warnings: Mentions of multiple deaths, feels, fluff

Series Summary: Y/N Y/L/N is eager and honestly, still in awe that she managed to get herself an acceptance from Stanford Law School. On the face of it, her life seems as put together, mysterious and independent as one might hope for. On the insides, she carries the burden of past that haunts her till date. Seemingly, she’d left it all behind; that is until she sets foot in the class of the Law School’s youngest, most promising professor.

A/N: This timestamp takes place before the first chapter of the series. I wrote it for myself, because it’s a snapshot of their lives that demanded to be fleshed out.

The present timeline for the story takes place in 2014.

A lot like ‘Us’ masterlist

29th August 2014

Sam simply had to look away. He couldn’t bear to see the pictures Stacey had put in front of him.

“Why’re we doing a homicide, again?” Chase asked, face screwed up. He didn’t want to see the horrifying images either.

Stacey pursed her lips. “Sam had told me he’d like to be informed if something similar to… you know... if something like this ever pops up.”

Sam had told her that. She was only doing what she’d been asked.

“So, what’s the deal?” Sam motioned with a tilt of his head towards the photos on his desk.

“Victor Parker, 37 and Alicia Parker, 32, were found murdered at their San Jose home yesterday. They are survived by a 5 year old boy John.”

“What happened?” Chase’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Burglary gone wrong, or so the cops are saying. The resemblance of the crime scene was all too uncanny. I had to tell you.”

Stacey wasn’t wrong. The way the bodies were splayed- just like Simmons.

“Where’s the boy?” Sam’s fingers scratched against the etching on his pen. A nervous tick he had developed over the years when he started feeling the panic.

“In the hospital, fighting for his life. The assholes shot everyone. Little John got it twice. The surgeons removed the bullets, but there’s been a lot of internal bleeding.”

Sam flinched, closing his eyes.

Chase got up from the chair. “What’re we going to do about this? We’re lawyers not law enforcement or miracle workers.” He turned to the girl before him. “Stace, darling, c’mon. There’s nothing we can do for the poor boy. We work private law jobs and this is the DA’s territory.”

Stacey pushed her hair behind her ear, distressed. “Sam, you okay?”

“Sam?”

“Hmm?” He looked up, fingers sweaty against the obsidian in his hand.

She looked like something had just occurred to her. “Wait… Wasn’t your dad’s name John? Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry if I brought something up.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m okay. It’s not that.”

It wasn’t. His parent’s death had been a grave tragedy, but it affected Dean a hell lot more than it had ever affected Sam. He had always been sheltered, protected and loved by a brother who was his entire family.

Sam let out a long breath. “Call the PD and check with them which hospital they’ve put John in, will you?”

“On it!”

He watched Stacey hurry out of his office.

Chase gave him an apprehensive glance then walked out of the cabin, too. He wasn’t wrong about what he’d said earlier. There was nothing Sam could do. Max’s case was a one off. Ralph Simmons had been a client to Johnson’s before, so Max was by default on the firm’s radar. These murders were only a news report. Even though Sam couldn’t be legal help, he could always be monetary help. It’s why he’d asked Stacey to keep a look out. If there was anything Sam could do for little John, he would.

The glass door opened, and his secretary stepped in.

“Stace?”

Her lower lip quivered before she put her face in her hands. “Just heard from the Hospital. He passed, Sam. That little boy didn’t make it.”

******

“Mr. Winchester, can I offer you something? A glass of water, perhaps?” The principal asked him, casting a side eye at the other teacher.

“No, thank you,” Sam whispered. “I just want to see my son.”

“I have to tell you, this is very irregular. We usually don’t pull out kids from their classes. Is something wrong?”

He closed his eyes and said the words with deliberation. “Nothing is wrong. I’d just like to take my son home early. Will that be a problem?”

The principal gestured to the teacher, who Sam now realised was Max’s class in-charge. She shrugged. “Sure. There’s just an hour of school left for the year. You can take him home.”

When Max shuffled into view outside, through the office’s blinders, he looked small and confused, brown eyes flitting nervously. It was all Sam could do not to fall on his knees and hug him to his chest.

Max’s eyes went round with worry as he read Sam’s. Kid just always knew.

With shaking legs, Sam made his way out and clutched Max’s shoulder. He would have picked his boy up, but the fear of collapsing kept him from doing that.

“Come,” he said quietly, placing a hand against Max’s back.

Max followed without a question, climbing in the passenger’s seat.

Sam drove the rest of the way doing his best not to break down. His eyes kept tearing up and he rolled them up each time to stop the threatening tears from spilling.

Once home, he discarded his coat and sat Max down on the sofa. The packed suitcase, along with Max’s backpack stood right next to it.

“Stay here, let me fix you something to eat, okay?”

Sam’s kitchen was open, he could see Max from where he was standing in front of the stove. The eggs broke unevenly and the whisk shook in his hands. Next time that Sam’s eyes flitted to the sofa, it was empty.

“Max? Max!” He yelled.

“Right here!” Max was sitting on the kitchen island right behind, feet tucked under him.

“I told you to stay right there on the sofa!”

Max dropped his shoulders. “You’re spooking me out, you know?”

Sam was taken aback.

“Look,” Max sighed. “If you don’t want me to go, I won’t go, okay? It’s not that big a deal.”

Closing his eyes, Sam leaned back against the counter next to Max. “It’s not that. I… Well, I had a rough day at work.”

“What happened?”

He wasn’t sure how to put it to Max, but he sure as hell couldn’t lie to him.

“You don’t want to tell me,” Max huffed.

“Something very sad happened today,” Sam breathed. “And I just… I couldn’t take it-” his voice broke. “I couldn’t breathe another minute without seeing you, knowing you were okay.”

Max was silent for a moment, then he spoke through pressed lips. “You look funny. Bad funny. You wanna sit down?”

Sam gulped once and pulled himself on top of the counter next to Max.

His house wasn’t big, but it sure felt cavernous when Max went over to Jody’s for the night sometimes. One whole month. How was he supposed to live?

“Your hands are shaking,” Max said in his sweet, ringing voice. “Sam, you’re scaring me.”

First rule of parenting, don’t let your kid see you fall apart, Dean’s words came back to Sam.

He ran his hand over his face- it must’ve been white- not knowing what to say to Max.

“I’m not going to the camp,” Max announced.

“No. You should go. Your aunt Jo would butcher me with one of her fancy knives if you don’t show up now. I’ll be fine.”

The boy next to him didn’t look convinced. Max saw right through him with those sharp eyes. “You’re bluffing. And I thought you were the best lawyer in the world.”

“All kids think their parents are infallible.”

Max snorted. Sam turned to look at him.

“You’re infallible, alright, but you’re also stupid!”

“What?”

Little brown fingers grabbed Sam’s hand, stealing eyes. “It’s just a camp.”

“But you want to go, right?”

Max didn’t say anything. Sam knew he’d been dying to go to that mechanics camp his uncle Dean had suggested. It would mean cars, tools and dinners with his aunt and uncle on the weekends. Dean and Jo were looking forward to this, too. They had their own kid on the way and Jo loved Max. Much like Sam, it was second nature to her to keep looking at the roads and door and be disappointed each time when the person she was hoping to see never showed. Sam couldn’t disappoint her.

“I’ve never been away from you for more than a day since you moved in with me. I wouldn’t know what to do with my days.” Or life for that matter.

Max smirked. “Uncle Chase keeps asking you to have fun. So have fun.”

Chase’s definition of fun was very different from Max’s. Sam wasn’t interested.

“You call me everyday, you hear me?” Sam said through a thick throat. “You miss a day and I’ll haul your ass back all the way from Kansas. I won’t care if the camp counsellor says no. I can throw hands.”

Max gave him a very slow once over then snickered. “No one’s dumb enough to fight you.”

Sam couldn’t stop himself. He threw his hands around the little boy, engulfing him completely. “I’m going to miss you so damn much, son.”

“Can’t. Breathe.” Came the muffled words. Sam eased the grip.

“I’ll miss you, too, Dadda.”

Thirty-one days. Sam could do it. Monday was the orientation lecture for the new class of Stanford Law. A fresh batch. Sam was supposed to teach Civil Procedure. That would keep him plenty busy. Submissions, hypos, presentations. He could take over extra cases at work, make more trips to LA to check on the boys home. The month would be in and out and before he knew it, his kid, the light of his days, would be back to bouncing on his couch and reading on the kitchen counter.

Max yawned against Sam’s stomach.

Yeah he could survive. After all, what could possibly happen in thirty-one days.

********

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the-lady-of-stars · 4 years

Text

Wishing you were somehow here again - Pt. 2

Commander Wolffe x Jedi ! Reader

Summary: The time has come... execute order 66

Warnings: Character death!! Injury/fighting/violence. Angst... and lots of it. I would say I’m sorry but I’m really just out here living my best life writing some lovely heartbreak 💞💖💘

A/N: I listened to across the stars the entire time I wrote this for that extra angsty vibe 😇 hope u enjoy bb. If you haven’t read part 1 I recommend giving it a read before this! : ) Also dw I am not leaving it at this, there will be a Part 3. I’m not that mean ☺️

Tags: @wille-zarr @chaotic-noceur

Cato Neimoidia. What a beautiful city to fly over.

You, Master Plo and the rest of the 104th Batallion had been assigned to the planet in hopes of besieging a Trade Federation stronghold.

You peered out the windows of your starfighter at the rocky arches of the surrounding environment, enjoying the brief moment of peace and beauty this war had offered you. In front of you flew your master, Plo Koon, behind you Commander Wolffe, your beloved, then the rest of the pack trailed behind.

You ran a finger over the makeshift grass ring that adorned your left hand, your heart skipping a beat at the mere thought of the previous week’s events. Your husband, in spirit at least. You planned to have a real wedding in the future, perhaps on Naboo if you could manage to pull a few strings with Skywalker. His marriage to the Senator had been no secret to you, so surely Anakin would not mind helping you with yours.

You could picture it now, a marble balcony overlooking the waterfalls of Naboo, the burning orange sun gleaming from them as you kissed each other like no one was watching. Your master would be there to officiate it- he knew about you and his Commander, of course. You never had been able to hide anything from him. Master Plo had always been somewhat of a father figure to you ever since he took you as his Padawan when you were little, so of course he quickly noticed the bond forming between you and Wolffe. Much as Qui-Gon had turned a blind eye to Obi-Wan and Satine, your master had said nothing about the subject except that he wanted you to be happy, and if Wolffe provided you with such happiness then he was more than willing to protect your little secret, although you briefly remember Wolffe mentioning something about receiving an ‘if-you-ever-break-her-heart-you’re-dead’ speech from him, but you decided not to inquire further. The rest of the pack would be there of course. They were family, and without them to watch it would be no wedding at all.

Being in a starfighter, you had no means of communicating with Wolffe except over the comm channel which also included the rest of the battalion, and you weren't in the mood to put up with Boost’s usual quips. You could, however, radiate love in his direction through the force, so that’s what you did.

Wolffe’s chest pounded as he felt your force signature surround him like a ghostly embrace. It brought a heat to his cheeks, hands gripping the controls tighter. Any nerves from the mission dissipated and he was left feeling warm and whole. He thought to himself then that he did not ever want to feel any other way. Blissful. He was no Jedi, didn’t have a lick of force-sensitivity, but he could damn well try to return the sentiment. He found himself furrowing his brows and squinting slightly, while with all his might he mustered up his favourite memories of you, trying his best to radiate the way you made him feel. He hoped you could feel it.

You could. A soft, breathy chuckle burst from your lips at his efforts, at how truly sweet your tough Commander was on the inside. There were few things you could be sure of in life, but the dream of really marrying him was one of them. One day, hopefully soon, you would see him stood o- what was wrong? The adoration Wolffe was radiating suddenly cut off as though someone had flicked a switch, nothing but neutrality emanating from him now. Opening yourself up to more force signatures you felt the same emotion from the rest of the boys behind you. Something was wrong, and your master clearly sensed it too as the only real emotion you could sense was his confusion.

“Men, is something the matter?” Plo spoke over the comm channel.

There was a momentary pause, then Wolffe was the next to speak.

“General Plo Koon, General Y/N Y/L/N, you are both subject to execution under Order 66 due to crimes against the Republic.”

Before either you or your master could say a word your ships burst into flames, your own men firing right at you. The engine was destroyed- there was nothing you could do but wail Wolffe’s name in one last desperate plea as your ship began to plummet down towards the rocky terrain of Cato Neimoidia. Smoke. Heat. Burning. Sharp. Pain. Then nothing. The world went black as your starfighter made contact with the ground. The last thing you saw before your eyes closed was the sight of your master laying dead on the ground nearby.

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

Your ears rang, a sharp tone muffling the sound of shouting voices. Clones. A pang of fear shot straight to your heart as you remembered how they had attempted to kill you, and how they had succeeded with your dear master. You flinched up instinctively, wanting to run but collapsing the second you so much as moved due to the piercing pain that struck your entire body. You whimpered, tears pricking at your eyes, hearing the clones get closer.

It seemed that the crash had thrown you from your starfighter and into an alcove in the rocks, which gave you the slightest bit of shelter. As the ringing in your ears subsided a little you heard a pair of footsteps drawing closer to your position. You dug your fingers into the ground, desperately trying to get to your feet so you could defend yourself but with no luck. There was a small cave entrance a few metres away which could offer you a hiding place, but you weren’t fast enough. A boot planted onto your back, pinning you down and earning a yelp.

You craned your head back, trying to see who had a hold of you through the tears which had welled up.

Wolffe. But he looked nothing like the Wolffe you knew. Your Wolffe never so much as glanced at you without tenderness, but now? A snarl had replaced his smile, eyes glaring down at you like a predator.

“Wolffe-” you choked out, which resulted in him pressing his foot down further.

“Jedi,” he practically growled. “You are to be executed for your crimes against the Republic.”

Before he could make another move, you mustered all the strength you could find and pushed him away from you and into the cave entrance nearby with the force, enough to keep him subdued for a minute or so. Still riding the spike of energy, you pulled yourself to your feet, making your way over to the miniature medical droid which was kept in each starfighter, which had clearly fallen from the crash with you. You brought it to you with the force, pressing the on button once it was in your hands. The droid buzzed to life, whirring around you in circles, clearly in distress at your state.

“Not me,” your voice was coarse. “Give the Commander a full head scan. I’m looking for something. A chip, possibly?” You nodded your head in the direction of Wolffe slumped over in the cave entrance, the droid zooming over to him immediately.

When you finally made it over to the cave the droid repeatedly made a beeping sound over one particular part of Wolffe’s head.

“What’d you find?”

The droid pulled up a hologram, a red circle highlighting a small piece of organic matter.

“This appears to be some kind of tumour, which is not normally found in human brains,” it announced.

Your eyes widened, all the breath leaving your body. Fives had been right all along. There really was a chip hidden in the clones.

“Remove it.”

“But- General- I don’t think this is the place to-”

“Now!” you spoke sternly, trying to keep your voice down so the other clones wouldn’t find you. They’d notice sooner or later that their Commander was missing, but you had until them to remove that chip.

“Very well, General. You may want to look away for this.”

A anaesthesia shot was pricked into Wolffe’s neck before the droid protruded an arm with a red laser attached to the end, beginning to cut a hole into his head. You winced, closing your eyes and holding on to Wolffe’s hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

“You’ll be okay, my love,” you spoke under your breath to him, rubbing soothing circles on Wolffe’s palm. “I’ve got you.”

The whirring stopped. You opened your eyes again to see what was going on when the droid announced, “The procedure has been completed and the chip has been successfully removed. The Commander will awaken momentarily.”

“Thank you, you can shut down now,” you told the droid, shuffling closer to Wolffe so he knew you were there when he woke up.

About thirty seconds later, Wolffe began to stir. With a groan he reached a hand up to his head, thumbing over the gauze the incision had been covered by.

“Ahh, where am I?”

“Wolffe? Wolffe, my love, look at me. Look at me, please.”

With a grimace he turned his head to look at you, blinking a few times before his eyes widened like saucers.

“Cyare! What happened to you? Are you okay? Who did this to you?” he panicked, getting to his knees so he could rake his eyes over you better.

“Oh, Wolffe...” he was back. Your Wolffe was back. You couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, throwing yourself into his arms and sobbing wildly.

“Oh shhh, shhh easy Cyare. I’ve got you now, you’re safe my sweet girl,” he cooed, rubbing his hands soothingly over your upper arms. “What happened?”

Wolffe paused, looking over at your burning starfighter, at his brothers slightly behind it stood around the body of General Plo. General Plo. Order 66. Oh. He launched himself away from you, breathing frantically.

“It was me. I’m what happened. I- I did this. Order 66. I killed General Plo and I nearly killed you- oh stars...” Wolffe looked down at his shaking hands, thinking about what he had done with them.

“Wolffe, look at me. Hey. Look,” you got closer to him, taking his hands in yours to ground him. Still trembling he brought his eyes to yours, tears streaming down his cheeks. “That was not you, my love. That was Sidious. He was controlling you and all the other clones through the chips in your brain. They were planted there for that very reason. I do not blame you, nobody blames you. This was not your fault at all.”

Wolffe broke down into a flurry of “I’m sorry” and “forgive me” but you just pulled him into your chest, holding him tight, pressing kisses to his temple and his cheeks to reassure him.

“Wolffe, my love, we don’t have much time. Your brothers are still looking for me to check if I’m dead and I’m sure they’ve noticed you’re missing by now. They’ll find us. I removed your chip but they’re still under control of Sidious. We have to leave.”

“No,” Wolffe choked sternly.

“No? What do you mean no?”

“You don’t have a ship any more, and if you ran now they’d see you and kill you on sight. I need to go back, to tell them I found your body and disposed of it. Then you run when we leave. Run and never come back, you hear me?”

Wolffe spoke through tears, clasping your shoulders tightly to make sure you heard every word.

“No, no, Wolffe you can’t do that. I’m not going anywhere without you. I’m not leaving you to Sidious. I love you.”

“Y/N, please. My sweet girl. Oh, look at you. I wanted to marry you so bad. More than anything. But now I realise what I want more than anything is to keep you alive, even if that means I can’t be yours any more. I love you, Y/N. I love you so much,” he moved his hands up to cup your cheeks, wiping your tears away with his thumbs. “Don’t you go coming back to find me now, you hear me? Run and never come back. Make a life for yourself. You do that for me, hmm? Promise me,” he wept, wet eyes looking straight into yours.

“Okay. Okay I promise,” you felt your heart tearing in two.

“That’s a good girl. My good girl,” he spoke softly.

“Wolffe-” you whimpered.

“I know, I know, love. Everything will be alright.”

Wolffe sighed, heart visibly breaking. His glassy eyes observed your face as though it would be the last time he would ever see it. And it would.

Unable to find any other words to say, Wolffe leaned down and kissed you one last time, tears mingling on your cheeks. His lips pressed hard against yours, clinging on to the moment as long as you both could. When he finally pulled away you chased after him, not ready to let go.

“I have to go, cyare. Back to my brothers. I’ll be alright, don’t you worry about me, hmm? You stay safe now, I mean it. I love you Y/N.”

“I love you too.”

Wolffe stood, absorbing the sight of you. How this was the last time he’d ever see his girl. With one final sigh he tore his eyes from you and tipped his helmet back on, exiting the cave and leaving everything he ever loved behind.

The war left its scars on everyone, but Wolffe knew these ones would never heal.

#commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader #clone wars x reader #clone wars imagine #star wars imagine #star wars x reader

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pastpatientlywaitingforimagines · 4 years

Text

Antimatter | Spencer Reid x Reader Platonic

WC: 2486

WARNINGS: SPOILERS FOR 13X15, general Criminal Minds things (mentions of violence, shootings, robberies, death, etc)

This is part of my Galaxy Universe (MASTERLIST). You don’t need to read anything prior to this to understand this fic, though it may help!

You thought your little found family had finally found some reprieve after a long year of difficulties. Spencer was reinstated, Mr. Scratch was dead, Matt Simmons joined the team, and everything seemed like it was returning to your normal crime fighting routine.

As it turns out, you were wrong.

You didn’t think twice about following Spencer out of the round table room. You were loyal to your team, and Assistant Director Linda Barnes was not going to snuff the mojo out of these people that you loved so much.

You caught up to Spencer in the bullpen, where he was shoving books into his bag. He didn’t look up when you slid onto his desk.

You waited a minute before speaking, “what’s our plan?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet,” you were quick to follow him to the elevator.

“We need to come up with a plan before you leave, Spence,” you knew what he had just done was risky but it was the right move and you stood by your decision to follow him. You also knew that the problem wasn’t going to be solved without some other course of action, however.

“I can’t go back there. I’m not working with her scrutinizing our every move.”

“So don’t. Stay here and figure out how we’re going to get her out of our hair. Emily might know something that we don’t, she just had a bunch of meetings with Barnes, right?” You didn’t like how tense this conversation was becoming. You were currently on the same page as Spencer, that much you knew, but he could read 20,000 words per minute and it was going to take a lot for you to keep up with the pace his brain was working.

“Emily’s suspended,” you could tell he was thinking hard about what steps to take next.

“Go to her place and let her know what’s happening. Distancing yourself from Barnes is the best move before you get yourself fired.”

“What about you?” The elevator dinged to signal it’s arrival. Spencer stepped inside, holding the doors open.

“I’m going to go with the team. We need boots on the ground to figure out exactly what her plan in action looks like. I’ll be a centralized point for info about how she’s targeting everyone and get you it as quickly as I can.”

“Good luck,” he gave you a sad excuse for a smile.

“Go get Emily, I’ll be ok.” You watched the doors close, then walked back towards the round table room. You straightened your posture before opening the door and positioning yourself next to JJ. The rest of the team gave you some very strange looks that you tried to ignore.

“Will you be joining us, Agent (y/l/n)?” Barnes asked, almost as if she expected you to say no.

“I will, thanks,” you showed no weakness, making direct eye contact with her. She didn’t push further, instead confirming JJ’s ‘Wheel’s Up’ and leaving the room.

You spent the entire trip to St. Louis avoiding questions from the rest of the team about what had happened when you and Spencer left the briefing.

In a moment of quiet on the jet, JJ approached you while you were getting coffee.

“Were you able to talk to Spence before he left?” She asked in a hushed whisper, back to the rest of the plane.

“Yeah,” you said slowly, eyes flickering to where Barnes was staring the two of you down, “I’ll tell you about it later, it’s best that you don’t know for now. Trust us on this?”

JJ nodded, “let me know what you need, I’ll make sure it happens.”

You arrived in St. Louis and watched as Barnes demeaned the local PD, undermined the procedural profiling, and intentionally paired herself off with each member on your team. It was only a matter of time before she got to you.

You had been purposely avoiding her, instead collecting tidbits of information from your coworkers about their conversations with her that were unrelated to the case at hand. You intentionally stayed behind to work victimology when she finally cornered you in the conference room.

“You’re loyal to a fault, Agent (y/l/n),” she wasted no time addressing you.

“Excuse me?” You chose to not look up from the crime scene photos.

“Following Agent Reid out of the office this morning was a bold choice,” she tried to assert herself into your space, something you weren’t about to allow.

“I don’t see how my loyalty is a fault. I could see that Doctor Reid was unwell and I wanted to make sure he was ok.”

“You were suspended while he was in prison last year, were you not?” Clearly she had done her homework, although you didn’t like the way she twisted the situation inaccurately.

“I was on medical leave from field work, I still assisted remotely from Quantico and retained all other privileges.”

“Caused by Agent Reid’s arrest?”

“Caused by pre-existing mental health conditions that I’ve been treating since before I joined the BAU. My leave was temporary to help get it under control after the stress of Doctor Reid’s false arrest.”

She was quiet for a minute as you shuffled to the next file. You hoped that she would start asking about the case before you lost your temper, your secret mission would be compromised if you couldn’t keep your head down about it. Her next statement didn’t surprise you, though it came from left field.

“You do know that interpersonal relationships within a Unit are against Bureau policy.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re implying,” you put down the file to finally square up to Barnes. She had seen your file, you knew that much, but you were now doubting how much she had actually read into it.

“Are you and Agent Reid romantically involved?”

“Doctor Reid is my best friend. Last time I checked there was nothing in Bureau policy that didn’t allow that. I don’t appreciate you speculating about my personal relationships when they’re clearly not relevant to this case.”

Questioning your loyalty to the team was one thing, but attacking the most pure thing in your life was going too far.

“What is relevant to this case then, Agent? Your skills must be more useful elsewhere than sitting in a conference room looking at photos. Perhaps a transfer to a tactical unit would be more beneficial to the Bureau?” She finally pushed in a direction you were expecting.

“I would think that the Bureau would be more interested in well rounded agents instead of one trick ponies. I’m building my skillset here, rather than getting stuck in a rut doing tactical work.” It wasn’t completely the truth, just last year you had talked with Spencer about the possibility of you transferring to the Hostage Rescue Team. A tactical position would make sense, considering your strengths, but you had found such an unlikely home at the BAU that leaving was out of the question.

“You’ve been building your skills here for almost a decade. Why do you think Agent Prentiss was promoted to Unit Chief over you?”

“She was the right choice. She has seniority, as well as a more rounded viewpoint from her other assignments. I trust Emily Prentiss wholeheartedly.”

Just like Matt had predicted, Barnes was trying to pit you against your team, “what about Agent Jareau? You’ve been a profiler longer than she has, do you know why I promoted her above you?”

It was her mistake, honestly. Of all the people who she could try to turn against the BAU, you weren’t a good choice. Instead of falling into her trap, you doubled down, “she’s been with the team longer than I have. Knowing how the team works is just as important as knowing how to profile if you want to do this job right. I fully support JJ as Unit Chief, but that’s not why you picked her, is it?”

“It is not.” You waited for her to elaborate, but instead she left the conference room to talk to Matt. As soon as she left your phone was at your ear calling Spencer.

“She had the nerve to ask me if I was romantically involved with you,” you hissed as soon as he answered. You heard Emily laugh on the other end of the line.

“What’s happening with the rest of the team?” Spencer spoke up.

“She’s trying to push us all out, but keeps denying it. We’re closing in on this case, but she’s stepping on our toes all over the place. She wants to make this a quick close but honestly she’s only making it harder for us to profile this guy. How’s it going on your end?”

There was a pause, which you assumed was caused by Spencer taking you off of speaker and stepping out of the room.

“She’s trying to leave. She said someone had to take the fall for what happened with the Truthers-“

“You’re not letting her, right? Nobody needs to take the fall for what happened, where did she get that idea?”

“Barnes, I guess. I’ll keep working here, keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Ok, good luck.”

Doing what you were doing proved harder than you thought. Barnes stepped completely out of line during the validation strategy, getting the unsub killed when Tara and Luke were completely capable of talking him down. You were fuming but knew you needed to keep your head down as to not blow your cover with Spencer, so instead you tacked yourself to Luke’s side with the knowledge that he would tell you if you were about to do something stupid.

It was the right call, because JJ tore into Barnes on the jet and you knew you didn’t have the authority to add on to it. It felt like a small victory, until Barnes met you all in the office right before you were about to head over to O’Keefe’s.

“Agents Prentiss, your suspension is lifted. You will be reassigned within the Bureau, your new post has yet to be determined. Agent Lewis, you will also be reassigned. Agent (y/l/n), you are being reassigned to lead a SWAT team in the city, congratulations on the promotion. Agent Reid, you will be a full time professor with our exchange program. Agent Rossi, the FBI deeply appreciates your service and the Director wishes you nothing but the best in your retirement. Agent Simmons, Agent Alvez, you will remain here at the BAU. Garcia, your loyalty to the team is appreciated but it feels like a fresh start in a different department would be best.”

She made it seem like your reassignment was a good thing, but that was far from the truth.

“What’s wrong?” Spencer answered his door faster than you thought he would, eyes narrowing behind his glasses when he saw your disheveled state a few weeks later.

“I’m losing it. I’m going to get my whole team killed. I can’t keep doing this,” you spilled before you were even able to step into Spencer’s apartment.

“Here,” Spencer led you to his couch and pressed a hot cup of tea into your hands, “take a deep breath, you’re here with me. Did you just get off of a case?”

“Yeah, a bank robbery downtown. We locked it down but the whole time I was thinking about how it could have gone wrong.”

Spencer didn’t say anything, instead letting you sip tea and breathe for a minute.

“When Barnes reassigned me I thought her goal was to give me a promotion so I wouldn’t want to come back to the BAU.”

“It was, she knows you’re an incredible agent. Any unit is lucky to have you.”

“What if it was to break me though? She’s read my file, she knows my episodes have been more frequent since you were arrested in Mexico. Did you hear about the school shooting that happened last week?”

Spencer nodded.

“I was there, Spence. I was there. And the whole time I was leading the team through the hallways getting kids out I kept thinking about Jack, and Henry, Michael, and Hank. How they could be in that school, how there were already kids in that school that I hadn’t saved. I couldn’t save them.

“When I first started out at the Academy my peers all told me I would head up SWAT one day. I thought it was what I wanted until I joined the BAU. You even said I’d do well on a tactical team a year ago, so I trusted the process and that we’d get back at Barnes but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep having panic attacks after every case. It’s not fair to my team, someone’s going to get killed and it’s going to be my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, it’s Barnes’. Why don’t you take a couple of days off and sit in on my lectures? You can even guest speak if you want, I scheduled an extra day in the syllabus in case I needed to go over any material again but I don’t need to use it.”

“You’re too good at this, Spence. Where’s your mom?” You looked around his small apartment, already starting to feel better.

“She’s in the bedroom resting. She’s liked having me home so much, although she asks me almost every day when you’re coming to visit,” he laughed.

“I’m sorry, I feel like I’m at work now more than when we were in the BAU. I have a newfound respect for every time I’ve called in SWAT in the past nine years,” you joked.

The comfortable silence that fell between you as you finished the drink in your hand was cut short by Spencer’s phone ringing.

“Doctor Reid,” he answered, “Hi Luke, what’s up?”

Your eyebrows smashed together, listening closely to the half of the conversation you were able to hear.

“Don’t bother, they’re with me. We’ll meet you there. Bye,” he hung up and turned to you with a slight frown.

“They have a case that they want us to look at. Barnes won’t approve it, we’re meeting at Emily’s.”

“A secret team meeting?” you stood up excitedly, unable to stop the grin spreading on your face, “let’s go.”

“Hey Spence?” you asked as he got into your car, a small detail of your conversation occurring to you.

“Hmm?” he clicked his seatbelt.

“You didn’t know I was coming over. The tea that you gave me… you made it for yourself, didn’t you?”

Spencer smiled bashfully, “you needed it more than I did.”

“The world doesn’t deserve you, Spencer Reid,” you sighed, putting the car in drive.

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#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #platonic soulmates #platonic imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic

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