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pomegranatelifethis · 1 month ago

Text

I won

The hum of Gotham’s streets was a lullaby you’d long grown used to, a gritty serenade that cradled your reckless spirit. At sixteen, you were the youngest of the Wayne family, a footnote in a sprawling saga of heroes and vigilantes. Damian, your older brother, was the closest in age, but even he seemed light-years away, his world consumed by the mantle of Robin and the weight of being the "true heir." You? You were just… there. A shadow in the Wayne Manor, flitting through its cavernous halls, unnoticed by the family that was too busy saving the world to remember you existed.

It wasn’t always this way. You vaguely recalled nights when Dick would ruffle your hair or Tim would help you with math homework, but those moments had faded into the fog of time. Now, the Batfamily was a machine, each cog turning with precision—Bruce with his mission, Dick with his charm, Jason with his rebellion, Tim with his genius, Cass with her silence, Steph with her fire, and Damian with his blade. You didn’t fit into their puzzle. So, you stopped trying.

High school was a blur of half-hearted attendance and naps in the back of class. Gotham Academy’s teachers had given up on contacting your family years ago; the Wayne name was a fortress, impenetrable and indifferent. You’d skip entire days, sneaking out to the edges of Gotham where the city’s pulse beat wilder. That’s where you found the races.

Illegal car races were Gotham’s worst-kept secret, a haven for thrill-seekers and outcasts like you. The roar of engines, the screech of tires, the electric buzz of danger—it was the only time you felt alive. You weren’t a driver, not yet, but you’d wormed your way into the scene, charming mechanics and betting on racers with the pocket money you swiped from Bruce’s study. You were good at it, too, with an easy laugh and a disarming smile that made people forget you were a Wayne.

Tonight, the air was thick with exhaust and adrenaline. You leaned against a chain-link fence, a cherry slushie in hand, your oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The race was about to start, and the crowd was a sea of restless energy—shouts, laughter, and the occasional clink of beer bottles. Your eyes scanned the lineup of cars, picking out your bet for the night: a sleek, modded Supra driven by a guy named Rico who’d never lost a race.

“Yo, kid, you in or what?” Rico called from his driver’s seat, grinning as he revved his engine.

You smirked, tossing your hair back. “Hundred on you, Rico. Don’t make me regret it.”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Never do, princess.”

The nickname made you roll your eyes, but you didn’t correct him. You liked the way the racers treated you—like you belonged, not like you were some fragile heiress. You sipped your slushie, the cold stinging your teeth, and turned to watch the flagger prep the start.

That’s when you felt it. A prickle on the back of your neck, like someone was watching you. Not the usual curious glances from strangers; this was heavier, sharper. You scanned the crowd, but no one stood out. Just hoodies, leather jackets, and the occasional drunk stumbling through. Shrugging it off, you turned back to the race, chalking it up to paranoia. Gotham had a way of making you feel like prey.

The flag dropped, and the cars screamed forward, a blur of neon and chrome. The crowd erupted, and you whooped, jumping onto a crate for a better view. Rico’s Supra was holding the lead, weaving through turns with a grace that made your heart race. You were so caught up in the moment, you didn’t notice the figure slipping through the shadows behind you.

☆☆☆☆

Jason Todd wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d told himself he was just scoping out the races for intel, tracking a lead on some smuggler who’d been funneling cash through Gotham’s underground. But that was a lie, and he knew it. The truth was messier, uglier. He’d heard rumors—whispers of a girl who sounded too much like *you*, throwing herself into the kind of trouble that got people killed. He hadn’t believed it at first. You were the baby of the family, the one they all assumed was tucked safely in bed, too soft and sweet for Gotham’s underbelly. But the more he heard, the more he couldn’t shake the gnawing dread in his chest.

Now, watching you from the edge of the lot, Jason felt his stomach twist. There you were, all reckless laughter and bright eyes, perched on a crate like you owned the damn place. You didn’t look neglected, not in the way he’d imagined—starved or broken. You looked *alive*, vibrant in a way that made his chest ache. But you were also sixteen, alone, and surrounded by people who’d sell you out for a quick buck. The thought made his blood boil.

He pulled his hood lower, blending into the crowd as he moved closer. You were cheering for some guy in a Supra, your voice cutting through the chaos like a bell. Jason’s jaw clenched. Did you even know these people? Did you have any idea what kind of danger you were in? He doubted it. You’d always been too trusting, too quick to see the good in people. It was why he’d kept his distance after he came back, why he hadn’t reached out. You were too pure for someone like him, stained as he was.

But this? This was different. You weren’t supposed to be here, in this world of speed and sin. And the fact that no one—not Bruce, not Dick, not even Damian—had noticed you slipping through the cracks? That lit a fire in him he couldn’t smother.

The race ended with Rico’s Supra crossing the line first, and you leapt off the crate, whooping like you’d won the lottery. Jason watched as you darted toward Rico’s car, tossing your empty slushie cup into a pile of trash. You were all smiles, high-fiving the driver and collecting your winnings with a grin that could’ve lit up the night. For a moment, Jason almost smiled, too. You looked… happy. Free.

Then he saw the guy next to Rico, some sleaze with a neck tattoo and a leer that made Jason’s fists itch. The guy was looking at you like you were something to be won, and you didn’t even notice, too caught up in the moment. Jason took a step forward, his instincts screaming to drag you out of there, to lock you in the manor where you’d be safe. But he stopped himself. Not yet. He needed to be sure.

You laughed at something Rico said, oblivious to the eyes on you—both Jason’s and the sleaze’s. The night was young, and Gotham’s streets were hungry. Jason melted back into the shadows, his mind racing. He’d keep watch for now, tail you until he knew you were safe. But this wasn’t the end. You were his sister, and he’d be damned if he let you slip away again.

☆☆☆☆

Back at the race, you pocketed your cash, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the shadows. The night was perfect—loud, chaotic, yours. You didn’t need the Wayne name or the Batfamily’s approval. You had this, and for now, that was enough.

But as you turned to head back to your spot by the fence, that prickle returned, sharper this time. You paused, glancing over your shoulder. Nothing but darkness and the flicker of neon. You shook your head, laughing at yourself. Gotham was just messing with you, as always.

If only you knew how close the shadows were, and how tightly they were closing in.

☆☆☆

The neon haze of the race lingered in the air, a fading echo of engines and adrenaline. You stuffed the crumpled bills from your winnings into your hoodie pocket, your sneakers scuffing against the cracked asphalt as you made your way through the dispersing crowd. The night was still young, but the thrill of the race was ebbing, leaving you restless. You didn’t want to go back to the manor—not yet. That place was a mausoleum, all cold marble and colder silences. Instead, you decided to head to your favorite dive, a greasy 24-hour diner on the edge of Gotham’s Narrows. It was the kind of place where no one asked questions, and the coffee was bad but cheap.

You slipped into the night, unaware of the shadow trailing you. Jason Todd moved like a wraith, his boots silent against the pavement, his red hood a stark contrast to the gloom. He’d watched you all night, his chest a tangle of anger and something softer, something he didn’t want to name. You were so careless, so *fragile* in this world of predators, and yet you strutted through it like you were untouchable. It infuriated him. It terrified him. He’d lost too much to let you become another casualty, another name etched into Gotham’s endless gravestone.

He kept his distance, blending into the flicker of streetlights and the shuffle of late-night stragglers. You didn’t notice, too busy humming a tune under your breath, your hands shoved deep in your pockets. Jason’s jaw tightened as he watched you dodge a group of drunks stumbling out of a bar, your laughter bright and unburdened. Did you even realize how close you’d come to trouble? How many eyes lingered too long on you in that crowd?

You reached the diner, its flickering sign buzzing like a dying insect. The bell above the door jingled as you pushed inside, and Jason hesitated, slipping into an alley across the street. He could see you through the smudged glass, sliding into a booth with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. You were a regular here, he realized, and that only deepened the ache in his chest. How much of your life had he missed? How much had they *all* missed?

Inside, you waved at the waitress, a tired woman with a smoker’s rasp named Bev. “Usual, kid?” she called, already pouring you a cup of sludge-like coffee.

“Yup,” you chirped, slumping back in the booth. You pulled out your phone, scrolling aimlessly, your other hand drumming on the table. The diner was a bubble of warmth, a stark contrast to the chill of Gotham outside. You liked it here—the chipped Formica tables, the hum of the jukebox, the way no one cared who you were. It was yours, a slice of freedom in a life that felt increasingly like a cage.

But freedom was an illusion in Gotham, and Jason knew it. He leaned against the alley wall, his eyes never leaving you. He was torn, caught between the urge to storm in, grab you by the arm, and drag you back to the manor, and the need to stay distant, to understand just how deep you’d fallen into this reckless world. He settled for watching, for now. But his patience was fraying, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold back.

☆☆☆☆

Back in the diner, you sipped your coffee, wincing at the bitter taste. Bev slid a plate of fries in front of you, and you grinned, tossing her a mock salute. “You’re a saint, Bev.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, but there was a fondness in her eyes. “Don’t stay too late, kid. Streets ain’t safe.”

You shrugged, popping a fry into your mouth. “I can handle myself.”

Bev shook her head but didn’t argue. She’d seen you come and go for months, always alone, always with that same easy smile. She didn’t know you were a Wayne, and you liked it that way. The less people knew, the less they could use against you.

You were halfway through your fries when your phone buzzed with a text. It was Rico, the racer from earlier.

*Rico: Yo, princess, you up for another round tomorrow? Got a big one. Double or nothing.*

You smirked, thumbs flying over the screen. *Count me in. Better not choke, Rico.*

His reply was instant. *Never do. Bring cash, kid.*

You leaned back, satisfied, already imagining the roar of engines and the rush of the crowd. The races were your escape, a way to drown out the emptiness that clung to you like damp rot. You didn’t need the Batfamily. You didn’t need their rules or their pity. You had this.

But as you stared at the flickering jukebox, a flicker of unease crept in. That prickle from earlier, the sense of being watched—it was back, stronger now. You glanced at the window, but all you saw was your own reflection, pale and ghostly against the dark. You shook it off, blaming the late hour and the shitty coffee. Gotham was just like that, always whispering danger in your ear.

☆☆☆☆

Outside, Jason’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, a message from Tim lighting up the dark.

*Tim: Patrol’s quiet. You good?*

Jason’s thumb hovered over the reply. He could tell Tim he’d found you, that you were out here playing street rat while the rest of the family thought you were asleep in your room. He could blow the whole thing open, force Bruce to deal with the fact that his youngest was slipping through his fingers. But something stopped him. Maybe it was the way you’d looked tonight, so alive in a way he hadn’t seen in years. Maybe it was the guilt gnawing at him, the knowledge that he’d been part of the machine that left you behind.

He typed a quick reply. *Fine. Just checking a lead.*

Then he pocketed the phone and pushed off the wall, his eyes locked on the diner. He couldn’t keep this up forever, tailing you like some ghost. Sooner or later, he’d have to act. And when he did, he wasn’t sure if he’d be saving you—or breaking you.

Inside, you finished your fries and tossed a few bills on the table, waving to Bev as you headed for the door. The bell jingled again, and you stepped into the night, pulling your hoodie tight against the chill. You didn’t see the figure across the street, didn’t hear the soft creak of leather as he moved. But Jason was there, and he wasn’t alone in watching you.

High above, another shadow crouched on a rooftop, silent and still. Damian’s green eyes glinted in the dark, his katana sheathed but his mind sharp. He’d followed Jason, curious about his brother’s late-night wanderings, and now he saw you—his little sister, the one he’d dismissed as weak, unimportant. You weren’t supposed to be here, in this filthy corner of Gotham, surrounded by scum. His lip curled, a mix of disdain and something darker, something possessive.

Damian didn’t know why you were out here, but he didn’t like it. Not one bit. And as he watched you disappear down the street, he made a decision. You were a Wayne, his blood, and that meant you belonged under his protection—whether you wanted it or not.

The shadows of Gotham were closing in, and you, oblivious, walked right into their embrace.

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push-the-heartbrake · 6 months ago

Text

𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙔𝙤𝙪 (𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙈𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩) // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, ��𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

First instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “I’m not supposed to do this, but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.” — or the one where Spencer really likes the library for its books, the chess, and the girl working the night shift.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.9k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Cm typical violence, Spencer gets injured but nothing major. Mention of bullying, sick parents, and addiction. Takes place sometime after he got clean, so S4 perhaps? No smut, but talk of sex. Spencer being an insecure virgin and reader having used sex as a coping mechanism in the past.

A/N: Hello!! New blog, new fic. I'm too dumb to write for Spencer, but I tried my best. Reader probably has too much personality and backstory but I stopped caring midway through. No physical descriptors used though, except for some wacky clothing. Tell me what you think? Please? Love ya, bye.

You wouldn’t think it was possible, given how most Americans viewed paying taxes, but for some reason, in some way, a very persistent person at some board meeting somewhere had managed to get through the idea that at least one library in D.C. should be open all hours of the day.

Spencer, for one, couldn’t be more pleased with that decision.

He had fond memories of spending long nights in quiet libraries when he was working toward one of his many degrees. Now, his longing for the silence and solitude stemmed from insomnia. He guessed most people his age spent sleepless nights out at nightclubs or in the never-ending search for love or just a one-night stand to suffice some sort of primal need. Spencer wasn’t like that. Never had, nor ever would be.

The library was a better place in every sense. He grew bored out of his mind by being alone in his apartment for too long, but he also got tired of having people around him. His job was social enough. The library was a perfect mixture of the two, requiring silence but still had people in motion so that he didn’t feel entirely isolated.

He’d browse the shelves, searching for things he hadn’t read. Quickly getting through many books in an evening with his way of processing words. It got to the point where there weren’t enough books about his usual interests, so he would pick up books about old cars that Rossi mentioned and learn about their engineering or read some wacky poetry that Emily had recommended that she loved as a teenager.

Sometimes he’d bring whatever knitting project he was working on and join some old ladies who met up at the library to knit and discuss romance novels. Spencer didn’t bring much to the conversation, but he liked hearing them talk. He wasn’t much for gossip, but made-up drama between fictional characters was surprisingly entertaining.

He would also borrow one of the computers and play online chess for hours until his eyes had grown tired from the bright light and he finally thought he might be able to go home and force himself to sleep. Eric, one of the chess players that he frequently met in a local park, showed up sometimes, when he wasn’t swamped with homework or had a curfew to keep. Maybe he should make some friends his own age that weren’t his colleagues, but Eric, at age fifteen, was also the best chess player that Spencer had ever met.

So, the quietness, the books, the knitting, and the chess were all perks of spending time at the library. The cute girl sitting at the front desk, working almost every night shift alone, was also somewhat of a perk.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure how it came about or why he was so enamored by even just the idea of you, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger for a little bit too long whenever he walked past the front desk or saw you organizing books at some shelf in the library.

That was a lie. Spencer knew exactly how it happened and why.

It started with simple people-watching. He liked to imagine wild backstories for people he only saw in passing. Probably a result of being a profiler.

With students he would wonder about what project they were researching late at night in the library and what their majors were and if he could notice patterns in their appearances and behaviors.

He’d connect the dots with the old women knitting and their opinions about the romance novels to actual experiences in their own lives. One had been cheated on in her youth and found any sort of love triangle to be awful, while another couldn’t understand certain writers fascination with sneaking in unplanned pregnancies because she had never wanted kids herself.

And while Eric and he played chess in silence most of the time, he still picked up on how Eric didn’t like how strict his mother was on him and how his sisters got treated differently, more easygoing, than him.

And then there was you, the only other person who would frequent—well, you worked there—the library so often that Spencer could start to piece together your backstory.

His first impression was that you were cute, in like an objective way. The same way people would look at Garcia with some sort of childlike awe of how uniquely herself she was. You had that same thing about you, with colorful cardigans and ribbons tied in your hair.

The second thing he noticed was that you probably didn’t work that much. You were sat at that front desk all night, organizing what needed to be organized and helping those who needed help, but then you were left to yourself for the rest of your shift. You read a lot, but Spencer never got close enough to see what exactly. You also had the news playing really quietly on a little radio, perhaps to not go completely insane from the silent nature of the library.

At first he thought you weren’t too talkative, but then he observed an interaction you had with a student. A young mother who came to the library to study while her child peacefully slept in their stroller. Spencer wasn’t one to judge. If the child got to sleep and the mother got to study, it was a win-win situation, although unconventional.

When he saw the mother and baby leave, going up to you to check out some books, he saw just how talkative you were, practically spewing out words about the subjects she was researching and cooing at the baby who was then awake, calling it adorable and quickly playing peekaboo.

Now, as Spencer sat in a chair, not too far from the entrance and the front desk, acting like he was reading a book he had already read through, he observed you inconspicuously.

You were fronting books on a display shelf that was the first thing you saw when you entered the library. Usually seasonal books, or that followed a current event or a theme. It was Halloween this time around, and you fought with the mess that was fake cobwebs. A garland of little black bats hung over the shelf and plastic jack-o-lanterns acted as bookstands. He could spot certain covers of books he recognized. Goosebumps, for the children. Stephen King, for the horror fanatics. Edgar Allan Poe, for the poetry lovers.

You quietly cursed under your breath as your fingers got stuck in the cobwebs, and Spencer had to cover his laugh with an unnatural cough. That was when he saw that your nails were painted a pumpkin-like orange and your black cardigan had a little skeleton pattern. You were going all out with the theme, even if you barely saw any people during the night shift, telling Spencer that you were doing it all for your own enjoyment.

As you stretched to place books on the highest shelf, he noticed your trousers, and Spencer was only a man—granted a little peculiar and different—but still a man, with working eyes and needs. You wore slacks so well-fitting he wondered what tailor you went to or if you could sew yourself. And Converse, always dark red Converse. You dressed like him, but in a more colorful, feminine way.

He saw you pick up a book and judge it by its cover, then instead of placing it on display, you put it in a tote bag placed on the cart you had to pick books from. He’d seen you use the same tote bag before, when you were organizing the shelves, placing books back or collecting ones loaned online. The album cover for Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside was on it, not because Spencer knew of the album but because the text was printed on it.

You used it to pick out books for yourself, Spencer noticed in the moment. While rolling the cart around with books for others, if you saw one that you wanted to read during your shift, you’d place it in the tote bag to not lose it in the masses.

You were filled and covered in idiosyncrasies, making you nothing but enchanting to watch. And cute, in both the aforementioned objective Garcia-esque way and also a subjective Spencer-esque way. Not in the sense that Spencer found himself subjectively cute, but that you were subjectively cute in a way that felt catered to him and his attractions.

Spencer thought all of this about you, while he had never even spoken a singular word to you. He would fantasize about what your initial interaction would be like, but he never had the courage to actually do something about it. He wouldn’t say that he was shy, and he normally didn’t find it that difficult to speak to someone, but something about your subjective cuteness made you terrifying.

And it didn’t come naturally. He had a library card; he didn’t need to talk to you to check out a book. And asking for directions to a certain book seemed pointless when he had the shelves memorized.

Spencer stood up from his chair to place the book he’d pretend to read back on the right shelf, passing by his favorite section of classics translated into their original languages. He was grateful that D.C. was multicultural enough and filled with diplomats and embassies so that the library found it necessary to take in books that weren’t in English.

He stopped to browse the Russian selection, his finger grazing the spine of Война и мир.

Wait… Certain rare books had to be checked out at the front desk.

And while he already had this book at home, annotated and analyzed, you didn’t know that. He could totally loan this to compare to the version he had at home. This was an earlier copy than his own, and maybe certain parts of the Russian language were different.

Yes. That could work. He was going to talk to you.

With the book in hand, he willed himself to approach the front desk you were now sitting at after finally winning the wrestle match against the cobwebs.

You looked up from the computer as you noticed him, the soft glow of overhead lights casting shadows over the high points of your face. A welcoming smile, although well-rehearsed in a customer service-like manner, stunned him as he placed the book and his library card on the counter.

“War and Peace… in Russian?” you asked, raising a brow as you grabbed the book to scan it. The way you viewed it showed that you recognized the book from the cover, but not the Russian language. And then you looked right up at him, not afraid of keeping eye contact.

Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how intently you were looking at him. “I’m rereading it to compare to the English version.”

“Are you by any chance from Russia?”

“No,” he said with an honest smile. “I’m from Nevada. But I know enough Russian to get by.”

You let out a low hum of appreciation, your fingers quickly typing something down on the keyboard after having scanned his card. Your nails weren’t only pumpkin-colored, but on them were also minuscule little pumpkin faces.

“To each their own. Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive.”

“Have you read it?” Spencer asked, his curiosity slipping through.

“No,” you admitted with a laugh. “I picked Infinite Jest as my designated brick of a book that I’ll never finish but still spew opinions about.”

The honesty of your response caught him off guard, and a small chuckle escaped before he could stop it.

“Which is embarrassing to admit to someone who actually can read said bricks,” you added.

“Even worse as a librarian,” he teased, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to second-guess them.

“Hey,” you said, your tone mock defensive. “I mostly recommend things to kids anyway. I know all about Daisy Meadows and Captain Underpants.”

That Spencer was twelve years old when he discovered Tolstoy was something he kept to himself. He understood that most kids wanted something funny or imaginative to read, like underpants or fairies—not Russian realism.

“How long until you gave up on Infinite Jest?” he asked instead, leaning slightly on the counter in a way that felt more natural than he anticipated.

“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” The quote escaped you easily, like you actually had it memorized, but the way your smile cracked through revealed that you were painfully aware of the ironic implication of it.

“That’s the opening sentence,” Spencer pointed out, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

“Captivating, right?” you quipped.

Spencer kept his smile tight as he enjoyed your sarcastic humor. He would’ve never assumed that Infinite Jest was the beast that broke you. Stereotypically, he thought it was stoners and annoying philosophy majors thinking the world was doomed who enjoyed that book.

You didn’t look like either.

But there was also the huge amount of guys who kept it in their bookshelves and had it on display when they had girls over, as a conversation piece, although they hadn’t read a word from it. Maybe you had fallen victim to one of those guys and decided to give it a try on your own, at least getting further than they ever had.

“So you’re more into modern literature?” he was quick to ask, keeping the conversation going.

He wasn’t even sure if David Foster Wallace was considered modern. Contemporary was probably a better word. In comparison to the Russian mellow kind of realism, Wallace was hysterical. Spencer had read it for the sake of saying that he’d read it. After all, it didn’t take him that long. While he was comfortable being the guy who read Tolstoy in Russian, he wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being the guy who had Infinite Jest as his holy scripture. It made some interesting points about substance abuse and addiction, but that was about it for Spencer, if he was going to give a literary review.

“Not really, I adore some classics,” you admitted, before pointing to a small stack of books behind the counter. The ones you’d snuck into your tote bag. “Now I mostly read poetry, though. All kinds, as long as it’s short and impactful.”

“Oh, you’d hate this then,” he said, like a realization, meaning War and Peace.

You scrunched your nose, nodding softly. “Mhm, and Infinite Jest too.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable but charged with the kind of potential Spencer wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“Alright, Tolstoy,” you said, sliding the book over the counter in his direction. “Enjoy your comparative studies.”

“Thanks,” he replied shortly.

As he walked away, book in hand, he couldn’t help but glance back once, catching you fiddling with the edges of your cardigan as you returned your focus to the computer screen. If you wanted to hide your smile from him, you weren’t doing that good of a job.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer wasn’t sure if he had overthought it, read too much into it, to the point where nothing was making sense. A conversation with a person loaning a book at a library that you worked at probably wasn’t that noteworthy to you, even if it left you dumbly smiling after he’d left.

So, he didn’t dare walk up to you again. He couldn’t justify it in his head. Maybe when his War and Peace loan expired, he’d find an excuse to check it out again, but until then, Spencer didn’t know how to talk to you.

On one afternoon, when the unit had just finished up a case in rural Virginia, Spencer had taken the train back home to D.C. and gone to the library earlier than usual. It was more crowded, with students cramming in some last-minute studying for their finals and parents taking their kids for a little after-school adventure.

He sought refuge in a quiet corner—a cluster of armchairs nestled between the history books and autobiographies—where he could read in peace even though it was busy. But on his way, he was stopped in his tracks. Walking past the kids section, a voice he had begun to recognize caught his attention.

You sat cross-legged on a colorful mat, a worn picture book spread wide in your hands. Your voice carried the story with a mix of humor and animation as you brought the story to life, reading aloud to an audience of tiny faces. Children leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with fascination, while a few younger ones had already succumbed to the comforting cadence of your voice, their tiny bodies sprawled across cushions in peaceful slumber. You held the book up for the kids to see the illustrations, pausing occasionally to add exaggerated voices that sent giggles rippling through the group.

Spencer lingered, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before he walked away to not get noticed.

As time passed, the library emptied out. He saw people leave, tired from a long day. For him it was the opposite. Now was when his favorite time of day began, if he wasn’t stuck in the limbo of trying to get himself to sleep. But he had the day off tomorrow and could spend all of it sleeping if he wanted to, so tonight he wouldn’t be anxious about the lack of sleep he was getting, and instead fully indulge in the quiet sanctuary that was the library.

Spencer sat in one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over fifteen minutes. Something heavy about the history of Nobel Prize winners in chemistry. He was lost in thought, the events of the day fading into memory.

Footsteps broke the silence, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor, growing louder until they stopped just beside him. He looked up to see you standing there, two steaming paper mugs in your hands.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” you began, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.”

You placed both mugs on the table in front of Spencer before flopping down into an armchair of your own. You had dungarees on and a soft maroon sweater underneath, matching your Converse. Spencer blinked, unable to form a sentence as he watched you get comfortable, picking up a book from the tote bag you always seemed to carry. He didn’t necessarily recognize the cover, but he knew of the author’s name.

“John Cooper Clarke? You’re into punk?” he heard himself ask before he could think twice about it. You didn’t even get the chance to start reading.

You tilted your head. “You know who he is?”

“I have a colleague who used to be goth in high school. Full on Siouxsie Sioux. And she has told me about JCC,” Spencer explained.

Emily. She was the reason he knew about the “punk poet”. He still couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her yearbook photos from high school. Even less so when she would quote the same poem every single time they had to wait for something—the jet to get ready, blood samples and lab reports, Rossi to catch up when they had to run somewhere. Whatever it was, she would quote Evidently Chickentown.

“Makes sense,” you replied. “He performed on the same bill as a lot of those early post-punk and goth bands.”

Spencer smiled, quietly reciting, “The fucking train is fucking late. You fucking wait, you fucking wait.”

“You’re fucking lost and fucking found. Stuck in fucking Chickentown.” You chuckled, picking up the line seamlessly. Spencer sounded like cursing was something alien to him, as if the crude words didn’t belong to his vocabulary. You found it sweet, yet unusual. “That poem is in this book! Along with the weird one about being someone’s vacuum cleaner, do you know that too?”

“Uhm, no. I don’t think I know that one,” Spencer admitted, silently begging for you to read it to him. He would be just as excited as the children hearing you read aloud earlier.

“If I’m annoying or distracting,” you said after a moment, “you can tell me to leave. I just sort of go insane spending all night here alone in silence.”

He’d been sitting by himself, looking like he was reading a book about chemistry breakthroughs, and maybe that didn’t come across as someone who wanted to be talked to. Spencer at least assumed that was your thought process when shyly admitting that you were seeking company.

“No, uhm, it’s okay. Thank you for the tea,” Spencer was quick to say before grabbing one of the mugs and taking a small sip. He didn’t want you to leave. If you were voluntarily talking to him, that was better than any made-up War and Peace-related plan he could come up with.

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added.

You told him your name in return, pointing to your name tag—a little yellow one with Winnie-the-Pooh on it—before reaching out your hand to him. He hadn’t noticed the tag before, and maybe that was because he didn’t want to get caught staring at your chest.

He looked at your hand, the germaphobe in him coming to life as he observed your dainty fingers. At least in comparison to his own. The orange nail polish was gone and replaced by a simple black coat. Even your hands were cute to him, yet covered in bacteria.

“Oh, I don’t do handshakes,” he said and took in your reaction, your smile fading as you retracted your hand and hid it in your pocket.

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss,” he felt the need to explain. It was a simple fact, yet he didn’t think of the implications. Spencer’s eyes widened at the sound of his own voice, and he stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, “Uh… not that you and I—I mean, you know what I mean.”

You acted like you didn’t mind, keeping the conversation going without noticing the huge bump in the road that Spencer thought he had created.

“But doesn’t the other person’s bacteria stay in you forever after you’ve kissed them?” you wondered, a crease forming between your brows as you thought about it. “Don’t quote me on it, but I’ve read that somewhere. It’s like eighty million bacteria exchanged on average in a french kiss, and that some of them stay and colonize, becoming part of your own… what’s it called?” Your voice trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Microbiome?” he supplied. “The community of microorganisms found living together in one habitat?”

“That’s the one!” You lit up with realization. “It’s horrifying and poetic that, after you’ve kissed someone, they become part of you forever.”

He thought of the bacteria, while you thought of the internal battle of someone you’ve kissed staying with you forever. He blamed his background in STEM and his lack of experience with kissing for not seeing the big deal.

“I’m sure it’s not in any way that’s noticeable to us. It’s modest at worst,” he tried to reassure.

He wasn’t sure exactly what research you were referencing when mentioning the eighty million bacteria, or if it even was scientific research. Knowing a little bit about you, it could possibly be poetry about clinging to something or someone for too long. But he knew enough about microbiomes and their complexity that one exchange of saliva wouldn’t alter them majorly. Maybe in a constant way, but never majorly.

“In the sense of bacteria colonizing?” you wondered, seeing Spencer nod. “Well, it’s still psychologically fucked up.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows at your frankness, urging you to keep talking.

“I would like to forget the fact that I made out with Cody Parker in ninth grade, but no, he’s stuck in my microbiome. That’s fucked up,” you laughed, gesturing with your hands in frustration.

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?”

You huffed before answering. “Captain of the football team. Is that enough of a reason to hate him?”

Spencer could’ve guessed it from his name. Cody. He could imagine what he looked like and why you would’ve kissed him. Hell, Spencer would’ve probably kissed a guy like him too if given the chance at that delicate age of self-discovery. Just to have it done early, and as a bragging right for the future. His first kiss had been at a college party that he was too young to attend really, with some girl who probably saw him more as a little brother to care for rather than someone she was actually attracted to.

“Do you also have a deep hatred for anyone that ever played high school football?” Spencer asked with a small, curious smile.

“You could say that,” you admitted, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “I lost my virginity to Cody the same night, and then he stole my underwear and stuck them to my locker with a note that said I was up for grabs.”

You laughed after you said it, but Spencer couldn’t help but wince. He understood why you laughed, a response to make something uncomfortable feel less serious, but he couldn’t believe that someone had done that to you.

He was an annoying, know-it-all, little boy when he was in high school and had internally justified the bullying he had gone through by telling himself that football players and cheerleaders were just jealous and stupid, probably still stuck in their cliques, in Vegas working dead-end jobs. But you, you shone like light itself, and someone had still found a reason to humiliate you. It didn’t make sense.

“The football team at my school tied me to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of a girl I had a crush on,” Spencer shared softly. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing. Not to make it seem like he’d had it worse, but to show that you had similarities.

Your head turned sharply to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not that we’re competing, but I think you win the bully-off we just had.” You straightened up in your seat, lifting your legs to sit criss-cross. “But you’re cute, though. Was the girl at least nice to you?”

Spencer looked down at his hands, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. You’d called him cute.He thought you were cute. It shouldn’t be the other way around.

You stared at him like you were questioning his sanity while he reacted to the compliment. It wasn’t him you were questioning, but the eyesight of all the people Spencer had around him, because why wasn’t he used to being complimented? It didn’t even necessarily need to be about their eyesight. They had to be deaf too, because just from hearing him talk, you were fascinated by the way his brain worked.

“I graduated high school at the age of twelve, and she was like sixteen, so no, she didn’t care much,” he answered slowly, keeping his cool. He knew now that he never had a chance with the girl anyway, but twelve-year-old Spencer had been heartbroken, and, of course, humiliated.

Your eyes turned even wider as he spoke. “Huh? Is that legal? Are you some kind of genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory,” Spencer admitted matter-of-factly. He didn’t know why it felt like a secret to tell people just how smart he was. In an academic sense, that is.

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin.

“And I do introduce myself as Dr. Spencer Reid when I’m at work,” he added, emphasizing his name.

“You’ve got a PhD?” you asked. The crease between your brows seemed permanent at this point.

“A few.”

“More than one?”

“Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering. BAs in psychology and sociology,” Spencer rattled off, glancing at you cautiously to gauge your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “I would’ve hated you just as much as those football players.”

“Not in the sense that I would’ve tied you to a goalpost,” you added quickly, “but more so that I would’ve been insanely jealous. I might still be jealous; the jury is out on that until you explain further.”

Spencer gave a soft laugh, believing that you wouldn’t have been a mean girl. “Do you want to get into the reasons why certain people are smarter than others?”

“No, I just…” Your voice trailed off, and you paused to take a sip of your tea. “Do you ever get freaked out over how people’s lives are vastly different even though they’ve spent the same amount of time on earth?”

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“Like, we look similar in age but probably have very few shared experiences because you were born a genius and I was born…” you gestured vaguely, searching for the right words, coming up with nothing in the end.

You were born… how exactly? Spencer tried to fill in the blank, but his guesses seemed almost offensive. “You don’t appear to be dumb,” Spencer countered gently. “You seem to be socially smarter than I am.”

“Because I’m sat here oversharing high school stories with virtually a stranger?” you teased, almost self-deprecatingly, like your easy way of talking was a fault.

And maybe that was true. Spencer knew what it was like to say too much at the wrong time, or have people turn uninterested mid-sentence when he was speaking. But he thought that stemmed from how bad he actually was at talking with people. And you were good at it, with a fluidity and humor to your speech that not many people had.

“I’m not good with words, and you obviously are,” he settled on saying, earnestly.

“No, not really. I was never good at anything. Always a straight B-student. It’s a damn mystery how I managed to get this job without a master’s degree,” you said with a shrug. “When I realized my own mediocrity in high school, I stopped trying. I thought it was much more fun to do drugs and get railed in the back of some college boy’s car. Spoiler alert, it’s not.”

“R-railed?” Spencer stammered, nearly choking on his tea.

“Too crude of a word for you?”

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—”

“That I was a slut in my youth?” you retorted, staring him down. “I’m only messing with you, Spencer. Now I’m sober, and boring, and in on a three-year-long dry spell.”

“We’re more similar than you think, so you don’t have to be freaked out about our lack of shared experiences,” Spencer said softly as realization struck him.

“You also got railed by college boys?” you quipped, and Spencer let out an unexpected laugh, his cheeks reddening.

“No, uhm, I meant being sober from drugs, and the dry spell too,” he clarified quickly.

As the conversation stilled, Spencer noticed he still had the book on Nobel Prize winners opened in his lap. He shut it quietly and placed it on the table, carefully looking at you as you sipped your tea. Your own book was long forgotten too, sliding down the side of your seat. You ran your fingers over your knees, still sitting cross-legged, nails rasping against your denim dungarees. You weren’t scared to look right back at him, not scared to be with him in silence for a moment. He watched as your eyes drifted to his book, struggling to read the title upside down.

“What does an actual genius do for a living? And why can he spend so much time at a library in the middle of the night?” you asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity, turning the book to see.

“Do you want to guess?” he asked, not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because he sensed you were about to guess anyway.

“You’re probably some sort of professor, teaching and researching something I couldn’t even begin to fathom,” you speculated, resting your chin on your hand, flipping through the pages. “You’re also away for like a week at a time and then back here for a week, so you must travel. Maybe you go to conventions and guest lectures. Have you ever done a TED talk?”

You noticed his patterns. That he had noticed yours was no surprise. He noticed everyone’s. But you had noticed his, meaning that you cared enough to mind when he was at the library multiple nights a week and when he wasn’t. What did that tell Spencer? Absolutely nothing he could make sense of.

“No, I haven’t. And I’m not a professor, though I have done a couple guest lectures,” he explained, waiting for you to continue guessing.

“Do you work for some tech company then? Are you secretly a billionaire?”

“Nope, I make a humble living compared to the work I put in.”

“So, the public sector then,” you deduced at the same time as a bell could be heard.

You quickly whipped your head around, straining to see the front desk, where an awfully stressed-out student could be found, holding some heavy book on human anatomy that Spencer knew had to be checked out manually.

“Oh, fuck—” you muttered, quickly standing up, momentarily lost. “I should probably get back to work.”

“Don’t forget your bag,” Spencer hurried to say before you could leave without it. The Kick Inside. Was that a reference to pregnancy? Maybe Spencer should look into Kate Bush to have another thing to talk to you about.

You picked up your book and paper mug, slinging the bag over your shoulder, and gave him one last smile. “Do you know you have the face of a genius?”

“W-what?” he questioned, unsure of why you’d said that.

“It’s a lyric from a song on this album. It made me think of you,” you said, pointing to the bag, before walking away to the front desk to do what you were paid to do.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The next time Spencer talked to you was exactly two weeks and one day later. They’d been on a case in California, which naturally led to him not seeing you. But then when he was back, you weren’t working. He spent three days filling out reports at the office, waiting for time to go so that he could take the train home and go to the library, and when he showed up, you weren’t even there.

Two weeks he planned what to say to you. The last three days of those felt like torture, not knowing where you were. On the fourth day, you were finally back. And Spencer wasn’t shy. And he could justify his reason for talking to you. Two weeks and one day ago, you had talked to him first.

It was early December, and the first snow fell softly outside as he walked into the warmth of the library. He knew immediately that you were back working because you were the first thing he saw. Perched on a small stool near the front desk and the display shelf of seasonal books, you were stacking books into a makeshift Christmas tree. Carefully selected covers in colors of red and green were stacked into circles, narrowing as you built upward, creating somewhat of a tree shape.

You hummed softly as you worked, occasionally glancing down at the growing stack with concentration. As you reached for another book, you were stopped in your tracks by the telltale sound of footsteps against the library’s linoleum floor. Footsteps that could only be made by a pair of Converse.

“I listened to The Kick Inside.”

Looking over your shoulder, you found him standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a small smile on his face. Your hands paused mid-placement as you looked down at him, brows lifting in surprise. “You did?”

“Creative use of resources, by the way,” Spencer mentioned, picking up a book from the pile and handing it to you, his long fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. “Did a song about incest really make you think of me?”

“Oh, no. Just that singular lyric.” You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s inspired by some old English folklore, I think.” Balancing on the stool, you placed the book carefully onto the stack, leaning back to eye the structure.

“A murder ballad called Lizie Wan. Her brother got her pregnant, and then he killed her.” Spencer supplied, his tone instinctively slipping into lecture mode. He stepped closer and shed his coat to drape it over a nearby chair as he continued to hand you books.

You made a face. “Well, did you like it? The album, I mean. Not the incest.”

“I understand why youlike it. It’s very… you,” Spencer explained, hoping it made sense. It was theatrical and wacky. Feminine too, in a brutal way, only archivable in lyrics written by an adolescent girl. Spencer wasn’t a music lover by any means, but even he could hear that it was undeniably good, just not his taste. “Is Wuthering Heights perhaps your favorite classic novel?”

“No, not at all. I think it’s a stupid book and a stupid song,” you said.

Spencer handed you another book, his eyes darting between the growing tree and your face. The grin you put on betrayed your monotone voice.

“Okay, no. I adore it,” you admitted. “It’s a nightmare to read, and I fully believe Emily was clinically insane, but I can’t help but love dark and twisted women. One review at the time when it was first published questioned how she could’ve finished writing it without committing suicide. That’s badass.”

“Do you know that Kate hadn’t even read the book when she wrote the song? She just watched some TV adaptation, which is why the names are all messed up,” you continued as you perfectly balanced the book he gave you onto the others. You’d soon be done at this pace.

“I did notice that she sang Cathy instead of Catherine, and Cathy is the daughter, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “So if you know the book, the song totally reads like a love song between Heathcliff and his dead lover’s daughter.”

“That’s disturbing,” Spencer concluded. “I can’t help but think that Brontë would’ve loved it.”

Your lips twitched into a smile, but you didn’t comment further, too focused on your Christmas tree. He handed you another book in silence and saw how your nails were now painted red with little white snowflakes on some of them. He wondered if you painted them yourself. You were back to wearing your usual slacks and cardigan. This time a white one that looked terribly comfortable and wintery. In your hair you had a red ribbon tied into a bow, matching, as always, your red Converse.

After a moment, you spoke. “You were gone for a while, again. Who in the public sector travels that much? I hope you’re not a politician.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

You blinked, looking down at him in mild shock. “You’re a profiler?”

He nodded.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s scary as hell. No wonder you’ve got insomnia, probably messed up from all the murders you’ve solved.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” you added quickly. “I’ve obviously got it too; I wouldn’t be working the night shift voluntarily otherwise.”

Spencer handed you the final book for the top tier, his gaze steady on you. “You weren’t here for a couple of days either. I had to talk to Omar, and he’s not as good of a conversationalist.”

You snorted. “Period cramps from hell,” you said casually, knowing it was the fastest way to end questions.

Spencer also knew that it was a common lie told by women to men. And he wasn’t the kind of person to be grossed out by basic biology. He might have issues with pathogens and handshakes, but he had no issues talking about the human body.

“Bold move to lie to a profiler,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly.

“I didn’t necessarily lie—”

“But you didn’t tell me the whole truth.”

He waited, silent and expectant.

You sighed, and for once your gaze was scared to meet his. “I’m kind of…depressed. Probably just seasonal, I fucking hate the winter. Spent three days on my living room floor, in some sort of verbal shutdown, just staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m even human.”

Spencer’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you feel better now?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you said, forcing a small smile.

Before Spencer could respond, the precarious stack of books wobbled. You tried to steady it, but the entire top layer you’d just finished collapsed in a cascade of covers and pages, books tumbling to the floor in a loud crash. You stepped down from the stool quickly, and Spencer instinctively grabbed you by the hand so that you wouldn’t fall. He didn’t even have time to think about germs.

“You’re legally allowed to shoot me in the head,” you said with a disbelieving sigh.

“You can’t consent to murder,” Spencer replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“But you can consent to bodily harm, right? So maybe you can shoot me in the foot at least?”

“That’s more reserved for sports and medical procedures. Shooting you would still be a crime even if you coerced me,” he explained.

“Sadomasochism too, right? You can consent to sexually inflicted pain?”

“Ehm—” Spencer mouth got dry, and his cheeks flushed red. “Well yes, technically.”

“So you really can’t figure out a way for me to not have to work another day this year?” you asked, leaning down to pick up one of the fallen books.

Now, if Spencer was as socially smart as you were, he’d notice you were flirting. Maybe even insinuating that you’d be okay with a sexual injury that resulted in you staying home from work the rest of December. But Spencer was surprisingly dumb for having such a high IQ. And his ears sort of started ringing as soon as you mentioned sex, so he wasn’t sure he’d even heard you correctly.

“Not if you need the money, no,” he replied, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips.

“Some kind of genius you are, Spence,” you teased, shoving the book in his hands before crouching to start rebuilding the tree.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

After that conversation, Spencer helped you rebuild the Christmas tree. He’d handed you book after book with a quiet determination, his brow furrowing slightly as if the arrangement were a problem he needed to solve. Occasionally, he would pause to ask you a question about your favorite winter-themed books or share an anecdote about an obscure author. All throughout December, Spencer became a constant presence during your night shifts.

You found him fascinating to listen to, even if he seemed to doubt himself midway through every tangent. His voice would falter, and he’d look up at you with a quick, “Is this boring?” or “Am I rambling?” as if he needed reassurance that you were still interested.

You always were. At this point, he could probably recite the yellow pages, and you’d still find it captivating. Knowing him and his eidetic memory, he most likely could do it on the spot if you asked him.

December always moved slowly for you. Students crammed into every corner, poring over their textbooks and laptops as they prepared for finals. The library was busy, but there was a strange liminal quality to your evenings, the dark winter nights stretching endlessly as you walked the halls, organizing books and straightening shelves.

You wouldn’t admit it to yourself just yet, but because of this heavy feeling, you found yourself sat at the front desk, waiting for Spencer to walk through those doors. You now knew that he was a busy man—a brilliant, busy man with a job more important than yours, so you stopped expecting him to show up, getting positively surprised every time he did instead.

On the 23rd of December, Spencer walked through the entrance at exactly 9:32 p.m. You knew the time because you’d been watching the seconds tick by on the digital clock of the computer’s screensaver.

You straightened your back, softly smiling as he made his way up to you. Sometimes, you had to go on little treasure hunts to find him in the library, but today, he didn’t appear to be shy to approach you first.

With a soft thud he placed a heavy book on the counter, one you immediately recognized as War and Peace, in Russian. Your heart lifted slightly. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for the day the loan would expire, so that he either had to return it or extend it.

“Have you finished comparing them now?” you asked, eyeing the book.

“No, uhm,” Spencer hesitated, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Is it possible to extend it?”

“I’ll have to check,” you replied, tapping at the keyboard. “It’s quite a popular book. A lot of Russian diplomats in D.C.”

You pretended to eye the screen, searching for whatever you were searching for, when you already knew that it wouldn’t be an issue to extend the loan. He didn’t have to know that, though.

“Are you doing anything special for the holidays, Spencer?” you asked, to make it appear like small talk while you were tapping away at the keyboard, mindlessly clicking between pages of the software you used.

“I might make it to Las Vegas to see my mom. I don’t know if I’ll have the time, though.” Spencer’s lips quirked in a small smile. “What about you? How will you celebrate Christmas?”

You knew by now that it was a dumb question to ask if he had a lot of work to do. He didn’t have a normal schedule, sometimes getting called in the middle of the night to fly across the country.

“I’ll probably be here,” you admitted. “We’re closed for two days, and then over New Year’s, but otherwise I’ll be working. Might go see my dad if I have the time and he’s feeling up for it. Nothing major. Do you have plans for New Year’s, Spence?”

He opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head slightly. “I, uh— Sorry, what’s that on the radio?”

You cocked your head, listening to the faint news broadcast filtering in from the staff break room that had caught his attention. You always had it on to not go insane from the silence. All afternoon it had been occupied with the same emergency broadcast. “Oh, you haven’t heard about it? I honestly thought you’d be working the case.”

“What case?” Spencer asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Some senator was kidnapped, and another one was shot. Apparently no one heard or saw a thing, but they can’t figure out how since the neighborhood has, like, crazy good security.”

“Kidnapped in his own home?”

“Mhm. I think they used the helipad, but Janice and Charlotte didn’t believe me.” You gestured toward the corner where the two older women usually sat knitting and reading romance novels. “Y’know, the regulars?”

“You think the kidnappers used a helicopter, without being heard or seen?” Spencer asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “How would they even get access to a helicopter?”

“If you know how to find and operate one, certain helicopters are easier to steal than cars. No locks in the way or keys needed,” you explained as if it were common knowledge.

Usually, this was the point in a conversation where you would shut up, thinking that you’d crossed into boring territory. But by the look on Spencer’s face, he just wanted to hear more about it.

“And if the security guards are all at the entrance to the gated community, I think you could go unnoticed. It’s close to the air force base, there are probably aircraft flying there on the daily.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “This job gives me a lot of free time to overthink things.”

Spencer smiled in slight disbelief. “How do you know how to steal a helicopter?”

“My dad was in the air force,” you explained. “From Fork Union to Master Sergeant. With today’s standards he’d probably be diagnosed with autism, but back when he was working, he was mostly just known as the guy who knew everything about every type of aircraft.”

You scrunched your face at the thought of your dad. You adored him, you really did, but he hadn’t given you the easiest of childhoods. That meaning being stuck with your mother because he was away a lot for work.

“What was that look for?” Spencer asked, because of course he realized stuff like that.

“I have tried so hard all my life to not be like my mother that I unconsciously picked up my father’s personality instead,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Spencer’s expression softened. “I despise my father, so I’m doing the opposite. Turning into my schizophrenic mother.”

“My dad got sick too,” you said quietly. “That’s why he stopped working. And why my mother divorced him. He lives at a care facility by the coast now.”

Before Spencer could respond, a buzzing noise came from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

“Duty calling?” you asked.

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

“I don’t think I can extend this, by the way,” you said, picking up the copy of War and Peace, placing it behind you on a shelf with other returned books.

“That’s fine—” he began, but you cut him off.

“I do, however, have another solution,” you said, standing up from your chair to go into the staff room. With quick steps, you grabbed your tote bag, the one with the Kate Bush album on it, and walked back out. Spencer stared at you in confusion as you pulled out a book, not wrapped in paper or anything special, but there was a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around it.

Spencer recognized it immediately as the same type of fabric you often wore in your hair.

“I have no one else to buy gifts for, so I thought I might as well. You won’t have to keep loaning it over and over again,” you said with a shy smile, handing it to him.

Spencer stared at it, his hands hesitating before taking it. A Russian copy of War and Peace. A nice one too. Hardcover with gold leaf embossment. “Thank you…” he said softly. “I feel bad now. I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“You’ve made my night shifts a lot less depressing these last months,” you replied. “That’s enough of a gift to me, Spencer.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it again, nodding instead. “You know I’m not good with words,” he said after a pause, “or sometimes I think I might be too good with them. I say too much too quickly—”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you interrupted, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?”

“Y’know, we go somewhere, maybe get some food, and then we talk. And if it leads somewhere, it leads somewhere.” You hesitated, your confidence wavering. “If I misread this entirely, that’s fine. You don’t have to say yes. But I’d like to keep your company during my night shifts, if I haven’t ruined that completely now by admitting that I find you attractive.”

“No, no, uhm—” Spencer stammered, his cheeks now fully pink. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked out this directly before.”

You held your breath as he gathered himself.

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

A grin broke across your face. “Good, so how about those New Year’s Eve plans?”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The D.C. police office buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Phones rang, officers rushed past with files in hand, and the muted hum of fluorescent lights filled the air. Spencer stepped into the building, his scarf still loosely draped around his neck and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold December air. From the side of his messenger bag, a red ribbon could be seen peeking out.

“Spencer, where the hell have you been?” Morgan’s voice rang out from across the room. He strode toward Spencer, his brow furrowed with equal parts concern and frustration.

“At the library,” Spencer replied, unwinding his scarf as he spoke. His tone was calm, almost as if the answer were obvious. “I came as soon as I heard.”

Morgan crossed his arms. “At ten at night?”

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before meeting Morgan’s eyes again. “There’s one open all hours of the day.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Spencer’s lips twitched as if suppressing the grin threatening to break through. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat in an effort to sound composed.

Morgan tilted his head, his smirk growing wider. “Uh-huh. Sure it is. Library must’ve gotten a whole lot more interesting since the last time I was there.”

Spencer ignored the comment, shifting the conversation back to the matter at hand. “We should look into stolen helicopters in the area. I think that’s how they got in.”

Morgan’s smirk faded as his professional demeanor returned. “Helicopters? That’s a hell of a theory. What makes you think that?”

Spencer adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers fidgeting slightly. “The location of the kidnapping is close to an air force base. Certain small helicopters are relatively easy to steal—no locks or keys required. If the neighborhood security was focused on the main entrance, a helicopter could bypass them entirely. Given the proximity to the base, it’s plausible they used the airspace to their advantage.”

Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Alright, genius, I’ll get Garcia to pull up any reports of stolen aircraft in the area. Nice ribbon, by the way, really pulls your outfit together.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

If December in general was slow for you, the holidays were fucking dreadful. Your dad had a cold and could not receive visitors, so you ended up spending Christmas Eve at a party—two hours sober between drunk friends, and then you had enough. Christmas Day was spent on your couch, watching all five hours of Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, eating your body weight in Chinese takeout.

You did get a postcard from your dad, a pretty coastal view on it that was of the beach he lived by. He also sent a pair of hand-knitted socks, a hobby you knew had been forced upon him by the older ladies he lived with at the care facility. His squiggly writing was harder and harder to decipher with every year that passed, but it still filled you with immense joy that his mind seemed to be bright even if his body wasn’t.

From your mother you also got a postcard. A pretty coastal view was on it too, from Bali, where she was spending Christmas with her new partner. Hers wasn’t handwritten, instead only printed with a generic Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. No thought put behind it.

You placed your father’s on the fridge, hung with a magnet you knew he’d gotten you when he was abroad for work in England. Your mother’s ended up being a perfect makeshift and temporary coaster on your living room table. Within days you had to throw it out because the paper had been ruined by tea stains.

When you were back at work, the library was even quieter than normal, which honestly was to be expected. Janice came by to borrow some new romance novels to have over New Years. Some poor students had deadlines due first thing in January. But still, so calm you might even call it boring. And you loved this job.

You sat at the front desk, flipping through a worn-out copy of a poetry collection by Patti Smith. You’d fallen down a hole of punk literature ever since you talked about JCC with Spencer. He didn’t seem like the kind to like said literature, but he had talked with you about it anyway. It was a tradeoff maybe, quid pro quo; he got to geek out about Tolstoy and Nobel Prize winners, and you got to talk about British bands and Vivienne Westwood. He’d actually really seemed to enjoy the irony of her bringing French 18th-century aristocracy into clothing worn by the most alternative and radical people in punk-era London.

Deep down in thought, you barely heard when the entrance door opened. It was a gust of freezing cold wind that made you look up from your slouched position. In walked a man, obviously bothered by the weather, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room as he walked forward. He was followed by…

“Spencer?” you wondered, standing. “You should be in Vegas.”

Spencer didn’t even have time to answer before his companion did. “Serial killers don’t care about the holidays, miss,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “SSA Derek Morgan.”

“You’re working the senator case, aren’t you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s turned into a serial case?” you rambled before shaking your head. “You probably can’t tell me the details anyway.”

Morgan gave a tight smile. “Not exactly.” He gestured toward Spencer. “We need your help with a quote. Spencer said you were the only person he could think of who might know it.”

“I didn’t say that—” Spencer tried to explain.

“Don’t you have search engines and databases for things like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We do, but nothing came up,” Spencer replied. “And I don’t recognize it for the life of me.”

“Must suck to be a genius, Spence,” you chuckled. “What’s the quote?”

Morgan pulled a photograph from his pocket and placed it on the counter. Written in bold, smeared letters that looked disturbingly like blood were the words: Whoever is strong must also be good.

“Jeez, give a girl a warning,” you muttered, grimacing slightly as you studied the photo.

It answered your question about whether or not it had turned into a serial case, because this was a place where someone had been murdered, and it wasn’t some fancy senator mansion this time, but more what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“Ehm… I honestly don’t know. I mean, it’s a very simple quote. I could come up with that.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. You weren’t sure why Spencer had thought of coming to you when faced with this problem. You knew of a bunch of books and quotes, sure, but you were honestly mostly known around your workplace as the one who knew all about children’s bo—

“Oh, oh! It’s sort of similar to a quote from a children’s book, but very badly paraphrased in that case.”

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?”

You were already walking out from behind your desk when he asked, making your way to the children’s section with quick steps. The two taller men following. “Ever heard of Pippi Longstocking?” you questioned over your shoulder as you walked.

Morgan looked skeptical and Spencer for once, too, like he didn’t recognize the name at all.

“I would assume that you had a more refined taste in literature as a child and did not waste your time with translated Swedish fairytales about the strongest girl in the world,” you added, finally reaching the right shelf, filled with thin books with bright yellow covers.

As you ducked down, you practically disappeared out of view for the two of them, squatting on the floor while picking out the right book.

Spencer perked up, smiling gently. “My mother is a professor in 15th-century literature. She used to read to me a lot.”

“That’ll do it,” you concluded, flipping through the pages. “We use it sometimes for kids’ reading hours, that’s why I recognize it. Popular with bilingual and immigrant children too since it’s been translated to over 70 languages.”

Spencer knelt down beside you, reading over your shoulder. You knew he was a quick reader, but when you knew what you were looking for, you were quicker.

“Here!” you pointed out on a page, disturbed by the look of your chipped red nail polish. “The quote in English is ’If you are very strong, you must also be very kind’.”

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed.

“It might be translated. I can look into our non-English books.”

You didn’t even wait for an answer before you started walking again, forcing Spencer and Morgan to follow suit. Down a corridor of shelves with children’s books, around a corner, to a new shelf, and then you ducked down on the floor, quickly scanning the spines. It was all children’s books divided into different languages. You picked whatever yellow spine you could see, collecting them in your arms before you sat down right on the floor. You knew the cleaning lady, she was great at her job.

“The story is from the 1940s but still relevant. Pippi is an orphan living in a big yellow house with her horse and monkey, and has to fight with adults and authorities, saying that she can’t survive on her own. Honestly quite progressive,” you explained as you gave Spencer a copy in Russian, trying to hand a different one to Morgan before realizing that not all agents had the skills of Dr. Spencer Reid.

“How’d she get the house?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“Her dad is a sea captain and a king over some fictive island. She’s rich,” you replied matter-of-factly.

As you sat there on the floor, books spread around you, searching and comparing to the English version, talking about the pure feminism and boldness of a female author creating such a character during that time period, Spencer found you fascinating. Like a dancer, you had moved through the rows of shelves, with a grace and a crazy smile, firing you up.

He had sensed it as soon as the unit stumbled upon the issue with finding the quote, that if someone was going to know this simple, moral-of-the-story quote to feed down the throats of children, it’d be you.

“I don’t think it’s Russian,” Spencer said after finding the right page. ‘Kind’ didn’t turn into ‘good’ like it had in whatever way the unsub had paraphrased it.

Morgan gave Spencer a sidelong glance. “Do you even need me here for this conversation?”

You ignored the comment, pulling out a book and flipping through its pages. “The missing senator has a German surname, right?”

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces.

You shrugged. “I watch the news, okay? I’m alone here all night!”

With the German version in your hand, you scanned the pages for the quote. “Oh, look! My high school German might finally be paying off.” You read aloud, “‘Wer stark ist, muss auch gut sein.’”

You stood up and showed the book to Spencer, pointing to the quote. “‘Kind’ turns into ‘gut’, which can translate back to ‘good’,” you explained, even if you felt like he probably didn’t need it. Morgan might’ve found it useful at least. “Whoever is strong must also be good, right? That make sense?”

Morgan leaned against the shelf, rubbing his chin. “So, the quote is from a Swedish children’s book, translated into German, and then badly paraphrased into English? What do we do with that?”

You shrugged, closing the book. “I just know what it says. I don’t know what it means.”

Spencer paced as he thought out loud. “The unsub has to be a woman.”

“Who speaks German?” Morgan added, mostly out of confusion.

“And she most likely identifies with the abandonment issues of the girl in the book, and having to be independent at a young age,” Spencer added, a light in his eyes shone like the stereotypical picture of a lightbulb turning on when an idea was formed.

Morgan glanced at Spencer. “Reid, didn’t the senator have a daughter?”

You watched them as they spoke, unsure if this was even new information to them or something they were reciting to jog their own memories of the case.

“So, wait, was I helpful?” you asked a little self-consciously, looking around, seeing the mess of bright yellow children's books on the floor.

Spencer nodded, his excitement bubbling over. “Yes, yes, your brain is unbelievable! Thank you so much.” Without thinking, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you in a brief but firm hug. You felt him stiffen slightly, his germaphobe instincts clearly battling his enthusiasm, but he didn’t pull away immediately. You knew he didn’t do handshakes, so the thought of him hugging you felt even more abnormal. His voice was soft as he added, “I mean it.”

Before you could respond, Morgan cleared his throat, a teasing grin on his face. “Alright, Romeo, we’ve got to get moving.”

Spencer stepped back quickly, fumbling with his feet. “Right, of course.”

You hesitated, looking up at Spencer’s flushed face, before softly hurrying to ask, “Are our plans for New Year’s Eve still on?”

He grinned, walking away. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer did miss it. Or in thirty-two minutes he would. He watched the clock on the wall in his hospital room with an anxious feeling. The fragments from a bullet had just been removed from his arm, and yet his biggest worry wasn’t the lingering ache in his arm—it was you.

“Your first date with her was supposed to be in a park at midnight? Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” Prentiss’s voice broke through his thoughts as Morgan had just explained why the first word they heard from Spencer as they had been allowed to enter his hospital room was your name.

“Could you stop yelling at me while I’m literally in a hospital bed?” Spencer shot back. He wasn’t one to complain, and he could hear the humor in her voice, but if he were to complain, now wouldn’t be an awful time.

Morgan leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on his lips. “They’re both insomniacs and were going to watch the fireworks. It’s sort of sweet.”

They hadn’t been able to just get the unsub when they figured out who it was. It had taken them days to plan their attack, knowing that the daughter would kill her father if they ambushed the place. A senator being killed because they had rushed their strategy wasn’t a defense that would hold up in any internal investigation.

So they waited and waited, mapping out the place where he had been taken, trying to get the daughter to leave. But she persisted, and an ambush was in the end the best choice anyway. Spencer hadn’t been shot directly. The daughter’s boyfriend had fired a shot, landing in the wall behind him, which left fragments flying all over. Some grazing his right arm, leaving it now fully bandaged. He’d also managed to hit his head on a beam while being lead out of the building afterwards, so he had three stitches on his forehead and blood in his hair.

It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounded. He’d been through worse. Which was why he now felt restless in the hospital bed, just waiting to be discharged. He wouldn’t make it in time to see you anyway, but maybe he could at least call you and tell you what had happened so that you didn’t wait outside in the cold for him.

He didn’t even have his phone on him, now that he thought of it. Or your number.

Restless and impossible, the situation was.

He had Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia all in his room. Just restlessly waiting too. Hotch was somewhere talking to a nurse about getting him out of here. Garcia was anxiously knitting. Rossi was half asleep while standing. Prentiss and Morgan were bickering about whether or not his date plans were cute or creepy. There was a radio in his room playing some sort of New Year’s program, almost taunting him by mentioning how time was closing up on the clock striking midnight. Some sort of reverse Cinderella, that was what he felt like.

With a slow knock on the doorframe, Hotch announced that he was back. “They don’t know when they can release you, and, uhm…” he began, poised as usual, though he was fighting a smile. “Look who I stumbled upon in the reception,” he continued, stepping aside as you appeared in the doorway.

It was probably all over the news that the senator case had been solved and that officers and agents had been harmed in the process. And you listened to the news, like religiously.

“You got shot…” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you took in the sight of him, pale but upright in the hospital bed.

“Oh, oh, is this her?” Prentiss asked as the entire unit watched as you entered the room.

They already knew your name. Now they knew what you looked like too.

You were all done up. Date ready. For Spencer. You had on a black coat, covered in little snowflakes from being outside, but underneath he could spot a dress that sparkled like diamonds. You had red ribbons in your hair like usual and your Converse, squeaking from being wet against the hospital floors. No tights, and while Spencer worried you might be cold, he also knew from Garcia that you just couldn’t wear tights with certain dresses.

“You’re gorgeous,” Garcia said, practically swooning. She nudged Spencer playfully. “Spencer, she’s gorgeous.”

Rossi stepped forward, clapping a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Maybe we should give them some time alone.”

Hotch, ever the professional and hopeless romantic, nodded. “We’ll be down the hall if you need anything, Reid.”

“Or pressed up against the door to eavesdrop,” Garcia added, earning a pointed look from Hotch as they all filed out, leaving you and Spencer alone.

The door shut with a click behind you as you stood flat on your feet in the middle of the room. You looked almost scared to move.

“We were supposed to go on a date, and you got shot, Spencer.”

The words left your mouth in nothing but shock. You didn’t even have time to be embarrassed over his colleagues being there and almost making fun of the situation because all you had in your head was the ringing sound of a gun firing and Spencer being the target.

“I’m okay, I promise,” he reassured gently, reaching out his unharmed arm to you.

You tentatively moved forward, almost in an inspective manner, seeing where he was hurt and not. With his hand reached out in your direction, you assumed he was fine with you touching it. You grabbed it gently, and Spencer spotted that your nails were just as sparkly as your dress.

“You. Got. Shot.” You emphasized every word, scooting to sit on the side of his bed. “Like a bullet penetrating your skin kind of shot. That’s insane.”

“It didn’t actually penetrate the skin, more like grazed me with fragments after it hit the wall behind me,” Spencer tried to explain. The bandage looked dramatic but all that was under it were scratches, basically.

“But still—” you began, but he cut you off.

“You look very pretty.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Don’t change the subject.”

“But you do. I like you in red,” he insisted, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

“And I guess I always like you then,” he replied simply.

You tilted your head, a teasing grin forming. “Did they give you something strong for the pain? What kind of smooth talking is this?”

“I, uh— I got nothing for the pain, y’know—” He gestured vaguely.

“Drugs and that?” you filled in.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t press further. He figured you understood. Not that you had talked about it more than briefly. But you were sober, and he was sober, and breaking a sober streak even in a hospital setting was nothing easy. The pain from the fragments being removed was only temporary. The aftermath of any sort of prescription painkiller was a long-term thing for people like him. And maybe you.

In silence, Spencer moved to the side of the bed, a way of notifying you that you could come sit higher up beside him. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you grabbed his, and when you scooted to sit so that your right arm touched his left one, he felt himself tense up at the closeness. While you still had your coat on, it was like a fire spread through it to his hospital gown and in turn his skin.

You toed off your shoes, kicking them on the floor, as you lifted your legs to place them alongside his. “So, was it the daughter? Did she shoot you?” you asked, turning to look at him with wonder in your eyes.

“Her boyfriend did. Helicopter pilot, by the way,” Spencer answered, gaze stuck on how your hand held his, perched in his lap over a thin blanket.

Your eyebrows shot up. “No fucking way. I was right?”

“You’re smarter than you realize,” he replied, his tone earnest.

You looked like a child on Christmas with the way happiness spread across your face. A happiness of being right, not over the situation. That was a given.

“It was the same old tale about a rich man abandoning his child and them later seeking financial compensation for it, thinking they’re entitled to their parents wealth after they’ve practically been left to live on the streets,” Spencer explained. Journalists would’ve figured out the motive as soon as it was public that is was the daughter, so he didn’t think he was breaking any protocol by telling you.

“And those are the good kind of senators,” you quipped, earning a small laugh from Spencer. You could see that his tired body didn’t react particularly well to the sudden vibration in his chest.

Your hand dropped his, only momentarily to soothingly caress his chest. He moved to hold yours again, keeping his held against his ticking heartbeat. You were so close.

The second he could think that, you whipped your head around at the sound of a thud. It was outside, a flashing light coming through the window.

“Oh my god, you can see the fireworks from here too,” you whispered, jaw dropped.

Spencer turned his head, following your gaze. Bright colors lit up the night sky, faint booms audible even through the thick hospital walls. Both hands on the clock were on twelve.

“It’s also a lot warmer in here than the park would’ve been,” Spencer mused, squeezing your hand in his.

He could almost feel you relax as you watched the colorful explosions go off in the night sky. You leaned into his side, the side of your face carefully placed on his shoulder. In this cold, sterile hospital room, you filled him with tepidity. He glanced down at your face; cute was the only word that came to mind. The subjective Spencer-esque way of defining it. You had silver glitter on your eyelids that twinkled whenever you blinked. Your lips had been glossy but were now mostly bitten raw from being anxious.

Spencer could only think of one thing as he took you in.

“Would you mind me becoming part of your microbiome?” he whispered.

You blinked, startled by the question, looking right up at him. He hadn’t even wanted to shake your hand when he introduced himself that first time. But kissing was, according to him, more sanitary anyway. You hadn’t been nervous for a kiss since you were in high school, yet this paralyzed you. It was terrifying, looking at him, feeling an invisible force pulling you towards him, towards his face, towards his lips.

“W-what if some bacteria from Cody Parker becomes a part of you now?” you joked, buying time to collect yourself.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied easily, his face now dangerously close to yours.

Your breath caught as he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours. You were both tentative at first, his hand still holding yours clasped over his chest. With your other hand, you pushed his hair from the side of his face, cradling his cheek as you deepened the kiss, touch by touch.

Spencer had never had a New Year’s kiss before. He wasn’t sure this was considered one either. The clock was probably 12:07 if he were to estimate.

From the hallway, Garcia’s voice could be heard through the door. “Oh my god, he kissed her.”

“Shut up, Garcia, I’m trying to see,” Prentiss whispered harshly.

You pulled back, laughter bubbling up as Spencer’s cheeks flushed deep red. Despite his embarrassment, a shy smile lingered on his face. The fireworks outside continued, unnoticed by the two of you, as you leaned in to kiss him again.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The apartment was quiet as you stepped inside, the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows the only sound accompanying your footsteps. Spencer moved carefully, his movements stiff and hesitant from the pain radiating from his arm. Two pairs of Converse stood on his doormat. One pair of simple black ones. Another pair of smaller, red ones.

“You need to shower, Spencer. There’s coagulated blood in your hair,” you said, setting his bag down on the floor before reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, it all sticking together in a knot.

He groaned softly, glancing toward the bathroom, then at the inviting sight of his bed just a little bit further down the hallway. “When I, for once, feel like I could fall asleep just looking at a bed?”

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look.

“No, you’re right. I just—” He hesitated. “How am I going to do it with this on my arm?”

“I’ll help you,” you offered immediately, then Spencer could see the realization hit you. “O-or maybe we can call Morgan, or someone else that you trust—”

His face twisted in mock horror. “I’d rather die than have Morgan wash my hair.”

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, firmer than intended.

“You don’t have to pretend around me.” Your expression softened. “When was the last time you were naked in front of someone?”

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Ehm, I—”

“Never?” you asked, far from in the teasing manner he was used to.

“Do doctors count?” he muttered, his face flushed.

“Okay,” you said, putting your hands together, stepping back slightly. “We’ll work around this to make you comfortable. Do you have swim shorts?”

“Yeah, that could work.”

Spencer retreated into his bedroom while he saw you go into the bathroom. It wasn’t easy for him to get out of his clothes and into the shorts, but he managed in the end. He spotted himself in his full-length mirror just as he was about to exit the bedroom. Tall and scrawny. Bandaged all over his right arm. Dressed in light blue shorts with flamingoes on them that Garcia had gotten him, as a joke he thought or she could have been completely serious. You never knew.

This was about to be the closest he’d been to another person while wearing so little clothing. And that was terrifying. No other word for it. It didn’t matter that you had kissed. Twice at the hospital. Once in the taxi home. Another small one as you helped him unlock his front door. Still terrifying.

It wouldn’t get easier the longer he waited, so he stepped out of his bedroom, too self-conscious to look at you, already rambling before you even noticed him.

“Don’t laugh, Garcia bought them for me when we had a case in Florida—”

“They’re cute,” you simply said, sat on the edge of his bathtub.

When he lifted his gaze to see you, you’d also changed. Or maybe undressed was a better word. Your dress was gone, and left were a pair of spandex shorts he imagined you had on under for comfort and warmth, maybe? And your bra. A simple black bra.

“You—” Spencer couldn’t form a sentence.

“I thought I’d make it even,” you shrugged, standing up. “Can you get in the tub without hurting yourself further?”

Spencer pressed his lips together to keep his posture. He nodded, as he at least though he’d be able to sit down on his own. But no. His balance betrayed him as he had both feet down on the porcelain, trying to lower himself down into a cross-legged position.

You were there within seconds, your hands trying to help him from falling. With an ungracious thud, he was sat down.

You sat halfway on the edge of the tub, turning the water on, waiting for it to get warm. As you did, you reached to comb through his hair with your fingers, but he stopped you before you got the chance.

“Just wait,” he said quickly, putting his hands up so that you couldn’t touch him. “For a second, will you?”

“Cause you’ll pop a boner if I touch you now?” you teased, shockingly how easy dirty words fell from your mouth.

A baffled laugh escaped him. “You’re so…”

“Rude?”

“Honest,” he replied. “I’ve been having a hard time keeping it together since you kissed me.”

“Nuh-uh, you kissed me,” you shot back with a grin. “You’re a good kisser, by the way.”

Spencer didn’t say another word as you started to wash his hair. Feeling slightly pathetic, he sat there in the bathtub, water falling from his head like a wet dog. He didn’t know how to make the situation less awkward, so he just accepted the way it was.

At least it was comfortable, having your fingers untangle his hair and massage his scalp with shampoo. When you were done, you helped him stand up, handing him a towel, but not before quite obviously eyeing his body up and down.

“You’ve turned pink all the way to your stomach,” you pointed out, and before Spencer could react, you added, “Don’t worry, it’s hot,” like that would make it any easier for him to process.

Later, Spencer was sitting on the edge of his bed, his damp curls sticking to his forehead as you helped him dry his hair. You moved gently, careful not to jostle his injured arm.

He’d been able to change into a t-shirt and pajama pants on his own, with you trying to hold in your laughter from the other side of his bedroom door when he would stumble and hit his shin on his bed frame due to the lack of balance he had with only one working arm.

“I can sleep here, right?” you said, tossing the towel into his hamper of dirty laundry. “It’s like 3 a.m. and I totally get if you wanna throw me out—”

“I want you to sleep here,” he said softly, looking up at you. “With me.”

No words left your mouth, but the smile that cracked through was unmistakable. He gave you a t-shirt to sleep in, something with an old college logo on it, and then he watched as you swiftly removed your bra from underneath it, like magic.

He settled under the covers, making room for you on the side where he didn’t have his injured arm. Spencer hadn’t shared a bed like this with anyone before, so to say he was surprised when you laid beside him, snuggling into his side like you’d done it a million times before, would be an understatement.

“Am I hurting you?” you mumbled, your head resting in the crook of his neck.

“No, not at all,” Spencer squeaked out, trying to find a natural spot for his hand under your body.

As you took in his room, your gaze landed on his nightstand, and your breath caught. Sitting neatly on the surface were three copies of War and Peace. One was pristine, the Russian copy you’d gifted him. Beside it was a well-worn English version, its pages annotated and creased. And then there was… another Russian copy, similarly worn and filled with notes.

Your hand rested lightly on his chest as you began to laugh. “You—” you started, glancing up at him with a soft smile. “You only loaned it from the library to talk to me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered between you and the nightstand as he realized that you had realized. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered with a smile.

You chuckled a little, reaching up to kiss his cheek before relaxing back down again. He’d been so tired before, as were you. But now it was like he could feel every nerve in his body, running through him like electricity. Just because you were here with him.

“Is it—” Spencer whispered, unsure where his words would lead him. “Is it weird to sleep in the same bed as someone without having experienced the sexual aspect that is usually the reason couples share a bed for the first time?”

Shit, he’d called you a couple. Maybe not directly, but definitely indirectly—

“No, not at all,” you hummed against him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“I haven’t exactly done this before, so everything feels new and weird.”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, makeup-free and squeaky clean. “Most men that I’ve been with never made me feel like a woman—like a ladylike presence they cherished. I’d sleep with them too quickly and they’d get bored, or I wouldn’t put up with it, and they’d call me a prude.”

Your voice sounded fragile in a way he’d never heard before. He’d picked up on little things where he assumed you weren’t exactly inexperienced, but the fact that experience could be something bad wasn’t necessarily something he’d thought about before.

“Whatever this is, whatever weird order we are doing stuff in, feels better than anything I’ve ever felt before when it comes to love,” you continued, stuffing your face back in his neck to hide.

Shit, you’d said the word love. Not even indirectly, like fully pronounced it, no mumbles.

“It’s not a dry spell if you’ve never done it, by the way,” you joked, and he melted at the sound even though you were trying to embarrass him. “You’ve never gotten it wet for it to become dry.”

Spencer stared up at the ceiling, biting his lip. “Can you not make fun of me?”

“I’ve used sex as a coping mechanism all my life, allow me to be a little amused about someone going over 25 years without it.” You gently laughed again. “It’s sort of sweet.”

On the side of your body, you found his unarmed arm placed all limp. With a bold move, you intertwined your fingers with his, taking both of them up to place against your chest. He was now embracing you, and he couldn’t even begin to think about the soft, ample flesh that could be found under your t-shirt.

He let out a faint groan, mumbling, “You’re not making it any better.”

Your expression softened further as you tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “We’ll get to it,” you said, your voice low and steady, “when or if we both feel like it. Don’t stress about it, okay? I don’t care.”

Spencer swallowed, his eyes darting to yours before quickly flickering away. His voice came out quiet, uncertain. “That’s something—” He hesitated, his brows furrowing as he searched for the words. “Is that something you’d want to do with me?”

You smiled, kissing his cheek again. “You just indirectly called us a couple, and I mentioned the word love, so don’t act clueless. I know you’re not.”

His face turned a deeper shade of pink, and he ducked his head, letting it rest on his pillow as the ceiling yet again became very interesting. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt warm. He felt at home in your presence, no matter how foreign it was. His hand was still grasping yours, tucked against your chest. He could feel you fiddling with his fingers.

“Can’t sleep?” Spencer asked after a long moment of silence.

“I like ’em,” you murmured, lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles.

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly.

“I like everything about you,” you answered simply before closing your eyes.

Can we all pretend I posted this on New Years? Yes? Thank you. And thank you for reading. Title and beginning quote is from Purple by Wunderhorse btw <3

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #dr spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #mgg #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #spencer reid imagine

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futuremrscameron · 9 months ago

Text

biker!pogue reader x rafe

content warnings: rafe is his own warning honestly, mentions of drugs/drug abuse, heavily implied mental illness, mentions of child abuse, referenced murder, stalking, frued level mommy issues, blood, physical violence, abandonment issues, rafe is a freak, toxic relationships, smut, ignoring red flags for a hot man, dubious age gap (not between biker!pogue and rafe)

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she’s jj’s role model/surrogate older sister (the pogues love her too)

lived in obx her whole life before moving to the mainland at 16 to become a professional motorcyclist. jj cried so hard that day but if you ask him about it he will deny deny deny.

she’s known him since he was a baby, often having to look after him when he found his way to the porch of his non-baby proofed home while luke was still sleeping off his hangover

her parents were very startled when she brought home a random white baby

"mommy look what i found?"

"what's that baby-"

while her parents are freaking out trying to contact luke through officers shoupe and sheriff peterkins she's playing peek-a-boo with a one year old jj.

after that incident she became his unofficial guardian, walking him to school, teaching him important life hacks like how to pick a lock (for when his bike or locker gets stuck or how he he uses it later for less legal activities)

gave him his first dirtbike and thought him how to ride it

her home is his home, a second place to stay while luke is on one of his benders or in a mood

she make sure he does his homework (not so great at that part)

only three years older than the jj and the pogues (jj doesn't realize how wild it is that a seven year old was walking his four year old self to school until he's like 13)

she's always wearing a leather jacket, always, she's got a shit ton of them

loooooooves racing. got a bicycle at 5, a dirt bike at 13, and a motorcycle at 14 (got it by working at a mechanic shop and pimping an old ride)

her parents weren’t too thrilled about her getting into racing and tried their best to keep her away from it but after she started working as a mechanic and staying out later and later they knew that giving her their blessing and safety rules was the best way to avoid the worst possible outcome

she loves jj more than anything in the world, more than racing but she would never tell him that cause she knows he’ll be so annoying about it.

an eleven year old jj follows her as she gets on her motorcycle and revs the engine. he puts and presses his hands together as he begs, “please please please please.”

“like hell jayj that’s no place for a kid, and isn’t it a school night?”

jj stayed over most of the time he basically lived with her. she often drove him to school before buying him his first dirt bike.

he pouts, “i promise i’ll get up in time please! pleeeeeeaaaaaaaaassssse.”

“fine!”

he grins and jumps up and down excitedly. “but you have to promise not to leave my side before the race and stay with bobby during.”

he groans dramatically, she tries not to coo and pinch his cheek. “awww come on!”

she crosses arms and muster up your best stern expression. “or i can have mom pick you up.”

he pouts. “fine.”

she’s sarcastic as hell like almost annoyingly so. can’t answer someone’s question without being sarcastic

she loves trashy tv (lifetime movies, tlc shows, etc, etc,)

gets arrested for street racing a lot

“c’mon sheriff peterkins you got the wrong girl.” she sits on the bench leans against the wall, pouting at the woman across from her.

the sheriff rolls her eyes. “save it, i already called your parents.”

all semblance of innocence is gone as she she stands up and rushes to the bars. “what the fuck!?”

“language!” shoupe calls from his office

also been arrested for fighting luke maybank

when she opened the door and saw jj with a black eye and busted lip she already knew. she marches towards the maybank residence, jj following close behind her. he's crying.

"please don't."

she stomps ahead, pace unrelenting not even waiting for jj's short twelve year-old legs to catch up. "go back home jj" she knocks on the door like a cop. the door opens. “what the fu-”

he’s on the floor before he can even blink.

she looks up at the failing light in her cell, now sporting a black eye herself. sheriff peterkins hangs up the phone and looks at her. she sighs. "i can't say that anyone feels bad for that man... but i'm sorry you had to do that."

biker!pogue doesn't say anything, just look down at her hands shaking. the reality of what she's done finally sinks in and her hands can't stop shaking. "he begged me not to and i did it anyway. he told me to stop." she looks down at her hands on her lap. they're still bloody and bruised. it's not hers. "how am i any better than him?" she cries, hands over her mouth to cover her sobs. "i made it worse. god i- he's gonna hurt him because of me." sheriff peterkins gets up from her chair, "now that is not true. you don’t know that and what he does is not on you. do you hear me? it’s not your fault."

"but it is!" she cries, body curling in on itself as she sobs. sheriff peterkins frowns, her heart aches for the girl, guilt eats at her but there's nothing she can do to ease her pain.

on a happier note, shes queer!

her gay awakening was mercedes varnado

her and jj LOVE wrestling. he would come over and watch it with her all the time

they’d talk about the cool moves and costumes and she stared at mercedes for longer than she found out was “normal” for straight girls

jj’s the first person she comes out to

she was scared he would look at her different or not wanna be around her anymore

she was only seventeen when she took him to a diner. they drank milkshakes and talked about everything from school to what new half illegal the pogues were up to.

“sounds cool baby bird.” he blushes at the childish nickname, “come on i’m not a kid anymore.” she pouts, “come on you’ll always be my baby bird.”

“yeah but i’m like a teenager now you know. it’ll ruin my street cred.”

she bites her lip trying to hold in a laugh. “of course. i won’t call you that anymore.”

“no! i mean…” he toys with his straw suddenly very interested in his empty glass. she knows he tends to avoid eye contact when stressed. she read online that it’s a trauma response. her hand balls into a fist at the thought of that man.

“i like it i just mean you know it would be kept for when it’s just us.”

her heart squeezes at the sight of boy before her. he’s become so emotionally mature these days, shes thankful that he’s not showing signs of being an asshole like hiss dad. he’s grown up so much, he used to only come up to her waist but now they’re the same height.

she smiles, “totally.” he grins, proud of this huge accomplishment that she knows he’s probably spent days rehearsing how to bring it up to her.

“um speaking of i um actually brought you here to tell you something important. i was a little scared if i’m being honest.” she chuckles but jj sees through her tough exterior. she hates/loves that he can.

he holds her hand, “you know you can tell me anything.”

she nods, “yeah um gosh this shouldn’t be so hard.” she chuckles nervously. “um-” she meets his eyes. “jj. i’m…gay”

he looks shocked. “oh.”

she feels her stomach twist. “good oh or bad oh?”

“good oh. sorry didn’t mean to scare you i’m glad you told me. i love you all that stuff.” she laughs at his attempt as casualness. “so you don’t like guys?” she shakes her head, “no i do i just also like girls.”

he looks shocked, “you can do that!?” she laughs, “yeah bud you can do that.” he nods. “cool.”

he looks deep in thought and she smiles. she debates telling him but decided not to. he’s a smart kid he’ll figure it out soon.

she and rafe are exes (kind of)

they officially met during one of the boneyard parties. the key word is “officially”, they’ve seen each other around before but never officially met until later (pre-s1)

one spilled drink on her shirt leads to a conversation which leads to them making out in his car. they’re a bundle of hands and kisses, she’s on his lap alternating between biting his lip and kissing his neck. he pulls back first to admire her. the moonlight seems extra bright that night, illuminating her in the car. no one can tell rafe that it’s not a sign that she’s an angel (despite her personality).

“you’re beautiful. you don’t know how long i’ve been thinking about this. you. i’ve seen you race. you’re so beautiful.” she presses a finger to his lip.

“rafe.”

“yeah?”

“shut up and kiss me.”

“okay.”

their height difference is perfect. he’s 6’2, she’s 5’0. i love a good height difference idc idc. especially if it’s a tiny girl who talks like she’s a giant.

it was love at first sight for rafe

the final bell had rung throughout kildare academy, ushering in summer break. rafe rushed out of his class, his bag already packed and on his back. he ran past teachers and students alike, not bothering to say excuse me. he ignores sarah’s call for him to watch where he’s going and be considerate of others. he laughs as he collides with his two best friends, kelce and topper.

one outside they hear the revving of a motorcycle. the rider comes into view as they stop in front of the sidewalk. the biker parks and gets off, leaning against the bike like they’re waiting for someone.

kelce whistles at the mystery figure, topper looks confused, and rafe is intrigued.

“kelce, you don’t even know if it’s a girl.”

“are you kidding me? look at that figure.”

“okay well they’re on private property.”

“they’re on the sidewalk top.”

“yeah but-”

rafe ignores the duo, still entranced by the biker. they’re all brought back to reality when kiara, a former pogue and sarah’s newest friend, brushes past them.

topper frowns and calls after her, “hey watch where you’re going kie!”

she doesn’t even look back as she flicks him off “fuck off top you have no room to talk!”

a nearby teacher calls for her to watch her language but she’s already at the sidewalk and hugging the motorcyclist.

someone nearby says what rafe’s thinking, “kie knows her?” he’s so intrigued he might see if sarah knows anything. a mini crowd has formed while other pass them to head home or to the beach for the summer.

kiara backs up and the helmet comes off. a girl.

“i told you she’s a girl. pay up.”

“we didn’t bet asshole.”

the same teacher tells topper to watch his language.

her deep brown skin is flushed from the summer heat and being trapped under that helmet for god knows how long. her micro braids are up in a clip safe for a few strands. she smiles at kiara with all the fondness of a long lost friend. rafe finds himself wishing he was on the receiving end of that radiant smile. she’s rubs kiara’s arms and frowns as she says something he can’t quite make out before taking off her leather jacket and puts it over kiara’s shoulders. ‘a leather jacket in this weather?’ rafe decides she’s insane, beautiful but insane. with the leather jacket off he can finally see her arms and he feels faint. her arms. his eyes scan further down to her chest sweat cascading down and sitting in the space between her-

“hello! earth to rafe!” sarah’s voice breaks him out of his leering.

he rolls his eyes trying to see the pretty motorcyclist behind his sister who's blocking the view. he catches one last glimpse of them before they speed off.

he sighs and drags his hand across his face, "i already know where this is going and the answer's no." he pushes past her and heads to (ward's) his car.

she follows after him ranting about how important it is that she doesn't miss the party from the moment they get in the car until they reach tannyhill.

if he asks about kiara's new friend with the motorcycle that's his business.

biker!pogue sees him when he pushes past her at barry’s

she parks in front of the familiar trailer and turns her engine off. she takes off the helmet and is hit by the overwhelming familar smell of weed.

"jesus christ." she mumbles as she places her helmet on the left handlebar. she adjusts her black and gray striped skirt and graphic tee crop top. maybe she’s wearing a push-up bra to get a better deal but that’s her business. the leather jacket doesn’t stick to her skin since it’s twice her size.

there's screaming from inside that grows louder as she gets closer. before she can knock the door whips open nearly hitting her in the face. 'fucking assholes.'

"hey you almost hit me with the door you di-" the word dies on her tongue when she sees a flustered, manic looking blonde. he's definitely a kook, the polo gives him away. he brushes his messy hair back and stops past her and gets on his dirt bike. they lock eyes one last time before he puts his helmet on and speeds away.

time stands still as she tries to piece together where she knows him from.

“yo princess peach!” she looks back to see barry looks down at her standing at his steps. she rolls her eyes at the nickname and enters the trailer.

“unhappy customer care bear?” he frowns at the nickname

he glares at her “how many times i gotta tell you to stop calling me that? fucks with my street cred.” she snorts and flops down on his couch, “i’ll stop when you stop calling me princess peach.”

he sits down next to her. “see that’s actually cute, and it fits. look at you with your pink fucking bike looking like a princess.”

she smiles, “flattery will get you nowhere barry.”

she stands up and walks to his stash, he shrugs. “worth a shot. what do you want?”

she looks through his stuff, “the usual. plus some info.”

he smirks, “info? you been watching too many cop shows peach. i ain’t a rat.” he lights joint and takes a hit as he watches her grab what she’s looking for.

“not ratting anyone out, just wanna know who that guy was. the one that stormed out of here.”

he frowns, “country club? ah don’t worry ‘bout him.”

she sits down next to him and grabs the joint from him before he takes another hit. she takes a hit, “he’s a kook bear, i don’t wanna see you go down for selling to some rich punk cause he mouthed off to you and you laced his shit.”

he throws his head back, “that was one fucking time.”

“i’m interested, what happened to your no kook rule. and what were you two screaming about.”

“he wanted some shit i didn’t have you know how it goes.”

she nods. “tale as old as time.” she takes another hit. “what was it?”

he looks at her and laughs, “damn nancy drew you want his social security too?” he takes the joint from her.

she rolls her eyes, “fuck you. i just know you don’t let anyone talk to you crazy so i thought he was someone special.”

he grins, “he’s got deep pockets aight? you done asking questions? you’re fuckin’ with my high.”

she stands up and takes off the leather jacket, throwing it at his face, “fuck you.” she leaves the trailer and gets on her bike.

“come back again soon!”

if you ask her she'll tell you she barely remembers him cause he made that little of an impact (liar)

their vibes are very much ‘me and my girl don’t argue she tells me to shut the fuck up and i listen’ and ‘my girl’s mad at me. hope i die.’

one of his worse crashouts was the first time she dumped him

jj came over as he usually does. he wanted it to be a surprise, she’d been working at the mechanic’s damn near every day. he came by with her favorite snacks and the dvd for the jersey shore’s first complete season. instead he’s met with rafe’s tongue down her throat.

“what the fuck!?”

“jayj!?”

“so should i go or?”

jj chases a half naked rafe across the backyard.

you know that episode in the boondocks when grandad gets addicted to weed and huey asks him to choose between weed and them and grandad without hesitation chooses weed? yeah that’s how their breakup went down.

birthed this iconic voicemail. she listens to it and laughs when she's feeling down

barry has to listen to rafe cry about how “that damn kid ruined it” and how he was gonna “really do it this time” after doing another line

he’s even more crushed when she leaves obx for the mainland to pursue her dream of becoming a famous racer

like he’s proud and happy for her but he’s absolutely crushed

“i mean i knew it was coming but i mean she just left!” he does another line. “didn’t even say goodbye like who the fuck does that? thought we had something you know?”

barry scratches his head, “so you gonna be here a while or…?”

she comes back to obx at the beginning of s2 when tensions between the pogues and kooks (mainly rafe) are at an all time high throwing rafe off his game even more

rafe finds out she’s back in town through sources (kelce) and immediately gets on his bike to go to her. ward is not happy with this especially since it’s right rafe said they should kill all the pogues who know what he did. he watches race switch gears and hop on his bike.

“rafe. rafe where they hell are you going!? we’re having a conversation right now.

rafe shakes his head and grins. “she’s back.”

“who? no. no, rafe-” ward knows how bad he got last time she was in the picture does not want history repressing itself. rafe revs the engine and puts on his helmet.

“i gotta go.”

ward steps up to him, placing a soft but firm hand on his chest. “no. hey! rafe no, you are already in deep shit i can’t protect you if you keep doing stupid shit.”

rafe knows he’s disappointing his father, it pains him but he wants to make it better. he can’t do that without her. “i’m sorry.”

rafe takes off.

“rafe! goddamit…”

she’s pissed when she finds out he’s been terrorizing jj and the pogues

rafe’s at the country club with kelce and topper when he sees her again for the first time. though their reunion did not go the way he envisioned it

she tells him if he ever lays a hand on jj again she’ll kill him (he nearly cums on the spot)

their arguments are awkward for third parties because they always go from screaming and angry to intense staring and close talking

he hears her before he sees her. "rafe!"

he perks up at the sound of her voice, at first he thinks it's the coke or his mind playing tricks on him but he hears it again. "rafe! i know you're in there asshole open up!"

barry opens the door and pulls her in. "goddamn girl! the fuck's the matter with you? banging on my door like fuckin' twelve at five in the fuckin' morning."

she tugs her arm out of his grip, "fuck you." she looks at rafe, her rage disappears as they lock eyes, replaced by grief.

“angel?” she stands in front of him, hands on her hips like a disappointed mother. “what the fuck rafe? you've been harassing jj and his friends again and don't try to deny it i know you have.”

“what?”

"don't play dumb either. i knew you were an asshole but what the fuck? you tried to kill sarah!"

he frowns at the mention of his sister. "no, no she provoked me."

"i don't give a fuck! she's your sister what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"what the fuck's wrong with me?" he stands up nearly knocking over the table, barry tells him to chill but he's not listening he gets in her face, "what the fuck's wrong with you? you just leave without saying goodbye and act like i don't exist when you come back? who does that?"

she doesn’t back then though his close proximity sends chills down her spine. “this isn’t about me.”

he chuckles but there’s no humor in his tone. “almost everything i do is about you.”

the two of them stare into each other's eyes, a mutual understanding between them, everything else falls into the background. barry’s just standing there like ‘🧍🏻‍♂️’ “so are we going or…”

speaking of the men in her life pissing her off, jj showing her his gun does not go own well

“what the hell is wrong with you!?” her arms are crossed, standing up and looking down at the boy in front of her. he doesn’t say anything. “that’s not a rhetorical question jj i actually wanna know.”

“you actually wanna know?”

“yes!”

“and why would you give a shit? huh!? you’re barely around!”

“that’s not fair jj.”

“no who’s not fair is you leaving me here! what’s not fair is you fucking hooking up with at psycho rafe cameron after all he’s done to us! what’s not fair is you trying to play big sister like nothing’s changed!”

“jj!”

he stands up and gets in her face, he’s no longer the little boy she walked to school. “i don’t need your lectures, i don’t need your advice, and i definitely don’t need you anymore.”

she feels her heart shatter into a million pieces as he walks away.

his two triggers are being called a murderer (true) and being told she would never love a monster like him

when he meets up with sarah at the dock she tells him that biker!pogue deserves better than him and how she hopes locking him away for what he’s done will help her realize that

she picks him up from jail when ward “dies”

he knows something’s wrong when he sees her. she throws her arms around his neck and hugs him tight.

“i’m so sorry rafe.” he wraps his arms around her waist on the ride home. she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze at every red light. by the time they reach tannyhill the last of the boat wreckage is being removed from the water.

“rafe?” wheezie stands at the sliding glass door holding herself up. "wheeze-" she runs over to him and hugs him, crying in his arms. he's taken by surprise but quickly adjusts, wrapping his hands around her.

rose comes looking for wheezie and finds the trio outside. rose sees biker!pogue and confusion flashes in her eyes, but it's quickly covered up by the pain of loss and disappears back into the house.

she ends up staying at tannyhill for "moral support"

"really i don’t wanna intrude.” rose chuckles as she brings in pillows to rafe's room, "please, the way rafe talks about you? you're practically family."

rafe and her have a much needed heart to heart

they lay side by side looking up at the ceiling. “i want you to stay." she looks at him. he's already looking at her. she brushes his cheek with her thumb, he leans into the touch. "i'll stay as long as you want." she gives him a soft smile. he stares at her for a minute, deliberating. he kisses her.

deep down she knows it's coming but it still catches her off-guard. she knows this won't help him. it will probably make him worse, but she does it anyway. she kisses him back. they're suddenly sitting up, both on their knees he shrinks himself so she's above him as he chases after her lips. her grip on his face is soft but firm, she pulls away first. “rafe."

he looks close to tears, "please.” he nuzzles against her hand, "i'll be good."

that breaks her heart. she nods, "you don't need to be with me."

he kisses her on the cheek. jaw. eye. neck. shoulder. wrist.

she cradles his face and kisses him deeply.

he moans. he's halfway in her lap as their kissing grows more frantic and heated. his hand moves down her shorts, she gasps.

"tell me i'm good."

she grips the sheer with one hand and his hair with the other. "you're so good rafe."

he speeds up his movement at that, making note of her shortness of breath and tightening grip. "yeah?" his breath is hot against her neck,

she nods and meets his gaze. "yeah." he kisses her again, her moans swallowed by him.

he likes it, keeping them for himself.

she grips his shoulder and shudders against him. they both breathe heavily. she looks at him looks down. he follows her line of sight. he looks back up, at her lips then meeting her eyes.

“you don’t have to-”

she pushes him down and straddles his hips. “be a good boy and stay quiet yeah?” he nods.

probably the closest he’s come to seeing heaven. (pun half intended)

she bumps into sarah in the kitchen that night

sarah jumps and nearly drops her glass when she turns around and sees biker pogue!reader behind her. she chuckles, "sorry, didn't mean to scare you." sarah shrugs, "not scared, just startled."

it's awkward. "um i just came for some water so." she grabs a bottle from the fridge and gives sarah one last parting glance. "i'm sorry for your loss."

sarah looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole. like she's just been reminded of her father's grizzly death. 'great nice going' she thinks to herself. "sorry, again. um bye." she turns to leave and beats herself up for her awkwardness and poor choice of words. the idea of rafe's sisters not liking her makes her stomach feel weird.

"you should stay away from rafe." she stops in her tracks and turns around, "what?" sarah walks up to her slowly, "he's not a good person. you don't know him, the things he's done-" "

"i know." sarah backs up, eyes squinted and lips pursed like she's just been told aliens are real. "i know he killed sheriff peterkins, i know-" she swallows, "i know he tried to kill you."

sarah's face falls, she looks betrayed. "you know?"

biker pogue!reader reaches out to her but sarah pulls back. "sarah i'm sorry and i know he's unpredictable but-" sarah's voice rises, "then you know what he's capable of."

she nods, "i do." sarah shakes her head, "love makes us all stupid huh?" usually she would deny it but this time she says "yeah, yeah it does." sarah doesn't look angry or betrayed anymore. this time the look she gives her is one of pity and understanding. she hugs her, "be careful." she leaves her with much to think about.

she can't blame sarah for not wanting to be around rafe right now but she still feels

“sarah left. i’m trying to keep the family from falling apart she just- she doesn’t get it!” he’s yelling but she knows it’s not from rage but regret and heartbreak? how did they get here? did the resentment start?

“i don’t know how to make her get it i don’t know what to do.” he cries into his hands.

she rubs his shoulder, “hey she just needs some space, and that’s not your job. you’re trying your best. you’re a good guy rafe.”

he stares, to anyone else it would look cold but she knows he’s contemplating her words, struggling to believe them. he kisses her. she blinks slowly, “rafe…”

he pushes himself away from her walking to the other side of the room. “i’m sorry.”

she moves towards him. “hey no it’s fine i- i wanted you to kiss me.”

his eyebrows furrow, deeply confused. whether it’s by her acceptance of him or the kiss she doesn’t know. “you did?”

“i mean it’s probably a bad time now but yeah i’ve been wanting to kiss you since i got back.”

he nods stiffly and leaves the room. she’s left standing there more confused than ever.

when he’s working with lambry and her brother biker!pogue notices that he’s slightly more put together and while she wants to know why she doesn’t wanna pressure him into telling her

she’s in his room chilling when he comes bursting in telling her he has the cross

“that’s not all is there?” he hates that she knows him so well, he shakes his head and sniffs. “no uh no there’s more.”

she nods, “okay, do you wanna tell me?”

he shakes his head, “i’m scared you’ll look at me differently.”

“i highly doubt that, i know a lot of shit about you and none of it has scared me away.”

he looks at her like she’s just told him she’s found atlantis. he’s trying to compute why she does. why stay with him when he’s like this? he needs to know. “you won’t after this?” he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her off the bed dragging her outside to the truck.

“rafe what is your problem!” she knows it’s not coke, last he used was the day after ward’s death when he came to her with his theory about rose hiding something. “you’ll see.” he opens the truck and she sees the body, she almost falls to the ground.

“wh- what is this? what- where’s that lady is- wait this is-”

“the guy that was here the other day.” she looks at him, there’s no fear in her eyes but shock and confusion. “you didn’t do it.”

he tilts his head, “why do you think that?” she looks at the body again, “i don’t know. you seem more disturbed by this than peterkins. it’s not adrenaline though it’s… was it her?”

he’s always amazed by how smart she is. he nods. “okay.”

she hears screaming coming from downstairs and by the time she gets there she sees sarah in a chair passing out

she runs to her, pushing rose out of the way to check on her. “sarah? sarah honey answer me.” she looks back at rose and rafe, disgust and anger in her eyes as she cries. “what did you do?”

rose reaches out to her but her hand is quickly slapped away. “you drugged your own daughter?” rose has the decency to look ashamed while rafe just stares unflinching in his resolve. she turns to rafe, “it’s not too late you can still stop this you can do the right thing-”

rafe turns to rose, “take her to the car, i’ll clean it up.” rose nods while biker!pogue looks at him, “clean it up? rafe that’s a person! you can’t just-” suddenly there’s a pinch feeling in her neck. she turns to rose who’s holding a needle.

she looks remorseful but that doesn’t change anything.

biker!pogue sluggishly turns to rafe, “you dick.” she tries to swing at him but is too slow. he catches her before she falls and sits her gently on the chair across from sarah.

“i’m sorry. i hope you can forgive me.” she blinks twice before she’s consumed by darkness.

when she wakes up on the ship and sees ward she thinks she's dead

she hears about their plan with the cross and thinks it's idiotic

"rafe your dad faked his death, rose fucking drugged me and sarah, and wheezie's scared out of her fucking mind. nothing about any this is normal!"

“this just makes you look worse cause you know all this and you’re still dating me.”

“bitch!?”

he's right though

rafe refuses to let her come with him when they're lured to that room and tells her to stay put

"fuck you i'm coming with you!"

"like hell you are!"

"rafe-"

"i need you to stay here, watch over wheezie." she frowns, not liking the thought of leaving him but understanding him. she nods.

he kisses her forehead and leaves.

she doesn't listen, which is how she finds herself on the upper deck leaning over the railing looking down at kiara and jj fighting off a hired soldier

she sees jj fall overboard and it breaks her

she thinks she screams but it’s hard to tell with her ears ringing. kiara immediately jumps after him and she finds herself loving the girl even more. she runs down to the deck, the man that hurt jj is still on the floor getting his barring back from that kick to the chest kiara delivered. she punches him in the face and he's back down.

she stomps on his wrist, the one holding the machete. "you like beating up on kids? huh!? makes you feel big and bad?" she doesn't wait for a reply, she kicks him in the side once, twice, three times. while he’s dissociated and groaning in pain she grabs the machete and repeatedly brings it down in a blind rage. over and over and over. blood splashes on her face, jolting her back to reality.

she sits there and for what feels like forever

rafe finds her after what feels like forever. she jumps at first before she realizes it’s him. he holds her shoulders softly holding her against his chest.

he hold her at arms length getting a good look at her. he looks at her hands. she balls them into fists. “they’re not mine.” she doesn’t meet his eyes, staring ahead at nothing.

“i know. i don’t care about any of that though i’m just happy you’re okay.” he hugs her. “i thought i lost you.”

he keeps talking but all she can make out is "cross" "pogues" and “alive”.

she looks down at her hands. they're bloody and bruised but they don't shake. rafe holds them in his hands, “hey it’s okay. you’re okay.” she shakes her head, letting out a mumbled whine

“i was angry.” her voice comes out shaky. “my-my body just…. moved.”

“whatever he did the fucker had it coming.”

she looks up at him and stares like she’s finally seeing him for the first time. “no-”

“he hurt you didn’t he?”

she shakes her head, troubled by his deduction. “he hurt jj.”

“like i said, deserved.”

she pushes him away, “they were right about you. you’re dangerous. you’re not even fucking flinching at the sight of- of a- a fucking dead guy. how could you look at me like i’m-i’m-” an angel. “i killed someone rafe! do you get that!? i’m a monster!”

“hey!” he snaps gaining the attention of his family and some workers.

he lowers his voice, “don’t say that okay? you’re not a monster. you did something a lot of people would do in the same situation.”

she shakes her head “no.”

he nods, “yes, hey!” he grips her face, stop shaking your head it’s true. now you listen to me, you’re a good person okay? this, this moment doesn’t represent you. doesn’t change shit so don’t go wasting your tears on him okay?”

she nods, sobs turning to sniffling. he brings her in for a hug, she cries into his chest. he looks up and sees rose staring down at them in shock and fear. he holds her closer and kisses her head. “it’s okay. i’ll protect you.”

three nights later the boat is close to shore when he realizes there is actually something that could be the final nail in their relationship (a kryptonite)

they’re lying in bed she’s facing away from him but his arms are wrapped around her waist.

“if jj's dead i'll never forgive you." he stills and looks at her back. he kisses her shoulder. he knows she means it.

things are tense between them until he gets back from singh

she’s patching him up when he tells her about his journey and the pogues being alive

“jj’s alive.”

she stops sewing. “how do you know?”

he grimaces from the pain of the last sew and pull, “kiara was there. we escaped together and she fucking pushed me overboard and stole my boat to save her scooby doo gang.”

she smiles at this, “smart girl.”

he frowns, “whose side are you on?”

“stop frowning your face will get stuck like that.”

when jj comes back to obx their reunion is a tearful one.

she hugs him so tight eyes wide as takes in his scent. she pulls back first to get a good look at him, checking him for any injuries. he smiles, "i know." she knocks her forehead against his, "don't do anything stupid like that again." he lets out a wet laugh, "no promises."

one of the reasons biker!pogue "ignores" his red flags is that he’s unfortunately a good boyfriend (if you don’t look to deeply)

he bought her a diamond encrusted lighter for her birthday

with some of the money he owed barry

he got her a necklace with the letter 'R' so that he’s “always close to her heart”

it’s only after their second breakup that she finds out it’s a tracker

biker!pogue after pulling up to the country club: i’m not a fucking dog rafe! so what the fuck possessed you to put fucking tracker on me!

kelce and topper: i’m sorry what?

after their second breakup caused by rafe melting the cross he became in her words “more annoying” (dear reader he was stalking her)

“rafe! i know you’re in there open the fuck up!”

rafe starts coughing uncontrollably. barry pats his back while staring at him in disgust and an undertook of concern. “yo chill man it’s just princess peach. yo peach! calm down yeah-” rafe covers his mouth. barry pushes his hand away. “the fuck’s wrong with you man all that coke finally fuck up your head!?”

rafe glares at him “i didn’t want her to know anyone’s here much less me and your dumbass ruined that!”

“first off you’re not gonna call me a dumbass in my home, and second who’s the real dumbass, the man that didn’t know there was beef between you two and said what’s up to an old friend? or the man who doesn’t want to be found and came to the place everyone knows he hangs at?”

rafe frowns, “well when you put it like that-”

“you look dumb as hell? yeah i know.” he gets up and move stop the door. rafe starts freaking out grabbing at his hand. “what are you doing!?” “calm down man. i’m serious act like you got some sense or i’m kicking you the fuck out.”

“barry i know you’re in there!”

barry sighs, “i’m comin’ peach.”

“don’t fucking answer her!?” rafe whisper yells from his hiding spot behind the couch’s left arm.

barry stares him down, trying to figure out when he made thee move from his couch to that corner and how he didn’t make any noise. “look country club whatever you did to makes her mad you probably deserve.”

“don’t!”

barry opens the door and is met with a smiling biker!pogue. “thank you bear.” she turns her attention to a poorly hidden rafe. “rafe cameron what the fuck problem? is it the coke? you wanna die? i’m just tryna figure out what made you lose your goddamn mind and put a fucking tracker on my bike.”

rafe stands up and sits on the couch like a scorned child. barry’s mouth falls open in shock, “a tracker man? what the fuck? why not just call her!”

“we broke up.”

“she blocked me on everything.”

the exes stare at each other for a couple seconds. barry clears his throat, very uncomfortable with the tension.

rafe crosses his arms, “how’d you find it?”

she sends him a knowing look.

he scoffs and scratches at his upper lip. pope. that fucking pogue.”

“hey! watch it! i’m not your concern anymore. i don’t need to give you updates on my location and you have no right to put a fucking tracker on me.”

he stands up and steps up to her. “how else am i supposed to protect you?”

barry tries to make space between them, “woah okay man how bout we all chill?”

biker!pogue scoffs and steps closer, “no fuck that. what part of ‘we’re done.’ did you not get?”

rafe pretends to think of an answer, lips pursed and furrowed brows. “um the part where it’s fucking stupid cause i didn’t even do anything.”

she points a manicured finger in his face. “you know what you fucking did rafe!”

“why do you always take their side?” the veins in rafe’s neck are bulging.

“oh where we go again!”

barry wonders if this is what his friends feel like whenever they break up a fight between him and a customer. or him and anyone.

rafe chuckles, “yeah here we go again because your last answer was bullshit!”

he spits out ‘bullshit’ like it’s acid on his tongue. she steps forward not quite getting in his face but pointing up at him.

“fuck you cameron i don’t owe you shit!”

he leans down, matching her glare. “the fuck you don’t!”

her eyes widen at his audacity. she gets closer but there’s basically no room between them at this point. “excuse me!”

barry grabs his keys. “i’m gonna go.” they don’t hear him over their yelling but he still tries his best to make as little noise as possible while leaving the trailer.

when he comes back two hours later he finds their clothes all over the floor leading to his bedroom. he opens the door and finds them cuddling. “yo not on my bed bro!”

biker!pogue is not any better unfortunately she matches his freak

they drunkenly make out in ward’s office stumbling around as they remove articles clothing. after a long night of stolen kisses, networking, and teasing they left the country club event early.

she puts some distance between them and backs up until she hits the desk. he moves like a lion stalking its prey, eyes trained on her, every step precise. he’s in front of her now, he grips the back of her neck and plants teasingly slow kisses from her neck to her shoulders.

he lifts her up onto the desk to get a better angle. she giggles at the action, “okay caveman.”

he lets out a him of agreement but doesn’t let up like adam after he tasted the forbidden fruit he wants more. she closes her eyes and grips his hair before pulling him away. he groans and pulls her against him. “tell me what to do.”

she smirks and slowly pushes him down to his knees.

he looks up at her as he kisses his way up each leg, moving the dress when it gets in his way.

he crumples up the dress, she frowns “hey this was thirty bucks.”

he rolls his eyes, “i’ll get you a new one. lord knows you need a better one.”

“excuse me!? i didn’t know this was dress to impress.”

he frowns, “i’m sorry.” he kisses her through her underwear, her breath hitches. “don’t be mad at me.” he gives a teasing lick, she groans and tightens her grip in his hair making him look up at her. “no teasing. be a good boy and show me you’re sorry.”

he smiles “yes ma’am.”

one time rafe comes to one of her races with a girl

the fucking audacity. they arrived just as the race was about to begin, he’s trying to throw her off her game and that’s one thing she won’t allow. she wins the race and makes a beeline to him and his girl. the way she kisses him is messy. teeth colliding, tongues clashing, spit down the chin, lip biting, and lots of moaning and groping. she's marking her territory.

she breaks the kiss and looks to their right where the girl once was. she looks at rafe, eyes wide with fake curiosity and innocence, "do you think it was something i said?"

he laughs and pulls her close, hands on her waist. he bends down and whispers against her hair, "feel better?"

she shakes her head, "not yet."

he knows it’s going to be a long night.

rafe and jj are jealous of the other “taking all her time away from them”

she thinks rafe’s jealousy is worse (and she's right he's a grown man jealous of a child)

“you gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“do i look like i’m joking?” he crosses his arms and flares like thats supposed to spook her

“you look like a dumbass and you sound like an idiot. you’re jealous of jj!? jj’s my brother you asshole!”

“he’s clingy and he knows when we’re together and that’s when he chooses to call!

“he needs me!”

“he’s needy!”

“he’s a kid!”

“please! he’s been around the fucking world and survived being shot at!”

“that’s not a normal thing to happen for a boy his age rafe! he needs a strong support system!”

“what about me? what about the help i need!?”

“do not start that with that bullshit! i am constantly helping you in on your side even when i probably shouldn’t be!”

jj is just as bad as rafe but he’s more pouty about it and she can’t stay mad at him for long when he looks so cute

he slashed rafe’s tires and was caught in the act by one other than biker!pogue. he’s thankful because if he was found by anyone else he’d be in jail or six feet under. though he would prefer death than the disappointed look being sent his way.

“please say something.”

“i’m shocked. i have no words. what were you thinking?”

“i was thinking ‘fuck rafe cameron’.”

“jj!”

“he’s been taking up all your time and he’s a dick.”

“jj, just cause i’m with rafe doesn’t mean i don’t love you. and i’m sorry, you’re right i have been neglecting you a bit.”

“i know i cause more problems than i’m worth but please, please don’t hate me.”

his pout tugs at her heartstrings, she melts.

“oh jayj.” she hugs him. “i could never hate you.” she rubs his hair while his face against her stomach. “i love you baby bird.”

he smirks against her stomach, “i love you too.”

rafe’s just standing there like 🧍🏼

they probably shouldn’t be together but being apart is worse

they cannot survive separation

she’s patching him up when he tells her about his journey and the pogues being alive

“jj’s alive.”

she stops sewing. “how do you know?”

he grimaces from the pain of the last sew and pull, “kiara was there. we escaped together and she fucking pushed me overboard and stole my boat to save her scooby doo gang.”

she smiles at this, “smart girl.”

he frowns, “whose side are you on?”

“stop frowning your face will get stuck like that.”

she’s kind of his conscious (it’s why he has her saved in his phone as ‘angel🥰’)

convinced him not to kill his dad

they’re on his bed watching reruns of the real housewives of atlanta when he brings up his predicament. he’s lying in her lap tracing her thigh as she runs her hands through his hair.

“there’s something i need to do… but i’m afraid it’ll hurt someone i love in the process.”

she pauses the episode as looks down at the man in her lap. “well i’d say do what’s best for your state of mind. if the thought of that person getting hurt isn’t enough to outweigh the risks. doesn’t make you a bad person. just consider how you’d sleep at night knowing you hurt them.”

he looks at her like she’s God™️

she’s beautiful. she’s beautiful and she doesn’t know that she just changed his life and saved his dad

the way she didn’t judge his question✅ she didn’t make him feel like a monster for not considering someone else’s as reason enough to care ✅ she ran her hands through his hair✅ his head was in her lap✅ she combined emotion and logic to give him an answer✅

he goes to her place immediately after dropping ward off at the runway

she’s in her jammies when she opens the door

rafe stands at the door looking like a pathetic wet dog. she’s smiling when she opens the door but it only takes one look at him for it to turn into a frown. rafe hates being the reason for it. “oh my god. come in, come in." she pulls him in and shuts the door behind her before immediately fussing over him, “you’re bleeding.”

“it’s not mine.”

she stares at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “my dad he- he got hurt.”

she nods. “is he gonna be okay?”

“i don’t know.”

she goes to the pogues’ ceremony after they find el dorado

rafe tags along because he can’t stand being away from her for more than an hour and cause he knows it’s important to her

“look at you! so handsome.” she pinches jj’s cheek and ruffles his hair.

he softly grabs her hand to stop the overload of affection though he secretly likes it. “come on you’re ruining my street cred and bad boy image.”

she laughs but nods, “of course wouldn’t want that.” she stares at him with adoration and fondness in her eyes. “i’m proud of you.”

he smiles, “thanks. actually couldn’t have done it without you.”

she scoffs, “please-”

“no really you- you’ve been my only family. i couldn’t have done this without you telling me that i am better than my dad and how smart i am and how i’m a good person, even if you’re wrong about that.”

“jayj…” she’s close to tears. he smiles “i love you.”

“i love you too.” they hug.

______________________________________________________________

i’ve been working on this for a minute i hope y’all liked it and if you did please comment like share yk i love feedback

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