The Chariot (Spencer x Reader)

TWELVE

"Yes, actually," his eyes flashed up to look at mine briefly as he set up the pieces on the board. I wonder if he knows that I don't even know the names of the pieces, let alone where they go on the checkered board.

"Hmm. Maybe you are as smart as you claim to be." I giggled and took a bite of the sandwich I packed.

We spent the next 30 minutes laughing so hard our stomachs hurt. It had been so long since I had been this happy, even if it was going to end the second I went back to my desk after lunch. I think that just made me appreciate it more.

Occasionally, I noticed Prentiss, JJ, and Garcia look in our direction. They had to have been talking about us. I decided to shut those thoughts out, not wanting to ruin these sunny, carefree moments Spencer and I had together.

I barely worked at all that afternoon. I felt like a stupid teenager with a crush, unable to think about anything other than Spencer. I just sat at my desk, head resting in my palm, watching him work across the room. I didn't even try to hide the dopey look on my face as I did it. I watched his slender fingers grip the pen he used to write, his eyebrows furrow in thought, his tongue peek out of his mouth ever so slightly to lick his lips every couple of minutes.

At one point, our eyes met before I had a chance to look away and pretend to be working. He caught me. He raised his eyebrows and glanced down at the piles of files in front of me and back up as if to say, "get back to work."

I crossed my arms and frowned, silently responding "I don't wanna."

"Too bad." He resumed his attention on his own mountain of paperwork.

We both stayed at our desks until everyone else (except Hotch – I don't think anyone could out-stay him) had left for the night. I gave Spencer a nod to signal I was leaving, then picked up my purse and waited by the elevators. We stepped in and I pressed the button for the parking garage.

"Do you wanna come back to my place?" I asked as my heart beat out of my chest. Never would I have thought I'd be willingly inviting a coworker to my apartment.

Without hesitating, he responded "yes."

----

I leaned my back against my locked front door while I watched Spencer walk around my apartment, analyzing everything I owned. He saw all of this last night, but he was too occupied with my breakdown to get a closer look.

He wandered along the bookcases before stopping and removing my collection of poems by Emily Dickinson. Of course that was what he chose. I had sticky notes sticking out of the pages marking the poems I liked the most.

He randomly chose a tab and opened it.

"Let me not mar that perfect dream

By an auroral stain,

But so adjust my daily night

That it will come again.

You know, I haven't read much Dickinson, but I like that."

"Yeah, her poems are very real. She writes about life and love and death with such truth that no matter if the poem is 'happy' or 'sad,' it always comforts me in a weird way. For example, that poem is about how the only place our lives can be truly perfect is when we're asleep. Obviously, it doesn't sound too enticing to have to suffer through the imperfect waking hours of every day, but it's comforting to know that we may be suffering for a reason: so we can reach perfection, if only for a night. It's just hopeful." I'm surprised he didn't cut off my ramblings.