Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

4. Night's Possibility!

"I couldn't protect her. I wanted to show those bastards that they couldn't have protected her, either," Connolly had said at his final stand off, "that they'd never be able to protect her!"

At that point, he was headed towards the home of his largest tormentor--a typical jock type with a rap sheet for public indecency and buying liquor with a fake ID--with a homemade sawed-off and his father's revolver strapped to his belt. He wasn't planning on coming back out of the house. You'd found a file on his computer detailing his plans; he was going to take the entire family out with him.

Spencer had tried talking him down, positive he could get Connolly to come quietly. But the empathetic "I know how it feels" speech he typically gave to these kinds of unsubs backfired on him, and when Connolly's face twisted with rage and anguish and he raised the sawed-off to take the shot at Reid, Hotch had to open fire.

Connolly was dead before he even hit the ground.

It was only around 7pm when you touched back down in Quantico, and you had headed back up to your desk to file away the report you'd written in your cabinet. You'd submit it to Hotch tomorrow. For now, you just wanted to curl up on your couch with a bottle of shitty sparkling rosé and take out. As you walked back into the lobby, scrolling through restaurant options on your phone, you looked up to find Spencer waiting by the door.

He looked hollow, under eye circles back in full force, and though he always had bad posture, he was hunched over more than usual as he leaned against the wall.

When he heard the click of your shoes against the marble floor, his eyes flitted to you. He gave you a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hey," you greeted as you approached.

"Hi. Did you want to grab dinner? There's something I want to talk about with you."

You blinked. The way he was looking at you... well, you knew the look in his eyes as well as you knew your own face. It was the look of someone tormented by his own thoughts, of someone who wanted something to keep the demons at bay.

And you had an idea of what he wanted to talk to you about, too.

"Sure. I was planning on ordering in, but I know of a pretty good Korean restaurant nearby. They have great kimchi jjigae."

His face lifted a bit, and you couldn't help but smile at knowing you were the cause. He opened the door for you as you walked by. You waved for him to follow, saying, "I have my car. I'll drive."

The ten minute drive was silent aside from the quiet hum of Taylor Swift drifting through the speakers. If he had an opinion on your music choice, he didn't say anything. You knew he mostly listened to instrumental music from the baroque, classical, and romantic eras. Maybe when you dropped him off at his apartment, you would change the playlist. You'd grown up playing the piano; you knew your way around your composers well enough.

He finally spoke when you'd gotten to the restaurant--a small family run place--and placed an order for two bowls of kimchi jjigae: "You know there's actually no recorded recipes of kimchi jjigae before the late 20th century? Many speculate that Korean housewives began putting it into stews when napa cabbage prices went down, allowing more families to make kimchi at home."

"Mmm, that's true, but many also believe that kimchi jjigae came around when chili peppers were introduced to the Korean peninsula. But it's all just speculation and family stories passed down and shared." At his raised brows, you continued with a laugh, "C'mon, Reid. Give me some credit. I know my stuff on exactly two things: food and western literature."

"But nothing on profiling or psychology?"

"Oh, definitely not. I've never even heard of those things."