Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

11. Would the Eden be an Eden?

He was going to press Hotch about it, but he'd gotten swept up in the case immediately, running around DC as per Hotch's instructions with no time to try and figure out what had happened to you.

Now, it was the third morning with no sign of you, and Spencer was ready to jump out of his skin with anxiety. It didn't matter that he was standing in the middle of a crime scene; he couldn't think about anything but you, even as Derek and JJ began profiling the scene.

Then he heard JJ repeating his name.

He snapped back to reality. "Sorry, what?"

"Uh," JJ began, breathing a laugh as she cocked her head to the side, "is everything alright, Spence?"

"Yes, why wouldn't it be?"

She paused, her mouth half open. "You, uh, you just look a little distracted. That's all."

He offered her a tight-lipped smile and nothing more. JJ looked like she might press for more information, but then looked past him, beyond his shoulder. Her brows furrowed. "Y/N's back," she said.

Spencer couldn't have turned around faster if he tried. JJ was right; there you were, deep in conversation with Hotch, as if you'd never been gone at all. But then he looked closer and noticed your slumped shoulders, squinted eyes behind thick sunglasses, and the arms that you hugged close to your body, as if you were trying (and failing) to stay warm. It wasn't terribly cold out, and you looked like you were dressed in layers, more so than the rest of the team at least.

Then it dawned on Spencer that you might be sick.

But you never got sick.

JJ said something about going to speak to the newly widowed wife of the latest victim, but he hardly registered her words as his legs began moving towards you of their own accord. As soon as he was within ear shot, both you and Hotch quieted your voices and turned towards him.

"Reid, is everything alright?" Hotch asked.

He ignored him, and to you, said, "You're back."

Upclose, he could see cracked dry lips and pink irritated skin around your nose. He was sure that if you took your sunglasses off, he would find your eyes to be unfocused and decorated with dark circles.

But even with the sunglasses on, he also saw the way you avoided his gaze, how instead of looking at him, you turned your eyes down to the ground before focusing back on Hotch.

"I want to work the case," you insisted.

And your voice--raw and quiet and thick with phlegm. Ordinarily, Spencer would have taken a step back at the sound of it; the last thing he wanted was to catch whatever you had, but he found himself having to restrain himself from getting closer to you, instead. He wanted to wrap his arms around you and hold you close, keeping you warm and protected, or tend to your every need until you felt better. He didn't know how to alleviate whatever emotional turmoil you had been experiencing, but he sure as hell knew every method, across every major culture, to mitigate the symptoms of any common virus. And he could rank them from most to least effective based on his own medicinal knowledge.

Then he paused.

There was a dead body lying thirty feet away from him, and all he was thinking about was how to nurse you back to health rather than catching the literal serial killer roaming DC.

What the hell?

He was jolted back to reality by Hotch's voice: "And I'm telling you to go home. You're useless like this." At your pained expression, he added in a softer tone, "I need everyone completely focused on the case," and shot a pointed glance at Reid. "I don't want you back until you're feeling completely better. Go home. Take the rest of the week if you need it."