CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR:
I'M ASKING NICELY, GIVE ME WHAT I WANT
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"Hey, Reid... How are things actually going with her?"
Spencer sighs, glancing over his shoulder to where Nina sits at his kitchen table, scowling at his chess board, playing against herself. The setting sun glimpses through his window and dances across the wooden pieces and her dark hair. She isn't listening, and no doubt would struggle to hear him when he stands in the doorway to his bedroom, but nonetheless he lowers his voice. "Okay, I guess. Do you think her statement will be of any use?"
"In court, sure," Garcia replies, chewing gum loudly. "But as for actually catching this guy and getting him into court, I'm not so sure. The team are listening to the audio files you sent over right now."
Spencer hums. She's right; in court, a witness testimony as thorough as Nina's could send Edelstein away for life plus thirty, but it's the getting him into cuffs that's the problem -- a problem that starts with actually finding the guy. "Any clue as to where Edelstein actually is?"
"The guy's good at disappearing, that's for certain. He's got a team of lawyer and security at his back, too. But you know me, Reid. Mama loves a challenge." Spencer grins half-heartedly and Garcia starts to click at her keyboard, speaking rapidly even as she does. "I'm tracking his debit cards, his credit cards, his mobile phone -- and the same goes for half his household staff."
"Anything yet?"
"Household staff are still sticking to their usual routine in the states. Any card use abroad hasn't pinged up."
"He told Nina he'd be out of the country."
"I'm sure he is, my sweet. It's only a matter of time before he slips up and something appears. Just playing the waiting game."
"Does he have any properties abroad?"
"One in the UK, but the authorities have been notified and found not a zip. He's not been there in months."
Sighing again, Spencer risks a glimpse over his shoulder at Nina. "I'll ask her where he could have headed, but I think she's just as in the dark as we are. Get back to me about what everyone thinks of the tapes, Garcia."
"You got it, boy wonder. But there's something you should know." Her voice drops. "Strauss wanted to pull your credentials yesterday."
The words make his heart stop. "My credentials," he repeats airily, as if that will make the idea more real, but he may as well be floating against his ceiling and watching himself talk into the phone. His brain has logged off, clocked out. Until: "Wait -- Only mine?"
"She approves of the investigation, that's not the problem. But she thinks you're too emotionally involved. Hotch stopped her -- but she -- she has a point, Reid. Even he's wondering about--"
"Let him wonder! Hotch knows I'll investigate this guy with or without his blessing."
"Which is exactly the problem. My sweet, I'm on your side, you know this. But you can't go above his head on this." He hears her swallow. "I just thought I should let you know. My love has a right be aware of what's going on."
And Spencer is grateful for her honesty -- truly, he is -- but any attempt to vocalise this dies before it can grow to words. Part of him wants to excuse his behaviour and explain why; but how can he explain that he and Nina are bound by something inexplicable that even he can't put into words? How can he explain that yes, he is emotionally involved, but they have to let him do this because -- Well. Just because.
When Garcia hangs up, Spencer hesitated before he turns around, closing his eyes and focusing on slowing his breathing. His heart is thumping in his throat, and he can feel Nina's eyes on him, burning two holes in his shoulder blades.
Then Nina Scott does the strangest thing. She asks him, "Hey, you okay?"
The words -- only three of them, such a simple question -- shocks him out of his moment of quiet and on instinct he turns to face her, forcing a smile when he does. "Yeah, sorry. Was just thinking."
Mouth pouted and brow furrowed, she seems sceptical, but she lets it go, turning back to her chess game. There aren't many pieces left; almost finished the game. He crosses, taking a seat opposite her by the black pieces, and he tsks as his eyes rake over the board.
Her eyes snap up to him at the noise. "What?"
"Nothing," he says, but tsks again to wind her up.
"What?"
"I mean, look how many pawns are left."
"So?"
"You've taken my knight, but I still outnumber your pieces two to one."
"Well, I have been playing against myself. Didn't think you'd be critiquing my technique."
Spencer grins, which earns him an eye roll -- but with a small smirk in return, to balance it out. His stomach suddenly swirls with heavy, nauseating guilt; this -- this bantering, this humour, this peace -- is what's risking him his job. But he doesn't stop himself (which makes the guilt even worse).
They move the pieces in comfortable silence for a while, and he takes a bishop, which makes her mutter bitterly under her breath for a moment -- but the game overall isn't hostile. They're more dancing around each other's pieces, and she's a good player, deflecting any advances he could make with a good defensive strategy.
It's a long while before she asks, "Are we done with the statement?" all without looking up from the board.
He checks the time on his watch, buckled over his cardigan. Four-thirty. "We can get some dinner. It's early, but I'm pretty hungry."
The prospect of food seems to tear her attention away from the final few moves of the game and she looks up, nodding almost eagerly.
They settle on a pizza each, delivered from a takeaway a few blocks away. She laughs when he grimaces at the fact she likes anchovies -- a small giggle, head tilted forward, smile hidden in her hair -- and his heart does a little swing. To distract himself, he dials the number for takeout as she sits on his kitchen counter, swinging her legs, watching him (because she always is) while she fiddles with his little bluetooth speaker.
"Can we play music?" she asks once he's ordered and hung up. "Is that allowed in Spencer's Private Prison?"
He hesitates before he says, trying to be nonchalant, "Sure. It gets radio too, if you wanna listen?" Standing beside her, her knees touching him, barely there but still making it difficult to concentrate, he clicks the button for FM and then twists the dial until it tunes in. He isn't aware that she's watching over his shoulder until he looks up and has the shock of her head being tilted close and eyes glimpsing up at his. His heart fumbles out of his chest.
"You have nice hands," she says, blankly and without concern for their closeness, before she takes the radio out of his loosening grip and turns it up.
Can't she hear my heartbeat? he thinks. Can't she see what she doing? But she clearly has no fucking idea.
Swallowing, he turns, eager to put his back to her so that she can't see his face and won't be able to read him in the way she always does; to distract himself he begins to tidy their unfinished chess game up, sliding pieces back into their original places on either side of the board. He's filled with a simultaneous desire for her to watch him and for her to look away, for her to see how he feels and for her to never understand him at all. The see-sawing is making him sick.
"Hey, what was that station you said you liked in the car?" she asks from behind him. "Y'know, the classical one?"
Clearing his throat, he takes the device form her, oddly aware of his hands and that, yes he supposes they're attractive, and finds the station for her, handing it back all without eye contact.
He has no idea where this sudden awkwardness or this abrupt desire has come from, only that it is there. Even if it's just him, it's still there. Maybe it's the domesticity of the moment, or the compliment, or the Are you okay?, but the eternal, indefinable something that has existed between him and Nina since that first day at the round table has suddenly become sharp and defined: it's longing.
Thankfully, the pizza arrives quickly, providing an easy distraction for his overthinking brain, and he drops onto the couch, kicking up his feet on the coffee table with the box in his lap. Nina curls her knees up on his armchair a few feet away, box in her arms, and starts to eat with a satisfied hum. The silence is easy, broken only by the music humming through the apartment; the world is small and comfortable for a moment, and it's like just the two of them exist and there is no investigation, no FBI, no past or future to worry about.
"Is that your mom?" Nina starts after a while, nodding at a framed photograph on his table.
He nods, glancing uneasily between the photograph and Nina. Touchy subject.
"The one who painted that thing for you?" she says.
"I only have one mom," he replies, "so yeah."
She rolls her eyes, dusting flour off her fingertips. "I want you to tell me about her."
"You want me to?"
"I just said that," she retorts, "so yeah."
He furrows his brow. "Why's that so important to you?"
"Because if I'm gonna work with you and tell you everything about myself, I need to know some things about you too." She shrugs. "Only fair."
"No, Nina, you dont need to know anything. You want to know about her, because you think it'll... connect us in some kind of...meaningful way."
Nina scoffs. "Oh, relax. In case you havent noticed, I don't have meaningful connections." She flips her pizza box closed, shovelling the last mouthful in by folding a slice in half. It makes him grimace; she pays him no notice. Chewing with one side of her mouth, she manages to add through food, "Besides, I can't judge your family situation, can I?"
Still, Spencer hesitates. It's not her judgement he's scared of; it's physically forcing the words out of his mouth. He simply can't do it. I mean, of course, he's not keen to let an international assassin know about his personal life -- but he's also not keen to let Derek know either. He just isn't that type of person: someone who can share details of his personal life like they're nothing.
"Okay, if you're not gonna tell me, you could at least dance with me, huh?" Nina asks, standing up. "It's music you like, too."
Relieved by the change of subject, Spencer half-smiles, pressing his lips together to hide it. But still she sees and her eyes glint playfully, trying to lighten the mood. "Dancing?" he repeats sceptically. Tilting his head forward, Spencer gives her a pointed look. "You want to dance?"
Mirroring his bowed head, she mocks his expression. "So that's a no?"
He rolls his eyes, but nonetheless moves aside his takeout box and stands. As if in surprise, like she thought he'd insist on saying no, Nina watches him rise, the white of her eyes large and a little glossy, her mischievous smile fading as she stares in something that resembles awe. He holds a hand out, and she takes it, standing too.
"Me and Elodie did dancing lessons when I was really little," she begins, as he tugs her gently so that she squeezes past his coffee table and onto his rug, where it's more open. "Does Dr Reid know how to waltz?"
"Only how to do it badly."
Her hand slides to his waist, around to his back, righting his posture and shifting him close. "Hips in line," she instructs, pulled herself close to his chest, and she takes one of his hands to lie it against her upper back. He can feel the bones of her shoulder-blades moving beneath. "It's really only two steps, alright? I'll lead, just for now, but really that should be your job."
Surprisingly, the close proximity while they dance doesn't bother him as much as it should do. He can smell the goddamn pizza on her breath because they're so close, but he's too busy concentrating on not tripping over his own feet to really care; even though she's guiding him in a simple box, it's like his legs have multiplied and he doesn't know where to put them all.
She smiles as soon as he does his first box-step without a flaw, finally looking up from their sliding feet to share the grin with him. "See. Easy."
Scoffing a laugh, Spencer squints. "I'm sure there's still room for improvement."
"Oh, yeah, definitely. You're terrible," she confirms, and he laughs. Actually laughs. Which feels wrong to do, but the sound comes out before his brain can suppress it. "But, hey, you're learning."
Abruptly, she gently slips the hand on his shoulder around to the back of his neck, taking a step closer; he doesn't resist, no, he welcomes this proximity, and drops the hand on his back to wind tighter, closer, around her waist. Their joined hands curl in, resting against his chest, fingers entwined.
No longer able to look at him, Nina smiles to herself with her eyes on some indistinct spot on the floor, before leaning her head forward until it touches his shoulder.
The intensity of the privacy between them is very severe, pressing in on him with an almost physical pressure on his body and face. You let this happen, he thinks to himself, blames himself -- but the intensity isn't actually unpleasant. As much as he tries to resist the feeling, he's wrapped in a dizzying lightness, his mind lost to a peaceful haze of tired happiness.
"The reason I asked about your mother," Nina says lowly, out of nowhere, "is because you've neglected to share even the tiniest ounce of your own personal history. Before today I didn't even know you ate food."
"Nina--"
She lifts her head, eyes flicking between his, digging in so that he can't look away. "I was just curious. I'm sorry. It's information you can't trust me with -- I know that."
An apology. It makes a lump form in his throat. His hand shifts anxiously across the small of her back, and he has to pull his stare away and focus on the floor -- but she takes his jaw in her hand, gentle but firm.
"Look at me," she says lowly. "I don't talk like this a lot, I know, but you have to listen. You can think I'm a liar, but you have to believe my apologies, at least."
He's shaking, which is something he realises only when he tries to speak and can only breathe a tremulous, "Nina..." Nina, Nina, Nina. Swallowing, he gathers his wits and forces words to come. "Nina, look. When it comes working to this case, the most important thing is our partnership. That we...trust each other."
She's beautiful, there in the dim lamplight. So beautiful. No, Nina has always been beautiful -- now, she is simply ethereal. He's close enough to see everything; long eyelashes and a few sprinklings of freckles, and the little veins tracing along her eyelids. How could a face like that -- a face of an angel -- be associated with so much pain? There's a sudden beauty and wonder about her now that, here in the warm light, the judgements of his team or the jail cell around his thoughts can't eliminate.
A dozen longings swell beneath his tongue as he stares, but all that he says is, "My mother is very sick." His eyes flick between hers; he doesn't look away -- not that she'd let him, her hand still against his cheek. "I don't like to talk about it, but it's been a constant in my life for a long time."
For a moment, she doesn't react -- but eventually she nods. Ponderously, thoughtfully, as she absorbs the information. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Spencer gets it, seeing as there isn't much that can be said about topics like that. Statements like I'm sorry are so unnatural and untrue, but still so common, that they annoy him, so he's glad that she says nothing of the sort.
Instead, her hand goes back to winding around the back of his neck, her forehead goes to his shoulder, and she shuffles him closer, into some sort of half-hug. And they go on dancing, a little too close than they should be.
authors note:
aaaaaa i have work in like an hour so here have this
mostly unedited
hope y'all liked this and hope ur all good!! has anyone had the vaccine?
y'know when u accidentally do something genius? yeah that's me with the chess talk. didn't realise it was a perfect metaphor until after i'd written it