12.2
( doubt. )
☆ ★ ☆
iris
"You and Agent Morgan watched Declan Doyle for two months."
"Yes, sir," Iris says, her hands crossed neatly in front of her as she stares straight at Mr Cramer, the Chairman, sat at the centre of the row of occupied seats. She's in a courtroom, the wide room completely cold because it's so empty, but the seat is warm beneath her — apart from Spencer, she's the last in her team to take this seat. "We knew that Doyle would be looking for his son, so we observed the child in order to protect Declan, and locate Doyle."
Senator Cramer only frowns, then examines the file on his grand wooden desk, before he looks up again. Even across the wide, ostentatiously designed room, she can see his eyes are narrowed. "Round-the-clock surveillance requires constant presence," he states.
"When we weren't in the field, one of us was watching him," Iris says evenly, voice cool.
"And when you were on a case?"
"Agent Morgan had cameras for surveillance, sir."
Senator Cramer leans forward. "Under what authority, Agent?" he demands, voice abruptly turning cold. "A personal vendetta doesn't allow you to go rogue." The final words is spoken mockingly.
"Senator, this was not about a personal vendetta," Iris says, having to make an actual effort to keep her cold voice even. "We needed to protect this child. Doyle is an international criminal and terrorist, so forgive us for wanting to keep his son out of harms way."
She only realises how terrible of a choice it was to say that, once she's heard the words in her own voice. To the tape, and the row of Chairmen, it'll definitely sound like she's losing her temper. Okay, whoa, chill, she tells herself.
"We had to find him — Doyle — eventually, and his son was our best way to do that," she finishes. "But our number one priority was keeping him safe."
"And what was the plan once you found Doyle?"
"Lock down security on his son," Iris answers, "and then move in on Doyle."
☆ ★ ☆
Somewhat struggling to walk in her tight pencil skirt and matching high-heels, all black, Garcia is hurrying down the hallway toward them the moment Iris is entering work with Morgan the Monday after her birthday weekend. Thirty — it's big deal.
"It's him! its him!" she cries frantically, making them both look up. Seeing her urgency, Iris' face drops and she hurries over to meet her halfway down the hall. "I'm pretty sure its him!" She's breathing heavily. "I've caught his face on surveillance footage and he's not exactly smiling for the camera — "
"Who?" Iris demands, grabbing Garcia's shoulders
"Doyle!" she cries urgently.
Iris glances, wide-eyed, at Derek, and then quickly turns back to Garcia. "Show us, Garcia," she orders, already placing her hands on the woman's arms, bustling her back in the direction she came, "quickly."
"I'll call Hotch," Morgan says, already pulling his phone out.
Iris almost tells him that they could just go see him now, but then she remembers: Hotch is on temporary leave on some secretive mission in the desert. She's not quite sure what it is, but he's been away for awhile — and it's definitely been a lot to get used to. She's not used to working without Hotch around (and even though she complained about his militaristic attitudes while she worked with him, she kind of misses him).
"Good luck," Iris says grimly, pulling a face over her shoulder as she leads Garcia in the direction of the bullpen. "Try to break the news gently."
She knows he's gonna be more than a little pissed when he finds out about their secretive work.
☆ ★ ☆
"And that's when Agent Morgan made the order to move in on Doyle?" Chairman Cramer asks,
"It was a group decision, sir," Iris clarifies. "And it was the right thing to do. We had approval from Hotch — sorry, our Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner." Nicknames aren't meant for places like this, as she's been forgetting.
"However, you, Agent Remington, aren't supposed to be moving in on anyone," he says, briefly glancing down at what is, undoubtedly, the contract Iris sighed when she first lost her leg but decided to keep working for the BAU.
Exasperated, and knowing she's going to be in trouble for this, she says, "Yes, that is true, but this case was an exception — "
"No case is an exception," Cramer says sharply, jabbing his finger at her.
Iris leans forward. "Of course it was," she hisses. "Not only had one of my fellow agents had been targeted and killed by this man, but he was an international criminal. I am perfectly capable of running and fighting on my leg, despite that contract you're looking at, and my superior officers needed as many people working on moving in on Doyle as possible. I was there, so I went."
Cramer lifts a hand in a conciliatory gesture, briefly closing his eyes as he orders, a little exasperated, "Calm down, Miss Remington."
"This is calm, and you can call me agent," she says. "And if you seriously believe one contract I signed years ago is more important than arresting an international criminal, then not only do you and I seriously differ morally, but maybe you shouldn't be in the position you are, considering you're supposed to be serving your country, and all."
☆ ★ ☆
"You got any movement?" Iris speaks into mic connected to her earpiece, running along her jaw (she feels like a real badass with that thing).
"Negative," says the sniper positioned above their van, on the roof opposite Doyle's apartment block. "No movement."
Iris glances down to the laptop screens positioned opposite the bench on which she, Morgan and JJ sit, which confirms just that. The footage of his windows, his balcony, and doorway, all show no signs of anyone being in the building.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she pulls it out, placing it by her ear when she sees it's Spencer. "Hey, Spence."
"We can't find him," Spencer says. Great greeting.
"Wha — what do you mean?" she stutters, Morgan and JJ turning with identical frowns, each of them wondering what's wrong. She lifts a hand, telling them to shut up silently so that she can hear Spencer.
"The headmaster said Declan got sick and was taken home by his guardian. Louisa," he says.
She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I — just — okay." Swallowing, she struggle to think, the nervous adrenaline rushing through her veins making it more than a little difficult to concentrate and think rationally; she's so desperate to just get inside and get to Doyle, that she's struggling to sit still. "Call for back up and then get to his house."
"We're already here. I'll call you back," he says. "Love you."
Her heart gives an instant jump, but it takes her a second for her brain to catch up and for her to realise what he's just said. And Spencer clearly doesn't even blink, because a second later the phone's beeping due to him hanging up.
"What? Spence!" she cries, but, of course, he's already gone.
Sighing, and with an achingly happy, pounding heart, she pulls her phone away from her ear and stares at the picture of him that she has saved for his contact, as it fades away.
"What was that about?" Morgan asks with a deep frown.
A dozen emotions tug and twist at her gut, raging a war over which will champion, which will take the reigns: confusion, and anxiety, and excitement, all to get inside to get to Doyle, and beneath all that she feels... Disgustingly happy, because of what he's just said. But, to Morgan and JJ, she only says, "Nothing."
She's still smiling a little, though. Even when she tries not to.
Her heart feels no doubt about saying it back. Because it's true; she loves him. She loves him, she loves him, she loves him. The sudden rush of wanting to have said it back makes her head spin; she even wonders how exactly the words would sound as she said them. I love you.
And it isn't platonic, in any way, because if it isn't blindingly obvious I fancy you and want to rip your clothes off. Unfortunately, that is a one-way thing, and I'd probably get arrested for assault.
As she jams her phone into her back pocket, two cop cars whirl past, chasing a blue sports car that's obviously been speeding. Flashing blue and red, sirens wailing, Iris watches through the window in the front of their van as they spin around the corner just in front of them.
When she looks back at the screen, her heart stops dead in her chest, and her eyes burst wide open: a head is poking out of the beige curtain hanging at the window.
Who knew they just had to get his attention?
Instantly, they're yanking the door of the van to the side and it slides out of their way with a loud grating noise. Iris shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be exercising so strenuously on her leg, but like fuck is she gonna miss this, so she's with the other two like a loyal dog when they leap out on by one, sprinting for the door of the apartment block across the street.
Morgan reaches it first, plowing the door down; dust explodes from the blow, billowing up into a dark hallway that reeks of dirt and, faintly, weed. The door bangs loudly as they announce the lobby as clear and start up the stairs.
The halls are empty. They have no problems as they being the three floors between them and Doyle down to zero, and it seems both like an eternity and a mere moment before Morgan's kicking down the door to Doyle's apartment.
Straight ahead of her: an unmade, creaky bed, basic furniture, a grimy bathroom and an even dirtier kitchen. Spence would hate to be in here. Then again, so does she. To be here, in the living place of the vilest human being she's ever encountered, is beyond chilling. She wants to tear the place to shreds.
"Clear," she shouts to the others, and then, like a cue, she swings around with her gun raised and her eyes land on the closed door leading to his closet.
She hesitates. Hesitates. A stupid decision, really.
With one flick of her finger, the torch attached to her gun bursts into life, a white circle shining across the wooden door. It shrinks as she goes closer.
Another moment of frankly stupid hesitation, and then her clammy hands grip the handle and she yanks the door open, flinging it so hard that it bangs violently and bounces off the opposite wall. She has to catch it with her foot.
But there's nothing inside. Just a few coats on hangers and shoes on the floor, but hardly any other clothes. It looks like there's hardly been any clothes hanging there in a long time. No sign of anyone ever truly living here.
She swings her torch up, eyes widening as she sees the ceiling.
There's a square-shaped hole there — a panel shoved out of the way so it can be crawled through, leading into the vents.
There's no hesitating now. "I got it," Iris volunteers, entering the closet as she places her torch between her teeth and jams her gun back into its home in her holster.
"Iris," Morgan starts, lifting a hand as if to stop her, but hesitating before he actually touches her.
"He's unarmed," Iris says, already jumping and grabbing onto the edge of the panel. With a grunt, she pulls herself up a little, manages to get her foot on the bar on which his clothes hang, and worms her way into the vent. "Watch the halls. Watch the roof. There's nowhere he can go."
She'll make sure of it. He's not getting out of this.
The air is hot up there. She gives Morgan and JJ, both of whom look worryingly worried, a final glance, takes a gulp of fresh air, and then begins crawling.
She's the smallest in her team, but (and she only remembers this just as she turns to start crawling) has suffered from claustrophobia for practically her whole life, so crawling in this tiny little airspace is undeniably terrifying. She hates lifts, getting shut in closets, going under her bed... So this can only be described as absolute hell. Her vest doesn't make anything any better, and neither do the various corners she has to work around. How the hell Doyle managed this, she doesn't know.
Fucking hell, shitting hell, she thinks as she crawls. I'm gonna die in here. I'm gonna suffocate. I'm gonna fucking die. Kill me, kill me, kill me. Anything to get her out of her hellish, nightmarish situation.
She's surrounded by an inky blackness in here, and the only slight bit of light comes her torch, bouncing off every surface around her, but it's only a minuscule amount, tinged with blue from the metal that surrounds her.
But — like when your senses become more sensitive when you lose one — that only makes it all the more easier to follow the creaking and cranking noises from up ahead, that give away Doyle's positions.
Her breathing's becoming laboured, but she tries her best to hold it in, tries to keep it even through her nose. Any panting will echo — she can hear that from Doyle up ahead — and she doesn't need him knowing where she is, or how close she is, for fear that her assumption about him being unarmed is wrong.
Up ahead, there's a distant rattle and clash of metal, and then light floods the tunnels: the white glow of moonlight bounces along the metal, around a corner or two, until it reaches her.
Knees beginning to hurt, she picks up speed, heart also speeding up as it pounds in her throat, turning a corner —
Face turned toward her, it's him. Doyle. The face she's seen in nightmares, in mugshots, in surveillance footage and on case-boards. He looks a little roughed up, with a moustache and a small beard, and his clothes are shabby; his body is shiny with sweat, much like hers probably is, from crawling around like children in these damn vents.
But he's smiling as he climbs out of the end of the vent.
It's seconds later when Iris is following him, feet hitting solid ground, face greeting deliciously fresh air and moonlight.
She doesn't dwell on that for too long; Doyle's already running. He's moving fast now, hauling ass straight across the roof, toward the edge (and she wonders where the hell he's expecting to go), but Iris is fast, too — really fast. So she takes off after him, torch beam zig-zagging.
Up ahead, Doyle reaches the end of the roof — but he doesn't stop. He just launches himself straight off the edge.
He hits the other roof on his feet, sliding onto his back and rolling.
Iris slows with the intention of stopping — of actually stopping! Is she serious? Is she really thinking about letting him get away? Short legs or not, missing left calf or not, she's hurdling that gap and arresting his ass.
She can do it. She knows she can.
Adrenaline powers through her.
She can do it. She knows she can.
She steadies her breathing, faces the edge, and charges. The world blurs together into one smudge of darkness and movement, and then she reaches the ledge, launching herself up onto the stone and then kicking off, left leg, bad leg, robot leg, propelling her forward.
Arms wind-milling through cold air, a chilling scream bursting straight out of her upon instinct, she soars through nothing over the gap. Time seems to slow. She's not going make it, she knows she's not going to make it. She's free falling.
God, Morgan's gonna kill her if she dies.
But then she hits the concrete on the adjacent roof. Her bones jolt together as her legs give out on her and she hits the concrete, rolling one, two, three times until she can steady herself. Until she can hear her own breathing. Until she realises she made it, she's alive, her 'bad-leg' got her here.
Fuck yes.
There's a voice in her ear, in her microphone. Her ears are ringing, blood rushing through her head, so it takes her a second to focus and realise it's JJ. "Spence just called," she says, panting. "The kid's gone – Doyle has him."
As she stands, Iris is reaching for her gun, about to say, "Okay, got it," when a huge body weight — ninety-six kilograms of fingernail and punch — slams on top of her.
She gives a futile yell as her knees drop to the floor, jarring the bones in her legs together, as all air is robbed from her lungs; the weight pushes down, slamming her straight onto her stomach, and a few sharp knees and elbows dig into Iris' legs and ribs as Doyle battles for balance above her body. Her chin hits the concrete hard enough to knock her teeth together around her tongue. Blood gushes into her mouth.
The gun in her hand slips out of her grip, skittering across the cracked concrete, away from her. Her torch rolls to a stop a few feet away.
"Iris!" Morgan's voice bellows from somewhere distant, somewhere she can't see.
Her ears ring momentarily as she's yanked around onto her back, making her world rocked. Then, a second alter, she's staring up at a grinning Ian Doyle as he rears back his fist.
She can't get her hands free, can't block his blow — they're stuck between his legs as he straddles her. The jolt of his knuckles against her jaw makes white hot pain sear through her skull and tears sting her eyes. Hatred burns like liquid gold in her chest.
"For a bitch with one leg," Ian Doyle laughs, teeth crooked and yellow, grin wild and eyes vicious, his breath stinking," you run pretty fast." She doesn't know how the fuck he knows she's an amputee, but that's not important. What's important, is that he knows.
What's important, is that her hands are trapped, but her legs aren't.
"Yeah," chuckles Iris, the sound cold and menacing, as she spits blood from her mouth. "I kick pretty hard, too."
She swings up her left leg, slamming her knee into his crotch. He jerks upward, loosening the hold of his legs around her hips, and she pulls her hand free.
Doyle's already swinging at her again, but where he's big and strong, she's small and quick. She blocks a second blow to her face with the fleshy part of her forearm, swinging both arms out to stop the curled fist from smacking her full force in the face.
Iris struggles for a solid grip on somewhere on Doyle's violently thrashing body, desperate to throw the man off her. Doyle wrestles to wrap stubby, dirty fingers with chipped and bitten nails around Iris' neck. He squeezes, tight, his palm crushing Iris' windpipe.
"Shit!" she gasps, wasting oxygen but not caring. "Let go of me!"
Finally, conscious thought gets the better of Iris' rushing adrenaline. Not caring to aim, barely looking to know where Doyle's face is, only needing instinct to tell her to swing, she's lashed out without thinking, her limbs moving without permission from her brain, as if separate from her body entirely, guided by painful, sweaty, bloody years of training. She snatches her torch and swings, smashing it into the side of his skull as hard as she can.
Doyle's grip loosened and Iris seizes his chance — a leap of faith. She doesn't even have to think before she throws Doyle off her and manages to pull herself onto her hands and knees, twisting and diving for the gun with shaking, hungry hands. In a moment, she's snatched the weapon again and is spinning, swinging up her gun with her right hand. A swift, trained and retrained motion.
But Doyle's on his feet faster than she is. But he's not coming toward her. He's running.
"I've got the shot, Agent!" the sniper shouts in her ear.
She's on her feet in seconds, taking off after him even though her mind is spinning from exhaustion.
In the corner of her eye, she can see Morgan taking the jump across the gap between the two buildings.
"Don't take the shot!" she yells, remembering what JJ said. "Don't shoot!"
Doyle reaches the ladder at the edge of the roof, but Morgan reaches him first, skidding to a stop a few feet to the left and shining his torch on him. Doyle goes still, only one foot on the ledge, ready to hop over.
Iris reaches them a second later, panting raggedly as she pulls to a halt. Everything is still. Silent except for the hiss of their breathing.
"Turn around," Iris hisses. "Turn the fuck around."
Slowly, raising his hands in surrender, Doyle turns, facing away from Iris and toward Morgan. "Want to kill me yourself, Agent?"
☆ ★ ☆
"Forgotten where I've been, Agent?" Doyle quips in Morgan's direction, who stands across the table with his hands on his hips, but it's Iris who's standing behind him to violently yank his hands and cuff him to the chair.
"Doyle, where's Declan?" is all Morgan says.
As Iris lets go and rounds the table to stand by Morgan, Doyle drawls, "Don't play dumb. You found him a month before I did." His voice is even and he sounds uncharacteristically calm. Tauntingly, he smiles and mocks. "He's living in the lovely little house our friend set up for him." Our friend. Emily. "I should have found him soon her. I finally remembered she likes cull-de-sacs."
"Liked," Iris says sharply, and he finally looks at her. "Thanks to you."
His eyes are dark, both with anger and with the bruise that's swelling and spreading across his temple. It gives her immense pleasure to see her mark on his vile face.
She's in pain too — the initial throbbing in her jaw from his punch has moved up into her skull, specifically the place behind her left ear, and now she's earned herself a horrible headache — but she can tell he's in a worse state than she is; a solid lump of metal and plastic smashing into your forehead, hurts more than a fist to the jaw. Besides, she's experienced plenty of punches in her lifetime, so it's not much of a problem to her.
Morgan takes a step closer, hands still on his hips. "Where's Declan right now?" he demands, speaking clearly and loudly. "You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with his abduction?"
Iris sees his neck pulse — his carotid is throbbing with the speed of his quickening heartbeat. That's a trick no one can pull intentionally. "And you expect me to believe this isn't part of the strategy?" he asks. "You tell me my son's missing, but I know he was safe a few hours ago. You're very creative."
Iris squints, looking at his neck again, and noting the thin sheen of sweat upon his forehead. He's being genuine.
He really has no idea where his son is.
She turns, unlocking the door to their holding cell and walking out, but she doesn't make it very far down the hallway; she's only just shut the door and turned when she's come face to face (well, face to chest) with Rossi, bumping into him clumsily. His large hands splay across her shoulders and steady her with a small smile.
She's just glad it's not Spencer, because that conversation is destined to be awkward.
Her heart picks up speed as she says, before he can mention anything about what Spencer said earlier, "He's telling the truth. He isn't behind this."
Rossi swallows as he thinks. "Well, someone he knows is," he says. "We need a list of everyone who wants to hurt him."
"That's gonna be a long list," Iris jokes. She looks past his shoulder, finding JJ accompanying Strauss down the corridor, heading toward them but not looking their way. JJ looks uncomfortable, awkward. "Oh no," she mutters, and Rossi turns just in time to see them turn the corner and disappear from sight.
"We're in big trouble now," he mumbles.
Iris sighs. "I knew this would happen — I warned Morgan months ago," she says.
"At least we got him in custody, though, right?" Rossi asks, looking back at her. "She can't be angry with us for taking an international criminal into Federal Custody."
Iris only shrugs, before asking, "What did you and Spencer find at the house?"
"Well, it was organised and efficient, but there were hints of something more personal; they shoved the bodies of the caregivers in the closet," he says with a grimace, but that soon breaks into a small smile. "Hotch is back in town — he's in the conference room now, I think."
Iris' mood instantly brightens and she instantly forgets about the stiffness of her jaw and the faint pounding in her head. "Really? I'm gonna go say hi."
Rossi lets her go, watching her go down the corridor, so she has to only walk at first, but the moment she turns the corner she starts running, eager to see Hotch again. When she arrives in the conference room, he stands in a casual blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, facing away from her and eyes on the caseboard.
"Hotch!" she calls, coming to a stop in the doorway. She feels eyes on her and looks across to the round table, her eyes widening and heart throbbing when she sees Spencer. He looks down the instant she looks at him.
Hotch has turned, now looking at her with a small smile. "Remy." His jaw is lined with dark hair, which is surprising to see, and when Iris' eyes widen his smile does too. "Jack isn't a fan either," he says, tone fond.
"Oh, no, no," she rushes out. "It suits you. And have you lost weight?" Did she just say that? What is she thinking? "Sorry, this isn't professional, it's just — " She sighs, taking a second to calm her breathing, and then smiles politely. "It's really good to have you back, sir. In case you can't tell."
"Thank you," he says. "I heard you got into an altercation with Doyle."
"Yeah," Spencer speaks up for the first time. His nose is buried in a file and he doesn't look up as he slides something across the table, leaving a smear of moisture on the black surface. "I got you an ice pack."
Even though she's hesitant to speak to Spencer because she's so damn awkward, she's much more eager for the pain to be diminished, so she hungrily grabs it, placing it along her jaw so it covers her bruise and her sore ear, before looking back at Hotch. "Trust me. He's in a worse state than I am. The dick."
Hotch gives her a look for swearing, but let's her get away with it, considering the circumstance.
"She jumped a roof, too," Garcia adds, entering behind her. "I have the security footage if either of you want to see. Totally badass."
Iris grins. It was pretty badass.
"Welcome back, sir!" Garcia greets cheerfully, addressing Hotch this time.
"Thank you," he says. "What have you got?"
She brushes past Iris to hand Hotch a sheet of paper which Iris struggles to get a good look at, but can just about see a few lines of black ink. "Top ten list of Doyle's enemies."
"Anybody recently in the states?"
"Richard Gerace has been here a few weeks," she says. "He's a low level gun-runner who angrily crossed paths with Doyle. I caught an image of him on a surveillance camera outside of Declan's house — confirmed it was him through a scar on his neck."
"Alright, get me everything you can on him."
"Yeah," Garcia drawls out awkwardly. "... everything I told you is all I've got."
Wordlessly, Hotch leaves.
Iris blinks, stunned by his sudden departure, and looks at Garcia. "He's not angry, is he?"
"Dramatic effect, I guess," she suggests. She glances at Spencer, still silent and reading, and then back to Iris. "Alright, I have hours of security footage of Doyle's apartment to comb through, so I'll leave you two lovebirds to it. Call me if you need anything." She pats her pocket as she backs to the door, winks at Iris, and then spins to leave. Her heels are heard clicking away down the corridor in an upbeat skip (they're all in relatively high moods ever since they found Doyle).
Iris swallows nervously, adjusting the ice pack with a crunch along her jaw. It's so cold, her face is going numb.
"You, err," Spencer begins, standing and edging around the table toward her, files held to his chest like school-books, "you really hurdled a roof?"
She nods, eyes on her hands as she changes the shape of the ice and adjusts the pack, making it realise satisfying crunching sounds in her hands. "Yeah."
"It's a miracle you're alive," he says. She sees his feet come into her line of sight; he's standing right in front of her. "And you didn't break your legs."
"I guess it is," she says.
He turns, placing the files down on the table behind him. "You're taking a lot of risks lately."
A small smile escapes as her eyes flick upward, only to his chest though, not ready to look into his eyes just yet. "I guess I am." Wonder why that is, she thinks sarcastically. It totally wouldn't have anything to do with the fact she wants to quit.
She hears him swallow, before he bends his legs, sitting on the edge of the round table. They're eye-level now and Iris is reminded of their startlingly large height difference whenever he's standing. "I don't... Iris, I don't think you realise how scary that is," he confesses. "When I heard JJ say, 'oh, Christ, Remy just hurdled a roof' -- I fucking--" He inhales sharply, cutting himself off. For some reason, the strangest part of that sentence is Spencer saying 'Remy'. He has only ever, and does only ever, call her Iris.
"You're not mad at me, are you? Because I was just doing what I had to bring Doyle in, so...?" she wonders, but her words are already fading after the first sentence when Spencer shakes his head, eyes closed, as if exasperated. Like she isn't getting it. Whatever 'it' is, she doesn't know.
"No, I just... It's more about... About, erm," he begins, "about what I said earlier — "
"— at Declan's house?"
He laughs nervously. "That would be it. It is the sort of feeling that makes it hard to hear about your best friend jumping off a roof." He swallows again, laugh diminishing. "When I said it, I didn't... I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Things have been weird with us lately and — "
"You didn't," Iris dares to say. Her heart's pounding. And she really wants to hug him. She really, really wants to hug him. The sudden rush of just wanting to be closer, to hold him, is practically dizzying. "You didn't... make me uncomfortable."
"I — wha — oh, well, that's good." He exhales in relief. "'Cause I, erm, meant — what I — said." His voice is choppy, broken up with awkwardness and anxiety. When he finishes, his voice tapers off along the final syllable — a rather unceremonious ending to a declaration of love.
"Good," Iris breathes. "Because it's not, you know," eyes wide and honest and terrified, she finally looks up as she places the ice-pack back against her jaw, "a one-way thing. I... I love you, too."
It sounds different to how she imagined. The words have always seemed like such a big, monumental thing, but here it doesn't. It's just her and Spencer in the conference room, the air cool from the AC, and the only noise is the occasional brush of the cotton of Spencer's shirt when he fidgets and the crunch of the ice-pack in her hand.
"Oh," Spencer breathes. His relief is obvious in his voice and the warm sigh that brushes her face. "Oh, that's... Good."
"Yeah..."
He nods ponderously to himself, folding his lips inward. "You mean a lot to me. As a person. That exists."
Iris gives him a relieved, nervous smile as she leans forward so that she can place the ice-pack on the table beside him, her face coming closer until it's only a phone book away from his. He watches her move, eyes flicking and following every detail, head tilting to follow her movements as she leans past him. Being this close, so close she can smell his cologne, is terrifying, but she still manages to say, "It's platonic though, of course," with an awkward laugh.
"Oh, yeah, totally. Platonic," Spencer echoes seriously, brow furrowing, as he places a hand on the side of her neck, pulling her toward him as he leans into her, and then his mouth is on hers, forceful and sure of himself.
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well that was a long ass chapter
me writing this chapter pretending i'm not way too emotionally invested in my own fanfic
also me if yall don't appreciate this or hype it up cause honestly im so scared about this chapter and it's been what i've been building to for like six months ?? maybe more idk ?? and i'm freaking out about if not being good enough (more coming soon though, maybe double update if im tempted)
and yes im looking for attention but idc i need to be validated through online attention