"You sure you're ready?"
You roll your eyes, limping into Spencer's kitchen. "Spence, it's been a month. I think I can handle going back to FBI training."
Spencer's on your heels, following you. "You're limping."
You turn to him, raising your eyebrows. "I'm not going to resume combat training yet. I know better than that."
Spencer sighs, leaning against his counter. "I just worry about you, that's all."
His sentence rings true. The past month of recovery had been spent almost entirely in Spencer's apartment in his bed. He telecommute cases if the BAU went out of town in order to stay with you, wanting to make your recovery as easy as possible. You'd passed the time with your psychology homework, gearing closer to graduation every day.
Recovery had been painful—you tried not to take your pain medication because you didn't want to take the chance and tempt Spencer. He'd assured you he wouldn't take any of them—he wanted you to be able to recover with the least amount of pain possible. But after a month, you can walk without crutches or a cane—you did limp, though, just a little.
You walk over to him and he rests his hands on your sides. "I promise, I will be fine. I'll be in a building full of FBI agents. Plus, I'm going to graduate in a couple weeks, so get used to me being around."
His thumb rubs circles in your side. "I know." The gaze in his eyes softens. "You've been really strong. I'm proud of you."
You give him a small kiss. "I appreciate that." Pushing him off you, you pour yourself a cup of coffee in a to go mug before grabbing your purse. "Now I have to go, or I'm gonna be late."
"Please be safe," you hear him call as you walk out his door.
The ride to the FBI Academy is a short one, and you can't help but feel somewhat excited to be going back to training. In all honesty, all you want to do is graduate and get out in the field. Your slight brush with death has driven you further to want to catch bad people, a drive that seems to hum in your chest every moment you are awake.
That drive is a good feeling—but it isn't the only thing you've been feeling the past month. Something else is blooming in your mind, hiding in the dark corners, threatening to trickle out into your everyday life.
Darkness. Anger.
A part of your innocence had been lost when Lena kidnapped you—an innocence you know you can never get back. You're changed. Anger and hatred threatens to spill into your conversations, your mind, your actions. It's an anger you're trying so hard to fight—and you aren't sure if you're winning or losing.
Suppressing that feeling, you step out of your car and head into the FBI Academy building. Your training passes quickly for the day—interrogation with none other than David Rossi being your last class.
Rossi calls your name as you head out the door, and you turn around, side stepping the other students who are filing out of class.
"Yes, sir?"
"Please, just call me Rossi."
You inhale and nod, lips pursed. "What can I do for you?"
"I just wanted to check in and see how you're doing after your attack." He picks up his briefcase and walks over to you.
You smile at him, the smile not quite reaching your eyes. "I'm alright. Spencer has been taking care of me."
"I bet you were itching to come back to the Academy," Rossi jokes, his lips turning up in the corners.
You give a small laugh. "A little, yeah."
Rossi studies your face for a moment. "Are you sure you're okay?"
You meet his gaze, trying to make your words more convincing. "I'm coping."
"Well," he pushes past you to stand in the doorway, "if you ever need anyone to talk to, I'm here. So is the whole team. We've all been through a lot—please feel free to talk to us if you need to."
"Uh—thank you, Rossi."
He nods and walks through the door, leaving you alone in the classroom. You look around the room for a moment before exiting, making a beeline toward your car. Climbing inside, you grip the steering wheel, your mind flashing back to your abduction. Sometimes, it's like you feel like you're reliving it—you can feel the blood dripping down your face, Lena's hands on your shoulders, the gun pushed against your temple.
Fuck, you need to get drunk.
That's how you end up at a bar not far from FBI Headquarters—already tipsy off two shots of rum. Not drinking for a month really lowered your alcohol tolerance, and part of you is grateful for that. You take another shot, feeling the warmth rush through your body. Eventually, the warmth spreads through your fingertips and you grin to yourself. Numb. That's how you feel; how you want to feel.
After five shots, you feel more than content, letting the images from earlier today fade in your brain. You close your eyes, letting the fuzzy feeling take over, the warm glow from the light bulbs making the inside of your eyes a warm amber color.
"Well, hey there."
Opening your eyes, you turn your head to see who interrupted your content daydream. A young man stands next to you, a coy smile on his face. He's about 5'10", curly blonde hair and green eyes the color of moss. He leans against the bar, raising his eyebrows at you expectantly.
You give him your best fuck off face, hoping he gets the message as you turn away from him. Unfortunately for you, this asshole stays rooted in place, and you see his smile grow bigger from your peripheral.
"Feisty—I like it. I can respect hard to get."
You turn toward him. "I have a boyfriend."
"Oh?" He questions, looking around. "Where is he now?"
"Up your fucking ass," you mutter, placing your hands on the bar as you attempt to stand.
The man laughs and grabs your left bicep. "Why the hostility?"
"Don't fucking touch me."
He grips your arm tighter and your instincts take over. The anger inside of you swells in your chest, seeming to take over your actions. You grab his wrist with your right hand, freeing your bicep, hearing the audible crack of his nose as your elbow slams into it. The man stumbles back, hands covering his nose.
"I said don't fucking touch me!"
"What the fuc—"
You feel a hand wrap around your wrist and you tense, trying to pull yourself free yourself from the person's grip.
"Let go of—"
You turn and find yourself face to face with Emily Prentiss. She raises her eyebrows at you before her eyes flick over to the bleeding man.
"Come on." Her tone is final and you sigh, letting her pull your toward the front door of the bar.
You're drunker than you thought, giggling a little as you stumble out of the bar, Prentiss' grip still tight on your wrist. She releases you once you're outside, turning around to look at you with her arms crossed.
"What was that?" She asks.
You knit your brows. "The fuck do you mean? He touched me without my consent."
Her eyes search yours. "Making men bleed in bars doesn't seem very much like you."
You're silent, meeting her gaze unwaveringly. "Well, he deserved it."
"Did you drive yourself here?"
You nod, shifting your weight, crossing your arms. She sighs, pulling out her phone and pressing it to her ear. After a moment, she speaks.
"Can you come get your girlfriend, please?"
You can only imagine Spencer's frantic voice on the other end and you sigh. Great. You'd never hear the end of this from him. Prentiss gives him the name of the bar and hangs up, pushing her phone in her pocket.
She doesn't lecture you like you thought she would—just stands in silence next to you as you wait for Spencer to come pick you up. After approximately thirteen minutes, you see Spencer's car pull up in front of the two of you. You throw a cold glance at Emily before walking to Spencer's car, getting into the passenger's side. You buckle up, silent as Spencer begins to drive away.
"Is that blood?"
You look down at your left elbow, surprised to see blood on it—presumably from the man's nose. You nod, the height of your drunkenness fading into oblivion as Spencer drives home.
"Why do you have blood on you?"
"Someone tried to touch me," you mumble, looking straight out the windshield. Spencer doesn't answer and you look at him, seeing concern crossing his face. "I just elbowed him, Spence, I didn't kill him. Jeez."
He lets out a sigh, silent the rest of the way to his place. You get out as soon as he pulls into his parking spot, closing the door behind you. You limp up the stairs to his apartment, letting him catch up to you to unlock the door. You slip inside before him, going to the sink to wash your elbow off.
As you run the water to warm, Spencer leans against the counter next to you. "So...are you going to tell me what that was about?"
"What was what about?" You mutter, grabbing a paper towel and getting it wet.
Spencer huffs, obviously annoyed. "Why I get a call from my coworker asking me to come pick a drunken you up from a bar where you obviously assaulted someone."
You wipe the blood of your elbow, letting it run under the warm water. "He assaulted me, first. He should be glad it was just an elbow to the face."
You squeeze the paper towel and throw it away before turning the water off, brushing past Spencer to walk into his room. He follows, not speaking. You take off your shoes and socks, pulling your shirt over your head.
"You could've gotten hurt." Spencer finally speaks from the doorway.
"I didn't," you mutter, pulling on his Caltech sweater.
You push down your pants and pull on a pair of black joggers. You turn your head and see Spencer's eyes on your face, his head cocked.
"Are you okay?"
That is the second time you've been asked that question today, a feeling of annoyance flashing through you.
"I'm fine." You huff, crossing your arms. "I'm sick of people asking me that."
You begin to take strides across the room to the bathroom, but Spencer intercepts you, gripping your shoulders. You tense, remembering the feeling of Lena's hands right where Spencer's are and you move away from him, gasping.
Spencer's hands hover in the air, eyes searching yours. "You're not fine."
You stand in front of him, an annoyed sigh leaving you. "I don't know what you want me to say."
He takes a step toward you, not touching you. "I want you to tell me what's wrong with you. What you're feeling?"
"How am I supposed to tell you how I'm feeling when I don't even know how I'm feeling?!" Your voice is getting louder, the anger bubbling in your chest.
"I just want—"
"I'm angry! I'm angry. I'm so angry sometimes I feel like I could explode. I get so angry I feel like a completely different person, Spence. I'm angry and sad and..." Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. "I can't stop feeling it. Sometimes I feel like I'm still there, with Lena. It scares me. It makes me feel out of control. I'm not in control." A humorless smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. "Do you wanna know the weirdest thing? I don't feel back about making that guy bleed. Does that make me crazy? Am I evil?"
You don't realize you're practically shouting until you finish speaking. You avert your gaze, hysterical tears falling down your cheeks. Spencer takes your hands and he leads you to the end of his bed, gripping them tightly as you sit. You feel his finger under your chin and he pulls your face up so he can look into your eyes.
"What you're feeling right now," he starts, hazel eyes searching yours, "is called PTSS. Twenty percent of people who go through traumatic events develop it. You're feeling a heightened sense of emotion, anxiety, unwanted memories." His hand moves to the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I know because I had it. I had it after the incident with Tobias. I had it after Maeve. I understand." He wipes under your eyes. "You're not a bad person. You're not evil. You're not crazy."
You're silent, eyes locked with his. He gives a sad smile, tilting his head.
"That loss of control you're feeling? I understand it. I fight with it every day. It's so easy to give into it—to let yourself lose that control. It's much easier than fighting it. Every day, it gets easier, though."
You swallow, feeling the anger diminish in your chest. "Does it...does it ever get easier? The tragedy?"
Spencer bites the inside of his cheek. "The only thing that gets easier is the ability to ignore it."
You nod, practically chewing on your bottom lip. "I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for?"
"For trying to deal with this alone."
He leans in and kisses your forehead. "Don't apologize for that, please. No one can tell you how to deal with tragedy."
"No, I guess not." You lean your forehead against his. "It might help to talk to someone who understands, though."
"You can talk to me, anytime, love. I love you. I don't want you to shut me out."
You're quiet for a moment. "What if I feel the anger again?"
Spencer adjusts his position. "What's the opposite of anger?"
You think for a second. "Pleasure."
A small smile plays on Spencer's lips. "And what gives you pleasure?"
"You." Your answer is automatic, a blush spreading across your cheeks.
"Okay, so, anytime you feel angry, think of me. Think of everything I make you feel. Block out the anger with something that gives you pleasure."
You tilt your head. "What did I do to deserve someone like you?"
Spencer grins, leaning in to kiss you, the kiss deep. Pulling away, he exhales slowly. "I'm the lucky one."
You give a happy sigh, lying back on the bed. "I love you."
"I love you." He looks down at you. "Now go fucking sober up and study so you can graduate in a couple weeks."
You groan, closing your eyes. "Goddamn it, why'd I have to date my professor?"
Ironically, dating said professor is one of the greatest joys in your life—the whole reason you have a job at the BAU. And you're giddy at the thought of being this close to working with him.
All of the pieces are falling into place—and you really hope nothing comes along to fuck it up.
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Author's Note
An update! Yay! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter.
The fact that this fic has 13k reads is absolutely crazy to me. Thank y'all so much for your support and comments, they're amazing to read. I'm lucky to have y'all :)
Lowkey thinking of starting a second Spencer fic, either focusing on season 1 or 2 Reid or season 12-13 read. Not sure yet, just thinking about it!
Anyways, hope you guys liked this chapter!!