You hadn't been at work in three days, and Spencer was freaking out.
The first day you were gone hadn't been cause for concern. Hotch had begun the briefing meeting that day by telling the team that you had taken a personal day. When Morgan made a quip about how "Miss Perfect Attendance" had "finally missed a day of school," Hotch had shot him a disapproving glare.
"We'll catch her up to speed tomorrow," he'd said.
And that was that--on to the case. No further explanation.
There had been a series of murdered bodega owners in DC, but even as Garcia began delineating the details of the case, Spencer still couldn't keep his mind focused on anything but you. Truthfully, he'd had trouble keeping his head straight ever since your outburst in his apartment. Spencer prided himself on his intellect, on his ability to talk his way out of any situation, and on his seamless psychoanalytic skills.
But he could not for the life of him figure out what the hell was eating away at you. And that, in turn, ate away at him, in part due to his slightly damaged pride, but mostly due to the fact that he couldn't stand to see you upset. Obviously, the arson case had struck something sensitive, but he didn't know enough about you or your background to even begin piecing together what it was and why. And if he wasn't smart enough to figure that out, if he wasn't smart enough to help the people he cared about, then what was the point of being a genius?
And then, to top it all off, he'd kicked you out when you were in a vulnerable state. It hadn't been for nothing (you had crossed a line you shouldn't have, and he felt entitled to be upset by your words), but he had gotten so caught up in his own hurt feelings that he hadn't realized the implications of his actions until after he'd closed the door.
And when he saw you the next day, he hadn't really known what to say. That was a first for him. He'd wanted to address it after the last case, but you were gone before he could get a moment alone with you, whisked away from him by "Special Agent Christopher Preston."
Spencer was immediately off put by the ViCAP agent. He wasn't so dense that he didn't know how his own jealousy biased his opinion of someone who was likely a fine person (and he was self-aware enough to recognize that his ill-feelings stemmed from jealousy). What he couldn't understand, though, was why he felt that cancerous seed growing in his gut when he saw you two interacting.
Spencer had decided that ruminating over it was pointless, mainly because he didn't enjoy the knowledge that he was not, in fact, your closest friend like he'd been led to think--that there was someone who was above him in your hierarchy of interpersonal relations. But then he thought about the probability of Preston knowing more about you than he did, of having that privilege of being closer to you than anyone else, which also meant that Preston likely knew why you were so distraught over that case.
And Spencer really didn't like that.
He had resolved after the first day that, the following day when you returned, he would talk to you about that night in his apartment.
But then you didn't show up again.
When he arrived at the police precinct the following morning and noted your absence, he'd asked Hotch where you were. All he received as an answer was a monotonous "she's out."
She's out.
There was no way you were just "out." You hadn't missed a day of work for the entirety of the two years he'd known you, and he could only recall a single instance of you being late due to being rear-ended by a high school student while you were driving to work. Something had to have been wrong with you.
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."
Spencer could tell you wanted to keep fighting. Everyone on the team noticed how you got around the holiday season--how you created work for yourself if there was none, how you stayed after hours filing reports and picking up tasks from other divisions, how you tended to isolate yourself from the team more so than usual. The fact that you were unable to bury yourself in work for these few days was clearly more distressing to you than whatever you had come down with.
He suspected that Hotch realized this as well, and that was the reason he was so adamant about you resting.
From inside the bodega, Derek called Spencer and Hotch's names. With one last glance at you, Hotch said, "Go home, Y/N," before turning on his heel and walking back onto the crime scene.
That just left you and Spencer.
You pressed your lips together. "Hey, Reid."
"Hey. Are you alright?"
You tried to laugh, but the tail end turned into a cough. "I've been better."
A silence settled between you. Awkward, stilted conversation, just like it had been since that night in his apartment. He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by Morgan calling his name again.
He looked back at Derek, holding up one finger and receiving an eye-roll in response, before turning back to you. "I, uh--"
"Yeah, yeah, go solve the case. I'll see you later, then," you cut him off. With a nod of your head, you began walking away towards your car parked down the street. He couldn't help but note the bitterness of your tone.
It took everything in him to stop himself from running after you just to ask if he could talk to you later. He really didn't care about what you'd said to him anymore; he just wanted to make sure you were okay.
But he tore his gaze from your retreating figure and forced himself to walk back into the bodega. He just had to focus on the case for now. When it was over, then he could let himself resume his ruminating.
Fortunately for Spencer, they ended up solving the case that night. The bodega owner had been bludgeoned to death from inside the store, his time of death being estimated at around 7am that morning, which, according to his wife, was when he opened the shop. There were no signs of forced entry, so when asked if anyone besides the owner had keys to the bodega, the wife mentioned a painter from a month ago.
"We couldn't be in there while he was painting, so we gave him a copy. He gave it back to us afterwards, though," she had explained through her tears.
When they looked back at photos from the previous crime scenes (all with the same MO), they noticed newly painted walls in each of them. With that, it was only a matter of hours before they tracked down their unsub.
Spencer was packing his things up by his desk, readying to go home for the evening and continuing to find his thoughts drifting to you. He wondered what you were doing, if you were taking care of yourself, if you felt any better from that morning. By the way you looked, Spencer would assume the answer to both inquiries was no.
He found himself striding down the hallway to Garcia's office, where he knocked on the door and received a boisterous, "ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE SHALL PERISH!"
Spencer took that as an invitation to enter.
"Hey, Garcia, I know you're on your way out, but could you search something for me really quick?" he asked. His hands folded around the strap of his messenger bag, heat rising to his cheeks. This was normal, wasn't it? He wasn't being creepy.
"You've come to the right place, my brilliant baby Einstein. What do you need?" She wheeled her chair back to her main monitor as she spoke.
He cleared his throat. "I, uh, I just need you to look up Y/N's address for me."
Garcia froze, slowly turning in her chair to face him again. "Whyyyyy?" she drew out.
"She's sick. I wanted to drop the case files from today so she'd be up to date with everything." It was a half-truth. Yes, he had an extra case folder tucked in his bag for you, but he needed to make sure for himself that you were doing alright. He recognized the clear invasion of privacy, especially given that you seemed adamant to never let anyone come over, but he was doing you a favor; you wouldn't get mad at him, right?
Garcia blew out a breath and turned back to her screens. "Alrighty, then. I'll just pull up her file and read off--" She cut herself off, leaning forward and squinting at her screen as if she were double checking something. "Oh, that's weird."
"What?"
"No, sorry, nothing. I have her current address here, but... just... there's, like, nothing else in here."
That gave Spencer pause. "What do you mean?"
Garcia began typing as she answered, "Usually, there's a lot more information: your test scores from the academy, educational background, all former places of residence, and every background check imaginable, just to name a couple. I mean, seriously, none of you have any secrets. But all she has in here is... just stuff from after she joined the FB--oh. Oh my god."
"What?" Spencer's patience was running thin. He wasn't here to snoop (even if he found himself interested in your minimalist file, too); he was here just to get your address.
She looked back at Spencer, then back at her screen, typed a few more things, and then finally craned her neck around to face him. "She has a sealed file. Why is there a sealed file? Oh my god. What if it's bad? Do I open it? No, it's sealed for a reason. I can't... but--"
"Garcia, address. Please." He'd had enough of your mystery to last him a lifetime. If he had to also think about the implications of you not only having nothing in your regular file, but also having a sealed file on top of that, he would get a migraine. That was an issue for another time.
"Right. Right. Sorry. I will just do the responsible thing and not unseal the file."
Spencer decided to ignore the obvious lie. He wrote down the address she rattled off to him on a post-it note before folding it neatly into his pocket. You lived about a fifteen minute ride on the metro away from him in an extremely nice part of the area.
On his way there, he stopped by the Korean restaurant you two had gone to all those weeks ago and ordered the spiciest kimchi jjigae on the menu. He didn't know much about your personal life, but he did know that you enjoyed this dish. Spencer thought it was fitting; jjigae was a hearty stew of various meats and both fresh and pickled vegetables. And the spice would help clear your stuffy nose.
It was only when he arrived at your apartment building that he paused. What if you did get angry at him for prying?
He shook his head. He was just here to deliver the case files and some food to you. That was it. That was what any good friend would do for another.
So he marched into the lobby of your apartment building, his stride only faltering for half a second as he took in the sprawling marble floor, and the pillars that were clearly for decoration only. (No structurally sound building would have support beams in those places.) He shouldn't have been as caught off-guard as he was; your zip code was in a notoriously wealthier part of the area, but even if you made a solid living working for the FBI, this seemed out of the price range for the average agent.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Then he noted the sign by the elevators: Guests must check in with the doorman on duty.
His converse squeaked against the polished floor as he headed towards the doorman's desk.
The doorman, who had previously been sorting through mail and inserting them into the mailboxes behind him, turned to face Spencer. "Hi, how can I help you?"
"Hi--" Spencer glanced down at his nametag "--Thomas. I'm here for Y/N Y/L/N. Apartment 15F." At least, according to the address in your file, you lived in 15F. He wasn't quite sure what to believe about you.
A smile graced Thomas's face. "Ah, she's just the sweetest, isn't she?"
What?
Not to say that you weren't a pleasant person to be around; Spencer would argue that you were wonderful company, regardless of whether or not you were sleeping together. He had better conversations with you than... well, anyone. Not to mention that you were also brilliant, in and out of the field, and were perhaps one of the funniest people he'd met. You were great; he just wouldn't have used the word "sweet" as an adjective to describe you.
Before Spencer could question that statement, Thomas continued, "What's your name, son?"
"Uh, Reid. Spencer Reid."
Thomas typed a few things into the desktop in front of him. After a few moments had passed, he sucked in a breath. "No, sorry, you're not on the list."
"I'm... sorry--the what?"
"Some of the folks who live here have an approved guest list of people allowed up. It's mostly 'cause they're too busy for us to call up to them every time there's a guest asking around for them. She's only got three names on hers. Spencer Reid isn't one of them. Sorry, son."
"I--okay." This was... not ideal for him. He just added that to his own list of things he didn't understand about you and cast aside his curiosity about which three people were on your "approved guest list."
Spencer gave himself exactly two seconds to change his mind and consider the ethics of his actions before digging into his bag and pulling out his badge to show Thomas. "I'm actually Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. I'm here to deliver confidential files to Supervisory Special Agent Y/N Y/L/N, so it is actually extremely imperative that you let me up."
Thomas remained silent as he stared at Spencer. Then he let out a heavy sigh, like he was annoyed by Spencer's presence. "Fine. Let me call up and ask."
Not the reaction he anticipated, but one he would take nonetheless.
Spencer waited as Thomas dialed a number into the desk telephone. His breath hitched in his throat when he heard your muffled "Hi, Thomas." from over the phone.
"Hi, Y/N. I'm so sorry to call, but there's an Agent Spencer Reid here for you. Says he's got 'confidential files' to deliver. Normally, I'd send him away, but--"
"No worries. You can send him up. Thank you so much, Thomas."
"Will do. Have a lovely evening." Thomas hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. "You're good to go. She's in apartment 15F, like you said."
Spencer nodded his thanks before striding to the elevators. It was a short trip up, and when he arrived at your front door, he found himself smoothing his hair out of his face and trying to unruffle his clothes.
Then he rang the doorbell and waited.
***
You were nestled in bed, just starting to feel the effects of the probably dangerous combination of Benadryl and NyQuil you'd taken, when your landline phone rang. Hearing that Spencer was in your lobby was one of the last things that you anticipated, especially given the fact that he'd both never been here and also wouldn't know your address unless someone looked it up for him. Your bet was on Garcia.
If it were anyone else, you would have told Thomas to kick them out, but with guilt still gnawing at your chest, you didn't have it in you to turn him away. So, now, you were answering the door while semi-high off of the sedative effect of cold medicine. You usually abhorred sleep aids or sedatives; you'd found that the deeper your sleep, the more likely you were to be dragged into an all-too-realistic nightmare, but you were exhausted. And if you wanted to get back to work as soon as you could, you realized that you'd need to have a decent night's sleep to even try to feel better.
You had to unlock all three of the locks on your door and slide the top chain out of place before opening it, squinting through the harsh hallway lights as they contrasted with the dark apartment behind you. "Hey."
Spencer scanned your figure, as if looking for something wrong. At any other point, you might have been self-conscious of your attire--an old purple NYU crewneck and a pair of black sweatpants--but between your ailment and the fact that the only person seeing you like this had also seen you naked, you couldn't have cared less.
When his eyes settled onto yours again, he said nothing, instead opting to silently dive into his bag and procure a file. "It's the case file for the bodega murders," he blurted out.
You blinked, slowly looking down at the folder in his outstretched hand and then back up at him. Your world was blurring at the edges as your eyelids began growing heavier. "You... came here just for that?"
Spencer raised his other hand to draw your attention to the brown paper bag. "I also brought you kimchi jjigae. You know, in addition to being delicious, it's widely heralded in Korea for its restorative properties and ability to alleviate symptoms of the common cold given the excess of ginger and spicy kimchi utilized in the recipe. I wasn't quite sure what you were sick with, but just based on the symptoms you displayed this morning, this seemed like the best option," he rambled.
A blush was spreading across his cheeks, and you couldn't help but soften at the sight of him. Here he was, standing in front of your door, being more than nice to you even after what you'd said to him, embarrassed. And you probably weren't helping; you didn't look the most inviting, with your body propped in between the doorframe and the door, blocking any line of vision into your abode.
Preston was the only one who'd ever been here. He was the only one you ever let get this close. Maybe it was the relaxing effect from the sedatives or the fact that he'd come this far out just to check up on you, but you couldn't just take what he'd brought for you and send him packing.
So you sighed through your nose, your body nestling into the oversized clothes you wore, and you opened your door wider. "I'm going to pass out in about fifteen minutes, but do you want to come in?"
His eyes widened. "Y/N, if you're experiencing fainting spells, you need to go to the hospital. Your brain isn't getting enough oxy--"
"No, I just took--" Your eyelids drooped for a moment, and you shook your head, taking a deep breath "--a lot of cold medicine." You held the door open for him, waiting for him to cross over the threshold. "Are you coming in, or what?"
He pressed his lips together in a tight smile before finally entering your apartment. Even through the fog growing across your mind, you could pick up on him analyzing every detail of your home. His eyes lingered on the dining table (still piled high with food that you hadn't gotten around to packing up) and then the kitchen, and then scanned across the walls as if instinctually looking for personal embellishments. It felt like he was searching for something, as if he'd find an answer hidden away in your tiny corner of the world.
You doubted he would.
Then his gaze settled on you again, dipping down to the NYU logo on your crewneck with a slight notch between his brows, and then back up to your face. "You went to NYU?" he asked.
"Nope."
He opened his mouth, that notch growing deeper, and then decided against pursuing that avenue of conversation. Instead, he nodded his head in the direction of your living room, or more specifically, at the Steinway and Sons upright piano sitting between the two windows on the far wall. "But you play the piano?"
You suddenly wished you lived in an apartment with a less open floor plan, or at least one that didn't showcase most of the apartment from the entryway.
So you sighed, "When I was a kid, yeah." And before he could question you any further about your decor or life, you waved your hand in the direction of the kitchen. "Thank you for the jjigae. You can just put it on the counter." You watched as he did as told, and when your world blurred again, you blinked hard to keep your vision straight.
When he walked back over, after spending several moments turning around in your kitchen to scan the entire area, he looked you over again. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
Quite frankly--like your muscles were melting into your bones. Everything felt heavy, like the air itself was pushing you into the ground, and you hadn't a care in the world aside from getting under your covers and letting yourself sink into your mattress. You opened your mouth to say as much, but all that came out was a wheezy laugh.
"Uh, what did you take and how much?"
"Just, like... I think... one too many Benadryls."
He started. "Wait, how many is 'one too many'? You know that diphenhydramine is a main ingredient in Benadryl and that it can be highly addictive, right?"
"I was just... trying to make myself... fall asleep." Words were becoming difficult, especially when your mind was split between keeping yourself standing and articulating semi-coherent thoughts. You laughed again, "I was not expecting company."
Spencer blew out a breath. "Okay," he said, pointing down the hallway to where your bedroom door was open. "Why don't you get into bed, and I can..." He trailed off and stole a glance to the clutter of pizza boxes and take-out containers and bags. "I can help you clean up a little before I go."
You wanted to protest. The last thing you wanted was being a burden to the people in your life. But your tongue felt heavy, and when Spencer's hand cupped your shoulder, turning you around and gently nudging you down the hall, you couldn't help but lean into his touch as you went. You hadn't realized how much you missed his presence until the urge to wrap your arms around him almost took over your body. But instead, when the two of you crossed the threshold into your bedroom, and your feet shuffled into the plush carpeting on the floor, you just sighed, flopping onto your bed and slowly maneuvering yourself under the covers.
Spencer gingerly sat on the edge of your bed. "Can I get you anything before you go to sleep?" he asked softly.
As you peered up at Spencer, who gazed down at you with no resentment nor harbored anger, you felt something long abandoned in your chest suddenly come back to life. Fear, loneliness, and anger stopped plaguing you for a moment, and in its wake, an ancient warmth began to radiate through your body. And this is, you realized, is what Spencer Reid did; he brightened even the darkest moments simply by being himself--by caring so deeply for every person in his life, even those who did not deserve it.
Spencer was a lone candle trying to illuminate the tenebrific room of your life, and you had tried to snuff it out for fear of what the light would reveal to you. And that made you worse than whatever monsters lived in that darkness.
It made you want to cry.
Instead, you shook your head. Spencer gave you a slight smile and nodded, standing up to leave. You weren't sure what took hold of you, but before he could get too far, you reached out and tugged on his hand.
He jumped as if your touch shocked him.
"Reid," you breathed, your hand falling back onto the covers. "I--thank you. For bringing the case and the food and for... checking on me."
Another soft smile. "Of course."
"And," you continued before he could leave, "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry for what I said to you. It... I..." Your mind was working at barely an eighth of its usual speed, but even if you were at full capability, you were certain that you would struggle to find the words nonetheless. You groaned, frustrated at your lack of ability to articulate yourself, and perhaps it was because of the medication lowering your guard or the leftover emotional exhaustion from your trip home, but you were surprised to find your eyelashes damp from tears welling in your eyes. You blinked them back. "I'm just sorry, Reid," you whispered.
Spencer sat back down on the edge of your bed, cupping the side of your face with his hand. "It's okay," he murmured.
"No, it's no--"
He cut you off. "Let's talk about it when you're feeling better." His tone left little room for negotiation--not that you were in a position to argue anything.
So you sighed, settling back against the headboard of your bed, nodding. "Okay," you said quietly. "But really--thank you. You're a good friend, Spencer."
He breathed a laugh through his nose, looking down at his lap, and then at your nightstand, where the upturned book caught his eye. "What are you reading?" he asked. He didn't wait for you to respond and instead plucked it up from the stand. "The Complete Works of Emily Elizabeth Dickinson. I can't say I'm surprised." Then he turned the book over in his hands and flipped to the page to which you'd had the book opened and read, "Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed."
At the sound of his voice, reading to you from one of your most prized possessions, you couldn't help the gentle smile that graced your face. You weren't sure why you said what you did next; were you in the right headspace, you wouldn't even think to bring it up, but the words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them: "That's my mom's favorite poem."
"Really?" he asked, looking back up at you.
You sunk further down into your bed until your head was nestled in your pillows again. With every passing thought, with every passing moment, your body grew heavier and heavier. Your eyelids fluttered as you continued, "Yeah. That was her book. She used to read it to me before bed."
His eyebrows raised in appreciation, and the smile on his face grew a little wider. He looked back down at the pages. "And what, uh, what's your favorite poem?"
You blew out a heavy breath, puffing your cheeks out. It was growing more difficult to keep your eyes open, so you closed them when you answered, a slight smile still tugging at the corners of your lips. "Wild Nights - Wild Nights!"
You anticipated the fact that he would laugh, no doubt familiar with the poem himself. "Really?" he asked, still chuckling, "Why?"
You shrugged as best you could from your position. "Because it means so much more than what everyone thinks does," you said. Your voice suddenly sounded far away, like an echo calling to you from the back of a cave. Still, you tried to continue, even as that echo began descending into a whisper. "It's... it's not about sex at all. Dickinson was a recluse, so... it's about longing for paradise, for security, for love... it's about finding joy... it's..." As you trailed off, your words slurring into each other, you felt Spencer's hand smoothing hair from your face, even as you drifted further and further from your body.
And then he began to speak. "Wild nights, wild nights," he read softly, "were I with thee, wild nights should be our luxury..."
And when you opened your eyes again, your senses weren't assaulted by the smell of smoke, nor did you feel the sticky weight of blood covering your skin. Instead, you felt a gentle ocean breeze kissing your face, the rocking waves beneath your feet, and the smooth wood of a boat against your legs as you sat.
Off in the distance, there was an island, so you took the oars on either side of the boat and began to row with the hope that one day, your feet would touch that sandy shore once again.