Chapter Text
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” – Plato
It takes twenty-three days, sixteen hours for the cold hard fact that Spencer shot and killed a man to hit him.
Of course, it happens at one of the most inopportune times: on the way back from a relatively simple kidnapping case. They located the missing boy ten hours after he was abducted; the boy was physically unharmed, the psychological damage wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and the UnSub (the boy’s biological father) taken into custody without incident.
Simple.
Routine, if they have such things in the BAU.
A win, which always feels good.
But on the flight back to Quantico during those precious post-case hours usually spent sleeping, Spencer’s psyche decides it is time to deal with the whole Phillip Dowd thing.
He barely gets to the toilet before vomiting and he makes sure he closes his eyes as he’s doing it. The last things he needs to be stuck in his brain are the details of the inside of the jet’s toilet bowl. The smell is bad enough. At least he manages to get the door closed and, hopefully, he doesn’t wake anyone in his effort.
Spencer does not want Morgan handing him an air sickness bag and cracking some joke. The whole whistle thing still stings (irrationally, he knows, but still…), although Morgan now treats him with a bit more respect.
Because you put a bullet in Dowd’s head, his brain reminds him and that triggers another heave. He then closes his eyes and counts to twenty. Afterward, he knows his stomach is settled (for now). Spencer closes the lid and flushes. He washes his hands, rinses his mouth (not caring that the water is technically not potable; it’s not like he’s drinking it), and wipes his face. He looks like shit; the dark circles beneath his eyes are more pronounced than ever. Spencer still tastes the metallic tang of bile and he wishes he had mouthwash or something to get rid of it. Of all the things he carries in his messenger bag, Listerine isn’t one of them. He won’t make that mistake again.
Spencer takes another three deep breaths before he opens the door and nearly stumbles into Elle. She steps back quickly, but then holds out her hand. The small tube of toothpaste and a mini bottle of mouthwash gleam in the galley’s low nights. Elle gives them to him, murmuring “They’re all crashed out” as she nods to the others before sauntering back to her seat.
Which, of course, is the one closest to the lavatory.
He doesn’t get a chance to say thank you before she curls up, head turned away. Spencer goes back inside and uses his finger to scrub the gritty toothpaste on his teeth, tongue and gums. He’s grateful for her thoughtfulness and knows that she won’t rat him out to Morgan or the rest of the team.
When he finishes, he exits the restroom and stops by her. Spencer holds out the toothpaste and what's left of the mouthwash but she waves him away.
“Keep 'em,” she tells him quietly and then pulls the blanket up over her shoulder.
He desperately wants to thank her, but his vocal cords lock up as he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Gideon is stirring and the last thing that Spencer wants his mentor to see is any sign that he can’t do the job. Instead, he stares at Elle for a few moments, watching her lips curve into that small smile as she nods. Wordless, which is a new thing for him, and Spencer goes back to his seat and settles down for the rest the flight. He doesn’t think about Phillip Dowd or his own petulant remark about looking like a teacher’s assistant without his gun.
No. He thinks of Elle and her silent kindness. Spencer vows to be there for her if she ever needs him.
It’s unlikely, because it’s Elle, but he makes the vow to himself nonetheless.
It’s almost one in the morning, it’s freezing, and of course, the heater doesn’t quite work in the sedan. This isn’t the first time Elle’s returning late to the hotel after a grueling evening with victims’ families in a city/town/state she can’t remember because it’s so damn late and, in the dark, everything tends to look the same. It isn’t the first time that late night construction has closed roads, leading to a traffic jam and detours that add an hour and a half to the trip. It’s also not the first time she’s been on the road with Reid, either.
It is the first time he’s been so damn quiet. Except for giving directions around the construction—without any discourse about traffic patterns, the history of the public highway system, or whatever odd bits of useless trivia he always has on hand—Spencer stares out his window. He occasionally cranes his neck forward and presses his nose against the front windshield as he looks up at the sky.
The radio is off because they can’t get a clear FM signal that isn’t Country music and there’s no way in hell she’s going to put on an AM talk station. Reid is the only person she knows who carries books on tape with him and she’s surprised he hasn’t tried to put one in. Hell, she’s surprised the car even has a cassette deck.
She’s not sure why, but the silence totally pisses her off.
“Will you just say something?” Elle demands as she grips the wheel tighter. She glances over, expecting to see Reid flustered and his mouth opening and shutting like guppy. That’s what he does when he’s yelled at: turns into a startled nine-year-old. Okay, a normal nine-year-old, not one with an eidetic memory and an off-the-charts IQ.
However, in the pale green glow from the dash, Spencer looks calm, contemplative, and even a bit concerned. It makes her do a double-take. His voice is inquisitive yet soft as he asks, “What do you want to talk about?”
And shit, it's like she's back in some counselor's office; apparently a ten-year-old girl wanting to grow up to be a police officer is wrong, despite the fact that her father was one. Her mother’s voice is shrill and clear in her mind: Ninguna hija mía… Elle reigns in her temper; there’s no way in hell that Reid would know that he sounds like a therapist.
Or maybe he does.
It’s hard to tell just what Reid knows.
Despite growing up in Vegas where betting on sports teams is legal, he’s clueless about professional football yet…on that train in Texas and facing down a delusional psychotic with two guns, Reid knew exactly how to talk to Bryar. Exactly how to address the empty space next to Bryar, to refer to it as Leo, and to treat it like it was physically there. Going so far as to address the hallucination directly and, of all the damn things, carry on a conversation with both Bryar and Leo.
Impressive yet wholly unsettling.
Reid knew and he was on the train for less than thirty minutes. Elle was there for hours, and she had no clue about Leo until Reid brought it up. Thinking back, Elle comes to another stunning conclusion: Bryar’s doctor didn’t know about Leo either.
Proof that it’s stupidly late and she’s exhausted, Elle blurts, “That woman writes a book on the guy, but misses that he has an imaginary friend!” Once the words leave her mouth, she realizes that she’s expecting Reid to know what she’s talking about with only generic hints. She starts to clarify by saying, “I mean.…”
“Bryar isn’t Deaton’s only patient,” Reid interrupts smoothly, not quite in lecture mode but close enough. “While she has an office at that facility, it’s not her main one so she’s not there to monitor him constantly. He could have easily kept Leo hidden from her.”
She’s getting used to his perceptiveness when it comes to talking about cases. Throw a pop culture reference at him, and Reid may not get it. Mention anything about any serial killer, and he knows. It’s because of that, Elle goes on, “And no one else at the institution saw Bryar talking to himself?”
He snorts and shakes his head. “They probably did but thought nothing of it. It’s a pretty common delusion. At that particular facility, the ratio is one staff for every four patients, which is higher than average. However, the staff can be anyone from a volunteer to an orderly to a social worker to an intern.”
“You’re saying they’re not qualified?”
“No, I’m saying that it would be relatively easy for a paranoid psychotic to keep his imaginary friend a secret,” Reid retorts, but it’s not as friendly as she’s expecting.
There’s an edge to it, a tone which she can’t remember ever hearing from him. There’s something personal about it, just like there was more to the whole ‘knowing what it’s like’ conversation he had with Bryar. Elle can’t resist asking, “And you know all this because you bought into his fantasy?”
She glances over, again expecting to see a shocked expression on his face, disbelief that she’d bring that conversation back up again. Instead, she’s treated to a completely unreadable mask.
His tone is flat as he says, “Yes and no. I did buy into Bryar’s fantasy. I also had Garcia pull information on the facility before I boarded the train.” He pauses and then his voice takes on a curious edge. “I guess you can compare it to how you knew that our two victims were high-functioning alcoholics. How their older children knew, but the younger ones and the women’s closest friends had no idea. Those women only drank in the privacy of their homes and kept strict personal rules for when and what they drank.”
Elle nearly slams on the brakes as he finishes his sentence. She knows she sounds hostile, belligerent as she demands, “What the hell are you implying, Reid?”
“I’m not implying anything,” he replies, his voice still soft. “We all have different experiences, Elle.”
And that is when Elle Greenaway realizes that she never wants to get on Reid’s bad side. Oh sure, he looks like a harmless, geeky grad student with his messenger bag and sweater vests. He’s rail thin and has foppish hair and is so totally not an alpha male it’s amazing he ever got in to the BAU. His intellect is what opens the doors, and that’s how they primarily use him, but right then, right there, any doubts that Reid can’t fully hold his own are erased.
She should have seen it when he interviewed Eric Miller during that family-annihilator case. She wanted to stop the proceedings after Miller snarled at Reid to shut his mouth and asked if Hotch was his daddy.
Then Reid boldly asked, “My one concern is, Eric, did you or did you not continue the cycle with your own children?”
Miller broke, hard. And while Elle teased Reid about his interrogation technique, he simply replied that he wasn’t getting anywhere with Miller and he needed a way in. Matter of fact. Not arrogant. Professional.
She shivers and swallows hard. The team has a tendency to baby Reid, even (sometimes especially) Gideon. It’s automatic. It’s instinctual. Reid’s the type of guy who should need protecting, the clichéd brainy kid who uses his lunch money to hire a bully as his bodyguard.
Yet Elle knows now that Reid has been taking care of himself far longer than anyone expects. He’s self-sufficient in his own way, and while his social awkwardness can be a source of amusement, Elle knows that he can use his intellect to ruthlessly cow someone into submission. Like now. She’s at his mercy, because of all the slings and arrows she can shoot at him, his genius is his shield and his sword. He’s a goddamn gladiator.
Her only response is to stutter, “No intra-team profiling, Reid.”
Lame. Pathetic. Cowardly. Because the last thing she wants is a discussion on her ‘experiences’, on how she knows about the victims’ drinking habits without having to look at the autopsy results or see the broken blood vessels on their noses that are usually hidden by makeup. How she knows their drinking patterns by what’s kept in the fridge and why the highball glasses and full decanters of whiskey and vodka prominently displayed on the bar are dusty, because those women drank cheap booze from plastic tumblers (because they were just like your mother, her mind whispers).
“Like anyone follows that rule,” Reid scoffs, but his voice is back to that light-hearted teasing tone, as if all is forgiven.
Elle forces her attention back to the road, mouth dry. He knows your secret, her brain sneers; it is countered quickly by, but he’ll never betray you.
“If you take the next exit, there’s a Waffle House point three miles from the off-ramp,” Reid casually tells her as he settles back in his seat.
She knows it’s not only a peace offering, but also a chance to talk. Elle automatically rails against it; the first rule of being a female law enforcement officer is not to share one’s feelings. Even though she knows it’s just Reid and he’s far from the typical agent, she can’t bring herself to accept. Instead, she asks, “One fourteen in the morning and you want waffles?”
“One fourteen in the morning and I have to pee,” he replies with uncharacteristic bluntness.
It’s her turn to gape. He usually doesn’t use words like that. ‘Urinate’ or ‘use the facilities’ or any number of polite euphemisms for going to the bathroom. Never, ever ‘have to pee’.
He looks over, a coy smile on his lips as satisfied he’s blown her mind. “I can hold it if you don’t want to stop. The hotel is only another thirty minutes away.”
When Reid doesn’t launch into the expected discourse about the human bladder, Elle finds herself laughing. “Waffle House it is.”
The door to Hotch’s office is closed as are the blinds. It muffles voices to a certain degree, but not enough for the bullpen to ignore that Elle and Hotch are arguing.
Spencer can’t help the frequent glances over there. It’s been fifteen minutes and they’re still going strong. In his time at the BAU, Spencer can’t recall any closed door meeting with Hotch that lasted more than a few minutes—especially with raised voices. Hotch is the kind of guy with whom one has to score verbal jabs swift, hard and first, because Hotch isn’t going to let the match go to a second round.
Spencer may not know shit about football, but boxing is another matter entirely.
He knows what the argument is about: Elle rushed into the UnSub’s basement without waiting for backup or putting on Kevlar. Hotch is ferociously protective of the team nowadays, a byproduct of Adrian Bale no doubt, and he waited until they got back to Quantico to call Elle on her behavior.
“Wonder if she’s going to have any left,” Morgan comments as he leans back in his chair and tosses a wadded up piece of paper into his trash can. It lands perfectly, of course.
Spencer looks up at the door again before returning his attention to Morgan and his comment. He asks, “Any what left?”
“Her ass,” Morgan replies sourly and then shoots another basket. “Still can’t believe she did that. Damn.”
The door to Hotch’s office swings open and Elle storms out and down to her desk. Those in the bullpen struggle to act like they weren’t paying attention, but fail miserably. Spencer is surprised she doesn’t slam the door behind her but realizes that while Elle tends to be emotional, she’s not melodramatic. She yanks open a drawer, pulls out her briefcase and begins stuffing files in it. She’s scowling.
Spencer knows that Morgan’s going to start questioning her; he’s the only one with the clout and nerve to do so. Yet by the light tremor in her hands as she reaches for things, he also knows that she won’t handle Morgan’s brand of interrogation or comfort very well in her current state.
So, Spencer leans forward and makes it obvious that he’s looking at her rear. “It’s all still there.” The bullpen comes to a complete stop.
Elle is momentarily stunned and then she glares at him, a look that usually causes men to grab their crotches in self-defense. Morgan’s mouth drops open. Anderson starts coughing suddenly.
Spencer looks quizzically at Morgan. “You said she wouldn’t have any of her ass left.”
“Kid…” Morgan sputters as he hastily signals for him to shut up.
Spencer ignores him on purpose, keeping his tone bright and gestures enthusiastic. “Did you know the phrase ‘a pound of flesh’…” he begins to lecture, rambling on about origins and historical significance. No one tries to stop him. At the three minute mark, Elle finishes packing, swings the strap over her shoulder, grabs her jacket, and leaves.
“Kid!” Morgan finally snaps and throws a wad of paper at him. Spencer automatically ducks, and when he looks back, Morgan is shaking his head and pressing his fingers to his temples. “Didn’t your momma teach you any manners?”
The comment stings like hell, of course, but he knows that Morgan has no clue about his family. Spencer’s done a damn good job at deflecting those questions; it’s second-nature to him now. Still, he presses his lips together, looks confused and starts with, “But you said…”
“I know what I said, kid,” he snaps and makes a cutting motion with his hand. “Just forget it.”
The rest of the day speeds by, the bullpen quiet and timid the two times Hotch leaves his office for coffee and a restroom break. When Gideon stops by Spencer’s desk on his way out for the evening, his mentor says quietly, “You didn’t need to do that.”
Spencer looks up and tilts his head sideways. “Do what?”
There’s that split second when Gideon’s brow creases, as if trying to figure out if Spencer is really as clueless as he’s pretending to be. There’s a part of Spencer wondering why the hell he’s even attempting to fool an expert profiler, especially his mentor. His ego chimes in with, Gideon’s a chess player, not a magician. There are still a few of your tells he doesn’t know. Spencer figures he has a few more shots at playing dumb before the man catches on.
“Elle can take care of herself,” Gideon tells him, eyes narrowed as if he’s studying some specimen.
Spencer glances towards Morgan, who has his nose pointedly stuck in a file, and then over to Anderson, who nearly spins out of his chair because he’s turning around so fast trying not to paying attention. Spencer blinks and meets Gideon’s scrutinizing gaze. This is the part where most people screw up. This is the part where most people start babbling about not knowing what Gideon is talking about, thereby giving Gideon an opening for an interrogation. Instead, Spencer bounces his gaze from Morgan to Anderson to Gideon again.
His mentor shakes his head, lets out small, exasperated sigh and turns his attention to Morgan. “Explain it to him, will you?”
Morgan nods but still refuses to make eye contact with Spencer. Gideon pats Spencer once on the shoulder and then leaves. Once the glass door to the BAU closes, Morgan rolls his chair over and leans forward. “He thought that your whole little ‘pound of flesh’ speech was meant to focus the attention on yourself so Elle wouldn’t have to answer any of our questions.”
Spencer blinks as if he just now realizes how the scene could have been interpreted, “Oh. But.…”
Morgan holds up his hand. “I know, kid. Just…hell, I don’t know. Next time, when I tell you to shut up, shut up, okay?”
He dutifully nods and earns another pat on the shoulder. Technically, he’s not lying. He’s just not acknowledging the truth. Spencer wonders if Morgan or Gideon will forgive the distinction.
Elle still isn’t used to DC traffic and isn’t familiar enough with the city to know the back ways to get to Reid’s apartment. She’s surprised at the neighborhood; it isn’t as affluent as she expects for a single guy with a decent FBI salary. Yet as she passes a few landmarks, she realizes that it is, like almost everything with Reid, strategic.
She laughs as she adjusts the volume on NPR. She wonders if Gideon and Hotch buy in to the whole “innocent Reid” routine and concludes that they probably do to some extent. However, his little stunt yesterday…
At first, she was floored by his audacity at making a comment about her ass. Then, she was humiliated by his whole ‘pound of flesh’ discourse. However, once she got to her car, she realized just what Reid did. Everyone was so focused on his rambling that they left her alone.
It’s why she’s on his way to his place this morning. She knows he usually takes the VRE and, with a little detective work, she figures out when Reid would be leaving. She gives herself an additional twenty minutes to deal with traffic and getting lost.
Elle spots Reid as he hurries across the street. She honks the horn to get Reid’s attention and is momentarily stunned when he doesn’t even turn, unlike the six other people he’s crossing with. Then she chastises herself, It’s Reid. He’s heading in the opposite direction she’s going, so she puts her turn signal on and, once the lanes are clear, does a u-turn between blocks. The guy behind her rolls his window down to curse at her, but she ignores him.
Reid has only gone two blocks—damn, the man can walk fast—and Elle lowers the passenger window as she approaches. “Reid!” she shouts but, predictably, he doesn’t turn. She hits the horn, counts five and tries again. “Agent Reid!” This time, he does look over and his mouth drops open. He stops but doesn’t walk over. Elle puts her car in park, leans over and fumbles for the door handle. It takes a few tries but she finally gets it open and pushed out a little. She waves him toward her. “C’mon.”
The driver behind her blares his horn and shouts at her. Reid looks frozen to the spot, as if he can’t believe his coworker tracked him down and is now offering him a ride. Of all the damn things, he checks his phone and stares at it confused for a few seconds before clipping it back to his belt. Then, he does that funny little quick walk of his over to her car and awkwardly gets in.
“We have a case?” he asks and unclips his phone again. “JJ didn’t call…” He sounds hurt.
“No case,” Elle answers and puts the car in gear. As she begins driving, she delivers a few nasty glares in the rearview mirror to the dickwad who has now decided to tailgate her. “Can a federal agent arrest someone for a traffic violation?” she asks, because she’s really really tempted to do it. Then common sense kicks in. The last thing Hotch needs to hear about is how one of his agents…yeah… She glances over. Reid’s mouth is half-open so she says, “Don’t answer that.”
“Okay.”
“Wow. A little slow in the morning?” Because it’s totally unlike Reid not to pounce upon such an esoteric question.
“Not enough coffee.”
“Then, let’s get you some.”
“Elle…” he begins and clears his throat. His voice has that nervous pitch to it as he says, “Elle, why are you…ah…here? I mean, you don’t live near here…we don’t have a case…”
“I’m here to get you coffee.”
He closes his mouth and she knows his mulling over things. Reid then grabs the seatbelt and buckles himself in. “Ah…why?”
“We’re friends. Friends get coffee together.” Elle knows he’s staring at her so she keeps focused on the road and the guy who continues to tailgate her. “So, give me directions to your favorite coffee place.”
Reid is silent for a few seconds before instructing her to turn right at the next light. The ride to the coffee house is spent in silence except for his directions, including where to park. The place isn’t a Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, Peet’s or Seattle’s Best. It’s a small café tucked between a bookstore and a hair salon.
He’s obviously a regular because when they walk in, the barista waves and then begins working on an order. There’s no one else in line. It’s a cozy place and it’s easy to see why Reid frequents it. It’s very Reid. Elle’s order is straightforward: tall, dark roast coffee.
She glances at her watch and tries to calculate if they can have the coffee here or if they need to get on the road because of traffic. Reid answers her unspoken question by ordering two scones but she beats him when it comes to paying.
Or tries to.
He gently pushes her credit card away and pays with cash instead. “They get charged a percentage of the total sale for every credit card transaction. American Express has the worst fees.”
They end up sitting at a small table by the window. Her coffee is excellent—they roast the beans here every Thursday according to Reid—and the scone is good.
“You’re…you’re not suspended, are you?” Reid asks as he stirs his latte o’sugar. He’s nervous. He doesn’t want to ask, which is the reason he’s not looking directly at her.
“I got my ass chewed out, Reid,” she replies as she nudges him with her foot, “not fired. Mom told me not to do it again.” She smiles because, really, Hotch does have such Mom tendencies it’s almost unreal, and she takes another sip of coffee before settling back. She eyes him carefully. “I know what you did yesterday.”
Reid blushes and clears his throat. “I’m sorry I stared at your…” He gestures toward her ass and turns even more crimson. “You know…I’m sorry—”
“Cut the bullshit, Reid,” Elle interrupts, knowing if she calls his bluff right away, he’s more likely to answer outright. He’s still blushing, but maybe it’s not from embarrassment. Maybe it’s because she’s figured him out.
He takes a long sip of his coffee then toys with his half-eaten scone. Quietly, he explains, “I know what it’s like to have the entire place stare at you and wonder just what was said. And I know that no one would leave you alone until you answered.” Reid looks up. “No one has ever gone toe-to-toe with Hotch for that long.”
It’s Elle’s turn to stare. She’s never had a champion quite like Reid. Hell, if she’s honest with herself, she’s never had a champion, period. All she can say is, “Really.”
“Morgan’s record is four minutes, twenty-three seconds,” he replies with a slight conspiratorial tone.
Morgan is headstrong and their resident Devil’s Advocate. He’s allowed more leeway than the rest of the department. Reid’s statement makes her laugh just a little and then wonder why the hell Hotch, well, indulged her. She tilts her head and asks, “You don’t want to know what it was about?”
Reid shrugs, takes another hefty drink, and looks out the window. “I know that Hotch, Morgan and I went to six funerals in four states in three days. Have you ever been on a road trip with two alpha males who refuse to admit they’re grieving, so they argue about professional basketball instead?”
The comment stops her cold. She closes her eyes. The only reason the spot on the BAU had been open was because it had belonged to one of those six agents killed in the Boston bombings. She curses inwardly at not realizing why Hotch got so bent out of shape. She feels like an idiot.
“Gideon hadn’t been cleared to fly yet,” Reid continues, “so he could only attend two of them.” He tacks on, “What I also know is that you went into the house without backup and without your vest. Sure, I’d like to go to New York City someday, but not to bury you.”
It’s such a blunt, honest statement that it makes her eyes burn. Elle blinks rapidly, because none of her colleagues have ever expressed such an earnest affection for her. Her voice is watery and she hates it, but she says, “Reid…”
“If we leave now, we’ll miss most of the traffic,” he interrupts as he begins to slide out of his seat. He meets her gaze and suddenly he’s that awkward geek she’s used to dealing with. “Unless…ah…you want to drop me off at the station. It’s only two blocks from here. I mean…you did say just coffee.”
It’s another tidbit of himself he’s offering to her. An insight into just how hellish his childhood must have been. People willing to be his friend but only in private because people like her never want to admit they spend time around people like him. Like Reid’s a dirty little secret.
It angers her so she grabs his hand. He’s startled. She knows he doesn’t like to be touched but she’s not going to let go until he looks at her. When he finally does, she tells him fiercely, “You’re my friend. I’ll never be embarrassed to call you that, you understand?”
He blanches a little but then nods. She’s not expecting Reid to say, “Ditto.”
Spencer has no idea why he decided to confide in Morgan about his nightmares. Just like every other cool guy who has befriended him, Morgan can’t keep a secret. Despite the reassurances from Hotch that they all have them, that’s part of the job. Despite Morgan’s own confession that he still dreams about that girl’s eyes. Despite Gideon’s little talk on the jet, how he looks at the photo of Deborah Louise Addison and her children before he goes to sleep at night...it feels almost like a betrayal.
Yes, Gideon’s words did help a little, but Spencer’s not the type to carry a photograph in his wallet to remind himself of the good he’s done. It’s a bit too much like having a trophy. Spencer doesn’t want to think about the psychological implications of that in relation to Gideon.
When they get back from McAllister, Virginia, it’s pouring rain and he inwardly grimaces. Usually, he doesn’t mind the rain but today, Spencer is not in the mood to put up with it, especially because he forgot his umbrella. He checks the online radar and calculates how long he’ll have to stay at the office until the weather clears up enough for him not to be drenched. He’ll end up staying later than Hotch.
Elle stops by his desk, purse and keys in hand. “Let’s go.”
He stares.
She nods towards the door.
Spencer glances around as he flushes with embarrassment. He really hates it when they decide he can’t take care of himself. He’s about to say no when she tacks on, “I owe you a coffee, remember?” It’s her effortless way of saying, I’m not babying you. Don’t be stupid.
It teases a smile out of him and he says, “Okay.” It’s not until they’re in her car that he can muster up a “Thanks” without it sounding squeaky.
“No problem.”
Then, Elle takes a left instead of the right needed to get to his place. “Elle…”
“I’m hungry,” she declares.
He stares at her for a moment, expecting her to say, You’ll sleep better on a full stomach, or some other bits of wisdom. He’s certain that she knows about his nightmares as well. If Morgan told Gideon and Hotch…
“We’re friends,” Elle tells him as she makes another turn.
Instead of being reassuring, it pisses him off. Spencer crosses his arms and glowers. “So was Morgan,” he mutters.
The car jerks over to the median and stops. Elle sounds somewhere between worried and angry. “What did he do?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Spencer tells her, because he’s been humiliated enough in the past few days. He’s not even sure why he said anything.
There’s a long pause and then Elle exhales sharply. She puts the car in gear and begins driving again. The next twenty minutes are spent in an uncomfortable silence and Reid doesn’t know what to say once he realizes that she’s not going to a restaurant, but to her home. She pulls in her driveway, puts the car in park and turns off the engine. “It has to do with a few mornings ago, right? When I walked up, you left pretty quickly. Morgan didn’t say a thing, but he looked worried.”
It’s a classic interrogation technique. Spencer sighs and then weighs his options. Finally, he confesses, “I told him about my nightmares.”
Elle shakes her head and pulls the key out of the ignition. “Let me guess, he passed you off to someone and totally embarrassed you.” She reaches behind her and grabs her purse. “C’mon. I’ll make you dinner.”
Before he can protest, she’s out of the car and dashing towards her front door.
Spencer stares at her for a few moments and then unbuckles his seatbelt. It dawns on him that she’s kind of mad that he didn’t come to her first, but he’s even madder at himself.
Just because he’s a genius doesn’t mean he doesn’t have bouts of stupidity.
Elle wakes up screaming and lunging for her gun. She’s drenched in sweat and shaking. She’s hyperventilating and it’s terrifying. It takes a good five minutes for her to calm down enough to be able to pull back the covers on her bed and stumble towards the shower. She cleans up quickly, checks the time—2:07 a.m.—and dresses in track pants and a hooded sweatshirt.
There’s no going back to bed after that kind of nightmare. Then, she remembers Reid’s comments over dinner after the case in McAllister. When Reid actually does sleep, he only gets in two or three hours at time. I write my term papers at three a.m. Do you, ah, think it’s weird that I’m working on a bachelor’s in philosophy?
I think it’s totally you, Reid, she replied and the relieved smile she received made her vow never to judge him on his hobbies, especially his obsession with obtaining college degrees.
Knowing that he’s probably awake is the reason she grabs her cell phone and texts him, RU UP?
Three minutes later, her phone is ringing. She picks it up and says, “A simply ‘y’ or ‘n’ would have sufficed.”
Reid laughs, but it’s a little on the strained side. He sounds worried. “I’m terrible with the keys.”
Elle fiddles with the folds of her bedspread and asks, “Can I come over?”
“Sure,” he says without hesitation, and Elle knows he’s been kept up by nightmares as well.
Thirty minutes later, Elle’s knocking on the door to Reid’s apartment. He answers it, hair mussed and dressed in—she blinks twice—seersucker pajamas. He’s wearing his glasses, which only adds to his dorky charm. He wordlessly lets her in and closes the door behind her. She hears the locks tumble into place, but she’s too busy glancing around his apartment to say anything.
Elle is not expecting neat. Tidy. A quirky mix of IKEA (she recognizes the black-brown Billy/Benno bookcase combination because she has the same exact ones in birch) and used furniture. It makes her smile, because it’s not what she’s expecting. Sure, it’s one-hundred percent Reid, but it’s not what she would have predicted.
There are no Star Wars or Star Trek movie posters adorning the walls; instead, the artwork is modern, paint on canvas. There are no model starships dangling from the ceiling or lightsabers on the bookshelves. There are a few gargoyles on the tops of the shelves and polished, split geodes used as bookends. When Elle’s gaze gets to his desk, she stops. It’s an old fashioned secretary style that should look out of place but doesn’t; it’s also littered with paper and folders. It’s the sloppiest thing in his living area.
“Tea?” Reid’s question jolts her out of her observation.
Elle knows she’s blushing so she apologizes with a “Sorry” and a sheepish shrug. When she glances over her shoulder, she realizes he’s not offended by her taking in the details of his living space. It’s almost as if he’s expecting it. She remembers his comment about no one following the “don’t profile each other” rule.
“Tea?” he asks again.
While tea is nice and tea is appropriate, Elle asks, “Something stronger?”
He presses his lips together briefly and then nods. “Gin, right?” he calls out as he goes off to his kitchen. She says ‘yes’ as she follows to the small space which is a poor excuse for a cooking area. Reid sorts through the cabinet over the fridge and produces a bottle of Magellan. “On the rocks?”
Elle gapes. She’s expecting Gordon’s or Beefeater, not her favorite top-shelf brand. It takes a few seconds for her to nod as she realizes that Reid bought the booze specifically for her. She knows he doesn’t drink that often—at least that’s what she’s observed when they’re all out together—but he’s of the belief that even if he doesn’t drink them, he’s going to offer the better brands. She’s suddenly curious as to what brand of bourbon he keeps in stock for Hotch, just in case Hotch were to stop by at two in the morning trolling for drinks.
Like that’s ever going to happen.
Reid hands her a glass with four ice cubes and healthy shot of the blue-tinged gin. He has one himself and taps it lightly against hers. A toast, but she’s not quite sure what they’re toasting to.
Elle decides she doesn’t care.
The gin is smooth. Amazing. Potent.
“You have excellent taste, Doctor Reid,” she tells him with a smile. She saunters back to his living space and looks around again. The couch has a solid forest green slipcover and the coffee table is dark, like the bookcases, but scuffed. There are books and DVDs on the shelves. It’s then she realizes, “There’s no TV.” She looks back at him. “Oh, c’mon Reid. I know you have one.”
He turns crimson, hastily takes another sip of his gin as if needing the liquid fortification, and then says, “My bedroom.” He coughs a little and adds, “I don’t usually have guests.”
It’s Elle’s turn to nod her understanding. It also makes her heart ache. She’s a transplant from Seattle but originally from New York, so it’s reasonable she wouldn’t have any friends in the DC area. Those she grew close to at the Academy are scattered all over the country. Reid? As far as she can tell, he’s been here for at least three years. She thinks back to her conclusion about him from the coffee shop, that people only want to be Reid’s friend if they can do so privately or if it’s for their own personal benefit. There’s no reciprocity for him. It prompts her to say, “Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he snorts before fidgeting with his glass. “Do you, ah, want to talk?” Reid’s tone is cautious, wary almost. Up until his question, she could have simply been a friend stopping by for a drink.
Of course, he’s curious. He has to be. And he has to be wondering why she chose him, of all people, to visit. Elle looks down at her glass and then glances towards his bedroom. “Bad dreams.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone,” he swears and that is what makes her scowl a little. “I mean…I mean…do you…ah…want me to?”
The way he squeaks out the question makes her jerk her gaze to meet his. He’s so earnest, so Reid, that it makes her walk up him and grab his wrist. He flinches, like always, but she holds on. “I’m mad because you told something to Morgan in confidence and he betrayed you.”
Reid gapes a little, just like he did the first time she said it over dinner at her place. “He just thought…”
“It wasn’t affecting your performance,” Elle interrupts, because she knows how Reid automatically defends Morgan. Hell, he defends everyone on the team but himself. She brushes her thumb against his wrist. “I don’t want you telling anyone.” She pauses. “Unless you think it’s affecting my performance.”
He gives a quick, sharp nod. “I promise.”
And that’s one thing Elle knows about Reid for certain: he doesn’t break his promises. He really doesn’t.
They stand in silence for a few moments before Reid clears his throat and tentatively asks, “Would you, ah, like to watch TV?”
Elle can’t help but grin. “Is that a new euphemism for asking me to go to bed with you?”
His eyes widen. He stammers. She’s never seen him flush so dark before.
She lets him go and sashays down the hall towards his bedroom. “I accept.”
Technically, he slept with Elle, not that Spencer would ever tell anyone.
It’s the first decent three hours of sleep he’s had in months. Spencer wonders if it’s the same for Elle. He knows she won’t talk about it. He knows she’ll never acknowledge that she came over to his place at two in the morning. He’s used to being “the Secret” and, honestly, he doesn’t mind. It’s just easier that way.
It’s not the first time Spencer has shared his bed with someone platonically, but it’s the first time he’s done it with a coworker. The morning isn’t as awkward as he’s expecting. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t had enough caffeine for his nervousness to kick in yet.
One thing about being in the BAU: one always has a spare set of work clothes stashed in one’s car. While Elle goes down to her car for her bag, Spencer cleans up and makes sure the bathroom is ready for her. While she’s getting ready, he makes a half pot of coffee and splits it b between two travel mugs. The one for her is plain, stainless steel. His has “Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra” painted on the side, and it never fails to make Morgan shake his head, say that he doesn’t want to know what it means, and then call him a geek. Spencer’s tempted to use the one that says, “It’s hard to work well in a group when you’re Omnipotent”, but decides it sounds far too arrogant.
She exits his bedroom, go bag over one shoulder. After her third month at the BAU, she switched from a holster on her hip to a shoulder harness for her gun. Spencer’s been meaning to ask why, because most agents don’t change their weapon or their holster without a damn good reason. He just doesn’t have the nerve.
Elle walks up to him, spies the coffee mugs and grins. She then steps forward and envelopes him in a hard hug. He barely hears the “Thank you” she murmurs against his chest, and while he’s never too keen on sharing personal space, he returns the hug and echoes her sentiment.