switchblade faith//spencer reid - chapter 11

summary:one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her new friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid. (Baby Spence)

pairing:Fem!OC x Spencer

word count: 4.2k

content warnings: discussion of slight injury but not much else!

A/N: hey everyone! i’m so excited to get this series rolling again. i’ve got some new ideas and i had SO much fun writing this chapter it really felt right. enjoy!

masterlist

the drive to the airport is strangely sad. the landscape seems to stretch on, punctuated by miniature towns that we pass through– places selling huckleberry pies and jams, gas stations with pickup trucks, hills. a highway cutting between two steep mountainsides.

it’s evening and the sun is starting to sink, casting shadows at odd angles. the light swells behind the tops, slopes down the snow-covered sides into crepuscular oranges. places like this are so isolated, it scares me. it makes life feel like holding one end of a tin can telephone, the string connecting it to another tin can in DC. the vibrations of what i want traveling across the line.

Emily nudges my shoulder as I stare out the window. we’re sitting in the back of a police SUV, a local officer driving at the front. I can see Reid in the passenger seat. his fingers are fidgeting again and his head is turned toward the window, so I can’t see his facial features. I wonder what he’s thinking about.

“is huckleberry any good?” Prentiss asks out of nowhere.

“it’s decent. really popular.” I shrug. I haven’t had it since I was a teenager, but I bet I’d like it more now if someone offered me a slice of pie.

“I still can’t believe you grew up here.” she seems awestruck.

“oh, it’s not so bad.”

the time passes faster than I expected, and soon we’re getting ready to board the jet. Spencer smiles at me in front of the steps and I follow behind him.

“sleep well?” he asks under his breath. the tone of it almost makes my face heat up.

we’ve spent the last few evenings hanging out, finding places to go talk around town. last night, it was a small bar that we just happened to find near the motel. although he seemed woefully uncomfortable at first in the place, he loosened up after a drink or two. we definitely didn’t get drunk, even though a small part of me still aches to see that side of him.

but I enjoyed the ease of our conversation, and how his words seemed to carry a cheerful edge that I hadn’t heard before. things between us have been going well. it’s comforting to have someone like him around, someone I can confide in and laugh with, even if we’re incredibly different.

every time he starts to talk about the things that fascinate him– whether it be geography or Medieval literature or the physics of darts– I could listen to him forever.

“it’s just math and a little coordination.” he’d explained over a glass of water last night.

“the latter of which you’re missing.” I’d pointed at the board, where his red-feathered darts were hopelessly off-center. a couple hadn’t even stuck.

“I’m out of practice.”

“did you play darts a lot in college?” the smile on my face was teasing.

“very funny.” he’d smiled at me, those hazel eyes catching the neon light above the bar. even though it wasn’t a great dig, something in me just wanted to grin. whatever I’d associated with Montana before– that slightly nauseous feeling in my gut– was melting away.

“I used to be a champ.” I bragged, taking another sip of my drink.

“really? I’m not seeing it.” he pointed at the dart board, where I’d thrown some poor (but also some pretty good) shots.

“I’m out of practice.” I winked, watched the blush spread across his cheeks.

that’s another thing about Spencer: he’s easy to mess with. he gets red at the slightest suggestive behavior, even though I can tell it excites him. the air between us this week has been charged with playfulness.

but now, as I sit down next to him in the plush seats of the jet, I think that person is very far away. he seems worried and tired all at once.

“how are you doing?” I ask once we’ve been in the air for a few minutes. I’ve been turning the question over in my head for a few minutes.

“I’m fine. why?” he licks his lips.

“you just seem tense.”

“stressed, I guess.”

“about?”

he looks from the plane window to my face. I notice the shadows under his eyes, the ones that are always there. “work.”

my brow furrows. we’re always stressed about work, that’s normal; it just feels like more than that this time. “do you want me to give you a shoulder massage?”

Morgan peeks up from his book in the opposite aisle. he raises an eyebrow and smiles.

“oh, relax.” I roll my eyes at him. Spencer is silent for a second.

“sure.” he replies finally. I nod and get out of my seat to stand behind the chair.

“let me know if I’m being too rough.” I say softly, though the words once again are twisted by Morgan’s expression, which is incriminatingly devilish. my face gets hot and I look at him.

“really?”

“I didn’t say anything.” he shrugs defensively.

“Morgan, shut up.” Reid snaps.

it surprises all of us. the agent in question looks at him with his mouth slightly agape. even Hotch glances over from his spot on the couch.

it’s effective. Morgan concedes with a knowing smile and returns to his reading. I set my hands on Reid’s bony shoulders. I work whatever muscles are there as promised and though I try to be gentle, he lets go of a breath when I push my thumbs into a spot between his shoulder blades.

“thanks.” he murmurs. I nod.

“no problem.”

we fall into a steady silence. his skin is warm, hot even, beneath my fingertips, but I feel him relaxing. as much as I’d like to ask more about the source of his stress, I hold my tongue and hope that he feels a bit better.

my hands move closer to the center, near his neck. he has an especially tough knot there and I dig in.

“sorry if that hurts.”

“no, it’s okay.”

“it’ll be worth it when I’m done. have you been sleeping properly?”

there’s a lengthy pause. “not really.”

“what time do you usually go to bed, Reid?” the words sound softer than I intended. tender, even.

“three.”

“in the morning?” I ask sharply. that would mean he’s averaging four hours every night.

“I have nightmares.” it’s a grudging admission, as though nobody else can hear us. Morgan is fiercely focused on his book to the point that I know he’s eavesdropping. Emily doesn’t seem to care at all.

“about?”

“cases going wrong. ax-murderers.” he starts to list different horrifying scenarios, each of which would wake me up in a cold sweat. no wonder he’s not sleeping.

“is this recent or has this been happening a while?” I sound like a therapist.

“maybe the past few months. it’s sort of recent.”

instead of replying with some useless filler word, the words sink into my mind. I don’t know what’s been happening in the last few months that would trigger such consistent nightmares. maybe the Fisher King? that case took us all down to the bone.

the tip of my index finger brushes over Spencer’s clavicle by accident and he shivers. the sensation of it nearly startles me. “sorry.” I mutter. almost by instinct, I take my hands off him. this suddenly feels awkward.

luckily for me, Hotch clears his throat and turns to say that Penelope needs to call us all.

a current of guilt runs through me for dreading it. there’s always going to be another case, of course. sometimes I just get too caught up in the moments between them.

…

I don’t leave the office the following night until 11. Morgan and I were the only ones left in the bullpen, both of us trying to finish up some paperwork. my eyes feel strained and tired, and half of me is ready to drop into bed. the other half, however, is adamantly opposed to sleep.

I know that if I get under the covers, I’ll just start thinking and I won’t be able to doze off. the notion of stewing in my own imagination fills me with anxiety, so I get home and change into running clothes.

as I lace up my shoes, I notice how messy my apartment is again. there are magazines strewn across the coffee table and a few mugs in the sink. I should really clean before I get called away to work again.

after making a mental note, I take off out the door and make a break for it. I never run at night, but my neighborhood feels safe and something within me is desperate to move. it’s been a minute since I’ve been able to just sprint, to feel that burn in my lungs and the automatic drive in my legs.

plus, I love the way the DC air feels at night. sucking it in is oddly comforting.

I’m moving undisturbed up the street, blinking as the streetlights hit my skin and wondering how far I could get before I’d have to stop. sometimes I think about pushing into the center of the city, into the park. I wish it would start to rain; that would be nice. like putting out a fire.

I wonder what Spencer is doing, which is now not an unusual part of my night. I like to think about him. it makes my chest warm, even when the thoughts are totally mundane.

the flight yesterday has been crammed into my brain. how his muscles eased under my touch, until I ruined it by accident. how the slightest contact made him shiver. something about him is incredibly naive, despite his role in the BAU and the things he’s seen. I can’t explain what it is that he reminds me of. it creates an unidentifiable sentiment in my stomach.

I cross a street, my feet pounding the pavement, and my heart beats in my ears.

how would it feel to touch his shoulders without the pretense of a massage? would he get nervous, then, too? if I touched the point between his throat and his jaw, that sharpness where the shadow falls, would I feel his pulse beating heavily?

why is he having nightmares?

that question has been nagging at me, too. even if I don’t necessarily subscribe to dream analysis, the patterns of his have been bothering me. I’ve heard of things as simple as diet changes causing bad dreams. then again, we have an intense job. the chances that it wouldn’t at least in part be related to that are slim.

there’s a silent film that i used to watch constantly as a kid, a comedy called Safety Last! with Harold Lloyd. it’s lighthearted and silly, until there’s one scene where he’s trying to scale a building in New York City. his feet dig into small divots and his fingers cling to the corners, but he ends up almost falling.

as a last resort, Harold grabs onto the hands of an enormous clock on the side. for a moment, it seems like he’ll be fine– and then the clock face starts to peel away from the building. it hangs at an angle above the street far below, the movie star’s legs dangling.

i remember watching and getting nervous every time, even though i knew he’d find a way out of the situation. my fists would still grab at the blanket and i’d watch his white-knuckled grasp start to slip. waiting for Harold to fall is like being friends with Spencer– it’s being perched at the edge of your seat. except where i was worried Harold would die, all i want is for Reid to open up a bit.

he handles my stories with care and i want to do the same for him. if he would just let me hold them in my palms for a moment.

i can’t really make him do that, however. it has to come on its own.

my foot catches on a cobblestone and i feel myself flying before i can stop the crash. my hands slam against wet ground and it’s only then that i realize it is raining. my skin is raw. raindrops fall on my face and slide down the slope of my nose.

i’m beneath a street lamp. i look up to see the downpour heading straight for me like slim knives. they hit my skin before giving way to a soothing rush the way they would slide into the current of a river. i love the rain. i love that it washes the grit from my scratches.

i can’t stop myself from running more, taking the turns and running past people holding umbrellas, tucked beneath their jackets. the rhythm propels me forward until i know deep in my bones where i’m going, so deep it’s inevitable.

my fingers shake from the rain-induced chill traveling through my body when i get to the green door. some of the paint is chipping by the old-fashioned brass knocker. it brings a small smile to my face, another result of the dopamine joy coursing through my veins.

the lock turns. Spencer stands in the doorway.

“hi.” he says, mildly confused but not unhappy.

“hi.” i grin. he’s looking over my disheveled appearance.

“everything okay?”

“i’m great.” the words feel right, falling from my tongue like a glass marble.

“come in,” he invites me in, then puts up a hand to stop me once i’m past the threshold. “actually, wait here.”

i nod patiently as he disappears momentarily and returns with a small towel.

“do you wanna dry off a bit?” he’s curious about my state. i take the fabric graciously and start to squeeze my wet hair into it. Spencer watches with a furrowed brow. “what happened to you?”

“just went for a run.” i shrug.

“from your place?” he’s surprised.

“yeah.” i nod and bend down to take off my shoes, which at this point are pretty much soaked through to an uncomfortable state.

“wow.” he shakes his head before leading me into the rest of the apartment. it smells as it always does, familiar, and i admire the art for what feels like the thirtieth time. even though there’s no fireplace here, it feels like there should be a crackling yule log in the middle of the room.

“how’s your night going?” i ask as i catch my breath.

“good,” he takes the towel from me to put with the laundry. “better now.”

although i want to tease him for the cheesiness of the line, i find myself turning away to hide the smile i’m biting back. “what are you up to, then?”

“playing chess.” he points to a board in the middle of the coffee table on his couch. it’s obscured by a stack of ancient-looking books. i nod and approach the game, unreasonably intimidated by it.

“cool.”

“i would ask if you play, but i know you ‘don’t like games like that’.” he teases me from his work desk. standing in front of the antique gold lamp he’s just turned on, Reid looks phantasmic. i choose to focus on the attempted insult.

“just because i don’t like them doesn’t mean i wouldn’t be good at them.” i raise an eyebrow.

“who said anything about you not being good at them?” he crosses his arms over his chest. “i think you’d be plenty good if you put yourself out there.”

i bite my lip and try to think up some defense for this. really, though, i don’t have one. there’s nothing more to it than my dislike for being beaten. especially when Spencer is already great at everything else.

Spencer takes my silence as concession. “one game.”

“what?” i frown.

“one game of chess.”

“i don’t know how to play.”

“i’ll teach you.” there’s a glint in his eye that reminds me of when he does his magic tricks; the kind of confidence he gets when he senses his home turf. this is his wheelhouse, and i’m utterly clueless.

“i’m a slow learner.”

“i don’t believe that for a second, Clea.” the corners of his mouth turn up because he knows he has me cornered. my gaze holds his for a moment, though we already both know i’ve lost this one.

“fine.”

he makes a sort of celebratory gesture before brushing past me and sitting down on the rug next to the coffee table. he points to the spot opposite him and i drop down. gingerly, he moves the chess board to set it between us. his finger rests atop one of the pieces. “i’m going to finish my round quickly first.”

“go ahead.” i’m in no rush.

i can hear cars driving through the rain outside, wheels splashing through puddles and drops pattering on the windowpane as Spencer finds his focus. something tells me it’s like a ritual for him, the steady but sure way he adjusts the pawns and turns the board to play the other side.

it’s funny to watch somebody do this, strategizing against themselves. he’s got a laser-like attentiveness. hazel eyes move rapidly between theoretical movements. when his eyebrow quirks upward, i can tell he’s got a winning idea.

frankly, i’m not sure how long this lasts. he’s like one of those films they show in museums. projected on a white wall, the repetition of a purposeful scene. he rubs the pad of his thumb along his palm, then tucks his fist thoughtfully under his chin. his nose twitches and he toys with the strap of his wristwatch.

every time he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, i feel my breath catch slightly in my throat. there’s no way to describe the warmth in my stomach when he finally mutters, “checkmate,” to himself and looks up at me with pride.

“how?” i clear my throat and avert my attention to the board.

“i’ll explain it more in depth in a bit, but you see this king?” he sets an index finger on top of the wooden pawn.

“yeah.”

“he can’t move to any other squares and none of these other pieces can protect him. so i win.”

“okay.” i pretend to understand for a moment. Spencer lets out a good-natured laugh.

“it’ll make sense once you know the rules, don’t worry.”

i laugh and nod. “teach me, then!”

“looks like someone’s had a change of heart about learning.” he smirks. the cockiness of it makes my heart stutter for a moment before i roll my eyes.

“nope,” i pop the p. “i just wanna get the hard part over with.”

“mhmm.” he sees through it, quickly reorganizes the pieces on the board and sets his hands on his knees before we get started. “ready?”

“i guess.”

…

whatever time it is when we finish our third game of chess, it’s far too late to walk home alone. Spencer has beaten me each time, of course– sometimes embarrassingly quickly– but he doesn’t tease me for it.

instead, he glances out the window at the steady rainfall and at me. “you shouldn’t go back out there.”

i sigh. he’s right, but i don’t want to burden him with my presence for too long. i don’t think Spencer is the kind of person to keep guests often. “i know.”

“just spend the night here. you can use the shower and take the couch.” he offers like it’s nothing. the surprise on my face is almost impossible to hide at his words.

“are you sure?”

“i mean, we have to be up for work in a few hours anyway,” he glances at one of the wax candles in the corner of the room. it’s burning down to the bottom of the wick. “you might as well get some rest.”

“what time is it?”

“two thirty.”

“oh my god.” i almost laugh at the absurdity of it. when i got home from work earlier, i had only planned on a short run before turning in. it’s strange how i ended up here.

“i’ll show you how the shower works.” he gets up slowly from the carpet and gestures for me to follow him. i do so quietly, passing the decorated hall for the first time. the wallpaper is something out of a horror tale, in the best way.

Reid explains the funny way the shower temperature works, then goes to get me a change of clothes. after he brings back a stack of heavenly-soft cotton pajamas and leaves me to shower, i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror for the first time tonight.

and god, is it a mistake.

i forgot that i was wearing mascara, which has run down my cheeks from sprinting through a storm. my hair, once i shake it out, is still damp. the clothes i’m already wearing have dried off, but i still look like a complete wreck. it’s a shock that Spencer didn’t immediately turn me away at the door.

the embarrassment hits as i shed my clothes and hop into the scalding water. his initial confusion when i arrived is only justified by the fact that i look like slightly rabid.

but these thoughts seem to melt away as i let the water run over my skin, washing away the remnants of my evening with a final flourish. i’ve completely forgotten about my scraped hands until now, which sting. i ignore the pain and get clean.

as soon as i’ve slipped into Spencer’s clothes (which are astonishingly comfy), i wander into the living room. i can hear him moving about in the kitchen. it’s silly to imagine so much activity happening so late in this unassuming little home he’s got.

i notice a folded blanket and fluffy-looking pillow on the overstuffed couch and smile to myself. now that i’ve had some time to relax, nothing sounds more inviting than crashing onto the cushions and passing out.

Spencer interrupts my thoughts as he wanders into the living room with a mug. steam curls delicately off the surface.

“i made you some chamomile tea,” he sets it on the coffee table, straightens up and looks at me hovering by the couch in his old t-shirt. “i didn’t know you went to CalTech.” he jokes.

“yeah, top of my class, actually,” i shrug and give him a pointed look. “some annoying sixteen-year-old took my shot at valedictorian, though.”

he laughs a genuinely musical laugh and shoves his hands into his pockets. “i was never valedictorian.”

“really?”

“yeah. i was at a conference in Boston for molecular biology, so i didn’t even attend my graduation. they mailed me my degree.”

“your humility astounds me, Dr. Reid.” i shake my head sarcastically.

he sighs and rests in the comfortable silence. we look at each other until he speaks up. “are you gonna drink your tea?”

this brings me back to earth. i reach for the mug, but recoil when the heat causes the raw skin on my palm to smart. without thinking, i wince and withdraw my hand.

“what’s wrong?” he frowns at the movement before his attention falls to my hand. “did you get hurt?”

“i just tripped while i was running,” i shrug. “i’ll be fine by the morning.”

Spencer takes my wrist before i have time to react to the movement and turns it over. i’m not bleeding or anything, but he seems slightly concerned. “why didn’t you say anything?”

“honestly, i forgot about it,” i nearly wave him off. “it’s literally fine, Spence.”

his eyes move up to mine for a second, then sink back to my mild injury with the same shyness that i’ve come to expect from him. i don’t know what warranted the glance.

“don’t move.” his fingers tighten around my arm, then release as he heads into the kitchen again. i’m left wondering about the weight of the past few moments, what just happened. he doesn’t give me much time to ruminate on it, though, returning with a clean wash cloth and what looks like an ointment.

“really, Reid?” i sigh as he unscrews the cap and dips into the salve.

“it’s going to be extremely painful if it gets infected.”

i want to correct him that it definitely won’t get infected, that it’s fine and he’s overreacting and i really just want to go to bed, but then he presses his fingertips over my skin and holds my wrist again. i hold my tongue.

i’m aware of every careful movement he makes, the same concentration on his face that he had while playing himself in chess. i pray that he can’t feel my pulse hammering against his thumb. i couldn’t possibly speak. the words die in my throat at the same moment as the candle from earlier hits the bottom of the wick.

Spencer finishes and drops my hand. the small flame extinguishes into a single column of smoke.

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