gooondocks - Tumblr blog

gooondocks · 2 months

Text

no one's ever had me (not like you) — evan buckley.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: when buck meets his high school sweetheart at the ten-year reunion, he learns that their lives may be very different now, but the spark is still there.

─── pairing: evan buckley x gn!reader.

─── warnings & notes: fluffy fluff. no use of y/n, i'm british so probably inaccurate depiction of high school reunions. based on the song 'so high school' by taylor swift bc i heard it and couldn't stop thinking of this idea. crappy ending bc i suck at wrapping things up. enjoy!!!

─── word count: 2.1k.

"DO YOU THINK ANYONE'S DONE US all a favour and spiked the punch yet?"

When the email appeared in his inbox a few months ago — an e-vite, of all things, complete with the kind of graphic design prowess he hasn't seen since the early 2000s — Buck had been pretty intent on ignoring it.

A hundred excuses had bubbled up in the back of his mind, because honestly, the thought of heading back to his hometown to attend a high school reunion made his skin itch. Trapping himself in a sweaty gymnasium, surrounded by dozens of almost-strangers engaged in a vanity contest of 'who's the most successful?' coupled with a shitty DJ blasting 2010's greatest hits?

It's really not what he'd call a good time.

Even if he could've talked himself into it, sharing a ZIP code with his parents for even a day or two was more than he was willing to tolerate. He'd left Hershey in his rearview almost a decade ago, and there's not a fragment of his whole being that regrets it for even a second.

Except.

Except the dates lined up with one of his rare weekends off work. Except when he looked up the flights online, just to see, he'd stumbled across a deal so cheap Buck honestly thought he was hallucinating for a moment.

Except Evan Buckley believes in signs from the universe, and when Maddie gives him that look over lunch one day, even though Buck had absolutely not mentioned the reunion to anyone, it's the final nail in the coffin for him.

He booked the tickets. He told the team he'd be out of town for the weekend, and bought a new shirt, and now he's standing in his old high school gymnasium. He wrinkles his nose at the smell, that sweat-and-hormones stink that never really goes away, and you're sidling up to him at the refreshments table, and the speakers are blaring an old Ke$ha song he hasn't heard in years.

For a moment, he's seventeen again. The sound of your voice slips over his skin like a cool breeze in the desert and suddenly it could be the night of junior prom, and the pair of you have sequestered yourselves in a shadowy corner, laughing at the committee's subpar attempt at an 'Under the Sea' theme.

Buck blinks, and he isn't seventeen, but he flashes you a wide smile anyway as you help yourself to a glass of bright red punch.

"Hi."

He says the word so quietly, he's surprised you even hear it. But there's a sparkle in your eye as you raise the cup to your lips, and he knows you heard him.

You always could.

The last day Buck ever saw you, he kissed you goodbye before you piled into your dad's old truck and drove out of sight, bound for college and big dreams and a future that didn't include him. Your lips had been damp with tears. On his loneliest nights, Buck swears he can still taste the salt on his tongue.

It's been a decade, but you still look so similar to the wide-eyed kid he fell in love with. Your hair's a little longer, perhaps; there's a scar on your chin that wasn't there before, and the dimples around your smile have deepened, but that's all. You're still you. The thought makes his chest ache a little, but it's a good pain.

He wonders if he's changed much. He wonders what you see when you look at him.

"I suspect it was the first thing Marty Brandt did when he got here," Buck adds, louder this time, and you laugh, and he wonders how he went ten years without hearing that sound. "I didn't think you'd be here. Didn't see your name on the RSVP list."

You shrug. "Jem bullied me into it. Emailed my boss to get the time off and everything."

Even as you try to seem annoyed, a trickle of fondness finds its way into your voice. When Buck follows your gaze to the dance floor, it's hard to miss your childhood best friend throwing shapes to an old Maroon 5 song.

"You two still talk?" He doesn't mean to sound surprised, except...

Well. Staying in touch with high school pals hadn't been a priority when he skipped town. Hard to imagine a single one of his classmates he'd want to stay in touch with. Except you.

A grin tugs at your mouth. "Worse. We work together." You tilt your head, still smiling fondly in Jem's direction. "Tried to shake her off, but she wouldn't let me."

He knows a little about that. "Or was it the other way around?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, Buckley?"

He would, actually. He watches you grimace a little at the flavour of the punch when you take another sip, an adorable twist to your mouth that he once knew so well. A decade ago, the sight of your pout could've made him do anything.

"Tastes like half a bottle of vodka," you tell him, and you take another sip even though he knows you never liked vodka. Remembers playing truth or dare at a party in junior year, and how you threw up in the bushes afterwards.

Buck had held back your hair and tucked you against his side afterward, letting you snuggle into the warmth of him while you slept off the worst of your hangover.

There's a distance between you now, but it's comfortable. Buck tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and the pair of you migrate over to a shadowy corner of the gymnasium, away from the prying eyes of your former classmates.

"So," Buck says, as the DJ switches to another song, "how have you been?"

He can't help but wince half a second later. Seriously? How have you been? He's never been to a high school reunion before, but he's seen plenty of movies, and he's pretty sure he's hitting all the marks of being a fucking cliché.

To your credit, you don't laugh at him. Cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink Buck has ever seen, you manage to bite back the giggle rising in your throat.

Buck wants to sink through the floor.

"I've been okay," you tell him, swirling your glass of punch absently. The corners of your eyes crinkle a little as you smile at him. "Life, y'know?"

He does. He really fucking does. "Any partners? Kids, spouses, anyone I have to worry about punching me?"

You only mentioned Jem earlier, so it doesn't seem like you brought a date, but he isn't sure he'd love it if he found his partner cosied up in a dark corner with their high school sweetheart.

God, he hopes you didn't bring a date.

There it is, a flash of— something, there and then gone in an instant. Buck hasn't thought about high school in years. Hasn't paid any mind to the friends he left behind. Once or twice, his thoughts have flitted to you, though. The one that got away. Where you are, if you were happy.

When he landed in LA, when he finally settled into his place at the 118, he'd thought of you. He'd hoped you managed to find a place you belonged. A family that loved you like his did.

He thought this would be awkward. Running into you again. Your name hadn't been on the RSVP list, and he'd been so relieved, because what if there was some uneasy tension between you? Buck isn't sure he'd have been able to cope with that.

There aren't a lot of happy memories from his childhood. His adolescence left a lot to be desired, but— you. A bright spot in all that grey.

An uncomfortable reunion might have ruined that. Those memories are cherished, for Buck; locked up tight in his battered heart.

But it's not uncomfortable, or awkward, or uneasy. Ten years and ten seconds have slipped by like sand in an hourglass and he wonders if there's been a moment in the last decade where he felt this at ease.

You sigh at his question, quiet and fond. "There was an engagement," you say after a moment, chewing on your lower lip, "and a break-up. Two years ago, now. Amicable, but..."

"But it still feels like you lost something." Buck knows that feeling intimately. It's been a long time since Abby left him, and even though he's over her, the memory of it still stings sometimes.

You nod. "Yeah. One minute you're going to marry someone, and then you're not. Doesn't really matter why not, in the end. Still hurt a little. Not anymore."

"No?"

You smile at him. "No."

Buck isn't sure how much time passes, how long you both remain huddled in that dark corner as the world continues to move around you. The DJ keeps churning out a series of early-2000s hits that he's fairly sure is just one of those throwback Spotify playlists, and you both make jokes when the Class President gets on stage to give a cheesy speech, and he tells you all about the ill-advised escapades of his early-twenties.

Crashing his bike, dropping out of college. He glosses over the unsavoury parts of his youth, but the way your eyes soften, he knows he isn't fooling you. He never could, not when it mattered. Stories about Peru have you in stitches, and a particularly messy tale about his time as a ranch hand makes you laugh so hard, half a glass of punch ends up your nose.

He missed that. Making you laugh.

Warmth unfurls in his chest when he looks at you. It's the kind of familiarity people associate with coming home, except it was dread he felt stepping off the plane, and uncomfortable memories prickled at him as he drove through the streets of his hometown.

You? You've always been that for him. Warm. Safe. Home.

"You've heard all about my wild twenties. What about you?" he wonders, as the pair of you drift back to the refreshments table, seeking snacks that don't taste like cardboard.

(Buck manages to find a bowl of chips that aren't completely stale, so he'll call that a success.)

"Oh, the usual," you shrug as you refill your glass. "Finished college, got a job and an apartment and a cat and a fiancé. Lost the fiancé, got another cat." You take a moment to flash him your lock screen, a picture of two calico cats curled up on your couch. "Think I traded up there, huh? Anyway, got a new job and moved out West about a year ago."

"Oh, really? Where'd you go?"

"California, actually. I'm in the History department at Berkeley."

He blinks at you once, twice. Something inside his chest goes zing. "I'm in LA!"

"Well maybe I'll have to come down and play tourist for you sometime."

There's a coy tilt to your mouth that he's seen before, and something pleasant skitters down his spine. Your cheeks turn even rosier, and Buck suspects the spiked punch is only partly responsible.

"Maybe you will," he says.

His number hasn't changed since he left Pennsylvania, and maybe that's another sign, too. The shitty music starts to wind down, and his old classmates start to stagger out into the parking lot, and when you kiss his cheek and promise to get in touch, he wonders if there's such a thing as second chances.

It isn't the same. He isn't seventeen and you're different people now. This isn't making out under the bleachers at a football game or skipping class to take a ride on his motorcycle. You're adults now, all grown up with a whole host of other problems, and it isn't the same. It isn't.

Except.

The next day, Buck's phone buzzes right before he boards the flight to Los Angeles. The number isn't familiar, but when he opens the message, he cannot fight the grin that creeps onto his face.

Hope you get home safe. I'd hate to have to find a new tour guide x

It's not the same, because he isn't in high school anymore and neither are you. But as he switches his phone to flight mode and tucks it back into his pocket, a giddy feeling sweeping through his chest, he can't help thinking that maybe this could be better.

#evan buckley x reader #evan 'buck' buckley x reader #evan buckley fanfiction #evan buckley imagine #evan 'buck' buckley imagine #9-1-1 fanfiction #9-1-1 imagine #9-1-1 fanfic #* faye's work.

141 notes · View notes

gooondocks · 3 months

Text

fight or flight — poe dameron.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: you and poe have never seen eye-to-eye. most days, you wonder if you ever will.

─── pairing: poe dameron x solo!reader.

─── warnings: reader is gender neutral, reader is han & leia's child, no use of y/n. lots of snarky banter. this was supposed to be flirty fluff but it turned into an angstfest so, yeah, sorry for that. finn eavesdrops and chewie is sassy bastard.

─── word count: 1.6k.

“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.”

Poe ducks his head and quickly manages to conceal the wince creeping onto his features just in time, but crouched in the cockpit beside him, Rey still feels his shoulders go stiff. She presses a hand to her mouth in a weak attempt to stifle her laugh, but she’s not quite successful as Poe shoots her a glare.

She doesn’t blame him, really. You are… Well, sort of scary when you’re angry.

There’s more than just a spark of your mother’s fire in you, that’s for sure.

Glancing over her shoulder, she finds you standing in the doorway, regarding the pair of them with a ruthless glare so sharp it might leave a mark.

Rey is suddenly pretty sure that Poe didn’t talk to you like he said he would.

“I go for a nap because I haven’t slept properly in two days after you—” The finger you jab in Poe’s direction might as well be a knife, the way he flinches, “— get us stranded in First Order territory after leading us on a wild goose chase, knock out the comms and the navigation with your, frankly batshit, behaviour which I have spent hours trying to fix, and then I left you with one simple instruction.”

Which… Alright, not all of that is strictly fair, Rey thinks, because at least half of the chaos of the past few days can be attributed to sheer bad luck, and another third can be blamed on decisions made under pressure whose outcomes boiled down to bad or worse.

It’s not really Poe’s fault. Not anymore than the rest of them, at least.

But Rey knows how you feel about this ship. The Falcon is your inheritance, the only real home you have left in the world. It’s all that is left of your father.

You were protective of it even before he died, and since—

Rey clears her throat. “I’m just gonna… go check on Finn.”

Poe’s expression reeks of betrayal as Rey scoots past you to go and find Finn, who’s loitering in the main hold with Chewbacca, but she’s not about to hang around and get caught in the crossfire between the two of you.

She doesn’t have a death wish.

Finn looks just suspicious enough, when she locates him, that she doesn’t even bother scolding him for eavesdropping. She’s about to do the same, after all.

“He told me he checked it was alright before we started reconfiguring the navicomputer.” Rey folds her arms across her chest, frowning in the direction of the cockpit. Your voice is still rattling down the corridor towards them.

Finn clicks his tongue. “Evidently not.”

In the cockpit, Poe pushes himself to stand, resting a hand on the back of the captain’s chair. Your voice is hard as duracrete as you take a step towards him, crowding the small space with so much of your frustration that it feels difficult to breathe.

Poe wonders if the sensors are on the blink, and someone popped an airlock somewhere, because the air feels a little thin. You jab in the chest with your finger, and all he does is blink, suddenly lightheaded.

“I gave you one instruction. I said, the nav systems are rebooting, I’m going grab some shuteye, don’t touch anything. And what do you do?”

“The console was beeping!”

“I don’t care if a damn mynock got in here and started eating it, I said don’t touch it.”

“But it’s alright for Rey to touch it?” He’s being petty, he knows that, but an angry flush has started creeping up your neck, and he wants to know what you look like with your cheeks coloured that delightful shade of pink.

“Rey didn’t break it!” A ragged breath tears from your throat, and you rake a hand roughly through your hair. “She knows what she’s doing. I trust her.”

“And you don’t trust me, is that it?” Something like sadness swirls low in his gut as he waits for your response. It hurts him to ask, even though he’s wearing his bravado like a mask, even though he likes pushing all your buttons because when your eyes flash like that, it’s like standing in the eye of a hurricane or falling in zero gravity.

You’re not friends, he knows that. Not since the day you met, and you pressed a blaster up against his neck in the cargo hold of your old ship and he’d grinned down at you as if getting his life threatened was his favourite pastime.

He’d been trying to steal it. You’re still not sure what happened, exactly, except that there were Stormtroopers firing at your ship — which, honestly, was held together by little more than string and sheer stubbornness at that point — and your mother’s favourite flyboy watching you with a bizarre hope in his eyes, and you’d just… hated him, in that moment.

Hated him for crashing into your life and dragging you, kicking and screaming, back to the life you’d fled. Hated your mother for her good heart and your father for running away. Hated the whole damn galaxy for not killing you when it had the chance.

Poe had wanted you to take him to D’Qar, but you’d spent too long leaving things behind to go back now, so you’d dropped him at the nearest safe outpost and prayed you’d never see him again.

Clearly, the universe had other plans.

It’s been years since that first encounter, but neither of you have warmed to one another since then. There’s very little point, you think. He’s unbearable, always needling at you, picking at all of your defences as if he has a right to know you.

It doesn’t matter. In the end, everyone leaves, one way or another.

You just wish he’d hurry up and do it, already.

You’re not friends, but you’re something more and something less, and the way your lower lip twitches at his question feels like a punch to the gut.

“Why should I?” You blink at him, and a moment later you realise how close you’ve grown, almost chest-to-chest with this man who drives you mad. With a rough swallow, you force yourself to take a step back.

He doesn’t move. Hardly dares to breathe, with his mouth curled into that little half-smirk he knows you hate, because it hurts that you don’t trust him, but it would hurt more if you knew it.

“Why shouldn’t you?”

A scoff. “Well, for starters, I don’t think you’ve ever had a plan that didn’t blow up in your face.”

The familiar howl of Finn’s laughter rolls down the corridor, quickly cut off by a quiet thump and a low, pained groan.

Poe blinks at you. “Excuse me?”

“And you don’t take proper care of the Falcon!” The controls and all their exposed wires serve to prove your point.

Turning on your heel, you march out into the corridor, abandoning him in the cockpit. He stares at your retreating form, unable to kick his brain back into gear for a few seconds, but a moment later he’s striding after you.

“I take care of the Falcon!”

A huff of laughter bubbles out of you, entirely lacking in humour. “Lightspeed skipping.”

“That was one time!” His voice squeaks out of him much higher than he’d like, and as they emerge into the main hold, he clears his throat. “And the Falcon was fine.”

You come to a stop so suddenly that he can almost hear your shoes screeching on the floor. “It was twice, and just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should. That seems like a lesson you should’ve learned by now, but no, you keep pushing it!”

Reckless and stubborn, headstrong and utterly selfless. Not for the first time, you regret being dragged back into this mess. Your life hadn’t exactly been peaceful before — you are your father’s child, after all — but it wasn’t this.

How many more heroes will you watch die before all of this is over?

How much of it can you take?

You watch one of those heroes stare at you, now, and it feels like you’ve swallowed a handful of broken glass.

Behind you, sitting at the dejarik table and making absolutely no attempt to disguise his eavesdropping, Finn leans close to Rey. “You’d never guess they were married, huh?”

He’s whispering, but it’s not exactly quiet.

As if you’re suddenly possessed by the same entity, you and Poe whirl around, mouths agape. “We are not married.”

An uncomfortable heat curls around your spine at the thought of it. Married to Poe Dameron? You cannot imagine anything worse.

Chewie, seated opposite Finn and Rey, makes an exasperated sound. Rey can’t help but snort.

You narrow your eyes at your father’s oldest friend, resting your hands on your hips. “‘Could’ve fooled me?’ Chewie, what are you talking about?”

As your wrath settles upon a new victim, Poe takes the opportunity to slip out of sight, with every intention of hiding in the Engineering Bay on the opposite end of the ship until the danger has passed.

Marching quickly down the corridor, Poe drags a hand over his unbearably warm face and feels like something beneath his ribcage is itching to crawl out. He thinks it might be his heart.

Married to you. Yeah. He can’t think of anything worse, either.

#* faye's work.#poe dameron x reader

252 notes · View notes

gooondocks · 3 months

Text

bury these bones — spencer reid.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: spencer's day isn't anything more than average, but a surprise phone call and impromptu hospital visit have him rethinking his expectations.

─── pairing: spencer reid x autistic!medical examiner!reader.

─── warnings: fluff, a little angst, reader is autistic & a mom, no use of y/n. swearing. mild description of injuries (not serious), references to the 'lauren' arc of season 6, hospitals, this is mostly just flirting with a bit of background angst. i did do some research but honestly all facts & figures in this are probably Not Accurate and should absolutely never be repeated.

─── word count: 1.9k.

IT ISN’T OFTEN THAT SPENCER is the first one into the office. More often than not, Hotch is already at his desk by the time dawn breaks, and Morgan can usually be found finishing up in the gym. Nobody ever expects Rossi to arrive on time — he usually strolls in a little after 9:30 with his blazer slung over his arm and a half-finished espresso in his hand — and Emily maintains some semblance of a work-life balance by appearing no sooner than work is supposed to start, if she can help it.

The point, Spencer supposes, is that his routine usually falls comfortably in the middle and yet, today, as he emerges from the elevator and heads towards his desk, the bullpen is almost eerily quiet.

Bizarre, he thinks, setting his bag down by his chair. The BAU is so often abuzz with activity, the low hum of worker bees all in a hive slipping into background noise, that to see it so empty is… jarring, to say the least.

Spencer heads for the kitchen after a moment, ears ringing in the silence, and makes a pot of coffee before meandering back to his desk. A glance at the clock tells him that it’s still early, and as a mouthful of too-sweet coffee sits on his tongue, he reaches into his bag and draws out today’s paper, flipping through to the crossword.

Silence is golden, after all. If he’s lucky, he’ll beat his personal best.

He’s halfway through, about to move on to 6, down, when the phone rings. The shrill sound of it pierces the air, and Spencer can’t help flinching a little as it startles him. Eyes dart all over the bullpen, trying to locate the source of the noise, before they land on Emily's desk. The offending phone trills on and on. One of the lights blinks red. External call.

He discards the newspaper on his desk, tucking a spare pen inside so the page isn’t lost, and strides across the office to Emily’s desk to answer the phone. It won’t be the first time he’s taken a message for one of his coworkers, and he suspects Emily would rather this than letting the call ring out.

“Agent Prentiss’ phone.” His voice feels too loud in the sudden silence of the office, now that the ringing has ceased. “Dr. Reid speaking. Can I help you?”

“Dr. Reid?” The voice crackling down the line lilts with confusion, and his chest floods with warmth at the familiarity of it.

He can almost picture you, in his mind’s eye. The exact expression on your face as you hear him speak instead of Emily, the little scrunch of your nose, your head tilting to the side. It’s the same look you have when you find something strange inside a cadaver.

The same bewildered wrinkle appears between your brows when you’re on the plane after a case and Spencer’s trying to teach you how to play chess, and you start to laugh and tell him you’re hopeless, but his persistence is endearing, so you let him explain the rules all over again.

(You’ve only been part of the team for a few months, only accompanied them on cases a handful of times, but the sound of your voice is as familiar to him as the moon on a winter’s night. He can’t quite put his finger on when or how he became so attuned to you, drawn in the same way the moon pulls the tide, but he’s certainly not complaining.)

“I keep telling you to call me Spencer.” An amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You scoff. “That’s not professional.”

“Our technical analyst tucks fluffy pens into her hair, and on our last case together I walked in on you dancing to Abba in the middle of an autopsy. I think professionalism is a thing of the past.”

“Bite me, Dr. Reid,” you say, but your words are flooded with affection. “Where’s Prentiss? Why are you answering her phone?”

Spencer shrugs. “She’s not in yet. Anything I can help with?”

Silence. If not for the sound of your breathing, Spencer might think the call dropped.

Another moment passes before you swallow thickly, a quiet gulp that sends an odd zing skittering through Spencer’s nervous system.

“I need a favour and I don’t want to worry Jackie.”

From what he’s heard about your sister-in-law, Spencer thinks that’s fair. “Sure, what is it?”

“Can you pick me up from the hospital?”

Recent surveys conducted by NORC at the University of Chicago suggest that almost half of the American population dislike hospitals, so Spencer knows he’s not alone in his discomfort, but none of his facts and figures are helpful the moment he steps into the Emergency Room at St. Sebastian’s.

The clinical scent of disinfectant sends a thousand tiny spiders crawling up his spine. He tries not to gag but he swears he can taste it at the back of his throat. Spencer forces himself to pause near the door and shuts his eyes, just for a moment, to focus on the solid ground beneath his feet rather than the lurching of his stomach.

In his line of work, he’s no stranger to hospitals. To meandering through long, dim corridors in search of something to occupy his thoughts, of all the beige and stark white walls so bright it hurts his eyes, of lumpy hospital beds and IVs itching beneath his skin and that smell.

He was here, not that long ago. He’d wept when they told him Emily had died in surgery, and she’s fine now, but he can still taste iron on his tongue and sometimes it’s still hard to believe she’s alive until she walks through the door unharmed.

When he opens his eyes again, the ER is still the same, but the unpleasant churning in his stomach has started to subside. At the desk, he reels off your name, stuttering as he goes, before the nurse directs him over to Bay 3.

I was in a car accident. That’s what you’d said on the phone, and his whole body had gone suddenly cold even though you’d seemed oddly cheery, and he’d had to remind himself to breathe. You were calling, not a nurse or a doctor, so it surely couldn’t be that bad.

But he doesn’t believe it, not really. Not until he sets eyes on you himself. Not until he can see the truth right in front of him.

You’re sitting cross-legged on one of the narrow ER beds. The curtain is pushed out of the way, and he can see your shoes have been tucked neatly beside the bed and your socks have little mushrooms on them. You’re not in a hospital gown but jeans, and a laugh bubbles up in his throat because your shirt says ‘meaner than I look’, which is patently untrue in his experience — but he also files this away in the rolodex of reasons you should call him Spencer, because you were going to show up to work dressed like this, and he never wants to hear the word professional out of your mouth again.

He also wants to take a picture, kind of, because there’s something so endearing about the image. He’s often grateful to have an eidetic memory, but never more than in this moment. He wants to remember this forever.

Spencer clears his throat as he approaches. The smile you send him as you look up and notice him is bright and wide and it makes him feel all warm and happy, like a cat curled up in a patch of sunlight.

“What happened?” His gaze is wary as it trails over you from head to toe, quickly cataloguing all your injuries. You hadn’t explained much over the phone, and he hadn’t thought to ask in his haste to reach the hospital, but now his eyes snag on the bruise blossoming over your cheek and it’s all he can think about.

You don’t look too bad, all things considered.

The bruise looks worse than it feels. The collar of your shirt is speckled with blood, but the cut above your temple is shallow and sealed with two steri-strips.

All-in-all, it could’ve been worse.

“My tire blew while I was driving into work this morning,” you tell him as you tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “The car spun out. All of this—” You gesture vaguely at your face, “was caused by the airbag. But I’m fine.”

It’s not that Spencer thinks you’re lying. It’s not.

But you can’t quite look him in the eye, and you’re wearing the same guilty expression you have when you pilfer the last of the coffee, so he’s not about to take your word for it.

A quick glance at your chart offers all the answers.

“You have a concussion!”

“A mild concussion! Mild! I don’t even have a headache!”

It’s a good thing you called him— or, well, Emily, rather than your sister-in-law. According to you, Jackie has been known to freak out over a paper cut. This might have given her a coronary.

Spencer frowns. “You needed a CT scan.”

“Precautionary measure.” A nonchalant wave of your hand follows your words. “I’m a doctor too, remember? I’m fine. Really.”

“They say doctors make the worst patients.”

You grin at him. “I already had a meltdown in the bathroom earlier. Scared a nurse. I think he wanted to sedate me but then he saw my lanyard and he took me to a quiet room to decompress. I’m good, I promise.”

The lanyard in question is covered in little sunflowers and tucked inside one of your shoes for safekeeping. Displayed on one side of the little plastic window is your Quantico identification; on the other, a little slip of paper Spencer suspects you made yourself, judging by the pink floral background and slanting script that I’m autistic and trying my fucking best.

The sight of it is familiar to him now, the same way your smile is seared onto his brain for eternity, but he recalls seeing it for the first time and chuckling. You’d offered to get one for him, too, gleefully declaring that you’re just like a sunflower, Dr. Reid, and there’d been so many butterflies in his stomach that he could have taken flight, then and there.

Now he merely hums, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. Stepping back, he watches as you slip your shoes back on and shoulder your bag, having signed a release form not long before he arrived.

“Hey, Spencer?” Your voice is small, and the way you’re looking at him, all wide-eyed and wonderful, brings those butterflies back tenfold. He hopes the flush of his cheeks isn’t too obvious.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for coming to get me. I’m really okay, I promise. I’ve had worse.”

His heart pinches.

He doesn’t like that you’ve had worse.

“Well,” he says, after a moment too long of staring at you, “mild or not, I’m not leaving you alone for the rest of the day. We’re going to follow the concussion protocol. 65% of people reported developing hearing and memory problems as a result of missed symptoms of head-related trauma last year.”

You’re watching him. The corner of your eyes are a little wrinkled. A fond smile toys on your lips. “I expected nothing less, Dr. Reid.”

#* faye's work.#spencer reid x reader

272 notes · View notes

gooondocks · 3 months

Text

a touch of colour — eddie diaz.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: eddie and chris' home is freakishly empty. you decide to redecorate a little.

─── pairing: eddie diaz x reader.

─── warnings & notes: fluffy fluff. no use of y/n, this was just supposed to be a short drabble but it ran aay from me and eddie might seem a little ooc but i don't even care it's so cute.

─── word count: 2.7k.

“BUCK, CAN I BORROW YOUR KEY to Eddie’s place, please?”

Your arrival at the station house isn’t preceded by any warning, and though it isn’t your intention to sneak up on Buck, he doesn’t seem to hear you coming. A panicked shriek tears itself from his throat as he drops what he’s holding, and the spray bottle full of cleaning fluid clatters to the floor at your feet.

An amused smile curls at your lips as he tries to play it off, ducking his head to hide the embarrassment blossoming in bright red spots across his cheeks.

“Uh, hey.” The words stumble out of Buck and he coughs, trying to recover what remains of his dignity. “You know, sneaking up on people isn’t good for your health. What if I’d panicked and thrown a punch or something?”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You did panic, Buck. Seems like it’s worse for your health than mine. Key, please?”

“Eddie’s just up in the loft, I can grab him if you want.”

It’s your turn to look a little sheepish. “Please don’t. It’s a surprise. Or it will be a surprise, if you let me borrow your key. I’ll return it tomorrow, I promise, and I’m not going to let a bunch of raccoons loose in there or anything━”

Buck blinks. The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, just enough to let you know that he’s teasing. Mostly. “I wasn’t worried, but now I am.”

“I’m saving the raccoons for your apartment, actually,” you tell him, and now you’re not even really asking anymore, know that Buck will inevitably break because you’re Eddie’s girlfriend, and he actually likes you, and most importantly, his insatiable curiosity will not allow him to deny you. Hand outstretched, you wiggle your fingers expectantly. “Key, please.”

He huffs at you as if you’ve asked him to scale Mount Everest in nothing but swim trunks, rather than the perfectly reasonable request you’ve actually made, and makes a show of tugging the key to Eddie’s house off the keyring before passing it along to you.

“I have only one condition,” says Buck, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he presses the key into your palm.

You watch him warily. You’ve been dating Eddie, and subsequently been acquainted with Buck, long enough to recognise that look. “What?”

“Whatever you’re doing, make sure you film his reaction. I’ve got a funny feeling he’s gonna freak out.”

A nervous laugh bubbles in your throat, and you can’t help rolling your lips together as you pocket the key. It doesn’t take a genius to know that Eddie Diaz isn’t overly fond of surprises, but… fuck, you hope this one goes down well.

“I’ll keep you posted, Buck.” You offer him a two-fingered salute and turn on your heel, hurrying out of the firehouse before Eddie catches you sneaking around.

What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?

Here’s the thing.

The first time Eddie invited you back to his place, you hadn’t really seen it. A euphoric haze had clouded all rational thought in your brain, because this brilliant guy you’d fallen head over heels for was so obviously guarded, and you’d been so happy the day he’d kissed you and invited you back to his place for coffee.

You’d been dating for three months by that point, and you’d wandered in and out of his house without really seeing anything except for him.

Meeting Christopher had gone much the same way. On the drive over you’d been rattling with nerves so much that you’d had to pull over on the freeway and shake out the cramp in your hand after white-knuckling the steering wheel. Your heart had thudded so hard in your chest that you worried Eddie would be able to hear it from the other side of the room.

There had been nothing to worry about, in the end, and almost a year on, you’re certain that neither of these boys can be pried out of the space they’ve created in your heart. Somehow, without really noticing, the pair of them have made a home there, built on a foundation of blood and muscle and all the love in your body.

You’re not sure your heart would know how to beat without them now.

And you love them, you love them, you love them both with everything you have…

… but this damn house is driving you insane.

There’s nothing wrong with it, in particular. It’s small and functional, perfect for the little family it shelters. Beige walls, basic furniture, sparse decorations that Eddie definitely had nothing to do with, and that’s sort of… it.

Now, you’re not an interior decorator, and you’d managed to miss it the first few times you visited, but now it’s like the blank walls are mocking you. Now you’ve seen it, you know, and the stark bleakness of this house has become a glaringly obvious problem that you’ve finally decided to tackle.

Unlocking the door with Buck’s key, you manage to nudge it open with your hip, hands and wrists weighed down with Target shopping bags that you dump on the floor the moment the door is closed. Tucking Buck’s key back into your pocket ━ Eddie gave you a key almost six months ago, but you’ve managed to lose four of them since, so it’s widely agreed that it’s best you borrow Eddie’s or Buck’s or Carla’s whenever you need to ━ you turn to the sparse open space of the kitchen/diner.

Hands settling on your hips, a slow breath escapes through your teeth as you survey the house. Christopher’s room is the only one with any personality, and you wouldn’t dare intrude on his privacy in that way anyway. Eddie’s room, similarly, feels off-limits.

But the rest of the house? Fair game.

When Eddie stumbles through the front door at the end of his shift, he doesn’t notice it right away. Not your bag hanging on a hook by the door, or your shoes tucked neatly against the wall. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton after a twelve-hour shift, and he’s simply grateful that Carla offered to drop Christopher off later, rather than have Eddie come pick him up after his shift.

He doesn’t notice you lingering in the kitchen with a bottle of beer in your hand until you clear your throat, and then he looks over, and a tired smile spreads over his face.

“That for me?” he asks, as hold out the beer bottle towards him, drops of condensation soaking your fingers.

“It’s definitely not for me.” You wrinkle your nose playfully as he accepts the drink, and you lean over the counter to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. You hand over Buck’s key, and with it, all the anxiety you’ve felt since it first landed in your possession that morning. “Give this back to Buck for me? If I lose another one, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Eddie chuckles and tucks the key into his pocket. “Buck didn’t mention you came by the firehouse.”

“I asked him not to.” Your voice wavers, just a little. The way you’re picking at a loose bit of skin near your thumb lets him know you’re nervous, and he reaches out with his free hand, curling rough fingers around your own. Unable to help yourself, a deluge of words start to babble out of you. “I did a thing. And I’m aware that you may not like the thing, and it almost certainly wasn’t my place which I’m realising now, but it seemed like a pretty harmless idea at the time?”

“Baby━”

“And if you hate it, I can take it all away! We can pretend I never did it, it’s just that your walls were driving me freaking insane, like which decorator decided that beige was a good base colour because I would like to have a word━”

“Hey!” A gentle squeeze of your hand grabs your attention, and when you look back at Eddie, the sight of him knocks the breath of you. You never knew eyes could be so big and brown and full of love, and even though there’s a little humour glinting in there at your expense, you still find it a little difficult to breathe.

Fuck, you love this man.

“What am I supposed to hate, exactly?” There’s a lilt of laughter in his voice, a gentle quirk to the corner of his mouth.

You want to kiss him until it blossoms into a full-blown grin. You hope you’re lucky enough to make this man laugh forever.

The look on his face helps to ease the tension in your shoulders. Slowly, you reach out and take the beer bottle from his grip, setting it on the counter. Instead, you replace it with your own hand, threading your fingers through his, a little chilly where the bottle pressed against his skin.

“Let me show you.”

Guiding him by the hand, you lead him through to the living room, and at first, he’s not sure what’s changed. There’s still the couch, and the TV, and the coffee table he knows you’ve always hated because it’s glass, and who has a glass coffee table, Eddie, you're a firefighter and this feels like a recipe for disaster!

(You’ve seen way too many movies where characters end up crashing through a glass coffee table but you still think it’s a valid point.)

And then he sees them.

He spots the first one next to the television; a picture of Chris from a few months ago, the first time all three of you went to the beach together. He’s grinning at the camera and there’s a dab of ice-cream on his nose from where you swiped him just a moment before. Eddie remembers taking this and sending it to you.

It wasn’t the first moment he realised he loved you, not by a long shot, but he hadn’t said it yet, and that day on the beach had cemented your place in his heart even further.

The picture is small, sitting in a quirky silver frame that you’ve glued a few seashells to.

The next two are over on the mantel. A photograph of the 118 in Bobby and Athena’s backyard last summer; Bobby’s frowning in the foreground, having been bullied into wearing a Kiss The Cook apron by Buck and Hen, while the rest of them are howling with laughter behind him. The other is a picture of Christopher and Shannon cuddled together beneath the Christmas tree.

Tucked between them, bizarrely, is a little wooden figurine of a runner duck wearing galoshes. This one, he knows, came from your personal collection.

Eddie’s heart stutters in his chest as he turns, finally, to the big thing. The wall behind the couch has always been depressingly bare, a dull expanse of beige paint that he’s always sworn he’d do something with, eventually.

Hell, the whole house is bare. And depressing. This, he’s ready to admit, even if the reason for it used to sting a little bit.

Before now, the only personal touches in his home belonged to Christopher. Report cards and drawings stuck to the fridge with kitschy magnets from tourist spots. An ever-changing pile of video games stacked on the floor next to the TV. A dinosaur-print throw that was dragged from Christopher’s bedroom on a lazy Sunday that hasn’t quite managed to migrate back there yet.

It was never that way on purpose. At first, he thinks, it was a reluctance to put down roots. Life was hectic enough, with his work schedule and Christopher switching schools. Before Carla, Eddie hardly had a moment to breathe, let alone think about decorating their home beyond the bare minimum required to get by.

And then, he thinks, it might have been guilt.

He doesn’t dare to dwell on that for too long. He feels your hand in his own, steady as a rock, and stares, glassy-eyed, at the wall you’ve managed to transform into something… something that feels like home.

A collage of wooden picture frames are scattered over the surface of the wall, in varying hues of warmth that contrast nicely with the beige that peeks through the cracks. A beige that, formerly, kind of made him want to scratch his eyes out. He hadn’t quite realised that until now.

Dozens of smiling faces peer down at him. A handful of memories he holds most dear, and each of them sends a flush of warmth through his chest.

There’s the day Chris was born, and he’s staring at this tiny baby in his arms as if he’s holding the sun and stars themselves. There’s Buck and Chris at the zoo, posing near the penguin exhibit. There’s Eddie, on the day he was certified as a full-fledged member of the LAFD, shaking Bobby’s hand. There’s even a picture where he’s fallen asleep on the couch, and his sisters are brandishing Sharpies like the little demons they are, drawing a moustache and beard that took days to properly fade away.

It’s such a little thing, really. They’re just pictures. But his throat feels tight and his eyes are wet and it doesn’t feel little to him. Not at all.

“You thought I’d hate this?” He’ll never admit that the words come out a little choked up.

You shrug. “You’re not a fan of surprises.”

“I might be now.”

And you both know it’s not true, that Eddie will never be that guy, but this is fine. This is perfect, and he’s damn sure it might be the nicest thing any girlfriend’s ever done for him.

He turns to you, a thousand more questions on the tip of his tongue, when he notices you’re holding your phone up with your free hand. A confused furrow appears between his brows.

“Buck,” you tell him, and it really doesn’t require further explanation, but still you add, “He thought you’d freak out. Asked for evidence.”

“Ah.” Eddie nods. You put your phone away as he winds his arms around your waist, pulling you close enough to kiss the tip of your nose. “I’m not freaking out.”

“I noticed.”

“Thank you,” he says, and kisses you again. This time his mouth slides against yours and lingers there for a few seconds, slow and gentle. “I can’t help but notice you’re not in any of the pictures.”

Your cheeks turn a rosy pink. “That would have been a little presumptuous of me, Mr. Diaz. And I was already hijacking your home for my own selfish agenda, so…”

“Wanna hijack it some more?”

The question slips out without any warning, and you blink up at your boyfriend in bewilderment. “Uh?”

Eddie smiles, wide and wonderful, and even though it’s not possible to fall more in love with him, you think you do.

“I talked to Chris about it a while ago,” he tells you, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your hip. “I was just waiting for the right time to ask you. And then you went all House Flipper anyway━”

“I did not go all House Flipper!”

“━ so it feels like the right time to ask.”

You watch him for a moment, all soft at the edges. “You want me to move in with you?”

“I think you’ve got a tartan throw that would look great in here,” he says teasingly, “and that little duck is part of a collection. He might get lonely.”

“He might,” you concede with a hum.

There is enough space on that mantel for the whole family.

You feel like there’s a tiny sun in your chest, like you might honest-to-God be glowing from the inside out right now, and when you pull Eddie down so you can kiss him again, you know without a doubt that the answer is yes.

There are a hundred things to figure out. You have a lease to get out of, and an apartment filled with enough clutter to furnish ten houses, and you’ve really got to figure out a solution for the key situation, because it’s getting ridiculous.

But in this moment, none of that matters. It’s you, and Eddie, and Chris, and a bare apartment suddenly filled with a lifetime of potential, and you just know everything is going to be fine.

And you hope, for a moment, that he’ll let you replace the couch next.

#* faye's work.#eddie diaz x reader

645 notes · View notes

gooondocks · 3 months

Text

la vie en rose — sirius black.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: it's just a regular tuesday in july until an escaped convict appears in your kitchen. oh, and he happens to be your ex.

─── pairing: sirius black x reader.

─── warnings: set in prisoner of azkaban. mentions of death (canon characters.) swearing. there will probably be a part 2 at some point.

─── word count: 1.8k.

IT IS THE SECOND TUESDAY IN THE MONTH OF JULY, and you have a bad feeling.

It comes with no warning, not heralded by a black mood or a grey, rainy sky, no creeping sensation lingering like a ghost at your back, causing the hair on your neck to stand on end.

The sun is shining high in the sky. Residents of the little village huddle together at tables in the beer garden, tucked beneath huge umbrellas charmed to prevent sunburn. The summer holidays started a week ago, so there are no students milling about; only families you have known since birth, grizzled faces and smiling ones, long beards tied back in the heat, witches who have swapped out their usual pointed hats for wide-brimmed ones.

It is hot and bright, someone has set the communal barbecue to work grilling burgers; there are drinks to be had, someone is calling for a round of firewhiskey shots, and all-in-all, it is the sort of day you dream of when you think of summer at the Three Broomsticks.

There is no reason at all to have a bad feeling, and yet...

It came over you like a wave the moment you woke up. Your room had already been almost unbearably warm, light spilling through the crack in the curtains, and a distant, suspicious buzzing that you suspected must be a bug that had come in through the open window in the night, but you'd had no time to dwell on it.

The feeling had crashed into you, dark and sickly. It had stayed, even through a chilly shower and a round of French toast for breakfast, settling over you like a blanket made of stone. It was heavy, and you hated it.

You hadn't felt this way in years.

Aunt Ros had noted it the moment you got into work, sneaking through the back door with a face like thunder. If there is anything anyone knows about you, it is this ━ you have a concerningly happy disposition. In spite of everything you endured in your youth, or perhaps because of it, you’ve been known to flutter about the pub as if you’re living on a cloud, able to draw a smile out of even the grumpiest patron.

Your past is a bleak stain on your life, and it is something you know you’ll never be able to scrub clean. Nor would you want to. No matter the sins of the people you once loved, or the graves where you’ve laid the remains of your heart, you cannot erase them. It would be such an injustice.

The world is a shitty enough place, anyway, but that doesn’t mean you have to be.

Today, though, it seems the world has got its grubby hands all over you, because it feels utterly impossible to shift this mood. Aunt Ros had frowned at you the moment you stepped into the back room. She’d tutted before you’d even had the chance to hang your bag on the hook, squinting over the thick frame of her glasses.

“Did a gnome manage to get into your greenhouse again, or is somebody dead?”

You’d huffed at her. “Neither.” You hadn’t had a stray gnome in your greenhouse for two years, and the perimeter spell you’d put on it would fry the little bastards if they dared to try. And as far as you’re aware, nobody is dead. Nobody new, anyway.

Your heart had twinged a little, the way it always does when you think of your old friends.

“Haven’t read the paper this morning, yet, then?” Aunt Ros had looked away from you, her voice taking on a peculiarly high pitch. She’d begun to fuss with a stack of unwashed glasses from the night before, drawing out her wand to cast a spell to start the washing-up.

You’d paused. Alarm bells began to ring in your mind. “What’s happened, Aunt Ros?”

“Better see for yourself, love.”

You’d skirted around her and headed into the office. A copy of today’s Daily Prophet had laid open on her desk. The usual mess of paperwork had been shoved aside, and the headline had glared up at you in stark black and white.

SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN!

The floor had suddenly felt horribly unsteady beneath your feet. Your hand darted out to grip the edge of the desk, and you’d found yourself thanking every deity you could name that you’d come into the pub through the back door today.

You’re certain every single one of the patrons huddled in the next room wouldn’t hesitate to stare at you. Or worse, want to talk about it.

As if you have anything left to say that hasn’t already been said a hundred times over.

Your ex-fiance’s mugshot graces the front page. It’s a recent one, clearly, and you’d swallow back the bile that rises in your throat at the sight of him.

“You should go home, love.” Aunt Ros had followed you into the office. “Take the day off.”

There’d been little point in arguing. Madam Rosmerta’s stubbornness is unrivalled, she’d been the landlady of the Three Broomsticks for at least a decade now, and besides, there’s very little to say. Her gaze had been dark and filled with pity, but an edge of vitriol had crept in when she glanced at Sirius Black’s picture.

Her feelings about your ex are clear. Exceedingly so. You’re the only one who ever believed his innocence, and everyone knows that.

So you’d folded up the newspaper and tucked it beneath your arm, retrieved your bag from the hook and retreated through the back door without argument. Now you keep your head down as you weave through Hogsmeade’s narrow streets on the way back to your little cottage. The sun beats down against the back of your neck. You swear you can hear people whispering as you pass by.

The sight of your garden, with its neat little rows of marigolds and pink roses and tufts of lavender waving in the warm breeze, offers more relief than you thought was possible.

Flowers have always had that effect on you. Even during the darkest days of the war, even when the aftermath of it had seemed so impossibly bleak, sinking your hands into cool pots of soil had eased your aching soul.

There’s just something about the life of it all. How, even in the depths of winter, you know that spring will come again. You know the buds will bloom anew. You know that, every year, dead things come back to life.

Upon reaching the garden gate, with its ever-creaking hinge and rusting iron handle, you cannot help but pause. The front door catches your eye, but for once it isn’t the pretty blue paint you notice, or the bright hanging baskets of geraniums on either side of the door.

The door is hanging slightly ajar. The paint is chipped around the broken lock, which was certainly not broken when you left for work an hour ago.

Not again.

You thought you’d experienced the last of the break-ins years ago. They used to be a regular thing, back when the war first ended. So-called friends of the Potters wielding their righteousness like a blade, even though you’d barely spoken two words to these people at school. Even though not a single one of them could name Lily’s favourite colour, or recalled the name of James’ owl.

Hypocrites, all of them. Drunk on power and freedom, the freedom that your friends had sacrificed themselves to gain.

They would break in and curse you, hating you for defending Sirius so staunchly, but how could you not? How could you ever live with yourself if you hadn’t?

You’d known him. Known Sirius as well as your own mind. Trusted him with your life, your heart, and how could anyone claim he’d done it? How could anyone believe it?

The aurors had been no help at all. You were an irritation to them, with your constant campaigning for more evidence, for a fair trial, for anything. You were lucky to get them even to file a report about the break-ins, let alone investigate. That’s part of why you had to move, at least in the beginning.

Living in the shadow of the school hadn’t done you any good, either. All those memories.

All those ghosts.

You draw your wand and push the door open, stepping cautiously over the threshold. You’d been a lot softer back then, sweeter than honey and freshly-bruised by the world.

That sweetness is still inside you. In every smile and chiming laugh, in the way you carry yourself, in the petals pressed against your fingers and the love you hold for the people you’ve lost. It’s still there, undeniably.

But these days, you’ve got a little more sting, too.

“If you’re not supposed to be here, I’m going to give you five seconds to leave through the back door!” Your warning carries through the corridors of your seemingly empty house, and as the seconds pass, the tension in your shoulders starts to ease, but then━

A scuffling noise at the back of the house. Near the kitchen, you think. A clattering sound, as if somebody dropped something.

You don’t hesitate for a moment longer.

Wand held tight in your grip, you charge through to the kitchen, a jinx settled on the tip of your tongue as you round the corner, but the sight you find causes your feet to come screeching to a halt in the doorway.

There’s a man in the middle of your kitchen.

Now this alone wouldn’t be so alarming, if you had a brother or a boyfriend or if, perhaps, Remus had bothered to reply to any of your letters in the last decade-or-so. but none of those things are true.

And this man, this man you recognise.

The years have changed him. He’s more than a decade older than last you saw him, though aged immeasurably by his time in captivity, with dark hair hanging in limp, bedraggled strands just above his shoulders. Ragged prison garb sits loosely on his frame, torn at the edges and smeared with dirt in places.

There’s a manic look in his eye. Bright and stormy and mad, which is so familiar that your heart stumbles inside your chest the way it did when you were young. He looks just like he did at seventeen and McGonagall would catch them in the kitchens after curfew.

That boyish innocence paired with the haunted look in his eyes is like a punch to the gut.

A dish lies in shattered pieces on your kitchen floor, and it takes longer than you’d like for your brain to kick back into gear, but when it does, all you can manage is a peculiar, choked sound.

There is an escaped convict in your kitchen, after all. Even if he happens to be your ex.

“Sirius? What the fuck?”

#* faye's work.#sirius black x reader

202 notes · View notes

gooondocks · 3 months

Text

a lack of caffeine — spencer reid.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: caffeine makes the world go 'round. that's something you and spencer can agree on.

─── pairing: spencer reid x autistic!medical examiner!reader.

─── warnings: fluff, reader is autistic & a mom, spencer's iq gets slashed to sixty when he talks to pretty girls and it's my favourite thing. no use of y/n. swearing. i really fucking struggled with this it's so boring. thank you to everyone who requested a part 2!

─── word count: 1.8k.

The call comes in at four in the morning.

The screen reads three missed calls by the time its incessant buzzing rouses you from your slumber, and you pull it out from beneath your pillow. Squinting at the sudden brightness of it, an unlisted number stares back at you as your phone keeps vibrating insistently in your grip.

When you finally wake up enough to realise it could be work, you answer it. Agent Hotchner's familiar voice is stern and low and only a little apologetic as he informs you that you're going to be required in the field for a new case, and you should be at the airfield within the hour.

There isn't enough time to ask any questions before the line clicks, and you're left blinking into the dim light of your bedroom as you try to gather your bearings.

Sleep itches at the corners of your eyes, all gritty and blurry, and though part of your mind recalls reading this little clause in the contract you’d signed, that constant availability takes on a whole new meaning when you work for the BAU, you still take a moment to fantasise about pushing Aaron Hotchner off a cliff.

You’re not a morning person. And you would argue that 4AM isn’t even the morning, it’s the middle of the night, and why can’t serial killers do their business during normal business hours?

A new case. Not your first case since joining the unit as their resident independent medical examiner, but the first where you would join the rest of the team in the field. The first where you'll be required to exert federal authority over county coroners, where you'll have to step on toes in order to get the job done.

You know they won't take too well to an outsider coming in and derailing their whole thing. You know you wouldn't. You used to be one of them, not that long ago.

Ah, shit. As the drowsiness begins to fade out of your body, a light panic trickles in. Your skin starts to buzz as if you put your finger into a live socket. You grip your phone so hard it leaves a mark on your palm.

It takes ten minutes to get ready, stumbling around your room and shoving clothes into a bag. You don't really care about matching socks, but you count out your underwear three times and hope you won't run out before the case is done. Do they have laundries you'll be able to use? Have the other members of the BAU ever encountered this problem? Should you pack your hair straightener or is it really going to matter?

When you've finally dragged a brush through your hair and dumped the last of your toiletries into a ziploc bag, a dull realisation strikes you.

Jackie.

Going toe-to-toe with a rabid raccoon might be more appealing than waking up your sister-in-law in the middle of the night, but you don't really have much choice. She has to know what's going on, she'll be in charge of your daughter for however long you'll be gone, and leaving a note on the kitchen counter feels like the wrong move to make in this instance.

Is there a protocol for this? A single-parent handbook you can check out at the library? This is something you really should've talked about when you got the job, you know that. You'd known it would require you to travel on occasion, often without prior notice, but it hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time. You'd brushed it under the rug, labelled it to be discussed later as if you and Jackie have ever actually sat down and done that.

A thousand things sit unsaid between you. That rug has got a little mountain under it by now, almost impossible to ignore. It’s really only a matter of time before you trip over it.

“Jackie. Jackie.”

Your sister-in-law grumbles when you sneak into her room and poke her, hard and repeatedly, until she threatens to bite you. The news of your leaving doesn't take her by surprise — exhaustion seems to dull the stung of it — and she promises to call twice a day, every day, before she buries her face back into the pillow and starts to snore like a lawnmower.

You hope she never, ever changes.

Pressing a kiss to your sleeping daughter's forehead is the last thing you do before you finally manage to drag yourself out of the apartment. A dull ache thuds in your chest, where your heart should be. She'd looked so peaceful, so sweet, and you can't recall a time since she was born that you'd been apart from her for longer than a day. Her bright, happy giggle and wide eyes flash through your mind.

As your car peels out of the parking garage, you feel distinctly like a piece of laundry someone hung out to dry and then forgot about.

The sun is just beginning to kiss the horizon as you pull up to the airfield. Long streaks of a pink-fingered dawn creep across the sky. You flash your identification at the security guard and pull up alongside the jet, scrambling to grab your bag from the passenger seat.

It doesn't surprise you that you're the last to arrive, but you'd hoped that wouldn't be the case.

The clock just strikes 5AM as you clatter up the steps, practically falling into the aircraft. Technically, you're on time, but it still feels like you're late for class and your teacher is about to put it on your permanent record. A kind-faced hostess greets you, offers to stow your bag, and you flash her a sheepish smile as you hand it over and pass through the curtains into the main cabin.

"Holy shit."

You can't help yourself. Every single member of the team turns to look at you, craning their necks to see exactly who they're dealing with, but you can't even bring yourself to care. "This is a jet. It's actually... a jet."

You blink at the open space as your jaw goes a little slack. Do you sound a little insane? Sure, and ordinarily you'd feel self-conscious with several pairs of unfamiliar eyes gawking at you, analysing your every movement as if it's their job to do so — and it actually is — but this honestly insane.

You had no idea the BAU had this kind of budget. Do they own the plane? Do they rent it? Is it publically funded by the taxpayer, and why can't they fly commercial? Like, you're not complaining at all, those leather seats look so comfortable, but why—?

An austere voice says your name once, twice, and you blink, looking up to find the furrowed brow of your boss frowning at you down the aisle.

"Take a seat, doctor, we're about to take off."

His tone leaves no room for argument. A flush rises in your cheeks, and you manage to stammer out an apology before throwing yourself into the nearest available seat, buckling your seatbelt.

"It's a good thing you're the M.E and not a profiler, sweetcheeks." One of the agents nearest to you leans across the aisle. A charming grin spreads over his face as he offers up his hand in greeting. "Derek Morgan."

"Oh, I know," you reply, shaking his hand firmly. "I, uh, looked you guys up after Dr. Reid paid a visit to the underworld and I didn't recognise him. Figured I should be a little more familiar with the other members of my team."

"The underworld?" A blonde woman you realise must be Agent Jareau gives you a friendly, if slightly confused, smile.

You shrug, suddenly a little embarrassed. Group settings have never been your thing. Too many people, too many unfamiliar eyes, far too many voices clashing together until it all becomes a sensory nightmare.

You much prefer your little lab, and one-on-one conversations, usually with the unlucky cadavers that find themselves on your slab. They never talk back.

"It's just what I call the morgue," you tell her. A loose bit of skin hangs off the edge of your nail, and you really, really want to pick at it. Fatigue hovers at the edge of your consciousness, and as the plane engines begin to roar, you find yourself wishing you’d made a coffee before leaving the apartment.

You would have been late, for sure, but life would feel worth living so, y’know. Swings and roundabouts.

"In Greek mythology, the underworld is where an individual goes after death. Early ideas suggest that someone’s essence, their psyche, is separated from their corpse at the point of death and transported to the underworld. Accounts differ on whether any judgement occurs, depending on which scholarship you’re citing." A familiar voice pipes up from the back of the plane and you glance over. The rich brown eyes looking back fill you with an odd warmth.

More at ease with a familiar face, you settle back in your seat and lift your hand in a lazy wave. "Good morning, Dr Reid. It's nice to see you when I'm not elbow-deep in someone's intestines."

Agent Jareau wrinkles her nose. "Now I'm really glad I didn't have time for breakfast."

Reid's ears turn bright pink and he looks away, stuttering out his reply. "It's good to see you too. Uh, well, not good, given the circumstances, since there's a serial killer on the loose, but good because—"

"We get the picture, Reid," Agent Hotchner cuts him off, and Reid turns his gaze back to the small window, a little flustered. Hotch looks, bizarrely, like he's trying not to smile. "Welcome to the team. We'll go over the case details once we're in the air."

“Is there coffee in the air?” There might be a murder mid-flight otherwise. Really, how do they function at this time in the morning? The plane judders as it rolls over the tarmac, heading for the runway. “Or tea, or soda, or— Honestly, I’ll take whatever. I just don’t want to fall asleep in a body cavity later on.”

Again.

Reid finds himself nodding, entirely against his will. There’s something about the peculiar medical examiner, something he can’t quite put his finger on, but it makes him want to keep talking. More than usual, at least.

He wonders if there’s duct tape on board. Or a parachute.

“There’s coffee,” he confirms. Is his voice a little high?

“Dr. Reid, I could kiss you—”

Oh, hell. Judging by the way Morgan has a hand pressed to his mouth, stifling an obscenely loud chuckle, Reid suspects he’s never going to hear the end of this.

#* faye's work.#spencer reid x reader

347 notes · View notes