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Reid set the star puzzle on the table, a small self-satisfied grin on his face. He always loved new challenges and figuring out how to solve new problems. The star puzzle hadn't taken long; there weren't that many pieces after all, and he'd always excelled at picking up patterns.
He looked back up at Emily, who was still talking about the puzzle's supposed and illogical origin (which was certainly not a fable). He eagerly searched her face, hoping to see a fond, amazed smile like the ones his team tended to wear whenever he'd figured out a particularly complex puzzle, or honed in on a lead none of them had considered, or had otherwise impressed them by utilizing his intellect in some form or another.
He'd never admit to being desperate for anyone's approval – he was twenty-eight years old, an adult in every sense of the word, and provably a genius on top of that – but it filled him with a warm sense of appreciation and belonging whenever he could look to his family and see the same pride he felt bubbling pleasantly in his chest at his own successes shining in their eyes as well. The kind words of praise his friends bestowed on him wrapped around him like a warm blanket. He hoarded their compliments and praises like a dragon might have hoarded its treasures, seeking comfort in them whenever the thoughts in the back of his head were particularly loud at night, hacking away at his self-worth.
Emily's next words, whatever they were, died on her tongue before they could be uttered. She clasped her hands together and slowly closed her mouth, her head tilting to the side. “There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid,” she said instead.
In an instant, that positive, bubbly feeling – the excitement he experienced from challenging his brain and piecing together a puzzle no one else had been able to put together – fizzled out and died. In its place, a sharp ache lanced through his chest. The pain was acute and rent his heart into multiple pieces. His mind momentarily conjured an absurd image of a man using a pick to hack away at his chest as if it were a piece of ice.
Morgan laughed behind him, and it echoed in his ears, forever lodged into his memory alongside the words Emily had spoken moments earlier, and the metaphorical ice pick was driven deeper.
His eyes dropped back to the book balancing on his knee, unable to maintain eye contact any longer.
“Play poker with him sometime,” Rossi snarked. Reid glanced up at him, just long enough to note his fingers pressed against his temple as if he had a headache coming on. He glanced back down.
“Try playing chess with him,” Morgan added.
Even Garcia, knitting in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, piped up with, “Or Go,” and a pointed look towards Emily. He briefly scanned her face, hoping to see the smile she wore whenever she was teasing someone, but it was unusually absent as she went back to her knitting.
A lump formed in his throat, and it hurt when he swallowed against it. Reid quickly returned his gaze to the words in front of him before she could look up at him, afraid that she would take one look at his face and know exactly what he was thinking, despite not being a profiler herself. He blinked a few times to disperse the sudden burning feeling in his eyes and kept his face carefully blank. He was an adult. He was not going to cry in front of his. . . team, not over a few stupid words.
They were probably warranted, anyway. Most people don't like being made a fool of or shown up in any way, and Emily had been working that puzzle for weeks. Seeing him solve it so quickly would've been a blow to her pride. It's possible she thought he was trying to make her look bad in front of the others. And if the others agreed with her sentiment, he must have come off that way. It wasn't his intent at all, but he supposed that was irrelevant at this point.
He pretended to go back to reading, making sure to trace his finger down the words on the paper and turn the pages at his normal speed. The idea of someone noticing that his mood had plummeted and forcing him to discuss his emotions with a team of FBI profilers while approximately thirty-five thousand feet in the air was less than appealing. The only solution was to appear as normal as possible until he could get back to his apartment.
Hotch got up from his own seat and walked to the back of the jet. He and JJ started talking in low voices. Rossi and Emily had moved on to another topic of conversation with occasional input from Garcia. Morgan presumably went back to listening to his music. And just like that, everyone moved on, as if they hadn't just shattered his heart. As if nothing of note had just occurred.
And maybe nothing had. No one had seemed surprised by what she said. Maybe they'd heard it before. Maybe they could be so casual because Emily had only said out loud an opinion everyone had held for years. One they had already voiced to each other in moments when he wasn't around.
Or maybe he was just missing some joke. That happened a lot. It wouldn't be the first time he'd missed something that everyone else around him seemed to understand. If it was a joke, that could explain Morgan's laughter. The rest of the team's apparent pile-on could be attributed to playful banter. It would explain the ease with which the others went back to their own conversations and methods of rewinding after a case.
But if it was really just a joke, why did it seem so genuine? And why did he still feel like crying?
Spencer couldn't sleep.
It wasn't unusual, really, as his dark circles and the copious amounts of coffee he drank could testify. He tended to rewind with a small pile of books until his eyes started to droop and the words stopped making sense to his brain. He'd then finish the rest of his nightly routine until he was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Some nights, he would continue to lie awake for hours, his mind whirling and racing as it replayed the events of the day. It would analyze and re-analyze every interaction, every word said, processing every piece of information he'd received that day until it was satisfied that no additional meaning could be gleaned from further consideration before allowing him to drift off into slumber.
Occasionally, his body and mind were both so worn out that he passed out from exhaustion as soon as his head hit the pillow.
This was not one of those nights.
Tonight, his mind tripped and stumbled and circled back over that interaction on the jet.
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
The tears he had refused to let form on the jet now streamed freely down his face, salt water leaving cold tracks on his cheeks and seeping into his pillow beneath him. The lump in his throat had never gone away, and it had only gotten bigger as the tears flowed and he denied escape to the sobs building in his chest.
Another moment from that day came to the forefront of his thoughts.
What planet is this dude from?
It had stung in the moment when the classroom erupted in stifled giggles. He was trying to save these kids’ lives, and they weren't listening, more focused on making fun of him. But he wasn't a twelve year old getting bullied in high school anymore. He was an FBI agent and he was here to do his job and save lives, so he'd brushed it off quickly. He knew what teenagers were like; they hadn't changed much since he was in high school, after all.
He wouldn't have given it another thought if it weren't for that moment with Emily on the jet. And now the memory of Morgan reading off that kid's text in an unimpressed and stilted voice had warped into Morgan looking directly at him. The words were now his own, and his tone was overtly mocking. And he grinned, looking around for approval as the kids broke out into cruel laughter.
He flung an arm over his eyes. He was being stupid. He'd definitely heard worse when he was twelve. It was pathetic to get this worked up over a couple stupid comments.
But you are pathetic. That's one of those many things they hate about you. That someone like you cheated his way into the FBI while they had to actually work for it.
No. That wasn't true. It wasn't. Sure, there had been many exceptions made to allow him into the field. And yes, it was exceedingly possible Gideon pulled many strings just to get him into the Academy in the first place. But he didn't cheat his way in.
Did he?
No. No, he didn't. And his teammates wouldn't resent him for it. Not when he'd proven that he was useful here. That he could contribute to the team. That he could assist in solving cases. He'd thought he more than made up for his physical shortcomings with his brain.
. . . Maybe that was something they hated about him, too.
He was always rambling on about one topic or another, eager to share his knowledge with anyone who would listen. But, they didn't want to listen. Not really. Not unless it had to deal with a case, and even then they cut him off if he went on for too long. He wasn't blind. He saw the looks, the rolled eyes, the scoffs and the huffs when he didn't get straight to the point.
Unbidden, a memory pushed its way to the front of his mind.
Morgan stood up and walked away. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Taking back the last five minutes of my life.”
And another.
“Interesting.” JJ dropped the file on the table and stood up. “Coffee?” She didn't wait for a response before leaving.
It opened the floodgates. More and more memories mixed and blurred together. Rude words and harsh glances, as his teammates walked away and each time took a little piece of his heart with them.
It wasn't like he meant to ramble and go on tangents. He just got excited and wanted to share in his excitement. And he didn't always know when he was info-dumping, the words just pouring out of his mouth at lightspeed before he'd even realized he was talking in the first place.
Maybe they thought he was trying to show off his knowledge. Maybe they thought he was an arrogant know-it-all.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe he didn't realize when he was rambling because he didn't care to. Maybe there was some part of him that did want to show off, that relished the idea of running mental laps around everyone else. Surely a team of the FBI's best profilers would pick up on that.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the fresh wave of tears, and despite his best efforts to keep his lips clamped shut, a single, despairing sob broke free.
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
He'd always been weird. He had an IQ of 187, graduated high school at age twelve, had three PhDs by the time he was twenty-one. He was playing chess with adults by age four, for goodness’ sake. He was singled out and bullied by his classmates his entire childhood. His peers had always been much older than him due to the six years of school he had skipped over. And he stuck out like a sore thumb everywhere he went.
Always alone. Always the black sheep. Always the odd one out. Never fitting in. Never belonging.
Until he'd joined the BAU.
He'd joined a team of people dedicated to doing good. To tracking down the evil in this world and protecting the innocent from it. People whose minds were each brilliant in their own, unique ways.
He'd built a rapport with these people. They bounced ideas of each other, built upon others, and the back-and-forth, the opportunity to have others actively engaging with him, was infinitely refreshing. They'd become his friends, these people who liked him for him, not just tolerated him in order to take advantage of his mind. And finally, he found a place where he belonged.
Or at least he'd thought so until this afternoon.
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
Play poker with him sometime.
Try playing chess with him.
Or Go.
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
He threw the sheets away from his body and stumbled out of bed. His legs carried him down the hallway to the kitchen, muscle memory taking over as his vision blurred with tears. He staggered to the sink and flipped the lightswitch. As the tiny bulb above the sink flickered to life, he grabbed a glass and filled it with water. He downed it immediately and refilled it.
For a moment, he leaned back against the counter and stared at his reflection in the water. His hair was a mess, his eyes bloodshot. Tear tracks glistened in the light.
He was a mess.
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
A sob ripped out of his throat as his hands lost their grip on the glass. He ignored the crash as the glass shattered on his tile and buried his fingers in his hair. He twisted them around the locks and pulled as his chest heaved with sobs he couldn't hold back anymore.
He was a mess. He was always missing social cues. His hair lately was always a bit chaotic because he hadn't been to get a haircut in a while, and most days he didn't think to brush it. His tie nearly always hung crooked. He drank too much coffee and didn't eat enough food that wasn't something out of a vending machine. He's always getting into some sort of trouble. He got shot in the knee only a few months ago because he couldn't face an UnSub alone without getting hurt, apparently.
And the only contact he'd had with the team was a brief visit from JJ before she went off to be with Hotch like the rest of the team. Because Hotch needed them more. Because Hotch was their friend. They'd rallied around him. Garcia made him cookies. She did that for her friends.
He hadn't gotten any cookies.
As soon as that thought formed, he scoffed. What was he, five? How childish was he that he was getting upset over not getting cookies several months ago? No wonder people found him annoying. He was petulant and whiny, and he threw temper tantrums like a brat when he was upset, and it was no wonder why the rest of the team treated him like a child.
He wouldn't blame them if they had been relieved to have a break from him while he was in the hospital, and then at home, laid up with an injured knee. If they had cherished the peace and quiet of the office, free from his rambles about things no one but him cared about as he lay in his apartment longing for some company. Just someone to be there as his knee hurt and he couldn't even take any painkillers. Because he couldn't take a little pain without becoming clingy, apparently.
And why couldn't he have any painkillers? Because he was a junkie. He was supposed to be a genius, but apparently he was stupid enough to get caught up in drugs. He was an embarrassment to the team. He's an FBI agent, but his first taste of a controlled substance and he was hooked.
He went out into the field high out of his mind. He couldn't focus without the Dilaudid, and he was only ever operating at a fraction of his normal mental capacity because of the drugs messing with his head. He was practically useless that entire time. It's a wonder Hotch didn't fire him.
He would've had every right to, especially after he missed the jet while on a case. He had been distant, disappearing for minutes on end, snapping at his teammates, especially Emily.
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
Emily had every right to hate him after the way he treated her. She had only been concerned about him, a concern that was absolutely warranted, and what had he done in response?
Hey, no offense, Emily, but you don't really know what you're talking about, do you?
He'd felt horrible afterwards. And he'd apologized over and over when he finally got clean. She'd assured him that all was forgiven, and he thought that had been it. He thought they had put it behind them and become friends.
Maybe she only said that so he would stop bothering her with his apologies.
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
His head was starting to hurt from where he was pulling his hair. He forced himself to let go and stand up from where he had apparently been crouched on the floor and rocking back and forth.
Pathetic, the voices whispered.
He didn't have the heart to argue with them. He rubbed his fingers furiously over his eyes, banishing the tears that still hadn't stopped and looked at the mess of glass and water on his kitchen floor.
He didn't have the energy to clean it up.
He carefully stepped away from the broken glass and tread back to his bedroom. His eyes found the alarm clock on his nightstand. It was a quarter after three.
He flopped back down on his pillows, staring up at the ceiling, hiccuping sobs still fighting their way into the open air and water still trickling out of his eyes.
He was opening up Emily's contact in his phone before he even realized he had grabbed it off the nightstand where it had been charging.
His fingers typed out a message, unbidden. He stared at the screen.
No. He was not going to interrupt her sleep because he was having a breakdown over some stupid words. He was an adult. It was about time he started acting like it.
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
His thumb hit the backspace key.
Years of being in Interpol, and then the FBI, had trained Emily to be a light sleeper. Her senses were always somewhat alert, ready to wake her up at the slightest shift in her surroundings.
Her eyes shot open as she sat up in bed. She scanned her bedroom. Nothing appeared to be out of place. And as much as she strained her hearing, nothing sounded off either.
So what had woken her?
A buzz from her bedside table drew her attention to her phone as it chimed with an incoming text. Hesitantly, she picked it up. It wasn't unusual to be called on a case at all hours of the night, but she was always woken with a phone call.
She frowned as she read the two new messages.
From S. Reid:
Do yo - 3:18 A.M.
Sorry. Never mind. - 3:19 A.M.
Why was he texting her at this hour?
To S. Reid:
Is everything ok? - 3:19 A.M.
Worry tugged at her heart when there was no response.
To S. Reid:
Reid, are you okay? - 3:20 A.M.
From S. Reid:
Everything's fine! Don't worry about it. - 3:21 A.M.
She held her phone in one hand as the other snuck up to her mouth, a fingernail finding its way between her teeth. She wanted to take his reassurances at face value, but something in her gut urged her to press the issue.
Reid had been a bit out of it on the jet coming home. He'd had a book propped up in his lap and read the entire time. That in itself wasn't unusual. But Emily had noticed at one point that his eyes weren't following his finger as it moved down the pages. He was going through the motions of reading, but didn't seem to actually be taking in the words.
At the time, she'd chalked it up to him just zoning out. It happened to everyone, and she'd bet money that it happened to geniuses too.
But now that she thought about it, he'd been uncharacteristically quiet as well. And as anyone who had ever met Dr. Spencer Reid could attest to, quiet was not a word that typically described him. Even with his nose stuck in a book, he was constantly offering up little factoids and statistics to whatever conversation was happening around him. But he'd been silent the whole way home.
She gently removed her finger from her mouth and typed out a new message.
To S. Reid:
You wouldn't be texting me this late if everything was really ok. - 3:23 A.M.
And you were kinda quiet earlier on the jet. - 3:23 A.M.
I'm worried about you. 3:24 A.M.
She tapped her phone anxiously against her leg as she waited for a reply. She nearly dropped her phone in her haste to read the new text as it came in.
From S. Reid:
Really, Emily. I'm fine. I didn't mean to wake you up, but I promise everything is fine. :) - 3:26 A.M.
You don't need to worry about me. - 3:26 A.M.
She huffed and dialed his number. It rang three times before he picked up. “Emily?”
“Why were you texting me at three in the morning?” she asked gently.
“I told you, it's nothing. It was just an accident. I'm sorry I woke you.”
Her heart squeezed. His voice was rough and wobbly and it cracked part way through his attempt to ease her worries. He had been crying. “Reid, what's wrong?” She wouldn't be able to go back to sleep knowing her friend was hurting and had reached out to her, even if he was trying to back out of it.
“Nothing, I swear. I'm fine.”
She was chewing on her nails again. “I can hear the tears in your voice. What happened? How can I help?” Her heart sank as the line went silent save for the shaky breaths that sounded an awful lot like suppressed sobs. Something was definitely, horribly wrong. “Spencer?” she whispered. “What's wrong?”
A muffled sound like someone gasping for breath, and then, “Did you mean it?” Her heart ached. He sounded so vulnerable and so terribly young.
At the same time, confusion swirled in her mind at the odd question. “Mean what?”
An inhale that sounded more like a sniffle. “Nothing. Never mind. It's nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Again, I'm really sorry I woke you.”
“Spencer–”
“I'll see you tomorrow, Emily. Goodnight.” A click, and the call ended.
She pulled her phone away from her ear to stare at it, bewildered at the sudden change. It was obvious that he wanted to talk to her. The late night text and the brief moment of vulnerability over the phone proved that. He was so close to opening up, but backed out at the last second.
No. She was not going to just let that stand. Something had hurt one of her friends, and she was damn well going to do her best to fix it.
Without even bothering to change out of the sweats she'd fallen asleep in, she tugged some shoes on, grabbed her phone, wallet, and keys, and raced out the door to Spencer's apartment.
What had he been thinking? It was bad enough he had accidentally sent the text part way through deleting it, but to actually ask her if she had meant it? Did he want to hear her confirm that she hated him? Was the first time not enough?
And now she was probably upset with him for waking her up over nothing.
One hand was tugging at his hair, the other tapping against his thigh, feet never slowing as they circled his tiny living room over and over. His knee was not going to be kind to him in the morning.
A tear dropped off the tip of his nose, and he furiously wiped it away and scrubbed at his eyes. He needed to get it together. This whole thing was so stupid. He was an adult. He shouldn't be getting this upset. Shouldn't be pacing his apartment floor instead of sleeping like a normal human being at nearly four in the morning.
But he wasn't normal, was he? Nothing about him had ever been normal. Everyone knew it, and he did, too, so why did he ever pretend to fit in anywhere? Was he really that stupid to think that if he just pretended long enough people would forget all his eccentricities? All the things that made him stand out from everyone else?
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
A miserable whine slipped out of his throat. He should be sleeping right now.
He would be sleeping right now if he could get his stupid, weird, not normal brain to just shut up and stop obsessing over a few mean words that hurt his feelings.
He really was just a child, wasn't he?
A soft knock sounded on his door, and he froze. His heart raced with panic in his chest, and he couldn't suck in the air he needed.
The person outside knocked again. “Reid, it's Emily.”
Emily. Oh no.
He was really in for it now. She must have been absolutely furious over him waking her up with his issues if she drove all the way to his apartment to ream him out.
She knocked again. “Reid. I know you're awake. Let me in.”
He closed his eyes, feet glued to the floor as he tried to determine the best course of action. If he ignored her until she went away, chances are her anger with him would only grow. He would've wasted even more of the time she could've been sleeping, and it would only delay the inevitable. They had work in the morning. She could corner him there. And her fury would only grow if given the chance to stew for a few hours.
“Spencer, please. I'm worried about you.”
Except, she didn't sound angry. His years of experience profiling and studying human behaviour – You're not supposed to profile the team, idiot. Can't you do anything right? – allowed him to detect the concern in her tone.
Another knock. “I'm not leaving until you open the door, Spencer.”
His feet, before he had even made his decision, padded to the door. His heavy, oak door cracked open, and he peeked out at her. One hand was raised as if to continue knocking, and he was struck by the bizarre sight of her wearing sweats.
His eyes flicked up to her face, noted her furrowed brows and the way the corners of her mouth were pulled down, before dropping to the floor to stare at her shoes. “Emily, um, what are – what are you doing here?”
She didn't say anything for a moment. His fingers tapped on his thigh again, hidden from her view by the door. Finally, she asked, “May I come in?”
“Um, I don't–” he stammered, eyes flitting to her face, then dancing away to search the hallway for eavesdropping neighbours.
“It'll only be for a moment.” Her voice was soft, and something in it made Spencer want to start crying all over again.
Rather than responding verbally – he absolutely did not trust his voice right now – he shuffled to the side and opened the door wider, allowing her in.
She walked past him into his living room and stopped, her head moving as she scanned his place.
She's profiling you, the voice whispered as he softly closed the door behind her. She'll see how much of a mess you are and she'll tell everyone. They're going to realize how much of a liability you are and fire you. What are you going to do then?
But she didn't comment on his living space full of haphazard piles of books and scattered papers. She didn't comment on the dishes in the sink he'd let pile up because his knee was hurting after work most nights, and he didn't have the energy to wash them. She didn't comment on the couple mugs of coffee spread out across various surfaces. She didn't comment on the mess of glass and spilled water on the kitchen floor.
She simply walked over to his couch and sat down. She looked back over at him, still hovering by the door and playing with his fingers, and patted the seat next to her. He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to another, ignoring the ache in his left knee. “Come sit, Spencer,” she insisted.
He dragged his feet over to the couch and gingerly sat down. His eyes remained glued to his fingers, and he couldn't for the life of him make himself relax.
They sat there in silence for several minutes. Emily crossed one leg over the other and leaned back into the cushions. He didn't dare look at her.
The coil of anxiety in his gut grew the longer the silence festered. He forced himself to remain still, preventing his legs from bouncing with nerves and clasped his hands together in an effort to resist the urge to let his fingers twitch and dance. And still, no one said anything.
When he couldn't take it anymore, he blurted out, “Why are you here?”
“Because I know something's wrong. And I want to help.”
She wants to find something to use against you. A weakness. So she can finally get rid of you.
He shook his head, still refusing to look at her head on. He didn't want to see the resentment in her eyes or the pity or whatever it was that drove her here tonight. “I told you already. I'm fine.”
“You always say that, but it's rarely true.”
“Well, it is,” he snapped and immediately regretted it. Wasn't snapping at her and treating her poorly part of the problem in the first place? Wasn't that one of the biggest reasons she hated him? Wasn't he supposed to be some kind of genius? Wouldn't a genius learn from his mistakes?
A hand closed over his, startling him out of his thoughts. He considered pulling away, but ultimately was too scared of how she would react to move. “You were typing out a message to me when you should have been asleep. You had my contact open. You sent off a message. I'd like to know what it was.”
“It was nothing,” he muttered.
“It was important enough that you couldn't wait until the morning. That's not nothing.”
He didn't answer. How could he tell her that he was crying in his bed when he sent that text? That he was so desperate for her to coddle him like a child that he would selfishly wake her up in the middle of the night?
Emily sighed. “Okay, how about this? Earlier on the phone, you asked me if I meant it. What were you referring to?”
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
His eyes burned, much to his chagrin. He blinked rapidly before he ended up crying in front of his coworker and shook his head.
The hand on his own squeezed gently. “It's okay. You can tell me.”
He licked his lips and swallowed nervously, searching for the words.
She'll laugh at you.
He took a shuddering breath, bracing himself for the inevitable backlash. “You–”
There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.
His throat squeezed, the horrid lump returning with a vengeance and blocking the words from ever leaving his throat.
Emily stroked her thumb along the top of his hand, but didn't say anything.
He slammed his eyes shut. “Earlier on the jet, you said,” he paused to lick his lips again, hoping she wouldn't comment on his attempt to stall. “You said,” his voice shifted, mimicking her own as her words spewed out of his memory through his mouth, “‘There's a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.’”
And suddenly his eyes were flying open, and he was turning his head to meet her gaze. He dreaded the moment when she would confirm it, but at the same time he knew he had to look her in the eye for this. No matter how much he wanted to look away, he maintained eye contact, his neck prickling in embarrassed horror as tears welled and blurred his vision. He blinked to clear them away.
Emily's face was carefully blank, save for her eyes. Something glimmered in those dark depths, but Spencer was too worked up to figure out what it was.
“Did you mean it?” His voice barely carried past his lips, and the tears returned when it cracked on the last word. “Do– do you–” A sob ripped out of his chest. “Do you hate me?”
Emily's face fell, and now Spencer could identify that emotion in her eyes: anguish. Anguish to match the ache in his own soul that had been building ever since she uttered those nine little words. Her eyes shone with a mysterious wetness, and when she blinked, her lashes became damp and a single drop of water trickled down her cheek. “Oh, Spencer,” she said, and her voice had a timbre to it he'd never heard before. “I could never hate you.”
“But, you said–”
“I didn't mean it. I promise.”
Spencer finally broke eye contact, dropping his gaze to where his hands were still clasped together underneath Emily's palm. His leg started bouncing anxiously. “I don't understand,” he whispered, then continued a little louder. “Why did you say it if you didn't mean it?”
Emily hesitated. “It was. . . a joke,” she offered lamely. “Or at least, I meant it as one.”
He didn't look up at her. “But you basically told me to my face that you hated me. How could something like that be a joke?”
Her hand grasped his own just a little bit tighter than before. “Sometimes, people say things like that to their friends as a playful tease. A friendly jab. I–” She paused and sighed again. “I guess I was frustrated that you solved the puzzle so quickly. I said something I probably shouldn't have, especially since I know you were bullied growing up and you don't always pick up on jokes the rest of us make. I should've–” Her voice became strained, and she cut herself off.
He looked back up at her. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were no less watery than before and still carried that deep sadness. Her lips were pressed together in a firm line, and this time she was the one to break eye contact. She levelled her gaze at their hands still resting on his lap. “I never should've said it. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't being careful.”
She raised her head to meet his eyes once more. He flipped one of his hands over, palm up, and hers moved to grasp it tightly. “I swear to you, I didn't mean a word. And I am so, so sorry for saying it. For making you doubt yourself. I'm sorry.” Her voice was firm and steady, her gaze determined.
She's lying to you. She's trying to play you for a fool, the voice whispered.
But she smiled at him, and it was so familiar and warm that he couldn't help but return it, even if his own was weak around the edges and wobbled uncertainly.
“I love you so much, Spencer,” she said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.
She's lying. She's lying. She's lying.
“I love your desire to always learn something new. To expand your knowledge and horizons even further than they already are.”
She's lying.
“I love your compassion. You always try to understand the people around you and empathize with them, even the UnSubs.”
She's lying.
“I love the way you always try to find a way to solve things without violence because you care so deeply for everyone and you don't want to see anyone hurt.”
She's lying.
“I love how excited and passionate you get when giving us some obscure piece of trivia, even if we're in the middle of a case and don't have time for it, even if I'm annoyed by it sometimes. Part of me wishes that we could just let you go on and on because the way you light up warms my heart. You shine like the sun, and it's endearing.”
She's lying.
“I love how you own up to loving all things nerdy. You're not ashamed of who you are or the things you enjoy, and I admire you for it. I've always struggled to be that open about who I am, and here you are making it look so easy.”
She's lying.
“There's a lot to love about you, Dr. Reid,” she finished.
The voice, which had steadily grown quieter with each thing she loved about him, finally fell silent, and Spencer broke. Tears that had been building up during Emily's impromptu speech spilled over as he started crying. The hand not holding hers came up to cover his face.
She didn't say anything else, simply scooting closer to him on the couch. She gently let go of his hand, and for a moment he missed it. But then her arms were pulling him into a hug, and the vise that had wrapped itself around his heart for the past several hours finally loosened and he felt like he could breathe again. His arms came up to wrap around her in turn, fingers wrinkling the fabric of her sweatshirt as he held on.
He buried his face in her shoulder and cried. All the anguish he had been feeling for hours transformed into tears he couldn't hold back if he wanted to. They soaked the fabric under his skin, but Emily didn't pull away.
She held him, arms squeezing him firmly, her mouth turned to mutter words of endearment into the mess that was his hair.
Over and over she whispered, “I love you. I love you. I love you,” until his sobs quieted and his breath stopped hitching and the tears ceased their race down his cheeks.
When he finally pulled away, his head hurt and his throat was sore, and he couldn't breathe through his nose, but he felt lighter than he had in months. He turned a shy smile to Emily. “Sorry I made a mess of your shirt.” His face warmed at the thought of the tears and snot he had left on her shoulder.
She waved his apology away. “I'm not worried about it. I'll just throw it in the wash when I get home.”
He expected her to stand and leave right then, but she remained seated next to him. A sudden feeling of awkwardness washed over him, and he started fidgeting with his hands. He had just woken Emily up over some silly little words – that weren't even true – and she had driven over to his apartment in the middle of the night to hold him while he completely broke down.
How did they move forward from that? He had no prior interactions with anyone to use as a precedent, and he was suddenly way out of his depth.
Emily must've seen it on his face – she was a profiler after all – because she clasped her hands together and said, “Well, I don't know if I can go back to sleep, and we've got–” she pulled out her phone to check the time, “three hours before I should head back to get ready for work. How about we find a late night channel airing cheesy foreign films?” She said that last part with an impish smile, her eyes sparkling.
He nodded and reached for the remote. “Yeah, I'd– I'd like that.”
Fifteen minutes into their spontaneous movie night saw the two of them huddled together on his couch, a blanket they'd pulled off of his bed around their shoulders. Spencer's head was resting on Emily's shoulder – he had given her a clean sweatshirt to borrow – and her arm was wrapped around his back.
His eyes drooped as exhaustion finally crept in, his hurtful thoughts having quieted under the comfort of his friend's love and allowing his brain to shut down for the night. As he felt sleep dragging him under, he felt the urge to say one more thing. “I love you, Emily,” he murmured.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he heard, “I love you, too, Spencer,” just as his eyes closed.
And he slept.
Spencer draped his bag over his chair, eyeing the stack of consults JJ had already placed in his inbox. He plopped down into his chair and dragged a hand over his face. He'd only gotten a couple hours of sleep last night, and his body was still worn out from crying so much.
Emily had already been gone by the time he woke up, curled on the couch underneath a blanket. He had been pleasantly surprised, and only slightly embarrassed, to find that the broken glass and water from last night had been cleaned up, and the dishwasher was running.
He'd been running a bit behind, so he'd forgone stopping at the coffee shop on his way to work. The breakroom coffee would have to do.
He pulled his fingers away from his eyes, intent on getting himself a cup when he saw the box on his desk.
Never one to resist following his curiosity, Reid picked it up. He undid the little bow and took off the tape holding the lid down. And glanced inside.
It was the star puzzle. He blinked away the tears that tried to form. He had cried enough last night, thank you.
He pulled the puzzle out, turning it over in his hands, and smiled. He placed it on his desk, right next to his computer monitor. It would always be in the corner of his vision that way.
A cup of coffee was placed on his desk. Reid looked up at whoever had thought to bring him a cup, already thanking them.
Emily was holding out a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles. “I figured you probably didn't get breakfast this morning.”
He shook his head and accepted the baked treat. “No I didn't. Thank you.”
She laughed as he immediately dug in. “I see you've already opened my present.”
He nodded, mouth too full of sweet chocolatey goodness to make a verbal response.
“Did you read the note?”
He swallowed and took a swig of his coffee before answering. “What note?”
She gestured to the discarded box. He set aside his doughnut and picked the box up and glanced back inside. A small folded sheet of paper rested inconspicuously at the bottom. He pulled it out.
“I meant what I said last night, you know.” Her hand rested on his shoulder for a moment before moving away.
He watched her sit down at her own desk before opening the note.
I figured you would appreciate this more than I do. You love puzzles, and that's one of the many things I love about you, Dr. Spencer Reid.
Reid looked at Emily. She smiled. He returned it.
He loved her, too.