Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds
Spencer/OFC
She's running through the water filled streets like there's a hope of keeping herself partway dry. It's a vain hope and quite useless because the Virginia rain has quickly turned into a torrential downpour. People flock under the thin ledges of buildings, water streaming from the slanted angles. She should be ducking under one of the outside cafe umbrella's, already brimming with half-soaked tourists and natives all dismayed at the sudden turn of events, but she can't be late to her cousin's engagement party.
It was useless to promise her cousin, a slightly temperamental only child that found moderate success in advertising and found tardiness to be one of their generations biggest sins, that she would be on time. She was perpetually late, and now she looked like a drowned cat. Her pale pink dress was like wet tissue paper against her skin and she knew that no amount of paper towels in a women's restroom or quick application of lip-gloss would make her look even half-way presentable.
She really ought to just duck and cover and ride the storm out.
She continued a slight jog, hindered not only by the rain, but by the thin points of the heels on her shoes. With an irritated huff that only succeeded in getting water in her mouth and none of her frustration out, she kicked off the left and then right shoe. She bent down to grab them and then started to fast walk.
Barefoot, wet, and hopelessly late. Of course.
She still had five more blocks to go and not a cab in sight.
She made it another block before slowing to a leisurely walk. There wasn't a point in trying to make it there on time.
She dropped her hands from trying to protect her head and hair from the rain, which were a lot heavier with the shoes in them, and let herself enjoy the rain. It was cool, thick rain, that dropped fast in quick plunks, the type of rain that would have sent her running for rain boots to jump in puddles as a child. The rain that felt full, but not painful, when it landed against the skin.
If people were looking at her strangely, it was not anything she could make out anyways.
She could just barely see somebody kneeling on the ground in front of her, hastily clutching at water logged papers, completely destroyed in the rain. She picked up her pace and hurried to help him collect whatever she could.
"I hope these aren't extremely important." She said, lifting her voice to let the person know she was there to help. The paper crumpled to mush in her hands, a thick wet pulp with black smudges that faded into blue streams.
Several other items scattered about the ground, pens and pencils and various coins and bits of note cards and paper clips. She reached for the strangers bag and just began shoving the objects into the first pocket, hoping nothing was too sentimental to the poor pedestrian and that nothing was ruined beyond repair.
"You really should be careful in this rain!" She grinned, when the unlucky stranger turned.
He was drenched, long hair plastered to his forehead and water dripping down the lines of his nose. Drops clung to his upper lip and his chin, wiggling as he worked his mouth. The sight was almost enough to make her laugh until she noticed the thick black cast that wound down his leg and the pair of crutches on his other side. He probably fell and spilled his bag and that was nothing to laugh about. She stood quickly and gave him a hand to help him up. He murmured something too low for her to hear and struggled to raise himself up without her help.
A little humiliated at the rejection of her outreached hand, she reached down and grabbed his bag for him, the strap was broken.
"I'm Rose!" She half shouts, gesturing towards herself with her free hand. He's tall, with slightly hunched shoulders and thin arms, with a bobbing adams apple and a dimple in his cheek. An unconscious smile pulls up her lips at the full sight of him. He's handsome in a bizarre way, broad features and sharp angles and full lips.
"Dr. Re-Spencer, ehm, Spencer!" He half-shouts back. He looks half stunned and half drowned and mostly miserable. She bobs her head in greeting and wipes away the water from her eyes. There's a quick prayer to the heavens that waterproof mascara is also hurricane proof and then she gathers his crutches up. It's hard to balance them along with her shoes and his bag and she's relieved when she leans forward to take them. He uses them to shift the weight off his bad leg and a quick look of relief warms his eyes.
"Where are you headed?"She asks him, the sound almost drowned out in the pound of rain.
"Erm, th-the parking garage on Ninth." He squints at her, cupping a hand over his eyes to see her a little clearly. He takes a thick swallow and forces himself to not allow his eyes to dip below her neck. He doubts if she even notices her dress has become as transparent as it was wet.
"I'm headed past that, I'll walk you!" She rearranges her shoes to balance on top of his leather bag and hopes that he isn't offended by the act. It's not like his bag wasn't getting it's fair share of punishment by weather.
"Oh, you don't have to-"
But she was already turning, walking down the road with his bag. He gave a quick start and pushes off against his crutches to catch up.
"I'm glad you're not that far away," she tells him "or this would have been awful to walk with."
He takes in the flush of her cheeks, the small crack of her lips, the thin lines of her neck without jewelry, three small earrings in the cartilage of her left ear, slightly crooked right pinky finger and the pink but smooth skin of her feet and the profile begins to build, even with the rain obscuring more details. It's enough to let him know she work in an office, that she probably is a vegetarian or eats relatively healthy but doesn't drink enough water, she probably isn't very good at sports and-
He tries to shut that part off, it's something he promises to himself not to do. Not to profile people if it isn't a case.
He isn't paying attention to what she's saying, however, so it takes a moment to run through his memory and pluck out the last few minutes to formulate a response.
"No, I can still drive with the cast, it hinges at the knee, see?" He says, a little lower in volume. The rain has lessened in intensity and isn't so drowning of the sound.
"Good, I'm glad you can still get around." She tells him truthfully, "I've broken my leg before and it was the worst summer of my life."
She's so genuine that he doesn't even need to look for facial clues to indicate her claim. Why would she lie about a broken leg anyways? He's a little irritated at his inability to not look for an ulterior motive or a subtle hint for a lie, but if that was all that bothered him in life he'd call himself a lucky man.
"I was shot." He says quickly, half jumbled together.
Her sudden lift of brows tells him that he needs to explain further and not leave the statement as 'I was shot.'
"In the leg- that's why I have a cast on."
"Then I'm also glad it was the leg, and not somewhere else." She gives him a full smile and slows down, just in case the pace is a little fast for him.
"I broke mine trying to do a dare by Mandy Hearis, she said I wouldn't scale the side of the administrative office in 8th grade on the last day of school. I made it to the second story before my hand slipped on a ledge and I feel wrong into a bush." It isn't exactly the most heroic way to break a bone, but it's not the worst way and she's half proud of the stubborn girl from her youth. He's surprised she didn't ask the story behind the gunshot wound to his leg, which in itself is a surprise. Nothing surprises him anymore.
They're only a block from the parking garage now and the rain has softened to a light pour, a break of sun filtering through the clouds.
"Thank you, for- um, well helping me." He gives a tentative smile.
"What are strangers for, huh?" She returns with a light smile.
He can make out the dark blue to her eyes, the dusting of freckles and the small scar on her cheek with the lessening of the rain. All together its a beautiful face, he thinks.
"Maybe I'll see you around?" She says, almost shyly, when they reach the entrance to the garage. She hands him back his broken bag, tucking her heels underneath an arm.
He knows the likely hood of them meeting again without exchanging telephone numbers is .38% but he nods anyways.
"Make it home safe, then." She smiles and then turns to leave. She's beyond late and impossibly wet but almost happy in a way that confuses her.
She's half way down the street when he finally hollers out to her.
"I'm- I'm glad to have met you, Rose."
It's such an awkward thing to say that he cringes.
"Likewise, Spencer."
She gives a small wave goodbye.
He wants to shout out that he normally visit Anne's Cafe on Tuesday morning and the book store on Picket road on Saturdays and that he isn't opposed to meeting her again somewhere. But the words are too thick in his throat to express so he just watches her leave and wishes he had at least thought to ask her last name.