Reid rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. He had fought all day to stay awake, yet now back in the comfort of his apartment, sleep wouldn't come. Instead, he found himself staring at the files spread out on his coffee table.
At length he stood, stretching as he reached for his satchel. If you can't sleep, work. If you can't work, walk. He headed for the door.
Reid wasn't fully aware of teh direction in which he was walking. The long nights, early morning, and bouts of insomnia guided his feet til he stood in front of a small, run down bookstore. The windows boasted true-crime novels and criminology text books. The shop was clichely named Cloak and Dagger, and the memory of the morning's conversation clicked in his mind. Spencer stifled a smirk but nevertheless pushed the door open. The store greeted him with a jingle of bells and the welcoming scent of books.
Shelves reached nearly to the ceiling, filled completely with endless volumes. Where books wouldn't fit on the shelves, they lay in neat stacks on the wood floor. Wheeled ladders on runners jutted out into the narrow aisles.
In front of him to his left, near the ancient cash register, one of the ladders was occupied. Spencer immediately recognized the woman from the coffee shop standing near the top, balancing a dangerously large box of books on one rung as she restocked the top shelf.
"Dr. Reid!" She smiled pleasantly down at him. "I wondered if I'd see you again."
Spencer gaped awkwardly before simply nodding.
"You're after that book, I'd guess?" She asked.
She shifted the box, wobbling precariously on the ladder and giving Spencer a jolt.
"Here, let me help." He offered, taking a quick step to the ladder and reaching up to steady the box, lowing it so as to allow here to climb down unencumbered.
"Thanks." The clear relief in her voice let him know it was not the first time she had attempted the stunt. He looked at her again as she climbed down the ladder. She was dressed comfortable for the heat in high rise denim shorts and a crop top which flattered her hourglass figure. Spencer tried not to notice her shapely legs as they passed him on her way down. She reached the ground and reached out, taking the box from him and hauling it to the front counter, setting it down heavily. The warm lights of the shop cast a soft halo around her hair. Not cotton candy, he decided. More like rose quartz. The truth was, she was actually quite pretty. He shook the thought aside as he followed her into the labyrinth of shelves.
"So, uh... life took you in a different direction, huh?" He tried to make small talk, remembering what little he had gleaned from their conversation earlier.
"I started working here toward the end of grad school." She chuckled. "Turns out I have a knack for it."
Stopping midway down one of the cramped aisles, she reached for a book, shoved back on a shelf just above her head.
"Here you go." She handed him the copy.
"Thanks -" Spencer paused, suddenly confused. "I've forgotten your name."
The woman smirked, silently amused.
"Don't worry about it." She brushed past him, grazing against his arm lightly as she headed toward the front of the store.
"So are you working the John Doe case?" She asked casually as she walked.
"I really can't discuss it." He evaded.
"Figured as much." She said. "Makes a fascinating study."
"It's people's lives." Spencer's tone was unusually abrupt. Nobody enjoyed talking about the Doe case. The abundance of media coverage combined with the dead ends they had run up against had done more than enough to paint the BAU as incompetent.
The woman cocked her head. "Of course it is." She agreed. "It just seems there are possibilities that aren't being explored."
"We're doing everything we can with the information provided." Spencer snapped, setting his jaw.
"I'm not saying you aren't -" She began defensively.
"You're clearly smart, but you're ashamed of that fact." Spencer said quickly, annoyed by the press and the opinions of strangers and the constant feeling that he needed to prove the validity of his work. "You dye your hair pin to feel more accessible - you actually want people to pay more attention to your looks than your intelligence. Maybe your shame comes from not having achieved what everyone expected from you, but maybe it's because even though you know you're smart, you're also afraid of failure. So you stay in this job because it's safe and because if you tried to go into profiling you might fail."
A stunned silence filled the shop. Spencer regretted the words before the last syllable cleared his lips, but stood stony faced anyway.
"Wow." The woman said stiffly. She tapped a finger on the counter, staring at him with a narrow gaze. "Okay..." she said at length. "That book has been available for months, but you asked where I bought it, which could mean you just like to support local businesses, but I don't think so. No, you've got a fear of technology. I'm not talking a preference, I mean a real aversion. I mean, look at that bag - it doesn't have a laptop in it, which means what?"
She shrugged. "It's got files in it, maybe? Probably a planner. Which means you aren't using a computer or tablet or smartphone or any of the million other ways people of this century streamline data intake and organization. You probably have a computer, but it's just for work, isn't it? Same story with your phone, which, if I had a guess, is at least a few years old, and unlike your colleagues or friends or anyone else on the planet, it has no personal pictures on it. And then tehre's your gun. I mean really, is there anything screams "technologically terrified" louder than a revolver? ...Well, maybe a musket."
She fixed him with a critical glare. "By the way, the reason you don't remember my name is because you never asked it."
Spencer flushed, but she wasn't finished.
"And just so we're clear, I dye my hair this color because I happen to like it and I enjoy the luxury of a job that allows me to do so. The fact that you equate one's hair color with with percieved intelligence or capability tells me you aren't afforded that same luxury, and probably never were. As for the job, my dad owns the shop. He opened it when he retired from the police force, where he was a detective for 20 years. I started working here when he had a heart attack and needed extra help. And I am smart. Damn smart. And though you're right, and I am afraid of failure, it only makes me work harder, and I am very, very good at what I do."
She took a breath, straightening and lightly entering numbers into the cash register. "Will that be all?"
Spencer looked at his shoes, collecting his thoughts. "I'm sorry for what I said." He apologized earnestly. "It was out of line."
"Yes, it was." She agreed flatly.
"I was out of line." Spencer said. "Completely." He swallowed. "I'm not usually like this, I promise."
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"...What is your name?" The doctor ventured.
The woman cocked her head, watching him intently, as though trying to figure out his angle.
"Iris." She said at last.
He chanced a small smile, nodding. "It suits you."
He rocked back on his heels, debating his next move before extending his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Iris." He offered sincerely. "Truce?"
The corner of her lips flickered up. She reached out, taking his hand. "Truce." She agreed.
"Truth be told, it's been a tough case." He confided. "We don't have a lot to go on."
Iris exhaled thoughtfully.
"Tell you what," she began. "We close in five minutes. My apartment's upstairs, and you look like hell. Why don't you stick around, I'll make you a cup of tea, and we can try this again."
The lanky doctor breathed a sigh of relief. "Tea sounds great."