Author's Note: Before I forget? A HUGE thanks to the many readers, favorite-ers, and followers this story has all gotten in such a short week-ish. And even more gratitudes to the lovely reviewers; I promise, I took your thoughts into mind, and I also realized that I needed to clear a few things up.
No, Claire is not a complete 'bitch' in this story. And for the most part, she wasn't one in the show, either. Guys, the girl is a TEENAGER. And she's had her whole life changed around her in recent years, when this story takes place. Trust is a valuable commodity, and out blonde cheerleader is not generous in the least. To me, it totally makes sense that she'd be a bit snarky upon being thrust into a foreign situation like this. Hell, at 16, I would have too.
No, no one's going to die. This is not going to be a huge, melodramatic thing like "Time" became. It'll be short and melodramatic; heavy angst for another chapter or two, and then the cliche fluff and bonding, right before the end. Only a small vignette into the lives of Spencer and the Petrellis, like I've already said.
Yep, I'm gonna be weird about updates. I honestly had this chapter done earlier, but between encroaching finals and trying to plan a small trip to N'Awlins for my hotel, I totally let it slip my mind. And I know it's unnacceptable, so I'll be more on-time with Chapter #3, swearsies. I'm SO not breaking my perfect record of finishing fics by leaving this one in the dust! We've only just begun.
Lastly . . . Ireally do appreciate every single one of you guys reading and enjoying this story. I try to reply to all of you, but just so everyone's in the know? RL is stressful as balls these days, and you wonderful people make it easy to forget about that. So, thank you. Sincerely, from the bottom of the place where my heart is supposed to be.
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 1-2 of Heroes. Spoilers for Season 1-3 of Criminal Minds. Mild language, snotty teenagers . . . fluff, eventually?
Disclaimer: I would own the shit out of Peter Petrelli and Spencer Reid if someone ever offered them to me . . . But that time has not yet come, alas. Same goes for the shows. *Sad face*
Read, if you'd like. Same for reviewing. Honestly, either way, I'm just happy you're here.
XXX Chapter Two XXX
If he hadn't been already sure about the precise date, the slowness of the elevator would have confirmed that this was, in fact, a Friday. Though the building was regularly updated, and kept in sleek high standards, the levy system of the Quantico building was aged, and it showed in the constant stops and starts made by the machine in its constant use. While Maintenance came by every Sunday to fix the winches and re-oil the cables, it was always in need of another look-over by Thursday evening.
Which only ever served to make the last business day even longer in retrospect.
Reid tried not to sigh as he jabbed his finger into the "6" button yet again, mental ticking down the seconds that he had been standing here with Claire.
Two-hundred seventeen, two-hundred eighteen, two-hundred nineteen.
Beside him, the girl sighed — the first sound she'd made yet, and Reid couldn't help the slight flare of guilt that coiled in his stomach.
Surely, Claire wasn't any more pleased by this situation than he was?
"I'm sure we can find something for you to do upstairs," he tried, voice softer and less authoritative than he would have liked.
She might not be an unsub, but that didn't mean that Reid didn't want her to respect him.
Claire turned her head only slightly, the disdain clear in her eyes as she scanned him from his feet up, before letting out a barely-perceptible scoff and glaring once more at the elevator.
Two-hundred twenty-six . . .
"Something in my desk . . ." Reid continued, lamely. He saw the way that the blonde's shoulders stiffened, could almost feel her shutting down on him.
"Or we have a break room you could play in — "
"I am not a child!" Claire suddenly whirled around to fully face Reid, hair whipping dangerously and eyes menacing as she leveled the genius with a gaze as intense as he uncle's.
"I — I n-never said — "
"You didn't have to say," Claire spat out, positively acidic. Eyes ablaze, she looked less like a cheerleader and every bit like the ferocious fighter Peter claimed lay deep within her. Scraggles of blond hair fell over bright green irises, doing nothing to quell the image, the spitfire radiating from every inch of her stiff posture, crossed arms.
Reid could only stare as she continued, "The tone you speak with, Doctor, is way more than enough. I am not," she hissed, not deflating, "some dumb kid."
"W-well, t-technically if you're under eighteen, the law says — " Reid couldn't help his usual rambling, but was quickly silenced by another glower.
"I don't need a babysitter."
Now Reid frowned. "That's . . . that's not why I'm here. No one's babysitting you, Claire."
She eyed him critically as the metal doors slid shut in front of them. "Sure looks like it to me."
Reid's only response this time was to raise one eyebrow.
Claire made no move, no reaction whatsoever,
The silence drew on. And on. And on.
Internally, Reid cursed. He had had standoffs with serial killers like this — actually, those ones had gone better than this. Both parties matched in stubbornness, refusing to be the first one to break the void — both understanding that whoever gave in would be the loser.
Reid swallowed, refusing to let so much as even a flicker of emotion cross his face. He could do this — he was trained in this. No way was he surrendering to a 17-year-old girl.
Not when this meeting could set the layout of all their future encounters — and Reid was sure that there would be future encounters. He had seen the way that Peter looked at her. There was love in that glance, a love that he only had when he used to speak of his brother, or when he was talking to Reid, even.
He blinked, surprised by the drifting of his thoughts. In front of him, Claire smirked slightly, and Reid tensed, straightening his spine.
He would have his victory. And his dignity, too.
Suddenly, the elevator slammed to a stop.
Several floors away, in her little lair, Penelope Garcia sat in a spinning chair, smiling as she texted Morgan — not a love interest, him, but some aggressive flirting had never done a girl any harm, right?
Her computer screen was suddenly flashing with the words TECHNICAL REBOOT, and then the entire office went black. It barely startled the blonde — she'd seen this before, whenever a power surge hit the main grid. Everything in the building would be shut down for, like, an hour, and then the system would be up and running as smoothly as normal again.
Big whoop.
She turned her eyes back to her Blackberry, and giggled.
At least the phones still worked.
In the elevator, with red emergency lights flashing around them and their only mode of transportation suddenly at a complete standstill, it actually was Reid who broke eye-contact first as he lunged over to the wall where the emergency phone was stored, and placed it to his ear.
Greeted only by the sound of a dial tone, the genius cursed inwardly, making little effort to conceal how he slammed the device back onto its cradle.
No signal. Electricity's out — but there was no thunderstorm . . .
It hit him quite quickly. System rehabilitation — no power for 1.25 hours, usually.
Goddamnit.
These little outages of electric power were a periodic — no, regular, really — occurrence within the FBI building that never failed to come at inconvenient times and always irked the general workers. Reid found them specially unnerving, as it meant that the entire building would be plunged into darkness while they waited for the power to reboot himself.
Briefly, his mind flashed to the last time he'd been stuck in an elevator, with Morgan right beside him . . .
He'd give anything for it to be like that now, instead of the sullen blonde who wouldn't even look at him right then.
Still, all of his experience with this stupid thing, at least, left Reid reassured that it would be fixed, and they would be fine.
Eventually.
He settled back against the wall, gearing to rest his aching back for a few minutes. Unable to help himself, he glanced over at his charge.
His eyes widened.
Even thought it had been less than an hour, int he time that Reid had known Claire, he could sense from the very beginning that this was a very dominant, headfast, and tough personality. Not someone easily intimidated, easily stifled. A soldier, in some sort of way.
And yet, in the fading light, all of that impossible strength dissolved suddenly, leaving no trace behind of the impassive girl he had already embraced.
Claire's eyes were huge, blinking rapidly as her entire body pressed into the metal wall behind her — as though it would do anything to hide her visible shaking. Form stiff, everything about the girl seemed locked down, from her tightly closed mouth to her clenched fists by her side.
Reid spoke softly gently. "Claire?"
She jolted, eyes darting over to where he stood, looking right through him — the fear in those green depths suddenly making her seem startlingly young, vulnerable.
Trying to contain his growing alarm, Reid stepped forward — but he didn't reach for her, or make any move into the personal shield exuding off of the girl. He knew from experience that unwanted contact, in a situation like this, could be the worst possible move.
"Claire," he repeated in the same tone he used when speaking to victims, "It's okay. The elevator just got stuck — it happens all the time here. Just a power thing — they'll have it up and running in no time. There's nothing to worry about — everything is okay."
The words were low, said in the soothing pitch that the agent had perfected over the years — and Reid could see it working, watched as Claire relaxed the smallest bit, her shoulders slumping minutely, before her eyes darkened again, full of mistrust.
"I know," she hissed, her voice laced with a menace that was almost convincing.
Almost.
"I'm fine," she continued, inching her way along the wall, away from the doors — and, consequentially, closer to Reid.
He said, "I was just trying to — "
"I don't care." Now as thoroughly folded into the opposite corner as she could be, Claire seemed to pull some of her previous ardor from the compact metal, drawing strength, gearing up.
Reid bit back a sigh, his patience already tried by the constant mood swings of the girl, the way that her switching back and forth from impressionable to menacing was beginning to scare the Hell out of him. He tried to keep in mind that there was a reason adolescents couldn't be psychologically diagnosed until they were 18 — something he reminded Hotch and Morgan of constantly — and kept reacting to himself that there was an astoundingly little chance that Claire was a sociopath . . .
It didn't help much.
He took in a deep breath, calming his frazzled nerves before speaking again. "I'm not an enemy, Claire — especially not yours."
Teeth gritted as they were, the genius's temper was barely concealed.
There was such silence that, for a moment, Reid wondered if she hadn't heard him, of even if he had spoken the words out loud. He glanced over at Claire.
Her eyes met his, pinning him down with that same overly-intense gaze that Peter shared, a gaze that could melt glass.
"You're right."
Reid glanced up, surprised she's even said a word.
Claire, eyes locked onto him, continued, face never changing from the stoic mask she'd taken on since walking into the elevator.
"You're absolutely right, Doctor Reid," she continued. "You're not my enemy. You're not my friend. You're not someone I care about. You're . . . you're nothing like that to me. Actually . . . you're just nothing. Nothing at all."
The words were equally as soft-spoken as his head been, but not in the same way; in her tone, Claire revealed no kindness, or sympathetic touch. Her words were tempered, calm and cultured, backed by a snarl and said in a way dripping with such maliciousness that her contempt of Reid could be made no clearer.
She held his stare for a moment longer, inspecting the impact of her soliloquy. After a moment, the girl scoffed slightly and shook her head, turning away and folding her legs up under her chin, encircling her arms around herself protectively.
Reid simply stood there, watching all of this, observing without seeing, trying to pretend that the blanket of numbness he drew around himself completely was a reaction to fear of being stuck in the elevator for much longer, and not to the vicious hurt coursing through him all of a sudden. That how this girl felt about him didn't matter at all, because even though she was Peter's niece, he barely knew her, after all. That nothing was wrong, that he was fine, and that this was all something that he could shrug off in no time, and with ease.
Leaning against the wall and lightly holding his stomach, Spencer Reid did what he did best, and pretended.