Eleven & Twelve. Character A has always wanted to do this, and Character B doesn't think it's a great idea; character A is determined. & "Just try. Just this once. You won't regret it, I promise!"
"Name one reason why I shouldn't do this." Emily has the kind of grin that usually precedes her doing something risky, and Reid looks around like he's hoping for Hotch to pop out of the alley nearby and threaten to write her up.
"You're drunk," he protests, darting forward and catching her with a hand on either side of her hip. "And it's illegal." Even as he says it, her feet leave the ground and he's left supporting her weight.
"Who's going to book us for climbing street lamps?" she teases, leaning back further into his arms. His heart is thudding, and it's entirely because he's scared of dropping her, that's it. "We're FBI agents."
"Which is exactly why we shouldn't."
Even as he says it, she drops from the lamp and onto the ground, turning and catching his hands as he goes to pull them away. "We'll, Doctor," she says, leaning close in a wave of heat and alcohol-scented-air. "Is there a law about dancing beside a street lamp too?"
He swallows. "No. Why?"
She shows him.
"Someone is going to see us…" He's aware that he's making what she calls his 'distress noises', looking around wildly to make sure no one sees him getting dragged about in her arms.
"So what?" Her grip on his waist tightens, one arm slipping to the small of his back. "Maybe I want people to see me. Maybe I want them to say, 'Hey, look at her—she doesn't care that she's past it, she's still having fun'."
He shoots her a look. "You're not past it." Not even close. Right now, she's devastatingly young in a way he's never let himself be.
"Try, just this once. You won't regret it, I promise."
It's not climbing a street lamp, at least, so he sighs and leans into her arms. "Fine. Don't tell Morgan." She grins again: "Or Hotch. Or JJ."
And he's not entirely sure that he's sold on dancing, but he also definitely doesn't regret it. Not when she's so warm and solid against him. Not when it starts to rain, his hair frizzing and hers flat to her head. Not when he drunkenly needs to sit and almost takes her with him, her slipping away once she's sure that he's landing softly.
And not even when she takes advantage of his sitting to climb the street lamp anyway, whooping the whole way as though she's only just realised what it's like to be reckless.
.
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Thirteen. Character A is romantically interested in Character B and brings them flowers. Character A is allergic.
The first date they go on, Will brings her flowers. They're a disaster: the flowers, not the date. The date he actually manages to save, despite the fact that she's sneezing wildly with her nose running like a tap and her hands rashy from where she'd brushed against them moving them away from her.
"I'm sorry," she tells him through sneezes. "I'm allergic to daisies…"
"They're asters," he says, his accent still hitting her in all the right places even when she's leaking horribly from every facial orifice. Which is one way to be super attractive, for sure. "Aw, I'm sorry, Jen. I messed up…"
And he just looks so painfully saddened by the idea that she can't help but like—like, just like, honestly—him a little more that day, especially when they spend the rest of the night huddled up in his bedroom, away from the asters and doing nothing but eating ice cream and watching movies.
When Henry is five, he brings her home flowers.
"Give them to your Daddy," she tells him between sneezes. "Mommy is allergic to daisies."
"They're asters," Henry says in the kind of sad voice that means Uncle Spencer probably taught him what they were called before sending him home. "Not daisies…"
"They're in the daisy family, bud," Will responds, taking the flowers from him and smiling. "Don't worry. It's an easy mistake to make."
.
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Fourteen. Character A explains an aspect of their worldview to Character B for the first time.
They're having a popcorn and Dr Who night, which turns into a popcorn and wine and Dr Who night when Emily shows up with a bottle that she fully intends to get him tipsy with. Somehow, like it always does, the wine goes to her head and, before she knows it, they're treating this like sleepover-night-at-Dr-Reid's and she's been offered a pair of his old pyjamas for later; currently, they're huddled up on a blanket on his couch while he drunkenly tries to explain mice and depression to her.
"Stop talking about mice," she begs of him after an hour and a half. "Tell me something interesting."
He looks affronted. "Mice are interesting," and, honestly, if she now didn't know that he's the kind of guy to wear duck pyjamas, she'd have given up on him right then and there. "What's more interesting than the brain functions of clinically depressed mice when exposed to—"
"You."
He stares at her, mouth open. She lobs a piece of popcorn in, using his startled swallowing to continue.
"Tell me something about you. Something no one else knows."
"Like what?"
She ponders for a moment, eyes landing on his socks. "Why do you wear odd socks? And don't say because they're lucky—you're a card counter from Vegas. You don't believe in luck."
It's the wine that lets him answer, she's sure. "I wore them mismatched by accident once," he mumbles, blushing. "A… a girl I liked complimented me on them."
Disappointing, she thinks, realising that he'd worn them before her.
"Changing an aspect of yourself for a girl, Dr Reid, she teases. "That's not very modern. But, understandable."
His startled look makes what she's stupidly about to tell the genius profiler worth it: "Understandable? What did you change about yourself for someone else?"
She leans close, mock whispering to draw him in: "I only wear my belt crooked because I know it annoys someone… and I'm waiting for the day he snaps and fixes it."
Reid blinks. Once. Twice.
"It… annoys… me?" he says. His eyes flick to her belt buckle, deliberately cocked to the side. "Oh."
"Oh," she agrees, arching a little and watching his eyes. "What are you going to do about it, Doctor?"
He impresses her with his answer.
He uses his teeth.
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Fifteen. It's a cat! Or a fluffy dog! Or an in-universe pet of choice. But what is it doing here?
There's a black cat sleeping soundly on the bed next to her when Penelope wakes up and, for a heartbeat, she forgets why. She even panics a little, even though the kitty is cute and all purry and she loves cats, really, she does. Especially cute ones.
Then, she remembers. She loves cats. That's why she has so many cat things; it's also why she'd taken Sergio in when Emily died. Is dead.
"Oh," says Penelope to the purring cat, only winching a little when he opens his green, green eyes and kitty smiles at her with his whiskers all perked. Probably thinking about cat things, like breakfast, and not horrible people things, like how much it hurts to remember that Emily gone. But, Penelope is an adult and a good cat mom and won't let Sergio see that she's sad. "Good morning, handsome boy."
"Mrrrp," says Sergio, which Penelope assumes is cat for 'I miss Emily, but you'll do. Breakfast?'
"I miss her too," she tells him. And, if she cries while feeding him, he's not going to tell.