"I give you my promise from this day forward that you shall not walk alone. May my heart be your shelter and my arms be your home." – Marianne Williamson
Things were changing again. How could love continue to grow? His feelings for her were evolving still. They had come to know and reknow each other, they had pulled their relationship back from the brink of death, and yet again there was something new. Ever since those two weeks at his apartment, things had been changing. It no longer felt like enough to try and synchronize their schedules and meet in their free time, or even to spend quiet weekends doing the things they used to do. He wanted more.
It wasn't just the way she pulled him onto the couch that night after North Dakota, though that had definitely been something new. He'd touched her before, and while the flush of heat that had crept through his flesh was by no means unfamiliar, he had never felt so strongly as he had then. The physical wasn't enough to explain the change though; he was still inexperienced in that department and he had no desire to do anything with her before she was ready – truth be told, he needed time to prepare for that too.
No, it went beyond that. It was a warm feeling in his chest that somehow left him feeling strangely hollow, like there was a piece of him missing, something vital that had been carved away. When Maeve died, he had been utterly unwhole, his whole heart gone, but that wasn't it either. It was a need for something that was still there, not unwhole, but incomplete. He was a puzzle still lacking that final answer, and the solution was her. She was the origin of everything, the only theory he could hold in his arms and not just in his head. In the darkness that had become a central part of his story, she was a lantern in the night, pushing back the dark with beat of her heart. A living sunrise, she was that constant and that necessary.
There was no version of the future he could imagine without her in it, for he no longer allowed himself to imagine a day where she would vanish like so many others had from his life – not by choice, never by choice; but he would choose to keep her safe. So why was there still that echo of loneliness? When he felt like he was drifting, sinking, she was the lighthouse-keeper beckoning her Odysseus home from the waves, at the end of every voyage it was blatantly apparent to him that she was home. The very definition of the word had become Bianca, and he couldn't pinpoint exactly when that had happened. All he knew was that it felt incredibly right.
Every second with her was right. He could hold her in his arms, and feel the delicacy of her bones, but never did he mistake her soul for being fragile. His hands could easily feel the sharpness of her shoulder blades through her sweaters, and it took little effort to lift her from the ground (something he was all-too-happy to be able to do) but for all her smallness she was strong, and when he was struggling she gave him strength. He was reminded of Shakespeare's words: "though she be but little she is fierce." Fiercely loyal, fiercely loving. Never did he mistake her kindness for weakness; her ability to empathize and to remain gentle despite what came her way was a gift he did not take for granted.
What then was to come? He'd been asking himself that question for months. There were few guarantees when it came to deciphering the future, but there would never come a day when he did not want her to be a part of his. She said she would stay, when had that no longer been enough? The beginnings of it had come not long after he returned to work, though he hadn't identified it until she left for the wedding. Only then had been able to name it: longing, a longing that followed him even when she was with him, for he knew at some point they would have to part ways and he had developed a terribly irrationally fear that one day, she might not return.
He was determined to get over that fear, to quell it as much as he could. Reid bent down on the floor of his bedroom, rummaging in his sock drawer. There were dozens and dozens of pairs of socks, never quite organized since he always selected two at random. That was another habit he'd developed, checking that drawer from time to time for that last puzzle piece. Though he knew it couldn't have gone anywhere, relief still welled up within him when he reached the bottom of the drawer and saw it there.
He didn't have to be afraid anymore.
Reid was staring at his phone, turning it over in his hands. Alex watched him for a few minutes, curious. It wasn't like him to be so distracted while on a case. Finally, it hit her, and she couldn't help but smile. Hotch appeared next to her, but she silenced him before he could ask what she was doing. "Look at that," she whispered. The unit chief followed her line of sight, landing on Reid for a moment. "It's happening, Aaron."
Stern as he was, the corners of his mouth turned upward slightly at the sight. "And so it is."
"What's happening?" Morgan asked, stepping beside them.
"Reid," she told him. "And Bianca."
Morgan frowned, glancing at Reid, who was now examining the cell phone in his hands. "They're already together. What are you talking about?"
"It's more than that. He's going to call her. Just listen," Blake instructed. Sure enough, Reid lifted the phone to his ear, and they all fell quiet as he bounced back and forth on his toes. His eyes traveled up to the ceiling, almost impatient, and then a grin lit up face. She must've answered his call.
Though Reid's voice was soft, they could still make out the conversation. "Hi! I missed you too," he said. "No, everything's okay. I was just thinking about you… Yeah, I guess I did. Is that okay?" Another pause, and he shoved his free hand in his pocket, staring off into space with a delightfully dazed expression. "It's a bit more complicated than we expected, but I don't want you to worry. We'll be home soon."
"I still don't get it," Morgan whispered. It was just a phone call. "What's going on here?"
"Actually, that would be great," Reid was saying. "Really! I want to go to breakfast with you… Well, we could always just stay in. You could come over, and we could uh, try to make pancakes without making a mess this time." For a brief second, his cheeks turned pink, and he laughed. "You're probably right… Huh. You think so? I mean, I do. If you… Okay, then it's settled…. Yeah, I will. Bianca?... I love you." After saying goodbye, he hung up, but held the phone in his hand still. A smile was still on his face as he gazed down at it, before pocketing it with a sigh and returning his attention back to the bulletin board.
"What am I missing?" Morgan asked, still perplexed.
"He's in love with her," Blake said. "Very much so."
"I know that. But you're acting like it's some big secret."
Hotch shook his head. "You'll get it, someday. It's harder to see when you haven't been there yourself."
Morgan seemed offended at that remark, but Alex put her hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. It's just that their relationship is changing. Evolving. Think about it," she said. "How many more times does he call her now? How often does he mention her, or invite her along somewhere? How often is she calling him?"
Derek considered that. Over the last few months, especially since the summer, Reid had been acting differently. He'd never had many people to talk to outside of work, but suddenly he was telling stories about weekends spent with his girlfriend, or mentioning offhandedly that she'd dragged him out to meet her classmates for coffee, or tagged along with him to a convention.
For as long as they'd been friends, the doctor had abhorred handshakes, and yet he reached for her hand willingly. Reid had a need to keep his personal space personal, one had to be invited in. That space had expanded to include her in it, always. Then there were the phone calls. Twice he'd been roomed with Reid on a recent case, and the last thing he did each night was call Bianca. Once he'd even called her in the morning before having his coffee, and that was saying something.
"But the most important thing you need to ask yourself is does he look happy?" That much was obvious. He looked happier than Derek could ever remember seeing him. He smiled more, his gaze was rarely so distant unless he was calling her, and he just seemed more... himself. As though there had been a part of him missing all this time, and he'd finally found it.
Morgan looked at Reid once more, then back at Blake and Hotch. "So what does all of that mean?"
"What it means," Hotch said, "is it won't be long now before he asks her."
"Asks her? Asks her what?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Derek realized just what they meant.
Alex nodded anyways. "To marry him, of course. I'm not saying it's going to happen right away. But someday." She and Hotch seemed pleased, like proud parents watching their son grow up. Morgan stood flabbergasted, trying to process it. Could his friend really do that? A few years ago, it would've been absurd to think Spencer would be married before he was.
However, he had to admit, the kid was in deep. He looked at her as though he'd never seen the stars before, and she was the goddamn Northern lights. A celestial sort of love, strong enough to change tides and form galaxies. Bianca understood him in ways no profiler ever had – the way a conversation with her could calm him down, the way she genuinely found his jokes to be funny, the way the mere mention of her name made him smile. Even his nightmares seemed less frequent now. Morgan wasn't quite sure how she managed that, but her presence clearly soothed him. Seeing him now, considering that, it seemed inevitable. Reid was going to marry that woman someday.
Little by little the hours in their days were filling up, getting busier than ever. Her time was spent working with one of her professors as part of a law school clinical; she and a small group of students had been extended the opportunity to assist that professor in building a case to help charge Boko Haram at the international court level after the Chibok kidnappings in Nigeria. He balanced case after case, and therefore pile after pile of paperwork. They managed to set aside time for a day trip to New York for her 28th birthday, returning to the city where they first met. It was the strangest sense of nostalgia, to see that so little of the place had changed when so much about them had.
Still, between the chaos and the business, they had one steady haven – the breakfast dates that they worked hard to keep no matter what else they had going on. Over good food and hot coffee, they could both unload whatever had been weighing on their minds and their hearts, unpacking whatever worries their work left them with. It was their time, their space to forget about everything outside and enjoy each other's company. Peaceful, relaxing. There, nothing could interrupt the happiness that accompanied their interactions.
Nothing but the notification on her phone, one that drew her eyebrows down in concern. "What is it?" Reid asked.
Unease settled over her, her face pale. Something was scaring her. "It's the girls," she said. "The missing girls from Columbus. They found them."
He started to open his mouth to ask whether they'd been found alive, but the look on her face told him there was no point in inquiring. "Where were the bodies?"
It took her a moment of scanning whatever article she had pulled up to produce an answer. "Near the river. Only a few miles outside of Columbus."
The Olentangy River. It was close enough to cause concern for her. Close enough to her brother. In truth, when she first told him about the abductions, the panic in her eyes had been enough to make him nervous. Rick fell into the small category of things that terrified her, and after having met the young man, he believed she was absolutely justified in that fear. Nathan Harris, he had compulsions and fantasies, but he had a sense of morality and sympathy. Her brother however, he was cold. Completely detached and utterly lacking in respect. If he chose to hurt someone, he could do serious damage.
"They've been dead for a few months," she added. "Do you – do you think it's possible he'll take someone else?"
"If it's the same person, it's very probable." Bianca continued to scroll through her phone, her eyebrows furrowed in focus. With a gentle hand, he reached over to push the cell phone down to the table. "Hey. It's not going to help."
"But…" That look. He knew the look she was giving him, it mirrored the way he felt every time they were told they hadn't been invited in, every time jurisdictional boundaries or protocol came before saving lives, every time a courtroom allowed a killer to get off easy.
"Obsessing over this won't change anything. We have to trust in the system. Come on. We have the rest of the day off. Let's go to the library, or a museum. Or we can go back to my apartment and watch a whole season of Doctor Who. I just want to take your mind off of this."
Off of the case, off of her family. The last time she'd spoken to them had been just before moving back to the States. A short phone call from her mother, seemingly out of obligation, to inquire about her experience living abroad. When prying about him revealed they were no longer together, Ann Brown was apparently relieved, saying that clearly it wasn't meant to work out. That perhaps it was for the best. But Bianca made him better, and though he fretted about it he liked to believe that he was good for her as well.
"Can we go to the Phillips Collection?" she asked. A small museum of modern art, showcasing everything from paintings to sculptures to letters. Reid didn't always see the appeal of some of the more abstract exhibits, but he always tried to understand, for her.
"Absolutely."
A small smile, uncertain and fleeting, returned to her face. The phone was slipped back into her bag, the news it held temporarily set aside. "Okay."
Breakfast was finished, and they started on their way to the art museum, trying to get there before the ominous rainclouds let loose a downpour on DC.
"We could probably manage to fit in some Doctor Who as well. Is the fifth series okay?"
He searched his brain, trying to figure out why she chose that particular season. His favorite Doctor was the Fourth, whimsical and quirky, just a little offbeat, and a little out of time. As a kid, he'd identified with the long-scarf-wearing, fiercely moral incarnation of the Time Lord. Bianca preferred the equally eccentric Tenth Doctor ("Brilliant, quirky, compassionate, and a fan of Converse. He reminds me of someone else I'm quite fond of."), but the fifth series was Eleven.
Eleventh Doctor, fifth series, Amy and Rory, art museum… "Vincent and the Doctor?" he guessed. Three of her favorite things in one; Vincent Van Gogh, Europe, and Doctor Who.
That uncertain smile widened, and she simply wound her arm through his, falling into step beside him as they walked. Familiarity was a blessing, to be steadfast in the belief that a deep understanding was mutually experienced. It wasn't possible for him – not yet – to give her the answers she so desperately sought; but he could give her his time, rainy afternoons spent in galleries and living rooms hand in hand.
Beautiful as his mind were the melodies he was capable of producing. Modestly, he claimed it was only from having time to practice, that it was really just like math, but he clearly had a knack for the instrument. The keyboard he'd purchased some time ago still resided in his apartment, and when she'd seen it sitting out, Bianca was unable to resist asking him to play her something.
Before he could manage only a small selection of songs, now he played Chopin's Fourth Ballade with ease, with a grace that made it look so elementary. Spencer had a way of getting lost in the things that he loved. It was telling, the way his eyes seemed to see far beyond the room, the mixture of delight and intensity that played on his features as his hands worked away at the keys. Elegant, lovely; the things he could do and the things he was.
"How long would it take the average person to learn something like that?"
Spencer tore his gaze away from the piano, though the look in his eyes remained the same, transferred to a different subject. To her. "What exactly are you asking?"
"Would you teach me?" Obviously something like Chopin didn't come overnight, unless you happened to be the man sitting across the room, but she wanted to try playing something with him. In answer, he made room for her on the armchair, and she happily squeezed in beside him. Close enough that so many points on their bodies touched in the small space, that she had to angle her elbow down so they wouldn't bump into each other.
Ode to Joy was the chosen piece. He didn't have sheet music for it nearby, but he knew it by heart. After running through the basics, which keys meant what, he tried to explain it. "The first four notes are EEFG. Middle, middle, ring, pinkie." Spencer demonstrated, and she tried to follow, the notes on her side two octaves higher. "Good. EEFG, then GFED."
"Like this?" Four more notes played out.
"It helps if you raise your wrists, like this." One arm reached around her, his hand resting over hers to manipulate her position. His hands were so much larger; long, graceful fingers that furled over hers almost completely. In that same manner, he walked her through the next few bars of music, their fingers moving at the same time. Again and again, until cacophony became harmony, and she got the piece right on her own.
When she finally did, he shifted his hand slightly to interlock their fingers. Under his touch, she could feel her skin warming and her pulse quickening. After all this time, he could still spark a visceral reaction in her. It wasn't that he made her nervous, no that feeling had long since passed. More like her body's way of recognition, of saying, it's him. It was the same way the air seemed to change when he walked into a room, like his presence made enough of a difference that the atmosphere itself had to take note. And it did make that much of a difference, to her at least. Whenever she found him in a crowded place, relief washed over her. Whenever he left her a late night voicemail to assure her that everything was okay in whatever part of the country he'd been gallivanting off to, she found she could rest just a bit easier.
Penelope said that their job took parts of people over time, and if they weren't careful, they could lose those parts forever. That statement haunted her, it was one of the reasons she made so much of an effort to take his mind off of work. Every breakfast outing, every afternoon spent reading or talking or wandering through the city, she took inventory of him, looking for all of the pieces that made him who he was. If ever something was off, she would be the mirror to show him how to get back. Supplemented with things like spontaneous piano concerts and visits to museums, he always found his footing again after a case.
His heart was a blueprint she had memorized. And if he lost himself, she would be there to help him find his way. She would always find him.
Spencer smiled down at her, joy dancing as plainly in his hazel eyes as it was written within Beethoven's ode. When he looked at her like that, her heart beat doppio movimento. She leaned her head against his shoulder, as he released her hand in order to wrap an arm around her. Like puzzle pieces they fit perfectly into place.
His apartment was beginning to feel as much her home as her own. The wall-mounted lamps, the tall windows, the red rug covering his living room floor. The bakery on the corner where the barista knew both their names, the wooden staircase leading towards his door, the many books stacked up in his bedroom. She was always going to find him, and by his side, she too was found.
Could exercise cause a heart attack? It seemed likely. Aerobic based activity was supposed to improve cardiovascular health, but in doing so stored carbohydrates were used for energy, more oxygen was needed to maintain a Target Heart Rate and over-exertion could result in the tearing of muscle fibers, tissue breakdown, and exhaustion. Lactic acid could buildup created muscle pain, soreness, and other problems.
Reid was doubled-over on the track, trying to get air into his screaming lungs and not pass out. This was torture. Surely he could have the FBI tried for cruel and unusual punishment. Whose idea was it to make fitness tests a part of field qualifications anyways? If he needed to, he was more than capable of chasing an unsub over a short distance, or running up a set of stairs to reach a victim, but never had he needed to run a mile in under six minutes, or jump hurdles, or do push-ups, or any of the other ridiculous components of the test. The test itself was more likely to kill him than any psychopath.
Even Garcia was doing better than he was, and she wasn't even a field agent. "Are you going to survive?" she asked, stretching her calves while he heaved breath after breath. "You know, maybe you should talk to that girlfriend of yours. She runs, right? Maybe she could help us out."
He gave a short, futile shake of his head. "No… way. That's a… terrible idea."
"Why? I thought you said she was, like, training for a marathon or something?"
Reid squinted in the sunlight. "A half marathon. Which is exactly why I don't want to ask Bianca for help. She actually likes running. I'll end getting dragged on some long run that I can barely keep up on. Just like you don't want to ask Morgan to coach us, I don't want to ask her."
"I'm just saying, it might help." He was going to need more than help to pass this test, he needed a freaking miracle. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like Garcia was right. There was no way he could get through this without a little outside help, and Bianca knew what she was doing, at the very least.
At his wit's end, and with the date of the test quickly approaching, he gave in and asked if he could join her on her Saturday run. "Of course!" She was all too enthusiastic about it, and Reid knew he would end up regretting his decision. "But I've got the Reston Runner's Half coming up in two weeks, and Saturdays are usually my long runs. I don't think you're going to be up for doing ten miles, but I can adjust my course and meet you at your apartment after the first seven."
"Wait, you want me to run three miles with you?"
"Oh, three's not so bad. I'll be tired at that point, so we can keep a slower pace. People run 5Ks all the time without training for them. Think of it this way – if you can run three miles, one mile will feel like nothing. It's all about building your endurance. Can you be ready by 7:45 that morning?" He tried to say that running and an early wake-up was too much, but she insisted that it was best to get a run in before it got too hot outside.
So on Saturday morning he stood outside his building, sweatband and gym shoes and all, scanning the sidewalk for any sign of her. Just before 7:40, she turned the corner, her tee shirt a bright blue that made her easier to spot. Bianca paused the watch on her wrist to explain the route for him. They would run north towards New York Avenue, take a left turn, then another left onto 6th Street, run down past the National Gallery and the Capitol Reflecting Pool, and take a final left turn back up towards his building.
"I'll wait for you at every intersection," she promised. "Ready?" He nodded, and she started the watch again, taking off down the road. Years of cross-country had given her a graceful stride, her feet carrying her almost effortlessly down the concrete, while he felt more like a newborn giraffe trying to figure out how to use its legs – maybe more a like three-legged newborn giraffe. Before they even made their first turn he was breathing hard. At the next intersection, he asked how many miles they'd been going for. When she said almost half a mile, he wanted to just fall over right there, and refuse to move until the FBI terminated his employment.
After that, it seemed even more painful to run. How could she still look so happy while doing this? How was she still moving? At several points along 6th Street he had to stop to try and breathe, and several times Bianca doubled back to check on him. "It's easier if you just keep going," she claimed. "Once you stop it's hard to get started again." Reid just groaned and followed her down the street. It felt like they had been running for hours by the time they finally came to the Capitol building, and he had never found the white monolith to be so beautiful before that day. They were almost done.
But Bianca suddenly picked up speed. "Come on!" she shouted. "Last leg of the run, sprint to the finish!"
"I can't!" he yelled back.
"Yes you can! If you can't catch up, I won't kiss you for a week!" She started running towards the building. That taunt would have mattered very little a few years ago, but he'd become too fond of her, too dependent on being able to hold her or kiss her whenever he wanted. Gritting his teeth, he tried to force his legs to go faster, demanding his arms to pump harder. He was close, he was so close, and he if he just pushed a little bit harder –
But she had already come to a slow trot in front of his building, and from the combined force of effort and defeat, his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the sidewalk in a heap.
"Spencer!" Bianca jogged back over to him. "Are you okay?"
After helping him up the stairs, she was making French toast in his kitchen while he was moaning on the couch. "Yeah," he could hear her saying over the phone. "I think he's okay. What? Um… probably. Hang on." She walked over towards the couch. "Spencer?" When he turned his head, there was the click of her phone's camera, but he was too tired to protest. "I'll send it in just a second, Penelope. Tell the team I'm sorry for breaking your genius."
A plate of eggs and toast was set in front of him on the coffee table, and knelt down on the floor beside the sofa. "I'm sorry for wearing you out, my love. I was only trying to motivate you. I thought you knew I was kidding."
"Couldn't take that chance," he muttered. As far as motivation went, it worked well. Maybe he should just ask the PT instructor if he could bring her along. "I don't think I can move," Reid complained. He was well aware of how pathetic he sounded, but exercise had that effect on him.
She just laughed at his melodramatic lament. "So what are you going to do for the rest of the day?"
"Nothing, I guess. Just lay here until I can feel my legs again."
Bianca leaned in, pressing her lips to his cheek, just shy of the corner of his mouth. "Does this count as nothing?" she asked.
He placed a hand on the side of her face, pulling her closer. "This is my favorite kind of nothing."
Bianca folded a black dress neatly before adding it to the suitcase sitting on her bed. In two days she would boarding a plane for Amsterdam, this time not for two years but one week. As part of the case against Boko Haram, her professor wanted her to travel with one of the lawyers to meet with the ICC. There, they were to present their findings in order to advocate for the Chibok kidnappings being classified as crimes against humanity.
"How long have you known about this trip exactly?" Spencer asked her from where he stood near her closet.
"About a month or so?"
"And you just now decided to start packing?"
"Not everyone has a go-bag, you know." She was terrible about packing ahead, preferring to wait until just before to decide what she wanted to take with her. For just seven days, she didn't need much, but she liked to make sure that she had a few extra outfits, just in case.
Spencer offered to come over and help – though she had bribed him with coffee – so she could spend more time with him that day and less time trying to pack her suitcase. In the last year, she had made short trips to visit her New York friends, and even once out to Italy for Eva and Lorenzo's wedding, but it felt strange to being flying back to the Netherlands for the first time since returning home.
How far they'd come since then.
She could still recall the feeling of sitting in the airport and yearning to see him one last time, after such a difficult goodbye. This time, he wasn't standing outside her apartment and breaking up with her, but rather in her bedroom and trying to help her find a sweater. "Hey!" A cry of indignation came from the closet, and Bianca turned to see what had happened. He was holding up a gray cardigan, thick and cable-knit, from a hanger. "Isn't this mine?" he asked.
She blushed. That was the one she taken with her when she moved. "I may have borrowed it," she replied meekly. A relic of years past, a remembrance of the man she had left behind. It was a small comfort, on lonely nights in The Hague when she'd slipped it on and wished that the person whose arms had previously occupied those sleeves was there to keep her company instead.
"If this was a library book, you'd be paying a very steep fine," Spencer noted, examining the article of clothing before setting it on the bed beside her.
"I'm making you coffee, aren't I?" she teased, reaching for his hand.
He gave her an expression of mock-seriousness. With as much formality as he could muster he said, "I suppose I can make an exception this time, Miss Brown."
His somber face gave way to a grin, and she elbowed him in the side playfully. "Hey now. In a few months I'm going to graduate from law school, and you'll have to start calling me Doctor Brown." Bianca liked the way it sounded, Dr. Brown and Dr. Reid, as though their last names were finally equal.
Spencer removed his cardigan from the hanger and folded it carefully, setting it inside her suitcase. Packing a little part of himself away. "Oh, I don't know about that," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "What? You don't think I'll graduate?"
He froze for a split second, before pulling his mouth up in a comically froglike look. "Of course I do. I was only kidding. You'll make a great Doctor of Law."
"And when someone on a plane asks if there's a doctor onboard, we can both answer."
"I think that would be false advertising."
With his help, she was packed much faster than usual. Both her suitcase and her backpack were ready to go, and as promised she poured him a cup of coffee, shaking her head in amusement as he dumped several sugar packets into it.
It was always hard, being apart. When he left on a case, she missed him until he came home and she knew he was safe again. Flying somewhere was always exciting for her, but she wanted the two of them to travel somewhere together for once.
"I'm going to miss you," he said, sitting cross-legged on her bed.
"I'm only going away for a few days," she replied. What could possibly go wrong in such a short timespan? Still, Spencer looked a little dejected. She had gotten used to him jet-setting off to solve mysteries, but she herself had only flown away a handful of times. Bianca was the time traveler's wife, always waiting for her Doctor to come back home to her; now she was asking him to wait for her. She reached out to stroke his cheek. "I'll be home before you know it," she promised. And then, "I love you."
His frown turned upwards in one of the uneven, asymmetrical smiles she adored. "I love you too." Wrapping her arms around him, she kissed him right on his crooked, perfect mouth.
It was blindingly bright. Why was it so bright? He was having a hard time figuring it out. That was weird – his brain usually didn't move so slowly. The pain bloomed in his neck, a burst of red, and he remembered: he'd been shot.
It came in snippets; dark night, a man running, the sound of a teakettle, Alex calling him Ethan. Who was Ethan? No, wait, go back to the teakettle. They were in Texas outside a diner, why had he heard a teakettle? Had he imagined it? She made tea for him sometimes, in the shiny red kettle on her apartment stove. Bianca. Where was she? Far away, flying somewhere else.
Pain again, sharper. Everywhere. Was he dying? He couldn't die, no he could not die, not yet. Not now. Not without telling her. He needed to tell her, he needed to tell her, she had to know. Was it still in his bag? Where was his bag? He needed it.
He needed her.
"I just keep thinking you're going to disappear. That you'll leave me behind."
Someone was saying something to him, and everything was getting blurry. His eyes felt so heavy. Maybe just for a little while, he could sleep. No, not yet. He couldn't sleep yet, not until he told her. Not until she knew. He needed her. How was he supposed to reach her?
"You're always with me. And I'll always come back to you."
If he died now, she would never know. If he died, she would be the one to find his bag. She would find only the book, and she would let him slip away presuming that his heart still resided in those pages and only in those pages. That wasn't true, that wasn't true but if he died she wouldn't find the box, wouldn't understand it. Without him there would be nobody to explain to her what that box meant.
It sounded like a teakettle. Why? Was it the gun? The sound had come just before the shot, before the pain. It seemed possible. Morgan was there. It occurred to him that maybe he should try to tell Morgan. Maybe the teakettle would make sense to Morgan.
The teakettle. She made tea for him sometimes. The kettle was red, and when she made him tea it was to try and take away his pain, not cause it. Would Morgan understand that? If he told him about the teakettle, would Morgan also understand that he was talking about Bianca? Would he help her to find the box? The box was in his bag, but he didn't know where his bag was.
Where was Alex? Was she okay? There were too many questions overloading his mind, and not enough time to process. The hurt kept interrupting him. Alex had called him Ethan. Who was Ethan? She wasn't married to an Ethan. She was married to a James. Alex was married to James.
The teakettle. Was the teakettle relevant to the case? Or only to him? The teakettle was red. She made him tea. Would he ever have the chance to sit with her on a sofa with mugs of tea in hand? He liked those talks they had, conversations over tea. Those words always meant something, and after the words came the silence. The silence fell because he was holding her, or she was kissing him, or they were just lying together and drinking in the presence of the other.
When had they done that last? She made him coffee, before she left. There was coffee and his sweater in her closet, and then she had kissed him. Was that the last time? That couldn't be the last time.
He didn't want it to be the last time. She needed to know. He had to tell her. Where was his bag? Where was the box? It was getting dark. His eyes were getting heavy.
It sounded like a teakettle. Where was the teakettle? Where was the tea? Where was she?
Author's Note:
Spencer's string of unfortunate events has given me the chance to write from some unique perspectives: deep in grief, high, and now with a bullet through his neck. We're coming to the end of Season 9, with plenty of questions and the last puzzle piece...
A big big thank you to all my wonderful readers! Thanks to DeliciousAudrey, sinfullywicked, Daenys, katieroseanne, robinmathis1, Music4ever19, tigerfan24, and Half Winged Angel in Despair for favoriting/following this story!
And as always, to ahowell1993, Sue1313 (oh thank you! I'm glad you think so :) Haha, from what we've seen of his apartment on the show, they would probably have to get a house at some point - there's hardly any room left with all the books and armchairs!), dianakotori (Henry is just precious. Every scene he's in is cuter as a result. I'm glad the chapter length was a good thing! Thanks!), toxic click (thank you!), Love-Fiction-2016, and ripon (haha!): thank you from the bottom of my writer's heart for taking the time to write a review, and for being so wonderful. I appreciate each and every one of you.
