a/n: Whoops. I was in the middle of finishing up the NEXT fic (chronologically) in this series, and the idea for this one occurred to me. So...here you go.
This immediately follows 3x2 "In Name and Blood," and it takes place a month or so before my fic "Far From Any Road" and 5ish months or so after "History." So yes obviously this includes my OC Elliot Jackson and is part of that overall universe.
if you must cling someone
now and forever, let it be me
Bob Dylan, "Let it be Me"
She was just (finally) drifting off to sleep when her phone rang, and she thought about ignoring it. No good phone calls ever came at 2am, and it had been a long, exhausting day. They'd gotten back from Milwaukee and that frightening nightmare of a case relatively late. No one had felt like going out for drinks, and Reid especially had been jumpy and odd (worried about Gideon), so they'd all scattered back to their respective bolt holes to get some rest before another day and another case.
Jackson often wondered how JJ did the job she did. They at least had some small break, quiet moments when they weren't actively worrying about the next serial killer or pedophile on the horizon, but JJ never did. She spent all day every day choosing the most dangerous. The most pressing. The worst of the worst.
Now in the deepest hours of the night Jackson tossed and turned and tried to think about anything other than wood carving when her attempts at spinning out a fantasy life with Salma Hayek were cut abruptly short.
She sighed and flipped over in her warm, comfy bed. She could ignore it, but no good calls ever came at 2am, and if someone were that desperate it must be important.
With a curse she grabbed the phone off the nightstand and checked the caller ID. Her body tensed when she read the name. "Spencer?" she said as she answered it. "Spence, it's the middle of the night. What's wrong?"
"Jack—he's gone. He's gone, Jack!" His voice was high and desperate, his words slurred.
"What? Spencer, sweetheart, take a breath. Tell me what's wrong."
"Went—went to his cabin, but he's gone. He left—he left a fuckin' note. A note! To me! Why would he do that why would he…" She couldn't understand the rest of the sentence because he seemed to've dropped the phone. She heard muffled curses and, maybe, a sob, then a sharp crack like he'd thrown it across the room. The line went dead.
Jackson stared down at the phone in her hand, momentarily frozen, before her brain kicked in and she dialed him back. It went straight to voicemail. "Spencer, it's Elliot. What is going on? You're scaring me. Please call me back."
She hung up and climbed out of bed to pace. Chewed on a thumbnail and gripped her phone tight, willing it to ring.
Silence.
She tried calling him again and got voicemail again.
"Fuck! Goddamn fuck!" A third time, still straight to voicemail, and she knew she had to go over there. He'd been crying, possibly drunk or high. He'd called her and not his sponsor, and now it seemed like he'd broken his phone.
And clearly something had happened to Gideon.
She threw on a pair of jeans but didn't change out of her ratty Ole Miss t-shirt. Instead she tossed her jacket over it, stepped into her shoes, and started out the door. Halfway into the hall she thought to wonder why everything was so blurry (she hadn't bothered to turn on a light in her apartment), then went back to grab her glasses from the bedroom.
The drive to Spencer's seemed endless even though at this hour the streets were empty and the stoplights were all in her favor. She gripped the wheel and drummed her thumbs against it and when she finally got to his building she almost sobbed in relief. Luckily he'd given her the security code for the door, and a key, so she just let herself in and ran up the stairs.
She knocked first, but when he didn't answer she tried the knob. It wasn't even locked. Jesus Christ.
"Spencer?" she called, quietly. "Reid, it's me. Jack." It was dark, not a single lamp on. She fumbled for the one closest to the door and tugged the cord. He used the lowest goddamn wattage bulbs on planet earth, so she had to turn on two more lights before she finally saw him sprawled across the couch.
"Spencer!"
He didn't move, and fear grabbed her around the throat in a death-grip. "Spencer!" She ran to him and dropped to her knees beside the sofa. He was on his stomach, papers clutched in his hand, and he was breathing.
He opened one eye, saw her, and slammed it shut again. Turned his face away with a groan.
"Goddammit, Reid, I thought you were dead! Don't fucking do that!" She smacked his shoulder and helped him sit up despite his struggles. "What did you take, Spencer? Did you drink?" She got him upright and shook him. "Talk to me! What did you take?!"
His head lolled, but he waved a long-fingered hand toward the table. A half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker Black listed to one side, in danger of spilling all over the rug.
"At least you got wasted on the good shit," she muttered and righted it. "Where the fuck did you get this?!"
He glared at her as though her very presence offended him. "Bought it. What're you doin' here?"
"You called me, genius. Is this it? You didn't take anything?" She grabbed one arm and shoved his sleeve up. He tried to push her away, but she wouldn't let
him. She inspected it for track marks, then did the same to the other, but they looked clean.
"Did you drink all of this?! Tonight?"
"Spilled some," he grumbled. "Spilled a lot. Fuck." He tried to fall over again, but she stopped him. Held his head steady while she looked into each of his eyes to check his pupils. "Stop it!" he said, batting her away like an irritable child. "Just that! Nothin' else."
"No pills? Don't fucking lie to me."
"No! Just that, swear!"
"How much of this did you drink?" He was thin. Had little to no alcohol tolerance. It was strong. "Did you throw up yet?"
He nodded and slumped forward, head in his hands and fingers tangled in his hair. "Twice. Kept goin'."
"Any water? Anything to eat?" He just grunted. She shoved him back against the couch so he was sitting up again. "Answer me, Spencer!"
"S'water! Leave me alone!"
"How much have you had since you vomited?"
He just groaned and toppled to the side. She tried to get him upright again, but he fought her tooth and nail. A hand lashed out and caught her cheek, hard, and she stumbled away with a cry. Tears sprang to her eyes from a combination of shock and pain.
"Oh shit. Jack, sorry, fuck! Didn' mean to, I swear!" he mumbled. He buried his face in the pillow and let out a heartbroken wail. "Fuck it up, fuck it all up, fuck everythin' up!"
"Hey, hey, stop it!" She gripped his shoulders and tried to still him as he rocked and moaned. "It's okay, I'm okay, it barely hurt. I know you didn't mean to. Come on, we have to get you up. You need to keep moving."
"I'm drunk, Jack!"
"Don't I know it, boy genius. Please, come on, work with me."
But he wouldn't, and even though he was thin, he was nearly ten inches taller than she was, and surprisingly wiry. It was like trying to wrestle an overgrown toddler. With really bony elbows.
She could call 911, get some paramedics in here to help sober him up, but that seemed premature. His entire building knew he was an FBI agent, and that kind of public display wouldn't do his reputation any favors.
She sank down on the floor beside the sofa and rested her face in her hands a moment. She had to do something. He could get alcohol poisoning. He never drank, and apparently he'd done so on an empty stomach. Or if he hadn't started that way, it was certainly empty by his third go-round.
She needed help. Ally help, not stranger help. She lifted her phone and stared at it for a long time, chewing the inside of her lip. "Get it together," she told herself. "Pick someone."
Morgan. His name was the first that sprang to mind. Save herself, he was probably Reid's closest friend on the team. He was also big enough to carry him around like a Barbie doll if need be.
She hit the button for his speed dial and listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. His smooth, cheerful voice came on as she got his voicemail, but she hung up without leaving a message. He would wonder about that in the morning. She should try again. She could just tell him she sleep-dialed. She should try again anyway, because she needed his goddamn help!
Realizing she was starting to panic, she dropped her head down between her bent knees and took several long, slow breaths. Garcia? No, she would freak out too much. JJ? Reid would kill her when he sobered up.
Hotch.
It had to be Hotch. He was the boss, yeah, but he…
He was Hotch. He would steady her. He would help Reid. He still felt he had to atone for how he'd let him down before, after Hankel.
Reid would be pissed.
Right the fuck now Reid didn't get a fucking vote, because he was half-unconscious, soused off his goddamn gourd, and she still didn't know why. Something to do with Gideon, but first she had to make sure he lived through this—then she could ask him about that.
It was late. Haley and the baby would be sleeping. But she supposed random almost-3am-phone calls were part of the deal when the BAU Unit Chief was your husband.
She hit his speed dial button. He answered after only two rings, which was a little alarming.
"EJ, what's wrong?" He sounded alert and awake, not like she'd interrupted his sleep at all. A tiny part of her brain wondered about that, but she didn't have the energy, mental or otherwise, to pay it much attention.
She took a deep breath and almost sobbed with relief. "It's Spencer. Hotch, I need you." Her voice cracked on the last sentence, but it didn't matter. He would come. She knew he would come.
Hotch wasn't entirely surprised to find the house empty when he got home. Unsurprised, but still gutted. He'd hoped they could work it out, but he knew he'd betrayed her by going back into the field. She'd given him a million chances to fix things, and he'd blown the last one: he'd once again chosen his team over his family.
He didn't blame her for leaving. He never would. He couldn't believe she'd stuck it out this long. Even when he was here he was away, because lately touching her had felt wrong. Not because she was wrong, or even their marriage, but because he'd felt…stained. Dirtied and shredded by the evil he saw every day. He worried he brought it home, tracked it into the house like dog shit on his shoe, and sometimes even touching Jack seemed like too much. He was so tiny and so innocent and all Hotch wanted to do was protect him from the world outside.
It was better, he thought. Better that she'd taken their son and left. Better that they were far away from the darkness that infected him.
He stared down into his drink and contemplated finishing it off and getting another one, but he didn't feel like moving. He felt cemented into place, laid low and grounded by the weight of their loss.
Wrong, Hotchner, a voice in his head taunted. You didn't lose them. You threw them away.
Jesus Christ he was morbid tonight. It was after 2am and he was drinking alone in the dark calling himself stained and infected. He might as well just blast some Cradle of Filth and call it a trifecta.
He should go take a shower. Get some sleep. It was back to work tomorrow, another day, another case, another chance to wade through the sludge. He lifted his glass in a toast and was about to take the last sip when his phone rang.
Haley?! He grabbed it off the table, but the caller ID made him do a double take.
EJ. Why was she—it didn't matter.
He hit the button to answer. "EJ, what's wrong?" he said.
There was a brief second of silence. Then, "It's Spencer. Hotch, I need you." Her voice broke somewhere among the last four words, and the you came out half-choked, almost on a sob.
He pushed to his feet and strode to the foyer to grab his wallet and keys. "Where are you? I'm on my way."
"Spencer's," she said. "He's drunk. Really, really drunk. I don't know what happened. Something about Gideon, I think. He says he hasn't used at all, and I don't think he's lying, but I can't get him off the couch and I'm worried—"
"It's okay," he said, his voice low and soothing. "I'll be there in…half an hour. Try to keep him talking. I'll call when I'm closer, but if you need me before then, call." He paused. "Elliot, are you listening to me?"
"Yeah, yeah, I am." He heard her swallow, and when she spoke again she was steadier. "Keep him talking. Half an hour. I'm sorry to call so late. I tried to call Derek, but he didn't answer, and I didn't know who else—tell Haley I'm sorry, please?"
He froze, his hand on the handle of the car door. Tell Haley. He gave a soft sigh and got in the car. "I'll tell her, EJ. Try to stay calm. I'll be there as soon as I can."
Jackson still couldn't get Reid up off the couch, but she at least got him talking. He wouldn't tell her what was going on, but he launched into a long recital about butterflies: their habitats. Various species. Mating habits. Migratory patterns. By the time Hotch buzzed twenty minutes later she knew more about butterflies than she thought possible.
She left Reid long enough to buzz Hotch up and let him in. "He's here, on the sofa. Still can't get him on his feet." She showed him the bottle. "He said he spilled a lot of it, so I have no idea how much he's had to drink, but there are two-year-olds with higher alcohol tolerance than him. He said he's thrown up twice, and he had a little bit of water. No food, as far as I know."
"Okay," he said. "Let's see what we've got."
His expression was grim but determined. He took off his coat and draped it over a chair, and she saw he hadn't changed out of his work clothes. His tie was gone, collar unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled up. He was rumpled, with smudges under his eyes and stubble along his jaw. She'd never seen him anything less than impeccably turned out, even when dressed casually, so for a moment it gave her pause.
He knelt in front of Reid and gripped his shoulder. "Reid? Spencer, can you hear me? It's Hotch. How much did you have to drink?"
His face screwed itself into a scowl and he opened his eyes to glare. "I'm fine! Tol' Jack I'm fine just had a li'l bit and I'm tired. Leave me alone."
"Sorry, that's not happening. On your feet."
He tried to protest, but Hotch was having none of it. He pulled Reid upright and propped him on his shoulder. "Let's walk. You can tell me what happened."
"Nothin'! Fuckin'—nothin'—uggh, don' feel like walkin', Hotch." He slumped against Hotch's side, but when he would've dropped back onto the couch, Hotch held him in place.
"Walk, Spencer. Tell me the signs and effects of alcohol poisoning."
"Fuck if I know."
Hotch glared down at him, then over his shoulder at her. "Go get him some water. Maybe we can get him to drink a little bit. Come on, Reid. Symptoms of alcohol poisoning. Alphabetically."
He made a low noise that almost sounded like a growl. Jackson left them there to pace and went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. She filled the glass and smacked the tap closed then stood for a moment. Her hands were shaking so hard she had to set the water down or risk dropping it.
She gripped the counter until her fingers turned white and took a breath. Hotch was here now. She wasn't alone. She had finally, for once in her life, called for help when she needed it, and it wasn't all on her to fix this.
The thought steadied her. She grabbed the glass and returned to the living room in time to hear Reid say, "Low…body temp…I'm no' cold…"
"That's good, Reid." He grimaced at Jackson and held Reid still while she tried to get him to drink. "Don't choke," he said. "Small sips. Easy."
"Should we call 911?" she said. "I wanted to keep things private. If the Bureau finds out about this it won't be good for him."
"So you called me?" he said.
Her mouth quirked. "Like I said, I tried Derek first."
His brows lifted in acknowledgement before he glanced back down at Reid. "I think he'll be okay. He hasn't passed out, and hopefully throwing up got most of it out of his system. His breathing seems fine."
She nodded and took the half-empty glass away from Reid before it slipped out of his hand. "He shouldn't be left alone tonight. Just in case."
Hotch nodded agreement. "I'll stay. I wasn't sleeping anyway."
She frowned. Her eyes searched his face, and he felt the questions there, but before she could get any of them fully-formed, he turned his attention back to Reid.
"Let's keep moving. You were only at L, low body temperature. What's next on the list?"
He mumbled something, but Hotch gave him a little shake and told him to keep going. Jackson crossed her arms over her middle and wandered away, toward the abandoned sofa. Her eye caught on the crumpled sheets of paper Reid had had gripped in his hand when she walked in.
She retrieved them, smoothed them on her knee, and started to read. It was a letter. To Reid. From Gideon.
"Fuck me!" she said.
Hotch stopped and Reid's head lolled toward her. He let out a gleeful cackle. "That's it," he said. "That's the g'bye. He's gone."
"Who's gone, Reid?" Hotch said. "Who?"
"Jason! Fuckin'—left a fuckin' letter. At the cabin." He laughed again, almost hysterically, and would've fallen if Hotch hadn't been there. "He's gone!" he cried. "He's gone and there's a letter!"
Hotch's face had gone pale beneath his stubble, and the lines were drawn deep. "EJ—Elliot—is it—?"
She flipped the pages, eyes wide and frightened, but after a moment she slumped in relief. "No. It isn't a suicide note. He's just—going. Leaving the FBI and his life here in DC."
"Not dead," Reid said, mournfully, "just gone. Done."
"Oh, Spencer," she said on a breath. "I'm sorry. What a fucker."
He gulped. Let out a breath. And next thing they knew he was sobbing into Hotch's shoulder. He looked momentarily startled, but he rallied quickly and gripped the back of his head while Jackson hurried over to rub his back. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her cheek against the knobs of his spine.
None of them spoke. Reid cried at first loudly, but then softer and softer until only the shaking of his thin frame gave away his sobs at all. Hotch's free hand rested a moment on Jackson's shoulder, a brief touch of comforting solidarity, and as he lifted it his knuckles brushed across her cheek—accidentally, she was sure.
Reid lifted his face from Hotch's soggy shirt. "Can I go lie down now?" he said. He sounded clearer and more coherent than he had all night.
"That might be okay," Hotch said. "Do you think you can drink some more water?"
"Yeah. Maybe." He twisted to look at Jackson with big, shadowed eyes. "I didn' use, I swear."
"I know, honey," she said, her voice gentle. "But you still should've called your sponsor."
"I called you," he said. He frowned. "And you called Hotch." He peered up at their boss. "You aren't gonna fire me, are you?"
"For getting drunk? Pretty sure that's not a fireable offense unless you're on the clock."
Reid gave a slow blink. "So…no?"
"No, Reid. I'm not going to fire you." He hoisted him up as he started to sag. "Come on. Into the bedroom."
"Don' really think about you like that, Hotch, sorry," he mumbled.
Jackson let out a squeak of alarm and laughed to cover it. "Guess he's still got his sense of humor," she said. Reid would die if he knew he came out to Hotch in a drunken half-stupor, but when her eyes met Hotch's over Reid's slumped head, she saw only vague amusement.
Hotch got him in bed, on his side, and moved back to the doorway. She propped him up a little and helped him drink some more water. He drained another half glass before he pushed it away and dropped onto the pillows.
"I can't believe he's gone," he said.
"I know." She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "I'm sorry. You should've called me sooner; I would've gone up there with you."
He shrugged a shoulder. "I thought maybe he'd be there. It would be better if I talked to him alone. You know how he gets around you."
She frowned and ducked her head. "Yeah. I guess so."
His face scrunched. He touched her chin so that her eyes flicked to his again. "I'm sorry. That wasn't—about you. It wasn't your fault he was like that sometimes."
"I know," she said, quietly, but even in his current state he could see that he'd hurt her.
"You reminded him that he wasn't always right," he said. "That's not a bad thing. Especially for someone like him, who pretty much thinks he's always right."
"Isn't that why he left?" she said. She bit the inside of her lower lip and the line between her brows deepened. "According to his note, anyway." She sighed and rubbed her forehead. Cast a quick glance at Hotch. "The BAU's endless capacity to martyr itself will never cease to amaze me."
Reid huffed out a chuckle. "You're one to talk. I guess that's why you fit in so well."
She poked him in the shoulder. "Don't get smart with me, boy genius. I know where you live."
"I hope so. Since you're here." His face was red and swollen from the crying, and his eyes felt like sandpaper. He scrunched them closed and scrubbed a fist against them. "I don't think you need to stay," he said. "I'm okay."
"You've been saying that since I got here. We're not leaving you alone, so you can forget it."
He looked around her at Hotch and grimaced. "Hotch?" he murmured where only she could hear. "Really?"
"I tried to call Morgan but he didn't answer. Would Garcia have been better?"
"God no. She'd be mother hen-ing me for weeks." He sighed and his head dropped to the pillow. "I can't believe I did this. What a fuckup."
She smiled, softly. "You're allowed, Spencer. And you called me. You reached out."
"Not till I was three sheets," he said. "You're right. I should've asked you to come up with me. Or I should've called my sponsor as soon as I found the letter."
"Should've, would've, could've. Just—if you remember nothing else tomorrow, remember that much." She dipped to press a soft kiss to his temple. "Get some rest. We'll be right here."
She gestured for Hotch to join her in the other room, but they stayed close to the bedroom doorway so they could hear him if he were in distress.
He studied her, trying to be subtle about it. She looked younger than her (very nearly) twenty-seven years. Small and vulnerable in a way she rarely was at work. Maybe it was the lack of makeup, or the clothes: jeans with a rip in the knee and a faded t-shirt that had seen better days. And the glasses. He'd only ever seen her in contacts, and if he thought about it too hard—well. Best just not to think about it. EJ wore glasses sometimes, the end.
She crossed her arms again, suddenly nervous and unsure. Maybe calling Hotch had been the wrong choice. Maybe she should've tried Derek again. Or JJ. She stood facing him, not looking at him, the inside of her lip caught between her teeth and her thumb worrying the scar on her palm. She could feel the weight of his eyes almost like a physical touch. It wasn't as disconcerting as maybe it should have been.
"EJ," he said, his voice quiet but with a core of steel.
She shifted her weight. Plucked at her shirt, then felt her cheeks go hot as she realized what she had on. Old-ass Ole Miss t-shirt that once belonged to her mom and now was only good for sleeping in, and no bra. Fantastic.
"Umm…thanks for coming," she said. "Really, I've got it from here. I'll keep watch, but I think he's okay. Cried the alcohol out or something."
"EJ," he said again, a little more urgently.
She ran a hand back through her hair, then dropped her arms when she again remembered her lack of bra. She clasped her arms around her torso and hunched her shoulders a little. His mouth quirked, and her blush deepened.
She turned her head away, and his expression morphed into a frown. He took one long stride to her and his hand came up to cup her face. She reared back, alarmed, but he stopped short at the last minute, and when he approached her again it was more slowly. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, just below the frame of her glasses, and she winced.
"What happened?" he said.
"I…" She looked up at his face: brow furrowed, mouth a hard line, eyes a furious storm. Suddenly it was hard to breathe, like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room, and she felt her pulse jump and scramble. Her hand fluttered to her cheek, pushing his away, and he let his arm fall.
"Elliot? Who did this?"
The intensity of his stare didn't let up, but at least he was no longer touching her. She couldn't handle both. She hadn't had a chance to look at her face in a mirror, but based on his reaction, Spencer's accidental blow must've left a mark. She'd worried it might. "It—it was an accident."
"Who?" he grated out. He didn't even know she was seeing anyone. It wasn't his business either way, but generally he liked to have some awareness of his team's personal lives, if only so he could gauge how it might affect the job. Now here was EJ with a bruise half-formed on her face and—
"It was Reid?" he said as realization dawned.
"Yes, but it was an accident. Really."
He kept her locked in his flinty gaze for another few seconds before he stalked away. She waited, holding her breath, as he went to the kitchen and banged around for a while. When he came back he had a baggie full of ice and a towel. He wrapped the icepack and handed it to her, then crossed his arms and fixed her with a stern glare. Another one. "Maybe you should tell me what happened. From the beginning."
She did, but of course Reid's beginning wasn't the same as hers, because she'd come in around the start of Act III. She explained the phone call, the state he'd been in when she got here. She told him about trying to get Reid up and walking, and her ultimate failure to do so. "So that's when I tried to call Morgan, like I said, but he didn't answer. Then I called you. And you know the rest."
He stared at her, then let out a rough sigh and scrubbed a hand down his face. Hit the stubble and grimaced. He, too, was less than his most professional. "So it was an actual accident."
"Yes," she said. "An actual accident. My face and his hand in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"That's—good. I thought I was going to have to start throwing my weight around with some punk."
She smothered a laugh. "Some punk? Is this 1958?"
His lips moved in a tired smile. "I'm a rebel without a cause."
"Mhmm, doubly so because you know perfectly well I can take care of myself."
His expression sobered, and the intensity returned to his gaze. "Of course you can, but even you need help sometimes." He spread his arms. "Case in point."
"An exceptional case in point, Mr. Prosecutor," she said, dryly. She rubbed the back of her neck and shot a quick look into the bedroom. "You can go. I know you said you'd stay, but I've got this. I don't sleep much anyway, and I'm sure Haley is wondering where the hell you've gotten to."
He opened his mouth to tell her the truth: Haley was gone. She'd taken Jack and gone to Jessica's and there was no way she was coming back, not now, not after all the chances she'd given him and how many times he'd let her down. He'd known perfectly well getting on that plane to Milwaukee would mean the death of his marriage and he'd done it anyway. Maybe done it because of that, because he was so fucking tired. Tired of fighting and tired of feeling guilty and tired of trying to force himself into a suit that didn't fit.
He was the job. He loved Haley and he loved Jack, but he also loved catching bad guys, and nothing was going to change that.
Instead he smiled, briefly. "It's fine. I told her Reid was sick and needed some help. She only gets irritated when it's criminals taking up my time."
"Hm."
Behind the glasses her eyes were keen, and he knew she could tell he wasn't telling the entire truth. He watched her decide not to ask. To let him get away with it. She was frankly too worn out to chase after his demons, too.
"I think he's got a deck of cards around here somewhere," she said, lightly. "Poker?"
"Promise you won't cheat?"
She grinned, tiredly, but it still lit up her face. "I promise. Reid's been teaching me."
"Shit. Let's play for matchsticks then."
They set up a poker game on the floor in Reid's bedroom, and in the end they came out fairly even. They could read each other too well to bluff, and their skill at the game was about the same. At some point they put the cards aside and sat propped against the wall. He taught her a few card tricks (Reid would be impressed) and she spent a good twenty minutes explaining why grits were never meant to be served sweet.
Eventually she fell asleep, her head on his shoulder. He roused her and got her to the bed. Carefully removed her glasses and tucked her in next to Reid. He stood for a minute, hands in his pockets, and watched her sleep. The groove between her brows was gone, and in this light he could see the freckles sprinkled across her nose. The bruise on her cheek wouldn't be as bad as he'd initially thought, but she'd need to figure out something to tell the rest of the team.
He ran a hand over his jaw and smothered a yawn. With one last glance behind him, he left them there to sleep and went home to an empty house and a mountain of regrets.
just a little oneshot. lemme know if you're enjoying the series!