tw- alcoholism

"Where the hell is she?" Derek presses.

Emily checks her watch, "It's only seven thirty. Have some faith, she'll be here."

Derek seems unconvinced and returns to scanning the crowd for her. Prentiss rolls her eyes.

Prentiss opens her mouth to scold Derek for being so tough on Jo, but she closes it and shakes her head. It won't make a difference, anyway.

Prentiss really likes Jolene. A lot. They had met once or twice before she joined the BAU, back when her father was hosting some gathering similar to the one they are currently at.

Back when Jo was a young girl and Prentiss had just started her work at the FBI. Before everything had happened to her.

Now, Jo is older and wiser, and Emily can't understand why Derek and Hotch treat her the way that they do.

They are overprotective and critical, and always have something to say about Jo when she isn't around.

They have such high expectations for her, expectations that Emily knows her Unit Chief doesn't even have for himself.

They pass judgment on most things that Jo does and it always makes Prentiss want to intervene. But she holds her tongue, because they've known her for longer and she had only just started to get to know her.

Hotch and Derek were some of the first responders to the house on the night her mother was murdered and her brother dissapeared.

If anyone knows her, she assumes it's them. But, she can't shake the feeling that they still could show her a bit more compassion. Or empathy.

That's men, for you.

Prentiss needs another drink, and she grabs a flute of champagne from a passing cocktail server. She sips the glass and eyes the house to take her mind off of the impatient man standing irritably in front of her.

It's a huge, open-concept house, save for the intimate and closed-off foyer they are standing in. There is a massive marble staircase that curves from the upper level down into the foyer, and Prentiss assumes it has to be almost a hundred-thousand dollars worth of marble.

She remembers thinking about the price of the marble staircase the last time she was here, too.

People, agents, mill about the grandiose home while the BAU spends the first half of the evening greeting nameless agents with feigned affability and waiting for Jo.

Hotch walks by Emily and Derek before backtracking to join them.

He wears a stiff black tux, just like Derek, but his is paired with a bow-tie.

He has a champagne flute in hand and harsh concern etched on his face already. Prentiss sighs.

"She's still not here?" Hotch asks them

Derek looks at Prentiss as if to say I told you so.

"She will be here," Prentiss insists.

She looks at them the way she regards rogue deputies while she smoothes down her elegant, navy blue dress.

"Well it was my job to get her here, and Deputy Director Banks has already asked me where she is three times."

"Hotch, I don't know why Emily is so convinced she'll show," Derek says.

"Someone's gotta have hope around here, right?" Rossi says.

He walks up to the group smoothly, readjusting his tie and wiping the corners of his mouth in a way Prentiss assumes he thinks is discreet.

Emily's tongue is in her cheek, "Isn't it a little bit early in the evening for you to be sneaking off? Who's the lucky lady?"

"Has the princess arrived?" Rossi looks at Hotch who shakes his head, "Then I've missed nothing important."

"Have you spoken to the Deputy Director?" Hotch asks him.

"He's tried to speak to me but I've been keeping a distance. I know he's just going to," Rossi searches for the words, "Be less than kind."

"And speak of the devil," Prentiss says, eyes focused over Rossi's shoulders.

They all turn to see Jo's father approaching them. He greets people quickly as he passes.

"Deputy Director Banks, thank you for having us. Your home is so beautiful," Prentiss says with a toothy, charming smile that Derek will definitely poke fun at her for later.

"Thank you. Agent Prentiss, Agent Morgan. I'm assuming you also have no idea where my daughter is?" Colin asks.

"Sorry, sir. I'm sure she'll be here soon," Morgan assures him.

"This is so very like her, isn't it? You tell her something is important and she treats it like nothing. Careless," The Deputy Director laughs, assuming they will join in on his berating of his daughter.

Derek changes the subject quickly before he has time to risk his job and pop off on the motherfucker. The men lull into small talk and Prentiss is uninterested.

Until things get interesting.

"And you know my fiancé," Deputy Director Banks says formally as he pulls a thin, redheaded woman out of the crowd.

He pulls her into his side firmly, "Helen Rothschild, from Interpol."

"Well, we were going to wait and make the announcement tonight, but it sounds like someone got a little excited," Helen says with a tight smile, patting the Deputy Director's chest.

No one says anything, but the apprehension wafting off of Hotch, Derek, Rossi and Emily is hard to miss.

She knows she has to save them all from this moment.

"Yes, Agent Rothschild of course. I-You had correspondence with my mother, I believe. Agent Emily Prentiss."

She reaches out to shake the woman's hand.

"Yes, Elizabeth and I worked closely several times in the past. Lovely to see you, Agent Prentiss."

"Likewise."

Hotch and Derek greet Helen, and Prentiss scans the room for Jo. She bites her fingernails and her left foot taps the ground impatiently.

"As soon as my daughter gets here, we can officially make the announcement," Prentiss looks back at Deputy Director Banks and Helen.

They smile politely and excuse themselves, slipping into the crowd and toward the banquet ball.

Hotch, Emily, Derek and Rossi watch them go.

"Fiancé," Derek says, unable to believe what he just heard.

"You know what, maybe it won't be so bad if Jo doesn't come, after all" Emily nods.

"Hey, guys."

They see Spencer walking lankily up to them. He smiles, but he's out of breath. He runs a hand through his hair.

"Have you seen Jo?" Hotch asks.

"N-no. She isn't here already?" he asks, looking around for the sight of bright red hair.

Hotch sighs and pulls out his phone, "I was hoping she was with you, but I figured that would be a long shot."

"Wait, Hotch," Derek taps his shoulder and points to the door.

They all sigh when they see her. The relief doesn't last long.

She's peering up at the house, jaw slightly dropped like it was the first time she had ever seen the inside of the pompous home.

Some people greet her as they pass, and some stare at her from the corners of the room and whisper.

She doesn't seem to notice any of it, though. The lights are too dim for her to be able to see much.

She walks through the foyer, heading straight for her team when she sees a tall silhouette that can only belong to Spencer Reid.

"Hello, party people."

"Where have you been?" Hotch presses immediately.

He's trying to look her in the eye, but he can't. Her head is bobbing around on her neck lazily as she takes in her surroundings.

"Doesn't matter. I'm here now, right?" She says and fiddles with her fingers.

Prentiss opens her mouth, but Derek cuts her off, "Right. And we're glad you're here. You look stunning."

"Thank you, my good sir."

She gets distracted mid-way through her sentence by a passing caterer carrying a tray of champagne flutes.

"Oh, be right back."

She follows the caterer, leaving the team behind without a second thought.

"What the hell-" Prentiss starts.

"Don't," Hotch says, "We'll deal with it later."

"Uh, looks like you should deal with it now," Spencer says.

He's watching her the whole time. The way her heels make it impossible for her to walk in a straight line, the way she laces her hands behind her back childishly.

She looks free, which definitely makes him question her state of being.

Hotch says nothing, and neither does anyone else. Spencer looks at the older members of his team before shaking his head in disappointment and following after her.

He is behind her in three strides.

She reaches for a flute on the caterer's tray, but he grabs it before she can.

She huffs, and reaches for another, but he grabs the flute again and she turns around quickly.

"Just because you have freakishly long arms doesn't mean you can steal from me."

She turns back to grab another flute but the caterer who was just before her is gone.

"Damnit," She turns to Spencer, "Gimme one of those. Now, if you could."

She reaches for the flutes.

He pulls them away, holding them high above her reach. He eyes her carefully, already privy to the fact that she had to numb herself to be able to walk in here.

It makes his chest hurt, constricting and twisting into a pitiful feeling, but he knows she would likely spill the champagne on his head if she detects a trace of pity on his face.

So he wills himself to look at her neutrally and adds an edge to his voice.

"I think maybe you've had enough."

She laughs condescendingly, like a school bully. He doesn't like it and he feels stupid for pitying her at all.

"Had enough? I just got here, loser," She reaches again.

"Stop," He pulls the flutes completely away from her, handing them off to two passers by.

The bruteness of his voice changes something in her, and she seemingly gives up her fight.

She sighs annoyedly and looks around the house for something more interesting to waste her time on.

But before she can wander off, his hand locks around her wrist and he's leading her through the formal crowd.

He wants to get her out of the crowded location before she can find a way to get another drink.

When they reach an empty hallway off the foyer, she yanks her wrist from his grasp.

"Why are you so weird? Oh my god! You are so weird."

"You're wasted."

"I wish. No, I'm just," She sucks air through her nostrils, exhaling slowly, "High on life."

His upper lip curls a bit.

"Sorry, I didn't-"

"You came here drunk? I know it's probably hard and everything, but it's not-"

"Don't you...I don't know," She feigns a look of critical thinking, "have your own problems to worry about?"

He watches as her shoulders twist right and left slowly, almost swaying, and she can't make eye contact with him.

He tries to ignore her facetious demeanor and he fails. It only makes him grow irritated.

"Your dad's been looking for you all night, Hotch kept trying to cover for you. Morgan, too."

He tries to find her eyes and can't.

Why can she never take anything seriously?

Even when Spencer can eventually see into her dark brown eyes he doesn't see her. He doesn't see much of anything. A vacant stare.

He's never met someone so apathetic, and deliberately apathetic at that.

But there's something deep and dark that swims in her eyes, which time and again makes him forget about her mean spirited jesting and cutting words.

"I know what's going on," She says, like she's just been clued into something she is not supposed to know.

He doesn't know what is happening when she takes a step toward him. He does, however, feel his pulse in his ears and warmth on his cheeks.

"You hate me because I know your little secret."

She whispers the last part in his ear, still having to rise to her tip-toes even though she is wearing five inch heels.

"No, Jo that's not it-"

He takes a step away from her, hands raising in defense.

"It's okay, Spence. I'm not as much of a mess as you are. I'll be fine."

She smiles in a real and genuine way. She smiles as if she had just said something sweet. She smiles like a big cat baring its teeth before a scrawny gazelle.

She tries to leave the narrow hallway but his body is blocking her already.

"You can't even walk in a straight line," He gestures to her as she sways, "Look at you. Can we at least get you some water?"

She doesn't try to leave again, like he expects her to, and he looks at her for instructions on what he should do next.

He knows he can't step out of line with her. One wrong move and he's as dead as a gazelle. He's been there before.

"So, how fucked up do they all think I am?" She asks him quietly.

"I'm not sure, but the fact that we've been gone for so long probably doesn't look too good."

"Or they just think we're hooking up."

Spencer tries to come up with words but what do you even say to something like that? When two minutes ago he was waiting for her to extend her talons and sink them into his chest?

"Don't be gross," He says.

"Ouch. That one hurt."

"You-" He bites his lip, hoping she can't see the smile threatening, "You know what I mean."

What is happening to him?

"I actually," She takes a step toward him again, "Don't. Why don't you tell me?"

He feels her breath fanning his face, and he doesn't know what she is going to do next. He hates not being able to see her next move reflected in her eyes.

She is dangerous in this way. Unpredictable. He won't admit that something about it...gets him going.

"If you're gonna slap me, just do it already," He breathes.

She ponders this, mouth quirking to the side before it's replaced with a wide grin. Wicked, ear to ear.

"I think you'd be scared, by what I actually want to do to you. But, I don't want to scare you."

He gulps. He feels his hands rising from his sides, unsure if he is going to pull her close or push her away.

He knows she's drunk, he would even dare to call her completely intoxicated.

But drunk words are sober thoughts, right?

"Hey! Pretty Boy."

Derek is jogging up to the two of them. He places a hand on each of their shoulders, looking between the two.

"Reid's not allowed to go back out there with a black eye, alright? He says to Jo, "C'mon. Your dad is starting to speechify."

"I can't thank you all enough for coming, and donating to the Founder's Club. We at the FBI believe..."

"Blah blah blah," Jo murmurs.

She shoves another hors d'oeuvre cracker into her mouth.

"God, this is boring."

Derek blows air through his lips from his seat at the table next to Jo.

"You people made me come to this. You wanted your little chance to kiss ass," Jo whispers through her chewing.

"I thought it might be fun," Prentiss frowns from her seat on the other side of Jo.

"Hey, you three," Hotch whispers from across the table.

They all lean back in their seats as if they just got yelled at for talking in a highschool classroom.

"Where the hell is Penelope?" Prentiss huffs.

"I told you, she's sick," Derek says.

"She's been hounding me to come to this fucking ball for weeks and doesn't even have the decency to show up," Jo rolls her eyes and sips a glass of red wine.

Spencer looks at Hotch and Derek, who seemingly can't be bothered to stop her.

Spencer feels eyes on him and looks at Emily who looks away.

How did she even get that glass? His eyes didn't leave her after they left the back hallway and he never, not once, saw a chance for her to acquire a glass of wine.

But somehow, she did.

"And now, for a very exciting announcement. I'm going to invite Helen Rothschild to come up here and join me."

Applause sounds as Deputy Director Banks holds his arms out to Helen as she walks to the front of the room, nodding her head graciously.

"Oh my god," Jo snorts, "that skank bag Helen is still hanging off my dad's shoulder? Why didn't you tell me?"

Jo laughs silently and looks at Hotch, but he doesn't display any emotion when he looks at her.

"...I would like to take this opportunity to officially announce our engagement. We will be married at the end of Summer."

The Deputy Director looks at Helen, the two kiss, and the room is a mess of applause again.

The BAU is not clapping. They are all looking at Jo.

Her mouth is pulled into a thin smile, and she looks out over the sea of people clapping.

Her eyes are inquisitive, the way they are when she's looking at an evidence board. She expects the cameras to come out and reveal that she is on an episode of Punk'd.

"I don't-I don't think I understand. Is this real? Is this actually happening?"

When no one responds her smile fades, drooping into a pathetic frown.

"Did you know about this?" She asks to no one in particular.

Emily and Derek avoid her gaze, Hotch stays stoic and Spencer is looking between everyone. Rossi leans back in his chair with his arms crossed.

"And, I'd also like to take the chance to congratulate my beautiful daughter, Jolene. She has returned to Quantico after leading a prominent, graceful career at the Chicago field office. Welcome home, Jolene. We are so happy to have you back."

Fucking liar.

He raises his glass to her.

Everyone looks at her now, clapping and smiling into her face like she is the princess of Genovia.

The applause sounds muffled in her ears, like she is on an airplane and her ears are about to pop from the altitude.

Her team claps too, but cautiously with no smiles on their faces. They only need to keep up appearances.

"You know what? Fuck it," She exhales and stands, wine glass in hand.

Everyone quiets down, the applause fading to silence.

"Thank you, father," She nods, "You know, after my mother's murder, which happened in this very house, by the way, I thought you would never find love again, dad."

Helen is smiling and Colin looks far less than amused, but he looks around the room and feigns a smile. His eyes paint a different picture when they lock onto his daughter's.

"But, it only makes sense that you did find love again. And with someone as amazing, and beautiful, and amazing as Helen."

Spencer is debating yanking her back down into her seat, or dragging her out of the room altogether.

It seems that Hotch and Derek have resigned trying to help with the way their eyes are cast downward.

They didn't try to stop the car wreck, but can't be bothered to deal with the aftermath. Spencer almost stands from his seat, but Jo starts talking again.

"You know, Helen," she laughs to herself, head tilting down, "At first, I had suspected you were just a money-hungry leech looking to replace my mother. But now-now I know that I was right. It really is true. To the happy couple."

She raises her glass and downs the remaining wine in one sip, wiping the corners of her mouth with delicate fingers.

The crowd is silent.

She turns on her heel and walks though what seems like hundreds of round, white tables to the exit.

She doesn't rush, though. She takes her time, and her heels clack against the marble floor purposefully loud.

Deputy Director Banks watches her leave before clearing his throat and grabbing the microphone in a desperate attempt to try and save the evening.

"I'll go check on her," Derek begins to rise to his feet but Prentiss draws his attention to the doorway of the ballroom, where Spencer is already following after her.

"Hey!"

"What?" She turns around.

He expects her to be crying. Or to look hurt, or upset, or any other emotion one might feel at a moment like this.

But her face is calm and waiting, ready to chew him up and spit him out.

Spencer glances behind himself to the ballroom, hoping Hotch or Derek would follow, but they are alone.

"What-Where..." He is fidgeting with his hands, trying to come up with something, anything that would be helpful to her right now.

"Did you know?"

He urges her to continue with a confused shake of his head.

"Did you know he was going to marry Helen?" She clarifies.

"No," He shakes his head, "I certainly did not see that coming."

"That makes two of us."

She turns to go again.

"Where are you going?" He finally asks, frustrated that she seems to have no logic at all behind her decision making.

"I don't know. I guess-" She gasps silently.

The mischief on her face tells Spencer she has a bad idea.

"Oh-oh my god no."

"Relax. I'm not offering it to you, anyway."

He is trying not to focus on her lips and the way white plumes of smoke swirl out of them.

"So this is like, your second bedroom? In the basement?"

"Uh, I guess," She tilts her head, "Not really. No. This is just where I would hide the weed back in the day."

"Ah," His eyes scan the room.

An old computer desk, an easel with a half-finished landscape painting and a Backstreet Boys poster.

He sees that she seems less drunk than before, the harrowing scene in the banquet hall surely sobered her up.

"I could tell this room is a ruse. I half-suspect that if I tore that poster off the wall, there'd be a safety deposit box behind it."

She drags the joint in her hand, "Caught me."

She sits on the corner of the desk, not caring about how her dress is bunching up around her mid calves. She swings her legs carelessly.

"Are you sure you're not going to..."

"Going to what?"

"Like, make the house smell like weed?"

She shakes her head and blows smoke from her lips.

"How do you think I used to get through all those dinner parties?"

He opens his mouth in understanding and nods.

A beat passes, and Spencer takes the time to flit his eyes between Jo, the joint in her left hand, and her calves that are exposed from the way her dress has hiked-up.

"They're definitely not inviting me to that wedding thing, are they?"

She laughs and tries to sound like she finds herself as amusing as she always does.

"I-I'm sure they...you know, people sometimes just need time to come around."

She shakes her head, "You don't have to do that. I guess I'm just..."

"You can say it, you know. Whatever you're thinking. You don't have to keep-"

"Forgive me if I find it a little hard to be honest with you. Especially about stuff like this."

She looks at him blankly and he would do anything to get a little emotion out of her-some semblance that she is a human being with flesh and bones and not a robot filled with panels and wires.

"I deserve that," He nods.

"You really, really do."

"I meant what I said. You can talk to me."

That's all she needed to hear. Bottling everything up inside is not possible all the time. Some things just won't fit.

"I can't believe he would do this to me. And I'm not talking about him marrying Helen. He's a grown man and he can do whatever he wants. But to not tell me and to just-just"

She urges herself to come up with the word by shaking her hands around.

"Betray you. He-He betrayed you. You feel betrayed."

"That makes me sound weak."

"That's not always a bad thing."

"Says you."

She sucks her teeth. She looks at the joint before hopping off the desk.

She pulls open a drawer on the bottom of the desk and pulls out an ashtray, stubbing the joint out.

"Will you take me home?"

The apartment is smaller than he expects for someone with so much money.

"Nice place, save for all the stoner shit."

"Don't use my own words against me. It makes me sound cliche," She pauses before adding, "And a couple of glass pieces are better than all that Darth Vader whatever the fuck you have going on at your place."

"Depends on who you ask," He says and shoots her a glance that she immediately evades.

She turns the lights on one at a time as they make their way through the apartment.

It is clean and almost empty. The walls are very white and there are plants everywhere. A lot of plants. Some hanging, some rooted in giant terracotta pots.

When they make it to the small kitchen in the back of the house, they hear a gasp.

"Well well well. Sneaking in for a late-night booty call, hm? Who is this tall hunk of handsome?"

Sat in a stool at the kitchen island is a woman who, at first glance, looks very familiar to Spencer.

"Um..."

"Cass, he has a big head already. Don't inflate the ego," Jo says but she is preoccupied with opening the beer bottle.

He looks at Jo who seems unalarmed by the woman's presence as she pulls a beer from the fridge.

"Wait," The woman stands and puts down the magazine in her hands, "I know you."

She looks at Spencer up and down before settling back on his face, "Doctor Spencer Reid."

"You," He looks at her, "Work for the FBI? Forensic Analyst? Cassandra..."

"Hart. And it's Cassidy, but close," She raises her eyebrows, "They weren't kidding about that eidetic memory, huh?"

Spencer glances at Jo who shrugs.

This girl seems to be the exact opposite of Jo, but somehow eerily similar in a way he hasn't been able to figure out in the few short moments of meeting her.

"Nice to meet you," he says.

"So, how'd it go?" Cass sits back down.

"Shit show."

"As expected," Cass looks at Spencer, "Was it really that bad?"

"Uh, worse, actually."

"Hm."

"Why didn't you go?" Spencer asks her.

"Because I suspected it would be a shit show."

"Understood," He nods.

"Alright, I was just waiting for you. I'm off to bed," Cass discards her empty wine glass in the sink.

"Don't use protection. I would like to be an aunt sooner rather than later," She says and disappears down the hallway.

"She lives here?"

Spencer looks at Jo once Cass is gone.

"Yeah. We've been super tight since the academy. She's the real deal."

"Yeah, you guys definitely seem...compatible."

"We certainly are. She annoys the shit out of me and I, for some reason, let her.

He nods twice slowly as his eyes begin to rake over everything, looking for an anecdotal fact about something in her apartment that he can use to break the silence. Or, even better, something to tease her for.

There is a Van Damme poster on the adjacent wall. He can settle for that.

"Did you know Van Damme studied ballet for most of his life? A lot of his contemporaries-"

"Why is this weird?" She asks, craning her neck to look at him.

"W-Weird?"

"I mean, why do I not want to punch your face in when I look at you?"

"You're drunk," He points out as she sips the bottle.

"No, I was drunk. I'm fine now and this is weird."

She studies him, but it doesn't fluster him anymore.

He only stands with his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders tall. Her chin rests on the top of the beer bottle tiredly.

"Well, in all honesty we've never had a real conversation," He shrugs, acting like he had to think of the answer when really he's been thinking it the whole time.

"Yes we have-"

"Okay, maybe there have been one or two occasions where we've exchanged words in a manner that wasn't totally hostile, but no."

"Why is that?" She wonders.

With the way her head tilts and brow crinkles, he can tell she is asking seriously.

"I don't know. From the moment you got here things changed. And I think that scared me a little bit."

"I scared you?"

"No," He denies instantly.

She shakes her head, unable to follow.

"No. I think it had more to do with Gideon than anything? Before you got here he wasn't acting like-like himself, and then you got here and he disappeared and everything kind of..."

He bobs his head around, searching for the accurate words to describe it.

"Fell apart?"

He nods.

He thinks about it for a second then frantically shakes his head, "No. I didn't mean because of you. It was just bad timing. I-I don't want you to think..."

She nods absently, gaze shifting into soft focus as Spencer watches her.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" He asks.

"No."

"Do you want me to leave?"

She contemplates, "No."

So he stays. And they talk.

"So basically what happens is Voynitsky turns to Sonya, and she tells him that they must endure their trials and wait for death, or whatever. But then she like, lays her head on his lap, while her uncle weeps. And... the play closes with her repeating 'We shall rest we shall rest'."

"Uh, kinda weird. With the whole uncle thing..."

"No, it's not like that," She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at his nit-picking.

"What's it like then?"

She slaps her hands on her thighs and stands from the brown leather couch she is sharing with him.

She sidles up to one of the bookshelves in the apartment-the only other items that furnish the space, and her hand rests under her chin as she looks for something.

"There you are, Anton," She slips a skinny book from the shelf in the middle and walks back over to the couch.

She sits next to Spencer again, closer this time, which he seems to register and she does not.

Her thigh is also terribly close to his, which she seems not to notice as well. Or she's acting like she doesn't notice, which is probably more likely.

She opens the play to the last page and raises it closer to her face to see the words in the dim light.

Is she really about to read to him?

"What can we do? We must live our lives. Yes, we shall live, Uncle Vanya. We shall live through the long procession of days before us, and through the long evenings; We shall hear the angels. We shall see heaven shining like a jewel. We shall see all evil and all our pain sink away in the great compassion that shall enfold the world. Our life will be as peaceful and tender and sweet as a caress. I have faith; I have faith. You have never known what happiness was, but wait, Uncle Vanya, wait. We shall rest. We shall rest. We shall rest."

Her voice is deep and calm, and for the first time ever she doesn't seem in a rush to get her words out in front of him.

She takes her time, which, whether she knows it or not, gives Spencer time to see her. Really see her.

Her eyes scan the page slowly, taking in every one of Chekhov's words and letting them move her.

He has never seen anything move her. He didn't know she was capable of behaving like this and he remembers earlier that night when he thought she was a robot.

Now that he is seeing her like this, so simple and unnacussing, he wonders how this all happened to her. How the universe let her fall into that pit of despair she insists on staying in.

She is so good. She is so true and honest and real. And she is sitting right next to him.

She isn't harsh, or crass or crude like usual. She doesn't toy with him, or mess with him. She only sits next to him and allows them to be on an equal playing field for once.

His stomach flutters at the thought of being the only person she has let see her like this.

He doesn't know this fact for sure, but even the thought of it makes heat rise to his cheeks in small pink patches.

"What? You never read Chekhov before? It's beautiful."

He is brought back to the present, though his eyes never left her.

"Would you believe me if I said I have not read Chekhov?"

"Yeah," She stands again, looking down at him beside her, "You have shit taste."

She walks back to the bookshelf and returns the play, and while her back is to him he has to bite his lip.

She turns from her place in front of the book shelf and places her arms on her hips, "What are we gonna do with you?"

His eyebrow furrows. Here she is, the cryptic queen back at it again.

"I don't like that. You never say what you mean, you just make these weird, vague statements that I have to analyze and re-analyze in my head to even figure out what you mean."

"Maybe I like being a mystery," She says, though he knows it's sarcastic so he lets himself laugh.

"Yeah, I don't think that's much of a secret to anyone," He says casually, leaning against the back of the couch.

"You aren't what they think you are, are you?"

"You're doing it again. Being vague and...scary."

She sighs frustratedly but composes herself. She concentrates hard on trying to say what she really means. It's not an easy feat for her.

"You," She searches for words, head dancing around on her neck, "Aren't the helpless, anti-socialite hyper-nerd that they think you are."

"Wow," He sighs and stands, unsure of where he is going to go, "Thanks."

"Stop," She scolds him and he faces her, "That's not what I mean."

She seems genuine, so he urges her to continue.

"You're quick, and smart-but not in that way. Smart like, common sense smart. And...God I'm gonna hate myself for saying this. You know what? This conversation in general is going to make me want to stay sober forever."

She grabs the beer on the coffee table and downs the second half of it impressively fast.

She settles the bottle back down with a quiet clang and she studies him again. He wished she didn't have to drink to be honest with him.

But, that was probably his own fault.

"You're emotionally smart. Not like Hotch or Derek. They always just assume that whatever mess I've gotten myself into is because I'm just that. A mess. But you..."

She crosses her arms, "You seem to just care. And I don't know why that is."

I know why that is, he thinks.

"I was a bitch to you for months, like a major fucking bitch-"

"Don't," He looks at her intently, "Don't call yourself that."

"I was, and I'm sorry," She shakes her head, "I feel awful, about the way I treated you. Especially since you were so uncharacteristically nice to me tonight. I guess I just...when I got here everything seemed to just..."

"Fall apart?"

She exhales a laugh, or a sorry excuse for a laugh, and whispers, "Yeah."

"That makes two of us."

She laughs for real this time before she can stop herself and it feels good. Especially when she sees he's laughing slightly along with her.

"Shut up, you dick."

He raises his hands in a mock-apology. Her laughter dies and her mouth settles into a smile. A soft smile.

"So, what? When we get to work on Monday, you wanna keep up appearances? Pretend to hate each other? It would probably be fun," Spencer says.

"Woah," She holds out a hand to stop him, "Who said we would have to pretend?"

His head juts back, completely and utterly caught off guard by her.

What else is new?

"I just-I don't know, thought-"

"I'm still mad at you. For what you said. At the cabin."

"Fuck," he shakes his head, "Yeah. I'm really sorry. Like, really really sorry. It wasn't really-I didn't really mean that-"

She smiles, and tilts her head as she takes in how fucking adorable he is when he thinks he's in trouble.

He points at her, mouth closing in realization, "You're fucking with me."

"I'm fucking with you," She aggrees, "I just wanted to make you grovel for my forgiveness one last time."

"You are a sadist, you know that?"

"In more ways than one, Doctor."

When she realizes she may have taken it a step too far, by the looks of his red-face and stammering mouth, she mentally scolds herself and changes the subject.

"You're okay, right?"

He doesn't know what she is talking about.

"Like, you're sober, right?"

"Oh," He clearly doesn't wanna talk about it by the way he immediately cuts himself off from her. His shoulders slouch.

"Sorry," She says, brows furrowed, "I just want you to be okay. Work will be absolutely unbearable if I can't take out all of my one-liners on you."

"Yes. I am-sober."

He swallows.

"Good," she noods, relief flooding her, "Great."

He releases a shaky breath, and she does the same, and they are looking at each other through the dim yellow light emanating from the floor lamp in the corner of the room.

She doesn't want to kiss him. She doesn't want to kiss him. She doesn't want to fuck him.

She hopes repeating this will make it true. She can only imagine what Hotch and Derek would say, let alone her sorry-ass father.

He leaves after a short and awkward goodbye, and she is left alone in the living room.

She looks at the spots on the couch where they sat while she read Chekhov to him.

She read Chekhov to him? What the fuck was she thinking? What the fuck is he doing to her?

He is not her normal type. She goes after non-committal, easy, simple people. People that can't derail her life, only distract her from it.

But Spencer is a part of her life. A serious part. Everyone on the team was.

They work together every day, saving each other's lives and dealing with some of the most dark and depraved instances conceivable. Of course she will be emotionally invested in him.

But she knows it will likely lead to her demise, caring for someone like him.

Someone who is actually capable of caring for her in return.