Now that he had finally allowed Morgan to train him, he found himself at the gym every other day. Even after they flew to Kentucky, the other agent found the only gym in their dinky little town. Tough as the sessions were getting (now that Derek understood that his reluctance had more to do with laziness than lack of ability), he secretly enjoyed them. He saw that their friendship had benefitted from it. What was more, he had absorbed a plethora of advice on how to approach the fairer sex, both from listening to his friend, and from observing him.
"Okay but...how do I know…" He turned down the treadmill, panting. Morgan waited patiently. "How do I know if someone wants to, umm…"
An eyebrow shot up. "Wants to what, Kid?"
He made a sweeping gesture. "Do anything?"
"'Anything' ?"
"Kiss or - or more."
This earned him a chuckle. "Spence, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Are you a virgin?"
Suddenly the people on the other side of the gym were too close. He lowered his voice. "...No…"
Morgan leaned over the rail. "So how did you know before?"
"I didn't."
"Yeah you did. How?"
"They… They were pretty forward about it."
"Exactly." Derek affirmed.
"But what if she's shy?"
"So are you. And you're blindingly obvious, my friend." He patted his shoulder. "Especially to a profiler."
Spencer had plenty of time to think about what had been said, as the case took over a week to solve. The killer's MO and dump sites had been varied and even - in his opinion - senseless. They only gained momentum when Prentiss mentioned that everything seemed like the actions of a scorned woman, and suddenly everything fell into place. Including the killer, who had been under their noses the whole time.
He played every interaction with Róisín over in his head night after night, applying Derek's words to them. He thought he was making sense of everything. Perhaps. Maybe. Was he wrong? When applied to himself, his profiling skills were often flawed, causing him to either exaggerate or undermine signs that would be obvious if he could only be objective. He couldn't trust himself.
"Whatcha dreaming about, Spence?"
He jolted upright at the sound of Prentiss' voice. "O-oh! Uhhh…. Nothing."
She watched as he picked up his pen and recommenced shuffling through the case file.
"Doesn't seem like nothing." His head snapped up. "You were a million miles away."
Spencer studied her, debating internally. Emily often gave him valuable advice, and he knew she wouldn't gossip afterward. But at the same time he felt silly, and what if it was all for naught?
"Reid! You're gone again!"
He blinked. "Sorry, Emily. Could I talk to you? It's ahhhh…. It's a personal matter."
Without a word, she traversed the room and brought the door to, eyes all the while on him.
"Is it your mom?"
"No, she's fine"
"Oh. Then what's up?"
"It's kinda silly."
"My favourite topic. Continue."
He raked his hair out of this eyes. "There's this girl…"
Her mouth formed a perfect O. "Tell me about her."
Spencer took a gulp of water and clenched the cup in his hands. "I don't know much about her. But she seems nice."
"'Nice'." Prentiss echoed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You like her?"
He nodded.
"You want to ask her out?"
Nod. Drink.
"But you're not sure."
"She's out of my league." He blurted.
Emily crossed her arms firmly, clearly annoyed. "Don't be ridiculous, Spencer."
He sighed, unable to explain.
"Have you talked to her? I mean, do you know each other?"
"Yes and yes."
"Well, how does she behave around you?"
He fidgeted with a page. "I don't know."
Hands on her hips, she chuckled. "Wow, this must be bad. Play it by me, Kiddo. I'll tell you what I think."
He told her everything, from the first time he saw her, to the most recent club meeting. Emily listened carefully until he was finished. Somehow, when he was done, Spencer felt lighter. Hearing himself speak had made things clearer in his own head, so much so that when Prentiss asked. "So what do you think you should do?" He answered immediately.
"I think I need to bite the bullet."
That very evening, he called Bret, and set things in motion. As he laid in bed afterwards, hands resting on the pit of nerves that was his stomach, he had no choice but to contemplate all of his previous encounters with women. One by one, the ghosts of his past came back to haunt him, none lingering for long, until at last Maeve came to mind. Maeve, whom he had scarcely known, how would thing have gone, if she were still alive? What would she think of Róisín?
He pressed his fists against his eyelids.
Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.
