The next time Marianne let herself into Spencer's apartment, there was blood spattered on the collar of her pale blue blouse and settled into the whorls of her scars.

"I can't talk about it outside of a Bureau approved counselling session," she told him, letting him take her gun and hang it on the bed, very firmly not letting her hands shake as he started undressing her, unbuttoning her blouse with long, careful fingers and going from there. "But I would really, really like it if you'd come shower with me. Please."

Marianne had always been good at controlling her microexpressions - it came from growing up with a father like Professor Goodwin - and she kept her face perfectly calm, almost serene, until Spencer had stripped down and joined her in the shower. Then she leaned into his arms, tucking her head under his chin, and let him take her weight. She hated showering because it was hard to manage unless she used a shower stool, but when she was staying over, Spencer always made a point of showering with her, because he could help.

"He was twenty-two years old," she whispered, barely louder than the shower spray on her back. "He was twenty-two, studying at Georgetown, and he'd gotten tangled up with some bad people, and-"

Spencer had heard whispers about a bomb scare downtown, but nothing had been confirmed - not until Marianne had turned up with her eyes slightly off-focus and her hands rigid at her sides. She always kept just a little too still until he got her in the shower.

The blood washed away in a whirl of pinked suds, rinsing down the plughole as the whole story spilled out. Spencer gently washed Marianne down from head to toe, letting her lean on his shoulders when he knelt to wash her leg and foot, making sure to get all the soap out of the deep scarring behind her knee, and didn't speak.

"He was holding my arm," she said when he stood back up. "He- I was talking him down. I almost had him, Spencer, I'd almost saved him, and then that asshole made the call, and-"

Marianne's unit chief had a zero-tolerance policy, and a tendency to call for a kill shot where others might mediate. She hated him, because of that and because he'd been placed as unit chief for political reasons despite having no overseas experience whatsoever.

That was probably a hangover from the Professor, too. Spencer knew better than to mention Marianne's father, ever, but he was an ever-present ghost haunting her every interaction with authority figures. He couldn't blame her for that. He'd never much liked the Professor, either.

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly, helping her to turn so he could rinse out her hair. "You did all you could, and-"

"I should have done more," she insisted, tipping her head back into the water. "I could have saved that boy, Spencer. I could have-"

"Statistically speaking-"

"No statistics," she said. "Skin, Spencer. Hold me. Please."

She'd been worse about witnessing death since she came back from overseas - combat fatigue, PTSD, whatever you wanted to call it, Marianne had it. She'd grieved for every death she saw before, but since the accident, she'd shut down every time she saw someone die. Just for a day or two, sometimes not even that long, but a steaming hot shower and skin-to-skin contact always seemed to draw her back to herself.

"I love you," she said tiredly. "Thank you."

They stayed until the water started to cool, and then he helped her out so she could sit on the stool he always kept nearby for when she visited and needed a shower, and he wrapped her up in two big towels - one for her body, one for her hair - and dried himself off as quickly as he could, so he could get back to help her before she got cold.

"Come on," he said, catching her scarred arm over his shoulders and winding his arm around her waist, "let's get you dried off, and into bed, huh?"

She nodded, leaning on him more heavily than she usually would, and let him help her to the bedroom, let him dry her off, let him rub the lavender-scented into her scars while she went to work with the hair dryer, and didn't speak.

"Do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?" she asked quietly, once her hair was dry and hanging satin-black down her shoulders and back. "I don't want- I want to smell like you. I don't want to smell like a burn victim."

She'd always hated the smell of lavender, but lavender oil was good for burn scars without being medicated - it just reminded her of the Professor's house, she said, and she hated anything that reminded her of her time at CalTech except him, as far as he could tell.

"Come to bed," she said, and even though it was only just after nine, he didn't object. He just lay down and let her curl against his back - something else that was new since she'd gotten home from overseas. The seam of her missing leg felt odd, tucked into the back of his knee, but her arm over his ribs was warm and solid and familiar, and she nuzzled her nose into the back of his neck just as she always had, right from they were sixteen. "I do love you, you know. Even if I hate all those statistics you spout when I just want comfort, or sex."

"You said my statistics were sexy last time we-"

"Maybe I was just playing to your ego, Doctor Reid," she teased, but her voice was soft and sleepy, a little bit of Boston creeping into her accent now that she was too tired to police it. "Shut up and go to sleep, Spencer. We can discuss whether or not you're sexy in the morning."

The whole apartment smelled of coffee when Marianne woke up - the bathroom floor was a little slippy when she went to the toilet, so she assumed Spencer had already showered for work. After that, it was just a case of getting a brush through her hair and finding a bra in her drawer, in case one of his friends dropped by.

"Morning," he said, blinking at her a little too much - which meant he'd just put in his contacts - and pointing to the coffee pot. "I've got decaf if you want?"

"Um, how long have you known me?" she said, pouring a cup of Spencer's black-as-sin coffee and taking the carton of hazelnut milk he held out with a smile. "Thank you. For last night."

His smile was a little confused, the way it always got when she tried to express just how grateful she was for his gentle kindness. He saw it as the right thing, and therefore the only thing, to do, but Marianne knew that plenty of people wouldn't think that way.

She could still see that kid's head burst open, could still feel blood and brain warm on her cheek and the unscarred side of her neck, but it was different now. Now, there was the warmth of a shower with Spencer, and the softness of his skin under his heavy comforter, and that was all the barrier she needed to get through today, and tonight, and back to work tomorrow.

"You're a good soul, Spencer Reid," she said, settling down on his worn-out couch and tugging the big, heavy afghan off the back and wrapping it over her legs. "Are you working today?"

"Afraid so," he said, blinking at a normal rate and smiling, sitting with his legs tucked under him so he could face her. "How are you feeling now?"

"Good," she assured him, taking one lovely hand and smiling at how odd they looked together, her skin so dark where it wasn't all twisted up and scarred, his so pale and skinny. "You always help."

And that was why he'd hinted at her maybe moving in with him, but she'd resisted. She'd always resisted, because they both needed their own space, and because, well, neither of them were in the right place to live with someone else, not really.

And Spencer was a restless sleeper. Marianne's sleep schedule was medicated, so it was intensely regular, but Spencer's was just... All over the place. If they spent more than four nights together in the same bed, they ended up bickering and cranky with one another.

She knew they were just excuses, kind of, but even with how much good they'd do one another she knew it was really for the best that they live apart. She'd only been back in the States full time for six months, and that had changed everything about how they interacted. They'd never spent so long living in such close proximity since she left California, and she'd never lived in one place for this long in years, and-

"You know how you sometimes tell me I'm thinking too hard?" Spencer said, squeezing her hand. "You're doing that right now."

She smiled, feeling a little sheepish. "Sorry, sweetheart."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Want to stop profiling me?"

"Guilty," he admitted, hiding a smile in his coffee. "I just worry about you."

"And I love you for that," she told him, "but I really wish you wouldn't analyse my behaviour while you're doing it."